dered somewhat repulsive by the introduc- | who knows that he has but a short time to live, tion of incidents, which although only too and who whiles away the weariness of his alpossible in Russia not very long ago, offend most solitary days by writing down some of our English ideas of probability, as well as his impressions of the past. The sad irony sinning against our canons of taste. And, with which he describes how his life has been in a minor degree, the same objection may wasted, how useless have been all his atbe made to another and more ambitious tempts to share in the pleasures other men wark, that styled "On the Eve."* It con- enjoy, to reach the level to which his comtains a very carefully drawn portrait of a panions readily attain, to press forward into young girl whose character is by no means the sunlight in which he sees them basking, of a common order. She is one who takes must often have been only too fully apprecilife seriously. All her impressions become ated by readers of the story;-there are so deeply engraved on her heart. She cannot many similar failures in life; so many an endure anything that is false or mean; any organization well qualified for enjoyment one who has once lost her esteem instantly has been denied all opportunity of enjoying; ceases to exist for her. But in those whom so many a heart, conscious of a great capashe respects she is ready to confide implicitly; city for loving, has never known any, but an and when she takes an interest in a person unrequited affection. The writer of the diashe does not readily give it up until he for- ry in question is one whose childhood has feits her good opinion. The description of been lonely and dull. The only pleasant the early part of her life is charming, but memories it has to offer are those connected when we reach the chapters which describe with the garden in which he used to play, how utterly she abandons herself to her love and on which he still looks back with a fond for a certain Bulgarian patriot in whom it is regret. Years pass by, but they bring litsomewhat difficult for a non-Slavonic reader tle happiness to him. Somehow or other, to take an interest, we cannot help feeling he does not know why, he fails to attach to that the description is more in accordance himself friends. Wherever he goes, he seems with French than English taste. to be in the way. There is never an opening for him in any joyous band; every place always seems to be already occupied whenever he appears. And, unfortunately, he has a craving for sympathy, a longing for happiness which he can share with others. is morbidly self-conscious, and is always analysing his own thoughts and feelings; and he is afflicted with that excess of self-love which makes a man morbidly susceptible to all that is said about him in society, which consumes him with a feverish desire to distinguish himself, and which makes him feel with terrible bitterness the dull pains of failure, the stinging agony of disgrace. Once only his life seems to be about to undergo a change. He loves, and for a time he fancies that perhaps his love may be returned. For about three weeks he knows what to be happy means. His whole existence brightens at once, "like a gloomy and deserted room into which the light is suddenly allowed to enter." He feels for a time as if life were a luxury, contented "as a fly basking in the sunlight." Even in the dreary time which ensues, those few weeks preserve "a sort of sense of youth, of warmth, and of perfume;" they stand out from the rest of his dreary lifetime like the portion of a cold grey corridor on which a stray sunbeam has chanced to fall. But this happy time soon passes,a rival appears with whom he has no chance of successfully contending, and he is obliged to stand by and look on, while the love for which he would have given his life is wasted It must not be supposed, however, that M. Turguenief is in the habit of copying the novelists of the French school. But if any writer were to describe with perfect accuracy the conduct of some Russian girl who has surrendered herself to the sweep of a headlong passion, and who clears at a bound all the barriers with which prudence and common sense, not to speak of morality and religion, ordinarily hedge women around, English readers would be apt to think he was drawing his ideas from French sources, inasmuch as it is from those sources that they generally obtain their knowledge of the subject. Women of Teutonic race are seldom given to such wild outbursts of the affections; even if they lose their hearts, they do not often think it befitting to lose their heads also. But the Slavonic woman is of a different nature, softer and more yielding, much more subject to impulse, far more prone to self-sacrifice. It is his acquaintance with these peculiarities of his countrywomen, and not any predilection for unhealthy romance, that has led M. Turguenief to tinge one of his most admirable studies of character with a hue that seems, to English eyes, to detract somewhat from its merit and its value. The Diary of a Superfluous Man is the description of the unsatisfactory life of one who is always de