UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, 
SIDNEY SUSSEX COLLEGE 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
TURGENEV AND THE QUESTION OF 
THE RUSSIAN ARTIST 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Luis Sundkvist 
 
 
Submitted for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy 
 
March 2010 
 
Under the supervision of Dr Diane Oenning Thompson
  
 
 
Luis Sundkvist  “Turgenev and the Question of the Russian Artist” 
 
 
Summary: 
 
 This thesis is concerned with the thoughts of the Russian writer Ivan Turgenev 
(1818-83) on the development of the arts in his native country and the specific problems 
facing the Russian artist. It starts by considering the state of the creative arts in Russia in 
the early nineteenth century and suggests why even towards the end of his life Turgenev 
still had some misgivings as to whether painting and music had become a real necessity for 
Russian society in the same way that literature clearly had. A re-appraisal of On the Eve 
(1860) then follows, indicating how the young sculptor Shubin in this novel acts as the 
author’s alter ego in a number of respects, in particular by reflecting Turgenev’s views on 
heroism and tragedy. The change in Shubin’s attitude towards Insarov, whom the sculptor 
at first tries to belittle before eventually comparing him to the noble Brutus in 
Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, can be said to anticipate Turgenev’s own feelings about 
Bazarov in Fathers and Children (1862) and the way that this ‘nihilist’ attained the stature 
of a true tragic hero. In this chapter, too, the clichéd notion of Turgenev’s alleged affinity 
with Schopenhauer is firmly challenged—an issue that is taken up again later on in the 
discussion of Phantoms (1864) and Enough! (1865). Other aspects of Turgenev’s portrayal 
of Shubin are used to introduce the remaining chapters, where the problems of dilettantism, 
originality, nationalism and Slavophilism—among the most acute problems which Russian 
artists had to contend with in Turgenev’s eyes—are explored through various works of his, 
especially the novel Smoke (1867), as well as by reference to his observations of such 
contemporaries as Glinka, the painter Ivanov, Tolstoi, and the composers of the ‘Mighty 
Handful’. The springboard for the final chapter on the tragic fate befalling so many Russian 
artists is once again Shubin, whose voluntary exile in Rome at the end of the novel allows 
for certain parallels to be drawn with Gogol’. Despite Turgenev’s own ‘absenteeism’ from 
Russia, for which he was much reproached, it is emphasized in the conclusion that he 
always remained devoted to the cause of Russia’s civic and cultural development, 
especially in the realm of the arts, whose national, and at the same time universal,  
value he upheld so compellingly in his Pushkin speech of 1880. 
  
 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
List of plates           i 
Declaration of originality and statement of length      ii 
Acknowledgements           iii 
Note on transliteration, dates, and abbreviations      iv 
 
CHAPTER I  THE PLACE OF THE ARTS IN RUSSIA        
Introduction           1 
I.1 Literature as a vital necessity of Russian society     4 
I.2  The fine arts: a foreign commodity       10 
I.3 The ‘strangeness’ of music in Russia       14 
 
CHAPTER II  НАКАНУНЕ: ART, HEROISM, AND TRAGEDY 
Introduction           21 
II.1 The artist’s role in times of crisis       25 
II.2 The value of art questioned—Elena and Bazarov     26 
II.3 Turgenev’s reflections on heroism       32 
II.4 Shubin’s sculptures of Insarov       39 
II.5 Brutus as a paragon for Insarov and Bazarov      43 
II.6 Turgenev’s Kantian ‘fatalism’         49 
II.7 Turgenev’s views on tragedy—Elena and Bazarov     54 
 
CHAPTER III  THE EDUCATION OF ARTISTS       
Introduction           63 
III.1 The problem of aristocratic dilettantism      68 
III.2 Teaching in music and the fine arts       74 
III.3 Humanistic education         80 
III.4 Schopenhauer refuted         86 
III.5 Призраки: the conscious artist       93 
  
 
 
 
CHAPTER IV  THE QUEST FOR ORIGINALITY     
Introduction           99 
IV.1 Russia’s complicated sense of inferiority      101 
IV.2 The burden of authorities        111 
IV.3 National originality         120 
 
CHAPTER V  OFFICIAL NATIONALITY AND SLAVOPHILISM    
Introduction           125 
V.1 Russia, a ‘giant with clay feet’       128 
V.2 Slavophile ideas and Russian art       135 
V.3 Russian cultural nationalism        141 
 
CHAPTER VI  THE RUSSIAN ARTIST’S TRAGIC FATE    
Introduction           146 
VI.1 Far from Russia         150 
VI.2 The artist’s milieu         162 
VI.3 Repudiation of one’s works        170 
VI.4 The value of art reaffirmed        175 
 
CONCLUSION          182 
BIBLIOGRAPHY          191 
 Primary sources         191 
  Works of fiction        191 
  Non-fictional works        192 
 Secondary sources         193 
  In Russian         193 
  In other languages        196 
i 
 
 
 
 
LIST OF PLATES 
 
The following illustrations are to be found at the end of Chapter III:  
 
 
1A A Girl with a Broom (1651) by Rembrandt 
 
1B Молочница (A Milkmaid, 1820s) 
by Aleksei Venetsianov (1780-1847) 
 
2A Brutus (1540) by Michelangelo 
 
2B Victor Hugo (1842) 
  by David d’Angers (1788-1856) 
 
2C Victor Hugo (1832) 
  by Jean-Pierre Dantan (1800-69) 
 
3A Последний день Помпеи (The Last Day of Pompeii, 1833) 
by Karl Briullov (1799-1852) 
 
3B Явление Христа народу (The Appearance of Christ to the People, 1855) 
by Aleksandr Ivánov (1806-58) 
 
4A Бурлаки на Волге (Boat-Haulers on the Volga, 1873) 
by Il’ia Repin (1844-1930) 
 
4B Забытый (Forgotten, 1874) 
by Vasilii Vereshchagin (1842-1904) 
 
5 Портрет композитора М.П. Мусоргского (Portrait of Musorgskii, 1881) 
by Il’ia Repin 
ii 
 
 
 
 
DECLARATION 
 
I hereby declare that my thesis entitled: 
"Turgenev and the Question of the Russian Artist" 
 is the result of my own work and includes nothing which is the outcome of work 
done in collaboration except as declared in the Preface and specified in the text 
 is not substantially the same as any that I have submitted or will be submitting for a 
degree or diploma or other qualification at this or any other University, except as 
declared in the Preface and specified in the text 
 does not exceed the prescribed word limit 
 
I have also: 
 resided in Cambridge for at least three terms 
 undertaken the minimum requirement of research terms 
 submitted this thesis by my submission date or requested leave to defer it 
 formally applied for examiners to be appointed 
I will also keep my contact details up to date using my self-service pages throughout the 
examination process 
 
STATEMENT OF LENGTH 
 
I confirm that this thesis is 79,998 words long (excluding the bibliography), and that it 
does therefore not exceed the limit prescribed by the MML Degree Committee. 
 
Date: 27 October 2010  Signature: 
     Print Name: LUIS SUNDKVIST 
iii 
 
 
 
 
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 
 
 
I would like to acknowledge my gratefulness to: 
 Dr Diane Thompson, my supervisor, for having carefully read and commented on 
the various sections of the manuscript, as well as for having recommended a number of 
very helpful books on Turgenev and Russian literature. 
 Dr Rosalind Blakesley, from the History of Art Department, for advice on the use 
of illustrations and recommended reading on the painter Aleksei Bogoliubov, who 
collaborated with Turgenev in Paris during the 1870s. 
 Mr John Cunningham, Librarian at the Society for Co-operation in Russian and 
Soviet Studies, London, for his generous assistance. 
 Ms Siobhán Carew, the Graduate Studies Administrator at our Faculty, and Prof. 
Charles Drage at Imperial College, London, for general encouragement.  
 Dr Anne Cobby, Mrs Hélène Fernandes, and other members of staff at the MML 
and University libraries in Cambridge for their kind help. 
 The Domestic Research Studentship Committee at the University of Cambridge 
for the award of a generous grant. 
 
iv 
 
 
 
 
NOTE ON TRANSLITERATION, DATES, AND ABBREVIATIONS 
 
 
Transliteration: 
The transliteration system used is that of the Library of Congress, except for diacritics. In the text 
and notes titles of Russian works have been left in Cyrillic. Some names (Herzen, Cui, and 
Laroche) are given in the main text in their more familiar English spellings, but are transliterated 
consistently in the bibliographical references. The names of Russian tsars are also given in their 
English spellings.  
 
Dates: 
Dates of letters sent from Russia are given in the ‘old style’. The dates of those sent from other 
European countries are given in both styles.  
 
Abbreviations and other conventions:         
The author-date system is used for citation, with the volume numbers, in the case of multi-volume 
editions, given in roman numerals. For references to Turgenev’s writings a modified system is 
used: only the volume and page numbers are given, and this is assumed to refer to Turgenev 
(1961-68). Where his letters are cited¸ P comes before the volume number, referring to the 
Pis’ma section of Turgenev (1961-68). In a few cases, the second Academy edition, Turgenev 
(1978-), has been cited, and this is indicated by an asterisk superscript (*). Letters not included in 
the first Academy edition are cited using the following abbreviations: 
LI = Lettres inédites (Granjard & Zviguilsky 1972) 
NC = Nouvelle correspondance (Zviguilsky 1971-72) 
 
Abbreviations are also used for the two main editions of recollections of Turgenev: 
 VT (1983) = Turgenev v vospominaniiakh sovremennikov (Fridliand & Petrov 1983) 
 VT (1988) = Turgenev v vospominaniiakh sovremennikov (Fridliand 1988) 
 
Italicized words in the original texts are preserved in italics in the quotations. I have used dotted 
underlining to emphasize words or phrases in some quotations. 
 
1  
CHAPTER I 
 
THE PLACE OF THE ARTS IN RUSSIA 
 
Introduction 
 All the free arts, in Turgenev‟s view, had come to Russia from Western Europe as 
part of her gradual evolution into a civilized nation. He was of course aware of Russia‟s 
native traditions in iconography, folksong and poetry. In fact, he studied the latter with 
great interest during his exile to his estate at Spasskoe in the 1850s, when in letters to the 
Aksakov family he often mentioned the byliny he was reading, and later came to appreciate 
other genres of early Russian literature (such as Archpriest Avvakum‟s writings). Yet it 
was no surprise that in Дым (1867), Potugin, the spokesman of some of Turgenev‟s most 
cherished views and the most reviled figure he ever created,
1
 pointed ironically to the 
crudeness of Russian byliny and legends and insisted that without civilization in the 
European sense there could not be true poetry (IX/236-37). For already in his article „De la 
littérature russe contemporaine‟, which he wrote in 1845 for a Parisian journal,2 Turgenev 
had stated his conviction that only amongst peoples where a civic society had emerged or 
was forming did a genuine necessity for art arise. This had been the case with Europe even 
before the Middle Ages, he argued, but not in Russia until she began to assimilate the 
reforms of Peter the Great: 
En Europe, effectivement, et dans chaque nation, le besoin de reproduire les faits, les idées, 
les croyances, les formes de la société, toute la vie humaine, en un mot, ce besoin, source 
de tout art et de toute science, s‟était fait sentir sans interruption […] C‟est que la société a 
toujours existé à l‟Occident. En Russie, au contraire, si l‟on excepte ces contes et ces 
chansons du peuple, ce besoin de reproduire la vie nationale ne s‟était pas encore 
manifesté. Même avant Pierre le Grand, l‟art en Russie venait d‟Italie ou de Byzance. C‟est 
que la Russie n‟existait que comme peuple, pas encore comme societé. (XII*/502) 
This view of art as expressing the life of a civilized nation is one of the central 
tenets of Turgenev‟s aesthetics, influenced by Belinskii‟s „Hegelian heritage, with its 
organicist and historical conception of art‟.3 Thus, in his remarkable essay on Goethe‟s 
                                               
1 Dostoevskii was particularly incensed and even almost ten years later, when preparing the Дневник 
писателя of 1876, he considered writing an article to refute Potugin‟s „ругательство на Россию‟ (1972-
90:XXIV/74). See also Budanova 1985.    
2 This article was published anonymously, but Lanskoi (1964:271-74) has made an irrefutable case for 
Turgenev‟s authorship, pointing out that the views on Pushkin expressed here anticipate Turgenev‟s speech 
of 1880.  
3 Terras 1970: 32.  
2  
Faust for Отечественные записки, also in 1845, Turgenev argued that the highest glory 
an artist could achieve was to „положительно выразить сущность своего народа и 
времени‟ (I/219). This idea was problematic in Russia where the „national essence‟ was 
far from clear to those members of the educated classes who reflected on it. Some of them, 
in particular Turgenev, understood that it was necessary to take into account the aspirations 
not just of their own class but also those of the peasantry. But clarifying these through free 
discussion was very difficult in the Russia of Nicholas I where the State bureaucracy 
stifled all independent endeavour, except for the increasingly critical thought and writing 
of the intelligentsia.
4
 However, the latter too suffered the State‟s leaden grip in the last 
seven years of Nicholas I‟s reign (1848-55) as control over the press and the universities 
was intensified. As Turgenev recalled in a speech he gave in Moscow in 1879, the years of 
his youth were a time „когда ещѐ помину не было о политической жизни‟ (XV/58).  
Given the relationship that Turgenev saw between civic development and the 
flourishing of the arts, it is natural that in the years immediately following 1855 he 
experienced what he himself recognized as a surge of creative activity, producing his four 
finest novels in quick succession as Russian society was vivified by the new tsar‟s reforms. 
But any hopes that the other arts would benefit too from this atmosphere of change 
suffered a setback with the deaths of Glinka in 1857 and Aleksandr Ivanov in 1858, the 
two leading representatives of Russian music and painting in Turgenev‟s eyes. Moreover, 
these deaths occurred in circumstances just as tragic as Gogol‟‟s only a few years earlier 
(in 1852) and they affected Turgenev almost as strongly. His observations at the time 
seemed to confirm what in his Pushkin speech of 1880 he would describe as „та жестокая 
судьба, которая с такой, почти злорадной, настойчивостью преследует наших 
избранников‟ (XV/71). This „cruel fate‟ also struck at those who were not artists, and the 
loss of such outstanding figures as Stankevich and Belinskii when Turgenev was a young 
man contributed to his vivid sense of the tragic.            
In his book on Turgenev and music, Abram Gozenpud (1994:123) argued that the 
writer‟s meetings with Glinka and Ivanov not long before their deaths influenced his 
portrayal of Herr Lemm in Дворянское гнездо (1859) as an artist whose potential remains 
unfulfilled, partly because of the indifference of the surrounding world. We shall return to 
this issue later on, and, indeed, Lemm is arguably the most compelling artist figure in 
Turgenev‟s works. However, apart from the fact that he is a foreigner (which in itself says 
                                               
4 Riasanovsky 1983:16. 
3  
much about Turgenev‟s view of instrumental music‟s „alienness‟ to Russia) and therefore 
not directly relevant to the question of the Russian artist, it is significant that the main plot 
of Дворянское гнездо is set in 1842, like that of Рудин. It is only with his third novel, 
Накануне (1860), which begins by the banks of the Moscow river in the summer of 1853, 
that Turgenev begins to address such contemporary matters as the value of art in the Russia 
of his time. For the two young Russians, Bersenev and Shubin, in 1853, just before the 
outbreak of the Crimean War, no end was yet in sight to Nicholas I‟s reign, but even so a 
tendency which emerged in the aftermath of 1855 and dominated Russian thought in the 
1860s and 70s makes itself felt in the novel. It is the tendency of criticism, with its 
concomitant hostility towards art, which was to trouble Turgenev all his life, and which in 
Накануне manifests itself mainly in Elena, but also in Insarov. The anachronism of this 
happening in the Russia of 1853 is veiled by having these stirrings of the future confined to 
a woman and a foreigner. Interestingly, these critical tendencies are most keenly felt by 
Shubin, an artist, who, by his apparent lack of seriousness, forfeits Elena‟s respect. It is in 
fact through the sculptor Shubin, of half French, half Russian parentage, that Turgenev 
touches on many of the issues which made the existence of a Russian artist problematic, 
not least of which was this questioning of the necessity of art in view of all the difficulties 
Russia was facing. 
Certainly, Shubin is a minor character, but Turgenev portrays him with his skill for 
giving essential, typical details. As William Ralston, Turgenev‟s English friend and 
translator put it in in 1881: „Scarcely any other novelist has been able to produce a striking 
portrait by so few strokes‟.5 By following these strokes in Shubin‟s case, various aspects of 
the problem of the Russian artist will be seen to come to light. The next chapter will also 
consider how Shubin in turn sheds invaluable light on the novel‟s hero, Insarov, and his 
tragic fate.
6
 One detail of Shubin‟s biography, though, is worth mentioning here: his 
foreign descent. Turgenev doesn‟t give this detail in vain. On the one hand, it reflects the 
fact that he may have used some traits of his friend, the writer Dmitrii Grigorovich in his 
portrayal of Shubin. Like the latter, Grigorovich had studied at the Academy of Arts for a 
few months and, most importantly, his mother was French—indeed, he was often criticized 
                                               
5 Waddington 1995:91.  
6 As Freeborn observes, Turgenev „always excelled in portraying minor characters‟, giving them roles which 
„contribute directly to the portrayal of either hero or heroine‟ (1960:63). 
4  
for a certain vivacity which seemed suspiciously un-Russian to many contemporaries.
7
 
Similarly, Shubin‟s fondness for light-hearted pranks is at one point associated with his 
French temperament: „«Что ты так егозишь, француз!»—раза два заметил ему 
Берсенев‟ (VIII/57). On the other hand, Shubin also shares his foreign ancestry with some 
of the artists who were at the forefront of Russia‟s cultural life in the first half of the 
nineteenth century. Thus, Ivan Vitali (1794-1855), the most accomplished sculptor of that 
period, was born in St Petersburg to Italian parents, but he was definitely seen as a Russian 
artist by his contemporaries, including Turgenev.
8
 As we shall see in section IV.2, it is 
likely that Turgenev based some aspects of Shubin‟s biography on his observations of 
Vitali, recorded initially in a review of St Petersburg‟s artistic life which he wrote for 
Современник in 1847.9 The most popular painter of the time, Karl Briullov (1799-1852) 
was of French Huguenot descent.
10
 Turgenev knew the work of these artists, whose foreign 
origins only served to confirm the idea he expressed in his article of 1845 about the fine 
arts in Russia having been imported from Western Europe. In contrast to the Slavophiles, 
there was nothing wrong or humiliating for him about this, since, like Potugin, he believed 
in the continuity of art—„преемственность искусства‟ (IX/232)—as culture was passed 
down the generations and shared between countries. 
However, commissioning works of art and artists from abroad by supreme decree 
and, later, by the whim of ostentatious landowners, was not enough for the arts to thrive 
properly on Russian soil. They had to be assimilated by Russian society, in accordance 
with its needs, and in the mid-nineteenth century Turgenev saw that this was as yet only 
really the case with literature. 
 
I.1 Literature as a vital necessity of Russian society 
In a scathing review of a historical drama by Stepan Gedeonov in 1846, Turgenev 
argued that the success of the plays of Fonvizin, Griboedov and Gogol‟ showed how 
„театр у нас уже упрочил за собой сочувствие и любовь народную; потребность 
                                               
7 For example, at one public reading in 1879 or 1880 Dostoevskii suffered an attack of jealousy when he saw 
the gallant and still youthful Grigorovich kissing his wife‟s hand: „Ишь французишка, так мелким бесом и 
рассыпается‟ (Dolinin 1964:II/277). 
8 In the 1830s Vitali fashioned the ornamental sculptures for many public squares and gates in Moscow, was 
the author of various famous busts, and, from 1841, was commissioned with sculpting the bas-reliefs and 
figures of the Apostles for the interior of St Isaac‟s Cathedral in Petersburg. See Iakirina & Odnoralov 1960 
for illustrations of these.      
9 Another prototype might be his namesake, the sculptor F. I. Shubin (1740-1805), but there is no evidence 
that Turgenev was aware of this artist of peasant origins who sculpted portraits of Catherine the Great and 
many of her courtiers (see Nedoshivin 1944).         
10 Mashkovtsev 1961:23.  
5  
созерцания собственной жизни возбуждена у русских‟ (I/257). This is true of literature 
in general, which, especially after the war of 1812, began to answer to educated Russians‟ 
awakened interest in their country‟s past,11 producing a host of historical novels such as 
Zagoskin‟s Юрий Милославский (1829), greatly admired by Turgenev as a boy (XIV/81-
82). However, the natural yearning for works about Russian life in the present was not so 
easily satisfied, partly because of the censorship which frowned on anything that 
resembled social or political commentary, and partly because of Romantic disdain for the 
ordinary which persisted well into the 1840s. The latter, together with the State doctrine of 
Official Nationality, ensured a constant supply of works on historical themes that imitated 
foreign models (mainly Schiller and Shakespeare in drama, Walter Scott in prose) and 
whose national content was quite artificial. They belonged to what Turgenev in his 
reminiscences of Belinskii (1869) called the „ложновеличавая школа‟, and despite all 
their thickly laid on Russianness, these plays and novels „в самой сущности не имели 
ничего русского: это были какие-то пространные декорации, хлопотливо и небрежно 
воздвигнутые патриотами, не знавшими своей родины‟ (XIV/38). 
 As Heine once said, only a true poet can recognize the beauty of his own times, 
which is never as obvious as that of the past. In Russia the first such poet was Pushkin, 
who, in Евгений Онегин (1823-30), depicted contemporary Russian society without the 
overtly polemic intent of such dramatists as Fonvizin or Griboedov. Moreover, Pushkin‟s 
verses, as Turgenev noted in his French article of 1845, struck a chord with readers in a 
way that eluded Zagoskin‟s patriotic novel (XII*/506). The immediate sympathy which 
Russians felt for Pushkin and, later, for Gogol‟, was for Turgenev in his Faust essay a sign 
of how Russia‟s „общественное сознание, чувство истины и красоты растѐт и 
развивается быстро‟ (I/214). 
At the same time, although „society‟ in Turgenev‟s mind was something much 
wider than the educated classes in the two capitals, extending to the provinces as well, he 
was under no illusion that literature was a necessity for all Russians. Not even for all 
Russians of the nobility, as some autobiographical remarks in the story Пунин и Бабурин 
(1874) indicate,
12
 but above all not for the overwhelming mass of the population which did 
not belong to the nobility. One important factor was of course widespread illiteracy among 
the peasantry. Significantly, during a meeting of the Russian students in Berlin in the 
                                               
11 Tosi 2006:31. 
12 The narrator of this story recalls how „в нашем доме не только не обращалось никакого внимания на 
литературу, на поэзию, но даже считали стихи, особенно русские стихи, за нечто совсем 
непристойное и пошлое‟ (XI/171). 
6  
winter of 1838-39, at which Turgenev and Granovskii were present, Stankevich is said to 
have exacted an oath from his comrades that they would devote all their energies to the aim 
of providing general education for the peasantry. Because the abolition of serfdom was 
bound to happen sooner or later, Stankevich had argued, it was essential to educate the 
peasants so that they could participate in public life and become true citizens.
13
 Whether or 
not such an oath was actually sworn, there is no doubt that Turgenev believed in this noble 
aim. Thus, in 1842, during his brief spell as an official at the Ministry of Interior and at a 
time when the government had allowed some discussion of how emancipation of the serfs 
might be achieved, the young Turgenev wrote a memorandum on Russian agriculture in 
which he stressed the importance of bringing literacy to the peasantry and the gentry‟s 
moral obligation to help in this: 
Человек грамотный, хотя бы он умел только читать и писать, пользуется 
бесконечными преимуществами в сравнении с безграмотным; ему открыли глаза; он 
чувствует, что он вступил в общество […] Наши братья, русские земледельцы, 
вправе ожидать от своих более образованных соотечественников деятельной, 
усердной помощи. (I/466, 472)           
This memorandum, a curious amalgam of Slavophile notions about rural Russia and of 
hopes for Russia‟s civic development along the lines marked out by Peter the Great, was 
predictably ignored by Turgenev‟s superiors. Still, with its optimism about Russia‟s 
future—summed up by a quotation from Pushkin‟s „Стансы‟ (1826) at the end—it 
anticipated in some ways the Pushkin speech of 1880 in which Turgenev reminded his 
audience of one of the ideals that had guided his own work as a writer, namely the 
liberating effect of literature: 
В поэзии—освободительная, ибо возвышающая, нравственная сила. Будем также 
надеяться, что в недальнем времени даже сыновьям нашего простого народа, 
который теперь не читает нашего поэта, станет понятно, чтó значит это имя: 
Пушкин! (XV/76) 
But illiteracy was not the only factor preventing the peasantry from sharing in the 
growing riches of Russian literature. Even if a peasant did learn to read, his material 
                                               
13 This solemn oath is described in a memoir written in 1856-57 by Neverov, one of Stankevich‟s fellow-
students in Berlin (Granjard 1954:87). It isn‟t mentioned in other recollections of Stankevich (including 
Turgenev‟s), and, as Edward Brown has noted, it may rather be a projection of Neverov‟s own concerns as an 
official of the Ministry of Public Education and part of the „hagiography‟ of Stankevich carried out by his 
friends after his death (1966:23). Still, it is very likely that the question of peasant illiteracy was discussed by 
the Stankevich circle.       
7  
circumstances were generally such that he had little time or inclination to appreciate books 
of any kind. Turgenev was aware of this, and in 1881, during his last summer at Spasskoe, 
he told his friend Polonskii a childhood anecdote which illustrated how superfluous 
literature, especially poetry, must seem to the common folk: „До стихов ли, в 
особенности нежных, человеку, забитому нуждой и всякими житейскими 
невзгодами?‟14 Even in the last years of Turgenev‟s life this was still the case for many in 
Russia, peasants and townsfolk alike. 
 This awareness, however, of being in a privileged position also gave Russian 
writers the courage to speak for the country as a whole in the name of progress. That some, 
like Radishchev, had started doing so even when Russian society was unfledged and still 
managed to reach future generations,
15
 strengthened Turgenev in his conviction that 
literature could contribute to the „история русского просвещения‟, as he was to 
emphasize in a speech in Moscow in 1879 (XV/59). Thus, apart from reflecting Russian 
society unto itself, literature also had the vital role of pointing to the future. 
This idea was particularly close to Turgenev because it had been so passionately 
expressed by Belinskii in his Letter to Gogol‟ accusing him of having reneged, in 
Выбранные места из переписки с друзьями (1846), the Russian writer‟s duty to guide 
his country on the „путь сознания, развития и прогресса‟ (1953-59:X/212). Turgenev, of 
whom a contemporary noted: „Белинский и его письмо—это вся его религия!‟,16 would 
always believe in the enlightening role of literature proclaimed by his mentor and 
„незабвенный друг‟, as he called Belinskii in the preface to Отцы и дети (VIII/446).17 
However, it was an idea which also underlay Chernyshevskii‟s 1855 dissertation 
Эстетические отношения искусства к действительности, in which the future radical 
leader claimed, much as Belinskii had, that the writer‟s task was to „воспроизнести, по 
мере сил, эту драгоценную действительность и ко благу человека объяснить еѐ‟ 
(1939-50:II/90). But Chernyshevskii‟s insistence that in modern times an artist was only 
worthy of that name if he consciously included in his work his „приговор о явлениях 
                                               
14 VT (1988):398. 
15 A copy of the Путешествие из Петербурга в Москву (1790) came into Turgenev‟s hands in 1854 (Den 
1968:115). In 1880 he told the painter Aleksei Bogoliubov who wanted to open an art museum in Saratov 
that would bear his grandfather Radishchev‟s name: „Саратов всегда был городом передовым, а поэтому 
передового человека он должен возвеличить в лице Вашего деда Радищева, который всегда будет для 
них и России первым поборником освобождения крестьян‟ (Gitlits 1966:307).  
16 Vera Aksakova‟s diary for 1856-57, quoted by Batiuto 1990:5. 
17 See Batiuto 1990 for a survey of how some of Belinskii‟s views are echoed by Bazarov, albeit in an 
exaggerated manner. In this novel, dedicated to the great critic‟s memory, Turgenev also paid tribute to him 
by endowing the endearing figure of Bazarov‟s father with a number of biographical traits of his friend (see 
Nikitina 1997).    
8  
жизни‟ (1939-50:II/92) would soon be invoked by other critics to disparage all works of 
art that did not deal with relevant issues of Russian reality.  
Although Turgenev respected Chernyshevskii for taking up Belinskii‟s mantle (in 
the 1856 series of articles: Очерки гоголевского периода русской литературы), he was 
alarmed by thе younger man‟s persistent subordination of art to real life. Thus, shortly after 
reading Chernyshevskii‟s dissertation he exclaimed in a letter to Nekrasov: „Эта худо 
скрытая вражда к искусству—везде скверна—а у нас и подавно. Отними у нас этот 
энтузиазм—после того хоть со света долой беги.‟18 And taking up Chernyshevskii‟s 
argument  that art could never produce anything as beautiful or as satisfying as Nature, he 
stressed: „В действительности нет шекспировского Гамлета—или, пожалуй, он есть—
да Шекспир открыл его—и сделал достоянием общим.‟19 In Накануне and elsewhere 
Turgenev would challenge the ancillary status accorded to art by Chernyshevskii, 
according to which works of art served either as a „surrogate‟ of reality (in the case of 
painting and other fine arts) or as an „indictment‟ of that reality (in the case of literature).    
Given Turgenev‟s views on the relationship between literature and society, it is 
clear that he was no advocate of aestheticism as such. Indeed, a few weeks before reading 
Chernyshevskii‟s dissertation he had written to his friend Botkin: „Бывают эпохи, где 
литература не может быть только художеством—а есть интересы высшие 
поэтических интересов. Момент самосознания и критики так же необходим в 
развитии народной жизни‟.20 And Captain Baptiste Faurie who knew Turgenev in Paris 
in the 1870s stressed how the creed of l’art pour l’art, espoused by Flaubert among others, 
made no sense to Turgenev, who wrote not merely for the sake of creating beautiful works 
but also to stir up thoughts in his readers. Оf no work of his, Faurie said, was this truer than 
Записки охотника (1847-52) which, by causing educated Russians to reflect on the 
consequences of serfdom, had helped pave the way for the Emancipation Edict of 1861.
21
 
Turgenev himself saw in the enthusiastic reception he was accorded by the students of 
Moscow in February 1879, who greeted him as the „автор «Записок охотника», 
появление которых неразрывно связано с историей крестьянского освобождения‟,22 
the greatest reward of his literary career (XV/57). However, these stories of the Russian 
countryside had been written in accordance with one of the aesthetic principles of Belinskii 
                                               
18 Letter of 10 July 1855 (P II/297). 
19 Letter to Nekrasov and Botkin, 25 July 1855 (P II/301). 
20 Letter of 17 June 1855 (P II/282). 
21 VT (1988):306. 
22 Alekseeva 1960:313. 
9  
which Turgenev wholeheartedly subscribed to: „Поэт мыслит образами; он не 
доказывает истины, а показывает еѐ‟.23 It was the other way round with many of the 
overtly tendentious stories and novels—or „повести «с начинкой»‟, as Turgenev ironically 
called them (P IX/212)—that began to appear from 1855 onwards. 
In a mature civic society with a free press other forms of writing could fulfil the 
polemic tasks which in Russia had traditionally been assigned to literature—the sole 
tribunal available to a nation without political liberty, as Herzen observed in 1851 (1954-
66:VII/68). Turgenev had initially hoped that after the accession of Alexander II Russia 
would soon reach this stage. Thus, in 1858 he drafted a memorandum with suggestions to 
the government for setting up a journal in which the reasons for the imminent abolition of 
serfdom would be discussed in order to convince sceptical landowners. Significantly, he 
invoked here the importance of every new publishing enterprise in a country like Russia 
which was in such need of civilizing influences: „у нас до сих пор, по выражению 
Грибоедова, «печатный каждый лист быть кажется святым»‟ (XV/239). 
The unsatisfactory press reform of 1865 did not fulfil all of these hopes, and that is 
why „fiction‟ still had to serve as a forum for denouncing social problems, somewhat to the 
dismay of Turgenev, even though his works were part of this tradition. The difference 
between him and his antagonists in the Nekrasov camp of „civic poetry‟ may perhaps best 
be explained by reference to Goethe, who, alongside Pushkin and Shakespeare was the 
„teacher‟ whom Turgenev most frequently cited.24 Responding to those who demanded 
high-minded didacticism from poetry, Goethe had countered that „ein gutes Kunstwerk 
kann und wird zwar moralische Folgen haben, aber moralische Zwecke vom Künstler 
fordern, heißt ihm sein Handwerk verderben‟.25 Turgenev himself liked to cite Pushkin‟s 
poem about the poison-tree „Анчар‟ (1828) as an example of how a writer should avoid 
being too direct and allow readers to use their imagination: „Пушкин тут [в «Анчаре»] 
хотел изобразить тлетворное влияние тирании, между тем не сказал он: «так тирания 
гнетѐт и умерщвляет всѐ вокруг себя»‟.26 The same restraint can be observed in many of 
the Записки охотника.    
                                               
23 From Belinskii‟s 1839 article on Горе от ума (1953-59:III/431). The same principle is expressed by the 
Latin adage „scribitur ad narrandum, non ad probandum‟, which Turgenev quoted in a letter to an aspiring 
young writer in January 1877 (P XII1/64).  
24 Addressing the younger generation of Russian writers in По поводу «Отцов и детей» (1869), Turgenev 
described Goethe as „наш общий учитель‟ (XIV/106). Turgenev also revered Gogol‟ and Schiller, but, 
significantly, he did not call them his teachers.   
25 Dichtung und Wahrheit, III, 12 (Goethe 1985-98:XVI/574). 
26 As recalled by Adelaida Lukanina. VT (1983):II/195-96. 
10  
Although Turgenev would repeatedly defend the writer‟s freedom from demands 
by the critics that he should address „relevant‟ topics, even the profusion of tendentious 
works was a sign of how literature in Russia had become a vital force in society. It could 
develop by independent endeavours alone, without State tutelage, but the situation of the 
other „free arts‟ was more complicated. 
 
I.2 The fine arts: a foreign commodity 
 Catherine the Great had founded the Academy of Fine Arts in 1764, but well into 
the nineteenth century the painters and sculptors who emerged from its walls continued 
producing works according to the neoclassical canon that had nothing to do with 
contemporary Russian reality. They were commissioned either by wealthy landowners and 
self-styled patrons of the arts like Benevolenskii in Татьяна Борисовна и еѐ племянник 
(one of the Записки охотника, first published in 1848) or directly by the Ministry of the 
Court, which was in charge of the Academy and promoted mainly works on historical 
themes that glorified the principles of autocracy.
27
 In the critical atmosphere of the latter 
half of the century the Academy, not surprisingly, came under increasing attack from those 
who saw in it „an instrument that molded artists into servitors of the State‟28 and a citadel 
of lifeless classicism. One of the most vociferous critics, Vladimir Stasov, for example, 
wrote about an exhibition at the Academy in 1861: „Что сказать про скульптуру у нас? 
Она ещѐ при своих Регулах и Сцеволах спит непробудным сном, а в своѐм сне 
пребывает где-то за сто или сто пятьдесят лет назад‟.29 
This „increasing disenchantment with the Academy‟s continued reliance on 
classical prototypes foreign to the demands of modern life‟—which culminated in 1863 
with the secession of Ivan Kramskoi (1837-87) and thirteen other students of the Academy 
in protest at the mythological subject that had been set for a competition—30 was 
anticipated by Turgenev in Накануне when he included the following detail in Shubin‟s 
characterization: „[он] слышать не хотел об академии и не признавал ни одного 
профессора‟ (VIII/21). Shubin‟s rebellious attitude reflects the Russian artist‟s difficult 
quest for originality, for as he tells Bersenev, he had smashed up his bas-relief of a boy 
with a goat after realizing that it was nothing more than a derivative composition: „К 
                                               
27 Such as „The Baptism of Vladimir‟ or „The Arrival of Riurik‟ (Starr 1983:105). 
28 E. Valkenier cited in Olkhovsky 1983:115. 
29 Kuznetsova 1989:9. 
30 Bowlt 1983a:131. Several of these students went on to form the society of itinerant painters (peredvizhniki) 
in 1871.   
11  
чѐрту! к чѐрту! […] Посмотрел на настоящих, на стариков, на антики, да и разбил 
свою чепуху‟ (VIII/9).31 However, this self-criticism also arises from his awareness of 
how all these neoclassical works were alien to the reality of Russia. Significantly, like 
Aleksei Venetsianov (1780-1847), whose landscapes and depictions of peasant life brought 
about what J.C. Taylor calls a „revolution‟ in Russian painting by showing „that Russian 
fields and homely circumstances could, indeed, be seen as art‟ (1983:144), and like 
Turgenev himself in Записки охотника and Grigorovich in his early stories Деревня and 
Антон-Горемыка, Shubin too begins to seek inspiration for his art amongst the peasantry: 
„[он] скитался по окрестностям Москвы, лепил и рисовал портреты крестьянских 
девок‟ (VIII/20).32 
 Nevertheless, these new strivings could not alter the fact that the works produced 
even by such artists were meant principally for the appreciation of the nobility, which 
constituted a mere 1.5% of Russia‟s population in the 1830s.33 Leaving aside until section 
IV.1 the question of how this audience remained in thrall to foreign aesthetic paragons, 
even in times of nationalism, and so made it hard for original artists to thrive in Russia, it is 
clear that the fine arts, as Turgenev understood them, were inaccessible to the vast majority 
of the Russian population. Already in Gogol‟‟s story Портрет, the painter Chartkov had 
reflected on how the common folk walking past the art dealers‟ shops in St Petersburg 
could hardly be expected to take an interest in the landscapes and Flemish genre paintings 
on display in the windows.
34
 Given Turgenev‟s wistful observation, in his 1880 speech, of 
how even a national poet like Pushkin could still only be appreciated by the educated 
classes, we might expect him to have believed that at least for educated Russians the fine 
arts had or could soon become a living necessity, as in other European nations. 
Surprisingly, though, this was not the case. As late as 1871, when Il‟ia Repin (1844-1930) 
hadn‟t yet caught the public‟s attention with Бурлаки (Plate 4A), and still mindful of how 
Aleksandr Ivanov had been treated during his ill-fated return to St Petersburg in 1858, 
Turgenev expressed his misgivings about painting ever taking root in Russia: „Об 
                                               
31 Shubin‟s bas-relief of a genre scene in the neoclassical manner was probably not unlike the sculptures of 
Nikolai Pimenov, in particular his Парень, играющий в бабки (1836), which, though inspired by classical 
works, sought to represent scenes from Russian life (Kennedy 1983:206).   
32 Turgenev himself acknowledged Grigorovich‟s precedence, describing Деревня (1846) as the „первая 
попытка сближения нашей литературы с народной жизнью‟. Quoted in Grigorovich 1961:9.  
33 Starr 1983:91.  
34 Gogol‟ 1952-53:III/72. 
12  
искусстве я судить не берусь; его час—мне сдаѐтся—ещѐ не наступил на Руси: 
жизнь закопошилась—да крови в этой жизни ещѐ нет.‟35 
 The reasons for such pessimism lay not just in the prevalence of various factors 
which stifled original creativity, such as the burden of Official Nationality and the 
Academy‟s neoclassicism, but, more significantly, in Russian society‟s apparent 
indifference to the fine arts. Thus, although the Hermitage‟s art collection was opened to 
the public by Nicholas I, the number of Russian visitors was never very high in the 
nineteenth century.
36
 It was visited mainly by students of the Academy and foreign 
travellers like Turgenev‟s friend, Louis Viardot, a respected authority on European art who 
made use of his stays in St Petersburg to draw up a catalogue of the Hermitage‟s 
collection. Outside the two capitals the situation was even worse, for until 1885, when the 
Radishchev museum was finally opened in Saratov, there were no art collections open to 
the public in the provinces.
37
 It might be argued that low attendance at the Hermitage was 
due to it being quite difficult to obtain entry tickets (even for members of the nobility) and 
that the great success of the Saratov museum, for example, or accounts by Repin, in his 
letters of 1872 from Moscow, of how on Sundays many peasants would visit the 
Rumiantsev museum, especially to see Ivanov‟s Явление Христа народу (1836-55; Plate 
3B),
38
 indicate how appreciative Russians could be of the arts once they became more 
accessible. Yet the fact is that painting (not to speak of sculpture) never awoke such 
interest and sympathy among the Russian public as works of literature. Stasov had 
lamented this apathy of Russians towards the fine arts in an article of 1865, in which he 
noted that exhibitions held in St Petersburg often comprised few paintings not because of 
the sloth of Russian artists but because of the lack of demand for their work. And in 
another article Stasov quoted a comment by the Academy‟s director in the 1860s, who 
agreed with him that „потребность в созданиях искусства просто ничтожна у нас […] 
Любви к искусству, инстинкта художественного у нас нет‟ (1950-51:I/539).  
 Given the prevalence of this notion that the fine arts were extraneous to Russian 
society and could only be maintained through State sponsorship, it is not surprising that 
painting became a frequent target for attacks by radical members of the intelligentsia. 
Already Belinskii had rebelled, during his stay in Germany in 1847, against the veneration 
of the Sistine Madonna to which all Russian visitors to Dresden since Zhukovskii had 
                                               
35 Letter to Stasov, 15/27 October 1871 (P IX/149). 
36 Starr 1983:96. 
37 Blakesley 2007:38-39.   
38 Cf. Repin‟s letter to Stasov, 3 June 1872 (Repin 1969:I/42). 
13  
invariably paid tribute.
39
 Not long after Turgenev had taken him to see Raphael‟s 
celebrated painting, the democrat Belinskii expressed his animosity towards such art: „Это 
не мать христианского Бога; это аристократическая женщина, дочь царя, ideal 
sublime du comme il faut […] а у него [младенца] весь рот дышит презрением к нам, 
ракалиям.‟40 At least, though, he recognized the „благородство‟ and „грация кисти‟ of 
Raphael‟s technique. Later critics proved less forgiving towards Raphael and the arts in 
general. Thus, Pisarev, in „Разрушение эстетики‟ (1865), condemned Raphael as a willing 
„лакей роскоши‟, putting him (and Beethoven, incidentally) on a par with gourmet chefs 
who produced luxurious dishes for the consumption of a few (1955-56:III/426). As Il‟ia 
Zil‟bershtein has pointed out (1945:56), such ideas were already floating about in the late 
1850s, and Bazarov‟s rejection of the fine arts in Отцы и дети (1862) would not have 
sounded so compelling if these had been more firmly established in Russia.             
 As for Russia‟s native iconographic traditions, which might seem to belie what was 
said above about Turgenev‟s views on art still being an exotic plant on Russian soil, it 
must be emphasized that he was concerned above all with the free arts, to which icon 
painting does not belong. This is not to say that Turgenev was not aware of the role of 
icons in Russian life, but it is very revealing that the few times they appear in his works, 
they do so in tragic circumstances. For example, in Несчастная (1869) the expression of 
Susanna‟s face on her deathbed „напоминало лика на старых-старых образах‟ (X/145), 
and in Живые мощи (1874) Luker‟ia‟s withered face reminds the huntsman of an „икона 
старинного письма‟ (IV/354). The austere and sad expressions of the figures on these 
icons reflect submission to the laws of „unfeeling‟ Nature which annihilated all those 
individual qualities that Turgenev so cherished. Indeed, the principles of iconography went 
against that realistic portrayal of life which was the hallmark of Turgenev‟s own artistry, as 
we may appreciate, for example, by reference to Leskov‟s famous story Запечатленный 
ангел (1873), where the icon-painter Sevast‟ian refuses a commission to paint the portrait 
of a young woman, since he was only allowed to paint „святые иконы‟.41  
Moreover, the educated classes were by and large indifferent to this artistic 
patrimony, as the Slavophile leader Khomiakov pointed out in his obituary of Aleksandr 
                                               
39 Pearson 1981:348. Turgenev described his compatriots‟ „мучительное дежурство перед […] 
«знаменитыми произведениями»‟ in an 1858 article in which he felicitously likened the bench in front of 
the Sistine Madonna at the Dresden gallery to an instrument of spiritual torture on which Russian tourists 
would force themselves into rapture for several hours (XV/9-10).      
40 Letter to Botkin, 7/19 July 1847 (Belinskii 1953-59:XII/384).  
41 Leskov‟s story, as well as other examples of icon-painter figures in Russian literature, are discussed in an 
interesting survey by V. Lepakhin (2005). This book was kindly pointed out to me by Prof. Simon Franklin. 
14  
Ivanov (1858). Khomiakov tried to present this as a blessing in disguise by arguing that it 
was thanks to this that Russian iconography had not been corrupted by European 
influences and had thus been able to nourish Ivanov‟s work.42 However, for Turgenev this 
was just an attempt to make a virtue out of a deficiency, something which, as Potugin 
notes, the Slavophiles were especially prone to. Not surprisingly, in his own essay on 
Ivanov in 1861, Turgenev took issue with Khomiakov‟s messianic interpretation of the late 
painter‟s role in reviving Russian art (XIV/94). As we have seen, Turgenev also had 
doubts—at least until the 1870s with the emergence of Repin and Vereshchagin—about 
Russian society‟s need for the fine arts at that particular stage of its civic development, 
when literature alone seemed capable of doing justice to its concerns. 
 
I.3 The ‘strangeness’ of music in Russia 
 As late as 1881, during his last visit to Russia, Turgenev made an assessment of 
Russian musical life which, with its mixture of scepticism and hope for the future, could 
almost have come from Potugin in Дым. As Polonskii recalled, 
Тургенев полагал, что музыка в России пока то же, что литература до Пушкина, то 
есть не стала ещѐ нашей потребностью, нашим, так сказать, насущным хлебом, и 
проч. и проч. Говорил, что из прежних русских композиторов он высоко ставит 
Глинку, а из новейших всем другим предпочитает Чайковского; был уверен, что в 
России не найдѐтся и 20-и человек, которые бы свободно могли читать ноты (что, 
конечно, несправедливо).43 
It is difficult not to agree with Polonskii‟s objection, given the huge efforts that Anton 
Rubinshtein (1829-94) and Milii Balakirev (1836-1910) during the 1860s had put into 
advancing the cause of musical education in Russia and, more generally, into familiarizing 
Russian audiences with the great works of the past and the most recent compositions. Thus, 
in the same year (1862) Balakirev set up the Free Music School whose teachers charged no 
fees from the pupils, drawn mainly from St Petersburg‟s non-gentry classes (especially 
merchants), and Rubinshtein inaugurated, with some help from the State, the St Petersburg 
Conservatory, the first such institution in Russia. Among its first graduates was Petr 
Chaikovskii (1840-93), who also went on to become one of the first teachers at the newly 
                                               
42 Khomiakov spoke of the „почти совершенное равнодушие общества нашего к нашему искусству‟ 
(1900:III/364). There were of course exceptions, such as Turgenev‟s friend, the philologist Fedor Buslaev, 
who urged Academy-trained painters to look to Russia‟s iconography for inspiration (Valkenier 1983:161). 
43 VT (1988):399. 
15  
founded Moscow Conservatory in 1866. Moreover, in contrast to the 1840s and 50s, when 
there was a dearth of symphonic concerts, with opera, dominated by foreigners, still being 
the most prominent form of musical activity,
44
 the concerts of the Russian Musical Society 
(founded by Rubinshtein in 1859) and the more nationalistic ones directed by Balakirev 
showed that professional musicianship had at last been consolidated in Russia. 
It is true that these instrumental concerts were not very popular with the 
aristocracy, and that in 1867 Rubinshtein was forced to resign from his posts at the head of 
the RMS and the Conservatory by court intrigues as insidious as those Glinka had suffered 
thirty years earlier.
45
 And yet a great deal had changed for the better in Russian musical 
life since the 1840s, when Glinka had exclaimed in despair: 
Искусство—эта данная мне небом отрада—гибнет здесь [в Петербурге] от 
убийственного ко всему равнодушия. Если бы я не провѐл несколько лет за 
границей, я не написал бы «Жизни за царя»—теперь убеждѐн, что «Руслан» может 
быть окончен токмо в Германии или Франции.46         
In the 1870s Chaikovskii and Nikolai Rimskii-Korsakov (1844-1908), the two young 
Russian composers whom Turgenev admired most (eventually joined in his esteem by 
Modest Musorgskii),
47
 were both able to earn a living as professional musicians, much 
sought after as teachers and conductors. Glinka, in contrast, had been unable to find such a 
role in the musical life of St Petersburg—the few years (1837-39) he spent as music 
director of the Imperial Chapel choir were hardly very fulfilling—and his long absences 
from Russia were partly due to his discontent with this situation. Reflecting on Glinka in 
an article of 1872, Chaikovskii conjectured on how he might have written more operas and 
symphonic works if there had then been better opportunities for Russian musicians at the 
time: „но в том-то и дело, что судьба не послала ему [Глинке] той обстановки, тех 
условий развития, которые были нужны для полного расцвета его огромного 
дарования‟ (1953:53).  
 Turgenev was aware of these favourable developments in Russian musical life, 
having retrospectively lent support, through the figure of Potugin in Дым, to Rubinshtein‟s 
                                               
44 Campbell 1994:39-40. 
45 Olkhovsky 1983:97. 
46 Letter to his mother, 15 February 1841 (Glinka 1952-53:II/55-56). 
47 In a letter to Stasov on 15/27 March 1872, Turgenev had observed: „Изо всех «молодых» русских 
музыкантов только у двух есть талант положительный: у Чайковского и у Римского-Корсакова‟ (P 
IX/245). But two years later, after hearing extracts from Борис Годунов and Хованщина, performed by 
Musorgskii himself, he would revise his sceptical attitude towards the „Mighty Handful‟. See his letter to 
Pauline Viardot of 21 May 1874, in NC:I/ 211-12. 
16  
bitterly contested 1861 campaign to put music-training and making in Russia on a 
professional footing (see III.2). He had also been fortunate to witness the emergence of two 
of Russia‟s greatest composers, Chaikovskii and Musorgskii. Why then was he so sceptical 
in his conversation with Polonskii, quoted above?  
The answer probably lies not so much in the relative poverty of Russian musical 
life—especially when compared to the Germany which Turgenev had got to know so well 
as a student and during the 1860s, where every small town had a choir and orchestra, 
something which Turgenev‟s more sober-minded contemporaries also admitted.48 His 
scepticism, rather, has more to do with Belinskii‟s notion of art only thriving where it is a 
genuine need of society. For Turgenev had good reason to question whether the „new era‟ 
of Russian music, so confidently heralded by César Cui (1835-1918) in his articles for 
Санкт-Петербургские ведомости, actually answered to a true interest in music on the 
part of educated Russians or whether it wasn‟t in the end just as artificial as the delusions 
imposed on society by the doctrine of Official Nationality in his youth.                         
 For a start, the over-emphasis on creating „Russian‟ operas, especially in the 1860s 
with Aleksandr Serov‟s three grandiose, now largely forgotten, attempts (Юдиф, Рогнеда, 
and Вражья сила),49 must have seemed suspect to Turgenev. This obsession could easily 
be attributed to a patriotic desire to emulate Wagner (in Serov‟s case) or to outdo him (as 
with Cui and some members of the „new Russian school‟), rather than to purely musical 
concerns. As long as symphonic and chamber works were neglected in favour of vocal 
ones (operas and romances), Turgenev couldn‟t believe in the maturity of Russian musical 
life. Unfortunately, it seems that he had no chance to hear those of Chaikovskii‟s 
symphonies which appeared in his lifetime,
50
 and another major orchestral work by that 
composer, the Romeo and Juliet overture, whose piano reduction he ordered from Russia, 
didn‟t leave him satisfied when it was played through at the Viardots‟—which is perhaps 
understandable, since orchestral works are difficult to appreciate properly when heard for 
the first time in a piano version.
51
 On the other hand, Turgenev was impressed by 
Aleksandr Borodin‟s Second Symphony, the Bogatyrskaia, even though, again, he only 
heard it in an arrangement for piano.
52
          
                                               
48 For example, the music critic Laroche, in an 1873 article about Chaikovskii, had observed how it was still 
impossible to have symphonic works performed in the provinces (Campbell 1994:265). 
49 Taruskin (1993:344) makes a case for these operas‟ merits, but they have not survived in the repertoire. 
50 The First (Зимние грѐзы) was premièred in 1868; the Second in 1873; the Third in 1875; and the Fourth in 
1878, but these performances never coincided with Turgenev‟s brief visits to St Petersburg or Moscow.  
51 Letter to Toporov, 28 September/10 October 1874 (P X/307). 
52 Letter to Borodin, 27 October/8 November 1877 (P XII1/223). 
17  
 These significant works, however, began appearing only in the last years of 
Turgenev‟s life and seem to have been unable to allay his doubts about Russian society‟s 
readiness for a musical culture like that of the West. This wasn‟t for want of sensitivity to 
music on the part of Russians as a people: with a few exceptions, those characters in 
Turgenev‟s works who come into contact with music are greatly moved, sometimes even 
transformed, by it. This is the case, for example, with the narrator in Несчастная when he 
hears Susanna play Beethoven‟s Appassionata (X/92), but more often than not it is the 
effect of singing which Turgenev evokes. Russians of all walks of life could be moved by 
the sad beauty of their native song, as Певцы (1850) shows: from the serfs who share 
Iashka‟s lot, the innkeeper‟s wife, to the educated huntsman. Rolf-Dieter Kluge (1992:73) 
has rightly emphasized how original Turgenev‟s sketch must have seemed at the time by 
its demonstration not just of the two peasants‟ artistic gifts but also of the fine aesthetic 
sensibility of their equally humble listeners. Moreover, the contrast between the virtuoso 
cadences of the contractor („рядчик‟), which remind the huntsman of an Italian tenor,53 
and the „русская, правдивая душа‟ (IV/241) of Iashka, who triumphs in this singing 
contest, can be related to one of the essential problems faced by the Russian artist in 
Turgenev‟s view: the quest for originality. 
    In the specific case of music it is interesting that Turgenev included in the first draft 
of Певцы an observation to which the composers of the „Mighty Handful‟, whose 
assertions of originality were so often to repel him, would gladly have subscribed: „Я бы 
каждому музыканту посоветовал съездить послушать хор сергиевских мужиков; я 
ему отвечаю, что он бы не раскаялся в своей поездке и, может быть, вынес бы оттуда 
не одну мысль‟ (IV/582-83). This advice, which brings to mind Glinka‟s famous phrase: 
„Создаѐт музыку народ, а мы, художники, только еѐ аранжируем‟,54 might even seem 
to give Turgenev‟s reflections on Russian music a Slavophile turn rather like that we find 
in Dostoevskii‟s unfinished novel Неточка Незванова (1849). There, as M. De Sanctis 
has pointed out, the violinist Efimov‟s „Western‟ ambition and arrogance are effectively 
juxtaposed with his initial inspiration in native songs as „idealistic and disinterested 
expressions of the spiritual and national characters of the Russian people‟ (1995:48-49).55  
                                               
53 As Gozenpud has noted (1994:100), it isn‟t accidental that Iashka‟s rival has no name in the story: lacking 
true artistic individuality, he imitates the manner of professional singers whom he has heard. 
54 Livanova & Protopopov 1955:II/125. 
55 Cf. the scene in question: „Тут он [Ефимов] взял скрипку и начал играть свои варияции на русские 
песни. Б. говорил, что эти варияции—его первая и лучшая пьеса на скрипке и что более он никогда 
ничего не играл так хорошо и с таким вдохновением‟ (Dostoevskii 1972-90:II/147). Such variations on 
18  
In contrast to Slavophiles like Khomiakov, who interpreted the Russian people‟s 
affinity for song as a manifestation of their religiosity („православный мир—народ 
певучий‟),56 Turgenev, in Певцы, did not read into these peasants‟ singing any such 
connotations. Instead, he noted the passion and strength conveyed by Iashka‟s song but 
also its „грустная скорбь‟ (IV/241), and this underlying sadness of so many Russian 
folksongs was probably one of the things he had in mind when he wrote to another leading 
Slavophile, Konstantin Aksakov, in 1852 that the peasantry‟s artistic heritage filled him 
not so much with hopes for the future as with sad thoughts about the „трагическая судьба 
племени‟ and of the „великая общественная драма‟ of serfdom.57          
Turgenev also knew that whilst folksong undoubtedly showed the great potential 
for musical culture in Russia, songs were one thing and elaborate compositions another. In 
his Pushkin speech of 1880 he would emphasize that in mature, civilized nations true 
artists transcended the merely „national‟, giving as an example the way in which Mozart 
and Beethoven‟s works hardly resembled German folk music precisely because „эта 
народная, ещѐ стихийная музыка перешла к ним в плоть и кровь‟ (XV/69). That 
Russian folksong for Turgenev was still something „elementary‟, though not necessarily in 
a negative sense, is clear from his observation, in a letter of 1850 to Pauline Viardot, about 
the scene in a village inn which inspired him to write Певцы: „L‟enfance de tous les 
peuples se ressemble et mes chanteurs me faisaient penser à Homère.‟58 This association of 
folksong with cultural immaturity recurs in some of Turgenev‟s later works. In Вешние 
воды (1872), for example, it clearly has a negative slant when the seductress Polozova, 
who represents the worst aspects of Russia‟s historical legacy, namely tyranny and 
anarchy,
59
 tells her victim, Sanin, of her disdain for European orchestral music: „Нравятся 
мне одни русские песни—и то в деревне, и то весной—с пляской, знаете...‟ (XI/119). 
It is not surprising that someone so contemptuous of duty as Polozova should reject the 
discipline required to sustain musical culture at a Western level: an attitude not unlike that 
ascribed by Potugin to the Russian „home-grown geniuses‟ in Дым. 
 But what the more frequent positive references to folksongs and their appeal even 
to members of the gentry in Turgenev‟s works (e.g. in Накануне Shubin and Bersenev sing 
                                                                                                                                              
folk melodies were in fact the most popular instrumental genre for Russian composers in the early nineteenth 
century (Brown 1983:62).  
56 In an 1844 article on Glinka‟s Жизнь за царя (Khomiakov 1900:III/99). 
57 Letter of 16 October 1852 (P II/72). 
58 Letter of 26 October 1850 (LI:42). 
59 Cf. James Woodward‟s excellent discussion of Вешние воды (1995:236). 
19  
„Вниз по матушке по Волге‟) illustrate is the ability of Russians to assimilate what 
Turgenev called the element („стихия‟) of music. What many of them still lacked, though, 
was a sense for more elaborate musical forms, in particular, for instrumental music. This is 
especially evident in Bersenev‟s nocturnal improvisations on the piano which went no 
further than endlessly repeating those chords he liked most (VIII/31). On the other hand, 
because of his faith in the way that culture was shared between nations („преемственность 
искусства‟), Turgenev had good reason to believe that his countrymen might, under the 
guidance of mainly German teachers to start with, eventually come to appreciate the more 
elevated forms of music. There are intimations of this hope in Дворянское гнездо, where 
both Lavretskii and Liza feel genuine respect for Herr Lemm‟s work as a teacher and 
composer. Only this process of assimilation could turn instrumental music from an exotic 
import (for, like the fine arts, secular music too had been introduced into Russia by 
supreme decree)
60
 into a real spiritual necessity for Russians.      
 It is true that from the second half of the eighteenth century onwards interest in 
music had spread from the imperial court to the salons of the nobility, which produced 
notable amateur musicians such as Prince Golitsyn, and even to the provincial estates. 
Turgenev, in his childhood and youth, had frequent occasions to observe this phenomenon 
among some of his neighbours, that is, the way in which „wealthy nobles, emulating the 
court, set up domestic orchestras, choirs and opera theatres staffed largely by serfs and 
trained by foreign professionals.‟61 We find reflections of this in some of the Записки 
охотника (e.g. Малиновая вода) and in Lemm‟s biography (VII/138). However, 
Turgenev couldn‟t help noting the „strangeness‟ of many of these enterprises: thus, 
although he seized every opportunity to hear classical music performed when he was living 
in Spasskoe, his descriptions of one neighbour‟s serf orchestra, whose vast repertory 
(comprising even symphonies by Beethoven) delighted him, do betray a certain unease at 
the notion of listening to „un orchestre… acheté, car ce voisin a acheté les musiciens en 
masse.‟62 There was also something strange in the way these serfs had been trained to great 
uniformity by the landowner‟s German kapellmeister.63 Turgenev didn‟t go as far as 
Dostoevskii (in Неточка Незванова) in exploring the negative effects which such 
                                               
60 Namely by Empress Anne, who in 1735 appointed the Italian Francesco Araja as music director at the 
imperial court (Brown 1983:58). 
61 Brown 1983:59.  
62 Letter to Pauline Viardot, 28 October 1852 (P II/83). 
63 Letter to Pauline Viardot, 4 February 1853 (LI:64). 
20  
enforcement of „foreign‟ norms from above might have on the psyche of the serf artist,64 
but he did recognize the artificiality of these oases of culture in the Russian countryside. 
The sponsorship of music by Russian landowners didn‟t always testify to a genuine respect 
for civilized values, as is clear from the humiliating treatment which musicians in 
Turgenev‟s works, such as the kapellmeister in Малиновая вода (IV/39) and Lemm, were 
often subjected to by their employers.                    
 As for the wider urban public, that is, the lesser gentry and raznochintsy who made 
up the increasingly self-assertive intelligentsia, Turgenev had strong grounds to suppose 
that music wasn‟t yet a real need for most of them, as he indicated in his conversation with 
Polonskii. For a start, there was the already mentioned dearth of opportunities to hear 
symphonic concerts. Thus, it‟s not surprising that Chernyshevskii, in his dissertation of 
1855, dealt with music so summarily and, in particular, dismissed instrumental music as 
ancillary to singing: „инструментальная музыка—подражание пению, его 
аккомпанемент или суррогат‟ (1939-50:II/63). Given that the Italian Opera was the most 
popular company in St Petersburg even in the 1860s and that domestic music-making was 
limited mainly to arias and romances, accompanied on the piano, with very few 
performances of chamber music works,
65
 radicals of humbler origins like Chernyshevskii 
might well be forgiven for thinking that all there was to music was singing. However, even 
Pisarev, who came from a more privileged background, in his article „Реалисты‟ (1864) 
was to throw violinists and clarinettists and even composers like Beethoven (!) into the 
same sack as lovers of vodka, tobacco, or hunting, whose sybaritic activities were 
irrelevant to the „умственное или нравственное совершенствование человечества‟ 
(1955-56:III/114-15). 
 The implications of the intelligentsia‟s growing intolerance of all the arts—except 
literature—will be elaborated in the next chapter, but it is easy to see why Turgenev, who 
shared their concerns about the social and political situation in Russia, might sometimes 
feel that music was a fruit which his countrymen could not yet cultivate properly. 
                                               
64 Cf. De Sanctis 1995:78 and Gozenpud 1971:41. 
65 As Rubinshtein observed in his damning article „О музыке в России‟ (1861)—see Campbell 1994:71-72. 
21  
CHAPTER II 
 
