Samizdat (2015-16)

Самиздат Samizdat

Russian Undergraduate Students’ Society Winter 2016

Editor in Chief Julia Yingling

Editors Ibragim Dibirov Anna Fonesca Mark LeBeau Milan Tessler

Graphic Designer Yolanda Zhang

Photographer Sarah Publie

This Journal is Published Thanks to The Russian Undergraduate Students’ Society The Arts Undergraduate Soceity

ISSN 2369-8497 (Print) ISSN 2369-8500 (Online)

Letter from the Editor-in-chief

I

am delighted to present the Winter 2016 edition of Самиздат. This journal is the culmination of months of hard work from a dedicated team of editors and designers, without whom none of this would be possible, and, of course, all the excellent authors who submitted their work.

I would like to extend special thanks to graphic design editor Yolanda and Caroline, last year’s Editor in Chief.

This year we have a broad range of articles looking at Russian literature and making links with Russia’s culture and politcs, as well as two unique poems in Russian. It is an honor to be able to showcase the work of McGill students at such a high quality, and I hope that you will enjoy exploring Russia in these pages.

С наилучшими пожеланиями, Julia Yingling

Table of Contents Unsolved Problems in Chekhov’s Short Stories

5

Lillian King

From Aesthete to Ascetic: Tracing Tolstoy’s Fraught Relationship with Food

9

Stephanie Borkowsky

Luzhin’s Monomania and Razumihin Sacrifice

21

Jessica Mitchell

Без названия

25

Ibragim Dibirov

The Other as Subject: Consciousness in Crime and Punishment

27

Connor Tannas

Fiction and Metafiction: Analyzing the Authenticity of “The Admiralty Spire”

31

Yueheng “Yolanda” Zhang

Луна танцы

36

Michael Schuck

Russian Self-Victimization and the Language of Imperialism: from Pushkin to Putin Amelia Lindsay-Kaufman

38

UNSOLVED PROBLEMS IN CHEKHOV’S SHORT STORIES Lillian King

A

nton Chekhov, both a writer and a doctor, attributes characters with details and back stories but refuses to diagnose them or their issues.

Similarly, he presents problems in society and his stories often climax at “the event,” generally a point of realization for a character or a step towards a new beginning– and then the story ends. He offers no definitive conclusions, allowing his audience to imagine and fully analyze the advantages and disadvantages of what could happen next to the characters. He understands that their problems do not require one clear answer, and that whatever solution that would arise would have its own drawbacks. In both his use of repetitive language and the way he ends the stories “The Lady with the Little Dog” and “The Bride,” Chekhov presents problems and first-step realizations but does not offer solutions, illustrating the complexities of the problems themselves.

Chekhov demonstrates the intricacies of the character’s situations through his attention to detail and his diction, choosing his descriptions with a belief that everything said and described should be done so for a reason. With his repetition of phrases such as “it seemed” juxtaposed with more definitive language as “finally” and “clearly,” Chekhov criticizes the idea that a story can have an absolute end or that a character can know an ultimate truth and live according to it forever. Repeated words and phrases precisely highlight the source of a problem, for the short story structure does not allow for superfluous detail, and “In [Chekhov’s] view every work of literature should theoretically be a system of

6

interconnected elements, in which nothing can be replaced by anything else; otherwise, the entire system collapses” (Chekhov 549). The phrase “it seemed” appears in “The Lady with the Little Dog” and “The Bride” dozens of times, normally describing a feeling the character has towards his or her current position and how this affects the future. At the start of “The Lady with the Little Dog,” Gorov holds strongly to his belief of women as the “inferior race,” for “It seemed to him that he had been taught enough by bitter experience to call [women] anything he liked, and yet he could not have lived without the ‘inferior race’ even for two days” (Chekhov 415). Convinced that every affair transpires similarly, he sees his time with Anna as one among many, “[Gurov] thought that now there was one more affair or adventure in his life, and it, too, was now over , and all that was left was the memory” (Chekhov 420). But his conclusive thoughts only seem so, they transtition from something “seeming” one way, only to be surprised by a “but…”. Gurov goes on with his life, and “A month would pass and Anna Sergeevna, as it seemed to him, would be covered by mist in his memory[...]. But more than a month passed[...] yet everything was as clear in his memory” (Chekhov 421). By describing the changes Gurov undergoes throughout the story, from scoffing at love to experiencing it in a painful and complicated variation with Anna, Chekhov highlights that what things “seem” only seem so for short periods of time–nothing remains what it seems, everything changes.

This notion of consistent change

and the refusal to lead a character to an ultimate realization appears in “The Bride” as well, with equal if not more force. Throughout the story, the illustration of Nadya’s life changes from strictly descriptive and factual diction to more open-ended “it seemed” instances. At the start, “She, Nadya, was already twenty-three; since the age of sixteen she had dreamed passionately of marriage, and now at last she was engaged; she was to marry Andrei Andreich[...] the date for the wedding was already set, July 7” (Chekhov 481). Her life at home transpires like clockwork–everything preordained to happen–seen through the certainty in the passing of events and the resolute diction. But her life will not continue in such a strict fashion, even though “it seemed [to Nadya] that life would just go on and on this way forever from now on, without change, without end!” (Chekhov 481). The strict sense of finality and absolutism at home cannot continue forever, though Nadya’s mother wants it to. When Sasha arrives, as he does every summer, he tries to pull Nadya away from her predestined lifestyle, but even Sasha’s description and his arguments shows that he is caught in his own cycle, one where he believes that high-minded decisive change is inevitable, without realizing that nothing in fact has changed. He wraps Nadya into this by explaining, “Everything will be overturned; everything will change, as if by magic” (Chekhov 486). This triggers a change in Nadya, who also starts using overarching and generalizing language, sensing that she now knows an ultimate truth and answer. She explains

to her mother, “Try to understand how petty and demeaning our life is. My eyes have been opened, I see everything now” (Chekhov 491). But Chekhov shows that, though Nadya’s life at home was lackluster and her desiring change does offer her a new, perhaps brighter, future, her initial departure will yield no real change. She sits on the train, and “a rush of joy came over Nadya [...]; she recalled that she was on her way to freedom; that she was going to get an education” (Chekhov 493).

In the Russian text, the notion of her “going” already denotes a return through Chekhov’s verb-use; Nadya has not left forever, her situation changes temporarily. In both “The Lady with the Little Dog” and “The Bride,” characters hold onto one belief in the beginning, only for it to change. Through his repetition of “it seemed” as well as characters’ use of decisive language, Chekhov shows that their lives and problems are too complicated for one ultimate change of belief to yield any final truth or better their lives in a permanent way.

Both stories end in a typically Chekhovian fashion, with the characters embarking on a new beginning, without knowing what the end will entail. As Vladimir Kataev explains, “The kind of denouement where the characters are shown to undergo a change had been gradually perfected by Chekhov in a number of his stories” (Chekhov 572). Gorov, Anna, and Nadya all have undergone changes in their respective stories, but those changes are not the finale, “Chekhov makes it clear that these changes are not to be seen as the successful conclusion of the hero’s searchings 7

or the discovery of answers, but as the beginning of new questions” (Chekhov 572). In “The Lady with the Little Dog,” “Gorov and Anna felt that this love of theirs had changed them both” (Chekhov 427). But how it changed them, whether positively or negatively, Chekhov consciously does not include, for “Chekhov’s changes to the text show how he rejected any form of words that could be taken to mean that the character’s searches were over and their problems solved” (Chekhov 573). In the last lines of the story, “it seemed that, just a little more–and the solution would be found, and then a new, beautiful life would begin; and it was clear to both of them that the end was still far, far off, and that the most complicated and difficult part was just beginning” (Chekhov 427). The story ends with the lovers together, facing a new beginning, searching for the answers to dozens of questions. This shows that their problems are more complicated than them solely seeing one another, and by leaving the story open-ended Chekhov highlights these extensive complexities. Similarly, in “The Bride,” the story ends with Nadya embarking on another change, but this time the uncertainty of her future is illustrated, “Before her eyes arose a new life, broad and spacious, and this life, as yet unclear, full of mystery, attracted her, beckoned” (Chekhov 497).

Nadya undertakes a second attempt at changing her life, and the story ends with her starting this new adventure; “She said

her farewells and alive, happy, left the town behind–as she thought, forever” (Chekhov 497). Tinged with both optimism and pessimism, her future remains unclear, but with the addition of “as she thought,” the possibility of a repeated failure exists. With this mixture of possibilities “Chekhov defies expectation and produces a work of uncharacteristic optimism which shows Nadya, by the stories end, being well on her way to becoming a strong, independent, educated women” (Oppenheim 10). While the ending maintains a sense of optimism, Nadya’s journey is clearly far from completion, with the “as she thought” illustrating the existence of multiple obstacles lying in between her and her desired future.

Both “The Lady with the Little Dog” and “The Bride,” written four years apart, follow characters who experience a change of beliefs and start a new beginning after their realizations. By ending the stories with a beginning, Chekhov does not present any ultimate solutions, but merely presents the problems. He shows that nothing is what it seems, that decisive language and truths only need to face some form of opposition or reality before faltering, and that realizing that a problem exists is only one step towards solving it. In Chekhov’s stories, characters and readers do not leave with a saccharine “happily ever after,” but instead receive an infuriating “and they lived happily ever after...for now.”

Work Cited

Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich. Anton Chekhov’s Selected Stories. Ed. Cathy Popkin. New York: WW. Norton, 2014. Print.

8

Oppenheim, Irene. “Chekhov’s TB.” The Threepenny Review 29 (1987): 10-11. JSTOR. Web. 16 Apr. 2015.

FROM AESTHETE TO ASCETIC: TRACING TOLSTOY’S FRAUGHT RELATIONSHIP WITH FOOD Stephanie Borkowsky

L

eo Tolstoy, the celebrated Russian author, philosopher, and iconic cultural figure, had something of a food fetish. He developed and retained a serious preoccupation with the origins and consumption of food, particularly during the latter half of his life. Tolstoy’s attitude towards food evolved throughout the years. He began assessing his relationship to food long before his first published non-fiction work expressly addressing the issue in 1890.

His views were made clear via his fictional writings, where he tended to demonize the Russian aristocracy’s profligate use of food as a source of luxury and pleasure. He personally favored basic peasant fare, prepared simply and consumed as a necessity for strength and nourishment. Early on, Tolstoy imagined a connection between food and sex, one fuelling the other, and resulting in a base and demoralized life. He resolved that a person who eats or performs any activity, solely for personal pleasure, could not achieve a moral existence.

Focusing on the alimentary aspect, this connection between immorality and enjoyment expanded into a doctrine which condemned the consumption of meat, alcohol, caffeine, tobacco, and other luxurious foodstuff.

Although Tolstoy’s vegetarianism may be most easily understood in accordance with his teachings of non-violence, his precept may not be fully appreciated without examining his quest for moral self-perfection. In later works of fiction, Tolstoy’s novellas and short stories sometimes read more like polemical manifestos than as short-form literature. They

10

preach how one should eat, sleep, work and breathe in order to follow his moral framework.

Although his creed did not become widespread in late 19th century Russia, his legacy continues to influence and inspire.

