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    The Torrents Of Spring
    The Torrents Of Spring
    The Torrents Of Spring
    Ebook197 pages3 hours

    The Torrents Of Spring

    By Ivan Turgenev

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    The Torrents Of Spring was written in the year 1872 by Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev. This book is one of the most popular novels of Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev, and has been translated into several other languages around the world.

    This book is published by Booklassic which brings young readers closer to classic literature globally.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBooklassic
    Release dateJul 7, 2015
    ISBN9789635231508
    Author

    Ivan Turgenev

    Ivan Turgenev was a Russian writer whose work is exemplary of Russian Realism. A student of Hegel, Turgenev’s political views and writing were heavily influenced by the Age of Enlightenment. Among his most recognized works are the classic Fathers and Sons, A Sportsman’s Sketches, and A Month in the Country. Turgenev is today recognized for his artistic purity, which influenced writers such as Henry James and Joseph Conrad. Turgenev died in 1883, and is credited with returning Leo Tolstoy to writing as the result of his death-bed plea.

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    • 4/5
      Spring Torrents is a fairly simple love story that turns tragic. The writing is clear and flows nicely, mirroring the easy romantic mood that the protagonist is in throughout most of the story. The ending is a bit brusque, however, leaving one wondering if Turgenev was working against a deadline or perhaps whimsically decided to end the book and move on to other endeavors. The story lacks the philosophical depth of the great classic "Fathers and Sons" but is a worthwhile read, particularly for those who love the writing of Turgenev and are interested in personal insights into his life.
    • 2/5
      This is a lightweight comedy romance, set in Germany. Yet again I read a Russian author and really don't get what everyone else does. It may be this 60 year old translation fails to capture the real Turgenev, or that the story itself has dated badly. It seemed quite insubstantial to me, a hint of tragedy, a dash of light satire at the expense of 19th century Germany, but quite forgettable, and unimpressive. In fact the only thing that struck me as at all interesting was the love between Emile, the brother of the fiance, and the protagonist Sanin, a curious piece of hero worship.
    • 3/5
      While Ivan Turgenev's "Spring Torrents" was a decent book, it really wasn't spectacular enough to deserve a place on the 1,001 list (which is why I read it.) The novel tells the story of Dmitry Sanin, a Russian landowner who travels to Frankfurt and immediately falls in love with Gemma, whose family owns a candy shop. Antics ensue, which are fairly predictable. I found the characters relatively interesting but didn't find much that was very special about this book.
    • 3/5
      I listened to this book because it is on the 1001 list and because the LT 1001 group chose it for a monthly read. It took a few months for me to finish it mostly because I was too busy to sit down and listen to this. In the interests of truth I didn't find it a particularly gripping tale. I knew almost from the beginning how the romance was going to end and it was just a matter of confirming it.A young Russian man, Dimitry Sanin, is returning to St. Petersburg by way of Frankfurt after spending the winter in Italy. He chances upon a confectioner's shop run by an Italian family. Due to certain circumstances he misses his coach to St. Petersburg and starts spending time with the Italian family. The young lady of the family, Gemma, is the principal attraction and it comes to pass that Sanin fights a duel for her. Soon thereafter he professes his love for her and asks her to marry him. Gemma accepts although she is already engaged. In order to provide for Gemma Sanin decides to sell his Russian estate. He chances to meet an old school friend who suggests that his wife, Maria Nikolaevna, would be prepared to buy it. So Dimitry travels to Wiesbaden with the school friend and meets the wife. Maria Nikolaevna plays with him and then seduces him. Sanin travels to Paris with Maria and her husband and abandons Gemma. Years later he finds a cross that Gemma had given him when he left Franfurt for Wiesbaden and he is moved to find Gemma in order to salve his conscience.Apparently there are autobiographical elements to this book which makes me feel rather sorry for Turgenev but not sorry enough to give my review more than 3 stars.
