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Updated: May 3, 2025
Tourguenieff, Turguenef, Turgenif, Toorguniff, Turgenjew nobody knows how to spell him. Yet I wonder if even a Liza or an Alexandra Paulovna could stir the heart of a man who has constant twinges in his leg. I wonder if one of our own Yankee girls of the best type, haughty and spirituelle, would be of any comfort to you in your present deplorable condition.
He could not be all to the cause he honored that other men were men like Flaubert and Maupassant, and Tourguenieff and Tolstoy, and Galdos and Valdes because his intellectual youth had been nurtured on the milk of romanticism at the breast of his mother-time. He grew up in the day when the great novelists and poets were romanticists, and what he came to abhor he had first adored.
Ernest Renan, speaking at the funeral of Tourguenieff, described the deceased novelist as "the incarnation of a whole people." Even more fittingly might the phrase be applied to Bjoernson, for it would be difficult to find anywhere else in modern literature a figure so completely and profoundly representative of his race. In the frequently quoted words of Dr.
The student had no need to study Wallace, or re-read Tolstoy or Tourguenieff or Dostoiewski to refresh his memory of the most poignant analysis of human inertia ever put in words; Gorky was more than enough: Kropotkin answered every purpose. The Russian people could never have changed could they ever be changed? Could inertia of race, on such a scale, be broken up, or take new form?
Ivan Tourguenieff, in one of his beautiful poems in prose, says, 'I was walking in the street; a beggar stopped me a frail old man. His inflamed, tearful eyes, blue lips, rough rags, disgusting sores oh, how horribly poverty had disfigured the unhappy creature! He stretched out to me his red, swollen, filthy hands; he groaned and whimpered for alms.
If you had a larger merchant marine, it would benefit our mutual interests wonderfully. Is your country as much interested in Russia as we are in you?" "Equally so," I said. "Russian literature is very well understood in America. We read all your books. We know Pushkin and Tourguenieff.
Beautiful beyond compare is the art of Tourguenieff; but how much more intimate, how much deeper is the delight that a Russian finds in his novels than ours! However truly the purely artistic qualities may touch us great art is universal we miss our native land and our race in Tourguenieff. We find both in Dickens, in Thackeray.
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