Samizdat 2018-2019

Самиздат Samizdat

Russian Undergraduate Students” Society Winter 2019

Editor-in-Chief Gabrielle Oddenino

Graphic Designer Diana Nigmatullina

Editors Emma Broderick Veranika Krauchanka Erica Stefano Sarah Sturken Ali Zivolak

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

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LETTER from the Editor-in-chief

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o briefly preface the 2018-2019 edition of Самиздат I would like to thank each of the editors, authors, and our graphic designer whose work is being showcased within. They each put such effort into this journal, and it would not have possible without their hard work and dedication.

Without further ado, please go and read their diverse variety of pieces, traversing from Imperial ballrooms, to Soviet exile in the Mediterranean, to how some famous stories could have ended, and let yoWurself be swept away.

Gabrielle Oddenino

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Table of Contents

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19th Century

20th Century

Isolation and Non-Linear Time in Tolstoy’s “Childhood” and Goncharov’s “Oblomov”

by Katharine Morrill

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A Promise of Elsewhere

by Abbie Arnold

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The Birth of Man: Makar Devushkin’s Self-Fabrication Through Blind Rhetoric

by Sydney Shiller

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The Nationalist Agenda

by Christiane-Marie Cantwell

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Продолжение рассказа “Аристократка” Михаила Зощенко by Мария Рыжова

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The Entanglement of Memory and Imagination: From Tolstaya’s “My Dear Shura” 23 to Nabokov’s “Spring in Fialta”

by Yilin Wang Tragedy and Isaac Levitan’s Vladimirka Road

by Lindsey Jones

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Oral tradition and dialogue in “Oddball” and “They Talk”

by Michaela Drouillard

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The Russian-Kazakh Encounter: A History of Misunderstandings

by Yaroslav Gouzenko

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Let Them Eat Cake: Gastronomy and Class in the Russian Empire from the Petrine State to the Revolutions

by Elena Symmes

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Overview

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Awkward Dances and the Rejection of Realism Isolation and Non-Linear Time in Tolstoy’s “Childhood” and Goncharov’s “Oblomov” Katharine Morrill

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olstoy’s Nikolenka and Goncharov’s Oblomov are figures who both demonstrate a significant degree of isolation from the societies in which they function. Nikolenka, as exemplified by his repeated humiliation at his grandmother’s place, demonstrates throughout Childhood his inability to fully fit in with society. Oblomov, the archetype of superfluity, spends a significant portion of Goncharov’s novel languishing on the sofa, thereby not only delaying the tasks that await him but also missing out on important developments in society. I argue that essential to both characters’ isolation is the manner in which Nikolenka and Oblomov conceive of time: indeed, in both novels, the characters’ respective conceptions of time prevent them from operating normally within society. Nikolenka is perpetually trapped in a given moment, unable to think further than the issue at hand; Oblomov operates within a stagnant, cyclical time frame which causes him to postpone the same simple tasks repeatedly. Accordingly, both are unable to accept the linear vision of time upheld by society, and remain distanced from the latter.

In “Loneliness and Social Class in Tolstoy’s Trilogy Childhood, Boyhood, Youth”, Anne Hruska argues that Nikolenka’s behaviour towards himself and others is indicative of “discomfort and ambivalence” towards social class and his position with regards to both his aristocratic relatives and the lower-class individuals who surround him: his tutor Karl Ivanych, the household servants, young Ilenka Grap (68). At times, Nikolenka attempts to align his behaviour with that of his brother and Seryozha. This results in him taking part in Ilenka’s torment, despite the fact he remains unconvinced “that it was all so merry and amusing” (Tolstoy 75). On the other hand, the ballroom scene, in which Nikolenka attempts and fails to dance the mazurka with a young princess, exemplifies his isolation from the societal structures of the aristocracy by demonstrating his inability to

catch on to expected behaviours, and highlights his shame upon failing to do so.

Hruska argues that this “societal ineptitude” demonstrated by Nikolenka throughout the novel “connects him…to [Ilenka] in particular”: just as Ilenka, who is of lower class than the Irtenev and Ilin families, is shunned by his peers, so too does Nikolenka fail to gain approval from his ‘friends’ and family (69).

After his minor faux pas at the party, for example, he notices that “[everyone] was staring at [him], some with astonishment…some with derision…” (Tolstoy 87). This oscillation between partaking in the belittling of those of lower social class and being similarly belittled demonstrates that Nikolenka is incapable of assimilating with either group.

Within the parameters of Childhood, this ambiguity and inability to fully fit in anywhere is partially contextualized within the framework of adolescence; indeed, Nikolenka’s brother Volodya, who is older and therefore ostensibly more aware of how to act in certain situations, seamlessly integrates himself into society and is more successful than his brother at interacting with the other children and adults alike: “[Seryozha] simply had no real liking for me, he clearly enjoyed playing and talking with Volodya more”; “the others are all dancing without doing pas de Basques, and our Volodya has adopted the new way too” (71; 86). Hruska, however, follows the development of Nikolenka’s status as an ‘outsider’ through Tolstoy’s trilogy: commenting on Nikolenka’s behaviour during a ball scene in Youth, for example, she remarks that “just as in Childhood, Nikolenka, after mistreating [Ilenka], immediately goes into a social situation similar to the one [Ilenka] occupied” (72). Accordingly, I propose that rather than viewing Nikolenka’s “social ineptitude” as a function of his age alone, it is also useful to examine his conception of time in order to explain his isolation (69).

Although Childhood as a whole chronicles Nikolenka’s adaptation to his rapidly-changing life circumstances, his inability to de-

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cisively fit in with any given group remains constant over the course of the novel, thereby demonstrating his myopic conception of time. Most notably, every moment at which Nikolenka makes some sort of mistake, or fails to do something the way he feels is expected of him, is characterized by an over-reaction to the situation. Subsequent to the abovementioned dance incident, he reflects and draws the conclusion that “[everyone] despises [him] and always will”, further noting that “[the] road to everything is closed for [him]: friendship, love, honours”; this not only aligns him with the outsider Ilenka, but also demonstrates that he is unable to think beyond a given moment and consider the long-term implications of minor actions (Tolstoy 88). Accordingly, Nikolenka can be considered as possessing a fragmented conception of time which runs contrary to the linear narrative upheld by those surrounding him; in this manner, minor upsets (such as not possessing dance gloves, making a mistake while dancing, or regretting the poem he writes for his grandmother’s name-day) signify catastrophe and affirm him as an outsider. In contrast, Volodya and the boys’ grandmother react “with complete indifference” and remain “completely indifferent” in the same social situations which drive Nikolenka to fret needlessly (82; 87).

Goncharov’s Oblomov demonstrates a similar degree of removal from society. In contemplating the “misfortunes” thrust upon him (the unpleasant letter from the bailiff at Oblomovka and his imminent eviction from his apartment), he laments the fact that he seems to be incapable of responding to these events as others would: “He became absorbed in a comparison of himself with those ‘others’…

He had to admit that another one would have managed to write all the letters…that another would have moved to a new flat, carried out the plan, gone to the country” (Goncharov 100). Oblomov’s realization is characterized as “one of the most clear-sighted and courageous moments” of his life; indeed, this epi-

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sode is one in which his isolation – a feature apparent to the reader from the outset of the novel, where lying down alone in his home is described as “his normal condition” – becomes evident to him (14).

The narrator describes Oblomov’s internal dialogue as “dreadful” and “painful”; Oblomov laments “the arrested development of his spiritual powers” and the “feeling of heaviness” that accompanies his daily life (101). The language employed in this passage is similar to the terms in which Nikolenka’s despair at failing to perform in society is expressed; the latter asks of God why he has been “[punished] so horribly” after forgetting to omit pas de Basques when dancing (Tolstoy 87). Accordingly, Oblomov’s revelation has the effect of emphasizing the severity of the divide between himself and the rest of society; whereas “[he], too, could have done” the things he feels another would have in his place, he finds himself unable to due to the “huge rock” which “[seems] to have been thrown across the narrow and pitiful path of his own existence” (Goncharov 100; 101).

This “huge rock” symbolizes the intangible barriers holding Oblomov back from leading a ‘normal’ life; although his industrious, ambitious friend Stolz remarks that “[ten] years ago, [Oblomov], too, was looking for something different” (understood in the context of the conversation to be ‘something other than rest and repose’), he no longer shares the motivation and aspirations typical of men of his age and social class (101; 180).

Prior to Oblomov’s realization of his isolation, he engages in a debate on the form and function of literature with his visitor, Penkin.

Whereas the latter, who upholds that “burning spite, bitter war on vice, contemptuous laughter at fallen human beings” are key components of the literature of the day, demonstrates that he is aware of early Realist tendencies in literature, Oblomov reacts against this and indicts the new literature (which he has not even read) for its lack of humanity and compassion, questioning the value of “the

fun of picking up some man and presenting him as true to life” (35). Here Oblomov, who squanders his time languishing in a dressing gown in a dingy room, is unwilling – perhaps even unable – to accept the linear development of literature from one literary school to another; the advent of Realism poses a threat to Oblomov and disconcerts him precisely because it serves as evidence that significant developments in society have occurred since he withdrew from it, effectively leaving him and his repetitive denial of reality behind.

Along with Oblomov’s realization of his own isolation, this episode indicates that his conception of time produces effects similar to those wrought by Nikolenka’s inability to think beyond fixed moments in time. Indeed, throughout the novel, any activity suggesting the necessity of extended commitment – reading a novel or attending to his affairs in the countryside, for example – is abandoned, as Oblomov invariably becomes overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task and can no longer think about it: “[he] tried to get the book…began it…would have mastered it, but instead he lay looking apathetically at the ceiling, with the book lying beside him unfinished and not properly understood”; “[again], Oblomov put off his journey because he was not yet ready to put his affairs in order” (67; 71). This shows that Oblomov cannot so much as think beyond his immediate circumstances; he is, essentially, trapped on the couch by the “huge rock” which is his insurmountably fragmented and in-the-moment conception of time (101). Accordingly, he is fated to repeat a cyclical pattern of sloth and delay interspersed with intense yet unrealized bouts of desire for self-actualization.

In both novels, society operates according to

a linear narrative; ‘normative’ characters – Nikolenka’s brother Volodya and Oblomov’s acquaintance Penkin, among others – exemplify this through their understanding of the flexibility of trends and behaviours in society.

Neither protagonist, however, thinks in linear terms; Nikolenka fixates on concrete points in time, deriving his somewhat fatalistic attitude towards his own behaviour from this skewed perspective, whereas Oblomov actively and repeatedly shirks involvement in any activity that transcends brief temporal engagement.

Accordingly, both are shown to be set apart from society, distanced from the behaviours expected of individuals belonging to their respective age and class categories. In this manner, stagnant and cyclical conceptions of time function for Nikolenka and Oblomov respectively as invisible barriers to integration within a greater framework; the contrast between linear ‘society time’ and their own detached and fragmented conceptions of time proves in both cases to present a significant obstacle complicating the characters’ identities and socialization.

Works Cited Goncharov, Ivan. Oblomov. Translated by David Magarshack, Penguin Books, 2005.

Hruska, Anne. “Loneliness and Social Class in Tolstoy’s Childhood, Boyhood, Youth”. The Slavic and East European Journal, Vol. 44, No. 1, 2000, pp. 64-78.

Tolstoy, Lev. Childhood, Boyhood, Youth. Translated by Judson Rosengrant, Penguin Books, 2012.

