The great masters of Russian literature in the nineteenth century

IV.

The expressions, “Russian ideal,” “representative type of one generation,” and other terms of this kind, which one must necessarily use to mark the connection between Turgénief’s different works, must not be allowed to give a false idea of the nature of his talent and of his methods in fiction.

He has himself defined his talent. He has explained his methods so far as they were essential. We have, therefore, only to turn to these precious directions. “I will tell you in a few words that I am, so far as preference goes, a realist; and that I am interested, more than all else, in the living truth of the human physiognomy.” He says elsewhere, that at no moment of his career has he ever taken for his point of departure in a new creation an abstract idea, but that he has always started with the true image, the objective reality, the characteristic personage observed and living.

Here is the very principle of his æsthetic, as he summed it up in his letter to Mr. King, a novelist just beginning his career: “If the study of the human physiognomy, and of the life of another, interests you more than the promulgation of your own feelings and your own ideas; if, for example, it is more agreeable for you to reproduce accurately the external appearance not only of a man, but also of a simple object, than to express with elegance and warmth what you feel in seeing this object or this man,—then you are an objective writer, and you can begin a story or a novel.”

Truth is not disagreeable to those who love it: it gives life to their conceptions. Turgénief’s work, the political bearing of which we have already tried to show our readers, is a little world where go and come a thousand people with variously expressive characters and faces. The creator of such living characters as these has been compared to a great portrait-painter. The comparison is unjust to the novelist. Like the great painters of portraits, he seizes a dominant feature, and expresses it powerfully. It is thus that in a book, on the canvas, the resemblance is caught. But the art of a Titian, of a Reynolds, renders the aspect of the face, and reveals, if you like, something more,—the temperament of the model. It goes scarcely beyond that. The novelist expresses, besides, a whole order of hidden facts, a whole internal spectacle, of which the brush scarcely gives us an inkling. There is therefore a double field of studies to go over, a double power of observation to put into use. It is necessary at one and the same time to note the attitude, and interpret the disposition; to catch the expression of the face, and to penetrate the meaning of the character.

Turgénief possessed this double talent to a very high degree. As a general thing, he paints with broad touches; and his portrait, both physically and morally, is finished in few words. Sometimes the detail is more minute, but the accumulation of lines serves only to verify the dominant impression. I refer the reader to the romance of “The Abandoned One,” and to that admirable portrait of the old Russian gentleman in the time of Catherine II. What a calling-back of the past is given by this old man of lofty stature, perfumed with ambergris, glacial in doublet of silk with its relief of stock and lace ruffles, a suspicion of powder on his hair brought behind into a cue, and in his hand a gold snuff-box ornamented with the empress’s cipher! He always speaks French; he scarcely knows Russian. He reads perforce every day Voltaire, Mably, Helvétius, the Encyclopédistes; he has whilom improvised verses in Madame de Polignac’s salon; he has been among the guests at Trianon; he has seen Mirabeau wearing coat-buttons of extravagant size, and his opinion on our great orator is, that he was “exaggerated in all respects; that, on the whole, he was a man of low tone, in spite of his birth.”

It is seen by this example, that Turgénief’s portraits often represent a class in an individual. They are the expression of an epoch. In fact, though he studies nature closely, he takes pains not to content himself, as our realists do, with the first model that comes to hand. He carefully seeks for the character whose features are sufficiently marked and original, so that in copying it he shall be sure to reproduce the general type. Thus he discovered Bazarof, the hero of “Fathers and Sons.” The idea was given him by the chance which brought to his sick-bed in a small Russian city the “young doctor of the district,” who served him for his model. I do not know whether all the characters of “Virgin Soil,” without exception, passed under the author’s eyes; but I have heard Turgénief tell how he knew, and was able to study, the most characteristic personage of the story, the Nihilist woman,—the upright, solemn, and rather absurd, but strong and sublime Mashurina.

