taken the trouble to test it, and who sets up The character of Paul Kirsanof, the rep- " "We have served our time, our song is "What makes you think that?' The book which Arcady wishes his fa- resentative of another branch of the elder essences, and has once dined with the Duke of Wellington at Louis Philippe's table; and also because he is perfectly honest and honourable. Ladies recognise in his melancholy, which is due to an unhappy love af fair, something very charming, but Bazarof scoffs at it. That hard utilitarian, cannot see the use of continually regretting a lost love, and declares that a man is unworthy of the name of man, "who, having staked all his life on the card of a woman's love, and having lost that card, is so cut up and upset that he becomes absolutely fit for nothing." He goes on to laugh at the idea of there being anything romantic or mysterious in the relations which can exist between man and woman, and then proceeds to fall in love with a great lady, who gives him a good deal of marked encouragement, and then suddenly treats him with unexpected coldness. Her strange character is very cleverly drawn, but the best part of the story is that which describes what takes place after her conduct has sent Bazarof home to his father's house in disgust. with the world. His father is an old retired army surgeon, as simple-hearted as the elder Kirsanof, and as devoted to his son, whom he adores, and easi who has always behaved irreproachably to wards him. Bazarof's mother is an old lady who ought to have lived two centuries earlier, being a perfect type of what the wives of the petty nobility used to be. She is very pious, very good, very superstitious. She believes religiously in dreams, in ghosts, and in evil spirits. She never reads, scarcely ever writes, but makes excellent preserves. She looks on the peasants as beings of a lower nature than her own, but is very kind to them, and never refuses to give alms to a beggar. Ignorant, prejudiced, and amiable, she lives in a very little world of her own, and does not take the slightest interest in what goes on outside it. It may ly be supposed that two such quiet, simple old people do not quite know what to make of their extraordinary son. And he soon finds himself tired of the dull life he leads under his father's old-fashioned roof. His first visit, after taking his degree at the University, lasts a very short time. The old people had counted on keeping him several weeks at least, but after a few days he goes off again. His carriage drives away, and they are left alone. His father, Vassily Ivanovich, waves his handkerchief briskly from the front door as long as the vehicle is in sight, then throws himself on a chair and lets his head fall on his breast, crying that he is alone indeed now; that his son has grown tired of him, and abandoned him. “Then Arina Vlasievna (his wife) drew near to him, and said, resting her grey head on his, How can it be helped, Vasin? A son is a chip from the block. He is like a falcon. He felt inclined, he flew here. Again he felt inclined, and he has flown away. But we two never move, we are always at each other's side, like two lichens in the hollow of a tree. I only shall always remain just the same for you, and you too for me.' Then Vassily Ivanovich took away his hands from before his face, and embraced his wife, his companion, more warmly than he used to embrace her even in the days of his youth. For she had consoled him in the time of his sorrow." The young Bazarof returns once more home, and his parents are for a time perfectly happy. The old doctor tells all the peasants who come to consult him how fortunate they are in arriving at a time when his son is able to assist him. He even keeps a tooth which his son had extracted, and shows it to his friends as something wonderful. After a while, however, he remarks that his son is sad and restless, and he talks the matter over very mournfully with his wife. One day young Bazarof cuts his finger while engaged in dissection. He applies in vain for caustic to the doctor of the village in which the accident takes place, and before he can return home and procure some it is too late. A few days afterwards he dies. This part of the story is worked out with great power. The young man's defiant behaviour on what he knows to be his deathbed, the repressed grief of the poor old father and mother, the visits of the lady whose coldness had driven Bazarof to despair, and who comes to see him when it is too late, all are related in M. Turgue nief's most impressive style. It is thus that the scene ends: wards evening he fell into a state of complete "Bazarof was never to wake again. Toinsensibility, and on the next day he died. Father Alexis performed the last rites of the church by his bedside. At the moment when the sacrament of extreme unction was being conferred on the dying man, just as the consecrated oil touched his breast, one of his eyes opened, and it seemed as if at the sight of the of the candles burning before the sacred picpriest in his vestments, of the reeking censer, tures, something like a shudder of fear passed for a moment across his fast whitening face When at length he had breathed his last, and a general sound of lamentation began to make itself heard throughout the house, a sudden frenzy seemed to seize upon the father. 