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A Promise of Elsewhere Abbie Arnold

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~In a landscape of sentimental drownings, dashed love, teas immediately overturned to claims of the value of a life, the role of religion, the glory of a Russian soul… somewhere, murmurings wander of romance and uncompromised assurance. ~ “Quite an hour to find yourself in a park, young lady,” chastised Nastasya as a greeting.

Aglaya had walked up, finding Nastasya just as she expected.

“Glad to have found such company then, being so markedly younger. So… gracious protector, you’ve received my letter?”

“And you’ve received mine, being that we’re both here.”

“Naturally,” Aglaya responded, remembering her surprise at having such a correspondent.

Coincidentally, the day after receiving Nastasya’s offer, her portrait was displayed for Aglaya’s family to appraise, along with Prince Myshkin, and unfortunately Ganya. Nastasya Filippovna’s beauty had been commented on before; nearly everyone who passed her portrait could not restrain themselves from admiring it, whether for the power, suffering or contempt it tended to express. Ganya, the gentleman the women would soon discuss, was so prideful beyond his greed that he deemed himself necessary, not only in engagement with Nastasya, but Aglaya as well; that same day, he dared to ask for her confirmation of desire, not deigning to wager the monetization of Nastasya’s shame for Aglaya’s interest.

As if she would be so sympathetic as to choose for him; Aglaya Ivanovna does not negotiate anything, not over her status, and certainly not over love. Besides, it’s not compassionate to save such a self-proclaimed desperate man by begging him to act, it’s shameful.

All this to say, that in such a context, Aglaya merely offered a pouted lip and crossed arms upon viewing Nastasya’s visage. So this is the woman Aglaya was to meet, the woman so tormenting Ganya. Some beauty inspires sympathy, it urges bystanders to protect it, savor it, contain it. Nastasya’s was of a far more tragic sort; the men she had the misfortune

of encountering saw utility, and so destroyed her to their satisfaction. It was no wonder a man like Myshkin would draw her attention, although perhaps “man” isn’t the most precise term for him. Meek, gentle, forgivingalmost too forgiving- these were more of his variety. These characteristics, long-imposed on women, served to the detriment of Nastasya, who suffered abuse to such an extent that while first pure chaos in her rage, she learned to wield it; manipulate the ones so capable of harm in order to free herself on all levels.

There must be holiness beyond fragility, worthiness beyond what one could endure, at least according to Aglaya. She had responded only a short few words to Nastasya’s letter; hardly the admiration the latter had rattled off toward the “young lady”. But much more was felt; Nastasya represented a woman whose suffering could be overturned, not by a man gentle or brash enough to tame her, but by her own unruly nature. The beauty of her was resilient, astonishingly bold and inviting.

Of course, the sharply cut jaw that evened to the softness of her chin, the sideways smile her own pride let slip…the roundness of her shoulders, and firmness of her hand’s grip… how lady-like her legs rested on the bench, nestled under the fluff of her petticoats…the ease of her hands, her shoulders remaining taut; her hair bundled above her neck, the straight line of her nose dipping toward her mouth… yes and, of course, the way she held her command, even if it meant being called mad, selfish, shameful. Surely, none of those hurt her image in Aglaya’s eyes. “You want to help me jilt the man with whom you’ve entertained a… what shall we call it… less than satisfying courtship? Don’t tilt your brow, it’s not to worry; as is evident by my letter and the nature of my situation, I never wanted to marry dear,

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sweet, cherished Ganya,” Nastasya spoke, carrying Aglaya away from her thoughts.

“Eh hem,” she coughed. “You forgot cowardly… insolent, unnecessary. The fact is, you have an actual mind to free yourself from everything you’ve been confined to. All of my life, I’ve had my ideas, but mostly it’s just enough dreaming to guide me through the night- and maybe frustrate my motherjust enough to keep us both occupied. Older women are still women after all, which is to say they’re made static, but with less chance of excitement since they’re either already married or on their way to dying, or for most of them: both. I still have time before I’m a true wet hen, in my mother’s words. I can mingle, entertain myself with ideas of escaping fully, but eventually I know I’ll be able to settle with someone at least of my own choice. Mother, she has only enough freedom to busy herself with me and my sisters, and of course father; she really has all the say, and quite the bit to say at that.

“Why do you speculate so? If you have the sense that this isn’t enough, or rather that you are more than what these circumstances deserve, than there is some vigor in you still.”

“Mother would say so.”

“Mother would say? Mother would say if you’re going to throw them into such turmoil, at least give them some verifiable grit.

Why torment yourself with hoping, if you can add a bit more pull to this never-ending, ever-exhausting turning we’re subject to day after day?” Nastasya traced her eyes over Aglaya’s face, down to her twiddling fingers fighting to restrain nerves, but not missing the resoluteness in her furrowed brows and pressed lips.

“Ever take a cigar?”

Nastasya wondered allowed.

“If you’d met my mother you wouldn’t ask.”

Nastasya raised her brows. Aglaya dragged her eyes to meet Nastasya’s waiting gaze.

“No, I mean no I haven’t, but I’ve seen, and smelled, father take many.”

“Upon the success of the denouement, we’ll share one cigar for the

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road, and for thanks,” Nastasya offered.

“Where do you plan on acquiring cigars?”

“Acquired. I acquired one from a man only so generous in the amount of time and dignity he stole. After finding himself satisfied after months occupying himself, with me, he’d abandon. With him absent, I decided to give him something to miss other than control over me. He’s quite a smoker, evidently with an enviable collection.”

“And you keep it with you?”

“You think so little of me that I’d finesse only a single cigar?”

“Regrettably, I’m not presently aware of your scavenging and concealing abilities.

I told you I admired your portrait and ambition, I hadn’t really cared to know much more until now.”

Nastasya looked toward the rustling trees, unconvinced of Agalaya’s nonchalance, then carried on, “To answer your question, I keep one on me. The others are guarded elsewhere.” “ I like the sound of elsewhere,” Aglaya let slip.

“Follow through with me on the plan, and the idea is we’ll reach there soon enough.”

“So you’ve finagled cigars…but can you shoot a gun?”

“Aglaya! Watch your questions, I’ll start to really believe you’ve got a death wish for elsewhere. Anyways, there’s nothing actually prosecutable about avenging ourselves and possibly shaming the men, and the money won’t actually burn. But an armed show? You walk a strikingly dangerous line.”

“Must it be a death wish? I’m not opposed to leaving; perhaps it is time she had a reason to be so expertly concerned for her unwed daughter. As for the weaponry; I am a woman of resources. In a house of four women and a father who is less than preoccupied with your well being, you learn to be educated on as many matters as possible. Besides, as prevalent as duels have become in our history, a woman ought to have some knowledge.”

“Agreed; there is a reason I was able to intervene Totsky’s engagement and hold

off Ganya as long as I have, and it’s not because I’m reckless. Acquiring freedom and accepting, even desiring, destruction may run threateningly close in my conception of the two, but is there not something said about knowing the value of what you long for by knowing the loss of it? I will say, I’m quite good with a riding crop, if ever the need for use arrives,” she finished with the slightest smirk playing on her lips. Nastasya faded back into her composure, but too slowly for the message on her mouth to be missed altogether by Aglaya.

Days and nights continued to unfold leading up to Nastasya’s name day celebration, and the two young ladies continued to meet; in the shade of night, or under the glow of a candle, illuminating their words exchanged on paper. Nastasya revealed more and more of her plan, and her history, while Aglaya thought on her own upbringing and all the ways they seemed to align with each other’s longings. It was more than a need for escape that united them; fine tuning the scheme allowed them the chance to develop a connection they feared they never would, as tender as it was fierce. ~ A mighty spectacle of a scene ensues, it is highly recommended you read the original for yourself. However, let it be known that after finessing a proposal from the Prince Christ himself, $100,000 from the suitor Rogozhin, after throwing that money into a fire, for which her original suitor and his fellow desperate men would beg, Nastasya transitioned into her resolution~

“Rogozhin, you’ve offered your money, a grand sum, and now we’ve witnessed that value praised by these… unfortunate men.”

“Honestly, are we not men? Someone should take care of this creature and let it be the end. Totsky, how did you have so much time with her and still she is so disobedient? Myshkin, you’ve offered to marry her, a whole other level of idiocy, be a man and do something, here…” Some attendant blurted, extending a long black object.

Nastasya, not pausing a moment,

grasped his riding crop in her long fingers and let it smack across his own cheek.

A shivering thrill was felt by more than one guest upon the sight and sound; Aglaya did her best to compose herself.

“I’ve had quite a bit to say tonight, but if I could say one thing more,” Nastasya finally continued, still balancing the riding crop between her hands, “Myshkin, surely, I have doubts about myself as deserving a gentle man such as yourself, who “believes” in the goodness of me. You talk so much of my goodness, God-granted, though doubted by humans, but maybe if you talked to me like an actual human, not a young girl taken advantage of by one too many men… But I have a better idea, one that will surely leave you with a happier, more thorough relationship. You’ll gather what I mean, in time; you too, Rogozhin.

Nastasya slyly gathered Rogozhin’s blazer in her hands, leisurely slinking it around her shoulders.

“Myshkin, you’ve offered us all something I don’t believe we could grasp on our own. Granted, it may take years to behold the nearly unendurable forgiveness you continue to give, or rather force at times. No matter, with or without you they’d all gossip and scowl upon us, but now there’s a chance they’ll envision us with a softer edge in memory. Come heaven or hell, or simply a deep, dark pit of dirt, best of luck finding us there.”

Many of the men still cowered by the fire, their eyes glazed and trying to process the sudden loss of fortune. Others still whispered of her madness. Ptitsyn maneuvered a hand through his hair, reclined in an armchair in full view of the chaos Nastasya managed to stoke, even in her exiting. The general began to stand, approaching Aglaya.

“And finally, dear Aglaya please do light our prize,” Nastasya finished, passing Aglaya the cigar from a strap around her knee.

“Father,” Aglaya began, “tell Mother she was right, I am quite like her,” she paused, bending slightly to touch the cigar to the tip of the fire, still burning ever so much,

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“only,” again she paused, breathing out one long puff of the cigar. “I’ll be pleased enough to decide my own life,” she finished with a glance to Nastasya, stamping the cigar out on the carpeted floor. The two women, not in the least excluded from a playful bicker from time to time, did indeed embark for elsewhere.

The general took a few steps in their procession, but stopped as he neared the door; lacking his coat, he decided to call to his youngest daughter from just inside. Lizaveta would’ve chased after her, latched onto the carriage door or managed to mount the horse’s back. But that was Lizaveta, and, really, how could anyone expect him to keep up with a woman like her after so many years of life… so, so many years of marriage.

Rogozhin, realizing his coat had been snatched, leapt up with Myshkin, who handed him his own overcoat as they paced quickly down the steps together. Aglaya pulled open the carriage door, offering a hand to Nastasya, as the men scurried after them like embers slowly burning to ash. Nastasya pulled Aglaya in after her, whipping the door shut, just as the men reached the steps’ end.

The two young ladies glanced briefly behind the carriage to catch Rogozhin’s arm resting over Myshkin’s shoulders, both bent over, out of breath and out of hope for a woman to settle for men such as themselves. Perhaps, instead of molding women to their stances, they’d find balance between themselves, just as Nastasya had foreseen. The bar maid a few streets from Rogozhin’s estate could likely verify, if prodded enough. It’s true, it can get awfully boring at such an age without an ear for scandal, or a mind for good literature.

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The Birth of Man: Makar Devushkin’s Self-Fabrication Through Blind Rhetoric Sydney Shiller

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he degree to which existentialism is a product of either humility of self-vilification is a question of cognizance.

