Dutch Contributions to the Fourteenth International Congress of Slavists: Ohrid, September 10-16, 2008. Literature

Dutch Contributions to the Fourteenth International Congress of Slavists Ohrid, September 10-16, 2008 Literature

Studies in Slavic Literature and Poetics Volume LI

Edited by

J.J. van Baak R. Grübel A.G.F. van Holk W.G. Weststeijn

Dutch Contributions to the Fourteenth International Congress of Slavists Ohrid, September 10-16, 2008 Literature

Edited by

Sander Brouwer

Amsterdam - New York, NY 2008

Cover design: Aart Jan Bergshoeff The paper on which this book is printed meets the requirements of “ISO 9706:1994, Information and documentation - Paper for documents Requirements for permanence”. ISBN-13: 978-90-420-2487-8 ©Editions Rodopi B.V., Amsterdam - New York, NY 2008 Printed in the Netherlands

CONTENTS THERA GIEZEN Lap-dogs, or the Feminization of Russian Literature

5

ERIC DE HAARD Love of Poetry and Literary Creation in Turgenev’s First Love

23

WILLEM G. WESTSTEIJN The Structure of the Plot in the Novels of Pavel Mel’nikov-Pecherskii

55

ARENT VAN NIEUKERKEN Stigma, a Short Story of Cyprian Kamil Norwid. In Search of Traces of Sacred History on the Surface of the World

77

OTTO BOELE “New Times Require New People”. The Demise of the Epoch-making Hero in Late Nineteenth-Century Russian Literature

133

DENNIS IOFFE Russian and European Modernism and the Idea of Life-Creation

151

JOOST VAN BAAK The House of Socialism in Literature. Trifonov’s House on the Embankment

181

ELLEN RUTTEN Strategic Sentiments. Pleas for a New Sincerity in Post-Soviet Literature

201

BORIS NOORDENBOS Copy-writing Post-Soviet Russia. Viktor Pelevin’s work in Postcolonial Terms

217

SANDER BROUWER What Is It Like to Be a Bat-Author? Viktor Pelevin’s Empire V

243

Index

257

Note On Transliteration and Citations The transliteration of Russian in the text, notes and index of this book follows the Library of Congress system with slight modifications in order not to distract the non-slavist reader: no diacritics are given on the transliteration of ‘’, ‘’ and ‘’ (‘ts’, ‘iu’ and ‘ia’ instead of ‘
 ’, ‘
 ’ and ‘
 ’); ‘’ is transliterated as ‘i’ instead of ‘’. In the references and bibliographies the international scientific transliteration (ISO/R9 version 1968) has been retained, however transliterating ‘’ as ‘ch’ instead of ‘’. When authors cite the original text, Russian or other, together with the English translations, this original is given in brackets in the main text if it does not exceed the length of a sentence; in other cases it is given in a note.

Lap-dogs, or the Feminization of Russian Literature Thera Giezen Abstract: In this paper, I discuss three works written in the context of a heightened attention for the cultural role of femininity at the turn of the Russian eighteenthcentury, a phenomenon that is now usually referred to as a “feminization” of Russian literature, literary language and culture. Investigating several images recurrently associated with ideal femininity, I will argue that, paradoxically, women themselves were of no importance in Russia’s feminization process. It was not so much femininity, but rather masculinity that was being redefined. Keywords: Feminization, gender issues, Russian late eighteenth-century literature, I.F. Bogdanovich, Dushenka, M.M. Kheraskov, N.M. Karamzin Throughout history people have knocked their heads against the riddle of the nature of femininity. […] Nor will you have escaped worrying over this problem – those of you who are men; to those of you who are women this will not apply – you are yourselves the problem (Sigmund Freud).

In Tsarskoe Selo, among the monuments commemorating the victories of the Russian army rises a pyramid. Here, in what resembles a tomb for esteemed Egyptian pharaohs, rest in eternal peace three of Catherine II’s favourite lap-dogs. Following the tsarina’s example, late eighteenth-century Russian women en masse fell in love with miniature dogs lying obediently on their laps. There were even special bed dogs to decorate female beds. To charm beautiful women, young men praised their little lap-dogs, depicted them in miniature portraits and invented a new, miniaturized literary genre – inscriptions for dogs’ collars (Lotman 1995: 700; Hammarberg 2001: 228; Ekshtut 2003: 105-10). Lap-dogs are an eloquent metaphor for the ideal woman as represented in Russian so-called feminized literature – literature written in the context of a heightened attention for the cultural role of femininity at the turn of the Russian eighteenth century. Like her

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fashionable accessory the lap-dog, the ideal woman as imagined by late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century feminizing writers was first and foremost destined to charm and endear the eyes with her tender beauty. She was a completely harmless, domesticated creature, too weak to leave the private, intimate sphere of her house or even boudoir. Eighteenth-century Russian literature adapted to a female taste preferred miniature proportions for its ideal woman, her surroundings and accessories. In this paper, I will investigate three works influenced by late eighteenth-century Russia’s special attention for femininity. The focus will be on Dushenka: A Tale in Free Verses (Ⱦɭɲɟɧɶɤɚ: Ⱦɪɟɜɧɹɹ ɩɨɜɟɫɬɶ ɜ ɜɨɥɶɧɵɯ ɫɬɢɯɚɯ, 1778-1799). This poem by Ippolit Fëdorovich Bogdanovich (1743-1803) is a free translation of Les amours de Psyché et de Cupidon, Jean de La Fontaine’s version of the Amor and Psyche myth (1669; translated into Russian in 1769). In its Russian adaptation by Bogdanovich, Psyche’s difficult journey towards Love turns into a light, humorous tale. The story is told by an external narrator who focuses primarily on descriptions of outer beauty. At the same time, he leaves much to the imagination of the reader, repeatedly stating that he has no insight in the heart and mind of his female hero. In the virtual absence of any character-bound focalization, the narrator’s descriptions of Dushenka’s beauty become the central theme around which the story develops. To illustrate broader tendencies in Russian feminized literature, I will compare aspects of Dushenka with the ode To My Lyre (Ʉ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɥɢɪɟ, 1762) by Mikhail Kheraskov, and Nikolai Karamzin’s Epistle to Women (ɉɨɫɥɚɧɢɟ ɤ ɠɟɧɳɢɧɚɦ, 1795). Looking specifically at images associated with ideal femininity, I will argue that the underlying gender code of the attempts to create a more feminine culture precluded the possibility of women actually participating in the debate, based as it was on an idealization of female outsidership and of the stereotypes that had legitimized this very outsidership in the first place. When Russian men in the course of the eighteenth century re-evaluated traits stereotypically ascribed to women, it was not so much femininity, but rather masculinity that was being redefined. 1. Miniaturized Wor(l)ds “Loving my freedom, / I do not sing to be praised; / But that during refreshing hours of merriment and peace / Pleasantly may smile

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Chloe”.1 Thus states the narrator of Dushenka at the beginning of his story, putting aside any masculine pride to serve female interests only. From approximately the last three decades of the eighteenth century up to the first two decades of the nineteenth century, Russian high society was preoccupied with the role of women in the cultural domain. This heightened attention for women has become known as a feminization of Russian literature, language, and culture. In 1935, Viktor Vinogradov was the first to apply the term to Russian literature written at the turn of the eighteenth century. He defined Russia’s feminization as “a literary cult of women” (ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɵɣ ɤɭɥɶɬ ɠɟɧɳɢɧ) who were proclaimed the “soul of literature” and “the lawgivers of literary language” (ɞɭɲɚ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ, ɡɚɤɨɧɨɞɚɬɟɥɶɧɢɰɚ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɨɝɨ ɹɡɵɤɚ; Vinogradov 2000: 230; see also Uspenskij 1985; Vowles 1994). If writers listened attentively to the tender speech of women, so the propagators of a linguistic feminization of Russian letters argued, Russian literary language would become more refined and worthy of a civilized European country. On a thematic level too, writers had to take into account female preferences by selecting subjects and motives that would appeal to a specific feminine taste. Women were even encouraged to start writing themselves. One of the most striking characteristics of the words and worlds of late eighteenth-century feminized literature is their miniaturized form. In the female world, everything is sweet, small, and tender – from literary characters to favourite themes, from preferred genres and literary aspirations to poetic intonation. This last mentioned miniaturization of the poetic word was closely related to eighteenth-century debates on literary language reforms, in which women and female speech were supposed to play a decisive role. Up to the eighteenth century, official Russian literature was written in Church Slavonic, a purely literary language not used in everyday conversation. In the course of the century, Church Slavonic began to lose its unquestioned authority as the literary language par excellence. This resulted in a vehement language controversy, which reached its climax in the 1810s. In 1811, the Archaist admiral Aleksandr Shishkov founded his Society of Lovers of the Russian Word (Ȼɟɫɟɞɚ ɥɸɛɢɬɟɥɟɣ ɪɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɥɨɜɚ), which defended Church Slavonic as the only language suitable for a respected national literature. In 1815, the Innovators2 responded by establishing the

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literary circle Arzamas, which was strongly influenced by Nikolai Karamzin’s ideas on literature and language. However, as early as 1730 Vasilii Trediakovskii had attempted to apply in his Voyage to the Isle of Love (ȿɡɞɚ ɜ ɨɫɬɪɨɜ ɥɸɛɜɢ) a form of Russian “as we speak it amongst each other” (ɤɚɤɨɜɵɦ ɦɵ ɦɟɠ ɫɨɛɨɣ ɝɨɜɨɪɢɦ; Trediakovskij 1963: 26). In Trediakovskii’s opinion, Church Slavonic had turned into an incomprehensible, dark (ɬɟɦɟɧ) language with sounds that were too harsh (ɠɟɫɬɨɤ) for the ears (ibidem: 26-27). Although Trediakovskii himself would eventually reject his earlier views, his initial negative qualifications of Church Slavonic were repeated by others who wished to refine the Russian literary language. In the eyes and ears of the Innovators and their predecessors, Church Slavonic was harsh, coarse, and savage (ɝɪɭɛɵɣ, ɠɟɫɬ(o)ɤɢɣ, ɞɢɤɢɣ). They argued that this barbaric language could not possibly express the nuances of Western, civilized literature pleasing to refined ears. Russian literary language had to be feminized: the manner of speaking that was deemed to be characteristic of the delicate female members of the beau monde was proclaimed the point of orientation for male writers who wished to civilize their written language, and female ears became the arbiters in deciding how successful these male attempts were. Thus, Karamzin criticizes the use of the word koliko (‘how’, ‘how much’) in the first Russian translation of Richardson’s Clarissa, since, as he argues, “a woman with taste will never use the word koliko” (Ⱦɟɜɭɲɤɚ, ɢɦɟɸɳɚɹ ɜɤɭɫ, ɧɟ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɧɢ ɫɤɚɡɚɬɶ, ɧɢ ɧɚɩɢɫɚɬɶ ɜ ɩɢɫɶɦɟ ɤɨɥɢɤɨ; Karamzin 1964 II: 113). When he addresses the question as to why Russia has so few talented authors, Karamzin remarks that upper class ladies “do not have the patience to read or listen to them [Russian comedies and novels], since they feel that people of good taste do not speak in such a way” (ɫɜɟɬɫɤɢɟ ɠɟɧɳɢɧɵ ɧɟ ɢɦɟɸɬ ɬɟɪɩɟɧɢɹ ɫɥɭɲɚɬɶ ɢɥɢ ɱɢɬɚɬɶ ɢɯ, ɧɚɯɨɞɹ, ɱɬɨ ɬɚɤ ɧɟ ɝɨɜɨɪɹɬ ɥɸɞɢ ɫɨ ɜɤɭɫɨɦ; ibidem: 185). What happens here is a re-evaluation of female cultural outsidership. Church Slavonic was not used in everyday life; it belonged to the scientific domain, from which women were excluded. Thus, the official cultural language was literally a male one. Once the propagators of a more refined Russian literature had decided to ban Church Slavonic and to create a new literary language, they turned to those excluded from the old language – women. When in olden times

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the cultural illiteracy of women justified their exclusion from the high Parnassus, this very outsidership now becomes an argument in favour of their inclusion in the literary domain, at least in theory. The linguistic authority feminizing writers granted to women seems extremely revolutionary. Words can be powerful things. They determine identities, social positions and values; they provide the codes for our interpretation of the surrounding world. According to the Biblical story, it was Adam, the first man, who obtained the godgiven power to name, and in Russia, the dominant cultural language for centuries had been a male one. Satirists such as Ivan Krylov and Nikolai Novikov foresaw utter incomprehensibility, perpetual misunderstandings and second Towers of Babel if women gained control over the Russian language as Karamzin and likeminded writers wished. But did the propagators of a feminized literary language really give up their male power in the domain of the (literary) word? By the end of the eighteenth century, the neoclassical strict hierarchy of genres and styles lost its all-determining authority, but this in no sense meant that everything was allowed in literature. Even if conversational Russian with its aspects of everyday life entered the domain of high literature, both language and literary subjects first had to pass through a poetic filter that determined whether a word or motif was sufficiently elevated to be literature-fähig, or, actually, salonfähig. According to the defenders of a feminized literature, the ideal literary language pleasing to tender female ears was to be found in French salon-like literary circles where men and women assembled to compose and listen to poetry and where women supposedly acted as the lawgivers of refined behaviour, speech and taste. There was a serious problem, though. In its orientation towards French culture, Russian high society also copied the French language. As Nikolai Karamzin complains: “[I]n the best households, our people speak mostly French! The sweet ladies we only have to listen to in order to decorate a novel or comedy with gentle, apt phrases, charm us with non-Russian sentences”.3 Although the propagators of more female literary voices seemed to grant women a normative role in the formation of a new language, a female Russian language suitable for literature did not exist yet. Like Peter I who had created the new capital Saint-Petersburg on practically waste land, the feminizing writers had to create a feminized literary and conversational language more or less ex nihilo. As Gitta Hammarberg remarks, Karamzin and

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likeminded authors first decided how women were supposed to speak and then oriented their written language towards this female speech they had actually created themselves (Hammarberg 2001: 219). Karamzin even explicitly demarcates the female domain of actual spoken language from the more important male sphere of discussions about the future of literary Russian: Let us leave it to our amiable ladies of polite society to maintain that the Russian language is coarse and unpleasant; that charmant and seduisant, expression and vapeurs cannot be expressed in it, and that, in a word, it is not worth the effort of knowing. Who would dare to show a lady that she is mistaken? But men do not have the amiable right to be mistaken. Our language can express not only high eloquence and resonant, picturesque poeticisms, but also tender simplicity, the sounds of the heart and of feeling.4

In former days, men had decided how a woman was supposed to behave; in the literary language debates at the turn of the eighteenth century, men decided how a woman was supposed to speak. How did this male version of female speech sound? Dushenka opens with the lines Not of Achilles’ wrath or of the capture of Troy, Where in the turmoil of perpetual strife heroes ended their lives, But of Dushenka I sing. […] Not the loud sounds of a lyre you will hear, but a shepherd’s flute.5

The first two long lines evoke an epic world. Then, an unexpectedly short line introducing the female hero of the poem follows them. In contrast to the preceding heroic clash of arms, the third line ends in silence. The musical accompaniment changes accordingly – the lyre of elevated panegyric odes and epic poems has to make way for a much softer shepherd’s flute (ɫɜɢɪɟɥɶ).6 In Mikhail Kheraskov’s ode, To My Lyre a similar softening of the poetic intonation takes place. Kheraskov too evokes the sounds of soft, pastoral music, stating that he wishes to be “the echo of [Anacreon’s] shepherd’s flutes” (ȿɝɨ ɫɜɢɪɟɥɨɤ ɷɯɨɦ; Cheraskov 1961: 75). To My Lyre is the opening poem of a collection of odes under the title New Odes (ɇɨɜɵɟ ɨɞɵ, 1762).7 As such, it can be considered a program in verse indicating the reforms that Kheraskov envisaged for the odic genre. Among other things, the poet’s new lyre has to take

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into account a female taste: “Prepare yourself now, lyre, / To appear in simple attire [without end rhyme] / Before the eyes / Of a wise Russian woman [Kheraskov’s wife, to whom the ode is dedicated]”.8 The lyre has to put off its traditional attire of grandeur. Odes addressing women should be small, soft and tender. In the words of Kheraskov, addressing his lyre in new, simple attire: Do not be ashamed of your new attire, Just sing and be merry. With your simplicity You comfort her more Than with resonating strings And high-sounding words; […] The worldly grandeur Of a life of splendour She ultimately detests.9

Kheraskov here explicitly establishes a relationship between literary language (resonating strings and high-sounding words) and nonliterary reality (the worldly grandeur of a life of splendour). In a similar manner, Pëtr Makarov, an ardent follower of Karamzin, calls for a new Russian literary language, since “our old books do not give us the colours needed for the luxurious boudoirs of Aspasias” (ɧɚɲɢ ɫɬɚɪɢɧɧɵɟ ɤɧɢɝɢ ɧɟ ɫɨɨɛɳɚɸɬ ɤɪɚɫɨɤ ɞɥɹ ɪɨɫɤɨɲɧɵɯ ɛɭɞɭɚɪɨɜ Ⱥɫɩɚɡɢɣ; quoted in Vinogradov 2000: 47). Tynianov uses the term ustanovka to refer to the function of the poetic word in relation to the direct non-literary reality (Tynianov 1967: 49-50 [‘Oda kak oratorskij žanr’]). The oratory orientation of panegyric odes related the poetic word to the non-literary reality of large palace halls. Odes eulogized the grand, heroic deeds and victories of the Russian tsars. Notwithstanding the fact that most panegyric odes were never actually read aloud, rhetorically their language had to fill an entire palace room, even the whole universe with overwhelming images of the magnificent Russian Empire and its rulers. In feminized Russian literature, this orientation changed. The spatial and acoustic imagery of poetry written for women had to relate to a female world. The shepherd’s flutes in Kheraskov’s and Bogdanovich’ poems and Makarov’s “luxurious boudoirs of Aspasias” locate ideal feminine spheres in pastoral valleys, female salons, and boudoirs. Whereas classical panegyric odes had to resound

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in the limitless universe, the words of feminized literature needed to fill only a small, enclosed space. As a result, musical instruments and their sounds became softer. There were other changes as well. Literature was placed in an idealized context of female salons and boudoirs, where muse-like salon hostesses dazzled young men with their beauty and inspired them to write tender poems in private poetry albums. On the continuum public – private, the personal album as literary genre and the boudoir as literary space are situated on the extreme end of privateness. This private setting called for a more personal tone. And indeed, literary texts turned into intimate, easy conversations between a usually male author and a tender female reader or listener. In his Epistle to Women Karamzin, for instance, has “no need to think: words flow like a river / In conversations with those, whom we love wholeheartedly”.10 In his Dushenka, Bogdanovich uses a similar conversational, casual intonation. The main story line is repeatedly interrupted by extensive digressions and side remarks within digressions. It is as if Bogdanovich forgets strict rules of coherent text composition and instead, as narrator, pictures himself sitting comfortably and relaxed at the fireplace, or in a salon at the feet of a beautiful lady. A comparison of the first version of the first book of Dushenka (1778) with the final edition of 1799 shows that Bogdanovich increasingly adapted his poem to a non-literary reality of salon-like literary gatherings. The 1778 edition of Dushenka is considerably longer than the 1799 version. During his revisions, Bogdanovich replaced the majority of vulgar expressions as well as descriptions of cruel or unjust acts committed by various characters. The following description of “evil spirits” informing the offended Venus of Dushenka’s blasphemous deeds might serve as an illustration of Bogdanovich’ editorial decisions (the 1778 edition is given on the left side, the version of 1799 on the right): To please the Goddess they reported That Dushenka with many people Conspired with malicious and seditious intent To overthrow all the thrones that The world had ever erected for Venus; That she spread rumours among the people

To please the goddess they reported That Dushenka, to vex and harm her, Had appropriated all her servants in Cythera […]

Lap-dogs Against Her divine honour And, walking around in a ragged jacket, did not darn her clothes, […] Venus gathered all folk rubbish in a notebook, With this denunciation then went to her son, And, adding half as much lies, In tears spoke to him thus (At the appropriate times crying with all her might And pathetically wiping her eyes):

“Amor, Amor! Defend my honour and my fame, Resurrect my fallen throne And un-fool my name” (Bogdanoviþ 2002: 309).

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Venus gathered lies and all sorts of fables And ordered sixteen postal zephyrs To be hastily harnessed to her chariot In order to quickly fly to Amor to inform him. The reader can imagine as he pleases, Whether she asked him in this way or in that, After she had arrived to plead and denounce Dushenka: “Amor, Amor! Defend my honour and my fame, Show your authority, show your justice.” (52)11

Compared to the 1778 edition, the contents and vocabulary of the version of 1799 are considerably more subtle. In the final edition, Bogdanovich has shortened the description of the lies Venus tells about Dushenka’s presumed crimes. In this way, the female hero of the poem remains an innocent little girl. Strong expressions such as “rubbish” (ɜɪɚɤ) and “to un-fool” (ɜɵɜɟɫɬɢ ɢɡ ɞɭɪ) have made way for the less vulgar phrases “lies and all sorts of fables” (ɥɨɠɶ ɢ ɜɫɹɤɚ ɧɟɛɵɥɢɰɚ) and “to show authority and justice” (ɹɜɢɬɶ ɫɭɞ ɢ ɭɩɪɚɜɭ). Instead of Venus’ undivine-like “crying with all her might” (ɪɵɞɚɬɶ ɢɡɨ ɜɫɟɣ ɦɨɱɢ), we find in the 1799 edition the comical scene of sixteen postal zephyrs being harnessed to a chariot. At times, Bogdanovich has heightened the eroticism of descriptions. Thus, the line “And he kisses them [Venus’ lips and eyes] a hundred times” (ɂ ɢɯ ɫɬɨɤɪɚɬɧɨ ɨɧ ɰɟɥɭɟɬ; ibidem: 313; my emphasis – TG) in the final edition has changed into “And he kisses them secretly” (ɂ ɢɯ ɭɪɤɚɞɤɨɸ ɰɟɥɭɟɬ; 56; my emphasis – TG). In short, it seems that Bogdanovich in his final edition of Dushenka has adapted the poem more to a salon-like ambiance of male gallant behaviour and female tenderness. The narrator of Dushenka, who is usually extremely fond of detailed descriptions and digressions, sometimes suddenly falls silent

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and summons the reader to fill in the resulting gaps of his or her own accord. The reader is drawn into a dialogue with the text and the audience becomes an active participant in a literary conversation with the narrator.12 Most silences on the part of Dushenka’s narrator occur in descriptions of beautiful female characters. Women reveal themselves to the eyes of the reader only partially. Their bodies are veiled by clothes, shut doors, and narrative gaps. Thus, when Dushenka takes a bath in the palace of her husband Amor, the male servants have to leave: The zephyrs alone, having access everywhere, The zephyrs, being of small size, Found the smallest openings near windows and doors, Secretly mingled with the nymphs and hid in the water, In which Dushenka took her bath. She appeared before their eyes in all her beauty, Or even more – she was touched by them; But Dushenka was completely unaware of this.13

Alas, for the narrator and his audience the doors remain shut and the zephyrs refuse to share their observations. This game of partly revealing and partly hiding is the basis of eroticism. As noted by Klein (Klein 2002: 210-212), such erotic passages, in which male eyes gaze upon female bodies, indicate the limits of Dushenka’s orientation towards a female reader. This brings us to the next subject – images of femininity in poems written in the context of Russia’s literary feminization. 2. Flying Dromedaries and Vegetarian Dragons Before turning to the main subject, a preliminary remark needs to be made with respect to general changes in the system of literary genres and motifs. By the end of the eighteenth century, Neoclassicism lost its all determining authority. The strict hierarchy of genres and motifs slowly began to dissolve (Ginzburg 1964: 10-11). The feminization of aspects of Russian culture was not its direct cause, but only a phenomenon intersecting with these general changes. Nonetheless, several Russian writers justified innovations in the system of literary genres and motifs by explicitly referring to women and a supposedly female taste. It is to such writers and their works that I now will turn. In feminized works, as we have seen, the space the poetic word had to fill diminished considerably. Poetic genres themselves were

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also miniaturized. Up to at least the second half of the eighteenth century, odes were considered the highest, if not the only, form of lyric poetry. Panegyric odes were voluminous works consisting of up to 50 strophes in the case of the court poet Vasilii Pëtrov (1736-1799). Feminized literature composed and read during small, salon-like gatherings, instead, preferred light, miniature genres such as songs, riddles, epigrams, and inscriptions for the collars of dogs belonging to admired women. Literary themes and motifs were subjected to a similar miniaturization. As a result of the orientation towards a supposedly female non-literary reality, aspects of what was considered a female world entered literary texts. This female world turns out to be rather stereotypical and very small. New motifs and themes included gallant love, domestic crafts, fashion or beauty and beautifying practices as in Kheraskov’s To My Lyre, in which changes in composition schemes are equated with a change of dress. Also miniaturized were poets’ literary aspirations. Authorial modesty is a well-known strategy to gain the goodwill of the audience. It seems to me, however, that in feminized literature the modesty topos ceased to be a mere rhetorical device. Poets writing in the context of Russia’s literary feminization outright denied any aspirations to come even close to the summits of the Parnassus. The female world was associated with trivial matters not compatible with a place on the mountain of Literature.14 In To My Lyre, Kheraskov does not aspire to a place on the Parnassian summits in the company of Homer and Ovid; his only goal is to please a sweet lady. In a similar vein, Bogdanovich distances himself from Homer from the very first line of his Dushenka, declaring that he will sing “not of Achilles’ wrath or of the capture of Troy” (46). In fact, the female hero of this anti-Homeric anti-epic is deemed too weak to spend her days on the Parnassus. When the oracle tells Dushenka that she has to leave her parents’ palace to look for a husband, the entire country engages in a discussion where to find her a spouse. Some propose to send her to the Parnassus, but others object that this cannot be the place the oracle has in mind, since the mountain is pestered by chilly winds from the North and Dushenka consequently will only catch a cold instead of a husband. What then, are the places more suitable for the tender and fair sex?

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First, like poetic words, aspirations, genres, and motifs, the female space is a miniaturized one. Heroes like Achilles, Odysseus or the Russian Ilia Muromets are epic heroes because they are braver and stronger than ordinary human beings are. The worlds in which they perform their heroic deeds and the monsters they fight exceed the proportions of everyday life. In epics, everything is hyperbolized (Propp 1999: 54). In the world of Dushenka, this epic device of hyperbolization makes way for its opposite – miniaturization. The name of the hero – “small soul” – is a diminutive, indicating smallness and sweetness. There are no superhumanly strong heroes who defend humankind against dangers of immense proportions. As we have seen in the bathing scene with the small zephyrs, large proportions are a handicap in Dushenka’s world; it is small size that counts. During her journey to the realm of her future husband, Dushenka encounters all types of epically awful dragons and flying dromedaries, “Who with their roars, in various ways, / Deafened the ears, / Spoiled the air” (Ʉɨɬɨɪɵ ɪɟɜɚɦɢ, ɧɚ ɪɚɡɧɵɟ ɦɚɧɟɪɵ, / Ƚɥɭɲɢɥɢ ɫɥɭɯ, / Ɇɭɬɢɥɢ ɞɭɯ; 65). Fortunately, these monsters limit themselves to the devouring of clothes: “And many a person then, / Enduring difficult times, / Dropped his hat, / Which in its fall was devoured by dragons”.15 In Bogdanovich’ story, the monsters become just as innocent and sweet as the hero herself. In a similar vein, Dushenka’s journey to the Other World, a standard element of the morphology of epics and heroic tales, is miniaturized to a descent from a small staircase of only nine steps. As soon as Dushenka shows her beautiful little feet in the Underworld, all hellish monsters immediately fall silent, Tartarus starts to melt and Pluto actually smiles for the first time in his life. In short, when a sweet young woman enters the epic world of superhuman beings, all bravery of heroic men disappears and everything becomes tender and beautiful. The tender beauty of the female hero has a strong impact on the behaviour of the other characters. It completely disarms ferocious Mars and puts in practice the late twentieth-century flower power slogan: “Make love, not war”. One of the pictures in the palace of her husband Amor depicts Dushenka armed with beautiful looks instead of superhuman strength and magical weapons: “with a mighty dreadful shield in front of her chest / Dressed like Pallas, [Dushenka] threatens on horseback, / And with fair looks, rather than with her lance / Pierces hearts in an epidemic of pleasure”.16 Dushenka’s army

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consists of cupids, rushing ahead with their arrows of love ready to attack. Even during the most unlikely moments, Bogdanovich finds the opportunity to stress the beauty of his female hero. After having been exiled from Amor’s palace for trying to murder her husband, Dushenka attempts to commit suicide four times. Feminized literature, however, should not burden delicate female minds with such tragic events. Therefore, Bogdanovich adds an erotic element. Dushenka hangs herself from a tree, but “oh marvellous miracle, shocking mountains and valleys” (Ɉ, ɱɭɞɨ ɢɡ ɱɭɞɟɫ! / ɉɨɬɪɹɫɫɹ ɞɨɥ ɢ ɥɟɫ!), the branches bend over and put her on the ground, safe and sound. When the tree bends back, one impudent branch holds on to Dushenka’s skirt and “then the mountains and valleys beheld / Another marvellous miracle” (Ɍɨɝɞɚ ɭɜɢɞɟɥ ɞɨɥ ɢ ɥɟɫ / Ⱦɪɭɝɨɟ ɱɭɞɨ ɢɡ ɱɭɞɟɫ! 103). The death that Dushenka wishes for does indeed pay her a visit, “but only to cut or mow the grass, which might prick Dushenka’s little feet”.17 An epic hero does not have time to spend hours in front of the mirror, contemplating which armour will make him look younger or prettier. A real hero has to save the world from the most horrible monsters and any form of lingering might well be fatal to humankind as a whole. Dushenka’s world, on the other hand, is a world not of male decisiveness, but of female beauty, which needs to be taken care of attentively. Even the male Olympic gods start to worry about their looks. Dushenka’s beauty has such an impact on poor old Saturn that he, … toothless, bald and grey, With some newly acquired wrinkles on his old face, Tries to forget that he is an ancient grandpa, Straightens his decrepit torso, wishes to be younger, Curls the few plucks of hair he has left, And, to see Dushenka, puts on glasses.18

In fact, this is exactly what the propagators of a feminization of Russian culture did as well – they fixed their gazes on the “fair sex” and in their gazing, fixated women in stereotypically subordinate, passive positions.

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3. Lap-dogs Dushenka presents the reader with a clear picture of what ideal femininity was for eighteenth-century feminizing Russian authors. Woman is a small creature, moving in miniature spaces. She can impossibly leave this miniaturized world because she is too delicate to survive in the public, male sphere. She is destined to be beautiful, and her main purpose in life is to look carefully after her fragile body so that male eyes can rapture in the beauty of her charming outer appearance. Bogdanovich places Dushenka in an idyllic pastoral ambiance. Kheraskov’s “wise Russian woman” likewise turns her back to “the worldly bliss of a life of splendour.” Karamzin’s ideal man, who takes women as his example, “Flees from the boredom of the big city / To nurture in his heart tenderness and peace / Under a quiet village roof”.19 Here, even nature in the form of birds building their nests represents the ideal of domesticity and reminds the lyric subject of an unspoiled childhood in the sweet company of a tender mother. The same image of private, domestic intimacy dominates in conceptions of the ideal female salon or boudoir, which were supposed to be the points of orientation for young writers wishing to feminize their literary language. The cult of a quiet life far away from the turmoil of the social and cultural centre was a general literary tendency at the end of the eighteenth century. Several writers, quite understandably, connected this cultural outsidership with women – those who traditionally inhabited the outskirts of society. At the turn of the century, the male population of the Russian gentry acquired the possibility to travel back and forth between the cultural centre and its periphery (Lotman 2002, in particular pp. 238 and 254). Such a choice did not exist for ideal women. Precisely because they embodied an idealized outsidership, women could not but continue to be cultural outsiders. In his Epistle to Women, Karamzin expects that soon “the tender sex” will be “freed from its bonds” (Ʉɨɝɞɚ ɜɫɟɦɨɳɧɚɹ ɫɭɞɶɛɚ […] / ɧɟɠɧɵɣ ɩɨɥ ɨɬ ɭɡ ɨɫɜɨɛɨɞɢɬ? Karamzin 1966: 178). However, this happened neither in feminized literature nor in feminized literary language. On the contrary, the freedom for women Karamzin hopes for could impossibly have been realized in his way of addressing the problem of gender inequality by idealizing femininity. Idealization has the same restrictive effects as has contemptuous suppression. Both foreclose any possibility of free choice, both silence the person looked

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at in either admiration or contempt. Thus, paradoxically, the feminization of Russian culture continued to silence women, depriving them of their own voices and perspectives on the future development of the nation that had to become more civilized and European with the help of exactly those silenced female voices and perspectives. Moreover, the attempts to give female voices and tastes a more dominant position in Russian culture were based on stereotypical ideas about what a woman is or should be. These stereotypes were once used to justify a patriarchal social order that deprived women of the right to participate in public life. By the end of the eighteenth century, part of Russian high society re-evaluated stereotypical ideas about women. What once were negative qualities now became highly valued natural talents. The stereotypes themselves, however, did not change. Although they acquired new values, they did not give women the opportunity to leave the small, enclosed places at the outskirts of society, to which those very same stereotypes had relegated them. If an eighteenth-century Russian woman wanted to be a good woman, she had to embody stereotypical aspects of femininity. The ideal Russian woman was a sweet, beautiful little girl or a tenderly loving mother. She resembled her fashionable companion the lap-dog – small and sweet, obediently silent,20 and always remaining inside its miniaturized world, far away from the public positions in society, where men obtained not only status, but also the power to determine what constituted meaningful (gender) identities and codes of conduct. As it turns out, the feminization of Russian culture at the turn of the eighteenth century had more to do with men than with women. It hardly did give women the opportunity to enter literature or society at large as active participants. In the course of Russia’s westernization, traditional symbols of Russianness lost their authority. Confronted with these drifting signs of Russian cultural and national identity, Russian men tried to find the answers to the resulting identity problem by turning to the “riddle of the nature of femininity” (Freud 19531955: 113), to this eternally marked, female deviation that earlier had often been used as a screen on which to externalize unwanted aspects of the self. Eighteenth-century feminizing Russia reversed the direction of the projection. Femininity became a mirror on which to project highly wished for qualities like tenderness and refinement, which should be re-internalized by civilized men. This new perception of the role of female gender identity “created a crack in the established

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gender edifice”, as remarks Gitta Hammarberg (Hammarberg 2002: 313), at least it did for ideas on masculinity. Women themselves, however, remained passive mirror images first produced by and then reflecting back onto male selves. Like the Freudian epigraph, it were men who raised the question of Russia’s feminization and it were men who formulated the answers to the question. University of Leiden Notes

1 Ʌɸɛɹ ɫɜɨɛɨɞɭ ɹ ɦɨɸ, / ɇɟ ɞɥɹ ɩɨɯɜɚɥ ɫɟɛɟ ɩɨɸ; / ɇɨ ɱɬɨɛ ɜ ɱɚɫɵ ɩɪɨɯɥɚɞ, ɜɟɫɟɥɶɹ ɢ ɩɨɤɨɹ / ɉɪɢɹɬɧɨ ɪɚɫɫɦɟɹɥɚɫɶ ɏɥɨɹ (Bogdanoviþ 1957: 47). In the following, page numbers in parentheses will refer to this edition. 2 The terms Archaists and Innovators were introduced by Jurij Tynjanov 1967/1929. 3 ɜ ɥɭɱɲɢɯ ɞɨɦɚɯ ɝɨɜɨɪɹɬ ɭ ɧɚɫ ɛɨɥɟɟ ɩɨ-ɮɪɚɧɰɭɡɫɤɢ! Ɇɢɥɵɟ ɠɟɧɳɢɧɵ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɯ ɧɚɞɥɟɠɚɥɨ ɛɵ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɩɨɞɫɥɭɲɢɜɚɬɶ, ɱɬɨɛɵ ɭɤɪɚɫɢɬɶ ɪɨɦɚɧ ɢɥɢ ɤɨɦɟɞɢɸ ɥɸɛɟɡɵɧɦɢ, ɫɱɚɫɬɥɢɜɵɦɢ ɜɵɪɚɠɟɧɢɹɦɢ, ɩɥɟɧɹɸɬ ɧɚɫ ɧɟɪɭɫɫɤɢɦɢ ɮɪɚɡɚɦɢ (Karamzin 1964 II: 185). 4 Ɉɫɬɚɜɢɦ ɧɚɲɢɦ ɥɸɛɟɡɧɵɦ ɫɜɟɬɫɤɢɦ ɞɚɦɚɦ ɭɬɜɟɪɠɞɚɬɶ, ɱɬɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɹɡɵɤ ɝɪɭɛ ɢ ɧɟɩɪɢɹɬɟɧ; ɱɬɨ charmant ɢ seduisant, expansion ɢ vapeurs ɧɟ ɦɨɝɭɬ ɛɵɬɶ ɧɚ ɧɟɦ ɜɵɪɚɠɟɧɵ; ɢ ɱɬɨ, ɨɞɧɢɦ ɫɥɨɜɨɦ, ɧɟ ɫɬɨɢɬ ɬɪɭɞɚ ɡɧɚɬɶ ɟɝɨ. Ʉɬɨ ɫɦɟɟɬ ɞɨɤɚɡɵɜɚɬɶ ɞɚɦɚɦ, ɱɬɨ ɨɧɢ ɨɲɢɛɚɸɬɫɹ? ɇɨ ɦɭɠɱɢɧɵ ɧɟ ɢɦɟɸɬ ɬɚɤɨɝɨ ɥɸɛɟɡɧɨɝɨ ɩɪɚɜɚ ɫɭɞɢɬɶ ɥɨɠɧɨ. əɡɵɤ ɧɚɲ ɜɵɪɚɡɢɬɟɥɟɧ ɧɟ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɞɥɹ ɜɵɫɨɤɨɝɨ ɤɪɚɫɧɨɪɟɱɢɹ, ɞɥɹ ɝɪɨɦɤɨɣ, ɠɢɜɨɩɢɫɧɨɣ ɩɨɷɡɢɢ, ɧɨ ɢ ɞɥɹ ɧɟɠɧɨɣ ɩɪɨɫɬɨɬɵ, ɞɥɹ ɡɜɭɤɨɜ ɫɟɪɞɰɚ ɢ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɢ (Karamzin 1964 II: 286; English translation in Kelly 2001: 61). 5 ɇɟ Ⱥɯɢɥɥɟɫɨɜ ɝɧɟɜ ɢ ɧɟ ɨɫɚɞɭ Ɍɪɨɢ, / Ƚɞɟ ɜ ɲɭɦɟ ɜɟɱɧɵɯ ɫɫɨɪ ɤɨɧɱɚɥɢ ɞɧɢ ɝɟɪɨɢ, / ɇɨ Ⱦɭɲɟɧɶɤɭ ɩɨɸ. / […] ɇɟ ɥɢɪɵ ɝɪɨɦɤɢɣ ɡɜɭɤ – ɭɫɥɵɲɢɲɶ ɬɵ ɫɜɢɪɟɥɶ (46). 6 For a discussion of the thematic and stylistic associations of various instruments in eighteenth-century Russian literature, see Klein 2005. 7 The New Odes were republished in the section ‘Anacreontic Odes’ (Ⱥɧɚɤɪɟɨɧɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɨɞɵ) in the Works (Ɍɜɨɪɟɧɢɹ) of 1796-1802 edited by Kheraskov himself. 8 Ƚɨɬɨɜɶɫɹ ɧɵɧɟ, ɥɢɪɚ, / ȼ ɩɪɨɫɬɨɦ ɫɜɨɟɦ ɭɛɨɪɟ / ɉɪɟɞɫɬɚɬɶ ɩɟɪɟɞ ɨɱɚɦɢ / Ɋɚɡɭɦɧɨɣ ɪɨɫɫɢɹɧɤɢ (ibidem: 74). 9 ɑɬɨ ɜ ɧɨɜɨɦ ɬɵ ɭɛɨɪɟ, / Ɍɨɝɨ ɧɟ ɭɫɬɵɞɢɫɹ; / Ɍɵ ɩɨɣ ɢ ɜɟɫɟɥɢɫɹ. / ɋɜɨɟɸ ɩɪɨɫɬɨɬɨɸ / ȿɟ ɭɬɟɲɢɲɶ ɛɨɥɟ, / ɑɟɦ ɝɪɨɦɤɢɦɢ ɫɬɪɭɧɚɦɢ / ɂ ɩɵɲɧɵɦɢ ɫɥɨɜɚɦɢ; / […] Ɉɧɚ ɦɢɪɫɤɭɸ ɩɵɲɧɨɫɬɶ / ȼɟɥɢɤɨɥɟɩɧɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ / Ʉɨɧɟɱɧɨ ɧɟɧɚɜɢɞɢɬ (Cheraskov 1961: 74). 10 ɇɟ ɧɭɠɧɨ ɞɭɦɚɬɶ ɦɧɟ: ɫɥɨɜɚ ɬɟɤɭɬ ɪɟɤɨɸ / ȼ ɛɟɫɟɞɟ ɫ ɬɟɦ, ɤɨɝɨ ɦɵ ɥɸɛɢɦ ɜɫɟɣ ɞɭɲɨɸ (Karamzin 1966: 170). 11 The 1778 edition reads: “ȼɨ ɭɝɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ Ȼɨɝɢɧɟ ɞɨɧɨɫɢɥɢ, / ɑɬɨ ɛɭɞɬɨ Ⱦɭɲɟɧɶɤɚ ɫɨ ɦɧɨɝɢɦɢ ɜɟɥɚ / Ɂɥɨɞɟɣɫɤɢ ɭɦɵɫɥɵ ɢ ɬɚɣɧɵɟ ɤɪɚɦɨɥɵ, / Ⱦɚɛɵ ɪɚɡɪɭɲɢɬɶ ɜɫɟ ɩɪɟɫɬɨɥɵ, / Ʉɚɤɢɟ ɞɨ ɫɟɝɨ ȼɟɧɟɪɟ ɫɬɚɜɢɥ ɦɢɪ; / ɑɬɨ ɛɭɞɬɨ ɩɪɨɬɢɜ ɜɵɲɧɟɣ ɱɟɫɬɢ / Ɉɧɚ ɜ ɧɚɪɨɞɟ ɫɟɟɬ ɜɟɫɬɢ / ɂ, ɜ ɞɪɚɧɨɦ ɛɨɫɬɪɨɤɟ ɯɨɞɹ, ɧɟ ɩɥɚɬɢɬ ɞɵɪ, / […] ȼɟɧɟɪɚ, ɧɚɤɨɩɢɜ ɬɟɬɪɚɞɶ ɧɚɪɨɞɧɵɯ ɜɪɚɤ, / ɉɨɟɯɚɥɚ ɫ ɞɨɧɨɫɨɦ ɤ ɫɵɧɭ / ɂ, ɥɠɢ ɩɪɢɛɚɜɢɜ ɩɨɥɨɜɢɧɭ, / ȼ ɫɥɟɡɚɯ ɤ ɧɟɦɭ ɜɟɳɚɥɚ ɬɚɤ / (ɉɪɢɬɨɦ, ɝɞɟ ɧɚɞɨɛɧɨ, ɢɡ

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ɜɫɟɣ ɪɵɞɚɥɚ ɦɨɱɢ / ɂ ɠɚɥɤɨ ɭɬɢɪɚɥɚ ɨɱɢ): / ‘Ⱥɦɭɪ, Ⱥɦɭɪ! / ȼɫɬɭɩɢɫɶ ɡɚ ɱɟɫɬɶ ɦɨɸ ɢ ɫɥɚɜɭ, / ȼɨɫɫɬɚɜɶ ɭɩɚɞɲɭɸ ɞɟɪɠɚɜɭ / ɂ ɜɵɜɟɞɢ ɦɟɧɹ ɢɡ ɞɭɪ’”. The revised 1799 version reads: “ȼɨ ɭɝɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ ɛɨɝɢɧɟ ɞɨɧɨɫɢɥɢ, / ɑɬɨ ɛɭɞɬɨ Ⱦɭɲɟɧɶɤɚ, ɜ ɞɨɫɚɞɭ ɟɣ ɢ ɜ ɡɥɨ, / ɉɪɢɫɜɨɢɥɚ ɫɟɛɟ ɰɢɬɟɪɫɤɢɯ ɫɥɭɝ ɱɢɫɥɨ / […] ɋɨɛɪɚɜ ȼɟɧɟɪɚ ɥɨɠɶ ɢ ɜɫɹɤɭ ɧɟɛɵɥɢɰɭ, / ȼɟɥɟɥɚ ɧɚɫɤɨɪɨ ɜ ɞɨɪɨɠɧɭ ɤɨɥɟɫɧɢɰɭ / ɒɟɫɬɧɚɞɰɚɬɶ ɩɨɱɬɨɜɵɯ ɡɟɮɢɪɨɜ ɡɚɥɨɠɢɬɶ, / ɂ ɧɚɫɤɨɪɨ ɥɟɬɢɬ Ⱥɦɭɪɚ ɧɚɜɟɫɬɢɬɶ. / ɑɢɬɚɬɟɥɶ ɫɚɦ ɫɟɛɟ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɢɬ ɬɨ ɭɞɨɛɧɨ, / ɉɪɨɫɢɥɚ ɥɢ ɟɝɨ ɢɥɶ ɬɚɤ, ɢɥɢ ɩɨɞɨɛɧɨ, / ɉɪɢɲɟɞ ɧɚ Ⱦɭɲɟɧɶɤɭ ɩɪɨɫɢɬɶ ɢ ɞɨɧɨɫɬɶ: / ‘Ⱥɦɭɪ, Ⱥɦɭɪ! ɜɫɬɭɩɢɫɶ ɡɚ ɱɟɫɬɶ ɦɨɸ ɢ ɫɥɚɜɭ, / əɜɢ ɫɜɨɣ ɫɭɞ, ɹɜɢ ɭɩɪɚɜɭ.’” 12 Gitta Hammarberg notes a similar fading of the boundaries of authorship: “the roles of reader and writer were interchangeable and the identity of the ‘real’ author mattered little in ‘feminized’ literature” (Hammarberg 1996: 305). 13 Ɂɟɮɢɪɵ ɥɢɲɶ ɨɞɧɢ, ɢɦɟɹ ɜɯɨɞ ɜɟɡɞɟ, / Ɂɟɮɢɪɵ ɯɢɳɧɵɟ, ɡɚɬɟɦ ɱɬɨ ɪɨɫɬɨɦ ɦɟɥɤɢ, / ɍ ɨɤɨɧ ɢ ɞɜɟɪɟɣ ɧɚɲɥɢ ɦɚɥɟɣɲɢ ɳɟɥɤɢ, / ɉɪɨɤɪɚɥɢɫɶ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɧɢɦɮ ɢ ɫɩɪɹɬɚɥɢɫɶ ɜ ɜɨɞɟ, / Ƚɞɟ Ⱦɭɲɟɧɶɤɚ ɤɭɩɚɥɚɫɶ. / Ɉɧɚ ɩɪɟɞ ɧɢɦɢ ɬɚɦ ɜɨ ɜɫɟɣ ɤɪɚɫɟ ɹɜɥɹɥɚɫɶ,/ ɂɥɶ ɩɚɱɟ – ɢɦ ɤɚɫɚɥɚɫɶ;/ɇɨ Ⱦɭɲɟɧɶɤɚ ɨ ɬɨɦ ɧɢɤɚɤ ɧɟ ɞɨɝɚɞɚɥɚɫɶ (69). 14 Cf. Hammarberg, who connects dominant ideas on female virtue with the frequent tendency towards self-effacement in women’s domestic albums (Hammarberg 1996: 309-314). 15 ɂ ɦɧɨɝɢɟ ɨɬ ɫɬɪɚɯɚ ɬɭɬ, / ɂɦɟɹ ɦɧɨɝɢɣ ɬɪɭɞ, / ɇɟɦɚɥɨ ɲɚɩɨɤ ɩɨɪɨɧɹɥɢ, / Ʉɨɬɨɪɵ ɧɚɩɨɞɯɜɚɬ ɞɪɚɤɨɧɵ ɩɨɠɢɪɚɥɢ (65-66). 16 ɫ ɳɢɬɨɦ ɩɪɟɫɬɪɚɲɧɵɦ ɧɚ ɝɪɭɞɢ, / ɉɚɥɥɚɞɨɣ ɧɚɪɹɞɹɫɶ, ɝɪɨɡɢɬ ɧɚ ɥɨɲɚɞɢ, / ɂ, ɛɨɥɟ ɱɟɦ ɤɨɩɶɟɦ, ɫɜɨɢɦ ɩɪɟɤɪɚɫɧɵɦ ɜɡɨɪɨɦ / Ɋɚɡɢɬ ɫɟɪɞɰɚ ɩɪɢɹɬɧɵɦ ɦɨɪɨɦ (76). 17 ɇɨ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɥɢɲɶ ɬɪɚɜɭ ɤɨɫɢɬɶ ɢɥɢ ɩɨɥɨɬɶ, / Ƚɞɟ Ⱦɭɲɟɧɶɤɚ ɦɨɝɥɚ ɫɬɭɩɟɧɶɤɢ ɩɨɤɨɥɨɬɶ (101). 18 ɛɟɡ ɡɭɛ, ɩɥɟɲɢɜ ɢ ɫɟɞ, / ɋ ɨɛɧɨɜɨɸ ɦɨɪɳɢɧ ɧɚ ɫɬɚɪɨɥɟɬɧɟɣ ɪɨɠɟ, / ɋɬɚɪɚɟɬɫɹ ɡɚɛɵɬɶ, ɱɬɨ ɨɧ ɞɚɜɧɢɲɧɢɣ ɞɟɞ, / ɉɪɹɦɢɬ ɫɜɨɣ ɞɪɹɯɥɵɣ ɫɬɚɧ, ɠɟɥɚɟɬ ɛɵɬɶ ɦɨɥɨɠɟ, / Ʉɭɞɪɢɬ ɨɫɬɚɜɲɢɟ ɜɨɥɨɫ ɫɜɨɢɯ ɤɥɨɱɤɢ, / ɂ ɜɢɞɟɬɶ Ⱦɭɲɟɧɶɤɭ ɜɡɞɟɜɚɟɬ ɨɧ ɨɱɤɢ (76). 19 Ȼɟɠɢɬ ɨɬ ɫɤɭɤɢ ɝɨɪɨɞɫɤɨɣ, / ɑɬɨɛ ɜ ɫɟɥɶɫɤɨɦ ɤɪɨɜɟ ɦɢɪɧɨɦ / ɉɢɬɚɬɶ ɜ ɝɪɭɞɢ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɶ, ɩɨɤɨɣ (Karamzin 1966: 172). 20 A good lap-dog was not only obediently silent, but, when needed, also obediently noisy. Like parrots, lap-dogs sometimes served as living alarm systems that started to bark at the unexpected arrival of a husband whose wife had retreated into her room with a secret lover. See Ekshtut 2003: 108.

Bibliography Bogdanoviþ, I.F. 1957. Stichotvorenija i poơmy. Leningrad: Sovetskij pisatel'. –– 2002. Dušen'ka: Drevnjaja povest' v vol'nych stichach. Moskva: Nauþnoizdatel'skij centr. Ekshtut, Semeon. 2003. ‘Love and the Lap-Dog’ in Rosslyn, Wendy (ed.) Women and Gender in 18th-Century Russia. Hampshire/Burlington: Ashgate: 106-110. Freud, Sigmund. 1953-1955. ‘New Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis’ in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud. London: Hogarth Press. Vol. 22: 112-135. Ginzburg, L.Ja. 1964. O lirike. Moskva/Leningrad: Sovetskij pisatel’.

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Hammarberg, Gitta. 1996. ‘Flirting with Words: Domestic Albums, 1770-1840’ in Goscilo, Helena, Beth Holmgren (eds.) Russia. Women. Culture. Bloomington/Indianapolis: Indiana University Press: 297-320. –– 2001. ‘Reading à la Mode: The First Russian Women’s Journals’ in Klein, J., S. Dixon, M. Fraanje (eds.) Reflections on Russia in the Eighteenth Century. Köln/Weimar/Wien: Böhlau: 218-232. –– 2002. ‘Gender Ambivalence and Genre Anomalies in Late Eighteenth- and Early Nineteenth-Century Russian Literature’ in Russian Literature 52: 299-326. Karamzin, N.M. 1964. Izbrannye soþinenija v dvuch tomach. Moskva/Leningrad: Izdatel'stvo Chudožestvennaja literatura. –– 1966. Polnoe sobranie stichotvorenij. Moskva/Leningrad: Sovetskij pisatel'. Kelly, Catriona. 2001. Refining Russia: Advice Literature, Polite Culture, and Gender from Catherine to Yeltsin. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cheraskov, M.M. 1961. Izbrannye proizvedenija. Leningrad: Sovetskij pisatel’. Klein, Joachim. 2002. ‘Bogdanoviþ i ego “Dušenka”’ in Russian Literature 52: 201219. –– 2005. ‘Truba, svirel’, lira i gudok (Poơtologiþeskie simvoly russkogo klassicizma)’ in Puti kul'turnogo importa: Trudy po russkoj kul'ture XVIII veka. Moskva: Jazyki slavjanskoj kul'tury: 219-234. Lotman, Iu.M. 1995. Pushkin. Sankt-Peterburg: Iskusstvo-SPB. –– 2002. ‘Poơtika bytovogo povedenija v russkoi kul'ture XVIII veka’ in Istorija i tipologija russkoj kul'tury. Sankt-Peterburg: Iskusstvo-SPB: 233-254. Propp, V.Ja. 1999. Russkij geroiþeskij ơpos. Moskva: Labirint. Trediakovskij, V.K. 1963. Izbrannye proizvedenija. Moskva/Leningrad: Sovetskij pisatel'. Tynjanov, Jurij. 1967. Archaisty i novatory. München: Wilhelm Fink Verlag (first edition 1929). Uspenskij, B.A. 1985. Iz istorii russkogo literaturnogo jazyka XVIII - naþala XIX veka: Jazykovaja programma Karamzina i eë istoriþeskie korni. Moskva: Izdatel'stvo Moskovskogo universiteta. Vinogradov, V.V. 2000. Jazyk Puškina: Puškin i istorija russkogo literaturnogo jazyka. Moskva: Nauka. Vowles, Judith. 1994. ‘The “Feminization” of Russian Literature: Women, Language, and Literature in Eighteenth-Century Russia’ in Clyman, Toby W., Diana Greene (eds.) Women Writers in Russian Literature. Westport, Connecticut/ London: Praeger Publishers: 35-60.

Love of Poetry and Literary Creation in Turgenev’s First Love Eric de Haard Abstract: The article discusses poetic insertions and literary references in Turgenev’s First Love (1860). Dependent on variable temporal and evaluative points of view, they function as means of characterization, as indices of a mentality of the past (the Romantic 1830s), and as allusions and potential clues to the unelucidated plot situations the characters are involved in. Turgenev confronts the literary products of the fictional heroes Maidanov, Zinaida and Volodia with poetic works by Pushkin and other authors. In the article a number of allusions to real-life and literary antecedents are explored as well. Keywords: Turgenev; First Love; literary references; Pushkin; Khomiakov

In many of Turgenev’s stories and novels poetry plays an important role. Partly this can be connected with his own poetic experience – he was an (often underestimated) poet himself. He sometimes uses verse of his own making but more frequently he is oriented towards the Russian and West-European poetic tradition, from which he quotes freely and which he refers to regularly in his works. Poetry (and ‘verse’ in the broader sense, ranging from the loftiest and prestigious to the lowest genres, including folk- and popular songs) finds its way into Turgenev’s prose in a variety of forms: often this is a matter of simple reference, as a character, a first-person or authorial narrator mentions the title of a poem, song, or verse narrative, but sometimes a line, fragment or whole poem is reproduced and inserted in the text. In the case of incomplete citation-insertion a small fragment synecdochically represents the whole text, as the reader is invited to envisage the whole, especially in the case of generally known works.1 Although Turgenev, like other writers such as e.g. Pushkin and later Dostoevskii, sometimes composes his own ‘fictional’ verse for the occasion (or uses poems he has written earlier), the vast majority of references and insertions consists of ‘real’, existing texts. This entails the emergence of specific forms of intertextuality, of

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recontextualization, as new meanings are conveyed to the pre-text. Sometimes this results in stronger or lighter irony – or even a parodic (though not necessarily debasing) effect. In Turgenev’s stories and novels reference to poetry is not restricted to the narratorial-authorial sphere: perhaps more than in any other Russian nineteenth-century prose writer literature (mostly poetry, but also prose, which will also be the subject of the following discussion) is an important element in the socio-psychological makeup of the characters and their milieu. In the vast majority, the heroes are to some extent readers of literature, poetry lovers. However, Turgenev avoids the traditional and popular (at least until the 1860s) Künstlernovelle and does not choose writers or poets as leading heroes until only belatedly – and perhaps surprisingly – in ɇɨɜɶ (Virgin Soil), where Nezhdanov becomes a somewhat anachronistic hero. His tragedy resides in the irreconcilability of the two sides of his personality: he is a poet but wants to be a practical revolutionary.2 Apart from functioning as an ornament in a prose text, an embellishment, at least in a hierarchical system favouring poetry, verse insertions – like all other embedded, framed texts3 – have the capacity to enter into relations with the immediate context and the wider context of the narrative as a whole. These relations include symbolic or metaphorical correspondences, inserts may function as allusions, anticipations, reflections – of motifs from the setting, with respect to characters and states of affairs, whose essence or “truth” may be adumbrated or disclosed. Poetry and literature may synecdochically serve as an index of cultural and ideological positions, signifying important aspects of character, milieu and epoch.4 The poetic text may also be of essential significance for the domain of plot, as is the case, for instance, in Turgenev’s Ɂɚɬɢɲɶɟ (A Quiet Spot; 1854), where, being read out loud, it both reflects and influences the amorous relations between characters.5 This plot function becomes even more apparent when reading literature is used as a performative act by a character (e.g. persuasion, seduction, insult). Turgenev’s Faust is a perfect example of acquiring power and seduction by means of the literary text which becomes an instrument serving this particular goal.6 Turgenev will use the device again in his later tales ɉɟɫɧɶ ɬɨɪɠɟɫɬɜɭɸɳɟɣ ɥɸɛɜɢ (Song of Triumphant Love) and his last work ɉɨɫɥɟ ɫɦɟɪɬɢ (After Death [Klara Milich]).

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Narrative Structure, Narrators and Point of View In ɉɟɪɜɚɹ ɥɸɛɨɜɶ (First Love; 1860)7 the poetic insertions in the strictest sense are rather scarce, however, there is a profusion of literary allusions and references that deserve special study. In the course of the story Schiller, Sophie Cottin, Pushkin, Shakespeare, Auguste Barbier, two popular songs, Byron and Hugo, Khomiakov are mentioned or quoted. Besides, as will be discussed below, at least three characters are authors8 themselves, would-be poets and writers, whose fictional ‘works’ are included in the narrative in one way or another. These three fictional ‘authors’, Maidanov, Zinaida and Volodia, who figure in the story with their imaginary literary products, are supplemented by, and partly opposed to one real poet, Pushkin, who, just as in A Quiet Spot, is very prominent in First Love. However, before analysing the poetic presence of these four main literary ‘sources’, it is necessary, in order to assess the meaning and function of these literary motifs, to consider some of the particularities of the story’s narrative structure.9 The main structural feature of First Love is that it is a frame story. Apart from all other consequences, what interests us here is the fact that the story is written, which is extensively motivated in the framing introduction (cf. Grübel 1984: 157-159). It is generally assumed that Vladimir Pëtrovich reads out loud what he has written in his exercise book, however, there is no proof of this. Though the acquaintances gather and Vladimir Pëtrovich has kept his promise to write down the story of his first love, all the introductory text says is “This is what was written in his exercise book” (145; ȼɨɬ ɱɬɨ ɫɬɨɹɥɨ ɜ ɟɝɨ ɬɟɬɪɚɞɤɟ; 304). It is not explicitly stated that he actually reads out the story. This can be seen in the light of the absence of both a final frame and any reactions of the listeners, which makes the frame incomplete, if we regard a complete frame as the norm (cf. Isenberg 1993: 30).10 Besides, since what follows is a strongly retrospective first-person narrative it is necessary to distinguish between the narrating (‘writing’) instance (‘I’), whom I, for convenience’s sake, will refer to as the adult ‘Vladimir Pëtrovich’ and the narrated (experiencing) ‘I’, who I will refer to as ‘Volodia’, with their divergent spatio-temporal and psychological-emotional points of view and differing scope and knowledge. On a higher level it is the all-arranging author Turgenev who, among other things, is responsible for the delicate relations between these two temporal, evaluative, and epistemic positions. However, this well-known general

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feature may be sufficient for an adequate analysis of many first-person narratives, but in the case of First Love, as Grübel has pointed out, we must distinguish at least a third “Bedeutungsposition”. It consists in a separate, clearly distinguishable, intermediate phase between the ‘narrated’, experiencing ‘I’ and the narrating ‘I’, a third hypostasis of the hero: no more the boy ‘Volodia’ – not yet ‘Vladimir Pëtrovich’, as manifested in the perspective, scope and evaluations of the already sadder and wiser Volodia. Four years after the central events of the story (he is twenty years old now) he has undergone the process of turning from a Don Quixote into a Hamlet (Grübel 1984: 161-171). One important poetic quotation from Pushkin is connected with this particular intermediate point of view, as we shall see below. The distinctness of the different points of view is enhanced by the quite clear-cut chronology in First Love. Because of the exact fixation in time we can reconstruct a sequence of years: 1833, 1837 and, approximately, 1857 (Vladimir Pëtrovich is a man of about forty at the time of narration (ɥɟɬ ɫɨɪɨɤɚ; 145/304), whereas in the story time he is sixteen years old (ibidem). Accordingly the ages, years of birth and death of the main characters can be established exactly. However, we must always take into account that it is often difficult or even impossible to distinguish between these positions, e.g. where aspects of evaluation are concerned (for example, secondary characters such as Volodia’s mother, or Malevskii) and the three-way oppositions may become neutralized. In addition to this it must be noted that Turgenev worked on the story from 1858 and it was finished and published in 1860. This is relevant for establishing the proportions of and relations between the fiction of the story and its well-documented (auto-) biographical core, which has been frankly acknowledged by Turgenev.11 These time indications are also important for establishing the meaning of the ‘fictional’ and especially the ‘real’ literary references, allusions and quotations. Of course, as primary narrator and source of information (within the frame – since, strictly speaking, he is himself a secondary narrator, introduced by the primary anonymous narrator of the introduction), Vladimir Pëtrovich controls his own narrative. But when he allows other characters to speak (or write – cf. the anonymous letter, ascribed to Count Malevskii), they become secondary sources of information, the gradual and subtle distribution of which is pivotal in this story of secrets and their disclosure. In fact, almost all characters who figure in First Love also function as such

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secondary sources of information. They are secondary, embedded, narrative instances, who Turgenev requires to supplement Volodia’s and also the later Vladimir Pëtrovich’s necessarily limited scope, to compensate for his lack of knowledge and insight and to round off the story, satisfying his own and the reader’s curiosity, within the limits of a still restricted scope, since some matters concerning the affair between Zinaida and Volodia’s father Pëtr Vasil’evich remain unclear and unexplained. The whole process of subtly, gradually providing information, dropping hints, insinuations, suggestive analogies, is one of the strengths of Turgenev’s art which would deserve a more detailed examination than can be presented here. I limit myself to general remarks on some stages in this process of disclosure.12 What this process amounts to runs parallel to the reading process, here with the restriction of ‘first reading process’. The problem (at least for the present author) is: at which point in the narrative can we grasp that Zinaida and Pëtr Vasil’evich are having – or perhaps going to have – an affair? In other words, at which point, if at all, can we feel more insightful than the naive hero (surely one of the pleasures of reading a story with a rather short-sighted or naive narrator)? Of course, in retrospect (at a second or any following new reading) we are likely to grasp at an earlier moment hints, meaningful words or incidents. These are scattered throughout the text and different sources of information are responsible. Suffice it to mention here a few, but essential junctures in this process of disclosure, in the succession of hints, provided by other characters than Volodia, as secondary sources of information. It is unclear if Zinaida at any moment has the intention to enlighten Volodia. But seen in retrospect, already in chapter IX there is a strong hint: ‘You love me very much, don’t you?’ she asked at last. ‘Don’t you?’ I didn’t answer. I didn’t see why I should. ‘Don’t you?’ she repeated, looking at me as she used to. ‘Yes, the very same eyes,’ she added, becoming thoughtful and covering her face with her hands13 (169).

Here the most enigmatic and the most telling phrase is: “the very same eyes” (Ɍɚɤɢɟ ɠɟ ɝɥɚɡɚ), the full meaning of which will be revealed much later.14 Then there is Lushin who warns in general terms, but also gives concrete yet cryptic/incomprehensible information (XV: “‘And I, idiot that I am, thought she was a coquette! But evidently

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some people enjoy sacrificing themselves.’ ‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked. ‘To you I don’t mean anything,’ Lushin replied sharply”;15 181). In chapter XVII Count Malevskii tells Volodia to be vigilant day and night and keep watch, especially at night, and that Volodia will be grateful for this advice. These insinuations prove to be founded later. Malevskii finally plays a special role as informer, when, presumably out of spite, he sends an anonymous letter to Volodia’s mother and subsequently is unmasked by Volodia’s father (354355/194). In retrospect we realize that Malevskii, too, knows what is going on much earlier. In the end (ch. XIX) it is a so far unknown character who will suddenly function as the last and clearest source of information. The servant Filipp casually discloses the affair of Zinaida and Pëtr Vasil’evich to the stunned Volodia. Filipp in turn has heard everything from another servant, the maid Masha, who knows French, having worked for a French employer. It is worth noting that this most important and dramatic information is conveyed in the popular (ɩɪɨɫɬɨɪɟɱɢɟ) style of a servant (though he is individualized – as Turgenev often does with ‘lower’ characters – as a lover of verse and a great guitar player). The ɩɪɨɫɬɨɪɟɱɢɟ elements enhance a realistic, matter-of-fact rendering, as there is a strong discrepancy between this laconic secondary narrative medium and the crucial and emotionally shattering content. Ultimately, the true nature of the affair is disclosed – as far as possible, still from an outsider’s point of view – in chapter XXI when Turgenev makes Volodia witness his father’s and Zinaida’s love affair in full action. At the end of this chapter we are told that Pëtr Vasil’evich’s death half a year later has put an end to it. In the final chapter (XXII), after four years have elapsed, it is the poet Maidanov who now also functions as a secondary source of information, as he tells Volodia, also quite laconically, that Zinaida has married an acquaintance of his and is now Mrs. Dol’skaia. Then Turgenev rounds off the chain of events, almost anticlimactically, by choosing another insignificant source of information, when the anonymous porter of hotel Demouth informs Volodia that Mrs. Dol’skaia has died in childbirth four days before. Maidanov However, much of the mysterious relations in the story is hinted at by means of oblique references, in the form of real and fictional literary texts, originating from the incongruous poets Maidanov and Pushkin,

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but also from Zinaida and Volodia himself. Although this is not surprising, since it cannot be denied he is a secondary character, only scant attention has been paid to the figure of Maidanov, who is briefly mentioned as “Romantic poet”. Admittedly, this tag has been attached to him by Turgenev himself: He is typified as such in the list of dramatis personae, drawn up by Turgenev in 1858: “Maidanov, poet of the romant sch, 22 years” (Turgenevskij sbornik 1966: 84; Ɇɚɣɞɚɧɨɜ, ɩɨɷɬ ɪɨɦɚɧɬ ɲ, 22 ɝɨɞɚ). Another explicit statement on Romanticism occurs in the text: “What I am relating occurred at the height of Romanticism” (161; Ⱦɟɥɨ ɩɪɨɢɫɯɨɞɢɥɨ ɜ ɫɚɦɨɦ ɪɚɡɝɚɪɟ ɪɨɦɚɧɬɢɡɦɚ; 321). Certainly his literary output, in as far as we can obtain an impression of it, does not belie this qualification. Maidanov is not one of the main characters in First Love, yet here, as elsewhere, Turgenev manages to make this secondary, flat character a little rounder, which, actually, also holds true for most of Zinaida’s other suitors: Malevskii, Belovzorov, and Lushin (the single exception is Nirmatskii, who is hardly anything more than a caricature – though not entirely without significance, which I will return to below). However, it is necessary to distinguish some branches of Romanticism that are part of Maidanov’s repertoire, which exhibits considerable variety. It is interesting that fashionable Romanticism is still contrasted with traditional, not quite conquered Classicism. Thus in the background there are glimpses of a broader picture of the literary actuality of the early 1830s. Nearly the whole company seems interested in literary matters – no doubt in order to please Zinaida, and directed by her. The Polish Count Malevskii prefers Hugo over Byron, as transpires from shreds of dialogue, cut short by the imperious Zinaida, as she fears that “Oh, you’ll start arguing again about Romanticism and Classicism” (174; ɜɵ ɨɩɹɬɶ ɡɚɫɩɨɪɢɬɟ ɨ ɤɥɚɫɫɢɰɢɡɦɟ ɢ ɪɨɦɚɧɬɢɡɦɟ; 334). Whereas Maidanov’s poetic output is large (there is a touch of graphomania about him) and regularly mentioned, it is only scantily represented in Vladimir Pëtrovich’s narrative. It is referred to in very general terms, some motifs from it are just mentioned. Understandably, at the level of authorial construction, Turgenev is extremely selective in allowing verse quotations from such a deliberately mediocre source, even though he could produce verse of his own making or use his own early poetic works.

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Vladimir Pëtrovich as narrator appears only to focus on external factors of Maidanov’s poetry – on outward appearance, on his way of declaiming, rather than on content or literary quality (if any). This becomes obvious when we are informed for the first time about his poema ‘ɍɛɢɣɰɚ’ (321; ‘The Murderer’; 161), fragments of which he “declaims” to those assembled in the company (ch. VII). Here, as is often the case in Russian, “ɞɟɤɥɚɦɢɪɨɜɚɥ” (‘declaim’) is not the most favourable term to designate a reading of poetry, implying exaggeration, as the reading is too expressive, or too lofty. In the same chapter the emphasis is once more on another superficial outward aspect of his work: the book cover of his poema ‘The Murderer’, “which he planned to publish in a black cover with the headings printed in blood-red ink” (161; ɤɨɬɨɪɭɸ ɨɧ ɧɚɦɟɪɟɜɚɥɫɹ ɢɡɞɚɬɶ ɜ ɱɟɪɧɨɣ ɨɛɟɪɬɤɟ ɫ ɡɚɝɥɚɜɧɵɦɢ ɛɭɤɜɚɦɢ ɤɪɨɜɚɜɨɝɨ ɰɜɟɬɚ; 321). In a later scene special attention is drawn to his way of reading his own poetry (IX): “he declaimed them to her with a kind of unnatural and yet sincere enthusiasm” (166; ɑɢɬɚɥ ɢɯ [ɫɬɢɯɢ] ɟɣ ɫ ɤɚɤɢɦ-ɬɨ ɧɟɟɫɬɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɦ ɢ ɢɫɤɪɟɧɧɢɦ ɜɨɫɬɨɪɝɨɦ; 327). His rapture is both “unnatural” and “sincere”. This reflects a certain ambiguity, which, among other things, makes Maidanov less one-dimensional than in what could have been a purely flat, satirical portrayal. The next comment about his way of reading (at the end of ch. IX) is when he has seen his poema in print and reads it to Zinaida’s company: He shrieked out in a sing-song his four-foot iambic lines, the rhymes alternated and tinkled like sleigh-bells, fatuously and stridently, but I gazed all the time at Zinaida and tried to understand what her last words had meant. – Or, maybe some secret rival / Has unexpectedly conquered you? – Maidanov suddenly declaimed nasally16 (170; transl. amended – EdH).