НАКАНУНЕ: ART, HEROISM, AND TRAGEDY  
 
Introduction 
 The title of Turgenev‟s third novel served as a poignant reminder of two landmarks 
in Russian history: the Crimean War (1854-56), which broke out soon after the events 
described in the novel, and the abolition of serfdom, since by the time Накануне was 
published in January 1860, Alexander II‟s decision to go ahead with this crucial reform 
had been taken irrevocably. The new tsar had brought the question of emancipation into 
the open in early 1858, and in that same year Turgenev wrote both a memorandum 
advising the government to create a journal devoted to this question (see p.9) and an article 
on the future of the Russian gentry in view of the imminent changes to its traditional 
economic base. In this article, which remained unfinished and wasn‟t published in his 
lifetime, Turgenev argued that the gentry‟s historical role in Russia lay not in ownership of 
serfs but in service to the land (XIV/303). Anticipating Versilov‟s thoughts about the 
„дворянство‟ in Dostoevskii‟s novel Подросток (1875), Turgenev noted how in the past 
Russian noblemen had served their country on the battlefield, whereas in Russia‟s more 
recent history it wasn‟t just military heroism which was expected from them: „Но не 
всегда одной крови требует от нас наше отечество‟ (XIV/303). In contrast to the 
Western aristocracy, which had largely become stagnant as a class, the Russian gentry, 
Turgenev emphasized, had produced generations of scholars, poets, scientists, and artists 
who had all distinguished themselves by their „служение делу просвещения и 
образования‟ (XIV/304).  
In Накануне the representative of this worthy tradition is the young scholar 
Bersenev, who tells Elena that he yearned to follow in the footsteps of Granovskii 
(VIII/23). Like Stankevich, the historian Granovskii after his premature death (in 1855) 
was remembered by his contemporaries for his generosity and idealism. Turgenev, who 
had first met Granovskii at St Petersburg University in 1835, wrote a moving obituary of 
him in which he noted how Russia sorely needed teachers like Granovskii, a 
„бескорыстный и неуклонный служитель науки‟ who had always held aloft the ideals of 
„добро и нравственность, человеческое достоинство и честь‟ (VI/374). The sculptor 
Shubin, in contrast, shows scant respect for the Russian gentry‟s values, not just where 
represented by such comical figures as Stakhov or Uvar Ivanovich, but even in the case of 
22  
his friend Bersenev, whose idealism he repeatedly mocks: „ты истый представитель тех 
жрецов науки, [...] коими столь справедливо гордится класс среднего русского 
дворянства!‟ (VIII/28). The fact that in the novel‟s epilogue Bersenev‟s two articles on 
Old German law and the role of urbanization in European history are described with 
palpable irony suggests that Turgenev shared Shubin‟s scepticism as to the relevance of 
such scholarly work to the needs of contemporary Russia. What had happened since his 
obituary of Granovskii in 1855?   
 First of all, it should be said that this irony at the cost of Bersenev wasn‟t at all 
meant to belittle Granovskii‟s legacy. Turgenev knew that the latter‟s public lectures on the 
Middle Ages had played an important role in reminding his countrymen of the debt they 
owed to Western Europe, from which Russia had received the blessings of civilization.
66
 
But Turgenev, sensitive as he was to the latest developments in Russian society and 
seeking to portray what Shakespeare called „the body and pressure of time‟, as he put it in 
the 1880 preface to his collected novels (XII/303), realized while writing Накануне in 
1859 that Russia at this juncture needed men of a different stamp than Bersenev.      
 The main factor was almost certainly his observation of how after the abolition of 
serfdom became a public matter in 1858 conservative landowners had been trying to 
obstruct the plans of the reformers on the committee appointed by Alexander to draft the 
emancipation act. It took the determination of such men as Nikolai Miliutin, the 
Slavophiles Samarin and Cherkasskii, and the committee‟s chairman, Iakov Rostovtsev, 
who was of plebeian origins, to overcome the opposition of the reactionaries and secure 
terms that were as fair as possible to the peasants.
67
 Richard Freeborn has observed that 
Накануне shows a clear bias against the nobility as a class (1960:95), and Turgenev‟s 
description of the underlying idea of his novel as being the „необходимость сознательно-
героических натур […] для того, чтобы дело подвинулось вперѐд‟68 implies that he 
acknowledged the need for a new type of hero who would advance the cause of progress in 
Russia. On the eve of emancipation the greatest obstacle to this cause was the vested 
interests of reactionary landowners. Their selfish attitude contrasted markedly with the 
democratic spirit expressed by Insarov in these words to Elena: „Заметьте: последний 
мужик, последний нищий в Болгарии и я—мы желаем одного и того же. У всех у нас 
одна цель‟ (VIII/68). Although it would be far-fetched to see in the plebeian Insarov a 
                                               
66 Granovskii‟s public lectures and the enthusiasm they awakened in Moscow are described by Turgenev‟s 
friend Annenkov in his reminiscences (1960:214).  
67 Pares 1962:400-3. 
68 Letter to I. Aksakov, 13 November 1859 (P III/368). 
23  
tribute to Rostovtsev, it is interesting that in a letter to his namesake the Decembrist 
Nikolai Turgenev in February 1860 the novelist would comment on Rostovtsev‟s recent 
death as a great loss because, though the government was likely to persevere in its 
reformist course, Russia was a country where „[т]ак много зависит от личностей‟.69 At 
any rate Insarov can certainly be said to anticipate the raznochinets hero Bazarov, who at 
one point compares himself to the great reformer Speranskii, also a man of humble origins 
(VIII/274).                 
 What is very interesting for our topic is that in Накануне the role of Insarov as a 
hero is so frequently illuminated by the sculptor Shubin. The most complete artist figure 
created by Turgenev in all his works, Shubin acts as a spokesman for many of the author‟s 
views, though in a subtler way than Potugin in Дым. In later sections we will examine how 
Shubin‟s comments on Insarov reflect Turgenev‟s engagement with the ideas on heroism 
expressed by Thomas Carlyle and other writers, as well as the important connection which 
Shubin makes between Insarov and Brutus in Shakespeare‟s Julius Caesar.  
The fact that Turgenev kept a diary in Shubin‟s name as part of his preparatory 
work for Накануне—a technique that he used for those characters with whom he felt a 
special rapport, notably in the case of Bazarov—70 shows that the young sculptor was close 
to his heart, and not surprisingly he created him in his own image. Thus, just as Shubin 
exclaims: „я недаром артист: я на всѐ заметлив‟ (VIII/15), so Annenkov tells us in his 
invaluable reminiscences that Turgenev „обладал одним замечательным качеством: за 
ним ничего не пропадало‟ (1960:392). Turgenev liked to talk to people from all walks of 
life and always remembered what he saw and heard. Similarly, Shubin is described as 
associating „с разными лицами, молодыми и старыми, высокого и низкого полѐта‟ 
(VIII/20). It is this interest in people that allows Shubin to make the most perceptive 
observations about Elena and Insarov. 
 Like Turgenev, Shubin has also „read‟ Chernyshevskii—a slight anachronism of 
course, since Накануне is set in 1853. But Shubin‟s defiant refrain to Bersenev during 
their opening conversation: „мы завоюем себе счастье!‟ (VIII/14) clearly has echoes of 
Chernyshevskii‟s 1858 article on Turgenev‟s Ася, in which the radical critic had analyzed 
                                               
69 Letter of 10 February 1860 (P IV/28). Interestingly, in this letter Turgenev also urged his correspondent to 
read Накануне. Turgenev was acquainted with Rostovtsev‟s son Nikolai, with whom he discussed the 
drafting of the emancipation act (Freeborn 1973:397).  
70 We learn this important detail from the recollections of Hjalmar Boyesen, who interviewed Turgenev in 
Paris in 1873. See VT (1988):331. Apparently, Shubin‟s diary had been considerably longer than the novel, 
but Turgenev burnt it afterwards.   
24  
the failure of that story‟s anti-hero to win happiness in love. Already in „Русский человек 
на rendez-vous‟, as the article on Ася was entitled, we find the inklings of that theory of 
„rational egoism‟ which Chernyshevskii was to develop in the early 1860s, and some of 
Shubin‟s assertions—such as „я хочу любить для себя; я хочу быть номером первым‟ 
(VIII/14)—seem to take this concept to its absurd extreme, just as Dostoevskii would do in 
his ongoing polemic with Chernyshevskii.
71
 Admittedly, Shubin‟s „selfishness‟ may also 
be a reflex of that aspect of Romanticism which Turgenev had described as „апофеоз 
личности‟ in his 1845 essay on Goethe‟s Faust (I/220). In some respects, however, the 
young sculptor does anticipate Bazarov‟s down-to-earth materialism, as when he speaks 
cynically of women or when he mocks Bersenev‟s romantic view of Nature: „Нет-с; это не 
по моей части-с […] я мясник-с; моѐ дело—мясо, мясо лепить, плечи, ноги, руки‟ 
(VIII/9). The affinity with Bazarov‟s maxim: „Природа не храм, а мастерская, и человек 
в ней работник!‟ (VIII/236) is striking, and it is perhaps not accidental that Shubin, too, 
had studied medicine at university, albeit reluctantly (VIII/20). Of course, as Frank Seeley 
has emphasized (1991:208), Shubin‟s conduct ultimately belies his materialistic bravado 
and shows him to be no less generous than Bersenev. Seeley even goes as far as asserting 
that „Shubin has as good a claim as Insarov to the title of “hero”‟ (207), but, as will soon 
become clear, this means to confuse their quite different roles in Turgenev‟s novel.                               
 The „contradictions‟ in Shubin, such as the one mentioned above of an artist 
spouting radical ideas, are very much part of his role. In his plan for Накануне Turgenev 
had jotted: „Скептицизм и мягкость поэтической натуры в Ш[убине]‟ (VIII/407), and it 
is this scepticism in a positive sense which allows Shubin to discern, with the artist‟s 
observant eye, the various sides to each question and person he encounters. Shubin shares 
this trait with his creator, who stressed that the „способность видеть белое и чѐрное‟ was 
essential for every artist,
72
 and just as Turgenev could sympathize with his antagonists in 
the radical camp to such an extent that he managed to create the remarkably compelling 
figure of Bazarov, so Shubin is able to appreciate the fine qualities of Elena and Insarov, 
even though they are so different from him. At the same time, Shubin‟s scepticism makes 
him alert to his own weaknesses. Chief among these is the possibility of his „uselessness‟ 
as an artist in Russia on the eve of the great reforms of the 1860s. 
                                               
71 See Offord 1979 for an illuminating discussion of this polemic. Dostoevskii picked up this aspect of 
Накануне because in Униженные и оскорблѐнные (1861) Prince Valkovskii, an unashamedly „rational 
egoist‟, taunts Ivan Petrovich with a paraphrase of the altruistic Bersenev‟s reply to Shubin: „ограничиться в 
жизни ролью второго лица‟ (1972-90:III/358).    
72 Letter to Borisov, 15/27 March 1870 (P VIII/200). 
25  
 
II.1 The artist’s role in times of crisis 
This was an issue which affected Turgenev personally at the time of the Crimean 
War, as his letters to Pauline Viardot show. Thus, soon after the siege of Sevastopol began 
in October 1854 he regretted not having chosen a military career: „j‟aurais pû peut-être 
verser mon sang pour la défense de ma patrie.‟73 And a few months later he confessed: 
Beaucoup de projets littéraires s‟agitent dans ma tête…mais le temps n‟est pas à la 
littérature. Il s‟organise maintenant une levée en masse dans tout l‟Empire […] Notre pays 
entre dans une grande crise—les bras de nous tous ne lui feront pas défaut. 
Pardon de cette digression, mais il est difficile de ne pas parler de ce qui remplit 
tous les cœurs russes dans cet instant.74 
Even if in his unfinished essay of 1858 on the Russian gentry he would emphasize that 
there were other ways of serving one‟s country than on the battlefield, Turgenev felt guilty 
about being merely a bystander during the Crimean War and later also during the Russo-
Turkish War in 1877 when he lamented the thousands of Russian soldiers who, because of 
the incompetence of their generals, were being slaughtered like sheep by the Turks.
75
 In the 
second of the prose-poems entitled Дрозд (August 1877) he expressed his deep shame at 
thinking of his own sufferings when „тысячи моих братий, собратий гибнут теперь там, 
вдали‟ and added: „я, как преступник, прячу голову в постылые подушки‟ (XIII/204). 
 In the outward plot of Накануне, of course, the main crisis is the Bulgarians‟ plight 
under the Turks, which Insarov describes to Elena: „как стадо гоняют нас поганые 
турки, нас режут‟ (VIII/68). Because this plight didn‟t directly concern Russia as yet (it 
would in 1876), Shubin is to some extent „justified‟ in observing the Bulgarian patriot 
Insarov from a distance. And in this respect he plays a role which Turgenev was familiar 
with. Thus, during the „June Days‟ in Paris in 1848 Turgenev had witnessed the fighting 
between the workers on the barricades and the government troops. Twenty-five years later 
he condensed his observations of this tragic event into the remarkable sketch Наши 
послали! in which, after noting ironically how he had been a mere „фланер‟ on the streets 
of Paris, he vividly evoked the tense atmosphere of those days and paid tribute to the 
heroic altruism of an elderly worker (XIV/136-46). The way in which this sketch combines 
sympathy for the insurgents with subtle hints about the futility of their revolt illustrates 
                                               
73 Letter of 18 October 1854 (NC:I/76). 
74 Letter of 10 February 1855 (NC:I/79). 
75 Letter to Lavrov, 22 July/3 August 1877 (P XII1/192).  
26  
Turgenev‟s striving for objectivity.76 Paradoxically, it is such objectivity which vindicates 
the artist‟s role as a „passive‟ observer of events. A few days before his death, Goethe had 
replied to those who accused him of indifference to politics: „Sowie ein Dichter politisch 
wirken will, muß er sich einer Partei hingeben; und sowie er dieses tut, ist er als Poet 
verloren‟.77 Not for nothing would Turgenev so often cite Goethe in defence of the writer‟s 
right to impartiality.                           
 Another historical upheaval observed by Turgenev which is directly relevant to 
Накануне is the Italian Risorgimento, and a few days before setting to work on his novel, 
in June 1859, he commented on recent events in Italy in a letter which anticipates Shubin‟s 
final tribute to Insarov‟s cause (VIII/141). Writing to Countess Lambert, Turgenev 
confessed that if he were younger he would travel to Lombardy, where Garibaldi and his 
Alpine brigade of volunteers were supporting the Franco-Piedmontese armies against the 
Austrians, in order to breathe the air of freedom there: „Стало быть, есть ещѐ на земле 
энтузиазм? Люди умеют жертвовать собою, могут радоваться, безумствовать, 
надеяться?‟.78 In August, now busy working on his novel, Turgenev told Annenkov 
ironically that despite being an „исконный зритель‟, if he happened to be in Italy he 
would probably not be able to resist crying out: „viva Garibaldi!‟ even if he were to be 
flogged for doing so.
79
 The irony lay in the fact that events in Italy at the time were being 
largely dictated by Turgenev‟s bête noire Napoleon III, who wasn‟t at all sympathetic to 
the complete unification of Italy aspired to by patriots like Garibaldi. As we shall see, 
Turgenev‟s thoughts on Garibaldi can be related to the tragic fate which befalls Insarov.  
 
II.2 The value of art questioned—Elena and Bazarov  
First, though, we must turn to the other „crisis‟ which is implicitly at the heart of 
Накануне. When Shubin paints such a bleak picture of Russian society in front of Uvar 
Ivanovich—„Нет ещѐ у нас никого, нет людей, куда ни посмотри…‟ (VIII/142)—this is 
a clear allusion, as noted by Freeborn (1960:93-94), to the indictment of the apathetic and 
selfish gentry which Dobroliubov made in his famous article „Что такое «обломовщина»‟ 
(May 1859) on Goncharov‟s novel. Though understandably not as dismissive of his own 
class, Turgenev was, like Dobroliubov, concerned by the lack of men on the ground not 
                                               
76 See Freeborn 1983 for a consideration of how Turgenev‟s direct experience of revolution (in which he was 
unique among nineteenth-century Russian writers) shaped his views on historical change.  
77 Conversation with Eckermann, March 1832 (Goethe 1985-98:XIX/460). 
78 Letter of 12/24 June 1859 (P III/306). 
79 Letter of 1/13 August 1859 (P III/334). 
27  
just to carry out the reforms which public opinion in Russia had unanimously demanded 
after the Crimean War, but to do so giving the peasants a fair deal. The initial consensus 
had broken down once conservative landowners saw their interests threatened, and 
Bersenev‟s invocation of „соединяющие слова‟ in his opening conversation with Shubin 
(VIII/14) can be seen as an appeal to restore that spirit of unity which had galvanized 
Russia after the accession of Alexander II. But the reactionaries weren‟t the only problem. 
During the drafting process of the emancipation act misgivings were expressed by some 
liberals over the fact that control over the peasants was going to be transferred from the 
landowners to the State bureaucracy.
80
 In Накануне this issue is addressed through the 
figure of the jurist Kurnatovskii, Elena‟s official suitor. As Henri Granjard has noted 
(1954:285), Kurnatovskii is a new version of Panshin in Дворянское гнездо, and it‟s not 
surprising that, like Lavretskii there, the idealistic members of the gentry Bersenev and 
Shubin quarrel so bitterly with this soulless bureaucrat (VIII/107-8). 
Of direct relevance to our topic is what Elena says about her suitor‟s insensitivity to 
art, which, as she points out, is different from her and Insarov‟s attitude: „Этот 
[Курнатовский] как будто хотел сказать: я не понимаю его, да оно и не нужно, но в 
благоустроенном государстве допускается‟ (VIII/107). This is almost certainly a jibe at 
Chernsyhevskii‟s 1855 dissertation. Although Chernyshevskii hadn‟t denied the 
„usefulness‟ of art, he did speak of the latter in a rather condescending manner. Thus, he 
argued that the value of an artistic work resided not in its form (which could never match 
the beauty of „real life‟ anyway!) but in its content alone, in as far as this gave readers (for, 
despite the general title of his thesis, his main concern was clearly with literature) food for 
thought: 
Содержание, достойное внимания мыслящего человека, одно только в состоянии 
избавить искусство от упрѐка будто бы оно—пустая забава, чем оно и действительно 
бывает чрезвычайно часто […] Бесполезное не имеет права на уважение (1939-
50:II/79).                             
This sarcastic insinuation that art very often was no more than an „empty pastime‟ is 
echoed by Kurnatovskii, whom Elena compares to an „очень, очень снисходительный 
начальник‟ (VIII/107). Although this civil servant can obviously not be equated with the 
radical leader Chernyshevskii except in their shared „utilitarianism‟, the implication of 
Elena, Shubin, and Bersenev‟s rejection of Kurnatovskii is that if such men were to govern 
                                               
80 Pares 1962:402. 
28  
Russia, the country would be much the worse for it. Turgenev here comes to the same 
conclusion as Dickens, who so brilliantly exposed the barrenness of utilitarianism in Hard 
Times (1854).       
 As so often in Накануне, Shubin is spot on when he observes how in contrast to 
Insarov‟s „жизнью данный идеал‟, Kurnatovskii possessed merely „дельность без 
содержания‟ (VIII/108). The latter phrase resembles the epigraph which Turgenev was 
thinking of using for Отцы и дети, in which Bazarov‟s generation was described as being 
all „сила без содержания‟ (VIII/446). There is evidently a great difference between the 
„efficiency‟ of Kurnatovskii and the „strength‟ of Bazarov with its revolutionary potential, 
but it is significant that in both cases „content‟ is the other term in the antithesis. What 
Turgenev meant by this term is revealed in the later novel to be the plenitude of life, which 
includes the beauty of art so vigorously rejected by Bazarov.       
 Chernyshevskii, as we have seen, also invoked „content‟, giving it precedence over 
„form‟ in works of art, and Turgenev would certainly have agreed with this part of his 
dissertation. After all, Chernyshevskii was merely expanding on what Belinskii had stated 
in his last article (his survey of Russian literature for the year 1847): „Вообще характер 
нового искусства—перевес важности содержания над важностию формы‟ (1953-
59:X/309). Turgenev himself, in his Faust essay of 1845, had praised Goethe as a supreme 
example of the „free artist‟—that is, one who created beauty without troubling himself 
about social or political issues—whilst pointing out that „нам теперь нужны не одни 
поэты‟ (I/238). Just like Belinskii, Turgenev had stressed that people (in Russia and 
elsewhere) could no longer stand in front of a painting of a beggar admiring its artistic 
beauty. They would be troubled by the fact that there were beggars in real life (I/238).                              
 In Накануне this social conscience is illustrated by Elena, of whom we are told that 
as a girl she soon became weary of reading because she wanted to help those less fortunate 
than herself: „чтение одно еѐ не удовлетворяло: она с детства жаждала деятельности, 
деятельного добра‟ (VIII/33). This turning away from books, and indeed from all of the 
artistic accomplishments expected of a young lady—such as singing romances—is a 
natural process in her. It arises from her innate compassion and charity. Turgenev, like 
many great writers, believed in the spontaneity of women. As Schiller, for example, put it, 
„Der weibliche Charakter, auch der vollkommenste, kann nie anders, als aus Neigung 
29  
handeln‟.81 Thus, Elena‟s indifference to art is not a consciously aggressive stance as it is 
in Bazarov. She would never rudely interrupt someone reciting verses by Pushkin, scoff at 
a music-lover playing Schubert, or say that Raphael wasn‟t worth a brass farthing! The 
reason why Bazarov does all these things was discerned by Nikolai Strakhov in his article 
on Отцы и дети, published in Dostoevskii‟s journal Время in April 1862. Strakhov took 
issue with Pisarev‟s sarcastic argument (in his earlier review of the novel) that it was unfair 
to stop people from reading Pushkin if they were allowed, say, to drink vodka or play cards 
(the latter of which Bazarov does on several occasions). Quite rightly, Strakhov pointed 
out that Bazarov did not see art as equivalent to vodka or cards:                          
В мелодии Шуберта и в стихах Пушкина он [Базаров] ясно слышит враждебное 
начало; он чует их всеувлекательную силу и потому вооружается против них […] 
Искусство всегда носит в себе элемент примирения, тогда как Базаров вовсе не 
желает примириться с жизнью.82 
Indeed, the beauty of art is so compelling that it might induce one to forget about more 
pressing issues in real life. That is why Turgenev, in the middle of his 1845 tribute to 
Goethe, reminded his readers (and himself?) of the existence of beggars; that is why 
Bazarov, who is so keenly aware of the poverty of rural Russia, tries, before and after his 
meeting with Odintsova, to bar all beauty from his life.              
 As noted above, Elena has a naturalness which is denied to Bazarov, whose noble 
resolve to work for the good of Russia is at times undermined by various inner tensions 
(such as the wolfish lust and genuine love he feels for Odintsova).
83
 In her „indifference‟ to 
art Elena is also more convincing than Marianna in Новь (1877). For this later heroine, 
despite her love of Pushkin (XII/215), consciously distances herself from such interests 
and encourages the would-be revolutionary Nezhdanov to give up writing poetry: „я 
наверное знаю, что у тебя есть призвание лучше и выше литературы. Этим хорошо 
было заниматься прежде, когда другое было невозможно‟ (XII/163). Moreover, in 
                                               
81 From the 1793 treatise Kallias, oder die Schönheit (Schiller 1992-2002:VIII/317). The same faith was 
expressed by Goethe in the figure of Gretchen and by Pushkin in Tat‟iana, both of whom Turgenev so 
admired.  
82 Strakhov 1968:14-15. Anatolii Batiuto (1977) discusses Strakhov‟s article and Dostoevskii‟s own 
interpretation of Bazarov (his letter to Turgenev containing his immediate reaction to Отцы и дети has 
unfortunately not survived).  
83 More generally, as Batiuto (1990:100f., 181-82) has emphasized, it is a conflict in Bazarov‟s soul between 
crude materialism and his indestructibe „humaneness‟. This is especially clear in that scene where he 
observes, with apparent admiration, an ant dragging away a half-dead fly, but remarks immediately 
afterwards that such animal behaviour is denied to human beings because of their „чувство сострадания‟ 
(VIII/323). In the crucial scene in Odintsova‟s room a few days earlier, seeing her frightened had likewise 
checked his savage passion (VIII/299).      
30  
Накануне Turgenev, ever true to the richness of human nature, shows that Elena is by no 
means always insensitive to art: she is struck by some of the paintings she sees in Venice 
and especially by the final duet of La traviata (VIII/154-55).  
Still, Elena is clearly a herald of that young generation which Turgenev, looking 
back on the 1860s and 70s in his Pushkin speech, described as striving after „цели, для 
которых считалось не только дозволительным, но и обязательным приносить всѐ не 
идущее к делу в жертву, сжимать всю жизнь в одно русло‟ (XV/75). The fact that in 
Turgenev‟s portrayal of this generation she precedes Bazarov, who consciously dismisses 
art as a distraction from these goals, is important. On the one hand, it reflects how 
Turgenev, as Annenkov noted, saw in the Russian woman „представительница 
нравственной силы в обществе‟ (1960:388); on the other, it also reflects Turgenev‟s 
more universal observation that „всѐ новое—хорошее или дурное—всегда начинается с 
женщин‟84—an observation he found confirmed in Sophocles‟s Antigone, for the heroine 
of that immortal tragedy is driven to a „revolutionary‟ act by love.                                       
 That Elena‟s yearning for practical activity represented a new attitude in the young 
generation was immediately picked up by readers of Накануне. First among these was 
Dobroliubov, who in his critique of Обломов had already singled out Ol‟ga in 
Goncharov‟s novel as carrying within her the „веяние новой жизни‟, that is, 
„потребность настоящего дела‟ (1972:41, 29). In his equally compelling review of 
Turgenev‟s novel—a review whose title „Когда же придѐт настоящий день?‟ echoed 
Shubin‟s questions to Uvar Ivanovich: „Когда ж наша придѐт пора? Когда у нас 
народятся люди?‟ (VIII/142)—Dobroliubov argued that Elena reflected, more strongly 
than Ol‟ga, the striving of Russian society to „приняться за настоящее дело‟ (1972:56), 
even though the outlet for these aspirations wasn‟t yet clear. In support of this Dobroliubov 
could have cited what Shubin says about the bust of Elena he was working on and how it 
was impossible to capture the expression on her face: „Не даѐтся, как клад в руки […] 
выражение взгляда беспрестанно меняется‟ (VIII/10). But Dobroliubov wasn‟t really 
interested in Shubin as a sculptor! Instead, he moved on to a general level of argument and 
interpreted Elena‟s „rejection‟ of Shubin and Bersenev as an allegory of how Russian 
society had left behind its aesthetic and philosophical-speculative stages. A sensitive 
reader, Dobroliubov did recognize the fine qualities of Shubin and Bersenev, calling them 
„славные натуры‟ who were able to appreciate Insarov, and who, if they had had a 
                                               
84 Letter to Golovnin, 25 February/9 March 1877 (P XII1/103). Turgenev was referring specifically to the fact 
that in a recent trial of revolutionaries in St Petersburg no less than 18 of the 52 defendants were women.  
31  
different upbringing, might also have been capable of action (1972:83). However, 
following on from Chernyshevskii‟s emphasis on the need for „содержание‟ in art, the 
young critic found the sculptor Shubin to be „empty‟ and thus unworthy of Elena: 
Почувствовала она было расположение к Шубину, как наше общество одно время 
увлекалось художественностью; но в Шубине не оказалось дельного содержания, 
одни блестки и капризы; а Елене не до того было, чтобы, посреди еѐ исканий, 
любоваться игрушками. (1972:70)                   
It‟s true that Elena reproaches Shubin for his apparent frivolity (VIII/24-25) and even loses 
her respect for him—too rashly, as Turgenev suggests when describing her character: 
„Стоило человеку потерять еѐ уважение,—а суд произносила она скоро, часто 
слишком скоро,—уж он переставал существовать для неѐ‟ (VIII/32-33). But, 
significantly, even though she is uninterested in Shubin‟s sculptures, she doesn‟t question 
his right to devote himself to his vocation and later in the novel she appreciates his sincere 
compassion for her (VIII/89).     
Dobroliubov‟s harsh verdict about Shubin‟s lack of „sensible content‟ is 
characteristic of Russian radicals‟ attitude to the fine arts after the appearance of 
Chernyshevskii‟s dissertation. Unlike writers, painters and sculptors weren‟t even regarded 
as proper members of the intelligentsia until about the 1880s (Garshin‟s short story 
Художники, which marks a change in this attitude, was published in 1879). This was 
partly because of these artists‟ limited education (see III.3), and even more so because of 
the disdain with which they were treated by critics like Chernsyhevskii and Pisarev, who 
saw in them little more than irresponsible children. Shubin isn‟t a typical artist in that sense 
because he is remarkably well-read. However, since he is also (anachronistically!) familiar 
with the ideas of Chernyshevskii, he delights in living up to this disdainful view of artists 
and ironically criticizes his own „emptiness‟ at every opportunity: „А серьѐзно я говорить 
не умею, потому что я не серьѐзный человек‟ (VIII/17). He even expects to be despised 
by Elena and the earnest Insarov: „я, как артист, ему противен, чем я горжусь‟ 
(VIII/60), which is of course quite wrong, as Bersenev tells him. Insarov doesn‟t deny the 
value of art, even if his translations of Bulgarian folksongs are probably meant more for 
propaganda purposes, but this was a „function‟ which Turgenev, in his Pushkin speech, 
recognized as legitimate in the case of oppressed nations (XV/69).                      
 The dismissal of Shubin by Dobroliubov was echoed by many Soviet 
commentators on Накануне. Using the vocabulary of Marxist class warfare, they bracketed 
32  
Shubin (and Bersenev) as a typical „дворянский интеллигент‟, whose main role was that 
of serving as a foil to the raznochinets Insarov.
85
 As always, there is a grain of truth in such 
approaches, and Shubin himself plays into their hands when, like the Hamlet of Shchigry 
District in Turgenev‟s early story (1849), he so eloquently condemns himself and his 
whole generation in front of Uvar Ivanovich (VIII/141-42). However, to see in Shubin no 
more than a foil to the „new men‟ of the 1860s means to impoverish his role in the novel 
considerably. Moreover, Dobroliubov was unfair in describing Shubin as a dilettante in 
whom „лень заглушает способности‟, and who therefore squanders his talent (1972:60). 
As will be seen in the next chapter, Shubin‟s capacity for hard work is beyond doubt. The 
fact that he is a sculptor is also very important for understanding Turgenev‟s attitude 
towards Insarov. 
 
II.3 Turgenev’s reflections on heroism  
 The theme of heroism is one that has fascinated artists down the ages, but from the 
mid-eighteenth century onwards it became particularly relevant because the spirit of the 
times, with its growing rationalism, seemed to preclude any heroic acts. In Germany, 
where abuses of power by ruling princes were frequent in the various territories into which 
the country was divided, Schiller was one of the first to call for heroes to fight against 
injustice. Thus, in his Don Carlos (1787) there is a scene where the Marquis de Posa, a 
Knight of the Order of Malta, is admitted to an audience with the queen: one of her ladies-
in-waiting remarks ironically that there are no longer any giants for knights to do battle 
with. Posa replies: „Gewalt / ist für den Schwachen jederzeit ein Riese‟. The queen agrees 
with him but laments: „Es gibt noch Riesen, / doch keine Ritter gibt es mehr‟ (Act I, sc.4 ). 
The marquis‟s noble conduct subsequently shows that she is wrong in her scepticism, and 
one of his final exhortations to his friend Carlos is that he must never allow „the lethal 
insect of / much-praised reason‟ to defile the „divine flower of enthusiasm‟ (Act IV, sc.21). 
As Herzen tells us in his memoirs (1954-66:VIII/84), Don Carlos made a huge impact on 
young Russians of his generation, and Dostoevskii was the writer in whom that play and 
Schiller‟s ideas in general would bear the richest fruit.86 
 Turgenev, whilst gravitating more naturally towards Goethe than towards the 
younger of the Weimar Dioscuri, was certainly also receptive to Schiller‟s democratic 
spirit. As he argued in an 1843 article on Wilhelm Tell: „Как человек и гражданин он 
                                               
85 As in the Academy edition‟s commentary (VIII/506). 
86 See the excellent study by Alexandra Lyngstad: Dostoyevskij and Schiller (Le Hague, 1975).  
33  
[Шиллер] выше Гѐте, хотя ниже его как художник‟ (I/207). In a country like Russia, as 
Turgenev readily acknowledged, it was not just artists that were called for but also citizens. 
Thus, he, too, was concerned by the general apathy of the times—„наш равнодушный 
век‟ (I/134)—and, in particular, that of many of his contemporaries. Freeborn has rightly 
emphasized (1960:86-87) that this is an important issue already in Turgenev‟s first two 
novels. Not for nothing does Lezhnev, in the last chapter of Рудин, describe enthusiasm as 
„самое драгоценное качество в наше время‟ before providing a Shubin-like critique of 
his generation (VI/348).  
Starting with isolated allusions to Don Quixote in Рудин (a brief quotation in 
Chapter XI) and in Дворянское гнездо (the chivalric figure of Mikhalevich), Turgenev 
would soon focus all his attention on Cervantes‟s knight as an archetype of heroism 
inspired by faith and enthusiasm in his essay Гамлет и Дон-Кихот (1860), which 
appeared at the same time as Накануне. The contrasting scepticism of Hamlet is described 
there in terms which recall the above-cited exchange in Don Carlos: „Нет, он [Гамлет] не 
будет сражаться с ветряными мельницами, он не верит в великанов... но он бы и не 
напал на них, если бы они точно существовали‟ (VIII/178). (Schiller, who had read 
Don Quixote,
87
 may well have been thinking of the windmill scene when he wrote that 
exchange in his play.) In Накануне an equivalent scene occurs during the excursion to 
Tsaritsyno, where it turns out that Shubin, for all his affinity with the Hamlet type, does 
acknowledge the existence of giants. He tries to defend the ladies against the drunken 
German „великан‟ (VIII/74), and even if his eloquence proves insufficient to check the 
giant‟s advance, it does suggest again that Shubin‟s role is more complex than that of a 
mere foil to Insarov the man of action. 
 To understand this role better it is essential to turn to a suggestion made by 
Freeborn in the preface to his translation of Рудин (1974:10-11): namely, that Turgenev, 
while planning his first novel in 1855, discussed with his friend Botkin the lectures On 
Heroes, Hero-Worship, & the Heroic in History by Thomas Carlyle. These lectures, 
Carlyle‟s greatest success as an orator when he delivered them in London in May 1840, 
were published in 1841. In this influential work Carlyle argued that the religious, political, 
and poetic heroes of the past had created history by leading and inspiring others, so that, as 
he famously put it, „The History of the World is the Biography of Great Men‟ (1993:13). 
Botkin‟s translation of two of these lectures appeared in the same issue of Современник in 
                                               
87 See his preface to Die Räuber (1781) where he compares Karl Moor to Don Quixote. 
34  
1856 as the first instalment of Рудин. Freeborn makes the connection between Carlyle and 
Turgenev‟s novel because in a passage in the lecture „The Hero as Poet‟ Carlyle had 
contrasted Italy, politically dismembered, yet united thanks to Dante, with Russia:  
The Czar of all the Russias, he is strong with so many bayonets, Cossacks and cannons 
[…] but he cannot yet speak. Something great in him, but it is a dumb greatness. He has 
had no voice of genius, to be heard of all men and times. He must learn to speak. He is a 
great dumb monster hitherto. […] The nation that has a Dante is bound together as no 
dumb Russia can be. (1993:97)          
For obvious reasons, this passage wasn‟t included by Botkin in his translation of the 
lecture, but Freeborn suggests that he showed the English text to Turgenev. Whilst the 
comparison of Nicholas I to a „great dumb monster‟ would have appealed to Turgenev, the 
notion that Russia as a country had no voice must have riled him. The figure of Rudin, 
according to Freeborn (1974:10-11), may have been conceived partly to refute Carlyle by 
showing that Russia, in this archetypal man of the forties, did have a voice, and a very 
eloquent one at that.      
 Before going on to Freeborn‟s next point about Carlyle and Рудин, it‟s worth 
noting that Turgenev first met the Scottish thinker in London in June 1857. Turgenev must 
have eagerly anticipated this meeting because Carlyle was the author of several fine essays 
in the 1830s on Goethe and Schiller. He had even corresponded with Goethe in the last 
years of his life. Indeed, it is likely that Goethe‟s emphasis on respect for one‟s superiors 
as a vital element in the education of the young—as outlined in the „Pädagogische Provinz‟ 
chapters of his novel Wilhelm Meisters Wanderjahre (1829)—directly influenced Carlyle‟s 
views, for in On Heroes he wrote: „No nobler feeling than this of admiration for one higher 
than himself dwells in the breast of man‟ (1993:11). When Turgenev called on Carlyle he 
was astonished to hear his host referring to the late Nicholas I as a great man and saying 
that he liked the Russians because of their talent for obedience. In his splendid book 
Turgenev and England, Patrick Waddington has vividly described the „clash‟ which ensued 
(1980:35f.). In brief: Turgenev observed ironically that he would like to see Carlyle in the 
shoes of a Russian for a week, as he would soon change his mind about the benefits of 
despotism. Turgenev also remarked that the talent for obedience was not as widespread in 
Russia as Carlyle imagined.
88
 Perhaps when composing the dialogue in which Uvar 
Ivanovich scolds Shubin for teasing his elders: „Млад ты, так уважай!‟ and the sculptor 
                                               
88 Letter to Pauline Viardot, 6 June 1857 (NC:I/83).  
35  
exclaims: „Сколько в нѐм ещѐ таится счастливой, детской веры! Уважать!‟ (VIII/43-
44), Turgenev was thinking back to his meeting with this modern-day defender of 
monarchism?
89
 
Carlyle took a very bleak view of the modern age, which he attacked for its 
unbelief, utilitarianism, self-interest, parliamentary majorities, industrialism… In his 
philippic against modernity he lamented: 
This is an age that as it were denies the existence of great men; denies the desirableness of 
great men. Shew our critics a great man, a Luther for example, they begin to what they call 
„account‟ for him; not to worship him, but take the dimensions of him,—and bring him out 
to be a little kind of man! (1993:12)    
Freeborn notes (1974:10-11) that this very process can be observed in Рудин, where the 
various characters all „take the dimensions‟ of the central hero, who is thereby gradually 
exposed as a „little kind of man‟—at least until the last chapter and the second epilogue 
added by Turgenev in 1860, which shows how Rudin (unlike his prototype Bakunin) dies 
on the barricades of Paris in June 1848.
90
  
If this „critical‟ process is at work in Рудин, then it is even more so the case in 
Накануне, where Shubin initially does try to „take the dimensions‟ of Insarov—both 
literally as a sculptor, since he asks the Bulgarian for permission to fashion a bust of him 
(VIII/56), and figuratively, since during their walk along the Moscow River, despite all his 
clowning about, „Шубин всѐ как будто бы экзаменовал Инсарова, как будто щупал 
его‟ (VIII/57). This is a trait which Shubin shares with Turgenev, who, as Annenkov tells 
us, was not so much interested in the ideas held by people as in their personalities: 
„Изучение лица стояло у него всегда на первом плане‟ (1960:339). We have already 
seen how „scepticism‟ was one of the qualities Turgenev endowed Shubin with in his plan 
for the novel, and it is no surprise that the sculptor duly comes up with a „формулярный 
список господина Инсарова‟ which combines ironic remarks about Insarov‟s apparent 
stolidness with respect for his being truly „связан с своею землѐй‟ unlike the Russian 
Slavophiles (VIII/60). 
                                               
89 To do Carlyle justice, it is worth stressing that he was by no means a proto-fascist, as he is sometimes 
made out to be. Though he disagreed with his views, Turgenev liked Carlyle as a person and sent him a copy 
of a French edition of Записки охотника in 1858. After reading Муму (1852), a work which shows precisely 
the consequences of the arbitrary exercise of power that was possible in Russia under serfdom, Carlyle said: 
„I think it is the most beautiful and most touching story I ever read‟ (Waddington 1980:87). See also 
Theodore Dalrymple‟s essay on Муму, in which he brilliantly contrasts Turgenev and Marx (2005:77-89).  
90 For a discussion of why Turgenev „revolutionised‟ Rudin, see Gabel‟ 1967:53.    
36  
 Turgenev himself always drew up a „формулярный список‟ or précis of his 
characters before writing his novels. A notable example is the précis of Bazarov, which we 
find in the preparatory sketches for Отцы и дети first published by Patrick Waddington in 
1984. A comparison of Turgenev‟s initially quite hostile description of Bazarov in this 
précis: „В сущности—бесплоднейший субъект—антипод Рудина—ибо безо всякого 
энтузиазма и веры‟ (XII*/566) with how he comes across in the novel‟s final text shows 
how Turgenev‟s attitude to him changed significantly in the course of writing. As Anatolii 
Batiuto concludes in his outstanding study tracing Bazarov‟s ideological links to Belinskii, 
Chenyshevskii, Dobroliubov, and other contemporaries, Turgenev really did come to see in 
Bazarov a tragic hero worthy of admiration and sympathy (1990:216-7). This became even 
clearer once the working manuscript of Отцы и дети came to light in 1988.91 
 In Накануне the précis of Insarov given by Shubin early in the novel also 
undergoes a significant change as the sculptor begins to appreciate him better. First of all, 
it should be said that the „woodenness‟ of Insarov as it is perceived by some readers—one 
of the earliest being Edward Garnett in the preface to his wife Constance‟s 1895 translation 
of Накануне (see Waddington 1995:130)—and even by Shubin at first, may not be a flaw 
on Turgenev‟s part, but something quite deliberate. After all, Carlyle, in his lecture on 
Oliver Cromwell, had lavished praise on this „inarticulate prophet‟, who „struggled to utter 
himself‟ but whose „savage depth‟ and „wild sincerity‟ enabled him to get things done 
(1993:187). For Carlyle, the „great silent men‟ were the salt of the earth. Now, Insarov is 
certainly not as inarticulate as Cromwell. Shubin notes that when speaking of his country 
Insarov showed „даже дар слова‟, and he even admits that the Bulgarian did not quite 
correspond to his (Carlylean?) notion of what a hero should be like: „герой не должен 
уметь говорить: герой мычит, как бык; зато двинет рогом—стены валятся‟. 
Immediately afterwards he concedes: „Впрочем, может быть, в наши времена 
требуются герои другого калибра‟ (VIII/60-61).                     
 This is a very important observation. It relates to what Turgenev had described as 
the underlying idea of his novel: the need for „сознательно-героические натуры‟ in 
modern times. Unlike Don Quixote, Insarov is a conscious hero who will not tilt recklessly 
at windmills if this will not further his cause. He combines „resolution‟ and „thought‟—
„воля и мысль‟—the two mainsprings for action that appear separately in Don Quixote 
and Hamlet, as Turgenev argued in his essay, but which must work jointly in order for such 
                                               
91 For more details on what the manuscript has revealed, see Nikitina 1996.  
37  
action to be productive (VIII/183). What this means in the Russian context is Turgenev‟s 
hope that educated men, be it of gentry or non-gentry origins, would emerge who truly 
cared for the peasants, and who would not only secure a fair deal for them in the 
emancipation process but also go on to establish schools and hospitals in the countryside. 
In contrast, as Shubin points out, the task awaiting Insarov in Bulgaria was „easier‟, 
requiring just military heroism: „Зато и задача его легче, удобопонятнее: стоит только 
турок вытурить, велика штука!‟ (VIII/60). 
Dobroliubov famously read into Накануне a call to liberate Russia from her 
„внутренние враги‟ (1972:89), or „internal Turks‟, that is, implicitly, to overthrow the 
tsarist system, but this wasn‟t what Turgenev had in mind, and he was rightly aghast at the 
young critic‟s words and how they might be interpreted. The Russian „heroes‟ envisaged 
by Turgenev were not revolutionaries in the political sense of a Chernyshevskii, who since 
1858 had been warning in a veiled manner that if the serfs were emancipated without land 
there would be a peasant revolution led by raznochintsy. Rather, Turgenev, as he 
emphasized in his polemic with Herzen in 1862, was looking for educated Russians who 
could act as „передаватели цивилизации народу‟.92 In order to serve this civilizing cause, 
which Turgenev did see as something revolutionary, albeit in a spiritual sense, a more 
difficult type of „heroism‟ was required of the educated classes—namely, the capacity for 
„тѐмная, приготовительная работа‟, such as that undertaken by Litvinov in Дым when he 
studies agronomy in Germany so as to improve conditions on his farm in Russia (IX/150), 
and also the ability to „жертвовать собою без всякого блеску и треску‟, that is, being 
prepared to perform such humble tasks as teaching peasants to read and working in rural 
hospitals, as Turgenev explained in a letter in 1874, at the time he was planning Новь. 
Russia, he added in that letter, was entering „в эпоху только полезных людей... и это 
будут лучшие люди‟.93 In that sense Solomin in Новь, a true man of the people who cares 
for the material and spiritual welfare of the peasants working in his factory, isn‟t even a 
„hero‟, as Paklin observes at the end of Turgenev‟s last novel (XII/298-99). 
If we return to Dobroliubov‟s interpretation of Накануне, it is clear that he was 
somewhat rash in seeing in Insarov a figure-head for social revolution in Russia. Turgenev 
did conceive Insarov as a heroic figure, but in a more universal sense, based on his reading 
of Shakespeare and his knowledge of ancient and modern history, as we shall soon see. 
                                               
92 Letter of 26 September/8 October 1862 (P V/51). For a discussion of Turgenev‟s polemic with Herzen 
about the future development of Russia, see Freeborn 1960:135-38, and Freeborn 1984.          
93 Letter to A. Filosofova, 11/23 September 1874 (P X/295-96). 
38  
However, the impetuosity of such young men as Dobroliubov, whose talent and diligence 
he respected,
94
 did prompt Turgenev to address, in Отцы и дети, the question of a 
revolutionary hero in Russia. In his important letter to K. Sluchevskii of 14/26 April 1862, 
in which he clarified his attitude to Bazarov for the benefit of the Russian students in 
Heidelberg, Turgenev didn‟t mince his words: „если он [Базаров] называется 
нигилистом, то надо читать: революционером‟ (P IV/380). However, as Freeborn 
(1982:17-19) has emphasized, Bazarov, despite being Turgenev‟s „most revolutionary 
hero‟, was conceived not as a political revolutionary of the kind envisaged by 
Chernyshevskii and others, but, rather, as a „practical reformer‟ seeking to work as a 
„teacher‟ among the peasantry. This is supported by an illuminating recent article by Nina 
Nikitina (2001), who argues that the main prototype for Bazarov was the famous surgeon 
and educator Nikolai Pirogov.
95
      
Now, there is of course an affinity between Bazarov and Insarov, in that they both 
display such qualities as strength and resolve, which critics like Chernyshevskii (in his 
review of Ася) and Dobroliubov (in his Обломов article) had been calling for, and which 
Turgenev‟s previous „anti-heroes‟ from the gentry had lacked. But one crucial difference 
between these two plebeians lies in the observation made by Shubin: that Insarov is bound 
to his land and people. This Bazarov unfortunately is not, despite his defiant assertion to 
Pavel Kirsanov: „Мой дед землю пахал!‟ (VIII/244). In the novel‟s manuscript his 
aspiration to guide the Russian people towards a better future is expressed with even more 
hubris: „Мы не одни, а народ не против нас‟ (VIII/453). However, Bazarov‟s encounters 
with various peasants, including Fenechka, show subtly, yet unmistakenly, that despite his 
forthright manner, they still see in him a member of the ruling class and only welcome him 
when he tries to help them as a doctor. His estrangement from the Russian people, 
                                               
94 Turgenev was saddened by Dobroliubov‟s premature death in November 1861, as is clear from his letter to 
Borisov, 11/23 December 1861: „Я пожалел о смерти Добролюбова, хотя и не разделял его воззрений: 
человек был даровитый—молодой... Жаль погибшей, напрасно потраченной силы!‟ (P IV/316). In 
Отцы и дети, completed just a few months earlier, he had expressed his grief over Bazarov‟s death in quite 
similar terms. 
95 Known for his brusque manners, Pirogov got into trouble with the government, and, despite his great 
merits during the Crimean War, he was dismissed from his teaching post in Odessa in 1861. Turgenev didn‟t 
want to cause further trouble for Pirogov by associating him with the nihilist hero Bazarov, and so he took 
care not to mention this openly. He did, however, leave a subtle hint in По поводу «Отцов и детей» (1869) 
when he cryptically referred to Bazarov‟s prototype as a „молодой провинциальный врач […] доктор Д.‟ 
(XIV/97, 100). Nikitina (2001:8) argues quite convincingly that „доктор Д.‟ stands for „Дерптский доктор‟, 
as Pirogov was known to his colleagues because he had spent his youth in Dorpat (Tartu).    
39  
aggravated further by his materialism, also manifests itself in flashes of contempt for those 
whom he nobly seeks to help (VIII/325).
96
  
 
II.4 Shubin’s sculptures of Insarov 
 After the „формулярный список‟ of Insarov and a few scattered ironic remarks, 
Shubin‟s observations of the Bulgarian patriot are next condensed into the scene in which 
he shows Bersenev two quite different sculptures of Insarov which he had fashioned. 
Unfortunately, some scholars who like to force Turgenev's works onto the Procrustes bed 
of Schopenhauerian philosophy have read a specific allegorical meaning into these 
sculptures, and so it is necessary to clarify the background of this scene. 
 For the first sculpture, a bust of Insarov which conveys his noble resolve and 
courage, Shubin has chosen the epigraph: „Герой, намеревающийся спасти свою 
родину‟ (VIII/100). Because of Shubin‟s French lineage this work may well have been 
conceived in the style of David d‟Angers (1788-1856), the greatest portrait sculptor of his 
time, whose busts reflected the „characteristically Romantic view of the history-making 
hero‟ and were designed to „perpetuate exemplars of greatness‟.97 One of d‟Angers‟s most 
famous portraits was the austerely neo-classical bust of Victor Hugo (see Plate 2B) which 
he sculpted in 1842. Such portraits were a legacy of the French Revolution and the 
Napoleonic Empire, where a cult of great men had arisen and statues were erected to them 
in accordance with Plutarch‟s dictum: „The images of great men are a powerful stimulant 
for us to do good‟.98 
During the 1830s and 40s, in the France of the citoyen roi Louis-Philippe, there was 
an inevitable reaction against this cult of greatness, and this accounts for the craze which 
developed for the sculptured caricatures by Jean-Pierre Dantan (1800-69). „Witty and 
inventive, but never malevolent‟, Dantan made statuettes and so-called buste-charges of 
illustrious figures in French public life (including Victor Hugo in 1832—see Plate 2C) 
which became so popular that reproductions of them were sold commercially.
99
 Each such 
caricature also had a „rebus‟ on its plinth suggesting humorously the subject‟s name. It‟s 
not surprising that Shubin, with his love of pranks, should draw inspiration from Dantan‟s 
                                               
96 Batiuto (1977:36) argues that this aspect of Bazarov‟s tragic isolation was very likely one of the points 
raised by Dostoevskii in that lost letter to Turgenev, and that this caused Turgenev to make some changes 
when preparing the separate edition of Отцы и дети. 
97 Rosenblum & Janson (1984:204). 
98 Quoted by Baridon 2006. 
99 Rosenblum & Janson (1984:205). 
40  
oeuvre, and indeed his second sculpture of Insarov, a statuette showing him in the guise of 
a butting ram, is described as being „в дантановском вкусе‟ (VIII/99). Earlier in the novel 
we are told that Shubin had also made a Dantanesque statuette of Stakhov‟s mistress 
(VIII/10), and in this respect he again resembles Turgenev, who, while staying with 
Stankevich in Rome in 1840, had spent a lot of time drawing caricatures, including one of 
a rival for the affections of a young girl (VI/395). Moreover, Annenkov recalls in his 
memoirs how Turgenev was famed and feared for his epigrams, which he wrote about 
many outstanding contemporaries „не стесняясь их репутацией и серьѐзностью задач, 
которые они преследовали и которым сам почувствовал‟ (1960:389).100 It is worth 
bearing in mind these antecedents of Shubin‟s caricature. 
In the expression which Shubin has given to the butting ram: „тупая важность, 
задор, упрямство, неловкость, ограниченность‟ (VIII/99) Sigrid McLaughlin discerns 
what she holds to be the key to Insarov‟s „failure‟ as a hero. First of all, she argues that the 
two sculptures of Insarov illustrate the two sides of Don Quixote as he is presented in 
Turgenev‟s essay: „Andererseits schmälern Einseitigkeit, Beschränktheit und blindes 
Vertrauen den Altruismus und Enthusiasmus des Don-Quijote-Typs‟ (1984:93). It is true 
that Turgenev, in his essay, refers to a certain „односторонность‟ in Don Quixote, but in 
no way does he suggest that this undermines the value of his enthusiasm:  
Он [Дон-Кихот] знает мало, да ему и не нужно много знать: он знает, в чѐм его дело, 
зачем он живѐт на земле, а это—главное знание […] Дон-Кихот энтузиаст, 
служитель идеи и потому обвеян еѐ сияньем. (VIII/174) 
Besides, as discussed earlier, Insarov is not a purely quixotic type: he is a conscious hero, 
and as such he had even decided to study at university before returning to Bulgaria to fight 
the Turks. However, it is McLaughlin‟s subsequent condemnation of Insarov in 
Schopenhauerian terms which must be contested outright. She argues that Insarov fails to 
put his altruistic enthusiasm to use because „[er] besaß—wie es die Šubin-Karikatur 
andeutete—zu viel Willen und zu wenig Verständnis seiner wahren Position in der Welt; er 
ließ sich durch egoistische Bestrebungen von der altruistischen Zielsetzung ablenken‟ 
(1984:106). But this is most unjust. Insarov is conscious that such happiness as has been 
granted to him in finding so worthy a wife as Elena occurs rarely in the world, and, most 
importantly, his conduct is never „egoistic‟. After all, he had accepted her love only 
                                               
100 A famous example is the epigram addressed to Dostoevskii in 1846, in which Turgenev poked fun at the 
way the success of Бедные люди had gone to the young author‟s head (I/360-61). 
41  
because she was ready to make the cause of Bulgarian independence her own. Nor is there 
any intrinsic reason why their marriage should prevent them from serving that cause, just 
as Anita da Ribeiro had fought alongside Garibaldi in guerrilla campaigns in South 
America and followed her husband to Italy, where she died of fever during the retreat from 
Rome in August 1849.
101
 If Turgenev has Insarov die before reaching his beloved 
Bulgaria, it is for loftier reasons than „selfishness‟.                 
 To return to Shubin‟s caricature, though, we mustn‟t forget that this is the 
„vendetta‟ of a jealous man. The motive of jealousy becomes clear if one looks at the 
variants of this scene in the novel‟s manuscript. For the Dantanesque logo to the ram 
statuette Turgenev had originally written „лоснящийся супруг коз и овец тонкорунных‟ 
(VIII/432), which in the final text became just „супруг овец тонкорунных‟ (VIII/99). The 
original variant shows that Turgenev was thinking of Afanasii Fet‟s translation of a bucolic 
poem by André Chénier: „Супруг надменный коз, лоснящийся от жиру‟ (Fet 1959: 673; 
the original poem begins: „L‟impur et fier époux que la chèvre désire‟). Fet had sent 
Turgenev his translation for perusal just a few months before his friend began work on 
Накануне.102 Chénier‟s poem describes a billy-goat challenging a satyr who had been 
courting one of his „wives‟, and how they butt their heads against one another. Unlike 
rams, goats awaken certain associations, and Turgenev evidently decided to keep just the 
ram because Shubin, for all his resentment of Insarov, still feels respect and affection for 
Elena, and a statuette of Insarov as a goat would suggest too crudely that she had become 
his „mistress‟, as Shubin fears. Is it therefore so necessary to see in this butting ram a 
profound Schopenhauerian allegory rather than yet another example of Shubin‟s irony?! 
Significantly, when Shubin shows this caricature to Bersenev, he justifies himself 
as follows: „так как художник, по новейшим эстетикам, пользуется завидным правом 
воплощать в себе всякие мерзости, возводя их в перл создания...‟ (VIII/99). The „new 
aesthetics‟ which Shubin is invoking here are clearly those of Gogol‟, who, in one of the 
letters later included in Выбранные места, explained that the grotesque figures of 
Мѐртвые души, Part I, embodied various „дурные качества‟ which he had observed in 
himself and others. His purpose in depicting these vices was not that of entertainment, 
though, he argued in this letter, but rather that of helping his compatriots (and himself) to 
recognize their „пошлость‟ so that they could fight against it (1994:VI/78). Already in the 
                                               
101 As suggested in the commentary for the Academy edition, Anita, famous for her courage and her beauty, 
may have inspired the figure of Elena to some extent (VIII/518).  
102 See Turgenev‟s letter to Fet, 16 January 1859, in which he comments on this translation (P III/*264-65).  
42  
lyrical preamble to Chapter VII of Мѐртвые души Gogol‟ had lamented that many readers 
failed to appreciate „что много нужно глубины душевной, дабы озарить картину, 
взятую из презренной жизни, и возвести еѐ в перл создания‟ (1952-53:V/139). By 
„spiritual depth‟ Gogol‟ meant the consciousness of an ideal from which all of his 
grotesque characters had strayed, and which he intended to regain for them, and implicitly 
for all Russians, in the second part of Мѐртвые души.       
As we have seen, the last part of Gogol‟s phrase, „возводить в перл создания‟, is 
cited by Shubin to describe what he has achieved in his caricature of Insarov. On the one 
hand, he has concentrated into this statuette all the bitter jealousy he feels against the 
Bulgarian—perhaps indeed intending it to serve as a lesson for himself. But on the other 
hand, he has also distorted certain traits of Insarov‟s, such as his earnestness, into flaws, 
and in this sense Shubin has misused Gogolian aesthetics for the sake of personal revenge. 
Now, in his 1856 series of articles Очерки гоголевского периода, Chernyshevskii had 
praised Gogol‟ for introducing into Russian literature a „сатирическоe—или, как 
справедливее будет назвать его, критическое направление‟, which in his view was the 
most useful tendency for Russia (1939-50:III/18). This interpretation of Gogol‟, which 
concentrated on his works as ammunition for social critique rather than on his religious and 
moral concerns, would underpin all those denunciatory („обличительные‟) stories about 
corrupt officials and the satirical journals like Искра and Свисток which flourished at the 
end of the 1850s. Shubin‟s caricature, however, is misguided because unlike the targets of 
satire attacked in those journals, Insarov deserves sympathy and respect. Bersenev, though 
he cannot help laughing at first, quite rightly covers the statuette with a cloth. 
There is another rebus which Shubin proposes for his caricature: „Берегитесь, 
колбасники!‟ (VIII/100). Here the irony is much more malevolent because it suggests that 
Insarov‟s defiance of the Turks will probably not be sufficient to stop their slaughtering of 
the Bulgarian population. Marije Janet Oudshoorn (2006:66-67) has made some very 
interesting associations between Insarov and motifs in Pushkin‟s Песни западных славян 
(1834)—one of these is explicitly cited by Shubin (VIII/147)—where the Turks are likened 
to savage wolves, against which a ram, for all its courage, of course has little chance of 
defending its flock. Thus, Shubin‟s two sculptures, Freeborn notes, imply that he has 
discerned the dual aspect of Insarov: his „nobility as a social ideal‟ and his „all-too-human 
insignificance‟ (1960:116). Still, it must be emphasized that Shubin here is very much 
playing the role of a critic in the Carlylean sense: he is intent on bringing the Bulgarian 
43  
patriot out to be „a little kind of man‟. Just like Carlyle, who, referring to Rousseau, had 
defined the „fanatic‟ as a „sadly contracted hero‟ (1993:159), so Shubin gives the ram in his 
statuette an expression of fanaticism in order to belittle his rival. However, this caricature 
isn‟t Shubin‟s final word on Insarov. Once he has managed to rise above his jealousy, 
Turgenev‟s sculptor speaks quite differently of this noble hero.  
 