trop. The diarist is an invalid *Translated into French by M. Deleveau, under the title of Elena, in the Nouvelles Scènes de la Vie Russe, the work which also contains Un Premier Amour. He on a fickle admirer who has no idea of its worth. Stung to madness on one occasion, he challenges the man who has come between him and happiness, but the duel which ensues only places him in a somewhat humiliating position, and utterly deprives him of even the friendship of her he loves. After this he gives up struggling with any spirit against the curse which seems to hang over his career; and after a time the constitutional weakness which probably has had much to do with his feebleness of character tells very perceptibly on his health. His lungs become affected, his strength utterly breaks down, and at last he retires to his modest little country house to die. The diary he leaves behind him is an excellent illustration of M. Turguenief's accurate insight into character, of the subtlety with which he detects, the delicacy with which he depicts, the hidden motives which sway an irregular line of action, the obscure train of thought which runs through and links in sequence a cloud of apparently incoherent fancies. Over much that M. Turguenief has written, and on which we would gladly dwell, we must pass lightly and rapidly, for we wish to reserve the greater part of our remaining space for three of his most important novels, each of which demands particular attention; we will therefore do little more than mention such pieces as the charming story of Asya, full of Rhineland colour and music, and containing a most fascinating sketch of a sensitive and capricious, but passionately loving, Russian girl; or the fantastic series of pictures called "Ghosts," in which the author is carried by his poetic genius on the wings of the winds, and visits various parts of the earth-Black Gang Chine among others,-an idea which gives full scope to his great power of verbal landscape-painting; or the story of Dmitry Rudine, containing a carefully elaborated portrait of one of those exceedingly clever, but utterly unpractical and resultless, schemers and talkers whom M. Turguenief holds in such dislike; or the lively and dramatic sketch which describes the difficulties encountered by a provincial "Marshal of the Nobility," who tries to arrange an amicable division of property between two nearly related litigants; or many others which are not contained in the collective edition of M. Turguenief's works now before us. By far the most interesting as well as the most artistic of the three novels we have reserved for special notice is that called in Russian Droryanskoe Gnyezdo, a title meaning "A Noble Family's Nest," one for which, in speaking of the book, we will substitute, for simplicity's sake, the name of its hero ine, Lisa.* Its merits are very high indeed. It contains a very interesting story, admirably told, and a number of studies of character most carefully worked out. And the style in which it is written may serve as a model for novelists. From the beginning to the end the same high level is maintained, the serious passages are related with genuine dignity and pathos, and those of a lighter nature with that quiet humour which the author knows so well how to keep exactly in its right place. Its plot is very simple. Fedor Ivanovich Lavretsky is a tolerably rich landed proprietor who has made an unfortunate marriage. At the commencement of the story he has been separated for some time from his wife. She lives abroad in France or Italy; he has just returned, after a long absence, to his native province in Russia, and is about to settle down there and look after the management of his property. Before he goes to his country-house he pays a visit to the chief town of the province, and there renews his acquaintance with one of his relations, a Madame Kalitine, a widow with two daughters, Lisa and Lenochka, the first of whom is the heroine of the story. Lavretsky's education had been of a strange nature. Of his mother he had seen but little when she died. She had been originally a serf, one of the maidservants of the house, whom his father had married, partly to spite his relations, and partly because he considered himself a philosopher and a liberal. By his father he had been brought up after a most singular fashion, part of that philosopher's course of teaching having been to inspire the boy with a sage's contempt for the other sex. The young Lavretsky grew up without having been subjected, since his mother's death, to any feminine influences worthy of the name, and the natural consequence was that, when he became his own master, he was thoroughly subjugated at once by the first attractive woman he happened to meet. Unfortunately, she was utterly heartless and base. It was some time before her husband learnt the truth, but at last he discovered only too certainly how completely he had thrown away his love. At first the discovery almost broke his heart, but time produced its usual effect, and before his return home, rather more than four years after his separation from his wife, he had become tranquil again, and was