In describing or tracing Tolstoy’s evolving attitude towards food, it is crucial to examine a variety of sources. The second volumes of his diaries and personal correspondence reveal how his ideas of food were intertwined with his private life; while his published works reveal the basis for the establishment of what he preached and how he wished to be perceived.

All of Tolstoy’s works have been thoroughly critiqued and analyzed. However, only recently has a food- based approach to his works been developed. Primarily through the analysis of Tolstoy’s literature, Ronald D. LeBlanc, a professor of Russian and humanities, has delved into the connections Tolstoy formed between food and immorality. The following paper, through analyzing Tolstoy’s published works, diaries and letter, as well as secondary sources on his life and writings, will trace the role of food in this great man’s literature and life.

Tolstoy’s stories celebrate the ordinary functions of everyday life. In his epic works of fiction, he employs food as a theme to illustrate the dichotomy in values between the purity and nature found in the countryside versus the unnatural and corrupt ways of city living.

In Anna Karenina, Tolstoy uses food in order to characterize the dissimilarities between country and city. For the members of the aristocracy residing in

the cities, “eating occasions provided an opportunity to show off […] wealth and power.”1 This approach may be clearly observed through the character Stiva Oblonsky. Oblonsky is a pleasure-seeking aristocrat who despite being intelligent and amicable, leads a morally corrupt life.

He is shown on several occasions with his friend, future brother-in-law, and character antithesis, Konstantin Levin.

Levin is a landowner who, despite being of aristocratic origins himself, chooses to sow the fields alongside his peasants.

Tolstoy bestows worthy and righteous character traits upon Levin: he is hard working, he values his family, and he rejects the lifestyle of the upper class Russian aristocracy. Tolstoy favors “these individuals who advocate and lead a life of integration and restraint, who reside in the country, and appropriately subsist on staple foods.”2 Levin’s disgust and disdain for lavish fare are made especially clear when juxtaposed with Oblonsky.

The two men go for dinner in an ostentatious Moscow restaurant complete with “French menu[s].”3 The passage reflects Brillat-Savarin’s axiom “Dis-moi ce que tu manges: je te dirai ce que tu es.”4 Whereas Stiva Oblonsky derives great enjoyment from dining on oysters and vodka, Levin is clearly uncomfortable with the excess, and “makes an explicit argument against

aristocratic gastronomic culture.”5 He explains the benefit of a rural diet of kasha and shchi, which more efficiently provides energy to the workingman. This simple diet was considered “immensely preferable, in moral as well as gustatory terms.”6 Tolstoy would expand upon this later, as his convictions strengthened. In The First Step, he writes, “For the satisfaction of our needs it is necessary and sufficient to eat bread, porridge, or rice.”7 It is evident here that for Levin, eating is a biological necessity; just as one must sleep, one must eat. For Oblonsky however, eating, or dining rather, is “the crown and hallmark of pleasure.”8

1 Yoon, Saera. Communication or Camouflage: Food and Food Locales in Anna Karenina, 136

5 Yoon, Saera. Communication or Camouflage: Food and Food Locales in Anna Karenina, 138

2 Goscilo-Kostin, Helena. “Tolstoyan Fare: Credo a la Carte”, 482

6 LeBlanc, Ronald D. Slavic Sins of the Flesh: Food, Sex and Carnal Appetite in Nineteenth – Century Russian Fiction, 116

3 Tolstoy, Leo. Anna Karenina, trans. Pevear, Richard and Volokhonsky, Larissa, 34 4 Goscilo-Kostin, Helena. “Tolstoyan Fare: Credo a la Carte”, 483

As in many of Tolstoy’s published works, there is a strong moral objection to sex. Although Tolstoy had not yet fully formed his convictions on vegetarianism or sexual abstinence by the mid 1870’s, when Anna Karenina was being written, we already see his developing opinions on the subject, through the approach adopted by his characters towards food.

Similar to how eating should be a means to an end, that is refueling oneself following a hard day of work, sex too should serve as a means to an end, that end being for reproduction. Hedonistic Oblonsky however looks at both of these acts as an end in and of itself: for delight and gratification. Oblonsky and Levin meet

7 Tolstoy, Leo. The First Step, trans. Robert Chandler, part VIII 8 Tolstoy, Leo. Anna Karenina, 162

11

a second time, by chance, in a train car.

Oblonsky makes a seemingly inappropriate analogy between his lustful appetite and bread by comparing relations with his wife to a daily ration of bread and sex with other women to “a sweet roll so fragrant that you can’t help yourself.”9 Levin listens but is both offended and alienated

by Oblonsky’s way of living.

The sections of Anna Karenina which take place in the cities of Moscow and St. Petersburg, follow various Russian aristocrats in their opulent lifestyles laden with food, sex, and mindless chatter, all of which lead to demoralized character. Princess Betsy’s tea party is an amalgamation of high society peculiarities which Tolstoy condemns as superficial and false. In this situation, the lack of food creates an unnerving backdrop to the interactions that follow, “Anna knew that Betsy knew everything, but [...] she always had a momentary conviction that she knew nothing.”10 The party plays out much like a performance, with props and ornaments, but no real substance.

Despite the “exquisite setting with silver utensils and tea service […] Tolstoy gives no description of the tea they drink.”11 Food often roots a social gathering.

By intentionally removing that aspect, Tolstoy renders the superficial chatter and gossip at the event false and hollow.

In direct contrast to the tea party is a section in which women cook jam on the Levin’s estate. Both gatherings 9 Ibid, 40 10 Tolstoy, Leo. Anna Karenina, 296 11 Yoon, Saera. Communication or Camouflage: Food and Food Locales in Anna Karenina, 139

12

are centered on the idea of food, are attended by women exclusively, who gossip and chatter throughout the affair.

However, the jam making is productive rather than consumptive, the work is the focal point of the gathering, not the act of conversation, as was the situation at the tea party. “Kitty’s jam-making is conducted at a practical level.”12 as opposed to the theatrics and frivolity enacted at high society gatherings.

Although Tolstoy clearly favours this fruitful activity in the pastoral setting of the Russian countryside, as is always the case in Tolstoy’s writing, the scene is nonetheless fraught with romantic overtones, and with an ever-present connection linking food and sex. In the countryside it may be less explicitly spoken of, but is nonetheless equally represented via objects and non-verbal communication. One ornament of particular interest is that of the mushroom. Criticized for being, “too symbolically decisive,” the ornamental motif of the mushroom as “a symbol of both masculine and feminine sexuality.” 13 Tolstoy uses this in the plot of Russian courtship, in which two minor characters: Varenka and Koznyshev, tiptoe around an impending marriage proposal while picking mushrooms. In Russian folkloric culture, “interest in mushrooms [was] a display of depravity or shamelessness.”14 Although this scene is not particularly depraved, 12 Yoon, Saera. Communication or Camouflage: Food and Food Locales in Anna Karenina, 142 13 Mandelker, Amy. Framing Anna Karenina: Tolstoy, the Woman Question, and the Victorian Novel, 166; 173.

14 Ibid, 171

the exchange between the characters is mired in miscommunication and bogged down with shame. Koznyshev intends to propose to Varenka, however both characters lack the passion or audacity to declare their love for one another, instead, their communication of love is non-verbal. His happiness in being near Varenka “grew and grew, and at last reached such a point that…he put a huge birch mushroom…into her basket.”15 This pattern repeats itself: Koznyshev looks over, think about proposing, opens his mouth, and asks Varenka about mushrooms.

They abandon the line of conversation, “both hurt and ashamed,” and move their separate ways. 16 From this pathetic attempt at romantic attachment in which no definite proposal of marriage was made, we come to see the mushroom as more than a mere diversion. Rather it may be viewed as a conductor for the entire situation, raising tensions and passing judgment on the sexual tension through the ornamental motif. In Anna Karenina, Tolstoy uses food to draw distinctions between characters and locales, as well as a device to bring some people together, and to keep other people apart.

For Tolstoy, in order to lead a good life, one must, “learn moderation, restraint, and self-control,” concerning pleasures derived from physical and palatal appetites. 17 Throughout War and Peace, Natasha Rostova struggles to find her ‘good life’ rooted in morality and righteousness. She possesses a liveliness

and spirit which captivate all those who come in contact with her. Her vitality is best captured in a setting which is very dissimilar to that of the soirees and balls she attends in Moscow. It takes place in rural Russia, where she comes to life in an authentic way, performing a native Russian folk dance despite never having been taught. This is a spontaneous expression of her true Russian soul, which, once unburdened by the distractions and extravagance of the urban lifestyle, is able to emerge naturally.

Natasha travels to the Uncle’s home where she encounters an abundance of food: “mushrooms, rye cakes made out of buttermilk, honeycombs, […] roasted chicken, ham, and preserves.” 18 The abundance of foods presented in the rich environments of the cities are often accompanied by ornateness, excessiveness and wastefulness, all things Tolstoy rejected. Here however, the abundance is celebrated as it is wholesome and produced by the consumers themselves: “All of this was the product of Anisya Fyodorovna’s housekeeping, gathered and prepared by her.”19 Here the food and the gathering as a whole are celebrated as instinctive rather than constructed.

It is clear here that the excess, unaccompanied by judgment may “confirm that Tolstoy’s moral code in the 1860’s had not been transformed into dogma.”20 Soon after this scene, Natasha reenters the city and falls prey to corruption through opera and an overwhelming sexual energy

15 Ibid, 172

18 Ibid, 107

16 Tolstoy, Leo. Anna Karenina, 565

19 Ibid

17 LeBlanc, Ronald D. Slavic Sins of the Flesh, 106

20 Goscilo-Kostin, Helena. “Tolstoyan Fare: Credo a la Carte”, 491

13

surrounding her. Tolstoy uses diction often reserved for food-related talk to describe Natasha’s state. While at the opera, Natasha becomes “inebriated” amid the sexually charged atmosphere.21 By conflating a sexually saturated, aristocratic environment with wording associated with alcohol and drunkenness, Tolstoy successfully condemns both aspects.

Tolstoy saw the true danger of alcohol, and later of other mood altering foodstuffs as well, is “that it clouds a person’s moral consciousness.”22 This is precisely what happens to Natasha in this instance.

She is alienated by her surroundings; all she can see onstage is “painted cardboard and strangely dressed men and women.”23 Surrounded by “totally undressed” women, and handsome men, Natasha falls deeper into a state of intoxication and finds herself being led astray by Anatole Kuragin, a selfish and hedonistic young man, who, perhaps more than any other of Tolstoy’s characters, lives for pleasure alone.24 The connection created between Natasha’s state of inebriation and the sexual energy of the affair serves as a basis for Tolstoy’s later works including The Kreutzer Sonata, and Why do Men Stupefy Themselves? After this episode of being led astray, Natasha begins to avoid all forms of external pleasure, “bridl[ing] her sexual passion and find[ing] spiritual redemption.”25 21 Tolstoy, Leo. War and Peace, trans. Pevear, Richard and Volokhonsky, Larissa, 561 22 LeBlanc, Ronald D. Slavic Sins of the Flesh, 108 23 Tolstoy, Leo. War and Peace, 561

14

In both Anna Karenina and War and Peace, Tolstoy utilizes food in myriad ways, in most circumstances, the food motif “aids in satiric characterization.”26 That is, to pass judgment on the lavish customs that led one astray from a good and moral life, and to promote the pure and unpretentious rural lifestyles that provide for sacred living. Tolstoy not only preached these beliefs in his writings, but practiced them by eating a diet free from meat and other rich foods.

