Produced by James Rusk
ESSAYS ON RUSSIAN NOVELISTS
By William Lyon Phelps
I
RUSSIAN NATIONAL CHARACTER AS SHOWN IN RUSSIAN FICTION
The Japanese war pricked one of the biggest bubbles in history, andleft Russia in a profoundly humiliating situation. Her navy waspractically destroyed, her armies soundly beaten, her offensive powertemporarily reduced to zero, her treasury exhausted, her pride laid inthe dust. If the greatness of a nation consisted in the number andsize of its battleships, in the capacity of its fighting men, or inits financial prosperity, Russia would be an object of pity. But inAmerica it is wholesome to remember that the real greatness of anation consists in none of these things, but rather in itsintellectual splendour, in the number and importance of the ideas itgives to the world, in its contributions to literature and art, and toall things that count in humanity's intellectual advance. When weAmericans swell with pride over our industrial prosperity, we mightprofitably reflect for a moment on the comparative value of America'sand Russia's contributions to literature and music.
At the start, we notice a rather curious fact, which sharplydifferentiates Russian literature from the literature of England,France, Spain, Italy, and even from that of Germany. Russia is old;her literature is new. Russian history goes back to the ninth century;Russian literature, so far as it interests the world, begins in thenineteenth. Russian literature and American literature are twins. Butthere is this strong contrast, caused partly by the difference in theage of the two nations. In the early years of the nineteenth century,American literature sounds like a child learning to talk, and thenaping its elders; Russian literature is the voice of a giant, wakingfrom a long sleep, and becoming articulate. It is as though the worldhad watched this giant's deep slumber for a long time, wondering whathe would say when he awakened. And what he has said has been wellworth the thousand years of waiting.
To an educated native Slav, or to a professor of the Russian language,twenty or thirty Russian authors would no doubt seem important; butthe general foreign reading public is quite properly mainly interestedin only five standard writers, although contemporary novelists likeGorki, Artsybashev, Andreev, and others are at this moment deservedlyattracting wide attention. The great five, whose place in the world'sliterature seems absolutely secure, are Pushkin, Gogol, Turgenev,Dostoevski, and Tolstoi. The man who killed Pushkin in a duel survivedtill 1895, and Tolstoi died in 1910. These figures show in how short atime Russian literature has had its origin, development, and fullfruition.
Pushkin, who was born in 1799 and died in 1838, is the founder ofRussian literature, and it is difficult to overestimate his influence.He is the first, and still the most generally beloved, of all theirnational poets. The wild enthusiasm that greeted his verse has neverpassed away, and he has generally been regarded in Russia as one ofthe great poets of the world. Yet Matthew Arnold announced in hisOlympian manner, "The Russians have not yet had a great poet."* It isalways difficult fully to appreciate poetry in a foreign language,especially when the language is so strange as Russian. It is certainthat no modern European tongue has been able fairly to represent thebeauty of Pushkin's verse, to make foreigners feel him as Russiansfeel him, in any such measure as the Germans succeeded withShakespeare, as Bayard Taylor with Goethe, as Ludwig Fulda withRostand. The translations of Pushkin and of Lermontov have neverimpressed foreign readers in the superlative degree. The glory ofEnglish literature is its poetry; the glory of Russian literature isits prose fiction.
*Arnold told Sainte-Beuve that he did not think Lamartine was"important." Sainte-Beuve answered, "He is important for us."
Pushkin was, for a time at any rate, a Romantic, largely influenced,as all the world was then, by Byron. He is full of sentiment, smilesand tears, and passionate enthusiasms. He therefore struck out in apath in which he has had no great followers; for the big men inRussian literature are all Realists. Romanticism is as foreign to thespirit of Russian Realism as it is to French Classicism. What ispeculiarly Slavonic about Pushkin is his simplicity, his naivete.Though affected by foreign models, he was close to the soil. This isshown particularly in his prose tales, and it is here that his titleas Founder of Russian Literature is most clearly demonstrated. He tookRussia away from the artificiality of the eighteenth century, andexhibited the possibilities of native material in the native tongue.
The founder of the mighty school of Russian Realism was Gogol. Filledwith enthusiasm for Pushkin, he nevertheless took a different course,and became Russia's first great novelist. Furthermore, although amelancholy man, he is the only Russian humorist who has made the worldlaugh out loud. Humour is not a salient quality in Russian fiction.Then came the brilliant follower of Gogol, Ivan Turgenev. In himRussian literary art reached its climax, and the art of the modernnovel as well. He is not only the greatest master of prose style thatRussia has ever produced; he is the only Russian who has shown geniusin Construction. Perhaps no novels in any language have shown theimpeccable beauty of form attained in the works of Turgenev. GeorgeMoore queries, "Is not Turgenev the greatest artist that has existedsince antiquity?"
