"RUDIN"
The biographers tell us that Turgenev left Russia again in 1847, for
the sake of being near Pauline Garcia, the famous singer (afterwards
Madame Viardot), whom he adored all his life; that he left her in
Berlin, visited Salzbrunn with the critic Byelinsky, who was dying
of consumption, and then proceeded to Paris, Brussels, Lyons and
Courtavenel. In Paris he works incessantly, producing plays and short
stories and most of the series of _A Sportsman's Sketches_; makes
friends with Hertzen and George Sand; studies the French classics
and avows his democratic sympathies, without any illusions as to the
good-for-nothingness of "the Reds." In the autumn of 1858 he returns
to Russia, recalled by news of the grave illness of his mother, who,
however, refused to be reconciled with her two sons, whom she tried
to disinherit on her deathbed. Turgenev was henceforward a rich man.
In 1852 _A Sportsman's Sketches_ appeared in book form, and in April
of the same year, for writing a sympathetic article on Gogol's death,
Turgenev was ordered a month's detention in a police-station and then
confined to his estate at Spasskoe.[13]
[13] "I am confined in a police-station by the Emperor's orders for
having printed a short article on Gogol in a Moscow journal. This was
only a pretext, the article itself being perfectly insignificant. They
have looked at me askance for a long time, and they have laid hold
of this pretext at the first opportunity. I do not complain of the
Emperor; the matter has been so deceitfully represented to him that he
couldn't have acted otherwise. They have wished to put a stop on all
that is being said on Gogol's death, and they have not been sorry, at
the same time, to place an embargo on my literary activity."--Letter to
M. and Mme. Viardot, May 13, 1852.
Turgenev notes that his imperious desire to escape to Europe indicated
"Possibly something lacking in my character or force of will." But
he declares, "I should never have written _A Sportsman's Sketches_
had I remained in Russia.... It was impossible for me to remain and
breathe the same air that gave life to everything I abhorred." The
persecution of his literary forerunners and contemporaries by the
Autocracy was continuous. Pushkin's humiliation and subjection to
official authority; Lermontov's exile to the Caucasus; Tchaadaev
declared insane by bureaucratic order and confined to a mad-house;
Gogol's recantation of _Dead Souls_ and relapse into feeble mysticism;
Hertzen's expatriation; Dostoevsky's and Petrashevsky's exile to
the mines of Siberia; Saltykov's banishment, etc., the list of the
intellectual and creative minds gagged or stifled under Nicholas I.
is endless. And Turgenev's mild and generous spirit was designed
neither for political partisanship nor for active revolt. He has
indeed been accused of timidity,[14] and cowardice by uncompromising
Radicals and Revolutionaries. But his life-work is the answer to these
ill-considered allegations. Spiritual enfranchisement was impossible
in "the swamp of Petersburg with its Winter Palace, eight Ministries,
three Polices, the most Holy Synod, and all the exalted family with
their German relatives," as Hertzen wittily put it later; and by faring
abroad and by inhaling deep draughts of free European air Turgenev was
enabled, in his own phrase, "to strike the enemy from a distance."
[14] In an access of self-reproach he once declared to a friend that
his character was comprised in one word--"poltroon."
His exile for a year and a half to his own estate was, however, by no
means a bad thing for his own self-development. Years afterwards he
wrote: "All was for the best.... My being under arrest and in the
country proved to my undeniable advantage; it brought me close to
those sides of Russian life which, in the ordinary course of things,
would probably have escaped my observation." He consoled himself with
shooting, with music, with reading, with literary composition, and it
is to this enforced detention in Russia that, no doubt, we owe the
masterpiece _Rudin_ (1855), which he rewrote many times, declaring
to Aksakov that none of his other stories had ever given him so much
trouble. In fact this novel, in grace, ease and strength, has the
quality of finished statuary.
* * * * *
Though sixty years have passed since the appearance of _Rudin_, no
dust has gathered on the novel, so original is the leading figure.
The portrait of the hero who typifies the failure of the Russian
_intelligentsia_ of the ''forties' to do more than talk, is as
arresting as the day on which it was painted. In him Turgenev creates
a fresh variety of idealist, the orator sapped by the love of his
own words. Rudin is Russian in the combination of his soft, wavering
will, his lofty enthusiasm for ideas, and his rather naïve sincerity:
in other respects, he might be a western European. Behind him we feel
generations of easygoing manorial gentlefolk regarding in surprise
this curious descendant, whose clever brain is aglow with a passion
for "eternal truth" and for the "general principles" of German
philosophy. One is haunted by a sense of Rudin's cousinship to other
famous idealists in life and literature; he shows affinities both to a
contemporary, Coleridge, and to a famous successor, Ibsen's _Brand_.
