Worlds Apart

by Alexander Levitsky

  The women ran about for potatoes, the coffin maker measured up, the lads swung the coffins over their heads—carried them proudly around to the cottages. In the cottages people examined at length the excellence of their coffins, measured themselves against the coffins and stood them on their porches, where it could easily be seen: who had two, who had three. The snow turned a wintry blue, a deathly blue in the frost. The cottages were lit up with pine splits, out back gates creaked and there were women’s footsteps—footsteps to the barn to hay the cattle for the night. Nikon’s wife invited the coffin makers to her place. Cautiously, with no chatter, the coffin makers sold the coffins. Once inside the cottage, having stabled the horses, over their tea, with their shoes off and their belts loosened—the guests turned out to be gay dogs, talkative, game for anything. Nikon Borisych, the master, the village chairman, bearded from the eyes down, was sitting by the lamp whittling splits, wedging them one after another into a clamp over the washtub, entertaining his amiable guests and talking away:

  “Now, all the same we’re by ourselves, alone. You die, and the coffin—there it is. You don’t feed your hound before a hunt. Rebellion, all the same, that’s troubled times. Soviet power—means that’s it for the towns. We’re just heading out to the mine to get our own salt.

  Nikon’s wife, in a velveteen vest and homespun skirt with lilac polka-dots, wearing an old-fashioned horned headdress, her breasts bulging like udders, her face plump as a cow’s, was sitting at the loom with her shuttle clacking away. The torch burned smokily. It lit up the bearded peasant faces ranged in a circle in the semi-darkness and smoke (their eyes shone with the red glow of the split’s red light). On the stove shelf, a dozen of them piled on top of each other, lay the women. In the corner behind the stove, in a pen, a calf was lazily chewing its cud. Fresh faces kept coming in—to have a look at the coffin makers. The others left—the door steamed, it reeked of the cold.

  “The rail-w-a-y!” says Nikon Borisych with great scorn. “The rail-w-a-y, all t’same! I wisht it was scrapped!”

  “It’s hard labor and nothing but,” answered Klimanov.

  “We got no need of it, f’r example,” asserted Grandfather Kononov. “The masters, y’see, need it to travel about to their government departments, or just for visiting. But we, y’see, are out on our own, without any bourgeoisse, I mean to say.”

  “The rail-w-a-y!” said Nikon Borisych. “The rail-w-a-y, all t’same, … We lived without it before and got by. Wh-y-y-y-y! … Once a year I used to make the trip to town, all t’same! … I’d loaf about a whole day on the platform, I’d have to untie my bundle about five times: ‘What sort of goods you got, or it’s the butt-end for you!’ Well, we used to climb onto the roof, … and away we’d go … Stop! ‘What sort of pass have you got, show me!’ D’you think I’m an old woman or something?—I’d show the pass. Then I got hot under the collar. Such and such your mother, I say, I’m taking my lads to the Red Army to have a crack at the bourgeoisie, all t’same. I, I say—We’re for the Bolsheviks, for the Soviets, and you, obv’ously, are Kom’nists? … He takes off …… all t’same it riles you up …”

  Night. The torch burns dimly, the windows of Nikon’s hut become dim, the village sleeps its nightly sleep, the white snowstorm whips up its white snows, the sky is dismal. In the hut, in the semi-dark, in a circle by the torch, in shag-tobacco smoke, sit the peasants, with beards from their eyes down (their eyes shine with a red glow).

  The shag-tobacco smokes, red little fires become dim in the corners, the roof rafters crawl about in the smoke. It’s stuffy, steamy for the stove-fleas on the women’s bodies on the stove. And Nikon Borisych says with great severity:

  “Kom’nists!” and with an energetic gesture (his eyes flashing in the torch light): —”We’re for the Bolsheviks! For the Soviets! We want it our way, the Roossian way. We’ve been under the masters—and that’s enough! The Roossian way, our way! Ourselves!

  “One thing, f’r example,” says Grandfather Kononov, “we’ve nothing against him. Let him go. And the factory lads—We’ve nothing against them—let them stuff the girls, f’r example, and get married, those who have a trade. But the gentry—they’s at the end of the line, f’r example.”

  A WEDDING

  Winter. December. Christmas.

