ABSTRACT
I read ‘Deerslayer’ just before the Turgenev. And I can tell you what a come-down it was, from the pure and exquisite art o f Fennimore (sic) Cooper-whom we count nobody-to the journalistic bludgeonings o f Turgenev. They are all-Turgenev, Tolstoi, Dostoevsky, Maupassant, Flaubert-so very obvious and coarse, beside the lovely, mature and sensitive art o f Fenni more Cooper or Hardy.1