'I hoarse voice, his cheeks burning, and the whole swore I would speak out,' he cried with a expression of his face changing, while he shook his fists in the air as if he were theatening some one- and I will speak out, I will speak out!' But the mother flung herself, all in tears, on his neck, and they two fell down together on the ground. Just like lambs in the heat of the day, they let their heads droop and fell down side by side,' said Anfisuchka afterwards in the servants' room." Six months later a happy scene is to be witnessed in the house of the Kirsanofs. The young Arcady has been led astray from his philosophic studies by the bright eyes of him happy; and his delighted father is giv a young lady who gladly consents to make ing an entertainment in honour of the marriage. Arcady has not forgotten Bazarof, but he has entirely emancipated himself from the influence of that ill-starred materialist's theories. He has descended from those heights of speculation round which sweep keen winds, destructive of romance and earthly enjoyments, and he is content to dwell in the fat plains over which gentle breezes waft the scent of flowers and the song of birds. Life is now very pleasant to him, and he feels no longer the slightest inclination to don that cynical robe which has so easily slipped off his shoulders, but which Bazarof drew even more closely round himself before he died. The story ends with the following words : "In one of the retired nooks of Russia there of attractive, she dresses in the worst pos- typify-the class that has for years been "But there is one of the graves which no one ever disturbs, which no cattle ever tread under foot; only the birds sometimes perch upon it, and sing there at dawn. An iron railing surrounds it; a fir sapling is planted at each end of it. In that grave Bazarof lies. To it, from a neighbouring village, come two old people, already infirm with age-a husband with his wife. Supporting one another, they move with feeble gait. They approach the railing; and there, falling on their knees, they weep long and bitterly, and long and earnestly they gaze upon the silent stone under which lies their son. They exchange a few brief words, they wipe the dust from the stone, they set straight a branch of one of the firs, and then they begin to pray anew, unable to tear themselves from that spot, in which it seems to them as if they were nearer to their son, nearer to his memory. Is it possible that their prayers, their tears, can be fruitless? Is it possible that love, that pure and devoted love, can be other than all-powerful? Oh no! However passionate, sinful, and rebellious may have been the heart which lies hid in a grave, the flowers which grow above it gaze at us tranquilly with their innocent eyes; it is not only of eternal rest that they speak to us, of that great calin of careless' nature,-they speak also of final reconciliation and of eternal life." This story of Smoke, the last complete work published by M. Turguenief, has given rise to no little angry discussion in Russia. Nor is that strange, considering that a great part of it is devoted to scathing ridicule of a party which has lately grown very influential in that country, consisting of a number of scholars, politicians, and men of letters, who are perpetually singing the praises of their native land, declaring that it can suffice for itself, that it has no need of Western culture, and that, indeed, the whole West is rotten, and fast sinking into decrepitude. The useless, endless chatter of some of these fluent patriots seems to have given annoyance to M. Turguenief, who would prefer to see a little done rather than hear a great deal talked about, and he has hit off their peculiarities with irresistible humour, and exposed their shallowness with considerable success. But to judge of the rising generation in Russia from the singular specimens of Russian youth at whom M. Turguenief has not unfairly laughed in Smoke, would be like forming an unfavourable opinion of English girls in general from the very depreciatory criticisms on some of their number which created a certain sensation last year. In speaking of Fathers and Children we have said nothing of the female Nihilist who figures in the story. Madame Kukshine's portrait is drawn by a very unfriendly hand. M. Turguenief has evidently had a kindly feeling for young enthusiasts like Bazarof, even when he was most annoyed by their arrogant self-confidence; but with women calling themselves "emancipated" he has not the slightest sympathy, nor does he show them the least mercy. