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RUSSIAN UNDERGRADUATE

STUDENT’S SOCIETY

САМИЗДАТ САМИЗДАТ САМИЗДАТ САМИЗДАТ САМИЗДАТ САМИЗДАТ Samizdat САМИЗДАТ САМИЗДАТ САМИЗДАТ САМИЗДАТ САМИЗДАТ САМИЗДАТ САWinter САМИ2021 САМИЗДАТ САМИЗДАТ САМИЗДАТ

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

FORGOTTEN BASTARDS OF THE EASTERN FRONT AND SOVIET JUDGEMENT AT NUREMBERG IN DIALOGUE by Presian Dragiev

NABOKOV AND GNOSTICISM: META-FICTIONAL STRUGGLES WITH MATERIALISM by Will Schumer

TWOFOLD DEATH IN A DOUBLE LIFE by Gavin Jolly

THE CONCEPTION OF MAN IN M. GORKY’S THE LOWER DEPTHS: AN EXPLORATION ON THE NECESSITY OF TRUTH AND LIES FOR THE HUMAN EXPERIENCE by Elizabeth Franceschini MIKHAIL BAKHTIN’S “POLYPHONY” IN FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY’S NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND AND THE ETERNAL HUSBAND by Elizabeth Franceschini TRADITION AND REBELLION: THE MOTHER-DAUGHTER RELATIONSHIP IN EVGENIA TUR’S ANTONINA by Sheena Li THE ECONOMY OF DESIRE:AN ANALYSIS OF DOSTOYEVSKY’S PARADOXICAL POWER DYNAMICS by Rebecca Turner

“IDEALLY NAKED”: SENSE OF PLACE IN RETURN OF CHORB AND VISIT TO A MUSEUM by Fernanda Rengel

A SONATA IN TWO NORMS by Ethan Mendell

EDITOR’S COMPENDIUM

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS EDITOR-IN-CHIEF NICHOLAS HOWELL GRAPHIC DESIGNER ANNA MARUKHNYAK EDITORS GENEVIEVE COBEN DARIA GORDON ELIZABETH HURLEY ANNA MARUKHNYAK NATALIE PAVLOVIC RATHUJA SIVASUBRAMANIAM AUTHORS PRESIAN DRAGIEV ELIZABETH FRANCESCHINI GAVIN JOLLY SHEENA LI ETHAN MENDELL FERNANDA RENGEL WILL SCHUMER REBECCA TURNER

Well, we did it. After weeks of emails, zoom calls, and more emails, the 2021 edition of Samizdat lives. From the beginning we knew it would be a process, and a publication, unlike any before it, but that is what a semester unlike any other deserves. When I was selected to be this year’s editor-in-chief I was well aware of what I was stepping into; Samizdat is a publication defined by its consistency. Just looking back at the collected covers you can see they all share a common vision: watercolors of the provinces, pictures of the winter palace and golden onion domes, or carefully embroidered fabrics. What the Russian canon lacks in age and size, it makes up for in grandeur and genius (as I am sure Nabokov would agree); I like to think that the Russian department does the same. We are not the biggest here at McGill, or the oldest, but we think big, write big, and dream big. So even though Samizdat has had that consistency and beauty, we knew that this year we need to look towards the future(ists). Next semester will be all new all over again, but in the meantime please enjoy the hard work of this year’s writers and editors; from explorations of desire in Dostoevsky, to hope in Gorky, to gnosticism in Nabokov, there is lots of hard work to admire. And when next semester comes, we will be thinking, writing, and dreaming big, and looking for more submissions of course!

Thank you and please enjoy,

- NICHOLAS HOWELL

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

EX.1

FORGOTTEN BASTARDS OF THE EASTERN FRONT AND SOVIET JUDGEMENT AT NUREMBERG IN DIALOGUE

- PRESIAN DRAGIEV

“Forgetting the lessons of history is short-sighted and extremely irresponsible,” proclaimed Vladimir Putin at the 75th session of the UN General Assembly (Putin, 9). Twisting history is equally short-sighted, in his view, by “arbitrarily interpreting the causes, course and outcomes of the Second World War and twisting the decisions of the conferences of the Allies and the Nuremberg Tribunal that are based on speculation instead of facts.” (Putin, 9) At an auspicious point in time, both Serhii Plokhy’s Forgotten Bastards of the Eastern Front and Francine Hirsch’s Soviet Judgement at Nuremberg heed Putin’s warning by expressing an argument based on factual consideration. Namely, that unbridgeable differences in political culture-- as existed between the Soviet Union and the United States-- impede meaningful cooperation over long periods with or without the sustenance of a common enemy. Hirsch’s work is centered around the Soviet role in judgment at the Nuremberg Tribunal, while Plokhy examines the joint Soviet-American air bases established behind Soviet lines during the war. By analyzing these works together, the historian can uncover a nuanced and unique explanation of how and why the Grand Alliance of World War II transformed into the Grand Rivalry of the Cold War.

Plokhy and Hirsch take a bottom-up approach for their investigation into the deterioration of the Grand Alliance, placing the focus on local-level dynamics. Plokhy intentionally sets out to write a bottom-up history, whereas in Hirsch’s work the bottom-up effect is more a byproduct of her focus on locality. Plokhy examines the clash of worldviews that manifested among rankand-file military officers and soldiers, while Hirsch traces this clash by comparing the judgments, interactions, and decision-making models of the Soviet and American representatives at Nuremberg. By approaching the history in a local setting, the authors lend immediacy and historical specificity to their works, tracking the growing tension between the Great Powers with intimate primary source material, such as personal journals and memoirs of leading figures involved and recently opened archives. Both works identify Soviet state surveillance as a key factor that undermined trust and cooperation between the USSR and the USA. Plokhy recounts how immediately after American troops landed in the air bases, the Soviet surveillance apparatus was put on high alert, meticulously spying on individual Americans (Plokhy, 76-78). Simply displaying an interest in building friendships with Soviet citizens was enough to earn an American place on the watchlist of the Soviet counterintelligence agency, SMERSH. The USSR also kept a close eye on its citizens. Soviets were subject to interrogation and imprisonment by SMERSH for merely consorting with Americans beyond the strict parameters set by their government. These limited romantic liaisons and mere friendships (Plokhy, 107; 178-182). Hirsch also identifies the presence of intense surveillance at the Nuremberg Tribunal, which had its own SMERSH organization under

the name of the Vyshinksy Commission. The Commission was a shadowy organization that served as a hotline between Stalin and his representatives, keeping a tight web of control and surveillance on the Soviet delegation and screening witnesses through a complex network of informants (Hirsch, 143-144; 149-150). Both historians argue that this surveillance was the result of a Soviet culture of totalitarian suspicion and paranoia that demanded complete conformity to Stalin’s regime. The Americans did not have any analogous surveillance organization, owing to their more idealistic and liberal culture, drawing a sharp contrast in the political character between the two camps (Hirsch, ibid). This contrast comes through more subtly in Plokhy’s work: while Soviets at Poltava imperiled their career at the slightest sign of fraternity with the Allied soldiers, American leadership had officers born in the Russian Empire and the Soviet Union with openly communistic predilections under their aegis (Plohky, 179-183; 117-119; 157-158). American idealism interacting with Soviet-style cynicism is also on full display in both works. Plokhy draws attention to a bombing campaign launched by the Germans on Poltava that devastated the joint Soviet-American airbase. Despite American offers of resources and technology to reinforce existing substandard Soviet air defenses, the Soviets were suspicious of American influence and refused, leaving the base vulnerable to attack. This refusal came at the price of dozens of human casualties and countless more losses in equipment (Plokhy 99-103). The Soviets sought to minimize American involvement in the region as they conceived the alliance’s purpose along the narrow aims of defeating the Nazis and nothing more. This suspicious

perception of the alliance was actively cultivated among Soviet soldiers by top-down propaganda initiatives that framed the United States as a capitalist enemy, further undermining US-USSR cooperation (Plokhy, 66-73). In addition, Hirsch identifies a similar case of Soviet distrust at the Nuremberg Tribunal. Hoping to pool information to build a robust defense against the Nazis, the American delegation asked all members of the Tribunal to admit to their war crimes and blunders. After the British and French agreed, the Americans were disappointed by consistent Soviet evasions before a very reluctant and slow agreement to cooperate (Hirsch, 119-120). American friendship was never reciprocated, and so antipathy steadily crept into its place. At Poltava, this happened well before Germany was defeated. Both works highlight the unbridgeable cultural rifts between the Great Powers by directly comparing Soviet and American responses to the same challenges. Plokhy hones in on one of the most illustrative of dilemmas: the repatriation of prisoners of war. While the Americans saw the safe return of their captured soldiers as an indispensable goal, the Soviets saw their POWS as traitors, unworthy of safe repatriation. The Soviet regime feared the exposure their POWs’ would have had to non-Communist systems, and the western ideas they may have brought back with them. They thus treated imprisoned Soviets as ideologically compromised. The Soviet view lent itself to the maltreatment of American POWs trapped behind Soviet lines and stalled American efforts to retrieve them (Plokhy, 198-210). This episode destroyed one of the last glimmers of hope for a permanent alliance among the Americans. Hirsch makes a similarly compelling direct comparison. The contrast she makes between the Soviet and

American choices of their procurator generals perfectly captures the difference in judicial culture between the two camps. The American prosecutor Robert H. Jackson personified dissent and free expression, having authored one of the most scathing contemporary rebukes of the internment of Japanese-Americans on the homefront. He was given nearly complete leeway in his decision-making, obliged only to write weekly summaries to President Truman (Hirsch, 47-58). The Soviet choice, Roman Rudenko, was chosen based on his experience in prosecuting the show trials of the 1930s which were renowned for their arbitrariness and predetermined verdicts. He could make no decision without clearance from Moscow and served mostly as a mouthpiece for the decisions of Stalin and his confidantes (Hirsch, 77-80). Soviet conformist values come to the fore stridently against American independence in both works. When compared, Plokhy’s Forgotten Bastards is the more convincing work due to the centrality of its bottom-up approach and its focused thesis. Hirsch’s Soviet Judgement argument is more uneven, flip-flopping between bottom-up and top-down history. While her focus in the American camp was almost exclusively on the delegates rather than their superiors, she does the opposite when she examines the Soviet camp. This approach raises questions over how effectively a bottom-up history can be written on a group whose decision-making model is rigidly top-down in nature. In this regard, Plokhy’s analysis works because he focuses on Soviets that did wield considerable levels of autonomy in their decision-making. This autonomy was a consequence of Poltava’s relative lack of strategic import, compared to that of the Nuremberg Tribunal. Moreover, Plokhy perfectly demonstrates the

predictability of the Soviet-American rivalry as early as the joint air bases by showing how little dynamics changed between the soldiers on both sides, from cooperation at Poltava to competition in Berlin. Soviet surveillance and paranoid speculation of individual Americans remained constant across this ostensible transition from friendship to rivalry (Plokhy, 250-260). All that had changed in the Soviet-American relationship by the time of the joint occupation of Berlin was that this surveillance and paranoia were now shared by both sides, and playing out on a geopolitical scale during the years of the Cold War. Still, both works valuably meditate on the often-underappreciated way personal experiences give currency to elite proclamations; would Winston Churchill’s 1946 warning against Soviet totalitarianism at Fulton have had such resonance if there was not a lived experience of it among the likes of soldiers and jurists? In sum, both works explain the collapse of the Grand Alliance as a consequence of fundamentally incompatible worldviews, documenting the breakdown of cooperation through the interplay of the American and Soviet systems at Nuremberg and the joint airbases. Plokhy’s book is singularly geared towards this thesis, while Hirsch’s is more multidimensional, grappling as well with Soviet and Anglo-American double standards in trying Nazi war crimes. Hirsch’s conclusion is also more optimistic, noting that many of the institutions and international laws that are in effect today, including the UN, are legacies of short-term compromise between the Soviets and Americans (Hirsch, 13-14; 413-416). Ultimately, both works can and should be read as a broader warning against the dictum in politics that “the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Alliances based on mutual

animosities are fundamentally unstable and fuelled by common short term goals that are undermined by incompatible ideological beliefs, creating tension and conflict. In the USSR-U.S. case, this cultural incompatibility would escalate to a global scale and pave the way for 45 years of worldwide tension. Against the backdrop of a global coronavirus pandemic and simmering Sino-American relations, the 75th anniversary of the United Nations should prompt greater reflection on how great powers with opposing political-cultural values can cooperate to solve global problems. The collapse of the Soviet-American partnership may very well foreshadow emerging relations between the United States and China in addressing the pandemic.