Fyodor Dostoevsky’s first novel, which is as much an analysis of the urban poor as it is a nugatory mission of self-discovery for the lovelorn, addled protagonist, concerns itself with such finesse. In Poor Folk, Makar Devushkin alludes to Russian literary giants such as Gogol and Pushkin, feels his disposition depracatorily, and consistently divulges detailed accounts of his life in letters to Varvara Dobrosyolova. Though Devushkin is known to be a clerk and copyist and presents himself clearly through his dialogue with Varvara, it becomes evident that he is a product only of his own literary imagination as the novel winds on. Instances of Devushkin’s self-identification with the subjects of Varvara’s writing, feelings of extreme marginality, and literary allusion all suggest the protagonist’s lack of true ethos and undermine any accessibility to his version of reality.

In Dostoevsky’s Poor Folk, the reader’s only source of context is the contents of the letters exchanged by Devushkin and Varvara. The novel immediately involves only the dialogue between the two main characters, and it is from dialogue alone that the reader gains insight as to the thoughts, feelings, and personalities of the protagonist and his counterpart.

As the novel advances, Devushkin’s dependency on Varvara for self-definition becomes apparent. Evidentiary of this phenomenon is Devushkin’s letter to Varvara on April 12th, “You express the desire, my dear, that I should tell you in some detail about my everyday life and its circumstances. It gives me joy to carry out your desire without delay.”(1). This excerpt indicates that Devushkin invents himself for and from Varvara, a pattern common

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to his letters. Varvara’s presence is directly correlated, according to Devushkin, to having provided him some definition: “Once I had got to know you, I began [...] to know myself better [...] Before I knew you, I was lonely and spent my life asleep,” (108). This August 21st passage indicates that Devushkin not only acknowledges the considerable number of qualities inherited from his interaction with Varvara, but requires it as an alternative to erasure. The final testament to Devushkin’s one-dimensionality is his reaction to Varvara’s marriage to Bykov: Devushkin simply ceases to exist altogether. Not only does the novel end with his final letter to Varvara, but he expresses his devastation at her inexorable fate in terms of how she affects him, suggesting she was the sole creator of his substance.

“I lived for you alone! The reason I worked, and copied out documents [...] was always you, dearest, were living there,” (143). Devushkin’s character primarily comes from his dialogue with Varvara because of the characteristics assigned to him throughout and the fact that he tasked her with his sustenance.

Common phenomena in Devushkin’s letters to Varvara are self-deprecation and comparison of himself to others. Devushkin’s feelings of extreme marginality drive him to question whether he truly exists. Of Ratazyayev, Devushkin only says praise, however he compares himself to Ratazyayev in the following way: “What am I compared to him? Nothing.

He’s someone, he’s known, and what am I? I simply don’t exist,” (65). Devushkin recurrently expresses the same sort of existential dread concerning his own successes sized against the successes of others, particularly relating to literary prowess. In Devushkin’s eyes, his status as a copyist for little remuneration is particularly scathing because of his

ambition for literary success. When Devushkin inserts excerpts from Ratazyayev’s stories Italian Passions and Yermak and Zyuleika (67), he does so enviously, but maintains that in such a position, “I wouldn’t show myself on the Nevsky!” (69) as he connects his unrefinedness to an inability to command dignity.

He is particularly caught up in the opinions of others, particularly regarding his poverty. “[A poor man] listens to what others are saying and wonders if he’s being talked about, if they might be saying how unprepossessing he is [...] A poor man is worse than an old rag,” (89). Devushkin essentially likens himself to scum and self-fabricates based on that very image. Devushkin is marginal enough to wonder if he really exists, and simultaneously holds himself in low enough esteem to figure that his existence is only a product of others’ perceptions of him.

“And what a fine thing literature is, Varvara [...] It strengthens and instructs the heart [...]

It’s a sort of picture and mirror,” (66). In Poor Folk, literature seems to be the single most definitive quality about Devushkin - and it is, in a way, albeit only because he self-fashions through intentional (and perhaps delusional) identification with the literature he has read.

Devushkin, to a degree, tries to apply literature to his real life in an attempt to understand it.

However, he does so misguidedly by interpreting short stories as reflections of his own life. Varvara repeatedly sends literature to Devushkin in order to exert a good influence, however, as a reader for whom sympathy is paramount, Devushkin continuously identifies with the stories’ main characters and reads them as if he had chronicled his life therein. After Varvara encouraged Devushkin to read Pushkin, he had to say of The Stationmaster that “When you read this one, you feel as if you’d written it yourself- I felt as if I’d taken my own heart and turned it inside out for people to see,” (77). Devushkin directly identifies himself with Samson Vyrin and believes that “it’s going on in people’s lives all

around me” (77), as if the tale happened in real life, and not in writing. Devushkin’s later reading of Gogol’s The Overcoat hits slightly too close to home due to his identification with the main character. “It would be fine if he eventually mended his ways, made a few adjustments, softened it a little [...] evil would be punished and virtue would triumph [...]

It’s just an empty example from vile, everyday life,” (82). After reading Gogol, Devushkin read it as a personal attack, as if every passerby knew then that his boots were worn through and saw him for his poverty. Through literature, Devushkin convinced himself that he’d successfully find meaning, but in reality these readings reinforced his lack of substance.

Dostoevsky’s Poor Folk, while a fantastic analysis of the urban power, also documents the Sisyphean task of Makar Devushkin to give himself definition. Throughout the novel, Devushkin iterates and reiterates his love for literature and Varvara through writing, but only to the end that the reader comes to understand his dejectedness. In Poor Folk, Devushkin enters a man of no true character and, throughout the novel, fabricates himself by his own literary imagination, feelings of extreme marginality, and identification with the early greats of Russian literature. This self-fashioning was, however, unsuccessful in the end and Varvara’s departure promptly restored his shapelessness.

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The Nationalist Agenda Christiane-Marie Cantwell

A

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ccording to the World Wide Web, “Russian Opera” is restricted to the 19th century, as when one inputs the term into a search engine, the results are nothing but pieces written and composed during that century, though it is known that opera has been performed in Russia since 1736. Prior to the 1800’s, music written in Russia was not accorded a national title. This then begs the question, what is so specific about the pieces that are Russian national music that they warrant the appellation? In this essay, this question will be answered, arguing for the three main characteristics of national Russian opera: a specific musical style, native Russian source texts, and overarching nationalism characterized by the theme of the Other.

To begin, an opera must be composed in the “Russian” style to be considered a national work. Russian composers who do not use this style are excluded from the distinction. For example, Anton Rubinstein, a contemporary of the Kuchka in St Petersburg, did not compose Russian music, yet he was Russian himself. This is because his compositions were not set in the “national style”, which will be defined below. His work was far too conservative, classic -- read Western. This distinction seems trifling, but style is incredibly important in creating a separate identity, which anchors art to a country. It fosters a sense of Russian individualism against the overwhelming cultural monopoly of Western Europe. Through set styles and familiar motifs, listeners can identify the work as particularly Russian, and which is therefore something to which citizens can relate. The latter remains true despite Russian style being wholly fabricated. As Robert C. Ridenour writes “most of the traits now associated with the Russian musical style are Russian only because they were first used widely by Russian composers following Glinka’s example” (1981, 77). There

is nothing linking national music to an idea of Russianness, since the material was inspired by a multitude of sources, not limited to slavic folk songs. Glinka himself, the “father of Russian music”, used many Western conventions, like in Antonida’s italianate cavatina in Life for the Tsar (1836). Yet, importantly, the inherent Western-ness of Glinka’s work does not matter, because as subsequent composers drew inspiration from him, such as the Kuchka, they succeeded in creating a tradition of a certain musical style, and by attributing the title of “Russian” music to it, they wholly fabricated the genre. Some of its characteristics are the Glory chorus, ever present in the work of the Kuchka, and the innovation in composition as seen, for example, first in Glinka’s Life for the Tsar, then emulated in pieces like Musorgky’s Boris Godunov (1872). Regardless of the artificiality, the creation of a style is a defining feature of what is or is not national music.

However it is not the music on its own that divides Russian opera into its own subgroup.

The fact that all source texts for these types of operas are of Russian origin is of importance, and this springs from the value of having a plot that the native viewers would already be familiar with. It creates a rapport between the viewers and the opera, a sort of camaraderie, and in this case, of national pride. Using source texts from Pushkin or events from Russian history allows composers to paint the drama in broad strokes, leaving gaps to be filled by the viewers who already know the story. This type of interaction is vital within a national opera, as it allows the people to play a part in the piece, embedding the work within the national consciousness. For example, Musorgsky’s Boris Godunov deals with the story of Boris Godunov, a 17th century Czar who ascended to power through a vote of the Zemsky Sobor, but whose rule was constantly plagued by rumours that he had murdered

of Godunov’s death, is extremely familiar to Russians, not only through history but also through Nikolay Karamzin’s 1815 account in History of the Russian State, and Pushkin’s 1825 work Boris Godunov. Musorgksy is fully aware of the power that this narrative holds within his country. As such, when the production ends with the Holy Fool, his message of “Oh terror! Oh terror! / Allow thy tears to flow, / Wretched people!”, the viewers are not left to guess at his meaning (1990, Royal Opera House (London, England)). They already know of the Time of Troubles, of the subsequent instability of the Russian nation and civil wars during the years after Boris’ death, of the effects of serfdom established under his rule. But there is no need to explicitly state it, for viewers are now pulled into the story, playing both the part of the viewers and of the narrator. Without them, the piece has no meaning, and it is this type of reciprocal relationship that characterizes a national piece.

Lastly, a defining theme of Russian national opera is that of the Other. The juxtaposition of Russia with other nations is an important characteristic of the genre, because it allows composers to showcase the role Russia plays within the greater world, in opposition to the Other. This trope is seen in Glinka’s Ruslan and Lyudmila (1842), where the lovers represent the nation and its people, and Farlaf, Finn and Ratmir are the exotic Other.

In this piece, Russia is imagined as a nation holding up to outside influence, a symbol of the nationalist rhetoric. In Borodin’s Prince Igor (1868), Igor, the quintessential Russian leader, goes off to fight the Tartars. Instead, he gets kidnapped by them, but maintains a stoic countenance throughout, vowing to get back at them. His enemy, Kontchak, respects Igor’s stubbornness, which, if assuming Igor is Russia, is a very powerful metaphor indeed, where Russia is more stalwart than any other nations, who are weak in their decadence.

This constant quest to present the Russian nation as better than all others is a symbolize of Russia’s deeply entrenched insecurity about

its position on the world stage. For such a large country, they do have a cultural inferiority complex, especially when it comes to Western art forms, such as opera. Using the theme of the Other is therefore a device that characterizes national Russian opera because it supports the nationalist sentiment, often illustrating Russia as a better country than their neighbours, and simultaneously defines Russia themselves in opposition to them.

In conclusion, Gerald Abraham, in his review of Borodin’s Prince Igor, states that “the real subject of the opera [...] is not a person and his adventures, but the spirit of a people” (1931, 77). Though stated in reference to one specific opera, this statement can apply to all national Russian opera. The pieces do not concern themselves with Wagnerian myths, or the over-convoluted plots of French Grand Opera, but rather with Russia itself, its people, and its role within the global community. The style creates a musical identity, apart from music just written in Russia, and by drawing inspiration from Russian literary texts and historical events, composers create an interactive link between the opera and the viewers. Both of these characteristics are tied together through the theme of the Other, defining Russia in opposition passing a message about its place in the world. In the end, national Russian opera is about Russians, more than anything else. It is music of the people, for the people, by the people.

