Ivan Turgenev – derrickjknight

Rudin

Today I finished reading this work.

Given that until 1856, when Rudin, his first novel, was produced, Turgenev had produced only a series of short stories and drama it is perhaps unsurprising that this work reads very like a play. Much of the work consists of masterful dialogue with clearly defined scenes.

Almost as if introducing Act I, Scene I, the opening paragraph demonstrates the writer’s descriptive ability: “It was a quiet summer morning. The sun was already high in a clear sky; but the fields still glistened with dew, from newly awakened hollows rose a fragrant freshness and in woodland, still damp and unrustling, there could be heard the gay sound of early birdsong. On the summit of a gentle hill, covered from top to bottom with newly blossomed rye, a small village could be seen. Towards this little village, along a narrow cross-country track, a young woman walked, in a white Muslim dress and round straw hat, carrying a parasol. A servant boy followed some distance behind her.”

There are a number of examples of the moods of weather influencing those of the characters; and of its atmosphere lifting or depressing the cast. After a sudden summer storm “The sky had almost completely cleared when Natalya went into the garden. It breathed freshness and tranquility, that gentle and happy tranquility to which the heart of man responds with a sweetly oppressive stirring of secret sympathy and indefinable longings………”

Turgenev presents people, even relatives, who, despite thinking they know each other well, do not do so at all. Indeed, Rudin probably knows himself better than anyone, in that he understands that there is a disjointedness between his intellect and his emotions. He is able to throw himself into an activity or an idea, but always to let it slip away, destined to wander the world as he aged.

Through the voices of the eponymous protagonist and the several dramatis personae we learn that Rudin is an intellectually gifted and eloquent speaker immediately able to attract people but not to retain relationships. He is able to philosophise on love but not truly to engage with it.

The translator, Richard Freeborn, has produces a useful introduction.

Penguin’s cover shows a detail of ‘On the Banks’ by Repin.

In my second year of blogging, I was producing thumbnail pieces on books included in uncategorised posts. Here is an extract from https://derrickjknight.com/2014/09/04/the-scent-bottle/ produced on the old WP Classic Editor

“This afternoon I finished reading Ivan Turgenev’s masterpiece, ‘On The Eve’. In the 1850s, when he worked on the novel, the world was about to change through Russia’s devastating war with the English and European alliance. This is a tragic love story, beautifully, sensitively, and insightfully written. The characters are well drawn, and the prose flows pleasingly. The last chapters in which the ill-fated couple Elena and Insarov spend an evening watching ‘La Traviata’ brilliantly ties up the story, for, like Verdi’s heroine, Insarov is dying of consumption.

My Folio Society edition is elegantly illustrated by Lauren Nassef.”

This is the one picture I posted then.

This evening we dined on firm fillets of duck breast; tasty gravy; boiled new potatoes; tender brassica in the form of cabbage and cauliflower leaves; crunchy carrots; and cauliflower, broccoli al dente.

King Lear Of The Steppes

In this fifth story of the Folio Society’s collection of Ivan Turgenev’s stories, the author, with his usual descriptive detail, has in essence, translated Shakespeare’s tragic king to his own time and place, with the identity of the massively strong giant landowner, Harlov, brought down by the response of his two daughters to his generosity prompted by confronting thoughts of his eventual death.

There is no Cordelia to remain loyal to Harlov and to die in his arms; this hero has only two daughters, one of whom does at least repent for taking advantage of the old man’s division of his wealth and household, possibly, as suggested by the narrator, to the end of her days.

Driven mad by the self-interested isolation and suppression of his personal needs by his family the larger than life owner of a number of serfs to whom he is not himself kind, brings about his own early death, in this way earning their sympathy and disapprobation towards the family.

In bringing his conclusion to an increasing crescendo our author has deviated quite a bit from Shakespeare’s own ending.

As usual, Turgenev’s exquisite, simply and fully detailed characterisation; pictures of the changing landscape, the weather and its effects, clearly sets the scene and carries along the narrative.