It was by his knowledge of the heart of women, and by the thorough-going fascination of his heroines, that Turgénief left far behind him his great predecessor Gogol. By an inexplicable peculiarity, the author of “The Revizor,” of “Dead Souls,” cared only to paint women who were not women at all, who are lifeless abstractions or caricatures.[39] The most gossiping biographers are embarrassed to explain the reason of this impotence. All that can be said is that Gogol dreaded too much the approach of woman-kind, ever to have the chance to study the sex. On the contrary, Turgénief’s heroines are so life-like, that under each portrait his readers have tried to recognize and name some model. All well-informed Russians would have told you in what palace in Warsaw dwelt Iréna of “Smoke,” or at the first official reception would have pointed you Mrs. Sipiagina of “Virgin Soil.” It certainly seems that all these delicate creations have the irresistible seduction of reality. There is not a romance, not a story, by Turgénief, in which there does not shine forth some feminine face, sometimes of a rather strange grace, but singularly lifelike and touching. Natalia and her sister in “Dmitri Rudin,” Liza in “A Nest of Noblemen,” Elena in “On the Eve,” Marian in “Virgin Soil,”—it would be necessary to name them all.

What rather surprises the French reader is not to find them always beautiful; at least, with that perfect and improbable beauty which our novelists do not hesitate to give their expressionless dolls. One has regular features, a pretty foot, but her hands are too large. Another, at first sight, seems ugly: “She wore her thick chestnut hair short, and she seemed to be fretful; but her whole person gave the impression of something strong, passionate, and fiery. Her feet and her hands were extremely dainty; her little body, robust and supple, reminded one of the Florentine statuettes of the sixteenth century; her movements were graceful and harmonious.” What idealized beauty would have this living grace?

Another singularity, which shows us to what a degree the author takes us from our own latitude: in him the women have less originality than the young girls. The indecision and feebleness found in their lovers, the Rudins and the Nedzhanofs, is paralleled by the resolute wisdom, and—let us use the words “graceful virility,” in them. They somewhat resemble the Roman girls, and we expect to hear them say in their way the “Non dolet” of the illustrious Arria. But no; they have not in the least these rather theatrical attitudes and words. It is the Nedzhanofs who die like impatient Stoics, or perhaps like discouraged Epicureans: Marian continues to live, and without bustle to prepare for the freeing of the country which she loves.

Women raised by noble feeling to the scorn of death are found elsewhere than in Russia. What is more rare, and almost impossible to find, are these fanatical sacrifices, these renunciations worthy of the primitive days of the Church, which associate lovely maidens of sixteen with imbecile vagabonds eaten up by hideous ulcers. Turgénief might have multiplied in his work description of pathological cases (“Strange Stories”), but if his realism is too artistic to delay over what is commonplace, he is too honest to devote himself to exceptions.

The form which best brings out this sincerity of expression is the tale. Turgénief takes little stock in dramatic form, at least in his own case. “I see a subject,” he used to say, “only when I have the framework, the portrait, the dialogues, the wanderings, of a narration.” In the drama he felt himself bothered by the necessity of collecting, abridging, curtailing, filling in; and his psychology seemed to him warped, when presented in miniature. It is in vain that you brought up in opposition to this modest claim the form of such and such of his stories, which from beginning to end is an uninterrupted scene, a dramatic dialogue.

“That is not dramatic dialogue,” said he: he was and had to remain a narrator.

To find finished narration, it is sufficient, indeed, to open at hap-hazard “The Annals of a Huntsman.” Nothing is lacking; not character-painting, or lively course of the story, or surprise in circumstances, or development of the situation, or harmony of outline, or feeling for nature, or grace of style, or value of coloring. But one ought to have heard Turgénief, and to have seen him in his character of story-teller, to imagine to what degree all these qualities in him were spontaneous. It was especially in this that his conversation was unlike any one else’s: it translated ideas into images, and, without any attempt, created paintings which one would never forget.

Does narration in Turgénief gain by assuming the ampler proportions of the novel? Our French taste is open to suspicion, and I hesitate about replying. Our good novelists are such clever carpenters: they construct so symmetrically works so ingeniously arranged for effect; the interest is kept up with such skill; the action moves along with such a certain step, towards a logical result feared or suspected from the very first word! We find ourselves at first not quite so much at our ease in these Russian novels, which are full of art, but are bare of little artifices; where the developments are like the course of real life; where the characters hesitate, and sometimes remain still; where the action develops without haste; and where the author does not even think it important to come to an end. It is sufficient for him to state facts, and explain characters. This perfect naturalness, at first a trifle dubious, finally comes to have a great charm. There is nothing which is more able to make us reflect on the puerile stress which we lay on the method, and on the often to-be-regretted emptiness of our novels of industrious mechanism.