  The clearing. Trees, enveloped in hoar-frost and snow, gleam like blue diamonds. At dusk the last bullfinch cries out, a magpie rattles its bony rattle. And silence. Huge pine trees have been felled, and their branches lie about like enchanting carpets. Among the trees in a murk that is dark blue, like sugar-paper, night comes creeping. Its movements light and unhurried, a hare hops by. Overhead, the sky—glimpsed through the treetops like tatters bits of blue with white stars. On all sides, hidden from the sky, stand junipers and somber pines, their slender switches tangled, intertwined. Constant and disquieting, the sounds of the forest run on. The yellow logs are silent. The moon, like a live coal, rises above the far end of the clearing. And the night. The sky is low, the moon red. The wood stands like a stockade forged in iron. The wind creaks and it sounds like the creaking of rusty bolts. Eerie in the lunar murk, lopped-off branches of felled pines lie about. Gigantic hedgehogs, their branches bristle sullenly. Night.

  And then at the far end of the clearing, among the piney hedgehogs, in the moonlight, a wolf sets up a howl, and the wolves celebrate their own beast-yule, a wolfish wedding. A she-wolf howled lazily and languorously, the he-wolves licked the snow with burning tongues. Their young look sternly askance. The wolves play, jump, roll into the snow, in the moonlight, in the frost. And the leader howls, howls, howls. Night. And above the village—at Christmas, at the fortune telling; in the lanes, in the forest, in the settlements; before the wedding season a bold marching song is heard:

  Chi-vi-li, willy-nilly, sway and swish—

  Grab the one that is your wish!

  And on their way to a doleful wedding-eve gathering, in the name of maidenly chastity, through their tears, the maidens sing:

  Small hope had the Mother to empty her nest—

  My Mother got shut of me one summer’s day

  Sent me to strangers, a house far away

  She banished me, seven years never to come to her.

  Three years have gone since I’ve been with my mother,

  But come the fourth summer the bird will take wing,

  Light down by my Father in garden so green

  His garden I’ll water with many a tear,

  And give over my sorrow for Mother to bear.

  My mother goes walking ‘round her new nest,

  Calls to her children, her dear nightingales,

  “Get up, darling children, my dear nightingales.

  There’s one in our garden that sits and weeps sore,

  It must be the wretched one, our kin no more.

  Eldest brother said: I will go and see.

  Second brother said: Fetch the gun to me!

  Youngest brother said: I will shoot her down.

  Youngest brother said: I will shoot her down.

  On the roof peak—a hex-horse; on the ridge—a dove; the bridal sheet, the pillow cases and the towels—embroidered with flowers, grasses, birds; and the wedding goes on, according to the ritual, embroidered with songs, with rhythm, with centuries and tradition.

  A sketch: By the torch-holder is an old man, a torch burns, in the place of honor sits Uliana Makarova—a bride in a white dress. On the table a samovar, refreshments. At the table—the guests, Alexei Semyonych with the mothers-in-law and fathers-in-law.

  “Eat up, my dear guests, you’ve traveled so far.” this sternly, from the old man.

  “Eat up, dear guests, you’ve traveled so far,” this with fear and self-importance, from the mother.

  “Eat up, dear guests, and you, Leksei Semionych,” this is Uliana Makarova, hesitantly.

  “Uliana Makarova, you haven’t walked out with other lads, haven’t sinned, you haven’t cracked your saucer?

  “No,
Lexei Semionych … I’ve not been shamed …”

  “So, kind parents, how do you reward your daughter?”

  “Her reward is our parental blessing—with the icon of Our Lady of Kazan.”

  And the wedding, according to the ritual of centuries, is conducted above Black Creeks like a liturgy—in the thatched cottages, under the awnings, on the road, over the fields, through the snowstorm, by day and by night: it rings with songs and bells, ferments like home-brewed ale, it is painted and carved like the hex-horse at the peak of the roof—on evenings that are blue like sugar-paper. Chapter such-and-such of the Book of Rites, the first verse and further.

  Verse 1.

  When the mortgage is taken out, the house inspected, the terms agreed, and the party of maidens has arrived, then they bring to the groom the dowry goods which the groom redeems, and the mothers-in-law make up the bed with the blankets and pillows from the dowry with flowers and grasses and they decide on the wedding day.

  Verse 2.

  Verse 3.

  Oh mother—oh mother of mine!

  Why do you wish me to marry!

  To sleep with this wife I decline,—

  Where will I leave her or carry?!

  They went to dance, they danced their feet right off,

  The girls and women laughed so hard—that they had a calf.

  Oo-oo-oo! Ahhhhhh! Ah! the cottage dances like a wench,

  Fidgets back and forth, yelling up to heaven.