A classical interpretation for Tolstoy’s vegetarian lifestyle is that he wished to lead an ethical life governed by non-violence. Many people today avoid animal products because of the maltreatment of animals. Tolstoy’s motivation for his vegetarianism may be explored through this same framework. A number of his diary entries, correspondences and published works support this theory.

Most people who witness the slaughter of an animal would be reluctant to eat it later on. This idea was explored in War and Peace; In Part 1, it is explained, “as a clever maître d’hotel serves up as a specially choice delicacy a piece of beef that no one who had seen it in the filthy kitchen would have cared to eat, so Anna Pavlovna serves up to her guests.”27 Tolstoy points out that many people appreciate a final product without respect for, or even acknowledgment of, its origins. In his infamous The First Step, Tolstoy uncovers the operations from behind the 110

24 Ibid

26 Goscilo-Kostin, Helena. “Tolstoyan Fare: Credo a la Carte”,, 495

25 LeBlanc, Ronald D. Slavic Sins of the Flesh

27 Ibid, 490

closed door of slaughterhouses. The First Step was published in 1892, as a forward to the Russian translation of The Ethics of Diet by Howard Williams. By contributing to such a publication, one might conclude that the basis for Tolstoy’s vegetarianism is purely ethical. However, after ten chapters of his treatise, it becomes clear that his vegetarianism is rooted in more than a simple moral code against animal cruelty or violence.

Throughout the piece, Tolstoy speaks to the function of food, and lack thereof.

In his first paragraph, bread is used as an analogy for leading a good life: “As one cannot seriously wish to bake bread unless one first kneads the flour […] one cannot seriously wish to lead a good life without adopting a certain order of succession in the attainment of the necessary qualities.”28 He also looks at how a food, even one so natural, nourishing, and good, could result in degeneration of morals: “Bread is a necessary and sufficient food […] But it is pleasanter to eat bread with some flavouring,” He amplifies upon this idea, that the flavoring is better with meat, and that this bread is best served alongside rich food, and this rich food is best following appetizers, “and there is no limit to this augmentation.”29 Thus he presents the first step. He targets self-indulgence, more specifically voracity, as an ultimate evil and gathers that a good life, “commences with a struggle against the lust of gluttony – commences with fasting.”30 Once he had

identified this first step, he regresses again, asking: “in fasting […] the question arises, with what shall we begin?”31 At this point, Tolstoy proceeds by showing the reader, rather than sermonizing further, the consequences of their actions in leading a ‘bad life’.

He recounts his visit to a slaughter-house, playing on the emotions of the people he encountered and consequently swaying the reader. Tolstoy asks the butcher if he felt sorry for the animal, and although the butcher refuted this at first, he promptly “admitted that he was sorry for the animal.”32 Tolstoy appeals to the Russian ego, equating the Russian people with goodness, morality and empathy: “Russians cannot kill; they feel pity.”33 He truly believed that all good and honest people would be unable to eat animals; as he wrote in his diary: “it would be good to write about the attitude of uncorrupted children towards vegetarianism – how they know unhesitatingly that one shouldn’t take life.”34 Any living creature, human or otherwise, should be viewed the same. In The First Step, the animals are personified, from the “human-looking pink pig [who squealed with the] “shriek of a man” to the “young, muscular, full of energy” bull, to the baby lambs, “placed upon one of the tables, as if upon a bed.”35 The sequence of events read like a gruesome murder scene: the animals are stabbed, ripped, and dragged 31 Ibid, Part IX 32 Ibid

28 Tolstoy, Leo. The First Step, Part I

33 Ibid

29 Tolstoy, Leo. The First Step, Part VIII

34 Christian, R. F, trans. Tolstoy’s Diaries, 388

30 Ibid

35 Tolstoy, Leo. The First Step, Part IX

15

by men who are so immune to their own evil, that their conversations continue “without the slightest interruption.”36 Following his prolonged description of the murder of these highly anthropomorphized animals, Tolstoy appeals to readers by using the royal we, by including them in the experience he had just outlined: “We cannot pretend that we do not know this. We are not ostriches, and cannot believe that if we refuse to look at what we do not wish to see, it will not exist.”37 Tolstoy’s belief in life rooted in non-violence is a crucial component to understanding the creation of his religion. In a letter he wrote to Mohandas Gandhi in the last year of his life, Tolstoy explores the conflict of love and violence in the world and determines that it may only be resolved by “renouncing all violence” restricted not only to humans, but applying to all living creatures.38 These reasons supply an explanation for Tolstoy’s conversion to a meatless lifestyle which is straightforward, but not fully comprehensive. Tolstoy pursued a vegetarian diet partly for its ethical non-violence, but also as a step in a larger plan, his “quest for moral self-perception,” in which the renunciation of both meat and sex were crucial for attaining moral purity. 39

In order to understand Tolstoy’s abstention from eating animals, it is crucial to explore his avoidance of other 36 Ibid 37 Ibid, Part X 38 Christian, R. F, trans. Tolstoy’s Letters: Volume II, 1880-1910, 708 39 Glants, Musya. Food in Russian History and Culture, 103

16

gustatory pleasures as well as his general disgust with gluttony. The years surrounding the 1891 famine would define Tolstoy’s worldview for his final 20 years.

He would renounce his earlier works, adopt a meat-less, alcohol-less, and tobacco-less lifestyle, produce non-fictional essays and exhortative novellas, and work the fields with his peasants in an effort to relieve the destitution and famine. In August, Tolstoy would claim, “the only way to help a horse to drag its load is to get off its back.”40 He believed the only approach to the famine was to leave the peasants to their own devices as they knew best. He was also disturbed by people’s reactions to the famine, noting: “people who have never though about others […] suddenly for some reason are burning with the desire to serve them.”41 However, several months later, Tolstoy visited the famine stricken areas and “joined the ranks of those who were feeding the hungry.”42 For the next two years, Tolstoy, with the help of his children, would set up 30 eating houses that fed approximately 1,500 starving peasants.43 Without rye and wheat, which made up the base of the peasant diet, they had to resort to root vegetables and alternative grains to feed the masses. A cycle of cabbage soup, boiled potatoes, porridge and pea-broth was sustained until the good harvest of 1893 and Tolstoy returned to Moscow.

Why do Men Stupefy Themselves? was 40 Maude, Aylmer, The Life of Tolstoy: Volume II, Later Years, 295 41 Christian, R. F, trans. Tolstoy’s Diaries, 263 42 Maude, Aylmer, The Life of Tolstoy, 296 43 Ibid, 302

written as a forward to Dr. Alexyev’s book on “drunkenness” published in 1890.44 The essay explores the polemic against substance abuse through asking the simple question of why people turn to substances, which have “destroy[ed] more people than all the wars and contagious diseases added together.”45 People respond by saying ‘because everyone else is doing it.’ Tolstoy refused to accept this as the whole and only truth, and was determined to delve into the crux of the issue.

He was struck by this issue as pertained to the peasants, starving and impoverished: “they don’t have anything, but they still drink. They are like children who laugh when they get into trouble.”46 All activities, he believes, may be reduced to those activities which bring a person into ‘harmony with conscience,’ or those which serve to hide from a person the ‘indications of conscience.’ Therefore, “hashish, opium, wine, and tobacco” serve as man’s vice and means of avoiding the real and virtuous world.47 A man’s shame will stop him from making immoral choices which he may fantasize about while sober. He outlines anecdotes of murders committed under the influence of vodka, adultery committed after drinking wine, and concludes that stupefying substances are employed to “stifle the voice of consciousness.”48 By reflecting back on his 44 Ibid, 241 45 Tolstoy, Leo. Trans. Maude, Aylmer. “Why Do Men Stupefy Themselves?” in Recollections and Essays, 68 46 Christian, R. F, trans. Tolstoy’s Diaries, 264 47 Tolstoy, Leo. Why Do Men Stupefy Themselves?, 70 48 Ibid, 75

own personal experiences with tobacco, he is able to convey personability while retaining a sense authority on the subject. There is an intrinsic evil that lies within those foods which can alter someone so precisely. He experimented with avoiding, even cutting out whole groups of food which he deemed unfavorable.

In 1893, Tolstoy wrote in his diary, “I’ve completely given up tea, coffee, sugar, and above all milk.”49 Although he later admits to returning to caffeine and sugar, he continues to abstain from these foods, which he considered dangerous for the good and moral soul.

In his earlier fiction, Tolstoy explored the ideas of food and drink as linked to moral conduct. However, he had not yet fully formed his convictions against all manners of food, drink, and substance which he now considered demoralizing.

In War and Peace, Natasha finds herself in a state of inebriation amidst the sexually charged, theatrical, and immoral environment. This scene, despite its clear role in conveying Tolstoy’s beliefs, still adds to character and story development.

However, his later works would preach his moralist teachings much too overtly, leaving the fictitious story element almost completely by the wayside.

“What causes gastronomic pleasure to become so distasteful and such a necessary evil for Tolstoy is, in large measure, the belief that eating can lead directly to the arousal of sexual desire.”50 Tolstoy’s vegetarianism is not for health 49 Christian, R. F, trans. Tolstoy’s Diaries 275 50 LeBlanc, Ronald D. Slavic Sins of the Flesh, 110

17

concerns but was associated with moral virtue. It has traditionally been viewed in an ideological light and understood primarily in the humanitarian context this would have it that he was prescribing to ethical vegetarianism as understood today.51 Ronald D. LeBlanc, examines Tolstoy’s vegetarianism through a less morally righteous lens. While he does not dispute that his conversion to a meatless diet was not in some part due to his non-violence views he does believe that Tolstoy’s desire for discipline and moral self-perception were equally, if not more so, at play. Tolstoy’s vegetarianism is inherently connected to his abstention from all things natural and pleasurable, as he came “increasingly to regard pleasures of both the flesh and the plate as sinful temptations.”52 Tolstoy took his beliefs to a new level when he wrote The Kreutzer Sonata. This 1889 novella encompasses what Tolstoy would consider all the external evils that could completely disintegrate man’s moral consciousness. The narrative takes place on a train, where Pozdnyshev engages in a conversation about love, sex and marriage. He recounts an unfortunate affair, which reads like a cautionary tale. Pozdnyshev suspected that his wife, Liza, was having an affair with a violinist, Troukhatchevsky. He hears them playing Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata together, becomes enraged and leaves, returning days later only to find them together.

He kills his wife with a dagger as her lover escapes. The themes and motifs 51 Glants, Musya. Food in Russian History and Culture, 84 52 Ibid, 85

18

condemned in this work are numerous and overwhelming. Similar to his description of the opera “intoxicating” Natasha in War and Peace, here Tolstoy explores the extremes to which music might drive someone. Just as one may find oneself under the influence of alcohol, Pozdnyshev finds himself “under the influence of music” and “under the influence of physical excitement” losing all sense of morality and consciousness. 53 The murder scene can be compared to both rape and animal slaughter, “the momentary resistance of her corset, and of something else as well, and then the way the poniard sank into something soft.”54 The dehumanization of his wife is reminiscent of the humanization of the animals in The First Step, as both she and the animals were “warm, moving, living creatures […] transformed into cold, immobile, waxen one[s].”55 After he stabbed his wife he sat down, thinking “about nothing, remembering nothing”56 going straight for his cigarette and matches” to lose himself in thoughtless stupefaction.

