A New Pushkin?

Pushkin’s The Snowstorm shows us a completely different side of Pushkin, than what we’ve previously seen. In reading works like “Echo”, “Sing not, my love…”, “Autumn,” and “The Hills of Georgia,” we gained an appreciation for Pushkin’s ability to find beauty in every-day imagery. I perceived him as a very classically romantic poet. However, now as we read The Snowstorm, Pushkin seems like an unfamiliar and different writer altogether: a comedian!

To me it seems that Pushkin colors The Snowstorm in a comical way, through the narrator’s sarcasm, and through the inconsistent passage of time through the piece.  (Although it’s possible that I read the whole story in the wrong tone,) I got the sense that the narrator himself leads us to ridicule some of the story line. In the very first paragraph, he chooses to carry us down a logical, yet silly progression, beginning with Gavrila Gavrilobich R—-, then jumping to his “kindheartedness”, to the neighbors who “play ‘Boston’ at five copecks with his wife”, and finally to the true protagonist of the story Marya Gavrilovna.  She “had been brought up on French novels, and consequently was in love” (488). This odd progression to  to an introduction to Marya’s love (the centerpiece of the plot), seems to poke fun, both at the French novels, and perhaps even at the legitimacy of Marya’s love. As he carries on, the narrator still presents Masha’s love in such a way that we are (or at least I am) not fully convinced about her true commitment to him. She “urged the invincible strength of passion as an excuse for the step she was taking” in her letter to her parents. An “excuse” is far from a reason!

The other thing that I found odd, and thus took as a sort of humor, was the varying passage of time. There is the jump from focusing on Masha to Vladimir, which is key to the story’s ultimate “punchline.” However, beyond that, some passages are in real-time, while others jump from 2 weeks to multiple years. These sudden jumps seemed disjointed and thus, comical to me. It seems like Pushkin takes on a completely different writing style, through the use of this narrator character.

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A completely different topic that I would talk more about with space: the difference in the “use” of snow across the different works today. In this work, the snow storm is like a blank page itself, which enables a completely unexpected storyline to take place.

The Looming Shadow of Predestination

In “The Snowstorm”, Alexander Pushkin reminds the reader that while humans may feel they have personal autonomy, outside forces are often what ends up determining the direction of their lives. Larger things like who your parents are, and the time period and place in which you are born obviously have a major effect on who you become, but it is also smaller things like the books you read or the friends you make that can end up determining big parts of your life, like who you fall in love with, or where you end up working. Pushkin uses the creeping cold of Russia’s winters and the snow that follows, as an example of this. By making the snow almost a character in the story, and showing how it unintentionally shapes the lives of Murya and Burmin, he shows how even great passion and intention can be thwarted by the weather.

The power of the weather at the beginning of this story, specifically the cold, is presented as a fact of life, an arbiter of the quotidian. At one point Murya passively accepts seeing Vladimir less because of the winter, showing how it is an enemy that can’t be beaten: “The winter came and put a stop to their meetings, but their correspondence became all the more active.” However, in other parts of the story, the cold takes a far less passive position. Pushkin shows how the winter actively affects and changes lives by anthropomorphizing it and giving it motivations and goals: “The snowstorm had not subsided; the wind blew in their faces, as if trying to stop [them]”.

All along Pushkin is showing the capacity the brutal cold has to define the perception of a human suffering in it: “But Vladimir scarcely found himself on the open road, when the wind rose and such a snowstorm came on that he could see nothing. In one minute the road was completely hidden; the landscape disappeared in a thick yellow fog, through which fell white flakes of snow; earth and sky merged into one.” This is a testament to the snows power. And it is describing more than a dramatic scene when Pushkin describes the landscape disappearing into the yellow fog, he is describing the passion of a first love disappearing into the annals of a forgotten youth.

