The Mother of Turgeneff

IN a recent number of the Messenger of Europe, the leading Russian, magazine, there appeared an article containing many very curious details about the family of Ivan Turgeneff. Madame Giveau, the writer, was adopted by Turgeneff’s mother, and was to her and her sons both daughter and sister. Taken without explanation, the frankness of the article is amazing, but there exists in Russia a whole legend of the mother of Turgeneff, compared with which this story is mild and reasonable. What at first appears an extraordinary revelation of family affairs is really an attempt to do justice to a lady whose extravagant eccentricities, whose violent, masterful temper, made her seem worse than she really was.

It is not merely as a picture of homelife in Russia fifty years ago that the article is important. It throws a painful light upon Turgeneff’s own work. The stories of the serfs, which made his fame and opened the way for Alexander’s great deed, are the simple narratives of the every-day life in his mother’s house, on his mother’s estate. Whoever is familiar with the Sketches of a Sportsman can verify for himself. The Three Portraits and Offeanikoff relate to his mother’s immediate ancestors ; the old lady in Death, who expires trying to pay the priest as he reads the commendatory prayer, was his grandmother.

In selecting a few of the incidents, we have followed so far as possible the purely colloquial style of Madame Giveau, though its naivete and vividness cannot he reproduced. In the necessity to omit and condense, faithfulness has been the aim rather than exact literalness. Great care has been taken neither to exaggerate nor to soften. Where the narrative is in the first person it is of course Madame Giveau who speaks, and two or three passages are taken entire. A few words, such as titles of servants, have been rendered by equivalents, in order to hit the sense as nearly as possible without long explanations. There are several words of distinct shades of meaning, which have to be rendered by the one word “ serf.” The French is taken as it stands. It was thought best to retain the forms of address. Barbara, the daughter of Peter, Ivan, the son of Sergius, have at once a formality and a familiarity which help us to realize a different life from ours.

Barbara Petroffna, the mother of Ivan Turgeneff, spent her childhood and youth in a darkness and misery that stifled all the good in her nature. Her mother, being left a widow while still young, married for her second husband a man who already had two grown-up daughters. She had never much cared for the daughter of her first marriage, and under the influence of this man she became to her truly a stepmother ; lavishing on the other two all that was due from an own mother. The girl was not only neglected, but was cruelly beaten by her stepfather, who added to his cruelty outrageous insult when she was no more than sixteen. In terror she escaped from the house by the aid of her nurse, and half clad traveled forty miles on foot to an uncle, who gave her shelter and protection. But Ins house was solitary and forlorn, his ideas of life for a woman were of the strictest kind, and the place was little better than a prison to her until his death, when she was almost thirty. There were strange stories of his death, which was sudden and perhaps violent. It left her the sole mistress of herself and of a large fortune. For the first time in her life she could draw a free breath ; apparently she said to herself, “ Now I can do everything.” She never spoke of what she had suffered, but more than once affirmed that “ to be an orphan without father or mother is sad. But to be an orphan within sight of one’s own mother is terrible. I had no mother. She was a stepmother to me. She had other children, other ties. I was alone in the world.”

Barbara Petroffna very soon married Sergius Nicholäevitch Turgeneff. He was said to be “ an angel of goodness,” and she herself used to talk of his fine looks. Years after his death, one day in Carlsbad, at the spring, one of the princesses of a reigning German house, who stood near her, saw in a bracelet upon her arm the portrait of her husband. She caught her hand, saying, “You—are the wife of Turgeneff. I remember him. After Alexander I., I never saw anyone handsomer than your husband.”

