14. And of these types, Turgenef, in harmony with the advance of his own warfare, has furnished a progressive series. Accordingly the earliest depicted under the impression of profound despair is the type of the superfluous man,--the man, who not only _does_ nothing, but _can_ do nothing, struggle he never so hard. And the superfluous man not only _is_ impotent, but he _knows_ his impotence, so that he is dead in soul as well as in body. This brief sketch of a living corpse, written as early as 1850, forms thus the prologue, as it were, to all his future tragedies. From this depth of nothingness Turgenef, however, soon rises to at least the semblance of strength; and while Rudin is at bottom as impotent as Tchulkaturin, he at least pretends to strength. Rudin, then, is the hero of phrases, the boaster; he promises marvels, he charms, he captivates; but it all ends in words, and Rudin perishes as needlessly as he lived needlessly. In "Fathers and Sons," however, Bazarof is no longer a talker; he already rises to indignation and rebellion; he _lives out_ his spirit, and stubbornly resists society, religion, institutions. From Bazarof Turgenef ascends still higher to Nezhdanof in "Virgin Soil," whose aggressive attitude is already unmistakable. Nezhdanof no longer indulges in tirades against government, but he glumly organizes the revolutionary forces for actual battle. Lastly, Turgenef arrives at the highest type of the warrior, at Sophia Perofskya; and this his last type he paints in brief epilogue, just as his first type he had painted in brief prologue. What this his last type meant to Turgenef is best seen from the short prose-poem itself. THE THRESHOLD. I see a huge building; in its front wall a narrow door opens wide; behind the door gloomy darkness. At the high threshold stands a girl, a Russian girl. Frost waves from that impenetrable darkness, and with the icy breeze comes forth from the depth of the building a slow, hollow voice. "O thou, eager to step across this threshold, knowest thou what awaits thee?" "I know," answers the girl. "Cold, hunger, hatred, ridicule, scorn, insolence, prison, illness, death itself!" "I know it." "Complete isolation, loneliness." "I know it.... But I am ready. I shall endure all the sorrows, all the blows." "Not only at the hands of your enemies, but also at the hands of your family and friends." "Yes, even at the hands of these." "'Tis well.... Are you ready for the sacrifice?" "Yes." "For nameless sacrifice? Thou shalt perish; and not one, not one even shall know whose memory to honor." "I need no gratitude nor pity; I need no name." "And art thou ready even for--crime?" The girl dropped her head. "Yes, even for crime am I ready." The voice renewed not its questionings forthwith.