Russian Literature: A Very Short Introduction

For writers, as opposed to commentators, there was always a tension between ideological and imaginative aims. The frequent practice among writers of composing prefaces, afterwords, and commentaries upon their own literary texts was a manifestation of the ‘intergeneric’ character of Russian literature, its desire to bridge the gap between fiction and non-fiction (note the pasting of real documents into Tolstoy’s War and Peace). But it also pointed to an awareness that literary convention interfered with the straightforward communication of messages.

A striking instance of the clash between fiction and ideology was Tolstoy’s late story The Kreutzer Sonata (1889). An ‘Afterword’ written by Tolstoy after the book was published endorsed the outrageous case made by the central character, Pozdnyshev: it insisted that absolute celibacy was the only morally acceptable form of human existence. Tolstoy also expressed consternation that readers should have found it so hard to grasp the point of his story. But Pozdnyshev, who was shown in the opening sections of the story itself swarming with nervous tics and feeding his caffeine addiction with glass after glass of the strongest tea, was hardly the best advocate of views that his creator (then energetically recommending abstention from intoxicating substances) apparently wished to be taken seriously. The character did not even have the grace to repent his misdeeds or sympathize with his victim. It was and is difficult to see the story as a fable; it is much easier to appreciate it as a grim and convincing sketch of the mentality of a murderer, prowling in his stocking feet through his own house to surprise his victim, and detachedly remembering the feeling of his knife cutting through first whalebone, then flesh. A similar communicative uncertainty was evident in Anna Karenina, which was at once a moral tale about appropriate married life and a delineation of the horrors of that life. Exploiting marriage as a convenient starting point for an encyclopaedic exploration of Russian society in which everything has meaning, it was at the same time obsessed with quotidian detail whose beauty lay in the fact that it had no meaning.

But what Mikhail Bakhtin was to term, in a famous study of Dostoevsky, the ‘polyphony’ of novelistic discourse, the absence in it of a unified, reliable, omniscient point of view, did not necessarily equate with an absence of moral or philosophical certainty. The exuberant linguistic vitality of Gogol’s play The Government Inspector, which shows the full bawdy energy of colloquial Russian constantly bubbling up through the characters’ pathetic attempts to ‘speak proper’, was intimately related to Gogol’s concept of the play as a spiritual morality drama, an illustration of the vices that he believed polluted the human soul and would come to light at the Day of Judgement. For Gogol, linguistic propriety and impropriety were different aspects of the same human error: the assumption that it was possible to conceal frailty and weakness from the all-seeing eye of the deity.

This inextricable blending of ‘medium’ and ‘message’, of didactic purpose and expressive range, continued to be found in some Soviet writing, despite an upsurge of state interference on the one hand and intellectual conformity on the other. A case in point was the poetry of Mayakovsky. Mayakovsky’s post-1917 writings are often considered to represent a sad falling-off from his early achievements: the writer stands accused of ‘stepping on the throat of his own song’ (a phrase that he himself uses in his great unfinished testament, ‘At the Top of My Voice’). But rather than a historical aberration, a by-way of literary history, the later Mayakovsky was a typical case of a Russian writer in whose work didacticism and art were inseparable. His gripping poem ‘Two Not Wholly Usual Occurrences’ (1922), for example, juxtaposes scenes of starvation in a Moscow street to a vignette of a ‘feast in time of plague’ going on at a restaurant, where writers and other intellectuals indulge themselves on the nearest things to delicacies that the crisis-ridden city can provide. Summed up in these bald terms, the piece sounds as crude and obvious as a ‘before and after’ poster for shampoo, or as an item of anti-capitalist agitprop (the scrawny waif, the bulbous banker) from a 1920s demonstration. But the summary elides the eerie intensity of Mayakovsky’s description of the silent Moscow streets, and the shock effect of his opening image, a miscegenated monster, a man-horse:

Suddenly

I see

between me and the window

a stick-man move.

Staggering and sliding.

The stick-man has a horse’s head.

Onward he – it, slides.

Into its own nostrils it has stuck

its own fingers:

three fingers, maybe two.

Flies squat round the open eyes.

From the side of its neck

hangs a vein,

scattering drops on the streets

that freeze blackly where they ooze.