Why I Love Turgenev (and Why Russian Realism Is So Crushing)

In 2020, I decided to read Ivan Turgenev’s 1862 novel, Fathers and Sons. I was told it was one of the first truly modern Russian novels, reflecting the radical social, political, and technological shifts of the Tsarist era through a generational clash of values. It famously foreshadowed the societal shifts that would eventually culminate in the 1917 Revolution. At the time, I was full of uncertainty about the future and what ideals to stand for, so I don't blame my past self for being attracted to the charismatic nihilism embodied by Yevgeny Bazarov, a medical student who proudly states he does not believe in anything. I wasn't sure if it was the character himself, the witty arguments between him and his friend’s romantic, principled uncle Pavel Petrovich, or the frightening number of parallels between the 1800s and the present, but the novel fascinated me.

I immediately dove into Turgenev’s other works, such as First Love, The Diary of a Superfluous Man, and The Torrents of Spring, searching for more of what had captivated me. However, the more I read, the more I realized that my initial impression of Turgenev was misplaced. Turgenev was not a moralist; he did not visibly advocate for a specific stance, but instead exposed different ideologies and left the judgment to the reader. This drew criticism from contemporaries like Dostoevsky, a Pochvennik (member of the "Return to the Soil" movement) who believed Turgenev’s long residence in Europe left him out of touch with the Russian soul.

Yet, it is precisely this detachment that allows Turgenev to critique nihilism so effectively. He sympathizes with the desire for equality and reform, but highlights the inherent impracticality of the nihilist's actions. Bazarov’s denial of art, morality, and tradition is constantly undermined by his paradoxical attachments: his intense love for Anna Odintsova and his deep filial affection for his parents. Through Bazarov, Turgenev exposes the incompleteness of nihilism without heavy-handed judgment, creating a character defined by complexity and contradiction.

Bazarov is not the only victim of this portrayal. A recurring pattern in Turgenev’s work is the presence of the "Superfluous Man", intelligent, lucid, and sensitive individuals who are ultimately unable to lead fulfilling lives due to a dysfunctional understanding of reality. In The Diary of a Superfluous Man, Chulkaturin explicitly identifies with this archetype. He is well-educated and smart, yet too cynical and bored to prove his worth. During his stay in the town of O., he falls for Elizaveta, mistakenly assuming his feelings are reciprocal until the charismatic Prince N. arrives. When Elizaveta predictably falls for the Prince, Chulkaturin is consumed by jealousy. In a desperate attempt to regain the honor he believes he is entitled to, he challenges the Prince to a duel. The result is painfully pathetic: the Prince wins with effortless indifference, highlighting Chulkaturin's irrelevance and shattering his distorted self-image.

The true blow to Chulkaturin’s ego isn't losing the girl or the duel; it is the realization that his presence is absolutely irrelevant to the plot of anyone else's life. This fear of irrelevance is a foundational theme in Russian realism. Characters like Chulkaturin, Sanin (The Torrents of Spring), the Underground Man (Notes from Underground), and Oblomov (Oblomov) are introduced to us in a state of physical or spiritual exhaustion. Before the story even begins, we see them as "finished" men, trapped in a pathetic present. Only then does the narrative submerge into a flashback of their youth, showing us the moments where their lives could have taken a different path.

This narrative structure, presenting the decay before the memories, makes the irony of the Superfluous Man soul-crushing. Because we know the outcome is already failure, we don't read with the hope that they will succeed; we read with a sense of pity, wondering how they could fail so completely. This is where Russian realism hits harder than other forms of the genre, such as French realism. While a character like Emma Bovary faces an abrupt "fall from a cliff" driven by debt and delusion, Russian tragedy is a tragedy of attrition. It isn't a sudden end; it is the slow, bitter realization that you have wasted your life on a worldview disconnected from reality. You are left not with a dramatic exit, but with the burden of having to keep living while time, apathy, and social stagnation consume your remaining days.