pen in their creation, but contrasts them in their absurd indifference
to time, with the turbulent and meaningless whirlpool where the modern
revolutionists revolve. For just as tranquillity may not signify
stagnation, so revolution is not necessarily progression. This
old-fashioned pair have learned nothing from nineteenth century
thought, least of all its unrest. They have, however, in their own
lives attained the positive end of all progress--happiness. They are
indeed a symbol of eternal peace, the shadow of a great rock in a
weary land. Turgenev, most cultivated of novelists, never fails to
rank simplicity of heart above the accomplishments of the mind.

* I cannot doubt that Turgenev got the hint for this chapter from
Gogol's tale, "Old-fashioned Farmers."

Turgenev's splendid education, his wealth which made him independent,
his protracted residence in Russia, in Germany, and in Paris, his
intimate knowledge of various languages, and his bachelor life gave to
his innate genius the most perfect equipment that perhaps any author
has ever enjoyed. Here was a man entirely without the ordinary
restraints and prejudices, whose mind was always hospitable to new
ideas, who knew life at first hand, and to whose width of experience
was united the unusual faculty of accurately minute observation. He
knew people much better than they knew themselves. He was at various
times claimed and hated by all parties, and belonged to none. His mind
was too spacious to be dominated by one idea. When we reflect that he
had at his command the finest medium of expression that the world has
ever possessed, and that his skill in the use of it has never been
equalled by a single one of his countrymen, it is not surprising that
his novels approach perfection.