Works Cited

Hirsch, Francine. Soviet Judgement at Nuremberg: A

New History of the International Military Tribunal after World War II. Oxford Universi

ty Press: New York, 2020. Plokhy, Serhii. Forgotten Bastards of the Eastern

Front: American Airmen behind the Soviet Lines and the Collapse of the Grand Alliance.

Oxford University Press: New York, 2019. Plokhy, Serhii. Yalta: The Price of Peace, (Viking Pen guin, New York, 2010). Viking Penguin: New York, 2010. Putin, Vladimir. “75th Session of the UN General Assembly.” Speech, September 22nd, 2020. President of Russia, http://en.kremlin.ru/ events/president/news/64074

EX.2

NABOKOV AND GNOSTICISM: META-FICTIONAL STRUGGLES WITH MATERIALISM

WILL SCHUMER The Nabokovian worldview, both in the author’s novels, and in his personal life, is often difficult

to parse. Generally speaking, Nabokov avoided self-insertion within his novels and tended to focus more on the “higher” art of literary form, rather than political, social, and cultural issues. Nabokov often tried to distance his characters and stories from real-life situations; specific events, time periods and historical issues are particularly avoided. Nonetheless, in his focus on form, issues of interiority and aesthetics become quite crucial to this literary worldview. It is thus not surprising that spirituality becomes a significant puzzle in Nabokov’s work. Never to be relegated to one particular identity, Nabokov creates spiritual struggles of a dynamic and refractory nature within his characters. The struggle of Gnosticism1, the notion that the material world is a prison created by a nefarious, false deity, is a recurring theme, and may be as close as the reader gets to working out a constant belief system in Nabokov’s oeuvre. The Gnostic framework is an ever-present undertone in his Invitation to a Beheading, a surreal, “Kafkaesque” tale. (Although Nabokov himself would deny this characterization.) The bodily prison is, through the eyes of Cincinnatus C., mirrored in the very literal prison he finds himself awaiting execution in. The struggle between two worlds, the body and the heavens, the inside and the out, is the central paradigm of the text. A similar struggle arises in the earlier Luzhin Defense, though this time, through the framework of chess. In both cases, the story’s central character struggles with the vulgar materialism of day-to-day life, seeking an escape to an elevated world, an elevated soul. Ultimately, the struggle between the material and the metaphysical directly informs the central conflicts of these two novels. As a result, Gnostic thought becomes the key to unlocking the internalities of their main characters, and in a broader sense, the key to understanding Nabokov’s meta-commentary on literature.

Between these texts, Gnostic themes are most glaringly obvious in Invitation to a Beheading. In its narrative structure, Cincinnatus’s situation is similar to the fate of man which is described by Gnostic discourse: imprisoned in ignorance. The three R’s (Rodion, Rodrig, and Roman) function as the Gnostic archons, the guardian deities of the material realm, the figures which prevent the soul from recognizing the falsehood of reality.2 Cincinnatus’s crime of “Gnostical turpitude” is, quite broadly, the greatest indicator of these assertions. Just as Cincinnatus is imprisoned in a dystopian manner, for what we can only assume is “knowing too much,” so too is the individual imprisoned in their body, prevented from becoming aware of the very nature of their imprisonment. The awareness of the falsehood of materiality, gnosis itself, is the ticket out, though one which all the false gods of the “real world” attempt to obfuscate. Alexandrov astutely observes that Gnosis is not general knowledge but is that knowledge which brings “healing and salvation” (Alexandrov 191). In essence, ignorance is the key to preventing one from becoming aware of their own imprisonment. The highly theatrical nature of Cincinnatus’s imprisonment is a good indicator of this. Despite the masquerade which is presented before him, however, we see numerous occasions at which Cincinnatus recognizes that his sentence does not end with the walls of the prison itself but extends to his own body. From the opening chapter, he refers to his body as a “horse” (himself being the rider of this steed), and a very surreal scene follows not long after in which he goes as far as to removal parts of his body as though he were removing a coat (Beheading 16, 32). From the beginning, Cincinnatus the soul attempts to differentiate itself from Cincinnatus the body. It is the execution scene which is the greatest realization of the Gnostic narrative. As the story culminates on the scaffolding where Cincinnatus is to be executed, the

penultimate moment of his beheading shifts drastically. Cincinnatus, in the end, simply stands and walks around. The question of whether Cincinnatus is actually killed is debated amongst Nabokov scholars to this day. I would suggest that, given the Gnostic elements which already populated the story, and in particular, the emphasis on the separation of the body and soul, the material and the celestial, that Cincinnatus is killed. In a peculiar manner, the story suggests that it was only through death that Cincinnatus was able to escape his imprisonment, for, the true prison was not his cell, but was so crucially his own mortality. Nabokov includes, on the title page, a quote from the fictional poet “Delaland”: “Comme un fou se croit Dieu, nous nous croyons mortels” (Beheading 9). We are told, from the beginning, that it was Cincinnatus’s mortality itself which was the wool being pulled over his eyes. In a sinister manner, Invitation to a Beheading suggests that the only way to escape the curse of materialism and find passage into the celestial, is to sever oneself from the body in death. In The Luzhin Defense, the titular character attempts to achieve this realization, this gnosis, through art in the form of chess. Luzhin is introduced to the art of chess in the frame of music—his first “tutor,” the violinist, equates the act of playing chess to the act of musical composition, to performance (Luzhin 3435). In his intense match against Turati, we see Luzhin take this to heart. Each move, each piece, is conveyed aurally.3 Sound is the foundation for the game itself. And as Luzhin plays his game, it is as though he is playing a fugue (Luzhin 143146). What draws Luzhin to chess, it seems, is not simply the possibility of escape from mundanity, but the ability of chess to engage with the infinite.4 Chess, in all of its possibilities, presents to Luzhin the nature of the divine, just as, for Bach, the composition of a Passion may have served as a communion with God. Luzhin struggles in the “real world,” just as

Luzhin struggles in the “real world,” just as Cincinnatus, in the face of a dystopian bureaucracy, struggles with the enforced ignorance of the prison. And while the latter must turn to death, Luzhin attempts to utilize chess, as art, to make his escape from the vulgar materialism of everyday life and commune with a celestial realm. Luzhin’s mental treatment of chess as art thus serves a more personal purpose. Luzhin wishes, through the game’s transcendent nature, to detach oneself from childhood, and from social and cultural obligations. Much like Cinncinatus, Luzhin is trapped within his own material prison, tied down by a past he wishes to distance himself from. The major difference between these interpretations can be relegated to the sphere of metaphor. Invitation to a Beheading is, in a most literal manner, a Gnostic text. The Luzhin Defense, on the other hand, exhibits Gnostic imagery in a far more subtle way, as a platform to exhibit Luzhin’s difficulties with others. In both cases, however, this engagement with Gnostic spirituality serves quite similar means. If Nabokov almost directly engages with Gnosticism in Invitation, then he transfigures the struggle between mind and body through art in Luzhin. The frame, while different, becomes a matter of quite similar stakes. That is to say, the issue is not simply one of spiritual commentary—an issue which I believe Nabokov would usually shy away from. It is rather a meta-fictional matter. Gnostic imagery is a constant presence between these two texts, be it in a dystopian or artistic context, because it provides a framework for Nabokov to comment on the art of literature itself. Just as characters like Cincinnatus and Luzhin struggle against their own metaphysical imprisonment, so too does Nabokov illustrate to the reader how he, like a sort of maniacal deity, imprisons his characters within his own world. The desire for spiritual autonomy on the part of his characters comes to mirror the logical struggle of these same characters

against their own author, or perhaps even a struggle against the materiality of the book. Nabokov, as I have suggested, attempted to obfuscate his own connections to his characters. In distancing himself from his narrative-craft, Gnostic imagery becomes a reflection of the struggles of his characters within the sphere of literature. Their attempts to escape vulgar materialism may now be seen as serving a dual purpose, towards their own development within the story, and towards Nabokov’s ends, ends which aim to be a meta-reflection of the art of literature.

Notes 1.

Note that, here, I am generalizing. There are many different strains of Gnosticism, perhaps most notably the “heretical” sects such as Arianism which were crushed after the First Council of Nicaea in 325. As such, I am extracting a general spiritual sentiment from what was, and is to this day, a complex and epoch spanning theology. 2. See, for example, The Hypostasis of the Archons, trans. Roger A. Bullard (Berlin: De Gruter, 1970), 21. “The archons (άρχων) held a council (συμβουλίου). They said, ‘Come, let us make a man of dust (χοϋς) from the earth.’” This classic Gnostic interpretation of Genesis, originally from the Nag Hammadi library, lays the foundation for the notion of archons as the sort of “guards” of the material realm. 3. One might see, in particular, words such as “muted violins,” “melody,” “thunderous harmony,” and “trumpet voices,” being used to describe moves in the game. 4. Note that the violinist from the beginning of the story refers to the “infinite possibilities” of chess.

Works Cited

The Hypostasis of the Archons. Translated by Roger A. Bullard. Berlin: De Gruyter, 1970. Alexandrov, Vladimir E. “Invitation to a Beheading.” In The Garland Companion to Vladimir Nabokov. Edited by Vladimir E. Alexandrov, 188-202. New York: Routledge, 1995. Nabokov, Vladimir. Invitation to a Beheading. New York: Vintage, 1989. Nabokov, Vladimir. The Luzhin Defense. London: Pen guin Classics, 2012.

EX.3 TWOFOLD DEATH IN A DOUBLE LIFE

- GAVIN JOLLY

Death is omnipresent in Karolina Pavlova’s A Double Life, yet it often appears as a cypher for more important matters. Fittingly, it does so in a twofold manner: death is either disregarded in its relation to social status by high society or it is conflated with aspects of Cecily’s inner world, contributing to her misunderstanding of her spiritual life. In the novel, death is an amorphous concept, both because of the way in which high society trivializes it, and through Cecily’s misunderstanding of it in relation to her dream life. Death is present in Pavlova’s presentation of Russian high society, yet it is only understood in relation to questions of greater importance, chiefly appearance and wealth. The first conversation, at Vera Vladimirovna’s Saturday gathering, discusses death, but focuses more on appearances than the death itself. A man, conversing with two other men and a noble woman, states that this death is‘“Nothing to mourn about’” (Pavlova 2). The man is described as “lovely,” and as looking at his neighbours in “the most charming way” (Pavlova 2). Another participant in the conversation then notes, while smiling, that the deceased was “very handsome,” a sentiment which the noble woman then takes issue with by saying, “he was simply unbearable and I never liked his looks” (Pavlova 2, 2).

