SOURCE: "Short Stories," Alexander Solzhenitsyn, Twayne Publishers, 1978, pp. 104-22.

[In the following excerpt, Kodjak offers a survey of theme and plot in Solzhenitsyn's short fiction.]

Solzhenitsyn's short stories and novels written roughly over the same years are closely linked with one another philosophically. There is, however, a significant difference between the three novels and the short stories. At least two of the novels deal directly with prison life, and the third, The Cancer Ward, alludes to it through the figure of Oleg Kostoglotov; in his short stories Solzhenitsyn does not concern himself with this feature of society. There he seems rather to be attempting to break out of the context of forced confinement in order to project his ideas and philosophy in a more familiar setting. And yet even Solzhenitsyn's short stories do not omit the experience of the zek altogether. "Matryonin Dvor" ("Matryona's House") and "Pravaya Kist'" ("The Right Hand"), both highly autobiographical, contain veiled references to the convict's world. The narrators of these stories are better able than the average man to evaluate the injustices of the social structure and life in general, presumably because of their experience in the labor camps. In Solzhenitsyn's short stories, prison life is thus no longer a major topic in itself, but an experience which engenders in his characters a more profound view of the world.

I "Matryona's House"

"Matryona's House," or, more literally translated, "Matryona's Homestead," is a story about the drab life of a remote village which has long been a kolkhoz, or collective farm. The simple plot can be summarized in one sentence: a former prisoner, now a schoolteacher, moves into the village, rents a room in Matryona's log cabin, becomes acquainted with her and her brother-in-law (her first fiancé), and later learns of her death in a train accident.

Because it is set in a kolkhoz, "Matryona's Homestead" has usually been interpreted as a reflection of that dismal rural life resulting from Stalin's collectivization of the countryside. Such an interpretation, however, ignores most of the text. The story is rather about Matryona herself and offers a profound portrait of her personality. One of Solzhenitsyn's most striking achievements in this story is his artistic economy in depicting an apparently insignificant human being who finally attains such spiritual heights that she emerges as the only righteous member of her community. Matryona certainly does not attract anyone's attention, and only one whose perception has been sharpened by suffering would recognize any appealing or remarkable traits in this elderly woman.

To this end Solzhenitsyn draws on his own experience to create the narrator, Ignatich, who stands apart from the people around Matryona. He holds a university degree and teaches mathematics in high school. Though we know little about him, his point of view is clear. He was apparently an army officer arrested during World War II, sent to a concentration camp for several years, and later exiled to the edge of a desert near the periphery of the USSR. Weary, he now seeks silence, simplicity, and the beauty of nature. He has not returned from exile in the wilderness to enjoy the excitement of a big city but rather to lose himself in the forests of central Russia, where the uncorrupted language and the traditional way of life are untouched by modern civilization and are still closely linked with the past. This is why in the market place he quickly arrives at an understanding with a simple woman, whose local dialect flavored with melodic intonations attracts him.

Ignatich does not wallow in self-pity, but is content to lead a spartan life provided he is not disturbed by the tasteless instruments of modern urban civilization, such as the village loudspeaker. What allows Ignatich to look beyond the trivialities and vanities so important to the average person is his extraordinary perceptiveness acquired in passing through the most horrible experiences known to man—war and concentration camps. This is essential to the story's development. Ignatich's prior experience enables him not only to adjust quite readily to the extremely primitive life on Matryona's homestead, but also to appreciate her simple, peaceful, and harmonious personality, her spiritual strength, and her genuine, unshakable love for everyone and everything.

Matryona stands apart from the other rural people in the story, who are basically possessed by overwhelming greed. The ancient, ubiquitous, and hopelessly primitive instinct to acquire, to protect, and finally slavishly to augment their own property is the villagers' dominant drive. Matryona is an icon of dignified poverty, unique in her community. She is a spiritual outsider, perhaps not even aware of her uniqueness, having never contrasted her own philosophy with that of her neighbors and relatives.

If we compare Matryona to the usual positive hero portrayed in the works of socialist realism, we may discern an interesting twist in Solzhenitsyn's choice of a protagonist lacking the basic drive to acquire private property. The new, socialist man as presented in the Party-controlled literature is also emancipated from the acquisitive impulse, but not because of its obvious senselessness. Rather he struggles fanatically for technological progress, and is dedicated to collective acquisition. The accumulation of property remains the common denominator of the old and the new man, except that the owner of that property changes. It could not be otherwise, given the fact that the old capitalist and the new socialist ideologies both place their faith in technological progress, with its ability continually to increase the production of material goods.