Tolstoy had reviewed in Why do Men Stupefy Themselves? how men require something to dull their senses and lose themselves in order to allow them to “commit actions contrary to conscience.”57 Pozdnyshev cannot fully realize his actions until a cigarette had “rendered [him] 53 Leo Tolstoy. The Kreutzer Sonata, trans.

David McDuff, 96 54 Ibid, 113 55 Ibid, 118 56 Ibid, 114 57 Tolstoy, Leo. Why Do Men Stupefy Themselves? 71

senseless.”58 Before the protagonist recounts his past, he engages in conversation with people aboard the train. They discuss a multitude of issues, all with the single common denominator of the shameful condition of contemporary society. When one passenger says “men can’t survive without it,” referring to sex, Podzdnyshev replies by comparing it to a need for mood altering substances: “Tell a man he needs vodka, tobacco and opium, and all those things will become necessities for him.”59 Tolstoy thereby draws the clear connection between the gustatory evils and sexual deviance.

Pozdnyshev’s “systematic arousal of lust” was in fact caused by “the excessive quantities of food [he] had consumed during a life of idleness.”60 Without an outlet, these evils fester and build up inside of someone. The story of The Kreutzer Sonata preaches that notwithstanding the circumstance of prayer in church or melody for dancing, music should not be played, just as without physical exertion, there is no need for food.

Tolstoy received so many questions concerning the piece that he published an official response to clarify and solidify his message. In his Epilogue to The Kreutzer Sonata, Tolstoy openly explains

the requirements for “leading a natural way of life – not drinking, not eating to excess, not eating meat, and not shirking physical toil.”61 This leaves no doubt as to Tolstoy’s strict approach towards food: there is no place for alcohol, meat, or general gluttony in a good and moral life.

The Kreutzer Sonata “states all too overtly what Anna Karenina merely implies.”62 Whereas his epic fiction merely implies the connection between demoralizing behaviour and certain fare, his novella plainly asserts it.

Tolstoy took his avoidance of certain foods further, explaining to his son that it was “bad to drink strong coffee” as he tried to abstain from anything he thought may affect his consciousness.63 Although he was perhaps not so earnest when it came to this conviction, he writes in a 1902 letter on his dedicated lifestyle, “vegetarianism, which I have never consciously betrayed in the course of 20 years.”64 Tolstoy was living out what he believed to be a journey of moral self-perfection. In the end though, Tolstoy merely preached moderation somewhat immoderately.

61 Ibid, 268 58 Leo Tolstoy. The Kreutzer Sonata, 114

62 Goscilo-Kostin, Helena. “Tolstoyan Fare: Credo a la Carte”, 493

59 Ibid, 62

63 Christian, R. F, trans. Tolstoy’s Diaries, 242

60 Ibid, 46; 47

64 Ibid, 622

19

Work Cited

Tolstoy, Leo. Tolstoy’s Diaries. Trans. R.F. Christian. London: Harpercollins, 1996. Print.

Tolstoy, Leo. Tolstoy’s Letters: Volume II, 1880-1910. Trans. R.F. Christian. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1978. Print.

Food in Russian History and Culture. Ed. Musya Glants, Joyce Toomre. Indiana: Indiana University Press, 1997. Print.

Goscilo-Kostin, Helena. “Tolstoyan Fare: Credo a la Carte.” The Slavonic and East European Review 62.4 (1984): n.pag. Print.

LeBlanc, Ronald D. Slavic Sins of the Flesh: Food, Sex and Carnal Appetite in Nineteenth-Century Russian Fiction. New Hampshire: University Press of New England, 2009. Print.

Mandelker, Amy. Framing Anna Karenina: Tolstoy, the Woman Question, and the Victorian Novel. Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1993. Print.

Maude, Aylmer, The Life of Tolstoy: Volume II, Later Years. London: Humphrey Milford, 1930.

Print.

Tolstoy, Leo. War and Peace. Trans. Richard Pevear, Larissa Volokhonsky. London: Penguin Group, 2008. Print.

Tolstoy, Leo. Anna Karenina. Trans. Richard Pevear, Larissa Volokhonsky. London: Penguin Group, 2002. Print.

Tolstoy Leo. The Kreutzer Sonata. Trans. David McDuff. New York: Dover Publications, 1993.

Print.

Tolstoy, Leo. “Why Do Men Stupefy Themselves?” Recollections and Essays. Trans. Maude, Aylmer. Oxford University Press, 1946. Print.

Tolstoy, Leo. The First Step. Trans. Robert Chandler. San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1987. Print.

Yoon, Saera. “Communication or Camouflage: Food and Food Locales in Anna Karenina.”

Studies in Slavic Cultures 2 (2001): 135-150. Indiana: University of Indiana. Web.

20

LUZHIN’S MONOMANIA AND RAZUMIHIN SACRIFICE Jessica Mitchell

M

onomania and sacrifice are pervading themes in Crime and Punishment. Although Raskolnikov’s insane narcissism and Sonia’s poetic self-sacrifice seemingly occupy the novel’s forefront, Dostoevsky also depicts selfishness and sacrifice on a second, more ordinary level. Luzhin, the conceited miser, exemplifies the sins of banal egocentrism while Razumikhin demonstrates the importance of quiet generosity. Luzhin and Razumikhin supplement the Raskolnikov and Sonia narrative by illustrating the self-absorption and altruism of everyday life.

Monomania

L

uzhin typifies petty egoism. In every scene in which he appears, Luzhin is unfailingly driven by his need for mastery and praise. Luzhin is “morbidly given to self-admiration” and “gloated in solitude over his image in the glass”. When he first met Dunia, “her helpless position had been a great allurement”. He wants to marry Dunia to fulfill his dream of a lifelong fantasy of having “absolute, unbounded power over” a pretty, well-bred girl “completely humbled before him.” He visits Raskolnikov and agrees with the harebrained musings of his ward to “hear agreeable flattery.”

Luzhin does not wonder if he is an ordinary man; his every action betrays his certainty of being extraordinary (243).

Intense conceit drives both Luzhin and Raskolnikov to consider murder. If Luzhin could kill by wishing, he “would

22

promptly have uttered the wish” to eliminate unpleasant obstacles (285). In this regard, both Luzhin and Raskolnikov are guilty. The only difference that separates Luzhin and Raskolnikov is “a paltry three thousand ... too.” If Luzhin found himself in as desperate situation as Raskolnikov, his same “pride and vanity” might propel him to depravity (385).

Despite his high position and security, Luzhin does violate the boundaries of right and wrong for personal advancement. He is discourteous to his fiancée, rushing their wedding at “post-haste” because he has important business to attend to (33). Despite his fortune, he makes the poor widow Pulcheria pay for all her travel arrangements using her meagre pension. When his engagement is broken, he protests that he was “led [...] in expenses” (242). Much more seriously, Luzhin frames the innocent Sofia to “estrange [Raskolnikov] from [his] family [...] no other!” (316). As Raskolnikov murders “for [himself] and [himself] alone,” Luzhin repeatedly, if less dramatically, transgresses against those around him (329).

Unlike Raskolnikov, Luzhin is able to use societal conventions to obscure his monomania. Luzhin is “on the surface very polite in society, [...] makes a point of great punctiliousness” and often assumes a “lofty tone” (235, 249). His appearance is “charming [...] very fresh” (117). Although he is “a mean and spiteful man,” he never oversteps the boundaries of decorum and is always confident that “the helplessness of his victims” will allow him to remain guiltless (241-242)

Raskolnikov, in contrast, is “a special case” (271). He isolates himself from society and is visibly distanced from it. He “kept aloof from everyone” (43). Even in the tawdry Hay Market, he sets himself apart from the motley crowd, being “so badly dressed [...] rags” (2). Nearly everyone he meets concludes that he is “seriously ill” because of his “nervous irritability” (384). Although some are willing to overlook his “originality of conduct” because he “is a man of intellect,” Raskolnikov is consistently set apart from humanity (415). While Raskolnikov is visibly distinguished by his “accumulated bitterness and contempt,” Luzhin can shield his ego with social polish (2).

Luzhin and Raskolnikov also differ significantly in how they view their crimes. While after the murder Raskolnikov is tortured by a “sensation of agonising and everlasting solitude” and was in a “great hurry to condemn [himself],” Luzhin remains unaware that he did anything wrong (341). He acts only in response, and “blames [Raskolnikov], and him alone, for everything” (242). He defends the idea of selfishness saying, “science now tells us, ‘love yourself before all men’” (119). Raskolnikov, though seriously disturbed and isolated, has enough presence of mind to agonise over his crimes. Luzhin, on the other hand, “had too much confidence in himself, in his power” to allow for critical self-examination (241). By confessing his sin suffering for it, Raskolnikov is “sent life again” (330). Luzhin, who cannot admit that he has transgressed, exits the novel “dumbfounded” and “squealing” (313).

Sacrifice

J

ust as Sonia’s divine goodness acts as a foil to Raskolnikov’s monomania, Razumikhin is the inverse and opposite of Luzhin’s banal egoism. Like Luzhin, Razumikhin is a believable, ordinary human being. Dostoevsky shades him with various personal details: there is “no limit to his drinking powers [...] he sometimes went too far in his pranks” (43). He is self-effacing and humble; he is, self-admittedly “a fool” who “showed his true nature at once” (159). Like Luzhin, his appearance does not reflect his inner character; he is “unkempt, unshaven, unwashed” (90). Razumikhin’s humanness contrasts sharply with Sonia’s remove from ordinary life. A martyred prostitute, Sonia is an antimony of extreme loftiness and baseness. She is the first to be reviled and the first to be forgiven (18). She possesses no personal identifiers that do not denote poverty and sacrifice.

This poverty severely limits Sonia’s options, making her extreme devotion and goodness almost inevitable. When she has only “the canal, the madhouse, [...] depravity,” she turns to self-sacrifice (256). Beyond spiritual or physical death, she has no other option to choose from.

Razumikhin, an ordinary man with a much wider range of possibility, actively chooses generosity. He is “good natured to the point of simplicity,” and repeatedly goes out of his way to help others. He befriends Raskolnikov, “a remarkable” feat, then nurses him back to health (42).

Instead of resuming his normal life when Raskolnikov’s family arrives, he instead 23

“takes his place with them as a son and a brother” (249). Razumikhin could easily have chosen a different, less altruistic path. “Obliged to give up the university,” Razumikhin might have easily retreated into self-pity and “haughty pride” like Raskolnikov. He might also have resumed “working with all his might” and become a selfish, “self-made” man like Luzhin (42, 29). Instead, he looks out for himself and for others decently and judiciously. Razumikhin is “a man because [he] err[s];” he is selfless because he is “delighted [...] to serve (244).”

