1 "Hero of Our Time" V. G. Belinsky The distinguishing characteristic of our literature lies in the sharp opposition of its manifestations. Take any European literature and you will see there are no leaps from the greatest creations to the most banal ones in any of them: the greatest and the most banal creations are connected by a multitude of stages in descending or ascending order, depending on which end you look from. Alongside an ingenious artistic creation you will see a multitude of creations belonging to strong artistic talents, and after them an endless column of superior, noteworthy, decent, etc. belletristic works, so that you come to the products of ordinary mediocrity not suddenly, but gradually and imperceptibly. * The most mediocre works of foreign belles lettres bear the stamp of more or less culture, knowledge of society or, at least, the literacy of the authors. And for this reason, all European literatures are so prolific and rich that they do not leave the reader without a reserve of intellectual titillation for an instant. Even French literature, poor and paltry in artistic creations, is hardly worse off than others in belletristic works, thanks to which it maintains its exclusive dominion over the European reading public. In opposition to this, our young literature may justifiably pride itself in a significant number of artistic creations and is beggarly poor in good belletristic works, which, naturally, should far exceed the prior in quantity. In the age of Katherine our literature had Derzhavin and none who * Belinsky viewed literature as comprised of three distinct components: First, poesy (poesija, translated here as "poetry"), which is the creative literature and is similar to German Dichtung. Second, belles lettres (belletristika), which was supposed by Belinsky to convey to the masses the ideal values of poesy. Third, journalism (dzhurnalistika), which included book reviews that attained a lesser degree of poesy.
This document is posted to help you gain knowledge. Please leave a comment to let me know what you think about it! Share it to your friends and learn new things together.
Transcript
1
"Hero of Our Time" V. G. Belinsky
The distinguishing characteristic of our literature lies in the sharp opposition of its
manifestations. Take any European literature and you will see there are no leaps from the
greatest creations to the most banal ones in any of them: the greatest and the most banal
creations are connected by a multitude of stages in descending or ascending order, depending on
which end you look from. Alongside an ingenious artistic creation you will see a multitude of
creations belonging to strong artistic talents, and after them an endless column of superior,
noteworthy, decent, etc. belletristic works, so that you come to the products of ordinary
mediocrity not suddenly, but gradually and imperceptibly.* The most mediocre works of foreign
belles lettres bear the stamp of more or less culture, knowledge of society or, at least, the literacy
of the authors. And for this reason, all European literatures are so prolific and rich that they do
not leave the reader without a reserve of intellectual titillation for an instant. Even French
literature, poor and paltry in artistic creations, is hardly worse off than others in belletristic
works, thanks to which it maintains its exclusive dominion over the European reading public. In
opposition to this, our young literature may justifiably pride itself in a significant number of
artistic creations and is beggarly poor in good belletristic works, which, naturally, should far
exceed the prior in quantity. In the age of Katherine our literature had Derzhavin and none who
* Belinsky viewed literature as comprised of three distinct components: First, poesy
(poesija, translated here as "poetry"), which is the creative literature and is similar to German Dichtung. Second, belles lettres (belletristika), which was supposed by Belinsky to convey to the masses the ideal values of poesy. Third, journalism (dzhurnalistika), which included book reviews that attained a lesser degree of poesy.
2
even approximated him. The now half-forgotten Fonvinzin and the forgotten Khemnitser and
Bogdanovich were the only noteworthy practitioners of belles lettres of this time. Krylov,
Zhukovsky and Batyushkov were the poetic leading lights of Alexander I's age, and Kapnist,
Karamzin (speaking of him not as an historian), Dmitriev, Ozerov and a few others propagated
belles lettres of that time in a brilliant fashion. From the 20's to the 30's of this century our
literature came alive: Zhukovsky and Krylov had yet by far to end their poetic reigns when
Pushkin appeared, the first great Russian national poet, an artist in every sense. And he was
escorted and surrounded by a crowd of more or less noteworthy talents, the indubitable merits of
whom are hindered only by the misfortune of being Pushkin's contemporaries. But then, the
Pushkin era was unusually (in comparison with the preceding and subsequent eras) rich with
brilliant belletristic talents, a few of which rose to poetry in their own works, and although some
already are not read, they enjoyed much public attention in their own time and intensely
occupied the public with their works, mostly small ones placed in journals and almanacs. The
beginning of the fourth decade was marked by a novelistic and dramatic movement and big,
unrealized hopes: "Jurij Miloslavskij" provided big hopes, "Torkvato Tasso" also provided big
hopes*... and many provided big hopes, but they have now turned out to be completely
hopeless... But, in this period of hopes and hopelessness shines a clear star of great creative
talent. We speak of Gogol', who, unfortunately, has printed nothing since Pushkin's death, and
whose last work the Russian public read in "The Contemporary"** in 1836, although rumors of
*"Jurij Miloslavskij, or the Russians in the year 1612" [Jurij Miloslavskij, ili Russkie v
1612 godu] (M. N. Zagoskin's historical novel, 1829); "Torkvato Tasso" (N. V. Kukol'nik's dramatic fantasy, 1833)
**"The Contemporary" [Sovremennik] was a literary journal started and, for a while,
3
his new works have still not quieted... 1830 was a fatal year for our literature: journals were shut
down one after another,*** the almanacs bored the public and were shut down, and in 1834
"Library for Reading" ["Bilioteka dlja Chteniia"] collected in itself the labors of almost all
famous and unknown poets and critics, as if intentionally in order to show the limitedness of
their activity and the poverty of Russian literature... But we shall speak of all this soon in a
special article. ** This time we shall directly state our main thesis that the distinguishing
characteristic of Russian literature is the sudden flashes of strong and even great artistic talents
and, with a few exceptions, the reader's eternal saying: "There are many books, but nothing to
read". Mr. Lermontov's talent belongs to the number of such strong artistic talents that have
unexpectedly appeared in the midst of the emptiness surrounding them.
edited by A. S. Pushkin; it is perhaps the most well known literary journal of the period and was published under different editors on and off throughout the 19th century.
