Previous Turgenev experience: I’ve read quite a lot of Turgenev’s major work over the last two years: Fathers and Sons, Sketches from a Hunter’s Album, Home of the Gentry, Rudin and Smoke in 2022, and On the Eve in 2023.
I have read enough Turgenev at this point to be able to identify that the man has a pattern. Many of his books are said to be about “superfluous men”, or those caught in the cultural transition from tsarist feudalism to a more Westernised, modern-looking society. (This is all pre-Bolsheviks, of course; the tension was there through most of the century preceding the Revolution.) They’re also about men who fall in love with women they can’t have–usually because those women are married, not interested, or both–and often they’re women whom these men knew as children or adolescents before encountering them again as adults. In all of the romantic relationships in Turgenev’s fiction there seems to be this deep-rooted longing to recover lost innocence.
Faust follows this pattern to a certain extent. An epistolary novella, it’s told entirely through one side of a correspondence: the letters of a man in his mid-thirties named Pavel to his friend Semyon. (Pavel’s age is inconsistent within the text; pegging it to the age of his love interest, Vera, he appears to be about six years older, but then he’s described as both thirty-five and thirty-eight while she seems to be about twenty-nine. He also makes several mentions of being “nearly forty”, which might just be an indication of a neurotic character. Thirty-five isn’t nearly forty; even thirty-eight is, I would say, more observing forty ahead of you on the road than nearly there.) Anyway, Pavel has come back to his old family dacha for a bit of a holiday and soon realises that there’s a family living nearby: Priyimkov, his wife Vera, and small daughter Lydia. Vera, it turns out, is known to Pavel: he met her years ago through friends–when she was sixteen and he in his early twenties–and wanted to marry her, but her mother, a peculiar woman with Italian heritage who forbade her daughter from ever reading fiction or poetry, discouraged the match and Pavel moved away shortly thereafter.
The novella is about the annihilating power of fiction. Befriending the Priyimkovs, Pavel finds that Vera has still never read a line of poetry. Determined to introduce her to the world of beauty in literature, he arranges a dramatic reading of Part 1 of Goethe’s Faust. Priyimkov is polite but unmoved by the experience, but it changes Vera permanently. She doesn’t go into immediate raptures, but after the reading, she moves outside, out of the summer house into the night air. It’s as though she doesn’t have words for what’s happened to her. Indeed, she doesn’t: her reading has been strictly factual until now and she genuinely can’t articulate what the poetry has achieved. But she feels it. This might have been my favourite part of the novella: the moment when some completely new experience of art crashes into a person. Obviously it can’t end well.
Goethe’s Faust is a very loaded work. The Doctor Faustus story is powerful in the Western imagination: selling your soul to an eternity of torment for the chance of ultimate knowledge, wealth and fulfilled desire here on earth. It’s odd to use it as a writer of fiction, in a story about the power of fiction. Are we to assume that Vera is damned? She thinks she is: falling in love with Pavel and agreeing to meet him secretly, she sees what she thinks is the ghost of her disapproving mother on the way to the rendezvous, falls ill (as women seem able to do on a dime in the novels of the past), and dies several days later. If forbidden love is sin and damnation, is fiction then Vera’s Mephistopheles? And the role of her mother in all of this: is she the condemnation of society at large, in which case we should view her appearance as providential, a way of saving her daughter from sexual transgression through the much-to-be-preferred death? Or is she something else, something crueller and colder, a vengeful, abusive parent whose control extends beyond the grave (even if only in hallucination)? Or, possibly, a third option, in which Vera’s mother does represent society’s opinion and yet should be viewed with horror all the same?
Vera’s death makes everything about Faust darker, even if Turgenev only meant to write a fable-like tale. Whether the ghost is “real” or not seems to me beside the point: the weight of terror at what will happen if a woman crosses a line–reads poetry, falls for someone not her husband, feels something–is enough to kill. In that sense, Faust feels like a horror novella, in the way so many nineteenth-century fictions do: the stakes are very high in a stratified world, and the game is rigged from the start.
This is the fourth book in my 2024 B-Sides reading project, an attempt to explore the lesser works of authors whose “big” or “famous” books I’ve already read.