men is equalled only by the driving force of the women. The Russian
feminine type, as depicted in fiction, is the incarnation of
singleness of purpose, and a capacity to bring things to pass, whether
for good or for evil. The heroine of "Rudin," of "Smoke," of "On the
Eve," the sinister Maria of "Torrents of Spring," the immortal Lisa of
"A House of Gentlefolk," the girl in Dostoevski's "Poor Folk;" Dunia
and Sonia, in "Crime and Punishment"--many others might be called to
mind. The good Russian women seem immensely superior to the men in
their instant perception and recognition of moral values, which gives
them a chart and compass in life. Possibly, too, the women are
stiffened in will by a natural reaction in finding their husbands and
brothers so stuffed with inconclusive theories. One is appalled at the
prodigious amount of nonsense that Russian wives and daughters are
forced to hear from their talkative and ineffective heads of houses.
It must be worse than the metaphysical discussion between Adam and the
angel, while Eve waited on table, and supplied the windy debaters with
something really useful.


To one who is well acquainted with American university undergraduates,
the intellectual maturity of the Russian or Polish student and his
eagerness for the discussion of abstract problems in sociology and
metaphysics are very impressive. The amount of space given in Russian
novels to philosophical introspection and debate is a truthful
portrayal of the subtle Russian mind. Russians love to talk; they are
strenuous in conversation, and forget their meals and their sleep. I
have known some Russians who will sit up all night, engaged in the
discussion of a purely abstract topic, totally oblivious to the
passage of time. In "A House of Gentlefolk," at four o'clock in the
morning, Mihalevich is still talking about the social duties of