Tales of the Wilderness | Page 8

later work I think the stories
in the manner of Bunin will be found the most satisfactory items in this
volume. Of these Death was written before the Revolution and, but for
an entirely irrelevant and very Pilniakish allusion to Lermontov and
other deceased worthies, it is entirely unconnected with events and
revolutions. Very "imperfective" and hardly a "story," it is nevertheless
done with sober and conscientious craftsmanship, very much like
Bunin and very unlike the usual idea we have of Pilniak. The only thing
Pilniak was incapable of taking from his model was Bunin's
wonderfully rich and full Russian, a shortcoming which is least likely
to be felt in translation.

* * * * * * *
The other two Buninesque stories, The Belokonsky Estate and _The
Heirs_, are stories (again, can the word "story" be applied to this
rampantly "imperfective" style?) of the Revolution. They display the
same qualities of sober measure and solid texture which are not usually
associated with the name of Pilniak. These two stories ought to be read
side by side, for they are correlative. In The Belokonsky Estate the
representative of "the old order," Prince Constantine, is drawn to an
almost heroical scale and the "new man" cuts a poor and contemptible
figure by his side. In the other story the old order is represented by a
studied selection of all its worst types. I do not think that the stories
were meant as a deliberate contrast, they are just the outcome of the
natural lack of preconceived idea which is typical of Pilniak and of his
passive, receptive, plastical mind. As long as he does not go out of his
way to give expression to vague and incoherent ideas, the outcome of
his muddle-headed meditations on Russian History, this very
shortcoming (if shortcoming it be) becomes something of a virtue, and
Pilniak--an honest membrana vibrating with unbiassed indifference to
every sound from the outer world.
* * * * * * *
The reader may miss the more elaborate and sensational stories of
Soviet life. But I have a word of consolation for him--they are
eminently unreadable, and for myself I would never have read them
had it not been for the hard duties of a literary critic. In this case as in
others I prefer to go direct to the fountain-source and read Bely's
Petersburg and the books of Remizov, which for all the difficulties
they put in the way of the reader and of the translator will at least
amply repay their efforts. But Pilniak has also substantial virtues: the
power to make things live; an openness to life and an acute vision. If he
throws away the borrowed methods that suit him as little as a peacock's
feathers may suit a crow, he will no doubt develop rather along the
lines of the better stories included in this volume, than in the direction
of his more ambitious novels. And I imagine that his _opus magnum_,
if, in some distant future he ever comes to write one, will be more like

the good old realism of the nineteenth century than like the intense and
troubled art of his present masters; I venture to prophesy that he will
finally turn out something like a Soviet (or post-Soviet) Trollope, rather
than a vulgarised Andrey Bely.
D. S. MIRSKY.
_May_, 1924.

TALES OF THE WILDERNESS
THE SNOW
I
The tinkling of postillion-bells broke the stillness of the crisp winter
night--a coachman driving from the station perhaps. They rang out near
the farm, were heard descending into a hollow; then, as the horses
commenced to trot, they jingled briskly into the country, their echoes at
last dying away beyond the common.
Polunin and his guest, Arkhipov, were playing chess in his study. Vera
Lvovna was minding the infant; she talked with Alena for a while; then
went into the drawing-room, and rummaged among the books there.
Polunin's study was large, candles burnt on the desk, books were
scattered about here and there; an antique firearm dimly shone above a
wide, leather-covered sofa. The silent, moonlit night peered in through
the blindless windows, through one of which was passed a wire. The
telegraph-post stood close beside it, and its wires hummed ceaselessly
in the room somewhere in a corner of the ceiling--a monotonous, barely
audible sound, like a snow-storm.
The two men sat in silence, Polunin broad-shouldered and bearded,
Arkhipov lean, wiry, and bald.
Alena entered bringing in curdled milk and cheese-cakes. She was a
modest young woman with quiet eyes, and wore a white kerchief.
"Won't you please partake of our simple fare?" she asked shyly,
inclining her head and folding her hands across her bosom.
Silent and absent-minded, the chess-players sat down to table and
supped. Alena was about to join them, but just