II.5 Brutus as a paragon for Insarov and Bazarov 
 A few days before Insarov and Elena depart for Bulgaria, Shubin has a long 
conversation with Uvar Ivanovich (although he does most of the talking!) in which, 
amongst other things, he notes that Insarov was still coughing up blood: „Я его видел на 
днях, лицо, хоть сейчас лепи с него Брута... Вы знаете, кто был Брут, Увар 
Иванович?‟. Upon Uvar‟s pithy reply: „Что знать? человек‟, Shubin exclaims: „Именно: 
«Человек он был». Да, лицо чудесное, а нездоровое, очень нездоровое‟ (VIII/141). 
Now, it is likely that Insarov‟s appearance had reminded Shubin of Michelangelo‟s famous 
bust of Brutus (see Plate 2A), but, most importantly, he is quoting here the last verse of 
Mark Antony‟s spirited tribute to Brutus at the end of Shakespeare‟s Julius Caesar: 
   This was the noblest Roman of them all. 
   All the conspirators save only he 
   Did that they did in envy of great Caesar; 
   He only in a general honest thought 
   And common good to all made one of them. 
   His life was gentle; and the elements 
   So mix‟d in him that Nature might stand up 
   And say to all the world „This was a man!‟ 
This affinity with one of the greatest heroes of Antiquity is essential for understanding 
Turgenev‟s attitude to Insarov (as well as Bazarov), and it is again Shubin who makes the 
connection. Shakespeare‟s tragedy was fresh in Turgenev‟s mind because over the summer 
and autumn of 1858 he had been helping Fet with his translation of Julius Caesar, which 
was published the following year.
103
  
 First of all, it is worth noting that Brutus was often invoked as a republican hero by 
the Decembrists, and Pushkin, too, had spoken of „вольнолюбивый Брут‟ in his poem 
„Кинжал‟ (1821). Like Don Quixote, Brutus is a man concerned only with „a general 
                                               
103 See Turgenev‟s letter to Druzhinin, 25 August/6 September 1858 (P III/233). 
44  
honest thought‟ and the „common good‟. Now this is certainly true of Insarov, as Bersenev 
tells Elena: „он не желает для удовлетворения личного чувства изменить своему делу 
и своему долгу‟ (VIII/86). However, it also applies to Bazarov. In the above-mentioned 
letter of April 1862 to Sluchevskii, Turgenev pointed out that he had juxtaposed Bazarov 
against the finest representatives of the fathers‟ generation for the following reason: 
Все истинные отрицатели, которых я знал—без исключения (Белинский, Бакунин, 
Герцен, Добролюбов, Спешнев и т. д.) происходили от сравнительно добрых и 
честных родителей. И в этом заключается великий смысл: это отнимает у деятелей, 
у отрицателей всякую тень личного негодования, личной раздражительности. Они 
идут по своей дороге потому только, что более чутки к требованиям народной 
жизни.104 
This Brutus-like trait is quite clear in Bazarov, who is driven not by personal resentment of 
the aristocracy but by his vocation to serve the Russian people. As Batiuto (1990:132-33) 
has observed, this is one aspect in which Bazarov greatly resembles Belinskii, who, as 
Turgenev stressed in his reminiscences, didn‟t care about insults to his own person: only 
where his deepest convictions were attacked would he swell up in anger (XIV/53). 
Significantly, Turgenev ended his memoir of Belinskii (as first published in 1869) 
precisely with Mark Antony‟s tribute to Brutus: „Человек он был!‟ (XIV/62). Not for 
nothing was Отцы и дети dedicated to Belinskii!105 
 Turgenev greatly admired Brutus, as is evident from the conclusion to his 
wonderful 1864 essay on Shakespeare. There, Turgenev described the English bard with 
the same verses which in Julius Caesar he had applied to Brutus, „к едва ли не 
чистейшему из его созданий, к Бруту‟. After again quoting the last verse of Mark 
Antony‟s oration, Turgenev adds: „Шекспир не нашѐл никакого более сильного слова, 
которым он бы мог почтить побеждѐнную добродетель‟ (XV/51). These aspects of 
Brutus which he highlights are significant: „purity‟ and „virtue defeated‟. With regard to 
Bazarov, a character towards whom Turgenev initially was not well-disposed, the element 
of purity might seem to be absent. „Базаров был великий охотник до женщин и до 
женской красоты‟, we are told in the novel (VIII/286), and this was expressed even more 
bluntly in the preliminary sketches: „Любит употреблять женщин […] Базарову хочется 
еѐ [Одинцову] иметь‟ (XII*/566, 572). However, as already noted, Bazarov, who has 
                                               
104 Letter of 14/26 April 1862 (P IV/380). 
105 Again, see Batiuto 1990 and Nikitina 1997 for a detailed exploration of Bazarov‟s genetic links to 
Belinskii. The great critic was seen by his gentry friends (Stankevich, Bakunin, Turgenev) as a „man of the 
people‟ (E. Brown 1966:98). 
45  
truly fallen in love with Odintsova, has only to see her frightened in that scene in her room 
for him immediately to check his savage outburst of passion. There is a glow of almost 
child-like innocence about him as he addresses her from his death-bed: „Послушайте... 
ведь я вас не поцеловал тогда... Дуньте на умирающую лампаду, и пусть она 
погаснет…‟ (VIII/396). His death can also be described as „virtue defeated‟—defeated not 
in Schopenhauerian terms, as some scholars have claimed, but in accordance with 
Turgenev‟s own views on tragedy, which were influenced by his thoughts on Brutus‟s fate. 
 If we now return to Накануне, it is clear that purity and virtue—masked in Bazarov 
by his materialistic views—are also defining traits of both Insarov and Elena, much as 
some of Turgenev‟s readers at the time, such as Countess Lambert, were shocked by 
Elena‟s emancipated conduct. There are other signs that Turgenev was thinking of Julius 
Caesar when he composed his novel. Just as Brutus‟s wife Portia, in a remarkable scene, 
entreats her husband to share his thoughts with her: 
Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, 
Is it excepted I should know no secrets  
That appertain to you? Am I your self  
But, as it were, in sort or limitation? 
To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, 
And talk to you sometimes? If it be no more, 
Portia is Brutus‟ harlot, not his wife. (Act II, sc.1)             
so Elena expresses the same wish to know everything about Insarov‟s plans: „для меня не 
должно быть у тебя тайны‟ (VIII/111), and it is not female curiosity which speaks in her, 
but the noble resolve to share fully her husband‟s lot.  
And that apparent „woodenness‟ for which Insarov has been criticized—is it not 
akin to Brutus‟s self-restraint? Certainly, Brutus is not as eloquent as Mark Antony, yet 
how moving is the laconic way in which he speaks of his beloved Portia‟s death, which he 
had tried to keep secret from his friends so as not to demoralize them (Act IV, sc.3). 
Bersenev describes Insarov to Elena as a „молчальник‟, as someone who doesn‟t like to 
talk about himself: „и в то же время в нѐм есть что-то детское, искреннее, при всей его 
сосредоточенности и даже скрытности‟ (VIII/52). Reticence was a quality which 
Turgenev valued, as he told his German colleague and friend Theodor Storm: „Die besten 
Menschen, wie die besten Bücher—sind die, wo man viel zwischen den Zeilen liest‟.106 
                                               
106 Letter of 18/30 November 1865 (P VI/34). 
46  
Bazarov, too, isn‟t expansive at first—except where provoked by Pavel Kirsanov—and he 
resists Odintsova‟s attempts to coax him into telling her about his life: „Я стараюсь 
беседовать с вами о предметах полезных, Анна Сергеевна‟ (VIII/291). It is his 
misfortune to fall in love with a woman who, for all her beauty and intelligence, is not in 
the same league as Portia or Elena. 
 The most important parallel, however, between Brutus and Insarov lies in their 
ends, and Shubin makes that connection precisely because he fears the worst: that like 
Brutus, the ailing Insarov, whom he now genuinely respects, won‟t achieve his lofty goal. 
Insarov‟s death of consumption even before he reaches Bulgarian soil might seem quite 
different to Brutus‟s honourable suicide on the battlefield when he sees that the republican 
cause is lost. Yet Turgenev, when he wrote Накануне, knew that Bulgaria had not 
achieved independence during the Crimean War: the Russians did enter Bulgaria in March 
1854, but they were forced to withdraw a few months later. Bulgarian volunteers did 
subsequently fight alongside the Russians, but Insarov‟s goal, the liberation of his country, 
couldn‟t be achieved at the time. „Aut Caesar, aut nihil‟, says the first doctor treating 
Insarov (VIII/120).
107
 Everything or nothing: Insarov‟s untimely death stands for the 
unfeasibility of his goal, just as Brutus‟s republican ideal was ahead of his time, and it has 
nothing to do with „selfishness‟ on his or Elena‟s part as some enthusiasts of Schopenhauer 
have tried to make out! 
 Turgenev, as noted earlier, had been keenly following Garibaldi‟s actions in Italy at 
the time he was writing Накануне. He saw in Garibaldi both a national and a republican 
hero, and in Вешние воды (1872) he would pay tribute to these two ideals in the figure of 
Emilio, the son of a carbonari who goes on to form part of the Thousand, Garibaldi‟s 
famous expedition to Sicily in May 1860. Garibaldi‟s gesture of handing over his 
conquests in the south to the King of Piedmont in October that year, so as to avoid an 
internecine war, and his voluntary retirement to the island of Caprera must have reminded 
Turgenev of Cincinnatus, who willingly renounced power after having saved Rome.
108
 
However, in this subordination of personal wishes—since what Garibaldi really wanted 
was an Italian Republic—to one‟s country there was also much that recalled Brutus, and in 
                                               
107 This Latin motto is used by James Woodward (1986:167) for the title of an interesting article on Отцы и 
дети and the Roman allusions that occur there. Unfortunately, he also treats Turgenev‟s novel as if it were a 
case-study in Schopenhauerian ideas, which is quite misguided.    
108 As Nicholas Žekulin has pointed out in a recent article about Turgenev‟s life-long engagement with the 
classics (2008:196), the ideal of duty represented by Cincinnatus was already evoked in his 1847 poem 
Филиппо Стродзи, and it is significant that Bazarov‟s father compares himself to that great Roman 
(VIII/318). See also Woodward 1986:172.  
47  
August 1862, when Garibaldi invaded the Papal territories around Rome with a small force 
of volunteers to try to bring about the full unification of Italy on republican principles, 
Turgenev wrote excitedly to Herzen: 
А каков Гарибальди? С невольным трепетом следишь за каждым движением этого 
последнего из героев. Неужели Брут, который не только в истории, всегда, но даже и 
у Шекспира гибнет—восторжествует?109 
A few days later, after reading reports that Garibaldi had been injured and captured, 
Turgenev wrote to Fet that he was distraught at this news and took up the comparison with 
Brutus again: 
Хотя мне хорошо известно, что роль честных людей на этом свете состоит почти 
исключительно в том, чтобы погибнуть с достоинством—и что Октавиян рано или 
поздно непременно наступит на горло Бруту—однако мне всѐ-таки стало тяжело.110 
What these comments show is Turgenev‟s awareness that those who, like Brutus, are 
inspired by an ideal that is ahead of their times must almost always expect to suffer 
personal defeat, indeed even death. But this should not necessarily be seen as pessimistic. 
From his reading of Roman history Turgenev knew that whilst Octavian (Augustus) was a 
sickly and pathetic figure, capable even of immoral acts, his rule was nevertheless marked 
by a flourishing of culture, peace, and prosperity. As Batiuto has observed (1990:184), 
Turgenev‟s view of life and history always remained „dialectic‟, in the sense that he could 
see the good and bad side of things. Thus, the republican ideal for whose sake Brutus, 
against his own gentle nature, committed murder, and for which he paid with his own life, 
inspired people down the centuries, and gradually (that is, with ever less need for violence) 
it became reality in many countries. Turgenev had every reason to hope that in Russia, too, 
it would one day be the same. 
 What has been said about Brutus and Insarov‟s deaths also applies to Bazarov. In 
that important letter to Sluchevskii, Turgenev explained that he had envisaged Bazarov as a 
„[фигура] сильная, злобная, честная—и всѐ-таки обречѐнная на погибель—потому 
что она всѐ-таки стоит ещѐ в преддверии будущего‟ (P IV/381). The ideal of progress 
for the Russian people for which he is prepared to work, even as a humble village doctor, 
is still too bold that it might succeed at its first attempt, but later raznochintsy in 
                                               
109 Letter of 15/27 August 1862 (P V/40). 
110 Letter of 23 August/4 September 1862 (P V/44). Fortunately, the reports of Garibaldi‟s capture turned out 
to be false, and Turgenev would rejoice in the hero‟s welcome accorded to him in London in 1864. See his 
letter to Pauline Viardot of 4/16 April 1864, in which he calls Garibaldi a saint (NC:I/128). 
48  
Turgenev‟s novels, notably Litvinov and Solomin, come closer to achieving it. 
McLaughlin (1984:109) is quite wrong to read Schopenhauerian pessimism into Bazarov‟s 
final reflections: „Im Angesicht des Todes kommt er zu dem Schluß, daß alle soziale 
Tätigkeit im Grunde unwesentlich ist‟. As Batiuto has stressed (1990:216-7), Bazarov‟s 
confession to Odintsova on his death-bed: „И ведь тоже думал: обломаю дел много‟ 
(VIII/396) shows that he had always hoped to do something for Russia. He does not now 
deny the value of such hopes, for even if he bitterly points to his own apparent 
superfluousness: „Я нужен России... Нет, видно не нужен. Да и кто нужен? Сапожник 
нужен, портной нужен, мясник...‟ (VIII/396), the moving words spoken by Turgenev at 
his grave imply that he was mistaken in his self-deprecation. Russia needed not just 
shoemakers and tailors but also educated men like Bazarov who were prepared to work 
among the peasantry.
111
      
It is only natural that Bazarov should secretly yearn for personal happiness as well, 
and this partly accounts for his earlier „cynical‟ remark to Arkadii about how he hated the 
very peasants for whose benefit he was expected to work: „Ну, будет он [мужик] жить в 
белой избе, а из меня лопух расти будет; ну, а дальше?‟ (VIII/325). But here Bazarov is 
also tacitly admitting that he is aware of the true nature of social progress—that it is slow 
and that he cannot expect to see its fruits himself. At the end of Middlemarch (1872), a 
novel which also shows a provincial doctor (albeit one less fascinating than Bazarov) 
frustrated in his ambitions, George Eliot would write:                           
The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are 
not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half so owing to the number who 
lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs. (1986:825)
112
  
Turgenev‟s words over Bazarov‟s „visited tomb‟ are more emotional and poetic, but the 
faith they express is the same. He had already declared this faith at the end of Гамлет и 
Дон-Кихот (1860): „Добрые дела не разлетятся дымом; они долговечнее самой 
сияющей красоты. «Всѐ минется,—сказал апостол,—одна любовь останется»‟ 
                                               
111 Nikitina (2001: 10) points out that in this choice of words „сапожник, портной, мясник‟ Turgenev was 
taking issue with an 1856 article on education in Russia by Nikolai Pirogov, whom she believes to be the 
main prototype for Bazarov.    
112 For details on the personal acquaintance (in 1871) and mutual admiration of Turgenev and George Eliot, 
see Waddington 1980. Glyn Turton (1992:27) has also compared the realism of these two writers, and 
observed that Eliot‟s famous words: „The greatest benefit we owe to the artist is the extension of our 
sympathies‟ apply equally to Turgenev‟s portrayal of the Russian peasantry. Incidentally, Dorothea in 
Middlemarch has sometimes been compared to Elena.  
49  
(VIII/191). For all his mockery, Bazarov had done works of love when he helped his father 
to treat the sick peasants in their district, and it is these works which will last. 
 The fact that Bazarov dies of a small cut to his finger has been seized on by 
devotees of Schopenhauer as proof of Turgenev‟s deference to „irrational forces‟ and his 
„pessimism‟. However, they would do well to look at Гамлет и Дон-Кихот again, where 
Turgenev, referring to the scene in which Don Quixote, after his final defeat and shortly 
before he dies as Alonso Quijano „el Bueno‟, is trampled on by a herd of pigs, describes 
this as a mark of Cervantes‟s genius. Such a humiliation, Turgenev notes, always occurs 
towards the end of all quixotic heroes‟ lives. It is the final tribute which they must pay to 
„грубая случайность‟, after which they can die at peace with the world (VIII/188). The 
deaths of Insarov and Bazarov are due to „accidents‟, but that does not diminish the value 
of the ideals for which they had lived. When considering Turgenev‟s thoughts on tragedy 
in section II.7, we shall return to this question. 
 
II.6 Turgenev’s Kantian ‘fatalism’  
 First, though, we must clarify some other aspects of Turgenev‟s world-view and its 
development. During his semesters at Berlin (1838-39 and 1840-41) Turgenev was 
introduced not just to Hegel by the enthusiastic professor Karl Werder, but also to Kant, 
the „father‟ of German Idealism. Moreover, he attended classes in Greek and Latin 
philology, which encouraged his life-long interest in the classics, especially in favourite 
authors like Virgil and the Greek tragedies (see Žekulin 2008). Living in Germany also 
gave Turgenev the opportunity to acquaint himself better with that country‟s music and 
literature. As one of his translators later wrote: „Mehr als von Hegel und seinen Aposteln, 
fühlte [Turgenjew] sich angezogen von unsern großen Dichtern, besonders von Goethe, der 
unter den Deutschen sein Liebling war und blieb‟.113   
Significantly, in his 1845 essay on Goethe‟s Faust Turgenev also spoke admiringly 
of Kant for having founded „critical philosophy‟ (I/222). However, as Turgenev was the 
first to acknowledge, his was not a philosophical mind in the sense that he lacked the 
„способность мыслить отвлечѐнно, чисто, на немецкий манер‟ (XIV/29). Like 
Belinskii, Turgenev, though he certainly didn‟t deny the value of philosophical study, was 
interested not in abstract theories but in real life. In both his works and letters he repeatedly 
warned that no single doctrine or system could adequately address the complexity of life, 
                                               
113 Friedrich Bodenstedt in the foreword to an 1864 German edition of Turgenev‟s stories. Quoted in Žekulin 
2008:187. 
50  
especially in Russia: „Всякая система—в хорошем и дурном смысле этого слова—не 
русская вещь; всѐ резкое, определѐнное, разграниченное нам не идѐт‟.114 
Now, it‟s true that Kant‟s analytical method made possible such grandiose systems 
as Hegel‟s and such nebulous ones as those of Fichte and Schelling, but in the clarity of his 
own writing, particularly on ethics, Kant still holds an appeal for the general reader which 
those later philosophers (except Hegel perhaps) have lost. Since ethics is the branch of 
philosophy most directly relevant to life, Turgenev would have studied with interest what 
Kant had to say on the matter. The copies of Kant‟s works in Turgenev‟s library at the 
house-museum in Spasskoe have many annotations in the margins (see Time 1997:39). 
One caveat, though: in Turgenev‟s writings Kant‟s name (like Hegel‟s) appears very 
infrequently, and more often than not in an ironic context—but this is also the case with 
Schopenhauer (mentioned just three times), and yet this has not stopped some scholars 
from seeing in Turgenev and Schopenhauer kindred spirits! Anatolii Batiuto has protested 
against this misrepresentation of Turgenev and has traced his affinity with such earlier 
thinkers as Marcus Aurelius and Pascal (1964), as well as quite rightly pointing out, in a 
more recent study (1990:211), that Turgenev learnt far more from Pushkin, Goethe, and 
Shakespeare than from any philosopher. It is, however, legitimate to explore here the 
affinity between Turgenev and Kant, for reasons that will become clear. 
 Kant‟s most famous pronouncement on ethics is the categorical imperative, and in 
the emphasis on duty at the end of such stories as Яков Пасынков (1855) and especially 
Фауст (1856)—„исполнение долга, вот о чѐм следует заботиться человеку‟ 
(VII/50)—both Granjard (1954:250, n.161) and Batiuto (1990:117) have seen a reflection 
of Turgenev‟s reading of Kant. This is very plausible, since Goethe, too, despite his 
healthy scepticism towards philosophers, admired the majesty of Kant‟s moral law (he paid 
tribute to it in Wilhelm Meisters Wanderjahre). Let us, however, consider a few other 
related aphorisms by Kant: „Die erste Sorge des Menschen sei: nicht wie er glücklich, 
sondern der Glückseligkeit würdig werde‟; „Der Lauf der Natur richtet sich auch nicht so 
von selbst nach dem Verdienst, sondern das Glück des Lebens (unsere Wohlfahrt 
überhaupt) hängt von Umständen ab, die bei weitem nicht alle in des Menschen Gewalt 
sind‟; „Das Leben überhaupt hat, was den Genuß desselben betrifft, der von 
Glücksumständen abhängt, gar keinen eigenen Wert und nur, was den Gebrauch desselben 
anlangt [hat es] einen Wert‟ (1956: 161, 189, 282). Kant does not deny that happiness is 
                                               
114 Letter to K. Aksakov, 16 January 1853 (P II/107). 
51  
possible but urges us to think of more important things. Is this attitude to life not much 
more realistic and manlier than Schopenhauer‟s assertion that it is impossible to attain 
happiness anyway because every fulfilment of our wishes leaves us disillusioned? Kant in 
fact comes close to the stoic principle of eudaimonia, that is, the sense of satisfaction 
derived from living virtuously. It‟s not accidental that such admirable figures as Brutus and 
Portia (the daughter of Cato the Younger) were stoics.  
 If we now turn to Turgenev‟s works, it is significant that many of his characters, 
including those dearest to him, express a similar attitude. At the end of Яков Пасынков, 
Sof‟ia tells the narrator: „Наша жизнь не от нас зависит; но у нас у всех есть один 
якорь, с которого, если сам не захочешь, никогда не сорвѐшься: чувство долга‟ 
(VI/234). The narrator describes her as a „молодая пуританка‟ but he agrees with her, just 
as Lavretskii comes to agree with, and respect, Liza for her decision to take monastic 
vows. The conclusion of Фауст, as noted above, is similar. In Переписка (1856) Aleksei 
Petrovich observes: „сознание честно выдержанной борьбы едва ли не выше 
торжества победы... Победа зависит не от нас‟ (VI/178). Of course, this „fatalism‟ 
couldn‟t appeal to Chernyshevskii and Dobroliubov, who wanted to see Russians capable 
of taking matters into their own hands. But Turgenev‟s knowledge of life was profounder 
than theirs, and so, whilst sympathizing with their demand for Russian men of action, he 
remained true to himself in his subsequent works.  
 Just as Kant emphasized the absolute value of good intentions (der gute Wille) 
irrespective of whether these are crowned with success or failure (1956:102), so Turgenev 
praised the indefatigable idealism of Don Quixote in his 1860 essay: „Главное дело в 
искренности и силе самого убежденья... а результат—в руке судеб […] Наше дело 
вооружиться и бороться‟ (VIII/178). Already in Дворянское гнездо, he had described 
the quixotic figure of Mikhalevich with these words: „Будь только человек добр,—его 
никто отразить не может‟ (VII/206). In this novel Lavretskii at first protests against the 
„fatalism‟ expressed by Liza: „Мне кажется, Фѐдор Иваныч, счастье на земле зависит 
не от нас...‟ (VII/221). Yet after his hopes of happiness have been crushed, it is in a stoic 
vein that he reproaches himself for having wanted too much out of life, and, most 
significantly, his social conscience awakens again as he watches a peasant tilling the land: 
„Не бывать, так не бывать—и кончено. Возьмусь за дело, стиснув зубы, да и велю 
себе молчать‟ (VII/269). Now when Liza reminds him of her earlier words: „Теперь вы 
52  
сами видите, Фѐдор Иваныч, что счастье зависит не от нас, а от Бога‟ (VII/273), 
Lavretskii, despite lacking the comfort of faith, is unable to protest. 
 Turgenev‟s is a fatalism not in the sense of passive resignation but in that 
advocated by Kant (and the stoics) as the correct attitude to life—to do as best as one can 
in the present, since the future is unpredictable. We find the same spirit even in his „heroic‟ 
novels: Накануне and Отцы и дети. Thus, Bersenev, after telling Elena what he knows 
of Insarov‟s life, answers her question as to what the Bulgarian intended to do after 
completing his studies in Russia: „Что Бог даст. Мудрено вперѐд загадывать‟ (VIII/52). 
Similarly, when Insarov expresses his sense of duty in his first proper conversation with 
Elena: „Наше время не нам принадлежит […] а всем, кому в нас нужда‟ (VIII/66); and 
also the beggarwoman‟s words to Elena in the chapel: „Попался тебе человек хороший 
[…] ты уже держись одного; крепче смерти держись. Уж быть, так быть, а не быть, 
видно Богу так угодно‟ (VIII/91). Even Bazarov, who might at first seem to correspond 
fully to the new man envisaged by Chernyshevskii and Dobroliubov—that is, one who 
takes time by the forelock—even he expresses the „Kantian‟ view of life when during that 
second conversation in her room Odintsova says she cannot believe that he could be 
content with being a village doctor, and he replies: 
Что за охота говорить и думать о будущем, которое большею частью не от нас 
зависит? Выйдет случай что-нибудь сделать—прекрасно, а не выйдет—по крайней 
мере тем будешь доволен, что заранее напрасно не болтал. (VIII/298) 
It is also at the end of this scene, when he doesn‟t take advantage of Odintsova‟s frailty, 
that Bazarov manifests his basic goodness—that quality which little Mitia had already 
sensed when he didn‟t cry in his arms (VIII/235). 
 Two very fine books by Elizabeth Cheresh Allen (1992) and Donna Tussing Orwin 
(2007) have examined Turgenev‟s ethics in relation to the poetics of his works, and they, 
too, have noted his admiration for stoic virtues. However, Allen‟s study might lead one to 
conclude that Turgenev was concerned only with the „secular salvation‟ of the individual, 
which, as she argues, he saw in „the development of the best possible self, […] the one 
most capable of enduring the trials of life with equanimity‟ (1992:51). This may be true of 
some of his fictional characters, but it must be emphasized that Turgenev‟s world-view 
was by no means self-centred. In his 1845 Faust essay, he had criticized Goethe for his 
indifference to social issues and, like Belinskii, stressed that „краеугольный камень 
человека не есть он сам, как неделимая единица, но человечество, общество, 
53  
имеющее свои вечные, незыблемые законы‟ (I/235). Turgenev valued individuals above 
everything, but always as members of a community to which they contributed with their 
unique qualities. 
Orwin, whilst she speaks of Turgenev‟s works with genuine admiration, contrasts 
Dostoevskii‟s world-view with what she regards as Turgenev‟s „non-communal ethics‟, 
according to which „love of freedom‟ is the „highest goal‟ (2007:99). This, again, is unfair 
to Turgenev because such leading characters in his novels as Lavretskii, Liza, Elena, and 
Bazarov show (or develop) an acute social conscience and wish to help the less fortunate. 
As Katharina Schütz has rightly observed (1952:51), the ethical problem of the community 
was at the forefront of Turgenev‟s mind just as it was for most other Russian writers and 
thinkers of the nineteenth century. Turgenev himself admitted in 1878 that he agreed with 
the Slavophiles only on one point: „нравственность у нас [русских] другая, у нас 
больше общественного чувства‟.115 
 Tracing Turgenev‟s views on ethics to Kant is important in order to emphasize how 
far he stands from Schopenhauer, who dismissed the very notion of duty (more on this in 
III.4). As for his „Kantian‟ fatalism, it might be better to observe more generally that, like 
Kant in a sense, Turgenev „believed in the eighteenth-century classical view of the Fates‟ 
(Freeborn 1960:xi). What this means can be clarified by the following example: At the end 
of Sophocles‟s Antigone, a tragedy which Turgenev admired,116 Creon is utterly distraught 
by the suicides first of Antigone, then of his own son, and finally of his wife, and he yearns 
for death. The chorus, however, admonishes him: „That will come in due course, but now it 
is necessary to confront the present; / The future is in the hands of those to whom it 
behoves‟.117 Creon does not take his own life, and although he is crushed by the lesson he 
has been taught, he assumes his responsibility as King of Thebes. This suggests that the 
Greeks‟ attitude to the Fates was by no means one of passive submission to „irrational‟ 
forces, but a courageous one of facing up to events as they came. 
With regard to Turgenev, it is very significant that Pushkin also had this „classical‟ 
view of life and fate. The question which the narrator of Медный всадник asks when 
Evgenii sees Parasha‟s cottage swept away by the waters of the Neva: „иль вся наша […] 
жизнь ничто, как сон пустой, / Насмешка неба над землѐй ?‟ (1949:IV/386) is, as we 
                                               
115 As recalled by Lukanina. VT (1983):II/204.  
116 See the reminiscences of Polonskii. VT (1988):367-68. See also Batiuto (1990:97), for a fascinating 
discussion of how Turgenev and Belinskii differed from Hegel in their interpretation of the Antigone / Creon 
conflict, and how Turgenev‟s thoughts about Antigone can be related to the young narodniki in Новь.     
117 Sophocles, Antigone, v.1294-95. Translated from Sofocles 1969:121. 
54  
shall see, echoed in the young Turgenev‟s reflections about death. His own response to this 
question, influenced, again, by Pushkin—and Belinskii—is the subject of the next section.             
 
II.7 Turgenev’s views on tragedy—Elena and Bazarov 
 Stankevich‟s death from tuberculosis in the summer of 1840 was a bitter blow for 
all of his friends, but in particular for Belinskii (see E. Brown 1966:5) and for Turgenev, 
who had got to know him better in Rome that spring. Turgenev wrote a very moving letter 
to Granovskii about this loss which, as Freeborn emphasizes, would form the 
„philosophical basis of his fiction‟ (1960:8), and which is of particular relevance to the 
tragic ending of his two „heroic‟ novels:  
Смерть имеет глубокое значение, если она выступает—как последнее—из сердца 
полной, развившейся жизни: старцу—она примирение; но нам, но ему—веление 
судьбы. Ему ли умереть? Он так глубоко, так искренно признавал и любил святость 
жизни, несмотря на свою болезнь он наслаждался блаженством мыслить, 
действовать, любить: он готовился посвятить себя труду, необходимому для 
России... Холодная рука смерти пала на его голову, и целый мир погиб. 
Stankevich had been intending to write a history of philosophy, Turgenev noted. Then 
comes a series of questions: 
Кто, достойный, примет от умершего завещание его великих мыслей и не даст 
погибнуть его влиянию? […] Отчего не умереть другому, тысяче другим, мне напр.? 
[…] Зачем на земле может гибнуть или страдать прекрасное? […] Или возмущается 
зависть Бога, как прежде зависть греческих богов?118 
Significantly, one of the things Turgenev says here is that it would have been better if he 
had died instead of Stankevich, who was preparing to work for the good of his country. 
Similar thoughts pass through Bersenev‟s mind as he stands at Insarov‟s sick-bed: 
„«Исполнит ли он свои замыслы? Неужели всѐ исчезнет?» И жалко ему становилось 
молодой погибающей жизни, и он давал себе слово еѐ спасти‟ (VIII/119). Bersenev 
does not have to lay down his life, but he does help to save his friend. 
 Before we consider the rest of Turgenev‟s letter and its relation as a whole to 
Накануне, it is worth pointing out that Schiller, in his poem Das Siegesfest, which 
describes the Greek army‟s return from Troy, had also lamented how Fate was often 
„unjust‟ in the way it struck down the noblest individuals: 
                                               
118 Letter to Granovskii, 4/16 July 1840 (P I/191-93). 
55  
   Ohne Wahl verteilt die Gaben, 
   Ohne Billigkeit das Glück, 
   Denn Patroklus liegt begraben, 
   Und Thersites kommt zurück! 
Compared to Stankevich, the modest Turgenev clearly felt himself to be a Thersites. At the 
end of Гамлет и Дон-Кихот he would cite two verses from the final strophe of Schiller‟s 
poem (in Zhukovskii‟s translation): „Всѐ великое земное / Разлетается, как дым...‟ 
before concluding with the declaration of faith in the power of love and goodness that was 
discussed in section II.5 above: „Но добрые дела не разлетятся дымом…‟ (VIII/191). 
This same apostolic message of hope appears in the passage following those sad questions 
in Turgenev‟s letter twenty years earlier: 
Но нет—мы не должны унывать и преклоняться. Сойдѐмтесь—дадим друг другу 
руки, станем теснее: один из наших упал—быть может—лучший. Но возникают, 
возникнут другие; рука Бога не перестаѐт сеять в души зародыши великих 
стремлений и, рано ли, поздно—свет победит тьму. (P I/193)       
Turgenev believed that Stankevich‟s legacy would live after him. The selfless striving to 
help others, which so distinguished Stankevich—according to Turgenev (VI/394) and other 
contemporaries (see E. Brown 1966:133)—would carry on not just in those who had 
known him personally, but in future generations as well. Turgenev never abandoned this 
faith in the effect of good works down the ages. It shines through the concluding words of 
his obituary of Granovskii in 1855: „Он жил недаром—он не умрѐт […] он сеял свои 
семена днѐм, при свете солнца, и когда они взойдут и принесут плоды—в них не 
будет ничего горького...‟ (VI/374). Even more radiantly it would shine in his tributes to 
Shakespeare and Pushkin in later years. 
 Still, the question which Turgenev asked in that letter of 1840: „Зачем на земле 
может гибнуть или страдать прекрасное?‟ caused him great anguish. Schiller, too, had 
asked it many times—in Das Siegesfest; in Thekla‟s lament in the final play of the 
Wallenstein trilogy when she hears that her beloved Max has fallen in battle: 
  —Da kommt das Schicksal—Roh und kalt 
  Faßt es des Freundes zärtliche Gestalt  
  Und wirft ihn unter den Hufschlag seiner Pferde— 
  —Das ist das Los des Schönen auf der Erde. (Wallensteins Tod, Act IV, sc.13 ) 
56  
and in the brief poem Nänie which opens by confirming Thekla‟s lament: „Auch das 
Schöne muß sterben!‟ It is in such elegiac thoughts, shared by all great artists, and not in 
any alleged Schopenhauerian influences, that we must look for the key to the Venetian 
chapters in Накануне. As Batiuto has so rightly emphasized (1990:108), Turgenev learnt 
from the Greek tragedians, from Shakespeare, Goethe and Schiller that beauty and tragedy 
are often linked. In an article of 1841 Belinskii would reflect on Romeo and Juliet: 
Всякое прекрасное явление в жизни должно сделаться жертвою своего достоинства. 
Едва прочли вы ночную сцену в саду между Ромео и Юлиею—и уже в душу вашу 
закрадывается грустное предчувствие... «Нет,—говорите вы,—не для земли такая 
любовь и такая полнота жизни, не между людей жить таким существам» (1953-59: 
V/56) 
Batiuto (1990:109-10) connects this passage with the scene in Дворянское гнездо in which 
Lavretskii declares his love for Liza (VII/236), but it can also be applied to Накануне. The 
love of Elena and Insarov is too perfect for this world.  
 When Elena sees that Insarov is dying in front of her very eyes, she begins to ask 
herself again whether they had done something wrong, and, in particular, she thinks of her 
mother back in Russia. The narrator observes at this point: 
Елена не знала, что счастие каждого человека основано на несчастии другого, что 
даже его выгода и удобство требуют, как статуя—пьедестала, невыгоды и 
неудобства других. (VIII/157) 
This passage and the narrator‟s later observation after describing how Elena, kneeling in 
front of Insarov‟s coffin, is unable to pray, yet has no reproaches to make against God: 
Каждый из нас виноват уже тем, что живѐт, и нет такого великого мыслителя, нет 
такого благодетеля человечества, который в силу пользы, им приносимой, мог бы 
надеяться на то, что имеет право жить...(VIII/164) 
have often been interpreted in Schopenhauerian terms. McLaughlin, in particular, argues 
that Elena was torn between altruism and a selfish striving for happiness, and that this is 
the source of her sense of guilt, as expressed in the letter which she writes to her parents to 
tell them that she will travel to Bulgaria with Insarov‟s coffin, and that after burying him 
she will remain there to work as a nurse: 
Кто знает, может быть, я его убила; теперь его очередь увлечь меня за собою. Я 
искала счастья—и найду, быть может, смерть. Видно, так следовало; видно, была 
вина... Но смерть всѐ прикрывает и примиряет,—не правда ли? (VIII/165)  
57  
Referring to these three passages, McLaughlin claims: „[Elenas] Schuldgefühl steht mit 
dem Egoismus ihrer Glückssehnsucht in Verbindung, die dem wahren Wesen der Welt 
widerspricht. Ihre Gedanken ähneln Schopenhauers Besprechung der menschlichen Schuld 
[which McLaughlin then paraphrases:] Der Mensch wird schuldig, wenn er zum 
Fortbestand dieser Welt, die ein Darwinscher Überlebenskampf ist, beiträgt, und wenn er 
dieses Elend durch seinen Glückseligkeitstrieb vergrößert‟ (1984:105). 
 This invocation of the Schopenhauerian selfish will may sound very compelling, 
and it has encouraged such colourful interpretations as that by James Woodward, who 
speaks of Elena as a „Scythian rusalka‟ conquering Insarov with her „seductive charms‟ 
and „absorbing his vitality‟ like a vampire (1990:105-20)!! This, however, was not how 
Накануне was appreciated by readers at the time, nor should it be today if one approaches 
the novel with a sense for poetic truth and with respect for Turgenev‟s intentions.     
 For a start, Elena‟s sense of guilt doesn‟t mean that she actually is guilty of 
selfishness. Already as a young girl her conscience had been troubled by the sight of 
beggars. And her love for Insarov is not selfish, as Granjard rightly points out: „Hélène n‟a 
pas cherché un bonheur égoïste. Dès l‟abord, elle a accepté le sacrifice‟ (1954:287, n.131). 
Certainly, her departure for Bulgaria causes her mother (and even her father) suffering, but 
the narrator‟s reflection on how the happiness of one person entails the unhappiness of 
another, just as a statue requires a pedestal, doesn‟t need to be explained in terms of a 
Schopenhauerian „Schuld des Daseins‟. We find similar reflections in the works of 
Turgenev‟s predecessors—for instance, in Goethe‟s Werther (1774), in that famous letter 
in which Werther laments the disharmony of Nature:           
Da ist kein Augenblick, der dich nicht verzehrte und die Deinigen um dich her, kein 
Augenblick, da du nicht ein Zerstörer bist, sein mußt; der harmloseste Spaziergang kostet 
tausend armen Würmchen das Leben…119 
The very metaphor of a statue and its pedestal may well have been suggested to Turgenev 
by Pushkin‟s Медный всадник, in which Evgenii‟s mad protest against the statue of Peter 
the Great after the destruction of all his hopes of happiness reminds us of how St 
Petersburg was built on the bones of thousands of serf labourers. 
 Elena‟s sense of guilt is the attempt by a highly sensitive individual to come to 
terms with the cruelty of fate. She tries to convince herself that she had no right to be 
happy. It is the same phenomenon which Turgenev refers to in Гамлет и Дон-Кихот: 
                                               
119 Werther‟s letter of 18 August 1771 (Goethe 1985-98:I2/239). 
58  
namely, the way in which the Greeks called their gods envious and made sacrifices to them 
(VIII/189). As we have seen, in the letter about Stankevich‟s death, Turgenev had also 
spoken of the „зависть греческих богов‟. He also invokes this concept ironically in a 
letter of 1847 to Pauline Viardot: „Les Dieux sont jaloux; ils ne donnent à personne tout à 
la fois‟.120 Again, this brings to mind Belinskii‟s reflections on how the happiness of 
Romeo and Juliet was impossible in this world. 
 As for the narrator‟s observation in Накануне about how even the greatest 
benefactors of mankind were not entitled to protest if their lives were suddenly cut short, 
there is no need to invoke Schopenhauer here either. Turgenev had seen how such friends 
of his as Stankevich, Belinskii, and Granovskii, who all had so much to give to Russia, 
died prematurely. So do Insarov and Bazarov, who were also working for the good of their 
countries. When Turgenev‟s narrator says: „Каждый из нас виноват уже тем, что 
живѐт‟, that may indeed resemble Schopenhauer‟s notion of „Schuld des Daseins‟, but we 
mustn‟t forget that many thinkers and writers had dwelt on this thought before him. It 
underlies many of the Greek tragedies, just as it underlies the Christian doctrine of original 
sin or Goethe‟s reflections on Nature (in Werther, Faust, and many other works), and 
Turgenev is far more likely to have „learnt‟ this fact of life from them.   
 What is utterly inacceptable, though, is McLaughlin‟s Schopenhauerian 
interpretation of Elena‟s letter to her parents: „Elenas Worte enthalten also eine tief 
pessimistische Überzeugung von der letzlichen Belanglosigkeit aller menschlichen 
Aspirationen‟ (1984:105). In her letter, part of which was quoted above, Elena says that 
instead of the happiness she had sought (note how she is again trying to convince herself 
that she had been selfish), she will probably find death in Bulgaria. Yes, there is 
resignation in her words, but it is akin to the resignation shown by Creon at the end of 
Antigone after he has been urged by the chorus not to kill himself. Elena continues to 
believe in her duty, in being faithful to Insarov‟s legacy: „Я и после смерти Д. останусь 
верна его памяти, делу всей его жизни‟ (VIII/165).  
The whole scene in which Elena tells Rendich of her decision to sail to Bulgaria 
and how she then kneels silently before Insarov‟s coffin can be linked to Turgenev‟s own 
reflections, in a letter of 1848 to Pauline Viardot, on Romeo and Juliet. Mme Viardot was 
due to sing Romeo in Bellini‟s opera soon, and Turgenev shares with her his thoughts on 
how that role should be interpreted. He discusses the scene in Juliet‟s tomb when Romeo 
                                               
120 Letter of 14-15/26-27 November 1847 (LI:8). 
59  
sees his beloved in what seems to him the sleep of death. „On ne peut s‟imaginer quelque 
chose de plus affreux que de se trouver devant le cadavre de tout ce qu‟on aime‟, writes 
Turgenev, then adding that the despair caused by this sight is so terrible that a work of art 
can only convey it if this despair is „retenu et glacé par la ferme résolution de se donner la 
mort à soi-même, ou par tout autre grand sentiment‟. Romeo kills himself. Elena, whom 
we are shown kneeling in front of the corpse of all that she had loved, does not. She is 
restrained by another „great feeling‟: the resolve to devote the rest of her life to Insarov‟s 
cause. Elena‟s acceptance of her suffering without accusing God and her calmness in the 
way she speaks to Rendich about her decision confirm what Turgenev had said in that 
letter: „Les plus grands douleurs sont les plus calmes; et les plus calmes sont les plus 
belles‟.121  
This is the „purifying effect of suffering‟ of which Waddington so rightly says that 
both Turgenev and George Eliot believed in it (1980:174-75). In Adam Bede (1859), for 
example, the carpenter Adam says to himself after he has seen his beloved Hetty together 
with Arthur: „I‟m not th‟only man that‟s got to do without much happiness i‟ this life. 
There‟s many a good bit o‟ work done with a sad heart‟ (Eliot 1998:324-25). As was 
emphasized in the preceding section, this same stoic (or Kantian) acceptance of duty is 
central to Turgenev‟s world-view. Schopenhauer also spoke of the purifying effect of 
suffering, but in his systematic way he reduced this effect simply to abandonment of the 
will to live. Thus, in his discussion of tragedy he said of the Maid of Orleans, Gretchen, 
and Hamlet: „sie alle sterben durch Leid geläutert, d.h. nachdem der Wille zu leben zuvor 
in ihnen erstorben ist‟.122 Not so Turgenev: Elena does not take her own life because she 
continues to believe in her duty which she will do even „with a sad heart‟. 
For Turgenev, love is always stronger than death. „Любовь сильнее смерти‟ is a 
declaration which recurs in all his works, right up to his last story Клара Милич 
(XIII/134). The love which Elena had felt for Insarov will live on as she nurses the 
wounded and dying in Bulgaria and other regions. Turgenev and his readers knew that 
during the Crimean War many Russian women had volunteered as nurses and worked in 
the field hospitals organized by Nikolai Pirogov.
123
 This remarkable phenomenon would 
happen again during the Russo-Turkish War of 1877-78. Turgenev‟s friend, the baroness 
Iuliia Brevskaia left Russia in the summer of 1877 to become a Sister of Mercy and died of 
                                               
121 Letter of 30 December 1847/11 January 1848 (P I/288-89). 
122 Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, §51. 
123 Among the „севастопольские сѐстры‟, as they were popularly known, was Ekaterina Bakunina, a cousin 
of Turgenev‟s friend. See Shchepkina 1966:149-50. 
60  
typhoid fever in Bulgaria the following year. In one of his most moving poems-in-prose 
Памяти Ю.П.Бревской, Turgenev paid tribute to her self-sacrifice: „она вся, пылая 
огнѐм неугасимой веры, отдалась на служение ближним‟ (XIII/167). 
In this poem, as well as in the Venetian chapters of Накануне, Turgenev confirms 
the truth of the final verses of Schiller‟s Nänie: 
   Siehe! Da weinen die Götter, es weinen die Göttinnen alle 
 Daß das Schöne vergeht, daß das Vollkommene stirbt 
Auch ein Klaglied zu sein im Mund der Geliebten, ist herrlich, 
    Denn das Gemeine geht klanglos zum Orkus hinab.   
It is the artist who sings to us of the beauty that has perished and thereby gives it 
immortality. Turgenev said that this was the underlying purpose of art in an important 
letter of 1870 to Avdeev (see p.88). It is why he based the glowing figure of Pokorskii in 
Рудин on Stankevich; it is why he endowed Bazarov and his father with so many traits of 
his „unforgettable friend‟ Belinskii. And just as the gods and goddesses in Schiller‟s poem 
cry over the death of the beautiful, so Turgenev cried over the death of Bazarov, whom he 
had come to love when writing his novel: 
Когда я писал заключительные строки «Отцов и детей», я принуждѐн был отклонить 
голову, чтобы слѐзы не капали на рукопись.124 
The beautiful scene at Bazarov‟s grave and the words of „вечное примирение‟ and 
„жизнь бесконечная‟ which Turgenev speaks over it are dismissed by McLaughlin as a 
„vage-optimistische Anspielung‟ with almost „floskenhafter Charakter‟ because, in her 
view, „nichts in der Romanhandlung hatte diesen Schluß vorbereitet, um ihn zu 
rechtfertigen‟ (1984:110). Here, blinkered by Schopenhauer, she has completely missed 
one of the most vital motifs in Turgenev‟s works—namely, the invocation of Pushkin‟s 
poem „Брожу ли я вдоль улиц шумных...‟ (1829). 
 This elegiac poem by Pushkin was one of Turgenev‟s favourites. It deals with the 
transience of human life, yet at the same time also the continuity of Nature, as expressed in 
the fourth strophe: 
   Младенца ль милого ласкаю, 
   Уже я думаю: прости! 
   Тебе я место уступаю: 
   Мне время тлеть, тебе цвести. 
                                               
124 As recalled by Mikhail Kovalevskii. VT (1983):II/146. 
61  
Again, we can appreciate Pushkin‟s classical view of life because already Homer had said: 
„As the generation of leaves, so is that of men‟ (Iliad, VI). Perhaps these verses were going 
through Turgenev‟s mind when he showed Pavel Kirsanov tickling his little nephew‟s chin 
(VIII/230)? It was, however, the elegy‟s finale which Turgenev liked most of all:125 
   И пусть у гробового входа 
   Младая будет жизнь играть, 
   И равнодушная природа 
   Красою вечною сиять. 
It cannot be stressed sufficiently how vital this strophe is for „understanding‟ Turgenev‟s 
works, particularly Отцы и дети. Not just these verses, though, but also Belinskii‟s 
interpretation of them in his fifth article on Pushkin (1844). The great critic said that in 
these verses (which reminded him of Goethe‟s pantheism), Pushkin „поставлял  выход  из  
диссонансов жизни и примирение с трагическими законами судьбы не в заоблачных 
мечтаниях, а в опирающейся на самоѐ себя силе духа...‟ (1953-59:VII/354). 
 Turgenev agreed wholeheartedly with Belinskii that it was possible to be reconciled 
with the tragic laws of Fate—that is, with death—by finding within oneself the strength of 
spirit to contemplate life as a natural succession of the generations, in which each 
individual has his or her appointed time of flowering. There is no bitterness in these final 
verses where the poet speaks of the young generation that will enjoy life and the eternal 
beauty of Nature when he is long since in the grave.  
 Significantly, Turgenev evokes these verses—and Belinskii‟s interpretation of 
them—over and over again in his works. They appear verbatim at the end of Дневник 
лишнего человека (1849), where the dying Chulkaturin, despite all the frustrations he had 
suffered, is still able to say to the coming generation: „Я умираю... Живите, живые!‟ 
before quoting Pushkin‟s verses (V/232). They form part of the very composition of the 
epilogue in Дворянское гнездо when Lavretskii watches the youngsters playing in the 
garden and blesses the happier future that awaits them (see section VI.4). In Накануне, the 
reconciliation granted by death is invoked by Elena in her letter to her parents: „Но смерть 
всѐ прикрывает и примиряет,—не правда ли?‟ (VIII/165). 
                                               
125 Natal‟ia Ostrovskaia recalled a conversation with Turgenev about Pushkin, during which she mentioned 
this poem. Turgenev said: „Конец особенно хорош!‟ and then recited the last strophe. VT (1983):II/69. 
62  
 It is, however, in the last paragraph of Отцы и дети that Pushkin‟s verses, 
Belinskii‟s word of reconciliation, and Turgenev‟s faith in the power of love (which he 
shared with all of his „teachers‟) come together in an incomparable hymn (VIII/401): 
Неужели любовь, святая, преданная любовь не всесильна? О нет! Какое бы 
страстное, грешное, бунтующее сердце ни скрылось в могиле, цветы, растущие на 
ней, безмятежно глядят на нас своими невинными глазами: не об одном вечном 
спокойствии говорят нам они, о том великом спокойствии «равнодушной» природы; 
они говорят также о вечном примирении и о жизни бесконечной...        
The reconciliation with art, poetry, and beauty which Bazarov had so sternly resisted so as 
not to be deflected from his striving to work among the Russian peasantry is spoken over 
his grave by Turgenev because it is on such goodness, on such readiness to help others that 
the future of humanity depends.    
 
   
 
         
 
 
 
 
     
 
 
 
63  
CHAPTER III 
 
THE EDUCATION OF ARTISTS 
 
Introduction 
 Although Shubin is by no means a dilettante, there are a number of reasons why at 
first glance he might seem to be one. Some have been mentioned in the preceding 
chapter—in particular, his self-deprecating manner—but another important reason is a 
certain proximity to the „dilettante type‟ which exerted such a fascination on the Russian 
writers who emerged in the 1840s. Indeed, one of the various charges of plagiarism which 
Goncharov levelled at Turgenev concerned the resemblance of Shubin to Raiskii, the 
dilettante protagonist of Обрыв, which was published in 1869 but whose plan Goncharov 
had confided to his fellow-writer in 1855.
126
 As Eduard Babaev has observed, „Дилетант 
ещѐ в 40-е годы, в эпоху расцвета натуральной школы, стал ироническим героем в 
русском искусстве‟ (1981:183). Belinskii himself, when discussing the young hero of 
Goncharov‟s Обыкновенная история (1847), had defined the „романтик-полуталант‟ as 
an immediately recognisable type (1953-59:X/334). Turgenev, faithful as he was to most 
of Belinskii‟s aesthetic principles, set great store by the „умение класть характерные 
штрихи‟127 and strove to portray such types in his own works. Not surprisingly, when 
presenting Shubin as a sculptor, Turgenev was tempted to endow him with the typical traits 
associated with artist figures by the writers of his generation: in particular, overestimation 
of one‟s natural talent and disdain for regular work. 
We find such negative traits in earlier works by Turgenev featuring artists—e.g. the 
sponger Andriusha in Татьяна Борисовна и еѐ племянник, who dabbles in painting—
and, most memorably, in Dostoevskii‟s Неточка Незванова, where the violinist Efimov 
ruins himself by his refusal to practice regularly. Similarly, in the initial draft of Накануне 
Turgenev had included a detail in Shubin‟s biography which recalls Efimov‟s tragic 
predicament: „но вместе с рутиной он [Шубин] отбросил всякую школьную работу и 
вдохновение его не выдерживало‟ (VIII/416). The omission of this phrase, however, in 
the final version testifies to Turgenev‟s striving to represent in Shubin something quite 
different from the 1840s theme of Romantic subjectivism foundering in the social reality of 
Russia. Unlike Efimov, or the young Aduev (in Обыкновенная история) who soon tires 
of his poetic efforts, Shubin isn‟t a dilettante but a true artist who creates works of lasting 
                                               
126 Budanova 2000:203-6.       
127 Letter to L. Stech‟kina, 25 April (7 May) 1878 (P XII1/318). 
64  
value. It is true that Bersenev, vexed by his friend‟s light-heartedness, reproaches him once 
by casting him into the by then stereotypical mould of the Russian dilettante: „Ты поедешь 
в Италию […] и ничего не сделаешь. Будешь всѐ только крыльями размахивать и не 
полетишь. Знаем мы вас!‟ (VIII/16). But in reality he firmly believes in Shubin‟s 
vocation, describing him to Insarov as a „человек с большим талантом‟ (VIII/38).  
 Apart from natural talent, though, Shubin also shows a genuine capacity for hard 
work: „Он трудился усердно, но урывками‟ (VIII/20)—these fits and starts eventually 
settling into constant workmanship once he has resigned himself to losing Elena. 
Moreover, he has that special quality which Turgenev considered essential to every true 
artist and which in later years he was so delighted to find in Repin, the sculptor 
Antokol‟skii, and Garshin: that of „темперамент‟ by which he meant not just a vivid, fiery 
imagination but also the ability to show courage in the face of adversity.
128
 What we are 
told about Shubin at the beginning of the novel: „Талантом он обладал положительным‟ 
(VIII/21) is fully borne out by his achievements as a sculptor—for example, his bust of 
Insarov: „Черты лица были схвачены Шубином верно до малейшей подробности, и 
выражение он им придал славное: честное, благородное и смелое‟ (VIII/99). And in 
spite of a certain irony about Shubin‟s situation in Rome in the epilogue (see VI.1), we are 
left in no doubt that he has stayed true to his calling: „Шубин в Риме; он весь предался 
своему искусству и считается одним из самых замечательных и многообещающих 
молодых ваятелей‟ (VIII/166). The very fact that he is able to earn a living from his art 
confirms that he is made of quite different stuff to Andriusha in that huntsman‟s sketch 
who has no qualms about sponging on his aunt and leading a spoilt, idle existence: 
Бывало, по целым дням кисть в руки не берѐт; найдѐт на него так называемое 
вдохновение—ломается словно с похмелья […] пустится толковать о своѐм таланте, 
о своих успехах, о том, как он развивается, идѐт вперѐд... На деле же оказалось, что 
способностей его чуть-чуть хватало на сносные портретики. Невежда он был 
круглый, ничего не читал, да и на что художнику читать? Природа, свобода, 
поэзия—вот его стихии. (IV/210)             
 The ironic tone of Татьяна Борисовна и еѐ племянник, which appeared at around 
the same time as Неточка Незванова, is very much in keeping with the tendency of those 
                                               
128 Thus, in a letter of 8/20 February 1870, he exhorted Flaubert not to be discouraged by criticism of his 
latest works: „“El hombre debe ser feroz”—dit un proverbe espagnol—et l‟artiste surtout‟ (P VIII/189). This 
Spanish saying, which may be translated as: „A man ought to be fierce‟, is also invoked by Bazarov 
(VIII/307) and will be discussed further in section VI.2.             
65  
Russian writers who came of age in the 1840s to use the figure of the egocentric dilettante 
as a foil to what they felt was required of an artist in their country. For Turgenev, 
Dostoevskii, and Goncharov all accepted in their youth the earnestness which Belinskii had 
demanded of them in their approach to Russian reality and to their vocation. Thus, in a 
section of Дневник писателя for 1877 Dostoevskii recalled the great critic‟s injunction to 
him, after reading Бедные люди, to persevere in the „служение художника истине‟ 
(1972-90:XXV/31), and Turgenev likewise saw in the writer a „служитель идеала‟.129  
Of course, the two novelists differed in their views as to the exact nature of this 
„truth‟ or „ideal‟, but what is significant is the shared emphasis on art as „service‟, this 
being understood to be a service to Russian society as well. Dostoevskii did become 
estranged from Belinskii as a result of the latter‟s militant atheism,130 and yet one may with 
equal right apply to him what Ralph Matlaw has said of Turgenev: „Throughout his life he 
was conscious of the artist‟s socio-political responsibility, established as creed by 
Belinsky‟ (1957:249). They both believed in the contribution which literature could make 
to the „нравственное образование новых поколений‟, as Belinskii had put it when 
discussing the effect on Russian society even of Pushkin‟s predecessors (1953-
59:VII/176). This is clear from the way both Turgenev and Dostoevskii hoped that their 
last novels—Новь (1877) and Братья Карамазовы (1880) respectively—might help put 
the idealistic but misguided Russian youth on the right track.
131
           
Apart from this idea of service to truth and society, another important consequence 
of Belinskii‟s anti-Romantic campaign was a „professionalizing‟ of literature. In contrast to 
the attitude often adopted by Pushkin—е.g. in „Поэт и толпа‟ (1828) and Моцарт и 
Сальери (1831)—of the artist as a „единого прекрасного жрец‟,132 Turgenev tended to 
speak of the writer‟s task in more down-to-earth terms, even calling it a trade on various 
occasions: „По-моему, «литератор» такое же звание или определение рода занятий, 
как «сапожник» или «пирожник». Но есть пирожники хорошие и дурные—и 
                                               
129 Letter to Fet, 23 August/4 September 1862 (P V/44).  
130 Freeborn (2003:42) does point out, though, that Belinskii, despite his rejection of the established church, 
retained a strong religious impulse throughout his life.    
131 Cf. Turgenev‟s letter of 17/29 December 1876 to Kavelin, who had praised Новь: „[теперь] я уже знаю, 
знаю наверное, что я не потерял времени даром и сослужил—и отслужил—службу моему 
поколению—пожалуй даже моему народу‟ (P XII1/39); and Dostoevskii‟s letter of 10 May 1879 to 
Liubimov, in which he described the writing of Братья Карамазовы as a „гражданский подвиг‟ (1972-
90:XXX1/64).  
132 From Mozart‟s last words in the „Little Tragedy‟ (Pushkin 1949:V/368).      
66  
литераторы тоже‟.133 Dostoevskii too, whilst more wary of adopting such „utilitarian‟ 
terms, shared this view of writing as a process requiring serious craftsmanship.
134
 In fact, 
this spirit of professionalism was espoused by almost all Russian artists in the latter half of 
the nineteenth century—most significantly in music which until then had been largely in 
the hands of amateurs. Thus, Chaikovskii, who strove to live according to the values of 
„labor, modesty, and a deep sense of professional duty viewed as an ethical obligation‟,135 
would always lament the dilettante approach of such predecessors as Dargmoyzhskii and 
even Glinka:                                                                               
Моцарт, Бетховен, Шуберт, Мендельсон, Шуман сочинили свои бессмертные 
творения совершенно так, как сапожник шьѐт свои сапоги, т.е. изо дня в день и, по 
большей части, по заказу. В результате выходило нечто колоссальное. Будь Глинка 
сапожник, а не барин,—у него вместо двух (правда, превосходных) опер было бы их 
написано пятнадцать […] Я готов плакать от досады, когда думаю о том, что бы нам 
дал Глинка, родись он не в барской среде доэмансипационного времени.136 
 To return to the literary theme of the dilettante, though, it is worth noting that by 
the 1850s it had exhausted its relevance. After the Crimean War and the initiation of the 
great reforms, matters more important than the unmasking of Romantic subjectivism were 
vying for Russian writers‟ attention. Not surprisingly, Turgenev didn‟t consider the figure 
of the artistic dilettante worthy of treatment in a novel. In contrast to the short story, where 
a greater degree of subjectivism was legitimate, the novel was a genre which was supposed 
to reflect a country‟s „общественная, народная жизнь‟ (XII/310), as Turgenev put it in 
the 1880 preface to his novels. That may explain why he took such care not to let Shubin 
appear to be a dilettante, as well as why, apart from the animosity he felt towards 
Goncharov,
137
 he criticized the portrayal of Raiskii in Обрыв so severely:                               
                                               
133 Letter of 16/28 August 1871 (P IX/126). Interestingly, the same analogy had been used by Pushkin, albeit 
in a more ironical vein: „должно смотреть на поэзию, с позволения сказать, как на ремесло […] на 
конечную свою поэму я смотрю, как сапожник на пару своих сапог: продаю с барышом‟ (Letter to 
Viazemskii, March 1823—Pushkin 1949:X/57). This is an idea which recurs a lot in Pushkin‟s private letters 
but which he did not dare to acknowledge before his wider readership until his portrayal of the Italian 
improviser in Египетские ночи. See also Tosi 2006:42-43.    
134 Cf. Dostoevskii‟s letter of 31 May 1858 to his brother Mikhail: „Поверь, что везде нужен труд и 
огромный. Поверь, что лѐгкое, изящное стихотворение Пушкина, в несколько строчек, потому и 
кажется написанным сразу, что оно слишком долго клеилось и перемарывалось у Пушкина‟ (1972-
90:XXVIII1/311). 
135 Gasparov 2005:67, who also notes how Chaikovskii belonged to a generation that was greatly influenced 
by such works as Накануне.   
136 Letter to Grand Duke K. K. Romanov, 18 May 1890 (Chaikovskii 1997:III/329-30).   
137 An animosity which gave way to compassion in later years when he found out about Goncharov‟s mental 
illness. See Turgenev‟s letter of 1/13 February 1883 to Grigorovich (P XIII2/160).  
67  
Как это всѐ старо, старомодно, условно, lieu commun! Какое отсутствие настоящей 
живой правды! […] Это надо сдать в архив. И что за охота возиться с таким избитым 
типом, каков Райский, так пространно и любовно его мазать да размазывать, класть в 
рот и опять вынимать?138 
Goncharov‟s novel, in which so much is related from the perspective of an artistic 
dilettante, inevitably struck Turgenev as too limited in scope and outdated, especially 
bearing in mind that it appeared in the same year as Tolstoi was producing the final 
instalments of Война и мир (1869). Dilettantism was a relevant problem for Russia in 
Turgenev‟s view, but not just that which affected the arts: it was a more general malaise 
among the educated classes, reflecting the lack of both a clear purpose in life and a 
favourable environment. Turgenev had been one of the first to address this problem 
(notably in Гамлет Щигровского уезда and Рудин),139 and he did so by putting it into a 
wider context: that of the Russian gentry, rather than limiting himself to a psychological 
study of the failed artist, which would have been less relevant.                              
 That is not to say that the problem of dilettantism in the arts in Russia didn‟t worry 
Turgenev: it was, after all, one of the major obstacles to her developing a culture of her 
own to match her European sister-nations. Turgenev‟s correspondence, as well as 
Potugin‟s tirades in Дым, show how keenly he felt this. It is just that he avoided devoting 
too much space to artistic dilettante figures. Perhaps it was because he sensed a certain 
affinity to them,
140
 not in terms of lack of talent but of productivity, as Belinskii had once 
reproached him.
141
 Portraying such characters entailed the risk of falling into that bane of 
modern literature which he once described to Pauline Viardot as „le bavardage de 
l‟égoïsme qui s‟étudie et s‟admire soi-même‟.142 It was therefore with much restraint and 
irony that Turgenev presented dilettantes in his works but the lessons to be drawn from 
them are quite serious. 
 
