You know, that rotten, bald-headed bastard by the name of Sologub is having his novel The Created Legend printed in the almanac Shipovnik. In the novel you find his hero, an indubitable sadist, and a certain woman who is a social democrat and a propagandist. She comes to him, strips naked, and after suggesting first that he photograph her, she then gives herself to the beast, gives herself like a chunk of cold meat. Anatoly Vasilievich, he ought to have his face smashed in for that! Get the book and read it. By God, you must!12
… You can say the filthiest things possible about Sologub and it would still not be enough for his vile, slimy, froglike soul!13
If there were socially committed critics like Gorky who felt that fantasy and eroticism were incompatible with politics, others found the novel more or less symptomatic of their times: “This derangement of the imagination, this capricious mixture of the real with pure fantasy, the involuntary manifestations here and there of an erotic sensibility which is not entirely healthy, finally this disjointed and nervous, translucent style which reminds one of a careless first draft or comments for a notebook—all this represents the incontestable symptoms of a sick age.”14
Indeed, how was the reader supposed to react to Sologub’s hero, Grigory Sergeyevich Trirodov? He could not only communicate with spirits from the beyond, raise dead children from freshly dug graves back to a zombie-like existence, reduce his enemies to glass prisms, and concoct powerful potions in his secret laboratory, but he was also involved in politics, actively aiding various democratic and revolutionary organizations, as well as operating a very avantgarde school where both children and instructresses ran about in the altogether. Moreover, what did the reign of Queen Ortruda in the distant kingdom of the United Isles have to do with the plan of this modern-day poet-alchemist? And what could be more absurd than he, a Russian commoner, applying officially for the position of King of the tiny island kingdom in the Mediterranean after the demise of Ortruda? Finally, Sologub must have left readers shaking their heads in disbelief when Trirodov, in order to escape the brutal attack of the militant Black Hundred organization on his estate, takes refuge in his garden green house-which is actually a cleverly concealed spaceship-and blasts off into space. The fact that an old adversary, Peredonov, from The Petty Demon, is resurrected in The Created Legend as the vice-governor, certainly added to the general muddle. As one reader aptly mused: “It is difficult to find a parallel to this novel in the past of our literature … The reader, bewildered and wracking his brains, is given the task of trying to decide whether this is not some kind of joke.”15
With his typical perverseness, Sologub himself was not forthcoming with any explanations. As reticent about the import of his fiction and poetry as he was about his own person, he seemed to feel that each reader was free to interpret it however he wished. As far as he was concerned, the introductory paragraph to The Created Legend explained all that required explaining:
I take a piece of life, coarse and barren, and from it I create an exquisite legend, for I am a poet. Whether life, dull and common, stagnates in the gloom, or bursts forth in a raging fire, I, the poet, will erect above you, life, my legend which is being created, my legend of the enchanting and the beautiful.
Sologub, then, was exerting his will, his creative fantasy over the coarse material of this world and transfiguring it into something beautiful and divine.
Sologub’s final major prose works, Sweeter Than Poison (1912) and The Snake Charmer (1921), display little of the willful and exquisite fantasy of either The Petty Demon or The Created Legend. Both of the later novels deal with the tragic fates of two women, the first a petite bourgeoise and the second a factory worker. Perhaps as a result of the criticism of his trilogy, Sologub appeared to return to more solid ground in these works. In Sweeter Than Poison we find ourselves once more in a provincial setting where greed, vulgarity and philistinism are rampant among the gentry and townsfolk. However, Sologub’s last novel, The Snake Charmer, is more remarkable in that the heroine of the novel and the “charmer of snakes” is an attractive young girl from the working classes, Vera Karpunina. She is convinced that she has a holy mission to destroy a “nest of snakes” at her factory—namely, the factory owners and their toadies. The factory owner becomes hopelessly enchanted with Vera. In return for her favors, she extracts a promise from him that he will deed the factory to her so that she can then pass it on to the workers. No sooner does Vera receive the deed than she is murdered by her jealous fiancé who knew nothing of her self-sacrificing designs. Perhaps this novel represented Sologub’s half-hearted and clumsy attempt to accommodate himself to the Revolution. At the same time, one must not forget that “democratic themes” were always very much in evidence throughout all of Sologub’s novels.
