American contributions to the Sixth International Congress of Slavists, Prague, 1968, August 7–13, Vol. 2: Literary contributions 9783111393919, 9783111031392

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AMERICAN CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE SIXTH INTERNATIONAL CONGRESS OF SLAVISTS

VOLUME II

S LAVI STIC PRINTINGS AND REPRINTINGS

81

1968

MOUTON THE H A G U E • PARIS

AMERICAN CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE SIXTH INTERNATIONAL CONGRESS OF SLAVISTS Prague, 1968, August 7-13 V O L U M E II: LITERARY C O N T R I B U T I O N S

edited by WILLIAM E. H A R K I N S Columbia

University

1968

MOUTON THE HAGUE • PARIS

© Copyright 1968 in The Netherlands. Mouton & Co. N.V., Publishers, The Hague. No part of this book may be translated or reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm, or any other means, without written permission from the publishers.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 68-57400

Printed in The Netherlands by Mouton & Co., Printers, The Hague.

CONTENTS

Robert Belknap The Origins of Alesa Karamazov

7

Deming Brown The ocerk: Suggestions Toward a Redefinition

29

Edward J. Brown Majakovskij's Poem Celovek: The Problem of Interpretation

.

William B. Edgerton The Artist Turned Prophet: Leo Tolstoj After 1880 T.

43

61

SKMOH

PH(})Ma B

3aMeTOK . .

87

Zbigniew Folejewski Uwagi o roli dialektyzmow w literaturze pi^knej (Na podstawie materialow z literatury polskiej i rosyjskiej)

115

n 0 3 3 H H CJI3.BHHCKHX HapOflOB HeCKOJIbKO

BliJlbHM XapKmc K C p a B H e H H K ) T e M a T H K H H K 0 M n 0 3 H U H 0 H H 0 H C T p y K T y p b l pyCCKOH h neiiiCKOH H a p o A H o f l 6 a j u i a A H

133

Kenneth E. Harper Dickens and Gogol's "Sinel"

165

Norman W. Ingham The Limits of Secular Biography in Medieval Slavic Literature, Particularly Old Russian

181

6

CONTENTS

Ante Kadic Surrealists Versus Modernists in Serbian Literature

201

C. Nicholas Lee Philosophy and Artistic Devices in the Historical Fiction of L. N. Tolstoj and M. A. Aldanov

239

Rufus W. Mathewson, Jr. Intimations of Mortality in four Cexov Stories

261

Hugh McLean Cexov's "V Ovrage": Six Antipodes

285

John Mersereau, Jr. Orest Somov and the Illusion of Reality

307

Krystyna Pomorska Skamandryci a poezja rosyjska poczqtku XX wieku

333

Walter N. Vickery On the Question of the Syntactic Structure of Gavriiliada and Boris Godunov

355

Thomas Winner Some Remarks About the Style of Bunin's Early Prose . . . .

369

THE ORIGINS OF ALËSA KARAMAZOV

ROBERT BELKNAP

I Conforming to one of the standard formulas of his time, Dostoevskij often claimed not to invent, but to record what he presented in his fiction. Gonfiarov, although he had made much the same claim, once blamed Dostoevskij for using the word "photographic" to describe his work. 1 Most of the time, however, Dostoevskij emphasized that he was reproducing not merely the world that anybody might see better at first hand, but the world as it actually was, a truth not accessible without his special insights. Ascribing this superior vision to the care with which he anchored every detail in reality, Dostoevskij used two kinds of evidence to prove its superiority. The first evidence was the enthusiasm with which a large body of readers accepted his works as "true". A dozen decades of enthusiastic readers seem to leave one argument against this evidence: that those who used the word "true" about his works may have been responding not to any correspondence with any world, visible or not, but to a certain integrity of impact whose expression demands a word as heavily loaded with emotion as "true". Dostoevskij's second proof of his "truth" is easier to test. He claimed to present truths which became evident to others only later, that is, to prophesy. When his opponents attacked Crime and Punishment and The Possessed as vicious and libelous impossibilities,2 Dostoevskij showed a certain morbid glee in pointing to crimes that closely matched those described but occurred between the writing and the publication of the H. K. nmccaHOB (pe«.), Hi apxuea ffocmoeecKozo (MocKBa-JIeHHHrpafl, 1923), 20. CoepeMeHHUK, $eBpajo>, 1866, "CoBpeMeHHoe o6o3peHHe", 276; H. M., "JlnTepaxypHbie h acypHaJn>Hbie 3aMeTKH", OmeuecmeeuHbie 3anucKu, CCVI (1873), oTflen II, 323-324. 1 2

8

ROBERT BELKNAP

novels.3 He carried this faith in his insight or prophetic power over into everyday life. His wife mentions a servant whose son had not been heard from for two years and who wished to have a funeral mass sung for him in the superstitious hope of supernaturally summoning him. Dostoevskij urged her to avoid this sacrilege because her son would appear in two weeks anyway. He did.4 On another occasion, Dostoevskij warned his wife that he had dreamed of his own son's suffering a dangerous fall, and not long afterward, the son collapsed and died of epilepsy. There is something Darwinian in such accounts of fulfilled prophecies. Unfulfilled ones tend to be forgotten. We do have, moreover, the statistical outcome of Dostoevskij's longest series of predictions. As a gambler, Dostoevskij confined himself to a game that depends entirely upon prediction, unlike "21", for example, at which even omniscience would not assure success if one always received bad cards. At roulette, Dostoevskij's faith in his predictive capacity conflicted notoriously with his performance. These two kinds of evidence which Dostoevskij used to substantiate his claim to superior vision are therefore subject to doubts sufficient to warrant a closer inspection of the basis for his claim, the way he anchored his details in reality. Only one part of the reality Dostoevskij experienced can normally be recovered with enough exactitude to justify close comparison with his fictional use of it. This part is Dostoevskij's reading, the letters, journalism, and fiction which constituted such an important part of his experience. This paper will examine certain ways in which a single figure, Alesa Karamazov, is related to Dostoevskij's reading. Although the Brothers Karamazov notebooks are less complete than those for The Raw Youth, for example, a richer body of source studies, as well as fifty years of work on creative history, lie ready to be integrated into a description, systematization and explanation of the differences between this novel and the literary, sub-literary, and non-literary experiences out of which it emerged. II The first paragraph of Chapter IV, Book One, of The Brothers Karamazov shows how Alesa's Mother and Father Zosima instilled the grace of God in him, and how Alesa's loving faith in his fellow men, coupled with a 3 A. O. KOHH, BocnoMUHattwt o nucamejinx (JleroiHrpaa, 1965), 230; M. /JocToeBCKHft, JTucbMa, IV (MocKBa, 1959), 53. 4 JI. n . TpoccMaH, CeMunapuu no JJocmoeecKOMy (MocKBa-IleTporpafl, 1922), 67.

9

THE ORIGINS OF AL˧A KARAMAZOV

capacity not to judge or fear or wonder, though not naively ignorant of faults, awakened in old Fedor the first profound and sincere love he had ever known. The paragraph is organized chiastically, with Alesa's childhood recollection of his mother sandwiched between two discussions of his eccentricity, and these in turn between two discussions of his lovingkindness and religious involvement. Each half of this paragraph begins analytically, discussing the relation between Alesa's loving-kindness and his eccentricity, and ends narratively, presenting his actual experience with his parent:

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A o p o r a j m i i i b n o T O M y , h t o Ha Heìi o h B c r p e n u i T o r n a He06biKH0BeHH0e, n o e r o

MHeHHio, c y m e c T B O — H a r n e r o 3 H a M e H H T o r o MOHacTbipcKoro crapna 3ocHMy, k KOTopoMy npHB«3ajica B c e i o ropaneio nepBOK> j h o ó o b m o CBoero HeyronHM o r o c e p f l u a . BnpoieM, a He cnopio, h t o 6biJi o h h T o r f l a yace oieHb c T p a H e H , H a n a B aaace c K0Jiw6ejiH. K c T a r a , a yace y n o M i r a a n npo H e r o , i t o , ocTaBnmcb nocjie M a T e p n Beerò Jimiib n o n e T B e p T O M y r o n y , o h 3anoMHHJi ee n o T O M H a bck> 3KH3Hb, ee ramo, ee nacKH, " t o h h o KaK 6yflT0 OHa c t o h t npe.no m h o ü acHBaa". Taicne BocnoMHHaHHfl M o r y T 3anoMHHaTbca ( h 3 t o B c e M roBecrao) flaace h H3 6 o n e e p a H H e r o B 0 3 p a c T a , aaace c « B y x j i e T H e r o , h o Jinmb BHCTynaa BCK> aCH3Hb KaK 6bl CBeTJIblMH TOHKaMH H3 MpaKa, KaK 6bl BbipBaHHblM yTOJlKOM H3 o r p o M H o f t KapTHHbi, KOTopaa Ben noracjia h H c n e s j i a , KpoMe 3 T o r o t o j i m c o y r o n o H K a . Tan t o h h o 6 b i n o h c h h m : o h 3anoMHHJi o a h h B e i e p , j i c t h h h , t h x h í í , O T B o p e H H o e o k h o , K o c b i e jiyTffl 3 a x o f l f l i n e r o c o m m a (KOCbie-TO j i y n i h MHHHHCb

3ano-

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o6eHMH pyKaMH k o 6 p a 3 y KaK 6bi

n o f l n o K p o B 6 o r o p o / m n e . . . h B ^ p y r B 6 e r a e T HHHbKa h BbipbroaeT e r o y Hee b H c n y r e . B o t K a p r a H a ! A n e m a 3anoMHHJi b t o t m h t h

o h roBopHJi, h t o CKOJibKO Mor o h BocnoMHHaHHe. B pa3roBopHHB, h o

ramo

CBoett M a T e p n :

o h o 6biJio HCCTynneHHoe, h o npeKpacHoe, cyaa no TOMy, npnnoMHHTb. H o o h perico KOMy j h o 6 h j i noBepaTb s t o aeTCTBe h i o h o c t h o h 6bin Majio 3KcnaHcnBeH h flaace Mano He o t HeflOBepna, He o t po6ocra h j i h yrpioMOH HejiioflH-

10

ROBERT BELKNAP

mocth, BOBce aaace HanpOTHB, a o t Hero-To /jpyroro, o t Kaxofi-To KaK 6m BHyTpeimefi 3a6oTH, co6ctbchho jihhhoh, flo flpyrax He KacaBiuefica, h o ctojib fljia Hero BaJKHoft, h t o o h H3-3a Hee KaK 6w 3a6tiB£ui flpyrax. H o moflefi o h jho6hji : oh, Kaaanocb, bcio acH3Hb acmi, C0BepmeHH0 Bepa b jnoflefi, a Meatfly T€M HHKTO H HHKOrfla He CHHTajI erO HH npOCTJWKOM, HH HaHBHilM HeJIOBeKOM. H t o - t o 6mjio b HeM, h t o roBopnno h BHymano (fla h bcio 3KH3Hb hotom), h t o o h He xoieT 6wTb cyfltefi mofleii, h t o oh He 3axoneT B3HTb Ha ce6a ocyacfleHHfl h hh 3a h t o He ocyflHT. Ka3ajiocb flaxee, h t o oh Bee flonycKajr, HHMaJio He ocyamaa, x o t s nacro onem. ropwco rpycTH. Mano Toro, b stom CMbrcne oh s o Toro flomeji, h t o ero hhkto He Mor hh yflHBHTb, hh ncnyraTb, h 3 t o flaace b caMoft paHHeii CBoeii mojioaocth. flBxcb no flBafluaTOMy rofly k OTuy, nojioacHTenbHO b BepTen rpasHoro pa3BpaTa, oh, iiejioMyflpeHHbift h HHCTbiii, jranib Monna ynansjic», Korfla mafleTb 6buio HecTepimMO, ho 6e3 Majiettraero BHfla rrpespeiuiji hjih ocyamemra KOMy 6w t o hh 6hjio. OTeu ace, 6biBiiiHfi Korfla-To npnacHBajibntHK, a noTOMy HenoBeK nyTKHft h tohkhh Ha o6nfly, CHanana HeflOBepiHBO h yrproMO ero BCTpeTHBnmfi ("MHoro, flecKaTb, mojihht h MHoro npo ce6a paccyawaeT"), CKopo kohhhji, oflHaKoace, TeM, h t o CTaji ero yacacHO nacTO o6HHMaTb h neJiOBaTb, He flajiee KaK nepe3 flBe KaioieHH6yflb HeaeJiH, npaBiia c iibHHbiMH cne3aMH, b xMejn.HOii nyBCTBHTeiibHOCTH, ho BHflHO, h t o nojno6HB ero HCKpeHHO h rjiy6oKO h TaK, KaK HHKorfla, KOHeHHO, He yflaBanocb TaKOMy, KaK oh, hhkoto jiio6HTb ... 5

This paragraph can be traced to so many sources that the first few sentences will bear separate examination. In English, they read as follows: He was just twenty years old at the time (his brother Ivan was twenty-four, and their older brother Dmitri, twenty-eight). First of all, I shall state that this youth, Alesa, was not a fanatic at all, and in my opinion, at least, not even a mystic at all. I'll say my full opinion in advance: he was simply precocious in his love of people, and if he had set out on the monastic way, that was just because right then it was the only one that struck him, offering his heart what one might call the ideal of escape as it struggled out of the murk of worldly nastiness toward the light of love. And this way had caught his imagination just because at that moment upon it he encountered what he considered a rare being, our monastery's well-known elder, Zosima, to whom he bound himself with all the burning first love of his unjaded heart. Still, I do not dispute that he already was very strange at that time, and had been from his cradle on.

Ill One of the best-known sources for Alesa is Michael, the hero of the story "Mixail" by Dostoevskij's close friend Anna Korvin-Krukovskaja. 6

3>. M. flocroeBCKHft, IIojtHoe coSpanue coHuuemu, IX (MocKBa-JIeinmrpafl, 1926-30), 21. Further references to this edition will be in text, thus: (IX,21).

THE ORIGINS OF ALËSA KARAMAZOV

11

Dostoevskij read this story in 1864 and liked it well enough to print it on the first fifty-eight pages of his journal Epoxa for September of that year. The author's sister called attention to the parallel between Michael and Alesa; "You know, it's really true!" said Fedor MixajloviC, striking his hand against his forehead, "but, believe me, I had forgotten about Michael when I thought up my Alesa. Still, couldn't I have had him in my mind unconsciously", he added after thinking a little.6 The story of Michael is simple. At the age of seven or eight, Michael is taken by his nurse from the country to Moscow to see his dying father, whose kind and frivolous brother and nephews comfort the boy. The nurse takes him to a moving church service in the Cathedral of the Assumption. Eleven years elapse, during which Michael abandons society, where he has been ill at ease, for the Trinity Monastery, to which another uncle of his has retired into sumptuous austerity after years of social success followed by political exile. Two years later, Michael guides a princess and her daughter about the monastery, discovers that they are family acquaintances, and becomes enchanted with the daughter. Two weeks later, he leaves the monastery, is kindly received by his uncle and cousins in Moscow; but a morbid shyness and revulsion at the bewildering pointlessness and corruptness of Moscow drive him back to the monastery. There months later, he dies apathetically of tuberculosis. Little in the story is unique. The neglected child, the dying aristocrat, the visit to the church, the monastic exemplar, the gentlewoman travelling with her daughter, the country cousin's revulsion at city life, and the death from tuberculosis are standard subject matter for the nineteenthcentury novel anywhere in Europe. The parallels, however, are important and numerous. Alesa, like Michael, is specifically called a cudak,7 an odd character, and has a curiously self-contained quality and a reluctance to handle everyday practicalities. He is the motherless son of a rich and pleasure-loving father who abandons him in childhood to the care of a faithful servant. Early exposures to religious symbols and emotions, coupled with a rather maidenly delicacy, lead him towards a monastery, where he enters the tutelage of a remarkable and holy man (in the early notes for The Brothers Karamazov, an uncle, as in "Mixail")8 with a deep awareness of the ways of the world. In a later chapter when he reaches twenty, this novice is allowed by his mentor to leave the monastery and • '

C. B. KoBaneBCKan, BocnoMmauuH u nucbua (MocKBa, 1961), 96. 3noxa, IX (ceHT$i6pb, 1864), 26. 8 A. C. /IOJIHHHH (pefl.), 0. M. ffocmoeecKuu, MamepuaAbi u uccAedoeauun (MocKBaHemnirpafl, 1935), 82.

12

ROBERT BELKNAP

be drawn to a capricious girl who has visited the monastery with her mother, but the temptations of the world do not corrupt him. These parallels startled Dostoevskij, and it startles us also to see the subconscious operate in such a workmanlike way.

IV To avoid positing such a methodical operation for the unconscious memory, it seems natural to look for a common source or for an intermediate source, a work influenced by "Mixail" which in turn influenced The Brothers Karamazov. Postponing consideration of common sources, I shall cite a book by Dostoevskij's favorite author which also contains the arrival of a sickly, other-worldly cousin in a great city house, the warm, but puzzled reception of him, the kind, vague, frivolous mother and the aggressive, attractive daughter, the gauche irresolution or sexual terror which isolates him from the girl he loves, his bewilderment in the streets of the great city, and his flight back to seclusion and sickness. This intermediate source is Dostoevskij's own Idiot, which he wrote less than four years after publishing "Mixail". If Michael is a source for Myskin and Myskin is a source for Alesa, the unconscious influence of Michael on Alesa is comprehensible. His own more recent and more powerful vision of the man too excellent for this world had simply eclipsed its sources in Dostoevskij's mind. There can be no doubt that Myskin is a source for Alesa. The early notes for The Brothers Karamazov use the name "Idiot" for Alesa. Except for the monastic details, all the traits and experiences shared by Michael and Alesa also belong to Myskin. In addition to these, Alesa inherits Myskin's tendency to love and trust those around him, and to inspire answering love, and his related tendency not to notice insults. He also inherits Myskin's shamefacedness and chastity, which produce scenes with Lize Xoxlakova and Grusenka analogous to those with Aglaja Epancina and Nastasja Filipovna, whose roles in society and in the hero's life are also comparable in the two novels. Finally, Myskin's and Alesa's impracticality in financial matters and their disinterest in the problems of their own support inspire hospitality, helpfulness, and good humor in those around them. Even certain events in the novels are closely parallel. Both Myskin and Alesa befriend an outcast who is attacked and teased and pelted by the children of the town, and finally bring the chi'dren to love and help this pitiable creature, whose death

THE ORIGINS OF ALËSA KARAMAZOV

13

from tuberculosis draws all the children to the burial, where they shout, "Hurrah!" (VI, 69) The differences between these two sources and Alesa are rather more interesting than the similarities. Michael is not a mystic, but could be fairly called a fanatic; he is characterized as "one of those rare natures which proceed unwaveringly under the influence of an abstract idea, never giving way, to the end of their powers, and are broken irreparably", 9 and sometimes "there flashed through his mind a confused idea of distant wanderings in foreign lands and exploits in the name of Christ and allforgiving love".10 Myskin is not in any sense a fanatic, but does have basically mystical experiences before his epileptic fits or when it seems to him "that if I should walk straight on, walk a long time, and get up to that line, the very one where the sky meets the earth, then there would be the solution to it all, and you would see a new life straightaway a thousand times more powerful and tumultuous than ours. ..." (VI, 54) We have seen that Alesa is "not a fanatic at all, and in my opinion, at least, not even a mystic at all", and we know that this is no casual remark, because it occupies one of the most strategic positions in the chapter, and because Dostoevskij's early notes for the novel contain the phrase "by no means a fanatic: by no means a mystic". 11 Rhetorically, moreover, the statement is redundant, a litotes denying the opposite of the qualities ascribed to Alesa in the next sentence. Dostoevskij's ideological polemic offers the easiest explanation for such an emphatic denial of Myskin's and Michael's predicates. In a period when mysticism was suspect and fanaticism fashionable only in politics, Dostoevskij's opponents found it useful to label as mystics or fanatics all believers who could not be dismissed as hypocrites. Dostoevskij naturally used all available resources to emphasize his departure not only from his opponents, but from his own sources. This dialectical relation to his sources can be expressed in another way. Dostoevskij published "Mixail" for many reasons, including his fondness for the author, but it seems likely that she fascinated him in large part because of her writing, and because he shared her interest in certain problems. Among those that appear in "Mixail" were such technical problems as the creation of an unremarkable hero, about which Dostoevskij wrote a digression in The Idiot, and again at the start of The Brothers Karamazov, social questions, such as the uselessness of monasticism, moral questions, such '

10 11

Snoxa, IX (ceHTfl6pb, 1864), 13.

Ibid., 21. A. C.floJiHHHH(pefl.), op. cit., 84.

14

ROBERT BELKNAP

as the ineffectiveness of a really good man or the danger implicit in isolation from frivolity, and ethical questions, involving the tension between Christian love and sexual love. This collection of problems lies somewhere near the center of The Idiot, relating it to "Mixail" not as to a mere source of detail, nor yet dialectically, as The Brothers Karamazov seems to be, but rather in the manner of Zola's experimental novels. Drawing from "Mixail", from Dickens, Cervantes, Puskin, the Bible, a series of trials reported in the newspapers, and his own observations, Dostoevskij assembled the materials for a positively good man, set them to interact, and described the result in The Idiot. Having carried out this experiment, he turned to other problems, but continued to seek conditions where such a figure could be more positively effective. With children and the childlike, Myskin is effective in The Idiot, and Dostoevskij decided to write a novel about children. This idea dates back at least as far as the plan for the life of a great sinner, and the "teacher" plays a prominent part in the early notes for The Possessed and The Raw Youth.12 A decisive moment in the genesis of Alesa may be the note Dostoevskij wrote to himself, "find out whether an Idiot can run a school".13 This polemical relation between Alesa and Myskin makes Alesa an assertion that Myskin's failures and passive successes are accidental and not generic, and that his active successes could hold a central position. Myskin's brief account of converting school children to love the dying Maria is thus expanded into the major episode of Iljusa and the boys. Alesa and Myskin both foresense but cannot prevent the murder of a person close to them, but the failure drives Myskin out of the world and Alesa into it. In the same way, Myskin's loss of the fierce and beautiful kept woman to a strong and violently passionate rival splits into three separate episodes, one a success for Alesa, when his active love transforms Grusenka's apparently corrupting plan, while the other two, Grusenka's flight to her Polish lover and her rapprochement with Mitja completely exclude Alesa from the role of abandoned suitor or fianc6. V Dostoevskij's desire to show the practical power of love in action explains more obviously how the plot and the rhetoric of The Brothers Karamazov E. H . KoHmHHa (pefl.), 3anucubie mempadu 0. M.ffocmoeecKozo(MocKBaJleHHHrpafl, 1935), 47; JL M . Po3eH6jnoM (pefl.), 0. M. JJocmoeecKuU e paóome Had POMQHOM "IIodpocmoK", Jlumepamypuoe mc/ieòcmeo (Mocraa, 1965), 59. 1S A. C.floJTWHKH(pefl.), op. cit., 81. 18

THE ORIGINS OF AL˧A KARAMAZOV

15

developed than it explains how the imagery of the novel is related to its sources. The passage which follows the four sentences discussed so far is particularly rich in imagery, and it seems to be only incidentally related to Michael or Myskin: I have already mentioned that although [AleSa] had lost his mother when only four, he remembered her from then on, for his whole life, her face, her caresses, "just as if she stood before me alive". Such recollections (as we all know) can be remembered from an even earlier age, even from two years, but only emerging all one's life as bright spots from the murk, as if they were corners torn from a great picture which is extinguished and lost except for just that corner. Just so it was with him: he remembered one quiet summer evening, an open window, the slanting beams of the setting sun (these slanting beams were what he most remembered), in a room, in the corner, an image, a lamp lighted before it, and before the image his mother, on her knees, sobbing as if in hysterics, shrieking and wailing, clasping him in both arms, embracing him tightly, till it hurt, and praying to the Virgin for him, stretching him from her embrace with both hands towards the image as if for the Virgin's protection. Suddenly the nurse runs in and snatches him from her in terror. There's the picture! In that instant AleSa also remembered his mother's face: he said it was ecstatic but beautiful, judging by as much as he could remember. But he seldom liked to confide this memory to anyone. (IX, 21) Different parts of this passage have different sources. Various sources can be found even for the figure of the beautiful mother weeping in the slanting sunlight before an icon, and separated from her son. Dostoevskij's tendency to borrow from his own works, as noticed already with The Idiot, suggests that we look at Dostoevskij's recent journalistic work, since his journalism has been characterized as the chief workshop in which Dostoevskij's novels were initially wrought. 14 In The Diary of a Writer for April, 1876 (part iii of Chapter One) Dostoevskij introduced a weeping mother in a curiously revealing passage. As an example of the peasant benevolence and acuity in understanding human needs, he asks his readers, Don't you remember how in Aksakov's Family Chronicle the mother tearfully begged the peasants to take her across the wide Volga to Kazan', to her sick child, across the thin ice, in the spring, when it had been several days since any one had dared to step on the ice, which crashed and washed out just a few hours after her crossing. Do you remember the charming description of this crossing, the way afterwards, when they had crossed, the peasants did not want to take any money, understanding that they had done it all because of the mother's tears and for the sake of our Jesus Christ. (XI, 257) 14

B. JI. KoMapoBHH, "4>ejn>eTOHM

flocToeBCKoro"

B KHHTC K). I \

(PeAbemoHbi copoKoewx zodoe (MocKBa-JIeHHHrpafl, 1930), 117.

OKCMaHa,

16

ROBERT BELKNAP

The recent involvement in The Diary of a Writer, coupled with the parallel desperation, separation from the son, maternal tears suggest that this part of Dostoevskij's journal could not be unconnected with this description of Alesa. The relation to Aksakov, however, is complicated by the absence of any such passage in Aksakov's Family Chronicle. Dostoevskij probably owned a copy of this memoir in the 1856 edition, which contains Aksakov's Reminiscences in the same volume, 15 and the Reminiscences contains the following passage: The river Kama had not yet broken up, but had swelled and turned blue; the day before, they had carried the mail across on foot, but that night it had rained, and no one agreed to take my mother and her company across to the other side. My mother had to spend the night in Murzixa, dreading every moment's delay; she herself went from house to house through the village and begged the good people to help her, telling her woe and offering as recompense all that she had. Good and daring people were found, who understood a mother's heart, and promised her that if the rain stopped in the night and it froze just a bit in the morning, they would undertake to get her to the other side and accept what she offered for their labors. Till dawn my mother prayed, kneeling in the corner in front of the icon in the house where she was staying.... [When she had crossed the river] my mother gave a hundred rubles to those who had taken her, that is, half the money she had, but these honorable people did not want to take them; they took only ... [five rubles each]. In astonishment, they heard her glowing expressions of gratitude and benediction ... and promptly set out for home, because there was no time to delay: the river broke up the next day.16 The trivial error about the title is clearly not the only evidence that Dostoevskij was quoting from memory. He naturally shortened and simplified this passage, but he also changed it in a curiously systematic way. The wide Volga replaces its tributary the Kama. The last crossing shifts from the previous day to several days ago. Dostoevskij's river burst and washed out (vzlomavsijsja i prosedsij) just a few hours later, while Aksakov's broke u p (prosla) the next day. Dostoevskij's peasants did not want to take any money; Aksakov's took five rubles each. Each of these changes amplifies the risk or the nobility of the peasants, supporting Dostoevskij's argument. The other changes lack such a polemical explanation, while those maternal tears which are so decisive in the peasants' decision actually tend to weaken his argument, since the instinctive comprehension of a brave mother's heart impresses us rather more than a surrender to woman's weapons, water drops. "

16

JI. n . TpoccMaH, op. cit., 22.

C. T. AiccaKOB, Co6panue coiuHeuuu, II (MocKBa, 1955), 36-37.

THE ORIGINS OF AL˧A KARAMAZOV

17

Emerging into Dostoevskij's memory, for no polemical reason, and not from the passage he was citing, these maternal tears seem more closely related to The Brothers Karamazov than to Aksakov. For the tears of Alesa's mother are closely related to the tears of the believing woman who has also lost a son, the tears of a woman Ivan described, whose son has been hunted to death by dogs, the tears of the woman in Seville before Christ resurrects her child, the tears of Markel's and Iliusa's mothers at the deaths of their, sons. In The Diary of a Writer, then, are these proleptic tears? Did they come not from Aksakov, as Dostoevskij imagined, but from The Brothers Karamazov, or, to be more precise, from the collection of energies, ideas, images, and memories, that would generate The Brothers Karamazov three years later? If so, the obvious question remains, "Where did this weeping mother come from?" One answer is the book which Dostoevskij believed he was citing, Aksakov's Family Chronicle, where we have not a weeping mother, but an unfortunate wife, Praskovja Ivanovna Kurolesova, married, like Alesa's mother, below her station, although technically within the gentry, to a depraved, vicious, shrewd, suddenly successful master; on one occasion "it was already light, and the sun was even up ... Praskovja Ivanovna knelt and tearfully prayed to a new church cross, which burned with the rising sun by the very windows of the house. ,.." 17

VI Even closer to The Brothers Karamazov, and perhaps not uninfluenced by the Aksakov passage, is Arkadij's description of his earliest memories in I, vi, 3 of the Raw Youth : ... something of your face remained in my heart my whole life, and besides that, remained the knowledge that you were my mother. I see that whole village as if in a dream, now, and I have even forgotten my nurse. ... I still remember the huge trees near the house, willows, I guess, then sometimes the strong light of the sun through the open windows, the fenced flower garden, the path, and you, Mother, I remember only at one moment, when they held communion in the local church, and you took me up to receive the sacrament and kiss the cup; it was summer, and a dove flew through across the dome, from window to window. ... Your face, or something about it, the expression, stayed so in my memory that five years later, in Moscow, I knew you right away. ... (VIII, 94) 17

aid., 1,127.

18

ROBERT BELKNAP

Here, not only the mother and child, the season, the window, the sunlight, the expression on her face, remembered all his life, but also the fact that she was separated from her son thereafter — all find echoes in The Brothers Karamazov. But certain components of this scene could not possibly have come from Aksakov, since Dostoevskij was already using them before Aksakov wrote, in The Landlady, I, i, where The service had just ended; ... The rays of the setting sun streamed broadly down through the narrow window of the dome and lit one of the chapels with a sea of brilliance, but they kept weakening, and the blacker the gloom became, thickening under the vaults of the church, the more brightly shone the occasional gilded icons, bathed in the trembling glow of lamps and candles. In a fit of profoundly troubled pain, and somehow overwhelming feeling, Ordynov leaned against the wall in the darkest corner of the church and forgot himself for a moment. [Murin and Katerina entered. She] prostrated herself before the icon. The old man took the end of the cover hanging from the icon support, and covered her head. A stifled sobbing sounded through the church. ... Two minutes later she raised her head and again the bright light of the lamps bathed her charming face. ... Tears boiled in her dark blue eyes. (I, 298-299) Or in Netocka Nezvanova, whose second chapter begins: My memories began very late, from my ninth year only. I do not know how everything that happened to me before that age left no clear impression I can now recall. But from the middle of my ninth year I recall everything exactly, day by day, uninterruptedly, as if everything that happened after that had occurred only yesterday. True, I can remember something earlier as if through a dream: the lamp always lighted in the dark corner by the old-fashioned icon; then, a horse once hit me on the street, and I was sick in bed for three months, as people told me later; also that during this sickness I once woke up at night beside Mother, sleeping together, and the way I suddenly was terrified of my sickbed nightmares, the silence of the night, the mice scraping in the corner, and how I trembled in terror all night. ... (II, 22-23) Taken together, these two works of Dostoevskij's early period contain the essay on infantile memory, the summer evening, the quiet of the slanting rays of the setting sun, the lamplit icon in the corner, the beautiful woman kneeling before an icon, wailing hysterically. Sergej Durylin has traced the sequence of passages running through Dostoevskij's works where the slanting rays of sunlight appear, and V. G. KomaroviS has linked these with the writings of the Utopian socialists and others. 18

C. H.flyphiJiHH," 0 6 OflHOM CHMBOJie y /],0CT0eBCK0r0", Tpydbi ¿ocydapcmeeuHou aKadeMuu xydootcecmeeuHux uayK, 1928; B. I \ KoMapoBHH, Mupoean zapMonun JJocmoeecKoao (ATeirefi, 1924), 1-21. 18

THE ORIGINS OF AL˧A KARAMAZOV

19

VII The particular elements which are relevant to the scene in The Brothers Karamazov can perhaps also be traced to an author whom Dostoevskij claimed to have read completely, in Russian or in German, as a very young man, and whom he certainly admired deeply. E. T. A. Hoffmann's Devil's Elixirs, the story of a great sinner, parallels The Brothers Karamazov in its involvement with miracles, monasticism and the operation of grace in the world, and begins with the early recollection of Brother Medardus. 19 The first few pages of these recollections contain the following passages : The first conscious impressions that dawn in my mind are of the monastery and the wonderful chapel of the Holy Linden. ... The stillness is broken only by the devout chanting of the priests who, together with the pilgrims, file past in long lines, swinging golden censers from which ascends the odour of sacrificial incense. ... The shining figures of saints and angels still smile down upon me. ... Yet my memory cannot possibly reach back so far, for my mother left that holy city after a year and a half. ... My clear recollection of personal experience begins with the occasion when, on the journey home, my mother came to a Cistercian convent where the Abbess — by birth a princess — who had known my father, received her kindly. ... Holding my mother's hand, I mounted the wide stone steps and entered the high, arched chamber adorned with paintings of the saints, where we found the Abbess. ... The bell sounded for vespers. The Abbess rose, and said to my mother: "Good lady, I regard your son as my protégé, and from now on I will provide for him". My mother was unable to speak for emotion. Sobbing violently, she kissed the Abbess's hands. Just as we were about to go out of the door, the Abbess came after us, lifted me up again and, carefully moving the Crucifix to one side, embraced me. As her burning tears fell on my brow, she cried : "Franciscus — Be kind and good." St. Bernard's day falls in August, and I cannot recall the weather ever proving unfavorable in that most favored of seasons; ... I remember beautifully the feelings summoned up in me by the singing of the "Gloria". ... It seemed as if the sky itself had opened at that moment above the altar, and the representations of the seraphim and cherubim on the walls were spreading their wings as if called to life by a divine miracle, and flapping them, flew through the shrine praising the Lord with song and wondrous lute-playing. Plunging into meditative contemplation of the service, my soul was carried off on the clouds of incense to a distant home.20 18 20

Charles Passage, Dostoevsky the Adapter (Chapel Hill, 1953), 178. E. T. A. Hoffmann, The Devil's Elixirs, tr. Ronald Taylor (London, 1963), 4-10.

20

ROBERT BELKNAP

Hoffmann's presentation in the temple contains many elements which Dostoevskij used over and over, the little discussions of early recollections, from the second year of one's life, the peace of a monastery, silence, chanting, incense rising, holy images that glow, mother and child entering a holy place, church bells, hospitality and protection offered at the first encounter, maternal tears, a cross and a blessing, and the angels flying about the temple, if indeed these last are a source for that image in the Raw Youth which is at once closer to earth and closer to the absolute, the Dove. VIII If the first description of Alesa incorporates works by Anna Kovalevskaja as transformed in The Idiot, by Aksakov, as transformed in the Diary of a Writer, and by Hoffmann, transformed many times, the overdetermination demands a search for some redundancy or other organizing principle among the sources, as well as a search for some pattern of exclusion, abstraction, or condensation which makes the process work without overburdening Dostoevskij's text. To begin with, let us examine certain of Dostoevskij's omissions, since we have already considered the omission of Myskin's mysticism and Michael's fanaticism. The most obvious omission from all the sources named so far is their sickness. Even the chief non-literary source for Alesa, Dostoevskij's own son Alesa, died of a seizure, apparently epileptic, while still a child. Medardus and Myskin were similarly afflicted, although Medardus recovered, and Myskin did not disintegrate mentally and physically until his constitutional weakness was aggravated by his failure to prevent a crucial murder. Aksakov was a nervous and sickly child, and dangerously ill at the time his mother crossed the Kama, while Michael, long before his youthful death from tuberculosis has "a pale, feeble face, large, dark blue eyes. ... He seemed a fragile, feeble boy, in whom a natural meditativeness and a habit-reinforced tendency toward daydreaming and fixation had undermined a constitution feeble to start with, and had stamped his early childhood with sickliness and weakness."21 Faithfulness to his sources would demand that Dostoevskij somehow connect all this disease and death with Alesa; but, polemically, Alesa is Dostoevskij's final attempt to divorce an essentially religious excellence from the weakness, asceticism, submissiveness, and general unfitness for this world "

3noxa, I X

(ceHT«6pb, 1864), 7.

THE ORIGINS OF AL˧A KARAMAZOV

21

with which it was associated in the minds not only of his ideological enemies, but also of his romantic predecessors, who loved to attribute inspiration to a wound or a disease such as tuberculosis. And indeed, the first physical description of Alesa Karamazov begins with a redundant litotes startlingly like the one at the start of his spiritual description discussed earlier in this paper: "It may be that some reader will think my young man was of a sickly, ecstatic, poorly developed nature, a pale daydreamer, a wasted, worn out person. On the contrary ..." (IX, 27). Here are the terms which could not be ascribed to Alesa, retaining what a mathematician would call their "absolute value", but entering the description with their sign changed. To the polemical explanation of that other redundant litotes, which denied Alesa's mysticism and fanaticism, we can now add this genetic one, that such a figure of speech permits the survival in negative form of terms in the sources which would otherwise be excluded by Dostoevskij's ideological goals. The polemical and the genetic explanation, taken together, mean that Dostoevskij's reluctance to ignore his sources or his goals sometimes led him into a polemic with his own sources. This single litotes hardly seems commensurate with the long list of sicknesses and deaths just cited. But Alesa Karamazov does not exist alone. He is primarily a member of two groups, of the Karamazov family, and of those touched with the grace of God, and these two groups seem to act as Alesa's attic, the repositories for those attributes which he inherits but cannot use. Thus, within the family, Smerdjakov receives the epilepsy, and the failure to prevent a crucial murder precipitates Ivan's mental and physical disintegration. Among those touched with grace, Alesa's mother is weak and ecstatic, and dies young. Iljusa is sickly and hysterical and dies of tuberculosis as a child, while Zosima's brother Markel and the believing peasant's son Alesa die in childhood of unspecified causes, and Zosima himself is weak and dying at the time of the novel. This redistribution of attributes into related characters, taken together with the transformation into figures of speech, allows Dostoevskij to borrow extensively without producing characters identical with their sources. It also offers a genetic explanation for certain of the "doubles" who have received so much attention in Dostoevskij criticism. The double contains the leftovers, or, in Zola's terms, the alternative ingredients that might have gone into the makeup of a given character if Dostoevskij's artistic and ideological goals had been different. Alesa thus receives Myskin's and Medardus's capacity to inspire instant

22

ROBERT BELKNAP

hospitality, but Markel receives Myskin's love of birds. The scenes in Aksakov and Netocka Nezvanova may be sources for the household icons in the passage at hand, but the church scenes in Hoffmann, "Mixail", and The Raw Youth are not wasted, for Zosima's mother led him alone "into the Lord's temple, in Holy Week, to the Monday mass. The day was clear, and recollecting, now, I see anew exactly how the incense mounted from the censer, and silently rose, and from above in the dome through a narrow slit, there poured upon us in the church the divine rays, and, rising to them in waves, the incense seemed to melt among them" (IX, 287). On the basis of this rather neat relationship between the description of Alesa and its sources, a pattern of conservation seems to emerge which might be phrased as follows: "In Dostoevskij's creative laboratory, literary matter is neither created nor destroyed." This law, of course, is nothing but a restatement of the claim ascribed to Dostoevskij in the first sentence of this paper, but it breaks down into two laws which make explicit the assumptions underlying most studies of realism. The first law has been a materialist's commonplace for millennia. Lucretius,22 Lear,23 and Livingston Lowes,24 for example, accepted it as a long-established truth that nothing comes out of nothing. This law makes explicit the assumption underlying my recurrent question, "Where did this come from?", as well as the limitations which the length and the aesthetic identity of a nineteenth-century novel impose on such an enquiry, making any effort to write The Road to Skotoprigonevsk as hopeless as the title. The second law is the converse of the first: "Nothing returns to nothing", which again was old for Democritus25 and fresh for Freud. For the verification of this law a nineteenth-century novel gives a more natural scope than a lyric. If Kublai Khan contains all of Bartram, the mechanisms of condensation are largely inaccessible. In one way or another, however, the description of Alesa does contain enough of the items in his sources to warrant further testing of this law, asking "What became of this item?" in any character or any passage which seems to be a source.

22 23 24 a6

King Lear, I, i, 90. De rerum natura, I, 150. John Livingston Lowes, The Road to Xanadu (New York, 1959), 44. Diogenes Laertius, Lives and Opinions of the Philosophers, IX, 44.

THE ORIGINS OF AL˧A KARAMAZOV

23

IX The first of these two conservation laws suggests a look at certain items in the passage being studied which have not yet been accounted for. The most striking of these is perhaps not a part of Alesa's memory at all, but the simile which the narrator applies to it, "as if it was a corner torn from a vast picture which is altogether vanished and extinct except for just that corner". There are magnificent pictures in the Hoffmann passages, but not the image of a surviving fragment. Dostoevskij once wrote, "In getting ready to write, I reread my previous observations in my notebooks, and besides that, reread all the correspondence I had with me." 26 If he reread his correspondence in this way while the plan for The Brothers Karamazov was crystallizing in his mind, in the spring and early summer of 1878, he came upon a letter which must have struck him when he first received it. The schoolteacher Vladimir Mixajlov, whom Dostoevskij had recently claimed to treasure and reread as a correspondent, had written this letter in response to Dostoevskij's request for materials about children for the new novel.27 Mixajlov ends his long and dreary catalogue of personal, political, and pedagogical disasters with an apology for being too distraught to supply the accounts of children Dostoevskij wanted. One child, however, does appear in the letter, and in a way that echoed one of Dostoevskij's own haunting fears :28 It is a good thing that there are just two of us. We had a little son, but 13 years ago he died. And before me hangs a portrait of that lad, his whole four-year old figure. Kramskoj did it. Like a living being, he stands before me and gazes caressingly.29 Yes, had you lived to the present, would you still have looked at me that way, my precious? God bless you. I see you not crippled by the latest quasi-pedagogical formula; from you, at 17,1 hear no speeches striking for their bitterness; I see no conceit at your own ignorance, no sarcastic smile at a mushy-hearted old man. God bless you, my dear, glowing boy.30 You do not see how badly your old folks are doing. Oh, we're tired, sinners that we are, how tired we are. But one must live. None of that. And live we will, we will! Thank you, my dear Fedor Mixajlovic, for writing your warm note at just 29 27

O. M. flocToeBCKHfi, IIucbMa, III (MocKBa, 1934), 225. Ibid., IV, 7: "B Bac lyBCTByenn. ceoeao leJioBexa. ... Bee Bame rracbMo npoien

pa3a TpH h (BHHOBaT) npoieji h eme K0li-K0My, H eme K0ii-K0My npoiTy." 28

Ibid., II, 181: "I saw Fedja and Lilja in a dream today and am worried that something may have happened to them. Oh, Anja, I think of them day and night." 29 "KaK JKHBOFT CTOHT OH nepeao MHO2 H jiacKOBO CMOTPHT." 30 'Tocnoflb c TO6OK>, MOBfloporofi,CBenibia MajibHHimca!"

24

ROBERT BELKNAP

such a moment. The response of a glowing heart worked healingly on my mood. I pulled myself together, and went to get myself photographed. Come, I thought, I'll send it to him. And I came out pretty grim, but still it came out so good that I've never had one like it taken before, or probably ever will. You have the only copy of its kind, since just after this print, the negative broke, and the second attempt is no good at all.31 If Dostoevskij reread this letter two or three months after receiving it, its impact would have become hideously intimate, for his own son Aleksei died unexpectedly on May 16, 1878. Both the Mixajlov letter and The Brothers Karamazov as a whole look back to a period thirteen years earlier, and the two boys are separated by death at the age of four from a loving and unfortunate parent, but remain linked by a lifelong memory. Neither boys completes his education or acquires the nasty concerns and ways of schoolboys, and both retain a child's association with light, love, caresses, and benediction. Both passages involve pictures. The Mixajlov passage begins with a portrait so fine that its subject "stands like a living being before me and gazes caressingly"; it ends with the destruction of a uniquely excellent picture except for one surviving print. The Dostoevskij passage ends with the compresede metaphor of a picture, has the candle-lit image of the Madonna at its heart, and begins with an extended simile comparing the surviving corner of a vast picture otherwise destroyed to the kind of memory which let Alesa see his mother "as if she were standing before me alive". The differences between these pictures follow a pattern. In the Mixajlov letter, the parent and the child are both excellent persons, and the pictures are both excellently done. The first Dostoevskij picture is excellently done, but it has no subject matter at all; the second Dostoevskij picture shows an excellent parent and child, but has no quality of execution at all; and the third Dostoevskij picture is simply a name for the passage that precedes the word. In short, Mixajlov presents wholes here, pictures with physical substance, a maker whose mastery is described, a subject, and a usefulness (material, effective, formal, and final causes) while the first and last Dostoevskij pictures have none of the four Aristotelian causes, and the second has form and material existence, but no execution, and no use that is made explicit at this point. If Dostoevskij transformed Mixajlov's two real pictures into figures of speech, and did the same thing with his benediction, drawing the simile "as if under the Virgin's protection" from the actual benediction "God 81

BnaflHMHp MHxaftnoB, iihci>mo k 4>. M. /locroeBCKOMy, 2 anp., 1878 r., crp. 13. Pyicoiracb xpaHaeTCH b BHSjiHOTexe hmghh JleHHHa, 4>oha 93, II, 6/102.

THE ORIGINS OF AL˧A KARAMAZOV

25

bless you, my dear glowing boy"; he also reversed the process and incarnated certain figures of speech into real things. This glow about the boy, for example, is a figurative epithet for Mixajlov's son, while in the Dostoevskij passage, the light is emitted by a real sun and real lamps. In the same way the word "caressingly" is a suppressed metaphor in Mixajlov, where it modifies the word "gazes", while in Dostoevskij, it is the real caress of a real mother. These movements into and out of the figurative have a symmetry comparable to that of the more obvious displacements, dead child and living parent replaced by dead parent and living child, or father separated from child grieves before separate pictures of child and father, while a mother holding a child weeps before the picture of a mother holding a child. In the natural sciences, such symmetry would suggest the operation of still another conservation law, a conservation of figurativeness which might be stated as follows: "When items juxtaposed in the source are juxtaposed in the novel, the number of rhetorically subordinated items remains constant." If one item from the source is pushed back into a figure of speech, another figure of speech is incarnated into a presence in the novel. X These three conservation laws have led us to relate most of the paragraphs at hand to written sources which have survived. Indeed, we seem to have rather more sources than are necessary. The comment which follows was written by Anna Grigor'evna Dostoevskij on her copy of The Brothers Karamazov, at the page this paper has been discussing: "Dostoevskij preserved such a recollection from the age of two, about how his mother took him to communion in their village church, and a pigeon flew through the church from one window to another." 32 The sources already discussed in this paper can be reconciled with this note by invoking deceit, coincidence or error. Dostoevskij loved to catch the imagination of attractive girls, recounting the fascinating terrors of epilepsy, Siberia, or impending execution, and Anna Grigor'evna was very young. To impress her, he may have simply appropriated a detail from the Raw Youth that had no biographical sources at all. On the other hand, Dostoevskij's mother did die when he was young, apparently for non-literary reasons, and it is rather likely that she took ** JI. n. TpoccMaH, op. cit., 66.

26

ROBERT BELKNAP

him to a church where he saw a pigeon. Such an experience would have made him more receptive to the literary passages already cited in this paper. The possibility of error seems even more plausible than that of falsehood or coincidence. The half century since he was two, and the four decades since he had first read Hoffmann were quite enough to blur the boundary between fact and fiction, especially since, in either case, he had incorporated the recollection in his own fiction. In far less time, Dostoevskij claimed to have forgotten two-thirds of his own novels.33 If some early personal experience did occur, the distinction between error and coincidence is a quantitative one, depending on the amount of overlap between Dostoevskij's experience and his reading. If this overlap is substantial, the character of the initial experience becomes immaterial, for the neatness of the symbolism, the melodramatic quality of the scene, and its usefulness in catching his wife's attention are simply due to that same force which shaped Dostoevskij's memories and his fiction when he recalled Aksakov's mother. This elaborate over-determination jeopardizes the theory that literary matter is not destroyed. Even if Dostoevskij could relegate a substantial part of what he inherited to figures of speech or closely related characters, the multiplicity of sources will over-saturate a given passage unless they are related to one another so closely that this relationship itself demands an explanation. And as a matter of fact, all the passages cited are closely related, including the biographical episode, if it is accurate. Directly or indirectly, all these passages derive from a common source, the Bible. Mixajlov, Michael, Myskin, Medardus, Aksakov, and Aleksei Dostoevskij all are involved in Christian concerns and Christian imagery. Such scenes as Christ's presentation in the temple have pagan and Hebrew antecedents, dating to remotest antiquity of course, but for Dostoevskij and his sources, these were largely filtered through the New Testament. The Christ figure not only generates the common features of Alesa's sources, it also underlies Alesa directly. Christ, for example, is the only source for Alesa who is physically healthy. Alesa's loving-kindness, his sanctification by his mother, his inner involvement, his reluctance to judge, his freedom from fear and wonder, his chastity and his capacity to inspire answering love, can all be traced directly to the gospel as well as to the various intermediate sources which were consciously and often nostalgically using the biblical imagery of sunlight, the maternal tears, 83

. M . /JocroeBCKHfi, IIucbMa, IV (MocKBa, 1959), 14.

THE ORIGINS OF AL˧A KARAMAZOV

27

the embrace, and benediction, the presentation in the temple, the paintings, candles, prayer, incense, and ecstasy. The richness of Dostoevskij's sources (and I know that this paper does not exhaust them) is therefore possible because of a common source which shaped Dostoevskij's intent, literary and polemical, the Bible. This source reached him through his reading of the text, his experience of the liturgy, his reading of books influenced by those books, etc. At this point it becomes clear that the patterns of change and conservation presented in this paper do not operate consciously or unconsciously on independently existing entities, but act as criteria for the selection of those materials whose accretion produced the first description of Alesa. In this paragraph, Dostoevskij gathered a body of memories, sometimes distorted toward the melodramatic, but always able to be condensed, combined, and incorporated into the novel without inventing new materials, abandoning parts of passages he used, or altering the level of figurative expression. In this particular paragraph, Dostoevskij's goals were closely related to the Bible, and so were his sources. It would be interesting to test this formulation on other passages, related to other books, and perhaps, if some real life experience of Dostoevskij's could be reconstructed as accurately as can his reading, to learn whether in general Dostoevskij did record and not create, and whether as he claimed, he often reached beyond his immediate sources to the truth behind them, as he reached behind his own childhood, and Aksakov's, his own son's, and Mixajlov's, behind Medardus and Michael, and all the times he had reworked these in his memory and writing, to their generating point, which coincided with the point he wished to make here in his novel — the presentation in the temple, with all its implications for God and church, and man. COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

THE OCERK: SUGGESTIONS TOWARD A REDEFINITION

DEMING BROWN

The ocerk has been employed as a genre of Russian xudozestvennaja literatura for nearly two centuries. Among the earliest works that are generally designated in this category are Radisfiev's Putesestvie iz Peterburga v Moskvu and Karamzin's Pis'ma russkogo putesestvennika. Nearly every prominent Russian writer of prose fiction in the nineteenth century also wrote works that are usually classified as ocerki. In the twentieth century, and particularly in the Soviet period, the ocerk has played an increasingly major role in Russian letters. At present the ocerk is gaining added prominence because of the rapid development of documentary prose in Soviet Russian literature — the trend toward the displacement of fiction by non-fiction, or toward the infusion in fictional works of increasing elements of verifiable fact. (It is not a function of the present study to attempt to explain this trend; one merely notes that it exists, for complex historical reasons, not only in the Soviet Union but in other countries as well.)1 As the mass of documentary literature grows, and as its variety increases, it would appear that the term ocerk is being made to expand so as to embrace an everwidening range of works, of both past and present. It would seem, in fact, that the label ocerk has now been applied, without being seriously challenged, to nearly every kind of prose that is not the purest fiction. There seems to be a certain amount of pragmatic agreement — perhaps merely a "gentlemen's agreement" — as to just what an ocerk is. It is freely discussed as a genre, and works are liberally and off-handedly labeled as such. In the interest of precision, it is true, attempts have been made to break down the category into various sub-groups: according to topics (kolxoznyj ocerk, voennyj ocerk, etc.), social function (problemnyj 1

MikloS SabolSi, "Spory vokrug dokumental'noj literatury", Inostrannaja literatura, No. 4 (1965), 211-214.

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DEMING BROWN

ocerk), or proximity to other genres (ocerk-rasskaz, ocerk-dnevnik, ocerk-memuary, etc.) Most of these efforts, however, have been confined to the classification of subject matter and ideological content. As a formal entity, the ocerk remains largely undefined. As a consequence, literary scholars in recent years have become increasingly conscious of the need for the discussion of the intrinsic nature of this genre. A major difficulty in approaching such a definition is the fact that other literatures do not seem to have developed terminological problems that are the exact counterpart of this one. Western literatures seem to be relatively satisfied with such omnibus terms as "essay", "article" and "story". While students of Russian literature, in recent times, have discussed the theory of the ocerk at length, those in the West who comment on the documentary qualities in literature do not seem compelled to evolve a noun that designates any specific documentary genre including the properties that are attributed to the ocerk. The boundaries between literary genres must always be vague; none is exclusive or clearly limited, and all impinge upon or blend into others at times. It can even be argued that overly zealous attempts to be definitive can degenerate into exercises in hairsplitting and, furthermore, can lead to rigidly dogmatic literary appraisals: Daze matematikam v samyx tonkix razdelax svoej nauki prixoditsja izbegat' odnoznacnyx reSenij. Cto ze do formul literaturovedceskix zanrov, to oni neizmenno prevraScajutsja v dogmu, v prokrustovo loze dlja ljubogo novatorskogo proizvedenija. Kritiki, storonniki iScerpyvajuScix neistoriceskix formul, vzyvaja k "zakonam zanra", trebujut potom amputacii iivyx clenov xudoiestvennogo organizma, kotorye ne ukladyvajutsja v privycnuju dlja nix normal'. Inace govorja, pogonja za definicijami do dobra ne dovodit, a ee storonniki vystupajut obycno kak konservatory.2 Even if one agrees with these remarks, the value and importance of precise literary terminology is still self-evident. The striving for exactitude in literary matters is just as legitimate as it is in all disciplines. And the danger of establishing excessively rigid categories for genres is no greater than that of excessively loose terminology. Ocerk, as a term, has now been stretched near to the breaking point and is in danger of becoming simply a receptable for containing modes of literature of any documentary nature whatever. The most common approach to defining the ocerk has been through the topics with which it deals, its social function, and the purpose which a

Vladimir Kantorovic, "PolemiSeskie mysli ob ocerke", Voprosy literatury, No. 12 (1966), 41.

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the author seemed to have in mind in writing it. It has been generally agreed that the ocerk is concerned with public life, matters of social or popular interest. In Soviet Russian literature there has been special emphasis on the publicistic quality of the ocerk — its social operativnost'. Mark Sfceglov has characterized the ocerk as an instrument of vospitanie and agitacija, one which "priobretaet osobuju vaznost' v periody bol'six obscestvennyx dvizenij ... ." 3 He has stressed its exploratory role as "peredovogo otrjada, avangarda literatury, otkryvajusSego dlja "bol'six" xudozestvennyx zamyslov novye temy, novye storony zizni".4 Others have pointed out that ocerki tend to be written in times of swiftlydeveloping public events and that they give the author an opportunity to react quickly by expressing his thoughts and his attitude to what is happening about him directly and without disguise. It is argued that the ocerk enables a writer to concern himself with current topics of public interest by uniting narrative with analysis, and by combining the "xudozestvennyj" with the "naufcno-poznavatel'nyj", in terms of immediacy and without the necessity of significant aesthetic distance between the author and his subject. All of these things would seem to be true of many ocerki, and particularly of those which have been written in the Soviet period. It is questionable, however, whether the criterion of social or public interest is sufficiently stable and clear to provide a basis for definition, since such interest is a relative matter: the criterion is often subjective, depending on the views of the definer. Furthermore, discussion of agitational and educational qualities merely shows how the ocerk is currently employed, and while it indicates a trend of usage it contributes little toward a definition of the genre. For example, the ocerk is by no means the only kind of writing that can provide an immediate, opinionated, hortatory response to public events. This can be provided in a lyric poem, or even in a novel. Finally, there is no intrinsic reason why ocerki should have the trait of immediacy; many ocerki have been written in tranquillity. The conditions of writing, moreover, have little to do with the formal traits of the genre. Whatever the distinguishing features of the ocerk may be, they are largely independent of the themes, topics, purposes, and conditions of writing. In seeking a definition, one must look to the narrative means which the ocerk employs. The ocerk has long been regarded as the property of both the fields of literature and of journalism; it is considered both an art and a craft. ® Mark Sceglov, Literaturno-kriticeskie stat'i (Moscow, 1958), 9. 4 Ibid., 18.

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A reason for considering the ocerk as belonging to journalism is that most ocerki appear in newspapers and periodicals, and relatively few of them ultimately appear in book form. Moreover, the vast majority of works that are labeled as ocerki neither claim nor merit consideration as xudozestvennaja literatura. But since many of them do claim this quality, it is necessary to identify the element that differentiates a "xudozestvennyj oCerk" from one that is not "xudozestvennyj". A few additional factors must be considered, however, before the attempt is made. First, it is necessary to dismiss the notion that the ocerk is a "low form" of literature, or that, as a "literature of fact" it does not belong in the realm of xudozestvennaja literatura. The very term ocerk can suggest, erroneously, something brief, sketchy, preliminary and insignificant. But even the most cursory examination of famous works that have been given this appellation shows that the term has long since departed from the meaning suggested by the verb (ocercivat') to which it relates. The widespread use of the term ocerk makes necessary yet another minor definition for the purposes of the present argument. Critics have frequently applied the term ocerk-reportaz to works of a journalistic nature which they do not consider to be "xudozestvennyj". Some would call a work of this type a stat'ja. In the present discussion, ocerkreportaz will be included under the term stat'ja. Another distinction is necessary because the term xudozestvennyj ocerk has frequently been bestowed in an honorific sense on a stat'ja which the bestower happens to admire. There is a tendency to call a work "xudozestvennyj" simply because it is written well. The distinction between a stat'ja (which may, indeed, be written with great skill and profundity) and a xudozestvennyj ocerk is not one of degree of excellence but of intrinsic nature. For the purposes of the present discussion, also, one must regard as irrelevant the widespread notion that the xudozestvennyj ocerk is some kind of "connecting link between publicistic and xudozestvennaya literatura", a "special artistic-publicistic alloy" or a "special, hybrid artistic-publicistic genre". There can be no questioning the fact, of course, that the xudozestvennyj ocerk does have both artistic and publicistic qualities, but so also do many other forms of literature. The oft-quoted dictum of Maksim Gor'kij that the ocerk is "between rasskaz and issledovanie" is likewise of little assistance in this effort. Yet another erroneous distinction suggests that whereas the stat'ja is designed to make the reader understand a collection of facts and their

THE OCERK : SUGGESTIONS TOWARD A REDEFINITION

33

relationships, a xudozestvennyj ocerk contains, in addition, devices designed to work on the feelings of the reader, to arouse his emotions. This distinction would limit the stat'ja to little more than the direct reportage of facts, and would seem to endow the ocerk with a monopoly on rhetoric, and for this reason is patently inapplicable. The above-mentioned difficulties would seem to stem from the fact that the ocerk and the stat'ja have one main characteristic in common: both serve to bring facts before the reader. What they do not seem to have in common is the element of fiction. For while a stat'ja may contain expressions of opinion, and may arrange facts in a strategic manner, it must still stick to the facts. It would seem to follow, then, that if a work contains invented material, that is, if it adds anything fictional (no matter how "realistic" it may be), it is not a stat'ja but a xudozestvennyj ocerk. The ocerk is similar to the stat'ja, then, in that it has a documentary, factual quality, but unlike the stat'ja in that it contains at least some fictional elements. Although there is general agreement that an ocerk contains both fact and fiction, there is considerable difference of opinion as to the proportion of fiction that can be included. Efim Doros, one of the most distinguished contemporary writers of ocerki, has insisted : Ja xocu lis' skazat', cto vot uze dvenadcat' let "pisu s natury" — i ljudej, i predmety obstanovki, i prirodu, — nicego ne pridumyvaja i ne dodumyvaja, ne privnosja iz uvidennogo v drugom meste, ne ispytyvaja v ètom nuzdy. Ja tol'ko izmenjaju imena i nazvanija, vybrasyvaju vse, na moj vzgljad, slucajnoe da inogda, sorazmernosti radi, perestavljaju sobytija.6 On the other hand, §6eglov, who has argued that in an ocerk, "soderzaniem javljaetsja neòto dejstvitel'no byvsee, slucivseesja, cto my uvideli by i sami, okazavsis' v odnix obstojatel'stvax s avtorom, podtverzdaemoe oSevidcami, dokumentami i t.d.", nevertheless contends that "polnocennyj xudozestvennyj ocerk, s Selovekom v centre, nevozmozen bez tvorceskogo vymysla, bez ucastija fantasii avtora", and added that the author can even "vvodit' vymyslennye èpizody, sceny, razgovory ... ," 6 Clearly a major problem, both in writing the ocerk and defining it, is that of determining the appropriate proportion of fact and vymysel. The documentary nature of an ocerk leads the reader to assume that the work is based on fact. And yet dokumental'nost' can easily be used to perpetuate myths and untruths: its very aura of "realism" can lend a false authenticity to distor6 "Ziznennyj material i xudozestvennoe obobSienie", Voprosy literatury, No. 9 (1966), 29. * SCeglov, op. cit., 19, 26.

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DEMING BROWN

tions of the truth. Gor'kij outlined this danger in a letter in 1930; No nekotorye iz nasix ocerkistov, nacinaja ponimat' gluboko social'nopoliticeskoe i revoljucionnoe znacenie opisanija naSej novoj dejstvitel'nosti, pridajut ocerku vse bolee "xudozestvennuju" formu. Vse casce zamecaeS', cto, opisyvaja podlinno suscestvujuscee, sozdavaemoe energiej rabocego klassa, avtory ocerkov wodjat v opisanie dejstvitel'nogo — zelaemoe. £to e§ce ne znacit, cto oni pribegajut k "vymyslu", no oni dogovarivajut to, cto xotja esce ne skazano segodnja, odnako neobxodimo dolzno byt' skazano zavtra.' It is sometimes said that the ocerk does not create, but rather "recreates" or reconstructs reality in the "image" of life. In this process, the extent and quality of invention is, of course, the decisive element. There is general agreement that a characteristic feature of the ocerk is its analytical quality, i.e. that it combines narrative with analysis. P. Jusin writes that, "kak by ni raskrasival avtor real'noe sobytie slovesnymi formami, s kakoi by tocnost'ju ne opisyval ego, o£erk ne polucitsja, esli ne budet dan analiz fakta". 8 The source of this analysis is the author himself, whose "prjamye mysli i cuvstva" must be provided if the work is to qualify as an ocerk.9 In this sense, according to S5eglov, the ocerk can even be close to lyric poetry in giving the author an opportunity for open self-expression. But in addition to analysis, an ocerk must give the impression that the facts and events it describes were directly perceived and experienced by the author. It must have an "eye-witness" quality, so that the author may convince the reader that "tak dejstvitel'no bylo, on eto videl tam-to i togda-to". 10 For this reason also, an important characteristic of the ocerk is the presence of the "li5nost' avtora" or, as it has been remarked about Zapiski oxotnika, the "avtorskoe ja." Zapiski oxotnika is often referred to as providing excellent examples of the xudozestvennyj ocerk. The most frequently cited of these is "Xor' i Kalinyc", which Turgenev himself was inclined to designate as an ocerk. It is notable, however, that Zapiski oxotnika is usually called simply a collection of "rasskazy i oSerki", with no attempt to differentiate between the "rasskazy" and "o5erki" which it contains. When critics are discussing the rasskaz, they call these works of Turgenev rasskazy, in discussing the ocerk, they call them ocerki. This is true, however, not only of the way in which the works in Zapiski oxotnika are treated, but many other works of Russian literature as well. Although the two terms '

8 8 10

M. Gor'kij, "Ucit'sja nadobno u masterov", Voprosy literatury, No. 12 (1964), 98. P. JuSin, "O zanre oSerkovoj literatury", Ob ocerke (Moscow, 1958), 43. Sceglov, 25. Ibid., 20.

THE OCERK: SUGGESTIONS TOWARD A REDEFINITION

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obviously have distinct meanings for most students of Russian literature, in their actual usage they often seem virtually interchangeable. The two genres do indeed live in extremely close proximity. Gor'kij has remarked, referring to works of Turgenev, Sienkiewicz, Maupassant, Gleb Uspenskij and Prisvin, that "oCerk priblizaetsja k rasskazu, a Sasto i neotdelim ot rasskaza".11 It is often said that there is a category of works that are at one and the same time ocerki and rasskazy. Sdeglov attempted to accomodate this phenomenon by calling the ocerk a "rasskaz o sud'be dejstvitel'no susSestvujuscix ljudej".12 And there are numerous examples of authors who have redesignated their works from one category to another long after their first publication, or whose editors have done this. Petr Rebrin has given a recent example from his own experience: he intended to write, and thought he had written, an ocerk, but the editors of Nas sovremennik printed it as a povesf and later convinced him that that was indeed what it was.13 The tradition persists that the ocerk contains factual material, whereas the rasskaz contains invention, or fiction. We have seen, however, that this is a false dichotomy, because it is generally agreed that an ocerk may be based on significant quantities of vymysei. Likewise, the strong present-day trend to create documentary fiction makes it abundantly evident that a rasskaz can embody large quantities of fact. It is true that a weighing of the proportions of fact and fiction in any given work can serve as an aid in identifying it. One can attempt to assess, for example, the degree to which the narrative structure is the product of the author's imagination or the degree to which it seems to have been dictated by the actual facts and events on which it is based. But a group of authors of ocerki, responding to a questionnaire in 1966, overwhelmingly agreed that "vodorazdel mezdu dokumental'noj oierkovoj literaturoj i ostal'noj xudozestvennoj prozoj [ne] opredeljalsja pri pomos£i iskusstvennogo protivopostavlenija: fakt — vymysei".14 This would seem to be evident if only for the reason that a reader himself often has no means of discriminating between fact and fiction in a given work. As Jusin points out, "Ved' v realistifieskom proizvedenii vse kazetsja pravdivym".15 The responsibility for discriminating between fact and fiction, then, must lie with the author. A few examples will serve to show various ways 11

12 18 14 16

Gor'kij, op. cit., 98.

SCeglov, 19.

"Ziznennyj material i xudozestvennoe obobSienie", loc. cit., 44-45. Kantorovic, op. cit., 36. JuSin, op. cit., 42.

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DEMING BROWN

in which this problem has been solved. Sergej Smirnov reports that: ... scitaju, cto glavnoj objazannost'ju avtora xudoiestvenno-dokumental'nogo proizvedenija javljaetsja vernost' osnovnym, kardinal'nym faktam, o kotoryx idet ree', pri vozmoznosti svobodnogo dvizenija vnutri ramok, sozdavaemyx ètimi glavnymi faktami. No esli pisatel', krome ètix glavnyx faktov, beret na sebja smelost' ostavit' v knige dejstvitel'nye familii ucastnikov, to èto zakljucaet ego uze v soversenno zestkie ramki. On dolzen vse vremja oScuscat' otvetstvennost' pered ljud'mi, kotorye vyvedeny na pecatnyx stranicax. Nikakie apelljacii k pravu na xudozestvennyj vymysel ne spasut pisatelja ot spravedlivyx narekanij, esli on dopustit netocnosti ili izliSnie vol'nosti. Dlja togo, kto zaSciscaet takoe pravo na vymysel, est' tol'ko odin vyxod: vzjav dokumentaFnuju osnovu v Sirokom smysle ètogo slova, pol'zovat'sja vymyslennymi imenami i familijami.16 Boris Polevoj, in publishing his account of the exploits of the flier Aleksej Mares'ev, changed the name of his hero and went one step further by labeling the work "Povest' o nastojascem celoveke". For the writer of the xudozestvennyj ocerk, however, it seems to me that the ocerkist Sergej Zalygin suggests what is by far the soundest practical solution : To, cto v ocerke dolzen byt' domysel, — èto bessporno! I delo ne v kolicestvennom sootnosenii fakticeskogo i vymyslennogo, a v kacestve fakta i domyslaV rasskaze fakt, sobytie mogut byt' izmeneny po zelaniju avtora, a svoj domysel avtor siroko osuscestvljaet posredstvom sozdannyx im obrazov i cerez nix. V ocerke fakt ostaétsja tocnym, a domysel soverSenno cètko i nedvusmyslenno vyskazyvaetsja ot lica avtora. [Italics mine.] I togda, v silu vot takoj nezavualirovannosti, prjamoty i nezavisimosti domysla, avtor bespredel'no svoboden. Ego ne ogranicivajut bol'se daze xaraktery geroev, ix vozrast, obrazovanie i professija, ne ogranicivajut ni vremja, ni mesto dejstvija, on mozet pustit'sja v lubuju fantaziju, sdelat' èkskurs v prosloe ili v buduscee.17 Attempts are frequently made to distinguish between the ocerk and the rasskaz in terms of the narrative means which each employs. Not all critics, however, agree that such attempts can be productive. Sòeglov, for example, insisted that "svoeobrazija sposobov sozdanija tipiceskix obrazov, sjuzetiki, kompozicii, pozicii avtora i t.d. v oóerke poprostu ne sus5estvuet".18 Nevertheless, most critics argue that it is possible to isolate creative techniques which the ocerk does not share with other genres. V. Bogdanov feels that the ocerk is primarily a descriptive genre, in which it is required that "sceny i èpizody 'scepljajutsja' v kompozicionnoe celoe vnesnim obrazom, za s5et avtorskogo vmesatel'stva ili rass16 17

18

"¿iznennyj material i xudozestvennoe obobScenie", 46. S. Zalygin, "Rabotaja nad ocerkom", Novyj mir, No. 12 (1954), 118.

Sfieglov, 23.

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kazSika ... ." 19 The author makes it evident that he alone is arranging the facts and events he is depicting, and the author, in his own voice, provides whatever material of a generalizing and evaluating nature the ocerk contains. Or, Bogdanov adds, the author can create a "special compositional hero" to lead the reader over the terrain he is depicting. Other critics, however, object to the notion of the ocerk as primarily a descriptive genre, since, they feel, an ocerk must center around a problem, and specifically one of a social nature. As one critic puts it, ... v ocerke — v torn cisle i v samom "celovekovedceskom", blize vsego stojascem k rasskazu po ob'ektivirovannosti obrazov personazej, — veduscim, osnovnym, "diktujuscim" i otbor materiala, i arxitektoniku sjuzeta, i daze issledovanie xarakterov, javljaetsja vse-taki problema, délo celoveka; v rasskaze celovekovedenie, issledovanie xarakterov i cerez nix — porozdajuscego ix vremeni i est' glavrtoe délo, problema nomer odin. 20

It is argued, then, that the "organizing element" of an ocerk is likely to be a social problem. One of the consequences of this situation is that an ocerk is not faced with the task of development of plot or character (although it is generally agreed that an ocerk, in distinction to a stafja, must contain characters), since the narrative motivation need not come from circumstances established in the author's imagination. The emphasis of the sjuzet is placed not on nuances of character or on intrigue, as it is likely to be in a work of fiction, but rather on exposition and the arrangement of documentary detail. And since there is no "inner causality" in an ocerk, it tends to be less complex than a work of pure fiction. This offers both advantages and disadvantages: ... po sravneniju s romanom, rasskazom, liriceskoj prozoj ocerk daet bolee uzkoe predstavlenie o vnutrennej zizni, xaraktere celoveka. N o takoe suzenie i uproscenie zadaci imeet i svoi polozitel'nye storony, pozvoljaja ocerkistu sosredotocit' svoe vnimanie na tex aspektax zizni i celoveceskix vzaimootnosenij, kotorye v drugix zanrax vystupajut po preimuscestvu v "snjatom", oposredstvovannom vide i polucajut tam skoree kosvennoe, cem prjamoe izobrazenie. 21

Considerations such as these are helpful in pointing to the problems of narrative strategy with which the writer of an ocerk is likely to be confronted, but they are of limited value in attempts to distinguish the xudozestvennyj ocerk from other genres, since these considerations apply not only to the ocerk but to the rasskaz and povest' as well. Many works 19

V. Bogdanov, "Teorija v dolgu", Voprosy literatury, No. 12 (1964), 67. A. Kogan, "Prodolzaja razgovor ...," Literatura i sovremennost', Sbornik 6 (Moscow, 1965), 293. 21 B. Kosteljanec, "Opisatel'nyj zanr? ... Net!", Voprosy literatury, No. 7 (1966), 35.

20

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DEMING BROWN

which are clearly in the latter categories, for example, can be shown to be essentially "descriptive" or to have a social problem as their "organizing element" (e.g. "Krejcerova sonata"). One must therefore look elsewhere for sources of uniqueness in the ocerk. Ultimately the most important factor affecting the sjuzet of an ocerk is the presence of the author in the narrative. As B. Kosteljanec expresses it: Esli v romane ili rasskaze my imeem "samo soboju" razvivajuScijsja sjuzet, opredeljaemyj vzaimootnoSenijami geroev, to v oderkovom proizvedenii avtorskaja mysl' "v svoem neposredstvennom vyrazenii sostavljaet vaznejSee i edinstvennoe sredstvo kompozicii."22 I have already pointed out that a xudozestvennyj ocerk must be provided with both an "eye-witness" quality and an explicit analysis of the things it depicts, and that, although it contains vymysel, it must have a means of discriminating between facts and fiction. The only source from which these elements can come is the narrator, whose commentary upon and intervention in the events depicted provide interpretation, verification and dokumentaVnost'. What is most essential, however, is that the narrator be identified closely with the author himself. Let us take some brief illustrations from Zapiski oxotnika. As I have indicated, "Xor' i Kalinyc" has frequently been called a xudozestvennyj ocerk. Although Turgenev does not make it explicit that he is the narrator, every one of the few characterizing traits that are provided for the narrator (such as the fact that he is a hunter and a barin) make him inseparable from Turgenev himself. The author-narrator in this work plays the role of observer and commentator. As in many of the works in Zapiski oxotnika, the author-narrator is a passive "witness", not an active participant, and he is involved in events only in the sense that he occasionally directs a brief question to one of the other characters. He is passive with regard to events, but active in his response to them by means of comments that are directed solely to the reader. Furthermore, the sjuzet is governed not by the interaction of characters, or of characters and events, but by the volition of the author-observer, who has set for himself the "problem" of comparing two general types of peasants. In only one respect, it would seem, is there reason to doubt that "Xor' i KalinyC" should be called an ocerk: the author gives the reader no way of knowing how much is fact and how much is fiction. The close proximity of "Xor' i KalinyC" to the ocerk can be illustrated 22

Ibid., 27. The quotations by Kosteljanec are from Bogdanov, op. cit., 58-59.