Terrified Fascination

While reading Vladimir Korolenko’s “The Cold,” I was struck by the similarities and differences he describes in the reactions to the cold by animals, humans, and nature. A theme throughout the short story is how the cold affects humans physically and emotionally. While animals are showcased reacting to the cold and changing their mannerisms or habits, they do not seem to suffer any fundamental change regarding their priorities. As for nature, Korolenko frequently personifies the cold as an angry perpetrator with the river as its victim.

Sokolskii introduces the idea of the cold changing people after the men watch the deer, who they presume to be mother and child. He says that his friend is wrong in thinking that the cold makes people kinder: “Cold is death. Have you considered, for example, that a man’s conscience can freeze up?” (6). The idea that the cold can change something so engrained in a person as their conscience is incredibly striking, especially considering the frequently seen, yet futile, power struggle between humans and nature.

The relationship between animals and the cold is best seen by the deer. The men describe the how the deer “overcame such danger right before our eyes, and I think that even Polkan was ashamed to have it end with them being killed on the shore… Did you notice how unselfishly the older one protected the younger from the dog?” (6). Though the deer are facing challenging circumstance, they do not panic in the face of danger, regarding the danger of both the ice and the humans, and they continue to protect each other regardless of the adverse conditions.

As the ice takes over the river, it flows “in a thick and unbroken mass, ready to restrain – once and for all – the submissive and now powerless current” (3). Korolenko referring to the river as “submissive” and “powerless” builds on the idea of the cold as an uncontrollable and terrible force. If the cold is so unmanageable, I can’t help but wonder why the arctic and antarctic have such a strong draw for adventure-seekers and researchers.

Tolstoy: Recurrent Themes Across Master and Man and The Cossacks

A common theme I see between Master and Man and The Cossacks is that of what it means to be “truly happy”. At the end of both of these short stories, Olenin and Vasili appear to believe that a life rooted in altruism is most promising for leading a happy and fulfilling life. First, we have Vasili, a rich landowner that is predominantly concerned about buying land, and his peasant, Nikita, whom he treats poorly and often exploits. After a long and strenuous voyage together, Vasili leaves Nikita to die in the cold but ultimately returns out of a sense of duty. Vasili lies on Nikita to keep him warm and dies to save Nikita. During this Vasili exclaims, “‘I have been frightened. That is clear, and have lost my nerve’”, followed by Tolstoy’s narration: “But this weakness came not as an unpleasant sensation; rather as a notable, and hitherto unknown, delight” (525). To me, this quote explains Vasili’s newfound desire to act in service of others – this once “unknown delight” is now the very reason he sacrifices his life for another.

After his life seemingly flashes before his eyes, Vasili has passed away at last, yet is not disturbed by this; rather, he finds peace in knowing he is no longer alive. I discussed the importance of Vasili’s death in itself above but now want to move on to his “after death” thoughts and reflections, at least how Tolstoy tells it. He writes, “He remembers his money, the shop, the house, the buying and selling, the Mironovs’ millions; and he really cannot understand why that man, called Vasily Brekhunov, had troubled with all those things which he has troubled himself” (527), reminding me of how Olenin feels about his own past. He expresses boredom with his life of riches and purges himself from high society. Olenin makes an effort to leave behind the selfish life he once led to become less egocentric and find purpose in life through giving to others. Both Olenin and Vasili come to realize that the materialistic aspects of their lives are not what gives them purpose and turn to altruism to somehow reverse this. Lastly, Tolstoy writes, “…all his beings speaks joyfully and tenderly. And he feels himself free” (527). This reminded me of how Olenin finds a sense of freedom among the natural environment in the Cossacks. On a similar note, there were elements of nature in both stories that seemed similar to me. Vasili exposes himself to the natural and harsh realities of nature – the cold, wind, ice and snow – to save the life of his peasant. Olenin, too, exposes himself to his natural environment and expects that this will bring peace and happiness to his life. Vasili died in the natural elements while Olenin lived, but both were able to find some sort of inner peace through this experience.

