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Title: Essays on Russian Novelists

Author: William Lyon Phelps

Release date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #5996]
Most recently updated: December 29, 2020

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESSAYS ON RUSSIAN NOVELISTS ***

ESSAYS ON RUSSIAN NOVELISTS

by William Lyon Phelps

New York: The Macmillan Company, 1911.

I

RUSSIAN NATIONAL CHARACTER AS SHOWN IN RUSSIAN
FICTION

THE Japanese war pricked one of the biggest bubbles in history, and left
Russia in a profoundly humiliating situation. Her navy was practically
destroyed, her armies soundly beaten, her offensive power temporarily
reduced to zero, her treasury exhausted, her pride laid in the dust. If the
greatness of a nation consisted in the number and size of its battleships, in
the capacity of its fighting men, or in its financial prosperity, Russia would

be an object of pity. But in America it is wholesome to remember that the
real greatness of a nation consists in none of these things, but rather in its
intellectual splendour, in the number and importance of the ideas it gives to
the world, in its contributions to literature and art, and to all things that
count in humanity's intellectual advance. When we Americans swell with
pride over our industrial prosperity, we might profitably reflect for a
moment on the comparative value of America's and Russia's contributions
to literature and music.

At the start, we notice a rather curious fact, which sharply differentiates
Russian literature from the literature of England, France, Spain, Italy, and
even from that of Germany. Russia is old; her literature is new. Russian
history goes back to the ninth century; Russian literature, so far as it
interests the world, begins in the nineteenth. Russian literature and
American literature are twins. But there is this strong contrast, caused partly
by the difference in the age of the two nations. In the early years of the
nineteenth century, American literature sounds like a child learning to talk,
and then aping its elders; Russian literature is the voice of a giant, waking
from a long sleep, and becoming articulate. It is as though the world had
watched this giant's deep slumber for a long time, wondering what he would
say when he awakened. And what he has said has been well worth the
thousand years of waiting.

To an educated native Slav, or to a professor of the Russian language,
twenty or thirty Russian authors would no doubt seem important; but the
general foreign reading public is quite properly mainly interested in only
five standard writers, although contemporary novelists like Gorki,
Artsybashev, Andreev, and others are at this moment deservedly attracting
wide attention. The great five, whose place in the world's literature seems
absolutely secure, are Pushkin, Gogol, Turgenev, Dostoevski, and Tolstoi.
The man who killed Pushkin in a duel survived till 1895, and Tolstoi died in
1910. These figures show in how short a time Russian literature has had its
origin, development, and full fruition.

Pushkin, who was born in 1799 and died in 1838, is the founder of Russian
literature, and it is difficult to overestimate his influence. He is the first, and

still the most generally beloved, of all their national poets. The wild
enthusiasm that greeted his verse has never passed away, and he has
generally been regarded in Russia as one of the great poets of the world. Yet
Matthew Arnold announced in his Olympian manner, "The Russians have
not yet had a great poet."* It is always difficult fully to appreciate poetry in
a foreign language, especially when the language is so strange as Russian. It
is certain that no modern European tongue has been able fairly to represent
the beauty of Pushkin's verse, to make foreigners feel him as Russians feel
him, in any such measure as the Germans succeeded with Shakespeare, as
Bayard Taylor with Goethe, as Ludwig Fulda with Rostand. The translations
of Pushkin and of Lermontov have never impressed foreign readers in the
superlative degree. The glory of English literature is its poetry; the glory of
Russian literature is its prose fiction.

* Arnold told Sainte-Beuve that he did not think Lamartine was
"important." Sainte-Beuve answered, "He is important for us."

Pushkin was, for a time at any rate, a Romantic, largely influenced, as all
the world was then, by Byron. He is full of sentiment, smiles and tears, and
passionate enthusiasms. He therefore struck out in a path in which he has
had no great followers; for the big men in Russian literature are all Realists.
Romanticism is as foreign to the spirit of Russian Realism as it is to French
Classicism. What is peculiarly Slavonic about Pushkin is his simplicity, his
naïveté. Though affected by foreign models, he was close to the soil. This is
shown particularly in his prose tales, and it is here that his title as Founder
of Russian Literature is most clearly demonstrated. He took Russia away
from the artificiality of the eighteenth century, and exhibited the
possibilities of native material in the native tongue.

The founder of the mighty school of Russian Realism was Gogol. Filled
with enthusiasm for Pushkin, he nevertheless took a different course, and
became Russia's first great novelist. Furthermore, although a melancholy
man, he is the only Russian humorist who has made the world laugh out
loud. Humour is not a salient quality in Russian fiction. Then came the
brilliant follower of Gogol, Ivan Turgenev. In him Russian literary art
reached its climax, and the art of the modern novel as well. He is not only
the greatest master of prose style that Russia has ever produced; he is the

only Russian who has shown genius in Construction. Perhaps no novels in
any language have shown the impeccable beauty of form attained in the
works of Turgenev. George Moore queries, "Is not Turgenev the greatest
artist that has existed since antiquity?"

Dostoevski, seven years older than Tolstoi, and three years younger than
Turgenev, was not so much a Realist as a Naturalist; his chief interest was
in the psychological processes of the unclassed. His foreign fame is
constantly growing brighter, for his works have an extraordinary vitality.
Finally appeared Leo Tolstoi, whose literary career extended nearly sixty
years. During the last twenty years of his life, he was generally regarded as
the world's greatest living author; his books enjoyed an enormous
circulation, and he probably influenced more individuals by his pen than
any other man of his time.

In the novels of Gogol, Turgenev, Dostoevski, and Tolstoi we ought to find
all the prominent traits in the Russian character.

It is a rather curious thing, that Russia, which has never had a parliamentary
government, and where political history has been very little influenced by
the spoken word, should have so much finer an instrument of expression
than England, where matters of the greatest importance have been settled by
open and public speech for nearly three hundred years. One would think
that the constant use of the language in the national forum for purposes of
argument and persuasion would help to make it flexible and subtle; and that
the almost total absence of such employment would tend toward narrowness
and rigidity. In this instance exactly the contrary is the case. If we may trust
the testimony of those who know, we are forced to the conclusion that the
English language, compared with the Russian, is nothing but an awkward
dialect. Compared with Russian, the English language is decidedly weak in
synonyms, and in the various shades of meaning that make for precision.
Indeed, with the exception of Polish, Russian is probably the greatest
language in the world, in richness, variety, definiteness, and elegance. It is
also capable of saying much in little, and saying it with tremendous force.
In Turgenev's Torrents of Spring, where the reader hears constantly phrases
in Italian, French, and German, it will be remembered that the ladies ask
Sanin to sing something in his mother tongue. "The ladies praised his voice

and the music, but were more struck with the softness and sonorousness of
the Russian language." I remember being similarly affected years ago when
I heard King Lear read aloud in Russian. Baron von der Bruggen says,*
"there is the wonderful wealth of the language, which, as a popular tongue,
is more flexible, more expressive of thought than any other living tongue I
know of." No one has paid a better tribute than Gogol:--

"The Russian people express themselves forcibly; and if they once bestow
an epithet upon a person, it will descend to his race and posterity; he will
bear it about with him, in service, in retreat, in Petersburg, and to the ends
of the earth; and use what cunning he will, ennoble his career as he will
thereafter, nothing is of the slightest use; that nickname will caw of itself at
the top of its crow's voice, and will show clearly whence the bird has flown.
A pointed epithet once uttered is the same as though it were written down,
and an axe will not cut it out.

*Russia of To-day, page 203.

"And how pointed is all that which has proceeded from the depths of
Russia, where there are neither Germans nor Finns, nor any other strange
tribes, but where all is purely aboriginal, where the bold and lively Russian
mind never dives into its pocket for a word, and never broods over it like a
sitting-hen: it sticks the word on at one blow, like a passport, like your nose
or lips on an eternal bearer, and never adds anything afterwards. You are
sketched from head to foot in one stroke.

"Innumerable as is the multitude of churches, monasteries with cupolas,
towers, and crosses, which are scattered over holy, most pious Russia, the
multitude of tribes, races, and peoples who throng and bustle and variegate
the earth is just as innumerable. And every people bearing within itself the
pledge of strength, full of active qualities of soul, of its own sharply defined
peculiarities, and other gifts of God, has characteristically distinguished
itself by its own special word, by which, while expressing any object
whatever, it also reflects in the expression its own share of its own
distinctive character. The word Briton echoes with knowledge of the heart,
and wise knowledge of life; the word French, which is not of ancient date,
glitters with a light foppery, and flits away; the sagely artistic word German
ingeniously discovers its meaning, which is not attainable by every one; but

there is no word which is so ready, so audacious, which is torn from beneath
the heart itself, which is so burning, so full of life, as the aptly applied
Russian word."*

*Dead Souls, translated by Isabel Hapgood.

Prosper Merimée, who knew Russian well, and was an absolute master of
the French language, remarked:--

"La langue russe, qui est, autant que j 'en puis juger, le plus riche des
idiomes de l'Europe, semble faite pour exprimer les nuances les plus
delicates. Douée d'une merveilleuse concision qui s'allie à la clarté, il lui
suffit d'un mot pour associer plusieurs idées, qui, dans une autre langue,
exigeralent des phrases entières."

And no people are more jealous on this very point than the French. In the
last of his wonderful Poems in Prose, Turgenev cried out: "In these days of
doubt, in these days of painful brooding over the fate of my country, thou
alone art my rod and my staff, O great, mighty, true and free Russian
language! If it were not for thee, how could one keep from despairing at the
sight of what is going on at home? But it is inconceivable that such a
language should not belong to a great people."

It is significant that Turgenev, who was so full of sympathy for the ideas
and civilization of Western Europe, and who was so often regarded
(unjustly) by his countrymen as a traitor to Russia, should have written all
his masterpieces, not in French, of which he had a perfect command, but in
his own beloved mother-tongue.

We see by the above extracts, that Russia has an instrument of expression as
near perfection as is possible in human speech. Perhaps one reason for the
supremacy of Russian fiction may be found here.

The immense size of the country produces an element of largeness in
Russian character that one feels not only in their novels, but almost
invariably in personal contact and conversation with a more or less

educated Russian. This is not imaginary and fantastic; it is a definite
sensation, and immediately apparent. Bigness in early environment often
produces a certain comfortable largeness of mental vision. One has only to
compare in this particular a man from Russia with a man from Holland, or
still better, a man from Texas with a man from Connecticut. The difference
is easy to see, and easier to feel. It is possible that the man from the smaller
district may be more subtle, or he may have had better educational
advantages; but he is likely to be more narrow. A Texan told me once that it
was eighteen miles from his front door to his front gate; now I was born in a
city block, with no front yard at all. I had surely missed something.

Russians are moulded on a large scale, and their novels are as wide in
interest as the world itself. There is a refreshing breadth of vision in the
Russian character, which is often as healthful to a foreigner as the wind that
sweeps across the vast prairies. This largeness of character partly accounts
for the impression of Vastness that their books produce on Occidental eyes.
I do not refer at all to the length of the book--for a book may be very long,
and yet produce an impression of pettiness, like many English novels. No, it
is something that exhales from the pages, whether they be few or many. As
illustrations of this quality of vastness, one has only to recall two Russian
novels--one the longest, and the other very nearly the shortest, in the whole
range of Slavonic fiction. I refer to War and Peace, by Tolstoi, and to Taras
Bulba, by Gogol. Both of these extraordinary works give us chiefly an
impression of Immensity--we feel the boundless steppes, the illimitable
wastes of snow, and the long winter night. It is particularly interesting to
compare Taras Bulba with the trilogy of the Polish genius, Sienkiewicz. The
former is tiny in size, the latter a leviathan; but the effect produced is the
same. It is what we feel in reading Homer, whose influence, by the way, is
as powerful in Taras Bulba as it is in With Fire and Sword.

The Cosmopolitanism of the Russian character is a striking feature. Indeed,
the educated Russian is perhaps the most complete Cosmopolitan in the
world. This is partly owing to the uncanny facility with which he acquires
foreign languages, and to the admirable custom in Russia of giving children
in more or less wealthy families, French, German, and English governesses.
John Stuart Mill studied Greek at the age of three, which is the proper time

to begin the study of any language that one intends to master. Russian
children think and dream in foreign words, but it is seldom that a Russian
shows any pride in his linguistic accomplishments, or that he takes it
otherwise than as a matter of course. Stevenson, writing from Mentone to
his mother, 7 January 1874, said: "We have two little Russian girls, with the
youngest of whom, a little polyglot button of a three-year-old, I had the
most laughable little scene at lunch to-day. . . . She said something in Italian
which made everybody laugh very much . . .; after some examination, she
announced emphatically to the whole table, in German, that I was a
mächen.. . . This hasty conclusion as to my sex she was led afterwards to
revise . . . but her new opinion . . . was announced in a language quite
unknown to me, and probably Russian. To complete the scroll of her
accomplishments, . . . she said good-bye to me in very commendable
English." Three days later, he added, "The little Russian kid is only two and
a half; she speaks six languages." Nothing excites the envy of an American
travelling in Europe more sharply than to hear Russian men and women
speaking European languages fluently and idiomatically. When we learn to
speak a foreign tongue, we are always acutely conscious of the transition
from English to German, or from German to French, and our hearers are
still more so. We speak French as though it hurt, just as the average tenor
sings. I remember at a polyglot Parisian table, a Russian girl who spoke
seven languages with perfect ease; and she was not in the least a blue-
stocking.

Now every one knows that one of the indirect advantages that result from
the acquisition of a strange tongue is the immediate gain in the extent of
view. It is as though a near-sighted man had suddenly put on glasses. It is
something to be able to read French; but if one has learned to speak French,
the reading of a French book becomes infinitely more vivid. With a French
play in the hand, one can see clearly the expressions on the faces of the
personages, as one follows the printed dialogue with the eye. Here is where
a Russian understands the American or the French point of view, much
better than an American or a Frenchman understands the Russian's. Indeed,
the man from Paris is nothing like so cosmopolitan as the man from
Petersburg. One reason is, that he is too well satisfied with Paris. The late
M. Brunetière told me that he could neither read or speak English, and,
what is still more remarkable, he said that he had never been in England!

That a critic of his power and reputation, interested as he was in English
literature, should never have had sufficient intellectual curiosity to cross the
English Channel, struck me as nothing short of amazing.

The acquisition of any foreign language annihilates a considerable number
of prejudices. Henry James, who knew Turgenev intimately, and who has
written a brilliant and charming essay on his personality, said that the mind
of Turgenev contained not one pin-point of prejudice. It is worth while to
pause an instant and meditate on the significance of such a remark. Think
what it must mean to view the world, the institutions of society, moral ideas,
and human character with an absolutely unprejudiced mind! We Americans
are skinful of prejudices. Of course we don't call them prejudices; we call
them principles. But they sometimes impress others as prejudices; and they
no doubt help to obscure our judgment, and to shorten or refract our sight.
What would be thought of a painter who had prejudices concerning the
colours of skies and fields?

The cosmopolitanism of the Russian novelist partly accounts for the
international effect and influence of his novels. His knowledge of foreign
languages makes his books appeal to foreign readers. When he introduces
German, French, English, and Italian characters into his books, he not only
understands these people, he can think in their languages, and thus
reproduce faithfully their characteristics not merely by observation but by
sympathetic intuition. Furthermore, the very fact that Tolstoi, for example,
writes in an inaccessible language, makes foreign translations of his works
absolutely necessary. As at the day of Pentecost, every man hears him speak
in his own tongue. Now if an Englishman writes a successful book,
thousands of Russians, Germans, and others will read it in English; the
necessity of translation is not nearly so great. It is interesting to compare the
world-wide appeal made by the novels of Turgenev, Dostoevski, and Tolstoi
with that made by Thackeray and George Eliot, not to mention Mr. Hardy or
the late Mr. Meredith.

The combination of the great age of Russia with its recent intellectual birth
produces a maturity of character, with a wonderful freshness of
consciousness. It is as though a strong, sensible man of forty should

suddenly develop a genius in art; his attitude would be quite different from
that of a growing boy, no matter how precocious he might be. So, while the
Russian character is marked by an extreme sensitiveness to mental
impressions, it is without the rawness and immaturity of the American. The
typical American has some strong qualities that seem in the typical Russian
conspicuously absent; but his very practical energy, his pride and self-
satisfaction, stand in the way of his receptive power. Now a conspicuous
trait of the Russian is his humility; and his humility enables him to see
clearly what is going on, where an American would instantly interfere, and
attempt to change the course of events.* For, however inspiring a full-
blooded American may be, the most distinguishing feature of his character
is surely not Humility. And it is worth while to remember that whereas since
1850, at least a dozen great realistic novels have been written in Russian,
not a single completely great realistic novel has ever been written in the
Western Hemisphere.

* It is possible that both the humility and the melancholy of the Russian
character are partly caused by the climate, and the vast steppes and forests,
which seem to indicate the insignificance of man.

This extreme sensitiveness to impression is what has led the Russian
literary genius into Realism; and it is what has produced the greatest
Realists that the history of the novel has seen. The Russian mind is like a
sensitive plate; it reproduces faithfully. It has no more partiality, no more
prejudice than a camera film; it reflects everything that reaches its surface.
A Russian novelist, with a pen in his hand, is the most truthful being on
earth.

To an Englishman or an American, perhaps the most striking trait in the
Russian character is his lack of practical force--the paralysis of his power of
will. The national character among the educated classes is personified in
fiction, in a type peculiarly Russian; and that may be best defined by calling
it the conventional Hamlet. I say the conventional Hamlet, for I believe
Shakespeare's Hamlet is a man of immense resolution and self-control. The
Hamlet of the commentators is as unlike Shakespeare's Hamlet as
systematic theology is unlike the Sermon on the Mount. The hero of the
orthodox Russian novel is a veritable L'Aiglon. This national type must be

clearly understood before an American can understand Russian novels at
all. In order to show that it is not imaginary, but real, one has only to turn to
Sienkiewicz's powerful work, Without Dogma, the very title expressing the
lack of conviction that destroys the hero.

"Last night, at Count Malatesta's reception, I heard by chance these two
words, 'l'improductivité slave.' I experienced the same relief as does a
nervous patient when the physician tells him that his symptoms are
common enough, and that many others suffer from the same disease. . . . I
thought about that 'improductivité slave' all night. He had his wits about
him who summed the thing up in these two words. There is something in
us,--an incapacity to give forth all that is in us. One might say, God has
given us bow and arrow, but refused us the power to string the bow and
send the arrow straight to its aim. I should like to discuss it with my father,
but am afraid to touch a sore point. Instead of this, I will discuss it with my
diary. Perhaps it will be just the thing to give it any value. Besides, what can
be more natural than to write about what interests me? Everybody carries
within him his tragedy. Mine is this same 'improductivité slave' of the
Ploszowskis. Not long ago, when romanticism flourished in hearts and
poetry, everybody carried his tragedy draped around him as a picturesque
cloak; now it is carried still, but as a jägervest next to the skin. But with a
diary it is different; with a diary one may be sincere. . . . To begin with, I
note down that my religious belief I carried still intact with me from Metz
did not withstand the study of natural philosophy. It does not follow that I
am an atheist. Oh, no! this was good enough in former times, when he who
did not believe in spirit, said to himself, 'Matter,' and that settled for him the
question. Nowadays only provincial philosophers cling to that worn-out
creed. Philosophy of our times does not pronounce upon the matter; to all
such questions, it says, 'I do not know.' And that 'I do not know' sinks into
and permeates the mind. Nowadays psychology occupies itself with close
analysis and researches of spiritual manifestations; but when questioned
upon the immortality of the soul it says the same, 'I do not know,' and truly
it does not know, and it cannot know. And now it will be easier to describe
the state of my mind. It all lies in these words: I do not know. In this--in the
acknowledged impotence of the human mind--lies the tragedy. Not to
mention the fact that humanity always has asked, and always will ask, for
an answer, they are truly questions of more importance than anything else in

the world. If there be something on the other side, and that something an
eternal life, then misfortunes and losses on this side are, as nothing. 'I am
content to die,' says Renan, 'but I should like to know whether death will be
of any use to me.' And philosophy replies, 'I do not know.' And man beats
against that blank wall, and like the bedridden sufferer fancies, if he could
lie on this or on that side, he would feel easier. What is to be done?"*

* Translated by Iza Young.

Those last five words are often heard in Russian mouths. It is a favourite
question. It is, indeed, the title of two Russian books.

The description of the Slavonic temperament given by Sienkiewicz tallies
exactly with many prominent characters in Russian novels. Turgenev first
completely realised it in Rudin; he afterwards made it equally clear in
Torrents of Spring, Smoke, and other novels.* Raskolnikov, in Dostoevski's
Crime and Punishment, is another illustration; he wishes to be a Napoleon,
and succeeds only in murdering two old women. Artsybashev, in his terrible
novel, Sanin, has given an admirable analysis of this great Russian type in
the character of Jurii, who finally commits suicide simply because he
cannot find a working theory of life. Writers so different as Tolstoi and
Gorki have given plenty of good examples. Indeed, Gorki, in Varenka
Olessova, has put into the mouth of a sensible girl an excellent sketch of the
national representative.

* Goncharov devoted a whole novel, Oblomov, to the elaboration of this
particular type.

"The Russian hero is always silly and stupid, he is always sick of
something; always thinking of something that cannot be understood, and is
himself so miserable, so m--i--serable! He will think, think, then talk, then
he will go and make a declaration of love, and after that he thinks, and
thinks again, till he marries. . . . And when he is married, he talks all sorts of
nonsense to his wife, and then abandons her."

Turgenev's Bazarov and Artsybashev's Sanin indicate the ardent revolt
against the national masculine temperament; like true Slavs, they go clear to
the other extreme, and bring resolution to a reductio ad absurdum; for your

true Russian knows no middle course, being entirely without the healthy
moderation of the Anglo-Saxon. The great Turgenev realised his own
likeness to Rudin. Mrs. Ritchie has given a very pleasant unconscious
testimony to this fact.

"Just then my glance fell upon Turgenev leaning against the doorpost at the
far end of the room, and as I looked, I was struck, being shortsighted, by a
certain resemblance to my father [Thackeray], which I tried to realise to
myself. He was very tall, his hair was grey and abundant, his attitude was
quiet and reposeful; I looked again and again while I pictured to myself the
likeness. When Turgenev came up after the music, he spoke to us with great
kindness, spoke of our father, and of having dined at our house, and he
promised kindly and willingly to come and call next day upon my sister and
me in Onslow Gardens. I can remember that next day still; dull and dark,
with a yellow mist in the air. All the afternoon I sat hoping and expecting
that Turgenev might come, but I waited in vain. Two days later, we met him
again at Mrs. Huth's, where we were all once more assembled. Mr.
Turgenev came straight up to me at once. 'I was so sorry that I could not
come and see you,' he said, 'so very sorry, but I was prevented. Look at my
thumbs!' and he held up both his hands with the palms outwards. I looked at
his thumbs, but I could not understand. 'See how small they are,' he went
on; 'people with such little thumbs can never do what they intend to do, they
always let themselves be prevented;' and he laughed so kindly that I felt as
if his visit had been paid all the time and quite understood the validity of the
excuse."*

*Blackstick Papers, 1908

It is seldom that the national characteristic reveals itself so playfully; it is
more likely to lead to tragedy. This cardinal fact may militate greatly
against Russia's position as a world-power in the future, as it has in the past.
Her capacity for passive resistance is enormous--Napoleon learned that, and
so did Frederick. A remarkable illustration of it was afforded by the late
Japanese war, when Port Arthur held out long after the possible date
assigned by many military experts. For positive aggressive tactics Russia is
just as weak nationally as her men are individually. What a case in point is
the Duma, of which so much was expected! Were a majority of that Duma

Anglo-Saxons, we should all see something happen, and it would not
happen against Finland. One has only to compare it with the great
parliamentary gatherings in England's history.*

* Gogol said in Dead Souls, "We Russians have not the slightest talent for
deliberative assemblies."

Perhaps if the membership were exclusively composed of women, positive
results would show. For, in Russian novels, the irresolution of the men is
equalled only by the driving force of the women. The Russian feminine
type, as depicted in fiction, is the incarnation of singleness of purpose, and a
capacity to bring things to pass, whether for good or for evil. The heroine of
Rudin, of Smoke, of On the Eve, the sinister Maria of Torrents of Spring, the
immortal Lisa of A House of Gentlefolk, the girl in Dostoevski's Poor Folk;
Dunia and Sonia, in Crime and Punishment--many others might be called to
mind. The good Russian women seem immensely superior to the men in
their instant perception and recognition of moral values, which gives them a
chart and compass in life. Possibly, too, the women are stiffened in will by a
natural reaction in finding their husbands and brothers so stuffed with
inconclusive theories. One is appalled at the prodigious amount of nonsense
that Russian wives and daughters are forced to hear from their talkative and
ineffective heads of houses. It must be worse than the metaphysical
discussion between Adam and the angel, while Eve waited on table, and
supplied the windy debaters with something really useful.

To one who is well acquainted with American university undergraduates,
the intellectual maturity of the Russian or Polish student and his eagerness
for the discussion of abstract problems in sociology and metaphysics are
very impressive. The amount of space given in Russian novels to
philosophical introspection and debate is a truthful portrayal of the subtle
Russian mind. Russians love to talk; they are strenuous in conversation, and
forget their meals and their sleep. I have known some Russians who will sit
up all night, engaged in the discussion of a purely abstract topic, totally
oblivious to the passage of time. In A House of Gentlefolk, at four o'clock in
the morning, Mihalevich is still talking about the social duties of Russian
landowners, and he roars out, "We are sleeping, and the time is slipping

away; we are sleeping!" Lavretsky replies, "Permit me to observe, that we
are not sleeping at present, but rather preventing others from sleeping. We
are straining our throats like the cocks--listen! there is one crowing for the
third time." To which Mihalevich smilingly rejoins, "Good-bye till to-
morrow." Then follows, "But the friends talked for more than an hour
longer." In Chirikov's powerful drama, The Jews, the scene of animated
discussion that takes place on the stage is a perfect picture of what is
happening in hundreds of Russian towns every night. An admirable
description of a typical Russian conversation is given by Turgenev, in Virgin
Soil:--

"Like the first flakes of snow, swiftly whirling, crossing and recrossing in
the still mild air of autumn, words began flying, tumbling, jostling against
one another in the heated atmosphere of Golushkin's dining-room--words of
all sorts--progress, government, literature; the taxation question, the church
question, the Roman question, the law-court question; classicism, realism,
nihilism, communism; international, clerical, liberal, capital; administration,
organisation, association, and even crystallisation! It was just this uproar
which seemed to arouse Golushkin to enthusiasm; the real gist of the matter
seemed to consist in this, for him."*

* All citations from Turgenev's novels are from Constance Garnett's
translations.

The Anglo-Saxon is content to allow ideas that are inconsistent and
irreconcilable to get along together as best they may in his mind, in order
that he may somehow get something done. Not so the Russian. Dr. Johnson,
who settled Berkeleian idealism by kicking a stone, and the problem of free
will by stoutly declaring, "I know I'm free and there's an end on't," would
have had an interesting time among the Slavs.

It is rather fortunate that the Russian love of theory is so often accompanied
by the paralysis of will power, otherwise political crimes would be much
commoner in Russia than they are. The Russian is tremendously impulsive,
but not at all practical. Many hold the most extreme views, views that
would shock a typical Anglo-Saxon out of his complacency; but they
remain harmless and gentle theorists. Many Russians do not believe in God,

or Law, or Civil Government, or Marriage, or any of the fundamental
Institutions of Society; but their daily life is as regular and conventional as a
New Englander's. Others, however, attempt to live up to their theories, not
so much for their personal enjoyment, as for the satisfaction that comes
from intellectual consistency. In general, it may be said that the Russian is
far more of an extremist, far more influenced by theory, than people of the
West. This is particularly true of the youth of Russia, always hot-headed
and impulsive, and who are constantly attempting to put into practice the
latest popular theories of life. American undergraduates are the most
conservative folk in the world; if any strange theory in morals or politics
becomes noised abroad, the American student opposes to it the one time-
honoured weapon of the conservative from Aristophanes down,--burlesque.
Mock processions and absurd travesties of "the latest thing" in politics are a
feature of every academic year at an American university. Indeed, an
American student leading a radical political mob is simply unthinkable. It is
common enough in Russia, where in political disturbances students are very
often prominent. If a young Russian gives his intellectual assent to a theory,
his first thought is to illustrate it in his life. One of the most terrible results
of the publication of Artsybashev's novel Sanin--where the hero's theory of
life is simply to enjoy it, and where the Christian system of morals is
ridiculed--was the organisation, in various high schools, among the boys
and girls, of societies zum ungehinderten Geschechtsgenuss. They were
simply doing what Sanin told them they ought to do; and having decided
that he was right, they immediately put his theories into practice. Again,
when Tolstoi finally made up his mind that the Christian system of ethics
was correct, he had no peace until he had attempted to live in every respect
in accordance with those doctrines. And he persuaded thousands of
Russians to attempt the same thing. Now in England and in America, every
minister knows that it is perfectly safe to preach the Sermon on the Mount
every day in the year. There is no occasion for alarm. Nobody will do
anything rash.

The fact that the French language, culture, and manners have been
superimposed upon Russian society should never be forgotten in a
discussion of the Russian national character. For many years, and until very
recently, French was the language constantly used by educated and

aristocratic native Russians, just as it is by the Poles and by the
Roumanians. It will never cease seeming strange to an American to hear a
Russian mother and son talk intimately together in a language not their
own. Even Pushkin, the founder of Russian literature, the national poet,
wrote in a letter to a friend, "Je vous parlerai la langue de l'Europe, elle
m'est plus familière." Imagine Tennyson writing a letter in French, with the
explanation that French came easier to him!

It follows, as a consequence, that the chief reading of Russian society
people is French novels; that French customs, morals, and manners (as
portrayed in French fiction) have had an enormous effect on the educated
classes in Russia. If we may believe half the testimony we hear,--I am not
sure that we can,--Russian aristocratic society is to-day the most corrupt in
the world. There is an immense contrast between Parisians and Russians,
and the literature that would not damage the morals of the former is deadly
to the latter. The spirit of mockery in the Parisian throws off the germs of
their theatre and their fiction. I have seen in a Parisian theatre men, their
wives, and their families laughing unrestrainedly at a piece, that if exhibited
before an American audience would simply disgust some, and make others
morbidly attentive. This kind of literature, comic or tragic, disseminated as
it everywhere is among impulsive and passionate Russian readers, has been
anything but morally healthful. One might as rationally go about and poison
wells. And the Russian youth are sophisticated to a degree that seems to us
almost startling. In 1903, a newspaper in Russia sent out thousands of
blanks to high school boys and girls all over the country, to discover what
books constituted their favourite reading. Among native authors, Tolstoi
was first, closely followed by Gorki; among foreign writers, Guy de
Maupassant was the most popular! The constant reading of Maupassant by
boys and girls of fifteen and sixteen years, already emancipated from the
domination of religious ideas, can hardly be morally hygienic. And to-day,
in many families all over the Western world, Hygiene has taken the place of
God.

Russian novelists have given us again and again pictures of typical society
women who are thoroughly corrupt. We find them in historical and in
contemporary fiction. They are in War and Peace, in Anna Karenina, in
Dead Souls, in A House of Gentlefolk, and in the books of to-day. And it is

worth remembering that when Tolstoi was a young man, his aunt advised
him to have an intrigue with a married woman, for the added polish and
ease it would give to his manners, just as an American mother sends her boy
to dancing-school.

Finally, in reading the works of Tolstoi, Turgenev, Dostoevski, Gorki,
Chekhov, Andreev, and others, what is the general impression produced on
the mind of a foreigner? It is one of intense gloom. Of all the dark books in
fiction, no works sound such depths of suffering and despair as are
fathomed by the Russians. Many English readers used to say that the novels
of George Eliot were "profoundly sad,"--it became almost a hackneyed
phrase. Her stories are rollicking comedies compared with the awful
shadow cast by the literature of the Slavs. Suffering is the heritage of the
Russian race; their history is steeped in blood and tears, their present
condition seems intolerably painful, and the future is an impenetrable cloud.
In the life of the peasants there is of course fun and laughter, as there is in
every human life; but at the root there is suffering, not the loud protest of
the Anglo-Saxon labourer, whose very loudness is a witness to his vitality--
but passive, fatalistic, apathetic misery. Life has been often defined, but
never in a more depressing fashion than by the peasant in Gorki's novel,
who asks quietly:--

"What does the word Life mean to us? A feast? No. Work? No. A battle?
Oh, no!! For us Life is something merely tiresome, dull,--a kind of heavy
burden. In carrying it we sigh with weariness and complain of its weight.
Do we really love Life! The Love of Life! The very words sound strange to
our ears! We love only our dreams of the future--and this love is Platonic,
with no hope of fruition."

Suffering is the corner-stone of Russian life, as it is of Russian fiction. That
is one reason why the Russians produce here and there such splendid
characters, and such mighty books. The Russian capacity for suffering is the
real text of the great works of Dostoevski, and the reason why his name is
so beloved in Russia--he understood the hearts of his countrymen. Of all the
courtesans who have illustrated the Christian religion on the stage and in
fiction, the greatest is Dostoevski's Sonia. Her amazing sincerity and deep

simplicity make us ashamed of any tribute of tears we may have given to
the familiar sentimental type. She does not know what the word "sentiment"
means; but the awful sacrifice of her daily life is the great modern
illustration of Love. Christ again is crucified. When the refined, cultivated,
philosophical student Raskolnikov stoops to this ignorant girl and kisses her
feet, he says, "I did not bow down to you individually, but to suffering
Humanity in your person." That phrase gives us an insight into the Russian
national character.

The immediate result of all this suffering as set forth in the lives and in the
books of the great Russians, is Sympathy--pity and sympathy for Humanity.
Thousands are purified and ennobled by these sublime pictures of woe. And
one of the most remarkable of contemporary Russian novels--Andreev's The
Seven Who Were Hanged, a book bearing on every page the stamp of
indubitable genius--radiates a sympathy and pity that are almost divine.

This growth of Love and Sympathy in the Russian national character is to
me the sign of greatest promise in their future, both as a nation of men and
women, and as a contributor to the world's great works of literary art. If
anything can dispel the black clouds in their dreary sky, it will be this
wonderful emotional power. The political changes, the Trans-Siberian
railway, their industrial and agricultural progress,--all these are as nothing
compared with the immense advance that Christian sympathy is now
making in the hearts of the Russian people. The books of Dostoevski and
Tolstoi point directly to the Gospel, and although Russia is theoretically a
Christian nation, no country needs real Christianity more than she. The
tyranny of the bureaucracy, the corruption of fashionable society, the
sufferings of the humble classes, the hollow formalism of the Church, make
Russia particularly ripe for the true Gospel--just as true to-day as when
given to the world in Palestine. Sixty years ago Gogol wrote: "What is it
that is most truly Russian? What is the main characteristic of our Russian
nature, that we now try to develop by making it reject everything strange
and foreign to it? The value of the Russian nature consists in this--that it is
capable, more than any other, of receiving the noble word of the Gospel,
which leads man toward perfection." One cannot read Dostoevski and
Tolstoi without thinking of the truth of Gogol's declaration.

All the philosophy and wisdom of the world have never improved on the
teachings of the Founder of Christianity. What the individual and society
need to-day is not Socialism, Communism, or Nihilism; no temporary
palliative sought in political, social, or financial Reform; what we each need
is a closer personal contact with the simple truths of the New Testament.
The last word on all political, philosophical, and social questions may still
be found in the Sermon on the Mount. It is a significant fact, that Tolstoi,
after a varied and long experience of human life, after reviewing all the
systems of thought that have influenced modern society, should have finally
arrived and found rest in the statements that most of us learned in childhood
from our mothers' lips.
II

GOGOL

NIKOLAI VASSILIEVICH GOGOL was born at Sorotchinetz, in Little
Russia, in March, 1809. The year in which he appeared on the planet proved
to be the literary annus mirabilis of the century; for in that same
twelvemonth were born Charles Darwin, Alfred Tennyson, Abraham
Lincoln, Poe, Gladstone, and Holmes. His father was a lover of literature,
who wrote dramatic pieces for his own amusement, and who spent his time
on the old family estates, not in managing the farms, but in wandering about
the fields, and beholding the fowls of the air. The boy inherited much from
his father; but, unlike Turgenev, he had the best of all private tutors, a good
mother, of whom his biographer says, Elle demeure toujours sa plus intime
amie.*

* For the facts in Gogol's life, I have relied chiefly on the doctor's thesis by
Raina Tyrneva, Aix, 1901.

At the age of twelve, Nikolai was sent away to the high school at Nezhin, a
town near Kiev. There he remained from 1821 to 1828. He was an
unpromising student, having no enthusiasm for his lessons, and showing no
distinction either in scholarship or deportment. Fortunately, however, the
school had a little theatre of its own, and Gogol, who hated mathematics,
and cared little for the study of modern languages, here found an outlet for
all his mental energy. He soon became the acknowledged leader of the

school in matters dramatic, and unconsciously prepared himself for his
future career. Like Schiller, he wrote a tragedy, and called it The Robbers.

I think it is probable that Gogol's hatred for the school curriculum inspired a
passage in Taras Bulba, though here he ostensibly described the pedagogy
of the fifteenth century.

"The style of education in that age differed widely from the manner of life.
These scholastic, grammatical, rhetorical, and logical subtleties were
decidedly out of consonance with the times, never had any connection with
and never were encountered in actual life. Those who studied them could
not apply their knowledge to anything whatever, not even the least
scholastic of them. The learned men of those days were even more
incapable than the rest, because farther removed from all experience."*

* Translated by Isabel Hapgood.