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by contrast to other works from Zapiski oxotnika. "Bezin Lug", for example, should probably not be called an ocerk because it lacks the authorial analysis that comes from the consideration of a clearly formulated proposition — a "problem". "Pevcy" would probably fail to qualify as an ocerk for the same reason, although Sdeglov cites "Pevcy" — "kak by liriCeskaja ispoved' xudoznika, zaxvadennogo Cudom narodnoj talantlivosti" 23 — as an example of the way in which an ocerk can provide an opportunity for the expression of an author's emotions. The question of the degree of personal authorial involvement in the events described in an ocerk has been a source of disagreement. There are those who contend that the author can be a major character, participating fully as an active agent in the events he is depicting, quarreling with other characters, etc. Others contend that it is essential that the author confine himself to the role of an uninvolved, passive observer. These latter would surely find that "L'gov" is a rasskaz, and not an ocerk, because in the second part of this work the author is completely involved in an adventure as an active participant. 24 On the other hand, "Les i Step'", centering on the "problem" of describing the pleasures of hunting in the Russian countryside, would seem to be in most respects just as "ocerkistic" as "Xor' i KalinyS". However, in "Les i Step'" the author-narrator portrays himself as the central lyrical hero, actively experiencing deeply pleasurable emotions as he wanders about the fields. One could conclude — though I am not inclined to do so — that for this reason "Les i Step'" is not an ocerk but a rasskaz. The Sevastopol'skie rasskazy of Tolstoj can be helpful in illustrating the differences between an ocerk and a rasskaz. In "Sevastopol' v dekabre mesjace" the author is present not as a character but as an unseen guide, conducting the reader about the besieged city. He addresses the reader directly (using the second person plural), pointing out items of interest, commenting on them, and interpreting them. "Sevastopol' v dekabre mesjace", then, would seem to be truly an ocerk. In contrast, "Sevastopol' v mae" and "Sevastopol' v avguste 1855 goda", related in the third person, employ obvious fictional techniques — including interior monologue — which cannot be the properties of an ocerk. For this reason, the latter two works are clearly rasskazy. The "documentary" trend in recent literature has given rise not only -

Sfieglov, 16-17. I am grateful to Lubomir Dolezel for insights into the nature of the narratorobserver in Zapiski oxotnika, as presented in his lectures at the University of Michigan in 1967, 24

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to much discussion of the specifics of the ocerk but also to discussions of the comparative advantages and disadvantages of the ocerk and the rasskaz. Jusin remarks that "v vybore mesta dejstvija, vremeni proisxodjas£ix sobytij, a takze v otbore mnogofiislennyx detalej avtor rasskaza imeet bol'suju svobodu, cem o£erkist".25 Sceglov pointed out that a general weakness of the ocerk is its "otryvofcnost', malyj oxvat dejstvitel'nosti, neizbeznaja szatost', lokal'nost' ".26 It has also been argued that an ocerk cannot have psychological profundity, 27 and that it must inevitably present character in a simplified manner, since the growth and development of character are precluded. In refutation, it is argued that the ocerk is no more subject to this disadvantage than the rasskaz, which by definition is also brief.28 §£eglov argued that the ocerk has even greater creative potentialities than the rasskaz, because it takes its materials from the real world, and "zizn' vsegda raznoobraznee ljuboj sofiinennosti".29 He pointed out that the ocerk has at its disposal "samye raznoobraznye, svojstvennye literature v celom, sposoby postroenija obrazov, sjuzeta i kompozicii", since it is "odnoj iz samyx sinteti5eskix literaturnyx form, vbirajus5ej v sebja samye razliSnye sposoby 'ulovlenija' pravdy: publicistifieskij, liri£eskij, statistiCeskij i t.d." 30 It should also be kept in mind that in writing a rasskaz the author tends to be the originator of the facts, opinions and characters he reports, and is therefore "responsible" for them, whereas in writing an ocerk he is free of this kind of responsibility, since, presumably, his material is not imagined but is taken from real life. But the writer of an ocerk does have a large responsibility, albeit of a different kind. This responsibility, both moral and aesthetic, is suggested by the following remarks of Anatolij Agranovskij: Ne nado tol'ko putat', ne nado obmanyvat' citatelja, ne nado vymysel vydavat' za pravdu, a fakty ob'javljat' vymyslom. Sociniteli legend — lenivye i neljubopytnye ljudi. Im neinteresno, cto bylo na samom dele, i len' eto razuznat'. Razumeetsja, ja imeju v vidu "legendy" inyx sovremennyx ocerkistov (skazem, o "rjazanskom cude"), a ne mify Drevnej Grecii. Ploxo, kogda rasskaz krasjat pod ocerk. Mne v takix prevrascenijax, — ix ne sprjaces', — vsegda cuditsja mol'ba o snisxoMenii. Xudozestvennuju nemoc, avtor prikryvaet scitom "dokumental'nosti", a nedostacu ostroty, ziznennoj pravdy, sobstvennuju "

JuSin, 42. Sceglov, 18. 27 Kantorovic, 45-47. ,8 Ibid., 44. " Sieglov, 23. Ibid., 35, 44.

M

THE OCERK: SUGGESTIONS TOWARD A REDEFINITION

41

necestnost', nakonec, — "xudozestvennost'ju". N o éto ne vyrucaet. U kazdogo zanra — svoja sila. 31

The designation ocerk applied to a given work invites the reader to assume that the work is basically not a fiction. Regardless of the degree of documentary material which the ocerk includes, the only way in which the author can ultimately certify the veracity of his work is by being present in the work as his own narrator. It follows, then, that the authornarrator is responsible for informing the reader explicitly whenever he deviates from fact and resorts to fiction. The carrying out of this obligation does indeed create aesthetic problems. One admirable solution was that of Viktor Nekrasov, who, near the end of his ocerk "V Amerike", gives an account of a conversation he had with Patrick Stanley, an American war veteran, in a New York bar. Nekrasov closes his account with the following words: Patrik Stenli... "Letajuscie kreposti" ... Strelok-radist... Kak zaP, cto mne ne u d a l o s ' s toboj vstretit'sja, cto vsju étu istoriju c nocnoj poezdkoj, s salunom, s krasivoj negritjankoj, s packoj "belomora", cto vse éto ja pridumal. N e bylo saluna, ne bylo negritjanki, ne bylo Patrika. Bylo tol'ko zelanie, ctob tak bylo. 32

Like all genres, the ocerk is and will probably remain a nebulous entity, expanding and contracting its boundaries as literary processes continue to develop along their own autonomous lines. Writers will, and should, continue to establish models and violate them at will. And even if it were desirable, there is no way of legislating the discrimination of fact from fiction in literature; this is a matter of the individual morality of the writer, one scarcely amenable to formal literary analysis. Nevertheless, a moral problem does exist in the fact that, semantically, the term xudozestvennyj ocerk has come to suggest fidelity to objective truth while in practice it is generally acknowledged that the genre contains fictional elements. This would suggest that if a work containing both fact and fiction is clearly labeled as an ocerk, and not as a rasskaz or povest', it should contain safeguards such as the one employed in Viktor Nekrasov's "V Amerike". UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

31 32

"Ziznennyj material i xudozestvennoe obobscenie", 4-5. Viktor Nekrasov, "Po obe storony okeana", Novyj mir, No. 12 (1962), 151.

MAJAKOVSKIJ'S POEM CELOVEK: THE PROBLEM OF INTERPRETATION

EDWARD J. BROWN

1. INTRODUCTION

It has been said that the poem Celovek1 is the crowning point of Majakovskij's prerevolutionary poetry,2 and there is no question that in it the motifs and methods of the early Majakovskij rise to a climax of luminous energy. The poem offers a proper conclusion to the obsessive thematic concern with the self and its frustrations which we find in Majakovskij's earliest work. The frequent appearances of the poet in the early poems as Christ or as savior have their final distillation in Celovek: the stages of Majakovskij's life bear the titles "Nativity", "Life", "Passion", "Ascension", and "Return". His frequent poetic incarnations of the deity — as an old man with "veiny hands" ("Poslushajte"), or as something "majestic, like Leo Tolstoj" ("Es£e Peterburg"), or as "someone who runs about in heaven with a book of my poems under his arm and recites them, all excited, to his acquaintances" ("A vse-taki") — reach a high point of irony in this poem in the endless philistine bliss of the heaven He has prepared for us. It its thematic content and in its linguistic virtuosity the poem is indeed a kind of summation of Majakovskij's pre-revolutionary poetry, but in one respect it stands apart from that work as a whole. The poetry of Majakovskij tends to be intensely local and particular. His earliest lyrics betray the immediate concerns of a painter who works at poetry. The painter's studio with its materials enters into many of these lyrics; some of them appear to be verse realizations of urban scenes or cubistic stilllifes on which the poet was working. Even in Oblako v stanax there are 1 V. V. Majakovskij, Polnoe sobranie socinenij (Moscow, 1955-61), 1,445. Henceforth referred to as PSS. 8 Z. Papernyj, Poeticeskij obraz u Majakovskogo (Moscow, 1961), 35.

44

EDWARD J. BROWN

verbal pictures of real places, however distorted their shapes may be. Vojna i mir has a specific date, 1915, and addresses itself to a particular event, the war in Europe. But the poem Celovek, though it was written during the period between the February and October revolutions, is an abstraction from immediate and topical reality. Somewhat like his Tragedija, it is about Majakovskij, but also about man in general, and the characters that appear in it, Majakovskij, the "Ruler of All" (PoveliteV vsego), the Girl, Nikolaev the Engineer, invite symbolic interpretation; one may think of them as Man, his Enemy, the Eternal Feminine, perhaps the Eternal Husband. Man's fate is the poet's theme, and that fate is shown as total, or, in Stahlberger's phrase, "cosmic" alienation.3 Majakovskij himself suggested that Celovek should be considered as a companion piece to Vojna i mir. One of the items in his autobiography, J a sam,4 speaks of the period during 1916 when he was a recruit behind lines and the two poems were taking shape in his imagination: A most miserable time. I draw officers' portraits (getting out of things). In my head Vojna i mir, in my heart Celovek. The first of these, which Majakovskij indicates was a cerebral exercise, expresses keen disgust with humanity in its present state, using the evidence of the cruel warfare of 1915, but it preaches perfectibility and prophesies a time of deep peace when Jesus Christ "Will play at checkers with Cain", and "That free human being, of whom I shout, will appear, believe me he will". The movement of Majakovskij's heart, however, did not accord with the bright prophecies of that poem. Celovek, which he finished "soon after" 5 Vojna i mir, is a poetic refutation of the earlier poem, and its pessimism concerns not only the human state but the nature of existence itself. The close juxtaposition of these two poems, a procedure suggested by Majakovskij himself, is a convincing illustration of the duality in the poet's nature. In his work despair forms an almost equivalent counterpoise to great bursts of poetic optimism. 8

63. 4

Lawrence L. Stahlberger, The Symbolic System of Majakovskij (The Hague, 1964),

PSS, 1,24. It is not certain exactly when the poem Celovek was finished. The best evidence indicates that it was begun before the events of February, 1917, and finished between February and October, 1917. See G. S. Ceremin, Rannij Majakovskij (Moscow, 1962), 107. See also Literaturnoe nasledstvo, LXY, 556. The most interesting treatment of the problem is offered in R. Jakobson, Russkij literaturnyj arxiv (New York, 1956), 108, 203. Jakobson's evidence indicates that the poem must have been written, in part at least, during the period between the February and October revolutions, and that it may not have been finished until the end of 1917. 6

MAJAKOVSKU'S POEM "CELOVEK"

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2. EARLIER CRITICISM

Before offering an interpretation of the poem in question it may be helpful to review briefly the most important criticism of that work. We shall examine first the most recent Soviet criticism of the poem, then move to earlier criticism, and end with the work of émigré and Western critics. This procedure has the advantage that it will reveal the present state of critical thought on the poem and at the same time trace important divergences in method and approach between certain contemporary Soviet scholars, on the one hand, and other critics, both Marxist and nonMarxist, on the other. Among recent Soviet studies of Majakovskij G. S. Ceremin's Rannij Majakovskij (Moscow, 1962), holds special interest as an effort to explore objectively the work of the poet's "cubo-futurist" period. Ceremin has much to offer on Majakovskij's relationship to the futurist movement, and especially on the differences between Majakovskij and his futurist colleagues. He firmly dismisses the thesis frequently advanced in earlier Soviet criticism that Majakovskij was never "really" a futurist. 6 He deals directly with the evidence as to the poet's aesthetic ideas and behavior during the period before the revolution. Concerning the poem Celovek, he maintains that it "synthesizes and generalizes the ideas, themes and motifs of the poet's earlier work". 7 Majakovskij's comment as to the origin of Vojna i mir in the "head" and Celovek in the "heart" referred, Ceremin believes, to the difference in method between the two poems : the former is oriented to certain external facts, the latter is told, so to speak, entirely "from within". The basic satirical thrust of the poem is, for Ceremin as for nearly all the more recent Soviet critics of Majakovskij, against bourgeois society. In contradistinction to other works of Majakovskij, in which the critique of bourgeois social relations is directed at Russian reality, the poem encompasses the same theme "on a world-wide scale". The poet's imprisonment on earth with the twin weights of "Law" and "Religion" holding him down symbolizes "the contradiction between the poet, who bears love to all people, and the oppressive force of the bourgeois city". 8 The "Ruler of All" is an abstract creation which underlines the "general, absolute and complete sway of capital". The gloomy fantasy of the poem's conclusion seems to Ceremin to express, not hopelessness in the face of the anti-human principle in the world, but rather • Ceremin, 47ff. ' Ceremin, 108ff. • Ceremin, 110.

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EDWARD J. BROWN

hatred for the devotees of ready profits and cash-in-hand. The point of the poem is, not that the poet is unable to go on living, but that he refuses to live "in this kind of world". 9 Only a radical change in reality itself can overcome the inconsolable loneliness and alienation which the poem expresses; only a revolution can revive the poet's spirit. Ceremin means, of course, a revolution of the oppressed masses against the power of capital, the "October Revolution", which did indeed take place at the time when the poet was completing Celovek. An extended discussion of the poem is offered by A. MetCenko.10 He interprets the lyrical hero as a Promethean figure who, though bound, blinded and chained to earth by the "bankers, tycoons, and doges", preserves his hatred of those enemies into eternity. The biblical form and terminology of the poem MetSenko explains as parody, and the heaven described in it seems to him intended to satirize the various religious fictions as to a life after death. The Ruler of All is "a personification of the world of property", and Metcenko compares the poem to Gor'kij's "City of the Yellow Devil" as "one of the most powerful exposures of capitalism in prerevolutionary literature". Money has the power even to corrupt the Girl, though in the end she hears the voice of her heart and leaps to her death out of pure love: "There is a legend: she leaped to him out of the window. And they just lay upon each other, body to body". (We will hope to show that there is another possible interpretation of those lines.) Met5enko finds that Majakovskij makes an attempt in this poem to be precise about the kind of revolution needed. "Not every revolution will do away with the power of money personified by the Ruler of All", writes our critic; that is how he explains the lines "No rebellion ever touches thee, uncrowned master of our hearts". The poem, according to this interpretation, is a reaction to the "bourgeois democratic" revolution of February, 1917, and strikes a sharply dissonant note amid the chorus celebrating the arrival of "bourgeois" freedoms. Masbic-Verov in his Poemy Majakovskogo11 develops a very similar interpretation of the poem, but adds some interesting refinements of his own. Complaining that earlier critics, especially those who wrote during the twenties, overemphasized the darkness and despair in the poem, Masbic-Verov seeks "life-affirming" notes and succeeds in finding some. The clear affinity of the poet with the sun (in spite of the graveyard dark• Ceremin, 112. 10

11

A. Metcenko, Majakovskij, ocerk tvorcestvo (Moscow, 1964), 78ff. I. Masbic-Verov, Poemy Majakovskogo (Moscow, 1963), 236-257.

MAJAKOVSKU'S POEM "CELOVEK"

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ness at the poem's end) he regards as a bright, positive note: "Though night still rules, though the sun has turned away from its herald, the poet ineradicably believes that it nevertheless will return to him... and that the rays of dawn will overcome the darkness".12 The hopeless lines which announce the eternal sway of the "contented and well-fed", Masbic-Verov explains, reflected a time of tragedy for Majakovskij and marked a spiritual crisis from which he emerged with increased strength and maturity and after which he made greater demands on himself and on life. After passing through "the dark night of the soul" in 1917 Majakovskij grew to an understanding of the real nature of the power exercised by money and he therefore expected more from the Revolution: nothing less than the complete abolition of the exploitation of man by man. "Objectively, then, the poem is a sentence of death upon capitalism. Subjectively, as a stage in the poet's development, it is a work in which the artist faced a task toward the resolution of which his whole life had led him".13 Papernyj's comments on the poem are acute and arresting.14 They depart somewhat from the pattern we have so far observed in that they give attention to the poem as a literary structure. Papernyj is able to distinguish between the poet's life and his literary production, between his politics and his poem. He maintains that the loneliness which the early poems express does mirror certain facts concerning the poet's psychological condition, and that the revolution did indeed free him from his isolation and give him a sense of belonging to other people.15 But he does not confuse these observations about the poet's biography with poetic analysis; indeed his book demonstrates an awareness of the distinction between the two. Papernyj finds in the work of the early Majakovskij a quality which he calls dvutonal'nost', a shift in tone arising from a contrast between opposing sets of poetic images: "On the one hand we have an image which expresses the view of the poet himself; on the other a grotesquely parodied 'answer' from the real world". In the poem Celovek the poet's hymn to the human hand, heart, and mind is overbalanced by a series of "contrasting images". The human hand is made to hold a gun, the heart is chained by "religion", the mind is locked by "law". This poem, and much of Majakovskij's early work, is built upon a series of such contrasts, 12 111 14

"

MaSbic-Verov, 255. MaSbic-Verov, 257. Papernyj, 35, 63, 76, 112, 225. Papernyj, 35.

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EDWARD J. BROWN

Papernyj suggests: "The poetic and the spiritual, everything connected with the life of the heart, with dreams or song, is locked in mean and vulgar forms, is contained in reality as in a jail". 16 The special relationship of the poet in Celovek with the sun has often been pointed out, and Papernyj illustrates how the shifting role of the sun fits into Majakovskij's system of contrasting images. The poem opens with a singing anticipation of dawn, but the bright promise ends in darkness and in the conviction that life is barren and pointless.17 Papernyj's analysis throws great light on the nature of the poem, and, by extension, on the psychological condition of the poet, perhaps even on his social and political position. The comments of Y. Percov, who has recently completed a threevolume study of Majakovskij,18 are a sharp contrast to those of Papernyj. His interpretation is a conscientious effort to place Majakovskij in the proper literary pantheon. He regards it as significant that the poem completed just before Celovek was entitled Vojna i mir and thus betrays the poet's affinity with Leo Tolstoj (since the words for "peace" and "universe" are homonyms in Russian). And since Gor'kij wrote a prose poem entitled Celovek (it was published in 1904 and nothing in it but the title is like Majakovskij's work), it follows that the two great writers were "ideologically close". Percov does recognize the vast difference in idea and methods between the two works, but his apparent purpose is to force Majakovskij's poem into a respectable frame of literary reference, where, flanked by Leo Tolstoj and Maxim Gor'kij, it would seem to be adequately protected against formalist and futurist associations, as well as against any imputation of philosophical pessimism. The poem he interprets rather simply as a representation of the tragic hopelessness of the contemporary human situation, where man is drawn into "the abyss of declining capitalism"; he finds in it also a contrasting picture of the great possibilities the "dream of socialism" places before human society. The figure of the Ruler of All is a personification of capitalism, analogous both to Woodrow Wilson in Majakovskij's 150.000.000 and to Gor'kij's "Yellow Devil". He concludes, finally, that the "objective meaning of the poem is that only revolution can save man and his society from destruction". There is nothing like that in the text of the poem, but of course the qualification "objective" rescues Percov from total fatuity: we may understand him to mean that such an idea may be deduced from the poem quite 19

Papernyj, 96. Papernyj, 225, 226. 18 V. Percov, Majakovskij, zizri i tvorcestvo (do velikoj oktjabr'skoj revoljutsii) (Moscow, 1950), 394ff. 17

sociatisticeskoj

MAJAKOVSKU'S POEM "CELOVEK"

49

apart from the author's intention. And he is able to support this interpretation of Celovek by quotations from another poem, one written at least five years later. Moving farther back into the past we find that shortly after Majakovskij's suicide in April, 1930, the Marxist literary critic Vja5eslav Polonskij, who had often engaged in literary polemics with the poet, published an important book about him in which a number of pages are devoted to Celovek,19 He finds that Celovek, like Majakovskij's other poems of the pre-revolutionary period, is saturated with pessimism. The theme of frustrated love that runs through the early poems reaches here a high point of tormented misery. Polonskij shows convincingly that in poems such as Vojna i mir and Celovek the protest against war or against the world is not a social protest at all. The poet is alone; he suffers alone; upon him alone rests the burden of responsibility for the war and human suffering. Nor is there in those poems any sense of proletarian classconsciousness or any tidings of impending revolution. Majakovskij was a pessimist, says Polonskij, right up to the eve of the Revolution, and death, specifically death by suicide, was one of his most prominent themes.20 Contemporary Soviet critics would of course not agree with him in this, and it may be that Polonskij is bending the stick too far. The poem Vojna i mir can hardly be described as pessimistic in its final effect, and everyone remembers the prophecy of revolution "in the year sixteen" contained in Oblako v stanax. Yet it is significant that Majakovskij's early dreams of world-wide peace, or of a revolution coming like Christ in his glory, end in huddled despair or the rejection of life. 21 An earlier Russian Marxist critic, Aleksandr Voronskij, takes a view of Celovek, and indeed all of Majakovskij's work, which is at sharp variance with the interpretation espoused by almost all contemporary Soviet critics.22 Voronskij singles out for special attention those passages in his work, both before and after the Revolution, which reveal the poet's obsession with the thought of suicide. The critic is somewhat disturbed, moreover, at Majakovskij's relative "illiteracy", and at his contempt for culture and its representatives. The poet's hero, "Man", is an artless being made of "meat" who possesses hands and arms, a brain and great appetites. He is "as simple as mooing". He is coarse and greedy, he sinks his teeth into whatever he wants ... he is both a child and a savage". Kant, 1

" V. Polonskij, O Majakovskom (Moscow, 1931). Polonskij, 37ff. 21 Cf. Oblako v stanax, 11. 480-500, in PSS 1,189, and the last lines of Celovek. 22 A. Voronskij, "Vladimir Majakoskij", in Krasnaja nov', 1925, No. 4, 249-277. 20

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EDWARD J. BROWN

Hegel, Tolstoj, Rousseau, Christ, Socrates, all subtle philosophical sysstems, Christian culture — none of this means anything to Majakovskij's "Man". His needs are limited and his horizons are narrow. He despises anything spiritual or intellectual. For his love's embrace he is willing to sacrifice not only philosophy but literature and art. Majakovskij's socialism seems to Voronskij to have little in common with Marxist scientific socialism. His ideology is more like that of the frustrated bourgeois whom more agile competitors have deprived of the world's goods. The city is a place of torment for Majakovskij, in Voronskij's opinion, simply because the "ownership of goods is in the hands of his enemy". Majakovskij's essential estrangement from proletarian themes is borne out, moreover, by the complete absence from his poetry of the productive center of modern life: the factory. Soviet interpretations of Celovek have, since 1934 at least, repeated with only minor variations a stereotyped formula which places the poem in the context of proletarian struggle against the oppressive force of capital. Papernyj's work is an exception to the rule, but no doubt only because he directs his attention in the main to the imagery of the poem, rather than to its ideological message. Marxist critics who wrote during the twenties were free of the stereotypes and could examine Majakovskij's work from many points of view. They are under no compulsion to explain away the poet's pessimism, or to gloss over his obsession with suicide, and they recognize the special significance of Celovek in his prerevolutionary work. Turning now to criticism of the poem outside the Soviet Union we find that a number of important insights into its meaning have been contributed by Roman Jakobson. 23 In his article on "a generation which wasted its poets" he treats the whole corpus of Majakovskij's work as a unity. Though he does not analyze the poem Celovek separately, much of his article is concerned with themes, images, and attitudes expressed in that poem, placed in the context of the poet's life and work and in illustrative juxtaposition with lines from a number of other works. Jakobson makes the very important point that Majakovskij's final letter and his suicide can be understood only in the context of his poetry. Unlike many poets, Majakovskij's own life did indeed form the subject of his poetry, and his suicide is foreshadowed a number of times. Jakobson reminds us of the term coined by Trotskij, Majakomorfizm, to express the poet's view of all existence. The poet's ego is in a constant struggle with the forces of byt, 23 Roman Jakobson, "O pokolenii, rastrativSem svoix po£tov", in Smert' skogo (Berlin, 1931).

Majakov-

MAJAKOVSKIJ'S POEM "CELOVEK"

51

the established, static, and habitual. The Ruler of All is one of many forms assumed by byt in Majakovskij's poety. His enemy is a "universal" figure and "natural forces, people, metaphysical substances, are only the episodic masks he wears". There are two irreconcilable forces in Majakovskij's world, self, and non-self. It follows from this that the terms which Majakovskij borrowed from the Marxian intellectual environment, such terms as "bourgeois" and "proletarian," are only conventional symbols: "bourgeois" standing for static, satisfied, conservative, and "proletarian" for dynamic, striving, radical. An attempt to apply to Majakovskij's early work critical concepts and methods which have been developed in recent years in the United States is Lawrence Stahlberger's book The Symbolic System of Majakovskij.24 The method of the book is in polar opposition to much of the earlier work on Majakovskij. Stahlberger works in almost total abstraction from the man, the milieu, and the historical moment, searching in Majakovskij's early works for parallels or affinities with archetypal situations or philosophical and religious ideas recurrent in world literature. Thus he regards Majakovskij's Tragedija as a representation, like Sophocles' Oedipus Rex, of an act of purification or catharsis. "Both Oedipus and the Poet are ... scapegoats, and the final result is a mimetic purification action". Stahlberger finds in the play the typical structural parts of a Greek tragedy, as set forth by Aristotle: peripeteia, anagnorisis, catharsis. The poem Celovek offers many possibilities for this kind of investigation. Stahlberger finds that its dominant motif is that of bondage, expressed by a group of related images in conjunction with the "I" of the poet. The poet ("I") is "driven into the terrestrial pen", pulls the "daily yoke", has a "chain, religion" on his heart, is "fettered" by the earth, has the globe of the earth "chained" to his feet, and is "enclosed" in a meaningless tale. This and similar symbolic complexes in Majakovskij's poetry which express motives of bondage, torture, and aloneness, may be summed up under the term "martyrdom", and build up the "I" as the symbol of the martyr. The linkage to both Prometheus and Christ (culture-heroes) is apparent: Prometheus is fettered and staked to the rock, Christ is imprisoned and nailed to the cross, the poet is locked up in a meaningless tale, and man is bound to the earth (confined within space and time). The "I" of the poet also appears as martyr (or scapegoat) in Vladimir Majakovskij, A Cloud in Trousers, The Backbone Flute, War and the Universe, and other poems.26 Stahlberger points out that the imagery used in the passage which presents 21 26

See above, note 3. Stahlberger, 14.

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EDWARD J. BROWN

the earth as a prison shows a striking resemblance to that employed by the Gnostic sects. According to the Gnostics, the world is the creation of a Demiurge or evil God. Man is imprisoned in the earth; he is also imprisoned in the flesh and in darkness; the planets or stars are watchers who guard his imprisonment, and "his appeals for help are answered with derision". It can easily be shown that images having some affinity with the picture of the world drawn by the Gnostics are embedded in Majakovskij's poem, and in calling attention to this Stahlberger has thrown light on the nature of Majakovskij's imagery and revealed in him a recurrent pattern of human thought. Stahlberger offers other stimulating suggestions as to the meaning of the symbols in Celovek. The "anaesthesia" Majakovskij experienced in heaven may be related to, possibly even influenced by, Kierkegaard's protest against the notion of heavenly bliss and of "eternity as the longest and most wearisome of all days..." And Majakovskij's return to earth Stahlberger suggests may be a poetic modification of Nietzsche's concept of "eternal recurrence". These suggestions are very plausible, since there is reason to believe that Majakovskij had become familiar with both Kierkegaard and Nietzsche at about the time he was writing Celovek. Lily Brik in her "Iz vospominanij", published in Almanax s Majakovskim (1934), states (p. 62) that at the time Majakovskij entered their lives she and Osip were engaged in reading aloud to one another: Crime and Punishment, The Brothers Karamazov, The Idiot, War and Peace, Anna Karenina, Zarathustra, and Kierkegaard's In Vino Veritas. It seems likely, then, that Majakovskij had some knowledge of both Nietzsche and Kierkegaard. This excursion through the criticism of Celovek has revealed a basic dichotomy in approach and method. Soviet critics as a rule read the poem as an episode in the poet's political biography and attempt to throw light on it by consulting historical or ideological evidence. Masbic-Verov, Met&nko, and Percov are examples of his method. Others attend either to the poem's structure or to motifs, images, and ideas in it, without reference to historical facts. Stahlberger, Jakobson, and perhaps Papernyj belong to this group. Neither approach is necessarily inappropriate. It is understandable that in the Soviet Union, where Majakovskij lived and with whose tragic and moving history his own work is saturated, critics should pay attention to evidences of his involvement with the revolutionary struggle. Stahlberger, on the other hand, presents hardly any information concerning the poet's social or political position, and indeed he may know very little about such things. And yet his book offers a great

MAJAKOVSKIJ'S POEM "ÒELOVEK"

53

many new insights into the work of Majakovskij. Majakovskij's life is as remote from Stahlberger's field of vision as is the life of Sophocles or the authors of the Gnostic texts echoed in Celovek. Stahlberger has posed questions which can be answered without reference to particular and local matters.

3. A N EXPOSITION OF THE POEM

The poem Celovek occupies a central point in the literary career of Majakovskij. Not only does it provide a résumé of the themes and motifs of his early poetry, but it points ahead to the resumption of those themes — with an altered modulation — in the poem Pro èto (1923) and in some of the last lines he wrote.26 In Pro èto the intransigent hero of Celovek reappears to query the poet as to whether he has succumbed to the philistine temptations of property and family happiness,27 and the tragic ending of the later poem with its invocation to the Big Dipper echoes the final lines of Celovek : Nebo kakoe teper'? Zvezde kakoj? It is important to recall that Majakovskij himself and the audiences to which he addressed the poem in 1918 treated it with high seriousness. The memoirs of the poet S. D. Spasskij provide a vivid account of the effect on his hearers of Majakovskij's poem with its complex system of transitions from solemnity to casual humor and on again to deep tragedy. Spasskij states that during the early months of 1918 the life of the Poet's Cafe passed under the sign of the poem Celovek, parts of which Majakovskij read every evening. He describes Majakovskij at one such reading of this period : Citai on vpolgolosa i ocen' vdumcivo. Poeti ne dvigajas', slovno besedoval sam s soboj. Kazalsja on ocen' vysokim v sravnitel'no nebol'Som pomescenii. Ugrjumovatym i pocemu-to odinokim sredi sumerecnogo ujuta komnaty.28 The poem offers many possibilities of structural analysis, one of which will be suggested here. We may consider it as consisting of a three-part antiphonal series, in each of which strong major chords are answered by " R. Jakobson, "Za i protiv Viktora Sklovskogo", International Journal of Slavic Linguistics and Poetics, N o . 1-2, 1959. " PSS, IV, 151. *8 V. Majakovskij v vospominanijax sovremennikov (Moscow, 1963), 174.

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lines in the minor mode. In three quasi-religious episodes, to phrase the same idea in another way, faith is answered by unbelief and there follows in the end the darkness of despair. The opening section, entitled "Rozdestvo Majakovskogo", celebrates the hand, brain, and heart of a human being as a major miracle. A man's tongue, moreover, can make remarkable music : "O - go - go" mogu — zal'etsja vysoko, vysoko. "O - GO — GO" mogu — i — oxoty poèta sokol — golos mjagko sojdét na nizy. This section of the poem contains a hymn to labor. Man as creator is revealed in a number of lowly activities: laundering, baking, shoemaking. When the poet raises his own heart to wave like a flag, "an unheard of miracle of the twentieth century", the effect is one of elation at the richness of possibility resident in man's nature. The transition in the second part of the poem, "Zizn' Majakovskogo", to a new thought and a new mood is marked by a deep-throated introductory line heavy with the vowel "o" : revom vstrevozeno logovo bankirov, vel'moz i dozej. Aroused and angered by the poet's joyous tidings, the powers of the real world emerge from their lair to proclaim another, their own, reality. Money is the essential thing, not the poet's heart waving on its eminence. Who, they ask, gave anyone the right to sing? Who ordered the days to blossom with July? Tangle the sky in wires! Wind the earth in a maze of streets! Hands? Put a gun in them! A tongue? Poison it with rumor! The disappointment of hope is immediate and sharp. The earth caught in a net of wires and streets is a distracted urban image reminiscent of many earlier lyrics.29 The poet is "penned up" in the world; he bears his yoke of days. Law and Religion weigh him down. Images of constraint and containment, as Stahlberger has pointed out, dominate this part of the poem. A jailer whose thousand eyes are city street lights stands watch over him. The earth is a shackle on his feet. The ocean of his overflowing love is held fast by houses, and he is enclosed forever in a tale signifying nothing. Reality has become a foaming vortex of money. Money in the poem stands as a symbol of the alien element (at times Majakovskij calls it byt) 29

See PSS I, 38. Compare: "Lebedi sej koloko'nyx/gnites' v silkax provodov".

MAJAKOVSKIJ'S POEM "CELOVEK"

55

in which the poet, whose vision is personal, subjective, and arbitrary, becomes encrusted. It stands for "hard" objective reality, for quantification and generalization. It is the antithesis of poetry. It is pure abstraction; it "doesn't smell", nor does it possess contour or color. Its value is not attached to particular persons or objects but applies equally to all things without taste or judgement: books, houses, labor, bric-a-brac, art, and purchased love. Its various guises — dollars, francs, rubles, crowns, yen, marks — are not really distinct from one another: one can be converted into the other by a simple quantitative operation. It is the negation of the heart. It is the enemy of metaphor in that it establishes between unlike things a tertium comparationis that is purely quantitive. It is the universal without concreteness. It swallows everything without discrimination: Tonut genii, kuricy, loSadi, skripki. Tonut slony Meloci tonut. It seems to symbolize in the poem the totality of that impersonal objective existence before which the poet feels mixed revulsion and despair. The Ruler of All appears occupying a spot in the center of the money vortex. The poet's rival and invincible enemy, he takes the form of the conventional cartoon image of the greedy "capitalist", a circumstance which, I believe, has misled some Soviet commentators. He is an inveterate mescanin in his tastes and in his attitude toward art and science. He reads cheap bourgeois novels of love and intrigue: "On eto Citaet Lokka". Humanity may stand in wonder before the work of the sculptor Phidias, but it was actually the Ruler in one of his incarnations who ordered those statues: "Xocu, ctob iz mramora pysnye baby". It was he who ordered God, "his artful cook", to fashion a pheasant out of clay for his appetite's sake. He needed a gather of stars for the delight of his female, so a legion of Galileos crawled all over the heavens with their telescopes for him. And he is immovable. He is the uncrowned master whom no revolution touches. Like the "Maria" in Oblako v stanax, who leaves the poet for marriage, the girl in Celovek too is drawn into the vortex of the enemy's plenty. She whispers to the Ruler the names of Majakovskij's poems ("FlejtoSkoj", "Obla£kom" ...), and thus Majakovskij's works of art, like those of the sculptor Phidias, are appropriated, used, and vulgarized by the enemy of all artists. Clearly the Ruler in this poem does not fit any simple symbolic scheme. To speak of him as a "personification of capitalism" narrows the poem

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unduly, although Majakovskij would no doubt have considered the contented capitalist as one version of the Ruler. He stands, rather, for something in the nature of existence which seemed to the poet recurrent, pervasive and inescapable. It may be that, as Voronskij maintained, the enemy discerned by Majakovskij was simply the successful bourgeois, the owner of goods inaccessible to poets; but if that is so then the "bourgeois" is only one of his many masks. For the "same old baldhead" appears later in the poem in the guise of an "idea", or as religion, or even as Satan.30 It seems clear that he resides also in the poet himself, and one suspects that we have here that "other Majakovskij" who was tempted by fine clothes, little French automobiles, and good food, who was, indeed, not strong against the allurements of material bliss. Finally, the poet would no doubt have recognized another version of the "old baldhead" in those contemporary scholars and critics who force his honest lines into a preconceived pattern of their own. The second exploration of faith and hope takes place in heaven. In the section of the poem called "Vosnesenie Majakovskogo" the poet's thoughts turn to suicide. In a passage of singular power which he recalled five years later in the poem Pro eto he develops images of cold despair: Drozit dusa. Mez l'dov ona, i ej iz l'dov ne vyjti! Yot tak i budu zakoldovannyj, nabereznoj Nevy idti. He seeks a chemist who will sell him a draft of poison, but since man is immortal he has no need of the drink. Majakovskij simply ascends into heaven and the promised bliss while pedestrians look on in stupid amazement. Over the churches with crosses burning in the light, over the forests filled with a "crowish cawing", Majakovskij soars into the infinite. Now, indeed, he is everywhere, and he calls upon the poets to sing about the new "demon" in an American suit and shiny yellow oxfords. The section of the poem called "Majakovskij v nebe" is an answer to the traditional hope for happiness beyond the shackles of earthly life. Throughout this section there is a marked contrast between the lofty subject and the casual colloquial idiom in which it is treated. Having arrived he puts down "his things" and relieves himself of the "load" of his tired body. Looking around, he finds that the much-admired heaven is nothing but a zalizannaja glad'. Angels among the clouds are singing an so PSS Vol. I, 266, 11. 731-738.

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aria from Rigoletto: "They have a fine life these angels, a fine life". At first he found things difficult. Earthly philistinism was not at home with the celestial variety, and here we have a glimpse of the philistine in the poet himself. It was irritating, for instance, that no one had a "corner" for himself, that "there was no tea-time and no papers with the tea". But he got used to it. With all the others he would go out to stare at new arrivals and greet his newly deceased friends, then show them around the "central station of all phenomena", take them for a guided tour of the "chief warehouse of all possible rays", or show them an "ancient blueprint, no one knew whose, the first unsuccessful attempt at a whale". In Majakovskij's poem the notion of a transcendental being whose realm exists beyond the given world is reduced to infantile concreteness. His pictures of cloudland are like those of an urban child who is fascinated with science and technology, and who figures the metaphysical first cause in terms of the levers, plugs, and handles that control all reality, and who sees the endless process of evolution as "blue prints" and "charts" of projects tried and rejected. But the poet's disappointment is inexorable in heaven as well as on earth. The celestial realm has its own rigid organization. Everything is busy and serious. The bodiless beings are decent and workmanlike. They scold the poet for "lying around idle". In fact bodiless beings "have no heart". He proposes that he take on in heaven the role of poet, thinker, and observer, that he simply "spread himself out on a cloud and contemplate everything", a proposal which the heavenly powers firmly reject. He falls at last into a deep ages-long sleep, one lasting sixteen thousand — or million — years. The promise of earth is disappointed by the reality of "money" and its power over life; the promise of heaven is disappointed by heaven's "reality", in other words, by the nature of the human intelligence itself which inexorably defines and categorizes with a view to controlling external reality. The blessed ones in heaven have each an assigned task to perform, be it repairing clouds or firing the sun, and everything is done in "frightful orderliness" (v strasnom porjadke). The poet's special calling is no more honored in heaven than it is on earth. This suggests the possibility of a return to earth after "an avalanche of years" and an exploration of the planet's own potential for paradise. The poem reaches a third climax, a final "turning point", in the section called "Vozvrasóenie Majakovskogo". The thought occurs to the poet that after the lapse of millions of years earth must be quite different. No doubt there is "fragrant springtime" in all the villages, and the cities are

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full of light. Perhaps humanity is now a singing family of red-cheeked and happy people ("Poet semja krasnoscekix i veselyx"). We should point out incidentally that the sudden appearance of Majakovskij's father at his side emphasizes again the childlike nature of his celestial images. The old man is just the same as he was, "only a little harder of hearing", and his ranger's uniform is a little more worn at the elbows. "It must be spring in the Caucasus now" is his prosaic comment, and for a moment in the poem the "father" seems to stand in the place of God himself. It is to him that Majakovskij complains about the boredom of heavenly life and announces his intention of returning to earth, where time and progress must surely have wrought a change. The third disappointment is the sharpest of all. The myth of heaven man can lose without great loss if he can still accept the idea of progress and believes in the possibility of an earthly paradise. But if man's promise is not realized on earth, if life after death is a childish dream and progress a myth, what is man to do with himself (kuda devat'sja?)? This is precisely the problem Majakovskij poses in the third climax of the poem. Nothing has changed on earth since he last saw it. The human throng is still tied to "business" (v povodu u dela). The same old "bald fellow" presides over the terrestrial "can-can", sometimes in the form of an "idea", sometimes as a kind of devil, sometimes like a god, hidden in the clouds. The disappointment of man's life on earth had been summed up earlier in the frustration of love and the pang of jealousy. After his return to earth it is "the same old thing". The thought of love offers itself and the poet "welcomes his madness back". He searches for his old love on Zukovskij Street and finds her after all those years, but in the lawful bed of another: "I'm Nikolaev, an engineer. Why are you bothering my wife?" Disillusionment is complete when the poet learns that a legend has grown up around his own name. Thousands of years ago the name of "Zukovskij Street" had been changed to "Majakovskij Street", because, as a pedestrian explained, the poet had shot himself here at his loved one's door. And "she leaped to him out of the window, and there they lay upon each other, body to body". Thus humanity manages much as before. A foolish legend adorns the harsh inescapable reality . Love is not satisfied, but tales are still told in its honor. The foolish story connecting his name with mutual "love unto death" is the final and sharpest wound which the poet receives. The "future" has failed its prophet. Not only is the Ruler still enthroned and Money dominant, but — what is infinitely worse — cheap fiction and verbal claptrap have vulgarized and dissipated the poet's tragedy. Majakovskij realizes

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now, it would seem, that neither time nor distance will ever bring a change, and that even beyond the farthest cluster of nebulae that the most powerful telescopes will ever reveal there can never be any Elysian Fields, nor any place for the poet to rest. With mounting despair he wanders the emptiness of inter-stellar space. The poem Celovek is a philosophical meditation on the nature of man, his present condition, and his promise for the future. The "man" involved is Majakovskij himself, a poet. The basic idea, a not unfamiliar one in the work of the early Majakovskij, is that the poet has "nowhere to go" (emu nekuda det'sja). The force that dominates objective reality, represented in childlike images as the "Ruler of All" or as an angelic band busily managing the heavenly realm, or as the bald head of a lawful husband and father, allows no place for the man whose only banner is his heart. Man appears in the poem as a creator. Whether in the guise of baker, shoemaker, or poet the important thing about him is his urge to make beautiful shapes or sounds or to think beautiful thoughts. This urge is frustrated by the invincible enemy in this world, in the next, and indeed "for ever and ever, Amen". INDIANA UNIVERSITY

THE ARTIST TURNED PROPHET: LEO TOLSTOJ AFTER 1880

WILLIAM B. EDGERTON

There is nothing in all of Western literary history that quite equals the dramatic story of Europe's sudden discovery, in the mid-1880's, of the Russian novel. At the end of the 1870's the only Russian writer who was generally known in Europe and America was Turgenev, and he had spent so much of his adult life in the West that the West looked upon him more as a European than a Russian. Before the end of the 1880's Russian literature had aroused such interest on both sides of the Atlantic that writers as far apart as Paris and Chicago spoke almost simultaneously of a peaceful Russian literary invasion, and another American journal commented: "Every novel nowadays must either be by a Russian or somewhat like a Russian author's, or be about Russia to get into the high stream of popularity." 1 The main outlines of this drama of discovery were given in the paper I presented in 1963 at the Fifth International Congress of Slavists, at Sofia. There I pointed out the role of French and German critics, and particularly of Eugene-Melchior de Vogue and his book Le Roman russe (Paris, 1886), in awakening an interest in the Russian novel all over Europe, even among most of the Western and Southern Slavic peoples. This conclusion has since found further confirmation in scholarly research published in a number of countries.2 1

Eugfene-Melchior de VogU6, "Les Livres russes en France", Revue des Deux Mondes, LXXVIII (15 December 1886), 824; and "The Russian Novel", Southern Bivouac, N. S., II (May, 1887), 201, and Dial, VIII (March, 1888), cited by Royal A. Gettmann, Turgenev in England and America (= Illinois Studies in Language and Literature, Vol. XXVII, No. 2, Urbana, The University of Illinois Press, 1941), 110. 2 XpHCTnaHa HlTyjn.ii, " T O J I C T O S B lepMaHim", JIumepamypHoe nacjiedcmeo, L X X V , KH. 2 (MocKBa, 1 9 6 5 ) , 2 1 1 : " O A H H M H3 CTHMyjioB K inmnmn poMaHOB Toneroro B TepMaHHH, KaK H BO MHOEBX flpyrax erpaHax, nocnyacnji ycnex BToporo m/iamm "BoflHbi H Mnpa" BO OpaHQHH H (J)paHuy3CKoe xce "oTKpwnie" Tojicroro H apyrnx BEJIHKHX nHcaTejiefl POCCHH B H3BecTHbix CTaTbax M . fle Bonoa ..." — Eaatum

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W I L L I A M B. E D G E R T O N

In this sudden discovery of Russian literature the works of Leo Tolstoj occupied a special position. At the Sofia Congress I demonstrated this in a chronological table showing the date of the first book publication in each of seventeen European languages of each of nineteen literary works that Tolstoj had published in Russian before 1880. From 1862 (the date of the first translation) up to the end of 1884 the total figure for all these EJUI0K030BHH, "TOJICTOS B ITojitme", JIumepamypHoe uacdedcmeo, LXXV, KH. 2 (MocKBa, 1965), 254: "IIojibCKaa HHTEJUIHREM^W BHHM«ITGJII>HO npacjiyinHBajiacb K MH6HHIO 3anaAHbDC KpHTHKOB, H nOSTOMy BTOpOft 3TaU BOCUpHJITHH TOJICRORO B Ilojitme (nocjie 1883 r.) B 3HaHHTe.IBHOFI Mepe CBH3EH C 3anaflHoeBponeiicKoft oueincofi TsopiecTBa rracaTeJM, B OCO6CHHOCTH C H3BCCTHBIMH CTaibHMH M. fle Borws o pyccKofi jiHTepaType." — Piotr Grzegorczyk, Lew Tolstoj w Polsce; zarys bibliograficzno-literacki (Warsaw, Paristwowy Instytut Literacki, 1964), 13-14: "2ywsze zaj?cie si? literature rosyjsk^, a zwlaszcza Tolstojem, wyptyn?io w Polsce z podniet nieoczekiwanych. Rrytyka polska zawsze pilnie sledzila zycie literackie Paryza, a wlasnie w polowie lat osiemdziesi^tych zacz^fy stamt^d napiywac raz po raz entuzjastyczne glosy o sukcesach nowych powiesci i dramatow rosyjskich. Wzbudzily zainteresowanie zwlaszcza cztery portrety literackie: Gogola, Turgieniewa, Dostojewskiego i Tolstoja, skreslone przez glosnego wowczas krytyka, pozniejszego czlonka Akademii, E. M. de Vogue, zamieszczone w latach 1883-1885 w cieszqcym si? powagq autorytetu i poczytnosciq rowniez i u nas miesi?czniku 'Revue des Deux Mondes'". — 3 . r . Kapxy, OuHAHHdcKdH dumepamypa u POCCUH: 1850-1900 (MocKBa-JleHHHrpafl, 1964), 47: "IlepBbiM pyccKHM rmcaTeJieM, c TBopiecraoM Koroporo $hhhm n03HaK0Mmmcb B 60-70-e roflbi, 6bui TypreHeB. K TOMy BpeMeHH OH yace n0Jn>30BaJicfl npn3HaHJieM B 3anaflHoeBponeficioix cTpaHax, HTO cnc>co6cTBOBaJio h ero H3BecTHOcrH B OHHJWHflHH." — >Kyacamia fl,. 3ejn>flxeto [Zoldhelyi Zsuzsa], "3nnpe Ca6o — BeHrepcKHfl nonyjiHpraaTop pyccxofi JMTepaType", in the collection BemepcKO-pyccKue jiumepamypnbie ce»3u (MocKBa, 1964), 126-173, says that Endre Szabo first became interested in Russian literature and decided to learn Russian after reading Russian literary works in French and German translations. — Tamara Gane, in her introduction to Filip Roman's invaluable bibliography of Russian literature in Rumania, Literatura rusa sovietica in limba romina: 1830-1859 (Bucharest, 1959), 16, 18, and 31, quotes the great Rumanian writer Mihail Sadoveanu as having acquired his knowledge of Russian literature through French translations, makes the statement that Turgenev became known in Rumania through French and German translations, and says that "many literary scholars consider that the appearance of E. M. de Vogue's book Le Roman russe contributed in good measure to the great popularity of Russian literature in all the countries of Europe (and consequently in our own)". She comments on the general weakness of Rumanian translations of Russian literature because of the fact that most of them have been made from other languages, especially French. — In the introduction to his and Sdndor Kozocsa's excellent bilingual bibliography of Russian literature and the literatures of the other Soviet peoples published in Hungary, A szovjet nepek irodalmanak magyar bibliogrdfiaja 1944-ig (Budapest, 1956), xxxv-xxxvi, Gyorgy Rad6 writes: "PyccKaa JiHTepaTypa iimpoKo ocBemaeTcn B HHX [B BeHrepcioix acypHanax] yace B nepBofi Tpera XIX Beica: B Tudom&nyos Gyujtemeny eme B 1828 rosy, B Tudomdnytdr B nepBbift ace rofl ero H3,naHHfl — B 1834 rosy. IIpaBfla, Bee STH H NOCJIEFLOBABNME 3a HHMH CTaTbH, oiepim BSHTM H3 HHOCTpaHHbix (HEMEIPUIX, 4>paHuy3CKHx) HCTOHHHKOB, a 6OJIBNRAHCTBO H3 HHX CBH3AHO flaace c HMEHEM 'oiJiraiHaJibHoro peueH3opa' pyccKofl jnrrepaTypbi Eynrapiraa, pa3o6jiaieHHoro qapcKoro nmnoHa H flOHocnuca. ..."

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works in all these languages was only 14, but in the five-year period from 1885 to 1889 the total was 101.3 These figures deal only with Tolstoj's artistic works. By the mid-1880's, when Europe discovered the Russian novel, Tolstoj had already undergone that great personal religious revolution which was to give a new direction to the remaining thirty years of his life. As a result, Europe and America discovered Tolstoj the artist and Tolstoj the prophet simultaneously. What I Believe was published in German translation in 1884, a year before the first German edition of Anna Karenina ;4 the two works came out simultaneously in French, in 1885 ;5 and an English translation of the French version of What I Believe was published in New York, likewise in 1885, the year before the appearance of the first English versions of War and Peace and Anna Karenina.6 The simultaneous introduction to Western European and American audiences of both Tolstoj the artist and Tolstoj the prophet had the effect of telescoping more than thirty years of literary development. The Tolstoj with whom Russian readers had first become acquainted in the 1850's through Childhood, Boyhood, Youth, and his stories and sketches about the Caucasus and the Crimean War; the Tolstoj whose War and Peace in the 1860's and Anna Karenina in the 1870's had established him at home as a new giant of Russian literature; the Tolstoj who had shared his growing spiritual anguish with his Russian readers through the final pages of Anna Karenina and the great Confession that followed it almost immediately, and then had set forth his radical new religious philosophy in What I Believe — all these Tolstojs were suddenly introduced to readers of French, English, and German, as fast as the translators could make this wide variety of works available. The result was that foreign readers could not possibly be expected to understand Turgenev's famous deathbed plea to Tolstoj to return to literature.' Indeed, the very fact that foreign readers became acquainted almost at the same time with What I Believe and Anna Karenina, with A Confession and War and Peace, gave added significance to Tolstoj the artist in the eyes of those 8 William B. Edgerton, "The Penetration of Nineteenth-Century Russian Literature into the Other Slavic Countries", American Contributions to the Fifth International

Congress of Slavists (The Hague, M o u t o n & Co., 1963), 60-62.

4

Hiryjibu, "TOJICTOS B repinamm", 210, 220. Vladimir Boutchik, Bibliographie des oeuvres littéraires russes traduites en français, MI (Paris, 1934-1936), ibid., Items No. 1071 and 1355. • Antonina Yassukovitch, Tolstoi in English : 1878-1929 (New York, The New York Public Library, 1929), 5 and 13. 7 Letter of the end of June (O. S.) 1883 to Tolstoj, in H. C. TypreHeB, Coôpanue coHUHenuû e deemdifamu moMax, XII (Mocraa, 1958), 580. 6

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who, like Vogué, were disturbed by the amoral, materialistic scientism that was spreading in the West along with the spreading influence of French Naturalism. Matthew Arnold in England and William Dean Howells in the United States, along with Vogué and Ernest Dupuy in France, welcomed the moral preoccupation of Tolstoj as well as his artistic greatness.8 During the 1880's and 1890's Tolstoj produced a series of works in which he set forth the religious, social, political, economic, and even artistic ideas that came to be known as Tolstoyism. From the mideighties on, each new production that came from his pen was published in French, English, and German translations almost as soon as in the original Russian — and in some cases, thanks to the Tsarist censorship, even sooner and in more complete versions than the ones that were printed in Russia. Relatively few persons at home or abroad understood or accepted all the disparate doctrines that made up Tolstoyism, but few could fail to be absorbed by the real-life drama that was taking place in the country that one French caricaturist called "the kingdom of silence".9 Like an Old Testament prophet calling a King David to judgement, the greatest living writer in Russia passed judgement upon the iniquities of the whole social system in which he lived. In 1901 the newspaper publisher A. S. Suvorin noted in his diary: "We have two tsars — Nicholas the Second and Leo Tolstoj" ;10 and in that same year a French newspaper published one of several caricatures that appeared in the foreign press showing the relative size of the two Russian "tsars" : in each of them the gigantic figure of Tolstoj, dressed in simple peasant clothes, looks down at a little martinet, dressed in military uniform and scarcely tall enough to reach to Tolstoj's knees.11 At home as well as abroad there were writers of prominence who came under the spell of the prophet of Jasnaja Poljana. "Tolstoyan philosophy made a powerful impression on me, and ruled my life for six or seven years", Cexov wrote in 1894. "What affected me", he went on to explain, "was not the basic principles, which had been known to me earlier, but the Tolstoyan manner of expression, its reasonableness, and probably its 8

Matthew Arnold, "Count Leo Tolstoi", The Fortnightly Review, XLVIII (London, 1887), 783-799; William Dean Howells, "Lyof N. Tolstoy", The North American Review, CLXXXVÏII (New York, 1908), 842-859; E.-M. de Vogué, Le Roman russe (Paris, 1886); Ernest Dupuy, Les Grands Maîtres de la littérature russe (Paris, 1885). •

10 11

Jlumepamypnoe

nacAedcmeo, LXXV, KH. 1 (MocKBa, 1965), 449.

ffueeuuK A. C. Cyeopum (MocKBa-IIeTporpafl, 1923), 263 (29 Maa 1901 r.). JIumepamypHoe uacAedcmeo, LXXV, KH. 1, 583.

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special kind of hypnotism".12 From 1886 until the end of his life in 1895 Nikolaj Leskov was a devoted, if not uncritical, follower of Tolstoj ; and his article "About Goads", published in 1886, is a remarkably clever defense of Tolstoyan "non-resistance" that seems to have been overlooked by all writers on Tolstoj until the middle of the twentieth century.13 In France a number of writers came under Tolstoj's influence. It was particularly notable in the works of Edouard Rod and Romain Rolland; but it also extended to a number of other French writers, including Paul Bourget and Paul Margueritte.14 Tolstoj's influence on English and American writers has been discussed by various Russian scholars, particularly M. P. Alekseev and T. L. Motyleva,15 and has been the subject of at least two American doctoral dissertations.16 Even among writers who rejected them Tolstoj's new doctrines had a disturbing and fructifying influence. Korolenko, for example, in 1886 wrote his story "The Tale of Flor, Agrippa and Menahem the Son of Jehuda" as an answer to Tolstoyan non-resistance; and "My Life" has often been pointed out as an example of Cexov's fiction that reflects his struggle to come to terms with Tolstoyism.17 Today, nearly sixty years after Tolstoj's death, what has come to be known as Tolstoyism continues to be a disturbing, intractable element that refuses to fit neatly and quietly into any of the usual patterns of literary scholarship. Writers in the West have tended, with Turgenev, to lament Tolstoj's turning his back on literature, and have been particularly repelled by Tolstoj's belligerent, dogmatic rejection of most of the 12

Letter of 27 March 1894 to A. S. Suvorin, in A. IL HexoB, IJoAHoe coôpame commeHuu u nuceM, XVI (MocKBa, 1949), 132. 13 "O po«He. YBGT ctmaM npoTHMemw", Hoeoe epeMX, Ns 3838, 2-ro Hon6pa, 1886 r. This article is discussed in William B. Edgerton, "Leskov and Tolstoy: Two Literary Heretics", The American Slavic and East European Review, XII (December, 1963), 524-534. 14 Tolstoj's influence in France is discussed in detail in F. W. J. Hemmings, The Russian Novel in France: 1884-1941 (Oxford University Press, 1950); and in Thaïs S. Lindstrom, Tolstoï en France (1886-1910) (Paris, Institut d'Etudes Slaves de l'Université de Paris, 1952). 16 M. n . AneKceeB, "PyccKne KJiaccmcH b jiHTepaTypax aHrno-poivraHCKoro MHpa", 3ee3da, 5-6 (1944), 105-119; T. T. MoTtuieBa, O MupoeoM 3uaueHuu JI. H. ToAcmozo (MocKBa, 1957). 16 J. Allen Smith, "Tolstoy's Fiction in England and America" (unpublished dissertation, University of Illinois, 1939); and Clare R. Goldfarb, "Journey to Altruria: William Dean Howells' Use of Tolstoy" (unpublished dissertation, Indiana University, June 1964). 17 B. T. Kopojiemco, "Cxa3aHHe o 3>Jiope, Arpmme H MeHaxeMe, Cbme Heryflw", Coôpauue couuneituu e decnmu moMax, II (MocKBa, 1954), 216-237; A. II. *IexoB, "Mofl 2CH3Hb (PaccKa3 npoBHHimaJia)", IIojiHoe coôpame coHunenuii u nuceM, IX (MocKBa, 1948), 104-191.

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artistic achievements of European civilization. Marxist writers in Tolstoj's own native land have had less difficulty in accepting his esthetic doctrines but have found it impossible to deal adequately with the religious foundation upon which Tolstoyism rests. And critics almost everywhere — East and West — have been puzzled and repelled by the anarchistic doctrine of "non-resistance to evil" that Tolstoj himself considered to be the keystone holding all his beliefs together. While orthodox Marxists appear to find a satisfying key to all Tolstoyan enigmas in the articles that Lenin wrote about him, Lenin's explanations tend to be convincing only to those who have already accepted the Leninist presuppositions on which they are based.18 Somebody has said that in other countries literature imitates life, but in Russia life imitates literature. Like most aphorisms, this one suffers from the attempt to fit too much of reality into too neat a formula; and yet the partial truth it represents finds striking illustrations in Russian history, the most notable one being Cernysevskij's novel What Is to be Done? In the case of Tolstoj what we find is not that life imitated literature, but rather that the prophetic writings of the greatest living novelist in Russia at the end of the nineteenth century inspired great numbers of persons all over the world to attempt to reorganize their lives in harmony with the religious doctrines by which he himself was trying to live. The history and evaluation of Tolstoyism as a world-wide movement still remains to be written; and there has probably never been a more appropriate time to write it than now, in this second half of the most destructive century on record, when the cult of violence as a political weapon and the cult of the state as an absolute value have surpassed everything that aroused the thundering denunciation of Tolstoj. The proportions of this task are too great to be carried out within the confines of this paper. What I wish to do here, as a first step in the direction of the larger study, is to re-examine the nature and validity of Tolstoyism in the light of subsequent history, and to indicate what we may ultimately learn from a more extensive study of the movement. The only all-embracing definition one can give of Tolstoyism is to say that it is the whole complex of beliefs that coexisted from about 1880 on in the mind of Leo Tolstoj. Unquestionably Tolstoj himself, however, considered the heart of Tolstoyism to be the doctrine of non-resistance 18

B. H. JleHHH, O Aumepamype u ucxyccmee, H3fl. BTopoe, flonojmeHHoe (MocKBa, 1960), 259-282.

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to evil through violence, which Tolstoj had derived from studying the New Testament record of the life and teachings of Jesus. This fundamental doctrine, which might be called Christian anarchism, led Tolstoj with ruthless logic to reject the state, which can exist only on the basis of physical force, and all the institutions that derive their authority from the state, including the law courts, the police, all military forces, and even the state-supported and monopolistic Russian Orthodox Church. Tolstoj in his rejection of violence had many forerunners in addition to Jesus. They included not only the Hindus in India, whose non-violent culture went back many centuries before the Christian era, but also the fifteenth-century Bohemian Petr Chelcicky, the Mennonites of Germany (some of whom were persuaded by the Russian government in the eighteenth century to emigrate to Russia in return for the offer of perpetual freedom from military service), the Quakers of England, and several native Russian religious sects, notably the Dukhobors and the Molokans. Even closer to Tolstoj in time and place was a little group of Russians in Orel who were converted to non-violence in the 1870's by a remarkable but now forgotten young man named Aleksandr KapitonoviS Malikov (1839-1904). Tolstoj got acquainted with Malikov in 1878, at the very time that he himself was undergoing the spiritual anguish that led to his inner revolution. Contemporaries of Malikov referred to him as a "Tolstoyan" before Tolstoj himself; and no less a figure than V. G. Korolenko, who knew them both, was convinced that Tolstoj was indebted in part to Malikov for his own Tolstoyism.19 The various reasons that Tolstoj and his various predecessors set forth for their rejection of violence can be classified in two general categories: religious and secular. By "religious" I have in mind Tolstoj's own definition, which he expressed in 1901-1902 as follows: "True religion is that relation to the infinite life surrounding him which man has established in harmony with reason and knowledge, and which unites his life with this infinity and guides his actions."20 The religious philosophies of non-violence derive their justification not from any considerations regarding their effectiveness in dealing with problems of human behavior 1B B. r. KoponeHKO, "HcTopra Moero coBpeMemmica", CoSpmue coHuneHuu e decnmu moimx, VII (MoCKBa, 1955), 174-185, 420-421; M. «SpoJieHxo, rn. IV, "MajmKOB n ManHKOBipj", 3anucm ceMudecnmuuKa (MoCKBa, 1927), 113-118; A. OapecoB, "Oflra H3 'ceMHflec«THHKOB'", BecmHUK Eeponu, CCXXIX, 9 (1904), 225-260. 20 JI. H. TOJICTOA, "HTO TaKoe pejmrM H B TOM cymHocn, ee?", IIoAHoe coGpanue coHUHemii. K)6nJieflHoe maaHne, X X X V (MoCKBa, 1950), 163. This edition will be cited henceforth as K>6. U3d.

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and social and political organization in this world but rather from the assumptions they make regarding the nature of man. The Hindu strives to practise non-violence because he sees all forms of life as united with his own through reincarnation. He does not necessarily attempt to reconcile non-violence with politics or the requirements of the state; he simply places his religious obligations above everything secular. The first-century Christians likewise placed their religious loyalties above all secular loyalties, but for a different reason: they expected the world to come to an end within their own lifetime, and so they looked on Jesus' teaching of non-violence as an "interim ethic", to be followed during the transitional period before his triumphant return to earth should put an end to all the kingdoms of this world. Later pacifist Christian groups, such as the followers of Chelcicky, the Mennonites, the Quakers, the Dukhobors, and the Molokans, held to the doctrine of non-violence not as an "interim ethic", and still less because of any "worldly" considerations about its efficacy in practical politics, but rather because they considered it binding upon them, regardless of the consequences in this world, as an essential part of the teachings of Jesus. At the end of the seventeenth century and during the first half of the eighteenth, the Quakers put their religious pacifism to the test of practical politics in the New World in William Penn's colony of Pennsylvania, which was governed according to Quaker principles for seventy-five years.21 The non-violent principles of Aleksandr Malikov and his followers grew out of Malikov's doctrine of Godmanhood, or deo-humanism (bogocelovecestvo), the origin of which was described by the Narodnik leader Nikolaj Vasil'evi£ Cajkovskij (1850-1926) in a public letter to his friends written three months before his death. After giving an account of his disillusioning experiences in the movement "to the people" at the beginning of the 1870's, he went on to say: ... then came the moment when I said to myself that I could no longer live for the relative utility of revolutionary programs; I had to find absolute Goodness and absolute Truth, so that I could live by them. And after that, when I met A. K. Malikov on my way through Orel and told him we needed a new religion in order to get close to the people, he looked straight at me with his flashing eyes and exclaimed: "And what do you yourself believe in?" I answered: "In man." "And do you know", he thundered in the tone of a prophet, "that in order to believe in man you have to find God in him, because after all man is 21 A good brief account of this experiment and its implications is to be found in Brent E. Barksdale, Pacifism and Democracy in Colonial Pennsylvania (= Stanford Honors Essays in Humanities, III, Stanford, California, 1961).

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otherwise just as relative and just as contradictory as all our everyday affairs. .,."22 A. I. Faresov in an obituary article on Malikov quoted him as justifying his doctrine of non-violence in the following terms: Vice is corrected through passive protest, that is, through verbal disapproval of certain kinds of action, without threats or violence. We cannot hate a sore arm, because it is a part of the whole body. So it is with a bad man in contemporary society.28 In this statement, and similar ones from other sources, we can see that the basis of Malikov's non-violence was religious, an outgrowth of his "deo-humanistic" view of man as a creature united with all other human beings through their common spirituality, their common kinship with God. At the same time, Malikov and his followers assumed that this religiously grounded belief in non-violence could also serve as a basis for the organization of society. In this respect they anticipated the followers of Tolstoj who attempted to establish colonies organized on Tolstoyan principles. Tolstoj's non-violence was likewise religious in nature. As V. A. Maklakov demonstrated nearly half a century ago in a brilliant lecture on Tolstoj and bolshevism, Tolstoj's doctrines cannot be understood apart from a conception of life that transcends our physical existence in this material world.24 In Tolstoj's eyes it was useless to argue whether or not society could be effectively organized on the basis of non-resistance to evil, because Tolstoj's justification for this doctrine lay elsewhere. In order to understand Tolstoj's reasoning about it we must go back to the spiritual crisis that took place in his life at the end of the 1870's. At that time he had achieved practically everything that life could offer: he held a position in Russian literature that was unsurpassed by any living writer; he was wealthy; he belonged to the Russian aristocracy; he was blooming with health; he was happily married; he lived in comfort on a beautiful estate; he had numerous friends; he was at home in the best circles of society in Russia, and he was well acquainted with life abroad — and yet at the age of fifty he found himself on the brink of suicide. He had acquired everything in life that a man could desire except the one most important thing: an understanding of the meaning of life. Paradoxically, A . A . THTOB (pefl.), HUKOAOU Bacwibeem HauKoecKuU. PeAuzuo3Hbie u o6ufecmeeHHue UCKOHUH (IlapjBK, 1929), 283-285. 23 A . H . apecoB, "0«HH H3 'CEMHFLECFLTHHKOB'", BecmnuK Eeponu, C C X X I X , 9 (1904), 233. 24 B. A . MamiaKOB, ToAcmou u 6oAbuteeu3M (napioK, 1921). 22

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it was the specter of death itself that brought Tolstoj almost to the point of self-inflicted death as an escape from a meaningless life. The riddle of death had preoccupied him ever since his youth, and reflections of this preoccupation can be traced through his literary career from the very first work he published. At the moment when he had achieved everything that was generally considered to bring happiness to man, he was driven to despair by the age-old question that refuses to retreat in the face of all the worldly blessings a man can accumulate: the question what meaning life with all these blessings could hold in the face of inevitable death. After a long period of spiritual anguish Tolstoj finally found an answer to his question in Jesus' paradoxical teaching about living for others rather than for oneself. Having made this revolutionary discovery, Tolstoj set about exploring its implications, trying to reorganize his own life in harmony with it, and communicating what he had found to others through his writings. A Confession, What I Believe, On Life, and The Kingdom of God Is Within You are the four major works in which Tolstoj's new doctrines are set forth in their most complete form. 25 He saw clearly that his doctrine of non-resistance was anarchistic, but he likewise recognized that his anarchism was religious rather than political. In his letter of 1/13 August 1900 thanking Paul Eltzbacher for the gift of his book Der Anarchismus, in which Eltzbacher had discussed the anarchistic ideas of seven persons including Tolstoj, he wrote: It seems to me that I am not an anarchist in the sense of a political reformer. Under the word "coercion" in the index to your book there are references to various pages in the writings of others, but none to my writings. Is that not a proof that the teaching which you attribute to me — but which is really only the teaching of Christ — is not a political but a religious teaching?2" Gol'denvejzer relates that Tolstoj reread Eltzbacher's book in 1908, and he quotes Tolstoj as saying: "Christian anarchism is a narrow definition of the Christian world-outlook, but anarchism is an inevitable consequence of Christianity in its application to social life."27 The religious anarchism that lay at the heart of Tolstoj's doctrines provided an absolute standard by which to measure the conduct of all human affairs. Tolstoj himself recognized — albeit reluctantly — that this absolute standard was impossible to attain. In 1889, writing in his " H c n o B e f l b " , K)6. U3d„ XXIII (MocKBa, 1957), 1-59; "B i e M MOH B e p a ? " , ibid., 304-465; "O JKH3HH", ibid., XXVI ( M o c K B a , 1936), 313-442; "IJapcTBO 6o)Kne B H y r p a Bac", ibid., XXVIII (Mocma, 1957), 1-306. 26 Ibid., LXXVI (MocKBa, 1956), 424. a ' A. E. roJtbffeHBefisep, BGjimu ToAcmoeo (MocKBa, 1959), 239. 25

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own English about Adin Ballou's book Christian Non-Resistance, he said : The only comments that I wish to make on Mr. Ballou's explanation of the doctrine, are, firstly, that I cannot agree with the concession that he makes for employing violence against drunkards and insane people, the Master made no concessions, and we can make none. We must try, as Mr. Ballou puts it, to make impossible the existence of such persons, but if they are — we must use all possible means, sacrifice ourselves, but not employ violence. A true Christian will always prefer to be killed by a madman rather than to deprive him of his liberty. Secondly, that Mr. Ballou does not decide more categorically the question of property, but the term "property" cannot have any signification for him, all that he uses, a Christian only uses till somebody does not takes it from him [sic], he cannot defend his property, so he cannot have any. ... Thirdly, I think that for a true Christian, the term "government" (very properly defined by Mr. Ballou) cannot have any signification and reality. Government is for a Christian only regulated violence; governments, states, nations, property, churches, — all these for a true Christian are only words without meaning. ... No compromise! Christian principles must be pursued to the bottom, to be able to support practical life. But then Tolstoj went on to acknowledge the impossibility of putting this absolute ideal into practice: The application of every doctrine is always a compromise, but the doctrine in theory cannot allow compromises; although we know we never can draw a mathematically straight line, we will never make another definition of a straight line as [sic] "the shortest distance between two points". 28 This distinction between Tolstoj's theory and its practical application, which he discussed in greater detail a few months later in a letter to Ballou himself, 29 tended to be overlooked or ignored both by Tolstoj's critics and opponents and by his followers. For this Tolstoj himself was no doubt largely responsible, for in his writings he constantly dwelt on non-resistance as a theory and very rarely even admitted the distinction quoted above between theory and its practical application. In this insistence upon the impossible ideal he was undoubtedly motivated above all by his own observation of what had happened to the teachings of Jesus, which are similarly beyond man's attainment, when the established churches attempted to bring them down within human reach. But he was probably influenced also by what Nikolaj Berdjaev considered to be one of the most characteristic traits of Russian intellectual life, its maximal28

Letter of 22 June (5 July) 1889 (in English) to Lewis Gilbert Wilson, K)6. ind., LXTV (MocKBa, 1953), 270-272. 28 Letter of 21-24 February 1890 to Adin Ballou, K)6. U3d., LXV (Mocraa, 1953), 34-36.

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ism.30 The uncompromising consistency with which Tolstoj pursued the implications of his new faith in non-resistance provides an additional illustration of the famous thesis that Sir Isaiah Berlin set forth in The Hedgehog and the Fox about Tolstoj's personality as reflected in his great novel War and Peace?1 Tolstoj's conception of the state and all its related institutions shows striking parallels with that of Lenin: they both saw the governments of their time as mechanisms resting on violence and serving for the exploitation of man by man. But the differences in their views are equally striking: whereas Lenin looked forward to the end of this exploitation through revolution and the establishment of a new form of government based on Marxist principles, Tolstoj saw all forms of government as subject to the same corrupting influence of violence. In his diary he noted on 3 August 1898: Even if what Marx predicted should happen, it would only mean that despotism had changed hands. First there was the rule of the capitalists, and then there would be the rule of those who controlled the workers. ... The principal gap and mistake in Marx's theory lies in the assumption that capital will pass from the hands of individuals into the hands of the government, and from a government that represents the people into the hands of the workers. The government does not represent the people; it consists once again only in individuals who have power — and who to some extent are distinct from the capitalists and in part are identical with them. And for that reason the government will never hand over capital to the workers. The idea that government represents the people is a fiction, a deception. If there should be such a system in which the government really expressed the will of the people, then there would be no need for violence in such a government, there would be no need for government in the sense of power. [Italics Tolstoj's.] 32

Tolstoj's insistence on what the theologian G. H. C. Macgregor called "the relevance of an impossible ideal" undoubtedly gave added force to his social criticism, but it also led to perplexity, frustration, and ultimately disillusionment among most of the young people who attempted to put uncompromising theory into uncompromising practice. In Tolstoj's energetic mind non-resistance to evil served as a core around which, in the course of time, there clustered numerous other doctrines, all of which together came to be known as "Tolstoyism". His youthful enthusiasm for Rousseau had no doubt helped to stimulate his growing distrust of "civilization" and his corresponding preference for the simplicity and 80

HmcoJiafi EepflaeB, HcmoKU u CMMCJI pyccKozo KOMMyuu3Ma (IlapiDK, YMCAPress, 1955), 92-93, 98-99. 81 Isaiah Berlin, The Hedgehog and the Fox (New York, Mentor Books, 1957). " 106. usd., LIII (MocKBa, 1953), 206.