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Продолжение рассказа “Аристократка” Михаила Зощенко Мария Рыжова Рассказ Зощенко “Аристократка” — веселый и очень простой. Главный персоннаж необразованный водопроводчик Григорий Иванович, который влюблен в аристократку. Он приглашает даму в театр, и там происходит конфуз — дамочка кушает пирожные, за которые Григорий Иванович не может заплатить.

И

пошел Григорий Иванович домой, то-есть куда глаза глядят, так как после того, как он заплатил за четыре пирожных, ему нечем было платить за коммуналку за этот месяц. Идет он по улице и встречает Ваську, слесаря, который подарил ему один из билетов в театр, тот его спрашивает: —Как в театре-то было?— а Григорий Иванович отвечает: — «Как было», спрашиваешь? Да, никак не было! Сижу я в театре, ни фига не понимаю и ни хрена не вижу, потом во время перерыва я, предлагаю ей, дескать, аристократке, одно пирожное съесть, слышишь, только одно! А она что?

— Что? — говорит.

— А она, — говорю, — цоп! И сразу три! Я у шоке!1 У меня и на одно-то еле-еле хватало. А дальше можешь представить, что было?

— Что? —говорит,— неужели за четвертым пирожным полезла?

— Именно! — говорю,— вообще все бабы бессовестные! Особенно аристократки! Да чтоб я еще хоть раз с такими связался! Да никогда в жизни! Я тут вокруг нее кручусь-верчусь этаким буржуем нерезаным, — говорю,— а она мне от ворот поворот. Гут-бай! Мол, у кого денег нету— с дамами не ездют!2 Ноу проблем! Я с такими «дамами», которые

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напрашиваются в театр, а потом лопают все подряд, связываться больше не собираюсь!

— А как ты теперь будешь жить?— говорит,—на коммуналку-то хватит?

— В том-то и дело! —говорю,—мне теперь не на что жить! Вась! Можно я у тебя перекантуюсь в этом месяце? буду тебе должен!

— У меня? —спрашивает,— но ты же знаешь, Иваныч, что у меня одна комната на четверых, да ещё и тёща приедет, так что у меня тебе никак нельзя. Но ты можешь, — говорит,— устроить ей товарищеский суд! Тебе нечего терять! А она должна научиться идеологии коммунистического поведения!3 И в правду, обвиню аристократку в вызывающем поведении, в том, что из-за таких эгоисток некоторым людям не на что жить. Как говорится – зуб за зуб, глаз за глаз. Написал я ей письмо о том, что, мол, дорогая гражданка, вызываю тебя на товарищеский суд. Обвиняется она в неуважении достоинства гражданина Григория Ивановича4 и в унижении скромного и порядочного товарища. Спустя несколько дней, это фря мне прислала письмо о том, что она извиняется за это дикое, дескать, недопонимание и просит отменить суд. Но нет, дамочка, так

1 Выражение : “Я у шоке” является разговорным вариантом.

2 «у кого денег нету— с дамами не ездют», взято из рассказа М. Зощенко.

3 «идеологии коммунистического поведения», автор Зощенко в своем произведении использует слово «идеология», чтобы придать речи Григория Ивановича больше весомости, я сделала тоже самое в моем тексте.

4 «Обвиняется она в неуважении достоинства», это просторечие.

легко от меня не отделаешься! Третьего февраля 1923 года, собрались мы в здании суда, расселись, я слева, аристократка справа. Судьи вошли и сели на свои места впереди нас. Аристократка в своем репертуаре, в буржуйских нарядах, чулочки фильдекосовые, шляпка. Засмотрелся я на неё, а она нервно теребит платочек. Подумал : «Выпендривается она, у таких гражданок, кроме рубля, ничего другого в башке нету». Все молчат. и я решил, как настоящий мужчина, прервать тишину и уже поскорее закончить это мучение.

—Многопочтенные товарищи судьи,— говорю,— мы все сегодня собрались здесь, чтоб обсудить дело гражданки Эльвиры Иннокентьевны Носиковой. Обсудить ее неискренность, нечестность, ее нежелание трудиться на благо нашего коммунистического общества.

Tут меня лысый судья перебивает и, мол, просит приступить к сути,. В то же время я краем глаза подглядываю за аристократкой. Та сидит, молчит, как рыба об лед. А я-то думал, что она начнет возражать, возбуждаться, злиться, я подготовил кучу доказательств в свою пользу. А она, что? Молчит.

—Так вот, товарищи судьи,—говорю,— приглашаю я дамочку, ну Эльвиру Иннокентьевну, в театр, по её же просьбе. Идем мы рука под руку, и тут во время перерыва в театре, как очень хороший гражданин, я угощаю гражданку одним пирожным. А она сразу три скушала! Я еще подумал, «а не слипнется?» Но когда у нее рученьки потянулись за четвертым пирожным, я не выдержал, «Ложи в зад!» 1—говорю,— В итоге, дорогие товарищи судьи, остался я в театре опозоренным, оплёванным, брошенным, да еще и без копейки! А если я без копейки остался, следовательно, без жилья и без продовольствия. Все мои сбережения потратил я на нее, а она, неблагодарная...

1 Выражение «Ложи в зад» взято из рассказа Зощенко.

Лысый судья меня опять перебивает и говорит: —Очень уважительные причины для наказания, гражданин Григорий Иванович,—говорит,— аристократка, и к тому же вас оставила без денег. Такое поведение заслуживает не менее, чем 15 суток общественных работ. Гражданка Носикова, у вас есть какие-то аргументы, чтобы опровергнуть вашу вину? — говорит. Поворачиваюсь я в ее сторону и вижу заплаканную, сопливую дамочку, платок весь порванный. Бедная, бедная дамочка! Она и рот не могла открыть от истерики и нервов. Вдруг вижу, что судьи что-то обговаривают, хотят видимо закруглить дело, чтобы скорее уйти на обед. А гражданка-то ведь и слова не сказала, не может из себя ничего выдавить. И тут меня жаба задавила, но что же я за мужик такой, который даму, притом такую хрупкую и нежную, обижаю. Ну было и было, и вдруг вспомнилось, что у меня где-то под кроватью заначка лежит, и вообще,подумал я, если я на себя возьму вину, может у нас с ней еще что-то может произойти? Перед тем как лысый открыл рот, чтоб сказать окончательное решение, я выпалил: — Может дама что-то скажет, а то как-то совсем не по-коммунистически получается,—говорю. А она еще больше заревела, как корова, честное слово, аж как-то неприятно стало. И тут я решился, перебиваю судью, и говорю: —Товарищи судьи, —говорю,—вообще все не так было! На самом деле я ее сильно полюбил, а она мне, как бы, не отвечала взаимностью,—говорю,—и вот как решил я ее обучить. Простите и давайте забудем об этом диком недоразумении. Да, от такого поворота событий я сам опешил. Гражданка нервно вытирает слезы в шоке. А лысый судья спрашивает:

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—Гражданка Эльвира Иннокентьевна Носикова,—говорит,— правду ли нам говорит гражданин Григорий Иванович?

—Да, правда,—говорит.

—Он вам ничем не угрожал?

—Нет, нет, ничем,—говорит,—хотя он мне хамил и проявлял всяческое неуважение ко мне, справедливые товарищи судьи. Хоть стой, хоть падай! Лучше б молчала! Я обалдел от такой наглости! Судьи тоже обалдели. Чтобы загладить вину я говорю: —Добрые судьи,—говорю,—не будьте жестоки ко мне, пожалуйста. Я понял ошибку, клянусь, —говорю,—больше такого не повторится. Проявите милость ко мне!1 Лысый судья посмотрел на всех нас и отвечает: —Ох и шуточки у вас, Григорий Иванович,—говорит,—но товарищеский суд —не место для глупых детских развлечений, а тем более не для любовных игр,—говорит.— Суд—это место правосудия, где каждый получает по заслугам, за те проступки, которые он совершил. Мы тут с товарищами судьями посовещались,—говорит,—и решили, что, Григорий Иванович, либо вы заплатите штраф нашему государству в сумме 50 рублей, либо вы 15 суток посвятите общественным работам. Мне и думать-то не надо было, выбор был ясный, денег нет, поэтому могу только послужить Родине. После суда подхожу я к гражданке, как бы в ожидании благодарности, ведь спас я ее от тяжелых физических работ. Подхожу к ней, а она лыбится 2, аж зуб золотой ослепил, и понял я, что влип, во второй раз эта гражданка меня обдурила. Эх! Вот я пролетел!3 Не учусь я на своих ошибках! Да чтоб я хоть ещё раз взглянул на аристократок! Ничего общего с этими бабами не хочу иметь!

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1 Оборот речи : «проявите милость ко мне» звучит сложно, но на самом деле это очень простые слова.

2 «Лыбится» — улыбается.

3 «Пролетел» — потерпел неудачу.

The Entanglement of Memory and Imagination: From Tolstaya’s “My Dear Shura” to Nabokov’s “Spring in Fialta” Yilin Wang

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he critic Stephen Matterson refers to Nabokov’s “Spring in Fialta” as “one of the most important stories in the context of the relation between memory, imagination, and fiction” (Matterson, 102).

Similarly, Tolstaya’s “My Dear Shura” engages in an entanglement of memory and imagination. Both these stories explore circularity of narration, fairytale-like features that blur the boundary between memory and imagination, and an ultimate triumph of imagination over memory.

“My Dear Shura” and “Spring in Fialta” follow a circular trajectory, as the beginning and ending of the two stories are embedded in the present, while recollections, combined with imagination, curiously weave through the narratives. Tolstaya’s narrator depicts the imagery of Alexandra Ernestovna’s hat at the start of the story – “the four seasons of the year – snowballs, lilies of the valley, cherries, barberries – woven into a wreath on a pale straw platter” (Tolstaya, 175). The ominous circular-shaped wreath embodies the trajectory of the human life, from “spring!!!” to “winter?”, alluding to Alexandra Ernestovna’s death, and simultaneously outlining the circularity of the story.

The story closes on the hat “with the four seasons of the year” lying in the garbage, after the death of its owner (180, 188), not unlike the ending of Nabokov’s story with its imagery of a piece of tinfoil, glass, and the sea (Nabokov, 429), three elements that had appeared in the story before. Barbara Heldt Monter observes that these elements are all reflectors, “reflecting two ways, back into the past and forward […] into the present” (Monter, 135). Matterson argues that the spherical images throughout the story, such as the oranges and bomb-

shaped lamps, not only suggest the circularity of the story, but also contribute to the theme – “the narrator has been trapped within the circle of memory – on what could be called the ‘sorry-go-round’ of memory, and Nina has helped trap him” (Matterson, 104). In this way, “My Dear Shura” and “Spring in Fialta” follow a similar circularity, as recollections are intertwined with the present.

The stories are also comparable through their fantastic and fairytale-like characteristics, as Tolstaya’s and Nabokov’s narrators purposely blur the boundary between faithful remembrance of the past and their imagination. Interrupting her recollections of her old romance, Alexandra Ernestovna repeatedly brings the narrator back to the present with “More tea?” (Tolstaya, 184, 186). Meanwhile, “Back to the past, back to the past”, utters Nabokov’s narrator, as if casting a spell to evoke the bygone time (Nabokov, 415).

Reaching Alexandra Ernestovna’s apartment requires the narrator to “ring five times […], the third button from the top” (Tolstaya, 187).

The repetition of, and significance afforded to the numbers three and five is reminiscent of a fairytale in which numbers gain meaning for arbitrary or unknowable reasons. Similarly, gothic surroundings and fantastic elements transform Victor and Nina’s final encounter into a fairytale, with the two protagonists climbing up “an old stone stairway”, stepping over “a rusty old key”, and standing on a terrace next to a “half-ruined house” (Nabokov, 428 – 429).