In December, 1828, Gogol took up his residence in St. Petersburg, bringing
with him some manuscripts that he had written while at school. He had the
temerity to publish one, which was so brutally ridiculed by the critics, that
the young genius, in despair, burned all the unsold copies--an unwitting
prophecy of a later and more lamentable conflagration. Then he vainly tried
various means of subsistence. Suddenly he decided to seek his fortune in
America, but he was both homesick and seasick before the ship emerged
from the Baltic, and from Lübeck he fled incontinently back to Petersburg.
Then he tried to become an actor, but lacked the necessary strength of
voice. For a short time he held a minor official position, and a little later
was professor of history, an occupation he did not enjoy, saying after his
resignation, "Now I am a free Cossack again." Meanwhile his pen was
steadily busy, and his sketches of farm life in the Ukraine attracted
considerable attention among literary circles in the capital.

Gogol suffered from nostalgia all the time he lived at St. Petersburg; he did
not care for that form of society, and the people, he said, did not seem like
real Russians. He was thoroughly homesick for his beloved Ukraine; and it
is significant that his short stories of life in Little Russia, truthfully
depicting the country customs, were written far off in a strange and
uncongenial environment.

In 1831 he had the good fortune to meet the poet Pushkin, and a few months
later in the same year he was presented to Madame Smirnova; these friends
gave him the entrée to the literary salons, and the young author, lonesome
as he was, found the intellectual stimulation he needed. It was Pushkin who
suggested to him the subjects for two of his most famous works, Revizor
and Dead Souls. Another friend, Jukovski, exercised a powerful influence,
and gave invaluable aid at several crises of his career. Jukovski had
translated the Iliad and the Odyssey; his enthusiasm for Hellenic poetry was
contagious; and under this inspiration Gogol proceeded to write the most
Homeric romance in Russian literature, ÊTaras Bulba. This story gave the
first indubitable proof of its author's genius, and to-day in the world's fiction
it holds an unassailable place in the front rank. The book is so short that it
can be read through in less than two hours; but it gives the same impression
of vastness and immensity as the huge volumes of Sienkiewicz.

Gogol followed this amazingly powerful romance by two other works,
which seem to have all the marks of immortality--the comedy Revizor, and a
long, unfinished novel, Dead Souls. This latter book is the first of the great
realistic novels of Russia, of which Fathers and Children, Crime and
Punishment, and Anna Karenina are such splendid examples.

From 1836 until his death in 1852, Gogol lived mainly abroad, and spent
much time in travel. His favourite place of residence was Rome, to which
city he repeatedly returned with increasing affection. In 1848 he made a
pilgrimage to the Holy Land, for Gogol never departed from the pious
Christian faith taught him by his mother; in fact, toward the end of his life,
he became an ascetic and a mystic. The last years were shadowed by illness
and--a common thing among Russian writers--by intense nervous
depression. He died at Moscow, 21 February 1852. His last words were the
old saying, "And I shall laugh with a bitter laugh." These words were placed
on his tomb.

Most Russian novels are steeped in pessimism, and their authors were men
of sorrows. Gogol, however, has the double distinction of being the only
great comic writer in the language, and in particular of being the author of
the only Russian drama known all over the world, and still acted
everywhere on the Continent. Although plays do not come within the scope

of this book, a word or two should be said about this great comedy; for
Revizor exhibits clearly the double nature of the author,--his genius for
moral satire and his genius for pure fun. From the moral point of view, it is
a terrible indictment against the most corrupt bureaucracy of modern times,
from the comic point of view, it is an uproarious farce.

The origin of the play is as follows: while travelling in Russia one day,
Pushkin stopped at Nizhni-Novgorod. Here he was mistaken for a state
functionary on tour among the provinces for purposes of government
inspection. This amused the poet so keenly that he narrated all the
circumstances to Gogol and suggested that the latter make a play with this
experience as the basis of the plot. Gogol not only acted on the suggestion,
but instead of a mere farce, he produced a comedy of manners. Toward the
end of his life he wrote: "In Revizor I tried to gather in one heap all that was
bad in Russia, as I then understood it; I wished to turn it all into ridicule.
The real impression produced was that of fear. Through the laughter that I
have never laughed more loudly, the spectator feels my bitterness and
sorrow." The drama was finished on the 4 December 1835, and of course
the immediate difficulty was the censorship. How would it be possible for
such a satire either to be printed or acted in Russia? Gogol's friend,
Madame Smirnova, carried the manuscript to the Czar, Nikolas I. It was
read to him; he roared with laughter, and immediately ordered that it be
acted. We may note also that he became a warm friend of Gogol, and sent
sums of money to him, saying nobly, "Don't let him know the source of
these gifts; for then he might feel obliged to write from the official point of
view."

The first performance was on the 19 April 1836. The Czar attended in
person, and applauded vigorously. The success was immediate, and it has
never quitted the stage. Gogol wrote to a friend: "On the opening night I felt
uncomfortable from the very first as I sat in the theatre. Anxiety for the
approval of the audience did not trouble me. There was only one critic in
the house--myself--that I feared. I heard clamorous objections within me
which drowned all else. However, the public, as a whole, was satisfied. Half
of the audience praised the play, the other half condemned it, but not on
artistic grounds."

Revizor is one of the best-constructed comedies in any language; for not
only has it a unified and well-ordered plot, but it does not stop with the final
fall of the curtain. Most plays by attempting to finish up the story with
smooth edges, leave an impression of artificiality and unreality, for life is
not done up in such neat parcels. The greatest dramas do not solve problems
for us, they supply us with questions. In Revizor, at the last dumb scene,
after all the mirth, the real trouble is about to begin; and the spectators
depart, not merely with the delightful memory of an evening's
entertainment, but with their imagination aflame. Furthermore, Revizor has
that combination of the intensely local element with the universal, so
characteristic of works of genius. Its avowed attempt was to satirise local
and temporal abuses; but it is impossible to imagine any state of society in
the near future where the play will not seem real. If Gogol had done nothing
but write the best comedy in the Russian language, he would have his place
in literature secure.*

* The first production of Revizor in America (in English) was given by the
students of Yale University, 20 April, 1908. For all I know to the contrary, it
was the first English production in the world. It was immensely successful,
caused subsequent performances elsewhere, both amateur and professional,
and attracted attention in Russia, where a journal gave an illustrated account
of the Yale representation.

One must never forget in reading Gogol that he was a man of the South--
homme du Midi. In all countries of the world, there is a marked difference
between the Northern and the Southern temperament. The southern sun
seems to make human nature more mellow. Southerners are more warm-
hearted, more emotional, more hospitable, and much more free in the
expression of their feelings. In the United States, every one knows the
contrast between the New Englander and the man from the Gulf; in Europe,
the difference between the Norman and the Gascon has always been
apparent--how clear it is in the works of Flaubert and of Rostand! Likewise
how interesting is the comparison between the Prussian and the Bavarian;
we may have a wholesome respect for Berlin, but we love Munich, in some
respects the most attractive town on earth. The parallel holds good in
Russia, where the Little Russians, the men of the Ukraine, have ever shown
characteristics that separate them from the people of the North. The fiery

passion, the boundless aspiration of the Cossack, animates the stories of
Gogol with a veritable flame.

His first book, Evenings on a Farm near the Dikanka (Veillées de
l'Ukraine), appeared early in the thirties, and, with all its crudity and
excrescences, was a literary sunrise. It attracted immediate and wide-spread
attention, and the wits of Petersburg knew that Russia had an original
novelist. The work is a collection of short stories or sketches, introduced
with a rollicking humorous preface, in which the author announces himself
as Rudii Panko, raiser of bees. Into this book the exile in the city of the
North poured out all his love for the country and the village customs of his
own Little Russia. He gives us great pictures of Nature, and little pictures of
social life. He describes with the utmost detail a country fair at the place of
his birth, Sorotchinetz. His descriptions of the simple folk, the beasts, and
the bargainings seem as true as those in Madame Bovary--the difference is
in the attitude of the author toward his work. Gogol has nothing of the
aloofness, nothing of the scorn of Flaubert; he himself loves the revelry and
the superstitions he pictures, loves above all the people. Superstition plays a
prominent role in these sketches; the unseen world of ghosts and apparitions
has an enormous influence on the daily life of the peasants. The love of fun
is everywhere in evidence; these people cannot live without practical jokes,
violent dances, and horse-play. Shadowy forms of amorous couples move
silent in the warm summer night, and the stillness is broken by silver
laughter. Far away, in his room at St. Petersburg, shut in by the long winter
darkness, the homesick man dreamed of the vast landscape he loved, in the
warm embrace of the sky at noon, or asleep in the pale moonlight. The first
sentence of the book is a cry of longing. "What ecstasy; what splendour has
a summer day in Little Russia!" Pushkin used to say that the Northern
summer was a caricature of the Southern winter.

The Evenings on a Farm indicates the possession of great power rather than
consummate skill in the use of it. Full of charm as it is, it cannot by any
stretch of language be called a masterpiece. Two years later, however,
Gogol produced one of the great prose romances of the world, Taras Bulba.
He had intended to write a history of Little Russia and a history of the
Middle Ages, in eight or nine volumes. In order to gather material, he read
annals diligently, and collected folk-lore, national songs, and local

traditions. Fortunately out of this welter of matter emerged not a big history,
but a short novel. Short as it is, it has been called an epical poem in the
manner of Homer, and a dramatisation of history in the manner of
Shakespeare. Both remarks are just, though the influence of Homer is the
more evident; in the descriptive passages, the style is deliberately Homeric,
as it is in the romances of Sienkiewicz, which owe so much to this little
book by Gogol. It is astonishing that so small a work can show such
colossal force. Force is its prime quality--physical, mental, religious. In this
story the old Cossacks, centuries dead, have a genuine resurrection of the
body. They appear before us in all their amazing vitality, their love of
fighting, of eating and drinking, their intense patriotism, and their blazing
devotion to their religious faith. Never was a book more plainly inspired by
passion for race and native land. It is one tremendous shout of joy. These
Cossacks are the veritable children of the steppes, and their vast passions,
their Homeric laughter, their absolute recklessness in battle, are simply an
expression of the boundless range of the mighty landscape.

"The further they penetrated the steppe, the more beautiful it became. Then
all the South, all that region which now constitutes New Russia, even to the
Black Sea, was a green, virgin wilderness. No plough had ever passed over
the immeasurable waves of wild growth; the horses alone, hiding
themselves in it as in a forest, trod it down. Nothing in nature could be finer.
The whole surface of the earth presented itself as a green-gold ocean, upon
which were sprinkled millions of different flowers. Through the tall, slender
stems of the grass peeped light-blue, dark-blue, and lilac star-thistles; the
yellow broom thrust up its pyramidal head; the parasol-shaped white flower
of the false flax shimmered on high. A wheat-ear, brought God knows
whence, was filling out to ripening. About their slender roots ran partridges
with out-stretched necks. The air was filled with the notes of a thousand
different birds. In the sky, immovable, hung the hawks, their wings
outspread, and their eyes fixed intently on the grass. The cries of a cloud of
wild ducks, moving up from one side, were echoed from God knows what
distant lake. From the grass arose, with measured sweep, a gull, and bathed
luxuriously in blue waves of air. And now she has vanished on high, and
appears only as a black dot: now she has turned her wings, and shines in the
sunlight. Deuce take you, steppes, how beautiful you are!"*

* Translated by Isabel Hapgood.

The whole book is dominated by the gigantic figure of old Taras Bulba,
who loves food and drink, but who would rather fight than eat. Like so
many Russian novels, it begins at the beginning, not at the second or third
chapter. The two sons of Taras, wild cubs of the wild old wolf, return from
school, and are welcomed by their loving father, not with kisses and
affectionate greeting, but with a joyous fist combat, while the anxious
mother looks on with tears of dismayed surprise. After the sublime rage of
fighting, which proves to the old man's satisfaction that his sons are really
worthy of him, comes the sublime joy of brandy, and a prodigious feast,
which only the stomachs of fifteenth century Cossacks could survive. Then
despite the anguish of the mother--there was no place for the happiness of
women in Cossack life--comes the crushing announcement that on the
morrow all three males will away to the wars, from which not one of them
will return. One of the most poignant scenes that Gogol has written is the
picture of the mother, watching the whole night long by her sleeping sons--
who pass the few hours after the long separation and before the eternal
parting, in deep, unconscious slumber.

The various noisy parliaments and bloody combats are pictured by a pen
alive with the subject; of the two sons, one is murdered by his father for
preferring the love of a Capulet to the success of the Montagues; the other,
Ostap, is taken prisoner, and tortured to death. Taras, in disguise, watches
the appalling sufferings of his son; just before his death, Ostap, who had not
uttered a word during the prolonged and awful agony, cries out to the
hostile sky, like the bitter cry My God, why hast thou forsaken me? "Father!
where are you? do you hear all?" and to the amazement of the boy and his
torturers, comes, like a voice from heaven, the shout, "I hear!"

Fearful is the vengeance that Taras Bulba takes on the enemy; fearful is his
own death, lashed to a tree, and burned alive by his foes. He dies, merrily
roaring defiant taunts at his tormentors. And Gogol himself closes his hero's
eyes with the question, "Can any fire, flames, or power be found on earth,
which are capable of overpowering Russian strength?"

In its particular class of fiction, Taras Bulba has no equal except the Polish
trilogy of Sienkiewicz; and Gogol produces the same effect in a small

fraction of the space required by the other. This is of course Romanticism
rampant, which is one reason why it has not been highly appreciated by the
French critics. And it is indeed as contrary to the spirit of Russian fiction as
it is to the French spirit of restraint. It stands alone in Russian literature,
apart from the regular stream, unique and unapproachable, not so much one
of the great Russian novels as a soul-thrilling poem, commemorating the
immortal Cossack heart.

Gogol followed up the Evenings on a Farm near the Dikanka with two
other volumes of stories and sketches, of which the immortal Taras Bulba
was included in one. These other tales show an astonishing advance in
power of conception and mastery of style. I do not share the general
enthusiasm for the narrative of the comically grotesque quarrel between the
two Ivans: but the three stories, Old-fashioned Farmers, The Portrait, and
The Cloak, show to a high degree that mingling of Fantasy with Reality that
is so characteristic of this author. The obsolete old pair of lovers in Old-
fashioned Farmers is one of the most charming and winsome things that
Gogol wrote at this period: it came straight from the depths of his
immeasurable tenderness. It appealed to that Pity which, as every one has
noticed, is a fundamental attribute of the national Russian character. In The
Portrait, which is partly written in the minute manner of Balzac, and partly
with the imaginative fantastic horror of Poe and Hoffmann, we have the two
sides of Gogol's nature clearly reflected. Into this strange story he has also
indicated two of the great guiding principles of his life: his intense
democratic sympathies, and his devotion to the highest ideals in Art. When
the young painter forsakes poverty and sincerity for wealth and popularity,
he steadily degenerates as an artist and eventually loses his soul. The ending
of the story, with the disappearance of the portrait, is remarkably clever. The
brief tale called The Cloak or The Overcoat has great significance in the
history of Russian fiction, for all Russian novelists have been more or less
influenced by it. Its realism is so obviously and emphatically realistic that it
becomes exaggeration, but this does not lessen its tremendous power: then
suddenly at the very end, it leaves the ground, even the air, and soars away
into the ether of Romance.

Although these stories were translated into English by Miss Hapgood over
twenty years ago, they have never had any vogue among English-speaking

people, and indeed they have produced very little impression anywhere
outside of Russia. This is a misfortune for the world, for Gogol was
assuredly one of the great literary geniuses of the nineteenth century, and he
richly repays attentive reading. In Russia he has been appreciated,
immensely respected and admired, from the day that he published his first
book; but his lack of reputation abroad is indicated by the remark of Mr.
Baring in 1910, "the work of Gogol may be said to be totally unknown in
England." This statement is altogether too sweeping, but it counts as
evidence.

Despite Gogol's undoubted claim to be regarded as the founder of Russian
fiction, it is worth remembering that of the three works on which rests his
international fame, two cannot possibly be called germinal. The drama
Revizor is the best comedy in the Russian language; but, partly for that very
reason, it produced no school. The romance Taras Bulba has no successful
follower in Russian literature, and brought forth no fruit anywhere for fifty
years, until the appearance of the powerful fiction-chronicles by
Sienkiewicz. It has all the fiery ardour of a young genius; its very
exaggeration, its delight in bloody battle, show a certain immaturity; it
breathes indeed the spirit of youth. With the exception of The Cloak, Gogol
had by 1840 written little to indicate the direction that the best part of
Russian literature was to take. It was not until the publication of Dead Souls
that Russia had a genuine realistic novel. This book is broad enough in
scope and content to serve as the foundation of Russian fiction, and to
sustain the wonderful work of Turgenev, Tolstoi, and Dostoevski. All the
subsequent great novels in Russia point back to Dead Souls.

No two books could possibly show a greater contrast than Taras Bulba and
Dead Souls. One reveals an extraordinary power of condensation: the other
an infinite expansion. One deals with heroes and mighty exploits; the other
with positively commonplace individuals and the most trivial events. One is
the revival of the glorious past; the other a reflection of the sordid present.
One is painted with the most brilliant hues of Romanticism, and glows with
the essence of the Romantic spirit--Aspiration; the other looks at life
through an achromatic lens, and is a catalogue of Realities. To a certain
extent, the difference is the difference between the bubbling energy of youth
and the steady energy of middle age. For, although Gogol was still young in

years when he composed Dead Souls, the decade that separated the two
works was for the author a constant progress in disillusion. In the sixth
chapter of the latter book, Gogol has himself revealed the sad
transformation that had taken place in his own mind, and that made his
genius express itself in so different a manner:--

"Once, long ago, in the years of my youth, in those beautiful years that
rolled so swiftly, I was full of joy, charmed when I arrived for the first time
in an unknown place; it might be a farm, a poor little district town, a large
village, a small settlement: my eager, childish eyes always found there
many interesting objects. Every building, everything that showed an
individual touch, enchanted my mind, and left a vivid impression. . . . To-
day I travel through all the obscure villages with profound indifference, and
I gaze coldly at their sad and wretched appearance: my eyes linger over no
object, nothing grotesque makes me smile: that which formerly made me
burst out in a roar of spontaneous laughter, and filled my soul with cheerful
animation, now passes before my eyes as though I saw it not, and my
mouth, cold and rigid, finds no longer a word to say at the very spectacle
which formerly possessed the secret of filling my heart with ecstasy. O my
youth! O my fine simplicity!"

Gogol spent the last fifteen years of his life writing this book, and he left it
unfinished. Pushkin gave him the subject, as he had for Revizor. One day,
when the two men were alone together, Pushkin told him, merely as a brief
anecdote, of an unscrupulous promoter, who went about buying up the
names of dead serfs, thus enabling their owners to escape payment of the
taxes which were still in force after the last registration. The names were
made over to the new owner, with all legal formalities, so that he apparently
possessed a large fortune, measured in slaves; these names the promoter
transferred to a remote district, with the intention of obtaining a big cash
loan from some bank, giving his fictitious property as security; but he was
quickly caught, and his audacious scheme came to nothing. The story stuck
in Gogol's mind, and he conceived the idea of a vast novel, in which the
travels of the collector of dead souls should serve as a panorama of the
Russian people. Both Gogol and Pushkin thought of ÊDon Quixote, the
spirit of which is evident enough in this book. Not long after their interview,
Gogol wrote to Pushkin: "I have begun to write Dead Souls. The subject

expands into a very long novel, and I think it will be amusing, but now I am
only at the third chapter. . . . I wish to show, at least from one point of view,
all Russia." Gogol declared that he did not write a single line of these early
chapters without thinking how Pushkin would judge it, at what he would
laugh, at what he would applaud., When he read aloud from the manuscript,
Pushkin, who had listened with growing seriousness, cried, "God! what a
sad country is Russia!" and later be added, "Gogol invents nothing; it is the
simple truth, the terrible truth."

The first part of his work, containing the first eleven chapters, or "songs,"
was published in May 1842. For the rest of his life, largely spent abroad,
Gogol worked fitfully at the continuation of his masterpiece. Ill health,
nervous depression, and morbid asceticism preyed upon his mind; in 1845
he burned all that he had written of the second volume. But he soon began
to rewrite it, though he made slow and painful progress, having too much of
improductivé slave either to complete it or to be satisfied with it. At
Moscow, a short time before his death, in a night of wakeful misery, he
burned a whole mass of his manuscripts. Among them was unfortunately
the larger portion of the rewritten second part of Dead Souls. Various
reasons have been assigned as the cause of the destruction of his book--
some have said, it was religious remorse for having written the novel at all;
others, rage at adverse criticism; others, his own despair at not having
reached ideal perfection. But it seems probable that its burning was simply
a mistake. Looking among his papers, a short time after the conflagration,
he cried out, "My God! what have I done! that isn't what I meant to burn!"
But whatever the reason, the precious manuscript was forever lost; and the
second part of the work remains sadly incomplete, partly written up from
rough notes left by the author, Partly supplied by another hand.

Dead Souls is surely a masterpiece, but a masterpiece of life rather than of
art. Even apart from its unfinished shape, it is characterised by that
formlessness so distinctive of the great Russian novelists the sole exception
being Turgenev. The story is so full of disgressions, of remarks in mock
apology addressed to the reader, of comparisons of the Russian people with
other nations, of general disquisitions on realism, of glowing soliloquies in
various moods, that the whole thing is a kind of colossal note-book. Gogol
poured into it all his observations, reflections, and comments on life. It is

not only a picture of Russia, it is a spiritual autobiography. It is without
form, but not void. Gogol called his work a poem; and he could not have
found a less happy name. Despite lyrical interludes, it is as far removed
from the nature and form of Poetry as it is from Drama. It is a succession of
pictures of life, given with the utmost detail, having no connection with
each other, and absolutely no crescendo, no movement, no approach to a
climax. The only thread that holds the work together is the person of the
travelling promoter, Chichikov, whose visits to various communities give
the author the opportunity he desired. After one has grasped the plan of the
book, the purpose of Chichikov's mission, which one can do in two minutes,
one may read the chapters in any haphazard order. Fortunately they are all
interesting in their photographic reality.

The whole thing is conceived in the spirit of humour, and its author must be
ranked among the great humorists of all time. There is an absurdity about
the mission of the chief character, which gives rise to all sorts of ludicrous
situations. It takes time for each serf-owner to comprehend Chichikov's
object, and he is naturally regarded with suspicion. In one community it is
whispered that he is Napoleon, escaped from St. Helena, and travelling in
disguise. An old woman with whom he deals has an avaricious cunning
worthy of a Norman peasant. The dialogue between the two is a masterly
commentary on the root of all evil. But although all Russia is reflected in a
comic mirror, which by its very distortion emphasises the defects of each
character, Gogol was not primarily trying to write a funny book. The
various scenes at dinner parties and at the country inns are laughable; but
Gogol's laughter, like that of most great humorists, is a compound of irony,
satire, pathos, tenderness, and moral indignation. The general wretchedness
of the serfs, the indifference of their owners to their condition, the pettiness
and utter meanness of village gossip, the ridiculous affectations of small-
town society, the universal ignorance, stupidity, and dulness--all these are
remorselessly revealed in the various bargains made by the hero. And what
a hero! A man neither utterly bad nor very good; shrewd rather than
intelligent; limited in every way. He is a Russian, but a universal type. No
one can travel far in America without meeting scores of Chichikovs: indeed,
he is an accurate portrait of the American promoter, of the successful
commercial traveller, whose success depends entirely not on the real value

and usefulness of his stock-in-trade, but on his knowledge of human nature
and the persuasive power of his tongue. Chichikov is all things to all men.

Not content with the constant interpolation of side remarks and comments,
queries of a politely ironical nature to the reader, in the regular approved
fashion of English novels, Gogol added after the tenth chapter a defiant
epilogue, in which he explained his reasons for dealing with fact rather than
with fancy, of ordinary people rather than with heroes, of commonplace
events rather than with melodrama; and then suddenly he tried to jar the
reader out of his self-satisfaction, like Balzac in Pére Goriot.

"Pleased with yourselves more than ever, you will smile slowly, and then
say with grave deliberation: 'It is true that in some of our provinces one
meets very strange people, people absolutely ridiculous, and sometimes
scoundrels too!'

"Ah, but who among you, serious readers, I address myself to those who
have the humility of the true Christian, who among you, being alone, in the
silence of the evening, at the time when one communes with oneself, will
look into the depths of his soul to ask in all sincerity this question? 'Might
there not be in me something of Chichikov?'"

This whole epilogue is a programme--the programme of the self-conscious
founder of Russian Realism. It came from a man who had deliberately
turned his back on Romanticism, even on the romanticism of his friend and
teacher, Pushkin, and who had decided to venture all alone on a new and
untried path in Russian literature. He fully realised the difficulties of his
task, and the opposition he was bound to encounter. He asks and answers
the two familiar questions invariably put to the native realist. The first is, "I
have enough trouble in my own life: I see enough misery and stupidity in
the world: what is the use of reading about it in novels?" The second is,
"Why should a man who loves his country uncover her nakedness?"

Gogol's realism differs in two important aspects from the realism of the
French school, whether represented by Balzac, Flaubert, Guy de
Maupassant, or Zola. He had all the French love of veracity, and could have
honestly said with the author of Une Vie that he painted 'humble vérité. But
there are two ground qualities in his realistic method absent in the four

Frenchmen: humour and moral force. Gogol could not repress the fun that is
so essential an element in human life, any more than he could stop the
beating of his heart; he saw men and women with the eyes of a natural born
humorist, to whom the utter absurdity of humanity and human relations was
enormously salient. And he could not help preaching, because he had
boundless sympathy with the weakness and suffering of his fellow-
creatures, and because he believed with all the tremendous force of his
character in the Christian religion. His main endeavour was to sharpen the
sight of his readers, whether they looked without or within; for not even the
greatest physician can remedy an evil, unless he knows what the evil is.

Gogol is the great pioneer in Russian fiction. He had the essential
temperament of all great pioneers, whether their goal is material or spiritual.
He had vital energy, resolute courage, clear vision, and an abiding faith that
he was travelling in the right direction. Such a man will have followers even
greater than he, and he rightly shares in their glory. He was surpassed by
Turgenev, Dostoevski, and Tolstoi, but had he lived, he would have rejoiced
in their superior art, just as every great teacher delights in being outstripped
by his pupils. He is the real leader of the giant three, and they made of his
lonely path a magnificent highway for human thought. They all used him
freely: Tolstoi could hardly have written The Cossacks without the
inspiration of Gogol, Turgenev must have taken the most beautiful chapter
in ÊVirgin Soil directly from Old-fashioned Farmers, and Dostoevski's first
book, Poor Folk, is in many places almost a slavish imitation of The Cloak-
-and he freely acknowledged the debt in the course of his story. The
uncompromising attitude toward fidelity in Art which Gogol emphasised in
The Portrait set the standard for every Russian writer who has attained
prominence since his day. No one can read Chekhov and Andreev without
being conscious of the hovering spirit of the first master of Russian fiction.
He could truthfully have adapted the words of Joseph Hall:--

I first adventure: follow me who list,
And be the second Russian Realist.
III

TURGENEV

TURGENEV was born on the 28 October 1818, at Orel, in south central
Russia, about half-way between Moscow and Kiev. Thus, although the
temperament of Turgenev was entirely different from that of Gogol, he was
born not far from the latter's beloved Ukraine. He came honestly by the
patrician quality that unconsciously animated all his books, for his family
was both ancient and noble. His mother was wealthy, and in 1817 was
married to a handsome, unprincipled military officer six years younger than
herself. Their life together was an excellent example of the exact opposite
of domestic bliss, and in treating the boy like a culprit, they transformed
him--as always happens in similar cases--into a severe judge of their own
conduct. The father's unbridled sensuality and the mother's unbridled tongue
gave a succession of moving pictures of family discord to the inquisitive
eyes of the future novelist. His childhood was anything but cheerful, and
late in life he said he could distinctly remember the salt taste of the frequent
tears that trickled into the corners of his mouth. Fortunately for all
concerned, the father died while Turgenev was a boy, leaving him with only
one--even if the more formidable--of his parents to contend with. His
mother despised writers, especially those who wrote in Russian; she insisted
that Ivan should make an advantageous marriage, and "have a career"; but
the boy was determined never to marry, and he had not the slightest
ambition for government favours. The two utterly failed to understand each
other, and, weary of his mother's capricious violence of temper, he became
completely estranged. Years later, in her last illness, Turgenev made
repeated attempts to see her, all of which she angrily repulsed. He
endeavoured to see her at the very last, but she died before his arrival. He
was then informed that on the evening of her death she had given orders to
have an orchestra play dance-music in an adjoining chamber, to distract her
mind during the final agony. And her last thought was an attempt to ruin
Ivan and his brother by leaving orders to have everything sold at a wretched
price, and to set fire to other parts of the property. His comment on his dead
mother was "Enfin, il faut oublier."

It is significant that Turgenev has nowhere in all his novels portrayed a
mother who combined intelligence with goodness.

French, German, and English Turgenev learned as a child, first from
governesses, and then from regular foreign tutors. The language of his own

country, of which he was to become the greatest master that has ever lived,
he was forced to learn from the house-servants. His father and mother
conversed only in French; his mother even prayed in French. Later, he
studied at the Universities of Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Berlin. At Berlin
he breathed for the first time the free air of intellectual Europe, and he was
never able long to live out of that element again. One of his closest
comrades at the University was Bakunin, a hot-headed young Radical, who
subsequently became a Nihilist agitator. There is no doubt that his fiery
harangues gave Turgenev much material for his later novels. It is
characteristic, too, that while his student friends went wild at the theatre
over Schiller, Turgenev immensely preferred Goethe, and could practically
repeat the whole first part of Faust by heart. Turgenev, like Goethe, was a
natural aristocrat in his manner and in his literary taste--and had the same
dislike for extremists of all kinds. With the exception of Turgenev's quiet
but profound pessimism, his temperament was very similar to that of the
great German--such a man will surely incur the hatred of the true Reformer
type.

Turgenev was one of the best educated among modern men-of-letters; his
knowledge was not superficial and fragmentary, it was solid and accurate.
Of all modern novelists, he is the best exponent of genuine culture.

Turgenev often ridiculed in his novels the Russian Anglo-maniac; but in one
respect he was more English than the English themselves. This is seen in his
passion for shooting. Nearly all of his trips to Britain were made solely for
this purpose, and most of the distinguished Englishmen that he met, like
Tennyson, he met while visiting England for grouse. Shooting, to be sure, is
common enough in Russia; it appears in Artsybashev's Sanin, and there was
a time when Tolstoi was devoted to this sport, though it later appeared on
his long blacklist. But Turgenev had the passion for it characteristic only of
the English race; and it is interesting to observe that this humane and peace-
loving man entered literature with a gun in his hand. It was on his various
shooting excursions in Russia that he obtained so intimate a knowledge of
the peasants and of peasant life; and his first important book, A Sportsman's
Sketches, revealed to the world two things: the dawn of a new literary
genius, and the wretched condition of the serfs. This book has often been
called the Uncle Tom's Cabin of Russia; no title could be more absurd. In

the whole range of literary history, it would be difficult to find two
personalities more unlike than that of Turgenev and Mrs. Stowe. The great
Russian utterly lacked the temperament of the advocate; but his innate
truthfulness, his wonderful art, and his very calmness made the picture of
woe all the more clear. There is no doubt that the book became, without its
author's intention, a social document; there is no doubt that Turgenev, a
sympathetic and highly civilised man, hated slavery, and that his picture of
it helped in an indirect way to bring about the emancipation of the serfs. But
its chief value is artistic rather than sociological. It is interesting that Uncle
Tom's Cabin and A Sportsman's Sketches should have appeared at about the
same time, and that emancipation in each country should have followed at
about the same interval; but the parallel is chronological rather than
logical.*

* There is an interesting and amusing reference to Harriet Beecher Stowe in
the fourth chapter of Smoke.

The year of the publication of Turgenev's book (1852) saw the death of
Gogol: and the new author quite naturally wrote a public letter of eulogy. In
no other country would such a thing have excited anything but favourable
comment; in Russia it raised a storm; the government--always jealous of
anything that makes for Russia's real greatness--became suspicious, and
Turgenev was banished to his estates. Like one of his own dogs, he was told
to "go home." Home he went, and continued to write books. Freedom was
granted him a few years later, and he left Russia never to return except as a
visitor. He lived first in Germany, and finally in Paris, one of the literary
lions of the literary capital of the world. There, on the 3 September 1883, he
died. His body was taken to Russia, and with that cruel perversity that
makes us speak evil of men while they are alive and sensitive, and good
only when they are beyond the reach of our petty praise and blame, friends
and foes united in one shout of praise whose echoes filled the whole world.

Turgenev, like Daniel Webster, looked the part. He was a great grey giant,
with the Russian winter in his hair and beard. His face in repose had an
expression of infinite refinement, infinite gentleness, and infinite sorrow.
When the little son of Alphonse Daudet saw Turgenev and Flaubert come
into the room, arm in arm, the boy cried out, "Why, papa, they are giants!"

George Moore said that at a ball in Montmartre, he saw Turgenev come
walking across the hall; he looked like a giant striding among pigmies.
Turgenev had that peculiar gentle sweetness that so well accompanies great
bodily size and strength. His modesty was the genuine humility of a truly
great man. He was always surprised at the admiration his books received,
and amazed when he heard of their success in America. Innumerable
anecdotes are told illustrating the beauty of his character; the most recent to
appear in print is from the late Mr. Conway, who said that Turgenev was "a
grand man in every way, physically and mentally, intelligence and
refinement in every feature. . . I found him modest almost to shyness, and in
his conversation--he spoke English--never loud or doctrinaire. At the Walter
Scott centennial he was present,--the greatest man at the celebration, --but
did not make himself known. There was an excursion to Abbotsford, and
carriages were provided for guests. One in which I was seated passed
Turgenev on foot. I alighted and walked with him, at every step impressed
by his greatness and his simplicity."

We shall not know until the year 1920 how far Turgenev was influenced by
Madame Viardot, nor exactly what were his relations with this extraordinary
woman. Pauline Garcia was a great singer who made her first appearance in
Petersburg in 1843. Turgenev was charmed with her, and they remained
intimate friends until his death forty years later. After this event, she
published some of his letters. She died in Paris in 1910, at the age of eighty-
nine. It is reported that among her papers is a complete manuscript novel by
Turgenev, which he gave to her some fifty years ago, on the distinct
understanding that it should not be published until ten years after her death.
We must accordingly wait for this book with what patience we can
command. If this novel really exists, it is surely a strange sensation to know
that there is a manuscript which, when published, is certain to be an
addition to the world's literature. It is infinitely more valuable on that
account than for any light it may throw on the relations between the two
individuals.

When Madame Viardot gave up the opera in 1864, and went to live at
Baden, Turgenev followed the family thither, lived in a little house close to
them, and saw them every day. He was on the most intimate terms with her,
with her husband, and with her daughters, whom he loved devotedly. He

was essentially a lonely man, and in this household found the only real
home he ever knew. It is reported that he once said that he would gladly
surrender all his literary fame if he had a hearth of his own, where there was
a woman who cared whether he came home late or not. What direction the
influence of Madame Viardot on Turgenev took no one knows. Perhaps she
simply supplied him with music, which was one of the greatest passions and
inspirations of his life. This alone would be sufficient to account for their
intimacy. Perhaps she merely stimulated his literary activity, and kept him at
his desk; for, like all authors except Anthony Trollope, he hated regular
work. His definition of happiness is not only a self-revelation, it will appeal
to many humble individuals who are not writers at all. Being asked for a
definition of happiness, he gave it in two words--Remorseless Laziness.

It is one of the curious contradictions in human nature that Tolstoi, so
aggressive an apostle of Christianity, was himself so lacking in the cardinal
Christian virtues of meekness, humility, gentleness, and admiration for
others; and that Turgenev, who was without religious belief of any kind,
should have been so beautiful an example of the real kindly tolerance and
unselfish modesty that should accompany a Christian faith. There is no
better illustration in modern history of the grand old name of gentleman.

His pessimism was the true Slavonic pessimism, quiet, profound, and
undemonstrative. I heard the late Professor Boyesen say that he had never
personally known any man who suffered like Turgenev from mere Despair.
His pessimism was temperamental, and he very early lost everything that
resembled a definite religious belief. Seated in a garden, he was the solitary
witness of a strife between a snake and a toad; this made him first doubt
God's Providence.

He was far more helpful to Russia, living in Paris, than he could have been
at home. Just as Ibsen found that he could best describe social conditions in
Norway from the distance of Munich or Rome, just as the best time to
describe a snowstorm is on a hot summer's day,--for poets, as Mrs.
Browning said, are always most present with the distant,--so Turgenev's
pictures of Russian character and life are nearer to the truth than if he had
penned them in the hurly-burly of political excitement. Besides, it was
through Turgenev that the French, and later the whole Western world,

became acquainted with Russian literature; for a long time he was the only
Russian novelist well known outside of his country. It was also owing
largely to his personal efforts that Tolstoi's work first became known in
France. He distributed copies to the leading writers and men of influence,
and asked them to arouse the public. Turgenev had a veritable genius for
admiration; he had recognised the greatness of his younger rival
immediately, and without a twinge of jealousy. When he read Sevastopol, he
shouted "Hurrah!" and drank the author's health. Their subsequent
friendship was broken by a bitter and melancholy quarrel which lasted
sixteen years. Then after Tolstoi had embraced Christianity, he considered it
his duty to write to Turgenev, and suggest a renewal of their acquaintance.
This was in 1878. Turgenev replied immediately, saying that all hostile
feelings on his part had long since disappeared; that he remembered only
his old friend, and the great writer whom he had had the good fortune to
salute before others had discovered him. In the summer of that year they
had a friendly meeting in Russia, but Turgenev could not appreciate the
importance of Tolstoi's new religious views; and that very autumn Tolstoi
wrote to Fet, "He is a very disagreeable man." At the same time Turgenev
also wrote to Fet, expressing his great pleasure in the renewal of the old
friendship, and saying that Tolstoi's "name is beginning to have a European
reputation, and we others, we Russians, have known for a long time that he
has no rival among us." In 1880, Turgenev returned to Russia to participate
in the Pushkin celebration, and was disappointed at Tolstoi's refusal to take
part. The truth is, that Tolstoi always hated Turgenev during the latter's
lifetime, while Turgenev always admired Tolstoi. On his death-bed, he
wrote to him one of the most unselfish and beautiful letters that one great
man ever sent to another.

