It was a gloomy time. The ferocious5 despotism of Nicholas I. — overweighing the country like the stone lid of a coffin6, crushed every word, every thought, which did not fit with its narrow conceptions. But this was not the worst. The worst was that progressive Russia was represented by a mere7 handful of men, who were so immensely in advance of their surroundings, that in their own country they felt more isolated8, helpless, and out of touch with the realities of life than if they had lived among strangers.
But men must have some outlet9 for their spiritual energies, and these men, unable to take part in the sordid10 or petty pursuits of those around them, created for themselves artificial life, artificial pursuits and interests.
The isolation11 in which they lived drew them naturally together. The ‘circle,’ something between an informal club and a debating society, became the form in which these cravings of mind or heart could be satisfied. These people met and talked; that was all they were able to do.
The passage in which one of the heroes, Lezhnyov, tells the woman he loves about the circle of which Dmitri Rudin and himself were members, is historically one of the most suggestive. It refers to a circle of young students. But it has a wider application. All prominent men of the epoch — Stankevitch, who served as model to the poetic12 and touching13 figure of Pokorsky; Alexander Hertzen, and the great critic, Belinsky — all had their ‘circles,’ or their small chapels14, in which these enthusiasts15 met to offer worship to the ‘goddess of truth, art, and morality.’
They were the best men of their time, full of high aspirations16 and knowledge, and their disinterested17 search after truth was certainly a noble pursuit. They had full right to look down upon their neighbours wallowing in the mire18 of sordid and selfish materialism19. But by living in that spiritual hothouse of dreams, philosophical20 speculations21, and abstractions, these men unfitted themselves only the more completely for participation22 in real life; the absorption in interests having nothing to do with the life of their own country, estranged23 them still more from it. The overwhelming stream of words drained them of the natural sources of spontaneous emotion, and these men almost grew out of feeling by dint24 of constantly analysing their feelings.
Dmitri Rudin is the typical man of that generation, both the victim and the hero of his time — a man who is almost a Titan in word and a pigmy in deed. He is eloquent25 as a young Demosthenes. An irresistible26 debater, he carries everything before him the moment he appears. But he fails ignominiously27 when put to the hard test of action. Yet he is not an impostor. His enthusiasm is contagious28 because it is sincere, and his eloquence29 is convincing because devotion to his ideals is an absorbing passion with him. He would die for them, and, what is more rare, he would not swerve30 a hair’s-breadth from them for any worldly advantage, or for fear of any hardship. Only this passion and this enthusiasm spring with him entirely31 from the head. The heart, the deep emotional power of human love and pity, lay dormant32 in him. Humanity, which he would serve to the last drop of his blood, is for him a body of foreigners — French, English, Germans — whom he has studied from books, and whom he has met only in hotels and watering-places during his foreign travels as a student or as a tourist.
Towards such an abstract, alien humanity, a man cannot feel any real attachment33. With all his outward ardour, Rudin is cold as ice at the bottom of his heart. His is an enthusiasm which glows without warmth, like the aurora34 borealis of the Polar regions. A poor substitute for the bountiful sun. But what would have become of a God-forsaken land if the Arctic nights were deprived of that substitute? With all their weaknesses, Rudin and the men of his stamp — in other words, the men of the generation of 1840 — have rendered an heroic service to their country. They inculcated in it the religion of the ideal; they brought in the seeds, which had only to be thrown into the warm furrow35 of their native soil to bring forth36 the rich crops of the future.
The shortcomings and the impotence of these men were due to their having no organic ties with their own country, no roots in the Russian soil. They hardly knew the Russian people, who appeared to them as nothing more than an historic abstraction. They were really cosmopolitan37, as a poor makeshift for something better, and Turgenev, in making his hero die on a French barricade38, was true to life as well as to art.
The inward growth of the country has remedied this defect in the course of the three generations which have followed. But has the remedy been complete? No; far from it, unfortunately. There are still thousands of barriers preventing the Russians from doing something useful for their countrymen and mixing freely with them. The spiritual energies of the most ardent39 are still compelled — partially40 at least — to run into the artificial channels described in Turgenev’s novel.
Hence the perpetuation41 of Rudin’s type, which acquires more than an historical interest.
