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band, who has scarcely ever seen her in

tears.

in

So commences Viera's introduction into the land of romance. The result shows how right her mother had been in forbidding her to enter it. Though so calm and composed appearance, Viera is really of a very ner Vous and excitable temperament, and endowed with all an artist's susceptibility. She has hitherto been unconscious of the existence of the chords which are beginning to thrill within her heart, but she finds it impossible to still their vibrations now. The change which takes place in her is very subtly analysed, up to the moment when she feels herself, as it were, irresistibly urged aside from the path of duty and honour, and she is on the brink of utterly falling. Then comes a most striking description of how, as she goes out at night into the park to keep a clandestine engagement, her heart throbbing, her brain swimming, she sees, or thinks she sees, the form of her dead mother coming towards her with open arms, and how she never recovers from the shock, but falls ill and soon after dies. This is how Paul describes his last interview with her :

"I have seen her once more before her end.

It is the bitterest of all the recollections of my
life. I had learnt from the doctor that there
was no hope. Late at night, when all was still
in the house, I crept to the door of her room
and looked at her. Viera was lying on the bed,
with closed eyes, thin, wan, a feverish glow on
her cheeks, as if petrified. I stood looking at
her. Suddenly she opened her eyes, turned
them toward me, regarded me fixedly, and,
stretching out her wasted hand, exclaimed,-
'What seeks he in the holy place?'* uttering
the words in so strange a voice that I fled from
the spot."

disappointments is excellent, and so is that of the thoroughly happy life which Viera leads, when she has married again, after the' death of the husband she never could comprehend, and has found a companion as irreproachably good and as utterly commonplace as herself.

Another story, in which the sorrows of a romantic and poetic spirit in its communion with unsympathetic minds are excellently described, is that which takes its name from its hero, Yakof Pasinkof. He is an enthusiast who is always indulging in day-dreams, from which he is rudely wakened by some unexpected shock, who is continually looking forward to some happy future, from the pleasant anticipation of which he is too often summoned to realize the unhappiness of his actual life. He is very ready to fall in love, but he bestows his affections without prudent discrimination. In very early youth he adores a sentimental German maiden, who rivals him in fondness for poetry, but all of a sudden she marries a thoroughly commonplace and commercial countryman, and that without evincing the slightest compunction. Some years afterwards he is so unfortunate as to fall in love with a Russian girl, whose character has afforded to M. Turguenief the subject of an interesting study. She is quiet and reserved, but she possesses singular strength of will, and is obstinate in the extreme. So when she has made up her mind to marry a certain officer of somewhat bad repute, nothing will turn her aside from her purpose, and the ill-starred Pasinkof is again compelled to witness the ruin of his hopes. And a similar ill-fortune attends his steps wherever he goes, until at last he dies, worn out before his time.

But it would serve but little purpose were we to attempt to give an account of each of the stories or novelettes which M. Turguenief has published at various times and in different periodicals. and Suffice to say that there is not one of them which has not some

A very different Viera is the heroine of another story, that of "The Two Friends." Hers is a quiet, simple, affectionate character, but she has no intellectual resources, there is nothing romantic about her, and accordingly her husband, who is afflicted with a somewhat poetic soul, and has taken pains to cultivate his intellect, begins to get tired of her society soon after his marriage. At first he had imagined he was perfectly happy, but after a time he finds out that his wife, al though an excellent manager and altogether a person of a thoroughly well-regulated mind, is but an unsatisfactory companion,-that she cannot enter into his plans, share his ideas, or sympathize with his enthusiasms, The account of his ardent hopes and his sad

"Was will der an dem heiligen Ort?"the words

special merit, besides exhibiting that general
excellence of workmanship which is to be
found in all that their author has produced.
Some of them are very sad, a few of them
are even terrible, from the gloominess of the
pictures they present of vice and passion.
the unhappy love and the tragic end of the
Very sad, for instance, is the description of
heroine of the story called after Pushkin's
poem on the " Upas Tree," and terrible,
even repulsive, are such narratives as
Three Portraits," or the dramatic sketch

"The.

which M. Marmier has translated under the title of Le Pain d'Autrui. The story; uttered by Margaret at the end of the scene which of "A First Love," also, though it has much in it that is very beautiful, is ren

concludes the first part of Faust.