Death is immediately brought to the fore by Pavlova; however, members of society view it as another opportunity to perform a “clever conversation” (Pavlova 3). This conversation is made to appear artificially sophisticated by the “smiles and glances of the people talking” (Pavlova 3). Furthermore, the norms of high society marginalize death and render it auxiliary to the performance of cultivation. Vera Vladimirovna and Madame Valitskaia, members of high society, ignore death except how it pertains to social duties when they decide not to go to Madame Stentsova’s funeral church service, but rather take a “carriage with [the family] to the cemetery, out of respect for the mother” (Pavlova 49). Death is only to be engaged with to the extent that it furthers one’s social presence in the world Pavlova presents. Indeed, Madame Valitskaia only decides to attend because Vera Vladimirovna is going; Vera Vladimirovna, in turn, decides she has to because “Princess Anna Sergeevna said that even she was going” (Pavlova 49). The entire conversation is only brought up tangentially, in relation to a discussion about a social event. Later, when characters next bring up Madame Stentsova’s death, the conversation immediately becomes a critique of her looks and her fortune (Pavlova 51). High society engages with death only to the extent that it relates to social capital, and the signifiers of that capital. Death is engaged with by high society outside of mere reaction, however, most significantly, its material opportunity attracts Dmitry Ivachinsky to Cecily. Madame Valitskaia tells Dmitry of an old aunt of Cecily’s who had named Cecily her heir, as well as an illness of Cecily’s older brother. As such, their relatively imminent deaths mean that Cecily would stand to inherit a great deal. Hearing this, Dmitri “saw Cecily

for the first time in a different light, one extraordinarily favorable to her” (Pavlova 40). He also “began to consider [Cecily’s aunt and brother] already in their graves” (Pavlova 40). The question of death revolves around material gains and social ends. Pavlova underscores this relationship in the same passage by stating that despite Dimity’s already large fortune, his money only made him “feel the need for wealth even more keenly and morbidly” (Pavlova 40; emphasis added). Morbid is conventionally used to describe a fascination with death and, in this scenario, showcases how wealth can render death as comparatively insignificant. The manner in which Dmitri Ivachinsky treats death underscores the fact that high society treats death as subordinate to aspects of the social world, such as wealth. Meanwhile, Cecily has a unique relationship with death throughout the novel. In contrast to other characters, she emphasizes death as an independent force, but this emphasis seems to be the result of a failure to reckon with her spiritual and poetic existence and, as such, she too turns it into a proxy. Pavlova opens the novel with a Byron verse wherein he calls sleep “A boundary between the things misnamed / Death and existence” (Pavlova xxxiv). Cecily, unable to consciously conceptualize the boundary from where her poetry springs, conflates it with death. She has a distinct relationship with death from the start of the novel and is exceptionally interested in the fact of the death of the unnamed man, twice asking Olga “Who has died?” (Pavlova 3). Significantly, Cecily asks this despite not being a participant of the conversation; her interest lies with the fact of death itself, and not out of an interest for the social factors that the others emphasize in the conversation. However, as Cecily’s dreams begin, she begins to

merge aspects of them with death, rendering it a tangential consideration. After her first poetic dream, Cecily tells Olga that she “had a dream about the man they were talking about yesterday at our house, the one who had died that morning” (Pavlova 15). Much later, while entering into her penultimate poetic dream, she whispers ‘“who has died?… What is this?...”’ (Pavlova 111). Cecily associates her poetic existence with death and assigns death with a false label, making it a proxy, but one which represents a misunderstood inner life rather than external social characteristics. There is another way in which Cecily misunderstands death in relationship to her dream existence. Cecily is dwelling on a false dichotomy: her present waking life is a little different from death and, through her understanding, she is ignoring spiritual truths. Cecily often appears haunted by the idea of death: the fact that she is so preoccupied with the unnamed man’s death, as remarked by Olga, suggests this, adding that Cecily is “always having dreams” (15) about such things. Furthermore, Cecily herself is frequently described as corpse-like: her pallor is often noted and she is frequently sickly. An attendee of her wedding explicitly says that “She’s as pale as a corpse” (Pavlova 117). The content of Cecily’s dreams suggest that this may be another misunderstanding; Cecily’s deathly appearance is symptomatic of the constrained nature of her life in upper-class society. Pavlova writes that mothers like Vera Vladimirovna, in the place of feeling, give their daughters “a dead rule; in place of holy truth, a preposterous lie” (62). The rule-bound world in which Cecily lives amounts to death and holy truths are absent. This sentiment echoes throughout Cecily’s dreams, specifically where Pavlova writes, “In life’s dead-

-ness there is an incorporeal region / In the midst of that world, another world” (Pavlova 20); in another, there is the stanza, “Arise out of the dust of life! / Calm the confusion of your heart! / Look without fear, immortal soul, / Into the face of truth!” (Pavlova 90). Cecily exists in life in a deathly manner and is subconsciously aware that her world is spiritually dead. However, in her waking world, she still associates her dreams with death. Cecily, in mistaking her dreams for death, avoids the truth that her waking life is the existence that is functionally closer to death. Death permeates much of Pavlova’s A Double Life, but is interpreted in distinct ways throughout the novel. Characters conceive death in a dual manner: it is either pushed aside in light of other considerations or it is emphasized but misunderstood. The characters around Cecily place little value in death since, for them, it is a vessel for more important matters, all of which relate to social capital. Cecily acknowledges the meaning of death, but misunderstands it since she associates her dream existence with death, all the while existing in a manner that is spiritually dead.

Works Cited

Pavlova, Karolina. A Double Life. Translated by Barbara Heldt, Columbia University Press, 2019.

EX.4

THE CONCEPTION OF MAN IN MAXIM GORKY’S THE LOWER DEPTHS : AN EXPLORATION ON THE NECESSITY OF TRUTH AND LIES FOR THE HUMAN EXPERIENCE - ELIZABETH FRANCESCHINI The philosophy of Man has no universal meaning, yet is distinctly defined by Maxim Gorky as a fluctuating relationship between the strong and delicate. Gorky in The Lower Depths contends that Man “is marked by two modes of substance: Power/ Vigor and Weakness/Fatigue” (Murzin 438). According to this perspective, Man is encompassed by either mode of substance and is then subject to various “allegorical forces” which can shift the substance of man from one end to the other (Murzin 438 ). Gorky concludes that Man “is closely encircled by the handiwork of his creative spirit” (Murzin 438 ). In The Lower Depths, the juxtaposition of Power and Weakness is embodied in the play’s main theme: the tension between Truth and Lie. Within the observation that Man is embedded with a creative spirit, lies the notion that the depiction of Man in The Lower Depths is not a strict contrast between Truth and Lie; instead, it is a harmonious dynamic between the two. As such, The Lower Depths does not present a philosophy of Man which is based on duality, but on a philosophical understanding on the necessity of both Truth and Lie for the human experience.

The theme of “harsh truth” versus “consoling lie” lies at the crux of The Lower Depths (Marsh 507). Throughout the play, several characters struggle with the reality of their circumstances in one of two ways: by believing in the illusion of better things to come, or by embracing a cynical approach to their situation. The dualism present in The Lower Depths notably takes shape in the varying life perspectives echoed through the characters of Luka and Satin. Described as a “pilgrim,” Luka consistently expresses compassion for others, claiming that in life “somebody has to be kind … [that] we have to feel sorry for people” (Gorky 46). Indeed, one of the first things Luka states before the audience is his belief that “every flea is a good flea — [that] they’re all dark and all good jumpers” (Gorky 15). Luka’s perspective advocates for the humanity of all living things, no matter how pitiful. With this in mind, the character of Luka represents the archetype of an idealist view of humanity. His archetypal opposite, Satin, portrays the realist perception of humanity. For most of the play, Satin is a drunken mess and challenges the audience by questioning the comforting lies Luka offers to other characters, telling him “you ought to join the Wanderers with your ideas” (Gorky 57). The dualism between Luka the idealist and Satin the cynic is what fundamentally establishes the initial dichotomy of idealism versus realism in The Lower

Depths.

The plot of The Lower Depths is set in an underground shelter, alluded to by the play’s title. It is a place filled with destitution, suffering and dying. Multiple allusions are made to a prison or a hell on Earth, suggesting that the lower depths are a place of punishment. The underground shelter therefore embodies the rejected status of the characters: they are the dredges of society. In Act II, Bubnov, a denizen of the shelter, sings “O chains, you heavy chains that bind me… I know I can not break you ever” (Gorky 28).

This perspective of the shelter is representative of what many other characters feel throughout the play, and echoes Satin’s perspective. In Act III, in a conversation with Bubnov, Baron states that “all human beings have gray little souls—and they all want to rouge them up” (Gorky 45). This statement demonstrates a fundamental disagreement with the way Luka over-optimistically encourages those living in the shelter: they are set to raise their expectations on what is to come for them, only to be disappointed in the outcome. The realism espoused by characters like Baron, Bubnov, and Satin is at odds with what characters like Luka want for humanity. As opposed to the negative view of life echoed by the cynical characters, Luka consoles others, to the point of misleading them about their situations. When the destitute Anna is laying on her deathbed, Luka assures her that she will not suffer in the next world, and will instead “have a good rest there” (Gorky 27). Furthermore, he assures Nastya that he believes in her account of her real love, while other characters accuse her of stealing the plot of her life romance from a book. While characters like Luka trust Nastya’s account telling her that “yours is the truth,” others laugh at her and accuse her misrepresentation of reality as an effort “to paint her soul” (Gorky 44-5). The reaction displayed towards Nastya by the more cynical characters is with the intent to have her realize the reality of her situation: she is not in love and no man will come save her from the lower depths. Unlike Luka, the cynical characters do not believe in any saving grace for their situation. Ultimately, the Luka-Satin dualist dynamic serves no benefit to any characters of the play. Luka’s unapologetic optimism does not produce any concrete solutions. For example, in consoling the Actor’s alcoholism, Luka fails to provide guidance in how he can seek help—forgetting the name of the town where treatment can be found— simultaneously