* In 1830, the journals "Slavjanin" ["The Slav"], "Russkij zritel'" ["The Russian Observer"], "Vestnik Evropy" ["The Herald of Europe"], "Atenej"[] and "Moskovskij vestnik" ["The Moscow Herald"] ceased to exist; "Otetchestvennye zapiski" ["Notes of the Fatherland"] and "Galateja" were temporarily shut down. In 1832 I. V. Kireevskij's "Evropeets" ["The European"] was banned; in 1834, Polevoj's "Moskovskij telegraf" ["The Moscow Telgraph"]; in 1836, Nadezhdin's "Telescop" ["Telescope"] and "Molva" ["The Rumor"] were also banned.
** Refers, evidently, to the article "Russian Literature in the year 1840" ["Russkaja Literatura v 1840 godu"], Belinsky PSS, T. 4, No. 78.
4
In "Library for Reading" for 1834, a very few of Pushkin's and Zhukovsky's poems were
printed. Russian poetry subsequently found its champion in "The Contemporary", where,
besides the poetry of the publisher himself, the poetry of Zhukovsky and a few others frequently
appeared***, and where Pushkin's "The Captain's Daughter" ["Kapitanskaia Dochka", 1836],
Gogol''s "The Nose" ["Nos", 1836], "The Carriage" ["Koljaska", 1836] and "A Business Man's
Morning" ["Utro delovogo cheloveka", 1836], a scene from Gogol''s comedy, were placed, not to
mention a few remarkable belletristic works and critical articles. Although this half-journal,
half-almanac was published by Pushkin for only a year, the posthumous works of its founder
were printed in it for a long time and "The Contemporary" long afterward was the single
sanctuary of Russian poetry* concealed from periodical publications with the start of "Library for
Reading". In 1835 a small book of Kol'tsov's poetry came out. He has since constantly
published his lyrical works in various periodicals.** Kol'tsov attracted universal attention, but
more because of his poet-self-made-man and poet-prasol*** quality than the merit and essence of
*** In "The Contemporary" (1836) besides Pushkin's and Zhukovsky's poetry, poems
from D. Davydov, A. Kol'tsov, F. Tjutchev and others were printed.
* After Pushkin's death, in 1837-1839, in the "The Contemporary's" poetry section, together with Zhukovsky, Kol'tsov, F. Glinkaja, such versifiers as Ajbulat, P. Obodovskij, I. Bek, M Mezhakov and others were printed, which testified to the indubitable faltering of the journal.
** A. V. Kol'tsov printed his poems in "The Rumor", "The Telescope", "Moscow Observer", "The Contemporary"
*** A prasol is a butcher and vendor of meats. Kol'tsov was born to one of the prasol families of the Voronezh Region where they were the most common type of merchants.
5
his creative process. He is to this day not understood, not appreciated as a poet outside his
personal circumstances, and only a few have come to realize all the depth, breadth and bountiful
power of his talent and see in him not an ephemeral, although noteworthy, phenomenon of
periodical literature, but a true priest of high art. Almost at the same time as the publication of
Kol'tsov's first poems, Mr. Benediktov also appeared with his poems. But his muse did far more
to produce public talk and exclamations than to enrich our literature. Benediktov's poems are a
noteworthy, interesting, and also deeply instructive appearance in that they negatively elucidate
the mystery of art and at the very same time attest to the truth that any external talent that blinds
eyes with the external side of art and emerges not from inspiration, but from an easily inflamed
nature, exits the arena as quietly and unnoticeably as it once noisily and brightly appeared on
it****. Thanks to a strange coincidence (as a consequence of which Krasov's poems fell into
"Library for Reading" and appeared there with the name of Mr. Bernet), Mr. Krasov, who until
that time printed his works only in Moscow publications, received general acknowledgement.*
Indeed, his lyrical works often distinguish themselves with a fiery, albeit shallow feeling, and
**** "The Poems of Vladimir Benediktov" ["Stikhotvorenija Vladimira Benediktova"] came out in 1835. Belinsky was the first critic to come out against Benediktov and to show that the latter had "... a unceasing lack of self-control of his thoughts, verse, and language itself, which exposes an absence of feeling, imagination, and consequently, poetry." Belinsky maintained a disregard for Benediktov's poetry throughout his literary career. Belinsky's articles played a decisive role in the onset of a universal cooling toward Benediktov's poetry, which had enjoyed great success in the thirties.
* On Feb. 25, 1839, Belinsky wrote I. I. Panaev: "Imagine -- what a tragedy: a student of the Mezhevyi Institute, a certain M., stole a notebook of Krasov's poems from me and it's fallen into Senkovskij's hands, who is treating it as his property. Would it be possible to allude to this in "The Literary Supplement"?" Three of Krasov's poems were printed in "Library for Reading" (1839) "with the name of Mr. Bernet": "Elegy", "A Dream" ["Son"] and "A Song" ["Pes'nja"].
6
sometimes even with artistic form. After Mr. Krasov, the poems under the mark "t"** deserve
attention. They are distinguished by a scorned, suffering and diseased feeling, by a kind of
monolithic originality, by frequently fortunate twists on the constantly prevailing theme of
repentance and reconciliation, and sometimes even by charming poetic symbols. Those familiar
with the condition of spirit which is expressed in these poems will never pass them up without
soulful sympathy; those in the very same condition of spirit naturally exaggerate the poems'
merits; people either unfamiliar with such suffering or too normal in spirit may not give them
due consideration: such is the influence and such is the lot of poets in whose creations the
universal is overshadowed by their individuality. In any case, t's poems are noteworthy
appearances of the literature contemporary to them, and their historical significance is subject to
no doubt.*
** "Theta" was the psuedonym of Ivan Petrovich Kljushnikov, a university comrade of
Belinsky and a member of the Stankevich circle. Kljushnikov's works were printed in "The Moscow Observer", "Notes of the Fatherland" and "The Contemporary".
