And, it may be asked, the younger writers? No foreign observer of the Russian literary scene can fail to be struck by the gap between the older writers, loyal but melancholy figures of no possible danger to the stability of this, to all appearance, thoroughly stable regime, and the immensely prolific younger writers, who appear to write faster than thought itself (perhaps because so many of them are free from it), and rehearse the same patterns and formulae so tirelessly and with such apparent sincerity and vigor that it is scarcely thinkable that they can ever have been assailed by any real doubts, either as artists or as human beings.
Perhaps the immediate past explains this. The purges cleared the literary ground, and the war provided the new subject and the mood; there sprang into being a brood of writers, facile, naive, and copious, varying from crude and wooden orthodoxy to considerable technical skill, capable at times of moving, at others of genuinely gay, and often vivid, journalistic reportage. This applies to prose and verse, novels and plays. The most successful and most representative figure of this type is the journalist, playwright, and poet Konstantin Simonov, who has poured out a flood of work of inferior quality but impeccably orthodox sentiment, acclaiming the right type of Soviet hero, brave, puritanical, simple, noble, altruistic, entirely devoted to the service of his country.
Behind Simonov there are other authors of the same genre; authors of novels dealing with exploits in kolkhozes, factories, or at the front; writers of patriotic doggerel or of plays which guy the capitalist world or the old and discredited liberal culture of Russia itself, in contrast with the simple, now wholly standardized, type of tough, hearty, capable, resolute, single-minded young engineers or political commissars (“engineers of human souls”), or army commanders, shy and manly lovers, sparing of words, doers of mighty deeds, “Stalin’s eagles,” flanked by passionately patriotic, utterly fearless, morally pure, heroic young women, upon whom the success of all five-year plans ultimately depends.
The older authors do not conceal their opinion of the value of this kind of conscientious but commonplace literary mass production, related to literature much as posters are to serious art. Nor would they be as critical as they are if, side by side with the inevitable mushroom growth of such work, inspired by, and directly ancillary to, the needs of the state, there were also something profounder and more original to be found among the younger writers—among those, let us say, who are under forty. They point out that there is intrinsically no reason why contemporary Soviet life should not generate genuine and serious “socialist realism”—after all, Sholokhov’s Quiet Don, dealing as it did with Cossacks and peasants during the civil war, was on all sides recognized as a genuine, if sometimes dull, lumbering, and overweighted, work of imagination.
The obvious criticism which these older writers urge—and such “self-criticism” is allowed to appear in print—is that out of shallow facility and the easy orthodoxy of standardized hero worship no genuine work of art can ever be born; that the war heroes themselves have won the right to subtler and less hackneyed analysis; that the experience of the war is a profound national experience which only a more intense, sensitive, and scrupulous art can adequately express, and that the majority of the war novels now published are crude travesties and a hideous insult to the soldiers and civilians whose ordeal they purport to describe; finally (this is never said in print) that the inner conflict which alone makes an artist has been too easily resolved by the oversimple rules of an artificially flattened political schema, which allows no doubts about ultimate purpose, and not much disagreement about means, and which has, perhaps as a result of the purges and their physical and moral consequences, so far failed to create its own artistic canons, standards in the light of which something no less strictly conformist but also no less devout and profound than the religious art of the Middle Ages could evolve in Russia today. Nor do I see much hope of that at the present time. The cry by the poet Selvinsky for socialist Romanticism12—if socialist realism, then why not socialist Romanticism?—was ruthlessly suppressed.
Meanwhile the financial rewards of these fashionable younger authors, unaffected as they are by the strictures of the critics, entitle them to be considered the equivalent of best sellers in Western countries; no literal equivalent exists since fiction and poetry, good or bad, is sold and distributed immediately on publication—such is the hunger of the public and the inadequacy of the supply. The subjects of historical novels, since romans de moeurs are scarcely safe, tend, apart from war and postwar propaganda themes, to be the lives of such officially approved heroes from the Russian past as Tsars Ivan IV and Peter I, soldiers and sailors like Suvorov, Kutuzov, Nakhimov, and Makarov, honest patriots and true Russians, too often plagued and frustrated by the intrigues of sycophantic courtiers and disloyal noblemen. Their character and exploits offer opportunities of combining a pleasantly romantic and patriotic historical background with political or social sermons only too clearly applicable to contemporary needs.
This fashion was not indeed begun, but was given its strongest fillip, by the late Aleksey Tolstoy (he died this year), who alone, perhaps, had the makings of, and the ambition to be, the Virgil of the new empire which had excited his rich imagination and brought his remarkable literary gift into play.
