inculcated in it the religion of the ideal; they brought
in the seeds, which had only to be thrown into the warm furrow of their
native soil to bring forth the rich crops of the future.

The shortcomings and the impotence of these men were due to their having
no organic ties with their own country, no roots in the Russian soil.
They hardly knew the Russian people, who appeared to them as nothing
more than an historic abstraction. They were really cosmopolitan, as a
poor makeshift for something better, and Turgenev, in making his hero
die on a French barricade, was true to life as well as to art.

The inward growth of the country has remedied this defect in the course
of the three generations which have followed. But has the remedy been
complete? No; far from it, unfortunately. There are still thousands of
barriers preventing the Russians from doing something useful for their
countrymen and mixing freely with them. The spiritual energies of the
most ardent are still compelled--partially at least--to run into the
artificial channels described in Turgenev's novel.

Hence the perpetuation of Rudin's type, which acquires more than an
historical interest.

In discussing the character of Hlestakov, the hero of his great comedy,
Gogol declared that this type is pretty nigh universal, because 'every
Russian,' he says, 'has a bit of Hlestakov in him.' This not very
flattering opinion has been humbly indorsed and repeated since, out of
reverence to Gogol's great authority, although it is untrue on the
face of it. Hlestakov is a sort of Tartarin in Russian dress, whilst
simplicity and sincerity are the fundamental traits of all that is
Russian in character, manner, art, literature. But it may be truly said
that every educated Russian of our time has a bit of Dmitri Rudin in
him.

This figure is undoubtedly one of the finest in Turgenev's gallery,
and it is at the same time one of the most brilliant examples of his
artistic method.

Turgenev does not give us at one stroke sculptured figures made from one
block, such as rise before us from Tolstoi's pages. His art is rather
that of a painter or musical composer than of a sculptor. He has more
colour, a deeper perspective, a greater variety of lights and shadows--a
more complete portraiture of the spiritual man. Tolstoi's people stand
so living and concrete that one feels one can recognise them in the
street. Turgenev's are like people whose intimate confessions and
private co