* Later, in a letter to V. P. Botkin on April 4, 1843, Belinsky gave a negative evaluation of Kljushnikov's work: "..?........."
7
Perhaps it will seem strange that we have not mentioned Mr. Kukol'nik, such a prolific
poet and one so exalted by "Library for Reading".** We fully acknowledge his merits, which are
not subject to any doubt, but about which there is nothing new to say. Poetic passages do not
redeem the meaninglessness of an entire creation, just as two or three fortunate monologues do
comprise a drama. Let a drama consisting of three thousand verses have up to thirty or, if you
like, fifty good lyrical verses, and it will still not be less boring and tiresome because of this if it
has neither action, characters, nor truth. That someone has written a great number of dramas still
does not constitute merit or deservedness, especially if all the dramas are alike as two drops of
water. About talent, not a word. But the degree of talent -- there is a question! If a talent does
not have enough strength to draw even with its objectives and undertakings, it produces only a
sterile flower when you await fruit from it. So that we are not suspected of bias, I suppose we
will again mention Mr. Bernet, in many of whose poems sometimes flash bright sparks of poetry;
but not one of them, large or small, represented anything complete or perfect. Moreover,
Bernet's talent goes from the top down, and his last poems are consequently weaker than the
first. As such, people are already ceasing to speak of the first ones.*** Perhaps we missed a few
more versifiers with a glimmer of talent; but is it worth stopping over perennial plants that are so
** Senkovskij, for example, in connection with the appearance of Kukol'nik's drama
"Torkvato Tasso", wrote: "For me there are no models in literature: everything is a model that is excellent, and I exclaim just as loudly "Great Kukol'nik!" before his vision of Tasso and the demise of Lucretia as I exclaim "Great Byron!" before many passages of Byron's work ("Biblioteka dlja chteniia" 1834, t. 1, otd. V, str. 37).
* E. Bernet (the psuedonym of A. K. Zhukovskij) worked, starting in 1837, for the journals "Library for Reading", "Literary Supplement to the Russian Invalid", "The Contemporary", "Son of the Fatherland". A volume of his poems came out in 1837; the poemy "Count Mets" ["Graf Mets"] in 1837 and "Elena" in 1838.
8
common, so ordinary and only bloom for one instant? Is it worth pausing over them, since they
are at least flowers and not dry grass? No,
Lest the morrow hinder it,
Let us, therefore, live to-day.**
**"Spjashchij v grobe, mirno spi Zhizn'ju polzyjusja, zhivushchii!" A quotation from Schiller's ballad "Feast of Victory" ["Torzhestvo pobeditelej"] in
Zhukovsky's translation. The English employed above is from J. G. Fischer's 1883 translation of Schiller's works (Philadelphia).
9
And for this reason we turn to the living. But of these only Kol'tsov promises a life which does
not fear death, for his poetry is not contemporarily important but is, regardless, a noteworthy
appearance. None of those who appeared together with him and after him can be placed on a
level with him, and he long stood at a spacious distance from all others when suddenly a new
bright luminary rose on the horizon of our poetry and immediately turned out to be a star of the
first magnitude. We are talking about Lermontov, who appeared as an unknown in 1838's
"Literary Supplement to the Russian Invalid" ["Literaturnoe dobavlenie k Russkomu Invalidu"]
with the poema [A story in verse, sometimes epical in nature] "A Song About Tsar Ivan
Vasilevich, his Young Bodyguard and the Valiant Merchant Kalashnikov" ["Pesnja pro Tsarja
Ivana Vasilevicha, molodogo oprichnika i udalogo kuptsa Kalashnikova"]*, and since 1839
constantly continues to appear in "Notes of the Fatherland" ["Otetchestvennye zapiski"]. His
poema, despite its great artistic merit, complete originality and extraordinariness, did not attract
particular attention of all the public and was noted by only a few, but each of his small works
aroused general and intense enthusiasm.** Everyone saw something completely new and original
in them; everyone was struck by the power of inspiration, the depth and intensity of feeling, the
elegance of fancy, the vivaciousness and the sharply palpable presence of thought in artistic
* Belinsky, evidently, was not aware that Lermontov's first appearance in print was in
1830, when his poem "Spring" ["Vesna"] was placed in the journal "Atenej" (ch. IV) and signed with the letter "L.". In 1835, the poema "Khadzhi Abrek" was printed in "Library for Reading" (t. XI), and "Borodino" was published in "The Contemporary". In a review of Bernet's poem "Elena" (1838), Belinsky wrote in connection with the appearance of "A Song About the Merchant Kalashnikov": "We do not know the name of this song's author.., but if this is the first attempt of a young poet, then we are not afraid of falling into false predictions in saying that our literature is cultivating a strong and distinctive talent."
**
10
form. Leaving comparison aside for now, we shall presently note only that, with all his depth of
thought, energy of expression and diversity of content (in which he hardly need fear
competition), the form of Kol'tsov's poems, despite their artistic quality, is always the same,
always singularly artless. Kol'tsov is not just a folk poet. No, he is above that, for if his songs
are comprehensible to any plebeian, his meditations are inaccessible to anyone; but at the same
time, he cannot be called a national poet, for his powerful talent cannot exit the vicious circle of
folk ingenuousness. This is an ingenious plebeian, in whose soul arise questions peculiar only to
people developed by science and education, and who poses these deep questions in the form of
folk poetry. Consequently, he is not translatable into any language and is understood only at
home and only by his compatriots. "A Song About Tsar Ivan Vasileyich, His Young Bodyguard
and the Valiant Merchant Kalashnikov" demonstrates that Lermontov is capable of rendering the
phenomena of immediate Russian life in a folk-poetic form peculiar to him alone, while others of
his works penetrated with Russian soul exhibit that global form peculiar to poetry that has
crossed the line from natural to artistic, and which, not ceasing to be national, is accessible in
any age and any country.*
* -[Belinsky's note] Since Lermontov's poems will soon come to light in a special book,
we shall speak of them in more detail at another time in a special article.
