Status
Available
Call number
Genres
Collection
Publication
Penguin Classics (1988), Paperback, 240 pages
Description
Classic Literature. Fiction. HTML: On the eve of the Crimean war a young woman, Elena, is pursued by two men. She disappoints them and her affected, social-climbing family when she marries a Bulgarian revolutionary. Sickness and war intervene in their lives, sending tragic shock waves through an entire society..
User reviews
LibraryThing member gbill
A pretty simple story of a young girl, Yelena Nikolayevna Stakhov, who has multiple suitors – the philosopher Bersenev, the artist Shubin, and the Bulgarian nationalist Insarov. It’s a step down from Turgenev’s other novels and short stories, but an enjoyable read nonetheless because of its
Quotes:
On death:
“Sometimes, waking up, one asks oneself in fright, ‘Can it be that I’m already thirty – forty – fifty years old? How can life have passed so soon? How can death have drawn so near?’ Death is like a fisherman who has netted a fish and keeps it swimming in the water for a while; the fish is still swimming, but it is enmeshed, and the fisherman will haul it out when he pleases.”
On happiness, and the class structure:
“She did not know that the happiness of every man is based on the unhappiness of another, that his advantage and convenience require the disadvantage and inconvenience of others just as a statue requires a pedestal.”
On living in the now, youth, and love:
“’Why are you in such a hurry?’ Shubin continued. ‘Believe me, you’ll never have another night like this as long as you live, and all that’s waiting for you at home is Schelling. To be sure, he stood you in good stead today, but even so you shouldn’t be in a hurry. Sing if you can, sing louder than ever; and if you can’t sing, take off your hat, throw back your head, and smile at the stars. They’re all looking down at you – you alone; the stars do nothing but look down at those in love, and that’s why they are so beautiful.’”
On admitting love:
“’You wanted to make me say I loved you,’ she whispered. ‘Now I have – said it.’
‘Yelena!’ cried Insarov.
She took her hands away from her face, looked at him, and flung herself on his breast.
He held her close to his heart, saying nothing. There was no need for him to tell her that he loved her. His exclamation alone, that instant transformation of the man, the manner in which his breast heaved as she clung to it trustingly, the manner in which his finger-tips brushed her hair – suggested to Yelena that she was loved. ‘He is here, he loves me – what else do I want?’ The calm of bliss, of a peaceful harbor, of a goal attained, that heavenly calm which imparts both meaning and beauty to death itself, swept over her in a divine wave. She desired nothing because she possessed everything. ‘O my brother, my friend, my darling!’ whispered her lips, and she wondered whether it was his heart or hers beating and melting so sweetly in her breast.”
On meaninglessness:
“Why must there be death and separation and illness and tears? Or this beauty, this sweet sensation of hope, the soothing awareness of a safe refuge, reliable defence, eternal protection? What, then, is the meaning of this smiling sky that showers its blessings, of this happy, reposing earth? Can it be that all this is only in us, while outside is everlasting cold and silence? Can it be that we are alone – alone – and that everywhere else, in all those unfathomable abysses and depths, everything, absolutely everything is alien to us? What good is, then, this longing for prayer and this joy of praying?”
On medicine at the time; bloodletting via leeches did more harm than good in the vast majority of cases, despite its historic use; canthorides are ‘spanish fly’, and calomel is mercury chloride, now known to be toxic:
“The doctor prescribed leeches, cantharides, and calomel, all in a lump, and ordered bleeding the sick man.
‘Is it very bad?’ asked Bersenev.
‘Yes, very,’ answered the doctor. ‘He has acute pneumonia; it’s peripneumonia at its worst, his brain may be affected too, and the subject is still young. His own strength is now turned against him. You sent for me a bit late, but I shall do all that science calls for.’
The doctor was young himself and still believed in science.
Bersenev stayed all night. The landlord and his wife proved kind-hearted and even efficient – that is, they were efficient as long as they were told what to do. A surgeon’s assistant arrived, and medical torture began.”
On the joy, and reverie, of travelling:
“The hotel at which Insarov and Yelena had put up was in the Riva degli Schiavoni; they stepped out of the gondola before reaching the hotel and walked several times round St. Mark Plaza, under the arches where a multitude of idlers pressed in front of the tiny coffee-houses. It is an exquisite pleasure to stroll with the one you love amongst strangers in a foreign city, where everything seems wonderful and significant, where you wish everybody joy and peace, and that happiness of which you are full of yourself.”
