Aging in Slavic Literatures: Essays in Literary Gerontology 9783839432211

Table of contents :
Contents
Preface
Introduction
Beyond Ageism, Beyond Sexism. Gender Issues, Aging and Sexuality in Vedrana Rudan’s Novel The Skeletons of Madison County
Growing Old to Remember. The “Final Questions” of a Hundred-Year-Old Ukrainian Villager
Aging and Old Age in Popular Autobiographies from Bratislava and Vienna
Old Age and Ageing in People and Books. David Albahari’s Tsing
“My Diary That Grows Old with Me”. Representations of Old Age and Ageing in Women’s Diaries of the Soviet Era
Alternative Narratives of Aging in Russian 20th-Century Literature. Valentin Rasputin’s and Jurij Trifonov’s Old Characters
Gendered Perspectives on Sexuality, Body and Aging in Slovene Autobiographical Literature. Mrak – Zupan – Kovačič
Exile, Return and “the Relative Brevity of Our Life”: Aging in Slavic Homecoming Narratives. Nabokov – Kundera – Jergović
Fearing the Joys of Old Age. Contradictory Discourses of Aging in Adelaida Gercyk’s On Old Age
“I Know Nothing Because of My Weakness”. A Comparative Analysis of Polish Letters and Memoirs (1845-1862)
Aging in Renaissance Dalmatia. The Case of Petar Hektorović
The Elderly and Old Age in a Russian Chronicle
Contributors

Citation preview

Dagmar Gramshammer-Hohl (ed.) Aging in Slavic Literatures

Aging Studies | Volume 11

The series Aging Studies is edited by Heike Hartung, Ulla Kriebernegg and Roberta Maierhofer.

Dagmar Gramshammer-Hohl (ed.)

Aging in Slavic Literatures Essays in Literary Gerontology

The printing of this book was supported by the Department for Science and Research of the Federal State of Styria and by the University of Graz.

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de © 2017 transcript Verlag, Bielefeld

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Cover layout: Kordula Röckenhaus, Bielefeld Cover illustration: zettberlin / photocase.de Printed by Majuskel Medienproduktion GmbH, Wetzlar Print-ISBN 978-3-8376-3221-7 PDF-ISBN 978-3-8394-3221-1

Contents

Preface | 7 Introduction

Dagmar Gramshammer-Hohl | 9 Beyond Ageism, Beyond Sexism Gender Issues, Aging and Sexuality in Vedrana Rudan’s Novel The Skeletons of Madison County

Marija Geiger Zeman & Zdenko Zeman (Zagreb) | 17 Growing Old to Remember The “Final Questions” of a Hundred-Year-Old Ukrainian Villager

Liana Goletiani (Milan) | 37 Aging and Old Age in Popular Autobiographies from Bratislava and Vienna

Ľubica Voľanská (Bratislava) | 65 Old Age and Ageing in People and Books David Albahari’s Tsing

Andrea Zink (Innsbruck) | 89 “My Diary That Grows Old with Me” Representations of Old Age and Ageing in Women’s Diaries of the Soviet Era

Irina Savkina (Tampere) | 105 Alternative Narratives of Aging in th Russian 20 -Century Literature Valentin Rasputin’s and Jurij Trifonov’s Old Characters

Ilaria Remonato (Verona) | 131

Gendered Perspectives on Sexuality, Body and Aging in Slovene Autobiographical Literature Mrak – Zupan – Kovačič

Andreas Leben (Graz) | 165 Exile, Return and “the Relative Brevity of Our Life”: Aging in Slavic Homecoming Narratives Nabokov – Kundera – Jergović

Dagmar Gramshammer-Hohl (Graz) | 185 Fearing the Joys of Old Age Contradictory Discourses of Aging in Adelaida Gercyk’s On Old Age

Dimitrios Meletis (Graz) | 203 “I Know Nothing Because of My Weakness” A Comparative Analysis of Polish Letters and Memoirs (1845-1862)

Wiesława Duży (Opava) | 223 Aging in Renaissance Dalmatia The Case of Petar Hektorović

Natalia Stagl-Škaro (Dubrovnik) | 239 The Elderly and Old Age in a Russian Chronicle

Nicoletta Cabassi (Parma) | 263 Contributors | 279

Preface

This publication has arisen from a call for articles that was spread among the aging studies and Slavic studies communities and whose aim was to gather together the scattered research that has been done thus far on aging as represented in Slavic literatures. It was an adventurous attempt, as it was unclear at the beginning if the number of submitted proposals would suffice to fill an entire volume. In fact, it did. The papers were written by scholars from different European countries and varying disciplinary backgrounds. Some of the authors have engaged in the field of age/aging studies for many years, while others were inspired by the call for articles to venture an alternative approach and new focus in their area of research. As usually is the case, the realization of this edited volume would not have been possible without the support of many people and institutions. First of all, I would like to thank the Department for Science and Research of the Federal State of Styria as well as the University of Graz for their generous funding of this publication. All articles selected for publication in this volume have undergone a double-blind peer review process. I would like to express my gratitude to all the anonymous reviewers – Slavicists and historians from Austria, the Czech Republic, Germany, Poland and Slovenia, as well as members of the European Network in Aging Studies, all experts in their respective fields of study – for offering their knowledge and time and for helping assure the quality of this publication. I am especially grateful to the “Aging Studies” editors for agreeing to include this volume in their series and for a great deal of useful advice. I also want to thank all the contributors for their patience during the editing process and for the wonderful collaboration that, I hope, will be continued.

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Last but not least, I would like to thank Caitlin Ahern for her thorough and thoughtful proofreading of this publication. Readers will notice that the contributions are written either in American or British English. As this publication is directed toward the aging studies community as well as toward specialists in the field of Slavic studies and a broader interested audience, original quotations follow the English translations. They are given in Cyrillic, if the original is in Cyrillic. For work titles, personal and place names, terms and the like the scientific transliteration of Cyrillic alphabets (ISO/R9:1968) is used. Graz, March 2017

Introduction D AGMAR G RAMSHAMMER -H OHL

AGING R ESEARCH

AND

S LAVIC S TUDIES

Aging and old age are aspects of human experience that have always inspired literary imagination. In recent decades, scholarly attention has increasingly been paid to aging as represented and narrated in literature. Age/aging studies have become more and more aware of the degree to which the critical analysis of works of fiction can contribute to our understanding of the aging process in all its diversity. Nevertheless, there is still an urgent need for greater attention to age in the humanities. This holds true all the more for Slavic studies, where thus far aging and old age have been only marginal concerns – even though it was a Russian scientist, Il’ja Mečnikov [Il’ia Mechnikov, Élie Metchnikoff], who, in 1903, introduced the term “gerontology” (gerontologija) to the scientific community (see Katz 1996: 82) and defined it as extending beyond the boundaries set by medicine and thus as “the first interdisciplinary venture of the 20th century” (Martin/Gillen 2014: 52). And although a cultural studies approach has by now become widespread in Slavic philology, there still is a striking lack of interest in how people are “aged by culture” (Gullette 2004). This is even more surprising as old age and aging are important topics in Slavic literatures. Regrettably, only few Slavic texts have caught the attention of aging researchers. It is significant that a recent “Encyclopedia of Aging” project registered on its headword list not more than two Slavic literary texts, in fact two Russian ones (compared to a quite impressive number of English-language works): Tolstoj’s [Tolstoi’s] The Death of Ivan

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Il’ich (Smert’ Ivana Il’iča, 1886) and Anton Čechov’s [Chekhov’s] The Seagull (Čajka, 1896). It is a fact that, on the one hand, aging research very much centers on the U.S. and Great Britain, and, as far as literary studies are concerned, on American and British fiction. Moreover, a large number of pertinent Slavic texts are not available in translation. On the other hand, the scattered contributions to aging studies which have been published by Slavicists and scholars from East and Southeast European countries themselves are often written in Slavic languages, or at least rarely in English. This volume thus aims to popularize among aging researchers as well as among an interested broader audience related findings from Slavic studies scholarship and to make available in English some material translated especially for this purpose from Slavic literatures. Representations of old age and aging in Slavic languages, literatures and cultures have thus far been subject to investigation mostly in individual research papers. A noteworthy exception is an international conference of Slavicists at Wrocław University, Poland, convened in 2015 and dedicated to old age as one of the “big themes of culture in Slavic literatures” (Wielkie tematy kultury w literaturach słowiańskich: Starość); a special issue of the journal Slavica Wratislaviensia is being prepared on the topic. Apart from that, some very short and general overviews on Russian literature exist, such as by Robert H. Stacy (1989) or Klaus Städtke (2010). In addition, images of aging and elderly characters have to some extent been analyzed by researchers as part of their work on particular writers. This volume’s goal is thus also to foster international scholarly exchange within and across the discipline and to encourage further research in this vein.

AGING

AND

L ITERATURE

Almost 30 years ago, in 1990, Anne M. Wyatt-Brown wrote about the coming-of-age of literary gerontology and set out to define the approach (Wyatt-Brown 1990): in her words, it examines the impact of aging on literature both in creative works and in the lives of their creators. Among literary gerontology’s categories of analysis she mentioned “literary attitudes” toward aging. Another, nowadays perhaps more common wording would be “discourses”: literature, on the one hand, reproduces dominant discourses on aging and old age. Implicitly, however, it subverts them by challenging

I NTRODUCTION | 11

meanings such as those of “being old” or “growing old”. Rüdiger Kunow uses the post-colonial paradigm to describe what can be observed notably in contemporary literature: a “writing back” against hegemonic discourse on aging from what he calls, with reference to May Sarton, the “foreign country of old age” (Kunow 2005: 39-40). In Irina Savkina’s words, only in more recent fiction does the aging subject reacquire “flesh and voice” (“плоть и голос”) (Savkina 2011: 135). Works by the Russian writers Tat’jana Tolstaja [Tolstaia] and Ljudmila Ulickaja [Ulitskaia] or by the Croatian author Dubravka Ugrešić are cases in point. Literary gerontology makes this “writing back” explicit and, as a consequence, presents alternative visions of age and aging. As Stephen Katz (2014) has noted, “[n]arrative is particularly important because it anchors the inside of aging, bringing together self and society and animating our biographies as we borrow, adapt, interpret, and reinvent the languages, symbols, and meanings around us to customize our personal stories.” Literary gerontology, thus, forms part of age/aging studies insofar as it “critique[s] the practices by which current forms of knowledge and power about aging have assumed their authority as a form of truth” (ibid.). Conversely, it has rightly been stated that “new trends in society affect the conventions of fiction” (Wyatt-Brown 2002). It is, of course, important to consider the aesthetic dimension of the literary text and to address questions such as: to which literary and rhetorical devices does the text resort? What function does old age imagery fulfill within a specific text? To what extent does language use reflect or interfere with dominant discourses on age and aging? Which impact does the aging theme have on the choice of genre – and vice versa? Generally: how are aging and old age narrated in specific contexts? How do representations of old age and aging change over time? Such are the questions on which the contributions to this volume have focused.

AGING IN D IFFERENT C ULTURAL H ISTORICAL C ONTEXTS

AND

It proved quite difficult to group this volume’s contributions into fitting sections. Each article covers several aspects, so forcing them into neatly distinct parts would not do their complexity justice. I therefore decided to

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present the articles in a reverse-chronological manner, starting from the (seemingly) most familiar – contemporary representations of old age and aging – and completing the literary tour in medieval times. The articles encompass a variety of Slavic languages, literary epochs and genres. They are devoted to Croatian, Polish, Russian and Old Russian, Serbian, Slovak, Slovene and Ukrainian literatures and compare them in part to Austrian and what have come to be called “transnational” texts. The covered time span ranges from the Middle Ages, the Croatian Renaissance to Polish Classicism and embraces the whole of the 20th century from Russian Modernism to the present. Various genres have been investigated as well, though the autobiographical ones have been paid special attention. ĽUBICA VOĽANSKÁ’S contribution even goes beyond narrow definitions of literariness and is dedicated to the genre of popular autobiography. Memoirs have been contrasted with diverse forms of private writings, namely diaries (IRINA SAVKINA) and letters (WIESŁAWA DUŻY). Both contributors agree in their conclusions that not all autobiographical genres seem to be considered by their authors equally appropriate to treating the experience of aging: apparently, it is not dealt with in memoirs. Of particular importance for the articles in this volume is the gender aspect. As has been demonstrated, the discourse on aging and the gender discourse are closely connected. Neither of the two categories of “age” or “gender” can be explained adequately by itself, nor are they related to each other in a mere additive or hierarchical way. Age identity is gendered, just as gender identity is determined by age. This is the general conclusion we can draw when studying intersectionality, among other things in literary representations of aging (see Gramshammer-Hohl 2014, 2016; Hartung 2005; Hartung et al. 2007; Maierhofer 2003). In one way or another, the age-gender link is addressed in almost every contribution. Some of the articles, however, place special emphasis on it: MARIJA GEIGER ZEMAN and ZDENKO ZEMAN have analyzed the novel The Skeletons of Madison County (Kosturi okruga Madison, 2012) by Croatian author Vedrana Rudan and show how the text challenges sexist and ageist discourses on gender, age and sexuality. IRINA SAVKINA has investigated women’s diaries of the Soviet era and analyzed what it meant to grow old the Soviet way and wherein lie the “femaleness” – and “Sovietness” – of the aging process that is represented by the diarists. ĽUBICA VOĽANSKÁ, by comparing popular autobiographies from Bratislava and Vienna, has no-

I NTRODUCTION | 13

ticed differences in the Slovak and Austrian authors’ respective representations of female and male experiences of old age, which can be explained by different cultural and historical backgrounds. Finally, ANDREAS LEBEN gives an overview of Slovene autobiographical writing from a gender perspective and argues that the topic of sexuality was a main motivation for discussing the body in Slovene literature and, as a consequence, the topic of aging. Several contributions are dedicated to close readings of particular fictional texts. LIANA GOLETIANI has analyzed the Ukrainian novel Jakiv’s Century (Stolittja Jakova, 2010) by Volodymyr Lys, in which the protagonist’s hundredth birthday is an occasion for him to look back and draw conclusions from his eventful life; his deeply personal memories at the same time reflect one hundred years of Ukrainian history. ANDREA ZINK has explored a fragmentary text by the Serbian-Canadian author David Albahari, Tsing (Cink, 1988), which eludes any generic definition, “collapsing” before the reader just like the narrator’s old, dying father. DIMITRIOS MELETIS has examined a prose sketch by Russian symbolist Adelaida Gercyk [Gertsyk], On Old Age (O starosti, 1915), which through its elaborate composition discloses contradictory discourses about the fears and joys of aging. Two contributions draw comparisons between several fictional texts – novels and novellas (povesti). ILARIA REMONATO’s article is dedicated to the image of old age in the works of two Soviet novelists, Valentin Rasputin and Jurij Trifonov, representatives of Russian “village prose” and “urban prose,” respectively. She highlights distinguishing features as well as formal and thematic affinities between the two authors’ texts. My own (DAGMAR GRAMSHAMMER-HOHL) contribution explores how images of age and aging are used in narratives of homecoming to depict the discontinuities of life caused by exile and return to the motherland; to this end, I have analyzed novels by the Russian-American author Vladimir Nabokov, the Czech-French writer Milan Kundera and the Bosnian-Croatian author Miljenko Jergović. NATALIA STAGL-ŠKARO has dedicated her contribution to the Dalmatian Renaissance poet Petar Hektorović, whose depiction of age roles marks the transition from medieval concepts to those of modern times. On the occasion, she also provides the readers with a full-length English translation of the poet’s age lament and epistle to his coeval Mavro Vetranović. Finally,

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NICOLETTA CABASSI has examined the Laurentian Chronicle dating from 1377; starting from an analysis of the Old Russian lexicon of old age, she investigates how old age and the elderly were perceived within the medieval context of intersecting pagan and Christian world views. As the contributions to this volume demonstrate, images of old age and aging are strongly conditioned by their respective historical and cultural setting: they may diverge significantly according to time and place. In any case, age functions as a powerful marker of difference and as constitutive of social relations and personal identity. The literary analyses collected in this volume bring to the fore the ways fiction challenges dominant cultural perceptions of age and provides alternative narratives of aging across the lifespan.

R EFERENCES Gramshammer-Hohl, Dagmar (2014): Repräsentationen weiblichen Alterns in der russischen Literatur: Alt sein, Frau sein, eine alte Frau sein. Hamburg (= Grazer Studien zur Slawistik; 5). Gramshammer-Hohl, Dagmar (2016): “The Sameness of the Ageing Self: Memory and Testimony in 20th-Century Russian Narratives of Ageing”, in: Russian Literature 85, 23-41. Gullette, Margaret Morganroth (2004): Aged by Culture. Chicago, Ill. Hartung, Heike (ed.) (2005): Alter und Geschlecht. Repräsentationen, Geschichten und Theorien des Alter(n)s. Bielefeld. Hartung, Heike/Reinmuth, Dorothea/Streubel, Christiane/Uhlmann, Angelika (eds.) (2007): Graue Theorie. Die Kategorien Alter und Geschlecht im kulturellen Diskurs. Köln et al. Katz, Stephen (1996): Disciplining Old Age: The Formation of Gerontological Knowledge. Charlottesville, London. Katz, Stephen (2014): “What Is Age Studies?”, in: Age, Culture, Humanities 1. http://ageculturehumanities.org/WP/what-is-age-studies/ [accessed March 3, 2017]. Kunow, Rüdiger (2005): “‘Ins Graue’. Zur kulturellen Konstruktion von Altern und Alter”, in: Hartung, Heike (ed.): Alter und Geschlecht. Repräsentationen, Geschichten und Theorien des Alter(n)s. Bielefeld, 2143.

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Maierhofer, Roberta (2003): Salty Old Women. Eine anokritische Untersuchung zu Frauen, Altern und Identität in der amerikanischen Literatur. Essen (= Arbeiten zur Amerikanistik; 32) [2nd edition forthcoming]. Martin, Diane J./Gillen, Laura L. (2014): “Revisiting Gerontology’s Scrapbook: From Metchnikoff to the Spectrum Model of Aging”, in: The Gerontologist 54 (1), 51-58. https://doi.org/10.1093/geront/gnt073 [accessed March 3, 2017]. Savkina, Irina (2011): “‘U nas nikogda uže ne budet ėtich babušek?’”, in: Voprosy literatury 2, 109-135. Stacy, Robert H. (1989): “No Joy: Old Age in Russian Literature”, in: Bagnell, Prisca von Dorotka/Soper, Patricia Spencer (eds.): Perceptions of Aging in Literature: A Cross-Cultural Study. New York, 87-97. Städtke, Klaus (2010): “Lebenszyklen. Der russische Realismus und seine Helden”, in: Osteuropa 5 (60), 143-157. Wyatt-Brown, Anne M. (1990): “The Coming of Age of Literary Gerontology”, in: Journal of Aging Studies 4 (3), 299-315. Wyatt-Brown, Anne M. (2002): “Literature and Aging”, in: Encyclopedia of Aging. http://www.encyclopedia.com/education/encyclopedias-almanacstranscripts-and-maps/literature-and-aging [accessed March 3, 2017].

Beyond Ageism, Beyond Sexism Gender Issues, Aging and Sexuality in Vedrana Rudan’s Novel The Skeletons of Madison County M ARIJA G EIGER Z EMAN & Z DENKO Z EMAN

F ICTIONAL N ARRATIVES – S OURCE OF G ERONTOLOGICAL K NOWLEDGE The world we live in is saturated with narratives of all kinds, but we should not be surprised by this fact if we remind ourselves that one of the particularities of human kind in general is to tell stories, introducing by them order and structure, and most of all meaning in the chaos of everyday experiences and events (Clark 2010). Human “existence is inherently storied” (Kearney, cited in Lewis 2011: 505) or “narratived.” Moreover, in Patrick J. Lewis’ words, “without a story, there is no identity, no self, no other” (2011: 505). However, narratives do not emerge in a social vacuum, but rather are in manifold ways conditioned by one’s personal biography and private life circumstances, as well as by the temporal, social and cultural context in which the narrator or creator of the narrative lives. The “narrative turn” (Denzin) and “narrative research” (Polkinghorne) in social sciences are “giving voice to the voiceless,” more precisely to traditionally marginalized persons/groups, therefore “providing a more complex and complete picture of social life” (Hendry) (cited in: Lewis 2011: 506). This turn is also visible in gerontology – the focus shifts from a traditional external (“outside”) observation of aging and old age to the actual experiences articulated in (auto)biographical narratives (“inside”) (Oró

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Piqueras 2014). In the second half of the 1980s, more articulated calls appeared to connect gerontology and literary criticism, arguing in favor of intertwining of gerontological theories and literature (Wyatt-Brown, cited in Maierhofer 1999: 129). Fictional narratives of aging and old age are recognized as important sources of gerontological knowledge because they have the potential not only to open new issues and approaches that enlarge the full panoply of insights into the complexity of old age, but also to redefine the meaning of aging (Zeilig 2011: 8). In this context, the significant book Stories of Ageing by Mike Hepworth (2000) encourages research into the meaning of the experience of aging in society based on fiction novels, which may provide for a deeper understanding of “ideas about the ageing process and their possible influence over our individual subjective experience of growing older in contemporary society” (Hepworth 2000: 1, 8). The intertwining of feminist perspectives with gerontological theories sheds more light on the intersection of age and gender, opening a view on many interwoven themes: gender identities, power relations, the experience of multiple oppressions and inequalities in private and public spheres, intergenerational relationships, and that which mostly remains invisible – the specific quality and complexity of older women’s lives. In that sense literature certainly has an important emancipatory and empowering component because it makes it possible for older women to consider aging in a different, new way and creates understanding and meaning of old age beyond the traditional roles of mothers, grandmothers, spouses and caregivers (Formosa 2005; Bernard/Chambers/Granville 2000). Barbara Frey Waxman points out the multifaceted role of literature – it reflects society and entertains but is also “capable of changing people’s attitudes” (2010: 83), while Roberta Maierhofer evokes Judith Fetterley’s concept of the “resisting reader,” which applies for age studies: [R]eaders who resist the imposition of traditional interpretations, question the overt meaning of the text, and challenge the codification of meaning and received opinions about specific texts, perform political acts that transcend the realm of literary studies. (Maierhofer 1999: 130)

B EYOND A GEISM, B EYOND S EXISM | 19

B EYOND S EXISM – A V OICE T HAT S HOULD B E H EARD Vedrana Rudan’s novel The Skeletons of Madison County (Kosturi okruga Madison, 2012) confirms the statement of Colette V. Browne that “aging women, demanding corrections to ageist and sexist myths, are insisting that their voices be heard and respected rather than ignored or patronized” (cited in Bernard et al. 2000: 3) because it gives deep insight into the complexity of the life narrative of an older woman. This narrative challenges the existing cultural conceptions of aging femininities, but also points to widely spread and internalized fears and anxieties caused by the signs of body aging that strongly influence the individual perception and interpretation of aging bodies. Vedrana Rudan (*1949) is a famous Croatian novelist, columnist and blogger, often described as a controversial person because, in her public appearances and her texts, in an explicit, provocative and humorous way, she makes herself heard on actual social topics, criticizing all forms of social asymmetries. Besides showing a pronounced sensibility for social injustice, she resolutely advocates for female rights and gender equality. Her novel The Skeletons of Madison County is different in subject matter to the area she had thus far explored, so, on the eve of publishing it in 2012, on her official web page she wrote: “This is my first love novel. […] There is no blood, no anger, no wars, no Serbs or Croats, only love, love, love and sex, sex, sex.” (“Ovo je moj prvi ljubavni roman. […] Nema krvi, bijesa, rata, Srba i Hrvata. Samo ljubav, ljubav, ljubav i seks, seks, seks.”)1 The Skeletons of Madison County can be characterized as a “feministfriendly romance novel” (Rodale 2015a)2 – not escapist, no standardized

1

Vedrana Rudan, www.rudan.info/kosturi-okruga-madison/ [accessed September

2

The romance novel or romantic fiction was a genre that literary critics despised

9, 2015]. Authors’ translation [M.G.Z./Z.Z]. because of “trivial and dangerous fantasies […] produced for mindless, passive consumers” (Hollows 2002: 68). For second-wave feminists romantic fiction was a mechanism for reproduction of patriarchy, but recent analyses discover in it “complex and contradictory meanings” (ibid.). Therefore, for example, Janice Radway suggests that for its appropriate understanding it is not enough to focus on the analysis of the text, but the analysis of “the complex relations between publishing industries, romance texts and romance readers” (cited in Hollows

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fabula, not establishing “unrealistic ideas about life and love” (Rodale 2015b). The protagonists are neither one-dimensional nor stereotyped, and their matter-of-fact existence is additionally confirmed by ambivalence of their acts and reflections. The novel describes a liberating process of a 70year-old woman who grows gradually from a passive and submissive silent victim, dominated by her suppressed anger, into an autonomous subject aware of her inalienable right to the pursuit of happiness. Alongside, critically and with mature understanding, she begins to speak about gender and age stereotypes, unmasks inequality within patriarchal marital arrangements and, in the end, also brings into question a patriarchal status quo. Certainly, in order to understand the heroine’s life situation and identity (re)construction, a wider framework is of great importance – a complex relationship with her daughter, an unsatisfying marriage, the narrowmindedness of the local social setting as well as the social, economic and political post-transitional context of the society, marked by demographic aging, pronounced social differences, economic crisis, inefficient legal and health care institutions, challenges in caring for older persons, etc. In particular, when dealing with questions of gender issues, female reproductive rights and health, as well as the general economic situation, Rudan compares and contrasts the current social situation with that of a former socialist society. The main protagonist of the novel is 70-year-old Antonija Pavić, generally known as Pavica, a retired ferry-ticket saleswoman, devoted wife trapped in an unhappy marriage, a dedicated mother and grandmother. Only in the eighth decade of her life does she discover joy and authentic happiness of true partnership. Pavica is torn between the need for happiness, independence, emancipation and self-fulfillment on one side, and age and gender expectations of her family members as well as traditional gen-

2002: 69) should be included as well. New readings of the romance novel must also be viewed in the context of post-feminism and third-wave feminism. Such readings are a kind of “celebration of the power and possibilities of contradiction” (Gilley 2005: 189) – a (re)interpretation and (re)creation of new meanings of “traditionally female activities” (for example, knitting as traditional female activity becomes a feminist activity) (Stoller, cited in Gilley 2005: 190). Maya Rodale (2015b) concludes that “romance novels are by women, for women, about women” and that they “celebrate female pleasure” and “reward women.”

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der/age standards of the surrounding environment, on the other. For the first time in her life, Pavica, in love with Lovro Prpić, feels an inward impulse to change her life in a radical manner, which carries a strong subversive aspect because it brings into question the conventional patriarchal and traditional concepts of how an old woman should live. According to these concepts, an older woman is denied the right to independent and autonomous existence oriented toward her own needs. In the letters that should reach her daughter Ana only after her death, Pavica writes openly about all things and emotions that she could not (or was not allowed to) tell during her life, questioning and evaluating the reasons of her life’s decisions and her life’s path in totality. Moreover, in her letters, Pavica imparts transgenerationally empowering and emancipating advice on her daughter – those that were given to her by her, now passed away, mother, and again to her by her own mother – revealing in that way the hidden subversive practices that provided material and financial security and psychological survival for the women in her family in unbearable marriages. So, in accordance with the mother’s advice that “[e]very woman should have her own money and her own key” (“Svaka žena mora imati svoj dinar i svoj ključ” [Rudan 2012: 36]), Pavica has saved 40,000 Euros and owns a small apartment near the Orthodox church, inherited from her mother (a fact the rest of the family was not aware of), where she meets Lovro. During this process of reminiscence, Pavica critically questions the history of the relationship with her husband, but also with her daughter, with whom, despite all the love she feels for her, she did not manage to establish a deeper, closer and better-quality relationship, which is why she is completely unaware of her daughter’s life and intimacy. To what extent the role of wife and mother was limiting and emotionally demanding for her is seen through her statement that if she were to be born again, she would never choose to be either wife or mother. However, the focus of her interest is not only the gender component, but also conventional concepts of age. Namely, Pavica not only brings patriarchal family and marital order into question, but also challenges, and in the end rejects, the traditional age standards, that are, just like gender norms, twofold in their nature. Writing letters becomes a form of autobiography for Pavica, a “selfnarrative and life writing” (Oró Piqueras 2014: 87) or “self-life writing” (Karpiak 2010: 15), a kind of confession not only to her daughter, but, more importantly, to herself. In that way the crucial life events and important

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subjects are (re)organized and (re)interpreted to “develop a coherent past” (Hunt/McHale 2008: 43), to enlighten the logic that led the heroine through the labyrinth of life decisions and finally to bring sense to her past experiences and present decisions that will influence the future. Such a reminiscent attempt integrates “the inner and outer life of the individual” (Karpiak 2010: 15), enabling Pavica to disclose herself and to explain to herself and to Ana why, and how, her personal choices were influenced by external factors – marital and family relations, expectations of the social milieu and tradition, social and economic reasons, etc. So Pavica writes: “I’m looking for an alibi, I want to forgive myself, if I was wrong. I want to reveal myself. To me and to you.” (“Tražim si alibi, želim si oprostiti, ako sam bila kriva. Želim se otkriti. I sebi i tebi.” [Rudan 2012: 60]) Pavica’s letters can be interpreted by the concept of “fixed reminiscence,” developed by Ruth E. Ray and Sally Chandler (2001-2002: 45). This type of reminiscence consists of stories which can be defined as “set pieces that are repeated, almost verbatim, for the purpose of maintaining a valued self-image and teaching a lesson” (ibid.). Pavica wants her daughter to get to know her after her death (since they did not manage to become closer during her lifetime), but also supposes that her daughter will interpret her letters in a negative way because “nobody loves confessions of old people” (“ispovijesti starih ljudi nitko ne voli” [Rudan 2012: 94]), and does not even believe that her life narrative will be read through to the end. Writing about one’s life in letters is an identity strategy par excellence – in her letters, Pavica reveals, notably to herself, her most intimate thoughts and tries to answer basic questions: Who am I? What have I been through? Where am I going? What am I supposed to do? In that way she becomes aware of and rejects multiple limiting gender and age stereotypes that were internalized in earlier life phases. In Pavica’s life narrative presented in letters, a “generative narrative” (Urrutia et al. 2009) should be recognized, in which identity (re)construction is followed by honest recognizing, fruitful analysis and letting go of unpleasant life episodes and, in the end, making way to constructive and positive solutions. Generative narratives comprise an important liberating component: “adults leaning towards generativity tend to see their own lives in terms of redemption” (ibid.: paragraph 22). Although the novel is dominated by Pavica’s voice, Vedrana Rudan makes it possible for the reader to hear the voices of other protagonists that are directly or indirectly connected to Pavica. Their reflections and life di-

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lemmas enable us to see and experience Pavica from different perspectives, but also offer us a transgenerational picture of relevant issues that were decisive for the main heroine’s destiny (e.g. the social, cultural and political contexts; gender conceptions and relations; sexuality; marriage; family, etc.).

E MANCIPATORY P OTENTIAL

OF

L ATER -L IFE L OVE

Love is not only a multilayer process but also a construct shaped by cultural and social context. In the text “Romantic Love – A Feminist Conundrum?” Renata Grossi presents two streams in feminism that interpret (heterosexual) love in contradictory ways. To radical feminists, romantic love is “the pivot of oppression for women” (Shulamith Firestone), an aspect of patriarchal ideology that pushes a woman into a multiple-dependent relationship with a man, reducing her to a wife and mother, where, of course, the context in which the concept of love is constructed is of great importance (Carol Smart, cited in Grossi 2013). Simone de Beauvoir also points out the importance of context, warning that in the conditions of “unequal position of men and women, love becomes ‘a curse’ that confines women in the feminine universe,” while authors like Lynne Pearce and Janice Radway interpret love as a “site of resistance, transformation, and agency” (cited in Grossi 2013). That love is a source of permanent dissatisfaction, frustration and submission, but also a source of happiness, strength and encouragement for a deep change in life is also confirmed by Pavica’s love biography. Of course, these diverse faces and variants of (heterosexual) love can be read in other love stories of other protagonists, but here we are going to focus on Pavica’s love relationships because we consider her love narrative interesting and unique. First of all, the love life of a 70-year-old person is not a common literary theme, so one should recognize Vedrana Rudan’s pioneering attempt to bring into question the deeply imbedded conceptions of identities of older women as well as the distorted ideas of possibilities of romantic love and sexuality in later life. Therefore Pavica, on her way to emancipation and individualization, meets many internal and external obstacles, like the internalized (but later deconstructed and overcome) traditional ageist idea that (romantic) love is reserved for young persons only. So, she considers that it would not be proper to admit the love between her

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and Lovro to her husband Ivo – “because your father and me, we are old people, and old people do not talk about love. They talk about last wishes, lawyers, nitroglycerin, trumpeters and where they would like their ashes to be spread” (“jer smo tvoj otac i ja starci a starci ne razgovaraju o ljubavi. Oni govore o posljednjim željama, advokatima, nitroglicerinu, trubačima i gdje bi voljeli da im se prospe pepeo” [Rudan 2012: 12]). Worries about people’s judgment and fear of condemnation also come into play: “What will people say? That’s stronger than me.” (“Što će ljudi reći? To je jače od mene.” [ibid.: 54]), as well as guilt because of Lovro’s marital drama caused by the wife’s illness who has been in coma for many years, and Ana’s evident ageism and incomprehension of her mother’s newly discovered love. Pavica’s husband Ivo and her new love Lovro function as opposites and represent two types of masculine identity. Ivo, called Medo (Bear), is the embodiment of hegemonic masculinity. This 76-year-old man led a working life on the ship as a captain, which made him spend most of his time away from his family. Thus Pavica perceived their marriage as a split between the episodes of horror that she felt each time Medo’s ship was entering the harbor and the episodes of happiness when it would sail away. In the letters to her daughter, Pavica describes her husband as a hypochondriac, miser and materialist, as well as a depressive, jealous and pessimistic person, devoid of any intellectual curiosity, for whom life is “God’s suffering” (despite the fact that he is an atheist). Always serious, emotionally suppressed and cold, Medo would laugh only in the company of friends he went bowling or played cards with. Asymmetry in marriage and Pavica’s subordination were evident in every aspect of their relationship, and Medo’s dominance and focus on his own needs and pleasures were especially stressed in the domain of intimacy. Their 48 years of marriage represent a typical patriarchal arrangement in which a husband, as the financially superior and dominant figure, controls not only his wife’s finances, but also dictates her way of life; so Medo often “wraps” (“umatao”) his plans into her needs (11), which she is aware of, so it is not surprising that she is full of internal resistance and considers her almost-half-century-long marriage a hard labor. Although unfulfilled and unhappy, even at a younger age, Pavica has not considered a divorce because, in a traditional social setting, divorce is deemed neither a desirable nor a popular solution to marital disputes. Moreover, dissatisfaction in marriage was tolerated because the

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marital form was supposed to be maintained under any circumstances: “[…] in my time, divorces were not in fashion. What will people say? […] People would think I am a lunatic.” (“[…] u moje vrijeme rastave nisu bile u modi. Što će ljudi reći? […] Ljudi bi mislili da sam luđakinja.” [45]). In time, Pavica becomes more and more aware of the fact that she has been staying in the marriage for external reasons – her daughter, reactions of her family and friends, division of property, etc. However, her love of Lovro intensifies the feeling of dissatisfaction in her marriage until it becomes unbearable. The feeling of dissatisfaction, subordination, unrealization and unfulfillment is a matrix that also defines the marital histories of Pavica’s peers. Therefore she concludes that the widows are the happiest women in the world because only after the death of their husbands do they gain the freedom from home obligations and from the submissive position of a victim, as well as the possibility to finally do what truly fulfills them (36). And while Pavica and Medo’s marital arrangement confirms feminist critiques of marriage as a repressive institution that legitimizes the dominance of a man and subordination of a woman (reducing her to a wife, mother, housemaid and sexual object), the partnership with Lovro reveals to Pavica new dimensions of male-female relationships and a completely new face of love. In this context, romantic love has a profound transformational potential – love towards Lovro encourages Pavica to auto-reflect and question previous approaches to life and love. Leaving the safety of an unauthentic existence opens her to new perspectives and inner strength of which she was not previously aware (Smith Barusch 2008). By his habitus, Lovro proves that there are many co-existing types of masculinity beyond the strictly patriarchal model (Calasanti 2003). Acquaintance made while performing with a choir of pensioners grows into a deep friendship and true love, whose essence Pavica summarizes succinctly: “I have someone I trust, but I don’t love my husband.” (“Ja imam nekoga kome vjerujem, ali ja moga muža ne volim.” [Rudan 2012: 33]) Pavica, therefore, trusts Lovro because he is a gentle person who unreservedly takes care of his wife who has been in coma for many years, but also because he expresses love, gentleness and respect toward Pavica. Warm chocolate pastries, fruits, flowers, holding hands, kisses – all these “little things” make Pavica so happy that in Lovro’s company, she feels like her “real self” (“prava ja”), but also simultaneously like a completely “other woman” (“neka druga žena”) (126).

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However, later-life romance, surely, includes more than the two people directly involved, so Pavica, for example, is tormented with feelings of guilt with respect to Lovro’s wife Anka, fear of the reaction of her daughter Ana, the wider social milieu, etc. On the other hand, Pavica and Lovro’s love illustrates the truth that romance, intimacy, closeness and a deep relationship are possible in every stage of life, but Pavica’s happiness is diluted with a clear consciousness of double gender standards: Love does not happen only to girls or boys or women in their thirties or men in any phase of life. […] Finally, I feel happy, for the first time in my life. And deeply unhappy at the same time because I have to hide my happiness in front of your father […]. (Ljubav se ne dešava samo curama i dečkima ili ženama u tridesetoj a muškarcima u svakoj dobi života. […] Najzad se osjećam sretnom, prvi put u životu. I duboko nesretnom istovremeno jer pred tvojim ocem moram skrivati svoju sreću […]. [5253])

S EXUALITY – D IFFERENT V IEWS , D IFFERENT E XPERIENCES Sexuality is a dominating motif in the novel The Skeletons of Madison County, in which two key elements are in focus: gender and age. Sexual freedom, relations toward sex and sexuality are divided in experiences and attitudes of different generations of women. Pavica is, so to speak, a typical representative of her generation – a sexually unrealized and inexperienced woman, socialized in the traditional milieu and patriarchal culture, which controls and places taboos on female sexuality, denies women the right to pleasure and distinguishes between women as “honorable,” for whom sex is boring and devoid of any pleasure, and women who are, due to their uninhibited sexual choices, labeled as whores. Sex for Pavica has been an odious marital duty and obligation in which she, as a rule, has played a passive and submissive role. The invisibility of sexuality is also manifested in the fact that love and orgasm were not a subject of women’s discussions. Female gender identity was exhausted in the

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roles of a mother and wife, which were completely realized in the sphere of household duties. However, one traumatic event is the key turning point of Medo and Pavica’s relationship. This event intensifies Pavica’s negative perception of men and sex and causes complete emotional distance from her husband. After a longer sojourn at sea, Medo engages in sexual intercourse with a prostitute who, unbeknownst to him, is infected with syphilis. Pavica has never forgiven him, although she also feels guilty for her sexual indifference, which, so she believes, made Medo seek satisfaction with another woman. This understanding also shows a traditional, submissive view of a woman who always takes the blame. Pavica has never left Medo, due to deeply internalized patriarchal norms and values that define gender roles in fixed and unchangeable ways: men play an instrumental role – they bring money and secure material existence, and women have an expressive and reproductive function – they give birth to children, make men’s lives easier and always greet them with smiles on their faces (53). Her relationship and completely different experiences with Lovro encourage Pavica to review her earlier attitudes and conceptions – she realizes that “not all men are pigs” (“nisu svi muškarci svinje” [52]), that sex cannot be reduced only to sexual diseases, but can be a source of pleasure, joy and intimacy because, as an expression of physical gentleness, empathy and mutuality, sex is more than penetration. As opposed to Pavica, her daughter Ana (as well as Tanja, Ana’s husband’s lover) has a completely different, emancipated and more open attitude toward sexuality, which mystifies her mother. Ana is a self-confident, emancipated, professionally realized, financially independent (and dominant) woman on the threshold of her fifties. Although the late 1980s were the time in which women obtained sexual freedom and reproductive rights, the power of patriarchal tradition was still informing female choices. In that way, Ana, as a young woman, causes astonishment because she does not have a steady job, a husband and a child, withstanding gender expectations of the social context in which she has grown up. Women, even today and in spite of emancipation, are still perceived from the traditional gender perspective; thus Ana has gained, also from women’s points of view, a reputation as a “dragon woman” (“žena zmaj”) or “real man” (“pravo muško”) (100). In this vein, Ana’s father also evaluates, and, for example, resents his daughter for not practicing medicine, in-

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stead selling pharmaceuticals. However, he respects the fact that she “earns as a man” (“zarađuje kao da je muškarac”), even more than her (second) husband, a cardiologist – if she were not his own daughter, Medo would consider such financial disparity unfair (61). Ana, on the other hand, demonstrates exercising her right to personal choice, regardless of the society’s misunderstanding and limiting traditional gender norm, by divorcing Ranko and marrying Igor, who is nine years her junior. The contrast between the life choices of the mother and the daughter shows not only their differences, but also a slow, gradual process of female emancipation in society. Pavica’s written reminiscence and a comparison between her own marital decisions and Ana’s demonstrate significant differences and the dramatic range of the mother’s reactions and attitudes toward these differences. The daughter’s courage to break off – independently and regardless of the opinion (disapproval) of others – one marriage and start another, and that with a younger man (who loves her as well as her first husband had), provokes the mother to admit jealousy and animosity, but also anger due to her own inability, fear and cowardice. All that is additionally worsened by the fact that the daughter has not had to earn the love of her husbands by submissiveness, humoring or indulgence.

T HE AGING B ODY AND I DEALS F EMININE APPEARANCE

OF

It is clear that age is not only a chronological fact – it is simply not reducible to the number of one’s years. We are talking about a complex sociocultural construct shaped by different interpretations, conceptions, expectations and codes. There are many stereotypes and prejudices in connection with old age and old persons (Maierhofer 1999), and the culture we live in is saturated with more or less explicit fears, negative stereotypes and embarrassments in connection with old age and aging. These socio-cultural anxieties find their endless articulations in everyday discussions, folk proverbs, media, fashion and the cosmetics industry, which encourage people to “feel the need to retain youthful appearances” (Bayer 2005: 17). The imperative to be young or, at least, “youthful aging” is the basis of contemporary anti-aging culture. But the ageism of that culture has a strong gender component that reflects still very powerful “double standards of aging”

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about which Susan Sontag wrote inspiredly as early as 1972. This mesh of ageism and sexism inevitably leads to a multiple marginalization of older women. Pavica is also aware of the double standards of aging, and she knows very well that a woman in her 70s who leaves her 76-year-old husband will be labeled sexually deviant and unworthy of exercising certain rights. She also knows that, as opposed to the case of this 70-year-old woman, a (rich) 76-year-old man who leaves his wife and marries a 28-year-old woman will not bring into question his capacity to exercise rights in public. Quite on the contrary, he will “confirm” a widespread “conventional wisdom” about mature and sexually experienced older men (Rudan 2012: 19). The traditional conception of hegemonic masculinity is defined with competence, autonomy, self-control, strength and professional success, which allows a man, regardless of his chronological age and physical appearance, to be considered an “acceptable mate for a young, attractive woman” (Sontag 1972: 31). As opposed to men, a woman’s value (no matter her age) is based on her physical appearance, with respect to the extent to which she comes close to (mono)cultural standards of female beauty equaling youth (as well as being slim).3 “Looking ‘old’ is viewed more harshly for women across diverse cultures,” claims Laurie Russell Hatch (2005: 19), which has resulted in a negative socio-cultural coding of older women’s bodies. Myriad feminist authors have pointed to a double reading of the changes that old age leaves on male and female bodies. For example, wrinkles and gray hair are considered signs of manly experience, charm and character, while for women these same physical features are considered unattractive and unwanted signs of aging, unfemininity and neglect (Saul 2003). Examples of the devastating effects of internalization of the norms and standards that make fe-

3

This type of double standard and socialization that very early teaches girls about the ideology of beauty, practices of beautifying and disciplining body in accordance with “norms of feminine appearance” (Saul 2003: 144), and that glorifies a certain type of looks (long and thick hair, blue eyes, skinny body, prominent breasts, long legs) and age is dealt with in Vedrana Rudan’s texts “To be a woman” (“Biti žena”, 2014) and “Why a highly educated beautiful woman sees herself as a hanger for designer’s outfits?” (“Zašto visokoobrazovana lijepa žena sebe svodi na vješalicu za dizajnerske haljine?”, 2015).

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male bodies “old” and sexually unattractive, and therefore “wholly disqualified from romance” (Sontag 1972: 32), are found in this novel in the juxtaposition of 30-year-old Tanja and 50-year-old Ana. The novel is, namely, not only about the love between Pavica and Lovro, but also the anatomy of a love triangle between Ana; her (second and younger) husband Igor, a prosperous doctor; and his lover Tanja, a cardiology specialist. Both women are professionally successful, financially independent, sexually selfconfident and physically attractive and, in that sense, represent the embodiment of the post-feminist ideal of femininity. This is also apparent due to their very complex and – from a feminist perspective – ambivalent and contradictory gender identities. These are particularly clearly shown in the sphere of sexuality, which considerably influences both female-female relationships, as well as the interpretation of old age and aging. The secret love affair with Igor sparks Tanja’s competition with and comparison to Ana, based primarily on the difference in their chronological ages. Tanja, namely, considers her younger age as her trump card, which she then tries – in an ethically ambiguous and anti-feminist way (insisting on biology) – to use for pregnancy or various manipulative practices with the aim of pointing out the alleged advantages of being young: Biology is on my side. There is no way that beauty and youth came out of fashion. (Biologija je na mojoj strani. Nema šanse da su ljepota i mladost izašle iz mode. [108]) She deliberately took the make-up off. She wanted Igor to be able to compare a clean, young face with a face of a fifty-year-old woman who wipes years in vain with fillers, Botox, foundations, concealer, blush and powder. (Namjerno je s lica skinula šminku. Željela je da Igor može usporediti čisto, mlado lice s licem pedesetogodišnjakinje koja uzalud briše godine filerima, botoxom, tekućim puderom, korektorom, rumenilom i puderom u prahu. [146])

Both Tanja and Ana are aware of the double standards of aging, but the fact that they do not resist them in their decisions and acts points to a great legitimatizing power of the internalization of these asymmetrical gender-age criteria. In one of her internal monologues, Tanja points out that all important and successful men have younger women, and assumes the reason Ana and Igor’s marriage has lasted is due to his pity of an older woman

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(99). From the other side, Ana invests in appearing youthful and tries to face with dignity the moment when Igor will find a woman whose youth Ana’s mature body (which she herself compares to an old, read and ragged book [102]) cannot compete with. She would let him leave her without unnecessary drama. For both Ana and Tanja, aging is a process of gradual defeminization – the loss of reproductive potential and physical attractiveness. Tanja’s ageist and sexist ideas and perceptions of the aging female body point to the unconditional internalization of looking young as an esthetic criterion, as if she forgets that the loose, dry and wrinkled bodies of her patients represent a picture of her own future body – because old age comes for everyone. In gerontology it is exactly the body that is recognized as an important element in understanding gender and aging, and Rudan in her descriptions of her heroines masterly illustrates the fact that body, age and aging are socially and culturally constructed (see Twigg 2003). Unlike Tanja and Ana, Pavica looks at her body primarily through functional and health categories: pain in her knees, arrhythmia and high blood pressure that she controls with medicine (e.g. drinking herbal teas of various kinds; coating painful spots with ointment; taking drugs for blood pressure regulation, for pain, to relax; doing acupuncture, etc.). As she implies, telling her life narrative, physical appearance has never been important to her, so she does not take the comments of a young computer workshop teacher that she looks great for her age as a compliment. Moreover, she feels an impetus to pull down her trousers and show her body – spotty with cracked capillaries, dark spots and hanging muscles – but instead she conforms with the expectations required of a woman of her age to be a decent and nice old lady (Rudan 2012: 21). Pavica accepts her old body, plastic hips, painful knees and signs of aging inscribed in her face and body, paying no attention to the ageist-sexist ideal of female beauty grounded exclusively in youth (and also because she knows that such a body in the real world is no guaranty of happiness or fulfillment). So, in her letter, she tells Ana one of her important findings: “[…] happiness doesn’t have to do with age, even not with health, you know that I have plastic hips and that my knee hurts, but I’m still happy.” (“[…] sreća nema veze ni sa godinama, čak ni sa zdravljem, znaš da imam plastične kukove i da me boli koljeno, pa ipak sam sretna.” [94]) With this insight, Pavica also shows that in a way she has managed to overcome the socially dominant pessimistic discourse of old age as decrease in power and irrepa-

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rable losses, that Ana and Tanja are victims when they think about the aging of the female body.

B EYOND AGEISM – O LD AGE AS A P ERIOD OF N EW O PPORTUNITIES The dark and pessimistic discourse of old age as decrease and decay has been opposed in recent decades by the idea of positive, active and successful aging (Hepworth 2000). However, this hyperoptimistic discourse, turned toward youth, activity, productivity and autonomy, has not conceptually overcome ageism, but only adjusted to actual politics, consumerism and neoliberalism (Sandberg 2013). Although she is neither scientist nor theoretician, Pavica clearly sees that it is not correct to reduce old age to chronological age and that the quality and styles of the life of her peers should be considered in some new categories. Again, although she is a critic of politics of “golden ages” (“zlatne godine” [Rudan 2012: 21]) she herself lives an active old age, yet not according to some externally assigned models, but rather in a personal, authentic way, that is “organically” connected to her own life and biography. Powerful means for the “empowerment and emancipation of older adults” (Formosa 2005: 397) are education in old age and taking part in community projects. The motivation to sing in a choir and learn how to use computer in an “Association of gold and incense” (“Udruga zlato i tamijan” [Rudan 2012: 21])4 are firstly components of Pavica’s strategy to bear her husband and life with him more easily, but they also open for her “possibilities for self-development” (Biggs 2004: 47). Her acquaintance with Lovro influences Pavica’s experience and sensation of her old age such that her “golden ages” become the most beautiful, the happiest and the most vivid of her life, which perfectly illustrates Hepworth’s thesis that old age is “an open-ended subjective and social experience” (Hepworth 2000: 2), whose specific definition depends on a series of internal and external factors. We can agree with the thesis that Pavica’s experience proves the im-

4

Vedrana Rudan refers to the well-known novel Scents, Gold and Incense (Mirisi, zlato i tamjan, 1968) by Slobodan Novak, in which the protagonist is the old and very demanding noblewoman Madona Markantunova.

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portance of being active in older age, but her narrative and transformation that she has undergone can be described best in the categories of “affirmative old age” (Sandberg 2013) that surpasses linear “decline and success discourses” because with “positive and joyful experiences” it also includes experiences of “pain and vulnerability,” facing our own mortality and the death of loved ones. The title of the novel refers to the well-known movie Bridges of Madison County (1995) (directed by Clint Eastwood, based on the novel of the same title by Robert James Waller), in which children of the protagonist Francesca (Meryl Streep) find out from her diary about her love story with Robert (Clint Eastwood). Despite her true love toward Robert, the heroine decides to stay by her husband because “a woman is not a woman if she does not stay by her husband and children” (“žena nije žena ako ne ostane uz svoga muža i djecu”), and a different ending would not be romantic (Rudan 2012: 128). However, Pavica, as opposed to Francesca, shows more courage and decisiveness to leave her marriage and (finally) live her life – one day while her husband is pulling up to the traffic lights, she sees a sad Lovro (who meanwhile has become a widower) on the bridge, and decides to be brave, jump out of her husband’s car and stop almost half a century of agony, fulfilling her greatest wish – “to turn her key” (“vrtjeti svoj ključ”) in the lock of her small (secret) apartment every day and finally “live her own life” (“živjeti svoj život”) (11). That is how she demonstrates that “emancipatory hedonism” (Cruikshank 2009: 4) has to do with content and pleasure, but primarily with paving the way to living in freedom, in line with personal standards, norms and aspirations. Translated from Croatian by Barbara Katić This text was written within the COST Action IS1402: “Ageism – multi-national, interdisciplinary perspective”. We would like to express our thanks to our friend Jadranka Pintarić for drawing our attention to Vedrana Rudan’s novel The Skeletons of Madison County.

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R EFERENCES Arber, Sara/Davidson, Kate/Ginn, Jay (eds.) (2003): Gender and Ageing: Changing Roles and Relationships. Maidenhead, Philadelphia. Bayer, Kathryn (2005): “Cosmetic Surgery and Cosmetics: Redefining the Appearance of Age”, in: Ageism in the New Millennium, 13-18. Bernard, Miriam/Chambers, Pat/Granville, Gillian (2000): “Women Ageing: Changing Identities, Challenging Myths”, in: Bernard, Miriam/Phillips, Judith/Machin, Linda/Harding Davies, Val (eds.): Women Ageing: Changing Identities, Challenging Myths. London, New York, 1-22. Bernard, Miriam/Phillips, Judith/Machin, Linda/Harding Davies, Val (eds.) (2000): Women Ageing: Changing Identities, Challenging Myths. London, New York. Biggs, Simon (2004): “Age, Gender, Narratives, and Masquerades”, in: Journal of Aging Studies 18, 45-58. Calasanti, Toni (2003): “Masculinities and Care Work in Old Age”, in: Arber, Sara/Davidson, Kate/Ginn, Jay (eds.): Gender and Ageing: Changing Roles and Relationships. Maidenhead, Philadelphia, 15-30. Clark, Carolyn M. (2010): “Narrative Learning: Its Contours and Its Possibilities”, in: New Directions for Adult and Continuing Education 126, 3-11. Cole, Thomas R./Ray, Ruth E./Kastenbaum, Robert (eds.) (2010): A Guide to Humanistic Studies in Aging: What Does It Mean to Grow Old. Baltimore. Cruikshank, Margaret (2009): Learning to Be Old. Gender, Culture, and Aging. Lanham et al. Frey Waxman, Barbara (2010): “Literary Texts and Literary Critics Team Up Against Ageism”, in: Cole, Thomas R./Ray, Ruth E./Kastenbaum, Robert (eds.): A Guide to Humanistic Studies in Aging: What Does It Mean to Grow Old. Baltimore, 83-104. Formosa, Marvin (2005): “Feminism and Critical Educational Gerontology: An Agenda for Good Practice”, in: Ageing International 30 (4), 396411. Gilley, Jennifer (2005): “Writings of the Third Wave: Young Feminists in Conversation”, in: The Allert Collector 44 (3), 187-198.

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Grossi, Renata (2013): “Romantic Love – A Feminist Conundrum?” http://www.thefeministwire.com/2013/09/feminist-critiques-of-love/ [accessed September 15, 2015]. Hepworth, Mike (2000): Stories of Ageing. Buckingham, Philadelphia. Hollows, Joanne (2002): Feminism, Femininity and Popular Culture. Manchester, New York. Hunt, Nigel/McHale, Sue (2008): “Memory and Meaning: Individual and Social Aspects of Memory Narratives”, in: Journal of Loss and Trauma 13, 42-58. Karpiak, Irene E. (2010): “Summoning the Past: Autobiography as a ‘Movement Toward Possibility’”, in: New Directions for Adult and Continuing Education 126, 13-24. Lewis, Patrick J. (2011): “Storytelling as Research/Research as Storytelling”, in: Qualitative Inquiry 17 (6), 505-510. Maierhofer, Roberta (1999): “Desperately Seeking the Self: Gender, Age, and Identity in Tillie Olsen’s Tell Me a Riddle and Michelle Herman’s Missing”, in: Educational Gerontology 25, 129-141. Oró Piqueras, Maricel (2014): “Memory Revisited in Julian Barnes’s The Sense of an Ending”, in: Coolabah 13, 87-95. Ray, Ruth E./Chandler, Sally (2001-2002): “A Narrative Approach to AntiAging”, in: Generations 25 (4), 44-48. Rodale, Maya (2015a): “Feminist-Friendly Romance Novels”. http://bookriot.com/2015/05/08/feminist-friendly-romance-novels/ [accessed September 15, 2015]. Rodale, Maya (2015b): “7 Reasons It’s Actually Totally Feminist to Read (and Write) Romance Novels, Thank You Very Much”. http://www.bustle.com/articles/80350-7-reasons-its-actually-totallyfeminist-to-read-and-write-romance-novels-thank-you-very-much [accessed September 15, 2015]. Rudan, Vedrana (2012): Kosturi okruga Madison. Zagreb. Rudan, Vedrana (2014): “Zašto visokoobrazovana lijepa žena sebe svodi na vješalicu za dizajnerske haljine”. http://www.index.hr/black/clanak/ vedrana-rudan-zasto-visokoobrazovana-lijepa-zena-sebe-svodi-navjesalicu-za-dizajnerske-haljine/731134.aspx [accessed September 9, 2015]. Rudan, Vedrana (2015): “Biti žena”. http://www.rudan.info/biti-zena/ [accessed September 9, 2015].

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Russell Hatch, Laurie (2005): “Gender and Ageism”, in: Generations 29 (3), 19-24. Sandberg, Linn (2013): “Affirmative Old Age – The Ageing Body and Feminist Theories on Difference”, in: International Journal of Ageing and Later Life 8 (1), 11-40. Saul, Jennifer (2003): Feminism: Issues & Arguments. Oxford. Smith Barusch, Amanda (2008): Love Stories of Later Life: A Narrative Approach to Understanding Romance. Oxford. Sontag, Susan (1972): “The Double Standard of Aging”. https://www.unz. org/Pub/SaturdayRev-1972sep23-00029 [accessed August 23, 2015]. Twigg, Julia (2003): “The Body, Gender, and Age: Feminist Insights in Social Gerontology”, in: Journal of Aging Studies 18, 59-73. Urrutia, Andrés/Cornachione, Maria A./Moisset de Espanés, Gastón/Ferragut, Lilian/Guzmán, Elena (2009): “The Culminating Point of Generativity in Older Women: Main Aspects of Their Life Narrative”, in: Forum Qualitative Sozialforschung/Forum: Qualitative Social Research 10 (3). http://www.qualitative-research.net/index.php/fqs/article/ view/1180 [accessed September 15, 2015]. Zeilig, Hannah (2011): “The Critical Use of Narrative and Literature in Gerontology”, in: International Journal of Ageing and Later Life 6 (2), 7-37.