11
When two poems in the first two volumes of "Notes of the Fatherland", 1839,** aroused
so much public interest in Lermontov and secured him the name of a poet with big hopes,
Lermontov suddenly appeared with the story "Bela", written in prose***. This surprised
everyone all the more pleasantly because it revealed still more the strength of the young talent
and demonstrated his diversity and versatility. In the story Lermontov turns up as the same kind
of creator as in his poems. From the first, one was able to note that this story came not from a
desire to interest the public exclusively with its favorite type of literature, not from a blind urge
to do that which everyone does, but from the same spring from which his poems came -- from a
deep, creative nature, foreign to any inducement but inspiration. Lyrical poetry and the story of
contemporary life have come together in one talent. Such a unification of such apparently
contrary types of poetry is not a rarity in our time. Schiller and Goethe were lyric poets,
novelists and playwrights, although the lyrical element always remained predominant and
prevalent. "Faust" itself is a lyrical work in dramatic form. The poetry of our time is mainly the
novel and the drama, but lyricism remains a common element of poetry anyway because it is a
** In the first two volumes of "Notes of the Fatherland" (1839) two of Lermontov's
poems were printed -- "Meditation" ["Duma"] and "Poet" ["Poet"]. Belinsky wrote about the first of them that same year in a review of Russian journals that it was "Mr. Lermontov's energetic, powerful in form, albeit a bit starry-eyed in content, poem". He talked about "Poet" as a work that was "noteworthy by virtue of its many sublime verses and just as starry-eted in content".
*** The story "Bela" was printed in "Notes of the Fatherland" ["Otetchestvenye zapiski" 1839, t. II, No. 3, otd. III, str. 167-212]. Belinsky joyfully welcomed this work in the article "Russian Journals" ["Russkie zhurnali"]: ""Bela" is a story from Mr. Lermontov, a young poet with an extraordinary talent. Here for the first time Mr. Lermontov gives an attempt at prose -- and this attempt is equal to his high poetic giftedness... The reading of Mr. Lermontov's marvelous story can be useful in many ways, among them as an antidote to the reading of Mr. Marlinsky's stories."
12
universal element of the human soul. Nearly every poet begins with lyricism just as every
people begins with it. Walter Scott himself crossed to the novel from lyrical epic poems. Only
the literature of the North American states began not with lyricism, but with Cooper's novel, and
this phenomenon is as strange as the country in which it occurred.* It may be this is because
North American literature is a continuation of British literature. Our literature also presents a
completely exceptional case: we are all at once experiencing all the aspects of European life
which developed subsequently over a period of time in the West. Only until Pushkin was our
poetry mainly lyrical. Pushkin was limited for a short time to lyricism and soon switched to the
poema, and from that to drama. As a full representative of the spirit of his times, he also made
an attempt at the novel: in "The Contemporary" in 1837 six chapters (with the beginning of the
seventh) from his unfinished novel "Peter the Great's Negro" ["Arap Petra Velikogo"], the fourth
chapter of which was in "Northern Flowers" ["Severnie tsveti"] in 1829. Pushkin began writing
stories only in the last years of his unfinished life. But it is evident that his real forte was
lyricism, the story in verse (poema) and the drama, for his prose efforts are by far not the equal
of his poetic ones. His best story, "The Captain's Daughter", with all its enormous merits cannot
compare in any way with his poemas and dramas. It is no more than a superior belletristic work
with poetic and even artistic details.* His other stories, especially "The Tales of Belkin"
* Belinsky judged the morals of hypocritical, mercenary America severely. On August
16, 1837 he wrote M. A. Bakunin: "While living in Pjatigorsk, I read a lot of novels and among them a few of Cooper's, from which I fully understood the poetry of the North American states: my blood, stagnant and thickened with slime and cobwebs, but still not cooled, boiled with indignation at this vilely virtuous and honest society of mercenaries..."
* For the entire duration of his career, Belinsky undervalued Pushkin's prose. But he reacted to "The Blackamoor of Peter the Great" with delight: "What simplicity and at the same time profundity, what a brush, what colors! Yes, if Pushkin had finished this novel, Russian
13
["Povesti pokojnogo Ivana Petrovicha Belkina", 1831] belong exclusively to the belletristic
arena. It may be that this is the reason that the novel, begun so long ago, was not finished.
Lermontov is equally proficient in prose and poetry, and we are certain that with much
development of his artistic career he will proceed directly to drama.** Our proposition is not
arbitrary: it is based as much on the fullness of dramatic movement noted in Lermontov's stories
as on the spirit of the present age, which is especially propitious for the unification of all forms
of poetry in one person. The latter circumstance is very important, for the art of any people also
has its own historical development in consequence of which the character and career of a poet
are defined. It may be that Pushkin too would have been as great a novelist as lyricist and
playwright if he came around later and had a forerunner similar to himself.
literature could have congratulated itself on a truly artistic novel." As regards "The Captain's Daughter" Belinsky later characterized it in the eleventh article of "The Works of Aleksandr Pushkin" ["Sochineniia Aleksandra Pushkina"] as "something akin to "Onegin" in prose."
** Belinsky was unaware of the dramas Lermontov began in the thirties: "The Spaniards" ["Ispantsi", 1830], "Menschen und Leidenschaften", 1830, "A Strange Man" ["Strannyj chelovek", 1831], and also the later plays "Masquerade" ["Maskarad", 1835] and "Two Brothers" ["Dva brata", 1836] since they were not published during the poet's lifetime. Belinsky later became acquainted with "Masquerade", which was published in 1842.