dered somewhat repulsive by the introduc- | who knows that he has but a short time to live,
tion of incidents, which although only too and who whiles away the weariness of his al-
possible in Russia not very long ago, offend most solitary days by writing down some of
our English ideas of probability, as well as his impressions of the past. The sad irony
sinning against our canons of taste. And, with which he describes how his life has been
in a minor degree, the same objection may wasted, how useless have been all his at-
be made to another and more ambitious tempts to share in the pleasures other 'men
wark, that styled "On the Eve."* It con- enjoy, to reach the level to which his com-
tains a very carefully drawn portrait of a panions readily attain, to press forward into
young girl whose character is by no means the sunlight in which he sees them basking,
of a common order. She is one who takes must often have been only too fully appreci-
life seriously. All her impressions become ated by readers of the story;-there are so
deeply engraved on her heart. She cannot many similar failures in life; so many an
endure anything that is false or mean; any organization well qualified for enjoyment
one who has once lost her esteem instantly has been denied all opportunity of enjoying;
ceases to exist for her. But in those whom so many a heart, conscious of a great capa-
she respects she is ready to confide implicitly; city for loving, has never known any but an
and when she takes an interest in a person unrequited affection. The writer of the dia-
she does not readily give it up until he for- ry in question is one whose childhood has
feits her good opinion. The description of been lonely and dull. The only pleasant
the early part of her life is charming, but memories it has to offer are those connected
when we reach the chapters which describe with the garden in which he used to play.
how utterly she abandons herself to her love and on which he still looks back with a fond
for a certain Bulgarian patriot in whom it is regret. Years pass by, but they bring lit-
somewhat difficult for a non-Slavonic reader tle happiness to him. Somehow or other,
to take an interest, we cannot help feeling he does not know why, he fails to attach to
that the description is more in accordance himself friends. Wherever he goes, he seems
with French than English taste.
to be in the way. There is never an open-
It must not be supposed, however, that ing for him in any joyous band; every place
M. Turguenief is in the habit of copying the always seems to be already occupied whenever
novelists of the French school. But if any he appears. And, unfortunately, he has a
writer were to describe with perfect accu- craving for sympathy, a longing for happi-
racy the conduct of some Russian girl who ness which he can share with others.
has surrendered herself to the sweep of a is morbidly self-conscious, and is always an-
headlong passion, and who clears at a bound alysing his own thoughts and feelings; and
all the barriers with which prudence and com- he is afflicted with that excess of self-love
mon sense, not to speak of morality and re- which makes a man morbidly susceptible to
ligion, ordinarily hedge women around, Eng- all that is said about him in society, which
lish readers would be apt to think he was consumes him with a feverish desire to dis-
drawing his ideas from French sources, in- tinguish himself, and which makes him feel
asmuch as it is from those sources that they with terrible bitterness the dull pains of fail-
generally obtain their knowledge of the sub-ure, the stinging agony of disgrace. Once
ject. Women of Teutonic race are seldom
given to such wild outbursts of the affec-
tions; even if they lose their hearts, they do
not often think it befitting to lose their heads
also. But the Slavonic woman is of a dif-
ferent nature, softer and more yielding, much
more subject to impulse, far more prone to
self-sacrifice. It is his acquaintance with
these peculiarities of his country women, and
not any predilection for unhealthy romance,
that has led M. Turguenief to tinge one of
his most admirable studies of character with
a hue that seems, to English eyes, to detract
somewhat from its merit and its value.

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The Diary of a Superfluous Man is the description of the unsatisfactory life of one who is always de trop. The diarist is an invalid

*Translated into French by M. Deleveau, under the title of Elena, in the Nouvelles Scènes de la Vie Russe,

the work which also contains Un Premier Amour..

He

only his life seems to be about to undergo a change. He loves, and for a time he fancies that perhaps his love may be returned. For about three weeks he knows what to be happy means.

His whole existence brightens at once, "like a gloomy and deserted room into which the light is suddenly allowed to enter." IIe feels for a time as if life were a luxury, contented "as a fly basking in the sunlight." Even in the dreary time which ensues, those few weeks preserve 66 a sort of sense of youth, of warmth, and of perfume;" they stand out from the rest of his dreary lifetime like the portion of a cold grey corridor on which a stray sunbeam has chanced to fall. But this happy time soon passes, a rival appears with whom he has no chance of successfully contending, and he is obliged to stand by and look on, while the love for which he would have given his life is wasted

not even pray without words, but yet there was a moment when, if not in body at least in mind, he bowed down and bent himself humbly to the ground. He remembered how in childhood he used to pray in church till he felt, as it were, a soft touch on his forehead. 'That,' he used to think, 'is my guardian angel visiting me, and sealing me with the seal of election.' He looked at Lisa. 'It is you who have brought me here,' he thought. O touch me, touch my soul!' She went on all the time praying quietly. Her face seemed to him happy, and again he felt his heart soften within him."