Dostoevski, seven years older than Tolstoi, and three years youngerthan Turgenev, was not so much a Realist as a Naturalist; his chiefinterest was in the psychological processes of the unclassed. Hisforeign fame is constantly growing brighter, for his works have anextraordinary vitality. Finally appeared Leo Tolstoi, whose literarycareer extended nearly sixty years. During the last twenty years ofhis life, he was generally regarded as the world's greatest livingauthor; his books enjoyed an enormous circulation, and he probablyinfluenced more individuals by his pen than any other man of his time.
In the novels of Gogol, Turgenev, Dostoevski, and Tolstoi we ought tofind all the prominent traits in the Russian character.
It is a rather curious thing, that Russia, which has never had aparliamentary government, and where political history has been verylittle influenced by the spoken word, should have so much finer aninstrument of expression than England, where matters of the greatestimportance have been settled by open and public speech for nearlythree hundred years. One would think that the constant use of thelanguage in the national forum for purposes of argument and persuasionwould help to make it flexible and subtle; and that the almost totalabsence of such employment would tend toward narrowness and rigidity.In this instance exactly the contrary is the case. If we may trust thetestimony of those who know, we are forced to the conclusion that theEnglish language, compared with the Russian, is nothing but an awkwarddialect. Compared with Russian, the English language is decidedly weakin synonyms, and in the various shades of meaning that make forprecision. Indeed, with the exception of Polish, Russian is probablythe greatest language in the world, in richness, variety,definiteness, and elegance. It is also capable of saying much inlittle, and saying it with tremendous force. In Turgenev's "Torrentsof Spring," where the reader hears constantly phrases in Italian,French, and German, it will be remembered that the ladies ask Sanin tosing something in his mother tongue. "The ladies praised his voice andthe music, but were more struck with the softness and sonorousness ofthe Russian language." I remember being similarly affected years agowhen I heard "King Lear" read aloud in Russian. Baron von der Bruggensays,* "there is the wonderful wealth of the language, which, as apopular tongue, is more flexible, more expressive of thought than anyother living tongue I know of." No one has paid a better tribute thanGogol:--
"The Russian people express themselves forcibly; and if they oncebestow an epithet upon a person, it will descend to his race andposterity; he will bear it about with him, in service, in retreat, inPetersburg, and to the ends of the earth; and use what cunning hewill, ennoble his career a
s he will thereafter, nothing is of theslightest use; that nickname will caw of itself at the top of itscrow's voice, and will show clearly whence the bird has flown. Apointed epithet once uttered is the same as though it were writtendown, and an axe will not cut it out.
*"Russia of To-day," page 203.
"And how pointed is all that which has proceeded from the depths ofRussia, where there are neither Germans nor Finns, nor any otherstrange tribes, but where all is purely aboriginal, where the bold andlively Russian mind never dives into its pocket for a word, and neverbroods over it like a sitting-hen: it sticks the word on at one blow,like a passport, like your nose or lips on an eternal bearer, andnever adds anything afterwards. You are sketched from head to foot inone stroke.
"Innumerable as is the multitude of churches, monasteries withcupolas, towers, and crosses, which are scattered over holy, mostpious Russia, the multitude of tribes, races, and peoples who throngand bustle and variegate the earth is just as innumerable. And everypeople bearing within itself the pledge of strength, full of activequalities of soul, of its own sharply defined peculiarities, and othergifts of God, has characteristically distinguished itself by its ownspecial word, by which, while expressing any object whatever, it alsoreflects in the expression its own share of its own distinctivecharacter. The word Briton echoes with knowledge of the heart, andwise knowledge of life; the word French, which is not of ancient date,glitters with a light foppery, and flits away; the sagely artisticword German ingeniously discovers its meaning, which is not attainableby every one; but there is no word which is so ready, so audacious,which is torn from beneath the heart itself, which is so burning, sofull of life, as the aptly applied Russian word."*
*"Dead Souls," translated by Isabel Hapgood.
Prosper Merimee, who knew Russian well, and was an absolute master ofthe French language, remarked:--
"La langue russe, qui est, autant que j 'en puis juger, le plus richedes idiomes de l'Europe, semble faite pour exprimer les nuances lesplus delicates. Douee d'une merveilleuse concision qui s'allie a laclarte, il lui suffit d'un mot pour associer plusieurs idees, qui,dans une autre langue, exigeralent des phrases entieres."
