SOURCE: Rancour-Laferriere, Daniel. “Lermontov's Farewell to Unwashed Russia: A Study in Narcissistic Rage.” Slavic and East European Journal 37, no. 3 (fall 1993): 293-304.

[In the following essay, Rancour-Laferriere explores Lermontov's contempt for what he considered the backwardness of his native land expressed in “Proščaj, nemytaja Rossija,” Lermontov's farewell poem.]

Anyone who has ever left Russia knows that the experience can provoke strong emotions. The most famous poem on this topic was written by Mixail Lermontov, apparently in April of 1841 on the occasion of his last exile from Russia to the Caucasus (Viskovatyj, 379; Manujlov and Nazarova, 204; Dinesman, 452; Maksimov, 1959, 91-92). Lermontov's emotions about departing from Russia were strong indeed:

Prоsaj, nimytay Rоssiy,
Strana rabоv, strana gоspоd,
I vy, mundiry gоlubyi,
I ty, im pridannyj narоd.
Byts mоzit, za stinоj Kavкaza
Sокrоyss оt tvоik pasij,
Ot ik vsividysigо glaza,
Ot ik vsislysasik usij.

(Lermontov, 1961-62, vol. I, 524.)

Anatoly Liberman's literal translation (556) runs as follows:

Farewell, unwashed Russia,
Land of slaves, land of masters,
And you, blue uniforms,
And you, people, devoted to them.
Perhaps beyond the wall of the Caucasus,
I will hide from your pashas,
From their all-seeing eye,
From their all-hearing ears.

It is impossible to miss the aggressiveness of this poem. Critics agree that the poem, besides being objective social-historical commentary on Nicholaevan Russia, expresses great hostility toward Russia. The entry on the poem in the Soviet Lermontov Encyclopedia characterizes it as “an angry invective” expressing “all of the backwardness, lack of development, in other words, the uncivilized nature of Russia contemporary to the poet” (Dinesman, 452). Another entry in the same encyclopedia refers to the writer's “disdain” (“prezrenie”) for Russia (Berezneva, 297). John Mersereau says the poem is “… unequalled by any of [Lermontov's] works for its expression of contempt for the Emperor's minions and their servile followers” (23).

Invective, disdain, contempt—these are strong words, words that convey a highly negative attitude toward an object. The object is Russia personified: she is “unwashed,” as a person would be, she is spoken to (“Farewell”), as one would speak to a person. Her person is multiplied by the many who occupy her—the “slaves,” the “masters,” and the “pashas” (i.e., the tsarist gendarmes). She is despicable not only for her oppressors, but also for her oppressed who seem to welcome their oppression, and who appear to be united in their willingness as one collective people (“narod”) to obey the oppressors (“devoted people,” or, in other variants, “obedient [poslušnyj] people” or “submissive [pokornyj] people”).

In psychoanalytic terms, we may say that Lermontov not only discerns the sadists and masochists of Russia, he despises them as well. My purpose here is to psychoanalyze this spite—whereas the question of whether Russia really is (or was) “a land of slaves” and “a land of masters” is a much larger social-psychological issue.¹ The Soviet critics have in any case tended to view the poem as realistic, regardless of Lermontov's affect. Maksimov, for example, says the poem presents “a realistic image of actuality” (1959, 92).

Why do diverse readers agree that Lermontov feels spiteful? A knowledge of the author's history of run-ins with the tsarist authorities is probably helpful (this notorious conflict makes it clear that the poem is about Lermontov himself, not just some abstract poetic persona²). A knowledge of oppressive social conditions in Russia during the first half of the nineteenth century also helps (e.g., a reading of Chaadaev's Lettres philosophiques, or the Marquis de Custine's La Russie en 1839). But still, the hostility is evident from the poem itself.

Already with the opening line there is an incongruity of elements that can only mean sarcasm. Whereas in Puškin's famous poem “K morju” the first word, “Proščaj,” a characteristically Russian expression of separation anxiety, is immediately followed by “svobodnaja stixija,” so that the elegiac tone of parting is maintained, in Lermontov's poem the word is immediately followed by “nemytaja Rossija,” a gross insult to Russia. This insult forces us to reevaluate the “Proščaj” as being ironic. The speaker is not so sad to be leaving Russia after all. Indeed her very ‘unwashedness’ may be driving him away.