  “Does the young girl know how to clean a chimney?”

  “Does the young girl know how to bind a sheaf?”

  “Does the young girl know how to build a nest?”

  “They are nobles, they need rubles. Take the cheese and the cottage loaf, lay the money on the cloth.”

  “Measure the hessian, give me twenty arshin.”

  Oo-oo-oo. Ahhhh. Oooo. Eeee. In the cottage there’s no room to breathe. In the cottage there’s merrymaking. In the cottage there’s shouting, victuals, and drink —hic!—and out of the house to the open shed they run to get a breath, chase away the sweat, gather their thoughts and strength.

  Night. The stars wink lazily, in the frost. Under the shed roof, in the darkness there’s a smell of manure, of cattle sweat. It’s quiet. Only now and then the cattle sigh. And every quarter of an hour, with a lantern, old Aleshka’s mother, the mother of young Alexei Semyonych comes—to inspect the cow. The cow is lying submissively, her snout thrust into the straw: the waters broke last night, any time now she’ll calve. The old woman looks carefully, nods her head reproachfully, makes the sign of the cross over the cow: it’s time, it’s time, Brownie! And the cow strains. The old woman—an age-old custom—opens up the back door to let in some fresh air. Outside the door is the empty cherry orchard, in the distance the barn and the path to the barn—covered with hay, coated with hoar-frost. And out of the darkness the grandfather speaks:

  “I’ll go down, I’ll go down—I’ll have a look. We’ll need Egor Polikarpich, Egor, the squinting wizard. The cow’s pining, pining, fading away, the cow …”

  “Run, grandfather, run dear …”

  “What do you think I’m doing? I’m going. And you stand by. It’s cold.”

  Under the shed roof it’s dark, warm. The cow is sighing heavily and lowing. The old woman strikes a light—two little hooves are sticking out … The old woman crosses herself and whispers … And grandfather trots through the fields to the forest, to Egorka. Grandfather is old, grandfather knows that if you don’t leave the path the wolf, ferocious and mean in this season, can’t touch you. Under the shed roof on the straw the wet calf lows and kicks. The lantern burns dimly, lights up the stakes, the partitions, the hens under the roof, the sheep in the fold. Outside there is silence, peace, but the cottage buzzes, sings, dances to every note and every string.

  —And from the Book of Rites.

  Verse 13. And when they drive away in the early hours and the guests disperse and in the cottage remain only the mother of the groom and the mother-in-law, the mothers-in-law undress the bride and lay her on the bed and settle themselves down over the stove. And to the young wife comes her husband and lies down beside her on the bed, embroidered with flowers and grasses and the husband sows his wife with his seed, breaking her maidenhead. And the mother and mothers-in-law see this and cross themselves.

  Verse 14. And on the morning of the following day the mother and mothers-in-law take the young wife outside and cleanse her with warm water, and after the cleansing they give the water to their cattle to drink: to the cows, to the horses and sheep. And the couple drive to their dower fields and coarse songs are sung to them.

  —The clearing. The trees are laden with hoar-frost and snow, motionless. Among the trees, in the gray murk, snapping twigs as he goes, the white haired grandfather goes trot-a-trot and in the blue murk, in the distance, a wolf barks. The day is white and motionless. And towards evening there is a snowstorm. And tomorrow there’ll be a snowstorm. And in the snowstorm the wolves howl.

  OUTSIDE THE TRIPTYCH, at the end

  The day is white and motionless. And towards evening there’s a snowstorm—mean, a January storm. The wolves howl.

  —And white haired granddad atop the stove, white haired granddad tells his grandchildren the tale of the juicy apple: “Play, play, pipes! Comfort, dear father, my own dear mother. They ruined me, wretch that I am, in the dark forest they killed me for a silver dish, for the juicy apple.” The snowstorm flails like a windmill, grinding out a powder of snowy grit, of murk, of cold. It’s warm up on the stove, with the fairy tales, the fleas, the steamy bodies: “Awaken me, little father, from my deep sleep, fetch me the water of life.” “And he came to the forest, dug up the earth on a flowery knoll and sprinkled a twig with the water of life, and his daughter, whose beauty none could relate, awakened from her long sleep.” “Ivan Tsarevich, why did you burn my frogskin—why?”