Growing Old to Remember The “Final Questions” of a Hundred-Year-Old Ukrainian Villager L IANA G OLETIANI

I NTRODUCTION In Ukrainian, the title of Volodymyr Lys’s novel Stolittja Jakova (Jakiv’s Century, 2010) has several possible meanings. Does it refer to the hundredth birthday that the main hero Jakiv Mech pictures in his imagination, the hundred years he has lived through, his memories of which are filled with an awareness of his approaching death, or indeed the century of Ukrainian history in which his life has been played out? The title’s multiple linguistic meanings anticipate the many layers of the text’s content, which in turn determine the multifaceted nature of its analysis. The memories of the aged Jakiv – to whom the greater part of the novel’s narrative space is devoted – may be of interest to the representatives of the most diverse theoretical approaches to developing an understanding of the phenomenon of memory in literature. Lys’s text synthesises the problem of human memory – both individual and collective – in such a polyvalent manner that it is the interdisciplinary branches of literary studies that are best placed to carry out an analysis of it. Michail Bachtin’s idea of dialogism in culture – in its broadest interpretation – finds a complete and comprehensive confirmation within the pages of this relatively short but extremely content-rich novel. The text is of interest for the way dialogic relations can be established with the Holy Scrip-

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tures and Japanese haiku that appear as epigraphs, as well as with famous works by Márquez, Proust, Tolstoj and Nabokov – the list is wide open. The author’s broad use of elements of magical realism or family saga attract our attention both through its faithfulness to these literary canons, and also, on the other hand, as an example of decanonisation. The cultural memory studies paradigm perhaps provides the most appropriate conceptual apparatus for analysing the memories of a peasant from Ukrainian Polissia (see above all Erll et al. 2008). This is because the subject of these memories forms part of the historical and cultural memory of the region. In this sense the choice of a hero who is aware of the approaching end of life is far from fortuitous: “Life only assumes the form of the past on which a memory culture can be built through its end, through its irremediable discontinuity” (Assman 2011: 19, originally Assman 1992). Jakiv represents a generalised image of the peasant culture of Western Polissia in 20th-century Ukraine.1 This region witnessed many of Ukraine’s key historical events. Their narration through the hero’s personal history is a valuable contribution to Ukrainian anti- and post-colonial discourse and, in general, to the development of political thought that “in Ukraine is determined to a significant extent by the dynamics of literary development”, since it is by “returning a historical and ethical sense of time to one’s nation” (Paсhljovska 2014: 476) that literature participates in the construction of identity and the development of civil society. Be that as it may, for all their importance the themes of nation building and history do not obscure the novel’s main attribute – its deeply individual and humanistic pathos, first and foremost – thanks to the subtle psychologism of the narration of the aged Jakiv’s memories. For this reason the attempt will be made below to examine, first of all, the narrative interpretation of the psychological aspects of remembering. As has been mentioned more than once, literature and psychology have many aspects in common. As some of the most important, Jurij Mann (1990) names the following: “the writer’s (or artist’s) psychological type; the psychology of the creative

1

Polissia (Polesie in Polish, Palessja in Belarusian, Polissja in Ukrainian, Poles’e in Russian) is one of the ancient regions of the Eastern Slavs and is the subject of Slavistic research in the important fields of ethnogenesis, glottogenesis and Ukrainian, Belarusian and Russian ethno-cultural history. On the interdisciplinary research on the subject of this region see above all Tolstoj (1983).

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process; the psychological types and patterns embedded in the literary work; the psychological effect of literature on the reader.” Some of these, such as the expression of psychological phenomena (states, feelings, emotions) through literary means, have long been the object of extensive study by literary critics (see, for example, Platone 1990). Others have undergone more recent development, thanks in part to new advances in neurophysiology. Therefore, not only do psychologists find the primary material for the study of their own subject within narrative, but they establish a commonality of methods with those of the discipline of aesthetics (see Chorošilov 2007). If we are speaking of the phenomenon of memory in literature it is of relevance to recall that Borges’ story Funes the Memorious (Funes el memorioso, 1942) is of interest to representatives of philosophical literary studies (see above all Lachmann 1993) and to psychologists themselves (McGaugh 2003: 127). These considerations have given rise to the dual perspective on Jakiv’s memories that is set out below. His memory and his self-awareness will not only be examined from the point of view of the “three themes of memory (or reference to the past), identity (or political imagination), and cultural continuity (or the formation of tradition)” of which Assman speaks (2011: 2), but emphasis will also be placed on the concept of old age in the psychosocial theory of Erik Erikson (1982). According to this theory, human life is divided into eight stages, each of which sees the individual solving an important problem in the development of his or her own psychosocial identity and surmounting a crisis of internal contradictions, which permits him or her to proceed to the new stage. As the works of Bachtin once again demonstrate, classical literature, and in particular the genre of the novel, is preoccupied with what is essentially the same thing – “the continual development of the hero’s self-awareness, which acts against all fixed and final definitions” (Mann 1990: 15). According to Erikson, during the final stage of life the individual is capable of achieving wisdom – an “informed and detached concern with life itself in the face of death itself” (1982: 61), although much here depends on how he or she answers the “final questions”. To discover what the final questions are that occupy Jakiv’s consciousness we need to see what forms the subject of his memories and how they correspond with the time frames of the novel’s narrative.

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T HE U NFORGETTABLE : T HE N OVEL ’ S C ONTENT AND S TRUCTURE The story of the hero’s life is told in three temporal layers: the present, the recent past and the distant past. The novel’s first part “Stray. Wedding” (“Приблуда. Весілля”) starts in a present in which Jakiv is aged 99; for the first time he becomes clearly aware of his age – “How old I am!” (“Який же я старий!”) – and recalls a story about Olenka that took place five years prior (Lys 2010: 11). In the middle of this recent story his memory performs a leap into a more distant past. Although they intertwine, from this point onward these three temporal layers proceed in a linear manner. As he lives out the final weeks of his one hundredth year, Jakiv spends the long winter nights recalling the story of his whole life and that of Olenka in order to reach some final conclusions about his joys and his losses. His first solid recollection about the distant past concerns the return of Platon Mech, Jakiv’s father, who left Simon Petljura’s army after the war with the Bolsheviks.2 Jakiv is only twelve years old, and he is the first person whom his father informs of his decision to lay down his arms. Three features that are of importance for the collective memory make this family episode memorable: the embracing of the Petljura movement by vast numbers of peasants from all over Ukraine; the fact that the struggle for Ukrainian independence in the 1920s was historically doomed to failure; and the temporary nature of the abandonment of struggle: in spite of the orders from the Polish authorities, his father does not surrender his gun but only hides it in anticipation of the future. Intimate memories about the distant past commence with his first feelings for his neighbour Uljanka, which play out against the patriarchal peasant world of scenic Polissia. This first love ends dramatically and ignites a protracted series of heavy personal trials and losses. Uljanka is married off to the rich Tymoš and, with the help of his father’s gun, Jakiv makes a desperate and unsuccessful attempt to stop the wedding: “There was that thing that he would never be able to forget: how he went out to meet the wedding procession armed with a gun” (“І те було, чого ніколи не забути, – як він вийшов назустріч весіллю з ружжом в руках” [32]). For his breaking of patriarchal traditions he is ban-

2

For information on these and other events see for example one of the most recent publications on the history of Ukraine: Plokhy (2015).

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ished from the village and is repeatedly threatened with revenge by Tymoš: he therefore loses not only his love but also his home and his personal security. In the second part of the novel (this part is called “The Red Horse” [“Червоний кінь”]3) we see Jakiv as an uhlan in a cavalry regiment during the Second Polish Republic. His service in the Polish army brings a new love: not without adventure, the story commences of his relationship with Polish aristocrat Zofia Miałkowska (Zosia, Ukr. Zosja). And once again, social inequality leads to the loss of his beloved: Zosja decides to marry Polish count Krzysztof Sobieski. Jakiv returns to his native village, and as time passes he starts to woo Hanna, a poor woman from the village (and, for the first time, someone who is his social equal). But the memory of Zosja stays with him: “Like a diseased memory, like a wound that has appeared for some unknown reason and that for some unknown reason will not or cannot heal […] Time passed and was a torment. He tried to forget Zosja but could not” (“як болісний спомин, як рана, яка невідомо чого виникла й невідомо чого не хоче чи не може загоїтися […] Час спливав. Час – мука. Він забував Зосю й не міг забути” [115]). Unexpectedly, Zosja alters her destiny and arrives in the village to take Jakiv back to Poland. The vividness of this memory is like that of a feeling that does not pass:

3

This name, in the first instance, derives from the actual horse from the period of Jakiv’s service in the cavalry that played such a significant role in his destiny: it is at the horse races that Jakiv reflects on the meaning of life with Captain Radziwiłł, and while riding on horseback that his love affair with Zosja has its beginning. Jakiv’s red horse embodies the image of the horse as counsellor and the horse as saviour in Slavonic mythology. A number of works from the beginning of the 20th century also remind us of the metaphorical meaning of the red horse as a disquieting harbinger of deadly tragic fate and also as a symbol of human vitality: in art, The Red Horses (Die roten Pferde, 1911) by the German artist Franz Marc and the Russian artist Kuz’ma Petrov-Vodkin’s Bathing of the Red Horse (Kupanie krasnogo konja, 1912), and in poetry, the works of the Russian imaginists Sergej Esenin and Rjurik Ivnev. Lastly, Jakiv’s horse underlines the figurative assonance between the religious component of the novel and the depiction of red horses in Novgorod painting.

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Nothing had probably seared itself into his memory quite as deeply as Zosja’s arrival: unexpected, unlooked-for, resembling at once a dream that cannot be forgotten and the appearance of an angel in a corner of some out-of-the-way village. (Мабуть, ніщо так не врізалося Якову в пам’ять, як приїзд Зосі. Несподіваний, неочікуваний, схожий водночас на сон, що не забути, з’яву ангела у глухому закутку села. [107])

Jakiv does not use this “gift” of fate to betray his social position and remains in his own home, thereby preserving his own identity. Quite the opposite in fact takes place: Zosja transforms herself into a poor Polissian peasant, learns the local dialect and accepts the Orthodox faith, although she does retain some of the everyday habits of the emancipated European city woman, towards which Jakiv displays tolerance; he is likewise indulgent of the fact that Zosja is by that time pregnant with her first daughter, from Krzysztof. The girl will be called Paraska (after Jakiv’s mother and grandmother) and Jakiv will raise her as his own daughter. Several more times, Zosja takes responsibility for their destiny upon herself and during the Polish-Ukrainian conflict in Volyn saves not only her family but the entire village from the vengeful Polish Home Army by virtue of her ancestry.4 Indeed, the story of Jakiv’s relationship with Zosja merits a separate analysis, of the narrative interpretation of the religious, ideological and cultural links between Ukraine and Poland. It is no coincidence that only this love of Jakiv’s is told by double introspection – through the memories of Zosja as well as Jakiv. This single, lawful marriage of a Ukrainian peasant to a Polish aristocrat, filled with dramatic events, serves as a matrimonial metaphor for the links between two social realities: [T]he “Ukrainian idea”, right from when it was first formulated, developed in the direction of the “open society” concept and thus in this sense exhibited a cultural “kinship” with the “Polish idea” in spite of the acrimony of the political conflicts between the two countries. (Pachljovska 2014: 468)

Jakiv’s life with Zosja forms the subject of the third part of the novel, “Peace and War” (“Мир i вiйна”). The inverted allusion to Tolstoj’s novel

4

For more on this period, see for example Iljuszyn (2009), McBride (2016).

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is not fortuitous: the story of Jakiv’s family develops in the opposite direction to that of the couples Nikolaj Rostov/Princess Marija and Nataša/Pierre. The initial finding of happiness is followed by its loss. The memory of family happiness helps Jakiv to survive the inhuman trials of World War II against Germany (the accounts of captivity, a camp, a minefield and a wounding being especially significant for the collective memory) and to return home. But the guerrilla war resisting the post-war establishment of the Soviet regime in Volyn leads to a new series of losses and sufferings that are impervious to the ravages of time and forgetfulness. And once again at the very centre of the narrative can be found both the events from which the collective memory is woven and the characters’ own destinies: the death of Zosja and their middle daughter at the hands of state security officers disguised as members of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army (Ukraїns’ka Povstans’ka Armija, UPA), the show trial of Tymoš, who is innocent of their deaths, the illness of Zosja’s eldest daughter Paraska who is coerced by threats to denounce Tymoš to the court, and Uljanka’s family’s deportation to Siberia that follows the trial. It is symptomatic that Jakiv’s recollection of Paraska’s evidence in court is agonising and at the same time incomplete: he “cannot recall the words that Paraska says. Cannot. They fly away from him, as if into a black hole. So black that the bottom cannot be seen. There is only darkness down there. Thick, impenetrable darkness” (“не може пригадати тих слів, що каже Параска. Ни може. Летять вони, мовби у чорне провалля. Таке чорне, що й дна не видко. Тильки темрява там, внизу. Густа непроглядна темрява” [219]). This gap in his memory, conveyed by metaphors of darkness, impenetrability and the abyss, underlines the sham of the trial: the evil and injustice of it cannot be grasped and consequently cannot be recreated in his memory. Even before Zosja’s death, in support of the UPA’s resistance, Jakiv carries out his first murder, of Hanna’s husband Trochym, who has decided to surrender to the organs of Soviet power. Trochym’s murder is added to the list of the unforgettable as it is a sin of which Jakiv is sharply and constantly aware. The murdered Trochym frequently appears to the elderly Jakiv in the sleepless nights of his advanced old age: “He started asking Trochym to come into the house. Let him come in and he would settle up with him. […] He won’t come in. […] He just comes up to the door. And tries to get in somewhere. To his soul? His memory?” (“став просити Трохима до хати. Хай би зашов, розплатився. […] Не зайде. […]

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Тилько приходить. I кудись проситься. В душу? В память?” [177]). On such nights, in accordance with the pagan superstitions of the Eastern Slavs about the dead, Jakiv leaves a glass of vodka on the window sill for Trochym just as Úrsula in Garcia Márquez’s novel One Hundred Years of Solitude (Cien años de soledad, 1967) fills bowls with water for Prudencio Aguilar, who had been killed by her husband José Arcadio Buendía. The narration of the second temporal layer – that of the recent past – begins with Jakiv’s meeting with the drug addict Olenka. In this recent past Jakiv is already aged 94; he has outlived all the women he has loved and lives alone, his surviving children and grandchildren now dispersed across various countries. Only his daughter Ol’ga visits him, although their relations are temporarily disrupted when Jakiv takes Olenka into his home. At first Jakiv saves Olenka from her drug dependency and from physical death. Olenka becomes Jakiv’s last attachment, and the responsibility that he feels for her induces him to commit a second murder: in saving Olenka from a return to prostitution Jakiv kills her pimp Rostyslav. These two murders will augment the list of final questions that Jakiv will ask himself on the eve of his hundredth birthday: “Did his killing of Trochym allow him to save his family? Did Olenka need to be rescued?” (“Чи рятував він сім’ю свою, убиваючи Трохима? Чи потрібен був порятунок Оленці?” [232]). Like the first, the fourth part of the novel, “Living to a Hundred” (“Дожити до ста”), starts in the narrative present. Jakiv is now 99. Before our eyes he suffers a stroke; he gets out of bed only with difficulty but wants by all means to live to 100 as he hopes to see Olenka one more time and to gather his family and friends in his old house to celebrate his birthday. A large number of them he has not seen for many years, but they have all featured in his life and in his old age they visit him in his dreams and reminiscences. It is his memories, told in free indirect speech, that effect the transfer from one temporal layer to another. We do not find out if Jakiv lives to see Olenka’s arrival, but we do witness the arrival of his only son Artëm from Russia.

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J AKIV ’ S O LD AGE AS E RIKSON ’ S C ONCLUDING S TAGE OF L IFE Thus the focus of our attention is the problem of memory and old age, and in particular the literary representation of memories in advanced old age. In Erikson’s theory of psychosocial stages (Erikson 1982; Erikson et al. 1986) old age is defined as the eighth and final stage of a person’s life cycle. The theory characterises the basic processes of the development of identity for each stage of life with regard to three organisational processes: the physical, the psychological and the ethical. The manner in which these interrelate determines how an individual deals with the basic “critical task” of one or other stage. For the last stage, this consists of the achieving of wisdom and the sense of being in agreement with oneself that arises from the conflict between integrity and despair. And although Erikson’s theory has been criticised for its claim to universality and for the normativity of the tasks that are ascribed to people (see Katz 1996: 60-61), some of its procedures for analysing psychosocial identity can be successfully superimposed onto narrative practices in describing the self-awareness of the Jakiv of the present as he is exhibited over five years of his advanced old age. The themes of age and remembering develop in parallel with the hero’s physical, psychological and ethical state. As Jakiv approaches his centenary the dramatic events that he recalls accumulate and fill his sleepless nights. Unlike his increasingly weak body and his shrinking existential space (by the end of the novel he can only reach the window with difficulty, by leaning on a stick), his memory is the only thing that is not becoming diminished and that for the time being remains entirely under his control. It even becomes enlarged but without any suggestion of anything supernatural. Memories come to him both freely and involuntarily, but always without straining and with the full array of sensations and colours. It is as if Jakiv were obliged to recall all the most important events of the recent and distant past before he turns 100. Physical, psychological and ethical processes are interwoven by means of various stylistic devices, images and symbols: physical sensations, emotional states, words uttered by some character or by the hero himself, the living and inanimate objects of the real world, and meditative visions, familiar ritual actions and extraordinary events – all of these can be evoked by memory and, conversely, can provoke an immersion in it and become

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the stimulus, means and result of memory. But the recovery of memory is not an end goal but a precondition, a necessary path to self-discovery. Just as old age and the awareness of approaching death constitute the circumstance within which the conditions for the act of remembering “naturally” come into being, so remembering serves as the “material” for a final act of self-judgement, or, according to Erikson’s ideal, for the achievement of wisdom. Let us see how Jakiv’s memories are narrated in the novel and what is the nature of the language of his memory.

R EMEMBERING W HAT I S D IFFICULT TO ARTICULATE : M ETALINGUISTIC R ECOLLECTIONS AND J AKIV ’ S L INGUISTIC P ORTRAIT The social psychologist Igor’ Kon devotes a separate chapter of his book In Search of the Self. Personality and Self-Awareness (V poiskach sebja: ličnost’ i ee samosoznanie) to old age. This chapter, which is entitled “At the end of the journey”, notes the extreme insufficiency of psychological research into the self-awareness of the elderly and its contradictory treatment in literature (Kon 1984: 218-230). Indeed, works of literature only partly compensate for this gap, while the self-awareness of various social groups is represented to a disproportionate degree. We have grown used to the idea that memory and introspection are the privilege and duty of wellto-do literary heroes: such is the pastime of aristocrats, the bourgeoisie and even the common but nonetheless educated layers of society – in a word, those who possess the instruments, the means and the time to write autobiographies and letters or to compose memoirs or compile collections. The search for answers to the “final questions” that occupies Jakiv’s memory is of interest because it reveals in an uneducated Ukrainian peasant the same capacity for introspection that we see in a refined Proustian hero or in Tolstoj’s aristocrat Nechljudov. But in Jakiv’s self-reflection there are – indeed, must be – specific differences that are (meta)linguistic in character as he only spent two winters in school: at other times of the year there was too much work in the fields for all the members of a peasant family. This level of education does not stop him asking himself the most complex existential questions throughout his life or drawing the strictest of conclusions from it. Self-knowledge proves to be as important for Jakiv as for countless

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sophisticated and educated heroes who are known to us from the autobiographical novels of the 19th and 20th centuries. However, he accomplishes his excursions into the past in a fundamentally different manner: without exaltation, with a large measure of healthy (peasant?) self-irony and in the simple, archaic language that could be native to a poor person born in Ukrainian Polissia at the beginning of the last century. As a conscript in the Polish army, the young Jakiv asks the superior Polish officer Edmund in a mix of Ukrainian and Polish one of the “eternal philosophical questions”. The conversation with Edmund takes place after Jakiv has become acquainted with Zosja, and he is attempting to make sense of the upsurge of emotion that it has caused but feels the inadequacy of his own implements of self-reflection. The old Jakiv in the narrative present demonstrates a good recall of this conversation with the Polish aristocrat: “Excuse me, Sir”, said Jakiv once they had mounted their horses. “I wanted to ask: what is love?” He asked the question as if gasping for breath. “That is, miłość in your language? And what is a woman, Sir?”, he added. Captain Edmund began to laugh. And said that he would never have thought that his uhlan, that’s right Jakub, don’t be offended, a simple peasant, could be interested in such fundamental questions. Fundamental: Jakiv committed that word carefully to memory. (Пане капітан, – сказав Яків, коли вони сіли на коней. – Хотів би спитати, що то єстем любов? Коханнє… – вимовив так, що аж самому мулько стало. – Мілосць повашему? І цо таке єстем кобіта, пане капітан? – додав. Капітан Едмунд засміявся. І сказав, що ніколи б не подумав, що його улана, так, так, Якубе, не ображайся тильки, простого хлопа, цікавлять такі кардинальні питання. Кардинальні – те слово Яків добре запам’ятав. [74])

Thanks to his reflection on the new word the question turns from an essential, conceptual enquiry into a metalinguistic one and the emotional episode of his becoming acquainted with Zosja moves onto the level of the conscious and rational. As it turns out, self-awareness when framed in verbal form is not defined by this form: to put a “final question” what is needed is not so much a lexicon as spiritual substance, a capability for deep feeling and a system of ethical norms, and these are not directly dependent on one’s position in society. In addition, as the story of Zosja and Jakiv un-

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folds we will see a continuation of the process of linguistic and sexual emancipation and the development of the theme of religious, social and national identity. It is the Catholic, Polish Zosja who teaches Jakiv the Ukrainian words for feelings, sure in the knowledge that he experiences them. Thanks to Zosja, Jakiv also experiences the strongest feelings of love and overcomes his lack of linguistic development and his patriarchal sense of shame. The memory of these linguistic exercises Jakiv will carry with him until his final days: “Say: my sweetheart”, whispered Zosja in his ear, growing angry when he remained silent. “Say it, silly. I really like that word you people use. Or have you bitten your tongue?” […] He said the word even though his tongue had grown slightly wooden. He never could pronounce those words. “Like a couple of High and Mighty Crickets”, so the joke ran in the village. (– Кажи: коханнєчко моє, – шептала Зося на вухо і, коли він мовчав, сердилася: – Кажи, дурнику. Мені тоє ваше словечко вельми подобається. Ци єзика вкусив? […] Казав те слово, хоч справді трохи язик дерев’янів. Не вмів таких слів вимовлєти. “Панські Цвіркуни”, – кепкували в селі. [179])

The theme of language is one of the novel’s more central ones, and the choice of language or register is used in a particular way to portray many of the characters. In Jakiv’s youth a person’s choice of language (Ukrainian/Polish/Russian) was an indicator of identity (“Have you forgotten what language they speak?” [“Забув, якою вони мовою балакають?”], he reminds his brother in the days of the Volyn Massacre when he calls Jakiv’s children “Polish vermin” [151]) as well as of psychological state (“In the army, whenever he found himself in a state of agitation he always switched to his own language” [“Він завжди, коли хвилювався, тут у війську, переходив на свою мову”] [81]). In his old age Jakiv deliberately retains his old-fashioned way of speaking, and when a group of philologists shows up in his village they even use him as an informant in their field work because of the rare dialectisms that he continues to employ. In this way, by depicting Jakiv as a preserver of lo-

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cal beliefs and of a linguistic heritage, the author lends his text the function of transmitting cultural memory. It is important to underline, nonetheless, that his essential vocabulary implies neither communicative limitation nor interactive rigidity. It is telling that even in advanced old age Jakiv displays great adaptability in his dialogues with other characters. Ironic and intentionally capricious with his daughter Ol’ga, attentive and tactful with his new daughter Vika (who is not his natural daughter, although he treats her as such), and delicately taciturn with Olenka, Jakiv is able to effect any modifications to his speech behaviour that are demanded by the situation. This kind of situation arises in the episode with Rostyslav, who comes to turn Olenka into a prostitute and drug addict once more. Powerless in the face of the approaching danger and incapable of any other actions Jakiv quickly takes the only proper decision and demonstrates a flexible, even manipulative verbal behaviour, firstly by playing for time (“‘Please will you be so kind as to permit me a few minutes to make my farewells to Olenka?’; Jakiv said this so sweetly and humbly that even he was surprised” [“‘Дозвольте, коли ваша ласка, на прощання пару хвилин переговорити з Оленкою?’ – Яків казав те так солодко и покірно, що сам здивувався”] [84]) and then by lying to lure his adversary into a deadly trap: “Farewell, Jakiv Platonovič… And thank you for everything…” She kissed him on the cheek and clung to his chest, almost causing the two of them to fall. And here Jakiv seized her by the hand, as hard as he could. Olenka cried out. But her eyes… Her eyes betrayed both pain and supplication. Supplication? At least, that is how it seemed to Jakiv. “What are you doing…” “Quiet!…” “Jakiv Platonovič…” Jakiv drew her towards the car. He was afraid that if he let her go she’d leap into the wretched car and that deathly cold piece of metal would leave him standing. He leant against the car. Bending down to the window, he said to the man, who was also radiating cold, in a voice as sweet as he could make it: “Might I ask, mister, if you could delay your departure a little and drive with me to the forest?”

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(– Прощайте, Якове Платоновичу... І спасибі вам за все... Вона чмокнула його в щоку. Припала до грудей. От-от упадуть – обоє. І тут Яків схопив її за руку... Схопив міцно, як міг. Оленка зойкнула. А в очах... В очах – мука і благання. Благання? Принаймні так Якову здалося. – Що ви роби... – Мовчи... – Якове Платоновичу... Яків потяг її до машини. Боявся, що коли відпустить, то вона застрибне в ту проклятущу машину й він уже не наздожене цюю холодну, як смерть, залізяку. Обперся об неї. Нагнувся до вікна, сказав до чоловіка, від якого тоже тягло холодом, солодко, як міг: – Чи не міг би я попросити пана трохи затриматися й проїхати зі мною до лісу? [85-86])

Jakiv’s strategy works: as it transpires, an old age that is capable of flexibility and decisiveness is able to compensate verbally for physical infirmity and can even win out against youth. This episode is important not only for the development of the plot: two sensory details in it – Olenka’s eyes and Rostyslav’s deathly cold – relate to the novel’s key narrative devices and are thus deserving of more detailed examination.

T HE O LD P EASANT ’ S E MPATHY : T HE E YES AND THE O THER S ENSORY O RGANS The psychologism that flourished in the literature of the 19th century has furnished researchers with rich material for studying techniques for the literary representation of self-awareness. Thus Chajnadi, who researches the works of Tolstoj, places special emphasis on the depiction of psychophysical phenomena, which for Tolstoj always act as signals of psychological ones. Tolstoj sought out linguistic equivalents for particular feelings and states of consciousness in the knowledge that a facial expression sometimes says more than words, while the eyes, although at times they contradict the face, speak of a person’s

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true inner experiences, which he or she may wish to hide. What matters is the position of the brows, the degree to which the eyes are open, whether they shine or appear to be covered with a veil, and which way they are looking (to the side, up, straight in front, askance or in a stealthy manner), and so on. However, Tolstoj was not interested in the physiognomic aspects of this phenomenon so much as in what lay behind it. He noticed that a smile was not only visible on the face but that the speaker’s tone of voice was transformed (“a smile in the voice”). (Chajnadi 2010)

We can observe straightaway that Lys uses this technique widely in the novel. The lexeme oči (“eyes”) and its derivatives are encountered on half the pages of the text (more than 150 times). The characters do not simply open and close, or raise and lower their eyes. For Lys, eyes can flash or fade, shine or go out, but also grow kinder or revive, grow drowsy or roll, bake, burn, leave their orbits, turn green and much more besides, these actions being frequently expressed in a phraseological manner: And her eyes glistened all around – just as her mother’s used to do – producing cunning points of reflected sunlight wherever they looked. (І оченятами, як матуся неїна, – блись-блись, а з тих оченят сонячні зайчики з хитринкою в лапках вистрибують. [146]) Prokip shrank back a little and drew in his breath sympathetically. He looked sharply, his eyes “selling sniggers”. (Прокіп трохи знітився. Присвиснув. Зирнув пильно, очі смішки продають. [73])

Let us now turn our attention to the fact that Chajnadi uses verbs of speech several times in the quoted extract: the characters “speak” with their eyes. Like Tolstoj’s characters, Jakiv not only perceives the world through visual contact but communicates “without words”. Most frequently this happens at the most critical moments in romantic relationships. With Uljanka: Uljanka is clearly comforted by this conversation; she places her fingers on his mouth. Quiet, my dear, quiet, say her eyes. (Улянку явно тішить така мова, вона кладе йому пальця на уста. Тихо, любий, тихо, промовляють її очі. [28])

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She jumped to the ground. And here he started back – such torment could be read in her eyes. A cry was issuing forth from them; he not only saw it, but heard it too. (Вона зістрибнула на землю. І тут він сахнувся – така мука сиділа в її очах. Крик вилітав з них, він його, здавалося, не тико бачив – чув. [41]) He seized her by the hands. He tried to look into her eyes, those strange, terrible, exciting eyes, but couldn’t do it. It was as if the eyes themselves had disappeared. (Він схопив її за руки. Спробував зазирнути в ті – чужі, страшні, привабливі – очі. Не вдалося. Мовби самі очі втекли. [42]) Could he make out unfathomable sadness in the eyes? He could. Those eyes pierced him through and cried out. They cried out: do not believe my words. Do not believe anything, even the day it was today and what he had brought, what he saw around him and what he was feeling. (Побачив бездонний сум в очах? Побачив. Ті очі його пропекли й закричали. Закричали: не вірити словам. Не вірити нічому, навіть сьогоднішньому дневі й тому, що він приніс, що довкола він бачить і відчуває. [49])

With Zosja: How she looked at him! A thousand fears through which the fire of passion had fought (yes, yes!) burned in her eyes. (Як вона дивилася! Тисяча страхів, крізь які пробивався (так, так!) вогник захоплення, горіли в її очах. [76]) And he looked into her face – in her eyes were little devils mixed with fright – and he understood something else: she was offering to restart their relationship with a clean sheet. (А глянув у лице – в очах бісики з переляком змішані – й інше збагнув: вона пропонуе почати стосунки з чистої сторінки. [81])

And just the same – now aged 94 – with Olenka: “You will be walking like that [bound at the ankles – L.G.] until you come to your senses”, said Jakiv sullenly. She looked at him – and with that look flung a hundred roubles at him. “Fine, granddad, you old devil… so I’ll walk like that.”

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(– Будеш ходити так, доки не образумишся, – сказав Яків похмуро. Подивилася – сто рублів із очиць викинула. – Ладушкі, дєдуля, чорт с тобой... Похожу і так. [21])

As in the episode of Rostyslav’s arrival that is quoted above, Jakiv sees and understands what Olenka does not say. Not only that what is communicated verbally contradicts what is perceived visually, but on each occasion Jakiv correctly decodes a message that is not explicitly expressed through the visual understanding of his interlocutor’s psychological state. In other words, even in old age when his sight and hearing are poor he does not lose this communicative ability: on the contrary, his physical decline is counterbalanced by a heightened psychological empathy. In this way this technique takes on a more complex signification in Lys’s novel: its application does not so much characterise the person with whom Jakiv is interacting as reveal Jakiv’s own capacity for the finest empathetic perception, which has not lessened with age. Another of the author’s favourite techniques consists of depicting psychophysical state through the manner in which the protagonist’s body interacts with the surrounding physical environment. Thus visual imagery is frequently combined with a description of physical phenomena and, consequently, a temperature metaphor. Joy and happiness are conveyed by heat. This is how Jakiv reacts to the postman’s news of a letter, hoping that it is from Olenka: What trembling Jakiv was then seized by. From his soul a dove flew up high into the heavens. With tender eyes the heavens themselves inclined towards him and he stroked them with his hand. A warm wave of gratitude washed over him. At last! At last she had remembered the old man! Him! Her old granddad! (Який трепет пройняв тогді Якова. З його душі високо-високо в небо вилетів голуб. Саме ж небо з лагідними очима схилилося над ним, і він погладив його рукою. Тепла хвиля вдячності залила його. Нарешті! Нарешті вона згадала про старого! Його! Свого старого діда! [93])

Grief and fear, on the other hand, are associated with cold, as for example in the episode in which Jakiv learns from his fellow countryman Zenko that the following morning they, soldiers of the Red Army, right at the end of

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the war, are by order of the supreme command to be herded through a minefield into an unarmed attack, and in this way – with their own bodies – will “clear” the road to Berlin of mines. Unable to believe or justify the inhumanity of this impending trial he opens his eyes wide as if in an attempt to grasp, to comprehend what according to his ethics cannot be comprehended. Nature and the elements enter into co-operation with his psychophysical state: Zenko spoke and Jakiv looked at him with his wide-open eyes, with the cold all the while creeping further and further under his shirt. Even though the evening was warm, warmer than mid-spring evenings in their village. Warmer, but look… It was cold, so wintery cold, and this only increased with the next words that Zenko spoke. “So that’s how things stand, brother Volynian...” “But roads and fields can be cleared of mines…” “They can indeed, but that takes a lot of time. They say that our Uncle Joseph [Stalin – L.G.] wants the Soviets to reach Berlin quicker, he wants to beat the Americans… And Žukov is glad to make the attempt… So they came up with the idea… What do they care if the road is laid with dead bodies…” (Зенько казав, а Яків дивився широко розплющеними очима, а під гімнастерку холодок все більше заповзав. Хоч вечір ніби й теплий був, тепліший, як ото посеред весни в їхньому селі бувають вечори. Тепліший, а бач… Зимно, ой, зимно, ще зимніше стало од наступних Зенькових слів… – Такі-от діла, братику-волиняче… – Та ж дороги й поля розміновувати мона… – Мона то мона, та багато врем’я тре’. Кажуть, що наш Йоська хоче, абись до Берліна совєти бистріше уступили, гамериканців хоче випередити… Ну й Жуков радий старатися… Ото й придумали… Що їм те, що трупом укладуть… [170])

As is well known from psychophysiology, traumatic events and highly emotional experiences leave the hardest and most long-term memories (McGaugh 2003). As far as Jakiv’s memories are concerned, they are never reflective or detached. They are always linked with emotions although the emotions are not called by their abstract names but are conveyed by means

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of the techniques that have been described – visually and through the description of an embodied physical nature that supplements and colours the hero’s psychophysical state: “Dear God, release me from that memory”, Jakiv asks now. Outside, it is night once again. The dark night is rocked by a sharp autumn wind. It beats against the shutters, pulls at the doors and also seems to be yearning for something, just like old Jakiv’s frightened soul. (“Боже мій, відпусти мене од того спомину”, – просить тепер Яків. Надворі знову ніч. Розгойдує цюю темну ніч рвучкий осінній вітер. Б’ється об шибки, шарпає за двері й, здається, також за чимось квилить, як і розтривожена душа старого Якова. [106])

This is a difficult memory, about his final secret meeting with the by now married Uljanka in the forest. In old age this stolen love is perceived as the serious sin of adultery. But it is his final sin – the murder that he commits for Olenka’s sake – that comes to weigh most heavily on Jakiv’s selfawareness. The story of this deserves our particular attention.

O LENKA,

AND

J AKIV ’ S L AST S IN

The author uses various complex clusters of literary techniques in order to convey the powerful emotions that have left abiding memories. The most difficult events of Jakiv’s advanced old age are shown in a series of scenes that focus on eternal human values and universal ethical notions. The profound humanity of the elderly Jakiv’s actions can be most clearly traced in his relationship with Olenka. This relationship reflects the temporal level of the recent past and in this respect stands in contrast to all the affairs with women that Jakiv had before the onset of old age. The figure of Olenka, as well as the nature of his relationship with her, in many respects develops the novel’s themes and motifs of women and at the same time departs from them fundamentally. By all external appearances Olenka fits the type of Jakiv’s “beloved woman”: a scarcely delineated, proper shape; slenderness; an almost childlike frailty of figure and bright, expressive eyes. That is how Jakiv remembers Uljanka,

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Zosja and Hanna in moments when he feels drawn to them. His sexual relationships with three other women (Neonyla, the miller’s daughter, a hospital nurse and a cook who was making a living in Siberia), on the other hand, have the character of purely physical affairs deprived of any emotional experience. The episode of Jakiv’s physical attraction to his step-daughter Paraska, which Paraska herself does not reciprocate, stands apart. This episode would appear to answer the imperative of confessing sexually deviant behaviour that is well established in the canon of autobiography starting with Rousseau. But as a more attentive analysis will reveal, this episode does not provide us with an example of such behaviour. It does, however, represent an instance of quasi-perverse behaviour: not entirely paedophilic, given that Paraska is already turning into a woman, and also not entirely incest, since Paraska is not a blood relative. Ultimately, this episode once again demonstrates Jakiv’s high ethical standards: sensing his attraction to his stepdaughter, he immediately subjects himself to physical punishment, noting with satisfaction that the self-inflicted physical pain saves him from sinful thoughts and his spilt blood “consolidates” his purely paternal love for Paraska. The scenes that feature physical contact with Olenka’s body during her illness and recovery depict completely different feelings on the part of the elderly Jakiv, the main one of which is a totally non-erotic sense of pity. Lys reminds us of the words of Albert Camus: “Vieillir, c’est passer de la passion à la compassion” (“Growing old means passing from passion to compassion” [Camus 1964: 323]). Olenka’s interpretation of their relationship features a rephrasing of Saint-Exupéry: “We are answerable for those whom we have tamed”, while Jakiv himself quotes the Bible, the only book that we see him reading as an old man: “It is said in the Scriptures… Help thy neighbour…” (“Сказано в Писанії… Помоги ближньому…” [Lys 2010: 19]). This non-erotic, absolute love that we see in the case of Olenka is linked to other social functions that old men possess (see Savkina 2011): magical knowledge (Jakiv cures Olenka of her drug addiction with the help of ancestral folk remedies); authority within their social milieu (both informal – the villagers’ respect for Jakiv – and institutional – the letter of congratulation that is awaited from the head of state); the preservation and transmission of inherited memory (it is to Olenka that Jakiv tells the story

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of his life). Finally, for the sake of saving Olenka – just as he has done once before in order to save his own children – Jakiv for a second time takes upon himself the sin of murder, thus performing a kind of self-sacrifice. In the memories that are linked with Olenka, fear, horror and sympathy are also conveyed by means of metaphors relating to the senses. Thus vision, voice and physical sensations all feature in the episode of Rostyslav’s arrival, although in the scenes from Jakiv’s advanced old age the physical and psychological aspects are supplemented by an ethical element. At this point Olenka came running out of the house. In an unhurried manner. As if her legs were bound just like during the first days when Jakiv was caring for her and was afraid she might run away. She stopped and looked at the new arrival… She looked at him so intently… Here Jakiv felt a pain as if something were piercing him. As if a needle was being pressed into his skin. But not the aged skin he now had but that of him, Jakiv, when he was still a young man. He remembered a story that his grandmother Paraskeva had told when she was alive, […] remembered how a viper slid into the wheat or rye to catch a skylark. How it slid close and started to stare at the bird, which was singing. Once it met the snake’s gaze, the bird froze and fell silent. And it was no longer able to turn its eyes aside and fly away. (Тут із хати витекла Оленка. Поволечки. Мовби ноги стриножені були, як ото в перші дні, коли Яків її лікував і боявся, щоби кудись не втекла. Спинилася. Дивилася на прибулого… Дивилася так… Тут Якова пронизало щось болюче. Наче йому голку в шкіру загнали. Тильки не в його, старечу, а молоду. Він згадав розповідь покійної бабці Параскеви, […] згадав про те, як гадюка заповзає у пшеницю чи жито, щоб зловити жайворонка. І підповзає близько та починає дивитися на пташку, що співає. Пташка, коли зустрічається з поглядом зміюки, ціпеніє і втрачає голос. І вже не може відвернути своїх оченят і злетіти. [83])

As we can see from this extract, the contrast between physical and psychological pain is expressed by means of a reference to age: while old people’s

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skin is not so sensitive to pain, their souls retain this sensitivity. The sensation of pain evokes an even more distant associative memory from Jakiv’s childhood – a story of his grandmother’s (inherited memory of the two preceding generations). This is not the first time in the novel that a female figure is associated with a bird (that is how Jakiv imagines both Uljanka and Zosja). But thanks to this association Rostyslav is clearly identified as a man of violence and an enemy. The way the scene develops sets in motion a complex cluster of physical sensations, psychological states and ethically determined actions, the final one of which is again a murder: Jakiv heard [from Rostyslav, who had been caught in the trap – L.G.] that Olenka’s mother had been a prostitute and had taught her daughter this trade from an early age. That the girl […] had been receiving clients by the time she was fourteen. And he, Rostyslav, had lived across the road. And had extricated the girl from this den of vice. […] But she had betrayed him in a wanton manner. With his humble bodyguard. I cannot forgive that, said Rostyslav. At this point lightning struck in Jakiv’s mind. In this lightning flash he saw two men. And a third figure – that of Olenka. The image made him reel and he scarcely stayed on his feet. “Was it you who ordered that … that bodyguard to seduce Olenka?” Jakiv rasped in reply. Rostyslav suddenly burst out laughing. He looked at Jakiv in such a way that it gave him the shivers, and then he laughed. “You are a perceptive granddad. Perceptive… I wanted to test her… And now… Don’t be afraid… I won’t kill her… I’ll return her to the life that she has deserved…” Here Jakiv felt that he was about to start feeling sorry for this man. Feeling sorry because… Because he was himself a man. And then he would save him, this offender. And Rostyslav would then kill him and, most importantly, would send Olenka back to that den of vice. Jakiv pulled the trigger. (Яків почув, що мати Оленки була повією й доньку рано до цього ремесла привчила. Що вже в чотирнадцять літ ця дівчина […] приймала клієнтів. А він, Ростислав, жив через вулицю. І витяг дівчину з того кубла. […] А вона його підло зрадила. Всього лиш з його охоронцем. Я такого не прощаю, сказав Ростислав.

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Тут голову Якова пронизала блискавка. У тій блискавці він побачив двох чоловіків. І третю – Оленку. Він захитався. Ледь устояв на ногах. – Ви-те самі наказали тому… тому охоронцю спокусити Оленку? – прохрипів Яків. Ростислав раптом засміявся. Зирнув так, що в Якова мурашки тілом побігли й засміявся. – Здогадливий дід. Здогадливий… Я її перевірити хотів… А тепер… Не бійся… Я її не вбиватиму… Верну те життя, що заслужила… Тут Яків відчув, що він от-от пожаліє цього чоловіка. Пожаліє, бо… Бо сам був чоловіком. І тоді порятує його, цего напасника. А той уб’є і його, а найголовніше – Оленку віддасть у притон. І він стрельнув. [89])

In Jakiv’s syncretic consciousness this murder is his most heinous sin. This burden of guilt is depicted as a profound inner turmoil by means of changes in his relationship with nature, which is represented here by the forest, which emphasises the hero’s Polissian identity.5 As he perceives it, his existential space becomes radically curtailed immediately following the murder. Formerly, the forest possessed great significance in Jakiv’s life, having been a place of physical survival (he used to go hunting there), love (it was where he used to meet Uljanka) and national resistance (he had brought supplies to the fighters of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army), yet now Jakiv has lost it forever. The awareness of this deprives him of physical and moral strength: The quiet sounds of the forest were above him. Measured and unhurried. Beyond the forest – Jakiv knew – was a genial autumn day. And yet he was aware of something else – something had changed in the forest. Something had changed. The forest was not, nor would it be, what it had been before. […] Jakiv stood, supporting himself on a tree. He feared letting go of the trunk. Not because he was afraid of falling. “I’ve lost this forest”, he suddenly thought. (Над ним стиха шумів ліс. Розмірено, неспішно. За лісом – Яків знав – стоїть лагідна осіння погода. І все ж він й инше відав – щось змінилося у цьому лісі. Щось змінилося. Ліс не є і не буде таким, як був досі. […] Яків стояв і

5

Most etymologists link the derivation of the toponym Polissia with the lis/les root (meaning “forest”).

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тримався за дерево. Боявся відпустити стовбура. Не того, що впасти боявся. “Я втратив цей-бо ліс”, – раптом подумав. [90])

The image of a forest offended by a crime is of a piece with the unitary human-natural world that Jakiv as someone who has been possessed of a syncretic consciousness since childhood has inhabited. In old age, Jakiv’s dialogue with the personified manifestations of nature intensifies: throughout the long winter nights he converses with a cricket, replies to the wind that is knocking on the window and walks off into the morning mist in the hope of making out the forms of his deceased relatives. A long series of anthropomorphic metaphors deriving from Ukrainian folklore tradition synthesises in his mind elements of primitive culture with the Christian faith. The episode in the forest demonstrates this synthesis more clearly: as he leaves, overcome by an awareness of his guilt, Jakiv asks the forest for its forgiveness in just the same way as he asks for God’s: He moved off. Slowly. One foot after the other. Reeling. After some time he managed to limp to the swamp. […] “Lord, forgive me”, said Jakiv. “Forgive me, Lord. I have slain one unjust Soul, but I have also saved one. […] I saved it because I had to.” “You too forgive me, forest”, he asked in his head. (Рушив. Поволі. Нога за ногу. Хитаючись. Через якийсь час він доплентався до болота. […] – Господи, прости мене, – сказав Яків. – Прости мене, Господи. Я погубив одну неправедну Душу, али й порятував одну. […] Не міг не порятувати. “Прости й ти мене, лісе”, – подумки попросив. [90])

Awareness of his guilt does not lead him to despair. Acknowledging all his sins and asking forgiveness of people, God and nature, Jakiv accepts life as it exists – with all its joys and all its trials. Now that he has recalled everything he may celebrate his century and he calmly awaits the dawn and his birthday. The dawn brings with it the final scene of the novel – his meeting with his son.

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I N P LACE

OF A

C ONCLUSION

In Jakiv’s meeting with his son, just as in the young Jakiv’s meeting with his father Platon in the distant past (almost ninety years earlier!) every detail possesses a symbolic meaning. Jakiv’s son is now an officer in the Soviet Army (the cynical prediction of the staffer who killed Zosja but spared her child – “he will be a Soviet citizen” – has come to pass, just as it had to in an authoritarian state) and long after the breakup of the Soviet Union he continues to live in different parts of Russia without finding anywhere he can call home. The son’s return to the village of his birth is underlined by a linguistic transition: he speaks his first phrases in Russian – “I’ve come back to you for good, you understand…” (“Я, понимаешь, насовсем к тебе приехал…”) – then moves to a mix – “I’m not old yet, so that…” (“я же еще не старый, так що…”) and then finishes in Ukrainian – “I’ve come home, Papa” (“Вернувся я додому, тату”) (237). In his son’s absence Jakiv had no-one to whom he could leave his home (Ukraine), and it is only after he learns of his son’s decision to stay in the house of his birth for ever that Jakiv permits himself to die. The novel ends with remarks that he addresses to himself: “Now I can die”, thought Jakiv when his son had finished speaking. “But no, I’ll still need to listen to that cricket.” He suddenly felt a tear run out of his old eye onto his cheek. One, and then another. And another – from his right eye. “Why are you crying, old man?”, thought Jakiv. (“Можна типерка уже й умирати, – подумав Яків, коли син скінчив говорити. – Хотя нє, тре’ ще таки буде того цвіркуна послухати.” Раптом він відчув, як на щоку з його старечого ока викотилася сльоза. Одна, друга. І ще одна – з правого ока. “Чого ж плачеш, старий?” – подумав Яків. [237])

“The crickets” (Цвіркуни) is the Mech family’s nickname in the village. Jakiv converses with a cricket through long, sleepless nights of remembering, and the sins that not even a priest ever hears about are only confided to a cricket. “Listening to a cricket” (“цвіркуна послухати”) is a metaphor of self-reflection that points to the need for self-knowledge on the eve of death. Why does Jakiv feel this need so acutely at the very end of life? Only with the return of his son can he consider his family and social debt ful-

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filled – he has survived, grown old and preserved his memory. For him just one care remains: to understand himself. Translated from Russian by Mark Shuttleworth

R EFERENCES Assmann, Jan (1992): Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen. München. Assmann, Jan (2011): Cultural Memory and Early Civilization: Writing, Remembrance, and Political Imagination. Cambridge. Camus, Albert (1964): Carnets (janvier 1942 – mars 1951). Paris. Chajnadi, Zoltan (2010): “Živopisanie slovom: o poėtičeskoj funkcii vizual’nogo v tvorčestve L. Tolstogo”, in: Voprosy literatury 6, 359-377. Chorošilov, Dmitrij A. (2014): “Mimesis kak ob”jasnitel’nyj princip v psichologii i ėstetike”, in: Psichologičeskie issledovanija 7 (36). http://psystudy.ru/index.php/num/2014v7n36/1015-khoroshilov36.html [accessed March 21, 2016]. De Saint-Exupéry, Antoine (1943): Le Petit Prince. New York. Erikson, Erik H. (1982): The Life Cycle Completed. A Review. New York, London. Erikson, Erik H./Erikson, Joan M./Kivnick, Helen Q. (eds.) (1986): Vital Involvement in Old Age. New York. Erll, Astrid/Nünning, Ansgar (eds., in coll. with Sara B. Young) (2008): Cultural Memory Studies: An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook. Berlin, New York. Iljuszyn, Ihor (2009): UPA i AK. Konflikt w Zachodnej Ukrainie (19391945). Warszawa. Katz, Stephen (1996): Disciplining Old Age: The Formation of Gerontological Knowledge. Charlottesville, London. Kon, Igor’ (1984): V poiskach sebja: ličnost’ i ee samosoznanie. Moskva. Lachmann, Renate (1993): “Gedächtnis und Weltverlust. Borges’ memorioso – mit Anspielungen auf Lurijas Mnemonisten”, in: Haverkamp, Anselm/Lachmann, Renate (eds.): Memoria. Vergessen und Erinnern. München, 492-519. Lys, Volodymyr (2010): Stolittja Jakova. Charkiv.

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Mann, Jurij (1990): “Literatura i antropologija”, in: Platone, Rossana (ed.): Letteratura e Psicologia. L’introspezione come elemento narrativo nella letteratura russa dell’Ottocento. Contributi al convegno, Napoli 2728 novembre. Napoli, 11-22. McBride, Jared (2016): “Peasant into Perpetrators: The OUN-UPA and Ethnic Cleansing of Volhynia, 1943-1944”, in: Slavic Review 75/3, 630654. McGaugh, James L. (2003): Memory and Emotion: The Making of Lasting Memories. New York. Pachljovska, Oksana (2014): “Kul’turnaja i političeskaja identičnost’ Ukrainy v novych balansach Evropy: ‘ukrainskaja ideja’ kak ėpitomizacija ‘evropejskoj idei’”, in: Alberti, Alberto/Garzaniti, Marcello/Garzonio, Stefano (eds.): Contributi italiani al XIII Congresso Internazionale degli Slavisti (Ljubljana, 15-21 agosto 2003). Firenze, 465514. Platone, Rossana (ed.) (1990): Letteratura e Psicologia. L’introspezione come elemento narrativo nella letteratura russa dell’Ottocento. Contributi al convegno, Napoli 27-28 novembre. Napoli. Plokhy, Serhii (2015): The Gates of Europe: A History of Ukraine. New York. Savkina, Irina (2011): “‘U nas nikogda uže ne budet ėtich babušek?’”, in: Voprosy literatury 2, 109-135. Tolstoj, Nikita I. (ed.) (1983): Poles’je i ėtnogenez slavjan. Predvaritel’nye materialy i tezisy konferencii. Moskva.

Aging and Old Age in Popular Autobiographies from Bratislava and Vienna Ľ UBICA V OĽANSKÁ

I NTRODUCTION It seems that we are living in a “confessional” time (Foucault 1978) that highly esteems intimate disclosures and individual feelings. Nobody can claim any longer that only a certain milieu is entitled to write diaries, (auto)biographies or memoirs. For this article, I have chosen the genre of written autobiography and life records that belong to popular autobiography1 (Warneken 1985, Bergman 1991). I see the autobiographical texts as true (in the eyes of their authors), though constructed, stories and therefore as a possible source for researching everyday life in the distant past as well as present time – in the case of this paper related to one part of the life cycle: old age. Because of the common object of research (old age) and the method of biographical research I consider my work as a part of the open project that started as social gerontology of ethno-methodological tradition (Jamieson 2002: 25). In ger-

1

The term “popular autobiography” relates to a heterogeneous group of texts produced by lower class people and female authors, as opposed to classic bourgeois autobiographies, which concentrate on the construction of a male self and individual.

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ontology, the (auto)biographical research has been developing hand in hand with age/aging research. Both are connected to the social sciences and humanities,2 as well as to the field of professional support (therapy, social work, etc.) (Fischer-Rosenthal 2000: 120). For several decades gerontologists themselves have been encouraging elderly people to talk about or write down their life stories due to the therapeutic effect of such narratives (Haškovcová 1989: 323). The growing field of narrative gerontology is to be perceived as a perspective rather than a sum of knowledge. The view that people can add value to their lives by creating and maintaining a personal narrative (Kenyon/Bohlmeijer/Randall 2011) has stressed the importance of life storytelling in endorsing the wellbeing of elderly people in the present time. My research is based on the popular autobiographies and biographical records of elderly people collected at the end of the 20th and beginning of the 21st centuries. They contain two principal levels: they reflect on the one hand the historical-social reality and on the other hand the subjectivity of their authors. It follows that the previous experiences of the elderly, influenced by historic events and cultural tradition, are connected with their adaptation to old age and their expectations. Comparative research seems to be one of the most suitable methods for understanding the effects that cultural traditions and social context can have on the studied phenomenon. I decided to conduct this research in Vienna and Bratislava. In relation to the age structure of their inhabitants, both Vienna and Bratislava are suitable examples of relatively old urban societies. They encompass the population coming from the whole territory of the respective countries, since many people have moved to these cities from the countryside, especially during the last century. This fact is important because the traditional family structure was different in Austria and Slovakia

2

The interest in the life of a single person or in the role of the individual in history is related to a movement which was brought about by the international development of historical sciences in Europe in the 1970s (Dressel 1996). The new perspective means concentration on everyday life: the way of life and work of individuals and groups (e.g. children, women, men, the elderly), drawing mainly from their personal experiences captured in ego-documents (e.g. diaries, photographs, letters, autobiographies, autobiographical records, wills and judicial protocols).

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at that time (Botíková et al. 1997; Cerman 1997, 2001; Szoltysek 2011). Since the early modern period, different family structures had been connected with different care provisions and, thus, expectations concerning taking care of the elderly generations in their own accounts/narratives. Moreover, for most of the second half of the 20th century, both cities and both countries became parts of different socio-political systems – divided by the Iron Curtain. However, the demographic development also shows similarities associated with historical events and phenomena such as immigration, economic crises and world wars. The differences between the two cities are more apparent in timing of particular processes.3 The aim of the article is to outline the differences in the cultural and historical context of the origin of the autobiographical texts in both countries as well as the similarities and differences in their content. The first part is dedicated to the background of the sources used in my research, the second part deals with the methodology of work with autobiographical texts with a special section about the peculiarities of autobiographical texts describing aging and old age, and finally, the third part illustrates an example of differences in narratives from both cities.

AUTOBIOGRAPHIES AND L IFE R ECORDS AND H ISTORICAL C ONTEXT

IN

C ULTURAL

Autobiographies and Life Records in Austria and Vienna Some of the sources on aging and old age in Vienna are stored in the archive of Documentation of Life Records (Dokumentation lebensgeschicht-

3

Considerable demographic increase in both cities after World War II resulted from the development of the “generous” welfare state in Austria and socialist regime in Czechoslovakia. Differences in demographic development arose in the 1970s: natality in Austria decreased in sharp contrast to the dramatic increase in the birth rate caused by the socialist state’s support to natality in Slovakia. Later, following social and political changes after 1989, Slovakia saw a significant decrease in the birth rate. Consequently, aging of the population manifested with a 20-year delay, when baby boomers started to age.

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licher Aufzeichnungen)4 and in the collection Women’s Bequests (Sammlung Frauennachlässe),5 both located at the University of Vienna. These initiatives were part of the previously mentioned development of historiography in German-speaking countries during the last quarter of the 20th century. The collections have recently been enlarged, thanks to the research initiative encouraging people to write and share their memories on given topics. The call for participation was disseminated through numerous channels, such as local periodicals, evening papers and magazines, or radio and television programs. Particular media were selected according to the topics and the target groups (e.g. women’s magazines, publications for various professions). In 1999, under the auspices of the United Nation Organization’s resolution on The Year of the Older Person, the project “Alter(n) im 20. Jahrhundert” (Aging/Old Age in the 20th Century) of the archive of Documentation of Life Records intended to collect new texts. After the calls in two magazines, Our Generation (Unsere Generation) and Our Vienna (Unser Wien), numerous letters on aging and old age were received and partly published by Langreiter and Schulz-Ulm (1999). While some of the authors of autobiographical texts wrote about old age in general, others concentrated only on some aspect of aging, or sent their entire life story, diary records or an extract from their correspondence. As it is important for my work to know the whole life story of the authors, I have also studied the covering letters to the autobiographical notes and records on authors. Autobiographies and Life Records in Slovakia and Bratislava As far as the sources in Slovakia and Bratislava are concerned, the situation is more complex. Although I could find some autobiographical texts in the Fund of Personal Heritage (Fond osobných pozostalostí) at the Archive of the City of Bratislava, I was also looking for various ways of acquiring similar texts to the records from Vienna. I published a call in the Bratislava

4

See https://wirtschaftsgeschichte.univie.ac.at/forschung/doku-lebensgeschichten

5

See http://www.univie.ac.at/Geschichte/sfn/index.php [accessed December 21,

[accessed April 20, 2017]. 2016].

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Old Town Newspaper (Staromestské noviny) asking people to write autobiographical texts; I distributed leaflets containing information about my work with an appeal to write or provide already written texts in doctors’ waiting rooms in the city center,6 in the Union of Pensioners, and in several clubs for retirees in Bratislava, among other locations. As the archives in Bratislava store only a few autobiographies and life records of their elderly inhabitants from the second half of the 20th century, I have obtained the majority of analyzed texts through my own research. The response for my call was not as I had expected. The members of the oldest generation did not consider a written expression as an adequate way of communicating and presenting one’s ideas (Müller 1997a: 335). Most people (with some exceptions) who reacted to my calls did not want to write about their experience with aging and old age: they were more willing to meet and speak with me. After our meeting, knowing I was the recipient of their efforts, they were prepared to put their life stories and experiences with aging on paper. This is partially related to the fact that autobiographical and diary reflections, outside the upper classes of society, do not have a long tradition in Slovakia.7 According to Kiliánová, within the rural environment the authors of unprofessional written expressions, including autobiographic writing, are usually exceptional personalities such as narrators, singers and dancers of the local community (Kiliánová 1989: 555). As Vanovičová describes, in Slovakia mainly the traditional “písmáctvo”8 became widespread from the second half of the 19th century onward (Vanovičová 2000: 136), and these did not concentrate on autobiographical reflections of one’s own life. However, the examples of authors coming from the archive of Documentation of Life Records in Vienna represent “popular autobiographies” of male and female authors who had had various professions and even came

6

The population of the city center as a separate urban district of Bratislava is de-

7

Kaser describes a similar situation during work with autobiographies coming

8

Under the term “písmák” I understand together a folk-historian, municipal and

mographically the oldest region in Slovakia (VVMZ 2008: 34). from the area of former Yugoslavia (Grandits/Kaser 2003: 10). family chronicler, autodidact-amateur, and occasional poet, etc. Some “písmáci” could also write autobiographies, or diaries, but not every author of autobiographies or a diary necessarily has to be a “písmák”.