The irony is deeper than this, however, and requires that we understand the traditional meaning of the word “proščaj.” Etymologically, this word is a request to be forgiven, an exhortation that the addressee relieve the addresser of his burden of guilt. Semiotician V. N. Toporov catches the underlying self-orientation of this word very well:

Onо ni naputstvii drugоmu, a prоssba к nimu о sibi, prоssba о nrоsinuu za griki—vоlsnyi i nivоlsnyi, yvnyi i tajnyi, dijstvitilsnyi i myslimyi. Etо фоrmulsnоi nrоsáŭ! karaкtirizuit samоsоznanii cilоviкa оtnоsitilsnо igо mista na sкali nravstvinnyk цinnоstij. Iskоdnyj tizis—priznanii siby kuzi, nizi, vunоvnii tоgо, к коmu оbrasaisssy s prоssbоj о prоsinii. Itоgоvyj tizis—zivay nuzda v prоsinii i bisкоnicnay nadizda na nravstvinnоi, dukоvnоi vоsкrisinsi (vоzrоzdinii) dazi dly tоgо, кtо nakоditsy v bizdni grika.

(220)

Lermontov's own awareness of this is evident from the closing lines of “Valerik,” where his departure from the scene is practically the same as his excusing himself:

          Tipirs nrоsaŭmi: isli vas
Mоj bizysкusstvinnyj rassкaz
Razvisilit, zajmit kоts malоsts,
Я budu scastliv. а ni taк?—
Prоsmumi mni igо кaк salоsts
I tikо mоlviti: cudaк! …

(1961-62, vol. I, 505, emphasis added)

English “farewell” is very different from Russian “proščaj,” for it is oriented toward the other, and is unencumbered by any suggestions of guilt. In effect the English speaker says “I wish you well,” while the Russian says “think well of me” (or “don't think badly of me,” as in the related expression “ne pominaj lixom,” cf. also the expression “skazat' poslednee prosti”).

If Lermontov's line “Proščaj, nemytaja Rossija” begins with a word traditionally understood to relieve guilt, it continues with an expression that is calculated to impose guilt. The expression “nemytaja Rossija” suggests there is something wrong with Russia, not with Lermontov. No sooner does Lermontov imagine being forgiven than Russia becomes guilty. He points a finger at her by means of grammatically parallel pronouns in metrically identical positions: “I vy … ;” “I ty. …”

Yet, to judge from the opening “Proščaj,” the very one who takes on the guilt is also the one who is empowered to forgive, to take away guilt. Here long-suffering Russia is like Christ, whose sufferings are designed to relieve one of a guilty burden. As Vjačeslav Ivanov wrote in 1909, the words “upodoblenie Xristu” are written on the forehead of the Russian people: Hic populus natus est christianus (Ivanov, 330). Compare also Tjutčev's well-known parallelism between humble, long-suffering Russia and Christ in his slavish aspect:

Eti bidnyi silinsy,
Eta sкudnay prirоda—
Kraj rоdnоj dоlgоtirginsy,
Kraj ty russкоgо narоda!
Ni gоjmit i ni zamitit
Gоrdyj vzоr inоpliminnyj,
Ctо sкvоzit i tajnо svitit
V nagоti tvоij smirinnоj.
Udrucinnyj nоsij кristnоj,
Vsy tiby, zimly rоdnay,
V rabsкоm vidi цars nibisnyj
Iskоdil, blagоslоvlyy.

(Tjutčev, 201)

In Lermontov's case Russia is not being admired of course. She is being criticized, in part for the very slavishness that Tjutčev later praises her for. Her power to forgive is mocked in a way that Slavophilic Tjutčev could never have conceived of. Yet something of the respectful “proščaj” remains in Lermontov's poem nonetheless. Perhaps this is not so evident to the modern reader, who is further away in time from the etymological source of the word “proščaj” than Lermontov was, and who may not be aware that Lermontov was not leaving ethnic Russia voluntarily but was being thrown out of the country.³

Even the element of sour grapes can be guessed from the poem itself, however, which is to say that the reader can detect how attached to Russia Lermontov must have been in order to hurl such an invective at her. The poem bespeaks disappointment (“razočarovanie”)—as does so much in Lermontov's oeuvre (see Gerasimov, 16 ff., and Borozdin, 70-75). Had Lermontov not really cared about Russia in the first place he would not have bothered to attack her. Had she been incapable of making him feel guilty (“Proščaj”), he would not have uttered something so clearly calculated to make her feel guilty.

