Linguistic studies followed a somewhat different pattern. There Nicholas Marr, 1864-1934, an outstanding scholar of Caucasian languages who apparently fell prisoner to some weird theories of his own invention, played the same sad role that Trofim Lysenko had played in biology. Endorsed by the Party, Marr's strange views almost destroyed philology and linguistics in the Soviet Union, denying as they did the established families of languages in favor of a ubiquitous and multiform evolution of four basic sounds. The new doctrine seemed Marxist because it related, or at least could relate, different families of languages to different stages of the material development of a people, but its implications proved so confusing and even dangerous that Stalin himself turned against the Marr school in 1950, much to the relief and benefit of Soviet scholarship.
Most areas of Soviet scholarship, however, profited much more by Stalin's death than by his dicta. From the spring of 1953, Soviet scholars enjoyed more contact with the outside world and somewhat greater freedom in their own work. In particular, they no longer had to praise Stalin at every turn, prove that most things were invented first by Russians, or deny Western influences in Russia - as they had had to do in the worst days of Zhdanov. Entire disciplines or sub-disciplines, such as cybernetics and certain kinds of economic analysis, were eventually permitted and even promoted. Yet, while some of the excesses of Stalinism were gone, compulsory Marxism-Leninism and partiinost remained. Soviet assertions that their scholars were free men retained a hollow - and indeed tragic - ring. Glasnost, to be sure, has represented a real breakthrough into honest scholarship, but it could not immediately eliminate all institutional, psychological, and material obstacles to it.
Literature
Literature in Soviet Russia in the twenties continued in certain ways the trends of the "silver age," in spite of the heavy losses of the revolutionary and civil war years and the large-scale emigration of intellectuals. Some poets went on publishing excellent poetry, and writers created numerous groups and movements.
The formalist critics rose and flourished. All that, of course, could not last under the new system. First, the R.A.P.P. - a Russian abbreviation for the Russian Association of Proletarian Writers - came to dominate the scene, preaching, somewhat along Pokrovsky's lines, the discarding of all culture except the proletarian. In 1932 the government disbanded the largely nihilistic R.A.P.P. and preceded to organize all the writers into the Union of Soviet Writers and to impose on them the new official doctrine that came to be known as "socialist realism." Guided by the correct principles, Soviet writers were to participate fully and prominently in the "building of socialism" as, to quote Stalin, "engineers of human souls." "Socialist realism" became synonymous with literature in the Soviet Union, other approaches being proscribed. Most of the prominent figures of the "silver age" disappeared early in the Soviet period: Blok died in 1921, Briusov in 1924, Bely in 1934, Gumilev was shot as a counterrevolutionary in 1921, Esenin committed suicide in 1925, and Maiakovsky, whose futurist verses rang the praises of the revolution and whose "Left March" had become almost its unofficial poetic manifesto, took his own life in 1930. The few outstanding figures who remained, such as Akhmatova and Pasternak, either fell into silence - at best writing for themselves and their friends - or concentrated on translating from foreign languages. Akhmatova was expelled from the Union of Soviet Writers by Zhdanov in 1946, following the publication of some poems where she had displayed an unsocialist loneliness among other vices, and Pasternak was ejected in 1958 after the appearance abroad of his celebrated novel, Doctor Zhivago, for which he was offered the Nobel prize.
Although the concept of socialist realism sponsored by Stalin and the Politburo was never made entirely clear, it referred ostensibly to a realistic depiction of life in its full revolutionary social dimension, in part in the tradition of Pushkin and Tolstoy and indeed of the main stream of modern Russian literature. But because the Party had its own view of life, based essentially on Marxist cliches misapplied to Russian reality, socialist realism turned into crude and lifeless propaganda. Writers had to depict the achievements of the five-year plans and other "significant" subjects or at least write realistic historical novels. More important, they had to do it in a prescribed manner. Black was to be made black and white with no shades in between. The Soviet hero had to be essentially a paragon of virtue, with no fundamental inner conflicts and no psychological ambiguities. Instead of the grim world around them, authors were urged to see things as they should appear and will appear in the future. Pessimism was banned.
Not surprisingly, in terms of quality the results of "socialist realism" have been appalling. After Gorky's death in 1936 - a death arranged by Stalin, according to some specialists - no writer of comparable stature rose in Soviet letters. A few gifted men, such as Alexis N. Tolstoy, 1883-1945, the author of popular historical and contemporary novels and Michael Sholokhov, 1905-, who wrote the novels The Quiet Don and Virgin Soil Upturned, describing Don cos-
sacks in civil war and collectivization, managed to produce good works more or less in line with the requirements of the regime, although they too had to revise their writings from edition to edition to meet changing Party demands. Other talented writers, for instance, Iurii Olesha, failed on the whole to adjust to "socialist realism." More typical Soviet practitioners have turned out simple, topical, and at times interesting, but unmistakably third-rate, pieces. An example is Constantine Simonov, a writer of stories, novelist, playwright, and poet, as well as an editor and war correspondent, who drew international attention by his novel about the defense of Stalingrad, Days and Nights, and his play concerning American attitudes toward the U.S.S.R., The Russian Question. The battle of Stalingrad, however, was depicted also in a great work, Vasily Grossman's long novel Life and Fate, which, together with a few short poems by Anna Akhmatova, is likely to remain as the imperishable literary tribute to the Soviet people in the Second World War. The overwhelming bulk of Soviet literature became extremely monotonous, drab, and lacking in artistry or in any kind of ability. Soviet poetry, especially hampered by the injunction to be simple and easy to understand, as well as socialist and realist, proved to be inferior even to Soviet prose. The government no doubt contributed more to the enjoyment of its readers by publishing on a large scale the Russian classics and world classics in translation. As a matter of fact, most of the best Russian literature during the last few decades has been written abroad. Some of the outstanding expatriate authors were the novelist, story writer, and poet Ivan Bunin and the highly original prose writer with a unique style, Alexis Remizov, who both died in Paris, in 1953 and 1957, respectively. In all fairness, however, one should note a certain revival in Soviet literature since Stalin's death. Yet that revival, too, has a tragic ring. Its leading figures, such as the poet Joseph Brodsky and indeed Alexander Solzhenitsyn himself, were hounded in their native land until their exile abroad, their works and thought forbidden to Soviet readers. Ironically, Solzhenitsyn's writings may well be considered to represent the long-delayed success of socialist realism: they focus on central problems and situations of Soviet life; they deal with common people, in fact all kinds of people; they are meant for the masses; and they are certainly realistic. G. Struve's two books, one on Soviet and the other on emigre writers, should be read together to obtain the best picture available of Russian literature since 1917 and of its hard lot.