                                               
138 Letter to Annenkov, 12/24 January 1869 (P VII/278).  
139 As Dostoevskii recognized when he immediately agreed that Stepan Trofimovich in Бесы, a noble 
dilettante even more „anachronistic‟ in the 1870s than Raiskii, was very much a „тургеневский герой в 
старости‟. See his letter to Maikov, 2/14 March 1871 (1972-90:XXIX1/185). 
140 Significantly, Panshin in Дворянское гнездо, whom Lemm dismisses as a „дилетант‟ (VII/197), 
composes a song for Liza the verses of which are from a youthful poem of Turgenev‟s in the style of Heine.      
141 When Turgenev failed to deliver a story that he had promised for Современник, Belinskii told him (not 
unlike Bazarov in his parting words to Arkadii): „Все вы одного поля ягоды; на словах любите разводить 
бобы, а чуть коснулось дела, так не шевельнут и пальцем‟. VT (1983):I/113.   
142 Letter of 26 November/8 December 1847 (P I/273-74). 
68  
III.1 The problem of aristocratic dilettantism                                     
During her brief stay in Russia, in 1812, Mme de Staël came to the conclusion that 
literature in that country was the pursuit of just a few noblemen.
143
 This was a verdict 
which writers of Turgenev‟s generation couldn‟t help agreeing with when they reflected on 
the majority of their predecessors‟ and older colleagues‟ output.144 However, whereas the 
situation in literature had changed drastically by the late 1850s—partly thanks to the sense 
of professionalism encouraged by Belinskii among younger writers, but also because of the 
increase in numbers and circulation of periodicals, as well as the emergence of matter-of-
fact journalism as opposed to the belles-lettres of old—this was not so in the other arts. In 
music, especially, amateurs continued to be a conspicuous presence even in the second half 
of the century: the chemist Borodin and the government clerk Musorgskii immediately 
spring to mind. Their „amateurism‟ was obviously not a question of lack of talent. Personal 
factors apart—that is, Borodin‟s genuine scientific interests and the impoverishment of 
Musorgskii‟s family—their failure to dedicate themselves fully to composing had a lot to 
do with the profession of an independent artist still being so little established in Russia. 
The social rank of „free artist‟ („вольный художник‟) did exist and had been 
granted to painters, sculptors, and actors—though not to musicians—ever since the 
eighteenth century, releasing them from taxation and military service.
145
 But this was not 
the same as the ideal of a „свободный художник‟ which Shubin invokes in Накануне 
(VIII/24), and which always informed Turgenev‟s thoughts on the question of the Russian 
artist. Thus, in his essay По поводу «Отцов и детей» (1869), in which he spelt out many 
of his aesthetic principles, Turgenev would stress that „нигде так свобода не нужна, как в 
деле художества, поэзии‟ (XIV/107). Here it was mainly inner freedom which he had in 
mind, but he was also aware of the social factors impinging on Russian artists.   
                                               
143 In her book Dix années d'exil (1820). See the Academy edition‟s commentary for Turgenev‟s critical 
articles (I/577). 
144 Turgenev cites Mme de Staël‟s phrase in his 1846 review of a pseudo-historical play by Kukol‟nik 
(I/297). It is interesting that Pushkin himself, in a letter of 16 December 1836 to the French ambassador de 
Barante, had quoted Mme de Staël and argued that her observation was no longer applicable because 
literature in Russia had at last become „une branche considerable d‟industrie‟, in which authors could convert 
their work into tangible financial gain rather than just aspiring to win the applause of refined society  
(1949:X/606). Nevertheless, during the 1830s, contributions to the few periodicals that had been allowed by 
the government (such as Pushkin‟s own Современник) still tended to come from a rather exclusive set of 
„gentilshommes‟.                  
145 Olkhovsky 1983:85. 
69  
Now, the independent spirit shown by an early nineteenth-century painter such as 
Briullov, who once even refused a commission from Nicholas I,
146
 was really quite an 
exception: for not until the secession of 1863 and the emergence of private collectors such 
as the merchant Pavel Tret‟iakov did Russian painters of humble origins begin to approach 
something of the professional „freedom‟ enjoyed by their colleagues in the West. Before 
that, as we may see from the humiliations suffered by Aleksandr Ivanov at the hands of 
imperial functionaries on his return to St Petersburg,
147
 such artists were treated little better 
than State employees:   
Russian artists in all fields were, as a group, far closer to their government than was the 
case in any West European nation. Faculty at the Academy of Arts received civil service 
rank, and their students‟ stipends were viewed virtually as state wages […] Lacking any 
tradition of middle-class independence from the state, Russian painters were the less 
inclined to view autonomy as a prerequisite for an artist.
148
 
In view of this, as well as the fact that the rank and salary attainable by painters and 
sculptors, after many years of training, were nowhere near as high as those which young 
sons of the gentry could aspire to if they entered the civil service or military, it is 
understandable why their parents were so reluctant to let them pursue an artistic career. 
This reluctance was probably even stronger amongst the wealthier gentry families, who 
had become increasingly jealous of their rights ever since the Charter of the Nobility 
(1785) and took a rather pragmatic view of State service. Such was the attitude, for 
example, of Turgenev‟s mother when he spoke of his wish to devote himself entirely to 
literature (and abandon his post in the Ministry of Interior): 
А я так постичь не могу, какая тебе охота быть писателем? Дворянское ли это дело? 
Сам говоришь, что Пушкиным не будешь. Ну ещѐ стихи, такие, как его, пожалуй, а 
писатель! что такое писатель! По-моему, écrivain ou gratte-papier c‟est tout un. И тот и 
другой за деньги бумагу марают. Дворянин должен служить и составить себе 
карьеру и имя службой, а не бумагомаранием. Да и кто же читает русские книги?149                             
 For gentry families to let their children spend years training as painters, sculptors, 
or musicians, was even more unthinkable, since in pre-Emancipation Russia such „careers‟ 
                                               
146 Mashkovtsev 1961:161. Perhaps Briullov‟s Huguenot descent played a part in this.    
147 These humiliations were described indignantly by Herzen in his obituary of the painter, published on 1 
September and 15 November 1858 in Колокол (1954-66:XIII/392). Turgenev also refers to them in his letter 
of 9 July 1858 to Pauline Viardot, lamenting Ivanov‟s untimely death (P* III/329).       
148 Starr 1983:98, 103.  
149 As recalled by Turgenev‟s illegitimate half-sister, Varvara Zhitova. VT (1983):I/44. 
70  
were associated either with serfs detailed by their masters or with other members of the 
lower classes seeking to escape poverty. Thus, the sixteen-year-old Raiskii, in Goncharov‟s 
Обрыв, cannot convince his guardian to let him enrol at the Academy of Fine Arts, for the 
latter insists that the scion of a noble family has no need to take up a profession which was 
exercised merely „ради куска хлеба‟ (1959-60:V/50). The path which Raiskii is persuaded 
into is similar to that of many a member of the Russian aristocracy with artistic 
inclinations: a number of years of service in an élite Guards regiment until an inheritance 
or the like allowed them to resign their commission and try to dedicate themselves to what 
the majority of their class looked upon as a mere hobby.  
It is quite telling that almost all of the dilettantes who appear in Turgenev‟s stories 
are ex-Guards officers as well. For example, Veret‟ev, in Затишье (1854), is an 
„отставной гвардии поручик‟ (VI/98), and Asya‟s brother Gagin had been placed by their 
father in a „юнкерская школа‟ from which he proceeded into a „гвардейский полк‟ 
(VII/92). This is an important detail because the Guards regiments were traditionally open 
only to the wealthiest sons of the aristocracy and they were, moreover, notorious for their 
drinking excesses. Alcoholism, as a variant of the tragic fate besetting so many Russian 
artists—including Musorgskii, whose health was undermined early on by the drinking 
bouts he took part in as an officer of the Preobrazhenskii Regiment—will be discussed in 
Chapter VI. Suffice it to say here that the alcoholism to which Veret‟ev succumbs in 
Затишье is just one of several symptoms of the malaise which in Turgenev‟s view 
prevented, with very few exceptions, the sons of the Russian landowning gentry from 
developing into proper artists.  
 Another symptom was the lack of professionalism which we have already 
discussed in the contrast between Shubin and the typical Russian dilettantes. Having 
decided to devote themselves to their chosen art at a relatively late age, these usually well-
off gentlemen lacked the self-discipline that most artists acquire through early regular and 
formal training, as well as the material incentive to persevere with, and finish, their works. 
In this respect Goncharov‟s Raiskii and Gagin in Ася are very similar: they both take up 
painting after having spent a number of years amidst the „петербургская «золотая 
молодѐжь»‟ (Goncharov 1959-60:V/79) and prove incapable of day-to-day work. Thus, 
Raiskii enrols at the Academy as a private student after leaving his regiment but soon tires 
of attending drawing classes, horrified by the prospect of having to submit himself to this 
grind for the eight years that a course there normally lasted. Retreating into flights of 
71  
fantasy, like Dostoevskii‟s Efimov, he fails to complete any of the works that he starts 
(except perhaps his bust of Vera).  
Similarly, Gagin in Ася assumes the demeanour of a „free artist‟ but allows himself 
all too readily to be distracted from his easel, preferring instead to philosophize in true 
Russian fashion with the narrator about the artist‟s significance in the modern age. None of 
the sketches in his portfolio is complete and his draughtsmanship is careless. Thus, despite 
the sympathy he feels for him, the narrator cannot help making the following observation 
about Gagin: „От него, несмотря на его шляпу à la Van Dyck и блузу, так и веяло 
мягким полуизнеженным, великорусским дворянином‟ (VII/87) and generalizing on 
how „Без горького, постоянного труда не бывает художников‟ (VII/83). 
What to some extent redeems these two dilettantes is their self-criticism in 
moments of clarity—admittedly less frequent in Raiskii, who fails to learn from his 
mistakes and from the example of the various true artists he comes across, and who at the 
end of the novel is carried away to Italy by his new-found „vocation‟ for sculpture. 
Nevertheless, he does admit to the nihilist Volokhov that he had taken up painting too late: 
„поздно было: какая академия после чада петербургской жизни!‟ (Goncharov 1959-
60:V/231), echoing Gagin‟s confession: „Не учился я как следует, да и проклятая 
славянская распущенность берѐт своѐ‟ (VII/80). 
It would be unfair to attribute the similarities between Gagin and Raiskii solely to 
Turgenev having—unconsciously or not—used some of the traits which Goncharov 
revealed to him in 1855 about the hero of the novel that eventually became Обрыв (and 
which at that stage was entitled Художник) when writing Ася two years later. For 
Затишье, which deals with another model of the aristocratic dilettante, was published a 
year before Goncharov‟s revelations about his planned novel, indicating Turgenev‟s long-
standing interest in these matters so close to his own heart. After all, he too was the scion 
of a privileged gentry family trying to establish himself as a professional artist. Without 
wishing to disparage the justness of Goncharov‟s grievances, in the particular case of the 
dilettante type represented by both Raiskii and Gagin it seems best to subscribe to the 
verdict of the court of arbitration which in March 1860 tried to settle the feud between the 
two great novelists by pointing out that their works had emerged from the same „Russian 
soil‟ and were therefore bound to depict similar situations.150 
                                               
150 Cf. Bogoslovskii 1964:303.  
72  
The aristocratic dilettante was very much a real feature of Russian society—even in 
the second half of the nineteenth century, as we may appreciate in the way Vronskii takes 
up painting after leaving the army and travelling to Italy with Anna. Interestingly, it has 
been suggested that because in the early drafts of Анна Каренина (1874-76) Vronskii‟s 
character is called Gagin, Tolstoi had in mind the sympathetic but flawed painter from 
Turgenev‟s story as one prototype for this figure.151 Whether or not this was the case, it is 
clear that the dilettante Vronskii, who doesn‟t seek inspiration in real life or in his own 
feelings but instead tries to imitate the Old Masters, provides Tolstoi with a foil to what he 
believed an artist should be like. As Babaev rightly emphasizes (1981:181-83), the contrast 
between Vronskii and the ungainly Mikhailov, whose paintings of Christ before Pilate and, 
later, of Anna do awaken genuine human feelings in almost all who see them, adumbrates 
Tolstoi‟s arguments in Что такое искусство? (1898) about artificial and true art. 
Furthermore, this juxtaposition of two different types of artist is not unlike that so beloved 
of the Russian writers of the forties. It is a theme which can perhaps be traced back to 
Gogol‟‟s story Портрет where Chartkov, after becoming a fashionable painter, meets his 
old classmate from the Academy, who had been living like a recluse in Italy, studying and 
working with utter disregard for the temptations of worldly success. Just as Gogol‟ there 
pays tribute to his friend the painter Ivanov, whose self-abnegating zeal he increasingly 
sought to emulate, so Tolstoi illustrates through Mikhailov his ideal of a true artist. 
The singularity of Tolstoi‟s case is worth pointing out, though, because all his life 
he showed a certain suspicion, if not disdain, towards professional artists and sided with 
the amateur who gave himself over to artistic creation only in moments of respite from the 
cares and worries of life (such as Tolstoi‟s neighbour Fet, who in between the daily 
running of his estate produced his lyrical poems). And yet at the same time he understood 
and felt the need to be an artist „всеми силами души‟, as he described it when immersed 
in the writing of Война и мир.152 It was a paradox which estranged him somewhat from 
Turgenev, who, despite being interested in the same pedagogic matters as Tolstoi—even to 
the extent of drafting a plan in 1860 for a Society for the Propagation of Literacy and 
Primary Education which would set up village schools and publish books appropriate to 
the needs of peasant readers (XV/247-48)
153—was unwilling or unable to give them as 
                                               
151 Pearson 1981:365.      
152 Letter to A. A. Tolstaia, 17 October 1863 (Tolstoi 1978-85:XVIII/609).   
153 Freeborn (1973:398-400) suggests that this ambitious programme was related to the conception of 
Bazarov as a „teacher‟ and may have been inspired by the example of Tolstoi‟s school at Iasnaia Poliana.  
73  
much attention as to his artistic work. As Turgenev emphasized in a letter of 1864 to 
Countess Lambert, who had been urging him to return to Russia:  
Вы говорите: должно служить отечеству—прекрасно; но Вы согласитесь, что я не 
могу служить ему ни как военный, ни как чиновник, как агроном или фабрикант; 
посильную пользу приносить могу я только как писатель, как артист. (P V/278-79)                                                                               
In Tolstoi, however, he discerned an attitude antagonistic to his own and in various letters 
he expressed his concern about the younger man‟s reluctance to treat literature as his main 
occupation, in which he saw not so much dilettantism (since Tolstoi‟s talent was beyond 
all doubt) as, rather, an element of aristocratic wilfulness. Thus, a few months before their 
famous quarrel he reminded him in a letter from Paris: „специальность есть признак 
всякого живого организма,—а Ваша специальность всѐ-таки искусство‟;154 and in 
1877, when he heard that Tolstoi had been transcribing peasant folk-songs and had even 
sent them to Chaikovskii for appraisal, he observed: „как не пожалеть о том, что этот 
человек, столь необычайно одарѐнный, словно вследствие пари делает именно то, 
что ему не следует делать?!‟155 
Tolstoi‟s pedagogic and social efforts were of course not carried out in a spirit of 
dilettantism and in many ways they also enriched his writing, but Turgenev had his reasons 
for warning against such πολυπραγματεια (to use the word with which Socrates in Plato‟s 
Dialogues brands those who engage in many things rather than concentrating on what they 
know best). In the Russian context it tended to be symptomatic of a lack of purpose, and 
even if inspired by the best intentions it almost never led to any tangible results. Such, at 
any rate, is the upshot of Rudin‟s various enterprises in Turgenev‟s novel, which initially 
was to have the ironic title „Гениальная натура‟ (VI/569). Whereas Rudin, however, tries 
to apply himself to non-artistic tasks, there were many aristocrats in Turgenev‟s day who 
dabbled in various arts and left little of consequence. This malaise finds a most tragic 
exposition in the story Затишье, in which Veret‟ev heaps scorn on such Russian 
dilettantism in order to justify his own passivity. As he tauntingly says to Masha, whom he 
drives to suicide by his cynicism:                              
Хотите вы, чтобы я поступил на службу, сделался агрономом? Хотите, чтобы я издал 
романсы с аккомпанементом гитары, напечатал бы собрание стихотворений, 
рисунков, занялся бы живописью, ваяньем, плясаньем на канате? (VI/124) 
                                               
154 Letter of 14/26 March 1861 (P IV/216).  
155 Letter to Polonskii, 30 December 1876/11 January 1877 (P XII1/52).  
74  
As we shall see in Chapter IV, Veret‟ev‟s bitter words also reflect the problem Russian 
artists had in trying to achieve something original. Here, though, they are relevant for what 
they suggest about how difficult it was to take the artist‟s profession seriously in Russia.         
 Even those Russian aristocrats who, unlike Veret‟ev, did manage to muster the 
enthusiasm to try to create works of art were often hampered by their privileged position. 
For their independence of means was rarely such a powerful stimulant to work as the 
obligations which their Western counterparts had to meet in order to earn their living. In 
this sense Pushkin‟s Египетские ночи (1825/35) is very revealing. Charskii in this 
remarkable fragment would certainly agree with Mme de Staël‟s phrase, since he takes 
more pride in his noble ancestry than in his poetic musings and looks down with disdain on 
the Italian improviser‟s greed for profit: „Звание поэтов у нас не существует. Наши 
поэты не пользуются покровительством господ; наши поэты сами господа...‟ 
(Pushkin 1949:VI/375).
156
  
Turgenev himself sided with those who discarded such aristocratic contempt for 
earning one‟s living by the sweat of one‟s brow and actually tried to live from the proceeds 
of their art, but it hadn‟t always been so. As a young man he had even pretended, in the 
salons of St Petersburg, that he gave away his poems and short stories to the literary 
journals for free. Belinskii had taken him to task for this: „Так вы считаете позором 
сознаться, что вам платят деньги за ваш умственный труд? Стыдно и больно мне за 
вас, Тургенев!‟157 This reproach caused Turgenev to change his attitude and shows once 
again how important Belinskii‟s role was in fostering a professional ethos in Russian 
writers. 
 
III.2 Teaching in music and the fine arts 
In 1861, the question of artistic professionalism in Russia was addressed in 
similarly stark terms by Anton Rubinshtein—who was by then a pianist of European 
renown—in his controversial article entitled „О музыке в России‟. Rubinshtein pointed 
out that in Russia only amateurs could permit themselves the luxury of taking up music 
                                               
156 Charskii is repeating some of Pushkin‟s own thoughts on the special status of Russian writers: „Мы не 
можем подносить наших сочинений вельможам, ибо по своему рождению почитаем себя равными им‟ 
(Letter to Ryleev, June-August 1825—Pushkin 1949:X/178). But the Italian‟s pragmatism (which does not in 
any way diminish his poetic genius!) reflects Pushkin‟s even more unique determination to make a livelihood 
out of his poetry: „Si je n‟écris encore que sous l‟influence capricieuse de l‟inspiration, les vers une fois écrits 
je ne les regarde plus que comme une marchandise à tant la pièce‟ (Draft of a letter to A. I. Kaznacheev, June 
1824—X/89).    
157 As recalled by Avdot‟ia Panaeva. VT (1983):I/107.     
75  
and that as long as there were no musicians who actually depended on their art for their 
daily bread the level of Russia‟s musical culture would never rise.158 His arguments for the 
„professionalizing‟ of music (partly by having musicians included in the rank of „вольные 
художники‟) and, especially, his appeal to Russian society to help set up a conservatory 
which would train Russian-born musicians and music teachers, were immediately scorned 
by Vladimir Stasov and three of the composers of the „Mighty Handful‟, including 
Balakirev.
159
  
But even they could deny neither the fact that their revered Glinka had had to spend 
four years in Berlin and Milan (1830-34) in order to consolidate his knowledge of musical 
theory because there were no suitably qualified teachers at home, nor the democratic spirit 
of Rubinshtein‟s project, so characteristic of the early 1860s. After all, Rubinshtein had 
argued (1983-86:I/53) that interest in music was most frequently encountered amongst 
people of humble origins who lacked the means to pay for private music lessons, and who, 
even if this were not so, wouldn‟t have been able to benefit from such lessons anyway, 
since most music teachers in Russia were foreigners catering for the nobility and didn‟t 
speak Russian! The efforts with which Balakirev and his friends sought to upstage 
Rubinshtein were effectively an attempt to fulfil the latter‟s programme faster than was 
perhaps feasible in Russia. Thus, in contrast to the fee-charging St Petersburg 
Conservatory, which was patronized by the German-born Grand Duchess Elena Pavlovna 
and staffed largely by German teachers at first (something that was inevitable given the 
lack of native expertise), the pupils of Balakirev‟s Free Musical School, which received 
hardly any State funding at all,
160
 were to be taught by altruistic Russian enthusiasts.                
 Nevertheless, despite a clear similarity of aims, what divided the two camps in this 
polemic of the 1860s was the very notion of a „conservatory‟ as such. What to Rubinshtein 
appeared like the overdue creation of an institution which would help Russia to overcome 
her cultural backwardness with respect to Western Europe, acted like a red rag on Stasov 
and the „Mighty Handful‟. For them the Conservatory was a foreign graft which would end 
up stifling Russian originality and creativity. Thus, in an anonymous riposte to 
Rubinshtein‟s 1861 article, Stasov warned: 
                                               
158 Campbell 1994:65-72.  
159 The other two were Cui and Mussorgskii. As Olkhovsky (1983:89) notes, the fact that their mentor in the 
art of composition, Balakirev, was largely self-taught, and that their full-time professions at the time were 
distinctly non-musical (they were both in the army), meant that they had some reason to feel offended by 
Rubinshtein‟s attack on amateur musicians.                
160 Cf. Garden 1967:95. 
76  
[Консерватория] вмешивается самым вредным образом в творчество 
воспитывающегося художника, простирает деспотическую власть […] на склад и 
форму его произведений, старается дать им своѐ направление, вогнать их в 
известную академическую мерку. (1974-80:II/9)       
The parallel drawn here to another institution imported from Europe which Stasov attacked 
equally vigorously—the Academy of Arts—is obvious. 
Despite all the sympathy which Turgenev felt for artists who were seeking to break 
free from the Academy‟s mould, and which had informed his portrayal of Shubin, he 
couldn‟t endorse any attacks on the Conservatory‟s teaching of music on the grounds of its 
supposed „academicism‟ or „routine‟ (accusations frequently levelled at it by Stasov and 
Cui in their articles). For a start, the Conservatory‟s principal task was to train orchestra 
players, soloists, and singers—not composers (something that Stasov and his composer 
friends, with their almost Romantic veneration of the „revolutionary genius‟, seemed to 
forget about). And, more importantly, unlike the Academy, which had existed for a good 
hundred years, the proper teaching of musical theory—without which the composition of 
more ambitious musical works was impossible—had only just got under way in Russia, so 
it was sheer folly to reject this for the sake of originality. It was with a similar cautioning 
against the Russian tendency to build without sure foundations that Bazarov in Отцы и 
дети had explained to Nikolai Kirsanov why it was too early to apply Liebig‟s discoveries 
to Russian agriculture: „Сперва надо азбуке выучиться и потом уже взяться за книгу, а 
мы ещѐ аза в глаза не видали‟ (VIII/220). Turgenev, who would later confess that he 
shared all of Bazarov‟s convictions except for his views on the arts (XIV/101-2), clearly 
also believed in the need to master the basics first.  
After literature, music was the art which Turgenev valued the most: „для меня 
музыкальные наслаждения выше всех других‟.161 His friendship with Pauline Viardot, 
who had retired from the stage in 1864 and now dedicated herself to composition and 
teaching, gave him a great deal of insight into the development of musicians. Not 
surprisingly, he was very sensitive to any signs of amateurishness in this field on the part 
of his compatriots. For the lack of a solid grounding condemned by Bazarov as a typically 
Russian flaw made itself felt both in the performance of musical works and in attempts at 
composition. Thus, in a letter of 1864 to Mme Viardot, Turgenev described an amateur 
                                               
161 Letter to S. Miller, 12 October 1853 (P II/188). In a conversation with the composer Kashperov in 1874, 
Turgenev did, however, remark that if he could start his life afresh, he would choose the career of a landscape 
painter (Zil‟bershtein 1967:422).  
77  
singer who was highly appreciated in St Petersburg society but whose rendition of some 
romances he had asked her to sing at sight struck him as awful: „elle aussi, comme 
beaucoup de mes compatriotes, tout en connaissant peu la rhétorique, ignore complètement 
la grammaire. C‟est par la bas que pèchent tous ces dilettanti.‟162  
As for the Russian amateurs who fancied themselves composers but in reality 
lacked the most elemental musical skills, Turgenev had already ridiculed them in his 
comedy Провинциалка (1850), in which Count Liubin confesses to the heroine that during 
his spare time he was working on an opera: „для забавы, знаете ли... sans aucune 
prétention‟ (III/183). It turns out that he can‟t play the simplest romance on the piano! The 
sustainment of music in Russia by amateurs, however, became a matter of serious concern 
in the 1860s, when Rubinshtein‟s ideological opponents sought to elevate it almost to a 
principle of faith—not in terms of technical incompetence, of course, but in the sense that 
Russian composers, in their view, had to eschew the professional trappings which 
Rubinshtein had declared essential for the thriving of music. These included the pursuit of 
social status and even of financial rewards. Moreover, the self-proclaimed champions of 
„Russian music‟ denied the very need for a conservatory on Russian soil. 
In this polemic Turgenev, as we would expect, sided with Rubinshtein, and in Дым 
(1867) he made sure to include the complacency of such musical chauvinists amongst the 
various delusions which, like clouds of smoke, obscured any hope of progress in his home 
country. Thus, with regard to the description which Turgenev gives of the Russian 
aristocratic clique that had converged on Baden-Baden—„тут был граф Х., наш 
несравненный дилетант, глубокая музыкальная натура, который так божественно 
«сказывает» романсы, а в сущности двух нот разбирать не может‟ (IX/144-46)—it is 
worth noting that Rubinshtein, in his 1861 article, had spoken of those amateurs who, after 
writing one or two romances, immediately held themselves to be composers.
163
 It was 
precisely this attitude which Turgenev had in mind when he had Potugin inveigh against 
Russia‟s „home-grown geniuses‟ and their predilection for writing „романсики‟ and 
„вальсики‟ (IX/232). Despite his love of the Russian drawing-room romance tradition and, 
in particular, of Glinka‟s contribution to it,164 Turgenev was aware of its associations with 
dilettantism of the kind shown by Panshin in Дворянское гнездо, who fails to convince 
Lemm that he is a serious musician (VII/143).  
                                               
162 Letter of 22 January 1864, NC:I/115; and, in Russian, in: P V/207. 
163 Campbell 1994:67.   
164 In Вешние воды, Sanin introduces the Rosellis to Russian culture by singing Glinka‟s famous setting of 
„Я помню чудное мгновенье‟ (XI/19).   
78  
In an article of 1869, Turgenev reminded those of his compatriots who had 
criticized Mme Viardot for daring to compose Russian songs that, given her faultless 
musical pedigree and the universality of music, she had a greater right to do so than all 
those „плохие штраб-ротмистры в отставке и полинялые светские дамы, которыми 
снабжается наш музыкальный рынок и которые набирают свои романсики по слуху, 
тыкая одним пальцем по фортепианам‟ (XIV/296).165 The affinity to Rubinshtein‟s 
views is once again unmistakable, for in his 1861 article the great pianist had noted how 
many of the romances by amateurs failed to observe the most elemental rules of harmony 
and didn‟t respect the cadences of the verses (Rubinshtein 1983-86:I/48-49).    
 One of the chief accusations levelled by Stasov and Cui against the conservatory 
idea was that its implementation would depend largely on German teachers, and that this 
would threaten the development of Russia‟s own musical idiom. Turgenev didn‟t share 
these fears because he believed in Russia‟s ability to assimilate beneficial foreign 
influences without forfeiting her original character. As Potugin puts it in Дым: „Вы только 
предлагайте пищу добрую, а народный желудок еѐ переварит по-своему; и со 
временем, когда организм окрепнет, он даст свой сок‟ (IX/171). Nor did it offend 
Turgenev‟s national pride that Germans should be at the helm of such an institution to start 
with. For all his readiness to poke fun at the Teutonic character in such works as Накануне 
and Вешние воды, Turgenev knew only too well that German teachers were the best in 
Europe. Thus, in a letter defending Potugin‟s views, he emphasized the „необходимость 
нам, русским, по-прежнему учиться у немцев,—как немцы учились у римлян‟.166 
In the case of music Turgenev had personally witnessed the beneficial effect of 
German training on Russian native talent during his exile at Spasskoe, as he reported to 
Pauline Viardot in a letter of 1853:       
Je ne sais pas si je vous ai dit que l‟un de mes voisins possède un assez bon et nombreux 
orchestre sous la direction d‟un excellent maître de chapelle allemand du nom d‟Amtsberg. 
Ces musiciens jouent vraiment bien—leur répertoire est immense—ils exécutent toute la 
musique classique—et puis—ce qu‟il y a de remarquable chez eux—c‟est l‟unanimité de 
leur jeu, l‟identité de coloris et de nuances. Il n‟ya du reste rien d‟étonnant à cela. 
Amtsberg les a presque tous formés lui-même.
167
 
                                               
165 The reference to „плохие штаб-ротмистры‟ could be a jibe at Cui, who was rapidly rising up the ranks of 
the tsarist army and was the author of a large number of romances. He had been one of the unkindest critics 
of Pauline Viardot‟s album of songs (FitzLyon 1964:411).   
166 Letter to Borisov, 16/28 June 1867 (P VI/276). 
167 Letter of 4 February 1853 (LI:64).   
79  
Even if in other parts of this letter one can detect a certain apprehension at the fact that this 
was a serf orchestra (see I.3), Turgenev did generally welcome such civilizing influences. 
In this sense, Potugin‟s parting words of encouragement to Litvinov, though they refer 
specifically to the latter‟s plans for applying back on his estate in Russia what he had learnt 
while studying agronomy in Europe, can also be interpreted as a vindication of 
Rubinshtein‟s conservatory project: 
Всякий раз, когда вам придѐтся приниматься за дело, спросите себя: служите ли вы 
цивилизации—в точном и строгом смысле слова,—проводите ли одну из еѐ идей, 
имеет ли ваш труд тот педагогический, европейский характер, который единственно 
полезен и плодотворен в наше время, у нас? (IX/313)         
It is not surprising, then, that until 1874, when Turgenev had the opportunity to listen to a 
unique private performance of extracts from Musorgskii‟s two great operas,168 the only 
composer of the „Mighty Handful‟ for whom Turgenev showed any sympathy was 
Rimskii-Korsakov. The latter‟s determination to improve his knowledge of musical theory 
by diligent study, in order to prove himself worthy of the teaching post that he had been 
offered by the St Petersburg Conservatory in 1871, won Turgenev‟s respect on all counts. 
 The situation regarding teaching in the fine arts during Turgenev‟s youth was quite 
different to that of music. There professional training had been the norm ever since the 
second half of the eighteenth century, and graduates of the Academy did not necessarily 
have to travel abroad to seek out foreign masters who would teach them the skills that no 
one could back in Russia (as had been the case with Glinka). Certainly, many of the 
Academy‟s gold medallists did seize the opportunity to spend a few years in Italy or 
France, but the fact was that any student who had successfully completed his course 
acquired a recognized status in the eyes of Russian society (unless, of course, he happened 
to be a serf) and could usually expect to find work in either of the two capitals, or in the 
larger provincial centres. Moreover, the majority of teaching staff at the Academy were 
Russians, and, just as the sons of priests tended to follow in their fathers‟ footsteps, some 
„dynasties‟ of Academy professors had even begun to arise (Aleksandr Ivanov, for 
example, was the son of such a professor). 
                                               
168 See Turgenev‟s letter to Pauline Viardot of 21 May 1874 (NC:I/ 211-12). This letter, full of enthusiastic 
remarks about Борис Годунов and Хованщина, as well as of optimism for the future of Russian music, is one 
of the most important documents from the Viardot family archives brought to light by Alexandre Zviguilsky 
in the 1970s. See also Gozenpud 1994:91-92.         
80  
In this respect it might seem that, even to someone so sceptical of his native 
country‟s level of culture as Turgenev, Russia had no cause to feel inferior to the rest of 
Europe. Indeed, if one were to go by the superlative praise lavished on paintings like 
Briullov‟s Последний день Помпея (1833) and Ivanov‟s Явление Христа народу (1836-
55) by writers with Slavophile sympathies, such as Gogol‟, or downright Slavophiles like 
Khomiakov, one would have the impression that Russia had left Europe far behind! 
Turgenev, however, much as he admired Ivanov‟s noble but flawed endeavour, was not so 
optimistic about the state of Russian painting. One reason for this has to do with the nature 
of the education artists received at the Academy. 
 
III.3 Humanistic education     
A striking feature of Shubin‟s characterization in Накануне is his wide general 
knowledge. Not only can he cite Shakespeare, but he can also hold his ground in historical 
and philosophical debates. For a Russian sculptor or painter at the time this is something 
quite exceptional. Of course, it has a lot to do with the fact that Shubin belongs to the 
gentry and was fortunate, too, in having a French mother who took such care over his 
education. The majority of pupils who passed through the Academy‟s doors were of 
distinctly humbler origins. Moreover, even though the Academy‟s curriculum was 
supposed to cover all the liberal arts (history, geography, and so on), on top of technical 
lessons in drawing, it was, in fact, heavily skewed towards the latter.
169
 Very few of the 
humbler students at the Academy, who had their fees paid for them either by the State if 
they showed great aptitude or—in the case of serfs—by their landowning masters, would 
have had the spare money and initiative to enrol as auditors at the University, where they 
might otherwise have been able to attend lecture courses that would have broadened their 
intellectual horizons beyond the Academy syllabus.
170
 
Significantly, two writers as seemingly disparate in their views as Dostoevskii and 
Turgenev were unanimous in lamenting Russian painters‟ lack of a general humanistic 
education. For instance, in a review of an exhibition at the Academy in 1861 Dostoevskii 
discussed in detail a painting by Valerii Iakobi entitled Партия арестантов на привале, 
which in terms of its subject-matter he praised as more relevant to contemporary society 
                                               
169 Bowlt 1983b:116. 
170 Even so, as Herzen pointed out in an article of 1851, the Ministry of Education under Nicholas I 
drastically restricted the opportunities for serfs to acquire a higher education (1954-66:VII/82-83).      
81  
than all the usual neo-classical works submitted for such competitions. However, he argued 
that its „photographic‟ realism was not sufficient for a true work of art: 
[Якоби] уже добирается до правды действительной; далее, до остальной, высшей 
правды он дойдѐт уже не академическими работами, не под руководством своих 
профессоров живописи, а общим развитием, общим образованием, чего, как 
известно, всегда недоставало не всем, а большинству наших художников.171 
In order to avoid mere „дагерротипирование‟—which in the case of Iakobi‟s work 
seemed to betray a lack of interest in the feelings of the convicts he had painted— 
Dostoevskii emphasized that students at the Academy should also be allowed and 
encouraged to attend university courses. If one reads between the lines, it is clear that 
Dostoevskii was expressing his hope that a broader education would awaken the social 
conscience of these future artists.  
Turgenev, too, on a number of occasions, vigorously rejected slavish 
„photographic‟ realism. In his 1845 essay-review of Goethe‟s Faust he argued that a good 
translator had to be creative rather than just diligently copy the original wording: „Что 
может быть рабски добросовестнее дагерротипа? А между тем хороший портрет не в 
тысячу ли раз прекраснее и вернее всякого дагерротипа?‟ (I/247). And in an often 
quoted phrase from an early letter to Pauline Viardot, he affirmed: „L‟art n‟est pas un 
daguerréotype‟.172 Even though Turgenev in these statements seems more concerned with 
the need for beauty, albeit one of a realistic kind, in a work of art than with the social 
awareness and sympathy demanded by Dostoevskii in that article of 1861, it is only too 
clear that the author of Записки охотника and Муму created this gallery of unforgettable 
peasant figures not just for the beauty and originality that they might lend to his prose, but 
because of his genuine interest in them as human beings. 
The origins of what we might call this humanitarian tendency in the works of both 
novelists are quite easy to trace. One could point to Dickens and George Sand, but, 
interestingly, we find the very sentiment which led both Turgenev and Dostoevskii to 
condemn mere objective „daguerreotypism‟ also expressed in Gogol‟‟s Портрет (in the 
revised version of 1842), where Chartkov muses about the portrait of the old money-lender 
and its ghastly naturalism: 
                                               
171 Dostoevskii 1972-88:XIX/156. The review was unsigned, but Leonid Grossman attributed it to 
Dostoevskii, since it shows all the features of his style and touches on issues close to his heart.          
172 Letter of 5/17 January 1848 (P I/292). 
82  
Eсли возьмѐшь предмет безучастно, бесчувственно, не сочувствуя с ним, он 
непременно предстанет только в одной ужасной своей действительности, не 
озарѐнный светом какой-то непостижимой, скрытой во всѐм мысли.173 
Turgenev and Dostoevskii would also have remembered how Belinskii, in his last major 
article (the survey of Russian literature in 1847), had defended the autonomy of art whilst 
at the same time stressing that the creation of a work of art could never be a process 
divorced from the artist‟s feelings and thoughts about the reality surrounding him:      
Чтобы списывать верно с натуры, мало уметь писать, т.е. владеть искусством писца 
или писаря; надобно уметь явления действительности провести через свою 
фантазию, дать им новую жизнь. Хорошо и верно изложенное следственное дело, 
имеющее романический интерес, не есть роман и может служить разве только 
материалом для романа, т.е. подать поэту повод написать роман. Но для этого он 
должен проникнуть мыслию во внутреннюю сущность дела, отгадать тайные 
душевные побуждения, заставившие эти лица действовать так […] А это может 
сделать только поэт. (1953-59:X/303) 
Such depth of understanding as Belinskii was demanding of Russian writers in their 
approach to the reality of their country could, in the view of this most ardent of 
Westernists, only be acquired through a proper humanistic education—that which he 
himself had lacked because of his humble origins and which he zealously tried to make up 
for by studying the most recent European thinkers with the help of his friends Stankevich 
and Bakunin. 
An insufficient awareness of the philosophical and social strivings that had been 
emerging in the West and in Russia was certainly one of the things both Turgenev and 
Dostoevskii had in mind when they lamented Russian artists‟ lack of a general education 
such as might be acquired in a lecture hall—if, say, someone like Granovskii was 
speaking—and in the discussions of student circles. Not because they necessarily wanted 
painters to give direct visual expression to these strivings, but because knowing about the 
latter would give them a better sense for how to approach Russian reality if they came to 
represent it in their works. Thus, Dostoevskii, for example, was to praise Repin‟s Бурлаки 
(1873; Plate 4A) for its avoidance of any overt accusations of social injustice, arguing that 
its sympathetic portrayal of the Russian people‟s humility in adverse circumstances was a 
                                               
173 Gogol‟ 1952-53:III/80. In the first version of 1835, so sharply criticized by Belinskii, the passage in 
question is full of Romantic phrases about how that all too life-like portrait violates the mysteries of Nature 
(III/245-46). When Gogol‟ reworked his story in 1842, he endowed Chartkov with the views on aesthetics 
that he himself had developed in writing Мѐртвые души.   
83  
more effective reminder of the „неплатный долг высших классов народу‟ than any 
pamphlet or explicitly tendentious work could ever hope to achieve.
174
      
 For Turgenev, the opportunity which a university-like education could give to the 
talented individual—in particular, of freeing the mind of prejudices and encouraging a 
serious and philosophical attitude towards life—was one that he wished all artists could 
enjoy. To an aspiring young writer he once gave the following advice: 
Нужно ещѐ читать, учиться беспрестанно, вникать во всѐ окружающее, стараться не 
только уловлять жизнь во всех еѐ проявлениях—но и понимать еѐ, понимать те 
законы, по которым она движется и которые не всегда выступают наружу.175 
Similarly, in По поводу «Отцов и детей» he stressed that no artist could do without 
education and knowledge (XIV/107). 
Turgenev‟s description, in Поездка в Альбано и Фраскати (1861), of his meeting 
with Ivanov in 1857, reflects this concern of his quite well, as we may see from the 
observations he makes about the reclusive painter: „К сожалению, воспитание получил 
он слишком поверхностное, как бóльшая часть наших художников‟ (XIV/88). 
However, as he notes further on, Ivanov was conscious of this deficiency and sought to 
overcome it by assiduous self-study. Interestingly, other memoirs on Ivanov also dwell on 
this point. In an article published a few months after the painter‟s death, Chernyshevskii 
quoted what Ivanov had said to him:  
Мы, художники, получаем слишком недостаточное общее образование; это 
связывает нам руки. Сколько сил у меня достанет, буду стараться, чтобы молодое 
поколение было избавлено от недостатка, от которого мне пришлось избавляться так 
поздно. Вот теперь я, как видите, должен узнавать с большими затруднениями то, 
что другие узнают в университете.176 
In contrast to the self-study which Turgenev was referring to—Ivanov‟s reading of as 
many historical works as he could get hold of, in order to get every detail right in his 
paintings—what Chernyshevskii had in mind when citing the above words was something 
rather different. The radical leader argued that Ivanov had managed to escape from the  
 
                                               
174 Dostoevskii 1972-88:XXI/74. Other interpretations of Repin‟s painting are possible—such as Stasov‟s 
observation about the young hauler‟s rebellious pose (Valkenier 1983:165).        
175 Letter to V. Kign, 16 June 1876 (P XI/280). 
176 Chernyshevskii 1939-50:V/337. On his return to Russia Ivanov had apparently been hoping to set up an 
academy of painting which would provide its pupils with a good general education. 
84  
religious and mystic notions which had ruined Gogol‟ thanks to his having re-educated 
himself by reading David Friedrich Strauss and Feuerbach! Ivanov had apparently even 
said to him: „Художник должен стоять в уровень с понятиями своего времени […] 
Соединить рафаэлевскую технику с идеями новой цивилизации—вот задача 
искусства в настоящее время.‟177 Turgenev doesn‟t say anything about Ivanov having 
read Feuerbach—whose attack on theological abstractions in Das Wesen des Christentums 
(1841) influenced Chernyshevskii‟s anti-Romantic aeshetics—but he does mention a visit 
which Ivanov paid to Strauss in Germany (XIV/87). This would suggest that the painter 
had indeed been trying to keep abreast with the latest developments in European thought. 
At any rate, what is clear from Ivanov‟s case is a sense of discontent with the kind 
of education provided at the Academy, the consequences of which were felt more acutely 
by students of humble origins who had to fill the gaps as best as they could. Repin, for 
instance, the son of a military colonist, always made sure to read widely. Even so, painters 
were never really accepted as members of the intelligentsia until quite late in the nineteenth 
century. As Elizabeth Valkenier (2007:56-57) comments on the group of painters which 
formed around Kramskoi, „the Peredvizhniki, diffident and insecure in their sociocultural 
standing, [were] content to let the recognized intelligentsia speak on their behalf‟.  
Of course, not everyone agreed with the commonly held view that students of the 
fine arts should receive a university-style education in addition to their technical classes. 
Tolstoi—no doubt partly because of unhappy memories of his alma mater Kazan—was 
firmly against the university system, and, in one of the articles about education which he 
contributed to his own journal Ясная Поляна in 1862, he even wrote that it wouldn‟t be a 
bad thing if the universities were to disappear altogether, considering the „развращающее 
влияние‟ which they had on young people (1978-85:XVI/53). The principle on which 
Tolstoi based his rejection of systematic teaching in primary schools could easily be 
extended to the humanistic education which Turgenev and Dostoevskii valued so highly. 
„Всякое серьѐзное образование приобретается только из жизни, а не из школы,‟ he 
had argued on the pages of his pedagogical journal (1978-85:XVI/24). 
Significantly, in Анна Каренина Vronskii, Golenishchev, and Anna, who are all 
unable to appreciate fully the painter Mikhailov (though Anna does so much more than the 
two men), agree patronizingly „что в таланте ему нельзя отказать, но что талант его не 
мог развиться от недостатка образования—общего несчастия наших русских 
                                               
177 ibid.: V/337, 339.          
85  
художников‟ (1978-85:IX/50). Tolstoi, by putting this somewhat clichéd phrase in the lips 
of characters as unsympathetic to him as Golenishchev and Vronskii, makes it quite clear 
what he thought about the supposed need for artists to receive a broader liberal education! 
The very way in which Mikhailov is shown at work on one of his paintings, achieving 
what he does by intuition, sums up Tolstoi‟s views on the essence of true artistic creation. 
It is worth noting that Mikhailov‟s principal work, the painting of Christ before Pilate, had 
cost him three years of efforts so far and is still unfinished when Anna and Vronskii meet 
him. The reason for this is almost certainly that such a subject does not come naturally to 
him (unlike his painting of the two boys fishing or his portrait of Anna). Rather, this 
decision to depict Christ as a historical figure seems to have been suggested to him by his 
reading of Strauss and Renan, as Golenishchev disdainfully remarks (1978-85:IX/39). By 
showing Mikhailov as not quite satisfied with this painting, Tolstoi probably wanted to hint 
at the negative influence of those „nihilistic‟ journals and books which the painter had been 
reading in a misguided attempt to educate himself.
178
 
Tolstoi‟s emphasis on intuition in art and in other fields struck Turgenev as a 
dangerous tendency. It had been expressed very clearly in those sections of Война и мир 
which reflect on the nature of historical agency. Referring to the role of individuals in 
historical events, Tolstoi had asserted: „Только одна бессознательная деятельность 
приносит плоды‟ (1978-85:VII/19). In the novel this is illustrated by Nikolai Rostov and 
Kutuzov, in particular, who react only to situations immediately affecting them without 
trying to comprehend the wider picture. Those Russians, in contrast, who had consciously 
undertaken heroic acts during the war with Napoleon had proven to be the most useless, 
Tolstoi argued. For Turgenev this notion was inacceptable, and in his 1869 essay По 
поводу «Отцов и детей», as Batiuto (1967:135-40) has shown in a study of the rough 
draft, he intended to give a refutation of Tolstoi‟s view of history. In the manuscript of his 
essay, after stressing how education was essential for every artist, Turgenev had added: „и 
человек, который подобно графу Толстому, мог написать: [что] только одна 
бессознательная деятельность приносит плоды,—сам начертал свой [собственный] 
приговор‟ (XIV/355). In the final text Turgenev limited himself to the following muted 
criticism of Tolstoi as part of his exhortation to young writers that they should always 
respect the value of learning: 
                                               
178 The complexity of Mikhailov‟s character has a lot to do with his being based on Kramskoi, who visited 
Tolstoi several times in 1873 to paint his famous portrait and whom he regarded as a typical Petersburg 
nihilist (Babaev 1961:177). However, this didn‟t prevent Tolstoi from recognizing Kramskoi‟s artistic 
integrity, to which he paid tribute in the figure of Mikhailov.             
86  
Самый печальный пример отсутствия истинной свободы, происходящего из 
отсутствия истинного знания, представляет нам последнее произведение графа Л.Н. 
Толстого («Война и мир»), которое в то же время по силе творческой, поэтического 
дара стоит едва ли не во главе всего, что явилось в европейской литературе с 1840 
года! (XIV/107-08) 
A year later, Turgenev saw in the Prussian army‟s victories over France ample 
confirmation of how wrong Tolstoi had been in ridiculing German military strategists in 
Война и мир: „Весь его последний роман построен на этой вражде к уму, знанию и 
сознанию—и вдруг учѐные немцы бьют невеж французов!!‟179 It should be said, 
though, that whilst rejoicing at the fall of Napoleon III, Turgenev was appalled by the 
Prussians‟ heavy bombardment of Strasbourg.     
Turgenev‟s defence of the role of the intellect in all spheres of human activity, 
including art, is very important. It is one reason why Turgenev shouldn‟t be compared with 
Schopenhauer, who took a rather condescending view of artists as being unconscious of the 
ideas they represented in their works. There are, however, several other reasons, chief 
among which is Schopenhauer‟s fundamental anti-humanism, which went against the 
whole Russian literary tradition.     
 
III.4 Schopenhauer refuted         
In Turgenev‟s correspondence the German philosopher‟s name appears in just three 
letters. During his polemic with Herzen in 1862 about the future development of Russia, he 
urged his old friend not to imagine that Russia could follow a different, cleaner path than 
her European sister-nations and added ironically: „Шопенгауэра, брат, надо читать 
прилежнее, Шопенгауэра‟.180 By this he evidently meant that like Schopenhauer, who 
had so bleakly described the uniformity of human nature (especially regarding its 
weaknesses and vices) down the ages, Herzen shouldn‟t delude himself that Russians as a 
people were intrinsically better than the French or Germans and that Russia could 
somehow avoid a bourgeoisie by adopting the supposedly socialist principles of the 
peasant commune. A few weeks later, Herzen, who didn‟t like to be crossed in arguments, 
admonished Turgenev: „ты с твоим Шопенгауэром […] становишься нигилистом‟.181 
In his reply Turgenev didn‟t say anything about Schopenhauer, but he did insist that the 
                                               
179 Letter to Borisov, 12/24 August 1870 (P VIII/270). 
180 Letter of 23 October/4 November 1862 (PV/65). 
181 Letter to Turgenev, 10/22 November 1862 (Gertsen 1954-66:XXVII1/264). 
87  
accusation of nihilism was unjust because he still believed in the Westernist ideals of his 
youth.
182
 This didn‟t stop Herzen, however, from elaborating on that accusation in his next 
letter: „ты выехал на авторитете идеального нигилиста, буддиста и мертвиста—
Шопенгауэра‟.183 Turgenev protested in his reply: „я называю Шопенгауэра—ты 
упрекаешь меня в поклонении авторитету‟.184 In other words, Turgenev had done no 
more than to mention Schopenhauer as a dose of healthy scepticism against rose-coloured 
views of Russia‟s special status, yet the irascible Herzen immediately made him out to be 
an acolyte of that philosopher!                           
 Their correspondence continued until early 1864, when there was a rupture that 
lasted a few years until, in May 1867, Turgenev suggested to Herzen that they resume their 
friendship. Herzen accepted this gesture of reconciliation, but inwardly he was still angry 
at Turgenev, especially after having read Дым, in which Potugin reiterated so many of 
Turgenev‟s own Westernist convictions. Thus, in an article entitled „Ещѐ раз Базаров‟ 
(1868), which in fact has very little to do with Отцы и дети, he suggested that the term 
nihilism could be used to describe not the radical intelligentsia but, rather, those who 
advocated scepticism and passivity. In that sense, Herzen argued, „один из величайших 
нигилистов будет И. Тургенев […] и, пожалуй, его любимый философ Шопенгауэр‟ 
(1954-66:XX1/349). It was a typical case of seeking to have the last word. 
Unfortunately, some scholars have taken Herzen‟s judgement for granted. For 
instance, Andrzej Walicki claimed that „Schopenhauer was Turgenev‟s favourite 
philosopher from the early sixties until the end of his life‟ (1962:1). This is an utterly 
untenable assertion, and even more so the use to which Walicki puts it, accusing Turgenev 
of a pessimistic, cowardly liberalism: „It was a liberalism without faith in the future and 
without faith in freedom‟ (1962:16). In his intransigence towards other scholars Walicki 
also took his cue from Herzen. Thus, he attacked Mikhail Gershenzon‟s splendid book 
Мечта и мысль И.С. Тургенева (1919) on the following grounds: „Gershenzon 
erroneously thought that art was for Turgenev a means of “raising personality from the 
dead” […] In fact, Turgenev saw art as a means of liberation from personality […] The 
main reason for Gershenzon‟s misinterpretation was the strange fact that he did not notice 
Schopenhauer‟s influence on Turgenev‟ (1962:14). As if that were so self-evident! 
                                               
182 Letter of 13/25 November 1862 (P V/73). 
183 Letter to Turgenev, 17/29 November 1862 (Gertsen 1954-66:XXVII1/266).  
184 Letter of 21 November/3 December 1862 (P V/74). 
88  
 Walicki claims that the poem-in-prose Стой! (1879), addressed to Pauline Viardot, 
illustrates Schopenhauerian „aesthetic contemplation‟, that is, the overcoming of the 
principium individuationis (1962:13). However, if one reads this poem without any 
preconceived notions, it is quite clear that Turgenev here is concerned precisely with the 
singer‟s individuality: „В это мгновение ты бессмертна‟ (XIII/196). As Viacheslav 
Golovko has emphasized (1989:153), the aesthetic enjoyment evoked by Turgenev in 
Стой! and elsewhere doesn‟t entail Schopenhauerian negation of the self at all. Moreover, 
despite Walicki‟s dogmatic assertion, Gershenzon was right to say that Turgenev sought, 
through art, to raise personality from the dead. It is what he did in the case of his dear 
friend Belinskii, many of whose ideas and character traits he gave to Bazarov and his 
father in Отцы и дети (see Nikitina 1997). One could give many other examples, and 
Turgenev himself explicitly said that this was his aim as a writer when he defended the 
portrayal of Sof‟ia in Странная история (1870), whose religious zeal some readers had 
dismissed as irrelevant to contemporary Russia: 
Подобные лица жили, стало быть, имеют право на воспроизведение искусством. 
Другого бессмертия я не допускаю, а это бессмертие, бессмертие человеческой 
жизни—в глазах искусства и истории—лежит в основании всей нашей 
деятельности.185       
When Walicki speaks of Schopenhauerian „death of the ego‟ in the prose-poem Монах 
(1879), one could take a leaf from his book and say that it is strange that he failed to notice 
the „influence‟ of Pascal on Turgenev! Pascal came to the conclusion that „Le moi est 
haïssable‟ two hundred years before Schopenhauer, and Turgenev does discuss Pascal at 
length, with a mixture of admiration and bewilderment, in various letters to Pauline 
Viardot.
186
 This observation of Pascal‟s can even be related to Turgenev‟s self-effacing 
narrative method. As Freeborn has noted, „it is instinctive to Turgenev to hide himself‟ 
(1960:48). Not surprisingly, scholars who disagree with this unjust association of 
Turgenev, one of the most inspiring of Russian writers, with Schopenhauerian pessimism 
have emphasized his reading of Pascal, especially clear in Bazarov‟s reflections before his 
death (see Batiuto 1964). 
Now, Herzen, for all his intelligence, was not a good judge of people, as suggested, 
for instance, by his wife‟s elopement with Herwegh. Turgenev, who said only good things 
                                               
185 Letter to Avdeev, 13/25 January 1870 (P VIII/171-72). 
186 See the letters of 18/30 April 1848 (P I/295) and 8/20 June 1859 (LI:86-87). 
89  
about his friend after his death in 1870, admitted as much when he made the following 
remark in a letter to a literary historian who was writing about Belinskii: 
Вообще Белинский, удивительно чуткий критик, был довольно слаб в реальном 
понимании живых людей, которых судил большей частью в силу предвзятых идей. 
То же самое замечалось и в другом, столь же даровитом, хотя и вовсе не похожем на 
Белинского, человеке—в А.И. Герцене. Оба были идеалисты по преимуществу.187    
It was precisely due to such a preconceived idea that Herzen called Schopenhauer 
Turgenev‟s favourite philosopher. Significantly, Annenkov, who knew Turgenev over so 
many years, did not once in his reminiscences speak of Turgenev having been influenced 
by Schopenhauer in any way. Annenkov did, however, note how their mutual friend Vasilii 
Botkin in the late 1850s became a disciple of Carlyle and Schopenhauer, adopting the 
latter‟s „глубочайшее презрение к толпе и народным массам‟ (1960:331). Could one 
ever say that about the author of Записки охотника? Or even of the elderly Turgenev, 
who in so many of his poems-in-prose expressed his profound sympathy for the less 
fortunate and his anguish at the thought that thousands of Russian soldiers were being 
killed in the war with Turkey? Moreover, in those poems where he talks of his own fear of 
death it is very difficult to discern any affinity with Schopenhauer, because for the latter 
death was of course a welcome release from this terrible world of selfish and futile 
desires!
188
 Not so for Turgenev, who gratefully accepted the gift of life. 
 As for Walicki‟s sweeping assertion that Turgenev‟s liberalism was one „without 
faith in the future and without faith in freedom‟ (1962:16), that can easily be refuted, too. 
Henri Granjard, whose sensitive and intelligent book on Turgenev is in an altogether 
different league to Walicki‟s pamphlet, also tended to the view that Turgenev succumbed 
to „pessimisme philosophique‟ and „scepticisme politique‟ after 1862, and that his defence 
of Western civilization in his polemic with Herzen is undermined by the „nihilisme du 
désespoir‟ allegedly expressed in Довольно (1954:324, 331, 347). In section VI.4 we shall 
consider why the reflections in Довольно should not necessarily be equated with 
Turgenev‟s own, but it is worth noting here that in April 1864, just one month after 
completing Довольно, Turgenev wrote his rousing essay on Shakespeare, in which he 
observed how the principles of „гуманность, человечность, свобода‟ had been active 
ever since Shakespeare‟s day, and how these would eventually transform all European 
                                               
187 Letter to M. De-Pule, 7/19 February 1877 (P XII1/90). 
188 McLaughlin (1984:112, 125) has noted this too, but she claims that it makes Turgenev into an even 
bleaker pessimist than Schopenhauer!      
90  
society (XV/49). The optimism of this essay anticipates his Pushkin speech of 1880, with 
its wholehearted declaration of faith in Russia‟s future and in the liberating force of poetry, 
which would one day also be felt by Russian peasants thanks to the spread of literacy and 
improvements in their material conditions (XV/76). 
Significantly, neither Granjard nor Walicki mention the Shakespeare essay or the 
Pushkin speech. This is understandable given that the Academy edition of Turgenev‟s 
works wasn‟t available when they wrote on him. However, Walicki‟s treatment of 
Turgenev as a thinker—and one, moreover, to be belittled by association with 
Schopenhauer—rather than as a great artist is totally unwarranted. In contrast, Sigrid 
McLaughlin, who did have access to the Academy edition, acknowledges that after 1863-
65 Turgenev no longer expressed such pessimistic thoughts as in Призраки or Довольно, 
and writes in her conclusion that „Turgenev wandte sich nicht von der Welt ab (wie es 
Schopenhauer tat), wohin ihn ein konsequenter Pessimismus hätte führen müssen‟ because 
he continued to believe in science and education (1984:154). We should add that he also 
continued to believe in the value of art. 
However, McLaughlin‟s earlier observation about Turgenev‟s „ambivalence‟ with 
regard to progress because of his allegedly Schopenhauerian insight into „ein ewig gültiges 
statisches Naturgesetz, das jeden Fortschritt unmöglich macht‟, as a result of which 
„Turgenevs Haltung zum Fortschritt blieb sein Leben lang widersprüchlich‟ (1984:95, 96), 
must be contested. As we saw in section II.7, when his views on tragedy were discussed, 
Turgenev, even if he turned away from Hegel after his student years, always retained a 
dialectic outlook on life and history. It is what enabled him to see that both Bazarov and 
the Kirsanov brothers were right each in their way, as Batiuto (1990:184) has emphasized. 
For Turgenev, these „contradictions‟ were part of the progress of humanity. It isn‟t even 
necessary to invoke Hegelian dialectics here, because already Kant, whose affinity with 
Turgenev has been noted (in II.6), had understood that an element of struggle was 
necessary in society for the development of man‟s talents and capacities: „Der Mensch will 
Eintracht; aber die Natur weiß besser, was für seine Gattung gut ist: sie will Zwietracht‟ 
(1956: 338). Goethe also expressed the same view of life: „Das Gleiche läßt uns in Ruhe; 
aber der Widerspruch ist es, der uns produktiv macht‟.189 
                                               
189 Conversation with Eckermann, 28 March 1827 (Goethe 1985-98:XIX/540). 
91  
When interviewed by the American-Norwegian writer Hjalmar Boyesen in 1873, 
Turgenev, recalling his clash with Carlyle almost twenty years earlier, reflected on the 
contempt which Carlyle had expressed for democracy in Great Britain: 
In my opinion he who is weary of democracy because it creates disorder is very much in 
the state of one who is about to commit suicide. He is tired of the variety of life and longs 
for the monotony of death. For as long as we are created individuals, and not uniform 
repetitions of one and the same type, life will be motley, varied, and even disorderly. And 
in the infinite collision of interests and ideas lies our chief promise of progress. To me the 
great charm of American institutions has always been in the fact that they offer the widest 
scope for individual development, the very thing which despotism does not and cannot do. 
It is my own life-long experience which has taught me this lesson… It is a law of nature 
that sickness can never prevail over health; if a negative principle were to become 
predominant in the world, mankind would no longer have sufficient vitality to continue its 
existence.
190
 
In view of these words can one continue to speak of Turgenev‟s „pessimism‟, of his 
liberalism „without faith in the future and without faith in freedom‟?! 
It‟s also strange that if Schopenhauer was Turgenev‟s „favourite philosopher‟, as 
Herzen and others have claimed, Turgenev never seems to have discussed Schopenhauer 
with any of the contemporaries who later wrote reminiscences of him, whereas he was 
more than willing to speak of Russia, of Pushkin, Shakespeare, and all the many other 
things that interested him in life.             
 Apart from those two letters to Herzen in 1862, the third and last time that 
Schopenhauer‟s name appears in Turgenev‟s correspondence is in a letter of 1870 to his 
friend Fet, who was slowly working on a translation of the German philosopher‟s works. 
Again, Turgenev‟s tone in referring to Schopenhauer, in these mock verses, is far removed 
from the reverence that one would expect from an acolyte: „Фет, ну как ваш 
Шопенгауэр? / Приезжайте посмотреть, / Как умеет русский Bauer / Кушать, пить, 
плясать и петь‟.191 It is, however, significant that Turgenev mentioned Schopenhauer in a 
letter to Fet, as we shall see in the next section. In 1879, Fet would report to Tolstoi what 
Turgenev had once said to him: „Да ведь Шопенгауэр, что же Шопенгауэр, ведь я его 
вывез в Россию‟.192 There is again an ironic nuance here: if it really was Turgenev who 
                                               
190 Quoted in Waddington 1980: 35-36.    
191 Letter of 8/20 June 1870 (P VIII/242). 
192 Letter from Fet to Tolstoi, 3 February 1879. Quoted in McLaughlin 1984:54. 
92  
introduced Fet to Schopenhauer‟s work, he certainly didn‟t pride himself on having 
„imported‟ him into Russia because he must have found out, through Fet and other mutual 
acquaintances, how Tolstoi became an enthusiast of Schopenhauer in the summer of 1869. 
Although Tolstoi later distanced himself sharply from the German philosopher, at that time 
he was still capable of exclaiming: „теперь я уверен, что Шопенгауэр гениальнейший 
из людей‟!193 
We have already seen how arlarmed Turgenev was by Tolstoi‟s attack on conscious 
heroism in Война и мир. Long before the novel‟s epilogue appeared in December 1869, 
Turgenev had discerned Tolstoi‟s underlying view of history, and he wrote to Annenkov: 
Беда, коли автодидакт, да ещѐ во вкусе Толстого, возьмѐтся философствовать: 
непременно оседлает какую-нибудь палочку, придумает какую-нибудь одну систему, 
которая, по-видимому, всѐ разрешает очень просто, как например исторический 
фатализм, да и пошѐл писать!194               
Whether or not Tolstoi‟s meditations on free will and historical necessity in the epilogue 
were influenced by his reading of Schopenhauer (see Walsh 1979), the point to bear in 
mind here is that Turgenev was worried by the younger man‟s tendency to try to reduce the 
complexity of life to a single system. If Turgenev did find out about Tolstoi‟s enthusiasm 
for Schopenhauer in the 1870s—in his correspondence with Fet and others who kept him 
informed about Tolstoi the subject isn‟t raised—he must have been even more alarmed! 
 McLaughlin (1984:58) has argued that Schopenhauer would have appealed to 
Turgenev because he is a non-systematic philosopher who accepts the „reality‟ of life. But 
Schopenhauer is in fact very much a systematist himself when he purports to reduce all the 
phenomena of life to the selfish will as the essence of the world. Thus, not unlike Hegel 
with his famous axiom: „What is reasonable is true, and what is true is reasonable‟—which 
caused the Russians living under Nicholas I‟s regime so many headaches, as Turgenev 
noted in his memoirs of Belinskii (XIV/28)—Schopenhauer allows himself to be driven by 
his own system to such axiomatic conclusions as: „The tormenter and the tormented are 
one and the same‟.195 Philosophically that may well be true (at least according to 
Schopenhauer‟s idea that all creatures are subject to suffering because of their very 
existence), but no Russian who had grown up in the humanitarian traditions so nobly 
advocated by Belinskii could possibly accept that. One need only think of Ivan 
                                               
193 Letter from Tolstoi to Fet, 30 August 1869 (1978-85:XVIII/682). 
194 Letter of 13/25 April 1868 (P VII/122). 
195 „Der Quäler und der Gequälte sind Eines‟ (Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, §63). 
93  
Karamazov‟s indignation at the cases of cruelty against children he has read about, and 
how Alesha, too, agrees that a monster such as the general in his brother's final example 
should be shot dead. Similarly, there‟s no sign in Накануне that Turgenev thought 
Insarov‟s cause was meaningless because the Turkish oppressors and their Bulgarian 
victims were „one and the same‟. 
Of course, Schopenhauer is more famous for  his emphasis on compassion as the 
only real virtue, and it is this aspect of his work which evidently appealed to Tolstoi and 
other Russians like Strakhov. It may also have appealed to Turgenev, but Schopenhauer 
was by no means the first thinker to extol compassion! Whilst expressing admiration for 
Kant elsewhere, Schopenhauer did, however, reject Kant‟s categorical imperative because 
in his view moral principles couldn‟t be imposed on the will, and so only compassion as 
the result of the insight that suffering is the lot of mankind could induce a person to act 
generously towards others.
196
 Turgenev, in contrast, always believed in duty as an 
important principle regulating human conduct—not just in those works of the 1850s whose 
affinity with Kantian ethics we have discussed (see II.6) but also in later works such as 
Дым (1867). In that novel, Litvinov is tormented by the prospect of having to break his 
betrothal to Tat‟iana precisely because „он понимал важность обязанностей [и] святость 
долга‟ (IX/251), and though Tat‟iana forgives him, her aunt judges him more strictly: 
„Коли мы долга признавать не будем, что ж у нас останется?‟ (IX/297). It is Litvinov‟s 
ability to regain his consciousness of duty that, as James Woodward rightly observes 
(1984:75), contributes to the novel‟s message of faith in Russia‟s ability to shake off the 
„legacies of her dark past‟, that is, of the pre-Emancipation period, during which few 
Russians had been able to develop a sense of individual dignity and honour.                  
 