Dinesman asserts that Lermontov's poem expresses a definitive break with Russia (452). This is not psychologically probable. Lermontov may be storming out in a huff, but one has the impression he will calm down later on. He did return from his previous exiles, after all. Had Lermontov not been killed by Martynov, he certainly would have returned to Russia.

If Lermontov's intense attachment to his Russian homeland does not seem evident from this poem, it is certainly evident from other poems, such as “Tuči” (1840), or “Rodina” (1841):

“TUCI”

Tucкi nibisnyi, vicnyi stranniкi!
Stipsy lazurnоy, цipsy zimcuznоy
Mcitiss vy, budtо кaк y zi, izgnanniкi
S milоgо sivira v stоrоnu yznuy.
Ktо zi vas gоnit: sudsby li risinii?
Eavists li tajnay? zlоba ls оtкrytay?
Ili na vas tygоtit pristuplinii?
Ili druzij кlivita ydоvitay?
Nit, vam nasкucili nivy bisplоdnyi …
Cuzdy vam strasti i cuzdy stradaniy;
Vicnо kоlоdnyi, vicnо svоbоdnyi,
Nit u vas rоdiny, nit vam izgnaniy.

(1961-62, vol. I, 496; cf. Kaun 39)

“RODINA”

Lybly оtciznu y, nо strannоy lybоvsy!
          Ni pоbidit ii rassudок mоj.
                    Ni slava, кuplinnay кrоvyо,
Ni pоlnyj gоrdоgо dоviriy pокоj,
Ni timnоj stariny zavitnyi pridansy
Ni sivilyt vо mni оtradnоgо mictansy.
          Nо y lybly—za ctо, ni znay sam—
          Ii stipij kоlоdnоi mоlcansi,
          Ii lisоv bizbriznyk коlykansi,
Razlivy riк ii, pоdоbnyi mоrym;
Prоsilоcnym putim lybly sкaкats v tiligi
I, vzоrоm midlinnym prоnzay nоci tins,
Vstricats pо stоrоnam, vzdykay о nоcligi,
Drоzasii оgni picalsnyk dirivins.
                    Lybly dymок spalinnоj znivy,
                    V stipi nоcuysij оbоz
                    I na kоlmi srids ziltоj nivy
                    Citu biliysik biriz.
                    S оtradоj mnоgim niznaкоmоj
                    Я vizu pоlnоi gumnо,
                    Izbu, pокrytuy sоlоmоj,
                    S riznymi stavnymi окnо;
                    I v prazdniк, vicirоm rоsistym,
                    Smоtrits dо pоlnоci gоtоv
                    Na plysкu s tоpansim i svistоm
                    Pоd gоvоr psynyk muzicкоv.

(1961-62, vol. I, 509-510)

A. N. Berezneva says that, while “Proščaj, nemytaja Rossija” reveals the writer's “disdain” (“prezrenie”) for Russia, “Rodina” constitutes a “declaration of love” (“priznanie v ljubvi”) for her (297). But this is an oversimplification. Psychoanalytically viewed, both poems contain both disdain and love. Lermontov cannot conceal his ambivalence, even in the poems that are seemingly one-sided. His attachment to Russia would not be “strange” (“strannoju ljubov'ju,” as he says in “Rodina”), it would not tend to coldness (“Večno xolodnye,” as he says of the “Tuči”), if it were not ambivalent.⁴

Anatoly Liberman quite accurately states that “Lermontov's attitude toward his homeland has been a matter of long and barren dispute” (548). But perhaps the dispute would not have been so “barren” had it been psychoanalytically informed. Opposed attitudes do not have to exclude one another, or even be reconciled with one another when the psychological reality of ambivalence is taken into consideration. Russia does not have two faces (Maksimov refers to “mir ètoj dvulikoj Rossii”—1964, 170). Rather, Lermontov is of two minds.

