I have never quite understood the extravagant praises showered upon Turgenieff by his admirers. A few of his short stories in “A Sportsman’s Sketches†are very impressive, but his novels never appeared to me as convincing as those of Tolstoi, nor as vivid as “Dead Souls,†by Gogol, though they are more highly finished and more artistic in form. Turgenieff spent most of his life in France, and his works have distinctly a French flavor. “Smoke†offers perhaps the best illustration of his distinguishing characteristics. In the preface to a late edition of this work, a critic declares that it is “in every sense of the word a classic for all time.†This estimate seems high, though the book is in many ways a remarkable one.
The scene is laid at Baden-Baden, which for a long time was the residence of Turgenieff himself. Here we are introduced to a coterie of Russian “reformers†and “thinkers†of various sorts, who meet at the apartments of Gubaryoff, “a great man,†who is writing a great work “about everything†(as the enthusiastic Bambaeff declares), “after the style of Buckle, you know, but more profound—more profound. Everythingwill be solved and made clear in it.†At this meeting there is a perfect Babel of inane discussion and vociferation.
“Madame Suhantchikoff talked about Garibaldi, about a certain Karl Ivanovitch, who had been flogged by the serfs of his own household, about Napoleon III, about women’s work, about a merchant, Pleskatchoff, who had designedly caused the death of twelve work-women, and had received a medal for it with the inscription ‘for public services’; about the proletariat, about the Georgian Prince Tchuktcheulidzoff, who had shot his wife with a cannon, and about the future of Russia. Pishtchalkin, too, talked of the future of Russia, and of the spirit of monopoly, and of the significance of nationalities, and of how he hated above everything what was vulgar. There was an outburst all of a sudden from Voroshiloff; in a single breath, almost choking himself, he mentioned Draper, Virchow, Shelgunoff, Bichat, Helmholtz, Starr, Stur, Reiminth, Johann Müller the physiologist, and Johann Müller the historian—obviously confounding them—Taine, Renan, Shtchapoff, and then Thomas Nash, Peele, Greene—‘What sort of queer fish may they be?’ Bambaeff muttered bewildered. ‘Shakespeare’s predecessors having the same relation to him as the ranges of the Alps to Mont Blanc,’ Voroshiloff replied cuttingly, and he too touched on the future of Russia. Bambaeff also spoke of the future of Russia, and even depicted it in glowing colors; but he was thrown into special raptures over the thought of Russian music, in which he saw something. ‘Ah! great indeed!’ and in confirmation he began humming a song of Varmaloff’s, but was soon interrupted by a general shout, ‘He is singing the Miserere from the Trovatore, and singing it excruciatinglytoo.’ One little officer was reciting Russian literature in the midst of the hubbub; another was quoting verses from “The Sparkâ€; but Tit Bindasoff went further; he declared that all these swindlers ought to have their teeth knocked out, ... and that’s all about it, but he did not particularize who were the swindlers alluded to. The smoke from the cigars became stifling; all were hot and exhausted, every one was hoarse, all eyes were growing dim, and the perspiration stood out in drops on every face. Bottles of iced beer was brought in and drunk off instantaneously. ‘What was I saying?’ remarked one; ‘And with whom was I disputing, and about what?’ inquired another. And amid all the uproar and the smoke, Gubaryoff walked indefatigably up and down as before, swaying from side to side and twitching at his beard; now listening, turning an ear to some controversy, now putting in a word of his own; and every one was forced to feel that he, Gubaryoff, was the source of it all, that he was the master here, and the most eminent personality.â€
“Madame Suhantchikoff talked about Garibaldi, about a certain Karl Ivanovitch, who had been flogged by the serfs of his own household, about Napoleon III, about women’s work, about a merchant, Pleskatchoff, who had designedly caused the death of twelve work-women, and had received a medal for it with the inscription ‘for public services’; about the proletariat, about the Georgian Prince Tchuktcheulidzoff, who had shot his wife with a cannon, and about the future of Russia. Pishtchalkin, too, talked of the future of Russia, and of the spirit of monopoly, and of the significance of nationalities, and of how he hated above everything what was vulgar. There was an outburst all of a sudden from Voroshiloff; in a single breath, almost choking himself, he mentioned Draper, Virchow, Shelgunoff, Bichat, Helmholtz, Starr, Stur, Reiminth, Johann Müller the physiologist, and Johann Müller the historian—obviously confounding them—Taine, Renan, Shtchapoff, and then Thomas Nash, Peele, Greene—‘What sort of queer fish may they be?’ Bambaeff muttered bewildered. ‘Shakespeare’s predecessors having the same relation to him as the ranges of the Alps to Mont Blanc,’ Voroshiloff replied cuttingly, and he too touched on the future of Russia. Bambaeff also spoke of the future of Russia, and even depicted it in glowing colors; but he was thrown into special raptures over the thought of Russian music, in which he saw something. ‘Ah! great indeed!’ and in confirmation he began humming a song of Varmaloff’s, but was soon interrupted by a general shout, ‘He is singing the Miserere from the Trovatore, and singing it excruciatinglytoo.’ One little officer was reciting Russian literature in the midst of the hubbub; another was quoting verses from “The Sparkâ€; but Tit Bindasoff went further; he declared that all these swindlers ought to have their teeth knocked out, ... and that’s all about it, but he did not particularize who were the swindlers alluded to. The smoke from the cigars became stifling; all were hot and exhausted, every one was hoarse, all eyes were growing dim, and the perspiration stood out in drops on every face. Bottles of iced beer was brought in and drunk off instantaneously. ‘What was I saying?’ remarked one; ‘And with whom was I disputing, and about what?’ inquired another. And amid all the uproar and the smoke, Gubaryoff walked indefatigably up and down as before, swaying from side to side and twitching at his beard; now listening, turning an ear to some controversy, now putting in a word of his own; and every one was forced to feel that he, Gubaryoff, was the source of it all, that he was the master here, and the most eminent personality.â€
Afterwards we are introduced into high Russian society, whose conduct is perhaps even more ridiculous. On one occasion it amuses itself (under the guidance of an American “mediumâ€) in fruitless efforts to mesmerize a crab. In another place, one Potugin, who is the pessimist of the book, dissects the shortcomings of Russian character extremely well.
