Essays on Russian Novelists

by William Lyon Phelps

  As Tolstoi, Garshin, and Andreev have shown the horrors of war, soKuprin* has shown the utter degradation and sordid misery of garrisonlife. If Russian army posts in time of peace bear even a remoteresemblance to the picture given in Kuprin's powerful novel "InHonour's Name,"** one would think that the soldiers there entombedwould heartily rejoice at the outbreak of war--would indeed welcomeany catastrophe, provided it released them from such an Inferno. It isinteresting to compare stories of American garrisons, or such clevernovels as Mrs. Diver's trilogy of British army posts in India, withthe awful revelations made by Kuprin. Among these Russian officers andsoldiers there is not one gleam of patriotism to glorify the drudgery;there is positively no ideal, even dim-descried. The officers are acollection of hideously selfish, brutal, drunken, licentious beasts;their mental horizon is almost inconceivably narrow, far narrower thanthat of mediaeval monks in a monastery. The soldiers are in worseplight than prisoners, being absolutely at the mercy of the alcoholiccaprices of their superiors. A favourite device of the officer is tojam the trumpet against the trumpeter's mouth, when he is trying toobey orders by sounding the call; then they laugh at him derisively ashe spits out blood and broken teeth. The common soldiers are beatenand hammered unmercifully in the daily drill, so that they are allbewildered, being in such a state of terror that it is impossible forthem to perform correctly even the simplest manoeuvres. The onlyofficer in this story who treats his men with any consideration is alibertine, who seduces the peasants' daughters in the neighbourhood,and sends them back to their parents with cash payments for theirservices.

  *Kuprin was born in 1870, and was for a time an officer in the Russianarmy.

  **Translated by W. F. Harvey: the French translation is called "UnePetite Garnison Russe;" the German, "Das Duell," after the originaltitle.

  If Kuprin's story be true, one does not need to look far for the utterfailure of the Russian troops in the Japanese war; the soldiers arehere represented as densely ignorant, drilling in abject terror oftheir officers' fists and boots, and knowing nothing whatever of trueformations in attack or defence. As for the officers, they are muchworse than the soldiers: their mess is nothing but an indescribablyfoul alcoholic den, where sodden drunkenness and filthy talk are thesteady routine. They are all gamblers and debauchees; as soon as a sumof money can be raised among them, they visit the brothel. Theexplanation of the beastly habits of these representatives of the Tsaris given in the novel in this wise: "Yes, they are all alike, even thebest and most tender-hearted among them. At home they are splendidfathers of families and excellent husbands; but as soon as theyapproach the barracks they become low-minded, cowardly, and idioticbarbarians. You ask me why this is, and I answer: Because nobody canfind a grain of sense in what is called military service. You know howall children like to play at war. Well, the human race has had itschildhood--a time of incessant and bloody war; but war was not thenone of the scourges of mankind, but a continued, savage, exultantnational feast to which daring bands of youths marched forth, meetingvictory or death with joy and pleasure. . . . Mankind, however, grewin age and wisdom; people got weary of the former rowdy, bloody games,and became more serious, thoughtful, and cautious. The old Vikings ofsong and saga were designated and treated as pirates. The soldier nolonger regarded war as a bloody but enjoyable occupation, and hadoften to be dragged to the enemy with a noose round his neck. Theformer terrifying, ruthless, adored atamens* have been changed intocowardly, cautious tschinovnih,** who get along painfully enough onnever adequate pay. Their courage is of a new and quite moist kind,for it is invariably derived from the glass. Military discipline stillexists, but it is based on threats and dread, and undermined by adull, mutual hatred. . . . And all this abomination is carefullyhidden under a close veil of tinsel and finery, and foolish, emptyceremonies, in all ages the charlatan's conditio sine qua non. Is notthis comparison of mine between the priesthood and the military casteinteresting and logical? Here the riassa and the censer; there thegold-laced uniform and the clank of arms. Here bigotry, hypocriticalhumility, sighs and sugary, sanctimonious, unmeaning phrases; therethe same odious grimaces, although its method and means are of anotherkind--swaggering manners, bold and scornful looks--'God help the manwho dares to insult me!'--padded shoulders, cock-a-hoop defiance. Boththe former and the latter class live like parasites on society, andare profoundly conscious of that fact, but fear--especially for theirbellies' sake--to publish it. And both remind one of certain littleblood-sucking animals which eat their way most obstinately into thesurface of a foreign body in proportion as it is slippery and steep."

