1883, he died. His body was taken to Russia, and with that cruel
perversity that makes us speak evil of men while they are alive and
sensitive, and good only when they are beyond the reach of our petty
praise and blame, friends and foes united in one shout of praise whose
echoes filled the whole world.

Turgenev, like Daniel Webster, looked the part. He was a great grey
giant, with the Russian winter in his hair and beard. His face in
repose had an expression of infinite refinement, infinite gentleness,
and infinite sorrow. When the little son of Alphonse Daudet saw
Turgenev and Flaubert come into the room, arm in arm, the boy cried
out, "Why, papa, they are giants!" George Moore said that at a ball in
Montmartre, he saw Turgenev come walking across the hall; he looked
like a giant striding among pigmies. Turgenev had that peculiar gentle
sweetness that so well accompanies great bodily size and strength. His
modesty was the genuine humility of a truly great man. He was always
surprised at the admiration his books received, and amazed when he
heard of their success in America. Innumerable anecdotes are told
illustrating the beauty of his character; the most recent to appear in
print is from the late Mr. Conway, who said that Turgenev was "a grand
man in every way, physically and mentally, intelligence and refinement
in every feature. . . I found him modest almost to shyness, and in his
conversation--he spoke English--never loud or doctrinaire. At the
Walter Scott centennial he was present,--the greatest man at the
celebration,--but did not make himself known. There was an excursion
to Abbotsford, and carriages were provided for guests. One in which I
was seated passed Turgenev on foot. I alighted and walked with him, at
every step impressed by his greatness and his simplicity."

We shall not know until the year 1920 how far Turgenev was influenced