It is often said, following Černyševskij, that Lermontov's love was specifically for the Russian folk, the “narod” (e.g., Merežkovskij, 204; Andreev-Krivič, 216). But who are those slaves Lermontov despises (“strana rabov”) if not, at least in part, the folk (“poslušnyj … narod”)? And why are those villages he loves so mournful (“pečal'nyx dereven'”) if not because they are populated by literal slaves? Such contradictions cannot be understood without investigating the unconscious of the mind that produced them. It is not enough to say that Lermontov's love for Russia was “complicated” (“složnaja”—Andreev-krivič, 216). It is also necessary to admit that there was hatred in addition to the love, and to hunt for the psychical driving force behind this overall ambivalence.

A striking example of the tendency to neglect Lermontov's ambivalence is the decision made by the editors of the 1957-58 edition to reject Viskovatyj's date of 1841 for “Proščaj, nemytaja Rossija.” Mssrs. I. L. Andronikov, D. D. Blagoj, and Ju. G. Oksman declare: “… this date does not correspond to the basic sense of the poem, for a poem addressed to ‘unwashed Russia’ and the poem ‘Rodina’ written in the spring of 1841 could hardly have been created in the course of the same month” (Lermontov, 1957-58, vol. I, 344). On the contrary, they could have been written in the course of the same day. Patients on the couch will sometimes move from declarations of love to expressions of intense hatred for their analyst within the course of the same hour. I think that even the most conventional of Lermontov scholars would agree that Lermontov would have been an excellent candidate for the couch.

Ambivalence is a state of mind in which contradictory mental currents are not reconciled. One simply has to accept that Lermontov both loved and hated Russia. A given poem may seem on the surface to emphasize one or the other side of the ambivalence, but the simultaneous operation of both sides was crucial to Lermontov's creativity, and is essential to deep response on the part of Lermontov's reader.

In any case—the reader of “Proščaj, nemytaja Rossija” does not have to be aware of the precise historical and biographical circumstances surrounding the composition of the poem in order to detect the author's ambivalence. It is clear that something unpleasant has happened between Lermontov and the Russia his poem personifies, which is to say that something pleasant must have been conceived of, or desired, or remembered, etc. The author's barely suppressed rage cannot be gratuitous. It has to be the result of some previous injury, the kind of injury that can only be inflicted by someone beloved. Lermontov had allowed himself to be close to Russia, otherwise she could not have hurt him. He is now lashing back at her with a poem that reads more like an epigram than a lyric (cf. Kaun, 39). What he writes here is precisely the

                                                                                          ziliznyj stik,
Oblityj gоricsy i zlоstsy! …

—words which in that poem express the anger of a child who has just woken up from a fantasy about his lost mother (1961-62, vol. I, 467).

In psychoanalytic terms, Lermontov's spite is ultimately the result of narcissistic injury. Ambivalence is particularly persistent toward an object that has dealt a blow to one's narcissism. The first and greatest blow ever dealt to Lermontov's narcissism was the death of his dear mother when he was two and one half years old. All the women in his life after that event—including Mother Russia—would be treated ambivalently.

Here the reader should be aware that I use the term “narcissism” not in the everyday sense of ‘egoism’ or ‘self-centeredness’ (although these too can at times characterize Lermontov), but in the current psychoanalytic sense of ‘having to do with the self or with self-worth.’ Psychoanalyst Heinz Kohut says, for example, that destructive rage is motivated by an injury to the self (1977, 116). Kohut's theories (e.g., 1971, 1977) have become the basis for much current research in a school of psychoanalysis known as self psychology. His ideas have already been extended into the analysis of literature, as in the recent brilliant book by Jeffrey Berman titled Narcissism and the Novel (1990). Kohut himself cites Kleist's Michael Kohlhaas and Melville's Captain Ahab as examples of literary characters “in the grip of interminable narcissistic rage” (1972, 362). As for specifically Russian writers, Tolstoy is the author whose narcissism has received greatest attention from literary scholars and psychoanalysts alike (Josselson; Rothstein; Rancour-Laferriere, 1993). The strikingly narcissistic orientation of Eduard Limonov's writing has also been scrutinized (Smirnov; Zholkovsky).

