“The Execution of Tropmann” by Ivan Turgenev is an indictment of capital punishment, written with emphasis on the emotions of a third party observer to an execution, with the intent of persuading the reader to abhor the practice themselves. Turgenev exercises three principle techniques in making this work as vivid and effective as it is: first, he utilizes a narrative structure, recalling his experiences as the aforementioned witness to a murderer being put to death. Second, he evokes a sense of intimacy with the condemned; that is, he uses specific details about the personality of the soon to be deceased, humanizing that individual, and thus making the reader sympathize with Tropmann, while still understanding the barbarism of the acts which he committed. Finally, Turgenev uses suspense to make the reader feel an appropriate discomfort and to make the essay more compelling. Taken collectively, these techniques make the essay a startling, perhaps unpleasant, and even morbid read. But it is difficult to overestimate the weight of the issue that Turgenev discusses, i.e., capital punishment, and when one considers that importance, the essay is then no longer a dark, graphic story, but a powerful, political work.

The essay begins with Turgenev stating that he was invited to witness the execution of Tropmann, a murderer who killed an entire family. He states that he was to be among “a small number of other privileged persons” in being able to both witness the execution and visit the prison where Tropmann was being held. Immediately, Turgenev describes his regret at accepting the invitation; he states “I accepted it without giving it much thought” (Lopate 306) and continues to say that he only refrained from rescinding his acceptance out of “false pride” (306) and to avoid being thought of as a coward.

With the framing of the story completed, Turgenev ends the first section of the essay by stating that writing this essay is punishment towards himself, but that the reader might gain from the piece. This serves two functions: first, it makes clear the author’s purpose- this is a decidedly political piece, albeit one that is rightly described as a personal essay as well. Second, the juxtaposition of authoring this essay being a punishment for Turgenev while also perhaps being beneficial for the reader establishes a tone- it puts forth the idea to the reader that they ought to learn from Turgenev’s mistake. This implies that Turgenev desires a large audience of thoughtful, ideally politically minded people, to read his work and to effect social change in abolishing the death penalty (or, as he says at the end of the essay, “at least, the abolition of public executions” (324)). He does not wish for his traumatic experience to have been in vain.

And so he shares this trauma with the reader. The bulk of the essay is suspenseful. This suspense is appropriate in that it mirrors the suspense felt by one condemned to die; with every page Turgenev moves the reader closer to the ultimate event, bit by bit. The recurring motif used to advance this feeling of dread is the crowd of people gathered to witness the execution. The first usage of this motif is in section four:

There was already a great number of people about– and behind the lines of the soldiers, bordering the empty space in front of the prison, there rose the uninterrupted and confused din of human voices. (310)

The crowd seems to have a collective voice. At this point in the essay, it parallels that of Turgenev. He too is confused in that he doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into. But as the narrative progresses, Turgenev is able to realize the gravity of what he’s consented to witness, and by that point it’s too late and he no longer bears any resemblance to the bloodthirsty crowd.

Suddenly the two halves of the gates, like some immense mouth of an animal, opened up slowly before us– and all at once, as though to the accompaniment of the great roar of the overjoyed crowd which had at last caught sight of what it had been waiting for, the monster of the guillotine stared at us with its two narrow black beams and its suspended axe. . . . [M]y legs gave way under me. (322)

By that point the essay is at its climax, Tropmann is about to be executed and shortly after the essay ends with a brief reflection from Turgenev. Prior to all of this, however, we get to know Tropmann as more than just a murderer. The quality emphasized most, and earliest, is youth. In the first sentence describing his meeting Tropmann, Turgenev writes “I saw at once, diagonally opposite me, a young, black-haired, black-eyed face” (315) and shortly after writes that Tropmann has “a pleasant, youthful baritone” (316). Interestingly, amidst Turgenev’s references to Tropmann’s youth, there are also things said by the other characters that remind the reader of this quality. The priest, for example, repeatedly refers to Tropmann as “my child” (316), and M. Claude (the chief of police) talks to Tropmann in a way that illustrates a power dynamic reminiscent of a young student and a school teacher. Indeed, Turgenev explicitly references this and likens M. Claude to being like a schoolmaster cajoling his pupil.