"Bela" was at the same time a separate and finished story and just an excerpt from a large
14
composition, like "Fatalist" and "Taman", which were subsequently printed in "Notes of the
Fatherland". They now appear together with "Maksim Maksimych", "Introduction to Pechorin's
Journal" and "Princess Mary" under one title -- "A Hero of Our Time". This common name is
not the author's caprice; in the same way, it should not be concluded from the title that the stories
contained in these two books are the narratives of a certain man, to whom the author tied the role
of narrator. In all the stories there is one theme and this theme is expressed in one character who
is the hero of all the narratives. In "Bela" he is some kind of mysterious character. The heroine
of this story is all before you, but the hero -- it is as if he is seen under an assumed name so that
he will not be recognized. Because of his behavior in "Bela", you involuntarily make
suppositions about some other story, alluring, mysterious and gloomy. And then the author
immediately unveils it to you during the meeting with Maksim Maksimych, who told him the
story about Bela. But your curiosity is not satiated, but only more agitated, and the story of Bela
remains for you all the more mysterious. At last, Pechorin's journal is in the author's hands. In
the introduction to the journal the author alludes to the theme of the novel, but it is an allusion
which only further arouses your impatience to get acquainted with the hero of the novel. The
hero of the novel appears in the highly poetic narrative "Taman'" as an autobiographer, but the
mystery only grows more alluring from this and there is still no solution. Finally, you come to
"Princess Mary" and the fog dissipates, the mystery is solved and the primary idea of the novel
momentarily dominating your entire being, sticks with you and haunts you like a bitter feeling.
Finally you read "The Fatalist", and, although Pechorin is not the hero but only the narrator of an
occurrence to which was witness, and although you do not find one new feature in it which
would have completed the portrait for you, you understand him still more (strange thing!), think
15
about him more and your feeling grows still more gloomy and melancholy...
This fullness of the impression in which all the diverse feelings that disturbed you while
reading the novel almagamate into a single common feeling in which all the characters, (each so
interesting in of itself, so fully formed) come to center on one character, comprise with it one
group, the focus of which is one character, look upon him with you, some with love, some with
hatred -- what is the reason for this fullness of impression? It is the unity of the idea expressed
in the novel, from which came this harmonious correspondence of the parts to the whole, this
strictly balanced delineation of roles for all characters, and finally the perfection, fullness and
zamknutost'* of the whole.
*
The essence of any artistic work consists of the organic process of its emergence from the
possibility of existence into the reality of existence. An idea crops up in the artist's soul like an
invisible grain, and from this blessed and fertile ground unfurls and develops into a definite
form, into symbols full of beauty and life, and finally becomes an entirely particular, whole and
zamknutyi world in of itself, in which all parts are equal to the whole and each part, existing in of
itself and by itself, comprising in of itself a zamknutyi symbol, simultaneously exists for the
whole as an integral component and enables the impression of the whole. In precisely the same
way, a live person also represents a particular and zamknutyi world in of itself: his body is
comprised of innumerable organs, which represent the marvelous unity, completeness and
particularity of a living organism, and all the organs form a single organism, a single indivisible
16
being: the individual. Just as in any creation of nature, from its lowest forms (the mineral), to its
highest (man), there is nothing either lacking or superfluous and every organ and every fiber not
even visible to the naked eye is integral and in place, so also in works of art there must be
nothing unfinished, lacking or superficial. Every line and every image must be both integral and
in place. In nature there are creations that are imperfect and monstrous as a consequence of
incomplete organization; if they live despite this, it means the abnormally formed organs do not
constitute vital organs or that their abnormality is of no importance to the whole organism. So
too in artistic creations there may be shortcomings, the reason for which does not lie in the
entirely correct progression of the process of their creation, that is in the lesser or greater
inculcation of the artist's personal will and judgement, or in the fact that he insufficiently carried
out the theme of the creation in his soul and did not allow it be fully formulated into definite and
perfected symbols. And such works do not lose their artistic essence and value through such
shortcomings. But, as in works of nature, an excessively incorrect development of organs
produces monsters that die immediately after birth, so in the sphere of art there are also works
that do not survive the moment of their birth. Such and such works of art may be both repeatable
and adaptable to the case and the circumstances, and of such and such works it is said that they
have both beauty and shortcomings. But truly artistic works have not beauty nor shortcomings:
one for whom the whole is accessible sees beauty alone. Only a shortsighted aesthetic sense and
a taste which disenables the embracing of an artistic creation's whole and which becomes lost in
its parts may see in it both beauty and shortcomings, ascribing to the work its own limitation.
Everything that is not in reality is an encapsulation of a universal spirit of life into a
particular instance. Every organization is testament to the presence of spirit: where there is
17
organization, there is life; and where there is life, there is a soul. And for this reason, just as
every work of nature from the mineral and the blade of grass to man is an encapsulation of a
universal spirit of life into a particular life, so any creation of art is an encapsulation of a
universal world idea into a particular symbol, zamknutyi [The adjectival form of zamknutost'] in
of itself. Organization is the essence of the process whereby everything living and not manmade
comes about, and consequently all works of nature and art. And for the very same reason, both
types of works are so complete, so full, perfect, and, in a word, zamknutyi in of themselves.
"But what is "zamknutost'"?" they shall ask us at last. We reply: this is a thing as simple
as it is wise, and to satisfactorily answer this question is as easy as it is difficult. What is spirit?
What is truth? What is life? How often such questions are put forth and how often answers to
them are given! All human life is nothing other than similar questions which strive for solution.
And for what? Has the mystery been solved and the word found for many? Why is that? Well,
because all questions are both posed and decided with the word, and the word is either an idea or
an empty sound: the word is an idea for he who, in his very nature, inside himself, in the
mysterious sanctuary of the spirit, carries the capability of solving such questions (the capability
called foresight, premonition, internal contemplation, internal clairvoyance of truth, inborn
ideas, etc.), and, having heard it, he absorbs the meaning contained in this word. The reason for
such comprehension lies in the relationship, or, better put, in the identity of the individual who
experiences with that which is experienced. However, this very identity also demands much
18
development: otherwise comprehension dims and the questions remain unanswered. But for he
who does not have this identity with the subjects of his experience, the word is an empty sound:
his ear will hear the word, but his reason will remain deaf to it. This is why the questions we are
speaking of are as simple as they are wise, and why it is as easy as it is difficult to answer them.