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that the picture of their representative in Fathers and Children is a mere caricature, in which every natural defect has been exaggerated, and every good feature has been studiously kept out of sight. What we are shown is a woman who has deliberately given up all claim to the respect which her sex has been accustomed to enjoy, who detests religion, who objects to marriage, who drinks champagne freely, who smokes all day long, and who never ceases to talk what she is pleased to call philosophy. Her appearance is the reverse Smoke is not a novel which is likely to become universally popular. Too many of its pages are occupied by conversations and * Admirably translated into French (Fumée) and into German (Rauch). The French version has been translated into English-but not admirably... serves. who has always behaved irreproachably to wards him. Bazarof's mother is an old lady who ought to have lived two centuries earlier, being a perfect type of what the wives of the petty nobility used to be. She is very pious, very good, very superstitious. She believes religiously in dreams, in ghosts, and in evil spirits. She never reads, scarcely ever writes, but makes excellent preShe looks on the peasants as beings of a lower nature than her own, but is very kind to them, and never refuses to give alms to a beggar. Ignorant, prejudiced, and aniable, she lives in a very little world of her own, and does not take the slightest interest in what goes on outside it. It may easily be supposed that two such quiet, simple old people do not quite know what to make of their extraordinary son. And he soon finds himself tired of the dull life he leads under his father's old-fashioned roof. His first visit, after taking his degree at the University, lasts a very short time. The old people had counted on keeping him several weeks at least, but after a few days he goes off again. His carriage drives away, and they are left alone. His father, Vassily Ivanovich, waves his handkerchief briskly from the front door as long as the vehicle is in sight, then throws himself on a chair and lets his head fall on his breast, crying that he is alone indeed now; that his son has grown tired of him, and abandoned him. "Then Arina Vlasievna (his wife) drew near to him, and said, resting her grey head on his, 'How can it be helped, Vasia? A son is a chip from the block. He is like a falcon. He felt inclined, he flew here. Again he felt inclined, and he has flown away. But we two never move, we are always at each other's side, like two lichens in the hollow of a tree. I only shall always remain just the same for you, and you too for me.' Then Vassily Ivanovich took away his hands from before his face, and embraced his wife, his companion, more warmly than he used to embrace her even in the days of his youth. For she had consoled him in the time of his sorrow." The young Bazarof returns once more home, and his parents are for a time perfectly happy. The old doctor tells all the peasants who come to consult him how fortunate they are in arriving at a time when his son is able to assist him. He even keeps a tooth which his son had extracted, and shows it to his friends as something wonderful. After a while, however, he remarks that his son is sad and restless, and he talks the matter over very mournfully with his wife. One day young Bazarof cuts his finger while engaged in dissection. He applies in vain for caustic to the doctor of the village in which the accident takes place, and before he can return home and procure some it is too late. A few days afterwards he dies. This part of the story is worked out with great power. The young man's defiant behaviour on what he knows to be his deathbed, the repressed grief of the poor old father and mother, the visits of the lady whose coldness had driven Bazarof to despair, and who comes to see him when it is too late, all are related in M. Turgue nief's most impressive style. It is thus that the scene ends: wards evening he fell into a state of complete "Bazarof was never to wake again. Toinsensibility, and on the next day he died. Father Alexis performed the last rites of the church by his bedside. At the moment when the sacrament of extreme unction was being conferred on the dying man, just as the consecrated oil touched his breast, one of his eyes opened, and it seemed as if at the sight of the priest in his vestments, of the reeking censer, of the candles burning before the sacred pictures, something like a shudder of fear passed for a moment across his fast whitening face. When at length he had breathed his last, and a general sound of lamentation began to make itself heard throughout the house, a sudden frenzy seemed to seize upon the father. 