In 1834 two short stories appeared, The Queen of Spades, by Pushkin, and The Cloak, by Gogol.  The first was a finishing-off of the old, outgoing style of romanticism, the other was the beginning of the new, the characteristically Russian style.  We read Pushkin’s Queen of Spades, the first story in the volume, and the likelihood is we shall enjoy it greatly.  “But why is it Russian?” we ask.  The answer is, “It is not Russian.”  It might have been printed in an American magazine over the name of John Brown.  But, now, take the very next story in the volume, The Cloak.  “Ah,” you exclaim, “a genuine Russian story, Surely.  You cannot palm it off on me over the name of Jones or Smith.”  Why?  Because The Cloak for the first time strikes that truly Russian note of deep sympathy with the disinherited.  It is not yet wholly free from artificiality, and so is not yet typical of the purely realistic fiction that reached its perfected development in Turgenev and Tolstoy.

Though Pushkin heads the list of those writers who made the literature of their country world-famous, he was still a romanticist, in the universal literary fashion of his day.  However, he already gave strong indication of the peculiarly Russian genius for naturalness or realism, and was a true Russian in his simplicity of style.  In no sense an innovator, but taking the cue for his poetry from Byron and for his prose from the romanticism current at that period, he was not in advance of his age.  He had a revolutionary streak in his nature, as his Ode to Liberty and other bits of verse and his intimacy with the Decembrist rebels show.  But his youthful fire soon died down, and he found it possible to accommodate himself to the life of a Russian high functionary and courtier under the severe despot Nicholas I, though, to be sure, he always hated that life.  For all his flirting with revolutionarism, he never displayed great originality or depth of thought.  He was simply an extraordinarily gifted author, a perfect versifier, a wondrous lyrist, and a delicious raconteur, endowed with a grace, ease and power of expression that delighted even the exacting artistic sense of Turgenev.  To him aptly applies the dictum of Socrates:  “Not by wisdom do the poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration.”  I do not mean to convey that as a thinker Pushkin is to be despised.  Nevertheless, it is true that he would occupy a lower position in literature did his reputation depend upon his contributions to thought and not upon his value as an artist.

“We are all descended from Gogol’s Cloak,” said a Russian writer.  And Dostoyevsky’s novel, Poor People, which appeared ten years later, is, in a way, merely an extension of Gogol’s shorter tale.  In Dostoyevsky, indeed, the passion for the common people and the all-embracing, all-penetrating pity for suffering humanity reach their climax.  He was a profound psychologist and delved deeply into