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naturalness of the peasants and country life over the artificiality of his own social class and life in the city. His acquaintance during his first trip abroad, in 1857, with the writings of Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, the French philosopher of anarchism, and then on his second trip abroad, in 1861, with Proudhon himself, undoubtedly left important seeds of anarchistic influence within his mind. Along with his condemnation of government, private property, and money, and his cult of simplification and living by one's own physical labor, Tolstoj in time also came to preach abstinence from tobacco and alcohol, vegetarianism, and — in The Kreutzer Sonata — sexual continence. In February 1885, upon reading Henry George's book Progress and Poverty, he at once made a Tolstoyan doctrine out of Henry George's economic theories. In philosophy and religion his mind reached out in all directions toward thinkers and movements in other lands and other times that presented parallels to his own developing convictions. At the end of the century in his book What Is Art? he set forth a theory of art as the communication of emotion, with his ethical and religious principles serving as the standard by which good art is distinguished from bad. In all this multifarious activity Tolstoj was guided by one all-encompassing purpose : the transformation of all human society through an inner, moral revolution, based not on the seizure of power but on its deliberate rejection, and aimed at remaking the institutions of society by first remaking individuals. In general, the effect of Tolstoj's teachings was to confront each individual with moral responsibility for his own actions. The basis for this moral responsibility, according to Tolstoj, lay in the law of love that he perceived as the fundamental law of the universe and that he found at the heart of all the world's great religions. A contemporary said that various people took from Tolstoj, as from the sea, whatever moral and religious values corresponded most closely to their own inclinations and needs.33 The consequences were enormous, far-reaching, and as varied as the temperaments and cultural backgrounds of those who let down their nets in that great Tolstoyan sea. In the latter half of the 1880's, two traditional patterns of action among young Russian intellectuals coincided with the teachings of Tolstoj to produce a new phenomenon in Russian life. As early as 1862 and 1863, inspired in part by the ideas of Fourier, by the example of Robert Owen and his U t o p i a n communities in England and America, and later by the dreams of communal life in Cernysevskij's novel What Is to Be Done?, 83

A. C. IlpyraBHH, O JIbee TojicmOM u o moAcmoeifax. Mamepuajtu (MocKBa, 1911), 227.

Ouepm,

eocnoMUHanua,

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WILLIAM B. EDGERTON

young intellectuals in Petersburg attempted to provide models for the reorganization of society by setting up communes run on co-operative principles. 34 These city communes were neither very successful nor very long-lived. They were followed at the end of the 1860's by further efforts, this time in the country rather than in the city and in the New World rather than in Russia. While Vladimir KonstantinoviS Gejnz (William Frey), Nikolaj Cajkovskij, Aleksandr Malikov, and other Russians attempted to set up communal farms on the plains of Kansas in the United States, young Russian Populists at home began their movement " T o the People" (V narod) in the 1870's, hoping at first to arouse the peasants to revolt and later simply to lift them up economically and culturally by living among them and bringing them the fruits of education and enlightenment. The traditions of communal colonies and of Russian populism were reflected in the various efforts that were made by Tolstoj's followers at the end of the 1880's to set up agricultural communes organized on Tolstoyan principles. By 1895 S. N. Krivenko in a disparaging account of the movement listed two or three Tolstoyan colonies in Smolensk Province, one each in Xar'kov, Cernigov, Samara, Kursk, Perm, and Kiev Provinces, one in the northern Caucasus, two on the shores of the Black Sea, five in Tver' Province, and rumors of plans for three new ones in the provinces of Xerson, Ekaterinoslav, and Kamenec-Podol'sk — not an unimpressive list in spite of Krivenko. 35 In general, the motives that led the Tolstoyans to join these colonies varied widely. The ethical appeal of Tolstoyism was the strongest force that attracted them; but some were drawn more by the idea of living by the fruits of their own physical labor, others were more strongly attracted by the idea of breaking with a society organized on violence and exploitation, and still others were impelled by a desire to devote themselves to the service of their fellow man. Like every movement of dissent, of course, Tolstoyism also attracted its quota of the misfits of society, who wander from group to group and doctrine to doctrine seeking in vain for the peace they cannot find within themselves. But perhaps the most important characteristic shared by almost all the Tolstoyans was an utter lack of the practical knowledge and experience required for KopHeft HyKOBCKHft, "HCTOPHJI OieimoBCKofi KOMMYMI", Jliodu u KHUZU, BTopoe H3flaHne flonojmeHHoe (MocKBa, 1960), 236-263; rpa E. A. Cannae, "CeMb apecroB", HcmopuuecKuu eecmnuK, L X X I (MapT 1898), 836-837; E. A. CaJmac, " A B e H a i ® a T b tacoB — BOCKpeceHbe!", Co6pauue coHuneiiuu, X I X (MocKBa, 1896), 304-325. 34

36

C . H . KpHBemto, Ha pacnymbu {KyAbmypuue

(CaHKT-neTep6ypr, 1895), 7.

cKumu u KyjtbmypHbie

odunoiKu)

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PROPHET

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success in agriculture. And the problems that arose from their ignorance of practical affairs was compounded by their narrow, literal, doctrinaire approach to the teachings of their master. In their typically Russian maximalist effort to apply in its pure form the Tolstoyan doctrine of non-resistance to evil to the practical problems of organized social life, the followers of Tolstoj demonstrated that their master was wiser than they when he acknowledged in the letter quoted above (on page 71) that "the application of every doctrine is always a compromise". One of the famous stories about the problems of the Tolstoyans concerned an incident in the Saveevo colony in the Province of Smolensk, whose members had adopted a thirteen-year-old waif from a neighboring town and were bringing him up according to the principles of non-resistance. Once the boy had mastered the principles, he proceeded to take away the jacket of one of the Tolstoyans and refused to give it back. His answers to the Tolstoyans were an insolent but effective challenge to all the principles they claimed to live by: they preached that private property was evil, and yet they insisted that he give the jacket back to its rightful owner. They preached non-resistance to evil, and so they were powerless to take the jacket away from the boy by force without exposing the hollowness of their belief. When they attempted to appeal to his sense of gratitude for all they had done for him, he reminded them of their own statements that feeding the starving and clothing the naked was a part of their duty to their fellow man, without any thought of reward.36 Another incident arose in Tver' Province when some peasants offered to buy some trees that had been felled in a plot of ground belonging to a Tolstoyan colony. One of the Tolstoyans persuaded the rest that they should give the trees to the peasants without payment, since they did not need the trees, which after all were a part of God's gift to mankind, and since they believed that all private property beyond what was necessary for their work was kept only by violence. The canny peasants then persuaded the Tolstoyans that the same reasoning should apply logically to all the rest of the trees in their forest, and the Tolstoyans felt obliged to agree with their logic. This led to a near riot as all the peasants in the neighborhood thronged into the forest to get as many free trees as they could. Unwilling to use force themselves to keep order, the Tolstoyans appointed one of the peasants to serve as a guard and let only a reason36

H . K . MnxafiJioBCKHfi, " B OFLHOS H3 TOJICTOBCKHX KOJIOHHK", IIo/iHoe

co6pmue

coHuneHuii, VII (CaHKT-IIeTep6ypr, 1909), 155-156; Aylmer Maude, The Life of Tolstoy, II (Oxford University Press, 1930), 223-224.

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able number into the forest at one time. The Tolstoyans learned later that their guard was letting in only those peasants who paid him a bribe. Consequently, their fanatical anarchism in the name of brotherly love had actually led to rioting, bribery, the gift of the trees to the wealthier peasants who needed them the least but could afford to pay the guard, and bad feeling all round toward the Tolstoyans.37 In another colony a newcomer named Klobskij suddenly announced that he was taking possession of the whole Tolstoyan estate and ordered all the Tolstoyans off the property. Keeping to their belief that nobody had any right to hold private property or protect it either in person or through the courts against usurpers, all the Tolstoyans cleared out and left the property in Klobskij's hands. Two days later, however, the Tolstoyan who held legal title to the property called a meeting of the peasants in the nearest village and made them a gift of it, signing over the legal title. Since the peasants had no scruples about using force to take possession of their legal property, Klobskij gave up and left without a struggle.38 Ludicrous as these incidents are, it would be a mistake to dismiss the significance of Tolstoj the prophet merely on the basis of the activities of his more doctrinaire followers. Tolstoj himself is reported to have said, "I am Tolstoj, but I am not a Tolstoyan."39 What he no doubt meant was that he did not believe in turning his own writings into dogma. And yet that is just the danger that confronts every original thinker and teacher. Tolstoj's own revolt against the Orthodox Church was a revolt against the same dogma-creating tendencies among the followers of Jesus that reappeared among Tolstoj's own followers. The less astute followers of Freud in psychology made something of a religion out of their master's teachings even as they joined their master in dismissing religion. Humorous references in conversation to "theological quotations" — bogoslovskie citaty — are not uncommon among Soviet scholars who view with genuinely Leninist scorn the tendency of some followers of Lenin to turn his writings into scripture. And so the Tolstoyans do not deserve to be dismissed merely because many of them proved unable to free themselves from mankind's all-too-human tendency to create new forms of dogmatism even as they revolt against the old. What is important and should not be overlooked is, first, that Tolstoj's prophetic 87

B. PaXMaHOB, "JI. H . ToJICToK H 'TOUCTOBCTBO' B KOHUe BOChMHfleCHTHX H HananefleBHHOCTHXroflOB ( H 3 jihhhmx BocnOMUHaroifl)", Muuyeuiue zodu, 9 (1908), 21-22. 38 Maude, The Life of Tolstoy, II, 226-227. 89 IIpyraBHH, 227.

THE ARTIST TURNED PROPHET

77

writings brought the weaknesses and evils of society under the judgement of the Christian Gospel in a way that was unprecedented in Orthodox countries; and second, that he challenged each individual person to disentangle himself from the compromising fetters of his own society and achieve his own moral freedom — not for its own sake but in order that he should become an effective influence in the transformation of society. Regardless of the failures experienced by the more dogmatic Tolstoyans, efforts to establish self-sufficient Tolstoyan agricultural colonies continued for many decades in Russia and spread to other countries as well. By the time of the Soviet Revolution upwards of two thousand followers of Tolstoj had been united within the Moscow "Tolstoj Memorial Society for True Freedom" (Obscestvo istinnoj svobody v pamjat' L. N. Tolstogo), and this organization worked in close association with dozens of others bearing the same name and holding to the same principles which were subsequently organized in various cities and about the countryside. The Moscow organization had two permanent representatives in the United Council of Religious Communities and Groups (Ob'edinennyj sovet religioznyx obscin i grupp), which also comprised representatives of the Baptists, Mennonites, Seventh-Day Adventists, and other religious groups united in their refusal to participate in war or military service.40 Contemporary accounts indicate that by the beginning of the 1920's Russian Tolstoyism had developed far beyond its origins among the intelligentsia into a movement that was now composed largely of workers in agriculture. The period of freedom from censorship after the February Revolution in 1917 had made it possible for Tolstoj's religious works to be freely printed and distributed; and among the Tolstoyans who were shot in 1919 and 1920, during the Civil War, for their refusal to perform military service, available records show that several of them had arrived at their non-violent convictions as a result of coming across Tolstoj's religious works after the February Revolution.41 In the early 1920's contemporary records indicate that Tolstoyan colonies existed in the neighborhood of Moscow and the provinces of Voronez, Smolensk, Gomel', Kursk, Vitebsk, and Orenburg.42 At the 40

Ban. EyjiraKOB, "Kax yMHpaioT mom 3a Bepy", CoepeMemue 3anuam, XXXVÏII (IlapiDK, 1929), 190-193. According to this account it was through the influence of V. L. Bonc-Bruevic that the Council of People's Commissars issued the decree of 4 January 1919 recognizing conscientious objection to military service for members of the pacifist religious sects. Later "clarifications" of this decree issued by the People's Commissariat of Justice on 14 December 1920 and 5 November 1923 in effect annulled most of its provisions. 41 Ibid., 201, 210, 220. 42 Valentin Boulgakov, Léon Tolstoy et Notre Temps; Discours publics en Russie

78

WILLIAM B. EDGERTON

beginning of 1920 a peasant philosopher and poet named Ivan Mirosnikov, in the village of Semenovka, in Novozybkovskij District, Cernigov Province, brought together some fifteen or twenty of his peasant neighbors and founded a "World Religious Community" on Tolstoyan principles, giving it the name "True Knowledge of Life" (Vsemirnaja religioznaja obscina "Istinnoe 2iznevedenie").43 Near Bol'saja Glusina, in what was then Samara Province, a Tolstoyan colony named "World Brotherhood" (Vsemirnoe bratstvo) was in existence as late as 1925.44 In 1923 the Soviet authorities turned over to a group of Tolstoyans the former New Jerusalem Monastery, some fifty kilometers to the west of Moscow. Toward the end of 1924, after long months of work repairing the damage the monastery had suffered during the Revolution and Civil War, the Tolstoyans moved in; and soon they were a thriving agricultural commune of almost a hundred workers and their dependents. Holding firmly to their Tolstoyan principles, including vegetarianism, they kept no animals, chickens, or even bees; but they became so good at raising fruit and vegetables that the All-Union Agricultural Exposition of 1926-27 awarded them a prize. In 1929, at the end of the NEP period, the Tolstoyans suddenly lost their whole farm and were strongly urged to resettle in the Kuznetsk district of the Altai Territory, in Siberia.45 Even as late as 1934 and 1935 some Tolstoyan colonies were still in existence in the Soviet Union. According to F. M. Putincev, writing in 1934, the largest one, with some 500 members, was in the Kuznetsk Basin.46 Presumably this was the same colony that had been set up in 1929 by the Tolstoyan exiles from New Jerusalem. A smaller colony, comprising about ten households, still existed in 1934 at Malaja PesoCnja, in the province of Brjansk.47 Putincev also mentions a Tolstoyan colony named "The Fourth International", at the village of Rasskazovo, near Tambov, but indicates that it had been disbanded some time before 1934.48 soviétique suivis du Manifeste du Mouvement vers le Communisme chrétien (Paris, Bibliothèque Communiste Chrétienne, No. 1, 1928), 108, 117-119. 43 "Kax yMHpaJm 3a uepy", 212-214. 44 . M. IlyTHHueB, IIoAummecKati pojib u maKmrna ce/cm (MocKBa, rocyaapcTBeHHoe aHTHpejmnao3Hoe H3flaTejn>CTBo, 1935), 176. 46 K. Petrus, Religious Communes in the U.S.S.R. (= Mimeographed Series, 44 [Text in Russian], New York, Research Program on the U.S.S.R., 1953), 62-64. " IlyrmnjeB, 472. 47 Ibid., 353. 48 Ibid., 472.

THE ARTIST T U R N E D

PROPHET

79

Tolstoj's prophetic writings likewise inspired the establishment of Tolstoyan colonies in several foreign countries, notably England,49 Holland,50 the United States,51 and Bulgaria; but most of them were short-lived and accomplished little beyond providing further evidence that anarchism — even Christian anarchism — is incapable of serving as the organizing principle of society. One possible exception among all these colonies appears to be those that arose out of the vigorous Tolstoyan movement in Bulgaria. Two 49

The best-known Tolstoyan colony in England was established at Purleigh, in Essex. There are numerous references to it in Maude, The Life of Tolstoy, II; and in Tolstoj's K>6. U3d., especially in LXXII (MocKBa, 1933). In this same volume, 247, there is also a reference to a Tolstoyan colony at Leeds, in England. 60 The story of the two principal colonies in Holland is told in some detail by Dr. Rudolf Jans in his book Tolstoj in Nederland (Bussum, 1952), especially in Ch. XII-XIII, "De kolonie van de Christen-anarchisten te Blaricum" and "Het verlopen van het Tolstojanisme", 99-115. S1 Probably the best-known Tolstoyan colony in the United States was the Christian Commonwealth, which was established in Muscogee County, Georgia, in 1896 by the Reverend Ralph Albertson with a membership of forty-five persons. The colony lasted until 1900, and in the course of its existence a total of some five hundred persons took part in it. Cf. Ernest S. Wooster, "The Christian Commonwealth", Communities of the Past and Present (Newllano, Louisiana: Llano Co-operative Colony, 1924), 46; and TOJICTOB, K>6. U3d., LXXI (MocKBa, 1954), 287-289, 306-310. Wooster's little book, a contribution to the rich literature on American Utopian communities in the nineteenth century, is a study of more than fifty colonies established in the United States by a wide variety of religious and secular groups. Its introduction was written by Job Harriman, a prominent American Socialist, who in 1914 founded the Llano Co-operative Colony in Louisiana, one of the most successful American communist communities organized on a secular basis. The conclusions drawn by Harriman in his introduction provide an interesting parallel to some of the disillusioning experiences of the Tolstoyan colonists in Russia: "... having been trained in the Marxian school of economics, I proceeded to organize the colony in line with that philosophy. ... We had imagined that men who believed in socialism would react more or less alike to the same environment, but when we saw that they persisted in their so-called reactions, I, at least, became convinced that theories or intellectual concepts play a very small part in our reactions. Another fact that struck at the very foundation of our theory was that the line between the selfish and the unselfish ... was not drawn, as we expected it would be, between the rich and the poor; nor was it drawn in the place we expected within each of these classes. The majority was on the wrong side of the line; that is, the majority of the well-to-do were on the unselfish side, and the reverse was true of the poor. ... After three years' observation, some of us were convinced that the materialistic philosophy, including economic determinism, was not sufficient to explain the phenomena that were going on about us.... It appears from what we have observed that mental development may proceed to a high degree and yet continue to be a manifestation of selfishness, greed, ambition, and every phase of the passions. On the other hand, it appears that a high quality of emotional, ethical, or spiritual development may be attained with either a moderate or high degree of mental development. ... The ethical and spiritual quality, therefore, becomes of primary importance in community life. They are the very foundation upon which a Community must be built if stability and durability are to be attained" (pp. iii-viii).

80

WILLIAM B. EDGERTON

Tolstoyan colonies had been founded in Bulgaria by 1901,62 and as late as 1928 there were three that had evidently been in existence for some time. 53 These colonies, however, were only one minor manifestation of the vigorous and widespread influence of Tolstoj the prophet in the intellectual life of Bulgaria during the first part of the twentieth century. In his influence on the Bulgarian intelligentsia since 1900 [wrote Georgi Konstantinov in 1928] Tolstoj has only one rival in our country: Karl Marx, just as he had as his rival before 1900 Victor Hugo, who with Les Misérables [Bulgarian translation, Plovdiv, 1888] and Notre-Dame de Paris [Bulgarian translation, Solun, 1890] created a whole epoch. It goes without saying that in numbers the followers of Tolstoj can by no means rival those of Marxian communism. But while the mass enchantment with Marxism was and is very superficial, external, and fortuitous, and is due to purely political preaching and demagogy, taking no deep root in the ideological and religious consciousness of each adherent, the Tolstoyan movement — which involves personal predisposition, enlightenment, and consciousness in favor of heroism and sacrifice, in the name of human welfare just as much as divine goodness, even though it may not achieve great proportions — is assured of a steady and unflagging increase in strength. Besides that, Tolstoj's ideas, which are spread through that one impressive agent which is his creative work, and which rivals the Gospels in its inspiration and its artistic lucidity, are assured of immortality, of a life that does not depend upon the political and economic conditions of the passing years.54 During the period from 1900 to 1928 — the year in which his article appeared — Konstantinov reported that four Bulgarian publishing houses had been established for the sole purpose of printing Tolstoyan books ; and the Tolstoyan periodicals published in Bulgaria during this period include Novo slovo, Lev N. Tolstoj, ¿ivot, Jasna Poljana, Novo obstestvo, Svoboda, Svobodno vuzpitanie, and — the most important one of all — Vuzrazdane, which was first printed on an old hand press in the Tolstoyan agricultural colony by the same name that was founded in 1907. With the exception of 1912-1913 and the period from October 1915 to January 1919, when Bulgaria was involved in the Balkan Wars and the First World War, Vuzrazdane was published from January 1907 until June 1935. In the period between the two World Wars, according to the publishers' figures, Tolstoj was the most widely read author in 52

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B . J K u p M y H C K H ä : "PHMa,0CH0BaHHaH H a M 0 p $ 0 J i 0 r m e c K 0 M ( h c b h t e k c h h c c k o m )

napajijiejiH3Me, noBHÄHMOMy —

flpeBHefinmä

x o a w e H H H pH(J)Mbi H 3 n a p a j m e j m 3 M a "

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XIV

HanpHMep, b

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b.) d o l u : m o g u ;

(Haiajio

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b.)

chowany : jezdzaly,

Brnenská legenda o sv. Jirí (Haiano

b

lemcieoS

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b

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X 3 V b.) z v o l a : slova, h

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xpoHmca"

(okojio

aHOHHMHue c r a x o T B o p e H H « .

Studie o leském versi

(Praha, 1959), crp.

O 37.

1300)

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pacjiMe

b

98

T . 3KMAH

npe^nocueflHero), HO corjiacHe nocjieflHHX cjioroB. Pn(})Ma 6biJia o p r a HH3yK>LUHM SJieMeHTOM, OTMeHaiOmHM KOHeU, CTHXa; TpeÓOBajIOCb JIHHIb c o r n a c o B a H H e K O H i i e B b i x MopeM, n p n n e M n a c T o , HO H e o 6 « 3 a T e j i b H o , c x o A H J i H C b H n p e f l t i f l y m H e r j i a c H t i e . 2 1 O i e f l o B a T e j i b H o , pHme nap pHiJ>MyiomHxca Knay3yji. 22

PHOMA B

n033HH

CJIABHHCKHX HAPOflOB

99

Bcex pM(J)M rp.p., y oneHb CTapaTeJibHo nHinymnx h pHme, a y ® . Khh3HHHE TOJIbKO 1,5%. Y AaJiMaTHHCKHx n03T0B HHCJio rp.p. b oômeM HeMHoro HHMce: y uejioro pana s t h x i i o 3 t o b o h o He 6ojn>me 2 0 % ( M c h h c t h h , flpxcHi, X. JlyuHH, M. flpacHn) ; y ryHayjinna numb 14,8 %. Ilocjie Hero H. Byran OTJiHHaeTca MajibiM h h c j i o m rp.p. ( o k o j i o 10%), a b XVIII b . H. flbypflbeBHH (18,3%) h O. FpaôoBau (16,6%). OôpamaeT H a ce6n BHHMaHHe t o , h t o y MeHee CTapaTejibHbix h yTOHieHHbix n o s T O B , KaK . KpcTonaH, II. 3pHHCKHH, M. A. PejibKOBHH npoueHT rp.p. Bbirne. Y cepôoB b 3 t o t nepHofl (XVIII b.) noHBjiHiOTCH nepBbie npejcTaBHTenH h o b o h cep6cKoft jiHTepaTypbi; o h h eme TOJIbKO HaHHHaioT co3flaBaTb c b o h noaranecKue TpaflHUHH, p«(j)Ma — OflHa H3 CpaBHHTejIbHO HOBblX npHeMOB, H noSTbl He cTpeMSTca eme k ycoBepmeHCTBOBaHHio tj)opM. 3 t h m o G m c h s c t c h BbicoKHH npoueHT rp.p. b Hx npoH3BeaeHHax: y Î î o B a H a P a n i a 45%, y 3axapHH Op4>ejiHHa 85 % ("3puajio HayKe") h 60 % ('TljiaH Cep6nn"), a eme b XIX b. y f i . CyöoTHia h Pl. O a i H H a 46,7 %. fljIH pyCCKHX B XVIII B. KHHHCHaiI, pH(J)MOBaHHafl n033Ha ÔbIJia TOMCe cpaBHHTejibHo HOBa. H3BecTH0, h t o ecTb cjiynaH pntjjMbi b c a M b i x CTapbix naMHTHHKax pyccKoñ c t h x o t b o p h o h jiHTepaTypbi.25 B. ^KnpiviyHCKHH yCTaHOBMJI, HTO OAHa TpeTb Bcex HCCJieAOBaHHblX HM ÖbIJIHH noKa3biBaeT pH o 6 a STH npneMbi ynoTpe6JIHK>TCH H B H H C T O

0.2311.

noBecTBOBaTejibHbix acaHpax.

HajiHHHe penn repoeB KaK TaKOBOH Toace He o6a3aTejn>Ho

HaAO CHHTaTb npH3HaKOM flpaMaTHHHOCTH. JlHpHHeCKHe MOHOJIOTH ' PyccKax SaAAada (MocKBa, 1936), v-vii, xiv-xix. * CM. Gerould, op. cit., 3, 11-12; Entwhistle, op. cit., 16-17; D. K. Wilgus, AngloAmerican Folksong Scholarship since 1898 (Hbio-EpaHCBHK, 1959), 251. M. EauamoB ynoTpefijiaeT TepMHHH "amraecKHfi" H "noBecTBOBaTejn>HM0" OOHTH B OAHHOKOBOM CMBICJIE OTHOCHTCJIBHO 6ajuiafl (Hapoduue 6ajuiabu, 7). 4 Gerould, op. cit., 3, 11-12. 6 G. Malcolm Laws, Native American Balladry (OHJiaflejn>(J)iM, 1950), 2. •

Hap.

6aAAadu,

7.

Gerould, op. cit., 6-7,10-11. H. A. AimpeeB oToawecTBJiaeT "FLPAMANRAHOCTB" 6ajuia,zi c "HanpjraceHHeM CO6I>ITHH" H C "fluajionwecKHM H3Jio»ceHHeM": CM. ero craTbio "IlecHH-6ajiJiaAW B pyccxoM (JioJifaKJiope", Dnmecnax no33un, Euo.iuomeKa noama, MOA. cep. (MocKBa, 1935), 307. 7

CM.

P Y C C K A » H HEIUCKA» HAPOflHAa EAJIJIAflA

135

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He

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—

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MOHOJIOT, B KOTOPOM cioaceT o TOM,

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0.2312.

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flHanore

(He o M0H0Ji0re), KaK apaMaTH-

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nepTM GojibiiiHHCTBa,

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0.232.

H a 3 b i B a e M "FLPAMATHHECKOIÍ K 0 H ( J ) p 0 H T a i i H e ñ " , T.e. BCTpeny coHaaceñ,

npn

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a p a M a T E r a e c K o e pacKpbiTHe KOHjiHKTa, H M e B i i i e r o M e c T o B npouuioM. 06BIHHO B c r p e n a i o m H e c a r e p o n o K a 3 H B a i o T c a B OAHOM H TOM ace M e c T e , HO H 3 p e f l K a B C T p e n a MoaceT n p o H 3 o i Í T H H a p a c c r o a H H H , c HanpHMep, no3Hce, 8 8 10 11

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Hap. óajuiadu, 164. TÜM oice, 151-153. Jirí Horák, Nase lidová pisen (Ilpara, 1946), 128-130. Hanp., B Sajuiaae "Mojio/ieq B TEMMME", Hap. óamiadu, 147-149.

136

BHJIbHM XAPKHHC

6ajuia,m>i. PaccKa3 hjih jinpanecKaa necHS MoaceT cymecTBOBan» 6e3 3Toro, ho ÄpaMaTH3HpoBaHHaa öajuiaaa, Kaie h flpaMa, e ^ s a jih. jUpaMaTHHecKaa K0H(J)p0HTaiina MoaceT TaK»ce npoH3oiíTH c noMombio CHMBOJia hjih 3HaKa, Hanp. b hcuickoh öajuiaae "Nest'astná svatba", 1 2 b KOTopoä repoHHH cnepßa bhzjht KpoBb yöirroro aceinixa, a iiotom cjimihht norpe6ajn.HbiH 3boh no HeM. KoHeiHo, Haao hto6w TaKoä CHMBOJI HJIH 3HaK BbI3BaJI ApaMaTHHeCKyiO peaKIIHK), HTÓ B flaHHOH 6ajuiafle peajnoyeTca B3BOJiHOBaHHbiMH BonpocaMH h acajioGaMH repoHHH. 0.2321. B a j u i a f l H b i e K 0 H < j ) p 0 H T a u H H M o r y T B o c n p H H H M a T b c a K a K ApaMaTHiecKHe flaace npH coBepnieHHOM OTcyTCTBHH ßHajiora, Hanp. b p y c c K o ñ ß a j i j i a a e " / l o n a " . 1 3 3acci> o ö e penn, npoH3Hecemn.ie B o e ß o f l C K H M C b I H O M , H M & O T C T H J I H 3 0 B a H H b I H X a p a K T e p , HaCTO B C T p e i a i O I I I H H C H B JIHpHHeCKHX J I K ) 6 o B H b I X HCCHHX, HTÓ OCJiaÖJIJieT H X

flpaMaTHHHOCTb.

TeM He M e H e e b s t o h n e c H e kohcJijihkt : H c n y r a a e B y n i K H h ee O T B p a meHHH k npefljioaceHHio B o e B O f l C K o r o C b i H a pe3KH h / i p a M a T H i H w . flpyroñ n p H M e p — " M o H a m e H K a — M a T b p e ö e H K a " , ö a j u i a g a cobccm 6e3 n p H M O H p e n n : n e p B a a nojioBHHa n e c H H HMeeT n o B e c T B O B a T e j i b H b r i i x a p a K T e p , 6e3 K O H ^ p o H T a u H Ü ; B T o p a a ace n o j i o B H H a c o f l e p a c i r r cueiry KOH^poHTaiiHH BHHOBHOH MOHaxHHHH — HesaKOHHOH MaTepH pe6eioca — c H r y M e H b e ñ , pa3o6jiaiaiomeH ee, cn;eHy aobojibho a p a M a r a n e c K y i o , x o t h o n a T b - T a K H 6e3 n p H M O H p e n n r e p o e B . 1 4 M e n i c K H H n p H M e p flpaMaT H 3 M a 6e3 n p H M O H p e n n — "Truchlivy k o n e c l á s k y " , 1 5 Gajuia^a n o H T H 6e3 flHanora: c i i e H a , b k o t o p o h repoHHa H a x o A H T T e j i o CBoero yÖHToro jnoöoBHHKa, B Bbimen cTeneHH apaMaTHroa, x o t h h o ö x o a h t c h 6e3 npaMOH peiH.

0.2322. B o MHorax Gajijia^ax apaMaTH3HpyeTca He caMoe flencTBHe, a pacKpbiTHe ero KaKOMy-HnGynb 3aHHTepec0BaHH0My jnmy. 3 t o t npneM BnoJiHe apaMaraneH. EaJiJiaflbi MoryT nojib30BaTbca s t h m npneMOM KaK flpaMaTHiecKOH ochoboh, noAoÖHo nbecaM TeHpHKa HGceHa, KOTopwe nacTo nocTpoeHbi Ha apaMaranecKOM pacKpbiTHH aaBHo HpoHcineAinero aeHCTBH«. TaKOBbi pyccKaa 6ajuia/ia o KHH3e PoMaHe h ero flonepH, Hmymen cboio y6nTyio MaTb,16 hjih yace ynoMHHyraH neracKaa öajuiaaa "Nesfstná svatba",17 b k o t o p o h paccKa3 o C M e p r a reponflOBOJibHoK p a T O K h cyx no cpaBHeHHio c nocjieayiomeñ ApaMoñ: 12 18

14

16

16 17

Frantiäek SuSil, Moravské národnípisné, ctvrté vydání (ripara, 1951), Hap. óaAAaóbt, TÜM jtce, 167.

181.

144.

K. J. Erben, Prostonárodní ceské písné a ríkadla (Ilpara, 1937), JVb 47, 410.

Hap. öajviadbi, 66-74. Susil, JNs 181.

PyCCKAH H HEIHCKAH HAPOFLHAS EAJ1JIA/IA

137

nonMTKoii CKPTITB ero CMEPTB OT HEBECTM H KOHEHHOH HEYAAQEÖ 3TOH nonbiTKH. 0.233. HecMOTpa Ha oco6oe 3HANEHHE, NPH^AßAEMOE APAMATH3MY B 6ajijiaflax, H HECMOTPN HA TO, HTO npaeM JIPAMATHHECKOH KOHIJJPOHTAIIHH TaK NACT B HHX, HE cjieayeT 3AKJNOIATB, HTO 3TA oco6eHHocTb xapaKTepH3yeT Bce necHH öajuiajiHoro nina. CymecTByioT necHH noBecTßoBaTejibHoro xapaKTepa 6e3 FLPAMATH3MA, icoTopbie Bce ace cuie/iyeT HA3BATB 6AJUIAJIAMH (CM. M H e m i e JIay3a, UHTHPOBAHHOE Bbirne, § 0.23). ECJIH MBI 6YAEM HACRAHBATB Ha FLPAMARA3ME KAK 06A3ATEJIBH0M n p n -

Bcex öajuiaa, TO OCTAETCA Heöojibiuoe KOJIHHCCTBO noBecTBoBATEJIBHBIX neceH BHe KJiaccHHKaimH, neceH, HE NPHHAFLJIEACAMNX HH K KAKOMY flpyroMy acaHpy. HaM KAACETCA, HTO jiynme H Y^OSHEE HX 3HAKE

CHHTATB NOAACAHPOM G a j m a a b i , KOTOPBIÑ NPE/JCTABJIEH K e r a r a HH3KHM

npHMepoB.18 MO»CHO TAKAE necHH NPHHHTB 3a AETJJEKTHBIE Gajuia^BI, H Hacro OHH NP0H3B0FLHT TAKOE BnenaTjieHHe.19 Ho ecTi, H necHH BBICOKO XYFLOACECTBEHHBIE, oco6eHHo NOBECTBOBATEJIBHBIE necHM cioaceTHo-nyaHTHoro rana: NEMCKHE NOBECTBOBATEJIBHBIE necHH ocoñenHO pa3BHTbI B 3TOM OTHOUieHHH.20

KOJIHIECTBOM

npiiöaBHTb, HTO BO MHorax 6ajuiaflax TOJIMCO oflHa nacTb (OAHA "ciiemca") APAMATH3HPOBAHA, a ocrajitHoe — HHCTOC ÜOBECTBOBAHHE. 21 CaMaa nonyjiapHaa HeniCKa« Gajuia^a "Sirotek" B HEKOTOPBIX BapnaHTax HMEET ocjia6jieHHyio APAMARANECRYIO CHJiy.22 FLAAJIOR peGemca c MepTBoií MaTepbio GECKOHIJWIHKTEH: 3Jiaa Manexa, HOCHTEJIBHHNA apaMaTHHecicoro KOHmne 3TOT "HEFLOCTATOK": B HHX MATB BBIROHHET Manexy H3 AOMA, KORFLA OHA npHxo,N,HT 3a flyaioñ peöeHKa.23 K 3 T 0 M Y HYACHO

0.24. IIpaBHJibHo NOFLHEPKHBAIOT, HTO öajuiajja orpaHHHHBaeTCH OflHHM SUBQOflOM.24 IIOHTH HCB03M0KH0 HaHTH B HCII0JIb30BaHH0M IIpHMepaMH «BJIHIOTCH o6a BapnaHTa öajuiaflw "KoponeBHa BnycKaeT Monoiwa ropo,«", Hap. öaAAadu, 81-82; B leracKoS Tpaanmoi — Tarne necHH-aHeifflOTM KaK "Oklamany Turek", Erben, 20, 398-399, 6aruiafla c AHaJioroM, HO 6e3 cymecTBeHHoroflpaMaTtnecKoroKOHi a o -

BOJibHO pejjKH : tocto, Kor^a o h h h m c i o t c h , h j i h KaaceTca, h t o a o j e k h b i ÔbIJIH 6bl HMeTbCH, OHH He nOflHepKHBaiOTCH, a HaoÔopOT, BCHHeCKH CTHpaiOTCH, KaK öyflTo aeñcTBHe npoHcxo^HT 6e3 nepepbrea. TaK, b yace ijHTHpoBaHHOH 6ajuia/ie "5KeHa Myaca 3ape3ajia" (Bap. 2.) He H3BecTHo, cpa3y JiH nocjie yÖHHCTBa npne3acaeT aeBepb K yÖHTOMy 6paTy b rocTH, h j i h t o j i b k o nocjie HeKOToporo BpeMeHH. CjiymaTejno acHo, HTo nocjie Kaxmoro Bonpoca o MepTBOM 6paTe h oTBeTa yÓHBmeñ ero »ceHbi rocTb ye3»caeT Ha BpeMH b noHCKax 6paTa, h o Bee Bonpocw, OTBeTH h noHCKH npeflcraBjieiibi KaK nacra oflHoro ßecnpepbiBHoro aeñcTBHH h ßaace o a h o h óecnpepbiBHoñ cueHbi. B HeKOTopbix ôajijiaaax HMeioTca nepepbiBbi b o BpeMeHH no Tpe6oBaHHK) cioaceTa, Hanp. b Gajuia^e " f l e r a b a o b h " , rae paccKa3biBaeTca, KaK BgoBa xoneT b h h t h aaMyac 3a c b o h x c o ö c t b c h h h x c h h o b c h , KOTopbix OHa Koraa-To ocTaBHJia, h t o 6 h o h h yMepjiH.27 0.242.

Bojiee THmreHbi j y w

ôajijiaabi oaHaKo

He nepepbiBbi

bo

BpeMeHH, a flBHHcemie b npocTpaHCTBe. B öojibiiiHHCTBe 6ajuia^ npoHCxoAHT noe3flKa Hjra nyremecTBHe. Boo6me mohcho CKa3aTb,

hto

öajuiaaa TpaKTyeT BpeMfl KaK KOHTHHyyM, a npocTpaHCTBo b 6ajijia,nax HBJiaeTCH nepepbiBaeMbiM. HacToe ynoTpeôJieHHe rjiarojioB abhhcchhji KaK 6yflT0 noMoraeT crciaaHTb 3Ty nepepbiBaeMOCTb 6ajuiaflHoro npoCTpaHCTBa.28 0.25.

B KanecTBe KpirrepHa Gajijia^Horo xaHpa nacro ynoMHHaioTCs

KpaTKOCTb H CacaTOCTb CTHJIH.29 STO npaBHJIbHO, H HHTepeCHO 3aMeTHTb, a o KAKOII cTeneHH pyccKHe 6ajuiaflbi OTjnmaioTCfl o t Gmjihh c b o h m h MeHbniHMH pa3MepaMH, x o t h aeiicTBHe b 6ajuia,ae MoaceT 6biTb TaKOH 26 McKjnoHeHHaMH hbjihiotcji o6a BapnaHTa pyccKoä 6ajiJia«M "3>eflop h MapKJiop h fleöcTBH-

TejibHOCTb", PyccKan Aumepamypa (1963), JSS 3, 70-71. 29

Cm. Gerould, 6, 10-11 ; EajiamoB, Hap. SaAAadbi, 8-9.

139

PyCCKAH H HEIIJCKAH HAPOflHAH BAJIJTA^A

»ce CJIOHCHOCTH, KaK B HeCKOJIbKO pa3 Sojiee /JJIHHHOH GbIJlHHe. 0.251. OneHb T p y f l H o , KOHCHHO, HAÑTH M e p y 3TOH c a c a T o c T H . To, HTO 6 a j i j i a í t a K o p o T K a , He o 6 a 3 a T e j n > H o 3 H a i H T , HTO o H a c a c a T a : B l e m c K O H T p a f l H I U f f l , B OCOÓeHHOCTH, HaXOflHM 6 a j U i a A W B KOTOpblX nOHTH

HyBCTByeM

He

ipaKTOBKe a o a c e T a . 3 0 K o j i m e c T B o COGWTHH HBHO H e TaK B a x c H o , KaK ypoBeffl» H a n p a x c e H H o c T H . Ho KaK H 3 M e p n T b H a n p a a c e H H o c T b ? 3 n H 3 o a y S H H C T B a B OAHOH necHe M o a c e T 6 b m > o i e H b H a n p a » c e H H W M ; B flpyroñ — COBCCM H e r . Il03T0My STO KanecTBo, XOTH cacaTocra

B

o n e H b B a a c H o e AJIH 6 a j u i a A H o r o CTHJIH H C T p y K T y p w , H e H c c n e / i y e T c a B

HacroameM flOKjiaae. 0.252.

IIOHTH

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n c H X O J i o r H i e c K y i o M O T H B H p o B K y n o c T y n K O B CBOHX A e n c T B y i o m H X JIHIJ. 3 1 3TO

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irpeyBejiHHHBaioT. B

6oJibinHHCTBe c j i y n a e B

HCHxoJiorHH r e p o e B HeflBycMwcjieHHo « a r a H3 KOHTeKCTa.32 B c j i y n a a x 6 a j i j i a a a omicbiBaeT MejioapaMaTHHecKoe .neñcTBue /jeñcTBHe, qeHTpoM

yace n p o H c m e f l m e e B npouuioM), K o T o p o e c a M o HHTepeca: T o r a a n c H x o j i o r H H l a c r o ocTaBJiaeTca B

flpyrnx

(ocoSeHHo HBjiaeTca CTopoHe:

H e O H a HaXOAHTCH 3 f l e C b B I i e H T p e BHHMaHHfl. 3 3

0.26. HajiHHHe FLEÑCTBHA B Hapo^Hon necHe He Bcer^a yKa3biBaeT Ha HOBecTBOBaTejibHbiH xapaKTep STOÍÍ necHH; Be^b H jrapHHecKne necHH MoryT ynoMHHyTb KaKoe-HHGym» fleñcTBHe. JIay3 pa3JiHHaeT 6ajina,m>i OT JiapHHecKHx neceH TaKHM 06pa30M: "... rjiaBHoíí uejibio 6ajuiax(bi HBJweTca noBecTBOBaHHe, a jrapaHecKHx neceH — BbipaaceHHe KaKoroJIH6O «ymeBHoro COCTOHHHH".34 He HajiHHHe ajieMeHTOB aeñcTBHa, a HX TpaKTOBKa H uejlb, Mepa CaMOCTOaTejIbHOCTH HX POJIH BOT npH3HaKH, KOTOpbie OTjnnaioT snHKy (BKjHOHaa 6ajurafly) OT JIHPHKH. 0.261. He caMoe fleñcTBHe, a ero pa3BHTHe, T.e. B03^eñcTBHe nepcoHaaceñ 6ajuia,nj>i Ha BHCHIHHH M H P CBOHCTBCHHO smnce. üpaBHjibHo BajiamoB 3aMeiaeT, HTO 6ojiee paHee coópaHHe B. H. HepHbimeBa "PyccKaa Gajuiaaa" co^epacHT MHoro JiHpHiecKHX neceH, KOTOpbie BajiaraoB npHHiímraajibHo HCKJiioHaeT H3 CBoero co6paHHa "HapoflHbie óajuiaflbi". Ho HaM KaaceTca, HTO H B S T O M coGpaHHH eme ocTajiocb HeCKOJIbKO (BnponeM, oieHb He6ojibinoe KOJimecTBo) jinpHHecKHx 30

Hanp., "Nesíastní mili", "Pokuta", Erben, JVQN> 42, 45, 409-410. MHeHHe EajiamoBa B KHHTC Hap. óaajtadu, 11, HJIH riponna B ero CTaTbe B acypHane Pyccxan Aumepamypa, 71-72, 75-76. 82 Hanp., B 6ajuiafle "Kra3b Mnxafcio" (Hap. óajuiadbi, 54-60), rfle MOTHB HeHaBHCTH MaTcpn K HeBecTKe He HyHOTaercH B o6tacHeHHH. 38 Hanp., B 6ajijia«e ")KeHa My»ca 3ape3ana" (Hap. Sajijiadbi, 118), rae caMbiñ (J)aKT yÓHflcTBa, a He MOTHBHpoBKa, SBIIUCTCH ueirrpoM n0BecTB0BaTejn>H0rc> HHTepeca. 34 Laws, 8. 81

CM., Hanp.,

140

BHJIbJIM XAPKHHC

3hth", 3 5 6 j i H 3 K H e k a c a H p y jrapHiecKHx ceMefiHbix neceH, a c a H p y , KOTopbiii nacTo coflepacnT noBecTBOBaTejibHwe sneMeHTbi, ho k o t o p h h HHiyn» He npHHHMaeTca H3-3a 3Toro 3 a anHTCCKHH. B flaHHoft necHe fleacTBHe KacaeTca 6 p a H H o r o ycnexa Tpex cecTep, ho r j i a B H b i f t HHTepec necHH cocpeflOTOHeH Ha KOHTpacTe 3thx Tpex 6 p a K O B , a He Ha flajibHeimieM p a 3 B H T H H flencTBHa: necHH cTaraHHa, a He flHHaMHHHa. 0.262. HajiHHHe neTKoro apaMaTHHecKoro KOH(J)JiHKTa 6e3 comhchhji oneHb BaacHaa nepTa 6ajiiiaflHoro acaHpa, noMoraiomaa o6oco6htb ero o t jrapHHecKofi necHH.36 3 t o t KOHijwiHKT floJi»ceH He tojibko hmctb MecTo, ho h pa3BHBaTbca: oco6emio HyacHa 6ajuiafle pa3ex3Ka ^aHHoro KOH(})JIHKTa. 0.27. MHorHMH yneHbiMH b KanecTBe KpHTepH« 6ajuiaflw, KaK h ocrajibHOH snHKH, ynoMHHaeTCH 6e3jniHH0CTb, T.e. oTCyTCTBHe JiHHHoro B3rjiHfla HapoAHoro neBua h KaKHx-jra6o KOMMeHTapneB c ero cropoHbi. 37 B 3tom CMBrcjie 6ojibiiiHHCTBo 6ajuiaflHbix neceH 6 e 3 J i i r a f i b i , x o t h HMeioTca fl0B0JibH0 nacTo hckjuohchhh, Hanp., 6ajijiaaa "Pa6HHKa", HaHHHaiomaHca cjioBaMH " 3 j i o e 3ejn>e KpanHBHoe, / E m e 3 J i e e m jnoTa CBeKpa".38 0.28. IIpHeM cumulative repetition (noBTopemie c HapacTaHHeM), TepMHH . B . TaHMepa,39 l a c r o y n o M H H a e T c a , KaK o 6 f l 3 a T e j i b H a a nepTa 6ajuiaAbi, KaK h Bcero noBecTBOBaTejibHoro 4 ) O J n > K J I O P a Boo6me. 40 A b t o p 3 T o r o flOKjiaaa c o r j i a c e H c mhchhcm flacepoyjibfla, h t o b Gojib41 niHHCTBe c J i y n a e B s t o CTHjmcTHHecKHH, a He K 0 M n 0 3 H n H 0 H H b i f i npaeM. IIpaBfla, b HeKOTopbix 6ajuia,riax, b ocoGchhocth b 6ajuiaaax c HapacTaiomnM pjwoM BonpocoB h 0TBeT0B, 3 t o t npaeM HrpaeT Taoee neceH, Hanp.,

,6

36

06a

BapnaHTa

" T p n 3HTFL", Hap. 6aAAadu,

necra

"TpH

110-112; 3aMeiaiine E a n a m o B a maM Mce, 7.

0 6 3tom Bonpoce, h Boo6nje 06 o6oco6jiein™ 6ajuiaflbi o t jmpiwecKoft necHH, nnmeT H. n . KonnaxoBa b cBoeft m a r e "PyccKaa HapoflHaa 6biTOBaa necHa" (MocKBa-

JleHHHrpa«, 3

'

1962), 143, 146-148.

Cm. Gerould, 8-11.

38 Hap. 6ajijiadu, 65. MemcKHM npHMep — 6ajuiafla "Nesfastni mili", Erben, JN° 42, 409, KOTopaa KOH^aeTca Tax: Dobre udelali, ze je pochovali: panny a mlddence by jich litovali. 39 F. B. Gunmere, The Popular Ballad (Boctoh, 1907), 117. rio-BHflHMOMy, TaHMep npHHHMacT noBTopoHHC c HapacTaHHeM 3a cnena^mecKyio iepTy 6ajma,zu>i, ho oho hmcgt nmpoKoe npuMeHeraie b amnce, b jrapHKe h b cxa3Ke. 40

41

Cm. EajiamoB, Hap. 6a/i/iadu, 9-10.

Gerould, 93, 105-110.

PyCCKAa H HELUCKAH HAPOflHAH EAJIJIAflA KOMnOSHUHOHHyiO pOJIB,42 HO TaKHe

141 THHHHHbie, He

6aJUia,HBI, XOTH H

B

6ojií>niHHCTBe. KaxceTca, HTO noBTopeHae c Hapa.CT3.HneM, KaK npneM K0Mn03HUH0HHHH, HrpaeT 6ojiee BaacHyio pojib B cica3Kax, neM B anmce. 0.29.

Bo MHorax Gajuia^ax HajiHHHbi H3BecTHtie sjieMeHTbi Mejio-

ApaMara3Ma: ropanne CTpacTH, Hacujiae, Y6HHCTBO H T.n., H Gajijia/mbiii acaHp HecoMHeHHo

CRJIOHCH K

TaKOMy Mejio,npaMaTH3My.43 H o ecTb

6aiüiaflbi 6e3 KaKHx-jiH6o MejioflpaMaTHnecKHX 3JieMeHTOB — aHeKAOTbi, HanpHMep. 0.291.

MejioapaMaTH3M B 6ajuiaaax HHor^a CB«3aH c sjieMeHTOM

pacKpbiTHH TaHHbi, T.e., c ApaMoñ, yace pa3birpaBuieHca B npomjioM. B 6ajuiaAax AeñcTByioT Hacrabie jnma. 44 flaace napn H KopojiH

0.30.

4>HrypHpyK)T

B HHX

He KaK noJMTHHecKHe

BjiacTb HMeeT 4>yHKiiHio no

HHCTO

KOTOPOMY MONCHO HHORAA PA3JIHHATB

noJiHTHiecKHH xapaKTep MHornx 0.301.

CHJIM,

aeKopaTHBHyio.

a KaK nacTHbie 3 T O HAM

Gajuia^bi

GHJIHHHMX

JUMA: HX

«aeT yKa3aHne,

OT GMJIHHHMX

croaceTOB

neceH:

H3BecTeH.45

rnnepGoJia ynoTpeGjifleTca ropa3flo peace B Gajuia/iax, neM B

apyrnx anHHecKHx necHax; repon óajuiaa HOHTH Bcer^aFLEÑCTBYIOTCBJIOÍÍ HopMajibHoro nejioBeKa. Kor^a CBepxtecTecTBeHHbie B

6ajuiaAax, 0.3011.

OHH ÜOHTH

CHJIM HOHBJIHIOTCH

Bcer^a Bpaac,o,e6Hbi repoio, a He noMoraroT eMy.

He6ojn.maH rpynna nemcKHx 6ajuia,n KaK GyflTo npoTHBo-

penHT 3TOMy nojioaceHHio. B Gajuiaae "Sirotek", HanpHMep, pe6eHKa K ce6e 6epeT, flaace

B STOIÍ

HTOGBI

cnacra ero

OT 3JIOH

Manexa, MepTBaa Man». H o

rpynne Gajuiaa CBepxtecTecTBeHHaa cnjia

HBJIHCTCH

HpaB-

CTBeHHo He0xapaKTepH30BaHH0H, a He nojioacHTejibHOH h o t repoHneCKOH, Hanp. B 6ajuiaaax "Milá v hrobé", "Rubás", "2enich umrlec" H T.fl.46 B pyccKHX Gaiuiaflax necHH STOTO Tana CKopeñ oTcyrcTByioTj

STO,

6e3 coMHeHHa, BaacHoe pa3JiHHHe Meacjiy pyccKoií H HemcKoñ Gajuiafloa. 0.31. HECKAA

06BIHHO

CMHTaeTCH,

cyflbGa.47 H o

HTO

rjiaBHaa

B HEKOTOPBIX

TEMA

Gajuiagax

6ajuiafli.i — nejioBe-

HPABCTBEHHBIE

HecoMHeHHo TaKace HrpaioT TeMaTHHecKyio poJib: Gajuiaflbi

MOTHBM

STOTO

rana

noKa3biBaioT HaM, KaK fleñcTByeT HpaBCTBeHHbiá 3aKOH. Bajuiafla caMa 42 KaK npHMep Taxofl cTpyKTypbi EajiamoB UHTHpyeT 6ajinafly o KHH36 PoMaHe (Hap. 6aAAadbi, 9-10). 43 B. Ilponn nofliepKHBaeT 3TH KaiecTBa B CBoeñ craTbe "JKaHpoBbia; cocTaB pyccKoro 4>ojn>KJiopa", PyccKan Aumepamypa (1964), M° 4, 63-64. 44 CM. EajiamoB, Hap. óanAadu, 7; Ilponn, ">KaHpoBbiá cocTaB ...", 63. 45 CM. B. Ilponn, PyccKuü eepouecKuü moc (JIeHHHrpa#, 1955). 46 Erben, N°N° 2, 3, 4, 7, 383-387. 47 Hanp., EanamoB roBopHT (Hap. óaAjiadbt, 7): "EaJinafla CTaBHT B uempe BHH-

MaHHa HHflHBHAyajn>Hyio lejiOBeiecKyro cy;n>6y".

142

BHJIbHM XAPKHHC

MoaceT flaTb HpaBCTBeHHyio ouemcy repon, Hanp. B 6 ajinare "CecTpa 6paTa H3BecTH XOHCT" ("Eñ caMoñ TSK poK nocjieaoBaji, / OT ee 3JIOCTH HeHaBHflHbia").48 H J I H Mopajib MoaceT npoH3HecTH OAHO H3 fleñcTByiomax JIHU, KOTopoMy cjiymaTeüb floBepaeT; nacTo repon caM ynpeKaeT ce6a 3a CBOH HecnpaBefljiHBbiñ nocrynoK. 49 0.311. OneHb He6ojibmaa rpynna 6ajuia,q He yKa3biBaeT Ha fleñcTBHe cyab6w H He aejiaeT HpaBCTBeHHbix oueHOK H B M B O ^ O B , HO onncbiBaeT repoHHecKne noflBHrn HJIH noflnepKHBaioT pa3yM rjiaBHoro nepcoHaaca. TaKHe necHH 6e3 coMHeHH« He THHHHHH jyw 6ajuia,nHoro acaHpa: SOJIBHIHHCTBO 6ajuiafl oTjiHHaeTca MejioapaMaTH3MOM H HMeeT TparnnecKHH KOHeu,. Ho TaKHe necHH HBHO He npHHaflJieacaT K GbijiHHaM: B E ^ B HX repon He 6oraTbipn, a oSbiKHOBeHHbie JIKMIH. IlecHH STOTO rana O6HMHO CHHTAIOTCH 6ajuiaaaMH, H HAM 3 T O T B3RJIHA KAACETCA npaBHJibHbiM. Bajuiaflbi o noflBHre 6ojiee xapaKTepHbi íyia pyccKoñ Haa rpynna Gajuia^; o npecrynHbix nocTynxax H HX HaKa3amm 3aKOHOM.61 0.4. HenoepefleTBeHHaa 3aAaia Hacroamero AOKjiaaa — cpaBHHTb rpynny pyccKHx Gajuiaa c rpynnoií — HJIHflByMHrpynnaMH — lemcKHx. fljia pyccKoñ 6ajuia/íbi cocTaBjieH npeKpacHbiñ Bbi6op — STO co6paHHe peaaKTHpoBaHHoe BajianioBbiM "HapoflHbie 6ajuiaflbi" (B EHÓJinoTeice nosTa, Eojn>. cep., 1 9 6 3 ) , yace HHTHpoBaHHoe Bbime. TeKCTbi, BKJTEOHCHHbie B STO coópaHHe, npeflCTaBjiaioT Bce HJIH IIOHTH Bce H3BecTHbie 48 49 60

61

Hap. SaAAadbi, 109. Hanp., "fleBHua no onm6Ke oTpaBHJia 6paTa", maM otee, 107. TOM Mee, 87-90. Erben, M°Na 15, 17, 45; 393-394, 409-410.

143

PyCCKAH H HEUICKAH HAPOflHAH BAJIJIAflA

G a j u i a f l H b i e c i o a c e T b i , H H o r ^ a c o 3Hanrrejn>HbiMH B a p n a H T a M H . P e a a i c T o p c a M a B H o 3aHHTepecoBaH B o n p o c a M H TeopHH 6 a j u i a f l H o r o acaHpa.

H3

3 T o r o coSpaHHH M H B3HJIH flu« p a 3 6 o p a fleBHHOCTo n e c e H H3 r p y n n b i , Ha3biBaiomeHCH npHHHMaeMBix

"Bajuiaflbi

ceMefiHo-6brroBbie",

3a 6ajuiaflbi.

C0UHajibH0-6biT0BMe",

Ha

rpynnbi

"Bajuiaflbi

T.e.

"EaJiJiaflbi

carapHHecKHe

H

neceH,

O6MHHO

ncTopHHecKHe H KOMHHecKHe"

H

" H o B b i e 6 a j u i a A b i " Mbi He o 6 p a m a e M BHHMEHHH. M H He 6 y a e M o T p n i j a T b ( x o T f l n o KpaHHefl M e p e 0 6 HCTOPHTCCKHX n e c H a x H MOJKHO 6HJIO

6bi

n o c n o p H T b ) , HTO necHH STHX r p y n n T o a c e G a j i n a f l b i , HO OHH SBHO n p n HafljieacaT K nepH^epHHHMM K a T e r o p n a M H, r j i a B H o e , He c o o T B e T C T B y i o T n e m c K O M y 6ajrjiaAHOMy M a T e p n a j i y ; HaM K a a c e T c a 6 o j i e e u e j i e c o o 6 p a 3 HblM OCTaBHTb HX B CTOpOHe H, o 6 p a T H B BHHMEHHe Ha TJiaBHyiO TCMaTHHecKyio r p y n n y c e M e f i H 0 - 6 b i T 0 B b i x 6 a j u i a f l , H c c J i e a o B a T b HX CTpyKTypy, a He HCKaTb OSOJHX 3 a K 0 H 0 B fljia CJIHHIKOM 6 o r a T o r o H p a 3 H o p o f l H o r o MaTepnajia.62

0.5.

MEMCKAX

"HapoflHbie

6 a j u i a f l a He H M E E T c n e u n a j i b H o r o c S o p m n c a

6ajuiaflbi". HaM npmiuiocb

Tana

KHHITI

B b i 6 p a T b MATEPNAJI ANA HC-

CJieflOBaHHH H3 nepBOHCTOHHHKOB: 6bIJI H C n 0 J I b 3 0 B a H cSopHHK 3 p 6 e H a , " P r o s t o n a r o d n i 5 e s k e p i s n e a r i k a d l a " , H3 K O T o p o r o Mbi p a 3 6 n p a e M 4 4 6ajuiaflbi ("pisne rozpravne"),53 H C6OPHHK

CyniHJia, " M o r a v s k e n a r o d n i

p i s n S " , H3 K O T o p o r o 6WJIH n o f l B e p r a y T b i a H a j n r a y 1 2 3 6 a j u i a f l b i ( " p i s n 5 dejepravne").

5 4

COBNAAAIOT,

HO

62

IleceHHbie MU

cjoaceTbi

pemnjiH

STHX

cocraBHTb

FLBYX

C6OPHHKOB

OTAEJIBHBIE

NACTHHHO

CTARACTHHECKHE

H 3 C T a n e c e H B r p y r m e " E a j u i a f l b i c e M e f t H O - 6 b i T O B b i e " M M HCKJHOHHJIH a e c a T b

H3-3a OTCyTCTBHS paiBHTHH /KflCTBHfl (CM. §§ 0.261 H 0.262 Bbime). HCKJIIOTCHHMe necHH — "fleBmia-Myflpemma" (3 BapnaHTa), " C e M t 3araflOK" (2 BapiiaHTa), "TpH 3HTa"

(2

BapnaHTa),

"Tpn

Hcepe6ba"

(2

BapaaHTa)

H "COH

CanaMaHOBa

OTiia".

O c T a e T o i 9 0 6 a j i n a f l H BapnaHTOB. 63

H3-3a 4>parMeHTapH0CTH HJIH HeflocTaTorao pa3BHToro aeficTBHa MBI HCKJHOTHJIH

oneAyroiime necra, ony6nHicoBaHHi.ie B co6paHHH 3p6eHa: "Panna a pakelni pani", JSs 8, "Porubany synek", Ms 11, "Opalend", Ms 12, "Muzova vrazednice", Ne 25, "Poroda", Jte 30, "Devce s pdvem", JV° 36, "Dev5e a huldni", N° 37, "StJIHKTOB :

PyccKHe

MeiiicKHe 3p6eH

CyuiHJi

C MHJIbIM HJIH M a n o n :

2.3%

9.8%

C OFLHHM H 3 P O A H T E J I E Ñ H J I H

9.1% o.o% 2.3%

8-1% 0.8% 6.5%

9.1%

5-7%

4.5% 4.5%

4.9% 0.8%

Jlwôoemie

u ceMeÜHbie56 KOHffi/immbi

5.6% 6paTOM: 12.2% c ceMbeñ Myaca: 10.0% 20.0% c cynpyroM: oTKa3 HeacejiaeMOMy »ceHHxy: 10.0% K O H ( | ) J I H K T HeCTH H J I H IiejIOMyflpHíI C jnoôoBbio: 2.2% 5.6% KpoBocMeuieHHe :

66 T J T HYACHO HMETT B BH/iy, I T O "Earuiaflw CATHPMECKHE H KOMHHCCKHC" cSopmnca HapOÒHbie ÔajlAadbl 6HIJIH HCKjnOieHBI HAMH H3 HCCJieflOBaHJW. IL03T0MY 3TH UH(J>pbI eflBa JIH CpaBHHMbI C MeraCKHMH, HO MBI HX flaßM flJIH nOJIHOTbl.

® E E 3 COMHEHHH 6 H J I O 6 I I ACENATEJIBHO OTFLEJIHTI. juoôoBHbie KOH(J>JIHKTI>I OT ceMeöHBix, HO 6ojn>mHHCTBo ceMeñHwx KOHC¡)JIHKTOB B FLEÄCTBHTEJN>HOCTH — KOHJIHKTI>I, Bpamaromneca BOKpyr npoÔJieMti CBO6OÄH JIK>6BH. BflajibHeöineMM U S

Bce-nce BFCWEJWEM KaTeropmo "HHtie ceMeflHwe KOHIJUIHKTM" (xaTeropino He6ojn>-

myro),

OTHOCH

ciofla CEMEÖHWE

KOHCJIJIHKTM B

6ojiee y3KOM CMHCJie cjiOBa.

PyCCKAH H HEniCKAH HAPOflHAH BAJIJIAflA HHbie ceMeËHtie kohiJdjihktli :

147

8.9%

9.1%

6.5%

74.5%

40.9%

43.1%

0.0%

13.6%

9.8%

0.0%

4.5%

4.1%

2.2%

2.3%

1.6%

(Bee JHOBOBHbie h ceMeñHHe koh(JWIHKTbl) : KoH(J)JIHKTbI C 3EKOHOM (HCKJHOHâH jiioöoBHbie h ceMeiÍHbie KOH({)jmKTbi, BeaymHe k yßitiicTBy) : CioaceTbi, CBH3aHHbie c CBepxbecTecTBeHHblMH CHJiaMH: OcTajibHbie : HeacHbie c j i y n a n : Ee3 HacTOamero KOH(J)jiHKTa :

1.21.

3.3%

6.8%

11.4%

20.0%

31.8%

30.1%

BaacHbiM HaM KaaceTca 6ójn»mee k o j i h h c c t b o jik>6obhlix koh-

(Jwihktob B pyccKHx ôajuiaflax. H e jiHineHo 3HaHeHiw h Hajiiraae /lOBOJibHo GoJibinoro KojinnecTBa neiocKHX öajijiafl, b KOTopbix ecTb koh(J)jihkt c 3aKOHOM, TeMa, coBceM He npeflCTaBjieHHaa b pyccKOM MaTepHajie. Bajuiaflbi o CBepxi>ecTecTBeHHbix cmiax, o ô m h h o o BCTpenax c yMepniHM aceraxoM h j i h cynpyroM, aoBojibHo HacTO npeflcraBjieHHbie b neiucKHX Gajuia^ax, Toace He Haxo/iaT npHMepa b pyccKOM MaTepnajie, H3yneHHOM HaMH. P a 3 6 o p jiio6oBHbix k o h ^ j i h k t o b n o noflrpynnaM: Hanp. koh-

1.211.

4>JIHKTbI MOJIOfleaCH C pOflHTejIHMH HJIH C 6paTOM (fleByniKH), C HyBCTBOM necTH HjiH BepHOCTH Myacy h T.n. He HMeeT, KaaceTca, cymecTBeHHoro 3HaneHHH, h 3HaiHTejn>HOH pa3HHijbi b 3 t o m Meacfly pyccKHMH h nemCKHMH ôajuiaaaMH He oßHapyacHBaeTca. 1.22.

C

ÄpyroH CTopoHbi, HeKOTopwe KaTeropnH, xoponio

npeA-

CTaBjieHHbie b pyccKHx 6ajuia£ax, He h m ê i o t hjih n o htm He HMeioT napajiJiejiH b neincKHX, Hanp. koh

THiiHHHbi fljia GajuiaflHbix neceH, x o t h h He b o Bcex 6ajuiaaax HajimecTByiOT.

fl,ajiee

cjieayiOT craTHCTHHecKHe

flaHHbie

o

ohh

pa3Hbix

THnax aKTOB HacEuma: b HeKOTopbix öajuiaaax pa3Hbie t h u m

npoa-

BJiaioTca coBMecTHO, oco6eHHo b neincKOM MaTepnajie, Hanp. yóniícTBo, coBepraaeMoe repoeM, h ero Ka3Hb,68 h j i h CMepTb r e p o a o t HecHacraoro 57

«•

B 3THX öajuiaflax Myac o 6 h i h o xoieT yÖHU. »ceHy, ito6bi raôaBHTbca o t Hee. Hanp., "Václavek vrah", Susi!, JV° 196.

148

BHJIbHM XAPKHHC

cjiyqaa h caMoySimcTBO repoHHH.59 IIoaTOMy HTorn BbipaaceHbi HaMii B : 1-1% CMepTb B noeflHHKe: 0.0% CMepTb O T CBepxbecTecTBeHHbix C H J I : 0 . 0 % HeacHbie cjiynan: 0.0% K R O R H (nponopuHH no O T H O H I C H H K ) K uenoMy): M = .72

15.9%

9.8%

9.1%

17.9%

9.1% 2.3%

12.2% 0.8%

2.3%

0.0%

9-1% 0.0%

4.1% 2.4%

M =

.71

M =

.78

B pyccKHX 6ajuia,ziax npoHcxoflflT name y6iuicTBa H noxniiiemia; B lemcKHx — cMepTb O T HecnacTHoro cjiynaa. O T H O C H T C J I L H O 6ojibuiee pacnpocTpaHeHHe M O T H B E C A M O Y G H I I C T B A B leuicKHX Gamiaflax oTiacTH CBH3aHO c TeM, HTO CMepTb repoa B nenicKHx 6ajuia,nax name npHHHHaeT caMoySiriicTBo repoHHH H Hao6opoT. B S T O M MOHCHO BHfleTb me B HCHICKHX 6ajijiaaax, r a e npecTynHbift nocrynoK, Aaace nocTynoK, coBepmaeMbiii 6e3 CTpacra H J I H HacajiHH, MoaceT npeflcrajiHTb HHTepec fljia cjiymaTeji». 6 0 "

Hanp., "Nesiastnd svadba", Susil, >6 181. Hanp., "Ovcdk proneverec", Susil, Ms 285. B o6enx HapoffHbix Tpaflimnax pa36oKHHKH MoryT 6biTb cHMnaTiwHM HJIH HecHMnaTii?Hi>i, HO TOjn.RO lemcKHe 6aJina#si 3HaioT Meracnx npecTymmKOB Bpofle nacTyxoB, npoflaiomax flOBepeHHbrx HM OBeq, HJIH KOHOKpaflOB. 80

PyCCKAH H HEIHCKAH HAPOflHAH EAJUIAflA

1.4.

149

y6imiieH b Gajuiaaax 06 ySHHCTBe oGmiho «bjihctch uieH ceMbH

y6nToro. BOT cpaBHHTejibHbie #aHHbie:

PyccKne

y6uucmeo

HemcKHe 3p6eH

CyuiHJi

coeeptuaemcH

MaTepbH):

3.3%

2.3%

7.3%

OTUOM :

0.0%

0.0%

6paTOM:

3.3%

0.0% 0.0% 0.0%

0.0% 0.8%

cecTpofi:

0.0%

MYACEM:

11.1% 2.2%

aceHoft: CBeKpoBbio

(HJIH

MaTepbio OflHOrO

2.3%

1-6% 4-1% 2.4%

H3

3 B Y X JIIOGOBHHKOB):

3.3%

0.0% 6.8%

2.4%

0.0%

4.1%

0.0%

0.0% 0.0%

1-6% 3-3%

1-1%

2.3%

0.0%

2.2%

0.0% 0.0% 0.0%

1-6% 9.0% 4-9%

Manexoii: JIIOGOBHHKOM HJIH »CeHHXOM: OTBepaceHHbiM aceraxoM HJIH yxaacHBaTejieM: jno6oBHimeH:

0.0% 0.0%

conepHHKOM B JIIO6BH:

pOflCTBeHHHKOM HJIH MJTKeM B03JIK»GjieHHofi: ocrajibHoe: HEH3BECTHO HJIH HeacHO:

4.4%

1.1% 4.4%

0.0%

IIopaacaeT lacroTa cjiynaeB y6HHCTBa xcem.1 MyaceM B pyccKHx 6ajuia,n;ax. HHTepecHO, HTO MaTepH KaK 6yflTO 3Jiee OTIIOB no OTHOHICHHIO K CBOHM fleTHM: TeMa fleToy6HiicTBa (a0B0jn»H0 nacraa B qemcKHX Gajuiaflax) oTqacTH orpaacaeT 3Ty oco6eHHocTb. 3a STHMH HCKjnoieHHHMH cymecTBeHHoro pa3jnraiH B Hanrax aaHHbix, noxcaJiyH, HeT. 2.0. Tenept nepeiifleM K KOMHOSHIXHOHHOH crpyKType pyccKHx H nemcKHx 6ajuiaA- B HacTHocra, oGparaM BHHMamie Ha TaKHe CTopoHM, KaK eflHHCTBO 3nH30fl0B, HpHCyTCTBHe HJIH OTCyTCTBHe OTflejIbHblX 3aiHHOB H KOHIIOBOK h HX xapaKTep, pa3,a;ejieHHe 6ajuia,m>i Ha "cueHbi", HajniHHe noBecTBOBaTejibHoro noaxcma (narrative point of view), KOJIHHeCTBO H pojtbfleHCTByiOmHXJIHH H T.n.

BHJIbHM XAPKHHC

150

2.1. B cymHocTH 6ajuiafla nocTpoeHa Ha CBoero po/ja pa3o6jiaienmi npHpoflbi KaKoro-HH6yai> CO6BITHH 6oJiee HJIH MeHee TaiÍHoro HJIH ceHcauHOHHoro xapaKTepa, B3HToro H3 5KH3HH qacTHbix JIIM. HemcKHe 6ajijiaflbi nacTo HanimaioTcsi c Bonpoca "HTO HOBoro B TaKOM-TO MecTe . . . ? " HJIH " H T O cjiynHjiocb B TaKOM-TO MecTe . . . ? " , 6 1 H STOT Bonpoc BBO^HT cjiyuiaTejifl B MHP Gajuia/tbi, Bbi3biBaH B HCM HacTpoeHHe oacHAaHHa. IIoBecTBOBaTejibHaH CTpyiaypa oneHb MHOITK Gajuia^ TecHo CBJoaHa co cnocoGoM pacKpbiTHH noflomieKH COGHTHH 6ajijia,m»i, H c TeM, KOMy OHH pacKpbiBaioTCH: cnymaTejiaM HJIH Tamice — onem. nacTo — KaKOMy-HHÓyflb nepcoHaacy Gajuiaflbi. Be3 COMHCHHH STOT xapaKTep oGHapyaceHHH TaiÍHbi HJIH noTpacaiomero CO6MTHH, noCTeneHHo pa3BHBaiomerocH b xo,zie fleñcTBHa 6ajuia/n>i, flBJiaeTCH rnaBHbiM HCTOHHHKOM flpaMaTHHHocTH 6ajuiaflbi. H a c r o e ynoTpeGjieHHe BOnpOCOB H OTBeTOB B ÜOBeCTBOBaHHH C03flaeT aTMOC(J)epy

flpaMaTH-

necKoro HanpaaceHHH H GecnoKoiÍHoro OACNAAHHH.

2.11. HeKOTopwe Gajuiaabi npeflCTaBJiaioT co6i»iTHe, KaK nponcxoaamee; B Apyrnx yace npoHcmeflinee co6bmie paccKa3biBaeTca OAHOMy H3

fleñcTByiomHx

JNM 6ajuia,M>i. Pa3jiHHHe STO He CBO^HTC« K

rjiarojibHbix BpeMeHax: BO BTOPOM rane, KOHCHHO, O G M I HbiM HBJiaeTCH npomeflmee BpeMH, HO GAJINA^bi nepBoro rana MoryT 6biTb npeflCTaBJieHbi KaK B HacToameM TaK H B npomefliiieM. pa3JiHHHio B

C 3TOH TOHKH 3peHHH Mbl paJIHHaeM HeTblpe THna HOBeCTBOBaHHH.

2.111.

Trai

1: coGbirae npeflCTaBJieHO, KaK nponcxoflamee, pa3BH-

Baiomeeca B BpeMemi (raarojibHoe BpeMH MoaceT GbiTb HJIH Hacroamee HJIH npouieflmee; BnponeM, B cjiaBHHCKHX 6ajuia,nax H a c r a nepeKjnoHeHHH c o f l H o r o BpeMeHH rjiarojia Ha apyroe). 3 T O T ran BCTpenaeTCJi name Bcex.