Matryona, however, does not acquire material goods because she does not believe in their value, and this very lack of belief enables her to transcend all political systems and governments. The question that she raises by her way of life is universal, relevant to all centuries and all nations: should an individual devote his life to material acquisition, or is there not something more important worthy of human attention and sacrifice?

Matryona shares with socialist man an indifference to private property, but she rejects his almost religious faith in technological progress and collective ownership. She ridicules such progress in her reaction to an announcement about the invention of new agricultural machinery, as she unconsciously questions the ecological wisdom of endless technological improvement by asking where the old machines will be stored.

Ignatich's understanding of Matryona evolves gradually. Despite the fact that he is adequately prepared to appreciate her rare qualities, he still does not immediately grasp her spiritual significance. At the beginning of the story, Ignatich perceives Matryona merely as a lonely, quiet, elderly woman who is periodically ill and who is isolated from the community. Soon, however, her more essential qualities—her inner peace and her benevolent attitude toward all her surroundings—emerge through her radiant smile and naturally friendly, always polite replies. Ignatich notices that Matryona is at peace with herself and possesses the highest degree of inner freedom, since she never acts contrary to her principles. The price she pays for her freedom is extreme poverty, for she earns no money at all but derives her livelihood solely from nature. A single goat provides her with milk; she warms her house by collecting peat in the forest, which amounts to stealing from the government; she prepares preserves from bilberries that she gathers in the forest; and she cultivates her small potato garden, which supplies the main nourishment for her goat, Ignatich, and herself. During her first winter with Ignatich, Matryona's financial situation improves because she collects rent from him and receives her late husband's state pension. Her illness attacks her less frequently. She makes a winter coat for herself and puts some money aside for her funeral. She is perfectly self-contained and happy, and these very modest improvements may partly account for her improved health.

As Ignatich observes, Matryona has a rather refined esthetic sense. She likes plants and grows many in her home. She also displays good taste in music. Listening to Shaliapin's rendition of Russian folksongs on a radio program, she protests, "No. He hasn't got it right. That's not the way we sing. And he plays tricks with his voice."¹ Another time she surprises Ignatich with a genuine appreciation of a recital of Glinka's songs:

Suddenly, after half a dozen of his concert arias, Matryona appeared excitedly from the kitchen, clutching her apron, with a film of tears misting her eyes.

"Now that's . . . our sort of singing," she whispered.²

At the end of the story, Ignatich remembers Matryona—her enjoyment of the beauty of art and nature, of work for its own sake without any selfish calculation of profits, and her childlike, unquestioning acceptance of the people around her. She is dead and buried, and her relatives have carefully divided her meager belongings among them before Ignatich realizes how exceptional Matryona was:

None of us who lived close to her perceived that she was that one righteous person without whom, as the saying goes, no city can stand.

Neither can the whole world.³

Vladimir Dal's Tolkovyi slovar' russkogo yazyka (Explanatory Dictionary of the Russian Language) contains a similar Russian saying, the obvious source of which is Genesis 18:20-33. The adjective "righteous" which Solzhenitsyn applies to his protagonist is applicable as well to Shukhov and Alyoshka the Baptist, from One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. These three characters resist the brutalization of man's interactions with his fellow man, reject the generally accepted way of life, and question the value of that normal life which one should supposedly preserve at any cost. They suggest that there is a limit to the price one ought to pay merely to exist. All three characters are linked by their common character to the better educated and more eloquent Nerzhin in The First Circle. Matryona, however, is the most vulnerable and only post-humously stands out from her dehumanizing environment. She is also the only character in Solzhenitsyn's works who endures life-long hardship outside the confines of a concentration camp or prison. For these reasons her righteousness is difficult to recognize. Even Ignatich comes to recognize Matryona's true worth only after her death and after listening to her sister-in-law criticize her. At the end of the story the reader learns that the philistine villagers had ostracized Matryona because she did not share their way of life. The righteous person is an outcast in the world Solzhenitsyn depicts. This is why it takes another outcast, an ex-convict only recently returned from exile, to recognize Matryona for what she really was.

A similar view of the world is at the core both of Matryona's philosophy and Kuzyomin's code in One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. Matryona did not make the improvement of her material situation her chief priority. She did not raise a pig, nor did she accumulate possessions as did the other villagers, who place more value on them than on their own lives. It is as if someone like Kuzyomin had once told her something along the following lines: The kolkhoz dehumanizes people, but one can still retain one's dignity. The ones who become animals are those who care too much for their earthly treasures, those who forget the beauty of the world and the pure joy of being alive.