And no people are more jealous on this very point than the French. Inthe last of his wonderful "Poems in Prose," Turgenev cried out: "Inthese days of doubt, in these days of painful brooding over the fateof my country, thou alone art my rod and my staff, O great, mighty,true and free Russian language! If it were not for thee, how could onekeep from despairing at the sight of what is going on at home? But itis inconceivable that such a language should not belong to a greatpeople."
It is significant that Turgenev, who was so full of sympathy for theideas and civilization of Western Europe, and who was so oftenregarded (unjustly) by his countrymen as a traitor to Russia, shouldhave written all his masterpieces, not in French, of which he had aperfect command, but in his own beloved mother-tongue.
We see by the above extracts, that Russia has an instrument ofexpression as near perfection as is possible in human speech. Perhapsone reason for the supremacy of Russian fiction may be found here.
The immense size of the country produces an element of largeness inRussian character that one feels not only in their novels, but almostinvariably in personal contact and conversation with a more or lesseducated Russian. This is not imaginary and fantastic; it is adefinite sensation, and immediately apparent. Bigness in earlyenvironment often produces a certain comfortable largeness of mentalvision. One has only to compare in this particular a man from Russiawith a man from Holland, or still better, a man from Texas with a manfrom Connecticut. The difference is easy to see, and easier to feel.It is possible that the man from the smaller district may be moresubtle, or he may have had better educational advantages; but he islikely to be more narrow. A Texan told me once that it was eighteenmiles from his front door to his front gate; now I was born in a cityblock, with no front yard at all. I had surely missed something.
Russians are moulded on a large scale, and their novels are as wide ininterest as the world itself. There is a refreshing breadth of visionin the Russian character, which is often as healthful to a foreigneras the wind that sweeps across the vast prairies. This largeness ofcharacter partly accounts for the impression of Vastness that theirbooks produce on Occidental eyes. I do not refer at all to the lengthof the book--for a book may be very long, and yet produce animpression of pettiness, like many English novels. No, it is somethingthat exhales from the pages, whether they be few or many. Asillustrations of this quality of vastness, one has only to recall twoRussian novels--one the longest, and the other very nearly theshortest, in the whole range of Slavonic fiction. I refer to "War andPeace," by Tolstoi, and to "Taras Bulba," by Gogol. Both of theseextraordinary works give us chiefly an impression of Immensity--wefeel the boundless steppes, the illimitable wastes of snow, and thelong winter night. It is particularly interesting to compare TarasBulba with the trilogy of the Polish genius, Sienkiewicz. The formeris tiny in size, the latter a leviathan; but the effect produced isthe same. It is what we feel in reading Homer, whose influence, by theway, is as powerful in "Taras Bulba" as it is in "With Fire andSword."
The Cosmopolitanism of the Russian character is a striking feature.Indeed, the educated Russian is perhaps the most complete Cosmopolitanin the world. This is partly owing to the uncanny facility with whichhe acquires foreign languages, and to the admirable custom in Russiaof giving children in more or less wealthy families, French, German,and English governesses. John Stuart Mill studied Greek at the age ofthree, which is the proper time to begin the study of any languagethat one intends to master. Russian children think and dream inforeign words, but it is seldom that a Russian shows any pride in hislinguistic accomplishments, or that he takes it otherwise than as amatter of course. Stevenson, writing from Mentone to his mother, 7January 1874, said: "We have two little Russian girls, with theyoungest of whom, a little polyglot button of a three-year-old, I hadthe most laughable little scene at lunch to-day. . . . She saidsomething in Italian which made everybody laugh very much . . .; aftersome examination, she announced emphatically to the whole table, inGerman, that I was a machen.. . . This hasty conclusion as to my sexshe was led afterwards to revise . . . but her new opinion . . . wasannounced in a language quite unknown to me, and probably Russian. Tocomplete the scroll of her accomplishments, . . . she said good-bye tome in very commendable English." Three days later, he added, "Thelittle Russian kid is only two and a half; she speaks six languages."Nothing excites the envy of an American travelling in Europe moresharply than to hear Russian men and women speaking European languagesfluently and idiomatically. When we learn to speak a foreign tongue,we are always acutely conscious of the transition from English toGerman, or from German to French, and our hearers are still more so.We speak French as though it HURT, just as the average tenor sings. Iremember at a polyglot Parisian table, a Russian girl who spoke sevenlanguages with perfect ease; and she was not in the least ablue-stocking.