Over Lisa religion exerts a most powerful influence. She has even an inclination for its ascetic side. In her early years her chief friend was her nurse Agafia, a woman of a fanatical turn of mind in religious matters, and who, when she gave up her charge, retired into a convent. Almost all the members of Lisa's family are people of the world; but her nurse directs her thoughts into regions utterly foreign to the ideas of her relatives. Instead of nursery tales, Agafia tells her stories about the lives of the

saints.

"Agafia spoke to Lisa seriously and humbly, as if she felt that it was not for her to utter such grand and holy words. Lisa used to listen to her intently; and the image of the omnipresent, omniscient God entered with a kind of sweet strength into her soul, and filled it with a pure and reverential awe; and Christ became for her, as it were, some one who was near at hand, and who was a friend, almost a relation. It was Agafia who had taught her to pray also. Sometimes she would wake the child with the early dawn, hastily dress her, and stealthily take her to matins. Lisa would follow her on tiptoe, scarcely daring to breathe. The cold morning light, the unaccustomed look of the almost empty church, the secrecy itself of these unexpected excursions, the cautious return home to bed,-all that combination of the forbidden, the mysterious, and the holy, agitated the child, and penetrated to the inmost depths of her being."

with trunks and bandboxes. He goes into his room, and he is met by a lady who drops on her knees at his feet. It is his wife! The news of her death had been her own invention.

We pass rapidly on to the scene in which Lavretsky for the second time sees Lisa in church. He has previously had an interview with her, and she has induced him by earnest entreaty to forgive his wife, and even to make some outward show of reconciliation with her.

"The next day was Sunday. The sound of the church-bells reminded Lavretsky of that other Sunday when he had gone to church at Lisa's request. He rose in haste; a certain secret voice told him that he would see her there again to-day. He left the house noiselessly, and went with quick steps where the melancholy and monotonous sound called him. He arrived early, and found scarcely any one in the church. A lector was reading in the choir, and his voice, sometimes interrupted by a cough, now rose and now fell, but always susthe door. The worshippers arrived one after taining the same note. Lavretsky stood near another, stopped inside the door, crossed themselves, and bowed on all sides; their steps resounded loudly in the almost empty and silent building, and echoed around the dome. An infirm old woman in a worn cloak knelt down close by Lavretsky and prayed with fervor; her toothless, wrinkled, and yellow countenance testified to her strong emotion; her eyes, red with weeping, were fixed on the picture of the iconostasis; her bony hands kept incessantly coming out from underneath her cloak, and making the sign of the cross slowly and reverently. A peasant with a thick beard and a morose expression, his hair and his dress all uncared for, came into the church, and falling at once on his knees, began to perform his prostrations hastily, touching the ground with his forehead, and then throwing back and shaking his head. So bitter a grief showed itself in his face, and in all his gestures, that Lavretsky went up to him and asked him what was the matter. The peasant recoiled as if in fear, then in a hurried voice he said, 'My son is dead,' and betook himself anew to his prosNext to her love for God, the strongest trations. What suffering of theirs can be too feeling in Lisa's heart is her love for her great for the consolations of the Church? ' country. In the latter sentiment she finds thought Lavretsky, and he tried to pray himthat Lavretsky can sympathize with her; self. But his heart was heavy and hard, and with respect to the former she knows that his thoughts were afar off. He was still lookhe differs from her, but "she hopes to bringing out for Lisa; but Lisa did not come. the sinner back to God." Her relations with him gradually become more and more intimate; and at last, during an accidental interview with him in the garden behind the Kalitines' house, she discovers, and he learns, that she loves him. At last he thinks life is going to be worth having, the happiness of which he has long despaired is about to offer itself to him. The next day, when he comes home in the evening, he finds the hall redolent of patchouli, and littered

The church began to fill with people; she was not of their number. Mass was said. The deacon had already read the Gospel, and the final prayer was about to commence. Lavretsky moved forward a little, and all at once he saw Lisa. She had come in before him, but he had not remarked her. Standing close by the enclosure of the choir, she never moved, never once looked round. Lavretsky did not take his eyes off her till the last words of the mass were said. He was saying farewell to her in his heart. The congregation began to disperse, but she still kept her place. She seemed to be

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waiting till Lavretsky left. At length she | know? who shall tell? Life has certain mo-
crossed herself for the last time, and went out ments, the heart has certain feelings, on which
without looking round."
it is not well to dwell long."