After their marriage she lived the free and open-handed life of the Russian gentry in the early part of this century. Her wealth, the beauty of her husband, her own intelligence and cleverness, made their home the favorite resort of every one of distinction in the Government of Opel. Their orchestra, their singers, their theatrical corps, — all of serfs, — everything at the centurv-old Spasskoe, combined to make it an honor to be a guest there. Barbara Petroffna herself was then not only gracious, but even fascinating in manner; and though without beauty, she had many admirers. But in the reaction from the long and painful suffering of her early life, there were developed that selfishness and love of power from which so many of those around her suffered. Still, she never used her rights as proprietor so harshly or so cruelly as others. She was even beloved by the victims of her tyranny. Something in the tenderness of her glance, of her words, seemed to compensate. No one ever dared to disagree with her except her son Ivan, — he was her favorite ; and yet he could do it only by the gentlest representations, seeking by prayers rather than by protests to prevent what he regretted, or to carry out what he desired. Her treatment of the serfs was the hardest thing for him to bear, but in his presence she was gentler, and his rare visits were looked forward to as a deliverance. When he came every one breathed more freely. Then she not only gave up seeking some one to blame for something, but forgave actual offenses. She seemed to be amiable for the sake of seeing a satisfied expression on the face of her son.

“ The day Ivan Sergei viteh left for Berlin we all went in the morning to church, where the prayers for travelers were said. Barbara Petroffna sat during the service on her folding-chair (she was too lame to kneel), and wept bitterly. We all accompanied him to the steamboat. On the return from the quay, when she entered the carriage she fell in a dead faint.”

The fire at Spasskoe was an era in the Turgeneff family. Everything ever after was dated from that. It was the 3d of May, 1839. The table had been already laid for supper in the sittingroom, when the butler entered with a basket, and began to pile into it all the silver, —knives, forks, and spoons.

“ What are you doing, Anton ? ” asked Barbara Petroffna. “ Are you drunk? ”

*' Not at all, my lady, but it’s not best to eat here.”

“ Why not ” — she began, when her question was interrupted by a strange light that flashed into the room. “ What is that ? — lightning ? ”

At this instant Nicholas Sergeivitch rushed into the room. “ Mamma, take your money, jewels, everything of value ! We are on fire ! ”

“Is the house on fire?” she persisted, still incredulous.

“Yes, yes! Come quick! I must save Vasilieffna,” said he.

In the lelt wing of the house, where the fire had begun, lived Natalia Vasilïffna (the woman who had aided his mother in that dreadful flight from her stepfather), now a helpless cripple. Every one, in the confusion, had forgotten the poor old soul, till Nicholas Sergeivitch flew to her rescue. When Barbara Petroffna, leading the little girl, came out of the flaming house, they beheld him just bringing her out, shrieking, “My angel! my saviour! Leave me ! You are on fire yourself! Leave me, little father!” (the extreme form of entreaty from a Russian peasant).

She lived several years after to tell her favorite story, “ how that angel of a gentleman with his own gentlemanly hands had saved her, a good-for-nothing old woman, out of the fire, from a horrible death, without a word from the priest! ”

The loss was heavy. All the old family portraits were destroyed. Nothing remained of the cabinets filled with costly china and porcelain and of the old family silver but a few grotesque bits of blackened silver picked out of the ashes. They always stood afterward on Barbara Petroffna’s writing-table. The parlor had been hung with tapestry ; the furniture was of ebony covered with yellow leather, and with heavy carvings and mouldings. The decorations were symbolical,— wholerows of Cupids and lions. Each Cupid led a lion bound in chains of flowers. The right wing of the house was saved, with an adjoining gallery, and these with some additions became the home of the family. It was the property of Ivan Sergei vitch after his mother’s death, and there for many years he spent a part of the summer. The external aspect of the house has been little changed. It stands in wide gardens plante I with silver firs and noble oaks.

It was a part of the legend about her that she would have left her station, — that she wanted “ to simplify herself,” as her son expresses a certain fancy in Virgin Soil; but nothing was less like her. She was the true lady of the manor, born to rule, — arbitrary and despotic, capricious to cruelty, but with sudden impulses of magnanimity and kindness. As haughty as was her pride, so tender were her words to her favorites. In her youth she was plain, hut growing older she was almost beautiful. She was always handsomely dressed ; her caps were of rich lace, with soft, bright ribbons coquettishly arranged; her bonnets were odd, but always of choice fashion, although sometimes so original that it was only her air of distinction, la grande dame, that saved them from being queer.

