Pushkin, Maykov, Korolenko, Calderon, the French neo-romanticists,
Ibsen and others.... The most important of all are: "The Causes of
the Decadence of Modern Russian Literature" and "Tolstoy and
Dostoyevsky." He reveals here a fine and penetrating power of
observation, which, however, is often obscured because of his
obsession by Nietzschean ideas. Moreover, he does not hide his
antipathy to the people whose literary tastes and ideas differ from
his. From this characteristic comes strange exaggerations and a
somewhat limited appreciation of men and events. An example of
this, for instance, is the impression that he gives in his study of
the causes of the decadence of modern Russian literature, the
subject of which imposes upon the author the double task of
looking up the causes of this decadence and also proving that it
exists. He has not succeeded. In fact, it appears that this idea of
decadence exists only in the minds of the author and of a small
circle of writers who have the same ideas about the mission of
literature. Merezhkovsky is absolutely right in all that he says
about the fact that Russian writers live solitary, deprived of that
precious excitation which is felt when one is in contact with
original and different temperaments; but if you add to this, as he
has done, the statement that Russia does not possess a literature
worthy of the name, you go too far. Without being a great scholar,
it is easy to perceive that our contemporary Russian authors are
legitimate sons of Turgenev, Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy, and grandsons
of Gogol, who himself is closely related to Pushkin. A democratic
and humanitarian realism--widely separated from the Nietzscheism of
Merezhkovsky--strongly characterizes the Russian lineage.
In his book on Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky he spends a long time in
differentiating between the artistic intuition of these two great
masters, who are, according to him, the most profound expression of
the popular and higher element of Russian culture.
What strikes him first in Tolstoy is the insistence with which he
describes "animal man." In a kind of "leitmotiv" Merezhkovsky has
shown us the Tolstoyan characters individualized by very particular
corporal signs. "Tolstoy," he says, "has, to the very highest
degree, the gift of clairvoyance of the flesh; even when dead, the
flesh has a tongue." He is the subtle painter of all sensations and
he is a master in this domain. But his art diminishes singularly,
and even disappears when he tries to analyze the soul within the
flesh. Dostoyevsky, on the other hand, triumphs in his dialogue; one
sees his characters because one shares all their sadness, their
passions, their intelligence, and their sensibility. Dostoyevsky is
the painter of the depths of the human soul, which he portrays with
almost supernatural acuteness. And, as Tolstoy is "the seer of the
flesh," so is Dostoyevsky "the seer of the soul."
Having established this difference in principle, Merezhkovsky, by
constant deduction, concludes, in consonance with his favorite idea,
that Tolstoy personifies "the pagan spirit" at its height, while
Dostoyevsky represents "the Christian spirit." There is a great deal
of fine drawn reasoning in all of this, some very original ideas,
but a great many paradoxes. Even the very personality of Tolstoy,
the analysis of which occupies a large part of the book, is
belittled in the hands of Merezhkovsky. Instead of a noble
character, one sees a very vain person, preoccupied only with
himself. It is in this simple way that Merezhkovsky explains the
moral evolution which led Tolstoy to make those long and sad studies
of a kind of life compatible with the true good of humanity, and
forced him to them by "the anguish of the black mystery of death"
which, having got possession of the author of "Anna Karenina" in his
sixtieth year, in the midst of a life of prosperity, made him hate
his fortune and his comfort, which formerly had been so dear to him.
In the refusal of Tolstoy to "bow to the great authorities of the
literary world, such as AEschylus, Dante, and Shakespeare," a refusal
which is only the logical consequence of his ideas on the principle
and purpose of art, Merezhkovsky can only see a lack of general
culture. Finally, the sort of life he led toward the end of his days
came only "from the desire to know and taste the pleasure of
simplicity in all its subtleties." "The admirable Epicurus," says
Merezhkovsky, "that joyous sage, who, in the very center of Athens,
cultivated with his own hands a tiny garden, and taught men not to
believe in any human or divine chimeras, but to be contented with
the simple happiness that can be given by a single sunbeam, a
flower, a sup of water from an earthen cup, or the summer time,
would recognize in Tolstoy his faithful disciple, the only one,
perhaps, who survives in this barbaric silence, where American
comfort, a mixture of effeminacy and indigence, has made one forget
the real purpose of life...."