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from the peasant class. It appears that in Austria and Slovakia there were different traditions concerning writing9 in the 20th century. I assume that the relatively high rate of illiteracy in some Slovak regions during the 20th century10 played a certain role in the tradition of writing and, consequently, in the lack of autobiographical texts. Although in the second half of the 20th century the citizens of Bratislava, the principal group whose autobiographical texts are important for me, were in all probability not illiterate, the writing tradition or the mere practice of written expressions related to someone’s life experiences within the broader society was connected with the writing (or, rather, not writing) of autobiographical texts. Several language reforms that took place during the 20th century might also have contributed to undermining the expression of potential female and male authors of autobiographical records. The question of the influence of the Communist regime on written autobiographical expression of Slovak citizens has remained unanswered so far. Exaltation of the collective and suppression of individuality did not create a favorable environment for an individual written reflection. A small number of autobiographies, published in the second half of the 20th century, came from significant Slovak writers, 19th century nationalists, or men appropriate for or accepted by the regime, who could serve as examples for the masses supporting Communist ideology. Paradoxically, this mass of people did not receive support for the creation of private and popular autobiographical records and documents, because the state was constantly attempting to curb the private lives of its citizens.11 Moreover, a fear existed that any written document could

9

I understand as writing the writing tradition or any experience with writing a text (e.g. correspondence, economic diaries, notes in calendars, personal diaries and autobiographies).

10 Even according to the Atlas ČSR from the year 1935 (Boháč/Pantoflíček 1935). 11 A completely different situation existed in Poland, where in the interwar period the Commission for Creation of Memoirs Research, in the framework of the Council for Contemporary Culture of the Polish Academy of Sciences, organized several collections of diaries and other ego-documents. Unlike the former Czechoslovakia, the journals (e.g. Życie Warszawy, Polityka, Przyjaciółka, Tygodnik Kulturalny, and Tygodnik Powszechny) organized various competitions supported by the state, including in the period after World War II. Their aim was to collect diaries, memoirs, autobiographies and life records that would

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be used or misused, with due consequences, as evidence of an unfriendly attitude towards the Communist regime. Despite the fact that a lot of families were writing a “parallel history” of the family, the town community or the entire society as a form of silent protest, this was addressed mainly to the family members and the next generation, as one of the ways of preserving the continuity of values from the era before 1948. The lack of examples of practically any kind of autobiographical texts influenced the value of autobiographies and memories in written form recorded in society. However, as these works can be categorized somewhere between “oral presentation” and “literariness,” they are considered “protoartistic” expressions of varying artistic quality (Hlôšková 1998: 91). For those reasons literary history and theory did not find them interesting enough. The function of the popular autobiographies is related to a special audience – mostly younger generations in families or, rarely, a broader community. The aim of such autobiographies is to offer testimony about the past and to impart a moral message; only some of the authors also have ambitions to become a part of the belles-lettres. However, folklore studies accepted the appeal and consequently included autobiographical texts into its sphere of interest. Thus, the research of folklorists contributed to the development of nonprofessional written creation in the rural environment. As Kiliánová writes, an immediate impulse toward the written production of Alojz Kováč, a peasant from Riečnica, was the revitalization of his story-telling activity, which arose from research in the village. “A number of long-term research projects persuaded the renowned peasant, narrator and informant about the value of his own pieces of knowledge for society, thus leading him to a decision to record them in writing” (Kiliánová 1989: 557).12 Hence, especially

prove the mass support for the regime. Approximately 250,000 authors took part in this competition. Since the period of the 1950s, when the researchers William Thomas and Florian Znaniecky produced their famous work (1958), the egodocuments have represented one of the basic sources in Polish sociology. That is why work with ego-documents is in sociology often called the “Polish method“ (Bar 2002: 1). A different situation for the Russian context is described by Julia Herzberg (2013). 12 A similar case is that of Zuzana Selecká, a peasant woman, famous folk singer, narrator, collector, weaver and embroidery maker from the village Dobra Niva:

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“renowned,” “known” or “exceptional” personalities, either on a local level or from the whole of Slovakia, were addressed to produce the abovementioned pieces of writing. This brings us to a further issue. It appears that the lack of “popular autobiographies” in the archival institutions is also connected with insufficient interest in them and their role as possible sources for historical and social research in Slovakia.

AUTOBIOGRAPHIES

AS

S OURCES

FOR

R ESEARCH

Critical words have been used to address research based on autobiographies and life records, asserting the impossibility of data verification and questioning the real value of “subjective truths” since the beginning of the 20th century (Glagau 1903). In the 1960s, Muchow pointed out some characteristic features of autobiographical texts as sources, which he calls “inherent sins,” which must not be forgotten when working with them. He means that, for example, a number of omissions,13 gaps or misrepresentations emerge whilst creating a harmonic biography with a smooth flow. This can be enhanced with a fusion of time intervals, and although sometimes some stories were happening at the same time, an autobiography can give them retrospectively a different time sequence. Moreover, one can talk about the authors’ imperfect memories, which do not always differentiate between important and insignificant events when remembering and forgetting, and cannot necessarily distinguish real from imaginary recollections (Muchow 1966: 304-307). Autobiography enables its authors to communicate with the readers in their own way. “It leaves a space between ‘the self’ and the self which is presented” (Kamp 2001: 31); this possibility is of immense importance, foremost related to the rapid changes in society in Europe in the 20th century. The 20th century saw the collapse of several grand ideologies and totali-

“The support of institutions and direct contact with several cultural workers and scholars often gave new impulse toward further creative activity, especially when the author was not always appreciated by her family and natives.” (Kiliánová 1989: 559; author’s translation [Ľ.V.]) 13 See also Kusá (1996).

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tarian systems together with their elites (e.g. 1918, 1933/34, 1938, 1945 and 1989). Each collapse brought from the people/subjects a release from the ideological “prison” of that time. They had to re-evaluate their position in society, reflect on their “false” steps, either regret or forget them. Personal projects of the life path (i.e. divorce, loss of job and dissolving relationships between friends, etc.), like the grand ideologies, also began to collapse more often. As Sieder (2003: 18) writes, it was the phase of an increased reflexivity in human lives, a new orientation and boosting subjectivity. “Not remaining the same during the constant changes of regimes, political ideologies, jobs, sexual orientations and crises of the private life forms brings for a subject/person a chance to survive” (ibid.: 20). Once the subjectivity allows it, female and male authors of autobiographical texts continually construct their individuality anew. Despite this fact, Sieder continues, these authors still hope that it is possible to create a coherent autobiographical narrative, which will enable them to incorporate all the changes and biographical turns into their narration. Bourdieu calls this effort a biographical illusion. The authors, in an attempt to fulfill it, try to describe their life as a story, road and continuation with a beginning, individual episodes and an end, in two senses. On the one hand the end is a successful destination (a successful career, good marriage and retirement, etc.), and on the other hand it is the end of the story (Bourdieu 1990: 75). This is their mode of resistance against the fear of fragmentation of themselves and their life story, which in the period of modernity and especially during late modernity is probably inevitable (see FischerRosenthal 2000, Giddens 1996). Thus authors, in attempting to give meaning to their stories, become their ideologists: they justify certain decisions and provide their stories with a coherence that, however, succumbs simultaneously to retrospective and prospective logic (Bourdieu 1990: 76, 80). However, the question remains whether working with autobiographical sources requires probing the author’s “real self” or surveying the existence of the author’s single “self” within fragmented life stories. Any effort to understand life as a unique sequence of interconnected events without any contextualization and a link with other subjects is, according to Pierre Bourdieu, as absurd as an attempt to explain the underground route without explaining the whole network. Research which attempts this becomes an accomplice of the author of an

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autobiographical text in the creation of the biographical illusion mentioned above (Bourdieu 1990: 80). Despite constant criticism in connection with “the reliability” of the source, oral histories and biographical research are an inseparable part of the disciplines that deal with the research of contemporary society (Breckner 1994: 199). According to many authors, autobiographies and life records represent a key to understanding historical-social reality.14 However, the question whether the memories of these people are “right” or “true” is irrelevant from the perspective of biographical research. Or as Jana Nosková puts it: “Biographies as references of consciousness/personhood are true and have real content insofar as they reflect what a person lived through, how she handled this experience and how she built her everyday actions on it” (2006: 96).15 The work with autobiographical texts is based on discovering common and general structures or characteristic features within a particular group of autobiographical texts16 that are backed up with a subjective experience and have a historical-social meaning. Experiences of individual people in the same historical and cultural context are somehow connected; every life story is interwoven into a greater social unit, thus containing certain general data. Therefore, any stage of recent history can be retold through individual (including fictional) life stories and projections of contemporary people living in the given era. “Connections between typical biographies and the linking between individual life destinies and their common social and political frame are deci-

14 Many authors have dealt with the problem of content analysis of biographies and autobiographical texts in cultural and historical sciences, including Chamberlayne/Bornat/Wengraf (2000); Hlôšková (2006); Kusá (1996); Lazarova (2014); Müller (1997); Nosková (2006, 2014); Rosenthal (1994, 1995, 2015); and others. A summary is also given in Klein (2009). 15 Author’s translation [Ľ.V.]. 16 Niethammer argued a similar point in reaction to the article by Bourdieu. The task of historians and anthropologists who deal with autobiographical texts, oral history and narrative interviews is not to re-tell and explain the source, which means not to become an ally and conspirator in the creation of a biographical illusion (Niethammer 1990: 92).

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sive steps toward scientific generalization” (Blaumeiser 1988: 23).17 In the case of my work the “typical biographies” are those parts of biographies concerning old age, where age plays a linking role. I decided to use the “giving voice perspective” to the group of elderly people, whom I consider a marginal group in our society. I agree with Wengraf, who says that to understand “the voice of others,” it is necessary to take a step toward a simple recycling of a text (2000: 140). Consequently, as Rosenthal suggests, an optimal methodology is one which enables a balance between a structure and experience (Rosenthal 1994: 128). As a written text represents a medium through which the authors present, select or omit some events in their lives, the way the authors write about concrete events is therefore important. Although life events have a certain chronological sequence, the sequences of a narrated or written story do not necessarily appear in the same order. It is important to differentiate between two main dimensions: the themes and the kinds of texts which are addressing the themes: “Given that each textual sort is able to serve specific referential and communicative functions, one can ask: why did the interviewee [in our case the author of the autobiographical text – Ľ.V.] choose this sort of text in this sequence and not another sort?” (Rosenthal 2004: 57). As Rosenthal further suggests, we assume it is important if authors of autobiographical texts express their anger, dispute about the social discourse, and sometimes talk about certain themes in more detail than about others.18 Peculiarities of Autobiographical Texts Describing Aging and Old Age The autobiographical texts about old age that I have analyzed were not being written over longer time spans. Essentially, they tend to be a kind of diary written in one stroke, describing a shorter time period into which old age is placed. Diaries and autobiographies are for this reason comparable sources, and I label them all autobiographical texts.

17 Author’s translation [Ľ.V.]. 18 For more information about the approach and methodology see Rosenthal (1994, 1995, 2004, 2015).

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I have also dealt elsewhere with more general characteristics of autobiographical texts as a source for research (Herzánová 2003: 71-77). It could be stated that the characteristics outlined in that article apply also to the selected collections of autobiographical texts on aging and old age. However, there are some peculiarities, including, for example, the theme of aging and the old person’s life itself. Authors of autobiographies picturing their whole lives try to give meaning to their lives in the past; it is more difficult to give meaning to one’s life at the moment, in old age. Once a person gets older, the aspect of life perspective and relationship toward the future, “which is in its essence an activating principle of the life path” (Alan 1989: 51), changes. In writing about old age, building one’s own life and organizing one’s life path is not important; the only thing that matters is the organization of current living. In some cases, the resignation dimension is evoked by a disparity between a long biography and short perspective. It is, however, important to mention that the older generation cannot be considered a homogeneous group. One peculiarity of autobiographical texts on aging and old age is the following: aging brings about an emphasis on the value of one’s own experience, thus on the meaning of the past. Because the authors, taking on the role of experts,19 in terms of popular autobiographical writing try to reflect primarily the things that could be forgotten, they do not typically summarize the later phases of their lives in autobiographies. Old age as one of life’s phases, including, for example, relocation to a retirement home and descriptions of life there, is usually mentioned in autobiographies mirroring the whole life only for the feeling of completeness whilst listing data and life phases. Although it may appear that there is nothing to write about old age, life records in old age hide in themselves a far larger conflict potential, a spark connected with a current experience, and the stories are concrete. Concrete stories describing present life changes, e.g. the “wrench” from the existing life path either through retirement, the death of a partner or an interruption

19 In this case anybody who lived long enough could become an expert. Recollecting is considered to be a characteristic “activity” of elderly people. Even a health disability is not considered an obstacle to expertise and from their point of view writing still presents a way of applying their knowledge even in the last phase of their lives.

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of everyday life rhythm by illness and limited mobility, etc., are connected with another peculiarity of autobiographical texts on aging and old age. The majority of authors, regardless of age, use the first person. As has been stated, in this life-phase thinking about the current personal situation, momentary state, personal images, desires and wishes appears more difficult and more unusual than recalling the past. Moreover, the challenge is to write about all of that. In the case of an old person dealing with aging and old age intensively, it might bring up many unpleasant recent experiences, which have not yet been forgotten. Other ways in which the authors of autobiographical texts on old age manage to cope with unpleasant experiences are, for example, through talking about their own lives in old age (1) by means of a story, using the third person, (2) “hiding behind” the collective identity, or (3) by describing the lives of other elderly persons, who are usually older than the authors themselves. Grete F. (69 years old, Vienna) wrote: Then an old acquaintance of mine moved to a retirement home. I have often visited her and thus have been meeting people who I perceived as very old. In practice a retirement home is not always such an ideal place for some people as it is pictured in promotional leaflets. First of all, I have noticed that most of the people there fear the ward for immobile patients. When my acquaintance was moved there, I understood why. Old people there – and it does not matter if they were solitary or abandoned by children – seemed to me deprived of freedom and more or less of their rights; they were sentenced to wait for death, being at the mercy of nursing stuff that did not always offer an optimal care. (Dann zog eine alte Bekannte ins Seniorenheim, meine häufigen Besuche brachten mich vermehrt in Kontakt mit Menschen, die in meinen Augen sehr alt waren. In der Praxis war im Seniorenheim gar nicht alles so ideal für manche Bewohner, wie es in Prospekten geschildert wird. Vor allem registrierte ich die Angst der meisten Bewohner vor der Pflegeabteilung. Als meine Bekannte gleichfalls dorthin verlegt wurde, begriff ich, warum. Die alten Menschen dort, egal, ob sie alleine waren oder von den Kindern “abgeschoben”, erschienen mir entrechtet und mehr oder weniger entmündigt, vom nicht immer optimalen Personal abhängig, dazu verurteilt, auf den Tod zu warten. [Langreiter/ Schulz-Ulm 1999: 40])

There is also a noticeable effect of lay medical knowledge and popularization activities of science institutions that are believed to be a reliable au-

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thority. Ján F.’s text (62 years old, Bratislava, manuscript) on old age and aging begins as follows: THE INITIAL PHASE OF AGING: Even though we know that scientifically and according to various institutions, it is proven that older men undergo something similar to women’s menopause. It is an ANDROPAUSE with men – early warning signs of men’s menopause. It manifests itself by decreased libido (desire for sex), sleep disturbances, weariness and fatigue during flushes. In general it is set that every second man over age 45 has various difficulties that are typical for the TRANSITION YEARS. Mostly it is assumed to be a consequence of stress and aging. (POČIATOČNÁ FÁZA STARNUTIA: Aj keď vieme, že vedecky a podľa rôznych inštitúcií je preukázané, že aj muži starnú a prekonávajú podobne ako ženy menopauzu, u mužov je to ANDROPAUZA – prvé varovné signály prechodu mužov. Prejavuje sa to poklesom libida (túžba po sexe), poruchy spánku, ubitosť, únava pri návale horúčav. Danosťou je, že spravidla každý druhý muž nad 45 rokov má rôzne ťažkosti, ktoré sú typické pre PRECHODNÉ ROKY. Väčšinou sa predpokladá, že je to následok stresov a starnutia.)

As a type of text Ján F. uses an argumentation. Emphasizing with capital letters, he draws attention to the terms – and at the same time he is “hiding behind the authority” in another way by using the collective “self” – on the one hand he is trying to give his text some credibility, and, on the other, we can assume that what was said does not relate to his story, or cannot be reconciled with it, as he avoided the narrative form, which in this case would have been the usual practice (see also Rosenthal 1995: 120). The perception of many situations as problematic from the side of the authors of autobiographical texts on old age is connected with the public debate on an aging population, where the number of members of the oldest generation is increasing sharply. This is usually called “a crisis phenomenon”. The media pay attention to the elderly mainly in relation to a reallocation of economic means under pension reforms, health care and saving measurements. Older people are in this connection regarded as “a problem group” and old age is perceived as a problem situation, which is linked with isolation, poverty and illness. Although these people feel that they are not

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very often directly addressed or invited to cooperate, public discussion has an influence on the way they perceive their feelings and themselves. The following peculiarity of autobiographical texts on aging and old age is related to the two previous ones. When it comes to talking about a certain topic, the elderly try to compare the situation they have experienced with similar experiences presented by their parents or grandparents. However, this is not the case whilst writing about aging and old age, as here they are dealing with the present time experienced every day. One could also find a possible link with the fact that the life phase when one retires and finishes one’s active work is historically a very young phenomenon. As a model which would serve as an orientation point is missing, it is pointless to compare. Imhof calls old age since the end of the 20th century “won or gained years” (Imhof 1981). He calculated that in 1900 a person spent 440,000 hours on Earth. These hours, equally divided into thirds, were spent on essential life activities (eating, drinking and sleeping), work and leisure time. Currently, life lasts approximately 700,000 hours, but work and essential activities, unlike free time, have not increased proportionally. Thus, the proportion of free time has increased, which provides a relatively broad space for an individual way of life. The contemporary older generation can choose from such a variety of life styles leading them to a constant reorientation.

R ETIREMENT – AN E XAMPLE IN N ARRATIVES

OF

D IFFERENCES

Despite a variety of forms of autobiographical texts in my sample, some topics are present in most of the texts independently from the country of their origin, although the authors focus on one or the other issue. Working and finishing work plays an important role in autobiographies from Vienna and Bratislava. The reason lies in a common cognitive and historical frame, which was produced by the project of modernity in European countries. Employment is one of the basic incentives of human activity. It is connected with a higher status of the employed, in comparison to those who are preparing for wage work, or those who have already quit. The retirement age presents an example of the social ages of a human being. Gender differences in connection with jobs and retirement are signif-

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icant factors in this sense. Male authors in Bratislava as well as in Vienna regarded retirement as a serious event: a biographical turn bringing a change into their lives. Anton R. (72 years old, Vienna): I’ve made a big mistake by not thinking about retirement. As I already mentioned, I always postponed it, until in autumn I received an official letter: “…because you have reached the age of 65, on 1 January 1992 you must retire…” It was a shock for me and I often wished to die on the last day of my employment. But death has not yet come… (Es war ein großer Fehler von mir, mich nicht mit dem Gedanken der kommenden Pensionierung zu beschäftigen, wie schon erwähnt, ich verdrängte es immer, bis dann im Herbst das Schreiben kam: “…da Sie das 65. Lebensjahr erreicht haben, werden sie ab 1.1.1992 in den dauernden Ruhestand versetzt…”. Das war für mich ein Schock, und ich wünschte mir oft, dass mich am letzten Tag der Dienstzeit ein plötzlicher Tod ereilen möge. Doch dieser kam bis heute nicht… [Langreiter/SchulzUlm 1999: 119])

Due to the vocabulary they used in the autobiographical texts it is obvious that the concepts of status, job and individual work were applied to the whole life, i.e. also concerning the period when a paid job does not exist, or no longer functions as the main content of a person’s life. The way they label themselves in the texts has a very strong connection with their previous social status. For example, the Austrian abbreviations such as “i. R.” (im Ruhestand – retired) or “a. D.” (außer Dienst – out of service) apply to a previous occupation and enable the retiree to participate in prestige, which an occupation used to represent. According to the life records, the retired female authors generally spend their time taking care of their household and family. Moreover, in cases when women were not employed or did not gain a higher status in the institutional hierarchy, they usually did not consider retirement as the biographical turn. For example, Wilhelmine L. (1929, 70 years old, Vienna) wrote: Getting bored?... Never! I was spared the so-called shock from retirement, because since I gave birth to our first child I limited my work to the household and therefore I have no financial

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claims for pension. Although I am a “pensioner,” I do not receive a pension. Thus I depend on my husband’s pension. We both have access to our account and although we are thrifty, we are happy and satisfied. (Zeitlang? Mir nie! Mir blieb der sogenannte Pensionsschock erspart, weil sich seit der Geburt unseres ersten Kindes meine Berufstätigkeit auf meinen Haushalt beschränkte und ich daher keinen finanziellen Pensionsanspruch habe. Zwar bin ich “Pensionistin” – jedoch ohne Eigenpension. Deshalb bin ich auf die Pension meines Mannes angewiesen. Wir verfügen beide über ein gemeinsames Konto und leben zwar sparsam, aber glücklich und zufrieden. [Langreiter/Schulz-Ulm 1999: 52])

However, there is one significant difference between female authors from Bratislava and Vienna. Whereas women from Vienna did not describe this experience as a shock, authors from Bratislava consider retirement a biographical turn. One could see an explanation in a different attitude toward female employment in the two countries in the second half of the 20th century. For example, women in Austria in the last quarter of the 20th century were given a chance to choose among numerous models of the life cycle: Reinhard Sieder speaks mostly about a two-phase model, three-phase model or since the 1980s the sequential model (Zwei-Phasen-Modell, DreiPhasen-Modell, Sequenzmodell). In the two-phase model a woman performs wage work until the birth of her first children and then gives up her professional ambitions completely to care for her children and family; in the three-phase model there are two periods of wage work interrupted by a longer phase of maternity leave; finally, the sequential model means a period of wage work followed by maternity leave with full wage compensation, parental leave, then more wage work, potentially repeating with a subsequent maternity leave with full wage compensation and parental leave, etc. (Sieder 1998: 239). The socialist countries on the other side in general invested in the collective raising of children, since female employment was a declared aim of the central planning system focusing on a better use of the working potential. Oľga Plávková calls this “an era of professional career of women ideologically justified and controlled by the norms (obligatory)” (Plávková 1992: 583). From the end of the 1960s the job rates for married women

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were rising more rapidly in Slovakia than in Austria. In comparison to Austria, only a small percentage of women remained at home as housewives. It appears that “forced emancipation,” although in its essence a “false emancipation,” meant that women adopted a value of being economically selfsufficient and equal with males, and appreciated the occupation as such. Mária K. (Bratislava, manuscript) described her experience with retirement in a similar way: A jump from ordinary life to the retirement age is difficult to overcome for many people, especially people like me. All my life I have worked with people. And suddenly you realize that you are not young anymore and that you probably are not needed today. It was hard for days and months, until I accepted the reality that at some point it is waiting for everyone. The beginnings were unbearable. I did not know what to do with myself, I missed people, the collective – the things that are difficult to forget. (Skok z bežného života do dôchodkového veku je pre mnoho ľudí najmä takých, ako som bola ja, ťažko prekonateľný. Celý život som pracovala s ľuďmi a zrazu si uvedomíte, že nie ste už najmladšia, možno že i nepotrebná pre túto dobu. Boli to pre mňa ťažké dni a mesiace, pokiaľ som sa zmierila so skutočnosťou ku ktorej každý človek raz dospeje. Začiatky boli neznesiteľné, nevedela som čo so sebou, chýbali mi ľudia, kolektív, veci na ktoré sa ťažko zabúda.)

As research on women in post-socialist countries shows, they have not been prepared for a sudden interruption of a continual work biography (Plávková 1992: 585). Normal biography during the era of real socialism represented for them a permanent occupation (interrupted only by maternity leaves). Anna S. (63 years old, Bratislava, manuscript) wrote about her retirement: When I started to feel old… I think it was after retiring, when the doctor I worked with and I, we both decided we’d leave together. She was already sixty years old, I was only fifty, but I wanted to go at the same time as her. We both soon bitterly regretted it when we found out that our pension could not make ends meet. (Kedy som sa začala cítiť stará… Myslím, že to bolo po odchode do dôchodku, kedy sme sa obe s pani doktorkou rozhodli, že odídeme spoločne. Ona už mala šesťdesiat

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rokov, ja síce len päťdesiatštyri, ale chcela som ísť spolu s ňou. Obe sme to hneď potom trpko oľutovali, keď sme zistili, že z nášho dôchodku sa nedá vyžiť.)

The kind of text in the sequence is a narration; the author is still not reconciled with her financial situation. For her, retirement age means the age when she realized that finding a new job at her age would not be easy. The modern life course in Europe is depending on the arrangements connected to the prevailing system of employment and thus the life is divided into three main sequences: education – employment – retirement. The social, cultural as well as subjective connotation of the institutions related to the first and last period are derived from the labor market. Seen from this angle, the hierarchical relations between the institutions are clear. The labor market is thus seen as the dominant source of temporal structure, trajectory and meaning of the life course. Although it seems that nowadays the importance of working in personal and social life as manifestations of work ethic is slowly receding, it appears in the autobiographies of this generation of great importance to the individual.

C ONCLUSION In my paper I outlined the connection between the traditions of autobiographical writing or the experience of writing any kind of texts in Austria and Slovakia based on historical circumstances as well as the (un)concern for this kind of source from the side of the historical disciplines influencing the production of such narratives in turn. I dealt with the question of what else enters the process of the creation of an autobiographical text/narrative. Autobiographies should be seen not only as a historical source and as narrative testimony, but as the result of complex social-communicative processes. Working with autobiographical texts allows us to reconstruct the interrelationship between individual experience and collective framework, so when we reconstruct an individual case we are always aiming to make general statements. Autobiography represents a source standing between all the levels: it reflects experiences of those who are a part of either macrostructures (e.g. state, region) or intermediate structures (e.g. community, neighborhood, family), and indicates how they manage to cope with them.

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The structures the authors lived during their lives were reflected in the themes about which they wrote. In both Vienna and Bratislava they had a great deal in common. Diversity and ambivalent perception of old age and aging was reflected in life records from both cities. There was similar professionalization of numerous spheres of life, one of them being old age, which was in both cities constructed through gradual flat implementation of pensions, social and health care – the last associated with the medicalization of old age. This resulted in similar experiences related to aging and later life by the authors of autobiographies in my research, regardless of the city of their origin. Thus, working and finishing work plays an important role in autobiographies of Vienna as well as Bratislava. Employment is one of the basic incentives of human activity: it is connected with a higher status of the employed, in comparison to those who are preparing for employment, or those who have already left it. However, different historical developments in Vienna and Bratislava in the second half of the 20th century resulted in gender differences related to work perception. Female authors ascribed different meaning to the leaving of the workplace with respect to different normal female biographies in both cities. In Vienna the generation of women from my sample could choose from several possibilities of combination of wage work, career and staying at home and taking care of their families. For the female authors in Bratislava, who used to live in the norm of female employment strongly supported by the state, retirement meant a strong biographical turn similar to that of their male counterparts. Using the identity of authority (from the field of medicine, various media, etc.), using the collective “self,” writing in plural, writing in argumentation or on the other hand silence and not writing about the perception of leaving the workplace provide evidence of the authors’ discontent with their actual conditions. However, urgency of the issue weakens with age: with an increasing age of people writing their memories, less space was dedicated to this theme in their accounts and the descriptions seemed to be less dramatic. Whether the encounter with retirement as the gateway to one’s own old age means a biographical turn, depends on a combination of the personal life experiences and the traditional roles prescribed to the individuals by the society.

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This article is a part of Grant Tasks VEGA Project Family Histories: Intergenerational Transfer of Representation of Political and Social Changes. No. 2/0086/14.

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Langreiter, Nikola/Schulz-Ulm, Margit (1999): Ich wurde es, ohne daran zu denken... Erzählungen vom Altwerden und Altsein. Wien. Lazarova, Erika (2014): The Role of Ego-Documents in the History of Science. Sofia. Muchow, Hans H. (1966): “Über den Quellenwert der Autobiographie für die Zeitgeistforschung”, in: Zeitschrift für Religions- und Geistesgeschichte 4, 297-310. Müller, Günter (1997a): “‘So vieles ließe sich erzählen...’. Von der Geschichte im Ich und dem Ich in der Geschichte”, in: Eder, Franz X./Feldbauer, Peter (eds.): Wiener Wege der Sozialgeschichte. Themen, Perspektiven, Vermittlungen. Wien, 335-356. Müller, Günter (1997b): “‘Vielleicht hat es einen Sinn, dachte ich mir...’. Über Zugangsweisen zur popularen Autobiographik am Beispiel Dokumentation lebensgeschichtlicher Aufzeichnungen in Wien”, in: Historische Anthropologie 2 (5), 302-318. Niethammer, Lutz (1990): “Kommentar zu Pierre Bourdieu: Die biographische Illusion”, in: Bios 1 (4), 91-93. Nosková, Jana (2006): “Biografická metoda a vyprávění v praxi – poznámky k terénnímu výzkumu”, in: Krekovičová, Eva/Pospíšilová, Jana (eds.): Od folklórneho textu ku kontextu. Bratislava, Brno, 84-100. Nosková, Jana (2014): Biografická metoda a metoda orální historie: na příkladu výzkumu každodenního života v socializmu. Brno. Plávková, Oľga (1992): “Stratégie žien v pracovnom a občianskom živote po novembri 1989”, in: Sociológia 6 (24), 582-588. Rosenthal, Gabriele (1994): “Die erzählte Lebensgeschichte als historischsoziale Realität. Methodologische Implikationen für die Analyse biographischer Texte”, in: Berliner Geschichtswerkstatt, 125-138. Rosenthal, Gabriele (1995): Erlebte und erzählte Lebensgeschichte: Gestalt und Struktur biographischer Selbstbeschreibungen. Frankfurt/Main. Rosenthal, Gabriele (2004): “Biographical Research”, in: Seale, Clive et al. (eds.): Qualitative Research Practice. London, 48-64. Rosenthal, Gabriele (2015): Interpretative Sozialforschung: Eine Einführung. Weinheim. Sieder, Reinhard (1998): “Besitz und Begehren, Erbe und Elternglück. Familien in Deutschland und Österreich”, in: Geschichte der Familie. Vol. 4: 20. Jahrhundert. Frankfurt/Main, 211-284.

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Sieder, Reinhard (2003): “Die Wiederkehr des Subjekts in den Kulturwissenschaften.” Unpublished manuscript, 23 p. Szołtysek, Mikołaj (2011): “Spatial Construction of European Family and Household Systems: A Promising Path or a Blind Alley? An Eastern European Perspective.” http://www.demogr.mpg.de/papers/working/ wp-2011-021.pdf [accessed February 18, 2017]. Thomas, Wiliam I./Znaniecky, Florian (1958): Polish Peasant in Europe and America. New York. Vanovičová, Zora (2000): “Ľudové písané itineráriá ako súčasť folklórneho tradovania”, in: Hlôšková, Hana (ed.): Tradičná kultúra a generácie. Bratislava, 133-142. VVMZ (2008): Program hospodárskeho a sociálneho rozvoja mestskej časti Bratislava – Staré Mesto. Bratislava. Warneken, B. Jürgen (1985): Populare Autobiographik. Empirische Studien zu einer Quellengattung der Alltagsgeschichtsforschung. Tübingen. Wengraf, Tom (2000): “Uncovering the General from Within the Particular: From Contingencies to Typologies in the Understanding of Cases”, in: Chamberlayne, Prue/Bornat, Joanna/Wengraf, Tom (eds.): The Turn to Biographical Methods in Social Science: Comparative Issues and Examples. London, 140-164.

Old Age and Ageing in People and Books David Albahari’s Tsing A NDREA Z INK

I NTRODUCTION Tsing (Cink, 1988)1 is the second novel by David Albahari,2 though this generic term used virtually unanimously by reviewers is somewhat misleading. Tsing could also be described as a collection of philosophical reflections, travel notes, fragments of fiction, and memories. In his review of the English version (Tsing, 1997),3 Branko Grojup (1998: 868) describes it as “a slim text refusing any generic classification”, and he places the work squarely in the postmodern tradition. Tsing differs in its uncomfortable composition both from Albahari’s early stories and from the later novels like Man of Snow (Snežni čovek, 1995), Bait (Mamac, 1996) and Brother (Brat, 2008), which despite their narrative flows without paragraph divisions do have clearly recognisable storylines and connections. Tsing, on the other hand, is dominated by pauses and fragments of thoughts or actions. A

1

The quotations in the following from the 1988 original are taken from Albahari (2004).

2

His first being Judge Dimitrijevic (Sudija Dimitrijević, 1978). According to Olga Stojanović-Frechette (2013: 129) Tsing is the author’s first novel, but the explanation for this is unclear.

3

The translation was undertaken by the author himself. In the following the quotations from this English version are taken from Albahari (1997).

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large number of gaps, marked typographically by paragraphs and blank lines, correspond with textual ellipses and not least with the reason for writing: a man’s death. The text disintegrates before our eyes, just like the firstperson narrator’s sick father, who gradually becomes another protagonist and whose death is established almost parenthetically in the very first pages of the book (2004: 19). This old man, his suffering, infirm body, his being and his past life are described by the authorial I, who is himself beginning to feel the effects of ageing. Albahari was just 40 years old (or young) when he wrote his first (auto)biographical prose text, and our European cultural tradition holds that the ageing process in men does not begin before the age of 50.4 Yet there are many indications in Tsing of a change or crisis in the life of the first-person narrator. It is not the vigour and aplomb of a “man in the prime of life” we find inscribed in the text, but insecurity, inarticulacy and the experience of failure. The narrator is infected by the old age, illness and death of the old man, and even the text itself seems to be affected: it struggles to proceed. Memories dominate, writing projects are aborted, and finally, eight years after its appearance, the novel itself is furnished with an addendum that attests to its mature age. In 1996, after the violent disintegration of Yugoslavia, Tsing was no longer in keeping with the times. In his afterword to the fifth volume of his collected works Albahari (1996: 128) implies that Tsing, with its postmodern techniques, now feels like a historical novel. These aspects of growing older and being old will be discussed in the following.

O LD AGE

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W ISDOM

Almost all cultural histories of old age tell us that there are different ways of viewing the final phase in a person’s life. This was the case even in antiquity. While Aristotle and Hippocrates speak of a state of disease and decay, Cicero foregrounds the venerability and virtues of old age. The dichotomy of mind and body is clearly a factor in these heterogeneous interpreta-

4

And perhaps even much later, at 70, as Taunton (2007: 1) suggests was the case even as early as the Renaissance.

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tions (Taunton 2007: 2-3).5 Old age possesses experience and knowledge, rationality and morality, and can serve as a role model for impetuous youth, but the moral superiority of the elderly is at odds with their physical deficiencies. The blindness of the elderly, a traditional literary trope, goes hand in hand with prophetic qualities (as for instance in Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus), but it is also accompanied by physical and mental limitations, even helplessness (Klüger 2004: 33). Where can you go, what news can you receive, what books can you still read and what knowledge can you accumulate or test if you are deprived of sight? The ambivalence around old age, a subject of contemplation ever since the Renaissance,6 has been replaced in more recent representations and research by pluralistic positions.7 Yet for all of Tsing’s postmodern techniques, Albahari distances himself from such perspectives. The author depicts old age very much in the manner of the classics as wise but (physically) weak. The narrator’s father, whose first name is “Isak, Jichak” (103), is in the first instance a highly respectable and experienced individual. He is at peace with himself, and in this unfractured identity he is markedly in contrast with his son. There were many who respected him. In order to be respected you have to respect. I learned that from him. […] And what else? Peace: I have always envied him for his peace which often passed into tranquility, the bliss of Buddha. I have learned that, but I’ve never managed to apply it. […] When my father would say “I”, that word would fill up to the top and his being could clearly be seen. My “I” is like a wind

5

In her cultural history, Pat Thane (2005) seeks to differentiate the supposed ambivalence of old age by looking at economic and demographic facts (which affect all phases of life, including old age, and determine how it is judged). Yet here, too, respect (for the wisdom of old age) and contempt (for the physical deterioration) unmistakeably form the point of departure for her observations.

6

There was also scepticism in the Renaissance about the intellectual qualities of old age. Taunton (2007: 4-5) gives the example of Francis Bacon, who wondered whether the brains of the elderly might not correspond to their deteriorating bodies. Examining literary and other sources (e.g. advice literature), Taunton highlights the variability of concepts of old age in the Renaissance.

7

On the new pluralising approach in ageing research in the late 20th century (in emphatic distinction to research on old age and with a focus squarely on the process and not the result), see Conrad/Kondratowitz (1993: 1-16).

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changing directions: I come and go, sometimes despite my own directions. (1997: 39-40) (Mnogi su ga poštovali. Da bi te poštovali: moraš ti da poštuješ. To sam naučio od njega. […] I šta još? Mir: uvek sam mu zavideo na miru koji je često prelazio u spokoj, u blaženstvo Bude. To sam naučio, ali nikada nisam uspeo da ostvarim. […] Kada bi on rekao: “Ja”, ta reč se punila do vrha i jasno se videlo njegovo biće. Moje “ja” je kao vetar promenljivog pravca: dolazim i odlazim, ponekad mimo svoje volje. [2004: 43-44])

Tsing even tells us exactly from where the father’s spiritual and moral superiority originates and why this old man is worthy of esteem. His authority emanates from the history into which he has been cast and the experiences he went through in a truly atrocious era. The father “knows what tragedy is” (1997: 77) (“on zna šta je tragedija” [2004: 87]). He has survived several wars, but above all the war, in which his first wife and his first children were murdered, and in which he himself, as a Serbian Jew, was imprisoned by the Germans for four years, to then have to start all over again and learn “the simple art of living” (1997: 59) (“jednostavna veština življenja” [2004: 66]). The narrator is unsparing in his praise for these qualities born of experience. He speaks of “irreproachable skills” and “sublime virtues” (1997: 59) (“njihova umeća su besprekorna, njihove vrline uzvišene” [2004: 66]) and feels a certain degree of envy (2004: 87). The historical situation, the experience of which could lead to a virtuous old age, does not seem to figure for the narrator in the year 1988.8 The father’s morality is reflected quite clearly in his predilection for certain television dramas, namely the classic westerns (2004: 68, 80). This genre is characterised by its uncompromising depiction of and differentiation between good and evil, which is also what the father likes about it. The father categorically rejects modern westerns that use handheld cameras and not only shake visually but are also often fuzzy in terms of the message they convey.

8

The Yugoslavian history of the 1990s is a wake-up call for the author, as he admits in his afterword from 1996. (More on this in the following.)

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He despised new westerns, the ones where the camera shook and scenes looked blurred. If you don’t know immediately who’s good and who’s evil, he said, then there’s no tragedy, and everything becomes chaos and confusion. (1997: 92) (Prezirao je nove vesterne, one u kojima je kamera podrhtavala a prizori bili neizoštreni. Ako se odmah ne zna ko je dobar a ko zao, govorio je, onda nema tragedije već se sve pretvara u zbrku i pometnju. [2004: 103])

The old man knows how to live and to judge. And he passes his knowledge on to his son, teaching him to respect other people and his own work (2004: 43) and instructing him in practical matters like shaving (109). The father has no resentment against others; he never shouts at anyone (95); he is incapable of hatred (110). His values, his character, are clear and good. It is the son who struggles with ambiguity and confusion. Just like the other narrative strands, his literary project, the embedded story about a girl and a man, is beset with doubt. This uncertainty derives from the death of the old man, the withdrawal of his moral authority, while the second feature of old age, the weak body, brings to light the triumph of youth.

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With the exception of the son’s memories and one brief dream sequence (19), the father appears in the novel as a helpless, naked invalid. It is impossible to overlook the superiority of the observer, his son. This is accentuated by the focus on the male reproductive organ, of which the father is in fact “dispossessed” even in its primary function, as an excretory organ, by the insertion of a catheter. While the father experiences alienation from his body, a physical violation, and tries to resist, calling for help, the son’s gaze is characterised by concealed curiosity. He shamelessly examines the paternal testicles, interpreting them as a presage of the future – one that is hardly likely to promise vitality or indeed virility: It was then that I saw him naked for the first time. In fact, I had seen him naked before, but those were natural situations […], but that time he lay on his back, stricken by a stroke, with his legs spread wide and with a thin tube inserted into his penis. […] But all that time I wanted to bend down and look closely at his penis and scro-

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tum, as if in their wrinkles I could have read not only his future but mine as well. While he kept repeating: Take that tube out, take it out, please. (1997: 18-19) (Prvi put sam ga tada video golog. U stvari, viđao sam ga golog i ranije, ali to su uvek bile neke prirodne situacije […], a sada je ležao na leđima, šlogiran, raširenih nogu, sa cevčicom ubodenom u mlitav penis. […] A sve vreme sam želeo da se sagnem i bolje razgledam njegov penis i mošnice, kao da sam u tim naborima, pored njegove, mogao da pročitam i vlastitu budućnost. Dok je on govorio: Izvadi mi tu cevčicu, izvadi je, molim te. [2004: 20-21])

It seems, at least according to the author’s English translation, that the narrator is also reflecting on his own wrinkled future at his father’s bedside. And yet the power of the younger generation is nevertheless apparent in the fixation on the father’s nakedness paired with the advantageous position in the room of the narrator, looking down on the old man from above. This gaze is injurious, it resembles a penetration.9 Another passage explicitly identifies the power of the young and healthy over the old and weak. It is attractive (“I am attracted by my power, by the possibility of putting myself above his face as the one who is healthy, to embrace or throw it away” [1997: 21]) (“privlači me upravo moja moć, mogućnost da se iznad tog lica postavim kao neko ko je zdrav, da ga prigrlim ili odbacim” [2004: 23]), in sharp contrast to the father’s functionless penis with its catheter and urine bag, an image that recurs throughout the novel (2004: 20-21, 38, 90). The author’s technique of repetition is not without effect: many of the countless ideas, questions and reflections that Tsing presents may fade from our, the readers’, memories, but the naked body of the father, and in particular his abdomen with the various paraphernalia that keep him alive, are firmly etched in our minds. The old body is needy and weak, at times even ridiculous. As if that weren’t enough, we run into a mishap as the father’s sufferings draw to a close, while the patient is being transferred at the Belgrade airport. The father’s urine bag unexpectedly slips out of a trouser leg as he is being lifted from a stretcher into a car (90). The narrator’s comment that

9

The psychoanalytical interpretation of the gaze as penetration, conducted among other things on the basis of literary “cases”, fits perfectly here. See Freud’s interpretation of E. T. A. Hoffmann’s story The Sandman (Der Sandmann, 1816) (Freud 1919: 297-324).

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the colour of the urine under the wide airport sky was “yellow as pure gold” (1997: 81) (“mokraća u kesici bila je ‘žuta kao suvo zlato’” [2004: 90]) gives the situation an additional ironic touch. This old body is now contrasted with a fully functional young one. It is no coincidence that the difference becomes apparent in the same body part, namely the penis, and we soon understand what the gaze of a potent man is all about: Women in uniforms have always excited me, and Israel is full of them […]. While my father is dying, my penis becomes madly alive as the two of us watch (I with my real and my penis with its supernatural eyes) firm Yemenite Jewesses in tight nurse uniforms. My father is also watching but sees nothing. […] I am ashamed of my hard-on, and try to hide my penis from my father by crossing my right leg across the left one. […] Father closes his eyes: the soul changes its garment. I bend down and listen near his nose, his mouth, above the chest, at the place where the human heart should be. (1997: 44-45) (Uvek su me uzbuđivale žene u uniformama, a Izrael vrvi od njih […]. Dok moj otac umire, moj penis besno oživljava dok gledamo [ja stvarnim a penis nadnaravnim okom] jedre Jevrejke iz Jemena u tesnim bolničarskim uniformama. Gleda i moj otac, ali ništa ne vidi. […] Sramota me je zbog očvrslog penisa i pokušavam da ga sakrijem od oca tako što desnu nogu prebacujem preko leve. […] Otac zatvara oči: duša se presvlači. Čekam, bez daha, ali on ih ne otvara. Osluškujem kod njegovog nosa, kod usta, iznad grudi, tamo gde bi trebalo da prebiva ljudsko srce. [50-51])

And yet Tsing is not content with a simplistic juxtaposition of passive and active, old and young, impotent and potent bodies. The typical “body politics” with its concentration on the genitals, on heterosexual relationships and youthful strength is indeed cited here. But it is broadened, pluralised, its one-sidedness subverted, through the depiction and activation of unusual body parts (such as the shoulders and the back) and of intimate familial, asexual instances of bodily contact.10 The movement of an arm (2004: 15, 83), of the tongue during speech (24), the shrugging of the shoulders (11),

10 Judith Butler mentions these bodily techniques in her now classic works Gender Trouble (1990) and Bodies That Matter (1993) as methods that could, if not dissolve entirely, then at least upset the ubiquitous heterosexual matrix.

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the trembling of a hand (85) and above all the act of bending down (7, 18, 21, 52, 83, 102) are all part of Albahari’s repertoire in Tsing. Indeed, on closer inspection they in fact hold the whole book together, and they underlie the physical contact of father and son. Seizures, not kisses, hint at a surprising physical closeness. A kind of love seems to emerge between the two men, which is itself articulated in an unusual way: We touched rarely. An occasional kiss and an occasional hug. In the last few years even kisses turned into imitation: we only rubbed our cheeks together. Were it not for his seizures and diseases I would have never hugged him closely, I would have never admitted how close I felt to his body. […] Love that I feel for him bites into me like a bedbug: I don’t see it, it’s not around, and yet I’m covered by the red traces of its bites. (1997: 79) (Retko smo se doticali. Poneki poljubac i poneki zagrljaj. Poslednjih godina i poljupci su se pretvorili u imitaciju: trljali smo, u stvari, obraz o obraz. Da nije bilo njegovih napada i bolesti, ne bih ga nikada privio uz sebe, ne bih nikada priznao bliskost s njegovim telom. […] Ljubav koju osećam prema njemu grize me kao stenica: ne vidim je, nigde je nema, a sav sam prekriven tragovima ujeda. [2004: 88])

AGEING

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D OUBTING

Unlike venerable, self-assured old age, ageing can be described as a process that is accompanied by doubt and involves both physical and mental irritations. Both aspects are present in Tsing. The reader discovers only gradually that the doubt is triggered by the death of the father, that the uncertainty of the first-person narrator is connected to the loss of this crucial counterpart. On his hospital visits, the narrator repeatedly manages to set himself apart as a healthy, agile man from his wretched and small-looking, bedbound father (2004: 91) and even, as the encounter with the Yemenite nurse demonstrates (50), to triumph over old age. Yet contrary to these more or less successful distancing manoeuvres, doubt is inscribed in the book from the outset, obsessively repeated: “It is difficult to say what it was that I was beginning to have doubts about” (1997: 11) (“Teško je reći u šta sam počeo da sumnjam” [2004: 11]); “Doubt got stuck between the story

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and me” (1997: 20) (“Između priče i mene preprečila se sumnja” [2004: 21]); “It is easy to begin to doubt, but it is difficult to stop” (1997: 30) (“lako je posumnjati, teško je prestati da se sumnja” [2004: 33]). This vacillation is underscored by its presentation in the form of a question (“What created my confusion?” [1997: 47], “Šta je, onda, izazvalo moju nedoumicu?” [2004: 53]) and the use of qualifying modal particles: “Perhaps, my father had something to do with doubt” (1997: 18) (“Možda […] otac ima neke veze sa sumnjom” [2004: 20]). The stability of the world is most clearly shaken, however, by the apparently haphazard composition of the text. At the very beginning, the narrator complains repeatedly of a confusion that encompasses “everything”: “Everything has become too complicated” (1997: 20) (“Sve je postalo i suviše složeno” [2004: 21]); “This is all too mixed up” (1997: 36) (“Sve ovo je suviše zamršeno” [2004: 40]); “everything became too complicated” (1997: 47) (“sve [je] postalo i suviše zamršeno” [2004: 52]). The process of writing, in particular – and its entanglement with the life of father and son – is affected by this disorganisation. Tsing contains three narrative strands: one symbolically dense, fictitious embedded narrative written by the authorial I, one first-person narrative about the death of the father, and another first-person narrative about a sojourn in the United States.11 These compositional fragments appear at first to be unrelated; they belong to different temporal and modal planes. Insight into the logic underlying the “disorderly” book and the doubts of the first-person narrator is provided by the activities of the mother, whose practical disposition becomes even more apparent in Albahari’s next novel, Bait. Even in the earlier Tsing, she reveals through her domestic organisation that these doubts are due to the children stepping up to take the place of the old: Almost immediately after my father’s burial Mother led me to his former place at the table; until then I had sat at the foot of the table, since then I would sit at its head […]; the other angle from which, after many years, I looked at the kitchen while sitting at the table, I considered my own; I didn’t suspect that I had already begun to

11 Radmila Gorup (1990: 153) distinguishes three subjects in her review of the Serbian original: the author’s attempt to write a story, the memories of his recently deceased father, and his trip to the U.S. The narrative about the death of the father, she writes, clearly emerges as the most important of these.

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look through his eyes. Then I woke up one morning, thinking that I was him. It could not last long; I blinked, and once again I was who I was, but during that short instant everything was different: the colours of the walls, the shape of things, scents, silence. Later I caught myself watching television in his usual posture. […] I avoided very sweet and very spicy food. I got eyeglasses. (1997: 75-76) (Odmah posle očeve sahrane majka mi je dodelila njegovo mesto za stolom: do tada sam sedeo u dnu, od tog časa u čelu […]; drugi ugao iz kojeg, posle mnogo godina, vidim kuhinju dok sedim za stolom, smatrao sam svojim; nisam slutio da počinjem da gledam njegovim očima. Onda sam se jednog jutra probudio i pomislio da sam on. Nije to moglo dugo da traje: trepnuo sam, i ponovo sam bio onaj koji jesam, ali u tom kratkom trenu sve je bilo drugačije: boje zidova, oblici stvari, mirisi, tišina. Posle sam uhvatio sebe kako gledam televiziju u istom položaju kao on. […] Izbegavao sam jako zašećerena i začinjena jela. Nabavio sam naočare. [2004: 8485])

Identity needs alterity to be sure of itself. If there is no Other, the Self is no longer at its best either. Ageing is accompanied by an identity crisis; it interrogates identity. And the concept of identity, whose far-reaching implications are discussed and questioned in modern gender studies and postcolonial studies, is also at issue in Tsing. Without a vis-à-vis, the self begins to teeter. The son adapts to the father’s posture in his television chair and even to the fact that he suffers from diabetes,12 and, like most people over forty, he also wears reading glasses. But he does not always assume the paternal role, and certainly not without a protest. He blinks to return to his own perspective; he is sometimes the one man, sometimes the other, and above all: never wholly the one or wholly the other. Ageing implies first and foremost that the boundaries become blurred. Entities, whether individuals, genres or modes of being, can no longer be clearly differentiated. “Isn’t everything just a metaphor?” (“Zar nije sve metafora?”) the narrator wonders, very much in the spirit of Friedrich Nietzsche,13 and further:

12 A (supposed) secret of the father’s is only revealed towards the end of the novel: despite his diabetes, he surreptitiously frequents sweet shops. 13 Cf. the much-cited passage: “What then is truth? A mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms – in short, a sum of human relations, which have been enhanced […] rhetorically, and which after long use seem firm, cano-

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“Why couldn’t I write about somebody’s imagined daughter, writing in fact about my real father?” (1997: 32) (“Zar ne bih mogao da pišem o nečijoj izmišljenoj ćerki a da, uistinu, govorim o svom stvarnom ocu?” [2004: 35]). The transformations of the fictitious embedded narrative with its two protagonists, the girl and a man, and the superimposition onto it of the (auto)biographical story, is certainly one of the most effective and astonishing tricks that the novel Tsing has in store for us. Like the author himself, his alter ego, the narrator, is also a writer. He opens the novel by mentioning a story he invented and with which he originally intended to begin the book (2004: 7). As we read on, however, we realise that very little of this story has remained. It is about a man who carefully bends down, picks up a girl, and sets off somewhere in the Mediterranean. He leaves the town and walks above the sea on a path that is sometimes cobbled, sometimes paved, and sometimes only strewn with pine needles. Special importance is attached to the motif of light in this fragmentary story, set entirely in italics: There is too much light in this room, says the man, bends down, picks up the child, a girl only four or five years old, no more, and […] leaves the town. (1997: 7) (U ovoj sobi ima previše svetla, kaže čovek, saginje se, uzima dete, to je djevojčica koja nema više od četiri ili pet godina, i […] izađe iz grada. [2004: 7]) The girl kept her head on his chest, widening her eyes while her hair kept touching his neck and chin. He did not think of anything […]. She leaned her head on his shoulder, her mouth open. Every time he looked at her, he could see the shadows of her eyelashes on her cheeks. He was on the path above the sea. (1997: 30-31) (Devojčica se pribijala uz njega, širila oči i kosom mu doticala vrat i bradu. Ni o čemu nije mislio […]. Devojčica je do tada već bila zaspala u njegovim rukama. Naslonila mu je glavu na rame i otvorila usta. Kada bi je pogledao, ugledao bi snku

nical, and obligatory to a people: truths are illusions about which one has forgotten that this is what they are […].” (Nietzsche 1976: 46-47) (“Was ist also Wahrheit? Ein bewegliches Heer von Metaphern, Metonymien, Anthropomorphismen kurz eine Summe von menschlichen Relationen, die […] rhetorisch gesteigert, nach langem Gebrauche einem Volke fest, canonisch und verbindlich dünken: die Wahrheiten sind Illusionen, von denen man vergessen hat, dass sie welche sind.” [Nietzsche 1988: 880-881])

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trepavica na njenim obrazima. Nalazio se na puteljku koji se nalazio iznad mora. [2004: 34])

The embedded narrative never really progresses from this beginning; it is affected instead by the documentary narration. The girl shows signs of growing older, even exhibiting the traits of an adult (2004: 52) and elderly person; she suddenly resembles the man who had originally carried her (74). And the narrator, expatiating on his imagination and his autobiography, divulges a surprising “identity” of his characters. Rather than the figure of the man deriving from the father, as the reader may have suspected, the father of the authorial I is incarnated in the figure of the girl: My father is the girl who becomes a woman only to discover light in her room, inside herself, on the seashore. The man carrying her at the beginning of the story, slightly bent but strong enough, is me; I am the one who bends down to look at the shadows of eyelashes on his cheeks, the absence of shadows, for his eyelids, eaten up by conjunctivitis, were almost naked. (1997: 48) (Moj otac je devojčica koja postaje devojka da bi otkrila svetlost u sobi, u sebi, na obali mora. Čovek koji je nosi na početku priče, pomalo povijen ali ipak dovoljno snažan, to sam ja; ja sam onaj koji se saginje da ugleda senku trepavica na njegovim obrazima, odsustvo senki, jer su mu kapci, izjedeni konjunktivitisom, bili gotovo goli. [2004: 53-54])

There is no longer any clear distinction between fantasy and reality; the documentary narrative has supplanted the fictitious one, at least for a moment. Youth and old age, as well as the sexes, are confounded. Leitmotifs (here: the bending down, the eyelashes) establish further points of contact between the embedded narrative and the (auto)biographical story. The boundaries between the storylines become permeable, without any new, stable identities – whether individuals or texts – emerging. Not even the brief, fragmentary narrative about the girl and the man can be completely driven out of the novel. It is not entirely absorbed into the documentary story. Just before the end of the text, the girl appears again in two guises, as a symbolic figure and as a life insurance agent, to remind us of her presence: The girl straightened up: Did you hear that? No. As if something chinked. (1997: 97)

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The apartment quickly filled with people: women worked in the kitchen, men drank brandy in the dining room. […] Then somebody rang the doorbell, and when I opened it, a girl asked me if I wanted to buy life insurance. (1997: 99) (Devojka se uspravila: Jesi li čuo? Ne. Kao da je nešto zvecnulo. [2004: 109] Stan se ubrzo ispunio ljudima: žene su spremale u kuhinji, muškarci pili u trepezariji. […] Tada je neko zazvonio, a kada sam otvorio, devojka pred vratima upitala me je da li želim da osiguram život. [2004: 111])

The two passages are also conspicuously linked by their sound – the ringing, the doorbell – subtly returning to the sound “tsing”, which heralds the death of the father and the death of a dog (2004: 96-97) and, above all, gives the novel its name. Tsing subverts the identity formation on which we, the readers, usually rely: the separation of generations and genders, of dream and reality. We resemble our parents, Albahari’s book tells us, a resemblance that in fact increases over the course of our lives, without ever reaching them and without ever being able to distance ourselves entirely from them. The leitmotif of bending down plays a significant role in blurring the boundaries between the generations: it implies a strong person turning towards a weak one, whether a small girl or an old man. Finally, the third narrative strand – the narrator’s visit to the U.S. and in particular his journey to the Navajo people in New Mexico – could also be inspired by his father’s love of westerns. The principle of differentiating between old age and youth, fiction and reality is subverted in Tsing by numerous points of contact realised through the concentrated use of leitmotifs.

C ONCLUSION : T HE O LD AGE AGEING OF THE B OOK

AND

Eight years after its publication, Albahari included the novel Tsing in a collection of his works (Albahari 1996). His life had meanwhile changed in unforeseen ways, and, above all, it had come to resemble the life of his father. What the author then, in 1988, had considered typical of his father, what he had regarded as a hallmark of old age and wisdom, namely the ac-

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quaintance with tragedy, he had now experienced himself. His envy of old age is gone: Today the narrator, if he could only stay outside his text, would notice that his envy has since disappeared. His life is now also caught up in a historical maelstrom. His life has in fact become the ritual enactment of his father’s story.14 Данас би приповедач, када би само могао да постоjи изван текста, осетио да jе завист у међувремену ишчезла, јер сада се и његов живот налази у једном од историјских вртлога. Његов живот је заправо ритуално одигравање очеве историје. (Albahari 1996: 128)

From this new perspective of a man shaken by history, but also matured, Tsing now feels old, perhaps even obsolete. History has taken its toll not only on the author, but also on the text itself. The reality of the Yugoslav wars of the 1990s produces, as Albahari is compelled to admit, its own reality,15 and impacts on literature in terms of techniques and themes. Hope and love, which the author describes as having a very special place in his early (auto)biographical work, irrevocably consign Tsing to history. The notion of “writing for eternity”, one time-honoured way of defying age, is thus discredited. Neither texts nor people, Albahari states very clearly in 1996, endure. Despite this resigned and sobering conclusion, the afterword is not purely nostalgic. Albahari implies that the magic of Tsing could be recovered by its future readers. He calls on them to find the sound of the title and the light of the embedded narrative, to create a synthesis of the different textual currents: “Only the reader can […] renew the story, can make all of its currents converge once again at a single point.”16 (“Једино још читалац […] може да обнови причу, да учини да се сви токови поново сједине на једном месту.” [ibid.: 129])

14 Author’s translation [A.Z.]. 15 “Reality has of course produced its own version of reality.” (Author’s translation [A.Z.]) (“Стварност је, наравно, успоставила своју верзију стварности.” [ibid.]) 16 Author’s translation [A.Z.].