comforting him and failing to actually help him. In fact, multiple characters, including Peppel, call out Luka’s overly optimistic attitude throughout the play: “you keep saying it’s fine here, it’s fine there, but you know you’re lying” (Gorky 33). The false sense of optimism and “rougeing” Luka engages in does not bode well for any of the characters, who at the end of the play, spiral into insecurity and desperation regarding their situation; Nastya even wishing some of the characters to “to go hell!” (Gorky 67). Although Satin’s version of humanity contrasts with Luka’s, it is equally as destructive to many of the characters throughout the play. Plagued by sickness, drunkenness and neediness, none of the characters see a way out. The destitute Anna represents this sentiment when she says “All my life I’ve been wearing rags—all my miserable life. What have I done to deserve this?” (Gorky 26). Anna’s frustration represents the damaging worldview of the cynical characters, where there is no sense of hope or recognition of humanity which can be granted to anyone in the play. Both perspectives on humanity envisioned by Luka and Satin crumble when Satin undergoes a remarkable transformation by the end of the play. In Act IV, Satin drunkenly admits that Luka’s consoling attitude has value when he states “He’s praying? Fine. A man can believe or not believe —it’s his own affair” ( Gorky 68). Satin goes on to further acknowledge Luka’s use of the comforting lie when he proudly claims that “We have to respect man” (Gorky 68). However, the most interesting feature of Satin’s change of heart in Act IV is the recognition of both Truth and Lie as necessary components to sustain human life. The unification of both Truth and Lie as fundamental to humanity is evidenced in Satin’s assertion that both are needed in order to develop a deeper understanding of the human condition. Satin breaks humanity down to the prev-

iously explored dualist notion of Power versus Weakness, declaring that Lies are for “people weak in spirit,” and Truth for those who are strong, “free,” and “independent” (Gorky 64). What is important to note is the confirmation that neither the weak or strong are better than one another, Satin declaring that humanity simply “[has] to be considerate for every man” (Gorky 65). Although Luka’s perspective provided the characters of the depths with much needed compassion, his actions were not concrete enough to produce results. Satin’s realization, however, fully considers the duality of Man, while still defending the idea that one’s humanity, no matter how depraved, must be respected. In recognizing the necessity for both Truth and Lie, The Lower Depths demonstrates to audiences the complexity of the human experience. Many of the characters who find consolation in lies are left disillusioned with Luka’s departure and find no way out of the depths by the end of the play. In fact, by accepting both Truth and Lie, Satin comes out as the strongest of all characters. The Lower Depths shows us how humanity can be superficially categorized into two modes of substance relating to strength versus weakness, which each respectively need to form their own ‘creative spirit’ with how life’s obstacles will be tackled with. Under the surface of dualism which is seen at the crux of what is portrayed in The Lower Depths, lies a deeper philosophical understanding of the philosophy of Man as one in which Truth and Lie are equally fundamental in the human experience.

Works Cited

Gorky, Maxim. The Lower Depths. In The Lower Depths and Other Plays, trans. by Alexander Bakshy. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1945. pp. 2-73. Marsh, Cynthia. 2000. “Truth, Lies and Story-telling in The Lower Depths,” Canadian Slavonic Papers, 42:4, 507-520. Murzin, Nikolai N. 2019. “Gorky and Nietzsche: A Philo sophical View of ‘Man,’ Russian Studies in Philosophy, 57:5, 432-444,

EX.5

MIKHAIL BAKHTIN’S “POLYPHONY” IN FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY’S NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND AND “THE ETERNAL HUSBAND”

- ELIZABETH FRANCESCHINI

The unique nature of what 19th-century Russian literary theorist Mikhail Bakhtin coined a “polyphonic” novel lies in the autonomy and consciousness of the novel’s characters. Bakhtin viewed Fydor Dostoyevsky’s prose as an exemplar of polyphony, in which “characters … [are] capable of standing alongside their creator” (Bakhtin 6). In this regard, characters are free agents among a literary work and do not need to be in complete alignment with the intentions of the author. A traditional literary work typically controls the authority of a character’s voice through several literary elements, including characterization and plot development (Bakhtin 7). The polyphonic nature of Dostoevsky’s work thus allows characters to own their voice and maintain a level of consciousness within a literary text, where traditional literary works would otherwise succumb to “authorial discourse” (Bakhtin 6-7). This distinct separation between characters and their creator in polyphonic texts can be demonstrated through a characters’ self-consciousness or in the composition of the literary work. These two elements of polyphony are executed in Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground and “The Eternal Husband.” Ultimately, the ability of characters in a polyphonic work to exercise agency separates them from being an author’s “object” — a part of an “author’s design” (Bakhtin 7).

The protagonist of this work, the Underground Man, embodies Bakhtin’s concept of the polyphonic “hero” in that he exemplifies a character who exhibits a “particular point of view on the world and on oneself ” (Bakhtin 47). The Underground Man represents what Bakhtin claims is a “vicious” circle in the actions and thoughts which plague the protagonist’s extreme self-consciousness (51). The Underground Man is so aware of his consciousness that readers cannot comment on his being; the Underground Man has rationalized so much of his self-perception that “there is literally nothing we can say about [him] … that he does not already know himself ” (Bakhtin 52). The opening line of Notes from the Underground establishes the protagonist’s self-awareness clearly and immediately: “I am a sick man … I am a spiteful man” (Dostoevsky 3). From the first sentence, readers grasp the protagonist’s self-consciousness and his ability to define himself. In this regard, the Underground Man escapes becoming a “monologic” character and is able to “exceed the limits of his own character” through continuous self-reflection (Bakhtin 52). When the Underground Man states how “[he] should certainly never have made up [his] mind to do anything, even if [he] had been able to,” his freedom from the author’s control is made even more apparent (Dostoevsky 13). The Underground Man is therefore given the “final word” as the hero, a result of Dostoyevsky granting the protagonist freedom from the traditional monologic design so commonly observed in literary texts (Bakhtin 52-53). While Notes from the Underground largely concentrates on demonstrating polyphony through the protagonist’s self-consciousness, Dostoevsky’s “The Eternal Husband” additionally focuses on the narrative’s structure in displaying the polyphonic nature of the text (Parts 608). Similar to what was observed in Notes from the Under-

ground, the world of the protagonist, Vel-

chaninov, is “fully weighed”, contributing to his overall agency in the narrative of the text (Parts 608). The “hero” of “The Eternal Husband” secures his autonomy from the author in the text as he controls his perception from readers. Readers only perceive Velchaninov’s internal motivations, fears, and thoughts from “what the character himself knows or learns” (Parts 611). This explains why “The Eternal Husband” is composed of several climaxes throughout its narrative, as readers experience the protagonist’s emotions in the same moment in which the protagonist does (Parts 611). There are several instances where the narrative’s climaxes push the reader to absorb the protagonist’s experience as their own. In Part II, the first climax of the narrative features Velchaninov having a nightmare about the man with the crape on his hat. The reader experiences Velchaninov’s emotions as he becomes “intoxicated from fury and fear” (Dostoevsky 25). The climax of this initial scene is reached when Velchaninov opens the door in his dream after hearing a bell ring, but there is no one standing outside (Dostoevsky 25-26). Upon this revelation, the reader and Velchaninov “marvel” and “rejoice” together (Dostoevsky 26). This is but one example of the several false culminations the reader experiences throughout “The Eternal Husband”. The narrative’s ultimate culmination occurs in Part XVII, where Velchaninov screams out Pavel Pavlovich’s name only to be interrupted with the blowing of a train whistle. In the scene’s final moments, Velchaninov “[continues] his journey,” and it is only in the end where the reader, for the first time, is able to exercise judgement against the protagonist’s actions (Dostoevsky 99, Parts 617). Indeed, in having the reader realize Velchaninov’s nonchalant attitude in regard to the treatment of Liza, the reader is finally able to escape the protagonist’s “self-serving perception” (Parts 618). In this respect, the

effect of the various earlier culminations in the narrative, which previously contributed to altering the reader’s perception of the protagonist, is not achieved in the ultimate one. Notes from the Underground and “The Eternal Husband” are perfect archetypes to demonstrate the polyphonic nature of Dostoevsky’s works. Both texts focus on granting the “hero” the authorial say in the expression of their ideas (Parts 618). It is for this reason that the heroes in both texts are able to define themselves exclusively in the way they perceive themselves. The philosophical discourses as expressed by the Underground Man in Notes from the Underground are but one means to grant him independence from the monologic principles of literary texts. In “The Eternal Husband”, the “compositional arrangement” of the text through the use of culminations are what more persistently define the hero as autonomous from the author (Parts 618). It is also these compositional arrangements that grant the reader access to the hero’s inner being and allows the reader to absorb the narrative’s environment. One of the largest questions that remains is why the reader is granted permission in judging Velchaninov in the final scene of “The Eternal Husband”. After all, is it not the goal of a polyphonic work to grant the hero the “final word” (Bakhtin 53)? While this may be an element of a polyphonic text, it is not the principal goal. This ability of the hero to define their own sense of self, and “exceed the limits” of who he ought to be in opposition to the intentions of the author’s design, are what truly solidifies the polyphonic nature of these works. Ultimately, Dostoevsky succeeds in giving the heroes of Notes from the Underground and “The Eternal Husband” a “relatively free and independent” voice (Bakhtin 49). Thus, the implementation of polyphony in Dostoevsky’s works constructs the hero-author relationship as one which is

distinct and separate. However, the polyphonic nature of Dostoevsky’s works do not obstruct from what is “the ultimate objective of any author,” and that is the ability to intertwine their ideas, in the form of motif, theme, or meaning, in their works (Parts 618). In this regard, Dostoevsky’s use of polyphony separates the hero from the author, but it does not and will never separate the author from the reader.

Works Cited

Bakhtin, Mikhail. “Dostoevsky’s Polyphonic Novel.” In: Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics, Transl. and ed. Caryl Emerson, Theory and History of Literature 8, pp. 5-8. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1984. Bakhtin, Mikhail. “The Hero, and the Position of the Author.” In: Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics, Transl. and ed. Caryl Emerson, Theory and History of Literature 8, pp. 47-69. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1984. Dostoevsky, Fyodor. “The Eternal Husband.” In: The Eternal Husband and Other Stories, pp. 67 245. New York: Bantam Books, 1997. Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Notes from the Underground. pp. 1-203. Planet PDF, https://planetpdf.com/ planetpdf/pdfs/free_ebooks/Notes_from_the_ Underground_NT.pdf. Accessed 17 Dec. 2020. Parts, Lyudmila. “Polyphonic Plot Structure in Dos toevsky’s ‘The Eternal Husband.’” The Slavic and East European Journal, vol. 50, no. 4, 2006, pp. 607–620. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/ stable/20459367. Accessed 17 Dec. 2020.

EX.6 TRADITION AND REBELLION: THE MOTHER-DAUGHTER RELATIONSHIP IN EVGENIA TUR’S ANTONINA

- SHEENA LI

Evgenia Tur’s Antonina, written during a period of intense debate over the “woman question” in Russia, presents a detailed portrait of a woman subjected to the traditional social norms of her time. The central narrative of the novel explores the oppressive class and gender standards of 19th century Russia through the title character’s struggles against society while in search of independence. A closer examination of Antonina’s childhood relationship with her stepmother reveals that her rejection of traditional gender and class expectations is rooted in her uncommon family dynamics, especially her antagonism towards her stepmother. The comparison between Antonina and her stepmother’s adult paths illustrates the inflexibility of an autocratic society and shows the importance of Antonina’s ultimately compromised victory as a mother in the domestic domain that seeded her rebellion as a child.

