Doctor Zhivago

by Boris Pasternak

  It was a member of Serdarda who persuaded Pasternak to give up music in favor of literature, but it was Scriabin himself who suggested that he switch his field at Moscow University from law to philosophy. He graduated in 1913, after six years of study, including a semester at the University of Marburg under Hermann Cohen and Paul Natorp, but by then he had decided to abandon philosophy. In the summer after his final examinations, he stayed with his parents in the country, and there, as he recalled, “I read Tyutchev and for the first time in my life wrote poetry not as a rare exception, but often and continuously, as one paints or writes music.” His first book, A Twin in the Clouds, was published in December of that year.

  Pasternak described these metamorphoses in his two autobiographical essays, Safe Conduct, written between 1927 and 1931, and People and Situations (published in English under the titles I Remember and An Essay in Autobiography), written in 1956. Different as the two books are in style and vision, they both give a good sense of the extraordinary artistic and philosophical ferment in Russia in the years before the First World War. The older generation of Symbolists had begun to publish in the 1890s, the second generation, which included Alexander Blok and Andrei Bely, in the early years of the twentieth century. Then came the new anti-Symbolist movements: the Futurists (Vladimir Mayakovsky and Velimir Khlebnikov, among many other poets and painters), whose manifesto, A Slap in the Face of Public Taste, was published in 1912; and the Acmeists (Nikolai Gumilev, Osip Mandelstam, Anna Akhmatova), who favored Apollonian clarity over Symbolist vagueness. In his essay “The Morning of Acmeism,” Mandelstam wrote banteringly:

  For the Acmeists the conscious sense of the word, the Logos, is just as splendid a form as music is for the Symbolists.

  And if, among the Futurists, the word as such is still creeping on all fours, in Acmeism it has for the first time assumed a more dignified vertical position and entered upon the stone age of its existence.

  Which gives at least a small idea of the lively polemics that went on in those years.

  Pasternak first associated with the younger Symbolists around the journal Musaget and its publishing house. To a gathering of this group, in 1913, he read a paper entitled “Symbolism and Immortality.” The text was later lost, but in People and Situations, he summarized its main points:

  My paper was based on the idea that our perceptions are subjective, on the fact that the sounds and colors we perceive in nature correspond to something else, namely, to the objective vibrations of sound and light waves. I argued that this subjectivity was not the attribute of an individual human being, but was a generic and suprapersonal quality, that it was the subjectivity of the human world and of all mankind. I suggested in my paper that every person leaves behind him a part of that undying, generic subjectivity which he possessed during his lifetime and with which he participated in the history of mankind’s existence. The main object of my paper was to advance the theory that this utterly subjective and universally human corner or portion of the world was perhaps the eternal sphere of action and the main content of art. That, besides, though the artist was of course mortal, like everyone else, the happiness of existence he experienced was immortal, and that other people centuries after him might experience, through his works, something approaching the personal and innermost form of his original sensations.

  These thoughts, or intuitions, were to reach their full realization decades later in Doctor Zhivago.

  In January 1914, Pasternak and some of his young friends shifted their allegiance from the Symbolists to the Futurists, forming a new group that called itself Centrifuge. There were other groups as well—the Ego-futurists and the Cubo-futurists, the latter including Vladimir Mayakovsky, whom Pasternak met at that time. These groups were all somewhat fluid and loosely defined, and their members kept forming new alliances and creating new antagonisms.

  On August 1, 1914, the First World War broke out, which somewhat curtailed the skirmishing among literary movements. Pasternak was exempted from military service because of an old injury caused by a fall from a horse in 1903, which had left him with one leg slightly shorter than the other. He supported himself by working as a private tutor and later as a clerk in the office of a chemical factory. In connection with this work he spent the winters of 1915 and 1916 in the region of the Urals, which forms the setting for most of Book Two of Doctor Zhivago. During that time he wrote the poems of his second book, Above the Barriers, published in 1917. When news of the February revolution of 1917 reached him in the Urals, he immediately set out for Moscow.

  In the summer of 1917, between the February and October revolutions, Pasternak found his true voice as a poet, composing poems that would go into his third book, My Sister, Life, one of the major works of twentieth-century Russian poetry. He knew that something extraordinary had come over him in the writing of this book. In Safe Conduct, he says:

  When My Sister, Life appeared, and was found to contain expressions not in the least contemporary as regards poetry, which were revealed to me during the summer of the revolution, I became entirely indifferent as to the identity of the power which had brought the book into being, because it was immeasurably greater than myself and than the poetical conceptions surrounding me.

  Between that summer and the eventual publication of the book in 1922 came the Bolshevik revolution and the harsh years of War Communism, years of hunger, confusion, and civil war. In 1921, Pasternak’s parents and sisters immigrated to Berlin. (After Hitler’s accession to power they immigrated again, this time to England, where they remained.) Pasternak visited them in Berlin in 1922, after his first marriage, and never saw them again. He himself, like so many of his fellow poets and artists, was not opposed to the spirit of the revolution and chose to stay in Russia.