We should not have given Turgénief his just deserts if we forgot to praise him as a poet worthy of all admiration. I mean, as a poet in prose; for Turgénief was no more successful than Gogol in making good verse. Both of them used a language that was picturesque, infinitely expressive, full of images, and, in the case of Turgénief more than Gogol, of perfect purity and the greatest variety. He feels all the beauties of nature, and expresses them with powerful originality, or a delicate charm which shines through even the rather thick veil of translations. And yet what shadings escape us, what graces are lost for us!

The Russian language has infinite resources. If it is less exact in expressing the relations of action and of time, it brings out the most imperceptible circumstances of action. It outlines with less clearness: it paints with incredible richness of coloring. It is easy to understand what effects a writer who can see and can express—a poet, in a word—is able to make with it. Turgénief’s descriptions threw Merimée into despair. One day, when he was trying to put into French a passage where the author had represented the peculiar sound of the rain falling on a sheet of water, the French words grésillement froid (cold shrivelling), destined to translate this inexpressible noise, caused the author of “Colomba” to hesitate. “Yet that is it,” said he, thinking better of it; “and the thing must be said, or lose the bit of observation, which is perfectly true to nature. The Devil take the pedants! Let us leave the phrase.”

How far this poetic realism is from our flat and tiresome enumerations of details heaped up without selection! But the parallel between the Russian realists and the French realists, to which this subject constantly attracts us, would carry us too far. It is sufficient to point out the essential difference. Observation in our realists is systematic and cold; in the Russians, and, above all, in Turgénief, it is always natural, and generally passionate. There is not a novel by Turgénief where the pathetic has not a large part; and sometimes this pathos, by the simplest means, reaches heights neighboring upon the sublime.

I shall only quote one example of it, taken from “Fathers and Sons;” and I have no fear that the reader will charge me with bad taste in cutting out this admirable scene from this novel, extended as it is:—

“Although Bazarof pronounced these last words with a rather resolute expression, he could not bring himself to tell his father of his departure until they were in the library, just as he was going to bid him good-night. He said, with a forced yawn,—

“‘Wait a moment. I almost forgot to let you know. It will be necessary to send our horses to Fyodot to-morrow for the relay.’

“Vasíli Ivanovitch stood stupefied.

“‘Is Kirsánof going to leave us?’ he asked at last.

“‘Yes, and I am going with him.’

“Vasíli Ivanovitch fell back stupefied.

“‘You are going to leave us!’

“‘Yes, I have business. Have the kindness to send the horses.’

“‘Very well,’ stammered the old man, ‘for the relay. Very good,—only—only—is it possible?’

“‘I must go to Kirsánofs for a few days. I shall come right back.’

“‘Yes, for several days. Very well.’

“Vasíli Ivanovitch took out his handkerchief, and blew his nose, bending over till he almost touched the floor.

“‘Well, be it so. It shall be done. But I thought that you—longer. Three days—after three years of absence. It isn’t—it isn’t very long, Yevgéni.’

“‘I just told you that I would come right back. I must!’

“‘You must? Very well: before all things, one must do his duty. You want me to send the horses? Very well; but we did not expect this, Arina and I. She just went to ask a neighbor for some flowers to put in your room.’

“Vasíli Ivanovitch did not add that every morning at daybreak, in bare feet in his slippers, he went to find Timoféitch, handing him a torn bill, which he picked out from the bottom of his pocket-book with trembling fingers. This bill was designed for the purchase of different provisions, principally food and red wine, great quantities of which the young men consumed.

“‘There is nothing more precious than liberty; that’s my principle. It is not well to hinder people. One should not’—

“Vasíli suddenly stopped, and started for the door.

“‘We shall see each other soon again, father, I promise you.’

“But Vasíli Ivanovitch did not return. He left the room, making a gesture with his hand. Coming into his bed-chamber, he found his wife already asleep; and he began to pray in a low voice, so as not to disturb her slumber. However, she waked up.

“‘Is it you, Vasíli Ivanovitch?’ she asked.

“‘Yes, my dear.’

“‘You have just left Yeniushka? I am afraid that he is not comfortable sleeping on the sofa. Yet I told Anfisushka to give him your field-mattress and the two new cushions. I would have given him our feather-bed too, but I think I remember that he does not like to sleep too easy.’

“‘That’s no matter, my dear; don’t trouble yourself. He is comfortable.—Lord, have pity on us sinners,’ he added, continuing his prayer. Vasíli Ivanovitch did not talk long. He did not wish to announce the tidings that would have broken his poor wife’s rest.