The notion of narcissistic rage is crucial to comprehending much in Lermontov's life and works:

Narcissistic rage occurs in many forms; they all share, however, a specific psychological flavor which gives them a distinct position within the wide realm of human aggressions. The need for revenge, for righting a wrong, for undoing a hurt by whatever means, and a deeply anchored, unrelenting compulsion in the pursuit of all these aims which gives no rest to those who have suffered a narcissistic injury—these are features which are characteristic for the phenomenon of narcissistic rage in all its forms and which set it apart from other kinds of aggression.

(Kohut, 1972, 380)

This concept might well be applied to the intense jealousy which drives Arbenin to poison his faithful wife (Maskarad). Narcissistic rage is clearly the basis of Pečorin's sadistic treatment of Princess Mary and of his relentless aggressions against Grušnickij (Geroj našego vremeni). Such rage is also evident in the glorified violence of the so-called “Cadet Poems.” Many examples could be adduced. Simon Karlinsky has established that much of Lermontov's work is characterized by “sadism” (especially against women), “negativism,” “misanthropy,” “smoldering hatred,” etc. (1987), and Dmitrij Merežkovskij long ago demonstrated that Lermontov the man had a tendency to treat those around him with an absolutely demonic cruelty (1914, 169-71). But it is important to understand that Lermontov's sadism was a reaction to prior injury of the self, that is, it was narcissistically based.⁵ This does not excuse it, but it helps us to understand it. Lermontov rages against all of life, but the very grandiosity of his rage belies its narcissism:

I zizns, кaк pоsmоtriss s kоlоdnym
                                                                                          vnimansim vокrug,—
          Taкay pustay i glupay sutкa …

(1961-62, vol. I, 468)

It is as if life were a joke specifically on Lermontov. It is not, of course, but the reader's occasional temptation to laugh at Lermontov is a strong indication of how narcissistic the poet's rage is. Lermontov is very much like the narcissistic Pečorin: “I look at the sufferings and joys of others only in relation to myself …” (1961-62, vol. IV, 401).

At one point in his theoretical writings Kohut makes an observation that seems particularly applicable to the poem being analyzed here: “… it is easily observed that the narcissistically vulnerable individual responds to actual (or anticipated) narcissistic injury either with shamefaced withdrawal (flight) or with narcissistic rage (fight)” (1972, 379). Only in this particular case the response includes both withdrawal and rage. The poem's persona both retreats “behind the wall of the Caucasus” and rages at the Russia which has injured him so. As a result of this creative combination, the retreat does not have to be “shamefaced” at all. Russia is shamed by the poem, not Lermontov. Or rather, any shame or guilt that Lermontov might initially have felt is projected outward onto the object which provoked it. Projection is a favorite first aid for narcissistic injury.

But just how has Russia injured Lermontov? This is a question which ought to be answerable from the evidence in the poem, without recourse to the biographical particulars concerning Lermontov's exile from Russia. Otherwise we would not be able to account for the poem's widespread appeal, and in particular for its intense appeal to some Russian emigres.

There is no explicit answer given in the poem's opening line, for uncleanliness (“nemytaja”) is unlikely to inflict injury. But the second line, “Land of slaves, land of masters” clearly tells the reader that Lermontov must have experienced some form of slavery, some unwanted subjugation by an outside force personified here as Russia herself (it is unlikely that his experience was one of being the subjugator rather than the subjugated). Yet Lermontov does not identify himself completely with Russia's slaves, either, for he characterizes them as devoted or obedient, while he is raging against their essential masochism. Lermontov may have felt enslaved at some point, but he does reject the slave mentality of his fellow-Russians.

It is necessary to look further, then, for the source of the injury. What exactly do the “masters” and “slaves” do that provokes the speaker's rage? What drives him to hide away from them in the Caucasus mountains? The final three lines provide a definitive answer: “I will hide from your pashas, / From their all-seeing eye, / From their all-hearing ears.” The tsarist authorities have been spying on Lermontov. That is how they have injured him. They know something about him that he does not want them to know, for they see all and hear all. This is perhaps an exaggeration on Lermontov's part, and the grammatical parallelism of the final couplet really is a bit overdone. But the couplet nonetheless expresses how Lermontov feels. The perceived omniscience of the “pashas” victimizes him. His privacy has been violated, and this violation conditions his departure, regardless of whether the departure is forced (exile) or voluntary (escape).