However, we are attempting to lead the readers to the idea of that which we call in nature and art
zamknutost'. Look at a blossoming plant: you see that it has its own definite form, which
distinguishes it not only from beings in other kingdoms of nature, but even from plants of a
different kind and type: its leaflets are distributed so symmetrically, so proportionally, each of
them so carefully, with such solicitude, with such endless perfection defined and adorned to the
smallest details... How elegantly marvelous its flower is, how many little ribs and hues it has,
and what soft and bright pollen... And, finally, what a ravishing fragrance!.. But is that
everything? Oh, no! This is only the exterior, an expression of the interior: these miraculous
colors came from inside the plant, this charming aroma is its syrupy respiration... Inside its stem
is a whole new world: there is an independent laboratory of life, the power of life flows and the
invisible ether of the soul trickles along the finest vessels, divinely defined... Where lies the
beginning and the impetus of this phenomenon? In the plant itself: it already existed when it was
not yet a plant but only a seed. The root, stem, beautiful leaflets and magnificent aromatic color
were already contained in this seed! Do you see that in this flower is everything the plant needs:
life and a source of life, being and impetus for being, vegetation and all the implements, organs
and vessels of vegetation; but where here might one make out a beginning and an end to all this?
You see that this plant is perfect and has nothing either insufficient or superfluous and that it is
living and individual; but where is the spring of its life and its individuality's point of departure?
19
Where? They are zamknutyi in it, and consequently it is an entirely whole, perfect, and, in a
word, zamknutyi in itself organic being. But a plant is connected to the ground in which it
initially developed and from which it receives the sustenance that gives the plant materials for
the development and support of its existence. Consider an animal: it is endowed with the ability
to move at will and it sustains itself: it is both a plant that grows from and on the soil, and the
soil from and on which it grows. Looking at it from outside, we see a being, exposing its
organism, we see the source of being -- the bones are connected with dry fibers, the joints are
spread with a lymph which is produced in special irons, the muscles are laced with nerves... But
you still have not seen everything here: take a microscope that magnifies a million times and you
shall be overcome with reverential amazement at this infinity of organization. You shall see that
a thousand lifetimes is insufficient time just to enumerate the finest threads full of the essential
forces of nature, -- and every thread, every fiber is necessary for the whole and cannot be
excluded or substituted without the distortion of the entire form; there is no empty space between
the smallest organs where an atom invisible to the naked eye might settle; all of the interior is so
closely and unbrokenly fused that one locks in itself the other, and the whole is a zamknutyi in
itself being... Man in this regard represents an incomparably higher and most striking spectacle:
united and amalgamated with all nature and with the secret of the life of nature, he sees in
everything outside himself the laws of his own reason realized, and the great everything found in
man its own organ, separated from it so that it might look upon and be aware of itself. The
universal and the indistinct became in man the particular and the distinct, so that through this
particularity and distinctness he may return anew to his universality, having recognized it. The
law of encapsulation and zamknutost' in a particular manifestation of the universal is a primary
20
law of life!.. And in art it is revealed with the same sovereignty as in nature: in the apprehension
of secret of the law of encapsulation lies the solution to the mystery of art. The creative idea,
having fallen into the artist's soul, is organized into a full, whole, perfect, particular and
zamknutyi in itself artistic work. Turn all your attention to the word "organized": only the
organic develops from itself, only that which develops from itself can appear whole and
particular with parts that are proportionally and vividly joined and subjugated to universality.
This is why, for example, a Walter Scott novel, which is filled with a multitude of characters not
a bit similar to one another, and which presents such a chain of diverse occurrences,
confrontations and events, strikes you with only a universal impression and imbues your
contemplation with something singular instead of confusing and distracting you with a
kaleidoscopic multitude of characters and events. For the very same reason, every character in
the book exists for you in of itself; you see it before your eyes large as life in all of its
characteristic particularity, and you shall never forget it, but if you do, then, rereading the novel
anew, even after twenty years, you will immediately see that a character is familiar to you, that
you have already seen him before somewhere. But the whole of the novel -- its color, its
individual peculiarity, its something for the expression of which there is no word -- is still more
memorable to you, though naturally not every word in particular: the characters of all the novels
and their contents have already slipped from your memory, but completely divergent
understandings will never cease to be associated for you with the words "The Bride of
Lamermoor", "Ivanhoe", "Scottish Puritans"* and others...The individual universality of each
novel will remain with you as in a fog like some kind of unclear vision, like a chord that
*
21
suddenly sounds on high, or like a fragrance momentarily carried past...
Everything we have stated is easily applied to Mr. Lermontov's novel. For this we must
follow the main theme's development through the contents of the novel, which are already well
known to the readers.
The novel begins with a description of the author's passage from Tiflis through the
Kajsharskij valley. Not exhausting us with boring details, he acquaints us with the setting. His
descriptions are as brief as they are abrupt, but the main thing is that they are piled on as if in
passing. While his carriage was being pulled by six oxen and a few Ossetians into the
mountains, he noticed that behind his carriage another was being pulled by four oxen and the
owner was walking behind it, smoking a little pipe. This was an officer, about fifty, with a
swarthy face and a prematurely gray moustache that did not correspond to his firm step and
vigorous appearance. The author approached him and bowed; he silently answered his bow,
exhaling an enormous puff of smoke.
"It seems we're fellow travellers."
He bowed again silently.
"You, I take it, are going to Stavropol?"
"Exactly... With government property."
"Tell me, please, why is it that four oxen are pulling your heavy carriage with no
problem and six head can hardly move my empty one with the aid of these Ossetians?"
He grinned slyly and glanced at me significantly.
"You, I take it, haven't been in the Caucasus long?"
"A year," I replied.
22
He grinned a second time.
"Well -- why?"
"Oh, it's like that! Terrible rogues these Asiatics! You think they're helping with
their shouting? But the devil knows what they're shouting? The oxen understand, though.
Hitch up twenty, even, and when they shout in that language of theirs, the oxen still won't
budge... Terrible swindlers! But what can you do to them? They love to fleece travellers...