prepared, if not to enjoy existence, at least to lead a life which should be to himself tolerable, and to his neighbours useful. The skill with which this introduction under the title of Das adelige Nest, and irto French under that of Une Nichée de Gentilshommes, *It has been excellently translated into German to the story is told is admirable, especially in the sketches of the four successive generations of the Lavretsky family, and in the picture of the utter dreariness of the life led by the boy Fedor for whom nobody ever thought of providing amusements, beyond giving him a dreary book of "Emblems" to look over when his lessons were done. The following extract will serve to give some idea of it: "In the company of his governess, of his aunt, and of an old servant-maid called Vasilievna, Fedor passed four whole years. Some times he would sit in a corner with his 'Emblems' would continue sitting there without moving. In the low room, in which a scent of geraniums was always perceptible, a single tallow candle burnt dimly, a cricket chirped monotonously, as if it too were bored, the clock ticked busily on the wall, a mouse scratched stealthily or gnawed behind the tapestry, and the three old maids, like the three Fates, went on knitting silently and swiftly, the shadows of their hands now scampering along, now mysteriously quivering in the dusk, while within the child's mind strange and equally dusky thoughts were being born.” "Lavretsky began to assure Lisa that he had never thought of doing so, and that he profoundly respected all convictions. After that he took to talking about religion, about its significance in the history of humanity, of the true meaning of Christianity. "One must be a Christian,' said Lisa, with a certain effort; not in order to recognise what is earthly or heavenly, but because every one must die.' "Lavretsky looked a Lisa with surprise. "Why have you spoken about death?' he said. "I don't know; I often think about it.' "Often?' When Madame Kalitine and her party return to town that night, Lavretsky rides part of the way by the side of the carriage; Lisa sits forward, looking out of the open window; Lavretsky keeps close by her, never taking his eyes off the pure young face, listening to the fresh, soft voice which spoke simple, good words." As he rides home in the moonlight, and enjoys the balmy night air, he thinks of Lisa very tenderly, thinks also of what might have been if he had not made the one great mistake of his life. The next day he receives a newspaper containing an account of his wife's death. Lavretsky has returned home a confirmed sceptic, and a little of a cynic, but his temper has not been soured by misfortune, nor has his natural kindness of heart deserted him. He makes friends with all with whom he is brought into contact, and especially with the members of Madame Kalitine's family. One day, some time after his arrival, he asks that lady to pay his countryhouse a visit, so she comes, and her daughters with her. Lavretsky has already taken a In the interior of Russia news does not great liking to Lisa, for whom he feels, travel fast, and its progress was slow indeed moreover, a profound respect, and he expe- seven-and-twenty years ago, the date assignriences great pleasure in finding himself at ed to his story by M. Turguenief. While her side. In the evening he and his visitors waiting for further information about his go to the lake to fish, and as Lisa stands on wife, Lavretsky tells no one but Lisa what the shore, holding the fishing rod in one has occurred. The young girl is greatly hand and in the other her straw hat, Lav-affected by the intelligence, and induces retsky gazes "at her pure, somewhat severe Lavretsky to go with her to church next profile, at her hair turned back behind her Sunday. ears, at her soft cheeks, delicate in hue as those of a little child," and thinks for the first time how beautiful she is. He is by this time on a very confidential footing with his young relative, and she has even ventured to speak to him about his wife (the details of whose conduct her husband had never made public), and to urge upon him the duty of forgiving her. Here is an extract from their conversation by the side of the lake : Lisa was already in the church when he entered. He recognised her at once, although she did not turn her head towards him. She was praying fervently; her eyes shone with a quiet light; quietly she bent and lifted her head. He felt that she was praying for him; and a strange emotion filled his heart. He felt happy, but somewhat conscience-stricken as well. The sight of the groups of people who gravely stood around, the sound of the harmonious chant, the odour of the incense, the long sloping rays from the windows, the very "Tell me,' he said, 'have you kept your duskiness of the walls and arches, all spoke promise?' "What promise?' 666 Have you prayed for me?' to his heart. It was long since he had been last in church, long since he had turned his thoughts to God. And even now he did not "Yes; I have prayed for you, and I pray utter any articulate words of prayer,—he did not even pray without words, but yet there was a moment when, if not in body at least in mind, he bowed down and bent himself humbly to the ground. He remembered how in childhood he used to pray in church till he felt, as it were, a soft touch on his forehead. 