Rudin
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About this ebook
Ivan Turgenev
Ivan Turgenev was a Russian writer whose work is exemplary of Russian Realism. A student of Hegel, Turgenev’s political views and writing were heavily influenced by the Age of Enlightenment. Among his most recognized works are the classic Fathers and Sons, A Sportsman’s Sketches, and A Month in the Country. Turgenev is today recognized for his artistic purity, which influenced writers such as Henry James and Joseph Conrad. Turgenev died in 1883, and is credited with returning Leo Tolstoy to writing as the result of his death-bed plea.
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Reviews for Rudin
74 ratings1 review
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Turgenev’s first novel, Rudin, is another ‘superfluous man’ story, with Rudin representing a “man of the 1840’s”, sensing change was necessary, but having difficulty fitting in and being a productive member of society. Rudin rejects the outright nihilism and misogyny in Pigasov (who perhaps represents a “man of the 1860’s, and a cruder version of Bazarov), but is a failure because he cannot live up to the philosophies he studies and talks so eruditely about. The love interests and Pigasov are somewhat interesting, but the novel is not fully developed enough to recommend to anyone other than a hardcore Turgenev fan. Quotes:On regret:“There’s no harder thing in the world than being aware of your own recent stupidity.”And this one, actually quoting Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin:“Whoe’er has felt will feel alarmedBy phantoms of the days long gone…There are not fascinations left for him,Already the serpent of remembering,The pangs of conscience will be gnawing him…”On transience:“’I remember a Scandinavian legend,’ he said in conclusion. ‘A king is sitting with his warriors in a long, dark hall, around a fire. It takes place at night, in winter. Suddenly a small bird flies in through one open door and out at another. The king remarks that the little bird is like a man in this world: it flew out of the darkness and back into the darkness again, and did not stay long in the warmth and light…’Oh, king,’ the eldest warrior objects, ‘the little bird will not lose itself in the dark but will find its nest.’ It is just like our life on earth that is so fleeting and insignificant; but everything great on earth is accomplished only by men. For man the awareness of being the instrument of these higher powers must take the place of all other joys: in death itself man will find his life, his nest…’”
Book preview
Rudin - Ivan Turgenev
Chapter 1
IT was a quiet summer morning. The sun stood already pretty high in the clear sky but the fields were still sparkling with dew; a fresh breeze blew fragrantly from the scarce awakened valleys and in the forest, still damp and hushed, the birds were merrily carolling their morning song. On the ridge of a swelling upland, which was covered from base to summit with blossoming rye, a little village was to be seen. Along a narrow by-road to this little village a young woman was walking in a white muslin gown, and a round straw hat, with a parasol in her hand. A page boy followed her some distance behind.
She moved without haste and as though she were enjoying the walk. The high nodding rye all round her moved in long softly rustling waves, taking here a shade of silvery green and there a ripple of red; the larks were trilling overhead. The young woman had come from her own estate, which was not more than a mile from the village to which she was turning her steps. Her name was Alexandra Pavlovna Lipin. She was a widow, childless, and fairly well off, and lived with her brother, a retired cavalry officer, Sergei Pavlitch Volintsev. He was unmarried and looked after her property.
Alexandra Pavlovna reached the village and, stopping at the last hut, a very old and low one, she called up the boy and told him to go in and ask after the health of its mistress. He quickly came back accompanied by a decrepit old peasant with a white beard.
‘Well, how is she?’ asked Alexandra Pavlovna.
‘Well, she is still alive,’ began the old man.
‘Can I go in?’
‘Of course; yes.’
Alexandra Pavlovna went into the hut. It was narrow, stifling, and smoky inside. Some one stirred and began to moan on the stove which formed the bed. Alexandra Pavlovna looked round and discerned in the half darkness the yellow wrinkled face of the old woman tied up in a checked handkerchief. Covered to the very throat with a heavy overcoat she was breathing with difficulty, and her wasted hands were twitching.
Alexandra Pavlovna went close up to the old woman and laid her fingers on her forehead; it was burning hot.
‘How do you feel, Matrona?’ she inquired, bending over the bed.
‘Oh, oh!’ groaned the old woman, trying to make her out, ‘bad, very bad, my dear! My last hour has come, my darling!’
‘God is merciful, Matrona; perhaps you will be better soon. Did you take the medicine I sent you?’
The old woman groaned painfully, and did not answer. She had hardly heard the question.
‘She has taken it,’ said the old man who was standing at the door.
Alexandra Pavlovna turned to him.
‘Is there no one with her but you?’ she inquired.
‘There is the girl—her granddaughter, but she always keeps away. She won’t sit with her; she’s such a gad-about. To give the old woman a drink of water is too much trouble for her. And I am old; what use can I be?’
‘Shouldn’t she be taken to me—to the hospital?’
‘No. Why take her to the hospital? She would die just the same. She has lived her life; it’s God’s will now seemingly. She will never get up again. How could she go to the hospital? If they tried to lift her up, she would