Elisa Trimby has produced faithful, ultimately dramatic, illustrations.

In addition to reviewing this book, this morning I watched a recording of last nights Six Nations rugby match between France and Ireland; and this afternoon, today’s matches between England and Italy and between Scotland and Wales.

This evening we all dined on Jackie’s classic cottage pie; crisp carrots; and firm Brussels sprouts, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Carménère.

First Love

Based largely on Turgenev’s own experience, this story uses the device of three friends undertaking to recount theirs. The first to take on this task chose to write his history and read it out – no doubt because it was ultimately so fraught.

Perhaps no-one forgets their first love; although many are temporary in nature they are brought to a close with more or less pain through disillusionment, through other interests or developments, or through developing maturity. Grief may take some time to pass through.

So it was with our narrator, a boy of 16 falling for a young woman of 21. The bitter-sweet story of a romantic, unfulfilled, attachment is beautifully portrayed with deep understanding of the minds and emotions of the couple; the young man idealising his coquettish loved one who plays forfeits with several rivals. Zinaida loves Vladimir, but without the passion of the lad who”could feel a kind of effervescence in [his] blood and a set of aching in [his] heart….. [whose] imaginings played and darted continually like martins at twilight around a bell-tower”, and who could to this day recall her physical charms.

Slowly it dawns on the boy that his chosen one is probably in love with someone else, and, unless we pick up the one nebulous clue, we share his angst as he speculates about who it could be – in fact I did understand who the rival must be, but i still eagerly anticipated confirmation.

The eventual discovery is a catastrophic bombshell scattering destructive shrapnel.

This is Turgenev’s acknowledged masterpiece in the genre,

faithfully illustrated by Elisa Trimby,

This evening we all dined on more of Jackie’s chicken and vegetable stewp with fresh bread and butter.

Mumu

This second tale in the Folio Society’s selection of Ivan Turgenev’s stories of Love and Death tells of serfdom, of a clumsily arranged marriage, of rivalry; of unrequited love, of a submissive and fearful young lady; of love between a handicapped giant and a small spaniel; and of the ultimate sacrifice of a man obeying orders.

“He took a strong dislike to his new way of life at first. From childhood he had been used to working in the fields and to country life. Alienated by his misfortune from other people’s company, he grew up dumb and powerful like a tree growing in fertile soil … Transported to the city, he couldn’t understand what was happening to him, and he grew homesick and perplexed like a young and healthy bull that has just been taken from the pasture where the succulent grass grows as high as his stomach – has been and put in a railway wagon, his full round body being at the mercy of spark-filled smoke and waves of steam, and is being rushed along with a great clanking and whistling, rushed along – God knows where!”

The quotation above gives examples of the author’s descriptive style, packed with simile. The isolation of a man born deaf and the powerlessness of of a serf, however physically strong, to do other than obey his owner, is narrated with insightful empathy – understanding totally lacking in this woman who expects to be obeyed in the question of the arranged marriage bound to create conflict among those bound to her beck and call at any time of the day or night.

We have two more of Elisa Trimby’s lithographs faithfully capturing characters’ expressions.

Love And Death

The six stories in this collection from the work of Ivan Turgenev are almost novella length. Beginning with “The Diary of a Superfluous Man” I will review them separately.

The format is of a diary written by a dying man, an unrequited lover, more significantly a self identified redundant human being. The author’s fine descriptive prose; incorporating all the senses, notably sight, smell, and hearing; presenting the environment the natural world, and personalities in the most crucial stages of his life. The weather plays its part in setting the mood.

He begins with childhood bereavement and consequent lifelong grief pervading his last two weeks. Above all, Turgenev offers the deepest thoughts of his protagonist, As a child his “tears would flow down effortlessly just like water from a brimming glass.” As an adult he becomes tongue tied at important moments.

We are treated to a fine uplifting account of the emotions of the diarist at the moment he fell in love with an ordinary, attractive young girl who herself falls for a dashing military man who inevitably leaves her. The surprise is that the ultimate winner is a perhaps equally insignificant character.