In discussing the character of Hlestakov, the hero of his great comedy, Gogol declared that this type is pretty nigh universal, because ‘every Russian,’ he says, ‘has a bit of Hlestakov in him.’ This not very flattering opinion has been humbly42 indorsed and repeated since, out of reverence43 to Gogol’s great authority, although it is untrue on the face of it. Hlestakov is a sort of Tartarin in Russian dress, whilst simplicity44 and sincerity45 are the fundamental traits of all that is Russian in character, manner, art, literature. But it may be truly said that every educated Russian of our time has a bit of Dmitri Rudin in him.
This figure is undoubtedly46 one of the finest in Turgenev’s gallery, and it is at the same time one of the most brilliant examples of his artistic method.
Turgenev does not give us at one stroke sculptured figures made from one block, such as rise before us from Tolstoi’s pages. His art is rather that of a painter or musical composer than of a sculptor47. He has more colour, a deeper perspective, a greater variety of lights and shadows — a more complete portraiture48 of the spiritual man. Tolstoi’s people stand so living and concrete that one feels one can recognise them in the street. Turgenev’s are like people whose intimate confessions49 and private correspondence, unveiling all the secrets of their spiritual life, have been submitted to one.
Every scene, almost every line, opens up new deep horizons, throwing upon his people some new unexpected light.
The extremely complex and difficult character of the hero of this story, shows at its highest this subtle psychological many-sidedness. Dmitri Rudin is built up of contradictions, yet not for a moment does he cease to be perfectly50 real, living, and concrete.
Hardly less remarkable51 is the character of the heroine, Natalya, the quiet, sober, matter-of-fact girl, who at the bottom is an enthusiastic and heroic nature. She is but a child fresh to all impressions of life, and as yet undeveloped. To have used the searching, analytical52 method in painting her would have spoiled this beautiful creation. Turgenev describes her synthetically53 by a few masterly lines, which show us, however, the secrets of her spirit; revealing what she is and also what she might have become under other circumstances.
This character deserves more attention than we can give it here. Turgenev, like George Meredith, is a master in painting women, and his Natalya is the first poetical54 revelation of a very striking fact in modern Russian history; the appearance of women possessing a strength of mind more finely masculine than that of the men of their time. By the side of weak, irresolute55, though highly intellectual men we see in his first three novels energetic, earnest, impassioned women, who take the lead in action, whilst they are but the man’s modest pupils in the domain56 of ideas. Only later on, in Fathers and Children, does Turgenev show us in Bazarov a man essentially57 masculine. But of this interesting peculiarity58 of Russian intellectual life, in the years 1840 to 1860, I will speak more fully when analysing another of Turgenev’s novels in which this contrast is most conspicuous60.
I will say nothing of the minor61 characters of the story before us: Lezhnyov, Pigasov, Madame Lasunsky, Pandalevsky, who are all excellent examples of what may be called miniature-painting.
As to the novel as a whole, I will make here only one observation, not to forestall62 the reader’s own impressions.
Turgenev is a realist in the sense that he keeps close to reality, truth, and nature. But in the pursuit of photographic faithfulness to life, he never allows himself to be tedious and dull, as some of the best representatives of the school think it incumbent63 upon them to be. His descriptions are never overburdened with wearisome details; his action is rapid; the events are never to be foreseen a hundred pages beforehand; he keeps his readers in constant suspense64. And it seems to me in so doing he shows himself a better realist than the gifted representatives of the orthodox realism in France, England, and America. Life is not dull; life is full of the unforeseen, full of suspense. A novelist, however natural and logical, must contrive65 to have it in his novels if he is not to sacrifice the soul of art for the merest show of fidelity66.
The plot of Dmitri Rudin is so exceedingly simple that an English novel-reader would say that there is hardly any plot at all. Turgenev disdained67 the tricks of the sensational68 novelists. Yet, for a Russian at least, it is easier to lay down before the end a novel by Victor Hugo or Alexander Dumas than Dmitri Rudin, or, indeed, any of Turgenev’s great novels. What the novelists of the romantic school obtain by the charm of unexpected adventures and thrilling situations, Turgenev succeeds in obtaining by the brisk admirably concentrated action, and, above all, by the simplest and most precious of a novelist’s gifts: his unique command over the sympathies and emotions of his readers. In this he can be compared to a musician who works upon the nerves and the souls of his audience without the intermediary of the mind; or, better still, to a poet who combines the power of the word with the magic spell of harmony. One does not read his novels; one lives in them.