II "An Incident at Krechetovka Station"

"An Incident at Krechetovka Station" is a war story, although the war itself is not depicted. The plot revolves about an incident which in itself is rather ridiculous. An utterly unmilitary-looking soldier, Tveritinov, an actor prior to his mobilization, has become separated from his unit after breaking out of German encirclement and now, alone, is trying to overtake his original transport. He approaches Lieutenant Zotov, the commander of the railroad station at Krechetovka, for further directions.

Zotov, the protagonist of the story, is a young idealist, a patriot, and a devoted Marxist. His administrative zeal and his willingness to help wherever he can are remarkable, and in this instance he tries to aid Tveritinov. Zotov also admires literature and the theater, and this interest leads him into a warm discussion with the ex-actor.

Relaxing after their friendly conversation, Tveritinov makes a tragic blunder by admitting that he does not know the city of Tsaritsyn has been renamed Stalingrad. This causes Zotov to suspect that the odd-looking soldier is a German spy, a Russian emigré who has been dropped behind the front lines and is now roaming around in a Red Army uniform collecting military data for the Germans. On the basis of this suspicion, Zotov delivers Tveritinov to the MGB. Although Zotov later makes some inquiries, he learns nothing more of Tveritinov, and presumably fears the authorities may never release him after his arrest. Zotov cannot forget Tveritinov—"the man with the delightful smile and the snapshot of his daughter in her little striped dress. Surely he had done everything he should have done. Yes, but. . . ."⁴

One may, of course, argue that Zotov only did his duty in reporting a suspicious man to the authorities. After all, the MGB had the resources to determine whether the man really was a spy or was simply a mobilized Russian actor who never read the newspapers, was uninterested in politics, and consequently was ignorant of a particular city's change of name. The argument is plausible, however, only if one chooses to ignore entirely the political climate in the USSR at that time. Even a man like Tveritinov, removed from the mainstream of life, knows that an arrest by the MGB is almost always fatal, that one rarely returns from behind barbed wire. At the moment of his arrest he shouts at Zotov: "What are you doing, what are you doing?" . . . in a voice that rang like a bell. "You're making a mistake that can never be put right!"⁵ This is why Zotov remains morally responsible for turning Tveritinov over to the secret police. The question that remains is how Zotov, with his patriotic zeal and devotion to the Party during the first unsuccessful months of war, might have found another, more flexible, and thus more human approach to the dilemma Tveritinov presents? Could Zotov have risked letting a suspicious man remain free to continue his journey through the country?

The narrator offers the key to this solution at the beginning of the story, in the course of an argument among some railroad workers about another incident at Krechetovka Station. Though only mentioned in passing, this incident is closely related to Tveritinov's case. Two trains—one carrying sacks of flour, some of which is in open cars, and the other bearing evacuated soldiers who have broken out of German encirclement and are being transported to the home front for retraining and recuperation—meet at the station. Demoralized after unusually heavy combat, the troops lack their usual discipline. During their transport they have doubtless been fed only irregularly because of conditions during the war and the bureaucratic inefficiency of the local authorities. As soon as the soldiers realize what the adjacent train at the station is carrying, they begin to steal the flour despite the warnings of a lone, young guard. In despair he fires a shot and unfortunately kills one of the soldiers—clearly unintentionally. The other soldiers on the transport are prepared to kill the guard, who is saved when an officer pretends to arrest him.

Later, in a room at the station, a retired railway worker, Kordubailo, discusses the unfortunate incident. He has voluntarily returned to work during the war, obviously out of patriotism. Two women railroad employees, Valya and Frosya, try to justify the young guard's action, but the old man, while outwardly agreeing with them, actually interprets the incident very differently:

"What else could he have done?" Valya argued, tapping her little pencil. "He was on duty, he was the guard!"

"Well, yes"—the old man nodded agreement, dropping large bits of red ash on the floor and the lid of his lantern. "Yes, that's right. Still, everybody wants to eat."⁶

The juxtaposition of two incontrovertible laws—that of the state or army, and that of the empty stomach, so cleverly introduced by the old man—creates a difficult and irritating dilemma for Valya:

"What are you on about?" The girl frowned. "What do you mean 'everybody'?"

"I mean you and me, for instance." And Kordubailo sighed.

"You don't know what you're talking about, grandad! They're not hungry, you know. They get their rations. You don't think they travel without rations, do you?"

"Well, I suppose not," agreed the old man. . . .⁷

The contradiction is clear. These presumably well-fed soldiers are stealing not delicacies or vodka but a staple, flour, which they obviously cannot transform into edible food:

"Have you girls ever tried eating raw flour mixed with water?"

"Why should I eat it raw?" Frosya was shocked. "I'd mix it up, knead it, and bake it."

