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The luring music of eloquence

A fragrant mist lay like a soft shroud over the garden; a drowsy scent breathed from the trees near. The stars shed a mild radiance. The summer night was soft � and softened all.

Nabokov, with his usual sharpness, said about Turgenev that his storytelling was lame and that ‘the worst of Turgenev was thoroughly expressed in Gorki’s works, and Turgenev’s best (in the way of Russian landscape) was beautifully developed by Chekhov�, mischievously mocking his ‘perfectly modulated, well-oiled prose and perfectly rounded graceful sentences�. I thoroughly enjoyed reading Turgenev’s debut novel from 1856, mostly because of that silky-smooth, mellifluous prose, his marvellous gift to evoke nature and atmosphere and his mild ironic take on human tribulations at the backdrop of the mightiness of the landscape � a view that would get much more bitter and barbed in his 1867 novel Smoke.
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Poetry is the language of the gods. I love poems myself. But poetry is not only in poems; it is diffused everywhere, it is around us. Look at those trees, that sky on all sides there is the breath of beauty, and of life, and where there is life and beauty, there is poetry also.

Dmitri Nikolaevich Rudin, the eponymous protagonist, is thoroughly imbued with German poetry, German romanticism and philosophy when he returns to Russia after studying in Heidelberg and turns into the focus of attention of a circle of small landowners on the country, where he stays as the house guest of an aging widow.

Talkative and idealistic, he is the philosopher who will not write anything, the painter who will not touch any canvas, undisciplined, not fitting in, gnomic and attractive but shying away from every true engagement, firing and inspiring others by his animated discussion but unable to bring himself to any action. The slightest opposition makes him falter and give up, even makes him flee. Like Goncharov’s Oblomov, and Puskin’s Yevgeni Onegin, he isn’t up to the strength and determination of the young woman who falls in love with him and whom he repudiates as sadly illustrated by a confessional scene in the woods which reminds greatly of the letter scene in Yevgeni Onegin. The music of eloquence is beguiling, but falls silent when it comes to take action.

Rudin has been mentioned among those archetypical ‘superfluous man� of Russian literature like Lermontov’s Pechorin (from A Hero of Our Time, a misfit, not fitting into the social norms, but the poor chap doesn’t even seem to fit into the mould of the of that concept! He seems prey to a paralyzing impossibility to act, does not endeavour into any of the typical behaviours (gambling, drinking, duels), nor is he is a cynic � he is more of a windbag, a sponger, creating an aura of expectations around him he cannot live up to.

And yet, do not judge Rudin to harshly - how right it feels that Turgenev doesn’t and treats him with kindness. Isn’t it rather so that some people are more comfortable with the word, while others more tend to act? Isn't a perfectly balanced amalgamation of both qualities quite rare? It would be a blessing if everyone who cannot realise their potential because of inhibitions of character keeping them from being effectual in their particular context would be graced with a mild and generous friend, someone that would be simply there for them, despite all - like Rudin in the end.




What sweet moments Natalya passed when at times in the garden on the seat, in the transparent shade of the aspen tree, Rudin began to read Goethe’s Faust, Hoffman, or Bettina’s letters, or Novalis, constantly stopping and explaining what seemed obscure to her.

O bookish people, beware when you consider bestowing books upon a romantic individual � they might fall in love with you and before you can say forget-me-nots things might get horribly out of hand.