Copyright
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CONTENTS
Copyright
Translator’s Foreword
Introduction by S. D. Cioran
Sologub’s Forewords to Various Editions
THE PETTY DEMON
Textual Variants
APPENDIX
MURL BARKER, The Petty Demon and the Critics
MURL BARKER, A Chronology of Important Dates
LINDA J. IVANITS, The Grotesque in Sologub’s Novel The Petty Demon
CHARLOTTE ROSENTHAL AND HELENE FOLEY, Symbolic Patterning in Sologub’s The Petty Demon
IRENE MASING-DELIC, ‘Peredonov’s Little Tear’—Why Is It Shed?
STANLEY J. RABINOWITZ, Sologub’s Literary Children: The Special Case of The Petty Demon
TRANSLATOR’S FOREWORD
IN GENERAL I feel that there is not much to be gained by trying to explain in great detail the literary and linguistic subtleties of the original Russian text to an English-speaking audience. Obviously those who know Russian can compare the original with the translation and come to their own conclusions. For better or worse the English-speaking reader finds himself at the mercy of the translator and can only hope that he is reading a “faithful” translation. Unfortunately, no two translators, or critics, are apt to agree fully on what “faithful” should mean. Faithful to what? The content? The style? The sensibilities of a reader who desires a smooth and readable text? Or perhaps a wonderful compromise among all these factors which is achieved through some magical formula in the sole possession of the translator? In any event, the reader does have the right at least to know what the translator thought he was trying to accomplish and how he set about it.
In the case of Sologub’s The Petty Demon I have attempted to abide as closely as possible by the “content” of the original. Except in isolated circumstances I have directly translated what Sologub wrote without trying to “interpret” the content or to take undue license by striving above all for a musical or poetic effect in English. Not have I attempted to adorn the original text, or worse, to delete words and phrases which did not “fit” well into English. I made a special effort to preserve the lexical integrity of the text by utilizing vocabulary items in English which I felt were of the same semantic value and level in Russian. My intention was neither to aggrandize nor to mitigate the effect of Sologub’s language in order to achieve some desired effect. I took particular care in preserving the frequency or repetition of Sologub’s vocabulary, for this is one of the hallmarks of Sologubian prose. While the author does not draw on a particularly rich and varied lexical store, nevertheless, he is extremely fastidious in what he does use and he consciously repeats his favorite words and phrases. The repetition of this selective vocabulary in Sologub’s works was often meant to induce an incantational and hypnotic effect that is frequently reminiscent of music, poetry or even religious rites. The reader will also recognize, of course, that such repetition performs the role of creating convenient verbal leitmotifs for the various characters and situations.
I did, however, deviate from the above principles in two circumstances. The first was in rendering the counter-spells uttered by Peredonov. The second concerned the many puns and word plays that abound throughout the novel. In both cases it was my intention to avoid laborious footnotes which explain the actual content or meaning of the counter-spells or puns. In the case of the counter-spells I produced what I felt would be a reasonable English equivalent. As far as the word plays were concerned, I believed that it was more important to reproduce the spirit or intent of the Russian original while still creating a word play in English. In a few cases where I thought that the spirit of the original would be unduly violated, I reluctantly resorted to a footnote.
A final point concerns the translation of the Russian words oboroten’ and baran because the attentive reader may notice a discrepancy between the text of the translation and various references made in the articles contained in the critical appendix. Some critics (and former translators) have rendered oboroten’ as “werewolf” in English. The actual root of oboroten’ is based on the word meaning “to change”. I have chosen to translate the word as “changeling” rather than as “werewolf.” Obviously a “werewolf” belongs to the category of “changelings” but both in English and in Russian the words oboroten’/”changeling” can indicate a human being that assumes the identity of any animal or bird, or even of another human being. This is obviously a very important theme in the novel when one realizes the great number of “transformations” or “changelings” that Sologub interpolates into the text. Peredonov’s diseased imagination manufactures all manner of such phenomena: Volodin alternates between his human identity and that of a sheep; the playing cards become real kings, queens and knaves; Peredonov believes that Volodin is trying to kill him and assume his identity. Costumes are used throughout to depict changes in identity: Sasha dresses as a geisha girl; both Lyudmila and Sasha don various costumes in order to alter their personalities; Peredonov displays his own “changeling” aspirations by ordering a new uniform, throwing away his old hat and wearing his official cap. Finally, a great scandal is caused by Peredonov accusing Sasha of being a girl in disguise.