At its most basic, Antonina is about a young woman whose life is constantly battered by the patriarchal, socially stratified world of 19th century Russia. As the daughter of a governess, Antonina is always at the mercy of someone else, thus placing her at the lowest on the social ladder. Her experiences as a child identify her as “a person of no account” (Tur 8), who “has no right to anything,” and must be “subordinate to everyone else” (Tur 11). Antonina rejects this designation and forms a strong hatred toward the injustice of the social rank. She considers the insults against her to be “unjust reproaches” and “humiliating handouts,” and she endures it all “with cold-blooded indignation” (Tur 11-12). She struggles against the social norms that ruin her happiness when she falls in love with a nobleman, blaming the strangers that “keep an eye on [her]” and whose “slander exposes [her] to shame” (Tur 44) while believing in her “inalienable right to choose a husband she loved,” no matter the social implications (77). Despite her strength of character, she is powerless in the face of the rigid structure of society, ultimately marrying within her social class. Not only does Antonina encounter obstacles due to her social status, but she is also unable to achieve independence due to her gender. Similar to her disregard for social class, she does not recognize the difficulties in achieving independence as a woman. Her stepmother states that Antonina is free only if she does not act foolishly. However, Antonina does not believe that her stepmother has any control if Antonina “lives on [her] own earnings,” since “everyone has the right to live just as he chooses if he works for his own living” (25). This statement reflects her views on independence, which contradict the harsh gender expect-ations of her time. As soon as she acts in a way considered dishonorable, her stepparents force her to live directly under their control (62). Similarly, when her husband leaves, he again places her under the care of her stepfather because she “can’t control [herself]” (142). Just as everyone blames her for all misfor tunes as a child due to her social class (11), as a woman, society holds her accountable when a nobleman falls in love with her

(79), and for her husband’s financial failure (138). Antonina’s story illustrates the injustice of an oppressive patriarchal class system. Yet, this theme represents only a superficial reading of the text—a deeper analysis reveals the importance of family dynamics in a woman’s development within and acceptance of social structures. At the end of the novel, Antonina blames her pride for her inability to accept her status and the struggle against traditional norms that “crushed” and “destroyed” her (145). A closer look at her early parental relationships shows that her rebellious nature has roots in the untraditional family dynamics present in her childhood, and that “all the seeds of [her] future unhappiness are contained within it” (5). A brief account of her childhood uncommonly shows Antonina’s family to have a weak, sympathetic father figure submissive to a stronger, hostile maternal figure, which upends the conventional “mini-society” of the family. As Barbara Engel explains in Mothers and Daughters, in Russia, “family law required ‘unconditional obedience’ of wife to husband and children to parents […]. In this way, the family hierarchy both reflected and reproduced the social hierarchy by teaching children to submit to patriarchal authority” (Engel 7). In Antonina’s family, per contra, her father often rescues her from punishments and must “caresshis daughter in secret from his wife” due to his “awareness of his own weakness” compared to his wife (Tur 5). Meanwhile, Antonina describes her stepmother as “capricious and willful” in her marriage to Antonina’s father (20). This family hierarchy does not reflect the social hierarchy as Antonina is close to her father but understands that he is weak. Therefore, this family dynamic cannot strongly instill a submission to patriarchal authority in Antonina since she does not learn unconditional obedience from her father. While having a weak father leads to a lower obedience to authority in Antonina, it is not the sole origin for her rejection of social norms.

In theory, a strong maternal figure could transmit important social expectations to her daughter despite a contradicting family dynamic. As Engel states, “close mother-daughter ties facilitated a girl’s adaptation to her appropriate social role and ensured that she successfully passed from her father’s authority into her husband’s” (Engel 13). Outside the family unit, Antonina’s stepmother demonstrates respect for the established social structure and consistently yields to her social superiors, even the aristocratic child that she teaches (Tur 7). However, she is unable to instill the same values in Antonina due to their antagonistic relationship characterized as “cold” (21). This failure to transmit expectations of social norms from one generation to another is key in Antonina’s struggle. The breakdown results mainly from the punishment-based autocratic style of motherhood of the stepmother, and the emotional response it generates in her daughter. This poor relationship begins at the opening of the novel when Antonina is in trouble for sitting near the fireplace. Her stepmother first asks her “why [she was] sitting near the fireplace,” but does not care about Antonina’s explanations, following the question with “do I allow you to sit near the fire?” before locking her in a wardrobe (3). In this characterization of the mother-daughter relationship, the stepmother shows no affection or concern for Antonina, only for the rules. However, she does not explain the rules she enforces. As a result, Antonina fails to understand and internalize the values her stepmother is trying to impress. Antonina has no sense that she is in the wrong. Instead, when her father tells her to apologize, she does it “only for show, feeling disgusted with [her stepmother] and [herself] that [she] had to appear so submissive” (5). Furthermore, her description of her childhood does not indicate that she feels guilt after punishment for her actions; rather, she describes herself more as “annoyed” or angry due to her powerlessness against what she believes is unjust (8-10). This response illustrates the emotional distance between Antonina and her

stepmother that is responsible for the failure to transmit maternal values. Antonina has no repentance because she does not understand how her actions were wrong; therefore, she has no acceptance of the rules of an authority figure. She simply derides the submissiveness she is supposed to show to her stepmother without accepting it. A further complication for Antonina resulting from her icy relationship with her stepmother is that she is left with a naïve understanding of the world, which contributes to her struggle against class and gender norms. Her actions and evaluation of her childhood show that she judges the injustice of an act outside the framework of standard societal understandings. While morally valuable, her judgment makes acceptance of the social norm more difficult. When the rich and pampered Katya Velina insults Antonina due to her lower social status, Antonina is angered and offended because she “still didn’t understand things very clearly” (7). She is further spurred on by her annoyance at her stepmother’s punishment, causing a fight to break out (8). In this scene, Antonina’s poor understanding of the privileges of social status causes her rebellious response to Katya. She even points out that Katya deserves punishment due to her many childhood antics (8). This exchange demonstrates how her naïve value of justice resulting from her stepmother’s punishments and lack of comprehension about the established social order leads to rebellion. Moreover, the punishment she endures from her stepmother as a result of this fight does not successfully impress the acceptance of social order in Antonina. Also, when her stepmother and other adults around her collectively place the blame solely on Antonina’s shoulders, she does not accept their judgment. Instead, she “[ceases] to value and understand people’s sense of fairness, their impartial judgment, and their opinions” (10). The development in her character is an extension of her antagonistic relationship with her stepmother and places her in opposition to society as she no longer values the judgment of others.

Antonina’s lack of clear understanding of society is not only limited to her young age. Her reaction to the way the upper class responds to her relationship with Michel further illustrates her failure to learn the “appropriate social role” for her position and gender even as an adult. When her stepmother confronts her for her “shameful” behavior, Antonina anxiously asks what she has done and what was wrong with it (45). She then rejects her stepmother’s admonition, saying she “doesn’t deserve [those] words” because she “hasn’t done anything,” and that those who slander her should be ashamed instead (46). In this case, Antonina’s values of what is right or wrong do not align with society’s values of class homogeneity, nor does she recognize her dangerous role as the socially inferior woman in the relationship. Specifically, Antonina does not know what a “lady friend” is, or the concept of a mistress (45). Nonetheless, she acknowledges that she still “[doesn’t] understand very much,” and does not know “the bits of information young maidens usually acquire so easily” (46). This situation shows her naïve understanding of social expectations of women that reflects a failure in the passage of knowledge. A different maternal figure in the novel offers a contrasting view of the mother-daughter relationship that more successfully impresses traditional values on Antonina. Madame Beillant is a family friend of Antonina’s father, who Antonina believes may have “loved [her] father with more than simple friendship” (61). When Madame Beillant tries to convince Antonina to marry Bertini, she provides an argument about how it is to Antonina’s benefit, not only materially, but also emotionally. She specifically entreats Antonina to “think” about the advantages compared to her difficult life under her stepmother’s autocratic system and promotes an idea of “family happiness and a quiet life” that “involuntarily charm[s]” Antonina (118). This relationship more accurately reflects a close mother-daughter relationship where, according to Engel,“the mother [is] acting as a kind of

unwitting agent for a male-dominated society. If a girl tried to choose a different path, the mother’s duty was to keep her on the conventional one” (Engel 13). Despite Antonina’s resistance to the marriage, Madame Beillant leaves a more positive impression because of their more affectionate relationship. This relationship, therefore, offers a model in which the mother can successfully serve as a proxy for society to better instill traditional values in children and more clearly shows the deficits in the relationship between Antonina and her stepmother. Despite her stepmother’s failure to be a positive role model for Antonina, the novel depicts Antonina’s path as a mirror of her stepmother’s. tonina’s life. Not only does she repeat the life of her stepmother in a large, multigenerational cycle. These cycles illustrate the difficulty of breaking free from an oppressive society, especially for a woman who rejects its injustices. In the larger cycle, Antonina’s similarities with her stepmother occur in both her professional and personal life and illustrate how common their situations and marriages are. Antonina chooses to become a governess-- the same position as her stepmother-- to search for her independence. This similarity reflects the rigidity of the social classes, in that there are few choices for Antonina to achieve independence with her educational and social background, and demonstrates how social classes persist through generations. Similarly, in an individual cycle, she is also repeatedly forced back under the control of her stepparents no matter her attempts to escape. In their personal lives, Antonina and her stepmother both have two relationships: one gentle and tender, the second more cruel and controlling. Michel and Antonina’s father, Mikhail, are both often described as “tender” (Tur 4, 10, 13, 14, 34, 36, 124), and the reason Antonina is attracted o Michel at first is due to his resemblance to her father (34). On the other hand, Antonina describes herself while married to Bertini as being “meek and [obeying] him in everything” due to his passionate temperament and

insane jealousy (125, 129). This is similar to how her stepmother “never dared to voice another protest and obeyed [Milkot’s] will blindly” (144). Notably, both marriages are unhappy by the end of the novel. With these parallels, the novel reinforces the similarities between Antonina and her stepmother despite their different personalities and values, and suggests the inevitability of unhappiness for women in this social structure. Furthermore, the individual cycle reflects her inability to escape an oppressive society either through a profession or by marriage. Again, the family serves as a “mini-society” reflection of the harsh wider social order. Antonina first escapes through her role as a governess that allows her to “exercise [her] independence with great enjoyment” (30). This job represents a high point in her life; however, it is ultimately shown not to be the independence Antonina craves as she is only safe when she acts in a certain prescribed manner. Once she falls in love with someone above her station, no matter how pure her intentions, her actions are considered to bring “shame upon both her [stepmother] and her [stepfather]” (62). Although Antonina rejects the values of society, society’s pervasive nature itself renders her powerless to successfully act, and her step parents force her back under their rule. Later, she is once again free to become a governess, but Bertini’s proposal and societal expectations for women again curtail her freedom. With her marriage, she “belong[s] to him” and must submit to him “with a painful sense of obligation” (124). After her marriage falls apart, her husband returns her to the Milkots’ care “as if [in] a fantastical circle, returning to the point from which [she] had escaped with such effort after Michel’s marriage” (142). There, she “[lives] among endless upheavals and alarms,” and is subjected to “frequent insults” (143). These repeated cycles show that Antonina cannot break free from the tyrannical rule of her stepparents, either through a job or marriage, and ultimately reflect Antonina’s, and to a larger extent a woman’s, inability to escape an oppressive society. The only domain in which Antonina can successfully reject her stepmother’s values and realize an improvement in her childhood is as a stepmother to Lenochka. Upon meeting Lenochka, Antonina is “reminded [of her] own

situation and how [her] stepmother treated [her]” (123). With Lenochka, Antonina consciously rewrites the narrative of her own upbringing by being a loving mother. She successfully forms a strong attachment with her stepdaughter. For example, Lenochka comes “to love [her] with all the intensity of her childish heart, all the passion of her southern temperament” (126). Although this can appear to simply return to the traditional model with a loving mother and an absent father who views Lenochka only as an “obligation” (122), Antonina’s close relationship with Lenochka reworks the traditional model within the constraints of the social norm. Since Antonina’s values do not correspond with the traditional ones and she is the parent whose relationship allows her to successfully transmit her values, she can influence a future generation through the domestic sphere. As Engel writes, “the unusual mother-daughter relationship could actually sow the seeds of revolt. If the mother herself felt discontented with her lot, or if the values she transmitted were strongly at odds with official ones, this might inspire in a daughter a desire for a different sort of life” (Engel 13). Antonina’s relationship with Lenochka precisely echoes this situation and provides a framework in which a defeated woman still promotes change despite being trapped in an unyielding society. Altogether, in Antonina, a deeper analysis of the mother-daughter dynamics that originated the title character’s conflict with traditional values complements the surface narrative of her struggle against oppressive class and gender norms. The literary parallels between Antonina and her stepmother broaden the idea that they are part of an inevitable cycle of unhappiness resulting from the structure of society. Ultimately, Antonina can only achieve a victory that compromises her struggle against societal values and their foundational nature. She cannot escape the cyclic nature of her oppressive society, but she manages to change the domestic sphere she controls in a way that allows for improvement with successive generations.