“The two young men took their departure the next morning. Every thing in the house, from early that morning, assumed a sad aspect. Anfisushka let fall the plate that she was carrying; Fyedka himself was entirely upset, and finally left his boots. Vasíli Ivanovitch moved about more than ever. He tried hard to hide his disappointment; he spoke very loud, and walked noisily: but his face was hollow, and his eyes seemed always to avoid his son. Arina Vlasievna wept silently. She would have entirely lost her self-control if her husband had not given her a long lecture in the morning. When Bazarof, after having repeated again and again that he would come back before a month was over, finally tore himself from the arms that held him back, and sat down in the tarantás; when the horses started, and the jingling of the bells was mingled with the rumbling of the wheels; when it was no use to look any longer; when the dust was entirely settled, and Timoféitch, bent double, had gone staggering back to his lodging; when the two old people found themselves once more alone in their house, which seemed also to have become smaller and older, ... Vasíli Ivanovitch, who but a few moments before was waving his handkerchief so proudly from the steps, threw himself into a chair, and hung his head on his breast. ‘He has left us,’ he said with a trembling voice,—‘left us! He found it lonesome with us. Now I am alone, alone,’ he repeated again and again, lifting each time the forefinger of his right hand.[40] Arina Vlasievna drew near him, and, leaning her white head on the old man’s white head, she said, ‘What’s to be done about it, Vasíli? A son is like a shred torn off. He is a young hawk: it pleases him to come, and he comes; it pleases him to go, and he flies away. And you and I are like little mushrooms in the hollow of a tree: placed beside each other, we stay there always. I alone do not change for thee, just as thou dost not change for thy old wife.’

“Vasíli lifted his face, which he had hidden in his hands, and embraced his companion more tenderly than he had ever done, even in his youth. She had consoled him in his disappointment.”

Were we not right in speaking here of the pathetic, and was it not well that we drew the reader’s attention to this good old word? It expresses an old idea, which, with no offence to the lovers of the commonplace, is not yet ready to perish. It is the mistake of the French realists,[41] to take coolness for strength, and they claim to be considered very strong men. Turgénief’s great superiority consists in his having no pretension, not even to be trivial and common. He does not make it a matter of pride to stay on the hither side of the truth.

V.

In this study of Turgénief, I do not flatter myself that I have pointed out all the aspects of a character so varied,—that I have shown all the traits of a nature so complex. Yet it would be a serious lack if I did not explain Turgénief’s relationship to the writers of his country, or if I neglected the great number of criticisms which he has passed, in his letters to his friends, in regard to the literary movement of the last thirty years.

He characterizes the epoch to which he belongs. It is still, in his opinion, an epoch “of transition.” He deplores the lack of union, the want of solidarity, in the men who in Russia hold this weapon,—the pen; and who might, by concentrating their efforts, triumph over so many obstacles against which, in their isolation, they run a-muck and bruise themselves. “Each one sings his own song, and follows his lonely path.”

He speaks without too much feeling about his enemies, unless he finds a settled aversion for their work, and for their conception of art. “I am sorry for Tchernuishevsky’s dryness, his tendency to crudeness, his unceremonious treatment of living writers; but I find nothing in him corpse-like. I see a living fountain spouting.” To be sure, he has little to praise in the man of whom he thus speaks; but malice, arising from personal attacks, could not draw him far from the truth. “These are spring waters,” said he in regard to certain injurious writings directed against him. “They will run off, and no trace of them will be left.”

It is not the same with him when teachings wound him, and when the literary form disgusts him. After having loved Nekrásof, he goes so far as no longer to recognize any talent in him, so shocked, so disgusted, is he by his intentional brutalities. His verses “leave behind them an after-taste which makes me nauseated.” “What a son of a dog!” he says in another place. “He is a vulture, ravening and gorging.” But Nekrásof[42] died before him; and he modifies, he explains the judgment which he had passed upon him. “No matter if the young have been infatuated with him, this has done no harm. The chords set in vibration by his poetry (if you can give the name of poetry to what he wrote) are good chords. But when St. ——, addressing these young people, tells them that they are right in placing Nekrásof above Pushkin and Lermontof,[43] and tells them so with an imperturbable smile, I find it hard to restrain my indignation, and I repeat the lines of Schiller:—

His early sympathy for the novelist Dostoyevsky[44] was soon changed to dislike, owing to their differences of opinion. The sharp features in the character of the author of “Crime and Punishment” were not slow to disgust Turgénief. He could not be brought back by the reading of works, the clearly marked tendency of which is sometimes to put a check upon his own. He was not sparing of admiration for the “Recollections of a Dead House.” “The picture of the banya (bath) is really worthy of Dante. In the character of the various people (that of Petrof, for example), there is much fine and true psychology.”