Lastly this bit of humor, from Pavel Yakovlevich Shubin, who is the artist and comic relief in the book, in response to a slow-witted elder:
“May I ask you, estimable knight,’ he said in an obsequious voice, ‘whether you were pleased to utter those mysterious words as a result of exercising your faculty of apprehension, or in intuitive response to a momentary urge to produce an air-vibration known as sound?’”
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supporting characters. Shubin is delightfully flamboyant. Yelena’s father is openly involved with another woman, and his tubby friend Uvar Ivanovich is lethargic and stuffy, which makes their criticism of the younger generation of Russians and their comments about Yelena’s clandestine meetings with Insarov subtly hypocritical. However, as the real (tragic) hero of the story is Insarov, Turgenev’s main point seems to be there is a need for “real men” to come forth in Russia. The novel is “on the eve” of the Crimean War starting, but also, in a hopeful way for Turgenev, on the eve of reforms and progress for Russia. Quotes:
On death:
“Sometimes, waking up, one asks oneself in fright, ‘Can it be that I’m already thirty – forty – fifty years old? How can life have passed so soon? How can death have drawn so near?’ Death is like a fisherman who has netted a fish and keeps it swimming in the water for a while; the fish is still swimming, but it is enmeshed, and the fisherman will haul it out when he pleases.”
On happiness, and the class structure:
“She did not know that the happiness of every man is based on the unhappiness of another, that his advantage and convenience require the disadvantage and inconvenience of others just as a statue requires a pedestal.”
On living in the now, youth, and love:
“’Why are you in such a hurry?’ Shubin continued. ‘Believe me, you’ll never have another night like this as long as you live, and all that’s waiting for you at home is Schelling. To be sure, he stood you in good stead today, but even so you shouldn’t be in a hurry. Sing if you can, sing louder than ever; and if you can’t sing, take off your hat, throw back your head, and smile at the stars. They’re all looking down at you – you alone; the stars do nothing but look down at those in love, and that’s why they are so beautiful.’”
On admitting love:
“’You wanted to make me say I loved you,’ she whispered. ‘Now I have – said it.’
‘Yelena!’ cried Insarov.
She took her hands away from her face, looked at him, and flung herself on his breast.
He held her close to his heart, saying nothing. There was no need for him to tell her that he loved her. His exclamation alone, that instant transformation of the man, the manner in which his breast heaved as she clung to it trustingly, the manner in which his finger-tips brushed her hair – suggested to Yelena that she was loved. ‘He is here, he loves me – what else do I want?’ The calm of bliss, of a peaceful harbor, of a goal attained, that heavenly calm which imparts both meaning and beauty to death itself, swept over her in a divine wave. She desired nothing because she possessed everything. ‘O my brother, my friend, my darling!’ whispered her lips, and she wondered whether it was his heart or hers beating and melting so sweetly in her breast.”
On meaninglessness:
“Why must there be death and separation and illness and tears? Or this beauty, this sweet sensation of hope, the soothing awareness of a safe refuge, reliable defence, eternal protection? What, then, is the meaning of this smiling sky that showers its blessings, of this happy, reposing earth? Can it be that all this is only in us, while outside is everlasting cold and silence? Can it be that we are alone – alone – and that everywhere else, in all those unfathomable abysses and depths, everything, absolutely everything is alien to us? What good is, then, this longing for prayer and this joy of praying?”
On medicine at the time; bloodletting via leeches did more harm than good in the vast majority of cases, despite its historic use; canthorides are ‘spanish fly’, and calomel is mercury chloride, now known to be toxic:
“The doctor prescribed leeches, cantharides, and calomel, all in a lump, and ordered bleeding the sick man.
‘Is it very bad?’ asked Bersenev.
‘Yes, very,’ answered the doctor. ‘He has acute pneumonia; it’s peripneumonia at its worst, his brain may be affected too, and the subject is still young. His own strength is now turned against him. You sent for me a bit late, but I shall do all that science calls for.’
The doctor was young himself and still believed in science.
Bersenev stayed all night. The landlord and his wife proved kind-hearted and even efficient – that is, they were efficient as long as they were told what to do. A surgeon’s assistant arrived, and medical torture began.”