Furthermore, both Tolstaya’s and Nabokov’s narrators crown their female protagonists as the Goddess of Memory. The narrator in “My Dear Shura” wistfully suggests the possibility of time travel to the day when Alexandra Er-

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nestovna could have chosen to seek her lover – “perhaps if you figure out what the magic word is, if you guess, if you sit and think hard, or look somewhere, there must be a door, a crack, an unnoticed crooked passageway back there to that day” (Tolstaya, 185).

He also holds on to the romantic notion that the old, unused ticket is the magic item that could bring back the past, as he rhetorically questions, “One way or another she’ll manage. She has the ticket, doesn’t she?” (187).

After being informed of Alexandra Ernestovna’s passing, the narrator illustrates the vision of “dear Shura, real as a mirage, crowned with wooden fruit and cardboard flowers” (188).

Both through the oxymoron, “real as a mirage”, and through the artificiality of the decorations representing the natural world, the narrator crowns dear Shura as a Goddess-like figure. Nabokov’s Nina claims a similar status as a “Goddess of Memory” (Matterson, 103). The reader is informed of her agelessness, as “although she was of [young Victor’s] age and of that of the century, she looked twenty at least, and this […] made her look younger” (Nabokov, 415). Additionally, the narrator confesses that his memories of Nina are evoked in a cyclical manner. Every new encounter results in a recollection of “the whole accumulation of the plot from the very beginning up to the last increment”. He directly compares this to Russian fairy tales, in which “the already told is bunched up again at every new turn of the story” (415). These fairytale-like elements, as well as the elevation of Alexandra Ernestovna and Nina’s status as Goddesses of Memory, invite the reader to view the stories not as recordings of the past, but as art where memory and imagination entangle and become inseparable.

In conclusion, both Tolstaya and Nabokov engage their readers in the entanglement of memory and imagination in their short stories. “My Dear Shura” and “Spring in Fialta” are structurally similar, assuming a cyclical trajectory as the narrators trace through their

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memories. The stories both offer a fantastic and fairytale-like reading, inviting the reader to consider the blurred boundary between memory and imagination, and recognizing memory’s irrelevance as art and imagination triumph.

Works Cited Nabokov, Vladimir. “Spring in Fialta.” The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov. New York: Vintage Books, 1997. 413429. Print.

Matterson, Stephen. “Sprung from the Music Box of Memory: ‘Spring in Fialta.’” A Small Alpine Form: Studies in Nabokov's Short Fiction, by Charles Nicol, Garland, 1993, pp. 99–110.

Monter, Barbara Heldt. “‘Spring in Fialta’: the Choice That Mimics Chance.” Nabokov Criticism, Reminiscences, Translations and Tributes, by Alfred Appel and Charles Newman, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1971, pp. 128–135.

Tolstaya, Tatyana. “My Dear Shura.” Trans. Thomas H. Hoisington. Out Visiting and Back Home: Russian Stories on Aging. Ed. Thomas H. Hoisington. Evanston: Northwest University Press. 1998. 175-188. Print.

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Tragedy and Isaac Levitan’s Vladimirka Road Lindsey Jones

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n 1892, Isaac Levitan created one of his most famous works, The Vladimirka Road. This 79 × 123 centimeter oil on canvas painting depicts a road with no end, somber and subdued. There is an impossibly vast empty sky, rivaled only by the impossibly vast and empty landscape below. The sole road at the center of the painting somberly stretches to meet an sparse horizon— a heartbreaking expanse of nothing. The muted blues and greys of the sky melt into the landscape’s dulled greens and brown. A solitary figure stands, forever frozen on an endless journey in the middle of the road. Sparse trees and clouds litter the scene, highlighting the emptiness of the rest of the space. The sprawling horizon is large and unending: the sheer space becomes oppressively large to the point of being claustrophobic. There is no visible source of light and this emphasizes the stagnant, unending nature. It is a painting painfully without time or end.

In her article “Russia as Space,” Emma Widdis explains how the vast and boundless space of Russia plays an important role in national character with ideas of untapped potential and ‘becomingness’. But within The Vladimirka Road, Levitan takes this concept and brings it into a tragic light. This unending expanse suggests that travellers, like his solitary figure, are forever itinerants, unable to find a place to rest. However, in reality this road did have an end that many, including the artist himself, knew all too well: the Gulag of Siberia. Exiled from their homes, prisoners were forced to walk this road on their journey east. Levitan conveys not only the bleakness of the road’s use but the undoubted nostalgia and beauty that this soon-to-be inaccessible Russian landscape evoked when seen by men who knew they would never return. It is a grief over the loss of Russia that is unlike those of the Itinerant Movement and their ‘Problem Paintings’, such as Vasilli Perov’s

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“Final Farewell” (1865), which vividly depicts a funeral procession. For Levitan, however, there is a quieter despair: the ‘twilight mood’ of the fin-de-siècle. The ‘twilight mood’ of Russian painting, best represented by Levitan himself, showcases resigned, yet dignified despair. These are works that attempt not to fight against the inevitable dying of the light, but only capture its last moments of beauty before the irrevocable end. What makes Levitan’s work so impactful and lasting is its ability to portray this without the viewer’s full comprehension of the significance.

From the first viewing, unaware of Russian history, the painting is able to evoke the nostalgia and beauty of the landscape alongside the feelings of loss and quiet despair through the mood of the painting alone. Aristotle’s tragic elements of recognition, reversal of fortune, and katharsis are present in this one image. The reversal of fortune and recognition alike of Aristotelian tragedy is evoked through the exiles' plight. Their fortunes are changing with every step along the Vladimirka, away from Moscow and towards Siberia; their futures are irrevocably changing for the worse as they voyage through the landscape.

With this irrevocable change, there is also recognition of their irrevocable loss. These exiles with never be able to return, they have lost their Motherland, a very part of their being.

Through the painting’s heartbreaking beauty, Levitan is able to show the recognition of this loss in a resigned, but dignified manner, evoking emotions previously unknown to the viewers themselves—the irrevocable rejection and deprivation of their homeland.

The Vladimirka Road is a perfect example of how feelings can act as a shortcut to process and understand—without a historical understanding of the painting, the feeling of loss is still present, unnamed and unexperienced

within this lifetime, causing the viewer to question whether the loss is, in fact, unexperienced.

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Oral tradition and dialogue in “Oddball” and “They Talk” Michaela Drouillard

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asily Shukshin’s “Oddball” and Linor Goralik’s “They Talk” are both short stories in which events are fundamentally dependent on communication. Oral tradition in storytelling is therefore central to both stories. The miscommunication in or fragmentation of dialogue is a leading motif in both stories that obliquely builds character and genre. Reader response is necessary to complete these portraits: idiosyncrasies in speech develop characters in a way only visible to the omniscient reader, idiosyncrasies interact with structure and placement of dialogue within the text to make a critique of genre, and self-reflective endings further develop characters.

In “They Talk”, speech is the only determinant in whether a character exists, gesturing to the role of oral tradition in storytelling. The voice of each anecdote is the only provided setting.

The readers are responsible for creating any other context, such as links between stories, should they choose to. Nadine Forimer argues that “[in novels] contact is more like the flash of fireflies, in and out, now here, now there, in darkness. Short-story writers see by the light of their flash; theirs is the art of the only thing one can be sure of - the present moment” (264). In “They Talk”, Goralik offers no consistency to the readers. As soon as a story reaches its climax, the scene cuts to another unrelated anecdote and each begins mid-speech and focuses on a single, intense topic, delivering a series of concentrated “flashes”. While the narrator provides a series of Gordimer’s “flashes”, the onus to make sense of the work as a whole is on the reader. However, the stories are explicitly disconnected, making interpretation difficult. There is no identifiable recipient of the dialogue, and the speaker is only identifiable through the fact that they are speaking and their pattern of speech. For instance, the second pas-

sage’s speaker uses “like” several times: “like, for example” and “with this, like, mink boa” (21). Then, the third passage begins with “still, like, shaking all over” prior to evolving into an aggressive voice “she fucking throws these kinds of tantrums” and “she’s fucking nuts” (21, 22). There is a fleeting illusion of connection through the “like” of the second passage which dissolves once it becomes clear that it is two different speakers. The limits of interpretation therefore leave the reader with speech patterns that act as new settings following each shift. Thus, the act of storytelling governs the shape, context, and characters of “They Talk”.

In “Oddball”, Oddball’s inner monologue is consistent with his speech, but other characters perceive his speech as disconnected and random because they do not have access to his inner world. The reader is omniscient and sees the process of dialogue, thus making empathy necessary on the part of the reader to develop a full picture of Oddball. For instance, on the plane, Oddball thinks “Why aren’t I amazed? After all, there’s almost five kilometers below me”, and continues his train of thought out loud “That’s man for you! The things he thinks up” (275). The other man is hostile towards this random outburst and ignores him (275). However, readers are more understanding because they see his thought process. This call for empathy applies to the scene with Oddball’s joke about the rouble bill (82). In this case, the narrator makes Oddball’s good-hearted intentions clear, “even trembling with joy, his eyes lit up. Quickly, so nobody could forestall him, he tried to come up with the most amusing and witty way to tell the folks in line about the bill” (82), but his joke proceeds to make those around him uncomfortable “at that, everybody got a little nervous” (82). In this case, he puts human connection before material goods, seeing that

he could have pocketed the bill (and, ironically, it is his right to do so). Geoffrey Hosking’s model for Shukshin’s characters in which they yearn for volya, but find the reality of rural life restrictive (565) applies to the oddball. Oddball’s choice to venture (“The Urals! The Urals!

Need a change of scenery” (81)) exemplifies his feeling of restriction, and his delight in trying to connect with people through jokes represents the harmonious oral tradition that is idealized in rural narratives. His character represents this paradox as he desires communication but dialogue alienates the character within the story while developing the character in the eyes of the reader.

The juxtaposition of the urgent and the mundane in “They Talk” reveals the importance of storytelling as the mundane can appear just as noteworthy as the urgent. A sense of urgency is apparent in many passages such as “... still, like, shaking all over” (22), “to talk with some, I’m human, after all, I can’t go on like this!” (23), and so forth. As intrigue and emotion run high, Gordimer’s “flash” is evident.

These are then juxtaposed with the mundane: “...haven’t been to the supermarket in a long time. Would really like to go there sometime” (31) or “...So I bought season tickets to the opera. I’m going to start building the normal life of a single person” (31). While there is no language of emotion or urgency, these are still stories in motion in that they begin mid-speech just like the others. Although the intensity of the content palls next to stories of domestic abuse and insanity, readers are left to ask why the speaker hasn’t been to the supermarket, or how buying opera tickets is a habit of single people. More importantly, the juxtaposition forces the reader to accept that these mundane stories belong side by side with more vivid tales because they have been curated by Goralik in this way. Thus, the act of storytelling trumps the stories themselves.

In the final passage of “Oddball”, the narrator provides a summary of Oddball that interacts with genre and reader response in order to build character. Kathleen Parthé intention-

ally excludes Shukshin from Village Prose because of the ironic undertones in his portrayal of the village and its inhabitants (xi).

Moreover, in her model of Village Prose, she presents the “goal-directed plot” as alien and favors “cyclical life, small contained ‘episodes’” (18). Trains and planes are a central motif in “Oddball”, thus depicting a character in motion. However, Oddball’s aforementioned inner volya touches on a leisurely ideal of the harmonious Village Prose. His drawing on the carriage further illustrates rural idealism (88). He is not necessarily goal-oriented, but he is in motion.

