PROSE POEMS OF IVAN TURGENIEF. 



I DREAMED that I stepped into a 

 vast, subterranean, highly arched 

 hall. A brilliant light illuminated 

 it. In the middle of this hall was 

 seated the majestic figure of a woman, 

 clothed in a green robe that fell in 

 many folds around her. Her head 

 rested upon her hand; she seemed to 

 be sunk in deep meditation. Instantly 

 I comprehended that this woman must 

 be nature herself, and a sudden feeling 

 of respectful terror stole into my awed 

 soul. I approached the woman, and, 

 saluting her with reverence, said: 



"O mother of us all, on what dost 

 thou meditate? Thinkest thou, per- 

 chance, on the future fate of humanity, 

 or of the path along which mankind 

 must journey in order to attain the 

 highest possible perfection — the high- 

 est happiness?" 



The woman slowly turned her dark, 

 threatening eyes upon me. Her lips 

 moved and, in a tremendous, metallic 

 voice she replied: 



"I was pondering how to bestow 

 greater strength upon the muscles of 

 the flea's legs, so that it may more rap- 

 idly escape from its enemies. The bal- 

 ance between attack and flight is de- 

 ranged; it must be readjusted." 



"What!" I answered, "is that thy only 

 meditation? Are not we, mankind, 

 thy best-loved and most precious chil- 

 dren?" I 



The woman slightly bent her brows 

 and replied: "All living creatures are 

 my children; I cherish all equally, and 

 annihilate all without distinction." 



"But Virtue, Reason, Justice!" I fal- 

 tered, 



"Those are human words," replied 

 the brazen voice. "I know neither 

 good nor evil. Reason to me is no 

 law. And what is justice? I gave thee 

 life; I take it from thee and give it 

 unto others; worms and men are all the 

 same to me. . . . And thou must 



maintain thyself meanwhile, and leave 

 me in peace." 



I would have replied, but the earth 

 quaked and trembled, and I awoke. 



I was returning from hunting, and 

 walking along an avenue of the garden, 

 my dog running in front of me. 



Suddenly he took shorter steps, and 

 began to steal along as though track- 

 ing game. 



I looked along the avenue, and saw 

 a young sparrow, with yellow about its 

 beak and down on its head. It had 

 fallen out of the nest (the wind was 

 violently shaking the birch trees in the 

 avenue) and sat unable to move, help- 

 lessly flapping its half-grown wings. 



My dog was slowly approaching it, 

 when, suddenly darting from a tree 

 close by, an old dark-throated spar- 

 row fell like a stone right before his 

 nose, and all ruffled up, terrified, with 

 despairing and pitiful chirps, it flung 

 itself twice towards the open jaws of 

 shining teeth. It sprang to save; it 

 cast itself before its nestling, but all its 

 tiny body was shaking with terror; its 

 note was harsh and strange. Swoon- 

 ing with fear, it offered itself up! 



What a huge monster must the dog 

 have seemed to it! And yet it could 

 not stay on its high branch out of dan- 

 ger. ... A force stronger than its 

 will flung it down. 



My Tresor stood still, drew back. 

 Clearly he, too, recognized this 

 force. 



I hastened to call off the discon- 

 certed dog, and went away full of rev- 

 erence. 



Yes; do not laugh. I felt reverence 

 for that tiny heroic bird for its impulse 

 of love. 



Love, I thought, is stronger than 

 death or the fear of death. Only by 

 it, by love, life holds together and ad- 

 vances. 



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