country. They inculcated in it the religion of the ideal; they brought
in the seeds, which had only to be thrown into the warm furrow of
their native soil to bring forth the rich crops of the future.

The shortcomings and the impotence of these men were due to their
having no organic ties with their own country, no roots in the Russian
soil. They hardly knew the Russian people, who appeared to them as
nothing more than an historic abstraction. They were really
cosmopolitan, as a poor makeshift for something better, and Turgenev,
in making his hero die on a French barricade, was true to life as well
as to art.

The inward growth of the country has remedied this defect in the
course of the three generations which have followed. But has the
remedy been complete? No; far from it, unfortunately. There are still
thousands of barriers preventing the Russians from doing something
useful for their countrymen and mixing freely with them. The
spiritual energies of the most ardent are still compelled--partially
at least--to run into the artificial channels described in Turgenev's
novel.

Hence the perpetuation of Rudin's type, which acquires more than an
historical interest.

In discussing the character of Hlestakov, the hero of his great
comedy, Gogol declared that this type is pretty nigh universal,
because 'every Russian,' he says, 'has a bit of Hlestakov in him.'
This not very flattering opinion has been humbly indorsed and repeated
since, out of reverence to Gogol's great authority, although it is
untrue on the face of it. Hlestakov is a sort of Tartarin in Russian