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It seems that the author is hoping his work might experience a second youth. Not long after this, in 1997, he in fact initiated this process himself with an English translation of Tsing; it seems he was not ready to resign himself to the death of his book. It remains to be seen what role Tsing might play in the present day, whether history has triumphed for good or has itself been relegated to the margins, whether translations into new languages, including German, could further the novel’s process of renewal. We can hope for the latter; this literary gem deserves no less. Translated from German by Joy Titheridge

R EFERENCES Albahari, David (1996): Dela Davida Albaharija. Vol. 5: Cink. Beograd. Albahari, David (1997): Tsing. Translated from the Serbian by the author. Evanston, Ill. Albahari, David (2004): Cink. Beograd. Butler, Judith (1990): Gender Trouble. New York. Butler, Judith (1993): Bodies That Matter. New York, London. Conrad, Christoph/Kondratowitz, Hans Joachim von (1993): “Repräsentationen des Alterns”, in: Id. (eds.): Zur Kulturgeschichte des Alterns. Berlin, 1-16. Freud, Sigmund (1919): “Das Unheimliche”, in: Imago. Zeitschrift für Anwendung der Psychoanalyse für die Geisteswissenschaften 5, 297-324. Gorup, Radmila (1990): “David Albahari Cink. Belgrade. Filip Višnjić”, in: World Literature Today 64/1, 153-154. Grojup, Branko (1998): “David Albahari Tsing”, in: World Literature Today 72/4, 868-869. Klüger, Ruth (2004): “Ein alter Mann ist stets ein König Lear”. Alte Menschen in der Dichtung. Wien. Nietzsche, Friedrich (1976): “On Truth and Lie in an Extra-Moral Sense”, in: The Viking Portable Nietzsche. Ed. by Walter Kaufmann. New York, 42-47. Nietzsche, Friedrich (1988): “Ueber Wahrheit und Lüge im aussermoralischen Sinne”, in: Id.: Die Geburt der Tragödie. Unzeitgemässe Betrach-

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tungen I-IV. Nachgelassene Schriften 1870-73. Berlin, New York, 873890. Stojanović-Frechette, Olga (2013): “Familie und Identität in den frühen Erzählungen David Albaharis”, in: Hansen-Kokoruš, Renate/Popovska, Elena (eds.): Kind und Jugendlicher in der Literatur und im Film Bosniens, Kroatiens und Serbiens. Hamburg, 127-138. Taunton, Nina (2007): Fictions of Old Age in Early Modern Literature and Culture. New York, London. Thane, Pat (ed.) (2005): Das Alter. Eine Kulturgeschichte. Darmstadt. [The Long History of Old Age. London 2005.]

“My Diary That Grows Old with Me” Representations of Old Age and Ageing in Women’s Diaries of the Soviet Era I RINA S AVKINA I thought that old age meant red-cheeked grandchildren, A family lamp, a cheerful cosiness. But old age is the cold hands of other people Passing a careless morsel down to you from above. I thought old age was a time of harvest, The results of labour, the trophies of toil. But old age is homeless like a stranger’s cat, Bringing forth nothing, like the breast of some half-starved slave.1

These lines by the poet Elena Tager, who spent sixteen years in Stalinist camps and in exile, contain two contrasting images of old age: one optimistic, linked to family comfort, and one tragic, linked to loneliness and alienation. The lines are quoted in the diary of the 73-year-old Ljubov’ Šaporina, a text that forms the main object of analysis in this article along with two

1

“Я думала, старость – румяные внуки, / Семейная лампа, веселый уют. / А старость – чужие холодные руки / Небрежный кусок свысока подают. / Я думала, старость – пора урожая, / Итоги работы, трофеи борьбы. / А старость бездомна, как кошка чужая, / Бесплодна, как грудь истощенной рабы.” (Šaporina 2012: 201)

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other women’s diaries of the Soviet era: those of Nina Lašina and Marija Suslova. My interest will centre around the question of how old age and the process of ageing are portrayed in these diary texts. I share the view that both gender and old age are contextually conditioned socio-cultural constructs and that conceptions of old age in general and in women in particular vary noticeably according to time and place/society (GramshammerHohl 2014: 32-36; Levinson 2005). Narratives of old age and ageing, in particular in diary discourse, are doubtless also influenced by the historical context, which “imposes” on the writer certain legitimising metanarratives, cultural codes and taboos. That being said, the practices of self-description in old age are not encountered as frequently. Old people rarely appear as subjects: the elderly, along with old age in general, are spoken about by others for whom this experience has not yet become a personal one (see Gramshammer-Hohl 2014: 49).

T HE N ARRATIVE

OF

AGEING : M EMOIRS

VS .

D IARIES

From the very first, it seems that in order to analyse how old age in women is represented and reflected on in the auto-documentary context, the most natural choice would be to focus on the genre of autobiography, of women’s memoirs about their lives. Autobiography is linked with the themes of memory, drawing conclusions from life and imparting the experience gained by the writer to other, younger generations: “Sad as it may be, there comes a time for drawing conclusions: maybe not the very last, but all the same…” (“Как ни грустно, наступает пора итогов, пусть не самых последних, но все же…” [Ketlinskaja 1974: 7]); this is a very typical point of departure for the writing of memoirs. Paradoxically enough, in autobiographical discourse old age itself rarely serves as an object for reflection and depiction;2 for autobiography, old age is a given, a starting-point

2

This relates to published autobiographies from the Soviet times. It is possible that during that period people wrote autobiographical narratives about ageing and about old people’s illnesses but that these texts were not published and did not become subjects of interest for critics or researchers. It is probable that the theme of old age was not perceived in Soviet discourse to be of social significance.

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and a means of lending a story legitimacy. Finding herself at the high-point of her life’s trajectory, the author of memoirs looks not towards her future declining years but towards the past, to her childhood and the years of her youth, and mentally reconstructs the path of her “rise”. The autobiographical novel by the Soviet writer Vera Ketlinskaja, who was previously quoted, is called Hello Youth! (Zdravstvuj, molodost’!, 1975). Her contemporary Mariėtta Šaginjan prefaces her memoirs Person and Time (Čelovek i vremja, 1971-78) with a quote from Puškin: “Imperceptibly declining and growing cold, we move towards our beginning” (“Невидимо склоняясь и хладея, мы движемся к началу своему”). Of course, old age is present in this kind of text: as a starting-point and organising principle of autobiographical narrative it is connected with the concept of conclusions drawn from life, of experience in the same sense as is present in the German word Erfahrung: that is, as the entirety or totality of knowledge and competencies that a person amasses over the course of a lifetime. In the words of Šaginjan, the task of a memoir is to share “the lessons of life that all old people amass at the end of their lives” (“теми уроками жизненного опыта, какие накапливает каждый старый человек в конце своей жизни” [Šaginjan 1980: 664]), and the memoir writer “integrates all the experience of a life that has been lived” (“интегрирует весь опыт прожитой жизни” [ibid.: 371]). Autobiography provides an answer to the question of why a person’s old age is as it is, since self-narrative attempts to represent life as fate (Gusdorf 1980): “It is clear to me as I speak that a human life is a step-bystep, long-term psychological preparation for what stands before us as our fate right after that final, end-of-life point of looking back” (“Мне ясно сейчас, что жизнь человека – это ступенчатая, длительная психологическая подготовка к тому, что впоследствии с последней, предсмертной точки огляда предстает перед нами как его судьба” [Šaginjan 1980: 206]). And although Šaginjan’s book, like most modern autobiographies, devotes a significant amount of space to the female narrator’s life story and fate, the frame narrative’s objects of depiction and reflection are chiefly provided by events that are directly or obliquely related to the author’s work on her memoirs. The story of growing old, unlike that of growing up, turns out to be unarticulated. Another possible means of selecting material for analysing the theme of women’s ageing in auto-documentary texts could be provided by memoirs

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about old women and grandmothers, such as those in Elena Lavrent’eva’s collection Babuška, Grand-mère, Grandmother.... However, this examination of old age from outside, from the point of view of an external but interested observer (a grandson or granddaughter), is also resultative, even static. For her grandchildren, a grandmother is the embodiment of an old age that is without development. The same descriptive formula is repeated with surprising consistency in the memoirs of different people from different times that are collected in this book: “As I remember, my grandmother always wore dark dresses made of crepe de chine” (“На моей памяти бабушка всегда носила темные крепдешиновые платья” [Lavrent’eva 2008: 65]); “Within the family circle she always wore a black sarafan” (“В кругу домашних всегда одетая в черный сарафан” [ibid.: 101]); “She never changed the cut of her clothes” (“Она не переменяла никогда покроя своей одежды” [ibid.: 256]); “I remember her always wearing the same dark silk night gown” (“Я ее помню все в том же темном шелковом капоте” [ibid.: 281]); “For all the years that I knew her – and she died when I was twenty-eight – she hardly changed at all” (“За все годы, пока я ее знала, а она умерла, когда мне было уже двадцать восемь лет, она почти не изменилась” [ibid.: 330; italics all the author’s (I.S.)]) and so on. As can be seen from the quotations, in the stories of her grandchildren a grandmother has no history of her own, and that includes the history of her own ageing; she is virtually unchanging and looks as she does in photographs from the family album. Many grown-up grandchildren will admit that they basically neither knew nor understood their grandmothers, and in an effort to compensate for this deficiency authors of memoirs frequently become the biographers of their own grandmothers, going back to their girlhood diaries and other similar sources in order to recreate the story of their life, and above all their childhood and youth. The personalisation of these statue-like figures takes place when they cease to be grandmothers: only then do they acquire their own “personal life”: “I only really found out about the personal lives of my two grandmothers later, from letters and diaries. While they were still alive all this was for some reason taboo” (“Вообще о личной жизни моих бабушек я узнала потом, из писем и дневников. Почему-то при их жизни на все это было наложено табу” [ibid.: 94]). Besides this tradition-related taboo, another issue was the fact that grandmothers’ life experience – not as Erfahrung (the traditional wisdom and life lessons that they share in their stories), but

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as Erlebnis (up-to-the-minute subjective perceptions and feelings, including their experience of age and ageing) – has been neither accessible nor of interest to their grandchildren, who practically never depict it in their memoirs. In her book The Coming of Age (La Vieillesse, 1970) Simone de Beauvoir writes: Every human situation can bе viewed from without – seen from the point of view of an outsider – or from within, in so far as the subject assumes and at the same time transcends it. For the outsider, the aged man is the object of a certain knowledge: the aged man himself experiences his condition at first hand – he has an immediate, living comprehension of it. (Beauvoir 1972: 10)

Women’s diaries give us the opportunity to look at the “condition of ageing” from within. It is true that not so many of these diaries exist (at least in Russian). If the “young girl’s diary” is a separate and extremely productive genre (see Lejeune 1993), the “old woman’s diary” is a rarity. Most frequently, even those who have kept a diary for a long time, throughout their entire lives, start to write increasingly rarely and with fewer and fewer words as old age approaches, frequently even ceasing to write entirely. For example, Sof’ja Ostrovskaja (1902-1983), who began her diary in 1913, practically stopped keeping it after 1947, writing several entries in 1950 and one in 1953 (Оstrovskaja 2013: 597-602). This can probably be explained by the onset of sight problems that ultimately led to blindness, and by a sense of having worked dry the themes within which the diarist was trying to depict herself. Sometimes the writings of old age are censored by descendants or editors. When I asked Aleksandra Naumčenko, the publisher of her grandmother Nina Lašina’s diary, which will be discussed below, if her grandmother had written any diaries after 1967, she replied as follows: “[T]here are later diaries but they are very fragmentary and gradually dwindle away to nothing […]. In publishing the diaries we broke the narrative off at a point when they still displayed some kind of coherence” (“более поздние дневники есть, но они очень отрывочны и постепенно сходят на нет […]. При издании мы оборвали повествование на том месте, где в нем еще есть какая-то связность” [Naumčenko 2015]).

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The theme of one’s own ageing is not acknowledged or reflected on in all diaries written by ageing women. Thus in the well-known diary of the 66-year-old Sof’ja Tolstaja for the year 1910 a very strong emphasis is placed on the theme of other people’s old age, and in particular, that of her husband, Lev Tolstoj. She writes of herself as a youthful, young woman, full of energy and strength: Yes, Lev Nikolaevič has half departed from us worldly, ignoble people, and we have to be mindful of that with each passing minute. How I would desire to draw near to him, grow old, calm my passionate, restless soul and together with him grasp the vanity of all that is worldly. (Да, Лев Николаевич наполовину ушел от нас, мирских, низменных людей, и надо это помнить ежеминутно. Как я желала бы приблизиться к нему, постареть, угомонить мою страстную, мятущуюся душу и вместе с ним понять тщету всего земного. [Tolstaja 2013: 60])

The conflict between her and Tolstoj is in some sense interpreted in the diary as a conflict between youth and age, passion and the passionless wisdom peculiar to old people. “The wise and impartial old woman A. A. Šmidt helped me in the conversation she had with me” (“Мудрая и беспристрастная старушка А. А. Шмидт помогла мне своим разговором со мной” [ibid.: 56]), writes Sof’ja Tolstaja about a woman who is incidentally the same age as she (both having been born in 1844). The lines quoted above draw our attention once again to the complex nature of the problem of defining and comprehending old age and its boundaries. And it would probably be more accurate to use the plural rather than the singular here: thus we should speak of different old ages that can be defined through the sociocultural context of life, through the individual features of personality and the narrative strategies of the person who is writing. Women’s old age differs from that of men. The old age of Soviet women has its own special features. Models of self-identification, including that achieved by narrative means (Bruner 2004; Chamberlain/Thompson 1998), have a significant influence on the “telling of old age”. On the basis of the diaries of the three women named at the beginning of the article, I would like to try to cast light on the features of narrative about old age and ageing in women’s diaries of the Soviet era, or in other words to try to un-

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derstand wherein lies the “femaleness” and wherein the “Sovietness” of the ageing that is narrated “day by day”. Two of my diarists – Nina Lašina and Ljubov’ Šaporina – were educated women of noble extraction who kept diaries throughout most of their lives. The third, Marija Suslova, was a simple, not very well educated woman from a village in the Urals who started to keep a diary at an already fairly advanced age.

C OMING TO T ERMS WITH O LD AGE : T HE D IARY OF N INA L AŠINA The entries in the diary of Nina Sergeevna Lašina (1906-1990) record the period from 1929 to 1967. A lawyer by education, Lašina worked in various Soviet institutions, tried to maintain her own literary activity, and in the 1950s worked at the magazine Krokodil. Although Lašina is an educated person from a noble family, throughout her diary she fairly consistently and consciously positions herself as an ordinary, private individual and devotes the greater part of her entries to her daily life and to the vicissitudes of her own personal fate. The topic of old age is first touched on in the diary as a problem affecting not herself but her mother and giving rise to pity, irritation and fear: “I look at the figure she cuts in her greasy dress, so pitiful it makes you want to cry, and I look at her tired old face. […] She was a young, interesting woman, a wonderful, tender person” (“Я смотрю на ее жалкую до слез фигурку в засаленном платье, на ее старое, усталое лицо. […] Была молодая, интересная женщина, ласковый, чудесный человек” [Lašina 2011/1: 344]). At the time when these entries were written the diarist was 39 and her mother 60, yet Lašina already depicts her mother as an old woman with no life of her own, who busies herself with her grandchildren, gives everything she earns to the family (Lašina 2011/2: 132)3 and is described in the past tense.

3

All subsequent references from the second voume of Lašina’s diary will only give the page number.

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The subject of her own old age appears in the diary of the 48-year-old Lašina at the point when she separates from her second husband and a fear of being alone arises: “There it is, old age, right next to me” (“А старость вот она, рядом” [206]); “I am once again trying to achieve a reconciliation […] in view of our old age, which is now so close” (“Я еще раз иду на примирение […] ради такой близкой нашей старости” [233]). Her relationship to the new man who appears in her life a while later is described not as a passion but as a partnership for old age (“we have decided to live the last part of our lives together” (“мы решили заканчивать нашу жизнь вместе” [269]), which, incidentally, turns out to provide no refuge from loneliness. It is loneliness that is the main feature or sign of old age since Lašina sets the beginning of old age at the point when the children have grown up, a process that inevitably leads to their actual or mental departure from their mother’s side: I’m losing my daughter. […] Everything will pass. All that will remain is a feeling of loneliness, a feeling of old age and uselessness. I am aware that I am really old. I am already 48. […] So, I will continue to live and write my diary that grows old with me. (Я теряю дочку. […] Все пройдет. Не пройдет только чувство одиночества, чувство старости и ненужности. Я же понимаю, что я действительно старая. Мне уже 48 лет. […] Что же, буду жить дальше и писать свой дневник, стареющий вместе со мною. [292-293])

The role of the self-sacrificing wife and mother is a dominant one for Lašina throughout the diary, while old age is a tragic parting with the difficult but endlessly precious mother role and an on-going unsuccessful attempt to find a palliative replacement: 15th April 1956. Our children! They are our life, but also our sacrifice! […] An endless denying of oneself in everything […] labour and anxiety […] And here old age has come upon us. Before me are several adults. They are my children. There is much in them that is alien to me. (15.04.56. Наши дети! Это наша жизнь, но это и наша жертва! […] Бесконечный отказ себе во всем […] труд и тревога […] И вот пришла

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старость. Передо мной несколько взрослых людей. Это мои дети. Многое в них чуждо мне. [323])

Alienation from her children and from her role as mother makes up for her the essence of the ageing process because it means becoming alienated from oneself and feeling oneself to be different. This alienation and this “becoming different” is recorded by Lašina as a reflection, as if she was scrutinising her peers as in a mirror. After her fiftieth birthday she undertakes two trips to the places of her youth – Magnitogorsk and Tashkent. She describes her meetings with the friends of her youth as a metamorphosis: the girls’ images that were fixed in her memory turn into the faces of old women. And she feels the same effect as she looks at herself through their eyes: “She [Tamara, a friend of her youth – I.S.] strains her memory, and there is nothing about the old lady sitting before her that reminds her of the Nina of her youth” (“Она [подруга молодости Тамара – И.С.] напрягает память, и ничто в сидящей перед ней старой женщине не напоминает ей Нину в молодости” [333]). In describing the meetings that took place during these trips of memory Lašina untiringly records situations that resemble her own history, in which the crossing of the boundary into old age is marked by a woman’s rift with her children. Her 90-year-old former mother-in-law says: “So you see, Nina. The same will happen with you. Each of your children will bring you a bitter cup of poison and you will drink it to the dregs” (“Вот так-то, Нина. И с тобой тоже будет. Каждый из детей поднесет тебе горькую чашу с ядом и ты выпьешь ее до дна” [338]); in Magnitogorsk she is met by “Lidija Pavlovna, […] now an old woman, white as snow, who plaintively laments her children’s unfairness to her” (“Лидия Павловна, […] теперь белая, как снег, старуха, поющая жалобную песню о несправедливости к ней детей” [355]). Besides loneliness and abandonment, ageing is also linked in the diary with the themes of tiredness, illness and death: “I have begun to grow more tired than I could even imagine. At times I feel compelled to lie down as I am not able to sit” (“Я стала уставать так, как даже не могла себе и представить. Иной раз меня тянет лечь, потому что я не могу сидеть” [372]). Finding herself in hospital, she compares her own life with that of other Soviet women who have been exhausted by a lifetime of work: “Horses ridden into the ground, carrying the intolerably heavy burden of life, troubles, the paltry need for a kopeck and all too often a lack of respect

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from the people at home” (“Заезженные лошади, везущие на себе нестерпимо тяжелый груз жизни, заботы, мелочной нужды в копейке, часто неуважение своих домашних” [395]). The process of drawing of conclusions from life that begins after the age of 50 gives rise to disappointment: “[A]bove my whole life, above my whole past there has arisen an enormous question mark, immovable and as dark as death, a sign of reproof and reproach to myself and to my entire life that has been lived incorrectly” (“над всей моей жизнью, над всем прошлым возник огромный, непоколебимый и темный, как смерть, знак вопроса, знак укора и упрека себе и всей жизни, прожитой неверно” [397]). As can be seen, the theme of old age and her referring to herself as an old woman starts very early in Lašina’s diary, before she has even reached 50. This is principally because of the early age at which she became a mother and her feeling of extreme tiredness brought on by life’s many trials and tribulations. Becoming a pensioner “for reasons of age” at 55 on the one hand brings to this topic the new motifs of potential freedom and the possibility of living for oneself: “I am going to be a pensioner. A new life is going to start. Maybe things will be worse for me. But I want one thing – freedom in my life, freedom to be in charge of myself” (“Уйду на пенсию. Начнется другая жизнь. Может, будет мне и хуже. Но одного хочу – свободы в своей жизни, свободы собой распоряжаться” [409]). On the other hand, the freedom that a pension affords scares her; “emptiness” and life’s loss of meaning become its synonyms: Tomorrow I retire. All the same, I feel sad at this time […] the circle of my life will be limited to family interests. I wanted this because I am tired, my strength and energy are spent, and almost all the time I am ill. But now that the day has arrived I feel sad and afraid. (Завтра я ухожу на пенсию. И так в эти дни мне грустно […] круг моей жизни замкнется интересами семьи. Я этого хотела, потому что устала, утратила силы, энергию, почти все время болею. Но когда день пришел, мне стало грустно и страшно. [417])

The strategies of self-description also change; the diary text is shortened and daily entries become unnecessary since ageing is linked to the routinisation of life: “20th March 1962. Six months have passed” (“20.3.1962.

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Прошло полгода” [421]); “Life is proceeding in such a monotonous manner that a description of a single day is sufficient to represent entire years” (“Жизнь идет настолько однообразно, что достаточно изобразить один день, чтобы тем самым изобразить годы” [434]) and so on. Lašina is not yet 60 but one of the leitmotifs of her diary entries is a sense of the played out nature of life and a coming to terms with her own old age, which she characterises as a “retreat into the shadows”, a gradual and discreet withdrawal: You have to reconcile yourself with old age. Vjačeslav still wants to be among young people. I am very sorry for him. He doesn’t understand, doesn’t want to understand, that the youthful vehemence of our children as they come up to replace us, all grown up and full of resolve, fills our life like an avalanche, takes control and seizes all positions, while we, the parents, who are reaching the age of 60, recede further and further into the shadows until an eternal shadow covers our faces and the very memory of us. (Надо смириться со старостью. Вячеслав все хочет быть рядом с молодежью. Мне очень жаль его. Не понимает он, не хочет понять, что шквал юности, молодости уже пришедших нам на смену детей наших, выросших и окрепших, лавиной заполняет жизнь, властвует и захватывает все позиции, в то время как мы, родители, подходящие к 60-летнему возрасту, отступаем все дальше в тень, пока тень вечная не скроет наших лиц и саму память о нас. [406]) Each of my children has his own life. I am only the past. That is how everything should be. And the old people should be unassuming, unobtrusive and uninsistent, should demand nothing from their children and live their lives out quietly away from view. Soon Vjačeslav and I will be alone, and this will be right and proper. Now he too is already retired. He is growing old, poor fellow, and he is experiencing the approach of his old age like some great tragedy. (У каждого из моих детей своя жизнь. Я только прошлое. Так все и должно быть. А старики должны быть скромны, ненавязчивы, неназойливы, ничего не требовать от детей и тихо доживать в сторонке. Скоро мы с Вячеславом останемся одни, и это будет правильно и честно. Теперь и он уже на пенсии. Стареет, бедняга, и приход своей старости переживает, как величайшую трагедию. [429])

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The individualistic male position of her husband, who tries not to acknowledge old age, is viewed as laughable infantilism. The story of herself and her own feelings, desires and thoughts is cut back; the living histories described in the diary are those of her children and grandchildren, and sometimes reminiscences of her own youth. In the present moment the death of her desires and her immersion in a joyless peace are stated with an unenunciated horror: [W]e are like two old people in an almshouse. […] Everything is so wretched and pitiful. For better or for worse we have lived our lives; whether it has all been for nothing or whether we have achieved something useful, nothing can now be changed. And our reading and our writing? To gather some extra valuables for mind and spirit – whatever for? Who needs that? We ourselves least of all. And knowing this makes your heart ache! ([М]ы как два старика в богодельне. […] Все так убого и жалко. Так или не так мы прожили жизнь, размотали мы ее попусту или сделали что-то полезное, все равно ничего уже не исправишь. А читать, писать? Собирать вновь какие-то ценности души и ума – к чему? Кому это нужно? И меньше всего нам самим. И от сознания этого такая тоска! [447])

A cheerful, positive sentiment appears when she writes about life at her dacha and about her granddaughter Sašen’ka. But a grandmother’s happiness is described as something short-lived, a motherhood that has been furtively “snatched”, because the parents have the right to the child, as they will inevitably take the girl away, and then “a stillness and silence will descend on the lives of Vjačeslav and me […]. It will be quiet, calm, clean. Each thing will stand motionless in its place month after month, year after year” (“на нашу жизнь с Вячеславом опустится тишина и безмолвие […]. Будет тихо, спокойно, чисто. Каждая вещь будет неподвижно стоять на месте месяц за месяцем, год за годом” [448]). Such moods of stoic acceptance of the pointless peace of old age predominate in the entries for the years 1956-1965. Though sometimes themes linked with ageing and with the drawing of conclusions from life resound in a more positive key, as in the entry from 3rd June 1965:

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My quiet old age is going to start now. […] That will be an end to my worries and anxiety. About time too! […] I will get some rest over the summer and in the autumn will get to work on my manuscripts and diaries. […] I will need to take things apart, throw out everything that isn’t needed, do the typing. (Теперь начнется моя спокойная старость. […] Конец моим тревогам и волнениям. Да уже и пора! […] Летом отдохну, а осенью примусь за свои рукописи и дневники. […] Надо разобрать, выбросить все лишнее, напечатать. [460-462])

However, five days after writing this there is a diary entry relating the death of her beloved son Kostja and the situation arises whereby Lašina is obliged to return to her role as the selfless and self-sacrificing mother and adopt the sick, nervous, badly raised five-year-old daughter of her deceased son. The publishers break off the text of the diary at the entry describing how Lašina receives a new birth certificate for the little girl: “The new certificate stated ‘Mother: Lašina Nina Sergeevna, Father: Pokrovskij Konstantin Konstantinovič [name of her dead son – I.S.]’” (“Мать – Лашина Нина Сергеевна, отец – Покровский Константин Константинович [имя покойного сына Лашиной – И.С.]” [486]). As we see, the theme of ageing in Lašina’s diary is very closely linked with what is her dominant model of self-identification – as a self-sacrificing and selfless wife and, most importantly, mother. The limitation of the possibility of her participating in the lives of her children, influencing them and, to some extent, exercising control over them, deprives the ageing mother’s existence of content and meaning. In spite of the way that Lašina comes across in her voluminous diaries as a professional, a creative personality, a person with a fairly active political position and a passionate and sensual woman, the theme of ageing is practically only reflected in her spent motherhood discourse.

AGEING AS A M ISSION AND A T EST : T HE D IARY OF L JUBOV ’ Š APORINA Ljubov’ Vasil’evna Šaporina (1879-1967) came from the nobility. A graduate of the Catherine Institute, she was an artist and translator, the creator of

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the first puppet theatre in Soviet Russia and the wife of the composer Jurij Šaporin. She kept a diary from 1898 right up to her death – in other words, for nearly 70 years. After a short stay in Italy and France in the 1920s Šaporina scarcely left the city of Leningrad (remaining there during the Siege) and consorted actively with a wide circle of artists, writers, composers, musicians and translators. In the many volumes of Ljubov’ Šaporina’s diary the theme of old age appears clearly and unmistakably in the post-war entries (when the author was aged 67). The diaries from the Siege years contain many reflections on death but not on old age. After the physical and psychological “mobilisation” of her strength during the war years a feeling of tiredness sets in, of the depletion of her energy – or, in other words, of old age: “18th January 1946. I feel like a tired old nag with a load that is beyond its strength harnessed to it” (“18.01.46. Я чувствую себя усталой старой клячей, запряженной в непосильную ношу” [Šaporina 2012: 9]).4 In her selfreflection there starts to appear a “conclusion drawing” mentality. The dominant models of self-identification in Šaporina’s diary differ from those of Lašina: she feels herself to be the custodian of a religious and cultural national tradition, a person who comes from a creative milieu. Although she does not tend to exaggerate her own creative potential she considers her writing activity to be her mission. She deems her experience of marriage and motherhood to have been a failure, even a mistake (her husband cheated on her and left her, her relations with her son were strained and her beloved daughter died at the age of eleven). About her friend, the artist Ostroumova-Lebedeva, she makes the following observation: “A. P. [Ostroumova-Lebedeva] has a great fortune – she has no children or grandchildren. Fate has protected her gift, which she has not been obliged to exchange for all that endless unnecessary running around” (“У А. П. великое счастье – не иметь детей, внуков. Судьба охраняла ее дарование, не пришлось его разменивать на ненужную ‘мышью беготню’” [128]). However, by an irony of fate the years during which she is ageing pass under the burden of constant maternal and grandmaternal cares. After the war her son and his wife and two children, Sonja and Petja, return to his mother’s flat in Leningrad. He leaves for Moscow soon after, abandoning his

4

All subsequent references from the second volume of Šaporina’s diary will only give the page number.

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family without material support, and Ljubov’ Šaporina is forced right up until her death to share a flat – and even a single room – with a daughter-inlaw she does not like and with growing grandchildren, with Sonja living almost completely off her grandmother. Besides that, in 1937 Šaporina becomes the guardian of the two daughters of a neighbour who has been repressed. With these grown-up girls she also comes into psychological and pecuniary conflict. She describes her burden of maternal and grandmaternal cares as intolerable and links it with the discourse of illness, fatigue and old age: “I want to cry, to cry for myself, for my unsuccessful life and for my tiredness, which has reached its limit” (“Хочется плакать, плакать над собой, над своей неудачной жизнью, над усталостью, которая дошла до предела” [22]); “Something is reaching breaking point. It is now very difficult to be simply a nanny, to go round in circles and wait for money” (“А я что-то сдаю. Уж очень тяжело быть только нянькой, целый день топтаться на месте и ждать денег” [33]). The diary contains an extremely large number of such entries after 1946. But all the same in Šaporina’s diaries old age has prospects, ageing is an extended process that has a future that can be planned. For Šaporina, duties and obligations exist that need to be put into effect during old age and that comprise the content of old age since they provide a narrative for it that does not purely consist of listing illnesses, hardships and the deaths of acquaintances and people near to one: For some reason I have begun to feel sorry for myself. By my own hand I have piled my cart to such an extent that now, as an old nag, I stretch out my legs but am unable to move it from the spot. All the same I have to manage to do that before the moment when time is called […] I would like to finish my memoirs […] put my letters and archive in order […] I do not know how Sonečka will turn out, I will not see her upbringing through. Will I then have settled my accounts? (Что-то мне стало себя жалко. Я собственноручно навивала свой воз до таких размеров, что теперь, как старая кляча, ноги протягиваю – не свезти. Что всетаки мне надо успеть сделать до того момента, как будет сказано – пора […] Хотелось бы написать воспоминания […] привести в порядок письма, архив […]. Не знаю, какова будет Сонечка, я не успею ее воспитать. А долги? [36])

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A deeply religious person, on many occasions Šaporina prays to God to ask him for the strength to do three things in old age: see her brothers (who emigrated and now live in Europe), witness the “dawn over Russia” (that is, the fall of the Soviet tyranny and the reinstatement of Great Russia) and complete her authorial mission (the organising of her diaries and the completion of her memoirs). Even after witnessing the death of Stalin and the denunciation of his personality cult and travelling to Switzerland to see her brothers in 1960 she does not consider her “programme for old age” to be complete: “31st May 1961. I feel despondent at heart. Old age is holding me back. Funny. But I have kept going until this winter. And I must continue to do so for some time longer so as to put my diaries in order” (“31.05.61. А у меня на душе уныло. Старость мешает. Смешно. Но до этой зимы я держалась. А надо бы еще продержаться какое-то время, чтобы привести в порядок дневники” [389]). It is her continued creative energy and her desire for intellectual work (and not just its financial necessity) that give her the strength to go on living instead of simply waiting for her life to end. However, the idea of being alone and abandoned during the years of her old age scares Šaporina just as it does Lašina. For this reason she does not wish to change her flat: “It does not occur to Nataša that I, an old woman of 67 years, could be left completely alone. […] I could die and the first that people would know of it would be when I started to decompose” (“Наташе не приходит в голову, что я, 67-летняя старуха останусь совсем одна. […] Умри я, об этом догадаются, когда я начну разлагаться” [56]). The situation is accentuated by the Soviet context of ageing, about which Šaporina, who has a highly critical view of Soviet reality, writes in detail and at length. In 1946 a new law about living space surpluses was passed that fixed each person’s allocation at six square metres, and if that was exceeded a room was appropriated or someone in need of accommodation was billeted in the flat. Consequently Šaporina, who was so afraid of being alone, lives all her old age, as she writes, “in a hostel”: her granddaughter sleeps in the same room as she, then Katja, the children’s former nanny, also moves into the room. On 7th April 1957 the 78-year-old Šaporina notes: Now I have not so much a room as a hostel. Katja sleeps and lives on her ottoman. Sonja makes up a bed for herself at night and I retreat to the solitude of my desk, not seeing what is going on behind me.

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(Теперь у меня не комната, а общежитие. Катя спит и живет на своей оттоманке. Соня на ночь раскладывает постель, я уединяюсь у своего письменного стола, не видя, что позади делается. [356])

Almost ten years later, if the situation has changed then it is for the worse: 16th May 1965. I am losing myself and have reached despair. My hostel is bringing, or rather, has brought me to a state of total worthlessness. I am short of sleep – Sonja works on three different shifts. […] I feel as if I am at a railway station, surrounded by strangers for whom I myself and my work are something separate and unneeded. And I cannot take myself in hand. Maybe I have let myself go to such an extent because I am living on short rations? (16 мая 1965. Я теряю себя и дошла до отчаяния. Мое общежитие доводит, вернее, довело меня до состояния полной никчемности. Я не высыпаюсь – работа у Сони в три смены. […] Чувствую себя как на вокзале, вокруг меня ходят чужие люди, для которых я сама и моя работа чужое и ненужное дело. И я не могу взять себя в руки. А, может быть, я так опустилась из-за того, что живу впроголодь? [404])

The last question contains a further problem that Šaporina encounters in the old age of her Soviet life – that of financial difficulties. She does not have the money to support herself and her grandchildren. In the entry for 20th March 1947 we read: Where can I look for work? I do not know how to look for work. Previously, work would always look for me but now, for all the increased pressure from the party, what can you do? Either I have grown old or I have become physically tired during my life, during the Siege, but I find myself in a certain degree of torpidity. […] I do not have enough to eat, and I have children to look after. I could have made a fuss about a pension – I don’t want to, I can’t, it’s more than I can manage. I feel such a boundless contempt for our Gouvernants5 that I am disinclined to go after what little I am entitled to.

5

French: “government”.

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(Где искать работы? Я не умею искать работы, прежде работа всегда меня искала, но сейчас при усилении партийного нажима, куда пойдешь? То ли стара я стала, то ли устала физически за жизнь, за блокаду, но я нахожусь в каком-то оцепенении. […] А тут и голод, и дети на руках. Ведь я могла бы хлопотать о пенсии, – не хочу, не могу, это свыше сил моих. У меня такое безмерное презрение к нашим Gouvernants, что даже шерсти клок вырвать не хочется. [43])

The pages of her diary are strewn with complaints of penury, hunger and the selling of books and furniture, descriptions of trips to the pawn shop and the pursuit of at least some additional income, translation work and the like, and grateful mentions of acquaintances who have helped. Most likely after suppressing her contempt for the authorities, Šaporina manages to secure her pension only to have it taken away again shortly after on the grounds that she worked for hire rather than by contract. In the entry for 22nd January 1952 Šaporina comments on this situation as follows: Can a social structure survive for long in which a whole life of work does not bring security in old age and there is not the least possibility of saving something to help the children on a rainy day? (Может ли долго существовать строй, при котором целая жизнь работы не дает обеспеченной старости, при котором нет никакой возможности скопить на черный день хоть немного, чтобы помочь детям? [194])

Similar reflections on old age and death “in the everyday Soviet sense” in the earlier entry of 6th March 1951 end with the words: “What a tormenting feeling – not having the capability of caring for one’s children and grandchildren. For that is the basis on which culture is founded” (“Какое мучительное чувство – не иметь возможности обеспечить своих детей, внуков. На этом ведь зиждется культура” [173]). A natural order that kills by physical tiredness and illness, the subtly humiliating Soviet social environment, the ingratitude of her children and grandchildren – all this, from the point of view of the diarist, pushes the ageing person out of life. On the other hand, her religious faith and her confidence in the significance of her own cultural mission force her to keep going and attribute meaning and value to old age. Her keeping of a diary is it-

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self perceived as part of this mission and as a mean of combatting “befuddlement”: I have recourse to the diary to put my brain right and to concentrate on something, if only for half an hour. There was a lot that I wanted to write but I forgot everything because my mind was playing tricks on me. I need to call it all back to mind. (Я прибегаю к дневнику, чтобы вправить себе мозги, хоть на полчаса сосредоточиться. Я многое хотела записать и все забыла от глума в голове. Надо вспомнить. [205])

Remembering and the keeping of a diary are a cultural gesture that slows the advance of the “befuddlement” of old age, or in other words the sense of alienation from that very “self” that is the bearer of the cultural “code”: “I will die and the key will be lost” (“я умру и шифр будет потерян” [147]).

K EEPING A D IARY M EANS AGEING : T HE D IARY OF M ARIJA S USLOVA The diary of Marija Petrovna Suslova (1926-2008) differs fundamentally from the two previous texts, which in some ways resemble each other. The author was a country woman who was born in 1926, completed seven years of education at a village school, and worked at the metal works in the town of Berezniki. After getting married, in 1957 she moved to the village of Komgort in the Perm’ region, where she worked as a dairy woman, a shop assistant, a leader of the field brigade and a farm manager. Suslova was the mother of three daughters and the grandmother of six grandchildren. She started writing a diary after the death of her mother in 1981 and kept it for around 20 years. In 2000 she presented a portion of her diaries to university teachers I. I. Rusinova and A. V. Kurnikova, and they published the entries for the years 1981-1985. The publishers are of the opinion that keeping a diary became for Suslova a kind of ritual that consisted of producing a summary of each day’s events. Each daily entry includes the time of her waking and going to sleep, a list of the activities she and her husband performed in the course of the day, an enumeration of everything that she ate

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and drank and a record of the weather, her meetings with neighbours and her purchases. The diary contains neither description of feelings nor reflection; there are very few evaluative words or designations, and the whole cultural background is reduced to the naming of films that she has watched on television. Suslova writes in a fairly literate manner but hardly uses any punctuation marks. Her entries are short and very similar in style. As an example I cite one in which her son-in-law Vitja, her husband Ivan and some neighbours are mentioned: 14th April 1982. Vitja’s birthday in the morning I made pel’meni6 we brought water for the kids [grandchildren – I.S.] I sent presents we left at 2 in the evening I was at Vera and Ninka’s we played cards Roza was there Ninka got drunk Vanja (drunk) Nastja was in Vil’gort temperature warm went to bed at 10.30. (14.04.1982. Вите день рождения утром варила пельмени наносили воду ребятам [внукам – И.С.] отправила гостинцы уехали в 2 ч. вечером была у Веры и Нинки играли в карты была Роза Нинка пьяна Ваня (пьян) Настя была в Вильгорте температура теплая спать легла в 10-30. [Suslova 2007: 47])

The theme of old age is not explicitly present in the entries, except perhaps in fairly infrequent entries about illnesses, mentions of the arrival and departure of grandchildren and of knitting socks and obtaining presents for them. So how can this diary of everyday life be of interest to us in the context of the topic that we are discussing? In my view the question of why Marija Petrovna should start to keep a diary at an advanced age in the first place is of importance here. She herself replies to the publishers in the following way: “in order not to forget” (“чтобы не забыть”), “for interest” (“для интересу”), “it has become a habit” (“вошло в обычай”) (Rusinova/Kurnikova 2007: 5). For their part, the researchers consider the reason why this need appeared with age was to “leave a tangible memory of oneself for future generations” (“оставить о себе материальную память последующим поколениям”) and to satisfy the urge to express herself and to compensate for communication deficits (ibid.). This explanation does not seem entirely satisfactory to me. Suslova is writing not memoirs but a diary that has nothing to do with the idea of “passing on wisdom”. Judging by the

6

A kind of ravioli [translator’s note].

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entries that record daily, repeated meetings, lunches, suppers and drinking sessions shared with other women who were friends or lived nearby, she was not exactly experiencing communication deficits. I will venture to suppose that her starting and continuing to keep a diary were closely linked with the very condition of ageing. Her mother had died, her daughters had grown up and were living separately, her grandchildren came from time to time and in the conditions of village life did not require any special supervision or upbringing. The functions that in traditional peasant culture were carried out by old women who were no longer able to bear children – ensuring that traditions were followed, delivering babies, telling people’s fortunes, looking after the children, treating the sick, preparing the deceased for their final journey (Kabakova 2001; Prokopeva 2005) – no longer existed for Suslova, who lived in a Soviet village in the 1980s. However indifferent she may have been to political events and the social forms of community life (as her diary shows) she was undoubtedly wedded to other nontraditional forms of socio-cultural existence. Suslova does not narrate or complain, she does not transmit family traditions – she writes a personal diary that is stripped of personality by implementing the resource of literacy and Soviet “civility” that she carries within herself. Here the very fact of daily writing is important: Marija Petrovna fills her old age with the routine practice of writing, in some ways similar to that of knitting socks for her grandchildren. The recording of the passing of time in written form makes the ageing process replete and of significance, while the condition of ageing, which has to some extent freed her from maternal and social obligations, creates the possibility of writing. In some sense we can say that for Suslova, keeping a diary and ageing were synonymous.

G ROWING O LD THE S OVIET W AY The analysis of three women’s diaries from the Soviet times does not of course permit us to make broad, universal generalisations but does provide a basis for some conclusions. What is characteristic of all the diaries is that the onset of old age, the commencement of ageing, is linked with the notion, typical for traditional culture, of a woman’s maternal function being spent and the children having grown up. Ageing in a certain sense is described as a process of trans-

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formation from mother to grandmother7 and as that of adapting to the old woman/grandmother role imposed by society. This adaptation is effected gradually and traumatically, which does not allow the authors of the diaries under examination to ignore the matter of their own ageing like Sof’ja Tolstaja. Besides the topic of illness and loss, which is traditional for most auto-documentary texts about ageing and old age, emphasis is also placed on the theme of deadly tiredness and an almost total exhaustion of one’s strength as the consequence of a life that has seen too many cataclysms and ordeals that have turned a woman into a “horse ridden into the ground”. The anthropologist Natal’ja Kozlova has observed that “the memoirs of Soviet people are not simply writings by the old […] but are produced by those who have outlived others and have survived” (“записки советских людей – это не просто записки старых […], это записки переживших других, выживших” [Kozlova 2005: 308]). For this reason the dream of peace is partially linked with ageing. However, coming to terms with old age sits alongside the obvious difficulty of giving approval to a different version of oneself – as an old woman. The problematic task of endorsing oneself in old age and accepting old age in general is further complicated by such actual circumstances of Soviet life as the “housing question” and the financial status of older people. Anna Belova, in her study of reflection on old age in auto-documentary texts of the provincial Russian noblewomen in the 18th and the first half of the 19th centuries, makes the positive observation that by the time they reached old age many women had achieved material independence and the freedom to distribute their own property amongst their possible heirs as they saw fit. In this sense they occupied a position of authority and possessed the means of manipulation (Belova 2010: 431). In traditional culture the authority of the old woman was determined by the regained purity that was ascribed to her and by a particular mystic wisdom (Kabakova 2001; Kadikina 2003). Our diarists possess neither of these resources of authority. On one hand, they have no “capital” that they can transmit to their heirs. The only asset of city dwellers Lašina and Šaporina is a few pathetic square metres, which are not even their property, but in which other family members have an interest, which leads to the idea of ageing becoming associated

7

For more on the grandmother in traditional Russian culture and in the Soviet family see Semenova (1996).

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with that of departure as a literal freeing up of living space for the young. On the other hand, not one of the diarists (including the countrywoman Suslova) articulates the idea of a special wisdom or secret knowledge, the acquisition of which was somehow linked to the process of ageing. Their summative thinking is exclusively connected with their personal experience and the necessity of preserving and immortalising it, rather than with the transmission of collective or family knowledge or traditions. The narrative strategies for describing ageing that our heroines use are personal and modern, while the models of self-identification in the role of the old woman (mother/grandmother) are traditional. But apart from the traditional metanarrative about female old age, the paradigm of ageing and its starting-point is determined by the social environment through the condition of becoming a pensioner. In the three diaries that have been investigated we can see different variants of the problem of entering retirement that are linked with the development of the Soviet pension system. The right to a state pension “for reasons of age” was only extended to all citizens of the USSR in 1956 and to collective farm workers in 1964 (see Lovell 2007: 215-221). According to the Soviet law on pensions, old age for women began at the age of 55, five years earlier than for men, which permitted women to act as grandmother and nanny, roles that were of importance for family and state (Krasnova 2000). The material provision received from the state made them relatively financially independent but was not sufficient for them to indulge in recreation or to engage in active vacationing in their old age. However, lack of money or health were not the only issues. The notion of old age as leisure time, freedom and the chance to live for oneself is completely absent in the diaries by Soviet women that have been analysed. Such thoughts are banished as unseemly. In other words, the time of ageing is not seen as a personal resource; ageing is depicted as a time for working to “fulfil one’s obligations” to one’s children, grandchildren and descendants. But apart from what has been written and reflected on in the diaries on the ageing of Soviet women, it is interesting and important to consider, albeit briefly, what has not been written and what has been declared taboo for recording and open discussion. Such forbidden topics would certainly include sexuality and corporality. An ageing woman’s body is only described in the discourse of illness, not that of desire. A direct discussion of maternal egoism and power is also taboo. By depicting themselves as victims and as

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self-sacrificers, the diarists sideline the notion of appropriation and control as linked with motherhood; manifestations of their own egoism are reinterpreted in terms of sacrifice and altruism. This can be explained not only by a striving after psychological comfort and by the monologic nature of the diary genre but also by the influence of the authoritative cultural myth of the patient and all-forgiving mother and grandmother (Savkina 2011). The diary narratives also show the dependence of the diarists on the ideas and forms of the time and the rethinking of these as part of the process of writing down one’s own experience of old age. The experience of ageing that they tell turns out to be universal, socio-culturally determined and at the same time deeply personal. Translated from Russian by Mark Shuttleworth

R EFERENCES Belova, Anna (2010): Četyre vozrasta ženščiny. Povsednevnaja žizn’ russkoj provincial’noj dvorjanki XVIII-načala XIX vv. Sankt-Peterburg. Beauvoir, Simone de (1972): The Coming of Age. New York. Bruner, Jerome (2004): “Life as Narrative”, in: Social Research 71 (3), 691-710. Chamberlain, Mary/Thompson, Paul (1998) “Introduction: Genre and Narrative in Life Stories”, in: Chamberlain, Mary/Thompson, Paul (eds.): Narrative and Genre. London, New York, 1-22. Gramshammer-Hohl, Dagmar (2014): Repräsentationen weiblichen Alterns in der russischen Literatur. Alt sein, Frau sein, eine alte Frau sein. Hamburg (= Grazer Studien zur Slawistik; 5). Gusdorf, George (1980): “Conditions and Limits of Autobiography”, in: Olney, James (ed.): Autobiography: Essays Theoretical and Critical. Princeton, N.J., 28-48. Kabakova, Galina (2001): Antropologija ženskogo tela v slavjanskoj tradicii. Moskva. Kadikina, Ol’ga (2003): Starucha: skazočnyj personaž i social’nyj status. Sankt-Peterburg. Ketlinskaja, Vera (1974): Večer, okna, ljudi. Moskva. Kozlova, Natal’ja (2005): Sovetskie ljudi. Sceny iz istorii. Moskva.

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Krasnova, Ol’ga (2000): “Babuški v sem’e”, in: Socis 11, 12-55. Lavrent’eva, Elena (2008): “Babuška, Grand-mère, Grandmother…”. Vospominanija vnukov i vnuček o babuškach, znamenitych i ne očen’, s vintažnymi fotografijami XIX-XX vekov. Moskva. Lašina, Nina (2011): Dnevnik russkoj ženščiny. V 2-ch tomach. Moskva. Lejeune, Philippe (1993): Le Moi des demoiselles: Enquête sur le journal de jeune fille. Paris. Levinson, Aleksej (2005): “Starost’ kak institut”, in: Otečestvennye zapiski 3. www.strana-oz.ru/2005/3/starost-kak-institut [accessed October 1, 2015]. Lovell, Stephen (2007): “Soviet Russia’s Older Generations”, in: Lovell, Stephen (ed.): Generations in Twentieth-Century Europe. Houndmills, Basingstoke, 205-226. Naumčenko, Aleksandra (2015): E-mail to Irina Savkina. April 4, 2015. Ostrovskaja, Sof’ja. (2013): Dnevnik. Moskva. Prokop’eva, N. I. (2005): “Starucha”, in: Mužiki i baby. Mužskoe i ženskoe v tradicionnoj kul’ture. Sankt-Peterburg, 635-639. Rusinova, I. I./Kurnikova, А. В. (2007): “Predislovie”, in: Suslova, Marija: Dnevnik (1981-1985 gg.). Publikacija i issledovanie teksta. Perm’, 4-7. Šaginjan, Mariėtta (1980): Čelovek i vremja. Moskva. Šaporina, Ljubov’ (2012): Dnevnik. T. 2. Moskva. Savkina, Irina (2011): “‘U nas nikogda uže ne budet ėtich babušek?’”, in: Voprosy literatury 2, 109-135. Semenova, V. V. (1996): “Babuški: semejnye i social’nye funkcii praroditel’skogo pokolenija”, in: Semenova, V. V./Foteeva, E. V. (eds.): Sud’by ljudej: Rossija XX vek. Biografii semej kak ob”ekt sociologičeskogo issledovanija. Moskva, 326-354. Suslova, Marija (2007): Dnevnik (1981-1985 gg.). Publikacija i issledovanie teksta. Perm’. Tolstaja, Sof’ja (2013): Ljubov’ i bunt. Dnevnik 1910 goda. Moskva.

Alternative Narratives of Aging in Russian 20th-Century Literature Valentin Rasputin’s and Jurij Trifonov’s Old Characters I LARIA R EMONATO Go, old man, go now, don’t be afraid, ’cause everybody will have his own reason, and a justification, too, even though we’ll never know which one. Van Loon is quietly preparing for his last journey now, his luggage ready for a long time, as every prudent man or better, the luggage, the usual lifelong luggage of a simple or wise man, that is little or nothing, and he’ll really go to a place or a story of his own with all the books that life forbade him to read with old friends of whom he has lost memory, with the Infinite […]1

1

“Vai, vecchio, vai, / non temere, che avrà una sua ragione / ognuno, e una giustificazione, / anche se quale non sapremo mai. / Ora Van Loon si sta preparando piano al suo ultimo viaggio, / i bagagli già pronti da tempo, / come ogni uomo prudente o meglio, / il bagaglio, quello consueto di un semplice o un saggio, / cioè poco o niente, / e andrà davvero in un suo luogo o una sua storia / con tutti i libri che la vita gli ha proibito / con vecchi amici di cui ha perso la memoria, / con l’infinito […]” (Guccini 2007: 218; author’s translation [I.R.]). The wellknown Italian prose- and songwriter Francesco Guccini composed this song in-

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I NTRODUCTION Over time in the Western cultural context literature appears to have reflected and reinforced values extant in society. This is particularly evident if we consider the aging theme: old characters, as a matter of fact, are scarcely represented in all historical eras, and older women are almost nonexistent. On the whole, however, contrary to popular belief, treatment of older characters in the 19th and 20th centuries seems kinder and more attentive than that of earlier periods (Don 1977). In general terms, old age is difficult to describe because its definition is notoriously unstable; as people age, they tend to move the goalposts that mark out major life stages (see Dovey 2015). In some cases the images of aged characters and old age itself in Russian literature offer a different perspective. In fact, despite their physical weaknesses and psychological ambiguities certain elderly figures turn into symbolical bearers of diversity, of a personal vision of life, of inner values and human relationships far from the prevailing ones. This aspect is especially relevant in the literary works of the second half of the 20th century, on the background of the radical changes that were characterizing lateSoviet space and society. The progressive and relentless transformation of the USSR into an industrial and thickly urbanized country was clearly leaving older generations behind. Among others, the aging motif plays a meaningful role in some prose narratives by Jurij Valentinovič Trifonov (19251981) and Valentin Grigor’evič Rasputin (1937-2015). As is widely known, in Russian critical tradition these talented and original writers have frequently been juxtaposed as leading exponents of quite distant literary movements: the so-called gorodskaja or intelligentskaja proza (“urban” or “intellectual prose”: see Woll 1991 and Selemeneva 2008) and the rurally or regionally oriented derevenskaja proza (“village prose”: see Starikova 1972, Čalmaev 1990 and Bol’šakova 2002). Surpassing critical clichés, this essay aims at delineating a comparison between specific features of the authors’ oeuvres, by focusing on the aging theme and on the modalities through which elderly characters are respectively depicted in them. The

spired by the figure of his own father. In the final lines a vivid and simultaneously lyrical image of old age emerges, which in our view represents an appropriate prelude to the ones analyzed in the essay.

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comparative approach of the analysis allows not only the plain and acknowledged differences but also less evident affinities to be highlighted. In a close reading, besides the main content and orientations of their narratives, the qualities of the aging imagery in the two novelists’ writing show subtle similarities. The peculiar chronotope of the Brežnev years (19641982), in which most of Trifonov’s and Rasputin’s aged heroes are immersed, as well as the constant re-enactment of the past in their meditations represent some of the common elements (see Brown 1993: 111-113). As we will see, the ways old people look at life and their inner dilemmas disclose other parallels between the texts, which appear particularly relevant from the stylistic point of view. The works by Jurij Trifonov taken into consideration in the present study are the povesti (novellas) The Exchange (Obmen, 1969), The Long Goodbye (Dolgoe proščanie, 1971) and Another Life (Drugaja žizn’, 1975), as well as the novels The House on the Embankment (Dom na naberežnoj, 1976) and The Old Man (Starik, 1978). As far as Valentin Rasputin is concerned, we will concentrate our attention on the short novels The Last Term/Borrowed Time (Poslednij srok, 1970) and Farewell to Matyora (Proščanie s Materoj, 1976), as well as on the tales Vasili and Vasilissa (Vasilij i Vasilisa, 1966) and Women’s Conversation (Ženskij razgovor, 1995).

D ISTINGUISHING F EATURES The Influence of Time and Space One of the fundamental differences between Trifonov’s and Rasputin’s old characters is connected to their relationships with the natural environment. Trifonov’s older characters are described as whole Soviet citizens, born and bred in the urban context of Moscow and its hinterland, which constitute a constant and effective presence in the works examined, as remarked by several scholars.2 Like grandfather Fëdor Nikolaevič Dmitriev (The Ex-

2

Due to the centrality of the urban setting, the works quoted above have been frequently defined as Trifonov’s “Moscow cycle,” with the addition of the novella Taking Stock (Predvaritel’nye itogi, 1970) and the posthumous novel Time and Place (Vremja i mesto, 1981), which ends with an emblematic image of an all-

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change), most of Trifonov’s elderly figures had been fervent Bolshevik revolutionaries in their youth; like their middle-aged offspring, they have a high level of education and are part of the intellectual middle class (intelligencija) that lived and worked in the city in the post-war years: His grandfather wasn’t a monster, he was just very old – seventy-nine – there were few such old men left in Russia, and of jurists who’d graduated from Petersburg University still less, and of those who’d been involved into revolutionary activities, had been in prison, exiles, fled abroad, worked in Switzerland and Belgium, been acquainted with Vera Zasulich – there were no more than one or two in all. Perhaps his grandfather, in a sense, was a monster after all. (Trifonov 1991a: 52) (Дед был не монстр, просто был очень стар − семьдесят девять, − таких стариков осталось в России немного, а юристов, окончивших Петербургский университет, еще меньше, а тех из них, кто занимался в молодости революционными делами, сидел в крепости, ссылался, бежал за границу, работал в Швейцарии, в Бельгии, был знаком с Верой Засулич, − и вовсе раздва − и обчелся. Может быть, в каком-то смысле дед и был монстр. [Trifonov 1986a: 44-45])

Their everyday behavior and psychological dimension appear deeply influenced by the actual conditions of the period. They awkwardly struggle within the tangled web of Soviet social relations (blat), trying to cope at the same time with the chronic lack of dwellings and living space often labeled as the “housing question” (kvartirnyj vopros; see Ivanova 1984: 103-109). Even the endless queues due to persistent consumer goods deficiencies seem to challenge their former ideals, making them feel alien to the dynamics of Soviet contemporary reality. Fedor Nikolaevič does not fear death, because he thinks he has accomplished what he was predestined to in his long existence on this earth. As he often repeats, in his view “there was nothing more stupid than looking for ideals in the past. He only looked ahead with interest, but unfortunately saw little” (Trifonov 2002: 54) (“нет

encompassing Moscow. On the unifying and symbolic functions of the Muscovite chronotope in Trifonov’s oeuvre see Partridge (1990), Falchikov (1996) and Gillespie (2006).