The function of putting on display Tropmann’s youthfulness appears to be in line with the function of the essay as a whole; Turgenev attempts to make the reader feel uncomfortable with what they are reading, just as he was uncomfortable with what he saw. The element of youth adds to an already morally questionable event an especially perverse quality. The inherently depraved, sadistic nature of a public execution is even less palatable when it is shown that the object of that sadism and depravity is not even fully an adult yet, in anything but perhaps the most strictly legal sense.

The second quality that Turgenev examines is the dignity with which Tropmann handles the events that he’s subjected to. This quality is examined in a more overt way than the rather subtle examination of youthfulness that precedes it. In fact, not only does Turgenev give readers a reason to believe that Tropmann’s handling of his execution is dignified, but Turgenev also explains the particular impression that said handling had on him.

Let me say, by the way, that if Tropmann had begun to howl and weep, my nerves would certainly not have stood it and I should have run away. But at the sight of that composure, that simplicity and, as it were, modesty– all the feelings in me– the feelings of disgust for a pitiless murderer, a monster who cut the throats of little children while they were crying, Maman! Maman!, the feeling of compassion, finally, for a man whom death was about to swallow up, disappeared and dissolved– in a feeling of astonishment (318)

One important thing here is that Turgenev clearly does not try to persuade the reader by compelling them to forget, for a moment, the evil things that Tropmann did (or at least was accused of doing). He is not a good individual. But, in a strange way, in the brief period of time preceding his death, he is respectable. Given that’s the case, that Tropmann is guilty of horrific crimes but still retains some dignity and some humanity, Turgenev evokes a sense of fundamental human value. In the debate on capital punishment, this is an essential argument; Turgenev seeks to prove that even the most diabolical people have worth, and from that one could rationally infer that that worth ought not be squandered and perhaps even approach a discussion on human rights, such as the right to life.

Turgenev does include some details that could cause one to question Tropmann’s guilt entirely, such as the latter’s repeated insistence that he had accomplices and that a wound on his hand was the result of trying to save one of the small children from being killed. But these details are not the focus of the essay and would almost even be superfluous if this essay were fictional, and thus had no obligation to relay a truthful account of what Turgenev witnessed. It is interesting, however, that Turgenev chooses not to focus on them. It is interesting because Turgenev’s disgust, and angst, and all of his negative feelings towards the execution, do not stem from a feeling that it is being done to an innocent individual, but that it is being done to an individual who still should not be executed in spite of his guilt.

In his powerful essay “The Execution of Tropmann”, Ivan Turgenev advances his political motivations as persuasively as one would find in a treatise, yet eloquently and humanely in a personal essay. In his examination of capital punishment, Turgenev shows human depravity where one would hope to find none (in a crowd of common people), and explores human worth where one would still not expect to find any (in a brutal murderer). Turgenev makes his readers feel uncomfortable, experience extreme suspense, and gain a new perspective.

Works cited:

Turgenev, Ivan, “The Execution of Tropmann” in The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present. Lopate, Phillip. “IV Other Cultures, Other Continents” New York: Anchor, 1994. Print.

Because I have to. That’s why I write. That’s my cynical answer anyway, but my real answer is different and more complicated, because my writing that isn’t force on me is more important and meaningful to me. In almost every classroom, beginning in elementary school, teachers force their students to write, because it shows understanding of the course material, whether it’s about a novel in English class or simply a description of your thought process on a particular math problem.

It’s true that the majority of the writing I do is forced upon me by the fear of a poor grade in a class, but claiming that as the sole reason I write is an, admittedly, exaggerated, cheeky assertion. Rather than give the impression of writing as a chore, I, instead, mean to emphasize its importance. Teachers make their students write, because it’s the most organized, purest form of communication that one is capable of. Writing shows your understanding of some civil war battle that as well as it expresses your thoughts and feelings.