"For a long time I have not written to you, because I was and I am on my
death-bed. I cannot get well, it is not even to be thought of. I write to tell
you how happy I am to have been your contemporary, and to send you one
last petition. My friend! resume your literary work! It is your gift, which
comes from whence comes everything else. Ah! how happy I should be if I
could only think that my words would have some influence on you! . . . I
can neither eat nor sleep. But it is tiresome to talk about such things. My
friend, great writer of our Russian land, listen to my request. Let me know

if you get this bit of paper, and permit me once more to heartily embrace
you and yours. I can write no more. I am exhausted."

Tolstoi cannot be blamed for paying no heed to this earnest appeal, because
every man must follow his conscience, no matter whither it may lead. He
felt that he could not even reply to it, as he had grown so far away from
"literature" as he had previously understood it. But the letter is a final
illustration of the modesty and greatness of Turgenev's spirit; also of his
true Russian patriotism, his desire to see his country advanced in the eyes of
the world. When we reflect that at the moment of his writing this letter, he
himself was still regarded in Europe as Russia's foremost author, there is
true nobility in his remark, "How happy I am to have been your
contemporary!" Edwin Booth said that a Christian was one who rejoiced in
the superiority of a rival. If this be true, how few are they that shall enter
into the kingdom of God.

After the death of Turgenev, Tolstoi realised his greatness as he had never
done before. He even consented to deliver a public address in honour of the
dead man. In order to prepare himself for this, he began to re-read
Turgenev's books, and wrote enthusiastically: "I am constantly thinking of
Turgenev and I love him passionately. I pity him and I keep on reading him.
I live all the time with him. . . . I have just read Enough. What an exquisite
thing!"* The date was set for the public address. Intense public excitement
was aroused. Then the government stepped in and prohibited it!

* In 1865, he wrote to Fet, "Enough does not please me. Personality and
subjectivity are all right, so long as there is plenty of life and passion. But
his subjectivity is full of pain, without life."

Turgenev, like most novelists, began his literary career with the publication
of verse. He never regarded his poems highly, however, nor his plays, of
which he wrote a considerable number. His reputation began, as has been
said, with the appearance of A Sportsman's Sketches, which are not
primarily political or social in their intention, but were written, like all his
works, from the serene standpoint of the artist. They are full of delicate
character-analysis, both of men and of dogs; they clearly revealed, even in
their melancholy humour, the actual condition of the serfs. But perhaps they

are chiefly remarkable for their exquisite descriptions of nature. Russian
fiction as a whole is not notable for nature-pictures; the writers have either
not been particularly sensitive to beauty of sky and landscape, or like
Browning, their interest in the human soul has been so predominant that
everything else must take a subordinate place. Turgenev is the great
exception, and in this field he stands in Russian literature without a rival,
even among the professional poets.

Although Sportsman's Sketches and the many other short tales that
Turgenev wrote at intervals during his whole career are thoroughly worth
reading, his great reputation is based on his seven complete novels, which
should be read in the order of composition, even though they do not form an
ascending climax. All of them are short; compared with the huge novels so
much in vogue at this moment, they look like tiny models of massive
machinery. Turgenev's method was first to write a story at great length, and
then submit it to rigid and remorseless compression, so that what he finally
gave to the public was the quintessence of his art. It is one of his most
extraordinary powers that he was able to depict so many characters and so
many life histories in so very few words. The reader has a sense of absolute
completeness.

It was in his first novel, Rudin, that Turgenev made the first full-length
portrait of the typical educated Russian of the nineteenth century. In doing
this, he added an immortal character to the world's literature. "Such and
such a man is a Rudin," has been a common expression for over fifty years,
as we speak of the Tartuffes and the Pecksniffs. The character was sharply
individualised, but he stands as the representative of an exceedingly
familiar Slavonic type, and no other novelist has succeeded so well, because
no other novelist has understood Rudin so clearly as his creator. It is an
entire mistake to speak of him, as so many do nowadays, as an obsolete or
rather a "transitional" type. The word "transitional" has been altogether
overworked in dealing with Turgenev. Rudins are as common in Russia to-
day as they were in 1850; for although Turgenev diagnosed the disease in a
masterly fashion, he was unable to suggest a remedy. So late as 1894
Stepniak remarked, "it may be truly said that every educated Russian of our
time has a bit of Dmitri Rudin in him." If Rudin is a transitional type, why
does the same kind of character appear in Tolstoi, in Dostoevski, in Gorki,

in Artsybashev? Why has Sienkiewicz described the racial temperament in
two words, improductivité slave? It is generally agreed that no man has
succeeded better than Chekhov in portraying the typical Russian of the last
twenty years of the nineteenth century. In 1894 some one sent to him in
writing this question, "What should a Russian desire at this present time?"
He replied, "Desire! he needs most of all desire--force of character. We have
enough of that whining shapelessness." Kropotkin says of him: "He knew,
and more than knew--he felt with every nerve of his poetical mind--that,
apart from a handful of stronger men and women, the true curse of the
Russian 'intellectual' is the weakness of his will, the insufficient strength of
his desires. Perhaps he felt it in himself. . . . This absence of strong desire
and weakness of will he continually, over and over again, represented in his
heroes. But this predilection was not a mere accident of temperament and
character. It was a direct product of the times he lived in." If it was, as
Kropotkin says, a direct product of the times he lived in, then Rudin is not a
transitional type, for the direct product of the forties and fifties, when
compared with the direct product of the eighties and nineties, is precisely
the same. Turgenev's Rudin is far from obsolete. He is the educated Slav of
all time; he to a large extent explains mapless Poland, and the political
inefficiency of the great empire of Russia. There is not a single person in
any English or American novel who can be said to represent his national
type in the manner of Rudin. When we remember the extreme brevity of the
book, it was an achievement of the highest genius.

Rudin, like the Duke in The Statue and the Bust, is a splendid sheath
without a sword, "empty and fine like a swordless sheath." His mind is
covered with the decorations of art, music, philosophy, and all the
ornaments engraved on it by wide travel, sound culture, and prolonged
thought; but he can do no execution with it, because there is no single,
steady, informing purpose inside. The moment the girl's resolution strikes
against him, he gives forth a hollow sound. He is like a stale athlete, who
has great muscles and no vitality. To call him a hypocrite would be to
misjudge him entirely. He is more subtle and complex than that. One of his
acquaintances, hearing him spoken of as Tartuffe, replies, "No, the point is,
he is not a Tartuffe. Tartuffe at least knew what he was aiming at." A man of
small intelligence who knows exactly what he wants is more likely to get it

than a man of brilliant intelligence who doesn't know what he wants, is to
get anything, or anywhere.

Perhaps Turgenev, who was the greatest diagnostician among all novelists,
felt that by constantly depicting this manner of man Russia would realise
her cardinal weakness, and some remedy might be found for it--just as the
emancipation of the serfs had been partly brought about by his
dispassionate analysis of their condition. Perhaps he repeated this character
so often because he saw Rudin in his own heart. At all events, he never
wearied of showing Russians what they were, and he took this means of
showing it. In nearly all his novels, and in many of his short tales, he has
given us a whole gallery of Rudins under various names. In Acia, for
example, we have a charming picture of the young painter, Gagin.

"Gagin showed me all his canvases. In his sketches there was a good deal of
life and truth, a certain breadth and freedom; but not one of them was
finished, and the drawing struck me as careless and incorrect. I gave candid
expression to my opinion.

"'Yes, yes,' he assented, with a sigh, 'you're right; it's all very poor and
crude; what's to be done? I haven't had the training I ought to have had;
besides, one's cursed Slavonic slackness gets the better of one. While one
dreams of work, one soars away in eagle flight; one fancies one's going to
shake the earth out of its place--but when it comes to doing anything, one's
weak and weary directly."

The heroine of Rudin, the young girl Natalya, is a faint sketch of the future
Lisa. Turgenev's girls never seem to have any fun; how different they are
from the twentieth century American novelist's heroine, for whom the world
is a garden of delight, with exceedingly attractive young men as gardeners!
These Russian young women are grave, serious, modest, religious, who ask
and expect little for themselves, and who radiate feminine charm. They
have indomitable power of will, characters of rocklike steadfastness,
enveloped in a disposition of ineffable sweetness. Of course they at first fall
an easy prey to the men who have the gift of eloquence; for nothing
hypnotises a woman more speedily than noble sentiments in the mouth of a
man. Her whole being vibrates in mute adoration, like flowers to the
sunlight. The essential goodness of a woman's heart is fertile soil for an

orator, whether he speaks from the platform or in a conservatory. Natalya is
limed almost instantly by the honey of Rudin's language, and her virgin soul
expands at his declaration of love. Despite the opposition of her mother,
despite the iron bonds of convention, she is ready to forsake all and follow
him. To her unspeakable amazement and dismay, she finds that the great
orator is vox, et praeterea nihil.

"'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 certainly will turn me out of the house.'

"'Perhaps. She told me yesterday that she 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?'"

But, although the average Anglo-Saxon reader is very angry with Rudin, he
is not altogether contemptible If every man were of the Roosevelt type, the
world would become not a fair field, but a free fight. We need Roosevelts
and we need Rudins The Rudins allure to brighter worlds, even if they do
not lead the way. If the ideals they set before us by their eloquence are true,
their own failures do not negate them. Whose fault is it if we do not reach
them? Lezhnyov gives the inefficient Rudin a splendid eulogy.

"Genius, very likely he has! but as for being natural. . . . That's just his
misfortune, that there's nothing natural in him. . . . I want to speak of what
is good; of what is rare in him. He has enthusiasm; and believe me, who am

a phlegmatic person enough, that is the most precious quality in our times.
We have all become insufferably reasonable, indifferent, and slothful; we
are asleep and cold, and thanks to any one who will wake us up and warm
us! . . . He is not an actor, as I called him, nor a cheat, nor a scoundrel; he
lives at other people's expense, not like a swindler, but like a child. . . . He
never does anything himself precisely, he has no vital force, no blood; but
who has the right to say that he has not been of use? that his words have not
scattered good seeds in young hearts, to whom nature has not denied, as she
has to him, powers for action, and the faculty of carrying out their own
ideas? . . . I drink to the health of Rudin! I drink to the comrade of my best
years, I drink to youth, to its hopes, its endeavours, its faith, and its purity,
to all that our hearts beat for at twenty; we have known, and shall know,
nothing better than that in life. . . . I drink to that golden time,--to the health
of Rudin!"

It is plain that the speaker is something of a Rudin himself.

The next novel, A House of Gentlefolk,* is, with the possible exception of
Fathers and Children, Turgenev's masterpiece. I know of no novel which
gives a richer return for repeated re-readings. As the title implies, this book
deals, not with an exciting

* In the original, A Nobleman's Nest.

narrative, but with a group of characters; who can forget them? Like all of
its author's works, it is a love-story; this passion is the mainspring of the
chief personages, and their minds and hearts are revealed by its power. It is
commonly said that Turgenev lacked passion; one might say with equal
truth that Wordsworth lacked love of nature. Many of his novels and tales
are tremulous with passion, but they are never noisy with it. Like the true
patrician that he was, he studied restraint and reserve. The garden scene
between Lisa and Lavretsky is the very ecstasy of passion, although, like
the two characters, it is marked by a pure and chaste beauty of word and
action, that seems to prove that Love is something divine. Only the truly
virtuous really understand passion--just as the sorrows of men are deeper
than the sorrows of children, even though the latter be accompanied by
more tears. Those who believe that the master passion of love expresses

itself by floods of words or by abominable imagery, will understand
Turgenev as little as they understand life. In reading the few pages in which
the lovers meet by night in the garden, one feels almost like an intruder--as
one feels at the scene of reconciliation between Lear and Cordelia. It is the
very essence of intimacy--the air is filled with something high and holy.

Lisa is the greatest of all Turgenev's great heroines. No one can help being
better for knowing such a girl. She is not very beautiful, she is not very
accomplished, not even very quick-witted; but she has eine schöne Seele.
There is nothing regal about her; she never tries to queen it in the drawing-
room. She is not proud, high-spirited, and haughty; she does not constantly
"draw herself up to her full height," a species of gymnastics in great favour
with most fiction-heroines. But she draws all men unto herself. She is
beloved by the two opposite extremes of manhood--Panshin and Lavretsky.
Lacking beauty, wit, and learning, she has an irrepressible and an irresistible
virginal charm--the exceedingly rare charm of youth when it seeks not its
own. When she appears on the scene, the pages of the book seem
illuminated, and her smile is a benediction. She is exactly the kind of
woman to be loved by Lavretsky, and to be desired by a rake like Panshin.
For a man like Lavretsky will love what is lovely, and a satiated rake will
always eagerly long to defile what is beyond his reach.

It is contemptuously said by many critics--why is it that so many critics lose
sensitiveness to beauty, and are afraid of their own feelings?--it is said that
Lisa, like Rudin, is an obsolete type, the type of Russian girl of 1850, and
that she is now interesting only as a fashion that has passed away, and
because of the enthusiasm she once awakened. We are informed, with a
shade of cynicism, that all the Russian girls then tried to look like Lisa, and
to imitate her manner. Is her character really out of style and out of date? If
this were true, it would be unfortunate; for the kind of girl that Lisa
represents will become obsolete only when purity, modesty, and gentleness
in women become unattractive. We have not yet progressed quite so far as
that. Instead of saying that Lisa is a type of the Russian girl of 1850, I
should say that she is a type of the Ewig-weibliche.

At the conclusion of the great garden-scene, Turgenev, by what seems the
pure inspiration of genius, has expressed the ecstasy of love in old Lemm's

wonderful music It is as though the passion of the lovers had mounted to
that pitch where language would be utterly inadequate; indeed, one feels in
reading that scene that the next page must be an anti-climax. It would have
been if the author had not carried us still higher, by means of an emotional
expression far nobler than words. The dead silence of the sleeping little
town is broken by "strains of divine, triumphant music. . . . The music
resounded in still greater magnificence; a mighty flood of melody--and all
his bliss seemed speaking and singing in its strains. . . The sweet, passionate
melody went to his heart from the first note; it was glowing and languishing
with inspiration, happiness, and beauty; it swelled and melted away; it
touched on all that is precious, mysterious, and holy on earth. It breathed of
deathless sorrow and mounted dying away to the heavens."

Elena, the heroine of On the Eve, resembles Lisa in the absolute integrity of
her mind, and in her immovable sincerity; but in all other respects she is a
quite different person. The difference is simply the difference between the
passive and the active voice. Lisa is static, Elena dynamic. The former's
ideal is to be good, the latter's is to do good. Elena was strenuous even as a
child, was made hotly angry by scenes of cruelty or injustice, and tried to
help everything, from stray animals to suffering men and women. As
Turgenev expresses it, "she thirsted for action." She is naturally
incomprehensible to her conservative and ease-loving parents, who have a
well-founded fear that she will eventually do something shocking. Her
father says of her, rather shrewdly: "Elena Nikolaevna I don't pretend to
understand. I am not elevated enough for her. Her heart is so large that it
embraces all nature down to the last beetle or frog, everything in fact except
her own father." In a word, Elena is unconventional, the first of the
innumerable brood of the vigorous, untrammelled, defiant young women of
modern fiction, who puzzle their parents by insisting on "living their own
life." She is only a faint shadow, however, of the type so familiar to-day in
the pages of Ibsen, Björnson, and other writers. Their heroines would regard
Elena as timid and conventional, for with all her self-assertion, she still
believes in God and marriage, two ideas that to our contemporary
emancipated females are the symbols of slavery.

Elena, with all her virtues, completely lacks the subtle charm of Lisa; for an
aggressive, independent, determined woman will perhaps lose something of

the charm that goes with mystery. There is no mystery about Elena, at all
events; and she sees through her various adorers with eyes unblinded by
sentiment. To an artist who makes love to her she says "I believe in your
repentance and I believe in your tears But it seems to me that even your
repentance amuses you--yes, and your tears too." Naturally there is no
Russian fit to be the mate of this incarnation of Will. The hero of the novel,
and the man who captures the proud heart of Elena, is a foreigner--a
Bulgarian, who has only one idea, the liberation of his country. He is
purposely drawn in sharp contrast to the cultivated charming Russian
gentlemen with whom he talks. Indeed, he rather dislikes talk, an unusual
trait in a professional reformer. Elena is immediately conquered by the
laconic answer he makes to her question, "You love your country very
dearly?" "That remains to be shown. When one of us dies for her, then one
can say he loved his country." Perhaps it is hypercritical to observe that in
such a case others would have to say it for him.

He proves that he is a man of action in a humorous incident. At a picnic, the
ladies are insulted by a colossal German, even as Gemma is insulted by a
German in Torrents of Spring. Insarov is not a conventional person, but he
immediately performs an act that is exceedingly conventional in fiction,
though rare enough in real life. Although he is neither big, nor strong, nor in
good health, he inflicts corporal chastisement on the brute before his lady's
eyes--something that pleases women so keenly, and soothes man's vanity so
enormously, that it is a great pity it usually happens only in books. He lifts
the giant from the ground and pitches him into a pond. This is one of the
very few scenes in Turgenev that ring false, that belong to fiction-mongers
rather than to fiction-masters. Nothing is more delightful than to knock
down a husky ruffian who has insulted the woman you love; but it is a
desperate undertaking, and rarely crowned with success. For in real life
ruffians are surprisingly unwilling to play this complaisant role.

Finding himself falling in love with Elena, Insarov determines to go away
like Lancelot, without saying farewell. Elena, however, meets him in a
thunderstorm--not so sinister a storm as the Æneas adventure in Torrents of
Spring-and says "I am braver than you. I was going to you." She is actually
forced into a declaration of love. This is an exceedingly difficult scene for a
novelist, but not too difficult for Turgenev, who has made it beautiful and

sweet. Love, which will ruin Bazarov, ennobles and stimulates Insarov; for
the strong man has found his mate. She will leave father and mother for his
sake, and cleave unto him. And, notwithstanding the anger and disgust of
her parents she leaves Russia forever with her husband.

All Turgenev's stories are tales of frustration. Rudin is destroyed by his own
temperament. The heroes of A House of Gentlefolk and Torrents of Spring
are ruined by the malign machinations of satanic women. Bazarov is
snuffed out by a capriciously evil destiny. Insarov's splendid mind and
noble aspirations accomplish nothing, because his lungs are weak. He falls
back on the sofa, and Elena, thinking he has fainted, calls for help. A
grotesque little Italian doctor, with wig and spectacles, quietly remarks,
"Signora, the foreign gentleman is dead--of aneurism in combination with
disease of the lungs."

This novel caused great excitement in Russia, and the title, On the Eve, was
a subject for vehement discussion everywhere. What did Turgenev mean?
On the eve of what? Turgenev made no answer; but over the troubled waters
of his story moves the brooding spirit of creation. Russians must and will
learn manhood from foreigners, from men who die only from bodily
disease, who are not sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. At the very
close of the book, one man asks another, "Will there ever be men among
us?" And the other "flourished his fingers and fixed his enigmatical stare
into the far distance." Perhaps Turgenev meant that salvation would
eventually come through a woman--through women like Elena. For since
her appearance, many are the Russian women who have given their lives for
their country.*

* See an article in the Forum for August, 1910.

The best-known novel of Turgenev, and with the possible exception of A
House of Gentlefolk, his masterpiece, is Fathers and Children, which
perhaps he intended to indicate the real dawn suggested by On the Eve. The
terrific uproar caused in Russia by this book has not yet entirely ceased.
Russian critics are, as a rule, very bad judges of Russian literature. Shut off
from participation in free, public, parliamentary political debate, the
Russians of 1860 and of to-day are almost certain to judge the literary value

of a work by what they regard as its political and social tendency. Political
bias is absolutely blinding in an attempt to estimate the significance of any
book by Turgenev; for although be took the deepest interest in the struggles
of his unfortunate country, he was, from the beginning to the end of his
career, simply a supreme artist. He saw life clearly in its various
manifestations, and described it as he saw it, from the calm and lonely
vantage-ground of genius. Naturally he was both claimed and despised by
both parties. Here are some examples from contemporary Russian
criticism* (1862):--

* To the best of my knowledge, these reviews have never before been
translated. These translations were made for me by a Russian friend, Mr.
William S. Gordon.

"This novel differs from others of the same sort in that it is chiefly
philosophical. Turgenev hardly touches on any of the social questions of his
day. His principal aim is to place side by side the philosophy of the fathers
and the philosophy of the children and to show that the philosophy of the
children is opposed to human nature and therefore cannot be accepted in
life. The problem of the novel is, as you see, a serious one; to solve this
problem the author ought to have conscientiously and impartially studied
both systems of speculation and then only reach certain conclusions. But on
its very first pages you see that the author is deficient in every mental
preparation to accomplish the aim of his novel. He not only has not the
slightest understanding of the new positive philosophy, but even of the old
ideal systems his knowledge is merely superficial and puerile. You could
laugh at the heroes of the novel alone as you read their silly and 'hashy'
discussions on the young generation had not the novel as a whole been
founded on these identical discussions."

The radical critic Antonovich condemned the book in the following terms:--

"From an artistic standpoint the novel is entirely unsatisfactory, not to say
anything more out of respect for the talent of Turgenev, for his former
merits, and for his numerous admirers. There is no common thread, no
common action which would have tied together all the parts of the novel; all
of it is in some way just separate rhapsodies. . . . This novel is didactic, a
real learned treatise written in dialectic form, and each character as he

appears serves as an expression and representative of a certain opinion and
direction. . . . All the attention of the author is turned on the principal hero
and the other acting characters, however, not on their personality, not on the
emotions of their souls, their feelings and passions, but rather almost
exclusively on their talks and reasonings. This is the reason why the novel,
with the exception of one nice old woman, does not contain a single living
character, a single living soul, but only some sort of abstract ideas, and
various movements which are personified and called by proper names.
Turgenev's novel is not a creation purely objective; in it the personality of
the author steps out too clearly, his sympathies, his inspiration, even his
personal bitterness and irritation. From this we get the opportunity to find in
the novel the personal opinions of the author himself, and in this we have
one point to start from--that we should accept as the opinions of the author
the views expressed in the novel, at least those views which have been
expressed with a noticeable feeling for them on the part of the author and
put into the mouths of those characters whom he apparently favours. Had
the author had at least a spark of sympathy for the 'children,' for the young
generation, had he had at least a spark of true and clear understanding of
their views and inclinations, it would have necessarily flashed out
somewhere in the run of the novel.

"The 'fathers' as opposed to the 'children' are permeated with love and
poetry; they are men, modestly and quietly doing good deeds; they would
not for the world change their age. Even such an empty nothing as Pavel
Petrovich, even he is raised on stilts and made a nice man. Turgenev could
not solve his problem; instead of sketching the relations between the
'fathers' and the 'children' he wrote a panegyric to the 'fathers' and a decrial
against the 'children'; but he did not even understand the children; instead of
a decrial it was nothing but a libel. The spreaders of healthy ideas among
the young generation he wanted to show up as corrupters of youth, the
sowers of discord and evil, haters of good, and in a word, very devils. In
various places of the novel we see that his principal hero is no fool; on the
contrary, a very able and gifted man, who is eager to learn and works
diligently and knows much, but notwithstanding all this, he gets quite lost in
disputes, utters absurdities, and preaches ridiculous things, which should
not be pardoned even in a most narrow and limited mind. . . . In general the
novel is nothing else but a merciless and destructive criticism on the young

generation. In all the contemporaneous questions, intellectual movements,
debates and ideals with which the young generation is occupied, Turgenev
finds not the least common sense and gives us to understand that they lead
only to demoralisation, emptiness, prosaic shallowness, and cynicism.
Turgenev finds his ideal in quite a different place, namely in the 'fathers,' in
the more or less old generation. Consequently, he draws a parallel and
contrast between the 'fathers' and the 'children,' and we cannot formulate the
sense of the novel in this way; among a number of good children there are
also bad ones who are the ones that are ridiculed in the novel; this is not its
aim, its purpose is quite different and may be formulated thus: the children
are bad and thus are they represented in the novel in all their ugliness; but
the 'fathers' are good, which is also proven in the novel."

One of the very few criticisms from a truly artistic standpoint appeared in
the Russian Herald during the year 1862, from which a brief quotation must
suffice:--

"Everything in this work bears witness to the ripened power of Turgenev's
wonderful talent; the clearness of ideas, the masterly skill in sketching
types, the simplicity of plot and of movement of the action, and moderation
and evenness of the work as a whole; the dramatic element which comes up
naturally from the most ordinary situations; there is nothing superfluous,
nothing retarding, nothing extraneous. But in addition to these general
merits, we are also interested in Turgenev's novel because in it is caught and
held a current, fleeting moment of a passing phenomenon, and in which a
momentary phase of our life is typically drawn and arrested not only for the
time being but forever."

These prophetically true words constitute a great exception to the prevailing
contemporary criticism, which, as has been seen, was passionately unjust.
Twenty years later, a Russian writer, Boorenin, was able to view the novel
as we see it to-day:--

"We can say with assurance that since the time of Dead Souls not a single
Russian novel made such an impression as Fathers and Children has made.
A deep mind, a no less deep observation, an incomparable ability for a bold
and true analysis of the phenomena of life, and for their broadest relations

to each other,--all these have shown themselves in the fundamental thought
of this positively historical creation. Turgenev has explained with lifelike
images of 'fathers' and 'children' the essence of that life struggle between the
dying period of the nobility which found its strength in the possession of
peasants and the new period of reforms whose essence made up the
principal element of our 'resurrection' and for which, however, none had
found a real, true (bright) definition. Turgenev not only gave such a
definition, not only illumined the inner sense of the new movement in the
life of that time, but he also has pointed out its principal characteristic sign--
negation in the name of realism, as the opposition to the old ideally liberal
conservatism. It is known that he found not only an unusually appropriate
nickname for this negation, but a nickname which later became attached to
a certain group of phenomena and types and as such was accepted not only
by Russia alone but by the whole of Europe. The artist created in the image
of Bazarov an exceedingly characteristic representative of the new
formation of life, of the new movement, and christened it with a
wonderfully fitting word, which made so much noise, which called forth so
much condemnation and praise, sympathy and hatred, timid alarm and bold
raving. We can point out but few instances in the history of literature of
such a deep and lively stir called forth in our literary midst by an artistic
creation and by a type of almost political significance. This novel even after
twenty years appears the same deep, bright, and truthful reflection of life, as
it was at the moment of its first appearance. Now its depth and truthfulness
seem even more clear and arouse even more wonder and respect for the
creative thought of the artist who wrote it. In our days, when the period of
development pointed at by Turgenev in his celebrated novel is almost
entirely lived through, we can only wonder at that deep insight with which
the author had guessed the fundamental characteristic in that life movement
which had celebrated that period. The struggle of two social streams, the
anti-reform and post-reform stream, the struggle of two generations; the old
brought up on æsthetical idealism for which the leisure of the nobility, made
possible by their rights over the peasants, afforded such a fertile soil; and
the young generation which was carried away by realism and negation,--this
is what made up the essence of the movement of the epoch in the sixties.
Turgenev with the instinct of genius saw through this fundamental
movement in life and imaged it in living bright pictures with all its positive
and negative, pathetic and humorous sides.

"In his novel Turgenev did not at all side with the 'fathers' as the
unsympathetic progressive critics of that time insisted, he did not wish to in
the least extol them above the 'children' in order to degrade the latter. Just so
he had no intention of showing up in the character of the representative of
the 'children' some kind of model of a 'thinking realist' to whom the young
generation should have bowed and imitated, as the progressive critics who
received the work sympathetically imagined. Such a one-sided view was
foreign to the author; he sketched both the 'fathers' and the 'children' as far
as possible impartially and analytically. He spared neither the 'fathers' nor
the 'children' and pronounced a cold and severe judgment both on the ones
and the others. He positively sings a requiem to the 'fathers' in the person of
the Kirsanovs, and especially Paul Kirsanov, having shown up their
aristocratic idealism, their sentimental æstheticism, almost in a comical
light, ay almost in caricature, as he himself has justly pointed out. In the
prominent representative of the 'children,' Bazarov, he recognized a certain
moral force, the energy of character, which favourably contrasts this strong
type of realist with the puny, characterless, weak-willed type of the former
generation; but having recognised the positive side of the young type, he
could not but show up their shortcomings to life and before the people, and
thus take their laurels from them. And he did so. And now when time has
sufficiently exposed the shortcomings of the type of the generation of that
time, we see how right the author was, how deep and far he saw into life,
how clearly he perceived the beginning and the end of its development.
Turgenev in Fathers and Children gave us a sample of a real universal
novel, notwithstanding the fact that its plot centres on the usual intimate
relations of the principal characters. And with what wonderful skill the
author solves this puzzling problem--to place in narrow, limited frames the
broadest and newest themes (content). Hardly one of the novelists of our
age, beginning with Dickens and ending with George Sand and Spielhagen,
has succeeded in doing it so compactly and tersely, with such an absence of
the didactic element which is almost always present in the works of the
above-mentioned authors, the now kings of western literatures, with such a
full insight into the very heart of the life movement which is reflected in the
novel. I repeat again, Fathers and Children is thought of highly by
European critics, but years will pass and it will be thought of even more
highly. It will be placed in a line with those weighty literary creations in
which is reflected the basic movement of the time which created it."

It would have been well for Turgenev if he could have preserved an
absolute silence under the terrific storm of abuse that his most powerful
novel brought down on his head; it would have been well to let the book
speak for itself, and trust to time to make the strong wine sweet. But this
was asking almost too much of human nature. Stung by the outrageous
attacks of the Radicals, and suffering as only a great artist can suffer under
what he regards as a complete misrepresentation of his purpose, Turgenev
wrote letters of explanation, confession, irony, letters that gained him no
affection, that only increased the perplexity of the public, and which are
much harder to understand than the work itself. The prime difficulty was
that in this book Turgenev had told a number of profound truths about life;
and nobody wanted the truth. The eternal quarrel between the old and the
young generation, the eternal quarrel between conservative and liberal, was
at that time in Russia in an acute stage; and everybody read ÊFathers and
Children with a view to increasing their ammunition, not with the object of
ascertaining the justice of their cause. The "fathers" were of course angry at
Turgenev's diagnosis of their weakness; the "sons" went into a veritable
froth of rage at what they regarded as a ridiculous burlesque of their ideas.
But that is the penalty that a wise man suffers at a time of strife; for if every
one saw the truth clearly, we should never fight each other at all.

Turgenev's subsequent statement, that so far from Bazarov being a
burlesque, he was his "favourite child," is hard to understand even to-day.
The novelist said that with the exception of Bazarov's views on art, he
himself was in agreement with practically all of the ideas expressed by the
great iconoclast. Turgenev probably thought he was, but really he was not.
Authors are poor judges of their own works, and their statements about their
characters are seldom to be trusted. Many writers have confessed that when
they start to write a book, with a clear notion in their heads as to how the
characters shall develop, the characters often insist on developing quite
otherwise, and guide the pen of the author in a manner that constantly
awakens his surprise at his own work. Turgenev surely intended originally
that we should love Bazarov; as a matter of fact, nobody really loves him,*
and no other character in the book loves him for long except his parents. We
have a wholesome respect for him, as we respect any ruthless, terrible force;
but the word "love" does not express our feeling toward him. It is possible
that Turgenev, who keenly realised the need in Russia of men of strong will,

and who always despised himself because he could not have steadily strong
convictions, tried to incarnate in Bazarov all the uncompromising strength
of character that he lacked himself; just as men who themselves lack self-
assertion and cannot even look another man in the eye, secretly idolise the
men of masterful qualities. It is like the sick man Stevenson writing stories
of rugged out-door activity. I heard a student say once that he was sure
Marlowe was a little, frail, weak man physically, and that he poured out all
his longing for virility and power in heroes like Tamburlaine.

* I cannot believe that even Mr. Edward Garnett loves him, though in his
Introduction to Constance Garnett's translation, he says, "we love him."

Bazarov, as every one knows, was drawn from life. Turgenev had once met
a Russian provincial doctor,* whose straightforward talk made a profound
impression upon him. This man died soon after and had a glorious
resurrection in Bazarov, speaking to thousands and thousands of people
from his obscure and forgotten grave. It is rather interesting that Turgenev,
who drew so many irresolute Russian characters, should have attained his
widest fame by the depiction of a man who is simply Incarnate Will. If
every other person in all Turgenev's stories should be forgotten, it is safe to
say that Bazarov will always dwell in the minds of those who have once
made his acquaintance.

* It is difficult to find out much about the original of Bazarov. Haumant
says Turgenev met him while travelling by the Rhine in 1860; but Turgenev
himself said that the young doctor had died not long before 1860, and that
the idea of the novel first came to him in August, 1860, while he was
bathing on the Isle of Wight. Almost every writer on Russian literature has
his own set of dates and incidents.

And yet, Turgenev, with all his secret admiration for the Frankenstein he
had created, did not hesitate at the last to crush him both in soul and body.
The one real conviction of Turgenev's life was pessimism,--the belief that
the man of the noblest aspiration and the man of the most brutish character
are treated by Nature with equal indifference. Bazarov is the strongest
individual that the novelist could conceive; and it is safe to say that most of
us live all our lives through without meeting his equal. But his powerful
mind, in its colossal egotism and with its gigantic ambitions, is an easy prey

to the one thing he despised most of all--sentiment; and his rugged body
goes to the grave through a chance scratch on the finger. Thus the irony of
this book--and I know of no novel in the world that displays such irony--is
not the irony of intentional partisan burlesque. There is no attempt in the
destruction of this proud character to prove that the "children" were wrong
or mistaken; it is the far deeper irony of life itself, showing the absolute
insignificance of the ego in the presence of eternal and unconscious nature.
Thus Bazarov, who seems intended for a great hero of tragedy, is not
permitted to fight for his cause, nor even to die for it. He is simply
obliterated by chance, as an insect perishes under the foot of a passing
traveller, who is entirely unaware that he has taken an individual life.

Nature herself could hardly be colder or more passive than the woman with
whom it was Bazarov's bad luck to fall in love. The gradual change wrought
in his temperament by Madame Odintsov is shown in the most subtle
manner. To Bazarov, women were all alike, and valuable for only one thing;
he had told this very woman that people were like trees in a forest; no
botanist would think of studying an individual birch tree. Why, then, should
this entirely unimportant individual woman change his whole nature,
paralyse all his ambitions, ruin all the cheerful energy of his active mind?
He fights against this obsession like a nervous patient struggling with a
dreadful depression that comes over him like a flood. He fights like a man
fighting with an enemy in the dark, whom he cannot see, but whose terrible
blows rain on his face. When he first meets her, he remarks to the shocked
Arkady, "What a magnificent body! Shouldn't I like to see it on the
dissecting table!" But he is unable long to admire her with such scientific
aloofness. "His blood was on fire directly if he merely thought of her; he
could easily have mastered his blood, but something else was taking root in
him, something he had never admitted, at which he had always jeered, at
which all his pride revolted." It is this bewilderment at meeting the two
things that are stronger than life--love and death--that both stupefy and
torture this superman. It is the harsh amazement of one who, believing
himself to be free, discovers that he is really a slave. Just before he dies, he
murmurs: "You see what a hideous spectacle; the worm half-crushed, but
writhing still. And, you see I thought too: I'd break down so many things, I
wouldn't die, why should I! there were problems to solve, and I was a giant!
And now all the problem for the giant is how to die decently, though that

makes no difference to any one either. . . . I was needed by Russia. . . . No,
it's clear, I wasn't needed."

Madame Odintsov's profound and subtle remark about happiness is the key
to her character, and shows why she never could have been happy with
Bazarov, or have given him any happiness.

"We were talking of happiness, I believe. . . . Tell me why it is that even
when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a fine evening, or a
conversation with sympathetic people, it all seems an intimation of some
measureless happiness existing apart somewhere rather than actual
happiness such, I mean, as we ourselves are in possession of? Why is it? Or
perhaps you have no feeling like that?"

Many of us certainly have feelings like that; but while these two
intellectuals are endeavouring to analyse happiness, and losing it in the
process of analysis, the two young lovers, Arkady and Katya, whose brows
are never furrowed by cerebration, are finding happiness in the familiar
human way. In answer to his declaration of love, she smiled at him through
her tears. "No one who has not seen those tears in the eyes of the beloved,
knows yet to what a point, faint with shame and gratitude, a man may be
happy on earth."

Although the character of Bazarov dominates the whole novel, Turgenev
has, I think, displayed genius of a still higher order in the creation of that
simple-minded pair of peasants, the father and mother of the young nihilist.
These two are old-fashioned, absolutely pious, dwelling in a mental world
millions of miles removed from that of their son; they have not even a
remote idea of what is passing in his mind, but they look on him with
adoration, and believe him to be the greatest man in all Russia. At the end
of a wonderful sketch of the mother, Turgenev says: "Such women are not
common nowadays. God knows whether we ought to rejoice!"