While Raskolnikov and Sonia illustrate selfishness and sacrifice in bold colours, Luzhin and Razumikhin are ordinary men who inhabit a world of “petty vanities” (84). They make everyday choices—neither one murders and neither one must sell himself to save his starving family. Although their decisions and struggles are far less sensational, Luzhin and Razumikhin illustrate monomania and sacrifice just as importantly as Raskolnikov and Sonia. Extraordinary or ordinary, each character is equally essential to the novel’s overall depiction of monomania and sacrifice.

Work Cited Dostoyevsky, Fyodor. Crime and Punishment. Trans. Constance Garnett. Mineola, NY: Dover, 2001. Print.

24

БЕЗ НАЗВАНИЯ Ibragim Dibirov

Вот первый шаг, ты на пороге Своей двери, открытий, неизведанных окраин. Дом покидаешь; не счесть в дороге Людей добра, чудес и тихих тайн. Внутри спокойствие витает и тепло? Твой мир тебя всегда согреет еще больше. И помни говорить “спасибо” злу назло, И беспокоить оно тебя не будет дольше. Покамест живы тело, дух и вера, Мы Боги, только знаем лишь чуть-чуть, Что горы покорять мы можем смело, Ведь смотрим чтиво, где только одна жуть. Где люди бедны, богаты и жестоки, Где я, со мной, мне и меня, Где вечно обличаются людей пороки, Негативизма новшеств никогда не временя. Закрой глаза, открой и погрузись В мир красок, звука, тишины. Пройдя чрез много жизней, ты очнись Ведь все мы есть одно, все, я и ты.

26

THE OTHER AS SUBJECT: CONSCIOUSNESS IN CRIME AND PUNISHMENT Connor Tannas

M

ikhail Bakhtin, in his critical work Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics, advances the claim that the theme of Dostoevsky’s work is the “affirmation (and non-affirmation) of someone else’s ‘I’ by the hero” (Bakhtin 10), proposing essentially that at the heart of the novel lies a multiplicity of consciousnesses engaging in a continuous dialogic affirmation of each other as subjects, rather than as the objects of an authorial vision. “At the heart of the tragic catastrophe in Dostoevsky’s work there always lies the solipsistic separation of a character’s consciousness from the whole, his incarceration in his own private world” (Bakhtin 10). It is precisely this realization of the inescapable phenomenally separate nature of conscious existence, and the tension arising from the awareness that all other conscious beings are themselves also isolated subjects asserting themselves as such, that necessitates the “penetration” of this solipsistic separation through the dialogic mediation of consciousness between subjects (Bakhtin 10). As such, the purpose of this essay is to corroborate this account given by Bakhtin, as well as to expand upon the nature of this conflict as it pertains to Crime and Punishment: namely, that the perfect nature of Raskolnikov’s crime serves to necessitate and provoke the complete solipsistic isolation of Raskolnikov from the whole plurality of consciousness around him. Moreover, the plot of the story advances entirely through the tension created by this separation, as the awareness of the conscious mediation of others upon the self renders the maintenance of total solipsism im-

28

possible, and ultimately it is only through confession that Raskolnikov penetrates the otherness of those around him and is able to overcome his alienation from the plurality of consciousness surrounding him.

In order to develop this conclusion, it is necessary first to delineate the way in which the nature of Raskolnikov’s crime provokes a complete solipsistic separation of his self from the plurality of consciousness around him. What must be noted is that, whether by luck or by fate, Raskolnikov manages to perform the murder without being witnessed and without leaving any traceable evidence linking him to the crime scene.

Upon hiding the various stolen articles beneath a rock, Raskolnikov proclaims that “the traces are covered! […] It’s finished! No evidence!” (Dostoevsky 109). It is true-besides minor links between him and Alyona Ivanovna, there is no material evidence for Raskolnikov’s guilt. Consequently, all knowledge of Raskolnikov’s act is contained exclusively within his inner self, a fact which necessitates a solipsistic separation between Raskolnikov’s self-consciousness as an axe-murderer and his public reputation as an attractive and intelligent former student. This disparity is only an explicit expression of the already intrinsically separated nature of conscious existence as an assertive “I” from everything else.

The vastness and irreconcilability of this separation is thus an isolated instance of Raskolnikov’s alienation from his family and from society, the extreme nature of which is evidenced through Raskolnikov’s feelings that “it seemed to him

that […] he had cut himself off […] from everyone and everything” and “not only would he never have the chance to talk all he wanted, but that it was no longer possible for him to talk at all, with anyone, about anything, ever,” when he is perceived as a beggar and offered alms and when he attempts to converse with his family, respectively (Dostoevsky 115, 229). Raskolnikov is thus forced to remain incarcerated within himself, as to share this truth with others would be to condemn himself to an uncertain fate.

The tension created by this disparity between Raskolnikov and society drives the conflict throughout the novel.

This tension exists because the dialogic nature of consciousness renders total solipsism impossible to maintain.

Raskolnikov exists as an isolated subject in the world, but it is in a world where others exist equally as subjects asserting themselves and mediating each other in a plurality of consciousnesses. The truth of the crime may be hidden from others, but the knowledge and intentions of others are equally hidden to Raskolnikov.

This is clear through the way all advancements of the plot take place through dialogic interactions within this multiplicity of consciousnesses. Unlike the traditional detective novel, where the detective forms inductive conclusions based upon material evidence in order to solve the mystery, in Dostoevsky’s novel the criminal is already known to the reader and his identity is revealed to the others exclusively through Raskolnikov’s words and reactions. The fact that Raskolnikov is necessarily ignorant of the internal states of others quite clearly provokes in-

tense internal conflict within him – his first thoughts upon waking up after the murder are regarding the ambiguity resultant from his solipsistic isolation when he says “Lord! Only tell me one thing: do they know all about it, or do they not know yet? And what if they already know and are just pretending […]” (Dostoevsky 126). When he faints in the police office, when he tests Zamyotov, and all the times he shows interest in the crime are all instances of him trying to resolve the inherent ambiguity of not knowing what others are thinking. His inability to endure this ambiguity is most explicitly shown when he cries “I repeat […] that I can no longer endure…” before having his thought finished by Porfiry, who interrupts with “What, sir? The uncertainty?” (Dostoevsky 348). Ultimately, he proclaims: “if only I were alone and no one loved me, and I myself had never loved anyone! None of this would be;” it is because of the tension of his solipsistic isolation and the inescapable mediations of others that he ultimately is not able to contain the truth within himself (Dostoevsky 520).

Raskolnikov finally, as a result of giving himself away through a number of actions, is forced to confess, but the act of confession allows him to overcome his solipsism and resolve the tension between self-isolation and the mediation of others. By confessing, by projecting his self outwards rather than keeping it isolated, he is able to understand and be understood by Sonya. The resolution of tension is clear when he goes to confess and feels “that Sonya was now with him forever and would follow him even to the 29

ends of the earth;” instead of uncertainty, there is the unambiguously conscious affirmation of another’s intentions (Dostoevsky 526). The mutual destruction of solipsistic confinement is explicitly shown when he repents in the prison camp, and “in that same moment, she understood everything […] for her there was no longer any doubt that he loved her […] the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the other” (Dostoevsky 549). “Instead of dialectics,” the constant sense of opposition between subject and other, “there was life;” in spite of imprisonment, Raskolnikov attains a sense of freedom (Dostoevsky 550).

Thus, it is clear that Raskolnikov’s confession is the final overcoming of his own solipsistic self-imprisonment.

In spite of the truth of the crime having been entirely contained within himself as a paradigm of his own imprisonment within the solipsism of conscious expe-

rience, ultimately the ambiguity of the dialogic interactions with the plurality of other conscious subjects proves unbearable. The proposition of self as an “I” in opposition to a set of others as objects is shown to be false; in reality, others exist equally as subjects and are self-asserting and equally solipsistically confined. The ambiguity of these mediating interrelationships ultimately can only be broken through the affirmation of another as ‘I’, in this case, of Sonya. By affirming Sonya as a concurrent subject, rather than an opposing object, Raskolnikov penetrates and dissolves his solipsism, and thus resolves the tension that previously had driven him to the brink of insanity.

Dostoevsky’s realism is thus, as shown

by Bakhtin, beyond that of the mere individual; as in real life, the individual is only a part of a broader, interdependent whole.

Works Cited Bakhtin, Mikhail. Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984. Print.

Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Crime and Punishment. Trans. Constance Garnett. Mineola: Dover Publications Reprint, 2001. Print.

30

FICTION AND METAFICTION: ANALYZING THE AUTHENTICITY OF “THE ADMIRALTY SPIRE” Yueheng “Yolanda” Zhang

I

n his short story “The Admiralty Spire” Vladimir Nabokov simultaneously presents two identically-entitled fictions, one contained by another: first, Serge Solntsev’s novel Admiralty Spire, which controversially recounts the love story of the narrator and his lover Katya; second, Nabokov’s metafiction of the same title, in which the narrator casts doubt upon the authenticity of former tale. This essay will examine the authenticity of both fictions by analyzing their forms and contents and eventually argue that, while the authenticity of the embedded fiction remains ambiguous, that of the metafiction establishes stylistic and thematic significances, allowing Nabokov to play a mind game with and heighten the self-awareness of the reading public.

Solntsev’s novel appears inauthentic in its form, as the narrator delivers an alternative version of the story with extra verisimilitude full of visual imagery of tangible details. First, the narrator complains that Solntsev’s use of novelistic cliché hinders the expression of genuine emotions. For example, the narrator recalls Solntsev using the phrase “joy jubilant” (351) to depict the lights on the Christmas tree, and comments that “one adjective placed after the noun for the sake of elegance is enough to kill the best of recollections” (351). Indeed, not only are “joy” and “jubilant” repetitive in their meanings, they are also only associated with abstract concepts that directly spell out the emotion itself, namely, “happiness” or “triumph”, without offering the reading public a concrete embodiment of such emotions. Moreover, the unwonted

32

alliteration on the consonant “j” also elicits from the reading public an artificial sensation of excessive ornamentation, and the French style of word order, placing adjectives after nouns, simply carries a literary pretentiousness. In his attempt to correct Solntsev’s inauthentic version of the story, the narrator argues that “[the true version of the same recollection] was the rippling, fragmentary light in Katya’s eyes, and the cherry reflection on her cheek from the glossy little dollhouse of plasmic paper hanging on a branch…”

(351). Instead of deliberately embellishing the memory, the narrator meticulously provides a series of visual images of tangible and relevant objects, such as “the rippling light” and “glossy little doll”, and lets them freely and naturally draw out emotional resonance from the reading public. By doing so, the narrator paints a concrete and sensual picture of his past experience and preserves the authenticity of the story from the torment of Solntsev’s “nauseating whiff of literary combustion” (351).

Although persuasive in its form, the narrator’s storytelling lacks a concrete foundation in its content, mostly due to his unreliable first-person narrative, which easily opens the door for the reading public’s subjective interpretations.