After the death of her husband, there was still a great household of forty persons. Luxury and the affectation of recent fashions she carefully avoided. All the servants about her were obliged to learn to read and write. To one of the maids French was taught, as Barbara Petroffna read only French romances. Everything moved in exact order. Even the doves knew it, and flew down at twelve precisely for their daily portion of oats. She spoke Russian only with her servants. For the rest, all read, wrote, spoke, thought, and even prayed in French. “ I did not learn the Russian prayers and catechism till I was preparing for examination at. boardingschool. So far was French in use among us that even at the Holy Communion I read the prayers in that language.”

Between 1841 and 1846, Ivan Sergëivitch spent the summers at Spassköe, and sometimes during the winters stayed with his mother in Moscow. The most frequent visitor at the house was Granoffski. “ I was always welcome in his room on the second floor, and I always ran there when mamma was resting or was occupied with guests. Granoffski always petted me. Going in one day, I found both host and guest talking very earnestly about something. Ivan Sergeivitch was walking about the room, evidently very much excited. Granoffski greeted me with a nod, and placed me beside him on the sofa. I sat there a long while, almost holding my breath, and at first understood nothing. Then words familiar to me, serfdom, freedom, peasants, unhappy people, where is the end, were so often heard that they began to have some sense. Now as then, I can give no account of what I heard; but the idea was clear to me. The conversation so strongly expressed their hopes for something better that I began myself to be glad. Suddenly Ivan Sergeiviteh bethought himself, and turned to me : ‘ Have you been dreaming ? Surely you can understand nothing here. It is time yon were asleep.’

“ • I don’t understand,’ I answered.

‘ Is it that my dear Aggie ’ (the much-beloved housekeeper) ‘ will soon be free ?

“‘Yes, some time,’ he said thoughtfully, and then he kissed me, as if it were a reward.”

“That Ivan Sergeiviteh should enter the paths of literature did not at all please Barbara Petroffua. On this subject there were many discussions between mother and son. We were once sitting on the piazza at Spassköe, the wellknown Dianka lying at the feet of Ivan Sergeiviteh. He had been telling his mother of Michael Philippoviteh’s urging him to eat less, and spoke of the Miserly Knight of Pushkin. Suddenly he rose, and walked with quick steps up and down the piazza. ‘ Ah, had I the talent of Pushkin,’ he exclaimed eagerly, ‘what a poem I would make out of Michael Philippoviteh ! Ah, that is talent! But what am [ ? I may never in my life write anything good ! ’

“ ‘ I cannot understand,’began Barbara Petroffua, almost with contempt, ‘ how you can want to be a writer ! Is that a thing for a gentleman to do ? You say yourself that you will never be a Pushkin, — besides, he was a poet; but I beg of you, a writer! What is a writer? To my thinking, ecrivain ou gratte-papier est tout un. A gentleman ought to be in service, and gain for himself a career and a name, and not be a paper streaker. And who reads a Russian book? If you would go into government service, you would win rank, and then you could marry. You know you alone can perpetuate the line of the Turgeneffs.’ ”

Ivan Sergeiviteh used to answer his mother’s complaints with jests, but at the mention of marriage he laughed heartily, and said, “ As to that, mamma, pardon me ; do not expect that. I shall not marry. Your churches with their two crosses will be dancing a polka before I marry.”

To the girl who sat near by, hardly restraining her laughter, Barbara Petroffna said seriously, “ Comment osez-vous rire quand il dit des betises! ” and turning t.o her son, “ How can you talk so foolishly before the child?”

“ Yet I cannot understand,” continued he, “ why you speak of writers with such contempt. There was a time when all you ladies ran after Pushkin. You yourself loved and honored Jukoffski! ”

“ That was altogether another matter. JukoiKki ! Why should I not honor Jukoffski ? You know how near he was to the court.”

Later Barbara Petroffua read Gogol’s Dead Souls, and lier comment shows still further her views about Russian books.

“This is awfully droll,” she said in Russian, and then finished in French : “ mais u vrai dire je n’ai jamais lu rien de plus mauvais genre et de plus inconvenunt.”

