The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1888-07-28
SrecfaI Contributors.
A GLIMPSE AT RUSSIAN LITERA-
TURE.
BY HATTIE TYING GRISwOLD.
Columbus, Wis.,
A RELIGIOUS AND FAMILY WEEKLY.

Nikoloi Gogol ended his career in
madness, and in some Of his works
there is displayed something akin to the
hypeIesthesia of seers, Of the insane.
In satire he is coarse, even vulgar, al
most odious at times, but with pitt
less truth of delineation which may be
bitter, even heartless, but is always
seen to be true. He is Photographic in
his pictures of what is before him, but
it is ofttimes very unattractive and un-
profitable observation. This is es-
pecially true of the great comedy, 1.-THE
Revizar," which is bitter satire on
Russian officialism, and of his great
novel of "Dead Souls, "whose very title
is satire, and which has for it's sub
ject the social question of serfage. 1t
was written at the time when the Czar
Nicholas issued his famous ukaze con-
tanning the principle of the abolition
of that institution, and is powerful
study Of the provincial life of that day.
A much better known, and a far more
pleasing writer, was Ivan Turgenief,
who is well known to French and En-
glish readers in numerous translations.
Turgenief was born in the year 1918.
near the city of Orel, but on country
estate where he was brought up near
to nature, and where from childhood
he showed poets passion for her
charms. He had French and Ger
srsen tutor who seriously influenced his
young mind, and he went to Berlin to
complete his studies, where he imbibed
still more Of those liberal principles,
which were destined to influence so
much his future life. He first appears
as a writer in 1S43, but it was in
a poem Of no great value, and it was
three years later that he published his
first prose work, 1.-THE Annals Of a
Sportsman" 1t was recognized as
masterpiece from the first, and his fame
was at once established, at least in Rus
sia. Turgenief lived much abroad, even
in those early years of his authorship,
and after 1858 made only flying visits
to Russia. This was owing to a diff
Guilty which he had with the imperial
censorships as szrly as 1852, on account
of an article written on Gogol's death.
He was imprisoned for month at that
time, and after that interned at his es-
tate. After enduring this solitude for
two years, during which time he did
some of his best work, he decided to go
abroad and seek the freedom which he
could not enjoy in his native land. He
lived for twenty years in France, but
was eaten up during all that time by the
blackest homesickness and melancholy,
which the passage of years seemed only
to deepen. He loved Paris; but he
pined for his early home and the friends
of his youth. This feeling of home
sick heart can easily be detected in
many of the authors works, and it was
feeling from which death alone re-
lieved him. 1t is a wonder that his
works should be as intensely Rus
sian as they are after his long exile;
but he made many visits to Russia, and
fell naturally into the life there, feel
ing, as he expressed it, always 'disloca-
ted'' anywhere else, and yet, after a
time, hardly contented in his native
land. He felt sometimes an impover-
ishment of the creative faculty, from
this long absence, as though his imagin-
alton was deprived of its rightful food,
and the fountain from which his in
spiration flowed was dried up. Had
he lived always in Russia should we
have had better books? Perhaps more
intensely national, but scarcely greater
world-books we opine.
This exile was intensely sad as age
came on. He had never married, and
was entirely alone in the world in his
later years. Even his Partisan friends,
those of his own generation, one by
one passed away, until after George
Sand and Loubert died, he seemed like
the last leaf on the autumn tree, at a
lofty height, but cold and alone. He
writes one day: "Again 1 am at my
table, and in my soul it is gloomier
than the gloomiest night. Thus, like
moment, passes the day, empty, aim
less, colorless. A space to give pas
sing glance, and lO it is bedtime again.
No right to life, no desire to live.
Nothing to do, nothing to expect, moth
ing to hope for. Thou speakest of