Fathers and Children, Ivan Turgenev [best book reader .TXT] 📗

artifice that kept out of sight, but was still always present somewhere, invisibly operating the story.⁠—From My Literary Passions (1895).

By William Dean Howells

III

The second novel of the series, Fathers and Children, stirred up a storm the suddenness and violence of which it is not easy, nowadays, to understand. The figure of Bazarov, the first “Nihilist”⁠—thus baptized by an inversion of epithet which was to win extraordinary success⁠—is merely intended to reveal a mental condition which, though the fact had been insufficiently recognized, had already existed for some years. The epithet itself had been in constant use since 1829, when Nadiéjdine applied it to Pushkin, Polevoï, and some other subverters of the classic tradition. Turgenev only extended its meaning by a new interpretation, destined to be perpetuated by the tremendous success of Fathers and Children. There is nothing, or hardly anything, in Bazarov, of the terrible revolutionary whom we have since learnt to look for under this title. Turgenev was not the man to call up such a figure. He was far too dreamy, too gentle, too good-natured a being. Already, in the character of Roudine, he had failed, in the strangest way, to catch the likeness of Bakounine, that fiery organiser of insurrection, whom all Europe knew, and whom he had selected as his model. Conceive Corot or Millet trying to paint some figure out of the Last Judgment after Michaelangelo! Bazarov is the Nihilist in his first phase, “in course of becoming,” as the Germans would say, and he is a pupil of the German universities. When Turgenev shaped the character, he certainly drew on his own memories of his stay at Berlin, at a time when Bruno Bauer was laying it down as a dogma that no educated man ought to have opinions on any subject, and when Max Stirner was convincing the young Hegelians that ideas were mere smoke and dust, seeing that the only reality in existence was the individual Ego. These teachings, eagerly received by the Russian youth, were destined to produce a state of moral decomposition, the earliest symptoms of which were admirably analysed by Turgenev.

Bazarov is a very clever man, but clever in thought, and especially in word, only. He scorns art, women, and family life. He does not know what the point of honour means. He is a cynic in his love affairs, and indifferent in his friendships. He has no respect even for paternal tenderness, but he is full of contradictions, even to the extent of fighting a duel about nothing at all, and sacrificing his life for the first peasant he meets. And in this the resemblance is true, much more general, indeed, than the model selected would lead one to imagine; so general, in fact, that, apart from the question of art, Turgenev⁠—he has admitted it himself⁠—felt as if he were drawing his own portrait; and therefore it is, no doubt, that he has made his hero so sympathetic.⁠—From A History of Russian Literature (1900).

By K. Waliszewski

IV

But for the best expression of the bewilderment of life we have to turn to the portrait of a man, to the famous Bazarov of Fathers and Children. Turgenev raises through him the eternal problem⁠—Has personality any hold, has life any meaning at all? The reality of this figure, his contempt for nature, his egoism, his strength, his mothlike weakness are so convincing that before his philosophy all other philosophies seem to pale. He is the one who sees the life-illusion, and yet, knowing that it is the mask of night, grasps at it, loathing himself. You can hate Bazarov, you cannot have contempt for him. He is a man of genius, rid of sentiment and hope, believing in nothing but himself, to whom come, as from the darkness, all the violent questions of life and death. Fathers and Children is simply an exposure of our power to mould our own lives. Bazarov is a man of astonishing intellect⁠—he is the pawn of an emotion he despises; he is a man of gigantic will⁠—he can do nothing but destroy his own beliefs; he is a man of intense life⁠—he cannot avoid the first, brainless touch of death. It is the hopeless fight of mind against instinct, of determination against fate, of personality against impersonality. Bazarov disdaining everyone, sick of all smallness, is roused to fury by the obvious irritations of Pavel Petrovitch. Savagely announcing the creed of nihilism and the end of romance, he has only to feel the calm, aristocratic smile of Madame Odintsov fixed on him and he suffers all the agony of first love. Determining to live and create, he has only to play with death for a moment, and he is caught. But though he is the most positive of all Turgenev’s male portraits, there are others linking up the chain of delusion. There is Rudin, typical of the unrest of the idealist; there is Nezhdanov (Virgin Soil), typical of the self-torture of the anarchist. There is Shubin (On the Eve), hiding his misery in laughter, and Lavretsky (A House of Gentlefolk), hiding his misery in silence. It is not necessary to search for further examples. Turgenev put his hand upon the dark things. He perceived character, struggling in the “clutch of circumstances,” the tragic moments, the horrible conflicts of personality. His figures have that capability of suffering which (as someone has said) is the true sign of life. They seem like real people, dazed and uncertain. No action of theirs ever surprises you, because in each of them he has made you hear an inward soliloquy.⁠—From “Turgenev and the Life-Illusion,” in The Fortnightly Review (April, 1910).

By Richard H. P. Curle

V

Turgenev did for Russian literature what Byron did for English literature; he led the genius of Russia on a pilgrimage throughout all Europe. And in Europe his work reaped a glorious harvest of praise. Flaubert