"In 'The Diary of a Superfluous Man,'" says one well-known Russian
critic, "we have to deal with the end of the pathological process upon
the body of Russian society. In Turgénieff's productions which followed
it we have to deal with a crisis in Russian life, with the growth of a
new order of things. Apart from the fundamental profundity of its
tendency, the 'Diary' is extremely noteworthy for its artistic
workmanship. In spite of a certain monotony of tone in its exposition,
it produces a very strong impression by its abundance of poetical
beauties, which are perfectly suited to the melancholy mood of the whole
story... In creating his 'Superfluous Man' the author, evidently, aimed
at making as powerful an impression as possible, and therefore employed
the most brilliant pigments in depicting Tchulkatúrin. He attained his
object. Russian society started back in horror at this portrait of
itself, which was somewhat distorted yet a good likeness, and in its
strong excitement vigorously repelled all community with the sickly
figure of Tchulkatúrin. This horror showed that the time was ripe in
Russian society for a different order of things, that it was tired of
inertness and was seeking a wider field of activity in which it might
freely develop its real forces."
Another critic, comparing the "Diary" with "Hamlet of Shshtchígry
County," says that what the latter expressed with a convulsive laugh
Tchulkatúrin gave vent to in sickly, complaining shrieks, both
productions being a bitter confession of moral impotence, of
mental insolvency. "There is one passage in the 'Diary,'" he says,
"which--especially if one comes upon it after perusing all that precedes
it--it is impossible to read without a strong nervous shock, if not
without tears--a passage which always has the same identical effect; and
it contains the key to the comprehension of Turgénieff's relations
toward Nature. It is the end of the 'Diary.' This passage is noteworthy.
The predominant characteristic of Turgénieff's talent is here revealed
in a particularly brilliant manner: a profound impregnation with
Nature,--an impregnation which reached the point almost of fusion with
it. The breath of spring blows upon the reader, there is a scent of the
upturned soil,--and nowhere else, possibly save in that chapter of
Tolstóy's 'Youth,' which describes the removal of the double windows,
and the reader is suddenly enveloped in the keen, fresh air of spring,
is there anything which can be compared with this passage."
Still another critic says: "The ironical analysis of the moral
feebleness of the Russian intellectual class, which constitutes the
ruling motive of 'Hamlet of Shshtchígry County,' is converted into
sickly complaint in 'The Diary of a Superfluous Man,' one of the most
original and best-sustained of Turgénieff's stories, and one which is
most profoundly imbued with feeling.
"Turgénieff's story 'Three Portraits,'" said the most famous of Russian
critics, Byelínsky, "possesses, in addition to the cleverness and
vividness of its presentation, all the fascination, not of a novel, but
rather of a reminiscence of the _good_ old times. A fitting motto for it
would be: 'Deeds of days gone by.'"
All the critics admit that the type of Vasíly Lutchínoff had existed,
and one says: "I attribute special importance to Turgénieff's Vasíly
Lutchínoff because, in this character, the old type of Don Juan, of
Lovelace, and so forth, assumed our own Russian, original form for the
first time." This type (equally rapacious with that presented by the
hero of "The Bully," which was written about the same time) is supposed
to have prevailed in the eighteenth century, especially in the epoch of
Katherine II. Although Turgénieff never wrote historical novels, this
story, in company with passages from others of his works, is regarded as
coming, practically, under the head of historical records faithful to
the epochs dealt with by the author.
"The story 'Three Meetings,'" says one critic, "belongs entirely in the
category of 'art for art's sake.' There can be no question here of any
guiding idea. To speak figuratively, it is a fragrant flower, whose
perfume one inhales with delight, but which presents no other essential
qualities. Its whole point lies in its workmanship, and in paraphrase it
loses its entire charm."
"This story," writes another critic, "may serve, in our opinion, as a
curious monument of the ineptness of narrations in the first person.
Turgénieff, who is such a complete master of the form of personal
narration, was bound to exhibit also the weak side of it in its
entirety. This has strutted forth in his 'Three Meetings' with such
pride, independence, and, in a measure, with so much coquetry, that it
has swallowed up its subject-matter. There are several brilliant pages
in the story, but its fantastic, showy matter seems to be directed
solely to the end of illuminating the person of the narrator in the most
advantageous manner."
In discussing "The Memoirs of a Sportsman," a leading critic of the
present day says:... "Another peculiarity which immediately won for him
[Turgénieff] fame and sympathy among the public, is his entirely new
manner of depicting figures from peasant life. Before the advent of
Turgénieff the populace, even in the hands of Púshkin, even in those of
Gógol, appeared either in the capacity of an operatic chorus, or in the
quality of peasants of the ballet, or as an accessory, comic figure.
Turgénieff was the first to look into the soul of the common people and
demonstrate that that soul was exactly like the soul of the cultivated
man, only with its own peculiar turn to conceptions and feelings. By
thus bringing the peasant close to us, by exhibiting him in this form,
as a being one with us in blood, with whom, therefore, one can
sympathise instead of regarding him merely as a rare spectacle,
Turgénieff deservedly earned the reputation of a champion of
emancipation...... Two other tales are closely allied to 'The Memoirs of
a Sportsman,' although they do not form a part of that collection:
'Mumú' and 'The Inn.'... One of them, 'Mumú,' is, perhaps, the most
eloquent denunciation of serfdom which ever proceeded from Turgénieff's
pen. It is the only one of his productions in which the central figure
of the pig-headed[1] landed-proprietress is delineated with vivid and
unconcealed hatred. But in this case also, the chief merit of the story
does not lie in this arraignment,--in which are probably reflected the
author's childish reminiscences,[2]--but in its warm, compassionate
sympathy for the lot of the poor dumb man, whose whole life was
concentrated in love for a creature equally ill-treated by Fate--for the
little dog he had reared. In 'The Inn,' also, serfdom is set forth in an
extreme and hateful light. But here again the chief gist of the author's
idea does not lie in that direction...... It is evident that here
Turgénieff has touched on the theme to which Dostoiévsky was so fond of
reverting. That theme is--the accidental sin of a good and honest man,
the crime of a pure mind atoned for by voluntary renunciation, and the
reconciling power of repentance, humility and prayer. Evil remains
unpunished in Turgénieff's story..... And yet the story produces a
shattering moral effect, thanks to the humble grandeur of Akím's figure,
and its combination of meekness and criminality. Mean as Naúm is in his
triumph, repulsive as is landed-proprietress Elizavéta Prókhorovna with
her cowardly and hypocritical greed, the story leaves on the reader a
soothing impression."