The year Liszt came to Moscow, Barbara Petroffua, who rarely went out, attended one of his two concerts, accompanied by her son. She had for some years been unable to walk upstairs, and on arriving it was found that the chair in which her servants usually carried her had been forgotten. Her eyes flashed with anger at the careless servants. “I will take you in my arms,” said her son, and without waiting for consent he carried her up to the very threshold of the room, where her friends crowded round her with congratulations upon the strength and devotion of her son. Her own gratification might be inferred from the fact that the servants escaped the dreaded reprimand.

That winter Ivan Sergeiviteh suffered much from his eyes, and, lying in the darkened room, he encouraged the girl to tell him all that was going on round her. “ We talked secretly of my dear Aggie and her children, and how every one was afraid of mamma. He was never gay, but as I told him of my troubles and the troubles of my friends he often sighed, and I see now how, innocently enough, my stories grieved his heart, as he realized the utter fruitlessness of any attempts to help or to soften matters. I should not have dared to talk to any one else. Of some of my governesses I was afraid, others I did not trust, and there were none but serfs around me; so in the cruel self-occupation of a child, I must have tortured him.”

Two or three of the servants are very fully described. Before she was twenty Agatha Simeonoffna became “ my lady’s own maid,” and later housekeeper. On all estates there was a kind of aristocracy among the servants, and some positions about the person of the master or mistress were held as special dignities, transmitted from parent to child. The secretary and chief steward was Andrew Ivanovitch Polyakoff, who, like the doctor of the household (also a serf), was almost an educated man. They had so far shared the lessons of their young masters that the one spoke French and the other German, besides having perfect command of the Russian. Andrew wrote verses. All the important business of the Turgeneffs was transacted by Andrew, while all the household possessions, wardrobe, linen, etc., was under the care of Agatha. Both were entirely devoted to their mistress, who in 1842 took the fancy to marry them. Such a thought had never entered the head of either of them, but she neither asked nor cared whether they pleased each other. In this as in all things she commanded, and it was done. The outfit for the bride was handsomely provided by the mistress, and there was a gay wedding feast, in which all the people of the estate shared. Andrew and Agatha were quiet, staid people, and out of their mutual respect grew a life of reasonable happiness, except for the trial about their children. At the birth of the first little daughter, the mistress cared tenderly for the mother, yet when she appeared again in her bedchamber, “ How glad I am to have you again ! ” she said. “ Nothing gets on without you. You shall find a nurse for the baby in the village, and when that is out of the way we shall be quite comfortable again.” The poor mother was aghast, but Barbara Petroffna’s commands were without appeal. The nurse was found and the order to take the child was given — but never carried out! Fortunately, and much to the honor of the large household, there was not a tell-tale in it. Often as the head of it was secretly disobeyed, no word of it came to her ears. So now, though Agatha must be night and day with her mistress, she contrived to nurse her own child. It was kept in a vacant room in a little outhouse, which Miss Blackwood, the English governess, helped to fit up, and there all aided and abetted the poor mother in her secret visits. Three children were thus nursed by Agatha.

The hardest stroke came after the birth of the third daughter, on the return of Barbara Petroffna to Moscow. Agatha was to follow a day or two later.

The mother’s heart, torn with the sorrow of parting, finally conquered, and Agatha determined to take the children with her, and brave the wrath of her mistress by openly declaring their presence.

“ The first morning she served mamma as usual, but when ordered to bring the tea she hesitated.

“ ‘ Go,’ repeated Barbara Petroffna.

“ ‘ My lady’ — began Agatha, and her voice trembled.

“ ‘ What is the matter with you ? ‘

“ ‘ Barbara Petroffna,’ went on Agatha, with lowered, almost inaudible voice, ‘I have brought with me all my children — please — I could not ’ —

“ ‘ What children ? What is this you are telling me ? ’

“ * My lady,’ exclaimed Agatha, falling on her knees, ‘ for God’s mercy, let me keep them here! I will serve you as I have served you. I will be with you night and day — only let them stay — that I may only know how they ’ —

“ ‘ Begone ! ’ sounded the voice of Barbara Petroffna.