    • 5/5
      After being shredded by politics of both sides from “Fathers and Sons”, Turgenev wrote “Spring Torrents” to be free of any political agenda and undertones. The Russian critics of the time panned it for such a void. The foreigners who later read the translated version praised its literary artfulness. I sit squarely with the latter camp.Supposedly semi-autobiographical, “Spring Torrents” is the story of Sanin’s love life (the pseudo-Turgenev). The story has very sweet moments, as Sanin’s infatuation for Gemma, a beautiful and sweet Italian girl living in Germany, turns into mutual love. But no love is a straight highway, and Sanin soon finds himself captivated by another, hooked for the rest of his life till her death, somewhat mirroring Turgenev in real life with Pauline Viardot. Another aspect that was reflective of Turgenev is his opinion on serfdom; he was an advocate in ending the feudal system (abolished in 1861). In the book, Sanin hated to be asked about serfs in Russia. While the plot isn’t complex, I love the words. Turgenev’s rich descriptions of the characters, especially Gemma through the eyes of Sanin is flavorful and velvety. It was a joy to read of the beauty and of the love, even though it didn’t last (or did it?). The ending only showcases the strength of memories… that someone you love never truly leaves you. But then again, perhaps “Je me suis laisse entrainer par des souvenirs”. A few quotes:Sanin on Gemma:“Her nose was slightly large, but of a beautiful aquiline shape. There was a faint trace of down on her upper lip. Her skin was smooth and without lustre, for all the world as if she were made of ivory or of meerschaum, and her hair fell in a wave like that of Allori’s Judith in the Palazzo Pitti. Most striking of all were her eyes – dark grey, with a black order round the iris – superb, triumphant eyes…”And“The image of the young girl went with him – now laughing, now pensive, sometimes calm, even indifferent, yet always attractive. And all the time he seem to see her eyes before him – sometimes open wide, luminous and full of joy like the light of day, and then half-shaded by their lashes, and deep and dark as night. These eyes penetrated all other images and perceptions in his mind, and suffused them with a strange sweetness.”And“…he instantly noted certain characteristics of her gait, her way of moving, and oh, dear God, how infinitely precious and delectable they seem to him!”On speaking a foreign language – giggles:“It was being conducted in French, and each was massacring that language mercilessly after his own fashion.” On love – and its violence? :) “…He saw her throw back her hat with a sudden movement and look at him so trustingly – and the fever and the longing of love coursed through all his veins… he had taken a leap forward: he had plunged headlong off the dreary shores of his solitary bachelor life into a gay, bubbling and mighty flood. Never mind what grief it might bring, never a thought for where the flood would carry him or indeed for the possibility that it would dash him to pieces against a cliff!”And “…this mutual surrender of one soul to another, was so shattering, so novel, so disturbing. Everything in their lives had changed and had been re-ordered so suddenly that neither had yet regained composure. They were only conscious of the sudden rush of wind which had swept them away, like the powerful gust which a few nights ago had all but hurled them into each other’s arms...”And“First love is exactly like a revolution: the regular and established order of life is in an instant smashed to fragments; youth stands at the barricade, its bright banner raised high in the air, and sends its ecstatic greetings to the future, whatever it may hold – death or new life, no matter.”
    • 5/5