The old man smacked his thick, pale lips and said after a pause—he always talked like this; his words came out lamely and awkwardly as though on crutches: "Then you've never seen hunger, my dears."⁸

Thus does the old man by indirection lay bare the fallacy of Valya's argument. The soldiers must have been ravenous: this is the only possible explanation for their interest in the flour.

At this moment Zotov, who has overheard the conversation from his room, rushes in to uphold the Party viewpoint: "Lieutenant Zotov stepped over the threshold and broke into the conversation. 'Listen, old man, you know what taking the oath means, don't you?'"⁹ Zotov injects the oath into the argument with the obvious intention of silencing the stubborn old man. However, it is precisely Kordubailo's age which negates Zotov's tactic:

The old man gave the lieutenant a bleary-eyed look. He was not a very big man, but his boots were big and heavy, soaking wet, and smeared in places with mud.

'"Course," he muttered. "I took it five times."

"Well, who did you swear the oath to? Tsar Nicky?"

The old man shook his head. "Before that."

"What? Alexander III?"

The old man smacked his lips regretfully and went on smoking.

"There you are. Nowadays they take the oath to the people. Isn't there a difference?"¹⁰

Clearly Zotov's argument is pure rhetoric, for many meaningless oaths have been sworn in twentieth-century Russia, which has seen several regimes come and go. Valya readily perceives the fallacy in Zotov's argument, and she quickly shifts to the seemingly more persuasive ground of so-called "people's property" in her effort to defend the young guard:

"And whose flour is it? It belongs to the people, doesn't it?" Valya said angrily, tossing back her tumbling curls. "That flour wasn't going to the Germans, was it?"

"That's right." The old man quite agreed. "But those boys weren't Germans either, they're our people too."¹¹

In peacetime Valya's argument would be difficult to refute. A very simple, clear logic would operate. The country is ruled by the people; all property is the people's property; anyone who damages the people's property is the people's enemy; the people's government and its special institution, the MGB, should rid the country of the people's enemies.

In wartime, however, an additional factor distorts this line of logic. The real enemy now is Germany. That fact makes it virtually impossible to label a Russian soldier who is fighting the Germans an enemy of the people. The rhetoric of peacetime turns out to be nearly invalid in time of war. This is why Zotov, who is essentially a dogmatist, feels threatened by the old man's remark and loses his temper:

"You stupid old man." Zotov was roused. "Don't you know about law and order? Suppose we all just help ourselves—I take a bit, you take a bit—do you think we'll ever win the war?"¹²

Valya and Frosya try to help Zotov enlighten the old man.

"And why did they slice the sacks open?" Valya said indignantly. "That's no way to act. Is that what we expect from our boys?"

"But why waste it? Why let it spill out onto the track?" Frosya too was indignant. "All that flour bursting out and pouring away, comrade lieutenant! Think how many children could have been fed on it!"¹³

In any argument, the mention of "hungry children" is usually the last resort of hypocrites and demagogues. The old man, however, is too clever to be trapped by this move. He places all the blame on the authorities, who are obviously mismanaging the "people's property" just as they are mismanaging the entire war effort: "That's right,' said the old man. 'But in this rain all the flour in those open [cars] would get wet anyway.'"¹⁴

The old man's remark is the last sensible comment in the argument. Zotov is deaf to the excellent lecture which Kordubailo gives him, can think only in terms of propagandistic Party clichés, and cannot learn from an old man who has taken oaths to five different governments in his lifetime and who is immune to official Party rhetoric. Zotov continues to torment himself with painful and dangerous questions:

The point was, why was the war going like this? Where was the revolution all over Europe, why weren't our troops advancing virtually unscathed against every possible coalition of aggressors? Instead, there was this mess. And how much longer would it last? . . . Anguish gripped his heart at the thought that Moscow might be surrendered. Zotov never spoke his thoughts aloud—to do so would be dangerous—and he was afraid even to say them to himself. Trying not to think about it, he thought about it all the time.¹⁵

The narrator explains Zotov's terrifying shortsightedness, his inability to perceive reality correctly, to think for himself, and to comprehend the independent thoughts of others. His deification of Stalin has robbed Zotov of his intellectual independence, his ability to analyze life and historical events:

Vasya Zotov considered it a crime that such cowardly thoughts should even run through his head. It was blasphemy, it was an insult to the omniscient, omnipotent Father and Teacher who was always there, who foresaw everything, who would do all that had to be done and would never let it happen.¹⁶

Such a man as Zotov—and there were millions like him—must eventually become cruel. His fanatical faith in the official lie must ultimately bring him to a bitter conflict with someone who in one way or another would force him to face reality. Actually, Kordubailo is a good candidate for arrest, but he cleverly veils his beliefs behind a seeming imbecility. The second incident—with the odd-looking, cultured, and not-so-shrewd Tveritinov—ends tragically.