One of the most prevalent readings of the narrator’s alternative tale, for example, identifies the character Katya as an invented metaphor for Russia. To begin with, the progression of the narrator’s love affair with Katya oftentimes overlaps with some major historical events in the country. For instance, their breakup in “that fall and that winter” (354) im-

mediately follows the Russian October Revolution of 1917. On that occasion, the jolly rioters’ “squashing of a passing cat” on Milton Street in St. Petersburg foreshadows the downfall of the narrator’s relationship with Katya (354). More straightforwardly, the narrator actually establishes a parallelism between Russia and Katya through the two divergent descriptions of the same snapshot, supposedly, of himself walking on a marvelous landscape. The first account of the snapshot is offered in the parable at the very beginning, in which the narrator only highlights “the marvelous landscape” along with “turbulent waters” and “bindweed”, without specifying the presence of anyone else other than himself (349).

In the second account, however, the narrator clearly indicates Katya’s appearance in the same snapshot, by claiming that “[when he] looked and looked at the snapshot in which, with a gleam on [Katya’s] lip and a glint in [Katya’s] hair, [Katya is] looking past [him].” (356) To reconcile such conflict, one could first follow the Russian literary tradition, as seen in Gogol’s Dead Souls and Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons,1 and easily form the connection between the “marvelous landscape” and the tsarist Russia.

Next, by comparing such “marvelous” geographical features, “the pinning turbulent waters”, to the ethereal human features of Katya, such as “the gleam” and 1 In Dead Souls, Gogol sees Russia as a peculiar landscape, a special atmosphere, a symbol, a long, long road. (Nabokov 32) In Fathers and Sons, Turgenev includes descriptions of the Russian countryside landscape to embody the country’s Enlightenment past and the potential revolutionary future. (Turgenev 10, 11)

“the glint”, one could then picture the latter as an invented metaphorical figure made for the former. Such interpretation is further reinforced here and there throughout the story, especially when in the end both Katya and Russia, who, loyal to the Reds, betray the narrator who joins the White Army in Solntsev’s original tale. As this only represents one of the many other sound interpretations, one inevitably casts doubt on the credibility of the story content, regardless of the narrator’s stylistic attempts to reinforce verisimilitude in his narrative.

Once the authenticity of the fiction Admiralty Spire remains ambiguous, Nabokov shifts the focus to his own metafiction “Admiralty Spire”. First of all, it is considered an authentic story in its form, because Nabokov playfully follows an unconventional, a-chronological syuzhet, instead of a plain and objective fabula, to define the relationships between his characters. The most powerful example of such inconspicuous transition in his metanarrative is the sudden shift of identity towards the end: Katya is no longer addressed in the third person, but rather in the second. The narrator’s closing line of his recollection ends with, “I just silently kissed her [Katya’s] hand, which slipped back into its muff forever.” (356) Immediately after, he spontaneously attempts to restore Katya from his memory by reciting a poem, which serves as a platform for him to speak directly to Katya in the intimate second person: “Farewell, […] / Along the paths of the old garden / We two shall never pass again,” (356). However, even after the poem is over, the narrator still does 33

not change back to refer to Katya in the third person in his memory; instead, he clings to the position where he could converse directly with Katya in the present moment. For example, he intends to transcend the boundary of time to live out his memory in the now by praising Katya’s beauty according to his recollection, “you were beautiful, impenetrably beautiful, and so adorable that I could cry …” (356). Such determination to live in the memory-filled world of art instead of mundane reality rather comes unobtrusively from the character’s own epiphany at some point during the poem and not as a result of Nabokov’s overt intervention as the author. In this case, Nabokov breaks free from the traditional chronological method of structuring, such that the shift of person does not necessarily follow any other major events in a sequence but only follows spontaneous and authentic emotions.

Second, Nabokov’s metanarrative is also considered innovative and original in its content, as it vividly depicts a reader’s psychology projecting his own subjective thoughts into a literary work.

One one hand, for example, at the beginning of his letter, the narrator surmises that the novelist Solntsev is a female writer and presents a close-text analysis of the novelist’s diction and grammar. “[His] predilection for such expressions as ‘time passed’ or ‘cuddled up frileusement in Mother’s shawl’ […]” (348). Given the narrator’s subsequent tendency to discern Solntsev’s true identity as Katya, one might argue that his conviction

34

about Solntsev’s gender is merely a result of his biased mentality as a reader and a demonstration of his unjustified projection of himself in his attempt to understand a literary text. This is because, in a more objective lens of reading, diction such as “time passed” and “frileusement” only indicates a heightened sensitivity in creative writing, which does not necessarily overlap with the female authorship.

What’s more, on the other hand, having delineated the character of the narrator as a flawed reader plagued by self-fulfilling prophesy, Nabokov implicitly allude to the isomorphic reading experience of the general readers themselves. In the same way as the narrator casts a projective point of view when interpreting Solntsev’s novel, we, the reading public, also live vicariously within Nabokov’s twofold lines in his metafiction “Spire”, and stubbornly attempt to argue for the authenticity of one version of the Spire over the other. By heightening the readers’ self-consciousness, Nabokov invites us to reflect upon our identity as solipsist readers in his metanarrative.

The authenticity of Nabokov’s metafiction prevails that of the nested fiction with an unobtrusive syuzhet and an incisive criticism on the projective psychology of the readers. Consequently, the banal and fruitless debate over the reliability of Solntsev’s novel becomes a merely secondary concern, as Nabokov’s metanarrative directly engages the reading public into a playful dialogue that reflects upon the reading experience itself.

Works Cited

Bowers, Fredson Thayer. “Nikolai Gogol.” Vladimir Nabokov: Lectures on Russian Literature.

London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1982. 32. Print.

Nabokov, Vladimir. “The Admiralty Spire.” The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov. Ed. Dmitri Nabokov. New York: Vintage Books, 2006. Print.

Turgenev, Ivan. Trans. Michael R. Katz. Fathers and Sons. New York: W. W. Norton, 2009. 1011. Print.

35

ЛУНА ТАНЦЫ Michael Schuck

Обман воздуха тает в монохромной лужице и выцветают световые духи. Устойчивые и прозрачные выдохи красят и украшают девственную и бледную ночь. Они пралегают вокруг лунных сталбов и сумеречная Луна окружает неподвижность c его меловых губах. Обескровленные светлячки падают на отбелённую почву.

37

RUSSIAN SELF-VICTIMIZATION AND THE LANGUAGE OF IMPERIALISM: FROM PUSHKIN TO PUTIN Amelia Lindsay-Kaufman

R

ussia has received a great amount of media attention recently for its involvement in the Crimean Crisis. From a Western point of view the situation may seem perplexing and even ridiculous, especially Putin’s remarks on the necessity of the invasion.

However, Russia’s annexation of Crimea makes more sense when it is examined along with Russia’s history as an empire.

The Russian people value being part of a powerful empire in a way that North Americans have no context to understand. Putin’s popularity in Russia stems from the fact that Russians believe he will make their country powerful again.1 The annexation of Crimea is the most recent of a list of annexations that goes back nearly to the beginning of the Russian state, and there are many parallels between the Crimean Crisis (and other conflicts occurring currently around Russia) and historical occupation of the Caucasus. One of these parallels is the rhetoric that is used to garner support for imperialist military actions. The rhetoric commonly used in association with Russian conquest of the Caucasian tribes in the 18th and 19th centuries can be seen in literary works from that time period that take place in the Caucasus. Pushkin’s poem Prisoner of the Caucasus and other works inspired by it exemplify this rhetoric and even validated it by serving as the main source of information about the Caucasus for the majority of Russians.

The tricks of language and rhetoric used to rationalise aggression against Circassians, Chechens, Dagestanis, Tatars, Cos1 Bakunina, Jana. “Why Do Russians Still Support Vladimir Putin?” NewStateman. N.p., 4 Mar. 2015. Web.

sacks, and other peoples were encouraged by Pushkin and are still used today in current politics.

It will help in understanding the use of imperialist language to look at a brief history of Russian imperialism. Since Ivan III’s annexation of Novgorod and Tver for the Grand Duchy of Moscow in the 15th century, the state we now call Russia has been capturing nearby lands for most of its history. One official rationale for the annexation of land by Ivan III was that Moscow would become a refuge for Christianity in the form of a third reincarnation of the Roman Empire. After Ivan IV became the first Tsar, he annexed several khanates populated mostly by Tatars. Peter the Great won territory on the Gulf of Finland in order to have access to the sea. In 1721 Peter I assumed the title of Emperor and Russia officially became an empire. Peter I also became the first Russian ruler to exert control in the Caucasus and Caspian Sea with a short-lived reign over Safavid territories resulting from The Russo-Persian War (called “The Persian Expedition of Peter the Great” by Russians). Catherine II claimed territory up to the Black Sea from the Ottoman Empire. She also annexed territories of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth, which had been ruled by Russia for over a century. The annexation was justified by the fact that most of the inhabitants were Orthodox Christians. Following Catherine II, Alexander I took Finland from the Swedish Empire and Bessarabia from the Ottoman Empire. In 1817 Russia entered the Caucasian War, during which Russia acquired areas in the North Caucasus and violently expelled many Circas39

sians to Persia. By the reign of Nicholas I Russia had control over all Ottoman territories in Persia and the Caucasus. In the Crimean War of 1853-56 Russia was defeated after France and Britain allied with the Ottoman Empire in order to prevent further acquisition of territory at the expense of the declining empire, thus setting a precedent of western nations interfering with Russian conquests.

In 1863 Alexander II, in response to uprisings in Poland, abolished Poland’s autonomy and incorporated it into Russia.

After the 1917 revolution and the formation of the Soviet Union, many territories and ethnic groups were incorporated into the Union, including Baltic, Central Asian, Caucasian, and Eastern European nations. The Soviet Union often touted its ethnic diversity and the cooperation between its constituent peoples. During WWII Stalin seized control of several Eastern and Central European countries (including Poland, Romania, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, and Bulgaria) with the rationale that the Soviet Union needed a buffer zone to protect it from Germany.2 After the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991 and the creation of the Russian Federation many Russians were upset by their loss of empire status, and when the Republic of Chechnya attempted to become independent Russia invaded and started the first and second Chechen Wars. Following a rise in influence of the imperialist political party Eurasianism, Putin annexed Crimea from Ukraine in 2014, justifying the action by claiming that the region is mostly inhabited by Russians 2 “Russian History: Kievan Rus.” Russiapedia | Russian History. TV-Novosti, n.d. Web. 19 Mar. 2016.

40

and was previously part of Russia. The history of Russia is the continuous history of an empire, and the acquisition of new land has been a goal and mark of success of its leaders for centuries. Despite no longer being an empire officially, Russians have not lost this mindset.

There is a strong connection between Russia’s attempts at expansion and literary accounts of the lands that Russia invades, specifically the Caucasus. In 1820 and 1821 Pushkin wrote his poem Prisoner of the Caucasus (Кавказский пленник), the first in his series of Byronic poems, inspired by his own travels in the Caucasus. Pushkin was part of the Russian Romantic movement, and this poem heavily features Romantic themes such as nature and the power of primitivism. The plot of the poem follows a Russian officer who has been taken captive by Circassians.3 Just as he is about to die of dehydration and/or starvation, a beautiful native girl comes to him at night and brings him food and water. She visits him every night and quickly professes her love for him, begging him to take her away and save her from marriage to an unknown man in another town. He, jaded by previous relationships with insincere and cold Russians, tells her that he is incapable of returning her love. Meanwhile by day, the officer observes the life and customs of the Circassians and comes to admire their aptitude for battle and their genuine enthusiasm for life. Eventually the girl comes to him at night when the other villagers are distracted and frees him 3 Pushkin, Aleksandr Sergeevich. “Prisoner of the Caucasus.” The Complete Works of Alexander Pushkin. Norfolk: Milner, 1999. 101-22. Print.

by cutting his chains. He tells her that he loves her after all and asks her to leave with him. She refuses, and in the end throws herself in a river as he escapes.