The Duality of Cold

In the two stories, “The Cold,” and “Master and Man,” reactions to extreme cold are either as firm and unyielding as ice itself or as heartwarming as a cup of hot cocoa after sledding, with the aftereffects of the cold still tingling in one’s limbs. The narrator in “The Cold” blurs the line between extreme cold and extreme heat as he describes the sensation, “I thought I felt someone burning my right cheek with flame” (Korolenko, 1). But internally, a similar leap from extreme cold to extreme warmth occurs. Even the dog, bowing to the need of another animal to escape the dangers of the cold, “simply clenched his tail and ran thoughtfully off, seemingly bewildered by his own benevolence” (Korolenko, 5). Sokolskii and his traveling companion in the story also feel this melting of the heart in the face of bitter cold in the desperation to save first the ducks and then the man. His companion despairs at the other’s apparent indifference, “Our conscious had frozen!… Of course, that’s how it always is: all you have to do is lower the body’s temperature by two degrees and conscience freezes up…it’s a law of nature” (Korolenko, 16). When faced with the delights of the warm sleeping quarters, the men harden themselves against the coldness of letting another live slip by into the ultimate cold of death.

In “Master and Man,” Vasily Andreyevich is hardened to the plight of others by his greed, which explains his treatment (and underpayment) of Nikita. Yet in the face of the cold, his heart burns first with fear, “They say people who drink are soon frozen…he began to shiver, not knowing whether from cold or fear” (Tolstoy, 519). The same kindness that the narrator of “The Cold” highlights in the mother deer saving her baby deer is mirrored by Vasily’s selflessness of using himself as a human blanket, “he could not bring himself to leave Nikita for even a moment and so disturb that happy situation in which he felt himself; for he had no fear now” (Tolstoy, 526). Rather than the icy indifference which causes Vasily to abandon Nikita initially, the sight of another human freezing to death melts Vasily’s heart to put the health of another human being above his own.

Yet both Vasily and Ignatowicz die for their kindhearted actions. Both stories ask the question, “Was this individual’s sacrifice worth it?” After all, Ignatowicz did not even manage to save the other man. Would it be better to harden our hearts to match the environment and so survive individually? Combine heat and resources with one another, reminiscent of the communal sharing in A Dream in Polar Fog? Or sacrifice one’s self for the slim hope that someone else can live and warm oneself with the strength of conviction alone?

The True Master: Nature or Man?

Tolstoy’s short story, “Master and Man,” brings to light an important theme about the power that nature has over people. While the story at first focuses on the relationship between Vasily Andreyevich and the peasant Nikita, it ultimately addresses how nature serves as a master over all people. At the beginning of the story, Vasily Andreyevich clearly is Nikita’s master, as he pays Nikita for his work and is called master (492). The relationship between them is clearly understood, particularly since Vasily Andreyevich claims that they “are dealing straightforwardly. You work for me, and I stand by you” (491). This is a typical master and servant relationship, as the servant is expected to perform what the master desires; in addition, another instance of this relationship can be seen in reference to the snowstorm.

Vasily Andreyevich entire motivation for traveling during the storm is to get a favorable price on a plot of forest. The irony of this situation is that in trying to control natural resources, nature fights back and become the main characters’ master. While the storm is raging, Vasily Andreyevich and Nikita reject the offer to stay a night to wait out the storm; instead they press forward for the sake of “business” and the fear that “if you let an hour go, you may not be able to make it up in a year” (506). After being forced to stop their journey because of the storm, they begin to succumb to the masterful power of nature. Nikita articulates his acceptance of nature as the true master when he responds to Vasily Andreyevich question about them freezing by saying “we cannot help it” (513). Both characters are at the whim of nature, as their efforts to progress are constantly stymied to the point that they give up and hope to make it through the night. Neither of the characters have much power to control their fates, as it all depends on what nature desires.

While nature controls the lives of both characters, Vasily Andreyevich’s final action of saving Nikita to some extent calls into question to what extent nature is the true master of man. Interestingly, Nikita is described as saved by being “kept warm beneath his now dead master” (527). The fact that Vasily Andreyevich is described as a master at the end of the story reveals how nature may not be the final authority over all people, as man still has the capacity to act against the power of nature. I am interested to hear everyone’s thoughts about which “master and man” relationship is more significant and whether there are more such relationships in this work.