Zotov is something of a tragic figure himself. Basically a man of fine character—a patriot, a faithful husband, a diligent officer, and a student who tries to educate himself in his spare moments—he would seem nearly flawless had not the narrator purposely omitted from his description the two essential traits of common sense and humor. Frosya's naive but cheerful declaration that nothing can harm her now that she has enough coal for the winter prompts Zotov to think: "Stupid woman—got her coal and now she's got nothing to worry about—not even Guderian's tanks?"¹⁷ His is the shortsightedness typical of a fanatic—the inability to comprehend how people can live their simple lives and not commit themselves solely to the ideas and concerns he feels are so important.

The theme of this story recalls that of The First Circle. In both works Solzhenitsyn exposes the inflexible fanaticism of Party members with their deification of Stalin, who in reality is the sole source of the incredible stupidity and cruelty incarnated in the bureaucratic machine. No one is particularly to blame. Zotov acts as he is expected to act in Stalin's system; the MGB functions as it must according to Stalin's philosophy. Everything operates as it should. Yes, but. . . .

III For the Good of the Cause

Solzhenitsyn's For the Good of the Cause may appear to deal with the Soviet educational system, teacher-student relations, and the struggle among various administrations. It would be inaccurate however, to interpret it this simplistically, for certain passages would then become superfluous. Only when the focus shifts away from the school itself, with its pupils and teachers, to the struggle between Grachikov and Knorozov does its real point become clear. It is divided into six chapters, three of which serve to introduce the conflict, and three of which develop the central theme: the perpetuation of Stalinist methods of governing in the post-Stalinist Soviet Union. The first three chapters are also imbued with a cheerful, carefree, youthful spirit in contrast to subsequent events, which are hopelessly monotonous and depressing.

The story begins on the first day of the academic year at a technical school. The usual reunions between teachers and students, friendly greetings, and the sharing of news engender a special excitement this year, for the school is to move from its old building to a new one specially constructed to accommodate the students' needs. The new building has many features that the old one lacked: laboratories, spacious auditoriums, modern and well-equipped gymnasiums, a hall for cultural events and dancing parties, and finally—perhaps most essential for the students' everyday needs—dormitories. Until now the students from out of town have had to rent often inadequate rooms in private homes. The joy felt by all on this first day is due in large part to the fact that the students actually helped construct their new school and thus take a builder's pride in it.

Lidia Georgievna, the most popular teacher and the faculty representative in the school's Komsomol youth organization, had assumed a supervisory role in the students' building effort. As the students in the courtyard freely discuss the merits of various classical authors, it becomes evident that this teacher differs greatly from the one Asya describes in The Cancer Ward. Lidia Georgievna does not pressure her students; she merely tries to persuade them in the course of a free and spontaneous exchange of ideas. The refreshing intellectual freedom which permeates this conversation creates one of the most joyous scenes in all of Solzhenitsyn's works.

The description of the school, its teachers and students, is almost idyllic. The quality of the faculty and the student body is enviable. The students—enthusiastic, hardworking, intelligent, unselfish, well-disciplined though somewhat mischievous, completely natural and charming—by voluntarily donating their leisure time to construct their new schoolbuilding, follow one of the most admirable principles of Soviet society, that of helping oneself by working for the community. In administering the project themselves, the students have followed yet another important Soviet ideal, the self-government of the working people.

This idyllic scene soon fades, however. For all that the students clearly embody the most sacred principles of Soviet society, that same society in its official incarnation begins to work against their interests. Comrade Khabalygin, the head of a relay manufacturing plant, has persuaded the first secretary of the regional Party committee, Comrade Knorozov, that their city should have a scientific research institute in order to advance one step beyond the neighboring towns. Of course, this is also in the personal interest of Comrade Khabalygin, who intends to become the director of the institute. By praising the new school building, he persuades the right people in the right ministry in Moscow to locate the institute not only in the town, but in the new structure. The students are aghast at the shocking unfairness and lawlessness of the highest authorities in the town, who have cynically plotted against them.

