CHARACTERISTICS OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE.

From Temple Bar.

No two masters can be more opposite in their styles and manner of proceeding than Tourgenief and Dostoievsky, whose names have been made familiar to all of us by means of French and English translations, more or less true to the original. And yet common to both is the same ardent desire to regenerate Russia and the same hopeless and helpless undercurrent of negation (of the utter vanity and nothingness of everything) which distinguishes all this group of writers. Nothing can be more sauve, more poetical, more perfect than Tourgenief's descriptions of scenery. We have here neither the rugged strength of Tolstoi nor the brilliant and bitter sarcasm of Gogol, nor the tormented if inspired ravings of Dostoievsky. Tourgenief has caught something of the Western spirit of harmony and proportion. His work is, as we say, more artistic. None the less is there a deep purpose underlying it ? He was the first to foresee to define and describe Russia's modern malady, Nihilism or Anarchism. In order to understand fully the entire significance of these terms, we should recall the origin (as far as it can be traced back) of the Muscovite race, and reflect upon the result of the conversion to Christianity of a people naturally inclined by their Asiatic temperament to the more contemplative attitude of Buddhism, and accepting not unwillingly here and hereafter a state of renunciation and annihilation. It is difficult to explain clearly in a few words this fatalistic bent of the Russian mind. Upon it has become grafted the religion of sacrifice and suffering, intermingled with the negations of to-day, the pessimism of Schopenhauer and his school, and the multiplicity of new ideas of which the seeds sown in the French Revolution have developed and expanded through the light of science during this wonderful nineteenth century into all those doctrines of progress with which we are unfamiliar, and from which some of us expect to be ushered in the reign of true happiness and peace. But it seems as if there will always be certain natures who, endowed with vivid imagination and highly-wrought sympathies, will continue to suffer from the contemplation of Nature's seeming eternal immortality, even when their own lot or the general lot of their country is ameliorated. They will continue to ask, why all this senseless suffering in the past, why these longings for unattainable perfection ? They will probe and search — we shall always have such amongst us— and the result will forever be the same, pain and confusion and the last cry of bewildered humanity seeking guidance and comfort in the hours of anguish, " My God, my God, why has Thou forsaken me?" Let those who think that material gratifications alone will satisfy the passionate eager soul of man keep their faith. It suits them. But those who hunger for the ideal and the difficult of attainment will, as heretofore, be torn and wounded in life's struggle, will bear their cross and wear their crown of thorns until they sleep in death, and then, as Hamlet says, " the rest is silence."
To return to Tourgenief. He paints with rare skill the interesting physiognomies of his countrywomen. Gogol was perfectly incapable of pourtraying a woman. His women are mere shadows, none have the breath of life. But with what characters has not Tourgenief presented us ! Indeed all critics concur in finding Tourgenief's heroines far superior to his male creations. They possess the courage, the determination, the fire, the practical ability wanting in these latter. They initiate and carry out the boldest designs without faltering, without repenting, without repining. And we should remember that these are not mere creations of a poet's fancy — they are real, living portraits. These women, or others like them, lived, suffered, braved everything for the cause they held sacred. The names of the martyrs of "the coming Russia" are household words; we are proud to claim them as of our sex, to class them with the Madame Rolands, the Charlotte Cordays, and all those generous noble spirits who have helped to keep alight the ardent flame which serves to feed ever and anon our cooling enthusiasm for humanity.
Every question is discussed in all its aspects by these so-called Nihilists. Nothing is considered too sacred. Old prejudices are swept aside as cobwebs. We have only, over here, advanced timidly to the point of inquiring whether marriage, as an institution, may not be a failure. These audacious iconoclasts demand boldly (in Tourgenief's "Fathers and Sons") whether " Marriage is a folly or a crime?" Now, whether we like them or not, such mental shocks are beneficial, and dispose us to ask whether —although, of course, the English are the most moral and advanced people in the world — we may not have something to learn even of our savage neighbours, the Russians. And I warn those who may feel tempted, from curiosity, and for no deeper motive, to study this people and their literature, that unless they really desire to understand and to learn and to admire candidly, they will be continually out of harmony with their novel mode of thinking and of dealing with the eternal problems of existence. Dostoievsky introduces us to yet