200 years since the birth of Ivan Turgenev

November 9, 2018 marks the 200th anniversary of the birth of Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev (1818-1883).

Here are some known facts from the biography of the famous writer: a difficult childhood, a difficult temper of his mother, which was harsh as serfs, and their children, constant love.

And now some interesting facts:

– Turgenev was a man of diffused: often invited friends to visit and forgot about it. Visitors came, and nobody appeared. Over time, many have simply ceased to communicate with Turgenev.

In his youth, Ivan Sergeevich was very wasteful. When the writer studied in Germany, and the mother sent him the money, they quickly came to an end. One day Ivan received an unusually heavy package, was very happy for her, but, having opened, found inside the bricks. So mother decided to teach my son.

– Turgenev loved to sing. The voice he had, but because his singing always amused by others. And the singer called his way around a pig’s squeal.

– Ivan Sergeyevich very sensitive about their appearance, often seemed pretentious, for which he earned himself the nickname of “Khlestakov”.

Once Turgenev had a big fight with Leo Tolstoy: the last was outraged that the illegitimate daughter of Ivan Sergeevich sews clothing for the poor to earn a living. Tolstoy even called the man to a duel. However, they just made up.

– Turgenev had an athletic build, but spoke in a thin voice and was not a man’s emotional: often laughed without reason, but soon fell into melancholy and depression.

– Turgenev was a great neat: several times a day you change your underwear and nobody but themselves are not entrusted to restore order in the office.

For the singer Pauline Viardot in love with Turgenev traveled around the world for 40 years. It did not bother that she was married.

– Turgenev sharply negative attitude to serfdom. One day when my mother built a fortress, and bade them welcome the son, he turned and went away. Since then, the mother did not see him.

They say that geniuses are entitled to eccentricities. Perhaps Turgenev these eccentricities was more than many others. His way of life can not be called decent and, especially, Christian. Sometimes Turgenev even claimed to not believe in God. But there was a time when the search for truth intensified when the emptiness in my soul that can only be filled by God, made itself felt. God tries to reach everyone, somehow revealing Himself. Probably, in moments of such insight born of Turgenev in these poems:

When I pray

When anxious, angry
The thought takes me…
When, as a rotten tree,
Everything falls apart Holy,
So long believed I…
When so boldly, so brazenly
Noise real life —
And sadly shakes
The soul is without strength, without reproach…

When I think that the gift
My strange voice ring out —
And even stupid, gross heat
Draw the soul not sunbathing…
When anybody any expectations,
Or even no vague longing,
So when you’re afraid of suffering,
So when the right elderly…

Then — then my prayers
Strive passionately to Him.
Strive eagerly to the God of battle,
To the living God my.

* * *
It is sad to me, but don’t come the tears
Silently I leave the head;
The troubled in soul are dreams
Force there own sick soul.

Month looks in at the Windows like a vision
A long run from the Windows the shadows:
It is sad to me — sad silent decay
I fell on trembling knees.

Oh my God, my God! Touch finger creative
To the chest scattered my
A drop of moisture give eyes blazing,
Give me Your silence.

And You, the Creator, blessed be,
A pale brow I rise
Soul, soul released,
Devout and happily sigh.

The first sound from my mouth was trembling,
The first call of my soul asking
It be a song, not for what it may be, is
The song of the soul, a cheerful hymn of creation,
Full sound — both the sounds of a Nightingale.


(Prose poem)

I passed on the street… I was stopped by a beggar, a decrepit old man.

Inflamed, tearful eyes, blue lips, rough rags, unclean wounds…

Oh, how hideously poverty gnawed that unhappy being!

He handed me a red, swollen, filthy hand. He groaned, he moaned for help.

I began to rummage in all pockets… no wallet, No hours, not even a scarf… I didn’t take anything with him.

A beggar waited… and outstretched his hand weakly swayed and trembled.

Lost, confused, I shook that dirty, trembling hand…

— Don’t expect anything Grand, brother; I have nothing, brother.

A beggar was seated at me, his bloodshot eyes; his blue lips smiled and he in turn squeezed my ALGID fingers.

— Well, brother, ‘said he,’ and thanks for that. This is also an alms, brother.

I realized that I received a handout from my brother.

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