      "Spring Torrents" is not deeply philosophical or particularly profound, but I enjoyed it quite a bit. It is a relatively simple story of passion that builds into a crescendo over the course of a book, like a 'spring torrent' overflowing its banks and running wild. If you have ever felt this the book may resonate with you; I was also drawn to it as an expression of such feelings in 1870 Russia, and in the book being somewhat autobiographical. Turgenev was himself was madly in love with Pauline Viardot, a married woman, from the moment he saw her at the Opera in 1843 at the age of 25 to the end of his life in 1883. He followed her family when they moved to Baden Baden and then later to London, completely enslaved by his passion. The Critical Essay at the end of this particular edition gave an excellent account of this love, as well as for the other forces in Turgenev's life.Quotes:On the joy of small things and 'living in the now':"… they suggested taking coffee in the garden in the shade of the acacias. Sanin agreed. His sense of well-being was complete. There are great delights hidden in the uneventful, still and placid stream of life, and he abandoned himself to them with rapture – demanding nothing specific of this day and neither thinking of the morrow nor recalling yesterday. How he treasured the very proximity of a creature such as Gemma! He would soon part from her, probably for ever. But for the moment, they were drifting together in the same barque along the safe and gentle course of life’s river, just like the travelers in Uhland’s poem."On living life:"‘There,’ she began with a deep and blissful sigh, ‘this is the only thing that makes life worth living. If you have succeeded in doing something you wanted to do, something that seemed impossible – well, then, make the most of it, with all your heart, to the very brim.’"On passion, a sampling..."As Sanin walked, he felt that he was even looking at Gemma in a different manner: he instantly noted certain characteristics of her gait, her way of moving, and oh, dear God, how infinitely precious and delectable they seemed to him! And she in turn sensed that he was looking at her ‘like that’.""She gave Sanin a quick nod and, turning swiftly, disappeared through the door, leaving behind her a fleeting but elegant impression of a beautiful neck, wonderful shoulders, and a wonderful figure.""As she vanished, she once more turned, looked over her shoulder and smiled, and once again left behind her the former impression of elegance. When she smiled, not one, not two, but three dimples appeared in each cheek and her eyes smiled more than her lips – her long, scarlet, tempting lips with two tiny birthmarks on the left.""‘Well, come on now, tell me everything,’ Maria Nikolaevna said eagerly, placing her bare elbows on the table and impatiently tapping her nails together. ‘Is it true that you are getting married?’Having said these words, Madame Polozov even inclined her head a little so as to look Sanin in the eyes the more attentively and the more searchingly.""As he left the room, he glanced back and saw that she had once again sunk into her armchair and had thrown her arms above her head. The wide sleeves of her robe had dropped almost to her shoulders. No one could deny that the pose of those arms, and the whole of that figure were of fascinating beauty.""But she referred to herself as a ‘good fellow’ who could not bear any ceremony: it was in these very terms that she had described herself for Sanin’s benefit. And at the same time, here was the ‘good fellow’ walking beside him softly like a cat and leaning slightly against him, looking up at him. What is more, the ‘good fellow’ was cast in the image of a young female creature who simply radiated that destructive, tormenting, quietly inflammatory temptation with which Slav natures alone – and then only some of them, and sometimes not pure Slav at that, but with a dash of something else – know how to drive us poor men, as sinful, weak men, out of our minds.""‘None of this solemnity, if you please,’ she whispered with a smile. ‘Do you know what? No one can put chains on me, but then I don’t put chains on others. I love freedom and recognize no ties – and that goes not only for me. And now move up a little, and let us listen to the play.’Maria Nikolaevna directed her lorgnette at the stage. Sanin began to look at the stage too, sitting by her side in the half-darkened box, and breathing in, however unwillingly, the warmth and the fragrance of her magnificent body, and equally unwillingly turning over in his mind everything she had said to him in the course of the evening – and especially during the last few minutes.""Sanin rode behind, observing Maria Nikolaevna: her elegant, supple figure, closely corseted but unconstrained, swayed gracefully, effortlessly and confidently as she rode.""…Sanin too trembled involuntarily from head to foot. Everything was confounded inside him – his senses were as tense as strings. He had been right when he said he could not recognize himself. He was, in fact, bewitched. His whole being was filled with … one thought and one desire. Maria Nikolaevna glanced at him searchingly."