This humble pair, whom another novelist might have treated with scorn, are
glorified here by their infinite love for their son. Such love as that seems
indeed too great for earth, too great for time, and to belong only to eternity.
The unutterable pathos of this love consists in the fact that it is made up so
largely of fear. They fear their son as only ignorant parents can fear their

educated offspring; it is something that I have seen often, that every one
must have observed, that arouses the most poignant sympathy in those that
understand it. It is the fear that the boy will be bored at home; that he is
longing for more congenial companionship elsewhere; that the very
solicitude of his parents for his health, for his physical comfort, will irritate
and annoy rather than please him. There is no heart-hunger on earth so cruel
and so terrible as the hunger of father and mother for the complete
sympathy and affection of their growing children. This is why the pride of
so many parents in the development of their children is mingled with such
mute but piercing terror. It is the fear that the son will grow away from
them; that their caresses will deaden rather than quicken his love for them.
They watch him as one watches some infinitely precious thing that may at
any moment disappear forever. The fear of a mother toward the son she
loves is among the deepest tragedies of earth. She knows he is necessary to
her happiness, and that she is not to his.

Even the cold-hearted Bazarov is shaken by the joy of his mother's greeting
when he returns home, and by her agony at his early departure. He hates
himself for not being able to respond to her demonstrations of affection.
Unlike most sons, he is clever enough to understand the slavish adoration of
his parents; but he realises that he cannot, especially in the presence of his
college friend, relieve their starving hearts. At the very end, he says "My
father will tell you what a man Russia is losing. . . . That's nonsense, but
don't contradict the old man. Whatever toy will comfort the child . . . you
know. And be kind to mother. People like them aren't to be found in your
great world if you look by daylight with a candle."

The bewildered, helpless anguish of the parents, who cannot understand
why the God they worship takes their son away from them, reaches the
greatest climax of tragedy that I know of anywhere in the whole history of
fiction. Not even the figure of Lear holding the dead body of Cordelia
surpasses in tragic intensity this old pair whose whole life has for so long
revolved about their son. And the novel closes with the scene in the little
village churchyard, where the aged couple, supporting each other, visit the
tomb, and wipe away the dust from the stone. Even the abiding pessimism
of the novelist lifts for a moment its heavy gloom at this spectacle. "Can it
be that their prayers, their tears, are fruitless? Can it be that love, sacred,

devoted love, is not all-powerful? Oh, no! However passionate, sinning, and
rebellious the heart hidden in the tomb, the flowers growing over it peep
serenely at us with their innocent eyes; they tell us not of eternal peace
alone, of that great peace of indifferent nature; they tell us too of eternal
reconciliation and of life without end."

This is where the novel Fathers and Children rises above a picture of
Russian politics in the sixties, and remains forever an immortal work of art.
For the greatness of this book lies not in the use of the word Nihilist, nor in
the reproduction of ephemeral political movements; its greatness consists in
the fact that it faithfully portrays not merely the Russian character, nor the
nineteenth century, but the very depths of the human heart as it has
manifested itself in all ages and among all nations.

The next novel, Smoke, despite its extraordinary brilliancy, is in many ways
unworthy of Turgenev's genius. It was written at Baden, while he was living
with the Viardots, and I suspect that the influence of Madame Viardot is
stronger in this work than in anything else Turgenev produced. Of course he
had discussed again and again with her the abuse that young Russia had
poured on his head for Fathers and Children; and I suspect she incited him
to strike and spare not. The smoke in this novel is meant to represent the
idle vapour of Russian political jargon; all the heated discussions on both
sides are smoke, purposeless, obscure, and transitory as a cloud. But the
smoke really rose from the flames of anger in his own heart, fanned by a
woman's breath, who delighted to see her mild giant for once smite his
enemies with all his force. If Fathers and Children had been received in
Russia with more intelligence or more sympathy, it is certain that Smoke
would never have appeared. This is the most bitter and purely satirical of all
the works of Turgenev; the Slavophils, with their ignorance of the real
culture of western Europe, and their unwillingness to learn from good
teachers, are hit hard; but still harder hit are the Petersburg aristocrats, the
"idle rich" (legitimate conventional target for all novelists), who are here
represented as little better in intelligence than grinning apes, and much
worse in morals. No one ever seems to love his compatriots when he
observes them in foreign lands; if Americans complain that Henry James
has satirised them in his international novels, they ought to read Smoke, and
see how Turgenev has treated his travelling countrymen. They talk bad

German, hum airs out of tune, insist on speaking French instead of their
own tongue, attract everybody's attention at restaurants and railway-
stations,--in short, behave exactly as each American insists other Americans
behave in Europe.

The book is filled with little portraits, made "peradventure with a pen
corroded." First comes the typical Russian gasbag, who talks and then talks
some more.

"He was no longer young, he had a flabby nose and soft cheeks, that looked
as if they had been boiled, dishevelled greasy locks, and a fat squat person.
Everlastingly short of cash, and everlastingly in raptures over something,
Rostislav Bambaev wandered, aimless but exclamatory, over the face of our
long-suffering mother-earth."

Dostoevski was so angry when he read this book that he said it ought to be
burnt by the common hangman. But he must have approved of the picture
of the Petersburg group, who under a thin veneer of polished manners are
utterly inane and cynically vicious. One of them had "an expression of
constant irritability on his face, as though he could not forgive himself for
his own appearance."

The portrait of the Pecksniffian Pishtchalkin: "In exterior, too, he had begun
to resemble a sage of antiquity; his hair had fallen off the crown of his head,
and his full face had completely set in a sort of solemn jelly of positively
blatant virtue."

None but a great master could have drawn such pictures; but it is not certain
that the master was employing his skill to good advantage. And while
representing his hatred of all the Russian bores who had made his life
weary, he selected an old, ruined man, Potugin, to express his own
sentiments--disgust with the present condition of Russia, and admiration for
the culture of Europe and the practical inventive power of America. Potugin
says that he had just visited the exposition at the Crystal Palace in London,
and that he reflected that "our dear mother, Holy Russia, could go and hide
herself in the lower regions, without disarranging a single nail in the place."
Not a single thing in the whole vast exhibition had been invented by a
Russian. Even the Sandwich Islanders had contributed something to the

show. At another place in the story he declares that his father bought a
Russian threshing machine, which remained five years useless in the barn,
until replaced by an American one.

Such remarks enraged the Slavophils beyond measure, for they were
determined to keep out of Russia foreign inventions and foreign ideas. But
that Turgenev was right is shown in the twentieth century by an acute
German observer, Baron Von der Bruggen. In his interesting book, Russia of
To-day, he says: "All civilisation is derived from the West. . . . People are
now beginning to understand this in Russia after having lost considerable
time with futile phantasies upon original Slavonic civilisation. If Russia
wishes to progress, her Western doors must be opened wide in order to
facilitate the influx of European culture." The author of these words was not
thinking of Turgenev: but his language is a faithful echo of Potugin. They
sound like a part of his discourse. Still, the literary value of Smoke does not
lie in the fact that Turgenev was a true prophet, or that he successfully
attacked those who had attacked him. If this were all that the book
contained, it would certainly rank low as a work of art.

But this is not all. Turgenev has taken for his hero Litvinov, a young
Russian, thoroughly commonplace, but thoroughly practical and sincere, the
type of man whom Russia needed the most, and has placed him between
two women, who represent the eternal contrast between sacred and profane
love. This situation has all the elements of true drama, as every one knows
who has read or heard Carmen; it is needless to say that Turgenev has
developed it with consummate skill. Turgenev regarded brilliantly wicked
women with hatred and loathing, but also with a kind of terror; and he has
never failed to make them sinister and terrible. Irina as a young girl nearly
ruined the life of Litvinov; and now we find him at Baden, his former
passion apparently conquered, and he himself engaged to Turgenev's ideal
woman, Tanya, not clever, but modest, sensible, and true-hearted, another
Lisa. The contrast between these two women, who instinctively understand
each other immediately and the struggle of each for the soul of the hero,
shows Turgenev at his best. It is remarkable, too, how clearly the reader
sees the heart of the man, so obscure to himself; and how evident it is that
in the very midst of his passion for Irina, his love for Tanya remains. Irina is

a firework, Tanya a star; and even the biggest skyrockets, that illuminate all
the firmament, do not for long conceal the stars.

Turgenev thoroughly relieved his mind in Smoke; and in the novel that
followed it, Torrents of Spring, he omitted politics and "movements"
altogether, and confined himself to human nature in its eternal aspect. For
this very reason the book attracted little attention in Russia, and is usually
dismissed in one sentence by the critics. But it is a work of great power; it
sings the requiem of lost youth, a minor melody often played by Turgenev;
it gives us a curious picture of an Italian family living in Germany, and it
contains the portrait of an absolutely devilish but unforgettable woman. We
have a sincere and highly interesting analysis of the Russian, the German,
and the Italian temperament; not shown in their respective political
prejudices, but in the very heart of their emotional life. Once more the
Russian hero is placed between God and Satan; and this time Satan
conquers. Love, however, survives the burnt-out fires of passion; but it
survives only as a vain regret--it survives as youth survives, only as an
unspeakably precious memory. . . . The three most sinister women that
Turgenev has ever drawn are Varvara Pavlovna, in A House of Gentlefolk;
Irina, in Smoke; and Maria Nikolaevna, in Torrents of Spring. All three are
wealthy and love luxury; all three are professional wreckers of the lives of
men. The evil that they do rises from absolute selfishness, rather than from
deliberate sensuality. Not one of them could have been saved by any
environment, or by any husband. Varvara is frivolous, Irina is cold-hearted,
and Maria is a super-woman; she makes a bet with her husband that she can
seduce any man he brings to the house. To each of her lovers she gives an
iron ring, symbol of their slavery; and like Circe, she transforms men into
swine. After she has hypnotised Sanin, and taken away his allegiance to the
pure girl whom he loves, "her eyes, wide and clear, almost white, expressed
nothing but the ruthlessness and glutted joy of conquest. The hawk, as it
clutches a captured bird, has eyes like that." Turgenev, whose ideal woman
is all gentleness, modesty, and calmness, must have seen many thoroughly
corrupt ones, to have been so deeply impressed with a woman's capacity for
evil. In Virgin Soil, when he introduces Mashurina to the reader, he says:
"She was a single woman . . . and a very chaste single woman. Nothing
wonderful in that, some sceptic will say, remembering what has been said of
her exterior. Something wonderful and rare, let us be permitted to say." It is

significant that in not one of Turgenev's seven novels is the villain of the
story a man. Women simply must play the leading role in his books, for to
them he has given the power of will; they lead men upward, or they drag
them downward, but they are always in front.

The virtuous heroine of Torrents of Spring, Gemma, is unlike any other girl
that Turgenev has created. In fact, all of his good women are individualised-
-the closest similarity is perhaps seen in Lisa and Tanya, but even there the
image of each girl is absolutely distinct in the reader's mind. But Gemma
falls into no group, nor is there any other woman in Turgenev with whom
one instinctively classifies or compares her. Perhaps this is because she is
Italian. It is a long time before the reader can make up his mind whether he
likes her or not--a rare thing in Turgenev, for most of his good women
capture us in five minutes. Indeed, one does not know for some chapters
whether Gemma is sincere or not, and one is angry with Sanin for his moth-
like flitting about her radiance. She at once puzzles and charms the reader,
as she did the young Russian. Her family circle are sketched with
extraordinary skill, and her young brother is unique in Turgenev's books. He
has, as a rule, not paid much attention to growing boys; but the sympathy
and tenderness shown in the depiction of this impulsive, affectionate,
chivalrous, clean-hearted boy prove that the novelist's powers of analysis
were equal to every phase of human nature. No complete estimate of
Turgenev can be made without reading Torrents of Spring; for the Italian
menage, the character of Gemma and her young brother, and the absurd
duelling punctilio are not to be found elsewhere. And Maria is the very
Principle of Evil; one feels that if Satan had spoken to her in the Garden of
Eden, she could easily have tempted him; at all events, he would not have
been the most subtle beast in the field.

In 1876 Turgenev wrote Virgin Soil. Of the seven novels, this is the last, the
longest, and the least. But it did not deserve then, and does not deserve now,
the merciless condemnation of the critics; though they still take up stones to
stone it. Never was a book about a revolutionary movement, written by one
in sympathy with it, so lukewarm. Naturally the public could not swallow it,
for even God cannot digest a Laodicean. But the lukewarmness in this
instance arose, not from lack of conviction, but rather from the conviction
that things can really happen only in the fulness of time. Everything in the

story from first to last emphasises this fact and might be considered a
discourse on the text add to knowledge, temperance: and to temperance,
patience. But these virtues have never been in high favour with
revolutionists, which explains why so many revolutions are abortive, and so
many ephemeral. It is commonly said that the leading character in Virgin
Soil, Solomin, is a failure because he is not exactly true to life, he is not
typically Russian. That criticism seems to me to miss the main point of the
work. Of course he is not true to life, of course he is not typically Russian.
The typical Russian in the book is Nezhdanov, who is entirely true to life in
his uncertainty and in his futility; he does not know whether or not he is in
love, and he does not know at the last what the "cause" really is. He fails to
understand the woman who accompanies him, he fails to understand
Solomin, and he fails to understand himself. So he finally does what so
many Russian dreamers have done--he places against his own breast the
pistol he had intended for a less dangerous enemy. But he is a dead man
long before that. In sharp contrast with him, Turgenev has created the
character Solomin, who is not at all "typically Russian," but who must be if
the revolutionary cause is to triumph. He seems unreal because he is unreal;
he is the ideal. He is the man of practical worth, the man who is not
passion's slave, and Turgenev loved him for the same reason that Hamlet
loved Horatio. Amid all the vain babble of the other characters, Solomin
stands out salient, the man who will eventually save Russia without
knowing it. His power of will is in inverse proportion to his fluency of
speech. The typical Russian, as portrayed by Turgenev, says much, and does
little; Solomin lives a life of cheerful, reticent activity. As the revolution is
not at hand, the best thing to do in the interim is to accomplish something
useful. He has learned how to labour and to wait. "This calm, heavy, not to
say clumsy man was not only incapable of lying or bragging; one might rely
on him, like a stone wall." In every scene, whether among the affected
aristocrats or among the futile revolutionists, Solomin appears to advantage.
There is no worse indictment of human intelligence than the great
compliment we pay certain persons when we call them sane. Solomin is
sane, and seems therefore untrue to life.

It is seldom that Turgenev reminds us of Dickens; but Sipyagin and his wife
might belong to the great Dickens gallery, though drawn with a restraint
unknown to the Englishman. Sipyagin himself is a miniature Pecksniff,

unctuous, polished, and hollow. The dinner-table scenes at his house are
pictured with a subdued but implacable irony. How the natural-born
aristocrat Turgenev hated the Russian aristocracy! When Solomin appears
in this household, he seems like a giant among manikins, so truly do the
simple human virtues tower above the arrogance of affectation. The woman
Marianna is a sister of Elena, whom we learned to know in On the Eve; she
has the purity, not of an angel, but of a noble woman. She has that quiet,
steadfast resolution so characteristic of Russian heroines. As for Mariusha,
she is a specimen of Turgenev's extraordinary power of characterisation.
She appears only two or three times in the entire novel, and remains one of
its most vivid personages This is ever the final mystery of Turgenev's art--
the power of absolutely complete representation in a few hundred words. In
economy of material there has never been his equal. The whole novel is
worth reading, apart from its revolutionary interest, apart from the
proclamation of the Gospel according to Solomin, for the picture of that
anachronistic pair of old lovers, Fomushka and Finushka.* "There are
ponds in the steppes which never get putrid, though there's no stream
through them, because they are fed by springs from the bottom. And my old
dears have such springs too in the bottom of their hearts, and pure as can
be." Only one short chapter is devoted to this aged couple, at whom we
smile but never laugh At first sight they may seem to be an unimportant
episode in the story, and a blemish on its constructive lines but a little
reflection reveals not only the humorous tenderness that inspired the
novelist's pen in their creation, but contrasts them in their absurd
indifference to time, with the turbulent and meaningless whirlpool where
the modern revolutionists revolve. For just as tranquillity may not signify
stagnation, so revolution is not necessarily progression. This old-fashioned
pair have learned nothing from nineteenth century thought, least of all its
unrest. They have, however, in their own lives attained the positive end of
all progress--happiness. They are indeed a symbol of eternal peace, the
shadow of a great rock in a weary land. Turgenev, most cultivated of
novelists, never fails to rank simplicity of heart above the accomplishments
of the mind.

* I cannot doubt that Turgenev got the hint for this chapter from Gogol's
tale, Old-fashioned Farmers.

Turgenev's splendid education, his wealth which made him independent, his
protracted residence in Russia, in Germany, and in Paris, his intimate
knowledge of various languages, and his bachelor life gave to his innate
genius the most perfect equipment that perhaps any author has ever
enjoyed. Here was a man entirely without the ordinary restraints and
prejudices, whose mind was always hospitable to new ideas, who knew life
at first hand, and to whose width of experience was united the unusual
faculty of accurately minute observation. He knew people much better than
they knew themselves. He was at various times claimed and hated by all
parties, and belonged to none. His mind was too spacious to be dominated
by one idea. When we reflect that he had at his command the finest medium
of expression that the world has ever possessed, and that his skill in the use
of it has never been equalled by a single one of his countrymen, it is not
surprising that his novels approach perfection.

His own standpoint was that of the Artist, and each man must be judged by
his main purpose. Here is where he differs most sharply from Tolstoi,
Dostoevski, and Andreev, and explains why the Russians admire him more
than they love him. To him the truth about life was always the main thing.
His novels were never tracts, he wrote them with the most painstaking care,
and in his whole career he never produced a pot-boiler. His work is
invariably marked by that high seriousness which Arnold worshipped, and
love of his art was his main inspiration. He had a gift for condensation, and
a willingness to cultivate it, such as no other novelist has shown. It is safe to
say that his novels tell more about human nature in less space than any
other novels in the world. Small as they are, they are inexhaustible, and
always reveal beauty unsuspected on the previous reading.

His stories are not stories of incident, but stories of character. The
extraordinary interest that they arouse is confined almost entirely to our
interest in his men and women; the plot, the narrative, the events are always
secondary; he imitated no other novelist, and no other can imitate him. For
this very reason, he can never enjoy the popularity of Scott or Dumas; he
will always be caviare to the general. Henry James said of him, that he was
particularly a favourite with people of cultivated taste, and that nothing
cultivates the taste better than reading him. It is a surprising proof of the
large number of readers who have good taste, that his novels met with

instant acclaim, and that he enjoyed an enormous reputation during his
whole career. After the publication of his first book, A Sportsman's
Sketches, he was generally regarded in Russia as her foremost writer, a
position maintained until his death; his novels were translated into French
and English very soon after their appearance, and a few days after his death,
the London Athenæum remarked, "Europe has been unanimous in according
to Turgenev the first rank in contemporary literature." That a man whose
books never on any page show a single touch of melodrama should have
reached the hearts of so many readers, proves how interesting is the truthful
portrayal of human nature.

George Brandes has well said that the relation of Turgenev to his own
characters is in general the same relation to them held by the reader. This
may not be the secret of his power, but it is a partial explanation of it.
Brandes shows that not even men of genius have invariably succeeded in
making the reader take their own attitude to the characters they have
created. Thus, we are often bored by persons that Balzac intended to be
tremendously interesting; and we often laugh at persons that Dickens
intended to draw our tears. With the single exception of Bazarov, no such
mistake is possible in Turgenev's work; and the misunderstanding in that
case was caused principally by the fact that Bazarov, with all his powerful
individuality, stood for a political principle. Turgenev's characters are never
vague, shadowy, or indistinct; they are always portraits, with every detail so
subtly added, that each one becomes like a familiar acquaintance in real life.
Perhaps his one fault lay in his fondness for dropping the story midway, and
going back over the previous existence or career of a certain personage.
This is the only notable blemish on his art. But even by this method, which
would be exceedingly irritating in a writer of less skill, additional interest in
the character is aroused. It is as though Turgenev personally introduced his
men and women to the reader, accompanying each introduction with some
biographical remarks that let us know why the introduction was made, and
stir our curiosity to hear what the character will say. Then these
introductions are themselves so wonderfully vivid, are given with such
brilliancy of outline, that they are little works of art in themselves, like the
matchless pen portraits of Carlyle.

Another reason why Turgenev's characters are so interesting, is because in
each case he has given a remarkable combination of individual and type.
Here is where he completely overshadows Sudermann, even Ibsen, for their
most successful personages are abnormal. Panshin, for example, is a
familiar type in any Continental city; he is merely the representative of the
young society man. He is accomplished, sings fairly well, sketches a little,
rides horseback finely, is a ready conversationalist; while underneath all
these superficial adornments he is shallow and vulgar. Ordinary
acquaintances might not suspect his inherent vulgarity--all Lisa knows is
that she does not like him; but the experienced woman of the world, the
wife of Lavretsky, understands him instantly, and has not the slightest
difficulty in bringing his vulgarity to the surface. Familiar type as he is,--
there are thousands of his ilk in all great centres of civilisation,--Panshin is
individual, and we hate him as though he had shadowed our own lives.
Again, Varvara herself is the type of society woman whom Turgenev knew
well, and whom he both hated and feared; yet she is as distinct an individual
as any that he has given us. He did not scruple to create abnormal figures
when he chose; it is certainly to be hoped that Maria, in Torrents of Spring,
is abnormal even among her class; but she is an engine of sin rather than a
real woman, and is not nearly so convincingly drawn as the simple old
mother of Bazarov.

Turgenev represents realism at its best, because he deals with souls rather
than with bodies. It is in this respect that his enormous superiority over Zola
is most clearly shown. When L'Assommoir was published, George Moore
asked Turgenev how he liked it, and he replied: "What difference does it
make to me whether a woman sweats in the middle of her back or under her
arm? I want to know how she thinks, not how she feels." In that concrete
illustration, Turgenev diagnosed the weakness of naturalism. No one has
ever analysed the passion of love more successfully than he; but he is
interested in the growth of love in the mind, rather than in its carnal
manifestations.

Finally, Turgenev, although an uncompromising realist, was at heart always
a poet. In reading him we feel that what he says is true, it is life indeed; but
we also feel an inexpressible charm. It is the mysterious charm of music,
that makes our hearts swell and our eyes swim. He saw life, as every one

must see it, through the medium of his own soul. As Joseph Conrad has
said, no novelist describes the world; he simply describes his own world.
Turgenev had the temperament of a poet, just the opposite temperament
from such men of genius as Flaubert and Guy de Maupassant. Their books
receive our mental homage, and deserve it; but they are without charm. On
closing their novels, we never feel that wonderful afterglow that lingers
after the reading of Turgenev. To read him is not only to be mentally
stimulated, it is to be purified and ennobled; for though he never wrote a
sermon in disguise, or attempted the didactic, the ethical element in his
tragedies is so pervasive that one cannot read him without hating sin and
loving virtue. Thus the works of the man who is perhaps the greatest
novelist in history are in harmony with what we recognise as the deepest
and most eternal truth, both in life and in our own hearts.

The silver tones and subtle music of Turgenev's clavichord were followed
by the crashing force of Tolstoi's organ harmonies, and by the thrilling,
heart-piercing discords struck by Dostoevski. Still more sensational sounds
come from the younger Russian men of to-day, and all this bewildering
audacity of composition has in certain places drowned for a time the less
pretentious beauty of Turgenev's method. During the early years of the
twentieth century, there has been a visible reaction against him, an attempt
to persuade the world that after all he was a subordinate and secondary man.
This attitude is shown plainly in Mr. Baring's Landmarks in Russian
Literature, whose book is chiefly valuable for its sympathetic understanding
of the genius of Dostoevski. How far this reaction has gone may be seen in
the remark of Professor Brückner, in his Literary History of Russia: "The
great, healthy artist Turgenev always moves along levelled paths, in the fair
avenues of an ancient landowner's park. Æsthetic pleasure is in his well-
balanced narrative of how Jack and Jill did not come together: deeper ideas
he in no wise stirs in us." If A House of Gentlefolk and Fathers and
Children stir no deeper ideas than that in the mind of Professor Brückner,
whose fault is it? One can only pity him. But there are still left some
humble individuals, at least one, who, caring little for politics and the
ephemeral nature of political watchwords and party strife, and still less for
faddish fashions in art, persist in giving their highest homage to the great
artists whose work shows the most perfect union of Truth and Beauty.

IV

DOSTOEVSKI

THE life of Dostoevski contrasts harshly with the luxurious ease and steady
level seen in the outward existence of his two great contemporaries,
Turgenev and Tolstoi. From beginning to end he lived in the very heart of
storms, in the midst of mortal coil. He was often as poor as a rat; he
suffered from a horrible disease; he was sick and in prison, and no one
visited him; he knew the bitterness of death. Such a man's testimony as to
the value of life is worth attention; he was a faithful witness, and we know
that his testimony is true.

Fedor Mikhailovich Dostoevski was born on the 30 October 1821, at
Moscow. His father was a poor surgeon, and his mother the daughter of a
mercantile man. He was acquainted with grief from the start, being born in
a hospital. There were five children, and they very soon discovered the
exact meaning of such words as hunger and cold. Poverty in early years
sometimes makes men rather close and miserly in middle age, as it certainly
did in the case of Ibsen, who seemed to think that charity began and ended
at home. Not so Dostoevski: he was often victimised, he gave freely and
impulsively, and was chronically in debt. He had about as much business
instinct as a prize-fighter or an opera singer. As Merezhkovski puts it: "This
victim of poverty dealt with money as if he held it not an evil, but utter
rubbish. Dostoevski thinks he loves money, but money flees him. Tolstoi
thinks he hates money, but money loves him, and accumulates about him.
The one, dreaming all his life of wealth, lived, and but for his wife's
business qualities would have died, a beggar. The other, all his life
dreaming and preaching of poverty, not only has not given away, but has
greatly multiplied his very substantial possessions." In order to make an
impressive contrast, the Russian critic is here unfair to Tolstoi, but there is
perhaps some truth in the Tolstoi paradox. No wonder Dostoevski loved
children, for he was himself a great child.

He was brought up on the Bible and the Christian religion. The teachings of
the New Testament were with him almost innate ideas. Thus, although his
parents could not give him wealth, or ease, or comfort, or health, they gave
him something better than all four put together.

When he was twenty-seven years old, having impulsively expressed
revolutionary opinions at a Radical Club to which he belonged, he was
arrested with a number of his mates, and after an imprisonment of some
months, he was led out on the 22 December 1849, with twenty-one
companions, to the scaffold. He passed through all the horror of dying, for
visible preparations had been made for the execution, and he was certain
that in a moment he would cease to live. Then came the news that the Tsar
had commuted the sentence to hard labour; this saved their lives, but one of
the sufferers had become insane.

Then came four years in the Siberian prison, followed by a few years of
enforced military service. His health actually grew better under the cruel
régime of the prison, which is not difficult to understand, for even a cruel
régime is better than none at all, and Dostoevski never had the slightest
notion of how to take care of himself. At what time his epilepsy began is
obscure, but this dreadful disease faithfully and frequently visited him
during his whole adult life. From a curious hint that he once let fall,
reënforced by the manner in which the poor epileptic in The Karamazov
Brothers acquired the falling sickness, we cannot help thinking that its
origin came from a blow given in anger by his father.

Dostoevski was enormously interested in his disease, studied its symptoms
carefully, one might say eagerly, and gave to his friends minute accounts of
exactly how he felt before and after the convulsions, which tally precisely
with the vivid descriptions written out in his novels. This illness coloured
his whole life, profoundly affected his character, and gave a feverish and
hysterical tone to his books.

Dostoevski had a tremendous capacity for enthusiasm. As a boy, he was
terribly shaken by the death of Pushkin, and he never lost his admiration for
the founder of Russian literature. He read the great classics of antiquity and
of modern Europe with wild excitement, and wrote burning eulogies in
letters to his friends. The flame of his literary ambition was not quenched
by the most abject poverty, nor by the death of those whom he loved most
intensely. After his first wife died, he suffered agonies of grief, accentuated
by wretched health, public neglect, and total lack of financial resources. But
chill penury could not repress his noble rage. He was always planning and

writing new novels, even when he had no place to lay his head. And the
bodily distress of poverty did not cut him nearly so sharply as its shame.
His letters prove clearly that at times he suffered in the same way as the
pitiable hero of Poor Folk. That book was indeed a prophecy of the author's
own life.

It is impossible to exaggerate the difficulties under which he wrote his
greatest novels. His wife and children were literally starving. He could not
get money, and was continually harassed by creditors. During part of the
time, while writing in the midst of hunger and freezing cold, he had an
epileptic attack every ten days. His comment on all this is, "I am only
preparing to live," which is as heroic as Paul Jones's shout, "I have not yet
begun to fight."

In 1880 a monument to Pushkin was unveiled, and the greatest Russian
authors were invited to speak at the ceremony. This was the occasion where
Turgenev vainly tried to persuade Tolstoi to appear and participate.
Dostoevski paid his youthful debt to the ever living poet in a magnificent
manner. He made a wonderful oration on Russian literature and the future
of the Russian people, an address that thrilled the hearts of his hearers, and
inspired his countrymen everywhere. On the 28 January 1881, he died, and
forty thousand mourners saw his body committed to the earth.

Much as I admire the brilliant Russian critic, Merezhkovski, I cannot
understand his statement that Dostoevski "drew little on his personal
experiences, had little self-consciousness, complained of no one." His
novels are filled with his personal experiences, he had an almost abnormal
self-consciousness, and he bitterly complained that Turgenev, who did not
need the money, received much more for his work than he. Dostoevski's
inequalities as a writer are so great that it is no wonder he has been
condemned by some critics as a mere journalistic maker of melodrama,
while others have exhausted their entire stock of adjectives in his exaltation.
His most ardent admirer at this moment is Mr. Baring, who is at the same
time animated by a strange jealousy of Turgenev's fame, and seems to think
it necessary to belittle the author of Fathers and Children in order to
magnify the author of Crime and Punishment. This seems idle; Turgenev
and Dostoevski were geniuses of a totally different order, and we ought to

rejoice in the greatness of each man, just as we do in the greatness of those
two entirely dissimilar poets, Tennyson and Browning. Much of Mr.
Baring's language is an echo of Merezhkovski; but this Russian critic, while
loving Dostoevski more than Turgenev, was not at all blind to the latter's
supreme qualities. Listen to Mr. Baring:--

"He possesses a certain quality which is different in kind from those of any
other writer, a power of seeming to get nearer to the unknown, to what lies
beyond the flesh, which is perhaps the secret of his amazing strength; and,
besides this, he has certain great qualities which other writers, and notably
other Russian writers, possess also; but he has them in so far higher a
degree that when seen with other writers he annihilates them. The
combination of this difference in kind and this difference in degree makes
something so strong and so tremendous, that it is not to be wondered at
when we find many critics saying that Dostoevski is not only the greatest of
all Russian writers, but one of the greatest writers that the world has ever
seen. I am not exaggerating when I say that such views are held; for
instance, Professor Brückner, a most level-headed critic, in his learned and
exhaustive survey of Russian literature, says that it is not in Faust, but
rather in Crime and Punishment, that the whole grief of mankind takes hold
of us.

"Even making allowance for the enthusiasm of his admirers, it is true to say
that almost any Russian judge of literature at the present day would place
Dostoevski as being equal to Tolstoi and immeasurably above Turgenev; in
fact, the ordinary Russian critic at the present day no more dreams of
comparing Turgenev with Dostoevski, than it would occur to an
Englishman to compare Charlotte Yonge with Charlotte Brontë."

This last sentence shows the real animus against Turgenev that obsesses Mr.
Baring's mind; once more the reader queries, Suppose Dostoevski be all that
Mr. Baring claims for him, why is it necessary to attack Turgenev? Is there
not room in Russian literature for both men? But as Mr. Baring has
appealed to Russian criticism, it is only fair to quote one Russian critic of
good standing, Kropotkin. He says :--

"Dostoevski is still very much read in Russia; and when, some twenty years
ago, his novels were first translated into French, German, and English, they

were received as a revelation. He was praised as one of the greatest writers
of our own time, and as undoubtedly the one who 'had best expressed the
mystic Slavonic soul'--whatever that expression may mean! Turgenev was
eclipsed by Dostoevski, and Tolstoi was forgotten for a time. There was, of
course, a great deal of hysterical exaggeration in all this, and at the present
time sound literary critics do not venture to indulge in such praises. The fact
is, that there is certainly a great deal of power in whatever Dostoevski
wrote: his powers of creation suggest those of Hoffmann; and his sympathy
with the most down-trodden and down-cast products of the civilisation of
our large towns is so deep that it carries away the most indifferent reader
and exercises a most powerful impression in the right direction upon young
readers. His analysis of the most varied specimens of incipient psychical
disease is said to be thoroughly correct. But with all that, the artistic
qualities of his novels are incomparably below those of any one of the great
Russian masters Tolstoi, Turgenev, or Goncharov. Pages of consummate
realism are interwoven with the most fantastical incidents worthy only of
the most incorrigible romantics. Scenes of a thrilling interest are interrupted
in order to introduce a score of pages of the most unnatural theoretical
discussions. Besides, the author is in such a hurry that he seems never to
have had the time himself to read over his novels before sending them to the
printer. And, worst of all, every one of the heroes of Dostoevski, especially
in his novels of the later period, is a person suffering from some psychical
disease or from moral perversion. As a result, while one may read some of
the novels of Dostoevski with the greatest interest, one is never tempted to
re-read them, as one re-reads the novels of Tolstoi and Turgenev, and even
those of many secondary novel writers; and the present writer must confess
that he had the greatest pain lately in reading through, for instance, The
Brothers Karamazov, and never could pull himself through such a novel as
The Idiot. However, one pardons Dostoevski everything, because when he
speaks of the ill-treated and the forgotten children of our town civilisation
he becomes truly great through his wide, infinite love of mankind--of man,
even in his worst manifestations."

Mr. Baring's book was published in 1910, Kropotkin's in 1905, which seems
to make Mr. Baring's attitude point to the past, rather than to the future.
Kropotkin seems to imply that the wave of enthusiasm for Dostoevski is a

phase that has already passed, rather than a new and increasing
demonstration, as Mr. Baring would have us believe.

Dostoevski's first book, Poor Folk, appeared when he was only twenty-five
years old: it made an instant success, and gave the young author an enviable
reputation. The manuscript was given by a friend to the poet Nekrassov.
Kropotkin says that Dostoevski "had inwardly doubted whether the novel
would even be read by the editor. He was living then in a poor, miserable
room, and was fast asleep when at four o'clock in the morning Nekrassov
and Grigorovich knocked at his door. They threw themselves on
Dostoevski's neck, congratulating him with tears in their eyes. Nekrassov
and his friend had begun to read the novel late in the evening; they could
not stop reading till they came to the end, and they were both so deeply
impressed by it that they could not help going on this nocturnal expedition
to see the author and tell him what they felt. A few days later, Dostoevski
was introduced to the great critic of the time, Bielinski, and from him he
received the same warm reception. As to the reading public, the novel
produced quite a sensation."

The story Poor Folk is told in the highly artificial form of letters, but is
redeemed by its simplicity and deep tenderness. Probably no man ever lived
who had a bigger or warmer heart than Dostoevski, and out of the
abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh. All the great qualities of the
mature man are in this slender volume: the wideness of his mercy, the great
deeps of his pity, the boundlessness of his sympathy, and his amazing
spiritual force. If ever there was a person who would forgive any human
being anything seventy times seven, that individual was Dostoevski. He
never had to learn the lesson of brotherly love by long years of experience:
the mystery of the Gospel, hidden from the wise and prudent, was revealed
to him as a babe. The language of these letters is so simple that a child
could understand every word; but the secrets of the human heart are laid
bare. The lover is a grey-haired old man, with the true Slavonic genius for
failure, and a hopeless drunkard; the young girl is a veritable flower of the
slums, shedding abroad the radiance and perfume of her soul in a sullen and
sodden environment. She has a purity of soul that will not take pollution.

"See how this mere chance-sown deft-nursed seed
That sprang up by the wayside 'neath the foot
Of the enemy, this breaks all into blaze,
Spreads itself, one wide glory of desire
To incorporate the whole great sun it loves
From the inch-height whence it looks and longs!"

No one can read a book like this without being better for it, and without
loving its author.

It is unfortunate that Dostoevski did not learn from his first little
masterpiece the great virtue of compression. This story is short, but it is
long enough; the whole history of two lives, so far as their spiritual aspect is
concerned, is fully given in these few pages. The besetting sin of
Dostoevski is endless garrulity with its accompanying demon of
incoherence: in later years he yielded to that, as he did to other temptations,
and it finally mastered him. He was never to write again a work of art that
had organic unity.

Like all the great Russian novelists, Dostoevski went to school to Gogol.
The influence of his teacher is evident throughout Poor Folk. The hero is
almost an imitation of the man in Gogol's short story, The Cloak, affording
another striking example of the germinal power of that immortal work.
Dostoevski seemed fully to realise his debt to Gogol, and in particular to
The Cloak; for in Poor Folk, one entire letter is taken up with a description
of Makar's emotions after reading that extraordinary tale. Makar assumes
that it is a description of himself. "Why, I hardly dare show myself in the
streets! Everything is so accurately described that one's very gait is
recognisable."

Dostoevski's consuming ambition for literary fame is well indicated in his
first book. "If anything be well written, Varinka, it is literature. I learned
this the day before yesterday. What a wonderful thing literature is, which,
consisting but of printed words, is able to invigorate, to instruct, the hearts
of men!"