Now every one knows that one of the indirect advantages that resultfrom the acquisition of a strange tongue is the immediate gain in theextent of view. It is as though a near-sighted man had suddenly put onglasses. It is something to be able to read French; but if one haslearned to speak French, the reading of a French book becomesinfinitely more vivid. With a French play in the hand, one can seeclearly the expressions on the faces of the personages, as one followsthe printed dialogue with the eye. Here is where a Russian understandsthe American or the French point of view, much better than an Americanor a Frenchman understands the Russian's. Indeed, the man from Parisis nothing like so cosmopolitan as the man from Petersburg. One reasonis, that he is too well satisfied with Paris. The late M. Brunetieretold me that he could neither read or speak English, and, what isstill more remarkable, he said that he had never been in England! Thata critic of his power and reputation, interested as he was in Englishliterature, should never have had sufficient intellectual curiosity tocross the English Channel, struck me
as nothing short of amazing.
The acquisition of any foreign language annihilates a considerablenumber of prejudices. Henry James, who knew Turgenev intimately, andwho has written a brilliant and charming essay on his personality,said that the mind of Turgenev contained not one pin-point ofprejudice. It is worth while to pause an instant and meditate on thesignificance of such a remark. Think what it must mean to view theworld, the institutions of society, moral ideas, and human characterwith an absolutely unprejudiced mind! We Americans are skinful ofprejudices. Of course we don't call them prejudices; we call themprinciples. But they sometimes impress others as prejudices; and theyno doubt help to obscure our judgment, and to shorten or refract oursight. What would be thought of a painter who had prejudicesconcerning the colours of skies and fields?
The cosmopolitanism of the Russian novelist partly accounts for theinternational effect and influence of his novels. His knowledge offoreign languages makes his books appeal to foreign readers. When heintroduces German, French, English, and Italian characters into hisbooks, he not only understands these people, he can think in theirlanguages, and thus reproduce faithfully their characteristics notmerely by observation but by sympathetic intuition. Furthermore, thevery fact that Tolstoi, for example, writes in an inaccessiblelanguage, makes foreign translations of his works absolutelynecessary. As at the day of Pentecost, every man hears him speak inhis own tongue. Now if an Englishman writes a successful book,thousands of Russians, Germans, and others will read it in English;the necessity of translation is not nearly so great. It is interestingto compare the world-wide appeal made by the novels of Turgenev,Dostoevski, and Tolstoi with that made by Thackeray and George Eliot,not to mention Mr. Hardy or the late Mr. Meredith.
The combination of the great age of Russia with its recentintellectual birth produces a maturity of character, with a wonderfulfreshness of consciousness. It is as though a strong, sensible man offorty should suddenly develop a genius in art; his attitude would bequite different from that of a growing boy, no matter how precocioushe might be. So, while the Russian character is marked by an extremesensitiveness to mental impressions, it is without the rawness andimmaturity of the American. The typical American has some strongqualities that seem in the typical Russian conspicuously absent; buthis very practical energy, his pride and self-satisfaction, stand inthe way of his receptive power. Now a conspicuous trait of the Russianis his humility; and his humility enables him to see clearly what isgoing on, where an American would instantly interfere, and attempt tochange the course of events.* For, however inspiring a full-bloodedAmerican may be, the most distinguishing feature of his character issurely not Humility. And it is worth while to remember that whereassince 1850, at least a dozen great realistic novels have been writtenin Russian, not a single completely great realistic novel has everbeen written in the Western Hemisphere.
*It is possible that both the humility and the melancholy of theRussian character are partly caused by the climate, and the vaststeppes and forests, which seem to indicate the insignificance of man.
This extreme sensitiveness to impression is what has led the Russianliterary genius into Realism; and it is what has produced the greatestRealists that the history of the novel has seen. The Russian mind islike a sensitive plate; it reproduces faithfully. It has no morepartiality, no more prejudice than a camera film; it reflectseverything that reaches its surface. A Russian novelist, with a pen inhis hand, is the most truthful being on earth.
To an Englishman or an American, perhaps the most striking trait inthe Russian character is his lack of practical force--the paralysis ofhis power of will. The national character among the educated classesis personified in fiction, in a type peculiarly Russian; and that maybe best defined by calling it the conventional Hamlet. I say theconventional Hamlet, for I believe Shakespeare's Hamlet is a man ofimmense resolution and self-control. The Hamlet of the commentators isas unlike Shakespeare's Hamlet as systematic theology is unlike theSermon on the Mount. The hero of the orthodox Russian novel is averitable "L'Aiglon." This national type must be clearly understoodbefore an American can understand Russian novels at all. In order toshow that it is not imaginary, but real, one has only to turn toSienkiewicz's powerful work, "Without Dogma," the very titleexpressing the lack of conviction that destroys the hero.
