Smoke

Turgenev leads you silently into a crowded room and you take your place beside him and watch the white, eager faces as the samovar hisses. It is a poor room with old faded furniture, but its effect is blurred by the smoke rings of generous illusion. The youthful faces are lit up as by some inner furnace, fed by the energy, the dreams, the idealism, the inexhaustible hope of youth. General ideas float through the smoke-rings. Emotions flash into language. They all seem absolutely to believe ...