Spoiled the robbers! You'll see, they'll take money off you for vodka [Money for vodka: a
tip] yet. But I know them, they won't take me in!"
"And have you been stationed here long?"
"Yes, I was stationed here back under Aleksei Petrovich [Ermolov]," he said with a
certain loftiness, "When he took over the Border Command, I was a second lieutenant," he
added, "and got two ranks under him for action against the mountain tribes."
"And now you are?.."
"Now I'm attached to the third battalion of the line. And you, may I ask?"
I told him.
In this way an acquaintance was instigated with one of the novel's most interesting
characters, Maksim Maksimych, this type of the old Caucasian service man hardened by
dangers, hardships and battle, whose face is as tanned and stern as his manners are simple and
coarse, but who has a miraculous soul and a heart of gold. This is a purely Russian type, who,
along with the artistic merit of the work, recalls the most original characters of a Walter Scott or
Cooper novel, but who, due to his newness, originality and purely Russian spirit, resembles not
23
one of them. The poet's art in reality should consist of developing the problem: how the does a
character given by nature develop in the circumstances into which fate hath placed it. Maksim
Maksimych received from nature a human soul and human heart, but this soul and this heart
were cast in a special form that speaks to you of many years of heavy and difficult service,
bloody battles, a reclusive and monotonous life in inaccessible mountain fortresses where there
are no human faces but those of subordinate soldiers and the Circassians stopping in for trade.
All of this is displayed in him not with crude phrases such as "the devil take you" and not in
endlessly repeated military exclamations such as "a thousand bombs", not in drinking bouts and
not in the smoking of tobacco, but in a view of things cultivated by a skill and manner of living,
and in this manner of action and expression which must be the result of his view of things and
his practices. Maksim Maksimych's intellectual outlook is very organic; but the reason for this
organic quality lies not in his nature, but his development. For him, "to live" means "to serve",
and to serve in the Caucasus; "the Asiatics" are his natural enemies: he knows from experience
that they are all big cheats and that even their courage is a desperate warrior's bravado underlain
with the hope of robbery; he does not allow them to cheat him, and it is deathly aggravating to
him if they cheat a greenhorn and even take him for vodka money. And this is not at all because
he is stingy, -- oh, no! -- he is only poor, not stingy and, it seems, has no concept of the value of
money, but he cannot look on indifferently as the cheats, "the Asiatics", cheat honest people.
That is almost all he sees in life, or at least what he talks about most often. But do not rush your
conclusions about his character; get acquainted with him a bit better and you shall see what a
warm, noble, even tender heart beats in the iron breast of this apparently hardened man; you
shall see how he understands with some kind of instinct everything human and is hotly
24
concerned with it; how, despite his personal experience, he thirsts for love and sympathy -- and
you will love with all your heart the simple, kind, coarse in manners and laconic in words,
Maksim Maksimych.
The experienced staff captain was not mistaken: the Ossetians beset the inexperienced
officer and loudly demanded vodka money. But Maksim Maksimych threateningly descended
upon them and forced them to run off. "Really such a people," he said, "can't say bread in
Russian, but they learned 'Officer, give for vodka!'... Even the Tatars are better by me: at least
they're not drinkers..."
At last our travellers reached the station and went into a saklja [a small Caucasian
domicile], the front portion of which was full of cows and sheep, and the back portion full of
people sitting by a fire laid on the ground. The smoke pushed by the wind back through the
opening in the ceiling lay over the floor. Our wayfarers lit pipes, taking in the welcoming hiss of
the tea pot.
"A wretched people!" I said to the staff captain, indicating our dirty hosts, who
silently stared at us in some kind of stupor.
"A very stupid people!" he replied.
"Can you believe it -- can't do anything, not capable of any education! At least our
Kabardins and Chechens, despite their being rogues and vagabonds, are hotheaded
daredevils -- but these don't go in for weapons: you won't see a decent dagger on one of
them. Truly Ossetians!"
"And were you in Chechnya long?"
"Yes, I was stationed there about ten years with my company in a fortress by
25
Kamennyj Brod [Rocky Ford]... Know it?"
"Heard tell of it."
"Yes sir, we got sick of those cutthroats. Lately, thank God, they're quieter, but it
used to be you walk out past the rampart a hundred paces and there's a shaggy devil
somewhere sitting spying: hardly gaped and there you go -- either a lariat around the neck
or a bullet in the back of the head. But great fellows!.."
"You've surely had many adventures?" I said, prompted by curiosity.
"How could I not have! I had..."
Whereupon he began to pull at his left mustache, hung his head and grew pensive.*
*
And there Maksim Maksimych is all before you with his view of things and his original
mode of expression! You have yet seen so little of him and have become acquainted with him so
little, and already there is before you not an apparition needed, like it or not, by the author to
serve as a link or to turn the wheel of the story, but a typical face, an original character, a living
person! This is how true artists realize their ideals: two or three strokes and before you stands
such a characteristic figure, alive and lifelike, which you shall never forget... "Here he began to
scratch his left moustache and fell into thought". How much is said in these few, simple words,
what a sharp stroke of Maksim Maksimych's physiognomy they produce, how much they
promise, how strongly they inflame the reader's curiosity!..
Taking the glass of tea offered him, Maksim Maksimych took a sip and said, as it of
himself, "Still are!" [Da, byvaet!]. But we still must speak in the words of the author himself:
26
This exclamation gave me big hopes. I know these old Caucasian veterans love to
talk, to tell tales; they so rarely get a chance to: the man might be stationed for five years
in some out of the way place with a company and the entire five years no one says "Hello"
to him (since the sergeant says, "Good day, sir."). And there was plenty to chat about: all
around a savage* people, every day danger, extraordinary things happen; and one has to
regret that we record so little.
"Would you like some rum in it?" I said to my interlocutor, "I have white from
Tiflis; it's cold out now."
"No, thank you very much, I don't drink."
"How's that?"