III.5 Призраки: the conscious artist 
 In Turgenev‟s sketches for his works and rough drafts—another important record 
of the ideas with which he was concerned—Schopenhauer‟s name appears just once: 
namely, in the plan for Призраки (1864). In his outline of the various scenes to which the 
mysterious Ellis transports the narrator of this story, which is appropriately sub-titled 
„фантазия‟, Turgenev jotted for the penultimate scene featuring Ellis as a spirit: „Вид 
земли (Шопенгауэр)‟ (IX/379). In this scene the narrator describes how he and Ellis were 
flying over the surface of the Earth, and how he was overcome by a feeling of disgust at 
                                               
196 Cf. Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, §67. For Kant, compassion is one of the natural impulses which 
help us to perform our duty towards others, where the concept of duty alone may be insufficient. 
94  
the sight of „этот нарост на огненной песчинке нашей планеты, по которому 
проступила плесень, величаемая нами органическим, растительным царством‟, as 
well as of „эти люди-мухи, в тысячу раз ничтожнее мух‟ (IX/106). As Evgeniia Kiiko 
has pointed out (1967:124), this likening of the vegetation covering the Earth‟s surface to 
„mould‟ (плесень) can be traced to a passage in Schopenhauer‟s principal work, in which 
he evokes the empirical insignificance of our existence by describing the Earth as one of 
many spheres floating in infinite space on whose surface a mouldy film (Schimmelüberzug) 
has generated conscious living beings.
197
 One of Sigrid McLaughlin‟s contentions is that 
Turgenev would have been attracted by the German philosopher‟s vivid style, and here it 
does seem that this particular image of Schopenhauer‟s caught Turgenev‟s eye. 
 However, this passage in Призраки mustn‟t be taken out of context. Immediately 
after describing the Earth‟s surface and the insignificance of human life on it, the narrator 
adds: „Даже жалости я не ощущал к своим собратьям: все чувства во мне потонули в 
одном, которое я назвать едва дерзаю: в чувстве отвращения, и сильнее всего, и 
более всего во мне было отвращение—к самому себе‟ (IX/106). It is then that Ellis 
urges him to abandon these thoughts: „Перестань,—шепнула Эллис,—перестань, а то я 
тебя не снесу. Ты тяжѐл становишься‟ (IX/106). Although Turgenev himself asked his 
readers not to look for any hidden allegory in this work, it is still legitimate to try to 
understand what the figure of Ellis and her relationship to the narrator, especially in this 
scene, might signify. 
 The most compelling interpretation of Призраки I have come across is that by 
Gerhard Dudek (1982), who argues that at the heart of this work is a polemic both against 
the „art for art‟s sake‟ doctrine proclaimed by such critics as Druzhinin and against 
Chernyshevskii‟s condescending view of art as a surrogate of reality. Citing Turgenev‟s 
important letter of 1856 to Druzhinin, in which he defended the legitimacy of both Pushkin 
and Gogol‟‟s approaches to Russian life—„Стремление к беспристрастию и к Истине 
всецелой есть одно из немногих добрых качеств, за которые я благодарен природе, 
давшей мне их‟—198 Dudek emphasizes that for Turgenev it was essential to combine the 
subjective-ideal with the objective-real in order to arrive at a truthful work of art. Although 
Ellis in Призраки wasn‟t consciously conceived by Turgenev as his Muse, it is very likely 
that she represents some of his aesthetic principles. Thus, according to Dudek (1982:536), 
the narrator‟s flights with Ellis, during which he sees all those wonderful and unpleasant 
                                               
197 Cf. Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, supplementary material for §§1-7. 
198 Letter of 30 October/11 November 1856 (P III/30).  
95  
scenes, are akin to those moments of inspiration, during which alone the artist is able to 
rise above mundane reality, as in Pushkin‟s famous poem „Поэт‟ (1827). Otherwise the 
artist/poet is the most ordinary of people, as is quite clear in the case of the narrator of 
Призраки. Dudek sees Ellis‟s gradual transformation into a woman of flesh and blood as 
symbolical of the creation of a work of art, and suggests that as a spirit she had represented 
that imaginative element in artistic creation which Turgenev sought to uphold against 
Chernyshevskii‟s view of art as a mere imitation of reality (539). Not for nothing did 
Dostoevskii welcome Turgenev‟s story as a brave defence of „poetic truth‟.199 The fact that 
Ellis also transports the narrator to unpleasant scenes, such as the revolt of Stenka Razin or 
modern Paris and St Petersburg, reflects, as Dudek argues (541), Turgenev‟s conviction 
that the artist must, like Gogol‟, also confront the negative aspects of reality. 
 Dudek quite rightly cites Pushkin‟s poem „Поэт‟. There is no need whatsoever to 
invoke Schopenhauer‟s view of the artist as someone endowed with the ability to give 
immediately recognizable form to ideas and ultimately to the essence of the world, which 
for Schopenhauer is, of course, the suffering caused by the selfish will.
200
 McLaughlin 
contends that Ellis allows the narrator to recognize „das Wesen der Welt‟ (1984:119-20) 
and that Turgenev himself as an artist also revealed this essence. This, however, is 
questionable. When writing his works Turgenev wasn‟t concerned with giving form to 
ideas, let alone the „essence of the world‟. In a letter of 1869 he emphasized: „Я в теченье 
моей сочинительской карьеры никогда не отправлялся от идей, а всегда от 
образов‟.201 Freeborn, too, stresses that Turgenev always „started from images‟ and relied 
on „living experience‟ (1960:184). Readers and critics may certainly try to glean ideas 
from literary works—and that is what Schopenhauer also did, though predictably only 
picking those ideas that suited his preconceived notion of the world (hence his preference 
for tragedies). However, it is quite demeaning to treat artists, as Schopenhauer does, as if 
their function were merely that of serving as oracles for Platonic ideas about life and the 
world. As we have seen, Turgenev liked to endow his characters with the traits of people 
who were dear to him—such as Belinskii in the case of Bazarov and his father—or whom 
he had fleetingly known—such as the heroine of Странная история.   
 Призраки itself, for all its fantastic content, drew on „living experience‟ in the 
sense that many of the scenes are known to have been based on dreams or memories from 
                                               
199 See his letter to Turgenev, 23 December 1863 (1972-90:XXVIII2/61). 
200 Cf. Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, §37f. 
201 Letter to Polonskii, 27 February/11 March 1869 (P VII/328). 
96  
Turgenev‟s youth. Now, to return to that scene which was inspired by Schopenhauer‟s 
image of the Earth‟s „mouldy‟ crust, and in which the narrator was overcome by disgust 
with the world and with himself. He even admits that he felt no pity for his fellow-men. As 
Dudek has stressed, the narrator here reaches „eine Haltung, die im diametralen Gegensatz 
zur gesamten russischen Literatur stand, in der das Mitleid mit den Menschen oberstes 
Prinzip war‟ (1982:543). That is why Ellis, in whom it is certainly legitimate to see a 
figurehead of Turgenev‟s aesthetics, admonishes him to abandon these pessimistic 
thoughts. It is a warning that inspiration will elude the Russian artist if he forsakes 
compassion and adopts an anti-humanistic stance.
202
 
The fact that Ellis dies after the following scene, which presents an apocalyptic 
vision of death as a ghastly reptile (comparable to Ippolit‟s hallucination in Dostoevskii‟s 
Идиот), is very significant. As is the narrator‟s shock when he awakens and sees her 
almost lifeless body lying in the grass: „Разве она не бессмертна? Разве и она обретена 
ничтожеству, разрушению? как это возможно?‟ (IX/108). Dudek points out (1982:539) 
that Ellis must have represented a principle which Turgenev had hitherto held to be 
immortal, and that in view of the almost simultaneous laments in Довольно (see VI.4) 
about the transience even of art, as well as the symbolism of Ellis‟s gradually becoming a 
real woman, this principle is clearly art. However, as Dudek so rightly stresses (543), the 
death of Ellis is not Turgenev‟s last word, for in his Pushkin speech of 1880 he would re-
affirm his faith in the immortality of art. Indeed, it is a faith which he professed all his life, 
as he wrote in an early letter to Pauline Viardot: „Le Beau est la seule chose qui [est] 
immortelle […] Le Beau est répandu par tout, il s‟étend même jusque sur la mort‟.203 The 
great Romantic poet Keats memorably expressed the same faith: 
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:  
Its loveliness increases; it will never 
Pass into nothingness.         
It‟s difficult to say what exactly caused Turgenev to have doubts about the immortality of 
art in the early 1860s—perhaps it was Mme Viardot‟s retirement from the stage and the 
thought that audiences would soon forget her—but reading Schopenhauer cannot have 
unsettled him. The fact that he borrowed that image of the „mouldy‟ Earth from his book 
                                               
202 McLaughlin (1984:119-20) also sees in Ellis‟s words a warning that artists must feel compassion, but 
unlike Dudek (whom she cites only partially), she interprets everything in Schopenhauerian metaphysical 
terms without linking Turgenev to the Russian literary tradition. 
203 Letter of 31 August 1850 (P I/389). 
97  
and used it as a warning against misanthropic tendencies suggests quite clearly what he 
thought of Schopenhauer and also why it is so perverse to see in the latter a kindred spirit 
to Turgenev, one of the most life-affirming of Russian writers.
204
  
Neither Schopenhauer‟s philosophy of life nor his aesthetics, as noted earlier, can 
do justice to Turgenev‟s works or what he was seeking to achieve as an artist. This is 
above all because Schopenhauer was essentially a systematist who tried to reduce the 
complexity of life to one or two basic formulae. 
A few years before his protest over Tolstoi‟s hostility against reason in Война и 
мир, Turgenev had waged a similar polemic against Fet, who believed that artists had to 
create unconsciously. Although Turgenev did agree that the unfathomable depths of the 
artist‟s inner world were part of the creative process—as we can appreciate in Фауст and 
other works—he took issue with Fet‟s exaltation of „unconscious creativity‟ precisely 
because of its one-sided nature:    
Это между нами—нескончаемый спор: я говорю, что художество такое великое дело, 
что целого человека едва на него хватает—со всеми его способностями, между 
прочим и с умом;—Вы поражаете ум остракизмом—и видите в произведениях 
художества—только бессознательный лепет спящего. Это воззрение я должен 
назвать славянофиьским—ибо оно носит на себе характер этой школы: «Здесь всѐ 
чѐрно—а там всѐ бело»—«правда вся сидит на одной стороне»...
205
    
Here Turgenev was carrying on the legacy of Belinskii, who had so often stressed that 
writers had to use all their faculties, including their intelligence. As Batiuto has noted  
(1990:84-85), that is why Turgenev wrote those overtly polemic pages in Дым: 
tendentiousness and satire were sometimes required to make people think about important 
issues.  
At the same time, when accused by Fet of having been tendentious in Отцы и 
дети—that is, of having deliberately made Bazarov superior to all the other characters—
Turgenev insisted that at the time of writing his feelings about Bazarov had not been clear: 
„я не знаю, люблю ли я его или ненавижу!‟ and that he had portrayed Bazarov and all 
the other figures just like a painter would: „я все эти лица рисовал, как бы я рисовал 
                                               
204 This is unfortunately one of the conclusions advanced by Galina Time in her otherwise stimulating study 
of Turgenev‟s reception of German philosophy (1997:126).  
205 Letter to Fet, 23 January/4 February 1862 (P IV/330).             
98  
грибы, листья, деревья‟. This concern for „истина прежде всего‟,206 as he put it in this 
letter, is Turgenev‟s most important aesthetic principle. 
It is something that he picked up from Pushkin. As Annenkov observed, even 
Turgenev‟s first works were distinguished by „та внутренняя правда мысли и 
ощущения, которой он научился у Пушкина‟ (1960:382). Turgenev himself was the 
first to acknowledge this. In a letter he described Pushkin as „мой идол, мой учитель, мой 
недосягаемый образец‟,207 and in his speech of 1880 he emphasized how everyone who 
read the great poet became his pupil. 
   
                                               
206 Letter to Fet, 6/18 April 1862 (P IV/370-71). 
207 Letter to Stasiulevich, 15/27 March 1874 (P X/213). 
     
     
 
   
 
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  Plate IA A Girl with a Broom (1651) by Rembrandt 
   Illustration courtesy of Olga’s Gallery (www.abcgallery.com)   
Turgenev spoke enthusiastically of this painting in 1879: ‘Какая сила жизни в этом лице! 
Да вот это мастерство: суметь закрепить её на полотне. Это лучше всяких мадонн’ 
(VT (1983): II/334), and in an interview for a French newspaper in 1869 he said that 
Rembrandt was his favourite painter. 
 
 
  
 
 
Plate IB A Milkmaid (1820s) by Aleksei Venetsianov 
 Oil on canvas, 31.5 x 24.5  
Illustration taken from Gosudarstvennyi Russkii Muzei (Gos. izd. izobr. iskusstva: Moscow, 1954)  
            Plate 2A Brutus (1540) by Michelangelo. Marble, height 95 cm. 
    Illustration courtesy of Olga’s Gallery (www.abcgallery.com) 
 
 
 
 
Plate 2B Victor Hugo (1842) by David d’Angers 
Original plaster, height 67 cm. 
Illustration courtesy of the Courtauld Institute of 
Art (www.artandarchitecture.org.uk/) 
 
 
 
 
Plate 2C Victor Hugo (1832) by Jean-Pierre 
Dantan. Plaster, height 17cm. 
Illustration courtesy of the Web Gallery of Art 
(www.wga.hu/) 
   
 Plate 3A The Last Day of Pompeii (1833) by Karl Briullov 
Oil on canvas, 456.5 x 651 
 Illustration courtesy of Olga’s Gallery (www.abcgallery.com) 
 
 
 
 
 
Plate 3B The Appearance of Christ to the People (1855) by Aleksandr Ivanov 
 Oil on canvas, 172 x 247 
 Illustration courtesy of Olga’s Gallery (www.abcgallery.com)   
 Plate 4A Boat-Haulers on the Volga (1873) by Il’ia Repin 
 Oil on canvas, 131.5 x 281 
 Illustration courtesy of Olga’s Gallery (www.abcgallery.com) 
 
 
 
 
 
Plate 4B Forgotten (1874) by Vasilii Vereshchagin 
 Illustration taken from http://vystavka.pp.net.ua/ 
 
This sketch is all that has survived of Vereshchagin’s painting, which he decided to burn in 
despair at the accusations of ‘клевета на русское воинство’ that were levelled at him by 
various generals. The painting inspired one of Musorgskii’s songs.   
 Plate 5 Portrait of the Composer M. P. Musorgskii (1881) by I. Repin 
Oil on canvas, 69 x 57 
 Illustration courtesy of Olga’s Gallery (www.abcgallery.com) 
99  
CHAPTER IV 
 
THE QUEST FOR ORIGINALITY 
 
Introduction 
During their conversation at the beginning of Накануне, Shubin unburdens himself 
to Bersenev about his sense of being but a mere epigone when compared to the artists of 
Ancient Greece: ŘИм [древним] весь мир принадлежал; нам так широко 
распространяться не приходится: коротки рукиř (VIII/9). Of course, what we are told 
about the sculptor later on in the novel suggests that he hasnřt allowed this sense of 
inferiority to paralyze his creative impulses. Shubinřs self-irony is always devoid of that 
bitterness with which Veretřev, in Затишье, argues that there is nothing new left to create 
and first cultivates his Řбольшой талант к подражаниюř (VI/115), revelling as it were in 
his own unoriginality, before descending into apathy and drink. With Shubin, rather, 
conscience of being an unworthy epigone reflects the true artistřs modesty. Turgenev 
himself expressed this feeling on many occasionsŕperhaps most eloquently in a letter of 
1880 to Pauline Viardot, in which he described his awe at seeing the recently unearthed 
friezes of the Pergamon Altar in Berlin: 
Jřai vu, de mes yeux vu, les immortels, les divins, les incomparables fragments des hauts-
reliefs colossaux de Pergame, représentant la guerre des Dieux et des géants […] Cřest le 
triomphe de la Grèce, de la lumière, de la beauté, sur les forces violentes et sombres […] 
Ah! il nřy a que les Grecs et nous sommes tous des épigones.208 
If we go from the field of sculpture to that of literature, it is clear that Turgenev 
readily acknowledged his insignificance before the great writers of the past. Commenting 
on the first separate edition of Записки охотника (1852), Turgenev observed that his 
stories had some merits, but immediately added: 
До полноты созданья всѐ это ещѐ далеко, и стоит прочесть какого-нибудь мастера, у 
которого кисть свободно и быстро ходила в руке, чтобы понять, какой наш брат 
маленький, маленький человечек.209        
The master he was referring to in this letter was Molière, but more often than not it was 
Pushkin, his paragon and Řteacherř in the realm of Russian literature. More generally, 
though, it was again the Ancients whose mastery of form and subject he found impossible 
                                               
208 Letter of 26 January/7 February 1880 (LI:214).    
209 Letter to Annenkov, 14 September 1852 (P II/64-65). 
100  
to match. He realized this, for example, when writing Певцы: Řmes chanteurs me faisaient 
penser à Homère. Je nřy ai plus pensé dans la suiteŕcar la plume me serait tombée des 
mainsř.210 Nevertheless, despite this confession of his inadequacy (which it would be 
wrong to interpret as false modesty in someone as honest as Turgenev), the fact is that it 
didnřt stop him from taking up his quill again and again, after periods of dejection (such as 
that described in Довольноŕsee VI.4) and inactivity. Nor did it stop him from producing 
works which were recognized as truly original both by Russians and Western Europeansŕ
in particular, Записки охотника, one of which led George Sand to exclaim in 1874: ŘTous 
nous devons aller à lřécole chez vousř.211 
 One reason for this courage in venturing to create new works of art, in spite of all 
that had been achieved already over several millennia of European culture, was a certain 
rebellious streak in Turgenevřs character which caused him to sympathize with the most 
famous of the Titans who defied the Gods: with Prometheus! Indeed, the myth of 
Prometheus cannot but appeal to any artist who is trying to break free from the hold of the 
past and create his own world (just as the Titan formed and gave life to his clay images). 
This is how Goethe interpreted it in his famously defiant poem Prometheus, which 
Turgenev once recited in an impromptu French translation during a meal in Flaubertřs 
house in 1875.
212
 Almost thirty years earlier, in a letter to Pauline Viardot, Turgenev had 
praised the grandeur of Calderónřs plays, with their annihilation of the individual before 
the divine Will, but hastened to add: ŘCependant, je préfère Prométhée, je préfère Satan, le 
type de la révolte et de lřindividualitéř.213  
More generally, Prometheus for Turgenev was a symbol of artistic vitality, which 
was essential to make a work both original and lasting. Thus, in that essay on Russian 
literature which he wrote for a Parisian journal in 1845, he observed how, apart from 
Gogolř, almost all contemporary Russian writers lacked Řcette inspiration vive et profonde 
qui anime les œuvres comme le flambeau de Promethéeř (XII*/506).214 Itřs therefore 
significant that Turgenev made Shubin a sculptor. Even if the name of Prometheus isnřt 
mentioned explicitly in Накануне, this mythical prototype of the creative artistŕand one 
who is effectively a sculptorŕinforms Turgenevřs attempt to explore, in Shubin, the 
                                               
210 Letter to Pauline Viardot, 26 October 1850 (LI:42).  
211 Turgenev cited George Sandřs praise in his letter to Annenkov of 4/16 April 1874 (P X/225).     
212 VT (1983):II/268.     
213 Letter of 7/19 December 1847 (P I/279).  
214 Turgenev was referring to such poetasters as Kukolřnik and Gedeonov, whose pseudo-historical plays he 
sharply criticized elsewhere. The first works of Dostoevskii, Goncharov, and Grigorovich had not yet 
appeared in 1845.        
101  
qualities he felt a Russian artist needed to overcome all adversities. Not unlike Prometheus, 
Shubinřs fate also turns out to be quite tragic, but what matters in the end are his real 
achievements.                    
 Now, a clear Promethean trait in Shubin is his irreverence for authorities, be they 
the Academy of Fine Arts or Elenařs fatherŕsomething that, again, he shares with 
Bazarovŕbut it is essential to stress that he isnřt at all like those Řhome-grown geniusesř 
(Řсамородкиř) whom Potugin will later castigate so severely in Дым. Shubin refuses to 
have anything to do with the Academy not because he rejects the great masters or the 
value, so important for Turgenev, of historical continuity in art.
215
 On the contrary, he is 
well-versed in the canon of classical and Renaissance sculpture: the important association 
he makes between Insarov and Michelangelořs bust of Brutus, and from there to Brutus in 
Julius Caesar, was discussed in section II.5. Shubinřs anti-academicism and vivid interest 
in real life and peopleŕeven peasantsŕare, rather, tokens of a positive originality, very 
much in the spirit of Russiařs most progressive artists in the first half of the nineteenth 
century, such as Venetsianov (see Plate 1B) and Turgenev himself. 
Never does Shubin deny the cultural heritage to which Western Europe had so far 
been the predominant contributor, and to which he and other Russian artists could only 
hope to add something of lasting value if they learnt from (as opposed to imitating) the 
great European masters. For Prometheus was ultimately not just a rebel in Turgenevřs 
eyes, but also a Řсимвол прогрессирующей цивилизацииř.216 Those Russians who 
rejected this in the name of some ill-defined autochthonous originality were, as Turgenev 
saw it, doomed to failure. But at the same time he sympathized with them to some extent 
because the Řquest for originalityř was one of the most pressing concerns of the Russian 
educated classes. 
 
IV.1 Russia’s complicated sense of inferiority 
The problem of originality is one of the main themes of Russian literature in the 
nineteenth centuryŕfrom Горе от ума, in which Chatskii laments precisely the lack of 
anything original in Moscow society, and wishes Řчтоб истребил Господь нечистый дух 
/ Пустого, рабского, слепого подражанияř (Griboedov 1951:103); through Евгений 
Онегин and Герой нашего времени; and on to the works of Dostoevskii and Turgenev.  
                                               
215 See Seeley 1991:287 for an excellent discussion of how Turgenev himself exemplified this notion in the 
frequent use he made of themes and figures from world literature.  
216 As N. Khalřfina argues in Egorov 2001:221.    
102  
Despite being a self-avowed Westernist, Turgenev was deeply concerned about the 
way in which Russia could finally attain true originality and be accepted by her European 
sister-nations as their equal. As he stressed in his reminiscences of Belinskii, his 
Westernism, like that of his unforgettable friend and mentor, sprang not merely from a firm 
belief in the Řпревосходство западной науки, западного искусства [и] западного 
общественного строяř, but because: 
Принимать результаты западной жизни, принимать их к нашей, соображаясь с 
особенностями породы, истории, климатаŕвпрочем, относиться и к ним свободно, 
критическиŕвот каким образом могли мы, по его [Белинского] понятию, достигнуть 
наконец самобытности, которою он дорожил гораздо более, чем обыкновенно 
предполагают... (XIV/42)          
The much-maligned Potugin shared all these convictions of Belinskiiřs, as Askolřd 
Muratov has pointed out (1972:83).  
Of course, this problem wasnřt a uniquely nineteenth-century one. In the wake of 
the Petrine reforms many Russians had begun to think about their countryřs position with 
regard to Western Europe. Lomonosov, for example, in one of his odes commemorating 
the accession of Elizaveta Petrovna to the throne, famously expressed the hope that, with 
the help of her Imperial patronage, the Russians would prove to the rest of Europe ŘЧто 
может собственных Платонов / И быстрых разумом Невтонов / Российская земля 
раждатьř.217 It was, however, in the early nineteenth century that the urgency of this 
problem became so acute in the eyes of educated Russians as to polarize society into two 
camps, each offering its particular Řsolutionř to what Chaadaev, in his first Lettre 
philosophique (1836), had correctly diagnosed as Russiařs backwardness.  
This was a very sore point especially where art was concerned, and in this respect 
there developed a certain ambivalence towards Europe that April FitzLyon describes as 
follows when discussing Pauline Viardotřs first season in St Petersburg with the Italian 
Opera company (1843/44): 
Visitors from Western Europe found the Russians not only eager to learn, but also 
painfully conscious of their backwardness, both political and cultural, as compared to other 
nations. This consciousness was coupled with a certain touchinessŕthe touchiness of a 
precocious and gifted adolescent, misunderstood, aggressive, yet lacking self-confidence 
[…] The Russians were aware that their literature, music and art were in their infancy, yet 
                                               
217 Lomonosovřs ode is included in Drage & Vickery 1969:71. 
103  
they were proud of what they had already achieved, irritated by Western ignorance about 
Russia, and anxious to make a good impression on foreigners. (1964:145) 
Turgenev himself was faced with such ŘWestern ignoranceř during his meeting with 
Thackeray in London, in 1858. Though it was just a few years after the Crimean War, 
Turgenev didnřt consider it humiliating to call on an English author whose works he liked, 
but he was upset when Thackeray refused to believe that Russia had a literature of her own 
and even burst out laughing when Turgenev started reciting to him, in Russian, a poem by 
Pushkin (see Waddington 1980:53-55). In that respect Carlyle, who admired German 
literature and was deeply moved by Turgenevřs Муму when he read it in French, was 
much less insular than Thackeray.   
As for the Russiansř ambivalence, this expressed itself, for example, in the way that 
despite the doctrine of Official Nationality, which had seemingly found its musical 
apotheosis in Glinkařs Жизнь за царя (1836),218 the St Petersburg public flocked to see 
and hear Pauline Viardot and her Italian colleagues in an unprecedented wave of 
enthusiasm (Řиталиянобесиеř, as contemporaries called it), with Nicholas I applauding 
frenetically from the imperial balcony during her performances (FitzLyon 1964:150, 180). 
Whether this was due to a growing refinement of musical taste in Russian society as a 
whole is doubtful. Prince Odoevskii, one of the finest musical critics of the time, was 
probably not wide of the mark when, in an 1843 article on Glinkařs Руслан и Людмила 
(1842), he observed that many of Russiařs so-called music-lovers rushed to performances 
of the Italian Opera with star soloists not because they were interested in the music itself 
but because of their sense of inferiority vis-à-vis Europe: ŘКак же иначе! Не равно нас 
примут в Европе за варваров!ř (1956:208). This is echoed by Shubinřs ironic lament to 
the waters of the Moscow River: ŘМы не греки, о нимфа! Мы толстокожие скифыř 
(VIII/16). That is how Russians often feared they were perceived by foreigners. 
The other aspect of this ambivalenceŕthat of smouldering national prideŕcame to 
the fore in the way the St Petersburg audiences raised their enthusiasm even further still 
after Pauline Viardot, who had been taking Russian lessons with Turgenev, started singing 
romances by Glinka as encores at her recitals. She was instantly fêted by the Russians as 
Řнаша примадоннаř (FitzLyon 1964:151)!  
                                               
218 Nicholas I decreed that Жизнь за царя was to open each new opera season at the Imperial theatres 
(Gasparov 2005:24).    
104  
 With the higher aristocracy, despite its formal obeisance to Official Nationality, it 
was, however, preference for all things European which clearly predominated, and this had 
repercussions on the fate of Russian artists because the latter (that is, painters, sculptors, 
and musiciansŕwriters far less so) were largely dependent on aristocratic patrons for their 
success. Glinka, for instance, had gone to Europe in 1830 not just to study musical theory 
but because he knew that he had no chance of being accepted as a composer by Russian 
high society unless he returned with some form of European Řaccreditationř. Even after he 
had composed his two great operas, and was planning to perform some excerpts from them 
at a concert in Paris, in April 1845 (which turned out to be quite successful, in fact) some 
of his illustrious compatriots had ridiculed the idea: Řпри отъезде из Петербурга [мне 
говорили]: «ты не осмелишься с твоею музыкою вступить в Париж на поприще 
артиста, потому что там тебя охают»ř.219 The more modest success of Руслан и 
Людмила in Russia Ŕ which, unlike the earlier opera, had little to commend it from the 
point of view of Official Nationalityŕwas in no small measure due to the inability of these 
aristocratic Řmusic-loversř to appreciate the originality of Руслан and their preference for 
the familiar, mellifluous Italian repertoire. In his article of 1843, Odoevskii noted how 
Glinka, drawing inspiration from Russian folksong, had succeeded in creating a new 
musical idiom, but unfortunately it was still the case that: 
Многие сомневаются в существовании народной музыки […] Это сомнение 
происходит оттого, что мы не можем смотреть на все предметы нас окружающие 
иначе, как сквозь западные очки. (1956:209)      
 This Western orientation of the Russian aristocracy in matters of taste, even in the 
heyday of Official Nationality, was something that Russian artists had to reckon with 
during most of the nineteenth century. Not only in music, but even in literature, too, 
although in that field the broader make-up of the reading public ensured that writers didnřt 
have to pander to the tastes of the aristocracy in order to survive. Nevertheless, in 
Выбранные места из переписки Gogolř had observed that Russian poetry couldnřt be 
appreciated properly by most readers because they had been brought up on foreign models 
and ideas (1994:VI/179-80). With sculpture and painting the situation was almost as bad as 
with music, as far as the likelihood of creating something originally Russian was 
concerned. For the need to spend a number of years in Europe, winning oneřs spurs there 
(as Briullov had done with Последний день Помпея, which was exhibited in Rome and 
                                               
219 From a letter which Glinka sent to his family from Paris in 1845 (Livanova & Protopopov 1955:16).   
105  
Paris) before returning to Russia, inevitably meant that young artists were weaned away 
from Russian topics and themes. Thus, Aleksandr Ivanov lamented himself that 
Со времени Брюллова исторические живописцы приняли за необходимость уже 
являться из Рима в отечество с чем-нибудь значительным, отэкзаменованным в 
чужих краях: с этим только аттестатом можно у нас найтиться и поставить себя на 
ноги.220                     
One of the reasons why Turgenev felt such sympathy for Ivanov and praised him as a 
Řзамечательный, оригинальный, умный, правдивый и мыслящий человекř,221 despite 
his reservations about Явление Христа народу, was obviously this painterřs courage in 
eschewing the ususal route of professional advancement (leading to an appointment at the 
Academy) and his willingness to endure poverty, so as to dedicate himself entirely to the 
realization of his ideal.       
 It was, however, in music that the career of a creative artist, at least until the late 
1860s, was most encumbered by the Russian aristocracyřs indiscriminate preference for 
everything European. Thus, the permanent Italian Opera in St Petersburg received much 
more State funding than the Russian Opera (which, paradoxically, had very few operas by 
Russian composers on its repertoire: its function was mainly the staging of Italian operas 
sung in Russian).
222
 Apart from that, a Theatre Regulation approved by Nicholas I in 1827 
limited the total earnings which a Russian composer could make by selling an opera to the 
Imperial Theatres Directorate to just 3,000 rubles; whereas no such restrictions applied to 
foreign artists. To facilitate comparison: Nicholas I was prepared to give 30,000 rubles on 
the spot to Pauline Viardot, so that she would promise to return to Russia for the following 
season! This humiliating regulation, which was not revoked until 1871 (thanks to a 
vigorous press campaign by Stasov and Cui), made the situation very dire indeed for 
anyone seeking to create, and have performed, Russian music in Russia. As Yuri 
Olkhovsky (1983:85) observes: 
The 1827 discriminatory regulations discouraged Russian composers and performances by 
limiting their financial rewards. In addition, foreigners enjoyed automatic preference as 
music teachers. Third, Russian compositions were not encouraged by the official Theatre 
Directorate or the private concert societies.             
                                               
220 Quoted in Mashkovtsev 1961:207. 
221 Letter to Annenkov, 31 October/12 November 1857 (P III/160-61). 
222 Olkhovsky 1983:52-56. 
106  
Turgenev was certainly aware of this situation because of his friendship with the 
composer Vladimir Kashperov, who, like Glinka, had gone to Berlin to study musical 
theory, and who in 1859 achieved a modest success in Milan with his opera Maria Tudor. 
Kashperov, however, didnřt live up to the hopes that Turgenev placed on himŕnamely, 
that he would return to Russia and become Glinkařs heir: Řсделайтесь наследником 
Глинки, подарите нам живую русскую оперу!ř223 Kashperov did return to Russia in 
1866 and went on to write operas on such Russian subjects as Ostrovskiiřs Гроза 
(premièred in 1867) and Gogolřřs Тарас Бульба (in 1887), but these have been wholly 
forgotten today.  
Still, it is relevant to our topic that Kashperov, too, suffered the usual predicament 
of the Russian composer who was always uncertain as to whether he could make any 
headway professionally in Russia. Moreover, he knew that it was folly to return to Russia 
and hope to establish himself as a composer there without having obtained the European 
Řaccreditationř that even Glinka, an artist of genius, had needed. Thus, in a letter he sent to 
Turgenev in 1865 from Italy, he discussed various possible Russian subjects for a libretto, 
and added: 
Видите, как меня тянет русская музыка […] К чему меня поведѐт продолжение 
карьеры итальянского композитора? Лишь для того, чтобы показаться придворным 
русским показистее?ŕНеужели без этого в самом деле нельзя обойтись?... Кажется, 
что нет,ŕне только для того, чтобы дороже ценили ваш труд в России, но даже и для 
того, чтобы значить что-либо в общественном мнении.224             
The appreciation that Kashperov refers to here was more of a financial nature, since in the 
same letter he mentions that in order to be able to maintain himself and his family in 
Moscow, he would need an annual income of at least 1,500 rubles, which, he hastens to 
add, it was impossible to obtain by composing operas alone (because of that 1827 
regulation), meaning that it was necessary to find extra work by giving music lessons and 
publishing romances. But it is with bitter irony that he then asks Turgenev:  
Вы Москву знаете, можно ли там трудом музыканта выработать эти 1500? Настолько 
ли они в самом деле люди, что у них уже имеется потребность этого рода 
эстетических наслаждений?225 
                                               
223 Letter of 17 December 1859 (P III/389). 
224 Quoted in Golovanova 1964:403.  
225 Golovanova 1964:404. Despite his misgivings, Kashperov did manage to secure a teaching post at the 
Moscow Conservatory.   
107  
The origins of that sceptical comment Turgenev made to Polonskii in 1881 about the state 
of music in Russia (see I.3) lay clearly in such first-hand evidence of how modest a 
Russian composerřs hopes of success in his home country were. Even Serov, a man of 
greater character and talent, had forced himself to swallow his contempt for Italian music 
and wrote his first opera, Юдиф (1863), in keeping with the Italian style (even originally 
using an Italian libretto!), so as to be sure of success both with the fickle theatre-goers of St 
Petersburg and those of other European capitals, since, like Kashperov, he too reasoned 
that European fame was essential in order to gain acceptance as a composer in Russian 
society.
226
 
 Not surprisingly, Russian writers, who thanks to the wide circulation of literary 
journals had the opportunity to reach a much less socially exclusive public, and who were 
themselves mostly drawn from the lower ranks of the gentry, saw a rich mine for satire in 
the aristocracyřs blind veneration of everything European, especially in the artistic sphere. 
Griboedov and Pushkin had been among the first to poke fun at such aristocratic foibles, 
but of greater relevance to our topic is, again, Gogolřřs Портрет (in the 1842 version). In 
one characteristic scene from this story, the painter Chartkov (before his uncanny 
transformation into a fashionable artist and professor of the Academy) tries to pay the rent 
for his garret by offering his landlord any one of his paintings. The latter, however, refuses: 
Нет, батюшка, за картины спасибо. Добро бы были картины с благородным 
содержанием, чтобы можно было за стену повесить, хоть какой-нибудь генерал со 
звездой или князя Кутузова портрет, а то вон мужика нарисовал, мужика в рубахе. 
(1952-53:III/86)     
A bit later, an aristocratic lady who comes to Chartkovřs atélier, to commission a portrait 
of her daughter, seems to show greater sympathy for the realistic subjects that Chartkov 
had been sketching, albeit largely because of their novelty: ŘCřest charmant! А вот на 
другом холсте женщина, моющая лицо,ŕquelle jolie figure! Ах, мужичок! Lise, Lise, 
мужичок в русской рубашке! смотри: мужичок!ř (1952-53:III/92). And yet any hopes 
that this lady and her daughter might be gradually arriving at an appreciation of the school 
of genre painting initiated by Venetsianov are soon dashed after we see her insisting to 
Chartkov that Liseřs portrait had to look exactly like those she had seen in Italy! 
                                               
226 Cf. Taruskin 1993:45. It was only after his idols Wagner and Liszt expressed their disapproval for Юдиф 
that Serov started work on a Russian subject: Рогнеда (also premièred in 1863), the unexpected success of 
which secured him a life pension of 1,000 rubles from Alexander II, and thus made him Řthe first musician 
ever to be so honoured in Russia, and the first creative artist since Gogolřř (Taruskin 1993:79), but also 
guaranteed him the hostility of the Mighty Handful (125).     
108  
With Turgenev the situation is, in fact, more complex still: though not a satirist by 
nature, he couldnřt either resist the temptation of ridiculing the aristocracyřs urge to keep 
up with Europe at all costs, so as not to be taken for Řbarbariansř. For this slavish 
adherence to European fashions meant that they couldnřt really be effective protectors of 
the arts in Russia, as some of them liked to think themselves, in accordance with the 
patriotic mood of those years. Thus, in the huntsmanřs sketch Татьяна Борисовна и еѐ 
племянник, the lazy Andriusha is taken under his wing by Benevolenskii, a self-styled 
Maecenas of the Russian arts and Řстрашный патриотř. This typical Řвельможаř of the 
reign of Nicholas I gathers painters, poets, and singers in his house, since, as the narrator 
wrily remarks: 
У нас уже так на Руси заведено: одному искусству человек предаваться не можетŕ
подавай ему все. И потому нисколько не удивительно, что эти господа-любители 
также оказывают сильное покровительство русской литературе. (IV/207)             
For all the praiseworthy intentions such aristocrats may have had in sponsoring Russian 
artists, it seems likely that they caused more harm than good by forcing these artists to 
purvey works which conformed to the familiar European canon. That they had no idea of 
native Russian art is certainly suggested by the narratorřs observations about how patrons 
like Benevolenskii would rush from one exhibition to the other, with some famous name 
like Raphael or Correggio constantly on their lips, and exclaiming: Řна юг бы нам, на 
юг!... ведь мы с тобою греки душою, древние греки!ř (IV/207). 
It was precisely such enthusiasts of Řпатентованные произведения искусстваř 
that Chernyshevskii was to mock in his 1855 dissertation (1939-50:II/75). Even two 
decades later, the situation hadnřt improved much, as far as the aristocracy was concerned, 
for in Анна Каренина we find Count Vronskii, another self-styled patron of the arts, 
treating his humble compatriot Mikhailov with condescension and showing a marked 
preference for the pre-Raphaelite art that was then so in vogue in Europe. In Накануне, 
Shubin, too, suffers his share from the capricious tastes of the Russian aristocracy. In the 
epilogue we are told of the statue of a Bacchante he had sculpted after settling in Rome:                 
Русский граф Бобошкин, известный богач, собирался было купить еѐ [Вакханку] за 
1000 скуди, но предпочѐл дать 3000 другому ваятелю, французу pur sang, за группу, 
изображавшую «Молодую поселянку, умирающую от любви на груди Гения Весны» 
(VIII/167) 
109  
The ambivalence referred to at the outset of this sectionŕthat is, the Russian 
educated classesř admiration for the Western European cultural heritage and at the same 
time their urge to break free from it and create something originalŕwas very much a part 
of Turgenevřs psyche. Thus, in Ася the young Řheroř, in whom it isnřt difficult to discern 
autobiographical traits, at first finds no other way of ordering his initial impressions of 
Gaginřs sister than by comparing her to Galatea as portrayed by Raphael: a painting he had 
recently seen in the Villa Farnese. The following day, however, she reminds him of a 
simple peasant girl like those he had seen when growing up on his family estate. These 
contradictions, which Asya herself also suffers from because her peasant blood rebels 
against the gentry education she had received, are characteristic of the Russian nobility as 
such, and they made it quite difficult for the artists who emerged from its midst to have the 
courage to go their own way. 
The fact that Turgenev frequently included allusions to great works of European art 
in his stories and novelsŕsomething that Dostoevskii cruelly parodied in the figure of 
Karmazinov in Бесыŕcreated the false impression that he was entirely in thrall to these 
and unable to appreciate anything originally Russian. And in many memoirs about him, 
despite the general affection in which he was held by contemporaries, we find unfair 
comments about his deference to established European Řauthoritiesř. Thus, Repin, for 
example, writing in 1928, recalled that Turgenev always agreed with Louis Viardot in his 
opinions on painting, and that ŘУважать авторитетыŕэто было в нѐм ещѐ 
университетская традицияř!227 
Vladimir Stasov, who wrote some very valuable recollections of Turgenev (his 
perennial antagonist in almost all questions of art) claimed that the great novelist, in his 
musical tastes, had stood still in his reverence for Gluck, Mozart, and Beethoven, and had 
therefore been unable to appreciate the Řnew Russian schoolř of musicŕa very unfair 
conclusion, as Abram Gozenpud (1994:91-92) has pointed out by referring to that 
remarkable letter of 1874 in which Turgenev discusses Musorgskii (see III.2). Stasov even 
went as far as to write, in an 1862 article on Ivanov, taking issue with Turgenevřs 
observations about the painter in Поездка в Альбано, that he was incapable of recognizing 
original Russian talent because he always took the Old Masters as his touchstone:  
                                               
227 Quoted in Nazarova 1967:403.  
110  
Какая [у Тургенева] печальная близорукость, какие жалкие плоды вкоренѐнных 
предрассудков и слепого фетишизма перед врытыми прочно «классическими 
авторитетами»! (1968:50)                          
The unfairness of these ironical comments by Stasov becomes clear if we bear in 
mind that despite his sincere admiration for the Sistine Madonna,
228
 Turgenev had been 
among the first to criticize Russian touristsř thoughtless veneration of Řfamousř art-works 
(XV/9-10). Like such antipodes in character and outlook as Chernyshevskii or Tolstoi, he 
too was reluctant to take any authorities for granted, as he emphasized in a letter of 1872 to 
Stasov: 
Почему Вы полагаете, что яŕне музыкант и не живописец, да, сверх того, уже и 
старый человек, которому всякая фальшь наскучила и который слушается только 
собственных впечатленийŕпочему Вы полагаете, что я заражѐн фетишизмом и 
преклоняюсь перед европейскими авторитетами? Да провались они совсем! Я 
восторгаюсь от глуковских речитативов и арий не потому, что авторитеты их 
хвалятŕа потому, что у меня от первых их звуков навѐртываются слѐзы...229        
Even Repin, despite his jibes at Turgenevřs deference to authorities, acknowledged that the 
writer had shown great sympathy for his work and that: ŘПо разносторонности своей 
натуры он [Тургенев] увлекался всем и был всегда независим в своих увлечениях и 
ценил новизнуř.230 And, indeed, there was nothing that Turgenev yearned for more than 
that there should appear Russian artistic and musical works which would captivate Western 
Europeans too by virtue of their originality, as he stressed in that same letter to Stasov: 
ŘНет, любезный Владимир Васильевич, родному художеству радоваться я буду 
первый!ř (P IX/285).  
However, although he might bring himself to say, in a private letter, that all 
authorities should Řпровалиться совсемř, Turgenev understood that it wasnřt so easy to 
free oneself completely from themŕnor was it even desirable as the excesses of the 
Slavophiles made clear to him. 
                                               
228 See his letter of 26 August 1878 to Claudie Viardot after a recent re-visiting of the Dresden gallery: ŘOn 
prétend que je suis un réaliste dans mes écrits et je le crois aussi et jřaime le réel dans lřart, le réel poetiqueŕ
c.à.d. tellement vrai quřil en devient beauŕmais jřavoue que lřidéalisme de cette… Madone me foudroieŕ 
cřest le motŕet je crois bien que cřest le dernier mot de lřArtř (LI:277). It is worth comparing this to what he 
would later say about Rembrandtřs Girl with a Broom (see the caption below Plate 1A).  
229 Letter of 14 June 1872 (P IX/285). 
230 Quoted in Nazarova 1967:404.  
111  
 
IV.2 The burden of authorities 
It is all too tempting, in the arts as in any other field, to claim originality by 
disparaging oneřs predecessors. The Russians, however, took this to an extreme which 
inevitably alarmed a convinced Westernist like Turgenev. When studying Kirsha Danilovřs 
collection of Russian byliny during his exile in Spasskoe, Turgenevřs attention was caught 
by the folk hero Vasřka Buslaev, who kicks aside a gigantic head which he comes across 
on one of his quests and which had tried to give him some advice. Soon afterwards Vasřka 
breaks his own neck when he tries to jump over a gigantic rock! For Turgenev, this was a 
perfect allegory of what the Slavophiles were doing with regard to the West, as he put it in 
a letter to Konstantin Aksakov: ŘМы обращаемся с Западом, как Васька Буслаев (в 
Кирше Данилове) с мѐртвой головойŕпобрасываем его ногойŕа сами...ř.231 
Even almost thirty years later Turgenev would still cite Vasřka Buslaev as a typical 
example of the Russian tendency to reject the counsel and authority of oneřs elders, that is, 
the other European nations, and described him as a Řв своѐм роде нигилистř.232 It will be 
remembered that in Отцы и дети, which did so much to popularize this word, Arkadii, for 
the benefit of his uncle, defines a nihilist as follows: ŘНигилистŕэто человек, который 
не склоняется ни перед какими авторитетами...ř (VIII/216). And it is certainly true that 
many Russian artists around the middle of the nineteenth century, both gifted and ungifted, 
behaved like nihilists in their attitude to the European masters. Thus, Potugin in Дым 
speaks indignantly of the Russian Řhome-grown geniusesř or Řrough diamondsř 
(самородки) who, like the Slavophiles and the folk hero Vasřka Buslaev, were Řвеликие 
охотники пихать ногою всякие мѐртвые головы да гнилые народыř (IX/312), without 
being able to produce anything of value themselves. 
Of course, this nihilistic attitude wasnřt exclusive to artists. Already in Рудин, the 
embittered sceptic Pigasov scoffs at authorities like Hegel and at the value of education as 
such: ŘОчень нужна она эта хваленая образованность! Гроша медного не дам я за 
вашу образованность!ř (VI/262). By this aggressiveness Pigasov seeks to cover up his 
own ignorance because, as the narrator observes, Řв сущности [он] знал слишком малоř 
(VI/249). And in Дым we find the Řscholarř Voroshilov quite content to refer to eminent 
thinkers of the past, like Adam Smith and Macaulay, as Řдуракиř whose works had been 
left obsolete by the most recent scientific discoveries (IX/154). But despite Turgenevřs 
                                               
231 Letter of 16 January 1853 (P II/108). 
232 As recalled by Polonskii. VT (1988):402. 
112  
life-long interest in history and philosophy, it was in the arts that his compatriotsř 
iconoclasm hurt him most. 
One of the most notorious examples of this was Pisarevřs 1865 article on Pushkin, 
in which, among other things, the poet had been condemned as a Řвозвышенный кретинř 
for his cult of the beautiful (1955-56:III/399). Turgenev, as he confessed in his memoir of 
Belinskii, had been appalled by this article, which, moreover, struck him as quite 
gratuituous at a time when there was no longer any need to attack Řpureř poetry because the 
Russian publicřs attention was now concentrated on such vital matters as the zemstva and 
legal reforms (XIV/36). With Pisarevřs assault on Pushkin still stinging in his mind, 
Turgenev, in another of his literary memoirs of 1869, reminded his readers how for his 
own generation the great poet had been like a demi-god, in stark contrast to what was 
happening now: ŘМы действительно поклонились ему. Поклонение авторитетам в 
последнее время подвергалось, как известно, насмешкам, осуждению, чуть ли не 
проклятиюř (XIV/12). 
The origins of this cultural iconoclasm in Russia are quite easy to trace: a critical 
frame of mind had been a distinctive feature of the intelligentsia for a long time. Pushkin 
himself, in an article from 1836, had already lamented this dismissiveness towards 
hallowed names of the past and, like Turgenev a generation later, pointed to some of the 
reasons for it: 
Неуважение к именам, освящѐнным славою (первый признак невежества и 
слабомыслия), к несчастию, почитается у нас не только дозволенным, но ещѐ и 
похвальным удальством. (1949:VII/407)       
Chernyshevskiiřs dissertation of 1855 also contributed to this trend. For although he 
insisted that Řдостоин сожаления человек, не преклоняющийся пред великими 
произведениями искусстваř (1939-50:II/52), Chernyshevskii created a dangerous 
precedent for rejecting that historical continuity in culture which was so important to 
Turgenev by arguing that no work of art was ever Řeternalř: 
Ни в живописи, ни в музыке, ни в архитектуре не найдѐтся ни одного произведения, 
созданного за 100 или 150 лет, которое не казалось бы ныне или вялым, или 
смешным, несмотря на всю силу гения, отпечатленную на нѐм. (1939-50:II/50) 
By giving brief examples of supposed Řdeficienciesř in the Ancient Greek tragedies, in 
Shakespeare, Raphael, Mozart, and Beethoven, as well as in more recent works by Dickens 
and George Sand, Chernyshevskii, inadvertently perhaps, paved the way for later 
113  
journalists like Pisarev and Cui, who would excel at finding faults in works of art, both 
European and Russian.      
 Artists, too, were infected by the Řзаразаř of nihilism, as Pavel Kirsanov calls it in 
Отцы и дети, although it tended to be the less gifted ones who were the most aggressive 
in their attitude towards the Old Masters. Turgenev had seen plenty of this during his stay 
in Italy in the winter of 1857, and with the sole exception of his meeting with Ivanov, his 
impressions of the Russian painters working there were very negative:  
Остальные здешние русские артистыŕплохи. Сорокин кричит, что Рафаэль дрянь и 
«всѐ» дрянь, а сам чепуху пишет; знаем мы эту поганую рассейскую замашку. 
Невежество их всех губит.233    
It is precisely this which the elder Kirsanov has in mind when he condemns the new 
tendencies that were gaining ground even amongst pensionnaires of the Academy of Arts: 
Мне сказывали, что в Риме наши художники в Ватикан ни ногой. Рафаэля считают 
чуть не дураком, потому что это, мол, авторитет; а сами бессильны и бесплодны до 
гадости. (VIII/247)  
Painters who did have genuine talent, such as Repin and Kramskoi, both of whom 
Turgenev respected, might well seek to distance themselves from Řauthoritiesř like 
Raphael, but, in general, they tried to do them some justice. 
Kramskoi, for instance, the model for Mikhailov in Анна Каренина, argued that 
Raphaelřs portrayals of Christ had become outmoded and that the only way forward was in 
the direction indicated by Ivanov, but he at least acknowledged the beauty of Raphaelřs 
work.
234
 Repin, who was often liable to contradict himself, did once refer disparagingly to 
Raphael, but, again, this was in a private letter, shortly after his arrival in Rome, in the 
summer of 1873: 
[Рим] мне совсем не нравится: отживший, мѐртвый город […] Там один «Мойсей» 
Микель-Анджело действует поразительно, остальное, и с Рафаэлем во главе, такое 
старое, детское, что смотреть не хочется […] Я здесь долго не пробуду, дай Бог 
пробыть два года, и то едва ли, надо работать на родной почве. […] так мне противна 
теперь Италия с еѐ условной до рвоты красотой.235             
                                               
233 Letter to Annenkov, 31 October/12 November 1857 (P III/160). 
234 Cf. Babaev 1981:179. 
235 Letter to Stasov, 4/16 June 1873 (Repin 1969:I/67). 
114  
It was to Repinřs great embarrassment that Stasov, to whom this letter was addressed, 
published it as part of an article on the young painter in 1875, in which he wanted to 
demonstrate at all costs that the author of Бурлаки was in no danger of succumbing to 
foreign influences during his stay abroad. 
The fact that Turgenev didnřt hold these remarks against Repin, whom he met quite 
frequently when the latter was in France (1873-76), suggests that the painter had soon 
repented of them and was unwilling to be cast into the nationalist mould which Stasov had 
projected for him.
236
 For Stasov was very good at projecting his own views (such as his 
dislike of Raphael) and his ideals of an independent, original Russian school of art on those 
artists whom he was championing. Turgenev realized this, and it was not against the artists 
themselves, but rather against their propagandist and his exaggerations that he directed his 
light satirical weaponry in Новь. This novel includes a brief anecdote about the 
Řвсероссийский критикř Skoropikhin, in whom readers easily recognized Stasov, and his 
dismissive attitude towards the European cultural heritage: ŘПослушать Скоропихина, 
всякое старое художественное произведение уже по тому самому не годится никуда, 
что оно староř (XII/19). It is known that Stasov encouraged the painters whom he took 
under his wing to show a healthy disregard for Raphael, and, similarly, as Irene Pearson 
has observed, ŘSkoropikhin (as his name implies) is apparently in a hurry to elbow aside all 
past works of artř (1981:368). 
In fact, Stasovřs position was more complicated than might appear at first glance, 
and certainly not what most Soviet interpretations made it out to be, since he was not a 
cultural chauvinist. As Yuri Olkhovsky observes, Stasovřs Řentire struggle for the national 
realistic arts in Russia rested on the principle of cultural independence and integrity for any 
nation and any people, including the Russian peopleř.237 Despite his aversion to Raphael, 
he never actually denied the achievements of the great European artistsŕwhich is probably 
why Turgenev always remained on friendly terms with him, even though they had 
effectively agreed to disagree on almost everything that concerned art! But Stasov did have 
a point in attacking the excessive veneration in which some European works of art or 
artistic institutions were held in Russia, and Turgenev must have sympathized with this a 
little, given that in his youth he, too, had written ironically about the pilgrimage so many 
Russian tourists made to Dresden, to see the Sistine Madonna. 
                                               
236 Ilřia Zilřbershtein (1945:78) argued that in the course of his stay in France Repin distanced himself from 
some of Stasovřs aesthetic ideas and moved closer to Turgenevřs.   
237 Olkhovsky 1983:142. 
115  
Moreover, the iconoclastic reaction against Raphael which Turgenev had observed 
amongst Russian artists in Rome was in no small measure due to the fact that for so many 
years the art critics in Russia and the professors of the Academy had rejected all new 
currents in painting and Řcontinued to uphold the criteria of certain Old Masters, above all 
Raphaelř.238 Significantly, in Gogolřřs Портрет, Chartkov, once he has become famous 
and secured a professorship at the Academy, begins to sing the praises of Raphael and 
other Old Masters Řне потому, что убедился вполне в их высоком достоинстве, но 
потому, чтобы колоть ими в глаза молодых художниковř (1952-53:III/101). When he 
was still an unknown painter and committed to the cause of realism, he had actually spoken 
quite critically about Raphael! The implication is that when one is trying to create 
something original, one cannot avoid distancing oneself from oneřs predecessors (as 
Gogolř himself did with regard to the Romantic school): in other words, a young and 
ambitious artist, provided he has genuine talent, must have something of that Promethean 
rebelliousness discussed earlier. 
 One Russian painter who very early on realized the need to resist the burden of 
Řclassicalř authorities, but without going to the extreme of iconoclasm, was Briullov. When 
living and working in Italy from 1823 to 1835, he had been entrusted with keeping an eye 
on the young pensionnaires sent there by the Academy, and, although he would tell them 
to start by copying Raphaelřs Transfiguration, he always stressed that there was no point in 
imitating blindly the Old Masters or him for that matter: Řхудожник всѐ должен найти в 
себе самом […] он должен изучать древних художников, но передразнивать никого 
из них не долженř.239 When he himself had arrived in Rome for the first time, despite 
starting off by copying another major work of RaphaelřsŕThe School of Athensŕhe had 
had the courage to write to the professors of the Academy, arguing that one neednřt imitate 
the Old Masters in everything: Řмогло ли бы искусство в продолжение трѐх веков идти 
вперѐд, приняв произведения смертного за непреложный закон Божий?ř240 As one of 
Briullovřs pupils later recalled: 
Он был горячий сеятель правды в искусстве; до него же слепое изучение антиков 
вовлекало художников в крайность. Брюллов первый из наших художников искал 
естественности и правды.241                   
                                               
238 Bowlt 1983b:119.  
239 Quoted in Mashkovtsev 1961:80 & 174. 
240 ibid.:178-79. 
241 ibid.:187. 
116  
Now, throughout his life Turgenev made no secret of his contempt for Briullovřs 
style, that is, his Řтрескучие картины с эффектами, но без поэзии и содержанияř 
(XIV/95). It seems that Turgenev judged him unfairly just on the basis of Последний день 
Помпея (see Plate 3A), which it is indeed difficult not to call bombastic,242 rather than by 
his much subtler portraits. Had he known that Briullov was such an earnest teacher and 
mentor of the young, and that despite receiving high honours from Nicholas I the painter 
detested aristocratic society, he might perhaps have tempered his criticism and looked 
favourably upon Briullovřs emphasis on individual originality.243 For Briullov had upheld 
the same principle which he was later to welcome in Repin and Kramskoi: that of being 
true to oneself. Still, this hostility towards Briullov on Turgenevřs part was perhaps 
inevitable, given the painterřs proximity to the period of Official Nationality and the fact 
that his style was not all like the warm realism of Rembrandt and Velázquez, Turgenevřs 
favourite painters.             
 Aleksandr Ivanov, the artist whom Turgenev, in Поездка в Альбано (1861), held 
up against Briullov as an inspirational example for young Russian painters, was in some 
respects on the other extreme of the scale. His reverence for Řclassicalř authorities and his 
humility were so great that they almost prevented him from completing the work on which 
he had spent twenty-five years of his life: Явление Христа народу (see Plate 3B). 
As Turgenev observed with sincere admiration, Ivanov wasnřt at all like those 
Russian artists in Rome who spurned Raphael: Řвсе его суждения были дельны и 
проникнуты уважением к «старым мастерам». Перед Рафаэлем он благоговелř 
(XIV/86). At the same time, his reverence hadnřt been such as to let himself be influenced 
by the Nazarenes (the school of German painters in Rome which formed around Overbeck 
and Cornelius), who in their religious works were trying to turn the clock back even before 
Raphael. As Turgenev emphasizes, it was precisely Ivanovřs Russianness which saved him 
from this false route: Řрусский здравый смысл удержал его на пороге того 
искусственного, аскетического, символического мира, в котором потонул 
германский художник [Overbeck]ř (XIV/86). We have already come across Turgenevřs 
notion that abstract systems were out of place in Russia (see II.6), and in the last chapter of 
Рудин the same point about Russian common sense prevailing over nebulous German 
philosophy had been made by Lezhnev: ŘФилософические хитросплетения и бредни 
                                               
242 Pushkin, however, thought highly of this painting and, in a letter of 4 May 1836 to his wife, called 
Briullov a Řнастоящий художникř (1949:X/575).  
243 In his reminiscences Annenkov pointed out that Turgenev had been unfair to criticize Briullov so harshly 
because the painter had been a force for progress in Russian art (1960:414).  
117  
никогда не привьются к русскому: на это у него слишком много здравого смыслаř. 
But just as Lezhnev goes on to defend Rudinřs philosophical idealism as a Řчестное 
стремление к истине и к сознаниюř (VI/349), so Turgenev respected Ivanov for the 
religious ideal which guided him. 
Still, Turgenev makes it quite clear in his essay that Ivanov, for all his diligence 
and striving towards a high ideal, lacked the most important qualities an artist needed: 
Řтворческая мощь [и] свободное вдохновениеř (XIV/94). Referring to the way Ivanov 
composed the figures in his paintingŕe.g. the head of John the Baptist was arrived at by 
first drawing the head of the Apollo Belvedere hundreds of times, then that of a figure in a 
Byzantine icon, and finally by combining the two setsŕTurgenev concluded: ŘНе так 
творят истинные художники!ř (XIV/95).244 This attempt, so it seemed to him, to piece 
together a painting out of faithfully assembled copies of great works of the past was like 
the Řрассудочный (индуктивный) приѐм учѐногоř245 and had little to do with true 
creative art.  
Predictably, there were many artists and critics who, for patriotic reasons or 
otherwise, vigorously disputed Turgenevřs observations on Ivanov. For instance, Stasov 
protested that it was absurd to deny that the figures of Christ and John the Baptist in the 
painting were truly inspired. But, like Turgenev, he did also point out that Ivanov had been 
obsessed with emulating the ideals of the early Greek and Italian schools of paintingŕ 
something that, in Stasovřs view at least, he had more than succeeded in, but which wasnřt 
a particularly important task and whose futility Ivanov himself, according to Stasov, had 
recognized after 1848, when his eyes were opened to the Řсовременное движение 
тогдашней Европыř. Nevertheless, for Stasov there was no doubt that before this 
Řпереворотř in his consciousness Ivanov had been impaired by his training at a 
Řзаведение, способное развивать только механическую технику и ничего не 
подозревающее об интеллектуальном, внутреннем человекеř (1968:42). An important 
factor in the Academyřs inability to equip its pupils with sensitivity towards social 
questions was its emphasis on classical models, as Stasov saw it. Just as Belinskii had 
lamented the state of Russian painting because of its barren neoclassicism: 
                                               
244 Réau also argues that Řcette décevante alchimie lui a été fataleř (1951:232). Iurii Lotman, on the other 
hand, defended Ivanovřs method, calling it not so much a Řmethodř as an artistic system related to the utopian 
socialism of the 1840s. In his view, Ivanov wanted to represent each figure in the crowd surrounding John the 
Baptist as close as possible to the Řобщечеловеческая нормаř of classical statues, thereby providing a Řзалог 
возможности возрождения этой разношерстной толпы к братствуř (2005:555-56).   
245 As Turgenev put it in a conversation with Repin in 1871 (Zilřbershtein 1945:11). 
118  
Как будто не замечая кипящей вокруг него жизни, с закрытыми глазами на всѐ 
живое, современное, действительное, это искусство ищет вдохновения в отжившем 
прошедшем, берѐт оттуда готовые идеалы, к которым люди давно уже охладели, 
которые никого уже не интересуют.246     
ŕso Stasov argued that the only way forward for Russian artists was to break free entirely 
from this enthralment to the Old Masters which were held up as ideals to be emulated in 
the Academyřs classes. The drive towards such liberation had lain at the heart of the 1863 
secession led by Kramskoi, whose demands Stasov was to summarize as follows (in his 
1888 obituary of the painter):                                 
Художник должен учиться с самых молодых лет не на чѐм-то безразличном, 
небывалом и идеальном, а на том, что существует действительно, и притом что 
близкое, своѐ выражает, на том, что в один тон и шаг идѐт со всею остальною 
жизнью и складом, нас окружающим во весь наш век. (1968:100) 
Now, although Turgenev as a writer insisted on the freedom to deal with themes 
that had apparently nothing to do with contemporary social issuesŕthat is, on the Řправо и 
уместность разработать чисто психических (не политических и не социальных) 
вопросовřŕ247 he would certainly have agreed with Stasov that real life was the best 
source of inspiration for an artist. After all, in the 1880 preface to his collected novels he 
said that for any talented writer it was always the case that Řоркужающая его жизнь даѐт 
ему содержаниеŕон является еѐ сосредоточенным отражениемř (XII/310). And, 
similarly, Turgenev also felt that the originality and hence value of a work of art had a lot 
to do with its closeness to the spirit of the artistřs nation. As he put it in a letter of 1882 to 
Kramskoi, whom he helped to set up an exhibition of Russian painting in Paris:  
Несомненно то, что французское общество заинтересовалось русским художеством 
именно с тех пор, как оно получило самостоятельность и выказало оригинальность, 
стало русским, народным. (То же самое произошло во Франции и с нашей 
литературой).248     
Where, however, he clearly differed with Stasov was in his assessment of the role of 
classical models in an artistřs education. Turgenev didnřt consider these to be a threat to 
originality if the artist studying them had genuine talent.  
                                               
246 From his survey of Russian literature in 1847 (Belinskii 1953-59:X/311).  
247 Letter to A. Filosofova, 18/30 August 1874 (P X/282).    
248 Letter of 6/18 December 1882 (P XIII2/121). 
119  
 This is clear from Turgenevřs reflections, in a feuilleton he wrote for Современник 
in 1847, on the sculptor Ivan Vitali, who after completing his highly praised bas-reliefs for 
the southern façade of St Isaacřs Cathedral was working on the sculptures of the Apostles 
for its interior. Turgenev noted in this article how Vitali had never travelled outside of 
Russia and how this was a pity, for an artist of such calibre would only have benefited 
from seeing the works of the Old Masters with his own eyes: 
России он никогда не покидалŕчто, может быть, ещѐ более упрочило самобытность 
его дарования. Впрочем, этим мы нисколько не хотим сказать, будто бы поездка в 
Италию, классическую страну искусства, бесполезна для начинающих художников; 
напротив, она необходима. Такие счастливо одарѐнные природы, как г. Витали, 
слишком редки; в другой стране верный и здравый смысл, чувство истины и 
простоты, отличительные качества дарования г. Витали, ни в каком случае не дали 
бы ему впасть в подражание, в манеру, принять условные типы школы. Как бы ни 
было сильно впечатление, произведѐнное на людей с самостоятельным талантом 
образцами великих мастеров, оно никогда в них не проявится рабской 
подражательностью. (I/304)    
As was suggested in the introduction to Chapter I, some of Turgenevřs reflections on 
Vitali, who was of Italian parentage but very much regarded as a Russian artist, may have 
informed his later portrayal of Shubin in Накануне (whose mother is French). For in this 
novelřs epilogue we find Shubin in Rome, producing statues which are classical in theme 
and inspiration (such as a Bacchante), but which have their stamp of originality. At any 
rate, they arenřt mere imitations of the sculptures of Antiquity, as is clear from the 
narratorřs ironical remarks about the purists who found fault with his work: 
Строгие пуристы находят, что он [Шубин] не довольно изучил древних, что у него 
нет «стиля», и причисляют его к французской школе, от англичан и американцев у 
него пропасть заказов. (VIII/166-67)      
True, just a few chapters earlier Turgenev had poked fun at the English tourists 
going round the museums of Venice (VIII/152) and he didnřt generally have a high opinion 
of Englishmenřs aesthetic sensibility,249 but he did believe in the Řсила, прочность [и] 
дельностьř of the English as a people (XIV/244) and was full of even greater admiration 
                                               
249 Cf. his letter of 28 May/9 June 1871 to Ludwig Pietsch: ŘUnwiderlegbares Axioma: «Kein Engländer hat 
auch die leiseste Ahnung, was Kunst heisst. Sein Ur-Naturell ist ur-antikünstlerisch» […] (NB. Ich spreche 
natürlich nicht von Literatur, von Poesie)ř (P IX/104). 
120  
for the young, enterprising American nation.
250
 So this detail about Shubinřs work being in 
high demand among Americans and Englishmen is almost certainly meant as a 
confirmation of his merits as a sculptor! Overall, from what we are told about Shubin it 
seems that he is indeed a true artist who isnřt discouraged by his awareness of the greater 
beauty of the works of the past, and who doesnřt try to imitate these slavishly. 
 