“ ‘ Please, my lady, I shall not go, do with me what you will! Barbara Petroffna, you yourself had little children ! What could mine do without a mother ? For God’s mercy, I only ask your ladyship not to take from mo my children ! ’ and the poor woman crept on her knees towards her mistress’s chair.

“ ‘ Begone ! ’ was the answer.

“I stood by, tears rolling from my eyes, and I could only stammer, ‘Mamma ! Mamma ! ’

“ ‘ Comment osez-vous pleurer ? Allez-vous-en ! ’ The wrath of Barbara Petroffna turned upon me. I fled to the corridor, weeping aloud as I heard, —

“ ‘ I can do anything I like with you, — send you back to the serf village, and your children to the foundling hospital.’

“ ‘ To Siberia, to the village, but with my children — the children must — I ’ — brokenly whispered Agatha, still on her knees.

“ Barbara Petroffna rang sharply and called. Two maids appeared.

“ ‘ Take her away, carry her away, drag her out! ’

u But by this time Agatha knew nothing. She was almost crazy. As the maids touched her, she rose suddenly to her feet, and in her sobs uttered only the words, ‘ You are a wolf — and these are your children.’

“ ‘ Silence ! ’ cried Barbara Petroffna, ‘I will order you to be whipped. You shall rot in my jail ! ’

“ ‘ Where you please, but I will sooner smother them with my own hands than give them up ! What will happen to them without a mother ? ’

“ ‘ The whip, — the whip ! Go ! ’ cried Barbara Petroffna, with foam on her lips.

“ ‘ Agatha, come,’ whispered one of the maids.

“ The unhappy woman made a step towards the door, but again suddenly turned to her mistress. Over her good face and in her beautiful eyes flashed something evil, and her voice again had the hard ring : —

“ ‘ We have been to you, my lady, with vour husband, faithful, devoted servants, but after the whip we are no more your servants.’ (She meant a distinction between serf, slave, and a servant of free-will.)

“ A frightful scene followed. Barbara Petroffna sprang up, seized Agatha by the throat with one hand, and with the other would have struck her mouth, had she not herself fallen in strong hysterics. Nevertheless, the order was duly written and signed that night for the banishment of the children.

“ As before, the connivance of the household kept the children. The town house had awing for the servants’ quarters, and there Andrew, as steward, had a separate room. In it lived winter and summer the poor little children, in prison, without air, and the father and mother could be with them but a few times each day. Only rarely was it possible to take them out, like squirrels from a cage, for a little run, and Agatha often sighed, ‘ Merciful God ! they will die ! ’ Barbara Petroffna never knew of the poor children again, but Ivan Sergeivitch provided for them. Andrew to the end of his days blessed his good master, while he always received from both brothers the utmost, confidence and esteem.”

Simon Karilovit.ch was a dark, handsome man of thirty, in all his bearing and manner a servant of the most aristocratic type. His position as butler often required him to talk with his mistress of household matters. He had been a favorite, and as she saw, or fancied she saw, in him a growing self-confidence, a consciousness of his value, she began to worry him. It was a marked trait in her character that any signs of independence or self-assertion excited her anger at once. Simon paid no heed to the little insults that were heaped upon him, and his very coolness only exasperated her. “ By her plate at table always stood a splendid carafe, which it was Simon’s business to fill with water. It pleased her constantly to find fault with it. It was not fresh, was cold, or warm, or dirty. So it went on for several days consecutively. Each time Simon took the carafe from the table, and after a few moments returned, apparently with fresh water. At last, one day, after Barbara Petroffna had put the glass to her lips, she turned round to Simon, and asked, ‘ What is this ? ’

“ Silence.

“ ‘ I ask, what is this ? *

“Again silence.

“ ‘ I want to know, is this water good ? ’ and instantly the glass was thrown almost into the face of the butler.

“Simon turned pale, took from the table the carafe, and went out. After a few moments he returned, and poured water for his mistress into a fresh glass.

“ ‘ Ah, that is water,’said Barbara Petroffna, and drank more than half a glass.

“Then Simon, pale, with lips trembling, came a few steps forward, stood near the sacred picture, crossed himself with a broad cross, and said, bowing to the picture, ‘ God be witness, I gave the same water. I did not change it.’ Having said this, he turned towards, his mistress, and looked straight in her face.