In writing these lines, Merezhkovsky must have forgotten that
Tolstoy, in proclaiming his ideas on religion and humanity, prepared
himself, not for Epicurean pleasures, but for seclusion in one of
the terrible dungeons of a Russian monastery (now in disuse) under
the persecutions of a temporal and secular authority, and it was not
his fault that, by a sort of miracle, he escaped this fate.
Dostoyevsky's life is the exact opposite of Tolstoy's. The story of
Dostoyevsky's terrible existence is probably known. Born in an
alms-house, he never ceased to suffer, and to love.... It is hard to
think of two people more absolutely different than Tolstoy and
Dostoyevsky. But Merezhkovsky loves violent contrasts; in the sharp
difference between these two writers, he sees the permanent union of
two controlling ideas of the Russian Renaissance and the imminence
of a final sympathy, symbolic of a concluding harmony.
* * * * *
We have, by turns, studied Merezhkovsky as a poet, a novelist, and a
critic. The greatest merit of his literary personality rests in the
perfect art with which he calls up the past.
But Merezhkovsky is not only an artist. As we have noted, his
novels have, as their end, one of the greatest contradictions of
human life,--the synthesis of the voluptuous representations of the
religion of classical antiquity and the moral principles of
Christianity. It is, therefore, natural to ask whether he has in
any way approached his goal and just where he sees the salvation of
humanity, the present situation of which seems to him desperate.
The answer to this question can be found in his book, "Ham
Triumphant."[14] Our study of Merezhkovsky's literary character
would be incomplete if the ideas of this book were not set forth.
[14] In Russia, the name of the biblical Ham has become synonymous
with servility and moral baseness. Merezhkovsky employs this
scornful term to designate those people who are strangers to the
higher tendencies of the mind and are entirely taken up with
material interests. His "Ham Triumphant" is the Antichrist, whose
reign, as predicted by the Apocalypse, will begin with the final
victory of the bourgeoisie. In one chapter of this book,
Merezhkovsky proves that the writers of western Europe and Russia
(Byron and Lermontov) err in crowning this Antichrist with an
aureole of proud revolutionary majesty, for, since he is the enemy
of all that is divine in man, he can only be a character of shabby
mediocrity and human banality, that is to say, a veritable "Ham."
According to Merezhkovsky, the present evil in the world consists
entirely in the moral void which results from the disappearance of
the Christian ideal from the soul. The loss of this ideal was
inevitable, and even productive of good, because it had been so
mutilated and deformed by the Church, that Christian religion became
a symbol of the reaction, and its God synonymous with executioner.
Humanity will rid itself of Christianity. But nothing will replace
it, unless it be the philosophy of positivism, a sort of material
religion of the appetites and the senses, which gives no answer to
our anguish and our mystical instincts. This philosophy presided at
the formation of a miserable society, an egotistical and mediocre
bourgeoisie, who have no spiritual tendencies, and are incapable of
sacrificing themselves to any ideal other than that of money.
John Stuart Mill said that the bourgeoisie would transform Europe
into a China; the Russian publicist Hertzen, frightened by the
victories of socialism, in 1848, foresaw the end of European
civilization, drowned in a wave of blood. Merezhkovsky affirms that
the Chinese and the Japanese, being the most complete and the most
persevering representatives of this "terrestrial" religion, will
without fail conquer Europe, where positivism still bears some
traces of Christian romanticism. "The Chinese," he says, "are
perfect positivists, while the Europeans are not yet perfect
Chinese, and, in this respect, the Americans are perfect Europeans."
Where is one to look for safety against this heavy load on the
understanding and this future humiliation? In socialism, one says.
But socialism, if it is not yet bourgeois, is almost so. "The
starved proletariat and the rejected bourgeois have different
economic opinions," says Merezhkovsky, "but their ideal is the same,
the pursuit of happiness." As it is but a step from the prudence of
the bourgeois to the exasperated state of the starved proletariat,
this pursuit can lead to nothing else but international atrocities
of militarism and chauvinism. Progress having become the sole
ambition of the cultivated barbarians, satiety became their
religion, and the only hope of escaping from this barbarism was to
adopt the religion of love, founded by Jesus. Jesus said to those
who were treated with violence, and who, in turn, had used violence
in trying to free themselves: "Truth (love) will set you free."