IV.3 National originality 
Turgenevřs thoughts about Russian literature revolved round similar issues as his 
observations on the sculptor Vitali. In that article he wrote for a French journal in 1845 he 
had argued that, except for Derzhavin and Krylov, all the writers who preceded Pushkin 
were devoid of true originality. He did acknowledge the contribution of Karamzin and 
Zhukovskii towards making Russian prose and poetry more fluent, but noted that: 
Řdřailleurs, complètement dénués dřoriginalité personnelle, tous deux ne firent que traduire 
et imiterř (XII*/502).251 And, similarly, except for Lermontov and Gogolř, almost all of the 
writers who had come after Pushkin were mere imitators of foreign models (of Walter 
Scottřs novels, or Schiller and Shakespeareřs plays). All these novelists, playwrights and 
poets offered Řrien de neuf, de saissisant, dřoriginal, de vraiment russeř (XII*/503). 
In his 1846 review of Gedeonovřs pseudo-historical play Смерть Ляпунова, 
Turgenevŕbefore going on to demonstrate how the author had borrowed all too obviously 
from Goetheřs Götz von Berlichingen and Schillerřs Wallensteinŕgeneralized on this 
situation as follows:  
История искусства и литературы у нас на Руси замечательна своим особенным, 
двойственным развитием. Мы начинаем с подражания чужеземным образцам; люди 
с талантом чисто внешним, говорливые и деятельные, представляют в своих 
произведениях, лишѐнных всякой живой связи с народом, одни лишь отражения 
чужого таланта, чужой мыслиŕчтó им не мешает самодовольно толковать об 
оригинальности, о народности. (I/258) 
Again, the influence of his mentor Belinskii in this passage is unmistakable. The great 
critic had often ridiculed the Řполуталантыř, the dilettante writers of the 1830s and 40s 
(such figures as Benediktov and Kukolřnik) for what he called their Řпленной мысли 
                                               
250 On 13/25 December 1847, he had written to Pauline Viardot: ŘÀ mon avis, les plus grands poètes 
contemporains sont les Américains qui vont percer lřisthme de Panama et parlent dřétablir un télégraphe 
électrique à travers lřOcéanř (P 1/282).  
251 In his articles about Pushkin (1843-44), Belinskii had also asserted: ŘДо Пушкина русская поэзия была 
не более, как понятливою и переимчивою ученицей европейской музыř (1953-59:VII/432).  
121  
раздраженьеř (1953-59:IX/40). The latter phrase is a quotation from Lermontovřs poem: 
ŘНе верь себеř (1839), in which this bitterest of Russiařs poets had advised all aspiring 
writers to keep the fruits of their Řinspirationř to themselves, since these often expressed 
either subjective feelings which meant nothing to people with real worries (ŘКакое дело 
нам, страдал ты или нет?ř, asks this poemřs most famous verse), or they were just the 
result of Řпленной мысли раздраженьеřŕthat is, of having read the works of great 
writers and wishing to emulate them. Significantly, Turgenev often used this phrase to 
describe the predicament of so many modern artistsŕboth Russian and foreignŕwhose 
talent wasnřt sufficiently strong to produce original works.252            
 The influence of great predecessorsř works, however, wasnřt to be feared in the 
case of those writers who were endowed with fully-fledged talent, and in Russia the finest 
example of this for Turgenev was, of course, Pushkin. He was one of those Řмастера, у 
которых кисть свободно и быстро ходила в рукеř whom Turgenev so envied (P II/65), 
and in a way Pushkin was representative of the whole development of Russian literature.  
For, in Turgenevřs view, as he set it forth in that 1845 French article, Pushkin had 
started off by imitating Byron in Цыганы (begun in 1824) but very soon afterwards had 
produced such works as Евгений Онегин and Борис Годунов (1831) in which there was 
nothing imitative whatsoever (XII*/503-04). Certainly, this interpretation can be 
questioned. Dostoevskii, for one, in Дневник писателя and in his Pushkin speech of 1880, 
whilst not denying the influence of Byron on Russiařs greatest poet, insisted that already 
Цыганы was an entirely original and independent work. Pushkin himself had modestly 
acknowledged that he had Řimitatedř Shakespeare, Karamzin, and the old Russian 
chronicles when writing Борис Годунов.253  
Still, Turgenevřs interpretation of Pushkinřs development reflected his most 
cherished hopes for Russiařs cultural progress, the impetus to which, in his view, had been 
given by the ever strengthening ties with Western Europe that the Petrine reforms had 
brought about. In his Pushkin speech of 1880 he would emphasize that the great poet had 
very early on displayed a remarkable independence in his altogether Řсвободное 
творчествоř, imitating in his best works neither any Řевропейские образцыř as such, nor 
                                               
252 He used it, for instance, in his discussion of the Nazarene school of painting in an 1847 article (I/316), as 
well as in a letter to Stasov of 12/24 December 1874 to describe a piano cycle by Nikolai Shcherbachev (one 
of Balakirevřs pupils) which Turgenev considered to be a pale imitation of Schumann and Liszt (P X/338).  
253 ŘШекспиру я подражал в его вольном и широком изображении характеров, в небрежном и простом 
составлении типов. Карамзину следовал я в светлом развитии происшествий, в летописях старался 
угадать образ мыслей и язык тогдашнего времениř (Quoted in Abyzova 1986:74-75). 
122  
the Russian Řнародный тонř which inferior talents sprinkled into their works so as to make 
them more authentic (XV/68).
254
 By securing Russiařs place in the family of European 
national literatures and by proving himself such an original pupil of Shakespeare, amongst 
others (especially in the baronřs monologue in Скупой рыцарь), Pushkin was a splendid 
example of that Řмощная сила самобытного присвоения чужих формř (XV/71) which 
Turgenev considered to be the most promising quality of the Russian nation. 
It is telling that in this very same speech he pointed to a certain affinity between 
Pushkin and Peter the Great (XV/67) for whom Turgenev, like Belinskii (but unlike, say, 
Herzen and even Dostoevskii),
255
 always professed unqualified admiration as the Řвеликий 
преобразователь Россииř (I/296). Pushkinřs originalityŕwhich, as Turgenev knew, was 
readily appreciated by those Western Europeans who had a knowledge of Russian, such as 
Mériméeŕwas the best vindication one could imagine for Peterřs faith in the creative 
forces which had hitherto lain dormant in the Russian nation. This is a motif which recurs 
in Turgenevřs worksŕfrom the first of the Записки охотника, in which the peasant Khorř 
reminded the huntsman of Peter the Great: ŘРусский человек так уверен в своей силе и 
крепости, что он не прочь и поломать себя: он мало занимается своим прошедшим и 
смело глядит вперѐдř (IV/18); even through the Řscepticalř phase in which Дым was 
written, as is clear from Potuginřs already-cited optimistic words (IX/171); and 
culminating in the famous Русский язык (1882), which was the concluding piece in the 
cycle of poems-in-prose published in Turgenevřs lifetime and so was therefore regarded by 
his countrymen as his final message of faith in Russia (XIII/198).     
A detailed comparison of Turgenevřs Pushkin speech with Dostoevskiiřs much 
more enthusiastically received address the following day, is beyond the scope of this 
project, but it is significant that for all their differences, both writers identified Pushkinřs 
originality or, rather, uniqueness with his ability to give such perfect expression to Russiařs 
most essential national qualities. Still, where Dostoevskii emphasized the prophet and 
diviner in Pushkin (Řугадчик и пророкř) whose Řпреклонение перед правдой народа 
русскогоř had saved him from becoming an imitator of Byron, Turgenev emphasized the 
                                               
254 Those works which Pushkin had written in the style of Russian folklore (such as Руслан и Людмила or 
his fairy-tales) Turgenev, like Belinskii, considered to be his weakest. Dostoevskii, in contrast, praised 
Сказка о медведихе as a token of Pushkinřs kinship with the Russian common folk (1972-90:XXVI/144).    
255 In his 1850 essay Du développement des idées révolutionnaires en Russie, Herzen conceded that Peter the 
Great had been the first Russian sovereign of independent spirit, but criticized his Řterrorismř which 
aggravated the rift between the government and the Russian people (1954-66:VII/39). Dostoevskii, in 1861, 
had also emphasized how the Petrine reforms had torn the educated classes asunder from the common folk 
(1972-90:XVIII/35). It wasnřt until his Pushkin speech that he found in Peterřs reforms the same striving for 
Řвсечеловечностьř that for him defined Russiařs mission in the world (1972-90:XXVI/147).       
123  
artist, seeing in Pushkin Russiařs first Řхудожник-поэтř who had picked up so quickly the 
skills of his craft from his European predecessors.
256
 
Thus, although the life of Russia and her peopleřs finest virtues (Řпростота, 
откровенность и честностьř) infused all of Pushkinřs works, these also served to confirm 
Turgenevřs cherished notion of the continuity (Řпреемственностьř) of culture, which 
anchored Russia firmly in Europe. A talent of Pushkinřs magnitude had no reason to 
consider himself an epigone and no need to fear the burden of authorities. To emphasize 
this, Turgenev quoted a French saying: ŘLe génie prend son bien partout où il le trouveř 
(XV/68), which Molière, one of his favourite French writers, famously invoked when he 
was accused of having Řstolenř some scenes from a play by Cyrano de Bergerac.  
To return, though, to the aspect which is common to both Turgenev and 
Dostoevskiiřs speeches on Pushkinŕnamely, the emphasis on the poetřs Řnational spiritř 
(or Řнародностьř, a term which Turgenev consciously avoided applying to Pushkin but 
which nonetheless informs many of his observations)ŕthis is something that is quite 
peculiar to Russia. Goethe and Schiller, for example, were praised for their quest to 
revivify classical values in the modern age rather than for any inherent ŘGermannessř in 
their works. Admittedly, Schillerřs Wilhelm Tell became a focus of patriotic sentiment after 
the Battle of Leipzig and in the years leading up to German unification. But literary and 
artistic works in nineteenth-century Germany were still judged mainly according to 
aesthetic rather than national criteria. 
In Russia, however, these two criteria were merged. This was the case for both 
Westernists and Slavophiles. Thus, as Edward Brown has noted (1957:359), it was thanks 
to Stankevichřs interest in evidences of the national spirit and of peasant creativity that 
Kolřtsov, whom Stankevich called a Řсамородный поэтř, was able to have his first poems 
published in 1831. Belinskii, too, who was greatly influenced by Stankevich at the start of 
his career as a critic (again, see E. Brown 1957), frequently invoked the concept of 
Řнародностьř, which in his view had to express the ideal of both the educated class and the 
spirit of the people. As for the Slavophiles, Konstantin Aksakov pointed out in an essay of 
1856 that only in Russia, where the educated classes had been imitating foreign models for 
such a long time, was it necessary to argue about Řnationalnessř. In France, Germany, and 
England, he observed, such debates were unnecessary because Řу этих народов 
народность действует постоянно, чувство еѐ живо, мысль вытекает прямо из неѐ и 
                                               
256 For a more detailed juxtaposition of the two speeches, see the final chapter of Budanova 1987. See also 
Martin 1988 for the range of responses to, and criticisms of, Dostoevskiiřs speech. 
124  
стремится к общечеловеческомуř (1981:200). His brother Ivan would repeat this notion 
twenty-five years later. In his Pushkin speech of 1880, the younger Aksakov pointed to the 
Řстранное явление, которому почти нет подобного в других странах, именно: что 
сама народность в народе становится объектом сознания […] что возможны у нас 
вопросы о народности художникаř (1981:266). 
 As we shall see in the next chapter, Turgenev was very much in the thick of these 
debates. Despite sharing Stankevichřs rejection of any narrow concept of Řnational 
characterř, Turgenev wholeheartedly believed that the value of an artistic work resided first 
and foremost in its national individuality. Thus, discussing Wilhelm Tell in an 1843 article, 
he said that Schiller had attained Řвысшее для художника счастье: выразить 
сокровеннейшую сущность своего народаř (I/207). However, there were a number of 
factions in Russia with distinct views about their countryřs Řnational essenceř, which they 
tried to impose on the artists who fell into their orbit. Turgenev considered these factions to 
be a threat to the arts in Russia. If an artist was to convey the essence of Russia as fully as 
Pushkin had, he would have to steer carefully past them. 
   
125  
CHAPTER V 
 
OFFICIAL NATIONALITY AND SLAVOPHILISM 
 
Introduction 
 One minor, yet highly symbolical figure in Накануне is the retired cornet Uvar 
Ivanovich, who lives as a hanger-on in the house of Elenařs parents. Here Turgenev may 
indeed have borrowed from Goncharovřs Обломов, which was serialized between 
February and May 1859, just before he set to work on Накануне. Like Oblomov, Uvar 
Ivanovich displays that mixture of lethargy and hidden talents which seemed so 
characteristic of Russia in the eyes of many observers. Even the Slavophiles didnřt deny 
that a certain tendency towards laziness was characteristic of the Russian people (see 
Riasanovsky 1952:124-25). In the second part of Мѐртвые души, Gogolř had lamented 
how in Russia Řполмильона сидней, увальней и болванов дремлет непробудноř and 
how rarely did someone emerge capable of uttering the almighty word: ŘВперѐдř (1952-
53:V/280). Before starting Накануне Turgenev would have been reminded of this lament 
because Dobroliubov had used it as the epigraph for his article on Обломов, which, as was 
discussed in section II.2, impinged on Turgenevřs creative plans. Alongside the foreigner 
Insarov, a conscious hero, we therefore have Uvar Ivanovich, a sluggard who embodies 
that traditional Russian inertia which Gogolř and other writers had deplored. 
 Significantly, in Turgenevřs novel it is the artist Shubin who most often comes into 
contact with Uvar Ivanovich, towards whom he shows an ironic yet affectionate attitude. 
At one point he addresses him, half in earnest and half in jest, as Řчерноземная вы силаř 
(VIII/44). Even though Uvar is no peasant, Shubin deliberately chooses a phrase resonant 
with Slavophile ideas about the peasantry or, more generally, the Russian people. In his 
1846 dissertation on Lomonosovřs contribution to Russian letters, Konstantin Aksakov, the 
most ardent of the Slavophiles, had made much of the folk hero Iřlia Muromets, especially 
his peasant origins and the fact that for thirty years he had Řсидел сиднемř in his village, 
gathering strength until, finally, Řон поднялся со дна русской земли, откуда бьѐт 
чистый ключ веры и простой жизниř (1981:50). The notion of great strength lying 
fallow was also central to Herzenřs thoughts about Russia, as we may appreciate in his 
1863 obituary of Mikhail Shchepkin, where he said of the latter and of another great serf 
actor, Mochalov: Řоба принадлежат к тем намѐкам на сокровенные силы и 
возможности русской натуры, которые делают незыблемой нашу веру в будущность 
Россииř (1954-66:XVII/268-69). 
126  
Although Turgenev shared with the Slavophiles, and later the Populists, their 
sympathy for the common folk, as well as their optimism about Russiařs future, he was 
wary of those who drew all too rosy conclusions Řиз едва понятой и понятной 
субстанции народаř, as he put it during his 1862 polemic with Herzen.257 Consequently, 
in the equation of Russia with slumbering or hidden strengthsŕa formula which had great 
appeal throughout the nineteenth centuryŕTurgenev tended to emphasize the qualifying 
adjectives which cast doubt as to whether these strengths would ever manifest themselves.  
Uvar Ivanovich, for instance, is presented as a Řчеловек тучный до 
неподвижности, с сонливыми жѐлтыми глазамиř (VIII/40), and the only occasion on 
which natural talent seems to emerge from under this lethargy is during the excursion to 
Tsaritsyno, when he surprises everyone by his ability to imitate the calls of various forest 
birds! It is also on the way to Tsaritsyno, when Uvar and Shubin are sitting in the same 
carriage, that the narrator makes the following very significant remark: Řмежду 
«черноземной силой» и молодым художником существовала какая-то странная 
связьř (VII/70). 
This phrase contains two instances of what Aleksandr Chudakov called Turgenevřs 
Řоткрытое использование чужого словаř (1987:245). The first is, of course, the title 
enclosed in quotation marks which Shubin had earlier given to Uvar, making fun of certain 
Slavophile ideas. The second, however, is drawn from Мѐртвые души. Just as Shubin 
invokes Gogolřřs artistic method when showing his caricatures to Bersenev (see II.4), so 
Turgenev here is quoting from the famous lyrical digression by the narrator in Gogolřřs 
novelŕat the end of the first part, when Chichikovřs carriage is travelling through the 
expanses of Russia: 
Русь! чего же ты хочешь от меня? Какая непостижимая связь таится между нами? 
Что глядишь ты так, и зачем всѐ, что ни есть в тебе, обратило на меня полные 
ожидания очи? […] Что пророчит сей необъятный простор? Здесь ли, в тебе ли не 
родиться беспредельной мысли, когда ты сама без конца? Здесь ли не быть 
богатырю, когда есть место, где развернуться и пройтись ему?258                
Although this is one of the passages that would later be ridiculed by Pisarev for what he 
regarded as absurd patriotism, inconsistent with the scenes of provincial life portrayed 
elsewhere in Мѐртвые души, it wasnřt for the sake of irony alone that Turgenev alluded to 
                                               
257 Letter of 26 September/8 October 1862 (P V/51-52). 
258 Gogolř 1994:V/201-02. This allusion to Мѐртвые души hasnřt been noted in the commentaries to 
Накануне in either of the two Academy editions of Turgenevřs works.  
127  
this impassioned appeal by Gogolř to Russia. On the contrary, as we shall see in Chapter 
VI, this sense of a Řнепостижимая связьř between an artist and his native country was 
something that Turgenev himself felt deeply, as shown by those letters in which he reflects 
on the fate of having to write on Russia from abroad (as Gogolř had done with Мѐртвые 
души). 
To return, though, to the Řstrangenessř which Turgenev ascribed to Russia, it is on 
this point that he was most at odds with the Slavophiles, who were so eager to make 
affirmative conclusions about Russia and her national essence. Following Belinskii, who, 
in his fifth article on Pushkin (1844), had spoken of the Řнеуловимая для определения 
субстанциальная стихияř represented by the Řнародř (1953-59:VII/333), Turgenev also 
believed that this national essence eluded definition. This can be seen in a letter he wrote to 
Pauline Viardot from Courtavenel, in 1850, epxlaining why he was postponing his return 
to Russia as far as possible: 
La Russie attendra; cette immense et sombre figure, immobile et voilée comme le sphinx 
dřŒdipe. Elle mřavalera plus tard […] Sois tranquille, sphinx, je reviendrai à toi, et tu 
pourras me dévorer à ton avis si je ne devine pas lřénigme! Laisse-moi en paix pendant 
quelque temps encore! Je reviendrai à tes steppes!
259
  
This likening of Russia to an enigmatic sphynx was partly a rhetorical device for 
challenging the Slavophilesř confident assertions about the Russian people, and Turgenev 
used it on several occasions: most memorably in the engraved ring which Pavel Kirsanov 
had given to the mysterious Princess R. (VIII/223). Recalling Konstantin Aksakovřs habit 
of wearing traditional Russian clothes, Turgenev would lament in his poem-in-prose 
Сфинкс (1878): ŘУвы! не довольно надеть мурмолку, чтобы сделаться твоим Эдипом, 
о всероссийский сфинкс!ř (XIII/182).260  
 As a writer, Turgenevřs attitude to Russia was that of an observerŕnot an 
impassive one, of course, but still with the aim of studying his country without any 
foregone conclusions. Writing to the Viardots in May 1852, when he was due to be exiled 
to Spasskoe, he said: ŘJe continuerai mes études sur le peuple russe, sur le peuple le plus 
étrange et le plus étonnant quřil y ait au mondeř.261 His willingness to portray both the 
positive and negative aspects of his own people stemmed from his Řdialecticř approach to 
                                               
259 Letter of 4/16 May 1850 (P I/382). Mme Viardot was on tour in Berlin at the time.  
260 James Woodward (1984:70; 1995:230), in particular, has explored this and other motifs used by Turgenev 
to convey the sinister and unfathomable recesses of the ŘRussian soulř.  
261 Letter of 1 May 1852 (P II/56). 
128  
life and history, and this in turn was part of his striving Řк Истине всецелойř, as he put it 
in that important letter to Druzhinin (see p.94). After his death, Tolstoi would single out 
precisely that quality of his: ŘГлавное в Тургеневеŕэто его правдивостьř.262 
 It was truthfulness which Turgenev valued highest in other artists, too, and which 
he feared could be undermined by any rigid system of ideas, such as Slavophilism. That is 
why he was so alarmed by certain aspects of Война и мир which seemed to betray 
Slavophile influences and thus detracted not just from the novelřs truthfulness in its 
portrayal of history but also from Tolstoiřs integrity as an artist:  
Боюсь я, как бы славянофильство, к которому он, кажется, попал в руки, не 
испортило его прекрасный и поэтический талант, лишив его свободы воззрения […] 
Художник, который лишается способности видеть белое и чѐрноеŕи направо и 
налевоŕтот уже стоит на краю гибели.263 
Another system of preconceived ideas which could deprive Russian artists of a sense of 
perspective was that of the doctrine of Official Nationality, as formulated by the Minister 
of Education Uvarov in 1833: ŘПравославие, самодержавие и народностьŕвернейший 
залог силы и величия нашего отечестваř. 
Certainly, this doctrine was never accepted wholesale by the intelligentsia, and it 
was discredited by the Crimean War, but all the same the nationalism which it encouraged 
was in Turgenevřs eyes a stumbling-block for the development of the arts in Russiaŕnot 
just in the 1830s and 40s but even in the 1870s, as the case of the painter Vereshchagin 
was to show. 
 
V.1 Russia, a ‘giant with clay feet’ 
In Turgenevřs last novel Новь (1877) Nezhdanov, shortly after he has started 
Řgoing to the peopleř but without any real faith in the cause, commits to paper a poem 
entitled ŘСонř which presents a desolate picture of Russiařs stagnation: everyone, the 
peasantry included, is fast asleep. The poem concludes:  
   Один царев кабакŕтот не смыкает глаз; 
   И, штоф с очищенной всей пятерней сжимая, 
   Лбом в полюс упершись, а пятками в Кавказ, 
   Спит непробудным сном отчизна, Русь святая! (XII/231) 
                                               
262 Quoted in Lomunov 1987:124. 
263 Letter to Borisov, 15/27 March 1870 (P VIII/200).  
129  
Nina Budanova (1987:149-50) has established that the inspiration for this grotesque image 
of the alcohol-dazed Russian Řgiantřŕwhich, like Дым ten years earlier, infuriated 
Dostoevskiiŕcame from a poem by Benediktov which Belinskii had brilliantly torn to 
pieces in an article of 1845.
264
 The verses in question from Benediktovřs poem, which 
extols the geographical vastness of Russia, are: 
   Чудный край! через Алтай 
   Бросив локоть на Китай, 
   Темя вспрыснув океаном, 
   В Балт ребром, плечом в Атлант, 
   В полюс лбом, пятой к Балканам 
   Мощный тянется гигант...265    
However, as Budanova has pointed out (1987:150), these verses were in their turn inspired 
by a poem of considerably greater artistic merit and yet no less fervent patriotismŕ
namely, ŘКлеветникам Россииř (1831), in which Pushkin had defied the Western nations 
who sympathized with the Polish cause: 
   … Иль мало нас? Иль от Перми до Тавриды, 
   От финских хладных скал до пламенной Колхиды, 
   От потрясѐнного Кремля 
   До стен недвижного Китая, 
   Стальной щетиною сверкая, 
   Не встанет русская земля?.. (1949:III/223)  
Turgenev must have had both these poems in mind when he composed his ironic allegory 
of Russia as a hopelessly slumbering Řgiantř in Новь. In the case of Benediktov this sort of 
literary joke on Turgenevřs part is understandable, since he had already parodied that 
poetřs exaggerated style in the figure of Maidanov in Первая любовь. But that he should 
do the same with a poem by his revered Pushkin (or even just an image from it) demands 
some explanation.  
As Ivan Aksakov emphasized in his speech of 1880, Pushkin had never been a 
champion of Official Nationality as such: ŘСохраняя всегда во всѐм полную 
нравственную свободу и независимость художника, Пушкин не был певцом ни 
                                               
264 Dostoevskii attacked this Řdistorted viewř of Russia in the February 1876 issue of Дневник писателя 
(1972-90:XXV/38). For a very interesting re-interpretation of the antagonism between Turgenev and 
Dostoevskii in their views on Russia, see Batiuto 1979:62-64.  
265 Quoted in Belinskii 1953-59:IX/44. 
130  
официальных торжеств, ни официального величияř (1981:279). Neverthless, Pushkin 
did share in what Boris Gasparov has described as an Řupsurge of national pride in Russia 
[after the Polish revolt of 1830-31], a mood that found expression in a host of patriotic 
poems and dramas, Glinkařs first opera among themř (2005:33). Pushkinřs ŘКлеветникам 
Россииř belonged to that trend.  
Turgenev was usually able to distinguish between the artistically valuable and those 
works which merely catered to the prevalent nationalismŕhence his admiration for 
another Řlegitimistř poem of Pushkinřs, ŘПир Петра Петрогоř (1835), of whose beauty he 
tried to convince Tolstoi during a visit to Iasnaia Poliana in 1878.
266
 The radical 
intelligentsia, however, were less forgiving. Anything that could be construed to lend 
support to the autocratic State, even if written by Pushkin, was worthy of condemnation. It 
was in this sense that Belinskii, in his famous 1847 Letter to Gogolř, emphasized: 
Вот почему так скоро падает популярность великих поэтов, искренно или 
неискренно отдающих себя в услужение православию, самодержавию и народности. 
Разительный примерŕПушкин, которому стоило написать только два-три 
верноподданических стихотворения и надеть камерюнкерскую ливрею, чтобы вдруг 
лишиться народной любви. (1953-59:X/217)       
Younger radicals were less forgiving still, and Turgenev captured their attitude towards 
Pushkin when he had Bazarov express his disdain for the great poet by quipping that he 
must have served in the tsarist army because: Řу него [Пушкина] на каждой странице: 
На бой, на бой! за честь России!ř (VIII/326). The ironic bitterness here is aggravated by 
the fact that just a few years earlier (the novel is set in 1859) this patriotism hadnřt 
prevented Russiařs defeatŕa defeat which was in part due to the Russian administrationřs 
Řнедостаток в честных людяхř so accurately diagnosed by Bazarov (VIII/245). 
Like most educated Russians of his generation (both Westernists and Slavophiles), 
Turgenev believed that an artist should never be a servant of the State. His works might 
serve Russia in the long run, but that was a different matter. For writers it was easier to 
maintain their independence than for other artistsŕespecially painters, who often came 
from humbler backgrounds and were accustomed to docility during their years at the 
Academy because that was the only way of securing the coveted scholarships for further 
study in Italy.
267
 Those writers, therefore, who nevertheless jumped on the bandwagon of 
                                               
266 As recalled by Sergei Tolstoi (1956:305-06). 
267 Bowlt 1983b:122. 
131  
Official Nationality came to be generally reviled. Thus, Turgenev, in his articles of the 
1840s and 50s, following the example of Belinskii, skilfully exposed to ridicule the 
pseudo-historic dramas of Kukolřnik and Gedeonov and ultra-patriotic verses of 
Viazemskii which exalted the might of Russia, thereby complementing the various 
grandiose projects in architecture and painting sponsored by Nicholas I. And in his 
reminiscenses of Belinskii, he summed up the atmosphere of those years:  
Явилась целая фаланга людей, бесспорно даровитых, но на даровитости которых 
лежал общий отпечаток риторики, внешности, соответствующей той великой, но 
чисто внешней силе, которой они служили отголоском. (XIV/38)        
This Řpurely external forceř was a veiled reference to the Russia of Nicholas I which had 
turned out, in retrospective confirmation of Diderotřs famous phrase, to be a Řcolosse aux 
pieds dřargileřŕa giant with clay feetŕduring the Crimean War.268 
 But before this disaster, which opened the floodgates for criticism of Russia from 
all quarters, especially in the writings of such radicals as Pisarev, many were the artists 
whose (sometimes quite genuine) achievements were trumpeted as proof of Russiařs 
supposed greatness. This wasnřt something unique to Nicholasřs reign, for already under 
Catherine the Great blind patriotism had led some to compare Sumarokov to Voltaire. As 
Turgenev ironically noted in one of his articles: Řрусские во время младенчества нашей 
словесности говорили о своих Молиерах и Вольтерахř (I/297). 
What was new in the climate of Official Nationality was the tone of such 
declarations. It was no longer sufficient to claim that Russia had its own Moliéres and 
Voltaires: now Russian art was declared to be in its own league altogether and in some 
cases even superior to anything the West had ever produced. The Stankevich circle, in 
particular, scorned this attitude, and, as Edward Brown has observed (1957:353), it was 
partly in reaction to such hyper-patriotism that Belinskii, in his first major article, 
ŘЛитературные мечтанияř (1834), claimed that Russia had as yet contributed nothing to 
human culture. 
Another friend of Stankevichřs, Neverov (whom Turgenev later also befriended 
during his studies in Berlin) wrote an article in 1836 for the Ministry of Educationřs 
official journal which, on the contrary, exuded patriotic self-confidence: 
                                               
268 Cf. Starr 1983:107. Turgenev actually quoted Diderotřs phrase in his 1842 memorandum on Russian 
agriculture, asserting (rather prematurely) that it was no longer valid and that the other European nations 
were gradually coming to respect Russia (I/471).      
132  
Теперь мы смело можем сказать, что у нас есть национальное искусство: иностранцы 
признают самобытность нашей школы живописи; но им ещѐ не известно, что у нас 
есть также национальная опера и национальная скульптура: мы укажем им на 
«Жизнь за царя», на статую г. Пименова «Бабочник». Да, с именами гг. Глинки, 
Брюллова и Пименоваŕначинается новая эра для художественного гения России!269       
This exaltation of Briullov would have provoked Turgenevřs disbelief, since, as we have 
seen, he regarded that painterřs work as typical of the empty grandiloquence of the era of 
Official Nationality. Significantly, in Дым Potugin would expostulate: ŘДвадцать лет 
сряду поклонялись этакой пухлой ничтожности, Брюллову, и вообразили, что и у 
нас, мол, завелась школа, и что она даже почище будет всех другихř (IX/232).      
With regard to Glinka, so enthusiastically praised by Neverov in his article (which 
was actually a review of Жизнь за царя), and Turgenevřs attitude to his music, the 
situation is rather more complicated. On the one hand, it is true that Жизнь за царя and 
especially its rousing ŘСлавься!ř chorus came to be regarded as the apotheosis of Official 
Nationality and remained a focus of patriotic sentiment throughout the nineteenth century, 
with Chaikovskii, for instance, quoting the melody of the ŘСлавься!ř in his overture The 
Year 1812. Even Stasov, otherwise Glinkařs most fervent champion, didnřt hesitate to 
criticize Жизнь за царя for its legitimist message: 
Никто, быть может, не сделал такого бесчестья нашему народу, как Глинка, 
выставивший посредством гениальной музыки на вечные времена русским героем 
подлого холопа Сусанина, верного как собака.270 
It seems to have been partly the operařs ultra-monarchic libretto which put off the young 
Turgenev when he attended the première in St Petersburg on 27 November 1836. 
This, however, wasnřt the only reason. With his first opera Glinka really had 
achieved something quite original and progressive: never before had a Russian peasant 
appeared onstage as a tragic hero, and never before had the sad melodies of Russian 
folksong (the Řпротяжная песняř)271 been used as the basis of an opera. And this 
originality wasnřt immediately appreciated by everyoneŕespecially by those who were 
used to the Italian operas which dominated the repertoire of the imperial theatres! For 
instance, the young Nikolai Miliutin, who would later play such an important role in the 
drafting of the Emancipation Edict, wrote to his parents that he had fallen asleep during a 
                                               
269 Quoted in Livanova & Protopopov 1955:II/214.         
270 From an 1861 letter to Balakirev (Gozenpud 1994:57).    
271 Cf. Frolova-Walker 1997:35. 
133  
performance of the opera, imagining himself to be at some post-station surrounded by 
Řямщики, которые заливаются в своих бесконечных напевах, всегда однообразных и 
утомительныхř.272 It was with such comments about Glinkařs Řcoachmenřs musicř in 
mind that Anna Petrova-Vorobřevaŕthe wife of the bass Osip Petrov who created the role 
of Susanin, and herself the first Vaniaŕwould later recall how the première of Жизнь за 
царя hadnřt awakened much enthusiasm: Řчудесные речитативы Сусанина не были 
поняты. Уж слишком это шло вразрез с италианщиной: многие находили их 
скучнымиř.273 
The seventeen-year-old Turgenev was no exception to this general attitude. As he 
admitted many years later, recalling his attendance at the premières of both Gogolřs 
Ревизор and Glinkařs first opera in 1836: ŘВ «Жизни за царя» я просто скучал...ř, 
immediately adding, however, that despite the poor performance of some of the singers: 
Řно музыку Глинки я всѐ-таки должен был понятьř (XIV/16). This regret at having 
failed to appreciate Жизнь за царя at the time confirms that Turgenev, once his musical 
sensitivity had matured, did genuinely come to like Glinkařs music, however much the 
nationalistic fervour which it gave rise to might otherwise have prejudiced him against it. 
In his very prescient review of the première Odoevskii had asserted: 
С оперой Глинки является то, чего давно ищут и не находят в Европеŕновая стихия 
в искусстве, и начинается в его истории новый период: период русской музыки. 
Такой подвиг, скажем, положа руку на сердце, есть дело не только таланта, но 
гения!274                 
For all the truth of these words, they might be read as implying that Russia was now 
entirely self-sufficient and could do without any guidance from the West. 
Not surprisingly, Turgenev was appalled by the way in which Glinkařs legacy was 
invoked by later critics like Stasov and Cui in order to justify Řa new and quite spurious 
Russian musical messianismř, as Richard Taruskin has called it (1977:156). Thus, Cui 
wrote in 1864 about Руслан и Людмила (1842): Řвот опера, в которой, по разнообразию 
и свежести фантазии, Глинка становится вслед за Бетховеном выше всех других 
композиторовř (1952:43). It is against the hubristic tone of such declarations that Potugin 
repeatedly warns: 
                                               
272 Livanova & Protopopov 1955:I/184. 
273 ibid.:II/196. 
274 ibid.:I/201. 
134  
И в этом случае мы не могли обойтись без хвастовства! Сказать бы, например, что 
Глинка был действительно замечательный музыкант, которому обстоятельства, 
внешние и внутренние, помешали сделаться основателем русской оперы,ŕникто бы 
спорить не стал; но нет, как можно! Сейчас надо его произвести в генерал-аншефы, в 
обер-гофмаршалы по части музыки да другие народы кстати оборвать: ничего, мол, 
подобного у них нету. (IX/232)  
Turgenev was afraid that such panegyrics to Glinka could harm the development of music 
in Russia by encouraging the delusions of self-sufficiency that had been so rife in the years 
of Official Nationality. 
Upholding the precepts of Stankevich and Belinskii, who had frequently attacked 
the Russian tendency to exaggeration and called for greater self-criticism, Turgenev tried, 
both in his novels and public declarations, to make it clear that Russiařs progress in all 
fields depended on avoiding any sort of arrogance towards the rest of Europe. As he once 
wrote to Annenkov:  
Настоящий патриотизм не имеет ничего общего с заносчивой, чванливой гордыней, 
которая ведѐт только к самообольщению, к невежеству, к ошибкам неисправимым.275   
Turgenevřs eventual appreciation of Glinka (in which Pauline Viardot played no small 
part) was marked precisely by this Řtrue patriotismř. He acknowledged Glinkařs 
achievement in having created the first distinctively Russian musical works, without 
denying his debt to foreign masters or drawing any rash conclusions about the youthful 
freshness of Russian music as Stasov and Cui would do. Writing in 1857, shortly after 
receiving news of Glinkařs death in Berlin, Turgenev observed prophetically: ŘИмя его 
[Глинки] не забудется в истории русской музыкиŕи, если суждено ей когда-нибудь 
развиться,ŕот него поведѐт она своѐ началоř.276  
 Even if Official Nationality faded away after the Crimean War, exaggerated notions 
about Russiařs Řspecial destinyř prevailed well into the second half of the nineteenth 
century, and they also continued to impinge on the debate about the development of 
Russian culture. There was, however, one section of Russian society which still clung on to 
the delusions of Official Nationalityŕnamely, the circles closest to the imperial court who 
filled the top ranks of the military and bureaucracy. It is worth considering briefly their 
                                               
275 Letter of 27 July/8 August 1870 (P VIII/263-64).      
276 Letter to Kashperov, 23 February/7 March 1857 (P III/95). See also Gozenpud 1994:61. 
135  
treatment of the painter Vasilii Vereshchagin, since he was one of the younger Russian 
artists whom Turgenev actively supported. 
 The St Petersburg exhibition in 1874 of Vereshchaginřs Turkestan series of 
paintingsŕbased on what he had witnessed during the Russian armyřs campaign in Central 
Asia and including Апофеоза войны (1871) and Забытый (1874; see Plate 4B)ŕwas 
condemned by several generals as anti-patriotic and injurious to the armyřs honour. 
Turgenev, on the other hand, was greatly impressed by Vereshchaginřs courage in showing 
the horrors of war and refusing to succumb to chauvinism. He subsequently helped to 
organize two exhibitions of Vereshchaginřs paintings in Paris (in 1879 and 1881), and 
wrote letters to French friends and newspapers, drawing attention to them. The following 
extract from one of these open letters is interesting for the way Turgenev invokes Gogolřřs 
legacy of Řtruthfulnessř as one of the guiding principles of Russian art: 
Cette tendance au vrai, au caractéristique, qui depuis notre grand écrivain Gogol, a posé 
son empreinte sur toutes les productions de la littérature russe, se manifeste également dans 
lřart russe sous le pinceau de Véréschaguine […] Ce sont des scènes militaires, mais pas 
prises dans le sens chauvin. Véréschaguine ne pense pas à poétiser lřarmée russe, à lui 
raconter sa gloire, mais à rendre tous les côtés de la guerre, les pathétiques, les grotesques 
et les terribles aussi bien que les autres, les psychologiques surtout… (XV/181-82) 
Similar charges of anti-patriotism as those levelled at Vereshchagin by tsarist generals had 
been made against Gogolř in his time by conservatives and supporters of Official 
Nationality. 
The threat posed by this doctrine to the Russian artist had been mainly of an 
external kind, since despite resting on Řclay feetř the Russian State under Nicholas I did 
have a formidable machinery of repression at its disposal. Dostoevskii, in particular, was to 
feel its weight for having dared to openly discuss Belinskiiřs Letter to Gogolř, that defiant 
refutation of all that Official Nationality stood for. The threat posed by Slavophilism, 
however, was perhaps more dangerous still because it could easily find its way into the 
mind and heart of many a Russian artist. 
 
V. 2 Slavophile ideas and Russian art 
In the 1840s, Gogolřřs significance as an artist became the subject of an intense 
debate between Westernists and Slavophiles, and the arguments advanced by Belinskii 
against the latter would have a lasting influence on Turgenevřs thoughts about the 
136  
development of Russian culture. This quarrel was somewhat unexpected, as at first both 
Belinskii and the Slavophiles had concurred in their praise for the genuine Řnational spiritř 
which shone through Gogolřřs Ukrainian and Petersburg stories in comparison to the 
clumsy attempts by the adherents of Official Nationality to make their works as Russian as 
possible. 
In 1842, however, Konstantin Aksakov wrote his notable essay on the recently 
published first part of Мѐртвые души, in which he argued that Gogolř deserved to be 
compared with Homer and Shakespeare for the epic sweep, greatness, and simplicity of his 
poema, so unique amidst the decadence of the modern European novel, and that the 
invocation of Russia at the end of this first part was a source of great hope: 
И когда здесь, в конце первой части, коснулся Гоголь общего субстанциального 
чувства русского, то вся сущность (субстанция) русского народа, тронутая им, 
поднялась колоссально […] Здесь проникает наружу и видится Русь, лежащая, 
думаем мы, тайным содержанием всей его поэмы. И какие эти строки, что дышит в 
них! и как, несмотря на мелочность предыдущих лиц и отношений на Руси, как 
могущественно выразилось то, что лежит в глубине, то сильное, субстанциальное, 
вечное, не исключаемое нисколько предыдущим. (1981:145) 
Belinskii himself, in an article written in 1841 (but not published in his lifetime), had also 
spoken, in Hegelian terms, of the Řсубстанция русского народаř which promised a great 
future for Russia, but, crucially, he had observed that it was as yet impossible to determine 
what this Řсубстанцияř consisted of (1953-59:V/649). Aksakovřs essay therefore could not 
but act as a red rag on him. Apart from Aksakovřs disparagement of contemporary 
European literature, this affirmative conclusion about Russiařs Řnational substanceř seemed 
to gloss over all the squalor described in the preceding chapters of Мѐртвые души. 
Belinskiiřs response was an article full of brilliant irony in which, without denying 
Gogolřřs talent for one moment, he questioned the right to draw such heady conclusions 
about the soundness of Russiařs Řnational spiritř. The result of this, as Annenkov later 
noted, was to make the rift between Belinskii and the Slavophiles irreparable (1960:240). 
In almost all of his subsequent articles Belinskii did not fail to include some barb against 
his antagonists. 
The importance of this quarrel for Turgenevřs attitude to Slavophilism becomes 
clear if we bear in mind that throughout the 1840s Konstantin Aksakov dismissively 
branded him, alongside Dostoevskii and other young talents discovered by Belinskii, as 
137  
one of the Řсанктпетербургские литераторыř. These writers, so Aksakov argued, were 
marred by artificial, aristocratic sentiments, by Řоторванность от русской землиř and 
contempt for the Russian people, and their works were nothing but paltry imitations of 
Pushkin and Lermontov, in the case of Turgenevřs early poems (Разговор and Помещик), 
and of Gogolř in the case of Dostoevskiiřs first novels (Бедные люди and Двойник).277 
These sharp and rather unjust criticisms can only have strengthened Turgenevřs 
determination to carry on Belinskiiřs struggle against anything that smacked of Slavophile 
doctrine. For so many of Aksakovřs judgements were indeed doctrinaire: apart from his 
revered Gogolř, works that dealt with the city or the landowning aristocracy, such as 
Turgenevřs Помещик, were automatically trivial! 
In 1878 Turgenev explained his hatred for the Slavophiles by saying that they were 
worse than the Germans in their rigid adherence to preconceived ideas: Řони систематики, 
а систематичность чужда русскому человекуř.278 Any system of beliefs that had to be 
taken for granted was an obstacle to that Řfreedom of manoeuvreř which, as Freeborn has 
stressed (1960:16), Turgenev held to be essential for all artists. As we have seen, it was 
from this perspective that he lamented what he perceived to be Slavophile tendencies in 
Tolstoiřs Война и мир. Turgenev was most of all alarmed by Tolstoiřs Slavophile-like 
refutation of the value of conscious reason in favour of the Řpeasant wisdomř embodied by 
Platon Karataev. Shortly after reading the Karataev episode he exclaimed: ŘВ своѐм 
поклонении бессознательному невежеству он [Толстой] скоро дойдѐт до апофеозиса 
Ивана Яковлевича, московского юродивогоř.279       
If in the field of philosophy the Slavophiles gave precedence to faith over the 
intellect, in the process of artistic creation, too, they stressed the role of the irrational. 
Thus, Ivan Aksakov, in his splendid 1874 essay on Tiutchev called it a miracle that 
someone who felt more at home in Europe and the Europeanized salons of St Petersburg 
than in the Russian countryside, who spoke and wrote in French far more frequently than 
in his native tongue, had been able to produce Russian verses of such profound beauty. 
Aksakov attributed this to the strength of the Řnational spiritř within Tiutchev:            
                                               
277 To be fair to Konstantin Aksakovřs literary discernment, he did find some words of praise for Бедные 
людиŕin particular, for Varenřkařs memories of growing up in the countryside. The phrase Řоторванность 
от русской землиř (later taken up by Apollon Grigorřev and Dostoevskii) appears in an 1847 article by 
Aksakov (1981:194).   
278 As recalled by Lukanina. VT (1983):II/204. 
279 Letter of 30 May/11 June 1869 to Zhemchiuzhnikov (P VIII/43).  
138  
Из глубочайшей глубины его духа била ключом у него поэзия, из глубины, 
недосягаемой даже для его собственной воли; из тех тайников, где живѐт наша 
первообразная природная стихия, где обитает самая правда человека... (1981:327) 
Turgenev, who had been one of the earliest champions of Tiutchev (having helped in the 
publication of the first volume of his verses in 1854), was wary of such attempts by the 
Slavophiles to claim the poet as their own. Shortly after hearing of Tiutchevřs death, 
Turgenev compared him to Khomiakov: 
Тютчевŕэто другое дело. Глубоко жалею о нѐм. Он тоже был славянофилŕно не в 
своих стихах; а те стихи, в которых он был имŕте-то и скверны. Самая сущная его 
суть, le fin du fin, чисто западнаяŕсродни Гѐте.280 
The Slavophilesř exaltation of the subconscious in art seemed to Turgenev 
something that was quite inappropriate in Russia given her need to catch up with the West 
through conscious effort in all aspects of culture. As noted earlier (see III.5) when 
discussing why Schopenhauerřs view of artists as mere vessels for Platonic ideas received 
by inspiration (or what he called Řahnende Antizipationř) cannot do justice to Turgenevřs 
aesthetics, it is worth stressing again that Turgenev fully shared Belinskiiřs conviction that 
no artist could renounce the use of his intellectual faculties. In 1847 the great critic had 
ironically asked those who claimed that art was a matter of inspiration alone: ŘА для 
искусства не нужно ума и рассудка?ř (1953-59:X/305). 
Turgenev had good reason to remind his countrymen of the importance of 
intellectual effort. As we have seen, he was dismayed by the opposition from some 
quarters to the establishment of Russiařs first music conservatory, and had Potugin in Дым 
stand up for professionalism and education: ŘНе поощряйте, ради Бога, у нас на Руси 
мысли, что можно чего-нибудь добиться без учения! Нет; будь ты хоть семи пядей 
во лбу, а учись, учись с азбуки!ř (IX/231). More alarming perhaps than the vain 
dilettantism of Russiařs Řhome-grown geniusesř was the onslaught against reason and the 
intellect which Tolstoi carried out in Война и мирŕand which was all the more 
compelling because of Tolstoiřs genius. As Turgenev lamented: 
То, что всякому мужику понятно, как польза хлебаŕа именно польза человеческого 
ума, рассудкаŕто-то и нужно искоренить!! То-то и есть чепуха! И нужно же, чтобы 
                                               
280 Letter to Fet, 21 August/2 September 1873 (P X/143). 
139  
эдакая ерунда залезла в голову самого даровитого писателя во всей современной 
европейской литературе.281           
The fact that this remarkable novel displayed an underlying hostility towards intellectual 
values was in Turgenevřs view the result of Tolstoi having come under the influence of 
Prince Urusov, whom Turgenev considered a Slavophile.
282
 
Whether or not Turgenev was right in his accusations against Urusov and Tolstoi is 
less important than the fact that he took such a principled stance against anything that 
reminded him of Slavophilism. And such notions as Řunconscious creativityř and Řintuitive 
understandingř were indeed an essential part of Slavophile aesthetics and contributed to the 
messianic view of Russian art which, as far as literature is concerned, found its most 
eloquent expression in Dostoevskiiřs speech of 1880, describing Pushkinřs Řвсемирная 
отзывчивостьř as something miraculous and prophetic (1972-90:XXVI/146-47).283 As we 
shall see in the next section, Turgenev always criticized such messianism, for it ran 
contrary to his faith in the continuity of culture and might well tempt his countrymen to 
ungrateful arrogance towards the West. 
Let us, though, return to Gogolř again and to how the Slavophiles tried to win him 
over to their cause. Sergei Aksakov cited, in his invaluable biographical essay of 1854 on 
the great writer, a letter which Gogolř had sent him from Rome towards the end of 1840, 
speaking of his Řсильное чувство любви к Россииř. Aksakov explains this as the result of 
Gogolřřs visit to Russia in the spring of that year during which he had made the 
acquaintance of his son Konstantin, the most fervent of the Slavophiles, who had explained 
to Gogolř Řвсѐ значение, весь смысл русского народаř.284 It is indeed likely that 
Konstantinřs ideas did to some extent inspire Gogolřřs unexpected invocation of Russiařs 
vast potential at the end of the first part of Мѐртвые души. Similarly, the reflections of the 
young Italian prince in Рим (also completed in 1842) about the popular festivities for the 
Carnival could easily be read as a typical Slavophile declaration about the Russian 
peasantry: 
Всѐ это показывало ему [князю] стихии народа сильного, непочатого, для которого 
как будто бы готовилось какое-то поприще впереди. Европейское просвещение как 
                                               
281 Letter to Borisov, 12/24 March 1869 (P VII/341-42). 
282 Letters to Borisov of 31 January/12 February and 12/24 August 1870 (P VIII/184, 270).   
283 See also Kashina 1975:106-115.       
284 Mashinskii 1952: 132. 
140  
будто с умыслом не коснулось его и не водрузило в грудь ему своего холодного 
усовершенствования. (1952-53:III/224)   
Significantly, Konstantin Aksakov, who had previously derided Turgenev as a 
Řпетербургский литераторř, immediately hailed Записки охотника because of the way 
they confirmed certain cherished Slavophile ideas. Referring to Хорь и Калиныч (1847), 
the first of these sketches, Aksakov enthused:         
Вот что значит прикоснуться к земле и к народу: вмиг даѐтся сила! […] Он 
прикоснулся к народу, прикоснулся к нему с участием и сочувствием, и посмотрите, 
как хорош его рассказ! […] Дай Бог г. Тургеневу продолжать по этой дороге! 
(1981:192-93)  
And in an article of 1857 he again praised Turgenev for having drawn from the Řживая 
вода народнаяř in these sketches which had a refreshing effect on the reader, Řприближая 
его к той великой тайне жизни, которая лежит в русском народеř (1981:192-93). All 
this illustrates how the Slavophiles were keen to seize on any works of art that might serve 
their causeŕperhaps because they were unable to create anything of artistic value 
themselves.
285
 
In both cases, however, they reckoned without the complexity of every true artistřs 
nature. For Gogolř soon dismayed his Slavophile friends by trying to answer directly the 
questions posed by the first part of Мѐртвые души rather than embarking on the 
completion of his work. And Turgenev, however flattered he might have felt by the 
Aksakovsř sympathy, realized that he couldnřt just continue on the same path and keep 
adding to the Записки охотника. As he put it in a letter to Annenkov, shortly before 
making his first attempts at a full-length novel of Russian educated society: 
Надобно пойти другой дорогойŕнадобно найти еѐŕи раскланяться навсегда с 
старой манерой. Довольно я старался извлекать из людских характеров разводные 
эссенцииŕtriples extraitsŕчтобы влить их потом в маленькие сткляночкиŕнюхайте, 
мол, почтенные читателиŕоткупорьте и нюхайтеŕне правда ли пахнет русским 
типом ? Довольноŕдовольно.286                            
                                               
285 As Dostoevskii noted ironically in an article of 1861, referring to how the Slavophiles were so disparaging 
about Russian literature after Gogolř: ŘДа ведь вы сами литераторы, господа славянофилы. Ведь вы 
хвалитесь же знанием народа, ну и представьте нам сами ваши идеалы, ваши образы. Но, сколько нам 
известно, выше князя Луповицкого вы ещѐ не поднимались...ř (1972-90:XIX/63). Князь Луповицкий, 
или Приезд в деревню (1856) was a comedy by Konstantin Aksakov.      
286 Letter of 28 October 1852 (P II/278). 
141  
There was perhaps really only one principle in aesthetics in which Westernists like 
Belinskii and Turgenev agreed with the Slavophilesŕnamely, in the need for Russian 
artists to abandon their Řподражательное направлениеř, which had been going on ever 
since the Petrine reforms, and achieve a Řсамобытное русское воззрениеř.287 
Admittedly, there were considerable differences in opinion as to how this was to be 
attained. Turgenev would have no truck with the religious dogmas of Khomiakov, for 
example, who claimed that Aleksandr Ivanov had succeeded in breaking free from the 
individualism that had marred Western painting from the Renaissance onwards thanks to 
his humility and monastic dedication which had allowed his soul to become an Řотражение 
всенародного Русского духа, просвещѐнного Православною Вероюř (Khomiakov 
1900:III/359). But if in his abhorrence towards any sort of Russian messianism Turgenev 
was firmly opposed to the Slavophiles, he did share Konstantin Aksakovřs hopes that 
Russia should find her own rightful and distinct place alongside the other European 
nations, for only then would she be able to contribute to the spiritual patrimony of 
mankind. 
What alarmed Turgenev, as Charles Moser has observed, was that Řon those few 
occasions when some genuinely remarkable Russian artist did appear, his countrymen 
hastened to exaggerate his significance out of all proportionř (1972:81). This was a 
consequence of Russiařs complicated sense of inferiority, and it wasnřt just Slavophiles 
who were prone to exaggeration. 
 
