life has for so long revolved about their son. And the novel closes
with the scene in the little village churchyard, where the aged
couple, supporting each other, visit the tomb, and wipe away the dust
from the stone. Even the abiding pessimism of the novelist lifts for a
moment its heavy gloom at this spectacle. "Can it be that their
prayers, their tears, are fruitless? Can it be that love, sacred,
devoted love, is not all-powerful? Oh, no! However passionate,
sinning, and rebellious the heart hidden in the tomb, the flowers
growing over it peep serenely at us with their innocent eyes; they
tell us not of eternal peace alone, of that great peace of indifferent
nature; they tell us too of eternal reconciliation and of life without
end."

This is where the novel "Fathers and Children" rises above a picture
of Russian politics in the sixties, and remains forever an immortal
work of art. For the greatness of this book lies not in the use of the
word Nihilist, nor in the reproduction of ephemeral political
movements; its greatness consists in the fact that it faithfully
portrays not merely the Russian character, nor the nineteenth century,
but the very depths of the human heart as it has manifested itself in
all ages and among all nations.

The next novel, "Smoke," despite its extraordinary brilliancy, is in
many ways unworthy of Turgenev's genius. It was written at Baden,
while he was living with the Viardots, and I suspect that the
influence of Madame Viardot is stronger in this work than in anything
else Turgenev produced. Of course he had discussed again and again
with her the abuse that young Russia had poured on his head for
"Fathers and Children;" and I suspect she incited him to strike and
spare not. The smoke in this novel is meant to represent the idle