    Book preview

    The Torrents Of Spring - Ivan Turgenev

    The Torrents Of Spring

    Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

    Booklassic

    2015

    ISBN 978-963-523-150-8

    ‘Years of gladness,

    Days of joy,

    Like the torrents of spring

    They hurried away.’

    – From an Old Ballad.

     … At two o’clock in the night he had gone back to his study. He had dismissed the servant after the candles were lighted, and throwing himself into a low chair by the hearth, he hid his face in both hands.

    Never had he felt such weariness of body and of spirit. He had passed the whole evening in the company of charming ladies and cultivated men; some of the ladies were beautiful, almost all the men were distinguished by intellect or talent; he himself had talked with great success, even with brilliance … and, for all that, never yet had the taedium vitae of which the Romans talked of old, the ‘disgust for life’, taken hold of him with such irresistible, such suffocating force. Had he been a little younger, he would have cried with misery, weariness, and exasperation: a biting, burning bitterness, like the bitter of wormwood, filled his whole soul. A sort of clinging repugnance, a weight of loathing closed in upon him on all sides like a dark night of autumn; and he did not know how to get free from this darkness, this bitterness. Sleep it was useless to reckon upon; he knew he should not sleep.

    He fell to thinking … slowly, listlessly, wrathfully. He thought of the vanity, the uselessness, the vulgar falsity of all things human. All the stages of man’s life passed in order before his mental gaze (he had himself lately reached his fifty-second year), and not one found grace in his eyes. Everywhere the same ever-lasting pouring of water into a sieve, the ever-lasting beating of the air, everywhere the same self-deception – half in good faith, half conscious – any toy to amuse the child, so long as it keeps him from crying. And then, all of a sudden, old age drops down like snow on the head, and with it the ever-growing, ever-gnawing, and devouring dread of death … and the plunge into the abyss! Lucky indeed if life works out so to the end! May be, before the end, like rust on iron, sufferings, infirmities come… . He did not picture life’s sea, as the poets depict it, covered with tempestuous waves; no, he thought of that sea as a smooth, untroubled surface, stagnant and transparent to its darkest depths. He himself sits in a little tottering boat, and down below in those dark oozy depths, like prodigious fishes, he can just make out the shapes of hideous monsters: all the ills of life, diseases, sorrows, madness, poverty, blindness… . He gazes, and behold, one of these monsters separates itself off from the darkness, rises higher and higher, stands out more and more distinct, more and more loathsomely distinct… . An instant yet, and the boat that bears him will be overturned! But behold, it grows dim again, it withdraws, sinks down to the bottom, and there it lies, faintly stirring in the slime… . But the fated day will come, and it will overturn the boat.

    He shook his head, jumped up from his low chair, took two turns up and down the room, sat down to the writing-table, and opening one drawer after another, began to rummage among his papers, among old letters, mostly from women. He could not have said why he was doing it; he was not looking for anything – he simply wanted by some kind of external occupation to get away from the thoughts oppressing him. Opening several letters at random (in one of them there was a withered flower tied with a bit of faded ribbon), he merely shrugged his shoulders, and glancing at the hearth, he tossed them on one side, probably with the idea of burning all this useless rubbish. Hurriedly, thrusting his hands first into one, and then into another drawer, he suddenly opened his eyes wide, and slowly bringing out a little octagonal box of old-fashioned make, he slowly raised its lid. In the box, under two layers of cotton wool, yellow with age, was a little garnet cross.

    For a few instants he looked in perplexity at this cross – suddenly he gave a faint cry… . Something between regret and delight was expressed in his features. Such an expression a man’s face wears when he suddenly meets some one whom he has long lost sight of, whom he has at one time tenderly loved, and who suddenly springs up before his eyes, still the same, and utterly transformed by the years.

    He got up, and going back to the hearth, he sat down again in the arm-chair, and again hid his face in his hands… . ‘Why to-day? just to-day?’ was his thought, and he remembered many things, long since past.

    This is what he remembered… .

    But first I must mention his name, his father’s name and his surname. He was called Dimitri Pavlovitch Sanin.

    Here follows what he remembered.