V.3 Russian cultural nationalism 
Long before the eulogies of Glinka by Stasov and Cui in the 1860s, Жизнь за царя, 
the first truly Russian opera, had been given a significance bordering on the messianic by 
critics who didnřt belong to the Slavophile circle. Thus, Stankevichřs friend Neverov wrote 
in his review of the première in 1836: 
Этой свежей мысли уже давно ищет в себе Европа и не находит. В одной только 
России есть ещѐ богатое будущее: юная, свежая, она своей национальностью должна 
обновить дряхлеющую художественную жизнь своей наставницы и внести в неѐ 
новые элементы.288       
                                               
287 As Konstantin Aksakov argued in an article of 1856, though he was thinking not just of Russian artists but 
also of scholars, scientists, and indeed all Russian educated society (1981:200).  
288 Livanova & Protopopov 1955:II/214. 
142  
Odoevskii, in his slightly more objective articles on Жизнь за царя and Руслан и 
Людмила, made similar reflections on how European music seemed to have exhausted 
itself, and how Glinka was destined to replenish it. It is interesting that at the time the 
Slavophiles themselves, whilst fully aware of the significance of Glinkařs achievement, 
were careful to avoid such raptures. This was because, as we have seen, Glinkařs first 
opera lent itself to associations with the doctrine of Official Nationality that was so odious 
to the Slavophiles. It was in this sense that Ivan Aksakov wrote to his father in 1844: 
Řофициальность, которую дают этой опере [Жизни за царя], как-то опошляет и 
мысль о такой опере. Это жаль и мешает понимать эту прекрасную, вполне русскую 
оперуř.289 And Khomiakov, in an article also written in 1844, attempted a Slavophile 
interpretation of the opera, arguing that Susanin was not so much a hero as a humble 
peasant, family man and member of the Řбратская общинаř, who merely accepts the role 
imposed on him by fate; and that the epilogue in Moscow celebrated not just the unity of 
the Russian lands but the brotherhood of all Slavic peoples (1900:III/101-2)! 
 The misgivings which the young Turgenev had about Жизнь за царя in view of its 
association with Official Nationality, and which contributed to his failure to appreciate 
Glinkařs music at the time, were nothing compared to the dismay he felt in the 1860s when 
Stasov and especially Cui invoked Glinkařs legacy to support an unashamed musical 
nationalism. Using arguments that must have reminded Turgenev of Herzenřs attempts 
during their 1862 polemic to prove the decrepitude of European bourgeois civilization 
which Russia might be able to escape thanks to her youth, Cui confidently asserted in 1864 
that music in the West was in its last throes and that the future lay with Russia: 
В Европе музыка одряхлела и не может подбодриться, несмотря на все 
гармонические и оркестровые приправы, а русская музыка полна сил и свежести. 
Там музыка отжила свой век, а у нас только начинает жить […] Среди всеобщего 
застоя или предсмертных усилий музыка от нас получит своѐ обновление и начнѐт 
новую эпоху. (1952:37)     
As Peter Brang has noted (1979:275-76), this idea of Russiařs youth was one that had 
enjoyed great currency ever since the eighteenth century and had been taken up by figures 
in Russian intellectual life as diametrically opposed as Pogodin, the champion of Official 
Nationality, and Belinskii, as well as Herzen after his disillusionment in the 1848 
revolutions.  
                                               
289 ibid.:I/194. 
143  
In Cuiřs articles about the new Russian school of music, it resurged in conjunction 
with a cavalier attitude towards the European heritage. His various Řпрезрительные 
отзывы о Бахе и Генделе, Гайдне и Моцартеř were effectively on the same level as 
Shevyrevřs formulation about the Řгнилой Западř.290 Even someone as opposed to 
violence as Turgenev was provoked by Cuiřs articles to exclaim: Řг-на Кюи, за его 
сквернословие о Моцарте, всѐ-таки надо убить, проломив его пустую голову 
непременно грязным камнемř.291 Although Stasov, in contrast, showed far greater 
respect for the European masters, his high-flown tributes to Glinkařs genius and assertion 
that Руслан и Людмила had laid the foundations for a Řбудущая самостоятельная 
русская школаř did help to shape Řthat vision of a Ŗspecial destinyŗ for Russian music 
shared by Balakirev and his nationalist leagueř which Turgenev couldnřt reconcile himself 
to.
292
 If we also take into account Stasovřs no less fervent declarations about Russian 
painting, it isnřt surprising that Turgenev felt obliged to refute him so oftenŕboth in 
private letters and conversations and in his novels (Дым and Новь). As Andrei Kriukov 
has noted (1963:108), Turgenev saw in Stasovřs propaganda of Russian art a veiled form 
of Slavophilism. 
 There was actually little Slavophilism as such in Stasovřs viewsŕexcept perhaps in 
his articles about the success of Glinkařs operas in Prague and about the Slavic concert 
conducted by Balakirev in St Petersburg in honour of the delegates attending the first 
congress of the Slavic Committee in May 1867.
293
 But what Stasov certainly did advocate 
was the need for Řnational contentř in Russian art (preferably drawing on themes from the 
pre-Petrine period) and at the same time a liberation from the Western canon which was 
dangerously close to ingratitude in Turgenevřs eyes. After all, in his 1842 memorandum on 
Russiařs agrarian development, he had already warned his countrymen:        
Сохрани нас Бог впасть в слепое поклонение всему русскому потому только, что оно 
русское; сохрани нас Бог от ограниченных и, скажу прямо, неблагодарных нападок 
на Западř (I/471-72) 
The relevance of this warning was even greater in the 1860s, when despite the fact that 
Official Nationality had long since been discredited and orthodox Slavophilism was on the 
wane, ideas common to them both began to make a comeback. Just as Turgenev called 
                                               
290 As Chaikovskiiřs friend Herman Laroche ironically noted in an article of 1873 (Campbell 1994:217).    
291 Letter to V. Kartashevskaia, 16/28 February 1868 (P VII/66). 
292 Brown 1983:69. 
293 Cf. Olkhovsky 1983:95ff. and Stasov 1974-80:II/109. It was in his review of this concert that Stasov 
coined the phrase Řмогучая кучкаř. 
144  
Herzenřs newly acquired faith in the Řармякř of the Russian peasant a self-delusion akin to 
those of the Slavophiles (IX/170), so he dismissed the frequent declarations by Cui and 
other critics about how Russia was destined to revivify European art: 
Явись, например, великий русский живописецŕего картина будет лучшей 
пропагандой, чем тысячи рассуждений о способностях нашего племени к 
искусству.294  
All this well-intentioned patriotism was in itself not sufficient to guarantee that truly 
significant and original Russian works of art would emerge, as Turgenev tried to 
demonstrate in the more polemic chapters of Дымŕfor example, in this comical 
description of the enthusiast Bambaev: 
Бамбаев тоже поговорил о будущности России и даже расписал еѐ в радужных 
красках, но в особенный восторг привела его мысль о русской музыке, в которой он 
видел что-то «ух! большое» и в доказательство затянул романс Варламова, но скоро 
был прерван общим криком, что: «он, мол, поѐт Miserere из «Троватора»... (IX/163) 
 From the 1870s onwards, however, nationalist tendencies predominated outright in 
Russian artŕespecially in painting. As Elizabeth Valkenier has noted (2007:48), this 
coincided with the official course Russia was taking in foreign affairs and reflected Řthe 
rise of a Slavophilism and pan-Slavism that stressed Russiařs separate traditions and 
destinyř. This would culminate in the 1890s, when the itinerant painters (peredvizhniki), 
once the most independent-minded of Russian artists, were taken under the wing of 
Alexander III. Turgenev didnřt live to see this, of course, but in his capacity as secretary of 
the Society for the Mutual Aid of Russian Artists in Paris he did get to know a number of 
young Russian painters who were sent to the French capital by the Academy and thus 
became aware of these tendencies. 
As we would expect, Turgenev supported the veteran landscape painter Aleksei 
Bogoliubov (with whom he had co-founded the Society in 1877) in his attempts to open up 
the horizons of these young artists by familiarizing them with the latest currents in French 
painting.
295
 For Turgenev, whilst always concerned that Russian art should be both 
national and original, didnřt approve of works that merely indulged in ŘRussiannessř and 
failed to address the negative aspects of Russian reality. 
                                               
294 Letter to Herzen, 30 November/12 December 1867 (P VI/355). 
295 See Blakesley 2007 for details on Bogoliubovřs activities in Paris and Saratov; and Jackson (1998:400) 
for an account of Stasovřs indignant reaction when he found out that Repin had been painting Parisian 
themes and experimenting with new techniques!  
145  
That is why in his already cited letter of 1882 to Kramskoi, Turgenev emphasized 
that for the forthcoming exhibition of Russian art in Paris works such as Repinřs Бурлаки 
and Vereshchaginřs war paintings ought to be selected. By virtue of their truthfulness these 
were the best examples of the Russian school. Paintings, however, which did no more than 
convey Řtypicalř Russian genre scenes were to be avoided: 
Произведения нашей школы, в которых ещѐ высказывается тенденциозность, 
подчѐркивание (обыкновенный признак всего ещѐ молодого, незрелого) должны быть 
удалены, как несвободные воспроизведения народной жизни, как обременѐнные 
задней мыслью...296  
Always true to the precepts of Belinskii, who in 1844 had remarked: ŘБедна та 
народность, которая трепещет за свою самостоятельностьř (1953-59:VII/436), 
Turgenev issued a similar warning against Řnationalismř in all the arts in his Pushkin 
speech of 1880: 
Выставлять лозунг народности в художестве, поэзии, литературе свойственно только 
племенам слабым, ещѐ не созревшим или же находящимся в порабощѐнном, 
угнетѐнном состоянии. (XV/69) 
Russia by the second half of the nineteenth century was clearly not in this unfortunate 
position, and yet for the reasons discussed in this chapter, Russian artists often found it 
difficult to attain that freedom with respect to their own country which Turgenev 
considered to be essential: 
Нет! без правдивости, без образования, без свободы в обширнейшем смыслеŕв 
отношении к самому себе, к своим предвзятым идеям и системам, даже к своему 
народу, к своей истории,ŕнемыслим художник. (XIV/108)     
There were, however, other reasons why even a Russian artist equipped with such 
inner freedom, education, and talent might run aground eventually. In Turgenevřs eyesŕ
though not only hisŕfate often seemed to be conspiring against Russian artists. 
                                               
296 Letter of 6/18 December 1882 (P XIII2/121). 
146  
CHAPTER VI 
 
THE RUSSIAN ARTIST’S TRAGIC FATE 
 
Introduction 
When Shubin, in Накануне, loses all hope of winning Elenařs love, he fashions a 
bust of himself as a hopeless drunkardŕan Řиспитый, исхудалый жуирřŕand gives it the 
title: «Будущность художника Павла Яковлевича Шубина» (VIII/100). Such bitter self-
irony rightly provokes Bersenevřs indignation: ŘДа и что за вздор? В тебе нет тех 
залогов подобного развития, которыми до сих пор, к несчастью, так обильно 
одарены наши артистыř (VIII/100-1). How true, though, is this remark of Bersenevřs 
about Russian artists often succumbing to alcoholism. 
It was a lamentable phenomenon which Turgenev had occasion to observe 
throughout his life. Thus, in a letter of 1850 to Pauline Viardot he described a conversation 
in one of the aristocratic salons of St Petersburg whose subject had been Řla grande 
quantité de Russes remarquables par leurs talents, morts dřivresseř.297 Turgenev was aware 
of how alcohol had been one of the causes of Glinkařs premature death in Berlin in 1857. 
Almost twenty years later, during that private concert in 1874 at which Turgenev was able 
to appreciate Musorgskiiřs music, he again had something similar to report back to Mme 
Viardot: ŘMoussorgski a un faux air de Glinka; seulement il a le nez complètement rouge 
(malheureusement, cřest un ivrogne), des yeux pâles, mais beauxř.298 This impression is 
more than confirmed by Repinřs magnificent portrait of Musorgskii (see Plate 5), painted 
just a few weeks before the composerřs death in a military hospital. 
Of course, Turgenev wasnřt the only Russian writer to note this tendency towards 
alcoholism, which afflicted painters, sculptors and musicians rather more frequently than it 
did men of letters. The violinists Efimov, in Dostoevskiiřs Неточка Незванова, and 
Alřbert, in Tolstoiřs eponymous story of 1858, readily take to the bottle, whilst the cynical 
nihilist Volokhov, in Goncharovřs Обрыв, mocks Raiskiiřs artistic ambitions: 
Много этаких у нас было и есть: все пропали или спились с кругу. Я ещѐ удивляюсь, 
что вы не пьѐте: наши художники обыкновенно кончают этим. Это все неудачники! 
(1959-60:V/231) 
Unfortunately, in reality it wasnřt just failed artists who might seek refuge in drink, but 
also true geniuses like Glinka and Musorgskii. We have already referred to Abram 
                                               
297 Letter of 21 October 1850 (LI:40).  
298 Letter of 21 May 1874 (NC:I/ 212). 
147  
Gozenpudřs suggestion that the introduction of Herr Lemm as a tragically isolated artist 
figure into the canvas of Дворянское гнездо was inspired by Turgenevřs first-hand 
observations of Glinka and Ivanov in their last years: 
С новой силой вопрос об участи артиста предстал перед Тургеневым в ту пору, когда 
он обдумывал свой роман [Дворянское гнездо]. Один за другим сошли в могилу в 
1857 годуŕГлинка, а в 1858-мŕхудожник А. А. Иванов. Тургенев встретился с 
композитором и был свидетелем того, как тяжело тот переносил равнодушие 
общества, пытался найти утешение и забвение в вине. (1994:123)     
The explanation provided here for Glinkařs alcoholism may be inadequate, but Gozenpud 
was quite right in emphasizing how Turgenevřs thoughts during the 1850s often returned 
to the question of the tragic fate befalling so many Russian artists. When he learnt of the 
painter Ivanovřs death due to cholera, Turgenev observed: ŘНет, решительно: ни России, 
ни порядочным русским не везѐтř.299  
Most importantly, Turgenev never forgot the effect which Gogolřřs death on 21 
February 1852 had had on him. In a letter to Pauline Viardot, he said: ŘCřest comme une 
épine que je porte dans le coeurř.300 He was shocked by the news that the great writer had 
burnt almost all of his manuscripts, especially since only four months earlier he had visited 
Gogolř in Moscow and seen encouraging signs that he might be returning to creative work. 
In his obituary of Gogolř, which would cost him almost two years of internal exile, 
Turgenev spoke on behalf of all Russia: 
Он умер, поражѐнный в самом цвете лет, в разгаре сил своих, не окончив начатого 
дела, подобно благороднейшим из его предшественников... Его утрата возобновляет 
скорбь о тех незабвенных утратах, как новая рана возбуждает боль старинных язв. 
(XIV/72) 
As we shall see, Shubinřs fate at the end of Накануне reflects one aspect of Gogolřřs tragic 
destiny with which Turgenev could identifyŕnamely, the implications which long 
absences abroad had for the task of writing about Russia. Another aspect, the 
Řмистическое направлениеř which, according to Annenkov (1960:123), Gogolř had taken 
in the last decade of his life, influenced Turgenevřs concerns about Tolstoi, whom he 
readily acknowledged to be Russiařs greatest living writer.                            
                                               
299 Letter to Cherkasskii, 9 July 1858 (P III/228). 
300 Letter of 21 March 1852 (LI:57). 
148  
The notion of the tragic fate of the Russian artist was very widespread. Turgenev 
invoked it in his 1880 tribute to Pushkin, where he spoke of the Řтрагическая судьбаř 
which had carried away both Pushkin and Lermontov, albeit softening the tone of his 
words by describing these deaths as Řтрагические случайности, тем более трагические, 
что они случайныř (XV/71). An obituary which appeared shortly after Musorgskiiřs death 
on 16 March 1881 made the following reflections: 
Шевелилось невольно горькое чувство, невольно думалось о странной судьбе наших 
русских людей. Быть таким талантом, каким был Мусоргский, иметь все данные 
стоять высоко и житьŕи вместо того умереть в больнице, среди чужого люда... Что 
за фатум преследует наши дарования?...301 
Observers who were less bound by the constraints of censorship didnřt content themselves 
with blaming chance. Thus, in 1845, still in exile in Siberia, the Decembrist Kiukhelřbeker 
wrote a poem called ŘУчасть русских поэтовř, in which he reflected on the cruel fate that 
had sent Ryleev to the gallows and other noble idealists into prison and exile; that had 
allowed the hand of a Řпрезренный любовникř to lodge а bullet into the Řсвященное 
челоř of his friend Pushkin; and had incited the mob in Teheran to tear Griboedov to 
pieces. Turgenev and many a younger contemporary would certainly have agreed with the 
opening verses of Kiukhelřbekerřs poem: ŘГорька судьба поэтов всех племѐн; / Тяжеле 
всех судьба казнит Россиюř.302 
The Geneva and London emigrés could afford to be even more explicit still. Ogarev 
blamed the deaths of Pushkin and Lermontov on the intrigues of Nicholas Iřs court and 
officer corps; whilst Herzen, in his 1851 essay Du développement des idées 
révolutionnaires en Russie, compiled a list of all the writers whose premature deaths were 
on the conscience of the tsarist regime and Russian society in some way or other: 
Un sort terrible et sombre est réservé chez nous à quiconque ose lever la tête au-dessus du 
niveau tracé par le sceptre impérial; poète citoyen, penseur, une fatalité inexorable les 
pousse dans la tombe. Lřhistoire de notre littérature est un martyrologe ou un registre des 
bagnes. (1954-66:VII/77)                 
Belinskii, too, had noted something similar in a private letter to Gogolř in 1842: 
Судьба же давно играет странную роль в отношении ко всему, что есть порядочного 
в русской литературе; она лишает ума Батюшкова, жизни Грибоедова, Пушкина и 
                                               
301 Quoted by Abyzova 1986:143. 
302 Quoted by Brang 1961:335. 
149  
Лермонтоваŕи оставляет в добром здоровье Булгарина, Греча и других подобных 
им негодяев в Петербурге и Москве.303    
Turgenev also had his bone to pick with the reactionary elements of Russian 
society, as we can appreciate from the satirical pages of his novels, but his thoughts on the 
Russian artistřs tragic fate touched on more complex issues than Herzenřs philippics 
against the tsarist regime. They can be usefully linked, in fact, to Gogolřřs own reflections 
in Выбранные места из переписки с друзьями (1846) about Russian literature: 
Слышно страшное в судьбе наших поэтов. Как только кто-нибудь из них, упустив из 
виду своѐ главное поприще и назначенье, бросался на другое или же опускался в тот 
омут светских отношений, где не следует ему быть и где нет места для поэта, 
внезапная, насильственная смерть вырывала его вдруг из нашей среды. (1994:VI/179)            
Gogolřřs remark about how there was no room for a poet in aristocratic society is to some 
extent part of the Romantic tradition which he never fully broke with. The conflict between 
the sensitive artist and frivolous high society had been at the heart of E.T.A. Hoffmannřs 
great novel Lebensansichten des Katers Murr (1821), with its tragic biography of the 
musician Johannes Kreisler, which influenced not just Gogolř but even younger writers 
like Dostoevskii (Неточка Незванова), and Turgenev (Lemm in Дворянское гнездо). 
More significant is Gogolřřs observation about how a Russian artist was doomed if 
he lost sight of his true vocation. It is this danger which Turgenev himself so feared in the 
case of Tolstoiŕnamely, that the latter might, like Gogolř, abandon creative work for the 
sake of moral introspection. For even after his quarrel with Tolstoi, which wasnřt patched 
up until 1878, Turgenev had continued to keep track of his younger colleague and was 
alarmed by the news of Tolstoiřs ill-health that reached him on one occasion: 
Л.Толстой, эта единственная надежда нашей осиротевшей литературы, не может и не 
должен так же скоро исчезнуть с лица земли, как его предшественники Пушкин, 
Лермонтов и Гоголь.304                  
Death, though, wasnřt the worst fate that could befall a Russian writer. Rather, it was the 
betrayal of oneřs vocation, which explains why Turgenev, in another letter to Pauline 
Viardot, indignantly called Gogolřřs destruction of his manuscripts before effectively 
starving himself to death a Řmoral suicideř: ŘMais de quel droit emporter tous ces trésors 
                                               
303 Letter of 20 April 1842 (Belinskii 1953-59:XII/107-08). 
304 Letter to Fet, 2/14 July 1871 (P IX/110). 
150  
avec soi? Nřétaient-ils déjà pas devenus notre bien à tous?ř305 Similarly, the attitude of 
many Russians, including Turgenev, towards Tolstoiřs writing of moral and religious 
tractates was a mixture of bewilderment and lament. 
Somewhat less tragic was the fate which Turgenev himself experienced, and to 
which he alluded in Shubinřs situation at the end of Наканунеŕnamely, that of willingly 
absenting himself from Russia for long periods. This predicament can also be linked to 
Gogolř, of whose voluntary Řexileř in Italy, with only sporadic visits to Russia during these 
twelve years (1836-48) Turgenev was very much aware. 
Although in Turgenevřs case this didnřt quite amount to betraying his vocation, 
since he did keep writing about Russian life and society, he was all too conscious of the 
fact that living outside Russia made his task much harder. It was with bitter resignation that 
he replied the following to the Kashperovs, who asked him during a visit to Moscow in 
1874 why he didnřt return to Russia permanently so that he could work more effectively on 
Новь (rather than relying on material about the young narodniki sent to him by friends): 
Такова, должно быть, судьба русского человека; что он ни делает, как он ни парит, а 
в конце концов или сопьѐтся, или заиграет в карты, или уедет за границу, словом, так 
или иначе пропадѐт.306                       
 On the other hand, Turgenev knew that artists in general are rarely ever blessed 
with happiness, and that this was even a necessary part of their destiny which they had to 
accept: ŘДа и не может быть счастливых художников: счастьеŕпокой, а покой 
ничего не создаѐтř.307 Again, these words show Turgenevřs affinity with Kant and 
Goetheřs dialectic view of life: adversity can be a blessing in disguise because it 
encourages people to develop their talents. 
 
VI. 1 Far from Russia 
At the end of the epilogue to Накануне the narrator quotes the most recent letter 
Shubin has written to Uvar Ivanovich from Rome, asking this worthy representative of the 
Russian Řsphinxř once again the question which had prompted Turgenev to write his novel: 
Řбудут ли у нас люди?ř (VIII/167). Of particular relevance to our topic is the way in 
which Shubin opens this question: ŘО черноземная сила! И вот теперь я отсюда, из 
моего «прекрасного далека», снова вас спрашиваю...ř (VIII/167). This is yet another 
                                               
305 Letter of 4 March 1852 (NC:I/64). 
306 Quoted by Zilřbershtein 1967:420. 
307 A remark made by Turgenev during the last years of his life (Zilřbershtein 1964:373). 
151  
example of what Aleksandr Chudakov called Turgenevřs use of Řчужое словоř 
(1987:247), since even without the quotation marks contemporary readers would have 
instantly recognized that Shubin is citing Gogolřřs lyrical invocation of Russia at the end 
of the first part of Мѐртвые души: ŘРусь! Русь! вижу тебя, из моего чудного, 
прекрасного далека тебя вижуř (1952-53:V/229).308  
It isnřt too far-fetched of Shubin to borrow this phrase, since just as he is dedicating 
himself to art in the Eternal City, so Gogolř wrote most of the first part of Мѐртвые души 
amidst the beautiful landscapes of Italy and Switzerland. Of course, the specific tasks 
Shubin is pursuing as a sculptor are not as ambitious as those which Gogolř felt himself 
called upon to fulfil after Pushkinřs death by writing his poema of Russia. Turgenev, 
though, cites these words not just to illustrate Shubinřs situation in Rome, but also with 
some self-irony. He would have remembered how Belinskii quoted them most poignantly 
in his Letter to Gogolř in 1847: 
Вы глубоко знаете Россию только как художник, а не как мыслящий человек, роль 
которого Вы так неудачно приняли на себя в своей фантастической книге 
[Выбранные места]. И это не потому, чтоб Вы не были мыслящим человеком, а 
потому, что Вы столько уже лет привыкли смотреть на Россию из Вашего 
прекрасного далека, и ведь известно, что ничего нет легче, как издалека видеть 
предметы такими, какими нам хочется их видеть. (1953-59:X/213)             
Turgenev himself would be upbraided in similar terms by Dostoevskii in 1867 for having 
written Дым, and during their conversation in Baden-Baden his visitor famously advised 
him to buy a telescope so that he could see Russia better.309 
But already in 1859, during the writing of Накануне (which he started planning in 
Rome), Turgenev had been criticized by some compatriotsŕespecially Countess 
Lambertŕfor seemingly preferring the comforts of European civilization to living in 
Russia and participating in the preparations for Alexander IIřs reforms. Itřs not surprising, 
then, that Turgenev could identify with Gogolř to some extent, since the latter had been 
accused by his great admirers, the Aksakov family, if not of sybaritism (for they knew and 
respected Gogolřřs ascetic frame of mind), then certainly of partiality for the more 
agreeable atmosphere of Italy. As Sergei Aksakov admitted in his 1854 memoir of Gogolř: 
                                               
308 The commentaries on Накануне in the two Academy editions of Turgenevřs works assume that Russian 
readers are familiar with this phrase, since the quote from Gogolř isnřt pointed out in the notes. Richard 
Peace (2002:ch. 3) has also drawn attention to Shubinřs citation of Gogolř.      
309 See Dostoevskiiřs letter to Maikov, 16/28 August 1867 (1972-90:XXVIII2/211).  
152  
Нам очень не нравился его отъезд в чужие края, в Италию, которую, как нам 
казалось, он любил слишком много. Нам казалось невероятным уверение Гоголя, что 
ему надобно удалиться в Рим, чтоб писать об России; нам казалось, что Гоголь не 
довольно любит Россию, что итальянское небо, свободная жизнь посреди 
художников всякого рода, роскошь климата, поэтические развалины славного 
прошедшего, всѐ это вместе бросало невыгодную тень на природу нашу и нашу 
жизнь.310                     
There is no reason, though, to doubt, as Aksakov did, the truth of Gogolřřs assertion that he 
had to be far from Russia in order to write about her. In his Авторская исповедь (penned 
in the summer of 1847, in reply to Belinskiiřs letter, but not published until 1855), Gogolř 
insisted that Řудаление от Россииř was essential to him, so that he could observe and think 
about contemporary Russia with the serenity required of an artist (1994:VI/219). 
Indeed, one could say that all great Russian writers who came after Gogolř 
recognized the need to Řdistance themselvesř from Russia in some way or other. Thus, 
impartiality Řдаже к своему народуř (XIV/108) was one of the tenets of Turgenevřs 
aesthetic credo, strengthened by the critical tendencies of his mentor Belinskii. Even 
Dostoevskii, who wanted Russian society to overcome what he perceived to be the 
Westernistsř and liberalsř lack of patriotism, didnřt deny the value of self-criticism in the 
development of Russiařs consciousness, as he argued in 1860: 
Способность отрешиться на время от почвы, чтоб трезвее и беспристрастнее 
взглянуть на себя, есть уже сама по себе признак величайшей особенности [России]. 
(1972-90:XVIII/37)      
Where this separation from Russia was also physical and permanent, or nearly soŕas was 
the case with Turgenev, since after July 1856 he fixed his main places of residence abroad, 
visiting Russia usually only for a few weeks at a timeŕthe consequences could be fatal. 
Especially for someone like Turgenev, who believed that for an artist Řнужно постоянное 
общение с средою, которую берѐшься воспроизводитьř (XIV/106-07), as he put it in 
По поводу «Отцов и детей», that important manifesto of his aesthetic principles. 
Similarly, ten years later, in his Pushkin speech he praised the great poet for being a 
Řхудожник [и] человек, близко стоящий к самому средоточию русской жизниř 
(XV/70-71). In Turgenevřs case, therefore, it wasnřt so much a question of committing 
errors of judgement about Russia as Gogolř had done in Выбранные места. (Belinskii 
                                               
310 Mashinskii 1952:121. 
153  
had pointed out that it was very easy to sing the praises of Russian autocracy while living 
in the Řпрекрасное далекоř of Italy!) Rather, it was the danger of his very inspiration as an 
artist drying up because of his being torn from the heart of Russian life.   
 On the other hand, itřs not difficult to see why Russian artists were so attracted to 
Western Europe and especially to Italy if they were painters or sculptors like Shubin, who 
complains about Russiařs dreary landscapes and folklore during his walk with Bersenev 
along the Moscow river: 
Поди ты с твоими русалками! На что мне, ваятелю, эти исчадия запуганной, 
холодной фантазии, эти образы, рождѐнные в духоте избы, во мраке зимних ночей? 
Мне нужно света, простора... Когда же, Боже мой, поеду я в Италию? (VIII/16)                      
It would be a mistake to ascribe Shubinřs opinion here about the deficiencies of Russian 
nature to Turgenev, the author of Записки охотника, with their wonderful evocations of 
the countryside. And yet Shubinřs yearning for the light of Italy, shared by so many real 
Russian artists,
311
 obviously did strike a chord with Turgenev. In this respect it is worth 
referring to a letter he wrote in 1862 to a young Russian woman who had grown up in Italy 
and had only recently come to Russia for the first time, to settle with her husband in Permř. 
She had described the local countryside to Turgenev, and this is what he replied: 
Россия некрасива, приходится сознаться, в особенности для глаз, с детства 
привыкших отражать божественные контуры Италии. Не хочу отрицать, что 
существуют компенсацииŕно вполне ли они вознаграждают?       
All the same, he closed this very letter by citing from memory Tiutchevřs 1855 poem ŘЭти 
бедные селеньяř which extols the spiritual beauty of Russia shining through its Řскучная 
природаř and material poverty. 312 
Thus, like a number of Russian writers, Turgenev had mixed feelings about his 
homeland, and, likewise, Potugin in Дым expresses a love-hate declaration for Russia 
modelled on Catullusřs odi et amo: ŘЯ и люблю и ненавижу свою Россию, свою 
странную, милую, скверную, дорогую родинуř (IX/174). Turgenev may well also have 
been thinking of Lermontovřs famous poem ŘРодинаř (1841): ŘЛюблю отчизну я, но 
странною любовью! / Не победит еѐ рассудок мойř. Already in Turgenevřs first novel, 
                                               
311 As reflected by the title of J.C. Taylorřs essay ŘRussian Painters and the Pursuit of Lightř (1983). In a 
letter of 4 May 1836 to his wife, Pushkin wrote of the painter Briullov: ŘОн мне понравился. Он хандрит, 
боится русского холода и прочего, жаждет Италии, а Москвой очень недоволенř (1949:X/575).    
312 Letter to M. Zubova, 6/18 December 1862 (P XIII2/202). Dostoevskii, another fervent admirer of 
Tiutchev, was particularly fond of this poem and quoted its final two verses in his Pushkin speech of 1880.    
154  
Rudin had said: ŘПорицать, бранить имеет право только тот, кто любитř (VI/273), and 
it is precisely because of his love for Russia that Potugin is able to see her defects and so 
wishes that they might be corrected. Unfortunately, many Russian readersŕDostoevskii 
being the most prominentŕsaw just the Řhateř element in Potuginřs declarations about 
Russia. They furiously attacked the author, refusing to accept that one could, like Belinskii 
or Turgenev himself, be a true Russian patriot and at the same time seek to draw attention 
to those faults which the influence of European civilization would hopefully remedy. 
To return, though, to Shubinřs yearning for Italy. This detail is all the more 
authentic given that the fine arts were still often perceived in Russia as something exotic. 
Not for nothing did Gogolř, in Невский проспект (1835), point out how the very notion of 
a ŘRussian artistř was paradoxical. Here is how he introduces the ill-fated painter Piskarev: 
Это был художник. Не правда ли, странное явление? Художник петербургский! 
Художник в земле снегов, художник в стране финнов, где всѐ мокро, гладко, ровно, 
бледно, серо, туманно… (1952-53: III/14) 
The resemblance of this passage to Shubinřs ironic remarks to Bersenev about Russian 
nature suggests once again that Turgenev was thinking of Gogolř when he wrote 
Накануне. However, the young sculptorřs despair at being stuck in dreary Russia is also 
meant to illustrate the times in which the novel is set. After all, already in 1844 Nicholas I 
had introduced stricter measures regarding foreign travel for his subjects: the considerable 
sum of 100 rubles was set as the price for a six monthsř passport.313 And after the 
revolutions of 1848, travelling abroad became even harder still: Řпоездки за границу 
становились невозможныř, as Turgenev noted in his reminiscences of Belinskii 
(XIV/50). Bearing this in mind, we can appreciate why Shubin is so downhearted at the 
prospect of never being able to visit Europe. His chances of obtaining permission to travel 
are reduced further still by his lack of personal wealth and by the fact that, having broken 
with the Academy because of its neo-classicist canon, he cannot count on receiving a State 
scholarship. 
 Not surprisingly, Turgenev was convinced of the value of spending time abroad for 
all Russians (not just those who were artists). In his article ŘИз-за границы: письмо 
первоеř (1858), which he sent to the newly-founded Атеней journal from Rome, he 
feigned agreement with the Slavophile view that Russians had no need to visit Europe 
because there were plenty of spiritual riches at home, but immediately afterwards added: 
                                               
313 Tarasov 1988:83.  
155  
Но путешествие в чужой стране то же, что знакомство с чужим языком; этоŕ 
обогащение внутреннего человека, а нашему брату не для чего прикидываться, что 
ему своего за глаза довольно. Надобно только уметь пользоваться чужим богатством 
[…] Самобытность русского человека и в хорошем и в дурном по меньшей мере 
равна его восприимчивости,ŕа потому я плохо верю в так называемый вред 
путешествий. (XV/11)     
Turgenev himself was an admirable example of this: by the end of the 1850s, thanks to his 
long spells in France and other countries, as well as to his friendship with the Viardots, he 
had made the acquaintance of many distinguished European artists and men of letters. 
Even if he sometimes clashed with them, as was the case with Carlyle, this opportunity to 
exchange ideas, as April FitzLyon has pointed out, Řenabled him to see Russia and Russian 
thought in perspectiveř (1964:219). It gave his Westernism that strength of conviction 
which managed to resist the various attacks from so many of his compatriots.              
Yet, at the same time Turgenevřs Řсамобытностьř had allowed him to write the 
greater part of arguably his most important contribution to Russian literatureŕЗаписки 
охотникаŕwhile living in Courtavenel and Paris! He even confessed once that had he not 
found himself in France during the critical years of 1847-48, when it seemed quite likely 
that he wouldnřt see Russia again (as proved to be the case with Herzen), he might never 
have completed his cycle of sketches. For living abroad had made him appreciate more 
than ever before what was dearest to him back in Russia: 
Когда я писал [эту книгу] [Записки охотника]ŕя был за границей иŕокружѐнный 
не русской стихией и не русской жизньюŕневольно проводил карандашом два раза 
по каждому штриху.314           
With regard to how the Записки охотника were written, Turgenev was in a certain sense 
following in the footsteps of Gogolř, for, as we have already noted, the latter repeatedly 
emphasized how being abroad had sharpened his thoughts about Russia and allowed him to 
embark on Мѐртвые души. Annenkov, who shared lodgings with Gogolř in Rome in the 
summer of 1841, described how the great writer had been enchanted by the Italian 
landscape and yet at the same time continually kept talking about Russia: 
Вообще мысль о России была в то время, вместе с мыслью о Риме, живейшей частью 
его существования. Он вполне был прав, утверждая впоследствии, что никогда так 
                                               
314 Letter to I. Aksakov, 28 December 1852 (P II/99).  
156  
много не думал об отечестве, как вдали от него, и никогда не был так связан с ним, 
как живя на чужой почве. (1960:104)             
During the period that he was effectively a resident of Paris (1856-63), Turgenev 
increasingly experienced similar feelings, since the reforms launched by Alexander II filled 
him with fresh optimism for Russiařs future. In 1856, he wrote to Sergei Aksakov that his 
return to France had had the same effect on him as nine years earlier, when he had started 
writing Записки охотника there: ŘВсѐ, что я вижу и слышуŕкак-то теснее и ближе 
прижимает меня к России, всѐ родное становится мне вдвойне дорогоř.315 And in 
1858, anticipating Shubinřs letter to Uvar Ivanovich at the end of Накануне, he confessed 
to Countess Lambert: ŘЯ здесь в Риме всѐ это время много и часто думаю о Россииř.316 
Turgenev and Gogolř were by no means the only Russian artists who felt the 
Řstrange bondř tying them to their native land as a result of living abroad. The painter 
Ivanov, who resided uninterruptedly in Italy for almost thirty years, conceived Явление 
Христа народу very much in terms of what this painting would mean for Russians back 
home, as Louis Réau has emphasized (1951:231). Glinka, who often complained about the 
indifference towards music of his countrymen, nevertheless came to the conclusion, during 
his stay in Paris in 1844-45, that he was incapable of composing for the French salons: 
ŘЖивя за границей, я более и более убеждаюсь в том, что я душою русский и мне 
трудно подделываться под чужой ладř.317 
It was in literature, though, that such reflections played a decisive role, and the 
situation presented by Gogolř at the end of the first part of Мѐртвые душиŕthat of the 
artist trying to fathom the mystery of Russia from the Řпрекрасное далекоř of Europeŕis 
one that influenced many subsequent writers and thinkers. Ivan Aksakov, for example, in 
his 1874 essay on Tiutchev, invoked it to explain how despite spending so much of his life 
abroad, the poet independently reached the same conclusions about Russia as the 
Slavophiles: 
За границей, в его германском или итальянском далеке, Россия представлялась ему 
[Тютчеву] не в подробностях и частностях, а в своѐм целом объѐме, в своѐм общем 
значении. (1981:321)     
Dostoevskii addressed this theme through characters belonging to the general class of 
educated Russians rather than artists as such (Aleksei Ivanovich in Игрок, Myshkin when 
                                               
315 Letter of 1/13 November 1856 (P III/31). 
316 Letter of 22 December 1857/3 January 1858 (P III/179). 
317 Livanova & Protopopov 1955:II/14.     
157  
recalling his years in Switzerland). In contrast, Turgenev did present an artist figure, 
Shubin, whose situation at the end of Накануне invites direct comparisons with Gogolř. 
However, it can also be said to anticipate a specific problem which Turgenev would face in 
the 1860s and 70s. 
 For despite the positive effect which looking at Russia from afar might have on an 
artist, if this separation lasted too long, his work was bound to suffer as a consequence. 
Dostoevskii expressed this poignantly in the same letter from Geneva in which he vented 
his anger at Turgenevřs seemingly complacent Westernism: 
И как можно выживать жизнь за границей? Без родиныŕстрадание, ей-Богу! Ехать 
хоть на полгода, хоть на годŕхорошо. Но ехать так, как я, не зная и не ведая, когда 
ворочусь,ŕочень дурно и тяжело. От идеи тяжело. А мне Россия нужна, для моего 
писания и труда нужна (не говоря уже об остальной жизни), да и как ещѐ! Точно 
рыба без воды; сил и средств лишаешься.318          
If Dostoevskii had known that Turgenev had experienced much the same feelings, he 
might not have judged his old rival so harshly. Many of the letters Turgenev wrote to his 
Russian friends from Paris in the early 1860s bear witness not just to his understandable 
disgust at the capital of Napoleon IIIřs Empire, but also to a growing nostalgia for his 
native land: ŘЕгорьев день, соловьи, запах соломы и берѐзовых почек, солнце и лужи 
по дорогамŕвот чего жаждет моя душаř.319 He was happier in Baden-Baden, to where 
he moved with the Viardots in the spring of 1864, and later that year, he replied the 
following to Countess Lambert, who was again urging him to return to Russia: 
Нет никакой необходимости писателю непременно жить в своей родине и стараться 
улавливать видоизменения еѐ жизниŕво всяком случае нет необходимости делать 
это постоянно.320    
But in his heart of hearts Turgenev knew better, for soon afterwards he told another 
compatriot: ŘНельзя не сознаться, что родной воздух необходим для художникаř.321 
To understand these laments from someone like Turgenev who was after all so 
attached to Western European culture, we must bear in mind what Moser rightly describes 
as Řthe depth of Turgenevřs commitment to the belief that a Russian writer could be 
                                               
318 Letter to Maikov, 16/28 August 1867 (1972-90:XXVIII2/204). Dostoevskii was working on Идиот at the 
time. 
319 Letter to O. Khilkova, 19/31 January 1861 (P IV/191).              
320 Letter of 22 August/3 September 1864 (P V/279). 
321 Letter to Kashperov, 25 October/6 November 1864 (P V/293). Turgenev was congratulating the composer 
on his decision to leave Italy and return to Russia. 
158  
successful only if he wrote about his homelandř (1972:73). There was never any question 
of Turgenev falling back on non-Russian subjects for his writing, except in such 
experimental works as Песнь торжествующей любви (1882). Moreover, by the end of 
the 1850s he had moved on from the Записки охотника. For these sketches of the Russian 
countryside he had been able to draw on past memories, and the nostalgia he felt while 
writing them in France also worked in his favour, but the task he had subsequently set 
himselfŕthat of recording in his novels the Řбыстро изменявшаяся физиономия русских 
людей культурного слояř (XII/303)ŕmost definitely did require his presence in Russia.                 
 It was precisely because of this that Turgenev could never bring himself to sell off 
his ancestral home in Spasskoe, despite all the worries ensuing from the estateřs 
mismanagement by various corrupt stewards. He knew that by holding on to Spasskoe he 
had something which forced him to return to Russia every now and then. Thus, after a few 
years in Baden-Baden he confessed that he was looking forward very much to returning to 
Spasskoe, even though he was going to have to sort out the mess left by his rapacious 
uncle: ŘНадо, надо понюхать родного воздуха, чем бы он ни отзывалсяř.322 Besides, it 
was when surrounded by his native countryside that Turgenev felt most inspired to work: 
ŘПишется хорошо, только живя в русской деревне. Там и воздух-то как будто «полон 
мыслей»!ř323 There is an echo of this in Призраки (1864), where the mysterious Ellisŕin 
whom Gerhard Dudek so compellingly sees the embodiment of Turgenevřs most cherished 
aesthetic principles (see III.5)ŕforces the narrator, a figure with clearly autobiographical 
traits, to part with the beauty and warmth of Italy and return to Russia again (IX/93).                         
 After the almost universally hostile reception of Дым in 1867 Turgenev began to 
feel that even these more or less regular visits to Russia were still not enough to nourish his 
writing. He gave excuses such as the following to the editors of Russian journals who 
asked him for new works: ŘЖивя за границей, в отдалении от русской почвыŕя точно 
так же больших повестей сочинять уже не в силахř.324 For, as already noted, Turgenev 
considered it not just his duty to write about Russiaŕrather, it was essential that he do so 
for his works to have any value and freshness at all. This much he had already expressed in 
his first novel through the figure of Lezhnev, who criticizes Rudinřs superficial knowledge 
of Russia: ŘКосмополитизмŕчепуха, космополитизмŕнуль, хуже нуля; вне 
народности ни художества, ни истины, ни жизни, ничего нетř (VI/349). On this point 
                                               
322 Letter to Borisov, 8/20 April 1868 (P VII/117). 
323 Letter to E. Lřvova, 27 November/9 December 1879 (P XII2/186). 
324 Letter to Avdeev, 21 September/3 October 1869 (P VIII/86). 
159  
Turgenev did concur with the Slavophiles, who, as his friend Botkin pointed out in 1847, 
had been the first to sense Řчто наш космополитизм ведѐт нас только к пустомыслию и 
пустословиюř and that Russia needed to develop a genuine national culture.325   
Even though Turgenev would later devise such a champion of Western civilization 
as Potugin and take issue with Stasovřs demands that Russian painting and music should 
be full of Řnational contentř at all costs (see V.3), Turgenev throughout his life held on to 
his conviction that cosmopolitanism was worthless. Thus, Henry James later wistfully 
recalled how his own works had failed to interest Turgenev because he found their style 
too elaborate and their content too Řcosmopolitanř!326 
Bearing all this in mind, it is understandable why he felt that without constant 
immersion in Russian life, which was denied to him by his fateful attachment to the 
Viardot family, it was better to stop writing altogether: 
Я очень хорошо понимаю, что моѐ постоянное пребывание за границей вредит моей 
литературной деятельностиŕда так вредит, что, пожалуй, и совсем еѐ уничтожит: но 
и этого изменить нельзя.327 
Like all great writers, though, Turgenev managed to surprise his readers by overcoming 
these self-doubts and embarking in the 1870s on a project of whose Řvalueř for Russian 
society he was convinced: his novel Новь, for which he had prepared himself painstakingly 
by reading hundreds of letters and diaries of young narodniki, sent to him by friends in 
Russia.
328
 
Unfortunately, his zest for creative work was quenched yet again by the negative 
reviews which this novel received when it came out in 1877. From todayřs perspective we 
can see how undeserved many of these criticisms were, but as far as Turgenev was 
concerned at the time, the accusation that he had lost touch with Russian reality was one 
with which he felt obliged to agree. Thus, the Řfailureř of Новь led him to make the 
following admission of defeat: 
Нет! нельзя пытаться вытащить самую суть России наружу, живя почти постоянно 
вдали от неѐ. Я взял на себя работу не по силам. […] В судьбе каждого из русских 
несколько выдающихся писателей была трагическая сторона; мояŕабсентеизм, 
                                               
325 Letter to Annenkov, 14 May 1847 (Botkin 1984:271). 
326 VT (1988):278. 
327 Letter to Polonskii, 27 February/11 March 1869 (P VII/328). 
328 See his letter to Kavelin of 17/29 December 1876 (P XII1/38-39). 
160  
причины которого было бы долго разыскиватьŕно влияние которого неотразимо 
высказалось в этом последнемŕименно последнем, произведении.329  
As this letter shows, Turgenev was the first to reproach himself for his Řabsenteeismř from 
Russia. In the 1880 preface to his collected novels he would again admit that those who 
accused him of Řотдаление от родиныř were right (XII/309).      
 In his brief depiction of Shubin in Rome at the end of Накануне Turgenev may 
well have had an inkling of his own fortunes in the 1860s and 70sŕwhen many critics 
would dismiss him as having lost all relevance for Russian society. For even if Shubin is 
treated with less overt irony than, say, Pavel Kirsanov in the epilogue to Отцы и дети 
(where we meet him again as der Herr Baron von Kirsanoff, whiling away his days in 
Dresden), there is something equally sad about the young sculptorřs fate. It seems likely 
that he isnřt as happy in the Řпрекрасное далекоř of Italy as he might once have expected. 
At any rate, the neo-classical statues he is now working on, however accomplished they 
may be, are a far cry from what he was doing in Russia. There, it will be remembered, he 
would go out into the fields, like the painter Venetsianov, like Turgenev himself, seeking 
inspiration for his work in the reality of Russian life. 
It is interesting that so many contemporaries, even if they werenřt Slavophiles, 
tended to draw a line between Turgenev the author of Записки охотникаŕpassing over 
the fact that he wrote most of them in Franceŕand Turgenev the citoyen du monde. For 
instance, Natalřia Tuchkova-Ogareva wrote in her memoirs: 
В его произведениях, особенно в «Записках охотника», так виден поэт, что он не мог 
бы ужиться в другом мире. Для Виардо он покинул Россию, отвык от неѐ, она 
становилась всѐ дальше, дальше, будто в тумане; он продолжал писать, но талант его 
изменился, угасал...330       
In his obituary of the writer Ivan Aksakov similarly praised Записки охотника (as well as 
the first four novels) before reflecting on how Turgenevřs ŘRussiannessř expressed itself in 
his works in spite of his convictions, which he described as an Řидеализм сильно 
космополитический, ощущавший себя на Западе Европы несравненно более дома, 
чем в родной странеř (1981:282). 
In reality, things werenřt as simple as that. Turgenev didnřt feel at ease in Western 
Europe to the extent claimed by his detractors. As Charles Moser rightly concludes: 
                                               
329 Letter to Stasiulevich, 7/19 March 1877 (P XII1/116). 
330 VT (1988):140. 
161  
There can be no doubt that Turgenev had very deep emotional ties to Russia […] Although 
he felt alienated from Russia at times, and especially so around 1865, by the 1870s he often 
regarded himself as a representative of Russia abroad. (1972:83)      
It was in fact in this capacity of an Řambassadorř of Russian culture that Turgenev 
continued to serve his country even when living abroad. He generously helped to introduce 
Tolstoi to the French public, organized exhibitions of painters like Vereshchagin and 
Repin, and with the help of Pauline Viardot arranged for works by Rimskii-Korsakov, 
Chaikovskii, and Borodin to be included in concerts in Paris.
331
      
 As for the supposed decline of his talent as a result of leaving Russia, the unfairness 
of this accusation is evident from Несчастная, Вешние воды, and all the other fine works 
Turgenev wrote whilst based in Germany and France (although some of them were 
actually drafted in Spasskoe over the summer). What cannot be denied, though, is that the 
nature of his works changed: with the exception of Новь, he no longer attempted to convey 
the Řbody and pressureř of contemporary Russian society, but, rather, drew on the treasure 
trove of memories that he carried with him wherever he went.  
Still, Turgenev knew only too well that Řrelevantř literature was essential in a 
rapidly changing country like Russia in the nineteenth century. It was in his inability to 
produce such works any more (again with the exception of Новь) that the tragedy of his 
Řabsenteeismř from Russia lay. And it is, again, in this respect that Turgenev could identify 
with Gogolř and make that bitter observation about how one of the ways in which Russians 
so often ended up squandering their gifts was by going abroad. 
Gogolř himself had admitted that Belinskii was right in pointing out, in his Letter, 
that he had become estranged from Russian reality as a result of living abroad for so long:  
Покуда мне показалось только то непреложной истиной, что я не знаю вовсе России, 
что много изменилось с тех пор, как я в ней не был, что мне нужно почти сызнова 
узнавать всѐ, что ни есть в ней теперь.332     
Even though Gogolř did then spend the last few years of his life in Russia, he was 
ultimately unable to fulfil Belinskiiřs (and the Slavophilesř) exhortation to redeem himself 
for the disgrace of Выбранные места by writing something worthy of his earlier works. 
One of the reasons for this, as Annenkov noted, was his having lost all sense for 
contemporary developments in Russia. This also struck Turgenev when he met Gogolř in 
                                               
331 See Mikhail Alekseevřs seminal 1948 essay ŘТургенев: пропагандист русской литературы на Западеř 
(Alekseev 1989).   
332 Letter from Gogolř to Belinskii, 29 July/10 August 1847 (Veresaev 1990:415). 
162  
Moscow (just a few months before his death) and had to shudder inwardly at how the great 
writer tried to justify the governmentřs censorship measures (XIV/66). Itřs not implausible, 
therefore, that already at the time of writing Накануне in 1859, when he was himself 
beginning to spend whole months away from Russia again, Turgenev should have reflected 
on the consequences of such Řabsenteeismř for his future work, and that this is why he 
showed Shubin in a similar situation in the epilogue. 
This being said, Turgenev wasnřt as unfortunate in this regard as his friend Herzen, 
who was never to see Russia again after he and his family set off for Europe in 1847. 
Speaking to a visitor in 1865, Herzen confessed that he would now gladly exchange his life 
as an émigré for hard labour in Siberia, since: ŘЯ не знаю на свете положения более 
жалкого, более бесцельного, как положение русского эмигрантаř.333  
Turgenev never had to make such an irrevocable choice between his native land 
and the Řпрекрасное далекоř of Europe, for he could always visit and leave Russia 
whenever he wished to. All the same, it is significant that after returning to Paris from the 
enthusiastic ovations he had received from students in Moscow in April 1879 he seriously 
considered settling in Russia again: 
Я теперь чувствую тягость житья за границейŕнельзя отрываться от родины и быть 
там только наездом, нельзя стоять одной ногой там, а другою здесь. Придѐтся 
вернуться туда и жить там, конечно, не в Петербурге и не в Москве, а в деревне или 
во внутренних городах...334         
Among the reasons why Turgenev, when contemplating the possibility of returning to 
Russia, was so keen on avoiding St Petersburg and Moscowŕapart from the depressing 
political atmosphere in the last years of Alexander IIřs reignŕwas his experience of how 
the two capitals were rarely conducive to artistic work. 
 
VI.2 The artist’s milieu     
 Turgenev was convinced that coming into contact with the aristocratic circles of 
Moscow and St Petersburg, however alluring they might seem, posed a danger for any 
artist. Although he didnřt himself belong to the cream of the Russian aristocracy, he was of 
sufficiently noble birth and demeanour to be invited to the fashionable salons of the two 
capitals. Indeed, for a while in his youth he had affected a certain aristocratic air which was 
                                               
333 Quoted in Brodskii 1956:272-73. Reference provided by Freeborn 1984:14. 
334 As recalled by Lukanina. VT (1983):II/209.    
163  
not at all to the liking of such friends as Belinskii. With greater maturity, however, as well 
as under the influence of the ideas about the artistřs civic duty which were being 
propagated by his new acquaintances in France on the one hand (especially George Sand), 
and by Belinskii on the other, Turgenev soon realized where his priorities should be as one 
of Russiařs most promising young writers. Besides, this spurning of the haut monde in 
favour of more enduring values of human integrity already had a strong tradition in 
Russian literature: from Chatskiiřs attacks on Moscow society in Горе от ума, Tatřianařs 
confession to Onegin in St Petersburg of how little she cared for the Řпостылой жизни 
мишура, / [и] мои успехи в вихре светаř (Pushkin 1949:V/189), to Gogolřřs warning, 
through the figure of Chartkov in Портрет, of how a once modest and hardworking artist 
might be corrupted by worldly success. 
In the latter case Gogolř may perhaps have merely been adapting a popular 
Romantic theme, but it is worth bearing in mind that just two years after completing this 
story he saw with his own eyes what high society was capable of doing to a real Russian 
artistŕto Pushkin, whom Gogolř so admired, and whose death was squarely blamed on 
this society by Lermontov in ŘСмерть поэтаř (1837), where he asked lamentingly: 
   Зачем от мирных нег и дружбы простодушной 
   Вступил он в этот свет завистливый и душный 
   Для сердца вольного и пламенных страстей? 
The sentiments expressed by Lermontov in these verses would later inform Gogolřřs 
thoughts in Выбранные места about the Řstrange fateř of Russiařs poets who so often 
forfeited their vocation by plunging into the Řомут светских отношенийř (1994:VI/179). 
By an ironic twist of fate Gogolř, too, came to be considered by his contemporaries as 
having been harmed, if not ruined, by his association with certain members of the 
aristocracy. 
 Thus, referring to the Řmoralizingř tendency which Gogolř veered into after the 
publication of the first part of Мѐртвые души, Sergei Aksakov attributed it to the 
influence of such figures as Count A. P. Tolstoi (who was noted for his extreme piety), the 
repentant society lioness Aleksandra Smirnova-Rosset, and Zhukovskii, in whose various 
houses in Italy, Germany, and Russia Gogolř spent most of the last decade of his life. All 
would have been different, Aksakov believed, if Gogolř had instead stuck to his loyal 
Slavophile friends: 
164  
Всѐ это наделала продолжительная заграничная жизнь вне отечества, вне круга 
приятелей и литераторов, людей свободного образа мыслей, чуждых ханжества, 
богомольства и всяких мистических суеверий.335         
Belinskii, in his Letter to Gogolř, had also alluded to the exclusivity of the circle in which 
the writer moved in his Řпрекрасное далекоř of Italy, which prevented him from coming 
into contact with the new ideas that were sweeping across Europe.  
The question of Gogolřřs decline as an artist, and to what extent his new 
aristocratic friends contributed to it, cannot be explored fully here. The point, though, is 
that Turgenev was in no doubt that they had exerted a baleful influenceŕespecially 
Aleksandra Smirnova, as we can tell from the diary of Fedor Buslaev, who recorded in 
May 1852 what Turgenev had told him about Gogolřřs last years. Apparently, Turgenev 
had been a guest at Smirnovařs house a few days after the great writerřs death, and she had 
shown him some of the letters which Gogolř had written to her, as well as claiming (if we 
can trust Buslaevřs partisan account)336 that it was she who had exhorted him to burn the 
second part of Мѐртвые души and concentrate on the salvation of his soul: 
Тургенев, передававший эти подробности, читал рукописные письма Гоголя к этой 
даме, и тяжѐлое чувство оставили они в его душе: постоянно имя Бога, постоянно 
набожностьŕно ясности, свойственной такому предмету, нет.337 
In his 1869 essay on Gogolř, Turgenev duly remarked that it would be a good idea 
if the future editors of Gogolřřs letters left out all those that were addressed to Řsociety 
ladiesř like Smirnova, since Řболее противной смеси гордыни и подыскивания, 
ханжества и тщеславия, пророческого и прихлебательского тонаŕв литературе не 
существует!ř (XIV/68). Similarly, when recalling in this essay how during their meeting 
on 2 November 1851, in the middle of some very interesting observations about the 
writerřs craft, Gogolř had suddenly begun to praise censorship as a means of inuring 
authors to Christian humility and patience, Turgenev noted sadly: 
В подобных измышлениях и рассудительствах Гоголя слишком явно выказывалось 
влияние тех особ высшего полѐта, которым посвящена бóльшая часть «Переписки»; 
оттуда шѐл этот затхлый и пресный дух (XIV/66)         
                                               
335 Mashinskii 1952:207. 
336 Buslaev was close to the Slavophiles, and they had a very unfavourable opinion of Smirnova, whose 
beauty had once been sung by Pushkin and Lermontov, but famously spurned by Khomiakov in his 1832 
poem ŘИностранкаř because of her indifference to the Slavophilesř ideals (Khomiakov 1969:97).      
337 Quoted in Gromov 1969:359. 
165  
This is one aspect of Gogolřřs tragic fate which we do not find reflected in the depiction of 
Shubin in Наканунеŕthe sculptor does attend social gatherings in the house of a certain 
Prince Chikurasov, but only to poke fun at this self-styled Maecenas! (VIII/48-49).  
Still, Turgenev did address this issue elsewhere in his fiction. Not to the same 
extent, of course, as Dostoevskii in Село Степанчиково и его обитатели (1859), with its 
brilliant parody of Gogolř the author of Выбранные места in the figure of Foma Fomich, 
but it is worth noting that Turgenev was the first to portray the ŘRussian Tartuffeřŕin 
Рудин, a novel which Dostoevskii admired.338 Even if the dashing and eloquent Rudin 
resembles his direct prototype Bakunin much more than he might Gogolř, his situation in 
the house of the erstwhile society belle Darřia Lasunskaia, whom Turgenev is known to 
have based on Smirnova, does bring to mind Gogolřřs role as a kind of spiritual adviser to 
that lady. Not for nothing does Lezhnev say about his former friend:
339
 
Ну, скажите сами, что за роль его [Рудина] у Дарьи Михайловны? Быть идолом, 
оракулом в доме, вмешиваться в распоряжения, в семейные сплетни и дрязгиŕ
неужели это достойно мужчины? (VI/294)                  
The fact that Rudin ends up having to leave her house and quotes Don Quixoteřs words to 
Sancho about the blessing of liberty as they ride out of the Duchessřs castle (VI/335) 
reflects Turgenevřs belief that a freedom-loving spirit was incompatible with the 
conventions of high society. 
Bazarov, who had commented on Odintsova to Arkadii upon their arrival at her 
luxurious estate: ŘГерцогиня, да и полноř (VIII/274), quotes, not Cervantesřs novel, but 
still an Řexcellent Spanish sayingř to the same effect shortly after they leave her dominion: 
Řмужчина должен быть свирепř (VIII/307).340 Bazarovřs Řstaunchly Quixotic singleness 
of mindř has been noted by Freeborn (1960:122), and just as Don Quixote had been treated 
by the Duke and Duchess as an object of amusement during his stay at their castle, so 
Bazarov, a more conscious hero than the Castilian knight, realizes that despite the genuine 
love which he had come to feel for Odintsova, he, too, had been but a mere object of 
curiosity for this lady. As Turgenev memorably put it in that letter to Sluchevskii: ŘЕй бы 
                                               
338 See the commentary in Dostoevskii 1972-90:III/502-03.    
339 It is also Lezhnev who comments on the parallel (or, rather, contrast) between Rudin and Molièreřs 
sanctimonious hero: ŘВ том-то и дело, что он даже не Тартюф. Тартюф, тот по крайней мере знал, чего 
добивался; а этот, при всѐм своѐм уме...ř (VI/295). 
340 Tatřiana Bron (1964:310) has noted that this saying, which Turgenev also used in his letters, doesnřt 
appear in the standard dictionaries of Spanish proverbs.    
166  
хотелось сперва погладить по шерсти волка (Базарова), лишь бы он не кусалсяř.341 It 
is after his disappointment in Odintsovařs characterŕfor, unlike Elena or Shakespeareřs 
Portia (see II.5), she is too pampered to share a life of hardshipŕthat Bazarov reminds 
himself of the manly, yet also wolfish, virtue of Řfiercenessř which he will need to get 
down to work again. Significantly, when he visits her estate a second time he remarks to 
Arkadii: ŘС тех пор как я здесь, я препакостно себя чувствую, точно начитался писем 
Гоголя к калужской губернаторшеř (VIII/371). The irony of these words is that shortly 
afterwards Bazarov will have to play briefly a role similar to that of Gogolř in Aleksandra 
Smirnovařs house (she was the wife of the governor of Kaluga)ŕthat is, act as an adviser 
to Odintsova when Arkadii asks for her sisterřs hand (VIII/378-79). In that respect, too, 
Bazarov turned out not to be such an Řantipodeř to Rudin as Turgenev had originally 
intended! 
 For artists, there were other, more obvious risks involved in coming into contact 
with the high life of the Russian aristocracy. Turgenev witnessed these at close quarters 
during his meetings with Glinka shortly before the composerřs death. Reporting back to 
Pauline Viardot on musical life in St Petersburg in 1856, Turgenev mentioned: ŘGlinka est 
ici et continue à s‘enivrer et à ne rien faireř.342 And, a year later, after receiving an account 
from Kashperov about Glinkařs last days in Berlinŕan account which suggested that the 
great composer had sunk into a state of moral decadenceŕ343 Turgenev replied sadly: 
Был у него [у Глинки] большой талантŕно попал он в болото петербургской жизни, 
хватил заразы высочайшей протекцииŕкстати, тут явились прирождѐнная лень, 
паразиты-приятели, вино, гениальничание, ломаниеŕи пошло всѐ к чѐрту! Эх, как 
подумаешь, сколько ещѐ порядочных людей должно погибнуть и лечь навозом на 
почвуŕчтобы эта почва, наконец удобрѐнная, принесла обильные и благотворные 
плоды!344          
The image of a swamp (Řболотоř) is one that Turgenev often used when referring to the 
world of the aristocracy. However, it had also become a more general metaphor for the 
stagnation of Russian society ever since Dobroliubov had used it as such in his article on 
Обломов (1972:29). As Freeborn has pointed out (1960:93), it is in this sense, too, that 
Shubin invokes this image when telling Uvar Ivanovich of how envious he was of the 
                                               
341 Letter of 14/26 April 1862 (P IV/381). 
342 Letter of 15 April 1856 (LI:72). 
343 Abram Gozenpud (1994:61-62) argues that this account was slanderous and puts it down to Kashperovřs 
resentment of Glinkařs genius. 
344 Letter to Kashperov, 13/25 March 1857 (P III/111). 
167  
noble task awaiting Elena and Insarov in Bulgaria: ŘЭто не то, что сидеть по горло в 
болоте да стараться показывать вид, что тебе всѐ равно...ř (VIII/141). In his 
reminiscences of Belinskii Turgenev spoke even more openly of this stagnation in the first 
half of the 1850s, when there were no longer any hopes of reform:   
Поездки за границу становятся невозможны, путной книги выписать нельзя, какая-то 
тѐмная туча постоянно висит над всем так называемым учѐным, литературным 
ведомством […] между молодѐжью ни общей связи, ни общих интересов, страх и 
приниженность во всех, хоть рукой махни! (XIV/50)   
It was under precisely these circumstances that many talented Russians of 
Turgenevřs generation sought refuge in drink, especially if their faith in the philosophical 
and social ideals of the 1840s had been broken by the seeming impossibility of their ever 
coming true in Russia. This didnřt happen with Turgenev, of course, but it did affect less 
stoically-minded contemporaries like Ogarev. In this respect it is interesting that Malwida 
von Meysenbug, who taught Herzenřs daughters in London for a number of years, 
observed in her memoirs how Russians tended to drown their sorrows in drink, and that 
Řjudging from Turgenevřs storiesř this was a widespread phenomenon in Russia.345        
One of the stories which she probably had in mind was Затишье (1854), to whose 
anti-hero Veretřev we have already referred. His descent into alcoholism, which provokes 
the suicide of the woman who loves him, is all the more tragic because of the talent with 
which he is clearly endowed, and in a sense it can be seen as a consequence of the stifling 
atmosphere under Nicholas I. Veretřev himself admits that it is the sensation of absolute 
freedom that he looks for in drink: ŘТак вот я для чего пью, Маша, чтобы испытать те 
самые ощущения, которые испытывает эта ласточка... Швыряй себя куда хочешь, 
несись куда вздумается. (VI/124). Another factor in Veretřevřs moral decline is his 
consorting with aristocratic friends in St Petersburg who consider him a genius. The 
narratorřs bitter observation: ŘЭти люди ошибались: из Веретьевых никогда ничего не 
выходитř (VI/157) almost seems to anticipate Turgenevřs later remarks, quoted above, 
about how Glinka was ruined by his association with a clique of dilettantes and carousers. 
Of course, the figure of Veretřev wasnřt directly based on Glinka (there is no evidence that 
at the time of writing Затишье Turgenev was aware of these lamentable aspects of the 
composerřs life), but, rather, on observations of a more general malaise in Russian society. 
                                               
345 Cf. Brodskii 1956:349.  
168  
 To return, though, to Malwida von Meysenbugřs observation, drawn from her 
reading of Turgenevřs stories, we must not forget that alcoholism in Russia was not merely 
restricted to the upper reaches of society. A few of the Записки охотника provide hints of 
how the peasantry, too, was afflicted by this illŕmost notably Певцы, where even the 
gifted and sensitive Iashka joins in the drunken revelry after the contest, causing the 
huntsman to turn away his eyes and move on. This was in fact Turgenevřs own attitude 
when writing these sketches: he felt it would have been unfair on the peasants, in view of 
all the hardships they were suffering, to dwell on the more sordid aspects of their everyday 
life. But he was certainly aware of how alcoholism was one of the factors involved in the 
Řтрагическая сторона народной жизниř, as he put it in a letter to Konstantin Aksakov.346 
As late as 1881 he could still recall the case of a serf boy on his motherřs estate 
who had early on showed an aptitude for drawing and was sent to Moscow, to be trained as 
a painter. There, during his course, he was even selected to decorate the ceiling of the 
Bolshoi Theatre. However, after his return to Spasskoe Turgenevřs mother had ordered 
him to paint flowers and nothing but flowers, for she was very fond of them. The young 
serf took to drink in despair and died soon afterwards.
347
 If we also think of such works as 
Dostoevskiiřs Неточка Незванова, where the violinist Efimovřs tendency to escapism 
leads him to drink, or Gogolřřs Портрет, in which we are told that Chartkov, when he is 
still struggling with poverty and lack of recognition, often felt the urge to Řбросить всѐ и 
закутить с горя назло всемуř (1952-53:III/78), then it becomes clear that alcoholism was 
also a threat for Russian artists of humbler origins. Thus, Shubinřs ironic bust of himself as 
a drunkard was very much rooted in Russian reality. 
Artists born into the aristocracy or gentryŕespecially in the first half of the 
nineteenth centuryŕfaced another, subtler, problem in that they grew up in a culture which 
often valued outwardly successes far more than the diligence and concentration required to 
create lasting works of art. As was discussed in Chapter III, Turgenev touched on this issue 
in such stories as Татьяна Борисовна и еѐ племянник and Ася, as well as through the 
invectives of Potugin in Дым against the Russiansř tendency to proclaim someone a genius 
at the merest sign of talent. Ivan Aksakov made some general observations on this situation 
                                               
346 Letter of 16 January 1853 (P II/108). 
347 As recalled by Lukanina. VT (1983):II/213. Dr Alexander Etkind alerted me to the works of a talented serf 
painter Grigorii Soroka (1823-64) who, despite having studied under Venetsianov for two years, was forced 
to work as a gardener by his master. Richard Stites (2005:334-36) discusses the numerous cases of suicide 
among serf artists who suffered under Řarbitrary seignorial powerř.     
169  
in his 1874 essay on Tiutchev, describing first how the poet already as a boy had shown 
great promise: 
Скажем, кстати, что ничто вообще так не балует и губит людей в России, как именно 
эта талантливость, упраздняющая необходимость усилий и не дающая укорениться 
привычке к упорному, последовательному труду […] особенно […] при той 
материальной обеспеченности, которая была уделом образованного класса в России 
во времена крепостного права. (1981:290)           
Aksakov further noted how it was almost a miracle that poets like Tiutchev and Pushkin 
had emerged from the frivolous aristocratic milieu of their youth with their integrity 
unscathed and able to write the finest verses in the Russian language (1981:293): 
Не следовало ли ожидать, что и [Тютчев], подобно многим нашим поэтам, 
поклонится кумиру, называемому светом, приобщится его злой пустоте и в погоне за 
успехами принесѐт немало нравственных жертв и ущерб и правде и таланту? 
Although Turgenev was never in any real danger of succumbing to these 
temptations of high society, even during his brief phase of aristocratic posturing, a number 
of contemporaries did reproach him for what they perceived to be gentlemanly laziness. 
Dostoevskii, who prided himself on being a Řproletarianř writer, rightly resented the higher 
fees which his rival could command from the editors of Russian journals and vented some 
of his frustration into the figure of Karmazinov.
348
 Turgenev, however, despite his spells of 
apparent inactivity, had every right to reply as he did in 1859 to Countess Lambert, who 
had expressed her concern that after the success of Дворянское гнездо he might start 
resting on his laurels: ŘВ нашем ремесле удовольствий довольно малоŕда оно так и 
следует: все, даже артисты, даже богатые, должны жить в поте лицаř.349   
 But just as others reproached him, so Turgenev was always particularly concerned 
about one contemporary: Tolstoi, whose talent he considered to be the greatest in Russian 
literature since Pushkin and Gogolř. At the start of their acquaintance he was worried about 
Tolstoiřs reluctance to commit himself wholeheartedly to literature as a profession, but in 
later years he began to fear for the influences which his younger colleague was exposed to. 
As noted earlier (see V.2), Turgenev discerned certain Slavophile tendencies in Война и 
                                               
348 Writing from Semipalatinsk to his brother on 9 May 1859, Dostoevskii protested against the injustice of 
his fate: ŘЯ очень хорошо знаю, что я пишу хуже Тургенева, но ведь не слишком же хуже, и наконец, я 
надеюсь написать совсем не хуже. За что же я-то, с моими нуждами, беру только 100 руб. [с листа], а 
Тургенев, у которого 2000 душ, по 400?ř (1972-90:XXVIII1/325).    
349 Letter of 27 March 1859 (P III/282). 
170  
мир, which he attributed to Tolstoiřs friendship with Prince Urusov, and his misgivings 
seemed to be borne out by the first chapters of Анна Каренина when the novel began to be 
serialized in 1875: 
С его талантом забрести в это великосветское болото и топать и толкаться там на 
местеŕи относиться ко всей этой дребедени не с юморомŕа, напротив, с пафосом, 
серьѐзноŕчто за чепуха!! Москва загубила егоŕне его первого, не его последнего. 
Но жаль его больше, чем всех других.350 
Again, as with Glinka, Turgenev uses the image of the aristocratic Řswampř to express his 
alarm that yet another Russian artist of genius was being drawn into a milieu in which true 
art could not thrive. He hadnřt forgotten the tragic case of Gogolř in his final years, unable 
to create any more. Turgenev blamed this not just on his friendship with Aleksandra 
Smirnova and other Russian grandees, but also on the influence of the Slavophiles: ŘЯ 
ненавижу славянофилов. Они всех губили, кто приходил с ними в соприкосновение, 
и Кохановскую и Гоголя...ř351 He feared that something similar might happen to 
Tolstoiŕnamely, that, driven by the religiosity which prevailed in certain circles of the 
Muscovite nobility, Tolstoi would, like Gogolř before him, abandon his true vocation. The 
text of Исповедь, which Tolstoi arranged for a friend to deliver to Turgenev in Paris 
towards the end of 1882, confirmed his worst fears. 
 