He is the vessel for a chronotype that travels and interacts on a hero quest with the outside world. The final passage, “He worked as a movie projectionist in the village. He adored detectives and dogs. When he was little, he’d dreamed of being a spy” commemorates a way of life that, based on other characters’ hostility, is not bound to survive.

When Oddball returns, he “took off his shoes, and set off running along the warm, damp earth” (89), representing a connection to the land. Despite excluding Oddball from her model, this ironically aligns with Parthé’s narrative patterns of return and deracination in Village Prose: “but the acute sense of the end of a way of life, the deracination not just of the hero, but of the Russian people as a whole” (19). The narrator speaks with the reader outside of Oddball’s quest and makes a metaliterary critique on the poetics of the village, gesturing to the narrator’s role as a storyteller and the importance of this storytelling for the sake of remembering ways of life.

The final entry in “They Talk” combines the mundane and the urgent in conversation to prove that stories must be told. The speaker states that they are writing a “script” (32). As scripts are structured entirely by means of dialogue, this statement calls attention to the act of writing a story with this type of structure. Critiquing the script as a “cheap melodrama” because “this doesn’t happen in real life- I mean such sheer intensity of tragedy” is

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ironic as the stories that preceded did indeed carry a sheer intensity of tragedy (32). The speaker concludes that art is the “ability to discern big issues in small things. The drama, that is, in the simple things of life”, seeming to address how the mundane can be elevated to the height of art through melodrama.

However, he receives three dramatic messages, “I’m in a psych ward, held here forcibly for now; Anya died yesterday. Not flying in; Dad keeps crying asking I bring him home.” These text messages can be matched to the twentieth (29), the second (2), sixth (23) anecdotes, respectively because of the theme of insanity and the mention of “Dad” and “Anya”. Despite the three text messages linking their respective stories within this setting, the preceding anecdotes that make up the entire work still remain independent. Only linked in retrospect because this “obviously” confirms the reader’s hypothesis of attributing the three texts to the corresponding anecdotes, this still does not solve, or even make an attempt to solve, the story. All of the other anecdotes remain unmentioned. The imagery of many unlinked stories is reflected in the absurdity in the final line: “I’ve been staring at my phone for fifteen minutes already, walking in circles around the station pillar”. The speaker, like the reader, is left confused. This interaction with reader response develops the story further, but does not allow for reader interpretation. What remains is the act of storytelling and the absurdity felt by the readers and final speaker, emphasizing the power in telling stories.

The act of telling stories is a force in “They Talk” and “Oddball” that can either connect stories or alienate characters from one another. In either case, oral tradition pieces together a story. The reader is a necessary component to both stories because they can observe the cases of fragmentation and harmony. While the idiosyncrasies these stories’ characters present prevent a consistent harmony in the story, the motif of dialogue creates a consistent lens through

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which readers can configure a story. In both stories, human fault and customs in communication are central to the theme of oral tradition.

The Russian-Kazakh Encounter: A History of Misunderstandings Yaroslav Gouzenko

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uring the gradual disintegration of the Golden Horde, the eastern remnant of the once-feared Mongol empire, regional powers across the Eurasian steppe sought to appropriate the legitimacy of the former khanate. As its northwestern heirs, Muscovy and the successive Russian empire subjugated and incorporated its rivals; in the southeast, the Kazakh steppe and Transoxiana were the last to be drawn into the ‘blood feud.’ Both had inherited the political culture of the steppe, but their relations in the eighteenth and nineteenth century were marked by estrangement. The Russian empire styled itself as a European imperial power, while the Kazakhs organized themselves as a nomadic confederation of three loosely organized hordes: the Smaller, Middle, and Great. Rapidly, a colonial relationship filled the cultural gulf separating both peoples: Central Asia was to be Russified. Throughout the Romanov period (1613-1917), the Russian bureaucracy implemented various policies to achieve this goal, but on the eve of the revolution, Russification was far from achieved. Imperial doctrine, formed in the capital’s ministerial cabinets for the Kazakh steppe, was differently formulated overtime, encompassing ideologies of expansion, civilization, and nationalism.

Russia had already developed proto-colonial policies prior to its eastward expansion across Eurasia into Kazakh lands, dealing with its more immediate neighbors first: the Tatars, Nogays, and Kalmyks. Like the Kazakhs, these peoples were “non-Christian societies with kinship based social organization and static, overwhelmingly nomadic pastoral economies,” whereas Russia stood out as a “Christian…military-bureaucratic state, with urban centers and a dynamic agricultural-industrial economy.” These dis-

tinct cultures did not share clearly defined borders—instead, they were separated by the dikoe pole, the wild field, “which implied both open, untamed expanses of land and a perilous frontier.” This contested area was full of opportunities for both types of societies, although they each held different visions of it.

Ivan IV’s coronation as Tsar made Russia’s intentions for the steppe clear. He claimed the mantle of “the Third Rome, the New Jerusalem, and the New Saray, all at the same time.”

By anchoring the legitimacy of the Golden Horde capital Saray to the Muscovite state, Ivan the Terrible asserted himself as its heir.

Although foremost a symbolic gesture, it was indicative of the relations Russia wished to pursue with its steppe neighbors: they were now Moscow’s subordinates, which required the transformation of steppe political practices of alliance to formalized allegiance. These changes were ineffective, however, as steppe people continued to traditionally interpret diplomatic strategy, leading to misunderstandings between Muscovy and its neighbors. Moscow thus had to assert itself to dictate steppe politics, and with its monopoly over firepower, extensive fortification belts, the regional economy, and clan politics, it ultimately achieved its goal in creating a frontier hierarchy.

Tevkelev, the Tatar imperial agent who had brokered negotiations between the Russian crown and Abulkhair, Khan of the Smaller Horde, formulated Russia’s first policy towards the Kazakhs. He noted that the Smaller Horde was politically divided, as Abulkhair was not trusted and his power was nominal.

To maintain and extend Russian authority in the region, Tevkelev suggested techniques used in the western steppe. Gifts were strategically distributed to cultivate and reward

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loyalty among Kazakh notables and a fort was built to supervise the region. In the first half of the eighteenth century, Russia still followed its proto-colonial practices in the Kazakh steppe; nevertheless, these practices became increasingly colonial throughout the century as Russia started to look westward in search of its own identity.

Beginning with the reign of Peter I, Russia began to style itself in European terms. It belonged to the realm of civilized nations, and thus superior to those who did not. Since Russia had only recently joined this elite group, it recognized the potential for enlightenment in every nation: any Russian subject, regardless of his ethnic and religious affiliations, could be civilized. Control over the steppe was now subsumed by a mission civilizatrice of “deliberate aggrandizement and conscious transformation of the new territories and subjects.”

The period of mere expansion had lost its significance in the Kazakh lands and was drawing to an end.

Civilizing ideas had to be modified in the context of the Kazakh steppe due to its ongoing status as frontier and distance from the Russian political core. Catherine II’s “Measures to Increase Russian Influence in the Kirgiz Steppe” were representative of imperial pragmatism in civilizing Central Asia. Baron Igel’strom was instructed to send loyal Tatar mullahs to the Kazakh steppe, where their influence was to discourage any indigenous desire to violate Russian interests. This development was possible under her reign as the state bureaucracy associated Islam with civility. However, Kazakhs were more nominal than devout Muslims. Tatar intermediaries were thus tasked with bringing an orthodox version of Islam to the Kazakh steppe while extoling the virtues of tsarist protection.

This process yielded mixed results. Tatars provided the Russian colonial apparatus with useful knowledge of the steppe—while in service, they kept travel logs which were important sources of ethnographic information and valuable accounts of Kazakh leader-

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ship. Kazakh leaders themselves sought the presence of Tatars among them because they recognized them as tokens of power, and mediators bestowed by Russia. Simultaneously, these intermediaries also conveyed “the image of a non-Russian official who was working in Russian service and who enjoyed influence and respect among his fellow people and the authorities.” Russia nevertheless failed to capitalize on Tatar efforts. Russian civilizing ideals entailed permanent settlement and agriculture, but Kazakh “cultural attachments to nomadism proved to have stronger allure.” Colonial authorities mismanaged the land despite the data accumulated by Tatars in their attempt to settle the region. In result, Kazakhs rose in revolt in 1776, joining the Pugachev Rebellion, and led sporadic raids under Srym Batyr from 1783 until his death in 1797. Russia needed to develop a new approach, beyond its expansive and civilizing measures.

In 1822, as governor general of Siberia, Speransky, incorporated the Middle Horde under his mandate, and enacted the “Rules of the Siberian Kirghiz” which abolished the title of khan and established a civil administration in the region consisting of clans, volost, and okrugs. Each clan consisted of fifteen families with an elected elder at its head. The volost were composed of ten to twelve clans, and was administered by a sultan or member of the Kazakh aristocracy chosen by the elders. Finally, the whole region was divided into seven okrugs each led by a prikaz which was a committee chaired by a sultan, two Russian representatives, and two elected Kazakhs. It was tasked with judicial and policing functions, and land grants were also distributed to those Kazakhs willing to settle. The Smaller Horde was divided in 1831 into 54 distantsii, each controlled by an elected local and approved

by Orenburg. Overall, although locals were incorporated within the new administrative structure, it proved to be a complete failure because bureaucratic demarcations “not only obstructed nomadic movement but cut

across historic emblems of identity such as [the Horde], which were connected to genealogy and territory.” Additionally, the problem was accentuated by Russian migration into the region. For example, 600 000 desiatin of land were taken over by Cossacks and Russian peasants from the Middle Horde, while seven million desiatin of land were expropriated for Russian use in The Ural region which encompassed lands traditionally belonging to the Smaller Horde. Inevitably, the situation led to new uprisings, including an attempted revolt led by Kenesary Kasymov of the Middle Horde, who managed to assemble 20 000 Kazakhs under his command in the 1830s.

The next piece of legislation in the Kazakh steppe resulted from the incorporation of Turkestan into the empire. Between the 1830s and 1860s, the Great Horde and Kokand fell under Russian control, while Khiva and Bukhara fell in the 1870s and became protectorates. Plots of land were offered once again to those willing to farm. However, colonial authorities disregarded the needs of nomadic economy with “all land…declared to be property of the Russian state.” In other words, Russia was ‘leasing’ lands to the Kazakhs and regulating its distribution which impeded on “traditional migratory patterns.” Just like with its precedent, the Provisional Statute sparked turmoil, leading to further rebellions in the Middle and Smaller Hordes.

Russian colonial authorities proved themselves inflexible, with increasingly aggressive civilizing policies in their pursuit of Kazakh settlement. The massive surge in Russian migration was the pivotal point in subduing the steppe. The land was Russified, while Kazakhs were forced into agriculture by the deterioration of their traditional economy. In 1889, the Resettlement Act allowed peasants from the Russian core to migrate to the Kazakh steppe and settle on ‘excessive lands,’ always ill-defined, and two years later, the Steppe Code granted them even more rights and privileges. However, the government was unable to contain the wave of peasants which surged

past the Ural Mountains. In compensation however, fifteen desiatin of land was distributed to Kazakhs, no matter their lifestyle.

Unfortunately, these were either inadequate for farming or simply not enough for grazing, and ultimately forced the nomad to settle down in order to survive. By the 20th century, the expansion of borders further south and the uncontrolled presence of Russian peasants had Russified the steppe.

