I see a huge building; in its front wall a narrow door opens wide;
behind the door gloomy darkness. At the high threshold stands a
girl, a Russian girl.
Frost waves from that impenetrable darkness, and with the icy breeze
comes forth from the depth of the building a slow, hollow voice.
"O thou, eager to step across this threshold, knowest thou what
awaits thee?"
"I know," answers the girl.
"Cold, hunger, hatred, ridicule, scorn, insolence, prison, illness,
death itself!"
"I know it."
"Complete isolation, loneliness."
"I know it.... But I am ready. I shall endure all the sorrows, all
the blows."
"Not only at the hands of your enemies, but also at the hands of
your family and friends."
"Yes, even at the hands of these."
"'Tis well.... Are you ready for the sacrifice?"
"Yes."
"For nameless sacrifice? Thou shalt perish; and not one, not one
even shall know whose memory to honor."
"I need no gratitude nor pity; I need no name."
"And art thou ready even for--crime?"
The girl dropped her head.
"Yes, even for crime am I ready."
The voice renewed not its questionings forthwith.
"Knowest thou," spake the voice for the last time, "that thou mayest
be disenchanted in thy ideals, that thou yet mayest come to see that
thou wert misguided, and that thy young life has been wasted in
vain?"
"This also I know, and yet I am ready to enter."
"Enter, then."
The girl stepped over the threshold, and the heavy curtain dropped
behind her. "Fool!" some one muttered behind her. "Saint!" came from
somewhere in reply.
15. These, then, were the two leading traits of this man Turgenef. He
had the fighting temperament of the warrior in his heart, and the
doubting temperament of the philosopher in his head: to the first he
owed the choice of his road; to the second, the manner of traversing it.
His six great works of art are all tragedies. Rudin dies a needless
death on a barricade; Insarof dies before he even reaches the land he is
to liberate; Bazarof dies from accidental blood-poisoning and Nezhdanof
dies by his own hand. Here again critics are at hand with an explanation
which does not explain. Turgenef, the artist, the poet, the creator,
does not know, they say, how to dispose of his heroes at the end of his
stories, and he therefore kills them off. The truth, however, is that
the sceptic, pessimistic Turgenef could not as an artist faithful to his
belief do aught else with his heroes than to let them perish. For to him
cruel fate, merciless destiny, was not mere figure of speech, but
reality of realities. To Turgenef, life was at bottom a tragedy; and
whatever the auspices under which he sent forth his heroes, he felt that
sooner or later they must become victims of blind fate, brute force, of
the relentlessly grinding, crushing mill of the gods.
16. I have thus attempted to give you an interpretation of Turgenef
which perhaps explains not only his life but also the peculiar
direction of his works; not only the vices of his intellect, but also
the virtues of his art.
17. For the first great virtue of Turgenef's art is his matchless sense
of form, as of a builder, a constructor, an architect. As works of
architecture, of design, with porch and balcony, and central body, and
roof, all in harmonious proportion, his six novels are unapproachable.
There is a perfection of form in them which puts to shame the hopelessly
groping attempts at beauty of harmonious form of even the greatest of
English men of letters. As a work of architecture, for instance, "Virgin
Soil" bears the same relation to the "Mill on the Floss" that the
Capitol at Washington bears to the Capitol at Albany. The one is a
rounded-out thing of beauty, the other an angular monstrosity. Walter
Scott in England, and Mr. Howells in America, are the only English
writers of fiction who possess that sense of form which makes Turgenef's
art consummate; unfortunately, Walter Scott has long since been
discarded as a literary model, and Mr. Howells is not yet even
accepted.
18. And the second great virtue of Turgenef's art is the skill with
which he contrives to tell the most with the least number of words, the
skill with which he contrives to produce the greatest effect with the
least expenditure of force. There is a compactness in his stories which
I can only describe as Emersonian. Of his six great novels, only one has
as many as three hundred pages; of the other five, not one has over two
hundred. Turgenef's art is thus in striking contrast with that required
by the English standard of three volumes for every novel. For what is to
English and American society the greatest of social virtues was to
Turgenef the greatest of artistic vices. As an artist, Turgenef detested
above all cleverness,--that accomplishment which possesses to perfection
the art of smuggling in a whole cartload of chaff under the blinding
glare of a single phosphorescent thoughtlet; that cleverness which like
all phosphorescent glows can only change into a sickly paleness at the
slightest approach of God's true sunlight, of the soul's true force. Of
this virtue of compactness his works offer examples on almost every
page; but nowhere are its flowers strewn in such abundance as in his
"Diary of a Superfluous Man."