Works Cited

Engel, Barbara. Mothers and Daughters: Women of the Intelligentsia in Nineteenth-Century Russia. Northwestern University Press, 2000. Tur, Evgenia. Antonina. Translated by Michael R. Katz, Northwestern University Press, 1996.

EX.7 THE ECONOMY OF DESIRE: AN ANALYSIS OF DOSTOYEVSKY’S PARADOXICAL POWER DYNAMICS - REBECCA TURNER Throughout his work, Dostoyevsky wrote characters who delight in paradoxes, self inflicted pain, and absurd behaviour. Two such characters are Agrafena “Grushenka” Svetlov and Nastasya Filippovna from his novels The Brothers Karamazov and The Idiot, respectively. Through the motifs of desire as currency and the paradox of power in their relationships, Dostoyevsky demonstrates that in order to wrench power away from the patriarchal gaze that values women on the basis of their beauty and purity alone, characters can choose to barter the currency allotted to them, for it is in these moments of choice they feel as though they have agency. In Doestoevsky’s texts, women are limited in the ways they can accumulate social capital due to patriarchal social norms. Grushenka’s paradoxical position as both a servant and master is analyzed through the lens of Slobodanka Vladiv-Glover’s paper “Dostoyevsky, Freud and Parricide.” Before Alyosha Karamazov, the son and brother of Grushenka’s two suitors, encounters Grushenka, town gossip informs them that Grushenka was, “at seventeen betrayed by … some sort of officer, and immediately afterwards abandoned by him. The officer had gone away and afterwards married, while Grushenka had been left in poverty and disgrace.

It was said … that Grushenka had been raised from destitution by the old man, Samsonov” (Karamazov 195). There were whispers that she repaid this debt by becoming his “mistress” (Karamazov 81). While the veracity of whether or not Grushenka became Samsonov’s mistress in trade for being “raised from destitution” is questionable, in the eyes of her society, she is likened to a prostitute giving out sexual favours in exchange for profit (Glover 20). Therefore, their relationship is seemingly defined by Samsonov’s position as master over the subservient Grushenka. The supposed truth of this assessment is highlighted by the idea that within Russia’s patriarchal, Christian society, the loss of her virginity corresponds to a loss of social capital. It is only after she is “abandoned” by her officer who chooses to marry another that she is “left in poverty and disgrace” (Karamazov 195). By failing to successfully exchange the social capital of virginity for the economically and socially secure position of a wife, she is left with less social value and is therefore perceived as having “fallen” from grace and the social ladder. In other words, she is considered as “cheap” and can therefore be easily bought and sold by the men around her (Glover 21). A paradox emerges as Grushenka comes to realize that desire is a form of capital. Her accumulation of economic wealth is a reflection of her accumulation of social capital in the form of desire. For instance, Samsonov first gave Grushenka an allowance described as “Lenten fare”, a religious allusion which denotes her meager worth (Karamazov 341). However, with this small amount of currency she is able to invest, save, and grow her wealth until Samsonov is said to have “fallen greatly under [her] influence” and “could not live without her” (Karamazov 341). Grushenka uses Samsonov’s desire for her to reverse their roles and become the master over him. This paradox is also demonstrated in Grushenka’s relationships with Fiodr and Mitya Karamazov According to Vladiv-Glover, in regards t to her interactions with the Karamazovs, Grushenka is illustrated as “an emblematic

‘prostitute’ in the process of exchange” as both men offer her 3,000 rubles in trade for her love and thus sexual availability (Glover 21). Nonetheless, it is through this exchange that Mitya’s role as a powerful soldier, for example, is transformed to that of a “Master turned Slave” (Glover 21). In Russia, slaves were considered to be the property of their masters, objects that could be bought and sold. Grushenka is demonstrated as wielding this power over Mitya in the “Drawing Room scene” where her conversation with Katya parallels that of a business transaction. Throughout the scene, Mitya is described as only a passive object, denied the ability to choose for himself which woman he wishes to be with. Instead, Katya tries to buy him from the business-savvy Grushenka who first orally “promises” that this transaction can be made and then reneges after Katya gives her the full payment upfront: the continuous “[kissing of] her hand” (Karamazov 154). Without a written contract, Grushenka slyly states that in reality, she “promised nothing” to Katya and may once again seduce Mitya since her mind is “so changeable” (Karamazov 154). Grushenka thus takes on the role of the officer who took her own upfront payment of kisses and refuses to follow through on the transaction of desire to marry her, a function embodied by Mitya’s own unfulfilled promises to marry Katya. In this way, Grushenka’s recognition of the paradox gives her the power to usurp the traditional male role of master and wield it over over others as it was wielded over herself (Glover 22). Dostoyevsky applies this paradoxical gender dynamic to Nastasya Filippovna and her suitors in The Idiot. Similarly to Grushenka, Nastasya is raised from poverty by a wealthy older man, Totsky, who grooms the young girl to become his “concubine” at the age of 16 (Idiot 145). In a society that views women through the diametrically opposed lenses of either a Madonna or whore, this exchange of sexual and bodily autonomy for material wealth marks Nastasya as a fallen woman, submissive in her relationship to Totsky as well as the patriarchal society at large. Objectified by the male Christian gaze,

Nastasya’s value falls to that of “a cheaply-bought conquest” (Idiot 38). However, when Totsky wishes to marry “respectably”, Nastasya recognizes her own paradox of power. Although Nastasya’s social standing is considered low and dishonourable, Totsky’s desire to maintain his own social status means that he financially takes care of Nastasya (Idiot 8). Paradoxically, in his raising of her status, his own is lowered. While it is her “allowance” of the exchange of her virginity for economic gain that is considered immoral, Totsky’s public association with “his whore” subtracts from his own social capital. In this way, Nastasya controls not only the economy of desire but also both of their social capitals. Therefore, Nastasia also restraints whom Totsky can invest himself in, specifically to whom he can marry: This new woman gave [Totsky] further to understand that though it was absolutely the same to her whom he married, yet she had decided to prevent this marriage—for no particular reason, but that she chose to do so, and because she wished to amuse herself at his expense for that it was “quite her turn to laugh a little now” (Idiot 37).

Nastasya’s newfound awareness of her economic influence and ability to exert said influence over a weaker, specifically male, vassals marks her as a “nascently masculinized [woman]” who “[revolts] against the female role (Strauss 120). As with Grushenka, Nastasya’s paradoxical relationship with patriarchal social capital allows her to exercise her will upon society, which can be considered as a “feminist” approach (Strauss 120). However, although this paradox gives Nastasya outward strength and influence, it also fractures her psyche. This phenomenon is most clearly demonstrated during Nastasya’s birthday. She declares at this event she will finally choose who she will marry and arranges for her suitors to gamble and bet for her hand (Idiot 43). Totsky sets aside seventy-five thousand roubles for Ganya, Rogozhin brings a hundred-thousand rubles, and even Prince Myshkin tells Nastasya that he has a small fortune to offer her (Idiot 145). Although the guests, including Totsky, are deeply embarrassed by the

dishonour of gambling for a bride, Nastasya demonstrates her worth as being equal to or greater than Rogozhin’s hundred-thousand-ruble offer. Nevertheless, by accepting Rogozhin’s price, she truly would be selling herself to the highest bidder, cementing her perception of herself as a whore. Externalizing the inner torment from this paradox, Nastasya turns down the prince’s offer, which is symbolic of a Christian redemption and acknowledgment of her purity in spite of her sexual history. In choosing to accept Rogozhin’s proposal, she throws money into the fire and demands that Ganya, “before all these witnesses … pick it out” (Idiot 147). By burning the money, Nastasya demonstrates her own feelings of negative self worth while, paradoxically, increasing her value by refusing to be bought by any man. In this moment, Nastasya embodies the role of both the victim and the victimizer, hero and villain, since although this scene holds great symbolic significance, she is destroying the capital which would exponentially increase the value and quality of the surrounding men’s lives. As a result, their desire for the burning money is palpable as characters like Ganya and Lebedeff cry out to save the rubles (Idiot 148). However, nobody is willing to re-examine their views of femininity to save Nastasya (Strauss 121). Through the motifs of desire as currency and the paradox of power in relationships, Dostoyevsky demonstrates the dysfunctional and absurd nature of Russia’s Christian patriarchal view of women. Although this paradox is what gives them power, it is also demonstrated as being truly harmful to both their spiritual and psychological health. Both women choose to become victimizers, utilizing the toxic patriarchal attitude towards social capital in order to avoid their own victimhood and therefore come to perceive themselves as “wicked” women due to the pain that they knowingly cause.

Works Cited

Dostoyevsky, Fyodor. The Brothers Karamazov. Lerner Publishing Group, 2015. Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, and Eva Martin. The Idiot. Duke Classics, 2012. Straus, Nina Pelikan. Dostoevsky and the Woman Question : Rereadings at the End of a Century. St. Martin’s Press, 1994. Vladiv-Glover, Slobodanka. “Dostoyevsky, Freud and Parricide; Deconstructive Notes on ‘The Brothers Karamazov.’” New Zealand Slavonic Journal, 1993, pp. 7–34.

EX.8 IDEALLY NAKED: SENSE OF PLACE IN NABAKOV’S RETURN OF CHORB AND VISIT TO A MUSEUM

- FERNANDA RENGEL

Nabokov’s Visit to a Museum and Return of Chorb offer psychological sketches of immigration’s alienating effects. Struggling to belong in their new lands, both Chorb and the unnamed Russian protagonist of Visit to a Museum reckon with loss in many shapes, such as loss of a loved one or of national identity. In keeping with the Russian symbolist tradition, Nabokov works extensively through recurring patterns and vivid recollections. Through the émigré status of the protagonists in Visit to a Museum and Return of Chorb, Nabokov instrumentalizes recollection as a means to soothe the anguish of loss, thereby bridging the gap between empirical and transcendent reality. Nabokov allegorizes the two-worlds theory encompassed by Russian symbolism through his émigré protagonists’ feelings of alienation. Plato introduces the two-worlds theory in his seminal text, The Republic. In his ‘Simile of The Sun,’ he distinguishes between two possible realms of existence: the visible world home to physical objects, and the intelligible world home to Ideas, or that which is “not itself reality, but beyond it, and superior to it in dignity and power” (Plato 234).