  My Sister, Life was followed in 1923 by Themes and Variations, which grew out of the same lyric inspiration. In the later twenties, Pasternak felt the need for a more epic form and turned to writing longer social-historical poems dealing specifically with the ambiguities of the revolutions of 1905 and 1917: Lieutenant Schmidt (1926), The Year 1905 (1927), The Lofty Malady (1928), and the novel in verse Spektorsky, with an extension in prose entitled “A Tale” (1925–1930). Spektorsky covers the pre-revolutionary years, the revolution, and the early Soviet period, almost the same span of time as Doctor Zhivago. Its hero, Sergei Spektorsky, a man of indefinite politics, apparently idle, more of a spectator than an actor, is in some ways a precursor of Yuri Zhivago.

  At the same time, Pasternak kept contemplating a long work in prose. In 1918 he had begun a novel set in the Urals, written in a rather leisurely, old-fashioned manner that was far removed from the modernist experiments of writers like Zamyatin, Bely, and Remizov. Only one part of it, The Childhood of Luvers, was ever published. He also wrote short works such as “Without Love” (1918) and “Aerial Ways” (1924), which sketch situations or characters that would reappear in Doctor Zhivago. And in 1931 he completed and published his most important prose work before the novel, the autobiography Safe Conduct.

  In 1936 Pasternak went back to his idea of a long prose work, this time to be narrated in the first person, and in a deliberately plain style, as the notes and reminiscences of a certain Patrick, covering the period between the revolutions of 1905 and 1917. Here there were still more foreshadowings of the later novel: Patrick is an orphan who, like Zhivago, grows up in the home of a family named Gromeko and marries their daughter Tonya; there is a woman reminiscent of the novel’s Lara Antipova, whose husband is also a teacher in Yuriatin in the Urals; and Patrick, like Zhivago, is torn between his love for this woman and for his wife. Some sections from the notes were published in magazines between 1937 and 1939, but the manuscript was destroyed in a fire in 1941. The cover, which survived, bears two crossed-out titles: When the Boys Grew Up and Notes of Zhivult. The odd name Zhivult, like the less odd name Zhivago, comes from the Russian root zhiv, meaning “alive.”

  Pasternak found it impossible to continue work on the Notes in the
face of the intensification of Stalin’s terror in the later thirties, particularly the great purges that began in 1937. As Lazar Fleishman has written:

  All previous historical explanations and evaluations acquired new and unstable meaning in light of the repression directed against the old guard of revolutionaries, and in light of the unprecedented, bloody catastrophe that the great revolution turned out to be for the entire population in 1937. These events dramatically changed Pasternak’s attitude toward Russia, the revolution, and socialism.

  Pasternak always had a double view of the revolution. He saw it, on the one hand, as a justified expression of the need of the people, and, on the other, as a program imposed by “professional revolutionaries” that was leading to a deadly uniformity and mediocrity. His doubts began as early as 1918 and increased as time went on.

  After Lenin’s death in 1924, there was a power struggle within the Communist Party leadership, essentially between Stalin and Trotsky, which ended with Trotsky being removed from the Central Committee in 1927, exiled to Alma Ata in 1928, and finally expelled from Russia in 1929. Stalin became the undisputed head of state and ruled with dictatorial powers. In 1928, he abolished the New Economic Policy (NEP), which Lenin had introduced to allow for private enterprise on a small scale, and instituted the first Five-Year Plan for the development of heavy industry and the collectivization of agriculture. On April 23, 1932, a decree on “The Restructuring of Literary Organizations” was published, aimed at ending “stagnation” in literature by putting a stop to rivalries among literary factions. This led to the creation of the Soviet Writers’ Union, a single body governing all literary affairs, of which every practicing writer was required to be a member. And in October 1932, Stalin defined “socialist realism” as the single artistic method acceptable for Soviet literature. The Writers’ Union drew up a statute at its first congress in 1934 defining socialist realism as a method that “demands of the artist the truthful, historically concrete representation of reality in its revolutionary development. Moreover, the truthfulness and historical concreteness of reality must be linked with the task of the ideological transformation and education of workers in the spirit of communism.” The historical theory behind socialist realism was the dialectical materialism of Marx; its necessary representative was the positive hero.

  Pasternak made two trips to the Urals during that period. In 1931 he was sent as a member of a “writers’ brigade” to observe the Five-Year Plan in action and report on its successes—in other words, to be “re-educated.” He was curious to see what changes had occurred since his last trip there fifteen years earlier. What he found disturbed him very much—not the scale of the construction, but the depersonalization of the people. He quit the brigade early and returned home. In the summer of 1932, the official attitude towards Pasternak improved and a collection of his poems, entitled Second Birth, was published. He was rewarded with a new trip to the Urals, this time for a month’s vacation with his second wife, Zinaida Neuhaus, and her two sons. Here for the first time he saw the results of the forced collectivization of agriculture, which had led to the breakdown of farming on a vast scale and a famine that cost millions of peasant lives. These disastrous effects of Stalin’s policy went entirely unreported in the Soviet press. He wrote a letter to the directors of the Writers’ Union detailing what he had seen, but it was ignored.