So many writers have made false starts in literature that Dostoevski's
instinct for the right path at the very outset is something notable. His entire
literary career was to be spent in portraying the despised and rejected.
Never has a great author's first book more clearly revealed the peculiar
qualities of his mind and heart.

But although he struck the right path, it was a long time before he found
again the right vein. He followed up his first success with a row of failures,
whose cold reception by the public nearly broke his heart. He was
extremely busy, extremely productive, and extremely careless, as is shown
by the fact that during the short period from 1846 to 1849, he launched
thirteen original publications, not a single one of which added anything to
his fame. It was not until after the cruel years of Siberia that the great books
began to appear.

Nor did they appear at once. In 1859 he published The Uncle's Dream, a
society novel, showing both in its humour and in its ruthless satire the
influence of Gogol. This is an exceedingly entertaining book, and, a strange
thing in Dostoevski, it is, in many places, hilariously funny. The satire is so
enormously exaggerated that it completely overshoots the mark, but perhaps
this very exaggeration adds to the reader's merriment. The conversation in
this story is often brilliant, full of unexpected quips and retorts delivered in
a manner far more French than Russian. The intention of the author seems
to have been to write a scathing and terrible satire on provincial society,
where every one almost without exception is represented as absolutely
selfish, absolutely conceited, and absolutely heartless. It is a study of village
gossip, a favourite subject for satirists in all languages. In the middle of the
book Dostoevski remarks: "Everybody in the provinces lives as though he
were under a bell of glass. It is impossible for him to conceal anything
whatever from his honourable fellow-citizens. They know things about him
of which he himself is ignorant. The provincial, by his very nature, ought to
be a very profound psychologist. That is why I am sometimes honestly
amazed to meet in the provinces so few psychologists and so many
imbeciles."

Never again did Dostoevski write a book containing so little of himself, and
so little of the native Russian element. Leaving out the exaggeration, it

might apply to almost any village in any country, and instead of sympathy,
it shows only scorn. The scheming mother, who attempts to marry her
beautiful daughter to a Prince rotten with diseases, is a stock figure on the
stage and in novels. The only truly Russian personage is the young lover,
weak-willed and irresolute, who lives a coward in his own esteem.

This novel was immediately followed by another within the same year,
Stepanchikovo Village, translated into English with the title The Friend of
the Family. This has for its hero one of the most remarkable of Dostoevski's
characters, and yet one who infallibly reminds us of Dickens's Pecksniff.
The story is told in the first person, and while it cannot by any stretch of
language be called a great book, it has one advantage over its author's works
of genius, in being interesting from the first page to the last. Both the uncle
and the nephew, who narrate the tale, are true Russian characters: they
suffer long, and are kind; they hope all things, and believe all things. The
household is such a menagerie that it is no wonder that the German
translation of this novel is called Tollhaus oder Herrenhaus? Some of the
inmates are merely abnormal; others are downright mad. There is not a
natural or a normal character in the entire book, and not one of the persons
holds the reader's sympathy, though frequent drafts are made on his pity.
The hero is a colossal hypocrite, hopelessly exaggerated. If one finds
Dickens's characters to be caricatures, what shall be said of this collection?
This is the very apotheosis of the unctuous gasbag, from whose mouth,
eternally ajar, pours a viscous stream of religious and moral exhortation.
Compared with this Friend of the Family, Tartuffe was unselfish and noble:
Joseph Surface modest and retiring; Pecksniff a humble and loyal man. The
best scene in the story, and one that arouses outrageous mirth, is the scene
where the uncle, who is a kind of Tom Pinch, suddenly revolts, and for a
moment shakes off his bondage. He seizes the fat hypocrite by the shoulder,
lifts him from the floor, and hurls his carcass through a glass door. All of
which is in the exact manner of Dickens.

One of the most characteristic of Dostoevski's novels, characteristic in its
occasional passages of wonderful beauty and pathos, characteristic in its
utter formlessness and long stretches of uninspired dulness, is Downtrodden
and Oppressed. Here the author gives us the life he knew best by actual
experience and the life best suited to his natural gifts of sympathetic

interpretation. Stevenson's comment on this story has attracted much
attention. Writing to John Addington Symonds in 1886, he said: "Another
has been translated--Humiliés et Offensés. It is even more incoherent than
Le Crime et le Châtiment, but breathes much of the same lovely goodness,
and has passages of power. Dostoevski is a devil of a swell, to be sure."
There is no scorn and no satire in this book; it was written from an
overflowing heart. One of the speeches of the spineless young Russian,
Alosha, might be taken as illustrative of the life-purpose of our novelist: "I
am on fire for high and noble ideals; they may be false, but the basis on
which they rest is holy."

Downtrodden and Oppressed is full of melodrama and full of tears; it is
four times too long, being stuffed out with interminable discussions and
vain repetitions. It has no beauty of construction, no evolution, and irritates
the reader beyond all endurance. The young hero is a blazing ass, who is in
love with two girls at the same time, and whose fluency of speech is in
inverse proportion to his power of will. The real problem of the book is how
either of the girls could have tolerated his presence for five minutes. The
hero's father is a melodramatic villain, who ought to have worn patent-
leather boots and a Spanish cloak. And yet, with all its glaring faults, it is a
story the pages of which ought not to be skipped. So far as the narrative
goes, one may skip a score of leaves at will; but in the midst of aimless and
weary gabble, passages of extraordinary beauty and uncanny insight strike
out with the force of a sudden blow. The influence of Dickens is once more
clearly seen in the sickly little girl Nelly, whose strange caprices and flashes
of passion are like Goethe's Mignon, but whose bad health and lingering
death recall irresistibly Little Nell. They are similar in much more than in
name.

Dostoevski told the secrets of his prison-house in his great book Memoirs of
a House of the Dead--translated into English with the title Buried Alive. Of
the many works that have come from prison-walls to enrich literature, and
their number is legion, this is one of the most powerful, because one of the
most truthful and sincere. It is not nearly so well written as Oscar Wilde's
De Profundis; but one cannot escape the suspicion that this latter
masterpiece was a brilliant pose. Dostoevski's House of the Dead is marked
by that naïve Russian simplicity that goes not to the reader's head but to his

heart. It is at the farthest remove from a well-constructed novel; it is indeed
simply an irregular, incoherent notebook. But if the shop-worn phrase
"human document" can ever be fittingly applied, no better instance can be
found than this. It is a revelation of Dostoevski's all-embracing sympathy.
He shows no bitterness, no spirit of revenge, toward the government that
sent him into penal servitude; he merely describes what happened there.
Nor does he attempt to arouse our sympathy for his fellow-convicts by
depicting them as heroes, or in showing their innate nobleness. They are
indeed a bad lot, and one is forced to the conviction that they ought not to
be at large. Confinement and hard labour is what most of them need; for the
majority of them in this particular Siberian prison are not revolutionists,
offenders against the government, sent there for some petty or trumped-up
charge, but cold-blooded murderers, fiendishly cruel assassins, wife-beaters,
dull, degraded brutes. But the régime, as our novelist describes it, does not
improve them; the officers are as brutal as the men, and the floggings do not
make for spiritual culture. One cannot wish, after reading the book, that
such prisoners were free, but one cannot help thinking that something is
rotten in the state of their imprisonment. Dostoevski brings out with great
clearness the utter childishness of the prisoners; mentally, they are just bad
little boys; they seem never to have developed, except in an increased
capacity for sin. They spend what time they have in silly talk, in purposeless
discussions, in endeavours to get drink, in practical jokes, and in thefts from
one another. The cruel pathos of the story is not in the fact that such men are
in prison, but that a Dostoevski should be among them. Here is a delicate,
sensitive man of genius, in bad health, with a highly organised nervous
system, with a wonderful imagination, condemned to live for years in slimy
misery, with creatures far worse than the beasts of the field. Indeed, some of
the most beautiful parts of the story are where Dostoevski turns from the
men to the prison dog and the prison horse, and there finds true friendship.
His kindness to the neglected dog and the latter's surprise and subsequent
devotion make a deep impression. The greatness of Dostoevski's heart is
shown in the fact that although his comrades were detestable characters, he
did not hate them. His calm account of their unblushing knavery is entirely
free from either vindictive malice or superior contempt. He loved them
because they were buried alive, he loved them because of their
wretchedness, with a love as far removed from condescension as it was
from secret admiration of their bold wickedness. There was about these men

no charm of personality and no glamour of desperate crime. The delightful
thing about Dostoevski's attitude is that it was so perfect an exemplification
of true Christianity. No pride, no scorn, no envy. He regarded them as his
brothers, and one feels that not one of the men would ever have turned to
Dostoevski for sympathy and encouragement without meeting an instant
and warm response. That prison was a great training-school for
Dostoevski's genius, and instead of casting a black shadow over his
subsequent life, it furnished him with the necessary light and heat to
produce a succession of great novels.

Their production was, however, irregular, and at intervals he continued to
write and publish books of no importance. One of his poorest stories is
called Memoirs of the Cellarage, or, as the French translation has it,
L'Esprit Souterrain. The two parts of the story contain two curious types of
women. The hero is the regulation weak-willed Russian; his singular
adventures with an old criminal and his mistress in the first part of the story,
and with a harlot in the second, have only occasional and languid interest; it
is one of the many books of Dostoevski that one vigorously vows never to
read again. The sickly and impractical Ordinov spends most of his time
analysing his mental states, and indulging in that ecstasy of thought which
is perhaps the most fatal of all Slavonic passions. Soon after appeared a
strange and far better novel, called The Gambler. This story is told in the
first person, and contains a group of highly interesting characters, the best
being an old woman, whose goodness of heart, extraordinary vitality, and
fondness for speaking her mind recall the best type of English Duchess of
the eighteenth century. There is not a dull page in this short book; and often
as the obsession of gambling has been represented in fiction, I do not at this
moment remember any other story where the fierce, consuming power of
this heart-eating passion has been more powerfully pictured. No reader will
ever forget the one day in the sensible old lady's life when all her years of
training, all her natural caution and splendid common sense, could not keep
her away from the gaming table. This is a kind of international novel, where
the English, French, German, and Russian temperaments are analysed,
perhaps with more cleverness than accuracy. The Englishman, Astley, is
utterly unreal, Paulina is impossible, and the Slavophil attacks on the
French are rather pointless. Some of the characters are incomprehensible,
but none of them lacks interest.

Of all Dostoevski's novels, the one best known outside of Russia is, of
course, Crime and Punishment. Indeed, his fame in England and in America
may be said still to depend almost entirely on this one book. It was
translated into French, German, and English in the eighties, and has been
dramatised in France and in America. While it is assuredly a great work,
and one that nobody except a genius could have written, I do not think it is
Dostoevski's most characteristic novel, nor his best. It is characteristic in its
faults; it is abominably diffuse, filled with extraneous and superfluous
matter, and totally lacking in the principles of good construction. There are
scenes of positively breathless excitement, preceded and followed by dreary
drivel; but the success of the book does not depend on its action, but rather
on the characters of Sonia, her maudlin father, the student Raskolnikov, and
his sister. It is impossible to read Crime and Punishment without reverently
saluting the author's power. As is well known, the story gave Stevenson all
kinds of thrills, and in a famous letter written while completely under the
spell he said: "Raskolnikov is easily the greatest book I have read in ten
years; I am glad you took to it. Many find it dull; Henry James could not
finish it; all I can say is, it nearly finished me. It was like having an illness.
James did not care for it because the character of Raskolnikov was not
objective; and at that I divined a great gulf between us, and, on further
reflection, the existence of a certain impotence in many minds of to-day,
which prevents them from living in a book or a character, and keeps them
standing afar off, spectators of a puppet show. To such I suppose the book
may seem empty in the centre; to the others it is a room, a house of life, into
which they themselves enter, and are purified. The Juge d'Instruction I
thought a wonderful, weird, touching, ingenious creation; the drunken
father, and Sonia, and the student friend, and the uncircumscribed,
protoplasmic humanity of Raskolnikov, all upon a level that filled me with
wonder; the execution, also, superb in places."

Dostoevski is fond of interrupting the course of his narratives with dreams,-
-dreams that often have no connection with the plot, so far as there may be
said to exist a plot,--but dreams of vivid and sharp verisimilitude. Whether
these dreams were interjected to deceive the reader, or merely to indulge the
novelist's whimsical fancy, is hard to divine; but one always wakes with
surprise to find that it is all a dream. A few hours before Svidrigailov
commits suicide he has an extraordinary dream of the cold, wet, friendless

little girl, whom he places tenderly in a warm bed, and whose childish eyes
suddenly give him the leer of a French harlot. Both he and the reader are
amazed to find that this is only a dream, so terribly real has it seemed. Then
Raskolnikov's awful dream, so minutely circumstanced, of the cruel
peasants maltreating a horse, their drunken laughter and vicious
conversation, their fury that they cannot kill the mare with one blow, and
the wretched animal's slow death makes a picture that I have long tried in
vain to forget. These dream episodes have absolutely no connection with
the course of the story--they are simply impressionistic sketches.

Another favourite device of Dostoevski's is to have one of his characters
take a walk, and on this walk undergo some experience that has nothing
whatever to do with the course of the action, but is, as it were, a miniature
story of its own introduced into the novel. One often remembers these while
forgetting many vital constructive features. That picture of the pretty young
girl, fifteen or sixteen years old, staggering about in the heat of the early
afternoon, completely drunk, while a fat libertine slowly approaches her,
like a vulture after its prey, stirs Raskolnikov to rage and then to reflection--
but the reader remembers it long after it has passed from the hero's mind.
Dostoevski's books are full of disconnected but painfully oppressive
incidents.

Raskolnikov's character cannot be described nor appraised; one must follow
him all the way through the long novel. He is once more the Rudin type--
utterly irresolute, with a mind teeming with ideas and surging with
ambition. He wants to be a Russian Napoleon, with a completely
subservient conscience, but instead of murdering on a large scale, like his
ideal, he butchers two inoffensive old women. Although the ghastly details
of this double murder are given with definite realism, Dostoevski's interest
is wholly in the criminal psychology of the affair, in the analysis of
Raskolnikov's mind before, during, and chiefly after the murder; for it is the
mind, and not the bodily sensations that constitute the chosen field of our
novelist. After this event, the student passes through almost every
conceivable mental state; we study all these shifting moods under a
powerful microscope. The assassin is redeemed by the harlot Sonia, who
becomes his religious and moral teacher. The scene where the two read
together the story of the resurrection of Lazarus, and where they talk about

God, prayer, and the Christian religion, shows the spiritual force of
Dostoevski in its brightest manifestations. At her persuasion, he finally
confesses his crime, and is deported to Siberia, where his experiences are
copied faithfully from the author's own prison life. Sonia accompanies him,
and becomes the good angel of the convicts, who adore her. "When she
appeared while they were at work, all took off their hats and made a bow.
'Little mother, Sophia Semenova, thou art our mother, tender and
compassionate,' these churlish and branded felons said to her. She smiled in
return; they loved even to see her walk, and turned to look upon her as she
passed by. They praised her for being so little, and knew not what not to
praise her for. They even went to her with their ailments."

It is quite possible that Tolstoi got the inspiration for his novel Resurrection
from the closing words of Crime and Punishment. Raskolnikov and Sonia
look forward happily to the time when he will be released. "Seven years--
only seven years! At the commencement of their happiness they were ready
to look upon these seven years as seven days. They did not know that a new
life is not given for nothing; that it has to be paid dearly for, and only
acquired by much patience and suffering, and great future efforts. But now
a new history commences; a story of the gradual renewing of a man, of his
slow, progressive regeneration, and change from one world to another--an
introduction to the hitherto unknown realities of life. This may well form
the theme of a new tale; the one we wished to offer the reader is ended."

It did indeed form the theme of a new tale--and the tale was Tolstoi's
Resurrection.

Sonia is the greatest of all Dostoevski's woman characters. The professional
harlot has often been presented on the stage and in the pages of fiction, but
after learning to know Sonia, the others seem weakly artificial. This girl,
whose father's passion for drink is something worse than madness, goes on
the street to save the family from starvation. It is the sacrifice of Monna
Vanna without any reward or spectacular acclaim. Deeply spiritual,
intensely religious, she is the illumination of the book, and seems to have
stepped out of the pages of the New Testament. Her whole story is like a
Gospel parable, and she has saved many besides Raskolnikov. . . . She dies
daily, and from her sacrifice rises a life of eternal beauty.

Two years later came another book of tremendous and irregular power--The
Idiot. With the exception of The Karamazov Brothers, this is the most
peculiarly characteristic of all Dostoevski's works. It is almost insufferably
long; it reads as though it had never been revised; it abounds in
irrelevancies and superfluous characters. One must have an unshakable faith
in the author to read it through, and one should never begin to read it
without having acquired that faith through the perusal of Crime and
Punishment. The novel is a combination of a hospital and an insane asylum;
its pages are filled with sickly, diseased, silly, and crazy folk. It is largely
autobiographical; the hero's epileptic fits are described as only an epileptic
could describe them, more convincingly than even so able a writer as Mr.
De Morgan diagnoses them in An Affair of Dishonour. Dostoevski makes
the convulsion come unexpectedly; Mr. De Morgan uses the fit as a kind of
moral punctuation point. The author's sensations when under condemnation
of death and expecting the immediate catastrophe are also minutely given
from his own never paling recollection. Then there are allusions to Russian
contemporary authors, which occur, to be sure, in his other books. One
reason why Dostoevski is able to portray with such detail the thoughts and
fancies of abnormal persons is because he was so abnormal himself; and
because his own life had been filled with such an amazing variety of
amazing experiences. Every single one of his later novels is a footnote to
actual circumstance; with any other author, we should say, for example, that
his accounts of the thoughts that pass in a murderer's mind immediately
before he assassinates his victim were the fantastical emanation of a
diseased brain, and could never have taken place; one cannot do that in
Dostoevski's case, for one is certain that he is drawing on his Siberian
reservoir of fact. These novels are fully as much a contribution to the study
of abnormal psychology as they are to the history of fiction.

The leading character, the epileptic Idiot, has a magnetic charm that pulls
the reader from the first, and from which it is vain to hope to escape. The
"lovely goodness" that Stevenson found in Dostoevski's Downtrodden and
Oppressed shines in this story with a steady radiance. The most brilliant and
beautiful women in the novel fall helplessly in love with the Idiot, and the
men try hard to despise him, without the least success. He has the sincerity
of a child, with a child's innocence and confidence. His character is almost
the incarnation of the beauty of holiness. Such common and universal sins

as deceit, pretence, revenge, ambition, are not only impossible to him, they
are even inconceivable; he is without taint. From one point of view, he is a
natural-born fool; but the wisdom of this world is foolishness with him. His
utter harmlessness and incapacity to hurt occasion scenes of extraordinary
humour, scenes that make the reader suddenly laugh out loud, and love him
all the more ardently. Dostoevski loved children and animals, and so-called
simple folk; what is more, he not only loved them, he looked upon them as
his greatest teachers. It is a delight to hear this Idiot talk:--

"What has always surprised me, is the false idea that grown-up people have
of children. They are not even understood by their fathers and mothers. We
ought to conceal nothing from children under the pretext that they are little
and that at their age they should remain ignorant of certain things. What a
sad and unfortunate idea! And how clearly the children themselves perceive
that their parents take them for babies who can't understand anything, when
really they understand everything! Great folks don't know that in even the
most difficult affairs a child is able to give advice that is of the utmost
importance. O God! when this pretty little bird stares at you with a happy
and confiding look, you are ashamed to deceive him! I call them little birds
because little birds are the finest things in the world."

The Idiot later in the story narrates the following curious incident. Two
friends stopping together at an inn retired to their room peacefully, when
one of them, lusting to possess the other's watch, drew a knife, sneaked up
behind his victim stealthily, raised his eyes to heaven, crossed himself, and
piously murmured this prayer: "O Lord, pardon me through the merits of
Christ!" then stabbed his friend to death, and quietly took the watch.
Naturally the listener roars with laughter, but the Idiot quietly continues: "I
once met a peasant woman crossing herself so piously, so piously! 'Why do
you do that, my dear?' said I (I am always asking questions). 'Well,' said
she, 'just as a mother is happy when she sees the first smile of her nursling,
so God experiences joy every time when, from the height of heaven, he sees
a sinner lift toward Him a fervent prayer.' It was a woman of the people
who told me that, who expressed this thought so profound, so fine, so truly
religious, which is the very basis of Christianity, that is to say, the idea that
God is our father, that He is delighted at the sight of a man as a mother is at
the sight of her child,--the chief thought of Christ! A simple peasant

woman! To be sure, she was a mother. . . . The religious sentiment, in its
essence, can never be crushed by reasoning, by a sin, by a crime, by any
form of atheism; there is something there which remains and always will
remain beyond all that, something which the arguments of atheists will
never touch. But the chief thing is, that nowhere does one notice this more
clearly than in the heart of Russia. It is one of the most important
impressions that I first received from our country."

The kindness of the Idiot toward his foes and toward those who are
continually playing on his generosity and exploiting him, enrages beyond
all endurance some of his friends. A beautiful young society girl impatiently
cries: "There isn't a person who deserves such words from you! here not one
of them is worth your little finger, not one who has your intelligence or your
heart! You are more honest than all of us, more noble than all, better than
all, more clever than all! There isn't one of these people who is fit to pick up
the handkerchief you let fall, so why then do you humiliate yourself and
place yourself below everybody! Why have you crushed yourself, why
haven't you any pride?"

She had begun her acquaintance with him by laughing at him and trying to
cover him with ridicule. But in his presence those who come to scoff remain
to pray. Such men really overcome the world.

He is not the only Idiot in fiction who is able to teach the wise, as every one
knows who remembers his David Copperfield. How Betsy Trotwood would
have loved Dostoevski's hero! Dickens and Dostoevski were perhaps the
biggest-hearted of all novelists, and their respect for children and harmless
men is notable. The sacredness of mad folk is a holy tradition, not yet
outworn.

The Eternal Husband is a story dealing, of course, with an abnormal
character, in abnormal circumstances. It is a quite original variation on the
triangle theme. It has genuine humour, and the conclusion leaves one in a
muse. The Hobbledehoy, translated into French as Un Adolescent, is, on the
whole, Dostoevski's worst novel, which is curious enough, coming at a time
when he was doing some of his best work. He wrote this while his mind
was busy with a great masterpiece, The Karamazov Brothers, and in this

book we get nothing but the lees. It is a novel of portentous length and utter
vacuity. I have read many dull books, but it is hard to recall a novel where
the steady, monotonous dulness of page after page is quite so oppressive.
For it is not only dull; it is stupid.

Dostoevski's last work, The Karamazov Brothers, was the result of ten
years' reflection, study, and labour, and he died without completing it. It is a
very long novel as it stands; had he lived five years more, it would probably
have been the longest novel on the face of the earth, for he seems to have
regarded what he left as an introduction. Even as it is, it is too long, and
could profitably be cut down one-third. It is incomplete, it is badly
constructed, it is very badly written; but if I could have only one of his
novels, I would take The Karamazov Brothers. For Dostoevski put into it all
the sum of his wisdom, all the ripe fruit of his experience, all his religious
aspiration, and in Alosha he created not only the greatest of all his
characters, but his personal conception of what the ideal man should be.
Alosha is the Idiot, minus idiocy and epilepsy.

The women in this book are not nearly so well drawn as the men. I cannot
even tell them apart, so it would be a waste of labour to write further about
them. But the four men who make up the Karamazov family, the father and
the three sons, are one of the greatest family parties in the history of fiction.
Then the idiotic and epileptic Smerdakov--for Dostoevski must have his
idiot and his fits, and they make an effective combination--is an absolutely
original character out of whose mouth come from time to time the words of
truth and soberness. The old monk at the head of the chapter is marvellous;
he would find a natural place in one of Ibsen's early historical dramas, for
he is a colossal pontifical figure, and has about him the ancient air of
authority. If one really doubted the genius of Dostoevski, one would merely
need to contemplate the men in this extraordinary story, and listen to their
talk. Then if any one continued to doubt Dostoevski's greatness as a
novelist, he could no longer doubt his greatness as a man.

The criminal psychology of this novel and the scenes at the trial are more
interesting than those in Crime and Punishment, for the prisoner is a much
more interesting man than Raskolnikov, and by an exceedingly clever trick
the reader is completely deceived. The discovery of the murder is as harsh a

piece of realism as the most difficult realist could desire. The corpse lies on
its back on the floor, its silk nightgown covered with blood. The faithful old
servant, smitten down and bleeding copiously, is faintly crying for help.
Close at hand is the epileptic, in the midst of a fearful convulsion. There are
some dramatic moments!

But the story, as nearly always in Dostoevski, is a mere easel for the
portraits. From the loins of the father--a man of tremendous force of
character, all turned hellward, for he is a selfish, sensual beast--proceed
three sons, men of powerful individualities, bound together by fraternal
affection. Mitia is in many respects like his father, but it is wonderful how
we love him in the closing scenes; Ivan is the sceptic, whose final
conviction that he is morally responsible for his father's murder shows his
inability to escape from the domination of moral ideas; Alosha, the priestly
third brother, has all the family force of character, but in him it finds its only
outlet in love to God and love to man. He has a remarkably subtle mind, but
he is as innocent, as harmless, as sincere, and as pure in heart as a little
child. He invariably returns for injury, not pardon, but active kindness. No
one can be offended in him for long, and his cheerful conversation and
beautiful, upright life are a living witness to his religious faith, known and
read of all men. Angry, sneering, and selfish folk come to regard him with
an affection akin to holy awe. But he is not in the least a prig or a stuffed
curiosity. He is essentially a reasonable, kind-hearted man, who goes about
doing good. Every one confides in him, all go to him for advice and solace.
He is a multitudinous blessing, with masculine virility and shrewd insight,
along with the sensitiveness and tenderness of a good woman. Seeing six
boys attacking one, he attempts to rescue the solitary fighter, when to his
surprise the gamin turns on him, insults him, strikes him with a stone, and
bites him. Alosha, wrapping up his injured hand, after one involuntary
scream of pain, looks affectionately at the young scoundrel, and quietly
asks, "Tell me, what have I done to you?" The boy looks at him in
amazement. Alosha continues: "I don't know you, but of course I must have
injured you in some way since you treat me so. Tell me exactly where I
have been wrong." The child bursts into tears, and what no violence of
punishment has been able to accomplish, Alosha's kindness has done in a
few moments. Here is a boy who would gladly die for him.

The conversations in this book have often quite unexpected turns of
humour, and are filled with oversubtle questions of casuistry and curious
reasonings. From one point of view the novel is a huge, commonplace
book, into which Dostoevski put all sorts of whimsies, queries, and
vagaries. Smerdakov, the epileptic, is a thorn in the side of those who
endeavour to instruct him, for he asks questions and raises unforeseen
difficulties that perplex those who regard themselves as his superiors. No
one but Dostoevski would ever have conceived of such a character, or have
imagined such ideas.

If one reads Poor Folk, Crime and Punishment, Memoirs of the House of
the Dead, The Idiot, and The Karamazov Brothers, one will have a complete
idea of Dostoevski's genius and of his faults as a writer, and will see clearly
his attitude toward life. In his story called Devils one may learn something
about his political opinions; but these are of slight interest; for a man's
opinions on politics are his views on something of temporary and transient
importance, and like a railway time-table, they are subject to change
without notice. But the ideas of a great man on Religion, Humanity, and Art
take hold on something eternal, and sometimes borrow eternity from the
object.

No doubt Dostoevski realised the sad inequalities of his work, and the great
blunders due to haste in composition. He wrote side by side with Turgenev
and Tolstoi, and could not escape the annual comparison in production.
Indeed, he was always measuring himself with these two men, and they
were never long out of his mind. Nor was his soul without bitterness when
he reflected on their fortunate circumstances which enabled them to write,
correct, and polish at leisure, and give to the public only the last refinement
of their work. In the novel Downtrodden and Oppressed Natasha asks the
young writer if he has finished his composition. On being told that it is all
done, she says: "God be praised! But haven't you hurried it too much?
Haven't you spoiled anything?" "Oh, I don't think so," he replied; "when I
have a work that demands a particular tension of the mind, I am in a state of
extraordinary nervous excitement; images are clearer, my senses are more
alert, and for the form, why, the style is plastic, and steadily becomes better
in proportion as the tension becomes stronger." She sighed, and added:
"You are exhausting yourself and you will ruin your health. Just look at S.

He spent two years in writing one short story; but how he has worked at it
and chiselled it down! not the least thing to revise; no one can detect a
blemish." To this stricture the poor fellow rejoined, "Ah, but those fellows
have their income assured, they are never compelled to publish at a fixed
date, while I, why, I am only a cabhorse!"

Although Dostoevski's sins against art were black and many, it was a
supreme compliment to the Novel as an art-form that such a man should
have chosen it as the channel of his ideas. For he was certainly one of the
most profound thinkers of modern times. His thought dives below and soars
above the regions where even notable philosophers live out their intellectual
lives. He never dodged the ugly facts in the world, nor even winced before
them. Nor did he defy them. The vast knowledge that he had of the very
worst of life's conditions, and of the extreme limits of sin of which
humanity is capable, seemed only to deepen and strengthen his love of this
world, his love of all the creatures on it, and his intense religious passion.
For the religion of Dostoevski is thrilling in its clairvoyance and in its
fervour. That so experienced and unprejudiced a man, gifted with such a
power of subtle and profound reflection, should have found in the Christian
religion the only solution of the riddle of existence, and the best rule for
daily conduct, is in itself valuable evidence that the Christian religion is
true.

Dostoevski has been surpassed in many things by other novelists. The
deficiencies and the excrescences of his art are glaring. But of all the
masters of fiction, both in Russia and elsewhere, he is the most truly
spiritual.
V

TOLSTOI

ON the 6 September 1852, signed only with initials, appeared in a Russian
periodical the first work of Count Leo Tolstoi--Childhood. By 1867, his
name was just barely known outside of Russia, for in that year the American
diplomat, Eugene Schuyler, in the preface to his translation of Fathers and
Sons, said, "The success of Gogol brought out a large number of romance-
writers, who abandoned all imitation of German, French, and English

novelists, and have founded a truly national school of romance." Besides
Turgenev, "easily their chief," he mentioned five Russian writers, all but
one of whom are now unknown or forgotten in America. The second in his
list was "the Count Tolstoi, a writer chiefly of military novels." During the
seventies, the English scholar Ralston published in a review some
paraphrases of Tolstoi, because, as he said, "Tolstoi will probably never be
translated into English." To-day the works of Tolstoi are translated into
forty-five languages, and in the original Russian the sales have gone into
many millions. During the last ten years of his life he held an absolutely
unchallenged position as the greatest living writer in the world, there being
not a single contemporary worthy to be named in the same breath.

Tolstoi himself, at the end of the century, divided his life into four periods:*
the innocent, joyous, and poetic time of childhood, from earliest
recollection up to the age of fourteen; the "terrible twenties," full of
ambition, vanity, and licentiousness, lasting till his marriage at the age of
thirty-four; the third period of eighteen years, when he was honest and pure
in family life, but a thorough egoist; the fourth period, which he hoped
would be the last, dating from his Christian conversion, and during which
he tried to shape his life in accordance with the Sermon on the Mount.

* His own Memoirs, edited by Birukov, are now the authority for
biographical detail. They are still in process of publication.

He was born at Yasnaya Polyana, in south central Russia, not far from the
birthplace of Turgenev, on the 28 August 1828. His mother died when he
was a baby, his father when he was only nine. An aunt, to whom he was
devotedly attached, and whom he called "Grandmother," had the main
supervision of his education. In 1836 the family went to live at Moscow,
where the boy formed that habit of omnivorous reading which characterised
his whole life. Up to his fourteenth year, the books that chiefly influenced
him were the Old Testament, the Arabian Nights, Pushkin, and popular
Russian legends. It was intended that he should follow a diplomatic career,
and in preparation for the University of Kazan, he studied Oriental
languages. In 1844 he failed to pass his entrance examinations, but was
admitted some months later. He left the University in 1847. From his
fourteenth to his twenty-first year the books that he read with the most

profit were Sterne's Sentimental Journey, under the influence of which he
wrote his first story, Pushkin, Schiller's Robbers, Lermontov, Gogol,
Turgenev's A Sportsman's Sketches; and to a less degree he was affected by
the New Testament, Rousseau, Dickens's David Copperfield, and the
historical works of the American Prescott. Like all Russian boys, he of
course read the romances of Fenimore Cooper.

On leaving the University, he meant to take up a permanent residence in the
country; but this enthusiasm waned at the close of the summer, as it does
with nearly everybody, and he went to St. Petersburg in the autumn of 1847,
where he entered the University in the department of law. During all this
time he had the habit of almost morbid introspection, and like so many
young people, he wrote resolutions and kept a diary. In 1851 he went with
his brother to the Caucasus, and entered the military service, as described in
his novel, The Cossacks. Here he indulged in dissipation, cards, and
women, like the other soldiers. In the midst of his life there he wrote to his
aunt, in French, the language of most of their correspondence, "You recall
some advice you once gave me--to write novels: well, I am of your opinion,
and I am doing literary work. I do not know whether what I write will ever
appear in the world, but it is work that amuses me, and in which I have
persevered for too long a time to give it up." He noted at this time that the
three passions which obstructed the moral way were gambling, sensuality,
and vanity. And he further wrote in his journal, "There is something in me
which makes me think that I was not born to be just like everybody else."
Again: "The man who has no other goal than his own happiness is a bad
man. He whose goal is the good opinion of others is a weak man. He whose
goal is the happiness of others is a virtuous man. He whose goal is God is a
great man!"

He finished his first novel, Childhood, sent it to a Russian review, and
experienced the most naïve delight when the letter of acceptance arrived. "It
made me happy to the limit of stupidity," he wrote in his diary. The letter
was indeed flattering. The publisher recognised the young author's talent,
and was impressed with his "simplicity and reality," as well he might be, for
they became the cardinal qualities of all Tolstoi's books. It attracted little
attention, however, and no criticism of it appeared for two years. But a little
later, when Dostoevski obtained in Siberia the two numbers of the

periodical containing Childhood and Boyhood, he was deeply moved, and
wrote to a friend, asking, Who is this mysterious L. N. T.? But for a long
time Tolstoi refused to let his name be known.

Tolstoi took part in the Crimean war, not as a spectator or reporter, but as an
officer. He was repeatedly in imminent danger, and saw all the horrors of
warfare, as described in Sevastopol. Still, he found time somehow for
literary work, wrote Boyhood, and read Dickens in English. About this time
he decided to substitute the Lord's Prayer in his private devotions for all
other petitions, saying that "Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven"
included everything. On the 5 March 1855 he wrote in his diary a curious
prophecy of his present attitude toward religion: "My conversations on
divinity and faith have led me to a great idea, for the realisation of which I
am ready to devote my whole life. This idea is the founding of a new
religion, corresponding to the level of human development, the religion of
Christ, but purified of all dogmas and mysteries, a practical religion not
promising a blessed future life, but bestowing happiness here on earth."

In this same year he wrote the book which was the first absolute proof of
his genius, and with the publication of which his reputation began--
Sevastopol in December. This was printed in the same review that had
accepted his first work, was greeted with enthusiasm by Turgenev and the
literary circles at Petersburg, was read by the Tsar, and translated into
French at the imperial command. It was followed by Sevastopol in May and
Sevastopol in August, and Tolstoi found himself famous.

It was evident that a man so absorbed in religious ideas and so sensitive to
the hideous wholesale murder of war, could not remain for long in the army.
He arrived at Petersburg on the 21 November 1855, and had a warm
reception from the distinguished group of writers who were at that time
contributors to the Sovremennik* (The Contemporary Review), which had
published Tolstoi's work. This review had been founded by Pushkin in
1836, was now edited by Nekrassov, who had accepted Tolstoi's first article,
Childhood, and had enlisted the foremost writers of Russia, prominent
among whom was, of course, Turgenev. The books which Tolstoi read with
the most profit during this period were Goethe, Hugo's Notre-Dame, Plato
in French, and Homer in Russian.

* An amusing caricature of the time represents Turgenev, Ovstrovski, and
Tolstoi bringing rolls of manuscripts to the editors.

Turgenev had a fixed faith in the future of Tolstoi; he was already certain
that a great writer had appeared in Russia. Writing to a friend from Paris, in
1856, he said, "When this new wine is ripened there will be a drink fit for
the gods." In 1857, after Tolstoi had visited him in Paris, Turgenev wrote,
"This man will go far and will leave behind him a profound influence." But
the two authors had little in common, and it was evident that there could
never be perfect harmony between them. Explaining why he could not feel
wholly at ease with Tolstoi, he said, "We are made of different clay."

In January 1857, Tolstoi left Moscow for Warsaw by sledge, and from there
travelled by rail for Paris. In March, accompanied by Turgenev, he went to
Dijon, and saw a man executed by the guillotine. He was deeply impressed
both by the horror and by the absurdity of capital punishment, and, as he
said, the affair "pursued" him for a long time. He travelled on through
Switzerland, and at Lucerne he felt the contrast between the great natural
beauty of the scenery and the artificiality of the English snobs in the hotel.
He journeyed on down the Rhine, and returned to Russia from Berlin.
During all these months of travel, his journal expresses the constant
religious fermentation of his mind, and his intense democratic sentiments.
They were the same ideas held by the Tolstoi of 1900.

On the 3 July 1860, he left Petersburg by steamer, once more to visit
southern Europe. He visited schools, universities, and studied the German
methods of education. He also spent some time in the south of France, and
wrote part of The Cossacks there. In Paris he once more visited Turgenev,
and then crossed over to London, where he saw the great Russian critic
Herzen almost every day. Herzen was not at all impressed by Tolstoi's
philosophical views, finding them both weak and vague. The little daughter
of Herzen begged her father for the privilege of meeting the young and
famous author. She expected to see a philosopher, who would speak of
weighty matters: what was her disappointment when Count Tolstoi
appeared, dressed in the latest English style, looking exactly like a
fashionable man of the world, and talking with great enthusiasm of a cock-
fight he had just witnessed!

