BOOKS.
TOURGITENEFF'S LAST STORIES.* IT has been the remarkable distinction of Tonrgueneff to have won—even through the necessarily distorting medium of trans- lations—a higher international repute than that achieved by any contemporary writer of fiction. Such a remarkable con- sensus of critical opinion is the surest proof of the abiding quality of his genius and the far-reaching nature of his observa- tion. But there are special traits which particularly endear him to English, just as there are others which attract French and German readers. In this connection, a remark made by one of his own characters may well be applied to him :—" He could look at the black and the white at the same time, which is rare, and he pleaded neither for the black nor the white, which is rarer still." His artistic reserve and power of condensation were equally remarkable with his judicial impartiality. For in spite of his personal intimacy with the founders and disciples of the so-called school of naturalism, and the boldness with which he dealt with the broad facts of human nature, he never con- fused the standpoint of the realist with that of the student of morbid sociology. Above all, the key-stone of society, as he regarded it, was a pure type of womanhood, and not the courtesan ; and even though the near approach of death, and the terrible nature of the disease from which he suffered at the time of their composition, seem to have thrown a sinister gloom over his last stories, the characteristics mentioned above are distinctly visible on every page.
Of the three short tales included in this volume, the first entitled "Monsieur Francois," purports to be an autobiographical episode of the year 1848. "Monsieur Francois" was a man whose real name or antecedents Tourgudneff never fully ascer- tained. He met him several times at a cafg or in the streets. The man was wretchedly poor ; his life had evidently been far
from blameless ; but what made him remarkable, besides the originality of his views on all subjects, was the extraordinary gift of prediction, or political second-sight, which subsequent events, falling on most people like thunderbolts from a clear sky, proved him to possess. As the story was published many years afterwards, Tourgueneff anticipates the charge of making pro- phecies after the event in a brief note, in which he says :— "This is a fault which I cannot remedy. Bat I declare that the personage of whom I write really existed, and made the remarks I here record." So far as the reader and his enjoyment are con- cerned, it will not matter much whether he accepts this state- ment literally or not. Monsieur Francois is as lifelike as if we had seen him in the flesh. There is not a single redundant touch in the picture of this political "stormy petrel," as Tourgueneff calls him, not one detail which fails to excite our interest or pity.
At their first encounter, though he only spoke a few words, this man had attracted Tourgueneff's notice :—
"He was evidently a Southerner from Gascony or Provence. His weather-beaten face, furrowed with wrinkles, his !anthem-jaws, tooth- less gums, hollow and croaking voice,—everything, down to his stained and threadbare coat, which did not seem to have been made for him, indicated a restless, roving, needy life. 'A man who has been buffeted, shattered, and tossed by the storm,' I said to myself, 'and this is not the first time that he has been in straits. He must have passed his whole life in penury and misery. How, then, comes he to have that half.conscious, half-involuntary look of superiority which one reads on his face, in each of his gestures, and even in his weary and dragging gait ?' "
At their next meeting, he electrified Tourgueneff by calmly announcing that in a month's time France would be under a Republic, and before the end of the year in the possession of the Bonapartes. Then, after a few disjointed but trenchant remarks on the theatre, art, religion, and philosophy, he departed, leaving his interlocutor more puzzled than ever as to who this strange being could be, or what motive impelled him to make these confidences to a stranger. When they met again, politics were an inevitable snbject of discussion. Speaking of Socialism, Monsieur Francois remarked :—" At this moment Socialism needs a creative force. It will go in quest of it amongst the Italians, Germans, perhaps amongst you Russians. As for the
• I. Tourguitieff: (Hams Derniires. Paris : Meted et Cie.
French, they are inventors ; they have invented almost every. thing, but they are not creators. The Frenchman is piercing and narrow like a sword ; he penetrates to the very heart of things; he invents, he discovers; but to create, one must be large and round." Farther, he said that "the two corner-stones of France" were "Revolution and Routine—Robespierre and M.
Pradhomme. They are our heroes." Then, after a short pause, he went on :—" If France were Rome, now would be the time for a Catiline to appear, for, in a short while, the stones, the pave- ment of the street, perhaps quite close to us here, shall drink blood. But we shall have neither Catiline nor Caasar. We shall have the same Prudhomme with the same Robespierre." These remarks, and the subsequent declaration that every man ought to be able to turn occasion to account and profit by everything, led Tourgueneff to ask whether he himself had done so. "No," he replied, sadly ; "otherwise I should not be dressed like a beggar or live in a garret." One thing alone consoled him, and that was the prospect of a speedy and violent death. Pointing to the broken line of life on his left hand, he added earnestly :— " Now, be assured of this. If ever you happen to be in a place where nothing could remind you of me, and if you should never- theless suddenly think of me, then you may know that I am no longer alive." A Russian friend on one occasion warned TourguAneff against Monsieur Francois, taking him to be a spy. But he was no spy, as Tourgtukeff was forced to own, and his prophecies came true with startling truth and suddenness. They met a few times more. He was more feverishly abrupt in manner, more abjectly wretched in appearance than ever. His gift had not deserted him, and herein lay the pity of it :—" What a plight is mine! To foresee everything, to be able to do nothing, to be nobody, nobody ! To take in everything, yet hold nothing fast, not even a morsel of bread." The last time Tourgui5neff saw Monsieur Francois was during "the terrible days of June," in the uniform of a National Guard. But while present at the marriage of a friend in 1850, the thought of his strange friend. leapt suddenly into hie mind, and it occurred to him that as his other prophecies had been verified, it might well be that he had ceased to live. Of this he was able to convince himself a few years later, when he recognised behind a shop-counter a woman to whom he had once seen Monsieur Francois speaking. More than the fact of his death she would not reveal, save that he had died by the death he had deserved, and that his misery had bean greater than his guilt.