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глупее, как искать идеалы в прошлом. С интересом он смотрит только вперед, но, к сожалению, он увидит немногое” [Trifonov 1986a: 47]). On the contrary, and similarly to other “village prose” writers,3 Rasputin’s aged heroes are portrayed as simple, uneducated folk; they live in rural areas of south-eastern Siberia and share a deep, even “Panic” relationship with the wild and powerful beauty of nature (see Bol’šakova 2004: 330338), which on some occasions seems to have thaumaturgical effects. Most of them have never moved from their native village located in the remote Irkutsk region, so their existence is essentially intertwined with seasonal cycles and the unchanging rhythms of farming and field labors: Quiet had fallen over the village after the bustle of the early morning chores. Those who had to go work had gone. The housewives had fed and milked their animals, and were now going quietly about their housework, out of sight. It was early yet for the children to be outside. Everything was still and peaceful with only occasional familiar sounds: a cow mooing, a creak of a gate, or the apparent unintentional sound of a human voice – none of this demanding an audience, nor any reply. It was simply to make sure that the world of the living should not seem empty and lifeless. This mid-morning lull stilled all voices and all movement, and combined with the bright, warm air coming down from the open sky slowly and invisibly invaded the village, heating it up after the night. (Rasputin 1981: 168) (Деревня после утренней уборки унялась: кому надо было на работу − ушел, хозяйки, управившись со скотиной, справляли теперь по дому дела негромкие и неслышные, а ребятишки еще не успели высыпать на улицу – было спокойно, ровно, с редкими, привычными звуками: животина ли прокричит, или скрипнет калитка, или где-то сорвется как бы ненароком человеческий голос − все не для слыху и не для отклика, а для того лишь, чтобы кругом при живых не казалось пусто и мертво. Этот выдавшийся от часу между утром и обедом покой смирял и шумы и движения, ладил с ясным, светящимся теплом,

3

In particular, I refer to Viktor Astaf’ev (1924-2001), Fedor Abramov (19201983), Vasilij Belov (1932-2012) and Vasilij Šukšin (1929-1974), widely regarded as some of the most gifted exponents of the “village prose” movement. Similarly to Rasputin’s, their works are set in the countryside and deal with specific events, problems and feelings connected to the decline of the rural cultural model (for a general survey, see Bol’šakova 2002: 3-24).

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падающим с открытого неба, тихо и невидно возносил деревню, отогревая ее после ночи. [Rasputin 1984a: 161])

In this passage emerges what has been defined as “the Siberian village chronotope,” i.e., the image of a rural community marked by a profound sense of continuity between human beings and the natural environment (Smirnova 2009: 1487), past and present, life and death (as in Dar’ja’s heartfelt dialogue with her dearly departed in Matera’s [Matyora’s] spoiled cemetery). Notwithstanding the harsh concrete conditions of this archaic “primitive” life and the traumatic experience of World War II, the lyrical tone of the description partly stems from the author’s autobiographical reminiscences. According to what he often stated in interviews and public debates, his Siberian childhood deeply moulded his identity as man and as artist (see Michaels 2012): Our little homeland gives us much more than we can imagine. The nature of our native region is engraved in our souls forever. For example, whenever I experience something akin to prayer, I see myself on the banks of the old Angara River, which no longer exists, alongside my native village of Atalanka, the islands across the way, and the sun setting beyond the opposite bank. In my lifetime I have seen a lot of beautiful things, those made by human hands and those not made by human hands, but I will die with this picture before me, for there is none other so near and dear to me. (Winchell/Mikkelson 1991: 13)

Folk wisdom and deeply rooted family ties are other traits that characterize Rasputin’s aged peasants’ mentality and upbringing. Anna Stepanovna (Borrowed Time) as well as Dar’ja Pinigina and her fellow countrywomen (Farewell to Matyora) are distinguished by an active, concrete and organic relation with the earth. Living in close contact with the Angara River, they have developed a direct, intimate and vital bond with the Siberian countryside, and above all with natural elements such as water, trees and the sun: But now the only full-time residents in Matyora were the old men and women, who took care of the gardens and houses, tended the animals and played with the children, giving the village an inhabited air and keeping it from being too desolate. In the evenings they gathered, talking softly – and always about the same thing: what was to happen – sighing deeply and frequently, looking guardedly in the direction of

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the right bank, beyond the Angara river, where a large new settlement was being built. Various rumours came back from there. (Rasputin 1992: 2-3) (А постоянно оставались теперь в Матёре только старики и старухи, они смотрели за огородом и домом, ходили за скотиной, возились с ребятишками, сохраняя во всем жилой дух и оберегая деревню от излишнего запустения. По вечерам они сходились вместе, негромко разговаривали ‒ и всё об одном, о том, что будет, часто и тяжело вздыхали, опасливо поглядывая в сторону правого берега за Ангару, где строился большой новый поселок. [Rasputin 2002: 212])

In general, Trifonov’s elderly and middle-aged characters look at nature in a different way, with detached and nostalgic eyes. Coming from the bustling city, their approach does not appear direct or spontaneous, but rather aesthetic and philosophical, intellectually mediated. It is seemingly linked to childhood memories, to a period of innocence and integrity irretrievably lost. In their recollections expressed through penetrating flashbacks melancholic regret and an utter sense of loss prevail, generated by the massive changes carried out by Soviet industrialization policy: Dmitriev jumped off the bus one stop before he should have. He wanted to walk to the place where his favourite slope had once been. He knew that now there was a concrete embankment there, but the fishermen still came anyway. New fishermen, from five-story buildings which were beyond the bridge. It was very convenient for them – they came by trolley. He went down the stone steps – everything was done solidly, as in a real city park – at the bottom he walked along the concrete slabs which rose about six feet above the water level. You could walk along the river like that almost to the house itself. There was no crawling along the shore now. Every spring chunks of the bank crumbled down, sometimes along with the benches and pines. (Trifonov 1991: 42-43) (Дмитриев неожиданно выскочил из троллейбуса на одну остановку раньше, чем нужно. Захотелось подойти к тому месту, где был когда-то его любимый откос. Он знал, что там сейчас бетонированная набережная, но рыбаки приходят все равно. Новые рыбаки из пятиэтажных домов, что за мостом. Им очень удобно − подъезжают на троллейбусе.

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Он спустился по каменным ступеням − все было сделано фундаментально, как в парке культуры, − и прошел низом по бетонным плитам, возвышавшимся метра на два над уровнем воды. Так, вдоль реки, можно было дойти почти до самого дома. Теперь уже берег не поползет. Каждую весну здесь рушились ломти берега, иногда прямо со скамейками, с соснами. [Trifonov 1986: 34-35])

Quite naturally, Trifonov’s old protagonists’ thoughts are mainly oriented to the past. Sergio Tramma observes that, in general, elderly people tend to cling to their own “cultural time” and system of values, and this necessarily estranges them from the present day: “An aged man has no choice: all old people entirely belong to the world of memory. The dimension in which each of them lives is the past, which has also therapeutic effects: as a matter of fact, memories represent a richness and a form of mutual help” (Tramma 2000: 30-31; author’s translation [I.R.]). As it happens to Pavel Letunov (The Old Man), to Trifonov’s old characters’ eyes the present appears empty and meaningless, because they can neither accept nor understand its baseness and ambiguities. In a society in which intrigue and moral compromise were the norm, middle-aged figures like Ksenija Fedorovna, Viktor Dmitriev’s mother (The Exchange), stand out as pure, intrinsically honest “noble souls” (chorošie duši), as symbolic bearers of the typical values of Russian intellectual elite: His mother tried to help all of them absolutely disinterestedly. […] She loved to help unselfishly. But to put it more exactly: she liked to help in such a way that God forbid any profit should come out of it. But the profit was this: in doing good deeds to be always conscious of being a good person. (Trifonov 1991a: 44) (Всем мать старается помогать совершенно бескорыстно. […] Очень любит помогать бескорыстно. Пожалуй, точнее так: любит помогать таким образом, чтобы, не дай Бог, не вышло никакой корысти. Но в этом-то и была корысть: делая добрые дела, все время сознавать себя хорошим человеком. [Trifonov 1984a: 35-36])

As opposed to her “ancient” father’s, in Ksenija Fedorovna’s view “if we refuse to be contemptuous we deprive ourselves of our last weapon” (Trifonov 1991a: 54) (“eсли мы откажемся от презрения, мы лишим себя последнего оружия” [Trifonov 1984a: 46]). Despite their moral upright-

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ness, or maybe due to it, at close analysis some of Trifonov’s aged and middle-aged heroes reveal a certain “passivity,” a basic emotional ineptitude to concrete action and everyday life. This psychological characteristic dooms them to fail when they come to terms with the greedy but pragmatic spirit of new Soviet generations.4 Old Age and Gender Variations Another aspect that differentiates the two writers’ representations of old age is related to gender: in the works examined, Rasputin’s artistically significant old characters are prevalently women, while among Trifonov’s men tend to occupy a prominent space. From a comparative point of view, in these authors’ literary accounts we can notice an inversion of widespread cultural stereotypes about gender differences in the aging process (see Don 1977: 240; Achenbaum 2009: 30). As several scholars have pointed out, traditionally in Western perception men tend to improve while getting older, as if they entered the ripest period of their lives, whereas for women old age has been seen as pure decay, as the end of every possible aspiration and physical charm (see Woodward 1995: 84; Gramshammer-Hohl 2014: 1119). In Rasputin’s works old women are healthier and more positive; above all, as we will see, they seem more at ease with themselves than Trifonov’s aged men, who appear ill, weak and morally tormented.5

4

In Trifonov’s works this ambivalent quality is often defined as umenie žit’, which can be translated as “capability to live/knowledge of how to live”. Some critics have seen in the mainly materialistic and hedonistic attitude of many Soviet post-war citizens an updated version of the 19th-century social phenomenon of meščanstvo (petty-bourgeois mentality). On the topic see, among others, Ivanova (1984: 118-120), Falchikov (1996) and Bachnov (1999).

5

As to these different attitudes, it is necessary to underline that Rasputin’s rural world is described in an idyllic and crystallized way, as if it were out of time and space: it is not surprising that it has often been interpreted as an elegy to a declining cultural model (see Lapčenko 1985 and Kovtun 2009). In Trifonov’s narratives, instead, Soviet socio-political atmosphere and major 20th-century historical events play a fundamental role. On this aspect see, among others, Björling (1987) and Woll (1991).

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Even if their advanced age makes them feel weaker and “unsteady” from a physical point of view, on the whole, Rasputin’s staruški (“old women”) appear still quite healthy and active. The bitter and lucid awareness of their impending death and, in the case of Dar’ja Pinigina and her fellow villagers (Farewell to Matyora), of the abrupt and tragic end of their little homeland do not prevent them from expressing colorful and ironic considerations about themselves, their families and their lifelong friends. They do not fear death: in their folk and almost pantheistic vision it is conceived as something normal, intrinsically connected to human and natural cycles. Anna Stepanovna, Dar’ja Pinigina, Vasilisa (Vasili and Vasilissa) and grandmother Natal’ja (Women’s Conversation) are all described as strong, “tough” women, used to hard work both in the house and in the countryside. They are evoked through a series of concrete images in the texts, which focus on key elements of their daily lives (byt) such as farming, field labor and raising a large family in harsh wartime conditions (see Remonato [forthcoming]). In their vivid memories typical of old age, colors, smells and noises seem to condense their existence in fragments of “material culture”6 conveyed between the lines by some humble and everyday objects. This is shown in Anna’s old radio or Vasilisa’s samovar, in the disheveled gravestones and abandoned country tools in Matera, or in the fir branches Dar’ja puts in her empty and shining izba as a moving farewell ritual: She looked at the front corner and then at the other one and realized that there should be fir branches there. And over the windows. Truly, how could she manage without it? […] In the light of the lamp, in its dull red flickering, she hung the fir boughs in the corners and stuck them behind the window lintels from her stool. The fir released the sorrowful aroma of final farewell, reminding her of lit candles and

6

This “material” and concrete quality of Rasputin’s representation of old age has been particularly underlined by a vast number of theatrical and screen adaptations based on his novellas. Just to mention a few, by now “classical,” works see Moscow Art Theatre’s version of The Last Term (Poslednij srok, 1977), Moscow Youth-Theatre Studio “Na Krasnoj Presne”’s staging of Farewell to Matyora (Proščanie s Materoj, 1981) and the Soviet film by Ėlem Klimov (1933-2003) Proščanie/Farewell (1983). For a detailed analysis of Klimov’s successful version see Björling (2004).

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sweet, sad singing. And the house took on a grieving and estranged, frozen air. “It can tell, oh, it can, what I’m dressing it up for,” Darya thought, looking around in fear and humility. What else? What had she overlooked and forgotten? Everything seemed to be in place. (Rasputin 2002a: 196-197) (Она взглянула в передний угол, в один и другой, и догадалась, что там должны быть ветки пихты. И над окнами тоже. Верно, как можно без пихтача? […] Уже при лампе, при ее красноватом и тусклом мерцании она развешивала с табуретки пихту по углам, совала ее в надоконные пазы. От пихты тотчас повеяло печальным курением последнего прощания, вспомнились горящие свечи, сладкое заунывное пение. И вся изба сразу приняла скорбный и отрешенный, застывший лик. “Чует, ох чует, куда я ее обряжаю”, − думала Дарья, оглядываясь вокруг со страхом и смирением: что еще? что она выпустила, забыла? Все как будто на месте. [Rasputin 1992: 368-369])

Through Rasputin’s elegiac writing, these humble and familiar objects acquire semiotic undertones, which enhance their tangible and visual qualities, enriching them with high cultural resonances. They express metonymically the story and the spiritual essence of their owners, the deep meaning of their earthly paths. In the portraits of Rasputin’s elderly women we may also see some echoes of the pravednica (“righteous woman”), a wise, simple and morally upright peasant woman modeled on the archetypical figure of Aleksandr Solženicyn’s Matrena (Matryona’s House [Matrenin dvor, 1963]) and widely present in post-war Russian literature (Gramshammer-Hohl 2014: 93-94). The aging process confers an intense spiritual connotation to these female figures: they are delineated as guardians of authenticity, of the moral truth (istina) at the core of Russian cultural tradition. Their physical health metaphorically alludes to their moral steadiness and integrity: even if they look fragile, to the readers’ eyes these babuški (“grandmothers”) appear to be endowed with a mysterious and fascinating spiritual strength (duchovnaja mošč’), with a sense of dignity that draws them apart from the Soviet pragmatic conception of progress and reality (Kovtun 2015: 70). In Boris Sučkov’s words: [T]o think back about what is behind him/her, a person needs time, although not much. The old Anna Stepanovna has only a little of it. Her aged flesh does not easily take its leave form the living world. She resists death and at the same time she in-

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vokes it. Tired of earthly toils, the old woman accepts her inevitable end with dignity, aware of having done her duty. However hard and complicated was her life, she nonetheless obtained from it the gift of a spiritual strength that enables her to maintain a ripeness of feelings until the end. (Sučkov 1977: 9; author’s translation [I.R.])

As far as Trifonov is concerned, his equally intense characterization tends to reproduce an old Bolshevik figure foreshadowing the author’s father.7 It is an image recurring in several narratives of his: a weak, elderly and embittered man tormented by a sense of guilt and moral dilemmas about his past actions and choices. In the works analyzed, Rasputin’s characters are old from the beginning, while in some cases Trifonov’s doubtful heroes become old through the complex and multi-layered temporal structure of the texts. This process gives us the opportunity to observe the changes intervening in their psychological profile. Most of the writer’s old and middleaged heroes suffer or eventually die from health problems (e.g. high blood pressure, aortic stenosis, heart attacks).8 It is as if physical illness expressed their interior flaws and spiritual unease. Figures like Viktor Dmitriev (The Exchange), Sergej Afanas’evič (Another Life), Pavel Letunov (The Old Man) and Petr Aleksandrovič Telepnev, Ljudmila’s father (The Long Goodbye), are all marked by similar weaknesses: After Xenia Fyodorovna’s death, Dmitriev had a high blood pressure crisis, and he spent three weeks in the hospital strictly confined to his bed. […] He didn’t look too

7

As is widely known, the writer’s father, Valentin Trifonov (1888-1938), was of Don Cossack descent. He was a Bolshevik and Red Army veteran who commanded Cossacks in the Don area during the Civil War and later served as a Soviet official. He was arrested during Stalin’s Great Purge in June 1937 and shot in 1938. Thanks to his son’s strenuous efforts, he was rehabilitated in 1955; on this topic see also Björling (2014: 175) and Šitov (1997).

8

Alongside the examples considered in the present study, heart problems represent a recurring element in other works of the author as well, as Gennadij Sergeevič’s condition in Taking Stock, or the male figures of Time and Place. Heart illnesses emerge as a symbolic unifying trait among different characters even in Trifonov’s posthumous novel The Disappearance (Isčeznovenie, 1987) and in the collection of tales House Upside Down (Oprokinutyj dom, 1981); on this theme see also Kolesnikoff (1991: 38-42) and Bage (1997).

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well. He’d somehow gotten older all at once, had turned grey. Not yet an old man, but already middle-aged, with the flabby cheeks of an old uncle. I can remember him still a boy at the Pavlinovo dachas. Then he’d been a fat boy. (Trifonov 1991a: 70) (После смерти Ксении Федоровны у Дмитриева сделался гипертонический криз, и он пролежал три недели дома в строгом постельном режиме. […] Выглядел он неважно. Он как-то сразу сдал, посерел. Еще не старик, но уже пожилой, с обмякшими щечками дяденька. Я ведь помню его мальчишкой по павлиновским дачам. Тогда он был толстяком. [Trifonov 1986a: 64])

As a sort of “objective correlative” densely present in Thomas Mann’s oeuvre, as well, we may see in their poor corporeal conditions a symbolic equivalent of their indecisiveness, moral ambiguity and emotional ineptitude. Unlike Rasputin’s, several of Trifonov’s aged figures are oppressed by a sensation of utter loneliness and by the gloomy perception of their impeding death. The atmosphere of moral compromise typical of the post-war years, their incapability of immediate reactions in some difficult historical situations of their youth, their often cultivated and intellectual musings fill their last days with anxiety and acute regrets. At the same time, in an ambivalent and multifaceted way, some of these heroes look for individual truths which can help them to put back together the scattered fragments of their past experiences. Being ill and unsteady, Trifonov’s elderly characters rarely appear busy in any concrete field or farming labors. As we may easily evince from the nostalgic, almost Chekhovian evocation of Petr Telepnev’s garden, their approach to nature is prevalently an abstract and contemplative one: But more than his factory, more than his precious boilers, and perhaps more than his wife and his daughter, Pyotr Telepnev loved his garden, which he had caringly cultivated for three decades. Particularly luxuriant were his dahlias. Telepnev was famous for them in all Moscow. […] During the war the garden had almost risked a bad end. Who could be interested in flowers then? He could hardly worry about flowers when his family was half-starving and barely keeping alive. […] Yet somehow they managed to live through it all and to save the garden as well. It was Pyotr Alexandrovich who saved it – by hours stolen during the day and during the night from the normal routine of his life. (Trifonov 1991b: 258-259)

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(Но сильней, чем завод, чем дорогие сердцу котлы и, может, сильней, чем жену и дочку, любил Петр Телепнев свой сад, взлелеянный за три десятилетия. Особенно богаты были георгины. Ими славился Телепнев по всей Москве. […] В войну сад едва не погиб. Кому было дело до цветов, когда жили едва-едва, впроголодь, […]. И все же выжили и сад спасли. Спас Петр Александрович − часами, ночами, отнятыми у жизни. [Trifonov 1986b: 151])

Ljalja’s father shows a rather naive and obstinate temperament: similarly to other exponents of Trifonov’s older generations he is described as a “candid” and refined soul with an innate inadequacy for dealing with everyday life. The man’s sterile and strenuous attachment to his beautiful garden turns it into a sort of locus amoenus, a metaphorical “bastion” of a dying past doomed to disappear. Reflections on Aging and Death In line with a cross-cultural literary tradition, in both writers’ works old age is frequently associated with the image of autumn, the season of decay and decline par excellence; however, the ways the characters reflect on its implications and on death are different. Even though aging renders them rather “useless” in physical and concrete terms, in Anna Stepanovna’s, Natal’ja’s and Dar’ja Pinigina’s views this phase represents the natural culmination of life. While taking stock of their human experience, these wise grandmothers appear deeply aware of a general universal meaning underlying their apparently modest and undistinguished existences. This bitter and clear-headed awareness is expressed particularly well by Dar’ja (Farewell to Matyora): No, she was not scared of dying, everyone had his own place. That was enough, she had lived and experienced enough. There was nothing left in herself, all had been wasted, emptied. She lived to the same bottom. Every last drop had gone. And what had she seen in her life? There was only one thing she knew: children, who had to be fed and washed, and for whom you had to lay in things in advance, so as to be able to feed them tomorrow. Eighty years was really too long for one person, if you were so worn-out you were ready for the scrap-heap. But now, looking back at those years from the threshold of death, she could not see any great difference between them. They had each gone by in haste to catch up with the one before. Ten times a day the

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old lady had looked up at the sky to see where the sun was, seen that it was already high or already sinking, tried doubly hard to get everything done. It was always the same: the children pestered about something, the pig shouted, the vegetable garden waited, and also labours to be done in the fields, in the wood or in the kolkhoz − an eternal circle, in which she had never the possibility to breathe nor to look around herself, keeping in her eyes and soul the beauty of sky and earth. (Rasputin 1981: 338) (Нет, ей не страшно умереть, всему свое место. Хватит, нажилась, насмотрелась. Больше тратить в себе ей нечего, все истратила ‒ пусто. Изжилась до самого донышка, выкипела до последней капельки. А что, спрашивается, видала она в своей жизни? Только одно и знала: ребятишки, которых надо было накормить, напоить, обстирать, загодя заготовить, чтобы было чем напоить, накормить их завтра. Восемьдесят годов, как видно, одному человеку все-таки много, если она поизносилась до того, что теперь только взять да выбросить, но, оглядываясь сейчас на них со своего смертного порога, она не находила между ними большой разницы ‒ все они, подгоняя друг друга, прошли одинаково в спешке: по десять раз на дню старуха задирала в небо голову, чтобы посмотреть, где солнце, и спохватывалась ‒ уже высоко, уже низко, а она все еще не поправилась с делами. Всегда одно и то же: теребили с чем-нибудь ребятишки, кричала скотина, ждал огород, а еще работа в поле, в лесу, в колхозе ‒ вечная круговерть, в которой ей некогда было вздохнуть и оглядеться по сторонам, задержать в глазах и в душе красоту земли и неба. [Rasputin 1984а: 158])

As many scholars have remarked, Vasilisa embodies one of the first images of that strong, hardworking and selfless peasant who would become a typical heroine of Rasputin in the 1970s.9 Thinking back to her life as a country wife and mother, the aged woman shares similar ambivalent considerations about her incessant daily toils:

9

As Teresa Polowy points out, Rasputin’s depiction of old Russian female characters originates in the figure of Vasilisa, who wisely forgives her former husband on his deathbed. It is not a coincidence, then, that “Vasilisa Premudraja” (“Vasilisa-the-Wise”) is the nickname given by her fellow villagers to another meaningful old woman in the later novella Live and Remember (Živi i pomni, 1974); on the topic see Polowy (1999: 64).

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She loves to put on the samovar. The first wave of morning chores has ended, it has quickly gone, and now Vasilissa feels thirsty out of habit. For her the day is not divided by hours, but by samovars, the first samovar, the second, the third… In her old days tea drinking has substituted almost all other satisfactions. […] Vasilissa puts the samovar on the table, sits down next to it and sighs. She sighs all the time, and her deep sighs express a lot of different undertones: from joy and surprise to pain and suffering. (Rasputin 1986: 145) (Она любит ставить самовар. Первая волна работы схлынула, рань прошла, и теперь Василиса по привычке испытывает жажду. День у нее разделяется не на часы, а на самовары: первый самовар, второй, третий… На старости лет чаепитие заменяет ей чуть ли не все удовольствия. […] Василиса переносит самовар на стол, садится к нему поближе и вздыхает. Она всегда вздыхает, вздохи у нее имеют множество оттенков − от радости и удивления до боли и страданий. [Rasputin 1984b: 391])

In these old women’s frames of mind, the collective and communitarian dimension (rod, i.e., “kinship”) plays an important role: their individual decease is simply seen as the final moment of their earthly paths. Their time perception is characterized by a deep continuity with the natural rhythms of the Siberian environment: its cyclical, mythical and eternal pattern appears in strong contrast with the Soviet linear one (on this aspect see Remonato 2010: 181-183). On the whole, Rasputin’s staruški approach the frightening and mysterious topic of death with a calm and lucid attitude: looking back, they feel that even in times of hardship and great sorrow they have lived in a true, coherent and righteous way (Schäper 1985: 38-42). What really hurts and deceives them in the end is their children’s spiritual distance and insensibility. In most of the author’s novellas elderly characters tend to pass away almost naturally at an advanced age, or they consciously “choose” to die rather than abandon their birthplace, as it occurs to Dar’ja Pinigina and her last indomitable friends in Matera: “I’m tired,” − thought Darya – “Oh, I’m tired, really too tired to go anywhere now, and could just lie here, cover myself and find my long-awaited peace. And find out the whole truth once and for all. The earth is pulling me. And then I’ll say from there: you are stupid. Why are you so stupid? Why ask questions? It’s only you who

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don’t understand, but here everything is clear to the last drop. We see every single one of you and we’ll make demands on each of you. We will, we will. You are on display before us, and we’ll look and see.” And it was hard for Darya to believe that she was still alive; it seemed that she was saying the words just as she learned them over there, before they stopped her from saying them. Truth lies in memory. The person without memory is without life. (Rasputin 1992: 181) (“Устала я”, − думала Дарья. – “Ох, устала, устала. Щас бы никуда и не ходить, тут и припасть. И укрыться, обрести долгожданный покой. И разом узнать всю правду. Тянет, тянет земля. И сказать оттуль: глупые вы. Вы пошто такие глупые-то? Че спрашивать-то? Это только вам непонятно, а здесь все-все до капельки понятно. Каждого из вас мы видим и с каждого спросим. Спросим, спросим. Вы как на выставке перед нами, мы и глядим во все глаза, кто че делает, кто че помнит. Правда в памяти”. И уже с трудом верилось Дарье, что она жива, казалось, что произносит она эти слова, только что познав их, оттуда, пока не успели ей запретить их открыть. Правда в памяти. У кого нет памяти, у того нет жизни. [Rasputin 2002a: 356])

As the old majestic trees to which they frequently compare themselves (listven’, the “czar larch”), these aged peasants cannot conceive of life far from their native island, because it constitutes an intrinsic part of their identity. Considering that their habits, mentality and value systems are concretely and metaphorically condemned to disappear in the flooding, it may initially seem that Rasputin’s simple, ordinary rural dwellers look sadly defeated by contemporary Soviet progress. On the contrary, thanks to the fine qualities of his writing from a spiritual and artistic point of view they do not stand out as losers, but as moral custodians of Russian village culture. Through literary representation, in fact, their emotions and experience acquire a universal and immortal meaning, which transcends time and space. Conversely, Trifonov’s old heroes share a gloomy and tragic vision of their impending death, which is considered a dramatic point of no return. Regret and disillusion are dominant sensations in their blurred and biased memories: past and present constantly intermingle in their thoughts, but this is rarely soothing. They are not simple folk: their culture and accomplishments, along with a series of complex historical and emotional incidents,

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have gradually sharpened their perception, so that now they are not satisfied with univocal or edifying answers. Most of Trifonov’s elderly and middleaged figures are widows, and the untimely loss of their lifelong companions seems to have intensified their feelings of loneliness and alienation. This theme acquires a special relevance in Another Life: the subtle and rarefied tone of the narrative, which renders it similar to a sort of “stenographic transcription” of Ol’ga Vasil’evna’s interior monologue, creates a strong contrast with the attitude of her old, selfish and vindictive mother-in-law Aleksandra Prokof’evna. As Marina Selemenova aptly remarks, instead of making them closer, their concrete daily cohabitation emphasizes the two women’s spiritual estrangement (see Selemenova 2008: 199): Living with his mother was difficult; they would have liked to break up the arrangement and part forever but were constrained because the old woman was lonely and if she were to part from her granddaughter, sixteen-year-old Irinka, she would be condemned to ending her life among strangers […]. Oh, how she would have pitied, how she would have appreciated the old woman if only she lived somewhere far away! But in these little rooms, in that tiny little hallway, the years they had all spent together stood crammed tightly one against another, blatant and unadorned, like the patched carpet slippers in the crude wooden box that Sergei had knocked together and that still stood under the coat rack. Here, in all this overcrowded muddle, there was no room for pity. (Trifonov 1999a: 12-13) (Жить вместе было трудно, хотели было разъехаться и расстаться навсегда, но удерживало вот что: старуха была одинока и, расставшись с внучкой, обрекала себя на умирание среди чужих людей […]. Ах, как бы она жалела, как бы ценила старуху, если бы та жила где-нибудь далеко! Но в этих комнатках, в этом коридорчике, где прожитые годы стояли тесно, один к одному впритык, открыто и без стеснения, как стоит стоптанная домашняя обувь в деревянном ящике под вешалкой, сколоченном Сережей, здесь, в этой тесноте и гуще, не было места для жалости. [Trifonov 1975: 220-221])

Frequently animated by a sense of guilt and by an inner longing for truth, Trifonov’s old and middle-aged characters occasionally try to make amends for their previous indecision and ineptitude (bezdejstvie); they do so by coming to terms with ambiguous choices or situations dating back to their youth. Let us consider, for example, Vadim Glebov (The House on the Em-

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bankement) and Pavel Letunov’s incessant memories: their obstinate and difficult quest is not easily comprehensible for their families, who cope with everyday problems in the dim and shabby atmosphere of the Soviet 1970s and cannot understand their spiritual worlds: Yesterday there had been a serious and painful quarrel, and yet again he had run up against a lack of understanding. No, that was the wrong word: they all understood, but went on regardless. It was worse than that: it was a lack of thought. A lack of feeling. As if they did not share the same blood. He was reluctant to tell Ruska or Vera or his sister-in-law or anyone. If only Galya were alive. […] What is there to do? Galya could have helped, but not he, Pavel Evgrafovich. He’s not able. He never was. By now everything was done with. Even their children’s lives were done with. But behind the customary sadness which had been the underlying tone of his thoughts in recent years an unexpected something from afar was producing a vague flicker of warmth. (Trifonov 1999c: 7; 13) (Вчера тяжело и обидно ругались, опять натолкнулся на непонимание, нет, не то – все понимают, но делают вопреки пониманию. Того хуже, недомыслие. Недочувствие. Как будто других кровей. Рассказывать неохота ни Руське, ни Вере, ни свояченице, никому. Была бы Галя жива. […] А что можно сделать? Галя могла бы, а он нет, не умеет. Никогда не умел. Теперь уже все на излете. Уже и детей жизнь на излете. Но за этим привычным и грустным, что было тенью его мыслей в последние годы, невнятно теплилось что-то, какой-то нечаянный, издалека, согрев. [Trifonov 1979: 7; 12])

As we already observed, Trifonov’s old characters are generally doomed to an untimely demise. In addition, due to their constant sense of existential failure – in contrast to Rasputin’s staruški – they regret and fear their approaching end, which figuratively represents the utter expression of their moral unease. Through the writer’s acute introspective depiction we get a realistic portrait of urban everyday life in the Soviet Union, with tones somehow recalling Camus’s and Sartre’s mal de vivre. In these individuals’ desolate self-analysis, old age is devoid of any ironic or consolatory undertones; their psychological development appears deeply influenced by the social inequalities and moral compromises typical of the stagnation years.

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F ORMAL

AND

T HEMATIC AFFINITIES

Old vs. New Generations One of the most relevant analogies in the two authors’ literary representation of the aging process is connected to what may be defined as the “incommunicability” between old and new generations. For their mentality and perception of reality, in fact, both Trifonov’s and Rasputin’s elderly figures seem to belong to another world; it is no coincidence that generational clash is a leitmotif in all the works considered. From Anna Stepanovna to Natal’ja, from grandfather Fedor Nikolaevič to Pavel Letunov, most of the heroes considered try to transmit their experience, their views and ideas to their adult children, but they painstakingly realize that the gap is too deep, and so they take refuge in past memories. As a title of example, meditating on her last days and, above all, on her family’s ambiguous attitude, even the wise Anna feels her age as a useless burden and wonders about the real meaning of her life spent working hard and coping with several adversities (see Denisova 2010: 146). Sons and daughters appear very distant from their parents and grandparents: differently from traditional Russian culture, based on a substantial continuity of ethical principles, identity roots and family ties, both writers’ younger characters are absorbed in issues connected with their studies or working careers, and with some ambivalent moral standpoints directly linked to the complex Soviet social dynamics. The aspirations to a more comfortable and modern lifestyle, the precarious nature of friendships and romantic relationships, the fight for privileged job positions and the attachment to material possessions are instances alien to aged people’s sensibility and way of thinking. Sometimes, as in Pavel Letunov’s case, their families consider their “old-fashioned” opinions and behaviors so strange that they pityingly assume them to be afflicted by something similar to senile obsessions: Verochka said even more plaintively: “But, you know, I feel sorry for him, I really do. Well, why does he sit up all night, not sleeping, sorting through his papers?” “Thank God he has an occupation.” “It’s not an occupation, Kolya. It’s something…” “All old people are a bit bats. Old age is a type of schizophrenia.” And they went off.

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He pondered that strange expression, “All old people are a bit bats.” What did that unpleasant fellow mean? The sentence made him uneasy. The schizophrenia part he could understand. They thought he was a shizophrenic. But why bats? My God, they are the ones who are sick; sick with a lack of understanding, sick with insensitivity. It was as though they had achieved the ideal of that man with the bare, crumpled skull – what was his name? He used to say that one should get rid of one’s emotions. Had they got rid of theirs already? (Trifonov 1999c: 214) (Верочка все жалобней: “Но ведь мне его жалко, правда же. Ну что он сидит ночами, не спит, перебирает свои бумажки…” – “И слава богу, есть занятие”. – “Это не занятие, Коля. Это что-то…” − “Все старики немного ‘чайники’. Старость − вид шизофрении”. И ушли. Павел думал над странной фразой: “Все старики немного ‘чайники’. Что этот неприятный человек имел в виду? От фразы исходила тревога. Шизофрения − понятно. Считают его шизофреником. Но при чем тут чайники? Бог ты мой, они сами больны, они больны непониманием, больны нечувствием, о чем мечтал человек с голым и мятым черепом − как его звали? − он говорил, что надо избавиться от эмоций. Уже избавились? [Trifonov 1979: 196])

To post-war generation’s eyes the extremely hard but at the same time authentic circumstances of their elders’ lives are not easily understandable. Even though they clearly long for progress and well-being, as adults they feel rather disillusioned by slogans and collective stances, because in their everyday experience these ideals have been emptied of any real value and meaning (Brown 1988: 112-114). In their perspective aged people’s moral integrity, solidarity and spiritual strength appear outdated and not suitable for the ambiguities of the present. Both authors’ old heroes seem to relate more easily to their grandchildren, who unlike adults have no need to tangle with ethical or philosophical questions. The youngsters care for their grandparents’ fragility and feel the tender, calming effect of their simple wisdom. Vadim Glebov, for example, apparently indifferent to any emotion, in his fifties still remembers his grandmother Nila with warm affection; she was the only person in his family he really trusted: Grandma Nila had a gift of always quietly saying something simple and sensible when everyone else around was losing his head and shouting nonsense. Glebov

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loved this bent little old lady with her gray hair still faintly streaked with pale blond, a neat bun on the back of her head, and a tiny little yellowish face. She was forever pattering about the house, doing chores, scurrying here and there on her feet from early morning to late at night. And she alone, it seemed to Glebov, sometimes understood him. (Trifonov 1999b: 228) (Всегда баба Нила умела сказать что-то простое, тихое, хотя рядом безумствовали, кричали вздор. Глебов любил эту маленькую, калачиком гнутую старушонку с седым впрожелть, аккуратным пучочком на затылке, с дробным, желтоватым личиком, всегда она колготилась по дому, возилась, шаркала, сновала туда-сюда. Одна весь дом тащила, с утра до поздноты на ногах. И она одна, казалось Глебову, понимает его иногда. [Trifonov 1986c: 320])

The old woman’s simple and sensible words have an empathetic and soothing influence on his internal torments. She thinks about reassuring and comforting him even on her deathbed, so that her unexpected demise leaves an emotional void in the protagonist: So they sat there telling stories to each other, Glebov and his Grandma Nila, and afterward everyone had the impression that the old lady was feeling much better. She even felt strong enough to offer Glebov some advice on his problems: “What can I say to you, Dima?”, she looked at him with pity, with tears in her eyes, as though he and not she were dying: “Don’t upset yourself, don’t aggravate your heart. If there’s nothing to be done about it, then don’t think about it. It will all sort itself out, you’ll see, and whatever may that be, it will be the right way…” And strange to say he fell asleep easily that night, calmly and free from nagging anxiety. At six o’clock next morning he was suddenly awakened by a low voice, or it may have been by something else, and he heard someone say: “Our Grandma Nila has gone…” (Trifonov 1999b: 330) (Так рассказывали друг другу − Глебов бабе Ниле, она ему, − и всем казалось, что старушке полегчало. Она даже совет дала: − Дима, я тебе что скажу? − Смотрела на него с жалостью, со слезами в глазах, будто ему умирать, а не ей. − Ты не томи себя, не огорчай сердца. Коли все равно ничего нельзя, тогда не думай… Как оно выйдет само, так и правильно…

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И, странно, он заснул поздно ночью, ни о чем не думая, в спокойствии. В шесть утра проснулся от низкого голоса, то ли от чего-то другого, внезапно услышал: − Нет нашей бабы Нилы… [Trifonov 1986c: 330])

In Rasputin’s Women’s Conversation we witness a similar scene: a lively conversation between old grandmother Natal’ja and her rebellious and impatient 17-year-old granddaughter Viktorija. Their points of view about men and women, romantic relationships and values remain quite far apart, but their frank and ironic dialogue enables them to communicate authentically and to reflect about the meaning of their different life experiences: − Grandma, you fell behind again, you still live and think in the old way. Nowadays women are regarded… an ambitious woman is positively regarded now. − Suspicious of what? − Not ‘suspicious’. Ambitious, determined. Do you understand? − You open your mouth, − nodded Natal’ja, − and they’ll take you down, take down your ambition. Why on earth am I discussing with you all night. And such precise things were said. Out of annoyance Vika hit the headboard with her leg, she hurt herself and dragged her leg under the blankets. − What’s the matter with you, are you totally illiterate? – she groaned. – Why on earth don’t you understand? Ambitious, that means wanting to reach a goal. To put ahead oneself a goal, a certain aim, and realize it. To realize it, you need to have a certain temperament… a strong one.10 (− Бабушка, ты опять отстала, ты по старым понятиям живешь. Женщина сейчас ценится… та женщина ценится, которая целе-устремленная. − Куда стреленная? − Не стреленная. Целе-устремленная. Понимаешь? − Рот разинешь,− кивала Наталья,− так и стрелют, в самую цель. Об чем я с тобой всюю ночь и толкую. Такие меткачи пошли. Вика с досады саданула ногой по спинке кровати и ушибла ногу, утянула ее под одеяло.

10 Author’s translation [I.R.].

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− Ты совсем, что ли, безграмотная? − охала она.− Почему не понимаешь-то? Целе-устремленная − это значит, идет к цели. Поставит перед собой цель и добивается. А чтобы добиться, надо такой характер иметь… сильный. [Rasputin 2002: 509])

Reconsidering the Past The awareness of the short amount of time left induces both writers’ old characters to reconsider the entire course of their existence. Meditating on some episodes and circumstances of their married lives, Anna Stepanovna, Dar’ja Pinigina and Pavel Letunov analogously wonder if they acted morally, correctly. Being widows enhances their loneliness and sense of loss, but it does not prevent them from evaluating positive and negative aspects of the fundamental relation of their lives. The basic question about the sense and “usefulness” of their present elderly condition returns as a leitmotif in their thoughts (see Spedicato Iengo 2003: 121-125). The old Letunov, in particular, quite curiously distinguishes other people’s “useless” old age from his own; his ironic account looks extremely credible from a psychological point of view (see also Björling 1987: 157-159): Old people don’t remember a damned thing; they mix things up, fib; you can’t believe them. Don’t I do it, too? Can I be believed? But I remember perfectly well that Migulin was thickset, broad-shouldered and of medium height. (Trifonov 1999c: 61) (Старики ни черта не помнят, путают, врут, им верить нельзя. Неужто и я? И мне? Ведь отлично помню, Мигулин коренаст, плечист, среднего роста. [Trifonov 1979: 55])

Another aspect which draws some parallels between the two authors’ aged figures is their steady and strenuous attachment to their native places and living conditions. Most of Trifonov and Rasputin’s narratives are set in the same years (1950s to early 1970s), and even though the country and urban chronotopes reveal certain differences, the old heroes examined show a comparable attitude toward the extensive changes generated by Soviet land management and industrializing plans. Their nostalgic and conservative reactions are not only a natural psychological consequence of their age (Augé 2014: 93-99); in their perception the new, shabby and impersonal housing

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models and the overall “cementification” of natural environment adumbrate the final decline of an entire lifestyle. The functional and productive orientations domineering Russian society in the post-war period seem to leave no space for ancient communitarian bonds, for the contemplation of the unspoiled beauty of nature and for the older generations’ ideals and ethical principles. The present seems to run quickly toward a radiant “linear” development that inevitably cuts off aged people, so that they see death as one of the few possible ways out. This bitter, melancholic awareness returns from page to page in the writers’ works: if Rasputin’s flooding allegory offers one of the most effective images of the theme (see Kurbatov 2007: 3235), Trifonov’s dry abrupt endings appear equally pregnant. In the writer’s vision, the daily bustle of the anonymous city seems inexorably to endure (Gordovič 2014: 294-295), notwithstanding the drastic transformations of the suburbs and the dramatic changes in the characters’ lives: And Moscow was expanding itself farther and farther, beyond the circumferential highway, across fields and ravines. It was throwing up building after building, stone mountains with a million lighted windows; it was laying bare the ancient soil, traversing it with giant concrete pipes, strewing the land with foundation pits, laying asphalt, building up, tearing down, destroying without a trace. And every morning the subway platforms and bus stops would be swarming with people, more and more of them crowded together. Lyalya is astonished: “Where do all these people come out from? Did they move here form other places or are they our children who have grown up?” (Trifonov 1991b: 106) (А Москва катит все дальше, через линию окружной, через овраги, поля, громоздит башни за башнями, каменные горы в миллионы горящих окон, вскрывает древние глины, вбивает туда исполинские цементные трубы, засыпает котлованы, сносит, возносит, заливает асфальтом, уничтожает без следа, и по утрам на перронах метро и на остановках автобусов народу гибель, с каждым годом все гуще. Ляля удивляется. “И откуда столько людей? То ли приезжие понаехали, то ли дети повырастали?” [Trifonov 1986b: 210])

Formal Aspects Trifonov and Rasputin’s literary portraits of aging reveal major affinities on the formal level: the recourse to the evocative filter of memory, which con-

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stitutes a general feature of old age, is expressed in the texts through the widespread usage of stream of consciousness. This typically 20th-century technique gives writers the possibility to follow fictionally the inner flow of the protagonists’ thoughts, showing their spiritual richness and at the same time their ambiguities, hesitations and contradictions. From the syntactical structure of periods to the pace of the monologues, to the type of vocabulary selected, every element appears closely connected to the rendering of old characters’ psychical and spiritual dimensions (see Mineralov et al. 2007). In the following passage, for example, we enter directly into Dar’ja’s thoughts about her possible future choices: Darya walked over the promontory outside the village and watched his motionless, hunched figure in the boat, fleeing some outside force, and she thought wearily, heavily: no, Pavel isn’t his own master. And Sonya wasn’t his boss, either, he doesn’t let her do that. It’s only that they had been all taken up by something that pushes them, it pushes them god knows where, without giving them time to look around… There weren’t many who set their own pace. Should she go to Ivan, her second son, at his lumber town? What was there? Even though it wasn’t far, it was alien, and the people would be strangers, the things would be strange, and who knew, maybe her son would be a stranger too. Maybe, go there for a while as a guest to start, to see a bit what would it be like? No, first it was necessary to accompany Matyora. See Matyora off and then join her kin – go where she had ten times more kin than here. (Rasputin 1992: 145) (Дарья вышла за деревню к мысу и долго смотрела на его сгорбленную в лодке, неподвижную фигуру, отлетающую словно от какой-то посторонней пущенности, и тяжело, устало размышляла: нет, не хозяин себе Павел. И не Соня им руководит, этого он не позволит, − просто подхватило всех их и несет, несет куда-то, не давая оглянуться… своим шагом мало кто ходит. Уехать разве к Ивану, второму сыну, в леспромхоз? А что там? Сторона хоть и не дальняя, да чужая, чужие люди, чужие вещи, и неизвестно, не чужой ли сын. Может, съездить поначалу в гости, посмотреть? Нет, надо прежде проводить Матеру. Проводить Матеру и лучше всего к своим − туда, где своих в десять раз больше, чем здесь. [Rasputin 2002a: 327])

In both authors’ texts the characters’ intimate flux of thoughts is frequently expressed in the usage of free indirect discourse, which becomes a means

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to enrich the narrative patterns conferring to them a peculiar internal dynamism. This stylistic strategy is particularly employed by Rasputin, allowing him to deepen more directly into his aged protagonists’ speculations and emotions, intermingling them with his slightly detached point of view (see Serafimova 2009: 39). The recourse to free indirect speech accentuates the impression of extreme psychological authenticity and heightens the writer’s tendency to reproduce the spiritual rhythms of human beings on the syntactic level (on this technique see Remonato 2009: 220-221). The old protagonists’ constant projection on the past is also highlighted by the presence of flashbacks, which constitute other formal devices consistently interpolated in the authors’ lines. Even if biased, the detailed and often mournful recollections of episodes from their former lives enable readers to penetrate their endurable perception of time and space. Moving back and forth among memories of past events, flashbacks recreate real fragments of experience, providing the texts with many visual and almost cinematographic qualities. As several scholars observed, in Trifonov’s works, aged heroes’ silence turns into a metaphoric weapon against pain and disillusion; the writer, in fact, does not seem to judge their drawbacks or their steadfast need for self-justification. In Woll’s words: Trifonov manipulated narrative voice in order to penetrate a character’s thoughts and thereby enlist reader sympathy, yet he contextualized those thoughts so that the character’s own evaluation, often defensive or exculpatory, is far from the last word. Trifonov’s time montages, narrative interplay, and polysemous symbols never modified the essential realism (hence accessibility) of his prose. […] They served to elaborate the complex grid of time and place, fate and choice, experience and reflection, that he believed to be the matrices of individual and societal life. He chose the means uniquely available to him as an artist to discharge his responsibility toward the past and articulate what he perceived to be the truth. (Woll 1991: 141)

Ordinary life imbues Trifonov’s pages and forms their real essence. Through the depiction of his old characters the author appears to say a word in defense of it. Everyday life is described as a great ordeal for them: it is not something to be spoken of with contempt, as of a basic meaningless aspect not worthy of literary evocation (Pankin 1978: 80-81). In this sense, daily routine may be considered as the emotional heart of their human existence, a trial in which the new, contemporary morality of the Brežnev era

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emerges and is tested. As Selemeneva writes, “in Trifonov’s short novels, minor, ordinary things serve as a special signaling system: details in clothing, an object of everyday use, a gesture, or even a smell play the role of the author’s comments, completing and actualizing the words uttered by characters” (Selemeneva 2008: 200; author’s translation [I.R.]). To old people’s eyes, memory acquires an ambivalent and therapeutic function: through it even prosaic objects coming from the past lose their trivial materiality to become symbolic sources of endless tales. Relatives and friends do not understand that the elderly have only a short amount of time left to come to terms with their past reminiscences. In Letunov’s view, for example, aging is described as a “bad joke,” a final deadline which intensifies his need for truth (see also Woll 1986: 146): People do not understand that there’s no time left. No time at all. If anyone were to ask me what old age is, I would say that it’s a time when there is no time. Because, fools that we are, we don’t live right; we squander time, we waste it on trifles, on this and that, not realizing what an incredibly precious gift it is, not given to us for no reason, but so that we can fulfil something, achieve something, and not throwing away life as frogs in dirty water. For example, to fulfil the things one has dreamed about, to achieve what one has wanted to achieve. But there is always one little thing lacking: time! Because it has been frittered away and squandered over the years. My God… (Trifonov 1999c: 246) (Не понимают того, что времени не осталось. Никакого времени нет. Если бы меня спросили, что такое старость, я бы сказал: это время, когда времени нет. Потому что живем мы, дураки, неправильно, сорим временем, тратим его попусту, туда-сюда, на то на се, не соображая, какая это изумительная драгоценность, данная нам неспроста, а для того, чтобы мы выполнили что-то, достигли чего-то, а не так − пробулькать жизнь лягушками на болоте. Например, выполнить то, о чем сам мечтал, достигнуть того, чего сам хотел. А ведь одной малости не хватает − времени! Потому что порастрачено, пораскидано за годы, бог ты мой… [Trifonov 1979: 227])

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C ONCLUSION Coming to some final reflections, from the comparative analysis we can determine that, besides specific differences, Trifonov’s and Rasputin’s characterizations of the aging process show also affinities both on the formal and thematic levels. In fact, notwithstanding their setbacks, ailments and obsessive thoughts, these figures are evoked in a vivid, refined and poetic way. Men or women, rural peasants or Soviet urban dwellers, the depth of the aged heroes’ recurring questions discloses to readers their interior worlds, their fears and present disillusions. In certain passages of the texts their farewell to life assumes daring and unconventional traits that bring them close to us. Going back to the epigraph opening this essay, we can observe that, similarly to Guccini’s Van Loon, the two Russian writers’ aged characters appear to be “quietly preparing for their last journey,” during which “everybody will have his own reason, and justification.” As the final stage of their earthly existence, aging has brought about doubts and frailties, sorrows and bitter regrets, but also the awareness of a superior meaning underlying their ordinary lives. From a contemporary point of view these normal people’s concrete, “material” luggage may appear seemingly insignificant: it is the authenticity of their spiritual heritage that prevails, while the lyrical qualities of the authors’ pages endow their portraits with universal human truth.

R EFERENCES Achenbaum, W. Andrew (2009): “A Metahistorical Perspective on Theories of Aging”, in: Bengtson, Vern L. et al. (ed.): Handbook of Theories of Aging. New York, 25-38. Augé, Marc (2014): Une Ethnologie de soi. Le temps sans âge. Paris. Bachnov, Leonid et al. (1999): “Jurij Trifonov: dolgoe proščanie ili novaja vstreča?”, in: Znamja 8, 179-203. http://magazines.russ.ru/znamia/1999/ 8/confer-pr.html [accessed December 18, 2015]. Bage, Lisa C. (1997): The Evolution of Iurii Trifonov as a Writer. Durham Theses, Durham University. http://etheses.dur.ac.uk/4805/ [accessed December 20, 2015].

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Björling, Fiona (1987): “Morality as History: An Analysis of Jurij Trifonov’s Novel Starik”, in: Jensen, Peter A./Lőnnqvist, Barbara (eds.): Text and Context: Essays to Honour Nils Åke Nilsson. Stockholm (= Stockholm Studies in Russian Literature Series; 23), 154-169. Björling, Fiona (2004): “When the Film Is Better Than the Book: Elem Klimov’s Farewell and Valentin Rasputin’s Farewell to Matyora”, in: Russian Studies in Literature 3 (40), 64-78. Björling, Fiona (2014): “Yury Trifonov’s The House on the Embankment: Fiction or Autobiography?”, in: Harris, Jane G. (ed.): Autobiographical Statements in Twentieth-Century Russian Literature. Princeton, New Jersey (= Princeton Legacy Library), 172-192. https://muse.jhu.edu/ [accessed December 15, 2015]. Bol’šakova, Alla Ju. (2000): “‘Čto stalo s nami posle?’ Uroki V. Rasputina”, in: Id.: Nacija i mentalitet. Fenomen “derevenskoj prozy” XX veka. Moskva, 92-102. Bol’šakova, Alla Ju. (2002): Russkaja derevenskaja proza XX veka: kod pročtenija. Šumen, 101-114. Bol’šakova, Alla Ju. (2004): “Fenomen ‘derevenskoj prozy’ (vtoraja polovina XX veka)”, in: Id.: Krest’janstvo v russkoj literature XVIII-XX vv. Мoskva, 323-356. Brown, Deming (1993): The Last Years of Soviet Russian Literature: Prose Fiction 1975-1991. Cambridge. Brown, Edward J. (1988): “Trifonov: The Historian as Artist”, in: Thompson, Terry L./Sheldon, Richard (eds.): Soviet Society and Culture. Essays in Honor of Vera S. Dunham. Boulder, London, 109-123. Čalmaev, Viktor A. (1990): “Uroki ‘derevenskoj prozy’”, in: Istorija sovetskoj literatury. Novyj vzgljad. Po materialam Vsesojuznoj naučnotvorčeskoj konferencii 11-12 maja 1989 g. Moskva, 3-19. Denisova, Ljubov’ (2010): Rural Women in the Soviet Union and PostSoviet Russia. Ed. and transl. by Irina Mukhina. London, 143-150. Don, Charles C. (1977): “Literary Old Age: A Browse Through History”, in: Educational Gerontology 2/3, 237-253. http://www.tandfonline.com. toc/uedg20/2/3 [accessed December 16, 2015]. Dovey, Ceridwen (2015): “What Old Age Is Really Like”, in: The New Yorker. October 1, 2015. http://www.newyorker.com/culture/culturalcomment/what-old-age-is-really-like [accessed December 20, 2015].

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Falchikov, Michael (1996): “Endings and Non-Endings in Iurii Trifonov”, in: Chung, Hilary (ed.): In the Party Spirit: Socialist Realism and Literary Practice in the Soviet Union, East Germany and China. Amsterdam, Atlanta, 69-77. Gillespie, David C. (1986): Valentin Rasputin and Soviet Russian Village Prose. London. Gillespie, David C. (2006): Iurii Trifonov: Unity Through Time. Cambridge. Gordovič, Kira (2014): “Nerazryvnost’ byta i bytija v proizvedenijach Ju. Trifonova”, in: Graf, Alexander (ed.): Poetik des Alltags. Russische Literatur im 18.-21. Jahrhundert / Poėtika byta. Russkaja literatura ХVIII-XXI vv. München (= Sprach- und Literaturwissenschaften; 49), 293-297. Gramshammer-Hohl, Dagmar (2014): Repräsentationen weiblichen Alters in der russischen Literatur. Alt sein, Frau sein, eine alte Frau sein. Hamburg (= Grazer Studien zur Slawistik; 5). Guccini, Francesco (2007): Stagioni. Torino. Ivanova, Natal’ja B. (1984): Proza Jurija Trifonova. Moskva. Kolesnikoff, Nina (1991): Yuri Trifonov: A Critical Study. Ann Ardis. Kovtun, Natal’ja V. (2009): Derevenskaja proza v zerkale utopii. Novosibirsk. Kovtun, Natal’ja V. (2015): “‘Women’s Question’ in V. Rasputin’s Oeuvre”, in: Filologičeskie nauki (naučnye doklady vysšej školy), janvar’, 58-74. Krivčenko, Stepan N. (2008): “Problema odinokoj starosti v russkoj literature vtoroj poloviny XX veka”, in: Uroki literatury 9, 12-15. Kurbatov, Valentin Ja. (2007): Dolgi naši. Valentin Rasputin: čtenie skvoz’ gody. Irkutsk. Lapčenko, Aleksandr F. (1985): “Čelovek i pamjat’ v povestjach V. Rasputina”, in: Id.: Čelovek i zemlja v russkoj social’no-filosofskoj proze 70ch godov. Leningrad, 14-44. Michaels, Dan (2012): “Valentin Rasputin’s Crusade”, in: The Occidental Observer. http://www.theoccidentalobserver.net/202/04 [accessed December 30, 2015]. Mineralov Jurij I./Plechanova, Irina I./Jur’eva, Ol’ga Ju. (eds.) (2007): Mir i slovo V. Rasputina. Meždunarodnaja naučnaja konferencija, posvjaščennaja 70-letiju V. G. Rasputina, Irkutsk, 15-16 marta 2007

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goda: materialy. Moskva, Irkutsk (= Tri veka russkoj literatury – aktual’nye aspekty izučenija; 16). Pančenko, Aleksandr (2005): “Obraz starosti v russkoj krest’janskoj kul’ture”, in: Otečestvennye zapiski 3 (24). http://strana-oz.ru/2005/3/ obraz-starosti-v-russkoy-krestyanskoy-kulture [accessed January 10, 2016]. Pankin, Boris (1978): “A Circle or a Spiral? On Iurii Trifonov’s Novels”, in: Soviet Studies in Literature 14 (4), 65-100. http://www.tandfonline. com/doi/pdf/10.2753/RSL1061-1975140465 [accessed December 30, 2015]. Pankin, Boris (1980): “Proščanija i vstreči s Materoj”, in: Strogaja literatura. Moskva, 58-85. Partridge, Colin J. (1990): Yuri Trifonov’s “The Moscow Cycle”: A Critical Study. Lewinston, Queenston and Lampeter. Polowy, Teresa (1999): The Novellas of Valentin Rasputin: Genre, Language and Style. New York (= Middlebury Studies in Russian Language and Literature). Rasputin, Valentin (1981): Borrowed Time. Engl. transl. by Margaret Wettlin and Kevin Windle. Wellington, New Zealand. Rasputin, Valentin (1984a): “Poslednij srok”, in: Id.: Izbrannye proizvedenija v 2-ch tomach. T. 1. Moskva, 127-288. Rasputin, Valentin (1984b): “Vasilij i Vasilisa”, in: Id.: Izbrannye proizvedenija v 2-ch tomach. T. 2. Moskva, 390-413. Rasputin, Valentin (1986): “Vasili and Vasilisa”, in: Id.: You Live and Love and Other Stories. Engl. transl. by Alan Myers. New York, 143-170. Rasputin, Valentin (1992): Farewell to Matyora. Engl. transl. by Antonina W. Bouis. Evanston, Illinois. Rasputin, Valentin (2002a): “Proščanie s Materoj”, in: Id.: Živi i pomni. Povesti. Rasskazy. Moskva (= Krasnaja kniga russkoj prozy), 209-394. Rasputin, Valentin (2002b): “Ženskij razgovor”, in: Id.: Živi i pomni. Povesti. Rasskazy. Moskva (= Krasnaja kniga russkoj prozy), 504-516. Remonato, Ilaria (2009): “The Shadow of Time in Valentin Rasputin’s Writing: Some Observations on Free Indirect Discourse”, in: Novye napravlenija v izučenii leksikologii, slovoobrazovanija i grammatiki načala XXI veka. Materialy meždunarodnogo simpoziuma 4-5 maja 2009 goda. Samara, 219-225.