Day Dream of Modernity: Tragedy?

One of the most lasting images of the movie we watched tonight is the confusing daydream that served as the climax of the film. Confusing in its lack of transitions, the daydream is presented nearly uninterrupted within the rest of the film’s narrative. The only indication of the start of the daydream is a pan into the television that is set up powerless within the landscape of the Mongolian steppe.

 

The daydream is one that is violent and startling. Our main character is battling with having to prove himself as an “authentic” Mongolian. The character encounters a troop of Mongol soldiers in traditional garb as if they were out of Genghis Khan’s army. Most notably, these troops are on horseback, as our main character is on the bicycle which he bought in town. The main character is easily tracked down on his bike, and is immediately asked, “where is your horse?” to which our character replies, “over there.” The soldiers don’t believe our main character, probably because of his adoptions of modernity in his bicycle and his newly modern hat compared to the netting he was wearing earlier in the movie.

 

The day dream brings up one of the fundamental tensions within the movie and within our main character: do adaptations of modernity diminish some of his more traditional Mongolian ways-of-life?  Of course, at the end, yes, they do with the creation of the factory where his house was. However, for this character, is modernization an assimilating force or is development for a betterment of life? Our character resists modernity in some respects, most notably with his refusal to buy condoms. However, the question lingers is modernity a tragedy?

Uniqueness versus The Collective: Soldiers in Blok’s “On the Field of the Kulikovo,” and Mosquitoes in Tolstoy’s “Cossacks”

In his poem “On the Field of the Kulikovo,” Alexander Blok narrates a fictional scene of the Battle of Kulikovo— or more historically known as the war that birthed the Russian nation. In the last stanza of part II, Blok’s narrator anticipates battle, and in doing so, reflects on his status as “not the first, nor the last, [Russian] warrior,” implying that not only is he but one of the many present soldiers, but he is also just a single soldier out of the many past soldiers and future soldiers; all of whom have “suffered” for and will continue to “suffer” for their “country” (Blok, II. 13,14). Still, the narrator tells Russia to remember the “one” who had loved her, suggesting that “[his] darling Russia” should remember each, singular “one” that had defended and will defend his or her country (16). There is an emphasis on this pronoun “one”— even though there are innumerable Russian warriors, each individual “one” should be remembered and thus valued.

This notion of uniqueness despite similarity to one’s environment, reminds me specifically of Olénin’s accounts while hunting in Chapter XIX of The Cossacks. In this chapter, while Olénin shoots pheasants, “myriads of mosquitoes cover his face” (Tolstoy 366). Even though Olénin describes the very atmosphere that he inhabits as “[insect]-filled,” he remarks that each individual mosquito “is separate from all else” (Tolstoy 366). Similar to the narrator of Alexander Blok’s “On the Field of the Kulikovo,” the battle environment is described as a long road infested with “troops” (Blok, II. 8). Though there were many soldiers before and many soldiers to come, Blok’s narrator similarly states that Russia should remember him with the same outlook as Olénin: “separate from all else—“ unique in the narrator’s personal dedication to and love for “[his] darling Russia” (Tolstoy 366; Blok, II. 16). Comparing these two readings alongside one another makes it seems that while there is a great emphasis on the size and span of Russia, there is a necessary attentiveness to each of the singular parts that make up the Russian environment—whether that be humans, or even animals/nature.

Please let me know if you can think of any other pieces that we have read where similar themes are at play (i.e. the mosquitoes versus their mosquito-infested environment, and the narrator versus the many past and future Russian soldiers). What does this method of juxtaposition (singular aspect versus collective aspects) do for descriptions of the Russian environment? I would love to hear your thoughts!