19. This work, though only covering some sixty pages, written as it was
at the age of thirty-two, when Turgenef stood as yet at the threshold of
his artistic career, is in fact, as it were, an epitome of all
Turgenef's forces as an artist. While in power of impression it is the
peer of Tolstoy's "Ivan Ilyitsh," with which it has a striking family
resemblance, it surpasses Tolstoy's sketch in the wealth of delicately
shaded gems of workmanship, which glow throughout the worklet. (1) In
the small provincial town, for instance, the lion from St. Petersburg,
Prince N., captures the hearts of all. A ball is given in his honor, and
the prince, says Turgenef, "was encircled by the host, yes, encircled as
England is encircled by the sea." My ball-giving, my lion-hunting
friend, _thou_ knowest the singular felicity of that one word
here,--encircled! (2) The superfluous man's beloved is at last seduced
by the lionized prince, and she becomes the talk of the town. A
good-natured lieutenant, now first introduced by Turgenef, calls on the
wretched man to console him, and the unhappy lover writes in his Diary:
"I feared lest he should mention Liza. But my good lieutenant was not a
gossip, and, moreover, he despised all women, calling them, God knows
why, salad." This is all the description Turgenef devotes to this
lieutenant; but this making him despise women under the appellation of
half-sour, half-sweet conglomerate of egg-and-vegetable salad, describes
the lieutenant in two lines more faithfully than pages of scientific,
realistic photography. (3) Before the ruin of poor Liza becomes known,
and while the prince, her seducer, is still on the height of
lionization, he is challenged to a duel by Liza's faithful lover. The
superfluous man wounds the prince's cheek; the prince, who deems his
rival unworthy of even a shot, retaliates by firing into the air.
Superfluous man is of course crushed, annihilated, and he describes his
feelings thus: "Evidently this man was bound to crush me; with this
magnanimity of his he slammed me in, just as the lid of the coffin is
slammed down over the corpse." (4) You think, then, that the sufferings
of the despairing lover as he sees his beloved going to ruin, into the
arms of the seducer, are indescribable? But not to Turgenef. Says again
the superfluous man in his Diary: "When our sorrows reach a phase in
which they force our whole inside to quake and to squeak like an
overloaded cart, then they cease to be ridiculous." Verily, only those
who have been shaken to the very depths of their being can understand
the marvellous fidelity of this image, the soul quaking and squeaking
like an overloaded cart,--all the more faithful because of its very
homeliness. Do not wonder, therefore, when the last, intensest grief,
the consciousness of being crushed by his rival, finds in his Diary the
following expression: (5) "And so I suffered," says the superfluous man,
"like a dog whose hind parts had been crushed in by the cart-wheel as it
passed over him." A more powerful description of agony, methinks, is not
found even in Gogol's laughter through tears.
20. And the third great virtue of Turgenef's art is his love of Nature;
and here I know not where to look for the like of him, unless to another
great master of Russian letters,--to Tolstoy. For Gogol is indeed also a
painter, but only a landscape-painter, while Turgenef makes you feel
even the breeze of a summer eve.
21. So thrilled is his being with the love of Nature, that all her moods
find a ready response in his sensitive soul. The joy of the sunshine,
the melancholy of the sky shut down by huge cloud, the grandeur of the
thunder, the quiver of the lightning, the glow of the dawn, the babble
of the brook, and even the waving of the grass-blade,--all these he
reproduces with the fidelity of one who _reveres_ Nature. Turgenef has
thus at least one element of the highest religiousness,--reverence
towards the powers of Nature superior to man; a reverence the possession
of which he himself would perhaps have been the first to deny, since
consciously he was an irreverent agnostic. But his soul was wiser than
his logic; and however dead his head might declare the universe to be,
his hand painted it as if alive. This, for instance, is how he describes
a storm:--
"Meanwhile, along with the evening was approaching a thunder-storm.
Already ever since noon the air had been close, and from the
distance there was coming a low grumbling. But now the broad cloud
that had long been resting like a layer of lead on the very edge of
the horizon began to grow, and to be visible from behind the trees:
the stifling atmosphere began to tremble more visibly, shaken
stronger and stronger by the approaching thunder; the wind rose,
howled abruptly through the trees, became still, howled again
protractedly, and now it whistled. A sombre darkness ran over the
ground, chasing swiftly away the last glimmer of the dawn; the thick
clouds breaking to pieces suddenly began to float, and drove through
the sky; now, a slight shower began to sprinkle, the lightning
flared up with a red flame, and the thunder growled angrily and
heavily."