B Gajuiaflax 3Toro rana MoaceT HajiHiecTBOBaTb HeKoe

BbIHBJieHHe CKpbITbIX oGcTOHTejIbCTB HJIH MOTHBOB, HO OHO IIOHBJIHeTCfl He CTOJibKo paflH MejioapaMaranecKoro 3(J)(j5eKTa, CKOJibKo AJIH Toro, I T O G H MOTHBHpoBaTb .HajibHeiíiiiee fleHCTBHe. IIpHMepaMH 3Toro p o a a nOCTpoeHHH HBJIHIOTCH 6aJIJiafla "KHH3b BOJIKOHCKHH H BaHH-KJIIOHHHK", 6 2 r^e FLOHOC KM3K) O JIIOGOBHOH CBH3H BaHH c KHJDKHOH (O i e M , BnponeM, yace 3HaiOT cjiyniaTejm) npHBoziHT K KA3HH repoa, HJIH yace

Hanp., 6ajuiaaa "Utopení" (Susil, M° 271) HaumaeTCfl Tax: Novina, novina, co to za novina? HJIH 6ajma«a "Maníelka vrahyné" {Susil, N° 205) HaumaeTcsi: Co se stalo za horama? Zabila tam pañí pána. 62 Hap. 6cviJiadbi, 153-154. 91

PyCCKAH H HEHICKAH HAPOflHAH BAJIJIA/IA

151

miTHpoBaHHaa Gajuiaaa "Sirotek", rae paccKa3 o CTpaaaHHax cnpoTbi y 3JIOH ManexH noGyacflaeT MepTByio Man. B3HTb pe6eHKa k ce6e. 2.112. Tan 2: coGbirae paccKa3biBaeTca, nacTO k o p o t k o h HenojiHo, b nepBofi nacTH 6ajuiazcbi; b o BTopoñ nacra s t o co6bmie CTaHOBHTCH H3BecTHbiM 0flH0My H3 rjiaBHbix nepcoHaaceH. IIpHMepH — Gajuiaaa "3KeHa Myaca 3ape3ajia", rae aceita y6HBaeT Myaca, a n0T0M ee 3aCTaBJiaioT co3HaTbca b cBoeñ BHHe, hjih "Nest'astná svatba", rae repon y6üT Ha nyra k BeinaHino h CBe^eHa K KpaTKOMy BBejiCHHK) h j i h 3aHHHy: nopa3HTejibHbi no CBoeñ KpaTKocTH h cacaTocra, HanpHMep, nepBbie c t p o k h pycracoñ 6ajuia,m>i o KH»3e PoMaHe: "KaK KHH3b PoMaH aceHy Tepjui, / Tepaji-Tep3aji, b peKy 6pocaji, / Bo Ty peKy bo CMopoflHHy."63 Hjih cpaBHHTe 3aiHH lenicKOH Gajuiaflbi "Manzelka vrazednice": "Prihodila se novina, / ze pañí pana zabila". 64 2.113. Tan 3: b s t o m Tune fleñcTBHe h pacicpbiTHe TañHoro h j i h HeH3BecTHoro nepeayioTCH, T.e. AeñcTBHe nepepbiBaeTca pacKpbiTHeM, 06bIHH0 OCymeCTBJIHIOmHeMCH B pHAe BOnpOCOB H OTBeTOB. 3 t o t THII OTJiHHaeTCH o t nepBoro t c m , h t o t j t o t b c t m Ha Bonpocbi npoH3BoflaT 3HawrejibHbiH MejioflpaMaTHiecKHH 3(J«J)eKT. IIpHMepbi — Gajuiaaa "OicjieBeTaHHaa aceHa",65 rae 3aBHCTHHK o 6 b h h h c t jKeHy Myacy, KOTopbiií ee yÓHBaeT, a h o t o m y3HaeT, h t o o6BHHeHHe Gbuio jiojkhbim, h j i h "Zakletá dcera", 66 rae aepeBo yroBapHBaeT flByx My3HKaHTOB, KOTopbie x o t h t c a e j i a n ce6e CKpnnKH, htoGbi o h h He TporajiH 3Toro aepeBa — 3to fleByimca, 3anapoBaHHaJi 3jioh MaTepbio. 0 6 e sth necHH co^epacaT 3HaiHTejibHoe aeiícTBHe, jieacamee 3a npeaejiaMH MejioapaMaTHHecKoro paCKpblTHH TaHHOro. B OTJIHHHe OT BTOporo THna, B 3TOM THne He TOJibKofleiícTByiomHeJimia Gajuraflbi, ho h cjiymaTejiH He 3HaioT 3apaHee cyabGbi repoeB. B s t o m o t h o i h c h h h s t o t t h h MejioapaMaTHHHee BToporo. 2 . 1 1 4 . T h h 4 : s t o HCKjiiOHHTejibHO pacKpbiTHe CKpbiToro: bch Gajuiaaa, hjih i i o h t h b c h — pa3roBop, p«a BonpocoB h o t b c t o b aencrByiomHX jihií. 3 t o t t h h HMeeT 3aMenaTejibHbie npHMepw b aHTJioHioTJiaHacKOH TpaamiHH, b TaKHx Gajuiaaax KaK "Lord Randall" h "Edward", h nonyjiapHocTb h apaMaTHHecKaa cnjia 3Toro THna 6ajuiaabi MoaceT co3AaTb BneHaTJiemie, hto 3to GajiJiaflHbrií thh par excellence. Ho oh BCTpenaeTCH He onem. nacTo: bo bccm MaTepnajie, H3yneHHOM •3 TÜM otee, 66. 84 Erben, Ns 21, 399. 86

Hap. 6ajinadbi, 63-65.

«• Erben, Xa 1, 383.

BHJIbHM XAPKHHC

152

HaMH, HMeioTCH Bcero T p H n p H M e p a : flBa p y c c K H x H O^HH HemcKHH. 67 2.115.

C p a B H H T e j i b H H e aaHHbie o noBecTBOBaTejn>Hi>ix T H n a x :

Pyccrae

Tun 44.5%

1

HemcKHe 3p6eH

CyniHji

63.6%

65.0%

2

15.6%

13.6%

8-1%

3

35.6%

22.7%

26.0%

4

2.2%

0.0%

0.8%

HeacHbie cjiynaH:

2.2%

0.0%

0.0%

2.1151.

líraic,

B

HeniCKoñ

6ajuiafle

6ojiee

BMABJIAETCA

HH3KHH

n p o u e H T THÜOB 2, 3 H 4. 3 T O MoaceT G b m . yKa3WBaeT H a e e M e H b i n y i o MejIOflpaMaTHHHOCTb. T a K O H BbIBOfl MONCHO CBH3aTb C MeHblIIHM KOJIHNECTBOM n p e c r y n H b i x a e i í c T B H H r e p o e B B nemcKHX 6 a j u i a ^ a x ,

H a HTO

y K a 3 M B a j i o c b Bbinie (1.3).

2.2.

K a K yace 6HJIO y n o M H H y T o (0.24), eflHHCTBo a e ñ c T B H H TaK x a p a K -

TepHo fljra G a j i j i a a , HTO IIOHTH h c t n e c e H G a j u i a ^ H o r o mnxca

H a H30JIHp0BaHHbie

3nH30flbI.

3TO

rana

He 3 H a i H T ,

pacnaaaio-

KOHeHHO,

HTO

Gajuiafflbi He MCHHIOT M e c r a ACHCTBHH, HJIH HTO B HHX He 6biBaeT n e p e pbiBOB BO BpeMeHH. B Gajijxaaax MONCHO H a i r r a Gojiee HJIH MeHee MCTKO o i r p a H H H e H H b i e " c u e H b i " , XOTH GoJibHieñ n a c T b i o 6e3 apKo BbweJieHHbix n e p e x o f l O B . ü o s T O M y , H TaK KaK He B c e r ^ a HCHO, K o r ^ a HMCHHO a e ñ c T B H e nepeHOCHTCH B a p y r o e npocTpaHCTBo HJIH BpeMa, M M He G y a e M y r j i y 6jIHTbCH B p a 3 6 o p 3THX HBJieHHH. H o KaHCeTCfl, HTO B OipOMHOM GojlbraHHCTBe

6ajuiafl

Gojibiue

oahoh

TaKoñ

"ciieHbi"

H

HTO

THHHHHOC

npH6jlH3HTeJIbHOe KOJIHHeCTBO TaKHX "CIieH" H B pyCCKHX H HeiHCKHX G a j u i a f l a x paBHHeTca 3. 2.21. raaroJiOB

I l e p e x o f l b i M e a m y " c H e H a M H " O6HHHO «eJiaioTCH n p n n o M o m a flBHaceHHH,

H H o r f l a H a p e i H H HJIH n p e a n o a c H o r o

HHH, o n p e a e j i a i o m e r o M e c r o ; peace M e c T o

fleñcTBHH

cjioBoconeTa-

HBHO MeHíteTca, HO

3 T a n e p e M e H a HHKaK He o T M e i a e T c a . B o B c e M S T O M o n f l T b - T a K H p a 3 H H u a MeacAy p y c c K H M H H HCUICKHMH 6 a j u i a a a M H H e c y m e c T B e H H a . 2.22.

I l e p e p b i B H BO BPEMEHH ACHCTBHH H a G j i i o f l a i o T c a 3HaiHTejn>Ho

67 PyccKHe NPHMEPBI — 'TH6ejn> naHa" (Hap. SaMiadbi, 100-101) H "Myac-cojiaaT B rocrax y aceHti" (maM otee, 163-165); HemcKHñ npHMep (KCTÍITII, He oiem. apaMaTHHecKHfi) — "Samovrahyné", Susil, Ms 315.

153

PyCCKAH H HEIHCKAH HAPOflHAH EAJIJIAflA

peace, neM nepeMemeHHS b npocTpaHCTBe. Co3flaeTCH BnenaTJieHHe, h t o

6ajuia.ua crapaeTca BcanecKH hx H36eraTb, KaK SyaTo b noncKax n o -

h KaK moncho bo BpeMeHH hohth ohh HipaiOT cymecTBeHHyio

BecTBOBaTenbHoro TOHa KaK MoacHo 6oJiee SbicTporo 6ojiee cocpeflOToneHHoro

(cm. 0.241).

IlepepbiBOB

HeT, 3a HCKJiioHeHHeM Tex cjiyiaeB, r a e cioEceTHyio poiib.

2.23. Bo MHorax

GaJiJiaaax flaioTca Gojiee

hjih MeHee hctko

OTipaHH-

HeHHbie 3aHHHbI, HJIH BBefleHHfl, H KOHHOBKH, HJIH 3HHJI0rH.

2.231. IIpaBfla, MHorae Sajijiajibi HaiHHaioT paccKa3 HenocpeflCTBeHHO, ho name 6ajuia,m>i HaiHHaiOTca 3anHHOM, hjih BBeAemieM. 3thm 3aiHHOM MoaceT 6biti. (fiopivryjia jinpHnecKoro hjih noBecTBoBaTejn>Horo xapaKTepa, H3JioaceHHe npeffbiflymerofleiicTBHahjih hojioaceHHH aeJi (3Kcno3HUHH, hjih npeawcTopna), onpeAejiemie hjih onncaHHe MecTafleñcTBHa,HHorjia c 6ojiee hjih MeHee maGjioHHbiM jihphhcckhm KOJIOpHTOM. 3th pa3Hbie KaTeroprai He Bcer^a pa3rpaHHHeHH c aocraTOHHOH neTKocTbK), ho cjieayiomHe aaHHbie Moiyr narh no Rpaimeñ Mepe npH6jiH3HTejiBHoe npeztcTaBJieHHe: HeniCKHe

PyccKHe

3p6eH

CyuiHJi

36.7%

34.1%

31.7%

8.9% 23.3% 3.3% 2.2% 25.6%

18.2% 11.4%

21.9% 16.3%

0.0%

0.0%

4.5% 31.8%

5-7% 24.4%

Tun 3cmma M3JioaceHHe n p e a b i ^ y m e r o

fleiicTBHa

hjih noJioaceHHa: OnncaHHe (npo3aHHceKoe) M e c r a aeiícTBHa:

JlnpHHecKHH 3aMHH hjih 3aneB: SiniHecKHH 3aiHH hjih 3aneB: IIoBecTBOBaTejibHaa ^ o p M y j i a :

Be3 3aiHHa:

2.232. PyccKHe

6ajuiaabi

name

HaiHHaioTca

Tpa,znmH0HH0-JiHpH-

MeCKHM 3aHHHOM HJIH 3aneBOM, 06bIHH0 OHHCblBaiOmHM M e c r o H e m c K H e 3aiHHbi MeHee

jihphhhm: hx

Hbie h nparMaTHHHbi. 3 t o

fleilCTBHa.

o n H c a m i a Gojiee HenocpeacTBeH-

H a M HanoMHHaeT, h t o p y c c K a a JinpHiecKaa

necHH 6e3 coMHeHHa flpeBHee

h

6 o j i e e TpaflHiinoHHa

h b cbocm

o(J)opM-

jieHHH, HeM nemcKaa.

2.24. B

pa3Hbix Sajuia/jax H a 6 j n o f l a i o T c a TaKace Gojiee

neTKo oTrpaHHieHHbie

kohiiobkh, hjih aminora. B

hjih

MeHee

3Ty K a T e r o p n i o

mm

BHJIbHM XAPKHHC

154

peniHJiH oTHecTH Bce Te nacra 6ajuiaabi, KOTopwe cjieayioT 3a 4>a6yjrbHoií pa3BH3KOH: 3TO CBoero poAa pa3p»AKa nocjie Hanpaaceraia, cnafl. M t i pa3JiHHaeM cpeflH TaKHx errado B MopajiH3HpyiomHe ynpeKH, l a m e Bcero OT juma KaKoro-MIGYAB nepcoHaaca, HO HHor/ja KaK 6Y^TO OT jimja caMoro neBua; ceHTHMeHTajibHbie paccKa3bi, Hanp. o norpeGemiH flByx JIK)6OBHHKOB H T.n., name Bcero ma6jioHHoro Traía; 68 HacTOJnime cnaflti, B KOTOPBIX fleñcTBHe npoAOJiacaeT PA3BHBATBCA nocjie 4>aKTHnecKoñ pa3B»3KH H T.FL. B TAKHX Gajuiaaax, rae, HanpHMep, repon y6nT, a r e p o r a a KornaeT caM0y6HHCTB0M, GbiBaeT TPYFLHO oTJMHHTb cnaja, OT cymecTBeHHoñ nacra fleñcTBHH, HO B 6ojn>niHHCTBe cjiynaeB M U CHHTaeM TaKoe caMoy6nñcTBo nacTbio caMoñ 4)a6yju>HOH pa3B«3Kn, a He cnaaoM. ^aHHbie cjieayiOT:

MeuicKHe

PyccKHe

3p6eH

CyuiHJi

10.0%

2.3%

8.9%

3.3%

0.0%

4-1%

20.0%

36.4%

22.0%

13.3%

6.8%

8.9%

12.2%

6.8%

22.0%

40.0%

47.7%

34.1%

Tun KOHlfOBKU

MopajiH3HpyioiiiHe ynpeKH HJIH 3aMeHaHHH OT Jimxa KaKOro-HHÓyflb nepcoHaaca: MopajiH3npyioinHe ynpeKH OT Jiraia neBiia: CeHTHMeHTajibHbie 3aMenaHHa HJIH noBecTBOBaHH«: IIoBecTBOBaHHe pa3Hbix THnoB: OcTanbHoe (IOMOP, HPOHHH, JiHpraca H T.FL.): B e 3 KOHQOBKH:

B 3THX UHÍJTPAX e f l B a JIH HaGnioaaeTCH KaKoe-JiH6o c y m e c T B e H H o e p a 3 JIHHHe. lOMOpHCTHHeCKHe

H HpOHHHeCKHe

KOHROBKH,

IIOHCajiyH,

He-

CKOJibKO TraiHHHee fljia HeracKOH ceMeÜHO-GwTOBOH 6ajuia/n>i. 2.3.

K a K 6HJIO CKa3aHo Bbirne (0.23 a CJI.), apaMaTHHecKHH xapaKTep,

NPOABJIHIOMHHCA B apaMaTHHecKHX K0H«i)p0HTauHHx 6ajuiaAHi>ix nepcoHaaceií, H PACKPBREAIOIMIHCH B NACTHOCXH B zniajiorax (HHorjia H B M0H0Ji0rax) —

BaacHaa H NYTB JIH He caMaa cymecTBeHHaH

nepTa

6ajuiaabi. CpaBHHM pyccKyio H HemcKyio Gajuiaay no 3TOMY npH3HaKy:

"

Hanp., "Baciumñ H Coha", 2. Bap., Hap. 6ajutadu, 51-52.

155

PYCCKAH H HEUICKAH HAPOFLHAH BAJUIAFLA PyccKHe Cmeneub

dpaMammecKoü

^erncKHe 3p6eH

Cyiniui

75.6%

70.5%

73.2%

20.0%

22.7%

22.0%

4.4%

6.8%

4.9%

uHmemueHocmu

Eajijiaflbi ApaMaTH^ecKHe, c pa3BHTMM A H a j i o r o M H c n o f l H e p K y r o H , CHJIBHOH KOH^poHTauHeö

fleiicTByiomHx

JIHII:

B a j u i a ^ w He B n o j i H e Ä p a M a n m e c K H e , HHor.ua c M0H0JI0R0M, HO 6e3 HJIH noHTH 6e3 flnajiora H 6e3 ApaMaTHHeCKOH KOH(J)pOHTaiIHH; HeKOTOpbie cmibHo jnipH30BaHHHe: 69 HeapaMaTHHecKHe 6ajuiaAbi, 6ojibmeH HaCTbK) HHCTO IIOBeCTBOBaTeJIbHOrO xapaKTepa:70

2.31.

H e T H 3 f l e c b , HO-BHAHMOMY, c y m e c T B e H H o f i pa3HHii;bi M e a c ^ y

p y c c K H M H H n e m c K H M H G a j i J i a ^ a M H ; HO e c j i n B C M O T p e T b c a BO B T o p y i o H TpeTbio

KaTeropHH,

TO

MO>KHO o Ö H a p y a c H T b

HeicoTopoe

pa3;iHHHe

B

npHHHHaX "fle(|)eKTHOH" ApaMaTHHHOCTH:

PyccKHe

HemcKHe

3p6eH

Cyiimn

11.4%

18.7%

JLHPH30BAHHBIE GAJIJIAFLBI (M0H0Ji0r H A n a j i o r M o r y T H 3 n 0 J i b 3 0 B a T b c a , HO TOJIbKO B CHJIbHO CTHJIH30BaHH0H 4>opMe): 71

16.7%

" Hanp., "KopoJieBHa BnycicaeT Monoiwa B ropofl", 1. Bap., Hap. öaAJiadbi, 81; BTopofi BapHaHT Tofl xe 6ajuiaflbi HMCCT TOCTO NOBECTBOBATEJITHMFI, HeapaMaralecKHfi xapaKTep (CM. npHM. 70 mrace), Kaie H nepBMä, HO nepBwä BapHaHT Komaei-ca smijioroM c ÄpaMaTuraecraMH penjimtaMH pa3roBopa MaTepn c floieptw. HemcKiiä npmuep — "Zakletä deera", Erben, 1, 383: B 3TOÄ 6amiafle ecTb «Hanoi-, HO KOHIFJPOHTAUKHFLOBOJIBHOonaöa, H 6ajinafla exopee NOßECTBOBATEJIBHA, a He flpainaTHHHa. 70 Hanp., "KopojieBHa BnycKaeT MOJiOAUa B ropofl", 2. Bap., Hap. öaAJiadbi, 82, IHCTO noBecTBOBaTejitHaa öajuiafla 6e3 npjiMoö pe HecnacTHoro cjiyiaa B nemcKOH

Gajuiafle, He ramreHaa flpaMaTHiecKHH

2.33.

pjix

KOHÍJUIHKT

pyccKon: TpyuHo pa3BHTb HacToamnö Meayjy nepcoHaacaMH c TaKHM

Tax KaK .npaManraM

3ABHCHT O T N P H M E H E H H H

CKMKCTOM.

Gajuia^e B 3 H A I H T E J I B H O H CTeneHH flHajiora H Booöme npsMoii peiH, He6e3biHTeB

peCHO OÖpaTHTb BHHMaHHe Ha CpaBHHTejIbHOe KOJIHHeCTBO OTflejIbHblX

penjimc: PyccKHe

HemcKHe 3p6eH

CpeflHee KOJIBHCCTBO penjiHK B O ^ H O H 6ajuia,n;e: MaKCHMajibHoe KOJIHHCCTBO B O A H O H 6ajuiafle: IlpoiieHT Gajijiafl 6e3 npHMOH penn:

Cyiimji

6.0

7.2

6.9

21 2.2%

21 4.8%

17 0.0%

72 IIpHMep pyccKoä öajuiaflw TOCTO n0BecTB0BaTejn>H0r0 (HeapaMaTHiecicoro) xapaxTepa — "KoponeBHa BnycKaeT Mojio/ma B ropo«", Hap. óadjiadM, 81-82; leracKHe npHMepw — "Üraz", Erben, Ns 44, 409 H "Oklamany Turek", maM Mce, Ns 20, 398-399. He XOTHM cnopHTb o TOM, Kaioie HMCHHO 6ajinaflti BMCIOT ocTpo nyaHTHbiü xapaKTep, H n03T0My He BtweiraeM HX Kaie ocoStiñ no^acaimp. Ho HCHO, MTO 6ojn>me 6ajuia,n Taicoro Tana B lemcxoM ^onwuiope,TOMB pyccKOM. ' 3 Hanp., "MoHamemca — MaTb pe6eHKa", B OCOÖCHHOCTH 2. Bap., Hap. Sajuadu, 167; "Bitka o milou", Erben, 41, 409. 71 3TH uj«J)pbi 6BUIH yace npjiBeflem>i B § 1.2.

PyCCKAH H

HEUICKAH HAPOflHAS BAJIJIAflA

157

OKasbiBaeTCH, HTO nemcKHe 6ajuiaflbi nojn>3yK)Tca npaMoii

penbio

HeMHoro name, neM pyccrare. Bo3MoacHo, HTO STHM OHH nacraHHo BOCnOJIHHIOT CBOK) MeHbHiyiO KOH(J)JIHKTHOCTb H MejIOApaMaTHHHOCTb. OflHoñ H3 caMbix cymecTBeHHbix nepT crpyKTypbi 6ajiJiaflHoro

2.4.

acaHpa aBJiaeTca pojn. fleñcTByiomHX JIHU. Yace 6WJIO ynoMHHyro (0.30), HTO

6airJia^Hbie nepcoHaacH — HCKjuoHHTejibHO nacrabie jiHija H

6 AJINABA

KaK acaHp KacaeTca a x nacTHoii H ceMeáHOH, HO He nojiHTHKo-o6meCTBEHHOH >KH3HH.

Bwjio Taicace

CKA3AHO

(0.301),

HTO

6ajuiaflHbie repoH

O6LIMHO GbiBaioT npeflCTaBJieHbi 6e3 ranep6oJiH3Ma, H HTO OHH peflKO BJIAAEIOT CBEPXTECTECTBEHHOII CHJIOH.

2.41.

B o Bcex 6ajuiaflax HMeeTca rjiaBHbiii repoii (protagonist), HO

nacTo, ocoSeHHo B 6ajijia^ax o flByx JIK)6oBHHKax, 3Ty pojib HrpaioT FLBA nepcoHaaca, B3«Tbie BMecTe. B STOM cjiynae HMeeTca HeKOTopoe CTpeMJieHHe K flByx3nn30/jH0CTn: o/iHa nacTb a6yjibi KacaeTca cyflb6bi repon; flpyraa (ao6aBOHHas) — repoHHH. 3TH £Ba smreoaa, KOHCHHO, jiornnecKH TecHo CBK3aHbi flpyr c apyroM, TaK HTO 3TO «BjieHHe eflBa JIH Hago noHHMaTb, KaK HacToamyio flByxsmreoflHocTb; 3TO cKopee CBoero poaa

CHMMeTpaa

B 4>a6yjibHOM njiaHe.

IlpHMepbi

—

"MypHJibé-

HryMeHbe", 75 HJIH "Nesíastná s v a t b a " . 7 6 2.42.

Bo

MHO

rax 6ajuiaflax ecTb TaKace

HPOTHBHHK

(antagonist),

KOTopbra npoTHBOACHCTByeT rjiaBHOMy nojio»CHTejn>HOMy repoK). H o B óoJibiiiHHCTBe 6ajuia/i 3Ta pojib oTcyTCTByeT. TjiaBHWH repoñ caM MoaceT 6biTb oTpHuaTejibHbiM: Tor^a name Bcero ero aypHbie nocTynKH BeayT ero o

K

AEÑCTBHH

niGejiH.77 B 6ajuiaflax o HecnacTHbix cjiynaax cjienoñ cy,zu>6bi

MecTa. MHorne 6ajuiaflbi

O6MHHO STOTO

HeT npoTHBHraca

rana

H

HJIH

Boo6me

fljra Hero HeT

H

ocHOBaHbi Ha KaKOM-HH6y,m>

Heflopa3yMeHHH, Ha He3HaHHH KaKoro-HHÓyflb (})aKTa, Ha TOM, HTO KaKoe-To coo6meHHe He aornjio no Ha3HaHeHHio.78 flpaMaTH3M TaKHX Gajuiaa nacTo ocHOBbiBaeTca Ha npocToii cynaiiHocra —

STHM

OH

Meacay npoHHM 3HaiHTejibH0 pa3HHTca OT cqeHHnecKoro ApaMaTH3Ma. HemcKHe 6aJiJiaflbi noacajiyii name OSXOAHTCH 6e3 npoTHBHHKa: 3TO onflTb-TaKH yKa3biBaeT Ha pojib cjiynaiiHocTH H cjienoñ cyabGbi B HHX:

Hap. SaAAadbiy 52-54. Susil, JVs 181. 77 Hanp., ">KeHa Myaca 3ape3ajia", Hap. SaAAadbi, 116-118; "Václavicek", Erben, Ni! 22, 400. 78 Hanp., "AeBynnca no oum6Ke OTpaBuna 6paTa", Hap. SaAAadu, 107, HJIH "Utonulá", Susil, JVs 188, ruefleBynncaHe 3HaeT, w o ee HCCHHX BcopamaeTcsi c Boemofi CJIJOKÓM, KaK eñ o5emaJi. 76 74

158

BHJIbHM XAPKHHC

PyccKHe

54.4%

Bajuiaflbi 6e3 npoTHBHHKa r e p o a : 2.43.

^erncKHe 3p6eH

CyniHJi

75.0%

56.9%

OT KjraccHcJjHKaiiHH óajuiaflHbix nepcoHaacefi no HHBIM npH-

3HaKaM HacToamnii

floKJiaa

B03flep3KHBaeTca.

IIOIIMTKH OTJiHHaTb

nepBocTeneHHtix repoeB OT BTopocTeneHHwx HJIH aaace TpeTbecTeneHHBIX (cjiyr, nocjioB H T.n.) He yaajiocb npoBecra nocjieaoBaTejibHo, H npoSbi TaKoro p o a a He .najiH HCHWX, y6e#HTejibHo

060CH0BaHHbix

pe3yjibTaT0B. KaaceTca, BnponeM, HTO B STOM oTHonieran HeT Gojibiuoro pa3jiHHH» Meacfly pyccKHMH H neuiCKHMH 6aiiJia,uaMH. 2.431.

MO>KHO JIH pa3jiHHHTb

onpe^ejieHHbie

POJIH HJIH KO cjiyacaT npoueccy pacKpbiTHa (J)a6yjibi aaHHOH 6ajuiaflbi. 79 80

B. lipomi, Mopifiojiozux

CKO3KU

(JleHHHrpaa, 1928).

CpaBHHTejibHbie CTSTHCTIIHCCKHCFLAHHTIEans

Qajuiaa C Beerò OAHHM nepco-

HaaceM: pyccKHe, 13.3%; neincKHe (3p6eH>, 6.8%; (Cynnui), 4.1%. 81 E. M. MeneTHHCKHH, repoù eo/iuie6Hoù CKQ3KU (MocKBa, 1958), 252-254.

PyCCKAH H HEUICKAH HAPOflHAS EAJIJIAflA

159

OflHH n e p c o H a » noaBjiaeTca nacTo H ero pojib ycTOHHHBa: ran n a c c H B H o ñ acepTBbi. 3 T H M TepMHHOM Ha3biBaeM nepcoHaaca, OGBIHHO He jirpaiomero caMocTOHTejibHOH pojin, cymecTByiomero KaK 6 B I TOJIBKO AJÍ a Toro, HTOÓBI 6bm> YGHTBIM. 2.432.

3TO

PyccKHe

EaJiJiaflbi c n a c c H B H o ñ a c e p T B o ñ :

32.2%

^euicKHe 3p6eH

CyuiHJi

18.2%

17.9%

3flecb pa3HHHHe Meamy pyccKHMH a nemcKHMH GajuiaflaMH 3HaHHTejibHo, HO OHO He coo6maeT HaM HHHero HOBoro. MBI yace BHACJIH (1.3), HTO yGmícTBo BooSme 6onee xapaKTepHo AJIH pyccKHX 6ajxjiaa. Mbi 3flecb oSpamaeM BHHMaHue Ha (})Hrypy naccHBHoñ acepTBbi noTOMy, HTO oHa HaM KaaceTca Hpe3BbinaHHo THIIHHHOÍÍ ¿yra GajuiaflHoro acaHpa KaK TaKOBoro. ÜHTepec 6ajuia/ibi cocpefloTOHeH Ha MenoapaMe, Ha apaMaTHnecKOM xapaKTepe CO6HTHH. Bce nponee, HTO MOHCCT KacaTbca 6ajuiaaHHX nepcoHaaceñ, KaaceTca MaJioBaxcHbiM no cpaBHemno c STHM MejioflpaMaTH3MOM: HX OnHCaHHe, XapaKTepHCTHKa H MOTHBHpOBKa HX nocTynKOB. EoJibiue, neM nepcoHaacn ítpyrnx $0JibKJi0pHbix xcaupoB, 3TO MapHOHeTKH, KOTOpbie He fleHCTByiOT, a TOJIBKO CTpaflaiOT OT cyflb6ti, HJIH ace, Kor.ua fleiícTByioT, pe3yjibTaT HX nocTynKOB nacTo 6biBaeT oGpaTHHM TOMy, nero OHH XOTST H oacH^aiOT. 3THM HX naccHBHOCTb OTJIHHaeTCSI OT THÜHHHOH naCCHBHOCTH TepoeB B0JIIIie6HbIX CKa30K, KOTOpbie KaK 6yflTo w.jiyi nog pyxy c cyflbóoñ, a He npoTHB Hee. 2.44. B 6aJiJia/ie THimHHa KOHtJjpoHTaimx TojibKo AByx nepcoHaaceñ 0flH0BpeMeHH0: Korjja npHcyTCTByeT TperaH nepcoHaac, OH OGMHHO MOJIHHT H He aeScTByeT, KaK 6yaTo ero HeT. HcKjHOHH'rejibHO pe^KH 6ajuiaABi, B KOTOpbix Tpii nepcoHaaca, npHcyrcTByiomHe B OAHOH cijeHe, roBopflT HJIH aeHCTByioT BMecTe, a He nocjie,n;oBaTejibHo B rpynnax no flBa. OneBHflHO 6airjiaflHaH Texmoca npe/inoHHTaeT K0H(|)p0HTHp0BaTb jnoAeñ nonapHo, H eñ He aocTaeT TexHHnecKHx npneMOB #JIH Sojiee cjioacHbix K0H(J>p0HTanHH. 3THM, MEAC^y npoHHM, Gajuiaaa He oTjiHHaeTC3 CymeCTBeHHO OT CKa3KH HJIH OT SbIJIHHbl. XopOIHHe

npHMepbl HCHOH OflHOBpeMeHHOH KOH^pOHTaUHH T p e x

n e p c o H a a c e H T a K pe^KH, HTO M H H e p e u i a e M C H n p n B e c T H

KaKHe-jraSo

C T a T H C T H i e c K H e a a H H b i e : KaaceTcsr, HTO CJIOKHMX K O H ^ p o H T a i í H H

HeM-

HOTO 6 o j i b m e B pyccKHX S a j u i a ^ a x , HO 3TO M o a c e T 6 b i T b p e 3 y j i b T a T O M S o j i e e n e T K o r o p a 3 f l e j i e H H a H a c i i e H b i B HCHICKHX: B p y c c K H X

6ajuiaflax

160

BHJIbHM XAPKHHC

nacTo He flCHO, r a e o^Ha cijeHa KOHHaeTca, a 3.0.

Bbieodbi.

flpyraa

HaiHHaeTCH.82

— Eajijiafla — n e c e m o e noBecTBOBamie o c o 6 h t h h x H3

5KH3HH BbIMblIIIJieHHblX HaCTHblX JIHU, C pa3BHTOÍÍ a6yjn>i: CKji0HH0CTb k

o6pHCOBKe CTpacTeií, npecTynaeHHH h h h l i x yacacoB — Bce 3 t o aeaaeT Sajuiaay apaMaTunecKofí. H3BecTHoe npeanoHTemie b Gajmaae T p a r a ohh

necKHx pa3BH30K BecbMa cymecTBeHHO: Moxcex Qurh

thiihhhh

HMeHHo noTOMy, h t o o h h MejioapaMaTHHHbi, a H e noTOMy, h t o caMH no

ce6e

hmciot

naeo jiormiecicoe

3HaieHHe.

HajiHHHe

TparniecKHx

pa3B«30K b 6ajuiaae HincaK He roBopHT, h t o Hapoay c b o h c t b c h neccnm h 3 m h j i h 4>aTajiH3M, TaK ace, KaK cymecTBOBaHHe njiacoBbix neceH h j i h HacTymeK He aoica3biBaeT onTHMH3Ma Hapoaa. 3Ta

MejioflpaMaTHMecKaa CTpyKTypa h

ee npaeMbi

3acjiyacHBaioT

6oJiee yrjiy6jieHHoro nccaeaoBaHHH, h o a n a 3Toro Heo6xoaHMO n o a p o 6 Hoe H3yieHHe OTaeJibHbix neceH h h x BapHaHTOB, h t ó He Gbiao b o 3 m o h c h o b paMKax n o a x o a a HacToamero a o x a a a a . 3.1.

KaKaa G a a a a a a apaMaTHHHee — pycocaa h j i h neuicicaH? H a

stot

Bonpoc Hejn»3fl OTBeTHTb O A H H M CJIOBOM. HeiHCKaH 6ajUiafla HeCOMHeHHO CTpaaaeT

b

3tom

othoihchhh

ot

CBoeñ

HOBecTBOBaTejibHocTH,

ot

O T e y T e T B H H b o MHorHx neciwx HacToamero KOHKo innpe irpHMeHHeTCH a n a a o r , h CTHJib 3Toro 4>opMajieH, aeKopaTHBeH h 6oJiee HpHMOJiHHeeH h

apxanneH,

4)aKTHHeH,

neM b

pyccKoñ

Ho

flnajiora

B

Heñ

MeHee

Gajiaaae;

MeHee neperpyaceH aeTaaiiMH. 83

oh C

82 IIpHMep — 2. Bap. 6ajinaflH "Bacnjmfi h Cofl" (Hap. SajMadu, 51-52), b k o t o p o m KaaceTCH, h t o Man. h flBa jno6oBHHKafleficTByioTBMecre b cijeHe, me MaTt xoieT oTpaBHTi jnoSoBHHKa CBoeít «oiepH, h o cjiynaiíHO OTpaBJweT o6ohx. Jlonrmee 6tuio 6bi, ecjiH 6m o h h He 6buiH BTpoeM, BBHfly Toro, h t o Marb npeflnaraeT floiepa b e b o 6e3 a«a, a jiK>6oBHjncy c j j o m , 3anpeman o6mch. 88 Cm. oieHt neHHyio CTaTbio O. CapoBaTra, "Vypravécsky styl v ceské a ruské baladé", Národopisny véstník ceskoslovensky, I (1966), 113.

PyCCKAH H HEII1CKAS HAPOAHAH EAJIJIA/JA

161

/ipyroH cTopoHH, TeMaTHKa pyccKoñ Sajuiaati MejioapaMaTHHHee: B nacTHocTH, name BCTpenaeM B Heñ CTpacTH, Hacnjina, yónñcTBa H noxHmeHHH — BooSme B Heñ a p i e KOHtjwiHKTbi Meac/iy nepcoHaacaMH. PyccKHe Gajuiaflbi name CTpoaTCa Ha psme BonpocoB H OTBCTOB: pacKpbiTHe TaHH H ceHcaijHOHHbix 4>aKTOB arpaeT B HHX 6ójibmyio pojib. IIoaTOMy pyccKyio 6ajuiaay cjie^yeT ciirraTb 6ojiee MejioApaMaTHHHoñ, H BepoHTHO H 6ojiee apaMaranHoñ no CBoeMy 3aMbicjiy H CTpyKType. 3.2. KaKaa Sanjia/ja jiHpniHee? MeincKHH opMajibHee, /leKopaxHBHee, TaK CKa3aTb. JLHPH3M HCUICKHX Sajuia^ MeHee cfíopMajieH H MeHee CTHJiH30BaH, c MeHbuiHM KOJIHHCCTBOM onncaHHH H noApo6HocTeií. KpoMe Toro, pyccrae óajuiaflbi BbiKa3biBaroT HBHbie anHKecKHe nepTbi, KaKHX B nemcKHX Sajijia^ax HCT HJIH noiTH HCT; 2. MaTepnaJi Harnero HccjieAOBamia aBjiaeTca pe3yjibTaTOM BbiGopKH Tpex pa3Hbix pe^aRTopoB, KOTOpbie B Gojibuieñ HJIH MeHbniea Mepe yace HCKJIIOMHJIH jinpHiecKHe necHH H3 cocTaBa neceH, HaM npeflCTaBjieHHbix B KanecTBe 6ajuiafl. Mbi caMH H3 STOTO 6aJiJiaflHoro MaTepnajia Toace HCKJIIOHHJIH HeKOTopyio nacTb BCJieflCTBHe ee O T P H B O H Horo xapaKTepa HJIH oTcyrcTBHa B Heñ pa3BHToñ cioxceTHoñ JIHHHH. .HCHO, HTO 3Ta HCKjnoneHHaa nacTb oKaaceTca jinpHHHee ocHOBHoro Gajuia/moro MaTepnajia. HaM noaTOMy npeacTaBjiaeTca MeTOflojiorHnecKH HenpaBHJibHbiM cpaBHHBaTb 3TOT MaTepHaJi no npHHininy, KOTopbiñ yace 6HJI npHMeHeH npn Bbi6ope caMoro MaTepnajia. 3.3. TeMaTHKa pyccKHx H nemcKHx SaJUiaA lacTHHHo coBnaflaeT, HO ecTb HeKOTopoe pa3jiH*nie. TeMa CBepxi>ecTecTBeHHOH CHJIW (He Bcer^a BpaacAeÓHoñ jnoaaM) — TeMa, Meacay npoHHM, oieHb aaBHaa — ropa3flo Jiynine coxpaHaeTca B HeuicKHX Ganjiaaax. HeflpaMaTiraecKaa TeMa norn6ejiH OT HecnacTHoro cjiynaa, KpañHe pe^Kaa B pyccKHx Gajuiaaax, B HCIUCKHX BbicTynaeT fl0B0JibH0 nacTo. B neiucKoñ TpaflHHHH name BCTpeHaeTCa TeMa o CTOJIKHOBCHHH jiiofleñ c BjiacTbio 3aKOHa H HX Ka3HH. JIioGoBHbie KOH(J)jiHKTbi name BbiCTynaioT B pyccKHx 6ajuiaflax, 84

TaMOKe, 111-113.

162

BHJIbflM XAPKHHC

KaK H aKTbl HaCHJIHH, OCOÓeHHO aKTBI, CBH3aHHbie C TparHHeCKOH JIK>6oBhoh HCTopHeñ. Bonpoc o npHHHHax 3thx TeMaTHHecKHx pa3JiiiHHH npHHaAJieacHT cKopee k o S j i a c T H aHTponojiormi hjih KyjibTypHoñ thiiojiorHH h ncHxoJiorHH Hapo.ua, a He k (jiojibioiopy b y3KOM cMticjie cjioBa. BÓJibiiiee KOJiHiecTBo 6ajuiaa o repoHnecKHx noflBHrax b pyccKoü TpaaaixHH, Ha,no AyMaTb, yKa3bmaeT Ha BjiHflHHe pyccKoro 6bijiHHHoro anoca. Mojkho, noacajiya, MacTHHHo o6i>HCHHTb h pojib npnpoflbi (HecnacTHoro cjiynaa), cjienoií cyab6bi Boo6me, 3aKOHa h nySjiHTOOH KasHH b HemcKHX 6ajuia,nax oTcyTCTBHeM HapoflHoro a n o c a : koh4»jihktm b nemcKHX Gajijia^ax MeHee repoHHHbi h MeHee anHHHbi.

3.4. EcTb HeKOTopoe pa3jiHHHe h b komho3hu;hohhoh tcxhhkc SajuiaAbi. B HemcKOH S a j u i a ^ e G o j i b i u e chmmctphhhocth b pacnojioMceHHH ariH30aob : e e fleñcTBHe n a m e pa3flejiaeTCH Ha #Be nacTH: npecTynjxeHHe r e p o a h e r o Ka3Hb, hjih CMepTb r e p o a h c a M o y ó n i í c T B o r e p o H H H . I I p n e M pacKpbiTHH TaHHbi hjih y a c e n p o H C i n e f l u i e r o H e o 6 b i H a i Í H o r o co6mthk ( o G h h h o c n o M o m b i o p u n a . B o n p o c o B h OTBeTOB) H c n o J i b 3 y e T c a cHTejibHo l a m e

b

MejioApaMaTHHHee

nemcKHx.

Boo6me

fl,paMaTH3M

o c T p e e : n e i n c K H e Gajuia^bi n a m e 6ecKOHie TCKCTH Torojia", H. B. roeoAb; MamepuaMi u uccAedoemuH, B. rannuyc [pefl.] (MocKBa-JIeHHHrpafl, 1936), CTp. 11-12. 11 Ibid., CTp. 35. " Ibid. 18 Aventino, Ilo cAedaM PoaoAn e PuMe (Mocraa, 1902), CTp. 18-19. 14

16

H. B. rozoAb; MamepuaAu u uccAedoeamn, CTp. 371. "B AxeHe « 3afcviyci> Mecsma flBa fl3bncaMn, NOTOMY

ITO

MHe Hpe3BbreañHO

170

KENNETH E. HARPER

taken lessons in French during his first stay in Paris ; his ability to read and converse in French is well established.16 He read extensively in Italian, and even gave a few Italian lessons to Panov, and wrote an (unpublished) article in the language for a journal in Rome.17 His knowledge of German has been neither proved nor disproved. He studied German in the gymnasium in Nezin, and later said of his years in school : "V èto vremja ja ljubil nemcev, ne znaja ix, ili, mozet byt', ja smesival nemeckuju uòenost', nemeckuju filosofiju i literaturu s nemcami".18 His own testimony in this regard is contradictory. On one occasion, he asked a friend, A. P. Elagina, to read some of Schiller's ballads to him in German; later, when she offered to repeat the reading, he denied any knowledge of the language.19 The problem is still not solved. The general picture is, however, quite clear: Gogol invested a considerable amount of time in learning foreign languages, apparently out of a desire to communicate with people in his new surroundings, and out of an interest in the cultural life, past and present, of the West. These few facts, which deserve further study, suggest that Gogol's presumed alienation from the West has been exaggerated. It is in the context of his extensive travel in Europe, his acquaintance with nonRussian intellectuals, and his facility in foreign languages, that the question of Gogol and Dickens should be approached. The issue is not his familiarity with writers of the past (Molière or Scott, for example), but with literary figures of his own time. We know of his enthusiasm for G. G. Belli, the contemporary Italian poet.20 Is it surprising, then, that he should be aware of new developments in the realistic novel, and of the most successful of these writers — Charles Dickens? Katarskij (Dikkens v Rossii) finds Gogol's interest in Dickens unusual, since at the end of the 1830's Russian appreciation of Dickens was still at a low level.21 The point is that Dickens was far more accessible to Gogol, living in Europe, than to the editors or readers of the St. Petersburg journals. In light of TPYFLHO H3T>HCHHTBCII, H IIOTOM EFLY

18

Ha Peto". (H. B. roao/ib e nucbimx u eocnoMuua-

MocKBa, 1931, erp. 151.) "HaiaB, no ero Bupaxcemuo, lco6aiHTbca' no paHHy3CKH eme B )KeHeBe,

HUHX,

B. rmnrayc [pefl.],

rorom. BMecTG cflamuieBCKHMSpaji ypoxn B napiwce". Karamzin wrote in 1837: 'Torojrb c/jejian ycnexH Ha (JipaHijyscKOM jnbiice H AOBOJIBHO xopomo ero noHHMaeT, H T O 6 M npnjieacHo cue/ioBaTb 3a TeaTpaMH ...." (A. IIIHK, "napHacciuie A H H roro.na", Onumbi, New York, 1953, CTp. 181.) 17 JIumepamypHoe nacjiedcmeo, T. 58, CTp. 590-592. 19 H. B. rozoAb e nucbMax u socnoMUHaiiUHX, CTp. 179. 19 rozojib e eocnoMmaHunx coepeMemuKoe, CTp. 405. 20 Daria Borghese, Gogol a Roma (Firenze, n.d.), pp. 127-135. 21 KaTapcKHft,ffuKKeuce Poccuu, CTp. 31.

DICKENS A N D GOGOL'S "§INEL' "

171

these facts, Buslaev's information acquires even greater credibility: the question of Gogol's interest in Dickens deserves the serious attention of literary scholarship.

2. GOGOL AND DICKENS

Which work, or works, of Dickens might Gogol have been reading in late 1840? Excluding the possibility that Gogol could read English, the following were available at this period :22 (1) Sketches by Boz, available in German, and represented in Russian by five sketches (1839, 1840, and early 1841). (2) Pickwick, available in German, French, and Russian. (3) Oliver Twist, available in German and Italian. (4) Nicolas Nickleby, available in German, French, and Russian. (5) Master Humphreys Clock, available in German and Russian. This list is a good indication of Dickens' early popularity on the continent. His success was notable first in Germany, where a real vogue developed before 1841. Translations of the Sketches by Boz were marketed there by two different publishers in 1838 and 1839 ;23 his novels were in great demand, and some forty-three critical and review articles appeared in German periodicals from 1837 to 1840.24 The vogue was so great that German imitations of Dickens, and translations of English imitations, were published in the late thirties.25 Although his fame was more retarded in other countries (Russia, France, and Italy), he had certainly gained wide recognition for his humor, his unique characters, and his powers as a social critic. Under these circumstances, it is not surprising that Dickens would have come to Gogol's attention. How this happened is not known. He may have had access to German periodicals, in which Dickens was frequently the subject of discussion. (During 1839, the year of Dickens' greatest notoriety in the German literary journals, Gogol spent some three and one-half months in Marienbad and Vienna.) Any of his friends, especially 22

Information about translations of Dickens' works is taken from the following sources: Ellis N. Gummer, Dickens' Works in Germany (Oxford, 1940); I. Katarskij, Dikkens v Rossii; Floris Delattre, Dickens et la France; Octave Uzanne, "L'Imitable Boz ('Charles Dickens en France')", Le Livre, X (1889), pp. 113-121; and The Cambridge Bibliography of English Literature. 23 Gummer, Dickens' Works in Germany, pp. 7-8. 24 Ibid., p. 28. 26 Ibid., pp. 9-12.

172

KENNETH E. HARPER

those who kept abreast of literary developments in Germany, could have apprised him of the meteoric rise of the English novelist. One of the most plausible candidates for this role is the French critic, Sainte-Beuve, whom Gogol met in June, 1839, on a sea voyage from Italy to Marseilles. Sainte-Beuve wrote later of this meeting (only the Russian translation of his letter is available): "Vozvrascajas' iz Civita-Vek'i v Marsel' v 1839 g., ja oôutilsja na paroxode v obsCestve Gogolja i v èti dva dnja mog ocenit', nesmotrja na to, cto on vladel francuzskim jazykom ne bez trudnostej, ego redkij takt, ego originaFnost', ego xudozestvennuju silu".26 In a review of Gogol's works in 1845, he again referred to this meeting: ... là j'avais pu, d'après sa conversation forte, précise, et riche d'observations de mœurs prise sur le fait, saisir un avant-goût de ce que devaient contenir d'original et de réel ses œuvres elles-mêmes. M. Gogol, en effet, paraît se rattacher avant tout à la fidélité des mœurs, à la reproduction du vrai, du naturel, soit dans le temps présent, soit dans un passé historique. ... Ce qui est certain, c'est que M. Gogol s'inquiète moins d'idéaliser que d'observer, qu'il ne recule pas devant le côté rude et nu des choses, et qu'il ne fait nulle difficulté d'enfoncer le trait; il se soucie avant tout de la nature, et il a dû beaucoup lire Shakspeare.27

It is most likely that Sainte-Beuve, a professional commentator on literary affairs, would have known of Dickens at this time. {Revue des Deux Mondes, with which he was associated, carried a review article in 1839, in which Dickens was called "le successeur de Walter Scott".) 28 Since he praised Gogol as a keen observer of "everyday life", it would have been surprising if, in the course of a two-day sea voyage, he had not broached the subject of another writer of the same "breed" — Charles Dickens. Was Gogol first introduced to Dickens by an intermediary, e.g. SainteBeuve, or did he discover him independently? Regardless of the mode of introduction, the questions remain: which works of Dickens was he reading in 1840-41, how did he obtain them, and in which language were they written? Until direct answers to these questions are available, we must rely on indirect evidence, i.e. the possible influence of Dickens in Gogol's writings of the late 1830's. The negative answer that scholars have given to this question appears to be conditioned by the apparent anomaly of Gogol's interest in the West, and by the tendency to compare "

27

"CeHT-EeB o Torcme", 3ee3da, JN° 1, 1930, CTp. 219.

M. Sainte-Beuve, "Nouvelles russes, de M. Nicolas Gogol", Revue des Deux Mondes, t. 12 (1845), p. 884. 18 Philarete Chasles, "De la Littérature anglaise depuis Scott", Revue des Deux Mondes, t. 17 (1839), p. 675.

DICKENS AND GOGOL'S "§INEL' "

173

Dead Souls with the novels of Dickens. The possible connection between other works of the two writers has apparently been ignored. In the following, we discuss the strong points of similarity between two of these "other" works, specifically Dickens' Sketches by Boz and Gogol's "Sinel"'. Of the five Sketches of Dickens available in Russian translation by early 1841, one especially commends itself to our attention: "Anglijskie nravy", which appeared in the St. Petersburg miscellany, Literatumye pribavlenija k Russkomu Invalidu (November, 1839). This sketch is interesting because of its possible relevance to the composition of "Sinel'", and because it was so readily available to Gogol, who was visiting St. Petersburg in November and December of 1839. No proof that Gogol read this particular issue of the "Literary Supplement" is available; it was, however, a popular Russian journal of the time, that under the editorship of A. A. Kraevskij (1838-39) had published works of such writers as Puskin, Benediktov, Dal', Odoevsky, Kolcov, Lazecnikov, and Panaev.29 It could have easily been the means of Gogol's introduction to Dickens, since it presupposes neither an intermediary, nor Gogol's reliance on a foreign language translation. "Anglijskie nravy" is a composite of two different pieces in Sketches by Boz: "Thoughts about People", and "Shabby Genteel People". (This juxtaposition may have been performed by the Russian translator, or in some other version, e.g., German, from which the Russian was translated.) The opening paragraph is a rough paraphrase of the first paragraph of "Thoughts about People":30 H h k t o He 3HaeT, KaK rpycrao h o a h h o k o xchbyt h yMnpaioT HeicoTopbie nioflH b Jl0Hfl0He. HyjKflbie s t h x o6mecTBeHHtix oTHomeHHii, K0T0pbie n o o6meMy BneMeHHio c f l e n a j m c b coBepmeHHOio He06x0flHM0CTbK>, o h h He B036yxcflai0T b flpyrex HHKaKoro k ce6e yiacTHH; h h o a h h rnaaa He o6pamaioTca k h h m c npHBeTJiHBbiMH B3opaMH. Hejib3fl CKa3aTb, h t o 6 h x 3a6wBaiui no CMepra, noTOMy h t o o h h x HHKorfla h He noMHHJiH npn h x xchshh. B 3Toii orpoMHoa CTOjnme cymecTByeT MHoroiHCJieHHbiH Kjiacc nioflett, y KOTOpbix HeT h h OflHoro npiMTenH, h o KOTOpbix, no-BHflHMOMy, h h k t o He 3a6oTHTca.

Descriptions of three "types" of Londoners are then given. The first two of these belong to "Thoughts about People" and are of little interest here. The third "character sketch", by far the longest, is a condensed version of 29

It is known that Kraevskij was anxiously awaiting Gogol's arrival in St. Petersburg, in order to secure his participation in Otecestvennye zapiski. (N. V. Gogol' v pis'max i vospominanijax, CTp. 182.) ,0 "AHTJraficKae HpaBti", Jlumepamypuue npudasAenuH K PyccKOMy uneaAudy, T. 2, Ns 19, 11 H0fl6pa 1839, CTp. 366-368.

174

KENNETH E. HARPER

"Shabby Genteel People". It presents a picture of a special class of impoverished Londoners, the ex-gentleman (niscij scegoV). Literally reduced to rags, this unfortunate man is distinguished from the other poor of London by his desperate efforts to preserve a semblance of gentility in dress. The Russian translation, at minor variance with the English, reads: Ho HHorfla Ha Tpoiryape BaM nona/ieTC» lenoBeK neT copoKa hjih roiTHflecMTH, c Hor «0 ronoBM b nepHOM iuiaTte, KOTopoe BtraomeHO TaK, hto bhahm hhtkh, h KaK .nomeHbiH non cbcthtch ot 6e3npecraHHoro HHiijeHtJi; inea ero 06M0TaHa rtnaTKOM 6eno)KeiiTOBaToro UBeTa, a Ha pyicax HaTrayTBi BeTxae 3aMmeBbie nepnaTKH... Bot sto h ecTb hhhihh merojib. Bbi BepHO He nojinTHKO3kohom h He hjiocopara h o h caM yace 6ojiee He noKa3biBancH. H ayMan, hto oh yMep. Dickens wonders about the fate of his unknown friend: perhaps he has committed suicide, has died from hunger, or has been thrown into prison. But no,

DICKENS AND GOGOL'S "SINEL' "

175

... Bflpyr OHflBHJicflnpea M O H M H rjia3aMH. STO OH caM . . . HO KaKoe nyflHoe npeBpameHne! Ilo BCCM ero nocTyracaM MOHCHO 6bino 3aMeTHTi>, I T O cyflb6a nepecrana ero rrpecJieflOBaTb. Kaicaa cTpaHHan nepeMeHa! CyKHO Ha ero $paKe oiuiTb cflejianocb rjunmoBHTbiM, a Bce-TaKH Ka3anocb MHe TeM ace caMbiM — H aeiicTBHTejibHO, nopa3rjuweB xopoineHbKO, a yBHflen, HTO Ha HeM Bee TOT ace MHe 3HaKOMbifi 4>paic. Ho rnjwnbi ero Hernia 6biJio y3HaTb; Kor^a-To jcpacHOBaTaa OT aojiroBpeMeHHoro ynoTpe6neHHfl, OHa Tenepb noiepHejia, KaK ero nnaTbe, H cBepx-Toro pacnmpHJiacb cBepxy. BcKope HCTHHa OTKpbiJiacb npeflo MHOK> BO Bceli HaroTe CBoeii. Be/iHjnc BC£M CBOHM npeBpameHneM o6»3aH 6 H J I KOBapHOMy cocTaBy, KOTopbiM CHHHH H nepHbift UBeTa OKpauiHBaK)TCfl 3aHOBO. SI yace He pa3 saMenan Taicae npoaenKH Meacfly moflbMH 3Toro pa36opa; HHoraa STH MOJIOAUM, nepeKpacHB $paK H naHTaJ I O H H , Ha nocJieflHHe fleHbrn noKynaioT K TOMy napy HOBWX nepiaTOK HJIH MaHHniKy. Tax Mott npHflTeJib merojian Heflenn flBe HJIH 6ojibme, HO BCKope c ero KocTioMa HaiajiH Hcie3aTb H UBeT H riwHeu: naHTajioHbi Ha KOJieHax H 4>pax Ha HOKTHX no6eJiejni cTpanrabiM 06pa30M. Illnana no npeaoieMy npaTanacb nofl CTOJI H o6jiaaaTejib ee ororrb Hanaji c acanKHM BHAOM BEPTETBCA H xaTbCH Ha CBoeM CTyne. B STO BPERVM uejiyio Heflenio IHJIH floamn H pacCTHnanHCb TyMaHbi. H upeT, HaBefleHHbifl flparoiieHHtiM cocTasoM, Hcne3 coBepmeHHO. Ilocjie Toro MOFL HHMKFT meroju. yace 6ojiee He CTapaJTCH noflHOBjMTb CBoe nnaTbe. Dickens concludes: KaaceTca HiiiuHe merona 6biBaioT HJIH JHOAH 6e3 Bcincoro 3aHflTHH, HJIH MaKJiepw, HJIH CTpairme no AOnroBHM npeTeH3HflM, HJIH pa3opnBiimecii aflBOKaTbi; HHoraa iracapn, aaace imcaTejiH nocneflHero pa36opa. He 3Haio, TaK JIH HacTO, KaK a, M O H HHTaTejiH BCTpeiajiH 3THX 6pOflar; HO h Mory CKa3aTb y T B e p a H T e j i b H O , HTO B rna3ax MOHX i p e 3 B b i H a i r a o xajioK nejiOBeK, KOTOpblfi; T m e T H O yCHJIHBaeTCM C K p b l T b CBOK) K p a H H I O K ) H H m e T y , OT H e r o

npoH3omjia OHa, OT ero pacnyTCTBa flpyrnx.

HH

JIH

co6cTBeiraoro aypHoro noBeflemm

6bl

HJIH OT

T h e possible relevance of "Anglijskie n r a v y " to "Sinel'" can be assessed only if the history of composition of the latter is t a k e n into account. Although the idea for the story may have been suggested to G o g o l several years earlier, 3 1 " S i n e l " ' was written in the years 1839-1841. T h e Polnoe sobranie socinenij ( A N SSSR), in its extremely detailed analysis of the manuscript materials, relates the writing of the story t o f o u r different periods: (i) July-August, 1839, in M a r i e n b a d ; (ii) AugustSeptember, 1839, in Vienna; (iii) November-December, 1839, in St. Petersburg; (iv) February-April, 1841, in Rome. 3 2 ( N o n e of these details should be regarded as firmly established, since they depend entirely o n circumstantial evidence.) These f o u r periods d o not, of course, correspond 31 32

AraeHKOB, JIumepamypHbie eocnoMunaHun, CTp. 76-77. H. B. roBOAb. IIoAHoe co6pmue conuHenuu, AH CCCP (1938), T. 3, CTp. 675-688.

176

KENNETH E. HARPER

to four redactions of the story. The fragments relating to the first three periods carry the narrative only to Akakii's second visit to Petrovich. The first fragment, dictated to Pogodin in Marienbad ("Povest' o cinovnike, kradusfiem sineli"), is little more than the beginning of an anecdote, liberally sprinkled with puns and witticisms at the expense of the hero (unnamed).

The Vienna fragments contain both revisions and new

narrative material; the St. Petersburg fragments consist of supplementary and new material. The greater portion of the story was written much later. It is sufficient to note here that the manuscript materials relating to 1839 reflect Gogol's changing conception of the tone and "idea" of "Sinel'". For our purposes, the St. Petersburg fragments are most interesting, especially Fragment N o . 3 (in Tixonravov's enumeration).33 Here, Gogol introduces the famous "humanitarian" passage: the government clerk ("odin molodoj celovek") who has joined the others in making fun of Akakij Akakievic is stricken with remorse at the hero's plea, "Ostav'te menja! Zacem vy menja obizaete?": H b 3thx npoHHKaiomHX CJioBax 3BeHejm flpyrae cuoBa: "¿1 6paT t b o h " .

H

3aicpbiBaji ce6a pyjcoro 6eflHbm mojioaoh HenoBeK, h MHoro pa3 coflporanca oh n0T0M Ha Beny CBoeM, bh^a, Kan MHoro b HenoBexe 6ecHenoBeHbH, KaK MHoro CKpbiTO cBHpenoH rpy6ocTH b yTOHieHHOii, 06pa30BaHH0ii cbctckocth h, Boace! flasice b t o m lenoBeice, KOToporo cbct npH3HaeT 6jiaropoflm>iM h HeCTHblM ,.. 34

This passage, so out of keeping with the predominant note of mockery, has been the subject of much speculation. V. Rozanov's well-known interpretation (the passage is some kind of a postscript, tacked on by Gogol at a later date) 35 is most dubious, in light of the chronological data given in PSS. V. V. Vinogradov saw in the passage an illustration of Gogol's conscious attempt to synthesize sentimentalism and satire.36 Gippius, in an attempt to trace the tortured course of Gogol's thought, ascribed the new direction of "Sinel'" to the author's growing moralism (which replaced the estheticism of his first years in Rome). 37 Although his timing is probably wrong (he cites the summer of 1840), Gippius' evidence of Gogol's change of heart is quite convincing: the strong note of 33

34 35

CoiuueuuH

H. B. rozo/itt,

Ibid., CTp. 88. B. P03aH0B, Jleeenda o

H . TnxoHpaBOB (pefl.) (MocKBa, 1889), t. 2, CTp. 173. BCAUKOM

1906), CTp. 278-279. 38 B. B. BHHorpaflOB, 3«OAIOI(UH CTp. 329-330. 37 rionmyc, rozojib, ctp. 123-135.

umeuiumope JJocmoeecKozo (CaHKT-TIeTep6ypr, pyccKoeo HamypaAU3Ma (JleHHHrpafl, 1929),

DICKENS AND GOGOL'S "§INEL' "

177

sympathy for the unfortunate hero reflects a kind of internal crisis in Gogol. The humanitarian feature is henceforth never absent from the story; although it continues to be mingled with the kind of humor and satiric detail that was Gogol's specialty, it gives the story a quality (not to say a historical importance) not found in his other Petersburg tales, or in the typical treatment of the cinovnik in literature of the 1830's. It is suggested here that a contributing factor in Gogol's "new direction" may have been his reading of Dickens: "Anglijskie nravy" appeared at the precise time and place of the significant revision of "Sinel'". If it is assumed, for sake of argument, that Gogol did, in fact, read Dickens' sketch, which elements might have impressed him? (i) The literary genre itself, i.e., the brief characterization of "types" found in the large city. The genre would of course have been familiar to Gogol from Russian examples of the thirties; indeed, the first chapters of Dead Souls are little more than extended sketches of provincial life and characters. (ii) The selection of the poor man as the center of attention. (iii) The loneliness of the hero, who is forgotten by his fellow man and is deprived of any real status in the community. This feature is especially prominent in the opening paragraph: "Nel'zja skazat', £tob ix zabyvali po smerti, potomu cto o nix nikogda i ne pomnili pri ix zizni". The epitaph of Akakij Akakievi »ce u necTHO, o T n y c T H u . i s

HsacjiaBT. ace B t i x a Bb CBOH nonKb. H nocna n o BCHMT. CBOHMI nojiKotvrt, peica: "3pHTe ace Ha MOH nonKt; a icaico b h noHflCTi MOH nojurb, Tano » e h bm n o HflHTe." H Tano nojiim n o a f l o m a k c o 6 i . .Aicoace h eme nojiKoivrb nflymnrvn> k c o 6 t , AHflptn ace AiopreBHib b m m s Konbe h i x a Ha n e p e f l t . H c b i x a c a nepeace BCHXT. h h3JIOMH Konbe CBoe. Tor^a Soaoraa KOHb noa HHMT. B H03flpn. KoHb ace Haia coBaTHca nofl HHMT> h inenoMb cna/re c Hero h m a n . Ha h c m i OTopronia. EoacbeMb 3acTynJieHHeM-b H m o j i h t b o i o po,njrrejib CBOHXI cxpaHem. 6% 6e3 Bpeaa. H Taico nepeffb BCHMH noincbi B i t x a IfoacjiaBT» ohhht> B nojncbi parabixi) H Konbe CBoe H3JXOMH. H Ty cfeKoma [ero] B pyKy H bi> cTerao h 6ofloma. H c Toro j i e r t c KOHa. CbCTynHBHiHMica nojucoMi., 6bicTb c i i a jcptmca. E o n . ace H CBaTaa BoropoflHua H CHJia necTHaro, acHBOTBopamaro xpecTa noMoace BanecjiaBy H Ji3acjiaBy H PocTHCJiaBy. H Ty n o 6 t a H i n a Tiopra, H IIoJioBim ace TiopreBH, h h n o CTptnt nycTHBme, Toraa n o 6 i r o m a , a noTOMt. Ojitobhh[H], a noToivrb no6tace flwprH c .zrfcTbMH. EtacauuiM-b HMT> nepe3T> Pyrb, MHoro flpyacHHbi noTone B PyTy. E t 6 0 rpa30K"b. H etacamHMT. BMi, OBtxT> H36mna a apyrbia H30HMama, h Ty y6Hina BonoflHMHpa KHa3a flaBbiflOBHia HepHHroBbCKoro flo6poro H KpoTKoro H HHH MHorw H36nma. H Il0Ji0Be[nKbia] KHa3[a] MHorw raoKMaina a apyr[bia] H36Hina, HKO ace CHHAomaca nojiini h KOHbHHiiH n t i m m . H3acnaB-b ace neacanre paHein* h Tano Bicxomica. H Ty xorbina h K h h h c n t m u j i y6aTH, MHame p a r a o r o , He 3HaioHe ero. 1 9

The biographical viewpoint of the first passage is striking. Aleksandr himself is constantly in focus. If others are allowed to be subjects, then only momentarily, and their actions are related back to Aleksandr. Even in battle he is personally made the vanquisher ("i pobede 7 ratij edinemi. vyezdomt, mnozestvo knjazej ix izbi"), or else the actors are "slugy ze ego".20 More than that, the whole passage has an obvious central purpose — to create an image of Aleksandr as awesome of aspect and invincible in battle. 18

Text derived from the reconstruction by Ju. K. Begunov, Pamjatnik russkoj literatury XIII veka 'Slovo o pogibeli russkoj zemlf (Moscow-Leningrad, 1965), 192; emphasis added. " Text adapted from Polnoe sobranie russkix letopisej, II, 2nd ed. (1908), col. 437-38. 20 The very use of the possessive pronoun ego in zitija is indicative of viewpoint. In chronicle passages where one perspective is retained but briefly the anaphoric ego tends to appear less frequently.

188

NORMAN W. INGHAM

This biographical perspective is just as clearly lacking in the second quotation, which is made up of a chain of incidents from the battle recounted in a neutral, matter-of-fact way, with frequent changes of perspective and no person or event made to appear central. We can discern approximately the following segments, each with its own perspective: (1) Izjaslav's address to his troops. (2) The wounding of Andrej GjurgeviC. (3) The wounding of Izjaslav (which rates less, rather than more, attention). (4) The general battle, indicated only in the commonplaces of voinskie povesti ("Ststupivsinrbsja polkomt, bystb seca krepka"). (5) Outcome of the engagement (divine forces are actors; Vjaceslav, Izjaslav, and Rostislav are equally the victors; verbs are in the plural). (6) The retreat of the enemy (note the detail about the muddy stream, typical of the accretive style of annals but several steps removed from biographical viewpoint). (7) Vladimir DavydoviS of Cernigov is focused upon (the chronicler takes time to note his qualities). In these several shifts of perspective Izjaslav, who never was central anyway, has been lost sight of as an individual. (Just after this section the spotlight does hesitate on him as he lies wounded on the field.) It would be easy to quote a passage in which Izjaslav is not even present. There are many such, including the long account of the assassination of Igor'. But our quotation is fairly representative of the way the chronicle treats the prince even when he has a part in the action. He is not, as a person, the central concern of the author, nor is this the story of his life, except incidentally. We have before us not a biography but a piece of the continuing reportage of dynastic feuds in which Izjaslav happens to be one of the more important participants.21 Many of the same things must be said of the section of the GalicianVolynian Chronicle from about 1201 to 1264 which is asserted to be a reworked biography of Prince Daniil Romanovic.22 To be sure, it is well known that this portion of the chronicle was an integrated historical narrative not broken down by years.23 But that fact alone does not justify calling it a biography.24 One need only read some parts of this 21 tizevskij is uncertain about the boundaries of this "biography". I consider here the years 1146-54 ( P S R L , II, col. 319-471). 22 PSRL, II, col. 715-863. 23 A. S. Orlov characterizes the text in his article "O Galicko-Volynskom letopisanii", TODRL, V (1947), 15-35. On this work as a "connected historical narrative" see also the comments of D. S. Lixacev in his Poetika, 278. 24 Lixacev is among those considering this text a secular biography ("svetskoe zizneopisanie"). See his article "Galickaja literaturnaja tradicija v zitii Aleksandra Nevskogo", TODRL, V (1947), passim.

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text at random to be persuaded that it has the character of annalistic writing and lacks the perspective of biography. Daniil RomanoviS, like Izjaslav MstislaviS above, is only one of the many actors, albeit an important one. Beginning the entry for 1227, the chronicler clearly states his own conception of the subject-matter: "Nacnemb ze skazati besCislenyja rati i velikyja trudy i dastyja voiny i mnogija kramoly i Sastaja vostanija i mnogija mjatezi" (col. 750). And again under 1230 we find: "Po semb skazem mnogii mjatez[i], velikija lbsti, bes£islenyja rati" (col. 762). If the section on the reign of Daniil Romanovi5 has somewhat more cohesion than is usual in annals, it is still the cohesion of historiography. In his History (p. 185) Dmitrij Cizevskij assigns a minor place to what he calls the secular biography of Dovmont-Timofej of Pskov, found in the First Pskovian Chronicle under the year 1265. This rather short passage does have a sort of unity missing in the longer histories of reigns, and there is a slight suggestion of biographical bias in that the reader is frequently reminded he is hearing about the period of a particular prince. But the mention of Dovmont's Lithuanian origin and his conversion to Christianity comprises about the only biographical information. (The short recitation of virtues and accomplishments at the end is merely the customary eulogy.) Cizevskij remarks that it is "stylistically rather colourless". That impression is created because the body of the entry is a normal annalistic account. Despite the pervasive presence of Dovmont, the subject continues to be the history of Pskov, not the life of a prince. This, like the two previous texts, is not a biography in form or viewpoint. Ill So far we have been considering the distinction between life-writing and historiography (specifically, annals in the narrow sense). The difference between biography and panegyrical (epideictic) rhetoric is equally important and equally neglected. To be sure, biographies and panegyrics are intimately related, and their histories are intertwined, because they both treat of individuals and employ many of the same topoi, or facts concerning the subject's life. But they use the data in different ways and for different purposes. Biography is primarily a narrative and normally proceeds along chronological lines. A panegyric (encomium) is an enumeration of qualities and accomplishments and is usually organized, not by chronology, but according to categories of attributes (virtutes).25 86

Any standard reference work on rhetoric will give this information. The present

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A biography tends to be longer and appeals to the reader as a connected story (the curriculum vitae of the subject); panegyrics are usually shorter, and they have the character of more or less elaborate rhetorical speeches meant to excite admiration for the man's deeds and character. In early Russian literature the two kinds are distinguished in zitie and poxvala. (An encomium can be included in a larger text; and in Old Russian we frequently find a poxvala at the close of a zitie.) It is true that the distinction between biography and encomium has not always been clear-cut. The origin of the earliest Greek biographies appears to have been in encomiastic funeral orations; 26 and an entire branch of Classical biography is termed "panegyrical" by scholars because of its emphasis on the subject's attributes. 27 And on the other hand, a panegyric is sometimes expanded to include bits of narrative, bringing it closer to biography. Thus there are cases of mixed genre which have to be characterized as predominantly biographical or predominantly panegyrical. A special sub-genre which is difficult to classify is that of obituaries, including the necrologies published in modern newspapers. Aside from the obligatory report of death, an obituary may contain a eulogy to the deceased, and it is, to that extent, panegyrical. But it may also have a biographical element in a capsule narrative of the man's life. A sort of obituary was the customary entry in Russian chronicles interrupting the chronological record at the point of a prince's demise in order to describe the circumstances of his death and extol his virtues and achievements. These passages vary considerably in content and length. Although no general survey of the princely obituaries has been attempted, it appears that they usually do not include the curriculum vitae and are, therefore, predominantly encomiastic. Just such an entry is the passage on the death of Vladimir Vasil'kovic of Vladimir in Ipat'evskaja letopis' (1288),28 which Dmitrij tizevskij calls both "obituary" and "secular biography". It is composed of a description of the prince's last days (complete with repulsive details of his physical decay) and a short panegyric in the form of an apostrophe to the deceased remarks draw on H. Lausberg, Handbuch der literarischen Rhetorik, vol. I, section 245. The classic application of the concept of encomium in a study of a saint's vita was Hans Mertel's Die biographische Form der griechischen Heiligenlegenden (München, 1909). 26 Duane R. Stuart, Epochs of Greek and Roman Biography (Berkeley, Cal., 1928), 23-24. 2 ' See Bartelink, "De vroeg-christelijke biografie". 88 PSRL, II, col. 914-18.

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that stresses his charitable acts ("Kto ispovestb mnogye tvoja i nesCanya milostynja i divnyja sCedroty?"). The passage is no doubt secular but in no sense a biography. A special case in many ways is the curious "Smirennago inoka Fomy Slovo poxvalnoe o blagovernonn> velikorm. knjazi Borise AleksandroviSe", which was probably written late in the prince's lifetime (he died 1461) and unfortunately survives in but one truncated manuscript.29 This too is a purely secular work, or perhaps we should say a series of works, for it consists of several seemingly independent sections. The earliest parts are strongly panegyrical in character, and indeed the author says repeatedly that his purpose is to "praise": "No i da kozdo vbzveliditb svoego gosudarja, muzesitvovavsa krepko; no i kolmi pa£e estb namt lepno poxvaliti svoego gosudarja velikogo knjazja Borisa AleksandroviCa, no poneze vdoxnu v nego Bogb myslb blagu" (p. 19). The passage following this remark is a good example of the panegyrical manner, with its characteristic listing of general virtues instead of a succession of narrated events. It begins with a comparison to his ancestor: H o ch [ero npaoTeiit] 6 0 npeac ero 6jiaro,«aTHio 6ojKneio, h o bch 6jiaraa o E o 3 t flijiaame; h o Tano ace h chh bcuhkhh ecTbCTBem>m h mpjmHbm b flo6pofffeTeJiix'b BenHKHH KHA3b Eopncb AneKcaHflpoBHib, h o Taa ace flijia flinaame, eace o E o s t . H Bb KHHraxb micaHo ecTb, h Hace cwht, He MoaceTt TBOpHTH, H ame He BHflHTb OTUa TBOpflma. H o CHH ace BenHKHH KHH3b EopHCb, h e » e h t o BHflt y npaoTeub cBOHXb, h t o Bee Tsopaame, h o eme h HanoJiiHHfline. H o npe6biBaerb Bbirne BJiacTH. H o k t o jih ero ncnoBiflaTH Moacen, CTpoeHHa? H o CMbnimaeTb rpaflti, h c t p o h t t , MOHacTbipn, a fliJiaeTb Been. H o bchko xyaoactcTBO h xmpocTb ynpaBJiaeTb, h o eme ace ipe3"b npefltnbi h KHHraMH ropa3flb. H x KOMy xomeTb, k TOMy 6ectziyeTi>, h h h k t o ace OTBtmara eMy Moacert. H o BcfeMH BJiaflten., h Bcfext imTaeTb, h o h Bcfext flapyerb h o t Bcbxb flapbi npneMJieTb. H o Toro 6 0 paan cyry6a pa^ocTb 6biBaerb BcfeMb KpecraaHOMt h Becenne HeH3peieHHoe, h o h bch m o a n e pafloCTKto jimcocTByioTi., BHaflme BoroMb cnaceHbm r p a a t Tcjyfepb flo6pi CTOHTb H Kpacameca BeJMKHMb KHH3eMb BopHCOMb AjieKCaHAPOBHTCMb.

Even the first sections of the "Slovo poxval'noe", which are so much in the style of panegyrics, have the encomia combined in various ways with bits of narrative. In the opening part, for example, the story of the Florence-Ferrara Council leads into encomia when the delegates are made each to praise Prince Boris Aleksandrovic. Later sections also employ a principle of panegyrics — the categorizing of accomplishments (here particularly the prince's building programs) — but expand on this 29

Cf. the edition in Pamjatniki drevnej pis'mennosti i iskusstva, vol. 168 (1908), and the introduction there by N. P. Lixacev.