After nine months' absence, Tolstoi returned to Russia in April 1861. He
soon went to his home at Yasnaya Polyana, established a school for the
peasants, and devoted himself to the arduous labour of their education. Here
he had a chance to put into practice all the theories that he had acquired
from his observations in Germany and England. He worked so hard that he
injured his health, and in a few months was forced to travel and rest. In this
same year he lost a thousand rubles playing billiards with Katkov, the well-
known editor of the Russian Messenger. Not being able to pay cash, he gave
Katkov the manuscript of his novel, The Cossacks, which was accordingly
printed in the review in January 1863.

On the 23 September 1862, he was married. A short time before this event
he gave his fiancée his diary, which contained a frank and free account of
all the sins of his bachelor life. She was overwhelmed, and thought of
breaking off the engagement. After many nights spent in wakeful weeping,
she returned the journal to him, with a full pardon, and assurance of
complete affection. It was fortunate for him that this young girl was large-
hearted enough to forgive his sins, for she became an ideal wife, and shared
in all his work, copying in her own hand his manuscripts again and again. In
all her relations with the difficult temperament of her husband, she
exhibited the utmost devotion, and that uncommon quality which we call
common sense.

Shortly after the marriage, Tolstoi began the composition of a leviathan in
historical fiction, War and Peace. While composing it, he wrote: "If one
could only accomplish the hundredth part of what one conceives, but one
cannot even do a millionth part! Still, the consciousness of Power is what
brings happiness to a literary man. I have felt this power particularly during
this year." He suffered, however, from many paroxysms of despair, and
constantly corrected what he wrote. This made it necessary for his wife to
copy out the manuscript; and it is said that she wrote in her own hand the
whole manuscript of this enormous work seven times!

The publication of the novel began in the Russki Viesinik (Russian
Messenger) for January 1865, and the final chapters did not appear till
1869. It attracted constant attention during the process of publication, and

despite considerable hostile criticism, established the reputation of its
author.

During its composition Tolstoi read all kinds of books, Pickwick Papers,
Anthony Trollope, whom he greatly admired, and Schopenhauer, who for a
time fascinated him. In 1869 he learned Greek, and was proud of being able
to read the Anabasis in a few months. He interested himself in social
problems, and fought hard with the authorities to save a man from capital
punishment. To various schemes of education, and to the general
amelioration of the condition of the peasants, he gave all the tremendous
energy of his mind.

On the 19 March 1873, he began the composition of Anna Karenina, which
was to give him his greatest fame outside of Russia. Several years were
spent in its composition and publication. Despite the power of genius
displayed in this masterpiece, he did not enjoy writing it, and seemed to be
unaware of its splendid qualities. In 1875 he wrote, "For two months I have
not soiled my fingers with ink, but now I return again to this tiresome and
vulgar Anna Karenina, with the sole wish of getting it done as soon as
possible, in order that I may have time for other work." It was published in
the Russian Messenger, and the separate numbers drew the attention of
critics everywhere, not merely in Russia, but all over Europe.

The printing began in 1874. All went well enough for two years, as we see
by a letter of the Countess Tolstoi, in December 1876. "At last we are
writing Anna Karenina comme il faut, that is, without interruptions. Leo,
full of animation, writes an entire chapter every day, and I copy it off as fast
as possible; even now, under this letter, there are the pages of the new
chapter that he wrote yesterday. Katkov telegraphed day before yesterday to
send some chapters for the December number." But, just before the
completion of the work, Tolstoi and the editor, Katkov, had an
irreconcilable quarrel. The war with Turkey was imminent. Tolstoi was
naturally vehemently opposed to it, while Katkov did everything in his
power to inflame public opinion in favour of the war party; and he felt that
Vronsky's departure for the war, after the death of Anna, with Levin's
comments thereupon, were written in an unpatriotic manner. Ridiculous as
it now seems to give this great masterpiece a political twist, or to judge it

from that point of view, it was for a time the sole question that agitated the
critics. Katkov insisted that Tolstoi "soften" the objectionable passages.
Tolstoi naturally refused, editor and author quarrelled, and Tolstoi was
forced to publish the last portion of the work in a separate pamphlet. In the
number of May 1877, Katkov printed a footnote to the instalment of the
novel, which shows how little he understood its significance, although the
majority of contemporary Russian critics understood the book no better than
he.

"In our last number, at the foot of the novel Anna Karenina, we printed,
'Conclusion in the next issue.' But with the death of the heroine the real
story ends. According to the plan of the author, there will be a short
epilogue, in which the reader will learn that Vronsky, overwhelmed by the
death of Anna, will depart for Servia as a volunteer; that all the other
characters remain alive and well; that Levin lives on his estates and fumes
against the Slavonic party and the volunteers. Perhaps the author will
develop this chapter in a special edition of his novel."

Levin's conversation with the peasant, toward the close of Anna Karenina,
indicates clearly the religious attitude of Tolstoi, and prepares us for the
crisis that followed. From 1877 to 1879 he passed through a spiritual
struggle, read the New Testament constantly, and became completely
converted to the practical teachings of the Gospel. Then followed his well-
known work, My Religion, the abandonment of his former way of life, and
his attempts to live like a peasant, in daily manual labour. Since that time he
wrote a vast number of religious, political, and social tracts, dealing with
war, marriage, law-courts, imprisonment, etc. Many of the religious tracts
belong to literature by the beauty and simple directness of their style. Two
short stories and one long novel, all written with a didactic purpose, are of
this period, and added to their author's reputation: The Death of Ivan Ilyich,
The Kreuzer Sonata, and Resurrection.

One cannot but admire the courage of Tolstoi in attempting to live in
accordance with his convictions, just as we admire Milton for his motives in
abandoning poetry for politics. But our unspeakable regret at the loss to the
world in both instances, when its greatest living author devotes himself to
things done much better by men destitute of talent, makes us heartily

sympathise with the attitude of the Countess, who hardly knew whether to
laugh or to cry. In a letter to her husband, written in October 1884, and
filled with terms of affectionate tenderness, she said: "Yesterday I received
your letter, and it has made me very sad. I see that you have remained at
Yasnaya not for intellectual work, which I place above everything, but to
play 'Robinson.' You have let the cook go . . . and from morning to night
you give yourself up to manual toil fit only for young men. . . . You will say,
of course, that this manner of life conforms to your principles and that it
does you good. That's another matter. I can only say, 'Rejoice and take your
pleasure,' and at the same time I feel sad to think that such an intellectual
force as yours should expend itself in cutting wood, heating the samovar,
and sewing boots. That is all very well as a change of work, but not for an
occupation. Well, enough of this subject. If I had not written this, it would
have rankled in me, and now it has passed and I feel like laughing. I can
calm myself only by this Russian proverb: 'Let the child amuse himself, no
matter how, provided he doesn't cry."

In the last few weeks of his life, the differences of opinion between the aged
couple became so acute that Tolstoi fled from his home, and refused to see
the Countess again. This flight brought on a sudden illness, and the great
writer died early in the morning of the 20 November 1910. He was buried
under an oak tree at Yasnaya Polyana.

Although Count Tolstoi divided his life into four distinct periods, and
although critics have often insisted on the great difference between his
earlier and his later work, these differences fade away on a close scrutiny of
the man's whole production, from Childhood to Resurrection.

"Souls alter not, and mine must still advance," said Browning. This is
particularly true of Tolstoi. He progressed, but did not change; and he
progressed along the path already clearly marked in his first books. The
author of Sevastopol and The Cossacks was the same man mentally and
spiritually who wrote Anna Karenina, Ivan Ilyich, The Kreuzer Sonata, and
Resurrection. Indeed, few great authors have steered so straight a course as
he. No such change took place in him as occurred with Björnson. The
teaching of the later books is more evident, the didactic purpose is more
obvious, but that is something that happens to almost all writers as they

descend into the vale of years. The seed planted in the early novels simply
came to a perfectly natural and logical fruition.

Not only do the early novels indicate the direction that Tolstoi's whole life
was bound to assume, but his diary and letters show the same thing. The
extracts from these that I have given above are substantial proof of this--he
saw the truth just as clearly in 1855 as he saw it in 1885, or in 1905. The
difference between the early and later Tolstoi is not, then, a difference in
mental viewpoint, it is a difference in conduct and action.* The eternal
moral law of self-sacrifice was revealed to him in letters of fire when he
wrote The Cossacks and Sevastopol; everything that he wrote after was a
mere amplification and additional emphasis. But he was young then; and
although he saw the light, he preferred the darkness. He knew then, just as
clearly as he knew later, that the life in accordance with New Testament
teaching was a better life than that spent in following his animal instincts;
but his knowledge did not save him.

* For a very unfavourable view of Tolstoi's later conduct, the "Tolstoi
legend," see Merezhkovski, Tolstoi as Man and Artist.

Even the revolutionary views on art, which he expressed toward the end of
the century in his book, What is Art? were by no means a sudden discovery,
nor do they reveal a change in his attitude. The accomplished translator, Mr.
Maude, said in his preface, "The fundamental thought expressed in this
book leads inevitably to conclusions so new, so unexpected, and so contrary
to what is usually maintained in literary and artistic circles," etc. But while
the conclusions seemed new (and absurd) to many artists, they were not at
all new to Tolstoi. So early as 1872 he practically held these views. In a
letter to Strakov, expressing his contempt for modern Russian literature and
the language of the great poets and novelists, he said: "Pushkin himself
appears to me ridiculous. The language of the people, on the contrary, has
sounds to express everything that the poet is able to say, and it is very dear
to me." In the same letter he wrote, "'Poor Lisa' drew tears and received
homage, but no one reads her any more, while popular songs and tales, and
folk-lore ballads will live as long as the Russian language."

In his views of art, in his views of morals, in his views of religion, Tolstoi
developed, but he did not change. He simply followed his ideas to their

farthest possible extreme, so that many Anglo-Saxons suspected him even
of madness. In reality, the method of his thought is characteristically and
purely Russian. An Englishman may be in love with an idea, and start out
bravely to follow it; but if he finds it leading him into a position contrary to
the experience of humanity, then he pulls up, and decides that the idea must
be false, even if he can detect no flaw in it; not so the Russian; the idea is
right, and humanity is wrong.

No author ever told us so much about himself as Tolstoi. Not only do we
now possess his letters and journals, in which he revealed his inner life with
the utmost clarity of detail, but all his novels, even those that seem the most
objective, are really part of his autobiography. Through the persons of
different characters he is always talking about himself, always introspective.
That is one reason why his novels seem so amazingly true to life. They
seem true because they are true.

Some one said of John Stuart Mill, "Analysis is the king of his intellect."
This remark is also true of most Russian novelists, and particularly true of
Tolstoi. In all his work, historical romance, realistic novels, religious tracts,
his greatest power was shown in the correct analysis of mental states. And
he took all human nature for his province. Strictly speaking, there are no
minor characters in his books. The same pains are taken with persons who
have little influence on the course of the story, as with the chief actors. The
normal interests him even more than the abnormal, which is the great
difference between his work and that of Gorki and Andreev, as it was the
most striking difference between Shakespeare and his later contemporaries.
To reveal ordinary people just as they really are,--sometimes in terrific
excitement, sometimes in humdrum routine,--this was his aim. Natural
scenery is occasionally introduced, like the mountains in The Cossacks, to
show how the spectacle affects the mind of the person who is looking at it.
It is seldom made use of for a background. Mere description occupied a
very small place in Tolstoi's method. The intense fidelity to detail in the
portrayal of character, whether obsessed by a mighty passion, or playing
with a trivial caprice, is the chief glory of his work. This is why, after the
reading of Tolstoi, so many other "realistic" novels seem utterly untrue and
absurd.

The three stories, Childhood, Boyhood, Youth, now generally published as
one novel, are the work of a genius, but not a work of genius. They are
interesting in the light of their author's later books, and they are valuable as
autobiography. The fact that he himself repudiated them, was ashamed of
having written them, and declared that their style was unnatural, means
little or much, according to one's viewpoint. But the undoubted power
revealed here and there in their pages is immature, a mere suggestion of
what was to follow. They are exercises in composition. He learned how to
write in writing these. But the intention of their author is clear enough. His
"stress lay on the incidents in the development of a soul." There is not a
single unusual or sensational event in the whole narrative, nor did the hero
grow up in any strange or remarkable environment. The interest therefore is
not in what happened, but wholly in the ripening character of the child. The
circumstances are partly true of Tolstoi's own boyhood, partly not; he
purposely mixed his own and his friends' experiences. But mentally the boy
is Tolstoi himself, revealed in all the awkwardness, self-consciousness, and
morbidity of youth. The boy's pride, vanity, and curious mixture of timidity
and conceit do not form a very attractive picture, and were not intended to.
Tolstoi himself as a young man had little charm, and his numerous portraits
all plainly indicate the fact. His Satanic pride made frank friendship with
him almost an impossibility. Despite our immense respect for his literary
power, despite the enormous influence for good that his later books have
effected, it must be said that of all the great Russian writers, Tolstoi was the
most unlovely.

These three sketches, taken as one, are grounded on moral ideas--the same
ideas that later completely dominated the author's life. We feel his hatred of
dissipation and of artificiality. The chapter on Love, in Youth, might also
form a part of the Kreuzer Sonata, so fully does it harmonise with the
teaching of the later work.

"I do not speak of the love of a young man for a young girl, and hers for
him; I fear these tendernesses, and I have been so unfortunate in life as
never to have seen a single spark of truth in this species of love, but only a
lie, in which sentiment, connubial relations, money, a desire to bind or to
unbind one's hands, have to such an extent confused the feeling itself, that it
has been impossible to disentangle it. I am speaking of the love for man."*

* Translated by Isabel Hapgood.

Throughout this book, as in all Tolstoi's work, is the eternal question Why?
For what purpose is life, and to what end am I living? What is the real
meaning of human ambition and human effort?

Tolstoi's reputation as an artist quite rightly began with the publication of
the three Sevastopol stories, Sevastopol in December [1854], Sevastopol in
May, Sevastopol in August. This is the work, not of a promising youth, but
of a master. There is not a weak or a superfluous paragraph. Maurice
Hewlett has cleverly turned the charge that those 'who oppose war are
sentimentalists, by risposting that the believers in war are the real
sentimentalists: "they do not see the murder beneath the khaki and the
flags." Tolstoi was one of the first novelists to strip war of its glamour, and
portray its dull, commonplace filth, and its unspeakable horror. In reading
that masterpiece La Débâcle, and every one who believes in war ought to
read it, one feels that Zola must have learned something from Tolstoi. The
Russian novelist stood in the midst of the flying shells, and how little did
any one then realise that his own escape from death was an event of far
greater importance to the world than the outcome of the war!

There is little patriotic feeling in Sevastopol, and its success was artistic
rather than political. Of course Russian courage is praised, but so is the
courage of the French. In spite of the fact that Tolstoi was a Russian officer,
actively fighting for his country, he shows a singular aloofness from party
passion in all his descriptions. The only partisan statement is in the half
sentence, "it is a comfort to think that it was not we who began this war,
that we are only defending our own country," which might profitably be
read by those who believe in "just" wars, along with Tennyson's Maud,
published at the same time. Tennyson was cock-sure that the English were
God's own people, and in all this bloodshed were doing the blessed work of
their Father in heaven.

"God's just wrath shall be wreak'd on a giant liar."

Throughout the heat of the conflict, Tolstoi felt its utter absurdity, really
holding the same views of war that he held as an old man. "And why do not

Christian people," he wrote in Sevastopol in May, "who profess the one
great law of love and self-sacrifice, when they behold what they have
wrought, fall in repentance upon their knees before Him who, when He
gave them life, implanted in the soul of each of them, together with the fear
of death, a love of the good and beautiful, and, with tears of joy and
happiness, embrace each other like brothers?"

Together with the fear of death-this fear is analysed by Tolstoi in all its
manifestations. The fear of the young officer, as he exchanges the
enthusiastic departure from Petersburg for the grim reality of the bastions;
the fear of the still sound and healthy man as he enters the improvised
hospitals; the fear as the men watch the point of approaching light that
means a shell; the fear of the men lying on the ground, waiting with closed
eyes for the shell to burst. It is the very psychology of death. In reading the
account of Praskukhin's sensations just before death, one feels, as one does
in reading the thoughts of Anna Karenina under the train, that Tolstoi
himself must have died in some previous existence, in order to analyse
death so clearly. And all these officers, who walk in the Valley of the
Shadow, have their selfish ambitions, their absurd social distinctions, and
their overweening, egotistical vanity.

At the end of the middle sketch, Sevastopol in May, Tolstoi wrote out the
only creed to which he remained consistently true all his life, the creed of
Art.

"Who is the villain, who the hero? All are good and all are evil.

"The hero of my tale, whom I love with all the strength of my soul, whom I
have tried to set forth in all his beauty, and who has always been, is, and
always will be most beautiful, is--the truth."

The next important book, The Cossacks, is not a great novel. Tolstoi himself
grew tired of it, and never finished it. It is interesting as an excellent picture
of an interesting community, and it is interesting as a diary, for the chief
character, Olenin, is none other than Leo Tolstoi. He departed for the
Caucasus in much the same manner as the young writer, and his
observations and reflections there are Tolstoi's own. The triple contrast in
the book is powerfully shown: first, the contrast between the majesty of the

mountains and the pettiness of man; second, the contrast between the noble
simplicity of the Cossack women and the artificiality of the padded shapes
of society females; third, the contrast between the two ways of life, that
which Olenin recognises as right, the Christian law of self-denial, but which
he does not follow, and the almost sublime pagan bodily joy of old Uncle
Yeroshka, who lives in exact harmony with his creed. Yeroshka is a living
force, a real character, and might have been created by Gogol.

Olenin, who is young Tolstoi, and not very much of a man, soliloquises in
language that was echoed word for word by the Tolstoi of the twentieth
century.

"Happiness consists in living for others. This also is clear. Man is endowed
with a craving for happiness; therefore it must be legitimate. If he satisfies it
egotistically,--that is, if he bends his energies toward acquiring wealth,
fame, physical comforts, love, it may happen that circumstances will make
it impossible to satisfy this craving. In fact, these cravings are illegitimate,
but the craving for happiness is not illegitimate. What cravings can always
be satisfied independently of external conditions? Love, self-denial."*

* Translated by Isabel Hapgood.

His later glorification of physical labour, as the way of salvation for
irresolute and overeducated Russians, is as emphatically stated in ÊThe
Cossacks as it is in the Kreuzer Sonata.

"The constant hard field labour, and the duties intrusted to them, give a
peculiarly independent, masculine character to the Greben women, and
have served to develop in them, to a remarkable degree, physical powers,
healthy minds, decision and stability of character."

The chief difference between Turgenev and Tolstoi is that Turgenev was
always an artist; Tolstoi always a moralist. It was not necessary for him to
abandon novels, and write tracts; for in every novel his moral teaching was
abundantly clear.

With the possible exception of Taras Bulba, War and Peace is the greatest
historical romance in the Russian language, perhaps the greatest in any

language. It is not illumined by the humour of any such character as
Zagloba, who brightens the great chronicles of Sienkiewicz; for if Tolstoi
had had an accurate sense of humour, or the power to create great comic
personages, he would never have been led into the final extremes of
doctrine. But although this long book is unrelieved by mirth, and although
as an objective historical panorama it does not surpass The Deluge, it is
nevertheless a greater book. It is greater because its psychological analysis
is more profound and more cunning. It is not so much a study of war, or the
study of a vital period in the earth's history, as it is a revelation of all phases
of human nature in a time of terrible stress. It is filled with individual
portraits, amazingly distinct.

Professors of history and military experts have differed widely--as it is the
especial privilege of scholars and experts to differ--concerning the accuracy
of War and Peace as a truthful narrative of events. But this is really a matter
of no importance. Shakespeare is the greatest writer the world has ever
seen; but he is not an authority on history; he is an authority on man. When
we wish to study the Wars of the Roses, we do not turn to his pages,
brilliant as they are. Despite all the geographical and historical research that
Tolstoi imposed on himself as a preliminary to the writing of War and
Peace, he did not write the history of that epoch, nor would a genuine
student quote him as in authority. He created a prose epic, a splendid
historical panorama, vitalised by a marvellous imagination, where the
creatures of his fancy are more alive than Napoleon and Alexander.
Underneath all the march of armies, the spiritual purpose of the author is
clear. The real greatness of man consists not in fame or pride of place, but in
simplicity and purity of heart. Once more he gives us the contrast between
artificiality and reality.

This novel, like all of Tolstoi's, is by no means a perfect work of art. Its
outline is irregular and ragged; its development devious. It contains many
excrescences, superfluities, digressions. But it is a dictionary of life, where
one may look up any passion, any emotion, any ambition, any weakness,
and find its meaning. Strakov called it a complete picture of the Russia of
that time, and a complete picture of humanity.

Its astonishing inequalities make the reader at times angrily impatient, and
at other times inspired. One easily understands the varying emotions of
Turgenev, who read the story piecemeal, in the course of its publication.
"The second part of 1805 is weak. How petty and artificial all that is! . . .
where are the real features of the epoch? where is the historical colour?"
Again: "I have just finished reading the fourth volume. It contains things
that are intolerable and things that are astounding; these latter are the things
that dominate the work, and they are so admirable that never has a Russian
written anything better; I do not believe there has ever been written
anything so good." Again: "How tormenting are his obstinate repetitions of
the same thing: the down on the upper lip of the Princess Bolkonsky. But
with all that, there are in this novel passages that no man in Europe except
Tolstoi could have written, things which put me into a frenzy of
enthusiasm."

Tolstoi's genius reached its climax in Anna Karenina. Greatly as I admire
some of his other books, I would go so far as to say that if a forced choice
had to be made, I had rather have Anna Karenina than all the rest of his
works put together. Leave that out, and his position in the history of fiction
diminishes at once. It is surely the most powerful novel written by any man
of our time, and it would be difficult to name a novel of any period that
surpasses it in strength. I well remember the excitement with which we
American undergraduates in the eighties read the poor and clipped English
translation of this book. Twenty years' contemplation of it makes it seem
steadily greater.

Yet its composition was begun by a mere freak, by something analogous to
a sporting proposition. He was thinking of writing a historical romance of
the times of Peter the Great, but the task seemed formidable, and he felt no
well of inspiration. One evening, the 19 March 1873, he entered a room
where his ten-year-old boy had been reading aloud from a story by Pushkin.
Tolstoi picked up the book and read the first sentence: "On the eve of the
fête the guests began to arrive." He was charmed by the abrupt opening, and
cried: "That's the way to begin a book! The reader is immediately taken into
the action. Another writer would have begun by a description, but Pushkin,
he goes straight to his goal." Some one in the room suggested playfully to
Tolstoi that he try a similar commencement and write a novel. He

immediately withdrew, and wrote the first sentence of Anna Karenina. The
next day the Countess said in a letter to her sister: "Yesterday Leo all of a
sudden began to write a novel of contemporary life. The subject: the
unfaithful wife and the whole resulting tragedy. I am very happy."

The suicide of the heroine was taken almost literally from an event that
happened in January 1872. We learn this by a letter of the Countess, written
on the 10 January in that year: "We have just learned of a very dramatic
story. You remember, at Bibikov's, Anna Stepanova? Well, this Anna
Stepanova was jealous of all the governesses at Bibikov's house. She
displayed her jealousy so much that finally Bibikov became angry and
quarrelled with her; then Anna Stepanova left him and went to Tula. For
three days no one knew where she was. At last, on the third day, she
appeared at Yassenky, at five o'clock in the afternoon, with a little parcel. At
the railway station she gave the coachman a letter for Bibikov, and gave
him a ruble for a tip. Bibikov would not take the letter, and when the
coachman returned to the station, he learned that Anna Stepanova had
thrown herself under the train and was crushed to death. She had certainly
done it intentionally. The judge came, and they read him the letter. It said:
'You are my murderer: be happy, if assassins can be. If you care to, you can
see my corpse on the rails, at Yassenky.' Leo and Uncle Kostia have gone to
the autopsy."

Most of the prominent characters in the book are taken from life, and the
description of the death of Levin's brother is a recollection of the time when
Tolstoi's own brother died in his arms.

Levin is, of course, Tolstoi himself; and all his eternal doubts and
questionings, his total dissatisfaction and condemnation of artificial social
life in the cities, his spiritual despair, and his final release from suffering at
the magic word of the peasant are strictly autobiographical. When the
muzhik told Levin that one man lived for his belly, and another for his soul,
he became greatly excited, and eagerly demanded further knowledge of his
humble teacher. He was once more told that man must live according to
God--according to truth. His soul was immediately filled, says Tolstoi, with
brilliant light. He was indeed relieved of his burden, like Christian at the
sight of the Cross. Now Tolstoi's subsequent doctrinal works are all

amplifications of the conversation between Levin and the peasant, which in
itself contains the real significance of the whole novel.

Even Anna Karenina, with all its titanic power, is not an artistic model of a
story. It contains much superfluous matter, and the balancing off of the two
couples, Levin and Kitty, with Vronsky and Anna, is too obviously arranged
by the author. One Russian critic was so disgusted with the book that he
announced the plan of a continuation of the novel where Levin was to fall in
love with his cow, and Kitty's resulting jealousy was to be depicted.

It has no organic plot--simply a succession of pictures. The plot does not
develop--but the characters do, thus resembling our own individual human
lives. It has no true unity, such as that shown, for example, by the Scarlet
Letter. Our interest is largely concentrated in Anna, but besides the parallel
story of Kitty, we have many other incidents and characters which often
contribute nothing to the progress of the novel. They are a part of life,
however, so Tolstoi includes them. One might say there is an attempt at
unity, in the person of that sleek egotist, Stepan--his relation by blood and
marriage to both Anna and Kitty makes him in some sense a link between
the two couples. But he is more successful as a personage than as the
keystone of an arch. The novel would really lose nothing by considerable
cancellation. The author might have omitted Levin's two brothers, the whole
Kitty and Levin history could have been liberally abbreviated, and many of
the conversations on philosophy and politics would never be missed. Yes,
the work could be shortened, but it would take a Turgenev to do it.

Although we may not always find Art in the book, we always find Life. No
novel in my recollection combines wider range with greater intensity. It is
extensive and intensive--broad and deep. The simplicity of the style in the
most impressive scenes is so startling that it seems as if there were
somehow no style and no language there; nothing whatever between the life
in the book and the reader's mind; not only no impenetrable wall of style,
such as Meredith and James pile up with curious mosaic, so that one cannot
see the characters in the story through the exquisite and opaque structure,--
but really no medium at all, transparent or otherwise. The emotional life of
the men and women enter into our emotions with no let or hindrance, and
that perfect condition of communication is realised which Browning

believed would characterise the future life, when spirits would somehow
converse without the slow, troublesome, and inaccurate means of language.

I believe that the average man can learn more about life by reading Anna
Karenina than he can by his own observation and experience. One learns
much about Russian life in city and country, much about human nature, and
much about one's self, not all of which is flattering, but perhaps profitable
for instruction.

This is the true realism--external and internal. The surface of things,
clothes, habits of speech, manners and fashions, the way people enter a
drawing-room, the way one inhales a cigarette,--everything is truthfully
reported. Then there is the true internal realism, which dives below all
appearances and reveals the dawn of a new passion, the first faint stir of an
ambition, the slow and cruel advance of the poison of jealousy, the
ineradicable egotism, the absolute darkness of unspeakable remorse. No
caprice is too trivial, no passion too colossal, to be beyond the reach of the
author of this book.

Some novels have attained a wide circulation by means of one scene. In
recollecting Anna Karenina, powerful scenes crowd into the memory--
introspective and analytic as it is, it is filled with dramatic climaxes. The
sheer force of some of these scenes is almost terrifying. The first meeting of
Anna and Vronsky at the railway station, the midnight interview in the
storm on the way back to Petersburg, the awful dialogue between them after
she has fallen (omitted from the first American translation), the fearful
excitement of the horse race, the sickness of Anna, Karenin's forgiveness,
the humiliation of Vronsky, the latter's attempt at suicide, the steadily
increasing scenes of jealousy with the shadow of death coming nearer, the
clairvoyant power of the author in describing the death of Anna, and the
departure of Vronsky, where the railway station reminds him with intrusive
agony of the contrast between his first and last view of the woman he loved.
No one but Tolstoi would ever have given his tragic character a toothache at
that particular time; but the toothache, added to the heartache, gives the last
touch of reality. No reader has ever forgotten Vronsky, as he stands for the
last time by the train, his heart torn by the vulture of Memory, and his face
twisted by the steady pain in his tooth.

Every character in the book, major and minor, is a living human being.
Stepan, with his healthy, pampered body, and his inane smile at Dolly's
reproachful face; Dolly, absolutely commonplace and absolutely real;
Yashvin, the typical officer; the English trainer, Cord; Betsy, always
cheerful, always heartless, probably the worst character in the whole book,
Satan's own spawn; Karenin himself, not ridiculous, like an English
Restoration husband, but with an overwhelming power of creating ennui, in
which he lives and moves and has his being.

From the first day of his acquaintance with Anna, Vronsky steadily rises,
and Anna steadily falls. This is in accordance with the fundamental,
inexorable moral law. Vronsky, a handsome man with no purpose in life,
who has had immoral relations with a large variety of women, now falls for
the first time really in love, and his love for one woman strengthens his
mind and heart, gives him an object in life, and concentrates the hitherto
scattered energies of his soul. His development as a man, his rise in dignity
and force of character, is one of the notable features of the whole book.
When we first see him, he is colourless, a mere fashionable type; he
constantly becomes more interesting, and when we last see him, he has not
only our profound sympathy, but our cordial respect. He was a figure in a
uniform, and has become a man. Devotion to one woman has raised him far
above trivialities.

The woman pays for all this. Never again, not even in the transports of
passion, will she be so happy as when we first see her on that bright winter
day. She grows in intelligence by the fruit of the tree, and sinks in moral
worth and in peace of mind. Never, since the time of Helen, has there been
a woman in literature of more physical charm. Tolstoi, whose understanding
of the body is almost supernatural, has created in Anna a woman, quite
ordinary from the mental and spiritual point of view, but who leaves on
every reader an indelible vision of surpassing loveliness. One is not
surprised at Vronsky's instant and total surrender.

As a study of sin, the moral force of the story is tremendous. At the end, the
words of Paul come irresistibly into the mind. To be carnally minded is
death; to be spiritually minded is life and peace.

One can understand Tolstoi's enthusiasm for the Gospel in his later years,
and also the prodigious influence of his parables and evangelistic narratives,
by remembering that the Russian mind, which, as Gogol said, is more
capable than any other of receiving the Christian religion, had been starved
for centuries. The Orthodox Church of Russia seems to have been and to be
as remote from the life of the people as the political bureaucracy. The
hungry sheep looked up and were not fed. The Christian religion is the
dominating force in the works of Gogol, Tolstoi, and Dostoevski. How
eager the Russian people are for the simple Gospel, and with what amazing
joy they now receive it, remind one of the Apostolic age. Accurate
testimony to this fact has lately been given by a dispassionate German
observer:--

"In the second half of the nineteenth century the Bible followed in the track
of the knowledge of reading and writing in the Russian village. It worked,
and works, far more powerfully than all the Nihilists, and if the Holy Synod
wishes to be consistent in its policy of spiritual enslavement, it must begin
by checking the distribution of the Bible. The origin of the 'Stunde,' from
the prayer hour of the German Menonites and other evangelical colonist
meetings, is well known. The religious sense of the Russian, brooding for
centuries over empty forms, combined with the equally repressed longing
for spiritual life,--these quickly seized upon the power of a simple and
practical living religious doctrine, and the 'Stundist' movement spread
rapidly over the whole south of the Empire. Wherever a Bible in the
Russian language is to be found in the village, there a circle rapidly forms
around its learned owner; he is listened to eagerly, and the Word has its
effect. . .

"Pashkov, a colonel of the Guards, who died in Paris at the beginning of
1902, started in the 'eighties' a movement in St. Petersburg, which was
essentially evangelical, with a methodistical tinge, and which soon seized
upon all the strata of the population in the capital. Substantially it was a
religious revival from the dry-as-dust Greek church similar to that which in
the sixteenth century turned against the Romish church in Germany and in
Switzerland. The Gospel was to Pashkov himself new, good tidings, and as
such he carried it into the distinguished circles which he assembled at his
palace on the Neva, and as such he brought it amongst the crowds of

cabmen, labourers, laundresses, etc., whom he called from the streets to
hear the news. Pashkov's name was known by the last crossing-sweeper,
and many thousands blessed him, some because they had been moved by
the religious spirit which glowed in him, others because they knew of the
many charitable institutions which he had founded with his own means and
with the help of rich men and women friends. I myself shall never forget the
few hours which I spent in conversation with this man, simple in spirit as in
education, but so rich in religious feeling and in true humility. To me he
could offer nothing new, for all that to him was new I, the son of Lutheran
parents, had known from my childhood days. But what was new to me was
the phenomenon of a man who had belonged for fifty years to a Christian
Church and had only now discovered as something new what is familiar to
every member of an evangelical community as the sum and substance of
Christian teaching. To him the Gospel itself was something new, a
revelation.

"This has been the case of many thousands in the Russian Empire when
they opened the Bible for the first time. The spark flew from village to
village and took fire, because the people were thirsting for a spiritual,
religious life, because it brought comfort in their material misery, and food
for their minds. Holy Vladimir, with his Byzantine priests, brought no living
Christianity into the land, and the common Russian had not been brought
into contact with it during the nine hundred years which have elapsed since.
Wherever it penetrates to-day with the Bible, there its effect is apparent. It
is such as the best Government could not accomplish by worldly means
alone. But it is diametrically opposed to the State Church; it leads to
secession from orthodoxy, and the State has entered upon a crusade against
it."*

*Russia of To-day, by Baron E. von der Bruggen. Translated by M.
Sandwith, London, 1904. Pages 165-167.

In The Power of Darkness, Ivan Ilyich, and the Kreuzer Sonata. Tolstoi has
shown the way of Death. In Resurrection he has shown the way of Life. The
most sensational of all his books is the Kreuzer Sonata; it was generally
misunderstood, and from that time some of his friends walked no more with
him. By a curious freak of the powers of this world, it was for a time taboo

in the United States, and its passage by post was forbidden; then the matter
was taken to the courts, and a certain upright judge declared that so far from
the book being vicious, it condemned vice and immorality on every page.
He not only removed the ban, but recommended its wider circulation. The
circumstances that gave rise to its composition are described in an
exceedingly interesting article in the New York Sun for 10 October 1909, A
Visit to Count Leo Tolstoi in 1887, by Madame Nadine Helbig. The whole
article should be read for the charming picture it gives of the patriarchal
happiness at Yasnaya Polyana, and while she saw clearly the real comfort
enjoyed by Tolstoi, which aroused the fierce wrath of Merezhkovski, she
proved also how much good was accomplished by the old novelist in the
course of a single average day.

"Never shall I forget the evening when the young Polish violinist, whom I
have already mentioned, asked me to play with him Beethoven's sonata for
piano and violin, dedicated to Kreuzer, his favourite piece, which he had
long been unable to play for want of a good piano player.

"Tolstoi listened with growing attention. He had the first movement played
again, and after the last note of the sonata he went out quietly without
saying, as usual, good night to his family and guests.

"That night was created the 'Kreuzer Sonata' in all its wild force. Shortly
afterward he sent me in Rome the manuscript of it. Tolstoi was the best
listener whom I have ever had the luck to play to. He forgot himself and his
surroundings. His expression changed with the music. Tears ran down his
cheeks at some beautiful adagio, and he would say, 'Tania, just give me a
fresh handkerchief; I must have got a cold to-day.' I had to play generally
Beethoven and Schumann to him. He did not approve of Bach, and on the
other hand you could make him raving mad with Liszt, and still more with
Wagner."

Many hundreds of amateur players have struggled through the music of the
Kreuzer Sonata, trying vainly to see in it what Tolstoi declared it means. Of
course the significance attached to it by Tolstoi existed only in his vivid
imagination, Beethoven being the healthiest of all great composers. If the

novelist had really wished to describe sensual music, he would have made a
much more felicitous choice of Tristan und Isolde.

Although his own married life was until the last years happy as man could
wish, Tolstoi introduced into the Kreuzer Sonata passages from his own
existence. When Posdnichev is engaged, he gives his fiancée his memoirs,
containing a truthful account of his various liaisons. She is in utter despair,
and for a time thinks of breaking off the engagement. All this was literally
true of the author himself. When a boy, the hero was led to a house of ill-
fame by a friend of his brother, "a very gay student, one of those who are
called good fellows." This reminds us of a precisely similar attempt
described by Tolstoi in Youth. Furthermore, Posdnichev's self-righteousness
in the fact that although he had been dissipated, he determined to be faithful
to his wife, was literally and psychologically true in Tolstoi's own life.

The Kreuzer Sonata shows no diminution of Tolstoi's realistic power: the
opening scenes on the train, the analysis of the hero's mind during the early
years of his married life, and especially the murder, all betray the familiar
power of simplicity and fidelity to detail. The passage of the blade through
the corset and then into something soft has that sensual realism so
characteristic of all Tolstoi's descriptions of bodily sensations. The book is a
work of art, and contains many reflections and bitter accusations against
society that are founded on the truth.

The moral significance of the story is perfectly clear--that men who are
constantly immoral before marriage need not expect happiness in married
life. It is a great pity that Tolstoi did not let the powerful little novel speak
for itself, and that he allowed himself to be goaded into an explanatory and
defensive commentary by the thousands of enquiring letters from foolish
readers. Much of the commentary contains sound advice, but it leads off
into that reductio ad absurdum so characteristic of Russian thought.

