IV.
The emancipation of the serfs, the dream of Turgenef’s life, had become an accomplished fact, and was, moreover, the inaugurator of other great reforms. There was a general joyous awakening of secret forces and of hopes long deferred. The years following 1860, which were so momentous for Russia, wrought a change in the interior life of the poet and author. Torn from his native land by the ties of a deathless friendship, to which he unreservedly devoted the remainder of his life, he left Russia, never to return except at very rare intervals. He established himself first at Baden, afterwards settled permanently in Paris. Every desire of his heart as man, author, and patriot had been gratified. He had helped to bring about the emancipation. His literary fame followed him, and his works were translated into many languages.
But, after some years of silence and repose, this poet’s soul, which through youth had rejoiced in its dreams and anticipations, suffered the change which must come to our poor human nature. He was not destined in his old age to realize his ideals.
In 1868 his great novel “Smoke” appeared. It exhibited the same talent, riper than ever with the maturity of age; but the old faith and candor were wanting. Were we speaking of any other man, we should say that he had become bitter; but that would be an exaggeration in speaking of Turgenef, for there was no gall in his temperament. But there are the pathetic touches of a disenchanted idealist, astonished to find that his most cherished ideas, applied to men, cannot make them perfect. This sort of disappointment sometimes carries an author to injustice; his pencil shades certain characters too intensely, so that they are less true to nature than those of his older works. The phase of society described in “Smoke” exhibits a class of Russians living abroad, who do not, perhaps, retain in their foreign home the best qualities of their native soil: noble lords and questionable ladies, students and conspirators. The scene is laid at Baden, where the author could study society at his leisure. Of this confusing throng of army officers, rusticating princesses, boastful Slavophiles, and travelling clerks, he has given us many a vivid glimpse. But the book, as a whole, is an exaggeration; and this impression is all the stronger as the author evidently does not consider his characters of an exceptional type, but intends to faithfully represent Russian society, both high and low. Moreover, the artist has modified his style. He formerly presented his array of ideas, and left his readers to judge of them for themselves; but now he often puts himself in the reader’s place, and expresses his own opinion very freely.
For the novelist or dramatist there are two ways of presenting moral theses; with or without his personal intervention. We will take the most familiar examples. In Victor Hugo’s “Les Misérables,” there are two conceptions of duty and virtue, which are perfectly antagonistic, personified by Jean Valjean and Javert. They are so perfectly drawn that we might almost hesitate between them; but the author throws the whole weight of his eloquence on the one; he deifies one and depreciates the other, so that he forces the verdict from us. But in “Le Gendre de M. Poirier,” on the contrary, there are two conceptions of honor; two sets of irreconcilable ideas; those of the Marquis de Presle, and those of his father-in-law. The author keeps himself in the background. He presents his two characters with the same clear analyses of their merits and absurdities; and shows both the weak and the strong points of their arguments. Even to the very end we hesitate to judge between them; and it is this conflict of ideas which keeps up the interest of the drama.
For myself, I prefer the second method. Besides being more artistic, it seems to approach nearer to real life, in which we can never see truth clearly, and in which good and evil are always so closely allied. Turgenef embraced this method in all his first studies of social life, and they were more just and true, in my opinion, than his later ones. In the last two, “Smoke” and “Virgin Soil,” he interferes noticeably, bringing forward his own opinions; but I acknowledge that these books contain many passages overflowing with vivid fancy and strong common-sense. He satirizes everything he disapproves, the Slavophile party, all the national peculiarities, especially that mania for declaring everything perfect that springs from Russian soil. His shafts of wit, which he employs to illustrate this infatuation, are very keen; for example, when he speaks of the “literature which is bound in Russia leather”; and when he says, “in my country two and two make four, but with more certainty than elsewhere.”
After emptying his quiver, the author describes a love intrigue, in which he shows as ever his marvellous knowledge of the human heart. But here again his style has changed. Formerly he wrote of youthful affection, a loyal emotion, frank and courageous enough to brave the whole world; and woman seemed to interest him only in her early youth. But he depicts in “Smoke” and “Spring Floods” the most cruel passions, with their agonies, deceptions, and bottomless abysses. The virtuous young girl invariably comes in, but as if held in reserve to save the repentant sinner at the end. Some may prefer these tempestuous compositions to the delicious poetic harmonies of his first romances. It is a matter of taste, and I would not decry the real merit of “Smoke,” which is a masterpiece in its way. I only affirm that on the approach of the evening of life the translucent soul of the poet has given us glimpses of sombre clouds and stormy skies. At the end of “Spring Floods,” after that wonderful scene, so true to life, exhibiting the weakness of the man and the diabolical power of the woman, there follow a few pages so full of rancor that you can but feel pity for the writer who can express such bitterness.
In 1877, “Virgin Soil,” the last long important work, appeared: first in French, in a Paris journal, as if to feel its way; then the original could be risked in Russia with impunity, and had a free circulation. What a marked change the march of ideas had produced since the appearance of Turgenef’s article on Gogol! In this new work the author traversed a road which once would have led directly to Siberia. He had the ambition to describe the subterranean world which at that time was beginning to threaten the peace of the Empire. Having studied for twenty-five years every current of thought springing from Russian soil, the student thought to perfect his task by showing us the natural outgrowth of these currents. Since they disappeared under the earth, they must be investigated and attacked with a bold front.
Turgenef was incited to the work partly from the appearance of a rival, who had already preceded him in this line. We shall see that “Virgin Soil” was an indirect response to “Les Possédés” of Dostoyevski. The effort was not wholly successful; as Turgenef had been away from his native land for fifteen years, he had not been able to watch narrowly enough the incessant transformation of that hidden, almost inaccessible world. Without the closest study from nature the artist’s work cannot produce striking results. The novelist intended to present the still unsettled tendencies of the nihilists in a characteristic and fixed form; but he failed to give clearness and outline to the work; the image refused to reflect its true form. This is why there is something vague and indistinct about the first part of “Virgin Soil,” which contrasts unfavorably with the clear-cut models of his early works.
The author introduces us into the circle of conspirators at St. Petersburg. One of the young men, Neshdanof, has been engaged as a tutor in the house of a rich government official, in a distant province. He there meets a young girl of noble family, who is treated as a poor relation in the house. She is embittered by a long series of humiliations, and is struck with admiration for the ideas of the young apostle, more than for his personal attractions. They escape together, and form a Platonic union, working together among the common people, at the great cause of socialism. But Neshdanof is not fitted for the terrible work; he is a weak character, and a dreamer and poet. Distracted with doubts, and wholly discouraged, he soon discovers that all is chaos within his soul. He does not love the cause to which he is sacrificing himself, and he knows not how best to serve it. Neither does he love the woman who has sacrificed herself for him, and he feels that he has lowered himself in her esteem. Weary of life, too proud to withdraw, and generous enough to wish to save his devoted companion before her reputation is lost, Neshdanof takes his life. He has found out that one of his friends, with more character than himself, has a secret attachment for Marianne. Before dying he joins the hands of those two enthusiastic beings. The romance ends with a fruitless conspiracy, which shows the utter uselessness of attempting to stir the people to revolution.