Russia has had no Spinoza and no Kant, no Newton and no Spencer. Since the foundation of the University of Moscow in 1755, some semblance of Russian philosophy has appeared but a Soloviev and a Grote, a Troitski and a Preobrajenski have only introduced the philosophy of Germany, France, and England into Russia, but not worked out their own philosophical systems. Thus, whilst Russian scientists, technicians, artists and even musicians have to go abroad to complete their education, Russian philosophers borrow from Hegel or Descartes, from Locke or Comte. This is, however, not the case with Russian literature. Russia has quickened her development in the realm of literature. Her decades were centuries. Rapidly she has lived through phases of growth and evolution, of achievement and reflection which have filled long periods in other people’s lives. The peaks of Russian creative power in this domain, the productions of Pushkin and Turgeniev, of Lermontov, Dostoievski and Tolstoi proudly face the heights of literary western Europe. Whilst, however, the Russian genius of the intelligentia centred its force in literature, this literature bears the unmistakable trait, that distinguishes it from European literature, of having a tendency to teach and of taking a moral aspect. Russian literature on the whole has not entered the sphere of artistic interest, it has always been a pulpit whence the word of instruction came forth. With very few exceptions, like Merejkovski and Andreiev, the Russian author is not practising art for art’s sake (_l’art pour l’art_) but is pursuing a goal, is accomplishing a task. The Russian literature is a long cry of revolt, a continuous sigh or an admonition. Taine says, somewhere, when speaking of Stendhal and Balzac: “They love art more than men--they are not writing out of sympathy for the poor, but out of love for the beautiful.” This is just what the Russian modern author is not doing. The intellectual and instructive moments predominate over the emotional and artistic.