On the joy, and reverie, of travelling:
“The hotel at which Insarov and Yelena had put up was in the Riva degli Schiavoni; they stepped out of the gondola before reaching the hotel and walked several times round St. Mark Plaza, under the arches where a multitude of idlers pressed in front of the tiny coffee-houses. It is an exquisite pleasure to stroll with the one you love amongst strangers in a foreign city, where everything seems wonderful and significant, where you wish everybody joy and peace, and that happiness of which you are full of yourself.”
Lastly this bit of humor, from Pavel Yakovlevich Shubin, who is the artist and comic relief in the book, in response to a slow-witted elder:
“May I ask you, estimable knight,’ he said in an obsequious voice, ‘whether you were pleased to utter those mysterious words as a result of exercising your faculty of apprehension, or in intuitive response to a momentary urge to produce an air-vibration known as sound?’”
Show Less
LibraryThing member GlebtheDancer
A classic tragic romance that engages but fails to touch the reader. The theme of sexual politics in the stifling social atmosphere of nineteenth century Russian gentry is familiar, but whereas writers like Dostoevsky and Tolstoy use romance to examine philosophical and political themes, 'On the
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Eve' is a potboiler with the barest of nods to the looming Crimean war, which is more of a plot point than an informative background. This book is well written, enjoyable, shallow and a little bit pointless, apart from for afficianados of weepies and tragic romances. Show Less
LibraryThing member tjsjohanna
When I first read this I was captivated by the romantic elements - despite the fact that this was an assigned book. Classic literature - great writing, even in translation.
LibraryThing member brownie22
Fervid, with some unexpectedly humorous moments. I really liked Elena.
LibraryThing member anthonywillard
This is a short Russian novel of the mid-nineteenth century, 1854, telling an intense and dramatic story of a group of moderately well-off young people and their elders. It is a drama of intellectual and emotional introspection, and of the efforts of a young woman to liberate herself from the
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stifling life of inactivity demanded of upper class women of the time. Her three young male friends are all more or less in love with her for reasons that elude me, but they are quite decorous about it. One is a sculptor who is more given to dramatics and rhetoric than the others and he keeps things lively; another is a revolutionary, and is the principal source of plot action. Because On the Eve is short, the story moves right along and doesn't become Jamesian and drawn out. I sympathized with all the young characters, not so much with their parents. I found the account of the way they lived, their housing, transportation, occupations, etc., fascinating, and their thoughts and problems highly involving. Turgenev is a major world literary figure for good reason. His ability to create and develop characters is extraordinary. Some people get bored with his descriptions of nature and so forth, but that side of him does not appear much in this short work. I recommend this to anyone who likes realist fiction, or nineteenth century novels, or who is interested in Russian society and culture. Show Less
LibraryThing member Marse
I love Turgenev. He is always a pleasure to read. His novels are not action-packed, but that doesn't mean that nothing happens. Though his works are seen as having political meaning, the beauty of his novels is the subtle display of the inner workings of his heroes' emotional lives. In this case, a
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serious, intelligent young woman, who is being suffocated by the dull, meaningless life her family leads, falls in love with a Bulgarian student who dreams of freeing his country from the Turks. In some ways, Turgenev reminds me of Balzac at his most astute when revealing human nature, but Turgenev is more gentle, more sympathetic to his characters. Show Less
LibraryThing member MathMaverick
Very readable and enjoyable story.
LibraryThing member jonfaith
The enchantment of the young and educated is reflected accurately: equal mesaures of sloth and self-importance dominate the early stages of On The Eve. The arrival of the fourth element to the friendly hormonal triangle throws the plot onto a different spur we arrive in familar territory a few
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chapters down the rails. Show Less
LibraryThing member mahallett
goes on a bit. got better with the romance.
LibraryThing member MeisterPfriem
A simple love-story set among the middle and upper classes of the 1850s Russian society to the background of the approaching Crimean war. It was slow getting into it, after a few chapter I almost put it aside, then slowly slowly I got gripped and could not put it aside. (X-20)
LibraryThing member heggiep
The book wasn't what I had anticipated. I thought it would be about the run-up to war (Crimean) but it was a romance - a love story - albeit 'on the eve' of that conflict. It was, nonetheless, a good story, well told; and with many lovely turns-of-phrase.
Language
Original language
Russian
Original publication date
1860
Physical description
240 p.; 6.93 inches
ISBN
0140440097 / 9780140440096
Other editions
On the Eve by Ivan Turgenev (Paperback)