"Last night, at Count Malatesta's reception, I heard by chance thesetwo words, 'l'improductivite slave.' I experienced the same relief asdoes a nervous patient when the physician tells him that his symptomsare common enough, and that many others suffer from the same disease.. . . I thought about that 'improductivite slave' all night. He hadhis wits about him who summed the thing up in these two words. Thereis something in us,--an incapacity to give forth all that is in us.One might say, God has given us bow and arrow, but refused us thepower to string the bow and send the arrow straight to its aim. Ishould like to discuss it with my father, but am afraid to touch asore point. Instead of this, I will discuss it with my diary. Perhapsit will be just the thing to give it any value. Besides, what can bemore natural than to write about what interests me? Everybody carrieswithin him his tragedy. Mine is this same 'improductivite slave' ofthe Ploszowskis. Not long ago, when romanticism flourished in heartsand poetry, everybody carried his tragedy draped around him as apicturesque cloak; now it is carried still, but as a jagervest next tothe skin. But with a diary it is different; with a diary one may besincere. . . . To begin with, I note down that my religious belief Icarried still intact with me from Metz did not withstand the study ofnatural philosophy. It does not follow that I am an atheist. Oh, no!this was good enough in former times, when he who did not believe inspirit, said to himself, 'Matter,' and that settled for him thequestion. Nowadays only provincial philosophers cling to that worn-outcreed. Philosophy of our times does not pronounce upon the matter; toall such questions, it says, 'I do not know.' And that 'I do not know'sinks into and permeates the mind. Nowadays psychology occupies itselfwith close analysis and researches of spiritual manifestations; butwhen questioned upon the immortality of the soul it says the same, 'Ido not know,' and truly it does not know, and it cannot know. And nowit will be easier to describe the state of my mind. It all lies inthese words: I do not know. In this--in the acknowledged impotence ofthe human mind--lies the tragedy. Not to mention the fact thathumanity always has asked, and always will ask, for an answer, theyare truly questions of more importance than anything else in theworld. If there be something on the other side, and that something aneternal life, then misfortunes and losses on this side are, asnothing. 'I am content to die,' says Renan, 'but I should like to knowwhether death will be of any use to me.' And philosophy replies, 'I donot know.' And man beats against that blank wall, and like thebedridden sufferer fancies, if he could lie on this or on that side,he would feel easier. What is to be done?"*
*Translated by Iza Young.
Those last five words are often heard in Russian mouths. It is afavourite question. It is, indeed, the title of two Russian books.
The description of the Slavonic temperament given by Sienkiewicztallies exactly with many prominent characters in Russian novels.Turgenev first completely realised it in "Rudin;" he afterwards madeit equally clear in "Torrents of Spring," "Smoke," and other novels.*Raskolnikov, in Dostoevski's "Crime and Punishment," is anotherillustration; he wishes to be a Napoleon, and succeeds only inmurdering two old women. Artsybashev, in his terrible novel, "Sanin,"has given an admirable analysis of this great Russian type in thecharacter of Jurii, who finally commits suicide simply because hecannot find a working theory of life. Writers so different as Tolstoiand Gorki have given plenty of good examples. Indeed, Gorki, in"Varenka Olessova," has put into the mouth of a sensible girl anexcellent sketch of the national representative.
*Goncharov devoted a whole novel, "Oblomov," to the elaboration ofthis particular type.
"The Russian hero is always silly and stupid, he is always sick ofsomething; always thinking of something that cannot be understood, andis himself so miserable,
so m--i--serable! He will think, think, thentalk, then he will go and make a declaration of love, and after thathe thinks, and thinks again, till he marries. . . . And when he ismarried, he talks all sorts of nonsense to his wife, and then abandonsher."
Turgenev's Bazarov and Artsybashev's Sanin indicate the ardent revoltagainst the national masculine temperament; like true Slavs, they goclear to the other extreme, and bring resolution to a reductio adabsurdum; for your true Russian knows no middle course, being entirelywithout the healthy moderation of the Anglo-Saxon. The great Turgenevrealised his own likeness to Rudin. Mrs. Ritchie has given a verypleasant unconscious testimony to this fact.