English idealism in general is both a covering for mundane interests,
and a spiritual compromise with those same interests. An English Rudin
would have gone into the Church, and as a Canon or Bishop would have
attained celebrity by his gift of lofty and magnetic eloquence. But a
Russian Rudin does not succeed in buttering his bread; it is both his
unworldliness and lack of will that bring his powers to nought. Rudin
can and does indeed, deceive himself; but the strands of hypocrisy in
his nature are too fragmentary to bring him worldly success.
Of Turgenev's six novels, _Rudin_ is the most perfect in form, by the
harmony of its parts and absolute grace of modelling.[15] Everywhere
the master's chisel has fined away his material to attain the most
delicately firm contours. The grouping of the character is a lesson in
harmonious arrangement. Note by what simple, natural steps one passes
from the outer circle of the neighbours of the wealthy patroness of art
and letters, Darya Mihailovna, to the inner circle of her household.
The cold, suave egoism of the lady of the manor is admirably set off
by the sketches of her dependents, the simple young tutor, Bassistoff,
her young Jewish _protégé_ Pandalevsky, and the cynic Pigasov. The
household is expecting the arrival of a guest, a Baron Muffel, but in
his place arrives his acquaintance, Dmitri Rudin, slightly shabby, but
of pre-possessing address.
[15] For a discussion of Turgenev's debt to George Sand's novel,
_Horace_, see M. Halperine-Kaminsky's _Tourguéneff and his French
Circle_, p. 301.
A master of eloquent language, Rudin conquers his hearers by his
fine bearing and brilliant talk. But notice that the effect he
instantaneously produces holds in germ all the after development
of the story. Volintsev fears in him a rival for Natalya's love;
Pandalevsky is on his guard against the clever stranger who may
dispossess him in the favour of the mistress of the house; Natalya
falls in love with the newcomer who has fired her girlish imagination;
while her mother, Darya Mihailovna, is planning to keep Rudin, this
coming lion, in her house to adorn her salon. The structure of the
story, beautifully planned, is a lesson in the directness and ease of
artistic development. Everything flows, simply and inevitably, from
the actions of the group of characters, quickened and watchful after
Rudin's arrival.
As an example of Turgenev's skill in drawing a man with a dozen
touches, and of exposing the mainspring of his nature by a few of his
words and actions, consider the Jewish-looking youth, Pandalevsky; with
the slight, exact strokes of his chisel Turgenev here graves a perfect
intaglio. Pandalevsky, in the opening pages, meeting the charming
Alexandra Pavlovna on her walk, offers her his arm, _unasked_. "She
took it." After some flowery remarks, Pandalevsky, presuming further,
says, "Allow me to offer you this lovely wild flower." Alexandra
Pavlovna did not refuse it, but "after a few steps, let it drop on the
path." The sensitive woman is repelled by the young Jew's familiarity
and his thickness of skin, and indeed Pandalevsky has scarcely turned
his back on her, when he transfers his interest to a peasant girl
working in the field, and so coarse is his talk that she stops her ears
and mutters, "Go away, sir; upon my word!"
Again, note how the characters all reveal themselves by their
unconscious behaviour. On the night of Rudin's unexpected arrival,
while Bassistoff sits up, pouring out his soul in an eloquent letter
to a friend, and Natalya cannot sleep for thinking of Rudin's glowing
eloquence, "Pandalevsky went to bed, and as he took off his daintily
embroidered braces, he said aloud, 'A very smart fellow,' and suddenly,
looking harshly at his page, ordered him out of the room." By this
little revelation of his mean spirit the young Jew prepares us for his
furtive suspicion of Rudin, and for his playing the spy subsequently.
By a word, a gesture, a look, psychologically exact, Turgenev secures
thus in a sentence effects which it takes his rivals a paragraph or
a page to make clear to us. Thus his scenes always appeal by their
aesthetic ease and grace.
Remark again how swift, precise and final is Turgenev's exploration of
Rudin's character. Tired of wandering, Rudin, as Darya Mihailovna's
guest, is glad to have found a congenial circle, perhaps indeed a home,
but while every one seems to listen eagerly to him, and he lays down
the law to the household, a cold undercurrent of criticism is already
felt threatening his position. One of the neighbours, Lezhnyov, had
been at college with Rudin in youth, and from his talk about their past
relations one learns why Rudin, despite his genius, has not succeeded
in life. He is a theorist and he has never really understood human
nature. So much so is this indeed that Rudin does not realize in time
that Natalya, this girl "of an ardent, true and passionate nature," has
fallen in love with him, and exalts him as her spiritual teacher. And
when Rudin's eyes are opened this fatal flaw in his character is seen.
