PROSE POEMS OF IVAN TURGENIEF. 
1 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. 
ISO 