In this fragment we finally are given a concrete ‘quotation’ from Maidanov’s works (it will remain the first and last). We also learn about formal aspects of Maidanov’s poema: the (conventional) fourfoot iambs and rhyme, which are described in impressionistic metaphorical-literary terms, but which, again, for Volodia seem more important than the contents. However, when we are confronted with this single ‘quote’, the content of these two lines is crucial. As so often in Turgenev, they are carefully chosen to reflect the true state of affairs. The resulting dramatic irony is increased by Volodia first “not listening” and watching Zinaida, as he “tried to understand what her

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last words had meant” (ɫɬɚɪɚɥɫɹ ɩɨɧɹɬɶ ɡɧɚɱɟɧɢɟ ɟɟ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɯ ɫɥɨɜ), which were “you’ll learn all about it one day” (170; ɜɵ ɤɨɝɞɚɧɢɛɭɞɶ ɭɡɧɚɟɬɟ; 330; my emphasis – EdH). However, after the two quoted lines he does listen to Maidanov’s last words, as much of the meaning he needs is concealed, yet present here, and now he appears to grasp that she might be in love. Thus, Maidanov’s verse is used to reflect a crucial aspect of the plot. As concerns Maidanov’s poetic roots here, there is no reason to suppose that Turgenev alludes to some concrete pre-text with ‘ɍɛɢɣɰɚ’ (‘The Murderer’). Rather, we are oriented towards a generalized model of the Romantic poema. However, we might point to one concrete text as an example of that model, that also echoes some aspects from Vladimir Pëtrovich’s story: Podolinskii’s ɇɢɳɢɣ (The Beggar; published in 1830; Podolinskij 1987). In an extremely dramatic plot the hero kills a “secret rival” (ɫɨɩɟɪɧɢɤ ɬɚɣɧɵɣ), who turns out to be his brother, when he catches him in an embrace with the girl the hero loves. Obviously, to some extent, at least at plot level, a pre-text for Podolinskii’s Beggar is Pushkin’s ɐɵɝɚɧɵ (The Gypsies), which focuses on a comparable plot. Ultimately, all of Maidanov’s writings serve a plot function in the direct sense. As is also the case, for instance, in Turgenev’s Faust, Maidanov’s ‘works’ are used in his courtship as a means of making an impression and winning Zinaida’s favour. This becomes fully apparent when he reads his love poems (ɦɚɞɪɢɝɚɥɵ – along with the ode, the performative-instrumental poetic genre par excellence) which we can infer from the already quoted passage: “he wrote endless verses in her honour and declaimed them to her with a kind of unnatural and yet sincere enthusiasm” (166; ɜɨɫɩɟɜɚɥ ɟɟ ɜ ɧɟɫɤɨɧɱɚɟɦɵɯ ɫɬɢɯɚɯ ɢ ɱɢɬɚɥ ɢɯ ɟɣ ɫ ɤɚɤɢɦ-ɬɨ ɧɟɟɫɬɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɦ ɢ ɢɫɤɪɟɧɧɢɦ ɜɨɫɬɨɪɝɨɦ; 327). The repetitiousness of Maidanov’s creations – and his perseverance – is apparent on later occasions when we are merely told he brought new verses (ɩɪɢɧɟɫ ɧɨɜɵɟ ɫɬɢɯɢ; 343), “Maidanov read us his verses” (186, ch. XVI; Ɇɚɣɞɚɧɨɜ ɩɪɨɱɟɥ ɧɚɦ ɫɜɨɢ ɫɬɢɯɢ”; 346) without any specification as to their contents. However, Maidanov is not only a poet, he turns out to be an allround “ɫɨɱɢɧɢɬɟɥɶ” (‘author’) when he improvises, presumably in prose, a whole “ɩɨɜɟɫɬɶ” (‘tale, yarn’) in reaction to Zinaida’s request to simply tell a dream. His dream is patently fabricated. “Maidanov regaled us with a long yarn containing burial chambers and angels

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with lyres and talking flowers and sounds carried from afar. Zinaida didn’t allow him to finish”17 (183). Here we are informed not so much about the contents, as Vladimir Pëtrovich ironically singles out some stock ingredients of the Romantic (specifically Zhukovskian softGothic) repertoire (crypts, sounds from afar). However, “angels with lyres” and “speaking flowers” we do not encounter in every romantic story, although an echo of the personified “blue flower” from Novalis’s novel Heinrich von Ofterdingen (a popular Romantic highlight, and an influence on Zhukovskii) is not excluded here. Maidanov’s literary repertoire is even larger, as becomes apparent from Zinaida’s words when she speculates on how he would react if he knew about the rival near the fountain she introduces in her third fantasy (see below). She suggests: “you’d have written an epigram... Or no, you don’t know how to write epigrams, you’d have written a long iambic poem in the manner of Barbier”18 (185). The mentioning of Barbier implies another genre, that of satirical rebellious poetry, cf. Barbier’s Iambes of 1831-32, which were freshly published and quite popular in the story time of 1833. Thus, Maidanov’s actual and potential oeuvre, in so far as we come to know it, confirms the narrator’s explanation in parenthesis, when his poema ‘ɍɛɢɣɰɚ’ is introduced: “what I am relating occurred at the height of Romanticism” (161; Ⱦɟɥɨ ɩɪɨɢɫɯɨɞɢɥɨ ɜ ɫɚɦɨɦ ɪɚɡɝɚɪɟ ɪɨɦɚɧɬɢɡɦɚ; 321). On the other hand, he displays a quite remarkable literary versatility, as he seems to have command of various genres and styles, which, dependent on point of view, can be regarded either as flexible and broadly oriented or as eclectic and unprincipled. However, Maidanov is something more than a purely satirical figure whose only role is to serve as a pale shadow of the genius of Pushkin, with whom he is unfavourably contrasted by Zinaida. As we have seen, throughout the story Turgenev accumulates pieces of information that, taken together, are ironic, but not cynical or sarcastic – as Vladimir Pëtrovich is reasonably fair and not quite unsympathetic towards Maidanov. Although Volodia does not come to like him as much as Lushin, his figure is more positive than the “fearsome” Belovzorov and the much more antipathetic Count Malevskii. Certainly Maidanov is primarily a type, who can be easily summarized as ‘cliché Romantic poet’, but, as said above, Turgenev

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adds little touches that turn him into a not fully round, but not quite flat, character. His name is worth some special discussion. It is remarkable on the sound level, for – quite curiously – rhyming with the (non-fictional) historian Kaidanov, whose course Volodia must study for admission to university (304; 145). As to its meaning, dictionary definitions of ɦɚɣɞɚɧ (of Turkish origin) give ‘marketplace’ (esp. in the South of Russia and Ukraine), but it is quite remarkable that Turgenev used the word in another (dialectal) meaning and explained it to the reader in a footnote in ɉɨɟɡɞɤɚ ɜ ɉɨɥɟɫɶɟ (1857; A Journey to Polesie): a ɦɚɣɞɚɧ is a place where people “produced wood-tar” (ɝɧɚɥɢ ɞɟɝɨɬɶ; 1980, V: 137). Remarkably, in a note to Dostoevskii’s Ɂɚɩɢɫɤɢ ɢɡ ɦɟɪɬɜɨɝɨ ɞɨɦɚ (House of the Dead; publ. 1861) a special meaning is given: “gambling house” (ɢɝɨɪɧɵɣ ɞɨɦ) or just “card game” (ɤɚɪɬɨɱɧɚɹ ɢɝɪɚ; Dostoevskij 1972, IV: 303), prisoners’ slang, which Turgenev is unlikely to be aware of. From the list of characters it appears that Turgenev envisages him as 22 years old (Turgenevskij sbornik 1966: 84). Then there is his outward appearance which significantly contributes to his overall image of Romantic poet: “a tall young man with a thin face, short-sighted little eyes and extremely long black hair” (159; ɜɵɫɨɤ[ɢɣ] ɦɨɥɨɞ[ɨɣ] ɱɟɥɨɜɟ[ɤ] ɫ ɯɭɞɨɳɚɜɵɦ ɥɢɰɨɦ, ɦɚɥɟɧɶɤɢɦɢ ɫɥɟɩɵɦɢ ɝɥɚɡɤɚɦɢ ɢ ɱɪɟɡɜɵɱɚɣɧɨ ɞɥɢɧɧɵɦɢ ɱɟɪɧɵɦɢ ɜɨɥɨɫɚɦɢ; 319). His long dark hair certainly serves as an index of his Romantic artisticity, whereas his “little blind eyes” (ɦɚɥɟɧɶɤɢɟ ɫɥɟɩɵɟ ɝɥɚɡɚ) are worth noting. As a realistic detail, if taken as an index of his psyche, he is short-sighted, on the other hand we may read this as an ironic reference to the blind bard Homer. In this same introductory scene (ch. VII) he does something which turns out to be quite remarkable in the context of the whole story. He refuses to obey an order from the imperious Zinaida who wants him to hand over his lot to the young Volodia in order to double his chances that he may win the prize of kissing her hand. Later, he is the only one of the suitors who does not turn up when Zinaida is ill. From what is undoubtedly a mature perspective, with some pretence of experience, Vladimir Pëtrovich calls him a “a man of fairly cold temperament” (ɱɟɥɨɜɟɤ ɯɨɥɨɞɧɵɣ), followed by the intriguing generalization “like almost all writers” (166; ɤɚɤ ɩɨɱɬɢ ɜɫɟ ɫɨɱɢɧɢɬɟɥɢ; 327), which, while leaving a loophole (ɩɨɱɬɢ – ‘almost’), nevertheless ironically leaves its stamp on the real author

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Turgenev as well. This authorial judgement is complemented by the repeated observation of Maidanov’s behaviour: “he always lost interest and became bored when he had no opportunity to be exalté” (180; ɬɨɬɱɚɫ ɩɚɞɚɥ ɞɭɯɨɦ ɢ ɫɤɭɱɚɥ ɤɚɤ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɧɟ ɢɦɟɥ ɫɥɭɱɚɣ ɜɨɫɬɨɪɝɚɬɶɫɹ; ch. XV; 340). In the final chapter (XXII), after four years have passed, Vladimir Pëtrovich (or should we still say Volodia?), now twenty years old, meets Maidanov in a Petersburg theatre. He learns that Maidanov has become a civil servant and is married, yet he “finds no change in him”: he still “was just as needlessly exalté as ever and just as suddenly depressed” (200; ɬɚɤ ɠɟ ɧɟɧɭɠɧɨ ɜɨɫɬɨɪɝɚɥɫɹ ɢ ɬɚɤ ɠɟ ɜɧɟɡɚɩɧɨ ɩɚɞɚɥ ɞɭɯɨɦ; 362), though there is no more mention here of any poetic activities. This repetition brings a certain stability to this character, who appears to lead a more prosaic life now. As noted above, his presence in the story is rounded off as he, just as casually as other secondary narrators, becomes a distanced and laconic informer about “Princess Zasiekin” (ɤɧɹɠɧɚ Ɂɚɫɟɤɢɧɚ) who now has become “Mrs Dolskii” (ɝɨɫɩɨɠɚ Ⱦɨɥɶɫɤɚɹ) (ibidem). Thus Turgenev adds more variety and subtlety to Maidanov’s characteristics than might appear at first sight. Nevertheless, it is his unenviable fate to be pitted against Pushkin, the central literaryhistorical figure in First Love. Pushkin It should not come as a surprise that in 1833 Pushkin is very much at the heart of the ‘real’ poetry that is incorporated in the story and is highly appreciated by Volodia and Zinaida – this in view of their literary interests, considered in more detail below. There are three explicit references to and quotes from works by Pushkin in First Love: his short lyrical poems ‘ɇɚ ɯɨɥɦɚɯ Ƚɪɭɡɢɢ...’ (‘On the hills of Georgia...’), ‘ɉɨɞ ɧɟɛɨɦ ɝɨɥɭɛɵɦ...’ (‘Under the blue sky...’) and his poema ɐɵɝɚɧɵ (The Gypsies). However, in assessing Pushkin’s place in First Love it is important to take into account chronology and the concomitant different (temporal, evaluative) points of view of the hero. Pushkin is introduced into the story in a jocular way (ch. IX), he is ironically contrasted with his fictional counterpart, as Zinaida teases, and perhaps insults Maidanov: “After listening to his outpourings she let him read Pushkin, as she put it, ‘in order to clean the air’” (166; Ɉɧɚ [...] ɧɚɫɥɭɲɚɜɲɢɫɶ ɟɝɨ ɢɡɥɢɹɧɢɣ, ɡɚɫɬɚɜɥɹɥɚ ɟɝɨ ɱɢɬɚɬɶ

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ɉɭɲɤɢɧɚ, ɱɬɨɛɵ, ɤɚɤ ɨɧɚ ɝɨɜɨɪɢɥɚ, ɨɱɢɫɬɢɬɶ ɜɨɡɞɭɯ; 327). However, already earlier, in an ironic displacement, one of the less attractive among Zinaida’s admirers is endowed with much of Pushkin’s looks: the further entirely insignificant captain Nirmatskii is described as “with [...] a negro’s curly hair, round-shouldered and bow-legged and wearing a military tunic that was without epaulettes and unbuttoned” (159; ɤɭɪɱɚɜɵɣ ɤɚɤ ɚɪɚɩ, ɫɭɬɭɥɨɜɚɬɵɣ, ɤɪɢɜɨɧɨɝɢɣ ɢ ɨɞɟɬɵɣ ɜ ɜɨɟɧɧɵɣ ɫɸɪɬɭɤ ɛɟɡ ɷɩɨɥɟɬ, ɧɚɪɚɫɩɚɲɤɭ; 319). In spite of the differences (Nirmatskii is forty years old and ugly, and Pushkin never wore a military coat), the similarity is unmistakeable. Thus Pushkin is already present as leading figure and introduced as an antidote to bad or boring verse before his poetry is introduced in the story. Pushkin’s ‘ɇɚ ɯɨɥɦɚɯ Ƚɪɭɡɢɢ...’ (‘On the Hills of Georgia’; written in 1829 and published not so long before the story time, in 1831) is introduced in a subtle way. Volodia finds Zinaida alone and in a sad mood sitting on the grass in the garden. She asks him to read her some verse: “‘Read me some poetry [...] I like it when you read poetry. You have a way of singing it, but it doesn’t matter, it’s because you’re young. Read me ‘On the Hills of Georgia’”19 (169170). Volodia fulfils her request and reads the poem. We already know that Volodia knows many verses by heart, so this is not too surprising. We may note in passing that Turgenev (via the heroine) once more focuses on particular ways of reading verse. Turgenev does not insert the whole poem, as it is clear that what matters most is the last line: “For not to love my heart’s unable” (170; ɱɬɨ ɧɟ ɥɸɛɢɬɶ ɨɧɨ ɧɟ ɦɨɠɟɬ; 330), which Zinaida repeats after Volodia’s reading. Turgenev relies on the knowledge of his readers (or their readiness to look it up) and does not explain or fill in that “it” (ɨɧɨ) refers to “the heart” (ɫɟɪɞɰɟ). Zinaida continues to ponder its meaning, making it even more clear that this fully applies to her and her situation. In passing she formulates a brief theory of poetry in very simple and clear terms: “That’s why poetry’s so wonderful: it speaks to us of what doesn’t exist and of what’s not only better than what does exist but even more like the truth...” (170; ȼɨɬ ɱɟɦ ɩɨɷɡɢɹ ɯɨɪɨɲɚ: ɨɧɚ ɝɨɜɨɪɢɬ ɧɚɦ ɬɨ, ɱɟɝɨ ɧɟɬ ɢ ɱɬɨ ɧɟ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɥɭɱɲɟ ɬɨɝɨ, ɱɬɨ ɟɫɬɶ, ɧɨ ɞɚɠɟ ɛɨɥɶɲɟ ɩɨɯɨɠɟ ɧɚ ɩɪɚɜɞɭ; 330), which at the same time can be regarded as a metastatement – in Formalist terms – laying bare the device. She continues musing on Pushkin’s last line and supplements

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it by her own words: “Yes, it would want not to but it can’t!” (170; ɢ ɯɨɬɟɥɨ ɛɵ, ɞɚ ɧɟ ɦɨɠɟɬ!; 330). It is obvious that this synecdochic representation of Pushkin’s poem suffices here to convey that it has a special meaning for Zinaida, as she fully identifies with Pushkin’s lyrical hero. Volodia cannot grasp (yet) the full extent of it – again, whether we can, is dependent on our cleverness at a first reading. However, it is not only the last line of Pushkin’s poem that has a special meaning, reflecting the character’s situation. It is worth considering the poem as a whole. It is remarkable that the narrative fragment leading up to Zinaida’s request contains quite an amount of literal correspondences with the poem. Volodia – on his knees – is struck by Zinaida’s unhappiness (repeated “miserable”; 169; ɬɹɠɟɥɨ; 329-330), looks at her and feels “with her”. This paragraph contains the following echoes in the semantic field of emotional life and mood: Puškin 1977, III: 111 “I’m [feeling] sad and light” (Ɇɧɟ ɝɪɭɫɬɧɨ ɢ ɥɟɝɤɨ)

First Love 169/329 “I felt so sad” (ɚ ɦɧɟ ɛɵɥɨ ɬɚɤ ɝɪɭɫɬɧɨ)

“my grief is bright/ My grief is full of you” “in a fit of overwhelming grief” (ɩɟɱɚɥɶ ɦɨɹ ɫɜɟɬɥɚ/ ɉɟɱɚɥɶ ɦɨɹ (ɜ ɩɪɢɩɚɞɤɟ ɧɟɭɞɟɪɠɢɦɨɣ ɩɨɥɧɚ ɬɨɛɨɸ) ɩɟɱɚɥɢ) “It was bright and green all around” (Ʉɪɭɝɨɦ ɛɵɥɨ ɢ ɫɜɟɬɥɨ ɢ ɡɟɥɟɧɨ) “My despondency/ Nothing torments” (ɍɧɵɧɶɹ ɦɨɟɝɨ/ ɇɢɱɬɨ ɧɟ ɦɭɱɢɬ) “because” (ɨɬɬɨɝɨ, ɱɬɨ)

“I looked at her with deep despondency” (ɫ ɝɥɭɛɨɤɢɦ ɭɧɵɧɢɟɦ ɝɥɹɞɟɥ ɧɚ ɧɟɟ) “Why she was so miserable” (ɨɬɱɟɝɨ ɟɣ ɛɵɥɨ ɬɹɠɟɥɨ)

These matches may seem fortuitous, however, such a number of lexical correspondences (especially since we are dealing with a poem of only eight lines) appear as more than just accidental. Moreover, there is another, though not quite literal, parallel in the common structural linkage of surrounding nature and emotional life: Pushkin: “The Aragva is foaming before me” (ɒɭɦɢɬ Ⱥɪɚɝɜɚ ɩɪɟɞɨ ɦɧɨɸ) ~ First Love: “a breeze rustled among the leaves” (ɜɟɬɟɪ ɲɟɥɟɫɬɟɥ ɜ ɥɢɫɬɶɹɯ). Certainly the surrounding nature is different (Georgia vs. a Moscow suburban garden) but the near-synonyms from this semantic field constitute a link. This anticipation of Pushkin’s poem is only

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artistically motivated, not realistically, as the association works the other way round, Volodia cannot anticipate Zinaida’s request, but the remembering Vladimir Pëtrovich certainly can – and most plausibly, the all-arranging author Turgenev. It is also obvious that it is not for Zinaida only that the poem’s “message” is valid. Ultimately it applies to Volodia as well, who likewise is doomed to love.20 When considered in the context, it is noteworthy that Pushkin’s poem is followed by Maidanov’s reading of his poema, including the two meaningful lines quoted above. The contrast between the two poets is sharpened here as Zinaida makes Maidanov wait and prefers first to hear Pushkin from Volodia. However, while greatly differing in poetic stature, with regard to suggestive, or even revelatory meaning their words are equally important. We have already noted that Maidanov’s poema ‘ɍɛɢɣɰɚ’ may derive from Pushkin’s ɐɵɝɚɧɵ (The Gypsies; 1824-1827), which obviously served as a model for Podolinskii’s ɇɢɳɢɣ (The Beggar). It is no coincidence that Pushkin’s already classic poema, dealing, among other matters, with jealousy and revenge, is referred to in First Love, as scattered lines from it come to Volodia’s mind when he wanders about armed with a knife and considers killing his supposed rival (ch. XVII): “My thoughts were filled with visions of Aleko, the young gypsy. ‘Where are you going, my handsome fellow? Lie there...’ and then: ‘All smeared in blood are you! O, what have you done?’ ‘Nothing!’”21 (189). However, the broader context of The Gypsies, apart from this motif of bloody revenge, comes into play, as we are encouraged (by synecdochical association) to consider other passages from Pushkin’s verse tale. Whereas the other quotes from Pushkin, discussed above and hereafter, reflect entirely serious matters, the references to The Gypsies are largely ironic, as they are embedded in Vladimir Pëtrovich’s distanced account of this particular episode. The irony actually works on three levels: the whole passage is dominated by verbal irony as the narrating Vladimir Pëtrovich reflects on his younger self and throughout focuses on the slightly ridiculous and incongruous aspects of his train of thought and behaviour. Second, there is strong dramatic irony since Volodia does not know who his rival is. Again, this irony works stronger in retrospect, in as far as the first-time reader is also unaware of the rival’s real existence and identity. Third, literary irony – with parodistic implications – resides

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in the inversion of roles in First Love when compared with The Gypsies: Zemfira’s song introduces the theme of rivalry in an allegorical way (in itself this is an excellent example of the way characters allude to reality by means of an inserted text, which is immediately acknowledged by Zemfira herself when she asks Aleko if he understands that the song is really about him). The “old husband” (ɫɬɚɪɵɣ ɦɭɠ) is told that the lyrical subject loves “someone else” (ɞɪɭɝɨ[ɣ]; Puškin 1977, IV: 158). In The Gypsies this becomes reality as it turns out that Zemfira indeed has a lover: “young gypsy” (164; ɦɨɥɨɞɨɣ ɰɵɝɚɧ), her “handsome young fellow” (166; ɤɪɚɫɚɜɟɰ ɦɨɥɨɞɨɣ). Both are killed by the jealous Aleko. As opposed to this, in First Love the roles are inverted: here it is a very young man with good reasons to be suspicious and jealous, whereas the young lover’s role is relegated to an “old man”. This theme and concrete motifs occur once more when – in a subsequent ironic inversion – Volodia’s father points to his mother’s age (354; 193): Pushkin’s “ɫɬɚɪɵɣ ɦɭɠ” turns into Turgenev’s “old wife” (ɫɬɚɪɚɹ ɠɟɧɚ). However, the comparison goes only so far. In contrast to The Gypsies, it is suggested that Volodia would not kill his beloved one (“I thought very little about Zinaida”; 189; ɫɨɛɫɬɜɟɧɧɨ ɨ Ɂɢɧɚɢɞɟ ɹ ɦɚɥɨ ɞɭɦɚɥ; 349), as he focuses completely on his “rival”. This specific reference to an already classic work on jealousy and crime passionel is further elaborated and reinforced by anticipation and analogy. In the previous chapter (XVI) Volodia’s rival Belovzorov, provoked by Zinaida, simply states that he would kill his wife, if she would be unfaithful, and if she ran away he would go after her and still kill her (343-344; 183). Right after the reference to The Gypsies, Vladimir Pëtrovich speaks of his younger self as “Othello”. Later he regresses to boyhood, when he has to play with Zinaida’s little brother and refers to himself as Othello once more, emphasizing the incongruity (352; 192). Finally, in chapter XXI, Volodia has a dream which seems to follow the lead deriving from The Gypsies. In it his possible rival Belovzorov (“all covered in blood”; 200; ɨɤɪɨɜɚɜɥɟɧɧɵɣ; 361) threatens his real rival – Volodia’s father, as has now been revealed. This echoes Pushkin’s “you are all spattered with blood!” (1977, IV: 166; ɬɵ ɜɟɫɶ ɨɛɪɵɡɝɚɧ ɤɪɨɜɶɸ!), however, this time Belovzorov is the jealous blood-covered member of the triangle, instead of Volodia

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himself. This motif rounds off the chain of recurrent references to the classic love triangle and its plot ingredients of jealousy and revenge. Pushkin is the source of yet another quite significant verse insertion, this time the two central lines from his ‘ɉɨɞ ɧɟɛɨɦ ɝɨɥɭɛɵɦ...’ (Puškin 1977, II: 297; ‘Under the blue sky...’; 1826), commemorating the death of his Odessa acquaintance Amalia Riznich. It comes to Volodia’s mind (four years later in Petersburg, in 1837, he is twenty now) as he learns about Zinaida’s (now Mrs. Dol’skaia’s) death “from the indifferent lips” of the porter at Hotel Demouth: “I had all these thoughts and all these strong imaginings, and yet the words: From lips indifferent heard I news of death, / And with indifference heeded I the message resounded in my soul”22 (201). Again there are words in the immediate context that coincide with Pushkin’s poem: Pushkin: “with such a heavy strain” (ɫ ɬɚɤɢɦ ɬɹɠɟɥɵɦ ɧɚɩɪɹɠɟɧɢɟɦ) ~ First Love: “I strained my imagination” (ɹ ɧɚɩɪɹɝɚɥ ɫɜɨɟ ɜɨɨɛɪɚɠɟɧɢɟ); Pushkin: “in my soul” (ɜ ɞɭɲɟ ɦɨɟɣ) ~ First Love: “in my soul” (ɭ ɦɟɧɹ ɜ ɞɭɲɟ). However, this involuntary reminiscence (at the level of the workings of Volodia’s psyche) does not necessarily imply the whole context of Pushkin’s poem, as one of the main differences consists in Pushkin’s “sweet memory of irrevocable days” (ɫɥɚɞɤ[ɚɹ] ɩɚɦɹɬ[ɶ] ɧɟɜɨɡɜɪɚɬɢɦɵɯ ɞɧɟɣ) which hints at, if not proves, the reciprocal nature of the love affair in the poem, even if we (choose to) ignore that Pushkin’s affair with Amalia Riznich was more successful than Volodia’s – a biographical background that Turgenev undoubtedly was aware of. However, at the level of narration (and Turgenev’s authorial construction) the quote in the text is fully intentional, and may be regarded as a synecdoche, allowing us to consider the poem as a whole – as different, but relevant where its core is concerned. Like in Pushkin’s poem, it is no surprise that the neutral informer is indifferent, whereas the shock of the lyric subject’s identical indifference (in a traditional lyric poem ‘indifference’ has a definite oxymoronic quality) also works in Turgenev’s story. Still, as regards Pushkin’s lyrical hero, we have to take his word when he states: “in my soul [...] I cannot find either tears or reproaches” (ɜ ɞɭɲɟ ɦɨɟɣ [...] ɧɟ ɧɚɯɨɠɭ ɧɢ ɫɥɟɡ, ɧɢ ɩɟɧɢ). The same applies to Volodia, whose point of view four years later is the third, intermediate “Bedeutungsposition” distinguished by Grübel and discussed above. It is the memory (of Vladimir Pëtrovich) about the memory (of the 20-

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year-old Hamlet-Volodia) about the 16-year-old Don Quixote-Volodia that governs the meaning of this quotation. Finally, Pushkin’s presence can be felt once more, as he is very close in time and space at the end of First Love: the year of Pushkin’s and Zinaida’s demise is 1837, the place of her death, Hotel Demouth, at first sight just a realistic detail, is almost next door to Pushkin’s: Moika 40 and 12, respectively.23 Thus Pushkin’s presence, though not quite surprising among characters with strong literary interests in the 1830s and, on the authorial plane, also in view of Turgenev’s love and admiration, is manifested or implied in a variety of forms. The most important of these is the employment of a few lines (though synecdochically representing the three entire texts) to reflect, by analogy, crucial emotional motifs in First Love. However, this does not exhaust the role of Pushkin in the story and we will have occasion to return to his figure below. Zinaida Zinaida has been noted in Turgenev criticism for her literary interests, which is adduced as a redeeming feature, compensating for what is often considered as her coquetry and immorality, or even worse. Negative readers’ reactions culminate in Dobroliubov’s pithy description of her as “something in between Pechorin and Nozdriov in a skirt” (quoted after Turgenev 1981, VI: 486). Here I do not intend to analyse her as a character, except in her capacity as consumer and producer of literary texts, which facet is also inextricably linked to the biographical background of her figure, which I will comment upon below. We have already seen that she loves Pushkin, that she tolerates Maidanov and his declamations. However, as Isenberg points out, Zinaida is also an “author”, as much as Vladimir Pëtrovich is the author of his own story: “Like Vladimir Pëtrovich, Zinaida composes biographical fictions” (Isenberg 1993: 25).24 She functions as author of three texts of a special kind. Actually they constitute oral prose representations of scenes and plots she invents and, to some degree, arranges. She admits that her texts are not rounded-off: “You must give a good description” (173; ɗɬɨ ɧɚɞɨ ɯɨɪɨɲɨ ɨɩɢɫɚɬɶ; 333). Moreover, she stresses herself that she is not a poet: “If I were a poet” (173; ȿɫɥɢ ɛ ɹ ɛɵɥɚ ɩɨɷɬɨɦ; 333), and she invites Maidanov as “co-author”, especially with regard to her first text. Ultimately, as Isenberg points out, these fantasies in verbal form

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acquire material-textual existence – her “archi-writings” are “written down by Vladimir Pëtrovich as her amanuensis” (Isenberg 1993: 25). Although her texts remain unfinished, fragmentary, and open-ended, all in all we learn much more about Zinaida as ‘author’ than about the ‘real’ poet in the story, Maidanov. Zinaida’s three fantasies obviously belong to the Romantic repertoire, as is testified by the characters and background she designs, and by the details that should be added in a more complete and poetic elaboration of her ‘theme’, though again, like in Maidanov’s case, there are different ‘Romanticisms’ to be distinguished. Besides, all three of Zinaida’s texts have their own identifiable sources, though these belong to different genres and domains of literature. Zinaida’s first text (ch. XI) is not really designated with respect to genre or type, but it follows from her quip directed at Maidanov: “I’d choose other subjects” (173; ə ɛɵ ɛɪɚɥɚ ɞɪɭɝɢɟ ɫɸɠɟɬɵ; 333) which leads to: “strange ideas [...] I would imagine” (ɫɬɪɚɧɧɵɟ ɦɵɫɥɢ [...] ə ɛɵ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɢɥɚ). Then follows her fantasy of damsels dressed in white in a boat on a river, Bacchantes appearing on the bank and one girl leaving the boat to join them. The basic material of this fantasy derives from Zinaida’s prototype, identified by Chernov (1973), who followed the lead of Turgenev’s own disclosure of the autobiographical core of First Love in his piece Memorial (Turgenev, 1981, VI: 482). Zinaida’s prototype is Elena Shakhovskaia, who was a poet and published, among other poems, the longer work ɋɧɨɜɢɞɟɧɢɟ (The Dream). Chernov in his article gives a brief synopsis and some verses providing us with an impression of Shakhovskaia’s poetic idiom and thematics, and sufficient illustration of correspondences with Zinaida’s siuzhet. I will return to this biographical background below. As far as we can judge from Zinaida’s fiction, and the fragments from the ‘real’ Shakhovskaia, the imagery derives from the Sentimental or (pre-)Romantic school, the sweet and dreamy Zhukovskian type (the girls in white are reminiscent of Zhukovskii’s Ⱦɜɟɧɚɞɰɚɬɶ ɫɩɹɳɢɯ ɞɟɜ (The Twelve Sleeping Maidens), whereas the breaking away of the girl who joins the Bacchantes may be regarded as a transition to the ‘Dionysian’ Romanticism of unbridled and often violent passions. At the psychological level, Zinaida symbolizes her own (potential or actual – we do not know yet at this stage of the story) transition from innocence and purity to ecstasy and abandon. It

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remains a matter of interpretation whether, or to which extent, Zinaida consciously presents her fictions to her audience of admirers and is all the time aware of the full significance of her stories.25 However, Isenberg quite rightly regards Zinaida’s narratives as a “stratagem for progressively communicating her situation to her admirers” (1993: 31), as she uses literary invention as a new variant of the games she plays all the time. As far as Volodia as listener is concerned, at least one message comes across as he finds confirmation of his suspicions, raised by the reading-plus-commentary of Pushkin’s ‘On the Hills of Georgia...’ He now concludes: “Yes, she’s in love! I thought again” (173; Ɉ! ɨɧɚ ɩɨɥɸɛɢɥɚ! – ɩɨɞɭɦɚɥ ɹ ɨɩɹɬɶ; 334). Zinaida’s intentions become more explicit as she immediately afterwards wishes to play “the game of comparisons” (174; ɢɝɪɚ ɜ ɫɪɚɜɧɟɧɢɹ; 334), instead of the usual game of forfeits. This leads to a brief but meaningful second text belonging to a particular type. Actually she is the only one who plays it now (the company know it, they have played it earlier), she compares the clouds that can be seen from the window to the purple sails of Cleopatra’s ship when she receives Marcus Antonius. The identifiable literary-historical source here is Plutarch, however, within the story it is Maidanov, who, no doubt hinting at Zinaida’s Cleopatrian properties, has brought up the subject: “Remember, Maidanov, you recently told me about that” (174; ɉɨɦɧɢɬɟ, Ɇɚɣɞɚɧɨɜ, ɜɵ ɧɟɞɚɜɧɨ ɦɧɟ ɨɛ ɷɬɨɦ ɪɚɫɫɤɚɡɵɜɚɥɢ?; 334). Zinaida’s comparison is not so much a creative act, as a reader’s reception, a simple reference to a traditional historical-literary theme, simple, but momentous, as it links elements from the story’s reality (the sky at the moment) with the literary motif (sails), which in itself is a metonymy for Cleopatra’s figure, world and fate. Literary antecedents here include the basic source, Plutarch’s Parallel Lives, and subsequent builders of the Cleopatra myth, such as Shakespeare with his Antony and Cleopatra. Prominent in Russian literature is Pushkin’s ȿɝɢɩɟɬɫɤɢɟ ɧɨɱɢ (Egyptian Nights), however, this is an anachronism at the level of story time (published only posthumously in 1837), although it certainly is a relevant pre-text for the author Turgenev and his readers. Like her first ‘parable’, Zinaida’s introduction of Cleopatra amounts to a self-reference on several points, some of which are undoubtedly conscious and intentional. She projects the image of the powerful queen, reigning supreme over her subjects, surrounding her at her court. However, in First Love

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Zinaida’s place is a travesty of a court: the house and household are shabby, and in contrast with the imagined luxury and splendour of Cleopatra’s temporary naval court (and her permanent court in Alexandria). Then there is the theme of passionate love. The mysterious matter of who Zinaida’s (at this juncture, unknown but suspected) lover might be is adumbrated by the heroine herself, who asks about Antonius’ age, which, as Lushin who is better informed than Maidanov knows, is over forty (thus Marcus Antonius and Volodia’s father are approximately the same age). This particular message is supplemented by non-verbal communication: “‘Over forty,’ repeated Zinaida, shooting a quick glance at him” (174; – Ɂɚ ɫɨɪɨɤ ɥɟɬ, – ɩɨɜɬɨɪɢɥɚ Ɂɢɧɚɢɞɚ, ɜɡɝɥɹɧɭɜ ɧɚ ɧɟɝɨ ɛɵɫɬɪɵɦ ɜɡɝɥɹɞɨɦ; 335). At the level of authorial construction (or perhaps here we can surmise Zinaida’s presentiment as well?), the Cleopatra theme is an anticipation of tragic fate: Volodia’s father and Zinaida will die young, though, unlike their historical-literary predecessors, not more or less simultaneously (cf. Cheteši 2002: 131). Zinaida’s third text appears at a later stage (ch. XVI). It is labelled “story” (186; ɪɚɫɫɤɚɡ; 347) afterwards by Volodia and is of her own creation and more elaborated than the previous scenes. It is her “invention” (183; ɜɵɞɭɦɤɚ; 344), which depicts in some detail a ball at a palace, a young queen at its centre, surrounded by adoring courtiers. Zinaida describes the luxurious background and decorations, and in the second stage, how the queen goes into the palace garden where her real and only lover is waiting for her by the fountain. On the one hand, in the text of First Love it is obviously connected with the preceding Cleopatra theme and to a certain degree forms a continuation of it.26 On the other hand, Zinaida’s fantasy has been recognized as having its roots in Turgenev’s own early works. Koschmal has pointed out that Turgenev’s own early dramatic piece ɂɫɤɭɲɟɧɢɟ ɋɜ. Ⱥɧɬɨɧɢɹ (The Temptation of St. Antony, published only in the 1950s) is clearly a pre-text for Zinaida’s fantasy, showing a number of unmistakeable correspondences (Koschmal 1984: 15).27 Zinaida’s audience reacts to her story showing signs of understanding its deeper meaning to some extent. “‘Is this really made up?’ asked Malevskii knowingly” (185; ɗɬɨ ɜɵɞɭɦɤɚ? – ɯɢɬɪɨ ɫɩɪɨɫɢɥ Ɇɚɥɟɜɫɤɢɣ; 345) and Lushin wonders what each of those present would have done if they knew about the fortunate chosen one.

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Zinaida likes the idea and appropriates it, fantasizing what each jealous rival would do. Thus the motif of jealousy is introduced. This and other central motifs from Zinaida’s text spill over into the story’s reality – especially into Volodia’s mind. As noted above, jealousy is largely concretized by means of literary references, viz. The Gypsies and Othello, and seems to possess Zinaida’s most passionate adorers, Volodia and Belovzorov. In addition to the dramatis personae (though one of them is still without identity), the setting described in Zinaida’s “story” takes hold of Volodia’s imagination, who the same night is haunted by these motifs: “My blood was on fire and boiling over. ‘The garden... the fountain,’ I thought. ‘I’ll go into the garden’” (187).28 Thus Zinaida’s ‘literary texts’ with their common core and manifest literary antecedents convey truths about herself – desires or facts, we still do not know for certain. They are part of the games she plays, toying with her admirers, however, some of the meanings arising from them may well be beyond her scope and can be ascribed to Turgenev’s constructive artistry. Volodia From the outset, an essential part of young Volodia’s psychological make-up is his love of poetry (ch. I). Instead of studying Kaidanov’s history course, he recalls: “mostly I recited aloud verses, of which I knew a great many by heart” (145-146; transl. amended – EdH; ə ɛɨɥɶɲɟ ɜɫɥɭɯ ɱɢɬɚɥ ɫɬɢɯɢ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɯ ɡɧɚɥ ɨɱɟɧɶ ɦɧɨɝɨ ɧɚ ɩɚɦɹɬɶ; 304). And a few lines later his mood is very much influenced by “sadness brought on by the melodiousness of a poem or the beauty of an evening” (ɝɪɭɫɬɶ, ɧɚɜɟɹɧɧɭɸ ɬɨ ɩɟɜɭɱɢɦ ɫɬɢɯɨɦ, ɬɨ ɤɪɚɫɨɬɨɸ ɜɟɱɟɪɚ) which calls forth a wave of melancholy. Here the verses that are mentioned, combined with the setting, convey the core of Zhukovskii’s and his followers’ elegiac branch of Romanticism. This links Volodia with other sensitive heroes from Turgenev’s stories, such as e.g. Iakov Pasynkov, but we should not forget that even a philistine like Astakhov in Ɂɚɬɢɲɶɟ (A Quiet Spot) knows some poems by heart. As part of Volodia’s literary knowledge and tastes Schiller’s still immensely popular The Robbers is also mentioned (307; 147). In general, his outlook is obviously ‘bookish’, ‘poetic’, and truly ‘Romantic’ in the literary sense, which is certainly not Turgenev’s prerogative, but rather a consistent trait of most characters

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from the 1820s and 1830s, and of subsequent generations as well. They are raised on poetry, or they “read French novels, so they are in love”, like Pushkin’s heroine in The Snowstorm. Literature moulds their outlook and behaviour, channeling emotions and determining verbal expression.29 In First Love this also holds for Zinaida, however, unlike other heroines of Turgenev (e.g. as in Faust), she does not become the victim of ‘literature’ or ‘bookishness’, rather, in as far as we can judge at all about the relationship with Volodia’s father, it seems ‘direct’, unmediated, ‘raw reality’. For her literature is, at the first stage, a game she plays with her admirers, at the second stage, as far as we can reconstruct it, her love for Pëtr Vasil’evich is a fact of life, though she appears to attempt to come to terms with it by means of literary analogies (cf. her ‘queen fantasy’ and the ‘moral’ from ‘On the Hills of Georgia...’). Turgenev’s heroes are not only concerned with the most prestigious works of literature. Frequently more lowly genres such as romansy play an important role in modelling emotions, associatively connected with mood and atmosphere. Thus in chapter XIV Vladimir Pëtrovich recalls the fantasies that came to his mind when he was in quite a pleasant mood remembering Zinaida’s kind words and kisses (in ch. XII). This leads to a whole literary-musical stream of thoughts and emotions (339-340; 179). He imagines himself as a hero saving his damsel in distress from the hands of enemies, covered in blood, as he remembers the picture of Malek Adhel saving Mathilde (the eponymous heroine of Sophie Cottin’s still popular novel of 1805). His ‘literary’ thoughts are interrupted when his immediate attention is drawn by a woodpecker. But then Volodia sings the romans ‘Not the white snows’ (ɇɟ ɛɟɥɵ ɫɧɟɝɢ...), which nowadays is still a traditional, in which two “ɦɨɥɨɞɱɢɤɢ” (‘young lads’) and a maiden are the characters (obliquely pointing once more to the triangle motif) and then switches to ‘I wait for you when playful Zephyr...’ (ə ɠɞɭ ɬɟɛɹ, ɤɨɝɞɚ ɡɟɮɢɪ ɢɝɪɢɜɵɣ...).30 Waiting is certainly a feature of the passive Volodia’s actual situation. From this romans Volodia turns to a passage from Khomiakov’s tragedy ȿɪɦɚɤ (Ermak), in which the hero addresses the stars (Turgenev 1981, IV: 491; Chomjakov 1969: 267). This may be motivated by a sound association between Viazemskii’s lyrics and Ermak’s monologue: Viazemskii: “Zephyr” (Ɂɟɮɢɪ) ~ Khomiakov: ~ “O, guards of the somnolent ether!” (Ɉ

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ɫɬɪɚɠɢ ɫɨɧɧɨɝɨ ɷɮɢɪɚ!). Khomiakov’s drama is also thematically significant, since part of Ermak’s background is a conflict with his father Timofej. The “paternal curse” is introduced in the first words Ermak speaks: “Paternal curse! In my soul / You lie, like a heavy burden” (ɉɪɨɤɥɹɬɢɟ ɨɬɰɚ! ɜ ɞɭɲɟ ɦɨɟɣ / Ɍɵ ɜɨɡɥɟɝɥɨ, ɤɚɤ ɬɹɝɨɫɬɧɨɟ ɛɪɟɦɹ; Chomjakov 1969: 155). Later (act IV; 252f.) there is a reconciliation. Before this turn in the plot there is an interesting parallel with First Love as we witness the scenes between Ol’ga, Ermak’s fiancée, and his father, whom she takes care of. Though there is nothing to suggest that these relations are anything but noble and chaste, the affection between the two is quite intense, as becomes apparent when Ol’ga says: “You thought I suffered / But I was rewarded for everything / By your smile, your love, / One word from you / [...] / Who could love you, like I do?”31 (241). This could be one of Turgenev’s ironies at the authorial level. Like Zinaida, Volodia is an avid consumer of literature, but he is not just a passive lover of poetry. He also creates his own texts and is active as a poet himself, although perhaps occasionally, which is represented in the story in embryonic form. In the passage just mentioned, from declaiming Ermak he turns to “making verse” himself: “I made an effort to compose something in the sentimental manner and even thought of the line which would conclude the poem: ‘O, Zinaida! Zinaida!’ but nothing came of it”32 (179). Vladimir Pëtrovich ironizes about his younger self, nevertheless he is too modest in saying that “nothing came of it”. Although the envisaged poem does not materialize, Volodia does produce one line of verse, which may be regarded as a monostich: “O Zinaida! Zinaida!” (Ɉ Ɂɢɧɚɢɞɚ! Ɂɢɧɚɢɞɚ!). Primitive as it may seem, it is worth special consideration on all levels of poetic analysis: we may note the metrical structure: the name itself is a two-foot trochee with unrealized first accent (or, in other terms, a third paeon); the final line becomes a four-foot iamb by repetition of the name and the anacrusis “O”, which, however, is accented, thus yielding an antimetric, trochaic first foot. The name has its intrinsic euphonic qualities: taking into account vowel reduction, there is an approximate inner rhyme, the consonants are all voiced which makes the whole name quite mellifluous, in accordance with the poetics of the early Romantic school of Zhukovskii and Batiushkov. Other formal features are repetition, apostrophe and exclamation. As regards its thematic-emotional focus,

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the beloved’s name becomes the centre of the hero’s personal universe. Thus Volodia does not find ways to expand the core of his emotional world into a ‘real’ poem, yet what he does achieve, ‘the final line’, expresses everything he might have to say, compressed into a single line, ‘just’ her name, exclaimed and repeated. Cf. also the earlier (ch. IX): “I [...] wouldn’t have known how to describe what was fermenting inside me, or would have given it just the one name – the name of Zinaida”33 (168). However, there are other aspects of the name Zinaida that merit further scrutiny. Some of its possible sources and implications will be considered in the following. First, the etymology of the name, which Turgenev could be well aware of, is certainly significant: It is a derivation from ‘Zeus’, which nicely reflects the heroine’s imperious behaviour. In connection with its sound structure, at this point we must consider Turgenev’s choice of a fictional name for the heroine. As noted earlier, the biographical background of First Love has been indicated first by Turgenev himself (Turgenev 1981, IV: 480ff.) and the ‘real’ heroine, (E)katerina Shakhovskaia, has been identified later (cf. ýernov 1973). This name has the same metrical pattern. In the list of characters of First Love Turgenev drew up in 1858, her name is still rendered as “Ɂɟɧɟɢɞɚ” (“Zeneida”) with the patronymic “Nikolaevna” (Turgenevskij sbornik 1966: 84), which has been changed in the final text to “Aleksandrovna”. This leads us to a number of literary sources and reminiscences connected with the name and its variants. First there is Pushkin’s unfinished prose fragment ‘Ƚɨɫɬɢ ɫɴɟɡɠɚɥɢɫɶ ɧɚ ɞɚɱɭ...’ (‘The Guests gathered at the dacha...’) which features the heroine “Zinaida Vol’skaia”, fully rhyming with Zinaida’s name after marriage “Dol’skaia” (cf. Brang 1977: 137). Another possible reminiscence is ‘Ɂɟɧɟɢɞɟ’ (‘To Zeneida’ or: ‘To Zénéide’), a poem by the romantic poet Vasilii Tumanskii (Tumanskij 1972: 269-270). According to the commentary to Tumanskii (1972: 729), this poem was published in 1824 in Poliarnaia Zvezda, which was popular enough for the young Turgenev to come across some time in the late twenties or early thirties. This poem contains a range of commonplace motifs. It is arranged as a warning to a capricious 17-year-old girl, that her frivolous ways sooner or later will turn into sorrow, yearning and bitterness. Though much of it is highly conventional, correspondences with Turgenev’s Zinaida are striking enough. Turgenev might also have been influenced by the more or less recent publication (by

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Annenkov in 1857) of Pushkin’s Ʉ Ɂɢɧɟ (To Zina; Puškin 1977, II: 292) which, though originally not addressing a “Zina” but “Zizi” (Evpraksiia Vul’f), certainly fits in with the image of Turgenev’s heroine: “Here, Zina, is my advice to you: play, / Weave from merry roses / A crown of triumph for yourself – / And in the future don’t wrest from us / Love poems and don’t break our hearts”.34 Then there are Pushkin’s verses to Zinaida Volkonskaia (1827; Puškin 1977, III: 12), which at first sight seem less relevant. Although the poem confirms the image of this historical figure as a “tsarina of Muses and beauty” (ɰɚɪɢɰɚ ɦɭɡ ɢ ɤɪɚɫɨɬɵ), the emphasis is on the praise of the addressee’s artistic qualities, rather than those of a heartbreaker. Nevertheless they lead us to a plausible and important real-life point of reference for Turgenev’s heroine, which, to my knowledge, has never been mentioned. Zeneida (Zinaida; French: Zénéide) Volkonskaia (cf. Russkie poơtessy 1979: 35-45) was famous in her time as an exceptional woman. Turgenev’s heroine does not only share her name with this almost legendary figure, but also the patronymic finally chosen by Turgenev: Aleksandrovna. Largely an icon of an earlier generation, she certainly can be regarded as a reallife prototype, very similar on the points of being a strong-willed woman, a poetess, continually the centre of companies and salons full of infatuated admirers and very intimately connected to a Father par excellence: Tsar Alexander I. Even if the rumors that he was the father of her child (cf. in First Love: “there were consequences”; 201; ɛɵɥɢ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɫɬɜɢɹ...; 362) are unproved, still inevitably it is a rumour that has stuck to her image. She is mentioned only once in the indexes to Turgenev’s Complete Works, but it is unthinkable that Turgenev would not have known about her person. An additional point reinforcing the plausibility of this connection is that the dacha where the Turgenev family stayed for the summer had belonged to a member of the family, P.A. Volkonskii, which Turgenev might certainly have been aware of. However, perhaps the most remarkable connection is again a literary one, but it is problematical for several reasons, the most important of which minimizes the probability of intentional borrowing or allusion. In Dostoevskii’s 1846 Ȼɟɞɧɵɟ ɥɸɞɢ (Poor Folk) there is a number of literary pastiches by the litterateur Rataziaev, which are quoted with great admiration by Makar Devushkin (who functions as Rataziaev’s copyist) in a letter to Varia (Letter of June 26): “Now

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literature is a good thing, Varen’ka, a very good thing” (Ⱥ ɯɨɪɨɲɚɹ ɜɟɳɶ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ, ȼɚɪɟɧɶɤɚ, ɨɱɟɧɶ ɯɨɪɨɲɚɹ). Devushkin then quotes from Rataziaev’s tale ‘ɂɬɚɥɶɹɧɫɤɢɟ ɫɬɪɚɫɬɢ’ (‘Italian Passions’; Dostoevskij 1972, I: 51-52). The heroes are called Vladimir and Zinaida, they are lovers, she is a countess and married to an “old count”. The fragment is packed with accumulated effusions of passion in the style of Marlinskii or Victor Hugo, and the most noteworthy in our context is Vladimir’s exclamation, “O Zinaida, Zinaida!” (Ɉ Ɂɢɧɚɢɞɚ, Ɂɢɧɚɢɞɚ!). This connection is almost awkward. It is not a matter of borrowing at the level of the story: Poor Folk (1846) cannot be part of Volodia’s literary consciousness thirteen years earlier, but the reminiscing Vladimir Pëtrovich, viz. Turgenev the author, could have picked it up. Although there is palpable irony (or even something comical) in young Volodia’s chain of literary associations conveying his temporary exaltation, the name of Turgenev’s heroine as the product of conscious borrowing from Poor Folk would mean deriving it from a tragic, but comical character who has, in turn, borrowed it from a hack writer. In spite of these identical elements (in addition to similarities such as an adulterous love affair) this derivation seems too much of a negative burden to consider it as a plausible intentional literary reference on Turgenev’s part.35 The character Zinaida, then, has a variety of literary and historical antecedents, whatever their precise status may be. These are brought into play by Turgenev at the authorial level, and by Volodia in the world and period of the story, as his emotions and passions, though authentic enough, are to a great extent shaped and channeled by his reading experience. Conclusion Thus the signifying potential of fictional and ‘real’ poetry is exploited by Turgenev at all levels of the story’s construction. Quotations from real poets – the majority and the most significant are Pushkin’s – and the verbal fragments produced by the fictional poet-authors that some of the characters become in the story, contribute to the image of these characters, to the course of events and the subtle disclosure at plot level of the events and the underlying states of affairs. They symbolically cast an evaluative and emotional light on the remembered world of the past and the characters of First Love. They are also realistic in themselves, in the sense that they reflect the culture of the

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young Turgenev’s milieu and characterize the epoch of the early 1830s, which he brings back to life almost thirty years later. University of Amsterdam Notes 1

For general discussions of verse insertions see Neuburger (1967); Sil’man (1997, esp. ch. VIII); de Haard (2004). 2 On the inserted poetry of Nezhdanov in Nov’ see Mostovskaja (1996). 3 Cf. Lotman’s ‘Tekst v tekste’ on general relations between embedding and embedded text (1992: esp. 155-160). 4 As Brouwer demonstrates in his discussion of ɉɭɧɢɧ ɢ Ȼɚɛɭɪɢɧ (Punin and Baburin), the very special “poet” Punin, but also the other characters, Pëtr Pëtrovich, Tarkhov, Muza Pavlovna and Baburin, all represent different literary-ideological schools and epochs, as becomes apparent from their literary likes and dislikes (Brouwer 1996: 236-244). 5 Cf. e.g. the function of Pushkin’s Ⱥɧɱɚɪ (The Upas Tree) and other poems and songs in Turgenev’s Ɂɚɬɢɲɶɟ (A Quiet Spot); cf. Mostovskaja (1997); de Haard (forthcoming). 6 Cf. Steffensen (1984) and Barta (1993) on seduction by means of poetry in Faust. 7 References and quotations are from Turgenev (1981, VI: 303-364), by page number, translations by Richard Freeborn (Turgenev 1999: 144-202), indicated by page number. In some cases the translation has been amended where literalness needs to prevail over elegance. All other translations are my own. – EdH. 8 On characters as “writers” see Isenberg (1993: 25). 9 For a discussion of the story’s narrative structure see Grübel (1984); Isenberg (1993: 16-21; and esp. 22-49). 10 This reinforces Grübel’s argument concerning the written status as opposed to the popular opposite oral form, skaz (1984: 157-159). 11 The autobiographical background has been acknowledged by Turgenev in Memorial (Turgenev 1981, VI: 480). For further investigation see ýernov (1973). For an analysis of Turgenev’s procedures in this respect see Isenberg’s section aptly called “Framing out Biography” (1993: 32-34). 12 Cf. Isenberg’s reference to a “first-time reader” (1993: 24). Some aspects of discovery on a first reading are sketched by Kluge (1982: 64-68, esp. 66). Here I disagree with Isenberg when he judges: “Because hints alluding to [Zinaida’s and Pëtr Vasil’eviþ’s] relationship are virtually everywhere, it would be otiose to follow this plot thread in detail” (1993: 29). On the contrary, I would depart from his statement a few lines earlier (with which I fully agree): “Turgenev’s strategy is to have Vladimir Pëtroviþ shape his story so that the reader can interpret – or at least speculate about – sequences of events whose logic escapes both the attention of the adolescent protagonist and the commentary of the adult narrator” (ibidem). It is certainly worth while to follow this “strategy” in detail, however, here I restrict myself to a selection of the most striking hints and moments of revelation, with special attention to those with a ‘literary’ component. 13 ȼɵ ɦɟɧɹ ɨɱɟɧɶ ɥɸɛɢɬɟ? – ɫɩɪɨɫɢɥɚ ɨɧɚ ɧɚɤɨɧɟɰ, – Ⱦɚ? ə ɧɢɱɟɝɨ ɧɟ ɨɬɜɟɱɚɥ – ɞɚ ɢ ɡɚɱɟɦ ɦɧɟ ɛɵɥɨ ɨɬɜɟɱɚɬɶ? – Ⱦɚ, ɩɨɜɬɨɪɢɥɚ ɨɧɚ, ɩɨ-ɩɪɟɠɧɟɦɭ ɝɥɹɞɹ ɧɚ ɦɟɧɹ.

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– ɗɬɨ ɬɚɤ. Ɍɚɤɢɟ ɠɟ ɝɥɚɡɚ, – ɩɪɢɛɚɜɢɥɚ ɨɧɚ, ɡɚɞɭɦɚɥɚɫɶ ɢ ɡɚɤɪɵɥɚ ɥɢɰɨ ɪɭɤɚɦɢ (329). 14 See Kluge (1982: 68) on the similarities between Volodia and his father in Zinaida’s eyes. 15 Ⱥ ɹ, ɞɭɪɚɤ, ɞɭɦɚɥ, ɱɬɨ ɨɧɚ ɤɨɤɟɬɤɚ! ȼɢɞɧɨ ɠɟɪɬɜɨɜɚɬɶ ɫɨɛɨɸ ɫɥɚɞɤɨ, ɞɥɹ ɢɧɵɯ. – ɑɬɨ ɜɵ ɯɨɬɢɬɟ ɷɬɢɦ ɫɤɚɡɚɬɶ? – ȼɚɦ ɹ ɧɢɱɟɝɨ ɧɟ ɯɨɱɭ ɫɤɚɡɚɬɶ – ɨɬɪɵɜɢɫɬɨ ɜɨɡɪɚɡɢɥ Ʌɭɲɢɧ (341). 16 Ɉɧ ɜɵɤɪɢɤɢɜɚɥ ɧɚɪɚɫɩɟɜ ɫɜɨɢ ɱɟɬɵɪɟɯɫɬɨɩɧɵɟ ɹɦɛɵ, ɪɢɮɦɵ ɱɟɪɟɞɨɜɚɥɢɫɶ ɢ ɡɜɟɧɟɥɢ, ɤɚɤ ɛɭɛɟɧɱɢɤɢ, ɩɭɫɬɨ ɢ ɝɪɨɦɤɨ, ɚ ɹ ɜɫɟ ɝɥɹɞɟɥ ɧɚ Ɂɢɧɚɢɞɭ ɢ ɜɫɟ ɫɬɚɪɚɥɫɹ ɩɨɧɹɬɶ ɡɧɚɱɟɧɢɟ ɟɟ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɯ ɫɥɨɜ. – ɂɥɶ, ɦɨɠɟɬ ɛɵɬɶ, ɫɨɩɟɪɧɢɤ ɬɚɣɧɵɣ / Tɟɛɹ ɧɟɠɞɚɧɧɨ ɩɨɤɨɪɢɥ? – ɜɨɫɤɥɢɤɧɭɥ ɜɞɪɭɝ ɜ ɧɨɫ Ɇɚɣɞɚɧɨɜ – ɢ ɦɨɢ ɝɥɚɡɚ ɢ ɝɥɚɡɚ Ɂɢɧɚɢɞɵ ɜɫɬɪɟɬɢɥɢɫɶ (330). 17 Ɇɚɣɞɚɧɨɜ ɭɝɨɫɬɢɥ ɧɚɫ ɰɟɥɨɸ ɩɨɜɟɫɬɶɸ: ɬɭɬ ɛɵɥɢ ɢ ɦɨɝɢɥɶɧɵɟ ɫɤɥɟɩɵ, ɢ ɚɧɝɟɥɵ ɫ ɥɢɪɚɦɢ, ɢ ɝɨɜɨɪɹɳɢɟ ɰɜɟɬɵ, ɢ ɧɟɫɭɳɢɟɫɹ ɢɡɞɚɥɟɤɚ ɡɜɭɤɢ. Ɂɢɧɚɢɞɚ ɧɟ ɞɚɥɚ ɟɦɭ ɞɨɤɨɧɱɢɬɶ (343). 18 ɜɵ ɧɚɩɢɫɚɥɢ ɛɵ ɧɚ ɧɟɝɨ ɷɩɢɝɪɚɦɦɭ... ȼɩɪɨɱɟɦ, ɧɟɬ – ɜɵ ɧɟ ɭɦɟɟɬɟ ɩɢɫɚɬɶ ɷɩɢɝɪɚɦɦ; ɜɵ ɧɚɩɢɫɚɥɢ ɛɵ ɧɚ ɧɟɝɨ ɞɥɢɧɧɵɣ ɹɦɛ, ɜɪɨɞɟ Ȼɚɪɛɶɟ (345). 19 ɉɪɨɱɬɢɬɟ ɦɧɟ ɤɚɤɢɟ-ɧɢɛɭɞɶ ɫɬɢɯɢ. [...] ə ɥɸɛɥɸ, ɤɨɝɞɚ ɜɵ ɫɬɢɯɢ ɱɢɬɚɟɬɟ. ȼɵ ɩɨɟɬɟ, ɧɨ ɷɬɨ ɧɢɱɟɝɨ, ɷɬɨ ɦɨɥɨɞɨ. ɉɪɨɱɬɢɬɟ ɦɧɟ ‘ɇɚ ɯɨɥɦɚɯ Ƚɪɭɡɢɢ’ (330). 20 Turgenev specially inserted this scene at a later stage in writing First Love (cf. Turgenev, 1981, VI: 482). 21 Ɇɧɟ ɜɫɟ ɦɟɪɟɳɢɥɢɫɶ: Ⱥɥɟɤɨ, ɦɨɥɨɞɨɣ ɰɵɝɚɧ – ‘Ʉɭɞɚ, ɤɪɚɫɚɜɟɰ ɦɨɥɨɞɨɣ – Ʌɟɠɢ...’, ɚ ɩɨɬɨɦ: ‘Ɍɵ ɜɟɫɶ ɨɛɪɵɡɝɚɧ ɤɪɨɜɶɸ!.. Ɉ, ɱɬɨ ɬɵ ɫɞɟɥɚɥ?..’ – ‘ɇɢɱɟɝɨ!’ (349). 22 ə ɜɫɟ ɷɬɨ ɞɭɦɚɥ, ɹ ɧɚɩɪɹɝɚɥ ɫɜɨɟ ɜɨɨɛɪɚɠɟɧɢɟ, ɚ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɬɟɦ: ‘ɂɡ ɪɚɜɧɨɞɭɲɧɵɯ ɭɫɬ ɹ ɫɥɵɲɚɥ ɫɦɟɪɬɢ ɜɟɫɬɶ, / ɂ ɪɚɜɧɨɞɭɲɧɨ ɟɣ ɜɧɢɦɚɥ ɹ,’ ɡɜɭɱɚɥɨ ɭ ɦɟɧɹ ɜ ɞɭɲɟ (363). 23 It may be added that Pushkin himself stayed in this hotel in 1827. Or to be precise, in the smaller Ⱦɟɦɭɬɨɜ ɬɪɚɤɬɢɪ. In its place a much larger new hotel was built (Tri veka 2005: 249) in 1833-1834. Hotel “Demuth” is the usual transcription, however on a lithograph from the 1840s, the name on the façade reads “Demouth” (Tri veka 2003: 196). 24 On Zinaida’s “fantasies”, “compositions”, as they variously have been called see also Kluge (1982: 67-68) who speaks, not quite correctly, of “two symbolic dreams”; and Cheteši (2002: 122-129). 25 This first fantasy was also inserted later by Turgenev (cf. 1981, VI: 482). 26 Cheteši in his discussion points to these common motifs. There certainly are common motifs (such as a river in the first and second one), and even a common core in Zinaida’s three separate ‘texts’, however, this does not allow us to lump them together and consider all three as modelled on Cleopatra viz. Plutarch’s account, as is suggested by Cheteši (2002: 124-129). It is unlikely that a Cleopatra figure surrenders to a group of “Bacchantes”, it is even less plausible that the “ɫɤɚɡɤɚ” of the young queen in the third ‘text’ “again brings us to Cleopatra” (2002: 128). In spite of all possible ahistorical representations in arts and literature of Cleopatra and her world (cf. e.g. Hughes-Hallett 1990) we hardly would associate a ball with her Alexandrian court. 27 By implication, it is an auto-pre-text for the whole (con-)text, for First Love as a whole (Zinaida/Annunciata, Volodia/Dzhulio, Father/Satan; cf. Koschmal 1984: 1415). Koschmal focuses on auto-intertextuality at the authorial level, rather than on Zinaida’s intentional suggestions.

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Ʉɪɨɜɶ ɜɨ ɦɧɟ ɡɚɝɨɪɟɥɚɫɶ ɢ ɪɚɫɯɨɞɢɥɚɫɶ. ‘ɋɚɞ... ɮɨɧɬɚɧ... – ɩɨɞɭɦɚɥ ɹ. ɉɨɣɞɭɤɚ ɹ ɜ ɫɚɞ’ (347). As Brouwer points out, here another pre-text can be identified, again from Pushkin: the recently published (with respect to story-time – 1832) Boris Godunov (Brouwer, forthcoming). Zinaida, as a character reflecting literary actuality, and as ‘author’ could certainly borrow for her fantasy from the scene at Mniszek’s court, involving the ‘princess’ Marina and the ‘would-be tsar’ Otrep’ev; on the other hand it can be seen as Turgenev’s intertextual practice. 29 In this connection Brouwer (forthcoming) notes that “literary role-playing enhanc[es] the sense that the characters, especially Zinaida, are really enacting scenario’s by others [...] This ‘enacting love’ from literary works clearly shows that there is something derivative in the passions. On a meta-discursive level Vladimir as the ‘author’ of the story may even be hinted at as having no real feelings for Zinaida at all.” A less radical interpretation would mitigate these doubts about authenticity. As represented by Turgenev, the passions and infatuations of the main characters are quite real and authentic-unmediated. However, I agree that the way the characters come to terms with them by (self-)modelling, by representational processing of these affects, certainly follow behavioural, especially literary models in giving shape and expression to them. In this sense Turgenev’s heroes (certainly Volodia and perhaps Zinaida) do not differ fundamentally from Pushkin’s Tat’iana, whose infatuation is authentic enough, whereas her whole emotional processing of it is surely determined by literary models. 30 The commentary in Turgenev (1981, VI: 491) identifies this as a romance by Viazemskii (from 1815), however, it cannot be found in any of the editions available to me, e.g. Vjazemskij (1958). Turgenev/Vladimir Pëtrovich adds: “the popular song of that time” (179; ɢɡɜɟɫɬɧɵɣ ɜ ɬɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɪɨɦɚɧɫ; 339). Cf. Iazykov’s later play on this motif in Pesnja (1829) with the first line “ə ɠɞɭ ɬɟɛɹ, ɤɨɝɞɚ ɜɟɱɟɪɧɟɣ ɦɝɥɨɸ...” and the refrain: “ə ɠɞɭ ɬɟɛɹ, Ɂɟɮɢɪ!” (Jazykov 1964: 272). 31 Ɍɵ ɞɭɦɚɥ – ɹ ɫɬɪɚɞɚɥɚ, / Ⱥ ɹ ɛɵɥɚ ɡɚ ɜɫɺ ɧɚɝɪɚɠɞɟɧɚ / Ɍɜɨɟɣ ɭɥɵɛɤɨɸ, ɬɜɨɟɣ ɥɸɛɨɜɶɸ / [...] / Ʉɬɨ ɦɨɝ ɛɵ ɬɚɤ ɬɟɛɹ ɥɸɛɢɬɶ, ɤɚɤ ɹ? 32 ɹ ɩɨɩɵɬɚɥɫɹ ɛɵɥɨ ɫɨɱɢɧɢɬɶ ɱɬɨ-ɧɢɛɭɞɶ ɜ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɦ ɪɨɞɟ, ɩɪɢɞɭɦɚɥ ɞɚɠɟ ɫɬɪɨɱɤɭ, ɤɨɬɨɪɨɣ ɞɨɥɠɧɨ ɛɵɥɨ ɡɚɤɚɧɱɢɜɚɬɶɫɹ ɜɫɟ ɫɬɢɯɨɬɜɨɪɟɧɢɟ: ‘Ɉ, Ɂɢɧɚɢɞɚ! Ɂɢɧɚɢɞɚ!’ ɧɨ ɧɢɱɟɝɨ ɧɟ ɜɵɲɥɨ (339). 33 ə [...] ɧɢɱɟɝɨ ɛɵ ɧɟ ɫɭɦɟɥ ɧɚɡɜɚɬɶ ɢɡɨ ɜɫɟɝɨ ɬɨɝɨ, ɱɬɨ ɜɨ ɦɧɟ ɛɪɨɞɢɥɨ, ɢɥɢ ɛɵ ɧɚɡɜɚɥ ɷɬɨ ɜɫɟ ɨɞɧɢɦ ɢɦɟɧɟɦ – ɢɦɟɧɟɦ Ɂɢɧɚɢɞɵ (329). 34 ȼɨɬ, Ɂɢɧɚ, ɜɚɦ ɫɨɜɟɬ: ɢɝɪɚɣɬɟ,/ ɂɡ ɪɨɡ ɜɟɫɟɥɵɯ ɡɚɩɥɟɬɚɣɬɟ/ ɋɟɛɟ ɬɨɪɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɜɟɧɟɰ –/ ɂ ɜɩɪɟɞɶ ɭ ɧɚɫ ɧɟ ɪɚɡɪɵɜɚɣɬɟ/ ɇɢ ɦɚɞɪɢɝɚɥɨɜ ɧɢ ɫɟɪɞɟɰ. 35 It is remarkable that the literary hack Rataziaev has also written a Romantic dramatic work about Ermak, parts of which Devushkin reproduces. This certainly implies a parody of Khomiakov’s Ermak, as Dostoevskii/Rataziaev couples Ermak in a wildly passionate love affair with an exotic maiden called Zuleika (Dostoevskij 1972, I: 52-53). After this Devushkin comes up with a completely different work in the Gogolian style. Rataziaev’s versatility as litterateur of the early 1840s resembles Maidanov’s a decade earlier, though at the authorial level chronology works the other way round. This is not the only possible case of Dostoevskii’s presence in the background, cf. also the correspondences between First Love and Dostoevskii’s Ɇɚɥɟɧɶɤɢɣ ɝɟɪɨɣ (A Little Hero), as pointed out in Dostoevskij (1972, II: 507). 28

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Bibliography Barta, Peter I. 1993. ‘Superfluous Woman and the Perils of Reading “Faust”’ in Irish Slavonic Studies 14: 21-36. Brang, Peter. 1977. I.S. Turgenev. Sein Leben und sein Werk. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz. Brouwer, Sander. 1996. Character in the Short Prose of Ivan Sergeeviþ Turgenev. Amsterdam and Atlanta: Rodopi. –– (forthcoming). ‘First Love, But Not First Lover. Turgenev’s Poetics of Unoriginality’ in Aspects of Turgenev. Amsterdam and New York: Rodopi. ýernov, N. 1973. ‘Povest’ I.S. Turgeneva “Pervaja ljubov’” i ee real’nye istoþniki’ in Voprosy literatury 9: 225-241. Cheteši, Ištvan. 2002. ‘Povest’ I.S. Turgeneva “Pervaja ljubov’” (Archetip i intertekstual’nost’)’ in Studia Slavica Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae, 47(12): 115-132. Chomjakov, A.S. 1969. Stichotvorenija i dramy (Biblioteka poơta. Bol’šaja serija). Leningrad: Sovetskij pisatel’. Dostoevskij, F.M. 1972. Polnoe sobranie soþinenij. T. I, T. II, Ɍ. IV. Leningrad: Nauka. Grübel, Rainer. 1984. ‘Narrative Aisthesis der “Ersten Liebe”: Erinnerung vs. Wiederholung. Zur Topik und Intertextualität der Erzählungen “Pervaja ljubov’” von Turgenev und “Vymysel” von Gippius’ in Russische Erzählung. Russian Short Story. Russkij rasskaz. Amsterdam: Rodopi: 153-194. Haard, Eric de. 2004. ‘Verse Insertions and Prosimetrum in Pushkin’s Works’ in Andrew, Joe and Robert Reid (eds). Two Hundred Years of Pushkin. Vol. 3. Pushkin’s Legacy. Amsterdam and New York: Rodopi: 73-88. –– (forthcoming). ‘The Uses of Poetry in Turgenev’s Prose: A Quiet Spot’ in Aspects of Turgenev. Amsterdam and New York: Rodopi. Hughes-Hallett, Lucy. 1990. Cleopatra. Histories, Dreams and Distortions. New York, etc.: Harper & Row. Isenberg, Charles. 1993. Telling Silence. Russian Frame Narratives of Renunciation. Evanston, Ill: Northwestern University Press. Jazykov, N.M. 1964. Polnoe sobranie soþinenij (Biblioteka poơta. Bol’šaja serija). Moskva-Leningrad: Sovetskij pisatel’. Kluge, Rolf-Dieter. 1982. ‘Turgenjew. Erste Liebe’ in Zelinsky, Bodo (ed.). Die Russische Novelle. Düsseldorf: Schwann-Bagel: 63-72. Koschmal, Walter. 1984. Vom Realismus zum Symbolismus. Zu Genese und Morphologie der Symbolsprache in den späten Werken I.S. Turgenevs. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Lotman, Ju.M. 1992. ‘Tekst v tekste’ in Izbrannye stat’i v trech tomach. T. I. Tallinn: Aleksandra: 148-161. Mostovskaja, N.N. 1996. ‘“Nekrasovskoe” v romane Turgeneva “Nov’” in Russkaja literatura 3: 115-125. –– 1997. ‘“Pushkinskoe” v tvorþestve Turgeneva’ in Russkaja literatura 1: 28-37. Neuburger, P. 1967. Die Verseinlage in der Prosadichtung der Romantik. Reprint: New York and London. Johnson Reprint Corporation (Leipzig [1924]: Mayer & Müller). Podolinskij, A.I. 1985. ‘Nišþij’ [1830] in Nemzer, A.S. (ed.). Russkaja romantiþeskaja poơma. Moskva: Pravda: 396-413.

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Puškin, A.S. 1977. Polnoe sobranie soþinenij v 10-i tomach. Leningrad: Nauka. Russkie poơtessy. 1979. Russkie poơtessy XIX veka. Moskva: Sovetskaja Rossija. Steffensen, E. 1984. ‘Faust and the Art of Seduction’ in We and They. National Identity as a Theme in Slavic Cultures (Studier – Københavns universitets Slaviske institut 11). Copenhagen: Rosenkilde and Bagger: 72-80. Tri veka. 2003. Tri veka Sankt-Peterburga. Ơnciklopedija. T. II. Devjatnadcatyj vek. Kn. 2-aja. Sankt-Peterburg. Filologiþeskij fakul’tet Sankt-Peterburgskogo gosudarstvennogo universiteta. –– 2005. Tri veka Sankt-Peterburga. Ơnciklopedija. T. II. Devjatnadcatyj vek. Kn. 4aja. Sankt-Peterburg. Filologiþeskij fakul’tet Sankt-Peterburgskogo gosudarstvennogo universiteta. Tumanskij, V.I. 1972. ‘Zeneide’ [1823] in Poơty 1820-1830 godov. T. 1. Leningrad: Sovetskij pisatel’: 269-270. Turgenev, I.S. 1965. Polnoe sobranie soþinenij i pisem v 28-i tomach. Soþinenija. T. IX. Moskva-Leningrad: Nauka. –– 1981. Polnoe sobranie soþinenij v 30-i tomach. Soþinenija, T. 6. Moskva: Nauka. –– 1999. First Love and Other Stories (tr., intr. and notes Richard Freeborn). Oxford: Oxford University Press: 144-202. Turgenevskij sbornik. 1966. ‘“Nakanune” i “Pervaja ljubov’”. Pereþni dejstvujušþich lic’ in Turgenevskij sbornik II. Moskva-Leningrad: Nauka: 83-87. Vjazemskij, P.A. 1958. Stichotvorenija (Biblioteka poơta. Bol’šaja serija). Leningrad: Sovetskij pisatel’.

The Structure of the Plot in the Novels of Pavel Mel’nikov-Pecherskii Willem G. Weststeijn Abstract: The nineteenth-century Russian writer Pavel Mel’nikov (1819-1883) is famous for his two large novels In the Forests (V lesakh) and On the Hills (Na gorakh). In these novels he decribes the life, history and customs of the Old Believers, who lived on the banks of the Volga, east and south of Nizhnii Novgorod. In order to give a comprehensive picture of the Old Believers the author introduces a lot of factual information and a large number of characters. As the histories of the lives of the characters are extensively described, there are many stories within stories, often hardly connected with the main story line. Despite the dispersive plot, the novels are quite interesting, both for their unique factual material and their literary qualities: excellent dialogue, good story telling and well elaborated characters. Keywords: P.I. Mel’nikov-Pecherskii; Old Believers; plot structure Ȼɨɝ ɞɚɥ ɦɧɟ ɩɚɦɹɬɶ, ɯɨɪɨɲɭɸ ɩɚɦɹɬɶ. Ⱦɨ ɫɢɯ ɩɨɪ ɨɧɚ ɟɳɟ ɧɟ ɫɥɚɛɟɟɬ. ɑɬɨ ɧɢ ɜɢɞɢɲɶ, ɱɬɨ ɧɢ ɫɥɵɲɢɲɶ, ɱɬɨ ɧɢ ɩɪɨɱɬɟɲɶ, – ɜɫɟ ɩɨɦɧɢɲɶ. Ʉɚɤ ɩɨɦɧɢɲɶ, – ɫɚɦ ɧɟ ɡɧɚɸ. Ⱥ ɧɚ ɪɨɞɭ ɛɵɥɨ ɧɚɩɢɫɚɧɨ ɞɨɜɨɥɶɧɨ-ɬɚɤɢ ɩɨɟɡɞɢɬɶ ɩɨ ɦɚɬɭɲɤɟ ɩɨ ɫɜɹɬɨɣ Ɋɭɫɢ. ɂ ɝɞɟ-ɬɨ ɧɟ ɞɨɜɨɞɢɥɨɫɶ ɛɵɜɚɬɶ? ɂ ɜ ɥɟɫɚɯ, ɢ ɧɚ ɝɨɪɚɯ, ɢ ɜ ɛɨɥɨɬɚɯ, ɢ ɜ ɬɭɧɞɪɚɯ, ɢ ɜ ɪɭɞɧɢɤɚɯ, ɢ ɧɚ ɤɪɟɫɬɶɹɧɫɤɢɯ ɩɚɥɚɬɚɯ, ɢ ɜ ɬɟɫɧɵɯ ɤɟɥɶɹɯ, ɢ ɜ ɫɤɢɬɚɯ, ɢ ɜ ɞɜɨɪɰɚɯ, – ɜɫɟɝɨ ɢ ɧɟ ɩɟɪɟɱɬɟɲɶ. ɂ ɝɞɟ ɧɢ ɛɵɥ, ɱɬɨ ɧɢ ɜɢɞɟɥ, ɱɬɨ ɧɢ ɫɥɵɲɚɥ, – ɜɫɟ ɬɜɟɪɞɨ ɩɨɦɧɸ. ȼɡɞɭɦɚɥɨɫɶ ɦɧɟ ɩɢɫɚɬɶ; ɧɭ, ɞɭɦɚɸ, ɞɚɜɚɣ ɩɢɫɚɬɶ «ɩɨ ɩɚɦɹɬɢ, ɤɚɤ ɩɨ ɝɪɚɦɨɬɟ».1 Pavel Mel’nikov-Pecherskii

In most western histories of Russian literature due attention is paid to the nineteenth-century writer Pavel Mel’nikov-Pecherskii (18191883). He is praised as a representative of regional, ethnographic literature, in particular for the way he described the life and customs of the Old Believers on the banks of the Volga. “His works are not really first-class literature and are disfigured by a meretricious

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pseudo-poetical style, imitative of folklore. But the interest of the milieu described and the author’s knowledge of it are so great that they make absorbingly interesting reading”, writes D.S. Mirsky (1960: 203). Richard Freeborn calls him “one of the most original talents to reach maturity in the 1870s”; discussing Mel’nikov’s two large novels In the Forests (V lesakh) and On the Hills (Na gorakh) he adds: “The author’s knowledge joined with his powers of observation and description to produce masterpieces of regional literature in these works” (1989: 316). Victor Terras considers Mel’nikov as “by far the finest exponent” of the ethnographic novel. About his two novels he remarks: “Both novels have gorgeous panoramic landscape descriptions of the region between the Volga and the Urals and ample ethnological flashbacks explaining its present condition. (…) Mel’nikov describes the people of the region – their trades and businesses, holidays and feasts, customs, meals and garb – in meticulous ethnographic detail. (…) His novels make for interesting and informative reading while staying well within the framework of a realist novel” (1991: 364-365). The Danish slavist Adolf StenderPetersen, who perhaps wrote the best western history of Russian literature (not going further, however, than the beginning of the twentieth century), speaks highly of the many outstanding and interesting characters in Mel’nikov’s works. With his novels, written in a “characteristic, orally coloured, juicy language”, he “enriched Russian literature in an original and permanent way” (1957: 430-431).2 Despite this positive evaluation in histories of Russian literature Mel’nikov has hardly been studied by western slavists. A notable exception is Thomas Hoisington, who in the 1970s wrote a few articles on Mel’nikov-Pecherskii with the intention “to dramatize the need for English translations of Mel’nikov’s stories and novels (they exist in French and German, not in English – WGW) and to suggest a new critical approach to the problem of placing his prose with its curious shape and content in the proper literary context” (1974: 679).3 Some other articles on Mel’nikov that appeared in western Slavic journals are Scharpe 1985, Shapopalov 1994 and Zink 2002. They particularly focus on ethnographic or folkloristic details of Mel’nikov’s work.4 In my own article I will concentrate on poetical aspects of his two novels, in particular on the way the plot is constructed and in which way “realistic” (folkloristic, ethnographic) material is integrated in the plot. As Mel’nikov, apparently, succeeded

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in producing “masterpieces of the regional novel” and becoming “by far the finest exponent of the ethnographic novel”, there must be a good balance in his work between “realistic” and “poetical” aspects, between content and form, fact and fiction. An analysis of the construction of the plot of his novels may throw some light on this balance and, accordingly, on the predominantly positive judgements by the critics. In the Forests (1871-1874) and On the Hills (1875-1881) form, in fact, a dilogy.5 The principal characters of the first novel also occur in the second one; those of the second novel already appeared in the first one. This is possible as the central figures of both novels live, more or less, in the same region, belong to the same class and to the same faith. Moreover, the events about which we are being told in On the Hills immediately follow those of In the Forests. Although Mel’nikov often extensively tells us about the history and background of his characters,6 both main and secondary ones, the real duration of the action of his novels is rather short, half a year for In the Forests, somewhat more than a year for On the Hills. The time of the action of In the Forests is indicated very clearly: it starts on Twelfth Night and ends on St. Peter’s Day (June 29). On the Hills begins with the history of the lives of the two protagonists. The action starts in the summer of the same year as described in In the Forests and ends in the late summer of the next year. The action, as a matter of fact, is entirely concentrated in the summers; the winter is not described in On the Hills. Critics, usually, consider In the Forests the more successful of the two novels. This is probably due to its better composition: a stricter story-line and less extensive introductions of secondary characters and digressions on matters that have hardly anything to do with the main story-line. This may be true; on the other hand, On the Hills contains a number of scenes (for instance the description of a boat ride on the river and the meeting of fishmerchants in a tavern at the annual market of Makar’evo)7 which in their evocative power surpass the descriptions of In the Forests. In the Forests and On the Hills are both situated in the Volga region and both novels concentrate on a rich merchant and his family. The principal character of In the Forests is the tysiachnik (wealthy entrepeneur, from tysiacha, thousand) Patap Maksimych Chapurin, who owns a number of potteries and flour mills, that of On the Hills the fish-merchant Marko Danilych Smolokurov, who makes a hansom

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profit by selling fish caught in the Caspian Sea and transported up the Volga from Astrakhan’ to the market of Makar’evo. Both Patap Maksimych and Marko Danilich have a marriageable daughter, whom they dearly love. These daughters also play an important part in the novels. To Nastas’ia (Nastia), Patap Maksimych’s daughter, a large part of the two first parts of In the Forests (both novels consist of four parts) is devoted. As she dies, after an unhappy love-affair, at the end of the second part, she does not figure any longer in the story. Dunia, the daughter of Marko Danilich, already occurs in In the Forests, and becomes a principal character in On the Hills. At the end of this novel her father dies, but she herself finds happiness in love. In the Forests The action of In the Forests takes place on the Upper Volga, to the east of Nizhnii Novgorod, the region of “Old Russia”, in which legends about the time of the Tatars and about the invisible city of Kitezh are still alive. The region is populated by, generally, hard working people, who, thanks to their diligence and industry, have reached a reasonable standard of living: there are quite a number of tysiachniki. The narrator then zooms in on one of them, the most important tysiachnik of the region, Patap Maksimych Chapurin. Just as the greater part of the population of the area he belongs to the Old Believers, although more for practical than for religious reasons: it is easier to get credit from other Old Believers and, when travelling, to find lodging for the night with fellow believers. He is not very strict in religious matters; what is important for him, is that everything goes according to the tradition, which is rooted in a patriarchal society. After the description of Patap Maksimych’s roomy house and of the foundation of his opulence, the potteries and flourmills, his family is introduced. He has a wife and two daughters, Nastas’ia and Praskof’ia, who are, respectively eighteen and seventeen years old. For some five years they have been educated in a monastery of the Old Believers, a “skit”, directed by their aunt Manefa, a sister of their father. Here they have learned to read religious literature, to sing and to do all kinds of needlework. They are back home again. The story in fact begins when one evening Patap Maksimych happens to look into a notebook of his eldest daughter, in which she has copied some religious texts that allude to a lover. This puts the idea into his head that his daughters are old enough now to marry and that he has to find

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suitable partners for them. There follows a discussion with his wife who has, of course, no say in this matter. All this information is given in the first chapter, which runs to only ten pages. It turns out to be a characteristic device of Mel’nikov to end a general description in a dialogue, so that the description, almost without being noticed, changes into the action or announces the beginning of an episode. The second chapter begins with a clear indication of time: it is Twelfth Night. The theme, suggested in the first chapter: love and marriage, is adroitly connected with the description of a folkloristic custom: outside of the village the girls and the young women gather fresh snow as a protection to future illnesses. At the same time, it is an excellent opportunity to meet the young men of the area. Nastia and Parasha are not allowed to join the other girls of the village: being by far the richest ones, they might easily meet the wrong men and bring shame on the family of the tysiachnik. Patap Maksimych, who has visited the market in a neighbouring district town, comes home the same evening and announces his wife that he has found a suitable partner for his eldest daughter: the son of a rich merchant from Samara. He will invite him and his father at his soon to be organised wife’s birthday party. In the third chapter a new, for the story line not unimportant character is introduced: Aleksei Lochmatyi, the son of a farmer whose workshop has burnt down and for whom there is no place any longer on his father’s farm. He is advised by his father to go to Patap Maksimych and ask for a job. Patap Maksimych takes him into his employment. Aleksei is described as a handsome boy, who already turned the head of many girls. He is an excellent worker, moreover educated (he likes to read), but also has – and this is, of course, proleptic information – less good qualities: he loves money and likes to live in wealth and to be honoured as a rich man. As soon as Nastia sees him, she falls in love with him. In the next chapters, in short descriptions and by means of dialogue, a number of new characters are introduced and the main story line, the love affair between Nastia and Aleksei, is developed. Among the new characters, whose introduction is motivated because they are invited at the birthday party of the wife of Patap Maksimych, are Manefa, the abbess of the skit, and Flënushka, a friend of Nastia and Parasha, who still lives in the skit. Flënushka energetically acts as

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a mediator in Nastia’s and Aleksei’s love affair. She herself plans to “elope” (ɜɟɧɱɚɬɶɫɹ “ɭɯɨɞɨɦ”) with a young merchant from Kazan’, Pëtr Stepanych Samokvasov. Having mentioned Flënushka’s wish to elope, Mel’nikov continues with a digression about what he describes as a popular custom among the Old Believers (Chapter I, 7). If the parents are refusing permission to their daughter to marry, the bride to be is kidnapped from the parental home or from the monastery in which she is educated and there is an immediate wedding ceremony, preferably in the orthodox church, to make it even more definite. After that – if at least the relatives of the bride do not succeed in preventing the marriage ceremony in time – the newly weds go to the parents of the bride to ask their forgiveness. Nastia, who is now passionately in love with Aleksei, threatens to elope if her father forces her to accept the possible partner chosen by him. His strong will collides with the equally strong will of his daughter. When introducing the characters that participate in the birthday party in the house of Patap Maksimych, Mel’nikov sometimes extensively describes their lives. This leads away from the main story line, to such a degree even that we get separate stories within the main story, but gives the author the opportunity to sketch a broad and varied picture of the life of the Old Believers, rich and poor, privileged and unprivileged, good and bad. Such a story within a story, not connected with the main story line is, for instance, the history of the cook, especially hired for the party, Daria Nikitishna (I, 8). As a young orphan she married a poor farmer. He was drafted, but died soon after having become a soldier. Daria Nikitishna left the village, started to work in the city and succeeded, after many years of exerting herself and being extremely thrifty, in saving so much money that she could buy a small house on the edge of her former village. There she became the loved “grandmother” of the children of her niece. Not connected with the main story line is also the history of Grunia, who, some years older than Nastia and Parasha, grew up as a foster child in the house of Patap Maksimych and his wife (I, 10). Sometime before the action of the novel starts she married a well-to-do widower, a dealer in clothes and shoes, accepting the care for his young children. Somewhat more connected with the main line of action is the story of Iakim Prokhorych Stukolov, who also happens to be at the birthday party. Stukolov is an old friend of Patap Maksimych’s, whom he has not seen during more than twenty-five years. Stukolov himself tells

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the story of his life. In search of the true religion he roamed about everywhere, at first in Moldavia and Siberia, later further from home, as a pilgrim in Palestine and the region of the Euphrates. He claims that he knows where to find gold. He does not need it any longer for himself, but he is ready to assist others to acquire it. Patap Maksimych, always keen on possible profit, and also Aleksei, who is present when Stukolov tells his story, are extremely interested. Shocked by the unexpected meeting is Manefa. Without taking advantage of all the possibilities it has for an exciting intrigue, which is evidently not his primary concern, the author informs us that Stukolov is Manefa’s former lover and Flënushka, brought up in the skit as an orphan, their daughter. Before continuing the story of the search for gold, Mel’nikov introduces the history of Manefa. In love with Stukolov, she was put into a skit by her angry father, who was opposed to her marriage. There she gave birth to a daughter, who secretly was given to a foster home. In the skit Manefa turned religious, took the solemn vow never to return to the world and gradually moved up in the skit’s hierarchy. When the old abbess died she took her place and accepted the ‘foster child’ Flënushka as one of the young girls to be educated in the skit. Flënushka feels drawn to Manefa, but does not know that the abbess is her mother. Stukolov’s story about the possibility to find gold and to become rich, interrupted by the inserted story of Manefa’s life, changes the main line of action in which, until now, not much has happened apart from the organisation of the birthday party and the falling in love of Nastia and Aleksei. Patap Maksimych decides to meet the expenses of the expedition to the region of the Vetluga, where the goldmines are according to Stukolov, and to accompany his former friend on this expedition. The journey to the forests and swamps of the Vetluga is an excellent opportunity for Mel’nikov to describe the region extensively. Information is given about nature (the marsh plants), folklore (the wood demons) and the work of the labourers in the timber industry. In the for Mel’nikov typical way, the description of the activities of the labourers leads to discussions among them and, when Patap Maksimych happens to meet them, to a dialogue between the labourers and the newly arrived. In this way the action can continue. After a long journey Patap Maksimych and Stukolov arrive at last at a skit. In the skit Patap Maksimych receives a sack of

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‘prepared’ gold sand, as proof that there are rich mines in the neighbourhood. The entire thing, however, is a put-up job: Stukolov is a swindler and counterfeiter, who works hand in glove with the abbot of the skit. They hope to deceive Patap Maksimych by letting him pay much for something that will prove to be worthless. The tysiachnik is warned in time, however, by a friend, the former civil servant Kolyshkin – the story of his life is also told – so that he escapes unscathed. The entire episode (I, 14-17, more than hundred pages) is an almost independent part of the plot. There are a lot of elements for an intrigue full of suspense, but Mel’nikov does not make great play with it. There is never real danger and the deceit is discovered before something serious has happened. Again we can conclude that for Mel’nikov it is more important to describe aspects of life in the region of the Upper Volga than to present an exciting plot. With the episode of the search for gold the first part of In the Woods comes to an end. The plot of the second part mainly concerns the love story of Nastia and Aleksei, but the first chapters are devoted to the skits. Mel’nikov gives some historical information and then zooms in on the skit directed by Manefa. It functions as a kind of boarding school for girls, both rich and poor. The girls are educated in the skit for some years, generally until they have reached the marriageable age. The rich girls have their own, sometimes luxuriously furnished rooms. That applies, for instance, for Dunia Smolokurova, the fish merchant’s daughter, who is educated in the skit together with the daughters of Patap Maksimych. On the territory of the skit there is sometimes also a “civilian house”, specially built by someone who wants to withdraw from the world, but at the same time wishes to continue to do her own housekeeping. In Manefa’s skit such a house is occupied by the rich widow Mar’ia Gavrilovna Maslianikova.8 The history of her life is also told, of course. She was in love with the son of a merchant, but was forced to marry his old father. After the latter’s death – the son had died too – she went to live in the skit. The description of the life in the skit alternates with the story of Nastia’s and Aleksei’s love affair. Before his expedition to the Vetluga Patap Maksimych has appointed Aleksei as his overseer (prikazchik), which makes it possible for him to enter more or less freely the house of his boss. The consequences soon make themselves known: Nastia gets pregnant. She is, however, bitterly disappointed in Aleksei when in turns out that he is terrified of her father’s wrath:

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“She thought that she had caught a falcon, but she caught a grey duckling” (Ƚɚɞɚɥɚ ɫɨɤɨɥɚ ɩɨɣɦɚɬɶ, ɩɨɣɦɚɥɚ ɫɟɪɭ ɭɬɢɰɭ; Mel’nikov 1977-I: 439). After a scene in which Nastia tells her mother in tears that she has sinned (II, 7), the narrator again starts a long digression. The subject this time is Easter, not as a Christian, but as a heathen feast, particularly of the god of spring and life Iarilo. Belief in the pagan gods is still alive in the deep provinces (zacholust’e) according to Mel’nikov. What he writes in the main text of the novel is completed and explained in notes. Other folkloristic elements he introduces here are folk songs. The introduction of both folk songs and religious songs is also motivated by the arrival of a new person in the skit of Manefa, the “envoy” and singer Vasilii Borisych, who brings Manefa letters from Moscow. Vasilii Borisych has a beautiful voice and as he feels very attracted to the young girls in the skit (his standard expression is “O, what a temptation!” – “Ɉɯ, ɢɫɤɭɲɟɧɢɟ!”), he easily and with pleasure lingers on. Vasilii Borisych functions as an additional element in the description of the life in the skit and has a secondary role in the plot. Besides his always running after women, he is verbose and lazy. More or less against his own liking – but then we are already at the end of In the Forests – he is paired off with Patap Maksimych’s daughter Parasha, who is as sleepy and lazy as he is. At the instigation of Flënushka an ‘elopement’ is organised for him. Patap Maksimych is furious, but soon reconciles to the situation and even offers his new son-in-law a place as overseer. As suggested in proleptic remarks, the love affair between Nastia and Aleksei turns out badly. Aleksei is too weak for the strong-willed Nastia and he in his turn prefers a wife who is not in charge and whom he can keep under control. Accordingly, it rather suits him when Nastia, shocked by what has happened to her and her love, becomes severely ill and dies. Before her death Aleksei has met Mar’ia Gavrilovna in Manefa’s skit. When the young widow sees Aleksei he reminds her of her former lover, whom she could not marry because she had to marry his father, and again falls in love. After Nastia’s death Aleksei is dismissed by Patap Maksimych. He is engaged as overseer by Mar’ia Gavrilovna, who after some time moves to a house in a local town, marries Aleksei and puts all her possessions in his name. After his marriage Aleksei shows his real character. He boasts about his money, dresses himself extravagantly and according to the

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latest fashion and starts carrying on with the young servant of his wife. The story of Mar’ia Gavrilovna and Aleksei is accompanied by a folkloristic digression about the role of a witch doctor (ɡɧɚɯɚɪɤɚ) who is consulted by Mar’ia Gavrilovna before her wedding (III, 12). In this case too there is extensive explanation in the notes. The third part of In the Forests is mainly devoted to the history of Mar’ia Gavrilovna and Aleksei; the fourth part takes place in the skit of Manefa. Both parts begin with a folkloristic description, in which the god Iarilo and Mother Wet Earth (Ɇɚɬɶ ɋɵɪɚ Ɂɟɦɥɹ) and their marriage – it is still spring, May and June – have an important role. In the third part the commemoration of Nastia’s death, forty days after she has died (ɫɨɪɨɱɢɧɵ), is a good opportunity to bring together the principal characters of the novel and also to describe the ceremonies connected with this day. In the fourth part the same motivation applies to the yearly feast in the skit on St. Peter’s Day. There are allusions to what will happen in On the Hills, particularly as regards the relationship between Dunia Smolokurova and Pëtr Stepanych Samokvasov, at this stage of the story still the predestined lover of Flënushka. On the Hills The construction of the plot of On the Hills does not differ much from that of In the Forests. The main line of action is again a love story and a large number of secondary characters are introduced to throw light on aspects of the life of the Old Believers. The indications of time are less precise than In the Forests, and the plot has more “adventurous” moments, obviously meant to create more suspense. Just as In the Forests, On the Hills begins with a description of the region in which the story will take place. It is now the other, right bank of the Volga, from Nizhnii Novgorod down to Kazan’ and further. It is a hilly part of the country, with only a few rivers, the region, in fact, of the russified Mordovians. The principal characters of In the Hills are the fish merchant Marko Danilich Smolokurov and his daughter Dunia. The history of their lives is presented in Mel’nikov’s “usual”, detailed way. Marko Danilich’s father got his money illegitimately: he was in the possession of a sack of gold when the person to whom this gold belonged suddenly died. He moved to another region and established himself as a fish merchant. His two sons, Marko and Mokei, continued

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the business and became successful merchants. Just before their weddings Mokei had gone to Astrakhan’. When he, together with other fishermen, was fishing on the frozen sea, an ice floe on which they were sitting came loose and floated away. Only some of the fishermen were saved, the others, in all probability, were drowned. Marko Danilich continues the fish trade on his own; after the death of his wife, who had given birth to a daughter, he asks the bride of his brother to come to live in his house to take care of his daughter. Business is booming and when Dunia has turned eight she is sent for her education to Manefa’s skit. She remains seven years in the skit, becomes good friends with the daughters of Patap Maksimych and is well liked by everybody. After her years in the skit she is living at home again with her father; as the only daughter of a rich man she has many suitors. The stories of these lives are told by the narrator and enlivened by inserted dialogues. The action starts shortly after Marko Danilich’s and Dunia’s return from the yearly feast on the day of Peter in Manefa’s skit as told in the last part of In the Forests. Marko Danilich has decided to take his daughter with him – she has turned eighteen by now – to the annual fair of Makar’evo, where he sells his fish to wholesalers from Moscow and St. Petersburg. They put up at a hotel. The first person they meet there is Pëtr Samokvasov. He makes a strong impression on Dunia, who had met him already at the feast in Manefa’s skit. Marko Danilich’s barges with fish have also arrived in the market town. An episode in which is told that Marko Danilich pays a visit to his ships throws light on his character and at the same time draws a vivid picture of the life of the Volga barge haulers. For the transport of the fish along the Volga Marko Danilich has temporarily employed some hundred and thirty men. After their arrival at the market place they want to receive from Marko Danilich what he still owns them after what already has been paid during the journey. The fish merchant deliberately delays the payment. When the barge haulers become rebellious he threatens them with the police. This is the sign for a part of the haulers, particularly those who do not have much to claim and those who do not have a passport, to sneak off without any payment. The others bribe the overseer in order to deter Marko Danilich from going to the police. The profit at the cost of the haulers is for Marko Danilich and his overseer.