This poem was written during the Russo-Circassian War, during which Peter I invaded Circassia in order to have better access to the Black Sea and thus a military advantage over the Ottoman Empire. 4 The end of the poem directly references the invasion by mentioning General Aleksey Yermolov, a successful military figure appointed in 18165 (“But lo! The east shall howl with woe. Yield, and bow down your heads of snow, Yield, Caucasus, here comes Yermolov!”). 6 While it was not the first literary work describing the conquest of the Caucasus, Pushkin’s poem to a great degree turned Russian public attention to the Caucasus and established the region as an oriental one in Russian consciousness. This was intensified by the fact that Pushkin’s description was seen as valid, “reliable ethnography” (despite the fact that Pushkin had never actually met a Circassian) and the exaggerated descriptions of the Circassians was often taken at face-value.7 Pushkin uses many phrases in describing the Circassians that helped construct an 4 “Caucasian War of 1817–64.” The Great Soviet Encyclopedia. N.p.: n.p., n.d. N. pag. TheFreeDictionary.com. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

5 Foley, Patrick. “Ermolov.” Russias Periphery.

N.p., Jan. 2012. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

6 Pushkin, Aleksandr Sergeevich. “Prisoner of the Caucasus.” The Complete Works of Alexander Pushkin. Norfolk: Milner, 1999. 101-22. Print.

7 Layton, Susan. “Introduction.” Russian Literature and Empire: Conquest of the Caucasus from Pushkin to Tolstoy. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1994. 1-14. Print.

oriental image, specifically one of noble savagery. He describes the Caucasians as wild and free (‘And all their thrilling, wild existence”), strong and violent (“Fly, effortlessly leaping up, To learn war’s methods in advance”, “Behind him runs a trail of blood”), and primitive (“To such a love, childlike and frank”, “And yet a world which stays the same, Must weary hearts for warfare born…slaves heads into the dust would fly, to cheers of rapturous young men”).8 The coinciding of the rise of Romanticism and the rise in popularity of travel accounts of the Caucasus meant that often the Caucasus was described in the Romantic style, i.e. with flowery, emotion-laden, nature-related phrasing. This association with nature helped the association between the Caucasus and orientalism, with Pushkin’s poem being one of the most widely read Romantic accounts. In fact, Pushkin’s Prisoner of the Caucasus was so iconic that the title and basic storyline have become a trope in Russian literature, appearing in works by Tolstoy, Lermontov, Bitov, and Makanin, a ballet based on the original poem, and more than five films.

The end result of this trend was that, once the Caucasian peoples had been branded with the oriental, “noble savage” image, Russia was able to feel itself culturally superior.9 Even though Pushkin may have been against the violence of the Caucasian War, literature including his poem helped justify efforts to wipe 8 Pushkin, Aleksandr Sergeevich. “Prisoner of the Caucasus.” The Complete Works of Alexander Pushkin. Norfolk: Milner, 1999. 101-22. Print.

9 Foley, Patrick. “Cultural Depictions of the Caucasus.” Russias Periphery. N.p., Jan. 2012. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

41

out local culture in the Caucasus and replace it with Russian culture. Russia has often struggled with its own identity as either Asian or European, but we can see even in the phrasing of Pushkin’s poem that Russia at this time was attempting to label itself as European. When the Russian officer in the poem is watching the Circassians, Pushkin writes, “The mind, though, of the European, These wondrous folk could not help heeding”10 in order to contrast the sophisticated Russian culture with the “oriental” culture of the Caucasians. Even though the ending of Pushkin’s poem already seems to endorse the Russian invasion, at the time of its publishing the ending was thought to be not patriotic enough, and it was changed in the ballet version to be more suitable to Russian audiences. In the ballet, “Circassians are the aggressors, and Russian troops take up arms only in their efforts to free their compatriot. The Circassian woman ably swims to shore with her beloved; the two are wed in holy matrimony; and her Circassian khans take pains to pledge allegiance to the Russian crown publicly”.11 It is interesting that in this story a Russian is at the mercy of peoples who in reality were subjugated

by Russians. This dynamic hence will be called “self-victimization”. Self-victimization will refer to telling an account and painting oneself as a victim or passive party when realistically one represents or acts as an aggressor. The trend in this sto10 Pushkin, Aleksandr Sergeevich. “Prisoner of the Caucasus.” The Complete Works of Alexander Pushkin. Norfolk: Milner, 1999. 101-22. Print.

11 Grant, Bruce. “The Good Russian Prisoner: Naturalizing Violence in the Caucasus Mountains.”

Cultural Anthropology 20.1 (2005): 39-67. Web.

42

ry is one of self-victimization on the part of the Russians. During a time of Russian aggression and conquest in Caucasian territories when Russia had a military advantage in terms of both technology and population, a story that resonates to such a great extent with Russian audiences is one in which a Russian is the injured party. “It is less clear why the idiom of the prisoner has resonated so long with audiences despite the establishment of a firm stronghold in the south”.12 This self-victimization functions as subtle imperialist propaganda as it builds a conception of Caucasian peoples as violent and dangerous in the minds of Russian citizens.

“Yermolov’s policies, although extremely brutal by any standard, were based upon a set of preconceptions articulated by the literary minds of the early nineteenth century”.13 Due to its establishment of the Caucasus as Russia’s orient and the Caucasians as primitive barbarians, Pushkin’s Poem Prisoner of the Caucasus helped further the Russian imperialist conquest of Circassia, Chechnya, Dagestan, and other Caucasian lands.

Inspired by Pushkin’s poem were many other literary works dealing with Caucasian peoples, often with the same name, “Just as the novels of James Fenimore Cooper led to an explosion of the so-called “dime novel” Westerns in the United States, so Pushkin’s stories spawned a series of widely available romantic stories about the Caucasus.

These works helped tie down the images 12 Ibid 13 Foley, Patrick. “Ermolov.” Russias Periphery.

N.p., Jan. 2012. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

that Pushkin had already established”.14 Tolstoy’s story Prisoner of the Caucasus was written in 1872 and had a similar story to Pushkin’s poem; a Russian soldier Zhilin is captured by “Tatars” (Tolstoy’s collective term for all Caucasian groups) and held for ransom until a young Tatar girl helps him escape.15 Tolstoy’s story was hugely popular and was used in the curriculum for Russian schoolchildren (and a movie version of it was made in 1996, showing that the story is still popular), and it too helped to build the conception of the Caucasus that dominated in the minds of Russian citizens during and beyond the time of the Caucasian War. Tolstoy depicts his Tatars as fighting purely for enjoyment and being not at all interested in Russian “civilization”. Bruce Grant notes a logical inconsistency in the popularity of Russian hostages in Russian literature; that they were the only thing of value possessed by Caucasians (“Already this plotline is a puzzle: for despite the fact that the Caucasus had been famous for its Silk Road trade routes since the 9th century, the ironic premise in these stories is that the mountain highlanders had little of their own to barter. To participate in the new social order, Caucasians had to acquire a new currency of exchange value—a Russian body”).16 Mikhail Lermontov also wrote a story titled Prisoner of the Caucasus which was heavily influenced by Pushkin’s writing, 14 Foley, Patrick. “Cultural Depictions of the Caucasus.” Russias Periphery. N.p., Jan. 2012. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

15 Grant, Bruce. “The Good Russian Prisoner: Naturalizing Violence in the Caucasus Mountains.”

Cultural Anthropology 20.1 (2005): 39-67. Web. 16 Ibid

however more interesting is his story The Hero of our Time as it portrays the Russian officers much more negatively than preceding stories. The protagonist, Grigory Alexandrovich Pechorin, is cynical, arrogant, jaded, and unconcerned with the feelings of others. In the substory called “Bela,” Pechorin has a beautiful Circassian girl named Bela abducted for him, reversing the established prisoner relationship, and eventually wins her complete devotion and love. Once Bela loves him, Pechorin becomes bored with her and is tempted to leave and continue traveling, claiming that he is, like Pushkin’s prisoner, incapable of love. When Bela is kidnapped by Pechorin’s enemy and is mortally wounded, he stays with her as she slowly dies and deliriously professes her love for him. After her death he is only slightly emotionally affected, and coldly leaves.17 Notably, even though Lermontov portrays Russians unsympathetically, he maintains the same oriental descriptions of his Circassians. Bela is a primitive, innocent girl, and Pechorin’s enemy Kazbich is a ruthless fighter who most values his horse. Makanin’s 1995 story Prisoner of the Caucasus was written during the First Chechen War, in which Russia under Yeltsin invaded the Chechen Republic after they had separated from the Republic of Ingushetia and declared independence from Russia in 1993. The story deals with a Russian soldier who has taken a Chechen hostage but finds himself attracted to his prisoner, whom he eventually kills to protect 17 Lermontov, Mikhail, Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov, and Dmitri Nabokov. A Hero of Our Time: A Novel. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1958.

Print.

43

his military mission.18 While the captor/captive dynamic is reversed from in Pushkin’s poem, the Russian is still emotionally ensnared by not only the beauty of his hostage but also by the beauty of the landscape. Shockingly, even though the story was intended to show dissatisfaction with Russia’s involvement in Chechnya, Makanin, in a sense, has still managed to frame the Russian as a victim rather than an aggressor. As the Russian colonel is bartering with a Chechen soldier, the Chechen remarks “Me, a prisoner? You’re the prisoner here…. He’s a prisoner. You’re a prisoner. And every one of your soldiers is a prisoner.”19 Additionally the Russian soldiers are impressed by the natural beauty of the Chechen landscape, but they are simultaneously intimidated by it (“They sensed the beauty of the mountains too well, and it was frightening. A spring suddenly leaping forth in a mountain gorge. Even more alarming for both was an open meadow, which the sun had painted a blinding yellow.”)20 This story is a further example of Russian self-victimization in the context of imperialist conquests.

One interesting interpretation of self-victimization is that Russians are discomforted by the oriental Caucasus because of their own uncertain identity. Some military aggression can be explained by suggesting that Russia was trying to distance its culture from the 18 Makanin, Vladimir. “Prisoner of the Caucasus.” Out of the Blue: Russia’s Hidden Gay Literature: An Anthology. San Francisco, CA: Gay Sunshine, 1997. N. pag. Print.

19 Ibid 20 Ibid

44

cultures of the Caucasians as much as possible by asserting its European sophistication. Layton wrote that “Pushkin, Bestuzhev-Marlinsky, and Lermontov produced the Muslim tribes as unusually problematic noble primitives who raised restive issues of Russia’s own semiAsian identity”.21 This could account for Russians’ desire to see the peoples of the Caucasus as a threat, as well as Russia’s desire to have its own Orient to civilize like the countries of Europe.