In the street outside he speaks to her, and bids her what is to prove a final farewell. On her return home she tells her aunt, the only member of the family who knows what has passed between her and Lavretsky, that she wishes to leave her home and take the veil.

66. I

"I have made up my mind," she says;
have prayed; I have asked God's advice. All
is over now, my life with you all is ended.
Such a lesson is not given one for nothing.
And it's not for the first time that I think of
this now. Happiness was not for me. Even
when I looked for happiness, my mind shrank
away at the thought of it. I know all, both
my sins and those of others. I know how

I

papa made our money. I know all. And all
that I must expiate by prayer, by prayer.
am grieved at leaving you; my heart aches
when I think of mamma and Lenochka. But
it cannot be helped. I feel that I can live here
no longer. And now I have taken leave of
everything in the house for the last time."

Besides the leading personages of the story, there are a number of minor characters which are excellently worked out, such as Lisa's brilliant but selfish admirer, M. Panshine, her mother and her aunt, the lat ter of whom is depicted with great spirit and humour. Better still is the sketch of M. Lemm, an old German music-master, who is devotedly attached to Lisa, and who is most charmingly, most sympathetically described. Besides these, there is an enthusiastic student, one of Lavretsky's college friends, to whom the chief part of one chapter of the book is devoted. That chapter certainly breaks the thread of the story in a manner with which a severe critic is bound

to find fault, and therefore the French translator has omitted it altogether. But it is extremely interesting, not only as throwing considerable light on Lavretsky's character, but also as showing the commencement of a train of thought which M. Turguenief has followed up and fully developed in his later works. The student is a thorough enthusi

Eight years pass away, and one fine spring day Lavretsky pays a visit to Madame Kal-ast, utterly free from all consideration of itine's house, which he has not been near during all that time. That lady is dead, and the house is now tenanted by a younger gen eration. They welcome him hospitably, and after telling him all their news, and among other things that Lisa is still where she was in her convent, they ask him to go out into the garden with them. There they begin a lively game, provocative of much shouting and laughter, but he wanders about by himself, thinking of the days gone by, of the happiness that he had imagined he was about to grasp. The description of his feelings is very beautiful, and it is also very noble, exceedingly tender and pathetic, but quite free from anything morbid or exaggerated. His heart is not broken, though it has received a heavy blow. He has given up hoping for happiness, but he has not taken refuge in cynicism. He has found solace in employment, and he has not worked for himself only, he has striven to promote the interests of his peasants, and to benefit all who are in any way dependent on him. As to Lisa,

his own personal interests, and passionately devoted to the study of the great questions affecting freedom and progress and civilisation. To him money is but as dross, rank and station are mere outward shows, success in life is a thing not worthy of a moment's consideration, as compared with the power of participating in the onward march of intellect, of helping to gather in the ripening harvest of knowledge. His appearance is represented as somewhat ludicrous, and his behaviour a little uncouth, so that he is evidently set up as a mark for some ridicule, but, at the same time, he is clearly intended to command a certain amount of not unkindly respect.

"they say that Lavretsky has visited the dis

tant convent in which she has hidden herself-
and has seen her. Crossing from one choir to
another she passed close by him, passed steadily
by, with the quick but quiet step of a nun, and
did not look at him. Only her eyelids quivered
all but imperceptibly, only still lower did she
bend her emaciated face, and the fingers of her
folded hands, enlaced with her rosary, clasped
each other more firmly than before. What did
they both think? what did they feel? Who can

Very differently is the character treated of the student who plays the leading part in the novel which M. Turguenief next published, Fathers and Children.* That work appeared in 1862. In the course of the four

which had elapsed since the appearance years of Lisa a considerable change had taken place in the ideas of young Russia, a change which seems to have struck M. Turguenief as being decidedly for the worse. Indignant with the audacious disbelief and the thorough-going iconoclasm of the rising generation, and perhaps personally hurt by the invectives of a class of politicians who showed symptoms of an inclination to denounce as retrogrades all the gallant band of

* Translated into English by Mr. Eugene Schuyler.