22. Observe here the felicity of the metaphor: the cloud rests, the air
trembles and is soon shaken, the darkness _runs_ over the ground, and
the thunder growls in anger. Only the eye which sees at bottom life in
Nature's forces could see them in such vivifying images.
23. Lastly, the fourth great virtue of Turgenef's art is his intense
power of sympathy.
24. In the universality of his sympathies he is equalled again only by
Tolstoy. Like him he can depict the feelings of a dog, of a bird, with a
self-attesting fidelity, as if his nature were at one with theirs; and
the one child of creation which man has repeatedly been declared unable
to paint truthfully, namely, woman, Turgenef has painted with a grace
and faithfulness unapproached even by George Eliot or by George Sand.
For Turgenef loved woman as no woman could love her, and his faith in
her was unbounded. Hence, when in his "On the Eve" he wishes to give
expression to his despair over the _men_ of Russia, so that he has to
seek the ideal of a patriot not in a Russian, but in a Bulgarian, he
still rests the hope of the country on its women; and Helen, Turgenef's
noblest conception among women, as Insarof is among men, is not like him
a foreigner, but a Russian. And this is how Turgenef paints the noblest
moment in the life of the noblest of his women.
25. The poor, prospectless foreigner Insarof discovers that he loves the
rich, high-stationed Helen. He does not know that he is loved in return,
and he decides to depart without taking even leave of her. They meet,
however, unexpectedly.
"'You come from our house, don't you?' Helen asked.
"'No, ... not from your house.'
"'No?' repeated Helen, and tried to smile. 'And is it thus you keep
your promise? I have been expecting you all the morning.'
"'Helen Nikolayevna, I promised nothing yesterday.'
"Helen tried to smile again, and passed her hand across her face.
Both face and hand were very pale. 'You intended, then, to depart
without taking leave of us?'
"'Yes,' he muttered, almost fiercely.
"'How, after our acquaintance, after our talks, after all ... So, if
I had not then met you here accidentally (her voice began to ring,
and she stopped for a moment) ... you would have gone off, and would
not have even shaken my hand in parting; gone off without regret?'
"Insarof turned away. 'Helen Nikolayevna, please don't speak thus. I
am, as it is, already not cheerful. Believe me, my decision has cost
me great effort. If you knew ...'
"'I don't wish to know why you depart,' Helen interrupted him,
frightened. 'This is evidently necessary. We must evidently part.
You would not grieve your friends without cause. But do friends part
thus? We are of course friends, are not we?'
"'No,' said Insarof.
"'How?' muttered Helen, and her cheeks colored slightly.
"'Why, that is exactly why I go away, because we are not friends.
Don't oblige me to say what I do not wish to tell, what I shall not
tell.'
"'Formerly you used to be frank with me,' Helen spoke up with a
slight reproach. 'Do you remember?'
"'Then I could be frank; then I had nothing to hide. But now--'
"'But now?' asked Helen.
"'But now ... But now I must go. Good-by!'
"Had Insarof at this moment raised his eyes to Helen, he would have
seen that her whole face shone,--shone the more, the more his face
grew gloomy and dark; but his eyes were stubbornly fixed on the
floor.
"'Well, good-by, Dimitry Nikanorovitch,' she began. 'But since we
have met, give me now at least your hand.'
"Insarof started to give her his hand. 'No, I cannot even do that,'
he said, and again turned away.
"'You cannot?'
"'I cannot. Good-by!' And he started to go out.
"'Just wait a moment,' she said. 'It seems you are afraid of me.
Now, I am braver than you,' she added, with a sudden slight tremor
along her whole frame. 'I can tell you ... do you wish me to tell
... why you found me here? Do you know where I was going?'
"Insarof looked in surprise at Helen.
"'I was going to your house.'
"'To my house?'
"Helen covered her face. 'You wished to compel me to say that I love
you,' she whispered--'there, I have said it.'
"'Helen!' exclaimed Insarof.
"She took his hands, looked at him, and fell upon his breast.
"He embraced her firmly, and remained silent. There was no need of
telling her that he loved her. From his one exclamation, from this
instantaneous transformation of the whole man, from the manner in
which rose and fell that breast to which she clung so trustfully,
from the manner in which the tips of his fingers touched her hair,
Helen could see that she was loved. He was silent, but she needed no
words. 'He is here, he loves; what more is there needed?' The calm
of blessedness, the quiet of the undisturbed haven, of the attained
goal, that heavenly calm which lends a meaning and a beauty to death
itself, filled her whole being with a godly wave. She wished
nothing, because she possessed everything. 'O my brother, my friend,
my darling!' her lips whispered; and she herself knew not whose
heart it was, his or hers, which was so sweetly beating and melting
away in her breast.