The visible world, which I will denote as empirical reality, thus refers to the realm wherein humans attempt to reproduce the ideal forms of goodness from the intelligible world, which I will refer to as transcendent reality. Plato’s theory further holds that the ideal forms are inaccessible to us because we are finite beings and thus unequipped to grasp their infinite nature. As such, a gap exists between both worlds. This dichotomy is carried over by the Russian symbolist tradition, which holds that “descriptive language [fails] to convey unique personal feelings and emotions” (Mohrenschildt 1193). Therefore, transcendent reality cannot be articulated by humans in our limited imperfection except “suggestively through association of ideas and carefully constructed imagery” (Mohrenschildt 1193). By arguing that one can translate the real objects of empirical reality into the ideal essence of the transcendent world through associative language, the Russian symbolists are able to elevate empirical events into the realm of transcendent art. The gap between empirical and transcendent reality is allegorized in Visit to a Museum through the protagonist’s distaste for his current European settlement and simultaneous longing for “the Russia [he] remember[s]” but is now “forbidden to [him]” (Nabokov 285). France embodies the sensible world he has been relegated to, while pre-revolutionary Russia represents the intelligible world he is barred from. His journey through the museum encapsulates the arduous task of orienting oneself in the empirical world, as the protagonist “[finds himself] in darkness and [keeps] bumping into unknown furniture,” navigating a world of pure sensations that feel alien to someone who aches for the perfection of the transcendent world (Nabokov 283). The protagonist’s alienation stems from his émigré status, which allows Nabokov to anchor the nebulous two-world distinction within the physical, albeit fictional space of his story. In Return of Chorb, the gap is represented by Chorb’s oscillation between reality and his

imagined inner-world. Although he, too, is a “destitute Russian emigre” , which gives root to his feelings of alienation, his struggle is anchored moreso in the dissonance he experiences between his inner-life and the outside world (Nabokov 150). Never having felt at home in his new German context, Chorb often reminds his wife that, as compared to Berlin, “ivy never [grows] on birches in Russia” (Nabokov 151). To compensate for his perceived lack of belonging, Chorb attaches his identity to his wife upon her death. Without her, he lacks any proper grounding in the empirical world and retreats into his inner world, wishing “to possess his grief all by himself, without tainting it with any foreign substance, and without sharing it with any other soul” (Nabokov 148). As both protagonists navigate their feelings of alienation, they appeal to memory as a source of grounding. Embittered by his lack of national identity, the protagonist in Visit to a Museum rejects “the very notion of seeing sights” in the provincial French town he is visiting, judging alien cultural icons to be “loathsome” (Nabokov 277). His negative disposition shifts into excitement when thinking about the Portrait of a Russian Nobleman, suggesting a keen desire to reconnect with his roots (Nabokov 280). The painting embodies his lost national identity, and preserving it becomes his driving force. Moving through the museum’s fantastical halls, the protagonist effectively transcends place but not time, never arriving in his ideal Russia. Instead, he mysteriously finds himself back in a place he calls “hopelessly slavish, and hopelessly [his] own native land” (Nabokov 285). This is not the idealized Russia he yearns for, but rather its corrupted offspring. Memory fails to bridge the gap between empirical and transcendent reality in Visit to a Museum because the protagonist anchors himself not in memories of Russia but rather in his idealized cultural identity as a

whole. Without being able to recall specific and articulated images of his beloved Russia, the protagonist cannot transport himself into that idealized world. His epiphany comes too late, as he realizes that, “In order to shed all the integument of exile,” he must “tear off and destroy [his] clothes, [his] linen, [his] shoes, everything, and remain ideally naked” (Nabokov 285). To become ideally naked, he must strip the Russian material from his brain like clothes off his body, effectively transposing those memories into art. His failure to create an ideal Russia out of memories disqualifies him from ever accessing the higher transcendent reality he longs for. Beset with grief, Chorb has lost touch with the outside world. He fails to abide by social customs and walks around Berlin sweaty and without a hat (Nabokov 151). His sole motivation to continue living is his mission to “gather all the little things [he and his wife] had noticed together”, so that, “her image would grow immortal and replace her forever” (Nabokov 149). Recollections of his wife become the sole thread tethering Chorb to the empirical world. As he retraces their honeymoon trajectory, he is able to craft a complete transcendent world of recollections, thereby cutting his thread to reality. His success in bridging the gap can thus be entirely attributed to his reliance on vivid memories. As such, Chorb transmutes not only his wife into art, but himself as well. The contrast between Chorb’s success and the other’s failure in bridging the gap is indicative of Nabokov’s larger project of transmuting mundane realities of life into art through the utterance of recollections in imagistic language. This project can be surmised by looking no further than Nabokov’s autobiography, Speak, Memory, which details the author’s first attempts to “distinguish the faintest of personal glimmers” within his bank of recollections, which he later “[gives] away to [his] characters to

alleviate the burden” of those memories, keeping with the Russian symbolist tradition of emotional conveyance (Speak, Memory 20, 24). Transcendence for Nabokov means properly articulating memories, effectively setting them, and ourselves, free of the weight they hold. Return of Chorb succeeds in allowing memories to speak to Chorb so profoundly that he is moved to a state of solipsistic bliss, while Visit to a Museum warns of the dangers that may arise from overly-idealizing memories associated with national identity. Idealization prevents transcendence by painting memories with falsehoods. Without a thorough grounding in lived experience to create a rich bank of recollection, one cannot hope to strip away the physical confines of memory that keep one from becoming ideally naked.

Works Cited

Nabokov, Vladimir V. The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov. Vintage International, 2008. Plato. The Republic. Translated by Desmond Lee, 2nd ed., Penguin, 2012. Von Mohrenschildt, D. S. “The Russian Symbol ist Movement.” PMLA, vol. 53, no. 4, 1938, pp. 1193–1209. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/ stable/458557. Accessed 30 Jan. 2021.

EX.9

A SONATA IN TWO NORMS

- ETHAN MENDELL

Scan me Scan me Scan me Scan me Scan me Scan me Works Cited

Macionis, John J. Sociology. Pearson, 2014. Tolstoy, Leo. The Kreutzer Sonata. Tolstoy’s Short Fiction, edited by Michael R. Katz, Norton & Co, 2008, 134-195.

Music

Blue Wednesday, Soul Food Horns. “Dusk.” The Great Escape, Chillhop Music, Spotify. Chris Zabriskie. “Cylinder Two.” Cylinders, Spotify. Kevin Macleod “Magic Forest.” YouTube.

IMages

Dmitriev, Boris. 018. Online. http://borisworld.ru/. Murder on the Orient Express Poster. IMDb, Accessed January 5th, 2021. Prinet, René-Xavier. La Sonate à Kreutzer. 1901, Private collection. Wikimedia Commons, the free media repository. Wikimedia Foundation, 2020, https://commons. wikimedia.org/. Accessed 26 Dec. 2020. 2014.

EDITOR’S COMPENDIUM

EX. 1 EXILE: WHAT CAN EUGENE ONEGIN TELL US ABOUT COMING BACK?

- NICHOLAS HOWELL

When McGill announced that there would be a two-week cessation of classes last March, I do not think anyone was imagining what it would turn into thirteen months, two semesters, and a curfew later we can only be optimistic about a full return to in-person classes this fall. But even thinking optimistically, there is plenty to worry about going back: no more recorded lectures, if you miss it, you miss it; wearing a mask indoors might be the price we pay for face-to-face interaction; and no more open book tests, personally I cannot remember the last time I remembered something. My point is, sometimes you do not know what you have until it is gone. When classes went online, it was exciting until it was not, and, for myself anyway, I can imagine a similar arc to going back to campus. So where do we look for reassurance in these trying times? I have found it in Pushkin’s eternal classic, Eugene Onegin.

For those of you who are unfamiliar, or unlucky to have not read it recently, the titular Eugene is a young, noble, dilettante, born and bred in the sophisticated and cosmopolitan St. Petersburg. Facing a growing fatigue with the trials and pressures of big city life (constantly running from party to party, drinking the finest champagne, and romancing, and abandoning, beautiful debutantes) he jumps at the deaths of his father and uncle to retire to his family’s country estate. I am sure this all sounds very relatable so far but just wait. After two whole days of admiring the tree, fields, and babbling brooks, Eugene is once again despondent, convinced that at age 18 he has seen all there is to see. (I am sure that last part is even more relatable.) Over the next couple chapters, he sabotages all his friendships, pushes away the only woman who truly loved him, and eventually is abandoned by the author to an unknown fate. “But why?” you cry, weeping at the obvious parallels to your own ennui. “The spleen is what the English call it, / We call it simply Russian soul” (Pushkin 22). It is true, too much of anything, even a good thing, is just too much. So why do I care, and why should you? No matter where Eugene goes, it is all just too much. The city is too rich, the countryside too empty, in-person too hectic, zoom university too stagnant, see what I am getting at? “But Nick,” you say, “Eugene presumably dies alone and forgotten! How can I learn anything from this wastrel, this superfluous man?” Well, not everyone is a model, some people are warnings. Spleen is not a choice, but overindulgence is, and after a year off it can be tempting to dive right into the deep end. But even for those of us entering our last year here at McGill, there is still a whole year to enjoy. Recall how much fun it was for those two weeks in March to wake up at noon, lay around in your pajamas and watch trashy TV. It was great! But then two weeks became the rest of the semester, and in between lecture and work that is all there was.

It is easy to say what could have been, but really, maybe Eugene would not have been so sick of St. Petersburg if he had not indulged in every invitation that came his way. So especially, while COVID cases are still going around, you do not need to go to every “grand soiree” (Pushkin 10). Come back from your electronic exile purposefully, have fun, and see people who are meaningful. Like Pushkin writes, “blest is he who rightly gauges / The time to quit the feast and fly” (Pushkin 212).

Works Cited

Pushkin, Alexander. Eugene Onegin. Translated by Falen, James, Oxford University Press, 1990, Oxford.

E K T

EX.2

EXILE: MIKHAIL KHODORKOVSKY AND THE YUKOS AFFAIR

- GENEVIEVE COBEN

“The strictness of Russian laws is compensated for by the lack of obligation to follow them.” (Keingsberg 5, quoting Mikhail Khodorkovsky)

The Yukos affair and the imprisonment and later exile of Mikhail Khodorkovsky represent a watershed episode in post-communist Russia. Once the richest man in Russia with an amassed fortune of $15 billion, Khodorkovsky challenged Russian President Vladimir Putin and lost his empire, wealth, and freedom. The Yukos affair holds up a mirror to Russia, reflecting the power struggle between state and business around freedom, capitalism, and politics, and puts forward the question, who rules Russia? Khodorkovsky’s case illustrates the way in which Putin reined in the power of oligarchs and forced them to subordinate their business interests to Kremlin control. I will explore the transition from communism to capitalism under Boris Yeltsin, Khodorkovsky’s business, his entrance into politics, his jail sentence, and his legacy.