    I

    It was the summer of 1840. Sanin was in his twenty-second year, and he was in Frankfort on his way home from Italy to Russia. He was a man of small property, but independent, almost without family ties. By the death of a distant relative, he had come into a few thousand roubles, and he had decided to spend this sum abroad before entering the service, before finally putting on the government yoke, without which he could not obtain a secure livelihood. Sanin had carried out this intention, and had fitted things in to such a nicety that on the day of his arrival in Frankfort he had only just enough money left to take him back to Petersburg. In the year 1840 there were few railroads in existence; tourists travelled by diligence. Sanin had taken a place in the ‘bei-wagon’; but the diligence did not start till eleven o’clock in the evening. There was a great deal of time to be got through before then. Fortunately it was lovely weather, and Sanin after dining at a hotel, famous in those days, the White Swan, set off to stroll about the town. He went in to look at Danneker’s Ariadne, which he did not much care for, visited the house of Goethe, of whose works he had, however, only read Werter, and that in the French translation. He walked along the bank of the Maine, and was bored as a well-conducted tourist should be; at last at six o’clock in the evening, tired, and with dusty boots, he found himself in one of the least remarkable streets in Frankfort. That street he was fated not to forget long, long after. On one of its few houses he saw a signboard: ‘Giovanni Roselli, Italian confectionery’, was announced upon it. Sanin went into it to get a glass of lemonade; but in the shop, where, behind the modest counter, on the shelves of a stained cupboard, recalling a chemist’s shop, stood a few bottles with gold labels, and as many glass jars of biscuits, chocolate cakes, and sweetmeats – in this room, there was not a soul; only a grey cat blinked and purred, sharpening its claws on a tall wicker chair near the window and a bright patch of colour was made in the evening sunlight, by a big ball of red wool lying on the floor beside a carved wooden basket turned upside down. A confused noise was audible in the next room. Sanin stood a moment, and making the bell on the door ring its loudest, he called, raising his voice, ‘Is there no one here?’ At that instant the door from an inner room was thrown open, and Sanin was struck dumb with amazement.

    II

    A young girl of nineteen ran impetuously into the shop, her dark curls hanging in disorder on her bare shoulders, her bare arms stretched out in front of her. Seeing Sanin, she rushed up to him at once, seized him by the hand, and pulled him after her, saying in a breathless voice, ‘Quick, quick, here, save him!’ Not through disinclination to obey, but simply from excess of amazement, Sanin did not at once follow the girl. He stood, as it were, rooted to the spot; he had never in his life seen such a beautiful creature. She turned towards him, and with such despair in her voice, in her eyes, in the gesture of her clenched hand, which was lifted with a spasmodic movement to her pale cheek, she articulated, ‘Come, come!’ that he at once darted after her to the open door.

    In the room, into which he ran behind the girl, on an old-fashioned horse-hair sofa, lay a boy of fourteen, white all over – white, with a yellowish tinge like wax or old marble – he was strikingly like the girl, obviously her brother. His eyes were closed, a patch of shadow fell from his thick black hair on a forehead like stone, and delicate, motionless eyebrows; between the blue lips could be seen clenched teeth. He seemed not to be breathing; one arm hung down to the floor, the other he had tossed above his head. The boy was dressed, and his clothes were closely buttoned; a tight cravat was twisted round his neck.

    The girl rushed up to him with a wail of distress. ‘He is dead, he is dead!’ she cried; ‘he was sitting here just now, talking to me – and all of a sudden he fell down and became rigid… . My God! can nothing be done to help him? And mamma not here! Pantaleone, Pantaleone, the doctor!’ she went on suddenly in Italian. ‘Have you been for the doctor?’

    ‘Signora, I did not go, I sent Luise,’ said a hoarse voice at the door, and a little bandy-legged old man came hobbling into the room in a lavender frock coat with black buttons, a high white cravat, short nankeen trousers, and blue worsted stockings. His diminutive little face was positively lost in a mass of iron-grey hair. Standing up in all directions, and falling back in ragged tufts, it gave the old man’s figure a resemblance to a crested hen – a resemblance the more striking, that under the dark-grey mass nothing could be distinguished but a beak nose and round yellow eyes.

    ‘Luise will run fast, and I can’t run,’ the old man went on in Italian, dragging his flat gouty feet, shod in high slippers with knots of ribbon. ‘I’ve brought some water.’