Russian annexation of nearby autonomous peoples did not stop in the 19th century; today Russia is involved in conflicts in Georgia, Chechnya, and Crimea. Very similar language is being used today to justify Russia’s actions in these conflicts as was used during the Caucasian War. The conflict in Georgia stems from the fact that Russia supported South Ossetia in its attempts to break off from Georgia, as South Ossetia will likely be absorbed into the Russian Federation once its independence is recognized by Georgia. In March of 2015 Putin and the South Ossetian leader Tibilov signed the Treaty on Alliance and Integration, which provides South Ossetia with monetary aid and protection as well as “hand[ing] border control to Russia, which would also formally take charge of South Ossetia’s economy and military.

Residents of the region would also have easier access to Russian citizenship.”22 21 Layton, Susan. “Introduction.” Russian Literature and Empire: Conquest of the Caucasus from Pushkin to Tolstoy. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1994. 1-14. Print.

22 “On Crimea Anniversary, Russia Signs South Ossetia Deal” DW.DE. N.p., 18 Mar. 2015. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

The signing of this treaty has been criticised by western leaders as it is almost certainly the first step in annexing South Ossetia, and many fear that Putin will try to rebuild a Russian empire by taking over more regions. In a speech, Putin has claimed that the United States interfered in Georgia and is responsible for the conflict, and that Russia had no choice but to invade when many of its peacekeepers in South Ossetia were killed.23 Georgia’s former president Saakashvili accused Putin of attempting to gain control of former Soviet nations, and has said “Armenia has been cornered and forced to sign a customs union that is not in this nation’s interest or in the interest of our region. Moldova is being blockaded, Ukraine is under constant attack, Azerbaijan faces extraordinary pressure, and Georgia is occupied. Why? Because an old empire is trying to reclaim its bygone borders”.24 Putin’s remarks about the conflict emphasize the violence of Georgia’s attack on South Ossetia (“The Georgian leadership have resorted to very aggressive actions against South Ossetia”25) and the loss of lives, including those of Russian peacekeepers, and the facts that it is their duty to intervene (“This is a worrying development, which of course we will have to respond to…. All of us have to do our best to stop the bloodshed”).26 23 Chance, Matthew. “Putin Accuses U.S. of Orchestrating Georgian War.” CNN. Cable News Network, 28 Aug. 2008. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

24 McChesney, Andrew. “Russia Walks Out During Saakashvili’s ‘Crazy’ Speech.” The Moscow Times. N.p., 27 Sept. 2013. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

25 RUSSIA & GEORGIA at WAR! Aug. 8, 2008.

Putin’s Speech. YouTube. N.p., 8 Aug. 2008. Web. 26 Ibid

This is reminiscent of rhetoric used in the 19th century to justify the invasion of Circassia. The conflict in Chechnya is a continuation of the conflict of the Chechen Wars in the 90’s. In 1999 Russia invaded Chechnya again (in response to an armed incursion led by Chechen fighters in support of a Dagestani separatist movement) and ended completely the de facto independence of the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria.27 Sporadic violence is still common in Chechnya. Putin in his speeches and articles emphasizes the senseless violence of the rebel fighters (“Likewise, those who do not understand good intent and good, normal language, those who do not wish to lay down their arms and who continue fighting against their own people, must also be found and punished”) and the necessity of intervening in order to prevent further casualties (“Sadly, decisive armed intervention was the only way to prevent further casualties both within and far outside the borders of Chechnya, further suffering by so many people enslaved by terrorists”28).

In an opinion piece for the New York Times in 1999 Putin, in order to gain American support for Russia’s actions in Chechnya, argued that the Chechen separatists were associated with Osama bin Laden. He wrote that “the same terrorists who were associated with the bombing of America’s embassies have a foothold in the Caucasus. We know that Shamil Basayev, the so-called Chechen warlord, gets assistance on the ground from an 27 “Chechnya Profile - Overview.” BBC News.

N.p., 9 Dec. 2014. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

28 Putin, Vladimir. President of Russia. N.p., 12 Dec. 2005. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

45

itinerant guerrilla leader with a dossier similar to that of Osama bin Laden. And one of your television networks recently reported that -- according to United States intelligence sources -- bin Laden himself is helping to finance the guerrillas.”29 Putin’s fear-mongering relies on the fact that Russian people still imagine Caucasian peoples as being violent and uncivilized, a conception which traces its way back to Pushkin’s poem Prisoner of the Caucasus. Russia’s latest imperialist action was the annexation of Crimea in 2014, the justification of which being that Crimea is mostly populated by ethnic Russians and most Russians consider Crimea a part of Russia.30 While Crimea is not in the Caucasus, some of the same rhetoric is used referring to the annexation of Crimea as to the annexation of Caucasian nations. This rhetoric can be seen in Putin’s March 2014 speech on his reasons for annexing Crimea. Putin uses so much self-victimization that it cannot all be listed in this essay. He reminds the Russian citizens repeatedly that Russia’s interests were threatened or that Russia had been dealt some kind of injustice (“It was only when Crimea ended up as part of a different country that Russia realized that it was not simply robbed, it was plundered,” “And what about the Russian state? What about Russia? It humbly accepted the situation. This country was going through such hard times then that realistically it was incapable of protecting its interests.”). He also uses the same ra29 Putin, Vladimir. “Why We Must Act.” The New York Times. 13 Nov. 1999. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

30 Putin, Vladimir. “Full Text of Putin’s Speech on Crimea.” PRAGUE POST. N.p., 19 Mar. 2014.

Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

46

tionalisation as in Chechnya and South Ossetia; that Russia must intervene to prevent violence, claiming that “naturally, we could not leave this plea unheeded; we could not abandon Crimea and its residents in distress. This would have been betrayal on our part.”31 Another strong connection with the Caucasian War is the fact that Putin argued that Russia had not really invaded Ukraine.

He insisted that Russian troops were already there as per an agreement, and defended other aspects of the invasion on legal technicalities: “What exactly are we violating? True, the President of the Russian Federation received permission from the Upper House of Parliament to use the Armed Forces in Ukraine. However, strictly speaking, nobody has acted on this permission yet. Russia’s Armed Forces never entered Crimea; they were there already in line with an international agreement.

True, we did enhance our forces there; however – this is something I would like everyone to hear and know – we did not exceed the personnel limit of our Armed Forces in Crimea, which is set at 25,000, because there was no need to do so.”32 This is in a similar manner to Russians attempting to rationalize invasions of the Caucasus during Pushkin’s time.

Layton writes that “…Russian historian Adolf Berzhe objected to the very word “conquest”… by arguing that the annexation of the Caucasus had unfolded over the centuries in a haphazard, virtually 31 Ibid 32 Ibid

unwilled manner”.33 Both of these arguments represent attempts to dither over words and obscure past events to avoid blame.

In examining language used to refer to Caucasians and the annexation of the Caucasus by Pushkin and by other writers after him, and language today used by Putin to refer to the annexation of Crimea and Russia’s military involvement in South Ossetia and Chechnya, there can be seen several trends. First, in the case of Caucasian peoples, stereotypes were created to build conviction that Russia needed to occupy land to function as a civilizing force for the ultimate benefit of the tribes living there. In Pushkin’s case this consisted of depicting Caucasians as violent and uncivilized. In Putin’s case this consists of labeling his enemies as terrorists and warlords who either do not understand what they are doing or are actively seeking to harm civilians. Second, self-victimization was used to garner sympathy for Russia and blur perceptions of blame. In the various works with the title Prisoner of the Caucasus self-victimization took the form of reversing the power dynamic between

representatives of Russia and of the Caucasus. The stories frequently showed Russians in danger of being harmed, dominated, or overwhelmed by Caucasians in order to sow paranoia and thus support for military campaigns. In present day Russia, self-victimization is a tool commonly used by Putin to justify use of military force. It is much more pleasant for one to feel that one has been wronged than to feel guilty that one has wronged someone else. Therefore, self-victimization is an effective way to distract and placate the Russian populace from real issues and create a sense of entitlement.

These tactics used by Russian writers, historians, and politicians throughout Russia’s history have dangerous consequences and should be met with suspicion. It is almost certain that Putin, with the enthusiastic support of the Russian populace, would like to control a “Eurasian Empire”, and it is likely that he will try to realise this goal in some form. We must recognize his propaganda for what it is, and perhaps use this understanding to try to curb Russia’s imperialist ambitions to protect the autonomy of nearby nations.

33 Layton, Susan. “Introduction.” Russian Literature and Empire: Conquest of the Caucasus from Pushkin to Tolstoy. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1994. 1-14. Print.

47

Works Cited Bakunina, Jana. “Why Do Russians Still Support Vladimir Putin?” New Statesman: Free thinking since 1913. New Statesman, 4 May 2015. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

“Caucasian War of 1817–64.” The Great Soviet Encyclopedia. TheFreeDictionary.com, n.d. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

Chance, Matthew. “Putin Accuses U.S. of Orchestrating Georgian War.” CNN. Cable News Network, 28 Aug. 2008. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

“Chechnya Profile.” BBC News. N.p., 9 Dec. 2014. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

Foley, Patrick. “Cultural Depictions of the Caucasus.” Russias Periphery. N.p., Jan. 2012. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

Foley, Patrick. “Ermolov.” Russias Periphery. N.p., Jan. 2012. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

Grant, Bruce. “The Good Russian Prisoner: Naturalizing Violence in the Caucasus Mountains.”

Cultural Anthropology 20.1 (2005): 39-67. Web. Layton, Susan. “Introduction.” Russian Literature and Empire: Conquest of the Caucasus from Pushkin to Tolstoy. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1994. 1-14. Print.

Lermontov, Mikhail, Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov, and Dmitri Nabokov. A Hero of Our Time: A Novel. Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1958. Print.

Makanin, Vladimir. “Prisoner of the Caucasus.” Out of the Blue: Russia’s Hidden Gay Literature: An Anthology. San Francisco, CA: Gay Sunshine, 1997. N. pag. Print.

McChesney, Andrew. “Russia Walks Out During Saakashvili’s ‘Crazy’ Speech | Business.” The Moscow Times. N.p., 27 Sept. 2013. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

“On Crimea Anniversary, Russia Signs South Ossetia Deal.” DW.DE. N.p., 18 Mar. 2015. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

Pushkin, Aleksandr Sergeevich. “Prisoner of the Caucasus.” The Complete Works of Alexander Pushkin. Norfolk: Milner, 1999. 101-22. Print.

Putin, Vladimir. “Full Text of Putin’s Speech on Crimea.” PRAGUE POST. N.p., 19 Mar. 2014.

Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

Putin, Vladimir. “Why We Must Act.” The New York Times. 13 Nov. 1999. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

Putin, Vladimir. President of Russia. N.p., 12 Dec. 2005. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

RUSSIA & GEORGIA at WAR! Aug. 8, 2008. Putin’s Speech. YouTube. N.p., 8 Aug. 2008. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

“Russian History: Kievan Rus.” Russiapedia | Russian History. TV-Novosti, n.d. Web. 15 Apr. 2015.

48

ISSN: 2369-8497 (Print) ISSN: 2369-8500 (Online)