Throughout his entire literary career, Sologub was prepared to write parodies and satires directed at the Tsarist regime. But with the outbreak of World War I, he joined the ranks of other writers who put aside their animosities and wrote very nationalistic and patriotic pieces. He might have been encouraged by the hope that eventually the War would change things and lead to a more democratic society. In fact, Sologub greeted the February Revolution with very positive feelings and threw his support behind the Constitutional Democrats and Social Revolutionaries. His stated ideal was that of a “European Humanitarian Civilization”. However, he was not in sympathy with the October Revolution. Nevertheless he did involve himself in literary affairs after this Revolution and he became a leading member of a literary faction that called for independence and freedom in artistic expression. But that faction was short-lived. Together with his wife he joined a professional union of translators. In March of 1918 he helped to found and then became the first president of a writers’ organization that Was supposed to help writers live and work during those difficult years of War Communism. Because of disagreements within the organization itself, Sologub and his wife resigned and practically disappeared from the literary scene. Suffering material and artistic privations they applied to leave the Soviet Union in 1920. There is disagreement on whether permission was actually granted to Sologub and his wife to emigrate. In his correspondence Gorky claimed that it was not granted. In September of 1921, after several previous unsuccessful attempts, Sologub’s wife committed suicide by flinging herself off a Petrograd bridge. Sologub was utterly crushed and he plunged into even deeper isolation. Nevertheless, he managed somehow to integrate himself partially into the new world of the Soviet Union. He served in various administrative capacities on literary bodies until his death in 1927. He was even the recipient of a number of more or less ritual honors. After the Revolution, for reasons that are apparent, Sologub confined himself mainly to translation and administrative duties. While his “Impossible Dream” might have fallen on deaf or coarsened ears before the Revolution, it would now have been drowned by the cacophony of revolutionary thematics and aesthetics. Those who desire a simplistic metaphor, but perhaps an apt one, might be tempted to say that Aldonsa, that vulgar wench of reality, now reigned over the ephemeral and exquisite Dulcinea. And, Sologub, who had emerged out of obscurity bespectacled, balding, slightly ridiculous and improbable, departed from whence he came.
Although Soviet critics willingly concede Sologub a place in the hierarchy of Russian literature for The Petty Demon, they have not hastened to publish his work. Too talented to ignore, too problematic to accept unequivocably, Sologub’s works have made but fleeting appearances on the Soviet literary scene since the Revolution. With the exception of Sologub’s inclusion in various anthologies, the only works to be reprinted since his death in 1927 are The Petty Demon (1933; 1958) and two anthologies of his verse (1939; 1975, reprinted 1978). Yet his literary legacy consists of seven novels, almost eight stories, several novellas, half-a-dozen plays and more than a dozen books of poetry.
From the accounts of Sologub’s wife, we know that The Petty Demon was begun in the early 1890’s and was completed in 1902. Only after an effort of several years was Sologub th
en able to get it published (in incomplete form) in the journal Questions of Life (1905, Nos. 6–11). In 1907 the first complete and separate version appeared and this was rapidly followed by five reprintings. The novel was prepared for the stage and travelled about Russia, playing to enthusiastic audiences. Almost overnight Sologub became the toast of Russian letters and joined the popular troyka of Gorky, Kuprin and Andreyev. To this very day The Petty Demon is considered to be one of the great classics of Russian literature. The novel appealed to pre-revolutionary and Soviet critics alike and for very similar reasons: it was a masterful sociological exposé of provincial manners in Tsarist Russia, unmasking the hypocrisy, the bigotry and the philistinism that was symptomatic of Russian provincial society and officialdom. Most critics immediately seized upon what they perceived as the obvious affinities between The Petty Demon and Gogol’s nineteenth-century masterpiece, Dead Souls. In his foreword(s) to the novel, Sologub himself seemed to insist that his depictions of provincial society were drawn with fidelity, that they had been based on first-hand experience. Most critics were prepared, for the moment at least, to overlook the other suspect themes in Sologub that touched on eroticism and sado-masochism. Furthermore, most readers were unaware of any deeper meanings in the novel because their appetites were satisfied by what they believed to be “naturalistic detail”. Sologub did try to indicate in at least one interview that the novel could be read as a generalization and that Peredonov’s madness was a reflection of something else: “Peredonov’s madness is not a chance occurrence, but rather a general malady and it represents the daily life of present-day Russia.”16 But, unlike the ponderously significant novels of Merezhkovsky with their complex religious and pagan themes, with grandiose archetypes drawn from across the centuries, Sologub’s novel was read at face-value by most. The deeply buried mythological and symbolic strata of the novel eluded the general readership. Symbolic personification and archetypes were just as important to the literary creativity of Sologub as they were to Merezhkovsky, Bely and Blok. His aesthetic mythologization was perhaps more obscure and idiosyncratic, but, as several of the critical essays contained in the appendix at the end of this volume indicate, Sologub had a conscious sense of the symbolic patternings which he was weaving into the sociological fabric of the text.
The bizarre, gray little creature of indeterminate shape and form, the nedotykomka, that seems to be a figment of Peredonov’s incipient madness, has long intrigued readers and critics—and bedevilled translators. Theories on the identity and the significance of this enigmatic creation abound with the same vigor as the little beastie displays in scurrying across the pages of the novel and through the deranged mind of Peredonov. Readers will find several explanations of the nedotykomka in the critical appendix of this edition. Some of the debate focuses on whether the nedotykomka is an autonomous being or the sum total of Peredonov’s neuroses and vulgarity rolled up into a single musty gray bundle which dissolves into dust or dissipates into thin air at every attempt of Peredonov’s to touch, trap or destroy it. It has already been pointed out that, like other Symbolist writers of his generation, Sologub was also attracted to the idea of the symbolic incarnation, embodiment or personification of the artistic idea. The creation of his nedotykomka would seem to offer ample proof of this. English readers in particular, however, have been troubled by the exact meaning of the word in Russian. The actual form nedotykomka cannot be found in the usual reference texts and dictionaries and the closest variant one is apt to discover is nedotyka which signifies a touchy, prickly, sullen or even clumsy person. One source does provide the actual word used by Sologub.17 Nedotykomka appears to be a regional variation on nedotyka and carries the same basic meaning. Two things may be of interest here. First of all, the variation used by Sologub is, in fact, accredited to the Novgorod region where he held his first teaching posts. Secondly, Sologub’s variant is also a synonym for nedotroga which is a flower bearing the Latin name of Impatiens non me tangere—or, in simple English: “touch-me-not.” Readers of the text will immediately discern the two-fold applicability of Sologub’s choice of nedotykomka. Peredonov is constantly described as being sullen, touchy and even awkward. At the same time, the elusive nedotykomka is a genuine “touch-me-not” who defies all Peredonov’s attempts to lay his hands on it. Linguistically, at least, this may shed some light on the identity of the bête grise in Peredonov’s diseased world.