  In another letter, written to his parents in Berlin in the spring of 1933, on Hitler’s accession to power, Pasternak defined the tragedy that was being played out in Europe with remarkable clarity and in terms that reveal the essence of his historical understanding as it would finally be embodied in Doctor Zhivago:

  … however strange it may seem to you, one and the same thing depresses me in both our own state of affairs and yours. It is that this movement is not Christian, but nationalistic; that is, it runs the same danger of degenerating into the bestiality of facts. It has the same alienation from the age-old, gracious tradition that breathes with transformations and anticipations, rather than the cold statements of blind insanity. These movements are on a par, one is evoked by the other, and it is all the sadder for this reason. They are the left and right wings of a single materialistic night. (Published in Quarto, London, 1980)

  After the appearance of Second Birth, Pasternak entered a more or less silent period, in terms of publication, which lasted until 1941. But he did address congresses of the Writers’ Union several times during those years. In an important speech to a plenum session of the union, held in Minsk in February 1936, he said:

  The unforeseen is the most beautiful gift life can give us. That is what we must think of multiplying in our domain. That is what should have been talked about in this assembly, and no one has said a word about it … Art is inconceivable without risk, without inner sacrifice; freedom and boldness of imagination can be won only in the process of work, and it is there that the unforeseen I spoke of a moment ago must intervene, and there no directives can help.

  He went on to describe the inner change he was undergoing:

  For some time I will be writing badly, from the point of view that has been mine up to now, and I will continue to do so until I have become used to the novelty of the themes and situations I wish to address. I will be writing badly, literally speaking, because I must accomplish this change of position in a space rarefied by abstractions and the language of journalists, and therefore poor in images and concreteness. I will also be writing badly in regard to the aims I am working for, because I will deal with subjects that are common to us in a language different from yours. I will not imitate you, I will dispute with you …

  To earn his living during this time, Pasternak turned to translation. In 1939, the famous director Vsevolod Meyerhold invited him to make a new version of Hamlet. Other commissions for Shakespeare plays followed during the war years, but the work on Hamlet had a profound effect on Pasternak (twelve versions of the play were found among his papers). During the war years, there was a spirit of genuine unity among the Russian people in the opposition to a real enemy, after the nightmarish conditions of the terror—a spirit reflected in the epilogue to Doctor Zhivago. Pasternak believed then that the changes brought about by necessity would lead to the final liberation that had been the promise of the revolution from the beginning. What came instead, starting in August 1946, was a new series of purges, an ideological constriction signaled by virulent denunciations of the poet Anna Akhmatova and the prose writer Mikhail Zoshchenko, new restrictions on film and theater directors, and the “bringing into line” of the composers Shostakovich and Prokofiev. And a campaign also began against Pasternak, who was effectively silenced as a writer until after Stalin’s death.

  Pasternak lived through a profound spiritual crisis at this time, what might be called his “Hamlet moment.” The change in him is suggested by the two versions of the poem “Hamlet” that he wrote in 1946. The first, written in February, before the denunciations of Akhmatova and Zoshchenko, has just two stanzas:

  Here I am. I step out on the stage.

  Leaning against a doorpost,

  I try to catch the echoes in the distance

  Of what will happen in my age.

  It is the noise of acts played far away.

  I take part in all five.

  I am alone. All drowns in pharisaism.

  Life is no stroll through a field.

  The second, written in late 1946, consists of four stanzas:

  The hum dies down. I step out on the stage.

  Leaning against a doorpost,

  I try to catch the echoes from far off

  Of what my age is bringing.

  The night’s darkness focuses on me

  Thousands of opera glasses.

  Abba Father, if only it can be,

  Let this cup pass me by.

  I love the stubbornness of your intent

  And agree to play this role.

  But now a different drama’s going on,

  Spare me, then, this once.


  But the order of the acts has been thought out,

  And leads to just one end.

  I’m alone, all drowns in pharisaism.

  Life is no stroll through a field.

  This second version, adding the figure of Christ to those of Hamlet and the poet, gives great depth and extension to the notion of reluctant acceptance of the Father’s stubborn intent. Pasternak draws the same parallel in the commentary on Hamlet in his Notes on Translating Shakespeare, written in the summer of 1946: “From the moment of the ghost’s appearance, Hamlet gives up his will in order to ‘do the will of him that sent him.’ Hamlet is not a drama of weakness, but of duty and self-denial … What is important is that chance has allotted Hamlet the role of judge of his own time and servant of the future. Hamlet is the drama of a high destiny, of a life devoted and preordained to a heroic task.”

  Early in his career, Pasternak had likened poetry to a sponge left on a wet garden bench, which he would wring out at night “to the health of the greedy paper.” Now it has become an act of witness, the acceptance of a duty. The second version of “Hamlet” became the first of Yuri Zhivago’s poems in the final part of Doctor Zhivago. With the new resolve that had come to him, Pasternak was able to take up the long prose work he had been contemplating all his life and finally complete it.

  RICHARD PEVEAR

  TRANSLATORS’ NOTES

  Russian names are composed of first name, patronymic (from the father’s first name), and family name. Formal address requires the use of the first name and patronymic; diminutives are commonly used among family and friends; the family name alone can also be used familiarly, and on occasion only the patronymic is used, usually among the lower classes.