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scheme with narratives. The last section of the text as we have it is in fact pure narrative, with only a brief encomium toward the end. Cizevskij notes that we have here an account of Boris's wars "followed by a number of entries of purely annalistic value".30 Indeed, this part reads like a historicalpovest'; it has a more fixed perspective than the chronicles but, it appears, not that of biography. (Whether the narrative is historical or biographical is at least debatable in this case. A comparison with, say, the chronicle on Izjaslav is very instructive, because it will show how much closer to biographical style the present text is.) The "Slovo poxval'noe" seems to have been conceived as a panegyric, as witness the title, the repeated use of the words poxvalenie and poxvaliti, and the encomiastic nature of the opening sections. But it is unlikely that this work with its disparate parts and in its poor state of preservation can be identified as belonging to any one genre. Panegyric, historical tale, and perhaps biographical narrative are mingled here in extraordinary fashion. One thing, however, is abundantly clear: this is not a true biography, and it would be very misleading to call it that. IV We have examined the concept of biography itself and have been forced in consequence to conclude that several of our examples are not biographies but are more closely identified with historiography or panegyrical rhetoric. We may now consider those texts on our list which show more of the characteristics of biography. Here the question will be: Is it meaningful to call them secular? We noted at the outset that secular biographies were those which dropped the hagiographical commonplaces and miracles and described historical lives. Nowhere, however, was the break with hagiography sudden and complete. Even when worldly figures (chiefly rulers) regained their right to have their lives recounted in writing, their biographies often reflected, at least in formal matters, the hagiographic tradition. In writing his Life of Charlemagne Einhard drew on the vita of St. Martin of Tours as well as on the ancient secular model of Suetonius. Paul Alexander found familiar hagiographical details in Constantine's Life of Basil. As long as the continuity is limited to minor formal devices, we are not troubled in calling the works secular (historical) biographies. The m

History, p. 188.

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difficulty with so much of Old Russian life-writing is that monkish writers often attributed pious motivation and saintly traits even to the most worldly figures. The curious group of so-called knjazeskie zitija, neither wholly hagiographical nor yet fully secular, was the result. The scholar is often perplexed over where to place them. KljuCevskij approached them as biographies, Serebrjanskij more as saints' vitae.31 Paul Alexander offered an interesting suggestion about intermediate stages between hagiography and historical biography in Byzantine literature. The first step he called "semi-secular hagiography", that is, a saint's vita with omission of miracles. The second is "semi-secular biography", i.e. the life of a layman with a minimum of religious motifs. It is doubtful that these were ever functioning sub-genres — that writers systematically wrote in these forms. As descriptive terms, however, "semi-secular hagiography" and "semi-secular biography" are potentially useful and should be kept in mind. In Russian literature a new trend can be clearly discerned in the Life of Aleksandr Nevskij,32 which has often been called a secular biography or at least thought to be based partly on a non-extant secular source.33 The work betrays the struggle to find a new biographical form adequate for treating the life of an important layman. Aleksandr (who died 1263) was no ascetic saint; he was a prince and warrior who defended his land against great odds. The earliest redaction of his zitie attributes to him the qualities of a strong Christian prince and does not attempt to make him look particularly pious in life. The only evidence of saintliness is the manner of his death and a miraculous sign at his burial. Is this, then, a secular biography? Ciievskij, of course, places it under that rubric (while noting its "mixed" style);34 and Adolf Stender-Petersen calls it, together with the supposed "History of King Daniel of Galicia", a representative of "a new genre of historical biography".35 There is no doubt that the work was conceived of as a zitie. In most manuscripts the text is called that (though that of the Sinodal'noe sobranie, taken as basic by Begunov, has the interesting title "Povesti o

S1

N. Serebrjanskij, Drevnerusskie knjaieskie iitija (Moscow, 1915). Texts most recently published by Ju. K. Begunov. See note 18. " A summary of the scholarly debate can be found in D. S. Lixacev's article, "Galickaja literaturnaja tradicija v zitii Aleksandra Nevskogo". Lixacev himself contended in this paper that the Life is an outgrowth of Galician "svetskoe zizneopisanie" as represented notably by the "biography" of Daniil Romanovic. " History, 140. 85 Anthology of Old Russian Literature (New York, 1954), 100. sa

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zitii i o xrabrosti"). The frame of a hagiographical life is present, with a customary opening (modesty topos; reason for writing; biblical quote; prayer for assistance) and close (the hero becomes a monk; report of his death and burial; lament; a miracle as sign of sainthood). What is interesting is that the central portions (the praxeis) are distinctly secular in substance and style. Events of Aleksandr's life (almost exclusively military) are related in the pure manner of the voinskie povesti and with few pious motifs. Campaigns are treated as heroic adventures, complete with challenges from enemies, exaggerated successes of individual warriors in hand-to-hand combat, and the characteristic awe of the enemy towards the bravery and strength of the heroes. It was the striking differences between hagiographical and epic sections that led scholars to speculate that a monkish hagiographer had borrowed from a secular work. The hypothesis is superfluous, however, since we know there was a tendency always to treat military campaigns in this familiar style. The author simply had no model for a purely secular life and, as was usual, let subject-matter dictate style. It can be argued that the voinskie povesti in the body of the work detract from its claim to be biography.36 In any case, the hagiographical topoi in the frame, and especially the miracle at the end, prevent us from calling the work fully secular. The Life of Aleksandr Nevskij belongs to a transitional phase and might be called, if we wish to follow Paul Alexander, a semi-secular biography. The progress towards historical biography was regrettably not continued. The following centuries saw an actual increase in hagiographical elements in zitija and a commensurate tendency to limit historical content.37 "Slovo o zitii i o prestavlenii velikogo knjazja Dmitrija Ivanovica" shows the effects of this change. It was written about a century after the zitie of Aleksandr Nevskij (Dmitrij died 1389) and undoubtedly was influenced by the latter as well as by military tales.38 Yet it contrasts sharply with the Nevskij life. The style is now the heavy rhetoric of the new school of pletenie sloves, and — very important — it is uniform throughout, avoiding the two styles of its predecessor.

" V. Kljuievskij noted the episodic nature of the work — its lack of "connected story" (Drevnerusskie Zitija svjatyx, 68). N. K. Gudzij went so far as to suggest that the Life of Aleksandr Nevskij should be called a voiitskaja povest' instead of a Zitie (Istorija, 202). But the work is no more a pure tale than it is a pure vita. Surely we should not deny the name Zitie to a work consistently called so in the manuscripts and possessing all the necessary framework. " Cf. V. P. Adrianova-Peretc, TODRL, V (1947), 73. 88 The text can be found in PSRL, VIII (1859), 53-60.

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Gudzij speaks again of "elements of the style of the military tale" ;39 but it must be emphasized that in this instance they are limited to a few lines describing the battle against Mamaj. The Life of Aleksandr Nevskij contains whole episodes typical of voinskie povesti; that of Dmitrij Donskoj does not. The heading of this work is, as so often, very revealing: "(Slovo) o zitii i o prestavlenii ... ." Here "zitie" clearly means the subject-matter, not the genre. And the title warns us that much attention will be given to the circumstances of death. The frame of a zitie is again present (this time there is no prooimion; the humility topos appears later). The hero's origins and some facts about his youth are indicated; his virtues are listed in rhetorical manner. Only one episode from his life is actually related — the campaign against Mamaj. The writer then immediately switches back to the panegyrical mode and merely lists supposed virtues and achievements. The account of Dmitrij's death occupies well more than half of the text. There is his address to his people; the widow's lament; a long formal poxvala in the high style of wordweaving. No miracles accompany the death of this man (who was never canonized), but the author treats him as though he were a holy man, appealing to him to pray for his people and even calling him "saint". Throughout the work there is an effort to make Dmitrij appear pious in his life in the manner of saintly princes such as Boris and Gleb, with the somewhat paradoxical result that Dmitrij seems more a saint than does the canonized Aleksandr Nevskij. This work unquestionably contains biographical elements, but it is by no means a true biography. As the title suggests, it is primarily a rhetorical piece (slovo), composed of encomiastic and lyrical sections designed to glorify a founder of the Muscovite state.40 With one exception, it does not relate events of Dmitrij's life. The tradition and genre it most closely resembles is that of princely obituaries, of which it can perhaps be seen as an expanded example. The "Slovo o zitii" is both less secular 89

Istorija, 244. Gudzij calls it "torzestvenno-vooduSevlennoe poxval'noe zitie" (Istorija, 247). Cizevskij notes in it the "disappearance of interest in subject-matter". He finds it a sort of "bridge to the hagiographical style, while contextually remaining largely secular". Nevertheless, he continues to call it secular biography and only concludes that perhaps "the author lacked feeling for this type of writing" (History, 191-92). V. P. Adrianova-Peretc remarks, "Biografija Dmitrija Donskogo polozila nacalo novomu tipu istoriceskix panegirikov, kotorye xarakterizujutsja preobladaniem v nix elementov zitijno-panegiriceskogo stilja i skupo podajut istoriceskie fakty" (TODRL, V, 73; emphasis added). 40

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and less a biography than the Life of Aleksandr Nevskij and must be seen as a step away from historical biography in the proper sense. Texts on the life of Mixail Aleksandrovic of Tver' (died 1399) are found in several chronicles, and their filiation is a matter of controversy.41 We cannot be certain which of the existing fragments may have belonged to one work or even whether such a work was completed. The main text is in the Tverskoj sbornik and occurs at the opening of the so-called "Predislovie letopisca knjazenija tferskago blagovernyxt velikixt knjazej tferskyxi.".42 It may be analyzed into the following sections. (1) A highly rhetorical and somewhat obscure introduction exalting the city of Tver', Prince Boris (who has ordered the writing of the work — "eze povelelt mi estb napisati o f t slova 5estb premudrago Mixaila"), and finally Mixail himself. Conventional motifs of a vita are present (the author fears the task is beyond his powers; he will givepauca ex multis; he asks rhetorically who can praise so great a man?). (2) The prince's descent from St. Vladimir. (3) An account of the Tatar Ozbjak's attack in the time of Aleksandr, told partly in the heroic manner of a voinskaja povest'; Ozbjak's treacherous murder of Aleksandr MixajloviS. Although the passage begins "ZaSalo rozdenija ego sice glagoletb", Mixail's birth is merely mentioned in passing. (4) Childhood and youth of Mixail; his upbringing and marriage. (5) The succession. Prince Aleksandr is followed by his brothers Konstantin and Vasilij. But Mixail comes to maturity and is very popular with the people, so that Vasilij (encouraged by his wife Elena) fears him and becomes his enemy. (6) "Nacalo velikogo knjazenija knjazja Mixaila Aleksandrovifia". Mixail succeeds to the throne of Tver'; poxvala. The text abruptly ends: "No ubo o semi> prekratinrt slovo i kondaemi. besedu i na£nemi> o ixze na£axomt". It is obvious that this text in the Tverskoj sbornik is fragmentary. The fifth section introduces a dynastic struggle which is then dropped, so that we do not hear what happened to Vasilij or under what circumstances Mixail came to the throne. His reign is not described, and instead we are treated to a poxvala. Nowhere in the work itself is it called a zitie. The author — if indeed one man wrote all these parts — speaks only of writing "otb slova Cestb premudrago Mixaila". Some of the makings of a biography are here: the introduction, account of childhood and marriage. On the other hand, the only real narrative of action is section 3 and concerns not Mixail but his father. The text as it stands in Tverskoj 41 See B. I. Dubencov, "K voprosu o tak nazyvaemom 'Letopisce knjazenija Tferskago'", TODRL, XIII (1957), 118-57.

"

PSRL, XV, col. 463-70.

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sbomik is only bits and pieces of a life-account in which the conventional and the encomiastic predominate. It is idle to speculate here on whether what we have are the remains of a non-extant zitie. The Simeonovskaja letopis' has, under 1399, an extended text on Mixail AleksandroviS's end (assumption of monkhood, manner of death, funeral) prefaced with remarks on his character and youth.43 It is a sort of lengthy obituary. The Fourth Novgorod Chronicle also has a section on the prince's death; 44 and Nikonovskaja letopis', under 1399, contains a "Povestb drevnjaa spisana o zitii velikago knjazja Mixaila Aleksandrovi£a Tverskago, vnuka Mixailova".45 While not insignificant, these texts add little to any hypothesis of a secular biography of Mixail AleksandroviS. V Our examination of texts made in the light of a discrimination of literary kinds has led us to the conclusion that not one of the Old Russian works on the list can meaningfully be called a secular biography. They neither correspond to the international genre nor show enough internal uniformity for an indigenous literary kind. (Thus comparative and historical approaches bring us to the same point.) The majority of the works in fact defy definition as life-writing in the first place; and the few which may fit it are still bound too closely to the practices of hagiography. At the most, transitional forms occur, as in the Life of Aleksandr Nevskij. Moreover, in the later centuries the secular component in zitija actually decreased in size and importance. The conclusions made here on the genres of individual works are necessarily tentative and subject to review. It must be clear, however, that, even if a somewhat broader definition of secular or historical biography were applied, there would still not be enough examples of it in Old Russian literature to constitute a genre. The study has failed to find a distinct, functioning category of biography in early Russian literature. Instead, it suggests that the place of historical biography was occupied by a variety of literary kinds, in particular semi-hagiographical zitija, encomiastic obituaries, annals, and historical tales. This situation is probably not typical of the Slavic literatures generally. New dimensions to early Slavic life-writing are added by such works as 13

" "

PSRL, XVIII, 144-48. PSRL, IV: 2, 386-89. PSRL, XI, 175-83.

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the earliest zitie of the Czech Prince Wenceslaus (Vaclav) and the lives of Bulgarian and Serbian rulers. Research on the genres of these and other works — against the background of Latin and Byzantine literature — is needed before ambitious comparative statements can be made. But wherever life-writing is studied, attention must be given to a discrimination of historical biography from conventional hagiography and non-biographical genres. Not all texts that in some way refer to the life of a layman are secular biographies. If a case for a genre of secular biography is to be made, it will rest on a careful analysis of structure, style, and perspective (viewpoint), which are what set true biography apart. HARVARD UNIVERSITY

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SURREALISTS VERSUS MODERNISTS IN SERBIAN LITERATURE

ANTE KADlC

At the beginning of this century French influence was felt in Serbian, Croatian and Slovenian literatures. Brilliant essayists and literary critics (Antun G. Matos, Bogdan Popovic and Jovan Skerlic) and renowned poets (Oton ZupanSi£, Matos, Dragutin Domjanic, Jovan Du£ic and Milan Rakic) showed in their works that they were well acquainted with and that in many respects they followed certain French literary critics and lyricists (mostly the Parnassians and the symbolists). The impact of more modern French literary trends upon the Serbian "decadent" or pessimist (Sima Pandurovic and Vladislav Petkovic-Dis) and nationalist (Milutin Bojic) poets is obvious. Distinguished Serbian critics and essayists (Branko Lazarevic, Isidora Sekulic, Stanislav Vinaver and Milan Bogdanovic) studied in France and in their writings were followers for the most part of the principles of the French impressionistic school. Several Croatian writers (Vladimir Cerina, Sibe Milifiic and Tin Ujevic) benefited from their stay in the French capital. Certainly Ujevic's prolonged stay in France (1913-19) played a cardinal role in the formation of this first-rate poet. Although the Slovenes (thanks particularly to Anton Debeljak) and the Croats were influenced by French literature and culture, the Serbian links with them were much deeper.1 Even before 1914 many Serbs studied in France or the French part of Switzerland (Skerlic in Lausanne and Du5ic in Geneva). When the Serbian army was defeated by the Austrians in 1915 and withdrew through Albania,2 the French authorities took care of the young 1

Jovan Skerlic wrote in 1914: "Od pocetka XX veka francuska kultura gotovo sasvim preovladuje kod Srba ... DanaSnja srpska knjizevnost razvija se uglavnom pod uticajem francuske knjizevnosti" (Istorija nove srpske knjizevnosti, Belgrade, 1953, p. 430). ' See John C. Adams, Flight in Winter (Princeton, 1942), particularly pp. 151-97.

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Serbs and placed them in their schools (their number reached four thousand). Many of these "displaced" youngsters obtained degrees at various French universities (mainly Lyon, Grenoble and Montpellier). Most of the Serbian intellectuals after 1918 were French pupils. Even the so-called "Belgrade style" is nothing more than the reflection of typically French precision and subtlety upon the writings of leading Serbian men of letters and historians (e.g. Slobodan Jovanovic). Throughout all Yugoslavia, after 1918, the French language superceded German; French was taught as the most important foreign language from the benches of high schools to the universities. Political and cultural ties between France and Yugoslavia were multifold and cordial. The protective and affective role previously played by "Mother Russia" was transferred to France, and Paris became a Mecca for Yugoslav intellectuals and particularly artists. The close ties between Yugoslavia and France are most eloquently expressed by the grandiose monument of Ivan Mestrovic to France (at Kalemegdan, in Belgrade) on which is engraved: "We love France as she loved us!" After 1918 Zagreb and Ljubljana experienced in literature the repercussion of the German expressionistic wave, while Belgrade echoed the various trends then predominant or nascent in Paris. Belgrade's literary life was almost totally dominated by writers who spoke French, those who had just returned from France and the younger generation (sons of merchants, generals and Belgrade politicians), which continued to study in great numbers in the French capital.3 Prewar "Modernism" (1918-41), very different from the "Moderna" which before 1914 brought European literary standards into the Yugoslav literatures, was a pronounced opponent of traditional esthetics and particularly of external perfection. The leading spokesmen of the initial modernist movement of the twenties (Todor Manojlovic, Stanislav Vinaver, Milos Crnjanski and Sibe MiliCic) fought mainly against antiquated canons and in favor of free verse — a token for them of something spontaneous and revolutionary. Formal freedom was their banner of revolt. They scornfully rejected classical rhythms and rimes, sonnets Though several Serbian writers have described this legendary retreat (usually called "the Serbian Calvary") through Albania and Montenegro (e.g. B. NusSic in Devetstopetnaesta, 1921; St. Jakovljevic, Srpska trilogija, 1937; A. Vuco, Mrtve javke, 1957), the most impressive narrative, however, is the one by Rastko Petrovic in his novel Dan sesti, published in 1955-56. * Miodrag Ibrovac, "Francusko-jugoslovenski odnosi", in Enciklopedija Jugoslavije, III, 360-85.

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and stanzas, comparing them to artificial, soulless and oppressive bricks. The modernists considered as their forerunners not only Apollinaire, Péguy, Marinetti and Majakovskij but also Poe, Whitman, Gérard de Nerval, Rimbaud, Mallarmé and Laza Kostic (1841-1910). They were unanimous in their admiration for Henri Bergson, whom they often quoted. They affirmed that intuition was the main source of poetic inspiration. They stressed that poetry should not contain impressions engendered by external objects or events, but should rely entirely upon the emotions of the writer, expressing his feelings directly, without any rational intermediary. As they rejected the participation of an external, objective cause in their creative process, they also insisted that one should not search for a theme or a plot in their works ; spontaneous, subconscious and irrational phenomena were their only preoccupation. The modernists cherished primitivism and endeavored to imitate it particularly in their style; they were charmed by its naiveté and by its acceptance of fetishes. They were captivated by ancient mythologies which presented the crucial problems continually faced by mankind. There was in modernistic poetry a note of passionate yearning for distant places, for exotic islands and remote stars — a cosmic tendency. They spoke about human brotherhood; men should not be divided on account of their color or race, country or continent. The modernists were initially anti-militarists, sentimentally prosocialist because of their awareness of the precarious situation to which the working class was reduced. They spoke about revolution, but never intended active involvement in any concrete ideological and revolutionary action. On the contrary, they preached lack of interest in the important problems of daily reality. They considered it beneath a poet's dignity to become involved in petty and boring skirmishes for social or political improvements. Further they believed that man could never be free on a strictly material basis; his freedom must first be gained spiritually. The modernists spoke about an abstract and undefined Spirit which governed this world and man's actions; they left all responsibility to this Spirit and continued (in the twenties) to live in their ivory tower.4 4

The most interesting articles of the twenties in Serbian literature are by Milos Crnjanski, "ObjaSnjenje Sumatre", Srpski knjizevni glasnik (hereafter SKG), I (1920), No. 4, pp. 265-70; Marko Ristic, "Rroz noviju srpsku knjizevnost" (1929), Knjizevna politika (Belgrade, 1952), pp. 96-107; Josip Bogner, "Od ekspresionizma do nadrealizma", Krtjizevnik, II (1929), pp. 166-72; Milan Bogdanovic, "Slom posleratnog modernizma" (1934), Stari i novi, III (1949), pp. 116-32; cf. also Slobodan Z. Markovic and his questionable thesis, "Meduratni modernizam ili ekspresionizam u srpskoj knjizev nosti", Opera Slavica, IV (Goettingen, 1964), pp. 143-49.

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The modernists were ten to twenty years older than their younger colleagues, the future surrealists. At first there was no difference between them except that the modernists (particularly Crnjanski and Rastko Petrovic) were already the respected voices of Serbian literature, while Marko Ristic, Milan Dedinac and Dusan Matic, their fervent admirers, were then just beginners. They then complemented each other: the modernists were artists who spoke reluctantly about theoretical matters and, when forced, made deductions based on their own experiences, while the future surrealists from the start excelled in theory, but produced little of literary value. This difference in approach was the seed of their subsequent split. Ristic and his companions becamefirstinterested and then totally involved not only in Freudian theories but also in the leftist pragmatic postulate that the writer, who witnesses and depicts tormented individuals and unjust social conditions, should logically espouse revolutionary goals. Their "honeymoon" was over in 1924, but they separated only in 1929 when the dictatorship was proclaimed by King Alexander. By 1932 they had become bitter enemies: the surrealists joined the ranks of the Communist Party and the modernists continued to support the royal regime and later the Chetnik movement. I I shall discuss first those Serbian writers who remained "modernists", produced significant books during the interwar period and disappeared from the literary scene after 1945. They began to reemerge around 1956 and at present their impact is again predominant. Stanislav Vinaver (1891-1955), from Sabac, studied mathematics and music at the Sorbonne, but also attended Bergson's lectures at the Collège de France. He participated in the First World War as a volunteer and retreated across Albania in 1915. From France he went to Russia and witnessed, in 1917, the October Revolution. After the war he became involved in all kinds of modernist enterprises. Together with the poet and essayist Todor Manojlovic (1883- ) he published, in the series Albatros, several books by young writers; the most significant among them were two short novels, Crnjanski's Diary about Carnojevic (1921) and Petrovic's Burlesque of Lord Perun, the Slavic Zeus (1921).

In politics Vinaver switched from the left to the right and, consequently, became an employee of the governmental press bureau; he was also press

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attaché in Berlin (1934).B During World War II, which he spent in German concentration camps, he sided with the partisans. In the fifties he wrote, mostly in the periodical Knjizevnost, several remarkable essays about French and English authors, such as Shakespeare, Villon, Rabelais, Proust and Valéry. Vinaver's first two books (Mjeca, 1911, poems; Price koje su izgubile ravnotezu, 1913, prose) were immediately reviewed by Skerlic. This leading Serbian critic wrote very favorably about Vinaver's erudition, but found in his books utter nonsense mixed with deep thoughts; moreover, the reviewer regretted that Vinaver's intention seemed at times either to enchant or to shock the naive reader (pour épater le bourgeois). Skerlic concluded his analysis with the words which were often repeated by Vinaver's detractors : "It is very hard to write seriously about Vinaver's books, because one is never certain whether the author himself takes his own writing or literature in general seriously".6 From then on until his death, Vinaver remained a controversial figure: he was called "the magician of the Serbian language"7 and was considered a remarkable translator of several languages, but because of his constantly changing opinions he was also labelled a confused and insignificant experimenter and a spiteful chameleon. Vinaver's important collections of poems were City of Evil Magicians (Varos zlih volsebnika, 1920), World Custodians (Cuvari sveta, 1926) and War Colleagues (Ratni drugovi, 1939). Following his great master Paul Valéry, he attempted to present things outside of time and space, if possible in their quintessence. Did he succeed in his endeavors? Many Serbian critics have tried to answer this question; from their statements, which are generally dispassionate and balanced, it appears they have limited esteem for his works. They stress his ambition to grasp ultimate causes and his passionate interest in language and its rhythm, but also emphasize his toying with everything.8 In the preface to Vinaver's 6 A friend of Rebecca West, Vinaver (Constantine) was her guide in 1937 during her journey through Yugoslavia as described in her book Black Lamb and Grey Falcon (New York, 1943). She says about him that, "He talks incessantly; in the morning he comes out of his bedroom in the middle of sentence; automatically he makes silencing gestures while he speaks, just in case somebody should take it into his head to interrupt... His father was a Jewish doctor of revolutionary sympathies, who fled from Russian Poland fifty years ago... To him a state of Serbs, Slovenes, and Croats, controlled by a central government in Belgrade, is a necessity" (pp. 41-42). 6 Skerlic, Pisci i knjige (Belgrade, 1955), i n , 490. ' Mostly for his daring and penetrating, though at times exaggerated opinions contained in Cardak ni na nebu ni na zemlji, 1938, and Jezik nas nasusni, 1952. 8 Z. Misic, Srpska poezija (Belgrade, 1963), p. 184; B. Mihajlovió, Srpski pernici izmedu dva rata (Belgrade, 1956), p. 73.

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selected essays, Rade Konstantinovic asserts that Vinaver was panicky because of his incapacity for adequate self-expression, that he was literally suffocated by his awareness that the words remained outside of his control.9 None of the critics went as far as Miodrag Pavlovic, who wrote in his famous anthology of Serbian poetry that Vinaver had not produced a single perfect poem.10 Extremely intelligent and learned, well versed in various European literatures, always in the middle of the mélée, Vinaver is more interesting as a literary figure than as a writer of permanent value. A good listener, he was able to reproduce the ideas and sayings of others; he knew well how to imitate and ridicule other poets (e.g. in his parodies of Yugoslav writers entitled Pantologija nove pelengiriké), but he lacked a great and enduring creative power. His sharp criticism of others was probably due to his realization that he knew more than they did, but they wrote better than he and were held in higher esteem. He was totally unable to make logical conclusions; he abhorred any system. His poems and essays sparkle in parts, but one searches in vain for composition, unity, harmony and final effect. The majority of the writers under discussion experienced the horrors o f W o r l d W a r l . Several of them became bitter anti-militarists. The most prominent among them was Milos Crnjanski. The life-story of this distinguished writer is full of radical turns : he began his literary career with powerful anti-war poems and a defeatist novella, but in 1934 he wrote a notorious article in which he glorified war; having fought against the communist ideology and remained abroad as a political émigré when the communists conquered his homeland, he has recently returned to Belgrade as a prodigal son. Crnjanski (born in Banat, 1893) studied in Temisvar and then in Vienna. In 1914 he was drafted into the army and fought in Galicia as an AustroHungarian soldier; he became (or at times pretended to be) sick and in 1917 moved to Zagreb, which for a time was the most interesting cultural center of the South Slavic lands.11 Expressionism was then dominant in Croatian letters: Ulderiko Donadini, Antun B. Simic, Miroslav Krleza, Gustav Krklec and Josip Kulundzic were its most prominent exponents. Crnjanski too (educated in Vienna and living on the territory of the Austrian Empire) was an •

Vinaver, Nadgramatika (Belgrade, 1963), p. 11. "Vinaver nije napisao nijednu veliku pesmu, cak nijednu muzicki savrSenu pesmu" (M. Pavlovic, Antologija srpskog pesnistva, Belgrade, 1964, p. 71). 11 Crnjanski, "Posleratna knjiievnost", Letopis Matice srpske, 320 (1929), pp. 192-205. 10

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expressionist and by this trait closer to the literary currents of Croatian than Serbian literature. Crnjanski's serious literary activity began only in 1917, when he wrote four poems for the leading Croatian periodical Savremenik. Besides his melancholy "Serenade", in which he writes that a new and yellow moon cries because the author will soon die, we should notice also "The Hymn", whose two opening lines are typical of Crnjanski's then prevailing mood: "We have nothing: neither God nor Lord; our God is Blood". Among the ten poems which appeared in Savremenik during 1918 the most quoted is "Our Elegy": in it dead soldiers, who suffer no more, confess that they neither believe in nor respect anything; they curse victory and "instead welcome hatred and death". Having published the following year several poems in Savremenik and Knjizevni Jug (Zagreb), of which he was one of the editors, Crnjanski gradually began to collaborate in the Serbian literary journals, first in Misao and Dan (1919-20), then in the new series of Srpski Knjizevni glasnik. Before he left Zagreb, Crnjanski's lyrical comedy Masque, in which he presents a frivolous and decadent Viennese society during the carnival nigiit in 1851, was published by Julije Benesic.12 Prominent Serbian figures (such as Patriarch RajaSic and the linguist Dani5ic) are portrayed in a dubious light. The only man for whom the author shows a deep respect is the poet Branko Radidevic; he repeats Branko's well-known verses that he is deadly tired of everything and is aware he will soon die. More than this mediocre play (parts of which were written entirely in German and French), its epilogue is significant, for in it Crnjanski offers revealing biographical information. He says that "at first he was a nationalist, then under the influence of Svetozar Markovic became an internationalist, but having experienced the war he had wished to die. He who had lost faith in God, now believes in the future . . . . While his mother resembled the Mestrovic marble statue 'My Mother', his father was another Don Quixote".13 In 1920 there appeared Crnjanski's famous poem "Sumatra", with its explanation14 which can be considered the first modernist manifesto. Commenting upon the origin of "Sumatra", the author says that one day, boarding a train in Zagreb for Belgrade in the company of soldiers, "I felt the helplessness of human life and the complexity of our destiny; I saw that nobody was going where he wished and I noticed links until then 12 13 14

In the collection Savremeni hrvatski pisci (Zagreb, December 1918). A letter to Julije BeneSic, Mctska, 1918, p. 85. "ObjaSnjenje Sumatre", SKG, I (1920), No. 4, pp. 265-70.

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unsuspected". Seeing the shining moon, however, he smiled. He suddenly felt a great attraction toward the distant and snowy mountains; he no longer feared death; on the contrary, in spite of the complexity of our existence he found peace and consolation. Besides giving a detailed analysis of how and when his poem was created, Crnjanski touched upon certain guiding principles for the new poets: though the majority of them were politically on the left, they nevertheless refused "utilitarian" duties, namely spreading socialism in their poems. To be popular does not mean to be a good poet: the masses laugh at great art. The best proof of this is Whitman: he wrote good and clear poetry but for half a century he was considered a madman in his country. As the members of a new sect, the modernists brought anxiety and revolt; this they did with new words, feelings and thoughts. Breaking with the past, they looked desperately toward the future. They wrote in a free verse form which corresponded well to their content. The formal aspect of their poems was influenced by the forms of clouds, flowers and rivers. Their content was hyper-modern because they spoke about the sufferings of millions. They affirmed new values which only poets were able to predict. In 1920 Crnjanski went to Paris, where he wrote for Nova Evropa (Zagreb) seven impressionistic-lyrical letters about Vienna, Munich and Paris; the most fascinating among them is ¿he seventh about Finistère (Bretagne) : Passing through nameless Breton cities and villages the author felt that there as elsewhere he cared little for humen beings, for he was free of love and other ties, but he knew that he was forever bound to trees, waters and distant skies.15 The following year, 1921, is very important in Crnjanski's productivity: he published his lyrical novel A Diary about Carnojevic (Dnevnik o Carnojeviéu) and composed his best-known poem "Strazilovo". From 1922 until 1929, when the first part of his novel Migration (Seobe) was published, Crnjanski wrote altogether only three poems. Much earlier than Remarque in his novel All Quiet on the Western Front, Crnjanski in his Diary described war as collective madness. The soldiers live in mud among their dead comrades, not knowing how long they will survive; they drink muddy water and eat dirty bread. From the opening paragraph, Crnjanski points out not only the nonsense of our existence, but also the charm of nature. He writes during dark nights in small huts about his dead comrades ; he expects nothing and, therefore, enjoys the smell of grass, the brightness of the sky and a few hours of peaceful sleep. 15

Nova Evropa, 1921, No. 11, pp. 427-37.

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Very much has been written in praise of Crnjanski's poem "Strazilovo". It is usually considered his greatest achievement and boasted of as one of the summits of Serbian poetry as a whole. Zoran Misic writes that in it two centuries of Serbian poetry come together happily: the elegiac and soft melody initiated by Branko Radicevic, and the more complex sensitivity of modern man; though a poet of Weltschmerz and cosmic vistas, Crnjanski did not break with the national tradition; even his vision is permeated with the colors of his native vineyards.16 Miodrag Pavlovic, on the other hand, regrets the repetition and the unchanged musical intonation of "Strazilovo".17 In the first part of Seobe (1929), Crnjanski describes the sad destiny of his ancestors and countrymen who escaped, under the leadership of Arsenije III Crnojevic, from the Turkish oppression and came to Yojvodina in 1690, only to be taken into the military service of the AustroHungarian Empire. The action takes place in 1744; the main character, Vuk Isakovic, besides other misfortunes, is betrayed by his wife Dafine in a love affair with his brother. In the second part of Seobe (published in 1962) Crnjanski returns to the Isakovic family, eight years later (1752), when they plan to migrate from Austria to Russia. Human beings are constantly migrating, in the vain hope of finding a place in which to live in peace with others. How human it is to dream about a distant land where life might be more bearable! There has been a discussion about thematic and stylistic differences between these two parts; 18 most of these can be easily explained: the first part was written by a relatively young man and the second after he had reached an advanced age. The first was written under the direct impact of World War I: the author was inclined to concentrate upon the individual destinies of Vuk and his wife; the second part reflects World War II, when Crnjanski observed from a distance the tragic involvement of his nation as a whole. In the first he describes skirmishes, while in the second the emphasis is on the migration of the Serbs to Russia. In the first part Vuk longs for his wife whom he meets later, while in the second Pavel Isakovic cannot forget his dead wife: he is completely obsessed by her memory. There are critics who prefer the first part for its lyricism and conciseness, but the second has its own values, such as the more controlled 16

MiSic, Srpska poezija, p. 166. Pavlovic, Antologija srpskog pesnistva, pp. 62-63. ls An interesting discussion on this subject was held in the offices of the periodical Delo and later published in the same Delo, 1963, No. 1, pp. 1-28; see also Tomislav Ladan, U skarama (Zagreb, 1965), pp. 95-100. 17

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portrayal of an entire national body achieved with a more modern technique. The public eagerly awaits the complete publication of Crnjanski's memoirs (Embahade), a travelogue (Among the Hyperboreans) and a novel about London; from the fragments published in various periodicals our impression of him remains the same : he is an author of great talent and striking individuality who writes with speed and excessive selfconfidence and consequently does not give equal attention to all details.19 Though five years younger than Crnjanski and of different temperament and education, Rastko Petrovic is usually mentioned together with Crnjanski because in them the modernists had their two most accomplished representatives; moreover, their political orientation and diplomatic careers were similar. Petrovic (Belgrade, 1898) was the youngest of the thirteen children of a historian and the brother of a much older sister, Nadezda, the wellknown Serbian painter; in the company of his sisters he became interested in painting and music. His studies were interrupted in 1915 when, under the most difficult conditions, he crossed Albania.20 Upon arriving in France he continued his studies; having graduated from the Serbian gymnasium in 1919, he registered at the School of Law in Paris. Though he returned the same year to Belgrade he nevertheless went to France every year until 1922, when he received a law certificate. During his stay in Paris Petrovic became intensely interested in the history of the ancient Slavs and in modern painting. He became acquainted with and was befriended by several avant-garde artists (e.g. Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque) and writers (such as André Gide, Max Jacob, André Salmon, Blaise Cendrars, André Breton, Paul Eluard and Philippe Soupault). In Paris he wrote his first book, a poetic legend-farce Burlesque (Burleska Gospodina Peruna Boga Groma), as well as most of his poems and stories which were published, from 1920 to 1923, in various Yugoslav literary journals. Though primitivism was no novelty in French literature, Burlesque was new to Serbian. Petrovic wrote this small book on the basis of his readings; however, one should not examine it for his knowledge of Slavic 19

About Crnjanski see Velibor Gligoric, Ogledi i studije (Belgrade, 1959), pp. 167-93. "Bezao je kroz Albaniju, gde je jeo hleb od budi, i gde se grejao uz tude pieci i gledao lica koja je juce postovao kako se gadno svadaju o malo mesta kraj vatre. Svi zakoni socijalni ovde su bili raskinuti. Mogao si ubiti coveka i da nikad nikome ne odgovaras; mogao si umreti i da se niko na tebe ne obazre", Petrovic wrote in his autobiography, published in Svedocanstva, 1924, No. 3, and reprinted in his Poezija (ed. Misió) (Belgrade, 1964), pp. 53-60. 20

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mythology or the early centuries of Christianity, for Petrovic was concentrating on the hypotheses that Satan is more human than St. Peter, that the Virgin Mary is no less cruel than the destroyed Slavic gods (Perun, Svantovid and Radgost), and that in spite of various sufferings and tortures hell is a more lively and bearable spot than heaven with its stereotyped hymns and prayers. Ivo Andric pointed out that it was an excellent idea to bring laughter and irony into a literature full of sorrow and quarreling, but regretted that Petrovic's intentions exceeded his capacity.21 Zoran Gavrilovic agrees with Andric, saying that only in its opening pages is Burlesque daring and interesting, that later it loses strength because Petrovic exhibited philosophical pretensions.22 Petrovic's collection of poems and prose entitled The Revelation (Otkrovenje, 1922) is more significant for its content than for its form. With the same bewilderment as the ancient Slavs and primitive African tribes, Petrovic says that he too has observed the physical side of our existence. The mystery of birth was for him the greatest discovery. The poet should concern himself mostly with the transformation of matter into a conscious human being. Since this transformation brings happiness to no one, man wishes to return to a peaceful prenatal status. The book was a shocking sensation. Petrovic was attacked as degenerate and sexually perverted; he was accused of blasphemy and was threatened with expulsion from the Orthodox Church. When he humbly (and hypocritically) replied that he was and would remain a religious man, the Serbian patriarch was apparently satisfied. Marko Ristic believes that Petrovic became frightened and decided to "compromise" with the bourgeois society.23 His book of poems found little appreciation among the critics. Only Milos Crnjanski and Isidora Sekulic greeted the young, daring and original poet,24 while the others ridiculed him. Annoyed by all this and probably finding himself in an impasse, Petrovic subsequently wrote very few poems. The best among them is "The Big Comrade" (Veliki drug, 1926), in memory of his thirty thousand comrades who died in Albania. Petrovic was unable to express any idea fully; he treated them as if they were simple pictures. He did not enrich the expressive power of Serbian poetry. He left many of his poems in a fragmentary form. Petrovic was a passionate and learned traveler; his interest carried him 21 22 28 21

Andrii, SKG, V (1922), No. 2, p. 151. Gavrilovic, in Burleska, 2nd. ed. (Belgrade, 1955), pp. x-xiii. Ristic, "Tri mrtva pesnika", in Rod, 301 (1954), pp. 274-77. Sekulic, Nova Evropa, 1923, No. 2, p. 63; Crnjanski, SKG, VIII (1923), No. 5, 386.

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from Macedonia to Dalmatia, from Albania to Italy, from Spain to Africa. Though all his travel accounts are written with knowledge and enthusiasm, two of them stand out above the others: Africa (1930) and People Speak (Ljudi govore, 1931).2B He did not go (in 1929) to the black continent as an adventurer but as an admirer of primitive society, a man who cherished the spontaneous in another man. It is not true (as Davico has remarked)26 that Petrovic failed to see cruel reality and the exploitation of the black people; he only briefly touched upon this, for his main interest was in those features which were distinctively African; therefore he dwelt mostly on naked bodies, dances, songs, fetishes and superstitions. Though some of his conclusions are probably incorrect,27 Africa is filled with magnificent descriptions of nature and interesting observations. Petrovic's most remarkable achievement is his small book People Speak. In it he did not attempt to describe the Spanish countryside, but rather the human condition through the utterances of fishermen. They are extremely poor, but accept their fate and love their native village. Just as Hemingway who, in The Old Man and the Sea, was concerned with Santiago and his lonely but courageous struggle, and spoke perhaps more eloquently than in his lengthy novels, so Petrovic in his short travelogue indicated the essential problems of mankind. Because of his lyrical insight and superb conciseness this book will remain a classic in Serbian letters. Before leaving Belgrade for Washington in 1935 Petrovic finished his major novel The Sixth Day (Dan sesti, originally called Eight Weeks), but influential Serbian politicians (Slobodan Jovanovic and Konstantin Fotic) prevented its publication: they objected to Petrovic's negative presentation of the Serbian army and leading Serbian figures during the retreat across Albania.28 The novel was first published in 1955-56 (in the periodical Delo) and then again in 1961; this latter edition contained also 26

The exceptional value of these two books was immediately recognized by Milan Bogdanovic; his appraisals were reprinted in his Stari i novi (Belgrade, 1961), III, 389-401. 26 O. Davico, Crno na belo (Belgrade, 1962), pp. 7-9. 27 Cecil M. Bowra, for example, challenges Petrovic's statement that in the Sudan the Bambara tribe knew an epic song of ten thousand lines in an archaic tongue, which was handed down from father to son; he specifically suspects the statement that, "The neighboring tribes also knew the whole epic by heart, word for word, though they did not understand a word of it". Bowra convincingly argues that heroic poems are not transmitted from generation to generation simply by memorization (Heroic Poetry, London, 1952, pp. 368-70). 28 Ristii, in a bibliographical note at the end of Dan sesti (1961), p. 631.

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the second book, written in Washington, most probably in 1938. Though critics deplore its somewhat chaotic composition and stylistic negligence,29 the first part of The Sixth Day is an impressive work. The author succeeds in depicting both the savage Albanian countryside, particularly during violent winter snowstorms, and human beings devoid of all finer feelings in the face of hunger, sickness and death. Any trace of national ideals and higher principles has disappeared and instead the clannish instinct and rapacity of the caveman predominate. If there was any single experience which was constantly present in Petrovic's mind and body it was the Albanian tragedy; he needed to describe it in detail in order to be freed from its nightmarish impact.30 The main character of both parts of the novel is Stevan Papa-Katie. He is the son of a rich family but during the retreat he loses contact with his clan and consequently is exposed to many tragic adventures, starvation, and moral breakdown. In the second (American) part he is portrayed as a mature character: a professor at Georgetown and Harvard, a Nobel prize winner, a man immersed in his paleontological studies and standing aloof from human contacts. His life changes when he meets the two women known to the reader from the first part: Toni, now the wife of Jack Gordon, and their adopted daughter Milica; Stevan has witnessed both the difficult birth of Milica and the death of her mother (the sister of Toni). He is admired by everyone for his wisdom and charm. Milica too cannot resist his fascinating power. Stevan is able to show normal human feelings only with her, since she brings back to him the fragrance of their native region. They marry; she becomes pregnant but Stevan is killed accidentally by friends who are pursuing a deer. The second volume is like a suit made from different pieces of cloth; taken separately each could be interesting. The American people are in general presented rather superficially. Petrovic remained at the Yugoslav royal embassy in Washington until 1945; after the war he refused to return to Belgrade and died in 1949. Though he was totally ignored during the first decade of the postwar period, all his books have by now been republished; certain of his writings have appeared for the first time. His most zealous publicist and competent commentator is his former friend and later political adversary, Marko Ristic, who has mellowed greatly over the years and piously cherishes the memory of his companions of earlier days. 29

Gligoric, Ogledi i studije, pp. 194-225; Petar Dzadzic, Iz dana u dan (Novi Sad, 1962), pp. 167-70. 30 Milan Dedinac, in the Epilogue to Dan sesti (1961), pp. 620-22.

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Rade Drainac (pseudonym of Radojko Jovanovic, 1899-1943) was and remains a controversial figure: was he a talented poet? Was his protest against bourgeois society linked with the leftist movement or was it simply a bluff? Drainac was with the Serbian army when it retreated through Albania. He continued his studies in France (Beaulieu), but upon his return to Belgrade he went no further than the sixth grade of the gymnasium. He traveled a great deal; in his autobiographical essay ("Rasvetljenje") he mentions that he visited Paris four times.31 He boasts how intimately he was connected with Tristan Tzara, Ehrenburg, Majakovskij, Tuwim, Nezval, Chagall, Picasso and other artists.32 Though he claimed to be a disciple of Villon, the greatest impact on him was exercised by Lautréamont, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Apollinaire and Esenin. When his first collections of poems were published (Bandit ili pesnik, 1928; Banket, 1930), Drainac was greeted as the most outspoken member of the new poetic wave.33 The critics stressed the fact that he did not describe, as did his predecessors, the interior of bourgeois homes but the squalid streets and dirty slums in which the proletariat lived. He loudly rejected everything sacred to the established order: state, church and family. He enjoyed shocking people. For this reason, in the twenties, he was considered a leftist. But in the thirties, when several of his former colleagues joined the communist ranks, Drainac remained somewhere between the lines : an individualist who did not want to enlist in any party. This was the main reason why in 1940, when his last collection of poems was published (Dah zemlje), Dorde Jovanovic, a former surrealist but then a rabid socialist realist, wrote that Drainac had dried up as a poet. 34 Now, mostly on the basis of his posthumous war diary (Crni dani, 1963), it is evident that Drainac was antibourgeois and anticlerical, a rebel without clear ideas of what kind of a society he would like.35 31

Vinaver is convinced that Paris had a negative impact upon Drainac; according to him, Drainac was suffocated by the Parisian atmosphere (Knjizevnost, 1954, No. 12, p. 473). 82 "Rasvetljenje" (1934), in Drainac, Pesme (ed. Raickovic) (Belgrade, 1960), pp. 31536. 88 Marko Ristic, Knjizevna politika, pp. 47-50, 126-30. 84 Dorde Jovanovic, "Rastanak sa poezijom", Studije i kritike (Belgrade, 1949), pp. 209-15. 86 Drainac was hesitant whether he should join the Chetniks of Kosta Pecanac or the partisans; he felt closer ties to the former; however, when he saw that Pecanac was collaborating with the Germans, and the Serbian Quislings Ljotic and Nedic, he thought that the partisan line was more in harmony with the Serbian resistance tradition. He did not join them (it seems) only on account of his ill health.

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In one of his early poems Drainac writes that his hunger is limitless but his hands are always empty; he wants to give everything but has nothing. In a poem about himself he confesses that he was a drunkard, a gambler but also a tender brother. In another poem ("Kad pesnik sebe pogleda iz daljine") he does not know if he is a poseur or a martyr, a scoundrel or a poet or just a clown. B. Mihajlovic thinks that he was all of these: sentimental, infantile, egocentric, noisy, with a superficial education but nevertheless a sensitive poet.36 Misic regrets that in his poetry Drainac imitated Esenin's sentimentality and sought rhetorical effects. He paid greater attention to external features than to content.37 His protest against the prevailing order was more the product of snobbery than the outcry of his heart.38 Easily won fame, boastfulness, drunkenness and eternal quarrels destroyed whatever was promising in this writer. Though he was a center of contention for two decades, contemporary Serbian poets do not follow him. The writer Mom5ilo Nastasijevic (1894-1938) died almost unknown to the public and ignored by the critics. Immediately after his death his collected works were published.39 Today several Serbian experimenters in poetry extol him as their predecessor; M. Pavlovic considers his poems the finest achievements in Serbian literature between the two wars.40 During the Serbian retreat in 1915 Nastasijevic was captured and mistreated by the Austrian occupying forces. After the war he associated with many writers (Vinaver, Crnjanski, Petrovic, Drainac, Dragan Aleksic and Dusan Matic) and musicians (he himself played the flute and cello). Like the majority of his modernist friends, he studied French language and literature, which he later taught in a Belgrade gymnasium. In 1923 he spent his summer vacation in Paris. Around 1925-26 Nastasijevic became a respected contributor to various Serbian literary periodicals. His tale, "The Story about the Gifts from My Cousin Mary", reprinted several times, was included in his book of stories {Iz tamnog vilajeta, 1927). This work as well as his collection of 38

Srpski pesnici izmedu dva rata, p. 143. Srpska poezija, p. 216. 88 A balanced judgment of Drainac is the one written by Eli Finci in Enciklopedija Jugoslavije, III, 72. 89 Vinaver wrote the Preface, which was reprinted in his Nadgramatika, pp. 239-54. 40 Antologija srpskog pesnistva, p. 67. — Vasko Popa composed a dithyramb about "this great and universal poet", published in Nastasijevic's Sedam lirskih krugova (Belgrade, 1962), pp. 177-79. Ladan wrote an appraisal of Nastasijevic (U skarama, pp. 36-42), in which he ridicules those who chant hymns about their favorite poet. 87

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poems Five Lyrical Circles (Pet lirskih krugova, 1932) was well received by the critics. Nastasijevic wrote several musical plays and dramas, mostly in collaboration with his brother Svetomir, a renowned composer. Though Medulusko blago (1927) and Durad Brankovic (1938) are today appreciated for their lyricism, they were then rejected by theater directors and attacked by critics. Nastasijevic reacted to this lack of understanding of his work and came out of this skirmish discouraged and exhausted. He had been in frail health from his childhood and during the two last years of his short life he became gravely ill. From his early youth Nastasijevic was interested in music, folklore and the archaic forms of the language. Many of his unusual words the poet borrowed from Glagolitic and Cyrillic documents.41 Nastasijevic pushed his concern for old language and concise expression to an extreme. He wanted to be striking in the originality of his ideas and expressions. One of his most ardent admirers, M. Pavlovic, recognizes that the understanding of Nastasijevic's poetry is an arduous task because the poet was obsessed with musical and rhythmical effects.42 Isidora Sekulic correctly remarks that he reminds her of a miner who, having spent a certain time at the bottom in darkness, is so struck by the light that he is unable to utter a coherent statement.43 Nastasijevic saw secret and mysterious forces everywhere. He was confirmed in this belief by his own experiences. It happened that as a teenager he had just crossed the bridge over a river swollen by mounting waters: it collapsed as soon as he reached the other bank. He shared with the old Serbian texts and popular tradition the fear of supernatural forces and a belief in the other world. Certain Marxist critics believe that he is mainly responsible for the renewed interest and admiration for medieval theological texts. It seems to me this is rather a consequence of a national revival, which includes also the religious past but not necessarily its dogmatic tenets. II The most active and significant member, the real leader of the surrealist group in Belgrade, was the essayist Marko Ristic (Belgrade, 1902). He too left occupied Serbia in 1915 and thereupon studied in Switzerland. 41

"Recnik stranih reci", in Nastasijevic's Sedam lirskih krugova, pp. 189-99. Antologija, p. 67; see also Pavlovic's comprehensive study in his Osam pesnika (Belgrade, 1964), pp. 163-203. 43 Sekulic, Mir i nemir (Belgrade, 1957), p. 188.

42

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With Milan Dedinac, Ristic launched in 1922 the "modernist" journal Putevi-, among the modernist contributors, he says, only Rastko Petrovic left a lasting impression upon him. Having prepared with Milos Crnjanski, during the summer of 1924, a triple issue of Putevi, he soon realized that their future collaboration was impossible for both personal and ideological reasons. At the end of the same year, with the assistance of Petrovic, Dedinac and Matic, he started a new periodical Svedocanstva (1924-25). Svedocanstva contained articles devoted to psychic phenomena such as madness, dreams, imagination and the subconscious, with documents taken from real life.44 Marko Ristic wrote about French surrealism and (supposedly) already rejected the esthetic principles of "belles-lettres". An issue of Svedocanstva was devoted to the October Revolution and the Soviet Union. Though the periodical was not a declared surrealist mouthpiece, it nevertheless contained many features which later (after 1929) became typical of Serbian surrealism.45 In 1926-27 Ristic spent several months in Paris, where he became acquainted with a number of French surrealists, particularly with André Breton. While the years 1924 to 1929 were for the French surrealists a period of fertile and varied activity, during the same time the future Serbian surrealists lacked their own periodical. However, they published works which bear the surrealist stamp (Dedinac, Javna ptica, 1927; Ristic, Bez mere, 1928). The surrealists praised Dedinac's poem as the 44

La Révolution surréaliste, 1925, No. 5, printed from Svedocanstva, 1925, No. 6, a novel Vampire, written by a crazy man. 46 In her well-written book, Serbian Surrealism and its Relation to French Surrealism (Srpski nadrealizam i njegovi odnosi sa francuskim nadrealizmom, Sarajevo, 1966), Mrs. Hanifa Kapidzic-Osmanagic had a definite but limited goal, to trace and point out similarities and differences between Serbian and French surrealism from the early twenties until 1932. She convincingly demonstrates first that, particularly in 1929-32, there were close ideological ties and frequent collaboration between French and Serbian surrealists, and second, that they went their separate ways at the end of 1932 when the Serbs joined with and remained in the Communist ranks. The author was fortunate enough to have at her disposal almost all periodicals, brochures and pamphlets which are not only unavailable in this country, but hard even to find in Yugoslav libraries. It is obvious that Marko Ristic was her main informant. This privileged position became a basic handicap. Throughout the entire book she interprets his writings with the reverence of an orthodox theologian for papal encyclicals. Mrs. Kapidzic does not examine critically the value of surrealist literary activity but analyzes, with great care and clarity, the theoretical writings of those who, toward the thirties, acknowledged themselves publicly to be surrealists. The author mentions the Serbian modernists only when they worked together with the surrealists, but dismisses them, with a few unflattering remarks, when they refused to follow the surrealists into Communism.

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supreme realization of their poetic creed. Ristic's own work, consisting of both poems and political discussion, was mainly instrumental in the espousal of the surrealist cause by three younger writers (Dorde Jovanovic, Dorde Kostic and Oskar Daviôo). Ristic continued to write (in the newspaper Politika, 1928-30) about the literary achievements of his former modernist friends, though stressing their ideological incompatibility. In 1930 Ristic took an energetic part in the organization of the Belgrade surrealist group (thirteen members) and the Serbian surrealist movement. Their first collective endeavor was the almanac Nemoguce ("Impossible" ; it claimed to reflect events in an impossible world). The surrealists emphasized automatic writing and black humor and ridiculed bourgeois esthetics. Breton, Eluard and Aragon were collaborators. From the strictly surrealist point of view, the almanac could be considered the movement's peak, for immediately thereafter the Serbian surrealists began to change radically and to insist that their main duty was to help further the socialist revolution. This is evident from their collective declaration (The Position of Surrealism, 1931),46 in which they try to connect individual freedom with the revolutionary transformation of society. The most important surrealist document from this transitional period was An Outline for the Phenomenology of the Irrational (1931), written by Ristic and Koëa Popovic. They accept Freudian psychoanalysis, but interpret it by Hegelian dialectics. They distinguish between real morals which are always progressive, and normative morals which usually support the existing order. They defend the irrational side of human nature against intellect and reason, which function as social censors; the conscious should express the subconscious, but it should act as a collaborator and not as an intermediary.47 The last collective publication of the Serbian surrealists was the periodical Nadrealizam danas i ovde (1931-32, only three issues). Ristic's article on modernist literature was a violent attack against his former friends (Crnjanski together with Vinaver) who, according to him, had betrayed their earlier beliefs and thus reached an ideological and creative impasse.48 Ristic and his Outline were attacked not only by Dusan 46 It was translated and published in the third issue of Le Surréalisme au service de la révolution, 1931, No. 3. See Kapidzic, Srpski nadrealizam, p. 231. 47 In spite of their efforts, this attempt was doomed in advance to failure, because it is impossible to create a coherent system combining paranoid delirium and dialectic thought. 48 "Protiv knjizevnosti modernisticke", Nadrelizam danas i ovde, No. 2 (January

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Nedeljkovic,49 but also by socialist realists (such as I. Merin, St. Galogaza and Jovan Popovic). With Dedinac and Ko5a Popovic, Ristic wrote a lengthy reply attempting to refute the widespread rumor that the surrealists were responsible for the confusion of ideas in the leftist movement, because they had tried to link together two extreme poles, namely surrealist irrationalism and historical materialism.50 Ristic also touched upon the famous "Aragon case", when this author had abandoned surrealism in 1932 and had become a vociferous propagandist of Party political goals; undoubtedly Ristic himself (his colleagues felt differently) was on Breton's side, for he called Aragon a renegade. 51 In the second and third issue of Nadrealizam danas i ovde many French surrealists (with the exception of Aragon) 52 collaborated; their poems, prose, essays and pictures were original contributions to this Serbian periodical. Very soon, however, these two movements chose different roads. At the end of 1932 a brochure Anti-zid was published in Belgrade (among the surrealist editions) in which Vane Bor (pseudonym of Stevan Zivadinovic) and Ristic gave a succinct history of the surrealist movement and endeavored to explain its evolutionary and revolutionary processes.53 This was the swan song of Serbian surrealism. DaviCo and Jovanovic were arrested and condemned to prison for five and three years respectively, while Popovic, Matic and Vuco were also arrested but soon released.54 After 1933 only Ristic defended the surrealist legacy and wrote theoretical essays expressing views which had been repudiated by the "deserters", newly converted to socialist realism. In 1933 Ristic met Miroslav Krleza, the most significant Yugoslav communist writer (though a liberal), who exercised thereafter a decisive influence upon Ristic's outlook and literary development. 55 In Krleza's 1932), pp. 42-46; reprinted in Knjizevna politika, pp. 163-74. "Jedna himna imposibilistickoj filozofiji", SKG, Vol. XXXIII (1931), No. 8, pp. 634-37. 50 "Nerazumevanje dialektike", Nadrealizam danas i ovde, No. 3 (June 1932), pp. 1-14. 61 Ibid., pp. 50-51. 62 For example, André Breton, René Char, René Crevel, Salvador Dali, Paul Éluard, Max Ernst,Yves Tanguy and Tristan Tzara. 63 I express here my sincere thanks to Marko Ristic, who kindly gave me Svedocanstva Nadrealizam danas i ovde and Anti-zid: his gift was of great help to me. 64 The arrest of the Serbian surrealists was sharply criticised by their French colleagues, particularly René Crevel, in Le Surréalisme au service de la révolution, 1933, No. 6. In the same issue a poem by Matic and a letter of Vane Bor to Salvador Dali were published. See Kapidzic, Srpski nadrealizam, p. 313. 55 "Taj susret sa KrleZom od velikog je znacaja za njegov dalji knjizevni razvoj kao 48

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journal Danas, which was published in Belgrade (January-May 1934) under the nominal editorship of Milan Bogdanovic, appeared Ristic's long essay "The Moral and Social Meaning of Poetry" ;86 this study, in which he interpreted poetry as a moral act and offered a materialist explanation of art, was full of quotations from Freud, Breton and the surrealist publications of 1930-32. During a summer vacation in Slovenia (1935) Ristic wrote a "Preface to Several Unwritten Novels and a Diary of this Preface".57 This Preface with its Diary contains a discussion of crucial literary problems such as realism, tendentiousness in literature, psychology and so on, and at the same time it records the political events of that year. This method became typical for Ristic, who wrote many diaries in which everyday events mingle with theoretical discussions and learned digressions. In 1939-40 Ristic contributed to Krleza's Pecat, a periodical which caused a lasting split in leftist circles when Krleza ridiculed his "progressive" critics (e.g. Ognjen Prica, Jovan Popovic, Radovan Zogovic and Milovan Dilas) as writers without talent though perhaps with honorable intentions. Therein appeared several brilliant essays by Ristic and fragments of his controversial "Dream and Truth of Don Quixote" 58 (paraphrased after Picasso's "Songe et Mensonge de Franco"). During the war Ristic at first lived in Vrnjacka Banja, was temporarily imprisoned in Krusevac, and then in 1942 was expelled to Belgrade, where he remained until 1945 when he was appointed ambassador to Paris. During the Soviet-Yugoslav dispute in 1948 and thereafter, with intelligence and verve, he fought the Cominform propaganda and its French supporters (e.g. Aragon, Eluard and Picasso). Upon his return to Belgrade in 1951, he and his former surrealist companions (Dedinac, Vuco, Matic and Davico), with new associates (Oto Bihalji-Merin and Eli Finci), launched the periodical Svedocanstva (1952), which can be considered the beginning of a liberalized era in Serbian letters. Together with Vuco, DaviCo and two younger writers, Dobrica Cosic and Antonije Isakovic, Ristic was for a while on the editorial board of the first Serbian postwar Western-oriented periodical i za njegov odnos prema stvarnom svetu", writes Ristic in his Istorija ipoezija (Belgrade, 1962), p. 462. 66 "Moralni i socijalni smisao poezije" was reprinted several times; see Srpska knjizevna kritika (ed. Misic) (Belgrade, 1958), pp. 333-88, and Istorija i poezija, pp. 7-73. 67 "Predgovor za nekoliko nenapisamih romana i Dnevnik tog predgovora" was first published in its entirety in 1953, and then again in Istorija i poezija, pp. 77-187. 68 "San i istina don Kihota", in Pecat, 1939, Nos. 1-2, pp. 34-49; its entire text is given in Istorija i poezija, pp. 191-310.

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Delo (1955- ). Since 1962 he has been a regular contributor to Krleza's outstanding journal Forum (Zagreb). Since 1939 Ristic has been working on his war memoirs, various fragments of which have already appeared; in 1964 he published the first volume (Hacer Tiempo), in which he sincerely and courageously describes the moral perplexity of the Communists in 1939 when the Soviets signed the treaty of non-agression with the Nazis ; he particularly emphasizes the responsibility of the Russians for the dismemberment of Poland, for the Katyn massacre and for their refusal to assist General Bor in his desperate struggle in Warsaw. Ristic's book was the object of a Soviet protest to Belgrade. In the twenties Marko Ristic wrote a book of poems (Od srece i od sna, 1925) and an "anti-novel in verse and prose" (Bez mere, 1928), which he considers "the most significant of his books because of his attempt at a total expression". Though both of these books have been republished (Nox microcosmica, 1955 ; Bez mere, 1962) and some of Ristic's poems are appreciated as specimens of black humor, nevertheless, as a poet he has been totally ignored.59 Dragan Jeremic states that poetry writing for Ristic has been a testing ground for his literary theories.60 His poems, however, are far from the world of the subconscious and the dream. They are the reactions of an acute observer to external events which arouse his curiosity and subsequent total involvement or violent repudiation. One must consider Ristic's postwar activity (since 1952), because during the last fifteen years he has published a dozen books, the majority of which discuss the prewar period or reproduce otherwise unavailable documents and manifestoes.61 Ristic's writing remains the basic source of information about Serbian surrealism. From 1924 until today, though he has evolved or changed many of his ideas, he has not stopped fighting for what he considers "the surrealist legacy". Ristic defends Yugoslav socialism (and does not oppose totalitarianism in the political and economic fields), but his favorite writers remain the same (Lautréamont, Rimbaud, Apollinaire and Breton). There is a certain logical consistency in his beliefs : though he continues to defend the irrational approach in literature, he is convinced that only those writers can fulfill themselves creatively who accept progressive ideas, who 5 " He is not included in anthologies of Serbian poetry compiled either by his opponents (B. Mihajlovic and M. Pavlovic), by his former follower (Z. Mi§ic), or others (P. Palavestra). Palavestra states that Ristic is not very critical when his own creation is in question (Odbrana kritike, 1961, p. 11). 60 Jeremic, Prsti nevernog Tome (Belgrade, 1965), pp. 117-51. ,1 Knjizevna politika, 1952; Prostor-vreme, 1952; Tri mrtva pesnika, 1954; Ljudi u

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become engagés for a better world. Usually he writes with erudition, imagination, intuition, passion, and with a cascade of daring images. He has written several essays which rank him among the best critics in Serbian letters. One is fascinated by some of his studies and analyses, even when their theories or arguments are of questionable value. Among modernist poets who later became surrealists, the most distinguished was Milan Dedinac (Kragujevac, 1902-Belgrade, 1966). He too was evacuated in 1915 to France, where for three years he continued his gymnasium studies in Villefrance and Cannes. He graduated from Belgrade University in French and comparative literature. He was at first an employee and later an editor of the newspaper Politika, for which he wrote, during his prolonged visit to Paris in 1929-30, interesting reports on the cultural situation in France. Dedinac's first poem was published in the Zagreb periodical Kritika (1921), in a special issue which presented the Belgrade modernist group called Alpha to the Croatian public. He became particularly productive in 1923-25, when he and his friends started the avantgarde journals Putevi and Svedocanstva. Thirty years later Dedinac named those authors who had most influenced him and his colleagues: Baudelaire, Lautréamont, Rimbaud, Apollinaire, Ujevic, Crnjanski, and Petrovic.62 Though several among Dedinac's early poems (such as "Pesme ranog ustajanja", 1923-25) are impressive for their vision and conciseness, his best-known work is his long poem The Public Bird (Javna Ptica, 1926). Dusan Matic wrote a dithyramb about it : he did not analyze it, but simply expressed his enchantment. He spoke about the "pearls, tears, fires, loves and documents of poetic life" : but besides these compliments he gave no evidence why this poem should be considered epoch-making.63 When an anonymous critic questioned the validity of such a procedure, Matic declared flatly that it was below his dignity to discuss poetry with a stupid creature who had neither brain to understand nor ear to hear. Should this critic dare to continue to comment upon the works of his group, Matic threatened that he and his colleagues would use all possible means to silence him. He concluded his "open letter" with several insulting remarks.64 Marko Ristic also wrote an eulogy stating that since the literary critics could not understand real poetry, he would follow the nevremenu, 1956; Od istog pisca, 1957; Istorija i poezija, 1962; Hacer Tiempo, 1964; Objava poezije, 1964. •2 Dedinac, Od nemila do nedraga (Belgrade, 1957), Introduction, pp. 11-45. M "Povodom knjige Milana Dedinca" (1927), Bagdala (Belgrade, 1964), pp. 66-68. " Ibid., pp. 69-71.

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suggestion of the young revolutionary R. Lefebvre who said: "Nous n'avons à formuler que des blasphèmes ou des crédos". The Public Bird cannot be understood, says Ristic, because the events it portrays take place during the night. The poet succeeds in bringing his dreams to the surface ; his inner life is transformed into poetry. Though he follows no rules, Ristic writes, Dedinac's poetry magically overcomes all irregularities. It is impossible to take an excerpt from it because its monolithic structure is an undivided whole. Ristic concludes that Dedinac's book does not belong to literature, but to poetry.85 One agrees with Ristic when he says that The Public Bird was like a poetic fire which revealed with striking light the poet's subconscious impulses; this he achieved with a light touch, nonchalance and broken phrases. Nevertheless, in spite of the praise which certain critics bestow upon this poem even today, I think that those are correct who stress its incongruity, fragmentation, experimentation and difficulty of understanding.66 The Public Bird was Dedinac's best prewar achievement. For ten years afterwards he was almost silent. In 1930 (in Nemoguce) his poem "Flame without Meaning" appeared ; it was the outcry of a solitary man who had reached the depths of despair. He could go no further in his self-centered pursuit; he looked for solutions in another direction, and his search was long. From his contribution to Krleza's Pecat (1939) it is clear that the poet also wanted to become involved in an activity which would change the society where impossible human and social conditions prevail.6' In 1941 Dedinac was taken to the German concentration camps at Sagan and Goerlitz, from which he was released in 1943 because of ill health. In his Poems from the Diary of Prisoner of War No. 60211 (1947) he depicted the infernal atmosphere of the camps, and his longing to return to his homeland. Formerly concerned only with his own thoughts and proud of being distant from others, he was now extremely sensitive to the feelings and sorrows of all the inmates; many of his poems are only reactions to the words, deeds or simply the silence of comrades. Through real sufferings he reached the true meaning of humanism and freed himself from poetic exhibitionism; in broadening his content he learned also how to express himself in a less complicated way. Dedinac's third phase is characterized by his enchantment with the 65

"Objava poezije", Vijetiac, 1927, N o . 5, pp. 118-19, reprinted in Knjizevna pp. 37-43. 69 Pavle Zorié, Kriticki eseji (Titograd, 1962), p. 51. 67 "Pesma koju peva usamljeni putnik", Pecat, 1939, N o . 3, pp. 169-72.

politika,

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Montenegrin landscape: a stony region with little grass but with a sweeping horizon and blue sky. He always became totally involved in his temporary preoccupations; so even in this case: his feelings for nature are deep, his images are powerful, but the effect is spoiled by an often unnecessarily elevated voice and an overindulgence in rhetoric. Dedinac had an inborn poetic talent which was somewhat suffocated by his gloom and complicated style, all consequences of his surrealist experiment. Alexsandar Vu£o (Belgrade, 1897) as a youth volunteered for the Serbian army, crossed Albania and witnessed, from a rather privileged position, the sufferings of his colleagues. He studied in France and graduated from law school. He first published several collections of verse and then in collaboration with Dusan Matic a long poem (Marija Rucara, 1935) and a novel (Gluho doba, 1940). When the split between the socialist realists and Krleza occurred, Vu£o became the editor of Nasa stvarnost (1936-39), the mouthpiece of the orthodox realists. During World War II he was held for a time in the camp at Banjica, but when freed he did not join the partisans. This lack of purpose and decision in the most critical moments he attributes to his Cincar-bourgeois-merchant upbringing (Raspust, 1954; Mrtve javke, 1957);88 nevertheless, in the third part of his autobiographical trilogy (Zasluge, 1963) his alter ego (Dragan Manojlovic) becomes a resolute man zealously working for a better future. After 1950 Vuco became active with his former surrealist friends and was instrumental in launching the new Svedocanstva (1952) and Delo (1955- ). Vu£o's first book of poems, The Roof over the Window (Krov nad prozorom, 1926), contained several of his characteristic features: he broke all accepted poetic canons and introduced daring metaphors and associations. His poems did not have a beginning or end and ignored punctuation; they were mental or emotional fragments linked together by sybconscious impulses. Vuco believed that through a dream one is able to recreate his own childhood, the only source of inspiration. He declared his rejection of all mental certitudes and his belief only in numbers and colors.69 In his collection of poems in prose, If I Remember Again (Ako se jos jednom setim, 1929), VuSo gave autobiographical details full of apocalyptic allusions. In one of his sketches he describes one evening, which began 89

Dzadzic, the preface to Mrtve javke (1960), pp. 7-37; Palavestra, Odbrana kritike, pp. 210-13. •• Bogdanovic, SKG, XIX (1926), No. 5, pp. 390-92, and Stari i novi, III (1961) pp. 412-15.

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with a blood-red sunset and ended with inoffensive stars, when trains departed without passengers and theaters were empty. In the shadow of the evening light some humans resembled grasshoppers, others appeared like sharp surgical instruments, others were like the skeletons of birds or rare fish. All were waiting for something to happen. About midnight the storm flew in and swooped upon the roofs.70 In 1932 Vuco published two booklets of humor (Humor zaspalo; Nemenikuce); they excel neither in original ideas nor in poetic quality. Their basic quality is in their description of urban life with appropriate language. Most of them are burlesques; he did his best to prove he was anti-intellectual.71 In his postwar collection Mastodons (1951), remaining always somewhat under the impact of surrealism, Vuco was surprisingly clear though a pessimistic note again pervaded his lines : why so much beauty, the poet wonders, if it will be destroyed by bloodthirsty mastodons? In his other collections (particularly in Poziv na mastanje, 1965) he reiterates, in form and content, his surrealist tenets of the twenties. Though he protests by saying that no one can return to the initial stage of surrealism, which is in constant formal and ideological transformation, nevertheless it appears that Vuôo is forever bound to fragmentation, linguistic experimentation and a wordiness lacking spontaneity and originality. Dusan Matic (Cuprija, 1898) was wounded in the Serbian resistance to the Austro-Hungarian invaders in 1914.72 Matic studied philosophy in Paris and Belgrade; he taught in Belgrade from 1924 to 1937, when he was dismissed because of his leftist leanings and activities. At an early age Matic began to write poetry, though he did not know whether he should be a poet or a philosopher; 73 he remained undecided all his life and all his writings are a mixture of these two disciplines. Matic's first poems were published in the modernist journal Putevi, but gradually he became one of the most outspoken exponents of surrealist doctrine. However, reading Matic's poems from his surrealist period (1922-32), one becomes convinced that they were not at all automatic and 70

Translated by Janko Lavrin, An Anthology of Modern Yugoslav Poetry (London, 1962), p. 167. 71 In his valuable anthology of Serbian humor, Urnebesnik (I960, p. 7), Vasko Popa writes that humorists destroy the meaningless world but replace it with another equally stupid. Eli Find had pointed out (in Pregled, 1930, p. 809) that VuCo in most of his poems wrote sheer nonsense. 72 He describes the lack of fighting spirit on both sides: "Nous ne voulons pas nous battre. Être vainqueurs ou vaincus, cela nous est bien égal" (Laza i paralaza noéi, Belgrade, 1962, p. 19). 73 See BoZo Milacic, Suze i zvijezde (Zagreb, 1956), pp. 75-76.

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the pure product of a subconscious dictate; on the contrary, they were written by someone who consciously gave them a final form. During this decade, which could be called one of innovation and experimentation, several of Matic's poems74 show how he strove to be irrational and break all connections with traditional rules. After 1932, though in many ways he preserved the surrealist technique, Matic abandoned surrealism as a movement. From then on he considered it his main duty to point out social inequality. He (and Vuco) accumulated the facts of working-class life which, they believed, spoke eloquently without any commentary (Marija Rucara, 1935). The Spanish Civil War inspired Matic to write an impressive sketch, partly lyric, partly journalistic, "Guernica", as well as a poem about a young Spanish girl Anita, killed during the bombardment of Madrid.75 In "Guernica" he recalls how the Serbian youngsters, who in 1916 had suffered from hunger and sickness, believed such disasters could not be repeated. In these texts Matic is eloquent, spontaneous and clear. At the Dead of Night (Gluho doba, 1940) describes the political and social life in Belgrade and Serbia from 1900 to 1903, from the wedding of Alexander Obrenovic to Draga Masin until their assasination. Besides the King, who is a slave to his vicious wife, there is a gallery of passive characters, all morally weak; the King boasts that he could easily replace one minister with another because there are so many spineless people among his subjects. The change to democratic institutions did not occur because certain liberal individuals fought for them, but (according to Matic and Vuco) was due only to the times and environment in which they lived. Matic and Vuco did not write the entire novel with equal craftsmanship: there are several unfinished passages. Tendentiousness and negligence damaged this otherwise significant endeavor.76 Matic's second novel, The Die is Cast (Kocka ja bacena, 1957), though describing the same period of Serbian history as the first, is not a historical novel: it is a poetic fantasy with many digressions and reflections concerning one hot summer in a provincial Serbian town. A sensitive young man, Peter Junior, breaks away from his Radoslavljevic clan and goes out into ' 4 For example, "Zarni Viae", "Mutan lov u bistroj vodi", and "Zamenice smrti". Matic's often quoted "Mutan lov u bistroj vodi" was translated by Koea Popovic and published in Cahiers du Sud, No. 280 (1946), pp. 373-74. This issue presented to the French public the foreign surrealists. Matic and other Serbian surrealists are wrongly called Zenitistes. The Zenitism of Ljubomir Micic had certain connections with the poet Yvan Goll (see Francis Carmody, The Poetry of Yvan Goll, Paris, 1956). 75 Matic, Bagdala, pp. 140-47. 78 See Ilija Mamuzic, Letopis Matice srpske, No. 354 (1940), pp. 448-51.