At this point the protagonist of the story appears—Ivan Grachikov, the secretary of the town Party committee and an old friend of the school principal, Fyodor Mikheyich. When the principal realizes that his plans for moving into the new building have been thwarted, he calls on Grachikov, an unusual character in Solzhenitsyn's works, whose temperament makes him an excellent leader, a democratic and humane administrator. Of course, the democratic process moves more slowly than a dictatorship:

Knorozov, first secretary of the regional Party committee, soon noticed this weakness . . . and hurled at [Grachikov] in his irrefutably laconic manner: "You're too soft. You don't act the Soviet way." But Grachikov stood his ground: "Why do you say that? Quite the contrary. I work in a Soviet way—I consult the people."¹⁸

Grachikov uses the word "Soviet" in its pre-Stalinist sense, when the noun soviet had not yet lost its original meaning of 'council' or 'counsel'. Later the narrator underscores Grachikov's lexical perceptiveness by describing his objection to the use in everyday situations of military terminology that only arouses unnecessary hysteria:

At the factory he had tried to break other people of the habit and had himself avoided such expressions as "advancing on the technological front" . . . "we threw ourselves into the breach" . . . "we forced their lines" . . . "brought up reserves . . ."He thought that these expressions, instilling the ideas of war into peace itself, sickened people. The Russian language could manage very well without them.¹⁹

Perhaps the figure of Knorozov illustrates most eloquently how unique a man such as Grachikov was in Stalinist and post-Stalinist Russia:

Knorozov was in this region what Stalin had once been in Moscow: he never changed his mind or retracted a decision. And although Stalin had died long ago, Knorozov lived on. He was one of the leading examples of the "[strong-willed]" style of leadership and considered this his own greatest merit. He could not imagine that leadership could be exercised in any other way.²⁰

Solzhenitsyn shows Knorozov in action just before Grachikov enters his office to defend the school's interests. As secretary of the regional Party committee, Knorozov must also deal with agricultural problems. At this point he has just finished giving instructions to a livestock specialist:

"Well, then," Knorozov said to the livestock expert, lowering five long, outspread fingers slowly and weightily in a semicircle onto the large sheet of paper, as if placing a huge seal on it. He was sitting up straight, without using the back of the armchair for support, and the contours of his figure, from both side and front, seemed drawn in harsh, straight lines. "Well, then—I've told you what you must do now. And what you must do is what I tell you."

"Of course, Victor Vavilich." The livestock expert bowed.²¹

Knorozov conducts his consultation in typical Stalinist style, and his orders are accepted as if they came from the dictator himself.

It is difficult to imagine a confrontation between this small replica of Stalin and the peaceful, reasonable, humble Grachikov; and yet Grachikov displays tremendous tenacity in his resistance to injustice. An uncontrollable rage wells up inside him in such situations. As he waits outside Knorozov's office, Grachikov recalls an incident which occurred during World War II. While he was directing trucks across a river a lieutenant-general tried to enter the column out of turn:

Until he was ordered to let them through, Grachikov had been prepared to explain everything calmly, without any shouting, and might even have let them through. But when right clashed head-on with wrong and the latter was backed up by greater force, Grachikov stuck to his guns and cared nothing for what might happen to him.²²

Solzhenitsyn's works are populated with normally peaceful men such as Grachikov who confront willful, brutal authority with equally irrational resistance. Such persons remain the only hope for society and for the individual. In the struggle for the schoolbuilding Grachikov, rising to the occasion, brings the argument around to the most sensitive topics of administrative policy and Party ideology:

"Which means more to us in the end—stones or people?" Grachikov shouted. "Why are we arguing over a heap of stones? . . .

"Communism will not be built with stones but with people, Victor Vavilich!" he shouted, all restraint gone. "It's a harder and longer task, but if we were to finish the whole structure tomorrow and it was built of nothing but stones, we would never have Communism!"²³

Finally Grachikov's resolution produces results. Knorozov yields, and the two reach a partial, modest compromise. The school principal is informed that the smallest and least valuable part of the property will remain under his control. The new four-million-ruble building will be assigned to the research institute, with alterations costing one and a half million rubles, obviously a senseless waste. At the end of the story, the school has still been deprived of part of the courtyard. The authorities persist in their autocratic methods, and the only force capable of resisting them is a man such as Grachikov.

The students, with their enthusiasm for socialism and progress, are cheated twice over: their aspirations for better learning and living conditions are not met, and the cynical older generation betrays their socialist ideals. Finally Knorozov, a man whom the school principal has always admired, betrays him. Yet, ironically, the authoritative style of administration still appeals to some, particularly to those of mediocre ability, such as Mikheyich, who fall as the first victims to the rule of the iron fist.