"Just then my glance fell upon Turgenev leaning against the doorpostat the far end of the room, and as I looked, I was struck, beingshortsighted, by a certain resemblance to my father [Thackeray], whichI tried to realise to myself. He was very tall, his hair was grey andabundant, his attitude was quiet and reposeful; I looked again andagain while I pictured to myself the likeness. When Turgenev came upafter the music, he spoke to us with great kindness, spoke of ourfather, and of having dined at our house, and he promised kindly andwillingly to come and call next day upon my sister and me in OnslowGardens. I can remember that next day still; dull and dark, with ayellow mist in the air. All the afternoon I sat hoping and expectingthat Turgenev might come, but I waited in vain. Two days later, we methim again at Mrs. Huth's, where we were all once more assembled. Mr.Turgenev came straight up to me at once. 'I was so sorry that I couldnot come and see you,' he said, 'so very sorry, but I was prevented.Look at my thumbs!' and he held up both his hands with the palmsoutwards. I looked at his thumbs, but I could not understand. 'See howsmall they are,' he went on; 'people with such little thumbs can neverdo what they intend to do, they always let themselves be prevented;'and he laughed so kindly that I felt as if his visit had been paid allthe time and quite understood the validity of the excuse."*
*"Blackstick Papers," 1908
It is seldom that the national characteristic reveals itself soplayfully; it is more likely to lead to tragedy. This cardinal factmay militate greatly against Russia's position as a world-power in thefuture, as it has in the past. Her capacity for passive resistance isenormous--Napoleon learned that, and so did Frederick. A remarkableillustration of it was afforded by the late Japanese war, when PortArthur held out long after the possible date assigned by many militaryexperts. For positive aggressive tactics Russia is just as weaknationally as her men are individually. What a case in point is theDuma, of which so much was expected! Were a majority of that DumaAnglo-Saxons, we should all see something happen, and it would nothappen against Finland. One has only to compare it with the greatparliamentary gatherings in England's history.*
* Gogol said in "Dead Souls," "We Russians have not the slightesttalent for deliberative assemblies."
Perhaps if the membership were exclusively composed of women, positiveresults would show. For, in Russian novels, the irresolution of themen is equalled only by the driving force of the women. The Russianfeminine type, as depicted in fiction, is the incarnation ofsingleness of purpose, and a capacity to bring things to pass, whetherfor good or for evil. The heroine of "Rudin," of "Smoke," of "On theEve," the sinister Maria of "Torrents of Spring," the immortal Lisa of"A House of Gentlefolk," the girl in Dostoevski's "Poor Folk;" Duniaand Sonia, in "Crime and Punishment"--many others might be called tomind. The good Russian women seem immensely superior to the men intheir instant perception and recognition of moral values, which givesthem a chart and compass in life. Possibly, too, the women arestiffened in will by a natural reaction in finding their husbands andbrothers so stuffed with inconclusive theories. One is appalled at theprodigious amount of nonsense that Russian wives and daughters areforced to hear from their talkative and ineffective heads of houses.It must be worse than the metaphysical discussion between Adam and theangel, while Eve waited on table, and supplied the windy debaters withsomething really useful.
To one who is well acquainted with American university undergraduates,the intellectual maturity of the Russian or Polish student and hiseagerness for the discussion of abstract problems in sociology andmetaphysics are very impressive. The amount of space given in Russiannovels to philosophical introspection and debate is a truthfulportrayal of the subtle Russian mind. Russians love to talk; they arestrenuous in conversation, and forget their meals and their sleep. Ihave known some Russians who will sit up all night, engaged in thediscussion of a purely abstract topic, totally oblivious to thepassage of time. In "A House of Gentlefolk," at four o'clock in themorning, Mihalevich is still talking about the social duties ofRussian landowners, and he roars out, "We are sleeping, and the timeis slipping away; we are sleeping!" Lavretsky replies, "Permit me toobserve, that we are not sleeping at present, but rather preventingothers from sleeping. We are straining our throats like thecocks--listen! there is one crowing for the third time." To whichMihalevich smilingly rejoins, "Good-bye till to-morrow." Then follows,"But the friends talked for more than an hour longer." In Chirikov'spowerful drama, "The Jews," the scene of animated discussion thattakes place on the stage is a perfect picture of what is happening inhundreds of Russian towns every night. An admirable description of atypical Russian conversation is given by Turgenev, in "Virgin Soil":--
"Like the first flakes of snow, swiftly whirling, crossing andrecrossing in the still mild air of autumn, words began flying,tumbling, jostling against one another in the heated atmosphere ofGolushkin's dining-room--words of all sorts--progress, government,literature; the taxation question, the church question, the Romanquestion, the law-court question; classicism, realism, nihilism,communism; international, clerical, liberal, capital; administration,organisation, association, and even crystallisation! It was just thisuproar which seemed to arouse Golushkin to enthusiasm; the real gistof the matter seemed to consist in this, for him."*
*All citations from Turgenev's novels are from Constance Garnett'stranslations.
The Anglo-Saxon is content to allow ideas that are inconsistent andirreconcilable to get along together as best they may in his mind, inorder that he may somehow get something done. Not so the Russian. Dr.Johnson, who settled Berkeleian idealism by kicking a stone, and theproblem of free will by stoutly declaring, "I know I'm free andthere's an end on't," would have had an interesting time among theSlavs.