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In the hotel is also a friend of Marko Danilich, Zinovii Alekseich Doronin, with his wife and two daughters. Doronin is a grain merchant, does not know anything about the fish trade and wants to know from Marko Danilich the price of sea rob (ɬɸɥɟɧɶ), as his future son-in-law has invested his entire capital in see rob and is now on his way to the market to sell it. Doronin has carte blanche to sell the fish for his son-in-law. Marko Danilich immediately smells a possible profit. Towards Doronin he is pessimistic about the price of sea rob, although he has been informed at a meeting of the fish merchants that sea rob will fetch a good price. Marko Danilich even sends a man to Tsaritsyn, where the barges of Doronin’s son-in-law have arrived by now, to spread the news that sea rob is very cheap this year. At the same time he makes Doronin the proposal to buy all his son-in-law’s sea rob for a “reasonable” price in view of its present low market value. Doronin hesitates. Before he accepts Marko Danilich’s offer the “real” price of sea rob, much higher, of course, than what Marko Danilich was willing to pay, is made public, so that Doronin’s son-in-law can make a good profit. Despite his attempt to cheat his friend, Marko Danilich and Doronin continue on the same footing as before: it was a question of a business affair in which such treacherous behaviour apparently was permitted. The history of the price of the sea rob and Marko Danilich’s machinations to make a profit from his friend’s ignorance of the fish trade is the central aspect of the action of the first part of In the Hills. The story is, as usually in Mel’nikov’s novels, interrupted by digressions which have nothing to do with the main story line. There are descriptions of the lives of Doronin and his future son-in-law, Nikita Fëdorych Merkulov. The father of the latter had caught his young wife, Merkulov’s stepmother, with a lover and had beaten her to death. A charming intermezzo is the description of a boat ride on the river, at the request of Marko Danilich organized by Pëtr Samokvasov. The rowers who sing, the nice weather, the campfire halfway the journey on the riverbank and the fish soup that is being prepared – it is a particularly appealing description, probably based on the author’s own experience.9 Interesting in a literary way is the description of another boat ride at the end of the first part of the novel. Doronin’s son-in-law Merkulov has decided to go to the market place ahead of his barges. On the passenger boat to Nizhnii Novgorod he has a dream (I, 17), which is rendered as a kind of stream of

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consciousness: short, complete sentences, but as regards content extremely diverse: a good representation of the thoughts and images which flow, with no apparent logic, through the subconscious mind of the dreamer. On board the same ship is also a new character, the landowner and freemason Mar’ia Ivanovna Alymova, who will have an important role in the next parts of the novel. In the second part of On the Hills a number of the plotlines of the first part are developed further. Pëtr Samokvasov, with whom Dunia has fallen in love, suddenly disappears without taking leave. He goes to Manefa’s skit and elicits the promise from Flënushka that they will marry as soon as all his affairs have been arranged. Although they spend a night together, Flënushka at the last moment changes her mind: she remains faithful to Manefa and takes the veil. The sudden departure of Samokvasov is a shock for Dunia. She now comes under the influence of Mar’ia Ivanovna Alymova, who has also taken a room in the hotel and who becomes a regular visitor of Marko Danilich and his daughter. Mar’ia Ivanovna presents Dunia with a number of esoteric books (Jakob Böhme, Karl von Eckartshausen, Johann Heinrich Jung-Stilling, Jeanne Marie Bouvier de la Motte Guyon – rather heavy stuff for the fish merchant’s daughter with her skit education) and tries to convince her that a ‘spiritual husband’ (ɞɭɯɨɜɧɵɣ ɫɭɩɪɭɝ) is far preferable to worldly love and passion. Marko Danilich is flattered by the attention of the aristocratic lady for his daughter and agrees on the plan that Dunia will stay for some time with her in the near future. Another plotline that is developed is the, rather far-fetched, history of Marko Danilich’s supposedly lost brother, about whom something had been said in the beginning of the novel. Turkmenians had discovered him and his fellow fisherman on the ice floe that had drifted away and had sold him as a slave to a rich khan, in whose service he worked for more than twenty years. He can be redeemed through a merchant in Orenburg. When Marko Danilich receives the information that is brother is still alive, he has rather mixed feelings: he will have to pay a ransom and moreover, when his brother returns, he will have to give him half of his possessions. A number of chapters are also devoted to a new character, which hardly plays a role in the plot but, again, informs the reader about an interesting aspect of the life of the Old Believers. This new character, Gerasim Silich Chubalov, has wandered all over the country looking

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for the true faith. During his wanderings he joined all kinds of sects, but time and again became disappointed. Eventually, he returned to his village, started to support his poor family – this turned out to be the real truth he was looking for – and opened a shop in old books and antiquities. In his contacts with the eternally haggling and profit seeking Marko Danilich, he is depicted as reliable and truthful. He is mainly interesting as someone who realizes the value of old things.10 In the third and perhaps most interesting part of In the Hills Mel’nikov pays much attention to the sect of the chlysts or God’s people (ɛɨɠɢɟ ɥɸɞɢ) as they call themselves, by the common people classed with the freemasons. In his usual way the author gives a detailed historical description of the sect, with further factual information and explanations in notes and then introduces his fictional characters. Not far from the town in which Marko Danilich and Dunia are living Mar’ia Ivanovna has bought a rural estate. While the new estate is made suitable for habitation she takes Dunia, who is eagerly looking for a spiritual alternative for her frustrated worldly love and is still much under Mar’ia Ivanovna’s influence, with her on a visit to her nephews, the brothers Lupovitskii, on whose estate secret meetings of the chlysts – the sect is forbidden – are organized. Their community (ɤɨɪɚɛɥɶ) of the chlysts has become rather small as a result of the official ban, but still exists. Dunia is initiated in the rites of the sect and witnesses the meetings of the chlysts in their so-called room of Sion (ɋɢɨɧɫɤɚɹ ɝɨɪɧɢɰɚ), where they come together, become ecstatic, start to rave and chastise themselves by flogging, biting, making burns and tearing their hair. To make such meetings more successful a crazy fool (ɸɪɨɞɢɜɵɣ) is fetched from a monastery in the neighborhood: nobody understands his gibberish, but what he says is regarded as the words of the Holy Ghost. Dunia is still yearning after the spiritual husband, but becomes doubtful when she is confronted with the curious self-mutilation of the chlysts. This does not seem to have much to do with higher, spiritual things. She is being told that soon a ‘celestial ambassador’ (ɧɟɛɟɫɧɵɣ ɩɨɫɥɚɧɧɢɤ) will arrive at the estate, who will initiate her in divine love and the ‘eternal union of souls’ (ɜɟɱɧɵɣ ɫɨɸɡ ɞɭɲ). This celestial ambassador, Egor Sergeich Denisov, an important figure among the chlysts and an authority as regards their rites and ceremonies, turns out to be a pale, rather handsome man in his early thirties, with large black eyes and a penetrating look. Dunia

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involuntarily compares him with Samokvasov and that is not to the advantage of the ambassador. Denisov is not averse to the “million” Dunia brings with her. The promised ‘spiritual marriage’ (ɞɭɯɨɜɧɨɟ ɫɭɩɪɭɠɟɫɬɜɨ) is nothing else than a vulgar attempt to seduce her and from which Dunia only narrowly escapes. Dunia’s story, in which fact and fiction are combined in an interesting way and in which some sensational and even melodramatic moments are introduced, is interrupted by a few chapters about Marko Danilich. He is again at the yearly market in Nizhnii Novgorod and is confronted with a new way of trading by young merchants. At first he is angry, but when he realizes the possible advantage for himself, he immediately takes his measures to outwit the other merchants. As a natural haggler, he cannot refrain from endless bargaining with the merchant from Orenburg about the ransom of his brother. While on the estate of the Lupovitskiis Dunia is assaulted by Denisov and runs away from the house, her father suffers a severe stroke. In the fourth and last part of On the Hills the various plot lines of the two novels, with their accompanying main and secondary characters, are brought to a conclusion. There are some more sensational plot elements. Patap Maksimych is invited to go to the house of Marko Danilich to set things right. Just before Marko Danilich’s death he at night surprises a burglar, one of Marko Danilich’s overseers, who intends to rob his master on his deathbed. Through the agency of Grunia, Patap Maksimych’s stepdaughter, a meeting is arranged between Dunia and Samokvasov. They decide to marry. Patap Maksimych’s second daughter, Praskof’ia, dies and her husband, the singer Vasilii Borisych, goes back to Moscow. Patap Maksimych appoints the book dealer Chubalov overseer of Dunia’s possessions so long as she is not married. Marko Danilich’s brother Mokei returns from captivity and gets everything he is entitled to. Patap Maksimych and Aleksei happen to meet each other on a passenger boat. There is a sharp exchange of words and both fall into the river. Patap Maksimych is saved, but Aleksei drowns, in conformity with the proleptic remark in In the Forests that Patap Maksimych would be the cause of his destruction. The leaders of the chlysts are arrested and banished; on orders of the authorities the skits of the Old Believers, including that of Manefa, have to be closed and destroyed; Manefa and the nuns move to the town.

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Mel’nikov has been a public servant for a long time and has traveled widely in that function in the region of the Volga and the Ural. Interested in the history and folklore of these areas, he collected a mass of material, on the basis of which he published a number of journalistic and scientific articles and books in the 1840s and 1850s. Initially, he was a fanatic opponent of the Old Believers, but as he learned more about their mentality, way of life, customs and ceremonies, his perception of them gradually changed and he rather started to admire these hard working ‘pillars’ of ‘Old Russia’.11 Later in the 1850s he also published some belletristic work, a number of stories that were clearly based on his historical-ethnographic research. His status as a civil servant and his writing literature proved to be a difficult combination. Only after Mel’nikov had resigned from his post in the public service and had retired (1866) he could concentrate on what was to become his life’s work: the artistic version of his study of the Old Believers in two large novels. In his novels Mel’nikov tries to combine two things: an objective, truthful and comprehensive picture of the life of the Old Believers and a from a literary viewpoint interesting and convincing story. His thorough knowledge of the Old Believers and his intention to give a detailed description of their life and world made him introduce numerous historical and realistic details into his novels. Many of his chapters start with an ‘objective’ introduction, in which information is given about aspects of the region, history, folklore or customs of the Old Believers. These introductions are not directly related to the characters or the plot. Sometimes they remain entirely independent from what happens in the novel, as, for instance, in the folkloristic passages that deal with the pagan god Iarilo and Mother Wet Earth, in other cases characters are gradually introduced, often by means of dialogue. In these introductory chapters or parts of chapters factual information and explanations are added in notes. We see this, for instance, in the third part of In the Hills, when the sect of the chlysts is described. When in the course of the action something occurs that is typical for the social life of the Old Believers, as the birthday party, primarily organized by Patap Maksimych to show his marriageable daughter (In the Forests, I, 6) or the elopement (I, 7), the author does not miss the opportunity to expound on these customs. At the basis of his aim to give a comprehensive picture of the life of the Old Believers lies also the extensive introduction of the many secondary

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characters, whose entire history, that of their ancestors included, is described. These ‘histories’ are sometimes stories in itself, with their own plot lines. All the above-mentioned elements interrupt the main line of action, so that its development slows down considerably. Just one example from On the Hills: in the eleventh chapter of the second part the narrator informs us that Samokvasov, without taking leave from Marko Danilich and Dunia, disappears from the hotel in Nizhnii Novgorod to go to Flënushka in the skit. Dunia, disappointed by his sudden departure – she had fallen in love with him – comes under the influence of the freemason Mar’ia Ivanovna who is talking about spiritual love. Only at the end of the second part the narrator comes back to this main line of action, as an overture to the third part, in which he describes the sect of the chlysts and what Dunia experiences in the house of the ‘leaders’ of the chlysts, the brothers Lupovitskii. The time between Dunia’s acquaintance with Mar’ia Ivanovna in the hotel in Nizhnii Novgorod and her visit to the Lupovitskiis is approximately a year. To ‘fill in’ this period a new character, the collector and seller of old books and antiquities Chubalov, is introduced and the history of his life is told (II, 12-15, 50 pages). The next chapters (II, 15-18, 40 pages) are devoted to Chubalov’s dealings with Marko Danilich, who buys some icons and books from him. In chapter 19 and 20 (20 pages) an old village is described, its history, surroundings, the folkloristic customs and the way the inhabitants support themselves. The author reproduces many folk songs and livens up his description with dialogue between some villagers. Whereas the history of Chubalov can be seen as a separate ‘inbedded’ story, not connected with the main line of action, the bookseller’s dealings with Marko Danilich make him a part of the latter’s story line, be it a rather independent episode, not necessary for the development of the plot. The description of the old village does not have a story line at all. There is only a very slight connection with the plot: near the village is the estate of Fat’ianka that Mar’ia Ivanovna has bought and that has to be made fit for habitation. The primary reason to insert the chapters about the village is to give information about the region and its folklore. After a short description of Fat’ianka, Dunia’s story line is taken up again: Mar’ia Ivanovna, on her way to her nephews, pays a visit to Marko Danilich and his daughter (II, 21). Chapters 22 and 23 give the information about

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Marko Danilich’s brother and only in the last chapter we are fully back in Dunia’s story: she is allowed to accompany Mar’ia Ivanovna on her visit to her nephews. The life histories of Chubalov and of the brother of Marko Danilich have the function to introduce into the novel new, and in the latter case rather sensational, aspects of the life of the Old Believers. These histories are almost independent episodes in the structure of the plot and only loosely connected with the main story line. In other cases, ‘life’ and ‘plot’ are more integrated. The interesting description of the revolt of the barge haulers excellently fits in the main story line of Marko Danilich and his daughter. They have gone the market of Makar’evo, where Marko Danilich’s barges have already arrived and it is quite understandable that, once arrived In Nizhnii Novgorod, the fish merchant will have a look at his ships. The episode is, of course, also important for his characterization. The meeting of the fish merchants in the tavern at the market place at which the price of the fish is discussed gives information about the fish trade, but is also an integral element of the plot. One of the merchants who take part in the discussion tells Marko Danilich about the price of the fish, which directly leads to the latter’s attempt to cheat his friend. At a later stage in the story the same merchant plays a not unimportant role in the plot as a secondary character. In the description of the boat trip, which makes it clear that Dunia has fallen in love with Pëtr Samokvasov, life and plot are also ‘naturally’ combined. When we look at Mel’nikov’s dilogy in its entirety, we can conclude that a fairly large number of plot lines, important as well as less important ones, are developed. Each plot line and each digression (historical, ethnographic, regional, folkloristic) is concerned with an aspect of the life of the Old Believers. Many plotlines are more or less independent and lead to embedded stories, which might easily be published separately. However, at a certain moment the secondary plotlines are connected with or cross the main story line, sometimes in a natural, sometimes in a more contrived way. The plotlines with the accompanying characters and the various digressions give a comprehensive, and in Russian literature unique, picture of the life, customs and mentality of an unknown section of the Russian population, that of the Old Believers, as it existed some hundred fifty years ago. Mel’nikov was in two minds about his novels: to write belletristic prose and to give objective, factual information, two things

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that are difficult to combine.12 He did not succeed in fully integrating fact and fiction, facts not becoming subordinate to fiction in his work, as seems to be essential for great literature, but his novels rise above the ‘usual’ regional novel. Apart from the interesting factual content, this is mainly due to some particular literary qualities of his novels. Among these qualities are the lively dialogue, the many psychologically well elaborated characters and, perhaps in the first place, the three coordinating themes through which he presents his material: love, money and religion. These themes are the foundation of all the story lines and episodes, unify the dispersed plot and constitute the building stones of all the principle characters.13 University of Amsterdam Notes 1

God gave me a memory, a retentive memory. So far, it still does not get weaker. Whatever I see, whatever I hear, whatever I read – I remember everything. How that happens – I have no idea. I was predestined to travel quite a lot throughout holy mother Russia. And where I haven’t been? And in the woods, and on the hills, and in the swamps, and in the tundra, and in the mines, and in the rooms of the peasants, and in the narrow cells, and in the monasteries, and in the palaces – too much to mention. And wherever I have been, whatever I have seen, whatever I have heard – I remember everything quite well. I took it into my head to write; well, I think, let me write ‘from memory, just as from learning’ (Mel’nikov 1909: 19). 2 In the German translation of the Danish original: “Dies verhindert jedoch nicht, dass eine ganze Reihe markanter und interessanter Gestalten in scharf umrissenen Konturen in seinen Büchern hervortritt. (…) Mit diesen Romanen, die in einer charakteristischen, mundartlich gefärbten, saftigen Sprache geschrieben waren, bereicherte Mel’nikov-Peþerskij die russische Literatur in originaler, dauernder Weise.” 3 Other articles by him are Hoisington 1977; 1978. The author concentrates on Mel’nikov’s shorter prose and pays only scant attention to his two large novels. 4 This also holds true for most Russian publications on Mel’nikov-Pecherskii’s novels. See, for instance, Voronina 1978; Vlasova 1982; Šešunova 1987. 5 In 1875, at a public reading of chapters of his novel On the Hills, Mel’nikov pointed out that On the Hills was not a new work, but the continuation of the sketches and stories that had appeared under the title In the Forests in the journal The Russian Messenger (Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ȼɟɫɬɧɢɤ). See Lotman 1964: 405-406. 6 The introduction of a new character is often accompanied by an extensive flashback, in which the history of a character’s life, often including that of his ancestry, is being told. These flashbacks do not have anything to do with the main story-line. The best discussion of flashbacks in literature is still the chapter ‘Die Rückwendungen’ in Eberhart Lämmert’s Bauformen des Erzählens (1967: 100-139).

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7

The famous annual market of Makar’evo (a small place on the Volga some forty miles from Nizhnii Novgorod) was moved to Nizhnii Novgorod in 1816, but for a long time kept its original name. See Mel’nikov 8 In the introduction to the novel there is a reference to an article published in 1902, in which its author claims that Mar’ia Gavrilovna Maslianikova is based on a “real” woman, Mar’ia Pëtrovna Mokeeva, who was famous for her beauty in the entire region of the Upper Volga. Mother Manefa also existed in reality as the abbess of the skit of Kamarovo (Mel’nikov 1977: 18). 9 After his retirement Mel’nikov lived at a country estate on the banks of the Volga. 10 Mel’nikov himself was an avid collector of old Russian books and antiquities. 11 In his Report on the Russian Schism (Ɂɚɩɢɫɤɚ ɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɦ ɪɚɫɤɨɥɟ), published in 1857, Mel’nikov defends the Old Believers and points out that they are not dangerous at all for the Russian state. 12 The great writers of realist prose, Tolstoi in his War and Peace, or Zola in his Rougon-Macquart cycle, never introduced factual information into their novels in the way Mel’nikov did. For Leskov, to whom Mel’nikov best can be compared, the artistic aspect was also more important than the facts. 13 The female characters are generally connected with love (Nastia, Mar’ia Gavrilona), religion (Mar’ia Ivanovna) or love and religion (Manefa, Flënushka, Dunia), the male characters with money (Patap Maksimych, Marko Danilich) and sometimes money and love (Aleksei).

Bibliography Freeborn, Richard. 1989. ‘The nineteenth century: the age of realism, 1855-80’ in The Cambridge History of Russian Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 248-332. Hoisington, Thomas H. 1971. The Early Prose Works of Mel’nikov-Peþerskij: a critical reexamination. PhD thesis. Yale University. –– 1974. ‘Melnikov-Pechersky: Romancer of Provincial and Old Believer Life’ in Slavic Review 33(4): 679-694. –– 1977. ‘Romance – A Congenial Form: Mel’nikov-Pecherskii’s Grandma’s Yarns and Olden Times’ in The Russian Review 36(4): 463-476. –– 1978. ‘Dark Romance in a Provincial Setting: Mel’nikov-Peþerskij’s The Krasil’nikovs’ in The Slavic and East European Journal 22(1): 15-25. Lämmert, Eberhard. 1967. Bauformen des Erzählens. Stuttgart: Metzgerische Verlagsbuchhandlung. Lotman, L.M. 1964. ‘Roman iz narodnoj žizni. Ètnografiþeskij roman’ in Istorija russkogo romana v dvuch tomach. T. 2. Moskva-Leningrad: Nauka: 390-415. Mel’nikov, P.I. [Andrej Peþerski] 1909. Polnoe sobranie soþinenij. T. 1. Izd. vtoroe. S.-Peterburg: A.F. Marks. –– 1977. V lesach, Moskva: Chudožestvennaja literatura. –– 1979. Na gorach., Moskva: Chudožestvennaja literatura. Mirsky, D.S. 1960. A History of Russian Literature. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Scharpe, J. 1985. ‘Zercalo Drevnej Rusi: “V lesach” i “Na gorach” Mel’nikovaPeþerskogo; celovanie zemli u Dostoevskogo i v Gallikanskoj liturgii’ in Slavica Gandensia 12: 181-190.

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Shapopalov, Veronika. 1994. ‘From White Doves to The Silver Dove: Andrej Belyj and P.I. Mel’nikov-Peþerskij’ in The Slavic and East European Journal 38(4): 591-602. Šešunova, S.V. 1987. ‘Bytovoe povedenie v izobraženii P.I. Mel’nikova Peþerskogo’ in Vestnik moskovskogo universiteta Seria 9, Filologija 2: 71-74. Stender-Petersen, Adolf. 1957. Geschichte der Russischen Literatur. Band 2. München: C.H. Beck. Terras, Victor. 1991. A History of Russian Literature. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Vlasova, Z.I. 1982. ‘P.I. Mel’nikov-Peþerskij’ in Russkaja literature i fol’klor (Vtoraja polovina XIX v.). Leningrad: Nauka: 94-130. Voronina, M.F. 1978. ‘Predanija i legendy v strukture romanov P.I. Mel’nikovaPeþerskogo “V lesach” i “Na gorach” in Voprosy sjužeta i kompozicii: 169-170. Zink, Andrea. 2002. ‘Bindung durch Pfannkuchen? Das Volkskonzept in Mel’nikovPeþerskijs “V lesach”’ in Zeitshrift für Slawistik 47(2): 181-192.

Stigma, a Short Story of Cyprian Kamil Norwid. In Search of Traces of Sacred History on the Surface of the World Arent van Nieukerken Abstract: This article analyzes the short story Stigma written by the Polish romantic poet Cyprian Kamil Norwid (1824-1883) against the background of nineteenthcentury critical theology that attempted to diminish the gap between the transcendent God and the immanent world. This is usually accomplished by humanizing Christ, the Son of God, who is seen as “the most perfect of man”. An important representative of this conception was the French positivist historian Ernest Renan, the author of the famous Vie de Jésus. In Stigma Norwid engages in a veiled discussion with Renan’s ideas. The Polish poet tries to show that the traces of the transcendent God can be perceived ‘here and now’, in the world of sense-data and social conventions. These traces refer to ‘sacred history’, the life, death and Resurrection of Jesus Christ and the apostles. They are, however, usually overlooked, not because they are ‘hidden’, but as ɚ consequence of a wrong attitude of man. He (or she) must undergo a transformation, become him[her]self a subject of ‘sacred history’ (the narrator misses his chance to ‘become’ Saint Paul, on the road to Damascus), touch the stigmata of Christ. When we fail to undergo this transformation, we perceive being as ‘objective’, ruled by an impeccable chain of causes and effects, explained by positivist ‘science’. In this case we also loose our own liberty and turn out to be objects, determined by the ‘stigma’ of race and nature. What we take for liberty is only ‘chance’. This positivist point of view is not so much ‘wrong’ as one-sided. It often leads to fatal misunderstandings, by which human beings are destroyed, as shown by the plot of Stigma. Keywords: Norwid, Renan, Christianity, narrative strategies

1. A superficial reading of the short story Stigma (‘Stygmat’) produces an impression of incongruity. At first sight we are presented with much non-functional information, especially when the reader is for the first time confronted with the narrative prose of the romantic poet Cyprian Norwid. The plot of this short story, finished in the year of Norwid’s death (the density of the text seems to reflect his effort to pack into it as much artistic and ideological matter as possible) is founded on an anecdote that – superficially – is elaborated in accordance with the conventions of nineteenth-century realism. The

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narrator appears in the first person singular as part of the represented world: he is the confidant of one of the main protagonists, the violinist Oscar. The explanation of the tragic misunderstanding, which occurred between his musical friend and his beloved RóĪa, a ‘lady in waiting’ accompanying the ‘widow of the general’ (generałowej wdowy), whose salon is regularly visited by the narrator and to whom he has introduced Oscar, does not require any knowledge beyond the represented world; as a matter of fact, this misunderstanding is clarified in the course of a conversation between the narrator and the widow of the general. In the second part of the short story the plot becomes the background of a visionary episode. The narrator has a prophetic dream, in which the misunderstanding between Oscar and RóĪa, produced by the differing circumstances by which their mind had been moulded before they met, turns out to be the pretext for a lecture on the vulgarized ideology (Weltanschauung) of nineteenth century Positivism, Historicism and Naturalism. So, the Spirit of the Age (Zeitgeist) is explicitly conjured up in Stigma by means of a vision about the ‘scientifically’ motivated dynamics of history (tribes and peoples are determined by their natural surroundings – individual man by his social environment). This visionary Positivism appears to be paradoxical in itself and forces us to formulate a new question. Did nineteenth-century scientism offer a satisfying explanation for the preeminently human dimension of history? As far as Norwid is concerned, this question is rhetorical. He was convinced that the essence of reality (true Positivism denies, of course, that the idea of essence, hiding itself beyond the realm of appearance, is meaningful) can only be understood from a religious, revealed point of view. The elements in the first, anecdotic part of the story that appear to be nonfunctional with regard to the plot, refer to this religious dimension of the world, even if their presence is not absolutely necessary for a logically conclusive explanation of the course of events. E.g.: “I had the impression that the age of all was the same, as in an ancient Christian legend, in which all men were suddenly thirty three, and all women ten years younger, for that – it is foretold – will be the case at the Resurrection” (MyĞliłbym nawet, Īe wiek jeden, i Īe jak niektóra dawna legenda chrzeĞcijaĔska podaje, wszyscy mĊĪczyĨni miewali około lat 33, a o lat dziesiĊü mniej wszystkie damy, bo podobno, iĪ w zmartwychwstaniu tak byü ma!...; VII: 174).1

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Problematical seems, however, the circumstance that a psychologically plausible interpretation of the plot appears to justify the conviction that human existence (where the suffering of individual man is an empirical fact) is devoid of all higher purposes. However this may be, an existential goal cannot be discovered by establishing logical relations within immanent reality, but presupposes a transformation of human existence. Suddenly the allusions to the sacred history of Christ (Heilsgeschichte), dispersed over the text, do not seem superfluous at all. They may not be a precondition of a correct interpretation of the plot (in this respect, the ‘scientifically’ motivated categories of psychology, the mechanics of man’s associative faculty, are more than sufficient), but cannot be missed as elements that reveal the deeper significance of the world and, in particular, human existence, which is based on the life, suffering, death on the cross and rising of Christ, the Son of God, the God-man. With regard to the afore-mentioned opposition between a ‘realistic’ plot and a deeper ‘mystical’ significance of the story it would be possible to establish three different layers or perspectives: 1. the anecdotic plot, 2. a more or less ‘self-evident’ point of view that explains the world by means of ‘positivist’, ‘naturalist’ categories, 3. the ‘deeper’ perspective of sacred history. In reality, as we will soon see, this third perspective is not ‘hidden’, needs not to be ‘uncovered’, because its traces are already visible ‘here and now’; lie at the surface of being. We have but to discern and connect them with each other, or, to put it into in the words of the gospel of Saint Mathew: “Who hath ears to hear, let him hear!” (13: 9); “Therefore I speak to them in parables: because they seeing see not, and hearing they hear not, neither do they understand” (13: 13) – it is certainly no coincidence that the turning-points in the first part of the story and the final catastrophe result from man’s inability to ‘understand’ what has been seen and heard. This involves a further paradox: the signs of sacred history ‘here and now’ should not immediately be visible to us (miracles as direct interventions of the supernatural are forbidden), because it is precisely the effort of discovering the sacredness of daily life that allows us to fulfill our human essence. On the other hand, the surface of being may not be totally ‘smooth’: there must be some ‘cracks and fissures’ that – when we are in the right ‘mood’ – draw our attention and become traces of the sacred, by which the whole of being seems to be pervaded; or, in the words of a modern poet,

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Wisława Szymborska, who, in this respect, continues Norwid’s legacy: “being is a chain of ordinary miracles”. The second paradox consists in the fact that, although Stigma is a literary work, a specimen of narrative fiction, its message appears to be far from merely ‘pretending’ reality, or ‘reflecting’ the real world (mimesis). It rather purports to transform man that he may see reality as it is in itself. An adequate reading of the story means in fact that the reader has become a ‘new man’ (as the author became a ‘new man’, when he finished the existential act of writing Stigma, in which the main protagonists failed to become ‘new men’). In the following I will try to show that, with regard to the structure of being presented by Norwid’s oeuvre, sacred history holds a place similar to the Kantian a-priori. When we want to perceive being as it truly is, we suddenly understand that the events of men, situated within space and time, are intimately connected with the configurations of facts that constitute the ‘biography’ of Christ, Das Leben Jesu, the title of the once notorious ‘critical’ interpretation of Jesus’ life (1835-1836) by the German theologian David Friedrich Strauss (1808-1874) and of Ernest Renan’s (1823-1892) famous Vie de Jésus” (1863). Although Norwid considered himself a faithful son of the Catholic Church, it appears that the Gospel as a ‘story’ was much more important to him than the abstractly formulated dogmas of Christianity. Not that he neglected the dogmatic side of faith – he just could not refrain from translating it into ‘real’ events; it seems that he took – perhaps not without a certain inconsistence – a ‘nominalist’ view of the field of dogma. Of course, the Polish romantic poet did not explain the structural similarities (suddenly perceived, or perhaps rather revealed) between the unique life of a certain human being and the events of sacred history by reducing both to the ‘general’ laws of psychology, but – on the contrary – the field of scientific explanation was subordinated by him to the ultimate truth of the Christian Revelation (even when, at first sight, it seemed absurd). Investigating reality, we cannot go beyond the events of sacred history. God, as its ‘author’, remains absolutely transcendent (as the Ding an sich), although He once incarnated himself in the flesh. We can only ‘get into touch’ with God through God-man, ‘touching’ His stigmata that ‘always and everywhere’ lay in waiting to be found and recognized.2 It is important to be conscious of the far-reaching implications of this point of view, concerning the omnipresence of sacred history. It

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appears that its ‘public mystery’ that, in spite of lying at the surface of being, is overlooked (this does not result from its darkness, but because of its self-evident ‘triviality’) and needs to be discovered, unites the whole of humankind in a universal community. Nobody, no nation, culture nor language can boast of a privileged access to it. All men are similarly confronted with this fundamental mystery, which – on the other hand – means that its solution can be formulated or translated into all existing human languages, and reconciled to the particularities of all human cultures and the prejudices of all human individuals. As a matter of fact, this universal human predicament of being an ‘interpreter of sacred history’ appears to have been itself one of the stages of sacred history. Its historical prototype was the Outpouring of the Holy Ghost on the day of Pentecost, when differences in language and customs suddenly proved to be without significance with regard to the revelation of the mystery of sacred history. The importance of this event has been justly emphasized by Ernest Renan in his Vie de Jésus, a text, as we will later see, with which Norwid was very familiar3 and which – including its sequels Les Apôtres (1866) and Saint Paul (1869) – became in Stigma the object of a veiled polemic – a comparative analysis of the construction of the story will show that many of its events and sensual details have a precedent in Renan’s masterwork. Norwid could, of course, have taken these events directly from the New Testament, but the construction of space and some images suggest that in this particular case Holy Scripture has been mediated by Renan’s biography of the “most perfect of men”: Il y avait en cela une pensée libérale: on voulait dire que l’Évangile n’a pas de langue à lui, qu’il est traduisible en tous les idiomes, et que la traduction vaut l’original. Tel n’était pas le sentiment du judaïsme orthodoxe. L’hébreu était pour le juif de Jérusalem la ‘langue sainte’ ; aucun idiome ne pouvait lui être comparé. […] Les juifs d’Égypte et les hellénistes de Palestine pratiquaient, il est vrai, un système plus tolérants: ils employaient le grec dans le prière et lisaient habituellement les traductions grecques de la Bible. Mais la première idée chrétienne fut plus large encore: selon cette idée, la parole de Dieu n’a pas de langue propre; elle est libre, dégagée de toute entrave d’idiome ; elle se livre à tous spontanément et sans interprète. […] On admettait généralement que le Messie ramènerait toutes les langues comme tous les peuples à l’unité. Le commun usage et la promiscuité des idiomes étaient le premier pas vers cette grande ère d’universelle pacification. (Renan 1949: 510).

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Norwid’s ideas concerning the activity of the Holy Ghost are very similar to Renan’s interpretation, but on two very essential points he differs from the opinions of the French positivist historian (it should be stressed that this ‘positivism’ became never a narrow doctrine – Renan remained open to the influence of other intellectual currents, just like Norwid’s Catholicism did not make him blind to the development of modern science). Renan, of course, does not believe in the divine origin of the event of Pentecost and after explaining its meaning in accordance with the ideas of Antiquity, investigates the natural (psychological) and historical causes of this phenomenon. The second point is even more important: Norwid would not agree that the transformation of reality, due to the influence of the Holy Ghost, is accomplished spontaneously. On the contrary, it requires conscious effort, is always an existential act of a particular person (even if it has been ultimately inspired by a higher force). To put it succinctly: the Outpouring of the Holy Ghost does not make the act of interpretation redundant (supernatural ‘agents’ do not exist) – it is, in fact, coexistent with the very act of a particular human being, a man (or woman), who, interpreting reality in the light of sacred history, discovers the signs of transcendence on the surface of this world. This notion of existence as interpretation has important consequences. Revealing the presence of sacred history means to find its traces in every part of being, on all its levels. The different configurations of reality that, through the a-priori of sacred history, have been identified as the vessel of the transcendent remain distinct entities. Their particularity is not effaced; they do not dissolve into an omnipresent whole (cf. Hegels Geist that has come to itself). In this respect, Norwid’s worldview is consciously not all-comprehensive. 2. To begin with, we must investigate the plot of the short story. Only the narrator knows of an experience, by which the life of Oscar (who is a widower) has been marked for ever. His deceased wife (he still wears a hat with a black ribbon) suffered from somnambulism and Oscar (who, being an artist, possesses very sensitive nerves) had during many years to foresee the possible consequences of her words, gestures, and even her slightest involuntary movement. This ‘interpretative’ attitude gradually became his second ‘nature’, his mental ‘stigma’. For him, the meaning of a conversation resulted

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essentially from the intonation, underlying the words and sentences, or the gestures and facial expression that accompanied an utterance. When Oscar and RóĪa meet the first time they seem to be, in spite of an initial misunderstanding, destined to become a couple and, although they always see each other in the company of others (in the salon of the general’s widow or on tours with their friends into the mountains surrounding the Italian Spa, where the action of the story takes place, and which is without a trace of doubt Lucca, half a century earlier already described by Heinrich Heine in his Reisebilder), their relationship gets more and more intimate. All signs suggest that they soon will become engaged. There only remains to be made an appointment for a decisive conversation, during which they will mutually express their desire to become man and wife. However, RóĪa gives the expected answer to Oscar’s proposal to meet outside a chapel at the side of a road not in private, but at a soirée in the salon of the general’s widow. She almost shouts her confirmation, and the extremely sensitive Oscar gets the impression that her words are not addressed to him, but to his rival, count X, not realizing that this manner of expression was caused by the fact that during long years RóĪa took care of her half deaf father, being his “only connection with the outside world”.4 This biographical ‘detail’ that determined the setting of her voice (“she has an uneven voice… it is just the nature of her voice”; ona ma głos nierówny… ona głos ma taki; VI: 117), is imparted to the reader, only after the disaster has occurred. Now, the catastrophe takes its course. Oscar immediately severs all ties with RóĪa (an attempt of the narrator to explain to his friend the nature of the misunderstanding fails) and leaves the town. Subsequently he retires to the monastery of “white monks”.5 The despondent RóĪa cannot come to terms with this loss, falls ill and dies soon afterwards.6 The meaning of plot of the story seems self-evident. As a matter of fact, the narrator himself, in a conversation with the general’s widow, refers to the laws of psychology in order to explain the course of events: “– Alas! – I exclaimed – I can only confirm your opinion, even with regard to the psychological clarifications that I took from my last meeting with Oscar…” (– Niestety! – rzekłem – potwierdziü tylko mogĊ jej mniemanie, policzając w to nawet te objaĞnienia psychologiczne, które mogłem powziąü z ostatniego widzenia siĊ z panem Oskarem…”; VII: 188). Yet, as already suggested, we find in the story also sentences that could be understood as ‘mystical’

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symbols, as figures of sacred history (cf. the definition of figura, proposed by Erich Auerbach).7 These fragments may not contradict a psychological interpretation of the plot, and seem – as this psychological explanation appears to be self-evident and does not need any additional justification – for the time being superfluous or even irrelevant. The reader could from this state of affairs draw the conclusion that Norwid was simply a bad writer (so did most of the poet’s contemporaries), because he ‘mixed up’ two literary strategies that exclude each other: realism, concerned with daily life (explaining its events as ‘natural’ phenomena, connected by chains of cause and effect), and symbolism that tries to establish a link between the phenomena and the ‘elevated’, ‘mysterious’ sphere of transcendence. However, there is an explicit indication in the text (its first sentences), reminding the reader (as long as he does not interpret this fragment ironically, which in this case would be a misunderstanding) that the existence of an unbridgeable gap between ‘every-day reality’ and the ‘divine’, ‘mysterious’ realm of ideas cannot be taken for granted: It seems that the most innocent and beautiful of man’s actions, and, certainly, the most interesting with regard to its significance, is this task: going to see somebody – or seeing somebody in your turn – making a visit. In this action there is priesthood peculiar to human nature, an everyday rite and ceremony, rooted in life’s nature.8

Daily life cannot be conceived without religiously motivated acts of interpretations. A person who recognizes in this sphere the tokens of ‘sacred history’, is as much involved in priesthood as are the ordained priests of the Catholic Church. The discursive fragment about “priesthood peculiar to human nature, an everyday rite and ceremony, rooted in life’s nature” is, as yet, merely a general statement concerning reality.9 No-one has for the moment ‘experienced’ this everyday priesthood consciously and personally (in the Apocalypse this priesthood of the faithful is raised to the sublime: “and hath made us kings and priest unto God and his Father”; 1: 6). It is not ‘performed’, nor connected with the plot of the story (thanks to the title page: Stygmat – nowela, the reader knows there will follow a story). Being expressed by an anonymous subject, it could as well be the beginning of an essay. Yet, we know that Christian ‘sacred history’ cannot be ‘general’, but must be performed by ‘persons’, just as Christ himself was a ‘person’. The wounds (stigmata) of “Our

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Saviour” should be ‘bodily’ felt. So Jesus Christ’s ‘biography’, his life, his suffering and sacrificial death can be presented in a lyrical, narrative and dramatic mode, but never by generalizing discourse. The same holds true, as far as man, each person, is concerned by the very fact that man’s humanity, the ‘structure’ of his life (biography), is next of kin to God-man. This essential kinship has to be discovered and lived (as it was once lived by Christ himself): discovered because of the apparent contradiction between the human, finite, mortal on the one hand, and the divine, infinite and immortal on the other – lived because of the very nature of Christ, who became man, not ceasing to be God, who subjected himself to time, acquiring a biography, a ‘life’, not merely for show, but in the truest sense of humanity, by suffering and ultimately dying (the paradoxes involved in the idea of a ‘biography’ of the God-man were shown by the already mentioned German Hegelian theologian David Friedrich Strauss in his book Das Leben Jesu kritisch bearbeitet that became the ‘bible’ of nineteenthcentury ‘critical theology’). When man tries to find God, to ‘become’ Christ, he should not seek beyond this world (we are not simply to become ‘God’), is not concerned with immortality as a meta-physical state, but meditates on mortal, frail, physical, ‘bodily’ being, his most intimate ‘manhood’. Manhood shows itself within the ‘natural’ world of ‘appearances’ (Kant would say ‘phenomena’) that seems to be governed (and entirely determined) by natural laws (full knowledge of them would allow to represent being as a perfect chain). Yet the transcendent, the Son of God, by taking on flesh, by His death and Resurrection, made a breach into this self-sufficient ‘machine’. Of course, this point of view presupposes an act of ‘faith’, the recognition of Jesus Christ as the Incarnated Logos. However, history (considered as a science, a form of Wissenschaft) rejects by its very nature ‘supernatural’ explanations of the events related in the Gospel. So, critical theology, attempting to establish the ‘historical’ development of Christianity, must get rid of the supernatural origin of Jesus’ miracles and the transcendent goal of his destiny (the Son of God, God-man) that can be either explained with regard to the laws of nature (Jesus as a ‘healer’) or is to be understood ‘allegorically’, as a collection of parables and myths: Wenn nun diese Quellenschriften von Jesu Dinge erzählen, dergleichen wir im Leben keines anderen Menschen finden, und um derentwillen auch alle bisherigen Versuche, eine geschichtliche Darstellung des Lebens Jesu zustande

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Arent van Nieukerken zu bringen, mißlungen sind, so werden wir uns fortan nicht mehr verbunden achten, um der Auktorität solcher Schriften willen jene Dinge als wirklich so geschehen anzunehmen, oder, wenn wir dies nicht können, jene Schriften, als müßten sie unter allen Umständen als historisch glaubwürdig gelten, einer unnatürlichen Auslegung zu unterwerfen; sondern wir lassen den Schriften ihre Wunder, für uns aber sehen wir sie als bloße Mythen an. Das Wunder ist der fremdartige, der geschichtlichen Behandlung widersprechende Bestandteil in den Evangelischen Erzählungen von Jesu; der Begriff des Mythus ist das Mittel, wodurch wir demselben aus unserem Gegenstande entfernen und eine geschichtliche Ansicht von dem Leben Jesu möglich machen (Strauss 1924: 175).

Norwid, who probably acquired his informations about German critical theology from hearsay, but was very much aware of the danger they posed for the Roman Catholic version of Christianity, contested this stance that subjected ‘sacred history” to the methodological laws of history as a Wissenschaft. We should be true to the literal sense of the Gospel that is clear enough in itself: They say that the Divine Master was equally clear for the wise and the simple… (my own annotation to the four gospels; I do not remember from which one I took it?). Who has in this respect been worse understood than the Redeemer?! Has he not all of us equally taught by means of parable?... Even today they read in the gospels, what they like! And which is not there at all… but as it is felt, it is read, vulgarized and divulged.10

Here we should keep in mind that, according to Norwid, a parable not merely clarifies or illustrates a ‘spiritual’ – theological or philosophical – ‘truth’ (dogma) by a ‘fictional’ example, but actually links an event or situation from daily life to sacred history. However, it does not follow from this anti-scientific point of view that the ‘natural’ laws of reality are suspended or that ‘scientific’ explanations loose their validity. The difference between Norwid’s conception of Christianity and the theories of nineteenth-century ‘critical theology’ consists in the conviction that a reduction of sacred history to natural events, even if this is achieved by establishing an impeccable chain of causes and effects, merely shows the onesidedness of the interpreter, who has not taken into account man’s (his own) mysterious subjectivity, which never can be objectified (he himself, as the subject of interpretation, i.e. as ‘concrete’ existence, ‘acting’ an interpretation of being, and not an ‘anonymous’ agent of impersonal knowledge, remains outside of the causal chain, as the ‘missing link’ – missing because its presence is self-evident). The

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belief that God has incarnated Himself in the world of phenomena, remaining God, being essentially free, allows man to understand his life from an entirely different point of view. The other side of determination turns out to be liberty. The absolute perspective of the noumenon makes itself inevitably felt among the phenomena, on the condition that man not only looks at his plight in a world of suffering and death, but also acts, following in the footsteps of Christ. ‘I’ am myself part of sacred history, if ‘I’ like it or not, even if ‘I’ am unconscious of this fundamental fact of human existence: The word – is the testament of the action; which cannot be accomplished by it, is testified – and delivered – by the word; only such words are of any use and will as actions arise from the death – all other words are either more or less learned hollow expressions, or mechanical determination, if not merely the matter of art for art.11 Not books, but truths – by them I am directed in my writing… [...] Not with the Redeemer’s cross behind me – but with my own cross following the Redeemer – so I considered it my duty to give voice to my thoughts, formulated in this pamphlet.12

The apparently unbridgeable gap between subject and object can be overcome by action. As already suggested, it is difficult to assess the extent of Norwid’s knowledge about German Transzendentalphilosophie13 with its radical opposition between reine Vernunft and praktische Vernunft, of which ‘critical theology’ was an influential offspring, but his version of Christianity certainly tries to take account of the consequences of its critical tenets, although the poet still considered himself a faithful son of the Catholic Church. However, it is far from easy to accomplish this existential task. The short story Stigma tells us about the human (Oscar’s, RóĪa’s, even the narrator’s as far as he is involved in the plot) inability to perceive the identity of God-man ‘here and now’, which results in (or rather, is the consequence of) inaction. How is it possible that sacred history ‘here and now’ is so often overlooked? Jesus himself said in the already quoted 13th chapter (v. 13) of the gospel of Saint Mathew: “Therefore I speak to them in parables, because they seeing see not, and hearing they hear not; neither do they understand” and continues, referring to the prophet Jesaia (v. 14-15):

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Arent van Nieukerken And in them is fulfilled the prophecy of Esaias, which saith, By hearing ye shall hear, and shall not understand; and seeing ye shall see, and shall not perceive: For this people’s heart is waxed gross, and their eyes are dull of hearing, and their eyes they have closed; lest at any time they should see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and should understand with their heart, and should be converted, and I should heal them?

This famous passage from the Gospel is, as we will see, fundamental to all possible interpretations of Stigma. The reader can only understand the real significance of this superficially ‘realist’ short story (Stigma describes being as a world of material, mental and social phenomena linked by causality, a realm without ‘mystery’) if he establishes a relationship between the narrated world and certain presuppositions (the events that constitute sacred history, i.e. the story of Christ’s life and death, the actions of the apostles etc.) that imply the real presence of the Divine in the material world of sense-data and the sphere of ‘social intercourse’ (e.g. the customs and manners of the salon). These presuppositions are not intellectual ideas (the ‘revealed’ dogmas of Christian faith could be seen as a kind of abstract ‘shorthand’), but ‘incarnated’ life, the ‘sacred history’ of Jesus Christ, the God-man. When we are (or rather become) aware of the intertwining of material and social reality,14 on the other hand, we begin to perceive the world as a variegated surface elements (every moment our attention is, according to the traces of sacred history, drawn to a fresh aspect of reality, which becomes the centre of a new existential configuration, consisting of many (material and/or social). Thus, the hidden Divinity of being fulfils itself always and ever15 (as already said, it is not hidden in a ‘deep’ abyss, nor behind a veil, but lies at the surface, waits to be recognized as a unique configuration of elements ‘here and now’, at the centre of which stands Christ), when it is ‘personally’ experienced by man (from the Christian point of view, God is a ‘person’, a Trinity of persons). The ‘personal’ may not be absorbed by an abstract universality – this is the anti-pantheistic fundament of Norwid’s worldview. It seems that this stance entangles him in almost irresolvable antinomies. This inner contrariety is, however, in this case not a defect, but bears witness to the paradoxical mode of being of man, who possesses the ability to recognize the Divine in himself, without loosing his humanity (being a unique person). This plight results from his liberty, which is not the outcome of philosophical reflection, but a

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spontaneously experienced (felt, acted, lived) ‘fact’ of life. Man’s feeling of not (entirely) being determined by a higher cause or ‘circumstances’ appears to be the reason of his glory and misery. He can either discover truth or overlook it. He can as well rise to the heights of his destiny, as fall short of it (which he does not know in advance – it only becomes clear from ‘hindsight’), as does the narrator in Stigma, who overlooks – as we soon will see – his being baptized by fire, and who, meeting the suffering Christ (in the shape of RóĪa) on a new road to Damascus, does not recognize him and simply returns home. There he is visited by the equally suffering Oscar, but certain psychological ‘circumstances’ (Oscar does not accept the opinion of a non-specialist – i.e. a non-musician – on the modulations of the human voice) make it impossible to explain to the violinist the nature of the misunderstanding, to which RóĪa and Oscar have fallen victim. So when the narrator drinks together with Oscar a glass of wine, this is merely out of courtesy and both men fail to perceive that they take part in the communion of Christ’s body. 3. Before showing the extent to which apparently trivial details in the short story Stigma are rooted in sacred history, I will attempt to answer the question why the poetical strategies, by which the mature Norwid realized his intuition of the essential holiness of being, were not recognized nor appreciated by his contemporary Polish readers. As we know, the fundamental event from the point of view of the nineteenth-century Poles was the loss of political independence, which was – justly – considered a moral outrage (the Age of Enlightenment had given rise to the idea of universal justice, not as a reward to be expected in the Kingdom of Heaven or at the Second Coming of Christ, but ‘here and now’, in this world). In order to come to terms with this national disaster Polish romanticism attempted to create a historical model, in which the downfall of the Polish state was supposed to serve a – as yet hidden – purpose. Historiozofia (Geschichtsphilosophie), the philosophy (or rather ‘theosophy’) of history was born (the source of these meditations, at the centre of which stood the future destiny of a resuscitated Poland, were Hegel’s – ever and again re-interpreted – Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Geschichte, combined with the mystical visions of Adam Mickiewicz). Norwid, who had been a friend of the Polish Hegelian

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philosopher August Cieszkowski, the author of the treatise Prolegomena zur Historiosophie and the mystical Ojcze-Nasz (an exegesis of The Lord’s Prayer from the point of view of historiozofia), always rejected the existence of an ‘objective’ process of historical development, the rules of which could be logically deducted, as diminishing man’s dignity, i.e. his existential liberty. It was clear to him that the Christian revelation, sacred history, when it becomes an ideology, is always threatened by the danger to become a ‘repertoire’ of merely conventional or rhetorical motives that can be used by art to ‘embellish’ human life, failing to affect (at the very moment when the artist ‘applies’ such a motive) individual existence, to reveal to ‘me’ the fact that ‘I’ take part in sacred history. It should, however, be admitted that the existence of such a repertoire of motives allows us to compare various historical, social and even intimate events with the stages and events of sacred history. Thus, when after the disastrous historical event of the Polish partitions it suddenly dawned on certain romantic poets and thinkers (Kazimierz BrodziĔski, Adam Mickiewicz, Zygmunt KrasiĔski) that Poland, vanished from the map of Europe, could be represented as ‘Christ among the nations’, this intuition became a force transforming history (not only Polish history – the ‘Great Emigration’ [Wielka Emigracja] took an active part in Italian and German liberal revolutions). However, the cause of this identification is, in this particular case, not based on a similarity between two ‘bodies’ (even if it is essentially ‘imagined’, experienced in the mind), but results from an emotional state. The nation is personified: the suffering of the Poles transforms this national ‘person’ – in the eyes of these inspired poets and thinkers – in the mystical body of Christ, nailed to the cross, deposited from it and buried, to be ultimately resurrected. The visual aspects of the image of the crucified Poland are less important than its emotional impact (usually reinforced by biblical stylization). An excellent illustration of this almost operatic Verismo, by which this personification was imagined and presented, is the Vision of the priest Piotr in Mickiewicz’s patriotic and mystical drama Dziady III: O, my God, I already see the cross – O how long, how long/ He must carry its weight – God, have pity on Your servant,/ Give him strength, lest he fall and expire on the road –/ The length of the cross’ arms embraces the whole of Europe,/ Forged out of three withered nations, as three hard trees, –/ They drag him; already my Nation sits on the throne of atonement –/ And says: ‘I thirst’ –

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the Austrian offers him vinegar, the Prussian gall,/ And mother freedom stands in tears at his feet.16

The Vision of the priest Piotr was the first of a great number of similar scenes, in which crucified Poland appeared as the victim of Prussian, Austrian and Russian cruelty (Mickiewicz himself spared to a certain extent the “brutal and stupid” Moskovite soldier, who, being himself an oppressed Slavic serf, “will make amends and be forgiven by God”17 and Western (French, English) indifference (the French are compared to the judge Pilate, who has not found any guilt in Christ, but refuses to protect him, delivering him into the power of a rabble of kings: Gallus did not find any guilt in him and – washes his hands/, And the kings shout: ‘Condemn and deliver him to his punishment […] Gallus handed him over – they dragged him away – already his innocent temples/ bleed, squeezed by a crown of thorns and derision,/ They exhibit him to the whole world – and the peoples gather/; Gallus shouts: ‘See a free and independent nation!’.18

In the visionary crucifixions of Mickiewicz’ younger contemporary Zygmunt KrasiĔski the national connotations of the sacrificial death of Poland are shown in the larger context of human alienation, caused by the industrial revolution and positivist ideology that reduce human existence to certain physiological and economic processes. The real culprit seems to be Modernity in general, which turns out to be original sin in a new form, explaining Western indifference towards Polish suffering (to which the Poles themselves could easily put an end, if only they took a more utilitarian attitude). The ultimate heir of KrasiĔski in this respect seems to be Stanisław Ignacy Witkacy, who in his catastrophic novels PoĪegnanie jesieni (‘A Farewell to autumn’) and Nienasycenie (‘Insatiability’) considered this utilitarian attitude as the inevitable, but totally undesired outcome of history: And it seemed to the youth that a coronated giant leaned over the mound and stretched his hand towards the exhausted multitudes, and his other hand rested on a belt with chains and a whip, like the equipment of an army – and he shouted: ‘disavow your past and future, your fatherland and God – acknowledge me as your past and future, your fatherland and God! – and as I commanded to nail you to the cross, I then will command to take you from the cross! – I will call upon my rabble and they will take you down – and I will make you a happy people! – I will give you food and drink, and everything in abundance, – Your pitiful, perforated bodies will yet become healthy, fresh and fat!’.19

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These modified visions (they refer rather to Dante, than to the Gospel in their composition and imagery) are much more sensual in character than Mickiewicz’ Widzenie ksiĊdza Piotra. Even the inventions of the Age of Progress are not entirely absent from them (“Around it Europe – deprived of feeling – of pride – the grinding of iron wheels – the sound of steam vehicles – and multitudes throwing theirselves at the gates of the stock exchange”; In your rebirth from the grave into life).20 Yet even here the visionary qualities are not rooted in immediate observation of daily life, but subjected to the device of allegory. Sensual reality, as far as it is present in this kind of poetry and poetical prose, appears always to be mediated by certain ideological presuppositions that construe space and time as a great European theatre, which is contested by forces of good and evil that are larger-than-life. 4. The main reason of Norwid’s opposition to Polish romantic messianism was his conviction that man, if he tries to make sense out of his life, should not be led astray by ideological prejudices (‘constructs’ that are usually confused with immediate experience), neither ‘religious’, nor ‘scientific’, but return to the material realm of sense-data and social world of human ties. We have to take a fresh look at this world; arouse ourselves from the state of Heilsvergessenheit (oblivion of sacredness – i.e. situations that restrict sacred history to certain collective and abstract notions that are erroneously experienced as concrete and individual existence; cf. Martin Heidegger’s conception of Seinsvergessenheit). We should recognize and recover our true self by standing at the centre of the real, visible world, as the subject of sacred history (or rather, as one of the possible subjects: Christ was never alone – except when tempted by Satan –, but always surrounded by his disciples and holy women; after his Death, Resurrection and Ascension his deeds were written down by the evangelists and preached by the apostles; the interaction between these ‘persons’ created a wide field of configurations, embodying sacred history). Sacred history should be perceived ‘always and everywhere’ by a self, which by this very intellectual action (interpreting ‘facts’, arranging them in certain configurations according to the afore-mentioned configurations of sacred history) becomes a subject

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of sacred history, following Christ “with his own cross”, embodying knowledge into existence. This attitude implies that the recognition and actualization (the ‘embodiment’ – Wcielenie) of Sacredness (cf. the idea of the Logos that has found its habitation among men in the first chapter of the gospel of Saint John) in situations that, at first sight, widely differ from traditional forms of religiousness (as they have been codified in ‘ceremonies’), must be considered the most valuable way of a ‘religious service’. The fact that Norwid shows this process in a short story based on an anecdotic event from society life proves to be more than an accidental choice: it was, as a matter of fact, the logical outcome of a long poetic development.21 The process of overcoming Heilsvergessenheit (either its success or failure) must find its reflection on the level of the composition of the text – it cannot be discursively ‘revealed’ (discursive revelation – excluding embodiment – is a self-defeating notion), but must be the outcome of a ‘subjective’ act of revelation, accomplished by the reader, ‘sanctifying’ himself and his surroundings, the ‘surface of the world’ (Norwid’s poems and prose are never mere ‘fiction’, even when they present invented events – they are meant as existential acts). Thus, Embodiment can only be achieved by revealing mysteries, going into the dark or trying to see where light is overabundant. The reader almost always finds in Norwid’s mature texts ‘puzzling’, at first sight redundant elements with an unquestionably religious impact (producing the afore-mentioned “feeling of incongruity”, as they seem to run contrary to the ‘realistic’ tendency of the story). On the other hand, he is confronted with other elements, ancient legends or customs that refer to sacred history, the significance of which does not seems to offer interpretative difficulties from the point of view of the poetics of Realism, because they are intuitively taken for specimens of ‘witty’ salon-talk. Here it should be remarked that the narrator, when he refers to Realism as a literary style, cannot refrain from a light irony: “And which would not have been observed by me, were it not for the talk of the people and the inclination of pointing out mistakes, without which realism could not exist” (I czego ja nigdy nie postrzegłbym był, gdyby nie mówienie ludzi i gdyby nie ta skłonnoĞü do robienia zarzutów, bez której nie moĪe istnieü realism; VI: 107). From this point on, our confidence in the poetics of realism is undermined, unless we take these words again as ‘witty salon-talk’, an act of self-characterization by the narrator; but then we begin to question the ability of the

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narrator to interpret the world in a satisfactory manner, which forces us to offer our own interpretation. The disparity between these two modes of sacredness (‘tradition’ versus ‘trace’) in the first part of the short story Stigma arouses in the (implied) reader the unclear feeling that there is more to the surface of daily life than he usually takes for granted. He feels the impulse to take a closer look at apparently trivial incidents and situations. In Stigma this investigative attitude results from the tension between the general statement about “priesthood peculiar to human nature, an everyday rite and ceremony, rooted in life’s nature”, which precedes the story, and the “Christian legend, in which all men were suddenly thirty three [the age of Jesus Christ at the moment of His death], and all women ten years younger, for that – so it is foretold – will be the case at the Resurrection”, which, taken in itself, seems only a gracious anecdote. It does not ‘sanctify’ the space of the salon, but merely illustrates the absence of rigorous rules (“negligentia-diligens”; VI: 106) in it, the feeling of liberty, a “sort of golden anarchy” (“pewien rodzaj złotej-anarchii”; VI: 105; Norwid’s italics). This last formula suggests (in a less obtrusive manner than in the allegoric visions of Polish messianism) that the salon of the general’s widow constitutes a ‘little Poland’, in which the customs of the ‘Noblemen’s Republic’ are still observed (the principle of individual liberty, based on equality, the so-called Złota WolnoĞü). On the other hand, the lack of restrictions in the widow’s salon and, by consequence, its existential non-determination, seems to guarantee human liberty. This appears to be an ideal condition for showing man’s – as yet immature – status of priesthood. Sacred history can be embodied in this small space, but it does not impose itself. However, when we look at this little community attentively, we discover that it is ruled by a similar mood as once dominated in the ideal community of the Primitive Church. This impression is reinforced by intertextuality. Norwid’s description should be compared with the following passage from Les Apôtres: Le vrai idéal de la vie évangélique est un monastère; non un monastère fermé de grilles, une prison à la façon du moyen âge, avec la séparation des deux sexes, mais une asile au milieu du monde, une espace réservé pour la vie de l’esprit, une association libre ou petite confrérie intime, traçant une haie autour d’elle pour écarter les soucis qui nuisent à la liberté du royaume de Dieu (Renan 1949: 516).

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This structural similarity in itself would not suffice to convince us that Norwid is here involved in a veiled critical dialogue with the French historian about the existential nature of sacred history (its potential presence ‘always and everywhere’), were it not that in one of the following chapters of Les Apôtres Renan stresses the important role played in the Primitive Church by widows and virgins (they often served the religious community as deaconesses and even prophesied): De très bonne heure, des femmes furent admises à cet emploi. Elles portaient, comme de nos jours, le nom de ‘sœurs’. C’étaient d’abord des veuves; plus tard on préfères des vierges pour cet office […] Le mot ‘veuve’ devint synonyme de personne religieuse, vouée à Dieu, et par suite de ‘diaconesse’ (ibidem: 544-545; 546).22

Of course, the reader may not immediately perceive this similarity of a salon, presided over by a ‘widow’, in whose company we meet RóĪa, a young unmarried woman (panna), who is in a certain sense a ‘virgin’, but exactly this is the heart of the matter: the identification of the salon of the general’s widow with the community of the Primitive Church cannot be but a Revelation, an epiphany of sudden sense, and not the outcome of reasoning. The widow and the virgin themselves may even have been unconscious of their potential role in sacred history (which seems highly probable in view of the ultimate disaster of RóĪa’s and Oscar’s love) and even the narrator himself appears not to be conscious of all the implications of the plot and the imagery in connection with the evangelical context. This blindness to the essential level of interpretation results from his status as part of the represented world: in contrast with the implied reader he has no access to the field of intertextuality, which prevents him from giving a correct assessment of a facetious story about a custom of the Primitive Church (this ideal religious community), told by count X in the salon of the general’s widow (that could and should transform itself into the community of the Primitive Church), and repeated by Oscar to the narrator (the violinist had earlier been introduced by him in the salon of the general’s widow, where he now freely associates with RóĪa, the ‘Virgin’): – This traveller, Count X – he said with soft voice and bending to my ear – (for whom I never felt sympathy) shows himself in company from his best side. In the course of the general conversation he mentioned the custom of the primitive Church to give each other a fraternal kiss. You should imagine the controversy

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In the earlier examples of sacred history the evangelical meaning of the content was subordinated to the ‘social’ context, enhancing the status of the salon, in which different people without constraint could associate and unite. Society life seemed to be a possible substitute of a religious community. Now Heilsvergessenheit has deepened. The witty story about the “brotherly kiss” told by count X, is expressly presented (by Oscar, one of the main protagonists of the story) as an example of salon conversation, and all possible links to sacred history (that appears to be limited to the age of the Primitive Church) are cut off. This story was already known in antiquity and caused many misunderstandings among the Pagans, who accused – as Renan relates in the third part of his writings on Christianity (Saint Paul) the members of the Christian communities of loose morals. The way in which the count’s story is received, suggests that the visitors of the ‘Widow’s’ and the ‘Virgin’s’ salon look at the custom of the “brotherly kiss” (Renan uses the words “holy kiss” or “kiss of love”) with pagan eyes. The function of this episode in Stigma can be better understood if we compare it with Renan’s description of circumstances under which the “holy kiss” was given (again it seems that the similarity between Stigma and the French historian’s work on the origins of Christianity is no coincidence): C’était surtout le festin sacré, le ‘repas du seigneur’ qui avait une immense efficacité morale; on le considérait comme un acte mystique par lequel tous étaient incorporés au Christ et par conséquent réunis en un même corps (Renan 1949: 905).

The salon of general’s widow could potentially “incorporate” all its habitués into “the body of Christ”, if they only understood the true meaning of the story. However, this was not an easy task, even in the Primitive Church. Ceux qui y participaient étaient censés manger Jésus, s’unir à lui et entre eux par un mystère ineffable. On y préludait en se donnant le ‘saint baiser’, ou ‘baiser d’amour’, sans qu’aucun scrupule vint troubler cette innocence d’un autre âge d’or. D’ordinaire, les hommes se le donnaient entre elles. Quelques Églises, cependant, poussaient la sainte liberté jusqu’à ne faire dans le baiser d’amour

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aucune distinction des sexes. La société profane, peu capable de comprendre une telle pureté, prit occasion de là pour diverses calomnies. Le chaste baiser chrétien éveilla les soupçons des libertins et, de bonne heure, l’Église s’astreignit, sur ce point, à de sévères précautions ; mais à l’origine ce fut là un rite essentiel, inséparable de l’Eucharistie et complétant la haute signification de ce symbole de paix et d’amour (ibidem: 905-906).

It seems hardly surprising, considering this blindness to the sacred connotations of yet another aspect of daily life, that the love-affair between Oscar and RóĪa does not achieve its desired outcome, i.e. marriage (a holy sacrament),24 but ends in catastrophe, due to a misunderstanding. The culmination of this fatal chain of errors is the already analyzed final meeting between the despairing Oscar and the narrator, when they drink together wine (a ‘social’ ceremony), being unconscious of the fact that they potentially take part in Holy Communion, established by the Master of sacred history himself at the Last Supper with the Twelve: Because there remained no more from the two of us than a guest and a host, I started to seek for him some light refreshments, as suited the hour, and, pouring white wine, I said: – Serve yourself as you think fit… I – drink wine. – As do I. And we touched the edges of our glasses.25

Similarly Oscar seems not to understand the deeper meaning of his repeated assurance “that something important will happen” (“moĪe zajĞü coĞ waĪnego”; VI: 111; Norwid’s italics). Its real implication is not simply his expected engagement to RóĪa, but the transformation of his (and RóĪa’s) existence by true love (which is always sacred), followed by their entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven ‘here and now’ (or, the other way round, the descent of Christ’s Kingdom on earth), thanks to their holy union of matrimony. But this possibility is not realized, for Oscar (a musician!), “seeing and hearing”, turns out to be blind and deaf (cf. again Mathew 13: 13), because he lacks insight into the ‘parabolic’ significance of his own acts and behaviour. The opposite attitude is represented by the housekeeper of general’s widow, a simple and worthy matron, who when she takes leave of the narrator (the catastrophe has already occurred – its “psychological reasons” had a moment before been discussed in a conversation between the narrator and the general’s widow), says (referring the misunderstanding between Oscar and RóĪa to sacred history, if the narrator and reader have only “seeing” eyes and “hearing” ears; her

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ability to perceive these ‘holy’ traces she owes to personal grief – her daughter suddenly died after catching a cold): – Now, as we must do without a house bell, our vigilance should be uncessant; And so we are in a certain sense as these truly Christian souls, who do not know the day nor the hour when death will come.26

These words should be compared with the parable of the foolish and wise virgins, Mathew 25: 13: “Be vigilant, for you do not know the day or the hour, when the Son of Man will come”. 5. With regard to the nature of the life of Christ that by the authors of the Gospel has been presented as a sequence of incidents and anecdotes, alternated by the speeches and conversations of the main protagonist (in the form of parables or gnomic sayings), it is hardly surprising that Stigma shows the traces of sacred history above all on the level of social life (the alienating aspect, the obstacle to be overcome, is its setting in the ‘worldly’ salon). However, it appears that these traces are also present in the extensive (as befits a text written according to the rules of nineteenth-century Realism) descriptions of the scenery (these landscapes are additionally explained in the light of ‘positivist’ science – e.g. geology – and in connection with their ‘use’ for human ‘civilization’). The traces and signs of sacred history, Christ’s wounds, are indelibly imprinted on the landscape of the small Spa in the Italian mountains, in which the action takes place: Being a not altogether correct novelist I twice omitted to mention that this happened in a Spa [lit. ‘at the waters’, ‘at a spring’] […] At the waters – which does not mean at a particular spring but close to a whole geological complex, to which interesting ruins, wellworth a visit, and vast views lend variety. Who, however, does not belief in the magic of the surroundings and the matter, being under the impression that there is no more sense to it than the arts of engineering and administration – let him take a good look at this cheerful and prosperous town, built between desolate mountains and being developed around and because of one glass of water. This thread of spring water – thin and glimmering on the top of the rock and along its steep side that disappears in an abyss – [this water] that somewhere in subterranean caverns transforms itself into a healing beverage and then emerges again in the neighbourhood of an ancient chapel – this is the origin of the town and its surroundings, of the whole municipality!27

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A reader who does not fall victim to ‘scientific’ appearances and ‘realist’ conventions immediately understands that the idea of the Spa could (and should) be understood as one of the possible figures of the Holy Eucharist (today it is only an unconscious parody of it). The water springing from the side of the rock, just as once, at the Crucifixion, the mixture of blood and water flowing from Christ’s wounds when the Romans, before taking him down from the cross, wanted to ascertain that he really had expired by piercing his side,28 prove that the perspective of sacred history can be discovered in being as a whole (it may seem difficult to ‘see’ this at a first, linear reading, but it becomes clear when we read ‘backward’, linking the traces of sacred history, dispersed over the text – yet, “blessed are they, who believe without seeing”; John 20: 29). It seems probable that these ‘figural’ descriptions of landscapes, explaining the ‘natural’ in the light of the sacred (which should not be confused with the ‘supernatural’) are the expression of Norwid’s polemical attitude to Renan’s expressly ‘naturalist’ interpretation of Christ in his already mentioned and immensely influential Vie de Jésus. Before embarking on the narration of Jesus’ acts (who for the French positivist historian was “the most perfect man of history”), he sketches the landscape of Nazareth and its surroundings where Jesus was born (Renan knew enough about German critical theology to reject the “supernatural” myths about Christ’s birth in Bethlehem) and educated. As a true positivist he believed in an intimate connection between the condition and nature of the ‘soil’ and the ‘spirit’ of its people. In Norwid’s mature work all humans, men and women, however much they may differ in outward appearance and manners, can become actors of sacred history. Renan, on the other hand, expresses the opinion that the protagonists of the Gospel must have been similar to the people, who presently live in the places where sacred history has occurred, even if the material monuments of the civilization of Christ’s époque have disappeared. According to the biological principle of heredity, discovered by modern science, people have hardly changed their physical and mental aspect. The people of Nazareth are still less inclined to fanaticism than the inhabitants of Judea, scorched by the sun (“derrière ces montagnes déjà moins riantes de la Samarie, la triste Judée, desséchée comme par un vent brûlant d’abstractions et de mort”; Renan: 103). Mary, the mother of Jesus must have been beautiful, for “c’est le type syrien dans toute sa grace

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pleine de langueur” (ibidem: 102). The point of view that the beauty of women was a “gift of the Virgin Mary”, as suggested in the sixth century A.D. is not so much rejected, but presented as a myth, typical for an Age, in which the point of view of science was yet unknown. The way in which Renan depicts the surroundings of Jesus’ birthplace (presented as a theatre that allows “the philosopher to contemplate on the course of human affairs”) is somewhat reminiscent of the description the Italian Spa and its surrounding by the narrator of Stigma, when he wanders in the mountains of the countryside (in fact, Norwid’s description is even more detailed, richer in nuances and colours, more ‘realistic’): So it happened that in the course of the day, because of the increasing beauty of the views, I roamed deeper and deeper in the mountains […] But neither my eyes, nor my heart regretted this, as I saw the charming image of the most beautiful of all surrounding landscapes. A wide amphitheatre of violet or pinkhued rocks surrounded a vale that in the deep was cut in two by a cheerful river. White traces of a Roman road that had probably been abandoned as a consequence of the diminished importance of these places were, however, quite clearly visible at both sides of the river bed. The currents met here and there a boulder that had tumbled down from the rocky crags, and were crushed by its stony hardness in a white mist, throwing small rainbows around.29 Nazareth était une petite ville située dans un pli de terrain largement ouvert au sommet du groupe de montagnes qui ferme au nord la plaine d’Esdrelon […] L’ horizon de la ville est étroit; mais si l’on monte quelque peu et que l’on atteigne le plateau fouetté d’une brise perpétuelle qui domine les plus hautes maisons, la perspective est splendide. À l’ouest se déploient les belles lignes du Carmel, terminées par une pointe abrupte qui semble se plonger dans la mer. Puis se déroulent le double sommet qui domine Mageddo, les montagnes du pays de Sichem avec leurs lieux saints de l’âge patriarcal, les monts Gelboé, le petit groupe pittoresque auquel se rattachent les souvenirs gracieux ou terribles de Sulem et d’Endor, le Thabor avec sa forme arrondie, que l’antiquité comparait à un sein […] Tel fut l’horizon de Jésus. Ce cercle enchanté, berceau du royaume de Dieu, lui représenta le monde durant des années. Sa vie même sortit peu de limites familières à son enfance. (Renan 1949: 101-103; italics A.v.N.)

Both Nazareth and the Italian Spa are (or once were) small, harmonious and fertile paradises among the rocks, with an abundance of flowing water:30 Les environs, d’ailleurs, sont charmants, et nul endroit du monde ne fut si bien fait pour les rêves de l’absolu bonheur. Même aujourd’hui Nazareth est un délicieux séjour, le seul endroit peut-être en Palestine où l’âme se sente un peu

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soulagée du fardeau qui l’oppresse au milieu de cette désolation sans égale […] La population est aimable et souriante; les jardins sont frais et verts. Antonin Martyr, à la fin du VIe siècle, fait un tableau enchanteur de la fertilité des environs, qu’il compare au paradis. Quelques vallées du côté de l’Ouest justifient pleinement sa description (Renan 1949: 102). What might seem to violently broken in the lines of the amphitheatre, was softened by masses of green trees; in short: everything was plentiful and harmonious, as I heaven.31

The structural similarities in description should not, however, make us blind to the fact that both authors were guided by opposite intuitions concerning the ‘real’ nature of being. Renan’s point of departure is the notion that the surroundings, in which Jesus had spent his youth, must have imprinted their ‘stigma’ on this “most perfect of men”. For this reason he considered his biography of the founder of Christianity as the fruit of his many wanderings (cf. the journey of the narrator of Norwid’s Stigma into the Italian country) in the region where the events related in the Gospel had taken place: J’ai traversé dans tous les sens la province évangélique; j’ai visité Jérusalem, Hébron et Samarie; presque aucune localité importante de l’histoire de Jésus ne m’a échappé. Toute cette histoire qui, à distance, semble flotter dans les nuages d’un monde sans réalité prit ainsi un corps, une solidité qui m’étonnèrent. L’accord frappant des textes et des lieux, la merveilleuse harmonie de l’idéal évangélique avec le paysage qui lui servit de cadre furent pour moi une revelation (Renan 1949: 79-80; italics A.v.N.).