  *Officers.

  **Officials.

  Apart from the terrible indictment of army life and militaryorganisation that Kuprin has given, the novel "In Honour's Name" is aninteresting story with living characters. There is not a single goodwoman in the book: the officers' wives are licentious, unprincipled,and eaten up with social ambition. The chief female character is asubtle, clever, heartless, diabolical person, who plays on her lover'sdevotion in the most sinister manner, and eventually brings him to thegrave by a device that startles the reader by its cold-blooded,calculating cruelty. Surely no novelists outside of Russia have drawnsuch evil women. The hero, Romashov, is once more the typical Russianwhom we have met in every Russian novelist, a talker, a dreamer, withhigh ideals, harmlessly sympathetic, and without one grain ofresolution or will-power. He spends all his time in aspirations,sighs, and tears--and never by any chance accomplishes anything. Theauthor's mouthpiece in the story is the drunkard Nasanski, whoprophesies of the good time of the brotherhood of man far in thefuture. This is to be brought about, not by the teachings of Tolstoi,which he ridicules, but by self-assertion. This self-assertion pointsthe way to Artsybashev's "Sanin," although in Kuprin it does not takeon the form of absolute selfishness. One of Nasanski's alcoholicspeeches seems to contain the doctrine of the whole book: "Yes, a new,glorious, and wonderful time is at hand. I venture to say this, for Imyself have lived a good deal in the world, read, seen, experienced,and suffered much. When I was a schoolboy, the old crows and jackdawscroaked into our ears: 'Love your neighbour as yourself, and know thatgentleness, obedience, and the fear of God are man's fairestadornments.' Then came certain strong, honest, fanatical men who said:'Come and join us, and we'll throw ourselves into the abyss so thatthe coming race shall live in light and freedom.' But I neverunderstood a word of this. Who do you suppose is going to show me, ina convincing way, in what manner I am linked to this 'neighbour' ofmine--damn him! who, you know, may be a miserable slave, a Hottentot,a leper, or an idiot? . . . Can any reasonable being tell me why Ishould crush my head so that the generation in the year 3200 mayattain a higher standard of happiness? . . . Love of humanity is burntout and has vanished from the heart of man. In its stead shall come anew creed, a new view of life that shall last to the world's end; andthis view of life consists in the individual's love for himself, forhis own powerful intelligence, and the infinite riches of his feelingsand perceptions. . . Ah, a time will come when the fixed belief inone's own Ego will cast its blessed beams over mankind as did once thefiery tongues of the Holy Ghost over the Apostles' heads. Then thereshall be no longer slaves and masters; no maimed or cripples; nomalice, no vices, no pity, no hate. Men shall be gods. How shall Idare to deceive, insult, or ill-treat another man, in whom I see andfeel my fellow, who, like myself, is a god? Then, and then only, shalllife be rich and beautiful.... Our daily life shall be a pleasurabletoil, an enfranchised science, a wonderful music, an everlastingmerrymaking. Love, free and sovereign, shall become the world'sreligion."

  In considering Russian novelists of to-day, and the promise for thefuture, Andreev seems to be the man best worth watching--he is themost gifted artist of them all. But it is clear that no new writer hasappeared in Russia since the death of Dostoevski in 1881 who cancompare for an instant with the author of "Anna Karenina," and thatthe great names in Russian fiction are now, as they were forty yearsago, Gogol, Turgenev, Tolstoi, and Dostoevsk
i. Very few long novelshave been published in Russia since "Resurrection" that, so far as wecan judge, have permanent value. Gorki's novels are worthless; hispower, like that of Chekhov and Andreev, is seen to best advantage inthe short story. Perhaps the younger school have made a mistake instudying so exclusively the abnormal.