Much of this peculiar59 gift of fascination69 is certainly due to Turgenev’s mastery over all the resources of our rich, flexible, and musical language. The poet Lermontov alone wrote as splendid a prose as Turgenev. A good deal of its charm is unavoidably lost in translation. But I am happy to say that the present one is as near an approach to the elegance70 and poetry of the original as I have ever come across.
S. Stepniak.
Bedford Park, April 20, 1894.
点击收听单词发音
1 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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2 epoch | |
n.(新)时代;历元 | |
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3 anterior | |
adj.较早的;在前的 | |
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4 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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5 ferocious | |
adj.凶猛的,残暴的,极度的,十分强烈的 | |
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6 coffin | |
n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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7 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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8 isolated | |
adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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9 outlet | |
n.出口/路;销路;批发商店;通风口;发泄 | |
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10 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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11 isolation | |
n.隔离,孤立,分解,分离 | |
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12 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
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13 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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14 chapels | |
n.小教堂, (医院、监狱等的)附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 );(在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的)礼拜仪式 | |
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15 enthusiasts | |
n.热心人,热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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16 aspirations | |
强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 ); 志向; 发送气音; 发 h 音 | |
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17 disinterested | |
adj.不关心的,不感兴趣的 | |
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18 mire | |
n.泥沼,泥泞;v.使...陷于泥泞,使...陷入困境 | |
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19 materialism | |
n.[哲]唯物主义,唯物论;物质至上 | |
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20 philosophical | |
adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
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21 speculations | |
n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 );思考;投机活动;推断 | |
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22 participation | |
n.参与,参加,分享 | |
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23 estranged | |
adj.疏远的,分离的 | |
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24 dint | |
n.由于,靠;凹坑 | |
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25 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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26 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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27 ignominiously | |
adv.耻辱地,屈辱地,丢脸地 | |
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28 contagious | |
adj.传染性的,有感染力的 | |
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29 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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30 swerve | |
v.突然转向,背离;n.转向,弯曲,背离 | |
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31 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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32 dormant | |
adj.暂停活动的;休眠的;潜伏的 | |
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33 attachment | |
n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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34 aurora | |
n.极光 | |
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35 furrow | |
n.沟;垄沟;轨迹;车辙;皱纹 | |
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36 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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37 cosmopolitan | |
adj.世界性的,全世界的,四海为家的,全球的 | |
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38 barricade | |
n.路障,栅栏,障碍;vt.设路障挡住 | |
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39 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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40 partially | |
adv.部分地,从某些方面讲 | |
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41 perpetuation | |
n.永存,不朽 | |
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42 humbly | |
adv. 恭顺地,谦卑地 | |
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43 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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44 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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45 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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46 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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47 sculptor | |
n.雕刻家,雕刻家 | |
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48 portraiture | |
n.肖像画法 | |
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49 confessions | |
n.承认( confession的名词复数 );自首;声明;(向神父的)忏悔 | |
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50 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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51 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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52 analytical | |
adj.分析的;用分析法的 | |
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53 synthetically | |
adv. 综合地,合成地 | |
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54 poetical | |
adj.似诗人的;诗一般的;韵文的;富有诗意的 | |
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55 irresolute | |
adj.无决断的,优柔寡断的,踌躇不定的 | |
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56 domain | |
n.(活动等)领域,范围;领地,势力范围 | |
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57 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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58 peculiarity | |
n.独特性,特色;特殊的东西;怪癖 | |
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59 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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60 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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61 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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62 forestall | |
vt.抢在…之前采取行动;预先阻止 | |
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63 incumbent | |
adj.成为责任的,有义务的;现任的,在职的 | |
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64 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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65 contrive | |
vt.谋划,策划;设法做到;设计,想出 | |
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66 fidelity | |
n.忠诚,忠实;精确 | |
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67 disdained | |
鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 ); 不屑于做,不愿意做 | |
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68 sensational | |
adj.使人感动的,非常好的,轰动的,耸人听闻的 | |
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69 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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70 elegance | |
n.优雅;优美,雅致;精致,巧妙 | |
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