*
"I just don't. I swore it off. When I was still a second lieutenant we all got a little
high one time and that night there was an alarm; so we came out lit up on the front, and
did we ever catch it when Aleksei Petrovich found out: Lord help me, he was mad! Nearly
gave us a court-martial. And, indeed, here, you go a whole year and don't see anyone, and
vodka on top of that -- you're a lost man!"
Hearing this, I nearly lost hope.
"Take the Circassians," he went on, "as soon as they get drunk on bouza at a
wedding or at funerals, the knife-play starts. I once hardly got away, and from the house
of neutral prince at that."
"How did that happen?"
27
That is the beginning of the poetic narrative "Bela". Maksim Maksimych told it in his
own way, in his own language; but it not only lost nothing from this, but gained immeasurably.
The kind Maksim Maksimych, himself unaware, became such a poet that his every word and
expression contains an endless world of poetry. We do not know what to be more surprised at: at
the fact that the poet, having forced Maksim Maksimych to be only a witness to the story he
tells, so closely fused his personality with this event as if Maksim Maksimych were himself its
hero, or at the fact that he was able to look with the eyes of Maksim Maksimych so poetically
and deeply on the event and to tell of this event in language that is simple, coarse, but always
picturesque, always touching and wonderful even in its very comic quality.
While Maksim Maksimych was stationed in the fortress beyond the Terek [river], an
officer ordered to his fortress suddenly reported to him.
"He was called... Grigory Aleksandrovich Pechorin, a grand fellow he was, I assure
you; just a bit strange. He might, for instance, go hunting in the rain and cold all day.
Everyone else gets chilled through and tired, but it's nothing to him. Another time he sits
in his room: a gust of wind and he's insisting that he caught cold. The shutter bangs and
he starts and grows pale*, yet in my presence has gone after a wild boar one on one. There
were times you couldn't get a word out of him for hours on end, but sometimes he would
start telling stories that would make you split your sides with laughter... Yes, he had big
eccentricities, and must have been a rich man: he had so many different expensive
trinkets!.."
*
28
"And did he live with you for long?" I again asked.
"About a year. But it was a memorable year for me indeed; he caused me troubles,
though that's not what I remember him for! There are, after all, men who at birth are set
to have many different unusual things happen to them!"
"Unusual things?" I exclaimed with a look of curiosity, warming up his tea.
"Well, I'll tell you."
Not far from the fortress lived a friendly [mirnoj] prince whose son, a fifteen year old
boy, had fallen into the habit of coming to the fortress. Pechorin and Maksim Maksimych loved
and indulged him. This was the prototype of a Circassian without exaggeration or distortion. A
cutthroat, adroit at everything, in Maksim Maksimych's words: he could doff his cap at a full
gallop, shot a gun masterfully and had a terrible weakness for money. If they teased him, his
eyes filled with blood and his hand reached for a dagger. "Hey, Azamat," Maksim Maksimych
would say, "It's not for you to take heads off: jaman [bad] it will be for your melon!".
Once the old prince came to the fortress and invited Maksim Maksimych and Pechorin to
his daughter's wedding. When they arrived at the aul [a Caucasian village], the women hiding
from them did not seem like beauties to Pechorin. "'Hold on,' I said laughing (Maksim
Maksimych said) 'I had something else in mind.'"
From this passage in Maksim Maksimych's story one may receive a most accurate
understanding of the morals and customs of the wild Circassians, even though he does not
digress for their description. The younger of the host's daughters, a wonderful girl of sixteen,
approached Pechorin as an honored guest and sang to him...
"how shall I say?.. Akin to a compliment."
29
"And do you remember what it was she sang?"
"Yes, I believe it was like this: 'Svelte,' it went, 'are our young dzhigits [horsemen-
raiders] and the caftans on them are trimmed with silver, but the young Russian officer is
svelter than they and the galloons on him are gold. He is like a poplar among them; only
he is not to grow and blossom in our garden.'"
Pechorin stood, touched his hand to his forehead and heart, and Maksim Maksimych
translated his reply to her, for he knew their language well. "What do you think of her?" he
hissed to Pechorin. "Delightful! And what's her name?" "Bela."
"And she sure was beautiful," said Maksim Maksimych, "tall, slender, black eyes like on
a mountain chamois, they looked into your soul so." Pechorin, in deep thought, did not take his
eyes off her, but he was not the only one staring. Among the guests the Circassian Kazbich. He
was friendly and hostile [zloj], depending on the circumstances; there were many suspicions of
him though he had never been caught in any kind of caper. But we consider it necessary to fully
portray this personage in Maksim Maksimych's words.
It was rumoured that he liked to roam beyond the Kuban [river] with abreks [bands
of guerilla raiders], and, truth be told, his mug was a brigand's: he was small, wiry and
had wide shoulders... And nimble, nimble as a devil he was! Beshmet [a kind of Caucasian
tunic] always tattered and patched but weapons in silver. And his horse was famed though
the whole Kabarda -- and, certainly, it's impossible to think of anything better than that
horse. It was not for nothing that all the raiders envied him his horse and more than once
they tried to steal it, only with no luck. It's as if I'm looking now at this horse: black as
pitch, taut string legs, and eyes no worse than Bela's. And what strength! You could
30
gallop him for thirty miles. And well broken -- runs after his master like a dog, even knew
his voice! It used to be that he never even hitched it. Such a bandit's horse!.."
Kazbich was gloomier than usual this evening, and Maksim Maksimych, noticing that he
had donned chain mail under his beshmet, figured that it was not for nothing. As it grew stuffy
in the saklja, Maksim Maksimych went out for some fresh air and thought to check on the horses
while he was outside. Here, behind a fence, he eavesdropped on a conversation: Azamat was
praising Kazbich's horse, which he had long coveted and Kazbich, incited by this, told of its
merits and the services it provided him, saving him from certain death more than once. This
passage in the story fully acquaints the reader with the Circassians as a tribe and the characters
of Azamat and Kazbich, these two distinct stereotypes of the Circassian people, are portrayed
with a powerful artistic brush. "If I had a herd of a thousand mares, I would give it all for your