These words, which identify truth with love, contain in themselves
the profoundest social and personal morality. They inspired the
first martyrs of Christianity; but in time they were forgotten by
the Church. Succumbing to the "diabolical seduction of power,"
religion itself became a power, an autocracy; people submitted to
this power, and thus the Byzantine and Russian orthodoxy came into
existence. In this manner, the morals of the government,
antichristian in essence, became the doctrine of Christianity; and
the particular morals of the latter became transformed into a
mysterious gospel of life, relegating its aspirations to an
existence beyond the tomb. Now there is nothing for Christianity to
do but return to its first sources and develop the principles of
universal religion found there. One should no longer be concerned
with heavenly and personal advantage, but with earthly affairs and
social conditions; instead of being conquered by the government one
should conquer it, permeate it with one's spirit, and thus realize
the prophecy in the Apocalypse of the millennium of the saints on
earth, and destroy the forms of the power of the government, the
laws, and the empire. Such a renewal of Christianity demands an
energetic struggle, self-forgetfulness, and martyrs. But where is
one to find the necessary forces? Merezhkovsky does not see them in
the States of western Europe, because the "intellectuals" there are
antichristians and are congealed in their bourgeois positivism.
"Above these Christian states, above these old Gothic stores," says
Merezhkovsky, "rises, here and there, a Protestant wooden cross,
half rotted; or a Catholic one of iron, all rusted, and no one pays
any attention to them." What purity and nobility remains can
manifest itself only in certain scattered individuals, in such great
hermits as Nietzsche, Ibsen, Flaubert, Goethe in his old age; they
are like deep artesian wells which prove that, beneath the arid
earth there is still some flowing water. There is nothing of this
sort in Russia. Although backward from the point of view of progress
and politics, this country produced the "intellectuals" who form
something unique in our present civilization: in essence, they are
anti-bourgeois. "The positivism which the Russian 'intellectuals'
have adopted by way of imitation is rejected by their feelings,
their conscience, and their will; it is an artificial monument that
is set up in their minds only."
Merezhkovsky, then, has reason for thinking that the social
renovation of Christianity will be accomplished in Russia. And as
this work is the especial concern of the clergy, Merezhkovsky, who
several years ago was present at a meeting where the Russian priests
affirmed their desire to free themselves from the yoke of their
religious and secular chiefs, proposed to accomplish this great
mission. "It is indispensable," he says, "for the Russian Church to
untie the knots that bind it to the decayed forms of the autocracy,
to unite itself to the 'intellectuals' and to take an active part in
the struggle for the great political and social deliverance of
Russia. The Church should not think of its own liberty at present,
but of martyrdom."
We will not criticize these, perhaps illusory, ideas and previsions
of Merezhkovsky. Russian life has become an enigma; who knows to
what moral crisis the social conscience may be led by the present
political crisis? Merezhkovsky's Olympian aesthetics have made him a
foreigner in Russian literature. Yet as soon as the tempest burst
forth, certain familiar traits showed themselves, traits common to
the best Russian writers and to the general spirit of Russian
literature. In his absolute, and even exaggerated, distaste for
"bourgeoisisme," and his desire for an ideal, he is a legitimate son
of this literature. The nature of his ideas is in harmony with those
we have already found in Tolstoy, with his gospel of Christian
anarchism, in Dostoyevsky, with his ideas about the "omni-humanity"
of the Russian spirit, in Vladimir Solovyev, with his idea of
universal theocracy, and, finally, in Chadayev, one of the most
remarkable thinkers of the first half of the last century, who,
although now almost forgotten, was the real source of all these
ideas.
Thus in the conception of socialized Christianity Merezhkovsky seeks
the end of the great antithesis between the "God-man" and the
"man-God," between Christ and Bacchus, an antithesis which makes the
generality of men often conduct themselves after the manner of that
German petty kingdom, of which Heine speaks, where the people, while
venerating Christ, do not forget to honor Bacchus by abundant
libations. Merezhkovsky's idea ought to appear in the form of a
synthetic fusion of the joyous religion of Greece and the religion
of love, as taught by Jesus.[15]
[15] Merezhkovsky has also written a long historical drama, called
"The Death of Paul I." He traces there, with his accustomed
animation, the figure of the weak and criminal Tsar, now heaping
favors upon those who surround him, now persecuting them with the
most terrible cruelty. The savage scene of the assassination of
this tyrant is of remarkable beauty.
