The novel “First Love” was Turgénieff’s favourite work, as he more than
once confessed. What the author prized in this purely intimate but
beautifully finished story was its fidelity to actuality; that is to
say, he prized the personal recollections of early youth. In that
respect this story has a prominent interest for readers, since it
narrates--according to the testimony of the author--an actual fact in
his life, and that without the slightest artificial colouring.[1] To
what degree Turgénieff’s testimony is credible, remarks one critic, is a
question which can be rightly decided only by biographical documents.
Famous writers are particularly inclined by nature to romantic coquetry
with their own personalities--a characteristic which was, apparently, to
some extent, inherent in Turgénieff, despite his renowned modesty.
Famous writers are fond of leading their contemporaries--and still more
posterity--astray with regard to the reflection of intimate details of
their lives in their artistic works.... At any rate, Russian artistic
productions, in which the authors have endeavoured to set forth
biographical details, must be scrutinised with extreme cautiousness. The
author, while imagining that he is thoroughly sincere, may involuntarily
indulge in inventions concerning himself. But in its literary aspect
this story indubitably is one of Turgénieff’s masterpieces, and in it
the original character of its chief heroine, Princess Zinaída Zasyékin,
is depicted with remarkable clearness and charm.... The artist threw off
this light and elegant little intimate study by way of relaxation after
“On the Eve,” a romance dealing with a broad social problem, and by way
of preparation for a new work, still more serious in intention, “Fathers
and Children.”
“First Love” does not contain any social types, does not deal with any
social problems. It consists wholly, so to speak, of poetry. The young
Princess is one of the author’s most poetical creations. Her character
is depicted with marvellous grace and elegance in the little scenes
which exert so great an influence over her sixteen-year-old admirer. In
this young man’s father Turgénieff sketched his own father, who did not
love his wife, and whose domestic relations were identical with those
here described. His wife was considerably younger than he, and he had
married her for her money, One curious detail concerns the Pole,
Malévsky. This “dubious Count, swindler, and, in general, dirty little
gentleman,” as one critic expresses it, “drawn with great artistic
vivacity, and with unconcealed scorn, is a very typical figure; and such
repulsive Poles were formerly encountered in great numbers in Holy
Russia,--and are still to be met with. In this character are
concentrated the unpleasant characteristics of the Polish national
character: spiritual deceitfulness, double-facedness, insignificance,
courtliness, and a tendency to revolting intrigue.”
In “A Correspondence” we again encounter one of Turgénieff’s favourite
types, the superfluous man. But the author has taken a stride in advance
with Alexyéi Petróvitch. In this case the superfluous man does not blame
either the insipidity of life, or society, or people alone,--he blames
himself. In Márya Alexándrovna’s friend and correspondent we behold a
good and worthy man, cultured in both mind and heart,--but, like many
others among Turgénieff’s heroes, suffering, so to speak, from a malady
of the will. One critic declares that this story is almost identical, on
its exterior, with “Rúdin.” One of the Russian representatives of “the
loftiest aspirations” enters into correspondence with a young girl who,
as people were fond of expressing it at that period, belonged among the
“choice natures.” Disillusioned with life, she is ready to submit to
the conditions which encompass her. Under the influence of an
ill-defined impulse of affection and sympathy toward this young girl,
the hero begins to inflate her sense of being an elect person, and to
stir up her energy to contend with the humdrum circle in which she
dwells. Just at the moment when he has awakened her courage and her hope
that he will join her in this conflict, he stumbles and falls himself,
in the most pusillanimous manner. His will is ailing.
Another point worth noting is that in the heroine’s third letter the
note of the so-called “woman’s question” is sounded with remarkable
feeling and force.
The explanation vouchsafed by one critic for the prevalence of weak men
in Turgénieff’s romances, in connection with “A Correspondence,” is that
the author did not depict strong natures simply because he did not find
suitable material for that purpose in the circle which surrounded him.