“ Small as I was, my heart died within me, for 1 knew it was impossible for mamma to answer.”

Several seconds of strange silence followed. Barbara Petroffna, suddenly rising from her chair, said, " Begone ! ” and left the apartment without finishing her dinner. She shut herself up in her room. Three days after the daughter found Simon, all his line livery gone, in a goatskin, with a broom in his hand, sweeping out the court. From the butler in the personal service of his mistress he had been degraded to the lowest place,

After the fire at Spassköe, the library was placed in a gallery adjoining the house, and near by was the store-room. Both were under the charge of Michael Philippovitch, once the valet of the elder Turgeneff. After his master’s death he had been given a pension and relieved. As an almost nominal duty, the keys both of the library and the storeroom were in his keeping. From this man Turgeneff got his first knowledge of Russian literature. (See Pounin and Babourin.¹)

“ Sometimes when, of course unknown to mamma, I asked the old man for French books, he would despairingly wring his hands (his habitual gesture), and say, * Ah, little mistress! You read all these French books, and what is there in them ? You should read Kheraskoff. His books are good.’ ”

Michael Philippovitch was very deaf. He lived in solitude, shut tip in himself ; was always reading books of devotion, and in his deep reserve the store-room became at last his idée fixe, a subject of actual torment to him. It was to him the shrine of his master’s wealth, to the younger servants a jest, and to the child the promised land flowing with milk and honey.

Every article that was bought and sent from Moscow was placed in the hands of Michael Philippovitch. His miserliness was extraordinary. Whatever was given into his charge he received with a sigh, and dramatically shook his head. “ Why bring it here ? Only to take it away again! They eat up everything! ”

Every morning the cook came to him to receive what was needed for the table. He weighed everything, counted everything, and if there were many guests, and much extra was needed, he would sigh so deeply and wring his hands in such terror that on these days even the children went to look at his despair, as at some strange, wild creature, little, guessing that it was positive pain to him.

The death of the poor old man was tragic. He hanged himself in the attic of the house. His miserliness had grown to a hallucination. After the death of Barbara Petroffna, when Ivan became master of Spasskoe. there was a new order of things. Michael grumbled and growled more and more, and constantly insisted, “The young gentlemen will come to beggary, — will come to beggary.” The old man was disturbed and excited, most of all, by the rewards given by Ivan Sergeivitch to the former servants of his mother. He gave them money and valuable pieces of land, arranged for annual pensions, and to Michael Philippovitch he gave a more than comfortable home of his own, but it only drove the old man into deeper despair.

The generosity of Ivan Sergeivitch was sometimes imposed upon by the unworthy, but there were others who fully deserved recompense for their long patience under the yoke of his mother. Such was the serf doctor, Porphyrio. When Ivan Sergeivitch was first sent to Berlin, Porphyrio accompanied him as valet, or more strictly as guardian. The most friendly relations existed between him and his young master.

To the sons and all the family Porphyrio was the physician, a man much beloved. He was the serf, the thing, only to Barbara Petroffna. She would never yield to her son’s entreaties to give Porphyrio his freedom, but him alone, of all her dependents, she never insulted by word or deed, and sometimes she trusted him more than the regular physicians. In all the trying moments of her life, in all the real or fancied tempers and illnesses of his mistress, Porphyrio appeared with the invariable soothing drops, and the invariable words, “ Please, your ladyship, compose yourself.”He was tall and stout, with traces of small-pox, which, nevertheless, did not lessen the good-natured expression of his face ; eyes noticeably small for his colossal size, but soft and intelligent. His whole figure expressed an unruffled calm. Barbara Petroffna never had any repose, except when he was near her.