In the novel, Volodin is regularly described in terms of a baran. In Russian this means a “male sheep” or “ram.” Some translators and critics have chosen to translate this quality in Volodin as being “ram-like.” My feeling is that the word “sheep” is more neutral and evocative of Volodin’s antics and behavior and at the same time it does not deny the fact that he is a male. Moreover, the word “ram” might suggest the appearance and qualities of the mountain variety to the English reader. This particular problem is a veritable Pandora’s Box that I do not care to open any further since it touches upon a host of difficulties in translating the differences between male and female counterparts of the same animal and whether the masculine or feminine determination is used to create adjectival forms. For example, in Russian one says baran’i kotlety for “lamb” or “mutton chops,” yet surely this does not mean that only the unfortunate male of the species ends up on the dinner table. I add this merely as food for thought to the readers of the text.
—S.D.C.
INTRODUCTION
AS THE NINETEENTH CENTURY drew to a close, a diverse number of Russian thinkers acid writers declared a metaphysical and aesthetic war against insipid materialism and vulgar utilitarianism in art and thought. The salvation of mankind lay in the search for a new spiritual idealism. The salvation of art lay in the creation of new forms of artistic expression. The inspiration for this new idealistic impetus came from at least two discernib
le directions. The first was a reaction against a predominant mood of pessimism in Russian literature and thought, which was perceived to be a legacy of the lugubrious and depressing themes of Russian civic art. The second was an acceptance of the “new art” of literary sensitivity that was being imported from France, England and other European countries.1
One of the earliest exponents of a renewed philosophy of idealism in art and thought was the Russian philosopher-poet, Vladimir Solovyov (1853–1900), who directed man’s vision to the divine realm for inspiration:
And man, as one who belongs to both worlds, can and must by an act of rational contemplation concern himself with the divine world, and finding himself yet in a world of contention and vague apprehension, he must enter into communication with vivid images from the kingdom of glory and eternal beauty.2
Solovyov’s theories were to have a profound effect on a later generatio of symbolist writers that would include both Alexander Blok 1880–1921) and Andrei Bely (1880–1934).
However, the first genuine “manifesto” of the new artistic and philosophical sensibilities is usually accredited to Dmitri Merezhkovsky (1865–1941) who wrote his famous treatise “On the Reasons for the Decline and on the New Tendencies in Contemporary Russian Literature” in 1892. Merezhkovsky was among the first in Russia to outline in great detail what he envisaged as the genuine requirements of the new artistic idealism that would do battle with the “suffocatingly dead positivism of the 19th Century.” Referring to the works of Baudelaire, Edgar Allan Poe, Flaubert, Turgenev and Ibsen, Merezhkovsky distilled the essential ingredients:
… the three major elements of the new art [are] a mystical content, symbols, and the expansion of artistic impressionability … only a creative faith in something infinite and immortal can ignite the soul of man, create heroes, martyrs and prophets … People have need of faith, they need inspiration, they crave a holy madness in their heroes and martyrs.3
As we will see later, these words were to arouse a creative response in the heart of Fyodor Sologub.
While some writers of this “first generation” of Symbolists that included Merezhkovsky, his wife Zinaida Hippius (1867–1945), and Nikolai Minsky (1855–1937), devoted themselves to the creation of idealistic and inspirational content in the new art, other poets, such as Konstantin Balmont (1867–1943) and Valeri Bryusov (1873–1924) preferred to explore and promote new aesthetic forms and sensibilities:
Rare and powerful harmonies exist,
Shaping both scent and contour in a flower.
Thus brilliance lies unseen by us until,
Beneath the chisel, it blazes in the diamond.
And I desire that all my dreaming visions
That reach the light embodied in the word,
Find for themselves their long-sought forms.
(V. Bryusov, A Sonnet to Form, 1895)
In the works of Bryusov and Balmont there were, at times, simply the undeniable attempts to épater le bourgeois, to shock, amaze and anger. Hence Bryusov's notorious one-liner:
O, cover your pale legs!
Virtuosity in form, musicality in tone and exotic dreamlike sensuality in content were the trademarks of Konstantin Balmont:
Beneath this youthful, sickle-Moon
That glows above the emerald Sea,
You walk beside the waves with me.
I whisper words, we silently dispute.
This came to me in dreams one night,
As combers roared in you and me.
I saw with moonlight-flooded sight
That you and I were sinking in the Sea.
We were, in crespuscule and brine,
Two ocean flowers, entwining blooms
Of salt and sea-dreaming Moons
And stars of novel lands and strange designs.
(Beneath a Lunar Sign)4
In both treatise and poem these new prophets of exotic sensations attracted converts as well as enemies who labelled them “decadent” because of the unabashed eroticism and frequent escapism into realms of artificial experience. The designations of “Symbolist” and “Decadent” became confused and interchangeable in the minds of the conservative reading public who preferred less spicey fare than was being dished up. Scant distinction was made between those writers who seemed genuinely dedicated to seeking the creative synthesis of heaven and earth and those who were more inclined to an exotic aestheticism. The confusion was compounded by the fact that both Symbolists and Decadents shared a common interest in renewing artistic forms and were frequently attracted to identical themes and motifs. This initial movement which became known as Symbolism or Decadence, depending upon the aesthetic bias of the reader or critic, began to proliferate and diversify in the early part of the twentieth century as more and more writers and poets were attracted. A second generation of younger, or belated, writers, hastened to join the ranks of the new aesthetic modernism that held out such promise for a genuine renaissance in Russian letters. The second wave of Symbolism included such hopefuls as Andrei Bely, Alexander Blok and Vyacheslav Ivanov (1866–1949), to name only the most prominent. Bely and Blok apprenticed themselves in their early years to the established Symbolist masters like Solovyov, Merezhkovsky, Bryusov and Balmont, but rapidly developed their own aesthetic forms and philosophies.