A similar air of mystery pervades both the remaining stories. "La Chant de l'Amour triomphant," dedicated to the memory of Flaubert, is a romance of mediaaval Italy, and relates how the tranquil life of a married pair is cruelly disturbed by the sinister use to which a rejected lover turns his knowledge of Oriental witchcraft. It is a masterpiece of brilliant colouring and enthralling narrative. Tourgueneff, as a rule, does not lend himself to quotation, detail being so artistically subordinated to general effect. But an exception may be made in favour of the following vivid picture. Fabio, in a fit of frenzy, has stabbed Muzio, whom he believes to have bewitched his wife. Ho has seen him lying dead, as he thinks,in the house set apart in the gardens for him and his dumb Malay servant But curiosity impelled him to pay another visit:—
" He remembered that there was a secret door in the rear which gave access to the room where he had seen Muzio in the morning. He stole up to this door, found it open, and pushing aside the heavy tapestry which curtained it on the inside, cast a hesitating glance within. Muzio was no longer stretched on the carpet. Clad in a travelling dress, he was seated in an arm-chair looking as much a corpse as at the time of Pablo's former visit. His livid face lay back against the chair; his yellow hands, laid fiat upon his knees, remained motionless. His breast did not heave. Around the chair on the floor, which was strewn with dry herbs, were set several flat cups filled with a dark liquid which gave forth a strong and almost suffocating odour of mask. Entwined round each cup might be seen a little copper-coloured snake, whose golden eyes flashed at intervals, while straight in front of Muzio, at the distance of about a couple of paces, stood the tall figure of the Malay. Clad in a robe of chequered damask, girt at the waist by a tiger's tail, he had upon his head a cap fashioned like a peaked tiara. He did not remain still for a second. Some- times he bowed reverently, and seemed to mutter prayers ; again he drew himself up to his full height, or even raised himself on tiptoe ; sometimes he moved his arms rhythmically, or flung them oat per. &stoutly towards Muzio. He seemed to be threatening or command- ing him, and knitted his brows and stamped his foot. All these gestures and movements visibly cost him effort, and even pain. He breathed hard, and the sweat flowed freely from his face. Suddenly he became motionless, and filling his lungs, clenched his fists as if he were holding reins, and biting his lips with his features convulsed, drew them in with a violent effort to his breast. Then, to Pabio's indescribable horror, Mazio's head left the back of the chair, and moved forward with little jerks, as if it had followed the hands of the Malay. The Malay relaxed them, and Mnzio's head fell heavily back. The Malay repeated his former gesture, and the head obeyed and repeated the movement after him. The dark liquid began to boil in the cups, the cups themselves began to give oat a faint ringing sound, and the little copper-coloured snakes writhed around each cup. Then the Malay made a step forward, and raising his eyebrows to an extravagant height, and opening his eyes enor-
mously wide, gave a sudden nod of command towards Muzio Here the dead man's eyelids quivered, and parted irregularly, show- ing the leaden pupils beneath. The Malay's countenance brightened as though with the pride of triumph, and with joy,—an almost hideous joy. He opened his month wide, and with a mighty effort wrung from the depths of his throat a long yell. Muzio's lips also opened, Jetting a feeble groan escape, as though in answer to that other un- earthly sound. But here Fabio could control himself no longer. He thought he was witnessing some devilish enchantment, and uttering a loud cry himself, fled from the house without once turning his head."
"Clara Militch," the last completed story written by the author, we are inclined to consider the most remarkable of the three. The notion that a man's love could be conquered after death by the proofs which he discovered of an unrequited attach- ment towards him, confirmed by ghostly visits, will doubtless repel some readers by its improbability. Certain it is that the element of the supernatural is introduced with masterly skill and a singularly eerie effect, while the extraordinary vividness of the dreams and visions which play so prominent a part in the story is probably to be accounted for by the fact that Tour- gm5neff was himself haunted in his last illness by strange and unearthly fancies. The value of this volume is decidedly enhanced by an interesting prefatory essay on Tourgueneff's life and works, by M. le Viscomte E.-M. de Vogiiei, which, without pretending to the completeness of Zabel's admirable monograph on the same subject, is characterised by discrimination and sympathy.
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