He was determined to draw the best men of his time as he found
them--that is to say, men addicted to self-conviction, fiery in
language, but weak in resolution.
“The Region of Dead Calm” was written while Turgénieff was forbidden to
leave his estate at Spásskoe-Lutovínovo, after his release from the
imprisonment wherewith he was punished for having published in Moscow a
eulogy of Gógol which the St. Petersburg censor had prohibited. His
idea that all men are divided into two categories which, respectively,
possess more or less of the characteristics of Hamlet and of Don
Quixote, is illustrated again in this story by Véretyeff, who ruins his
talents and his life with liquor.
On the other hand, as one critic says, “positively, in the whole of
Russian literature, we do not meet elsewhere such a grand, massive,
severe, and somewhat coarse woman as Márya Pávlovna.” Másha is the first
woman in Russian literature to look upon man as a worker, and to treat
him with intelligent exaction. Another strange characteristic in a young
lady of the remote country districts is Másha’s dislike for “sweet”
poetry. Her suicide is not a proof that her character was weak. And of
the two weak men in the story, Astákhoff is the weaker, the more
colourless, in every way--as to character, not as to the author’s
portraiture.
The pictures of country life among the landed gentry are drawn with
great charm and delicate humour.
That Turgénieff was affected, and very sensibly so, by the lack of
comprehension evinced by both critics and readers toward his great work
“Fathers and Children,” is evident, in part, from the characteristic
lyrical fragment, “It is Enough.” It is filled with mournful pessimism
of a romantic sort, which strongly recalls the pessimism of Leopardi. A
certain element of comedy is imparted to this sentimental outpouring by
the fact that the author fancied (and, probably, with entire sincerity)
that he bore a strong resemblance in his convictions to Bazároff, his
creation. Dostoiévsky depicted this comic element very caustically, in
the most malicious of parodies on Turgénieff in general and on “It is
Enough” and “Phantoms” in particular. This parody is contained in his
romance “Devils,” and constitutes one of the most venomous pages in that
decidedly venomous romance. The following is an excerpt: “In the
meantime, the mist swirled and swirled, and swirled round and round
until it bore more resemblance to a million pillows than to mist. And
suddenly everything vanishes, and a great Genius crosses the Volga in
winter, during a thaw. Two and a half pages about this transit. But,
notwithstanding, he tumbles into a hole in the ice. The Genius goes to
the bottom. Do you think he drowns? Not a bit of it! All this is for the
sake, after he is completely foundered and is beginning to choke, of
making a block of ice, a tiny block, about the size of a pea, but clear
and transparent, float past him ‘like a frozen tear’; and on that block
of ice Germany, or, to put it more accurately, the sky of Germany, is
reflected; and by the rainbow play of that reflection it reminds him of
the tear which--dost thou remember?--trickled from thine eyes when we
sat under the emerald tree, and thou didst joyfully exclaim: ‘There is
no crime!’--‘Yes!’ said I through my tears; ‘but if that is so, then
assuredly there are no righteous men either.’ We fell to sobbing and
parted forever.”
“The Dog” was first published in the feuilleton of the _Petersburg
News_, No. 85, 1865. It is generally admitted to be one of Turgénieff’s
weak and unsuccessful works. But one critic describes how enthralling it
was when the author narrated it (in advance of publication) to a group
of friends in Moscow, and what a deep impression it made upon them.
“When I read it afterward in print,” he says, “it seemed to me a pale
copy of Turgénieff’s verbal narration. One was impressed with the idea
that, when he sat down to write it, he was overcome with apprehension
lest his readers and critics should suppose that he believed in this
mysterious adventure. But conviction on the part of the author--in
appearance at least--is precisely what is required in such cases. He
told the tale with enthusiasm, and even turned pale, and his face
assumed a cast of fear at the dramatic points.” The critic adds that he
could not get to sleep for hours afterward.