The faint rustlings of Russian Symbolism in the early 1890’s echoed across the frontier of the twentieth century and grew to resounding proportions in the literary world of pre-World War I Russia. Particularly after the aborted revolution of 1905, this literary tendency began to diversify and fractionalize as one literary-artistic journal after another was created as a rallying-point for a fresh alignment of Symbolist writers, thinkers and artists. Vehement professions de foi and militant “manifestoes” were hurled at friend and foe alike in a furious verbal barrage over literary matters pertaining to Symbolism. One might well characterize this period between roughly 1905 and 1910 as a period of “War Symbolism” in which long-time friends became foes overnight while implacable enemies were embraced as committed symbolists moved from one literary camp or publishing house to the other.
It is fair to say that Russian Symbolism was never a lukewarm experience. The passionate alliances, the vicious rivalries, the fiery, often absurd, debates, the ridiculous antics and aesthetic poses of many of its adherents proved to be the rule rather than the exception. The hopes, dreams and aspirations of Symbolism were just as exaggerated, perhaps as futile, as the works they created.
Considering the many divergent theories of Symbolism proposed by its adherents over the course of almost a quarter century (from the early 1890s up until the Revolution) it is not an easy task to select a single salient or unifying theme, a single central tenet that would fairly represent the thrust of Russian Symbolism. However, a great deal of the spirit of Russian Symbolism might be summed up in the predominant concern for transformation or transfiguration. A priori this concept presupposes the existence, or even opposition, of two realms, be it the earthly and the heavenly, the human and the divine, the ugly and the beautiful. The desire of the Symbolist was to annul this opposition, to resolve it. The ugly, the earthly and the human were to be transformed or transfigured into their loftier counterparts. The method or magic formula for achieving this common design was as diverse as the membership and personality of Russian Symbolism. The philosopher-poet, Vladimir Solovyov, proposed a vision for the transformation of mankind that was essentially Christian, if unorthodox. In his theory of Godmanhood, he sought the union between earth and heaven in which man would ascend to the divine level and be transfigured. Both Bely and Blok, particularly in their younger years, were deeply influenced by Solovyov and espoused many of the principal tenets of his teachings on the divine purpose of art and the desire to achieve Godmanhood. Bely was the more active of the two in pursuing and developing new theories of Symbolist art that were usually eclectic and idiosyncratic. But over the years Bely invariably returned to the same Symbolist concerns: the resolution of opposites, the transf
ormation of earth into heaven, man into the godman. Like Solovyov, Merezhkovsky was also fascinated by opposites. In his scheme for mankind’s transfiguration, he sought a synthesis of the pagan and the Christian spirits to create a new being that would be beauteous in body and spirit. Merezhkovsky’s own attempt to put theory into practice resulted in a series of grandiose novels wherein various historical figures were selected as symbolic incarnations of the mighty struggle between contrasting forces in mankind and the universe. His first trilogy was given the expressive title of Christ and Antichrist (1896–1905).
One of the most important and seminal ideas proposed by Merezhkovsky in his original manifesto of 1892, and which echoed the thoughts of Vladimir Solovyov, concerned the utilization of symbols to portray both metaphysical and artistic truths:
Characters can … serve as symbols. Sancho Panza and Faust, Don Quixote and Hamlet, Don Juan and Falstaff, in the words of Goethe, are “schwankende Gestalten” … apparitions which haunt mankind … from generation to generation. It is impossible to communicate in any words whatsoever the idea of such symbolic characters, whereas symbols express the unrestricted aspect of truth.5
Indeed, every Symbolist worthy of the title felt obliged to create his own system of Symbols, his own symbolic mythology, and to personify the inexpressible truths of his particular vision. The cornerstone symbol of Solovyov’s scheme was the Divine Sophia (the Divine Wisdom of God) who would inspire mankind to actively seek and participate in his own transfiguration through the process of Godmanhood. This archetype of the Eternal Feminine resonated through the works of other Symbolists such as Blok and Bely. They both created their own personal variants of Solovyov’s Divine Sophia. Blok espoused the “Beautiful Lady” and Bely the “Woman Clothed in the Sun.” Particularly during their younger years, these Symbols apotheosized their vague, at times inarticulate, at times verbose, longing for earthly transformation.
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