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Remonato, Ilaria (2010): “Dallo spazio alla coscienza: il respiro del tempo nella scrittura di Valentin Rasputin”, in: Tosco, Pietro (ed.): Immagini di tempo. Studi di Slavistica. Verona, 179-194. Remonato, Ilaria [forthcoming]: “Nekotorye nabljudenija, kasajuščiesja obraza starosti v tvorčestve Valentina Rasputina”, in: Slavica Wratislaviensia. Special issue: Wielkie tematy kultury w literaturach słowiańskich: Starość. Schäper, Renate (1985): Die Prosa V. G. Rasputins. Erzählverfahren und ethisch-religiöse Problematik. München. Selemeneva, Marina V. (2008): “Poėtika povsednevnosti v gorodskoj proze Ju. V. Trifonova”, in: Izvestija Ural’skogo Gos. Universiteta. Serija 2. Gumanitarnye nauki – Filologija 59, vyp. 16, 195-208. http://hdl. handle.net/10995/22770 [accessed December 28, 2015]. Serafimova, Vera D. (2009): “Avtorskaja ideja v proze V. Rasputina i izobrazitel’no-vyrazitel’nye sredstva jazyka”, in: Russkaja slovesnost’ 1, 37-41. Šitov, Aleksandr P. (1997): Jurij Trifonov: chronika žizni i tvorčestva: 1925-1981. Ekaterinburg. Smirnova, Al’fija I. (2002): Russkaja naturfilosofskaja proza vtoroj poloviny XX veka. Moskva. Spedicato Iengo, Eide (2003): Senilità e dintorni. Lanciano. Starikova, Elena (1972): “Sociologičeskij aspekt sovremennoj ‘derevenskoj prozy’”, in: Voprosy literatury 7, 12-35. Sučkov Boris L. (1977): “Presentazione”, in: Rasputin, Valentin: L’ultimo termine. Italian transl. by Lucetta Negarville. Milano, 7-10. Surikov, Valerij (1986): “Jurij Trifonov: nravstvennost’ i revoljucija”. https://www.proza.ru/avtor/vvssvv [accessed December 28, 2015]. Tramma, Sergio (2000): Inventare la vecchiaia. Roma (= Cura di sé; 13). Trifonov, Jurij (1975): Drugaja žizn’. Moskva. Trifonov, Jurij (1979): Starik. Roman. Moskva. Trifonov, Jurij (1986a): “Obmen”, in: Id.: Sobranie sočinenij v 4-ch tomach. T. 2. Moskva, 7-64. Trifonov, Jurij (1986b): “Dolgoe proščanie”, in: Id.: Sobranie sočinenij v 4ch tomach. T. 2. Moskva, 118-210. Trifonov, Jurij (1986c): “Dom na naberežnoj”, in: Id.: Sobranie sočinenij v 4-ch tomach. T. 2. Moskva, 278-332.

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Trifonov, Yuri (1999a): “Another Life”, in: Id.: Another Life and The House on the Embankment. Engl. transl. by Michael Glenny. Evanston, Illinois, 11-186. Trifonov, Yuri (1999b): “The House on the Embankment”, in: Id.: Another Life and The House on the Embankment. Engl. transl. by Michael Glenny. Evanston, Illinois, 188-342. Trifonov, Yuri (1999c): The Old Man. Engl. transl. by Jacqueline Edwards and Mitchell Schneider. Evanston, Illinois. Trifonov, Yury (1991a): “The Exchange”, in: Id.: The Exchange and Other Stories. Engl. transl. by Ellendea Proffer. Evanston, Illinois, 17-69. Trifonov, Yury (1991b): “The Long Goodbye”, in: The Exchange and Other Stories. Engl. transl. by Helen P. Burlingame. Evanston, Illinois, 71107. Updike, John (1999): “Foreword”, in: Trifonov, Yuri: Another Life and The House on the Embankment. Engl. transl. by Michael Glenny. Evanston, Illinois, 1-8. Urban-Podoljan, Aleksandra (2014): “Pominal’no-pogrebal’nye obrjady v proze Valentina Rasputina (v svete pravoslavnoj tradicii)”, in: Graf, Alexander (ed.): Poetik des Alltags. Russische Literatur im 18.-21. Jahrhundert / Poėtika byta. Russkaja literatura ХVIII-XXI vv. München, 283-291. Winchell, Margaret/Mikkelson, Gerald (1991): Siberia, Siberia. Evanston, Illinois, 1-21. Woll, Josephine (1986): “Trifonov’s Starik: The Truth of the Past”, in: Russian Literature Triquarterly 19, 143-158. Woll, Josephine (1991): Invented Truth: Soviet Reality and the Literary Imagination of Iurii Trifonov. Durham, London. Woodward, Kathleen (1995): “Tribute to the Older Woman: Psychoanalysis, Feminism, and Ageism”, in: Featherstone, Mike/Wernick, Andrew (eds.): Images of Aging: Cultural Representations of Later Life. London, New York, 79-96.

Gendered Perspectives on Sexuality, Body and Aging in Slovene Autobiographical Literature Mrak – Zupan – Kovačič A NDREAS L EBEN

I NTRODUCTION The aim of this article is to discuss representations of aging and old age in Slovene autobiographical literature since the 1970s with respect to the body and sexuality. Texts will be examined from three authors who have referred to these topics from a gendered, distinctively male perspective: Ivan Mrak (1906-1986), Vitomil Zupan (1914-1987) and Lojze Kovačič (1928-2004). Mrak, over a long period, reflected on aesthetics and creativity, whereas Zupan and Kovačič wrote extensively on the motivation and process of their writing, the relations between the real author, the writer and the written self as well as on the problem of representation of life in general. This raises one central question: in what way, in their late work, do their representations of the aging body relate to the aging of the narrator’s consciousness, and vice versa? In order to detect the specifics of the representations by the three authors, a brief outline will first be given of when and how the topics of sexuality and gender identity became integral to Slovene autobiographical writing. It also should be mentioned that in Slovene literary studies sexuality became a matter of interest more or less only in the late 1980s when the homoerotic anthologies Pieces of Glass in the Mouth (Drobci

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stekla v ustih, 1989) and Blue Light (Modra svetloba, 1990) and the anthology Fucking is the Carniolans’ pastime (Fuk je Kranjcem v kratek čas, 1990) were published. Since then, the topic of sexuality and gender identity has extended into a productive field of diverse research interests. Most of the recent studies put the focus on the literary representation of eroticism, whereas the nexus between sexuality, body and aging has yet to be examined to a larger extent. This paper tries to contribute to filling this research gap.

T HE B ODY AND S EXUALITY IN O LDER S LOVENE AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL W RITING With concern to early Slovene autobiographies originating from the latter half of the 19th century, Igor Grdina (1992: 343) has distinguished four specific types: popular, humorous, artistic and pragmatic. Particularly the pragmatic type had distinctive ideological implications, as many writers were politicians who described their personal development and lives with respect to their cultural and national identities. The first elaborated autobiography in Slovene language, Janez Trdina’s unfinished Memories (Spomini), written in 1867/68 and published in 1946, is marked by national, political, ideological and moralistic values. Nevertheless, it is simultaneously an intimate text, in which the author wrote freely on puberty and his way into the “secret sin of self-abuse” (“skrivni greh samooskrumbe”) (Trdina 1946: 143). Trdina, who is also regarded as the author of the first Slovene erotic short prose (Schmidt 2002: 299), was greatly inspired by Rousseau’s Confessions (Smolej 2005: 109-119). Even though he gives serious advice on how to tame the danger of adolescent sexuality, some of his descriptions were slightly pornographic, implying that self-satisfaction makes the body grow old: Without any shame they take the genitals in their shameless hands and press and rub and drag them: the stimulated nature releases the source of life, they cause pollutions by themselves!! […] The body loses the bloom of green youth: the cheeks hollow,

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the eyes darken, the growth stops, the trembling leg and hand reveals the sinner to every neighbor: all physical and mental forces decrease until they wear down.1 (Brez vsakega srama jemljejo si sramne ude v nesramne roke, pa jih stiskajo, drgajo in tarejo: razdražena narava razlije vir življenja, polucije si delajo sami!! […] Truplo zgubi cvet zelene mladosti: upadejo mu lica, zatemne oči, rast zastane, tresoča se noga in roka kaže grešnika vsakemu sosedu: vse telesne in duševne moči pešajo, dokler nazadnje ne upešajo […]. [Trdina 1946: 146])

Trdina alludes to sexuality in adulthood with an episode, again as a warning example, in which he had three “darlings” (“ljubice”) at the same time (Trdina 1948: 227-228). In his autobiography My Life (Moje življenje), which he wrote for the journal Ljubljanski zvon in 1905 at the age of 75, sexuality is not mentioned at all. Nevertheless, Croatian Memories (Hrvaški spomini, 1885-1886), Bach’s Hussars and the Illyrians (Bachovi huzarji in Iliri, 1903) and several of his famous ethnographical reports exemplify his consistent interest in this matter. Trdina’s Memories focused on occurrences and circumstances of the author’s childhood and youth, as did most of the following autobiographical narratives from the late 19th and early 20th centuries.2 This is to be regarded as one of the reasons why these texts, as well as the autobiographical writing of female writers of that time,3 mostly ignore the topic of old age and representations of sexuality. Ivan Cankar’s childhood autobiography My Life (Moje življenje, 1914) has obvious similarities with Trdina’s moralistic view on sexuality.4 The discovery of sexual feelings and the female body are shown from the perspective of a religiously educated child

1

All translations are the author’s [A.L.].

2

Namely Jakob Alešovec’s humorous autobiography How I Polished Myself (Kako sem se jaz likal, 1883), Fran Finžgar’s A Student He Shall Be (Študent naj bo, 1910) and Ivan Cankar’s My Life (Moje življenje, 1914) and The Sinner Lenart (Grešnik Lenart, 1915).

3

See, e.g., Luiza Pesjak’s memoirs From My Childhood (Iz mojega detinstva, 1886), Zofka Kveder’s short prose My Friend (Moja prijateljica, 1900) and Maria Kmet’s autobiography My Way (Moja pot, 1933).

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Cankar, of course, read Trdina’s My Life, but he was also familiar with the manuscript of Memories (Cankar 1975: 290).

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and associated with emotions such as disgust, shame, and sin (Cankar 1975: 34). Quite similarly, in Cankar’s third-person autobiographical tale The Sinner Lenart (Grešnik Lenart, 1915), the boy Lenart is highly irritated as he becomes aware of being sexually fascinated by the legs of a woman who is hanging out laundry (Cankar 1975: 112). Given that the writers among the autobiographers were relatively young when they wrote their most characteristic self-representations – Janez Trdina stopped writing Memories at the age of 37, Ivan Cankar was about 38 – most of their narratives focused on childhood and youth. Also in the periods before, during and even after World War II most of the authors wrote either about this time of their lives, their professional and public lives, or themes of public interest.5 Like sexuality, the body and old age were no explicit issues of self-representation. Even Fran Finžgar’s old-age autobiography The Years of My Traveling (Leta mojega popotovanja, 1957), which he wrote mainly during World War II, lacks any comments about aging and keeps the focus on everyday and historical occurrences. Personal and intimate details of adulthood obviously were not compatible with the purpose of giving evidence of oneself as a person of public interest. The body was paid attention to at the most during illness and personal crisis, whereas reflections on old age and death in these life stories were more or less of episodic or epiloguic character.

G ENDER AND AUTOBIOGRAPHY IN I VAN M RAK ’ S W RITINGS In all the above-mentioned autobiographical narratives sexuality is represented only to a certain extent and lacks an explicit focus on gender issues. This changed with the dramatist Ivan Mrak (1906-1986), who claimed to be an “existential outsider” (“eksistencialen Aussenseiter – izsredinjenec”) (Mrak 2006b: 389) and based his concept of aesthetic and artistic creativity

5

See, e.g., Stanko Majcen: Childhood (Detinstvo, 1922), Damir Feigel: On the Turn of the Century (Ob obratu stoletja, 1931), Janko Mlakar: Memories (Spomini, 1940), Ivo Šorli: My Novel (Moj roman, 1940), Juš Kozak: The Prison Cell (Celica, 1932) and The Wodden Spoon (Lesena žlica, 1947/1952), Vladimir Bartol: Youth in San Giovanny (Mladost pri Svetem Ivanu, 1956/57), and others.

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on metaphysical religiosity as well as on male homoeroticism or “malemale culture.” Mrak started from the ideal of ancient Greek homosexuality as spiritual relationship between teacher and disciple (Mozetič 2014: 59) and developed his aesthetic philosophy throughout his whole life. He was convinced that in arts – with rare exceptions such as his wife and life companion, the sculptress Karla Bulovec – women are incapable of creating anything extraordinary (Mrak 2005: 156). Male homosexual relationships were for him of higher value than heterosexual ones, and thus, he saw in his admiration for Bulovec’s geniality the “purest homoeroticism” (“najčistejši homoerotizem” [Mrak 2006a: 263]).6 Neither Mrak’s autobiographical writings and short stories with homosexual content nor his diary were published until the 1990s and 2000s. Evidence of his view on eroticism, sexuality, gender, art and creativity is provided by Mrak’s intimate diary from 1968 until 1984, which he started to write while infatuated with his love interest, muse and companion, the student Miran Kavšek. Retrospectively, sexuality was for him a “momentary stimulus” (“hipen dražljaj”) that immediately passed when he felt that it did not evoke eroticism, when “the impossibility of erotic affinity” (“nezmožnost erotične povezanosti”) turned out or was expressed; hence, eroticism was the precondition for artistic creation and the need of physical touch a “basic imperative” (“osnovna nujnost”) (Mrak 2006b: 54). As a consequence, Mrak’s writings lack descriptions of sexual acts, because he was aesthetically attached to Eros and not to Sexus. Mrak points out that Miran’s thoughts about the lascivity of old men had inspired him when finishing the tragedy Chrysippus (ibid.: 108). Moreover, around the age of 60, Mrak begins to reflect on aging and old age, changing between findings about his unbearable physical weakness (Mrak 2006a: 210) and his still inexhaustible mental activity. In 1972 he wrote: I have never felt myself in the role of a helpless and a little bit idiotic old man […]. On the contrary, I am in the full growth of my creativity, even though I can hardly move and above all collapse under the weight of various illnesses which mortals normally withdraw all their life with poor excuses.

6

Mrak met Bulovec in 1925, when his avant-garde drama The Birth of Light (Obločnica, ki se rojeva) premiered.

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(Jaz nisem nikdar občutil samega sebe v vlogi nebogljenega in malo bebčastega starca […]. Narobe, sem v polnem razmahu svoje ustvarjalnosti in četudi se težko premikam in se tudi sicer grudim pod težo vseh mogočih bolezni, ki se jim ponavadi smrtniki odtegujejo svoj živi dan s klavrnimi izgovori. [ibid.: 312-313])

He wonders how to maintain in old age the integrity and harmony of body and spirit (ibid.: 264) and asks himself: “Aren’t you only in old age entirely young?” (“Mar nisi šele na starost scela mlad?” [ibid.: 332]) He feels completely present in life, he has goals, is restless and full of plans. Since most of his dramas have not been published before, he is finally presenting his works to the people, stating that he would not have endured all the years if he had not been creative all of his life (Mrak 2006b: 297). At the age of 69, he spoke about old age as a “very dangerous opiate” (“zelo nevaren opijat”) when “fellow man do everything to make you feel even more old and helpless” (“bljižnji vse postore, da bi se ti čutil čimbolj starega in nebogljenega”) (ibid.: 185). The alternative might be being awake day and night, the conscious recognition of old age, the extension of love to everything and everyone, and thus maybe learning how to die (ibid.: 186). To live “a real life” is to overcome the law of pure survival. At the same time Mrak wonders if old age means to disintegrate into fragments. According to him, youth has the privilege to fly in the face of these considerations, and he asks himself why men should not keep this privilege all of their lives and follow the “superior light of the beginning” (“brezprimerna svetloba začetka”) to defeat the biological transience of life with “the light of consciousness” (“z lučjo zavesti”) (Mrak 2006a: 397-398). Mrak, in his diary, referred to similar existential questions as Vitomil Zupan and Lojze Kovačič did in their late writings. Due to the selfreflexive and self-questioning character of his diary, Mrak did not give ultimate answers on aging, old age, and death, but it is significant that he kept in touch with the social environment and an active position in life. He even mentions a teleplay of Zupan’s, which he characterizes as an “amorphous naturalistic picture on life of pensioners” (“amorfno naturalistično sliko iz življenja penzionistov”) and expression of the aging author’s frustration (Mrak 2006b: 127). According to Taras Kermauner, Mrak “hated” Zupan’s writings, because the latter turned everything into a game of physical sexuality (Kermauner 2006: 404, 406), whereas Mrak in all the sexual revolutions of his contemporaries saw an escape from Eros (Mrak 2006a: 168).

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F ROM M ETAPHOR TO D EPICTIONS OF S EXUALITY AND B ODY Vitomil Zupan (1914-1987) and Lojze Kovačič (1928-2004) were probably the most productive and most outstanding autobiographers in 20th-century Slovene literature. Like Ivan Mrak, both were for most of their lives literary and social outsiders. Zupan had already written a number of novels before and during the war, but most of them were not published until the 1970s along with his new texts. Kovačič began to write autobiographical stories in 1944 and soon decided to write only about himself (Kovačič 2009: 80). Immediately after World War II the war experiences became an important basis for Slovene fictional narratives as well as testimonial, memorial and autobiographical writings. In the Stalinist and post-Stalinist period, the Communist party tried to control the society and to protect cultural activities and literature from “Western decadence”. Nevertheless, in the 1950s Western culture and contemporary literary tendencies in poetry, prose and drama became influential again. The gradual liberalization of cultural politics since the middle of the 1960s led step by step to more artistic autonomy. The Slovene neo-avant-gardes – represented by Tomaž Šalamun, the groups OHO, 441, Katalog and other artists – as well as the student and hippy movements brought more plurality and individuality to Slovene and Yugoslav society, where a Socialist popular and consumer culture began to establish itself. In these years representations of sexuality and the naked body, combined with national, cultural and political allusions, were among the devices to provoke the Communist petit-bourgeois in theater and literature (Dolgan/Hladnik 1993: 186-189). Until the 1970s, autobiography was neither an inventive nor a particularly productive genre. Still more remarkable is the fact that within only 15 years aesthetically as well as socially influential autobiographical texts were written, initially by the older generation of such writers as Vitomil Zupan, Lojze Kovačič, Jože Javoršek, Taras Kermauner, Igor Torkar, Peter Božič, Žarko Petan and Marjan Rožanc.7 Most of them blurred the lines be-

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The first modern autobiographical work of a woman writer, who openly wrote about sexual desires and sexual relationships, was Nedeljka Pirjevec’s novel Marked (Zaznamovana, 1992).

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tween fiction and fact, present and past, public and private spheres, elite and trivial literature. They created hybrid genres and often fragmentary self-representations, combining narrative prose with essayism and reflections on the writing process, the writing and the experiencing self as well as on the problem of self-representation in general. Many of these aesthetically powerful texts, which in no way lagged behind tendencies in Western literature (see Leben 2011: 293-295), have not only changed the practices in autobiographical writing, but also mark the peak of modern Slovene postwar literature, often relating to political myths, taboos and different aspects of former suppressed history. In order to represent life, be it fragmentarily or in its totality, Zupan and Kovačič in particular give space to the topic of sexuality and thus put a new focus on the body as well. Even though there are philosophical, thematic and narrative similarities between their autobiographical writings,8 they had very different concepts of self-representation. Nevertheless, Kovačič in most of his works since the end of the 1960s and Zupan in five of his novels, which form a sort of autobiographical pentalogy, engaged with the question of human existence, giving insight into their lives from childhood until old age and their views of the world. In their continuous long-term writing the topics of sexuality, body and aging are represented more extensively than in Mrak’s diaries; hence, in the following chapters the focus will be put on their late works.

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Both found that all attempts to find an answer to the question of “Who am I” (as a human being) and “Who are we” (as a species) must fail and were fictions of self. On the problems of self-representation, language and consciousness see Zupan’s essayistic prose White Dust (Beli prah, 1973) and the writer’s commentaries in The Comedy of Human Tissue (Zupan 1980a: 9-11, 295, 331; Zupan 1980b: 117, 148, 325). Kovačič wrote on these topics in the essay Workshop (Delavnica) (Kovačič 1974: 393-395, 515-516) and in Maturity Matters (Zrele reči) (Kovačič 2009: 8-12, 78-82, 103-105, 132-138, 147-148, 180-182, 251254).

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V ITOMIL Z UPAN ’ S S EXUS Zupan is considered the only Slovene novelist who, in all of his works, thematically dealt with eroticism and created even “grand (historical) narratives” from an erotic perspective (Zupan Sosič 2004: 158). In the novels Levitan (written in 1970 and published in 1982), Minuet for Guitar (in Twenty-five Shots) (Menuet za kitaro [na petindvajset strelov], 1975), A Game with the Devil’s Tail (Igra s hudičevim repom, 1978), The Comedy of Human Tissue (Komedija človeškega tkiva, 1980) and the posthumous The Apocalypse of Triviality (Apokalipsa vsakdanjosti, 1988), sexuality is a fundamental principle of the narrator’s self-representation, which switches between private and public sphere, and reflections on society, politics, culture, philosophy and human nature. Most of Zupan’s novels focus on vitality, the will to power and the will to understanding (Matajc 1998: 63) from an explicit male perspective. In his earlier autobiographical novels aging and old age are of no interest and mentioned by the narrator just casually; however, his reflections on life and sexuality already include the motif of death. In The Comedy of Human Tissue the writer is aware of “maturing into death” (“zorenje v smrt”) and of his “bygone youth” (“minula mladost”) (Zupan 1980b: 183). He looks at “the grimace in the mirror,” stating that he has survived and experienced a great deal without getting anywhere, without developing into something specific: “I only grew old” (“samo postaral sem se” [ibid.: 360]). In Zupan’s last novel The Apocalypse of Triviality, aging and old age finally come to the fore. The narrator, an unnamed self-ironic and disillusioned writer, is sojourning as a tourist somewhere at the seaside of his native country. He must not be identified with Zupan, but he shares with him the experience of having once been a partisan and prisoner. Zupan probably started writing the text in 1984 (Simonović 2014: 61, 67) and mentions it as a novel in progress in the last months of his life (Berger 1988: 221). The first-hand manuscript (ibid.) had a second title that was not considered in the posthumous edition but clearly indicates that sexuality is in the focus again: The Apocalypse of Triviality or Your Asses in My Hands. During his stay at the seaside, when time seems to stand still, the writer observes himself and the surroundings. He writes about himself as a sexual and social being, about world politics, human civilization, overpopulation, the economic crisis and the underdeveloped tourism in his homeland as

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well as about literature and philosophy. As there is nearly no time difference between daily occurrences, discursive reflection and the process of writing, the perspectives and consciousness of writer and narrator totally mingle. The narrator-writer differs from those of Zupan’s other novels, as he observes and represents himself as an old man. The process of aging itself is not discussed, but old age and its accompanying symptoms are shown as a matter of fact. Old age is characterized as a live stage situation in which things passed by are no longer interesting and “nothing is in front of you” (“pred teboj pa ni nič” [Zupan 1988: 14]). It is a “boa constrictor” that presses, swallows, breaks and destructs (ibid.), but he does not worry about it, as everyone has to die (ibid.: 27). Thus, his view on old age changes between agony (caused by diabetes), indifference and vitality, which is always related to the expected death. What makes him feel old is the decay of the body and senses, and his mental state (ibid.: 32-33). Aging may also be the reason for the desire to be pessimistic (ibid.: 38), to flee from somewhere to somewhere else without knowing why, from recent past back to long forgotten times (ibid.: 41). The ability to experience joy is decreasing as well, whereas misanthropy, distrust, suspicion and doubt, fits of anger, senile lust, greediness and quarrelsomeness are increasing (ibid.: 58). These dispositions remain unchanged when the writer-narrator accidentally meets a young woman from Copenhagen whom he calls Lasja and who has come to the seaside with a group of Scandinavian tourists from Amsterdam, where she lives with her bisexual girlfriend. Not knowing anything about each other, Lasja and the narrator begin a relationship. Everything seems to be all right, as long as the writer-narrator imagines that in his arms is not Lasja but the woman from Ljubljana to whom he is used to and who means to him: “Order, tranquility, gentleness of the moment – and old age, restlessness, dissatisfaction of an individual life!” (“Red, mir, blagost trenutka – pa starost, nemir, nezadoščenost nekega življenja posamaznika!” [ibid.: 54]) But looking at Lasja and touching her naked body he feels “castrated” (“kastriran”), without physical masculinity (ibid.: 56). He remains passive in a sort of agony and indifference. The genitals of man and woman do not excite him anymore, thus he feels near to death (ibid.: 64). But at night, when he is drunk and forgets that he is old, ill and weak (ibid.: 65), he is intrusive to Lasja, characterizing himself as “a drunk sadness – by a golden volcano” (“pijana žalost – ob zlatem vulkanu” [ibid.: 70]).

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Alcohol helps him to feel sexual desire again. Lasja pushes his death away from him with her feet; she is the personification of life and at the same time a compensation for the woman in Ljubljana (ibid.: 73). In fact it is not Lasja’s beautiful body that stimulates his sexual desire again but “the power of the word” (“moč besede”), when they are using dirty expressions (ibid.: 86), when Lasja is talking in the way the woman in Ljubljana would (ibid.: 146) or when he talks with Lasja about her (ibid.: 166). He is aware that he never will meet a being like Lasja again and makes a fool of himself when he dreams, like a “frail old man” (“betežni starec”), about a future with her (ibid.: 116). Lasja even encourages him and suggests that she, her lesbian girlfriend, the woman in Ljubljana and he should live together: “three young shameless bitches and an old shameless wise man” (“tri mlade nesramne pičke in en nesramen star modrijan” [ibid.: 161]). The writer-narrator realizes his unbelievable luck with Lasja, who is “gently aggressive and at the same time loyal like a dog” (“milo napadalna in hkrati pasje vdana” [ibid.: 132]). She destroys his “old-age loneliness” and “poor senile prejudices” (“uničila si mojo starinsko samoto … moje bedne starčevske predsodke” [ibid.: 146]). Nevertheless, he feels a trembling emptiness inside himself and lives more in the past than in the present moment, longing to return to his younger self (ibid.: 152). When they talk about the reason why she is with him, she qualifies him to be first of all “a sack of shit, an old man, neither male nor female anymore” (“žakelj dreka, starec, nič več moškega in nič ženskega” [ibid.: 148]). The most intimate moment in their relationship seems to be when Lasja is explaining why she likes him: “I like you very very much because you have an interesting way of croaking. You walk around – and yet there is nearly nothing left of you. You’re drinking, you’re eating, you’re fucking, you go swimming in the sea – and yet you’re only with one foot in this world. […] We’re all dying. We’re all going to croak, I say to myself, but this guy does it in full view of us all, totally calmly, totally contentedly, totally trivially. Without problems. This guy survived a lot of fuck ups, to know how to finish. Old wise bitch of a cowboy! […] (After some time:) Are you angry? […] You are such a strange old slut,” Lasja remarks into the silence. Tonight I won’t show her in any way that I like her.

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(“Zelo zelo rada te imam zato, ker zanimivo crkuješ. Hodiš naokrog – in vendar te skoraj ni več. Ješ in piješ, fukaš, kopaš se v morju – in vendar si samo z eno nogo na tem svetu. […] Vsi umiramo. Vsi bomo pocrkali, si pravim, a tale dela to tukaj pred našimi očmi, čisto mirno, čisto zadovoljno, čisto vsakdanje. Brez problemov. Ta je preživel veliko pizdarije, da ve, kako je treba nehati. Stara pametna pizda kavbojska! […] [Čez čas:] Ali si hud? […] Taka čudna stara kurba si”, je v tišino pripomnila Lasja. Nocoj ji z ničemer ne bom pokazal, da mi je všeč. [Zupan 1988: 171-172])

The topic of sexuality is represented in discursive dialogue, fixed on the sexual organs and the use of vulgarisms. Nevertheless, there are no erotic details, and there is no erotic climax either, as the writer-narrator feels that he is ill, getting old and dying away (ibid.: 187). Finally, only one thing is left for him to do: “To praise death that leads into gentle nothingness. […] Gratitude to the annihilation of human consciousness” (“Hvalnico smrti, ki vodi v blago ničevost. […] Hvalo uničenju človekove zavesti” [ibid.: 208]).

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Reflections on sexuality and descriptions of sexual acts, as a highly intimate field of personal experience, had been an integral part of Lojze Kovačič’s writings from the early 1970s onwards. Particularly in the books Five Fragments (Pet fragmentov, 1981), The Newcomers I-II, III (Prišleki, 1984/85), Crystal Time (Kristalni čas, 1990), The Descension (Vzemljohod, 1993) and Maturity Matters (Zrele reči, 2009) the narrator discusses sexuality as an important part of his self-descriptions and observations. With respect to the late 1940s and 1950s Kovačič stated that sexuality meant for him more than anything else and was comparable only with writing and arts – thus, with “entirely primary personal religiosity” (“povsem prvotno osebno religioznostjo” [Kovačič 2009: 197]). He linked the topic of sexuality to certain periods of his life: first, in the 1970s, with regard to the past, and then since the late 1980s with regard to the present moment. In The Newcomers (1984/85), an autobiographical novel in three parts about his childhood and youth before, during and after World War II, the first-person narrator-writer, who returns to his past self, describes his early sexual observations and pubertal experiences. At the age of 13 he has sex with a girl his age, with whom he plays medieval crusaders and who has

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chosen him to be her friend, but she is attractive to him only later when they are sitting together and he has the feeling of having a girlfriend. They have sex anywhere they can, until he gets scared of her ambitions. Finding that he was living “in a sort of dirty period of life” (“v nekakšnem umazanem obdobju življenja”), he feels sorrow for the boy he had been before (Kovačič 1984: 258). After the war he enters into a relationship with Tanja, a corpulent Communist activist, who is twice as old as he and has the “sweetest, most beautiful body” (“najslajše, najlepše telo”); nevertheless, he mostly enjoys being alone in her room and having the feeling of having a home (Kovačič 1985: 324-325). The extensive depiction of his first sexual intercourse with Tanja is shown from the perspective of a young man lacking self-confidence, who explores his relation to women and his sexual and emotional desires as an expedition along, around and into the body of a passive woman. The precise description of his contradictory sensations while he is investigating her massive body culminates in the shocking discovery that Tanja has the face of his mother (ibid.: 311). In the end of the 1980s Kovačič’s writings were taking on the character of a self-reflective diary in which aging, the decline of the body and old age come to the fore, and present and past, memories, existential and philosophical meditations mingle.9 In Crystal Time (Kristalni čas), the narrator’s view of reality is diffuse. Because of a lung disease the body becomes immobile, but the narrator is glad that the disease “has taken him under its wings” (“vesel sem, da me je vzela v svoje okrilje” [Kovačič 1990: 10]). He states that sexuality is his only left “genuine contact with materiality” (“edini pristni stik z materijo” [ibid.: 9]), but actually the focus is on his emotional relationship with women.10 Now, in maturity, he lives with his second wife in a climate of love that has to be preserved. In this last period of life, he finally perceives her for what she has been all along: “a kind of comrade at the front line” (“v nekakšnega tovariša na fronti” [ibid.: 32]). In old age, man and woman approach each other – their differences disappearing – and unify for the last time, just as they had been one until the age of

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In this period Kovačič wrote his texts into school exercise books; these texts served as the basis for most of his books, from Crystal Time (1990) up to the posthumously published Maturity Matters (2009).

10 Kovačič dedicated the book to his wife, Beba Kogovšek, and her daughter, Tina, his “fellow passengers” (“mojima sopotnicama”).

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three: in both life periods “one cannot talk about two sexes, two different worlds, the confusion of contrasts” (“ni mogoče govoriti o dveh spolih, dveh različnih svetovih, o zmedi nasprotij” [ibid.: 46]). The narrator’s relation to old age is paradoxical and ambiguous: the older he gets, the younger the people and the world that surround him seem, as old age “increasingly narrows the eyes” (“čedalje bolj pripira oči”). He hates old men like him “because of their ‘wisdom’” (“zaradi njihove ‘modrosti’”), feeling himself turning more and more into a baby, a little child, the “weapon that he once framed strong against the world” (“orožje, ki sem ga nekoč močnega koval proti svetu”) (Kovačič 1990: 49). Just as in Five Fragments (Pet fragmentov, 1981), he refers to his relationship with his first wife and his long-term love affairs, but now from a different angle, as he feels guilty for having betrayed his first family when he fled from marriage, the only field where love and sexuality intermingle (ibid.: 205). This guilt is irreducible, and, as he confesses in The Descension (Vzemljohod, 1993), he contemns himself since his love once did not stand the confrontation with reality and he did not find love in marriage, or, in other words, “love without illusions” (“ljubezen brez iluzij” [Kovačič 1993: 205]). The reflections on sexuality, love and women are integral to the spheres that Kovačič distinguished with concern to life: the life of the body, the heart, the mind and the soul (Kovačič 1993: 12, 144). These spheres, which once had their own laws, fuse as a result of aging into one single life, into the “shine of a blind power that illuminates you as an individual, a human being in its completeness” (“v močan sij slepe sile, ki te obseva kot posameznika, človeka v celem” [ibid.: 12]). Thus, the life of an individual becomes universal and in the face of death nobody feels sorry for himself, but he cares about all human beings (ibid.: 13). However, the narrator gradually isolates himself from social life – he is not interested in it anymore: “[T]he time outside does not belong to me anymore and I don’t belong anymore to the time outside” (“čas zunaj mi ne pripada več in jaz ne pripadam več njemu” [Kovačič 1993: 13]). Most of the time he spends in his room. He prefers to lie in bed and to write. The relation to his aged body is ambivalent as he turns his back to the “damned therapy for existence” (“prekleti terapiji za obstanek”) and finds that the human body should wither like a tree (Kovačič 2009: 66). On the other hand, he highlights that, in fact, nobody has more than his body, and one

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should care of it, as it “is more likely to destroy you than a neutron bomb” (“te lahko veliko prej uniči kakor nevtronska bomba” [Kovačič 1990: 302]). He describes the decay of the body that has no muscles and is blown up by tablets (Kovačič 2009: 215, 223). The ears get bigger, the nails on the feet transform into claws (ibid.: 369), prostate medicine makes him grow breasts (ibid.: 376). Every part of the body feels like stones on an archeological site; the head between the shoulders does not work anymore (ibid.: 393), and so forth. The process of decay also takes place inside the body where the inner organs attack each other and “so many populations and tribes riot in mutual revenges and wars” (“[razsaja] toliko ljudstev in plemen v medsebojnih obračunih in vojnah” [ibid.: 378]). Moreover, the narrator is convinced that old men like him are “useless cupboards” (“nikomur potrebne omare”) that waste space and pollute the air and should be cut to pieces or brought outside to be taken away from wild animals or to die of the cold (Kovačič 1993: 204-205). This tendency to self-annihilation in old age is consequently gender-related, as the narrator has always felt sorry that women were dying like men, which in his mind was a contradictio in adjecto, a “crime against nature, against poetry in life, even against the only original human interpretation of life” (“zločin zoper naravo, zoper poezijo v življenju, celo zoper edino izvorno človeško interpretacijo življenja” [Kovačič 1990: 20-21]). In Kovačič’s late writings, women are absolutely superior to men, “the number one in nature” (“številka ena v naravi”) and creative for themselves (Kovačič 2009: 263-264), “the mother of humankind and humanity” (“mati človeštva in človeškosti” [ibid.: 282]). In terms of sexuality the narrator still considers his share in the given moment the stronger one, but of most importance seems to be the insight that man and woman are collaborators in matters of love (ibid.: 128-129): It took me six, seven decades to find total pleasure in total devotion. […] Today I know that only one woman or, let’s say, one and the same man is enough for the basis of various fantasies and of the feeling that the woman you love has got the feeling that she has loved herself in you, and you have got the feeling that you have loved yourself within her. (Šest, sedem desetletij sem rabil za to, da sem našel popoln užitek v popolni predanosti. […] Danes vem, da je edino ena ženska ali, denimo, eden in isti moški

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dovolj za podlago različnih domišljij in občutka, da ima ženska, ki jo ljubiš, občutek, da je v tebi ljubila sebe, in ti občutek, da si [se] v njej ljubil s seboj. [Kovačič 2009: 129])

Looking back he considers as the worst that a woman is for a man “just a labyrinth for sensual investigation” (“samo labirint za pohotno preiskovanje”); when the senses calm, the labyrinth gets cold and needless, the woman’s curves become at best a “clumsy piece of furniture” (“neroden kos pohištva” [Kovačič 2009: 71-72]). But now his wife is his only lover and at the same time his mother, sister and sole companion, which he assumes as “victory of old age, not of maturity” (“zmago starosti, ne pa zrelosti” [ibid.: 101]). This total devotion also means totally accepting the aged body and loving all furrows and wrinkles that old age has produced (ibid.: 130). The sexual act becomes “a firework” (“ognjemet”) defeating death, and he feels more lust in the sexual prelude than ever before in the sexual act and does not have the feeling of “nothing” (“niča”) in the end anymore (ibid.: 308). Nevertheless, there is the “murderous thought” (“ubijajoča misel”) that he can no longer make love like he did when he was healthy (ibid.: 364). As his wife is his mother and he, vice versa, is her father, and they are together like brother and sister, he has to mobilize all power and fantasies when lust awakes: “Then we are only lovers, and you permit yourself everything that is possible and impossible in love” (“Takrat sva samo še ljubimca in si dovoliš vse, kar je možno in nemožno v ljubezni” [ibid.: 367]). Kovačič (2009: 228) distinguishes four periods in a human’s life – childhood, youth, maturity, and old age. According to him, these periods make out of one person four different persons who do not know each other and can provide no answer to the question “Who am I” nor to the question of what the human species is (ibid.). To write in old age about death and the truth of life means for him to take a rest from himself and to ease the disjunction from life where he wants to get “out of”; he even wonders if all his writing is perhaps a hidden but in fact planned and rational suicide (ibid.: 246), as he is tired of both writing and living (ibid.: 315). “I am tired and fed up with life” (“Jaz sem utrujen in sit življenja”) – in this sentence is, as he declares, everything that he can say about himself and his loss of “human dimension” (“[o] izgubi človeške dimenzije”) (ibid.: 347). The implied desire to leave the world, to get rid of the I and to give himself over to the “blind, ordinary going on of this material” (“slepemu, navadnemu

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dogajanju teh gradiv”) from which he came (ibid.: 393), corresponds as well with his wish of “sleep, deep sleep without dreams until the decay of the bones, the disappearance of dust, without consciousness” (“spanje, globoko spanje brez sanj do razpada kosti, do izginotja prahu, brez zavesti” [ibid.: 82]).

C ONCLUSION With reference to the topics of sexuality, body and aging from a male perspective, the autobiographical writings of Ivan Mrak, Vitomil Zupan and Lojze Kovačič represent three different conceptions. Mrak developed on the basis of his understanding of sexuality and male-male Eros an aesthetic philosophy in which physical sexuality is a “basic imperative” for artistic creation but not, however, a matter of literary representation. In his reflections on aging that appeared in his diary when he was about 60, Mrak refers to the continuous and painful process of the body’s decay as well as to social and psychological dangers of getting old, but he reacts with growing creativity and the imagination of becoming entirely young in old age. Up to a certain point, one may say: the older he gets the younger he feels. Old age, in this case, requires a conscious decision to stay present in life and to keep an active, holistic, optimistic and, hence, “male” relation to people and human existence, and to have in mind the “superior light of the beginning” to defeat the biological transience of life. Whereas Mrak in his diaries pointed out eroticism as the basis for artistic creation, Zupan focused on human’s biological and cultural determinations, on social behavior, the antagonism between man and woman, and the power of sexuality. His autobiographical novels lack the idea of a higher or metaphysical sense of life and human existence. Old age appears in his works as a central theme only in his last, unfinished novel, which he wrote at the age of about 70. It is presented as a period of ongoing decay and agony when sexual instinct decreases and has to be evoked by alcohol or verbally recalled through the use of vulgarisms and in sexual fantasies. Although the problems and routines of the narrator’s sexuality mingle with reflections on present and past, with a pessimistic, misanthropic view of the world and even himself, the focus is still put on this topic, contrasting oldage lust and resignation with the vitality and curiosity of a young woman.

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In the face of death, there is no way back to youth for the narrator, just as there is no future. Nevertheless, he still is attractive to women, at least in the way he is “croaking”. Kovačič began to write about sexuality, sexual life and sexual relations at the end of the 1960s. We can follow his (alter ego’s) sexual experiences, which are marked by his social situation, from childhood until old age, but, in contrast to Mrak’s and Zupan’s writings, the descriptions significantly change with regard to the represented life periods. The topic of aging, old age and the body’s decay, accompanied by elaborate reflections on death, became integral to his writings when he was about 60. Disease and the physical decay of the body lead the narrator-writer into agony, immobility, pessimism and the desire for self-annihilation, as well as into the conscious segregation from life outside. On the other hand, his discourse on aging and old age includes memories of his childhood and the idea of becoming a child again in old age. Sexuality, even though it becomes physically limited, is one of the last fields of the narrator-writer’s interests. It means to stay in touch with life – which is symbolized by women (“the number one in nature”) – and can be extended and contemplated in old age in a sincere partnership that takes on the highest value. Among the three authors presented here, Kovačič had the strongest intention to represent all dimensions of human existence, its developing and passing away, as well as the changes in one’s mind. Therefore, his late autobiographical writings – be they on youth or old age – at the same time represent the consciousness of an aged writer who is reflecting on tangible occurrences of life and is preparing himself that eventually, his own self will disappear. In addition, the examples of Mrak’s, Zupan’s and Kovačič’s autobiographical writings indicate that the topic of sexuality was a key motivation for discussing the body and, in consequence, the topic of aging. Moreover, with respect to the Slovene literary production since the 1970s, it should be noticed that the autobiographical discourse on sexuality not only thematically expanded the capabilities of literary self-representation but evidently also paved the way for eroticism in Slovene fictional prose.

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R EFERENCES Berger, Aleš (1988): “Apokalipsa samotnega staranja”, in: Zupan, Vitomil: Apokalipsa vsakdanjosti. Ljubljana, 221-229. Cankar, Ivan (1975): Zbrano delo. Vol. 22. Ljubljana. Dolgan, Marjan/Hladnik, Miran (eds.) (1990): Fuk je Kranjcem v kratek čas. Antologija slovenske pornografske poezije. Ljubljana (= Krt; 77). Dolgan, Marjan/Hladnik, Miran (eds.) (1993): Fuk je Kranjcem v kratek čas. Antologija slovenske pornografske poezije s pripovednim pristavkom. 2., dopolnjena izdaja. Ljubljana. Grdina, Igor (1992): “Avtobiografija pri Slovencih v drugi polovici 19. stoletja”, in: Slavistična revija 4 (40), 341-363. Kermauner, Taras (2006): “Zanos in resnica (Ob mrakovem Dnevniku)”, in: Mrak, Ivan: Dnevnik 3. Ljubljana, 404-417. Kovačič, Lojze (1974): “Delavnica. Šola pisanja”, in: Preseljevanja. Ljubljana, 391-513. Kovačič, Lojze (1984): Prišleki. Pripoved. Prvi in drugi del. Ljubljana. Kovačič, Lojze (1985): Prišleki. Pripoved. Tretji del. Ljubljana. Kovačič, Lojze (1987): Sporočila iz sna in budnosti. Opuskule. Ljubljana (= Knjižnica Kondor; 242). Kovačič, Lojze (1990): Kristalni čas. Ljubljana. Kovačič, Lojze (1993): Vzemljohod. Ljubljana. Kovačič, Lojze (1999): Literatura ali življenje. Eseji, članki, dnevniki. Ljubljana. Kovačič, Lojze (2004): Tri ljubezni. Ljubljana. Kovačič, Lojze (2009): Zrele reči. Ljubljana. Leben, Andrej (2011): “Avtobiografsko pisanje v novejši slovenski literaturi”, in: Koron, Alenka/Leben, Andrej (eds.): Avtobiografski diskurz. Ljubljana (= Studia litteraria), 293-309. Matajc, Vanesa (1998): “Eksistencializem v romanopisju Vitomila Zupana”, in: Primerjalna književnost 1 (21), 53-74. Mozetič, Brane (ed.) (1989): Drobci stekla v ustih. Antologija poezije dvajsetega stoletja s homoerotično motiviko. Ljubljana (= Aleph; 20). Mozetič, Brane (ed.) (1990): Modra svetloba. Homoerotična ljubezen v slovenski literaturi. Ljubljana (= Lambda; 1).

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Mozetič, Brane (ed.) (2014): Grmade, parade in molk. Prispevki k neheteroseksualni zgodovini na Slovenskem. Ljubljana (= Lambda; 116). Mrak, Ivan (1991): Ivan O. Ljubljana. Mrak, Ivan (2005): Dnevnik 1. Ljubljana. Mrak, Ivan (2006a): Dnevnik 2. Ljubljana. Mrak, Ivan (2006b): Dnevnik 3. Ljubljana. Schmidt, Goran (2002): “Slovenska kratka erotična proza do druge svetovne vojne”, in: Schmidt, Goran/Berger, Aleš (eds.): Slovenska kratka erotična proza. Ljubljana, 297-327. Simonović, Ifigenija (ed.) (2014): Vitomil Zupan. Važno je priti na grič. Življenje in delo Vitomila Zupana (1914-1987). Ljubljana. Smolej, Tone (2005): “Rousseaujevi avtobiografski zgledi pri Trdini in Cankarju”, in: Dović, Marijan (ed.): Janez Trdina med zgodovino, narodopisjem in literaturo. Jubilejna monografija. Ljubljana, 109-119. Trdina, Janez (1946): Zbrano delo. Vol. 1. Ljubljana. Trdina, Janez (1948): Zbrano delo. Vol. 2. Ljubljana. Trdina, Janez (1951): Zbrano delo. Vol. 3. Ljubljana. Trdina, Janez (1956): Zbrano delo. Vol. 9. Ljubljana. Zupan Sosič, Alojzija (2004): “Pregibanje okrog telesa (o erotiki v romanih Vitomila Zupana)”, in: Slavistična revija 2 (52), 157-180. Zupan, Vitomil (1973): “Beli prah”, in: Sodobnost 10 (21), 860-876. Zupan, Vitomil (1978): Igra s hudičevim repom. Murska Sobota. Zupan, Vitomil (1973): Sholion. Maribor (= Znamenja; 39/40). Zupan, Vitomil (1980a): Komedija človeškega tkiva. Prva knjiga. Ljubljana. Zupan, Vitomil (1980b): Komedija človeškega tkiva. Druga knjiga. Ljubljana. Zupan, Vitomil (1985): Levitan. Roman ali pa tudi ne. Zagreb, Murska Sobota. Zupan, Vitomil (1988): Apokalipsa vsakdanjosti. Ljubljana.

Exile, Return and “the Relative Brevity of Our Life”: Aging in Slavic Homecoming Narratives Nabokov – Kundera – Jergović D AGMAR G RAMSHAMMER -H OHL

I NTRODUCTION Much scholarly attention has been paid to the interconnectedness of identity and space; it becomes particularly apparent when people are forced to leave their homelands and go into exile. The experience of losing familiar places has been described as “existential rupture” (see Grübel 2006). Exile not only brings about the loss of what felt like home, but it also impairs one’s sense of the continuity of life; it breaks the intimate link with former versions of one’s self. The same is true when people return home from exile. There often is the expectation that the return home might help restore one’s “true” identity; however, there is no way back to any previous self. Not only have the spaces changed, but also the people who stayed behind, as well as the returnee. There is a vast literature, autobiographical as well as fictional, narrating how a return expected to be a “homecoming” is doomed to failure. Interestingly, the discontinuity of life experienced through exile and return is often depicted in literature in terms of age and aging. The loss of home and the feeling of strangeness and self-estrangement articulate themselves in literature through another experience of alterity, namely the expe-

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rience of aging (see Gramshammer-Hohl 2015). This holds true for exilic and postexilic literatures in general and is not constrained to Slavic émigré literatures. To give only a few examples: we find this kind of imagery in the writings of, for instance, Albert Camus, who in his notebooks describes exile as a vanishing of youth (quoted in Camus 1995: 12); in those of Catalin Dorian Florescu, a Swiss-Romanian author who depicts one of his protagonists as having turned gray the day of his arrival in Switzerland after his flight from Romania (2002: 46); or, not least, in the Romanian-Jewish émigré writer Norman Manea who refers to the “leap years” of exile: every year in exile, he writes, was equal to four years of normal existence (2003: 44). It is all the more surprising that there has been such a lack of attention to such a strong and widespread literary image. I decided not to confine myself in my analyses to only one literary period and to only one national literature – whereby the notion of “national literature” itself does not quite fit with exilic and postexilic writing, which tends to “blast” the national frame (Sturm-Trigonakis 2007: 13) and to generate “transnational” texts. Thus in the following I will analyze works of three quite different authors: the Russian novel Mary (Mašen’ka, 1926) by the first-wave émigré writer Vladimir Nabokov, who later performed a language shift to English and is widely known as the author of Lolita (1955); the French-language novel Ignorance (L’Ignorance, 2000) by Czech émigré writer Milan Kundera, author of the well-known novel The Unbearable Lightness of Being (Nesnesitelná lehkost bytí, 1984); and, finally, Miljenko Jergović’s Croatian novels The Walnut Mansion (Dvori od oraha, 2003) and Freelander (2007). All of these texts can be considered (or, as in the case of The Walnut Mansion, include) return narratives that reflect on exile, home and the possibility or impossibility of homecoming. And all of them widely make use of images of age and aging when narrating the discontinuities of life caused by exile and return to the motherland.

V LADIMIR N ABOKOV : M ARY (1926) Vladimir Nabokov, after having fled in 1919 from Russia, lived threequarters of his life in exile – in Cambridge, Berlin, Paris, the U.S., and finally Switzerland. He constantly revisited his Russian past in his works; in

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Svetlana Boym’s words, he traveled back in almost every text, but he was never tempted to visit his former homeland (2001: 289-292). In Strong Opinions, Nabokov stated that the writer’s art was his real passport (ibid.: 306-307). Consequently, his novel Mary, which he wrote during his Berlin years, narrates not a real return, but an imaginary one. Moreover, the return to the motherland is metaphorical, for what has been lost, together with Russia, is the protagonist’s first love, which he plans to regain in order to resume the lost ties with his own past. The novel’s setting consists of mostly elderly or seemingly elderly people. The protagonist, 25-year-old Russian exile Lev Ganin, has rented a room in a small Russian pension in Berlin. Most of the tenants are elderly people, as is the owner of the house, Lidija Nikolaevna. She resembles “some silly old woman who ha[s] strayed into someone else’s apartment” (Nabokov 2012: 12-13) (“глупая старушка, попавшая в чужую квартиру” [Nabokov 1990: 39]). But even 26-year-old Klara strongly and painfully feels the passing of time and the weight of her age: “‘I’m already twenty-six,’ said Klara. […] ‘I get very tired’” (2012: 54) (“Мне уже двадцать шесть лет, – сказала Клара, – […] Я очень устаю.” [1990: 72]). Her sentiment parallels the experience of the cardiac patient, Russian poet Podtjagin, another tenant, of being old and approaching death; they are juxtaposed in one sentence: “She remembered that the old man […] suffered badly from heart trouble, that life was passing: on Friday she would be twenty-six.” (2012: 39) (“Она вспомнила, что […] у [старика] тяжелая болезнь сердца, что жизнь проходит: в пятницу ей минет двадцать шесть лет.” [1990: 61]) The protagonist Ganin himself feels weaker, starts slouching, and claims to suffer from insomnia “like a crone” (“как баба” [1990: 40]).1 Likewise, in his 25-year-old mistress Ljudmila’s smell there is something “stale” and “old” (2012: 15-16) (“несвежее, пожилое” [1990: 42]). Even the novel’s narrator positions himself as old when, once only slightly taking shape in the text, he comments on a word

1

In the English translation performed by Michael Glenny in collaboration with Vladimir Nabokov, it says “like a nervous female” (2012: 13-14). The Russian word baba, however, is not a neutral designation of a female person. It most often denotes a married (peasant) woman, not young anymore, or refers to a grandmother or any older woman (see Dal’ 1978: 32-33; Gorbačevič 1991: 281282). The translation as “crone” therefore seems to me more appropriate.

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that he uses with the addendum “as we used to say when we were young” (2012: 13-14) (“как говорили мы в юности” [1990: 40]). Thus, in this text, aging and old age are closely linked to the experience of displacement. Russia, on the other hand, the lost homeland, is associated with the protagonist’s youth and first love, embodied by the girl Mašen’ka (Mary). Mašen’ka is introduced to the other tenants by her husband Alfërov, who, again and again, recounts that she will arrive from Russia within a few days. He describes her as “still very young” (2012: 28) (“совсем молоденькая” [1990: 52]). Likewise, the protagonist Ganin, who recognizes Mašen’ka in a photograph and dreams of taking her away from her husband and continuing his former life with her, expects that with her there will arrive “all his youth, his Russia” (2012: 98) (“вся его юность, его Россия” [1990: 104]). Ganin gains new hope and even turns young again (2012: 31; 1990: 54). Mašen’ka, in this novel, clearly incarnates Russia (2012: 32-33, 68-69, 98; 1990: 56, 83, 104). Thus, her arrival and their expected reunion mirror Ganin’s longed-for reencounter with the abandoned homeland. When reminiscing about his past with his first love in his beloved motherland, Ganin, as is written, does not feel time: “He was so absorbed with his memories that he was unaware of time.” (2012: 55) (“Воспоминанье так занимало его, что он не чувствовал времени.” [1990: 73]) He lives in his past, relives all the cherished moments and considers them his “real life” (2012: 52) (“настоящая его жизнь” [1990: 71]), “reliving his memories as though they were reality” (2012: 55) (“он […] переживал воспоминанье свое, как действительность” [1990: 73]). His Berlin life and the people he encounters there become to him mere “ghosts2 of his dream-life in exile” (2012: 52) (“тени его изгнаннического сна” [1990: 71]). His “real life,” which, in fact, takes place only in memory, is characterized as “deathless reality” (2012: 62) (“бессмертная действительность” [1990: 78]). Memory, a lacking sense of time and immortality thus become closely linked. The “dream-life in exile,” conversely, is associated with toska and skuka, nearly untranslatable Russian words and key concepts of Russian culture (see Stepanov 2001: 872-890). Toska embraces several meanings, ranging from nostalgia, longing and mourning to a sense of void and boredom, wherein its semantics overlap with the Russian

2

More precisely: “shadows”.

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word skuka. Nabokov, in his commentary on his translation of Puškin’s Eugene Onegin (Evgenij Onegin, 1825-1832), defines toska as “boredom,” “yearning,” “nostalgia,” “heartache,” “dull anguish”; as a notion that lies “between skuka, ‘ennui,’ and muka, ‘torment’” (Pushkin 1990/Index: 98): No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody or something specific, nostalgia, lovesickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom, skuka. (ibid.: 141)3

Ganin perceives his state even as “deadly boring” (“смертельно скучно” [1990: 50]).4 At the beginning of the novel, the émigré’s life is referred to as “our big waiting” (“наше великое ожиданье” [1990: 36]).5 Therefore, in contrast to the remembered “real life,” the “dream-life in exile” is characterized by a heightened awareness of time passing: boredom, constant

3

The Russian émigré philosopher Nikolaj Berdjaev, however, makes a fundamental distinction between toska and skuka; in his view, toska is directed toward the transcendental, whereas strach (“fear”) and skuka are oriented not toward the world above, but toward the lower world: “It is necessary to distinguish between anguish, fear, and tedium. […] Anguish bears witness to the transcendent and, at the same time, to the distance, the yawning gulf that exists between man and the transcendent. […] Fear and tedium, on the other hand, consign me to the nether world. […] tedium denotes this world’s triviality and emptiness. […] Anguish admits of hope, but tedium is devoid of hope.” (Berdyaev 1951: 39-40) (“Нужно делать различие между тоской и страхом и скукой. […] Тоска обращена к трансцендентному, вместе с тем она означает неслиянность с трансцендентным, бездну между мной и трансцендентным. […] Страх и скука направлены не на высший, а на низший мир. […] Скука говорит о пустоте и пошлости этого низшего мира. […] В тоске есть надежда, в скуке – безнадежность.” [Berdjaev 1989: 53])

4

Glenny translates this as “Ganin felt mortally depressed” (2012: 25-26), whereby the connotation of boredom is lost.

5

In Glenny’s translation: “this perpetual waiting” (2012: 8-9).

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waiting, transience and death approaching,6 all encompassed by the image of aging. At the beginning of the novel, Ganin and Alfërov, Mašen’ka’s husband, get stuck in an elevator. Alfërov himself regards the incident as “symbolic” of the exilic experience, insofar as it involves a halt, immobility, darkness and waiting (2012: 8-9; 1990: 36). Interestingly, toska, as Jurij Stepanov notes, is etymologically linked to the sensation of narrowness and squeeze (tesnota; 2001: 876, 885). Among Russian toska’s attributes, Stepanov also lists darkness (temnota; ibid.: 887). Toward the end of the story, Ganin realizes that there is no possibility of returning, that he got stuck in his memory and that he will be able to overcome his nostalgia only by letting go of his past, by letting go of Mašen’ka, and by moving on. Just as he frees himself from his mistress Ljudmila by finally turning around and leaving (2012: 22-23; 1990: 48), he has to turn away from Mašen’ka and Russia to become free again. The novel ends with Ganin boarding a train that leads to the south, in the opposite direction from which Mašen’ka is going to arrive.