The years in Berlin were not useless. Porphyrio learned to speak German with perfect freedom, attended medical lectures, and came back with the title of Doctor of Medicine. Returning to Russia, he continued his studies, his mistress never begrudging him money for books. In Moscow and Saint Petersburg the physicians always consulted with him before prescribing for Barbara Petroffna. At Spassköe he was sought as a surgeon in all directions within the borders of Mzensk. The gentlemen sent their carriages for him ; but alas, as a serf he could go only when his mistress permitted. When Ivan Sergëivitch begged his mother to set him tree, he always met a refusal, followed by an enumeration of all the favors and privileges enjoyed by Porphyrio, which were, in her opinion, quite sufficient to place him above the other house-servants : he had his own room in the house itself; he had his food from his mistress’s own table; he had four times as much money as the others ; and in Moscow he could go out of the house when he pleased without asking permission.

“ All that is fine,” replied her son. “Only take off from him this yoke. Make the condition that he shall not leave you while you are living. Only give him the consciousness that he is a man, not a slave, not a thing which you can knock about at your pleasure, at your caprice.”

But his mother was unmoved. Porphyrio received his freedom from the sons only after the death of their mother. He became government surgeon for the district, but fell ill, and, though tended with every possible care by Ivan Sergeivitch, died, comparatively young, at Spasskoe.

Of Mumu, perhaps the best known of TurgenefFs stories, there are strange details. “ Whatever episodes I may take from the life spent with Barbara Petroffna, each of them has a sad, sometimes a tragic ending. Yet such was our life. Of gladness there was little. The story of Ivan Sergeivitch about Mumu and his owner is not imaginarv. All that sad drama passed under my own eyes. Almost every summer we made long journeys to different estates in the Orel Toula and Koursk provinces. We were a large party : the carriage of Barbara Petroffna herself, a caleche with my governess and the lady’s-maid, a chaise with the doctor, a chaise with the laundress and my nurse, and lastly a chaise with the cook and kitchenmaid.” Thus the various parts of the family property were visited and inspected in the course of a month ; Barbara Petroffna examining everything herself, looking over the accounts of overseers, and ordering the sale of grain or stock. At a village twenty-five versts from Spasskoe, they saw a peasant of such gigantic figure that the carriage was stopped, and lie was called up. It was soon discovered that he was deaf and dumb from birth. His height, his fine looks, pleased the mistress, and even the infirmity seemed to add distinction to him. She at once took him home with her to be one of the house-servants.

“ Whether the change from the farm to lighter work in a gentleman’s house pleased the man, or not, 1 do not know. It. frequently happened that the owner took a serf from the farm to the house, or made him a shoemaker, a carpenter, a weaver, or a cook. It was sometimes thought a special favor, and no one ever asked whether he or his family liked this change in destiny; so, with all my love and pity for the serfs, I never thought of pitying the mute until I read Mumu. Ah, one must have had the love and sympathy of our never-to-beforgotten Ivan Sergeivitch to penetrate the feeling and the inward world of our common people. He alone knew that the mute wept for homesickness, when we all took no notice.”

The harrowing story about the dog is true. One difference only there was: the mute, though so bitterly grieved, remained faithful to Barbara Petroffna to her death, and afterwards would acknowledge no one else as mistress.

In 1846 Madame Viardot was in Moscow, and gave a concert. Barbara Petroffna knew the intimacy of her son with the Viardot family, and did not like it, but she went to hear the artist. The concert was a matinee. On reaching home she was sorely vexed that Ivan Sergeivitch did not return to dinner. She spoke not a word until the end of the meal; then, angrily striking the table with her knife, she exclaimed, as if speaking to herself, “ It must be owned that that cursed little gypsy sings well ! ”²

In writing of the marriage of the younger brother in 1845, Madame Giveau compares the two at some length. Just as Ivan Sergeivitch, in all his aristocratic looks and manner, was the pure Russian, so Nicholas was of the thoroughly English type of gentleman. The brothers were markedly different, but they were always fond of each other. Ivan was continually looking for some one to do good to ; Nicholas did it by accident, or if he were asked. The speech of Ivan was not always fluent. He sometimes hesitated and sought a little for his phrases; but they were always graceful ; something heart-felt sounded in each word. His voice was habitually soft and sympathetic, and if he were excited a little shrill, but not sharp. No one who heard his voice once ever forgot it. The speech of Nicholas was usually earnest and full of color. “ I never heard any one who could talk in all languages as he did.” No one could tell stories like him. He spoke each language as if he were born to it, but it was all without any of the affectation so often shown by Russians. He would vary his stories with episodes and anecdotes, hut they never led him from his point, and he never bewildered his hearers in the labyrinth of his brilliant talk. So picturesque and vivid was it that the more he talked the more eager and enthusiastic were his listeners, and as soon as he ceased every one begged, “ Please, something more! ”