It is rather fortunate that the Russian love of theory is so oftenaccompanied by the paralysis of will power, otherwise political crimeswould be much commoner in Russia than they are. The Russian istremendously impulsive, but not at all practical. Many hold the mostextreme views, views that would shock a typical Anglo-Saxon out of hiscomplacency; but they remain harmless and gentle theorists. ManyRussians do not believe in God, or Law, or Civil Government, orMarriage, or any of the fundamental Institutions of Society; but theirdaily life is as regular and conventional as a New Englander's.Others, however, attempt to live up to their theories, not so much fortheir personal enjoyment, as for the satisfaction that comes fromintellectual consistency. In general, it may be said that the Russianis far more of an extremist, far more influenced by theory, thanpeople of the West. This is particularly true of the youth of Russia,always hot-headed and impulsive, and who are constantly attempting toput into practice the latest popular theories of life. Americanundergraduates are the most conservative folk in the world; if anystrange theory in morals or politics becomes noised abroad, theAmerican student opposes to it the one time-honoured weapon of theconservative from Aristophanes down,--burlesque. Mock processions andabsurd travesties of "the latest thing" in politics are a feature ofevery academic year at an American university. Indeed, an Americanstudent leading a radical political mob is simply unthinkable. It iscommon enough in Russia, where in political disturbances students arevery often prominent. If a young Russian gives his intellectual assentto a theory, his first thought is to illustrate it in his life. One ofthe most terrible results of the publication of Artsybashev's novel"Sanin"--where the hero's theory of life is
simply to enjoy it, andwhere the Christian system of morals is ridiculed--was theorganisation, in various high schools, among the boys and girls, ofsocieties zum ungehinderten Geschechtsgenuss. They were simply doingwhat Sanin told them they ought to do; and having decided that he wasright, they immediately put his theories into practice. Again, whenTolstoi finally made up his mind that the Christian system of ethicswas correct, he had no peace until he had attempted to live in everyrespect in accordance with those doctrines. And he persuaded thousandsof Russians to attempt the same thing. Now in England and in America,every minister knows that it is perfectly safe to preach the Sermon onthe Mount every day in the year. There is no occasion for alarm.Nobody will do anything rash.
The fact that the French language, culture, and manners have beensuperimposed upon Russian society should never be forgotten in adiscussion of the Russian national character. For many years, anduntil very recently, French was the language constantly used byeducated and aristocratic native Russians, just as it is by the Polesand by the Roumanians. It will never cease seeming strange to anAmerican to hear a Russian mother and son talk intimately together ina language not their own. Even Pushkin, the founder of Russianliterature, the national poet, wrote in a letter to a friend, "Je vousparlerai la langue de l'Europe, elle m'est plus familiere." ImagineTennyson writing a letter in French, with the explanation that Frenchcame easier to him!
It follows, as a consequence, that the chief reading of Russiansociety people is French novels; that French customs, morals, andmanners (as portrayed in French fiction) have had an enormous effecton the educated classes in Russia. If we may believe half thetestimony we hear,--I am not sure that we can,--Russian aristocraticsociety is to-day the most corrupt in the world. There is an immensecontrast between Parisians and Russians, and the literature that wouldnot damage the morals of the former is deadly to the latter. Thespirit of mockery in the Parisian throws off the germs of theirtheatre and their fiction. I have seen in a Parisian theatre men,their wives, and their families laughing unrestrainedly at a piece,that if exhibited before an American audience would simply disgustsome, and make others morbidly attentive. This kind of literature,comic or tragic, disseminated as it everywhere is among impulsive andpassionate Russian readers, has been anything but morally healthful.One might as rationally go about and poison wells. And the Russianyouth are sophisticated to a degree that seems to us almost startling.In 1903, a newspaper in Russia sent out thousands of blanks to highschool boys and girls all over the country, to discover what booksconstituted their favourite reading. Among native authors, Tolstoi wasfirst, closely followed by Gorki; among foreign writers, Guy deMaupassant was the most popular! The constant reading of Maupassant byboys and girls of fifteen and sixteen years, already emancipated fromthe domination of religious ideas, can hardly be morally hygienic. Andto-day, in many families all over the Western world, Hygiene has takenthe place of God.
Russian novelists have given us again and again pictures of typicalsociety women who are thoroughly corrupt. We find them in historicaland in contemporary fiction. They are in "War and Peace," in "AnnaKarenina," in "Dead Souls," in "A House of Gentlefolk," and in thebooks of to-day. And it is worth remembering that when Tolstoi was ayoung man, his aunt advised him to have an intrigue with a marriedwoman, for the added polish and ease it would give to his manners,just as an American mother sends her boy to dancing-school.
