Rudin

Rudin, by Ivan Turgenev

Translated by Richard Freeborn

Penguin Books, 1975.

Rudin was Ivan Turgenev’s first novel. It is a simple, straight-forward character study of Dmitry Nikolaich Rudin, a visitor to the household of Darya Mikhaylovna Lasunsky, an aristocratic widow who has opened her estate to summer guests. Rudin is a charismatic, well-spoken, and clever man who dazzles the others with his ability to argue and speak eloquently, but he finally falls into disfavor with Darya Lasunsky when her daughter, Natalya Alexeyevna Lasunsky, falls in love with him.

The character of Rudin was purportedly modeled on Mikhail Bakunin, the Russian anarchist with whom Turgenev was friendly for a period. This is what led Aileen Kelly to rely heavily on Turgenev’s novel in writing her book, Mikhail Bakunin: A Study in the Psychology and Politics of Utopianism, a psychological hit-job that dismisses Bakunin as a bum and a totalitarian. It was, in fact, a recent re-reading of Kelly’s biography that inspired me to pick up Turgenev’s novel. Although Kelly finds much ammunition in Rudin to discredit Bakunin, I found Turgenev’s depiction of the character, on the contrary, quite sympathetic and positive. Assuming that Rudin was indeed intended to be a reflection of Bakunin, if anything, the novel lent a more human dimension to my understanding of the real-life revolutionary Russian idealist. But perhaps you find just what you’re looking for when reading novels like this.

The novel begins shortly before Rudin arrives unexpectedly at Darya Lasunsky’s country estate in place of a certain Baron Mueffel. The Baron has authored an article concerning politics and the economy that he wants to share with Darya Lasunsky, but since he has suddenly been recalled to St. Petersburg, he has sent his friend Rudin in his stead. Almost immediately upon arrival, Rudin becomes engaged in argument with Afrikan Semyonych Pigasov, a man who embodies the characteristics of a cynic (in the modern sense of the word). Pigasov is introduced as a misogynist who “criticized from morn to night, sometimes very aptly, sometimes rather obtusely, but always with enjoyment” (p. 40). He occupies the role of jester in the Lasunsky household, amusing guests with his non-stop cynical commentary. But (as is probably the case with many people of his nature), Pigasov’s cleverness is superficial and borne of his own experiences with disappointment and failure. He is poor, but desires a place in high society. He has studied for his degree, but has failed his dissertation defense. His wife has left him. Now he spends his time going from household to household, amusing and annoying his hosts with his unending, bitter commentary on life and the world. His utterances sometimes provoke laughter and sometimes anger, offering a distraction for the guests who seem to have little else to do with their time.

Before the arrival of Rudin, Pigasov lets slip his view on philosophy, which foreshadows his later conflict with the title character:

“Philosophy…is the highest point of view! These high points will be the death of me. And what on earth can one see from a high point? Suppose you wanted to buy a horse, you wouldn’t start looking at it from a watch tower!” (pp. 47 – 48).

The abstractions of philosophy are anathema to Pigasov. He instead prefers to recite “facts” and to comment, in a cleverly sneering manner, about how silly people are in their beliefs and convictions about the world. To him, the philosopher is someone with his head in the clouds; someone who has not yet been crushed by the disappointments entailed by living in the “real” world.

Upon arrival, Rudin introduces himself and is asked by Pigasov if he is familiar with the topic of Baron Mueffel’s article. As soon as Rudin begins to articulate its content, Pigasov swoops, using this an excuse to begin yet another attack on anything serious and philosophical. “Herr Baron Mueffel is specifically concerned with political economy or is it simply that he devotes to this interesting science only the hours of leisure remaining from time spent in social pleasures and in the office?”, Pigasov asks, laying a trap into which Rudin steps when he responds that the Baron is a “dilettante in the matter,” but that the article nevertheless “has much that is interesting in it” (p. 54). When Pigasov attempts to dismiss the article (which he has not read) on the grounds that it deals in generalizations that are merely based in personal “convictions,” Rudin, unlike the others in the household, rises to the challenge and logically engages with the cynic. He questions him, getting Pigasov to admit that his hostility toward personal “convictions” is based in his own personal conviction against convictions! A contradiction! This grabs the attention of rest of the guests who encourage Rudin to continue his attack, which he does, ultimately embarrassing his opponent, who is driven into an uncharacteristic silence. This silence is only broken when Pigasov admits that his poor opinion of humanity is based on, “a study of my own heart in which I daily find more and more trash. I judge others by myself” (p. 60).

The contrast between Rudin and Pigasov is one between idealism and cynicism. The cynicism of Pigasov is the result of his own self-loathing projected onto the world. Superficially he appears clever and sophisticated, as his is a stance not taken in by the potential lies and deceptions of others, but Pigasov’s view is also shallow and childish insofar as it assumes everyone is just as damaged and wretched as he is. Rudin’s viewpoint, on the other hand, is one of excitement about, and earnest interest in, the world, life, and the exploration of other people’s ideas. What is so refreshing to the guests at Darya Mikhaylovna Lasunsky’s summer estate is Rudin’s energy and enthusiasm. As Mikhaylo Mikhaylych Lezhnev states toward the end of the story:

“He has enthusiasm; and that, believe me – for I speak as a phelgmatic man – is a most precious quality in our time. We have all become intolerably rational, indifferent, and effete; we have gone to sleep, we have grown cold, and we should be grateful to anyone who rouses us and warms us, if only for a moment! It’s time to wake up!” (p. 157).