The scenery of the Holy Land and in particular of Galilee is a framework (“cadre”, “Quadrum”) that should be seen and analyzed, if we want to understand the making of a man. In the short story Stigma, on the contrary, the traces and signs of sacred history, Christ’s wounds, are imprinted on the landscape of the small Spa in the Italian mountains (the rocky surroundings being reminiscent of a framework, a “cadre”, the place of a quasi-revelation) and show it as the site where sacred history, the revealed fundament of human existence, is lived again. According to Norwid, in order to understand the full consequences of Christian revelation we need not travel into the land where sacred history initially took place (in Stigma Count X is a great traveller, who has certainly visited the Holy Land, but the anecdotes told by him do not show any truly religious sensibility). Instead of scientifically explaining its causes, we must

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believe in its existential truth; then we will find its traces embodied ‘always and everywhere’ – ‘I’ will have become a subject of sacred history myself, sanctifying my surroundings. The scenery of the Italian Spa turns out to be part of an immense basilica that comprehends earth and sky, men, angels and God, linking it into a harmonious whole (cf. Renan’s “merveilleuse harmonie de l’idéal évangélique avec le paysage”): Everything was drowned in the sunlight – the vast and deep view stretching around, and the immense vault of the heaven embraced the world and men with a blessed gracefulness of harmony. Something like a golden vault of a primitive Christian basilica where virtuous and lively hearts exchanged a brotherly kiss, united by God and His angels…32

This passage should be compared with Count X’s story about “the brotherly kiss among the members of the Primitive Church”. However, the further course of the story will show the dominance of the scientific point of view, formulated by the author of the Vie de Jésus, who, in spite of all admiration and sympathy for the hero of his biography, could not but reject the idea that the perspective of sacred history is not only the key to an adequate interpretation of human existence, but also its actually ‘lived’ prototype. Instead of recognizing the scenery of the Holy Land (which, in contrast with Norwid, he actually visited during a “scientific mission with aim of exploring the areas of ancient Phoenicia”; Renan 1949: 79) as a basilica or temple he suggests that the worshippers of Christ should build a great church in the neighbourhood of Nazareth. That would enable them to explain to themselves the real origin of their religion and perhaps cure them from their inclination to religious fanaticism: De nos jours encore, les haines religieuses sont à Nazareth moins vives qu’ailleurs […] Si jamais le monde resté chrétien, mais arrivé à une notion meilleure de ce qui constitue le respect des origines, veut remplacer par d’authentiques lieux saints les sanctuaires apocryphes et mesquins où s’attachait la piété des âges grossières, c’est sur cette hauteur du Nazareth qu’il bâtira son temple. Là, au point d’apparition du christianisme et au centre d’où rayonna l’activité de son fondateur, devrait s’élever la grande église où tous les chrétiens pourraient prier (ibidem: 103).

In view of numerous other examples of intertextuality that connect Renan’s historical work with Norwid’s ‘fictional’ short story, it seems highly probably that the Polish poet hit on his image of an all-

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comprehending basilica when he tried to undermine the Frenchman’s naturalist explanation of Jesus’ life without having to take recourse to supernatural means but, instead, by offering a more perceptive exegesis of the possible figural senses of the landscape that Renan so well had painted. 6. In the next part of Stigma the plot reaches its culmination in the disastrous misunderstanding between Oscar and RóĪa, brought about by the violinist’s jealousy (a sentiment that severs each tie and destroys all forms of community; in the words of Saint Paul: Oscar does not posses the most important Christian virtue: Love [“charity”] that “envieth not” – the violinist confuses this highest human sentiment with passion) in combination with his exceptional interpretative ability (intelligence in itself, when it is not ruled by Christian virtue, becomes the inevitable cause of human disaster). Here, sacred history can only be discovered if we do not allow ourselves to be misled by ‘scientific’ explanations of mental states, i.e. by relating them to natural phenomena (e.g. a thunderstorm). It becomes clear that the relations between phenomena are not given independently of the subject, but are created by it, as it unconsciously realizes the ‘naturalist’ stigma of the Age of Progress (this is the theme of the vision in the second part of Stigma). Again it seems that Norwid attempted in this way to beat Renan, who proposed such a ‘naturalist’ interpretation of the life of Christ and the apostles, stressing the moral greatness of the Saviour, with his own weapons. The elementary forces of nature should rather be ‘read’ and explained in the context of sacred history, which Norwid (who wanted to bring about a new ‘Copernican Revolution’, restoring God to the centre of the universe) considered an a-priori of all true knowledge. We already know that man can only obtain this ability when his subjectivity is transformed by taking part in sacred history. This transformation does not result from ‘interpretative’ acts, but can only be accomplished by a Revelation. Thus, from the point of view of the intellect, it seems that man moves around in a vicious circle, which can only be overcome by meeting Christ. The construction of the scene near the chapel in Stigma suggests a way to overcome this existential dilemma, which, however, is overlooked – by the narrator himself (the whole scene is an excellent example of ‘situational’ irony).

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During a visit (which is – we remember – a “priesthood peculiar to human nature”) to a “suffering” friend (in this particular case the adjective refers merely to a ‘physical’ disease) the narrator witnesses a violent thunderstorm. When he decides to return home, the roaring thunder can still be heard and the darkness is from time to time suddenly illuminated by lightning, similar to a “cataract bursting asunder in the eyes”: However, just when I wanted to go out, I was called to my ailing friend, and when I crossed his threshold, two large raindrops fell on my face, there suddenly blew a wind, and there broke one of these violent thunderstorms of the summer that are beautiful and menacing. This event added some variety to our jointly spent evening, but also recommended not to be slow in returning, because the violent lightning did not cease and could be perceived even by the light of the lamps. The heaven looked at this moment with but one eye of deep sapphire, pressing the other one with heavy clouds against the rocky crags. Choosing the right time, I began to return home while the thunder lazily died down. The air was still chilly of the hail. It seemed that the last thunderclaps had expired when still, here and there, the lightning struck, and one straying thunderbolt burst asunder as a cataract in the eyes.33

The similes that picture the aftermath of the thunderstorm might seem, in view of the realistic context of the description, devoid of a deeper meaning, were it not that the ‘ocular’ motive of returning sight already suggests (cf. the stories in the Gospel about Christ ‘miraculously’ curing ‘physical’ blindness) that we should seek contexts that could relate the described events to sacred history. Then, the narrator suddenly observes a shadow approaching the chapel by the roadside. Its gestures suggest that it is a suffering (in a wider, ‘spiritual’ sense) human being, a person in whom we could recognize Christ. The narrator’s eyes and ears convince him that this impression is real enough (an ‘empirical’ observation by the senses), but when he “without any apparent reason” connects this “vision” with RóĪa, who – as he has probably inferred from Oscar’s intimate confessions – might want to meet her lover at a secret place to discuss their future, he immediately rejects this accident as too ‘miraculous’ to be true, attributing it to his heated imagination, the effect of an atmosphere satiated by electricity (the apparition had disappeared for a moment behind some solid rocky boulders, this hidden place of tryst could remind us of the grave of Christ in the rocks – when the narrator the next day returns this ‘detail’ acquires a new meaning). However, this

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spontaneous rejection of the connection between RóĪa and the vision in his mind is not really based on an unprejudiced investigation of reality; it is the result of a belief: ‘miraculous’ coincidences must be the outcome of – as yet unclear – ‘natural’ causes. From the point of view of the empirical (“experimental”)34 science of psychology sensual experience, especially when its natural cause is not immediately evident, may be a delusion. It suddenly dawns on us that we lack an infallible criterion that allows us to distinguish between real and imagined sense-data. It seems that this notion has farreaching consequences. It turns out that modern science has been built on unstable foundations; it does not give ‘true’ knowledge, because it is merely concerned with phenomena and forgets about essences, and only the latter point of view can satisfy human existence, ‘always and everywhere’ facing the anguish of death, and craving for (but not believing in) Resurrection. The narrator is still unaware of this ‘Stigma’ (it will be revealed to him in the second part of the short story). Suddenly he realizes that he has “somewhat strayed from his road”. Standing in front of the chapel (the symbol and sanctuary of Christ’s mysterious Resurrection) he feels himself involuntarily disturbed and, at this very moment, he is overwhelmed by a visionary experience that must be a delusion,35 in view of his feeling that he has been led astray. According to the ‘scientific’ Stigma reality can only be explained by a subject that is “sober”36 – in other words: it should remain outside the sphere of phenomena that are to be explained. This methodological presupposition excludes the possibility of taking part in sacred history (that – in its turn – can only be perceived by becoming one of its actors). The narrator acts according to his scientific prejudices: instead of relieving human pain, he proceeds on his way, “soon finding himself again on his road homeward” (but having lost his humanity): That’s why I went somewhat astray, but not much; however, I was astonished when I saw suddenly the wall of the ancient chapel, well-known to all. And then I felt the sort of fright that we experience when we are unconsciously disturbed by some violent movement, not our own. It could not have been a deception, for I heard the dull sound of a head knocking against either a wall or the bronze doors of the entrance, a sound produced by something delicate and frail, roughly pushed aside. However, I could not clearly ascertain whether indeed somebody had run across the road? Was this sight merely an illusion, caused by an unusual chiaroscuro in combination with the activity of the nerves amidst the electrified air? But when all of a sudden, out of the nowhere, entirely unjustified and

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Instead of this passive attitude the narrator should have taken up the challenge of this vision, connecting it – as did once the apostles on their missionary travels – with the work of the Holy Ghost. Renan attributes certain, at first sight ‘strange’, irrational decisions of Saint Paul to his obedience to this higher instance, which the French historian, of course, considers the product of human imagination (that sometimes is activated without apparent motive): On ne sait ce qui détourna saint Paul de porter ses efforts de côté. “Le SaintEsprit, dit le narrateur des Actes, l’empêcha d’aller prêcher en Asie”. Les apôtres, il faut se rappeler, étaient censés obéir, dans la direction de leur courses, à des inspirations d’en haut. Tantôt c’étaient des motifs réels, des réflexions ou des indications positives qu’ils dissimulaient sous ce langage [the narrator of Stigma emphasizes the spontaneity of his sudden intuition, which – after reflection – he attributes to a combination of external en internal ‘causes’]; tantôt aussi c’était l’absence de motifs. L’opinion que Dieu fait connaître à l’homme ses volontés par les songes était fort répandue,38 comme elle l’est encore de nos jours en Orient. Un rêve, une impulsion soudaine, un movement irréfléchi,39 un bruit inexpliqué (bath kôl)40 leur parraissaient de manifestations de l’Esprit et décidaient de la marche de la prédication (Renan 1949: 825; italics A.v.N.).

In Stigma almost all main protagonists fall short of their potential ‘priesthood’, the only exception being perhaps RóĪa, the ‘Virgin’, who, in spite of the misunderstanding with Oscar, appears at the place of their tryst, where, however, instead of Resurrection through the sacrament of marriage she meets with bitter disappointment. Yet, she has been faithful to the cardinal Christian virtue of love (i.e. she had not ceased to believe and hope) and is ‘rewarded’ with disease (wandering through the rain, she had caught a serious cold) and despair, of which she soon perishes. It could be argued that the senseless ‘accident’ of this ‘Virgin’s’ death, just as in the case of the butchered “son of Alexander” in Norwid’s long narrative poem Quidam, repeats the sacrificial death of Christ at the cross (on the other hand, this reasoning seems monstrous).41 Particularly paradoxical with regard to Heilsvergessenheit is the case of narrator, for in his own description of the aftermath of the thunderstorm we find an image suggesting, in which mood he should have approached the ‘vision’ at the road in

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order to understand its meaning. As we have seen, he compares the lightning to “a cataract bursting asunder in the eyes”. It appears that the narrator does ‘see’, but fails to ‘understand’, because his spiritual eye suffers from a cataract, the stigma of ‘naturalism’. When we connect the image of the thunderstorm with the vision at the chapel by the roadside it becomes clear that from the point of view of sacred history the narrator should have ‘become’ Saint Paul, who met his Lord, until then persecuted by him, on the road to Damascus; who for a moment lost his physical sight but instead gained spiritual insight. In this light the preceding scene in his friend’s room reveals itself as a potential outpouring of the Holy Ghost. However, the narrator remains blind to this possible exegesis of the events, in which he takes part, bearing a large part of the responsibility for the following catastrophe that destroys two potential subjects of sacred history (especially RóĪa, who loosing ultimately her life, unconsciously repeats Christ’s sacrifice). The ‘implied’ reader is in a better situation to appreciate the relationship between the visible world and sacred history, due to his ability to perceive intertextual relations. Some elements of the description of the thunderstorm and the ensuing vision near the chapel should remind him immediately of events related in the Acts of the Apostles (at Pentecost there also blew a violent wind, the harbinger of a thunderstorm), and a more careful perusal of the above-mentioned quotations from Stigma shows their relationship with the description of these two events from sacred history by Renan: Entre toutes ces ‘descentes de l’Esprit’, qui paraissent avoir été assez fréquentes, il y en eut une qui laissa dans l’Église naissante une profonde impression. Un jour que les frères étaient unis [cf. the visit of the narrator to his suffering colleague], un orage éclata.42 Un vent violent ouvrit les fenêtres; le ciel était en feu. Les orages, en ces pays, sont accompagnés d’un prodigieux dégagement de lumière; l’atmosphère est comme sillonnée de toutes parts de gerbes de flammes. Soit que le fluide électrique43 ait pénétré dans la pièce même, soit qu’un éclair éblouissant ait subitement illuminé la face de tous, on fut convaincu que l’Esprit était entré et qu’il s’était épanché sur la tête de chacun sous formes de langues de feu” (Renan 1949: 508).

In Stigma, the thunderstorm with its sudden illumination merely assists the narrator and his friend in “passing the evening”. Suddenly we realize that the narrator’s immediate awareness that the encounter at the chapel must have been the result of a delusion was not at all

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spontaneous, “unjustified and caused by nothing”, but an element of the author’s dialogue with Renan’s overtly naturalist interpretation of sacred history. It is, of course, impossible to reduce the account of the thunderstorm in Stigma entirely to intertextuality, as we have still to clarify the meaning of at least one very mysterious image in it: heaven “looking” with but one eye. The second, pressing against the rocks, is still closed. The image seems in itself clear enough. The black clouds of the thunderstorm are passing away and the sun has reappeared, but this does not explain the personification. A possible symbolical interpretation of the image might be that in order to ‘understand’ being we should posses both physical and spiritual sight. This interpretation fits well with the motive of Saint Paul, who when his spiritual eyes were opened, lost his physical sight, but the image of heaven as a ‘seeing person’ remains puzzling. Perhaps it should be treated as a counterpoint to the ‘apparition’, crossing the road in front of the narrator, and naively taken by the senses for a human being in view of the (audible and visible) effects of its movement. Paradoxically, the account of the apparition passes over all expressly ‘human’ aspects of the apparition (it lacks a ‘face’ and is ‘depersonalized’). The narrator does ‘see’, but fails to ‘understand’ because he spontaneously (there is no need for reflection) interprets his ‘vision’ (which being a ‘visionary’ experience, must be the effect of imagination aroused by an accident in the ‘outside’ world, the result of certain ‘neurological’ processes that are researched by ‘experimental’ psychology, and – a ‘logical’ consequence of this line of thought – cannot be true, i.e. ‘real’) in the same manner as Renan did with regard to the vision of Saint Paul on the road to Damascus: Il n’est pas invraisemblable, cependant, qu’un orage ait éclaté tout à coup. Les flancs de l’Hermon sont le point de formation de tonnerres don’t rien n’égale la violence.44 Les âmes les plus froides ne traversent pas sans émotion ces effroyables pluies de feu. Il faut se rappeler que, pour toute l’antiquité, les accidents de ce genre étaient des revelations divines, qu’avec les idées qu’on faisait alors de la Providence rien n’était fortuit, que chaque homme avait l’habitude de rapporter à lui les phénomènes naturels qui se passaient autour de lui.45 Paul était sous le coup de la plus vive excitation.46 Il était naturel qu’il prêtât à la voix de l’orage ce qu’il avait dans son propre coeur. Qu’un délire fiévreux, amené par un coup de soleil ou une ophtalmie, 47 se soit tout à coup emparé de lui; qu’un éclair ait amené un long éblouissement; qu’un éclat de foudre l’ait renversé et ait produit une commotion cérébrale, qui oblitéra pour un temps le sens de la vue, peu importe (Renan 1949: 581).

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When we compare this passage with the account of the vision by the roadside near the chapel, where the narrator of Stigma (explaining his impression that the apparition of RóĪa must be the result of a ‘nervous disorder’) looses his spiritual sight, we can conclude that the narrator is presented here as an anti-Saint Paul. The spiritual cataract remains firmly at its place, cf. Renan: “Le calme, à partir de ce moment, rentra dans l’âme de Paul. Il se crut guéri, et, la maladie étant surtout nerveuse, il le fut. De petites croûtes ou écailles tombèrent, dit on, de ses yeux” (Renan 1949: 583; cf. Norwid: “and one straying thunderbold burst asunder as a cataract in the eyes”). A vision can, as a matter of principle, never be real, so there is no need to act, and only by action ‘I’ can embody myself in sacred history, by transforming my personality. It seems that the narrator is not possessed by an “ardent nature” (as was Saint Paul), but rather prefers a reflective attitude towards life (yet, at the moment of his ‘vision’ he immediately thinks to have understood its meaning, i.e. grasped it as the effect of certain ‘natural’ causes – in this particular case reflection seems to be unnecessary; this – for the moment ‘overlooked’ – paradox is the germ of the magnificent vision in the second part of Stigma about the determination of as well whole nations as individual man by soil, race and milieu, which itself turns out to be the result of an unconscious revelation). Renan distinguishes in connection with the conversion of Saint Paul between reflective men “that do not change but are transformed” and “ardent men that, on the contrary do change, but are not transformed” (Renan: 582). According to him Saint Paul was one of these “tempestuous natures that pass from the one extreme to another” and “need a pretext to love or to hate” (a state of mind allegedly typical for “oriental natures”). This occurs under the influence of certain “solemn moments that are decisive for the rest of a life”. It seems that Renan understands the transformation of a personality (which he assesses always positively) as a process of the individual mind, and he would very much prefer to interpret Saint Paul’s conversion in this way (“Je préfère beaucoup, pour ma part, l’hypothèse d’un fait personnel à Paul et senti de lui seul”; Renan 1949: 580), because the only other possibility (the intervention of supernatural agents is not accepted as a satisfactory explanation by a positivist historian – this intervention should rather itself be explained, in the light of the laws of ‘experimental’ psychology) would be to consider the conversion of the apostle as a

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combination of external circumstances (the air satiated by electricity) with religious dogmatism (“Le dogmatisme est comme une robe de Nessus qu’ils ne peuvent arracher”; ibidem: 582) and unruly passion. Not without certain regret Renan suggests the latter interpretation as the most probable. This point of view could never be acceptable to Norwid, who believed in the a-priori of sacred history (which offers in a certain sense a ‘logical’ explanation of the religious impact of natural events or mental states, but may itself not be reduced to these phenomena), and its presentation in Stigma serves only the purpose of unwitting self-exposure. The narrator of the short story behaves exactly as recommended by the French historian (whose conceptions with regard to this matter are – Renan was a child of his époque – extremely ‘euro-centric’: “Nos races occidentals, seules, ont su produire de ces esprits larges, délicats, forts et flexible, qu’aucune illusion momentanée n’entraine, qu’aucune vaine affirmation ne séduit. L’Orient n’a jamais eu d’hommes de cette espèce”; ibidem: 582); of course, Renan does not use the conception race in a narrowly ‘biological’ sense), but the outcome of this attitude is entirely negative: he does neither transform himself, nor become a new man (as the converted Saint Paul), he even does not ‘change’ the world, but remains simply passive. The final scenes of the first part of Stigma confirm this fundamental inability to recognize the traces of sacred history in the realm of sense-data. The next morning the narrator returns to the place of his nightly vision with the intention of taking a closer look at it, aided by the light of day. The abundant rain had changed the soil in a malleable substance, similar to sculptor’s clay, and when he approaches the chapel he notices close to a heap of colossal boulders, behind which the apparition had for a moment disappeared, the imprint of a footstep: Not only did I find the place where I had been surprised by the vision, but even the traces of my steps; when I saw that the hail, rain and thunderclaps had moulded the soil into sculptor’s clay I took a jump toward the large boulders, behind which the shape had for a moment disappeared, and I clearly perceived a delicate female footprint…48

Now the reader begins to understand that this sheltered place could be related to the grave of Christ, visited at the break of first day of the week by Mary Magdalene (The Gospel of Saint John 20: 11-18). RóĪa

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and Oscar had arranged to meet there and to confirm their decision to marry. Marriage is a holy sacrament and by this mutual commitment to be one flesh they would in a certain sense share in the Resurrection of Christ (our bodies are the “members of Christ” (Corinthians I 6: 1416)). However, only the ‘Virgin’ testified, by appearing at the place of Resurrection, to the unshakeable firmness of her faith in the reality of this pivotal event of sacred history. The narrator (who to a certain extent also visits the grave of Christ, being completely unaware of the true significance of his action) remains even in the clear light of day blind to the presence of sacred history ‘here and now’ (the imprint of the footstep being its ‘visible’ stigma) and, instead of using the methods of archaeology (one of Norwid’s favourite sciences) to embody the course of events in an evangelical context, uses this trace only to sketch the fatal consequences of the misunderstanding between Oscar and RóĪa as a chain of accidental causes and inevitable effects (the anecdote about Marie Antoinette apologizing the executioner for having accidentally with one of her shoes stepped on his feet, serves the purpose of drawing our attention from the hidden – even when the stigma of the imprint lies at the surface – religious connotations of the scene): And so I had nothing more to ask, seeing everything clearly. After the scene with Oscar RóĪa must have run away to allay her fears… These two unfortunate beings had mutually torn their hearts apart, loving each other with the same passion. A misunderstanding in all its innocence bordering on a crime!… how dreadful…49

The conversation between the narrator and the general’s widow (who as a ‘widow’ should already be part of sacred history) carries the situation of Heilsvergessenheit to its logical extreme.50 Both interlocutors possess some very private information about their respective acquaintances,51 which, brought together, allows to explain their behaviour as the inevitable effect of an accidental course according to the laws of psychology (that can be established by observation and experiment). As a matter of fact, it seems that all aspects of human being (in particular history) are subject to these laws: – So they were not themselves! – I said – but the mark [stigma] that had been imprinted on them by the departed… if time and better developed instruments of observation would allow for such investigations, it would perhaps become clear that we all are, or exist in this manner. Peoples, generations and even individual

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Yet, at the very moment when the narrator tries to formulate a theoretical concept that could, in the distant future, explain the whole of being as an infinite chain of causes and effects, we discover that certain semantic elements that have been used to express this scientist concept suggests the existence of an alternative model of interpretation. “The sign [‘stigma’ -“znamiĊ”] of the dead has been imprinted on them”. Are we really entitled, in view of the different meanings of this word, dependent on the context in which it appears, to reduce all phenomena of the material world to the scientist point of view? From Norwid’s point of view this question could only be rhetorical. If we read the first part of Stigma attentively, we discover that it is possible to arrange the events that make up the plot and the elements of the descriptions in configurations that allow treating the perspective of sacred history as a valid alternative to a psychological interpretation. This does not imply that the latter perspective becomes less probable. If we accept its premises it appears to be completely satisfactory. However, in a certain sense the self-evidence of this ‘scientific’ point of view still enhances the value of the perspective of sacred history that does not result from some inconsequence in the ‘positivist’ interpretations of phenomena (it can neither be based on rational deduction, nor on empirical induction), but presents itself as a sudden insight in the ‘true’ nature of being, an ‘epiphany’, a Revelation, thanks to which the slightest particle of the puzzle suddenly falls into its place. This transformation of the world presupposes a transformation of the ‘observing’ subject. Also man must transform himself, has to become an actor of sacred history, following Christ with his own cross. Norwid, who was convinced that the a-priori of sacred history offered a truer (even if not more ‘probable’) explanation of being in general and human existence in particular, attempted in the first part of his short story Stigma to create a narrative ‘surface’ that could induce the susceptible reader to undergo such a transformation.

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7. RóĪa’s ‘cold’ proved much more serious than initially thought and, as already predicted by the housekeeper of the general’s widow (who still mourned her own daughter), the ‘virgin’ soon expires. Oscar, who immediately after the catastrophic misunderstanding, early in the morning, had left the Spa “without leaving any information on his whereabouts”, retires, according to a newspaper report, to a “monastery of silent white monks somewhere in the mountains” (VI: 123), maybe a reference to the congregation of the ZmartwychwstaĔcy (‘Brothers of the Resurrection’), founded by Polish emigrants after the suppression of the November Rising.53 The narrator returns to one of the large cloud covered capitals of Europe where he “escapes” into the world of his “stuffy portfolios” (VI: 123): he seems to be an artist, like Norwid himself. Yet, the tragic events, in which he could have played a role, had not left him unmoved. They had sunk deep in the recesses of his mind and waited only for an occasion to re-emerge. When this actually occurs, the individual stigmata of RóĪa and Oscar (who seems to enter the room, in which the narrator had fallen asleep, at the end of the vision, “playing Henry Purcell’s Dance of the Whirlwinds… and I awoke”; VI: 126) turn out to have been the mental impulse for a dream that presents a positivist conception of history. Tribes, nations and individual men cannot freely decide about their role in history, but are determined by the ‘stigma’ of their natural or social environment. The Mongols of Dzhengis Khan and Timur Leng level all that they meet in their violent course and that tries to resist them, slaying thousands of men and raising heaps of skulls. This appears not to be the result of the “anger in their hearts”: it happened because they “are under the stigma of the steppe – what the religion of the steppe made out of them, they evangelized upon the world” (Oni przenosili STEP w historiĊ – oni byli pod stygmatem stepu – co religia stepu zrobiła z nich, ewangelizowali na Ğwiat; VI: 24).54 The national (or rather tribal) character of the Germans (“Teutony”) and Norsemen (“Northmandy”) is explained by the stigmata of the ‘forest’ and the ‘sea’.55 Next, Caligula, the son of a father, “courageous and unbending like Cato, patient as a Christian martyr and a mother, whose “virtue and esteem in the state made even Caesar tremble” (125), is presented as the monster that he, according to Roman historiography, was, due to the harmful influence of the military environment in which he was brought up, the “stigma of the camp” (obóz) (here it becomes clear

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that Norwid rejected conceptions that attributed personality to merely biological forces, such as the hereditary principle of ‘pure’ blood). Finally Nero, the second monster on the Roman throne, is shown as a victim of the stigma of “applied art” (“stygmat PRZEMYSŁUSZTUKI”; VI: 126) that must not be personally experienced and lived, but was simply a means of appealing to the taste of the emperor Claudius, by whom this histrionic figure, who “never found himself”, was adopted and on whose favour he depended.56 Whatever maybe the ‘objective’ value of this ‘theory’ about the dynamics ruling history, the visionary mode of its presentation (the emotional impact of its rhythmical sentences sharply contrast with the balanced and descriptive style of the first part of the short story) does not fail to make a great impression on the reader. However, the very fact that a theory on the nature of the historical process is presented in the form of an almost biblical vision (the most probable context are the prophetic books of the Old Testament, in particular Ezekiel), shown from the point of view of a personified supernatural instance (his name is “Kształt”, which means simply ‘shape’), should make the reader wary of premature judgments. Does the author really belief in this deterministic interpretation of history, doing away with human liberty? It is certainly not without significance that the written scroll that the ‘Shape’ lays, as a pillow, under the head of the dreaming narrator, reminds him of Egypt: it emanates the “aroma” of a mummy and sandalwood; earlier the narrator had compared the gradual disappearance of past events from our memory to “the intoxicating dregs [remaining] at the bottom of a goblet” that maybe will once reappear before our eyes as “the Egyptian Book of Deaths, which still can be read, even when man has been deserted by his eyes and there has remained nothing, only two spots of deep shadow under the arcades of the skull” (VI: 123). According to Norwid’s conception of religious development Egypt was the land where nothingness, symbolized by the tomb (a city of tombs), was the ultimate destiny of man. The Egyptians did not accept the idea of Resurrection as the start of a new and transformed life, but merely envisaged a form of continued, passive existence in an underworld, which was but the shadow of earthy life. For them the grave was not a ‘gate’, but the ultimate and eternal dwelling place. This idea is expressed by Cleopatra in Norwid’s unfinished tragedy about the Egyptian queen and Julius Caesar:

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People! An ancient Egyptian parable comes true,/ Teaching us that the palaces and castles of monarchs/ And homesteads are but gates for travellers,/ Graves, however, are our true dwellings. This holds,/ of course, also with regard to this edifice, so magnificent to the eye.57

This point of view was completely alien to Norwid, who in his tragedy shows how even Cleopatra cannot resign herself to this desolate notion. She imagines that she is a grave, freshly cut out of the rocks and unconsciously craving redemption. Then she ‘anticipates’ Christ’s exclamation on the cross: “Szechera! I am sad like a tomb, freshly cut/ out of the granite, waiting for somebody – I thirst!” (Szechero! Jestem smĊtna, jako nowo-wyryty/ W granicie grób, na kogoĞ czekający – PragnĊ!; V: 27). Thus, it appears (on the strength of evidence from a text written about a decennium before Stigma) that in spite of the poetic magnificence of the vision communicated to the narrator by the ‘Shape’, its ideological significance is open to varying interpretations. Yet, from a certain point of view, the notion that human history is determined by the positivist ‘stigmata’ is not untrue; here we realize again that the very word ‘stigma’,58 as a trace, already refers us to sacred history, even when this perspective seemed to be entirely absent from the ideological content of the vision; the Mongols ‘evangelizing’ the world with bloodshed seemed even to have discredited the sacredness of the Gospel. In the state of Heilsvergessenheit history indeed takes the appearance of a chain of causes and effects that are to be explained by the influence of ‘race’, ‘geography’ (or ‘climate’, ‘nature’) and ‘milieu’.59 However, at this critical moment, the (still dreaming) narrator becomes suddenly aware of the fact that if tribes, nations and men are entirely determined by external circumstances (that are never stable but in flux), there do not yet exist “real nations”: for Norwid, the idea of nationhood cannot be severed from the perspective of Heilsgeschichte – it is connected with Poland’s ‘Resurrection’, but not in a narrow, chauvinist sense; other, more prosaic peoples also take part in sacred history, even when they seem to have forgotten it. There are only stigmata, from which blood is gushing, as the result of “noisy misunderstandings”: “Then I felt, dreaming, as if something moaned in me, because there are not yet true nations, but only stigmata, and successive rainy outpourings of blood, and so many noisy delusions!…” (Tedy ja uczułem, Ğniąc, jakoby zajĊk płaczu, iĪ nie było jeszcze właĞciwych narodów, lecz

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stigmata tylko, a krwi taka szaruga po szarudze, i tyle krzykliwych złudzeĔ!...”; VI: 125). The image of “one gray (“szaruga” – “szary”), rainy outpouring of blood after the other” (implying that this curtain of streaming, gray blood obscures everything behind it) is again an example of Norwid’s tendency to combine elements (sense-data, colours) that appear to exclude each other: blood should be red and not gray; however, it could be argued that this somewhat oxymoronic image aptly expresses the blindness of the afore-mentioned tribes and the ‘Shape’ to the true meaning of the stigmata of history. In the first part of the short story we have discovered the traces of sacred history in the salon of the ‘Widow’ and the ‘Virgin’, we have recognized Christ’s pierced side in the rock where geological processes produce ‘healing’ water, and where, only for “one glass of water”, a thriving small town had been built amidst the desolate mountains of a country, long ago abandoned by the mainstream of civilization, the emblem of which is the ruined “Roman-Bridge” that once, in better times, connected the two banks of the river, and where, on the last surviving arch, the narrator – like an astronomer closely watching a “double-star” (VI: 115) – observed RóĪa and Oscar, who were probably engaged – the narrator does not press this point – in an intimate conversation. Should we not attempt to turn, by a similar shift in perspective, the ‘positivist’ implications of the narrator’s vision about the mechanisms of history into a stage of sacred history? In this connection it seems not without importance that the ‘Shape’ exclaims at the end of his lecture on the philosophy of history “And that’s all there is to it” (“i nic wiĊcej”; VI: 125), which in Norwid’s texts is usually a signal that the matter is far from closed. The episode near the ruined “Roman-Bridge”, of which only one arch is still standing so that the river seems an insurmountable obstacle, arouses in the narrator the reflection that this “must be the ultimate border!… it is impossible to go any further”, which – in the context of the ancient bridge – probably means that the very thing we should do is trying to go beyond the limit of our world – as once Christianity superseded the Pagan civilization of Greece and Rome; the first step of this crossing would be to lay bare the transcendent a priori of sacred history in our own mind – the revelation of its ‘stigma’. Each intellectual scheme that pretends ‘to explain everything’ merely shows its own one-sidedness. I ask again: is it possible for man to attain a

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height, to work out a perspective that allows him to see in the cruel vicissitudes of human history a number of incidents, in which the determination of groups and individuals by external circumstances is understood as a true stigma, a sacrifice by which Christ atones for original sin? It seems that the act of formulating this point of view is identical with its realization. However, the suggestion that this awareness would be the first step to Redemption might seem not less monstrous than the earlier interpretation connecting RóĪa’s death, caused by a misunderstanding (which for ‘psychological reasons’ could not be clarified) with Christ’s martyrdom at the cross. Still this interpretation seems the most probable, and its monstrosity is diminished when we realize that it fully respects human liberty, by which man is the equal of God; history is not presented as a ‘theodicy’, a process of justifying God’s ways to man, in which necessity links all stages into a perfect chain. Insight into the ‘stigmatic’ essence of human history must be the result of a revelation that should be recognized as such by individual man (it is the result of both his moral effort and interpretative ability), realizing his essence of God-man, becoming aware of his essential identity with Christ, undergoing a transformation, thanks to which he becomes an actor of sacred history. When this is achieved he understands immediately that mankind is not divided but one. Its members constitute the ‘mystical body of Christ’, are a diverse unity that until now has been erroneously taken for a number of self-sufficient entities, being at war with each other, each one of it confusing its one-sidedness with the whole. Taine’s interpretation of the mechanisms of history as a perfect chain of causes and effects remains correct, allowing us to describe the birth and fall of empires and states, but from the point of view of the Christian Revelation this perspective is superseded by a higher and fuller truth, expressed by Saint Paul in his Letter to the Colossians:60 In whom [Christ] we have redemption through his blood, even the forgiveness of sins: who is the image of the invisible God, the first-born of every creature. For by Him were all things created, that are in heaven, and that are in earth, visible and invisible […] And he is before all things, and by him all things consist. And he is the head of the body, the church: who is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead; that in all things he might have the preeminence. For it pleased the Father that in him should all fullness dwell; And, having made peace through the blood of his cross, by him to reconcile all things unto himself; by him, I say, whether they be things in earth, or things in heaven. And you, that were

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Mankind as the conscious subject of sacred history (Norwid’s a priori of being) would be a community of true nations, united in a world somewhat similar to the salon of the general’s widow, with its “golden anarchy” and “negligentia-diligens”. The problem is, of course, that the collective entities of history are no real subjects. It seems that Norwid’s conception of true nationhood is based on the assumption that each man (or woman) that belongs to a nation must recognize his (or her) personal role in sacred history.61 At the very moment when this process of overcoming Heilsvergessenheit has been accomplished, Poland (or France, England etc.) would rise from its grave (merely ‘liberating’ territories, re-establishing statehood does not suffice). Thus, individual conversions (like that of Saint Paul on the road to Damascus) do not immediately change the course of history, because attempts to transform fellowman in a subject of sacred history by force would be self-defeating and, instead of leading to unity, merely create new divisions. However, thanks to this insight in the essence of history as Heilsgeschichte, the converted individual sees the destination of his transformed life clearly before him and attempts to ‘embody’ it ‘here and now’, seeking to convince his brothers and sisters in Christ (even if they do not know it) of its truth. This truth can only be experienced as a revelation and not as ‘theoretical’ or ‘abstract’ knowledge. The aim of the composition of Stigma, in which events and situations of sacred history are ‘entangled’ in the events and situations of daily life, is to produce in the reader precisely such an epiphany. The cataract covering his eyes should suddenly ‘burst asunder’ (as the result of his moral efforts and interpretative attitude), making him realize that, just like the narrator, until now he frequently failed to become a subject and actor of sacred history. This ‘revelatory’ intention of the author (not simply ‘revealing a mystery’, but wanting to draw attention to the conditions of Revelation as a true experience, by which man is transformed) explains the, at first sight puzzling, circumstance that the short story ends in anticlimax and irony. There is no sign that the similarity between RóĪa and Christ will be perceived (the scene with the editor of a newspaper has a satirical sting;62 the lush landscape of the Polish countryside in the concluding vision seems to have an allegorical bearing that is not rela-

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ted to sacred history),63 no suggestion that the ‘Virgin’ will rise from the dead, or even that her sacrifice will produce any positive effects. However, the act repeating Christ’s sacrifice, following him with ‘my’ own cross, is not supposed to substitute His personal and ultimate act of Redemption. Humanity has already been redeemed, even if she does not know it. This paradox can perhaps best be understood in the context of Saint Paul’s letter to the Romans (6: 9-11): Now if we be dead with Christ, we believe that we shall also live with him: Knowing that Christ being raised from the dead dieth no more; death hath no more dominion over him. For in that he died, he died unto sin once: but in that he liveth, he liveth unto God. Likewise reckon ye also yourselves to be dead indeed unto sin, but alive unto God through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Redemption is a state of mind that has transformed the believer, who does see the world as it truly is, in the light of the a-priori of sacred history. Even when the power of evil may still seem frightening (or, in the case of the world of social conventions and routine represented in Stigma merely depressing), its ultimate argument – annihilation by death – has lost its sting. It must be admitted that this line of thought is not very satisfying. Could God, in view of His omnipotence, not have redeemed the world immediately, in its present state? Why does he still tolerate evil, for which the evildoer will bear responsibility. Why does he allow that many people (e.g. the editor in the first epilogue) ‘see, but do not understand’. The answer of Saint Paul (Romans 9: 1922) to this objection seems logical enough, but is hard to accept: Thou wilt say then unto me, Why doth he yet find fault? For who hath resisted his will? Nay but, O man, who art thou that repliest against God? Shall the thing formed say to him that formed it, Why hast thou made me thus? Hath not the potter power over the clay, of the same lump to make one vessel unto honour, and another unto dishonour?

It seems that Norwid has succeeded in essentially modifying the perspective of the apostle (perhaps without realizing the anti-orthodox bent of his own line of thought), adopting it to the spirit of modernity. We have only access to God the Father through the Son. To modern man the Father is no less a logical shadow than Kant’s Ding an sich. He does not reveal himself directly. The possibility that man will be presented with a new Covenant from the cloud-covered summit of Mount Sinai, amidst lightning and thunder, is not taken seriously by

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Norwid. However, it remains possible to discover in our ‘natural’ (and ‘social’) environment traces that could be understood in the light of this or other revelations (that as images are never direct, but always mediated). This is the task of man, whose humanity is based on the Divine attribute of liberty and free choice; in other words: man can discover his determination, his stigma, or – as Witold Gombrowicz would call it – form, and subsequently try to transform it. He can either rise to the height of his mission or fall short of it. The messianic claims of Christ himself, as he is shown to us in the gospels, were based on the possibility of understanding His acts as traces that could be related to the promises and prophecies of the Old Testament; He actually never called himself the Messiah, but was recognized as such by His disciples, who perceived the stages of his life in the light of sacred history. In this respect there is no essential difference between the apostles and evangelists on the one hand and each human being on the other (this awareness that we are all priests, as yet ‘immature’ – we achieve maturity when we follow Christ with our own cross – is in itself proof of the start of our transformation). Sacred history excludes the use of constraint. Christ could merely sacrifice himself to redeem all men, but He can nobody force to follow His example to become a son of God, which, nevertheless, appears to be the deepest craving not only of man, but of the whole of being (Romans 8: 22-25): For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now. And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body. For we are saved by hope: but hope that is seen is not hope: for what a man seeth, why doth he yet hope for? But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.

The purpose of the multilayered and at first sight contradictory structure of Stigma is to arouse a mood that prevents us from being misled by the apparent ‘flatness of being’, its self-enclosure (as a perfect chain of phenomena, linked by causes and effects and investigated by a subject that does not become ‘involved’) within the borders of space and time: “this must be the ultimate border!… it is impossible to go any further” (VI: 115). It should induce us to take a more attentive look at the surface of the world. The ultimate goal of this sacred archaeology is a transformation of man’s personality into a subject of sacred history, a son of God, ‘God-man’. This state does not

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give him any wordly power. It is much more probable that he will suffer, but the meaning of his sacrifice will be clear to him. University of Amsterdam Notes 1

References to Norwid’s texts are all from the Collected Works (Norwid 1971); only volume number (in Roman) and page number (in Arabic numerals) are given. 2 Here we are again confronted with an apparent paradox: Norwid not only perceives the signs of Christ in man, but also finds them in the visible nature, which is – by definition – objective; cf. the description of the mountainous landscape surrounding Lucca and the curious, almost ‘personified’ rendering of a thunderstorm – for a ‘close reading’ of these fragments I refer to part 4 and 6 of this paper. It could, however, be asserted that the difference between the stigmatic ‘nature’ of man (even when ‘I’ consider my ‘own’ stigmata) and Christ’s wounds, recognized by us in nature, is without real significance. In both cases, the ‘perceiver’ has to establish the subjective essence of being, which, as ‘creation’, originates from a creator; in this connection creation can only be understood – but not grasped – as an act by a transcendent subject that, as far as the objects of this creative act share in the nature of the creation, must possess a subjectivity of their own. From this point of view ‘outside’ nature (even my ‘own’ body) and inner nature (the processes of ‘my’ mind) are similar: they are both objects, reflected upon by a subject. The gap between object and subject only closes, when ‘I’ experience being as a whole (including ‘my’-self) as a subject-object (as in Schelling’s Naturphilosophie). 3 The possible influence of Renan, who was one of the great literary and moral authorities of his epoque, on Norwid has been discussed by Alicja Lisiecka (1971), but she failed to find any traces in Norwid’s works and letters (in which he mentions Renan’s work on the semitic languages) that could confirm his familiarity with The Life of Jesus. Nonetheless, she supposes that Renan’s conception of a ‘laicist’ Christ would have been of interest to him. In this article I will try to show that Norwid was well aware of the implications of Renan’s ideas about the humanity of Christ. Stigma can be seen as a veiled discussion with this thesis, an attempt to beat the French positivist historian with his own weapons. 4 In this connection it does not seem irrelevant to notice that Norwid’s own hearing gradually deteriorated, which made him fall victim to various, often humiliating misunderstandings. 5 Norwid himself went into retreat, when he could not cope with his desperation because of his unrequited love for the beautiful niece of the Russian chancellor Nesselrode, Maria Kalergis, who hardly took notice of him. 6 In this respect she differs from Maria Kalergis, who remained for many years the star of the European salons, and whose marmoreal beauty was eternalized in poems of Heinrich Heine and Théophile Gautier. 7 “Die Figuraldeutung stellt einen Zusammenhang zwischen zwei Geschehnissen oder Personen her, in dem eines von ihnen nicht nur sich selbst, sondern auch das andere bedeutet, das andere hingegen das eine einschließt oder erfüllt. Beide Pole der Figur sind zeitlich getrennt, liegen aber beide, als wirkliche Vorgänge oder Gestalten, innerhalb der Zeit [...] in dem fließenden Strom enthalten, welcher das geschichtliche

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Leben ist, und nur das Verständnis, der intellectus spiritualis, ist ein geistiger Akt, der sich bei jedem der beiden Pole mit dem gegebenen oder erhofften Material des vergangenen, gegenwärtigen oder zukünftigen Geschehens zu befassen hat, nicht mit Begriffen oder Abstraktionen; diese sind durchaus sekundär, da ja auch Verheißung und Erfüllung als wirkliche und innergeschichtliche Ereignisse teils in der Fleischwerdung des Wortes geschehen sind, teils in seiner Wiederkunft geschehen werden” (Auerbach 1967: 77). 8 Podobno, Īe z zadaĔ czynnoĞci człowieka najniewinniejszym i najpiĊkniejszym, a pewno, Īe najciekawszym w znaczeniu swoim, jest zadanie te: Īeby pójĞü zobaczyü siĊ z kim – lub od-zobaczyü siĊ – zrobiü wizytĊ. KapłaĔstwo w tym jest człowieczeĔstwu przyrodzone i jest potoczny obrządek ceremoniału w naturze Īycia leĪący (VI: 105). 9 This is, of course, in itself a familiar idea, well-known among the members of the Primitive Church, to which Renan in Les Apôtres does not omit to draw attention, referring to certain passages in the Apocalypse (1: 6; 5: 10; 20: 6): “Rien encore de sacerdotal. Il n’y a pas de prêtre [...] Le seul prêtre est Jésus; en un autre sens Jésus; en un autre sens, tous les fidèles le sont” (Renan 1949: 527). Norwid transforms this notion by showing the process of realizing this potential human priesthood – or failing to accomplish this task. 10 Powiadają: Īe Boski-Mistrz równie był jasny Dla mądrych i maluczkich... (dopisek to własny Do Ewangelii czterech; nie wiem, z której? wziĊty). KtóĪ? mniej od Zbawiciela bywał tu pojĊty?! I czy On wszystkich uczył równo parabolą?... DziĞ – w Ewangeliach nawet czytają, co wolą! A czego wcale nie ma... lecz co tak siĊ czuje, Tak czyta, jak siĊ puĞci i z-wulgaryzuje (III: 594 ‘Rzecz o wolnoĞci słowa’; ‘On the Liberty of the Word’). 11 Słowo – jest czynu testamentem; czego siĊ nie moĪe czynem dopiąü to siĊ w słowie testuje – przekazuje; takie tylko słowa są potrzebne i takie tylko zmartwychwstają czynem – wszelkie inne są mniej lub wiĊcej uczoną frazeologią albo mechaniczną koniecznoĞcią, jeĪeli nie rzeczą samej sztuki (III: 463; ‘Promethidion’). 12 Nie ksiąĪek, ale prawd – to mi przewodniczyü zwykło w piĞmie... [...] Nie z krzyĪem Zbawiciela za sobą – ale z krzyĪem swoim za zbawicielem idąc – uwaĪałem za powinnoĞü daü głos myĞlom w piĞmie tym objĊtym (III: 471). 13 German philosophy is usually ridiculed by Norwid as abstract and without importance for real life. Typical is the following judgment from a letter to Maria TrĊbicka (Paris, july 1856): “When someone wanted to go to the phsycian of his brother, with whom he had made an appointment and I, knowing about this, visited him in order to explain to him most eloquently all kind of dogmatic truths, and we had so spent our time... truly, I would have been a liar, in spite of the extensiveness of my lecture on the most sacred truths. This constitutes the difference between the philosophy of Saint Paul and German philosophy” (VIII: 279-280). 14 These two essential aspects of objective ‘nature’, similar to Spinoza’s natura naturata, on the one hand with the religious a-priori that always must be ‘action’ by a human subject (natura naturans), interpreting and transforming ‘given’ reality – including ‘my own’ self – according to sacred history, discovering and experiencing

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everywhere the ways of life and death of Christ: ‘but with my own cross following the Redeemer’. 15 The status of nature as an unconscious part of God is, of course, one of the romantic stereotypes (cf. Schelling’s Naturphilosophie). The Polish poet and writer Zygmunt KrasiĔski, who was for some time the foremost intellectual authority of Norwid, draws attention to the “irony” of this situation in the context of the Resurrection: The word: ‘God is not the God of the dead, but of the living’, is already the first vibration of the sound of the trumpet, by which once the dead ashes will be moved and quickened into the sound of a new life! No, we cannot perish, because we are all particles of God, knowing that we are such. The particles of God are immortal! And if this knowledge has been given to them, how could it be taken away? […] But the spirit knows things, about which [nature] does not speak! Once it will also be said by nature. I am convinced that we are approaching a new revelation, but in the realm of nature, for in the realm of the spirit everything has been revealed by Christ, who is the One, Irrepeatable son”. Słowo: ‘Bóg nie jest Bogiem umarłych, lecz Īywych’, to juĪ pierwsze zadrgnienie dĨwiĊku trąby, która kiedyĞ prochy martwe w nowe rozedrga, rozruszy, wydĨwiĊczy Īycie! Nie, nie moĪemy zaginąü, bo jesteĞmy cząstkami Boga z wiedzą, ĪeĞmy takowymi. Cząstki Boga są nieĞmiertelne! A jeĞli dana im wiedza, Īe są, jakĪeĪ by im odjĊta byü miała? Czy Bóg jest ironią? Nie! Natura tylko jest ironią, bo takĪe jest cząstką Boga, ale bez wiedzy o tym [...] Ale duch o tym wie, czego [natura] nie powiada! KiedyĞ i natura powie. Jestem przekonany, Īe zbliĪamy siĊ do nowego objawienia, ale w sferze natury, bo w sferze ducha Chrystus wszystko juĪ objawił, a synem jest Jedynym i Niepowtórzonym” (KrasiĔski 1970: 409). The mature Norwid would reject this pantheist conception. There is no need to repeat the historical Revelation of Christ in the realm of nature, because – if we only look attentively – its traces are everywhere to be found (cf. the landscapes surrounding the little Spa in the Italian mountains that turn out to be the scene of a new episode of sacred history). 16 Ach, Panie, juĪ widzĊ krzyĪ – ach jak długo, długo Musi go nosiü – Panie, zlituj siĊ nad sługą. Daj mu siły, bo w drodze upadnie i skona – KrzyĪ ma długie na całą EuropĊ ramiona, Z trzech wyschłych ludów, jak z trzech twardych drzew ukuty, – JuĪ wleką; juĪ mój Naród na tronie pokuty – Rzekł: ‘PragnĊ’ – Rakus octem, Borus Īółcią poi, A matka WolnoĞü u nóg zapłakana stoi (Mickiewicz 1999: 189). 17 CóĪeĞ zrobił, najgłupszy, najsroĪszy z siepaczy!/ On jeden poprawi siĊ, I Bóg mu przebaczy” (Mickiewicz 1999: 190). 18 Gal w nim winy nie znalazł i – umywa rĊce,/ A króle krzyczą: ‘PotĊp I wydaj go mĊce […] Gal wydał – juĪ porwali – juĪ niewinne skronie/ Zakrwawione, w szyderskiej, cierniowej koronie,/ PodnieĞli przez Ğwiat cały – I ludy siĊ zbiegły;/ Gal krzyczy: ‘Oto naród wolny, niepodległy!’ (ibidem: 189). 19 I zdało siĊ młodzieĔcowi, Īe przechylił siĊ znad kopca ukoronowany olbrzym i Īe rĊkĊ wyciągnął ku umĊczonym mnóstwom, a drugą trzymał na pasie z kajdan i na biczu, jakby na orĊĪu jakim – i wołał: ‘wyrzeczcie siĊ przeszłoĞci i przyszłoĞci, ojczyzny i Boga – uznajcie mnie przeszłoĞcią i przyszłoĞcią, ojczyzną i Bogiem! – a

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jakom kazał was powbijaü na krzyĪ, tak kaĪĊ z krzyĪa zdjąü! – Tłuszcze me przywołam i zdejmą – i naród szczĊsny uczyniĊ z was! – Dam jadła i napoju, i wszelkiej obfitoĞci moc. – BĊdą jeszcze ciała zdrowe, ĞwieĪe, tyjące, z waszych nĊdznych podziurawionych ciał!’ (KrasiĔski 1973: 463-464). 20 Wokół Europa – bez czucia – bez dumy –/ Zgrzyt kół stalowych – parociągów szumy –/ I do bram giełdy cisnące siĊ tłumy” (KrasiĔski 1973: 123; W twoim ze Ğmierci ku Īyciu odrodzie). 21 Norwid started his literary career as the exalted author of romantic poems, wrote – both in verse and prose – treatises on theological and ‘historiosophical’ themes. His poetical strategy in Stigma and other mature short stories is prepared by some of his narrative poems, especially Quidam, situated in the time of the roman emperor Hadrian, and Assunta, a modern poem, that, as far as certain of its details are concerned, seems to be intimately connected with the short story about Oscar and RóĪa. 22 The presence of this motive is not in itself a sufficient proof of the intertextual links between Norwid and Renan. The Polish poet was very familiar with the Letters of Saint Paul. In his First Letter to the Corinthians (7: 34) the apostle explains the spiritual superiority of virgins and widows (provided that they remain faithful to their high vocation) over married women: “There is a difference also between the wife and the virgin. The unmarried woman careth for the things of the Lord, that she may be holy both in body and in spirit: but she that is married careth for the things of the world, how she may please her husband”. Yet, the fact that this motive is situated in a salon, the qualities of which are reminiscent of Renan’s spiritual community, where the two sexes freely associate, lends credence to the hypothesis that Stigma can also be understood as an intertextual dialogue with Renan’s writings on primitive Christianity. 23 – Ów – mówił mi półgłosem i do ucha siĊ chyląc – ów podróĪnik, hrabia X. (do którego sympatii nie miewałem), ma swoje zalety towarzyskie. W rozmowie ogólnej teraz podniósł, Īe w koĞciołach pierwotnych udzielano sobie wzajemnego pocałowania-braterskiego... WyobraĨ, proszĊ, zaszłe stąd kontrowersje!... jedni albowiem chcą wznowienia tradycji... inni i inne sekty siĊ obawiają... KoĔca temu nie przewidujĊ, gdyĪ ta sprawa siĊ toczy to ogólną, to uboczną rozmową... i półgłoĞną... (VI: 114). 24 At first sight it could seem strange that RóĪa, a ‘virgin’, condescends to abandon her privileged state [cf. Corinthians I 7: 25-26; 37-40]. However, falling in love, she exposes herself to suffering (inevitable from the point of view of Saint Paul’s reflections on marriage that in itself is not condemned; the apostle merely wishes to “spare trouble in the flesh”), following Christ with her own cross, which seems to be a sufficient atonement for her sentiments. 25 A skoro z nas dwóch pozostał juĪ tylko goĞü i przyjmujący u siebie goĞcia, poszukałem dlaĔ stosownych do godziny lekkich napiü, gdy sam, lejąc wino białe [it should, of course have been ‘red wine’! A.v.N.], mówiłem: – Racz sobie, jak za właĞciwe uznasz, słuĪyü... ja – wino pijĊ [during the Last Supper Christ himself served his disciples! – A.v.N.]. – I ja niemniej. I dotknĊliĞmy wzajemnie wrĊbów szklanek (VI: 118). 26 – Teraz, gdy bez dzwonka jesteĞmy [the house bell had been taken down, to avoid that RóĪa, who has fallen seriously ill and needs much sleep, is disturbed by noise], czujnoĞü nasza nieustanną byü powinna; I tak nieco sami jesteĞmy, jak te prawdziwie

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chrzeĞcijaĔskie dusze, którym niewiadomy jest ani dzieĔ, ani godzina, gdy Ğmierü przyjdzie (VI: 122). 27 Jako bardzo niepoprawny romansista, nie nadmieniłem juĪ po dwakroü, Īe to działo siĊ u wód [...] U wód – nie oznacza ĞciĞle jakich jednych, lecz u całej ich geologicznej grupy, przerozmaicanej to ciekawymi ruinami godnymi wycieczek, to miejscami, skąd siĊ urocze widoki rozesłaniają. ZaĞ kto by nie wierzył we feeryczne okolice i sprawy, zaĞ komu by wydawało siĊ, Īe nie ma nic oprócz sensu realnego inĪynierii i administracji – ten niech uwaĪnie spojrzy na wesołe i dostatnie miasteczko, miĊdzy odludnymi skały wokoło jednej szklanki wody i dla niej zbudowane i rozwijające siĊ. Ta niteczka zdrojowej wody – cienka i przebłyskująca od szczytu skały przez cały stromy bok jej, niknący w przepaĞci – która siĊ gdzieĞ potem w podziemiach przerabia w zbawienny napój i opodal starej kaplicy wytryskuje – oto miasta i okolicy geneza i municipium! (VI: 108). 28 Cf. The Gospel of Saint John 19: 33-37, and Renan’s account of this event: “On crut voir couler du sang et de l’eau, ce qu’on regarda comme un signe de la cessation the vie” (Renan 1949: 353). In Stigma the water from the side of the rock is, on the contrary, a “healing, redeeming beverage”; later the doubting Thomas laid his hand on His stigmata (John 20: 27). 29 Nastąpiło zatem bez-obmyĞlnie, iĪ sam siĊ w ciągu dnia, dla coraz to piĊkniejszych widoków zatułałem w góry [...] Lecz poĪałowaü tego ani moje oczy potrafią, ani serce, widziałem albowiem uroczy wizerunek najpiĊkniejszego z okolicznych krajobrazów. Amfiteatr szeroki ze skał fioletowej lub rózowawej barwy, piĊtrząc siĊ, otaczał padół, który w głĊbi przerzynała wesoła rzeka. ĝlady drogi rzymskiej, a zapewne dla odmienionej miejsc waĪnoĞci dziĞ zaniechanej, bieliły siĊ jednak doĞü wyraĨnie po obu stronach koryta skalistego. Nurty gdzie-niegdzie spotykały odłam, widocznie ze szczytów skał skrąĪony, i w tuman siĊ biały roztrącały o jego twardoĞü, drobne tĊcze wkoło rzucając. (VI: 114; italics A.v.N.) 30 The places where Christianity, thanks to the preaching of Saint Paul and the inate religious disposition of their inhabitants (they are somewhat naïve and inclined to melancholy because of their tender souls), first took root, are depicted by Renan in a similar manner. The plain of the Orontes near Antiochia, the mountains of Asia Minor and Macedony all share an abundance of water, lush meadows and opulent groves. In the country-side of Asia Minor we even discover bizarre rocks with torn sides: “sommets dentelés comme une scie, flancs déchiréés et déchiquetés, cônes étranges et murs à pic, où s’étalent avec éclat toutes les beautés de la pierre” (Renan 1949: 827). The bed of the river is strewn with boulders: “Un repos d’une heure, un morceau de pain mangé sur le bord de ces ruisseaux limpides, courrant sur le lit de cailloux, vous soutient pour longtemps”. Renan was unaware of the ‘figural’ potential of these images, but it seems quite probable that Norwid, when he wrote Stigma, was inspired by his landscapes. 31 Co wydawaü by siĊ miało zbyt gwałtownie złamanym w liniach amfiteatru, to łagodziły grube masy drzew zielonych: było, jednym słowem, pełno i harmonijnie, jak na niebie... (VI: 114). 32 Pełna była słonecznoĞü – rozległy i głĊboki dokoła widok, a całe sklepienie niebieskie jakimĞ błogosławionym wdziĊkiem harmonii obejmowało Ğwiat i ludzi. CoĞ, jakoby złote sklepienie pierwotnej jakiejĞ bazyliki chrzeĞcijaĔskiej, gdzie zacne serce i Īywe zamieniały ze sobą bratni pocałunek w Bogu dobrym i aniołach Jego... (VI: 115).

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Wszelako, właĞnie gdy wychodziłem, doszło mnie zawołanie do cierpącego kolegi, a gdy w jego znowu wchodziłem progi, spadły mi na twarz wielkie dwie krople deszczu, powiał nagle wiatr, i jedna z tych gwałtownych letnich powstała burz, które są piĊkne i groĨne. Urozmaiciło to poniekąd wieczorynek nasz we cztery oczy spĊdzany, ale zaleciło zarazem nie najopieszalej mieü siĊ z odwrotem, gdyĪ nie ustawały silne błyskawice, nawet przy lamp Ğwietle widoczne. Firmament zaĞ pełno i safirowo jednym dopiero patrzył okiem, drugie mając u szczytu skał ciĊzką chmurą przywarte. Upatrzywszy przeto stosowną chwilĊ, jąłem do siebie wracaü wĞród oziĊbianego gradem powietrza i przy leniwo siĊ uspakajających grzmotach. JuĪ uciszaü stanowczo zdawały siĊ one, gdy jeszcze tam i sam uderzał piorun, jak nie wystrzelony w czas swój ładunek, i jeszcze zabłąkana błyskawica bielmem w oczy pryskała (VI: 116-117). 34 Renan – as we have already seen – refuses to consider the miracles of sacred history as ‘pious frauds’ and attempts to find natural explanations for them. Curiously, he uses Saint Paul’s conviction (expressed in the famous thirteenth chapter of the First Letter to the Corinthians) that the “knowledge of mysteries and science” and the “gifts of prophesy and languages” do not suffice if they are not sanctified by love, as a pretext to exalt the importance of modern, natural science: “Versé dans la psychologie expérimentale, Paul eût été un peu plus loin; il eût dit: ‘Frêres, laissez là les illusions. Ces bégaiement inarticulés, ces extases, ces miracles sont les rêves de votre enfance. Ce qui n’est pas chimère, ce qui est éternel, c’est ce que je viens à l’instant de vous prêcher.’ Mais alors il n’eût pas été de son temps [we remember that every epoque has its particular ‘stigma’, A.v.N.] ; il n’eût pas fait ce qu’il a fait” (Renan 1949: 993). 35 In other words: a ‘hallucination’. With this notion Renan (who in spite of his great sympathy for Jezus as “the most perfect of man” did not belief in the literal, transcendent sense of Christ’s Resurrection) characterizes Mary Magdalene’s conviction that she had met Christ near His grave, in the shape of a gardener (at first not recognizing him): “Disons cependant que la forte imagination de Marie de Magdala joua dans cette circonstance un rôle capital. Pouvoir divin de l’amour! Moments sacrés où la passion d’une hallucinée donne au monde un Dieu ressuscité!” (Renan 1949: 356). 36 The narrator’s sobriety contrasts sharply with the atmosphere in the salon of the general’s widow (the image of the Primitive Church) where even flowers seem to be intoxicated: However, when I looked at the flowers that luxuriantly had risen to half of the height of the windows, I suspected the servant of clumsiness – I suspected him [to be the cause] that the aroma of tea and rum had suddenly imparted itself to the flowers that were already falling into slumber. In a word: that it was not without reason that they looked with brighter eyes!... Patrząc zaĞ na kwiaty, które do połowy okien gĊsto wznosiły siĊ, podejrzewałem słuĪącego o niezgrabnoĞü – podejrzewałem go, Īe aromu herbaty i rumu udzieliło siĊ nagle zasypiającym juĪ roĞlinom. Słowem – Īe nie bez przyczyny jaskrawszymi one patrzą oczyma!... (VI: 106). Only the rose does not seem to share in this intoxication, perhaps because it is more intimately connected with Christ than the other flowers: Only the rose I did not suspect to have forgotten itself in such a common manner, but the fiery pomegranate moght not be sober, and the large, crimson lips of the geranium were gleaming as if intoxicated.

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RóĪy jednej nie podejrzewałem o zapomnienie siĊ tak gminne, lecz płomienisty granat mógł nie byü trzeĨwym, a pąsowe i wielkie usta geranium lĞniły siĊ wyraĨnie jak podpiłe (VI: 106). The properties of the rose should, of course, be related with the character of RóĪa, the ‘Virgin’, who, among the protagonists of Stigma (thanks to the firmness of her character), stands nearest to Christ, i.e. actively follows Him with her cross, to the point of repeating His sacrifice (the other flowers more or less passively profit from His beneficent influence). It is very difficult to establish the symbolic significance of the pomegranate and the geranium in this fragment. The former often stands (according to Christian iconography) as a symbol of the Virgin Mary; as a tree the pomegranate may signify the Resurrection of Christ, but these possible meanings are alienated by the strange context. However, the very fact that the narrator seeks a cause for their intoxicated look (“Słowem – Īe nie bez przyczyny jaskrawszymi one patrzą oczyma!...”) may offer us a clue as to the significance of these details (arising out of the contrast with the vision near the chapel where the presence of RóĪa – the Rose – turns out to be a delusion at the very moment when the narrator has found a scientifically acceptable cause that could have produced this accident too miraculous to be true, i.e. ‘real’). The narrator remains sober; in other words he does not acknowledge a point of view that accepts the existence of facts without a cause, which would presuppose a certain spiritual drunkenness: then I immediately realized that I was under the influence of a nervous disorder and with a scientific smile I continued my way, quietly and soberly (natychmiast siĊ spostrzegłem, Īe jestem pod wpływem nerwowego rozstroju ułudnego, i ze scjentyficznym uĞmiechem spokojnie I trzeĨwo szedłem dalej; VI: 116; italics A.v.N.). It seems that his attempts to find a ‘natural’ explanation for the intoxication of the pomegranate and geranium in the salon of the general’s widow (of course, this ‘humorous’ scene is less serious in its implications than the vision near the chapel) shows his inability to recognize its true status as a new Primitive Church. The meaning of an second small detail, “that the flowers luxuriantly had risen to half of the height of the large windows”, could suggest that Resurrection is always near but has not yet occurred, as a result of the same human inability to perceive the signs of sacred history ‘here and now’ (not only to ‘see’, but also to ‘understand’). 37 ToteĪ I zbłądziłem nieco, lubo niewiele; zadziwiłem siĊ jednak, ujrzawszy nagle mur starej kaplicy, wszystkim znanej. AĪ oto na razie uczułem rodzaj strwoĪenia, jakiego siĊ doznawa przez bezĞwiadome przejĊcie siĊ cudzym gestem gwałtownym. To byü musiało nieułudne, gdyĪ usłyszałem tĊpy stuk czoła o mur lub o brąz podwoi, jaki wydawa rzecz krucha lub delikatna, rubasznie na bok odepchniĊta. Wszelako urĊczyü siebie dostatecznie nie mogłem, czy istotnie kto przebiegł drogĊ? Czyli wydawało mi siĊ co widzieü skutkiem niezwykłego Ğwiatłocieniu i działalnoĞci nerwów wĞród zelektryzowanego powietrza. Lecz skoro nagle, i ni stąd ni zowąd, myĞl mi przyszła nieusprawiedliwiona i nieupowodowana niczym, jakoby postaü ta była panna RóĪa!!... natychmiast siĊ spostrzegłem, Īe jestem pod wpływem nerwowego rozstroju ułudnego, i Īe scjentyficznym uĞmiechem spokojnie i trzeĨwo szedłem dalej, wkrótce na właĞciwej drodze powrotu siĊ znalazłszy (VI: 116). 38 Cf. The second part of Stigma: “Not without reason the ancients called Dream a gift of the gods! – and although its special history has not yet been written, it would be difficult to sever the dream from history as a whole. There are, as a matter of fact, towns that have been founded because of a dream – battles have been won or lost

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because of a dream – the historic fate of great individuals depends often on a dream” (VI: 127). 39 Cf. “when we are unconsciously disturbed by a violent movement not our own” (VI: 116). 40 Cf. “I heard the dull sound of a head knocking against either a wall or the bronze door of the entrance” (VI: 116). 41 This redeeming act, essential if man is supposed to regain his spiritual health, remains entirely unnoticed by the ‘world’ that perceives merely the ironical “accident” (in sacred history nothing is ‘accidental’) of loosing one’s health in a Spa, where we are supposed to restore it. This point of view is represented by a worthy gentleman in the epilogue of Stigma: “What a sad accident! if only it had not happened in a Spa [“u wód”, “at a source of healing water”], where we are going for our health! but, my dear sir, you can catch there a cold as well as everywhere else... By the way, it should be admitted that she was a fine girl [“panna”], there are no words to express it” (CóĪ za smutny przypadek! Ta Ğ.p. panna RóĪa – bo Īeby to nie było u wód, gdzie siĊ przecieĪ dla zdrowia jeĨdzi!... acz i tu, panie dobrodzieju, tak samo siĊ przeziĊbisz jak gdzie indziej... Wyznaü teĪ naleĪy, Īe to panna była! Nie ma co mówiü”; VI: 128). All images and phrases that could be related to sacred history, have become trivialized, which inclines the narrator to a desperate reflection: “Co ci ludzie z poczciwoĞci słowa zrobili?!” (“What have these people done to the honesty of the word?!”). 42 Norwid, hiding sacred history, embroidering it into the texture of daily life, that it may be revealed by a subject, does not simply write “a thunderstorm”, which would be too obvious, but “one of these violent thunderstorms in the summer that are both beautiful and dangerous” (VI: 115). 43 Cf. “or did I seem to see something under the influence of the unusual chiaroscuro and the operation of my nerves amidst the electrified air” (VI: 116). 44 Cf. Stigma: “suddenly there blew a wind and broke one of these violent summer storms that are beautiful and menacing”. 45 ‘Modern’ man acts usually in the exactly opposite manner, as is demonstrated by the narrator of Stigma. 46 Cf.: “then I immediately realized that I was under the influence of a nervous disorder” (VI: 116). 47 In Stigma the whole of reality, the surface of the world, seems to be perceived through a cataract that thanks to the lightning “bursts asunder”: “and one straying thunderbold burst asunder as a cataract in the eyes” (VI: 116). 48 JakoĪ nie tylko znalazłem miejsce, gdzie widzeniem zaskoczony byłem, ale nawet Ğlady moich stąpaĔ; uwaĪając zaĞ, iĪ grad z deszczem i grzmoty zupełnie tam glebĊ urobiły jako glinĊ rzeĨbiarską, poskoczyłem ku wielkim łomom głazów, gdzie na chwilĊ znikła była owa postaü, i zobaczyłem wyraĨny Ğlad smukłej stopy niewieĞciej... (VI: 119). 49 I oto nic juĪ nie miałem do zapytywania, wszystko wyraĨnie widząc. JuĪci Īe po scenie Oskara wybiegła RóĪa ukoiü siĊ... Ci dwoje nieszczĊĞni wzajemnie sobie rozdarli serce, równie namiĊtnie siĊ kochając. Nieporozumienie najniewinniej graniczące ze zbrodnią!... coĞ strasznego… (VI: 119). 50 But, as we remember, even here the religious perspective is present, in the story told by the housekeeper (ochmistrzyni) about the “truly Christian souls, to whom the day and hour of their death is unknown”, which means that they always should be prepared.

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RóĪa, being the only link between her almost deaf father and the outside world, which ‘detail’ explains the ‘setting’ of her voice, her manner speaking; Oscar, who had to take care of the unpredictable behaviour of his deceased somnambulist wife, which made his anyway sensitive nerves even more refined, producing an interpretative attitude that does not take events and phenomena at their ‘face-value’. 52 – WiĊc to nie oni! – rzekłem – lecz wypieczĊtowane przez zmarłych znamiĊ na nich... a gdyby czas i bardziej wydoskonalone Ğrodki obserwacyjne dozwalały na takie zastanowienia, okazałoby siĊ moĪe, Īe tak samo wszyscy bywamy, lub tak jesteĞmy. I ludy, i pokolenia, i nawet osobistoĞci pojedyĔcze, podobno, Īe arcymało, jako oni i one same, weszli dotąd w dramat Īycia i w historiĊ! Wielkie to jest jeszcze pytanie, kto? Na samych nawet polach boju potyka siĊ... (VI: 122). 53 Norwid himself spent some time in one of their monasteries, but his attempt to become a member of this congregation was rejected in view of a negative assessment by his spiritual supervisors, who attributed his devout intentions – not without reason – to a disappointment in love; he had finally understood that the beautiful countess Maria Kalergis completely ignored him. 54 Cf.: “Towns, monuments, settlements and the property of civilization were to them as a contradiction” (VI: 124). 55 Especially the latter tribe was highly regarded by Norwid, who was convinced, as the result of a pseudo-etymological analysis of his own family name (“North-wid”), to be a descendant of these people, who “jumping from their long ships, it seemed that they returned to their own estates where they rule and arrange public affairs, being monarchs in the places where they have landed, so that they once possessed almost the whole known world” (VI: 125). 56 It would be interesting to investigate in detail the possible sources of this impressive vision. In this article I will, however, refrain from this task. Contrary to the first part of Stigma, where sacred history proved to be mediated by Renan’s writings on Christianity, the mechanisms of intertextuality do not give us here a deeper insight into the ideological significance of the vision. Its superficial meaning seems clear enough and the emphasis on race, geography (or climate) and milieu as the formative factors of nationhood (combined with ‘momentum’, the unpredictable contribution of individual man, the ‘psychological’ predispositions of a Caligula or Nero) refer to the ideas of the positivist literary historian Hippolyte Taine, with whose writings Norwid was very familiar (cf. the remarks of J.W. Gomulicki, the editor of Norwid’s Pisma wszystkie, in the critical supplement to volume VII: 707). 57 Ludzie! PrzypowieĞü stara egipska siĊ pełni, Ucząca nas, Īe zamki monarchów, i grody, I domostwa są tylko zajezdnymi wroty, Groby zaĞ mieszkaniami istotnymi. Tak jest, OczywiĞcie, i z gmachem tym na oko Ğwietnym! (V: 24; Kleopatra i Cezar). 58 The motive of a stigma as a ‘mark’ (“piĊtno”) in combination with ‘shape’ (kształt) had already been used by Norwid in one of the poems of his famous verse-collection Vade-mecum (1865): “Men, although marked [branded, stigmatized] by the shape of race (Ludzie, choü kształtem ras napiĊtnowani; II, 19). The grand vision in the second part of Stigma realizes the sacred potential of this rather pale image. 59 In one of his fragmentary “mythological” notes Norwid himself suggests that races are the effect “of man harmonizing with nature, by which he is surrounded: just like a

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white or gray hare. The Mongol living at home has thousand years remained the same, but embodied elsewhere he is hardly recognizable. Climate? It changes” (VII: 253). 60 Norwid held the letters of Saint Paul in high regard: in a letter to General Jan Skrzynecki he called him “the deepest philosopher” (VIII: 380). In a letter to Michalina Zaleska (Paris, 1873) he describes them as “rhapsodies, half poetic, half philosophic and full of a fiery inspiration; often panting with prophecy, covered with the dust of the roads passed by the apostle, in order to dry the ink!” (X: 9). 61 Cf. the following fragment from Norwid’s unfinished and not always clear reflections on “Historical Resurrection” (1851): “Man, in order to become independent from his environment, must know for what he lives, for what he dies – but death, which is not his goal (on the contrary: it is his enemy), should become gradually weaker in its mortifying strength. In other words, man rising more and more from death, overcomes death to a larger and larger extent, following the example of the Redeemer, who has prevailed over death” (VI: 609). 62 He is merely interested in anecdotes and stories that sell, and refuses to meditate on the deeper meaning of the ‘reported’ events. Not surprisingly the narrator draws a most dehumanized picture of his appearance: “But look, the door opens itself and I saw with the edge of my eye (for I did not turn my head) how an umbrella and a leg entered, above them spectacles, and the whole shape of the editor of the local newspaper” (VI: 127). 63 The little gooseherdess standing at the opposite side of the brook, not so much showing her geese the direction, in which they should go, as being herself led by them (the reason why the villagers call her “stupid”), seems to be the emblem of ‘naïve’, rural poetry that inspired much of Polish nineteenth-century literature (e.g. Lenartowicz), which, of course, could not be really naive (these poets were educated men), but became ‘sentimental’ (Schiller). Norwid was proud that his highly ironic and allusive work represented the spirit of his nation in a truer sense, but he was very much aware of the prize he paid (even astute readers complained about the darkness and incomprehensibility of his poetry and prose). The allegorical scene at the end of Stigma shows the implications of this lack of understanding. The rural muse of Polish poetry has unconsciously chosen Norwid as her mouthpiece, throwing a flower and feather (“pióro”, i.e. a ‘quill’, a writing pen) towards him, and then runs on, “sincere and cheerful” (VI: 129), chasing her geese. In my opinion the reader should resist the temptation to connect this ironic vision (folk poetry remains a positive influence, as compared with the ‘professional men of letters’) with sacred history. The loneliness of a neglected poet cannot be equated with Christ forsaken by his heavenly Father.

Bibliography Auerbach, Erich. 1967. Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Romanischen Philologie. Bern: Francke Verlag. KrasiĔski, Zygmunt. 1970. Listy do Adama Sołtana (‘Letters to Adam Sołtan’), ed. Z. Sudolski. Warszawa, PIW. –– 1973. Dzieła literackie (‘Literary Works’, ed. P. Hertz), volume I. Warszawa: PIW. Lisiecka, Alicja. 1971. Norwid – poeta historii, London: Veritas Foundation Publication Centre.

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Mickiewicz, Adam. 1999. Dzieła, tom III, Dramaty (‘Works, volume III, Drama’, ed. Z. Stefanowska). Warszawa: Czytelnik. Norwid, Cyprian. 1971. Pisma wszystkie (‘Collected Works’, ed. J.W. Gomulicki), 11 volumes. Warszawa: PIW. Renan, Ernest. 1949. Oeuvres completes de Ernest Renan (ed. H. Psichari), tome IV. Paris: Calman-Lévy. Strauss, David Friedrich. 1924. Das Leben Jesu für das Deutsche Volk bearbeitet, erster Teil. Leipzig: Alfred Kroner Verlag. –– 1969. Das Leben Jesu kritisch bearbeitet, erster und zweiter Band, (reprografischer Nachdruck der Originalausgabe Tübingen 1836). Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft.

“New Times Require New People”. The Demise of the Epoch-making Hero in Late Nineteenth-Century Russian Literature Otto Boele Abstract: This article focuses on a crucial, if largely forgotten polemic in the history of Russian literary criticism which revolved around the question as to why late nineteenth-century literature had stopped featuring truly inspiring, “epoch-making” heroes, such as Grigorii Pechorin (A Hero of Our Time) or Evgenii Bazarov (Fathers and Children). Some critics regarded the disappearance of such strong and lonely characters as an encouraging development testifying to the rapid spread of enlightenment among the lower strata of society. Others explained the “deheroization” of Russian literature as a corollary of the political reaction under Tsar Alexander III. After examining the writings of various liberal and radical critics who spoke out on the demise of the epoch-making hero, the article proceeds to discuss Iakov Abramov’s theory of “small deeds” and, in particular, its assumed practitioner: the law-abiding intellectual who rejects the radicalism of the 1860s and modestly serves the people. Drawing on three longer stories by Ignatii Potapenko and on the writings of the critics Dmitrii Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii and Vatslav Vorovskii, the author argues that Abramov’s alternative role model (which in practice was highly successful) did not fit the dominant paradigm of late nineteenth-century criticism. Hence the critics’ refusal to accept Abramov’s non-heroic toiler as a successor to Bazarov and admit him to the canon of epoch-making heroes of Russian literature. Keywords: Hero of Our Time; Theory of Small Deeds; Ignatii Potapenko; Anton Chekhov

In 1874 writer and critic Mikhail Avdeev published a book-length study entitled Our Society (1820-1870) [as reflected in] Literary Heroes and Heroines (Avdeev 1874).1 As the title already indicates, it presents an overview that sketches society’s evolution by examining the ideological and mental make-up of Russian literature’s best-known literary characters. In its approach, the book is not particularly original, even if Avdeev’s decision to devote half of it to women characters seems to suggest otherwise. Except for some mild criticism directed against Vissarion Belinskii for deliberately ignoring Chatskii, Avdeev confines himself to repeating received notions on the usual suspects. Chatskii, Onegin, Pechorin, Rudin, Insarov and, finally, Bazarov – all have their own chapter.2 For all its lack of originality,

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however, the publication of Our Society was a significant event in the history of Russian literary criticism. To my knowledge it is the first attempt to draw up a nearly exhaustive inventory of historical types and thus to define a ‘hall of fame’ for Russian literature’s epochmaking heroes. Given the year of publication, the historical scope of Avdeev’s book was necessarily limited. The concluding chapters are dedicated to the ‘people of the 1860s’, containing little speculation on the next generation that was already emerging at the time of writing. Because he died in 1876, Avdeev never had a chance to revise his work or to expand his gallery of literary characters by including historical types of later origin. And yet it does not seem likely that he would have done so, had he lived another twenty years. A brief look at the writings of early twentieth-century critics shows that the obligatory listing of historical types in articles dealing with the Russian intelligentsia usually avoided mentioning fictional intelligenty from the ‘post-Bazarov’ period. As Il’ia Ignatov, a leading critic working for the national daily Russkie vedomosti observed in 1907: “Chatskii, Evgenii Onegin, Pechorin, Bel’tov, Rudin, Bazarov – this is the ladder of types of the Russian intelligentsia that everybody is familiar with (…). With Bazarov it all seems to have ended” (Ignatov 1907: 3). Significantly, Avdeev’s study was granted a new edition in the same year. Despite the fact that it stopped at the late 1860s, its general purport still seemed valid just after the failed revolution of 1905. What exactly caused the demise of the epoch-making hero in late nineteenth-century Russian literature is open to debate, but it seems feasible that the absence of an obvious successor to Bazarov was predicated, amongst other things, by the growing heterogeneity of the intelligentsia. By the end of the century the intelligentsia was no longer dominated by children from the clergy, but more and more by commoners of indeterminate origin (Malia 1961: 5-7). We can speculate that the intelligentsia’s ideological fragmentation also played a considerable role. By the 1870s the cultural paradigm of the generation of the 1860s became blurred and dissolved into a spectrum of separate paradigms, ranging from moderately opposition-minded liberalism to violent resistance advocated by the more radical elements (Živov 1999: 49). All in all, it must have become even harder than before to agree on what a generation’s ‘typical’ representative looked like.