After the fall of the Soviet Union, Russia’s transition from a communist to capitalist economy created opportunities for individuals to capitalize on financial uncertainty and chaos. The decade of the 1990s was characterized by a radical deterioration of sovereign authority, with power exercised through chaotic interaction between networks of state officials, businessmen and the mafia (Rigi 200). With state coffers virtually empty, Boris Yeltsin’s government sold off state assets very cheaply through a “loan for shares” scheme that allowed a small number of businessmen – later dubbed oligarchs— to acquire these assets for a fraction of their overall worth. These political and economic conditions set the stage for a “plunder economy” and “gangster capitalism” to fill the vacuum that was previously occupied by the centrally-controlled command economy of the USSR (Rigi 200). While Weber’s model of Western capitalism separated the political sphere from the economic and rationalized both spheres, the new Russian variant of capitalism collapsed the distinction, with business success inextricably linked to the ability to influence political decision-making and to exercise coercive authority (Rigi 200). Personal networking, cronyism and murky deals became the main avenues for extracting wealth, with violence and intimidation often playing a decision role in the accumulation of capital, for example in the ferocious “aluminium wars” of the mid-90s (Rigi 200). The process was self-reinforcing, as oligarchs used their newfound wealth to wield political influence to protect their assets and to gain greater access to government patronage and assets. Khodorkovsky was one of these oligarchs. As the previous deputy chief of Komsomol, he forged friendships and alliances that would later be critical to his business success (Oliver and Goodwin ch. 3). Using his connections, he established one of the first private banks in Russia, Menatep, which the Yeltsin government authorized to handle the funds of the Ministry of Finance, the State Taxation Service, the Moscow city government and the Russian

arms export monopoly (Oliver and Goodwin ch. 3). Fusing politics to power further, Khodorkovsky served as deputy fuel and oil minister during Yeltsin’s presidency (Dawkins 16) . This connection for Khodorkovsky proved especially lucrative when Yeltsin started to privately auction major state assets like the oil company, Yukos. Yeltsin allowed Menatep to administer the auction and disqualify other bidders based on convenient “technical reasons,” even if they offered higher bids (Oliver and Goodwin ch. 3). Consequently, Menatep under Khodorkovsky’s leadership won the Yukos in 1995 for around $350 million. Against the backdrop of and rising oil prices in the late 90s, by 1997 Yukos’ market capitalization shot up to $9 billion, and in 2002 it was close to $15 billion (Granville 1268-1270). In 2003, Yukos production accounted for 8.3% of Russia’s GDP that year (Oliver and Goodwin ch. 3). In other words, Khodorkovsky’s political positioning enabled him to buy control of Yukos at an extraordinarily cheap valuation. It was a “sweetheart” deal that would later be cited as delegitimizing the Yeltsin privatization program. As Khodorkovsky’s wealth and empire grew, his political influence would begin to challenge the new president Vladimir Putin. On the one hand, Putin wanted to centralize power under Kremlin control and remove oligarchs from involvement in political matters. On the other hand, Khodorkovsky was keen to shed his “robber-baron” status and endow Yukos with the imprimatur of international legitimacy, introducing Western-style corporate governance reforms, auditing financial statements according to internationally-accepted standards and listing the company on the New York Stock Exchange (Gidadhubli 4951). Emboldened by his growing power, status and wealth, Khodorkovsky continued to encroach into politics, much to Putin’s disapproval. Despite the president’s clear instructions for oligarchs to confine themselves to the economic sphere in 2000, Khodorkovsky extended financial support to Putin’s political rivals, the Yabloko and the Communist parties, and lobbied (and, according to some observers, bribed) Duma members to block major government

policies initiatives, such as the taxation of the oil sector (Oliver and Goodwin ch. 3). To aggravate matters more, Khodorkovsky was forging closer ties with America. He was reported having “discreet meetings” with George Bush Sr. and vice-president Dick Cheney, discussing potential moves to sell off parts of Yukos to ExxonMobil—a deal that would effectively place Russian natural resources under American control (Gidadhubli 4951). With duma elections coming up in December 2003 and presidential elections scheduled in March 2004, Putin wanted to limit the influence of oligarchs, especially Khodorkovsky, who was rumoured to have ambitions for the presidency (Gidadhubli, 4950). So, in the wake of an announcement that Yukos was merging with Sibneft (which would make it Russia’s largest company and one of the world’s largest oil producers), Putin neutralized the threat by ordering Mikhail Khodorkovsky’s arrest at Novosibirsk airport in October 2003, brushing aside Western concerns about the investment climate and the rule of law in Russia (Oliver and Goodwin ch. 3). Khodorkovsky was arrested on the charges of fraud and tax evasion, and was sentenced to nine years in prison—”almost the maximum penalty possible under Russian law” (Oliver and Goodwin ch. 3). His claims that the accusations were “absurd” were in vain; he was sent to a Soviet-era prison in the eastern Siberian province of Chita, indeed “a very long way… from the elite, gated suburb” he was used to (Oliver and Goodwin ch. 3). The daily temperature in January at the prison report between -18 degrees and -33 degrees (Oliver and Goodwin ch. 3). When he was up for parole in 2007, he was charged with additional crimes of embezzlement and money laundering, extending his sentence another seven years. Meanwhile, Khodorkovsky’s empire had quickly been dismantled. The Russian government froze the 44 percent stake in Yukos owned by Menatep. From 2003 to 2004, the authorities taxed Yukos a total of $16.9 million for unpaid taxes from 2000-2002 (Johnson 7). The firm declared bankruptcy in 2006 and eventually renationalized, with its best assets going to Rosneft— a state-owned

Russian energy firm that was subsequently floated on the London Stock Exchange and the Russia Trading System (Gidadhubli 4950). The trial was met with international and domestic criticism of political motivation on Putin’s part. In Russia, critics like Gregory Yablinsky and Yelena Bonner claim that the “law has been applied selectively and disproportionately” and Khodorkovsky has been a victim of political repression (Gidadhubli 4950). Internationally, the EU commissioner for external affairs in 2004, Chris Patten, stated that “alleged violations of basic principles of justice into allegations of Yukos could hamper the process of Russian integration into European spaces”(Gidadhubli 4950). This conflict between Yukos and the state encapsulates the volatile relationship between government and business, especially the former demands monopoly of control over political decision-making. Putin made an example of Khodorkovsky, warning off other business oligarchs from wading into political matters. He reinforced this message with a wave of more arrests and charges brought against Yukos shareholders or any affiliated business interest. Shareholders like Vasily Shaknovsky, Platon Lebed and Leonid Nevzlin were all charged with crimes relating to embezzlement, tax evasion – in Nevzlin’s case, the conspiracy to commit murder (Gidadhubli 4950). Sibneft oil company was put under investigation of embezzlement and Ramil Butganv, the director of Eastern Oil company (a Yukos subsidiary), was also charged with embezzlement (Gidadhubli 4950). Not only had Khodorkovsky lost his wealth, the arrests against his contacts and the uncertainty that followed dwindled Khodorkovsky’s political influence. In 2013 Khodorkovsky was pardoned by Putin and went into exile in Germany. He prevailed in front of the Permanent Court of Arbitration in Den Haag in 2014, with court awarding damages and ruling that “Russian courts bent to the will of Russian executive authorities to bankrupt Yukos and assign its assets to a State-controlled company,” and that Khodorkovsky was imprisoned because he showed “signs of becoming a political competitor” (Gidadhubli 4949). The victory was mostly symbolic because the court lacked the power to enforce the ruling against Russia, making it impossible for Khodorkovsky or any of the erstwhile Yukos shareholders to recover damages for the

losses suffered by the de facto confiscation of the assets. While Khodorkovsky is by no means a saint and in many ways an embodiment of crony capitalism that fostered corruption and inequality during the 90s, his imprisonment and activism in exile have raised questions about human rights and democratic reform. In prison and in exile he appeared to develop into a more rounded political thinker and activist, advocating democratic reforms and positioning himself as a martyr to the arbitrary exercise of political power. After his release in 2013, he created “Open Russia,” a non-government organisation with the state purpose of developing civil society and the promotion of democratic values in Russia (Gidadhubli 4950). He has also been notable in his critiques of Putin’s government: he spoke to a crowd on Russian complicity in killing protestors at Kyiv’s Independence Square (RFL/RL 1). Furthermore, he set up a website named “Instead of Putin’’ where Russians can vote for alternatives to Putin (Krupkin 2). These challenges have not gone unnoticed by the Kremlin; in 2015 a Russian court issued an international arrest warrant for Khodorkovsky, accusing him of ordering the murder of Vladimir Petukhov, the mayor of Nefteyugansk who was murdered back in 1986 (Osborn 5). Khodorkovsky now lives in exile in London. In sum, the Yukos affair was reflective of the intense power struggle between state and business and would tip the scales in Putin’s favour, perhaps signalling an end to oligarchical influence in Russian politics. During the 90s, Russian business success was determined by proximity to political power not entrepreneurial skill. The oligarchs required political leverage to survive and prosper in a chaotic environment, and so sought greater political control. But Putin wanted to control these same political levers that the oligarchs sought, so as to make them realise their wealth and success were solely within his gift and control. Imprisonment and exile appears to have raised Khodorkovsky’s consciousness,

transforming a ruthlessly unsentimental business figure into a mature, subtle political thinker. Interestingly, exile can sometimes become the catalyst for ethical and spiritual transformation. Ultimately while Khodorkovsky’s transformation and promotion of human rights is a step towards rudimentary liberalism, his oligarch background makes him an illegitimate alternative for Russia. The path to pluralism cannot stem from a corrupt root.

Works Cited

Dawkin, David. “Why Russia’s Onetime Richest Man Won’t See a Penny of the $50 Billion Putin ‘ Destroyed.’” Forbes, February 19, 2020. Gidadhubli, R. G. “Yukos Affair: Putin Attacks Russia’s Oil Barons.” Economic and Political Weekly 38, no. 47, November 2003, 4949-4952. Goodwin, Tony and Oliver, Jamie. How They Blew it:

The CEOs and Entrepreneurs Behind Some of the World’s Most Catastrophic Business Fail ures. Kogan Page, 2010.

Granville, Christopher. “Reviewed Work: The Quality of Freedom: Khodorkovsky, Putin and the Yukos Affair by Richard Sakwa.” International Affairs 85, no. 6, November 2009, 1268-1270. Johnson, Keith. “What’s Really Happening with the Yukos Case.” Foreign Policy, June 19, 2015. Keingsberg, Ben. “‘Citizen K’ review: Trying to Pin Down a Russian Oligarch.” The New York Times, January 14, 2020. Krupkin, Taly. “Exiled Russian Oligarch Launches Con test to Find Putin Alternative.” Haaretz, Sep tember 14, 2016. Osborn, Andrew. “Russia wants Khodorkovsky Arrest ed Abroad on Murder Charges.” Reuters, De cember 23, 2015. Rigi, Jakob. “State and Big Capital in Russia.” Social Analysis: The International Journal of Social and Cultural Practice 49, no. 1, 2005, 198-205. “Ukraine: Khodorkovsky Addresses Thousands on Maidan.” RFE/RL, March 9, 2014.

Thank you for reading this year’s editon of Samizdat. We hope you enjoyed reading it as much as we enjoyed making it. This publication would not be possible without support from the Russian Undergraduate Student Society and the Arts Undergraduate Society Financial Management Committee. see you next year.

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