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seems to be more irresponsible in her heartlessness than
anywhere else. He has given a rich psychology of a
whole human race, and has given it with a mind greatly
excited, but yet so that his mental agitations do not in
any way disturb the transparent clearness of the
descriptions.
Of all the prose writers of Russia, Turgenief is the
greatest artist. Possibly, it depends upon the fact that
he is the one of those who has lived most in foreign
lands; for if his long residence in France has not
increased the stock of poetry which he brought with him
from his home, yet he has plainly learned there the art
of setting his pictures in frame and glass.
A broad, deep wave of melancholy flows through
Turgenief’s thoughts, and therefore also through his
books. However sober and impersonal his style is, and
although he hardly ever inserts poems in his novels
and romances, still his general narrative makes a lyrical
impression. There is so much feeling condensed in
them, and this feeling is invariably sadness, — a peculiar,
wonderful sadness without a touch of sentimentality.
Turgenief never expresses himself wholly emotionally;
he works with restrained emotion; but no Western
European is sad as he is. The great melancholy authors of the
Latin races, like Leopardi or Flaubert, have harsh, firm
outlines in their style; the German sadness is glaringly
humorous or pathetic or sentimental. The melancholy
of Turgenief is, in its general form, that of the Slavic
races in their weakness and sorrow, which comes in a
direct line from the melancholy in the Slavic popular
ballads.
All the later Russian poets of rank are melancholy.
But with Turgenief it is the melancholy of the thinker
who has understood that all the ideals of the human
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