To completely dismiss Russian civilizing efforts would also be wrong, as they had an impact on a minority which would come to play a fundamental role in the first decades of the 20th century in the steppe: the Kazakh intelligentsia. Tatar intermediaries were eventually replaced by indigenous talent, as imperial schools were established in the area. Despite the subsequent loyalty of its graduates to the empire, men such Chokan Valikhanov, Ibrahim Altynsarin, and Abai Kunanbaev contributed to Kazakh self-consciousness through their ethno-cultural gathering endeavors as examples of Kazakh intellectual work in the first half of the nineteenth century. The following generations, however, were more critical of the regime and took interest in Islam, as “Kazakh [became] a literary language,” to which Islamic institutions provided an audience. Indeed, Russian authorities authorized the publication of newspapers in the steppe to increase literacy. In short, the Kazakh had a new elite “capable of communicating their grievances to one another and to the Russian government.”

Overall, Russia was never consistent in its steppe policies, jumping from one the another without ever establishing the goals of the previous ones. It tried to civilize a people who neither saw themselves as subjects of the Russian empire, nor of its suzerain. Then, once the Kazakh steppe finally became a borderland with a civilized elite whose cooperation could have favored Russian rule, Russia shifted to an exclusive policy which favored the Russian center. It mattered little if the Kazakhs were civilized or not as waves of Russian migrants

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swept East. The Russian peasant was the new civil element of the steppe, while the Kazakh nomad was regulated to the margins. Misunderstandings plagued the steppe throughout the imperial era. Despite hundreds of years of attempts, the dikoe pole never ceased to exist, remaining elusive even to the most powerful and ambitious steppe power of the modern era.

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Let Them Eat Cake: Gastronomy and Class in the Russian Empire from the Petrine State to the Revolutions Elena Symmes

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ccording to Russian-Ukrainian writer Nikolai Gogol, the stomach was the “most noble” organ in the human body.1 Indeed, Russian foods and eating culture were prioritized by Peter the Great’s sweeping governmental, economic, and social reforms in the 18th century. Aimed at bending the nobles to his will, reforms foisted rapid Europeanization upon the upper class.

Meanwhile, the simple diet of the Russian masses changed little in the 18th century2; peasants were constrained to what they could grow themselves, the harvest season, and church rules. Food both represented and augmented the sharp, insurmountable barriers class presented in the empire. Westernizing pressures in the Russian Empire created a setting in which food habits highlighted social stratification - Russian nobles and elites ate their food based on trends, while peasants ate according to what they could afford. When the empire fell, so did many of the culinary habits that had perpetuated class distinction for centuries.

Firstly, agricultural and food policy dictated how foodstuffs were produced and distributed. While elites were introduced to the art of elaborate banquets, one peasant account presents nobles as plagued with an insatiety in and dissatisfaction with their lives of leisure.3 Meanwhile, the lack of a market econ-

omy meant that for most Russians, food selection was limited and monotonous.4 There was blatant preference for the elites to have access to the best cuts of meat and harvests, while agrarian rules were less “policy” than a superimposed dirigisme that only applied to commoners. The biggest distinctions were not by region, but by social class.

In this sense, a two-fold division existing between foods based on social class is visible.

One group represented breads, potatoes, vegetables, and alcohol, which were consumed by all social levels with differences between classes in quality and quantity. A second group of foods, including cheeses, fruits, sweets, and teas, showed huge disparities amongst consumption. This distinction is grounded in the logic that the former are staples of the Russian diet where the latter are more aptly termed luxuries and accessory foods, decided by the whims and personal preferences of rulers.5 They were not required for survival and were largely sourced from outside the country, therefore more expensive and restricted to elites.

“Bread before everything”6, a famous Russian proverb, was not an overstatement. Bread was the backbone of the Russian diet. Cereals, especially Rye, were used to make Russian “black” (brown) bread. Wheat bread was reserved for special occasions. In addition,

1 Von Bremzen, Anya. Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking : A Memoir of Love and Longing. First. New York: Crown, 2013. 13 2 Smith, R. E. F, and David Christian. Bread and Salt : A Social and Economic History of Food and Drink in Russia.

Cambridge Cambridgeshire: Cambridge University Press, 1984. 178 3 Nikitenko, Aleksandr. 2001. Up from Serfdom : My Childhood and Youth in Russia 1804-1824. New Haven: Yale University Press. Accessed November 18, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central. 6-7 4 Smith, R. E. F, and David Christian. Bread and Salt : A Social and Economic History of Food and Drink in Russia.

Cambridge Cambridgeshire: Cambridge University Press, 1984. 331 5 «ЕДА И НАПИТКИ XVIII ВЕКА». Страницы истории. http://storyo.ru/empire/115.htm.

6 Gibson, James R. Feeding the Russian Fur Trade: Provisionment of the Okhotsk Seaboard and the Kamchatka Peninsula. Madison, Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1969. 49

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there were uses for grains beyond just bread: Burda was a popular soup originating in Siberia that consisted of rye and flour. Kvass , a dark, caput-mortuum colored liquid, was made from fermented rye bread and doubled as a beverage or as a base for sauces.

In the Far East, where Russians were forced to adapt their diet to the limitations imposed on them by the region’s geography and isolation,1 Saturnan was a popular beverage concocted from wheat grain, flour, butter, and tea. Both commoners and the wealthy consumed these products, but quality and quantity served as markers of status, indicating if the individual belonged to a class where there were other options or better ingredients available.

Potato, a starchy crop, was another staple beloved and consumed by all Russians. However, similar to grains and cereals, the potato for peasants was paramount in maintaining their subsistence diet. In fact, the potato held such a substantive role in peasant culture and culinary tradition that the infamous riots against coercive farming in the first half of the 19th century were called the Potato Riots.2 The potato was also prized in the Far East as one of the few foods successful in rocky soil and agriculturally-disagreeable climates. The Okhotsk region specifically viewed it as more than simply a reliable crop; alongside turnip, cabbage, radish, and beets, vegetables were lifesavers when fish became scarce in the mid-19th century.3 Like grains, all Russians consumed potatoes, but the class distinction lay in the quantity consumed, determined by 1 Ibid., p. 50

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if there were other options available.

The majority of the peasant diet alongside grains and potatoes was comprised of vegetables. Vegetables were consumed in similar forms to what was eaten by the upper classes but in greater quantities. The predominantly vegetarian diet of the peasants needed salt to preserve food to last through winter, evidenced by the large amount of peasant salt consumption. 4 Kitchen gardens were found everywhere across the Russian landscape 5, and commonly grew cabbage, turnips, beets, carrots, radishes, cucumbers, peas, beans, mushrooms, dill, garlic, leeks, onions, gourds, and pumpkins.6 The reliance on vegetables for sustenance began during childhood, and the first solid food fed to babies was typically soft vegetables such as cucumber. Dried bark of poplar and pine was used for food in the East and West 7 , and shchi (cabbage soup) and borshch (beet soup) were daily staples, still popular today. In the Far East, various sea vegetables such as sea cabbage were collected for jam although they were salty in taste,8 as the climate and soil quality limited options.

Nobles consumed vegetables as well, but there is no evidence to purport their diet had a similar reliance on them.

Fruits, which had to be imported, played a smaller but still significant role compared to vegetables in the Russian diet. Common fruits were apples, pears, peaches, apricots, plums, cherries, grapes, melons, and berries to make beverages and preserves. A popular dessert was to accompany them with cheese.

9 While most of these items had to be import-

2 The Great Soviet Encyclopedia, 3rd Edition. S.v. "Potato Riots."

3 Gibson, James R. Feeding the Russian Fur Trade: Provisionment of the Okhotsk Seaboard and the Kamchatka Peninsula. Madison, Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1969. 180 4 Smith, R. E. F, and David Christian. Bread and Salt : A Social and Economic History of Food and Drink in Russia.

Cambridge Cambridgeshire: Cambridge University Press, 1984 28 5 Gibson, James R. Feeding the Russian Fur Trade: Provisionment of the Okhotsk Seaboard and the Kamchatka Peninsula. Madison, Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1969. 49 6 Gibson, James R. Feeding the Russian Fur Trade: Provisionment of the Okhotsk Seaboard and the Kamchatka Peninsula. Madison, Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1969. p. 49 7 Ibid., p. 54 8 Ibid., p. 54 9 «ЕДА И НАПИТКИ XVIII ВЕКА». Страницы истории. http://storyo.ru/empire/115.htm

ed from abroad, some fruits were grown in Russia. However, these were considered luxury items, such as sweet watermelons from Southern Russia. Similar to a lamb in their shape and exterior appearance, these watermelons highlight an intersection of peasant culture and folkloric belief. In families that could afford it, fruit was introduced into the diet early: unripened apples were a food given to peasant and wealthy teething babies alike. Ultimately however, conditions such as the fact that fruit was seasonal and required special preservation in the winter stymied its accessibility.

Class distinction and evidence of the elite receiving special gastronomic privilege was further shown through meat consumption.

The nobility enjoyed swan, peacock, crane, heron, black grouse, hazel hen, partridge, lark, goose. To peasants, meat was a luxury item and typically limited to beef on certain holidays, weddings, or baptismal celebrations.1 In fact, a common complaint amongst the peasantry was that “The greedy lords eat meat even on fast days”.2 However, veal was an outlier, avoided by the well-to-do and the peasants alike for reasons dictated by the Orthodox Church. Laws placed further restrictions on what the peasantry could produce at home, deliberately limiting their access to food. Trapping them in nutritional deficiency, peasants were legally prevented from killing large live game.3 Peasants were not only limited by what they could afford, but also by legislation that forced them to remain second class citizens, creating barriers that prevented peasants from having a chance at creating

their own fortunes.

The consumption of alternative sources of protein, by the peasantry and the elites varied regionally. Eggs were especially popular in the Far East as a handy protein supplement to the generally deficient Russian diet, collected by the thousands on the Kamchatka Peninsula.4 Other sources of protein were regional in nature marine mammals such as sea cows, whales, and hair seals were caught for food in the Russian Far East.5 However sustenance was not always about convenience; despite larger numbers, reindeer meat was unpopular and rarely eaten6 and egg was a more reliable staple. While lower classes ate eggs, the wealthy elite adorned them with diamonds: the Faberge company produced ornately jewelled decorative eggs for the Tsar and his friends as gifts.

Fish were plentiful and easy to catch from Saint Petersburg to the Pacific. Given that the climate dooms most of Russia to a largely inhospitable agricultural setting and short growing season, fish appeared to be the most widely available protein source. Seafood saved many Russians from starvation whenever and wherever there was poor agricultural development or a bad harvest.7 Salmon was eaten by both the upper and the lower classes a variety of different ways, and was most often consumed after it was salted, dried, and preserved. Seafood was rarely consumed raw8. Like all food products, class distinction was still communicated through seafood availability in status markers of choice and abundance. Mimicking trends in contemporary French cuisine,9 Moscow and Saint Pe-

1 Semyonova, Olga Tian-Shanskaia and Ransel, David L.. Village Life in Late Tsarist Russia. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993. https://muse.jhu.edu/ (accessed November 8, 2018).114 2 Ibid., p. 327 3 Ibid., p. 11-12.

4 Gibson, James R. Feeding the Russian Fur Trade: Provisionment of the Okhotsk Seaboard and the Kamchatka Peninsula. Madison, Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1969. 51 5 Ibid., p. 51 6 Ibid., p. 37 7 Ibid., p. 37 8 Ibid., p.51 9 Goldstein, Darra.“Gastronomic Reforms under Peter the Great: Toward a Cultural History of Russian Food,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas, Neue Folge, Bd. 48, H. 4 (2000) 488

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tersburg elites enjoyed fresh sturgeon, white salmon, sterlet salmon, pike, bream, pike perch, and other fare that were delicacies to the rest of the Russian population.