  —The forest stands sternly, a bastion, and the snowstorm batters it like a clutch of harpies. Night. Is the legend of how the bogatyrs met their death not truly the legend of the forest and the snowstorm? More and more snowstorm harpies batter the forest bastion, howling, shrieking, shouting, roaring like maddened women. Their dead fall, and after them rush still more harpies, they never decrease,—they multiply like dragon’s heads—two grow where one is severed, and the forest stands like Ilia of Murom.

  Kolomna: Nikola-Na-Posadakh

  25 December, Old Style. 1920

  Translated by A.L. and M.K.

  C3. The Waning of Modernism in Post-revolutionary Years

  THE WRITERS IN THE previous subsection embody dreams of alternate realities and express increasing anxiety as the years of upheaval and civil war roll over Russia. These were cataclysmic, apocalyptic times … At the end of Pilniak’s Naked Year, for instance, we see Russia awaiting the return of Ilia of Murom as English dreamers awaited the return of King Arthur. These are heroes who can save the land because they are of it, an organic part of its past.

  Enchanted flights of fancy over the Russian landscape were no longer possible after the end of the Civil War. In a materialist march to a command society, Russia’s new leaders forced the populace to embrace a new kind of utopian vision, mechanized and international in scope, or, as V. I. Lenin stressed at its genesis: “I could care less about the fate of Russia—all I care about is World Revolution.” But the proletarian revolution did not engulf the world in spite of Lenin’s wishes, and once I. V. Stalin took command over Soviet society for over a quarter century, Russia was to face a new challenge: enunciated by the “glorious leader” himself. The inhabitants of the USSR were to frame the socialist future within the confines of one state—Russia itself. This future was to be attained by the doctrinaire destruction of most vestiges of Russia’s religious and economic past, replacing these with materialist ideology and a planned economy. Anything thwarting these plans was considered treason against the state. It was increasingly dangerous to oppose the regime, especially after the beg
inning of the “Second Five-year Plan” in 1932, a period which also saw the creation of the Union of Soviet Writers along with the abolition of all free-thinking literary organizations and consequent persecution of all errant individuals. In the event, there were millions of these.

  The writers chosen for this subsection—Nikolai Zabolotsky (1903-58), Daniel Kharms [Yuvachev] (1905-42), Yuri Olesha (1899-1960), and Mikhail Bulgakov (1891-1940)—stand here as representatives of the incredibly rich field of Russian poets and writers who came to prominence in the 1920s. They were a decade or two younger than Evgeny Zamiatin, the writer whose literary craft had more or less predicted the reality of political oppression they were to experience in their lives. Unlike Zamiatin, who was allowed to emigrate, many of this generation physically perished in concentration camps by the 1930s; those that survived found their energies sapped by the regime to the point that they ceased to be productive altogether, as their creative gifts were ill-suited to the now mandatory production work of socialist realism.

  Given the tragic outcome of their lives, it is all the more gratifying to see in their works an incredible capacity for life-affirming humor. Liberating themselves from the lockstep march of socialist dictates, they created alternate, dreamscape worlds. We are uniting these quite different authors here to familiarize the contemporary reader with some of the less translated (except for Bulgakov) works of this period. Obliquely each of the works chosen is also connected with the concept of flight, be it the flight of fancy, the flight of an insect, flight “on the wings of love,” or the flight of Bulgakov’s witch-heroine, Margarita.

  Most selections are also united by the years 1928-1929, the last years when free creativity was still imagined to be possible, but also the years when outright bans on free fiction began in earnest. Zabolotsky’s and Olesha’s short works were written in 1929, and Bulgakov’s subsequently famous novel was begun in the same year. Each of the selections probes to a greater or lesser extent the meaning of historical truth and the applicability of ancient myths to the modernist context. In Bulgakov’s novel, completed a decade later, such mythopoetic truths find full expression, whereas in Zabolotskys’ Signs of the Zodiac their applicability to the modern world is far more equivocal. This uncertainty is practically erased in Human of the Snows, a poem composed thirty years later (1957) at the height of nuclear war anxiety. Here no hope is held out to humanity by Nature, Reason, Religion or Technology. In the Bibilical context God gave Adam the authority to name His creatures, but in this poem the Half-man Half-beast capers pointlessly around his skinned prey, spouting gibberish. In Kharms’ The Young Man who Surprised the Watchman, a miniature of Kafkaesque brevity, literal flight is physically squashed, while the possibility of metaphoric flight to the gates of Heaven is implicitly preserved. No such gates present themselves to Kalugin, the protagonist of Kharms’ The Dream—a victim of a society perhaps even less humane than the one imagined in Kafka’s Metamorphosis.