The story is a very simple one. Litvinoff, betrothed to Tatyana Shestoff, is lured away by the charms of Irina, a beautiful and attractive creature to whom he had once been betrothed, but who, tempted by the allurements of rank and wealth, haddiscarded him. Now again he falls madly in love with her. She promises to leave her husband and to follow him anywhere; but after he has broken his engagement with Tatyana, she fails again, and he betakes himself homeward, deeply impressed with the vanity of human life. His reflections on the journey reveal the theme and motive of the story.
“The wind blew facing the train; whitish clouds of steam, some singly, others mingled with other darker clouds of smoke, whirled in endless file past the window at which Litvinoff was sitting. He began to watch this steam, this smoke. Incessantly mounting, rising, falling, twisting and hooking on to the grass, to the bushes, as though in sportive antics, lengthening out, and hiding away, clouds upon clouds flew by ... they were for ever changing and stayed still the same in their monotonous, hurrying, wearisome sport! Sometimes the wind changed, the line bent to right or left, and suddenly the whole mass vanished, and at once reappeared at the opposite window; then again the huge tail was flung out, and again it veiled Litvinoff’s view of the vast plain of the Rhine. He gazed and gazed, and a strange reverie came over him.... He was alone in the compartment; there was no one to disturb him. ‘Smoke, smoke,’ he repeated several times; and suddenly it all seemed as smoke to him, everything, his own life, Russian life—everything human, especially everything Russian. ‘All smoke and steam,’ he thought; ‘all seems for ever changing, on all sides new forms, phantoms flying after phantoms, while in reality it is all the same and the same again; everything hurrying, flying towards something, and everything vanishing without a trace, attaining to nothing;another wind blows, and all is dashing in the opposite direction, and there again the same untiring, restless—and useless gambols!’â€
“The wind blew facing the train; whitish clouds of steam, some singly, others mingled with other darker clouds of smoke, whirled in endless file past the window at which Litvinoff was sitting. He began to watch this steam, this smoke. Incessantly mounting, rising, falling, twisting and hooking on to the grass, to the bushes, as though in sportive antics, lengthening out, and hiding away, clouds upon clouds flew by ... they were for ever changing and stayed still the same in their monotonous, hurrying, wearisome sport! Sometimes the wind changed, the line bent to right or left, and suddenly the whole mass vanished, and at once reappeared at the opposite window; then again the huge tail was flung out, and again it veiled Litvinoff’s view of the vast plain of the Rhine. He gazed and gazed, and a strange reverie came over him.... He was alone in the compartment; there was no one to disturb him. ‘Smoke, smoke,’ he repeated several times; and suddenly it all seemed as smoke to him, everything, his own life, Russian life—everything human, especially everything Russian. ‘All smoke and steam,’ he thought; ‘all seems for ever changing, on all sides new forms, phantoms flying after phantoms, while in reality it is all the same and the same again; everything hurrying, flying towards something, and everything vanishing without a trace, attaining to nothing;another wind blows, and all is dashing in the opposite direction, and there again the same untiring, restless—and useless gambols!’â€
At last, however, after some years devoted to conscientious labor upon his own estate, Litvinoff’s engagement with Tatyana is renewed.
Certainly the character of Irina is well drawn. There is such a mixture of actual sincerity and deep passion in her intrigues, such a proud contempt for the petty world around her, such a charming humility in her momentary repentance, that it is no wonder Litvinoff yields. There is a striking similarity between this fair creature and Beatrix in “Henry Esmond,†though one can not but feel that the great English novelist has drawn his heroine with a more skilful hand. It is said that one of the mistresses of Alexander II furnished the model for Irina.
In describing Tatyana Shestoff, the author gives us in a very few words a charming picture of womanly dignity and reserve, especially in the scene where Litvinoff tries to tell her that he no longer loves her.
Occasionally, in sketching his characters, Turgenieff can set before you in a short sentence a very lively picture. Take for instance, the following description of Bambaeff:
“He was no longer young; he had a flabby nose and soft cheeks, that looked as if they had been boiled, dishevelled greasy locks, and a fat squat person. Everlastinglyshort of cash, everlastingly in raptures over something, Rostislaff Bambaeff wandered, aimless but exclamatory, over the face of our long-suffering mother-earth.â€
“He was no longer young; he had a flabby nose and soft cheeks, that looked as if they had been boiled, dishevelled greasy locks, and a fat squat person. Everlastinglyshort of cash, everlastingly in raptures over something, Rostislaff Bambaeff wandered, aimless but exclamatory, over the face of our long-suffering mother-earth.â€