Finally, in reading the works of Tolstoi, Turgenev, Dostoevski, Gorki,Chekhov, Andreev, and others, what is the general impression producedon the mind of a foreigner? It is one of intense gloom. Of all thedark books in fiction, no works sound such depths of suffering anddespair as are fathomed by the Russians. Many English readers used tosay that the novels of George Eliot were "profoundly sad,"--it becamealmost a hackneyed phrase. Her stories are rollicking comediescompared with the awful shadow cast by the literature of the Slavs.Suffering is the heritage of the Russian race; their history issteeped in blood and tears, their present condition seems intolerablypainful, and the future is an impenetrable cloud. In the life of thepeasants there is of course fun and laughter, as there is in everyhuman life; but at the root there is suffering, not the loud protestof the Anglo-Saxon labourer, whose very loudness is a witness to hisvitality--but passive, fatalistic, apathetic misery. Life has beenoften defined, but never in a more depressing fashion than by thepeasant in Gorki's novel, who asks quietly:--
"What does the word Life mean to us? A feast? No. Work? No. A battle?Oh, no!! For us Life is something merely tiresome, dull,--a kind ofheavy burden. In carrying it we sigh with weariness and complain ofits weight. Do we really love Life! The Love of Life! The very wordssound strange to our ears! We love only our dreams of the future--andthis love is Platonic, with no hope of fruition."
Suffering is the corner-stone of Russian life, as it is of Russianfiction. That is one reason why the Russians produce here and theresuch splendid characters, and such mighty books. The Russian capacityfor suffering is the real text of the great works of Dostoevski, andthe reason why his name is so beloved in Russia--he understood thehearts of his countrymen. Of all the courtesans who have illustratedthe Christian religion on the stage and in fiction, the greatest isDostoevski's Sonia. Her amazing sincerity and deep simplicity make usashamed of any tribute of tears we may have given to the familiarsentimental type. She does not know what the word "sentiment" means;but the awful sacrifice of her daily life is the great modernillustration of Love. Christ again is crucified. When the refined,cultivated, philosophical student Raskolnikov stoops to this ignorantgirl and kisses her feet, he says, "I did not bow down to youindividually, but to suffering Humanity in your person." That phrasegives us an insight into the Russian national character.
The immediate result of all this suffering as set forth in the livesand in the books of the great Russians, is Sympathy--pity and sympathyfor Humanity. Thousands are purified and ennobled by these sublimepictures of woe. And one of the most remarkable of contemporaryRussian novels--Andreev's "The Seven Who Were Hanged," a book bearingon every page the stamp of indubitable genius--radiates a sympathy andpity that are almost divine.
This growth of Love and Sympathy in the Russian national character isto me the sign of greatest promise in their future, both as a nationof men and women, and as a contributor to the world's great works ofliterary art. If anything can dispel the black clouds in their drearysky, it will be this wonderful emotional power. The political changes,the Trans-Siberian railway, their industrial and agriculturalprogress,--all these are as nothing compared with the immense advancethat Christian sympathy is now making in the hearts of the Russianpeople. The books of Dostoevski and Tolstoi point directly to theGospel, and although Russia is theoretically a Christian nation, nocountry needs real Christianity more than she. The tyranny of thebureaucracy, the corruption of fashionable society, the sufferings ofthe humble classes, the hollow formalism of the Church, make Russiaparticularly ripe for the true Gospel--just as true to-day as whengiven to the world in Palestine. Sixty years ago Gogol wrote: "What isit that is most truly Russian? What is the main characteristic of ourRussian nature, that we now try to develop by making it rejecteverything strange and foreign to it? The value of the Russian natureconsists in this--that it is capable, more than any other, ofreceiving the noble word of the Gospel, which leads man towardperfection." One cannot read Dostoevski and Tolstoi without thinkingof the truth of Gogol's declaration.
All the philosophy and wisdom of the world have never improved on theteachings of the Founder of Christianity. What the individual andsociety need to-day is not Socialism, Communism, or Nihilism; notemporary palliative sought in political, social, or financial Reform;what we each need is a closer personal contact with the simple truthsof the New Testament. The last word on all political, philosophical,and social questions may still be found in the Sermon on the Mount. Itis a significant fact, that Tolstoi, after a varied and longexperience of human life, after reviewing all the systems of thoughtthat have influenced modern society,
should have finally arrived andfound rest in the statements that most of us learned in childhood fromour mothers' lips.
II
GOGOL
Essays on Russian Novelists Page 1