Mikeyich's admiration for Knorozov both sheds light on the former's weakness and exposes the causes of his own defeat:

Fyodor Mikheyich drew himself up and fixed his gaze on Knorozov. He liked him. He had always admired him. He was happy when he went to his meetings and could imbibe and charge himself with Knorozov's all-embracing will power and energy. Afterwards, he would cheerfully feel like carrying out his instructions in time for the next meeting, whether it involved raising the pass rate of his students, digging up potatoes, or collecting scrap metal. What Fyodor Mikheyich liked about Knorozov was that when he said yes he meant yes, and when he said no he meant no. Dialectics were all very well, but like many others, Fyodor Mikheyich preferred unambiguous decisions.²⁴

Now, after losing the schoolbuilding and meeting the bureaucrat Khabalygin, the helpless and usually meek Fyodor Mikheyich begins to exhibit some signs of protest. The final scene pits the antagonists—the principal and Khabalygin—against each other in the courtyard. Khabalygin directs the workers as they illegally redraw the boundary between the school and the future research institute to the obvious advantage of the latter. Turning to Fyodor Mikheyich, he explains:

"It must be done like this, comrade."

"Why must it?" Fyodor Mikheyich lost his temper and his head started to shake. "You mean for the good of the cause? Just you wait!" He clenched his fists, but he had no more strength left to speak, so he turned away and strode quickly towards the street, muttering: "Just you wait, just you wait, you swine!"²⁵

Might Solzhenitsyn here be parodying the helpless, mediocre Eugene's famous threat to the equestrian statue of Peter the Great in Pushkin's Mednyi vsadnik ("The Bronze Horseman")? On a cold, autumn night, Eugene stands before Peter's monument and, clenching his fist just as Fyodor Mikheyich does, whispers angrily, "You just wait, you architect-wondermaker, you just wait."²⁶ Russian critics have often claimed that Pushkin justifies Peter's brutal Westernization of Russia and condemns Eugene's threat to the tsar and his creation. This interpretation is a total misreading of Pushkin's poem, and often stems from political rather than literary considerations. Apparently Solzhenitsyn rejects this interpretation of Pushkin's poem, if indeed this passage is a parody of it. In any case, there seems to be a clear link between these two works written more than a century apart. Both address themselves to the plight of the "little man" who must sacrifice his basic human aspirations for the putative well-being of the public or the nation, or, in other words, "for the good of the cause."

IV "The Right Hand"

Research on Solzhenitsyn's works is particularly difficult because of circumstances which limit our knowledge of his life and, more important, deprive us of any information about the history of his creative writing. We cannot review his notebooks or his early drafts of published works, as is customary in literary studies. The manuscripts of "The Right Hand," for example, would be most helpful in determining whether Solzhenitsyn originally intended to include it in The Cancer Ward, for one may easily imagine Oleg Kostoglotov as the "I" narrator of this story. Some interesting parallels between the two works support this assumption. Both are set in a Tashkent hospital and, more specifically, on the hospital grounds, where Kostoglotov frequently strolls while undergoing treatment and where the protagonist of the short story meets Bobrov. In both works an ex-convict living in forced exile confronts a representative of the power structure, a man closely associated with the Party. In "The Right Hand," Bobrov, a Red Army man during the Civil War, is a Party member suffering from terminal cancer.

The Kostoglotov-Rusanov relationship, however, does differ significantly from that between the narrator and Bobrov in this story. Although both Rusanov and Bobrov are loyal to the government, they are far from equally successful. Rusanov is a self-satisfied bureaucrat who has realized his highest aspirations, whereas Bobrov, homeless and shabbily dressed, is obviously unsuccessful. His hopes for treatment rest in an old, barely legible document which states:

WORKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE!

This certifícate is presented to Comrade Bobrov N.K. for active service in 1921 in the distinguished "World Revolution" Special Detachment of ——Province for personally eliminating large numbers of counter-revolutionary terrorists.

Signed: Commissar——²⁷

Kostoglotov's hatred of Rusanov becomes increasingly obvious in every word Oleg addresses to him, but it is not always entirely clear whether this is because of Rusanov's political convictions, or his privileged position, or both. In the case of the poorly dressed Bobrov, however, the origin of the narrator's antagonism is clear. Initially the narrator is exceptionally helpful to Bobrov. Only after reading Bobrov's thirty-year-old commendation for distinguished service does the narrator leave him in the waiting room of the hospital at the mercy of a young and arrogant nurse who obviously will not help him. The narrator departs without saying goodby, without even looking back although only a few moments before he has given Bobrov three rubles from his half-empty purse. The narrator does not argue with Bobrov, as Kostoglotov does with Rusanov; but neither does he pity this obviously dying man, who helped suppress counter-revolutionary movements so long ago. The fatal disease from which both the narrator and Bobrov suffer binds them for a while; but their philosophies, and especially their attitudes toward violence, alienate them from each other and terminate their short, friendly relationship.

