It took a century or so after War and Peace was published before any writer repudiated Pushkin as boldly, but also as creatively, as Tolstoy had. But by the 1960s, decades of force-fed patriotism had inspired – at least among some unofficial Soviet writers – a marked disaffection with the literary classics. Varlam Shalamov, for example, began one of his Kolyma Tales with a bitter parody of the first line of The Queen of Spades: ‘One day they were playing cards in the barracks residence of Naumov, one of the guards of the horses in the prison camp.’ The irrelevance of the original to Soviet life is cruelly underlined. A more extended repudiation of Pushkin was to be found in the poetry of Joseph Brodsky, whose personal canon of great Russian poets (Derzhavin, Baratynsky, Mandelstam) demonstratively side-stepped ‘the father of Russian literature’.
Brodsky’s important sequence, ‘Twenty Sonnets for Maria Stuart’ (1974), for example, distances itself from Pushkin in a variety of ways, overt and hidden. It selects a verse form (the sonnet) which Pushkin scarcely employed. Alliteration, which is a striking device throughout the cycle, is used far more obviously than in Pushkin’s works. Brodsky also makes clear from the outset that the ‘muse’ to whom ‘Maria Stuart’ is addressed is a fantasy, an invention, something that will ‘step down from the screen/and enliven the parks like a statue’ (sonnet no. 1). The addressee is both less and more real than the statues to which several of Pushkin’s late poems are addressed (and which are evoked in Brodsky’s simile). She is an emanation of a film that the lyric hero saw as a boy, where ‘Sarah/Leander walked click-click to the scaffold’ (sonnet no. 2). That is, she is an artistic vision of a kind far less substantial than a sculpture. Yet at the same time, the cycle insists on her actual, physical existence, as someone who is the object of a desire deserving consummation, so that ‘Scotland becomes our mattress’ (sonnet no. 8). And to mark his distance still further, Brodsky continually, and, from the point of view of conventional literary piety, impertinently, quotes from Pushkin’s love poems in order to undermine their emotional rhetoric, most particularly through glaring lexical dislocations that are utterly contrary to the spirit of Pushkin’s harmonious combinations of disparate poetic styles. A case in point is the wry parody, in the sixth sonnet, of Pushkin’s ‘I loved you’ (translated here by Peter France):
I loved you. And my love (or maybe
it’s only pain)
still stabs me through the brain.
The whole thing’s shattered into smithereens.
I tried to shoot myself – using a gun
isn’t so simple. And the temples: which one,
the right or left? Reflection, not the shakes,
kept me from acting. Jesus! what a mess!
I loved you with such strength, such hopelessness
may God send you in others
– not a chance!
He may be capable of many things,
but – with Parmenides – won’t reinspire
the fire in the blood, the bones’ crunching collapse,
swelling the lead in fillings with desire
to touch – ‘your hips’, I must delete – your lips.
Apart from the two direct quotations from Pushkin (italicized here – for the full text of the original poem, see Chapter 6), the poem’s parodistic relationship to its original is established by the use, in line 12 of the Russian, of the archaic article sei – ‘yonder fire’ would be correct in terms of register. But the original is used as a mere backing canvas for purely Brodskian (and twentieth-century) rhetorical embroidery. This includes the vulgarism byust (‘bust’, here rendered ‘hips’) in line 14 (Pushkin would have used the high-style persi, or ‘breasts’, in the context of a love poem), the reference to ‘the shakes’ in line 6, the throwaway mention of Parmenides (the fifth-century Greek rationalist philosopher who held that only what exists can be known) in line 11, and, especially, the ironic undermining of the allusion to God in line 9.
Such a direct, defiant repudiation of Pushkin qua Pushkin, based upon a thorough knowledge of his works, remained a rarity even in twentieth-century Russian literature. Far more common was the attempt to find an ‘alternative’ Pushkin to the ‘father of Russian literature’ or ‘Soviet patriot before his time’ by looking once more to Pushkin’s own works. Just as censorship fostered ‘Aesopian language’, so did the narrow, official image of ‘the greatest Russian writer’ foster an ‘Aesopian Pushkin’. From the mid-1930s, writing about Pushkin, a self-evidently ‘safe’ topic (unlike the late Dostoevsky, with his notorious loathing for the Russian revolutionary movement and devotion to the Orthodox Church), could allow writers to voice issues that would have been utterly taboo if touched upon directly.
A case in point was Anna Akhmatova’s essays on Pushkin. These emphasized Pushkin’s talent for ‘encryptation’ – at a point when Akhmatova herself was evolving a protective obscurity in response to institutionalized oppression. Equally, Akhmatova’s emphasis on Pushkin’s struggle for dignity in a world reduced to moral squalor by authoritarianism articulated her view of the position of the Soviet writer. Exactly so did Shostakovich use citations from his own setting of Pushkin’s poem ‘The barbarian painter with his somnolent brush’ in order to weave the theme of posthumous artistic justification into his Fifth Symphony, his first major public work after the vicious vilification that had greeted Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk in 1936.
To be sure, the emphasis here on the writer’s sacred role made these unofficial views of Pushkin close to official views, in terms of tone if not interpretation. But there were also other, less solemn, ‘alternative Pushkins’. Many preferred, in the words of Andrey Sinyavsky, to approach Pushkin ‘not by the grand front entrance lined with busts wearing expressions of unrelenting nobility on their faces, but with the help of the anecdotes and caricatures that have been dreamed up by street culture as a kind of response to, revenge for, Pushkin’s resounding fame’. To continue Sinyavsky’s own metaphor, writers approached Pushkin by the back door or ‘black entrance’ rather than the front or ‘parade’ one.
The smutty tone of the phrase ‘back door’ pointed to the fact that intimacy in all its forms was a governing trope of twentieth-century anti-establishment literature, which also led to an emphasis on Pushkin’s clandestine writings. The Gabrieliad, an irreverent romp depicting the insemination of the Virgin Mary by Satan and the Angel Gabriel as well as God, which had circulated in manuscript during Pushkin’s lifetime and been published in full only after the Revolution, now attained canonical status. Preparation for the first ‘complete’ edition of Pushkin in the 1920s turned up quantities of private correspondence, rough drafts, jottings, and so on, which were equally helpful to the construction of a new, ‘intimate’ Pushkin. Most obviously, they explored subject matter uncongenial to the decorous image of a ‘national poet’. Here, Pushkin could be found boasting of having wiped his ‘sinful hole’ with pages torn from the prolific occasional poet Count Khvostov’s latest book, or comparing the ‘colon and comma’ that ornamented his loins with the mere ‘comma’ of a politically powerful, but sexually disadvantaged, grandee. But the new Pushkin materials offered more than such glimpses of the forbidden. They also contributed to a growing sense of the writer’s manuscript as a text in itself, not just an intermediate stage between inspiration and publication (as Pushkin himself, whatever his concerns about textual integrity, had certainly seen it). After 1928, as censorship became fiercer, and more and more writers practised ‘the genre of silence’, or composed texts for ‘the desk drawer’, it was the manuscript that alone held the promise of eluding social control. Books might be purged from libraries, but in the words of Mikhail Bulgakov, whose Master and Margarita was one of the most famous manuscripts to survive the Stalin years (though Bulgakov himself did not), ‘manuscripts don’t burn’. What was more, with their doodled landscapes, portraits of salon beauties, ducks, devils, and chargers, Pushkin’s manuscripts had a liveliness, a physical presence (‘facture’) that had characterized the avant-garde publications of the 1910s and 1920s, but which began to disappear as control over print culture tightened in the 1930s. (Ill. 9.)