M ILAN K UNDERA: I GNORANCE (2000) In Mary, the protagonist Ganin strongly feels “the fleeting evanescence of human life” (Nabokov 2012: 50) (“быстротечность […] человеческой жизни” [1990: 50]), which could also be translated as “brevity”). Similarly,

6

Nikolaj Berdjaev even uses toska, time and the ineluctability of death as nearly interchangeable notions: “Anguish is always evidence of longing for eternity, of inability to come to terms with time. […] in the end, the future carries death within itself and thus gives rise to anguish. Both future and past are hostile to eternity. […] [Eros] concerns time athirst for eternal fulfilment, and yet never attaining it.” (Berdyaev 1951: 42; more precisely: “Time is anguish, thirst for fulfilment, death-bringing”; in Katharine Lampert’s loose translation Berdjaev’s equating of the notions got lost.) (“Тоска, в сущности, всегда есть тоска по вечности, невозможность примириться с временем. […] Будущее всегда, в конце концов, приносит смерть, и это не может не вызывать тоски. Будущее враждебно вечности, как и прошлое. […] Время есть тоска, неутоленность, смертоносность.” [Berdjaev 1989: 55-56])

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in Milan Kundera’s novel Ignorance, the narrator also reflects on the “relative brevity” of human life and links it to the sentiment of nostalgia that is central to the novel. In a key passage in the text, the narrator meditates: [O]nly rarely do we realize that the number of years granted us is not merely a quantitative fact, an external feature […], but is part of the very definition of the human. A person who might live, with all his faculties, twice as long, say 160 years, would not belong to our species. Nothing about his life would be like ours – not love, or ambitions, or feelings, or nostalgia; nothing. If after 20 years abroad an émigré were to come back to his native land with another hundred years of life ahead of him, he would have little sense of a Great Return, for him it would probably not be a return at all, just one of many byways in the long journey of his life. For the very notion of homeland, with all its emotional power, is bound up with the relative brevity of our life, which allows us too little time to become attached to some other country, to other countries, to other languages. (2002: 121) ([O]n se rend rarement compte que le nombre d’années qui nous est imparti n’est pas une simple donnée quantitative, une caractéristique extérieure […], mais qu’il fait partie de la définition même de l’homme. Celui qui pourrait vivre, dans toute sa force, deux fois plus longtemps, donc, disons, cent soixante ans, n’appartiendrait pas à la même espèce que nous. Rien ne serait plus pareil dans sa vie, ni l’amour, ni les ambitions, ni les sentiments, ni la nostalgie, rien. Si un émigré, après vingt ans vécus à l’étranger, revenait au pays natal avec encore cent ans de vie devant lui, il n’éprouverait guère l’émotion d’un Grand Retour, probablement que pour lui cela ne serait pas du tout un retour, seulement l’un des nombreux détours sur le long parcours de son existence. Car la notion même de patrie, dans le sens noble et sentimental de ce mot, est liée à la relative brièveté de notre vie qui nous procure trop peu de temps pour que nous nous attachions à un autre pays, à d’autres pays, à d’autres langues. [2003: 139140])

However, the whole of the story is about the impossibility of any Great Return in capital letters. The protagonists Irena and Josef, after twenty years of exile in France and Denmark, respectively, return to Prague only to watch their much-anticipated homecomings fail. They seek recognition and confront ignorance: nobody is interested in what their émigré lives have been like. Likewise, they ignore the transformations their acquaintances

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have made themselves. Back in Prague, Irena feels her life divided and even “amputated” (“amputée”): people’s disinterest and indifference toward her life abroad seem to deprive her of twenty years of her existence (2002: 43, 2003: 52; 2002: 167, 2003: 192). Irena’s distress thus parallels the suffering of her friend Milada, whose ear has been amputated – a defect that Milada strives to hide carefully from others. If Irena returned to Prague forever, she, too, would have to hide her “amputated” past as if it was a flaw. Josef also suffers from the fact that nobody, not even his brother, asks him in detail about his Danish wife. Given people’s disinterest, he has nobody to tell that his wife has died; he strongly feels that if he decided to stay in Prague, he would lose her definitively. Like Irena, he would lose an important, if not the most important, part of his life. Nevertheless, he is tempted to abandon his émigré life and to “take up the thread where he broke it off” (2002: 171) (“reprendre le fil là où il l’a rompu” [2003: 196]) by beginning an affair with Irena, who is a stranger to him because he does not recognize her. Significantly, the impression of “taking up the thread” of his former life makes him feel young again (ibid.). Nostalgia, on the other hand, is linked in this text to the experience of getting older: people come of age, become mature and adult, when for the first time in their lives they lose something or somebody they loved and cherished. The loss heightens their awareness of time; the distance between what was and what is now makes people sense “the temporal dimension” of their lives (2002: 79) (“la dimension temporelle de [leur] vie” [2003: 93]). One becomes “a person who is acquainted with time, who has left a fragment of life behind her and can turn to look back at it” (2002: 79-80) (“devenir celle qui a fait la connaissance du temps, qui a laissé un fragment de vie derrière elle et peut tourner la tête pour le regarder” [2003: 93]). Nostalgia being, in the word’s literal sense, “the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return” (2002: 5) (“la souffrance causée par le désir inassouvi de retourner” [2003: 9-10]), people are expected to satisfy this yearning as soon as possible. Accordingly, Irena’s friends welcome her with the words: “Oh, my dear, we’re old already! It’s high time you came back!” (2002: 42) (“Oh, ma chère, nous sommes déjà vieilles! Il est grand temps que tu reviennes!” [2003: 52]) It is “high time” because what shows through old age, in the protagonists’ view, is death. This shining through of death is especially pronounced in the following passage:

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[Josef] rings, and his brother, five years older than he, opens the door. They grip hands and gaze at each other. These are gazes of enormous intensity, and both men know very well what is going on: they are registering – swiftly, discreetly, brother about brother – the hair, the wrinkles, the teeth; each knows what he is looking for in the face before him, and each knows that the other is looking for the same thing in his. They are ashamed of doing so, because what they’re looking for is the probable distance between the other man and death or, to say it more bluntly, each is looking in the other man’s face for death beginning to show through. (2002: 56) ([Josef] sonne et son frère, de cinq ans plus âgé que lui, ouvre la porte. Ils se serrent la main et se regardent. Ce sont des regards d’immense intensité et ils savent bien de quoi il s’agit: ils enregistrent, rapidement, discrètement, le frère sur le frère, leurs cheveux, leurs rides, leurs dents; chacun sait ce qu’il recherche dans le visage d’en face et chacun sait que l’autre recherche la même chose dans le sien. Ils en ont honte, car ce qu’ils recherchent, c’est la distance probable qui sépare l’autre de la mort ou bien, pour le dire plus brutalement, ils recherchent dans l’autre la mort qui transparaît. [2003: 67-68])

Life, however, is supposed to finish up where it started, as the text states (2002: 44) (“il faut que la vie finisse là où elle a commencé” [2003: 54]). This idea is presented in two novels by Miljenko Jergović, The Walnut Mansion and Freelander, which will be discussed in the next section.

M ILJENKO J ERGOVIĆ : T HE W ALNUT M ANSION (2003) AND F REELANDER (2007) The Bosnian-Croatian writer Miljenko Jergović’s novel The Walnut Mansion has been described as a chronicle of the 20th century; however, it recounts the story of its protagonist, Regina Delavale, not in a chronological, but rather reverse-chronological manner, beginning the narration with chapter XV (after Regina’s death) and ending it with chapter I (before her birth). Hereby, the protagonist’s individual life story reflects the collective history of the 20th century (see Hansen-Kokoruš 2006). Chapter X is dedicated, first and foremost, to Regina’s beloved brother Luka Sikirić, who is forced to emigrate from Yugoslavia for having expressed his critical views on Stalin too openly and too loudly. When after many years in Italian exile he

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learns that he is suffering from cancer and is going to die soon, he decides to return home to his native Dubrovnik. Luka’s cancer mirrors another émigré’s, Moritz Ferrara’s, “tumor of the soul”: Moritz Ferrara would die from an illness that had no name but could be most accurately described as a tumor of the soul. His homeland would grow inside of him, until it sucked in all his vital fluids, softened his bones, and killed him in the end, either in Milan or in some other city. (Jergović 2015: 146) (Moritz Ferrara umrijet će od bolesti koja nema imena, a najbliže bi se mogla opisati kao tumor na duši. U njemu će rasti njegov zavičaj, sve dok mu ne posiše sve životne sokove, razmekša mu kosti i na koncu ga ubije; u Milanu ili u nekom drugom gradu. [2003: 232])

Just as in Moritz Ferrara’s case, Luka cannot let go of his homeland: it even grows bigger inside him when he cannot be there, and in the end it kills him. Luka’s lethal cancer, in fact, is evoked by homesickness. Like in Nabokov’s novel Mašen’ka analyzed above, exile in The Walnut Mansion is characterized as permanent waiting – a waiting for the opportunity to return home: As soon as you can’t go back to where you came from, you begin the life in railway lobbies; everything is temporary and you have no reason to plan anything or start anything anew because you’re waiting for your train, and nothing can be important besides waiting and chatting with others who are waiting. That train will never come, as everyone who has ever waited for it knows, but you don’t think about that until you spend your last ducat, diamond, and dollar. (2015: 146-147) (Čim se ne možeš vratiti tamo odakle si došao, počinješ život u kolodvorskoj čekaonici; sve ti je privremeno i nemaš razloga ništa planirati i započinjati, jer čekaš svoj vlak i ništa ne može biti važno osim čekanja i ćaskanja s drugima koji čekaju. Taj vlak nikada neće doći, što zna svatko tko ga je ikada čekao, ali o tome ne razmišljaš dok ne potrošiš svoj posljednji dukat, dijamant i dolar. [2003: 233])

Luka, however, gets lucky in Italy. He earns his money selling cheese in the Trieste city market for an old peasant who has a goat farm in the Italian

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Karst. At first, the old man does not trust his middleman and takes Luka’s old watch as security that he will return to him with the money from selling the cheese. Though Luka successfully sells the farmer’s goat cheese at the market, then, later, even opens his own shops in Trieste and other Italian cities, a kind of ritual repeats itself over many years: once a week he comes back to the old peasant, brings him the money from the sold cheese, the old man pulls out the watch from a wooden box, taking it back again when Luka gets new baskets of cheese to sell them. It is no question of not trusting Luka. Keeping the watch, the old peasant watches over and thereby prolongs Luka’s life: “[…] there was nevertheless a feeling that this was a game that lengthens your life and reminds you of good times” (2015: 151) (“[…] ipak se osjećalo da se radi o igri koja produžava život i podsjeća na lijepa vremena […]” [2003: 241]). Indeed, it bodes ill when Luka comes to reclaim his watch for good: it implies that his time has run out and that he is preparing himself for his final homecoming. Just as Kundera’s novel Ignorance, The Walnut Mansion represents home as one’s natural place to die and to be buried. Luka has already come from Milan to Trieste because the latter was “closer”: “It didn’t matter what it was closer to, but it was closer and by virtue of this fact it was more his.” (2015: 147) (“Nije važno čemu, ali je bio bliže i samim tim više je bio njegov.” [2003: 234]) Facing death, he strives not only to draw nearer to, but finally to go home to his native town: Luka didn’t want to be buried there [in Trieste; D.G.-H.], just one more foreigner whose unknown fate would be the subject of pity for pairs of imaginative young lovers. He would be buried in his city, in a cemetery full of familiar faces, where someone might be your relative or enemy, and where nothing is indifferent to anything else. It was nice and soothing to live on the other side of the world, or at least a thousand miles away from his hometown, but being buried in a foreign land was a misfortune. Every man should be buried where he was born or where he learned to speak and whence he decided to leave. (2015: 153) (Luka ne želi tamo [u Trstu; D.G.-H.] biti sahranjen, kao još jedan od stranaca nad čijom će se neznanom sudbinom žalostiti zaljubljeni maštoviti parovi. Bit će pokopan u svome gradu, na groblju poznatih, gdje netko nekome može biti rođak ili neprijatelj i gdje ništa prema ničemu nije ravnodušno. Živjeti na drugome kraju svijeta, ili barem tisuću kilometara od rodnoga mjesta, dobro je i ljekovito, ali

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počivati u tuđoj zemlji nesreća je. Svaki čovjek mora biti sahranjen tamo gdje je rođen ili gdje je naučio govoriti i odakle je odlučio otići. [2003: 244-245])

In The Walnut Mansion, therefore, dying in one’s homeland is represented as the natural completion of the life cycle. The novel Freelander forms part of a trilogy revolving around cars and including Buick Rivera (2002) and Volga, Volga (2009) (see HansenKokoruš 2011; Zink 2015). All three novels deal with mobility and displacement, whereby Freelander tells the story of a return. The protagonist is the 65-year-old retired history teacher Karlo Adum, who, at the age of 13, had to flee with his mother from Bosnia and has lived in Croatia’s capital Zagreb ever since. One day, he receives a telegram that invites him to come to Sarajevo to attend the reading of his uncle’s will. There is no longer anyone or anything to retain him, his wife having already died, so he procures himself a pistol, gets in his old Volvo, and sets off. In this novel, old age imagery is again present from the beginning: Karlo Adum is retired and feels like an old man; the reading of the will takes place in a Sarajevo home for the aged (though this is not clear from the start): “A nursing home, this is a nursing home” (“Dom staraca, to vam je dom staraca” [180]);7 and the protagonist’s aging is mirrored by the aging of the personified Volvo (155-157, 194) that he bought 30 years prior. The prospective legacy would provide an opportunity for Karlo Adum to get rid of his car, to buy a new one, and to start over: It wouldn’t have occurred to him that he would await old age in his Volvo and that he would bury in it all his relatives. Still, this is how it seemed to him: in the Volvo he buried his mother, his mother’s brother Antun, and Ivanka [Adum’s wife; D.G.H.]. He had the fixed idea, senseless like any fixed idea, but also that inescapable, that his life could make sense again, though he didn’t know which, if he could sell the Volvo and buy another car. This would be a sign that his life hadn’t ended when he was thirty-four8.

7

Author’s translation [D.G.-H.]. The numbers in brackets refer to the respective pages in Jergović (2007).

8

I.e., in the year 1975, when he had bought the then brand-new Volvo (23).

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(Nije mu na um palo da će u volvu dočekati starost i da će u njemu sahraniti sve svoje. Baš se tako profesoru činilo: u volvu je sahranio majku, i majčinog brata Antuna, i Ivanku [suprugu; D.G.-H.]. Imao je fiksideju, besmislenu kao i svaka fiksideja, ali jednako tako neotklonjivu, da bi njegov život mogao ponovo dobiti neki smisao, nije ni znao kakav, kada bi mogao prodati volvo i kupiti drugi auto. Bio bi to znak da se život nije završio kad su mu bile trideset četiri. [24])

Thus, the return to his native town is equated with the possibility for the protagonist to shake off his old skin and begin a new life. His rejuvenation is evoked by the pistol that he has bought; carrying the handgun makes him feel young again: Maybe he hadn’t admitted it to himself yet, but professor Karlo Adum somehow felt more important. And he was at least ten years younger. […] though he himself was younger this morning, the good old Volvo was as old as before. (Možda tada još nije sebi priznao, ali profesor Karlo Adum osjećao se nekako važnijim. I bio je barem desetak godina mlađi. […] ako on jutros i jest bio mlađi, stari dobri volvo bio je jednako star. [34])

Consequently, the fact that he throws the rejuvenating pistol out of his hand after his heart attack in a shabby hotel in Sarajevo foreshadows his death (203), his final homecoming. In fact, Adum had not expected himself to return ever again to his native town. He does not feel like he belongs to Bosnia, but he does not belong to Croatia either. In Croatia, he has stayed a newcomer, but in Bosnia, people identify him as a Croatian (127). Wherever he is, he remains a stranger. He is “nobody” (“nitko”), as his old mother tells him shortly before her death, when she does not recognize him, as she suffers from severe dementia (109-110). Thus Adum is denied a motherland as well as a mother. He is the “freelander” of the novel’s title, devoid of any roots (201). Significantly, his feeling a stranger in his hometown is reflected in his aging body, of which he becomes painfully aware when taking a shower in the filthy bathtub in his hotel room: his aging body, for the first time, seems to be foreign to him; in Sarajevo, it seems to belong to another:

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He bounced in the bathtub covered by yellow scale, his wrinkled skin, three sizes too big like that of an aged bulldog, followed his moves and sank back, as if this was a strange body, as if his skin wasn’t his. […] As the water scalded and froze him, the professor watched his body, which, in this dirty place, between walls, from which scale stripped and fell to the floor, for the first time looked old and foreign […]. (Poskakivao je u kadi prekrivenoj žutim kamencem, naborana koža ostarjelog buldoga, za tri broja veća, pratila je njegove pokrete i padala natrag, kao strano tijelo, kao da nije njegova. […] Dok ga je voda furila i ledila, gledao je profesor svoje tijelo, koje mu je na ovome prljavom mjestu, između zidova s kojih se gulio kreč i padao po podu, prvi puta izgledalo staro i tuđe […]. [172-173])

He is unable to identify with his former Bosnian self, as he cannot identify with his now-wrinkled and frail outward appearance. In the novel Freelander, old age is characterized as awaiting death (48, 104). Moreover, Adum meets portents of death all the way from Zagreb to Sarajevo. In the narrator’s words, Sarajevo, for the protagonist, resembles the “fear of death” (“strah od smrti” [50]). Nevertheless, he is unable to stop and turn back to Zagreb. He somehow feels forced to move on and to accept his inheritance: Professor Adum became aware that he was returning to Sarajevo after more than half of a century and again slightly slowed down. As he crawled down the highway, it did not once occur to him that he might change his mind and turn back. It was over, it seemed to him, it had been over for a long time, since he had retired and since his Ivanka had died, and his life had transformed into waiting for death and nothing. (Pomislio je profesor Karlo Adum na to da se nakon više od pola stoljeća vraća u Sarajevo, pa je još malo usporio. Dok je tako milio autocestom, nije mu nijednom na um palo da bi se mogao predomisliti i vratiti. Bio je to kraj, činilo mu se, već odavno je bio kraj, otkako je otišao u mirovinu i otkako je umrla njegova Ivanka, i život mu se pretvorio u čekanje smrti i u ništa. [48]) However slowly he was driving, Slavonski Brod was getting closer and so did the border that he would have to cross. He didn’t understand his fear, actually, he didn’t know anymore what he was scared of, but he had to go on, there was no possibility

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of return, he hadn’t left anything behind him, everything was dead or lay in the past […]. (Koliko god sporo vozio, Slavonski Brod bio je sve bliže, a s njime i granica koju mora preći. Nije razumio svoj strah, zapravo nije više znao čega se sve plaši, ali morao je ići, nije bilo mogućnosti za povratak, jer iza sebe ništa nije ostavljao, sve je bilo mrtvo, ili je bilo u prošlosti […]. [57-58])

He, again, is like his old car whose rear-view mirror is missing (166). The return home, then, means irreversibility, closure and death.

C ONCLUSION Milan Kundera has noted that the English word homesickness or the German Heimweh do not cover the entire dimension of nostalgia. These expressions, in his view, reduce the notion “to just its spatial element” (2002: 5) (“c’est une réduction spatiale de cette grande notion” [2003: 10]). Nostalgia, however, as Svetlana Boym has so forcefully put it, “charts space on time and time on space” (2001: 16). It goes along with a heightened awareness of the passing of time and the transience of objects, relationships and human life. It is not surprising, then, that narratives of nostalgia make broad use of images of old age and aging, which traditionally connote loss and irretrievability. Whereas the longing for the past is encoded as aging, the prospect of homecoming is often associated with a sense of rejuvenation. Actual return, however, may be narrated as the closing of the circle, as the completion of the life story, and therefore as death – the final homecoming. Even Ulysses, arguably the most famous homecomer (Schuetz 1945: 369), by deciding to return, in Milan Kundera’s interpretation, preferred the finite to the infinite (2002: 8) (“À l’infini […], il préféra la fin” [2003: 13]). Still, return narratives, for the most part, are not circular. Literary homecomers, like Lev Ganin in Mary and Irena and Josef in Ignorance, forego stasis and closure, and they decide to move on.

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R EFERENCES Berdjaev, Nikolaj (1989): Sobranie sočinenij. T. 1: Samopoznanie (opyt filosofskoj avtobiografii). Izd. 3-e. Paris. Berdyaev, Nicolas (1951): Dream and Reality: An Essay in Autobiography. New York. Boym, Svetlana (2001): The Future of Nostalgia. E-book edition. New York. Camus, Albert (1995): Le Malentendu. Édition présentée, établie et annotée par Pierre-Louis Rey. Paris. Dal’, Vladimir (1981): Tolkovyj slovar’ živogo velikorusskogo jazyka. T. 1. Moskva. Florescu, Catalin Dorian (2002): Der kurze Weg nach Hause. Zürich; München. Gorbačevič, Kirill S. (ed.) (1991): Slovar’ sovremennogo russkogo literaturnogo jazyka v 20-i tomach. T. 1. Moskva. Gramshammer-Hohl, Dagmar (2015): “Altern und Exil in der russischen Emigrationsliteratur”, in: Zink, Andrea/Koroliov, Sonja (eds.): Unterwegs-Sein: Figurationen von Mobilität im Osten Europas. Innsbruck, 255-266. Grübel, Rainer (2006): “Lev Šestovs Philosophie des existentiellen Bruchs: Das Eigene und das Fremde im Exil”, in: Kissel, Wolfgang Stephan/ Thun-Hohenstein, Franziska (eds.): Exklusion: Chronotopoi der Ausgrenzung in der russischen und polnischen Literatur des 20. Jahrhunderts. München, 57-88. Hansen-Kokoruš, Renate (2006): “Zeitgeschichte und individuelle Geschichtsrekonstruktion am Beispiel des Romans ‘Dvori od oraha’ von Miljenko Jergović”, in: Richter, Angela/Beyer, Barbara (eds.): Geschichte (ge-)brauchen. Literatur und Geschichtskultur im Staatssozialismus: Jugoslavien und Bulgarien. Berlin, 445-458. Hansen-Kokoruš, Renate (2011): “Das Auto, der Raum und die Zeit – Miljenko Jergović’ Romantrilogie Buick Rivera, Freelander und Volga, Volga”, in: Anzeiger für Slavische Philologie 39, 75-93. Jergović, Miljenko (2003). Dvori od oraha. Zagreb. Jergović, Miljenko (2007): Freelander. Sarajevo, Zagreb.

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Jergović, Miljenko (2015): The Walnut Mansion. E-book edition. New Haven, London. http://www.myilibrary.com?ID=834628 [accessed January 17, 2017]. Kundera, Milan (2002): Ignorance: A Novel. London. Kundera, Milan (2003): L’Ignorance. Paris. Manea, Norman (2003): The Hooligan’s Return: A Memoir. New York. Nabokov, Vladimir (1990): “Mašen’ka”, in: Sobranie sočinenij v 4-ch tomach. T. 1. Moskva, 33-112. Nabokov, Vladimir (2012): Mary. E-book edition. London. Pushkin, Aleksandr (1990): Eugene Onegin. A Novel in Verse. Transl. by Vladimir Nabokov. Vol. 2: Commentary and Index. Princeton. Schuetz, Alfred (1945): “The Homecomer”, in: American Journal of Sociology 50, 369-376. Stepanov, Jurij S. (2001): Konstanty: Slovar’ russkoj kul’tury. Izd. 2-e, ispr. i dop. Moskva. Sturm-Trigonakis, Elke (2007): Global playing in der Literatur. Ein Versuch über die Neue Weltliteratur. Würzburg. Zink, Andrea (2015): “Unterwegs in die jugoslawische Geschichte: Miljenko Jergovićs Auto-Trilogie”, in: Zink, Andrea/Koroliov, Sonja (eds.): Unterwegs-Sein: Figurationen von Mobilität im Osten Europas. Innsbruck, 135-154.

Fearing the Joys of Old Age Contradictory Discourses of Aging in Adelaida Gercyk’s On Old Age D IMITRIOS M ELETIS

I NTRODUCTION “I do not understand why people are afraid of old age.” Thus is the claim of the protagonist who, in the prose sketch discussed in this article, conspicuously idealizes later stages of life. Is she right – are people afraid of aging? While the demographic structure of societies undergoes a fundamental change in that more and more people are getting older and older and the achievements and discoveries of modern medicine are gradually extending life expectancy and the quality of later life, the dateless fear of old age remains deeply anchored in human nature. The idea of being “old” – implying “young” vs. “old” were two opposite poles without a fluid continuum between them – can in fact appear so intimidating and alien that some feel the urge to push it away. The comparison with others proves to be a useful tool for disidentification: as long as there are older people around us, “(being) old” constitutes an attribute that may apply to them – to others, that is – but never to ourselves; as such, “relations between nonold and old have been discussed in terms of ‘us’ and ‘them’” (Jönson 2013: 199; emphasis in original). It is the anxiety over this imagined and mythologized old age in ageist culture that blocks the view of growing old(er) as a gradual and lifelong process rather than old age as the inevitable, frightening end of the spectrum.

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One way of dealing with the fear of aging is to evaluate its possible advantages. Current treatments of the topic therefore often speak of “gains and losses” (see Karpf 2014) or even the “joy of old age” (see Sacks 2013), acknowledging its favorable aspects. This emphasis in the discourses of aging can be interpreted as a reaction to the growing number of what we consider to be “old people” and their heightened visibility in society as well as an expression of our innermost fears. It is also, of course, the result of a renegotiation of ageist stereotypes and views. Arguably in part a human coping mechanism, this nuanced, more sophisticated representation of old age has featured rarely in works of literature when compared with the abundance of one-sided negative depictions. There are, however, notable exceptions such as On Old Age (O starosti), a prose sketch written by Russian author Adelaida Gercyk. In heavily idealizing old age, Gercyk’s protagonist exposes her own anguish over it. Having drawn a multifaceted picture of this kind, exploring age as a central category of our society, Gercyk was ahead of her time. In the spirit of Foucauldian discourse analysis, the present paper understands age as being determined by dominant discourses. Initially grounded in social perceptions of a given period, the literary construction of the category “age” as explored here has the potential to fundamentally (re)shape them. Thus, the present analysis investigates how Gercyk negotiates these complex and contradicting discourses of age and aging1 by viewing them through a lens of idealization (albeit one with cracks), implicitly criticizing the countless treatments of the topic that fail to grasp its complexity.

1

Age and aging are distinct notions that should be defined separately. While the former is interpreted statically, denoting a given point (e.g. the age of 84) or stage (e.g. old age) in life, the latter refers to the ongoing and lifelong process of growing older as a gradual transition. Although Gercyk’s sketch has the word starost’ (“old age”) in its title, it does not focus exclusively on this particular phase of life, but frequently intermingles with starenie (“aging”) by including numerous descriptions of changes that accompany the aging process.

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ADELAIDA G ERCYK – T HE F ORGOTTEN R USSIAN S IBYL Adelaida Gercyk (1874-1925) is one of the lesser-known Russian writers of the early 20th century, an era known as the Silver Age of Russian Poetry (see Taubman 1994). Described by her sister Evgenija as thoughtful and introverted, Adelaida was primarily a poet, whose only anthology, plainly titled Poems (Stichotvorenija), containing work from the years 1906-1909, was published in 1910 to great critical acclaim, being lauded by a significant number of the most relevant Russian poets of that era. Vadim Krejd (Kreyd 1994: 201) notes that it is doubtful that a poetry collection of any other Russian woman writer would have met with such favorable reactions at that time. Gercyk was a symbolist, employing a myriad of folkloristic and mystical elements and fairylike, magic motifs in her free verses, which are thus often characterized by an excessive level of abstraction and withdrawal from reality. This mythologization of everyday life in all its manifestations – led by a fantastic presence, the prophetic persona of the poet – earned Gercyk the byname “sybil” (sivilla), see the title of Natal’ja Boneckaja’s biographical portrait Russian Sibyl (Russkaja Sivilla, 2006). Furthermore, Gercyk also wrote prose and produced a series of three autobiographical essay cycles that were published in Russian literary journals: About That Which Never Was (O tom, čego ne bylo, 1911), My Novels (Moi romany, 1913) and My Odysseys (Moi bluždanija, 1915). In these collections, she processes experiences of life in the form of essays and sketches devoted to specific themes that can often be directly inferred from their respective titles, examples being Guilt (Vina) or Beggar (Niščaja). After spending the happiest years of her life – especially the time between 1915 and 1918 (see Pachmuss 1978: 318) – in Moscow, where she married Dmitrij Žukovskij, gave birth to two sons, befriended the up-andcoming poet Marina Cvetaeva, translated works of important intellectuals (e.g. Friedrich Nietzsche and Selma Lagerlöf) into Russian, and collaborated fruitfully with her sister Evgenija while residing in “one of the major artistic houses in pre-revolutionary Russia, frequented by a glistening array of artists and intellectuals” (Burgin 1990: 358), Gercyk and her family had to relocate to the Crimean town of Sudak after the revolution and the civil war had broken out. There, they faced extreme poverty. In 1921, Gercyk was arrested and spent three weeks in prison, an incisive experience that she pro-

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cessed in her last compilation of works, titled Basement Essays (Podval’nye očerki) and published posthumously in 1926. Gercyk died in 1925 of an acute nephritis; she was 51 years old. The most complete collection of her work is the two-volume Poems and Prose (Stichi i proza) published in 1993; some of her poetry and prose was (re)published in Sub Rosa (1999) and From the Women’s Circle (Iz kruga ženskogo, 2004). The majority of her work – including On Old Age – is only available in Russian. Scholarship on Gercyk has been sparse, in Englishspeaking circles almost non-existent. Catriona Kelly (1999: 130) calls Gercyk a “forgotten” poet in line with so many other Russian women writers and argues that it is the “admission to canonical status of two twentiethcentury woman poets, [Anna] Akhmatova and [Marina] Tsvetaeva,” that has led to a “neglect of almost all other women poets.” Literature on Gercyk is restricted to biographical accounts (Boneckaja 2006; Burgin 1990; Dillon 1999; Kelly 1994, 1998; Kreyd 1994; Pachmuss 1978; Žukovskaja 2002, 2007) and few occasional examinations of specific aspects of her work (e.g. Kelly 1999; Obuchova 1997, 2000). As a result, no synoptic analysis of her oeuvre and its leitmotifs, its rhetorical devices etc. exists as yet. However, a series of nine conferences to-date (between 1996 and 2015) titled The Silver Age in Crimea: A View from the 21st Century (Serebrjanyj vek v Krymu: vzgljad iz XXI stoletija), led by Gercyk scholars Elena Kallo and Tat’jana Žukovskaja, has, among other things, contributed to a progressive analysis of Gercyk’s work (see for example Gavriljuk 2002; Gorjunova 2009).

O N O LD A GE – A S UBJECTIVE E XAMINATION OF AGING On Old Age is a prose sketch that was written and published in 1915 in the journal Northern Notes (Severnye zapiski) as part of Gercyk’s third essay cycle My Odysseys. At the center of Gercyk’s essays stands the “lyrical heroine” (liričeskaja geroinja) who expresses her feelings and thoughts on specific topics and frequently poses philosophical questions, subsequently attempting to answer them through reflection (see Kallo 1999: 16-17). On Old Age is a striking example of this: told from an insider’s view, the uncharacterized and unnamed female protagonist – simultaneously function-

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ing as the first-person narrator, the “lyrical heroine” – expresses her subjective sentiments on the topic of old age. Since a sketch of this kind lacks the clear boundary of fictional prose, the audience is tempted to equate the protagonist with the author herself (see for example Kravčenko 2012). Thus even though On Old Age represents a fictional work of art, its essayistic nature justifies asking how much of the narrator’s mindset corresponds with Gercyk’s ideas, or, in other words: how autobiographical is On Old Age? In an analysis of Basement Essays, Ol’ga Obuchova (1997: 316) claims that it is indeed Gercyk’s own views that constitute the heart of her prose: The entire series of essays is embedded in a specific framework structure that is predefined by the introduction, a lyrico-philosophical monologue of the author […]. The compositional core of the cycle is the figure of the author who is narrator and heroine at the same time.2 (Весь цикл очерков заключен в своеобразную рамочную конструкцию, заданную введением, которое представляет собой лирико-философский монолог автора […]. Композиционный стержень всего цикла – это фигура автора, одновременно рассказчика и героя.)

Similarly, the unnamed protagonist’s “lyrico-philosophical monologue” about old age and the aging process in general embodies On Old Age’s common thread, tying together loosely connected scenes that barely reference each other. The sequence of three short situations that take place in different settings mirrors the consecutive stages of contemplation – from first coming into contact with the topic to an emotional discussion about its advantages and disadvantages to a confrontation with the reality of it – and allows for a logical development of the protagonist’s feelings while creating a natural narrative flow. Although in sum, On Old Age might leave an uneventful impression, the three depicted scenarios greatly contribute to the overall argument that the author is developing: in the first scene, taking place in a tailor shop, the heroine is looking at herself in the mirror, waiting for the seamstress to finish her work. She begins reflecting on old age, and her initial, overly positive attitude toward aging renders her unable to understand why other people are afraid of it. The second and key scene focus-

2

All translations are the author’s [D.M.], unless otherwise indicated.

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es on a dialogue-driven argument between the protagonist and her friend in which the protagonist’s one-dimensional views on age are challenged by a vastly differing opinion. While her friend raises problems associated with growing old, the protagonist adamantly defends her position. However, the fact that she experiences emotions such as anger and helplessness, almost bursting into tears during the discussion, implies that she, too, doubts that old age is exclusively advantageous. The third and final scene describes a gray and rainy day in the fall. An old peasant woman asks the heroine to read a letter to her. Here, the protagonist is confronted with the reality of old age, learning that some but not all of her assumptions and expectations hold true. She finally realizes that in addition to its joys, old age entails deficits, and she rejoices that she herself is not yet old.

T HE D ISCOURSES

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Discourses of aging are – and always have been – diverse; moreover, they are subject to change as societal structures evolve and hierarchies and hegemonies are renegotiated. Accordingly, it can be assumed that the discourses dominant throughout Gercyk’s lifetime differ fundamentally from contemporary ones. Alas, the perceptions of age and aging in late 19th- and early 20th-century Russia are scarcely explored, complicating both the social as well as the literary contextualization of the picture On Old Age offers. Irina Savkina (2011) identifies two archetypes of elderly women in the Russian cultural tradition, the babuška (“grandmother”) and the starucha (“old woman”), offering a survey of the different renditions of the former in selected works of Russian literature. Considering the babuška to be one of the most prominent Russian myths, she addresses some of its connotations such as asexuality, magical knowledge, ancestral memory, and authority of age (see Savkina 2011: 113), which are echoed by the leitmotifs Dagmar Gramshammer-Hohl (2014) lists in her study of the depiction of female aging in 20th-century Russian literature. Although a further elaboration of the social and literary discourses of aging at the time when On Old Age was created does not represent the purpose of this paper, it should be kept in mind that the picture drawn by Gercyk is deeply rooted not only in eraspecific but also culture-specific contexts. As Thomas Hoisington (1998: xi) exemplarily notes:

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Though much less prone to deny that they are growing older, Russians have a much narrower view of aging than we do in the West. […] The fundamental idea, generally accepted in the West, of aging as a lifelong process, or, to turn it around, of life as a series of aging processes, is hard for Russians to grasp.3

These possible differences will not be factored into the analysis, which instead strives for a detailed description of the contradicting discourses that can be identified intratextually. In his historical analysis of aging discourses, Gerd Göckenjan (2007) identifies four main types that date back to antiquity: first, he postulates (1) praise and (2) admonishing of old age as the conventional, diametrically opposed forms of discourse. While praise of old age is characterized by viewing the elderly as wise, experienced, venerable and virtuous, proponents of the admonishing sentiment see them as vicious, distrustful, cowardly, garrulous. In contrast, (3) lament and (4) consolation of old age constitute moderated discursive practices. As Göckenjan stresses, these types of discourse do not appear isolated from one another; on the contrary, they frequently co-occur, not only in global contexts such as societies but also in individual opinions and texts (2007: 128). On Old Age is no exception: Gercyk combines critical and pessimistic views of old age with idealistic, positive attitudes. It will be argued that in some passages of the sketch superficial praise is used to obscure the more critical view beneath it. The following paragraphs will single out various aspects inherent in discourses of aging, showcasing how Gercyk’s sketch addresses them. In doing so, they concentrate on the subtle discrepancies that unveil the complexity of the social construct that is (old) age.

D OES O LD AGE B RING S OCIAL AND P ERSONAL R ELIEF ? W HO D ECIDES W HO I S O LD ? One of the oft-postulated advantages of old age is the relief that is yielded by the difference in society’s expectations of certain “age groups” (regardless of how these are defined): what is expected of an adult is not necessarily expected of an old person. While this might hold true, it in no way en-

3

Emphasis in original.

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tails that nothing is expected of the elderly. Arguably a naïve oversimplification and common misconception, this is precisely the belief Gercyk instilled in her protagonist: in the sketch’s first scene, she is absorbed in thought while looking down – both literally and metaphorically – on a seamstress who is kneeling in front of her, altering her skirt. Recognizably impatient, she equates what appear to be only a few minutes with infinity and is prompted to contemplate her own age. Still scrutinizing the seamstress’s every move, she starts wondering which kinds of clothes she will be wearing in old age, leading her to the realization that – wardrobe being just one metonymical starting point for her thoughts throughout the sketch – old age will provide plenty of relief as growing old equals a simplification of life. As an old woman she will in fact possess only one blackish garment; when it is worn out, she will order the seamstress to sew an exact reproduction that she will not even need to try on – it will simply fit. Gramshammer-Hohl (2014: 133-134) points out that what the protagonist perceives as an alleviation of societal pressure is merely the implementation of a different norm as the elderly, too, are expected to dress and behave in a certain way: “She will always be dressed in black, and only on holidays will she be an old lady in light gray, dapper, good-looking, so she is nice for people to look at” (“И будет всегда чёрная, и только в праздничные дни светло-серая старушка, опрятная, благообразная, чтоб людям было приятно смотреть” [97]4). It is thus a new kind of socio-cultural expectation that the heroine is looking forward to, one that increasingly deindividualizes the elderly, seeing them as a bland mass branded by their stereotypically assumed “sameness”. In fact, the implications of the protagonist’s thoughts are more far-reaching: she claims she will no longer stand in front of the mirror for hours; instead, she will dress in a particular way that she believes to be characteristic of old women, indeed even choosing the moment when she starts doing so. In other words, she herself will choose when – and if – she is old, staging herself as an “old lady in light gray” that is “nice to look at” (see Gramshammer-Hohl 2014: 240-241). These external changes in clothing and general appearance echo developments of internal nature: as the contents of one’s wardrobe are gradually simplified and rid of “youthful” colorful variation, the elderly mind is freed

4

The numbers given in parentheses refer to the corresponding pages of the text edition in Gercyk (1993: 97-101).

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of unnecessary burdens as well. The protagonist characterizes her life – her thoughts and emotions – as chaotic, a weary trait that tires her but that will dissolve eventually, since old age brings with it “order, clarity, simplicity” (“порядок, ясность, простота” [97]). This is but the beginning of the protagonist’s affirmation of old age. In her eyes, it is the “liberation of everything unnecessary” (“освобождение от всего ненужного” [98]), which is why life “becomes happier, easier” (“Весело становится, проще” [99]), as is nowadays frequently postulated in discourses of aging (see Brooks 2014). Convinced of all the benefits of old age, the protagonist at one point even wishes her friend that she be old: “[…] and I genuinely wish you [old age; D.M.] as soon as possible” (“и я от души желаю тебе её [старость; Д.М.] как можно скорее” [98]). However, in the last scene of the sketch it becomes particularly evident that all the advantages previously listed are merely the protagonist’s subjective assumptions, probably even wishes of what old age might bring, for as she describes the old peasant woman, positive attributes are colored by negative connotations: order and humility thus become fossilization (okamenelost’) and ossification (“застыла её старческая душа” [101]) while the sought-after simplicity is viewed as oversimplification and, in effect, simplemindedness (uproščennost’) (see Gramshammer-Hohl 2014: 135).

O LD AGE

AND

D EATH

“And still, old age means dying” (“И все-таки старость есть умирание” [98]), counters the protagonist’s tired friend in the sketch’s key scene, addressing one of the most frightful common associations evoked by the idea of old age. The motif of mortality is exhaustively employed in On Old Age, as all forms of losses are – at least linguistically, considering Gercyk’s choice of words – interpreted as processes of dying.5 In the eyes of the pro-

5

The contextualization of Gercyk’s work within (mythopoetic) Russian symbolism could enrich an analysis of her literary approach to death. Although among symbolists, the theme of death “meant different things to different people” (Pyman 2006: 51), symbolism in general “stressed the new aestheticism and the truth of dvoemirie [a two-world system, D.M.], or the mythical correspondences between ‘this’ and the ‘other’ world” (Bethea 2012: 198, emphasis in original)

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tagonist’s ailing friend, the ability to suffer is not only gradually lost, it is dying: “The mind has become dull, I am getting old, the ability to suffer is dying” (“Душа притупилась, я старею, и умирает способность страданья” [98]). Even when not explicitly named, the idea of death is omnipresent in the friends’ emotional dialogue: “the fire of life itself has burned out” (“догорел самый огонь жизни” [98]) and the most important moments in a person’s life are “fading like flowers” (“как цветы, осыпаются” [99]). The notion of demise is deeply entrenched in the meaning of verbs such as “to burn out” (dogoret’) and “to fade, wither” (osypat’sja). The process of aging is thus presented as a series of deaths. This resonates with Gercyk’s choice to set the final scene in the fall, describing the scent of rotting leaves while the heroine comments that “heaven is near” (“небо близко” [101]). The superficially optimistic protagonist – still stressing that “old age is blessed, natural, gentle” (“Старость – благословенна, естественна, кротка” [98]) – argues that it is certainly not the fundamental capacities of life that are dying, but only the negativity and self-centeredness that are stereotypically associated with youth: “Not the ability to feel and to live [is dying; D.M.], but living like this, feeling like this – greedily, tenaciously, only for oneself”6 (“Не чувствовать и жить, а так жить, так чувствовать – жадно, цепко, для себя” [98]). For Gercyk’s lyrical heroine, the positive attitude toward aging appears irrefutable: when her friend mentions that traveling to Italy will be impossible in old age, she immediately devalues this dream of hers and focuses on its negative aspects, stating that with the relief and clarity of old age, “the haste of traveling comes to an end [literally translated: goes out like a fire]” (“погаснет горячка путешествий” [99]), again invoking a sense of fading of what was once most important. Even while seemingly agreeing that growing old requires certain sacrifices and that central aspects of her personality will in fact be dying, she refuses to view this as a downside: “Take the moment when you want to fall in

and served as a mediator between these worlds. Thus, it could be argued that this affinity to death affects symbolist depictions of old age, portraying it as a threshold to death. A closer investigation of this aspect does not fall within the scope of this paper but represents an interesting starting point for an analysis of motifs deployed in Gercyk’s oeuvre. 6

Emphasis added [D.M.].

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love, running out to the high school student under the moonlight for a date, or the ambition, or even the personal pain – all of that is dying away, not you!” (“Ну вот миг, когда хочется влюбленности, при луне выбежать к гимназисту на свидание, или честолюбие, или даже боль личная – это отмирает, а не ты!” [99]) This claim raises the question of what remains when all the moments and facets of our personality that once determined who we were are dead and gone. According to the heroine, “the love for the refined disappears, you start to value the simplest things: compassion, for example, more than wit, the simplest form of compassion, for the people, for the children…” (“Отпадает любовь к изощренному, начинаешь ценить самые простые вещи: жалость, например, больше, чем остроумие, самую простую жалость, как у народа, как у детей…” [99]). Despite her consistent idealization of old age, the protagonist displays unrest over the issue, which is evident when she begins her description of old age by defensively defining it ex negativo: “Old age is not stupor” (“Старость не тупость” [98]). Her strong need to advocate old age as a desirable stage of life and her inability to accept and even tolerate her friend’s contrary opinion indicate that she is attempting to convince herself of the joys of aging, possibly by lying to herself.

(O LD ) AGE

AS A

S OCIAL C ATEGORY

Even if old age is a stage of life some people yearn for, its imagined “starting point” – often and stereotypically pinned to a specific “milestone birthday,” such as the sixtieth, seventieth or eightieth, or the moment of retirement – is flexible and frequently delayed relative to a person’s current age (and likely their level of anxiety over aging). “Old” appears to be mainly an attribute used to define other people, not ourselves, so the thought of oneself passing the threshold of old age is repelled: “Only a few years – ten, rather fifteen, and I will grow old” (“Ещё несколько лет – десять, ну пятнадцать, и я состарюсь” [97]) thinks the protagonist, correcting herself in the process: while old age is certainly near, it is not as near as she had initially assumed. The innocent-looking word “rather” (a rough contextual translation of the Russian particle nu) followed by an overwriting of her initial estimation exposes the protagonist’s hesitation and insecurity concerning this issue. She not only redefines her idea of old age, but also her self-

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image, realizing she might be younger than she had previously thought (see Gramshammer-Hohl 2014: 134-135). Even though she is looking forward to being old, there is a sense of relief that while joys of old age that lie in the future are undeniable, they in no way apply to her yet, as evidenced by the final words she uses to describe the emotional argument with her dissenting friend: “[we are] happy that for us, this clarity and simplicity of old age have not yet completely begun” (“радуясь, что для нас ещё не совсем наступила эта ясность и простота старости” [99]). Again, by commenting with “not yet completely,” old age – even though it offers attractive benefits – is defined as something that has not yet been reached. An idealization, it seems, is possible only from a distance. “How do I come to know, when I am alone, that [old age] has begun?” (“Как узнаю я, когда я одна, что она [старость] наступила?“ [101]) is the protagonist’s central question at the end of the sketch. To understand one’s own age without referring to that of others would indeed be impossible, for age is a fundamentally social phenomenon dependent on comparison, only constituting a category because there are different ages along a spectrum that allow for (dis)identification. It exists, as the heroine observes, only for us humans: “Only among people do we have this notion of old age” (“Только среди людей есть это понятие – старость” [101]). This human mechanism of defining (aspects of) one’s own identity on the basis of others is known as “othering” (see de Beauvoir 1949; Brons 2015; Tajfel 1981). Gercyk’s heroine in On Old Age compares herself not only to the old peasant woman – who, in a way, is the embodiment of old age – from the sketch’s third and final scene, but also to her ailing friend, for whom she feels deep sympathy (see Gavriljuk 2002: 59). They are “others,” instrumentalized as a tool for differentiation – from the protagonist’s perspective, they are (or might be) old, reassuring her that she is not. There are diverging opinions concerning the question of cultural aging, with proponents of the social constructionist view claiming that (old) age is purely a social and cultural phenomenon and opponents arguing that changes in appearance and bodily functions “cannot be eliminated by any cultural change, no matter how significant” (Holstein et al. 2011: 50). However, as Calasanti (2005: 9) notes, recent scholarship “works to overcome [these] dualities […], emphasizing bodies as simultaneously material and con-

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structed.”7 Gercyk also seems to position herself somewhere in the middle: while she accepts that our bodies do inevitably age (see below), she realizes that the ways in which this aging process is perceived and dealt with – in the form of predominant discourses – is a fundamentally social matter. At this point it should be noted that Gercyk strikingly posed this question – what is old age, what does it look and feel like? – again elsewhere. In her poem “If This Is Old Age…” (“Esli ėto starost’…”, 1925), written in the year of her death, a genderless speaker notices how he or she undergoes a change and doubts whether it can be ascribed to old age. This uncertainty stems at least partly from the fact that the transition is perceived as being largely beneficial, a quality not commonly attributed to aging. If this state is indeed old age, as the speaker hypothesizes in the first and final verses, he or she will gladly “accept” it (see Gramshammer-Hohl 2014: 130). Here, Gercyk suggests not only that the concept of age is unseizable and defies explicit definitions, but also that because discourses of aging are predominantly negative, focused on the notion of loss and deficit, society often shies away from associating old age with any possible benefits.

T HE Y OUNG M IND

IN THE

O LD B ODY

Is it only our body that makes us old? Indeed, all of the positive aspects of old age mentioned by the protagonist throughout the sketch – clarity, relief, order, simplicity, purity, riddance of the unnecessary – exclusively refer to the spheres of the mind: the mental, emotional, intellectual. However, while the external effects of aging are not addressed directly, the narrator obviously still perceives them: in describing the appearance of the women she encounters, she confines herself almost exclusively to signs of old age as opposed to non-age-related traits. When, in the sketch’s third scene, she first spots the peasant woman from afar, she describes her as a “little, wrapped [in a headscarf; D.M.] old woman” (“маленькая, обвязанная старушенка” [99]). “Old” is clearly the most central attribute, as is evidenced by the use of the word starušenka in the Russian original: a diminutive form of starucha (“old woman”), which in turn is a derivation of the adjective staryj (“old”), it not only adds the meaning of “old” to “(female)

7

Emphasis in the original.

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person,” but instead incorporates and even highlights it. In other words: by referring to the woman she sees as starušenka, the protagonist reduces her to nothing more than an old woman, even if the use of the diminutive might indicate it is intended as a term of endearment. As a direct consequence of this immediate social categorization, stereotypes and expectations are automatically activated. But as the protagonist is approached by this peasant woman, she realizes that her initial expectations are not met. And yet, her subjectively positive characterization is rich in attributes typically used to describe persons of old age: Not as miserable as she appeared to me from a distance, even tough and decent in her fossilization, with deep wrinkles on her gray, bloodless face, neatly wrapped, stately holding her arm beneath a thick headscarf tied to her shoulders. Haggard, with fatigue and sorrow in her face, but a bright, tidy, honest old woman. (Не такая жалкая, как мне казалась издали, даже строгая и чинная в своей старческой окаменелости, с глубокими морщинами на сером, бескровном лице, опрятно обвязанная, степенно держащая руки под толстым платком, надетом на плечи. Худая, с усталостью и заботой в лице, но ясная, чистая, честная старуха. [99-100])

In this passage, the protagonist contrasts the signs of bodily decay with desirable character traits, ending her description on an overly positive note that resonates with her previous observations about the advantages of growing old. In fact, it appears that she reckons old age means well by the mind, but not the body. In one of her final observations, the heroine claims that her “mind was growing younger and lighter in a body that was making [her] old” (“молодела, легчала душа в старющем теле” [101]). This statement is telling for various reasons: by using the Russian present active participle starjuščij, literally “making old,” and assigning it to the body as an active executor, it is implied that we are passive and powerless prisoners of our bodies in the face of aging. It is the exterior that makes us (appear) old as “the outward signs of aging discount the person displaying those signs” (Holstein et al. 2011: 49). Our bodies, then, divorced from our minds, are “social texts” that are culturally shaped and given meaning (see Twigg 2004). They reveal not only to others whether we are old, but also to ourselves; they thus tell us how to feel about ourselves, how to see our-

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selves, which is what Bryan Turner (1995) termed the somatization of the self. Gercyk plays with this deceptive power of the body when she introduces the protagonist’s friend from the key scene by painting a detailed picture of her appearance that is loaded with stereotypes: She lies there as if she had been thrown to the shore by a storm – weak and motionless. I examine the sorrowful wrinkles on her forehead, the bleak, lifeless skin, the hanging, feeble hand. (Она лежит будто выброшенная бурей на берег – изнеможенная и недвижная. Смотрю на страдальческие складки на лбу, на бледную безжизненную кожу, на свесившуюся, слабую руку. [98])

It is revealed only a few lines later that her friend is in fact not old, whereby presumably at least some of the readers’ established assumptions are contradicted. In light of her earlier evaluations of old age, the heroine’s closing statement that her mind was growing younger represents perhaps the sketch’s most significant contradiction. Here, all the positive attributes she originally assigned to old age are negated as they are suddenly associated with becoming young(er) and youth; furthermore, the “growing younger” of the mind is in stark opposition with the “making old” of the body, thereby exposing the protagonist’s true feelings toward old age.

T HE F EMINIZATION

OF

O LD AGE

One final question that concerns the overall composition of the sketch shall not be neglected: is aging a female concern? Is it a “social convention that enhances a man but progressively destroys a woman,” as Susan Sontag (1972: 29) radically phrased in her seminal article “The Double Standard of Aging”? Gercyk’s sketch neither provides an answer, nor does it seem to even approach this major question, at least not explicitly. It is striking, however, that not only the protagonist, but also all of the other characters appearing in On Old Age are female. With the overall minimalistic secondary characters – the seamstress, the ailing friend, and the old peasant woman – Gercyk provides the protagonist with one female counterpart in each

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scene who offers new impulses. It is undeniably a conscious artistic choice to discuss old age from an exclusively feminine perspective, thereby overlapping two markers of social identity: gender and age. It could be argued that Gercyk reflected critically on intersectionality long before this concept appeared in feminist theory. Without running the risk of overinterpreting Gercyk’s decision, one can assume On Old Age would have looked considerably different had the protagonist and the supporting characters been male. Would old age even have been an issue then? Interestingly enough, in her later poem “If This Is Old Age…,” Gercyk chose to employ a speaker not marked for gender whose observations could thus be meant to depict a more universal examination of old age. In any case, a broad and thorough analysis of Gercyk’s works would be necessary to determine which roles genders occupy in them.

C ONCLUSION As the protagonist praises the myriad benefits of old age, her attitude toward it appears exclusively positive. That is, until she not only repeatedly positions herself as “nonold” and thus lets her fear of aging – a concept she claims is strange to her – shine through, but also reassigns the positive characteristics she first ascribed to old age to its polar opposite: becoming younger. In the introduction, the question was posed if people – as the heroine claims – really are afraid of old age. “The results show that for many the answer is yes,” (Brunton/Scott 2015: 798) reads the conclusion of a recent psychological study about aging anxiety. The causes of this fear are numerous and manifold, as are the ways in which it manifests. Gercyk’s protagonist in On Old Age chooses to idealize old age, a stage of life that she feels has not yet begun for her. As she paints a desirable imagined picture of her future self that does not end up corresponding with the reality of old age that she encounters, it emerges that her extenuation of aging is an expression of her fear, though possibly not even the fear of old age itself, but the fear of being afraid of old age (see Hoppe/Wulf 2000: 399). When mentioning the fear of old age, thereby admitting its existence, Gercyk’s protagonist clearly distances herself from it, as is subtly visualized by the fact that it is enclosed in quotation marks: “I say that it [life; D.M.] will be lighter because at least there will be no ‘fear of old age’ that is poisoning

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our feelings, keeping them under guard” (“Говорю, как будет легко уж оттого, что не станет ‘страха старости’ этого отравляющего, стерегущего нас чувства” [99]). By claiming that then there will be no fear, she possibly insinuates that this “poisonous” feeling is all too common to her and that it ends only when the object of fear – old age – is reached and experienced first-hand. As has been pointed out, the discourses of aging have always been contradictory, and the dynamics created by the co-existence of opposing discursive strategies – praise and admonishing of old age being the most prominent ones – demand and thus introduce a great variety of ways to deal with this issue. What the little-known Russian writer Adelaida Gercyk accomplished in her sketch On Old Age is a subtle balancing act, a critical examination of the diverse ideas, emotions (with the focus on fear), and stereotypes inherent in discourses of aging. To think one could reduce the endless variations in experiencing old age to one universal definition would be oversimplifying the issue, as Gercyk realized. For exactly this reason, discourses of aging necessarily have to be contradictory, as they mirror quite different fantasies and realities of old age.

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Kelly, Catriona (1998): A History of Russian Women’s Writing 1820-1992. Oxford. Kelly, Catriona (1999): “Reluctant Sibyls: Gender and Intertextuality in the Work of Adelaida Gertsyk and Vera Merkureva”, in: Sandler, Stephanie (ed.): Rereading Russian Poetry. New Haven, 129-145. Kravčenko, Natalija (2012): “Neotrazimaja”. http://www.liveinternet.ru/ users/4514961/post206759481/ [accessed November 19, 2015]. Kreyd, Vadim (1994): “Adelaida Kazimirovna Gertsyk”, in: Ledkovsky, Marina/Rosenthal, Charlotte/Zirin, Mary (eds.): Dictionary of Russian Women Writers. Westport, 201-203. Obuchova, Ol’ga (1997): “Proza poėta: Adelaida Gercyk. ‘Podval’nye’ stichotvorenija – ‘Podval’nye očerki’: Dve ipostasi odnogo žiznennogo opyta”, in: Russian Literature 42, 315-342. Obuchova, Ol’ga (2000): “Put’ k sokrovennomu: Zametki o poėzii Adelaidy Gercyk”, in: Russica Romana 7, 155-163. Pachmuss, Temira (1978): Women Writers in Russian Modernism: An Anthology. Urbana, Chicago, London. Pyman, Avril (2006): A History of Russian Symbolism. Cambridge. Sacks, Oliver (2013): “The Joy of Old Age. (No Kidding.)” http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/07/opinion/sunday/the-joy-of-old-ageno-kidding.html?_r=0 [accessed November 13, 2015]. Savkina, Irina (2011): “‘U nas nikogda uže ne budet ėtich babušek?’”, in: Voprosy literatury 2, 109-135. Sontag, Susan (1972): “The Double Standard of Aging”, in: The Saturday Review of The Society, September 23, 29-38. Tajfel, Henri (1981): Human Groups and Social Categories: Studies in Social Psychology. Cambridge. Taubman, Jane A. (1994): “Women Poets of the Silver Age”, in: Clyman, Toby W./Greene, Diana (eds.): Women Writers in Russian Literature. Westport (= Contributions to the Study of World Literature; 53), 171188. Turner, Bryan S. (1995): “Aging and Identity: Some Reflections on the Somatization of the Self”, in: Featherstone, Mike/Wernick, Andrew (eds.): Images of Aging: Cultural Representations of Later Life. London, New York, 249-263. Twigg, Julia (2004): “The Body, Gender, and Age: Feminist Insights in Social Gerontology”, in: Journal of Aging Studies 18, 59-73.

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Žukovskaja, Tat’jana N. (2002): Pis’ma. Moskva. Žukovskaia, Tat’jana N. (2007): Tainstva igry: Adelaida Gercyk i ee deti. Moskva.

“I Know Nothing Because of My Weakness” A Comparative Analysis of Polish Letters and Memoirs (1845-1862) W IESŁAWA D UŻY

I NTRODUCTION Kajetan Koźmian (1771-1856) was a senator in the Kingdom of Poland, but most of all an outstanding Classicist poet, writing in “post-Stanislaus classicism” (regarding the last king of the Commonwealth of Poland, Stanislaus Augustus). He was an opponent of Romanticism and wrote mainly odes and historical poems. Franciszek Wężyk (1785-1862) had a similar public career: he was a deputy on a diet and a senator in Cracow, but also a writer and a poet: he wrote odes, poems, dramas, as well as historical novels. Both of them decided to write down their memories when they were old. Their memoirs became sort of manifestos on their public activity, their confessions, explanations of their views. In addition, they also exchanged ample correspondence between 1845 and 1856. Through those letters they became close friends who could share the most intimate observations on the last years of their lives. These “private writings” are an important source for political as well as literary history. The aim of this article is to conduct a comparative analysis of the two genres with a focus on representations of aging and old age and on creativity in later life.

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M EMOIRS AND L ETTERS : D IFFERENT F UNCTIONALITIES Ever since Jean-Jacques Rousseau showed Europe that memoirs may be treated as a personal forum to present thoughts and views, many people took up that opportunity (see Roszak 2004: 7); it is not without merit that his Confessions are treated as a milestone (Potocka-Wąsowiczowa 1965: 317-318) in the development of autobiographies (see Cieński 1981a: 145149; Cieński 1981b: 33; Niemcewicz 1958: 213). The structure of the memories proposed by the French philosopher has persuaded many memoirists to extend their recordings to their youth, as he had done: [L]iving in a period of despair and dangerous darkness, the writer seeks refuge in a memory of happy days of the youth. […] Rousseau […] relives pleasures long passed. So he p e r p e t u a t e s a moment of his life on paper, the moment in which he would like to hide himself in his thoughts.1 ([Ż]yjąc w okresie przygnębienia i groźnych ciemności, pisarz szuka schronienia we wspomnieniu szczęśliwych dni młodości. […] Rousseau […] przeżywa na nowo minione już przyjemności. A więc u t r w a l a na papierze chwilę swego życia, w której chciałby się schronić myślą. [Starobinski 2009: 95])

Franciszek Wężyk clearly stated this in his notes: “The memories of the youth are dear through life. I will not leave any one of them without mention.” (“Drogie są na całe życie wspomnienia młodości. Jedney z nich nie zostawię bez wzmianki.” [(Wężyk) n. d., vol. 18: 5; see Tomkowicz 1878: 304]) One main characteristic of a memoir is the fact that the author does not have to precisely choose the addressee, as is required in the case of correspondence (Trzynadlowski 1975: 79-87; Konopczyński 1930: 44; see Roszak 2012: 84; Roćko 2001: 153-154). The addressee of such a text may not even have existed during its writing. For example, Antoni Trębicki,2

1

This and all other English translations in this article are the author’s [W.D.].