V "Zakhar-the-Pouch"

The search for a national tradition is completely understandable in a man such as Solzhenitsyn, who stands in diametric opposition to the present social and political structure of his country. "Zakhar-the-Pouch" is imbued with such nostalgia. Narrated in the first person, with an archaic lexicon and phraseology, the story describes a two-day bicycle excursion to the site of the fourteenth-century battle of Kulikovo, where for the first time in 150 years of subjugation the Russians managed to defeat the Tatars. This battle, the first step toward liberation from the Tatar yoke, was a turning point in Russian history. Like many events in Russian history, the battle required almost more stamina than the country possessed. The casualties on the Russian side were so heavy that the Tatars, despite their defeat, maintained their control over the country for another century. Nevertheless, for every Russian the battle of Kulikovo is a powerful national symbol.

Solzhenitsyn builds his story by contrasting the significance of the battle with the inadequate measures taken to protect the battle site against theft and vandalism. The visiting narrator describes the present site in somewhat ironic tones, alternating with a romantic pathos as he recreates the past in his mind. The author's idyllic nostalgia, obviously rooted in his rejection of the present, naturally directs his sympathies to the romanticized past, where he hopes to find guidelines for solving contemporary problems.

VI "The Easter Procession"

At the beginning ["The Easter Procession"] appears to be built on an antithesis between the loyal members of the Russian Orthodox Church, who proclaim their faith despite governmental persecution, and the barbarous, atheistic, younger generation of contemporary Soviet society. The story is static, like a painting depicting the traditional procession around the church during the Easter midnight service. Arrogant teenagers jam the churchyard to observe what seems to them an anachronism. The contrast between the religious procession and the blasphemous spectators is simply but powerfully presented.

The story is complicated, however, by one brief paragraph which introduces a third element:

Among the believers I catch a glimpse of one or two Jewish faces. Perhaps they are converts, or perhaps they are just onlookers. Glancing around warily, they too are waiting for the Easter procession. We all curse the Jews, but it would be worthwhile having a look around us to see what kind of Russians we have bred at the same time.²⁸

The Jewish observers in the churchyard apparently function as a mirror that Solzhenitsyn holds up to the nation so that Russians will see themselves and be ashamed. The few Jews in the churchyard respect this place of worship; they do not mock it. The ordinary Russian considers the Jew far removed from the Orthodox Church, and does not expect him to exhibit either interest in or respect for its services. The Jews Solzhenitsyn describes, however, are much more sympathetic to the church than the representatives of the younger Russian generation. They may even be converts. Thus cultural, ethnic, and religious differences may be less pronounced than the gap between generations in modern Russian society.

The second theme Solzhenitsyn sounds in this passage embraces one of the ugliest features of Russian life, anti-Semitism. Solzhenitsyn is not accusing all Russians of anti-Semitism, but nevertheless he emphasizes its constant pervasiveness in the USSR. At the same time, he questions the basis for the Russians' national pride in view of their contempt for the defenseless Jewish minority. He typically appeals to the conscience of the Russians as he asks what sort of younger generation they have reared in recent years. The description of the crowd of teenagers at the beginning of the story is his eloquent answer.

The didacticism of "The Easter Procession" is characteristic of Solzhenitsyn's so-called "prose poems," or miniatures. They unfailingly convey one rather simple idea and resemble Tolstoy's didactic stories written for the Russian peasant. In sharp contrast to Solzhenitsyn's short stories, however, his miniatures and prose' poems present little of artistic or intellectual interest.

Notes

Alexander Solzhenitsyn, Stories and Prose Poems, Michael Glenny, trans. (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1971), p. 24.

²Ibid.

³Ibid., p. 52.

⁴Ibid., p. 239.

⁵Ibid., p. 238.

⁶Ibid., p. 181.

⁷Ibid.

⁸Ibid., p. 182.

⁹Ibid.

¹⁰Ibid.

¹¹Ibid., pp. 182-83.

¹²Ibid., p. 183.

¹³Ibid.

¹⁴Ibid.

¹⁵Ibid., pp. 172-73.

¹⁶Ibid., p. 173.

¹⁷Ibid., p. 176.

¹⁸Ibid., pp. 95-96.

¹⁹Ibid., p. 110.

²⁰Ibid., p. 114. "Strong-willed" is mistranslated as "vuluntarist" in the English text.

²¹Ibid., p. 113.

²²Ibid., p. 111.

²³Ibid., p. 116.

²⁴Ibid., pp. 117-18.

²⁵Ibid., p. 123.

²⁶ My translation. In Russian, Mikheyich and Eugene's threats are not so close lexically as they appear in the English translations. Nevertheless, their meaning and emotional impact are nearly identical.

²⁷Ibid., p. 164.

²⁸Ibid., p. 127.