Many of the tracts and parables that Tolstoi wrote are true works of art, with
a Biblical directness and simplicity of style. Their effect outside of Russia is
caused fully as much by their literary style as by their teaching. I remember
an undergraduate, who, reading Where Love is there God is Also, said that
he was tremendously excited when the old shoemaker lost his spectacles,

and had no peace of mind till he found them again. This is unconscious
testimony to Tolstoi's power of making trivial events seem real.

The long novel, Resurrection, is, as Mr. Maude, the English translator,
shows, not merely a story, but a general summary of all the final
conclusions about life reached by its author. The English volume actually
has an Index to Social Questions, Types, etc., giving the pages where the
author's views on all such topics are expressed in the book. Apart from the
great transformation wrought in the character of the hero, which is the
motive of the work, there are countless passages which show the genius of
the author, still burning brightly in his old age. The difference between the
Easter kiss and the kiss of lust is one of the most powerful instances of
analysis, and may be taken as a symbol of the whole work. And the
depiction of the sportsman's feelings when he brings down a wounded bird,
half shame and half rage, will startle and impress every man who has
carried a gun.

Resurrection teaches directly what Tolstoi always taught--what he taught
less directly, but with even greater art, in Anna Karenina.

In reading this work of his old age, we cannot help thinking of what Carlyle
said of the octogenarian Goethe: "See how in that great mind, beaming in
mildest mellow splendour, beaming, if also trembling, like a great sun on
the verge of the horizon, near now to its long farewell, all these things were
illuminated and illustrated."
VI

GORKI

GORKI went up like the sky-rocket, and seems to have had the traditional
descent. From 1900 to 1906 everybody was talking about him; since 1906
one scarcely hears mention of his name. He was ridiculously overpraised,
but he ought not to be forgotten. As an artist, he will not bear a moment's
comparison with Andreev; but some of his short stories and his play, The
Night Asylum, have the genuine Russian note of reality, and a rude strength
much too great for its owner's control. He has never written a successful

long novel, and his plays have no coherence; but, after all, the man has the
real thing--vitality.

Just at the moment when Chekhov appeared to stand at the head of young
Russian writers, Gorki appeared, and his fame swept from one end of the
world to the other. In Russia, his public was second in numbers only to
Tolstoi's; Kuprin and Andreev both dedicated books to him; in Germany,
France, England, and America, he became literally a household word. It is
probable that there were a thousand foreigners who knew his name, to one
who had heard of Chekhov. Compared with Chekhov, he had more matter
and less art.

His true name, which comparatively few have ever heard, is Alexei
Maximovich Peshkov. "This name," said M. de Vogue, "will remain forever
buried in the parish register." He chose to write under the name Gorki,
which means "bitter," a happy appellation for this modern Ishmaelite. He
was born in 1869, at Nizhni Novgorod, in a dyer's shop. He lost both father
and mother when he was a child, but his real mother was the river Volga, on
whose banks he was born, and on whose broad breast he has found the only
repose he understands. The little boy was apprenticed to a shoemaker, but
ran away, as he did from a subsequent employer. By a curious irony of fate,
this atheist learned to read out of a prayer-book, and this iconoclast was for
a time engaged in the manufacture of ikons, holy images. As the aristocrat
Turgenev learned Russian from a house servant, Gorki obtained his love for
literature from a cook. This happened on a steamer on the great river, where
Gorki was employed as an assistant in the galley. The cook was a rough
giant, who spent all his spare moments reading, having an old trunk full of
books. It was a miscellaneous assortment, containing Lives of Saints,
stories by Dumas père, and fortunately some works by Gogol. This
literature gave him a thirst for learning, and when he was sixteen he went to
Kazan, a town on the Volga, where Tolstoi had studied at the University. He
had the notion that literature and learning were there distributed free to the
famished, like bread in times of famine. He was quickly undeceived; and
instead of receiving intellectual food, he was forced to work in a baker's
shop, for a miserable pittance. These were the darkest days of his life, and
in one of his most powerful stories he has reflected the wretched daily and
nightly toil in a bakery.

Then he went on the road, and became a tramp, doing all kinds of odd jobs,
from peddling to hard manual labour on wharves and railways. At the age of
nineteen, weary of life, he shot himself, but recovered. Then he followed
the Volga to the Black Sea, unconsciously collecting the material that in a
very few years he was to give to the world. In 1892, when twenty-three
years old, he succeeded in getting some of his sketches printed in
newspapers. The next year he had the good fortune to meet at Nizhni
Novgorod the famous Russian author Korolenko. Korolenko was greatly
impressed by the young vagabond, believed in his powers, and gave timely
and valuable help. With the older man's influence, Gorki succeeded in
obtaining the entrée to the St. Petersburg magazines; and while the Russian
critics were at a loss how to regard the new genius, the public went wild. He
visited the capital in 1899, and there was intense curiosity to see and to hear
him. A great hall was engaged, and when he mounted the platform to read,
the young people in the audience went into a frenzy.

Gorki has been repeatedly imprisoned for his revolutionary ideas and
efforts; in 1906, at the very apex of his fame, he came to the United States
to collect funds for the cause. The whole country was eager to receive and
to give, and his advent in New York was a notable occasion. He insisted that
he came, not as an anarchist, but as a socialist, that his mission in the world
was not to destroy, but to fulfil. At first, he was full of enthusiasm about
America and New York, and American writers; he was tremendously
impressed by the sky-scrapers, by the intense activity of the people, and by
the Hudson River, which, as he regarded from his hotel windows, reminded
him of the Volga. He said America would be the first nation to give
mankind a true government, and that its citizens were the incarnation of
progress. He declared that Mark Twain was even more popular in Russia
than in America, that it was "a part of the national Russian education" to
read him, and that he himself had read every translation of his books.

Incidentally he spoke of his favourite world- authors. Shakespeare he put
first of all, saying he was "staggering," an opinion quite different from that
of Tolstoi. Schopenhauer and Nietzsche were the philosophers he liked the
best. Byron and Heine he read in preference to most other poets, for there is
an invincible strain of lyric romanticism in this Russian tramp, as there was

in his master Gogol. Flaubert, Goethe, and Dumas père he read with
delight.

A literary dinner was arranged in honour of the distinguished guest, and
inasmuch as all present were ignorant of the next day's catastrophe, the
account given of this love-feast in the New York Sun is worth quoting.
"Mark Twain and Gorki recognised each other before they were introduced,
but neither being able to understand the language of the other, they simply
grasped hands and held on more than a minute. . . . Gorki said he had read
Mark Twain's stories when he was a boy, and that he had gotten much
delight from them. Mark declared that he also had been a reader and
admirer of Gorki. The smile of Gorki was broader and not so dry as the
smile of Mark, but both smiles were distinctly those of fellow-humorists
who understood each other. Gorki made a little speech which was translated
by a Russian who knew English. Gorki said he was glad to meet Mark
Twain, 'world famous and in Russia the best known of American writers, a
man of tremendous force and convictions, who, when he hit, hit hard. I have
come to America to get acquainted with the American people and ask their
aid for my suffering countrymen who are fighting for liberty. The despotism
must be overthrown now, and what is needed is money, money, money!'
Mark said he was glad to meet Gorki, adding, 'If we can help to create the
Russian republic, let us start in right away and do it. The fighting may have
to be postponed awhile, but meanwhile we can keep our hearts on the
matter and we can assist the Russians in being free.'"

A committee was formed to raise funds, and then came the explosion,
striking evidence of the enormous difference between the American and the
Continental point of view in morals. With characteristic Russian
impracticability, Gorki had come to America with a woman whom he
introduced as his wife; but it appeared that his legal wife was in Russia, and
that his attractive and accomplished companion was somebody else. This
fact, which honestly seemed to Gorki an incident of no importance, took on
a prodigious shape. This single mistake cost the Russian revolutionary
cause an enormous sum of money, and may have altered history. Gorki was
expelled from his hotel, and refused admittance to others; unkindest cut of
all, Mark Twain, whose absence of religious belief had made Gorki believe
him to be altogether emancipated from prejudices, positively refused to

have anything more to do with him. As Gorki had said, "When Mark Twain
hit, he hit hard." Turn whither he would, every door was slammed in his
face. I do not think he has ever recovered from the blank amazement caused
by the American change of front. His golden opportunity was gone, and he
departed for Italy, shaking the dust of America off his feet, and roundly
cursing the nation that he had just declared to be the incarnation of progress.
The affair unquestionably has its ludicrous side, but it was a terrible blow to
the revolutionists. Many of them believed that the trap was sprung by the
government party.

Gorki's full-length novels are far from successful works of art. They have
all the incoherence and slipshod workmanship of Dostoevski, without the
latter's glow of brotherly love. His first real novel, Foma Gordeev, an epic
of the Volga, has many beautiful descriptive passages, really lyric and
idyllic in tone, mingled with an incredible amount of drivel. The character
who plays the title-role is a typical Russian windbag, irresolute and
incapable, like so many Russian heroes; but whether drunk or sober, he is
destitute of charm. He is both dreary and dirty. The opening chapters are
written with great spirit, and the reader is full of happy expectation. One
goes farther and fares worse. After the first hundred pages, the book is a
prolonged anti-climax, desperately dull. Altogether the best passage in the
story is the description of the river in spring, impressive not merely for its
beauty and accuracy of language, but because the Volga is interpreted as a
symbol of the spirit of the Russian people, with vast but unawakened
possibilities.

"Between them, in a magnificent sweep, flowed the broad-breasted Volga;
triumphantly, without haste, flow her waters, conscious of their
unconquerable power; the hill-shore was reflected in them like a dark
shadow, but on the left side she was adorned with gold and emerald velvet
by the sandy borders of the reefs, and the broad meadows. Now here, now
there, on the hills, and in the meadows, appeared villages, the sun sparkled
in the window-panes of the cottages, and upon the roofs of yellow straw;
the crosses of the churches gleamed through the foliage of the trees, the
gray wings of the mills rotated lazily through the air, the smoke from the
chimneys of a factory curled skyward in thick black wreaths. . . . On all
sides was the gleaming water, on all sides were space and freedom,

cheerfully green meadows, and graciously clear blue sky; in the quiet
motion of the water, restrained power could be felt; in the heaven above it
shone the beautiful sun, the air was saturated with the fragrance of
evergreen trees, and the fresh scent of foliage. The shores advanced in
greeting, soothing the eye and the soul with their beauty, and new pictures
were constantly unfolded upon them.

"On everything round about rested the stamp of a certain sluggishness:
everything--nature and people--lived awkwardly, lazily; but in this laziness
there was a certain peculiar grace, and it would seem that behind the
laziness was concealed a huge force, an unconquerable force, as yet
unconscious of itself, not having, as yet, created for itself clear desires and
aims. And the absence of consciousness in this half-somnolent existence
cast upon its whole beautiful expanse a shade of melancholy. Submissive
patience, the silent expectation of something new and more active was
audible even in the call of the cuckoo, as it flew with the wind from the
shore, over the river."*

* Isabel Hapgood's translation. The novel Varenka Olessova is a tedious
book of no importance. The hero is, of course, the eternal Russian type, a
man of good education and no backbone: he lacks resolution, energy, will-
power, and will never accomplish anything. He has not even force enough
to continue his studies. Contrasted with him is the girl Varenka, a simple
child of nature, who prefers silly romances to Russian novels, and whose
virgin naïveté is a constant puzzle to the conceited ass who does not know
whether he is in love with her or not. Indeed, he asks himself if he is
capable of love for any one. The only interesting pages in this stupid story
are concerned with a discussion on reading, between Varenka and the young
man, where her denunciation of Russian fiction is, of course, meant to
proclaim its true superiority. In response to the question whether she reads
Russian authors, the girl answers with conviction: "Oh, yes! But I don't like
them! They are so tiresome, so tiresome! They always write about what I
know already myself, and know just as well as they do. They can't create
anything interesting; with them almost everything is true. . . . Now with the
French, their heroes are real heroes, they talk and act unlike men in actual
life. They are always brave, amorous, vivacious, while our heroes are
simple little men, without any warm feelings, without any beauty, pitiable,

just like ordinary men in real life. . . In Russian books, one cannot
understand at all why the men continue to live. What's the use of writing
books if the author has nothing remarkable to say?"

The long novel Mother is a good picture of life among the working-people
in a Russian factory, that is, life as seen through Gorki's eyes; all
cheerfulness and laughter are, of course, absent, and we have presented a
dull monotone of misery. The factory itself is the villain of the story, and
resembles some grotesque wild beast, that daily devours the blood, bone,
and marrow of the throng of victims that enter its black jaws. The men,
women, and children are represented as utterly brutalised by toil; in their
rare moments of leisure, they fight and beat each other unmercifully, and
even the little children get dead drunk. Socialist and revolutionary
propaganda are secretly circulated among these stupefied folk, and much of
the narrative is taken up with the difficulties of accomplishing this
distribution; for the whole book itself is nothing but a revolutionary tract.
The characters, including the pitiful Mother herself, are not vividly drawn,
they are not alive, and one forgets them speedily; as for plot, there is none,
and the book closes with the brutal murder of the old woman. It is a tedious,
inartistic novel, with none of the relief that would exist in actual life.
Turgenev's poorest novel, Virgin Soil, which also gives us a picture of a
factory, is immensely superior from every point of view.

But if Mother is a dull book, The Spy is impossible. It is full of meaningless
and unutterably dreary jargon; its characters are sodden with alcohol and
bestial lusts. One abominable woman's fat body spreads out on an arm-chair
"like sour dough." And indeed, this novel bears about the same relation to a
finished work of art that sour dough bears to a good loaf of bread. The
characters are poorly conceived, and the story is totally without movement.
Not only is it very badly written, it lacks even good material. The wretched
boy, whose idiotic states of mind are described one after the other, and
whose eventual suicide is clear from the start, is a disgusting whelp, without
any human interest. One longs for his death with murderous intensity, and
when, on the last page, he throws himself under the train, the reader
experiences a calm and sweet relief.

Much of Gorki's work is like Swift's poetry, powerful not because of its
cerebration or spiritual force, but powerful only from the physical point of
view, from its capacity to disgust. It appeals to the nose and the stomach
rather than to the mind and the heart. From the medicinal standpoint, it may
have a certain value. Swift sent a lady one of his poems, and immediately
after reading it, she was taken violently sick. Not every poet has sufficient
force to produce so sudden an effect.

One man, invariably before reading the works of a famous French author,
put on his overshoes.

A distinguished American novelist has said that in Gorki "seems the body
without the soul of Russian fiction, and sodden with despair. The soul of
Russian fiction is the great thing." This is, indeed, the main difference
between his work and that of the giant Dostoevski. In the latter's darkest
scenes the spiritual flame is never extinct.

Gorki lacks either the patient industry or else the knowledge necessary to
make a good novel. He is seen at his best in short stories, for his power
comes in flashes. In Twenty-six Men and a Girl, the hideous tale that gave
him his reputation in America, one is conscious of the streak of genius that
he undoubtedly possesses. The helpless, impotent rage felt by the wretched
men as they witness the debauching of a girl's body and the damnation of
her soul, is clearly echoed in the reader's mind. Gorki's notes are always the
most thrilling when played below the range of the conventional instrument
of style. This is not low life, it is sub-life.

He is, after all, a student of sensational effect; and the short story is
peculiarly adapted to his natural talent. He cannot develop characters, he
cannot manage a large group, or handle a progressive series of events. But
in a lurid picture of the pit, in a flash-light photograph of an underground
den, in a sudden vision of a heap of garbage with unspeakable creatures
crawling over it, he is impressive.

I shall never forget the performance of The Night Asylum, Nachtasyl, which
I saw acted in Munich by one of the best stock companies in the world, a
combination of players from the Neues and Kleines theaters in Berlin. In
reading this utterly formless and incoherent drama, I had been only slightly

affected; but when it was presented on the stage by actors who intelligently
incarnated every single character, the thing took on a terrible intensity. The
persons are all, except old Luka, who talks like a man in one of Tolstoi's
recent parables, dehumanised. The woman dying of consumption before our
eyes, the Baron in an advanced stage of paresis who continually rolls
imaginary cigarettes between his weak fingers, and the alcoholic actor who
has lost his memory are impossible to forget. I can hear that actor now, as
with stupid fascination he continually repeats the diagnosis a physician once
made of his case: "Mein Organismus ist durch und durch mit Alcool
vergiftet!"

Gorki, in spite of his zeal for the revolutionary cause, has no remedy for the
disease he calls Life. He is eaten up with rage at the world in general, and
tries to make us all share his disgust with it. But he teaches us nothing; he
has little to say that we can transmute into anything valuable. This is
perhaps the reason why the world has temporarily, at any rate, lost interest
in him. He was a new sensation, he shocked us, and gave us strange thrills,
after the manner of new and unexpected sensations. Gorki came up on the
literary horizon like an evil storm, darkening the sky, casting an awful
shadow across the world's mirth and laughter, and making us shudder in the
cold and gloom..

Gorki completely satisfied that strange but almost universal desire of well-
fed and comfortable people to go slumming. In his books men and women
in fortunate circumstances had their curiosity satisfied--all the world went
slumming, with no discomfort, no expense, and no fear of contagion. With
no trouble at all, no personal inconvenience, we learned the worst of all
possible worsts on this puzzling and interesting planet.

But we soon had enough of it, and our experienced and professional guide
failed to perceive the fact. He showed us more of the same thing, and then
some more. Such sights and sounds--authentic visions and echoes of hell--
merely repeated, began to lose their uncanny fascination. The man who
excited us became a bore. For the worst thing about Gorki is his dull
monotony, and vice is even more monotonous than virtue, perhaps because
it is more common. Open the pages of almost any of his tales, it is always
the same thing, the same criminals, the same horrors, the same broken

ejaculations and brutish rage. Gorki has shown no capacity for
development, no power of variety and complexity. His passion for mere
effect has reacted unfavourably on himself.*

* His play Die Letzten was put on at the Deutsches Theater, Berlin, 6
September 1910. The press despatch says, "The father is a police inspector,
drunkard, gambler, briber, bribe-taker, adulterer, and robber."

Is it possible that success robbed him of something? He became a popular
author in conventional environment, surrounded by books and modem
luxuries, living in the pleasant climate of Italy, with no anxiety about his
meals and bed. Is it possible that wealth, comfort, independence, and leisure
have extinguished his original force? Has he lost something of the
picturesque attitude of Gorki the penniless tramp? He is happily still a
young man, and perhaps he may yet achieve the masterpiece that ten years
ago we so confidently expected from his hands.

He is certainly not a great teacher, but he has the power to ask awkward
questions so characteristic of Andreev, Artsybashev, and indeed of all
Russian novelists. We cannot answer him with a shrug of the shoulders or a
sceptical smile. He shakes the foundations of our fancied security by boldly
questioning what we had come to regard as axioms. As the late M. de Vogüé
remarked, when little children sit on our knee and pelt us with questions
that go to the roots of our philosophy, we get rid of the bother of it by
telling the children to go away and play; but when a Tolstoi puts such
questions, we cannot get rid of him so easily. Russian novelists are a thorn
in the side of complacent optimism.

And yet surely, if life is not so good, as it conceivably might be, it is not so
darkly bitter as the Bitter One would have us believe. In a short article that
he wrote about one of the playgrounds of America, he betrayed his own
incurable jaundice. In the New York Independent for 8 August 1907, Gorki
published a brilliant impressionistic sketch of Coney Island, and called it
Boredom. Gorki at Coney Island is like Dante at a country fair. Thomas
Carlyle was invited out to a social dinner-party once upon a time, and when
he came home he wrote savagely in his diary of the flippant, light-hearted
conversation among the men and women about the festive board, saying,

"to me through those thin cobwebs Death and Eternity sat glaring." What a
charming guest he must have been on that particular occasion!

Gorki speaks poetically in his article of the "fantastic city all of fire" that
one sees at night. But as he mingles with the throng, disgust fills his lonely
heart.

"The public looks at them silently. It breathes in the moist air, and feeds its
soul with dismal ennui, which extinguishes thought as a wet, dirty cloth
extinguishes the fire of a smouldering coal."

Describing the sensations of the crowd before the tiger's cage, he says:--

"The man runs about the cage, shoots his pistol and cracks his whip, and
shouts like a madman. His shouts are intended to hide his painful dread of
the animals. The crowd regards the capers of the man, and waits in suspense
for the fatal attack. They wait; unconsciously the primitive instinct is
awakened in them. They crave fight, they want to feel the delicious shiver
produced by the sight of two bodies intertwining, the splutter of blood and
pieces of torn, steaming human flesh flying through the cage and falling on
the floor. They want to hear the roar, the cries, the shrieks of agony. . . .
Then the crowd breaks into dark pieces, and disperses over the slimy marsh
of boredom.

". . . You long to see a drunken man with a jovial face, who would push and
sing and bawl, happy because he is drunk, and sincerely wishing all good
people the same. . .

"In the glittering gossamer of its fantastic buildings, tens of thousands of
grey people, like patches on the ragged clothes of a beggar, creep along
with weary faces and colourless eyes. . . .

"But the precaution has been taken to blind the people, and they drink in the
vile poison with silent rapture. The poison contaminates their souls.
Boredom whirls about in an idle dance, expiring in the agony of its
inanition.

"One thing alone is good in the garish city: you can drink in hatred to your
soul's content, hatred sufficient to last throughout life, hatred of the power
of stupidity!"

This sketch is valuable not merely because of the impression of a
distinguished foreign writer of one of the sights of America, but because it
raises in our minds an obstinate doubt of his capacity to tell the truth about
life in general. Suppose a person who had never seen Coney Island should
read Gorki's vivid description of it, would he really know anything about
Coney Island? Of course not. The crowds at Coney Island are as different
from Gorki's description of them as anything could well be. Now then, we
who know the dregs of Russian life only through Gorki's pictures, can we
be certain that his representations are accurate? Are they reliable history of
fact, or are they the revelations of a heart that knoweth its own bitterness?
VII

CHEKHOV

ANTON PAVLOVICH CHEKHOV, like Pushkin, Lermontov, Bielinski,
and Garshin, died young, and although he wrote a goodly number of plays
and stories which gave him a high reputation in Russia, he did not live to
enjoy international fame. This is partly owing to the nature of his work, but
more perhaps to the total eclipse of other contemporary writers by Gorki.
There are signs now that his delicate and unpretentious art will outlast the
sensational flare of the other's reputation. Gorki himself has generously
tried to help in the perpetuation of Chekhov's name, by publishing a volume
of personal reminiscences of his dead friend.

Like Gogol and Artsybashev, Chekhov was a man of the South, being born
at Taganrog, a seaport on a gulf of the Black Sea, near the mouth of the
river Don. The date of his birth is the 17 January 1860. His father was a
clever serf, who, by good business foresight, bought his freedom early in
life. Although the father never had much education himself, he gave his four
children every possible advantage. Anton studied in the Greek school, in his
native city, and then entered the Faculty of Medicine at the University of
Moscow. "I don't well remember why I chose the medical faculty," he
remarked later, "but I never regretted that choice." He took his degree, but

entered upon no regular practice. For a year he worked in a hospital in a
small town near Moscow, and in 1892 he freely offered his medical services
during an epidemic of cholera. His professional experiences were of
immense service to him in analysing the characters of various patients
whom he treated, and his scientific training he always believed helped him
greatly in the writing of his stories and plays, which are all psychological
studies.

He knew that he had not very long to live, for before he had really begun
his literary career signs of tuberculosis had plainly become manifest. He
died in Germany, the 2 July 1904, and his funeral at Moscow was a national
event.

Chekhov was a fine conversationalist, and fond of society; despite the
terrible gloom of his stories, he had distinct gifts as a wit, and was a great
favourite at dinner-parties and social gatherings. He joked freely on his
death-bed. He was warm-hearted and generous, and gave money gladly to
poor students and overworked school-teachers. His innate modesty and lack
of self-assertion made him very slow at personal advertisement, and his
dislike of Tolstoi's views prevented at first an acquaintance with the old
sage. Later, however, Tolstoi, being deeply interested in him, sought him
out, and the two writers became friends. At this time many Russians
believed that Chekhov was the legitimate heir to Tolstoi's fame.

In 1879, while still in the University of Moscow, Chekhov began to write
short stories, of a more or less humorous nature, which were published in
reviews. His first book appeared in 1887. Some critics sounded a note of
warning, which he heeded. They said "it was too bad that such a talented
young man should spend all his time making people laugh." This indirect
advice, coupled with maturity of years and incipient disease, changed the
writer's point of view, and his best known work is typically Russian in its
tragic intensity.

In Russia he enjoyed an enormous vogue. Kropotkin says that his works ran
through ten to fourteen editions, and that his publications, appearing as a
supplement to a weekly magazine, had a circulation of two hundred
thousand copies in one year. Toward the end of his life his stories captivated

Germany, and one of the Berlin journalists cried out, as the Germans have
so often of Oscar Wilde, "Chekhov und kein Ende!"

Chekhov, like Gorki and Andreev, was a dramatist as well as a novelist,
though his plays are only beginning to be known outside of his native land.
They resemble the dramatic work of Gorki, Andreev, and for that matter of
practically all Russian playwrights, in being formless and having no true
movement; but they contain some of his best Russian portraits, and some of
his most subtle interpretations of Russian national life. Russian drama does
not compare for an instant with Russian fiction: I have never read a single
well-constructed Russian play except Revizor. Most of them are dull to a
foreign reader, and leave him cold and weary. Mr. Baring, in his book
Landmarks in Russian Literature, has an excellent chapter on the plays of
Chekhov, which partially explains the difficulties an outsider has in
studying Russian drama. But this chapter, like the other parts of his book, is
marred by exaggeration. He says, "Chekhov's plays are as interesting to
read as the work of any first-rate novelist." And a few sentences farther in
the same paragraph, he adds, "Chekhov's plays are a thousand times more
interesting to see on the stage than they are to read." Any one who believes
Mr. Baring's statement, and starts to read Chekhov's dramas with the faith
that they are as interesting as Anna Karenina, will be sadly disappointed.
And if on the stage they are a thousand times more interesting to see than
Anna Karenina is to read, they must indeed be thrilling. It is, however,
perfectly true that a foreigner cannot judge the real value of Russian plays
by reading them. We ought to hear them performed by a Russian company.
That wonderful actress, Madame Komisarzhevskaya, who was lately
followed to her grave by an immense concourse of weeping Russians, gave
a performance of The Cherry Garden which stirred the whole nation.
Madame Nazimova has said that Chekhov is her favourite writer, but that
his plays could not possibly succeed in America, unless every part, even the
minor ones, could be interpreted by a brilliant actor.

Chekhov is durch und durch echt russisch: no one but a Russian would ever
have conceived such characters, or reported such conversations. We often
wonder that physical exercise and bodily recreation are so conspicuously
absent from Russian books. But we should remember that a Russian
conversation is one of the most violent forms of physical exercise, as it is

among the French and Italians. Although Chekhov belongs to our day, and
represents contemporary Russia, he stands in the middle of the highway of
Russian fiction, and in his method of art harks back to the great masters. He
perhaps resembles Turgenev more than any other of his predecessors, but he
is only a faint echo. He is like Turgenev in the delicacy and in the aloofness
of his art. He has at times that combination of the absolutely real with the
absolutely fantastic that is so characteristic of Gogol: one of his best stories,
The Black Monk, might have been written by the author of The Cloak and
The Portrait. He is like Dostoevski in his uncompromising depiction of
utter degradation; but he has little of Dostoevski's glowing sympathy and
heartpower. He resembles Tolstoi least of all. The two chief features of
Tolstoi's work--self-revelation and moral teaching--must have been
abhorrent to Chekhov, for his stories tell us almost nothing about himself
and his own opinions, and they teach nothing. His art is impersonal, and he
is content with mere diagnosis. His only point of contact with Tolstoi is his
grim fidelity to detail, the peculiar Russian realism common to every
Russian novelist. Tolstoi said that Chekhov resembled Guy de Maupassant.
This is entirely wide of the mark. He resembles Guy de Maupassant merely
in the fact that, like the Frenchman, he wrote short stories.

Among recent writers Chekhov is at the farthest remove from his friend
Gorki, and most akin to Andreev. It is probable that Andreev learned
something from him. Unlike Turgenev, both Chekhov and Andreev study
mental disease. Their best characters are abnormal; they have some fatal
taint in the mind which turns this goodly frame, the earth, into a sterile
promontory; this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, into a foul and
pestilent congregation of vapours. Neither Chekhov nor Andreev have
attempted to lift that black pall of despair that hangs over Russian fiction.

Just as the austere, intellectual beauty of Greek drama forms striking
evidence of the extraordinarily high average of culture in Athenian life, so
the success of an author like Chekhov is abundant proof of the immense
number of readers of truly cultivated taste that are scattered over Holy
Russia. For Chekhov's stories are exclusively intellectual and subtle. They
appeal only to the mind, not to the passions nor to any love of sensation. In
many of them he deliberately avoids climaxes and all varieties of artificial
effect. He would be simply incomprehensible to the millions of Americans

who delight in musical comedy and in pseudo-historical romance. He wrote
only for the elect, for those who have behind them years of culture and
habits of consecutive thought. That such a man should have a vogue in
Russia such as a cheap romancer enjoys in America, is in itself a significant
and painful fact.

Chekhov's position in the main line of Russian literature and his likeness to
Turgenev are both evident when we study his analysis of the Russian
temperament. His verdict is exactly the same as that given by Turgenev and
Sienkiewicz--slave improductivité. A majority of his chief characters are
Rudins. They suffer from internal injuries, caused by a diseased will. In his
story called On the Way the hero remarks, "Nature has set in every Russian
an enquiring mind, a tendency to speculation, and extraordinary capacity for
belief; but all these are broken into dust against our improvidence,
indolence, and fantastic triviality."*

* The citations from Chekhov are from the translations by Long.

The novelist who wrote that sentence was a physician as well as a man of
letters. It is a professional diagnosis of the national sickness of mind, which
produces sickness of heart.

It is absurd to join in the chorus that calls Turgenev old-fashioned, when we
find his words accurately, if faintly, echoed by a Russian who died in 1904!
Hope springs eternal in the human breast, and wishes have always been the
legitimate fathers of thoughts. My friend and colleague, Mr. Mandell, the
translator of The Cherry Garden,* says that the play indicates that the
useless people are dying away, "and thus making room for the regenerated
young generation which is full of hope and strength to make a fruitful
cherry garden of Russia for the Russian people . . . the prospects of
realisation are now bright. But how soon will this become a practical
reality? Let us hope in the near future!" Yes, let us hope, as Russians hoped
in 1870 and in 1900. Kropotkin says that Chekhov gave an "impressive
parting word" to the old generation, and that we are now on the eve of the
"new types which already are budding in life." Gorki has violently protested
against the irresolute Slav, and Artsybashev has given us in Jurii the
Russian as he is (1903) and in Sanin the Russian as he ought to be. But a

disease obstinately remains a disease until it is cured, and it cannot be cured
by hope or by protest.

* Published at Yale University by the Yale Courant.

Chekhov was a physician and an invalid; he saw sickness without and
sickness within. Small wonder that his stories deal with the unhealthy and
the doomed. For just as Artsybashev's tuberculosis has made him create the
modern Tamburlaine as a mental enjoyment of physical activity, so the less
turbulent nature of Chekhov has made him reproduce in his creatures of the
imagination his own sufferings and fears. I think he was afraid of mental as
well as physical decay, for he has studied insanity with the same assiduity
as that displayed by Andreev in his nerve-wrecking story A Dilemma.

In Ward No. 6, which no one should read late at night, Chekhov has given
us a picture of an insane asylum, which, if the conditions there depicted are
true to life, would indicate that some parts of Russia have not advanced one
step since Gogol wrote Revizor. The patients are beaten and hammered into
insensibility by a brutal keeper; they live amidst intolerable filth. The
attending physician is a typical Russian, who sees clearly the horror and
abomination of the place, but has not sufficient will-power to make a
change. He is fascinated by one of the patients, with whom he talks for
hours. His fondness for this man leads his friends to believe that he is
insane, and they begin to treat him with that humouring condescension and
pity which would be sufficient in itself to drive a man out of his mind. He is
finally invited by his younger colleague to visit the asylum to examine a
strange case; when he reaches the building, he himself is shoved into Ward
No. 6, and realises that the doors are shut upon him forever. He is obliged to
occupy a bed in the same filthy den where he has so often visited the other
patients, and his night-gown has a slimy smell of dried fish. In about
twenty-four hours he dies, but in those hours he goes through a hell of
physical and mental torment.

The fear of death, which to an intensely intellectual people like the
Russians, is an obsession of terror, and shadows all their literature, --it
appears all through Tolstoi's diary and novels, --is analysed in many forms
by Chekhov. In Ward No. 6 Chekhov pays his respects to Tolstoi's creed of

self-denial, through the lips of the doctor's favourite madman. "A creed
which teaches indifference to wealth, indifference to the conveniences of
life, and contempt for suffering is quite incomprehensible to the great
majority who never knew either wealth or the conveniences of life, and to
whom contempt for suffering would mean contempt for their own lives,
which are made up of feelings of hunger, cold, loss, insult, and a Hamlet-
like terror of death. All life lies in these feelings, and life may be hated or
wearied of, but never despised. Yes, I repeat it, the teachings of the Stoics
can never have a future; from the beginning of time, life has consisted in
sensibility to pain and response to irritation."

No better indictment has ever been made against those to whom self-denial
and renunciation are merely a luxurious attitude of the mind.

Chekhov's sympathy with Imagination and his hatred for commonplace folk
who stupidly try to repress its manifestations are shown again and again in
his tales. He loves especially the imagination of children; and he shows
them as infinitely wiser than their practical parents. In the short sketch An
Event the children are wild with delight over the advent of three kittens, and
cannot understand their father's disgust for the little beasts, and his cruel
indifference to their welfare. The cat is their mother, that they know; but
who is the father? The kittens must have a father, so the children drag out
the wooden rocking-horse, and place him beside his wife and offspring.

In the story At Home the father's bewilderment at the creative imagination
and the curious caprices of his little boy's mind is tenderly and beautifully
described. The father knows he is not bringing him up wisely, but is utterly
at a loss how to go at the problem, having none of the intuitive sympathy of
a woman. The boy is busy with his pencil, and represents sounds by shapes,
letters by colours. For example, "the sound of an orchestra he drew as a
round, smoky spot; whistling as a spiral thread." In making letters, he
always painted L yellow, M red, and A black. He draws a picture of a house
with a soldier standing in front of it. The father rebukes him for bad
perspective, and tells him that the soldier in his picture is taller than the
house. But the boy replies, "If you drew the soldier smaller, you wouldn't be
able to see his eyes."

One of Chekhov's favourite pastimes was gardening. This, perhaps,
accounts for his location of the scene in his comedy The Cherry Garden,
where a business-like man, who had once been a serf, just like the
dramatist's own father, has prospered sufficiently to buy the orchard from
the improvident and highly educated owners; and for all the details about
fruit-gardening given in the powerful story The Black Monk. This story
infallibly reminds one of Gogol. A man has repeatedly a vision of a black
monk, who visits him through the air, with whom he carries on long
conversations, and who inspires him with great thoughts and ideals. His
wife and friends of course think he is crazy, and instead of allowing him to
continue his intercourse with the familiar spirit, they persuade him he is ill,
and make him take medicine. The result is wholesale tragedy. His life is
ruined, his wife is separated from him; at last he dies. The idea seems to be
that he should not have been disobedient unto the heavenly vision.
Imagination and inspiration are necessary to life; they are what separate
man from the beasts that perish. The monk asks him, "How do you know
that the men of genius whom all the world trusts have not also seen
visions?"

Chekhov is eternally at war with the practical, with the narrow-minded,
with the commonplace. Where there is no vision, the people perish.

Professor Brückner has well said that Chekhov was by profession a
physician, but an artist by the grace of God. He was indeed an exquisite
artist, and if his place in Russian literature is not large, it seems permanent.
He does not rank among the greatest. He lacks the tremendous force of
Tolstoi, the flawless perfection of Turgenev, and the mighty world-
embracing sympathy of Great-heart Dostoevski. But he is a faithful
interpreter of Russian life, and although his art was objective, one cannot
help feeling the essential goodness of the man behind his work, and loving
him for it.

VIII

ARTSYBASHEV

NOT the greatest, but the most sensational, novel published in Russia
during the last five years is Sanin, by Artsybashev. It is not sensational in
the incidents, though two men commit suicide, and two girls are ruined; it is
sensational in its ideas. To make a sensation in contemporary Russian
literature is an achievement, where pathology is now rampant. But
Artsybashev accomplished it, and his novel made a tremendous noise, the
echoes of which quickly were heard all over curious and eclectic Germany,
and have even stirred Paris. Since the failure of the Revolution, there has
been a marked revolt in Russia against three great ideas that have at
different times dominated Russian literature: the quiet pessimism of
Turgenev, the Christian non-resistance religion of Tolstoi, and the familiar
Russian type of will-less philosophy. Even before the Revolution Gorki had
expressed the spirit of revolt; but his position, extreme as it appears to an
Anglo-Saxon, has been left far behind by Artsybashev, who, with the
genuine Russian love of the reductio ad absurdum, has reached the farthest
limits of moral anarchy in the creation of his hero Sanin.