That’s the real reason I write. Joan Didion says in her essay on the same topic, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means” (“Why I Write.” When I sit down to write – for myself, not my teacher – Didion’s own thoughts on writing are quite similar to my own. At times, I am as clueless about my own thoughts and emotions as someone passing me in the street. Writing takes the jumbles of feelings, thoughts, sights and consolidates them, organizes them, and allows me to glean greater understanding into my own mind. Without writing, I can only reach the surface of my thoughts, because writing allows me to simultaneously contemplate and organize my thoughts. My pen touches the paper and as I write down my thoughts and feelings, I think about them, and as my understanding grows, they evolve and take shape. Before I know it, I have pages of writing that reveals ideas I didn’t even know I had, and upon rereading it, I can map out my thought process as well.

That’s why I write when I’m troubled or confused. My mind spins and races at times and even I am not able to make sense of what is swirling around in my head. I don’t keep a journal in a traditional sense; I don’t write down the mundane details of my day, but I do make sense of my feelings through writing, because writing has a magical way of attaching reason and meaning to a lone, stray feeling. Take something as simple as being nervous for a presentation in class. It’s not difficult to see why I would be nervous, but exploring exactly what I’m afraid of is both enlightening and comforting. Once I start writing to explore that simple case of fear, I realize I’m not afraid of public speaking. I know I prepared well. So why am I nervous? That’s just the short version, but the ultimate conclusion was that I don’t have any reason to be afraid. It’s therapeutic to map out emotions like that, and though it, in this case, does not completely erase my anxiety ahead of the presentation, it makes me feel a lot better.

I write a lot during difficult periods in my life to make sense of it all and to see my thoughts in an organized sequence after careful reflection. I have the ability to capture those fleeting and fleeing feelings and ideas – in my mind, not unlike capturing a firefly. Like a firefly, my thoughts flutter around in the dark, and it is my job as a writer to capture them before they go dark, to preserve them and understand them. Joan Didion’s “On Keeping a Notebook” expresses this idea in different words. In her essay Didion describes her notebook and its contents. Much of it, to anyone else, would seem meaningless, trivial, and at times, completely false. Didion’s notebook contains scraps of random information that even she, at times, can’t remember the purpose of, but it does not matter:

We are not talking here about the kind of notebook that is patently for public consumption, a structural conceit for binding together a series of graceful pensees; we are talking about something private, about bits of the mind’s string too short to use, an indiscriminate and erratic assemblage with meaning only for its maker (“On Keeping a Notebook).

When I write an essay that I know will be handed in and graded, it, of course, has to be correct and express what the teacher wants me to express. But, when I’m writing for me, to consolidate my thoughts and emotions, there is no one to hold me accountable for facts or any other criterion except for my own. While to some, it might seem odd that, as Didion states, the verity of facts are inconsequential, sometimes Didion’s – and my – perception of an event is not the same as how a neutral bystander would view it:

Similarly, perhaps it never did snow that August in Vermont; perhaps there never were flurries in the night wind, and maybe no one else felt the ground hardening and summer already dead even as we pretended to bask in it, but that was how it felt to me, and it might as well have snowed, could have snowed, did snow (“On Keeping a Notebook”).

Take my first day of 11^th grade, for instance. I had just, a couple of weeks earlier, moved to North Carolina from Connecticut. Everything was new and scary. Everyone was greeting friends they hadn’t seen in three months; everyone was smiling and laughing. At that time, I wrote only if I had to. It’s not that I didn’t like writing, it’s just that with all of my homework each night, writing for fun just didn’t occur to me. But that changed after my writing class that year. It was just a basic writing class, but the broad, free prompts allowed me to express myself. Moving, at that time, was one of the most important events of my life, and my writing reflected that. When I wrote about starting school in Charlotte, I didn’t write about the smiles or the hugs between the friends; I wrote about how alone I felt. To me, it seemed that everyone was in a circle of friends with their backs to me. I was the lone person, boxed out and invisible. Someone else would not have noticed; someone else would probably just seen a crowd of smiles. It doesn’t matter what really happened, because my writing, as Didion says about her journal, is about “the implacable ‘I'” (“On Keeping a Notebook”).