'That,' he used to think, 'is my guardian angel visiting me, and sealing me with the seal of election.' He looked at Lisa. It is you who have brought me here,' he thought. O touch me, touch my soul!' She went on all the time praying quietly. Her face seemed to him happy, and again he felt his heart soften within him." Over Lisa religion exerts a most powerful influence. She has even an inclination for its ascetic side. In her early years her chief friend was her nurse Agafia, a woman of a fanatical turn of mind in religious matters, and who, when she gave up her charge, retired into a convent. Almost all the members of Lisa's family are people of the world; but her nurse directs her thoughts into regions utterly foreign to the ideas of her relatives. Instead of nursery tales, Agafia tells her stories about the lives of the saints. Agafia spoke to Lisa seriously and humbly, as if she felt that it was not for her to utter such grand and holy words. Lisa used to listen to her intently; and the image of the omnipresent, omniscient God entered with a kind of sweet strength into her soul, and filled it with a pure and reverential awe; and Christ became for her, as it were, some one who was near at hand, and who was a friend, almost a relation. It was Agafia who had taught her to pray also. Sometimes she would wake the child with the early dawn, hastily dress her, and stealthily take her to matins. Lisa would follow her on tiptoe, scarcely daring to breathe. The cold morning light, the unaccustomed look of the almost empty church, the secrecy itself of these unexpected excursions, the cautious return home to bed,-all that combination of the forbidden, the mysterious, and the holy, agitated the child, and penetrated to the inmost depths of her being." Next to her love for God, the strongest feeling in Lisa's heart is her love for her country. In the latter sentiment she finds that Lavretsky can sympathize with her; with respect to the former she knows that he differs from her, but "she hopes to bring the sinner back to God." Her relations with him gradually become more and more intimate; and at last, during an accidental interview with him in the garden behind the Kalitines' house, she discovers, and he learns, that she loves him. At last he thinks life is going to be worth having, the happiness of which he has long despaired is about to offer itself to him. The next day, when he comes home in the evening, he finds the hall redolent of patchouli, and littered with trunks and bandboxes. He goes into his room, and he is met by a lady who drops on her knees at his feet. It is his wife! The news of her death had been her own invention. We pass rapidly on to the scene in which Lavretsky for the second time sees Lisa in church. He has previously had an interview with her, and she has induced him by carnest entreaty to forgive his wife, and even to make some outward show of reconciliation with her. He "The next day was Sunday. The sound of the church-bells reminded Lavretsky of that other Sunday when he had gone to church at cret voice told him that he would see her there Lisa's request. He rose in haste; a certain seagain to-day. He left the house noiselessly, and went with quick steps where the melancholy and monotonous sound called him. arrived early, and found scarcely any one in the church. A lector was reading in the choir, and his voice, sometimes interrupted by a cough, now rose and now fell, but always susthe door. The worshippers arrived one after taining the same note. Lavretsky stood near another, stopped inside the door, crossed them An selves, and bowed on all sides; their steps resounded loudly in the almost empty and silent building, and echoed around the dome. infirm old woman in a worn cloak knelt down close by Lavretsky and prayed with fervor; her toothless, wrinkled, and yellow countenance testified to her strong emotion; her eyes, red with weeping, were fixed on the picture of the iconostasis; her bony hands kept incessantly coming out from underneath her cloak, and making the sign of the cross slowly and reverently. A peasant with a thick beard and a morose expression, his hair and his dress all uncared for, came into the church, and falling at once on his knees, began to perform his prostrations hastily, touching the ground with his forehead, and then throwing back and shaking his head. So bitter a grief showed itself in his face, and in all his gestures, that Lavretsky went up to him and asked him what was the matter. The peasant recoiled as if in fear, then in a hurried voice he said, 'My son is dead,' and betook himself anew to his prostrations. What suffering of theirs can be too great for the consolations of the Church?" thought Lavretsky, and he tried to pray himself. But his heart was heavy and hard, and his thoughts were afar off. He was still lookchurch began to fill with people; she was not ing out for Lisa; but Lisa did not come. The of their number. Mass was