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emotional relations, and who has had the artistic,
exceedingly odd idea of turning a whole novel of Turgenief
into verse.
He has much passion, but hardly a flash of emotion.
He is frank, entirely truthful, — perhaps, except when
it is a question as to his age, — reserved towards men,
open towards women, who worship him, and in whom he
trusts after having educated them. More than one is
bound to him as if by enchantment, although he has
constantly taught them to root out every germ of emotion
as a germ of misfortune, and although his conversation
with them chiefly turns upon his relations to his other
mistresses.
Now and then, this man shuts himself up in his room,
and sits lost in silent adoration of a statuette of a favorite
French author, with a long, thick mustache, more
sincerely loved by him than perhaps any Parisian woman
has ever been. He makes a journey to Paris simply to
buy a particular edition or a single autograph.
He has no convictions outside of the literary and
artistic. But within this circle he has his Russian
enthusiasm as a passion, wholly absorbing him,
irrational in the midst of all his intellectual coldness.
What is common to the Slavs is easily comprehended
in him. On closer examination and comparison,
that which is essentially Russian may also be
comprehended. In Poland there is an eminent nobleman, K. J.,
who belongs to the same class of men. He is elegant,
cold, prudent, and yet, in certain directions, enthusiastic.
This Pole and this Russian, to every one who knows
them both and is able to compare them, are equally
brilliant; but the Pole is vainer, the Russian more
directly fond of sensual pleasures. There is a remnant
of chivalrous tradition in the Pole, which the Russian
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