Liberals who had for so many years toiled | to the large class of reasoners really existing

in Russia, and numbering many members, who will take nothing for granted, who disclaim anything like a blind obedience to authority, and who refuse to accept any conclusions but those which have been arrived at by scientific processes. But he is also represented as belonging to the much smaller class of destructives, who for a time made themselves notorious by their somewhat blatant outcries against all social laws, all reli

ities he resembles one of the most eccentric of the young Russian philosophers, the author of the novel which describes that happy future time when, "by means of a reorganiz ed community, people will live in perpetual enjoyment of happiness, surrounded by the perfection of all material comfort, making love without the cares and anxieties of family duties, and lodging in houses with floors of aluminium;" but his rudeness, his coarseness, and his outspoken contempt for all social laws seem to claim him as a member of the weaker-minded part of the followers of that really original and exceedingly clever enthusiast. Bazarof, the hero of Fathers and Children, is an uncompromising, sceptic, as may be seen from the following passage, in which he is disputing with an opponent who asks him what are the principles in accordance with which his party acts:

and suffered in the perilous struggle for progress and reform, he set to work to paint a by no means flattering portrait of a representative of the new school of Radicals. As a moderate man, free from any viewy or crotchety ideas, he could not sympathize with the fantastic but violent projects of theorists who disbelieved in almost every thing but their own infallibility; as a genuine artist, in the highest sense of the word, he could not avoid being wroth with philos-gious institutions. In some of his peculiar. ophers whose realism led them to sneer at and to speak slightingly of music, painting, and sculpture. Every army is impeded by a swarm of camp-followers, who often bring it into discredit, and the band of young enthusiasts who flocked around the banners of Liberalism in Russia counted in its number a good many social marauders whose zeal was somewhat prejudicial to its good name. The peculiarities of these objectionable members of the party M. Turguenief has hit off with admirable fidelity and rare humour, exposing them unmercifully to the very disrespectful recognition of the world. There can be no question about the talent displayed in the series of pictures contained in Fath ers and Children, and its successor, Smoke. Whether they are to be looked upon as serious portraits or as humorous caricatures is not so clear. It is probable that the artist has only aimed at depicting the absurdity of certain extremes, without wishing to throw any ridicule upon what lies between them. M. Turguenief has done good service in exposing the insincerity and selfishness of some of the most plausible men, the hopeless imbecility of some of the most fluent women, who have imposed upon the young enthusiasts of the advanced school of liberal opinions in Russia; but he would have committed an injustice if he had stated that they were fair representatives of the whole of that school. But he has never done anything of the kind. He has painted certain pictures, and left them to tell their own tale. He has laughed at many extravagances, he has traced certain social aberrations to their logical end, but we cannot see that he has anywhere scoffed at generous enthusiasms, or that he has wished to cool the noble ardour which glows in youthful breasts. A satirist always runs the risk of being called a cynic; but there are times when the very warmth of a man's feelings, the very disinterestedness of his character, impels him towards the perilous realm of satire.

The hero of Fathers and Children is a young physician, who is a leading man among what has, since the appearance of the book, been called the Nihilist party. He belongs

"We act in accordance with that which we recognise to be useful,' said Bazarof. 'At the present moment the most useful thing is denial, so we deny.'

I

"Everything?"

"Yes, everything.'

"What! not only art, poetry, but also . .

am afraid of saying .

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"Everything,' repeated Bazarof."

According to his opinion, "Raphael is not worth a brass farthing," and as to religion and morality he values them about as high as he does art. As to principles, he denies their existence, saying that we act in accordance with sensations only; that if a man behaves honourably, for instance, it is only because honourable behaviour happens to yield him an agreeable sensation. Altogether he is thoroughly sceptical, irreverent, defiant, and aggressive; but, on the other hand, he is brave and upright and incorruptible, and he is generally popular, especially among young people, although he never thinks of taking pains to please. One of his most loving disciples is a young student named Arcady Kirsanof, who has accepted all Bazarof's philosophy without ever having

*An interesting account of" Nihilism in Russia is to be found in M. Boboruikin's article on that subject in the Fortnightly Review, Aug. 1868.

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