VI.3 Repudiation of one’s works                        
 At the end of his article on Выбранные местаŕwhich, given that it was to be 
published in Современник, could not be as drastic as his letter from SalzbrunnŕBelinskii 
had still warned Gogolř in quite clear terms: 
Горе человеку, которого сама природа создала художником, горе ему, если, 
недовольный своею дорогою, он ринется в чуждый ему путь! На этом новом пути 
ожидает его неминуемое падение, после которого не всегда бывает возможно 
возвращение на прежнюю дорогу. (1953-59:X/77)               
It was precisely because Turgenev considered Tolstoi to have also embarked on an Řalien 
pathř when he met him again in Russia in the summers of 1878-81 that, from his deathbed, 
                                               
350 Letter to Toporov, 20 March/1 April 1875 (P XI/49-50). 
351 As recalled by Lukanina. VT (1983):II/204.    
171  
he appealed to the author of Война и мир: ŘДруг мой, вернитесь к литературной 
деятельности! Ведь этот дар Вам оттуда же, откуда всѐ другое.ř352  
What this alien direction that Tolstoi had taken consisted of in Turgenevřs eyes, we 
can appreciate from what he told the young narodnik Sergei Krivenko in the spring of 
1879, during one of his last visits to Russia:  
Вот на ком непростительный грех, что не пишет, вот кто мог бы быть теперь 
чрезвычайно полезенŕЛев Толстой; но что же вы с ним поделаете: молчит и 
молчит, да мало ещѐ этогоŕв мистицизм ударился. 
Emphasizing that Tolstoi had no equal in the whole of contemporary European literature, 
Turgenev continued his lament:  
Весь с головою ушѐл в другую область: окружил себя библиями, Евангелием, чуть 
ли не на всех языках, исписал целую кучу бумаги. Целый сундук у него с этой 
мистической моралью и разными кривотолкованиями. Читал мне кое-что,ŕпросто 
не понимаю его. Говорил ему, что это не дело, а он отвечает: «Это-то и есть самое 
дело»353               
All this must have reminded Turgenev of Gogolř in his final yearsŕnot so much perhaps 
what he himself had observed during their one meeting in 1851 as what Sergei Aksakov 
and Annenkov were able to tell him about the great writer. Despite their ideological 
differences, both Aksakov and Annenkov had been alarmed by the sight of so many 
religious books on Gogolřřs desk and, in general, by his Řнравственно-наставительное 
направлениеř.354 
Although Tolstoi was more balanced and anchored in the real world than Gogolř, 
and Turgenev had no reason to fear that he would starve himself to death or anything like 
that, there was still something in Исповедь which he could not help shuddering at. It was 
partly Tolstoiřs emphasis on philosophical, moral, and religious questions, the resolution of 
which, in Turgenevřs eyes, was beyond the artistřs remit: ŘДай Бог любому автору 
понять и выразить жизньŕгде ему мудрить над ней или поправлять еѐř.355 This 
doesnřt mean, of course, that Turgenev rejected Tolstoiřs striving to lead a better life. Just 
before he received his copy of Исповедь he had in fact written to Tolstoi, expressing 
                                               
352 Letter of 29 June/11 July 1883 (P XIII2/180). 
353 VT (1983):I/417.  
354 Mashinskii 1952:206 & 307. 
355 Letter to I. Aksakov, 28 December 1852 (P II/99). Chekhov would argue similarly that the artist was only 
obliged to present a problem correctly, not to find a solution to it (Valency 1966:67).  
172  
sympathy for his moral self-probing, as well as the hope that he would soon return to 
creative work: ŘКонечно, Вы правы: прежде всего нужно жить, как следует; но ведь 
одно не мешает другомуř.356 But after actually reading Исповедь he was very worried by 
the tendencies it expressed: 
[Это] вещь замечательная по искренности, правдивости и силе убежденья, но 
построена она вся на неверных посылкахŕи в конце концов приводит к самому 
мрачному отрицанию всякой живой, человеческой жизни. Это тоже своего рода 
нигилизм.357                                   
One of the most important aspects of life negated by Tolstoi in Исповедь was the value of 
art, and not for nothing did Turgenev cite the word Řnihilismř here. Bazarov, too, had 
rejected art as something that distracted people from more important matters, albeit not 
moral self-perfection as in Tolstoiřs case but the improvement of material conditions in 
rural Russia. 
In Исповедь, Tolstoi made disparaging comments on the Řсословие литераторовř 
in St Petersburg, to which he himself had briefly belonged after returning from Sevastopol, 
and on what he perceived to be their Hegelian self-delusions about the role of art in 
contributing to the progress of mankind. He chastised himself for also having succumbed 
to this flattering delusion at the time: ŘЯ наивно воображал, что яŕпоэт, художник, и 
могу учить всех, сам не зная, чему я учуř (1978-85: XVI/111). Now, as noted earlier 
(see I.1), Turgenev, like Goethe, didnřt consider the artistřs task to be that of teaching 
people directly, but he always believed in the morally uplifting effect of art and literature. 
Turgenevřs friend Botkin had asserted, in his 1857 article on Fetřs poetry: 
Ничто так не делает человека лучшим, ничто так не исцеляет его от загрубелости 
нрава, черствости чувств, эгоизма, как духовное наслаждение. Всякий, 
почувствовавший наслаждение от какого-либо произведения искусства, непременно, 
хоть на самое короткое время, делается лучше. Вот в чѐм заключается благотворное 
действие литературы на общество. (1984:233) 
Another of the St Petersburg men of letters, Annenkov, would emphasize in his 
reminiscences how in the 1840s and early 50s art and literature were the only opportunity 
for an Řобщественное делоř in Russia, and how Turgenev and many of his contemporaries 
had placed all their hopes on literature, in particular, as the principal civilizing element in 
                                               
356 Letter of 19/31 October 1882 (P XIII2/74). 
357 Letter to Grigorovich, 31 October/12 November 1882 (P XIII2/89).        
173  
their country (1960:340-41). Since Turgenev, too, in his speech in Moscow in March 1879, 
had stressed the vital role played by literature in the Řистория русского просвещенияř 
(XV/59), it must have appalled him to see Tolstoi deny this in Исповедь. 
Of course, Исповедь does not go as far as Что такое искусство? (1898), in 
which Tolstoi would condemn not just his own works and the whole European literary 
heritage (with a few exceptions), but also symphonic and chamber music, which Turgenev 
was so eager for Russia to assimilate. Yet already in this early record of his Řconversionř 
we find Tolstoi describing the years he spent working on Война и мир as a Řничтожный 
трудř because it had been undertaken for the sake of fame and money. Тhis, too, must have 
upset Turgenev, given that a few years earlier he had been recommending the first French 
translation of this very novel to his Parisian colleagues and friends in such enthusiastic 
terms: ŘLe roman est bien près dřêtre un chef-dřœuvre; cřest ce que la littérature russe a 
produit de plus remarquableř.358 
 Tolstoiřs repudiation of his earlier works, a tendency that is incipient in Исповедь, 
again had a certain precedent in Gogolř. For quite similar reasons, namely as the result of a 
period of intensive introspection, Gogolř by 1845 had come to the conclusion that his 
masterpiecesŕРевизор and Мѐртвые душиŕwere worthless, and that only now, in 
writing Выбранные места, would he truly contribute to the spiritual regeneration of 
Russian society. In this respect itřs worth referring to an entry under May 1845 in the diary 
of the censor Aleksandr Nikitenko, who three years earlier had authorized the publication 
of the first part of Мѐртвые души. Nikitenko cites a letter addressed to one of the tsarřs 
ministers, in which Gogolř had accused himself of being unworthy of the pension he was 
receiving: ŘВсѐ, написанное мною до сих пор, и слабо, и ничтожно до того, что я не 
знаю, как мне загладить перед государем невыполнение его ожиданийř. Commenting 
on this, Nikitenko notes how sorry he was to see such Řпечальное самоуничижение со 
стороны Гоголя!ř.359 Belinskii, too, in his Letter to Gogolř, would point to this 
Řнеудовольствие своими прежними произведениямиř as one of the symptoms of the 
great writerřs moral decline (1953-59:X/217). 
 The publication, in 1847, of Выбранные места, which Gogolř at the time 
considered to be Řмоя до сих пор единственная дельная книгаř,360 can be compared to 
Tolstoiřs Исповедь, in that, amongst other things, both writers tried to come to terms with 
                                               
358 Letter to Anatole France, 3/15 January 1880 (P XIII2/224). 
359 Quoted in Veresaev 1990:379. 
360 Letter to Pletnev, 18/30 July 1846 (Veresaev 1990:393). 
174  
their previous works in a very self-critical manner. Thus, Gogolř insisted in his book that it 
was no longer possible to dedicate oneself to art for the sake of aesthetic pleasure; the artist 
had a duty to contribute actively to the spiritual regeneration of society (1994:VI/183-84). 
Tolstoi, who admired Gogolřřs talent as a story-teller and his religious sentiments, would, 
however, argue in his brief essay ŘО Гоголеř (1909) that such expectations of art as a force 
for enlightenment were exaggerated (1978-85:XV/328). The great public benefit which the 
Slavophiles and others had posited in Мѐртвые души and its completion was in the 
elderly Tolstoiřs view characteristic of that faith in progress through culture which he now 
regarded as a self-delusion. 
It is worth emphasizing that when Turgenev met Gogolř in Moscow in 1851, the 
latter, though still surrounding himself with religious books, really did seem to be 
determined to finish the second part of Мѐртвые души. He was assiduously gathering 
material from all over Russia to help him with his task. As Turgenev later confessed in his 
reminiscences, he was delighted and surprised to find Gogolř so full of creative zest 
(XIV/66). If we can trust another extant account of their conversation, Gogolř had even 
told the younger writer: ŘЕсли бы можно было воротить назад сказанное, я бы 
уничтожил мою «Переписку с друзьями», я бы сжѐг еѐř.361 
Whether or not Gogolř actually said this, it is true that he did repent of Выбранные 
местаŕalmost as soon as the book was published, in fact, for in a letter to Zhukovskii he 
admitted that he had been wrong in assuming the role of a preacher, and that he would 
henceforth dedicate himself solely to the completion of Мѐртвые души: ŘИскусство и без 
того поученье. Моѐ дело говорить живыми образамиř. Even though he would now 
deviate from his former manner and seek out positive qualities in the Russian peopleŕ 
because only then, Gogolř argued, would art fulfil its mission of introducing Řпорядок и 
стройность в обществоřŕ362 it is clear that he now saw himself first and foremost as an 
artist. Gogolřřs death only a few months after their meeting was a terrible blow for 
Turgenev, but at least he had seen him reconciled to his artistic vocation. 
This was not the case with Tolstoi. Unlike Turgenev, who was essentially content 
to remain a writer all his life, Tolstoi had never really felt at ease in the role of a man of 
letters, not even in the years of his collaboration with the Современник journal. By the 
                                               
361 The account is by the grandson of the actor Shchepkin, who accompanied Turgenev on his visit to Gogolř 
(Mashinskii 1952:530).  
362 Letter of 29 December 1847/10 January 1848 (Gogolř 1994:VI/ 239-41).  
175  
1880s he tended to the view that the kind of literature to which he, too, had devoted many 
years of his life was to be spurned because it was accessible only to a privileged élite. 
For all his prescience, Turgenev had no way of telling that the intensive spiritual 
introspection and studying of the New Testament with which Tolstoi occupied himself in 
the years 1879-83 would later yield such fruits as Смерть Ивана Ильича (1886) or 
Хозяин и работник (1895). He seems not to have read the earliest of Tolstoiřs literary 
works following his Řconversionřŕnamely, Чем люди живы?, which was published at the 
end of 1881 and prompted Ivan Aksakov to make the following tribute: 
Много было толков о новом, якобы мистическом направлении автора, о том, что он 
уже погиб для искусства... Напечатанный рассказ свидетельствует о противном. 
Художник-реалист не погиб в нѐм, но только стал художником внутренне 
просветлѐнным, для которого освятилось искусство, раскрылся целый новый мир 
художественного творчества и нравственного служения […] Гр. Толстой может 
успокоится: его художественная деятельность вполне благотворна,ŕпусть только он 
сам не хоронит в себе Божьего дара. (1981:281)   
Even if a copy of this little masterpiece did reach Turgenev in France, his reading of 
Исповедь in the following year can only have renewed his fears that Tolstoi might indeed 
hide his light under a bushel and abandon literature altogether.  
 
VI.4 The value of art reaffirmed       
The self-criticism shown by Gogolř and Tolstoi was shared by many other Russian 
writers in the nineteenth century, especially from the second half of the 1850s onwards, 
when the utilitarianism of such radicals as Chernyshevskii exerted great influence on 
public opinion. It was difficult for artists to avoid a guilty conscience when there were so 
many social and economic problems in Russia that called for practical action. Even after 
the resounding success of Обломов in 1859ŕa novel whose social significance had after 
all been commended so highly by DobroliubovŕGoncharov reproached himself for not 
doing something directly useful: ŘНе есть ли писание романов и вообще изящное 
творчествоŕроскошь, а не долг?ř363 
This tension between the aesthetic realm and civic responsibility was also felt in the 
fine arts, which had been kept apart from the social reality of Russia for so long, and 
whose ability to influence public opinion was therefore considerably more limited than that 
                                               
363 From a letter quoted by Geiro 2000:89. 
176  
of literary works. The situation presented by Garshin in his short story Художники (1879), 
where the talented artist Riabinin is so distraught by the plight of a foundry-worker whom 
he had painted that he stows away his easel for good and decides to retrain as a village 
school-teacher, is characteristic of the period. 
In fact, already in Chernyshevskiiřs arguments we can detect the seeds of Tolstoiřs 
later condemnation of the professional European (and Russian) artist as a Řпотешатель 
богатых людейř.364 Thus, in the notes he added to his 1860 translation of John Stuart 
Millřs Principles of Political Economy, Chernyshevskii had emphasized that the creation 
of works of art was an unjustifiable luxury if there was a Řнедостаток предметов первой 
необходимостиř, such as bread for everyone (1939-50:IX/65). It is this view which 
Bazarov upholds when he tells Pavel Kirsanov that talking about art and other elevated 
matters was a disgrace Řкогда дело идѐт о насущном хлебеř (VIII/245).     
Some scholars have spoken of Turgenev courting the esteem of the radicals and 
forcing political issues into his works even though they were alien to his artistic 
sensibility.
365
 This view, however, fails to do justice to Turgenevřs interest in all aspects of 
life, including the social and political struggles of the day. Annenkov noted how Turgenev 
could never have remained in Italy contemplating beauty for long because Řон искал 
событий, живых лиц, волн и разбросанности действительного, работающего, 
борющегося существованияř (1960:417). Even before reading Chernyshevskiiřs 
dissertation, Turgenev had emphasized in an already-cited letter: Řесть интересы высшие 
поэтических интересовř (P II/282), and he knew that this was especially true in the period 
of reforms following the Crimean War.  
As Iurii Lotman argued in an illuminating essay on Tolstoiřs antecedents in Russian 
literature (2005:524), this tension between the civic and the artistic had impressed itself on 
Russian writersř consciousness ever since the Decembrist poets. It underlies Turgenevřs 
portrayal, in Дворянское гнездо, of the idealistic Mikhalevich, who before reading his 
poem to Lavretskii admits: ŘПослушай, ты знаешь, я пописываю стихи; в них поэзии 
нет, но есть правдаř (VII/201)ŕa remark which Galina Antonova (1969:233) has traced 
to the Decembrist Ryleevřs famous assertion: ŘЯ не поэт, а гражданинř. In that sense 
Mikhalevich can be said to anticipate such figures as Elena and Bazarov, who see more 
important tasks in life than poetry or art.  
                                               
364 The phrase is from Что такое искусство? (Tolstoi 1978-85:XV/185). Tolstoiřs religious thrust in 
Исповедь is of course not to be found in any of Chernyshevskiiřs writings, but all the same the resemblance 
between some of their views is striking.     
365 See, for example, Matlaw 1957ŕan article which is very critical and unfair towards Turgenev.     
177  
It is indeed partly thanks to the influence of Mikhalevichřs visit that Lavretskii in 
the end manages to set about the duty which his social conscience was urging on him. In 
her attempt to read Schopenhauerian pessimism into Turgenevřs works, Sigrid McLaughlin 
cites Lavretskiiřs thoughts in the epilogue: Ř«Здравствуй, одинокая старость! Догорай, 
бесполезная жизнь!»ř (VII/293) as evidence that despite having devoted himself to the 
welfare of the peasants on his estate, Lavretskii, like Turgenev, questions the value of all 
practical activity Řangesichts des Todes und der gleichgültigen Naturř (1984:99). This, 
though, means to disregard completely the earlier part of Lavretskiiřs meditation as he 
watches the youngsters in the garden: Ř«Играйте, веселитесь, растите, молодые силы,ŕ
думал он, и не было горечи в его думах,ŕжизнь у вас впереди, и вам легче будет 
жить»ř (VII/293). In these words and in the whole composition of the scene there is again 
an echo of Turgenevřs beloved poem by Pushkin: ŘБрожу ли я...ř, which, as was discussed 
in section II.7, Turgenev repeatedly uses to convey his own elegiac, yet positive view of 
life as one generation succeeds another. Lavretskii has done what he could by tilling the 
land, and he believes in the better future awaiting those who come after him. 
 There is, however, one work of Turgenevřs which at first glance lends itself to 
accusations of pessimism: Довольно. This sketch, subtitled ŘОтрывок из записок 
умершего художникаř concludes with a series of questions as to what could possibly 
induce a statesman or a scholar or an artist to take up his work again in view of the futility 
of all endeavours to enlighten mankind, as well as the transience of life; followed by the 
ŘДовольно...ř refrain repeated thrice; and finally ending with a quotation of the dying 
Hamletřs words: ŘThe rest is silence…ř (IX/122) 
 When Довольно was published in the last volume of the 1865 edition of 
Turgenevřs works, it caused some disbelief among readers. Turgenev seemed to be 
throwing in the towel, and the sixty-five-year-old Odoevskii wrote an article entitled 
ŘНедовольноř, in which he stressed that a writer didnřt belong to himself but to society 
and so had no right to lay down his pen. Another critic decreed that with the appearance of 
this sketch, Řобщественно-литературное служение Тургенева кончилосьř.366 Turgenev 
himself would regret having published Довольно because of its Řsubjectiveř nature, by 
which he evidently meant both the reminiscences of his love for Pauline Viardot in some 
sections and the melancholic tone of the rest.
367
     
                                               
366 Quoted in the Academy editionřs commentary (IX/493). 
367 Letter to Stasiulevich, 8/20 May 1878 (P XII1/322). 
178  
 Predictably, Довольно was seized upon by Walicki as evidence that Turgenev had 
accepted Schopenhauerřs solution: Řan exalted Ŗresignationŗ annihilating will and resulting 
in complete passivityř (1962:6). Again, this is a case of a Lilliputian trying to tie down 
Gulliver, that is, Turgenev the artist, who towers above all his latter-day detractors. For a 
start, as Elizabeth Cheresh Allen has so rightly emphasized, the narrator of Довольно 
cannot be simply equated with the author, even though the latter did recognize it to be a 
subjective work. As the sub-title suggests, we are reading the lamentations of Řan artist 
who has indeed died, because, unlike Turgenev, he cannot creatively alter his point of 
viewř (1992:175). Allen points out the irony inherent in the fact that this artist cannot even 
author his own conclusion but has to quote Shakespeare! There is a further irony in this 
final quotation because only a few years earlier, in Гамлет и Дон-Кихот, Turgenev had 
contrasted the moving scene of Don Quixoteřs death with Hamletřs: Řвзор Гамлета не 
обращается вперѐд... «Остальное... молчание», говорит умирающий скептикŕи 
действительно умолкает навекиř (VIII/191). The artist in Довольно is clearly a sceptic. 
 He is, however, also a pessimist, since he speaks of the transience (Řбренностьř) of 
even the most beautiful works of art before unfeeling Nature: 
Она [природа] так же спокойно покрывает плесенью божественный лик 
фидиасовского Юпитера, как и простой голыш, и отдаѐт на съедение презренной 
моли драгоценнейшие строки Софокла. (IX/120) 
The fact that Turgenev, in contrast to this deceased artist, was capable of altering his point 
of view is demonstrated by the tribute to Shakespeare which he wrote in April 1864, just 
one month after completing Довольно. Originally intended as a speech to be read in St 
Petersburg to commemorate Shakespeareřs 300th anniversary, Turgenev emphasized here 
how the English bard had conquered the whole world, and how there would be no end to 
the growth of his fame and to the generations of readers and artists whom he inspired: 
Подобно своему единственному сопернику, величайшему поэту древнего мира, 
Гомеру, который, доживая своѐ третье тысячелетие, весь сияет блеском бессмертной 
молодости и неувядаемой силы, величайший поэт нового мира создан для 
вечностиŕи будет жить вечно! (XV/50)   
The radiant optimism of these words anticipates the Pushkin speech of 1880, in which 
Turgenevŕdespite being aware, like the artist in Довольно, that moths had indeed 
devoured the manuscripts of some (but not all) of Sophoclesřs tragediesŕobserved how 
the soul of Ancient Greece had come down to us thanks to her culture (XV/67). The truth 
179  
of Turgenevřs specific tribute to Shakespeare in 1864 as a source of inspiration for artists 
would be resoundingly confirmed five years later when the young Chaikovskii composed 
his Romeo and Juliet overture. 
The emphasis in Russian public opinion at the time, of course, was not so much on 
these timeless values as on the artistřs service to his country then and there. That was how 
Turgenev, too, was judged by his contemporaries. Thus, after his death all wings of the 
Russian intelligentsia would acknowledge his contribution to the liberation of the serfs. For 
instance, Ivan Aksakov wrote in his obituary of Turgenev: ŘСвоими «Записками 
охотника»ŕедва ли не самым лучшим из его созданийŕсослужил он своему 
отечеству и народу поистине добрую службуř (1981:282). 
As we saw above, the appearance of Довольно in 1865 caused some readers to 
think that Turgenev had reneged on his duty as a Russian writer. However, he was able to 
overcome the mood of despondency which had been reflected in that sketch, and which 
was partly due to the hostile response to Отцы и дети in 1862. Despite having lost the 
sympathy of many young Russians for what they wrongly considered to be the slanderous 
portrayal of Bazarov, and despite being dismissed as a spent force by the Russian press, 
Turgenev undertook his next two novels very much with the aim of rendering a useful 
service to his country. When Новь, too, was received hostilely in 1877, it again caused him 
to think of giving up writing for good. Even so, in the poem-in-prose Услышишь суд 
глупца written the following year, Turgenev compared himself to the unknown traveller 
who had introduced the potato into Russia, but who had seen how the farmers he wished to 
help rejected this new crop. Now the potato allowed many villages to survive in the harsh 
Russian winters. ŘWhat should one do in the face of hostility from oneřs contemporaries?ř, 
this poem asks. The answer is not the misanthropic one given by the deceased artist of 
Довольно. Rather, it is Turgenevřs own: ŘБудем стараться только о том, чтобы 
приносимое нами было точно полезною пищейř (XIII/152).                                      
 Turgenev genuinely believed in the nourishing value of literature and art. In this he 
was at one not just with the Řaestheteř Botkinŕuntil the latter became a reactionary 
towards the end of his lifeŕbut also with Dostoevskii, who defied the radical utilitarians in 
his 1861 articles on Russian literature: 
Искусство есть такая же потребность для человека, как есть и пить. Потребность 
красоты и творчества, воплощающего еѐ,ŕнеразлучна с человеком, и без неѐ 
человек, может быть, не захотел бы жить на свете. (1972-90:XVIII/94)          
180  
Like Dostoevskii, Turgenev was aware of what Chernyshevskii had said in his dissertation 
about how the ideal of beauty for a hard-working, healthy peasant was different to that of 
an effete aristocrat, but this simplistic argument didnřt unsettle him. Before going on to 
lament the transience even of works of art, the artist in Довольно had said: ŘНо не 
условность искусства меня смущаетř (IX/119), and here it is the true Turgenev who is 
speaking. For years later he would defend the absolute value of artistic beauty in the 
following terms:       
В ответ на Ваш вопрос позвольте мне сказать, что поэзия никому и ни в какой век 
собственно не нужна; онаŕроскошь, но роскошь доступная всякому, даже 
беднейшему: в этом еѐ смысл и красота и польза.368     
With education and improvements to their material welfare, Russian peasants, too, would 
come to appreciate the beauty of Pushkinřs verses, as Turgenev asserted with such 
optimism in his speech of 1880. Again, not unlike Keats, who believed that Řbeauty is 
truth, truth is beautyř, Turgenev spoke of the value of poetry to a young Russian medicine 
student in Paris in 1879: ŘКрасота имеет право на существование, она в конце концов 
вся цель человеческой жизни. Правда, любовь, счастьеŕвсѐ соединяется в 
красотеř.369 
 It is this faith in the value of art as such that caused Turgenev to implore Tolstoi to 
return to creative work. In the above-cited conversation of 1879 with the narodnik 
Krivenko he had observed how Tolstoi could be Řextremely usefulř if he were to start 
writing again, and by this Turgenev perhaps meant that in the critical times Russia was 
going through, with increasingly frequent terrorist acts in response to the governmentřs 
repressive policies, a new work by Tolstoi might cause young Russians to reflect on 
whether violence really could achieve the justice and truth they were aspiring to. 
In Alesha Karamazovřs Speech by the Stone, Dostoevskii would invoke the value 
of beautiful memories from childhood and youth as essential for a personřs later conduct in 
life. Tolstoi himself experienced this, and many of his most cherished memories had to do 
with the reading of Turgenevřs works in his youth, as we learn from the diary of Sergei 
Taneev, who was a frequent visitor to Iasnaia Poliana in the 1890s. Thus, when someone 
during a conversation in June 1896 mentioned Затишье, Tolstoi Řсказал, что с этой 
повестью у него соединено самое приятное воспоминаниеř. He had been given a copy 
                                               
368 Letter to an unknown addressee, 12/24 December 1872 (P X/43). 
369 As recalled by Lukanina. VT (1983):II/206-7.    
181  
of Turgenevřs story during the siege of Sevastopol when literature was the last thing on his 
mind, and yet Řон получил большое удовольствие от чтенияř.370 Significantly, in 
Воскресенье (1899), the peasant-girl Katiusha will be shown reading with great 
enthusiasm Turgenevřs stories, including Затишье, which Nekhliudov recommends to her 
when he first meets her. Although he goes on to ruin her life, his later repentance is driven 
in part by a yearning to recover the innocence of his youth, of which Turgenevřs stories 
were an important part. 
Describing how they had started reading aloud Дворянское гнездо at Iasnaia in 
July 1896, Taneev further noted in his diary:          
Л. Н. сказал, что есть сочинения, которые приятно слушать и не знаешь почемуŕ
потому ли, что они хороши, или по воспоминаниям. «Вот я услышал имя 
Лаврецкого, и мне стало приятно»371 
Tolstoi often spoke of Turgenev and his works long after his death, and even if now and 
then he made unfair criticisms about them (especially his novels), the way in which he 
always held a place in Tolstoiřs heart confirms Turgenevřs belief in the immortality of art 
and its ability to unite people.     
 
 
                                               
370 Entry for 14 June 1896 (Taneev 1981-85:I/160). 
371 Entry for 23 July 1896. ibid.:I/173.  
182  
CONCLUSION 
 
 Ever since the Romantic period artists have been popular as literary figures, and 
sometimes even heroes, in stories, novels, and plays. Russia in the early nineteenth century 
was no exception to this trend. The quintessential conflict between the sensitive artist and 
the unfeeling world around him so vividly portrayed by E.T.A. Hoffmann in his biography 
of the musician Johannes Kreisler was taken up, for example, by the Russian Romantic 
writer Odoevskii in such stories as Последний квартет Бетховена (1831) and 
Себастьян Бах (1841). With the appearance of Gogolř, however, and the use made by 
Belinskii of his works to advance the cause of socially engaged writing, the Romantic 
theme of the artist came to be perceived as irrelevant to Russian reality.  
 Gogolř himself had divested the painter Chartkov in Портрет of some of his too 
obviously Romantic traits when he revised that story in 1842, partly under the influence of 
Belinskiiřs criticism of the original version. Not surprisingly, it was with considerable 
irony that Dostoevskii treated the violinist Efimov in Неточка Незванова (1849), 
showing how this artistřs self-delusion as to his unrecognized genius blinds him to his 
familyřs sufferings. In general, writers coming after Gogolř who devoted their attention to 
the psychology of the artist rather than to Řrelevantř issues of Russian society ran the risk 
of losing their readersř favour. This is what happened to Tolstoi when he wrote Альберт in 
1857, a story about another violinist (though, unlike Efimov, not of Russian birth) who 
takes to drink due to unrequited love for a young lady. Nekrasov at first refused to publish 
this remarkable story because of what he saw as its Řвесьма избитый сюжетř,372 by which 
he evidently meant Alřbertřs resemblance to such figures as Kreisler or the painter 
Piskarev in Gogolřřs Невский проспект (1835). Unlike Gogolř, however, Tolstoi had 
eschewed all irony in his portrayal of Alřbert and wanted readers to take him seriously.  
 We also find echoes of Kreisler in Herr Lemm in Дворянское гнездо (1859), of 
whom Stasov once said that Turgenev had fallen for the Řнемножко рутинное старое 
представление о «бедном неузнанном художнике»ř.373 The reasons why Turgenev 
introduced the figure of Lemm into his novelŕŘthe most musical of his worksř as Edmund 
Heier has observed (1989:123)ŕwere quite legitimate, though. Apart from the historical 
authenticity of showing a German music teacher in provincial Russia, Lemm plays an 
important role in making us aware of Lizařs qualities, and the music she inspires him to 
                                               
372 See the commentary in Tolstoi 1978-85:III/466. One notable feature of Альберт is that music is shown as 
having the power to awaken noble sentiments, in stark contrast to the later story Крейцерова соната (1889).  
373 Quoted in Gozenpud 1994:121. 
183  
compose fills one of the novelřs most memorable scenes (VII/237-38). Moreover, as a 
standard-bearer of German classical music in Russia he can also be said to represent those 
beneficial civilizing influences which Turgenev so believed in. 
 Still, it cannot be denied that Lemm as a foreigner stands somewhat aside from the 
important issues of Russian life. Besides, as Annenkov later remarked (1960:426-27), 
Дворянское гнездo was a largely nostalgic work which dwelt on the finest aspects of the 
gentry culture of pre-Emancipation Russia. Накануне (1860), in contrast, addressed the 
countryřs immediate present, and Turgenevřs decision to include a Russian artist in this 
novelřs almost contemporary setting is one of its striking features. 
In view of Shubinřs wittiness, as well as the delight he takes in living up to the 
Romantic stereotype of the irresponsible Řfree artistř, it is very likely that Turgenev was 
seeking to throw down a gauntlet at Chernyshevskii, who in his dissertation of 1855 had 
argued somewhat pedantically that art should serve as an Řучебник жизниř (1939-
50:II/90). There are, however, more complex aspects to Shubinřs role in Накануне. For a 
start, the lack of seriousness for which Dobroliubov, in particular, reproved Shubin is 
deceptive: the young sculptor displays not only a genuine capacity for hard work but also 
great insight. Some Soviet critics, taking their cue from Dobroliubov, dismissed Shubin as 
a Řпоклонник чистого искусстваř (e.g. Pirogov 1959:262-63), but this, again, means to 
overlook the fact that despite his admiration for the Hellenic ideal of sculpture (VIII/9), 
Shubin sometimes deviates from the canon of Řpure artř, as when he fashions that 
caricature of Insarov and justifies himself by invoking Gogolian aesthetics (VIII/99). 
 Such contradictions in Shubin, to which we might also add the way in which he 
pokes fun at the Slavophiles (VIII/60), yet at the same time acknowledges the Řстранная 
связьř tying him to his native land, personified by the lethargic Uvar Ivanovich (VIII/70), 
are part and parcel of his artistic nature. Already Belinskii, in his 1835 article on Gogolřřs 
stories, had noted how true poets often contradicted themselves because they looked at the 
characters and situations they depicted from all possible angles (1953-59:I/278-79). 
Turgenev, whose life-long adherence to many of Belinskiiřs aesthetic principles Anatolii 
Batiuto has rightly emphasized (1990:87), also believed that artists had to be able to see 
both sides of the coin. As he put it in his polemic with Fet over the latterřs systematic 
insistence on Řunconscious creativityř (see III.5), it was better to accept Řчто правда и там 
и здесь, что никаким резким определением ничего не определишьř.374 Turgenev 
                                               
374 Letter of 23 January/4 February 1862 (P IV/330). 
184  
endowed Shubin in Накануне precisely with his own striving for objectivity and 
truthfulness.      
In this sense, as was argued in Chapter II, Shubin acts as the authorřs alter ego not 
just because he expresses views which can be traced to Turgenevřs letters, but in the very 
way that his observations of Insarov anticipate Turgenevřs attempt to Řsize upř Bazarov in 
Отцы и дети (1862). Just as Shubin is at first ill-disposed towards the Bulgarian, yet 
eventually pays tribute to him as a hero who is tragically ahead of his times by comparing 
him to Brutus (VIII/141); so Turgenev was initially hostile towards Bazarov, yet in the 
course of writing his novel came to sympathize with his Řnihilistř hero to such an extent 
that only a few years later he was capable of declaring: Řза исключением воззрений 
Базарова на художества,ŕя разделяю почти все его убежденияř (XIV/100-2). The way 
in which Bazarov, originally conceived as an Řантипод Рудинаř because of his lack of 
faith and enthusiasm (XII*/566), finally became a figure of such heroic stature that 
reactionaries like Katkov were appalled, shows how Turgenev as a true artist was capable 
of correcting his initial prejudices. 
As we have also seen, Bazarovřs rejection of the arts so as not to be distracted from 
the noble cause of working for progress in Russia is already implicit in Elena in Накануне, 
and it is significant that the artist Shubin feels these anti-aesthetic tendencies so keenly. In 
his Pushkin speech of 1880 Turgenev would reflect on how during the aftermath of the 
Crimean War Řявились вопросы, на которые нельзя было не дать ответа... Не до 
поэзии, не до художества стало тогдаř (XV/73). Shubinřs frequent self-deprecating 
remarks about his own uselessness arenřt just an ironic gesture of paying lip-service to the 
radicals, but also a result of his (and Turgenevřs) awareness that there were indeed more 
important matters to attend to in Russia than the cultivation of artistic beauty.                 
 Still, Turgenev never abandoned his faith in the absolute value of art, as well as the 
spiritual nourishment which it gave. Thus, Bersenev, after Shubin has promised not to 
waste his talent on producing more caricatures, exclaims: Řда здравствует вечное, чистое 
искусство!ř and the sculptor agrees with his friend: ŘДа здравствует! С ним и хорошее 
лучше и дурное не беда!ř. The very ending of this scene: ŘПриятели крепко пожали 
друг другу рукуř (VIII/101) illustrates Turgenevřs notion that art could unite people. A 
few years later, during the heyday of utilitarianism in Russia, he would observe: ŘЧто там 
ни говори молодѐжь, а Искусство умереть не можетŕи посильное служение ему 
185  
будет всегда тесно соединить людейř.375 Although this was addressed to a fellow-writer, 
Turgenev certainly believed that this unifying effect also made itself felt in those who 
enjoyed works of art. Here again Turgenev was at one with his mentor Belinskii, of whom 
Freeborn has stressed that he saw the development of literature in Russia as Řa means of 
unifying people in a social senseř (2003:132). Of course, Turgenev understood that some 
preparation was necessary in order to appreciate art properly, but his insistence, in the 
Faust essay of 1845, that Řнепосредственная, несомненная, общедоступная красотаŕ
необходимая принадлежность всякого художественного созданияř (I/215) shows how 
democratic his view of art was. Not for nothing would he praise, in his 1880 speech, the 
sincerity and clarity of Pushkinřs verse before expressing the hope that one day Russian 
peasants, too, would be able to appreciate the great poet (XV/70, 76). 
Turgenev shared this democratic ethos with all the great Russian artists who were 
his immediate contemporariesŕwith fellow-writers like Dostoevskii and Tolstoi, the 
peredvizhniki painters, and the composers of the ŘMighty Handfulř. Even Chaikovskii, 
whom Musorgskii once ironically described as an aristocratic sybarite,
376
 wanted his works 
to reach as wide an audience as possible not merely for the sake of achieving fame, but 
above all because he believed in the human value of music. A few weeks after the 
conclusion of the Russo-Turkish War of 1877-78, Chaikovskii wrote to his benefactress 
Nadezhda von Meck that composing music in such difficult times might seem selfish, Řно 
ведь всякий по-своему служит общему благу, а ведь искусство есть, по-моему, 
необходимая потребность для человечестваř.377 
As we saw in Chapter III, this notion of art as service was also deeply ingrained in 
Turgenev, even if he repeatedly defended the artistřs right to create independently of 
external agendas: Řталант настоящий никогда не служит посторонним целям и в 
самом себе находит удовлетворениеř (XII/310). In Египетские ночи (1835), his literary 
Řteacherř Pushkin had asserted this freedom even more boldly: ŘПоэт сам избирает 
предметы для своих песен; толпа не имеет права управлять его вдохновениемř 
(1949:VI/379). Nevertheless, in Exegi monumentum a year later Pushkin would proudly 
state: 
   И долго буду тем любезен я народу, 
   Что чувства добрые я лирой пробуждал,  
                                               
375 Letter to A. Maikov, 18/30 March 1862 (P IV/360). 
376 Letter to Stasov, 26 December 1872 (Musorgskii 1971-72:I/142). 
377 Letter of 30 April 1878 (Chaikovskii 1934-36:I/315). 
186  
Turgenev won the sympathy even of his radical contemporaries precisely because he, too, 
had stirred such feelings. Thus, the satirist Saltykov-Shchedrin, in a very moving obituary, 
observed how Turgenev had achieved a lot for the Russian common folk by raising the 
moral level of the educated classes and by initiating a whole literature which concerned 
itself with the people and its needs. In this respect, Saltykov added, Turgenev was 
Pushkinřs worthiest successor:  
Так что ежели Пушкин имел полное основание сказать о себе, что он пробуждал 
«добрые чувства», то то же самое и с такою же справедливостью мог сказать о себе и 
Тургенев. Это были не какие-нибудь условные «добрые чувства», согласные с тем 
или другим преходящим веянием, но те простые, всем доступные общечеловеческие 
«добрые чувства», в основе которых лежит глубокая вера в торжество света, добра и 
нравственной красоты.378        
Similarly, the jurist Anatolii Koni would recall thirty years later how Turgenevřs works, 
especially Записки охотника, had helped young Russians growing up in the cities to 
understand the peasants and their concerns better (1989:101). 
This social resonance of Turgenevřs works is another reason why, as has already 
been stressed, comparisons between him and Schopenhauer are fallacious. Schopenhauerřs 
writing on aesthetics is indeed very eloquent, but his notion that art serves as a palliative 
from the insatiable desires of the will once again betrays the individualistic stamp of his 
thoughtŕthat is, the way in which his whole world-view is tailored on himself. It has 
nothing in common with the generous Russian tradition to which Turgenev belonged. 
Certainly, Schopenhauer inspired other artists, notably Richard Wagner, who in his 
Ring cycle tried to convey the German philosopherřs message of renunciation of the will as 
the only way to redeem our fallen world. But Turgenev did not believe that the world 
needed to be redeemed. It is very telling that, musical considerations apart, he disliked 
Wagnerřs works precisely because they featured walking allegories rather than living 
people. The young Taneev, whom Turgenev helped to find his feet in Paris in 1877, 
reported a conversation they had had about Wagner, and how Turgenev had said that he 
could hardly empathize with such figures as Lohengrin or Brünnhilde because their 
emotions were not human: 
[Вагнер] отыщет где-то наверху идею и старается еѐ в человека втиснуть. Я люблю 
совсем обратное движение: не сверху вниз, а снизу вверх. Пускай будет стремление 
                                               
378 VT (1988):433. 
187  
кверху, ввысь, только чтобы шло оно от земли, от земного. Как дерево растѐт к небу, 
а корни в земле.379 
Significantly, Taneevřs teacher Chaikovskii also rejected Wagnerřs mythical heroes 
(though not his music) because Řих страдания, их чувства, их торжества или несчастия 
чужды нам совершенноř.380 For his own operas and songs Chaikovskii was always drawn 
to texts involving characters who showed genuine human feelings. These he sought to 
convey truthfully, and in this respect, Chaikovskii insisted, Řя реалист и коренной 
русский человекř.381  
That Řrealismř in the sense of truthfulness was one of the distinguishing features of 
Russian art, which would soon contribute to its great appeal for foreigners, had been 
recognized early on by Mérimée, who, in connection with his reading of Pushkin in the 
1850s, once said to Turgenev: Řрусское искусство через правду дойдѐт до красотыř.382 
Turgenev never forgot these words of his friend, and in his 1880 speech he would cite 
Mériméeřs observations on Pushkin copiously (XV/70).    
Like Pushkin, who stands at the fount of the Russian current of realism, Turgenev 
accepted life as it was, with its joys and sorrows: Řв жизни всѐ-таки нет ничего лучше 
жизни, как она ни бывает подчас тяжелаř.383 Already in that letter of July 1840 on 
Stankevichřs death, Turgenev had expressed what we might call his Řdialecticř world-view: 
Из сердца Творца истекает и горе и радостьŕFreude und Leid; часто их звуки дрожат 
родным отголоском и сливаются: одно неполно без другого. Теперь череда горю...384  
He always retained this attitude, and as was argued in Chapter II, it illuminates the sad, yet 
beautiful final pages of both Накануне and Отцы и дети. It is precisely because, to quote 
Henry James (1984:1010), Řhe felt and understood the opposite sides of lifeř that 
Turgenevřs works cannot be analyzed through the prism of a philosopher like 
Schopenhauer, who cared to see only the seamy sides. 
Schiller, who had devoted several years to intense philosophical study, famously 
wrote to Goethe shortly after reading the first instalments of Wilhelm Meister: Řder Dichter 
                                               
379 Quoted in Gozenpud 1994:48. 
380 Letter to Nadezhda von Meck, 8-10 September 1884 (Chaikovskii 1934-36:III/311). 
381 Letter to V. Pogozhev, 6 January 1891. Quoted in Protopopov 1980:193. 
382 As recalled by Lukanina. VT (1983):II/204. 
383 Letter to Marřia Tolstaia, 2 March 1855 (P II/265). 
384 Letter to Granovskii, 4/16 July 1840 (P I/193). The German words are probably a reminiscence of 
Klärchenřs song ŘFreudvoll und leidvollř in Goetheřs Egmontŕa song which Turgenev would translate into 
Russian later that year (I/338). 
188  
ist der einzig wahre Mensch, und der beste Philosoph ist nur eine Karikatur gegen ihnř!385 
Likewise, treating Turgenevřs works as if they were case-studies in Schopenhauerian ideas 
is to make a travesty of them. 
Apart from those remarks made by Herzen in moments of spite (see III.4), the 
Řevidenceř most frequently cited by scholars who have contrived to associate Turgenev 
with Schopenhauer is what they deem to be the Russian writerřs Řpessimismř. At first 
glance there might seem to be some truth in this, since, after all, Pauline Viardot called 
Turgenev Řle plus triste des hommesř,386 and Henry James, too, recalled how Řthe element 
of melancholy in his nature was deep and constantř (1984:1008). It was, however, a 
melancholy with respect to his own lifeŕespecially when he lamented that because of his 
fateful attachment to Mme Viardot he would never have a Řnestř of his ownŕbut not with 
respect to his hopes for others and for his country. That is why he so liked Pushkinřs elegy 
ŘБрожу ли я...ř (see II.7), and that is why he so generously helped younger Russian artists 
who came to Paris. 
Like all sensitive people, Turgenev had bitter thoughts sometimes, but pessimism is 
not the right word to use. As Batiuto has repeatedly stressed (1990:7-8, 211-13), Turgenev 
was saddened by the precariousness of individualsř lives, but this was so because he valued 
the gift of life. In contrast, pessimists like Schopenhauer grumble at life rather than grieve 
over it because they see only the worst (pessimus). When Goethe met Schopenhauer in 
1814, he wrote these telling verses in the young manřs album: ŘWillst du dich deines 
Wertes freuen, / So mußt der Welt du Wert verleihenř (1985-98:IX/127)!  
Turgenev never intended that his personal melancholy should colour his works. As 
he put it in a letter to Annenkov from Rome in 1857:  
Увы! я могу только сочувствовать красоте жизниŕжить самому мне уже нельзя. 
Тѐмный покров упал на меня и обвил меня; не стряхнуть мне его с плеч долой. 
Стараюсь, однако, не пускать эту копоть в то, что я делаю; а то кому оно будет 
нужно? Да и самому мне оно будет противно.387 
Again, this shows how, like all the great Russian artists of his age, Turgenev was 
concerned about the usefulness of his works for people in his country. Certainly, it cannot 
be denied that some pages in Turgenevřs works are Řdiffused with sadness for the human 
conditionř, as Patrick Waddington has noted in his admirable comparison of Turgenev with 
                                               
385 Letter to Goethe, 7 January 1795 (Schiller 1992-2002:XI/778). 
386 See Turgenevřs letter to Countess Lambert, 2/14 March 1862 (P IV/349). 
387 Letter of 31 October/12 November 1857 (P III/161). 
189  
George Eliot, Řyet this sadness rarely sank into the pessimism of a Schopenhauer, at least 
not in their most public writingsř, for both novelists Řwere always conscious of the best, as 
well as of the worst, in universal life and destinyř (1980:170-71). 
 One could, though, go further than Waddington and say that Turgenevřs sadness 
never had anything in common with Řpessimismř. Here it is helpful to refer to an article by 
Shostakovich in 1943, in which he argued that it was wrong to read pessimism into 
Chaikovskiiřs music, particularly the Pathétique Symphony: 
This misconception stems from the fact that certain contemporary researchers confuse 
pessimism with a vivid sense of the tragic. In all the centuries of world art, manřs tragic 
conception of the world has never been better expressed than in the Greek tragedies. Yet no 
one would ever think of reproaching them for pessimism. Tchaikovsky has the same sense 
of the tragic, conflicting development of human life.
388
 
As was suggested in sections II.6 and II.7, a tragedy such as Sophoclesřs Antigone, which 
Turgenev admired, can be usefully compared to Накануне in that the Řfatalismř of both 
works is not of a pessimistic kind. Rather, it involves facing up courageously to the laws of 
Fate, including death. Moreover, despite the Řvivid sense of the tragicř reflected in these 
works, there is hope in them. Antigoneřs suicide causes Creon to realize how wrong he 
was in his draconian application of the law. After Insarovřs death Elena remains loyal to 
his cause and departs for Bulgaria to work as a nurse. 
 In Turgenev this hope shines even more radiantly because, though not a Christian 
in the orthodox sense,
389
 he did believe in the apostolic message of love. Cited explicitly at 
the end of the 1860 essay Гамлет и Дон-Кихот (VIII/191), this message underlies the 
beautiful poem-in-prose Воробей (1878): ŘЛюбовь сильнее смерти и страха смерти. 
Только ею, только любовью держится и движется жизньř (XIII/163). 
 True works of art are also stronger than death because, drawing on the richness of 
individual and national life, they are capable of inspiring people down the ages. Except for 
a few moments of doubtŕreflected in Довольно (1864), yet only fleetingly as was 
emphasized in section VI.4ŕTurgenev always believed in the immortality of art. He 
expressed this most eloquently in the opening to his Pushkin speech of 1880: 
Искусство народаŕего живая, личная душа, его мысль, его язык в высшем значении 
слова; достигнув своего полного выражения, оно становится достоянием всего 
                                               
388 Quoted in Bartlett 1998:315.  
389 As he remarked in a letter of 6/18 September 1871 to Fet: Řя не верю ни в какую Alleinseligmachereiř (P 
IX/133). 
190  
человечества […] [оноŕ] душа неумирающая, ибо может пережить физическое 
существование своего тела, своего народа. Что нам осталось от Греции? Еѐ душа 
осталась нам! (XV/67) 
Although Turgenev disagreed with many of Carlyleřs views, this idea that art is the living 
soul of a nation does recall the Scotsmanřs argument as to how in contrast to the Řgreat 
dumb monsterř of Russia, Italy could speak because ŘDanteřs voice is still audibleř 
(1993:97). This resemblance is not so surprising, since they had both assimilated the 
traditions of German Romanticism going back to Herder. It was, however, to refute 
Carlyleřs opinion that Russia was Řdumbř and Řhad no voice of geniusřŕan opinion held 
by many Western Europeans well into the second half of the nineteenth centuryŕthat 
Turgenev was so eager for original Russian artists to emerge in all fields, especially in 
music and painting, which, in contrast to literature, still seemed to him to be under-
represented. 
 Both during his lifetime and afterwards Turgenev was often accused of being so in 
thrall to Western European civilization that he had ceased to care about Russia. For 
instance, Mariia Savina, recalling her meeting with Turgenev after the notable production 
of Месяц в деревне in St Petersburg in January 1879, in which she had played Verochka, 
confessed that when Turgenev complimented her by comparing her to a famous French 
actress: Řя выпалила монолог против его западничества и в защиту русского 
искусства, которым он «не интересуется, как забытой им Россией»ř390 The unfairness 
of these reproaches should hopefully be clear from the keen interest which Turgenev took 
in such younger colleagues as Tolstoi and, later, Garshin; the painters Repin and 
Vereshchagin; the sculptor Antokolřskii; and the composers Chaikovskii and Musorgskii. 
Refuting those contemporaries who had accused Turgenev of a lack of patriotism 
for living abroad, Annenkov stressed that all of his late friendřs works conveyed 
Řпостоянная пламенная дума о своѐм отечествеř (1960:339). This is another trait which 
Turgenev shares with his alter ego in Накануне, for Shubin, despite finding himself in the 
Řпрекрасное далекоř of Italy at the end of the novel, cannot forget about Russia either.             
                                               
390 VT (1988):247. 
191  
BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
The following abbreviations are used in the bibliography: 
 
Publication details: M (Moscow), L (Leningrad), SPb (St. Petersburg), Gos. 
(Gosudarstvennyi), Khud. (Khudozhestvennyi), Muz. (Muzykalřnyi), Izd. (Izdatelřstvo), 
Lit. (Literatura); U (University), P (Press) 
 
Journal titles: LN (Literaturnoe nasledstvo), TS (Turgenevskii sbornik: Materialy k 
Polnomu sobraniiu sochinenii i pisem I. S. Turgeneva, ed. by M. P. Alekseev and others, 5 
vols (M / L: Nauka, 1964-69) 
 
The bibliography is divided into the following sections: 
 
Primary sources (in alphabetical order) 
a) Works of fiction 
b) Contemporary non-fictional works (including memoirs, letters, essays, and critical 
articles) 
 
Secondary sources (in alphabetical order) 
a) In Russian 
b) In other languages 
 
Primary sources: 
 
a) Editions from which works of fiction are cited 
 
Dostoevskii, F. M. 1972-90. Polnoe sobranie sochinenii, 32 vols (L: Nauka) 
Drage, C. L. & W. N. Vickery (eds). 1969. An XVIIIth Century Reader (Oxford: 
Oxford U P) 
Eliot, G. 1986. Middlemarch [1872] (Oxford: Clarendon) 
ŕ― 1998. Adam Bede [1859] (Oxford: Oxford U P) 
Fet, A. 1959. Polnoe sobranie stikhotvorenii (L: Sovetskii pisatelř) 
Goethe, J. W. 1985-98. Sämtliche Werke: Münchner Ausgabe, 21 vols (Munich: Carl  
Hanser) 
Gogolř, N. V. 1952-53. Sobranie sochinenii, 6 vols (M: Gos. izd. khud. lit.) 
ŕ― 1994. Sobranie sochinenii, 9 vols (M: Russkaia kniga) 
192  
Goncharov, I. A. 1959-60. Sobranie sochinenii, 6 vols (M: Gos. izd. khud. lit.) 
Griboedov, A. S. 1951. Gore ot uma [1824], intr. by D. P. Costello (Oxford: Oxford U P) 
Khomiakov, A. S. 1969. Stikhotvoreniia i dramy (L: Sovetskii pisatelř) 
Pushkin, A. S. 1949. Polnoe sobranie sochinenii, 10 vols (M: Izd. Akademii nauk) 
Schiller, F. 1992-2002. Werke und Briefe, 12 vols (Frankfurt: Deutscher Klassiker Verlag)  
Sofocles. 1969. Ayax—Antigona—Edipo Rey, transl. C. Miralles Solá (Estella: Salvat)  
Tolstoi, L. N. 1978-85. Sobranie sochinenii, 22 vols (M: Khud. lit.) 
Turgenev, I. S. 1961-68. Polnoe sobranie sochinenii i pisem, 28 vols (L: Nauka) 
ŕ― 1978-. Polnoe sobranie sochinenii i pisem, 30 vols (M/ L: Nauka) 
 
 
b) Editions from which contemporary non-fictional works are cited 
 
Aksakov, K.  S. & I. S. Aksakov. 1981. Literaturnaia kritika (M: Sovremennik) 
Annenkov, P. V. 1960. Literaturnye vospominaniia (M: Gos. izd. khud. lit.) 
Belinskii, V. G. 1953-59. Polnoe sobranie sochinenii, 13 vols (M: Izd. Akademii nauk) 
Botkin, V. P. 1984. Literaturnaia kritika—publitsistika—pis‘ma (M: Sovetskaia Rossiia) 
Brodskii, N. L. (ed.). 1956. Gertsen v vospominaniiakh sovremennikov (M: Gos. izd. 
khud. lit.) 
Budanova, N. F. (intr. and ed.). 2000. ŘIspovedř Goncharova: Neobyknovennaia istoriia  
(istinnye sobytiia)ř, LN, 102: 184-307 
Campbell, S. (ed. & trans.). 1994. Russians on Russian music 1830-1880: An anthology  
(Cambridge: Cambridge U P) 
Carlyle, T. 1993. On Heroes, Hero-Worship, & the Heroic in History (Berkeley / Los  
Angeles: U of California P) 
Chaikovskii, M. I. 1997. Zhizn‘ P. I. Chaikovskogo [1900-2], 3 vols (M: Algoritm) 
Chaikovskii, P. I. 1934-36. Perepiska s N. F. fon Mekk: 1876-1890, 3 vols (M/L:  
Akademiia) 
ŕ― 1953. Muzykal‘no-kriticheskie stat‘i (M: Gos. muz. izd.) 
Chernyshevskii, N. G. 1939-50. Polnoe sobranie sochinenii, 15 vols (M: Gos. izd. 
khud. lit.) 
Dobroliubov, N. A. 1972. Literaturnaia kritika (M: Khud. lit.) 
Dolinin, A. S. 1964. F. M. Dostoevskii v vospominaniiakh sovremennikov, 2 vols 
(M: Khud. lit.) 
Fridliand, V. G. & S. M. Petrov. 1983. I. S. Turgenev v vospominaniiakh sovremennikov, 
2 vols (M: Khud. lit.) 
Fridliand, V. G. (ed.). 1988. I. S. Turgenev v vospominaniiakh sovremennikov (M: Pravda) 
Gertsen, A. I. 1954-66. Sobranie sochinenii, 31 vols (M: Izd. Akademii nauk) 
193  
Glinka, M. I. 1952-53. Literaturnoe nasledie, 2 vols (M/L: Gos. muz. izd.) 
Granjard, H. & A. Zviguilsky (eds). 1972. Lettres inédites de Tourguénev à Pauline  
Viardot et à sa famille (Lausanne: Éditions LřAge dřHomme) 
Grigorovich, D. V. 1961. Literaturnye vospominaniia (M: Gos. izd. khud. lit.) 
James, H. 1984. Literary Criticism (New York: The Library of America) 
Kant, I. 1956. Kant-Brevier, ed. by J. Pfeiffer (Hamburg: Marion von Schröder) 
Khomiakov, A. S. 1900. Polnoe sobranie sochinenii, 8 vols (M: Universitetskaia  
tipografiia) 
Kiui, Ts. A. 1952. Izbrannye stat‘i (L: Gos. muz. izd.) 
Koni, A. F. 1989. Vospominaniia o pisateliakh (M: Pravda) 
Larosh, G. A. 1974-78. Izbrannye stat‘i, 5 vols (L: Muzyka) 
Mashinskii, S. (ed.). 1952. Gogol‘ v vospominaniiakh sovremennikov (M: Gos. izd. 
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Musorgskii, M. P. 1971-72. Literaturnoe nasledie, 2 vols (M: Muzyka) 
Odoevskii, V. F. 1956. Muzykal‘no-literaturnoe nasledie (M: Gos. muz. izd.) 
Pisarev, D. I. 1955-56. Sochineniia, 4 vols (M: Gos. izd. khud. lit.) 
Protopopov, V. V. 1980. Vospominaniia o P. I. Chaikovskom (L: 1980) 
Repin, I. 1969. Izbrannye pis‘ma, 2 vols (M: Iskusstvo) 
Rubinshtein, A. G. 1983-86. Literaturnoe nasledie, 3 vols (M: Muzyka) 
Stasov, V. V. 1950-51. Izbrannoe: zhivopis‘, skul‘ptura, grafika, 2 vols (M/L: Iskusstvo) 
ŕ― 1968. Izbrannye stat‘i o russkoi zhivopisi (M: Detskaia lit.) 
ŕ― 1974-80. Stat‘i o muzyke, 6 vols (M: Muzyka) 
Strakhov, N. 1968. Kriticheskie stat‘i ob I. S. Turgeneve i L. N. Tolstom (1862-1885) (Le  
Hague / Paris: Mouton) 
Taneev, S. I. 1981-85. Dnevniki, 3 vols (M: Muzyka) 
Tolstoi, S. L. 1956. ŘTurgenev v Iasnoi Polianeř [1919], in his Ocherki bylogo (M: Gos.  
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Zviguilsky, A. (ed.). 1971-72. Nouvelle correspondance inédite, 2 vols (Paris: Librairie des  
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194  
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Alekseev, M. P. (ed.). 1960. I. S. Turgenev 1818-1883-1958: Stat‘i i materialy 
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ŕ― 1989. ŘTurgenev: propagandist russkoi literatury na Zapadeř [1948] in his Russkaia  
literatura i ee mirovoe znachenie: izbrannye trudy (L: Nauka) 
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288-343 
Antonova, G. N. 1969. ŘŖDvorianskoe gnezdoŗ: o realřnykh istokakh obraza  
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Babaev, E. G. 1981. Ocherki estetiki i tvorchestva L. N. Tolstogo (M: Izd. Moskovskogo  
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Batiuto, A. I. 1964. ŘTurgenev i Paskalřř, Russkaia literatura, 1964.1, 153-62 
ŕ― 1967. ŘPolemika Turgeneva s L. N. Tolstym v 1869 g.ř, TS, 3: 135-40 
ŕ― 1977. ŘPriznaki velikogo serdtsa… (K istorii vospriiatiia Dostoevskim romana ŖOttsy  
i detiŗ)ř, Russkaia literatura, 1977.2, 21-37 
ŕ― 1979. ŘDostoevskii i Turgenev v 1860-1870-e godyř, Russkaia literatura, 1979.1, 
41-64 
ŕ― 1990. Tvorchestvo I. S. Turgeneva i kritiko-esteticheskaia mysl‘ ego vremeni (L:  
Nauka) 
Bogoslovskii, N. 1964. Turgenev (M: Molodaia Gvardiia)  
Bronř, T. I. 1964. ŘIspanskie tsitaty u Turgenevař, TS, 1: 303-12 
Budanova, N. F. 1985. ŘŖSporŗ Dostoevskogo s turgenevskim Potuginym o prekrasnomř,  
in G. M. Fridlender (ed.), Dostoevskii: Materialy i issledovaniia (L: Nauka, 1974-),  
vi (1985), 92-106 
ŕ― 1987. Dostoevskii i Turgenev: tvorcheskii dialog (L: Nauka) 
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