Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev (November 9 [O.S. October 28] 1818 – September 3 [O.S. August 22] 1883) was a Russian novelist, short story writer, and playwright. His first major publication, a short story collection entitled A Sportsman's Sketches, is a milestone of Russian Realism, and his novel Fathers and Sons is regarded as one of the major works of 19th-century fiction. more »
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Ivan Turgenev Poems
I was returning from hunting, and walking along an avenue of the garden, my dog running in front of me.
The last days of August…. Autumn was already at hand. The sun was setting. A sudden downpour of rain, without thunder or
I stood before a chain of beautiful mountains forming a semicircle. A young, green forest covered them from summit to base.
I fancied I was somewhere in Russia, in the wilds, in a simple country house.
How Fair, How Fresh Were The Roses ...
Somewhere, sometime, long, long ago, I read a poem. It was soon forgotten … but the first line has stuck in my memory-
The Two Brothers
It was a vision… Two angels appeared to me… two genii. I say angels, genii, because both had no clothes on their
Stay! as I see thee now, abide for ever in my memory! From thy lips the last inspired note has broken. No light, no flash is
'Neither the Jungfrau nor the Finsteraarhorn has yet been trodden by the foot of man!'
There was once a town, the inhabitants of which were so passionately fond of poetry, that if some weeks passed by without the appearance of
Near a large town, along the broad highroad walked an old sick man. He tottered as he went; his old wasted legs, halting,
Friend And Enemy
A prisoner, condemned to confinement for life, broke out of his prison and took to head-long flight…. After him, just on his heels flew his
I saw myself, in dream, a youth, almost a boy, in a low-pitched wooden church. The slim wax candles gleamed, spots of red, before the old pictures
I was walking along the street… I was stopped by a decrepit old beggar. Bloodshot, tearful eyes, blue lips, coarse rags, festering
The last day of July; for a thousand versts around, Russia, our native land.
Comments about Ivan Turgenev
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 tracking
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,
helplessly flapping its half-grown wings.
My dog was slowly approaching it, when, suddenly darting down from a tree
close by, an old dark-throated sparrow ...