Enough

"Enough" is a novel by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev that explores themes of existential discontent and the search for meaning in life. The story revolves around the character of a young man, who grapples with feelings of dissatisfaction and frustration as he navigates his relationships and societal expectations. Turgenev delves into the complexities of human emotions, the struggles of the individual against societal norms, and the quest for personal fulfillment. The narrative combines lyrical prose with deep psychological insight, illustrating Turgenev's mastery in portraying the inner lives of his characters and their responses to the challenges they face.

• Novel

								
A FRAGMENT FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A DEAD ARTIST

I

II

III

'Enough,' I said to myself as I moved with lagging steps over the steep
mountainside down to the quiet little brook. 'Enough,' I said again, as
I drank in the resinous fragrance of the pinewood, strong and pungent in
the freshness of falling evening. 'Enough,' I said once more, as I sat
on the mossy mound above the little brook and gazed into its dark,
lingering waters, over which the sturdy reeds thrust up their pale green
blades.... 'Enough.'

No more struggle, no more strain, time to draw in, time to keep firm
hold of the head and to bid the heart be silent. No more to brood over
the voluptuous sweetness of vague, seductive ecstasy, no more to run
after each fresh form of beauty, no more to hang over every tremour of
her delicate, strong wings.

All has been felt, all has been gone through... I am weary. What to me
now that at this moment, larger, fiercer than ever, the sunset floods
the heavens as though aflame with some triumphant passion? What to me
that, amid the soft peace and glow of evening, suddenly, two paces
hence, hidden in a thick bush's dewy stillness, a nightingale has sung
his heart out in notes magical as though no nightingale had been on
earth before him, and he first sang the first song of first love? All
this was, has been, has been again, and is a thousand times
repeated--and to think that it will last on so to all eternity--as
though decreed, ordained--it stirs one's wrath! Yes... wrath!

IV

Ah, I am grown old! Such thoughts would never have come to me once--in
those happy days of old, when I too was aflame like the sunset and my
heart sang like the nightingale.

There is no hiding it--everything has faded about me, all life has
paled. The light that gives life's colours depth and meaning--the light
that comes out of the heart of man--is dead within me.... No, not dead
yet--it feebly smoulders on, giving no light, no warmth.

Once, late in the night in Moscow, I remember I went up to the grating
window of an old church, and leaned against the faulty pane. It was dark
under the low arched roof--a forgotten lamp shed a dull red light upon
the ancient picture; dimly could be discerned the lips only of the
sacred face--stern and sorrowful. The sullen darkness gathered about it,
ready it seemed to crush under its dead weight the feeble ray of
impotent light.... Such now in my heart is the light; and such the
darkness.

V

And this I write to thee, to thee, my one never forgotten friend, to
thee, my dear companion, whom I have left for ever, but shall not cease
to love till my life's end.... Alas! thou knowest what parted us. But
that I have no wish to speak of now. I have left thee... but even here,
in these wilds, in this far-off exile, I am all filled through and
through with thee; as of old I am in thy power, as of old I feel the
sweet burden of thy hand on my bent head!

For the last time I drag myself from out the grave of silence in which I
am lying now. I turn a brief and softened gaze on all my past... our
past.... No hope and no return; but no bitterness is in my heart and no
regret, and clearer than the blue of heaven, purer than the first snow
on mountain tops, fair memories rise up before me like the forms of
departed gods.... They come, not thronging in crowds, in slow procession
they follow one another like those draped Athenian figures we admired so
much--dost thou remember?--in the ancient bas-reliefs in the Vatican.

VI

I have spoken of the light that comes from the heart of man, and sheds
brightness on all around him... I long to talk with thee of the time
when in my heart too that light burned bright with blessing... Listen...
and I will fancy thee sitting before me, gazing up at me with those
eyes--so fond yet stern almost in their intentness. O eyes, never to be
forgotten! On whom are they fastened now? Who folds in his heart thy
glance--that glance that seems to flow from depths unknown even as
mysterious springs--like ye, both clear and dark--that gush out into
some narrow, deep ravine under the frowning cliffs.... Listen.

VII

It was at the end of March before Annunciation, soon after I had seen
thee for the first time and--not yet dreaming of what thou wouldst be to
me--already, silently, secretly, I bore thee in my heart. I chanced to
cross one of the great rivers of Russia. The ice had not yet broken up,
but looked swollen and dark; it was the fourth day of thaw. The snow was
melting everywhere--steadily but slowly; there was the running of water
on all sides; a noiseless wind strayed in the soft air. Earth and sky
alike were steeped in one unvarying milky hue; there was not fog nor was
there light; not one object stood out clear in the general whiteness,
everything looked both close and indistinct. I left my cart far behind
and walked swiftly over the ice of the river, and except the muffled
thud of my own steps heard not a sound. I went on enfolded on all sides
by the first breath, the first thrill, of early spring... and gradually
gaining force with every step, with every movement forwards, a glad
tremour sprang up and grew, all uncomprehended within me... it drew me
on, it hastened me, and so strong was the flood of gladness within me,
that I stood still at last and with questioning eyes looked round me, as
I would seek some outer cause of my mood of rapture.... All was soft,
white, slumbering, but I lifted my eyes; high in the heavens floated a
flock of birds flying back to us.... 'Spring! welcome spring!' I shouted
aloud: 'welcome, life and love and happiness!' And at that instance,
with sweetly troubling shock, suddenly like a cactus flower thy image
blossomed aflame within me, blossomed and grew, bewilderingly fair and
radiant, and I knew that I love thee, thee only--that I am all filled
full of thee....

VIII

I think of thee... and many other memories, other pictures float before
me with thee everywhere, at every turn of my life I meet thee. Now an
old Russian garden rises up before me on the slope of a hillside,
lighted up by the last rays of the summer sun. Behind the silver poplars
peeps out the wooden roof of the manor-house with a thin curl of reddish
smoke above the white chimney, and in the fence a little gate stands
just ajar, as though some one had drawn it to with faltering hand; and I
stand and wait and gaze at that gate and the sand of the garden
path--wonder and rapture in my heart. All that I behold seems new and
different; over all a breath of some glad, brooding mystery, and already
I catch the swift rustle of steps, and I stand intent and alert as a
bird with wings folded ready to take flight anew, and my heart burns and
shudders in joyous dread before the approaching, the alighting
rapture....

IX

Then I see an ancient cathedral in a beautiful, far-off land. In rows
kneel the close packed people; a breath of prayerful chill, of something

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