Not all of my writing, however, is personal or forced upon me. Some of it is both willing and practical. Much of my writing has a distinct purpose. Most weeks, as part of my job for the Old Gold & Black, I write an opinion article. In contrast to writing whose sole purpose is self-expression, these articles are heavily reliant on facts. I, in my articles, attempt to convince the reader of something that I see as self-evident, something, to my surprise, others do not view the same way I do. One of my most recent articles was on a pressing current event: whether or not the United States, and other countries, should allow Syrian refugees to enter the country to escape the violent Syrian civil war in the wake of the attacks in Paris. Alhough one of the attackers appeared to have entered France as a Syrian refugee, I argued that countries should not reject refugees out of fear. I was surprised and disgusted that some lawmakers proposed only allowing Christian refugees into the country even though millions of all religions were subject to violence and death in their home country. My emotions were certainly involved in my article, but the primary purpose of it was to convince others to change their mind, or in the words of George Orwell in his “Why I Write,” “My starting point is always a feeling of partisanship, a sense of injustice … I write it because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, and my initial concern is to get a hearing” (Orwell).

I describe my purpose in writing an opinion article as more factual and less emotional, but I do not mean to make it sound like these qualities have to be mutually exclusive, because sometimes I try to change peoples’ mind based on how I feel, but unlike my more personal writing, it isn’t just about Didion’s “implacable ‘I'”. One of the articles that I have written over the past two years that is most important to be was titled, “‘Introverted’ is often misused colloquially.” I wrote it because of how the term introverted is often casually used with negative connotations. Many use the term as a synonym of reclusive, and the use of the word in that way felt like a judgment on my own character. The ultimate goal of my article was to change the minds of the readers of the Old Gold & Black; it was an argument, but emotion played an important role in its conception.

Sometimes, I am not writing to convince anyone of anything or to organize my own thoughts. Sometimes, I just write, because it’s fun. I have always enjoyed stories, whether I’m reading a book, watching a movie, or writing my own story. When I write creatively, my work does not have a distinct purpose besides a means of enjoyment. Ever since first grade, when we wrote for a few minutes a day after lunch, I have really liked writing, not just creative writing either. Just about any piece of writing can be a story. Back in that first grade class with Mrs. Rector, while I was writing every day, I would be in a sort of trance within my own head, and it seemed as if my pencil was moving by itself. On one occasion, I did not even notice that writing time had finished; all of my classmates were sitting in a circle on the rug waiting for my teacher to read a story. I was still lost in my thoughts until my teacher broke me out of my trance by sternly calling my name. When I’m writing about something that interests me now, that still happens. When asked why they write, most famous writers would probably give a longer, deeper answer, but it’s true: a large part of why I write is because it’s fun.

Most of the time I only write, because I have to. No one – except for a really dedicated art history student – would actually choose to write about ancient Byzantine architecture from the 5^th century, for instance, one of the most painful assignments I’ve ever been assigned. But outside of schoolwork, when I have time to write for myself, I write to explore my thoughts and feelings or other times, like in my opinion articles, I advance an argument that I feel strongly about. The most important, meaningful writing can’t be forced by a teacher. It is written out of necessity on the part of the writer.

Image: www.flickr.com, Creative Commons License

Works Cited

Didion, Joan. “On Keeping a Notebook.” PEN Center USA. N.p., n.d. Web. 24 Nov.

2015.

Didion, Joan. “Why I Write.” Genius. N.p., n.d. Web. 24 Nov. 2015.

Orwell, George. “Why I Write.” George Orwell. N.p., n.d. Web. 02 Dec. 2015.