later life in Paris, etc., to Michel Delines' _Tourguénief Inconnu_, and also to the much-abused but valuable volume, _Souvenirs sur Tourguéneff_, by Isaac Pavlovsky. All these sources reveal Turgenev in much the same light, a man of boundless cosmopolitan interests, of a broad, sane, fertile mind, of the most generous and tender heart. Some of his contemporaries touch on certain weaknesses, his vacillating will, his fits of hypochondria, his romantic affectation in youth, etc., but everybody bears witness (as does his Correspondence) to his lovableness, and the extraordinary altruism and sweetness of his nature. Thus Maupassant, a keen judge of character, records: "He was one of the most remarkable writers of this century, and at the same time the most honest, straightforward, universally sincere and affectionate man one could possibly meet. He was simplicity itself, kind and honest to excess, more good-natured than any one in the world, affectionate as men rarely are, and loyal to his friends whether living or dead. "No more cultivated, penetrating spirit, no more loyal, generous heart than his ever existed." Such a man's philosophy can in no sense be termed "pessimistic," since the wells of his spirit are constantly fed by springs of understanding, love and charity. The whole body of Turgenev's work appeals to our faith in the ever-springing, renovating power of man's love of the good and the beautiful, and to his spiritual struggle with evil. But, faced by the threatening mass of wrong, of human stupidity and greed, of men's pettiness and blindness, Turgenev's beauty of feeling often recoils in a wave of melancholy and of sombre mournfulness. Thus in _Enough_ (1864), a fragment inspired by the seas of acrimonious misunderstanding raised by _Fathers and Children_, Turgenev has concentrated in a prose poem of lyrical beauty, an access of profound dejection. Here we see laid bare the roots of Turgenev's philosophic melancholy,--man's insignificance in face of "the deaf, blind, dumb force of nature ... which triumphs not even in her conquests but goes onward, onward devouring all things.... She creates destroying, and she cares not whether she creates or she destroys.... How can we stand against those coarse and mighty waves, endlessly, unceasingly, moving upward? How have faith in the value and dignity of the fleeting images, that in the dark, on the edge of the abyss, we shape out of dust for an instant?" After recording many exquisite memories of nature and of love, Turgenev, then, compares human activities to those of gnats on the forest edge on a frosty day when the sun gleams for a moment: "At once the gnats swarm up on all sides; they sport in the warm rays, bustle, flutter up and down, circle round one another.... The sun is hidden--the gnats fall in a feeble shower, and there is the end of their momentary life. And men are ever the same." "What is terrible