He lives only for his ideas and for his audience; his great, his sole
power lies in the magic of his stimulating, flowing oratory. He is a
master of words, but he cannot act. Lezhnyov is right in declaring that
Rudin in his relations with others, even in his love affairs, "only
needs a fresh opportunity of speechifying and giving vent to his fine
talk, and that's what he can't live without." Rudin, carried away by
the discovery of Natalya's love, pretends and simulates love for her,
but his "passion" is shown to be hollow when the young girl comes to
warn him that Pandalevsky, spying on them, has betrayed their secret
meetings to her mother, who is angry and jealous that Rudin should be
paying court to her daughter. Rudin is in consternation at the news. He
has been so intent on his eloquent feelings that he has not faced the
practical difficulties. And he has made no plans to face the future.
But let us quote the scene:
"'And what advice can I give you, Natalya Alexyevna?'
"'What advice? You are a man; I am used to trusting to you. I shall
trust you to the end. Tell me, what are your plans?'
"'My plans.... Your mother will certainly turn me out of the house.'
"'Perhaps.... She told me yesterday that I must break off all
acquaintance with you.... But you do not answer my question?'
"'What question?'
"'What do you think we must do now?'
"'What we must do?' replied Rudin; 'of course submit.'
"'Submit,' repeated Natalya slowly, and her lips turned white.
"'Submit to destiny,' continued Rudin. 'What is to be done?... I
know very well how bitter it is, how painful, how unendurable. But
consider yourself, Natalya Alexyevna; I am poor. It is true I
could work; but even if I were a rich man, could you bear a violent
separation from your family, your mother's anger?... No, Natalya
Alexyevna; it is useless even to think of it. It is clear it was not
fated for us to live together, and the happiness of which I dreamed
is not for me!'
"All at once Natalya hid her face in her hands and began to weep.
Rudin went up to her.
"'Natalya Alexyevna! Dear Natalya!' he said with warmth, 'do not cry,
for God's sake do not torture me, be comforted.'
"Natalya raised her head.
"'You tell me to be comforted!' she began, and her eyes blazed
through her tears; 'I am not weeping for what you suppose--I am not
sad for that; I am sad because I have been deceived in you.... What!
I come to you for counsel, and at such a moment!--and your first
word is submit! submit! So this is how you translate your talk of
independence, of sacrifice which....'
"Her voice broke down.
"'But, Natalya Alexyevna,' began Rudin in confusion, 'remember--I do
not disown my words--only----'
"'You asked me,' she continued with new force, 'what I answered my
mother, when she declared she would sooner agree to my death than my
marriage to you; I answered that I would sooner die than marry any
other man.... And you say, "Submit!" It must be that she is right;
you must, through having nothing to do, through being bored, have
been playing with me.'
"'I swear to you, Natalya Alexyevna--I assure you,' maintained Rudin.
"But she did not listen to him."
Natalya's passionate answer: "I told my mother that I would die sooner
than marry any other man.... And you say 'submit'!" passes through
Rudin's self-esteem like a knife. He protests vainly again and again
his love. But he has exposed his ambiguous emptiness too fully. And now
he must leave Darya Mihailovna's household, discredited in his own, in
Natalya's and in everybody's eyes.
Remark in the passage quoted above how the conflicting currents of
the girl's passionate warmth and the man's ambiguous reasoning--like
hot and cold springs mingling--flow in a form beautiful by its grace
of line. The scene is graven as lightly, yet as durably as an antique
Greek gem. One must emphasize this union of soft warmth and grace in
Turgenev's work, for it is one of his special characteristics. While
the beauty of his feeling declares itself by its purity of tone, all
the mental shades of a scene or a conversation are unfolded with
flowing, flexible grace. Even a piece of mental analysis, a synthesis
of the internal life of character, and of pure thought, are stamped
with the spontaneous gestures of life. And calm and mellow tenderness
seems to emanate, as a secret essence, from his pictures. We cite a
little passage, famous in Russian literature, where Turgenev sketches
a portrait of Byelinsky, under the pseudonym of Pokorsky, Rudin's
friend:
"'... He took pity on me, perhaps; anyway, he took me by the arm and
led me away to his lodging.'