Natalya Alexeyevna is the daughter of Darya Lasunsky. Natalya is a reflective young woman, suspicious of her mother and also initially of Rudin, who she thinks treats her like a child. During a walk together on the grounds of the estate, she tells Rudin that with all of his brilliance and talent he should work and “try to be useful” (p. 78) in the world. This remark strikes a chord, and Rudin launches into a self-conscious monologue about his own uncertainty concerning whether he really has any talents and if so how he might put them to use. It seems that Rudin is a man looking for a purpose, wishing he had a cause to fight for, something to which he could devote himself wholeheartedly. But instead, he wanders from place to place, borrowing money and spending his time talking, arguing, and socializing with others. He is, in the words of Richard Freeborn, the translator of this edition of the novel, a “superfluous man,” (p. 9) who has no meaningful place or purpose in society. He is “homeless” in the Heideggerian sense.

After spending months at the estate, Rudin’s charisma has its effect on Natalya, and she falls in love with him. Rudin, in his own way, also falls in love with her; but their two forms of love are incompatible. Natalya loves Rudin in a way that readies her to give up everything for him, to turn against her own mother’s wishes, to break the heart of her suitor, and to run away with Rudin. Her love is the romantic sort of love that inspires one to do irrational and impulsive things. Rudin, on the other hand, loves Natalya platonically. His love for her is the dispassionate sort of love that a philosopher has for humankind. This is the paradox of Rudin: he is full of love, energy and enthusiasm, but he has no concrete purpose or target for these feelings. He has nothing he is willing to die for, no one he is willing to sacrifice himself for, and yet he can’t be still. He needs to act, but has nothing for which to act.

Rudin and Natalya meet secretly at Avdyukhin pond, where Natalya tells Rudin that her mother knows about her love for him and that Darya Lasunsky would rather see her own daughter dead rather than end up as Rudin’s wife. When Natalya presses Rudin to tell her what he thinks they should do, he responds, “Submit to fate” (p. 127). From the lips of a romantic this might be taken to mean that they should run away together, but from the lips of Rudin it means precisely the opposite. He explains to Natalya that it would be foolish for the two of them to be married: they would end up living a life of poverty, her mother would be angry, and she would suffer the break-up of her family. To Rudin, this is all too much to face. It is just not worth the cost.

While Natalya is prepared to give up everything out of love for Rudin, Rudin cannot commit to marriage any more than he can commit himself to a political or social cause. His “enthusiasm” for life is abstract rather than concrete. He is the kind of “philosopher” criticized by Pigasov in the beginning of the story. Rudin sees things from the heights, with enthusiastic detachment. And it is just this detachment that keeps him from acting in the world and making himself “useful.”

In the end, Rudin leaves Darya Mikhaylovna Lasunsky’s estate, and two years later Pigasov sits with some of the other characters telling stories about what became of Rudin. According to his account, Rudin finally decided he must fall in love and so focused his attentions on a French girl, bringing her books as gifts and talking with her about “nature and Hegel” (p. 155). Instead of expressing romantic passion, he stroked her hair and confessed his “feeling of paternal tenderness for her” (p. 156). Pigasov, jaded old cynic that he remains, finds this all very funny and laughs cruelly, but the others jump to Rudin’s defense. Lezhnev states, “His defects are well known to me. They are all the more conspicuous because he is not a shallow person,” while Bassistov exclaims, “Rudin is a man of genius!” (p. 156). What follows is a long account by Lezhnev of Rudin’s positive qualities: he is a genius; he is enthusiastic; his words have inspired many young people who will change the world, even if Rudin himself is incapable of doing so.

And so, we are left with a tragic, yet sympathetic image of Rudin. He is a philosopher who lives in the world of ideas. He is child-like and honest, and from this flows his eloquence and enthusiasm. But his fault is that he is unable to make concrete commitments either in love or in politics. He is an idealist who is unable to act precisely because nothing exists that actually lives up to his abstract standards.

In a short conclusion, Rudin reappears as a traveler on the road to some Russian city. As it turns out, there are no horses to take him where he wants to go, and so he ends up boarding a carriage to a different city. As he heads off Rudin says, “It doesn’t matter,” while looking “forlornly submissive” (p. 163). Turgenev later added an epilogue in which, several years later, Rudin encounters Lezhnev in a hotel where they have dinner, reflect on the past, and where we learn about a series of ill-fated projects that Rudin has embarked upon in the intervening years. Rudin laments his own continued inability to commit to action, which leads him to comment on the peace promised by the approach of death. Upon hearing this, Lezhev becomes upset, assuring Rudin that he has great respect for him as a man whose nature it is to be (as Rudin calls himself) “a rolling stone,” one who puts down no roots, but is constantly in motion, moving from one place to another, from one idea to another. After the two characters part, we learn in a brief, concluding section that Dmitry Rudin ended up dying on the barricades during the French Revolution, waving a flag and a sword while shouting something that no one could make out.

Aileen Kelly’s characterization of Rudin (and thus of Bakunin) as a childish, scattered, opportunistic, and totalitarian personality seems to me to be guilty of the same sort of cynical oversimplification engaged in by Pigasov. Yes, Rudin has many flaws: he borrows money, he is more comfortable with abstractions than he is with concrete feelings, he can’t make long-term commitments. But as the other characters articulate – and as Turgenev seems to want us to understand – Rudin is a complicated man, whose personality possesses both defects and characteristics to be admired. As Freeborn stresses in the Introduction to his translation, Rudin is both comic and tragic, absurd yet heroic, all at once. He is like Socrates, the great Greek philosopher who is embraced “warts and all” by those who love him, not just for his wisdom, but also for the fact that he is an imperfect human being. His imperfections, like Rudin’s imperfections, serve to make him aggravating but also lovable. Rudin, like Socrates, is a gadfly whose nature it is to provoke thought and action in others while himself remaining uncommitted to any particular, final Truth.