Consumption of cheese in the Russian Empire reflected an industry that only further exemplifies how class divisions were highlighted by accessibility and preferences. Aged cheese, considered the most desirable, is a known “acquired taste”; much like other luxury foods such as foie gras, olives, fine wines, and caviar, things that most people learn to enjoy only through experience. Cheese itself was prohibitively expensive and unfamiliar to the contemporary Russian palate. The ability to purchase and enjoy cheese categorically came to represent the highest, “most cultured” levels of Russian society.

1 While Russia did in fact have its own legacy of Russian-made dairy products (and this was the extent to which the masses enjoyed products such as cheese), Peter the Great’s reforms helped cured cheeses come into fashion during the eighteenth century as imported luxury goods.2 The image of cheese as a marker of class and status was so central to Russian society that debate arose as to whether too much money was being spent importing cheese alone, despite the fact that in reality cheese made up less than one percent of luxury imports in the Russian Empire.

3 Cheese, alongside other products, was representative of a broader discourse of gastronomy in the Russian Empire, concerned with how foreign foodstuffs exacerbated anxieties about class and identity.

Confections and sweets were another aspect of the Russian diet that reinforced class distinctions. Honey, a sticky-sweet staple, produced throughout Russia, was a common

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ingredient in many dishes. However, following pressures to westernize, wealthy kitchens found sugar to be more fashionable. The recipes for dessert dishes were prohibitively expensive and extravagant and therefore only enjoyed by those with vast wealth. Russian pastry history traces a clear path in which traditional peasant recipes and ingredients were appropriated to allow for the wealthy to create new versions to help distinguish themselves from the lower classes. For example, kovrizhka was a gingerbread cake from the earliest days of Russia that was slowly adapted as new ingredients and tastes developed in the empire.4 Even within the upper echelons of Russian society there were distinctions: only the most elite had access to red sugar, which was introduced to the Russian court as early as the 1600s.5 The preference for red sugar played to wealthy Russians’ sensibilities; in the Russian language the adjective for “beautiful” (красивый ) is closely linked to and sometimes used interchangeably with the word for the color red (красный ). Russian confectionary creations lagged far behind the viennoiserie, croissants, and millefeuilles that would have occupied French bakery windows, but pastries were unique from many other food groups in that they were not acquired tastes. Had the peasantry been given access to them, they would have likely delighted in it.

Tea and non-alcoholic drink culture was another vehicle reinforcing social stratification.

Prior to Petrine social reforms, tea played a minor role in Russian society until it became fashionable and hailed as “European”. Tea became so popular that the entire Russian daily eating sequence was altered with a new meal, Afternoon Tea, by the second half of the 17th

1 Smith, Allison. “The Case of the Dead Cheese Master, Part II: A Taste for Cheese.” Russian History Blog. http:// russianhistoryblog.org/2014/11/taste-for-cheese26 / (accessed November 8th, 2018) 2 Ibid., 3 Kahan, Arcadius. “The Costs of ‘Westernization’ in Russia: The Gentry and the Economy in the Eighteenth Century,” Slavic Review 25, no. 1 (1966). 44 4 Goldstein, Darra.“Gastronomic Reforms under Peter the Great: Toward a Cultural History of Russian Food,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas, Neue Folge, Bd. 48, H. 4 (2000) 483 5 Ibid., p. 483

century. 1 In the Far East, where imports were costly and limited by transportation logistics, a Cossack drink made from cowberry leaves was widely consumed in place of tea.2 Tea did permeate into mass culture, albeit slowly, proven by documentation kept by Russian officials recording imports. In 1798, loose leaf tea amounted to more than twenty one thousand puds 3 (343,000 ki4 lograms ); tea-drinking was clearly being enjoyed by more than the small, minority elite population because this was a quantity the nobles could not have sustained alone.

Any discussion of Russian culinary habits and food culture is incomplete without commentary on the role of alcohol in society. A temptation and a pleasure no Russian could withstand, Peter the Great’s own proclivity for foreign alcohol (especially Hungarian wines 5 ) contributed to their popularity. Excessive drinking was a widespread disorder, and institutions such as traktiri , postoialye dvory , and kabaki (village inns, taverns, and tea houses) 6 sprung up to accommodate the large drinking clientele. They were especially popular with the masses, for example in the rural Tver region near Moscow, 95.7% of all retail alcohol was sold in rural inns and taverns. 7 Traktirs were the starting point of development of a restaurant industry, serv-

ing pelmeni with various fillings.8 However, these were largely frequented by lower class citizens, as the wealthy could afford private banquets and chefs.

Vodka played an essential role that was so paramount to drinking culture that it requires mention separate from the greater umbrella of alcohol in the Empire. Introduced to Russians in the fourteenth century, Vodka has remained a favorite drink for centuries. Russia peasant and folkloric belief that imported beer had been tainted by witches likely contributed to this popularity. 9 Alcohol-induced release from the miseries of life provided an escape for all Russians but especially peasants.Drinking played a role in almost every social event from birth until death, especially at weddings, 10 and had wide appeal as a source of entertainment. From the Tsar’s perspective it was also a helpful tool to placate and distract the masses from their difficult, laborious lives.While commonfolk and nobles drank in separate settings, alcohol did appear to be one of the few parts of Russian food culture in which there were more similarities than differences across class lines. Yet unification never materialized, too problematic for an elite desperate to westernize.

The grandiose era of elite gastronomic culture came to an end as the Russian Empire fell to

1 Smith, R. E. F, and David Christian. Bread and Salt : A Social and Economic History of Food and Drink in Russia.

Cambridge Cambridgeshire: Cambridge University Press, 1984. 177 2 Gibson, James R. Feeding the Russian Fur Trade: Provisionment of the Okhotsk Seaboard and the Kamchatka Peninsula. Madison, Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1969. 53 3 Smith, R. E. F, and David Christian. Bread and Salt : A Social and Economic History of Food and Drink in Russia.

Cambridge Cambridgeshire: Cambridge University Press, 1984. 234 4 A pud (пуд) is a unit of mass equal to 40 Russian pounds (фунт), 16.38 kilograms, or 36.11 imperial pounds.

5 Ibid., p. 176 6 Burds, Jeffrey. Peasant Dreams and Market Politics: Labor Migration and the Russian Village, 1861-1905. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1998. 173 7 Ibid., p. 173 8 Von Bremzen, Anya. Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking : A Memoir of Love and Longing. First. New York: Crown, 2013. 19 9 Smith, R. E. F, and David Christian. Bread and Salt : A Social and Economic History of Food and Drink in Russia.

Cambridge Cambridgeshire: Cambridge University Press, 1984 235 10 Semyonova, Olga Tian-Shanskaia and Ransel, David L.. Village Life in Late Tsarist Russia.

Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993. https://muse.jhu.edu/ (accessed November 8, 2018).3 , 76-78, 84

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the Bolsheviks.1 The Russian Silver Age (19th century to early 20th century) was rife with a rich literary tradition as well as culinary habits, intersecting in the Russian writing community. Food became a tool of political power in a new way, with Lenin himself issuing decrees to favored populations. For example, a 1918 motion requested for the All Russia Food Council and the Commissariat for Food “to send out more and numerically larger armed detachments as well as commissars to take the most revolutionary measures to expedite shipments [of food to the local Soviets].” 2 Nationalistic euphoria upon entering WWI in 1914 collapsed in disaster.

Russia was sent into a deadly famine in which people were desperate even for bread, and the luxuries reserved for the elite were soup and artichokes. 3 The growing restaurant industry that had thrived on imported chefs 4 died off, turned into Soviet canteens. This account is useful in explaining the transition from Russian to Soviet cuisine, and moreover the destabilizing effect that this had on elites, who could no longer distinguish themselves from commoners.

For the lower classes these reforms were not as necessary to enforce as they were largely invisible to the tsar. Pressured by the autocratic legitimacy given to Peter the Great’s westernization policies, elites may have enjoyed the best foods available but were subject to the burden of cultivating a new culture from scratch. With little identity to ground themselves in, distinction from the lower classes was essential to elites for understanding and justifying to themselves the changes they were forced to adapt to.

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1 Von Bremzen, Anya. Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking : A Memoir of Love and Longing. First. New York: Crown, 2013. 10 2 Lenin. “Measures for Improving the Food Situation.” Marxists.org. https://www.marxists.org/archive/lenin/ works/1918/jan/14a.htm 3 Von Bremzen, Anya. Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking : A Memoir of Love and Longing. First. New York: Crown, 2013. 20 4 «ЕДА И НАПИТКИ XVIII ВЕКА». Страницы истории. http://storyo.ru/empire/115.htm

Works Cited Primary Sources - Lenin. “Measures for Improving the Food Situation.” Marxists.org. https://www.marxists.org/archive/lenin/works/1918/jan/14a.htm. Accessed November 12th, 2018.

- Nikitenko, Aleksandr. Up from Serfdom : My Childhood and Youth in Russia 1804-1824. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001. Accessed November 18, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central.

- Semyonova, Olga Tian-Shanskaia and Ransel, David L.. Village Life in Late Tsarist Russia. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993. https://muse.jhu.edu/ (accessed November 8, 2018).

- Von Bremzen, Anya. Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking : A Memoir of Love and Longing.

First. New York: Crown, 2013.

Secondary Sources - Burds, Jeffrey. Peasant Dreams and Market Politics: Labor Migration and the Russian Village, 1861-1905.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1998.

- Gibson, James R. Feeding the Russian Fur Trade: Provisionment of the Okhotsk Seaboard and the Kamchatka Peninsula. Madison, Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1969.

- Goldstein, Darra.“Gastronomic Reforms under Peter the Great: Toward a Cultural History of Russian Food,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas, Neue Folge, Bd. 48, H. 4 (2000), pp. 481-510.

- Kahan, Arcadius. “The Costs of ‘Westernization’ in Russia: The Gentry and the Economy in the Eighteenth Century,” Slavic Review 25, no. 1 (1966), pp 40-66.

- Kotsonis, Yanni. “How Peasants Became Backward: Agrarian Policy and Co-operatives in Russia.” In Transforming Peasants: Society, State, and the Peasantry, 1861-1930, Edited by Judith Pallot. Pages 15-36. New York City: St. Martin’s Press Inc., 1998.

- Krcka, Doris. “Russische Küche: Wissenwertes.” Essen und Trinken. https://www.essen-und-trinken.de/russische-kueche/78762-rtkl-russische-kueche-wissens wertes. (Accessed November 18th, 2018).

- McReynolds, Louise. “Tracking Social Change Through Sport Hunting.” In Transforming Peasants: Society, State, and the Peasantry, 1861-1930, Edited by Judith Pallot. Pages 64-72. New York City: St. Martin’s Press Inc., 1998.

- Smith, Allison. “The Case of the Dead Cheese Master, Part I: The Body.” Russian History Blog. http://russianhistoryblog.org/2014/11/the-body/ (accessed November 8th, 2018) - Smith, Allison. “The Case of the Dead Cheese Master, Part II: A Taste for Cheese.” Russian History Blog. http:// russianhistoryblog.org/2014/11/taste-for-cheese/ (accessed November 8th, 2018)

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- Smith, R. E. F, and David Christian. Bread and Salt : A Social and Economic History of Food and Drink in Russia.

Cambridge Cambridgeshire: Cambridge University Press, 1984.

- The Great Soviet Encyclopedia, 3rd Edition. S.v. "Potato Riots." Retrieved November 18th 2018 from https:// encyclopedia2.thefreedictionary.com/Potato+Riots - «ЕДА И НАПИТКИ XVIII ВЕКА». Страницы истории. http://storyo.ru/empire/115.htm (Accessed November 17th, 2018)

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