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But if it is impossible to point out with certainty the deeper causes behind this decline, we still may ask how critics explained this development, and what deeper significance they attributed to it. Did it really signal a loss to them, and if so, was it permanent or only temporary? Had Russian society entered a new stage requiring new role models, or were the old ones still valid? In the following I will not only attempt to answer these questions by discussing a largely forgotten polemic between the ‘men of the 1860s’ and the ‘men of the 1880s’, but I will also argue that the former group and a number of Marxist critics simply proved unwilling to recognize a legitimate successor to Bazarov. Literary characters that were pushed forward as possible new ‘heroes of our time’ (by the men of the 1880s) were discarded as historically irrelevant by the men of the 1860s. Drawing on three longer stories by the once immensely popular author Ignatii Potapenko, this article seeks to reconstruct the ‘hero of our time’ of the 1880s, the would-be successor to Bazarov, who was not admitted to the canon of epoch-making heroes. 1. Fathers, Children and Grandchildren Although the issue of Russian literature’s ‘de-heroization’ did not become acute before the 1880s, it was again Avdeev who seems to have suspected that such a development would eventually occur. A true optimist, Avdeev believed that since intellectual thought and social activism were rapidly spreading among the lower strata of society, Russia was inevitably moving away from the times of strong and lonely men. In effect, literature featuring heroic figures would soon belong to the past, as the time for ordinary workers had come (Avdeev 1874: 129). Writing in the relatively liberal times of Tsar Alexander II, Avdeev could not foresee how the absence of a successor to Bazarov would be construed during the reactionary reign of Alexander III (1881-1894). The penultimate tsar revoked many of the liberties that his father had introduced, tightening censorship again and restricting access to higher education. This political course was not only at odds with Avdeev’s rosy projections of Russia’s unstoppable enlightenment, but it also turned the demise of the epoch-making hero into a question of some urgency. Was it inevitable and really a sign of progress, as Avdeev had surmised, or did it point to a moral crisis of the intelligentsia, which apparently had stopped producing characters

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of the same caliber as Bazarov? To what extent was contemporary literature responsible for deepening the sense of stagnation that pervaded Russian society under Alexander III? One of the first to address these issues was Roman Disterlo, a minor critic who contributed to the moderately populist periodical Nedelia (The Week). In a number of articles published in 1888-1889 he argued that in Russia a new type of writer had come to the fore that differed fundamentally from the writers of previous generations. If the latter had declared war on the existing order, or at least had attempted to expose its shortcomings, then the writer of the 1880s seemed to accept Russian society as it was. Instead of offering new vistas of future happiness or designing new heroic types, as the authors of the 1840s and the 1860s had done, the writer of the 1880s felt at home exploiting more prosaic themes and creating less elevated characters: “[The younger generation] does not feel hate or contempt for man’s ordinary life, he does not appreciate and recognize man’s duty to be a hero at all costs, he does not believe in the possibility of ideal people” (Disterlo 2006b: 218).3 This more pliable attitude of the new writer led Disterlo to differentiate between the ‘younger generation’ on the one hand, and the ‘fathers’ (the radicals of the 1860s) and the ‘grandfathers’ (the idealists of the 1840s) on the other. What set the new writers apart from the two previous generations, in Disterlo’s view, was not the way in which they resisted the status quo, but the fact that they did not resist at all. For someone raised on the novels of the fathers, reading a work by a young writer was like being moved from a world of serious thought and deep suffering to a company of naïve and carefree tourists (Disterlo 2006a: 217).4 Although a number of writers continued to disseminate the ideals of the past, most of Russia’s latest literature exuded a sort of equanimity and skepticism that had previously not been around (ibidem: 218).5 By replacing the ‘traditional’ fathers and children paradigm of the 1860s with a ternary generational model, Disterlo provoked the indignation of a number of older critics, such as Nikolai Shelgunov and Nikolai Mikhailovskii. Shelgunov had been a close ally of the radical critics Chernyshevskii and Dobroliubov, and had written extensively on the ideological divide between the men of the 1840s and the 1860s (see Šelgunov 1974). Much to his dismay, he now found himself relegated to the category of the ‘fathers’. Shelgunov did

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not contest Disterlo’s characterization of the ‘young writers’ as skeptics who had distanced themselves from their fathers’ and grandfathers’ ideals, but he very much doubted their historical significance and therefore rejected the idea of a new generation conflict. Authors continuing the traditions of the past, such as Korolenko, Garshin and Nadson, were far more popular than Disterlo’s ‘new writers’, whose shallow success remained restricted to St. Petersburg (Šelgunov 1895). The influential populist critic Mikhailovskii considered the application of the ‘fathers and children’ formula to the 1880s simply ludicrous. Deprived of any real talent and knowledge, the so-called ‘children’ of Nedelia were a deeply reactionary phenomenon that would disappear again once the stagnant years were over. To illustrate the ‘children’s’ self-overestimation, Mikhailovskii angrily quoted a letter from an anonymous reader to Shelgunov in which the latter was urged to “clear the road” and yield to the “man of the eighties” (Michajlovskij 1909a: 964). Such claims not only testified to a lack of respect for what the men of the 1860s had accomplished, Mikhailovskii argued; they also raised the erroneous impression that the youngest generation was a formidable political force. In Mikhailovskii’s opinion, the vos’midesiatnik was a hype that could easily be debunked by simply scrutinizing his moral and intellectual fabric: “Let us take a good look at you and count how many there are of you, let us evaluate your talents and power, which you manage to hide so meticulously that one begins to suspect you haven’t got any” (ibidem, 956). In short, the ‘children’ of the 1880s were such a “petty phenomenon” that they only deserved to be mentioned in connection with the prevailing mood in society (Michajlovskij 1957: 596). At first sight, Mikhailovskii’s exasperation may seem disproportionate. Why did the arguably most feared and authoritative critic of late nineteenth-century literature take umbrage at the writings of a minor colleague? The very suggestion of a new generation having taken over may have hurt Mikhailovskii’s pride, of course, but this seems only part of the answer. To appreciate Mikhailovskii’s aggravation we need to take into account that Disterlo’s articles were published in Nedelia, a weekly that promoted a brand of populism of which Mikhailovskii did not approve. The journal not only advanced the ideal of social improvement through constructive work and gradual enlightenment, an ideal that became popularly known as the

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‘theory of small deeds’; it also introduced a new behavioral model as embodied by the theory’s ideal adherent: the law-abiding ‘non-heroic’ intellectual who shuns the reckless heroism of the previous generation and modestly serves the people. The most explicit attempt to formulate this behavioral model came from one of Nedelia’s main editors, the journalist and critic Iakov Abramov (1858-1906), who is generally seen as the spiritual father of the theory of small deeds and gradualism (postepenstvo). Contrary to Avdeev, Abramov was convinced that the role of the intelligentsia had not decreased in significance, but that its representatives now had other, less spectacular obligations to fulfill, and this considerably diminished their heroic stature. At the same time, the intelligentsia should not slide back into the desperation and inertia of the superfluous men, for this would set Russian society back even further. The point was to find a third way, an escape route that would lead the sons away from the deadlock of the fathers and the grandfathers: “Our intelligentsia considers itself to be either too heroic or incapable of doing anything. [In this country] everybody is either a hero or a wimp. Isn’t it about time that a middle type started to emerge – a man capable of doing simple, honest work? Such a man we need very badly and the future belongs to him” (Abramov 1885: 1412).6 By proposing an alternative and supposedly more effective type of behavior, Abramov implicitly pronounced a verdict on the radical legacy of the 1860s, more specifically on the imperative of violent resistance and self-denial advanced by the terrorist Sergei Nechaev in his infamous Catechism of a Revolutionary (1869). Instead of openly confronting the regime by killing its main figureheads, the intelligentsia could be more productive by providing the common people with medical care and by raising their educational level. While no one could object to such a line of action per se and while Mikhailovskii was also opposed to violence, it was the lack of any political demands in Abramov’s program that radical thinkers, including Mikhailovskii and Shelgunov, found disturbing. To them it smacked of defeatism. According to Lenin, Abramov’s theory of small deeds distracted society’s progressive forces from the revolution (Lenin 1967: 252, 264). Even if Marxist criticism attempted to discredit the theory of small deeds as a reactionary phenomenon, its practical successes were considerable. Despite the deception of the going-to-the-people

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campaign of the mid 1870s, between the mid 1880s and WO I thousands of young men and women flocked to the countryside to work as doctors, teachers and engineers, and in many cases made an important contribution to the improvement of life in the provinces.7 Russian literature of this period offers numerous fictional portraits of intellectuals who serve the people in this unspectacular manner. Quite often their mission is depicted as unsuccessful, if not entirely hopeless, as in the work of Vikentii Veresaev (who gave up the theory of small deeds in favor of Marxism), and Mikhail Artsybashev (a declared opponent of any kind of philanthropy).8 Sometimes the message is ambiguous, as in the work of Anton Chekhov (see below). Yet there were also attempts to present a more positive view of the theory of small deeds in literature, attempts, which literary historians, for artistic as well as ideological reasons, have largely overlooked. Key to these texts is the idealized image of the central hero who is not simply better or more effective than the other characters, but who is presented as adumbrating a ‘new’ historical type. It is here that we can discern the contours of the would-be successor (or one of the successors) to Bazarov, the positive hero of the 1880s. 2. No More Heroes A particularly optimistic account of the theory of small deeds and its practitioners can be found in the work of Ignatii Potapenko (18561929), one of the most popular authors of the 1890s. In the almost hagiographical story In Real Service (Na deistvitel’noi sluzhbe), probably his best-known work, an extremely gifted graduate of the Theological Academy by the name of Obnovlenskii gives up a guaranteed career in the highest circles of the Orthodox Church for a modest position as an ordinary priest in the provinces. Though his attempts to purify the relations between the clergy and the members of the parish are initially met with hostility, in the end the saintly Obnovlenskii exults over the moral corruption surrounding him. At the expense of his personal life (his wife leaves him with their son), he guides the local population through a terrible famine and thus brings about nothing less than the village’s spiritual renaissance. Perhaps because he felt he had idealized Obnovlenskii’s behavior too much, in his next large story, Not a Hero (Ne geroi, 1891), Potapenko offered a second-best option for those incapable of complete self-denial. Firmly grounded in the tradition of the Russian

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roman à thèse, Not a Hero consists mainly of lengthy conversations; it lacks a proper plot. The protagonist, a convinced populist by the name of Racheev, returns to St. Petersburg after seven years of absence. He visits his friend Baklanov, a fashionable but shallow writer of populist stories who introduces him to his uptight wife and his equally stressed-out friends and colleagues. The outsider Racheev is different in every respect. Once a moony student with a pasty complexion, he now is a level-headed, broad-shouldered estate manager who “does what he says”, as Baklanov’s younger sister remarks admiringly. Racheev repeatedly lectures the other characters, but his behavior is not perceived as provocative. Driven by a genuine desire to help his friends lead more purposeful lives, Racheev assures them that he himself is a “mediocre person”, “not a hero” who has learned to curb his once unrealistic ambitions: During this period of restless impulses [when still a university student – O.B.], I imagined how I would make the entire Russian people happy, if not the whole world. But once I had acquired a practical base, I modestly limited the region of my activities to the small neighborhood where my estate is located. (…) And if you are going to ask me now about my program or my system, then I won’t be able to give you an answer. I don’t have a program. I fathom all details of life in my small region and I try to relieve and improve its existence (Potapenko s.d.: 461).

Except for Racheev’s modest and very practical solution, Not a Hero describes the endeavors of three other characters who dedicate themselves to the enlightenment of the common people. Baklanov is introduced as an author of ‘populist’ fiction, but he sells himself to the popular press, only to be punished with burnout when faced with an impossible deadline. He recovers, however, retreats from the literary rat race and moves to the countryside together with his family. Less straightforward is the case of Evgeniia Vysotskaia, an attractive and wealthy widow who acknowledges her unwillingness to give up her comfortable life in the capital, but tries to relieve her conscience by publishing and disseminating edifying reading matter. In what is probably the most crucial dialogue in the whole story, Racheev urges her to stop her dilettante activities and use her beauty and social respectability instead to advance the same cause with more success: “There is work to be done in each and every place, all corners crave for light” (ibidem: 469). Eventually Vysotskaia learns to appreciate that she can be more effective promoting progressive ideas

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in the highest circles of St. Petersburg than by toiling in the Russian countryside, which she does not understand. A third character looking for an opportunity to serve the people is Kalymov, a professional and dedicated publisher who hesitates to supply the country population with his modern and sophisticated primers because of his own unfamiliarity with the rural reader. It is only after Racheev has agreed to serve as an advisor that he considers the enterprise sufficiently well prepared to go ahead with it. Thus Kalymov’s case is yet another example of an educated person who contributes his mite not by rushing into the countryside, but by applying his talents and expertise in his own environment. Abram Reitblat has characterized Not a Hero as a “novel of literary bankruptcy”, a genre that reflected the intelligentsia’s anxiety over the growing popularity of cheap popular fiction and the ensuing marginalization of the ‘serious’ writer at the turn of the nineteenth century (Rejtblat 1997: 99-109). Baklanov’s fate and the novel’s extensive deliberations on the literary climate certainly lend support to such a reading. Yet if we confine ourselves to a more straightforward interpretation that seeks to do justice to the story’s purported message, then it becomes clear that Potapenko tried to depict the ‘middle’ type of intelligent as Abramov envisioned him. This ‘middle type’ did not have to possess any extraordinary qualities in order to be useful to society and was even entitled to a personal life (Racheev himself is a happily married father). Therefore the title ‘Not a Hero’ is equally appropriate for Vysotskaia and Kalymov, who can be said to represent the establishment, as for the ‘true’ populist Racheev. If in Not a Hero Potapenko offered a second best option for those incapable of complete self-denial, then in his next long story, Sensible Ideas (Zdravye poniatiia, 1892), he went a step further by placing the pursuit of personal happiness above one’s moral obligations towards society. The plot describes the unfolding of a master plan: Andrei, a law student on the brink of graduation, marries consumptive Olga so as to force the love of his life, Nadia, to accept a marriage proposal from the terminally ill millionaire Maslovitii. Given the limited life expectancy of the surrogate spouses, Andrei hopes to marry Nadia in the not-too-distant future, thereby securing the millions of her then late husband. The plan succeeds: Olga and the millionaire Maslovitii die almost simultaneously, mastermind Andrei and Nadia renew their love and get married.

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Since Andrei is also the narrator of the story, he has ample opportunity to explain and justify his behavior, which, on the surface, would seem less than honest. To Potapenko Andrei is not a “crook”9 who manipulates and deceives other people, but a rationalist who miraculously succeeds in reconciling the pursuit of his own advantage with the interests of those surrounding him. Nadia is outraged, of course, when she finds out that Andrei has married Olga, but it forces her to do the only “sensible” thing left to her (as Andrei anticipated), namely to accept Maslovitii’s proposal and to avoid a life of financial hardship to which she would otherwise have been condemned. Even the “pawns”, Maslovitii and Olga, only gain from Andrei’s plan: they spend the last few months of their lives alongside the persons they adore. The hero’s extraordinary ability to find the best possible solution for all characters involved makes the story hard to buy, as several critics were quick to point out (Protopopov 1898: 167-168). However, Potapenko’s intention to present his protagonist as the practical antithesis to the ‘wimps’ and ‘heroes’ that Abramov had discerned is in my opinion beyond dispute. Andrei is widely admired for managing the practical sides of life without taking advantage of anybody or losing himself in well-intentioned but impossible enterprises. Truly destructive, on the other hand, is the position of Olga’s radical brother, an old-style activist who unexpectedly turns up and instils in his sister a feeling of guilt over her new-found happiness. Olga immediately relapses into her previous state of self-abnegation and dies, a tragic outcome that Potapenko wants us to ascribe to the intolerance of her brother (even if, paradoxically, her timely death is an essential precondition for Andrei’s plan to succeed). Just as in Not a Hero, the protagonist’s philosophy of life in Sensible Ideas is essentially a democratic one. Racheev and Andrei only set a modest example, which, of course, undermines the whole notion of true heroism. Given their influence on their milieu, however, they do acquire something truly heroic. Whereas the other characters are forced to acknowledge the unsoundness of their views and change their lives, the protagonists remain the same throughout the story; all the events and debates in the novel only confirm the convictions they have entertained from the outset.10 Did any of Potapenko’s supposedly mediocre characters attain the stature of an epoch-making hero? Obviously not. Their names were quickly forgotten, even if Potapenko remained active as a writer in the

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1900s. Still, for some time the name of Obnovlenskii did pop up in reviews and other critical writing that reproduced the inevitable listing of Russian literature’s most typical heroes. In 1891 the critic Dmitrii Strunin contended that “the type of Obnovlenskii has so firmly impressed itself on the minds of the readers that it can easily stand on an equal footing with the classical types of Russian literature, such as Onegin, Chatskii, Pechorin, Rudin, Bazarov, Insarov, Levin, Oblomov and a few others” (Strunin 1891: 162). Statements like these are extremely rare, however, and this demonstrates that the name of Obnovlenskii never really caught on and that, while the search continued, Bazarov remained the last character to be canonized as a ‘hero of our time’. 3. The Character Analogy It is unknown whether Abramov, or one of the other theoreticians behind the theory of small deeds, was impressed with the positive ‘non-heroes’ in Potapenko’s work, but he discovered a worthy role model in what he regarded as the ‘positive characters’ of Anton Chekhov, particularly in Doctor Astrov, one of the main figures in the play Uncle Vania. An overworked and currish alcoholic, Astrov does not immediately command sympathy from the viewer, but in Abramov’s eyes it was precisely the combination of his idealism and his human shortcomings that made him such a plausible figure. Despite his rudeness and bad temper, Astrov is a dedicated physician who also tries to improve life in his district by fighting deforestation.11 Abramov’s attempt to ‘save’ Astrov (as Dmitrii Pisarev had once saved Bazarov) convinced very few people, however. To the influential Marxist critic Vatslav Vorovskii, Astrov was just one of Chekhov’s proverbially disillusioned heroes whose pedigree ultimately led back to the superfluous men of the 1840s. Chekhov’s heroes were mere epigones of these ‘heroic’ superfluous men who had once played a historic role in Russian society, Vorovskii admitted, but now had nothing more to offer (Vorovskij 1986: 102). What Abramov regarded as a new and effective ‘middle’ type of intelligent, was in Vorovskii’s eyes a watered-down version of a historical type that was rapidly disappearing: “New times require new people. And they will come (…) proudly challenging fate à la Bazarov with his zest for action” (“zhazhda k bor’be”; ibidem: 138). What is remarkable, if not surprising, about Vorovskii’s almost bellicose conclusion, drawn amidst the chaotic events of 1905, is the

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mythic aura with which the 1860s are invested. Even if history can never really repeat itself, according to Marxist thought, and the superfluous man is believed to have developed too (or degenerated from ‘heroically superfluous’ to ‘uselessly superfluous’), the years of the Great Reforms stand apart as a model of truly revolutionary times. Other historical periods are evaluated in accordance with the extent to which they approximate this model. In effect, the fictional representatives of these various periods tend to fall into two classes: they are either ‘new people’, like Bazarov, or they are not, in which case they display some kind of superfluity.12 Abramov’s alternative type of intelligent, the non-heroic toiler, was an attempt to avoid the rigorous dichotomy of new and superfluous people, but the fictional portraits of this third type were quickly grouped in the latter category (Astrov), or simply ignored (Potapenko’s non-heroes). Given his Marxist convictions, the rigor with which Vorovskii discarded Astrov as a devalued type from the past may not come as a complete surprise. Apparently willing to work under the restraints of the tsarist regime, Astrov (in Vorovskii’s view) unwittingly supported the existing order. Yet Vorovskii was not the only critic to hark back to the binary categories of ‘romantic’ and ‘superfluous’, or ‘pragmatic’ and ‘new’ people. A similar approach pervades the critical writings of Dmitrii Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii, a linguist and a literary scholar who is mainly remembered for his study The History of the Russian Intelligentsia (1903-1914). In this multi-volume work Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii departed from the notion that what Turgenev had termed the conflict between fathers and children, was, in fact, a perpetual fight between two psychologically different types – the one more subdued and level-headed (the “new and fresh people”, as Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii referred to them), the other more romantic and exalted (“good people”). Although Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii could not explain, as he admitted himself, why these types succeeded each other every generation, the fact that they did precluded the possibility of their mutual understanding. The continuing dissension between fathers and children did not stem so much from their ideological convictions, as from the “fundamental difference in their spiritual organization” (Ovsjaniko-Kulikovskij 1969a: 38-9). As a corollary of this difference, the children always rejected the program of their fathers, and in so doing came to resemble their grandfathers.13

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Extrapolating this evolutionary model to the last decades of the nineteenth century, Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii was able to draw a parallel between the ‘men of the 1840s’ and the generation of the 1880s. Typical representatives of the latter were three other characters of Chekhov’s, Ivanov, Asorin and Laevskii, who seemed to descend directly from the superfluous men.14 Although the decade had also seen adumbrations of more uplifting types,15 the over-all picture was one of disillusionment and spiritual paralysis. The 1890s, by contrast, seemed reminiscent of the time of the Great Reforms. The popularization of Nietzsche, the nation’s industrial development and the ensuing growth of a capitalist economy – all this testified to a heightened energy and a thirst for life that Russia had not seen since the 1860s (Ovsjaniko-Kulikovskij 1969c: 212-215).16 What makes Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii’s History of the Russian Intelligentsia so instructive is that it builds – even more so than Vorovskii’s writings – on what I propose to call the device of the ‘character analogy’. Instead of simply positing a parallel between two periods, the device seeks to establish an analogy between two fictional characters (or between a fictional character and a historical personality) that belong to different generations. Thus Boborykin’s Nietzscheadmirer Kostritsyn is “like Bazarov” thirty years earlier; the populists are spiritually closer to “Ogarev, Herzen and Turgenev, than to Pisarev and Bazarov” (Ovsjaniko-Kulikovskij 1969b: 198), the disillusioned village doctor in Veresaev’s story Off the Road (Bez dorogi, 1895) resembles Rudin (Anonymous 1895: 527). Accepting the possibility of a third option (Abramov’s middle type of intelligent capable of doing simple, honest work) was incompatible with this evolutionary model. It assumed that the uselessly superfluous man of the 1880s would eventually yield to a new kind of Bazarov, which would signal a further stage in the evolution of Russian society. Just as history did not repeat itself, so too the succession of contemporary types, or ‘heroes of our time’, followed a progressive, dialectical pattern. The device of the character analogy leaves us with a seemingly paradoxical situation. On the one hand, Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii and other late-nineteenth-century critics were relatively successful in identifying typical representatives of the intelligentsia from the ‘postBazarov era’. Reviewing Chekhov’s play Ivanov, Disterlo wondered whether the name of the title character would last in the pedigree of Russia’s ‘heroes of [our] time’, but having just seen the play he was

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convinced that it was the “most accurate expression of the reigning mood” (Disterlo 2006c: 222). Obviously, then, the concept of the ‘hero of our time’ proved surprisingly viable, even when the heydays of realism were over. At the same time, critics could only identify these heroes by falling back on the old dichotomy of superfluous and new people, the classical types of which were only too well known (Onegin, Pechorin, Rudin, Bazarov). Discovering new versions of these heroes in the last two decades of the nineteenth century only had the effect of confirming the status of the canonized characters, while the names of contemporary superfluous and new people did not take root. Ivanov never acquired a truly unassailable position similar to that enjoyed by Rudin or Bazarov, let alone Potapenko’s positive hero Obnovlenskii. Even if critics temporarily recognized them as the new heroes of our time, they never figured for a longer period in the standard listing of ‘classical types’. As for Abramov’s third way – this simply did not fit the dominant paradigm of late nineteenth-century criticism. Despite the promise of a new role model (which in practice was highly successful), the alternative type of intelligent was simply overlooked or rejected as another manifestation of social and political superfluity. It is ironic that, while Vorovskii predicted the emergence of a ‘new man’ challenging fate ‘à la Bazarov’, the only literary character that could lay some claim to this role was received with general suspicion. Vladimir Sanin, the hedonist hero of Mikhail Artsybashev’s notorious novel of the same name (1907), seemed endowed with all the characteristics that distinguished Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii’s “new and fresh people”. Moreover, Sanin often did invite comparisons with Turgenev’s paradigmatic nihilist Bazarov. As one critic noted: “If you take a good look at Sanin’s features and you remove the make-up [then you’ll see that] he is a reproduction of Bazarov” (Novopolin 1909: 127). The prominent Menshevik Fëdor Dan made a similar observation: “A comparison [between Sanin and Bazarov] is all the more justified as Sanin himself is in many respects a copy, or, if you like, a caricature of the famous ‘nihilist” (Dan 1909: 86-87). Vorovskii, too, noticed the similarities between the two characters, but he played down Sanin’s social and historical significance, arguing that he was merely a “product of the author’s fantasy, not a real historical type” (Vorovskij 1971: 231). Yet leaving aside the contradictory and sometimes even mutually exclusive views on Artsybashev’s hero,17

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the eagerness with which critics juxtaposed Sanin to Bazarov shows that the device of the character analogy was an important instrument, even in early twentieth-century criticism, and that the canon of epochmaking heroes remained hermetically sealed. With Bazarov it all seemed to have ended. University of Leiden Notes 1 Originally published in 1873 as separate essays in the periodicals Birzhevye vedomosti and Nedelia. 2 Chatskii is the main character in Griboedov’s comedy Woe from Wit; Onegin is the eponymous hero of Aleksandr Pushkin’s novel in verse Evgenii Onegin; Pechorin is the central character in Lermontov’s novel A Hero of Our Time; Rudin is the title character in Turgenev’s debut novel Rudin; Insarov is the Bulgarian hero of Turgenev’s third novel On the Eve, and Bazarov is the main character in Turgenev’s most famous novel Fathers and Children. 3 Originally published in Nedelia 15, 1888: 480-486. 4 Originally published in Nedelia 13, 1888: 419-422. 5 Disterlo considered the following writers and poets typical exponents of the 1880s: Anton Chekhov, Eronim Iasinskii, Vladimir Dedlov, Kazimir Barantsevich and Konstantin Fofanov. 6 For a relatively recent discussion of Abramov’s ideas, see Zverev 1997. 7 For a discussion of Abramov’s ideas and their effectiveness, see Utechin 1964: 135-136. 8 See, for example, Veresaev’s evocatively titled stories Off the Road (Bez dorogi, 1895), Tendency (Povetrie, 1897) and At the Turn (Na povorote, 1901). Artsybashev gives an extremely negative portrait of the unassuming toiler in his 1905 story Morning Shades (Teni utra). 9 This is how Mikhailovskii characterized Potapenko’s hero (Mikhailovskii 1909b: 879). 10 The critic Fëdor Batiushkov believed that Andrei was intended as a negative character, a man haggling with his conscience so as to give in freely to his lower inclinations. As my discussion of Sensible Ideas illustrates, I do not share Batiushkov’s view. See his article ‘Geroj na chas’ (Batiushkov 1900: 115). 11 It is certain that Abramov was familiar with Potapenko’s work, even if he does not seem to have valued him as a writer. In a 1898 article he observed that Chekhov’s short stories contained an “abundance of material” that would be enough for a “more calculating writer, such as Boborykin or Potapenko, to produce ten huge novels” (Abramov 2006: 20; the article was originally published in Knizhki ‘Nedeli’ June 1898: 130-68). 12 Applying the term new man to Bazarov, I am referring to Dmitrii Pisarev’s positive reinterpretation of Turgenev’s hero as an emerging historical type. The first reactions to Fathers and Children in the camp of radical critics were far less favorable, of course. 13 The established pattern is somewhat reminiscent of Turgenev’s distinction between Hamlet (contemplative) and Don Quichote (energetic), but nowhere does OvsianikoKulikovskii refer to him.

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14

Laevskii is one of the main characters in the story The Duel (Duel’) – an alcoholic misfit who likes to compare himself to Evgenii Onegin. Asorin is a petty meddler in the story The Wife (Zhena), a “Russian foreigner”, as Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii calls him because he is incapable of appreciating anything Russian (Ovsjaniko-Kulikovskij 1969c: 124). 15 As a positive exception Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii mentions the eponymous hero of Pëtr Boborykin’s novel Vasilii Terkin (1892). Terkin is a “democrat-Kulturträger” in which practical shrewdness and efficiency go hand in hand with a certain moral and ideological maturity. Criticizing Russian literature for not having paid sufficient attention to this type (with the exception of Boborykin), Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii admits that it occurs only very sporadically in Russian society (Ovsjaniko-Kulikovskij 1969c: 171). 16 The novel by Boborykin is The Pass (Pereval, 1894). 17 For a more extensive discussion of the reception history of Sanin, see my introduction to the English translation by Michael R. Katz (Boele 2001).

Bibliography Abramov, Ia.V. 1885. ‘Stoit li rabotat’ v derevne?’ in Nedelja 41: 1412. –– 2006. ‘Naša žizn’ v proizvedenijach ýechova’ in Le Flemming, Stiven 2006: Letnij sad: 17-23. Anonymous. 1895. ‘Periodiþeskie izdanija’ in Russkaja mysl’ 9: 526-542. Avdeev, M.V. 1874. Naše obšþestvo v gerojach i geroinjach literatury. St. Petersburg: Tipografija K.V. Trubnikova. Batjuškov, F.D. 1900. Kritiþeskie oþerki i zametki. Sankt-Peterburg: Kn. magazin A.F. Cinzerlinga: 115-144. Boele, O.F. 2001. ‘Introduction’ in Artsybashev, Mikhail. 2001. Sanin: a Novel (tr. Michael R. Katz). Ithaca: Cornell University Press: 1-12. Dan, Fëdor. 1909. ‘Geroi likvidacii (Stranica iz istorii russkich obšþestvennych nastroenij)’ in Na rubeže (k charakteristike sovremennych iskanij). Kritiþeskij sbornik. Sankt-Peterburg: Naše vremja. R.D. [Disterlo, Roman]. 2006a, ‘Novoe literaturnoe pokolenie. ýast’ I’ in Le Flemming 2006: 217-218. –– 2006b. ‘Novoe literaturnoe pokolenie. ýast’ II’ in Le Flemming 2006: 218-219. –– 2006c. ‘Kritiþeskie zametki’ in Le Flemming 2006: 221-223. I. [Ignatov, I.N.]. 1907. ‘“Sanin”, roman M. Arcybaševa’ in Russkie vedomosti 134: 3. Le Flemming, Stiven (ed.). 2006. Gospoda kritiki i gospodin ýechov. Antologiia, Sankt-Peterburg – Moskva: Letnij sad. Lenin, V.I.. 1967. ‘ýto takoe “druz’ja naroda”?’ in Polnoe sobranie soþinenij 5th edn. Vol.1. Moskva: Izdatel’stvo politiþeskoi literatury: 135-346. Malia, Martin. 1961. ‘What Is the Intelligentsia?’ in Richard Pipes, ed., The Russian Intelligentsia, New York: Columbia University Press: 1-18. Michajlovksij, N.K. 1909a. ‘Opiat’ ob otcach i detiach’ in Polnoe sobranie soþinenij. 2nd edn. Sankt-Peterburg: Izd. N.N. Michajlovskij, Vol.6: 956-965. –– 1909b. ‘O g. Potapenko’ in Polnoe sobranie soþinenij. 2nd edn. Sankt-Peterburg: Izd. N.N. Michajlovskij. Vol.6: 877-888. –– 1957. ‘O otcach i detiach i o g. ýechove’ in Literaturno-kritiþeskie stat’i. Moskva: Goslitizdat: 594-612.

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Novopolin, G.S. 1909. Pornografiþeskii ơlement v russkoj literature. Sankt-Peterburg: Knižnyj sklad M.M. Stasjuleviþa. Ovsjaniko-Kulikovskij, D.N. 1969a. ‘Istorija russkoj intelligencii. ýast’ pervaja’. Sobranie soþinenij. The Hague, Paris: Mouton [Sankt-Peterburg: Izdatel’stvo “Obšþestvennaja pol’za” i knigoizdatel’stvo “Prometej”, 1911]. Vol.7. –– 1969b. ‘Istorija russkoj intelligencii. ýast’ vtoraja. Sobranie soþinenij. The Hague, Paris: Mouton [Sankt-Peterburg: Izdatel’stvo “Obšþestvennaja pol’za” i knigoizdatel’stvo “Prometej, 1911]. Vol. 8. –– 1969c. ‘Istorija russkoj intelligencii. ýast’ tret’ia. Sobranie soþinenij. The Hague, Paris: Mouton [Sankt-Peterburg: Izdatel’stvo “Obšþestvennaja pol’za” i knigoizdatel’stvo “Prometej, 1911]. Vol. 9. Potapenko, I.N. s.d. [19...]. ‘Ne geroj’ in Soþinenija. Pëtrograd: Izd. t-va A.F. Marksa, Vol. 5: 343-512. Protopopov, M. 1989. ‘Bodryj talant’ in Russkaja mysl’ 9: 164-188. Rejtblat, A.I. 1997. ‘Roman literaturnogo kracha’ in Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie 25: 99-109. Šelgunov, N.V. 1895. ‘Peterburg i ego novye ljudi’ in Oþerki russkoj zhizni, SanktPeterburg: Izd. O.N. Popovoj: 563-567. –– 1974. ‘Liudi sorokovych i šestidesiatych godov’ in Literaturnaja kritika, Leningrad: Chudozhestvennaja literatura: 39-209. Strunin, Dmitrii. 1891. ‘Kumir devjanostych godov’ in Russkoe bogatstvo 10: 149-165. Utechin, S.V.. 1964. Russian Political Thought. A Concise History. London: J.M. Dent & Sons Ltd. Vorovskij, V.V. 1971. ‘Bazarov i Sanin. Dva nigilizma’ in Ơstetika. Literatura. Iskusstvo. Moskva: Iskusstvo: 229-255. –– 1986. ‘Lišnie ljudi’ in Stat’i o russkoj literature. Moskva: Chudozhestvennaja literatura: 99-139. Živov, Viktor. 1999. ‘Marginal’naja kul’tura v Rossii i roždenie intelligencii’ in Novoe Literaturnoe Obozrenie 37: 37-51. Zverev, V.V. 1999. ‘Ơvoliucija narodniþestva: “teorija malych del”’ in Oteþestvennaja istorija 4: 86-94.

Russian and European Modernism and the Idea of Life-Creation Dennis Ioffe Abstract: This article argues that additional glance on the various movements which played a significant role in the formulation of the ‘general theory’ of Modernism is still at need. The article focuses on the unique function of ‘life-creation’ in process of modernist historical cohesion and formation. It discusses the important operating of ‘experiment’ and ‘technical advances’ in establishing modernist ideas about literature and culture. The article also looks at the role played in the cultural debates by the newly-born ideas of ‘form’, ‘structure’ on the one hand, and notions of utopian manipulations with surrounding reality by means of art and aesthetics on the other. Keywords: Modernism, life-creation, futurism, Lebenskunst, avant-garde, symbolism

1. European Modernism: The Phenomenon at Large The concept of Modernism may be understood as the totality of aesthetic conceptions that began to take shape from the second half of the nineteenth century onward. The most turbulent period of these aesthetic fashions coincided with the interim years between the two World Wars. I propose to trace Modernist culture from its initial genesis related to the activity of the French poetes maudites (Rimbaud and Verlaine), including their immediate predecessor Charles Baudelaire and, in particular, his highly influential and almost ‘cult’ collection of poems known as Les Fleurs du mal (published in 1857). As envisioned here, Modernism may be perceived as a kind of ‘mega-period’ that encompasses mutually hostile historical movements such as Symbolism and the avant-garde. The onset of Modernism may be considered to have occurred immediately after Realism. Modernism was emerging as a reaction to realist rationalist aesthetics and as a negation of the overall dominance of Realism. My approach is partly dependent on the ‘theory of great styles’ developed by Dmitrii Likhachev. This approach denies principles of cultural homogeneity, stating instead that ‘no great style was ever really defined by the ‘cultural habits’ of any epoch or any country’. Likhachev formulated a significant model that assumed that ‘great

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styles can exist simultaneously during the periods of transition from one style to another’ (Lichaþev 1987: 31).1 Using this approach, I would like to put forward the notion of ‘mega-period’, and then to divide ‘great style’ into its supplementary compounds of several ‘styles’. Modernism is thus perceived through the lens of two elements: Symbolism and the avant-garde. Each of these two currents is likely to belong to one of the two different ‘great styles’: the first is still indebted to Romanticism, and the other belongs to Modernism per se. Likhachev describes the process of the gradual ‘sophistication’ that any given style will acquire, illustrating this through several characteristic examples. He mentions the sophistication of Romanesque seen in Gothic art, of the Renaissance in the Baroque, and of Classicism in Romanticism. The St. Petersburg scholar claims that this process is the ‘progressive emergence of a new style that is somewhat contradictory or ‘uneasy’ to its predecessor’ (ibidem: 32). The new styles are subordinate to the preceding styles. The existing gap between the two styles permits their practitioners to address the entirely different ‘ideologies’ and target groups of the public. At the end of his essay, the scholar concludes: No style is really set completely without any intruding penetrations, no style is totally self-sufficient. […] Every style harks back to the preceding ones, seeking the needed formation. […] The development of each style, [both] the original and the secondary, moves from the simpler to the complex; this tendency is very evident in every pair of any two styles (the original and the secondary). The secondary style, taken as a unit, seems to be more refined and complicated. Ontogenesis is harmonious, therefore, with phylogenesis (ibidem).

Likhachev sees in this cultural dynamic a clear dialectic of artistic outcome and growth. In my view, the process of increasing stylistic sophistication advances along a vector from Symbolism to the avantgarde. Both of the ‘great styles’ – Romanticism and Modernism – may be grouped into a larger unit that I propose to designate as a ‘megaperiod’. The ‘connecting association’ between the Romantic and Modernist cultural fashions can be seen in the international Symbolist movement, which combines features from both of the periods. Despite the absence of an all-embracing manifesto wherein the aesthetic program of Modernism might have been stated, the resultant ideology demonstrated a sort of relative consistency in regard to both

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a number of artistic peculiarities and the general method of creation. The central principles of Modernist culture heralded a fundamental revision of all the major philosophical doctrines that had dominated nineteenth-century culture and aesthetic thought. The idea of a vigorous break with the positivist cultural heritage of the nineteenth century can easily be discerned in the programmatic activities of Modernist movements such as Post-Impressionism, Symbolism, Cubism, Imagism, Futurism, Dadaism, and Surrealism. Alongside all the intrinsic contradictions (expressed in manifestoes and declarations), there is also one common base seemingly shared by all the Modernist parties. This common ground demonstrates a peculiar attitude toward the contemporary time as an epoch of unprecedented clashes and cataclysms that destroy universal values and humanistic beliefs. These were the main assumptions responsible for the revolutionizing novelty that combated the rationalist aesthetics of classical realism. The first phase of European pre-Modernism may reveal itself in Symbolism. The experimental creative work of Stéphane Mallarmé, the renowned French Symbolist, might do justice to this idea. The innovative conceptions developed in the natural sciences, as well as in other spheres of intellectual life, led to a significant modification of prevailing mentalities. This feature of European cultural history was further developed in the art of nascent Modernism, disseminating as one of its principles a new spiritualism and a quest for hidden realities (the famous Russian Symbolist motto a realibus ad realiora). These doctrines championed the search for unseen realities and reflected dissatisfaction with the role played by positivist philosophy in the nineteenth century. The Evolutionalist approach to the history of culture (and of literature, religion, and so forth) was abandoned along with the rigorous empiricism of the new scientific establishment. All the sensory faculties used previously for detecting empirical data were now directed toward the invisible spheres of less explored human spirituality. The work of American philosopher William James, and particularly his Principles of Psychology (1890), was exceptionally influential on the new adepts of Modernism (James was one of the earliest to describe the ‘stream of consciousness’). We should also mention here the doctrine of Henri Bergson (Immediate Data of Consciousness, 1889; Creative Intuition, 1907), which espoused

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human intuition as a powerful tool for exploring the human mind and its potential creativity. Also noteworthy is the revolutionary doctrine developed by Sigmund Freud (Interpretation of Dreams, 1908; Ego and Id, 1923). The ‘discovery’ of the unconscious and the subconscious produced a long-lasting impression on the entire field of European art and literature. This aspect manifested itself in many specimens of Modernist visual and literary art. The theory of archetypes, promoted by the vigorous activity of Carl Jung, exerted a very clear influence upon the maturation of Modernist art and thought. A somewhat similar effect was produced by Emile Durkheim’s new anthropological theory of collective representations. The entirety of technological progress (the telegraph, automobile, airplane, electricity, X-rays, and so forth), unseen before on such a tremendous scale, may be counted as one of the immediate reasons for the emergence of a new Modernist culture. Many fundamental Modernist philosophical and aesthetic ideas corresponded to the similar approaches that were growing out of the new theories emerging from the natural sciences. The new physics, particularly the theory of relativity advanced by Albert Einstein (1915), proposed different assumptions about our comprehension of the fundamental ‘time and space continuum’ problem. Remnants of this approach may be discovered in Mikhail Bakhtin’s idea of the ‘chronotope’. After many scholars, we may conclude that Einstein’s ‘Copernican Revolution’ in science served as an unnamed foundation of cultural revolution in the Modernist period. The vibrant relativist agenda, universally popular in Modernism, which led to a considerable change in the traditional subject/object relationship, was also a result of the newly born Einsteinian intellectual paradigm. In its historical development, Modernism constantly proposed basic precepts that challenged the traditional principles of artistic mimetic representation. The mode of ‘reality representation’ favored by Modernism rejected all the familiar mimetic principles for dealing with surrounding reality as reflected in a work of art. For the first time in history, Modernism bravely proclaimed a departure from the canonical mimesis in art and literature. This feature becomes quite evident in early Symbolist art, with its departure from the iconically correct representation of reality. The major path of Modernism

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operated on denial of life-imitating techniques and approaches, instead proposing suggestive irrationalism and alogism. Modernism approaches the depicted ‘fact of life’ in terms of a potential ‘problem’ that leads to subtle aesthetic experimentation. This axis of life/art/experiment establishes potential relevance of a ‘Lebenskunst’ program for a great many Modernist authors. Émile Zola, author of The Experimental Novel (1880), should be mentioned here, together with the post-realist school of ‘naturalism’. A characteristic mode of reality depiction, constructed from the bitter absurd and from the chaos in which human individuality is frequently ‘alienated’ from its immediate social setting, may be seen as a core Modernist approach. The condition of alienation produced many quite characteristic works in which the ‘character’ finds itself painfully isolated, almost speechless, in the presence of the surrounding Others (works by Franz Kafka, for example). This phenomenon creates a special complex of ‘deformed consciousnesses’ that is apparent in the inner speech of the character. This type of context provokes rebellion against everything previously considered ‘moral’ or ‘righteous’. The Modernist character meditates on his/her own self, seeks to consolidate his/her identity and overcome the multiple splits of this identity. The previous image of a solid and single-meaning appearance of this identification becomes impossible and inadequate. This point brings into debate the highly problematic issue of the Modernist self, its ‘identity’ and its relation to the Other. Grotesque parody, accompanied by reverse valuation and carnivalesque fashions, should also be listed as a primary Modernist habit. The most popular objects for parodic and carnivalesque treatment were tied to the preceding culture of classicism and Realism. Such treatment was apparent in the theatrical creations of early Modernists Alfred Jarry and Guillaume Apollinaire, and it was a core component of the later radical Modernism of Dada and Surrealism. It is important to note that many of the most characteristic Modernists were rereading and reusing literary texts written by previously acclaimed authors associated with pre-existing cultural fashions, maintaining thereupon a certain unfinishable ‘dialogue with tradition’. Russian Modernist Andrei Belyi was ‘reading’ Gogol in this manner, and one may see how deep the influence of the canonic Russian author

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on him was. The same thing occurs with Marcel Proust’s reading of Flaubert – the younger author absorbs the narrative and stylistic achievements of the elder, also borrowing the very idea of literary creation emancipated from all ideological and didactical restraints. The literature and culture of the pre-realist period, especially the idealist and metaphysical heritage of international Romanticism, were peculiarly relevant to the Modernist canon. What attracted the Modernists was the vague sense of personal estrangement, of grim and ambiguous irony, that was so characteristic of Romanticism. Another indicative interest was related to the innovative work of G.E. Moore, who proclaimed in his treatise Principia ethica (1903) a new relativist of the virtual impossibility of differentiating between the ethical criteria of good and evil based on the relevant doctrines of social evolution and conventional norms. Many representative thinkers of the new times began to profoundly question the traditional nineteenth-century doctrine of empirical sufficiency. Among them, we can mention F.H. Bradley, whose neo-Hegelian treatise Appearance and Reality (1893) presented reasons to question ordinary positivistic empiricism as the sole method of understanding reality. The perception of reality, since it was dependent on the specificity of each concrete individual’s consciousness, negated the possibility of one undivided, universal truth. Therefore, the image of reality becomes fissionable as it is viewed through the lens of each individual engaged in the act of perceiving. T.S. Eliot imbued the concept of Modernism with well-wrought concreteness and almost scholarly precision. He expressed a feeling of the deep crisis of the main ideologies that stood behind the artistic practices and skills sanctioned by the previous eras (Classicism and Realism). With Eliot and such contemporaries as Paul Valéry and Gottfried Benn comes a new confidence in the termination of an entire epoch. The previous passage of time in the world of European life and civilization had been dominated by the rule of positivistic and humanistic ideography. The new system of thought proclaimed by the Modernist cultural heroes championed an active search for innovative artistic forms, for more suggestive and provocative means of creative expression. The newly emerging character of civilization led to a fierce critique of traditional humanism and engendered a quest for an entirely new type of aesthetic product that would fit the demands of what was called (for the first time in such a context) ‘the new age’.

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One of the very important traits of this process was linked to the appearance of a mediumistic and flamboyant kind of author who was no longer restricted by any didactical goals. This new author was supposed to be able to reach and grasp all kinds of previously inaccessible realms of the superior being. The collapse of the traditional anthropocentric ‘Humanism’ built by the Renaissance and strengthened by the Enlightenment received expression in programmatic works of Modernist prose. The severe abashment of the fictitious character and his resultant behavior revealed the phenomenon of the so-called ‘miserable consciousness’. The literary and artistic creation becomes, as T.S. Eliot maintained, a sort of resistance to despair, pointing to a way out of human and civilizational deadlock. The Modernist oeuvre is oriented toward the ultimate principle of creation that stipulates a remedy for the catastrophic chaos of what was understood as a new reality. This trend of Modernist poetics exhibited a strange fusion of drama, lyricism, parody, and imagism. One characteristic composition in this respect is T.S. Eliot’s programmatic The Waste Land (1922). The key element of this approach should be correlated with an omnipresent ‘neomythologism’, a profound reliance on myth and mythical structures, which are responsible for shaping the final artistic product. Another important trait of Modernism is linked to the new way of perceiving the world of human communication. For modernists, the traditional cohesive connections among people (‘communicative vessels’) were disintegrating, and interpersonal dissociation was becoming universal. The human persona as depicted in modernist fiction felt helpless and effete in the face of the newly constructed powerful nation-state and its great apparatus. The classic example of this semiparanoiac outlook is Franz Kafka’s novel The Trial (Der Prozeß, written in 1920 and published in 1925), which tells the story of a character named Josef K., who wakes one morning and, for reasons never revealed, is arrested and subjected to the judicial process for an unspecified crime. (This same spirit pervaded another unfinished canonical novel by Kafka that depicted a high degree of human alienation – The Castle (Das Schloß, written in 1922). This ‘Kafkaesque’ modernist notion of an absurd, unbearable reality, disturbed human life, and its tragic path in the new civilization is fundamental to nearly all the main representatives of modernist art and literature.

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For the purposes of the current study, I will argue that each of the various successive trends should be discussed within a single general framework of ‘great historical modernism’. The avant-garde, as a kind of complex operating within a multiplicity of aesthetic trends, should be placed in the Modernist cultural paradigm, rather than isolated as a separate entity2 or even related to the next brave relativistic ‘Derridean’ or ‘Lyotardian’ period widely known as Post-Modernism. I consider the movements of both Symbolism and avant-garde to be part of a single common cultural condition, a continuous period between 1890 and 1930, which may be termed Modernism. The aesthetic and cultural trends which I mean here are unequivocally linked to the idea of experiment, of departure from existing mainstream tradition. They all express the deepest discontent of their adherents with the ‘Realist tradition’ of art. This ‘Realism’ was justly regarded as a quite inadequate method for dealing with the new realities of the surrounding world. Moreover, ‘Realism’3 had espoused a highly paternalist way of ‘seeing’ the human landscape that avoided any possibly ‘unpleasant’ or ‘inappropriate’ detail that might be too harsh for any potential ‘user’: it failed to depict all the paradoxical and irrational aspects of human attitudes and behavior. Symbolism and the avant-garde constituted a cultural paradigm bent upon uncompromising and courageous probing into the depths of inward and outward human experiences and, thus, necessarily acquired many new redundant techniques for verbal and artistic expressive creativity. Modernism as a peculiar cultural ‘construct’ is sometimes equated to a strange experience in which a human agent is trying to survive successfully under the conditions of the ‘new reality of life’. According to Astradur Eysteinsson, Modernism is viewed as a kind of aesthetic heroism, which, in the face of the chaos of the modern world (very much a ‘fallen’ world), sees art as the only dependable reality and as an ordering principle of a quasi-religious kind. The unity of art is supposedly a salvation from the shattered order of modern reality (Eysteinsson 1992: 9).

Modernism, as a distinct phenomenon, was, as Frederick Karl (1988) could remark, a ‘language within language’, a peculiar type of ‘metalanguage’ that represented a whole system of new cultural realities. This ‘new textuality’ that was born together with Modernism has relevance for the preoccupation with text-life sign systems as

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described in the context of Symbolist literary history by the Tartu school (Ioffe 2008). Sometimes it is stated that the main principles of Modernism are founded on the ‘Faustian pact’ (Karl 1988: 127-128). Presumably, this may be relevant to such characteristic features of the new artistic habits4 as ‘waning of traditional representation’, ‘substitution of colormasses to the colder geometrical form/shapes’, ‘difficulty in filling the entire space of representation’, ‘loss of traditional narrative lines’, ‘absence of familiar values’, ‘emphasis on the marginal figures’, ‘total defamiliarization of a literary character’, ‘loss of accessibility’, and ‘reliance on pure linguistic resources instead of the human voice’. The chief element of all these was, however, the exploration of new narrative means available for artistic production. The overall stress was put on ‘novelty’ in all the cultural activities of the period, and was quintessentially embodied in the synaesthetical musical creations of Arnold Schönberg (Karl 1988: 147-158) and, in Russia, in the ‘sonoric mysterium’ of Aleksandr Skriabin’s ‘Symbolist’ music; it is then developed further by the best representative of Modernism in music – Igor Stravinskii.5 The other important characteristic of Modernism relevant to the concept of ‘Lebenskunst’ was the powerful shift toward the hyper-individualistic ‘ego’, when everything is subordinated to the dictatorship of a character’s egocentric utterance. We might stress here this particularly vivid Romantic feature, which was pushed to its farthest point by the advance of Modernism.6 The notion of ‘form’ starts to acquire a new integrity, independent and dynamic.7 As a highlight of the preoccupation with the notion of ‘form’, one may recall the pioneering essay by German artist and sculptor Adolf von Hildebrand in 1893, ‘The problem of form in figurative art (painting and sculpture)’ (Das Problem der Form in der bildenden Kunst), in which he utilized an experimental neoclassical approach to the problem. Australian cultural historian Bernard Smith, in his recent monograph on the problem of Modernism, suggested a special term to designate the entire range of Modernist preoccupations with art and its environment – the “Formalesque” (Smith 1998: 29-52; 94-107).8 In the same work, he also correlated the life-creational interests of many key Modernists with various occult practices (ibidem: 67-93).9 Smith suggested a connection between the Modernist fascination with the occult and the work of François Dupuis (1742-1809), a professor of rhetoric at the Parisian Collège de Lisieux. Dupuis was also a member

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of the French Academy, a Cavalier of the Legion of Honor, and a renowned mathematician. He studied astronomy and astrology with regard to the various mythopoetical topics of human thought, and he summoned general cultural attention to the realms of spirits10 and to various esoteric doctrines.11 The pan-European Modernist fascination with the mysterious world of the stars and their impact on human destiny, centered on the mythology of the Zodiac, also has its starting point in Dupuis.12 Dupuis can be credited for the modern preoccupation with ancient Egypt13: he believed that all the European regimentations of religion and spirituality originated there. The popular Russian ‘Egyptomania’, manifested in the poetic, occult, and life-creation habits of the Silver Age, centered on one of the most exquisite poets of the period – Mikhail Kuzmin14. Many scholars of Modernism tend to stress the fundamental importance of Charles Baudelaire, whose work and theories are seen as a major precursor to many Modernist cultural practices. Baudelaire’s ‘dandy theory’15 and his writing about this phenomenon probably increased interest in dandyism,16 which championed the playful use of masks and theatrical roles in ‘real life’, and his concept of the ‘artificial paradise’ were both extremely influential in subsequent literary fashions. We might suppose, as does Frederic Karl, that by 1890, Baudelaire’s aesthetic agenda was shared by the majority of artistic and literary movements operating in Western Europe (Karl 1988: 257-258). The unique ‘synthetic’ nature of Baudelaire’s art, being interspersed with a particular lifestyle, led to his central position among fellow artists during his lifetime, as the work of Lois Boe Hyslop has shown.17 Another characteristic aspect of Modernist cultural habits had much to do with the new horizon of ‘technical’ sophistication reached by Western civilization. This resulted in the emergence of a ‘new science’ and of new human capacities, new mental and intellectual abilities, including the individual’s creative manipulation of his/her life (as a result of the new modernist paradigm). Elements of modern technical novelty – railroads, the telegraph and telephone, gas and electric lighting, photography and cinema, X-rays, spectrum analysis, and other unprecedented breakthroughs like the measurement of the speed of light – as well as other ‘constructive’, positive aspects of Modernism, were absorbed into early Soviet Russian experimental

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culture in which the utopian ideology18 of ‘life-building’ was dominant. 2. Russian Modernism and the European Context: The Lebenskunst at the Crossroads The (mostly ‘Symbolist’) European cultural movement quickly spread to pre-Modernist Russia, where its most enthusiastic adherent, Valerii Briusov, as early as 1894-1895 edited and published an anthology of Russian and French Symbolist poems. These were mostly his own texts, closely associated with the French originals (Donchin 1958). The new revival of poetry in Russia stemming from this movement had as its philosophical predecessor and spiritual authority the philosopher and mystic poet Vladimir Solov’ëv.19 His metaphysical poetry professes a coherent religious doctrine probing the world as a unique system of symbols for certain non-empirical realities. After his death (in the symbolic year 1900, the same year in which Nietzsche died), Solov’ëv was succeeded by another principal theoretician of the Symbolist movement, Viacheslav Ivanov, who was a well-trained specialist in Greek and Roman history and philosophy20 (like Solov’ëv) and who had a great affinity for Plato and the Neoplatonist outlook. We should also note in this context the very interesting cultural fashion in Russia that advocated a certain degree of imitation of the lifestyles and ‘famous gestures’ of influential Western cultural icons. Many Russians in the late nineteenth century, and then in the Silver Age, ‘fashionably’ copied the life practices of cultural heroes from the immediate past of Western Europe.21 This feature enables the scholar to characterize the cultural ‘code of conduct’ of the period as overloaded with life-creational attitudes.22 The main historical period that I propose to consider in the context of Modernist chronology in Russia is the span of twenty years from 1900 to 1920. However, the broader context demands that we enlarge this span by some fifteen years, making it 1895–1930, to include the early writings of the ‘elder’ or ‘first-generation’ Russian Symbolists (Merezhkovskii, Gippius, Bal’mont, and Briusov) at the one end, and, at the other, the Russian Revolutionary leftist radical artists and writers (LEFists and Constructivists) of the mid-1920s. The more careful, ‘traditional’ approach, however, uses a chronology that allocates the years 1890 to 1910 to Symbolism and the years 1910 to 1930 to the avant-garde and ‘canonical’ historic Modernism per se.

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A prior section has put forth the general reasons why the Symbolists and the avant-gardists are being described in terms of a single cohesive ‘whole’. I take the phenomenon of life-creation (considering also the apt German word ‘Lebenskunst’) in both movements as the main rationale for ‘grouping them together’. The ‘pre-Modernists’ of Russian Symbolism,23 as well as the canonical ‘Modernists’ of the Russian avant-garde,24 all demonstrated a clear interest in ‘creating life’ by means of their ‘art’ and aesthetic programs. Hence, the concept of life-creation itself, as exhibited in the overall activities of both the Symbolists and the adherents of the avant-garde, should serve to justify discussion of these mutually hostile movements as if they had agreed to subscribe to the same cultural pattern. The other argument for grouping Symbolism and avant-garde together in the case of Russia is the peculiar kind of ‘post-Romantic’ affinity that was shared by the key figures of both movements. One can discern from even a first quick glance that Merezhkovskii, Bal’mont, Briusov, and Blok on the one side, and Maiakovskii, Khlebnikov, or the manifesto-oriented Kruchenykh on the other, all clearly owe a debt to Romantic ‘cultus’ and ‘spirit’, even though they make no clear admission of it. Accordingly, ‘Romanticism’ and lifecreation are the main attributes that permit the present author to make a cautious generalization and to treat these movements of Russian Modernist history in a somewhat inclusive fashion. 2.1. The Symbolist Movement and the Modernist Culture Scholars commonly describe ‘Symbolism’ in Europe25 as a literary and artistic movement originating with a group of French poets in the late nineteenth century, which gradually spread to painting and the theatre, and then influenced the literary history of the twentieth century to varying degrees. Symbolist artists sought to express individual emotional experience through the subtle and suggestive use of symbolic, hyperbolized, ‘mythical’ and ‘utopian’ language and artistic devices. Symbolist literary and cultural practice can be traced to the youthful rebellion of a number of poets, mainly French, who opposed the inflexible traditionalist tastes and regulations that had thereto dominated the scene in mainstream poetry (especially the ‘Parnassian’ type).26 Symbolism as a movement initially strived to emancipate art

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(and, in particular, poetry) from the burden of the ‘dictatorship’ felt by Symbolists due to their boredom with the ‘outdated’ aesthetical regulative norms, by propagating instead a revolutionary agenda of inner experience and existence. This unusual approach resulted in subject matter replete with many bizarre myth structures and all kinds of obscure mysteries, metaphysical speculations, and playful fantasies, which were introduced to aid perception of supernatural reality.27 The young members of the proto-generation of the Symbolists, French poets Verlaine and Rimbaud, were passionate life-creational homoerotic lovers. They had deliberately erased any borderline between their physical bodies and their literary/aesthetic production. These poets were most vividly influenced by the heritage of their already-mentioned older contemporary compatriot Charles Baudelaire, in particular by his groundbreaking verse collection, Les Fleurs du mal (1857). Symbolists embraced Baudelaire’s infamous notion of the correspondences occurring among the different human senses and the morbid spheres of somatic behavior. Baudelairian ideas operated harmoniously with Wagner’s new monumental art, specifically with his ideal of approaching and achieving a holistic synthesis in the arts, blended together in order to produce previously unforeseen symphonic parameters of poetry.28 A portion of verse, accordingly, could be ‘orchestrated’ with the aid of sonoric harmonies and word sounds. In his ‘Symbolist Manifesto’ (published in Le Figaro, September 18, 1886), Jean Moréas sharply criticized the mechanical, traditionalist, and ‘passively descriptive’ tendencies of the French ‘classical’ Realist theatre, linking the popular novels of the widespread ‘Naturalist School’ (later affiliated with Émile Zola) to a Parnassian mode of poetry, which he then also condemned. Moréas replaced the term ‘décadence’ (so firmly associated with Baudelaire) with ‘symbolisme’. Stéphane Mallarmé, another radical Modernist writer, championed exalted verbal experimentation in his texts and became perhaps the most prominent and original of all the Symbolist poets. Symbolist literature exercised a strong and influential effect on the overall state of European culture for several decades during the late nineteenth century. The antagonism against hypocritical ‘Realism’ and the powerful revival of a Romantic outlook might also be included as noteworthy aspects of this enchanted ‘Symbolist universe’, which first emerged in France and then in many adjacent

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European countries29 in the last three decades of the nineteenth century. The key element in European Symbolist life-creational philosophy was ‘Aestheticism’,30 which was ‘invented’ and introduced into the cultural milieu some time after Baudelaire’s ‘dandyism’, and was then expanded into a greater magnitude of ‘the artistic lifestyle’ and artistic self-fashioning. With respect to the Victorian atmosphere in England, we should mention here Walter Pater, whose various essays published in the late 1860s reflected much of the artistic and literary tastes of that milieu. Pater’s highly influential collection Studies in the History of the Renaissance (1873) proclaimed that life must be actively reshaped by artistic endeavor and, in a Renaissance fashion, should follow the ideal of sensuous beauty. Internationally, decadent authors and artists generally subscribed to the well-known motto, ‘Art for Art’s Sake’ (L’art pour l’art). This important notion was put forward by the philosopher Victor Cousin and supported by Théophile Gautier. (Gautier was especially popular in Russian Silver Age culture).31 The cultural icons of the ‘aesthetic movement’ maintained that art may be a source of a powerful gratifying pleasure, breaking with the Realist claim that asserted that the subject matter of art should contain a concrete, moralistic message. The result of this idea was a new cult of beauty, a foundation the aesthetes believed to be the basic element in art and culture. The most important factor in the context of our study was Aestheticism’s programmatic notion that ‘life’, in order to attain a superior outcome, must copy ‘art’, and not vice versa. This important semiotic vector informs the fundamental ideology that underlies the structure of the phenomenon of Lebenskunst. I believe that Aestheticism should be described as the quintessential factor responsible for the eventual realization of Russian Lebenskunst in all of its concrete fashions and configurations. The major concern of Aestheticism was to redefine the relationship between art and life. This cultural trend regarded art as something that goes beyond the pure traditional mimetic representational medium. As the work of Leon Chai32 has convincingly shown, Aestheticism (as a nascent Lebenskunst ideology) clearly sought to transform the many aspects of physical life into works of art. I use the term ‘decadent’ together with ‘Symbolist’ to denote the entire fin-de-siècle cultural atmosphere, which was turbulently active by the year 1890 and maintained this intensity until approximately

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1900. Decadence can be understood as a primarily transgressive phenomenon that aspires to move unrestrainedly beyond all traditional boundaries. According to this view, decadence may be perceived as a transitional stage between pure Romanticism and the canonical Modernism of the avant-garde. The period from the 1890s to 1917 was assembling into one core attitude – a polyvalent intellectual ‘overflow’ in which mysticism, Aestheticism, dandyism,33 eroticism,34 Marxism, apocalypticism,35 Wagnerism,36 37 Nietzscheanism, and other trends all combined with each other. Let us not forget that one of the most influential figures for Russian Symbolist life creators was Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche – a poet among philosophers and a philosopher among poets. According to Alexander Nehamas (1986), Nietzsche, as a life creator, constructed his life as a literary text par excellence, as an actual ‘novel’ that bore many of the features of an ‘artifact’ (consider Ecce Homo). In a somewhat similar way, a narratological approach to understanding Nietzsche’s ‘text of life’ is continued in the recent biography of the philosopher by Curtis Cate (2005) – currently the most complete of Nietzsche’s English-language biographies. In his extensive study of Russian mythopoetical symbolism, Aage Hansen-Löve writes: Undoubtedly, the figure of Nietzsche, albeit not untouched by a great degree of ambivalence, established the paradigm for the Symbolist myth of life. On the one hand, Nietzsche was seen as a typical representative of the Decadent movement (Belyi, ‘Friedrich Nietzsche’, 1907); on the other, he is praised as the true founder of Symbolist ‘life-creation’, even elevating him to the level of a mythic hero (Belyi, ‘Dionysus-Nietzsche’) (Hansen-Löve 2003: 32).

2.2. The Avant-Garde and the (Post) Romantic Life-Creation Symbolism as a historical cultural movement differs in certain important respects from the avant-garde.38 Symbolist artists and writers were, generally speaking, more dependent on the previous cultural milieu, namely, Romanticism. This is clearly evident in one of the major figures of Symbolism, Charles Baudelaire, whose personal creative outlook readily demonstrates some clear post-Romantic facets. I would like to go a step further: I propose to encompass the entire axis of the literary history of ‘Modernity’, starting from the classic English Romanticism of Byron, touching somewhat on German idealist topics (Klapper 1974, passim) and the preRomanticism of Goethe,39 and including up to the end of the avant-

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garde, as one mega-unit of cultural ‘habitus’ centered around certain common elements such as ‘explosion’,40 ‘experiment’, or ‘dissatisfaction with surrounding reality’. The first genuine and successful endeavors that when viewed as a totality indicated reform and modification of human life according to the new intellectual and spiritual assumptions also originated in the age of Romanticism.41 In agreement with all major Romantic thought, the primary concern of the avant-garde was to radically extend the boundaries of what was then universally accepted as ‘the norm’ according to certain conventional definitions of life, art, and culture. This attitude can be seen as relevant to the multifaceted activities of the various groups of intellectuals and artists who were practicing all sorts of radical experimentation in their creative lives. It is worth noting that the term avant-garde also refers to the intense demand for radical socio-political change and communal reform.42 The avant-garde became closely linked to movements concerned with the concept of ‘art for art’s sake’, focusing primarily on expanding the frontiers of aesthetic experience. In the case of the non-Western branches of this segment of cultural history, the term avant-garde was applied to them retrospectively by Western critics, sometimes using political labels such as “artists of the left”. The Russian avant-garde, like many other ‘national’ avant-gardes, was a diverse composite of intrinsically rather idiosyncratic and antagonistic groups, each with its own programmatic, aesthetic, cultural, pragmatic, and poetic aims and agendas.43 The ultimate and logical successor of the Symbolist aesthetic and artistic agenda has conventionally and naturally been seen as the historical avant-garde. The first cultural current to propagate the ultimately avant-garde idea of a combatant aesthetics was international Futurism (Italian Futurismo, Russian Ɏɭɬɭɪɢɡɦ), which, together with Cubism, should be seen as the first truly radical phase of Modernism. International Futurism was an early twentiethcentury radical cultural movement that originated in Italy a few years before it appeared in Russia. The main Futurist agenda championed some of the sharp (even brutal) traits of the new ‘technological’ age, such as speed, ‘dynamism’, ‘energy’, ‘mechanical strength’, ‘vigorous vitality’, constant change, and, above all, unprecedented physical activity. On February 20, 1909, the French newspaper Le Figaro published a manifesto written by Italian poet and critic Filippo

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Tommaso Marinetti, thus giving birth to the ‘International Futurism’ that would later become a coherent movement.44 The name of the movement itself suggested its preoccupation with an emphasis laid on radical disagreement with the past and combat against it, and the vibrant heralding of future times associated with the dominance of technology, machinery, and energy. This is important for the topic of life-creation, an aspect that highlights the Futurists’ obsessive and jealous fascination with ‘life’, with changing its natural and traditional developmental flow, and with merging artistic ideas with physiological, biological, and social agendas. Marinetti vigorously celebrated the new technologies of ‘the machine’ (and of the automobile in particular) with their implied aesthetic of speed, power, and strength. Equally important was open propaganda of warlike events in which physical violence was destined to overcome the diseases of the weak – those destined to perish and eventually to fade away (a sort of Spartan outlook). Marinetti even paid a famous and important ‘historical visit’ to Russia.45 Although he was not received with great warmth, the Italian movement indirectly influenced the historical development of Russian futurism and this controversial influence may be remotely felt in Velimir Khlebnikov (life-creational poet and utopian46 mystic),47 and Vladimir Maiakovskii, who was eventually to become one of the most notable poets of his troubled generation.48 The Russian Futurists boldly acquired the name ‘Budetliane’ (the Slavic – or perhaps Slavophil – etymological equivalent of ‘Futurists’), published their own (partly life-creational) manifesto in December 1912, entitled ‘A Slap in the Face of Public Taste’ (ɉɨɳɟɱɢɧɚ ɨɛɳɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɦɭ ɜɤɭɫɭ’), which was ambivalently dependent on the Italian Futurist proclamations. The Russian Futurists proclaimed a radical agenda in their public activities, concerned with the ‘epater le bourgeoisie’ behavioral paradigm. They mocked and rejected the ‘holy cows’ of Russian culture, such as Pushkin, Dostoevskii, and Tolstoi. Their attitude toward contemporary Russian Symbolist art and poetry was similarly militant and hostile. It is important to mention that these avant-garde artists were challenging the decadent Symbolists’ right to occupy the niche of public attention and the general interest of the common people. The Russian Futurists (who later called themselves ‘Kom-Futy’ – Communists-futurists) intended to integrate into the post-Revolutionary milieu and to

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produce new forms of art that would answer the new demands of revolutionary daily life in the given period of culture. Another important Russian avant-garde movement was ‘Constructivism’ (or ‘Konstruktivism’). This name had an obvious Latin root and was meant to signify the life-creational notion of ‘construction’, especially technical49 construction. This was a logical and ‘positive’ development of the recurrent Modernist idea obliging the artist to ‘construct’ art and to reconcile his art with the relevant lifestyle. Constructivism as an artistic and architectural movement was deeply influenced by European Cubism and simultaneously by Futurism; its symbolic origin may be traced to the year 1913 when the revolutionary abstract ‘geometry-inspired’ objects of Vladimir Tatlin were produced. Together with Russian sculptors of Jewish descent, Antoine Pevsner and Naum Gabo jointly wrote the ‘Realist Manifesto’. Their passionate ‘futuristic’ admiration for machines and technology, functionalism, and all kinds of modern industrial materials, such as newly invented plastic, steel, and glass, led them to be called “engineers of art” – subsequently this metaphor was utilized in the early Soviet propagandistic label “engineers of human souls”, and from that moment it was used only in reference to literary authors (Ronen 1997). This particular technological aspect is of great importance in bringing about the condition to a proper understanding of the Modernist Lebenskunst as the cohesive element, widespread among most of the cultural currents of the period. One must not forget the other important and prominently known ‘Konstruktivist names’ that included photographer and designer Alexandr Rodchenko and painter El Lissitzky.50 As a recent study by Maria Gough (2005) has shown, one emphasis of this movement was the new spatiality of forms, on merging artistic ideas with their immediate real-life environment. It is important to mention here the ‘consumerist’ (‘utilizational’, ‘consumptionist’) interest of Constructivism and the natural parallels with the Bauhaus and De Stijl movements. We should also emphasize that the idea of total ‘experimentation’ pervaded nearly every aspect of daily life in Soviet Moscow during Constructivist times. The powerful concept of zhiznestroitel’stvo (‘life-construction’), a Constructivist notion (and generally ‘leftist’, as originated in Sergei Tretiakov’s LEF organization and in the ideology of Osip Brik and Nikolai Chuzhak),51 was succeeding the ‘decadent’ (and therefore

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‘bourgeois’) zhiznetvorchestvo of the Symbolists. The new domain of the artist can be seen in such active and pragmatic concepts of life construction as ‘composition’, ‘construction’, ‘faktura’, ‘tectonics’, ‘economy’, ‘modularity’, ‘purpose’, ‘structure’, ‘function’, ‘production’, ‘creation process’, ‘object’, etc. (Gough 2005: 1-2). One of the major (though less celebrated) Constructivist activists, Nikolai Tarabukin, opened a characteristic discussion on the ‘ugliness’ of ordinary Russian surroundings disclosing traditional life objects. Such objects were inconvenient in form, awkward in their material usage, and inexpedient in function. To replace the clumsiness of previous Russian design, Tarabukin suggested a new integrity and a genuine clarity, and, above all, advocated a powerful functionality for every piece of art in the experience of everyday life (ibidem: 98-99). An additional avant-garde trend in Russia was ‘Suprematism’, one of the first worldwide movements to advocate a most far-reaching totality of formless and geometrical abstraction in painting. It was established by the prominent Russian (of Polish descent) painter and art theoretician Kazimir Severinovich Malevich around 1914.52 The Suprematist direction in the Russian avant-garde seems, however, less relevant to the life-creational pattern that interests us here. In the early 1920s, the radical ‘ascetic’ style, together with certain other abstract trends in Russian art,53 was further transmitted by Kandinskii, and by the Russian Jewish artist El Lissitzky, to Germany, particularly to the Bauhaus school.54 The trends of Cubo-Futurism, Rayonism, Suprematism, Constructivism, Productivism, Concretism, and Engineerism all reflected the turbulent community of Russian experimental artists, vainly struggling against the majority of the prevailing cultural establishment (the dominant conservative ‘mainstream’). The preoccupation with the ideas of ‘total experimentation’ and of the profound reformation of life, shaped by the vitalistic power of art, was the common ground in all these Russian cultural currents. University of Amsterdam Notes 1

All translations in the text are mine – D.I. That is, the ‘avant-garde’ as opposed (due to its radicalism) to the (‘milder’ and more vague) ‘modernism’. 2

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On the ambiguities and terminological limits of the concept of ‘Realism’, see the seminal article by Roman Jakobson 1987: 387-393. 4 This impact was relevant for the entire complex of culture, including literature. 5 On Stravinskii’s ‘modernism’, see the relevant chapter in Adorno’s Philosophy of New Music. 6 On the phenomenon of Individualism as originated among the Romantic Goethean circles one may consult the important collection: Larry 2002 (esp. the chapters: Romantic Individualism and Cultural/Historical Contexts and Individualism in Romantic Art). See also the chapter The Ego of the World: Fichte, Novalis and Schelling in Siegel 2005. 7 Naturally, we should mention here the important contribution of Russian Formalism, a critical movement that ‘invented’ the idea of a defamiliarized ‘estrangement’ that would enable the reader/viewer to notice the ‘stoniness of a stone’. See the monographic study of The Defamilarisation Principle by Hansen-Löve (1978). 8 This Modernist ‘Formalesque’, according to Bernard Smith, manifested itself in the new post-Romantic ‘exoticism’ revealed in the vigorous fascination with travelling to ‘remote lands and cultures’ of the farthest places of the ‘Orient’ and ‘East’ (Arabian and Ottoman fashions together with another ‘rediscovery’ of antiquity). 9 The topic of the occult in different modernist movements is far from unacknowledged. See the fundamental German collection: Apke et al. 1995. For the esoteric and occult intersections of the Russian Silver Age described in the context of Lebenskunst, see the collection by Bogomolov (2000). See also the valuable collection on the occult in modern Russian culture: Rosenthal 1997. 10 Quite interestingly, Dupuis was one of the inventors of the modern telegraph, which could perhaps be considered an additional communication ‘channel’ with the spheres beyond the ordinary grasp. 11 The result of Dupuis’s efforts was his magnum opus Origine de tous les Cultes, ou la Réligion Universelle, published in 1795 in 12 volumes. His philosophical system became widely known among the reading public. 12 Dupuis proclaimed the virtual unity of the astronomical and religious myths of nearly all known nations as an outcome of the enlightened view of the universality of human nature. In his Mémoire explicatif du Zodiaque, chronologique et mythologique, published in 1806, he declared a common ideographical provenance for the astronomical and religious systems of the Greeks, Egyptians, Chinese, Persians, and Arabians. 13 Under Dupuis’s influence, Napoleon organized the first serious expedition there. 14 On the esoteric Egyptomania of Kuzmin, see the recent study by Panova (2006). 15 In his well-known essay about painter Constantine Guys, The Painter of Modern Life, Baudelaire defined a dandy as ‘one who elevates aesthetics to a living religion’. 16 On the phenomenon of ‘dandyism’, see in particular: Carassus 1971; Moers 1960; Murray 1998; Nicolay 1998; Prevost 1957; Stanton 1980; and for Russian materials Vajnštejn 2006. 17 See the chapter ‘Baudelaire and the World of Art’ in Hyslop 1980: 2-68. The ‘artistic’ popularity of Baudelaire was related to his deep interest in musical fashions of his time (see ibidem: 69-92). 18 There are quite a few scholarly studies that deal with the problem of utopia in Russian culture and civilisation. See, for instance, Heller 2003; ýistov 2003. For the role of utopia in the context of Russian theatrical life-creation of Nikolai Evreinov please see Schahadat, 2004, pp. 117-119.

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On Solov’ëv and various kinds of mystical discourses, see in particular Kornblatt 1991; Gluchova 2005; Allen 1978; Cioran 1977; Kozyrev 2005. 20 Ivanov studied with Theodor Mommsen, with whom he successfully defended his magisterial dissertation, and apart from being a poet, Ivanov was generally acclaimed as an academic and classical scholar. See the newly published volume of Ivanov’s correspondence with the renowned Russian classicist of his age, Ivan Grevs: BongardLevin 2006. 21 See the various chapters in Bagno 2003. 22 See the introduction in Bagno 2003. 23 These pre-Modernists should include Bal’mont, Merezhkovskii, Gippius, and Briusov, all of whom included a particular interest in life-creation among their other complex activities. Their ‘estafette’ was continued by the ‘younger’ Symbolists of no less cultural importance such as Blok, Belyi, Sologub, Voloshin, Kuzmin, and others. 24 The corresponding names should be those of Maiakovskii, Khlebnikov, Burliuk, Larionov, Goncharova, Zdanevich, and certain others. 25 On this general topic, see the fundamental scholarly collection edited by Anna Balakian, unsurpassed in its scope (Balakian 1982). 26 Any list of the principal Symbolist poets should include the Frenchmen Stéphane Mallarmé, Paul Verlaine, Arthur Rimbaud, Jules Laforgue, Henri de Régnier, and René Ghil; the Belgians Émile Verhaeren and Georges Rodenbach; and the Greekborn Jean Moréas. Rémy de Gourmont can be seen as the principal Symbolist critic. Other aspects of the Symbolist agenda can be found in the novel by Frenchman JorisKarl Huysmans, as well as in the dramatic plays by Belgian Maurice Maeterlinck. Many of these figures were highly influential in the development of Russian Symbolism. A relevant topic here is the concept of Western theatricality and the many uses of experimental dramatic work, an issue that deserves special attention; see Jestrovic 2002. Aside from the translations, Valerii Briusov, one of the main founders of the movement in Russia, maintained personal contacts with many of these figures living in his time. See Briusov’s fascinating exchange of letters with René Ghil: Dubrovkin 2005. 27 This particular trait had also been popular among the previous cultural generation of Romantics. For a discussion about the role of occult mysticism in Romanticism, see Messent 1981. For Russian material related to the Silver Age, one should consult the valuable scholarly collection of Bogomolov (2000). 28 On the important relationship between music and poetry, see Weliver 2005; Fairchild 1980; Acquisto 2006; Leuschner 2000; Canisius 1999; for Russian material. See Gerver 2001; Wachtel 1998; Frumkin 1973; Steinberg 1982; Elik 1972; Tielkes 1998; Katz 1997. 29 On Symbolism in countries other than France, see the many articles in Anna Balakian’s important collection. 30 On the phenomenon of ‘Aestheticism’, see, in particular, Beckson 2006; Adams 1995; Chai 1990; Parejo 2005; Fraser 1986; Brown 1997; Iser 1987; Strathausen 2003; Chaleyssin 1992; Denisoff 2001. 31 On Théophile Gautier and the Russian Silver Age, see the commentary by R.D. Timenþik in Gumilev’s edition of Letters on Russian Poetry 1990. 32 See Chai 1990. The author draws extensively on the works of Baudelaire, on the notion of Renaissance developed by Jakob Burkhardt (life and art as the only content of the period); Walter Pater’s symbolic understanding of art as music; Oscar Wilde’s

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‘life as dramatic form’ (in De Profundis) and his understanding of art as a ‘supreme reality’ in which life may be seen as purely a mode of fiction, and art is understood in religious terms, art being taken as cult. 33 On the Russian relation to Dandyism, see the special chapter in Vajnštejn 2006. 34 On Russian eroticism in the fin de siècle period, see Matich 2005; Engelstein 1992; Carleton 2005. 35 There is abundant material that describes apocalyptical interests and attitudes in Russia during our period of interest. See in particular: Bethea 1989; Asnaghi 1973; Halfin 2000; Steinglass 1990. 36 On Wagner’s reception in Russia, see Bartlett 1995. 37 Many studies explore the extraordinary popularity of Nietzsche among the Russian Symbolists and Modernists. For characteristic examples, see Rosenthal 1986; Clowes 1988; Sineokaja 2001. See also Rosenthal 2007. 38 For a more synthetical point of view, compare the descriptive theory of Renato Poggioli (1968). 39 On the ambivalent and perplex relationship between Goethe and younger Romantic generations, see Wellbery 1996; Hoffmeister 1984. Other important studies are: Fröschle 2002; Beisler 1999. Hinderer 2002; Bidney 1988; Benz 1940; Nicholls 2006, (esp. the chapter ‘Romanticism and Unlimited Subjectivity’); ýavþavanidze 1982. For Goethe and Russian Romanticism, see the collection of first-hand materials brought to the public for the first time by Victor M. Zhirmunskii, as well as Išimbaeva 2002; Jakuševa 2004; and Ratgauz 2004. A nebulous ‘fluidity’ was very characteristic of Romanticism as a cultural movement, and Rene Wellek (1947; 1970), in his polemics with Arthur Lovejoy, tried to overcome the resultant ambiguity in the movement's basic definitions. Romanticism consumed the philosophical lens of J.G. Fichte and F.W. Schelling, making physical material to become the result of the activity of the spirit. Pantheist ideals became very evident in Romanticism, for the first time in the ‘new civilized history’. In contrast to Goethe and Schiller (who idealised classical antiquity), the later Romantics focused their interests on the middle ages, with all its picturesque brutality and blatant ascetic devotion. As certain essays demonstrate (especially Isaiah Berlin’s original discussion of what he termed the ‘CounterEnlightenment’), the basis of Romanticism can be observed in the explicit fundamental negation of Rationalism, the Enlightenment, and the rigid didactic aesthetics of ‘Classicism’. Romantic ideology cherished and championed the cult of the ‘national soil’ of grotesque and poetical ‘folklore’, of mysterious travels to remote lands, and of all kinds of quite savage and outrageous passions. For the first time in the ‘new history’, Romantic authors proclaimed a total ‘synthesis of the arts’, an intentional merging of traditional genres and deep fusion of receptive attitudes. It goes without saying that all of these features overlapped with the subsequent cultural trends of Symbolism, Decadentism, and Aestheticism. 40 See the chapter ‘ɋɟɦɢɨɫɮɟɪɚ’ in Lotman 2000: 12-149. 41 See the recent study: Richards 2002; (esp. the chapter Scientific Foundations of the Romantic Conception of Life. Early Theories of Development). 42 If one can judge by the declared aims of its various movements expressed in their public manifestos. 43 The original distinct application of this French term (‘avant-garde’) to figurative art seems to date from May 17, 1863, when the famous Salon des Refusés was opened in Paris (This Salon was organised by the turbulent, ‘unclaimed’ painters whose work

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was rejected by the annual Paris [Academic] Salon of officially accepted art). See, however, Bergonzi 1986. 44 On the cross-boundary phenomenon of Italian Futurism, see Blumenkranz-Onimus 1984; Somigli 2004; White 1990; Benesch 2003; Chiantera-Stutte 2002; Hewitt 1993; Perloff 2003, as well as the series of studies by Günter Berghaus: 1996, 1998, 2000. 45 On Marinetti's scandalous visit to Russia, see particularly Aljakrinskaja 2003; Markov 1968: 150-152. 46 On Khlebnikov's utopia, see Iþin 2005; Wachtel 1994; Urban 1979; Šapir 2000. 47 For the development of Khlebnikov’s Oriental Mysticism, see two recent essays of mine: Ioffe 2006; Ioffe 2007. 48 See in this context the famous article by Roman Jakobson, ‘On the Generation that Squandered its Poets’. 49 We should also mention here the connotation to the concept of ‘craft’ or ‘art’ in the well-known Greek term ‘techné’ (IJİȤȞȘ: literally, the capacity for craftsmanship). 50 On Russian Constructivism, see in particular such monographs as ChanMagomedov 2003; Lodder 1983; Lodder 2005; Gough 2005; Kiaer 2005; Andrews 1990; Zalambani 2003; Lavrent’ev 2000. 51 On LEF's aesthetic ideology, see Günther 1996; Dobrenko 1999; Zalambani 2006. 52 On the history of Suprematism, see Šatskich 2001; Zhadova 1982. The term itself was taken by Malevich from his native Polish, where the root ‘supreme’ or ‘suprematia’ meant ‘perfection of dominance’; see the commentaries in the Russian edition of Malevich’s texts published by ‘Gilea’. See also Kurbanovsky 2007. 53 Such as the ‘luchizm’ or ‘rayonizm’ of Goncharova and Larionov. For some relevant contributions, see Kovalenko 2001. 54 On Bauhaus and the Russian avant-garde, see the recent collection: Mituriþ (2006).