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the world alone. The narrative proceeds slowly, as in Proust's Remembrance of Things Past. Matic is well informed about French literature ; he wrote many essays about it. He often quotes his favorite French authors. Stéphane Mallarmé is his constant companion; however, he understood him (he claims) only when read aloud at the top of the Zlatar mountain, where Mallarmé's powerful poetic expression was confronted with the silence of nature.77 Mallarmé's book Divagations had influenced him in combining various literary genres because, Matic thinks, only through their orchestration could the complex and contradictory truth about man be revealed. There is agreement that Matic's postwar poetry is superior to his prewar. Misic says that he is among those rare poets who "at an advanced age reach the fullness of their expressive power".78 Matic has acquired a certain routine in writing poetry which, from the formal aspect, still has many surrealist traits but a more earthy content. His outlook is one of proud resignation; he is neither a pessimist nor an optimist, for he considers humans transient birds, passengers, but capable of making a durable impact. Instead of worrying about absolute truths (Matic is anti-dogmatic) and eternal laws governing this world, man should enjoy the beauty which nature and life offer him.79 Though constantly writing about existential problems, as Jeremic points out, Matic does not have a coherent philosophy: he has his momentary intuitions and moods inspired by varying circumstances. This is the reason why he writes in bits, and fails to develop an idea or impression to its logical end. Jeremic also points out that Matic does not distinguish between various literary genres : thus his essays are filled with poetic qualities and his poems are rhetorical.80 Though limited in scope and imagination, several of his poems,81 mostly because of their linguistic and stylistic mastery, are justly appreciated by critics. The most productive among the surrealist writers is their younger colleague Oskar Davico (Sabac, 1909). He too experienced World War I: he did not cross Albania (as did his seniors), but was obliged, along with 77 See Matic's interview with D. Adamovic, Koju odsvojih pesama najvise volim i zasto (Sarajevo, 1958), p. 121. 78 MiSic, Srpska poezija, p. 264. 79 The best connoisseur of Matic's output is Jovan Hristic, who in his interesting book Poezija i filozofija (Novi Sad, 1964), pp. 97-158, devoted special attention to Matic; see also his preface to Matic's Bagdala, pp. 9-19. 80 "Pesnik pod zvezdanim nebom", Knjizevne notine, No. 292 (Jan. 7, 1967), p. 5. 81 E.g. "Covek nije samo", "More", "Da imenujem senke zvezda", and "Sutra opet".

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his mother and relatives, to abandon his native region (Sabac was close to the then Austrian province of Bosnia) and settle temporarily in the eastern part of Serbia. Having graduated from the gymnasium in Belgrade, he went to Paris to study French literature; being without means for two and a half years, he earned his living at all kinds of jobs.82 One day, he narrates, walking with Dorde Kostic, he saw in a shopwindow the eleventh issue (March 15, 1928) of the periodical La Révolution surréaliste : its cover depicted two workers looking into the opening of a sewer. He sensed then that, even if he were forced to abandon conventional reasoning, he must look beyond the surface. Nevertheless, he says, "from the beginning I could not accept certain surrealist preoccupations".83 Having tried to write automatic texts with daring images and street jargon (Anatomija, 1930), he came to the conclusion that total automatic writing was impossible because, in the long run, it became rational and conscious. Having graduated from Belgrade (in 1930) in French language and literature, he taught in Sibenik and Bihac until 1932, when he was condemned to five years in jail for making communist propaganda among students and the working class. While his early experience of war and its horrors and his prolonged stay in Paris played an important role, nevertheless the most decisive factor in Daviôo's life was his imprisonment in Sremska Mitrovica: within the four walls of his cell he matured as a revolutionary and a poet. Upon his release (in 1937) he met Krleza, who made an undying impression upon him. From 1937 to 1939 Davico contributed several significant poems (e.g. "Detinjstvo", "Srbija") to Nasa stvarnost. In 1939 there appeared in Krleza's Pecat his love poems and particularly his famous canzoniere Hana. From these verses it was apparent that he was no longer a surrealist: in Nasa stvarnost his social preoccupations were manifest, while his love cantos betrayed the formal influence of Tin Ujevic. Daviôo's "Childhood" (Detinjstvo), consisting of thiry-one short poems in which he narrates with humor his first brushes with the reality of life, is an impressive achievement. From these verses one learns many details important to the formation of this precocious, sensitive and selfcentered child. In his (often reprinted) "Serbia" Daviôo sings a jubilant hymn to a country awakening to a revolutionary daybreak: the fields are 82 With Yugoslav workers he went to the meetings of the French Communist Party, listened to the speeches of Maurice Thorez, Marcel Cachin and other revolutionaries, and sang "the International". 88 Davico's interview, published in his book of essays Pre podne, 1960, pp. 12-14.

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rich, the harvest is good, the laborers, though exploited and poor, have not lost their human dignity and hope for a better future. Davico's Hana contains some of his most successful poems, several of which became an integral part of every Yugoslav anthology. In them the poet is extremely lyrical and sensuous. DaviSo's Hana is not an ethereal being, but rather a seductive female.84 Though remaining in the framework of classical metrics, his love poems are filled with rich metaphors and striking associations.85 DaviSo was interned by the Italians in 1941; after the fascist capitulation, he joined the partisans; for a while he worked as a journalist (he wrote the report about Marko's uprising in Greece in 1947). Davico's postwar poetry became more and more oriented toward political and social themes, although it remained a product of an unbridled, sensuous and experimental poet; carried away by his fertile imagination, he employed an overly ornate vocabulary. Whereas his Zrenjanin (1949) was an homage to a prewar comrade who was killed in action (and after whom a city in Vojvodina was named), his Cherry Tree behind the Wall (Visnja za zidom, 1950) depicts Serbia's gradual awakening for the massive antibourgeois uprising. DaviCo's Man's Man (Covekov covek, 1953), a long, repetitious, bombastic and difficult poem, is based on the idea that dead comrades continue to live in the consciences of those who survive and oblige them to reexamine their deeds in the name of the Revolution. In this, as in other among Davico's patriotic and "humanistic" songs, we almost hear the voice, language, enchantment and rhetorical cadence of Whitman. Because of his refreshing images, unusual verbal association, readiness to transform real incidents into his own poetic creations86 and particularly for his tempestuous personality, DaviSo exercised a strong influence upon several younger Serbian writers in the fifties; at present, however, the impact of his poetry has been considerably reduced. Although an im84

One of the poems was translated by R. A. D. Lord, Canadian Slavonic Papers, V, 124. 85 A succinct and penetrating analysis of Davico's early poetic output was written by Vuk Krnjevic; see Srpska knjizevnost u knjizevnoj kritici, VIII, 459-63. 86 In the preface to Zrenjanin (1963, pp. 13-14) he tells how he wrote this book: He was called on the phone from the newly founded city of Zrenjanin and invited to recite his poems there. On the other side of the line his host shouted: "This is Zrenjanin" (meaning the city), and Davico remained paralyzed for a few minutes, believing that he heard the voice of his dead comrade. On the basis of this shock he composed five cantos. Davico confesses that all his works were stimulated by similar external events which, through the filter of his imagination, were transformed to such an extent that cause and effect had very little in common.

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portant factor in this is the orientation of the younger generation toward Anglo-American literature, the basic reason is to be found in his own writing, namely in his return to the surrealist waters. In addition to his excessive linguistic experimentation, with a constant search for more complex rhythm and abstract content, Davico's handicaps lie also in his lack of self-criticism and the rocket-like speed with which he produces his books.87 DaviCo wrote two books of essays (Poezija i otpori, 1952; Pre podne, 1960) which are of uneven value and surprising in their unexpected positions; they prove beyond a doubt that he lacks fixed esthetic principles and can produce, on the spur of the moment, statements which are hardly consistent with his own writing and attitudes. They are interesting as bits of biographical information, though one should be wary of Davico's constantly creative imagination.88 During the years when his poetry was no longer taken so seriously, Davico began to publish a series of novels of varying value. His first novel, The Poem (Pesma, 1952), contains only a few characters and the action is compressed into thirty-six hours in occupied Belgrade in 1942; its central theme is the delicate problem of the relationship between a strong-minded individual, Mica Ranovic, and the invisible and inflexible Party. A single love affair, interminable soliloquies and rich fantasy are juxtaposed throughout hundreds of pages; the protagonists scrutinize the most secret corners of their consciences; we observe the slow birth and gradual development of their emotions. Davico's Poem is not only his best achievement in prose, but also one of the significant works in Serbian postwar literature.89 Davico, with Cosic and Lalic, should be credited with breaking away from the postwar black-and-white partisan literature in his presentation of Mica Ranovic as a human being who thinks, doubts and loves. Unfortunately Davico did not show the same mastery of description and character portrayal in his subsequent novels, in which he endeavored to present strong individuals attempting to build a new and better society. 87

He wrote the entire Zrenjanin (a hundred pages) from three o'clock in the afternoon until the following morning; then he felt a trembling. He went in 1961 to Western Africa, spent two months there, wrote his impressions during the thirty-seven days and produced a book of four hundred pages (Crno na belo, 1962). His best novel Pesma in its third edition was shortened by more than seventy pages and its plot and characters were made more acceptable. The other novels should undergo even more drastic reductions. 88 See Ostoja Kisic, in Delo, 1967, No. 1, p. 127. 89 Milos Bandic, "Pesnik kao romanopisac", Vreme romana (Belgrade, 1958), pp. 156-94.

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They are "positive heroes" who dream about their Utopian land; they consider themselves puritans, the embodiment of all virtures, and would like to see others in their own image.90 Certain passages are doubtless more impressive than the whole. Having written three novels dealing with postwar Yugoslavia, mainly with its industrial problems, Davico turned his interest to the prewar years when he was imprisoned in Sremska Mitrovica. The four volumes of his Confinement (Robija, 1963-66) appeared in quick succession. These novels usually center around Communists who are ready to sacrifice their own lives in order to promote the cause of the revolution. They are egocentrics who carry anguish in their subconscious; they are often erotically aroused. Most of their temptations are not real, but the pure figments of idle prisoners who ponder how they would behave in a given circumstance. Writing in the sixties, DaviSo analyzes minutely the thorny issues of a contemporary world of which he and his comrades had had no idea. Davico is a master of inner monologue and stream of consciousness; he tries to recreate all the possible motives and doubts of those who had been confined for their ideology, but who had remained adamant in their beliefs, sure that their cause must prevail.91 The case of Dorde Jovanovic (Belgrade, 1909-Kosmaj, 1943) is interesting and symptomatic. When he was twenty, together with Davi£o and Kostic, he joined the surrealist group, recognizing that he was most influenced by Ristic and Matic. Having published with his two colleagues several "automatic" poems (in Tragovi, 1928-29) which were coldly received, Jovanovic defended his absolute anarchist and individualist position; at that time he declared that he did not care if thousands of human beings were dying on this planet,92 for he was a sufficient burden to himself. Nevertheless, through surrealism Jovanovic became a communist and gradually one of the most outspoken protagonists of socialist realism. Even before his imprisonment he attacked the Serbian modernists and Ujevic simply because they did not accept the leftist cause as their political creed; he cited Krleza ("the most significant author since the times of Cyril and Methodius") as an encouraging example and concluded that "a collective and revolutionary optimism is the only possible attitude". 93 While in jail (1933-36, first in Mitrovica and then in 90

Palavestra, Odbrana kritike, pp. 198-207. A. Petrov, "Licnosti i problemi Davicove proze", in Savremenik, 1964, No. 5, pp. 496-510. 92 "Priznajem da me ni malo ne uzbuduju hiljade ljudi koji ovoga casa umiru rastureni po ovoj planeti" (in Ristic, Od istog pisca, Belgrade, 1957, p. 141). 98 Nadrealizam danas i ovde, No. 3 (June 1932), pp. 52-59. 91

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Lepoglava), he wrote a famous letter to Ristic (in July 1935) in which he proudly announced he was no longer a surrealist, for his comrades had convinced him to cut his "umbilical cord" to the petty bourgeoisie; he could not understand why Ristic wrote his questionable article (in Krleza's "abortive" periodical Danas) about the moral and social meaning of poetry; he praised Ristic only for his pamphlets and provincial skirmishes.94 From 1936 to 1941 Jovanovic wrote many studies and reviews of Serbian and European literature (they were usually published in Nasa stvarnost, and Pregled, Sarajevo). His work was published posthumously by Eli Finci (Studije i Kritike, 1949; Protiv obmana, 1951, with the editor's

appraisal).95 One readily agrees with Ristic who, while highly respecting the political convictions of Jovanovic, regrets that this talented man moved from anarchistic to tendentious literature.96 Jovanovic was a better and more penetrating critic when examining the Serbian literary past and its national significance than when combating his contemporary opponents. He was dissatisfied with Ivo Andric because this great writer had his own vision of Bosnia which did not correspond with "the Bosnian reality" as seen by Jovanovic. He exhibited this same one-sideness and lack of esthetic evaluation when he wrote about Vinaver, Drainac and Ujevic. He wrote a long article against André Gide (1940), from which it is palpably evident that he began to minimize the literary value of this "decadent" writer only after Gide had expressed himself negatively about the Soviet Union.97 94

Ristic, Istorija i poezija, pp. 171-72. "Kriticko delo Jovanovica", Protiv obmana, pp. vii-xxi. Zoran Gavrilovié's analysis (in Savremenik, 1956, No. 11, pp. 515-27) is based on esthetic considerations, though Gavrilovic would certainly today be even more negative about Jovanovic than he was in 1956. 86 Knjizevna politika, p. 263. " Misic had already pointed out that if Gide's political views had been identical to Jovanovic's, he would have continued to write panegyrics about Gide (in SKG, LIX, 1940, No. 4, p. 299). I should at least mention three men who played significant roles during the movement's turbulent years (1930-32). Koca Popovic (1908), who studied philosophy at the Sorbonne, was a Freudian, a surrealist theoretician and minor poet. He predicted that, should the surrealists fail to convince the dogmatists of the correctness of their views, they would be obliged to espouse leftist tenets even in literature (Nadrealizam danas i ovde, No. 2, p. 10). After 1932 Popovic abandoned literature and became actively involved in politics, first participating in the Spanish Civil War and then in the Yugoslav partisan resistance. Dorde Kostic (1909) studied in Paris, wrote automatic verses and questionable theoretical studies, and became a linguist; recently he has published poems which are totally incomprehensible. Vane Bor (pseudonym of Stevan Zivadinovic, 1908) studied in Paris and taught in Subotica; a Freudian and surrealist theoretician, he escaped during the war to England, where he writes on social and political subjects. 66

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III We have seen that the modernists and surrealists began their activity at the same time (1918-22) and in an identical frame of mind: they were outspoken anti-militarists, defeatists, by principle opposed to any established order; they contributed to the same periodicals (usually launched by themselves) and were linked by deep friendship and mutual admiration. Their misunderstanding began to develop in 1924. After 1929 it was clear that they no longer shared the same views. This differentiation among the Serbian writers reflected the situation in the world : the rise of Hitler and Mussolini and, on the other hand, the consolidation of the Soviet system forced the intellectuals to chose sides. In Belgrade there was an additional reason: the surrealists were generally enfants gâtés, children of rich families, and some were able to remain unemployed; they had places to live, families to support them and eventually to protect them. The modernists were not so fortunate: they were obliged to work; since all the better jobs were then (as they are now) controlled by the government, political opposition would have meant a hardship for which they were not ready. It was customary in Serbia (before 1914) and later in Yugoslavia that writers viewed favorably by the authorities were appointed as diplomatic representatives; competition was great and opportunities rather limited ; the Serbian modernists were lucky to belong to that Yugoslav nationality which enjoyed almost all privileges. The surrealists were a group of learned but noisy and boisterous youngsters. Though they spoke and wrote about self-criticism (autokritika), they would accept no critical appraisal of their slogans or works. We saw how Matic threatened the anonymous critic of Dedinac's poem. He was no exception. When Drainac wrote in the newspaper Pravda that the surrealists were going "downhill", 98 they attacked him physically and were proud of the deed. This did not frighten other modernists away from stressing the surrealists' showmanship, superficiality, inconsistency (some were disciples of Freud and Marx at the same time), rational "irrationality" and weak literary productions. Tin Ujevic, who had certain surrealist features, refused to join them, saying that they had not invented anything but had only succeeded in diluting and spoiling an ancient and rich patrimony." Vinaver ridiculed them as the knights of 98

Pravda, XXVI (1930), No. 289, p. 4. Nedjeljko Mihanovic wrote an excellent article about Ujevic and his relation with surrealism in general, Knjizevnik, N o . 19 (January 1961), pp. 29-37.

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the subconscious; Todor Manojlovic criticised them and Petrovic, in spite of friendly personal contacts, repudiated their views.100 In Nadrealizam danas i ovde (1932) the surrealists criticised not only modernists but also other writers (e.g. Sekulic and Andric) who did not accept the surrealist program. Their special target became Crnjanski: they could not understand why the most inspiring anti-militarist, a man who had sharply ridiculed the Serbian past and cared for neither god nor devil, did not join them; moreover, from 1932 he began his systematic campaign (in Vreme) against the leftist writers, denouncing them as agents of an international communist conspirary. Milan Bogdanovic (1893-1964), the most distinguished Serbian critic from the interwar period and the editor of the best Serbian literary journal, Srpski knjizevni glasnik, had switched then to the Marxist ideology. Crnjanski charged that as a member of the editorial board of Nolit (Nova literatura) he was responsible for spreading foreign leftist literature in translation among the masses. Bogdanovic answered in Politika and labelled Crnjanski a government agent; 101 former friends were publicly slapping each other, to the enjoyment of those who liked neither the leftists nor the royalists. In 1934 Crnjanski published (in Vreme) an article in which he regretted that the patriotic wars had been slandered; he said that he knew from experience that active participation in military skirmishes was "the highest and noblest moment in human existence".102 It was an easy task for Krleza to demonstrate that he was "spitting" on his own past and moving toward the i'ascist camp. In the weekly Ideje, which he launched after the assassination of the "gallant" King Alexander (Oct. 1934) in order to promulgate "the immortality" of the late dictator, Crnjanski attacked the Belgrade snobs (surrealists) who were flirting with communism; he wrote that Marx had published volumes to prove that "Moses" created Michelangelo, the Missa Solemnis composed Beethoven, Faust wrote Goethe, America discovered Columbus and powder invented the Chinese.103 In June 1935 Ideje ceased publication and Crnjanski went again to the fascist capitals, first to Berlin, then to Rome. In 1937 he was in Spain, from where he sent articles supporting the Falangists, but 100 Todor Manojlovic, Letopis Matice srpske, CV (1931), Nos. 1-2, pp. 160-62; Vinaver, Politika, 1931, No. 8315, p. 8; Petrovic, Vreme, XI (1931), No. 3340, p. 6. 101 About this controversy see Bogdanovic, Stari i novi, III (1949), pp. 159-72. 102 "Nema viseg momenta, nikada ga nije bilo, u ljudskom zivotu, od ucesca svesnog u bitki" (Krleza, "Crnjanski o ratu", Evropa danas, Zagreb, 1956, p. 209). 108 Ristii, Hacer Tiempo (Belgrade, 1964), p. 98.

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criticising Franco. In 1941 he was evacuated to London, where he remained during the war supporting the Chetnik movement. Nastasijevic died in 1938 and Drainac in 1943; Petrovic died in Washington in 1949. Vinaver espoused the partisan cause in the concentration camp. Thus, with the exception of Vinaver, who adapted himself well to the new circumstances, no former modernists remained in postwar Yugoslavia. The surrealists, on the contrary, had their heyday. Only Dorde Jovanovic (who was killed by the Chetniks in 1943) could not participate in the big feast. First, as communists they were now members of "the new class" ; second, all of them held important positions : Koôa Popovic was army chief of staff, later Minister of Foreign Affairs, and recently was promoted to the position of vice-president of Yugoslavia; Ristic was at first ambassador to Paris, later President of the Committee for Cultural Relations and then chairman of the Yugoslav Committee to Unesco; Matic was Rector of the Academy for Theatrical Art; Vuôo was for years all powerful in the Union of Yugoslav writers and movie production; Dedinac was Director of Dramatic Theater in Belgrade; DaviCo is now a member of the Central Committee and Parliament. This astonishing success can be explained both by the fact that the surrealists behaved as members of an organized clan and also that the socialist realists (their leftist opponents) either died in fighting the enemy (while some surrealists remained in Belgrade) or were less educated than the surrealists. The sensational expulsion of Tito from the Cominform (1948) and the subsequent liberalization of Yugoslav cultural life was a period in which the former surrealists (especially Ristic, Davico and Matic) became active as men of letters and exercised a positive impact not only in Serbia but also, to a certain extent, in the other Yugoslav republics.104 Their dominant status was understandable: they had proved to be devout and zealous Party members and had, at this specific moment, a valuable asset: they knew French literature well. While they were considered "safe guides" by the hierarchy, the younger writers respected their erudition and familiarity with the works of Lautréamont, Rimbaud, Apollinaire, Breton and Eluard. This was the time when the surrealists wrote again and with vehemence against the modernists; the dogmatic realists had been discredited and therefore ignored or disdained, but the modernists (though dead or in exile and their works hard to find) were a constant threat to surrealist 104

As regards the Croatian surrealists see Branimir Donat, "Neimenovana prisutnost", in Delo, 1967, No. 1, pp. 54-69.

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supremacy.105 Bogdanovic's idea, expressed in 1934, that the modernists had reached an impasse already in the twenties, was rehashed but this time with strong political emphasis. Marko Ristic wrote then with the certitude of a doctrinarian: first in Knjizevnost (1952) he accused the modernists (particularly Crnjanski) of betraying the true national aspirations,106 and then in his famous essay, entitled "Three Dead Poets",107 he proclaimed that Crnjanski, Petrovic and (pro-Soviet) Eluard were dead as writers. It is significant that this and similar diatribes were written at the moment when the Serbian modernists began to reappear in print. Though recently an issue of Delo (January, 1967) was published with an indicative title: "Surrealism Yesterday and Today", this movement nevertheless belongs to the past; as soon as its aged protagonists are gone, it will be objectively analyzed as a curious literary phenomenon which impeded the growth of its own progeny. A young Serbian critic, Sveta Lukic, affirms that surrealism played neither a decisive nor an important role, even when it was at the peak of its development.108 Lukic's drastic and cutting assertion was slightly improved by others who correctly said that during this postwar period, when they freed themselves from the bondage of abstract theories and gave full swing to their (not extraordinary) creative instincts, the surrealists produced better works and played a role which cannot be neglected.109 Now when literary standards are higher than a decade ago and also when nationalism has been revitalized, the public eagerly reads the modernists, who (in 1954) had been proclaimed "dead". Compared with their achievements in various literary genres, the surrealists have very little to their credit: Ristic's brilliant essays, Dedinac's poems and Davico's unique Hana. In the current Serbian anthologies of both prose and poetry and in surveys of literature between the two wars, the 106

Miodrag Protic, speaking in the name of his generation, writes that, during the postwar years, "Serbian modernist literature was proscribed. There was a veil of mystery about it; this was one of the reasons why it became forbidden fruit for us. We read these books with yellow covers with the feeling we were indulging in the sweetest sin" (Proslost i sadasnjost, Belgrade, 1960, p. 210). 106 His essays "O defetizmu i o nacionalizmu" were reprinted in Hacer Tiempo, pp. 65-127. 10 ' "Tri mrtva pesnika", in Rod, CCCI (1954), pp. 245-316. 108 "Beogradski nadrealizam nije imao nikakvu markantniju, a kamo li presudnu knjiievnu i kulturnu ulogu u vreme svoga nastanka", in Delo, 1965, Nos. 8-9, p. 1071. 108 M. Pavlovic said that Lukic "sasvim drukdije je tretirao pripadnike nadrealistickog pokreta, pisce, kad je rec o tome sta su kasnije radili, sta je svaki od njih kasnije kao pisac ostvario" (Delo, 1965, No. 11, p. 1483).

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modernists are placed on the pinnacle. Thus their literary significance is recognized; very few, however, share their political views. INDIANA UNIVERSITY

MODERNISTI I NADREALISTI U SRPSKOJ KNJIZEVNOSTI Jedan od najzanimljivijih perioda srpske knjizevnosti je onaj izmedu dva rata. Ne samo sto su se tada pojavili znaéajni pisci, vec su i knjizevne struje jasnije formulirane i u suglasju sa tadanjim evropskim stremljenjima. U mom referatu bavim se iskljuóivo modernistima i nadrealistima te njihovim borbama i ostvarenjima. Jedni i drugi su se nakon 1918. vecinom vratili iz Francuske, gdje su proveli ratne godine kao izbjeglice. Ispoéetka suraduju zajedno (Putevi, Svedocanstva), ali vec tamo od 1924. neki od njih (Ristic) se priblizuju francuskim nadrealistima, dok drugi ostaju po strani. Nekako oko 1929, u doba proglasenja diktature kralja Aleksandra, nadrealisti sve vise usvajaju ljeviSarsku ideologiju dok modernisti, uglavnom u diplomatskoj sluzbi, ostaju uz kralja te njihov voda (Crnjanski) se stavlja na stranu fasistickih rezima. Oko 1931-32. nadrealisti su vrlo aktivni ali pogotovu na propagandnom podruSju (Nadrealizam dañas i ovdé). Njihova Sisto knjizevna ostvarenja se mogu izbrojiti na prstima jedne ruke (Dedinac i DaviSo kao pjesnici, a Ristic kao esejist). Modernisti nasuprot su medu najvaznijim imenima srpske meduratne knjizevnosti (Crnjanski, Petrovic, Vinaver, Drainac i Nastasijevic). Iako mnogi od nadrealista nisu sudjelovali na strani partizana (Vuòo, Matic i Ristic), ipak poslije 1945. kao predratni komunisti zauzimaju uplivne politiéke i kulturne polozaje, a jedan od njihovih (Popovic) postaje najprije ministar vojske a kasnije inostranih poslova. Nakon 1948, kad su odstranjeni Stalinisti i Zdanovci (Zogovic i drugovi) te se Jugoslavia ponovno donekle priblizila Zapadu, bivsi nadrealisti igraju vrlo pozitivan utjecaj na mnoge mlade srpske pisce i kritiòare (Popa, Misic). Na pocetku 1955. oni pokrecu éasopis Délo koji ce mnogo godina biti u otvorenom sukobu sa konservativnim i dogmatiénim Savremenikom. I na knjizevnom polju neki od njih (Matic, VuSo) daju bolja djela nego sto su bila ona u predratnim godinama. Iako je vecina modernista mrtva ili u tudini, mladi pisci oko 1960. se

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okrecu prema njima. Povratak Crnjanskoga (1965) je proslavljen kao velika pobjeda onih koji s pravom smatraju da predratne "politiöke zasluge" ne smiju biti odluöne za ocjenu pisaca vec samo njihova knjizevna djela. Modernisti su dañas opcenito prihvaceni kao vodece licnosti srpske knjizevnosti i kao veliki uzor na kojem se inspirira sadasnje pokoljenje srpskih pisaca.

PHILOSOPHY AND ARTISTIC DEVICES IN THE HISTORICAL FICTION OF L. N. TOLSTOJ AND M. A. ALDANOV

C. NICHOLAS LEE

In his sixteen novels and symbolical tales treating events from 1762 to 1953, M. A. Aldanov continues in émigré literature the tradition of the historical novel as exemplified in War and Peace. Aldanov's statements on this question are unequivocal: "The divine nature of Tolstoj's genius for me is more than an ordinary literary metaphor." 1 " War and Peace is the greatest work of world literature; this book is perfection."2 "Tolstoj's artistic devices are an eternal achievement of art which every historical novelist must master." 3 But, he adds immediately, "the use of these devices ... of course, does not indicate imitation: an author's individuality is defined by whether he brings something of his own into the form and content of what he writes."4 A closer study of what Aldanov brought "of his own" to the genre where his literary idol achieved his greatest success reveals a number of paradoxes and suggests the hypothesis that if Tolstoj, as Sir Isaiah Berlin proposes, is actually a fox ultimately unsuccessful in his efforts to become a hedgehog,5 then Aldanov may be considered conversely as a hedgehog by conviction who ends up as a fox in spite of himself. At the outset a few general considerations are in order to provide a theoretical background for discussion of what Tolstoj and Aldanov wished to express in the framework of the historical novel form. What distinguishes an historical novel from an ordinary novel? Mirskij declares that "Anna Karenina is in all essentials a continuation of War 1

M. A. Aldanov, Zagadka Tolstogo (Berlin, 1923), 61. M. A. Aldanov, "Posmertnye proizvedenija Tolstogo", Sovremennye zapiski, XXIII (1926), 432. 8 Review of Egerija by P. Muratov, Sovremennye zapiski, XV (1923), 404. 4 Ibid., 404-405. 5 Isaiah Berlin, The Hedgehog and the Fox (New York, 1957), 11. 2

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and Peace. The methods of Tolstoj are the same in both." 6 John Buchan defines the historical novel as "simply a novel which attempts to reconstruct the life, and recapture the atmosphere, of an age other than that of the writer".7 Georg Lukacs insists that "An analysis of the works of the important realists will show that there is not a single, fundamental problem of structure, characterization, etc. in their historical novels which is lacking in their other novels, and vice versa. ... The classical historical novel arose out of the social novel and, having enriched and raised it to a higher level, passed back into it. The higher the level of both the historical and social novels in the classical period, the less there are really decisive differences of style between them." 8 Yet Ian Watts makes an important reservation: "Fiction dealing with times long past, the historical novel, has a special name, and is surely felt to be rather a special case, probably because we cannot be so sure of the reality of things which neither we nor the author have directly experienced."9 Then he proceeds to enumerate subclasses in this genre based on the relative importance of fictional vs. actual events and characters. Aldanov himself, having laconically summed up the art of the novel in Stendhal's terms of "action, character, and style",10 gives a more precise definition of historical fiction: "The art of the historical novelist amounts (in its first approximation) to the 'illumination of the interior' of the characters and their appropriate disposition in space — a disposition whereby they explain the period and it them." 11 Where does War and Peace, Tolstoj's one venture into the historical novel and the model Aldanov held up as an absolute measure of artistic excellence, fit into these general definitions? Lukacs sees it "in terms of the most general and ultimate creative principles ... a brilliant renewal and development"12 of the classical historical novel as it developed in the works of Sir Walter Scott from the English social novel of the eighteenth century. In the classical historical novel as a genre he discerns the following distinctive features: 1. A typical, "more or less mediocre" central fictional character as a • D. S. Mirsky, A History of Russian Literature from its Beginnings to 1900 (New York, 1958), 274. 7 Quoted in A. T. Sheppard, The Art and Practice of Historical Fiction (London, 1930), 19. 9 Georg Lukdcs, The Historical Novel, tr. Hannah and Stanley Mitchell (London, 1962), 242. • "Novel", Encyclopedia Britannica, XIV (Chicago, 1961), 571. 10 M. A. Aldanov, "O romane", Sovremennye zapiski, LII (1933), 436. 11 Review of Egerija, 404. 11 Georg Lukdcs, op. cit., 86.

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neutral medium for presenting the interplay of opposing social forces and a device for linking the fictional "below" of society with the historical "above". These two groups Lukics further defines in terms of Hegel's "maintaining individuals" and "world historical individuals". 2. A plot constructed to reveal the author's view of the past as a "broad prehistory" of the present. 3. A "popular" character. 4. Historical figures relegated to a minor, though important, compositional role, heightened by details which humanize them.13 However, Western critics tend to see War and Peace in a somewhat different perspective. Edwin Muir creates and elaborates a separate chronicle genre specifically to accommodate War and Peace, which he finds too vast to fit adequately into another classification.14 Struve also sees in War and Peace a "roman fleuve ... a genre in itself. While it is, of course, a historical novel, it is also something more than that — a vast epic of Russian life, a family chronicle, and a masterpiece of psychological analysis. What is more, this historical novel is eminently antihistorical in spirit, and sets out to shatter the traditional view of history."15 Aldanov asserts in his philosophical dialogue on chance in history that, "If only the historico-philosophical pages of War and Peace had remained, they would in no way have assured Tolstoj immortality."16 One of Aldanov's fictional characters wonders to what extent War and Peace may be considered an historical novel at all, since Tolstoj describes in it the activities of his father's generation.17 Contradictory as these judgments appear at first glance, War and Peace is enormous enough to reconcile them all. Its completion comes as the logical culmination of more than twenty years of literary activity by Tolstoj, starting from his earliest extant diaries. The family chronicle element, for which Childhood, Boyhood, and Youth served as preparations, supports the contention made by Luk&cs that the classical historical novel arises from the social novel and returns to it. This assertion is further corroborated by the fact that Tolstoj follows War and Peace with Anna Karenina. The psychological analysis mentioned by Struve not only adds depth and variety to the family chronicle, but also to historical portraits, thus producing the illusion of contemporaneousness discerned by Aldanov's fictional character through enhancing "the human and 18 14 16 18 17

Ibid., 33-57 and passim. Edwin Muir, The Structure of the Novel (London, 1949), 86-113. Gleb Struve, Soviet Russian Literature, 1917-1950 (Norman, 1951), 161-162. M. A. Aldanov, Ul'mskaja noc': filosofija sluiaja (New York, 1953), 99. See M. A. Aldanov, The Fifth Seal (New York, 1943), 85.

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universal as against the local and social"18 side of the characters. "A Raid", the Sevastopol sketches, and "A Wood Felling" lay the groundwork for the presentation in the novel of the national epic in its military aspect. "The Memoirs of a Billiard Marker" and "The Morning of a Landed Proprietor", by dramatizing the self-analysis of Tolstoj's young years, ultimately serve further to enhance the rendering of the moral crises in the fictional part of the novel. The epic mass canvases of War and Peace, juxtaposed with the minute analysis of "atoms" of experience19 in isolated characters, mark the final integration of two conflicting tendencies in Tolstoj's literary transformation of the exterior world, observable in his earliest sketches. These tendencies, which he calls generalizacija and melocnost', and which Ejxenbaum defines as obobscenie and miniatjurizm20 may be viewed as paralleling on the objective plane the fundamental, never completely resolved tension between his "conscience" and his "nature" on the subjective level, clearly observable even in the early diaries.21 Tolstoj records his observations with the clarity and precision of a miniature and enjoys studying material as well as psychological infinitessimals. Yet his organizing reason, not content to stop at simple observation, must classify every phenomenon and relate it to a universally valid generalization. Why does this generalization have a specifically historical character in War and Peace, but nowhere else in Tolstoj's fiction? The answer lies partly in the polemical orientation of the historical argumentation, partly in the ethical problems prompting the theoretical considerations, which relate War and Peace thematically to the main body of Tolstoj's writing and thinking. In Lev Tolstoj: 50-ye gody Ejxenbaum gives detailed and convincing documentation for the assumption of a polemical bias behind such stories of the 1850's as "Albert", "Two Hussars", "Lucerne", "Three Deaths", and "Family Happiness". These stories were obviously written in part as a challenge to the intelligentsia literati of both parties and capitals who first impressed and then infuriated Tolstoj on his return from the army in 1856. Sir Isaiah Berlin supports this view: in his opinion Tolstoj gives War and Peace a historico-philosophical dimension to subordinate the accidental detail of human destiny to a transcendental historical generalization, and in so doing to defeat his idealist contemporaries on their own terms. His diaries and letters attest to the central importance he attaches to the 18 19 20 21

Mirsky, op. cit., 264. Ibid., 263. B. Ejxenbaum, Molodoj Tolstoj (Petrograd-Berlin, 1922), 39. Ibid., 28.

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problem of historical truth in the general conception of the novel. But his concern with history derives not so much from his interest in the past as such as from the desire to penetrate to first causes. His concrete, skeptical mind, so vividly shown in his diaries, seeks the answer to fundamental, specific ethical problems of behavior through the study of history considered as the sum of empirically discoverable data. His solutions he offers as a challenge and refutation of the Hegelian philosophy fashionable during this period of his development.22 Juxtaposing the "private", "inner" life of individuals with the "public", "political" life of society,23 he constructs a paradoxical theory which rejects the influence of Hegel's "world-historic individuals" in favor of the "maintaining individuals" as the dominant force in the historical process. Lukács defines this theory thus: War and Peace shows that those who, despite great events in the forefront of history, go on living their normal, private, and egoistic lives, are really furthering the true (unconscious, unknown) development, while the consciously acting 'heroes' of history are ludicrous and harmful puppets. ... The individual lives of the characters unfold with a richness and liveliness scarcely equalled before in world literature. But while they are aroused, while their sympathies may be excited by the events in the foreground, they are never wholly absorbed by these events.24 Not merely the theoretical expression of these paradoxical insights, given in lengthy polemical digressions and presented characteristically not as a conviction but as an absolute and irrefutable law,25 but also the fictional illustration of the theory presented in the figure of Platón Karataev, are frequently regarded as the weakest elements of the whole novel.26 To summarize, classifying Tolstoj as an historical novelist involves the following important reservations: 1. War and Peace is a genre per se — it combines a family chronicle, a social novel of psychological analysis, war reportage, and a national epic into the frame of the historical novel as ordinarily conceived. 2. Tolstoj began his first and only major venture into the field of historical fiction more than a decade after his formal literary debut, and only after having worked out gradually, by a process of trial and error, his treatment of the genres which mingle in War and Peace. He passed "

28 24 25 26

Berlin, op. tit., 18-23, passim. Ibid., 28, 47. Georg Lukács, op. cit., 86-87. B. Ejxenbaum, Lev Tolstoj v 50-ye gody (Leningrad, 1928), 331. Mirsky, op. tit., 273.

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into the historical novel from fiction with a contemporary setting and returned again afterward to this genre. 3. The historico-philosophical chapters in the novel constitute a polemical, theoretical foreign body formally dissociable from the fictional and historical action. 4. History in War and Peace is used to prove an essentially personal, although universally applicable, ethical system, even though this proof more than once involves "falsification of historical detail ... apparently with deliberate intent ... perpetrated, it seems, in the interests not so much of an artistic as an 'ideological' purpose". 27 5. There is an indubitable inner logic in the fact that Tolstoj's "violently unhistorical, and indeed anti-historical rejection of all efforts to explain or justify human action or character in terms of social or individual growth or 'roots' in the past" 28 should produce a philosophy glorifying "nature and life at the expense of the sophistications of reason and civilization". But, as Mirskij further notes, "It is the surrender of the rationalist Tolstoj to the irrational forces of existence",29 and as such does not survive the religious crisis culminating in A Confession. Thus, the theoretical side of War and Peace, though viewed as crucial by Tolstoj himself, turns out to be ultimately an historical pretext for the dogmatic statement of an ethical system which serves as no more than a way station on the continuing path of Tolstoj's search for a moral justification of life. No critic has analyzed the basic contradictions of Tolstoj's character more penetratingly than Aldanov himself. Despite the tone of reverential respect in his remarks, the keen critical judgments he makes of his literary idol not only prove that his admiration was by no means unreserved, but also help identify him as an original writer and independent thinker. In the section of the "Dialogue on Chance in History" dealing with the War of 1812,30 Aldanov discusses in detail a few of the "extremely rare mistakes" in the historical section of War and Peace and mentions the "premeditation" shown by Tolstoj in depicting Kutuzov. 31 Elsewhere he asserts that Tolstoj overstepped the bounds of an historical novelist32 and suggests that the occasional "tiny blunders" in War and Peace come from his attempts to subject life to his philosophy, so that he fell into 27

28 29

80

81 82

Berlin, op. tit., 15.

Ibid., 19.

Mirsky, op. cit., 272.

Ul'mskaja noc\ 85-122.

Ibid., 94. Ibid., 95, 100.

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contradiction with himself.33 Tolstoj despised Napoleon not just as the negation of his ethical system, but also as a threat to his philosophy ol history, in Aldanov's opinion.34 Finally, Aldanov notes, "Tolstoj's artistic instinct dictated to him very precisely just what limits he had to take for the triumph of his philosophical-historical teaching. He managed without the terror of the French Revolution, without the reign of Paul with its frightful end, without the period of Arakcheev, without Nicholas I." 35 Elsewhere Aldanov devotes an entire critical monograph to consideration of the riddle of Tolstoj, proceeding from the proposition that his books are "more intelligent and profound than we, and even than their author". Tolstoj's inconsistency in using a mentality steeped "in the spirit of empirical inquiry which animated the great anti-theological and anti-metaphysical thinkers of the eighteenth century",36 to arrive by the end of War and Peace at a historical philosophy of passive optimistic determinism based on an intuitive faith in the goodness of things37 — Aldanov states this in reverse and applies it to a number of his most significant works. Thus, for him the riddle of Tolstoj exists because he uses his "universally anarchistic intelligence" for subjecting the illogical stuff of life to rationally deduced moral generalizations. Aldanov sees the basic flaw in Tolstoj's reasoning in the fact that moral perfection, far from being something objectively given, is senseless dissociated from outer forms, and nobody can easily agree on outer forms. Therefore Tolstoj the artist constantly makes affirmations contradicting Tolstoj the moralist. He can defeat science, but only sub specie aeterni, and his victory is Pyrrhic, since he can offer nothing more durable in its place, and having defeated it, has also defeated himself, because his contradictory answers weaken the reasoning of his essentially destructive intellect. Aldanov insists that "Tolstoj saw better than anyone before or after him that ... life does not divide completely into any logical and moral dogmas, but is full of phenomena inaccessible to human understanding, that is, senseless." Thus, the fatalism which punishes the wicked in War and Peace spares them in Anna Karenina-, Anna is punished for throwing off the bonds of wedlock, while the Pozdnysevs in The Kreutzer Sonata are punished for taking them on; Ivan II'ic, reconciled to God at the last minute, dies abjectly, while Hadji Murad, completely unaware of a > 84 86 36

"

Ibid., 100-101. Ibid., 103. Ibid., 107.

Berlin, op. cit., 19-20. See Mirsky, op. cit., 272.

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God, dies heroically. Aldanov sees Tolstoj's principle of non-resistance to evil by force as too easily equated with non-resistance to any evil at all. He further notes that Tolstoj has an attitude of "gay incredulity" to politics even in his youth and ignores them later in life because "The phantom of absolute truth is eternally before him", and adds, "This denied him access to the richest artistic themes."38 These remarks imply or state nearly all the essential differences between Tolstoj and Aldanov as historical novelists. Aldanov's scrupulous attitude to historical veracity even in fiction is partly explained by his extensive formal education: he completed the course of study at the University of Kiev in the faculties of jurisprudence and physics-mathematics, as well as the Ecole des sciences sociales in Paris. As Struve has remarked, "He is one of the most educated people among Russian émigré writers — in his writings a high culture is always felt."39 On the one hand, his scientific training has even given rise to the speculation that he chose a literary career only through force of circumstance, and that the excessive "scientificality" and "thoroughness" of his fiction alienated some of his readers.40 On the other hand, the academic discipline of his extensive humanistic and scientific education leads Aldanov to a more reliable philosophical basis for his writing and thinking than he discerned in the autodidacte Tolstoj, for all the latter's genius and encyclopedic knowledge. Behind the admiration for Tolstoj's powerful intellect expressed in Aldanov's critical monograph lurks a note of disappointment that Tolstoyan doubt was not carried to its logical conclusion as an organizing principle for his art — Aldanov worships Tolstoj the doubter, but shakes his head in bewilderment at Tolstoj the affirmer. In Ul'mskaja noc.\ which serves as the philosophical commentary to his fiction, Aldanov formulates as his own organizing creative principle "l'état d'esprit cartésien", defined as "inquiring methodical doubt, boundless belief in reason, denial of all 'mysterious properties', the necessity to verify every proposition, the placing of the word 'ergo' in front of every seemingly sufficiently obvious 'sum', the striving toward a 'Mathématique universelle'".41 This attitude he considered equally applicable to literature and science, even going so far as to propose that artists and scientists change professions two or three times in a lifetime. "Scientific creation basically has a great deal in common with artistic creation ... in both 88

Zagadka Tolstogo, passim. *• Gleb Struve, Russkaja literatura v izgnanii (New York, 1956), 116. 40 L. Sabaneev, "M. A. Aldanov: k 75-letiju so dnja rozdenija", Novoe russkoe slovo, October 1, 1961. 41 Ul'mskaja noc\ 18.

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fields ... imagination and keenness of observation are equally essential."42 Aldanov approaches history not just as a scientist and artist, but also as a journalist. Attention has been called to his "zoological" curiosity for modern politics,43 as well as the "extra-polarity" which led him to seek out people unlike himself, in contrast to the "isolatedness" of Tolstoj. 44 These qualities, combined with his "complete impartiality in depicting historical and especially contemporary, still controversial events",45 help explain why Struve and certain other critics tentatively rank Aldanov's journalistic studies of historical and contemporary figures, assembled in five collections, even higher than his belles-lettres,46 The differences in temperament and education elaborated above account in large measure for many basic differences in the historical philosophy of Tolstoj and Aldanov. Armed with the tools of a trained physical and social scientist, possessed of a journalist's political curiosity, Aldanov proceeds to point out the inconsistencies between Tolstoj's reason and intuition, and then to draw practical consequences from them for his own art. While Tolstoj subordinates doubt to affirmation, Aldanov with true scientific impartiality gives his universal skepticism free rein. But all this does not happen in an abstract philosophical void. Aldanov objects to the philosophy of War and Peace not only because it cannot be universally applied, but more specifically because it provides him no help in living his own life. His philosophy develops not simply as a scholarly refutation of his master's illogic, but also on a concrete basis, as a system whereby he can adjust himself to his own difficult existence as an émigré. As Struve notes, Aldanov was virtually unknown as a writer before the emigration: in 1915 he published a monograph on Tolstoj and Romain Rolland, and in 1918 he had issued at his own expense in a limited edition an essay entitled "Armageddon", removed from the press by the Bolsheviks. "Aldanov as it were suddenly, at the age of 35, discovered in himself an historical novelist."47 As far as can now be attested, Aldanov prepared himself for the career of an historical novelist not in the manner of Tolstoj, by years of self-analysis in diaries and fictional exercises in shorter forms, but only through an exiguous «

Ibid., 222-223. Sabaneev, "Pamjati M. A. Aldanova: k 3-letiju so dnja konciny", Novoe russkoe slovo, February 28, 1960. 44 Sabaneev, "Ob Aldanove: k 2-letiju so dnja konciny", Novoe russkoe slovo, March 1, 1959. 45 Gleb Struve, Russkaja literatura v izgnanii, 27. " Ibid. The titles of the essay collections are given here. « Ibid., 115-116. 43

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body of non-bellettristic prose, including articles published in the shortlived émigré journal Grjaduscaja Rossija, which bear a striking similarity of tone and perspective with his early novels. In this connection there is reason to speculate that the exigencies of history determined not merely Aldanov's choice of the historical novel as a literary genre, but his very decision to pursue the career of a writer. The "sudden" appearance of Aldanov as a full-fledged historical novelist is inseparably linked with the October Revolution. In the words of one critic, "Who can fail to observe that Aldanov's novels are written around one basic theme, the theme of revolution?"48 His first literary cycle, entitled The Thinker in reference to its central philosophical symbol, the diable-penseur gargoyle on the tower of the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris, comprises four novels: St. Helena, Little Island (1921), The Ninth Thermidor (1921-22), The Devil's Bridge (1924-25), and Conspiracy (1926-27). As Mirskij observes, Aldanov "studies the past to understand the present, and his novels of the French Revolution must be read in terms of the Russian Revolution."49 Thus, at the beginning of his career at least, Aldanov's historical fiction, corresponding to the classical historical novel as defined by Lukâcs, views the past as the prehistory of the present, not as the key to the empirical deduction of a universal ethic, as in Tolstoj's case. Tolstoj's pet abomination, Napoleon, emerges as the central figure in Aldanov's first historical novel, St. Helena, Little Island, certainly not by accident. The emperor who undermined Tolstoj's philosophical theories serves not just as the prime example for Aldanov's rebuttal to the insistence on the puppetry of people in power, but also as a warning against the anarchy inherent in the doctrine of non-resistance to evil by force. Reviewing newly published letters of Napoleon in an article, Aldanov declares, "In present-day Europe only people who have lived through the Bolshevik Revolution can properly understand the French Revolution: we who have seen revolutionary chaos realize that Napoleon's order, no matter how bad, was better than chaos."50 Dying on St. Helena, Napoleon is made by Aldanov to speak these words : "I conquered the Revolution because I understood it. I took from it all that was of value, and strangled the rest. And mark, I did this without having recourse to terror ... Revolution is a terrible thing. ... After Waterloo I could have saved my throne if I had incited the poor 48

N. Ul'janov, "Ob istoriceskom romane", Novyj iurnal, XXXIV (1953), 132. D. S. Mirsky, Contemporary Russian Literature (New York, 1927), 302. M. A. Aldanov, "Novye pis'ma Napoleona", Sovremennye zapiski, LVIII (1935), 452. 49

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to rise against the rich. But I did not want to become the king of a jacquerie. ... Order is the greatest blessing of society." Napoleon significantly retains his stature as a champion of order, even without political liberty, through the whole body of Aldanov's fiction, despite its significant changes of perspective in other areas. He represents on the one hand Aldanov's empirical humanism — the novelist sees in the emperor a confirmation of his own belief in evolutionary progress within the framework of an established political order, no matter how imperfect, and his concomitant horror of revolutionary upheaval, with its accompanying senseless destruction. Pierre Lamort, the skeptical philosopher of the Thinker cycle, condemns revolutions for needlessly destroying both culture and human life, despite the vaunted purity of their aims: "The beauty of an ideal, in whose name my head will casually be chopped off, obstinately escapes me", he confesses. For Aldanov Napoleon represents not just a champion of political order, but an extraordinarily impressive example of the terrible power wielded by "world-historic individuals" over "maintaining individuals" in history. This view of the individual's role in the historical process directly contradicts Tolstoj's philosophy in War and Peace. Napoleon chose not to let loose a blood bath to regain power after Waterloo, but Aldanov implies he could have done so had he decided to. In the preface to Conspiracy, the last novel of the Thinker cycle, Aldanov states his views on the puppetry of power unequivocally: "The limitless power of the autocrat (Paul I) transformed his personal drama into a national tragedy." This attitude results in a psychological subordination of Aldanov's fictional characters to the historical figures who dispose of their destinies. He can reduce powerful historical figures to their common human denominator, and his consummate artistry in this respect has won him fame for his journalistic essays. But all his creative power cannot make his fictional everyday characters acquire the stature history automatically confers on those involved in making it. One critic describes in general terms the consequences Aldanov's views on the role of the individual in history have for his fictional figures: "It is impossible to exit from history or to escape it — most of his characters are history's victims. Thus their connection with historical events is more durable than in the case of Tolstoj: directly or indirectly they are subject to events."61 And yet even Napoleon, whom Aldanov recognizes as one of the greatest "world-historic individuals" who ever lived, says near the end of 61

Ju. Terap'jano, "Tvorcestvo M. A. Aldanova", Novoe russkoe slovo, May 16, 1957.

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St. Helena, Little Island, "I learned from experience how much the greatest events in the world depend on His Majesty Chance." This is the ultimate resolution of the inconsistency Aldanov sees in that part of Tolstoj's philosophy in War and Peace which deals with the relationship of historical causality to free will. To justify a sense of personal responsibility as a basis for human conduct, Tolstoj must reconcile his doctrine of free moral choice to the absolute historical determinism he posits. In his scheme of things, what appears to be chance is really nothing more than human ignorance of all causal links. While complete human knowledge in this area would put an end to free will, this theoretical threat is a practical impossibility, and thus need create no ethical concern.52 To these assumptions Aldanov applies his own philosophical corrective. He anticipates Berlin's assertion that "Tolstoj's notion of inexorable laws which work themselves out whatever men may wish or think is an oppressive myth; laws are only statistical probabilities, at least in the social sciences."53 In Ul'mskaja noc\ subtitled "The Philosophy of Chance", Aldanov discounts the possibility not simply of inexorable laws, but of anything more than "working hypotheses" arbitrarily chosen, in the physical as well as the social sciences.54 In the dialogue on chance in history he polemicizes brilliantly with Tolstoj on the question of historical determinism.55 Basically he argues that the impossibility of knowing the entire chain of causality confirms not just the existence, but the omnipotence of chance, and compels man to use his free will for combating chance in those areas of life where this is possible, for the sake of beauty and good.56 Such a harmonious resolution of the problem of history, conceived as fate and defined in terms of chance, comes only toward the end of Aldanov's career. At the outset it is expressed in much more poignant terms, again due to the interaction between Aldanov's study of Tolstoj and his own experience of life. "Mankind revolves between the poles of the Sermon on the Mount and Ecclesiastes", he declares,57 and the moral of St. Helena, Little Island comes indeed from the following words in Ecclesiastes: All things come alike to all: there is one event to the righteous and to the wicked. ... This is an evil among all things that are done under the sun, that 52 6! 64 56 69 67

Berlin, 44-54, passim. Ibid., 55. Ul'mskaja noc', 13-42. Ibid., 85-122. See "Dialog o 'krasote-dobre' i o bor'be so sluéaem", ibid., 187-228. Zagadka Tolstogo, 97.

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there is one event unto all; yea also the heart of the sons of men is full of evil, and madness is in their heart while they live, and after that they go to the dead... the race is not to the swift, neither yet bread to the wise, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet riches to the men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all. This quotation contains all the fundamental components of Aldanov's Weltanschauung, expressed in majestic universal terms: the omnipotence of chance, vanity of vanities, seen historically as the irony of fate and psychologically as man's inherent evil, and finally time as the basic unifying element in human experience. Like Tolstoj, but in the opposite philosophical direction, Aldanov universalizes the data of his artistic observation. In the combination of la grande histoire and la petite histoire to present the past in terms relevant to current events, yet with scrupulous, "archaeological" accuracy, one critic discerns Aldanov's ultimate concern with "a certain basic element of human existence, at all times and in all places accompanying man in his global wanderings: specifically, the irony of fate". 68 Struve sees as the general theme of Aldanov's whole vast fictional complex "the stirring bond of time", mentioned by Aldanov himself in the introduction to his symbolical tale The Tenth Symphony.™ Aldanov thus enters the arena of belles-lettres in full battle array, armed not only against his literary idol but also against history itself, with a philosophy nihilistic and comprehensive enough to prepare him for any and all chance eventualities. The bond of time becomes stirring in his presentation because it has a compelling relevance on the relative and absolute plane. The October Revolution, bringing the end of the life view which had shaped the Russian emigration, Aldanov viewed as a concrete example of the malevolent power of chance: in the preface to The Key in 1930, and through a fictional character in his last novel, Suicide, in 1956, he repeats the same basic conviction: "Our generation was only unfortunate." Sub specie aeterni, he sees revolutionary periods as especialh' fertile for the study of the "dark, terrible passions" Lamort observes slumbering in all men. This "dark world", in the words of another fictional character in The Key, comes to the surface at times of social upheaval, in both public and private life. Hence Aldanov's double attraction to periods of political unrest, as an historian-journalistphilosopher and as a novelist-psychologist. Aside from the Napoleonic period, represented in the Thinker cycle and also in the part of The Tenth " ••

A. Kizevetter, review of Cortov most, Sovremennye zapiski, XXVIII (1926), 478. Struve, Russkaja literatura v izgmnii, 268.

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Symphony dealing with the Vienna Congress, five other novels center around the October Revolution: The Key (1928-29), Escape (1930-31), The Cave (1932-35), and Suicide (1957) deal with Russia and Europe in the first quarter of the twentieth century, and Before the Deluge (1943-45) treats the events culminating in the assassination of Alexander II as the prehistory of this period. The symbolical tales (skazki) Punch Vodka (1938) and For Thee the Best (1939) touch the accession of Catherine II and the Greek uprising against the Turks which cost Byron his life. A Story about Death (1952-53) considers the French Revolution of 1848. The action of The Fifth Seal (1936-42) impinges on the Spanish Civil War, and the plot of Nightmare and Dawn (1955) relates to the 1953 Berlin uprising. Aldanov's insistence on viewing even current events from a historical perspective makes itself felt by the insertion in The Cave of a novella treating the Thirty Years War, the presence in Live as You Please (1952)60 of a play dealing with the abortive French nineteenth century Knights of Liberty uprising, and a novella featuring the eighteenth century Count St-Germain in Nightmare and Dawn. All these novels are united, not only by "a sort of unity of conception", but also more specifically by "several common characters (or their ancestors and descendants)" and "subtle and complex historico-psychological threads". Aldanov sums up the riddle of Tolstoj thus: "He was a man who, after a long life as a Hellene, became a Judean, a misanthrope in love with life, a rationalist who devoted a great deal of eifort to the criticism of impure reason, a genius born to be evil and who finally became inhumanly good."61 At the outset of his literary career Aldanov presents himself as a sort of purified Tolstoj, carried to his logical conclusions, unafraid of being guided completely by reason no matter where it might take him, and aware of the futility involved in trying to mitigate the senselessness and evil inherent in so many areas of life and human character. In these points Aldanov sets out, if not to correct his master, at least to prove his own independence. Both men were to the same extent misanthropes in love with life. But a careful study of Aldanov's fiction in its entirety leads to the inescapable conclusion that his Cartesian methodical doubt takes him precisely from Ecclesiastes to the Sermon on the Mount, from a universal, monolithic, "Judean" misanthropy to an ever broadening "Hellenic" acceptance of life in the full variety of its manifestations. Thus his evolution ultimately leads him in an opposite direction from the path 60 Publication dates in all cases follow the chronology in Struve, ibid., 271, giving the date of first serial publication.

61

Ibid., 268-269.

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traveled by Tolstoj. Struve expresses this evolution in the following terms: "These novels are just as historico-philosophical as historicopsychological, and gradually history is even supplanted in them by psychology."62 The process of this displacement may be most immediately observed in the way Aldanov varied the weight assigned proportionally to la petite histoire and la grande histoire from one novel to the next. In linking the "above" and the "below" in society, Aldanov follows the same technique for depicting the "private" area of human activity as Tolstoj: the "miniature art" Aldanov praises in the introduction to The Tenth Symphony corresponds to the melocnost' Tostoj mentions in his diaries and practices in his psychological analysis. It is significant, however, that the form and character in which Aldanov presents the "generalization" in his novels shows a considerable variation, revealing for the consideration of his artistic development. Critical strictures on the generalizing tendencies in both Tolstoj and Aldanov reveal a basic philosophical and didactic concern common to both. Defending the historico-philosophical section of War and Peace, Mirskij declares, "It is an essential of Tolstoj's art to be not only art, but knowledge. And to the vast canvas of the great novel the theoretical chapters add a perspective and an intellectual atmosphere one cannot wish away."63 The same artistic intention on Aldanov's part prompts Struve to remark that in his books "tedious and uninteresting spots are not infrequent". 64 Both historical novelists, having viewed life from the perspective of la petite histoire, feel compelled to synthesize and interpret it from their own standpoint. Never, however, does Aldanov adopt for his generalizations the polemical, rhetorical tone of Tolstoj in War and Peace. In St. Helena, Little Island there are virtually no fictional characters, and the fictionalized minor characters are simply juxtaposed to Napoleon, who through his remarks acts as the chief porte-parole for the author's historical and philosophical generalizations. Evidence indicates that Aldanov had not planned a historical cycle when St. Helena, Little Island was written, so that it differs considerably in construction from the remaining Thinker novels. In them the author has constructed a sort of Bildungsroman cum conte philosophique: he turns loose Staal', a young Russian Candide, in the turbulent Europe of the turn of the nineteenth century, and assigns him as Mentor a mysterious skeptical 42

Ibid., 118. •* D . S. Mirsky, History of Russian Literature, 273. 61 Struve, Russkaja literatura v izgnanii, 271.

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philosopher with the symbolic pseudonym of Lamort, to cross his path and disabuse him of illusions from time to time as the exigencies of the plot require. The young man, aside from his function as one of Aldanov's fictional figures, "introduced as essential screws, without which the whole mechanism would not function", 65 has further interest for another reason. Not simply a philosophical foil for the old man, he appears to be Aldanov's version of the prototype to Nikolaj Rostov in War and Peace. At any rate, he corresponds perfectly to an early, subsequently modified, character sketch for Nikolaj Rostov, mentioned by Aldanov in an article on Tolstoj's posthumous works.68 His limited intelligence and lack of imagination qualify him just as well as Nikolaj Rostov for duty as a "making-it-strange" device. But Tolstoj's young scion of a noble family can return home from the war to an adoring family and material security, while his enthusiastic ideals support him even in the time of the battle. Staal', however, is the orphaned ward of a Russian nobleman, lacking any moral, financial, and family buttress to fall back on. He resembles the majority of Aldanov's fictional characters, cast adrift to find their way essentially alone amid a welter of jumbled values and circumstances. This "isolationist" tendency in characterization illuminates several philosophical and artistic constants in Aldanov. He admires War and Peace, but how is one to manage without the consolations of a family, financial well-being, or a sense of identity with class or country? Aldanov was himself deprived by the emigration of an "organic"67 relationship with the environment which formed him, was married but childless, and had a thorough acquaintance with the material hardships which plagued all émigrés. At any rate, although family groupings do occur in his fiction, they are never large, and nowhere do they play the dominant structural and psychological role they assume in War and Peace. The circumstances of Aldanov's life, combined with a probable disinclination to write about what he had not himself experienced, doubtless explains the absence in his works of the military element and the mass scenes that lend an epic dimension to War and Peace. In the Thinker novels Staal' does not represent any hope for the future — the story simply follows his development from a naive, colorless youth to a cynical, shady adventurer. The chief witness to his "conversion" is a Platon Karataev turned inside out, Pierre Lamort. The old man bears 96

Ibid., 270. M. A. Aldanov, "Posmertnye proizvedenija Tolstogo", Sovremennye zapiski, XXIII (1926), 435. e? Two of Aldanov's fictional characters reflect on the crucial importance of this factor in happiness : young Vitja Jacenko in Escape and Murav'ev in Before the Deluge. 66

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certain attributes which reappear in hosts of variations throughout Aldanov's fiction. He complements Staal', whom Aldanov finally deprives of everything but youth and hope. Lamort has not even these. He begins a long line of fictional characters who must face life without a single prop or consolation. Past their youth, as often as not unmarried, and frequently childless even if married, they are unwell and weary of life. It is these figures that in the early novels bear the historicophilosophical weight assigned to the theoretical chapters of War and Peace. Aldanov characterizes them as real people, and in them he tries to dramatize his generalizations, but he is hard put to make them convincing psychologically. They seem to experience a sort of metaphysical embarrassment when they try to step off their philosophical pedestals and participate in the action. In this sense, Lamort emerges as perhaps the most successful example of this type, since he represents, in his words, "an idea in the pure state", and does not even try to be a person in his own right. Aldanov assigns him an intellectual counterfoil in the gloomy Mason mystic Barataev, but this opponent, who is hardly allowed to get a word in edgewise, proves no match for him. Nothing daunted, Aldanov continues his philosophical dialogue88 in the October Revolution trilogy. The skeptic, here a degenerate chemist with dilettantish radical tendencies named Braun, is not quite such a nihilistic monolith as Lamort, and he listens patiently to his opposite number Fedos'ev, the chief of the czarist Secret Police. But the impression persists that these two "antagonists", as before, simply utter different shadings of the same thought. In the symbolical tales the generalization, due to the brevity of the form, appears in a new guise — it is summarized briefly at the outset. It appears in the introduction to The Tenth Symphony, alluding to the irony of fate, and in the subtitles to Punch Vodka, "a tale about all five happinesses", and For Thee the Best, "a tale about wisdom". From this point there sets in a noticeable decline in the importance of the skeptic as a generalizing device. While Aldanov tries to humanize Braun by involving him in melodramatic action, the skeptical French novelist Vermandois of The Fifth Seal, though still significant enough to interfere with the balance of the story, nonetheless gains in psychological interest by being viewed with a tinge of indulgent irony. Nightmare and Dawn completely lacks a fictional generalizer. He returns, however, in a multiple incarnation, in Live as You Please, with such disastrous results that Aldanov drastically de-emphasizes him in subsequent novels. In •8 This form doubtless finds its most satisfactory expression in the consciously stylized

framework of Ul'mskaja noc'.

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Before the Deluge, A Story about Death, and Suicide, the omniscient author-journalist-commentator assumes the responsibility for giving a general interpretation of the entire action, by means of historical essays inserted as separate entities in the fabric of the fictional episodes. At the same time, invented and historical characters alike continue expressing important but isolated insights. In A Story about Death the fictional skeptic returns again to the forefront, seen for the first time with all his human pettiness in the form of the agronomist Lejden. With him Aldanov achieves his greatest success in dramatizing ideas by simply placing him in a prosaic family frame and emphasizing in his character such unheroic human constants as hypochondria and selfishness. In Suicide, the skeptic finishes ignobly as a pretentious nonentity, the selfish, unsuccessful chemist Reixel', hiding his disappointment at his failures in life behind a mask of shallow cynicism. Zagadka Tolstogo contains a statement in which Aldanov defines the difference between optimism and pessimism as a matter of physiology.69 By nature a pessimist himself, he nonetheless gives his optimists more and more place as his interest in psychology apart from history deepens. In the Thinker novels fictional characters exist chiefly as foils for historical figures and as a "private" reductio ad absurdum of Aldanov's "vanity of vanities" thesis. However, even these novels include, in peripheral roles, life affirmers of three general types, which receive more extensive development in later works: 1. Some are simply too young to know any better. In the Thinker novels this type is represented by Staal' and the serf actress-concubine Nasten'ka. The October Revolution cycle presents a whole circle of young people grouped round the beautiful, gifted neurasthenic Musja, a sort of Natasa Rostova gone wrong. Aldanov invariably leaves them sadder and wiser after the blows life deals them. Gradually old people displace young people in the novels, but Lilja and Jan in A Story about Death represent memorable incarnations of this type in the author's later work. 2. Others adapt to the inconsistencies of life with conscious or unconscious cynicism. Outstanding exponents of this more or less philistine philosophy are IvanSuk, the young bureaucrat of the Thinker novels; the lawyer Kremeneckij of the October Revolution trilogy; the academician Cernjakov in Before the Deluge; Pevzner and Max in Live as You Please; Tjaten'ka in A Story about Death; and the mechanical plot unifiers of the symbolical tales. •» Zagadka Tolstogo, 67.

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3. The last group includes various mutations of the honnête homme. As M. Beauregard in The Ninth Thermidor he still has misty illusions, but starting with Talyzin and Panin in Conspiracy, continuing with the elder Jacenko in the October Revolution cycle, through Razumovskij in The Tenth Symphony, Lomonosov in Punch Vodka, Tamarin in The Fifth Seal, Murav'ev in Before the Deluge, the American colonel in Nightmare and Dawn, Ferguson in Live as You Please, Arago in A Story about Death, and ending with Lastoôkin, Tonysev and Dzambul in Suicide, he emerges clear-eyed and sober, fully realizing the illusory fragility of human happiness, yet still in love with life and determined to live it honestly. This varied assortment of life affirmers, asserting their rights more insistently in each new Aldanov book, crowds out his monolithic pessimism with an ever increasing number of antidotes, each perfectly attuned to their own individual psychology. The first to put a deep theoretical crack in the solid ice of Aldanov's philosophy is the French miniaturist Isabey of The Tenth Symphony, who introduces the notion of indulgence for human frailty as the cure for universal misanthropy. This notion, of crucial importance for the study of Aldanov's artistic development, assumes a steadily growing importance, implicitly or explicitly, in his later works. Though Wislicenus, the romantic spy of The Fifth Seal, is liquidated by Aldanov on the brink of realizing his happiness, he is allowed to formulate a very clear definition of it, which for the first time in his writings the author does not refute. Before the Deluge introduces in Mamontov a central figure with all the attributes of the ultra-rationalist composite Nexljudov Aldanov distils from his various manifestations in Tolstoj.70 He embodies his creator's first attempt to assert the equal rights of fictional figures to stand beside the historical characters who determine their destinies. After years of furious and futile search for the meaning of life, Mamontov finally retires to his estate, marries, and in a setting suspiciously reminiscent of the conclusion to War and Peace, attains, if not happiness — that is impossible as long as illness and death exist, he insists — at least "the asymptote of happiness". In Nightmare and Dawn Aldanov at last dares to attach the label of "happiness" to the final fate of the central character, an international spy who is permitted to retire to a comfortable bourgeois existence and marry an attractive, earnest student of philosophy. Live as You Please treats the theme of indulgence more specifically than happiness, but its three most ideologically significant characters are 70

Ibid., 80-82 and passim.

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content to make their peace with life and give it meaning by serving various manifestations of the Beauty-Good principle set up as an ideal in UVmskaja noc\ A Story about Death basically investigates what it is that makes life worth living, and comes to the conclusion, astonishing from the viewpoint of the early Aldanov, that people can with satisfaction and pride take leave of a life filled with pure romantic love, conjugal devotion, or service to an upright literary, scientific, or political ideal. The principal skeptic of the story, having lost his wife, decides that "private" human love is eternal, and works out a system of "limited immortality", whereby he can remain with her in spirit for the rest of his earthly life. Most astonishing of all, the devoted married couple at the center of the action in Suicide, before their double suicide, affirm to each other their belief in an eternal life. And in the words of another character of this novel, a terrorist who finally settles down to the life of a landowner, Aldanov solves the problem of evil in the following manner: "How can you make people over? All you can do is try to live 'righteously' yourself, as far as possible." The preceding examples suffice to show that in a certain sense Aldanov's final philosophical position negates his initial one. Yet this is only superficially true. The change in his thinking does not come abruptly, like a Tolstoyan crisis, and it does not involve any recantation of former beliefs, but develops logically from his consistent posture of Cartesian skepticism. Starting from a stance of complete disbelief, Aldanov develops very slowly, only after cautious and thorough observation, to a more positive life view. The possibility for such a gradual philosophical shift is inherent in the basic conservatism of his original position and his scrupulous objectivity. Possibly the most fundamental difference between the two historical novelists, who are very similar in so many ways, lies in their temperaments. Tolstoj is as radical, anarchical and obstinate as Aldanov is conservative, constructive and reasonable. Tolstoj affirms fundamentally irrational values even when they contradict the observations of his essentially rational, doubting temperament. Aldanov, impartial for all his devotion to the principle of methodical doubt, arrives by means of this organizing principle at a number of fundamentally irrational affirmations. UNIVERSITY OF COLORADO

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OREST SOMOV AND THE ILLUSION OF REALITY

JOHN MERSEREAU, JR.

I

The purpose of this study is to characterize the fiction of Orest Somov and to show in what ways his prose art generates illusions of reality both through inherent qualities which facilitate the representation of "things as they are" and through specific techniques generally associated with literary Realism of the nineteenth century. Any discussion of this sort immediately involves the "problem" terms realism [realizm] and Realism [Realizm]. The potentiality for individual interpretation of the word realism has been systematically analyzed by Roman Jakobson in his "O xudozestvennom realizme", in which he demonstrates that the concept of realism in literature varies from writer to writer, reader to reader, and period to period.1 Realism with a capital "R", in the sense of a system of norms developing out of and after Romanticism (another problem term), is less ambiguous than its uncapitalized counterpart, although here again one finds abundant evidence of conflicting definitions.2 But if realism is a concept idiosyncratically defined by every author and reader, and Realism is a term loosely applied to a vaguely limited period when certain norms prevailed as common denominators of much of the literature produced at the time, the illusion of reality [illjuzija dejstvitel'nosti] is a timeless quality associated with particular mental 1 Michigan Slavic Materials, No. 2, 30-36. His point is well illustrated by a comparison of Auerbach's criteria for realism with those of Lukdcs, the former connecting realism with the depiction of man in crisis, the latter asserting that realism is fulfilled only by the revelation of types which are the product of their total environment, economic and intellectual. See E. Auerbach, Mimesis (Berne, 1946) and G. Lukdcs, Studies in European Realism (New York, 1964). 2 Auerbach credits Stendhal as the father of nineteenth century Realism, Luk&cs favors Balzac. Others have sought to establish Pushkin's paternity.

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states generated in readers through contact with literary material. One's age and sophistication are most important. A child reading a fairy tale may believe in the reality of the wicked witch; a few years later the same story will produce only boredom. As we age individually, our susceptibility changes, and what seemed real to us as children becomes artificial or fanciful to us as adults. The same applies to different generations: literature which was intensely "real" to our forebears seems trite and remains incapable of producing credence: today no one weeps over the fate of Clarissa Harlowe or Poor Liza — at least not adults. But the question arises: why is it, notwithstanding these differentials of perception, that certain works have an apparently immanent capacity to generate illusions of reality for most mature readers? Auerbach has studied this problem in Mimesis, and he has demonstrated that even works from the Classical Age contain passages which seem to provide the reader with a window onto the reality of the ancient world. I am not speaking now of such matters as, for example, the presence of petty or unessential details [melkie ili nesuscestvennye podrobnosti]; as Jakobson has shown, although the presence of such details may be de rigueur from the point of view of conservative realists of the later nineteenth century, they may also be regarded as reality-destroying for progressive realists of the same period. And their presence — had they appeared — would have been totally incomprehensible, and hence unreal, for readers of the late eighteenth century. Rather, what I have in mind are those immanent or inherent qualities whose presence, irrespective of contemporary norms, functions to strengthen the illusion of reality which may arise at the time of a reader's contact with literary material embodying these qualities. Among such invariants, if one may use the term, would be impersonality of narration, that is, the apparent absence of the author from his work. This does not mean to say that an illusion of reality is impossible if the authorial presence is evident, but it is certainly less likely if that be the case: the reality of Tristram Shandy is Laurence Sterne, not Uncle Toby or Tristram's birth. Plausibility and probability are other such immanent qualities; if the protagonist's pet dog suddenly starts talking, most readers will find their illusions of reality shattered. I accept in principle Jakobson's postulation that realism in literature is a relative quality which varies from writer to writer, reader to reader, period to period. However, it will hardly be denied that for the majority of naive readers much literature of the second half of the nineteenth century was, and has remained, capable of inspiring illusions of reality. The illusion of reality is not, and was not, exclusive to that period, but

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undeniably it was more pervasive, more universal, and more permanent in works of that period — the period of so-called Realism — than in the works of other periods. I mean that works of the second half of the nineteenth century present a greater density of productive devices for the creation of the illusion of reality than do works of preceding periods, and the cumulative effect of these devices is experienced by readers at any stage of their post-adolescent development, and that this experience is shared by succeeding generations of readers. Thus, Anna Karenina continues to create or generate within its readers an experience of reality similar to that which Tolstoj's contemporaries must have enjoyed. In France, Flaubert, employing his own art, also seemed to present a window or peep-hole into the life of Madame Bovary, and this window has continued to be available for subsequent generations of readers. Thus, our approach to the illusion of reality in Somov's works must follow two paths. We must identify those qualities or aspects of his works which stimulate the illusion of reality by their very essence, that is, the immanent features, which we might call the invariants of literary realism. At the same time we must find those qualities which enhance the illusion of reality because of their similarity to or identity with the norms of canonical nineteenth-century Realism.3 II Anna Myskovskaja, in Literaturnye problemy puskinskoj pory, says that the sun of Russian Romanticism rose and set within the years 1823 and 8

The preceding discussion has been somewhat oversimplified, because I do not intend to become involved in the intricacies of cerebration. The illusion of reality is a problem having broader dimension than that covered by immanent realism, utilization of realistic devices, or the degrees of sophistication or naivete of readers. The parts form the whole, but that whole may itself be more than the sum of the parts. In some cases the illusion of reality may come despite what would seem to be the presence of elements likely to destroy it in embryo. Take, for example, a novel of Walter Scott, The Heart of Midlothian. The plot is improbable, the characters stylized both as to behavior and speech, description and names, the narrative is burdened with digressive historical and sociological information, the author constantly intrudes and even lays claim to controlling, if not his characters, then the progress of his story. Yet, withal, an illusion of reality flickers on at occasional moments. For a more modern example of the same phenomenon, take the detective story, which, despite its romantic improbabilities seasoned with petty, usually brutal, details, sometimes does have the power of conveying the reader to a sordid world of murder and mayhem. Perhaps sheer length of contact is important. Certainly one doesn't pick up Scott's novels and immediately find himself in the reality of eighteenth century Edinburgh. The illusion comes slowly. And is it because an illusion has been generated or because the reader, lulled by the story material, begins to regress toward that earlier stage when he readily gave credence to fairy tales?