VIII
ALEXANDER KUPRIN
The work of Kuprin contrasts strongly with the writings of his
predecessors and of his contemporaries. It would be useless to try
to connect him with Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, or Gorky. This does not
mean that he came under foreign influence. As a matter of fact his
work clearly shows the imprint of Slavic genius and receives its
richness from qualities which have always appeared in Slavic
literature,--sincerity and accuracy of observation, a passionate
love for all manifestations of modern life, lyrical fullness, and
power of suggestion. But Alexander Kuprin does not depict adepts of
the "religion of pity," nor the psychology of the abnormal, the
"pathological case," so curious and rare, and so dear to the author
of "Crime and Punishment."[16] He does not reincarnate the sad
genius of Korolenko. He is equally separated from Tolstoy and Gorky.
He is himself. That is to say, he is an exquisite story-teller,
profound and touching, who imposes neither thesis nor moral upon
his reader, but paints life as it appears to him,--not seen through
the medium of a temperament,--but in all sincerity, without too much
ardor or too much indifference.
[16] Dostoyevsky.
This author was born in 1870. After having attended the Cadet School
and the Military School at Moscow, he entered military service as an
active lieutenant in 1890, but resigned seven years later in order
to devote his time to literature. Before this, he had published
several stories.
In spite of the undeniable talent which is found in his earlier
writings, the public hesitated to praise him. Certain lucky
circumstances, however, favored the beginning of his work. One of
his relatives, at the start, offered him a position on a magazine
which she was then editing. This was a wonderful opportunity for
him, for usually at his age the more gifted writers are still
groping around for light. But merit alone seldom suffices to form
the basis of literary fame. Scandal is often necessary to
consecrate, as one might say, a growing reputation. Kuprin, without
seeking to start a scandal, did so, in spite of himself, when he
published "The Duel," a study of military life, in which he showed
the most absolute impartiality.
To his great surprise, the public accepted this book as a new
indictment of the army. It was because the Manchurian campaign was
so recent. Every portrayal of military life passed as a violent
satire on the corrupt and disgraced army. Kuprin in vain tried to
change this unexpected judgment. As he was an ardent partisan of the
theory of "art for art's sake," he could not allow a purpose to be
attributed to his work. He had only faithfully portrayed what he had
witnessed in the course of his brief career. But in order to
strengthen his defence, he alleged reasons which could not be
understood in an altruistic country. Besides, several of his
stories, such as, "The Wedding," full of the dissolute life led by
the officers in their garrisons, "The Inquest," where the author
shows the violences to which the Russian soldiers are subjected,
"The Night's Lodging," and "The Ensign of the Army," which
stigmatize certain lace-bedecked "Lovelaces," only help to nullify
his best arguments. In short, his fame spread rapidly and the young
writer had to accept the renown that became his.
* * * * *
From that time on Kuprin's road was mapped out. According to the
dictates of his fancy he depicts thousands of the ever-changing,
different aspects of life. He is equally impelled to write about
petty tradesmen, actors, acrobats, and sinners in the Crimea. To
the accomplishment of his task, he brings an over-minute and cruel
observation. With the genius that is his he dwells on certain
important, carefully selected traits of people who live intensely.
In "The Disciple," we see a young sharper on a boat on the Volga. He
has the tired eyes of a precocious old man, stubby fingers, and the
hands of a murderer alert to strike the fatal blow. He has just
fleeced a party of travelers, and he discovers, in a savory
conversation with an old cheat, who has found him out, that his soul
is being consumed with insatiable desires. And as the old sharper
admires the "savoir-faire" of his young friend, the latter observes,
not without scorn, that they belong to two very different categories
of sharpers. "Among you old fellows," he sneers, "there was
romanticism. You loved beautiful women, champagne, music and the
song of the tziganes.... We, however, we others are tired of
everything. Fear and debauch are equally unknown to us...."