'I swore would speak out,' he cried with a expression of his face changing, while he shook hoarse voice, his cheeks burning, and the whole his fists in the air as if he were theatening some one- and I will speak out, I will speak out!' But the mother flung herself, all in tears, on his neck, and they two fell down to gether on the ground. Just like lambs in the heat of the day, they let their heads droop and fell down side by side,' said Anfisuchka afterwards in the servants' room." Six months later a happy scene is to be witnessed in the house of the Kirsanofs. The young Arcady has been led astray from his philosophic studies by the bright eyes of him happy; and his delighted father is giv a young lady who gladly consents to make ing an entertainment in honour of the mar riage. Arcady has not forgotten Bazarof, but he has entirely emancipated himself from the influence of that ill-starred materialist's theories. He has descended from those heights of speculation round which sweep keen winds, destructive of romance and earthly enjoyments, and he is content to dwell in the fat plains over which gentle breezes waft the scent of flowers and the song of birds. Life is now very pleasant to him, and he feels no longer the slightest inclination to don that cynical robe which has so easily slipped off his shoulders, but which Bazarof drew even more closely round himself before he died. The story ends with the following words : "In one of the retired nooks of Russia there of attractive, she dresses in the worst posis a small rural cemetery. Like almost all our sible taste, she does not care about even graveyards, it has a melancholy look. The personal cleanliness. But this picture is trenches by which it is surrounded have long not quite fair. As a caricature it is well ago been overgrown with weeds; the grey wooden crosses have swayed on one side, bend- worthy of praise; but it must not be taken ing under the weight of their once painted as a trustworthy representation of even a roofs; the gravestones are all out of place, as very advanced specimen of that class of if some one had been pushing them from un-Russian women which it is intended to derneath; two or three leafless trees can scarcely offer the slightest shade; sheep feed undisturbed among the graves. typify-the class that has for years been striving to raise its members above the dead level of thought at which their sex has been generally content to rest. The same remark holds good also for M. Turguenief's story called Smoke, in which he has introduced three female characters, and has painted only one of them in favourable colours. There is a great lady, who is beautiful and clever and accomplished, but she is thoroughly unprincipled and selfish; there is a specimen of the class to which Madame Kukshine belonged, who is represented as utterly absurd and intolerably tiresome; and, lastly, there is a quiet simple girl, who has a sweet face and an honest, loving heart, and who is made to contrast very advantageously with the other two. "But there is one of the graves which no This story of Smoke, the last complete work published by M. Turguenief, has given rise to no little angry discussion in Russia. Nor is that strange, considering that a great part of it is devoted to scathing ridicule of a party which has lately grown very influential in that country, consisting of a number of scholars, politicians, and men of letters, who are perpetually singing the praises of their native land, declaring that it can suffice for itself, that it has no need of Western culture, and that, indeed, the whole West is rotten, and fast sinking into decrepitude. The useless, endless chatter of some of these fluent patriots seems to have given annoyance to M. Turguenief, who would prefer to see a little done rather than hear a great deal talked about, and he has hit off their peculiarities with irresistible humour, and exposed their shallowness with considerable success. But to judge of the rising generation in Russia from the sirgular specimens of Russian youth at whom M. Turguenief has not unfairly laughed in Smoke, would be like forming an unfavoura ble opinion of English girls in general from the very depreciatory criticisms on some of their number which created a certain sensation last In speaking of Fathers and Children we have said nothing of the female Nihilist who figures in the story. Madame Kukshine's portrait is drawn by a very unfriendly hand. M. Turguenief has evidently had a kindly feeling for young enthusiasts like Bazarof, even when he was most annoyed by their arrogant self-confidence; but with women calling themselves "emancipated" he has not the slightest sympathy, nor does he show them the least mercy. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that the picture of their representative in Fathers and Children is a mere caricature, in which every natural defect has been exaggerated, and every good feature has been studiously kept out of sight. What we are shown is a woman who has deliberately given up all claim to the respect which her sex has been accustomed to enjoy,-who detests religion, who objects to marriage, who drinks champagne freely, who smokes all day long, and who never ceases to talk what she is pleased to call philosophy. Her appearance is the reverse year. Smoke is not a novel which is likely to become universally popular. Too many of its pages are occupied by conversations and *Admirably translated into French (Fumée) and into German (Rauch). The French version has been translated into English-but not admirably. |