But when Dostoyevsky’s faults grow more pronounced; when his qualities become extravagant, and themselves turn to mannerisms; when this keenness, once so fine and delicate, loses itself in subtleties; when the writer’s sensitiveness changes into supersensitiveness; when his imagination goes beyond the bounds of reason, and gloats over the pursuit of the horrible,—Turgénief does not hide his disgust, his scorn. “God, what a sour smell! What a vile hospital odor! What idle scandal! What a psychological mole-hole!”[45]

Turgénief prefers as he debars, he loves as he detests; that is to say, with a passion which is contagious, and carries the reader with him. One should see with what pleasure he receives the works of the satirist Soltuikof, better known and more appreciated under the nom de guerre of Shchedrin. What a feast it was for him, when a new “Letter to my Aunt” appeared! With what joy he applauded its satirical features which were “powerful even to gayety”! Soltuikof seems disturbed at the flood of hatred which he stirs up. “If you only had a title of hereditary nobility, nothing of the sort would have happened to you. But you are Soltuikof-Shchedrin, a writer to whom it will have been given to leave a deep and permanent impress on our literature: then you will be hated, and you will be loved also; that only depends on the person.”

The most striking example of this generosity of Turgénief’s is shown us by the spectacle of his relations with his great rival Tolstoï. From the moment when Tolstoï’s first book appeared, Turgénief, already famous, distinguishes the young author, welcomes him as a new star, and feels impelled by an irresistible desire to love him. “My heart goes out to you as towards a brother.” “Childhood and Youth” appear. Turgénief’s admiration is expressed in this fashion: “When this young wine shall have finished fermenting, there will come forth a drink worthy of the gods.”

Life separates them; the most diverse mental tendencies still further increase this separation. There is even, at one time, an inopportune meeting, conflict, violent rupture, almost tragic, since a duel narrowly escaped being the result. There are noticeable in Turgénief, from that moment, movements of vexation. The admiration which he was the first to arouse in Tolstoï’s favor turns, becomes fashionable, and goes to commonplace unreason: still he continues to be glad that “War and Peace” is praised to the skies; “but it is by its most dubious merits that the public want to regard it as unequalled.” In his opinion, there are not such good reasons for falling into ecstasies about “Anna Karénina.” “Tolstoï this time has taken the wrong track; and that is due to the influence of Moscow, of the Slavophile nobility, of orthodox old maids, to the isolation in which the author lives, to the impossibility of finding in Russia the requisite degree of artistic liberty.”

But excessive strictures are rare in him; and how richly they are compensated by the generous crusade, which, from the year 1878, Turgénief undertakes for the sake of popularizing Tolstoï in France, and of building him a pedestal which at the present time threatens to rise higher than his own! If, unfortunately for French readers, a “Russian lady” had not got ahead of him, he would have translated the masterpiece which he liked the best, which seemed to him to give the highest idea of Tolstoï’s great powers,—“The Cossacks.”

In last resort, he contents himself with the most active propaganda in favor of another translation, that of “War and Peace.” His correspondence shows him to us, going about carrying the book to Flaubert, to Taine, to Edmond About, to those who are capable of enjoying this foreign dish without further advice. He hopes that their articles will enlighten those who need to be told in order to get the taste of it. His illness alone turns him away from this occupation which I have no need of qualifying: it is too characteristic.

At the hour of death, Turgénief’s last thought turns to Tolstoï. I beg the reader to go back to that admirable letter, to that short literary will, in which the dying author salutes, and calls back to the arena from which he is just departing, his great rival in talent and in glory.

It would be very strange, if having lived long in France, and having made precious literary friendships, Turgénief had not mentioned names particularly interesting for French readers. He speaks much in his letters of the contemporaneous realistic school, and he judges it favorably, especially at its first beginning. He does more than enjoy the Goncourts and Zolas. He makes arrangements for them with the directors of Russian journals or reviews; he endeavors to have one or two thousands of francs more paid for their manuscripts, by giving them to be translated into Russian before they are published in France.