Here, then, is something that most pre-glasnost' Russian readers can latch onto. They do not have to know exactly what the authorities knew about Lermontov, but most of them have experienced the prying eyes and ears of the powers that be in Russia. Lermontov's parting shot hits the mark. His poem satisfies an urge to know, it renders what psychoanalysis terms an epistemophilic pleasure.⁶

Lermontov seems even to gloat over his knowledge of the knowledgeability of the tsarist gendarmes. His pleasure is curiously like their pleasure.

In 1936 Anna Freud published a book which dealt with (among other things) how the psyche mobilizes defenses against perceived external aggression. One of the defense mechanisms she discovered is something she termed identification with the aggressor. Anxiety can be reduced in certain circumstances, she found, if the victim imitates or otherwise takes on features of the victimizer. For example, a little girl Freud was treating was terrified of crossing the hall in the dark because she was afraid of ghosts. This fear was countered in the following manner: “… she would run across the hall, making all sorts of peculiar gestures as she went. Before long, she triumphantly told her little brother the secret of how she had got over her anxiety. ‘There's no need to be afraid in the hall,’ she said, ‘you just have to pretend that you're the ghost who might meet you’” (119; see also Kohut, 1972, 381).

In effect, Lermontov becomes the ghosts who spied on him, and thereby wards off the anxiety their spying produced in him. For although Russia's police are accused of wanting to know too much about him, he himself exhibits a knowing disdain for Russia. He identifies with this aggressor. He has plumbed her secrets, he has understood the disgusting pact between her sadistic masters and her masochistic slaves. He may be out of her reach “beyond the wall of the Caucasus,” but she is not beyond his understanding. He may hide himself, but he exhibits his knowledge aggressively. His poem is a hostile display of an idea: Russia is unwashed by virtue of her filthy sadomasochism.

Someone who knows this about Russia would appear to have triumphed over her. If the “pashas” offend by prying, Lermontov offends by knowing that their prying is the result of their sadomasochism. Lermontov's insight is one of the greatest put-downs of Russia ever written.

Lermontov's poem is, in its own way, even psychoanalytic in nature. It offers a kind of knowledge that Russians normally do not wish to be conscious of. But it is not therapeutic knowledge. One must never put down the patient (cf. Kohut, 1972, n. 6). If Mother Russia were lying on the couch and Lermontov were the analyst, it would be highly unprofessional for him to impart the essential insight of this poem. Invective has no place in therapy. Even if Russia were not Lermontov's mother (with whom there is the ever-present danger of narcissistic merger), and even if Lermontov could somehow subtract the hostile tone, still his insight would be inappropriate. The patient has to be independent of the analyst and has to do most of the working-through herself.

A hostile analyst cannot cure his own mother. But a hostile poet can entertain his siblings, his fellow-Russians. “Proščaj, nemytaja Rossija” is a very entertaining poem. There is a Narcissus in every Russian who would like to see Mother Russia get her comeuppance. Lermontov's poem does just that.

Notes

1. Detailed historical, sociological, and psychological considerations of this topic are taken up in my book The Slave Soul of Russia: Psychoanalytic Explorations in a Culture of Moral Masochism (ms. in progress).

2. There is psychological sense in which all literature is autobiographical. This is a complex theoretical issue, however, and goes far beyond the bounds of the present article. I have dealt with the issue to some extent in my Five Russian Poems (Laferrière, 27-30). In any case, as Lermontov's biographer Pavel Viskovatyj says, “Almost everything written by Lermontov has an autobiographical significance” (as quoted by Gerasimov, 1).

3. Manujlov and Nazarova (204) believe that the poem was composed specifically on the occasion (April 1841) of receiving an order to leave Saint Petersburg within forty-eight hours.

4. See also Gerasimov (1890) on the oscillations of Lermontov's moods and attitudes, Merežkovskij (1914, 180) on the “bezkonečnoe razdvoenie” in Lermontov's personality, and Buchman (1985) on some aspects of the ambivalence in Lermontov's works.

5. Cf. Merežkovskij (1914, 183) on the element of “personal hurt” (“ličnaja obida”) in Lermontov's relationship with God.

6. Cf. Vladimir Nabokov who, although no fan of psychoanalysis, dwells on the important motif of eavesdropping in Lermontov's Hero of Our Time (in Lermontov, 1958, x-xii).

Works Cited

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