A duel provides further conviction to the diarist’s interpretation of his superfluity.

The introduction by the translator, Richard Freeborn is thorough, insightful, and covers the range of Turgenev’s work, putting this medium in the context of his shorter sketches, stories, and full length novels. He presents me with a considerable challenge.

The title page and frontispiece above feature Elisa Trimby’s lithographs. The header picture is of the boards and spine from her design.

This evening we were joined by Ian who returned in time to partake of succulent roast chicken; crisp Yorkshire pudding and roast potatoes, sweet and white; crunchy carrots; firm cauliflower, broccoli, and Brussels sprouts, with meaty gravy. Our son-in-law drank Hoegaarden, Jackie drank more of the pinot Grigio, and I finished the Fleurie.

The Scent Bottle

30.8.14
This morning, I continued the task of cleaning and tidying the house, and separating the intruders’ belongings from mine.
My friends in Le Code Bar where I went to post ‘On The Road’, were very supportive. Laurence, even though we had not met for a year, was most warm in hers.
This afternoon I finished reading Ivan Turgenev’s masterpiece, ‘On The Eve’. In the 1850s, when he worked on the novel, the world was about to change through Russia’s devastating war with the English and European alliance. This is a tragic love story, beautifully, sensitively, and insightfully written. The characters are well drawn, and the prose flows pleasingly. The last chapters in which the ill-fated couple Elena and Insarov spend an evening watching ‘La Traviata’ brilliantly ties up the story, for, like Verdi’s heroine, Insarov is dying of consumption.
My Folio Society edition is elegantly illustrated by Lauren Nassef.
The lowering sun cast a splendid light across the forecourt of Le Code Bar this evening, as I dined on magret of duck, chips, and salad, with sparkling Pellegrino to drink.
Before that, I had struggled to unblock the wash basin in the bathroom. This involved undoing the pipes underneath, draining off the water, and peering down the plughole which contained a perfectly fitting little round scent bottle. From beneath, I pushed it up and out with the handle of a wooden spoon.
The key to the letterbox on the wall outside has gone missing.

The Fender

The garden looked glorious in the morning light. In fact the morning glories lived up to their name. It was difficult to remember that the newly created bed through which runs the head gardener’s path was a jungle of bramble and overgrown shrubs completely obscuring the fence behind, on which were trained unseen clematises and camellias.

A clerodendrum Trichotomum is coming into flower. These delicate blooms have various transformations to go through before they are done with delighting us.

A very leggy hardy fuchsia, rescued from the jungle at the far end of the garden now clings to the netting fixed to a tall dead tree stump.

Most of our Japanese anemones are white, but there are some strategically placed pink versions, like this one growing through the red leaved maple.

The lace cap hydrangea attracts insects like the hoverfly in this picture.

I have mentioned before that the small white butterflies flit about barely settling for a second. They are partial to the plants in the iron urn. If you have managed to find the hoverfly above, you may care to try your luck with this well-camouflaged butterfly on the lobelia.

This afternoon I read Hisham Matar’s introduction to Ivan Turgenev’s ‘On The Eve’, then started on the novel itself. I also did a little watering of plants, and staked up a gladiolus.

Early this evening, Becky, Ian, Flo, and Scooby, came to stay for a few days. With them, they brought birthday presents for Jackie and me jointly from them and Mat and Tess. The major shared present was a beautiful copper Art Nouveau fender which fits quite well in front of our wood burning stove. On each side of the stove itself tands one of a pair of bookends that Becky had given me about five years ago.

We all dined this evening on a splendidly authentic Jackie curry meal, consisting of lamb jalfrezi (recipe), chicken and egg korma, vegetable samosas, and pilau rice (recipe). Hoegaarden and fruit juice was consumed by the others whilst I drank Castillo de Alcoy 2010.

After this Ian and I walked with Scooby around the maize field.