the Slavonic and the Anglo-Saxon can resemble each other but very superficially. There is something Asiatic in the calm doggedness, the fatalism, and the fitful fire of the Russian nature. When her moment has come, the calm, austere (if the word be not too strong) Russian girl will be carried on and away by a fougue unknown to the Anglo-Saxon. In the meantime, she moves about enveloped in a cooling atmosphere of confident expectancy. But the spring bursts forth as suddenly, as joyously, in the breast of the young Russian girl, as it does over the ice-bound land after a Russian winter. But should no sun shine for the girl, or should it shine and be soon obscured, she will resign herself. The sun will sink again, and for ever. In the Nest of Nobles, Liza retires to a convent. She has loved a man who was perhaps worthy of her, who thought he could marry her. He discovers that his wife, who long since left him and dishonoured herself, still lives, and Liza and he must separate. She will have no dimmer jewel than the pure love which was her's for a moment; the sun has shone for a day, and is gone. She bows her head and leaves this world. In On the Eve, Eléna's moment comes when she meets Insárov, the Bulgarian patriot. When he dies in his native country, she remains there. Why should she return to Russia? she asks.. Life has yielded its fruit.

M. Turgenev has certainly done honour to the women of Russia. One knows not where else to look for such a rose-garden as he has painted. Even the "wicked

fairies" are actuated by deep feelings. It would be pecu liar if the most truthful novelist of his time should have flattered his country women, while dealing mercilessly with his own sex. For, though not harsh or uncharitable, he is inexorable in his adherence to truth. Here we have the secret of his greatness. His well-controlled humour, his sensitiveness to every charm and beauty, to every deformity of nature, his responsiveness to all the moods of men and women, his wide sympathies, his great knowledge of the world of to-day and of the past, his keen sportsman's eye—for a great sportsman he was, as every reader of the Note-book will know-have enabled him to depict life as it is with a fidelity which is marvellous. But he is a poet and a novelist in one. It is as rare as it is delightful to take up a book where, side by side with the most minute and subtle analysis of character, and detailed realistic descriptions, you find passages of tender prose-poetry. Such a book is each of M. Turgénev's; and if this introduction, which has run, in rather a rambling fashion, to a greater length than I had intended, should do anything towards making the Russian novelist better known to the English public, I shall not offer any apology for having said so much.

The writings of M. Turgenev have not been without effect on the newer school of French novelists; and in Germany the gifted novel and nouvelle writer, Paul Heyse, has, I should say, not remained unaffected by the genius of the Russian author. But most noticeable is the strong effect

which the works of M. Turgenev have produced upon what the Quarterly Review, with questionable taste, calls the "Howells and James school." Mr. James is most decidedly the disciple of M. Turgénev; that the relationship between them might be expressed in a less agreeable manner, I do not wish to say. There is, for that matter, I conceive, nothing derogatory in being influenced by such a writer as Iván Sergyéevich Turgenev, or even in modelling oneself upon him. One tale of Mr. James' there is which exemplifies what I have been saying in the most striking manner. Except that the scene of it is chiefly in America, it might easily pass for a production of M. Turgénev's. As a rule, the resemblance of the American to the Russian author is so general, as not easily to admit of description. Mr. James' love of detail, delicate style, and passion for analysis, may be cited as constituting a great part of the likeness. In Russia, M. Turgénev a fait école. It would take too long to enter fully into this matter. The distinguished novelist, Count Lev Tolstoy shows clear traces of his fellow-countryman's influence, although he has traced out for himself a path of his own.

It has not been my aim to offer in this place an exhaustive criticism of M. Turgénev's literary work. I have endeavoured to point out to readers unacquainted with his writings some of the salient features thereof; to accompany the following tales by a rough indication of the life of their author, and the characteristics of his works. For

tunately, it will be long before the echoes of the great European chorus of praise which followed him to the grave have died away. I cannot venture to say more of him who has just been universally and rightly recognised as the greatest of contemporary novelists.

58

FIRST LOVE.
(PÉRVAYA LYUBÓV'.)

THE clock had struck half-past twelve, the guests had separated some time before, and the only persons remaining in the room were the landlord of the inn, Sergéi Nikolaiévitch, and Vladimir Petrovitch. The landlord rang the bell, and ordered the remains of the supper to be removed. When this was done, he settled himself in the depths of his arm-chair, and, puffing at a cigar, said:

"Each of us must tell the story of his first love. It's your turn, Sergéi Nikolàiévitch."

The man thus addressed, a rotund person with fair fat face, gazed first at the host and then up at the ceiling.

"I had no first love," said he at length; "I began with the second."

How did you do that?"

"It was very simple. I was eighteen when I first began to pay attention to a very nice girl; but I courted her as