"But he stood motionless, enclosing in his firm embrace the young
life which had just given itself entire unto him; he felt on his
breast this new, priceless burden; a feeling of tenderness, a
feeling of gratitude inexpressible, shivered into dust his hard
soul, and tears, hitherto unknown to him, came to his eyes.
"But she wept not; she only kept repeating: 'O my friend! O my
brother!'
"'Then you will go with me everywhere,' he said to her, some fifteen
minutes later, as before enclosing and supporting her in his
embrace.
"'Everywhere, to the end of the earth; wherever you are, there shall
I be.'
"'And you are sure you do not deceive yourself? You know your
parents will never consent to our marriage?'
"'I am not deceiving myself; I know it.'
"'You know I am poor, almost a beggar?'
"'I know it.'
"'That I am not a Russian, that I am fated to live beyond Russia,
that you will have to break all your ties with your country and your
family?'
"'I know it, I know it.'
"'You know also that I have devoted my life to a difficult,
thankless task; that I ... that we shall have to expose ourselves
not only to dangers, but to deprivation, and to degradation
perhaps?'
"'I know, I know it all ... but I love you.'
"'That you will have to give up all your habits; that there alone,
among strangers, you will perhaps have to toil?'
"She put her hands on his lips. 'I love you, darling.'
"He began to kiss warmly her narrow, rosy hand. Helen did not take
her hand from his lips, and with a kind of childish joy, with
laughing curiosity, she watched him covering with kisses now her
hand, now her fingers.
"Suddenly she blushed, and hid her face on his breast.
"He gently raised up her head and looked firmly into her eyes.
"'So God be with you,' he said; 'be thou my wife both before men and
before God.'"
26. These, then, were the numerous great virtues of Turgenef; and they
have made him the most enjoyable of artists. But his one great vice, the
vice of doubt, the vice of hopelessness, has made him, as a nourisher of
the spirit, among the least profitable as a writer.
27. For, O my friends, it cannot be stated too often that whatever puts
new strength into the spirit is from the great God, the Good; and
whatever takes strength from the spirit is from the great Devil, the
Evil. And the things that have ever proved the inexhaustible sources of
strength to the soul have been not doubt and despair, but faith and
hope,--faith that the destinies of men are guided by love even though
guided through the agony of sorrow; faith that behind this appearance of
discord and blind fate and brute force there is after all to be found
the substance of harmony, of wise forethought, of tender love; hope,
that however terrible the present, the future will yet be one of joy,
one of peace. If reason with its logic can strengthen this faith, this
hope, then welcome reason, blessed be reason; but if reason with its
logic can only make me doubt the presence of wisdom, the presence of
love, then begone reason, cursed be reason. Verily, by their fruits ye
shall know them!
28. Turgenef therefore was incapable of creating a Levin, because he had
not the faith which makes the Levins of Tolstoy possible. He was filled
with the pessimistic woe of the world, believed at bottom that man,
born in sorrow, must also live in sorrow. With the sublimity of a prophet,
Turgenef cries: "From the inmost depths of the virgin forest, from the
eternal depth of the waters, resounds the same cry of Nature to man: 'I
have naught to do with thee. I rule, but thou--look to thy life, O
worm!'" While personally he indeed contributed what lay in his power to
alleviate the present ills of men, he could do naught towards
alleviating the future ills of men; for he could not inspire men with
hope, since he had none himself. For hope comes from faith, and
Turgenef was devoid of faith. Turgenef, like another great master of
fiction, George Eliot, was a veritable child of the immature age, not of
science, of knowledge, but of nescience, of ignorance, of agnosticism;
for it is only ignorance that doubts, and it is true science that
believes.
29. I cannot therefore ask you to take leave with me of Turgenef without
at least urging you to profit by this one fact in his life. Turgenef
failed to reach the highest, the height of Tolstoy, because he failed to
free himself from that alone which must forever trammel the soul. He
failed to free himself from that fundamental distrust of God which is at
bottom of all despair. You, too, my friends, have that distrust. O ye in
society who dread the consequences of having one kind word to say, or
even one glance of recognition to cast at a brother because forsooth he
has not been properly introduced to you, are not ye doubting your own
God in your breasts, which acts not in fear of your fellow-men, but in
trust of them? And, O ye who refuse to help a begging brother for fear
lest he prove an impostor, are not ye likewise at bottom doubting the
God within you which acts through pity to a brother, even though he _do_
deceive? Turgenef fell short of the highest because he did not cast off
the scepticism of his intellect. Are not ye, my friends, likewise in
danger of falling short of the highest because you too do not cast off
the scepticism of the heart?