The same gap between the young and old is perceptible in the other arts, in the theater, in music, in the ballet. Whatever has grown without a definite break from a rich past and leans on a pre-revolutionary tradition has, by firmly clinging to such old and tried supports, managed to preserve its standards into the present. Thus the Moscow Arts Theater, while universally acknowledged to have declined from the extraordinary level of its golden age, when Chekhov and Gorky wrote for it, nevertheless preserves a remarkable standard of individual acting and of inspired ensemble playing which rightly continues to make it the envy of the world. Its repertoire, since the post-1937 era, is confined either to old plays or to such tame new conformist pieces as have relatively little character of their own, and simply act as vehicles in which gifted naturalistic actors can exhibit their superb, old-fashioned skills; what the public remembers is for the most part the acting and not the play. Similarly the Maly (Little) Theater continues to give admirable performances of Ostrovskyå?s comedies, which were its mainstay in the nineteenth century; the acting of plays attempted since the Revolution, whether classical or modern, at the Maly tends too often to sink to the level of the repertory companies directed by Ben Greet or Frank Benson. One or two of the smaller Moscow theaters perform classical plays with verve and imagination, for example Ermolovaå?s theater and the Transport Theater in Moscow, and one or two of the little theaters in Leningrad. The best performances given even in these theaters are of classical pieces; for example, Goldoni, Sheridan, Scribe; modern plays go less well, not so much because of old-fashioned methods of acting, as because of the inevitable tameness of the material itself.
As for opera and ballet, wherever past tradition exists to guide it, it acquits itself honorably, if dully. When something new is put on, for example the new ballet Gayaneh by the Armenian composer Khachaturyan, playing in Leningrad this year, it is capable of displaying exuberance and temperament, which disarm the spectator by the gusto and delight in the art of the dancers. But it is also, particularly in Moscow, capable of sinking to depths of vulgarity of dècor and production (and of music too) which can scarcely ever have been surpassed even in Paris under the Second Empire; the inspiration of the scenes of clumsily heaped-up opulence with which the Bolshoy Theater in Moscow is so lavish derives at least as much from the tawdry splendors of the early Hollywood of ten and even twenty years ago, as from anything conceived in Offenbachå?s day; and such crude display is made to seem all the more grotesque and inappropriate by the individual genius of a truly great lyrical and dramatic dancer like Ulanova, or of such impeccable new virtuosi as Dudinskaya, Lepeshinskaya, and the aging Semenova, Preobrazhensky, Sergeev, and Ermolaev. In either case it lacks the fusion of undeviatingly precise, inexorable discipline with imaginative originality and wide range, and that combination of intensity, lyricism, and elegance which had raised the Russian ballet to its former unattainable height.
There are still fewer signs of new life in the two great opera houses of Moscow and Leningrad, which confine themselves to a highly stereotyped repertory of the best-known Russian and Italian works, varied by occasional performances of, for example, Carmen. Minor theaters, in search of politically innocent amusement, offer their clients operettas by Offenbach, Lecocq, and Hervè, performed with more gusto than finish, but vastly welcomed as a contrast with the drab monotony of daily Soviet life. The contrast between age and youth is again noticeably present, not so much in the ballet (which could not exist without a perpetual recruitment of young dancers), as on the dramatic stage where few, if any, outstanding actors or actresses have come forward during the last ten years. The audiences seem clearly aware of this, and whenever I hinted at this to my anonymous neighbors in the Moscow theaters, it was invariably assented to so rapidly that it must be a very obvious commonplace. Such casual neighbors in the theater almost invariably expand dolefully on the regrettable absence among the younger people of dramatic talent, and even more of the right sensibility—with which the older actors, still on the stage (some whose careers go back to the early years of the century), are so richly endowed—and one or two have wondered whether the theaters of the West do not produce better young actors than the Soviet Union. Perhaps “the tradition is not so rigid and oppressive there.” Even the Arts Theater seems to have stopped dead in technique and feeling—or else has been forced to go back to the days before the First World War.
This combination of discouragement of all innovation—the name of the purged producer Meyerhold is scarcely spoken aloud—together with considerable encouragement of the stage as such is bound, unless something occurs to interrupt the process, to lead in the relatively near future to a widening chasm between accomplished but unreal, and contemporary but commonplace and provincial, styles of acting. On the other side it must be said that the childlike eagerness and enthusiasm of Soviet readers and Soviet theatrical audiences is probably without parallel in the world. The existence of state-subsidized theaters and opera, as well as of regional publishing houses, throughout the Soviet Union is not merely a part of a bureaucratic plan, but responds to a very genuine and insufficiently satisfied popular demand.
More accurately "socialist symbolism," which would have allowed writers to treat a wider range of subject matter—beyond tractors and blast furnaces—without compromising their political loyalty.↩
More accurately “socialist symbolism,” which would have allowed writers to treat a wider range of subject matter—beyond tractors and blast furnaces—without compromising their political loyalty.↩