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Beckson, K.E. 2006. The Religion of Art: a Modernist Theme in British Literature, 1885-1925. New York: AMS Press. Beisler, H. 1999. Goethe und die romantische Hermeneutik. München: Edition Quartier Latin. Benesch, E. et al. (ed.) 2003. Futurismus: radikale Avantgarde. Wien: Kunstforum; Milano: Mazzotta. Benz, R. 1940. Goethe und die romantische kunst. München: R. Piper. Berghaus, G. 1996. Futurism and Politics: Between Anarchist Rebellion and Fascist Reaction (1909-1944). London: Berghahn Books. –– 1998. Italian Futurist Theatre, 1909-1944. Oxford, New York: Oxford University Press. –– (ed.) 2000. International Futurism in Arts and Literature. Berlin, New York: Walter de Gruyter. Bergonzi, B. 1986. The Myth of Modernism and Twentieth Century Literature. London, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Bethea, D. 1989. The Shape of Apocalypse in Modern Russian Fiction. New Jersey: Princeton University Press. Bidney, M. 1988. Blake and Goethe: Psychology, Ontology, Imagination. Columbia: University of Missouri Press. Blumenkranz-Onimus, N. 1984. La poésie futuriste italienne: essai d’analyse esthétique. Paris: Klincksieck. Bogomolov, N.A. 2000. Russkaja literatura naþala XX veka i okkul’tizm. Moskva NLO. Bongard-Levin, G.M. (ed.) 2006. Istorija i poơzija. Perepiska I.M. Grevsa i Vjaþ. Ivanova. Moskva: Rosspen. Brown, J.P. 1997. Cosmopolitan Criticism: Oscar Wilde’s Philosophy of Art. Charlottesville: University Press of Virginia. Brown, R.D. and Suman Gupta (eds.) 2004. Aestheticism and Modernism: Debating Twentieth-Century Literature 1900-1960. Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxfordshire: Routledge, Open University. Canisius, C. 1999. Goethe und die Musik. München: Piper. Carassus, É. 1971. Le Mythe du Dandy. Paris: A. Colin. Carleton, G. 2005. Sexual Revolution in Bolshevik Russia. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Cate, C. 2002. Friedrich Nietzsche. London: Hutchinson. ýavþavanidze, D.L. 1982. ‘Gete v epochu romantizma’ in Istorija zarubežnoj literatury XIX v. Moskva: Nauka. Chai, L. 1990. Aestheticism: the Religion of Art in Post-Romantic Literature. New York: Columbia University Press. Chaleyssin, P. 1992. Robert de Montesquiou: mécène et dandy. Paris: Somogy. Chan-Magomedov, S.O. 2003. Konstruktivizm: koncepcija formoobrazovanija. Moskva: Stroj-Izdat. Chiantera-Stutte, P. 2002. Von der Avantgarde zum Traditionalismus: die radikalen Futuristen im italienischen Faschismus von 1919 bis 1931. Frankfurt, New York: Campus. Cioran, S.D. 1977. Vladimir Solov’ev and the Knighthood of the Divine Sophia. Waterloo, Ontario: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. ýistov, K.V. 2003. Russkaja narodnaja utopija. Sankt-Peterburg: Dmitrii Bulanin.

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Hoffmeister, G. 1984. Goethe und die europäische Romantik. München: Francke. Hyslop, L.B. 1980. Baudelaire: Man of His Time. New Haven: Yale University Press. Iþin, K. 2005. ‘Utopija Chlebnikova i zamysel ideal’nogo gosudarstva u Platona’. On line at: http://www.ka2.ru/nauka/ichin_1.html (consulted 29.4.2008). Ioffe, D. 2006. ‘Budetljanin na oboþine islama. Urus derviš i Gul’ mulla v aspekte žiznetvorþestva i poơtiki Chlebnikova. Obzor interpretacij i dopolnenie k kommentariju’ in Philologica 8: 217-258. –– 2007. ‘Velimir Chlebnikov i diskurs Vostoka. (Sufizm, bukvy, þisla i mistika islamskogo duchovnogo žiznedejstvija). K voprosu o žiznetvorþeskoj programme pozdnego perioda dejatel’nosti poơta: dopolnitel’nye detali i kommentarii’ in Fešþenko, V.V., V.P. Grigor’ev, N.S. Sirotkin, i dr. (eds) Sbornik materialov konferencii ‘Doski Sud’by i vokrug: Ơvristika i ơstetika’, prochodivšej 17-18 avgusta 2006 goda v Moskve. Moskva: Tri Kvadrata. –– (forthcoming) ‘Homo Somatikos and Homo Ludens in Russian Modernist LifeCreation as a Sign-System (The Notion of the Transgressive ‘Plastic Gesture’)’in Acta Semiotica Fennica, Helsinki XXII. Iser, W. 1987. Walter Pater: the Aesthetic Moment (tr. from the German David Henry Wilson). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Išimbaeva, G.G. 2002. Russkaja faustiana XX veka. Moskva: Nauka. Jakobson, R. 1987. ‘O chudožestvennom realizme’ in idem, Raboty po poơtike. Moskva: Progress: 387-393. Jakuševa, G.V. 2004. ‘Obraz i motivy Gete v oteþestvennoj slovesnosti XX veka’ in Gete v russkoj kul’ture dvadcatogo veka. Moskva: Nauka: 11-44. Jestrovic, S. 2002. ‘Theatricality as Estrangement of Art and Life in the Russian Avant-Garde’ in SubStance: A Review of Theory and Literary Criticism 31 (2-3 [98-99]): 42-56. Karl, F. 1988. Modern and Modernism: The Sovereignty of the Artist: 1885-1925. New York: Atheneum Books. Katz, B. 1997. Muzykal’nye kljuci k russkoj poơzii, Issledovatel’skie oþerki i kommentarii. Sankt-Peterburg: Kompozitor. Kiaer, C. 2005. Imagine No Possessions: the Socialist Objects of Russian Constructivism. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. Klapper, M.R. 1974. The German Literary Influence on Byron. Salzburg: Institut für Englische Sprache und Literatur, Universität Salzburg. Kornblatt, J.D. 1991. ‘Solov’ev’s Androgynous Sophia and the Jewish Kabbalah’ in Slavic Review 50(3): 487-496. Kovalenko, G.F. (ed.) 2001. N.S .Gonþarova i M.F. Larionov. Issledovanija i materialy. Moskva: Nauka. Kozyrev, A.P. 2005. ‘Gnostiþeskie iskanija Vl. Solov’ëva i kul’tura Serebrjanogo veka’ in Tacho-Godi, A.A. (red.) Vladimir Solov’ëv i kul’tura Serebrjanogo veka. Moskva: Nauka: 226-241. Kurbanovsky, A. 2007. ‘Malevich’s Mystic Signs: From Iconoclasm to New Theology’, in Steinberg Mark D. and Heather J. Coleman (eds) Sacred Stories: Religion and Spirituality in Modern Russia, Bloomington: Indiana University Press: 358-377. Lavrent’ev, A.N. 2000. Laboratorija konstruktivizma. Opyty grafiþeskogo modelirovanija. Moskva: Grant.

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The House of Socialism in Literature. Trifonov’s House on the Embankment Joost van Baak Abstract: The historic house described in Trifonov’s novel, Ⱦɨɦ ɧɚ ɧɚɛɟɪɟɠɧɨɣ (The House on the Embankment; 1976) reflects an image of Soviet life in some of its crucial phases that has an enduring significance for later generations. It can be seen as a symbol of the Soviet era, in all its aspects. During the course of Soviet history, the concept of the House reflected ideological views ranging from radical collectivism to the defence of individualism. The ambiguity of Soviet housing arises from the incompatibility of the state’s desire to exert total control with the individual citizen’s need for private space, freedom and security of which the kommunalka was the most dismal, and logical result. Trifonov’s novel shows how the inhabitants of this special house for the party elite were all, in some way, close to the centre of Stalinist power. As a consequence they were extremely vulnerable to Stalin’s reign of terror, and among the first to experience it. The most reliable ‘servants of the people’ could become the same people’s ‘worst enemies’ overnight. This house was not only the material symbol of the state’s defiant ideology; it also became a symbol of the Soviet ideology’s worst derailments, a mockery of the archetypal security, intimacy and selfpossession that comes with the image of a House. Being evicted from the house meant expulsion from society and would often even lead to homelessness. Keywords: House, Soviet Housing, Soviet culture, Stalinist terror, kommunalka

It should not surprise us that the theme of building was central to communist ideology and propaganda in the Soviet Union. From the nineteen thirties onwards, building ideology materialised in two ways: gigantic industrialization projects (such as the hydroelectric station Dneproges), and grand housing projects. The Marxist world view that guided Soviet policy was based on historical materialism, according to which the life of a human being and the development of human society are determined by the material and economic environment. Marxist theory claims to predict scientifically the inevitable development of human society, and this inspired the political programmes of the Bolsheviks: ‘building’ socialism was the next step on the road to communism, Russia’s ‘inevitable’ future. It is clear that such a programme depended upon fundamental and far reaching

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anthropological claims regarding human nature and the possibility of changing humankind, both individually and as a species. The idea of the House is central to any culture. The archaeologist Ian Hodder wrote of his concept of the domus that it “provided a way of thinking about the control of the wild and thus for the larger oppositions between culture and nature, social and unsocial”, adding that the emergence of human society was linked to the building of houses (Hodder 1990: 39). In the broad context of culture and literature, it is possible to construct a thematic complex of ‘stories’ that connect humankind and its life’s story in the domestic and family context. This involves plot elements such as building or founding a house (as a building or as a dynasty); entering a new house (being born, marrying or moving to another place); returning home after a period of absence; and leaving home, either as a phase in life (coming of age, marrying, moving to another place or dying), as a result of conflict (fleeing or being driven away) or as part of a legal process (being evicted). These are fabular moments of universal human significance that I shall refer to by the term House Myth. This may provide an interesting tool for the typological and historical analysis both of cultures and their literatures, and of individual authors and their works (see Van Baak 1994 and forthcoming). The general concept and image of the House is always based on a connection between human culture and house building, so that there are both social and spatial-constructive aspects to it. It was only to be expected that Soviet Marxism, in modelling its Utopian projections, would take this relationship into account, and in Soviet ideological discourse the construction metaphor played a central role, becoming a master metaphor for the entire socialist project (see Klark 2000: 119120). ‘Socialist construction’ included both material building and moral, ideological and political progress towards the Utopian ‘New Man’ and ‘New World’ envisaged by enlightenment positivism. The historical task of architecture in this context was to give material shape to the ideology, and thus it was only logical that the metaphor should be applied to Joseph Stalin himself: he was the ‘supreme architect’, or zodchii, of communism, an archaic expression that assigned to him an almost Godlike role. A striking example of this may be found in the title of K.I. Finogenov’s painting of Stalin: The brilliant architect I.V. Stalin in his Kremlin study working out plans for the great construction of communism,1 and Stalin’s own 1932

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dictum that writers were “engineers of human souls” (Gjunter 2000: 44) is clearly part of the same master metaphor. But to what extent were original Utopian projections about the New Man in the New World realised during the Soviet period; what aspects of the House Myth were dominant in this process, and how was this reflected in literature? Most of the maximalist urban building dreams of the nineteenthirties (to which the term perestroika, later adopted by Mikhail Gorbachev, was already being applied) did not materialise, either because of the enormous costs involved (Klark 2000: 123) or because they had never been more than megalomanic ideological projections that were incapable of realization (Papernyi 2000: 132-133). The builders of the New World were the new industrial proletariat that emerged as part of the joint collectivisation and industrialisation project. This proletariat had to be housed close to where they were working, and in the cities communal housing was inevitable. A 1940 article in the journal Ⱥɪɯɢɬɟɤɬɭɪɚ ɋɋɋɊ (Architecture of the USSR) states that, by the end of the nineteen twenties, some sixty percent of the population lived in communal housing (defined by Vladimir Papernyi [2000: 137] as accommodating one family per room). Such housing, the kommunalki, still exists in Russia today. It would be a serious mistake to consider the history of Soviet society and culture as a homogeneous process. In Kul’tura Dva (‘Culture Two’, 1996), his extensive typological analysis of Soviet society under Stalin, Papernyi identifies two types of Russian culture that not only alternate, but compete and clash with one another. It is a fascinating exploration, especially where it deals with Stalinist architecture, but I will focus here on its basic theses. Culture One dominates the early phase of the Soviet period (until the early thirties). It is characterised by revolutionary Utopianism (radically breaking with the past in every respect) and egalitarian collectivism (suppressing individuality, as well as gendered differences). It is ‘horizontal’, analytical, rationalist, internationalist, abstractionist, pragmatic and constructivist in its art and architecture. Culture Two is represented by the transformations that increasingly came to characterise Soviet culture under Stalin. It is virtually the opposite of Culture One, tending towards the socially conservative or reconstructive. The nuclear family is restored to its place as the ‘cornerstone’ of society, and there is a renewed emphasis on the

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differentiation of gender roles. ‘Vertical’, ‘organic’ and hierarchical in its collectivism, it is also historically-, nationally- and even romantically-oriented, favouring mythical thinking and promoting hero worship. Examples of the latter include the phenomenon of Stakhanovism (where the hardest workers were treated as heroes), and the setting up of Pavlik Morozov (who denounced his own parents to the secret police, and was later killed) and the heroes of aviation and arctic exploration as role models.2 Moreover, it is thoroughly symbolic, not only in its attitude to life, but also in its representational art and in its monumental architecture, which combines classical idioms with elements and ornaments from all possible stylistic areas and traditions, including folklore, medieval Russia, the Orient, the Gothic and the Renaissance.3 During the 1920s (that is, under the dominance of Culture One), the new architecture was oriented towards the communal ideal. A number of communes and communal houses were built with the support of the government. This radical architecture was at odds with traditional family life, which was seen as only a temporary withdrawal from collective existence, reducing it “to the level of cohabitation” (ɧɚ ɪɟɞɭɤɰɢɸ ɫɟɦɶɢ ɞɨ ɭɪɨɜɧɹ ɫɨɠɢɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɚ; Papernyi 1996: 147). Marriage ceased to be recognised as a necessary social institution for the intimacy of family life and procreation, with the result that marriage and divorce, as well as abortion, became exceedingly simple to arrange. One of the more extreme schools of thought recommended the wholesale destruction of the family by the proletariat on the grounds that it was ‘an organ of repression and exploitation’ (ibidem: 146). Although it never succeeded in solving the practical housing problem, Culture Two would endeavour to reverse all this after 1930, shifting ideological attention away from the radical collectivism of Culture One and encouraging individualism in, for example, clothing, and indeed housing (ibidem: 152).4 The policy that succeeded the New Economic Policy after 1929 introduced the command economy of five-year plans, industrialisation and collectivisation. It was these measures that really transformed the social fabric of Russian society into the Soviet society that emerged during the nineteen-thirties (see Dunham 1976) – that unique combination of sociological phenomena and individual attitudes that is instantly recognisable in the label homo Sovieticus.

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According to Papernyi, a new Culture One phase began in the nineteen-sixties, coinciding with and expressing the ideology of destalinisation. Under Khrushchev, new housing-blocks were built in great numbers, though there were never enough to put an end to the kommunalki. These apartments, which, like the kommunalki, can still be seen, were cheap to build, and very small. They were intended to be provisional, to be replaced later by better ones once communism had been achieved. Housing in this phase indeed reflects the Culture One typology: strictly pragmatic, without the triumphant and symbolic motifs and decorations of the elite buildings of Stalinism. It is clear that, during the course of Soviet history, the concept of the House reflected ideological views ranging from radical collectivism to the defence of individualism. Though architecture was seen to be extremely important for the material expression of socialist and communist doctrine, the results were such that the basic domestic needs of the people in general, especially in terms of privacy and convenience, were never given a high priority. No doubt this had to do with the actual building policy, but it was also related to the ideological status of the individual in Soviet thinking, irrespective of the prevalent Culture-type. The House, as an anthropological concept, implies a set of basic values that include privacy, personal security and individual freedom, and my thesis is that the doctrinal dogmas that directed Soviet society led to the deliberate repression, or at least to the systematic and planned neglect, of these values. A number of Soviet practices that have come to be regarded as typical were utterly hostile to domesticity in both their intentions and consequences, among them the pressure under which people were encouraged to denounce their neighbours, and indeed members of their own families. The ambiguity of Soviet housing arises from the incompatibility of the state’s desire to exert total control with the individual citizen’s need for private space, freedom and security. Soviet living conditions, and the policy of maintaining them, implied denial of the very nature of human beings in their fundamental relations as individuals towards their families, friends, neighbours and social environment. In the darkest days of Stalinism, even one’s home was not necessarily a safe place.5 The ideological myth that prevailed during this phase of Soviet culture was what Katerina Clark (1981: 114-135) has called “the Stalinist myth of the Great Family”, according to which the ‘Family’ was the state itself. The populace were “brothers and sisters” whose

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primary responsibility was to that family, of which Stalin himself was, of course, the symbolic Father. Understood literally and put into social practice, this was a huge anthropological lie, irreconcilable with the needs of real people and their real family ties. In Iurii Trifonov’s novel Ⱦɨɦ ɧɚ ɧɚɛɟɪɟɠɧɨɣ (The House on the Embankment), this world view, which is implicitly Culture Two, is both demonstrated and deconstructed in a revealing way. It was first published in 1976 in the monthly periodical Ⱦɪɭɠɛɚ ɧɚɪɨɞɨɜ (Friendship of the Peoples). The house of the title is a huge complex of apartment buildings and services on the embankment of the Moscow River, designed and constructed between 1928 and 1931 by Boris Mikhailovich Iofan (1891-1976), one of the most celebrated architects of the Stalin era. It is a highly impressive building that houses an enormous number of people and, by virtue of its size and its constructive and stylistic characteristics, inevitably became an architectural symbol of the most triumphant phase of Soviet culture. The apartments, which are very spacious and have high ceilings, were also provided with such modern amenities and services as central heating, attendant-operated lifts, security systems and a first-class restaurant. From the beginning it housed the families of the highest ranking revolutionaries and politicians, the most reliable members of the Soviet military, and the cultural and intellectual elite.6 Iofan’s guiding architectural principle was indeed the expression of that period’s defiant self-confidence: “the idea of power and of having achieved universal happiness” (Terechova 1996).7 In other words, in the intended symbolism of Soviet culture, this building can be ‘read’ as a material sign of the Utopian project of socialism – a realisation of the house of the future. For the Russian readership of today, the building inevitably evokes an entire cultural world picture in its tragic historical context, and it is this that forms the background to the individual fates of the novel’s characters, some of whom really existed. Not surprisingly, their lives are quite different from what the Utopian message would have had us believe. The house on the embankment, then, was not a house in the normal sense. As an apartment building it brought together a multitude of families and individuals whose sociological background was far from average or normal. Thus it represented something like “a state within a state” (ibidem).8 It is no coincidence that it was built opposite the Kremlin, a most appropriate icon of centralist ideology.

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The inhabitants’ privileges and general station in life caused envy, underlining as they did the paradoxical, if logically inevitable, fundamental inequality of Soviet citizens. Such negative feelings occasionally afflict the novel’s main protagonist, living in poverty in the immediate neighbourhood, when he visits classmates who live in “the big house”. Its inhabitants are all, in some way, close to the centre of Stalinist power. As a consequence they are extremely vulnerable to Stalin’s reign of terror, and among the first to experience it. As early as 1932, just one year after the first inhabitants moved into the new house on the embankment, they were subjected to that wave of Stalinist repression that reached its climax in 1937. More than seven hundred victims have been identified among the occupants of the house. More than three hundred were shot, while the others were consigned to prisons or camps from which they never returned. The most reliable “servants of the people” could become the same people’s “worst enemies” overnight. The treatment meted out to their families varied: sometimes only the study of the arrested person was sealed, the family being allowed to continue living in the rest of the apartment, but for the relatives of those designated “enemies of the people” this was soon found to be an inadmissible luxury. Under a new system introduced by the Commandant’s office, relatives of convicted people were to be housed communally in shared apartments (the kommunalka) – one room per family. Later, they were simply evicted from the house, often without the right to alternative housing of any kind (Jaškin 2000). Trifonov himself lived in the house from 1931 to 1939, and he experienced all of this. His father, Valentin Trifonov, was purged by Stalin, after which his family moved from the house on the embankment into a sordid kommunalka. Trifonov incorporates that episode in his literary text: I still remember how we moved out of the house on the embankment. A rainy October, the smell of naphthalene and dust, the corridor blocked up with bunches of books, bundles, suitcases, sacks and parcels. The whole ‘caboodle’ has to be taken down from the fifth floor. The boys have come to help. Somebody asks the lift operator: ‘Whose stuff is this?’ The lift operator answers: ‘Oh, this is all from the fifth.’ He does not mention my name, does not nod in my direction. Although I am standing nearby, and he knows perfectly well who I am, he just says: ‘From the fifth.’ – ‘And where are they going?’ – ‘Who knows? Seems like somewhere on the outskirts, so they say.’ And again, he could have asked me. I would have answered, but he does not ask. It is as though I no longer exist for him. Those who move out of this house cease to exist. I am oppressed by shame.

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Joost van Baak It seems shameful to me to turn inside out, in front of everyone, on the street, the wretched entrails of our life! The furniture in the huge apartment is state property. All of it remains there.9

This passage is built up in a most chilling way. The phrase in the opening sentence – “how we moved out of the house on the embankment” – seems neutral, but its recapitulation towards the end – “Those who move out of this house cease to exist” – has the ring of a judicial sentence, which is precisely what it is. Between these phrases, in the conversation between the lift-operator and the third party, Trifonov gives a practical demonstration of how social ostracism functioned. It is very telling that he so directly connects his feeling of shame with his family’s belongings, placed outside and visible to everybody. For him, the intimacy of his home and family has become exposed and vulnerable. He uses a powerful image to convey this sense of threat: an anatomic analogy in which the house is the self and its contents, one’s possessions, are the entrails. The Body/House has been turned inside out, but, ironically, only partially so: the passage ends with the surprising information that the apartment’s actual furniture is not theirs! This striking detail of early Soviet life provides a concrete illustration of how the extremes of doctrinal collectivism literally, as well as metaphorically, reduced the domestic sphere of the individual. Thus, this house was not only the material symbol of the state’s defiant ideology; it also became a symbol of the Soviet ideology’s worst derailments, a mockery of the archetypal security, intimacy and self-possession that comes with the image of a House. Being evicted from one’s house is, as we have seen, one of the basic fabular motifs of the House Myth. Where the eviction also represents expulsion from society and may even lead to homelessness, the power of the motif is intensified. Individual responses varied, of course, as Trifonov’s novel demonstrates. As a socialist-realist author, Trifonov is generally seen as untypical, particularly in his later work (including The House on the Embankment), and the fact that this novel passed censorship and was allowed to be published surprised many people at the time. Even when he is evoking past periods of socialist construction, Trifonov’s characters, and the society of which they are shown to form a part, are a far cry from the ideals of conventional socialist realism. His subject is the Soviet past: he is dealing with the nineteen thirties and forties,

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the horrors of the Stalinist terror and the harsh period of so-called ‘High Stalinism’ immediately after the war; but even in the nineteen seventies, long after the official destalinisation campaigns of the Khrushchev era, it was not permitted to write about these matters openly and critically. Trifonov does write about them, but in an indirect, implicit or veiled way, using Aesopian formulations that his readers would not find difficult to decode. The protagonists are neither ‘larger-than-life’ positive heroes, nor stereotypical one-dimensional ‘enemies of the people’. On the contrary, they are often portrayed as antiheroic characters whose attitudes and behaviour are at best ambivalent and at worst completely negative. Trifonov’s style and outlook have been described as existentialist because of the importance he gives to banal detail, or byt in Russian, and because he typically makes philosophical narrative interventions expounding his own antiheroic, sober-minded view of life. This is not an author who believes that values, morality or human nature have anything to do with class struggle or historical necessity (Hosking 1992: 574); his judgment is low-key, and he tends to be pessimistic as to the possibility of moral improvement (Terras 1985: 483). All these features are, of course, entirely out-of-tune with the official socialist realist code and its “cult of optimism” (Vickery 1963), but they also make for strong, convincing images of Soviet life, with all its conflicting moral and emotional pressures. Trifonov’s style is characterised by changing perspectives, frequent shifts of narrative focus and a discontinuous chronology that moves between historical layers and episodes. Among the latter, Timmer (1978: 200) has identified 1937-1940 (the childhood of the main protagonists), 1941-1945 (the war years, particularly 1941), 1946-1953 (the student years of the main protagonists, particularly 1947), 1957-1958 (the period of destalinisation) and 1972-1974 (the present from which the narrative views the past). The narrator shifts the viewpoint between that of Dmitrii Glebov, the main protagonist, and the other characters, sometimes himself becoming a participant in the story as he remembers and comments upon past events. The novel opens with a family setting in 1972, by which time Glebov is a fairly settled and accomplished academic. He has a dacha, but is soon to move into a new cooperative house (ɤɨɨɩɟɪɚɬɢɜɧɵɣ ɞɨɦ, a specific form of ownership representing an improvement in housing conditions). Wishing to purchase a table, he goes to a furniture store

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and recognises one of the people working there as his childhood friend Levka Shulepnikov, who at first ignores him. They have not met for a very long time, and he is shocked by the extent of his old friend’s degradation. This meeting triggers Glebov’s story. It is complicated, ambivalent and, to him, embarrassing to the extent that he would prefer to allow parts of it to remain a suppressed memory: Again unexpected: a very early memory, destitute and stupid, the house on the embankment, the snowy courtyards, the electric lanterns hanging down from wires, fights in snowdrifts near the brick wall. Šulepa consisted of different layers, broke up into sheets, and every sheet was unlike any other, but what had happened there – in the snow, in the snowdrifts near the brick wall, when the fighting would go on till it bled, till someone would wheeze “I surrender”, and afterwards, in the huge warm house, in a state of bliss, drinking tea from dainty little cups – all that was probably real, then. Although, who knows? At different times the present looks different. To be honest, Glebov hated those days, because they had been his childhood.10

It is a tale of childhood and coming of age in the Soviet Union. Its historical setting includes some of the most eventful and tragic episodes of Soviet history, though as I have already indicated these – and they include the death of Stalin in 1953 – tend to be dealt with by hints and implications rather than direct reference. Coming of age in this case meant not only coming to terms with the usual thrills, fears and challenges that childhood and youth entail, but also coping with the social and political consequences of the Soviet system, including life in communal housing and blatant social inequality. As we have just seen, for Dmitrii Glebov this story is as much about remembering as wanting to forget the painful but irremediable past. The narrator is exploring complicated memories that are at once dear (because they are about the unique and uniquely-valuable experiences of childhood and youth) and painful (because they entail renewed confrontations with difficult moral issues and choices). In this particular case the coming of age may be tainted by the fact that it takes place in the Stalinist Soviet Union, which means that some of the moral issues that people faced, irrespective of their age, were uniquely false and often insoluble. They were false because they originated, not from life, but from an abstract, powerful, revengeful and unscrupulous authority, and they were intended to elicit reactions inspired by fear.

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We follow Dmitrii Glebov in his development from school age to adulthood, during which friendships play an important role but there are also the tensions and hardships of an unusually cruel and aggressive world. It is a world in which even the very young must be circumspect in forming alliances, and aware of the dangers that surround them. From the beginning of Glebov’s retrospective story we sense that his life is overshadowed by anxiety and uncertainty, though their causes are not always easy to identify. We see this clearly in the long and ambivalent struggle between him and his friend, Levka Shulepnikov. It is a struggle for power that begins as soon as Levka comes into Glebov’s class at school. Levka’s social identity is unclear and generally shrouded in a sense of mystery, of which he is himself the creator. He jealously guards and strives to enhance his mysteriousness and unpredictability in order to maintain his power over his classmates, a characteristic that continues into his student years. He likes to arouse envy in others, as happens when he and Glebov are reacquainted as students in 1947 and he shows off a rare and expensive American Air Force leather jacket. Levka’s elite status is indicated by the fact that he lives in the big house, together with his mother and two successive stepfathers, both of whom seem often to be enigmatically absent, but the feelings of apprehension and unhappiness that he excites in Glebov are also connected with the fear that all Soviet citizens felt in those times, acquired as a second nature, and indispensable to public survival. The root of Glebov’s particular unhappiness is his sense of social and economic inferiority to a number of his classmates (but particularly Levka Shulepnikov), all of whom live in the big house on the embankment. This social inequality is reflected in expressive spatial terms by the juxtaposition of this house with the poor communal housing on the courtyards of Deriuginskii Lane (Ⱦɟɪɸɝɢɧɫɤɢɣ ɩɟɪɟɭɥɨɤ; from deriuga, ‘sackcloth’), where Glebov has always lived with his parents and grandmother: The gray mass hung over the small lane, in the morning standing in the sunlight, and in the evening, from above, radio voices and music from gramophones came down. Up there, in the lofty apartments, it seemed that life was completely different from the life below, in its meanness, painted yellow according to a centuries-old tradition. This was ‘disparity’! Some people did not notice it; others did not give a damn about it; others still thought it was right and legitimate, but Glebov, since his early childhood, had felt a burning in his soul. Whether it was envy or something other than envy was not clear. His father worked as a master

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Joost van Baak chemical worker in an old sweets factory. His mother did all sorts of jobs, but nothing of any consequence. No education.11

Visiting his class-mates inevitably means being confronted by their privileged lives in their spacious and luxurious apartments, but the barriers that he faces are physical as well as psychological: they are the barriers of security and control that characterise this bastion of the Soviet elite: Glebov went, rather reluctantly, to visit the boys who lived in the big house – or rather not reluctantly: he did indeed go willingly, but also with a certain caution, because the lift operators at the entrance always looked with suspicion and asked: ‘Who is it you want to visit?’ He was required to give the family name and the number of the apartment. Sometimes the lift operator would make a telephone call to the apartment, to find out whether they were really expecting a visitor.12

At the same time, Glebov is fascinated by this unfamiliar social atmosphere – its sense of superiority and its decadence. His attitude towards it is complex and ambivalent, and will remain so, but in the course of time he manages to come to terms with this social inequality, so that his friendships do not suffer from it. Given what it means to live in the squalor and poverty of communal housing, this is no mean feat. Trifonov makes much of this aspect of Soviet life: Glebov also became less discontented with his own apartment when coming back to it after visiting the big house. In the beginning he felt somehow miserable when he suddenly saw, as though for the first time, his own crooked hovel with its brown plastering; when he went up the dark staircase, on which one had to walk carefully because the steps were knocked out in some places; when he approached the door that was clad, like an old patched blanket, in a multitude of name-plates, inscriptions and doorbells; when he plunged into the layered kerosine stench of the apartment where there was always something boiling in a kettle and where someone was always cooking cabbage; when he washed his hands in what used to be a bathroom, cramped because of the shelves that shut off the bathtub itself in which nobody washed either themselves or laundry, but where various basins and tubs belonging to different inhabitants were kept on the shelves; when he saw, felt, and noticed a lot of other things coming back from Levka Shulepnikov’s or from somebody else’s in the big house, but little by little it all abated, softened, and stopped offending.13

At home, Glebov often feels uncomfortable or embarrassed. His father tries to dissuade him from establishing close ties with the boys in the big house. He covertly warns him, hinting that those people have a

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different way of life (ibidem: 384). He sees danger even in friendships among boys, and he advises his son in general terms – though they gain a particular relevance when seen as a strategy for survival in the Soviet context – to follow the rule of the streetcar “not to lean out of the window” or “stick [his] neck out” (ɧɟ ɜɵɫɨɜɵɜɚɬɶɫɹ; ibidem: 383). Only his grandmother, baba Nila, understands him. She is the one on whom their house depends. Her role is “to carry the house from morning till evening” (ɨɧɚ ɬɚɳɢɥɚ ɞɨɦ ɫ ɭɬɪɚ ɞɨ ɩɨɡɞɧɨɬɵ ɧɚ ɧɨɝɚɯ; ibidem: 395). After the death of Glebov’s mother (during the war), the house becomes desolate; his father takes to drink, and Baba Nila has to bear the weight of the entire household (“the whole house was on her”; ɜɟɫɶ ɞɨɦ ɛɵɥ ɧɚ ɧɟɣ; ibidem). However fragile her person, and however subordinate her role in the story, only she represents the continuity and stability of the House archetype, even in communal housing. In fulfilling this responsibility and never giving up, she also confirms the archetypical female role, which seems to elude political contingencies. Her death (ibidem: 478) marks Glebov’s leaving of the house – his coming of age as a Soviet citizen – because it coincides with the crucial episode in his life when he publicly betrays a friend to safeguard his own career (see below). As the earlier quotation from page 365 made clear, the social and cultural differences between the big house and Deriuginskii Lane are marked vertically; that is, along the dimension of hierarchy and power. ‘On the ground’ there is the dismal world of kommunalki, where antisocial families terrorise their neighbours, where gangs are formed and criminal violence frequently breaks out, the inevitable consequences of forcing people to live together in cramped housing conditions. The vertical difference between this world and that of the house on the embankment is both emphasised and symbolised by the physical height of the latter. Its lofty apartments (the ‘ɩɨɞɧɟɛɟɫɧɵɟ ɷɬɚɠɢ’) provide a panoramic view of the city by courtesy of its serviced elevators. It is down below, in the ‘social jungle’ of Deriuginskii Lane, that these worlds meet and clash in the fights that break out among their respective young male occupants. It should not surprise us that, in such a setting, young Glebov, who partakes of both worlds, quickly comes to realise the ambivalence and uncertainty of his position. During the war many of his friends from the house are killed, or disappear. His student years (the late 1940s) are marked by a

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continuation of his contacts with those few who have survived. At first it seems as though, after the war, the big house had disappeared from his life, as though that chapter in his life had ended, along with his childhood, and the house had lost all its former ambiguous and paradoxical appeal for him. But not quite. It is the house that has always exerted its emotional and moral force upon him, and there is still one person there to whom he can be drawn: The big house that had meant so much in Glebov’s previous life – oppressing him, enrapturing him, tormenting him, and like some secret magnet attracting him irresistibly, – now, after the war, fell away into the shade. There was nobody left there to go to. Except Sonia Ganchuk.14

Now, as a student, he becomes a frequent caller at the apartment of this former school friend, Sonia Ganchuk. Her father is a famous and respected academic and a professor at the Literature Institute where both he and Sonia study. He has also been a revolutionary. Glebov is himself beginning to be attracted by the prospect of an academic career, and the big house begins to enchant him again – in a new way. He has changed, and life in the house has also changed. In the author’s words, he “creeps back” into the “aura of the big house” (ɜɩɨɥɡɚɥ ɜ ɚɭɪɭ ɛɨɥɶɲɨɝɨ ɞɨɦɚ; ibidem: 405). There is understandable reluctance here: the “aura” of the house has inevitably been affected by the post-war restoration of Stalinism – the picking up of grim routines that the disaster of the war had only temporarily interrupted: Gradually Glebov crept back again into the aura of ‘the big house’. There were no more lift operators at the entrance. And the occupants, it seemed, were different from the earlier ones: they looked more simple and their conversation was different. But as before, unusual smells hung in the lifts: of shashlyk, something fishy, or tomatoes, or of expensive cigarettes, or of dogs.15

In the course of time he becomes infatuated with Sonia and declares his love for her during a new year’s party for students at her parents’ dacha. Looking out of the window Glebov is suddenly struck by the idea that “all this could become his house”; he “knows that all of this belongs to him”, just as he feels that Sonia now “belongs to him”: ...and suddenly – through a rush of all his blood that made him dizzy – he felt that this could become his house. And, maybe, already now – nobody else suspected it yet, but he already knew – all these yellowed bookshelves…, the photographs, the creaking window-frame, the roof buried under the snow,

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‘belonged to him’! He felt such a sweet languor, from complete exhaustion, such a glow of pleasure, from everything … He embraced this thin, submissive, soft body, these thin shoulders, this thin back. There was no weight at all in this body, but it belonged to him – this was what he felt – it belonged to him, together with the old house, the spruces, the snow …16

His strong urge for possession may be motivated by a desire to escape from his kommunalka background, to repair what he felt lacking in his self-esteem, social standing and background. However, it is important to bear in mind that this sudden urgent feeling is projected on to the dacha; that is, on to the house and demesnes that he identifies with his beloved and all that she stands for. It is noteworthy that the possessive imagery in this passage is developed on the basis of what we might call expansive metonymy: the sense of possession is built up concentrically, beginning with himself and then taking in important metonymic elements of the dacha: its shelves, its pictures, and its roof covered with snow. In the second part of the passage it is Sonia’s body that forms the starting point of the metonymic expansion, now encompassing the house and its surroundings. This structure of expansive metonymy appears to be a universal semiotic strategy for the expression of such fundamental relations between the self and the world. His dream of marrying her, and thus of acquiring her and her house (and not only the dacha, of course), is a prime example of the dynastic principle of the House Myth, set in motion in this case by the fabular motif of ‘coming into a new house through marriage’. The principle of ancestral cyclicity inherent in the mythical structure as an abstract pattern is not present here, which is logical: ‘entering a new house’ for an individual is a unique moment of fulfilment of one’s life plot, of one’s here-and-now becoming part of the mythical structure, but it has the potential to lead to the equivalent of the next fabular step of the House Myth: ‘founding a new house’. The suddenness and physical impact of these feelings evidently take him by surprise. This is an indication of their primordial and archetypal nature, their momentous emotional announcement of a turning point in his life. The fact that his relationship with Sonia will end without marriage, though crucial for the story’s plot, is irrelevant to the psychological and functional significance of the mythical text here. By a gradual process, Glebov becomes Professor Ganchuk’s most trusted graduate student¸ and in spite of his and Sonia’s attempts to

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keep their relationship secret, the Professor begins to treat him as a future son-in-law. When Professor Ganchuk is made the victim of an unjust ideological attack, levelled at him in the treacherous, anonymous way that Stalinism perfected, Glebov is inescapably drawn in as a pawn in the game. Trifonov’s representation of the way this process worked is masterly. To begin with, Glebov hopes that Levka, through his influential connections, will be able to help him, but it is a forlorn hope, coinciding with the beginning of Levka’s own gradual fall from grace. Once Levka’s second step-father loses his political influence, the narrator tells us, stressing once more the dynastic motif, their “house fell” (ɞɨɦ ɪɭɯɧɭɥ). In the interests of his own academic career, Glebov agrees to testify against Professor Ganchuk (who is consequently disgraced), and ends his relationship with Sonia after a night spent in the big house. It is the climactic moment of the story: In the morning, taking breakfast in the kitchen and looking at the gray concrete curve of the bridge, at the small figures, at the small cars and at the gray-yellow palace capped with snow on the other side of the river, he said that he would call after classes and come in the evening. He never came to that house again.17

This abrupt, laconic winding up of Glebov’s relationship, not just with Sonia but with the house – the central relationship of the entire novel – is prepared for and offset by a reference to the great panoramic view from the apartment (which could almost have been his), over the embankment, over the bridge and towards the palace on the opposite side of the Moscow River – a mocking and ironic house image in this context. Inwardly, Glebov is saying goodbye to all this. This central story, or the sequence of events that make up this story, is what Glebov remembered in 1972, the night after meeting Levka again in the furniture shop. The narrative now moves forward to 1974. Glebov has made a success of his scholarly career and even earned the right to travel abroad to attend a conference in Paris, where, by coincidence, he meets former occupants of the big house. In the final pages, the narrator himself pays a visit to old Professor Ganchuk. Sonia having died several years earlier, they visit the cemetery where she is buried. When they arrive, the cemetery is about to close, and the gatekeeper refuses to let them in. During the ensuing quarrel it transpires that the gatekeeper is Levka. He grants them

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admission, but when they return after visiting the grave, he has disappeared. The novel ends with a brief glimpse of the house on the embankment from the point of view of Levka, who observes it from the trolleybus on his way home that evening. His view is quite different from any of the earlier ones we have seen: Some moments later he drove across the bridge over the river, looked at the squat, shapeless long house on the embankment, shining with thousands of windows, sought, as usual, the window of the old apartment where his happiest moments had raced by, and day-dreamed: what if, by a sudden miracle, his life were about to undergo another change?...18

Now the house, which we are used to thinking of as high, is described as “squat”, and even “shapeless”. This is the perception of a former inhabitant of the house who, after a privileged, golden childhood, had been expelled from paradise, so to speak. This rather reinforces the narrator’s comment upon Glebov’s sceptical attitude towards his own past and what really happened then: “At different times the present looks different” (ȼ ɪɚɡɧɵɟ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɚ ɧɚɫɬɨɹɳɟɟ ɜɵɝɥɹɞɢɬ ɩɨɪɚɡɧɨɦɭ ; ibidem: 365). Levka picks out the window of the apartment “where his happiest moments had raced by.” This is, essentially, a condensed image of the lost House of Happy Childhood, the projection of his yearning, which he hopes to regain through some (unimaginable) miracle. The House on the Embankment was a remarkable literary success, and is widely regarded as a masterpiece for historical as well as literary reasons. At the same time it demonstrates the impact of the House image and the extent of its capacity to generate a wide variety of cultural elements and to integrate them into a complex cultural sign. This house reflects an image of Soviet life in some of its crucial phases that has an enduring significance for later generations. It can be seen as a symbol of the Soviet era, in all its aspects. Since the publication of Trifonov’s novel in 1976, the house has been commonly referred to by the title he gave it, and in 1989 the Museum of the House on the Embankment (Muzei “dom na naberezhnoi”) was founded by public initiative.19 University of Groningen

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Notes

Joost van Baak

Ƚɟɧɢɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɡɨɞɱɢɣ ɤɨɦɦɭɧɢɡɦɚ ɂ.ȼ. ɋɬɚɥɢɧ ɜ ɤɪɟɦɥɟɜɫɤɨɦ ɤɚɛɢɧɟɬɟ ɡɚ ɪɚɡɪɚɛɨɬɤɨɣ ɩɥɚɧɨɜ ɜɟɥɢɤɢɯ ɫɬɪɨɟɤ ɤɨɦɦɭɧɢɡɦɚ. As Papernyi (1996: 231) comments, such a title makes the actual viewing of the painting unnecessary. 2 See also Clark 1976 on the master plots of Soviet literature in this period. 3 See Papernyi 1996 and 2000 for penetrating analyses and interpretations of these peculiar aspects of socialist realist architecture. 4 Papernyi discusses, as a symptom of this surprising tendency, the contest organised in 1946 for “the best individual dwelling houses”. The post-war five-year plan explicitly stated that provision was needed to “help the people, in every way, to build individual dwelling houses”. 5 This may also explain the extraordinary significance of the dacha as a special sphere which would typically provide (a measure of) privacy, safety, and ‘a sense-of-self’. 6 Its official name is ɞɨɦ ȼɐɂɄ ɢ ɋɇɄ ɋɋɋɊ, or ‘The House of the All-Unionist Central Executive Committee and the Council of People’s Commissars of the USSR’. It was also called Ⱦɨɦ ɉɪɚɜɢɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɚ, ‘The Government’s House’, for obvious reasons. 7 “Ɍɜɨɪɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɤɨɧɰɟɩɰɢɹ ɂɨɮɚɧɚ ɫ ɧɚɢɛɨɥɶɲɟɣ ɩɨɥɧɨɬɨɣ ɜɵɪɚɡɢɥɚ ɨɫɧɨɜɧɵɟ ɢɞɟɢ 30–40-ɯ ɝɨɞɨɜ – ɢɞɟɸ ɜɥɚɫɬɢ ɢ ɢɞɟɸ ɞɨɫɬɢɝɧɭɬɨɝɨ ɜɫɟɨɛɳɟɝɨ ɫɱɚɫɬɶɹ. ɋɨɡɞɚɧɧɵɟ ɢɦ ɨɛɪɚɡɵ-ɞɨɦɢɧɚɧɬɵ, ɨɛɪɚɡɵ-ɫɢɦɜɨɥɵ (Ⱦɨɦ ɋɇɄ ɢ ȼɐɂɄ, ɩɪɨɟɤɬ Ⱦɜɨɪɰɚ ɋɨɜɟɬɨɜ, ɩɚɜɢɥɶɨɧɵ ɩɚɪɢɠɫɤɨɣ ɢ ɧɶɸ-ɣɨɪɤɫɤɨɣ ɜɵɫɬɚɜɨɤ) – ɜ ɫɭɳɧɨɫɬɢ, ɤɨɧɰɟɧɬɪɢɪɨɜɚɧɧɨɟ ɜɵɪɚɠɟɧɢɟ ɧɨɜɨɣ ɫɨɰɢɨɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɣ ɫɢɬɭɚɰɢɢ” (Terechova 1996). 8 ȼɟɥɢɱɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɟ ɡɞɚɧɢɟ ɧɟ ɜɦɟɳɚɥɨɫɶ ɜ ɩɨɧɹɬɢɟ «ɞɨɦ». ɋɤɨɪɟɟ, ɷɬɨ ɛɵɥɚ ɫɬɪɚɧɚ ɜ ɫɬɪɚɧɟ (ibidem). 9 ɂ ɟɳɟ ɩɨɦɧɸ, ɤɚɤ ɭɟɡɠɚɥɢ ɢɡ ɬɨɝɨ ɞɨɦɚ ɧɚ ɧɚɛɟɪɟɠɧɨɣ. Ⱦɨɠɞɥɢɜɵɣ ɨɤɬɹɛɪɶ, ɡɚɩɚɯ ɧɚɮɬɚɥɢɧɚ ɢ ɩɵɥɢ, ɤɨɪɢɞɨɪ ɡɚɜɚɥɟɧ ɫɜɹɡɤɚɦɢ ɤɧɢɝ, ɭɡɥɚɦɢ, ɱɟɦɨɞɚɧɚɦɢ, ɦɟɲɤɚɦɢ, ɫɜɟɪɬɤɚɦɢ. ɇɚɞɨ ɫɧɨɫɢɬɶ ɜɫɸ ɷɬɭ «ɯɭɪɞɭ-ɦɭɪɞɭ» ɫ ɩɹɬɨɝɨ ɷɬɚɠɚ ɜɧɢɡ. Ɋɟɛɹɬɚ ɩɪɢɲɥɢ ɩɨɦɨɝɚɬɶ. Ʉɚɤɨɣ-ɬɨ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɤ ɫɩɪɚɲɢɜɚɟɬ ɭ ɥɢɮɬɟɪɚ: “ɗɬɨ ɱɶɹ ɬɚɤɚɹ «ɯɭɪɞɚ-ɦɭɪɞɚ»?” Ʌɢɮɬɟɪ ɨɬɜɟɱɚɟɬ: “Ⱦɚ ɷɬɨ ɫ ɩɹɬɨɝɨ”. Ɉɧ ɧɟ ɧɚɡɵɜɚɟɬ ɮɚɦɢɥɢɢ, ɧɟ ɤɢɜɚɟɬ ɧɚ ɦɟɧɹ, ɯɨɬɹ ɹ ɫɬɨɸ ɪɹɞɨɦ, ɨɧ ɡɧɚɟɬ ɦɟɧɹ ɩɪɟɤɪɚɫɧɨ, ɩɪɨɫɬɨ ɬɚɤ: “ɋ ɩɹɬɨɝɨ”.– “Ⱥ ɤɭɞɚ ɢɯ?” – “Ⱦɚ ɤɬɨ ɡɧɚɟɬ. ȼɪɨɞɟ, ɝɨɜɨɪɹɬ, ɤɭɞɚ-ɬɨ ɤ ɡɚɫɬɚɜɟ”. ɂ ɨɩɹɬɶ ɦɨɝ ɛɵ ɫɩɪɨɫɢɬɶ ɭ ɦɟɧɹ, ɹ ɛɵ ɟɦɭ ɨɬɜɟɬɢɥ, ɧɨ ɧɟ ɫɩɪɚɲɢɜɚɟɬ. ə ɞɥɹ ɧɟɝɨ ɭɠɟ ɤɚɤ ɛɵ ɧɟ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɭɸ. Ɍɟ, ɤɬɨ ɭɟɡɠɚɟɬ ɢɡ ɷɬɨɝɨ ɞɨɦɚ, ɩɟɪɟɫɬɚɸɬ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɬɶ. Ɇɟɧɹ ɝɧɟɬɟɬ ɫɬɵɞ. Ɇɧɟ ɤɚɠɟɬɫɹ, ɫɬɵɞɧɨ ɜɵɜɨɪɚɱɢɜɚɬɶ ɩɟɪɟɞ ɜɫɟɦɢ, ɧɚ ɭɥɢɰɟ, ɠɚɥɤɢɟ ɜɧɭɬɪɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɧɚɲɟɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ! Ɇɟɛɟɥɶ ɜ ɝɪɨɦɚɞɧɨɣ ɤɜɚɪɬɢɪɟ ɤɚɡɟɧɧɚɹ, ɨɧɚ ɜɫɹ ɨɫɬɚɟɬɫɹ (Trifonov 1986: 449). 10 Ɉɩɹɬɶ ɜɧɟɡɚɩɧɨ: ɫɨɜɫɟɦ ɪɚɧɧɟɟ, ɧɢɳɟɟ ɢ ɝɥɭɩɨɟ, ɞɨɦ ɧɚ ɧɚɛɟɪɟɠɧɨɣ, ɫɧɟɠɧɵɟ ɞɜɨɪɵ, ɷɥɟɤɬɪɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɮɨɧɚɪɢ ɧɚ ɩɪɨɜɨɥɨɤɚɯ, ɞɪɚɤɢ ɜ ɫɭɝɪɨɛɚɯ ɭ ɤɢɪɩɢɱɧɨɣ ɫɬɟɧɵ. ɒɭɥɟɩɚ ɫɨɫɬɨɹɥ ɢɡ ɫɥɨɟɜ, ɪɚɫɩɚɞɚɥɫɹ ɩɥɚɫɬɚɦɢ, ɢ ɤɚɠɞɵɣ ɩɥɚɫɬ ɛɵɥ ɧɟɩɨɯɨɠ ɧɚ ɞɪɭɝɨɣ, ɧɨ ɜɨɬ ɬɨ-ɜ ɫɧɟɝɭ, ɜ ɫɭɝɪɨɛɚɯ ɭ ɤɢɪɩɢɱɧɨɣ ɫɬɟɧɵ, ɤɨɝɞɚ ɞɪɚɥɢɫɶ ɞɨ ɤɪɨɜɹɧɤɢ, ɞɨ ɯɪɢɩɚ “ɫɞɚɸɫɶ”, ɩɨɬɨɦ ɜ ɬɟɩɥɨɦ ɝɪɨɦɚɞɧɨɦ ɞɨɦɟ ɩɢɥɢ, ɛɥɚɠɟɧɫɬɜɭɹ, ɱɚɣ ɢɡ ɬɨɧɟɧɶɤɢɯ ɱɚɲɟɱɟɤ, ȼ ɪɚɡɧɵɟ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɚ ɧɚɫɬɨɹɳɟɟ ɜɵɝɥɹɞɢɬ ɩɨ-ɪɚɡɧɨɦɭ ɬɨɝɞɚ, ɧɚɜɟɪɧɨ, ɛɵɥɨ ɧɚɫɬɨɹɳɟɟ. ɏɨɬɹ ɤɬɨ ɟɝɨ ɡɧɚɟɬ. ȼ ɪɚɡɧɵɟ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɚ ɧɚɫɬɨɹɳɟɟ ɜɵɝɥɹɞɢɬ ɩɨ-ɪɚɡɧɨɦɭ. ȿɫɥɢ ɱɟɫɬɧɨ, Ƚɥɟɛɨɜ ɧɟɧɚɜɢɞɟɥ ɬɟ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɚ, ɩɨɬɨɦɭ ɱɬɨ ɨɧɢ ɛɵɥɢ ɟɝɨ ɞɟɬɫɬɜɨɦ (Trifonov 1986: 365). 11 ɋɟɪɚɹ ɝɪɨɦɚɞɚ ɜɢɫɥɚ ɧɚɞ ɩɟɪɟɭɥɨɱɤɨɦ, ɩɨ ɭɬɪɚɦ ɡɚɫɬɢɥɚ ɫɨɥɧɰɟ, ɚ ɜɟɱɟɪɚɦɢ ɫɜɟɪɯɭ ɥɟɬɟɥɢ ɝɨɥɨɫɚ ɪɚɞɢɨ, ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɩɚɬɟɮɨɧɚ. Ɍɚɦ, ɜ ɩɨɞɧɟɛɟɫɧɵɯ ɷɬɚɠɚɯ, ɲɥɚ, ɤɚɡɚɥɨɫɶ, ɫɨɜɫɟɦ ɢɧɚɹ ɠɢɡɧɶ, ɱɟɦ ɜɧɢɡɭ, ɜ ɦɟɥɤɨɬɟ, ɤɪɚɲɟɧɧɨɣ ɩɨ ɫɬɨɥɟɬɧɟɣ 1

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ɬɪɚɞɢɰɢɢ ɠɟɥɬɨɣ ɤɪɚɫɤɨɣ. ȼɨɬ ɢ ‘ɧɟɫɨɨɬɜɟɬɫɬɜɢɟ’! Ɍɟ ɧɟ ɡɚɦɟɱɚɥɢ, ɞɪɭɝɢɟ ɩɥɟɜɚɬɶ ɯɨɬɟɥɢ, ɬɪɟɬɶɢ ɩɨɥɚɝɚɥɢ ɩɪɚɜɢɥɶɧɵɦ ɢ ɡɚɤɨɧɧɵɦ, ɚ ɭ Ƚɥɟɛɨɜɚ ɫ ɦɚɥɨɥɟɬɫɬɜɚ ɠɠɟɧɶɟ ɜ ɞɭɲɟ: ɬɨ ɥɢ ɡɚɜɢɫɬɶ, ɬɨ ɥɢ ɟɳɟ ɱɬɨ. Ɉɬɟɰ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɥ ɧɚ ɫɬɚɪɨɣ ɤɨɧɮɟɬɧɨɣ ɮɚɛɪɢɤɟ ɦɚɫɬɟɪɨɦ-ɯɢɦɢɤɨɦ, ɚ ɦɚɬɶ – ɢ ɬɨ, ɢ ɷɬɨ, ɚ ɜ ɨɛɳɟɦ-ɬɨ ɧɢɱɟɝɨ. Ɉɛɪɚɡɨɜɚɧɢɹ ɧɟ ɛɵɥɨ (ibidem: 373). 12 Ƚɥɟɛɨɜ ɧɟ ɨɱɟɧɶ-ɬɨ ɨɯɨɬɧɨ ɯɨɞɢɥ ɜ ɝɨɫɬɢ ɤ ɪɟɛɹɬɚɦ, ɠɢɜɲɢɦ ɜ ɛɨɥɶɲɨɦ ɞɨɦɟ, ɧɟ ɬɨ ɱɬɨ ɧɟɨɯɨɬɧɨ, ɲɟɥ-ɬɨ ɫ ɨɯɨɬɨɣ, ɧɨ ɢ ɫ ɨɩɚɫɤɨɣ, ɩɨɬɨɦɭ ɱɬɨ ɥɢɮɬɟɪɵ ɜ ɩɨɞɴɟɡɞɚɯ ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɫɦɨɬɪɟɥɢ ɩɨɞɨɡɪɢɬɟɥɶɧɨ ɢ ɫɩɪɚɲɢɜɚɥɢ: “Ɍɵ ɤ ɤɨɦɭ?” ɇɚɞɨ ɛɵɥɨ ɧɚɡɵɜɚɬɶ ɮɚɦɢɥɢɸ, ɧɨɦɟɪ ɤɜɚɪɬɢɪɵ, ɢɧɨɝɞɚ ɥɢɮɬɟɪ ɡɜɨɧɢɥ ɜ ɤɜɚɪɬɢɪɭ ɢ ɜɵɹɫɧɹɥ, ɞɟɣɫɬɜɢɬɟɥɶɧɨ ɥɢ ɬɚɦ ɠɞɭɬ ɜ ɝɨɫɬɢ ɬɚɤɨɝɨ-ɬɨ (ibidem: 379). 13 Ƚɥɟɛɨɜ ɩɪɢɜɵɤ ɢ ɤ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɤɜɚɪɬɢɪɟ, ɤɨɝɞɚ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɥɫɹ ɜ ɧɟɟ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɩɨɫɟɳɟɧɢɣ ɛɨɥɶɲɨɝɨ ɞɨɦɚ. ɉɟɪɜɨɟ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɛɵɜɚɥɨ ɤɚɤ-ɬɨ ɬɨɫɤɥɢɜɨ, ɤɨɝɞɚ ɨɧ ɜɢɞɟɥ ɜɞɪɭɝ, ɛɭɞɬɨ ɫɨ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɵ, ɫɜɨɣ ɤɪɢɜɨɜɚɬɵɣ ɞɨɦɢɲɤɨ ɫ ɛɭɪɨɣ ɲɬɭɤɚɬɭɪɤɨɣ; ɤɨɝɞɚ ɩɨɞɧɢɦɚɥɫɹ ɩɨ ɬɟɦɧɨɣ ɥɟɫɬɧɢɰɟ, ɩɨ ɤɨɬɨɪɨɣ ɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɥɨ ɢɞɬɢ ɨɫɬɨɪɨɠɧɨ, ɩɨɬɨɦɭ ɱɬɨ ɫɬɭɩɟɧɢ ɛɵɥɢ ɦɟɫɬɚɦɢ ɜɵɛɢɬɵ; ɤɨɝɞɚ ɩɨɞɯɨɞɢɥ ɤ ɞɜɟɪɢ, ɨɛɫɚɠɟɧɧɨɣ, ɤɚɤ ɫɬɚɪɨɟ ɨɞɟɹɥɨ ɡɚɩɥɚɬɚɦɢ, ɦɧɨɠɟɫɬɜɨɦ ɬɚɛɥɢɱɟɤ, ɧɚɞɩɢɫɟɣ ɢ ɡɜɨɧɤɨɜ; ɤɨɝɞɚ ɩɨɝɪɭɠɚɥɫɹ ɜ ɦɧɨɝɨɫɥɨɣɧɵɣ ɤɟɪɨɫɢɧɨɱɧɵɣ ɡɚɩɚɯ ɤɜɚɪɬɢɪɵ, ɝɞɟ ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɱɬɨɧɢɛɭɞɶ ɤɢɩɹɬɢɥɨɫɶ ɜ ɛɚɤɟ ɢ ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɤɬɨ-ɧɢɛɭɞɶ ɜɚɪɢɥ ɤɚɩɭɫɬɭ; ɤɨɝɞɚ ɦɵɥ ɪɭɤɢ ɜ ɛɵɜɲɟɣ ɜɚɧɧɨɣ ɤɨɦɧɚɬɟ, ɬɟɫɧɨɣ ɨɬ ɞɨɫɨɤ, ɡɚɤɪɵɜɚɜɲɢɯ ɫɚɦɭ ɜɚɧɧɭ, ɜ ɤɨɬɨɪɨɣ ɧɢɤɬɨ ɧɟ ɦɵɥɫɹ ɢ ɧɟ ɫɬɢɪɚɥ ɛɟɥɶɟ, ɚ ɧɚ ɞɨɫɤɚɯ ɫɬɨɹɥɢ ɩɪɢɧɚɞɥɟɠɚɜɲɢɟ ɪɚɡɧɵɦ ɠɢɥɶɰɚɦ ɬɚɡɵ, ɤɨɪɵɬɚ; ɤɨɝɞɚ ɦɧɨɝɨɟ ɞɪɭɝɨɟ ɜɢɞɟɥ, ɨɳɭɳɚɥ, ɡɚɦɟɱɚɥ, ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɹɫɶ ɨɬ Ʌɟɜɤɢ ɒɭɥɟɩɧɢɤɨɜɚ ɢɥɢ ɨɬ ɤɨɝɨ-ɧɢɛɭɞɶ ɢɡ ɛɨɥɶɲɨɝɨ ɞɨɦɚ, ɧɨ ɩɨɧɟɦɧɨɝɭ ɜɫɟ ɫɝɥɚɠɢɜɚɥɨɫɶ, ɦɹɝɱɚɥɨ ɢ ɩɟɪɟɫɬɚɜɚɥɨ ɡɚɞɟɜɚɬɶ (ibidem: 382). 14 Ȼɨɥɶɲɨɣ ɞɨɦ, ɬɚɤ ɦɧɨɝɨ ɡɧɚɱɢɜɲɢɣ ɜ ɩɪɟɠɧɟɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ Ƚɥɟɛɨɜɚ – ɬɹɝɨɬɢɥ, ɜɨɫɯɢɳɚɥ, ɦɭɱɢɥ ɢ ɤɚɤɢɦ-ɬɨ ɬɚɣɧɵɦ ɦɚɝɧɢɬɨɦ ɬɹɧɭɥ ɧɟɨɞɨɥɢɦɨ,– ɬɟɩɟɪɶ, ɩɨɫɥɟ ɤɨɧɰɚ ɜɨɣɧɵ, ɨɬɩɚɥ ɜ ɬɟɧɶ. ɇɟ ɤ ɤɨɦɭ ɫɬɚɥɨ ɬɭɞɚ ɯɨɞɢɬɶ. Ʉɪɨɦɟ ɋɨɧɢ Ƚɚɧɱɭɤ (ibidem: 403). 15 ɉɨɫɬɟɩɟɧɧɨ ɢ ɡɚɧɨɜɨ Ƚɥɟɛɨɜ ɜɩɨɥɡɚɥ ɜ ɚɭɪɭ «ɛɨɥɶɲɨɝɨ ɞɨɦɚ». Ʌɢɮɬɟɪɨɜ ɜ ɩɨɞɴɟɡɞɚɯ ɬɟɩɟɪɶ ɧɟ ɛɵɥɨ. ɂ ɠɢɥɶɰɵ ɤɚɤ ɛɭɞɬɨ ɧɟ ɬɟ, ɱɬɨ ɩɪɟɠɞɟ: ɜɢɞ ɩɨɩɪɨɳɟ ɢ ɪɚɡɝɨɜɨɪ ɧɟ ɬɨɬ. ɇɨ ɜ ɥɢɮɬɚɯ, ɨɞɧɚɤɨ, ɩɨ-ɩɪɟɠɧɟɦɭ ɧɚɫɬɚɢɜɚɥɢɫɶ ɧɟɨɛɵɱɧɵɟ ɡɚɩɚɯɢ: ɲɚɲɥɵɤɨɜ, ɱɟɝɨ-ɬɨ ɪɵɛɧɨɝɨ, ɬɨɦɚɬɧɨɝɨ, ɢɧɨɝɞɚ ɞɨɪɨɝɢɯ ɩɚɩɢɪɨɫ ɢɥɢ ɫɨɛɚɤ (ibidem). 16 ɢ ɜɞɪɭɝ – ɩɪɢɥɢɜɨɦ ɜɫɟɣ ɤɪɨɜɢ, ɞɨ ɝɨɥɨɜɨɤɪɭɠɟɧɢɹ – ɩɨɱɭɜɫɬɜɨɜɚɥ, ɱɬɨ ɜɫɟ ɷɬɨ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɫɬɚɬɶ ɟɝɨ ɞɨɦɨɦ. ɂ, ɦɨɠɟɬ ɛɵɬɶ, ɭɠɟ ɬɟɩɟɪɶ – ɟɳɟ ɧɢɤɬɨ ɧɟ ɞɨɝɚɞɵɜɚɟɬɫɹ, ɚ ɨɧ ɡɧɚɟɬ – ɜɫɟ ɷɬɢ ɩɨɠɟɥɬɟɜɲɢɟ ɞɨɫɤɢ […], ɮɨɬɨɝɪɚɮɢɢ, ɫɤɪɢɩɹɳɚɹ ɪɚɦɚ ɨɤɧɚ, ɤɪɵɲɚ, ɡɚɜɚɥɟɧɧɚɹ ɫɧɟɝɨɦ, ‘ɩɪɢɧɚɞɥɟɠɚɬ ɟɦɭ’! Ȼɵɥɚ ɬɚɤɚɹ ɫɥɚɞɤɚɹ, ɩɨɥɭɦɟɪɬɜɚɹ ɨɬ ɭɫɬɚɥɨɫɬɢ, ɨɬ ɯɦɟɥɹ, ɨɬ ɜɫɟɝɨ ɢɫɬɨɦɚ... […] Ɉɧ ɨɛɧɢɦɚɥ ɯɭɞɨɟ, ɩɨɤɨɪɧɨɟ, ɦɹɝɤɨɟ, ɯɭɞɵɟ ɩɥɟɱɢ, ɯɭɞɭɸ ɫɩɢɧɭ, ɜ ɷɬɨɦ ɬɟɥɟ ɧɟ ɛɵɥɨ ɧɢɤɚɤɨɣ ɬɹɠɟɫɬɢ, ɧɨ ɨɧɨ ɩɪɢɧɚɞɥɟɠɚɥɨ ɟɦɭ – ɜɨɬ ɱɬɨ ɨɧ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɨɜɚɥ, – ɩɪɢɧɚɞɥɟɠɚɥɨ ɟɦɭ ɜɦɟɫɬɟ ɫɨ ɜɫɟɦ-ɫɨ ɫɬɚɪɵɦ ɞɨɦɨɦ, ɟɥɹɦɢ, ɫɧɟɝɨɦ (ibidem: 421). 17 ɍɬɪɨɦ, ɡɚɜɬɪɚɤɚɹ ɧɚ ɤɭɯɧɟ ɢ ɝɥɹɞɹ ɧɚ ɫɟɪɭɸ ɛɟɬɨɧɧɭɸ ɢɡɥɭɤɭ ɦɨɫɬɚ, ɧɚ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɱɤɨɜ, ɚɜɬɨɦɨɛɢɥɶɱɢɤɢ, ɧɚ ɫɟɪɨ-ɠɟɥɬɵɣ, ɫ ɲɚɩɤɨɸ ɫɧɟɝɚ ɞɜɨɪɟɰ ɧɚ ɩɪɨɬɢɜɨɩɨɥɨɠɧɨɣ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɟ ɪɟɤɢ, ɨɧ ɫɤɚɡɚɥ, ɱɬɨ ɩɨɡɜɨɧɢɬ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɡɚɧɹɬɢɣ ɢ ɩɪɢɞɟɬ ɜɟɱɟɪɨɦ. Ɉɧ ɛɨɥɶɲɟ ɧɟ ɩɪɢɲɟɥ ɜ ɬɨɬ ɞɨɦ ɧɢɤɨɝɞɚ (ibidem: 489-490). 18 ɋɩɭɫɬɹ ɧɟɫɤɨɥɶɤɨ ɦɢɧɭɬ ɨɧ ɩɪɨɟɡɠɚɥ ɦɨɫɬɨɦ ɱɟɪɟɡ ɪɟɤɭ, ɫɦɨɬɪɟɥ ɧɚ ɩɪɢɡɟɦɢɫɬɵɣ, ɛɟɫɮɨɪɦɟɧɧɨ ɞɥɢɧɧɵɣ ɞɨɦ ɧɚ ɧɚɛɟɪɟɠɧɨɣ, ɝɨɪɹɳɢɣ ɬɵɫɹɱɶɸ ɨɤɨɧ, ɧɚɯɨɞɢɥ ɩɨ ɩɪɢɜɵɱɤɟ ɨɤɧɨ ɫɬɚɪɨɣ ɤɜɚɪɬɢɪɵ, ɝɞɟ ɩɪɨɦɟɥɶɤɧɭɥɚ

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ɫɱɚɫɬɥɢɜɟɣɲɚɹ ɩɨɪɚ, ɢ ɝɪɟɡɢɥ: ɚ ɜɞɪɭɝ ɱɭɞɨ, ɟɳɟ ɨɞɧɚ ɩɟɪɟɦɟɧɚ ɜ ɟɝɨ ɠɢɡɧɢ?... (ibidem: 494). 19 The authorities were opposed to the idea, but the museum was opened and still exists; see: http://museumdom.narod.ru/

Bibliography Clark, Katerina. 1981. The Soviet Novel. History as Ritual. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Dunham, Vera. 1976. In Stalin’s Time: Middle Class Values in Soviet Fiction. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gjunter, Chans (Hans Günther). 2000. ‘Socrealizm i utopiþeskoe myšlenie’ in Gjunter, Chans and Evgenij Dobrenko (eds). Socrealistiþeskij kanon. SanktPeterburg: 41-48. Hodder, Ian. 1990. The Domestication of Europe. Structure and Contingency in Neolithic Societies. Oxford and Cambridge MA.: Basil Blackwell. Hosking, Geoffrey. 1992. ‘The twentieth century: the era of socialist realism, 19531980’ in: Moser, Charles (ed.) The Cambridge History of Russian Literature, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 520-595. Jaškin, Lev. 2000. ‘Dom na naberežnoj – Serafimoviþa, d. 2’. On line at: http://artclassic.edu.ru/catalog.asp?ob_no=17673 (consulted 29.4.2008) Klark, Katerina (Katerina Clark). 2000. ‘Socrealizm i sakralizacija prostranstva’ in Gjunter, Chans and Evgenij Dobrenko (eds). Socrealistiþeskij kanon. SanktPeterburg: 119-128. Papernyi, Vladimir. 1996. Kul’tura Dva. Ɇoskva. –– 2000. ‘Socrealizm v sovetskoj architekture’, in Gjunter, Chans and Evgenij Dobrenko (eds). Socrealistiþeskij kanon. Sankt-Peterburg: 129-133. Terechova, Irina. 1996. ‘Boris Iofan (1891-1976)’. On line at: http://artclassic.edu.ru/catalog.asp?cat_ob_no=17669&ob_no=17670 (consulted 29.4.2008) Terras, Victor (ed.) 1985. Handbook of Russian Literature. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Timmer, Charles B. 1978. ‘Nawoord’ in Trifonov, Joeri Het huis aan de kade. Roman (tr. Charles B. Timmer). Amsterdam: Arbeiderspers: 197-207. Trifonov, Jurij. 1986. ‘Dom na naberežnoj’ in Sobranie soþinenij v þetyrëch tomach T.2. Ɇoskva. Van Baak, Joost. 1994. ‘Mif doma v russkoj literature. Programma literaturnogo i kul’turologiþeskogo analiza’ in Weststeijn, W.G. (ed.) Dutch Contributions to the Eleventh International Congress of Slavists, Bratislava 1993 (Studies in Slavic Literature and Poetics 23). Amsterdam: Rodopi: 23-44. –– (forthcoming). About the House in Russian Literature: A Mythopoetic Exploration. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Vickery, Walter N. 1963. The Cult of Optimism: Political and Ideological Problems of Recent Soviet Literature. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

Strategic Sentiments. Pleas for a New Sincerity in Post-Soviet Literature Ellen Rutten Abstract: Starting from the late 1980s, Western European and American literature, art and philosophy present a crescent plea for a move away from postmodernism’s purportedly radical irony. The same appeal marks contemporary Russian literature, with several writers propagating new sincere or new sentimentalist substitutes for postmodernism. This article links the Russian debate on a new sincerity to the political transition of the late 1980s. Russian writers then confronted a radically new political reality, in which a free market replaced Soviet communism. Relying on autocomments by Timur Kibirov and Vladimir Sorokin, I propose that their allegedly strictly literarily motivated protest against postmodernism is, in fact, tightly linked to socio-economic factors, such as the need for a broad reader audience. Keywords: contemporary Russian literature; postmodernism; new sincerity; interaction socio-economic ~ literary factors

The topic that will be explored below is the subject of a research project on which I have started to work only recently.1 Since this project is still in a tender age, here I will simply expound its hypotheses without yet being able to come with any extensive results or answers. My hypotheses concern a so-called new sincerity in post-Soviet culture. Pleas for such a new sincerity – invariably presented as an alternative for postmodernism – are pivotal to Russian as well as American and Western-European intellectual culture today.2 This article focuses on their apparition in Russia, where the term new sincerity has today taken firm root in public discourse. On the pages of daily newspapers, highbrow as well as popular journals, on weblogs and chatfora: the phrase pops up in heterogeneous contexts, and is applied to as diverse a range of cultural and artistic practices as art works, literary texts, films, theatre plays, classical concerts, pop songs, fashion boutiques, blogs and tv programs. Even popular cartoon character Masiania has been typified as representative of a new sincerity.3 Here, however, I am interested specifically in the term as it appears in discussions of contemporary Russian literature and literary

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criticism. Since the mid-1980s, these cultural spheres witness repeated calls for a new sincerity (ɧɨɜɚɹ ɢɫɤɪɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ, this phrase was coined in 1984 by Dmitrii Prigov; quoted by Monastyrskij 1999: 64-65), or – to mention merely some of the most frequently occurring alternative terms4 – a new sentimentality (ɧɨɜɚɹ ɫɟɧɬɢɦɟɧɬɚɥɶɧɨɫɬɶ, Mikhail Epstein’s term; Epštejn 1996: 223-224), or critical sentimentalism (Sergei Gandlevskii’s ɤɪɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɫɟɧɬɢɦɟɧɬɚɥɢɡɦ; Gandlevskij 1991: 227-228). These and similar literary labels are used increasingly often: a) by prominent literary critics who characterize post-Soviet literature; b) by authors who, in interviews and other forms of selfcomment, seek to position their work within Russia’s contemporary literary landscape; and c) in several new handbooks and studies of contemporary Russian literature, which discuss the tendencies in question as a dominant strategy of ‘transcending’ or passing ‘beyond’ postmodernism, or simply as a relevant protest against it.5 What Is New Sincerity? In this article, I do not want to discuss the new sincerity as such, but rather zoom in on its link with the socio-economic situation of the perestroika-period. Before we turn to that issue, however, it is vital to understand to what literary stance the phrase in question refers. On the one hand, the terms new sincerity, new sentimentality, critical sentimentalism and their likes refer to separate developments that each have a distinct individual profile. On the other, authors, critics and scholars tend to often use them in the same breath, as interchangeable entities.6 In this article, new sincerity will likewise be used as a representative term for a broader range of tendencies. This is not without reason. Without neglecting the subtleties of the different alternatives, one can group them as recent literary Russian trends that share the striving – to use Mark Lipovetskii’s words – “to reconstruct the edifice of humanism in the space of chaos” (Lipovetskii 1999: 247; italics original). So-called new sincere authors often started their career with radically postmodern textual experiments. But in the course of time they claim, or are claimed, to have devised a different approach to the issues that are central to postmodernism. Allegedly, just like postmodern authors these repenting postmodernists are aware of the limitations of language and ideology, and of the fact that everything has been said before. However – and here they profess to

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take issue with postmodernism – they accept these limitations. Instead of merely thematizing them, the new sincere author insists on using a critical, nostalgic irony as a coping strategy. By doing that – thus the novyie iskrennie – he or she can demonstrate an awareness of the worn-out nature of big words and sentimental emotions; but at the same time, observing that irony, preserve the serious charge of these big themes and emotions. In the eyes of some literary scholars, this is a near-mystical literary shift: thus, to Thomas Epstein the new sincere art steers away from “ridiculing […] the pretentiousness and limitations of all existing monolanguages” and instead “transcend[s] […] limitations and emerg[es] onto the plane of a metalanguage which is that of a universalist creativity” (Th. Epstein 1999: xi). From this brief typification it will be clear that the philosophy of the new sincerity or new sentimentality is very much an antipostmodern (or post-postmodern, as some call it) attitude.7 Despite individual differences, so-called new sincere authors and critics share the wish to substitute the postmodern with an alternative cultural attitude. This refuted postmodernism does not necessarily coincide with postmodernism as defined by contemporary theory. Rather do the propagators of a new sincerity object against what one could call an imagined postmodernism, one that is non-ethical, radically cynical and that destroys all of humanism’s achievements through relativism. If this anti-postmodern critique is widespread in popular discourse, then it does not correspond with definitions in recent scholarly introductions, which insist that postmodernism is much more of an ethical and engaged philosophy than is generally acknowledged. The Cambridge Companion to Postmodernism, for one, devotes an entire chapter to “postmodernism and ethics”, in which Robert Eaglestone explains that “postmodernism […] is about ethics before it is anything else” (quoted by Connor 2004: 15). Irina Skoropanova, in her handbook of (Russian) postmodernism, states that postmodernism is, in fact, “covertly sentimental” (Skoropanova 1999: 5). Literary Versus Socio-Economic Considerations In my current project, I do not want to participate in this controversy about postmodernism. Neither do I seek to take part in discussions on whether there actually is such a thing as a new sincerity, sentimentality or sentimentalism in literature – or, to put it differently, on the question if authors and critics who started their career as strict

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postmodernists can actually ‘transcend’ or ‘overcome’ irony. Rather do I explore the cultural specificities of this debate’s Russian version. Departing from the view that literary and broader cultural developments are in constant dialogue (more on this below), this project is interested in socio-economic considerations which may have affected Russian discussions of a new sincerity. After all, in Russia these discussions arose not just in a random historical period. Their emergence practically coincided with the radical socio-political and cultural shift of the perestroika years. The Russian literary scene then confronted a new reality, politically and socially as well as economically. A free market replaced Soviet communism; in consequence, writers were forced to face a novel social and economic framework in which former strategies of survival no longer worked. A prime example of such a previously effective social strategy had been that of the underground writer. Late Soviet Russia had known a lively underground scene, where postmodern experiment flourished and in which authors could attain a solid reputation among peers or even internationally, through samizdat and tamizdat. In the late 1980s, when state interference with literature ended, this underground scene inevitably went public, disintegrated and largely disappeared as an oppositional intellectual force. With it, the morally prestigious position of the underground writer vanished. Moreover, post-Soviet culture implied a general loss of prestige, both for the dissident and the officially acknowledged writer. In the words of a recent study by Andrew Wachtel, post-perestroika Russia witnessed the vanishing of “a shared belief on the part of writers and at least a reasonable-sized portion of society that what writers have to say […] expresses truths to which society as a whole should attend” (Wachtel 2006: 8). Analyzing literary life in contemporary Eastern Europe, Wachtel focuses on the various social and economic problems with which writers in post-communist countries have been confronted. Apart from those mentioned, for Russia these included decreasing consumer demand due to the tight economic situation; the need to compete with new contenders on the book market, such as previously forbidden avant-garde books and pulp fiction; and a loss of interest for Russian books in the West now that they failed the lustre of being written in ‘exotic’ Soviet Russia (ibidem). Not surprisingly, for many authors the enthusiasm about finally being able to publish was soon followed by

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disillusionment about not being able to reach an audience, in other words: to sell. Hypotheses In post-Soviet Russia, writers and artists were thus threatened by an acute loss of status both socially and economically. My project explores the relationship between this new social situation in which writers found themselves, on the one hand, and the literary credo that the new sincerity formulates, on the other. The project departs from two central theses, which I will illustrate here with statements by Dmitrii Prigov, Timur Kibirov and Vladimir Sorokin. If idiosyncratic in many respects, then these authors do share analogous career tracks. Steering away from experimental postmodernism pur sang, they have adopted a somewhat different literary stance that they either identify with a new sincerity themselves, or that critics and academics label as such. Hypothesis 1. Reclaiming the Reader Postmodern Russian authors are known for their hermetic texts, which do not always guarantee a pleasant or uncomplicated read. If one must believe Russian postmodernists themselves, then they prefer the radical literary experiment above the possible interest of a broad readership. When Dmitrii Prigov, for instance, was asked in the early 1990s if he ever worried whether his work would be published widely, he answered: “And why should that trouble me? […] I still do not quite understand why I would need that, and even less so why others would”.8 New sincerity, by contrast, is marked by an emphatic wish to reach the reader. In 2005, self-acclaimed neo-sentimentalist Timur Kibirov claimed: “I always long to write those poems that I miss as a reader” (Ɇɧɟ ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɯɨɱɟɬɫɹ ɩɢɫɚɬɶ ɪɨɜɧɨ ɬɟ ɫɬɢɯɢ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɯ ɦɧɟ, ɤɚɤ ɱɢɬɚɬɟɥɸ, ɧɟ ɯɜɚɬɚɟɬ; quoted by Kochetkova 2005). Kibirov defends the composition of a recent collection of poems – in which old poems follow after new work – by saying: “We did that for the reader’s comfort. […] I think that a contemporary reader will have little interest in them [his early poems – ER]”.9 My hypothesis is that this allegedly literarily motivated ‘return to the reader’ is in fact linked to a socio-economic shift: with the advent of perestroika, the small-scale underground literary production of

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postmodernism necessarily had to make way for more market-oriented strategies. In the new situation, indifference towards a potential reading public also meant a smaller chance of surviving economically as a writer. Sorokin was already conscious of that link in the early, strictly postmodernist phase of his career, when he claimed in an interview: “I do not take a reader as such into account. Perhaps that is the reason that my work is hardly ever published here”.10 The new sincere striving to return to the reader is a commercially effective alternative to this reader-indifferent postmodern approach: ‘reclaiming the reader’ necessarily implies embracing a large audience for your work, and, by consequence, larger editions and higher sales numbers. Ultimately, it thus provides the author with an economically safer and socially more esteemed position. Significantly, from the early 1990s onwards the same non-readeroriented Sorokin did start to express concern about reaching an audience.11 Today, he has reverted his public image into that of an openly repenting ex-postmodernist.12 He has started writing accessible page-turners. Although, to my knowledge, Sorokin himself has never explicitly identified with new sincere tendencies, in interviews he does create such a suggestion: his tendency to dissociate himself from postmodernism coincides with the emphatically expressed wish (in several interviews) to write for “sincere people [ɢɫɤɪɟɧɧɢɯ ɥɸɞɟɣ]”, or “normal people” with “sincere feelings [ɢɫɤɪɟɧɢɟ [sic] ɱɭɜɫɬɜɚ]”.13 ‘Being sincere’ and ‘letting the heart speak’ is the key theme (if in a rather ominous context) of his recent trilogy Ice (Led, 2002), Bro’s Way (Put’ Bro, 2004) and 23.000 (2005).14 Not surprisingly, then, more than one critic has started associating Sorokin’s work with the new sincerity.15 Whether Sorokin has indeed transformed into a new sincere author, or whether he is merely flirting with the concept of sincerity is not relevant to my project. What does matter is that his new and allegedly anti-postmodern literary stance offers a fruitful strategy in the market economy in which Soviet Russia has transformed. Without wanting to reduce Sorokin and colleagues to plain money-grubs, I depart from the thesis that their choice for the new sincere strategy is liable to have been dictated in part by economic motivations, as well as the wish to enhance their social status.