In an admirable article in the Westminster Gazette, for 14 May 1910, by the
accomplished scholar and critic, Mr. R. C. Long, called The Literature of
Self-assertion, we obtain a strong smell of the hell-broth now boiling in
Russian literature. "In the Spring of 1909, an exhibition was held in the
Russian ministry of the Interior of specimen copies of all books and
brochures issued in 1908, to the number of 70,841,000. How many different
books were exhibited the writer does not know, but he lately came upon an
essay by the critic Ismailoff, in which it was said that there were on
exhibition a thousand different sensational novels, classed as 'Nat Pinkerton
and Sherlock Holmes literature,' with such expressive titles as 'The Hanged,'
'The Chokers,' 'The Corpse Disinterred,' and 'The Expropriators.' Ismailoff
comments on this as sign and portent. Russia always had her literature of
adventure, and Russian novels of manners and of psychology became
known to Westerners merely because they were the best, and by no means
because they were the only books that appeared. The popular taste was
formerly met with naïve and outrageous 'lubotchniya' -books. The new
craze for 'Nat Pinkerton and Sherlock Holmes' stories is something quite

different. It foreshadows a complete change in the psychosis of the Russian
reader, the decay of the literature of passivity, and the rise of a new
literature of action and physical revolt. The literature of passivity reached
its height with the (sic) Chekhov. The best representative of the transition
from Chekhov to the new literature of self-assertion is Maxim Gorki's
friend, Leonid Andreev. . . .

"These have got clear away from the humble, ineffectual individual,
'crushed by life.' Full of learned philosophies from Max Stirner and
Nietzsche, they preach, in Stirner's words, 'the absolute independence of the
individual, master of himself, and of all things.' 'The death of "Everyday-
ism,"' the 'resurrection of myth,' 'orgiasm,' 'Mystical Anarchism,' and
'universalist individualism' are some of the shibboleths of these new writers,
who are mostly very young, very clever, and profoundly convinced that
they are even cleverer than they are.

"Anarchism, posing as self-assertion, is the note in most recent Russian
literature, as, indeed, it is in Russian life."

The most powerful among this school of writers, and the only one who can
perhaps be called a man of genius, is Michael Artsybashev. He came
honestly by his hot, impulsive temperament, being, like Gogol, a man of the
South. He was born in 1878. He says of himself: "I am Tartar in name and
in origin, but not a pure-blooded one. In my veins runs Russian, French,
Georgian, and Polish blood. I am glad to name as one of my ancestors the
famous Pole, Kosciusko, who was my maternal great-grandfather. My
father, a retired officer, was a landed proprietor with very little income. I
was only three years old when my mother died. As a legacy, she bequeathed
to me tuberculosis. . . . I am now living in the Crimea and trying to get well,
but with little faith in my recovery."

Sanin appeared at the psychological moment, late in the year 1907. The
Revolution was a failure, and it being impossible to fight the government or
to obtain political liberty, people in Russia of all classes were ready for a
revolt against moral law, the religion of self-denial, and all the conventions
established by society, education, and the church. At this moment of general
desperation and smouldering rage, appeared a work written with great
power and great art, deifying the natural instincts of man, incarnating the

spirit of liberty in a hero who despises all so-called morality as absurd
tyranny. It was a bold attempt to marshal the animal instincts of humanity,
terrifically strong as they are even in the best citizens, against every moral
and prudential restraint. The effect of the book will probably not last very
long, --already it has been called an ephemeral sensation, --but it was
immediate and tremendous. It was especially powerful among university
students and high school boys and girls--the "Sanin-morals" of
undergraduates were alluded to in a speech in the Duma.

But although the book was published at the psychological moment, it was
written with no reference to any post-revolution spirit. For Artsybashev
composed his novel in 1903, when he was twenty-four years old. He tried in
vain to induce publishers to print it, and fortunately for him, was obliged to
wait until 1907, when the time happened to be exactly ripe.

The novel has been allowed to circulate in Russia, because it shows
absolutely no sympathy with the Revolution or with the spirit of political
liberty. Men who waste their time in the discussion of political rights or in
the endeavour to obtain them are ridiculed by Sanin. The summum bonum is
personal, individual happiness, the complete gratification of desire. Thus,
those who are working for the enfranchisement of the Russian people, for
relief from the bureaucracy, and for more political independence, not only
have no sympathy with the book--they hate it, because it treats their efforts
with contempt. Some of them have gone so far as to express the belief that
the author is in a conspiracy with the government to bring ridicule on their
cause, and to defeat their ever living hopes of better days. However this
may be, Sanin is not in the least a politically revolutionary book, and critics
of that school see no real talent or literary power in its pages.

But, sinister and damnable as its tendency is, the novel is written with
extraordinary skill, and Artsybashev is a man to be reckoned with. The style
has that simplicity and directness so characteristic of Russian realism, and
the characters are by no means sign-posts of various opinions; they are
living and breathing human beings. I am sorry that such a book as Sanin has
ever been written; but it cannot be black-balled from the republic of letters.

It is possible that it is a florescence not merely of the author's genius, but of
his sickness. The glorification of Sanin's bodily strength, of Karsavina's

female voluptuousness, and the loud call to physical joy which rings
through the work may be an emanation of tuberculosis as well as that of
healthy mental conviction. Shut out from active happiness, Artsybashev
may have taken this method of vicarious delight.

The bitterness of his own enforced resignation of active happiness and the
terror inspired by his own disease are incarnated in a decidedly interesting
character, Semionov, who, although still able to walk about when we first
see him, is dying of consumption. He has none of the hopefulness and
cheerfulness so often symptomatic of that malady; he is peevish, irritable,
and at times enraged by contact with his healthy friends. After a frightful
attack of coughing, he says: "I often think that soon I shall be lying in
complete darkness. You understand, with my nose fallen in and my limbs
decayed. And above me, where you are on the earth, everything will go on,
exactly as it does now, while I still am permitted to see it. You will be living
then, you will look at this very moon, you will breathe, you will pass over
my grave; perhaps you will stop there a moment and despatch some
necessity. And I shall lie and become rotten."

His death at the hospital in the night, with his friends looking on, is
powerfully and minutely described. The fat, stupid priest goes through the
last ceremonies, and is dully amazed at the contempt he receives from
Sanin.

Sanin's beautiful sister Lyda is ruined by a worthless but entirely
conventional officer. Her remorse on finding that she is with child is
perfectly natural, but is ridiculed by her brother, who saves her from
suicide. He is not in the least ashamed of her conduct, and tells her she has
no reason for loss of pride; indeed, he does not think of blaming the officer.
He is ready to commit incest with his sister, whose physical charm appeals
to him; but she is not sufficiently emancipated for that, so he advises her to
get married with a friend who loves her, before the child is born. This is
finally satisfactorily arranged. Later, Sanin, not because he disapproves of
the libertine officer's affair with his sister, but because he regards the officer
as a blockhead, treats him with scant courtesy; and the officer, hidebound
by convention, sees no way out but a challenge to a duel. The scene when
the two brother officers bring the formal challenge to Sanin is the only

scene in the novel marked by. genuine humour, and is also the only scene
where we are in complete sympathy with the hero. One of the delegates has
all the stiff courtesy and ridiculous formality which he regards as entirely
consistent with his errand; the other is a big, blundering fellow, who has
previously announced himself as a disciple of Tolstoi. To Sanin's
philosophy of life, duelling is as absurd as religion, morality, or any other
stupid conventionality; and his cold, ruthless logic makes short work of the
polite phrases of the two ambassadors. Both are amazed at his positive
refusal to fight, and hardly know which way to turn; the disciple of Tolstoi
splutters with rage because Sanin shows up his inconsistency with his
creed; both try to treat him like an outcast, but make very little progress.
Sanin informs them that he will not fight a duel, because he does not wish
to take the officer's life, and because he does not care to risk his own; but
that if the officer attempts any physical attack upon him in the street, he will
thrash him on the spot. Enraged and bewildered by Sanin's unconventional
method of dealing with the difficulty, the discomfited emissaries withdraw.
Later, the challenger meets Sanin in the street, and goaded to frenzy by his
calm and contemptuous stare, strikes him with a whip; he immediately
receives in the face a terrible blow from his adversary's fist, delivered with
all his colossal strength. A friend carries him to his lodgings, and there he
commits suicide. From the conventional point of view, this was the only
course left to him.

In direct contrast to most Russian novels, the man here is endowed with
limitless power of will, and the women characterised by weakness. The four
women in the story, Sanin's sister Lyda, the pretty school-teacher Karsavina,
Jurii's sister, engaged to a young scientist, who during the engagement
cordially invites her brother to accompany him to a house of ill-fame, and
the mother of Sanin, are all thoroughly conventional, and are meant to be.
They are living under what Sanin regards as the tyranny of social
convention. He treats his mother's shocked amazement with brutal scorn; he
ridicules Lyda's shame at being enceinte; he seduces Karsavina, at the very
time when she is in love with Jurii, and reasons with cold patience against
her subsequent remorse. It is clear that Artsybashev believes that for some
time to come women will not accept the gospel of uncompromising egoism.

The most interesting character in the book, apart from the hero, is Jurii, who
might easily have been a protagonist in one of Turgenev's tragedies. He is
the typical Russian, the highly educated young man with a diseased will. He
is characterised by that indecision which has been the bane of so many
Russians. All through the book he seeks in vain for some philosophy of life,
some guiding principle. He has abandoned faith in religion, his former
enthusiasm for political freedom has cooled, but he simply cannot live
without some leading Idea. He is an acute sufferer from that mental sickness
diagnosed by nearly all writers of Russia. He envies and at the same time
despises Sanin for his cheerful energy. Finally, unable to escape from the
perplexities of his own thinking, he commits suicide. His friends stand
about his grave at the funeral, and one of them foolishly asks Sanin to make
some appropriate remarks. Sanin, who always says exactly what he thinks,
and abhors all forms of hypocrisy, delivers the following funeral oration--
heartily endorsed by the reader--in one sentence: "The world has now one
blockhead the less." The horror-stricken consternation of his friends fills
Sanin with such scorn that he leaves the town, and we last see him in an
open field in the country, giving a glad shout of recognition to the dawn.

The motto that Artsybashev has placed at the beginning of the novel is
taken from Ecclesiastes vii. 29: "God hath made man upright: but they have
sought out many inventions." This same text was used by Kipling as the
title of one of his books, but used naturally in a quite different way. The
Devil has here cited Scripture for his purpose. The hero of the novel is an
absolutely sincere, frank, and courageous Advocatus Diabou. He is
invariably calm and collected; he never loses his temper in an argument; he
questions the most fundamental beliefs and principles with remorseless
logic. Two of his friends are arguing about Christianity; "at least," says one,
"you will not deny that its influence has been good." "I don't deny that,"
says the other. Then Sanin remarks quietly, "But I deny it!" and he adds,
with a calmness provoking to the two disputants, "Christianity has played
an abominable role in history, and the name of Jesus Christ will for some
time yet oppress humanity like a curse."

Sanin insists that it is not necessary to have any theory of life, or to be
guided by any principle; that God may exist or He may not; He does not at
any rate bother about us. The real rational life of man should be exactly like

a bird. He should be controlled wholly by the desire of the moment. The
bird wishes to alight on a branch, and so he alights; then he wishes to fly, so
he flies. That is rational, declares Sanin; that is the way men and women
should live, without principles, without plans, and without regrets.
Drunkenness and adultery are nothing to be ashamed of, nor in any sense to
be called degrading. Nothing that gives pleasure can ever be degrading. The
love of strong drink and the lust for woman are not sins; in fact, there is no
such thing as sin. These passions are manly and natural, and what is natural
cannot be wrong. There is in Sanin's doctrine something of Nietzsche and
more of Rousseau.

Sanin himself is not at all a contemptible character. He is not argumentative
except when dragged into an argument; he does not attempt to convert
others to his views. He has the inner light which we more often associate
with Christian faith. In the midst of his troubled and self-tortured comrades,
Sanin stands like a pillar, calm, unshakable. He has found absolute peace,
absolute harmony with life. He thinks, talks, and acts exactly as he chooses,
without any regard whatever to the convenience or happiness of any one
else. There is something refreshing about this perfectly healthy, clear-eyed,
quiet, composed, resolute man--whose way of life is utterly unaffected by
public opinion, who simply does not care a straw for anything or anybody
but himself. Thus he recognises his natural foe in Christianity, in the person
of Jesus Christ, and in His Russian interpreter, Leo Tolstoi. For if
Christianity teaches anything, it teaches that man must live contrary to his
natural instincts. The endeavour of all so-called "new religions" is rootless,
because it is an attempt to adapt Christianity to modern human convenience.
Much better is Sanin's way: he sees clearly that no adaptation is possible,
and logically fights Christianity as the implacable enemy of the natural
man.

There are many indications that one of the great battle-grounds of
Christianity in the near future is to be the modern novel. For many years
there have been plenty of attacks on the supernatural side of Christianity,
and on Christianity as a religion; nearly all its opponents, however, have
treated its ethics, its practical teachings, with respect. The novel Sanin is
perhaps the boldest, but it is only one of many attacks that are now being
made on Christianity as a system of morals; as was the case with the Greeks

and Romans, scepticism in morals follows hard on scepticism in religion.
Those who believe in Christianity ought to rejoice in this open and fair
fight; they ought to welcome it as a complete unmasking of the foe. If the
life according to Sanin is really practicable, if it is a good substitute for the
life according to the Christian Gospel, it is desirable that it should be clearly
set forth, and its working capacity demonstrated. For the real test of
Christianity, and the only one given by its Founder, is its practical value as a
way of life. It can never be successfully attacked by historical research or
by destructive criticism--all such attacks leave it precisely as they found it.
Those who are determined to destroy Christianity, and among its relentless
foes have always been numbered men of great courage and great ability,
must prove that its promises of peace and rest to those who really follow it
are false, and that its influence on society and on the individual is bad.
IX

ANDREEV

LEONID ANDREEV is at this moment regarded by many Russians as the
foremost literary artist among the younger school of writers. He was born at
Orel, the birthplace of Turgenev, in 1871, and is thus only two years
younger than Gorki. He began life as a lawyer at Moscow, but according to
his own statement, he had only one case, and lost that. He very soon
abandoned law for literature, as so many writers have done, and his rise has
been exceedingly rapid. He was appointed police-court reporter on the
Moscow Courier, where he went through the daily drudgery without
attracting any attention. But when he published in this newspaper a short
story, Gorki sent a telegram to the office, demanding to know the real name
of the writer who signed himself Leonid Andreev. He was informed that the
signature was no pseudonym. This notice from Gorki gave the young man
immediate prominence. Not long after, he published another story in the
Russian periodical Life; into the editor's rooms dashed the famous critic
Merezhkovski, who enquired whether it was Chekhov or Gorki that had
selected this assumed name.

Andreev himself says that he has learned much from Tolstoi, the great
Tolstoi of the sixties and seventies, also from Nietzsche, whom he reads
with enthusiasm, and whose most characteristic book, Also Sprach

Zarathustra, he translated into Russian. He has read Poe with profit, but he
testifies that his greatest teacher in composition is the Bible. In a letter to a
young admirer, he wrote: "I thank you for your kind dedication. . . . I note
that in one place you write about the Bible. Yes, that is the best teacher of
all--the Bible."*

* Most of the biographical information in this paragraph I have taken from
an interesting article in The Independent for 29 July 1909, by Ivan
Lavretski.

Andreev has the gift of admiration, and loves to render homage where
homage is due, having dedicated his first book to Gorki, and his story of
ÊThe Seven Who Were Hanged to Tolstoi. His style, while marked by the
typical yet always startling Russian simplicity, is nevertheless entirely his
own, and all his tales and plays are stamped by powerful individuality. He is
fast becoming an international celebrity. His terrible picture of war, The Red
Laugh, has been translated into German, French, and English, two of his
dramas, Anathema and To the Stars, have been published in America, and
other of his short stories are known everywhere in Germany.

The higher the scale in human intelligence, the more horrible and the more
ridiculous does war appear. That men engaged in peaceful and intellectual
pursuits should leave their families, their congenial work, their pleasant
associations, and go out to torture and murder men of similar tastes and
activities, and become themselves transformed into hideous wild beasts, has
a combination of horror and absurdity that peculiarly impresses a people so
highly sensitive, so thoroughly intellectual, and so kind-hearted as the
Russians. All Russian war-literature, and there is much of it, points back to
Tolstoi's Sevastopol, where the great novelist stripped warfare of all its
sentiment and patriotic glitter, and revealed its dull, sordid misery as well as
its hellish tragedies. What Tolstoi did for the Crimean War, Garshin did for
the war with Turkey in the seventies. I have not seen it mentioned, but I
suspect that Andreev owes much to the reading of this brilliant author.
Garshin was an unquestionable genius; if he had lived, I think he might
have become the real successor to Tolstoi, a title that has been bestowed
upon Chekhov, Gorki, and Andreev, and has not yet been earned by any
man. But like nearly all Russian authors, he suffered from intense

melancholia, and in 1888 committed suicide at the age of thirty-three. His
short story Four Days on the Field of Slaughter first brought him into
public notice. One cannot read Andreev's Red Laugh to-day without
thinking of it.

"On the edge of the wood there was visible something red, floating here and
there. Sidorov fell suddenly to the ground and stared at me in silence with
great, terrified eyes. Out of his mouth poured a stream of blood. Yes, I
remember it very well." This is the red laugh of Andreev, though until the
appearance of his book it lacked the appropriate name. Garshin describes
how a Russian soldier stabs a Fellah to death with his bayonet, and then, too
badly injured to move, lies for four days and nights, in shivering cold and
fearful heat, beside the putrefying corpse of his dead antagonist. "I did that.
I had no wish to do it. I wished no one evil, as I left home for the war. The
thought that I should kill a man did not enter my head. I thought only of my
own danger. And I went to him and did this. Well, and what happened? O
fool, O idiot! This unfortunate Egyptian is still less guilty. Before they
packed them on a steamer like herrings in a box, and brought them to
Constantinople, he had never heard of Russia, or of Bulgaria. They told him
to go and he went."

In the Diary of Private lvanov, Garshin gave more pictures of the hideous
suffering of war, with a wonderful portrait of the commander of the
company, who is so harshly tyrannical that his men hate him, and resolve to
slay him in the battle. But he survives both open and secret foes, and at the
end of the conflict they find him lying prostrate, his whole body shaken
with sobs, and saying brokenly, "Fifty-two! Fifty-two!" Fifty-two of his
company had been killed, and despite his cruelty to them, he had loved
them all like children.

Garshin wrote other tales, among them a poetically beautiful story of a tree,
Attalea Princeps, that reminds one somewhat of Björnson. But his chief
significance is as a truthful witness to the meaningless maiming and murder
of war, and his attitude is precisely similar to that of Andreev, and both
follow Tolstoi.

Andreev's Red Laugh ought to be read in America as a contrast to our
numerous war stories, where war is pictured as a delightful and exciting
tournament. This book has not a single touch of patriotic sentiment, not a
suggestion of "Hurrah for our side!" The soldiers are on the field because
they were sent there, and the uninjured are too utterly tired, too tormented
with lack of sleep, too hungry and thirsty to let out a single whoop. The first
sight of the Red Laugh reminds us of the picturesque story of Napoleon's
soldier that Browning has immortalised in the Incident of the French Camp.
Tolstoi mentions the same event in Sevastopol, and his version of it would
have pleased Owen Wister's Virginian more than Browning's. In Andreev
there is no graceful gesture, no French pose, no "smiling joy"; but there is
the nerve-shattering red laugh. The officer who tells the story in the first
half of the book narrates how a young volunteer came up to him and
saluted. The appearance of his face was so tensely white that the officer
enquires, "Are you afraid?" Suddenly a stream of blood bursts from the
young man's body, and his deadly pale face turns into something
unspeakable, a toothless laugh--the red laugh.

In this gruesome tale of the realities of war, Andreev has given shocking
physical details of torn and bleeding bodies, but true to the theme that
animates all his books, he has concentrated the main interest on the Mind.
Soldiers suffer in the flesh, but infinitely more in the mind. War points
chiefly not to the grave, nor to the hospital, but to the madhouse. All forms
of insanity are bred by the horror and fatigue of the marches and battles:
many shoot themselves, many become raging maniacs, many become
gibbering idiots. Every man who has studied warfare knows that the least of
all perils is the bullet of the enemy, for only a small proportion are released
by that. The innumerable and subtle forms of disease, bred by exposure and
privation, constitute the real danger. Andreev is the first to show that the
most common and awful form of disease among Russian soldiers is the
disease of the brain. The camp becomes a vast madhouse, with the peculiar
feature that the madmen are at large. The hero of the story loses both his
legs, and apparently completely recovered in health otherwise, returns home
to his family, and gazes wistfully at his bicycle. A sudden desire animates
him to write out the story of the Japanese war; in the process he becomes
insane and dies. His brother then attempts to complete the narrative from
the scattered, confused notes, but to his horror, whenever he approaches the

desk, the phantom of the dead man is ever there, busily writing: he can hear
the pen squeak on the paper.

No more terrible protest against war has ever been written than Andreev's
Red Laugh. It shows not merely the inexpressible horror of the battlefield
and the dull, weary wretchedness of the men on the march, but it follows
out the farthest ramifications flowing from the central cause: the constant
tragedies in the families, the letters received after the telegraph has
announced the death of the writer, the insane wretches who return to the
homes they left in normal health, the whole accumulation of woe.

The first two words of the book are Madness and Horror! and they might
serve as a text for Andreev's complete works. There seems to be some taint
in his mind which forces him to dwell forever on the abnormal and
diseased. He is not exactly decadent, but he is decidedly pathological.
Professor Brückner has said of Andreev's stories, "I do not recall a single
one which would not get fearfully on a man's nerves." He has deepened the
universal gloom of Russian fiction, not by descending into the slums with
Gorki, but by depicting life as seen through the strange light of a decaying
mind. He has often been compared, especially among the Germans, with
Edgar Allan Poe. But he is really not in the least like Poe. Poe's horrors are
nearly all unreal fantasies, that vaguely haunt our minds like the shadow of
a dream. Andreev is a realist, like his predecessors and contemporaries. His
style is always concrete and definite, always filled with the sense of fact.
There is almost something scientific in his collection of incurables.

The most cheerful thing he has written is perhaps The Seven Who Were
Hanged. This is horrible enough to bring out a cold sweat; but it is
redeemed, as the work of Dostoevski is, by a vast pity and sympathy for the
condemned wretches. This is the book he dedicated to Tolstoi, in
recognition of the constant efforts of the old writer to have capital
punishment abolished. No sentimental sympathy with murderers is shown
here; he carries no flowers to the cells where each of the seven in solitude
awaits his fate. Nor are the murderers in the least degree depicted as heroes-
-they are all different men and women, but none of them resembles the
Hero-Murderer of romance.

The motive underlying this story is shown plainly by the author in an
interesting letter which he wrote to the American translator, and which is
published at the beginning of the book. "The misfortune of us all is that we
know so little, even nothing, about one another--neither about the soul, nor
the life, the sufferings, the habits, the inclinations, the aspirations, of one
another. Literature, which I have the honour to serve, is dear to me just
because the noblest task it sets before itself is that of wiping out boundaries
and distances." That is, the aim of Andreev, like that of all prominent
Russian novelists, is to study the secret of secrets, the human heart. And like
all specialists in humanity, like Browning, for example, he feels the
impossibility of success.

"About what's under lock and key,
Man's soul!"

Farther on in his letter, we read: "My task was to point out the horror and
the iniquity of capital punishment under any circumstances. The horror of
capital punishment is great when it falls to the lot of courageous and honest
people whose only guilt is their excess of love and the sense of
righteousness--in such instances, conscience revolts. But the rope is still
more horrible when it forms the noose around the necks of weak and
ignorant people. And however strange it may appear, I look with a lesser
grief and suffering upon the execution of the revolutionists, such as Werner
and Musya, than upon the strangling of ignorant murderers, miserable in
mind and heart, like Yanson and Tsiganok." Spoken like Dostoevski!

These seven are an extraordinary group, ranging from calm, courageous,
enlightened individuals to creatures of such dull stupidity that one wonders
if they ever once were men. Each spends the intervening days in his cell in a
different manner. One goes through daily exercises of physical culture. One
receives a visit from his father and mother, another from his old mother
alone. There is not a false touch in the sentiment in these painful scenes.
The midnight journey to the place of execution is vividly portrayed, and the
different sensations of each of the seven are strikingly indicated. At the last,
Musya, who is a typical Russian heroine in her splendid resolution and
boundless tenderness, becomes the soul of the whole party, and tries to help
them all by her gentle conduct and her words of love. The whole spirit of

this book is profoundly Christian. One feels as if he were taken back in
history, and were present at the execution of a group of early Christian
martyrs. There are thousands of women in Russia like Musya, and they are
now, as they were in the days of Turgenev, the one hope of the country.

In Merezhkovski's interesting work Tolstoi as Man and Artist, the author
says: "We are accustomed to think that the more abstract thought is, the
more cold and dispassionate it is. It is not so; or at least it is not so with us.
From the heroes of Dostoevski we may see how abstract thought may be
passionate, how metaphysical theories and deductions are rooted, not only
in cold reason, but in the heart, emotions, and will. There are thoughts
which pour oil on the fire of the passions and inflame man's flesh and blood
more powerfully than the most unrestrained license. There is a logic of the
passions, but there are also passions in logic. And these are essentially our
new passions, peculiar to us and alien to the men of former civilisations. . . .
They feel deeply because they think deeply; they suffer endlessly because
they are endlessly deliberate; they dare to will because they have dared to
think. And the farther, apparently, it is from life--the more abstract, the more
fiery is their thought, the deeper it enters into their lives. O strange young
Russia!"

Merezhkovski is talking of the heroes of Dostoevski; but his remark is
applicable to the work of nearly all Russian novelists, and especially to
Chekhov and Andreev. It is a profound criticism that, if once grasped by the
foreign reader, will enable him to understand much in Russian fiction that
otherwise would be a sealed book. Every one must have noticed how
Russians are hag-ridden by an idea; but no one except Merezhkovski has
observed the passion of abstract thought. In some characters, such as those
Dostoevski has given us, it leads to deeds of wild absurdity; in Andreev, it
usually leads to madness.

One of Andreev's books is indeed a whole commentary on the remark of
Merezhkovski quoted above. The English title of the translation is A
Dilemma, but as the translator has explained, the name of the story in the
original is Thought (Mysl). The chief character is a physician, Kerzhentsev,
who reminds one constantly of Dostoevski's Raskolnikov, but whose states
of mind are even more subtly analysed. No one should read this story unless

his nerves are firm, for the outcome of the tale is such as to make almost
any reader for a time doubt his own sanity. It is a curious study of the
border-line between reason and madness. The physician, who rejoices in his
splendid health, bodily vigour, and absolute equilibrium of mind, quietly
determines to murder his best friend--to murder him openly and violently,
and to go about it in such a way that he himself will escape punishment. He
means to commit the murder to punish the man's wife because she had
rejected him and married his friend, whom she loves with all the strength of
her powerful nature. His problem, therefore, is threefold: he must murder
the man, the man's wife must know that he is the murderer, and he must
escape punishment. He therefore begins by feigning madness, and acting so
well that his madness comes upon him only at long intervals; at a dinner-
party he has a violent fit; but he waits a whole month before having another
attack. Everything is beautifully planned; he smashes a plate with his fist,
but no one observes that he has taken care previously to cover the plate with
his napkin, so that his hand will not be cut. His friends are all too sorry for
him to have any suspicion of a sinister intention; and his friend Alexis is
fatuously secure. Not so the wife; she has an instinctive fear of the coming
murder. One evening, when all three are together, the doctor picks up a
heavy iron paper-weight, and Alexis says that with such an instrument a
murderer might break a man's head. This is interesting. "It was precisely the
head, and precisely with that thing that I had planned to crush it, and now
that same head was telling how it would all end." Therefore he leads Alexis
into a dispute by insisting that the paper-weight is too light. Alexis becomes
angry, and actually makes the doctor take the object in his hand, and they
rehearse his own murder. They are stopped by the wife, who, terror-
stricken, says that she never likes such jokes. Both men burst into hearty
laughter.

A short time after, the doctor crushes the skull of Alexis in the presence of
his wife. In the midst of the horror and confusion of the household, the
murderer slips out, goes home, and is resting calmly, thinking with intense
delight of the splendid success of the plan, and of the extraordinary skill he
had shown in its conception and execution; when, just as he was dropping
off to sleep in delicious drowsiness, there "languidly" entered into his head
this thought: it speaks to his mind in the third person, as though somebody
else had actually said it: It is very possible that Dr. Kerzhentsev is really

insane. He thought that he simulated, but he is really insane--insane at this
very instant.

After this poison has entered his soul, his condition can be easily imagined.
A terrible debate begins in his own mind, for he is fighting against himself
for his own reason. Every argument that he can think of to persuade himself
of his sanity he marshals; but there are plenty of arguments on the other
side. The story is an excellent example of what Merezhkovski must mean
by the passion of thought.

Another illustration of Andreev's uncanny power is seen in the short story
Silence. A father does not understand his daughter's silence, and treats her
nervous suffering with harsh practicality. She commits suicide; the mother
is stricken with paralysis; silence reigns in the house. Silence. The father
beseeches his wife to speak to him; there is no speculation in her wide-open
eyes. He cries aloud to his dead daughter. Silence. Nothing but silence, and
the steady approach of madness.

Andreev is an unflinching realist, with all the Russian power of the concrete
phrase. He would never say, in describing a battle, that the Russians
"suffered a severe loss." He would turn a magnifying glass on each man.
But, although he is a realist and above all a psychologist, he is also a poet.
In the sketch Silence there is the very spirit of poetry. The most recent bit of
writing by him that I have seen is called a Fantasy*--Life is so Beautiful to
the Resurrected. This is a meditation in a graveyard, written in the manner
of one of Turgenev's Poems in Prose, though lacking something of that
master's exquisite beauty of style. It is, however, not sentimentally
conventional, but original. The poetic quality in Andreev animates all his
dramas, particularly To the Stars.

* Translated in Current Literature, New York, for September 1910.
X

KUPRIN'S PICTURE OF GARRISON LIFE

As Tolstoi, Garshin, and Andreev have shown the horrors of war, so
Kuprin* has shown the utter degradation and sordid misery of garrison life.

If Russian army posts in time of peace bear even a remote resemblance to
the picture given in Kuprin's powerful novel In Honour's Name,** one
would think that the soldiers there entombed would heartily rejoice at the
outbreak of war--would indeed welcome any catastrophe, provided it
released them from such an Inferno. It is interesting to compare stories of
American garrisons, or such clever novels as Mrs. Diver's trilogy of British
army posts in India, with the awful revelations made by Kuprin. Among
these Russian officers and soldiers there is not one gleam of patriotism to
glorify the drudgery; there is positively no ideal, even dim-descried. The
officers are a collection of hideously selfish, brutal, drunken, licentious
beasts; their mental horizon is almost inconceivably narrow, far narrower
than that of mediæval monks in a monastery. The soldiers are in worse
plight than prisoners, being absolutely at the mercy of the alcoholic caprices
of their superiors. A favourite device of the officer is to jam the trumpet
against the trumpeter's mouth, when he is trying to obey orders by sounding
the call; then they laugh at him derisively as he spits out blood and broken
teeth. The common soldiers are beaten and hammered unmercifully in the
daily drill, so that they are all bewildered, being in such a state of terror that
it is impossible for them to perform correctly even the simplest manoeuvres.
The only officer in this story who treats his men with any consideration is a
libertine, who seduces the peasants' daughters in the neighbourhood, and
sends them back to their parents with cash payments for their services.

* Kuprin was born in 1870, and was for a time an officer in the Russian
army.

** Translated by W. F. Harvey: the French translation is called Une Petite
Garnison Russe; the German, Das Duell, after the original title.

If Kuprin's story be true, one does not need to look far for the utter failure
of the Russian troops in the Japanese war; the soldiers are here represented
as densely ignorant, drilling in abject terror of their officers' fists and boots,
and knowing nothing whatever of true formations in attack or defence. As
for the officers, they are much worse than the soldiers: their mess is nothing
but an indescribably foul alcoholic den, where sodden drunkenness and
filthy talk are the steady routine. They are all gamblers and debauchees; as
soon as a sum of money can be raised among them, they visit the brothel.

The explanation of the beastly habits of these representatives of the Tsar is
given in the novel in this wise: "Yes, they are all alike, even the best and
most tender-hearted among them. At home they are splendid fathers of
families and excellent husbands; but as soon as they approach the barracks
they become low-minded, cowardly, and idiotic barbarians. You ask me
why this is, and I answer: Because nobody can find a grain of sense in what
is called military service. You know how all children like to play at war.
Well, the human race has had its childhood--a time of incessant and bloody
war; but war was not then one of the scourges of mankind, but a continued,
savage, exultant national feast to which daring bands of youths marched
forth, meeting victory or death with joy and pleasure. . . . Mankind,
however, grew in age and wisdom; people got weary of the former rowdy,
bloody games, and became more serious, thoughtful, and cautious. The old
Vikings of song and saga were designated and treated as pirates. The soldier
no longer regarded war as a bloody but enjoyable occupation, and had often
to be dragged to the enemy with a noose round his neck. The former
terrifying, ruthless, adored atamens* have been changed into cowardly,
cautious tschinovnih,** who get along painfully enough on never adequate
pay. Their courage is of a new and quite moist kind, for it is invariably
derived from the glass. Military discipline still exists, but it is based on
threats and dread, and undermined by a dull, mutual hatred. . . . And all this
abomination is carefully hidden under a close veil of tinsel and finery, and
foolish, empty ceremonies, in all ages the charlatan's conditio sine quâ non.
Is not this comparison of mine between the priesthood and the military caste
interesting and logical? Here the riassa and the censer; there the gold-laced
uniform and the clank of arms. Here bigotry, hypocritical humility, sighs
and sugary, sanctimonious, unmeaning phrases; there the same odious
grimaces, although its method and means are of another kind--swaggering
manners, bold and scornful looks--'God help the man who dares to insult
me!'--padded shoulders, cock-a-hoop defiance. Both the former and the
latter class live like parasites on society, and are profoundly conscious of
that fact, but fear--especially for their bellies' sake--to publish it. And both
remind one of certain little blood-sucking animals which eat their way most
obstinately into the surface of a foreign body in proportion as it is slippery
and steep."

* Officers.

** Officials.

Apart from the terrible indictment of army life and military organisation
that Kuprin has given, the novel In Honour's Name is an interesting story
with living characters. There is not a single good woman in the book: the
officers' wives are licentious, unprincipled, and eaten up with social
ambition. The chief female character is a subtle, clever, heartless, diabolical
person, who plays on her lover's devotion in the most sinister manner, and
eventually brings him to the grave by a device that startles the reader by its
cold-blooded, calculating cruelty. Surely no novelists outside of Russia
have drawn such evil women. The hero, Romashov, is once more the typical
Russian whom we have met in every Russian novelist, a talker, a dreamer,
with high ideals, harmlessly sympathetic, and without one grain of
resolution or will-power. He spends all his time in aspirations, sighs, and
tears--and never by any chance accomplishes anything. The author's
mouthpiece in the story is the drunkard Nasanski, who prophesies of the
good time of the brotherhood of man far in the future. This is to be brought
about, not by the teachings of Tolstoi, which he ridicules, but by self-
assertion. This self-assertion points the way to Artsybashev's Sanin,
although in Kuprin it does not take on the form of absolute selfishness. One
of Nasanski's alcoholic speeches seems to contain the doctrine of the whole
book: "Yes, a new, glorious, and wonderful time is at hand. I venture to say
this, for I myself have lived a good deal in the world, read, seen,
experienced, and suffered much. When I was a schoolboy, the old crows
and jackdaws croaked into our ears: 'Love your neighbour as yourself, and
know that gentleness, obedience, and the fear of God are man's fairest
adornments.' Then came certain strong, honest, fanatical men who said:
'Come and join us, and we'll throw ourselves into the abyss so that the
coming race shall live in light and freedom.' But I never understood a word
of this. Who do you suppose is going to show me, in a convincing way, in
what manner I am linked to this 'neighbour' of mine--damn him! who, you
know, may be a miserable slave, a Hottentot, a leper, or an idiot? . . . Can
any reasonable being tell me why I should crush my head so that the
generation in the year 3200 may attain a higher standard of happiness? . . .
Love of humanity is burnt out and has vanished from the heart of man. In its
stead shall come a new creed, a new view of life that shall last to the world's
end; and this view of life consists in the individual's love for himself, for his

own powerful intelligence, and the infinite riches of his feelings and
perceptions. . . Ah, a time will come when the fixed belief in one's own Ego
will cast its blessed beams over mankind as did once the fiery tongues of
the Holy Ghost over the Apostles' heads. Then there shall be no longer
slaves and masters; no maimed or cripples; no malice, no vices, no pity, no
hate. Men shall be gods. How shall I dare to deceive, insult, or ill-treat
another man, in whom I see and feel my fellow, who, like myself, is a god?
Then, and then only, shall life be rich and beautiful.... Our daily life shall be
a pleasurable toil, an enfranchised science, a wonderful music, an
everlasting merrymaking. Love, free and sovereign, shall become the
world's religion."

In considering Russian novelists of to-day, and the promise for the future,
Andreev seems to be the man best worth watching--he is the most gifted
artist of them all. But it is clear that no new writer has appeared in Russia
since the death of Dostoevski in 1881 who can compare for an instant with
the author of Anna Karenina, and that the great names in Russian fiction are
now, as they were forty years ago, Gogol, Turgenev, Tolstoi, and
Dostoevski. Very few long novels have been published in Russia since
Resurrection that, so far as we can judge, have permanent value. Gorki's
novels are worthless; his power, like that of Chekhov and Andreev, is seen
to best advantage in the short story. Perhaps the younger school have made
a mistake in studying so exclusively the abnormal.

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