"'Was that Rudin?' asked Alexandra Pavlovna.
"'No, it was not Rudin ... it was a man ... he is dead now ... he
was an extraordinary man. His name was Pokorsky. To describe him in
a few words is beyond my powers, but directly one begins to speak
of him, one does not want to speak of any one else. He had a noble,
pure heart, and an intelligence such as I have never met since.
Pokorsky lived in a little, low-pitched room, in an attic of an old
wooden house. He was very poor, and supported himself somehow by
giving lessons. Sometimes he had not even a cup of tea to offer to
his friends, and his only sofa was so shaky that it was like being
on board ship. But in spite of these discomforts a great many people
used to go and see him. Every one loved him; he drew all hearts to
him. You would not believe what sweetness and happiness there was in
sitting in his poor little room! It was in his room I met Rudin. He
had already parted from his prince before then.'
"'What was there so exceptional in this Pokorsky?' asked Alexandra
Pavlovna.
"'How can I tell you? Poetry and truth--that was what drew us all to
him. For all his clear, broad intellect he was as sweet and simple
as a child.... Pokorsky and Rudin were very unlike. There was more
flash and brilliance about Rudin, more fluency, and perhaps more
enthusiasm. He appeared far more gifted than Pokorsky, and yet all
the while he was a poor creature by comparison. Rudin was excellent
at developing any idea, he was capital in argument, but his ideas
did not come from his own brain; he borrowed them from others,
especially from Pokorsky: Pokorsky was quiet and soft--even weak
in appearance--and he was fond of women to distraction, and fond of
dissipation, and he would never take an insult from any one. Rudin
seemed full of fire and courage and life, but at heart he was cold
and almost a coward, until his vanity was touched, then he would not
stop at anything.... And really when I recall our gatherings, upon
my word there was much that was fine, even touching in them.... Ah,
that was a glorious time, and I can't bear to believe that it was
altogether wasted! And it was not wasted--not even for those whose
lives were sordid afterwards. How often have I chanced to come across
such old college friends! You would think the man had sunk altogether
to the brute, but one had only to utter Pokorsky's name before him
and every trace of noble feeling in him was stirred at once; it was
like uncorking a forgotten phial of fragrance in some dark and dirty
room.'"
How perfect is the form of the novel! Rudin's sudden appearance
at Darya Mihailovna's house, from the void, his brief, brilliant
scintillation, his disappearance beyond the horizon like a falling
star, while the little circle he has quitted returns to its quiet
settled round, and is knitted closer, by and by, in two marriages. In
the final chapters Turgenev gives a wonderful feeling of the stormy
horizon of life in his glimpses of Rudin's restless wanderings, of his
pathetic series of failures, of his useless death in a hopeless cause
on a Paris barricade. It is now the genius of Turgenev's heart that
speaks, the head in absolute unison with the heart. For Turgenev's
creative judgment, infinitely just, infinitely tender, is a court of
appeal from all hard, worldly arraignments. All that has been shown us
of Rudin's Utopianism, of the "something lacking" in his character and
outlook is true. But it is not the whole truth. In Lezhnyov's final
words, "Rudin has faith, Rudin has honesty. He has enthusiasm, the
most precious quality in our times. We have all become insufferably
reasonable and indifferent and slothful." That is the point. The
Rudins, the idealists of the "'forties," were the yeast in the dough of
Russian fatalism and the nation's stagnation. For one idealist there
were a thousand lethargic, acquiescent minds, clinging to the rock of
personal interest, staking nothing, but all subservient to the forces
of official despotism or worldly power. In Rudin burned clear the light
of humane, generous ideals, of the fire of the love of truth. Most of
the intellectual seed he scattered fell by the wayside or was swallowed
up in the morass of Russia's social distress and mass impotence. But,
in Lezhnyov's words: "I say again, that is not Rudin's fault, and it is
his fate--a cruel and unhappy fate--for which we cannot blame him."
And when we survey the figures of that gloomy reign of Nicholas, when
"a merciless Imperialism repressed the least sign of intellectuality,"
it was the Rudins who breathed on and passed on that living seed of
fire to the younger generation.
It is to be remarked that not a line, not a detail in the social
picture seems to have faded. The picture by its truth and art is
timeless in its plastic grace, like a Tanagra group, or a Velasquez
portrait. Nothing, indeed, can be added or taken away from the
masterpiece.
V
"A HOUSE OF GENTLEFOLK"