Especially for Zola did he use his mediatorial influence. He seems very happy to help him; nevertheless, he does not fail to note with his delicate and imperceptible irony certain amusing traits of character. “As far as Zola is concerned, you told me that you would pay more for his manuscript than Stasulevitch. I have informed Zola.... His teeth have taken fire at it.” “In his last visit to Paris, Stasulevitch, having made Zola’s acquaintance, gilded him from head to foot, on the one condition that Zola should belong to him alone. So the European messenger (Vyestnik Yevropui) seems in Zola’s eyes like the fabulous hen with the golden eggs, which he must guard like the apple of his eye.”

The friendship, made of admiration and sympathy, between Turgénief and Flaubert, is well known. It is painted in Turgénief’s letters in truly expressive lines: “I have translated one of Gustave Flaubert’s stories. It is not long, but of incomparable beauty. It will appear in the April number of ‘The European Messenger.’ Perhaps two translations of it will appear. I recommend it to you in advance. I have endeavored, so far as in me lay, to reproduce the colors and tone of the original.” Flaubert dies. Turgénief is so moved that he breaks with all his habits. He, so sober, so disliking noise, wire-pulling, puffing, puts himself at the head of a demonstration in the Russian journals; and he opens a subscription for a monument to his friend. He speaks with genuine disgust of the low interpretations to which this intervention on his part gave rise. His enemies affected to see in this something like the return of an old actor, who had left the stage, and was tormented by yearning for the scenes.

It would not be well to dwell too strongly on Turgénief’s judgment in regard to Victor Hugo. Turgénief was a true poet, but when he wrote in verse he never rose above mediocrity. He knew it, and he criticised this part of his work very severely. The quality of his verses is explained better when it is seen how narrowly and unfairly he judges La Légende des Siècles. The epic grandeur and originality of this work escape him: its swing is too powerful, and it wearies him; its brilliancy is too intense, and it blinds him. He judges Victor Hugo as a poet of thirty years ago—Pushkin, if he had come to life—might have done: he did not much rise above the Byronian horizon.[46]

He is, however, more just towards Swinburne, the English Hugo. But here, again, his criticism is superficial: favorable as it is, one can see that he has not had time to find his reasons, and touch bottom.

The critical faculty is evidently less keen in Turgénief than in others of his friends,—Shchedrin, for example. He it was who caused the scales to fall from Turgénief’s eyes, and revealed for him what he himself felt somewhat confusedly as to the often artificial and conventional character of our realists. “I would have kissed you with delight, ... to such a degree what you say about the romances of Goncourt and Zola hits the case, and is true. As for me, it seemed so confusedly, as though I had a heavy feeling over the epigastrium. I have just this moment uttered the Akh! of relief, and seen clearly.... It cannot be said that they have not talent, but they do not follow the right way: they are already inventing too much. Their literature smacks of literature, and that is bad.”

Although he was warned, Turgénief was not the man to wish to put others on the lookout. The success of another did not fill him with any envy. On the other hand, the disappointment of those who were dear to him caused him real pain. After the failure of one of George Sand’s dramas, he wrote this charming word: “If I had met her, I should not have said any thing of the fiasco of her poor piece: like a respectful son of Noah, I turn away my eyes, and hide the nakedness of my grandam.”

He had recovered from his boyish enthusiasm for the work of the illustrious novelist, “I cannot any longer hold by George Sand, any more than by Schiller”, he wrote in 1856. But in place of admiration for the diminished and collapsed merits of the writer, there was substituted, especially in latter years, a touching worship for the truly virile virtues of the woman.

This is the way he speaks of her, on the day of her death, in a letter meant for publication: “It was impossible to enter into the circle of her private life, and not become her adorer in another sense, and perhaps in a better sense. Every one felt immediately that he was in presence of an infinitely generous and benevolent nature, in which all the egotism had been long and thoroughly burned away by the ever-ardent flame of poetic enthusiasm and faith in the ideal; a nature to which all that was human became accessible and dear, and from which exhaled, as it were a breath of cordiality, of friendliness, and above all that, an unconscious aureole, something sublime, free, heroic. Believe me, George Sand is one of our saints.”

We cannot better finish this review of names loved by Turgénief than by letting the reader rest on this luminous portrait of George Sand. In the virtues which Turgénief ascribed to her, is it not allowed us to find many of his own?