RUSSIAN LrFE /N THE INTERIOR..

Tnas Russian fiction oonsists of a series of tales and sketches de- scriptive of the scenery, serfs, and country gentlemen of Russia, varied by an occasional visit to a provincial town. They are sup- posed to be collected by a sportsman in the course of his sporting excursions, and the character of the narrative is appropriately sustained. The framework, however, is so slight as to be almost nil. The pieces have no further connexion than an occasional reference.

The book is a translation from a French translation of the Russian. It is therefore difficult to form an accurate judgment on the individual merits of Ivan Tourghenieff; for we know not what lightness or vivacity of manner the French litterateur may

• Russian Life in the Interior ; or the Experiences of a Sportsman. By Ivan Tourghenieff, of Moscow. Edited by James D. Ideiklejohn. Published by Messrs. Black.

have introduced, though we do not think that he has gone much farther than manner. The work as it stands seems to have a great

deal of literal truth in its pictures of scenery and manners ; in the description of characters or occurrences this literalness passes into flatness. We conceive H. Tourghenieff to want sufficient ima- gination for a high-class fiction. Like all the other books that we have met with descriptive of Russian life by Russians, the value arises from the information and its novelty, not from the graphic or dramatic power of the writers. One of the best things in the book in the sentimental vein is the character of a serf girl se- duced by the valet of a nobleman, in the chapter called "The Assignation." From the feeling and moral tone which are

described as generally prevalent among the people, we suspect Akoulina has been improved by the French artist; at any

rate she is a delicate creation. The conclusions to be drawn from the "Experiences of a Sportsman" do not differ from various delineations of Russian society that have latterly

been published. His general account of the serfs represents them as miserably poor and debased, disregarded by their masters, oppressed by the stewards, suffering poverty and indignity ; sometimes reamed to the condition of outcasts ; yet, though seemingly insensible, with a deep under-feeling made up of suffering and despair. There is indeed another aspect of serfdom, where the serf figures as a species of oopybolder, with something like the wealth of a Russian patriarch : and it may be true, but it is not true-looking. The gentry are coarse, sensual, some- times sheepish, sometimes impudent, with little or no education, very servile manners, much external ceremony, much inward emptiness. The class of officials are painted with more of information and worldly tact, but still empty ; generally dishonest, or if not dishonest, as starving on their miserable pittance ; for it is the poor in Russia as in other places, who —in books—have the largest amount of honesty. It is probable that Russian authorship, deriving its pabulum from foreign litera- ture, may be more or less tinctured with foreign life ; and parts of that life may be unconsciously mingled with pictures of Iiusian society. Unless this be so, there appears to be more generic resem- blance to the country life, character, and occurrences, of Western Europe some century or two ago, than might at first he supposed. There is of course less independence and robustness of character than in Britain, but probably not much less than might then be found in the petty seigneur of France or the small gentleman of Germany.

The following part of a dialogue takes place between some peasants angling, whom the sportsman has fallen in with on an excursion, and a miserable serf, who has just arrived to quench his thirst and tell his troubles.

"The new-comer was covered with dust from head to foot, and seemed evidently oppressed with fatigue. Ho sat down near the spring, drank of the water with relish, and then rose.

"'Hallo, Vass !' cried Touman, who recognized him at the first glance; good day, brother. Where have you fallen from, eh ? '

"'Good day, Miekhallo Savelitch,' replied the peasant, approaching him. 'I come from a distance.'

"'And where have you been, then?' said Touman.

" ' At Moscow, to find the barin ' [landlord]. 44“why?,

"'To ask a great favour of him.'

"'What favour, pray ? ' " ' To reduce my yearly tribute by two-thirds or a half, or place me at statute work instead. My boy is dead, and I will never be able to pay without help.' "Your son is dead ? '

"'Dead Poor boy ! at Moscow, where he was a car-driver ; and I must confess he paid the tribute for me.'

" ' You've been put in that class, have you ? ' tt 4 yes.'

" Well ! your master ? ' " ' The master? the master ?—he drove me away, and said, 'How dare you come to me ? Why have I a steward on my estates down there ? Your duty is to address yourself first to him. You speak of statute work ; pay me first what you owe me.' He was in a great rage.'

"'Have you come back, then ? '

" ' Yes : I wished first to know whether my son might not have left some property or money. I went to inquire of his patron. I am Vlass, the father of Philip. 4 You say so,' said he, but how do I know that? Besides, your son has left nothing, nothing; and besides that, there is his debt to me.' I then quitted Moscow.'

"The peasant told us all this with as much coolness as if he had been speaking of a stranger ; but the water stood in his little bloodshot eyes, and his lip quivered. "'You are going home now ? ' said Touman.

"'Where should I go to? my wife's there at home gnawing her hand for hunger—dying of hunger.' "'You ou-ou-ou-ought,' stammered Steopouchka ; but feeling nervous at the story, he kept quiet, and began to rummage in the pot tor a worm, to keep himself in countenance. -

" Will you go to the steward ? ' said Touman, observing with some as- tonishment the calmness and composure of the peasant.

"What! go to him ? I am in debt, and have not paid. My boy, before he died, was a long time ill, and did not even pay his own tribute. Bah ! that's no great matter ; one can't get water out of a stone.' "He spoke as if the steward were there, and as if he had him in his mind's eye.' Bother yourself as much as you like, brother. Well, what of it ; my head is a sorry pledge, and I have only that.' . . . . He smiled in a singular manner, and continued You may puzzle your brains about it us much as you please, Kintilian Sainenitch; that's the way of it.' . . . . Ile smiled again."