Readers may wonder about the surname of our hero, Peredonov. That, too, has given critics pause. The most likely suggestions have indicated that the root may well have come from Don Quixote, one of Sologub’s beloved characters and an archetype with which he felt he had a great deal in common. In the case of Peredonov, we have, of course, the reverse image of the idealistic and chivalrous Spanish knight. A number of critics have already indicated the parallels that may well exist between Cervantes’ novel and Sologub’s where the sheeplike Volodin performs the role of Sancho Panza and Varvara appears as Aldonsa.18
Extensive discussions of educational organization and educational philosophy are omnipresent in most of Sologub’s novels, not to mention many of his stories. One must recall that Sologub devoted twenty-five years of his life to this profession and had always been a deeply involved member of that profession. That experience provides a considerable amount of the content of The Petty Demon. In order to understand many of the circumstances and allusions in the novel it is necessary to have some knowledge of the educational system in Russia before the Revolution.
A Ministry of Public Education was established in 1802 under Alexander I and this was the first genuinely well-conceived and organized attempt at meeting an educational system in Russia. The country was divided into six educational circuits, each possessing a university at its center. These “circuits” were further subdivided into districts. Each university would have a pedagogical institute to train teachers. Furthermore, the new Regulations called for the establishment of one or more four-year gymnasia in every main town or city, some type of two-year secondary or elementary school in each district, and a one-year elementary school in every parish. These same Regulations allowed teachers to rise through the various levels of schooling by increasing their qualifications. This reasonably “democratic” and “secular” beginning, was, however; ruined when in 1815 Alexander virtually gave a large measure of control over the school system to the Holy Synod. That meant, among other things, that religious writings and the catechism would occupy a very important part in secular education for the rest of the century.
Under the reign of Nicholas I (1825–1855) this reactionary attitude to public education continued, indeed, deepened, because Nicholas felt that Alexander I’s earlier reforms were too liberal. He did not care for the idea that peasant children might be able to ascend upwards through the school system or be allowed to mix with other social classes. He also preferred more emphasis to be placed on the formation of attitudes and character (namely, loyalty, piety and morality) rather than the acquisition of knowledge. New rules were issued in 1828 which stated that the village school as intended exclusively for the peasants; the country or district school was reserved for the merchant class; the gymnasia and universities should be the exclusive domain of the gentry or nobility. Specific social status was also attached to the teachers at the various levels. Those in the parish or village schools had little or no status and could only strive for the very lowest rank in the Table of Ranks (the fourteenth). Posts in the district schools and gymnasia, particularly the latter, obviously commanded greater respect and could only be held by persons of “free estate.” The latter teachers could rise quite high in the Table of Ranks. Corporal punishment was reintroduced (after having been banned during the reign of Peter I). One of the most important—and insidious—new developments concerned the creation of the special office of the Class Monitor or Prefect. Essentially, this represented an official whose primary duties were not only to enforce the numerous regulations pertaining to the educational work of the students, but
to maintain a watchful eye over the entire life of the student inside and outside of the classroom. Less euphemistically, the Prefect might well have been called an “academic policeman” or “spy.” The chief disciplinary office in each district, however, was held by the Inspector who enjoyed a great deal of power. In actual fact, the Prefects were all answerable to him rather than the director or headmaster in each gymnasium. As a result, the Inspector ruled over a kind of Fifth Column within the school system. Another perquisite of an Inspectorship was the administration of corporal punishment. In the district schools the Inspector’s power was even greater. Here the teachers were required to acknowledge him as their ultimate superior in all matters pertaining to their behavior and duties.
During the reign of Alexander II (1855–1881), there were many reforms within the educational system. But the reactionary conservatism fostered by Nicholas I often undermined those reforms. One of the most important changes concerned the development of the rural school system. In the mid-1860’s, after the Emancipation of the serfs, elected county or rural councils (zemstvos) were created. These rural councils included members from both the wealthier nobles and the smaller landowners. Although the desire for liberal reform varied from region to region, nevertheless, these councils managed to improve the rural school system for the peasants. Naturally, the more conservative elements in the Russian educational system resented the work of the councils and did their utmost to undermine both the influence of the councils and the results of their pedagogical activities. Teachers in the Zemstvo schools were regularly subjected to harassment and repression.
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