After the sharper we have the spy in "Captain Rybnikov." He passes
for a Siberian, and says that he has been wounded in the
Russo-Japanese war. He goes out into society a great deal, and is
most commonly seen in the military offices and in the best "salons"
of St. Petersburg. One night, when he is asleep at a courtesan's
house, he mutters the war-cry of Japan: "Banzai! Banzai!" The
courtesan denounces him to a policeman who happens to be there, and
the pseudo-captain, who is no other than a colonel in the Japanese
army, is arrested.
Before leaving the military world, let us analyze "The Delirium."
Captain Markov has been ordered by the government to suppress the
revolution in certain provinces. Disgusted with the duty of daily
executioner, the officer frets himself into a high fever. A
non-commissioned officer enters to ask him to decide the fate of
three men who have been arrested the previous night, one of whom is
an old man with a peaceful and strangely beautiful face. The
sergeant knows that they ought to be shot, but these executions are
so repulsive to him, that he is anxious to have the sentence of
death confirmed by his chief, who seems to him to have the sole
responsibility.
"I don't want you ever again to ask me such a question," cries
Markov, who has guessed the intention of his subordinate. "You know
what you ought to do." And he dismisses him. But the soldier remains
motionless.
"What else do you want?" asks the captain.
"The men," answers the stubborn soldier, "are anxious to know what
to do with the ... old ... man...."
"Get out of here!" the officer roars, exasperated. "Do you
understand?"
"Very well, captain. But as to-day is December 31, allow me to offer
you my best wishes for a happy New Year."
"Thank you, my friend," replies Markov in a voice which has suddenly
become soft.
During the night the captain begins to rave. The old man whom he has
just condemned to death appears and speaks to him. He says that his
name is Cain, and confesses the murder of his brother. Cursed by
God, he wanders disconsolately through the centuries, followed by
the groaning of his victim.
Just before dawn the sergeant awakens Markov.
"What about those three men?" asks the captain eagerly.
"Shot, captain!"
"And the old man? The old man?... what have you done with him?"
"We shot him along with the others, captain."
The next day Captain Markov asks for his discharge, having decided
to leave the army for good.
This story, which is one of the most powerful in Russian literature,
would have been enough to bring the young writer renown, even if he
had never written anything else. But his work, which is already
imposing in amount, abounds in pages of great merit, and especially
in well-constructed, brief, tragic stories.
Under this class should be mentioned "Humble People," a short story,
the scene of which is laid in the extreme north. It is the story of
a close friendship between a nurse in a dispensary and a
school-teacher.
Snowed in by a terrible winter--a winter of seven months--these two
friends find in their daily meetings the only pleasure that can make
their enforced solitude easier for them. However, in spite of their
mutual friendship, they often find their lot hard to endure. And
they continually quarrel, only to become reconciled almost
immediately. But now an unexpected event comes to break the monotony
of their existence. They are invited to a dance, given by the priest
of the neighboring village, and there they fall in love with two
charming young girls, who, they are happy to find, are not
indifferent to them. Once at home, they bestow lavish praises on
their new friends. With the touching devotion of simple and starved
hearts they speak about them as if the young girls already were
theirs.
"Mine has eyes of velvet," says the one.
"And mine has hair of pure gold," replies the other.
Gradually, however, their recollections grow weaker, and fade, just
as flowers do. Their sad life would have begun again if the spring
had not come, and with it brought deliverance. The two friends, full
of new sprightliness, get up a fishing party one day. A foolish
accident makes them both fall into the river, and they are drowned.
* * * * *
"The End of a Story," which we are about to analyze, deserves, as
does "Humble People," a special place in the work of Kuprin. It is a
little masterpiece of graceful emotion.
Kotik, a child of seven, and the son of a celebrated painter, teases
his father to tell him a story. The father racks his memory. He has
told so many that his fount is almost dry.
Suddenly an idea comes to him. Is not his own life a tender,
melancholy, and charming story? It is not a long time, twelve years
at the most, since he was a poor, obscure painter, neglected by his
masters and tormented by the miseries of his life. Discouraged, he
used continually to curse the hour in which he chose to devote
himself to art. One day, a young girl, believing in his talent, gave
him her hand and comforted him with her tenderness and angelic
goodness. And love had triumphed.
To-day his name is celebrated among the most famous, and his
paintings adorn the galleries of kings and emperors. The plot of
the story is ready.