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1832.4 Although I disagree with the rigidity of her dates, the period she mentions unquestionably saw the full daylight of Russian Romanticism. Orest Somov produced almost all of his fiction between 1827 and 1833, and one cannot ignore the coincidence between these years of his greatest productivity and the zenith of Romanticism. Further, Somov was the first theoretician of Romanticism in Russia, and his lengthy essay, "O romantiSeskoj poézii", published in 1823, was a blueprint for the creation of a national literature deriving from the rich sources of Russian history, variety of ethnic types, diversity of landscape, and the potentialities of the Russian language. Yet, despite the period in which he wrote and his theoretical interest in Romanticism, and despite the fact that he shared features and attitudes with such manifestly romantic authors as Alexander Bestuzev, many of his works, entirely or in part, reveal that his art had progressed beyond the norms of the romantic authors who were his contemporaries. In fact, in some cases Somov's works display a conceptualization and execution characteristic of prose belonging to the period of nineteenth century Realism. Somov arrived in Petersburg from his native Ukraine in the late 'teens of the nineteenth century. Very shortly he joined both the Vol'noe ObsSestvo Ljubitelej Rossijskoj Slovesnosti and the Vol'noe Obscestvo Ljubitelej Slovesnosti, Nauk i Xudozestv. To the journals of these societies, SorevnovateV and Blagonamerennyj, he contributed several sketches written in the course of an extended trip through western Europe in 1819-1820. Following his return to Russia, he played an active role in the publication of SorevnovateV, and he also assisted Kondratyj Ryleev and Alexander Bestuzev in publishing Poljarnaja Zvezda, in the first issue of which there appeared his sketch "Francuzskie cudaki". In the years immediately preceding the Decembrist Uprising, Somov was a clerk in the Russian-American Company, serving under Ryleev. Both had quarters in the Russian-American Company building, and at times Somov shared his apartment with Bestuzev. Somov was arrested on the night of December 14, 1825, but he was quickly exonerated and allowed to resume his clerkship. However, he shortly resigned that position and became an editorial assistant to Grec and Bulgarin. In 1827, when still employed by Bulgarin, he joined Baron Del'vig as assistant editor and chief critic of Severnye Cvety. While engaged in these activities, he was also translating, writing criticism, fiction, feuilletons, and involved in the publication of miscellanies and almanacs. Bulgarin discharged him 1

Moskva, 1934, p. 20.

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abruptly in 1829 when he learned that Somov intended to collaborate with Del'vig in the publication of Literaturnaja Gazeta. In the fall of 1830, when Del'vig was officially forbidden to continue as its editor, Somov assumed that position. His fiction appeared in most of the leading almanacs and journals of the period, including Severnye Cvety, Podsneznik, Nevskij AVmanax, Literaturnaja Gazeta, AVciona, Russkij AVmanax, and others. Since a number of Somov's stories have Little Russian settings and concern the life and legends of his native region, he has been called a Ukrainian writer. But this appellation fails to indicate the scope of his art, since he wrote also of Russian and Western European types and manners. His fiction falls into two general categories: to the first belong stylized legends derived from Ukrainian and Russian folklore; to the second his prose tales, the latter having a wide variety of themes and settings. The legendary works were undertaken as a result of his concern for the preservation of popular lore, which he felt was in danger of being lost for want of a written form. They have their own elements of reality, but quite manifestly they belong to a special genre which lies outside the subject of this paper. Therefore, the discussion which follows will be concerned with the illusion of reality in the score or so of Somov's stories which belong to the classification of rasskaz or povest'. Ill Before proceeding to the aforementioned discussion, however, it might be well, in view of Somov's role as a theoretician of Romanticism, to comment upon his attitudes towards realism or reality in literature. In his time, of course, the word realizm was not a part of the Russian critical vocabulary. Nonetheless, the absence of a term does not necessarily preclude the existence of the concept behind it, and there are numerous indications in Somov's critical writings that verisimilitude and probability were at the top of his hierarchy of artistic values. While it may be true that his "O romantiSeskoj poezii" (1823) was inspired by Herderian philosophical concepts regarding national literatures, Somov's interpretation of narodnosV and mestnost' reveals his basic concern with the reality of Russian life, its peoples and its lands. From other critical statements it is clear that Somov understood narodnost' and mestnost' in quite a different way from his Romantic contemporaries — for him both these qualities involved fidelity to fact. Substantiation of this may be found in an article published in Syn Otecestva in 1826 entitled "O

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suscestvennosti v literature".5 The writer, having discussed the development of literary tastes from the time of the troubadors, turns to contemporary literature. From his remarks it would appear that by the word suscestvennosf, which he italicizes, the author connotes a quality close to realism: 5 peremenoju obstojatel'stv, peremenilos' i napravlenie umov. Posemu Kritika ne est' uze potrebnost' umov, a my teper' bolee vsego prosim u tex, kotorye dostavljajut nam potrebnosti umstvennoj — suScestvennosti. Nyne uze nicem ne mozno izvinit' togo, cto naruSaet istinu ili pravdopodobie; daby prikovat' nase vnimanie, ne dovol'no ponjatij i cuvstvovanij, kogda oni otcuzdeny ot suscestvennosti, t. e. samogo vernogo podrazanija predmetam, kotorye xotim izobrazit'. The term suscestvennosf henceforth becomes a part of Somov's critical vocabulary. 6 In his first long survey of Russian literature, which appeared in Severnye Cvety na 1828 god, he recurs to the concept of suscestvennosV in his remarks about Kulzinskij's Malorossijskaja deremja, which ostensibly described Ukrainian village life: Malorossijskaja derevnja, G. Kulzinskogo, opisana, kazetsja, s tem ctoby predstavit' Malorossijan v takom vide, kak ispanskie i francuzskie pastuxi Florianovy; no imeja cest'byt' zemljakom G. Kulzinskogo zamecu emu, cto na§ otcetlivyj vek trebuet v pisanijax suscestvennosti, a ne mectatel'nosti, v kartinax vernosti krasok, a ne iznezennosti, a v épitetax tocnosti, a ne natjazki. 7 In subsequent critical surveys in Severnye Cvety, Somov continued to demand fidelity to reality. He attacked Bulgarin's Ivan Vyzigin for its false picture of Moscow and Petersburg society; Pogodin's Cernaja nemoc' was critized for its fatuous plot and the improbable motivation of its hero. In 1831 in Literaturnaja Gazeta he noted that Usakov's Kirgiz-Kajsak was weakened by a plot which depended upon the unmotivated prejudice of the heroine's father. On yet another occasion, 6

C. 105, No. 3, pp. 284-94. At the end of the article there is a notation that the piece has been translated from French, but no mention is made of the author or place of original publication. It may be that the notation was a screen adopted by Somov to conceal his authorship. 6 In the lengthy introduction to "The Incarnated Ghost" [Videnie na javu] Somov humorously comments on the loss of credence in the supernatural. Here again the term susiestvennost' appears with a connotation suggesting "realism": "... v naS vek zitejskoj prozy, kogda my vsem zertvovali suscestvennosti do togo, cto ona prietas' nam pusce pirogov s ugrjami cistoserdecnogo Lafontena, my snova primemsja za cudesnoe ... Da zdravstvujut Nemcy! da prosvetaet ix Wunderland!" Girljanda, 1831, No. 4, pp. 94-95. ' Pp. 86-87.

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despite his pervading admiration for Puskin, Somov criticized Poltava on the grounds that the execution scenes were implausible and lacked historical verisimilitude.8 There is, therefore, ample evidence that as a critic Somov displayed an essential concern for probability and fidelity to life in literature. Of course, there can always be a difference between intention and achievement, and one may properly ask if Somov's own literary product was consistent with his critical stance in favor of probability and verisimilitude. The question is highly relevant in connection with his choice of themes, which suggests a Weltanschauung more typical of a romantic than of an author whose concern it was to show life "as it is". IV Folklore themes are found in varying degrees in a number of Somov's stories, and, in fact, they are the organizing element in all his stylizations of folk tales. The concern of Russian literature with narodnost\ although this concern coincided in point of time with the heyday of the Romantic period, was not a concern exclusive to Romanticism. As we know, in collecting folklore material and incorporating it into his prose art, Somov was motivated by a desire to preserve for posterity a record of folk superstitions, beliefs, legends, and other lore of the simple people which he felt were in danger of being permanently lost. In "Skazka o kladax" he stated this directly in a footnote, affirming that he had the choice of either compiling a dictionary of folk tales or incorporating them within a narrative frame — he chose to do the latter. His interest was, therefore, rather that of an ethnographer than that of a romantic per se. Had Somov regarded folklore material as a link with the irrational or as a clue to the existence of another world masked by the phenomena of everyday life, he would indeed have been a romantic, but his attitude was otherwise. For him legends and other folklore material were an integral part of the real life of simple rustic people, and they needed to be preserved because the history of the people would be incomplete without them.9 8

Specifically, he doubted that Kocubej, undergoing torture and faced with execution, could have voiced the speeches with which Puskin credited him. Somov further stated that the holiday mood which preceded the execution was inaccurate, because the condemned, Kocubej and Iskra, were regarded as heroes by the Ukrainians, who could hardly have awaited their martyrdom with festive spirits. Severnye Cvety na 1830 god, pp. 55-56. 9 Unlike many amateur ethnographers, Somov successfully adapted the folklore of

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Somov's attraction to themes of the supernatural is not as easy to reconcile as his interest in folklore, but here again it would be dangerous to assume that his several stories which deal with the supernatural necessarily lack the illusion of reality. The supernatural appears in "Prikaz s togo sveta", "Jurodivyj", "Skazka o kladax", "Ispolin-rak", "Ispolinskie gory", "Kikimora", "Strasnyj gost'", "Samoubijca", and "Videnie na javu". Yet in most of these stories the theme is given a treatment which betrays an ironic authorial attitude inconsistent with a romantic orientation. In "Prikaz s togo sveta" the "other world" exists only in the mind of the duped inkeeper; in "Skazka o kladax" it is the protagonist, not the author, who gives credence to legends of buried treasures guarded by demonic forces; in "Strasnyj gost'" the supernatural visitation of an avenging spirit is explained as a result of the protagonist's dream. "Ispolin-rak" is not a tale of preternaturally large crabs but rather a sketch of a man obsessed with a belief in their existence. "Kikimora", "Samoubijca", and "Videnie na javu" are related by narrators who believe that they have been in contact with supernatural forces, but in all these tales Somov uses a framed structure: that is, the central or interior narrator's story is retold by an exterior narrator (usually a traveller), and thus the reader is insulated from direct contact with phenomena beyond or outside nature: it is the exterior narrator, the transmitter of the tale, rather than the reader, who must accept or reject the existence of the supernatural. Somov's playful, or even ironic, treatment of supernatural themes in his last years would indicate that he did not regard the supernatural in the conventional manner of romantics. Rather he seems to have anticipated even Puskin in satirizing the romantic obsession with the supernatural, though Somov's achievements are qualitatively not as sophisticated as Puskin's. 10 One final word regarding supernatural themes in Somov's corpus. In analyzing the fiction, exclusive of legends, produced during the years 1827 to 1833, we find that towards the end of this period stories of the supernatural cease to appear entirely. The last of the stories of the supernatural was "Videnie na javu", published in 1831. Subsequently he published fourpovesti, "Roman v dvux pis'max", "Svatovstvo", "Matuska his native region to literature without destroying its integrity. That is, he did not adulterate the popular spirits of the Ukraine with the heady wines of Western European Romanticism. One of Somov's best efforts in this genre was "Nedobryj glaz", a lyrical and suspenseful tale of demonic interference in the idyllic life of a wealthy peasant. XJtrennjaja zvezda, 1833, kn. 1. 10 I refer here especially to Puskin's "Pikovaja dama" and "Grobovscik".

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i synok", and "fepigraf vmesto zaglavija", all satirical treatments of provincial gentry. It would appear, therefore, that Somov's muse was losing, or had in fact lost, her interest in the romantic themes of the supernatural and had turned her attention exclusively to the phenomenal world. In his essay " O romanti£eskoj poezii", Somov pointed out the wide variety of national types populating Russia, and this, he felt, provided Russian authors with an unusually rich source for literary exploitation. In his own prose he often chose his characters from among Russians or Ukrainians but, unlike many of his literary colleagues, he presented characters from a broad social range, including not only gentry but peasants, bailiffs, and petty clerks. Of course, some other authors, among them Nareznyj, also depicted such types, but what is important is that Somov made them his protagonists, he gave them central roles in his narratives, and individualized them without sentimentality. Admittedly, some of Somov's characters are stylizations, or even caricatures, such as the mercurial Major Nefteta in "Skazka o kladax", the "bog boor" {bolotnoj muzicok) of "Roman v dvux pis'max", or the imbecile Valerij of "Matuska i synok". The same may be said of some protagonists in his stories with foreign settings, such as the garrulous barber Hippolyte in "Vyveska" or the gullible innkeeper von Stadt in "Prikaz s togo sveta". However, in other works Somov achieved portraits which seem totally real. An important contribution to the reality of his characters is individualization of speech, which reflects a character's class origin, education, and individual personality. The peasant driver Faddej of "Kikimora" and the petty clerk of "Svatovstvo" are obvious examples of this, and others may be found in the bailiff narrator of "Samoubijca" or in the peripheral characters in "Epigraf vmesto zaglavija". Somov's choice of narrators is an interesting subject in itself, and it is quite clear even from a superficial observation that he gave careful consideration to this matter — in order to strengthen the verisimilitude of his tales. The framed tales reveal this concern the most clearly. In "Prikaz s togo sveta" the exterior narrator is an educated traveller who hears a tale of the supernatural related by an innkeeper in a small Bavarian town. This traveller-narrator is precisely the person to apprehend the true facts of the innkeeper's account of his encounter with the spectre of his ancestor. "Poctovyj dom v Sato-T'erri", another framed story, has as its exterior narrator an affluent Russian traveller whose appearance and demeanor are such that he inspires the confidence of a retired French officer, the postmaster at Chateau Thierry, who relates the

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history of his marriage to a deaf-mute. In "Samoubijca" the exterior narrator is identified simply as poctennyj cinovnik,11 but he has been "chosen" or, more properly, created by Somov because a person of his calling might logically have had occasion to travel in the remote provincial area which is the setting for the bailiff's tale. Not only do these exterior narrators seem to derive or achieve their existence in conformity with probability; the frames which they provide for their reported tales are quite circumstantial. Take, for example, the opening paragraphs of "Samoubijca" : Graf R..., v dome kotorogo ja vsegda byl prinjat i oblaskan, svedav o moem naznacenii, porucil mne, na proezde po T...skoj Gubernii, osmotret' ne zadolgo pred tem dostavseesja emu pomest'e. Ctob videt' ètu votcinu, nadobno bylo exat' verst za vosem'desjat v storonu ot bol'soj dorogi.12 Not only does Somov motivate this journey; he causes his travellernarrator to provide details about the trip which create the same effect of reality as the reportage commonly included in the nonfictional travel account: "Iz T... otpravilsja ja v konce Avgusta na dolgix, potomu cto v tu storonu, gde naxodilos' pomest'e Grafa, proletala tol'ko proselocnaja doroga i poctovyx stancij ne bylo. Ja vyexal iz goroda pered vecerom. Pogoda stojala togda postojannaja i jasnaja ,.." 13 A similar method, but with quite different details, appears in the other stories which form the cycle of "traveller's tales".14 By its very nature the frame structure can be an important element for the establishment of an illusion of reality. As Prince Vladimir Odoevskij explained in his notes to Russkie Noci, the frame provided by people who listen to a tale narrated by one of their group functions in a manner similar to the chorus in Greek drama — it provides a comment.15 More11 Actually there are, technically speaking, two exterior narrators, the outermost indicated solely by a parenthetical phrase inserted in the first sentence of the story : "neskol'ko let tomu (nacal poctennyj òinovnik), byl ja poslan nacal'stvom moim v T...skuju Guberniju po delam sluzby". 12 Literaturnaja Gazeta, 1830 god, Tom II, N o . 52, p. 123. 18 Ibid. 14 One might note in passing that precisely this technique was used by Lermontov in "Béla", where the realistic details of the travelling author's journey across the Caucasus frame the story of the affair between the alienated sophisticate, Pecorin, and a child of nature, Béla. Moreover, the interior narrator of "Samoubijca", a peasant bailiff, is naively unaware that his tale of murder and ghosts, like the tale of Maksim Maksimyc, is a romantic cliché. 16 See V. F. Odoevsky, Russian Nights, trans. Olga Koshansky-Olienikov and Ralph

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over, it enables an author in a lifelike manner to represent subjective reactions to the objective facts of the narration and the narrator. A very good example of this is Somov's "Strasnyj gost'", where the events related by the interior narrator (whose prototype was doubtless Adam Mickiewicz) are framed by a discussion of the credibility of supernatural events. The foregoing discussion of Somov's critical posture, his choice of themes, characters, and structure, is not intended to demonstrate his achievement in the creation of illusions of reality, but rather to establish that nothing with respect to his orientation towards reality or his artistic methods precludes the possibility of his reproducing life "as it is". It now remains to examine examples of his prose to see in what specific ways and with what degree of vividness he generated illusions of reality, either through the presence of the immanent elements of literary realism, those invariant qualities of realism which may be found in various works of world literature irrespective of the period of their composition, or through the use of devices commonly associated with canonical Realism of the nineteenth century. V One of the commonly recurring complaints of critics of the 1820's and 1830's was the absence of a tradition of Russian literary langugage which might be utilized in prose and drama. Somov himself pointed u p this deficiency in his critical survey in Severnye Cvety na 1829 god: U nas net e§ce sloga povestvovatel'nogo dlja romanov i povestej, net razgovornogo sloga dlja dramaticeskix socinenij v proze, net daze sloga pis'mennogo. 16 The point is reiterated in a digression in "fipigraf vmesto zaglavija": Zametim mimoxodom, cto revnostnye nasi puristy, izlisne zabotjas' o cistote prirodnogo svoego jazyka, casto liSajut ego zivosti i jarkosti. Dlja svetskix ponjatij, i tak skazat', dlja vsednevnogo obixoda v razgovorax, dolzen suscestvovat' jazyk bolee svobodnyj i gibkij. Inoe delo, my govorim ili piSem o predmetax vozvysennyx, libo ucenyx; no slog Istorii redko prilicen Romanu, i vovse ne prilicen Komedii.17 The correction of this deficiency was one of the essential steps which led E. Matlaw (New York: E. P. Dutton and Co., 1965), where an English translation of the hitherto unpublished original appears on pp. 27-31. 16 Severnye Cvety na 1829 god, p. 83. " Kometa Bely, 1833, p. 67.

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to the possibility of a style suitable for realism, for nothing stands so in the way of the illusion of reality as a prose style which seems antiquated or forced or otherwise calls attention to itself. Nareznyj is a good example of an author whose stories, even those he wrote in the twenties, have a bookish quality which stifles the generation of unimpeded contact between the reader and the story material. Somov, on the other hand, quite consistently endeavors (with varying degrees of success and with numerous expected relapses to the style of an earlier period) to make his narrative exposition "transparent" and to make his dialogue create the effect for the reader that he is overhearing a real conversation or discussion. In "Èpigraf vmesto zaglavija" there is a scene depicting the quarrel which marks the end of the intimacy between Count Krinskij and Felitciata Nel'skaja. The effect, at least for the period, is strikingly lifelike : the language of the chagrined lovers corresponds to and reflects their inner moods of chagrin and disillusionment, and, as well, their individual personal qualities are further revealed. The scene, which is presented from Krinskij's point of view, is largely dialogue, but there is sufficient exposition to create a visual image which complements the verbal one; it also enables us to follow the play of Krinskij's inner or unexpressed thoughts. The result is an effective dramatic complex which draws the reader from the words of the story into a life situation occurring in his presence : Snova podav ej ruku, on rassejanno povel ee po cvetnikam; i ona opustja golovu, s legkoju ten'ju unynija na cele, napomnila emu skvoz' utaennyj v grudi vzdox, cto oni otdaljalis' ot celi ix putexodstva, skam'i pod kastanovymi derev'jami. Crez neskol'ko minut, oni sideli na nej. "Vy cto-to vaznoe xoteli mne skazat'?" sprosila Nel'skaja, posle nekotorogo molcanija, s pritvornoju veselost'ju, kotoroj izmenjalo bespokojstvo, otrazav§eesja v glazax ee i v sgibe brovej, nevol'no xmurivSixsja. "Cto mne vam skazat'? ... ja dolzen prosit' u vas proScenija". "V cem?" "V moem bezrassudstve : v torn, cto ja, ne vyznav svoego serdca, vzdumal podvergnut' ego ispytaniju". "A! vot cto!" podxvatila Nel'skaja nasmeSlivym tonom: "èto otzyvaetsja otcasti dramoju, et moi il faut que je l'avoue, j'aime la haute comédie ... prodolzajte". "Ja znaju", skazal Krinskij, neskol'ko razdosadovannyj ee tonom i vyrazenijami, "ne raz slyxal ja ot vas samix, cto vy vsego vyse cenite svoju svobodu, cto supruzestvo scitaete tjazkim nesnosnym ognem..." "Kto vam skazal, cto ja s nekotorogo vremeni ne peremenila svoix myslej?" "Peremena takaja skoraja mozet byt' tak 2e skoro povela by za soboj i druguju peremenu. Raskajanie bylo by pozdno". "PosluSajte, Graf!" vskricala ona s licom, vspyxnuvâim ot dosady: "ja vam

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ocen' blagodarna za priznanie v takom nedostatke, kotorogo ja do sej pory v vas ne podozrevala, t.e. v bezrassudstve. Dal'nejsie ob"jasnenija byli b izlisni: j a sama sebe rastolkovala vse to, cto vy mogli by mne vyskazat'. Vizu, cto vy, kak sami soznalis', vybrali menja sredstvom k reseniju kakoj-to filosoficeskoj zadaci nad vasim serdcem, i cto popytka vasa byla neudacna. S menja dovol'no i étogo; v ostal'nom, t.e. v va§ix izvinenijax i pr. i pr. j a ne vizu ni pol'zy, ni neobxodimosti: priberegite ix dlja drugogo slucaja. Esli b vy ne byli tak molody, to, mozet byt', ja rasserdilas' by ne na §utku; no v va5i leta esce mnogoe proScaetsja ... Rezvosti detej, kak by oni ni byli derzki, dolzny sme§it', a ne ogoróat' vzroslyx ljudej ..." Golos ee, vo vremja sej reci, postepenno vozvysalsja, i pod konec sdelalsja otryvistym; prorezyvavsiesja v nem otcasti dikie zvuki neprijatno otdavalis' v uSax Krinskogo, kotoryj ne uznaval v nix prijatnogo, esce ne zadolgo pered tem lelejavsego slux ego, golosa Nel'skoj. Lico i osanka ee otzyvalis' natjazkoju teatral'noj Fedry ili Klitemnestry. Vse izmenjalo v nej pritvornomu ravnoduáiju i spokojnoj jazvitel'nosti recej. Krinskij vyslusal ee do konca, smotrja na nee bolee s ljubopytstvom, nezeli s kakim-libo serdecnym dvizeniem. "Vy ne spolna otgadali", otvecal on s xladnokrovnoju kolkostiju: "popytka moja ne vovse byla neudacna. Blagodarja ej, teper' j a vizu, na kakom zybkom osnovanii derzalos' by obojudnoe na§e semejnoe scastie, kogda by vecnye, nerazryvnye uzy svjazali ñas na vsju zizn'". " D a kto vam govorit o semejnom scastii, o vecnyx uzax?" vskricala Nel'skaja golosom pocti isstuplennym. "Vy by sprosili prezde: resilas' li by ja brosit' na odni vesy svoe spokojstvie, vygody moej svobody — s zalkoju primankoj smazlivogo muzskogo licika? ... Ne govorju uze o svetskix otlicijax: pokojnyj moj muz byl General, i smesno bylo by promenjat' nyneSnee moe zvanie, mesto moe v svete, na kakoe-nibud' nictoznoe dostoinstvo ..." "A! tak j a vas teper' lucse razgadal, nezeli vy menja", pererval rec' ee Rrinskij s zarom negodovanija. "Vy xoteli najti vo mne vljublennogo Rinal'da, celujuácego volsebnye svoi okovy i ne dumajuscego iz nix vyputat'sja, pokornogo Seladona, bezotvetnogo poslusnika svoenravnoj vasej voli ... do tex por, poka, naskuca bessmyslennym moim licom, nateSas' moim unicizeniem i nasmeskami vasix prijatel'nic nad nedogadlivost'ju prostaka — obozatelja, — vy vzdumali by sami dat' mne otstavku ... Vot dlja cegó staralis' vy primanit' menja k sebe i uderzat' v svoej vlasti vseju siloju vasix zaraz!" Nel'skaja nicego ne otvecala, no sverknula na negó glazami, slovno xotela szec' imi molodogo Grafa, kak molniej. On stojal pered neju i s preznim ljubopytstvom smotrel ej v glaza. "Cegó vy ádete, sudar'?" skazala ona posle neskol'kix minut molcanija. "Xotite li sovsem dorezat' menja vaseju xolodnoju zlost'ju, ili vymucit' iz menja kakoe-nibud' priznanie vasimi jadovitymi vyxodkami? Kovarnyj celovek!" Golos ee perervalsja, i slezy neotmscennoj obidy ruc'jami polilis' iz glaz ee. Krinskij vezlivo, no xolodno i bezmolvno poklonilsja ej, i poáel iz sadu. 18 I n presenting this passage I d o n o t m e a n t o insist u p o n t h e reality of t h e 18

Kometa Bely, 1833, pp. 84-90.

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story as a whole, for, it must be admitted, "fipigraf vmesto zaglavija" does not consistently sustain an illusion of reality. Even in the passage cited we can detect some locutions typical of romantic prose, as, for example, the statement, "Nel'skaja ... sverknula na nego glazami, slovno xotela szec' imi molodogo Grafa, kak molniej". For the most part, however, the dialogue and exposition reinforce one another in creating not only an external image of the conflict but also in providing insights into the evolution of the participants' psychological state. Passages such as the following are, as it were, transparent and objective — the author (narrator) is no longer a link between his protagonists and the reader — he has disappeared: "Vy cto-to vaznoe xoteli mne skazat'?" sprosila Nel'skaja, posle nekotorogo molcanija, s pritvornoju veselost'ju, kotoroj izmenjalo bezpokojstvo, otrazavSeesja v glazax ee i v sgibe brovej, nevol'no xmurivsixsja. As the argument develops, Nel'skaja's agitation and her attempt to appear indifferent is evidenced by her banal statement in French regarding her love of comedy. Somov takes pains to keep the reader constantly aware of the tone of her conversation, because it affects Krinskij's mood: "s pritvornoju veselost'ju", "nasmeslivym tonom", "vskriiala ona", "golos ee, vo vremja sej reci, postepenno vozvysalsja", "vskriiala Nel'skaja golosom po5ti istuplennym". The succinct statements of action linking the dialogue are completely in conformity with the dramatic, and objective, method of exposition. The scene ends with Krinskij's abrupt departure, without authorical comment: "Krinskij vezlivo, no xolodno i bezmolvno poklonilsja ej, i posel iz sada". Thus the curtain is closed on the petty drama on which the reader has been enabled to eavesdrop.19 The story "Jurodivyj", in which the supernatural content is not explicable on the phenomenal level, generates illusions of reality as strong, or stronger, than those produced by any other of Somov's stories. This, however, is the result of the manner in which the tale is related. Somov understood that the effectiveness of the supernatural element 19

In this particular story authorial concern for representation of the flux of the hero's mental state is complemented by a concern for psychological motivation of his female protagonists, Felitciata Nel'skaja and Ljubov ViSaeva. In particular the latter's selfishness and insensitivity are seen as the natural result of her family and upbringing: Ljubov is the daughter of parents who are crass materialists and who are only interested that her suitor have position and wealth. When it is confirmed that Krinskij enjoys both these noble qualities, Ljubov is told to encourage his attentions, and "DevuSka ponjala i vypolnjala svoju rol', ele nel'zja lucSe..." Ol'ga Reeva, who does become the bide of Krinskij, is modest, self-sacrificing, and values the Count for his moral superiority. Her views are also an extension of those held by her parents.

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increases in proportion to the author's ability to establish the verisimilitude of the various other elements forming the story. 20 Therefore, the exposition in "Jurodivyj" is objective and straightforward, with little or no evidence of authorial presence. The events take place in the present, and the spacial setting is an unspecified Ukrainian garrison town. The protagonist, Mel'skij, is an insouciant young officer, undistinguished from many others of similar age and occupation. The supernatural, therefore, appears in a milieu of unexceptional or even prosaic elements. Thus, the reader is artfully lulled into giving credence to the non-phenomenal content. Briefly, the story concerns the apparently fated relationship of the officer, Mel'skij, with Vasil the Half-Wit, a jurodivyj whose enigmatic prophecies foretell events culminating in a duel between Mel'skij and another officer. At the duel Vasil is mortally wounded when he interposes himself between Mel'skij and his antagonist, but before he dies the jurodivyj fulfills his final prophecy by leading Mel'skij to the grave of his aunt, a one-time benefactress of the religious mendicant. It is important to note, however, that relationships are introduced which serve to justify, at least partially, Vasil's prevision, and thus the reader is not absolutely obliged to consider the prophecies as evidence of the half-wit's supernatural powers. In fact, this tension between belief and disbelief is exploited for the purposes of interest and suspense. Another factor tending to deemphasize the non-phenomenal content is the focus on the psychological condition of the protagonist, Mel'skij. Here, Somov appears as a precursor of canonical nineteenth century Realism, since the "psychologization" of protagonists was unusual at the time his story was composed. His method is two-fold: revelation of inner states through exterior details (behavior and speech), as in "fepigraf vmesto zaglavija", and direct exposition of mental processes and concomitant moods. A number of passages might be cited to demonstrate qualities similar to the dialogue-exposition combinations found in "fepigraf vmesto zaglavija", but space does not permit. But the direct exposition of mental processes is an aspect of psychologization in "Jurodivyj" which is not paralleled in the other story. An example may be found in the detailed description of the effect of Vasil the Half-Wit on Mel'skij's imagination following their initial encounter. ao

This is a good example of the relativity of realism discussed earlier. Children will accept ghost stories per se; most adults require that the supernatural be introduced without destroying the general impression of reality. Turgenev understood this well ("Stuk, stuk, stuk"), as did Henry James (The Turn of the Screw).

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Mel'skij takze poSel v svoju spal'nju i leg v postelju. On dumal, cto utomlenie ot zagorodnyx ego rezvostej i tancev i ot nevol'nogo pesexodstva daet emu krepkij i spokojnyj son, no obmanulsja. Strannyj vid strannogo ego gostja, ego slova, v kotoryx on otcasti otkryval, cto slucilos' i cto slucitsja vpered, ne vyxodili iz golovy molodogo oficera. On vsjaceski staralsja uverit' sebja, cto slova poloumnogo byli obyknovennym posledstviem rasstroennoj golovy, cto tam, gde on kak budto by namekal na dela, kotorye emu ne mogli byt' izvestny, govoril on na udacu, znaja obscie povadki slug, i cto skazannoe im soldatu mog on kak-nibud' uslysat' ot ego sosluzivcev; so vsem tern jurodivyj besprestanno predstavljalsja ego voobrazeniju. Neskol'ko raz Mel'skij zavodil glaza i prinuzdal sebja usnut'; no emu bylo tak dusno, komnata ego tesnila, steny kak budto szimalis' vokrug krovati i potolok nad neju prigibalsja k polu. V dosade Mel'skij vorocalsja, branil sebja za etu neizvestnuju emu dosele slabost' i snova zakryval glaza; no esli inogda zabyvalsja, kak pered snom, to vid jurodivogo, ego blednye vpalye sceki, ego mracnyj vzgljad i brodjascie glaza, ego vysokij stan, vyrostavsij vyse i vy5e i nakonec prevra§cav§ijsja v ispolinskij, neotstupno byli v mectax molodogo oficera i mucili ego, kak bred gorjacki. To cudilos' emu, cto jurodivyj xvataet ego za ruku zilistoju, suxoju svoeju rukoju, ili, cto on naklonjaetsja k nemu na izgolov'e i govorit grubymj xriplym svoim golosom: "Vstavaj, ja prisel pomesat' tebe lozit'sja". Mel'skij vzdragival i vskakival. Nakonec, vidja, cto ne mozet prinevolit' sebja usnut', on pripodnjalsja, sel na postele i nacal v mysljax doiskivat'sja estestvennoj priciny svoej bessonnicy i nelepyx grez, kotorye ego trevozili.21 Looking again at this excerpt, one can see that it is introduced by a direct statement reporting that Mel'skij went to the bedroom and lay down. This is followed by the information that his expectations of sleep were unfulfilled, because the image of Vasil and his prophecies persisted in his thoughts. The reader is now further exposed to a paraphrase, omnisciently presented, of Mel'skij's efforts to rationalize Vasil's powers of divination. The subsequent confused and ominous flux of images and fears, resembling delirium, reveal for the reader the tensions within the protagonist's psycho-sensory state, which result in his physical reactions of shuddering and jumping up. The exposition then continues with a description of Mel'skij's rationalization, his observation of the sleeping Vasil, and his further attempt to sleep, where again dream and reality ebb and flow. The objective quality of this entire sequence of mental and physical action, its verisimilitude, creates a strong illusion of reality — the reader directly apprehends Mel'skij's experience. Auerbach in his Mimesis has, with unusual perception, analysed the realistic effect of the use of skaz in a scene from The Satyricon. Following this, Auerbach states: 21

Severnye Cvety na 1827 god, pp. 172-175.

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Petronius' literary ambition, like that of the realists of modern times, is to imitate a random, everyday, contemporary milieu with its sociological background, and to have his characters speak their jargon without recourse to any form of stylization. Thus he reached the ultimate limit of the advance of realism in antiquity.22 In writing "Kikimora", Somov doubtless did not have as broad a literary ambition as that with which Auerbach credits Petronius. Nonetheless, Somov's chosen milieu, if not random, is everyday and contemporary,23 there is sociological detail, and his characters speak their own jargon. The story begins as an unmarked dialogue between a peasant driver, Faddej, and his gentry passenger, who encourages him to tell a tale about the monstrous kikimora,24 Faddej is a most colorful reporter, who relates his tale of the kikimora's interference into the lives of the well-to-do peasants, Pankrat and Marfa, in a racy and picturesque idiom. In fact, "Kikimora" is a fully developed skaz tale, one of the first in Russian literature. An example — the description of the bailiff who is called upon to exorcise the kikimora — will provide an idea of Faddej's highly unliterary but intriguingly colorful idiom: V selenii u nas byl togda upravitel', ne vedaju, Nemec ili Francuz, iz Mitavy. Zvali ego po imeni i po otecestvu Vot-on Ivanovic, a prozviSca ego i vovse pereskazat' ne umeju. Zemskij na§, Elisej, cto byl togda na kontore, v barskom dome, nazyval e§ce ego gospodin fon-baron. £tot fon-baron byl velikoj balagur: kogda, byvalo, otdyxaem posle raboty na barscine, to on i pustitsja v roskazni: o zamorskix ljudjax, rostom s lokot', na koz'ix no2kax, o zakoldovannyx basnjax, o mertvecax, kotorye brodjat v nix po nocam bez golov ... Da malo li cego on nam rasskazyval: vsego ne skladeS' i v tri koroba. Govoril on po-russki ne bol'no xoroSo; inogo v recax ego, xot' lob vzrez', nikak ne vyrazumee§' ... Krest'jane byli toj very, cto u Vot-on Ivanovica bylo mnogo v nosu; cto do menja, ja nicego ne zametil, krome tabaku ... On, pravda, vydumyval na barskom dvore kakie-to masiny dlja poseva i dlja molot'by xleba; tol'ko molotiFnja ego cut' bylo samomu emu ne razmolotila golovy, i skol'ko ni bilis' nad neju celovek dvednadcat' — ni odnogo snopa ne mogli okoltit'. 26 Faddey is not only a colorful reporter; he is also a commentator. His evaluative remarks are closely interwoven into the fabric of his story, so they do not either appear or function as authorial, or narrational, 22 Erich Auerbach, Mimesis, The Representation of Reality in Western Literature; translated from the German by Willard R. Trask (Princeton, 1953), p. 30. 28 The central narrative does concern events which took place when the narrator was a child, but this fact does not significantly affect the everyday nature of the milieu. 24 One is well into the story before there is evidence that it is a "framed" tale, the passenger serving as exterior narrator and transmitting the tale related to him by Faddej. 26 Severnye Cvety na 1830 god, pp. 195-97.

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digressions. But they do reveal that Faddej does not wholly share the village-view [selovozrenie] of his friends, who have full credence in the kikimora, notwithstanding the admonitions of their priest. He did not share their confidence in "Vot-on Ivanovic" as the previous quotation shows: "Etot fort-baron byl velikoj balagur..." "Krest'jane byli toj very, cto u Vot-on Ivanovi5a bylo mnogo v nosu; 5to do menja, ja niCego ne zametil, krome tabaku..." When his passenger queries Faddej as to whether he saw the kikimora as it was ostensibly being hauled out of the village, he responds: "Net, grex skazat', ne vidal. Videl tol'ko drovni, a na nix sulup, ovSinoj vverx; bol'se ni5ego". Finally, the passenger tries to explain the whole incident simply as an attempt by envious people to slander Pankrat's family: "Tak ja tebe ob"jasnjaju vse delo; slusaj. Starye baby, ili zavistniki Pankratovy' vzveli na dom ego nebylicu, potomu, cto na sem'ju ego nel'zja bylo vydumat kakoj-libo klevety. £tu nebylicu raznesli oni po vsej derevne; vam pokazalos to, cego vy na samom dele ne videli, a poverili cuzim slovam. Molva eta uderzalas' u vas v selenii; staruxi tverdjat ee malym rebjatam, i takim obrazom one perexodit ot stargego k mladSemu ... Yot i vsja istorija tvoej Kikimory."26 To this Faddej responds elusively: "Moej, sudar'? Upasi menja Bog ot nee". And not another word will he say. It may be, of course, that Faddej does not want to be put in the same category as the other peasants who believe in the kikimora. That is, he has a quite understandable desire not to become the butt of his passenger's ridicule. In any case, his role as both narrator and commentator provides a binocular point of view: the eye of the village and that of himself. As we know, two eyes give a third dimension, and this strengthens the illusion of reality. There are those, Auerbach among them, who affirm that satire and realism are mutually exclusive, since satire involves didactic intentions which negate objectivity. However, this is really just a matter of degree: satire developed to the level of grotesque will be unrealistic (though perhaps effective in its own right), while moderated satire will be almost indistinguishable from so-called "objective" narration, if such a thing in fact exists.27 "Roman v dvux pis'max" is a satire, but one whose form itself lends apparent objectivity. Rather ingeniously Somov has been able to maintain two levels of satire simultaneously: the author of the two letters presents a lightly comical picture of the Ukrainian petty gentry, but 28

Severnye Cvety na 1830 god, pp. 214-215. All those who write presumably have something to say, and this implies point of view, which cannot but influence choice and treatment of themes, types, etc. 27

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from the very language of the letters themselves we derive the image of their author, a supercilious young know-it-all who represents the jeunesse dorée of Petersburg. The very mechanics of this story assist in the development of the illusion of reality, for the letters themselves, although the subjective expression of their youthful writer, are objective in that they preclude any authorial presence (that is, the presence of Somov qua author). Somov does, however, appear in the afterword, which is appended to lend verisimilitude : that is, to justify the existence of the epistolary material which precedes: Necajanno popalis' mne dva pis'ma L'va Konstantinovica ... familii ne znaju, ibo pod oboimi bylo podpisano prosto : Léon. Ja ne staralsja v nix ispravljat' sloga, otcasti nebreznego, ni zamenit' russkim perevodom francuzskix vstavok, koimi oni ispescreny. Podobnoj perepiski nasix svetskix molodyx ljudej, pisuscix neredko tak, kak oni govorjat, to est' po-russki popolam s francuszkim, mog by ja nabrat' celye sto tomov. 28

Space does not permit a summary of the plot. Suffice it to say the two letters contain details of the correspondent's (Leon's) return to his paternal estate, the unsuccessful efforts of his aunt to marry him to a Nadezda B., a neighbor's daughter, his eventual discovery of the girl's charms, and his elopement. These facts are interspersed with Léon's satirical picture of his rustic kinsmen and other provincial types. Unlike epistolary tales typical for the times, the work is anti-sentimental and conveys a strong illusion of reality, especially in connection with the evolution of the hero's Weltanschauung, the exposition of attitudes and way of life of the provincial gentry (though here the satirical element is the strongest), and in the reproduction of individual modes of speech. Léon arrives in the south after four years abroad and in Petersburg, and he brings with him a rich collection of affectations, a number of them of literary origin. His main identification is with Eugene Onegin, and, in fact, he alludes to Puskin's work on more than one occasion. Léon's personality is less saturnine than that of Onegin, but nonetheless he shares many of the latter's qualities, most particularly a conceit which causes him to underestimate others. But whereas Onegin remains unmoved by the morally superior Tatjana, Léon does change for the better under the influence of the provincial girl who ultimately becomes his wife. In fact, the story might properly be called "The Reformation of a Young Snob". The reversal of Léon's attitude toward Nadezda is an important element of the psychological content of the work, and this is implemented 28

Russkie povesti XIX veka, 20-x—30-x godov (Moskva-Leningrad, 1950), t. I, p. 519.

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by the structure itself. The first letter is in two parts, the second of which was written several weeks after the first. This permits us to observe an evolution in the attitudes of Léon; the final letter, composed after his marriage, reveals to us the youth's new maturity. Somov presents a gently satirical picture of the provincial gentry, but the illusion of reality is not disturbed by this satire, owing to the fact that the reader's illusion is on the level of the letters themselves: would or could a young Petersburg snob write such a letter? The answer, of course, is "yes". The following is a good example of Somov's double approach, wherein Léon's satirical picture is complemented by his own unknowing auto-satire. The subject is the ball where Léon is introduced to Nadezda; Léon prefaces his account of this fête by noting that is was exactly the same as the one depicted in Chapter V of Eugene Onegin : Sel'skij bal est' nastojascaja vystavka oblastnyx frantov, ili (nazovu ix imenem, eSce ne uvjadSim v provincial'nom slovare) petimetrov. zdes' oni otlicajutsja, eliko vozmozno. Ljudi stepennye i neglupye zdes' nepokazny i nezametny : oni skrytno sidjat po uglam i razgovarivajut vpolgolosa. No pustogolovye Scegoli vertjatsja po komnatam, casto s pripryzkoj, pavlinjatsja, sumjat i spolna vykazyvaj'ut vse svoi melkie pretenzii na lovkost', lj'ubeznost', um i tomu podobnoe ... Ja smotrel na vse sobranie s dovol'nym, otcasti nasmeSlivym vidom, comme si je leur disais : vous êtes bien dupés, messieurs, et vous serez bien tôt penauds. Ja podoSel k muzykantam i velel im igrat' francuzskuju kadril'. Oni otryli kakuju-to starinnuju, du temps du roi Dagobert, — i smycki zavizzali. Ja podnj'al Nadezdu Sergeevnu ; bojazlivo i s zapinkoj' — ona, odnakoze, poSla so mnoju. Neskol'ko samyx neustraSimyx frantov pustilos' angeiirovat' dam — kak oni govorjat na stepnom svoem narecii ... Ax, Aleksandr! Dlja cego tebja so mnoju ne bylo? S kakim duSevnym udovol'stviem podsluSal by ty zvuki udivlenija i vostorga, razdavSiesja vokrug menja iz tolpy otovsjudu sbezavSixsja zritelej: "Cortznaet!... Cudo!... Votlixo-to!... Vottak dolzno tancovat'! ..." Nakonec, kak by ty poradovalsja, gljadja na oblastnyx frantikov, kogda oni, starajas' podrazat' moim pryzkam (koim, par parenthèse, pridumyval ja samye zatejlivye nazvanija: pas de chamois, pas de gazelle, pas de bédouin, — kak èti frantiki, govorju, perepletali nogami, putalis' eut' ne padali nosom ob pol! ... Ètot vecer byl istinno moim.29 It will be observed that the epistolary style of Léon conforms to the image of his personality that we derive from the information he presents. In fact, we are reminded of Xlestakov's letter, which, however, is more grotesquely conceited. In general, Somov nicely sustains stylistic consistency throughout his story, which adds to the verisimilitude. He also causes Léon, in his role as amateur sociologist, to record the different 28

Ibid., pp. 510-511.

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speech peculiarities of his relatives and acquaintances. This adds to the humor and gives further individuality to the characters. The aunt's persuasive account of Nadezda's qualities, by which she hopes to persuade Léon that he should consider the girl, is typical : "V nasem okolote, dumaju, ne syScetsja devuSki, kotoraja byla by tak xoroSo vospitana, kak Nadezda Sergeevna. Necego skazat': spasibo roditeljam i babuske, nicego ne zaleli dlja ee vospitanija. Odnoj madame, francuzenka, platitsja i do six por cut' li ne po tysjace rublej, kogda ne bol'se. Da fortepianistu, staricku nemcu, takze vse esce idet zalovan'e, po 800 rublej ; èto ja znaju iz vernyx ruk, ot kumy Stefanidy Vasil'evny; a ej kak ne znat', one ved' tetka Nadeède Sergeevne. Uz o torn necego i govorit', cto russkaja ucitel'nica, monastyrka iz Smol'nogo, zila pri nej s semiletnego vozrasta tvoej buduScej nevesty, ucila ee i po-russki i cuzezemnym jazykam, i rukodel'jam ... Da! vot esce : ja cut' ne pozabyla skazat', cto po dva goda ezdil k Bedrincovym kazduju nedelju tancmejster ot knjazja Dragol'skogo, tot samyj, cto i knjaion ucil, i bral cut' li ne po 15 r. za vecer; da v svoem èkipaze dolzno bylo privozit' i otvozit' ego. VidiS' li, drug moj, cto v vospitanii Nadezdy Sergeevny ne bylo upusceno.30

Such individualization of expression based on class origin and personality is one of the hallmarks of Somov's technique, and an element of his prose which lends additional verisimilitude. Typically, all the interior narrators of the framed tales enjoy distinctive methods of speech; the same is true of the two stories presented "objectively" : the epistolary novelette of Léon, discussed above, and the memoir of Demid Kalistratoviô, the frustrated and pathetic minor clerk who is the protagonist of "Svatovstvo". Although "Svatovstvo" is technically not a skaz tale, since it is a written memoir, the characteristic elements of skaz are present: picturesque, racy, highly individualized mode of first person narration. However, with respect to illusions of reality, "Roman v dvux pis'max" is more productive than "Svatovstvo", because the latter is more concerned with recording Ukrainian rural customs than with describing a life situation. It has been stated elsewhere in this paper that our essential concern here is to demonstrate the potentials realized by Somov's works for the generation of illusions of reality. The immanent elements, or invariants, have been discussed, and now we must proceed briefly to explore in what ways Somov anticipated techniques typical of canonical Realism, that aggregate of norms which prevailed in Russian literature during the latter half of the nineteenth century. A number of these, such as psychologization, motivation, speech differentation, objective narration 80

Ibid., p. 508.

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have already been treated as so-called invariants, although they were also typical of Realism itself.31 Others were more specifically normative for the Realist period, such as the prevalance of metonymy as the central trope (the formulation of Roman Jakobson), the concern with petty — and often coarse — details, such as tattered furniture, dirty fingernails, and, on another level, the focus upon the realities of everyday life. This latter concern has broad implications, because it presupposes subject matter derived from contemporary social situations and persona selected from the populace in being — of whatever social or economic status. Now, it would be possible for a dexterous author to utilize in a work all the identifiable normative elements of nineteenth century Realism and still fail to create any illusion of reality; however, since nineteenth century Realism purported to present life realistically, and since its techniques were presumably developed to assist in this presentation, we can assume that it had some success. I do not want to labor the point of Somov's identification, albeit partial, with Realism, except to indicate that these techniques assisted him, just as they did the Realists, in establishing illusions of reality. With the Realists who followed him, Somov shared an interest in what may loosely be termed "the common man". No princes, barons, or other representatives of the haut monde appear in his gallery. On the other hand, even a limited inventory of protagonists and supporting characters gives evidence of an acquaintance with and interest in less exalted ranks of society. His stories with Russian or Ukrainian settings are concerned with the lives and loves of rural landowners, junior officers, petty clerks, district officials, bailiffs, village priests, and peasants. His tales with foreign settings center upon station masters, innkeepers, brewers, barbers, and servants. In treating the aforementioned types, Somov often employed means common to later satirical realists. The description of the district doctor in "Samoubijca" and his pronouncement at the inquest of the murdered landowner is a good example of the technique: Lekar' prinjalsja svidetel'stvovat' telo i ob"javil, cto rana ne mogla byt' nanesena postoronnoju rukoju; cto razrez pokazyvaet svobodnoe dejstvie ruki, sdelavSej onyj; cto nasil'stvennym obrazom, to est' cuzimi rukami, nel'zja bylo by nacat' ego s etoj storony, vybrat' tak udacno promezutok mezdu pozvonkami gorla, i s odnogo raza koncit', kak on nazyval, vsju operaciju. "Iz nabljudenij moix nad ranoj, ja vizu, gospoda", pribavil on, obratjas' k Kapitan81

For example, Dmitry Cizevsky, in his Outline of Comparative Slavic Literatures (Boston, 1952), emphasizes the link between motivation and plausibility as basic to Realism. See pp. 106-107.

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ispravniku, Strjapcemu i Sekretarju: "cto celovek prinimavsijsja za ètu operaciju, dolzen byl imet' osnovatel'nye poznanija v Anatomii. Nam izvestno, cto pokojnik byl celovek ucenyj, a verojatno znal Anatomiju. Iz ètogo ja zakljucaju, i prosu vas mnenie moe vnesti v delo o sledstvii, cto nikto inoj, krome ego samogo, ne mog soversit' operacii sej tak lovko i udacno, i cto sledovatel'no, on sam na sebja nalozil ruki".32 The potential of this sort of passage for establishing an illusion of reality is open to the same question as much of satirical realism in general. The point is that Somov, here and elsewhere, demonstrated a competence for a style of satirical realism which subsequently became more broadly employed by the canonical Realists. The passage above, for example, might well have come from Dostoevskij's pen. We have already spoken of psychologization as an attribute of immanent realism, but, at the same time, we have noted that it was a procedure employed by Realists themselves. A more specific feature of psycholgization was the internal monologue [vnutrennij monolog], a device fully developed by Tolstoj. Cernysevskij credits Lermontov with the first faltering efforts with this device,33 and this is proper, since it is clear that in parts of Peôorin's Journal there is an effort to achieve greater psychological verisimilitude by presenting the ideas of Peôorin at the very moment they rise to the surface of his consciousness. Somov also experiments with a similar technique in "Gajdamak", which appeared in Severnye Cvety na 1828 god. This particular story, one of a series of anecdotes united by the figure of the rebel Garkusa (a Ukrainian Robin Hood), is not notable for its realism — other than that connected with local color. Yet here, in this unlikely surrounding, appears the lengthy monologue of the querulous Stetsko, who berates his master for sending him on a trivial errand in the middle of a stormy night. Interspersed with Stetsko's uncomplimentary remarks about his master are those thoughts which arise in reaction to external stimuli — a noise in the garden, the rain, the darkness. These fragmentary thoughts convey to the reader an impression of being privy to the flow of Stetsko's ideas as they take form in his consciousness.34 Though the utilization of this method is hardly sufficient to spark an illusion of reality against the manifestly romantic content of the story, it is a further indication of Somov's kinship with later Realists, so much the more that he employed 32

Literaturnaja Gazeta, 1830 god, Tom II, No. 55, p. 150. See G. Struve, "Monologue intérieur : The Origins of the Formula and the First Statement of its Possibilities", Publications of the Modern Language Association of America, LXIX (December, 1954), pp. 1101-1111. 84 Severnye Cvety na 1828 god, pp. 246-247. 33

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related methods in other tales, as for example his treatment in "Jurodivyj" of the flux of thoughts of the agitated and insomnolent Mel'skij. Somov was not concerned with casual or apparently irrelevant background details: the technique of petty details was developed later. He did, however, present functional descriptive detail, especially of interiors. Like the Realists, he knew that rooms were an extension of their inhabitants' personalities. Thus, in "Samoubijca", the exterior narrator reports: Ja voSel v prostornuju i cistuju komnatu, s lipovymi mytymi stenami i takimi ze lavkami vokrug vsex sten. V perednem uglu stojal stol, s razrisovannymi na nem butylkami, carkami, tarelkami i drugimi prinadleznostjami derevenskoj piruSki. Na stole gorela sveca v vysokom zeleznom podsvecnike. V uglu, pod boznicej, lezalo na lavke neskol'ko bol'six i malyx knig, v istaskannyx i pocernelyx perepletax.36 Here not only the cleanliness and modest furnishings of the room reflect upon their occupant, but the books, which are subsequently catalogued, are shown to have played a role in the formation of their owner's personality — and even affected his style of speech. These devices of Realism function effectively in this case to establish the strong illusion of reality which pervades the opening passages of this story. VI It has been demonstrated that Somov's art embodied many of the compositional techniques and elements through the use of which, with varying degrees of persuasiveness, illusions of reality are achieved. One may ask, finally, if this fact is important, and the answer is an unqualified affirmative. First, knowledge of Somov's means of achieving illusions of reality helps to define and distinguish his particular art and assists us in placing him in the development of Russian prose. An understanding of the quality, or convincingness, of his achievement in enabling readers to view directly the life situations he dramatized provides a better basis for evaluation of his success as an author. He was far more than simply a writer of Ukrainian tales or a modest epigonous of Romanticism. Rather, in the satisfaction of his own demand for verisimilitude in literature, he incorporated into his art many of the invariants of realism and anticipated several of the techniques shortly to be widely employed by Russian Realists. Perhaps the real shortcoming of approaching Somov from the 85

Literaturnaja Gazeta, 1830 god, Tom II, No. 53, p. 124.

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restricted point of view of the present investigation is that it touches upon only a part of his art and leaves unexposed many of its other valuable qualities. Somov's subtlety as a folk legendist, as a writer of travel notes, as a parodist and author of comic satires must also be elucidated to render complete justice to his talent.36 UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

M

M y b o o k on Somov'" prose will be completed in the near future.

SKAMANDRYCI A POEZJA ROSYJSKA POCZ^TKU XX WIEKU

KRYSTYNA POMORSKA

Tytul wydaje si? zapowiadac kolejne rozwazania nad wplywami — wzajemnymi lub jednostronnymi — poezji polskiej i rosyjskiej. Kolejne, bowiem literatura na ten temat sktada si? na bardzo obszerny dzial badan slawistycznych, zwlaszcza w Polsce. Wystarczy przypomniec tylko prace Waclawa Lednickiego przed II wojn^, a po wojnie publikacje kwartalnika Instytutu Polsko-Radzieckiego, a obecnie Wydzialu Slowianoznawstwa, wychodz^ce w czasopismie Slavia Orientalis. Wspomniane tu badania gtown^ uwag? skupiaj^ na tym, jak wygl^dala recepcja literatury rosyjskiej w Polsce. Podstaw^ recepcji jakiejs literatury obcej sq, jak wiadomo, przeklady, przedstawienia teatralne, a takze prace krytyczno-naukowe o tej literaturze. St^d juz tylko logicznym wnioskiem wydaje si? wplyw — w danym wypadku literatury rosyjskiej na polsk^. Z drugiej strony badania porownawcze doszukuj^ si? "spraw rosyjskich" w literaturze polskiej lub, odwrotnie, "spraw poskich" w literaturze sqsiada (por. np. ostatni^ ksi%zk? W. Lednickiego Tolstoj between " War and Peace", The Hague, 1965). Studium nasze nie stawia sobie takiego zadania. Wydaje si?, ze praca porownawcza moze polegac na prostym zestawieniu paralelnych procesow, w danym wypadku poetyckich, podlegaj^cych takiej procedurze na zasadzie: s^siedztwa geograficznego i j?zykowo-kulturalnego, czasowego i historyczno-sytuacyjnego, a wreszcie na zasadzie wspolnych zrodel inspiracji i wzajemnego zainteresowania sob^, co wyplywa z pierwszych trzech punktow. W tym wypadku ewentualne wplywy okaz^ si? w orbicie szerszej problematyki, mog$ z niej wyniknqc lub nie, w zaleznosci od szeregu czynnikow i ich ukladu. W wypadku niewystqpienia lub nieznacznosci wplywow samo porownanie s^siednich zjawisk jest procedure w pelni uzasadnionq i moze przyniesc interesuj^ce rezultaty.

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Wydaje sie shiszny wybör wlasnie grupy poetyckiej Skamandra jako reprezentatywnej paraleli w stosunku do poezji w Rosji porewolucyjnej, az do polowy lat 20-tych. Literatura krytyczna zawsze podkreslala przemozne znaczenie Skamandra w poezji Polski wyzwolonej. Wypadnie nam zastanowic si§ raz jeszcze nad przyczynami tak znacznej roli tej ciekawej grupy. Przede wszystkim skupiala ona najwybitniejszych poetöw tego okresu. Twörczosc Wierzynskiego, Tuwima, Iwaszkiewicza, Slonimskiego, Lechonia — to do dzis najszanowniejsza karta poezji 20-lecia mi?dzywojennego, twörczosc szeregu z tych poetöw rozkwita do dzis, idqc z prüdem czasu, a wplyw ich poetyki—niechby zywi^cej tzw. epigonöw —jest jednak duzy. Dalej, znaczenie tej grupy tlumaczy si§ bez w^tpienia dzialalnosci^ i by tak rzec, polityk^ literack^, jak^ rozwijali jej czlonkowie. Obok miesi?cznika Skamander inspirowali oni tez "Wiadomosci literackie", ktörym czasopisma opozycyjne zarzucafy zbytnie zainteresowanie "nowinkami formalnymi" z zagranicy (np. J. Jodlowski w "Kwadrydze"), z niekorzysci^ dla twörczosci rodzimej, to znöw, ze pismo to "grzeszy brakiem profilu", ze jest "bezplciowe". Ale wlasnie ten brak sekciarstwa literackiego, szerokie otwarcie lam dla wszystkich prawie "wiar" i orientacji zapewnilo "Wiadomosciom" popularnosc i szeroki zasi^g oddzialywania na polsk^ kultur? tamtych czasöw. Gdy przegl^damy miesi^cznik Skamander dostrzegamy t? sam^ tendencj?. Drukowali tarn Witkiewicz obok Broniewskiego, Wat obok Wierzynskiego, a w dziale krytyki Siedlecki i Podhorski-Okolöw obok J. Bronowicza. Togo rodzaju nastawienie i polityka literacka Skamandrytöw byla mozliwa dzi?ki pewnemu zasadniczemu ich rysowi: nie tworzyli oni szkoty poetyckiej. Swiadczq. o tym znowu glosy krytyki, ktöra wytykala Skamandrowi przynajmniej 3 glöwne "grzechy", a to: brak zaplecza teoretycznego, "eklektyzm" i "passeizm". 1 Tymczasem wlasnie teoria, sformulowana w manifestach lub artykulach programowych, silne poczucie wspölnoty (wyrazone w tych manifestach) oraz walka ze "starzyzn^", tj. z przeszlosciq b^di bezposredni^, b^dz tez cai^ spuscizn^ kulturow^ — s^ niezbfdnymi wyznacznikami kazdej szkoly literackiej, ktöra organizuje si? w poczuciu koniecznosci wysuni?cia nowych zadan poetyckich i przebudowy literatury. 2 1 Zob. np. sumuj^ce uwagi na ten temat R. Matuszewskiego i S. Pollaka, w: Poezja polska 1914-39, Czytelnik, 1960, "Slowo wstepne". 2 Por. np. JI. r H H 3 6 y p r , " O i i h t (J>HJiocoCKoä jihphkh", IIoamuKa, V ( J l e H H H r p a f l , 1929).

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Je§li wezmiemy nazwiska poetöw rosyjskich tego okresu, ktörych mozna postawic obok Tuwima, Wierzynskiego i innych tu wymienionych, b?d^ to: Majakowski, Chlebnikow, Pasternak, Achmatowa (wymieniamy najbardziej reprezentatywnych). I zaraz stwierdzimy, ze w wszyscy oni byli czlonkami i wspöftwörcami szköl poetyckich sensu stricto, przyczym byfy to wlasnie dwa glöwne organizmy poetyckie tego okresu — kubofuturyzm i akmeizm, ktöre w latach 1912 i 1913 wyst^pify jako opozycja (o roznym nasileniu) przeciwko swemu przodkowi — symbolizmowi, a takze, w wypadku futurystöw, przeciwko calej przeszlosci literackiej i kulturowej. Akmeisci wysun?li zasad? "röwnowagi" w traktowaniu przedmiotu oraz wyst^pili przeciw naduzywaniu symbolu, to znaczy faktycznie j?zyka zmetaforyzowanego — opieraj^c na tym swöj protest przeciw poetyce symbolizmu.3 Futurysci postawili spraw? warsztatu, eksperymentu ("poezji utrudnionej") i pracy jako zasad przeciw teorii natchnienia i nieswiadomego, spontanicznego procesu twörczosci, tak charakterystycznego dla symbolizmu. Dalej przypuscili atak na cal$ tradycyjn^, od romantyzmu si? datuj^c^ koncepcj? poety i "ja" lirycznego, ktöre uznali za zbyteczne i nierelewantne dla poezji czystego slowa.4 W zwi^zku z tym najsilniej ze wszystkich dot^d podkreslili oni zasad? grupowosci, czyli naczeln^ zasad? szkoly poetyckiej: "CTOHTB HA rjibiöe cjioßa 'MM'" — glosi manifest " C J I O B O KAK T a K 0 B 0 e " . Wyci$gni?to tez z tego daleko id^ce konsekwencje — jak anonimowosc pracy pisarskiej lub tez wspolne autorstwo, a takze odrzucono biografizm we wszelkiej postaci.5 Podczas gdy wszystkie przejrzane tu punkty skierowane s^ przeciw symbolizmowi, sytuacja skamandrytöw byla wr?cz odwrotna w odniesieniu do tradycji Mlodej Polski. Niezaleznie od braku zwartej i sformulowanej teorii mozemu przeciez möwic o pewnych punktach ogölnej swiadomosci poetyckiej tej grupy, ktöra da si? wyczytac z ich poezji. Oceniaj^c t? swiadomosc zauwazymy, ze wlasciwie niewiele si? ona röznila od postawy polskich symbolistöw. Wezmy prymarne zagadnienie poezji i poety. W latach interesuj^cych nas tu jako moment najbardziej charakterystyczny, tj. w okresie pierwszych tomiköw Tuwima, Wierzynskiego czy Lechonia — poezja dla wszystkich tych poetöw ma wspölny mianownik. A wi?c, po pierwsze, rodzi si? ona z tak czy inaczej poj?tego natchnienia. W Tuwimowskim a

Por. H . C . TyMHJieB, "HacneflHe CHMBOJOI3ME H AKMERAM",

*

Z o b . "CJIOBO KaK TaicoBoe", 1913.

6

AUOAAOH,

NO. 1 (1913).

Problem ten analizuj? szerzej w rozprawce "Literature, a teoria literatury", American Contribution to the Fifth International Congress of Slavists (The Hague, 1964).

336

KRYSTYNA POMORSKA

liryku "Jak wiersz powstaje" "Czeka dusza na zdarzenie, / Na nieuchwytne cos ...", by potem poddawac siç woli siowa, ktore "kaze duszy: dalej mow". Slowo zrodzone z natchnienia staje siç wiçc, jak u romantykow i symbolistow, samodzielnym prawodawc^, sprawuj^cym mistycznn wladzç nad dusz$ poety. A wtedy — wicher! Wtedy — szat! Mus i tyranski rozkaz chwili! A potem — spokôj. Skron siç chyli I jeno Ikalbys ... slodko Ikal... 6 Procès tworzenia, wedlug tej samej filozofii, jest spontanicznym przezyciem, ekstaz^, ktore konczy siç slodkim uspokojeniem i wyczerpaniem fizycznym — jak co najmniej u Mickiewicza. Podobne elementy znajdziemy w wierszu "Piesn o radosci i rytmie". Wierzynski rozwija bardziej biologiczn^ koncepcjç tworczosci poetyckiej (charakterystycznq zreszt^ i dla Tuwima). U niego procès twôrczy powstaje i rosnie w poecie niby soki zywotne w roslinie: Wiersze siç we mnie jak wielkie Jabtka czerwone kolysz^, Gçsty mlecz wzbiera sokami, W tluste uderza listowie, Wiatr mnie gor^cy oplywa I duszn^ odurza ciszq Mi^zsz scieka w serce i krwawi^c S^czy siç slowo po slowie. Taki jest zarôd poezji, A procès tworzenia — to radosc dojrzewaj^cego owocu: wiersze "Padaj^ ciçzko na ziemiç, / Pçkaj$ w radosnym chrzçscie ..." Wiersz konczy siç ekstatycznym tonem i podziçkq Bogu. O dni weselne! O noce! O Boze! Co to za wielkie Przerazaj^ce szczçscie! ("Owoce")7 Mozemy tez powotac dokument czysto teoretyczny, mianowicie znany artykul Tuwima z r. 1911, pt. "Manifest powszechnej miiosci (Walt Whitman)". 8 W tym hymnie na czesc poety amerykanskiego, jako piewcy codziennosci i czlowieka z thimu, znajdujemy tez fragment, gdzie autor 6

"Jak wiersz powstaje", Czyhanie na Boga, Wiersze, t. I, Czytelnik, 1955. Rozmowa z puszczq (1929), w: Poezje zebrane, wyd. "Wiadomosci" (Londyn) i Polskiego Towarzystwa Naukowego (New York). 8 "Pro arte et Studio", ogôlnego zbioru z VIII, str. 4-12, 1917. 7

SKAMANDRYCI A POEZJA ROSYJSKA

337

wypowiada siç na temat celu twörczosci poetyckiej. Jest nim, wedlug Tuwima, osi^gniçcie absolutu i dotarcie do Boga. 9 Mamy wiçc znöw tradycyjne, w tym wypadku na wzorach Symbolizmu europejskiego i Mtodej Polski zbudowane pojçcie celu i funkcji twörczosci poetyckiej. Wierzynski rozwija podobny motyw w swej liryce, znacznie pözniej, co prawda, bo w tomie Gorzki urodzaj (1933). Aie wlasnie przez motywy tak, a nie inaczej pojçtej twörczosci poetyckiej tom ten kontynuuje tradycjç skamandryck^. W wierszu "Liryka" cel i dziatanie poezji — to "... aby w kazdym czlowieku / Ciemne, podziemne dr^zyc kopalnie", "Trafic przeczuciem slepem i gluchem / Wprost w sedno ostatecznosci", i wreszcie "Trwac ocalal^, swietlist^ lun^ / Nad sensem zycia i smierci".10 Poeta w tym kontekscie, tzn. przy tak rozumianej poezji, staje siç "swiçtym opçtancem", chodzqcym w oparach swych ekstaz, w szale wesolosci czy tez rozpaczy. St^d u mlodego Tuwima i Wierzynskiego staly jest motyw "szalenstwa" — to upojenia milosci^, to przyrodq, czy tez swiçtego oburzenia. Tak wiçc poeta skamandrytöw pozostaje ontologicznie t^ sam^ postaciq, co poeta Mlodej Polski, tyle tylko, ze czçsciej, a w kazdym razie inaczej siç raduje, porzuciwszy smutek kosmiczny na rzecz zachwytu swiatem i zadowolenia byle blahostk^. Gdy powolamy znöw dla poröwnania przyklady poezji sqsiada, uderzy nas w tym zakresie zupelnie odmienny wachlarz pojçc. Zamiast twörczosci-ekstazy, bezposredniej erupcji poetyckiej pol^czonej z zachwytem, czy tez wrodzonej (albo od Boga danej) zdolnosci tworzenia — mamy tu pojçcie takie jak praca i walka, zmudny procès, przynosz^cy nie tyle upojenie, ile poczucie spelnienia obowi^zku. Twörczosc Majakowskiego ma najsilniej rozwiniçte i w szczegölnej poetyce utrzymane motywy twörczosci-walki, przy czym przechodz^ one czerwon^ niciq od wczesnego okresu do konca zycia poety. Lqczg. siç te motywy stale z S y m b o l i k ^ b r o n i , parady wojskowej, b i t w y , pozaru: . . . I l y n a — PHTM. PH(J)Ma — OrOHb H3 3flaHHH B 3flamie. PoTaiïHOHKOfi

rnaroB

B ôyjibDfCHOM Bepace mioma^eö HANEIATAHO STO M^AMIE.

("150.000.000") • Na teil aspekt artykuhi Tuwima zwraca uwagç M. Gtowiriski w pracy Poetyka J. Tuwima a polska tradycja literacka (Warszawa, 1962). 10 Wierzynski, Poezje zebrane.

338

KRYSTYNA POMORSKA ... r o B o p a no-HameMy

pn(})Ma — 6oHxa, ÖOHKa CflHHaMHTOM... ("PaßOBOp C 4>HHHHCneKTOpOM") ... Ecjm h roBopio "E!"

3 t o HOBaa 6 o M 6 a b lenoBenecKOH 6 o p b 6 e .

("ÜHTtlfi HHTepHailHOHaJl")

I znane wiersze z ostatniego poematu "Bo Becb

tojioc" :

üapaflOM pa3BepHyB c b o h x cTpaHau; BoficKa,

51 npoxojfcy no CTpoieHHOMy (JipoHTy. C t h x h c t o ä t c b h h u o b o Taaceno ...

IIoaMbi 3aMepjm, k acepjiy npnacaB acepno ... — gdzie cala wielka strofa rozwija metafor? röznych rodzajöw i elementow poezji jako rozmaitego kalibru broni i armii stoj^cej w paradnym ordynku. W specjalnym artykule pod wielemöwiqcym tytulem "KaK flejiaTb Majakowski, zgodnie z futurystycznym pojmowaniem twörczosci jako profesji, zajmuje si? swego rodzaju instruowaniem w dzidzinie techniki poetyckiej, ktör$ stosowac nalezy zgodnie z postawionym sobie "zadaniem". Podobne artykuly i cale broszury na ten temat pisal wödz futurystöw — "zaumniköw" Aleksiej Kruczonnych, daj^c przy tym (jak i Majakowski) przyklady ad hoc skomponowanych pröbek poezji oraz komentarzy, jak doskonalic rzemiosio, tzn. w j?zyku futurystöw, jak "robic trudn^ poezji". 11 Nawet najbardziej niezalezny od futurystöw, choc przeciez zwi^zany z nimi12 Pasternak poröwnuje poezj? z przedmiesciem, miejscem w wagonie 3-ciej klasy, redut^ bojow^, a glos poety jest schrypni?ty, to glos pracownika, a nie "cjiaÄKorjiacua": cthxh",

I1033HH, a 6yay KJiacTtcfl Toöofl, h KOHHy npoxpmeB: Tbl He ocamca cjiafflKornaciia, T h — neTo c MecTOM b TpeTteM miacce, Tbl — npuropofl, a He npimeB. Tbl — flynraaa, KaK Mafi, ÜMCKa«, IüeBapflHHa HOHHOÖ pe^yT ,.. 1 3 ("IIO33HH") 11 Por. np. A. KpyieHbix, ie ...

("IlecHH 6e3

CJIOB")

Spotyka si? tez cz?sto u Briusowa: IJapeTBeHHbie fíium, uapcTBeHHaa 6ejiocn> ...

W latach tych, gdy Majakowski pisa! "OöjiaKo B urraHax" (1916), a potem "150.000.000" (1918-1919) — 18-letni Lechoñ, w "Poemacie karmazynowym" zastanawial si? gorzko nad przesztosci^ i terazniejszosci^ swej Ojczyzny, si?gaj^c do najpi?kniejszych tradycji poezji narodowej sprzed wieku. Slonimskiemu przyganial zafascynowany eksperymentem w poezji Podhorski-Okolów, ze rym "egzotyczny" ust?puje u niego przed zbyt wysokim procentem rymu tradycyjnego, nawolywal do "doskonalenia rymu" w poezji polskiej, m.in. drog^ "osi^gni?cia maksymalnego procentu rymów ze spólglosk^ oparcia", 26 podobnie do poetyki Briusowa.27 Ten rym "egzotyczny" Slonimskiego wskazuje wiasnie na umiarkowane jego eksperymentatorstwo, które daloby si? zestawic ze sklonnosciq. do egzotycznych rymów u Briusowa, a szczególnie u niektórych akmeistów, np. u Gumilowa. Symbolizm i akmeizm to kierunki najblizsze Skamandrytom. Z Majakowskim w tych czasach polemizowano, albo przygl^dano mu si? z daleka, choc z zainteresowaniem, lecz chlodno. Warto tu przypomniec swietny sk^dinqd wiersz Slonimskiego "Anty-marsz", napisany w odpowiedzi na "JleBbiii Mapin", typowy przyklad poetyki futurystycznej polqczonej z "zadaniem rewolucyjnym". Slonimski w swej polemice sprowadza zreszt^ program futurystyczny do dose uproszczonych poj?c sportowych, bardziej charakterystycznych dla tego kierunku we Wloszech i w Polsce niz w Rosji. "Swiat nie jest pilkg. futbolow^ ..., Swiat si? podbija glowq, glow$, glow^ ..." Rozumiemy jednak doskonale, ze ta 29

Zob. L. Podhorski-Okolów, "O rymowaniu", Skamander, nr 37 (StyczeA, 1925). Por. B. BprocoB, "O pHMe" i "JIeBH3Ha IlyniKHHa B pnm 3ByKop$m" — wedlug wyrazenia Kruczonycha); 34 po drugie — co wynikalo z warunku pierwszego — j?zyk rosyjski miai znikn^c jako wzór dia modelu. J?zyk ponadrozumowy tego typu miai przypominac raczej j?zyki turkskie — tatarski czy turecki. Do pierwszego nawi^zuje Kruczonych w swym wierszu "XocMonaH" : flHp—6yn—man y6emyp CKJNSI!