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Hypothesis 2. Reviving the Author Just like their non-Russian colleagues, Russian postmodernists are inclined to mock the traditional Russian paradigm of the author as moral commentator or prophet. They appoint him or her an opposite role by proclaiming the author ‘dead’, to use Barthes’ phrase. Conversely, in the new sincerity the figure of the author is reanimated. Timur Kibirov is again a prime example of this tendency to ‘revive the author’. After a radically conceptualist early phase, from the 1990s onwards Kibirov began writing poems with a clearly discernible lyrical ego. In recent interviews, he is increasingly explicit about the role of the author, who – in his current view – is meant to serve as a moral guide or mentor to readers. “I believe [he asserts in one interview] that my understanding of ethics, beauty and truth is correct. […] Am I ready to propagate those values [about which we are speaking]? Naturally, I try to thrust them upon others as well”.16 Again, Vladimir Sorokin’s recent statements show a similar move away from postmodern poetics, towards a highly traditional and normative concept of the author: “[my] work stirs society’s nervecentres”, he asserts, “it is acupuncture, which can only help to make society healthier. Once people will understand and appreciate that. […] [G]ood literature teaches freedom. And that is a sanative process”.17 It is plausible that – just like the renewed attention for the reader – this tendency to revive the morally guiding role of literature is more than a purely literarily motivated development. This is my second hypothesis. The allegedly literarily inspired ‘reanimation of the author’ matches with a shift in socio-economic behavior within the postperestroika literary scene. While Russian postmodern authors were peer-oriented, authors who are identified with the new sincerity tend to actively contact the media or consecrated cultural institutions – decisions that not only allow them to bring back ‘the author’ on the literary stage, but that unmistakably upgrade their own economic and social status. Thus, Vladimir Sorokin consistently enhances his reputation as public favourite by launching his latest works at a pulp publisher;18 by regularly appearing before (inter)national media;19 and via a blog (sorokin-news.livejournal.com) and website (www.srkn.ru) with extensive press information and the possibility to purchase work online, among other functions. Www.srkn.ru has been developed by

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Zina Design Studio, a highly professional design firm that presents itself as specialized in “brand elaboration: market positioning, naming, slogans, logotypes, company style, creative concepts, and packaging design”.20 Timur Kibirov also actively shapes his public status, albeit in the sphere of symbolical no less (and perhaps more) than commercial prestige. He not only publishes at eminent quality publishers and in semi-conservative journals that had and have a high symbolical status in Soviet and post-Soviet Russia, but he also eagerly devotes his time to interviews with various types of media and partakes in prestigious literary commissions and editorial staffs.21 In other words, both Kibirov’s and Sorokin’s literarily defined protest against the postmodern ‘death of the author’ cooccurs with an emphatic orientation on media, the public and renowned cultural institutions. The same coincidence could be demonstrated for a number of other allegedly new sincere Russian authors.22 This implies that, just like the tendency to ‘reclaim the reader’, that of ‘reviving the author’ is not a strictly artistically motivated strategy. The choice for a clearly articulated authorial pose is likely to involve economic or social considerations, such as the striving for commercial success and the wish to improve the author’s (in post-Soviet society dramatically decreased) symbolical status. Methodological aspects The above has been an introduction to the new sincerity in general, plus some thoughts regarding my project’s two central hypotheses. I want to conclude this article with some methodological concerns, i.e. with the question how to measure or verify these hypotheses. First of all, from a methodological perspective the thoughts expressed above have been inspired by a number of existing studies, the most relevant of which are perhaps the analyses of the French literary field by Pierre Bourdieu (1993) and Gisèle Sapiro (2003) and – within the Slavonic sphere – two joint volumes on Russian culture by Catriona Kelly and David Shepherd (1998a and 1998b). If impossible to group under one scholarly banner, then these works do have some features in common. They all plead for a more pragmatic and less literaturocentric stance to literature than has been customary in literary scholarship. Instead, they propose a sociological-economic

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approach to literature, with consideration for the production and consumption processes of (Russian) literature and art. Additional helpful sources in outlining a working method are a number of analyses of contemporary Russian literature and art that demonstrate an astute eye for socio-economic developments. Andrew Wachtel’s monograph Remaining Relevant After Communism, mentioned earlier, is an example of such a source. So are discussions of contemporary Russian art – a field in which the link between artistic and economic movitations seems commonly and openly acknowledged than in the literary sphere – by, among others, Ekaterina Degot’ (2005), Joseph Backstein (2000) and Boris Groys (2003). This notwithstanding, as yet it has proven a challenge to find an ideal method to study the new sincerity and its link to socio-economic factors. A possibly useful step might be the compilation of a document that one could call an extended author’s CV. Such a CV could consist of the following components (for clarity’s sake I refer to a hypothetical CV of Timur Kibirov here): - Information on Kibirov’s education, paid jobs and non-paid activities outside of the literary field; - A list of his activities within the literary field, chronologically ordered (including a brief characterization of the institutions or organizations involved); - A chronological publication list of both national and international publications of his work. This list would contain a) the title of the work in question, b) a brief remark on its tone or literary stance (conceptualist, new sincere or any other option), c) place and year of publication, d) name of publisher, e) a brief characterization of this publisher (small-scale, popular, a s.o.), f) information on the size of the edition, g) if possible, information on the success of the collection (e.g., sales numbers); - A list of prizes won, including a) year when the prize in question was won, b) information on the sort of prize (money, a symbolical reward) and c) on the institution that hands it out, d) a brief characterization of this institution (elitist or popular, local or (inter)national, a s.o.); - A list of media through which Kibirov’s work is promoted, or through which he chooses to promote it (newspapers, audiovisual

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media, website, blog), plus a brief characterization of those media (conservative or progressive, small-scale or popular, a s.o.). Conclusion By compiling such an ‘extended CV’, it might become possible to gain more insight into a) the shift that Kibirov’s – and other authors’ – work underwent in the perestroika period, and b) into the link between literary strategy and socio-economic behavior which marks that shift. I realize, however, that this method might risk reducing complex considerations and developments to a non-flexible scheme. Therefore, the question of an ideal research method for this project remains relatively open at this stage. Here, I would merely like to conclude by stressing once more that it would in no way suffice to limit the debate on a new sincerity to a banal sales strategy. Neither would I want to forget that literary or philosophical considerations remain pivotal to any literary analysis, including that of contemporary Russian literature. But I do think that the economic reality of the perestroika has substantially affected the shift towards a more readerand author-oriented literary stance in contemporary Russian literature. For that reason, the interaction between the economic and literary spheres outlined above warrants extensive analysis. University of Cambridge Notes 1

This is the project Reclaiming The Reader: Neo-Sentimentalist Trends in Contemporary Russian Literature, for which I am affiliated to the University of Cambridge’s Slavonic Department and which is funded with an NWO (the Netherlands Organisation for Scientific Research) Rubicon grant. For more project information see www.nwo.nl/projecten.nsf/pages/2300137413?opendocument&nav=Rubicon_14_Eng 2 For (journalistic and academic) discussions of so-called new sincere or post-ironic tendencies in French, Dutch and Anglo-American culture – particularly literature – of the last two decades, see, among others, Aarsman 2003; Korthals Altes 2001; Collins 1993; Hutcheon 1998; Den Dulk 2004; Timmer 2002; Vanderbilt & Young 1994; Vloet 2001. 3 See the following (selected) sources: Koldobskaja 2007: 267-269, Ul’janov 2007, Džikija 2000-2007, Koreckij 2007, Michajlovskaja 2007, Semënov 2006, Metelica 2004, Bavilskij 2005, Radzievskii 2005: 54-57, Pospelov 2003, Savþuk 1999, and (on Masiania) Pëtrovskaja 2002. 4 Although I will not discuss them here, variants of these terms (e.g., a new seriousness [ɧɨɜɚɹ ɫɟɪɶɟɡɧɨɫɬɶ], new naivity [ɧɨɜɚɹ ɧɚɢɜɧɨɫɬɶ] (both Davydov 2001), the ironaive [ɢɪɨɧɚɢɜ] (Epstein 2008, conference paper, forthcoming), or a

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new authenticity [ɧɨɜɚɹ ɩɨɞɥɢɧɧɨɫɬɶ] (Golyšev 2007) repeatedly occur within the context of Russian ‘what-after-postmodernism?’ discussions. 5 For some selected examples: in literary criticism, see Anninskij 1997; Bavilskij 2004 and 2005; Ivanova 1998; Životov 1996; in scholarly analyses and literary handbooks, see Epstein, Genis & Vladiv-Glover 1999; Monastyrskij 1999: 64-65; Lipovetskii 1999, Lipoveckij 2002, 2005; Man’kovskaja 2002; Skoropanova 1999: 531; Mežieva and Konradova 2006: 103-16; ýuprinin 2007: 188-90, 263-65; Bogdanova 2004: 504556. 6 This is the case with several of the critics and scholars mentioned in footnote 4. 7 Mikhail Epstein interprets the new sincerity (or new sentimentality) as ‘postpostmodernist’ – although for him the new sincerity follows upon postmodernism, but is only a beginning stage of postmodernity (Epštejn 1999). Viacheslav Kuritsyn also speaks of a post-postmodernism in terms that are reminiscent of the new sincerity discussion (Kuricyn 1992-1997). 8 A ɫ ɤɚɤɨɣ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɵ ɷɬɨ ɞɨɥɠɧɨ ɦɟɧɹ ɜɨɥɧɨɜɚɬɶ? […] ɡɚɱɟɦ? Ɇɧɟ ɞɨ ɫɢɯ ɩɨɪ ɧɟ ɨɱɟɧɶ ɩɨɧɹɬɧɨ, ɡɚɱɟɦ ɦɧɟ ɷɬɨ ɧɭɠɧɨ, ɧɨ ɟɳɟ ɛɨɥɟɟ ɧɟɩɨɧɹɬɧɨ, ɡɚɱɟɦ ɷɬɨ ɞɪɭɝɢɦ ɧɭɠɧɨ (Prigov and Šapoval 2003: 22). 9 ɗɬɨ ɫɞɟɥɚɧɨ ɞɥɹ ɭɞɨɛɫɬɜɚ ɱɢɬɚɬɟɥɹ. […] ɦɧɟ ɤɚɠɟɬɫɹ, ɱɬɨ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɦɭ ɱɢɬɚɬɟɥɸ ɨɧɢ ɦɚɥɨɢɧɬɟɪɟɫɧɵ (ibidem). 10 ɑɢɬɚɬɟɥɹ, ɤɚɤ ɬɚɤɨɜɨɝɨ, ɹ ɧɟ ɭɱɢɬɵɜɚɸ. Ɇɨɠɟɬ ɛɵɬɶ, ɩɨɷɬɨɦɭ ɦɟɧɹ ɬɚɤ ɦɚɥɨ ɡɞɟɫɶ ɩɟɱɚɬɚɸɬ (Sorokin 1992: 121). 11 On Sorokin’s switch to visually oriented genres and his longing to reach a broad audience from the 1990s onwards, I have written elsewhere (Rutten 2008). See on his recent more market-oriented strategies also Smirnov 2003: 207-209, Brouwer 2006, and Obermayr 2007. 12 For a programmatic statement in which Sorokin distances himself from his early postmodern work, see, for instance, Sorokin 2005. 13 See, among others, Kuþerskaia 2005, and ‘Mnogie…’ 2005. More examples could be added. 14 If the term sincerity appears only thrice in the text (Sorokin 2006: 292, 303, 647), then the entire plot revolves around the idea of a sect whose members need to ‘speak with their hearts’ as opposed to the emotionally dead, exclusively rational people or ‘meat machines’ who surround them. 15 See, among others, the following hyperlinks: Bavilskij 2004, Bondarenko 2002, Jur’jev 2007, Pëtrovskaja 2002, Zincov 2006. 16 ə ɜɟɪɸ ɜ ɬɨ, ɱɬɨ ɦɨɟ ɩɨɧɢɦɚɧɢɟ ɦɨɪɚɥɢ, ɤɪɚɫɨɬɵ, ɢɫɬɢɧɵ ɜɟɪɧɨ. […] Ƚɨɬɨɜ ɥɢ ɹ ɷɬɢ ɰɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ [ɨ ɤɨɬɨɪɵɯ ɦɵ ɝɨɜɨɪɢɦ] ɩɪɨɩɨɝɚɧɞɢɪɨɜɚɬɶ? ȿɫɬɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨ, ɹ ɩɵɬɚɸɫɶ ɧɚɜɹɡɚɬɶ ɢ ɞɪɭɝɢɦ (quoted by Nikolayev and Kapovich 1996). 17 [Ɇ]ɨɢ ɜɟɳɢ ɩɨɩɚɞɚɸɬ ɜ ɧɟɪɜɧɵɟ ɭɡɥɵ ɨɛɳɟɫɬɜɚ […] ɷɬɨ ɢɝɥɨɭɤɚɥɵɜɚɧɢɟ ɢ ɨɛɳɟɫɬɜɨ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɫɬɚɧɨɜɢɬɫɹ ɡɞɨɪɨɜɟɟ [ɨɬ ɷɬɨɝɨ]. Ʉɨɝɞɚ-ɧɢɛɭɞɶ ɷɬɨ ɩɨɣɦɭɬ ɢ ɨɰɟɧɹɬ. […] ɯɨɪɨɲɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ ɭɱɢɬ ɫɜɨɛɨɞɟ. Ⱥ ɷɬɨ – ɨɡɞɨɪɨɜɢɬɟɥɶɧɵɣ ɩɪɨɰɟɫɫ (quoted by Gavrikov 2005). 18 In 2004, Sorokin switched from the more elitist publisher Ad Marginem, where his books appeared in relatively small editions, to bestseller publisher Zakharov. This move – which, according to Sorokin, was at least partly motivated by the pragmatic wish to “reach all my potential readers” (Newsru.com 2004) – has been crucial to the change in his status from a ‘writer’s (and Slavists’) writer’ into a widely read bestseller author.

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In the past years, it has been hard to miss Sorokin’s numerous interviews with highbrow as well as more popular (inter)national journals, newspapers and radio stations (a relatively exhaustive list is provided on his own website on www.srkn.ru/interview/), or his visit to the popular Russian reality tv show Behind the Glass, which attracted extensive press attention (see, for instance, Rudenskij 2001). See for some recent examples also the news section on Sorokin’s website (www.srkn.ru/news/). 20 See http://zina.com.ua/about/ (consulted 29.01.2008). 21 For a general overview of 1) media in (and publishers at) which Kibirov published his poems, 2) literary institutions and commissions in which he participates, and 3) prizes that he has won, see his profile on the Zhurnal’nyi zal site: http://magazines.russ.ru/authors/k/kibirov/ 22 One could think here in any case of Dmitrii Prigov and Dmitrii Vodennikov; I am currently working on an analysis of the work and public behavior of these authors from a similar perspective as discussed here.

Bibliography Aarsman, Hans. a.o. (ed.). 2003. New Engagement in Art, Architecture and Design. Rotterdam: NAI. Anninskij, Lev. 1997. ‘Pod znakom “transa”’ in Družba narodov, Vol(5): 221-224. Backstein, Joseph. 2005. ‘History of Angels’ in Backstein, J., B. De Baere (eds). Angels of History. Moscow Conceptualism and its Influence. Brussels: Mercatorfonds: 16-21. Bavilskij, Dmitrij. 2004. ‘Znaki prepinanija ʋ 45: Glavnaja kniga oseni – Vladimir Sorokin “Put’ Bro”, roman’. On line at: http://topos.ru/article/2746 (consulted 25.01.2008). –– 2005. ‘Ob iskrennosti v iskusstve’ in Vzgljad 20.06. On line at: http://www.vz.ru/columns/2005/6/20/892.html (consulted 06.05.2008). Bogdanova, O.V. 2004. Postmodernizm v kontekste sovremennoj russkoj literatury. Sankt-Peterburg. Bondarenko, Marija. 2002. ‘Roman V. Sorokina “Lëd”: sjužet-attrakcion – ideologija – novaja iskrennost’ – katafatiþeskaja dekonstrukcija’ in Literaturnyj dnevnik, April. On line at: http://www.vavilon.ru/diary/020518.html (consulted 25.01.2008). Bourdieu, Pierre. 1993. The Field of Cultural Production. Essays on Art and Literature. Cambridge: Polity. Brouwer, Sander. 2006. ‘Sorokins IJs-trilogie’ in Tijdschrift voor Slavische Literatuur, 45: 59-64. Collins, Jim. 1993. ‘Genericity in the Nineties: Eclectic Irony and the New Sincerity’ in Collins, Jim et al. (eds). Film Theory Goes to the Movies. New York: Routledge: 242-262. Connor, Steven. 2004. ‘Introduction’, in: Connor, Steven (ed.). The Cambridge Companion to Postmodernism. Cambridge: Cambridge UP: 1-20. ýuprinin, Sergej. 2007. Žizn po ponjatijam. Russkaja literatura segodnja. Moskva. Davydov, Aleksandr. 2001. ‘Razmyšlenie na grani vekov’ in Znamja Vol.,6. On line at: http://magazines.russ.ru/znamia/2001/6/for_dav.html (consulted 25.01.2008).

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Degot, Ekaterina. 2000. ‘To Be an Artist in the Post-Soviet World’ in The View From Here. Issues of Cultural Identity and Perspective in Contemporary Russian and American Art. On line at: http://theviewfromhere.artinfo.ru/index.asp?lang=eng&sec=5&page=2 (consulted 15.01.2008). –– 2004. ‘Die russische Kunst in den 1990er Jahren: Vom Neorussischen zum Postkommunistischen’ in Na kurort! Russische Kunst Heute. Köln: Wienand: 3844. Džikija, Aleksandr. 2000-2007. ‘Džikija, Aleksandr’. On line at: http://www.gif.ru/people/dzhikia/ (consulted 25.01.2008). Dulk, Allard den. 2004. Over de drempel. Voorbij de postmoderne impasse naar een zelfbewust engagement. Den Haag: s.n. Epštein, Michail. 1996. ‘O novoj sentimentalnosti’ in Strelec 2(78): 223-231. –– 1999. ‘On the Place of Postmodernism in Postmodernity’ in Epstein, Genis and Vladiv-Glover (1999): 456-468. Epstein, Mikhail, Alexander Genis and Slobodanka Vladiv-Glover (eds). 1999. Russian Postmodernism. New Perspectives on Post-Soviet Culture. New York: Berghahn. Epstein, Thomas. 1999. ‘Introduction’ in Epstein, Genis and Vladiv-Glover (1999): vii-xii. Gandlevskij, Sergej. 1991. ‘Razrešenie ot skorbi’ in Rubinštejn, Lev (ed.) Liþnoe delo ʋ: Literaturno-chudožestvennyj al’manach. Moskva: 226-32. Gavrikov, Igor’. 2005. ‘Doktor Sorokin’. On line at: http://www.srkn.ru/interview/gavrikov.shtml (consulted 29.01.2008). Golyšev, Vladimir. 2007. ‘Svjat, svjat, svjat… Konec postmoderna’. On line at: http://www.nazlobu.ru/publications/article1785.htm (consulted 25.01.2008). Groys, Boris. 2003. ‘The Other Gaze. Russian Unofficial Art’s View of the Soviet World’ in Erjavec, Aleš (ed.) Postmodernism and the Postsocialist Condition. Politicized Art Under Late Socialism. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press: 55-90. Hutcheon, Linda. 1998. ‘Irony, Nostalgia, and the Postmodern’, in: University of Toronto English Library. On line at: http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/criticism/hutchinp.html (consulted 25.01.2008). Ivanova, Natalja. 1998. ‘Preodolevšie postmodernism’ in Znamja 4. On line at: http://magazines.russ.ru/znamia/1998/4/ivanova.html (consulted 25.01.2008). Jur’jev, Dmitrij. 2007. ‘Tri postmodernizma’ in Russkij žurnal 09.02. On line at: http://www.russ.ru/culture/kolonki/tri_postmodernizma (consulted 25.01.2008). Kelly, Catriona and David Shepherd. 1998. Russian Cultural Studies. An Introduction. Oxford: Oxford UP. –– 1998. Constructing Russian Culture in the Age of Revolution: 1881-1940. Oxford: Oxford UP. Kochetkova, Natalja. 2005. ‘Timur Kibirov: gde te iunoši i devuški, þto dolžny vystraivat’sja mne vsled?’ in Izvestija. On line at: http://www.izvestia.ru/person/article1535519/ (consulted 25.01.2008). Koldobskaja, Marina. 2007. Iskusstvo v bol’šom dolgu. Moskva.

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Koreckij, Vasilij. 2007. ‘Takaja vot “novaja iskrennost’”. Poludokumentalnaja povest’ o nastojašþich ljudjach iz vnutrennej Mongolii’ in Time Out 25. On line at: http://www.stengazeta.net/article.html?article=4043 (consulted 25.01.2008). Korthals Altes, Liesbeth. 2001. ‘Blessedly Post-Ironic’? Enkele tendensen in de literatuur en literatuurwetenschap. Groningen: s.n. Kuþerskaja, Maja. 2005. ‘Vladimir Sorokin: mnogie budut plakat’’. On line at: (consulted http://www.gif.ru/themes/culture/bt-premiere/budut-plakat/ 25.01.2008). Kuricyn, Vjaþeslav. 1992-1997. ‘K ponjatiju postpostmodernizma’ in Russkij literaturnyj postmodernizm. On line at: http://www.guelman.ru/slava/postmod/0.html (consulted 25.01.2008). Lipovetskii, Mark. 1999. Russian Postmodernist Fiction: Dialogue With Chaos. Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe. Lipoveckij, Mark. 2002. ‘PMS (postmodernizm segodnja)’ in Znamja 5. On line at: http://magazines.russ.ru/znamia/2002/5/lipov.html (consulted 25.01.2008). –– 2005. ‘“Prisustvuja nastol’ko, naskol’ko pozvoljaet otsutstvie”’ in Znamja 9. On line at: http://magazines.russ.ru/znamia/2005/9/li13.html (consulted 25.01.2008). Man’kovskaja, N.B. 2002. ‘Samorefleksija neklassiþeskoj ơstetiki’, Ơstetika na perelome kul’turnych traditsij. On line at: http://www.iu.ru/biblio/archive/mankovskaja%5Festetika%5Fna/ (consulted 25.01.2008). Metelica, Katja. 2004. ‘Igra v otkrovenie. Starye babki i “novaja iskrennost’”’ in Nezavisimaja gazeta 16.12. On line at: http://www.ng.ru/style/2004-1216/8_game.html (consulted 25.01.2008). Mežieva, M.V. and N.A. Konradova. 2006. Okno v mir: sovremennaja russkaja literatura. Moskva. Michajlovskaja, Ol’ga. 2007. ‘Novaja iskrennost’. V Barviche otkrylsja butik Marni’ in Kommersant” 27(3), 02.03. On line at: http://www.kommersant.ru/doc.aspx?DocsID=746373 (consulted 25.01.2008). ‘Mnogie…’ 2005. ‘Mnogie klouny obnovjat GABT’ in Teatr 23.03. On line at: http/www.cultcorp.ru/news.html?id=14586 (consulted 25.01.2008). Monastyrskij, Andrej (ed.). 1999. Slovar’ terminov moskovskoj konceptualnoj školy. Moskva. Newsru.com. 2004. ‘V izdatel’stve “Zacharov” vychodit novyj roman Vladimira Sorokina’. On line at: http://www.newsru.com/cinema/16sep2004/sorokin.html (consulted 29.01.2008). Nikolayev, Philip and Katya Kapovich. 1996. ‘An Interview With Timur Kibirov’. On line at: http://imperium.lenin.ru/~verbit/Stihi/kibirov-interview.html (consulted 29.01.2008). Obermayr, Brigitte. 2007. ‘Verfemte Teile eines Werkes. Sorokin zwischen Sub- und Pop(ulär)kultur’ in Grübel, Rainer, Gun-Britt Kohler (eds). Gabe und Opfer in der russischen Kultur der Moderne. Oldenburg: BIS: 519-552. Pëtrovskaja, Elena. 2002. ‘Duša Pautiny: Masjanja i “novaja” iskrennost’’ in Kinoart 9. On line at: http://www.kinoart.ru/magazine/09-2002/media/www/ (consulted 25.01.2008). Pospelov, Pëtr. 2003. ‘Novaja iskrennost’ na þetverych. Kvartet Tomasa Tseetmajra v Bolšom teatre’ in Vedomosti 51, 26.03. On line at: http://www.vedomosti.ru/newspaper/article.shtml?2003/03/26/59622 (consulted 25.01.2008).

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Prigov, Dmitrij and Sergej Šapoval. 2003. Portretnaja galereja D.A.P. Moskva. Radzievskii, Aleksandr. 2005. ‘Moskou: Nieuwe oprechte kunst’ in Gonzo Circus 71: 54-57. Rudenskij, Nikolaj. 2001. ‘“Real’nye shou” / Vladimir Sorokin: Stekljannyj poezd – ơto dlja molodych’ in Grani.ru 19.11. On line at: http://old.grani.ru/reality_tv/articles/sorokin/ (consulted 19.01.2008). Sapiro, Gisèle. 2003. ‘The Literary Field Between the State and the Market’ in Poetics Vol. 31 (5-6): 441-464. Savþuk, Valerij. 1999. ‘Ideologija postinformacionnoj iskresnnosti’ in Chudožestvennyj žurnal 30-31. On line at: http://www.guelman.ru/xz/362/xx30/xx3005.htm (consulted 25.01.2008). Semënov, Sergej. 2006. ‘Novaja iskrennost’’ in Ơkspert 4(55), 30.01. On line at: http://www.expert.ua/articles/10/0/1466/ (consulted 25.01.2008). Shneidman, N.N. 2003. ‘Contemporary Prose in Post-Soviet Russia’ in Toronto Slavic Annual 1: 256-267. Skoropanova, I.S. 1999. Russkaja postmodernistskaja literatura. Uþebnoe posobie. Moskva. Smirnov, Igor’. 2003. Filosofija na každyj den’. Moskva: Pragmatika kul’tury. Sorokin, Vladimir. 1992. ‘Tekst kak narkotik. Vladimir Sorokin otveþaet na voprosy žurnalista Tatjany Rasskazovoj’ in Sorokin, Vladimir. Sbornik rasskazov. Moskva: 119-126. –– 2005. ‘Mea culpa? “Ja nedostatoþno izvrašþën dlja podobnych ơksperimentov”’ in Nezavisimaja gazeta. Ex Libris 14.04. On line at: http://exlibris.ng.ru/tendenc/2005-04-14/5_culpa.html (consulted 25.01.2008). –– 2006. Trilogiia. Moskva. Timmer, Nicoline. 2002. ‘Liefde, geluk, waarheid’ in De Groene Amsterdammer 48, 02.12. On line at: http://www.groene.nl/2000/48/Het_nieuwe_postmodernisme (consulted 25.01.2008). Ul’janov, Anatolij. 2007. ‘For Sale. ‘Novaia’ ‘Iskrennost’’ Vladimira Kožucharja’ in Proza. Art Magazine. On line at: http://www.proza.com.ua/print/?7201 (consulted 25.01.2008). Vanderbilt, Tom and Toby Young. 1994. ‘The End of Irony? The Tragedy of the PostIronic Condition’ in The Modern Review 14.1, April-May: 6-7. Vloet, Corine. 2001. ‘Achter het masker. De opkomst van post-ironische literatuur’ in NRC Handelsblad 02.03: 29. Wachtel, A. 2006. Remaining Relevant After Communism. The Role of the Writer in Eastern Europe. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Životov, Gennadij. 1996. ‘V “Zavtra” ja kak doma!’ in Zavtra 51, 17.12. On line at: http://www.zavtra.ru/cgi//veil//data/zavtra/96/159/7_JI.html (consulted 06.05.2006). Zincov, Oleg. 2006. ‘ýitaj serdcem. Novaja iskrennost’ v spektakljach Alvisa Chermanisa’ in Vedomosti 79, 04.05. On line at: http://www.vedomosti.ru/newspaper/article.shtml?2006/05/04/106161 (consulted 25.01.2006).

Copy-writing Post-Soviet Russia. Viktor Pelevin’s work in Postcolonial Terms Boris Noordenbos Abstract: The copywriters and creatives in Viktor Pelevin’s novel Generation “ɉ” (1999) both ‘copy’ and ‘write’ Russian identity. Through advertising texts, video scripts, and written scenario’s for Russia’s stage-set democracy, the commercial elite makes Russia into a superficial and virtual copy of ‘the West’. Some members of the Nouveaux Russes in fact protest against the meek imitation of western cultural forms, and propose a uniquely Russian path of development. However, to Pelevin, repeating nineteenth-century arguments about Russia’s non-Western particularity is also a form of imitation and cannot produce authentic and stable identities either. The novel’s ambivalent orientation on ‘western universality’ and ‘Russian authenticity’, together with the constant doubts about the reality of identity and the centrality of meaning, displays striking similarities with the ongoing debates and concerns of post-colonial literature and theory. This article proposes a post-colonial reading of Pelevin’s text. It uses elements from the work of the prominent post-colonial critic Homi Bhabha for an analysis of the re-imagination of Russian identity in Generation “ɉ”. 1 Keywords: Viktor Pelevin; national identity; post-colonial theory; Homi K Bhabha

The Perestroika marked the beginning of a series of world-shattering developments that, in the last fifteen years of the millennium, abruptly and fundamentally changed Russian society. Since the late 1980s, social roles, forms of behaviour, shared moral values, beliefs, expectations and even language had to be revised and replaced. Moreover, Perestroika in many ways heralded the end of the ideological isolation and exclusiveness of the Soviet-Union and in many spheres restored the possibilities for comparison with the rest of the world. The end of ‘socialist experiments’ meant a return to hitherto curtained-off ‘universal’, civilizational standards. Although newly introduced liberal, capitalist and democratic ideals were initially welcomed by many with enthusiasm and accepted as the inevitable path of development for any modern society, their appropriation and realization were not unproblematic. What heavily complicated the process was the fact that these values had for decades been associated with the cultural and political enemy, ‘the West’. Imitating western

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social, economic, cultural and technological achievements contributed to the humiliating and traumatic belief in Russia’s own ‘civilisational incompetence’ and lack of cultural originality. Not surprisingly, in the late twentieth century questions about Russia’s unique cultural character (re-)emerged in virtually every sphere of public life. Yet, formulating Russia’s uniqueness in many cases came down to emphasizing (or, in the words of Eric Hobsbawm, ‘inventing’) Russia’s non-western traditions. A non-western bias in Russian culture could, however, easily be interpreted as the country’s inferiority or backwardness when measured along the ‘universal’ progressive standards embodied by ‘the West’. The immense late- and post-Soviet debate about Russia’s cultural place in the world seems to be complicated heavily by a feeling that ‘universal’ values are alien to Russia and by a concurrent idea that ‘native’ traditions are obstacles on the universal path of development. Literature, traditionally the pre-eminent forum for discussions about Russia’s cultural characteristics and possible paths of development, has been heavily involved in this debate. Many Perestroika and post-Perestroika texts still (or again) attempted, in one way or an other, to conceptualize forms of ‘Russianness’. Moreover, not only literary texts, but also the discussions of classical Russian literature became concerned with, and in some cases overshadowed by, questions of a Russian identity. In her article on Russian literary criticism in the mid-1990s, Henrietta Mondry argues hat the thick journals, having survived the economic crises of the 1990-1992, continued the cultural tradition of serving as an ideological trendsetter. In their neurotic search for a collective identity and a ‘Russian path’ contesting camps of literary critics drew political, economic and social lessons from literary texts of the past. By presenting literary works as documentary material and by taking literary protagonists as real heroes they created a ‘literariness’ of consciousness (Mondry 1999: 109-11). In this essay I focus on the immensely popular contemporary writer Viktor Pelevin, who, rather than being involved in a serious literary quest for identity, puts Russia’s literariness of consciousness in an ironic context. What is important for the argument of this article, however, is the strong, yet again ironic and playful, concern in Pelevin’s work with the dynamics between original and universal points of reference. A persistent question underlying many themes in Pelevin’s works is how

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to (re)fashion an individual post-Soviet identity, but also, on a national level, how to create a new Russian reality, out of models and signs that are derived from a different, and formerly antagonistic, world. On the one hand, his characters struggle to expel their ‘Soviet soul’ and to imitate the putative behaviour, dress and language of western citizens, businessmen and politicians. On the other hand, implicitly and explicitly, the question is raised whether there is any authentic Russian substance and particularity left behind the signs and language of a new developmentalist ethos, an ethos that is often invested with claims of universal validity. Can one re-ascertain or rediscover tradition, continuity and identity in a period of radical and chaotic changes of ideas? Can Russian identity be given a new form and meaning with a set of signs that are (felt to be) not Russian? And how to grasp and represent Russia’s particularity in newly introduced frames, categories and discourses associated with universality? These questions are pivotal to Pelevin, but, quite paradoxically, they coexist with postmodern tendencies to subvert notions of universality and authenticity. More radically even, in Pelevin’s texts doubts are raised about the ability of language to refer to and fix ‘the universal’ and ‘the authentic’. It is as if the dismantlement of Soviet identities and language in his texts stimulates a general conceptual dismantlement of determinist views of culture and standard codes in language. As I will demonstrate in the following pages, the schemes of literary self-definition, but also their poststructuralist and postmodern deconstruction in Pelevin’s work, show some striking similarities with the ongoing debates and concerns of postcolonial literature and postcolonial theory. Bruce King, a leading scholar in postcolonial and English literature, identifies, in an essay about what he calls the ‘New Literatures’ of the formerly colonized world, one of the central problems in these literary texts: How could one reconcile cosmopolitan awareness, standards of judgement, and scepticism with the need to see the world through local, rather than alien, eyes? […] It could be argued that the international literature of post-colonialism, in all languages, is based on the conflict between what is perceived as the traditional culture of the past and incorporation into a global modern culture (King 1996: 6-7).

Universality and particularity of ‘Self’, but also the representation of these notions, are a fundamental aspect not particularly of Russia’s

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post-Soviet re-imagination, but of a much wider range of national discussions in colonized and marginalized communities. Russian nation-building in a broader perspective It goes without saying that Pelevin, in his attention for the complex dialectics between national ‘Self’ and ‘Other’, leans on the great nineteenth-century nationalist debates, in which Russia’s unique spirituality and morality and the West’s universal civilisational blessings were already persistent points of reference. However, it is important to stress that, as said before, the problematic relation between ‘the original’ and ‘the universal’ is not restricted to Russian forms of cultural self-definition and nationalism. As early as 1974 John Plamenatz in his article ‘Two types of Nationalism’ developed the notion of an ‘eastern’ and a ‘western nationalism’, the former displaying a profound conceptual paradox, quite similar to the cultural contradictions in Pelevin’s novels: in nineteenth-century EasternEurope, nationalist projects were, according to Plamenatz, invested with the awareness that traditional skills, ideas and customs were inadequate to raise these peoples to the level of the (WesternEuropean) civilizations they measured themselves with. As a result Eastern-European intellectuals felt the need to transform their culture along western standards. Although traditional ways in the process were considered to be obstacles to progress, in many cases they simultaneously were cherished as the only marks of an original cultural identity; Western-European cultural forms, on the other hand, were discarded as alien, but at the same time they were to be imitated and even surpassed by their own standards. The paradox of nationalism of the eastern kind, according to Plamenatz, is the fact that it is “both imitative and hostile to the models it imitates” (Plamenatz 1976: 34). Although western and eastern nationalism had their origin in Europe, Plamenatz observes the mechanisms of the latter also outside the western world: “What I call eastern nationalism has flourished among the Slavs as well as in Africa and Asia, and is to be found also in Latin America” (ibidem: 23). It seems like Plamenatz’s concept can be seen as a prelude to a growing academic enthusiasm in the last decades to consider Eastern-European forms of cultural self-assertion in the light of wider non-western attempts to find original and ‘decolonized’ modes of cultural self-expression. Particularly interesting have been the reemerging notions of a Russian, or general

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Eastern-European, ‘self-colonization’, a term opening possibilities for analyses of the parallels (and differences) between Russian and colonial forms of ‘nation-building’. The concept usually denotes developments in cultures that, in Europe’s “Philosophical Geography of Enlightenment” (Wolff 1994: 13), ended up in the margins of ‘civilization’. Fearing a definite exclusion from the ‘civilized world’ these marginalized communities imported a range of dominant western idea’s and discourses by themselves. With this “symbolinvasion of the Alien” (Kiossev 1999) intellectuals in self-colonizing cultures brought in their own inferiority complex. They made themselves dependent on alien concepts in defining the ‘Self’. This is why the identity paradigm of Russia and that of many colonized or marginalized communities share what Dale Peterson recently has typified as “this sense of always looking at oneself through the eyes of others, and measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity” (Peterson 2000: 1). It will be clear by now that the dynamics of universal and authentic points of references are, again, central to the idea of self-colonization. As the Bulgarian cultural historian Aleksander Kiossev argues in his short, yet thoughtprovoking article ‘Notes on the Self-colonizing Cultures’: The [western] Alien (equal to the expanding, rational and entzaubert modern world) is known to represent itself as an embodiment of the main stream in history and of the Universal fate of mankind. In contrast to this narcissistic ideology of the West, the self-colonizing nations suffer a tragic paradox – for them the Alien is the Universal but the opposite is also true – The Universal remains forever alien. […] [T]he self-colonizing nations [are doomed] to the feeling that universal values are never their values (Kiossev 1999).

The most fervent theorist of a specifically Russian self-colonization is probably Aleksandr Etkind, whose meditations on the nineteenthcentury nationalist debates are particularly convincing. In a series of articles, published in the last few years, Etkind argues that Russia’s Europeanized intellectual opinion-leaders, trying to conceptualize (above all in literature) a national character, based there conceptions of Russia’s particularity on exotist and sometimes orientalist visions of their peasant compatriots. Moreover, the nineteenth-century Russian elite deployed a series of typically colonial activities (missionary work, ethnography, exotic journeys), and directed these activities not towards the foreign territories and peoples of the empire, but first and

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foremost towards the Russian countryside and the Russian peasantry itself. This leads Etkind to the conclusion that “Russia colonized itself” (Ơtkind 2001: 65; Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ ɤɨɥɨɧɢɡɨɜɚɥɚ ɫɚɦɭ ɫɟɛɹ).2 Indeed, the use of terms like ‘colonial’ and ‘colonization’ in describing the complex economy of Russian identity formation runs the risk of bringing to mind the wrong associations. When using this terminology it is important, in my view, to make explicit the critical tradition in which one is working. This is why I will not lean on the often very loosely formulated idea of a ‘self-colonial’ tendency in Russian culture or in Russian identity construction, but support my arguments about Pelevin’s texts with notions borrowed from postcolonial studies. Although by no means a coherent theoretical school, the postcolonial approach offers a series of well elaborated and much discussed terms, which no longer only concern situations of physical colonization, but also provide insight in wider, continuing processes of globalization, cultural ‘othering’ and self-definition. Some of these terms may prove to be valuable in an analysis of Pelevin’s texts. My aim is to examine, on both a thematic and linguistic level, the schemes along which the re-imagination of national and individual identity, and their relation to a ‘universal’ developmentalist discourse, in Pelevin’s work develop. I apply postcolonialism not in the spirit of the critical historical (and often Marxist-inspired) movement (for example Frantz Fanon), but rather as the discourse-analytic and deconstructivist category that developed later, under the influence of the idea’s of (among others) Michel Foucault, Jacques Derrida and Jacques Lacan. This deconstructivist branch of the postcolonial movement has been particularly stimulated and represented by the Indian-American postcolonial theorist Homi K. Bhabha, who has become one of the leading voices in postcolonial criticism from the 1980s onward. Copying identity My focus here is on one immensely popular novel by Pelevin, Generation “ɉ” (1999).3 The book tells the story of a certain Vavilen Tatarsky, a former literature student and poet, who in the 1980s radically switches his orientation and becomes a successful copywriter in the dawning Russian advertising business. Many of Tatarsky’s colleagues are also former writers and academics who in the Perestroika period lose their passion for literature and science and

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become obsessed with a Euro-American consumption culture. They are subject to a mainly self-imposed imperative of expelling their ‘Sovietness’ and becoming western; of appropriating all the attributes and behaviour of the western entrepreneur. This identification with the formerly “distant forbidden world on the far side of the sea” (Pelevin 2004: 9; ɞɚɥɟɤɢɣ ɡɚɩɪɟɳɟɧɧɵɣ ɦɢɪ [ɧɚ] ɬɨɣ ɫɬɨɪɨɧe ɦɨɪɹ) is exemplary of the radical re-imagination of identity and of the painstaking process of “reconstructing yourself” (ibidem: 157; ɩɟɪɟɫɬɪɚɢɜɚɬɶɫɹ) in late and post-Soviet society. The putative western manners, that are observed by the Russian elite in Generation “ɉ”, in many cases, do not serve practical purposes and do not even provide much pleasure. Rather, these almost ritualistic acts are thought to be an obligatory part of a cosmopolitan way of life in which the ‘Nouveaux Russes’ hope to participate. Tatarsky for example forces himself again and again into sniffing cocaine through hundred dollar bills, a procedure he considers unhygienic and humiliating. It is clearly not the physical experience that counts, rather the use of stimulants is one of the many ways to enhance social standing. Even more evocative of the superficial appropriation of western behaviour might be Tatarsky’s preparation for a visit to a potential client: he puts on an imitation Rolex watch that has to be handled with care in order not to break the gold-plating; an expensive Mercedes is hired, but only for the period of the visit; furthermore, buzzing pagers have to convince the client that this advertising firm is completely adapted to the global (western) standards of doing business. This excessive orientation on the West calls to mind some of Homi Bhahba’s thoughts on copying and ‘repeating’ behaviour and idea’s from the western centre in the non-western periphery. Inspired by deconstructivist thought, in particular by Jacques Derrida, Bhabha asserts that colonial meaning slips, because of the effects of ‘repetition’ and différance (a term borrowed directly from Derrida): the repetition of particular ideas, narratives and theories from the metropolis in the colony can, according to Bhabha, never be identical with the western original (otherwise it would be the original). Western signs, texts and ideals, in their ‘translation’ to the colonies, inevitably become different and hybridized. More importantly, this imperfect repetition of the colonizer’s culture in a different context might blur the clear distinction between original and copy, or “exemplum and imitation” (Bhabha

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2006: 150); In the process of translation “‘denied’ knowledges enter upon the dominant discourse” (ibidem: 162), copied and hybridized metropolitan forms become invested with their own claims of originality and they estrange the basis of colonial authority. As a result of the destabilising effects of ‘repetition’ and différance, colonial discourse, according to Bhabha, is never quite as authoritive and unified as it claims to be. In its attempts to impose symbolic systems and world views on the colonies, the West is troubled by its doubles. One of the most imaginative manifestations of this slippage between the western sign and its non-western signification is Bhabha’s quite famous notion of mimicry, developed in his essay ‘Of Mimicry and Man’ (1984). Mimicry for Bhabha is an exaggerated and superficial copying of the manners, language, and idea’s of the colonizer by the colonized. The imitator, after V.S. Naipaul’s novel4 called the “mimic man”, to the colonizer always remains a copy (a “repetition”) of the dominant culture and can never become original; there always remains, according to Bhabha, a quintessential difference between being English and being Anglicized. The mimic man, in this sense, is “subject of a difference that is almost the same, but not quite” (ibidem: 122; Bhabha’s italics). On the one hand, the mimic man in his devoted imitation of western models meets the narcissistic desire of the colonizer for a recognizable, reformed other. On the other hand, he acts like a distorting mirror, and his exaggerated adaptation to western examples mocks the ambitions of colonialism. More dangerously even, the pretension of the mimic man to be authentic and complete mutilates the established relation between cultural ‘exemplum’ and ‘imitation’. Being an empty cultural mask, the mimic man converts the superiority of the colonizing culture into a set of tricks and signs that can be learned and aped. By presenting these tricks as an original, authentic parts of his identity he renders every epistemological contemplation on cultural authenticity and originality impossible. The mimic man undermines the unambiguous mirroring that the colonial power tries to set up and as a result “cultural differences are not simply there to be seen or appropriated” (ibidem: 163).5 Indeed, many of the characters presented in Generation “ɉ” can, in their relation to the West, very well be typified with Bhabha’s dictum ‘almost the same, but not quite’. The banker Vovchik in the novel has for example completely fashioned himself as a prototypical

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western capitalist, but finds no acceptation or admiration in the West. Even when he hires whole floors in European and American Hilton hotels, his western colleagues think of him as an animal with money or a savage from Africa, as Vovchik himself puts it. These humiliations raise questions about Russia’s cultural authenticity and its relation to the values of liberal capitalism. I quote from Vovchik complaints at length, because they are extremely evocative of the mimicry in the novel: [I]t’s all because we’re living on their handouts. We watch their films, ride their wheels, even eat their fodder. And we don’t produce nothing, if you think about it, ‘cept for mazuma ... Which is still only their dollars, whichever way you look at it, which makes it a mystery how come we can be producing ‘em. […] Our national business is expanding into the international market. Out there there’s all kinds of mazuma doing the rounds – Chechen, American, Columbian – you get the picture. And if you look at them like mazuma, then they’ re all the same; but in actual fact behind every kind of mazuma there’s a national idea. We used to have Orthodoxy, Autocracy and Nationality. Then came this communism stuff. Now that’s all over, and there’s no idea left at all ‘cept for mazuma. But there’s no way you can have nothing but mazuma behind mazuma, right? ‘Cause then there’s just no way to understand why some mazuma’s up front and some’s in behind, right?6

Vovchik perfectly grasps the essence of the mimicry effect by noticing in himself and in his country the unsettling discrepancy between on the one hand outward appearances and products, that can be bought and learned, and on the other a national idea, that apparently should lie behind externals (“behind mazuma”; ɡɚ ɛɚɛɤɚɦɢ). What if behind appearances are other appearances? In the Hilton Hotels of the West Vovchik is seen as a “part-object” (Bhabha 2006: 130), as Bhabha calls his mimic man, an object that displays only a metonymic similarity to westerners, a similarity on a limited amount of superficial points. Vovchik has become a hollow parody, rather than a fullfledged representative, of western entrepreneurship. However, from Vovchik’s point of view the situation is somewhat different. Having reshaped his appearance, language and world view, he initially thinks of himself as an ultimate embodiment of allegedly universal progressive and neoliberal ideals. In the West, however, he painfully discovers that these ‘universal’ models are simultaneously invested with a western exclusiveness. The situation evokes Bhabha’s repeated argument that the ‘universal’ civilisational blessings that the

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colonial powers thought to spread in their colonies were at the same time deployed as sign of the superiority of western culture specifically. In the intercultural discourse Vovchik functions as a distorted mirror reflection that nevertheless discloses imperfections and paradoxes in the original. His behaviour and appearance, for example, comically reveal the ambivalence radiated by the western ‘exemplum’: the wish for an object that is extremely like the westerner but by no means identical. However, by implicitly posing the question why a wealthy, apparently westernized Russian remains a savage, Vovchik not only lays bare the flaws of an arrogant developmentalist discourse. He, more profoundly, questions the workings of ‘cultural mirroring’ and destabilizes notions of authentic and imitating cultures overall: Vovchik’s speech and behaviour raise the question what it is behind outward appearances that guarantees cultural originality and superiority. What is cultural identity anyway? Indeed, not all activities of Pelevin’s new elite can be categorized as mimicry: forms of decadent bragging for example are part of nouveau-riche behaviour in every culture, and especially in societies only recently confronted with capitalist ideals and practices. However, it is precisely this undermining, by Vovchik and others, of the discourse on cultural difference and genuine identities that is typical for the mechanisms of mimicry. In some cases it is not ‘the West’ that is copied and superficially appropriated, but an imagined or invented primordial Russian culture, formulated in strongly anti-western terms. Here again, the exaggerated and superficial use of cultural markers draws attention to the fictionality of identity. In order to meet the fantasies of nationalist-minded, anti-liberal and anti-democratic consumers, Tatarsky, for example, contemplates the printing of ‘Russian’ birch bark patterns on soft drink bottles, instead of English texts. In the outline of this project he is quick to remark that birch motives do not refer to a genuine Russian culture or folklore. For Tatarsky they are part of a “pseudo-Slavonic style” (Pelevin 2004: 40; ɥɨɠɧɨɫɥɚɜɹɧɫɤɢɣ ɫɬɢɥɶ), a style not to be confused with a ‘Slavonic style’, which “does not exist anywhere in the real world” (ibidem; ɧɟ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɭɟɬ ɜ ɩɪɢɪɨɞɟ). An other example of what might be called “counter-mimicry”7 is the behaviour of the copywriter Malyuta who has very consciously fashioned himself after a Russian patriot. He wears a Russian folk shirt with a soldier’s belt and is a rabid anti-Semite, not because he

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dislikes Jews, but because he considers anti-Semitism an essential part of Russian patriotism. Malyutɚ is described as the “almost complete opposite” (ibidem: 137; ɩɪɚɤɬɢɱɟɫɤɢ ɩɨɥɧ[ɚɹ] ɩɪɨɬɢɜɨɩɨɥɨɠɧɨɫɬɶ) of his colleague Seryozha, again a typical ‘mimic man’, striving with all his might to resemble a western copywriter. Seryozha constantly reads western journals, watches CNN, pores over loads of American textbooks on advertising and spends hours interrogating his Pakistani cocaine dealer about western cultural codes. Counter-mimicry, just as mimicry itself, cannot disguise a typical (post)colonial dependency on the ‘Other’ in the search for the ‘Self’. Both strategies are heavily dependent on ‘the West’ and, at least in Pelevin’s view, cannot produce authentic and stable identities. Mimicry and counter-mimicry are symptoms of what Ned Thomas, in his book about the West-Indian poet Derek Walcott, describes as the “colonial or provincial neurosis”: “The neurosis […] to look for approval to some distant centre, and even the protest against this dependent condition is still controlled by that which it reacts against: no reagent is a free agent” (Thomas 1980: 21). In Generation “ɉ” the hollowness and defects of this type of identity formation are clearly stressed in the descriptions of the two complementary copywriters: about Seryozha the narrator remarks that “since he didn’t know what a western copywriter actually looked like and relied on nothing but his own strange ideas about the matter, the impression he actually produced was of something touchingly Russian” (Pelevin 2004: 137; ɩɨɫɤɨɥɶɤɭ ɨɧ ɧɟ ɡɧɚɥ, ɱɬɨ ɢɡ ɫɟɛɹ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɹɟɬ ɡɚɩɚɞɧɵɣ ɤɨɩɢɪɚɣɬɟɪ, ɢ ɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɥ ɢɫɤɥɸɱɢɬɟɥɶɧɨ ɫɜɨɢɦ ɫɬɪɚɧɧɵɦ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɢɹɦ ɧɚ ɷɬɨɬ ɫɱɟɬ, ɨɧ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɨɞɢɥ ɜɩɟɱɚɬɥɟɧɢɟ ɱɟɝɨ-ɬɨ ɬɪɨɝɚɬɟɥɶɧɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ). And when Tatarsky, towards the end of the book, again meets the supposedly primitive and nativist Malyuta, the latter has his soldier’s belt supporting an entire array of western technology and gadgets: “a mobile phone, a pager, a Zippo lighter in a leather case and an awl in a narrow black scabbard” (ibidem: 285; ɬɟɥɟɮɨɧ, ɩɟɣɞɠɟɪ, ɡɚɠɢɝɚɥɤɚ ‘Ɂɢɩɩɨ’ ɜ ɤɨɠɚɧɨɦ ɮɭɬɥɹɪɟ ɢ ɲɢɥɨ ɜ ɭɡɤɢɯ ɱɟɪɧɵɯ ɧɨɠɧɚɯ). Pelevin in his novel clearly champions an understanding of cultural and individual identity as an always flawed and partial (positive or negative) reflection of other (constructed and invented) identities. The writer points out to his readers that there is nothing fixed or real in a ‘national character’ and selfhood and he claims that

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identity formation is an ongoing process of copying. These are themes reflected by Pelevin in many other of his texts and before turning to the linguistic and literary aspects of mimicry in Generation “ɉ” I should like to cite one very evocative passage in his novel ɑɚɩɚɟɜ ɢ ɉɭɫɬɨɬɚ (1996; translated as Buddha’s Little Finger). When one of the characters presented in the book, Serdyuk, analyses the appearance of Russians and foreigners in Moscow, Russian identity becomes literally a series of imitated images (in both senses of the word) that do not refer to any essence or originality: Serdyuk had long known that most of the foreigners he encountered on the streets of Moscow were not really foreigners at all, but petty trader riff-raff […]. The genuine foreigners […] had for many years been trying to dress just like the average man on the street, for reasons of personal safety. Naturally enough, most of them got their idea of what the average Moscow inhabitant on the street looked like from CNN. And in ninety cases out of a hundred CNN, in its attempts to show Moscovites doggedly pursuing the phantom of democracy across the sun-baked desert of reform, showed close-ups of employees of the American embassy dressed up as Muscovites, because they looked a lot more natural than Muscovites dressed up as foreigners.8

Writing Russia Contrary to what the above quoted passage might suggest, reality, as it appears to us, in Pelevin’s fictional world is not merely a matter of images. In many cases text is even more important. In the author’s last novel, Empire V, for example, the conflict between the image and the word seems to be decided in favour of the word. The main character, Rama, says: “ I […] practically never think in words, I more think in pictures. Images.” (Pelevin 2006b: 324; ə […] ɩɪɚɤɬɢɱɟɫɤɢ ɧɟ ɞɭɦɚɸ ɫɥɨɜɚɦɢ. ə ɱɚɳɟ ɜɫɟɝɨ ɞɭɦɚɸ ɤɚɪɬɢɧɤɚɦɢ. Ɉɛɪɚɡɚɦɢ]. To which his opponent replies: “Each of your pictures is itself made of words, as a house is built of brick. But the brick is often not visible because of the plaster” (ibidem; Ʌɸɛɚɹ ɢɡ ɬɜɨɢɯ ɤɚɪɬɢɧɨɤ ɬɨɠɟ ɫɞɟɥɚɧɚ ɢɡ ɫɥɨɜ, ɤɚɤ ɞɨɦ ɫɞɟɥɚɧ ɢɡ ɤɢɪɩɢɱɟɣ. ɉɪɨɫɬɨ ɤɢɪɩɢɱɢ ɧɟ ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɜɢɞɧɵ ɡɚ ɲɬɭɤɚɬɭɪɤɨɣ). On the first pages of Generation “ɉ” we learn that Tatarsky has always been immersed in textuality. In the 1980s he worked as translator of Central-Asian poems, while in evenings he wrote his own poetry, “for eternity” (Pelevin 2004: 13; ɞɥɹ ɜɟɱɧɨɫɬɢ], as the narrator remarks. Both these linguistic activities, translating and writing, seem to be meaningful only within the symbolic frames

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provided by Soviet society. The changes of the Perestroika period and the eventual ‘disappearance’ of the country “into nirvana” (ibidem: 14; ɜ ɧɢɪɜɚɧɭ) annihilate the value and meaning of these activities. I quote the description of the disillusioning transformation of the country at length in order to accentuate the strongly linguistic and literary connotations and consequences ascribed to the events: Then, quite unobtrusively, an event of fundamental significance for his future occurred. The USSR, which they’d begun to renovate and improve at about the time when Tatarsky decided to change his profession, improved so much that it ceased to exist […]; so any more translations from the languages of the peoples of the USSR were quite simply out of the question. It was a blow, but Tatarsky survived it. He still had his work for eternity, and that was enough for him. Then events took an unforeseen turn. Something began happening to the very eternity to which he had decided to devote his labours and his days. Tatarsky couldn’t understand this at all. After all, eternity – at least as he’d always thought of it – was something unchangeable, indestructible and entirely independent of the transient fortunes of this earthly realm. If, for instance, the small volume of Pasternak that had changed his life had already entered this eternity, then there was no power capable of ejecting it. But this proved not to be entirely true. It turned out that eternity only existed for as long as Tatarsky sincerely believed in it, and was actually nowhere to be found beyond the bounds of this belief.9

In Tatarsky’s words it is the sincere belief in the reality of the SovietUnion that guaranteed its actual ‘eternal’ existence. This belief appears to consist largely of confidently translating texts, reading Pasternak, and writing poetry. When the old order collapses language as well loses it power. The narrator sadly remarks that Tatarsky “didn’t write any more poems after that: with the collapse of Soviet power they had simply lost their meaning and value” (ibidem: 16-17; [ɛ]ɨɥɶɲɟ [...] ɧɟ ɩɢɫɚɥ ɫɬɢɯɨɜ: ɫ ɝɢɛɟɥɶɸ ɫɨɜɟɬɫɤɨɣ ɜɥɚɫɬɢ ɨɧɢ ɩɨɬɟɪɹɥɢ ɫɦɵɫɥ ɢ ɰɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ). However, after a period of disillusionment, Tatarsky enters the world of advertising, in which, again, (commercial) texts and written scenario’s (for commercial videoclips) generate belief (in products) and even reality: as the novel unfolds and Tatarsky climbs the social ladder of the Russian business elite, little by little he becomes involved in the top secreted creation of computer animations of politicians and other nationally famous figures. Russian politics in the novel appears to be nothing more than a virtual reality, spread by the mass media. Here Pelevin is of course inspired by Jean Baudrillard’s

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famous concept of the simulacrum, a hyperreality generated largely by images in the media. This hyperreality, in its most radical manifestations, is, according to Baudrillard, likely to substitute the real world, or, even worse, blur “the sovereign difference [between the real and models of simulation], that constituted the charm of abstraction. […] It is all of metaphysics that is lost. No more mirror of being and appearance, of the real and its concept” (Baudrillard 1994: 2). Although the simulations in the novel consist of images, these images evolve, again, from written scenario’s. One critic, L.K. Salieva, aptly described the creative potential of the word in the writer’s oeuvre as a whole by stating that the author has an exceptionally fine sense of man’s immersion in the word and of the way human life is conditioned by the quality of that word. The word creates the world and man. […] The human being lives in a virtual world composed by language and speech.10

Indeed, it is precisely Tatarsky’s literary skills that make him a great scenario-writer for Russia’s new ‘reality’. The creators and copywriters in the book, in this sense, deploy a much more critical activity than what is usually understood by copywriting (writing advertisements or other publicity material). By writing commercials, scripts and scenario’s for politics Pelevin’s copywriters conceive the war in Chechnia, construct virtual international relations, create a market economy, and formulate virtual dialogues between virtual oligarchs. The new business elite in Generation “ɉ” ‘writes’ post-Soviet Russia, a country that in its economic and political structure and organization is a (flawed, imperfect, hollow) copy of the West, and in particular of America. As Tatarsky is explained, the American government and American companies to a large extent dictate the course of Russian politics and even decree the cigarette brands that famous (yet virtual) politicians should smoke. More seriously, they force Russia into extremely expensive elections that have no real consequences at all. Democratic institutions and procedures are superficially copied for the simple reason that “everything has to be the way it is there” (Pelevin 2004: 301; ɜɫɟ […] ɞɨɥɠɧɨ ɛɵɬɶ ɤɚɤ ɭ ɧɢɯ), as one of Tatarsky’s colleagues explains. The novel’s copywriters ‘copy-write’ in the sense of mimicry, described by Bhabha as “a process of writing and repetition” (Bhabha 2006:

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126). ‘Writing’, both in Bhabha’s essay on mimicry and in Pelevin’s novel, should be understood broadly, as textually constructing reality. What heavily complicates this process of copy-writing post-Soviet Russia is the filtering in not only of democratic American ideals that should be followed, but also of new words, phrases and terms from the West. Already on the first pages of the novel, the language of the “distant forbidden world on the far side of the sea” (Pelevin 2004: 9; ɞɚɥɟɤɢɣ ɡɚɩɪɟɳɟɧɧɵɣ ɦɢɪ [ɧɚ] ɬɨɣ ɫɬɨɪɨɧe ɦɨɪɹ) starts to displace the language of the Soviet-Union. The word that in the novel ‘creates the world and man’, as Salieva remarked, is more often than not a foreign word. The acquisition of Anglo-Saxon vocabulary becomes a central component of the mimic rituals of (post-)Perestroika society. Most copywriters in the book blend as many English words and calques into their Russian as possible. Tatarsky for example eagerly reads American literature on marketing and advertisement. However, not for theoretical guidance, but only, as he admits, to extract fashionable English terms from it, which he uses in his speech and concepts. English idiom in the novel is an obligatory part of the new Russian life, and knowledge of international advertising idiom is a condition for career-making. The compulsory character of the use of English is clearly illustrated by Tatarsky’s interview for a job as creator in an advertising company: ‘Will you come and work for me full-time?’ […] ‘What as?’ he asked. ‘A creative.’ ‘Is that a writer?’ Tatarsky asked. Translated into ordinary Russian?’ Khanin smiled gently. ‘We don’t need any fucking writers here,’ he said. ‘A creative, Babe, a creative.’11

More fundamental perhaps are the cases in which linguistic and identity issues become intertwined, and when global signs and frames are used to formulate Russia’s particularity. A very telling example is an advertising text for Smirnoff, conceptualized by Tatarsky. It reads: RUSSIA – NO WAY IS THERE TO UNDERSTAND HER, NO WAY HER SECRET SOUL TO RENDER. ‘SMIRNOFF’. UMOM ROSSIJU NYE PONYAT, V ROSSIJU MOJNO TOLKO VYERIT. ‘SMIRNOFF’ (ibidem: 87).

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It is probably hard to find a better illustration of the problem of recreating and rewriting Russia within non-Russian, universal frames and signs: Tiutchev’s famous verse about the uniqueness and elusiveness of Russia is rendered into English transcription and the strongly Slavophile connotations of the text are put into the service of western commerce. They are used to promote an originally British vodka brand with a Russian name, written in French transliteration. Tiutchev’s poem on Russia’s spiritual character is framed into a commercial context and rendered in the script and transcription of the Anglo-Saxon world, associated by Tatarsky with global capitalism. However, Tiutchev’s poem itself, paradoxically, is exactly about Russia’s eluding from global and universal frames and standards. The poet asserts that general norms fall short in grasping Russia’s essence. In its totality the poem reads: “Russia is a thing of which/ the intellect cannot conceive./ Hers is no common yardstick./ You measure her uniquely:/ in Russia you believe!”.12 Paradoxes of this kind manifest themselves in many passages in the book. Here there is only space to highlight one more instance, again in the speech of the businessman Vovchik. After preaching about Russia’s cultural dependency on the West, he summarizes the problem by stating that “[w]e don't have no national i-den-ti-ty” (Pelevin 2004: 199; [ɧ]ɚɦ ɧɟ ɯɜɚɬɚɟɬ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɢ-ɞɟɧ-ɬɢɱɧɨɫɬɢ). Vovchik stresses the foreign origin of the word ‘ɢɞɟɧɬɢɱɧɨɫɬɶ’ by pronouncing it awkwardly and thereby he emphasizes the painful fact that even the Russian term for identity itself is derived from the western world. (In his advertising concepts Tatarsky uses the English word ‘identity’, which is translated in a footnote as “ɢɞɟɧɬɢɱɧɨɫɬɶ, ɬɨɠɞɟɫɬɜɨ”; ibidem: 128). Vovchik eventually decides to commission Tatarsky to write a simple and clear ‘Russian Idea’, a kind of advertisement for Russia. This will finally explain to the West, and to Russians themselves, the character of Russia. As Vovchik himself puts it: “so’s we can lay it out clear and simple for any bastard from any of their Harvards: one-two, ticketyboo, and screw all that staring. And we’ve got to know for ourselves where we come from” (ibidem: 199-200; ɱɬɨɛɵ ɦɨɠɧɨ ɛɵɥɨ ɥɸɛɨɣ ɫɭɤɟ ɢɡ ɥɸɛɨɝɨ Ƚɚɪɜɚɪɞɚ ɩɪɨɫɬɨ ɨɛɴɹɫɧɢɬɶ: ɬɵɪ-ɩɵɪ-ɜɨɫɟɦɶ-ɞɵɪ, ɢ ɧɟɮɢɝɚ ɬɚɤ ɝɥɹɞɟɬɶ. Ⱦɚ ɢ ɫɚɦɢ ɦɵ ɡɧɚɬɶ ɞɨɥɠɧɵ, ɨɬɤɭɞɚ ɪɨɞɨɦ). And then Vovchik adds, describing the task more precisely:

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The job’s simple […]. ‘Write me a Russian idea about five pages long. And a short version one page long. And lay it out like real life, without any fancy gibberish, so’s I can splat any of those imported arseholes with it – bankers, whores, whoever.’13

Here the theme of (re-)writing Russia becomes literal, and again Russia’s uniqueness should be formulated (and constructed) in terms that will make it comprehensible to the supposedly universal standards of the West (Harvard, western businessmen, etc.). Tatarsky, however, can not get anything down on paper, and this pivotal project becomes his first failure. Fiction supplanting the real: mimesis and mimicry In order to recognize the full scope of representational problems in Pelevin’s text, one should keep in mind that the characters in Generation “ɉ” are fictional or virtual on two distinct though heavily intertwined levels. First, as demonstrated earlier, the bankers, businessmen, copywriters and creatives live in a world that is presented as a flawed copy of the West. Catching up with post-Soviet reality and doing away with the lies and illusions of the SovietUnion14 in the book came down to creating new (now democratic and capitalist) illusions. Russia’s new democracy remains, in fact, a fiction or a virtual reality based on the ‘real’ liberal democracies of America and Europe. The members of post-Soviet high society in the novel represent in this way what Bhabha calls a “partial” presence of the metropolis’ civilization and culture, “partial” meaning for Bhabha “both ‘incomplete’ and ‘virtual’” (Bhabha 2006: 123). Secondly, and self-evidently, the characters are also virtual on the level of the world created by Pelevin: they are part of the fictional world of the novel itself. This fictional, literary world, like Pelevin’s Russia itself, is consciously presented as a partial and virtual double of the real the world. Both levels of doubling and fictionalization – the cultural mimicry of an allegedly superior culture on the one hand, and the literary mimesis of the world we live in on the other – conflate in the book in fascinating ways. The ontological claims of Russia’s new façade-like reality resonate continuously with the claims of literature and the activity of ‘copy-writing’ Russian politics is explicitly compared to the writing of literary texts. Evocative is Tatarsky’s superior Morkovin. Praising the Russian achievements in the field of virtual politics he remarks: “[j]ust look what [expressive] characters they write.

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Yeltsin, Zyuganov, Lebed. As good as Chekhov. The Three Sisters” (Pelevin 2004: 249; [ɬ]ɵ ɩɨɫɦɨɬɪɢ, ɤɚɤɢɟ ɯɚɪɚɤɬɟɪɵ ɜɵɩɭɤɥɵɟ. ɑɬɨ ȿɥɶɰɢɧ, ɱɬɨ Ɂɸɝɚɧɨɜ, ɱɬɨ Ʌɟɛɟɞɶ. ɑɟɯɨɜ. ‘Ɍɪɢ ɫɟɫɬɪɵ’). Toward the end of the novel the relation between original and copy, reality and fiction is rendered more and more problematic. On the level of the cultural mimicry of the West we have already seen the distortions and destabilizations: the manners and appearance of Tatarsky, Vovchik, Seryozha and others triggered a profound rethinking of the West’s originality and Russia’s cultural aping and hollowness. Similar instabilities, however, start to manifest themselves on the level of literary mimesis as well, in particular when Tatarsky begins to allude increasingly to his own fictionality as a literary character: he seems to doubt his own existence, not only as part of the immense virtual reality bubble of Russian society, but, implicitly, also as a character in the fictional world created by Pelevin. When Tatarsky discusses with his superior the complex system of computer animated realities, in which virtual oligarchs have a say in the development of a virtual Russian society, he remarks: ‘That means this lot determine that lot, and that lot... That lot determine this lot. But then how … Hang on ... Then what’s holding the whole lot up?’ […] ‘Don’t you ever,’ he said, leaning over the table and staring darkly into Tatarsky’s eyes, ‘not ever, think about that. Not ever, get it?’15

The chain of fictional persons and groups creating other fictions inevitably leads to the question if Tatarsky is the last segment in this structure. Is he a real creator, writing fictions, or might he be a fiction himself, created by some other writer? It is as if Tatarsky begins to suspect that he himself is an ‘expressive character’ (ɜɵɩɭɤɥɵɣ ɯɚɪɚɤɬɟɪ) in a fictional world by no means inferior to Chekhov’s drama, and, of course, thereby he refers to the book he figures in and to the writer of that book, Pelevin. Later, annoyed by the traffic jam he is waiting in, Tatarsky even more sharply recognizes the (literary) fictionality of the world in which he is immersed and he furtively accuses Pelevin of writing bad ‘scenario’s’: ‘If we regard events purely from the point of view of image animation,’ he thought, glancing round at his neighbours in the traffic jam, ‘then we have all our concepts inverted. For the celestial Silicon that renders this entire world, a battered old [Zaporozhets] is a much more complicated job than a new BMW that’s been blasted with gales for three years in aerodynamic tunnels. The whole

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thing comes down to creatives and scenario writers. But what bad bastard could have written this scenario?’16

In this sly criticism by a fictional character of his (real) ‘creator’, reality is attacked by a fiction. Interestingly, on the level of cultural doubling, ‘fiction’ disturbs and surpasses ‘reality’ in a very similar way. Russian politics, a virtual copy of the American political system, in the novel triumphs over the original culture. When one of the creators discusses American society he says: “They can’t even come up with anything any good for themselves. Resolution, numbers of pixels, special effects – no problem. But it’s a country with no soul. […] Nah, our scriptwriters are ten times as good”.17 Ironically, Russia no longer is the only empty, aping culture without a ‘national idea’. America is presented as nothing of itself either and is even beaten at its own game as Russian politics, or Russia in general, is believed to be a better construction or creation than America. In these distortions of the established relation between reality and fiction we see, on both a literary and a cultural level, what Bhabha describes as the irony of mimicry: the pretension of the mimic man to become, “through a process of writing and repetition”, copying and writing, no less authentic than the original itself (Bhabha 2006: 126). It is this pretension that finally and totally distorts the established discourse on superiority and backwardness, exemplum and imitation, original and copy. The mechanisms of mimicry dismantle the idea of a cultural centre and a centre of reality. In Generation “ɉ” Russia can no longer be seen as a flawed, marginal reflection of the real, civilized world, just as Tatarsky’s scenario’s are no less real than ‘reality’ itself. For Pelevin, as for Bhabha, both mimicry and literature (copying and writing) seem to be a matter of doubling in which the copy may supplant the original and in which, finally, all established notions of authenticity and reality might get dismantled. David Huddart, a critic of Bhabha, explains the latter’s interest in specifically literature as follows: [D]oubling is something Bhabha finds throughout colonial and post-colonial texts, particularly literary texts with their frequent forays into the fantastic, the monstrous and the uncanny. Because literature is so often a matter of doubling, it is for Bhabha central to the processes of his postcolonial perspective, a perspective that re-imagines the West and reminds it of its repressed colonial origins. (Huddart 2006: 3)

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Pelevin’s work seems to be precisely about how different types of doubling deconstruct the allegedly fixed centres of consciousness, culture and reality. The distinction between genuine culture and mimicry, reality and representation, representing and represented consciousness is constantly blurred and in this process a leading role is ascribed to language. Although the word in many of Pelevin’s works seems to be invested with a creative power, it does not disguise its inability to fix meaning definitely. Language, and especially new and foreign words, have, like the identities and realities they try to constitute, no essential or objective meaning. They continually slip in the process of referring and creating. Very often, Pelevin playfully allows words to disappear in the gap between two linguistic and cultural codes. For example, in ‘Ʉɨɦɦɟɧɬɚɪɢɣ ɷɤɫɩɟɪɬɚ’ (‘Comments of an expert’), the fictional foreword to the novel ɋɜɹɳɟɧɧɚɹ ɤɧɢɝɚ ɨɛɨɪɨɬɧɹ (2006; The sacred book of the shapeshifter) “an expert”, for example, analyses the cryptic word ‘ɫɤuɮ’. The word was printed on a T-shirt, found in a Moscow park, next to the computer that appeared to contain this novel as a text file. The “expert” in the foreword asserts that the word should be read as ‘ɫɤɢɮ’ (‘Scyth’), the ‘u’ being the hand-written variant of the Russian letter ‘ɢ’. He thereby engages in a polemic with another critic, who apparently has argued earlier that the letters ‘u’ and ‘c’ are the English ‘u’ and ‘c’, making the word an anagram of the English word ‘fuck’ (Pelevin 2006a: 6). The word ‘ɫɤɢɮ’ (‘Scyth’), opens a wide associative spectrum of historical and literary arguments about Russia’s specifically Asian type of civilization. Needless to say, ‘fuck’, on the other hand, says nothing about identity at all and even seems to be a polemic response to the historical debates about Russia’s cultural uniqueness. Pelevin’s texts in general abound in these plays on words, in which terms and expressions balance between globally applied linguistic codes on the one hand and the language and symbols of Russia’s particularity on the other. This balancing between different codes persistently draws attention to the processes of signification: language in Pelevin’s texts often interprets (and creates) the world in practice and not via an imputed referentiality. In this respect as well Pelevin’s literary reflections on the confusing symbolic systems of post-Soviet society display interesting parallels with the themes contemplated by many postcolonial writers. As Bill Ashcroft and his co-writers assert in one of the pivotal theoretical works on postcolonial literature: “the

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syncretic and hybridized nature of post-colonial experience refutes the privileged position of a standard code in the language and any monocentric view of human experience” (Ashcroft e.a. 2003: 40). Pelevin’s work vividly illustrates that in post-Soviet society as well the confrontation with western claims of universality is likely to result in literary strategies of undermining standard ‘universal’ codes. At the same time, for Pelevin, there is no ‘return’ to an authentic, purely Russian cultural condition either. Authentic positions are just as false and imaginary as the values and identities of the centre. Arguments about a rich and essentially non-western cultural tradition continue, be it in a positive or inverted form, the binary structure of universally accepted perspectives on Russia and the West. Pelevin rather attempts to escape established assumptions and perspectives by undermining the linguistic and discursive structure they are composed of. Very much like some writers from (post-)colonial cultures he is interested in “the ways in which language begets rather than designates meaning, and distorts rather than imitates reality”18. Of course, the general postmodern dimension of debunking centrality and authenticity and questioning the linguistic make-up of our world should not be overlooked. On the other hand, it has become a commonplace to observe that marginalized and colonized societies are particularly sensitive to postmodern and poststructuralist tendencies of decentralization and rethinking referentiality. The postcolonial critic Diana Brydon, for example, in her 1984 article on Joseph Conrad, Patrick White and Margaret Atwood, seems to suggest already that writers from marginal and colonized communities come to poststructuralist positions of decentralization and pluralism in a more direct fashion than European authors and critics. Ashcroft and his companions even assert that “the condition of post-colonial experience encouraged the dismantling of notions of essence and authenticity somewhat earlier than the recent expressions of the same perception in contemporary European post-structuralist theory” (idem). In conclusion we can say that (post)colonial literary concerns and postcolonial cultural theory could provide a thought-provoking frame for explorations of Russia’s historical and literary confrontations with the West and with itself. The poststructuralist and sometimes postmodern orientation in the postcolonial field should not automatically lead us to confine our interest to recent literary texts or

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phenomena. Russia has in its history frequently been confronted with the typical colonial or marginalized situation in which to overcome backwardness one had to come to terms with a culture that was imagined as alien. And having thoroughly adapted oneself to alien, imported standards, the Russian cultural elite often remained, in its relation to the West, ‘almost the same but not quite’. Themes like these are elaborated in some of the most applauded texts of nineteenth-century Russian literature. Moreover, many of the representational and semiotic problems that accompany the national-cultural themes mentioned above have numerous literary predecessors as well. The trope of Saint-Petersburg, for example, as a stage-like new world, a chimera, a ghostlike or abstract reflection of a European city, in the work of Gogol’, Dostoevskii, Belyi and many others, is a classic example of a much wider Russian literary paradigm of mimicry, doubling and doubts about the relationship between world and sign, text and reality.19 The ‘Petersburg-text’ proves that questions of Russia’s authenticity, reality, and its representation not necessarily coincide with the postmodern era. Indeed, a small body of works has already examined postcolonial perspectives on Russian issues. In particular the correlation between literature and empire in tsarist Russia has been a re-emerging object of study. However, the generation of postcolonial critics that appeared after Edward Said’s Orientalism should not be overlooked. Particularly the work of scholars like Partha Chatterjee, Gayatri Spivak and Homi Bhabha could contribute to the analysis of the mutations and distortions inherent in the creation and representation of Russian identity. They could enhance our insight in the ways in which Russian national self-definition was and is never an independent or unambiguous process. Emphasizing ambiguity is by no means a gratuitous enterprise. In popular discourse, but even in academic writing, views of Russian identity and history in unproblematic and clear-cut binaries enjoy a great attractiveness still. Even now, contrasting (neo-)Slavophiles with (neo-)Westerners, and presenting these movements as essentially opposed, for example, seems to be widely accepted as a reasonable and convincing way to grasp Russia’s cultural and historical dynamics. Postcolonial theory could be helpful in demonstrating that the actual practise is more complex. In Russia, as in many other communities farther away from the ‘cradle of the Enlightenment’,

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identification with and opposition to the ‘universal’ values of a distant centre traditionally have raised fundamental and complex questions about cultural independence and cultural hierarchies; about concepts of originality and universality; and about the centrality of meaning and its representation. Literature seems to be particularly sensitive to the cracks in traditional systems of difference and Russian literature is no exception. The analysis of Russian literature seems to be served by a postcolonial comparative frame and by a deconstructive way of reading, an approach that is inclined towards disclosing ambiguities, rather than fixing oppositions. University of Groningen Notes 1 Expanded from a talk given at the Aleksanteri Perestroika Conference, held in Helsinki, December 2007. 2 For more statements on Russia’s (self)coloniality see for example Boris Groys’ article ‘Rossija kak podsoznanie zapada’, in his Utopija i obmen, and Dragan Kujundzic’s ‘“After”: Russian post-colonial identity’. Etkind has devoted a series of articles to this theme in the journals Ab Imperio and NLO. Issue’s of Russia’s colonial relations with other people in the tsarist empire have been discussed much more widely. See for example the volume Orientalism and Empire in Russia, edited by Michael David-Fox a.o. 3 Only in the first week after publication 200,000 copies were sold (Mozur 2002: 59). 4 The Mimic Men (1967). 5 With his concept of the mimic man as someone who is “almost the same, but not quite”, Bhabha on the one hand, stresses the ambivalence inherent in the ambitions of the colonizer, and on the other emphasizes the possibilities of the colonized to (be it passively and unconsciously) resist imperial discourse. On these two points Bhabha differs importantly from Edward Said, who in his world famous Orientalism does not seem to leave open possibilities for oriental resistance against the dominant discourse and for whom the discursive subjugation of the Orient is relatively coherent and fixed. 6 ȼɫɟ ɩɨɬɨɦɭ, ɱɬɨ ɦɵ ɭ ɧɢɯ ɧɚ ɩɚɧɫɢɨɧɟ. ɂɯ ɮɢɥɶɦɵ ɫɦɨɬɪɢɦ, ɧɚ ɢɯ ɬɚɱɤɚɯ ɟɡɞɢɦ ɢ ɞɚɠɟ ɯɚɜɤɭ ɢɯɧɸɸ ɟɞɢɦ. Ⱥ ɫɚɦɢ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɨɞɢɦ, ɟɫɥɢ ɡɚɞɭɦɚɬɶɫɹ, ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɛɚɛɤɢ... Ʉɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɬɨɠɟ ɩɨ ɜɫɟɦ ɩɨɧɹɬɢɹɦ ɢɯɧɢɟ ɞɨɥɥɚɪɵ, ɬɚɤ ɱɬɨ ɞɚɠɟ ɧɟɹɫɧɨ, ɤɚɤ ɷɬɨ ɦɵ ɢɯ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɨɞɢɬɶ ɭɯɢɬɪɹɟɦɫɹ. […] ɇɚɲ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɛɢɡɧɟɫ ɜɵɯɨɞɢɬ ɧɚ ɦɟɠɞɭɧɚɪɨɞɧɭɸ ɚɪɟɧɭ. Ⱥ ɬɚɦ ɤɪɭɬɹɬɫɹ ɜɫɹɤɢɟ ɛɚɛɤɢ – ɱɟɱɟɧɫɤɢɟ, ɚɦɟɪɢɤɚɧɫɤɢɟ, ɤɨɥɭɦɛɢɣɫɤɢɟ, ɧɭ ɬɵ ɩɨɧɹɥ. ɂ ɟɫɥɢ ɧɚ ɧɢɯ ɫɦɨɬɪɟɬɶ ɩɪɨɫɬɨ ɤɚɤ ɧɚ ɛɚɛɤɢ, ɬɨ ɨɧɢ ɜɫɟ ɨɞɢɧɚɤɨɜɵɟ.ɇɨ ɡɚ ɤɚɠɞɵɦɢ ɛɚɛɤɚɦɢ ɧɚ ɫɚɦɨɦ ɞɟɥɟ ɫɬɨɢɬ ɤɚɤɚɹ-ɬɨ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɚɹ ɢɞɟɹ. ɍ ɧɚɫ ɪɚɧɶɲɟ ɛɵɥɨ ɩɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɢɟ, ɫɚɦɨɞɟɪɠɚɜɢɟ ɢ ɧɚɪɨɞɧɨɫɬɶ. ɉɨɬɨɦ ɛɵɥ ɷɬɨɬ ɤɨɦɦɭɧɢɡɦ. Ⱥ ɬɟɩɟɪɶ, ɤɨɝɞɚ ɨɧ ɤɨɧɱɢɥɫɹ, ɧɢɤɚɤɨɣ ɬɚɤɨɣ ɢɞɟɢ ɧɟɬ ɜɨɨɛɳɟ, ɤɪɨɦɟ ɛɚɛɨɤ. ɇɨ ɜɟɞɶ ɧɟ ɦɨɝɭɬ ɡɚ ɛɚɛɤɚɦɢ ɫɬɨɹɬɶ ɩɪɨɫɬɨ ɛɚɛɤɢ, ɜɟɪɧɨ? ɉɨɬɨɦɭ ɱɬɨ ɬɨɝɞɚ ɱɢɫɬɨ ɧɟɩɨɧɹɬɧɨ – ɩɨɱɟɦɭ ɨɞɧɢ ɜɩɟɪɟɞɢ, ɚ ɞɪɭɝɢɟ ɫɡɚɞɢ? (Pelevin 2004: 198).