Symbolic versus Literal: Stone Grave, Stone Demeanor in “A Dream in Polar Fog”

An interesting observation I made this week near the end of Chapter 30 of “A Dream in Polar Fog” by Yuri Rytkheu, occurs shortly after a ship hits the shoreline and John’s mother Mary MacLennan arrives to bring John home. In this scene, John returns back to his late daughter’s grave amidst an ongoing back-and-forth where his mother Mary attempts to convince John to “go pack,” and “not stay” in Enmyn “for a moment longer” (30). While debating about his impending decision—to stay with his wife Pyl’mau and his children, or to return to the shoreline of Lake Ontario— John makes the visit to Tynevirineu-Mary MacLennan’s grave. This visit functions as a very symbolic conquest to the Far Cape right before John’s impending decision the following day, mostly because right after visiting his daughter’s tomb (which is expeceted to have been constructed with stone), John “seems to turn to stone” (30)!

There is little clarification by the narrator as to what exactly this phrase entails, but with all future conversations between himself and Mary MacLennan, John seems to be very mechanical in his delivery: “John nods wordlessly,” “’Yes,’ John quietly manages” (30). It is almost as if the connection between John’s mother and John’s daughter is materialized when John visits his daughter’s tomb. This materialization amounts in the form of John’s sad and stony one-word responses to his mother. I find it interesting to examine these scenes not only literally, but also figuratively with respect to certain images such as the tombstone that houses John’s daughter. Perhaps, a greater symbolic connection is at play here: not only between the John’s mother and John’s daughter (who both share the same name), but also between John’s daughter’s current state (within stone), John’s subsequent demeanor (turned to stone), and the delivery of future interactions with his own mother (stony and cold). Does anyone else find a similar interaction between symbolic and literal subjects within this piece? Please let me know what you think!

Depictions of Pyl’Mau (Mau) – In Three Phases

How does the novel’s portrayal of Pyl’maus perspective change over the course of the novel? While we are not to tokenize Pyl’mau as the only central woman character, are there any take-aways about gender dynamics in the novel?

There are three major phases of Pyl’mau in the context of the novel: 1) Pyl’mau, married to Toko, without any contact with John; 2) Pyl’mau, still married to Toko, but having met John;  3) Pyl’mau, having lost Toko, and soon thereafter married John.

From what we know of the “Phase 1 Pyl’mau,” she dearly loved Toko, even though she was initally terrified as an outsider to Enmyn.

Phase two Pyl’mau, to me, is the most interesting. We learn the most about Pyl’mau in the relatively short phase two, because the narration zooms into her perspective. In the very last scene between Pyl’mau, Toko, and John (before Toko’s death,) “Pyl’mau didn’t interrupt the men’s conversation. From time to time, she would get up, add some more duck to the plate, and stealthily move her eyes from one to the other. And the insistent thought was rattling around in her mind: Why can’t a woman do as a man does? Why is what he’s allowed not given to her?” (108). This key passage follows the men’s conversation about the fact that they both did not catch lakhtak this year, so we see a clear contrast between the men’s practical productivity, and Pyl’mau’s quiet but constant work, as she keeps putting food on their plates. It is also one of the most explicty passages in which we see the inequality between men and women, but only because we are briefly seeing her perspective. Phase Two Pyl’mau, she also contemplates having multiple husbands, since she knows men who have multiple wives. My main take away is that in this Phase two Pyl’mau, we as readers are fortunate to see some of her true, and normal human desires.

However, Phase Three Pyl’mau, whom we see for bout the last 170/330 pages of the Novel, seems to show a different personality (not necessarily because she has changed, but because of the lack of her narrative perspective). She is constantly at work, preparing meals for the village, caring for her children, or helping John. She is a crucial character practically, yet we no-longer get glimpses into her actual perspective. We see her outward emotions, as depicted through the narrative of the semi-omniscient-semi-John perspective, but I don’t believe we ever see her inner thoughts again for the entire latter half of the novel. What does this mean about how we should perceive John’s relationship with Pyl’mau? She, along with Orvo, is the most sympathetic character, yet within the narrative structure, we tragically lose connection with her as a real human.