BM—co—6y

p—ji—33

Poeta konczy ten krótki utwór adnotacj^ w nawiasie: "c TaTapCKHM OTTeHKOM".35 Kamienskij w jednym ze swych synkretycznych utworów, zlozonym z figur geometrycznych i dzwi?ków uszeregowanych z kolei w fìgury, stara si? dac obraz Konstantynopola, z jego ksztaltami architektonicznymi i "roJiocaMH opHeHTajibHofi Tojinti". 36 Nakreslone tu paralelne zjawiska poezji polskiej i rosyjskiej upowazniaj^ do nast?puj^cych wniosków: (1) Poezja skamandrytów, jako najbardziej reprezentatywna w Polsce od roku 1919 do 1925, kiedy nast?puje polaryzacja Skamandra oraz innych ugrupowan i szkól poetyckich (glównie futurysci, Awangarda, 34 36

36

A. KpyieHwx, 3ayMHuii H3UK CeUtfiyjuiuHoà ...

Ibid.

Zob. almanach, Haeou cpedu odembtx (Mocraa, 1913).

354

KRYSTYNA POMORSKA

Kwadryga) — wykazuje najsilniejsze powinowactwo i podobienstwo z rosyjskim symbolizmem, ktory wowczas zszedl juz byl w Rosji ze sceny, oraz cz?sciowo z akmeizmem, ktory z kierunkow nowoczesnych najsilniej byl z symbolizmem zwi^zany. (2) Poeci Skamandra — glownie Tuwim i Wierzynski — wprowadzaj^ jednoczesnie do swej tworczosci elementy poetyckiego eksperymentatorstwa, jednakze w formie zlagodzonej. W ten sposob rozszerzala si? popularnosc Skamandra jako grupy poetyckiej, ktora odpowiadala szerokim zamowieniom spolecznym. MASSACHUSETTS INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY

ON THE QUESTION OF THE SYNTACTIC STRUCTURE OF GAVRIILIADA AND BORIS GODUNOV

WALTER N. VICKERY

The outstanding works by B. Tomasevskij and K. Taranovskij on the Russian iambic pentameter have yielded valuable insights with regard to stress-patterns and word-boundaries.1 However, as their authors recognized, these investigations are far from giving a complete picture of the nature of a given work of literature. Tomasevskij himself points out the need for the establishment of a meaningful connection between technical studies of versification and general literary problems.2 And in a recent survey of studies on versification devoted to Puskin, V. E. Xolsevnikov, while paying full tribute to the work of these two scholars, regrets their "scientific asceticism" and their failure to link their analyses with an analysis of poetic content.3 The present, far from exhaustive study, involving an analysis of certain syntactic features in Gavriiliada and Boris Godunov, is based on the belief that, even leaving aside the ambitious task of equating the structural features of verse with a specific poetic content, a fuller and more accurate picture of verse structure can be obtained by a more thorough examination of the effect of syntactic structure on the intonational-rhythmic patterns in the line — and by taking more completely into account the question of genre. The influence of syntax on rhythm was indeed recognized, or came to be recognized by Tomasevskij.4 Also, Tomasevskij in his study of Puskin's iambic pentameter, specifically mentions the benefits to be derived from 1

O cmuxe (JleHHHrpafl, 1929) and Pycm deodeanu pumMoeu (Eeorpafl, 1953). nynnoiH, II (MocKBa-JleHHHrpafl, 1962), 433-434. 3 "CTHxocJiOHceHHe", IlyiuKUH: umozu u npodjteMU myiemn (MocKBa-JleHHHrpafl, 1966), 545. * "CTHX H H3BIK", IV, MeztcdyHapodHuu Cbejd cjiaeucmoe (MocKBa, 1958), 19-20. A s N . S. Pospelov notes, Tomasevskij came to this view gradually; see H. C. IIocnejiOB, CuHtnaKcmecKuu cmpou cmuxomeopemiu nylUKUHa (MocKBa, 1960), 5-6. 2

356

WALTER N. VICKERY

syntactic analysis — though he has in mind primarily a comparison of the pentameter with caesura and the pentameter without caesura.6 Taranovskij also makes reference to syntactic features in demonstrating certain points.6 But while paying their due to syntax, both Tomasevskij and Taranovskij nevertheless base their main findings on their studies of stress-patterns and word-boundaries — mainly the former. In effect, their recognition of the importance of syntax plays little or no part in their observations on rhythmic patterns. This neglect of syntactic factors can, we maintain, produce a distorted picture of the rhythmic patterns of a given work.7 Our study of Gavriiliada and Boris Godunov seeks to show that, where these two particular works are concerned, the degree of distortion is considerable. We would, in particular, call in question Taranovskij's view that Gavriiliada's rhythm can be regarded as an intermediate stage between Puskin's 1817-1821 pentameter rhythm and the rhythm of Boris Godunov.8 Unfortunately, considerations of space do not permit an examination of Puskin's 1817-1821 pentameter rhythm. Meanwhile, we will seek to show that Gavriiliada and Boris Godunov differ so substantially in rhythm that to see the former as representing an "intermediate" stage in Puskin's development toward Boris Godunov — on the basis of stress-patterns — is extremely misleading. The approach of both Tomasevskij and Taranovskij appears to have been conditioned by their views on the French décasyllabe. In comparing the French décasyllabe with the Russian iambic pentameter, Tomasevskij and Taranovskij insist on the asymmetry of the former and the symmetry of the latter.9 The obligatory stress on the fourth syllable of the French 6

B cmuxe, 202, 248. * Taranovskij, op. cit., 186-188 and elsewhere. 7 Our study of Boris Godunov is based on 604 lines from the following scenes or passages: (1) "Hon.. Kejma"; (2) "U,apcKne najiaTti" ('Tae rocy/japt?"); (3) "Hou>. Cafl. OoHTaH"; (4) "MocKBa. Llapcwie naJiaTbi" (yMHpaiomHâ ToflyHOB, crp. 54 flo Komia) ; (5) "JIo6Hoe MecTo". In these passages there is a minimum of interruption of one speaker by another and consequently of fragmented lines. Omitted from consideration is the interesting question of how the personality of the different characters is reflected in the verse structure. See JI. H. THMO(j>eeB, Onepm meopuu u ucmopuu pyccKozo cmuxa (MocKBa, 1958), 385. 8 Op. cit., 176: "Kao Ha npena3Hy (J>opMy H3Metjy pHTMa FtynncnHOBa 5 ct. jamôa c MeflnjaHOM H3 pa3flo6iba 1817 a o 1821 h 'Eopnca ToflyHOBa' (1825) m o m m o yKa3ara Ha pnTaM H>eroBe TaBparrajafle' (1821). Kao nrro ce bh#h H3 Hanmx CTaTHCTHxa, npoueHTH cbhx HKTyca y 0B0Me cneBy Jieace 6am raMefjy BemnoiHa KOHCTaTOBaHHx y aeroBoj jmpnuH npe TaBpHjmjafle' h y 'Bopncy ToflynoBy'. 3 a i o je norayHO y npaBy ToMameBCKH Kafl tbpah m ce Ha 0CH0By phtmotkc aHajnrae Haj6oJbe Moace yTBpflHTH He caMO (J)aKaT aa je IlyimcHH 3aacTa ayTop TaBprnrajafle' Hero h noTBpflHTH aeHo flocafl npHMJbeHO flaTHpaae". • Tomasevskij, op. cit., 143-152, and Taranovskij, op. cit., 159-163.

"GAVRIILIADA" AND "BORIS GODUNOV"

357

décasyllabe is seen as producing an unbalanced 4 + 6 line, whereas in Russian the fact that the predominant stresses fall on the second, sixth and tenth syllables is seen as producing a "flowing and symmetrical line", falling into three main stress-groups (trexclennyj). 10 It is true that the obligatory stress on the fourth syllable in the French line more or less ensures a strong caesura, whereas in Russian the caesura may be no more than a scarcely perceptible word-boundary. Nevertheless, the distinction made by Tomasevskij and Taranovskij regarding asymmetry and symmetry requires qualification. First, as Tomasevskij and Taranovskij were aware, it is an oversimplification to think of the French décasyllabe as a line neatly divided into two hemistichs of four and six syllables; while it is true that the obligatory stress on the fourth and tenth syllables constitutes the most important prosodie feature of the décasyllabe, the décasyllabe nevertheless lends itself to a wide variety of rhythmic patterns, and — while preserving the integrity of the caesura — has numerous possibilities for rhythmic subdivisions and variations.11 Secondly, although the absence in the Russian pentameter of an obligatory stress on the caesura is indeed an important factor, differentiating it from its French counterpart, and reducing the strength of the caesura, nevertheless, as will be shown below, the tendency of the Russian pentameter to place its strong stresses on the second, sixth and tenth syllables does not inevitably a) produce a weak caesura, nor b) a "flowing and symmetrical line", divided into three rhythmic units (trexclennosf ). We shall attempt to show that: (1) In Gavriiliada the caesura is for syntactic reasons so strong that (notwithstanding the predominance of stresses on the second, sixth and tenth syllables) the basic prosodie division of the line is into two hemistichs of four and six syllables; (2) In Boris Godunov not only is the caesura far weaker than in Gavriiliada but the overall character of the line differs essentially from that in Gavriiliada; (3) These essential differences are not reflected to any meaningful degree in the figures for word-boundaries and stress-patterns given by Tomasevskij and Taranovskij ; (4) It is therefore methodologically unsound to compare the two works only on the basis of stresses and word-boundaries and impossible 10

Ibid. See M. Grammont, Le Vers français (Paris, 1937), 438-442. For his demonstration of the rhythmic variety of French verse (though it is here the Alexandrine he is defending against the charge of monotony), see pp. 84-87.

11

358

WALTER N. VICKERY

to think of Gavriiliada as marking, rhythmically, a stage in Puskin's development on the way to Boris Godunov. In comparing the relative strength of the caesura (for its effect on the character of the line) in Gavriiliada and Boris Godunov, we shall here limit our attention primarily to three indicative factors: (1) The positioning in the line of the combination of the substantive and its attributive adjective; (2) The word-order as exemplified in the combination of substantive (with or without adjective) and substantive modifier in the genitive (with or without adjective); (3) Syntactic pauses in the second hemistich where these "undermine" the caesura (or the end of the line in its function as a structural marker). 1. The syntactical closeness of the link between the substantive and its attributive adjective clearly has the following consequences: (a) when such a combination occupies a complete hemistich, it imparts to that hemistich a degree of autonomy, and thus — in varying degrees, depending on other syntactic factors — strengthens the caesura; (b) when the component parts of such a combination are in different hemistichs, particularly when one immediately precedes and the other immediately follows the caesura, the caesura is greatly weakened. The occupation of the entire second hemistich by the above-mentioned combination is a characteristic feature of the syntactic ordering of Gavriiliada, e.g.: BoHCTHHy eepeuKu MOAodou MHe floporo

dyuieenoe cnaceme.

In fact, out of 552 lines this combination occurs 141 times — i.e. in 25.5 % of all lines. This is not to say that the same phenomenon is not also found in Boris Godunov, e.g.: Eme

oflHO,

noc/iednee cKa3anbe — MOHCLX mpydoMo6uewu ...

Kor,aa-Hii6yflb

But it occurs less frequently: 112 times in 604 lines — i.e. in 18.5 % of the total lines, which is a significant drop. Further examples of syntactic combinations producing autonomy in the second hemistich are to be found in the following "variants" of the basic substantive-adjective combination: (1)

Two substantives in apposition, e.g.:

"GAVRIILIADA" AND "BORIS GODUNOV" Iiapio He6ec h zocnody Xpucmy

(2)

359

...

Pronoun in place of noun, e.g.: Ee xpaHHJi

DUN COMOZO

ce6n ...

(3) A single substantive or single adjective occupying the entire hemistich, e.g.: B rjiynm nonefl, eda/iu EpycaAUMa ... H nepefl Heft KOJieHonpeKjioHembiu ...

(4) Two adjectives modifying the same substantive, e.g.: JleHHBbift MyjK ceoew cmapou jieuKOu ...

(5)

Two substantives with one modifying adjective, e.g.: Ce^oft

CTapHK,

tvioxou cmoAxp u tuiomnuK ...

(6) Second substantive modifying or modified by the substantive linked with the adjective, e.g.: Hora jik>6bh, MceMuyoKHWu pad 3y6oe ...

(7) One substantive grammatically linked to or determined by another, e.g.: CnoKoftHbiii coh, e cynpyze yeepeme, B ceMeftcTBe Map, u k 6/iuwcHeMy jiioSoebl

All these syntactic combinations, irrespective of surrounding syntactic elements or syntactic pauses, assure for the second hemistich a considerable degree of autonomy. The figures for these "variants" are in Gavriiliada 63 and in Boris Godunov 46 lines — not in itself a very significant difference. But if we add the figures for the "variants" to the original figures for substantive-adjective combinations, we obtain 204 for Gavriiliada against 158 for Boris Godunov, or 37% against 26.2% — a significant difference. Returning to our original substantive-adjective combination, it is worth noting that of the 141 Gavriiliada examples 42 show the adjective following the substantive. This surely tends to foreground the combination. In Boris Godunov, with its more normal order, of the 112 such combinations only 26 show the adjective following the substantive. In concluding our examination of the substantive-adjective combination in the second hemistich, let us note that its autonomy is enhanced when it is balanced by a parallel (but inevitably shorter) combination in the first hemistich. Both Tomasevskij and Taranovskij cite as an example of

360

WALTER N. VICKERY

meticulous observance of the "French" caesura the following line by Tredjakovskij: IIpHflTHMii 6per! jiio6e3Has CTpaHa!

It will be noted that the caesura here is dependent not only on the fourthsyllable stress but on the syntactic parallelism. If we insist both on fourth-syllable stress and parallelism, we find 20 clearcut examples of this type of line in Gavriiliada against a possible 6 in Boris Godunov (depending on how generously one defines parallelism).12 As noted above, when the component parts of the substantive-adjective combination are in different hemistichs, the effect is to weaken the caesura. This phenomenon follows two basic patterns: (1)

a verbal form is interposed between the component parts, e.g.: H Mupme npHMH ddazocjioeeHbe ... H nemonucb

OKOHieHa MOH ...

(2) The component parts appear back-to-back, straddling the caesura, (or with an insignificant monosyllable interposed), e.g.: H roHoeo cynpyza HaroTy! H cxuMy 3flecb Hecmnyio BocnpuMy ...

The former type occurs — contrary to our general thesis — more frequently in Gavriiliada than in Boris Godunov — 14 times as against 6. The explanation would appear to lie in the more normal word order of the latter work. The second type of pattern (more damaging to the strength of the caesura) appears, however, as might be expected, significantly less frequently in Gavriiliada than in Boris Godunov — only 8 times as against 33.13 Moreover, the placing of the substantive-adjective combination in 12

In view of the fact that the first hemistich contains only 4 syllables, the substantiveadjective combination occurs relatively infrequently in this position and — apart from those instances just mentioned where it parallels a similar combination in the second hemistich — is not discussed in our text. We may note briefly, however, that the combination occurs 80 times in Gavriiliada and 61 times in Boris Godunov. Of the 80 Gavriiliada examples 47 conclude the hemistich with a monosyllabic noun, i.e. with stress, e.g.: JlK)6e3HHX ycT ... CMHpeHHMX CTpyH ...

Of the 61 Boris Godunov examples only 22 follow this pattern. Here too then, though on a smaller scale, the tendency toward hemistichal autonomy (where this particular combination is involved) is greater in Gavriiliada than in Boris Godunov. 13 Excluded from this count were 2 lines from Gavriiliada and 5 lines from Boris

"GAVRIILIADA" AND "BORIS GODUNOV"

361

this position is in Gavriiliada not once followed by a syntactic pause in the second hemistich, whereas of the 33 Boris Godunov examples 8 have syntactic pauses in the second hemistich — which means not merely the weakening of the caesura but, in effect, the creation of a new "syntactic" caesura, e.g.: OH Aemonucb ceofo BezieT; H nacTO ... HH na uejie ebic0K0M, HH BO B3opax ...

The examination of the positioning of one syntactic combination and certain "variants" does not, of course, comprise an exhaustive syntactic analysis of the two works under discussion. It does, however, serve as a powerful indicator of different syntactic tendencies in the two works and, in particular, of a marked difference in them of the function of the caesura. 2. The greater strength of the caesura in Gavriiliada as compared with Boris Godunov also owes much to the word-order. Some indication of this can be seen from the foregoing discussion. We noted, for example, the greater frequency in Gavriiliada of syntactic parallelism between hemistichs, e.g.: H a CTPOHHMH CTAH, HA AEBCTBEHHOE JIOHO . . .

And our demonstration of the relatively stronger tendency in Gavriiliada for certain specific syntactically closely linked combinations to occupy the second hemistich is also pertinent to the question of word-order, since the syntactic autonomy of the hemistich is involved. However, this tendency has a much wider application than has so far been indicated. It should be pointed out that in general the strength of the caesura in Gavriiliada rests to a great extent on two factors: (1) the division of the line into different syntactic units or, more conservatively stated, a switch in syntactic function occurring at the caesura; Godunov in which, notwithstanding the fact that the substantive-adjective straddles the caesura, the presence of a second adjective in the second hemistich was considered as having altered in some degree the effect of the straddling. The lines omitted are: Bo rny6HHe CBOefi Heo6o3pnMofi ... ITpn MaTepn flOKyuiHBoft h crporoB ... HafiaeT MO0 Tpyn ycepflHMii, 6e3biMHHHbili ... Bee TOT ace BHA CMHpeHHbiii, BejiHiaBwi. Ero flyme crpaaaiomefi H 6ypHoft. HaJioxcmnia 6e3MOJiBHaa TBOS ... K a n FLEBOIKE FLOBEPIHBOFT H o n a 6 o f i

...

362

WALTER N. VICKERY

(2) inversion. Both these factors are illustrated in the first two lines of Gavriiliada: BoHCTHHy eBpeflKH MOJIOflOft MHe floporo ayineBHoe cnaceHbe.

Each of the four hemistichs performs a distinct and separate syntactic function; and the effect of hemistichal segmentation is greatly enhanced by the inverted word-order which gives to each unit an increased syntactic independence. The switching of syntactic function at the caesura is far less marked in Boris Godunov and, as its genre would lead one to expect, the word-order is more normal, there is less inversion, and consequently hemistichal segmentation (even when this is syntactically present) is far less apparent. The differing tendencies in word-order of the two works may be illustrated by a comparison of their substantival groups consisting of a substantive (with or without adjective) and a substantive modifier in the genitive (with or without adjective), e.g.: (Hora jiio6bh), (Cyflb6bi Moeii

(jKeivwyMCHbiH p a a 3y6oB) ... o6imipHbie 3a6oTH ...)

In Gavriiliada there are 121 such groups, in Boris Godunov only 71 (which comparison alone may, incidentally, be held to be indicative of a "leaner" and less verbose syntax in the latter work). In Gavriiliada the genitive modifier precedes the modified substantive 45 times and follows it 76 times; whereas in Boris Godunov the genitive modifier precedes the substantive only 15 times, following it 56 times. A. Wierzbicka has pointed out that in Gavriiliada 5 substantival groups of this type "are spread out over two lines, with the genitive modifier in the first line", e.g.: C M H p e H H b l X C T p y H , 6bITI> MOHCeT, H a K O H e i l ,

Ee njieHflT nepKOBHtie HaneBti. 1 4

The same phenomenon occurs 3 times in Boris Godunov, e.g.: H Tpe6yio, i t o 6 tm nyinn cBoeii MHe Taitabie Tenepfa o t k p h j i Haflextflti ...

More indicative for present purposes of comparison is the difference in the two works when the group under discussion is spread out over two lines, with the genitive modifier in the second line, e.g.: 14 "K Bonpocy o nopjwice cjiob b noiacKOM h pyccKOM d m e " , IIosmuKa, II (BapmaBa, 1966), 362.

"GAVRIILIADA" AND "BORIS GODUNOV"

363

H a CTPOFTHHH CTAH, HA AEBCTBEHHOE JIOHO

Pa6w cBoett ... This occurs only twice in Gavriiliada as against 6 times in Boris Godunov. The effect of this syntactic ordering is to weaken the end of the line particularly when, as in Boris Godunov, the line end is unmarked by rhyme but — provided the genitive modifier occupies only the first hemistich — to strengthen the caesura in the second of the two lines. This is in fact the case except in one example from Boris Godunov: XoTenocb MHe Te6a cnpocaTt o CMepra

^HMHTPHH napeBHna ... In this example the boundaries of both line and caesura are eliminated. A. Wierbicka has also pointed out that in Gavriiliada substantival groups of this type fill out the entire line on 21 occasions.15 The same phenomenon occurs 12 times in Boris Godunov. Significant for the present inquiry is the fact that, in these examples, in Gavriiliada the modifier (occupying the first hemistich) precedes the modified substantive (occupying the second hemistich) 12 times as against only 3 times in Boris Godunov, e.g.: H3panjM Ha,zie)Kfla Monoaaa! 3eMJin poflHofi MHHyBinyio cyflb6y ...

More typical of Boris Godunov is the more normal word-order giving less autonomy to the genitive modifier, less segmentation, and making the caesura either less clearly perceptible, e.g.: n o « BnacTHio HcecroKoro npHmejitiia ...

or in effect syntactically eliminating the caesura (4 times), e.g.: Ee3yMHi>ie noTexn

K>IU.IX JICT . . .

Not counting the examples just discussed, i.e. when the group in question fills out an entire line, there are in Gavriiliada 10 examples of lines showing the genitive modifier in the first hemistich and the modified substantive in the second hemistich, e.g.: Ho TpeuHH HaBen yracna Bepa ... In Boris Godunov this occurs only once: M O N A C T B I P H BH.II H O B H H N P H H H M A N

...

When both the genitive modifier and the modified substantive occur in the 15

Ibid., 363.

364

WALTER N . VICKERY

second hemistich, the modifier comes first in Gavriiliada on 10 occasions, thus enhancing the hemistich's autonomy and at times "shielding" the modified substantive from preceding parts of the clause (e.g. a transitive verb) in the first hemistich, e.g.: HTO6

ycjiaflHTb MJiaaoro cepaua npa3flHOCTb ...

On 24 occasions in Gavriiliada the modifier follows the modified substantive, but, owing to various syntactic factors, this does not normally weaken the caesura to any great degree. In Boris Godunov the normal word-order is found on 26 occasions, while the inverted order (with modifier preceding) occurs only 3 times! The substantival group discussed provides a clear illustration of the more normal word-order of Boris Godunov. Our examination is motivated by the fact, I believe, that normalcy of word-order, when it does not weaken the caesura, nevertheless does nothing to emphasize it or increase its strength; whereas the inverted word-order, characteristic of Gavriiliada, augments the impression of hemistichal segmentation and positively strengthens the caesura. 3. Clearly one of the most significant factors determining the intonational and rhythmic character of the line of verse is the positioning of the syntactic pauses — both at the end of the line and within the body of the line. In the case of the iambic pentameter with caesura syntactic pauses in the second hemistich are of particular significance since — unless they are counterbalanced by pauses at the end of the line and at the caesura — they will tend to produce either enjambment or a weakening of the caesura, or both. In this respect, as in others, the syntax of Gavriiliada and Boris Godunov shows marked differences. These are so apparent as to require only brief mention. We know from our limited inquiry into certain syntactic combinations (section 1) that in 204 lines (37 %) there is no syntactic pause in the second hemistich in Gavriiliada. Further investigation reveals that a syntactic pause of sufficient strength to interrupt the intonational flow in the second hemistich is quite atypical of Gavriiliada. There is scarcely any interruption, for example, in the following line: CMHpeHHblX CTpyH, 6BITB MOJKeT, HaicoHeu . . .

This is not to say that Gavriiliada does not offer a very limited number of lines in which there is a genuinely perceptible syntactic pause in the second hemistich, e.g.:

"GAVRIILIADA" AND "BORIS GODUNOV"

365

Ilo KpacoTe, no ÔJiecicy, no ma3aM ... Such pauses do affect the intonational character of the line. The last example breaks it up into three rhythmic groups (trexclennost '). But such pauses do not basically affect the caesura, since they are counterbalanced by an equally strong pause at the caesura. The caesura is affected, as indicated above, only when there is no counterbalancing pause after the fourth syllable to offset the pause in the second hemistich. This occurs in Gavriiliada in only three lines, only one of which provides a "flagrant" example, viz: HTO ATFLEJIAETMapna?

Fae OHa ...

% y3Haio Toro, KTO Haniy EBy ...

H, 3aKHneBflymoft,Tepanca B HeM ...

Another characteristic feature of Gavriiliada's syntax concerns the syntactic pause at the end of the line. Where we have enjambment, the enjambment never carries through to any position within the following line other than the end of the first hemistich, e.g. : Ha CTpoHHbrii CTaH, Ha aeBCTBeHHoe JIOHO Pa6ti cBoett ... This arrangement has the effect of strengthening the caesura in the second line. At the same time the end of the first line cannot be considered to be "obliterated" as a marker since it is rhymed. In fact, an examination of the positioning of the syntactic pauses in Gavriiliada confirms the impression gained from our discussion in the two earlier sections — that both the caesura and the line's end are strongly marked, and serve to set up (allowing, as with the French décasyllabe, for rhythmic subdivisions) a characteristic 4 + 6 rhythmic inertia. The syntactic pauses in the second hemistich of Boris Godunov testify to a very different syntactic ordering. Taking into account only those lines where a) there is no syntactic pause at the caesura, and b) there is a significant syntactic pause in the second hemistich, we find 46 such examples in 604 lines. Of these 46 examples, 4 occur when there is a change of speaker or when a new character comes on stage and distracts the speaker; this still leaves 42 examples in 600 lines. Examples are not difficult to find: IIoflHTe Bee — ocTaBbTe oflHoro IJapeBHia co MHOIO . . . or He H3MeHflfl TeieHBH fleji. npHBBPuca ...

366

WALTER N. VICKERY

or HeT, nojrao MHe npHTBopcTBOBaTb! cica^cy ...

It may be noted that in the first example here given, the enjambment involves the substantive-adjective combination discussed above. The syntactic ordering of Boris Godunov shows on occasion a tendency to undermine not only the role of the caesura (i.e. the independence of the two hemistichs) but also the line as a prosodic unit. V. Zirmunskij quite rightly points out: "Puskin's small tragedies show an abundance of run-on lines while Boris Godunov still makes very sparing use of them". 16 Nevertheless, as is to be expected in view of the genre, Boris Godunov is in its syntactic structure (both as regards the caesura — which is observed in well over 50 % of the lines in the small tragedies, and as regards the ending of the line) far closer to the small tragedies than to Gavriiliada. This is even less surprising when one recalls Puskin's own doubts as to the wisdom of retaining the caesura in Boris Godunov, and when we remember that he had before him the example of Russian precursors, acquainted with English and German drama, who had dispensed with the caesura.17 Furthermore, though Puskin did indeed retain the caesura in Boris Godunov, the overall syntactic structuring of his tragedy was certainly influenced by these same Russian precursors. Therefore, not only the question of genre is here involved. Boris Godunov does not constitute merely a move from Voltaire's La Pucelle to Voltaire's Nanine; it constitutes a move away from the French tradition to the Anglo-GermanRussian tradition. This fact has been noted by Tomasevskij and Taranovskij. It is all the more surprising, therefore, that Gavriiliada should be seen by them as marking an intermediate stage in Puskin's development, for between Gavriiliada and Boris Godunov there is no real development in the sense of steady growth; there is, rather, an abrupt shift — brought about partly by a change in genre, partly by a change in the tradition on which Puskin drew. Our examinations of certain syntactic features of Gavriiliada and Boris Godunov, incomplete though it is, leads to the following conclusions: (1) The grammatical structure of these two works is significantly at variance; (2) Gavriiliada'% caesura retains its significance by syntactic devices to a far greater degree than we might at first have believed had our attention "

17

Introduction to Metrics (The Hague, 1966), 170. TomaSevskij, op. cit., 157-158.

"GAVRIILIADA" AND "BORIS GODUNOV"

367

been focused primarily on the absence of an obligatory stress on the fourth syllable; (3) Gavriiliada's caesura is strongly reflected in the intonational and rhythmic inertia of the lines, and the sense of a division of the line into two hemistichs is stronger than that of a division into three rhythmic units (;trexclennost'), though the two (as illustrated in one example and as can be demonstrated with the French décasyllabe) are not incompatible; (4) In Boris Godunov the caesura plays a far less significant role, as does also the end of the line (normally unmarked by rhyme, not infrequently subject to enjambment, and often weakened in its role as a marker by a strong syntactic pause in the second hemistich) ; (5) The marked differences in syntactic structure between Gavriiliada and Boris Godunov are to be attributed both to genre and to a change of literary tradition rather than to some steady development and change in the rhythmic patterns preferred by the poet. In conclusion, I wish to state that the above remarks should not be interpreted as having a pedantically polemical aim, but should rather be taken as a renewed plea that in the invaluable work of the type accomplished by such outstanding scholars as Tomasevskij and Taranovskij greater consideration be given to such factors as syntax and genre. UNIVERSITY OF COLORADO

SOME REMARKS ABOUT THE STYLE OF BUNIN'S EARLY PROSE

THOMAS WINNER

In this paper we shall discuss various stylistic characteristics of Bunin's early stories, written between 1892 and 1907. In discussions of the history of Russian literature, the prose of Bunin is sometimes placed outside the mainstream of the development of Russian realistic prose, a view which is doubtless related to his departure from certain of the traditions of realism, particularly in the early years of his creative activity. Yet his relation to the masters of Russian prose of the last century cannot be denied, and his position in the development of modern Western prose is by no means insignificant. Bunin's debt to the masters of Russian realistic prose, Gogol', Turgenev, Gon5arov, Tolstoj and Cexov, has not gone unrecognized.1 We find, in Bunin's works, Gogol's brightly colored landscapes and personified nature, and the musical use of the Russian language. Bunin's writings also show traces of Turgenev's lyrical nature settings and his characteristic musical and poetic prose style. Again, Bunin's use of evocative memories and recollections recalls Tolstoj and GonCarov; but in this respect, Bunin is, as we shall try to demonstrate, an important innovator. However, it is clearly to Cexov that Bunin is most directly indebted. The pervasive lyrical tone of Bunin's prose, its compactness and, above all, the very limited reliance in Bunin's works on external action, are all familiar to us from the art of Cexov, whose influence has been repeatedly noted,2 although it is later denied by 1

D. S. Mirsky, Contemporary Russian Literature (New York, 1926), p. 124; Renato Poggioli, "The Art of Ivan Bunin", Harvard Slavic Studies, I (1953), 252. 2 4>. J\. EaTMinKOBa, "MB. A. EymiH", B C. A. BeHrepoB, PyccKan Aumepamypa XXeem (MocKBa, 1915), 354; A. H3MafijiOB, Flecmpue 3HaMena (MocKBa, 1913), 201; H. C. Ta3ep, ffooKmn6pcKaH npo3a H. A. Bymma, aBTopeepaT AHccepTainw (JIbBOB, 1964), 11; JI. HHKyjmH, lexoe, ByHUH, Kynpun. JIumepamypHue nopmpemu (MocKBa, 1960), 189, 246-247.

370

THOMAS WINNER

Bunin himself.3 His relation to Cexov was not one of simple imitation. In certain respects, Bunin went far beyond Cexov. His early stories achieve greater compactness than Cexov's serious stories, and rely less on external action. In Cexov's Step' external action is relegated to the journey of the travellers through the steppe landscape, whereas in Bunin's early stories even such a slight external action is frequently absent. In a letter to N. D. Telesov of 18 June 1899,4 Bunin expresses his views on the fabula: ... c yflOBOJibCTBHeM y3Ha_n, h t o t b i coBepineHHO t o ace HcntiTtiBaeuib, h t o h h, t o ecTfc, a c y e m b c o i o a c e T H h B t i n j i e B b r a a e n i b . 3fi-6ory, 3 t o B e p H o , h o BepHO h t o , h t o B e e 3 t o n o f l J i o c T b . K n e p T y c i o a c e T H , He T p y j K b c a B b i a y M b i B a T b ,

a

imiHH, HTO BHflen H HTO npHHTHO BCnOMHHTb.

The early stories may thus be characterized as prose poems, brief vignettes, or mood paintings which are centered around the development of a special atmosphere. Typically, they may be limited to a picture based on lyrical recollections evoked by sights, smells, sounds or taste. While critics may agree that Bunin's connections with the Russian past are significant, the relation of Bunin's work to contemporary literary trends in Russia and in the West, and his contribution to developments in the literary art which followed him, have not been adequately defined. Thus few have noted Bunin's connection with the esthetic revival which flourished during the last decades of the nineteenth century and the first decade of the present one. Furthermore, some interesting stylistic affinities with his contemporary, Marcel Proust, which suggest Bunin's innovating abilities, have largely been ignored. Although Bunin's relation to the literary reaction against realism and positivism, known in France and Russia variously as Modernism, Decadence and Symbolism, is somewhat obscure, an examination of his style leads us to conclude that he did share in some aspects of this movement. Other important factors bearing upon Bunin's relations to the Symbolists are his connections with the Symbolist publishing house Skorpion, which published, in 1900, the first edition of his verse, and his well-known friendship with Brjusov and Bal'mont. It is true that some have denied the importance of these relations to Bunin. Thus Mirsky maintains that, except in certain attempts "tainted with Modernism", Bunin avoided the diction of lyrical prose, characteristic of the Russian decadents.5 While Bunin did maintain close contact with the writers of 8

H. A. EyHHH, IJoAHoe codpmue COHUMHUU, H3fl. A. . Mapxca, t . 6 (1915), 331 ("peniHTejibHO m w e r o i e x o B C K o r o He 6 m j i o " ) . 4 6

UFAJIM: oiw 44, oiracb 2. Mirsky, Contemporary Russian Literature, 126.

THE STYLE OF BUNIN'S EARLY PROSE

371

the Znanie school, especially with Maksim Gorkij, it would seem that both relationships, in spite of their contradictions, were important formative influences. Thus Struve6 connects Bunin's verbal mastery to his kinship with the Symbolists and to the whole modern school of poetry, although he reminds us that Bunin was, in substance, hostile to the Symbolists. Perhaps this problem has been best formulated by Wasiolek when he notes that Bunin's literary output at the turn of the century mirrors the contradictions inherent in his simultaneous friendship with Symbolist writers and with writers of the Znanie group.7 Later Bunin openly rejected the Symbolists; nevertheless, certain aspects of Bunin's early writings can be illuminated by their relations to the Symbolist school. We may first note certain differences between Bunin and the Symbolists. We find no evidence, in Bunin's works, of the verbal experimentation, the delight in obscurity, the pervasive mysticism and, above all, the striking imagery so characteristic of the Symbolists. Indeed, in Bunin's early prose imagery is sparse, metaphors are almost completely absent, and similes are conventional. We look in vain for the boisterous and emotional expressiveness of the Symbolists. Their ornamental prose is replaced by a style of almost classical simplicity; their involvement, by detachment. Hence we can appreciate Poggioli's observation concerning the presence of Parnassian ideals of impersonalité and impassibilité in Bunin's works.8 Bunin himself clearly marked his differences from the Symbolists when he wrote in 18949: Ohh nmiiyT — TpHOJieTw, c o h c t h , poH.no Ha cpeflHeBeKOBbie, Ha fleKaaeHTCKHe TeMbI H BCe BbIXOflHT ÔeflHO, 6e35KH3HeHHO, MejIKO, B M f l y M b l B a i O T 4>eHOMeHaniHiie ppi(j)Mi>i, BbiciBKHBaioT Hejienwe o6pa3M c npeTeH3Hefi Ha nosTHHHOCTb, Hejienbie BbipaxeHHH. Ohh c03HaTeiibH0 yxoflHT o t CBoero Hapoaa, o t npupoflM, o t comma.

And in 1915, in a brief biographical sketch written for Vengerov's History of Russian Literature, Bunin commented upon his break with this group: B 1900 H3^aji nepByio KHHry mohx cthxob "Ckopiihoh", c icoTopbiM h, OflHaKO, oieHb CKopo pa3omencfl, He B03biMeB HHKaKOH o x o t h HrpaTb c mohmh 6 G. Struve, "The Art of Ivan Bunin", The Slavonic and East European Review, XI, 31 (July 1932), 424. 7 Edward Wasiolek, "The Fiction of Ivan Bunin: a Critical Study" (unpublished doctoral dissertation, Harvard University, 1954), 40. 8 Poggioli, op. cit., 253. 9 H. A. EyHHH, "IlaMATH cmitHoro leJiOBexa (no noBOfly 70-jreTHeit r0fl0Bin,HHbi co flHH poiKAeHmi H. C. HincyjiHHa)", IIojimaecKue zyôepucKue eedoMoemu (21 ceHT»6pa, 1894), 2.

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THOMAS WINNER

HOBMMH COTOBapHmaMH B aprOHaBTOB, BfleMOHOB,B MarOB, H HeCTH BBICOKOnapHtm B3flop, x o t h HeKOTopfaie k p h t h k h yace 3aroBopmiH o MoeM "yBneiemm

AeKafleHTaMH".10

What then are the evidences in Bunin's early stories of affinities with the Symbolists? There are first of all several stories which partake of the very essence of Symbolist poetics in theme as well as treatment, such as "Pereval" (1892), a general symbolic reflection on death and time; "Velga" (1895), a mythical allegory; "Tuman" (1901) in which Bunin draws in symbolic terms the contrast between the microcosm of man's life and the macrocosm of Life in general; and finally, "Belaja losad'" (1907), a symbolic story about death. But there are also other early stories, not so directly linked to Symbolist poetics, characterized by the lyrical, evocative and suggestive moods and the absence of social coloration which suggest Symbolist writings. It has been said11 that Bunin's prose is more "poetic" than his poetry, and that its pure lyricism is accentuated by the virtual elimination of all narrative material which composed the traditional plot. Secondly, and more specifically, we note various stylistic techniques which Bunin shared with the Symbolists. Thus the musical quality of his prose is striking, effected by a high concentration of systematic sound repetitions and the employment of certain sentence rhythms. Bunin did not share the Symbolists' view of an innate connection between sound and symbolic meaning, as expressed in Rimbaud's famous poem on vowels and elucidated in Bal'mont's study Poézija kak volsebstvo (1922). Nevertheless, he did attribute great significance to the tonalities of the language, as he himself remarked :12 fljia MeHH rjiaBHoe —

s t o HañTH ocTajibHoe flaeTca caMo c o 6 o i i . . .

3ByK.

Kaic t o j i b k o

a

ero Haineji — Bee

And in 1912, commenting on Tolstoj's War and Peace, Bunin again stressed his views concerning the poetic qualities of prose: 13 Il03THMeCKHH 3JICMCHT CTHXHHHO IipHCyill npOH3BefleHHflM JOHIUHOfi CJIOBec h o c t h , oflHHaKOBO h b CTHXOTBOPHOH, KaK h b npo3aaHecKoft (J)opMe. IIpo3a TaioKe flOJiacHa OTJiHHaTtca TOHaJibHOCTbio. MHorne tocto 6ejineTpHiecKKe Benin HHTaioTCH KaK c t h x h , x o t s b h h x He Ha6nK)flaeTca h h pa3Mepa, h h PH(J)MW. 10

H. A. E y H H H , "AaTo6Horpaij)HMecKaa 3aMeTKa", C. A. BeHrepoB, Aumepamypa XX eem (Mocraa, 1915), 339. 11 D. S. Mirsky, Contemporary Russian Literature, 126. 12

PyccKan

A. EaóopeKo, "H. A. EyHHH Ha Kanpii (no Heony6jmKOBaHHWM MaTepnajiaM)"6

c6. B óoAbuioü ceMbe (CMOJKHCK, 1960). is HHTepBbio b MocKoecKoü zaseme, JNs 2 1 7 (1912, 2 2

OKTaSpa).

THE STYLE OF BUNIN'S EARLY PROSE

373

Sound repetition is so characteristic of Bunin's early prose that only a few examples must suffice. In the story "Na xutore" (1892), a typical early prose poem in which the sound and smells of a summer night and the news of the death of the hero's former beloved cause the hero to reflect upon life and death, the initial paragraph is marked by vowel harmony, especially by vowels under stress: dolgo, dolgo pogorala zarja blednym rumjancem (2,30)14 (6-a-o-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-e-y-u-a-y) (here the accented vowels, with one exception, are back vowels). Or, in the same story: Bee 3aiiyMaJiocb BenepHeft a y M o f i — saayMaJica h KaimTOH HBaraiH, c a m y noflHHToro OKHa. O h email

(2,30)

HacmojimHM MejiKonoMecwjHbiM.

n o n e m o j v i a / i o , nexa/io

b 6jieaaoH

(2,30)

TeMHOTe. . . .

(2,31)

A Korfla n e p e f l 3 a p e i o , oxBaieHHbiii c o h h o h cBeacecTbio c a a a , o h OTKpbmaji r n a 3 a — c k b o s b nojiypac/cp&nyio Kpbimy u i a n a m a Ha Hero m a f l e n a n e n o M y a peHHbie npeflyTpeHHHe 3Be3flbi . . . (2,33)

In "Pereval", one of Bunin's most symbolic works, written in the same year as "Na xutore", the "I" of the story, alone with his horse and lost in nature, reflects in a generalized manner on life and death. Complicated chains of sound harmonies and repetitions contribute to the symbolic content, mystical mood and musical qualities of this passage. TeMHeJio 6 b i c t p o , a meji, npH6nH»cajiCH k jiecaM — h r o p b i BwpacTajm Bee MpaiHeft h BeiraiaBee, a b n p o ^ e T t i Meacay h x OTporaMH c 6 y p H 0 f i CTpeMHTejibHOCTbK) Bay/H^ca KOCblMH, fljiRHHblMH oOyZaKaMH rj'CTOH T>>MaH, TOHHMblfi 6^pefi CBepx^. O h c p w B a n c a c nJiocicoropba, KOTopoe OKyTbiBaji rnraHTCKOH p u x j i o f i rpjiflOH, h c b o h m naflemieM KaK 6 w yBejraHHBaji XMypyio r n y 6 n H y nponacTeft Me^Kfly ropaMH. O h yace 3aflbiMnn jiec, HaflBHraacb Ha m c h h BMecTO c e/iyxHM, z/iy6okhm h HemoflHMbiM eyAOM coceH. noBeimo 3HMHeft cBe»ecTbio, noHecjio raeroM h BeTpoM ... H a c T y m u i a hovb, h a aonro men n o f l TeMHtrMH, rynamjiMH b TyMaHe CBo^aMH r o p H o r o 6 o p a , c k j i o h h b r o n o B y o t BeTpa. (2,7) Y»ce flaBHO 0CTajiHCb BHH3y C0CH0Bbie Jieca, .naBHO n p o m r a i HK3Kopocjibie, Kc/cpHBJieHHbie /cycTapinnai, h a HaHHHaio ycTaBaTb h aporHyTb. (2,8)

Similar stylistic techniques can be found in other stories in which the poetic element predominates, such as "Vesti iz rodiny" (1893), "Na kraj sveta" (1895), Svjatye gory" (1895), "Velga" (1895), "Antonovskie jabloki" (1900), "Sosny" (1901), "Tuman" (1901), "Tisina" (1901), 14 All references to Bunin's works, unless otherwise identified, are from the ninevolume edition of Bunin's collected works: I. A. Bunin, Sobranie socinenij v devjati tomax (Moscow, 1965-1967).

374

THOMAS WINNER

"U istoka dnej" (1906), "Belaja losad'" and others. A few examples must suffice. "Benra": Ciibiumuib, KaK 3k3jio6ho k p h w t uaVaaa. Hafl uiyMsuifWM, b 3 b o j i h o BaHHBIM MOpeM? B w y M a H H O i t dajm, H a 3 a n a d e , mepsuoTca ero meMHbie Bodbi; b w y M a H H y i o flaub, H a ceBep, yxoflHT KaMeHHCTbift 6 e p e r . (2,152) TaM, KaK Kvnsiufiiii cHer, p a c c b i n a n o c b c ¿«HneHbeM h wapoKO BjjMsbiBanocb

Ha 6eper, h o TOTiac ace CKOJibamio, KaK cmeioio, Hasaff, n o f l i m p a j i c o S o i o HOBblii KpyTHi^HflCH Ban, a BflajIH paCUejiMM cHeroM. B e n r a c n a j i a b m h t k o m r a r a i b e M n y x y h , n p o c b i n a a c b , B H f l e j i a n e p e a co6oii » h b o h c b c t o i a r a cpeflH TeMHoii h HH3Koii XHKHHbr. J l e T O M , Koraa c b c t h t conHue, flyeT T e m i w f t eerep h eona yierKo nyiemeTc« b Mope ... (2,153)

/7oMorH MHe yKpe/jKTb nomopmaMH CTeHbi, nojroacHTb KaMHeii Ha kpobjuo H3 kojkh TiojieHeii, h yKpoeMC« nofl k p o b j u o o t Henoroflbi h h o h h . (2,157) /ZpoTHB BeTpa, no MOKpoMy necxy n p u f i p e K b a noieacana BeJira k myMameMy, TeMHOMy Mopio. X o T e n o c b eft KpHKHyTb " h p o c t h " cecTpe, OTuy h MaTepn, h o 6ecnoKOiiHO 6«jiacb y 5 e p e r a Jioiuca Ha BOJiHax, h 6 m c t p o wpbirHyjia b

Hee BeJira.

(2,159)

"AHTOHOBCKHe h 6 j i o k h " : Ha ronoBe e e " p o r a " — k o c h n o J i o » e H b i no 6OKSLM MaKymKH h m o k p h t m HecKOJibKHMH «naTKaMH, TaK h t o rojioBa KaaceTc» orpoMHoS;

Horn,

b

nonycanoaocax

6e3pyKaBKa — njiHCOsaa, 3aHaBecKa

c

«0flK0BKaMH, c t o h t

fljimmafl,

Tyno h

« o n o c a M H KHp«HHHoro UBeTa h o ^ n o a c e H H a a Ha w o f l o n e i i i h p o k h m

"«po3yMeHTOM" ...

Kperaco;

a n a H e B a — HepHO-jiHUOBaH c 3ojiotmm

(2,180)

A b acHyio aajib y6eraioT tctko BHflHbie TejierpaHbie ctojiGh, h npoBonoKH hx, KaK cepe6p«Hbie crpyHbi, cKOJib3HT n o ciaiOHy acHoro H e 6 a . Ha h h x c h ^ a t k o 6 i h k h — coBceM n e p H b i e 3HaiKH Ha h o t h o h 6yMare. (2,184)

A striking aspect of Bunin's prose is its rhythmic quality, effected by various techniques, among them the alternation of lyrical-sensuous material and the reflections evoked by it; occasional approximation of verse meter through relatively regular sequences of accented and unaccented syllables; and pure sentence rhythm accentuated by various syntactical parallelisms. It is the latter technique which is probably the most frequent cause of rhythm in Bunin's early prose. We remember the intense concern of the Symbolists with various forms of parallelism, an interest derived in part from their concern with the repetitive forms and parallel constructions

THE STYLE OF BUNIN'S EARLY PROSE

375

o f f o l k p o e t r y . I n Bunin's prose, syntactical parallelism finds a v a r i e t y o f f o r m s . I t m a y be achieved b y a n a p h o r a , e p i p h o r a or other repetitions o f k e y w o r d s or phrases, as in the f o l l o w i n g e x a m p l e s : "IlepeBaji": mchhcthh noflbeM He KOHiaeTca. Yxce daeno ocTaimcb BHH3y cocHOBbie Jieca, daeno npomnn HH3Kopocjibie, HCKpuBJieHHbie KycTapHHKH, h a HaiHHaio ycTaBaTb h «porHyTb. (2,8) Si uyecmeyio, Ha KaKoii otkoh h 6e3JiioflHofi BbicoTe a Haxoacycb, nyecmeyto, hto BOKpyr MeHJi TOJibKO TyMaH. (2,8) " H a x y T o p e " : O h HyBCTBOBaji, hto oh caM cneflHT 3a CBoeio n0X0AK0K) h 4>Hrypoio, npeflCTaBJi«eT ce6a KaK a p y r o r o nenoeeKa, inaraiomero b nonycBeTe CTapHHHoii 3am>i, nejioeeKa, Komopuu 6poflHT oflHH-oflHHemeHeK, KomopoMy rpycTHO h Komopozo eMy a o 6ojih « a n b ... O h b3aji KapTy3 h Bbmiea H3 flOMy. (2,33) O h dojizo cMompe/i b aaneKoe none, dojieo npucAyiuueaACfi k BenepHeii Tmrnrne ... — KaK ace sto TaK? — CKa3aa oh BCJiyx. —• Eydem Bee nonpeacHeMy, 6ydem cajqiTbca conHue, 6ydym Myacwcn c nepeBepHyTbiMH coxaMH exaTb c nona ... 6ydym 3opn b pa6oiyio nopy, a a HHMero 3Toro He yBMcy, aa He TOJibKO He yBHEcy — MeHa coBceM He 6ydem\ H xoTb Tbicsraa neT npoftfleT — a rancorfla He noaBJiiocb Ha cbcto, HHKoraa He npnay h He caay Ha 3tom 6yrpe! Tae ace a 6ydyl (2,34) "BeJira": OHa Hmcorfla ue xodu/ia k BOCTOKy. He xodu/i h OTeq ee, ue xodma h MaTb, ue xodum h CTapmaa cecTpa, CHerrap. Ohh 3HajiH TOJibKO Mope. (2,153) — Mnjiaa CHerrap, xonenib, a paccKamy Te6e, KOK jiacKOB jtcthhh Beiep, KOK jierKO naxHeT Mope Boaoft h KOK MHe rpycTHO 6e3 HpBajibfla? (2,156) "BeJiaa n o m a » . " : 3aveM poflmica? 3aueM poc, jho6hji, CTpanan, Bocxnmajica? 3aueju TaK »azmo flyMan o 6ore, o CMepra, o >kh3hh? — 3aueM, n03B0JibTe Bac cnpocHTb? — CKa3an 3eMJieMep BCJiyx. (2,314) Jl,a, KOK acanKO TaBKaeT anemia, ecjm OHa xyaa, Toma, BbirHaHa H3 CBoeS Hopw 6onee CHJibHbiM 3BepeM, KAKUM-W6YSB KorTHCTbiM 6apcyK0M.' KOK miaKCHBO H 3Jio CKyjiHT COKOJIOK ronoflHbiii! H KaK TOMHO noTarHBaeTca H ocKanaeTca anemia cbiTaa, c rycToft nocHameftca niKypott! KOKUM 3bohkhm h flep3KHM CMexoM 3ajmBaeTca. (2,315) A n o t h e r less f r e q u e n t m e t h o d o f achieving r h y t h m is simple e n u m e r a t i o n , r e m i n d i n g us o f a stylistic peculiarity o f P r o u s t ' s : "BeJira": BHH3y rHesammcb Te, hto 6bian noMemme, HaBepxy ctobjih h apeMaan caMbie 6onbnrae h npoacopaaBbie, c 6ejiMMH acmoTaMH h nepHbiMn cimHaMH, c TOJiCTbiMH meaMH h MaaeHbKHMH ronoBaMH, c 6aecTamnMH rna3aMH b Koabiiax 6eaoro rryxa h c oipomhmmh ypoaauBbiMH KmoBaMH, c KpemcHMH rpy6biMH jianaMH h kopotkhmh pyKaMH 6e3 naabiieB. (2,160)

376

THOMAS WINNER

" y HCTOJta flHefi": 51 B0CT0p5KeHH0 orjiaHynca ... Ha, hccomhchho, b 3epicane 6bi.no B e e , h t o 6bijio n 3flecb, B O K p y r m c h s — u creHbi, u cryjiba, u non, u cojiHeiHbift c b 6 t , u p e 6 e H O K , c t o h b i i i h h cpeflH k o m h e t h ... (2,303) "Eejiaa Jiomaflb": CymecTBOBaTb H a t o m cBeTe h b T e n e p e n r a e M b h ^ c o h , KOHeHHO, He 6 y . n e T . H 6 o , ecjm o h 6y«eT cymecTBOBaTb, s h e h h t , h s t h J i o m a j a 6 y a y T c y m e c T B O B a T b ... h M i i p H a a w M n p n a a B c e x n p o n n x nomaaeii, 3 B e p e f t , nTHK, JKyHKOB, HeCMeTHblX M O m e K ... (2,315)

At times, though more rarely, a rhythmical sentence is attained by grammatical parallelism. "TyMaH": IToica mm ne/iu, num, zoeopum flpyr flpyry B3flop h CMexmtcb ... (2,232) "Benaa Jiomaflb": A b o t poma h cobccm 6 j i h 3 k o — h TeHb C T a n a pe3ie, jiyHHbift CBeT fipne, poma noa J i y H o r o uepnee, ebiute, eejimaeee ... (2,318)

Verse rhythms and approximation of verse meter through regular sequences of accented and unaccented syllables are also important, though less frequent, in Bunin's prose. In this respect, Bunin recalls Turgenev, some of whose prose scans like verse.15 Cexov also, though infrequently, employed a regular prose meter, as for instance in the opening of "UCiteF slovesnosti": Ilocjibnnajica cryx JiomaflHHHMX KonbiT o 6peBeHiaTbiii non.

xxxxxxxxxxx/xxxxxx

Regular sequences of accented and unaccented syllables are particularly notable, for example, in Belyj's prose.16 The following are examples from Bunin: HoMb aaBHO, a a Bee eme 6pe«y no ropaM K nepeBany.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

("IlepeBaa", 2,7)

OHa (jiomaflb) c t o h t , n0K0pH0 onycTHB ronoBy c npnacaTbiMH y r n a M H . ("EiepeBaJi", 2,8-9)

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

B yjnme Taaji MOJiOHHbifi TyMaH ...

xxxxxxxxxx

CjiaBHoe yTpo onaTb nocnan HaM 6or!

xxxxxxxxxxx

("THuiHHa", 2,236) ("THuiHHa", 2,236)

H . J I . E p o f l C K H f i , " I I p o 3 a ' 3 a n n c o K o x o T H H K a ' " , c 6 . Typeenee u eeo epeMX (MocKBa, 1923), 193. 18 For a discussion, see Anton Honig, Andrej Belyjs Romane. Stil und Gestalt, Forum Slavicum, Bd. 8 (Munich, 1965). 16

377

THE STYLE OF BUNIN'S EARLY PROSE

^Be-TPH HaftKH HH3KO H njiaBHO CKOJIb3HyjIH Hafl BOflOK). xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

("THIHHHa", 2,237)

3boh K0Ji0K0na Ka3ajica t o 6jiHHce, t o aanbme. ("TninHHa", 2,238) xxxxxxxxxxxxxx M h flojiro rnanejm Ha r o p w h Ha iHCToe He»cHoe He6o Han h h m h .

("TmmiHa", 2,239) xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Eejibiii, cnoKoflHbrii npocToft flem. QhiJi b MHpe, Kor,aa a npocHyjica. ("Y HCTOKa flHeii", 2,308) xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Another stylistic characteristic of Bunin's early prose, one also found in the writings of the Russian Symbolists and in some Western writings, as those of the early Hesse (for instance Eine Stunde hinter Mitternacht [1899] and Herman Lauscher [1901]), is a highly rhetorical construction which frequently imparts a hieratic tone and a hectic or excited mood. Rhetorical exclamations and questions, typically a part of interior monologue, may reveal the narrator's recollections and reflections, or that of another earlier self, about whom the narrator is reminiscing. The following are examples from U istoka dnej (1906), a Proustian evocation of childhood impressions: CnaflKo cjieflHTb Torfla 3a ee rH6enbio!

(2,302)

H t o 3 t o 3a »ouiHine? H t o fleJiaeT b hcm ero x o 3 a h h , w

3aH»T oh?

(2,302)

H t o 6 h j i o flajibine? M h o t o pa3 nbiTajica a BcnoMHHTb eme xoTb HTO-Hn6yAt; h o s t o HKKorzia

He yflaBajiocb. BcnoMHHaa, a 6bicTpo nepexoflHJi k BbmyMKe, k TBOpiecTBy, h6o h BocnoMHHaHH»-TO m o h 0 6 s t o m flHe He 6onee peanbHbi, neM t b o p t c c t b o . TBepflo noMHio TonbKo o / j h o : 3epKano nopa3HJio MeHa h m c h h o b s t o t aeHb. f l wwBKeH 6 h j i pa3raflaTb ero b o h t o 6m t o h h cTano. H o KaK?

O, MHoro 6bijio jiyitaBCTB h yxHiupemift! O h h , 3 t h yxnmpeHHH, KOHiajiHCb Bceraa H e y a a i e f t . H nepeacHB Heyaavy, a, KOHeHHO, 3a6biBaJi o 3epKane. Ho bot a omm. ocTasajica HaeflHHe c hhm — h onaTb HcniiTHBaji e r o BjiacTb Ha« co6ok>. -3 jiio6hji yrnoByio KOMHaTy, Korfla OHa 6biJia nycTa. SI b x o a h j i , 3aTBopan 3a c o 6 o f i ziBepn — h TOTiac ace BCTynan b Kaicyio-To o c o 6 y i o , HapoaeftcTBeH-

HyiO JKH3Hb. T a x t h x o , Tax t h x o , h t o cnbmiHa Kaacflaa HOTa b t o h k o m h nenajibHOM

njiaie 3aivtnpaiomeM b nayTHHe Myxn!

(2,304)

TojibKO cymecTByeT jih OHa h Toma, Korfla He CMOTpmnb Ha Hee? H t o 6 m y3HaTb s t o , HyatHO npeacfle Bcero o6MaHyTb k o t o - t o .

378

THOMAS WINNER

H b o t a flenaji paBHOflynmoe jthuo, o t x o a h j i o t 3epKajia, 3arj7Kjn>rBaji c npHTBopHoii 6ecneHHOCTbK> b oKHa —

h Bflpyr 6biCTpo oGopaiHBajica k

TyajieTy ... HeT, Bee no-npewHeMy!

Ho Torfla He cecTb j i h b Kpecno npoTHB 3epKana? 3aKpbiTb rna3a h npaTBOpHTbCa CRHIHHM ... A 3aTeM Cpa3y OTKpHTb HX ... Y b w , CHOBa xHTpocTb MOfl paccbmaeTca HpaxoM! OcTaBanocb eme o / i h o : npHOTKpbiTb pecmmbi — TaK Mano, h t o 6 m h h k t o h He noflyMan, h t o o h h npHOTKpbiTH ...

HO KaK 3TO TpyflHO! Pecmmbi apoacaT, rnaiaM 60JibH0, h BbixoflUT Bee o a h o h t o ace: m m coBceM HHiero He b h a h o , h j i h xoTb cjia6o, h o b h a h o Bee!

H MHOro pa3, flejiaa OTiaaHHtie ycHJina, cflBHran a c Mecra Tfl^cejiue k o j i o h k h , cpeflH icoTopbix BHceno 3epKaJio, h s a r j i f l f l t i B a n MejKfly h h m h h CTeHoio. H o h TaM, h m c h h o TaM, rfle flOJiama 6bina 3aKJH0HaTbca p a 3 r a « K a Tainrbi, He oica3biBajiocb H H i e r o , KpoMe 6peBeH c oflHott c t o p o h m h m e p inaBbix flomeneK, k o t o p h m h 6bino 3a6nTO 3epKajio, c apyrofl! — 3HaTOT, KpOeTCH HTO-HH6yflb 3a HHMH, 3a 3THMH flOHieiKaMH? rOBOpflT, HTO 3a 3THMH flOmeHKaMH TOJIbKO CTeKJIO, HaMa3aHHOe pTyTbK). fl,a, h o h t o Taxoe pTyTb? PTyTb Toace h c h t o n y a e c H o e . I I o j k m k h j i k t o - t o 3 t o 8

pTyTH b neKyirmecfl xjie6bi — h Bflpyr xne6w 3anpwranH no nenKe! A maBHoe: noneMy nocnenrajra 3aKyraTb s t o h t o - t o , HaMa3aHHoe pTyTbio h Ha3biBaeMoe 3epKanoM, b lepHtifi KoneHKop, KaK tojimco yMepna Haflfl? (2,305) These, then, are a few examples of the stylistic traits of Bunin's early prose which depart from the realistic tradition. The lack of concern for external action, the interest in the musical qualities of language, and the occasionally exclamatory diction of his prose of these years, bear the imprint of the esthetic revival of Bunin's time. As we have noted earlier, the literature on Bunin has remarked little upon certain interesting parallels between him and his contemporary, Marcel Proust. In a broad sense, the magic of the past charmed both writers, and, furthermore, for both men it was primarily sensory impressions which unleashed the nostalgia of recollection.

Earlier, the

Symbolist poet Baudelaire had voiced an esthetic view supporting a unity of inner and outer realities. In his poem "Les phares", which forms part of Les fleurs du mal, Baudelaire remarks upon such a fusion; and in many other poems, and essays, he comments upon the manner in which external data affect the inner recognition of the artist. T o transmit a vision or an emotion, Baudelaire wrote, the poet must draw material from the outer, immediately apprehended, reality surrounding him. Yet this material must somehow reach beyond itself to suggest an inner world. Thus

we understand

Baudelaire's

moments

of

enhanced

lucidity,

epiphanies catalyzed by a chance object on which the senses grasp,

THE STYLE OF BUNIN'S EARLY PROSE

379

thereby setting offa chain of ideas. Proust's esthetics, which demonstrate Baudelaire's outlook, also rely on external, sensuous reality to provide a heightened sense of being; and thus colors, smells, tastes, and sensations may precipitate what Proust calls souvenir involuntaire. There is the well-known opening of Proust's Du coté de chez Swann, in which the recollection of the taste of a piece of madeleine cake dipped in tea initiates a complex chain of memory associations. The focal role of sense data is also demonstrable in Bunin's early writings, in which impressions may stimulate a series of recollections, or even generalized reflections on philosophical themes, as is illustrated in "Antonovskie jabloki" (1900), "U istoka dnej" (1906), and "Sosny" (1901). In the first-named story, the smell of apples and the sounds accompanying the apple harvest, as well as the autumnal colors of nature which strike the narrator's eye as he watches the apples being gathered, combine to evoke in him intense memories of his youth, and a general poetization of the past. Like a Leitmotif, the smell of apples with its associated nostalgic recollections, pervades the story. In "U istoka dnej", it is the sight of a room and its furniture which turns the inward eye toward lyrical childhood recollections. In "Sosny" sense impressions again bring with them past reflections : Jlec ryflHT, TOHHO BeTep gyeT B Tbicany SOJIOBWX ap, 3arjiyineHHbix creHaMH H Bbioroii. "XoflHT COH no CEHHM, a apeMa no flBepaM", H, HaMaaBiimcb 3a Aera», noeBiiiH "cocHOBoro" xjieGynnca c 6OJIOTHOÌÌ Bojnmeil, crurr Terrept no IIjiaTOHOBKaM HaniH 6bIJIHHHbie JIIOFLH, CMMCJI XCH3HH H CMepTH KOTOptlX TbI, rocnoflH, Been! Bflpyr BETEP co Beerò pa3Maxy xnonaeT ceHHOft flBeptio B cTeHy H, KaK

orpoMHoe CTAAO nnm, c myMOM H CBHCTOM npoHOCHTca no Kpbiuie. — Ox, rocno/in ! — TOBOPHT OeflocbH, BazipariiBaa h xMypact. — XoTb 6bi yx cnaTb exopefl B cxpacTb TaKyio! y^aiHaTb-TO 6yaeTe? — npH6aBJiaeT OHa, nena.fi Has co6ofi ycajnie, «rro6bi BSHTbca 3a cico6Ky. — PaHo eme ... — A Moli era« — Heiero TpeTbHX neTyxoB »flaTb! IIoyacHHaJiH 6M H cnanH 6bi, cnajra ce6e!

flBepb

MEFLNEHHO OTBOPAETCH H

3aTBopaeTca,

H

a onaTb ocTaiocb OAHH, Bee

ayMaa o MnTpotj)aHe.

3TO 6biji BbicoKHÌi H xyfloS, HO xopomo cnoaceHHbiii MyaoiK, jierKHfi Ha xoay H CTpoifflblft, c He60J7bIlI0H, OTKHHyTOÌi Ha3afl rOJIOBOft H C 6HpK)30B0-CepbIMH, 3KHBHMH rjiasaMH. 3nMy H JieTO eroflJiHHHbieHorn 6HJIH aKKyparao o6epHyTbi cepbiMH OHynaMH H o6yTbi B nanTH, 3HMy H neTO OH HOCHJI KopOTeHbKirii H3opBaHHbiS nojiymySoK. Ha ronoBe y Hero Bcerfla 6buia caMOflejibHaa

3aanba uiamca mepcTbio BHyTpb. M KaK npHBenniBO rnafleno H3-noa SToft marnai ero o6BeTpeHHoe JIHUO c o6nynHBuiHMca HOCOM H pe^Koft 60p0«K0ii! 3 T O 6bin CjieflonbiT, HacToamHii necHoii KpecTbflHHH-oxoTHHK, B KOTOPOM Bee

380

THOMAS WINNER

np0H3B0flHJi0 uejibHoe BneiaTJieinie: h 30bbimh r n a i a M i i , o h T O T i a c » c e H a nonHHJi KOMHaTy cBeacecTiio jiecHoro B03flyxa.

Both Proust and Bunin rely on the use of first person singular narration in their evocations of le temps perdu. With the exception of Un amour de Swann, A la recherche du temps perdu is written in the first person, as is Jean Santeuil. And of the thirty-six stories written between 1892 and 1902 which Bunin included in the first edition of his Collected Works, twentytwo are first person narrations. An important parallel in the works of Bunin and Proust is the conception that the transcendence of time can be overcome by reflections, initiated involuntarily through the unconscious association of sensory impressions and past experiences. Thereby a durational link is established between the past and the present. Thus it is not the intellect in Bunin's and Proust's works which recaptures the past, but intuition incited by the senses, an approach which anticipates the Joycean epiphanies so frequently based on memory intuitions. Here we again see Bunin the innovator, who in this early period makes the unconscious an important arbiter of time relations. While Bunin and Proust shared common artistic predilections, we cannot demonstrate direct influences. Only Plaisirs et regrets (1896) had been published during the period under consideration. Nor is there any evidence to suggest that Proust was acquainted with Bunin's writings before he worked on Du coté de chez Swann. We do not know whether Bunin had read Henri Bergson, whose reflections concerning the preservation of memory and notions of the relations of time and memory influenced Proust. We can, however, assert some interesting stylistic and thematic parallels between Bunin and Proust, for the power and artistic potentials of memory fascinated both men and led them to employ some similar artistic techniques. We cannot, however, overlook certain vast differences between these two writers, so similar in spirit. In addition to the divergence in scope between Bunin's short sketches and Proust's long novels, there are important divergences in style. Bunin did not employ the kind of imaginative imagery which Proust expressed in his typical metaphorical language. We recall Proust's words in an essay on Flaubert.17 17

Marcel Proust, "A propos du 'style' de Flaubert", Chroniques, 36e edition (Paris, Gallimard), 193-194.

THE STYLE OF BUNIN'S EARLY PROSE

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Pour des raisons qui seraient trop longues a dévélopper ici, je crois que la métaphore seule peut donner une sorte d'éternité au style ... An examination of the works of our period reveals that the thirty-six stories which Bunin included in his Collected Works are practically devoid of metaphor. We find only two or three metaphors per story, generally personifications of nature, not particularly striking or even fresh. The only story which may be an exception is "Sosny" (1901), which demonstrates an unusual richness in metaphors. While similes are more frequent in these works, with few exceptions they also present little that is striking. There is the comparison in "Antonovskie jabloki" of a pregnant woman to a xolmogorskaja korova (2,180). But such examples are rare. We conclude that under the influence of the revival of estheticism at the turn of the century, Bunin began his career as a prose writer by creating an actionless story, a lyrical prose poem form which shares some of the characteristics of the Symbolists and shows affinities to the writings of Proust. In some respects, namely in the departure from traditional narrative structures, in the new use of time and in the treatment of the unconscious, Bunin anticipates the new prose of the twentieth century, though in his later years he returned to a more realistic tradition. BROWN UNIVERSITY

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Ocerk istorii russkogo jazyka. Photomechanic reprint. Second printing. 1962. 384 pp. Cloth. Glds. 24.— PETER K. CHRISTOFF: An Introduction to Nineteenth-Century Russian Slavophilism. Volume I: A. S. Xomjakov. 1961. 301 pp., 2 plates. Cloth. Glds. 33.— JOVAN BRKIÉ: Moral Concepts in Traditional Serbian Epic Poetry. 1961. 177 pp. Cloth. Glds. 24.— JOSIP VRANA: L'Evangéliaire de Miroslav. Contribution à l'étude de son origine. 1961. 211 pp., 10 plates. Cloth. Glds. 48.— Studies in Russian and Polish Literature. In Honor of Waclaw Lednicki. Edited by Z. Folejewski, f M . Karpovich, F. J. Whitfield, A. Kaspin. 1962. 250 pp., portrait. Cloth. Glds. 36.— WACLAW LEDNICKI: Henryk Sienkiewicz. A Retrospective Synthesis. 1960. 81 pp., 7 plates. Glds. 15.— A. M. VAN DER ENG-LIEDMEŒR: Soviet literary Characters. An Investigation into the Portrayal of Soviet Men in Russian Prose, 1917-1953. 1959. 176 pp. Cloth. Glds. 16.— HENRY KUÔERA: The Phonology of Czech. 1961. 112 pp. Cloth. Glds. 18.— Taras Sevcenko, 1814-1861. A Symposium. Edited by Volodymyr Mijakovs'kyj and George Y. Shevelov. 1962. 302 pp. Cloth. Glds. 32 — MICHAEL SAMILOV: The Phoneme jat' in Slavic. 1964. 172 pp. Cloth. Glds. 28.— ROBIN KEMBALL: Alexander Blok. A Study in Rhythm and Metre. 1965. 539 pp., portrait. Cloth. Glds. 80.— v. ¿IRMUNSKH: Voprosy teorii literatury. Statej 1916-1926. Photomechanic reprint. 1962. 356 pp. Cloth. Glds. 28.— CHARLES E. PASSAGE: The Russian Hoffmannists. 1963. 261 pp. Cloth. Glds. 30.— VSEVOLOD SETCHKAREV: Studies in the Life and Works of Innokentij Annenskij. 1963. 270 pp. Cloth. Glds. 32.— GEORGE Y. SHEVELOV: The Syntax of Modern Literary Ukrainian. The Simple Sentence. 1963. 319 pp. Cloth. Glds. 48.— ALEXANDER M. SCHENKER: Polish Declension. A Descriptive Analysis. 1964. 105 pp., 38 figs. Cloth. Glds. 17.— MILADA SOUÎKOVA : The Parnassian Jaroslav Vrchlicky. 1964.151 pp., plate. Cloth. Glds. 20.— A. A. SAXMATOV: Sintaksis russkogo jazyka. Redakcija i kommentarii Prof. E. S. Istrinoj. Photomechanic reprint. 1963. 623 pp. Cloth. Glds. 48.— CHARLES A. MOSER: Antinihilism in the Russian Novel of the 1860's. 1964. 215 pp. Cloth. Glds. 22.— RENÉ WELLEK: Essays on Czech Literature. Introduced by Peter Demetz. 1963. 214 pp., portrait. Cloth. Glds. 23.— HONGOR OULANOFF: The Serapion Brothers: Theory and Practice. 1966. 186 pp. Glds. 26.— Dutch Contributions to the Fifth International Congress of Slavists, Sofia, 1963. 1963. 162 pp. Cloth. Glds. 36.— American Contributions to the Fifth International Congress of Slavists, Sofia, September 1963. Vol. I: Linguistic Contributions. 1963. 384 pp. Cloth. Glds. 69.— NIKOLAI DURNOVO:

47. ju. TYNJANOV: Problema stixotvornogo jazyka. Photomechanic reprint. 1963. 139 pp. Cloth. Glds. 18.— 48. Russkaja Proza, pod redakciej B. Ejchenbauma i Ju. Tynjanova. Sbornik statej. Photomechanic reprint. 1963. 265 pp. Cloth. Glds. 28.— 49. EDWARD S T A N K i E w i c z and DEAN s. W O R T H : A Selected Bibliography of Slavic Linguistics, I. 1966. 315 pp. Glds. 42.— 50. American Contributions to the Fifth International Congress of Slavists, Sofia, September 1963. Vol. II. Literary Contributions. 1963.432 pp. Cloth. Glds. 69.— 51. ROMAN JAKOBSON and DEAN s. WORTH (eds.): Sofonija's Tale of the RussianTatar Battle on the Kulikovo Field. 1963. 71 pp., 49 plates. Cloth. Glds. 20.— 52. WACLAW LEDNICKI : Tolstoj between War and Peace. 1965.169 pp., 4 plates. Cloth. Glds. 25.— 53. TATJANA CIZEVSKA: Glossary of the Igor' Tale. 1966. 405 pp. Glds. 68.— 54. A. V. FLOROVSKY (ed.): Georgius David, S. J.: Status Modernus Magnae Russiae seu Moscoviae (1690), Edited with Introduction and Explanatory Index. 1965. 135 pp., 4 figs. Cloth. Glds. 28.— 55. FRANCES DE GRAAFF: Sergej Esenin: A Biographical Sketch. 1966. 178 pp. Glds. 36.— 56. N. s. TRUBETZKOY: Dostoevskij als Künstler. 1965. 178 pp. Cloth. Glds. 28.— 57. F. C. DRIESSEN: Gogol as a Short-Story Writer. A Study of his Technique of Composition. Translated from the Dutch by Ian F. Finlay. 1965. 243 pp. Cloth. Glds. 36.— 58. v. ZIRMUNSKIJ: Introduction to Metrics: The Theory of Verse. Translated from the Russian by C. F. Brown. Edited with an introduction by Edward Stankiewicz and W. N. Vickery. 1966. 245 pp. Glds. 34.— 59. DALE L. P L A N K : Pasternak's Lyric: A Study of Sound and Imagery. 1966. II + 121 pp. Glds. 20.— 60. HENRY M. NEBEL, JR.: N. M. Karamzin: A Russian Sentimentalist. 1967. 190 pp. Glds. 32.— 61. KAZIMIERZ POLÄNSKI and JAMES A. SEHNERT: Polabian-English Dictionary. 1966. 239 pp. Glds. 48.— 62. CARL R . PROFFER: The Comparison in Gogol's Dead Souls. 1967. 230 pp. Glds. 28.— 64. THELWALL T. PROCTOR: Dostoevskij and the Belinskij School of Literary Criticism. 200 pp. Glds. 30.— 65. DAVID J. WELSH: Russian Comedy, 1765-1823. 1966. 133 pp. Glds. 20.— 66. Poètika: Sbornik statej. 1966. 163 pp. Photomechanic reprint of the first edition, Leningrad, 1926. Glds. 23.— 67. p. A. LAVROV: Materialy po istorii vozniknovenija drevnejäej slavanskoj pis'mennosti. 1966. L + 200 pp. Photomechanic reprint of the edition Leningrad, 1930. Glds. 32.— 70. H . I. ARONSON: Bulgarian Inflectional Morphology. 1968. 188 pp. Glds. 32.— 72. ROBERT L. BELKNAP: The Structure of The Brothers Karamazov. 1967. 128 pp. Glds. 22.— MOUTON • PUBLISHERS • THE HAGUE