    In his withered, knotted fingers, he clutched a long bottle neck.

    ‘But meanwhile Emil will die!’ cried the girl, and holding out her hand to Sanin, ‘O, sir, O mein Herr! can’t you do something for him?’

    ‘He ought to be bled – it’s an apoplectic fit,’ observed the old man addressed as Pantaleone.

    Though Sanin had not the slightest notion of medicine, he knew one thing for certain, that boys of fourteen do not have apoplectic fits.

    ‘It’s a swoon, not a fit,’ he said, turning to Pantaleone. ‘Have you got any brushes?’

    The old man raised his little face. ‘Eh?’

    ‘Brushes, brushes,’ repeated Sanin in German and in French. ‘Brushes,’ he added, making as though he would brush his clothes.

    The little old man understood him at last.

    ‘Ah, brushes! Spazzette! to be sure we have!’

    ‘Bring them here; we will take off his coat and try rubbing him.’

    ‘Good … Benone! And ought we not to sprinkle water on his head?’

    ‘No … later on; get the brushes now as quick as you can.’

    Pantaleone put the bottle on the floor, ran out and returned at once with two brushes, one a hair-brush, and one a clothes-brush. A curly poodle followed him in, and vigorously wagging its tail, it looked up inquisitively at the old man, the girl, and even Sanin, as though it wanted to know what was the meaning of all this fuss.

    Sanin quickly took the boy’s coat off, unbuttoned his collar, and pushed up his shirt-sleeves, and arming himself with a brush, he began brushing his chest and arms with all his might. Pantaleone as zealously brushed away with the other – the hair-brush – at his boots and trousers. The girl flung herself on her knees by the sofa, and, clutching her head in both hands, fastened her eyes, not an eyelash quivering, on her brother.

    Sanin rubbed on, and kept stealing glances at her. Mercy! what a beautiful creature she was!

    III

    Her nose was rather large, but handsome, aquiline-shaped; her upper lip was shaded by a light down; but then the colour of her face, smooth, uniform, like ivory or very pale milky amber, the wavering shimmer of her hair, like that of the Judith of Allorio in the Palazzo-Pitti; and above all, her eyes, dark-grey, with a black ring round the pupils, splendid, triumphant eyes, even now, when terror and distress dimmed their lustre… . Sanin could not help recalling the marvellous country he had just come from… . But even in Italy he had never met anything like her! The girl drew slow, uneven breaths; she seemed between each breath to be waiting to see whether her brother would not begin to breathe.

    Sanin went on rubbing him, but he did not only watch the girl. The original figure of Pantaleone drew his attention too. The old man was quite exhausted and panting; at every movement of the brush he hopped up and down and groaned noisily, while his immense tufts of hair, soaked with perspiration, flapped heavily from side to side, like the roots of some strong plant, torn up by the water.

    ‘You’d better, at least, take off his boots,’ Sanin was just saying to him.

    The poodle, probably excited by the unusualness of all the proceedings, suddenly sank on to its front paws and began barking.

    ‘Tartaglia – canaglia!’ the old man hissed at it. But at that instant the girl’s face was transformed. Her eyebrows rose, her eyes grew wider, and shone with joy.

    Sanin looked round … A flush had over-spread the lad’s face; his eyelids stirred … his nostrils twitched. He drew in a breath through his still clenched teeth, sighed… .

    ‘Emil!’ cried the girl … ‘Emilio mio!’

    Slowly the big black eyes opened. They still had a dazed look, but already smiled faintly; the same faint smile hovered on his pale lips. Then he moved the arm that hung down, and laid it on his chest.

    ‘Emilio!’ repeated the girl, and she got up. The expression on her face was so tense and vivid, that it seemed that in an instant either she would burst into tears or break into laughter.

    ‘Emil! what is it? Emil!’ was heard outside, and a neatly-dressed lady with silvery grey hair and a dark face came with rapid steps into the room.

    A middle-aged man followed her; the head of a maid-servant was visible over

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