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All English quotations from Generation “ɉ” and from Pelevin’s other novel ýapaev i pustota (1996) come from Andrew Bromfield’s translations of these books (Babylon (2000) and Buddha’s Little Finger (1999)). In a few cases, when the choice of words is, in my view, a little unfortunate or does not bring to the fore connotations of the Russian original that are essential to my argument, I have altered words in Bloom’s translation. These adaptations are all marked by brackets. I transliterate the characters’ names as in the translations. 7 A term suggested by Bart Moore-Gilbert for various traditions of ‘going native’. With this notion Moore-Gilbert hopes to make some of the necessary nuances in Bhabha’s concept of mimicry (Moore-Gilbert 1997: 149). 8 ɋɟɪɞɸɤ ɞɚɜɧɨ ɡɧɚɥ, ɱɬɨ ɛɨɥɶɲɢɧɫɬɜɨ ɢɧɨɫɬɪɚɧɰɟɜ, ɜɫɬɪɟɱɚɸɳɢɯɫɹ ɧɚ ɦɨɫɤɨɜɫɤɢɯ ɭɥɢɰɚɯ, ɧɚ ɫɚɦɨɦ ɞɟɥɟ ɧɢɤɚɤɢɟ ɧɟ ɢɧɨɫɬɪɚɧɰɵ, ɚ ɬɚɤ, ɦɟɥɤɚɹ ɬɨɪɝɨɜɚɹ ɲɚɧɬɪɚɩɚ [...] ɇɚɫɬɨɹɳɢɟ ɢɧɨɫɬɪɚɧɰɵ [...] ɜ ɰɟɥɹɯ ɛɟɡɨɩɚɫɧɨɫɬɢ ɭɠɟ ɦɧɨɝɨ ɥɟɬ ɨɞɟɜɚɥɢɫɶ ɬɚɤ, ɱɬɨɛɵ ɧɢɱɟɦ ɧɟ ɨɬɥɢɱɚɬɶɫɹ ɨɬ ɨɛɵɱɧɵɯ ɩɪɨɯɨɠɢɯ. ɉɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɢɟ ɨ ɬɨɦ, ɤɚɤ ɜɵɝɥɹɞɢɬ ɨɛɵɱɧɵɣ ɦɨɫɤɨɜɫɤɢɣ ɩɪɨɯɨɠɢɣ, ɛɨɥɶɲɚɹ ɢɯ ɱɚɫɬɶ ɩɨɥɭɱɚɥɚ, ɩɨɧɹɬɧɨɟ ɞɟɥɨ, ɢɡ ɩɟɪɟɞɚɱ ɋɢ-ɗɧ-ɗɧ. Ⱥ ɋɢ-ɗɧ-ɗɧ, ɫɬɚɪɚɹɫɶ ɩɨɤɚɡɚɬɶ ɦɨɫɤɜɢɱɟɣ, ɛɪɟɞɭɳɢɯ ɡɚ ɩɪɢɡɪɚɤɨɦ ɞɟɦɨɤɪɚɬɢɢ ɩɨ ɜɵɠɠɟɧɧɨɣ ɩɭɫɬɵɧɟ ɪɟɮɨɪɦ, ɜ ɞɟɜɹɧɨɫɬɚ ɫɥɭɱɚɹɯ ɢɡ ɫɬɚ ɞɚɜɚɥɨ ɤɪɭɩɧɵɟ ɩɥɚɧɵ ɩɟɪɟɨɞɟɬɵɯ ɦɨɫɤɜɢɱɚɦɢ ɫɨɬɪɭɞɧɢɤɨɜ ɚɦɟɪɢɤɚɧɫɤɨɝɨ ɩɨɫɨɥɶɫɬɜɚ, ɩɨɫɤɨɥɶɤɭ ɜɵɝɥɹɞɟɥɢ ɨɧɢ ɝɨɪɚɡɞɨ ɧɚɬɭɪɚɥɶɧɟɟ ɩɟɪɟɨɞɟɬɵɯ ɢɧɨɫɬɪɚɧɰɚɦɢ ɦɨɫɤɜɢɱɟɣ (Pelevin 2000: 187). 9 ɉɨɬɨɦ ɧɟɡɚɦɟɬɧɨ ɩɪɨɢɡɨɲɥɨ ɨɞɧɨ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɟ ɞɥɹ ɟɝɨ ɛɭɞɭɳɟɝɨ ɫɨɛɵɬɢɟ. ɋɋɋɊ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɣ ɧɚɱɚɥɢ ɨɛɧɨɜɥɹɬɶ ɢ ɭɥɭɱɲɚɬɶ ɩɪɢɦɟɪɧɨ ɬɨɝɞɚ ɠɟ, ɤɨɝɞɚ Ɍɚɬɚɪɫɤɢɣ ɪɟɲɢɥ ɫɦɟɧɢɬɶ ɩɪɨɮɟɫɫɢɸ, ɭɥɭɱɲɢɥɫɹ ɧɚɫɬɨɥɶɤɨ, ɱɬɨ ɩɟɪɟɫɬɚɥ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɬɶ [...]. ɉɨɷɬɨɦɭ ɧɢ ɨ ɤɚɤɢɯ ɩɟɪɟɜɨɞɚɯ ɫ ɹɡɵɤɨɜ ɧɚɪɨɞɨɜ ɋɋɋɊ ɛɨɥɶɲɟ ɧɟ ɦɨɝɥɨ ɛɵɬɶ ɢ ɪɟɱɢ. ɗɬɨ ɛɵɥ ɭɞɚɪ, ɧɨ ɟɝɨ Ɍɚɬɚɪɫɤɢɣ ɩɟɪɟɧɟɫ. Ɉɫɬɚɜɚɥɚɫɶ ɪɚɛɨɬɚ ɞɥɹ ɜɟɱɧɨɫɬɢ ɢ ɷɬɨɝɨ ɛɵɥɨ ɞɨɜɨɥɶɧɨ. ɂ ɬɭɬ ɫɥɭɱɢɥɨɫɶ ɧɟɩɪɟɞɜɢɞɟɧɧɨɟ. ɋ ɜɟɱɧɨɫɬɶɸ, ɤɨɬɨɪɨɣ Ɍɚɬɚɪɫɤɢɣ ɪɟɲɢɥ ɩɨɫɜɹɬɢɬɶ ɫɜɨɢ ɬɪɭɞɵ ɢ ɞɧɢ, ɬɨɠɟ ɫɬɚɥɨ ɱɬɨ-ɬɨ ɩɪɨɢɫɯɨɞɢɬɶ. ɗɬɨɝɨ Ɍɚɬɚɪɫɤɢɣ ɧɟ ɦɨɝ ɩɨɧɹɬɶ ɫɨɜɟɪɲɟɧɧɨ. ȼɟɞɶ ɜɟɱɧɨɫɬɶ – ɬɚɤ, ɜɨ ɜɫɹɤɨɦ ɫɥɭɱɚɟ, ɨɧ ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɞɭɦɚɥ – ɛɵɥɚ ɱɟɦɬɨ ɧɟɢɡɦɟɧɧɵɦ, ɧɟɪɚɡɪɭɲɢɦɵɦ ɢ ɧɢɤɚɤ ɧɟ ɡɚɜɢɫɹɳɢɦ ɨɬ ɫɤɨɪɨɬɟɱɧɵɯ ɡɟɦɧɵɯ ɪɚɫɤɥɚɞɨɜ. ȿɫɥɢ, ɧɚɩɪɢɦɟɪ, ɦɚɥɟɧɶɤɢɣ ɬɨɦɢɤ ɉɚɫɬɟɪɧɚɤɚ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɣ ɢɡɦɟɧɢɥ ɟɝɨ ɠɢɡɧɶ, ɭɠɟ ɩɨɩɚɥ ɜ ɷɬɭ ɜɟɱɧɨɫɬɶ, ɬɨ ɧɟ ɛɵɥɨ ɧɢɤɚɤɨɣ ɫɢɥɵ, ɫɩɨɫɨɛɧɨɣ ɟɝɨ ɨɬɬɭɞɚ ɜɵɤɢɧɭɬɶ. Ɉɤɚɡɚɥɨɫɶ, ɱɬɨ ɷɬɨ ɧɟ ɫɨɜɫɟɦ ɬɚɤ. Ɉɤɚɡɚɥɨɫɶ, ɱɬɨ ɜɟɱɧɨɫɬɶ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɥɚ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɞɨ ɬɟɯ ɩɨɪ, ɩɨɤɚ Ɍɚɬɚɪɫɤɢɣ ɢɫɤɪɟɧɧɟ ɜ ɧɟɟ ɜɟɪɢɥ, ɢ ɧɢɝɞɟ ɡɚ ɩɪɟɞɟɥɚɦɢ ɷɬɨɣ ɜɟɪɵ ɟɟ, ɜ ɫɭɳɧɨɫɬɢ, ɧɟ ɛɵɥɨ (ibidem: 13-4). 10 ɚɜɬɨɪ ɧɟɨɛɵɱɚɣɧɨ ɬɨɧɤɨ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɭɟɬ ɩɨɝɪɭɠɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɤɚ ɜ ɫɥɨɜɨ ɢ ɨɛɭɫɥɨɜɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ [...] ɤɚɱɟɫɬɜɨɦ ɷɬɨɝɨ ɫɥɨɜɚ. ɋɥɨɜɨ ɬɜɨɪɢɬ ɦɢɪ ɢ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɤɚ. [...] ɑɟɥɨɜɟɤ ɠɢɜɟɬ ɜ ɜɢɪɬɭɚɥɶɧɨɦ ɦɢɪɟ, ɫɨɡɞɚɜɚɟɦɨɦ ɹɡɵɤɨɦ ɢ ɪɟɱɶɸ (ɋɚɥɢɟɜɚ 2007). 11 ɉɨɣɞɟɲɶ ɤɨ ɦɧɟ ɜ ɲɬɚɬ? […] – Ʉɟɦ? – ɫɩɪɨɫɢɥ ɨɧ. – Ʉɪɢɷɣɬɨɪɨɦ. – ɗɬɨ ɬɜɨɪɰɨɦ? – ɩɟɪɟɫɩɪɨɫɢɥ Ɍɚɬɚɪɫɤɢɣ. – ȿɫɥɢ ɩɟɪɟɜɟɫɬɢ? ɏɚɧɢɧ ɦɹɝɤɨ ɭɥɵɛɧɭɥɫɹ. – Ɍɜɨɪɰɵ ɧɚɦ ɬɭɬ ɧɚ ɯɭɣ ɧɟ ɧɭɠɧɵ, – ɫɤɚɡɚɥ ɨɧ. – Ʉɪɢɷɣɬɨɪɨɦ, ȼɚɜɚ, ɤɪɢɷɣɬɨɪɨɦ (ibidem: 102). 12 ɍɦɨɦ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ ɧɟ ɩɨɧɹɬɶ,/ Ⱥɪɲɢɧɨɦ ɨɛɳɢɦ ɧɟ ɢɡɦɟɪɢɬɶ:/ ɍ ɧɟɣ ɨɫɨɛɟɧɧɚɹ ɫɬɚɬɶ –/ ȼ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ ɦɨɠɧɨ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɜɟɪɢɬɶ; tr. F. Jude 2000). Compare the Smirnoff

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advertisement to the concerns of the Indian writer Raja Rao, who as early as 1937, in the foreword to his debut Kanthapura, meditates on the difficulties of “convey[ing] in a language that is not one’s own the spirit that is one’s own” (Rao 1989: v). 13 Ɂɚɞɚɱɚ ɩɪɨɫɬɚɹ […]. – ɇɚɩɢɲɢ ɦɧɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɭɸ ɢɞɟɸ ɪɚɡɦɟɪɨɦ ɩɪɢɦɟɪɧɨ ɫɬɪɚɧɢɰ ɧɚ ɩɹɬɶ. ɂ ɤɨɪɨɬɤɭɸ ɜɟɪɫɢɸ ɧɚ ɫɬɪɚɧɢɰɭ. ɑɬɨɛ ɱɢɫɬɨ ɪɟɚɥɶɧɨ ɛɵɥɨ ɢɡɥɨɠɟɧɨ, ɛɟɡ ɡɚɭɦɢ. ɂ ɱɬɨɛɵ ɹ ɥɸɛɨɝɨ ɢɦɩɨɪɬɧɨɝɨ ɩɢɞɨɪɚ – ɛɢɡɧɟɫɦɟɧɚ ɬɚɦ, ɩɟɜɢɰɭ ɢɥɢ ɤɨɝɨ ɭɝɨɞɧɨ – ɦɨɝ ɩɨ ɧɟɣ ɪɚɡɜɟɫɬɢ (ibidem: 200). 14 In ýapaev i pustota (‘Buddha’s Little Finger’) one of the characters, a mental patient, repeats to his fellow patient the words that he is told probably by the doctor of the hospital: “Under the Soviet power we were surrounded by illusions. But now the world has become real and knowable. Understand?” (Pelevin 2000: 123; ɗɬɨ ɩɪɢ ɫɨɜɟɬɫɤɨɣ ɜɥɚɫɬɢ ɦɵ ɠɢɥɢ ɫɪɟɞɢ ɢɥɥɸɡɢɣ. Ⱥ ɫɟɣɱɚɫ ɦɢɪ ɫɬɚɥ ɪɟɚɥɟɧ ɢ ɩɨɡɧɚɜɚɟɦ. ɉɨɧɹɥ?). 15 – ȼɵɯɨɞɢɬ, ɱɬɨ ɬɟ ɨɩɪɟɞɟɥɹɸɬ ɷɬɢɯ, ɚ ɷɬɢ... ɗɬɢ ɨɩɪɟɞɟɥɹɸɬ ɬɟɯ. ɇɨ ɤɚɤ ɠɟ ɬɨɝɞɚ... ɉɨɞɨɠɞɢ... Ⱥ ɧɚ ɱɬɨ ɬɨɝɞɚ ɜɫɟ ɨɩɢɪɚɟɬɫɹ? […] – Ⱥ ɜɨɬ ɩɪɨ ɷɬɨ, – ɫɤɚɡɚɥ ɨɧ, ɩɟɪɟɝɢɛɚɹɫɶ ɱɟɪɟɡ ɫɬɨɥ ɢ ɡɚɝɥɹɞɵɜɚɹ ɜ ɝɥɚɡɚ Ɍɚɬɚɪɫɤɨɦɭ ɩɨɱɟɪɧɟɜɲɢɦ ɜɡɝɥɹɞɨɦ, – ɬɵ ɧɟ ɞɭɦɚɣ ɧɢɤɨɝɞɚ. ɇɢɤɨɝɞɚ ɜɨɨɛɳɟ, ɩɨɧɹɥ? (ibidem: 251). 16 ȿɫɥɢ ɫɦɨɬɪɟɬɶ ɧɚ ɩɪɨɢɫɯɨɞɹɳɟɟ ɫ ɬɨɱɤɢ ɡɪɟɧɢɹ ɱɢɫɬɨɣ ɚɧɢɦɚɰɢɢ, – ɞɭɦɚɥ ɨɧ, ɨɝɥɹɞɵɜɚɹ ɷɤɢɩɚɠɢ ɫɨɫɟɞɟɣ ɩɨ ɩɪɨɛɤɟ, – ɬɨ ɜɫɟ ɩɨɧɹɬɢɹ ɭ ɧɚɫ ɩɟɪɟɜɟɪɧɭɬɵ. Ⱦɥɹ ɧɟɛɟɫɧɨɝɨ “ɋɢɥɢɤɨɧɚ”, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɣ ɨɛɫɱɢɬɵɜɚɟɬ ɜɟɫɶ ɷɬɨɬ ɦɢɪ, ɦɹɬɵɣ “Ɂɚɩɨɪɨɠɟɰ” ɤɭɞɚ ɛɨɥɟɟ ɫɥɨɠɧɚɹ ɪɚɛɨɬɚ, ɱɟɦ ɧɨɜɵɣ “ȻɆȼ”, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɣ ɬɪɢ ɝɨɞɚ ɨɛɞɭɜɚɥɢ ɜ ɚɷɪɨɞɢɧɚɦɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɬɪɭɛɚɯ. Ɍɚɤ ɱɬɨ ɜɫɟ ɞɟɥɨ ɜ ɤɪɢɷɣɬɨɪɚɯ ɢ ɫɰɟɧɚɪɢɫɬɚɯ. ɇɨ ɤɚɤɚɹ ɠɟ ɝɚɞɢɧɚ ɧɚɩɢɫɚɥɚ ɷɬɨɬ ɫɰɟɧɚɪɢɣ? (ibidem: 257). 17 Ɉɧɢ ɞɥɹ ɫɟɛɹ-ɬɨ ɧɢɱɟɝɨ ɯoɪɨɲɟɝɨ ɩɪɢɞɭɦɚɬɶ ɧɟ ɜ ɫɨɫɬɨɹɧɢɢ. Ɋɚɡɪɟɲɚɸɳɚɹ ɫɩɨɫɨɛɧɨɫɬɶ, ɱɢɫɥɨ ɬɨɱɟɤ, ɫɩɟɰɷɮɮɟɤɬɵ – ɷɬɨ ɞɚ. ɇɨ ɫɬɪɚɧɚ ɛɟɡɞɭɯɨɜɧɚɹ […] ɇɟɬ, ɧɚɲɢ ɫɰɟɧɚɪɢɫɬɵ ɪɚɡ ɜ ɞɟɫɹɬɶ ɤɪɭɱɟ (ibidem: 248-249). 18 These are the terms in which the postcolonial critic Diana Brydon describes the main argument of Pierre Macherey’s book A Theory of Literary Production (Brydon 1984: 388). 19 See for example Schamma Schahadat’s fascinating article (Schahadat 1997).

Bibliography Ashcroft, Bill, a.o. 2003. The Empire Writes Back. London: Routledge. Baudrillard, Jean. 1994. Simulacra and simulation. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Bhabha, Homi. 2006. The location of culture. London: Routledge. Brydon, Diana. 1984. ‘“The Thematic Ancestor”: Joseph Conrad, Patrick White and Margaret Atwood’ in World Literature Written in English 24(2): 386-397. David-Fox, Michael, Peter Holoquist and Alexander Martin (eds). 2006. Orientalism and Empire in Russia (Kritika Historical Studies 3). Indiana, IN: Slavica Publishers. Ơtkind, Aleksandr. 2001.‘Fuko i tezis vnutrennej kolonizacii: Postkolonial’nyj vzgljad na sovetskoe prošloe’ in NLO 49: 50-74. –– 2002. ‘Bremja britogo þeloveka, ili Vnutrennjaja kolonizacija Rossii ’ in Ab Imperio 1: 265–299. –– 2003. ‘Russkaja literatura, XIX vek: Roman vnutrennej kolonizacii’ in NLO 59: 103-124.

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Grojs, Boris. 1993. Utopija i obmen. Moskva: Znak. Huddart, David. 2006. Homi K. Bhabha. London: Routledge. King, Bruce. 1996. ‘New Centres of Consciousness: New, Post-colonial, and International English Literature’ in B. King (ed.). New National and Postcolonial Literature: An Introduction. Oxford: Clarendon Press: 3-26. Kiossev, Aleksandr. 1999. ‘Notes on Self-colonising Cultures’ in Pejic, B. and D. Elliott (eds). Art and Culture in Post-Communist Europe. Stockholm: Moderna Museet: 114-118. On line at: http://ica.cult.bg/achive-project.php?idd=14 (consulted 05.03.2007). Kujundzic, Dragan. 2002. ‘“After”: Russian post-colonial identity’ in Modern Language Notes 115(5): 892-908. Moore-Gilbert, Bart. 1997. Postcolonial theory: context, practices, politics. London: Verso. Peterson, Dale. 2000. Up from Bondage, the Literatures of Russian and African American Soul. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Mondry, Henrietta. 1999. ‘The Russian literary press, 1993-98: critics reach reconciliation with their audiences’ in Lilly, Ian K. and Henrietta Mondry (eds) Russian literature in transition. Gotgrave: Astra Press: 105-126. Mozur, Joseph. 2002. ‘Victor Pelevin: Post-sovism, Buddhism & pulp fiction’ in World Literature Today 72 (2): 58-67. Pelevin, Viktor. 1999. Buddha’s Little Finger (tr. Andrew Bromfield). New York, NY: Penguin Books. –– 2000a. Babylon (tr. Andrew Bromfield). London: Faber & Faber. On line at: http://www.lib.ru/PELEWIN/babylon.txt (consulted 23.02.2008). –– 2000b. ýapaev i Pustota; Želtaja strela. Moskva: Vagrius. –– 2004. Generation “ɉ”. Moskva: Eksmo. –– 2006a. Svjašþennaja kniga oborotnja. Moskva: Eksmo. –– 2006b Empire V. Moskva: Eksmo. Plamenatz, John. 1976. ‘Two Types of Nationalism’ in Kamenka, E. (ed.) Nationalism: The Nature and Evolution of an Idea. London: Edward Arnold: 23-36. Rao, Raja. 1989. Kanthapura. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Salieva L.K.. 2007. ‘Mify 90-ch ili “Veþnye cennosti novogo pokolenija”’. On line at: http://pelevin.nov.ru/stati/o-myth90/1.html (consulted 14.08.2007). Schahadat, Schamma. 1997. ‘Russland – Reich der falschen Zeichen: Die Lüge, das Wort und die Macht bei Gogol’, Suchovo-Kobylin, Ơrdman und Mejerchol’d’ in Wiener Slawistischer Almanach Sonderband 44: 95-150. Thomas, Ned. 1980. Derek Walcott: Poet of the Island. Cardiff: Welsh Arts Council. Tjutþev, F.I. 2000. Nature, Love and Politics: The Complete Poems of Tyutchev in an English Translation by F. Jude (tr. F. Jude). Durham: F. Jude. On line at: http://www.cultinfo.ru/fulltext/1/001/001/241/1.htm (consulted 01.05.2008). Wolff, Larry. 1994. Inventing Eastern Europe, the Map of Civilization on the Mind of the Enlightenment. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press.

What Is It Like to Be a Bat-Author? Viktor Pelevin’s Empire V Sander Brouwer Abstract: In this paper, Viktor Pelevin’s novel Empire V (2006) is analysed, with its main concern with the status of language, in fiction as well as in contemporary Russian culture. The work is seen as a kind of sequel to Generation ɉ: whereas that novel predominantly focused on the problem of consciousness, its problematical relation with reality, but expressed this problem in language, in Empire V the problem of language as the form of consciousness is foregrounded; inevitably thus the status of the text we are reading and the relation it has to its author is problematized – as is the relation it has to its reader. It is a text that reflects on what language, its material, does. The possibility is suggested that this novel tries to find a way out of postmodernism’s anxieties about the conscious personality being an illusion, created by his own language. Keywords: Viktor Pelevin; Language in the Novel; Self-Reflexivity in Literature; Vampire Theme

Viktor Pelevin’s last novel Empire V (2006) may perhaps not be called a particularly elegantly constructed one: the plot boils down to an endless series of initiations of its hero into the world of the vampires, the niceties of glamour and discourse, the mind B, the aggregate M-5 etc. (I will explain below). For that reason it has with some reason been compared with the Harry Potter novels, which might indeed form one of the popular pre-texts that Pelevin uses. But more than presenting a well-wrought plot, Pelevin’s concern is, I think, with presenting a type of thinking, a state of mind, characteristic for contemporary Russia, and this is what makes the book interesting and fun reading. A young man called Roman becomes a vampire by taking over from a dying predecessor a mysterious ‘tongue’ attached to the palate. The reader should hold in mind right from the beginning that the second meaning of the Russian word for ‘tongue’ (iazyk) is ‘language’ – as it is in French and English – and that there is every reason to assume that Pelevin consciously uses this double meaning: what the ‘tongue’ in Roman’s mouth does, is what language does. Thus one of

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the main themes of the book is language: what it does, what role it plays in contemporary Russia. Secondly, as the protagonist’s name, Roman, means ‘novel’, this is a book about the language of the novel.1 However, because a vampire always uses the name of some ancient deity, Roman changes his (diminutive) name from Roma to Rama – after one of Vishnu’s avatars, towards the end of his life ruler of not only Ayodhya, but of the whole world. He can now, by ‘degustating’ samples of their blood (with the help of the tongue of course), see into other peoples’ minds, including their memories, hidden fears etc. Soon he finds out that his tongue really is the vampire, an immortal descendant of an old race of bats that once ruled the world physically but now use more refined methods: they now work in tandem with a human: the human does the biting, the tongue does the mind-reading and transmits the result to the human brain. While the tongue cannot live without the man, it is at the same time his ‘rider’ (ɜɫɚɞɧɢɤ). Little by little Rama learns, or rather is taught by a series of experts, that the vampires are a kind of superhumans. The subtitle of the book: A Story of a Real Superman (ɉɨɜɟɫɬɶ ɨ ɧɚɫɬɨɹɳɟɦ ɫɜɟɪɯɱɟɥɨɜɟɤɟ) is one of the book’s many intertextual jokes, a device common with Pelevin – it is a distortion of the title of Boris Polevoi’s 1948 Soviet classic A Story of a Real Man. The vampires rule over men not only by reading their minds, thus being able to foresee any of their actions and wishes, but also by sucking out part of their energy, out of which they distill a strong narcotic for themselves. This main life energy is of a peculiar character: it consists of the wish of obtaining not only goods, but also as it were the prestige of these goods, the added value of their ‘glamour’. The vampires wield their power over man by enhancing this prestige, this glamour, in such a way as to maximize man’s wish to acquire. This is done with the help of the human ‘Khaldaeans’. Here unfolds a web of associations with Pelevin’s earlier work: in Generation ɉ (1999) he had already introduced the idea that contemporary Russia’s political scene in its totality is virtual, the product of a host of copywriters who use PR-techniques not only to manipulate politics and business, but in fact to create a whole world of virtual politicians, from Boris Berezovskii to Aleksandr Lebed’. The novel’s hero, Tatarskii, enters this select group of PR-people and thus finds himself a member of the sect of the Khaldaeans, of which he becomes the leader when he marries the goddess Ishtar. Of course, the

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connotation of Moscow as a new Babylon is clear (the title of the English translation is actually Babylon), and although the comparison of a modern metropole with Babylon may be quite old hat, no one, to my knowledge, has given it such a funny twist as Pelevin with his Khaldaean piarshchiki: Moscow’s/Babylon’s virtual culture is based on a confusion of tongues that cannot be disentangled: the English language of PR and mercantilism, and Russian, the traditional ‘spiritual’ qualities of which are treated ironically. Empire V takes up this idea and develops it still further. The Khaldaeans who rule the world by manipulating reality through digitalized images and PR now themselves appear to be ruled by the Vampire superhumans. Again, Pelevin borrows a motif from contemporary popular culture, in this case Goth and fantasy – for Russia, one needs only to think of Sergei Luk’ianenko’s popular Night watch trilogy (and its 2004 screen version by Timur Bekmambetov) – and uses it in a very original way. The title ‘Empire V’ of course forms the word Vampire, but at the same it denotes the ‘Fifth Empire’, the universal regime of anonymous dictatorship, or in short: ‘Vampire Rule’: The Fifth Empire is the universal regime of anonymous dictatorship, it is called the “fifth” so as not to confuse with the nazi Third Reich and the Fourth Rome of globalism. This dictatorship is anonymous, as you will understand yourself, only for human beings. In reality it is the humanitarian era of Vampire Rule, the oecumenical empire of the vampires, or, as we write in symbolic form, Empire V.2

Now here are possible reminiscences of a chiliastic future Fifth Empire. The prophet Daniel speaks of four historical empires, and there are examples of millenarianist movements dreaming of a last and final Fifth one – we see that, for example, in sixteenth century Portugal, when it was connected with the expected return of king Sebastian. But more importantly the title no doubt refers to Aleksandr Prokhanov’s mystic idea of a post-Soviet Fifth Empire (ɉɹɬɚɹ ɂɦɩɟɪɢɹ) headed by the ‘Imperator of the Polar Star’ Vladimir Putin (Prokhanov 2006).3 There is ample material in the novel to suggest that the “anonymous dictatorship” of Khaldaean rule in its Russian variant is Putin’s sovereign democracy. There are details like the imprisoned Khodorkovskii and the use of Putin’s infamous expression “finish them off in the loo” (ɦɨɱɢɬɶ ɜ ɫɨɪɬɢɪɟ). The sarcastic comparison of “our elections” with routine sex obviously alludes to Putinist election

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management: “after talking crap for a long time you shove in the only real candidate (...) and afterwards convince yourself that this was what the whole free world is going crazy about” (ɩɨɫɥɟ ɞɨɥɝɨɝɨ ɜɪɚɧɶɹ ɩɪɨɩɢɯɧɭɬɶ ɟɞɢɧɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɪɟɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɤɚɧɞɢɞɚɬɚ (...), ɚ ɩɨɬɨɦ ɭɜɟɪɹɬɶ ɫɟɛɹ, ɱɬɨ ɷɬɨ ɢ ɛɵɥɨ ɬɨ ɫɚɦɨɟ, ɩɨ ɩɨɜɨɞɭ ɱɟɝɨ ɫɯɨɞɢɬ ɫ ɭɦɚ ɜɟɫɶ ɫɜɨɛɨɞɧɵɣ ɦɢɪ; 116). The vampire leaders live at the Rublëvka, west of Moscow, in enormous villa’s with high fences and security cameras, just like Russia’s nowadays elite does. But most easily recognizable are the Khaldaeans as the Putin-elite at a meeting where one of them is exposed as an ex-soviet careerist who worked his way up by bribery and is now the manager of a phoney company that makes money from air; and when they are described as “the power-structures that control all social elevators” and all information channels (204-205). Why and how do the vampires rule the world? As Rama learns, the human race was especially created to provide the vampires with nourishment. Millions of years ago, after they had stopped feeding on the blood of dinosaurs, they switched to a more refined diet: mental energy. For that, they themselves shrimped into the tongues (language!), described as the “essence” (ɫɭɬɶ) of the vampire, “a kind of portable flashcard carrying the individual, the heart of the brain – a kind of worm, consisting for 90% of nerve cells” (ɤɚɤ ɛɵ ɩɟɪɟɧɨɫɧɚɹ ɮɥɷɲ-ɤɚɪɬɚ ɫ ɥɢɱɧɨɫɬɶɸ, ɫɟɪɞɰɟɜɢɧɚ ɦɨɡɝɚ – ɫɜɨɟɝɨ ɪɨɞɚ ɱɟɪɜɶ, ɧɚ ɞɟɜɹɧɨɫɬɨ ɩɪɨɰɟɧɬɨɜ ɫɨɫɬɨɹɳɢɣ ɢɡ ɧɟɪɜɧɵɯ ɤɥɟɬɨɤ; 167), at the same time, they started to breed animals with a new type of mind: humans. Although some humans, like Rama, are chosen to serve as symbiotic carriers of the tongues, the bulk of mankind is regularly as it were grazed, tapped of its mental energy which is then collected by a few of the surviving original Mighty Bats – I will spare the reader the details of this process. As said, these in turn refine this energy into a kind of drug for the vampires, which allows them to vividly experience the transcendental insight that the world is merely the construction of their own mind, and that the subject and the world are one. Rama describes this with the words: “Everything in the world was made of one and the same substance. And that substance was I myself.”4 What this mental energy that humans are skimmed of consists of is a question that leads us to the heart of the novel’s problem. What humans share with other organisms is one type of mental activity,

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called mind A: it is ruled by reflexes and instincts, and consists of the reception of sense data from the outside world and their translation into simple kinds of action: searching for food, finding shelter, running from pain etc. What distinguishes humans is that they have a second mind, mind B, which generates fantasies in itself. Energy is generated because mind B is an object for mind A that it cannot distinguish from objects in the outside world, so that it interprets the fantasies born in mind B as “a part of the report from the outside world” (ɱɚɫɬɶɸ ɨɬɫɱɟɬɚ ɨ ɜɧɟɲɧɟɦ ɦɢɪɟ; 171). What is meant here should become clear from the following example: Just imagine you are standing in the Novy Arbat and looking at two cars parked outside the casino. They look almost the same – both black and long. Well, one is perhaps a little lower and longer (...) When you mark the difference between the coach work and the headlights, the different sounds of the motor and the patterns on the wheels – that’s ‘mind A’ doing its work. But when you see two ‘mercs’, one of which is glamourous, because it’s the expensive last year’s model, and the other just shitty outmoded trash, because it is the type used long ago by Berezovskii driving to general Lebed in the sauna, and in our days it can be bought for fifteen grand – that’s ‘mind B’ working.5

The perceived difference in glamour between the two Mercedeses thus forms the basic stimulus for man to make money: his main striving is to obtain things with as much glamour as possible, and also to show off his ability to decide what is glamourous and what not by using the right discourse. Glamour and discourse rule human mind and motivate all man’s activity – the world is reduced to a market. They themselves, and their source, ‘mind B’, were invented by the vampires (/tongues/language) merely in orde to serve them (/it). By some critics, Pelevin is reproached because his glamour seems nothing more than a modernized version of old Marxian added value, and that may well be true, but with Pelevin it becomes part of a system of total mind-control imposed on man by the vampires (/tongues/language) and their anonymous dictatorship: “Glamour is the ideology of anonymous dictatorship” (68). And it is by turning glamour into money that man feeds the vampires. “One might say, that money is the purified and refined product of mind B” (179). They are not after physical money, to be sure, there is a whole system of refined forms of money, up to its fifth aggregate:

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Sander Brouwer Aggregates in economics is the name for different appearances of money. M-0, M-1, M-2, M-3 are the appearances of cash currency, bonds, and obligations. Aggregate M-4 is the oral agreement to shove a bribe, it’s also known as M-Che or M-Chu, after Ernesto Che Guevara and Anatolii Borisovich Chubais. (...) But M-5 – that is something fundamentally different. It is a special kind of psychic energy, secreted by man in the process of struggle for the other aggregates. The aggregate M-5 exists in reality, all the other states are mere objectifications of this energy.6

Discernible here are the contours of a Pelevinian theory of mind that, ironically or not, blends various postmodern theories of mind: Lacanian terminology is recognizable, though distorted: mind A instead of objet petit a, ingeniously combined with Guattari’s objet B (from his ‘Psychanalyse et transversalite’); Lacan’s internal mirror image is by the way also used in the novel; the mind becomes a kind of desiring-machine (Deleuze). Of course, the Baudrillardian indiscernibility between the real and the simulacrum, or even the absence of a real, is exploited, as it had been already in Generation P. Indeed, whereas glamour serves as the ideology of anonymous dictatorship, its concrete form, its culture, is defined as “advanced postmodernism” (ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɨɣ ɚɧɨɧɢɦɧɨɣ ɞɢɤɬɚɬɭɪɵ ɹɜɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɪɚɡɜɢɬɨɣ ɩɨɫɬɦɨɞɟɪɧɢɡɦ; 272). This advanced stage of postmodernism is characterized by the following: The era has begun of citations from television programs and films, which means that the source of citation now becomes what has itself been borrowed and quoted earlier, what has been dissociated from its original source and worn off until total anonymity. That is the most adequate cultural projection of the regime of anonymous dictatorship.7

This is said by someone to Rama, who has just triumphantly exclaimed after having conquered a Khaldaean in a fight: “Is there no one else?” – thus quoting Brad Pitt playing Achilles in Troy, instead of quoting the Iliad. As Mikhail Zolotonosov (2006) has observed, this linking of Empire with Postmodernism may contain yet another hidden reference to modern Russian empire-ideologues supporting Putin, in this case to Aleksandr Dugin, the leader of the International Eurasianist Movement, who in his article ‘The concept of ‘Empire’ within the coordinates of the postmodern’ writes (I am only partly responsible for the horrible English in this translation – Duginese is sometimes even worse than Putinese): “The new interest in the category of

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‘empire’, and what is more: without the traditional derogatory or purely historiographical overtones, has become possible only in the conditions of Postmodernism, when the agenda of political Modernism has become outdated and no trace is left of traditional society”.8 Now, as Zolotonosov argues, on the one hand Postmodernism is declared to be the culture of the new type of empire (albeit a V-empire), taking recurrence to Dugin. On the other hand, the place where the vampire aces live at the Rublëvka is called Heartland, a term obviously taken from Halford John Mackinder’s famous article ‘Geographical Pivot of History’ of 1904, in which he stressed the importance of geographical factors for politics and predicts Russia’s ascendance as the world leader, and which has become one of the foundation stones for Eurasianists like Dugin. Mackinder himself is not mentioned in Empire V, but Pelevin no doubt knows of his influence on Dugin. And so we see that the novel itself does what its hero, the ‘advanced postmodernist’ Rama, does: it quotes not the original source, but uses later texts that were inspired by it. This is evidence that Pelevin has written a very self-reflexive work of literature. The text is full of these kind of hints. For example, Rama remarks that he “has noted a very banal feature of our times: to give foreign names to shops, restaurants and even novels written in Russian” (75) – which is the case, of course, with the very novel we are reading. While in his previous novels Pelevin predominantly focused on the problem of consciousness, its problematical relation with reality, but merely expressed this problem in language, in Empire V the problem of language as the form of consciousness is foregrounded; inevitably thus the status of the text we are reading and the relation it has to its author is problematized – and also, for that matter, the relation it has to its reader. It is a text that reflects on what language, its material, does. Let us now remember the function of the tonguecum-language. Rama uses the tongue (or perhaps the tongue uses Rama) to look into the minds of people, and this literally: the passages where expressions like “look into” are used are too numerous to quote. Of course, the old tension between language and depiction, word and image, comes to the fore. It is really introduced already on the cover: we see the eyes and the mouth separated, but united by the title words. Inside the novel, this conflict is I think decided in favour of the word.

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At one point Rama says: “I practically never think in words, I more think in pictures. Images.” To which his opponent replies: “Each of your pictures is itself made of words, as a house is built of brick. But the brick is often not visible because of the plaster”.9 This reveals much about what kind of text we have before us. One could say that texts that mainly aim to “make it strange” in the Shklovskian sense, to reveal reality stripped of its conventional interpretations and present it in a fresh light, in general give precedence to viewing, to the eye; this is already clear in the many quotes from Tolstoi given by Shklovskii.10 Pelevin is not that type of author, for him the idea that a reality can be found behind words would be a total illusion. His vampire figure may on first sight be, or become, a modern kind of “ingenu” who serves his author to ironically unmask contemporary political power structures, coming from outside these structures and climbing to its very summit, but that is just one layer of meaning. Though, to be fair, the layer is certainly there: it may be said that Pelevin’s vampire shows some parallells with his illustrious literary forefather, count Dracula, who also by being the total “other” makes peoples’ secret desires and fears visible – what Jean Fisher (2003) calls the ‘Vampire in the Text’. And Pelevin, by the way, would not be the first Russian writer who uses the Dracula figure to unmask the political system. Blok used him to attack Pobedonostsev in his Retribution, and that was, as Michail Odesskii writes, merely another link in a chain of political vampire associations from at least the XVIII century.11 Still, Pelevin’s vampire is of another kind: he presents us with a consciousness that is aware of its impossibility to go beyond itself, to reach ‘reality’ outside consciousness, moreover, that knows that his conscious personality is itself an illusion, created by his own language (it would require too much quoting to illustrate this, in concentrated form the reader may find it on page 324-325). This brings us to what I find the most interesting aspect of this text: that as a whole it is an example of what it problematizes in all its aspects: that the word, language, creates the illusion of affording a look into a mind. Firstly on the level of politics, where glamour and its linguistic counterpart discourse wield absolute power over the minds of ordinary men; then on the level of postmodern culture, where writers “are no longer engineers of the human soul but unpaid advertising agents” (ȼɦɟɫɬɨ ɢɧɠɟɧɟɪɚ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɞɭɲ ɦɵ

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ɩɨɥɭɱɚɟɦ ɛɟɫɩɥɚɬɧɨɝɨ ɪɟɤɥɚɦɧɨɝɨ ɚɝɟɧɬɚ; 70); and most importantly on the level of mind: although the tongue/language is described as the “essence” of the vampire (167), Rama says of it that “it had nothing in common with me and at the same time formed my essence. That is how I perceived the consciousness of the tongue/language, that had entered into a symbiosis with my mind”.12 The words of this text all belong to the vampire I-narrator, they are his notes. However, it is made very clear that this subject is aware that the ‘illusion of personality’ is the product of the word: “The word can exist only as an object for the mind. But the object always needs a subject by which it is perceived. They exist only as a pair – the appearance of the object leads to the appearance of the subject, and vice versa”.13 Now let us return to the title of the book. Among other things, it forms a kind of rhyme with Generation P. Whereas the P in Generation P may stand for various things discussed in the novel: for Pepsi, for Postmodernism, for Post-Perestroika, for PR, the title may also indicate the ‘generation of Pelevin’, the author’s last name. Now the V in Empire V, apart from the meanings we saw above, may perhaps most tellingly also refer to Viktor, the author’s first name, and thus Generation Pelevin and Empire Viktor together form his full name. This is the more interesting since it may point at the fact that the author himself (the source of all the book’s language) is perhaps the biggest bat in all ‘Vampire Rule’: ‘Vampire Rule’ is also ‘Viktor Rule’. So what do his words, his language, the text of his novel, do? Does his language function as his tongue, and allow him to peep in our, his readers’, mind? But whose language is it when a reader reads a text? Is what text is really nothing but the meaning we construct in our minds? Then is it perhaps our language that allows us to peep in the mind (and the empire) of Viktor? But does language reflect things, or does it create them? That is one of the central issues of this book, and it is answered ambiguously: “Words create, as God does”, remarks one of Rama’s teachers; “– But you said that that they reflect. – To create and to reflect is one and the same thing”.14 (362). This on the hand remarkably reminds of the general situation in fiction: as David Lodge wrote: “the imaginative writer creates what he describes” (Lodge 1966: 62). On the other hand, it is a kind of existential situation (and indeed, existence is indiscernible from

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fiction in Pelevin’s universe): “The word is reflected in the mind, and the mind is reflected in the word, and thus emerges an endless corridor, the mind B. And in this endless corridor not only the whole world appears, but the one who perceives it as well”.15 This novel thus in its concrete form presents (and itself embodies) the problem that within the confines of its own mode of existence, an utterance in language can denote nothing in reality, cannot acquaint with a subject originating it, and cannot make anything clear about the subject receiving it. And that seems a perfectly postmodern position. There might be one last turn, however, of which I am not sure but which I should like to propose for discussion. The reader may have recognized in the title of this paper a reference to the article of 1974 by the philosopher Thomas Nagel: ‘What is it like to be a bat?’ It quickly became famous and was reprinted in some widely read books that dealt with the problem of consciousness and the mind, such as Hofstädter and Dennett’s The Mind’s I (1981). In it, Nagel proposes the idea that consciousness essentially has an irreducible subjective character, that there is a “what is it like for him” aspect to it, that cannot be grasped. Now the author’s main target was physical reductionism: viewing the mind as just brain activity; and in that sense my title is meant as only a joke or the suggestion of no more than possibly an analogy: the body-mind problem is not central to Pelevin’s text, though perhaps it is when you view the physical tongue serving as a bridge to the mind, and thus language as a mediator between body and mind. But I cannot help being suspicious that Pelevin chose his batfigure with Nagel in mind: not merely as a postmodern quotation of popular culture, but also because he wanted to give his language problem a Nagelian turn: where is the novel’s I, where is language’s I? what is it like to be the author of a text? In order words, make the reader ask himself if the text is a closed structure that absolutely forbids access to any personhood behind it. I am not quite sure, but I propose that such a moment may be found towards the end the novel. After all Rama has learned, and when he has earned himself a position at the top of the vampire hierarchy, has become the master of his Empire V, he cannot be said to have become a happy person. Though he may look like Harry Potter having become the best wizard of them all, what really happens is that he grows ever more lonesome: he loses his father, leaves

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behind his mother, loses a place where he belongs, his innocence, the illusion of a soul, he kills his mentor and is ever more ignored by even the other vampires; the girl he loves gets out of his reach as she becomes the next incarnation of Mighty Bat goddess Ishtar, he has no God, there is no hope or sense for him, as he writes himself; just the bablos-drug in unlimited quantities, that is, the experience that reality is his illusion; and the illusion that as long as he lives he is the master of this world, that illusionary reality. The only door perhaps that is left open to at least the possiblity that there is a person behind the words (and thus, a reality on the other side of them) is a very peculiar poem Rama writes to win a duel with a rival vampire. In it, he scoffs at his own future position of “Ruler of the World” (although he doesn’t yet know that he will be ruler), and does so, tellingly enough, by using distorted internet language, as it were giving up his mastery of it. Why pray tell Rulah of the World Does your laden/incense birn bin like sulphur? Who are the Beni, Fici, R’s of the P/feast? Are they yur shareholders? Why do you so invinsable Smeck your outmodid booze Who do you botter op in the fog with wine Under the cupolahs of Glavmosstroi? You’re heppy. The wint broshes up your hayr, Strawz fli into yur mug. But bewere. Your trail yn the dung Has already been spotted by the Rulah of the Morgue.16

Rama also, by the way, violates the rules that have been set for the duel: paradoxically, the rival follows them meticulously and therefore wins the duel. The result of this, however, is that the rival loses his life and Rama rises to the top of the vampire hierarchy. That is all; we have seen a glimpse of his imperfection and his doubt, but the door closes right away. University of Groningen

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Notes 1

Such a self-conscious device has been used earlier: Vladimir Sorokin in 2004 called one of his novels Roman (itself an anagram of his 1994 Norma), after its eponymous hero. While the hero is slaughtered in the course of the events, the novel form is destroyed: the text ends in an endless series of repetitive sentences; similarly, Zinaida Gippius’ 1913 Roman the Tsar’s Son (Ɋɨɦɚɧ-ɰɚɪɟɜɢɱ; a kind of sequel to her 1911 The Devil’s Doll/ɑɨɪɬɨɜɚ ɤɭɤɥɚ) cumulates in the demise of its protagonist with his (novelistic-)heroic pretentions. In 2007, Vladimir Novikov published a novel named A Novel/Romance with a Tongue/with Language (Ɋɨɦɚɧ ɫ ɹɡɵɤɨɦ). 2 All translations from Empire V are mine. In the following, merely bracketed page numbers will refer to the edition Pelevin 2006. This one reads: [ɉɹɬɚɹ ɂɦɩɟɪɢɹ]: ɜɫɟɦɢɪɧɵɣ ɪɟɠɢɦ ɚɧɨɧɢɦɧɨɣ ɞɢɤɬɚɬɭɪɵ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɣ ɧɚɡɵɜɚɸɬ «ɩɹɬɵɦ», ɱɬɨɛɵ ɧɟ ɩɭɬɚɬɶ ɫ Ɍɪɟɬɶɢɦ Ɋɟɣɯɨɦ ɧɚɰɢɡɦɚ ɢ ɑɟɬɜɟɪɬɵɦ Ɋɢɦɨɦ ɝɥɨɛɚɥɢɡɦɚ. ɗɬɚ ɞɢɤɬɚɬɭɪɚ ɚɧɨɧɢɦɧɚ, ɤɚɤ ɬɵ ɫɚɦ ɩɨɧɢɦɚɟɲɶ, ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɞɥɹ ɥɸɞɟɣ. ɇɚ ɞɟɥɟ ɷɬɨ ɝɭɦɚɧɧɚɹ ɷɩɨɯɚ Vampire Rule, ɜɫɟɥɟɧɫɤɨɣ ɢɦɩɟɪɢɢ ɜɚɦɩɢɪɨɜ, ɢɥɢ, ɤɚɤ ɦɵ ɩɢɲɟɦ ɜ ɬɚɣɧɨɣ ɫɢɦɜɨɥɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɮɨɪɦɟ (272). 3 For obvious allusions to Putin click ‘icon’ 21 on this website. 4 ȼɫɟ ɧɚ ɫɜɟɬɟ ɛɵɥɨ ɫɞɟɥɚɧɨ ɢɡ ɨɞɧɨɣ ɢ ɬɨɣ ɠɟ ɫɭɛɫɬɚɧɰɢɢ. ɂ ɷɬɨɣ ɫɭɛɫɬɚɧɰɢɟɣ ɛɵɥ ɹ ɫɚɦ” (348). 5 ɉɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɶ ɫɟɛɟ, ɫɤɚɠɟɦ... ɑɬɨ ɬɵ ɫɬɨɢɲɶ ɧɚ ɇɨɜɨɦ Ⱥɪɛɚɬɟ ɢ ɫɦɨɬɪɢɲɶ ɧɚ ɞɜɚ ɩɪɢɩɚɪɤɨɜɚɧɧɵɯ ɭ ɤɚɡɢɧɨ ɚɜɬɨɦɨɛɢɥɹ. ɉɨ ɜɢɞɭ ɨɧɢ ɩɨɱɬɢ ɨɞɢɧɚɤɨɜɵɟ – ɱɟɪɧɵɟ ɢ ɞɥɢɧɧɵɟ. ɇɭ, ɦɨɠɟɬ ɛɵɬɶ, ɨɞɢɧ ɱɭɬɶ ɧɢɠɟ ɢ ɞɥɢɧɧɟɟ. (...) Ʉɨɝɞɚ ɬɵ ɡɚɦɟɱɚɟɲɶ ɪɚɡɧɢɰɭ ɜ ɮɨɪɦɟ ɤɭɡɨɜɚ ɢ ɮɚɪ, ɨɬɥɢɱɢɟ ɜ ɡɜɭɤɟ ɦɨɬɨɪɚ ɢ ɪɢɫɭɧɤɟ ɲɢɧ – ɷɬɨ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɟɬ ɭɦ «Ⱥ». Ⱥ ɤɨɝɞɚ ɬɵ ɜɢɞɢɲɶ ɞɜɚ «ɦɟɪɫɚ», ɨɞɢɧ ɢɡ ɤɨɬɨɪɵɯ ɝɥɚɦɭɪɧɵɣ, ɩɨɬɨɦɭ ɱɬɨ ɷɬɨ ɞɨɪɨɝɭɳɚɹ ɦɨɞɟɥɶ ɩɪɨɲɥɨɝɨ ɝɨɞɚ, ɚ ɞɪɭɝɨɣ – ɫɪɚɱɧɵɣ ɚɰɬɨɣ, ɩɨɬɨɦɭ ɱɬɨ ɧɚ ɬɚɤɨɦ ɟɳɟ Ȼɟɪɟɡɨɜɫɤɢɣ ɟɡɞɢɥ ɜ ɛɚɧɸ ɤ ɝɟɧɟɪɚɥɭ Ʌɟɛɟɞɸ, ɢ ɜ ɧɚɲɢ ɞɧɢ ɟɝɨ ɦɨɠɧɨ ɜɡɹɬɶ ɡɚ ɩɹɬɧɚɞɰɚɬɶ ɝɪɢɧ – ɷɬɨ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɟɬ ɭɦ «Ȼ» (171-172). 6 Ⱥɝɪɟɝɚɬɚɦɢ ɜ ɷɤɨɧɨɦɢɤɟ ɧɚɡɵɜɚɸɬɫɹ ɫɨɫɬɨɹɧɢɹ ɞɟɧɟɝ. «ɗɦ-ɧɨɥɶ», «ɷɦ-ɨɞɢɧ», «ɷɦ-ɞɜɚ», «ɷɦ-ɬɪɢ» – ɷɬɨ ɮɨɪɦɵ ɧɚɥɢɱɧɨɫɬɢ, ɞɟɧɟɠɧɵɯ ɞɨɤɭɦɟɧɬɨɜ ɢ ɮɢɧɨɛɹɡɚɬɟɥɶɫɬɜ. Ⱥɝɪɟɝɚɬ «ɷɦ-ɱɟɬɵɪɟ» ɜɤɥɸɱɚɟɬ ɭɫɬɧɭɸ ɞɨɝɨɜɨɪɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ ɨɛ ɨɬɤɚɬɟ, ɟɝɨ ɟɳɟ ɧɚɡɵɜɚɸɬ «ɷɦ-ɱɟ» ɢɥɢ «ɷɦ-ɱɭ» – ɜ ɱɟɫɬɶ ɗɪɧɟɫɬɨ ɑɟ Ƚɟɜɚɪɵ ɢ Ⱥɧɚɬɨɥɢɹ Ȼɨɪɢɫɨɜɢɱɚ ɑɭɛɚɣɫɚ (...) Ⱥ ɜɨɬ «ɷɦ-ɩɹɬɶ» – ɧɟɱɬɨ ɩɪɢɧɰɢɩɢɚɥɶɧɨ ɢɧɨɟ. ɗɬɨ ɨɫɨɛɵɣ ɪɨɞ ɩɫɢɯɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɷɧɟɪɝɢɢ, ɤɨɬɨɪɭɸ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɤ ɜɵɞɟɥɹɟɬ ɜ ɩɪɨɰɟɫɫɟ ɛɨɪɶɛɵ ɡɚ ɨɫɬɚɥɶɧɵɟ ɚɝɪɟɝɚɬɵ. Ⱥɝɪɟɝɚɬ «ɷɦ-ɩɹɬɶ» ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɭɟɬ ɧɚ ɫɚɦɨɦ ɞɟɥɟ. ȼɫɟ ɨɫɬɚɥɶɧɵɟ ɫɨɫɬɨɹɧɢɹ ɞɟɧɟɝ – ɩɪɨɫɬɨ ɨɛɴɟɤɬɢɜɚɰɢɹ ɷɬɨɣ ɷɧɟɪɝɢɢ (229-230). 7 ɇɚɫɬɭɩɢɥɚ ɷɩɨɯɚ ɰɢɬɚɬ ɢɡ ɬɟɥɟɩɟɪɟɞɚɱ ɢ ɮɢɥɶɦɨɜ, ɬɨ ɟɫɬɶ ɩɪɟɞɦɟɬɨɦ ɰɢɬɢɪɨɜɚɧɢɹ ɫɬɚɧɨɜɹɬɫɹ ɩɪɟɠɧɢɟ ɡɚɢɦɫɬɜɨɜɚɧɢɹ ɢ ɰɢɬɚɬɵ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɨɬɨɪɜɚɧɵ ɨɬ ɩɟɪɜɨɢɫɬɨɱɧɢɤɚ ɢ ɢɫɬɟɪɬɵ ɞɨ ɚɛɫɨɥɸɬɧɨɣ ɚɧɨɧɢɦɧɨɫɬɢ. ɗɬɨ ɧɚɢɛɨɥɟɟ ɚɞɟɤɜɚɬɧɚɹ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɚɹ ɩɪɨɟɤɰɢɹ ɪɟɠɢɦɚ ɚɧɨɧɢɦɧɨɣ ɞɢɤɬɚɬɭɪɵ (273). 8 ɇɨɜɨɟ ɨɛɪɚɳɟɧɢɟ ɤ ɤɚɬɟɝɨɪɢɢ «ɢɦɩɟɪɢɹ», ɩɪɢɱɟɦ ɛɟɡ ɬɪɚɞɢɰɢɨɧɧɨ ɭɧɢɱɢɠɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɢɥɢ ɱɢɫɬɨ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɩɨɞɬɟɤɫɬɚ, ɫɬɚɥɨ ɜɨɡɦɨɠɧɵɦ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɜ ɭɫɥɨɜɢɹɯ ɩɨɫɬɦɨɞɟɪɧɚ, ɤɨɝɞɚ ɩɨɜɟɫɬɤɚ ɞɧɹ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɦɨɞɟɪɧɚ ɛɵɥɚ ɢɫɱɟɪɩɚɧɚ, ɢ ɨɬ «ɬɪɚɞɢɰɢɨɧɧɨɝɨ ɨɛɳɟɫɬɜɚ» ɧɟ ɨɫɬɚɥɨɫɶ ɢ ɫɥɟɞɚ (Zolotonosov quotes from Dugin 2005; I quote from Dugin 2006). 9 – ə, ɧɚɩɪɢɦɟɪ, ɩɪɚɤɬɢɱɟɫɤɢ ɧɟ ɞɭɦɚɸ ɫɥɨɜɚɦɢ. ə ɱɚɳɟ ɜɫɟɝɨ ɞɭɦɚɸ ɤɚɪɬɢɧɤɚɦɢ. Ɉɛɪɚɡɚɦɢ. – Ʌɸɛɚɹ ɢɡ ɬɜɨɢɯ ɤɚɪɬɢɧɨɤ ɬɨɠɟ ɫɞɟɥɚɧɚ ɢɡ ɫɥɨɜ, ɤɚɤ ɞɨɦ ɫɞɟɥɚɧ ɢɡ ɤɢɪɩɢɱɟɣ. ɉɪɨɫɬɨ ɤɢɪɩɢɱɢ ɧɟ ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɜɢɞɧɵ ɡɚ ɲɬɭɤɚɬɭɪɤɨɣ (324).

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10

Although Carlo Ginzburg (2002) showed that as a literary device, this preference for viewing has much older roots: he dates it back at least to Marcus Aurelius. 11 “ɂɡɨɛɪɚɠɟɧɢɟ ‘ɪɟɚɤɰɢɨɧɟɪɨɜ’ ɢ ‘ɭɝɧɟɬɚɬɟɥɟɣ’ ɜ ɜɢɞɟ ɜɚɦɩɢɪɨɜ – ‘ɨɛɳɟɟ ɦɟɫɬɨ’ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɪɢɬɨɪɢɤɢ, ɡɚɮɢɤɫɢɪɨɜɚɧɧɨɟ, ɩɨ ɤɪɚɣɧɟɣ ɦɟɪɟ, ɟɳɟ ɜ XVIII ɜɟɤɟ ɢ, ɜɟɪɨɹɬɧɨ, ɜɨɫɯɨɞɹɳɟɟ ɤ ɪɚɫɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɟɧɧɨɦɭ ɜ ȿɜɪɨɩɟ ɉɨɡɞɧɟɝɨ ɫɪɟɞɧɟɜɟɤɨɜɶɹ ɢ ȼɨɡɪɨɠɞɟɧɢɹ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɢɸ ɨɛ ɚɪɢɫɬɨɤɪɚɬɚɯ-ɭɩɵɪɹɯ. ‘Ɉɛɳɢɦ ɦɟɫɬɨɦ’ ɛɵɥɨ ɢ ɭɩɨɞɨɛɥɟɧɢɟ ɭɩɵɪɸ ɉɨɛɟɞɨɧɨɫɰɟɜɚ, ɤɨɬɨɪɨɝɨ, ɩɨ ɫɥɨɜɚɦ Ⱥ.ȼ. Ⱥɦɮɢɬɟɚɬɪɨɜɚ, ‘ɱɚɫɬɨ ɨɛɡɵɜɚɸɬ ɢ ɪɢɫɭɸɬ ɜ ɤɚɪɢɤɚɬɭɪɚɯ ‘ɜɚɦɩɢɪɨɦ’ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ’” (Odesskij 1995). 12 ɧɟ ɢɦɟɥɚ ɫɨ ɦɧɨɣ ɧɢɱɟɝɨ ɨɛɳɟɝɨ ɢ ɜ ɬɨ ɠɟ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɛɵɥɚ ɦɨɟɣ ɫɭɬɶɸ. Ɍɚɤ ɹ ɜɨɫɩɪɢɧɢɦɚɥ ɫɨɡɧɚɧɢɟ ɹɡɵɤɚ, ɜɨɲɟɞɲɟɟ ɫ ɦɨɢɦ ɭɦɨɦ ɜ ɫɢɦɛɢɨɡ (94). 13 ɋɥɨɜɨ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɬɶ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɤɚɤ ɨɛɴɟɤɬ ɭɦɚ. Ⱥ ɨɛɴɟɤɬɭ ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɧɟɨɛɯɨɞɢɦ ɜɨɫɩɪɢɧɢɦɚɸɳɢɣ ɟɝɨ ɫɭɛɴɟɤɬ. Ɉɧɢ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɭɸɬ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɩɚɪɨɣ – ɩɨɹɜɥɟɧɢɟ ɨɛɴɟɤɬɚ ɜɟɞɟɬ ɤ ɩɨɹɜɥɟɧɢɸ ɫɭɛɴɟɤɬɚ, ɢ ɧɚɨɛɨɪɨɬ (325). 14 – Ȼɨɝ – ɷɬɨ ɫɨɡɞɚɬɟɥɶ. ɋɥɨɜɚ ɬɨɠɟ ɫɨɡɞɚɸɬ. – ȼɵ ɠɟ ɝɨɜɨɪɢɥɢ, ɱɬɨ ɨɧɢ ɨɬɪɚɠɚɸɬ, – ɫɤɚɡɚɥ ɹ. – ɋɨɡɞɚɜɚɬɶ ɢ ɨɬɪɚɠɚɬɶ – ɷɬɨ ɨɞɧɨ ɢ ɬɨ ɠɟ (362). 15 ɫɥɨɜɨ ɨɬɪɚɠɚɟɬɫɹ ɜ ɭɦɟ, ɚ ɭɦ ɨɬɪɚɠɚɟɬɫɹ ɜ ɫɥɨɜɟ, ɢ ɜɨɡɧɢɤɚɟɬ ɛɟɫɤɨɧɟɱɧɵɣ ɤɨɪɢɞɨɪ – ɭɦ «Ȼ». ȼ ɷɬɨɦ ɛɟɫɤɨɧɟɱɧɨɦ ɤɨɪɢɞɨɪɟ ɩɨɹɜɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɧɟ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɜɟɫɶ ɦɢɪ, ɧɨ ɢ ɬɨɬ, ɤɬɨ ɟɝɨ ɜɢɞɢɬ (325) 16 Ɂɚɱɟɦ ɫɤɚɠɢ ɇɚɱɚɥɶɧɟɝ Ɇɢɪɚ Ɍɜɨɣ ɥɚɞɟɧ ɤɭɪɢɰɰɚ ɛɢɧ ɫɟɪɨɣ? Ʉɬɨ Ȼɟɧɢ, Ɏɢɰɢ, Ⱥɪɵ ɩɢɪɚ? Ɉɧɢ ɬɜɚɢ ɚɤɰɢɨɧɟɪɵ? Ɂɚɱɟɦ ɬɵ ɬɚɤ ɧɢɩɚɛɟɞɢɦɨ Ʉɟɪɡɨɸ ɱɚɜɤɚɢɲ ɜ ɚɰɬɨɢ? Ʉɚɦɭ ɤɚɞɢɲ ɜ ɬɭɦɚɧɢ ɜɢɧɧɚɦ ɉɨɞ ɤɭɩɚɥɚɦɢ Ƚɥɚɜɦɨɫɫɬɪɨɣɚ? Ɍɵ ɳɚɫɥɟɮ. ȼɟɬɢɪ ɦɧɶɨɬ ɜɚɥɨɫɶɹ, Ʌɢɬɢɬ ɫɚɥɨɦɚ ɬɢɛɟ ɮ ɦɨɪɞɭ. ɇɨ ɛɢɪɢɝɢɫ. Ɍɜɨɣ ɫɥɟɞ ɮ ɧɚɜɨɡɢ ɍɠ ɭɜɟɞɚɥ ɇɚɱɚɥɶɧɟɝ Ɇɨɪɝɚ (387).

Bibliography Dugin, Aleksandr. 2005. Imperskie predþuvstvija Rossii. Moskva, Volgograd. –– 2006. ‘Evrazijskij sojuz – demokratiþeskaja imperija postmoderna’. On line at:, http://www.liberal.ru/sitan.asp?Num=657 (consulted 30.1.2008) Fisher, Jean. 2003. Vampire in the Text. Narratives of Contemporary Art. London: Institute of International Visual Arts. Ginzburg, Carlo. 2002. ‘Making it Strange: The Prehistory of a Literary Device’ in Wooden Eyes. Nine Reflections on Distance. London and New York: Verso: 124. Hofstadter, Douglas R. and Daniel C. Dennett (eds). 1981. The Mind's I: Fantasies and Reflections on Self and Soul. New York: Basic Books.

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Lodge, David. 1966. Language of fiction : essays in criticism and verbal analysis of the English novel. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul/New York: Columbia University Press. Odesskij, Michail. 1995. ‘Mif o vampire i russkaja social-demokratija (literaturnaja i nauþnaja dejatel’nost’ A.A. Bogdanova)’. Originally published in Literaturnoe obozrenie 3, 1995. On line at: http://www.screen.ru/vadvad/Litoboz/vamp1.htm (consulted 30.1.2008). Pelevin, Viktor. 2006. Empire V. Moskva. Prochanov, Aleksandr. 2006. ‘Pjataja imperija’. Online at: http://www.zavtra.ru/zavtra/5imperia/5imperia.html Zolotonosov, Michail. 2006. ‘Novaja gnika iz žizni vampirov’. On line at: http://is.park.ru/doc.jsp?urn=9007193 (consulted 30.1.2008).

Index Abramov, Iakov ............138; 141-147 Alexander I (tsar) ........................... 48 Alexander II (tsar) ........................ 135 Alexander III (tsar)................135-136 Annenkov, Pavel ............................ 48 Apollinaire, Guillaume................. 155 Artsybashev, Mikhail ....139; 146-147 Atwood, Margaret ........................ 237 Avdeev, Mikhail............133-135; 138 Bakhtin, Mikhail .......................... 154 Bal’mont, Konstantin ....161-162; 171 Barantsevich, Kazimir.................. 147 Barbier, Auguste ...................... 25; 32 Batiushkov, Fëdor ........................ 147 Batiushkov, Konstantin .................. 46 Baudelaire, Charles .....151; 160; 163165; 170; 172 Baudrillard, Jean ...................229-230 Bekmambetov, Timur................... 245 Belinskii, Vissarion ...................... 133 Belyi, Andrei........ 155; 165; 171; 238 Benn, Gottfried............................. 156 Berezovskii, Boris ........................ 244 Bergson, Henri ............................. 153 Bestuzhev-Marlinskii, Aleksandr ... 49 Bhabha, Homi ......222-225; 230-231; 233; 235; 238-240 Blok, Aleksandr ... 162; 171; 175; 250 Boborykin, Pëtr..............145; 147-148 Bogdanovich, Ippolit. 6; 11-13; 15-18 Böhme, Jakob................................. 67 Bouvier de la Motte Guyon, Jeanne Marie (Madame Guyon)............ 67 Bradley, Francis (F.H.)................. 156 Brik, Osip ..................................... 168 Briusov, Valerii.............161-162; 171 BrodziĔski, Kazimierz.................... 90 Burkhardt, Jakob .......................... 172

Burliuk, David ............................. 171 Byron, George.................. 25; 29; 165 Caligula................................ 113; 129 Catherine (Ekaterina) II (the Great) . 5 Chekhov, Anton .. 139; 143; 145; 147; 234 Chernyshevskii, Nikolai............... 136 Chuzhak, Nikolai ......................... 168 Cieszkowski, August...................... 90 Claudius I..................................... 114 Cleopatra..............42-43; 51; 114-115 Conrad, Joseph............................. 237 Cottin, Sophie .......................... 25; 45 Cousin, Victor.............................. 164 Dan, Fëdor ................................... 146 Dante.............................................. 92 Dedlov, Vladimir ......................... 147 Deleuze, Gilles............................. 248 Derrida, Jacques.................... 222-223 Disterlo, Roman .....136-137; 145-147 Dobroliubov, Nikolai ............. 40; 136 Dostoevskii, Fëdor .23; 33; 48; 52-53; 167; 238 Dugin, Aleksandr .................. 248-249 Dupuis, François ........... 159-160; 170 Durkheim, Emile.......................... 154 Dzhengis Khan............................. 113 Eckartshausen, Karl von ................ 67 Einstein, Albert ............................ 154 El Lissitzky ........................... 168-169 Eliot, Thomas (T.S.).............. 156-157 Epstein, Mikhail................... 202; 211 Fanon, Frantz ............................... 222 Fichte, Johann ...................... 170; 172 Flaubert, Gustave ......................... 156

258 Fofanov, Konstantin..................... 147 Fontaine, Jean de la .......................... 6 Foucault, Michel .......................... 222 Freud, Sigmund...................... 19; 154 Gabo, Naum ................................. 168 Gandlevskii, Sergei ...................... 202 Garshin, Vsevolod........................ 137 Gautier, Théophile........ 121; 164; 171 Ghil, René .................................... 171 Gippius, Zinaida..... 53; 161; 171; 254 Goethe, Johann von.............. 165; 172 Gogol, Nikolai...................... 155; 238 Gombrowicz, Witold.................... 120 Goncharova, Natal'ia ............ 171; 173 Gorbachev, Mikhail...................... 183 Gourmont, Rémy de ..................... 171 Grevs, Ivan ................................... 171 Griboedov, Aleksandr .................. 147 Guattari, Félix .............................. 248 Guys, Constantine ........................ 170 Hadrian......................................... 124 Hegel, Georg .................................. 89 Heine, Heinrich ...................... 83; 121 Herzen, Aleksandr......................... 145 Hildebrand, Adolf von.................. 159 Homer ...................................... 15; 33 Hugo, Victor....................... 25; 29; 49 Huysmans, Joris-Karl ................... 171 Iasinskii, Eronim .......................... 147 Ignatov, Il'ia ................................. 134 Iofan, Boris................................... 186 Ivanov, Viacheslav 145-146; 161; 171 James, William............................. 153 Jarry, Alfred ................................. 155 Julius Caesar ................................ 114 Jung, Carl ............................... 67; 154 Jung-Stilling, Johann...................... 67 Kafka, Franz......................... 155; 157 Kaidanov, Ivan ......................... 33; 44 Kalergis, Maria..................... 121; 129 Kandinskii, Vasilii........................ 169 Kant, Immanuel...................... 85; 119 Karamzin, Nikolai .............6; 8-12; 18

Index Kheraskov, Mikhail. 6; 10; 11; 15; 18; 20 Khlebnikov, Velimir ... 162; 167; 171; 173 Khodorkovskii, Mikhail............... 245 Khomiakov, Aleksei ..... 25; 45-46; 52 Khrushchev, Nikita .............. 185; 189 Kibirov, Timur ...... 205; 207-210; 212 Korolenko, Vladimir .................... 137 KrasiĔski, Zygmunt........... 90-91; 123 Kruchenykh, Aleksei.................... 162 Krylov, Ivan ..................................... 9 Kuzmin, Mikhail........... 160; 170-171 Lacan, Jacques ..................... 222; 248 Laforgue, Jules............................. 171 Larionov, Mikhail ................ 171; 173 Lebed’, Aleksandr........................ 244 Lenartowicz, Teofil...................... 130 Lenin (Ul'ianov), Vladimir........... 138 Lermontov, Mikhail ..................... 147 Leskov, Nikolai.............................. 74 Likhachev, Dmitrii................ 151-152 Lovejoy, Arthur ........................... 172 Luk’ianenko, Sergei..................... 245 Mackinder, Halford...................... 249 Maeterlinck, Maurice................... 171 Maiakovskii, Vladimir . 162; 167; 171 Makarov, Pëtr................................. 11 Malevich, Kazimir ............... 169; 173 Mallarmé, Stéphane ..... 153; 163; 171 Marcus Antonius....................... 42-43 Marie Antoinette .......................... 111 Marinetti, Filippo ................. 167; 173 Mel’nikov-Pecherskii, Pavel .... 55-57; 59-64; 66; 68; 70; 72-74 Merezhkovskii, Dmitrii. 161-162; 171 Mickiewicz, Adam.................... 89-92 Mikhailovskii, Nikolai .. 136-138; 147 Mokeeva, Mar’ia............................ 74 Mommsen, Theodor...................... 171 Moore, George (G.E.) .................. 156 Moréas, Jean ........................ 163; 171 Morozov, Pavlik........................... 184 Nadson, Semen ............................ 137 Nagel, Thomas ............................. 252

Index Naipaul, Vidiadhar (V.S.).............. 224 Napoleon ...................................... 170 Nechaev, Sergei............................ 138 Nero ..................................... 114; 129 Nesselrode, Karl........................... 121 Nietzsche, Friedrich .... 145; 161; 165; 172 Norwid, Cyprian..... 77-78; 80-82; 84; 86-89; 92-95; 99; 100-103; 106; 110-116; 118-125; 128-130 Novalis (Georg von Hardenberg) ... 32 Novikov, Nikolai.............................. 9 Novikov, Vladimir ....................... 254 Ogarev, Nikolai............................. 145 Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii, Dmitrii...144148 Pasternak, Boris ........................... 229 Pater, Walter......................... 164; 172 Pelevin, Viktor .....218-220; 222; 226231; 233-237; 243-245; 247; 249252 Peter the Great (tsar) ........................ 9 Pëtrov, Vasilii................................. 15 Pevsner, Antoine .......................... 168 Pisarev, Dmitrii ............ 143; 145; 147 Pitt, Brad ...................................... 248 Plamenatz, John ........................... 220 Plutarch .................................... 42; 51 Pobedonostsev, Konstantin .......... 250 Podolinskii, Andrei .................. 31; 37 Polevoi, Boris............................... 244 Potapenko, Ignatii 135; 139; 141-144; 146-147 Prigov, Dmitrii ............. 202; 205; 212 Prokhanov, Aleksandr .................. 245 Proust, Marcel .............................. 156 Purcell, Henry .............................. 113 Pushkin, Aleksandr 23; 25-26; 28; 3132; 34-40; 42; 45; 47-52; 147; 167 Putin, Vladimir..... 245; 246; 248; 254 Régnier, Henry de ........................ 171 Renan, Ernest ... 77; 80-82; 95-96; 99103; 106-110; 121-122; 124-126; 129 Richardson, Samuel.......................... 8

259 Rimbaud, Arthur .......... 151; 163; 171 Riznich, Amalia ............................. 39 Rodchenko, Aleksandr ................. 168 Rodenbach, Georges .................... 171 Said, Edward......................... 238-239 Schelling, Friedrich..... 121; 123; 170; 172 Schiller, Friedrich .... 25; 44; 130; 172 Schönberg, Arnold ....................... 159 Sebastian (king of Portugal)......... 245 Shakespeare, William .............. 25; 42 Shakhovskaia, Elena ................ 41; 47 Shelgunov, Nikolai ............... 136-138 Shishkov, Aleksandr ........................ 7 Shklovskii, Viktor........................ 250 Skriabin, Aleksandr...................... 159 Skrzynecki, Jan ............................ 130 Sologub, Fëdor............................. 171 Solov’ëv, Vladimir....................... 161 Sorokin, Vladimir .205-208; 211-215; 254 Spinoza, Baruch de ...................... 122 Stalin, Iosif.....182-183; 186-187; 190 Strauss, David .......................... 80; 85 Stravinskii, Igor ................... 159; 170 Strunin, Dmitrii............................. 143 Szymborska, Wisława.................... 80 Taine, Hippolyte .................. 117; 129 Tarabukin, Nikolai ....................... 169 Tatlin, Vladimir ........................... 168 Timur Leng .................................. 113 Tiutchev, Fëdor............................ 232 Tolstoi, Lev.................... 74; 167; 250 TrĊbicka, Maria............................ 122 Trediakovskii, Vasilii....................... 8 Tretiakov, Sergei.......................... 168 Trifonov, Iurii 186-189; 192; 196-198 Trifonov, Valentin........................ 187 Tumanskii, Vasilii.......................... 47 Turgenev, Ivan 23-35; 37-52; 144-147 Valéry, Paul ................................. 156 Veresaev, Vikentii........ 139; 145; 147 Verhaeren, Émile ......................... 171 Verlaine, Paul............... 151; 163; 171 Viazemskii, Pëtr....................... 45; 52

260 Vodennikov, Dmitrii .................... 212 Volkonskaia, Zinaida ..................... 48 Voloshin, Maksimilian ................. 171 Vorovskii, Vatslav.................143-146 Vul’f, Evpraksiia ............................ 48 Wagner, Richard .................. 163; 172 Walcott, Derek ............................. 227 Wellek, Rene................................ 172 White, Patrick............................... 237 Wilde, Oscar................................. 172 Witkacy, Stanisław......................... 91

Index Zaleska, Michalina....................... 130 Zdanevich, Il'ia ............................ 171 Zhukovskii, Vasilii....... 32; 41; 44; 46 Zola, Émile .................... 74; 155; 163