Barbara Petroffna once said, “ I made a mistake in the names of my sons. I ought to have called Nicholas Ivan. He is to me the real John Chrysostom ” (golden - mouthed). But Nicholas, it must be said, was thus eloquent and attractive only in his own family or with his nearest friends. In society, especially with ladies, no one was more shy or ill at ease. The world only saw him silent or easily confused, with a sarcastic smile on his lips.

For two years Nicholas had been devotedly attached to a young cousin. To obtain his mother’s consent was simply hopeless, so in the winter of 1841 they were married without it. lie retired from the army, accepted a position in the civil service, and after his children were born eked out. his income by giving lessons in foreign languages. No one dared to speak of the marriage to his mother, and she long persisted in treating it as a mere liaison, and frequently wrote to urge her son to break it off. In 1845 she went to Saint Petersburg, to try personal entreaties. She desired to see the three children, but would neither go to them, nor permit them to he brought to her, but requested to have them taken by the house, that she might see them from the windows. She made the most liberal offers to her son if, abandoning his wife, he would return to Spasskoe with her. Of course they were refused, and the son continued his laborious life until his mother became reconciled to the marriage, the year before her death. She did care enough for the children, in her strange, fitful way, to ask that their portraits might be sent to her. On their arrival she had them brought to her bedroom, before rising. The servant opened the box, took off the wrappers, and was about to take out the first portrait, when, in a voice that betrayed strong excitement, Barbara Petroffna said, “ Give it to me.” The box was placed on the table by the bed. “ Now go, and shut the door! ”

In the antechamber waited the faithful Agatha and the daughter, trembling before the storm they felt was ready to burst. After a little time they heard the sound of something thrown upon the floor, and the fall of bits of shattered glass. Again the sound, and again a louder; then all was silent. They knew that she had dashed the portraits upon the floor.

“ Agatha ! ” called the augry voice of Barbara Petroffna. She went in. Her lady pointed to the floor. “ Clear all that away, and see that no bit of glass is left.” That same winter the three children died. Neither before nor after did the mother speak of her son, or his children, and Nicholas, on his part, made no attempt to turn the heart of his mother, knowing how vain it would be.

Long after, when Madame Giveau was visiting him in his lonely house in Saint Petersburg, he asked for her little daughter; and as she spoke of her fear of grieving him, he suddenly rose, and walking up and down the room repeated the lines of Victor Hugo, L’Enfant, but when he came to the last stanza,—

he wept bitterly.

“ On dirait que c’est la malediction de maman qui a emmene mes enfants au tombeau.”

“ Reviewing my life and the conduct of Barbara Petroffna, thinking of her love for me and what she was to me, I permit myself again to say a few words in her defense. Much of her conduct must excite indignation. I myself, while still under her overmastering authority, blamed her, and was on the eve of a struggle with her. But she was embittered by her life. Do not many grow cruel after oppression and poverty ? Her childhood and youth were terrible. Her marriage did not give her what every woman seeks in it, — love. With her intelligence, she understood well that her handsome husband loved, not herself, but her fortune. She was for him simply a good match. To his wife Sergius Nicholaevitch was often faithless, and she knew it.

“ Her children — I do not blame them — did not fulfill her ambition, did not justify her hopes. The elder married against her wishes. The younger became ‘a writer,’ which in her eyes was equivalent to being a petty clerk. What had she for her own inward, personal life ? Only wealth and the absolute power over the serfs. The fame of her son she never recognized. Khor and Kalin itch only roused her scorn. She did not even read it.”

The mother of Turgeneff died in Moscow on the 16th of November, 1850, with her son Nicholas and her adopted daughter watching beside her.

Clara Barnes Martin.