said. The deacon had already read the Gospel, and the final prayer was about to commence. Lavretsky moved forward a little, and all at once he saw Lisa. She had come in before him, but he had not remarked her. Standing close by the enclosure of the choir, she never moved, never once looked round. Lavretsky did not take his eyes off her till the last words of the mass were said. He was saying farewell to her in his heart. The congregation began to disperse, but she still kept her place. She seemed to be waiting till Lavretsky left. At length she | know? who shall tell? Life has certain mocrossed herself for the last time, and went out ments, the heart has certain feelings, on which without looking round." it is not well to dwell long." In the street outside he speaks to her, and bids her what is to prove a final farewell. On her return home she tells her aunt, the only member of the family who knows what has passed between her and Lavretsky, that she wishes to leave her home and take the veil. "I have made up my mind," she says; "I have prayed; I have asked God's advice. All is over now, my life with you all is ended. Such a lesson is not given one for nothing. And it's not for the first time that I think of this now. Happiness was not for me. Even wher. I looked for happiness, my mind shrank away at the thought of it. I know all, both my sins and those of others. I know how papa made our money. I know all. And all that I must expiate by prayer, by prayer. "I am grieved at leaving you; my heart aches when I think of mamma and Lenochika. But it cannot be helped. I feel that I can live here no longer. And now I have taken leave of everything in the house for the last time." Eight years pass away, and one fine spring day Lavretsky pays a visit to Madame Kalitine's house, which he has not been near during all that time. That lady is dead, and the house is now tenanted by a younger gen eration. They welcome him hospitably, and after telling him all their news, and among other things that Lisa is still where she was in her convent, they ask him to go out into the garden with them. There they begin a lively game, provocative of much shouting and laughter, but he wanders about by himself, thinking of the days gone by, of the happiness that he had imagined he was about to grasp. The description of his feelings is very beautiful, and it is also very noble, exceedingly tender and pathetic, but quite free from anything morbid or exaggerated. His heart is not broken, though it has received a heavy blow. He has given up hoping for happiness, but he has not taken refuge in cynicism. He has found solace in employment, and he has not worked for himself only, he has striven to promote the interests of his peasants, and to benefit all who are in any way dependent on him. As to Lisa, "they say that Lavretsky has visited the distant convent in which she has hidden herself and has seen her. Crossing from one choir to another she passed close by him, passed steadily by, with the quick but quiet step of a nun, and did not look at him. Only her eyelids quivered all but imperceptibly, only still lower did she bend her emaciated face, and the fingers of her folded hands, enlaced with her rosary, clasped each other more firmly than before. What did they both think? what did they feel? Who can Besides the leading personages of the story, there are a number of minor characters which are excellently worked out, such as Lisa's brilliant but selfish admirer, M. Panshine, her mother and her aunt, the lat ter of whom is depicted with great spirit and humour. Better still is the sketch of M. Lemm, an old German music-master, who is devotedly attached to Lisa, and who is most charmingly, most sympathetically described. Besides these, there is an enthusiastic student, one of Lavretsky's college friends, to whom the chief part of one chapter of the book is devoted. That chapter certainly breaks the thread of the story in a manner with which a severe critic is bound to find fault, and therefore the French translator has omitted it altogether. But it is extremely interesting, not only as throwing considerable light on Lavretsky's character, but also as showing the commencement of a train of thought which M. Turguenief has followed up and fully developed in his later works. The student is a thorough enthusi ast, utterly free from all consideration of his own personal interests, and passionately devoted to the study of the great questions affecting freedom and progress and civilisation. To him money is but as dross, rank and station are mere outward shows, success consideration, as compared with the power of in life is a thing not worthy of a moment's participating in the onward march of intellect, of helping to gather in the ripening harvest of knowledge. His appearance is represented as somewhat ludicrous, and his behaviour a little uncouth, so that he is evidently set up as a mark for some ridicule, but, at the same time, he is clearly intended to command a certain amount of not unkindly respect. of the student who plays the leading part of Lisa a considerable change had taken * Translated into English by Mr. Eugene Schuyler. |