another world, where all our preconceived notions of right and wrong become confused and disorganised, and where all social conventions are set at nought. The most prominent figures in "Crime and Punishment" are a murderer and a prostitute ; in the " Idiot," all the interest of the story centres round an epileptic, and always the poor and the humble and the diseased and the simple and the criminal are exalted, pitied, and uncondemned. And do not think for a moment that the murderer is not an ordinary murderer, or the prostitute any exception to her class. By no means. But by the simple and sublime power of genius, the workings of these minds are laid bare before us, and, comprehending at last these abnormalities, we do for a moment, what is not done in real life, we forgive. We are led to see how any one of us, if unprepared by previous training, if placed in certain circumstances, may be led to commit certain actions which we term immoral, just as we think every day certain thoughts which are immoral, but which, by force of will, habit, or fear, do not develop into actions. Whoever denies this neither understands human nature nor the laws which govern it. There is no abrupt line of demarcation between health and disease, between physiology and pathology, between right and wrong. Indeed, is it not certain that what is right in one instance may be wrong in another ? This is the vast field of analysis of motive and action lying before the modern romancer. There is a physiognomy of the mind as of the countenance. When Raskolnikoff, the murderer, throws himself at the unfortunate who feeds her parents with the price paid for her degradation, she who has led Raskolnikoff to expiation and rehabilitation, he cries out when she wishes to raise him : " It is not before thee that I prostrate myself, but before all the suffering of humanity;" and these beautiful and touching words are the keynote to the of Dostoievsky's teachings : Dostoievsky, whose nerves had been shattered during those terrible moments when, a youth of 22, with breast bared and eyes bound, he stood awaiting the fatal bullet which was to end his existence. The death sentence was remitted at the last moment, and long years of exile in Siberia replaced it. The fruit of those years' experience we have in these strange volumes. Be not astonished, therefore at being introduced into an atmosphere of madness, incoherence, folly, and crime. Dostoievsky never once complains of losing what they affectionately denominate their "dear little liberty ; " no, he accepts without murmuring his initiation into others' miseries which he strives to cure or to mitigate by boundless comprehension and compassion. As for his opinions, here is a quotation which must serve as a sample of the rest : —"Socialism is the progeny of Romanism and of the Romanistic spirit and essence. But it and its brother Atheism proceed from despair, from the inconsistency of Catholicism with moral sense, in order that it might replace in itself the best moral power of religion, in order to appease the spiritual thirst of parched humanity and save it, not by Christ, but by force. 'Do not dare to believe in God, do not dare to possess any individuality, any personality,' 'fraternity or death,' two million heads, you shall know them by their works, we are told. And we must not suppose that all this is harmless and safe for ourselves. Oh, no, we must resist, we must fortify, and quickly, quickly. We must let our Christ shine forth upon the buttresses of the Western nations, our Christ whom we have preserved intact, and whom they have not so much as known. Not as slaves, allowing ourselves to be caught by the books of Jesuit anglers, but by carrying our religion to them. We must stand before them at the head of the Christian army."
I cannot conclude more fitly this in adequate sketch than by rendering Gogol's apostrophe to Russia, written when he was in Italy : — " Russia, Russia, from the beautiful country I inhabit I see thee. I see thee distinctly, oh, my country ! Nature has not been prodigal to thee. Thou hast nothing either to charm or to startle the eye. No, nothing in thee, Russia, either splendid or marvellous. All is open, desert, flat. The little towns are scarcely perceptible. Nothing to seduce or to flatter the eyesight. What secret, mysterious force draws me, then, to thee? Why does thy sad, monotonous, troubled song — carried through all thy length and breadth, from one sea to another— sound forever in my ears? What is this song? Whence come those accents and those sobs re-echoing in my heart? What are those painful chords which penetrate my soul, and awake remembrances ? Russia, what will'st thou of me? What is this obscure, mysterious tie which binds us together? Why dost thou look at me thus? My lips are sealed in presence of thy immensity. From thy infinite vastness what is to be prophesied? Thou art the mother-country of thoughts, the greatness of which cannot be measured. Thy unmeasured extent is powerfully reflected in my soul, and an unknown force penetrates into the depths of my being. What a dazzling future, what a grand, splendid mirage unknown to Earth, O Russia ! "

Maryborough Chronicle, Wide Bay and Burnett Advertiser (Qld. : 1860 - 1947), Wednesday 22 October 1890, page 3