2

Antoni Trębicki (1764?-1834), Polish politician and publicist, declaring against Kościuszko Uprising.

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when writing about the Kościuszko Uprising,3 left a note, in which he pointed out that the information provided was to be an example to its readers: A witness of that day, I will describe all its details, as they appeared before my eyes, so that the reader, living later, would learn to hold in contempt the perpetrators of the crime of the people of Warsaw, would be disgusted by this shameful act and would never again allow it to stain the homeland’s fields with blood of a fearful crowd. (Świadek tego dnia, opiszę wszystkie jego szczegóły, tak jak się snuły przed mymi oczyma, ażeby żyjący i późny czytelnik w rzetelnym tym wizerunku zbrodni ludu warszawskiego nauczył się gardzić jej sprawcami, miał ten czyn sromotny w obrzydzeniu i nigdy mu nie dał ponowić się i kazić krwią od ludu zhukanego przelaną ziemię ojczystą. [Trębicki 1967: 310; see (Tarnowska) 1876: 1])

Correspondence was different, which remained a very important method of communicating one’s thoughts. To provide this communication, two persons were necessary – writer and reader were dependent on one another. The development of communication that took place in the 19th century by improving communication connections allowed for a regular exchange of long letters and quickly receiving responses (Czernik 1987). As it was written in the obituary dedicated to Koźmian, writing memoirs was “the custom of people deeply advanced in age” (“zwyczajem ludzi w głęboką starość posunionych” [(Anonymous) 1856: 15]). The exchange of correspondence, on the other hand, was an important channel of (even everyday) communication. We will explore how these considerations relate to the texts of Wężyk and Koźmian. By confronting memoirs and correspondence, we will verify their functionality (see Duży 2014).

3

This was related to the events of May 9, 1794, when a rumor was spread about an attempt to kidnap the king Stanisław August, which resulted in an execution of the traitors.

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M EMOIRS

AS A

L EGACY

FOR

F UTURE G ENERATIONS ?

Kajetan Koźmian was born in 1771 in Gałęzów and died in 1856 on an estate in Piotrowice, both in the Lublin Province. In 1785 in Witulin, also in the Lublin Province, Franciszek Wężyk was born; he died in 1862 in Cracow. Both of them, apart from creating poetry, were engaged in public service. Both authors lived to see an advanced age. As Stanisław Tomkowicz, the publisher of both Koźmian’s and Wężyk’s correspondence, points out, the lonely old men, surrounded by a new generation of social activists and authors, began exchanging letters in 1845, when Wężyk sent a – now lost – letter to Koźmian. After some time, around 1851, the correspondence became regular and remained so until Koźmian’s death in 1856 (Koźmian and Wężyk 1914: 5). The first collection of source texts which were analyzed for the purposes of this work are therefore letters exchanged between Wężyk, who was over 60 years old, and Koźmian, who, in the middle of the 19th century, was over 70 years old. At the same time, apart from literary works and the letters discussed, both writers created their memoirs. Wężyk, as he mentions in his memoir, had tried writing memoirs a few times. The first time he started his work in 1845, but this memoir was then abandoned. Ten years later, in June 1855, Wężyk wrote an autobiography (as he called it),4 which he decided to enclose in his second memoir, written in 1857. This memoir was “based on actions well-remembered” (“polegaiącym na czynach mnie dobrze swiadomych” [(Wężyk), n. d. vol. 18: 22])5 and was more concise than the first project. Wężyk’s plan was to finish this memoir before dying; nevertheless he took a long intermission in writing – until November 1858 ([Wężyk] n. d., vol. 18: 22). Finally, he managed to finish the project once started: When, at the end of the year 1861, the cracovian “Czas”6 started to fill its content with memoirs translated from French of a diplomat about the Duchy of Warsaw […]

4

The manuscript of Franciszek Wężyk’s autobiography is currently in the library

5

In this and all following quotations, original spelling has been retained.

6

Czas, which literally means “Time,” was a conservative daily newspaper pub-

of the National Ossolinski Institute in Wrocław ([Wężyk] n. d., vol. 19).

lished in Cracow between 1848 and 1939.

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I felt the duty to write a few words about that important, but unknown period, not because I wanted to correct or deny anyone, but to leave a trace of my opinion about the Homeland’s affairs. Since the y[ear] 1807, I have been a civil servant. That opened relationships with many men that were basking in glory then. Since the y[ear] 1810, a deputy to the Sejm7 of the Duchy of Warsaw and a member of the Warsaw Society of Friends of Sciences. In the y[ear] 1812, a member of the General Council of the General Confederation of the Kingdom of Poland, I watched the national matters from a very close proximity, and of that I am giving an honest account in the attached remarks, which conclude this memoir. Cracow, 25 January 1862 in the 77th year of my life. Fr[anciszek] Wężyk. (Gdy w końcu roku 1861 Czas krakowski zaczął odcinki swego pisma zaymować przekładem z francuskiego pamiętników dyplomaty o Księstwie Warszawskim […] poczułem pewien obowiązek skreslenia slow kilku o tey tak wazney, a tak nieznaney epoce, nie dlatego ażebym innych poprawiał lub im zaprzeczał ale zebym slad zostawił mojego zapatrywania się na sprawy Oyczyzny. Od R[oku] 1807 byłem w słuzbie publiczney. Ta mi otwarła stosunki z wielu męzami którzy podówczas swietnieli. Od R[oku] 1810 poseł na Seym Księstwa Warszawskiego i Członek Towarzystwa przyiacioł nauk w Warszawie. W R[oku] 1812 członek Rady Jeneralney Konfederacyi Krol. Polskiego, patrzałem z bliska na sprawy krajowe i z tego zdaię Sumienną sprawę w przyłączonych uwagach, ktoremi ten pamiętnik Zamykam. Krakow d. 25 stycznia 1862 w roku 77 mego Zywota. Fr[anciszek] Węzyk. [(Wężyk) n. d., vol. 18: 91-92]).

Wężyk began his memoir by recalling his childhood, which “coincided with the sad moments of old Poland’s agony” (“przypadło na smętne chwile konania dawney Polski” [(Wężyk) n. d., vol. 18: 1]). He did not judge the events in which he did not participate due to his age ([Wężyk] n. d., vol. 18: 3-4). He clearly separated personal and family issues, to which he devoted space in his autobiography addressed to his children, from the information about what he deemed an important, and yet unknown, era

7

The Sejm of the Duchy of Warsaw was established in 1807 and had limited legislative power in the Duchy of Warsaw, a Polish quasi-state created by the French Emperor Napoleon I as part of the Treaties of Tilsit. The Sejm consisted of the Senate and the Chamber of Deputies.

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about which he wrote in his memoir. Wężyk wrote an autobiography and a memoir, and then combined them, but the autobiography was a separate project. The memoir, as shown below, has its own purpose deriving from Wężyk’s previous public activity. His senior, Kajetan Koźmian, recorded all his notes in one, comprehensive memoir.8 An analysis of Koźmian’s memoir is much easier than that of Wężyk’s memoirs because it has been issued in print and accompanied by a research commentary. His life and works, too, especially in recent years, have been analyzed more often than those of Wężyk. Koźmian’s memoirs were published soon after their creation in the 19th century, undoubtedly due to the significance of the author, who died two years before their publication. It was published in three volumes, with the first and second one (covering the period from 1780 until 1815) published in 1858, and the third one in 1865 ([Koźmian] 1858; [Koźmian] 1865). Researchers suggest that the memoirs were created certainly after 1848, perhaps between January 1852 and October 1853, with additions made in 1855 (Kopacz 1972: 6). It is possible that the author used some previously prepared notes, which would justify how he could have created such an extensive body of work in such a short time, but not all researchers agree with this opinion (Zabielski 2015: 196-197). Starting his work, Koźmian was at least 77. As he wrote in his letters to Wężyk in September 1852: “I remain on my feet and slowly drag old age behind me, sometimes throwing my memoirs out of my fantasy onto paper” (“Ja utrzymuję się na nogach i wlekę powoli starość, rzucając czasem na papier według fantazyi moje wspomnienia” [Koźmian and Wężyk 1914: 78]). Koźmian consistently remained true to his ideals (Zabielski 2015: 23). Yet he could not make use of his experience or thoughts (Zabielski 2015: 12, 15) due to significant changes in the social and ideological structure in the 19th century. He then withdrew from public life and settled in the coun-

8

This is partly the poet’s description of his public activities, allowing for a verification of Koźmian’s attitudes and views at the time. As indicated by Piotr Zbikowski, “a personal and emotional commitment to the writer in these events, certified by a personal participation in them, or by numerous statements of poetry, in which he declared himself constantly as an ardent and farsighted patriot and a wise politician, allows – as it seems – to reject once and for all an unjust accusation of opportunism and agreeableness” (Żbikowski 1972: 7).

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tryside, where he created, wrote letters and memoirs. Koźmian’s stability of views9 is emphasized even by the unsympathetic Franciszek Salezy Dmochowski10: The last 25 years of his life, [Koźmian] spent in a remote countryside, far from all sorts of public affairs, proved that although his say was different from that of the younger generation, he stuck to his own beliefs; he did not veer from the path, and this is a thing worthy of respect in every man. (Ostatnie 25 lat życia [Koźmiana], spędzone w ustroni wiejskiej, z daleka od wszelakich spraw publicznych, udowodniły, że chociaż różnił się w zdaniu od młodszego pokolenia, jednakże trzymał się własnego przekonania; nie szedł ubocznymi względami, a to jest rzecz godna szacunku w każdym człowieku. [Dmochowski 1959: 274; see Kufel 2000: 88])

It is not surprising that in all of Koźmian’s memoirs there are evident references to the old days and a lack of a tendency to “educate” future generations (Zabielski 2015: 285; see Mannheim 1952: 276-320). Koźmian mentioned that he willingly shares his knowledge with the coming generations, but only on the condition that they return to the old, classic enlightenment values. The old writer chose to create in spite of the contemporary romantic aesthetic tastes, rather than to turn away from the old, enlightened masters (Zabielski 2015: 198-200). This attitude was also familiar to Wężyk (Czwórnóg-Jadczak 1994: 199).

9

It must be remembered that Koźmian’s literary work, in the last stage of his life, strongly alluded to the past – as shown in the structure and the content of the poem Stefan Czarniecki (written from 1832 until 1847 and published in 1858) and another poem, similar in its message, Polish landowners (Ziemiaństwo polskie; published in 1839), which was written over many years.

10 Franciszek Salezy Dmochowski (1801-1871), Polish publisher, publicist, translator, writer and literary critic.

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C ORRESPONDENCE

VS .

M EMOIRS

The letters that passed between Franciszek Wężyk and Kajetan Koźmian in the years 1845-1856 deserve special attention (Czwórnóg-Jadczak 1997: 53-62). The discussed correspondence’s key characteristic is its gradual change in character – letters, initially only on matters related to literary work, over time, become more “everyday” or even intimate. Following their line carefully, including their dates, one can surmise how the intensity of the friendship between the two authors grew. One can extract several main thematic threads in the correspondence. In addition to comments concerning literature (Koźmian and Wężyk 1914: 39, 93-95, 109), we find a significant number of observations related to the health condition of the correspondents, aging of their organisms and loss of strength (ibid.: 30, 31, 35, 40, 42, 44, 47, 48, 50, 52, 63, 78, 89, 114, 115, 118, 142, 150, 172, 175, 176, 190, 191, 223, 233, 234, 242-244, 255). There are, of course, obvious comments on cultural and political life – questions asked mainly by Koźmian, who rarely left his establishment in Piotrowice, where he moved to in 1832. Wężyk, however, reported the events that he witnessed, or about which he heard from reliable sources (ibid.: 45, 61, 91, 122). Two old writers, who were already distant from affairs of public life, did not seclude themselves in family life and boundaries of their own work. They read very much and were acquainted with contemporary literary life. The letters referred to different current affairs. In the analyzed correspondence there are no proper references to the past, which were so well described in the memoirs. None of the authors refers to the events mentioned by the memoirs: they exchange only few comments and add in their letters some information that they are working on their memoirs (ibid.: 53, 237, 254). On the other hand, the memoirs produced at a similar time contain virtually no complex reflection on the progressive aging of both writers. It is the letters that show that their daily lives are becoming sad (ibid.: 56), that both are becoming increasingly lonely, that their circle of correspondents is growing smaller (ibid.: 77-78, 89, 162, 231, 240), that they are getting too old to write (ibid.: 154-155). But it should also be noticed that one of the letters features a note that old age allows considerable creative freedom – there is no reason for anyone to favor anyone, and one can write freely (ibid.: 135-136). The correspondence also discussed the exchange process itself – it was repeatedly proved that letters were sent simultaneously, disturbing the rhythm of writ-

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ing and reading, resulting in an exchange of ideas that could not run smoothly (ibid.: 178, 220). Apparently it was not a welcome situation, since a rule was introduced over time that Franciszek would write to Koźmian only on the first day of the month so that there would be sufficient time between the successive letters to answer them (ibid.: 58, 174). This exchange of thoughts was of considerable importance for both correspondents, as evidenced by a very personal tone of some statements, such as that the letter was short due to the fact that it was written in bed – Koźmian corresponded with Wężyk until the very last moments of his life (ibid.: 258).

E RLEBNIS

VS .

E RFAHRUNG

In an anonymous Polish memoir, published in 1895, it was said: In the old days, each and every one wrote down their memoirs. So was the fashion – today it would be ridiculous. There are memoirs we find almost only in novels, where sometimes they play a role in an intrigue, and sometimes are used simply as a literary form. (Dawniej każdy i każda nieledwie spisywali swoje pamiętniki. Tak była moda – dziś byłoby to śmiesznością. Dla tego też pamiętniki spotykamy już niemal tylko w powieściach, gdzie czasem grają rolę w zwietrzonej intrydze, a czasem użyte są wprost, jako forma literacka. [(Anonymous) 1895: 161])

Koźmian and Wężyk, both politically active, published memoirs evoking thoughts and feelings. At the same time, as poets and writers, they were able to use memoirs in a “typical” form for the situation of the 19th century, making them “literary forms” and even “historic diaries,” in accordance with the current fashion. Their correspondence, on the other hand, was a channel of communication – a “conversation” between the two professionals, who, in time, became friends – or even a kind of a diary in which one could write reflections on current events and feelings. It was a tool to help handle issues that take time, to have a chance to become the subject of a reflection. The role of these two types of presenting of views and opinions is worth further reflection. In this case – because of the advanced age of both of the authors

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and their wide field of interests and activities – we refer to a particular category, which is experience. Experience consists of involvement (Ger. Erlebnis) and knowledge (Ger. Erfahrung).11 Erlebnis should be considered as individual, personal and direct. Erfahrung correlates with a cultural context and a process of gaining knowledge, it is public and collective. “Life” (Ger. Leben) from Erlebnis and “travel” (Ger. Fahrt) from Erfahrung are inseparable. One gains experience through the course of life; it is primarily elder people who have gathered it. Their testimonies are thus an invaluable source of knowledge about what is not available to the majority of the population. For historians who are interested in research on the history of mentality, such documents are useful sources. But the problem arises when one tries to extrapolate the results of analyses on a wider field and tries to generalize them. Luckily, thanks to the methodology of research of egodocuments (Ger. Selbstzeugnisse; Skowrońska et al. 2014), we currently possess the tools to restore memoirs to their proper place among the sources of narrative (Kieniewicz 1971). Historians of literature studies show, however, that it is still difficult to avoid simplifications resulting from the fact that memoirs are treated as a source of historical knowledge of the authors, not as a record of their life experience (Zabielski 2015: 20; see Mycielski 2004). The presented example of memoirs and correspondence of Franciszek Wężyk and Kajetan Koźmian clearly shows the difference between Erlebnis and Erfahrung. The current course of events (i.e. Erlebnisse) is represented, in this case, in the letters exchanged by both writers. Their memoirs, on the other hand, are part of the authors’ experience record (i.e. Erfahrung). This distinction allows us to understand the motivations which influenced the authors of said memoirs. This was not (only) because of a desire to transfer their knowledge to posterity, as often happened in the case

11 This division was recently proposed by Joanna Hobot-Marcinek in her treatise on the creativity of Czesław Miłosz, Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz and Tadeusz Różewicz (Hobot-Marcinek 2012) – artists who, by virtue of their attained age, have attempted to describe their own experience of aging. Her analysis mainly includes verses and poems. Theoretical background for Hobot-Marciek’s considerations is Martin Jay’s book Songs of Experience: Modern European and American Variations on a Universal Theme (Jay 2004; Polish translation: Pieśni doświadczenia, transl. A. Rejniak-Majewska, Kraków 2008).

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of memoirs created at the turn of the 18th and 19th centuries (PotockaWąsowiczowa 1965: 61; [Jabłonowski] 1875: 4; see Mycielski 1994: 92). This was not a part of the process associated with the transmission of knowledge from generation to generation and accumulation of its successive layers (Mannheim 1952: 292). In the case of these memoirs – as in the case of elder poets, whose work was analyzed by Hobot-Marcinek – there is a desire to gather one’s own life experience. Aware of their passing, they abandoned writing about current daily practice for the sake of knowledge and opinions – which is why the content of the memoirs refers to the past and does not coincide with the content of the letters. This correspondence becomes a reservoir of events and comments regarding the still-ongoing life. But this is not the life that either of them – especially the now very old Koźmian – wants to “practice”. Koźmian wrote to his friend: Your letters are like a nourishing balm for me; when I read them, I say to myself: “This is me, despite my decrepitude I have not become infirm, when I think in a way Wężyk thinks, when we suffer for the same reasons, and when I feel and express discontent as he does, and if I had a talent now, I would like to write like he does.” (Listy twoje sa dla mnie ożywiającym balsamem; gdy je czytam, mówię sobie: “To ja, mimo zgrzybiałej starości, nie zniedołężniałem jeszcze, kiedy tak myślę, jak Wężyk myśli, kiedy na to, na co on cierpi, ja, tak jak on, cierpię i obruszam się i, gdybym miał talent teraz jego, tak bym chciał pisać, jak on pisze.” [Koźmian and Wężyk 1914: 118])

Koźmian commented on his current life even more directly: This is a sad fate for a stomach to fall into a mash and a porridge, and for a mind into mean stories and rhymed nonsense. Stupid world, but people do not believe it and only before death do they recognize the truth. (Smutna dola starości spaść żołądkiem często na kleik i kaszkę, a umysłem na liche powiastki i rymowane brednie. Głupi świat, ale ludzie temu nie wierzą i dopiero przed samą śmiercią spostrzegają prawdę. [ibid.: 150])

Wężyk also mentioned in one of his letters to a friend that Providence wisely organized the world in which a bed is the most comfortable place for an

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old man – the place that soon will leave only his spirit (ibid.: 114-115). Therefore, their opinions, views and attitudes present mainly the sphere of Erfahrung – experiences that have already entered the past. They have been thought out, filtered, selected and in such form placed on the pages of their memoirs. Maybe that is why “they know nothing because of their weakness” (“nic nie wiedzą z powodu swojej słabości”) (ibid.: 63), as they wrote in their letters. They do not know anything about present times, because their knowledge concentrates on the past, and this is the legacy they want to transfer to posterity in their memoirs (see Pilcher 1994: 488-489). This ordeal is part of their experience (see Czermińska 2004). Those two old writers with a huge practice in the public sphere in the past, in the last phase of their lives wanted to highlight their public experience, their Erfahrung (see Hobot-Marcinek 2012: 33-34). Therefore for historians interested in egodocuments the most important task should be to analyze their correspondence, not memoirs. The latter ought to be considered as auxiliary historical sources (see Kieniewicz 1971). All current moments and thoughts of two elder writers, Koźmian’s and Wężyk’s Erlebnisse, can be found in the letters between them. Their memoirs should be considered as literary works of two writers with superior writing skills and knowledge of the power of the written word. In the history of European literature there are well-known works on old age and aging, from Cicero and Seneca to Goethe and Tolstoj. The works of Franciszek Wężyk and Kajetan Koźmian are a part of this long and colorful tradition, with the fundamental difference that old age and related problems were allowed to appear only in the letters, to be read by only a single person. Translated from Polish in collaboration with Dorian Sobołtyński This article was written as part of the project “Podpora výzkumných kapacit na Filozoficko-přírodovědecké fakultě Slezské Univerzity (č. DT1/02611/2014/RRC).”

R EFERENCES [Anonymous] (1856): Życie Kajetana Koźmiana. Poznań (= 1st edition printed in: Przegląd Poznański).

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[Anonymous] (1895): “Bezimienne pamiętniki”, in: Kronika rodzinna, 161. Cieński, Andrzej (1981a): Pamiętnikarstwo polskie XVIII wieku. Wrocław. Cieński, Andrzej (1981b): “‘Dzieje moje własne’ Wirydianny Fiszerowej na tle pamiętnikarstwa oświeceniowego”, in: Pamiętnik Literacki 2 (72), 23-41. Czermińska, Małgorzata (2004): Autobiograficzny trójkąt. Świadectwo, wyznanie i wyzwanie. Kraków. Czernik, Mieczysław (1987): Poczta Królestwa Polskiego w latach 18151851: organizacja i dokumentacja działalności. Wrocław. Czwórnóg-Jadczak, Barbara (1994): Klasyk aż do śmierci. Twórczość literacka Franciszka Wężyka. Lublin. Czwórnóg-Jadczak, Barbara (1997): “Matuzalemowie klasycyzmu. W kręgu literackiej korespondencji Kajetana Koźmiana i Franciszka Wężyka”, in: Ostasz, Gustaw/Uliasz, Stanisław (eds.): Od Oświecenia do Romantyzmu. Prace ofiarowane Piotrowi Żbikowskiemu. Rzeszów, 53-62. Dmochowski, Franciszek Salezy (1959): Wspomnienia. Od 1806 do 1830 roku. Warszawa. Duży, Wiesława (2014): “Authors of Polish Memoirs from the Turn of 18th and 19th Centuries Concerning Old Age: The Functions of Memoirs”, in: Skowrońska, Renata et al. (eds): Selbstzeugnisse im polnischen und deutschen Schrifttum im Spätmittelalter und in der Frühen Neuzeit (15.18. Jahrhundert). Vol. 1. Toruń, 349-366. Hobot-Marcinek, Joanna (2012): Stara baba i Goethe. Doświadczenie i transgresja starości: Tadeusz Różewicz, Czesław Miłosz, Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz. Kraków. [Jabłonowski, Antoni] (1875): Pamiętnik księcia Antoniego Jabłonowskiego, kasztelana krakowskiego. Lwów. Jay, Martin (2004): Songs of Experience: Modern European and American Variations on a Universal Theme. Berkley, Los Angeles, London. Kieniewicz, Stefan (1971): “Materiały pamiętnikarskie w moim warsztacie badawczym”, in: Pamiętnikarstwo Polskie 2, 29-33. Konopczyński, Władysław (1930): “Polityka i ustrój Generalności Konfederacji Barskiej. Dwa nieznane przyczynki”, in: Archiwum Komisyi Historycznej 2 (14), 41-111. Kopacz, Artur (1972): “Przedmowa”, in: Koźmian, Kajetan (1972): Pamiętniki. Vol. 1. Wrocław, 1-6.

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[Koźmian, Kajetan] (1858): Pamiętniki Kajetana Koźmiana obejmujące wspomnienia od 1780 do roku 1815. Vol. 1-2. Poznań. [Koźmian, Kajetan] (1865): Pamiętniki Kajetana Koźmiana obejmujące wspomnienia od roku 1815. Kraków. Koźmian, Kajetan/Wężyk Franciszek (1914): Korespondencya literacka Kajetana Koźmiana z Franciszkiem Wężykiem (1845-1856). Kraków (= Archiwum do dziejów literatury i oświaty w Polsce; 14). Kufel, Slawomir (2000): “Nad Ziemiaństwem polskim” Kajetana Koźmiana. Interpretacje i teksty. Zielona Góra. Mannheim, Karl (1952): Essays on the Sociology of Knowledge. London. Mycielski, Maciej (1994): Marcin Badeni (1751-1824). Kariera kontuszowego ministra. Warszawa. Mycielski, Maciej (2004): “Miasto ma mieszkańców, wieś obywateli”. Kajetana Koźmiana koncepcje wspólnoty politycznej (do 1830 roku). Wrocław. Niemcewicz, Julian Ursyn (1958): Pamiętniki czasów moich. Vol. 1. Warszawa. Pilcher, Jane (1994): “Mannheim’s Sociology of Generations: An Undervalued Legacy”, in: British Journal of Sociology, 45, 481-495. Potocka-Wąsowiczowa, Anna z Tyszkiewiczów (1965): Wspomnienia naocznego świadka. Warszawa. Roćko, Agata (2001): Pamiętniki polskich zesłańców na Syberię w XVIII wieku. Olsztyn. Roszak, Stanisław (2004): Archiwa sarmackiej pamięci. Funkcje i znaczenie rękopiśmiennych ksiąg silva rerum w kulturze Rzeczypospolitej XVIII wieku. Toruń. Roszak, Stanislaw (2012): Koniec świata sarmackich erudytów. Toruń. Skowrońska et al. (eds.) (2014): Selbstzeugnisse im polnischen und deutschen Schrifttum im Spätmittelalter und in der Frühen Neuzeit (15.-18. Jahrhundert). Vol. 1. Toruń. Starobinski, Jean (2009): “Styl autobiografii”, in: Czermińska, Małgorzata (ed.): Autobiography (Autobiografia). Gdańsk, 83-97. [Tarnowska, Urszula] (1876): Pamiętnik damy polskiej z XVIII. Wieku (Urszuli z Ustrzyckich Tarnowskiej). Lwów. Tomkowicz, Stanisław (1878): “Żywot Franciszka Wężyka z użyciem głównie własnych zapisków poety skreślony”, in: Wężyk, Franciszek:

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Pisma… Poezye z pośmiertnych rękopisów. Vol. 2: Utwory dramtyczne z dodaniem urywkowych pamiętników autora. Kraków, 287-429. Trębicki, Antoni (1967): Opisanie sejmu ekstraordynaryjnego podziałowego roku 1793 w Grodnie. O rewolucji roku 1794. Warszawa. Trzynadlowski, Jan (1975): “List i pamiętnik. Dwie formy wypowiedzi osobistej”, in: Pamiętnikarstwo Polskie 1-4, 79-87. [Wężyk, Franciszek] (n. d., vol. 18): “Pamiętnik Fr[anciszka] Wężyka”. Library of the National Ossolinski Institute in Wrocław, manuscript, sign. 12313/II. [Wężyk, Franciszek] (n. d., vol. 19): “Papiery Franciszka Wężyka.” Library of the National Ossolinski Institute in Wrocław, manuscript, sign. 12314/I. Zabielski, Łukasz (2015): Meandry antyromantyczności. Kajetan Koźmian i romantycy polscy. Kraków. Żbikowski, Piotr (1972): Kajetan Koźmian. Vol. 1: Poeta i obywatel. Wrocław, Warszawa, Kraków, Gdańsk.

Aging in Renaissance Dalmatia The Case of Petar Hektorović N ATALIA S TAGL -Š KARO Let everybody know his age of life and assess what befits him and act accordingly to his age…1 HEKTOROVIĆ TO VETRANOVIĆ

I NTRODUCTION This contribution deals with age roles in Dalmatia between medieval and modern times as represented in the book Fishing and Fishermen’s Conversations and Other Pieces Rendered by Petar Hektorović of Hvar (Ribanje i ribarsko prigovaranje i razlike stvari ine složene po Petretu Hektoroviću Hvaraninu), published 1568 in Venice. The Dalmatian Renaissance poet Petar Hektorović (1487-1572), a humanist, landowner and patrician from the island of Hvar, left several legacies: his book, his idyllic house, which includes a fortress, chapel and old people’s home, and a charitable foundation. He reached an advanced age for his time, and death, aging and age roles play a prominent part in his literary texts, especially in his epistles to Gracioza Lovrinčeva and Mavro Vetranović, but also in his best-received and most well-read narrative poem Fishing and Fishermen’s Conversations

1

“Svak ima smisliti vrime u kom stoji, / dobro prociniti ča mu se pristoji / tere dilovati…” (Hektorović 1986: v. 129-131), see below.

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(Ribanje i ribarsko prigovaranje). It is dated 1556 and had been finished shortly before.2 This poem in Croatian elaborates new aesthetics in literature and art as well as new ethics both Christian and social, differing from the heroic-archaic ethics which should belong to the past, according to Hektorović. In his opinion eras of the past had been heroic, reflected in their ethics and aesthetics, but now a new period of international culture and commerce has begun. In his book he therefore undertakes the construction of a new literary language and civic ethics.3 Fishing and Fishermen’s Conversations reached canonical status in 19th-century Croatia. It is considered a founding document of Croatian literature and it is still mandatory reading in all school curricula, especially because of the included folk songs. These are some of the first pieces of oral literature ever written down in the Southern Slavia. The reasons for including them in his poem – besides their beauty and folkloristic interest – were in a way revolutionary. Hektorović strove to found a new standardized literary language and literature by combining the languages and literatures of the common people and the social elite, using the oral material said epics present. The folk songs further contrast the overcome archaic and the emerging new civic cultures. Fishing and Fishermen’s Conversations is daringly hybrid, creating a new form out of traditional genres: the bucolic fishermen’s eclogue, travel poem and verse epistle.4 On the meta-level of the poem Hektorović thus propounds a new ethic in the spirit of Christian humanism for a harmonious coexistence of rich and poor as well as among various ethnic and religious groups (Franičević 1983: 410). Therefore despite his aristocratic family background he is often called a democratic author:

2

For Hektorović as an author and for a complete analysis of his cycle see my forthcoming book Petar Hektorović. Werk und Leben eines Dichters der kroatischen Renaissance (1487-1572). Ins Deutsche übertragen, eingeleitet und kommentiert von Natalia Stagl-Škaro.

3

Novak (1996: 325-326) is of a similar opinion. He interprets the fishing trip as highly symbolical, dealing with a praise of “baština,” which he loosely defines as language, culture and poetics – or, in our terms, aesthetics – as the center of Hektorović’s concern and legacy for the future.

4

On the shorter pieces see below.

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Where are the knights now, of whom you told, Dukes and Princes you have mentioned? They’re no more on this earth, scarcely their names are known... (Gdi su sad vitezi od kih pripraviste, vojvode i knezi kojih spominjaste? Na svit jih sada ni, jedva se ime njih zna... [v. 1519-1521])5

Hektorović did not publish any of his literary texts until he was almost 80 years old. Only his illnesses announcing approaching death brought him to abstain from his practice of sharing his texts only with his friends in the form of epistles. Public reception and fame were not cherished by all Renaissance authors; many preferred to be known only within their own circles. The sudden publication of his book shortly before his death shows that Hektorović considered his book to be a piece of intellectual heritage for the entire population on whose language and literature it was based. The book consists of one long poem Fishing and Fishermen’s Conversations (Text 1) in Croatian and 15 shorter texts of various genres (epistles, poems and laments). Some of these are in Croatian and some in Italian or Latin. The author’s choice of languages corresponds to the triglossia, which was typical for Dalmatia at that time: Croatian was spoken by everybody, the rich and the poor, men and women. It was thus designated as the language of work and home life, and before the Renaissance was not used for literary purposes. Italian was the language of commerce, administration and international Renaissance culture known to all professional men in public life and few women. Latin was the language of science, classical and medieval literature and the sole domain of the highly educated and rich (almost without exception) men. All the apparently heterogeneous texts in the book are interconnected to form a tripartite cycle. Text 1, which constitutes the first cycle, is quite long: 1684 lines in crosswise rhymed verses of twelve

5

All English translations of Fishing and Fishermen’s Conversations are by Goy (1997). All other translations are my own, as these texts have never been translated. All Croatian quotations are from Hektorović (1986). Novak (1997) interprets the above verses as memento mori. I concur with him in a broader sense.

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syllables each (dvanaesterac). The action level describes the narrator’s recreational cruise in the company of local fishermen and on a meta-level his quest for a new Croatian culture and literature. The action level is constituted by the “fishing” and the exchange of wisdom, the “fishermen’s conversations” of the title. The dissemination of wisdom has always been the mainstay of age laments in literature, and as it plays a constitutional part in Text 1, we are thus justified in reading the same in the light of age roles.

AGE R OLES IN THE P OEM F ISHING AND F ISHERMEN ’ S C ONVERSATIONS On the action level the narrator identifies with the author Hektorović, an elderly but sturdy gentleman. He undertakes a three-day sailing trip in the company of three fishermen from his home island Hvar. Their journey takes them from Hvar to the islands Brač and Šolta and back again to Hvar. The narrator is described with all his likes and dislikes, strengths and weaknesses. His advanced age would have preordained him for the role of grandfather, but his social status as a member of the landowning aristocracy and the employer of his traveling companions set him apart from others of his age. It is impossible to analyze his interaction with the fishermen and to conclude definitely whether he was treated with such deference because of his age or his social position. The three fishermen represent the three ages of man: childhood, adulthood and old age (or maybe four: childhood, youth, adulthood and old age if we include the narrator), quite enough for Hektorović, who chose to disregard the more involved medieval concept which was still common at that time. His concept of age roles is as progressive as his social policies and poetics.6 The fishermen are prototypes without much individuality and as such represent the ways of the new era:

6

Ancient concepts counted three, four or seven ages and the medieval concept knew up to twelve ages of man corresponding to the months of the year’s cycle (see Burrow 1986). Hektorović, however, preferred the threefold concept mostly accepted in modernity of childhood, adulthood equaling erotic love and lastly old age synonymous with approaching death; this was also used by the painter Titian, popular in the 15th century, in his painting Tre età dell’uomo (15121514).

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One, Paskoy, was a good and honest man, The other Nikola, both young and handsome. The one was nicknamed Tub, the other Son, […].7 (Paskoja jednoga, dobra muža i prava, Nikolu drugoga, mlada i gizdava. Jedan se DebeĮa, drugi Zet naziva, […]. [v. 47-49])

Paskoj is the elder of the two, master of the house and paterfamilias in command of his son-in-law. Nikola has married into the family, the house and the business – a difficult and unpopular position to be in. Today marrying into a house is still considered shameful in Dalmatia and men who do this are given the pejorative name domazet. To his father-in-law Nikola is a welcome addition to the household and free labor, being totally dependent on Paskoj’s authority. Had he taken an outsider with him Paskoj would have had to pay and share his catch with him; thus Nikola is a much more convenient companion. Paskoj’s abovementioned “goodness” and “honesty” refer to a worldview based on wisdom. Wisdom as an attribute of age, as opposed to individually learned philosophy, enhances even more Paskoj’s position regarding the younger members of his family. Nikola as the second in age, line of command and inheritance has to rely on Paskoj to take over his rights and position the day he abdicates. Paskoj’s nickname shows him to be stout and therefore well-to-do, an unusual trait among the traditionally poor fishermen of barren Dalmatia. Nikola on the other hand is young and slim because he can only participate in his father-in-law’s prosperity as a dependent and because he has the function of an errand boy. Moreover, his father-in-law feels compelled to instruct him constantly in wisdom before he can even consider letting Nikola take over. The difference in hierarchy shows also in that the elder asks questions and gives riddles to solve, which the younger has to answer. Exchange of gifts, kisses or speeches is one of the mainstays of the bucolic genre. But the seemingly playful exchange is often connected with subdued rivalry underlying the riddles, talks, songs and catechism-like questions and answers, which the fishermen exchange while rowing, thereby rhythmicizing their heavy work. In the case of Paskoj and Nikola the rivalry is also one of their different age

7

Goy is mistranslating: it should be “son-in-law” instead of “son”.

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roles. The wisdom revealed in these “fishermen’s conversations” is based on popular traditions, partly taken from the Bible or classical literature. All the riddles and questions Paskoj concocts have a serious background. He is testing Nikola’s quickness of mind and also his resilience, for he must find out whether the younger man has absorbed enough wisdom to eventually lead the business and the family and also whether he is ready to honor and provide for its elderly members. The third and youngest fisherman is so inconspicuous that he is regularly overlooked by readers. But this inconspicuousness is both symbolic and programmatic. He is mentioned only twice: Paskoy also brought his son to help, To use the plunger to scare up the fish […]. (Još Paskoj dovede sina za potribe, koji š ńim prisede, da buca na ribe […]. [v. 61-62]) And here, not pausing to draw breath, they [sic] anchored […]. (Totu plav staviše, svi tri ne pridišu […].8 [v. 1073])

Thereby the unnamed boy is distinguished from his elders and betters whose talkative presence is conspicuous throughout the text. The typical household on the Balkan Peninsula was called zadruga. It consisted of a patriarchal, horizontal family managing their property together in quasi communism. Everything, including land, livestock and equipment, was owned together and the women divided the housework and childrearing among themselves. There was no private property except personal belongings and the men worked together, either in the fields or in an additional industry, such as fishing. The eldest or most capable man was the starješina, the head of the household who ruled as long as he could. When he became decrepit he was succeeded by the next in line expected to be a good manager. Difficult decisions like choosing the starješina, buying or selling land or dividing up the zadruga were voted on. Every grown and married man had a vote and a voice in a zadruga’s council (Bandalović/Buzov 2012; Ardalić 1899). Paskoj’s son obviously had neither since he never speaks in front of his elders. In a zadruga household men were married as soon as feasible

8

Goy is mistranslating here. Literally it goes: “All three…”.

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because their wives added to the family with their dowry and working potential. The usual marriage age was about 18 years. Our nameless fisher boy must be younger but still strong enough to row and thus is probably between 15 and 18 years old. Besides being a helping hand he has a much more important role on the text’s ideal level: a mute receiver of teachings of wisdom (Koch 1998: 266-267). He is third and last in age and hierarchy and labors without even being told, anticipating the wishes of his elders. Nikola, the second in hierarchy, is not a mute tool. It is always Paskoj who orders him to run errands and do his bidding. When he suggests that Nikola amuse the narrator the latter’s answer is: So come, do thou begin; thou art the wiser, Older than I in skill as well as years. (Nudire počni ti, ki si razumniji uminjem, i liti od mene stariji. [v. 117-118])

Paskoj proposes a riddle, which Nikola solves, thereby winning a cup of wine donated by the narrator. But it is Paskoj who sings panegyric songs to the latter in lieu of a toast. Moreover it is only Paskoj who dares to address the narrator directly and even to criticize him mildly (v. 739). When Paskoj chooses to impress with a longish tale of the cycle of water, Nikola takes on the role of his souffleur and urges him to continue his tale. Later on Nikola prepares dinner and serves his elders. On the morning of the second day, emboldened by his perfect performance in his duties of the day before, Nikola for the first time takes the initiative and sings a song. This oral epic was probably noted down directly by Hektorović from refugees from the mainland fleeing from the Ottoman invasion and settling on the safer islands. It deals with a fight between brothers because of division of property and includes a bewitching girl and a hero mother.9 The narrator and Paskoj praise and reprimand Nikola according to his performance. Nikola accepts these reactions without comment or so it seems. Closer reading shows that the constant instructions are beginning to grate on him. He doesn’t com-

9

Maybe the division of property as a topic for Nikola’s song is a discreet hint advising Paskoj to divide his own property between his son and son-in-law. About the question why Nikola is associated with the mainland and probably also orthodox culture see Stagl-Škaro ([forthcoming]: 1.6.VI).

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plain openly but indirectly and subtly in his chanted replies to Paskoj’s questions: Paskoy: “What’s easy and what’s hard, come tell me that! For I’d be grateful, did’st thou tell me both! Nikola: “Hard is it for a man to know himself And easy is it others to reproach.” (Paskoj: “Rec’ mi mučno što je, i lahko, ako viš? Jer bih rad, oboje toj meni da poviš.” Nikola: “Svakomu mučno je sama sebe znati, a za tim lahko je družih pokarati.” [v. 909-912]) Paskoy: “What of all thou hast found in this world That’s, by thy judgment, rare in human life? Nikola: „This is rare; that any tyrant ruler, Filled with guile and evil, gain old age.” (Paskoj: “Što s’ ridko vidio na svitu ovomu, ako s’ procinio u živĮenju tomu?” Nikola: “Ridko ti ovo gre: vladavac ki dere, starosti da dopre zal i pun nevere.” [v. 929-933])

Paskoj obviously fears Nikola’s reluctance because he depends on the younger man’s strength and ability since his own son is still too young and inexperienced to be much help. Nikola will probably be in command after him and therefore Paskoj takes even more pains to teach him to respect his elders. The medium he chooses is wisdom taken from the Old Testament, seemingly impossible to challenge: Paskoy: “Be charitable and deal not in falsehood, To all be generous and respect the aged.” (Paskoj: “Čin’ da si milostiv i laže se čuvaj, k svakomu dobrostiv, starim čast vasda daj.” [v. 1245-1246])10

10 See Exodus 20.12: “Honour your father and your mother, so that you may live long in the land the Lord your God is giving you” and further Koh 3.1, Ex 20.12 and Eph 61.3. Paskoj is being characterized not by his deeds but by his words.

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Paskoy: “Whate’er thy father doth receive from thee, This may’st thou hope to gain from thine own sons.” (Paskoj: “Ča godi otac tvoj od tebe će prijat, od sinov tvojih toj ti ćeš se nadijat.” [v. 1251-1252])

Deference due to age and the willingness to serve one’s elders can obviously not be expected to be naturally inherent in the young but has to be taught. It seems that Paskoj is unsure of the treatment he will receive from his successors, both his son and son-in-law, and therefore tries to frighten them with their own future fate. That there is still much for Nikola to learn in this regard shows in his answer: Nikola: “He that hath much wealth, that man is sated And quarrels and insults from satiety rise.” (Nikola: “Tko ima blaga dosti, taj se sit nahodi, od sitošće psosti i karanje hodi.” [v. 1257-1258])

It seems that the younger man wishes for a more egalitarian division of power and property in the family. It is no surprise that Paskoj does not share his opinion: Paskoy: “And he who doth desire to gain much wealth, Let him, then, seek, from youth till his old age To gain wisdom, for there’s no other wealth That is so valuable as to be wise.” (Paskoj: “Tko želi dobavit brašna se zadosti, počan od mladih lit do vele starosti, dobav’ se razuma, jerebo ni ina od mudroga uma vridnija bašćina.” [v. 1319-1323])

Paskoj reminds Nikola that he himself did not gain his wealth and position easily by simply asking for it but that he strove hard from earliest youth using his cleverness and wisdom. Wisdom in this context means collective knowledge handed down over the generations like an heirloom, not individually achieved knowledge and learning. If the younger man does not want to play by the rules and wait for the relay of power from his elders, he

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must manage by himself. The poor Nikola, maybe himself a refugee from the mainland, doesn’t have the money to start a fishing business, to buy the necessary equipment or even to get a place to live for himself and his wife. He is caught, and feeling provoked, reminds Paskoj of the futility of materialism and his expected demise: Nikola: “He who giveth love to precious objects Is tormented by pain when he must leave them.” (Nikola: “Tko u druge stvari mnogu Įubav stavĮa, bolezan ga vari kada jih ostavlja.” [v. 1323-1324])

But his father-in-law has an answer to that and tells him to bide his time just like he did: Paskoy: “To be master is not good for any Who hath not first learned well to serve another.” (Paskoj: “Gospodarom biti ni dobro nikomu tko prija služiti ne bude drugomu.” [v. 1325-1326])

Nikola’s reply to this well-known topos shows that he is apparently slowly losing his patience: Nikola: “Strive to deal kindly with thy fellow men, thy friends and strangers, for thou’lt fare the better. In kindness’ way.” (Nikola: “Svim mišćanom tvojim nastoj Įubak biti i tujim i svojim, jer će t’ boĮe biti.” [v. 1327-1328])

There is a conflict of generations well hidden in these seemingly humdrum repartees. Nikola is in no position to openly revolt, which would cause him to lose everything and gain nothing. He can only vent his anger covertly using the same kind of wisdom and popular knowledge as the older man and beat him with his own weapons. The presence of their passenger keeps the dormant conflict on the level of general ideas. Paskoj labels his giving constant advice as a work of kindness. Nikola, who must listen quietly, almost hints at Paskoj’s being a bore:

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Nikola: “He that is poorly dressed and simple minded, Illiterate, bereft of any learning, He’s better far than he that breaks the law While preaching wisdom wherever he goeth.” (Nikola: “Ki je zlo obučen i priprost sasvima i ki ni naučen, i kńige ne ima, boĮi je neg oni ki zakon pristupa, a razumom zvoni svude kuda stupa.” [v. 1371-1374])11

Nikola is young, uneducated and poor, but not as pompous as his father-inlaw, who wearies his travel companions with his secondhand knowledge. It is doubtful whether the nameless young boy listening to this ongoing conflict will thereby learn both knowledge and wisdom. The narrator formulates his new Christian ethic in a longish sermon organized along the lines of the Decalogue on the last evening of their cruise. He touches also on the fourth commandment and thus sheds a new light on the conflict of generations witnessed: And may every child for ever honour Both his father and his mother too. ([J]ednomu i drugomu da svako rojenje roditeĮu svomu pridaje počtenje. [v. 1557-1558])12

The narrator proceeds with a résumé on the fishermen’s chanted proverbs, which are mainly taken from the Old Testament’s teachings and classical literature and translates them into the more reconciliatory context of the New Testament. The poem ends on a mellow note. Its last scene shows our travelers at night: the two younger men are rowing and Paskoj on the lightened prow of the boat is spearing fish in the shallow water. The prescriptive age roles for men in the “new times” according to Text 1 are as follows: underage youths are to obey and listen silently, young adults are to obey and honor their elders and betters. Direct contradiction

11 See v. 1379, 1477 and 1480, where he tries to show off with his intelligence and wisdom. 12 See Exodus 20.12.

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and independence, both materially and intellectually, is impossible but latent criticism is tolerated. The paterfamilias takes care of his family’s needs and is therefore owed respect and obeisance. He answers only to his elder and (socially and intellectually) superior landlord, the narrator who also represents secular and spiritual authority. The relationship between the three generations in the poem is not one of equals but can be readjusted over time as the old get weaker and the younger stronger. Today it would be called a “flat hierarchy”.

F EMALE AGE R OLES IN THE P OEM “O THER P IECES ” (T EXTS 2-16)

AND THE

In Fishing and Fishermen’s Conversations all protagonists are men. Women have no part in the trip or story, but they are mentioned in dialogues and songs. In order to analyze female age roles within this text we have to refer to the folk epics and songs included inside, aware that the inserted texts were chosen and included in the poem by the author but not written by him. Moreover the inserted epic songs belong to the heroic, patriarchal age, which is about to be superseded by the modern era. One of the poem’s aims is to give ethical guidance for the construction of a new culture for a new age. The included songs therefore are anachronistic in regards to their female age roles. They describe a patriarchal world concept and social constructs greatly different from Hektorović’s own. Women, as long as they were nubile, were under strictest observation and control, first by their father’s and then their husband’s families. Sexual independence is their greatest possible crime, defiling their whole family. Only in older age can they gain power and influence as “hero mothers”. In the epic Two Poor Men Were Comrades Many a Year (Dva mi sta siromaha dugo vrime drugovala) there appears a beautiful young girl who gives strange herbs and the wine of oblivion to the young hero, thus hindering him from returning home to fulfil his duties to his hero mother. She is an enchantress like the classical nymph Circe. This can be interpreted as a conflict over supremacy between a young and older woman. The young girl chanting the third song “And a maiden singeth, lo a maiden singeth” (“I kliče devojka, pokliče devojka”) is simply described as young and beautiful. There are no other girls mentioned in the poem and we can conclude that girls should be

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pretty and quiet; they are to be seen but not heard, at least not in serious discussions – although if talented they may amuse the company with a song. Excessive beauty, however, proposes a potential danger as Nikola mentions (v. 1007-1009), and Paskoj advises never to keep a mistress for fear of losing one’s wealth (v. 1238-1239). Concepts of female age roles are more evident in the fifteen shorter, more autobiographical texts following the poem. All the women mentioned there were rich and highly educated, personally known to the author and not representative of the whole society. They are not to be directly compared to the male age roles among the poor people in the poem. Hektorović had contacts with men from both the working and the property-owning classes and strove for social peace. But he would have little business mingling with women out of his own set. While he never married and lived with his mother until her death, he had fathered a daughter with a commoner. This seems to have been a normal occurrence on Hvar at the turn to modernity (Bezić Božanić 1997: 104) where many rich men had illegitimate children they recognized. But Hektorović went one step further and made his daughter his sole heir and manager of his legacies, thus cutting off his legitimate male relatives who would have inherited according to both custom and law. To his granddaughter Julia he left all his books in Croatian. In Text 4, an epistle to his friend and relative Mikša Pelegrinović, Hektorović included the musical scores to the inserted folk songs and declared that he could have invented both the songs and the music but much prefers reality and truth. A Latin poem addressed to the same friend constitutes Text 5. Therein he cites Livia Pelegrinović, Mikša’s wife, as an example to her baby daughter and to her whole sex. Text 6, a rhymed epistle addressed “To the pious and praiseworthy maiden Gracioza Lovrinčeva drafted and written by Peter Hektorović from Hvar” (“BogoĮubnoj i svake hvale dostojnoj mladici Graciozi Lovrinčevi Petre Hektorović Hvaranin ovo složi i upisa”), a young single woman whom the author obviously admired also deals with aging and death (Novak 1997: 316). Gracioza Lovrinčeva seems to have been an author and intellectual seeking escape from the then-traditional dominance of a family, especially the paterfamilias who would be replaced by brothers or uncles after death and later a husband and his male relatives. Age and gender conflict is hereby intermingled. Lovrinčeva had taken the vow of a pizochara, a temporary lay sister, and was thereby emancipated to lead a life of her own

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choice.13 By renouncing love, marriage and some material comfort, lay sisters in early modernity gained independence otherwise impossible for single women. Hektorović describes Lovrinčeva as intellectual, pious, quiet, friendly, humble, beautiful in body, modest, good at conversation and expression, industrious and competent in everything. This somewhat inconsistent and personal catalogue shows that Hektorović believed in the right of self determination in women. He is not offended at her public speaking and independent lifestyle, both highly unusual at that time. This is a constant in Hektorović’s writing, life, and in his will, where he set aside a valuable house for pizochare to live in undisturbed and left several individual legacies to some of them.14 The right to self determination for him depended on individual merit and not gender, age or social class. By her temporary vows, Lovrinčeva had achieved a much greater amount of freedom than the married-in son-in-law Nikola. A direct comparison of their age roles is not feasible because Lovrinčeva came from a different social background and was certainly not “poorly dressed and simple minded, illiterate, bereft of any learning” as Nikola implicitly describes himself. Text 7, a rhymed lament for Hektorović’s young nephew Frane, describes young enamoured girls as sacrificing their hair on his grave, young widows’ red roses and his mother’s tears. The emblems of the female ages according to Hektorović are thus: physical attraction, love and grief. The role model for women is motherhood, often mentioned and described. Widowhood meant an even greater degree of freedom, especially for the well to do. Hektorović himself was bound by his father’s testament not to take any greater financial decisions without his mother’s consent. Widows in a zadruga held a very low status and were under command of all males, even their adult sons. The opposite is true of the rich.

13 She must have been quite young because she is addressed as “young maiden”. About the pizochara (pizzochara, pizochera, pizocara; an Italian term for “lay sister”) see Pezelj (2006: 523-551) and Čoralić (2013: 23-39). 14 Hektorović’s last will is accessible online at: https://archive.org/stream/ pjesmepetrahekt01kuhagoog/pjesmepetrahekt01kuhagoog_djvu.txt

[accessed

October 20, 2015]. See lines 177-184 and 519-575; the lay convent is founded in the second codicil to this will.

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Hektorović dedicated a Latin epitaph, “Epithaphium in tumulo sculptum Petri Hectorei matris,” to his widowed mother and included it in his book as Text 8. In a prose rendering it goes: Here lies Catherine, image of the righteousness of the house Hektorović O how much encloses such a tight urn! Her example may show you, reader The fame and memory of someone who lived well. (Hectoreae Catarina domus probitatis imago, hic jacet; o quantum tam brevis urna tenet, Cuius ab exemplo connectes undiq; lector, quam memorem Famam, qui bene vixit, habet.)

This is consistent with the above-mentioned “hero mother”. Elder women represent their “house” or family. Their good and honest lives offer guidance to all and sundry. Compared to Paskoj’s role as father we conceive more empathy. A mother’s role is never challenged, whereas a father may be criticized or wished away. (Hektorović was 27 when his father died and from then on managed the family property together with his strong-willed mother.) A separate aspect of the author’s concept of female roles is his veneration of St. Mary, which is consistent throughout his literary and artistic production. St. Mary’s role as Mother of God and intermediary between heaven and earth fits into Hektorović’s literary concept of age roles for elder women. The final Text 16 describes the aged poet, lead by a servant girl, climbing the mountain Helicon to visit the muses. The muses live together as in an institution for ladies (or like the women in Hektorović’s own social institution15) and accept the visit of the elderly poet.

15 The “Tvrdalj” that Hektorović constructed in Starigrad on Hvar was partly a lay sisters’ convent, old people’s home, asylum, hostel, garden, family home and fortress.

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T HE AGING P OET (T EXT 12) In 1550 Hektorović addressed a rhymed epistle in 160 verses to his friend Mavro Vetranović (1482/3-1576), a poet and Benedictine monk of Dubrovnik, entitled: “To the praiseworthy father and reverend gentleman, monk Dom Mavro of Dubrovnik, Petar Hektorović of Hvar writes as follows” (Otcu i gospodinu hvale i časti vele dostojnomu dom Mavru kalujeru, Dubrovčaninu, Petre Ektorović Hvaranin piše ovo). The epistle is a personal confessional letter to an old friend and at the same time a reflection on aging and death – and thus directed to everybody. Vetranović himself wrote about death extensively (Novak 1997: 315-316). Age laments as a literary form are much older than classical Latin or Greek literature or even the Old Testament wisdom books. In classical Egyptian literature of the middle kingdom (2100 BC) the form was already developed and usually combined with wisdom literature, thus aiming to pass on collective wisdom to future generations.16 Hektorović had many precursors and a long tradition on which to model his own lament: Cicero’s De senectute and Marko Marulić’s Euangelistarium are sometimes mentioned (Brezak-Stamać 2012: 414). De senectute deals with aging in a quite different manner than Hektorović’s epistle, as it takes the form of an imaginary conversation between the old and universally esteemed Cato and Scipio Africanus and Gaius Laelius: the younger men asking about the unpleasantness of old age and the older man praising it for doing away with sensitive pleasures and forcing one to concentrate on intellect. Both Hektorović and Cicero praise old age, first because it leads to God and second due to virtue and intellectual concerns. But the differences between the two are greater than the similarities: especially Hektorović’s drastic descriptions of decrepitude have no equivalent in Cicero’s text. Marulić’s Euangelistarium defines virtue and the performance of duties and not the pursuit of happiness as our goal on earth and has thus a similar moral tendency as Text 12. But age is only a minor theme of Marulić’s most famous text dealing mainly with faith, hope and love. Hektorović confesses that he has often tried to stop writing poetry, which he considers sinful, in order to concentrate on eternity. Yet the urge

16 For a detailed analysis see the monographs of Göckenjan (2000) and Brunner (1997).

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is too strong. He compares himself to a sailor who during a terrible storm vows never again to go to sea but who breaks his promise. Like the sailor needs the sea, Hektorović needs his poetry because it assuages his lifelong inner unrest. Only in paradise will he know rest (v. 60). Poetry is sinful because it concerns itself with worldly things and hinders cognition and contemplation, which lead to God. Yet the advantage – the only advantage – of old age is that it makes one leave off worldliness and gives even the sinful the chance to enter heaven if they regret their sins and mend their ways in time.17 Hektorović sees life from birth as an ascent toward death as its peak. It is then that man’s lot will be decided. Youth is a confused state which does not see its way to avoid sin. Young people cannot know how much time is allotted them and therefore don’t use their time to redeem their sins. Yet when age shows that the end is near nobody can be so foolish or bad not to mend his ways. The ills of old age described picturesquely and in detail are therefore not ills but benefits (v. 99-103). Only by leading a life of wisdom and by watching our tongues and heart can we prepare ourselves for death. This view of life as a pilgrimage toward death is still medieval (peregrinatio vitae). Although Hektorović has loved the outer world and described it often in his poetry he sees it as an illusion, almost a lie, trying to draw him to sin.18 Older people are on their decline, both physically and intellectually, and should therefore behave in accordance with their age – both in their thinking and writing. I give the until now untranslated epistle in full length:19

17 This may be an intertextual reference to De senectute: “What is the point of all this? It is to show you that, if we were unable to scorn pleasure by the aid of reason and philosophy, we ought to have been very grateful to old age for depriving us of all inclination for that which it was wrong to do. For pleasure hinders thought, is a foe to reason, and, so to speak, blinds the eyes of the mind.” (Cicero 1909-14: paragraph 27) 18 These ideas relate to St. Augustine’s Confessions, whose Solliloquia Hektorović is supposed to have translated into Croatian. These translations are not in his book and have not survived. 19 The

complete

Croatian

text

of

the

book

can

be

accessed

at:

https://www.worldcat.org/title/pjesme-petra-hektorovica-i-hanibala-lucica/oclc/ 903217464&referer=brief_results. Also the 1st edition: https://www.worldcat.

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1

True servant of God above / 2who marked you with his sign,20

3

which you carry and practice thus / 4that thy name is honored wherever you go;

5

giving bloom, great strength, / 6and flourish to the city of Dubrovnik.

7

I do not know what it is / 8that makes me like a sailor, having broken damaged his boat;

9

getting hurt while disembarking on shore, / 10crying great tears over everything lost;

11

calling loudly here, complaining over his loss there / 12and then taking a vow that,

13

if he reaches field or mountain (alive) / 14never will he set foot into the sea again;

15

and pronouncing where everybody can hear him, / 16that never again will he travel the vastness of the sea.

17

But soon after he forgets what he said /

18

and how he caught himself with his

mouth, by vowing, 19

because he returns to his former life / 20and he changes his will to other wonts

21

and sets sail to where he can be hidden, / 22by ravaging waves crashing on shores,

23

which he barely warded off a few days ago / 24in order to get out unhurt and save his life.

25

That is how repeatedly for cognition’s sake / 26I have dismissed songs and poetry

27

and told others that I would abandon it / 28and have always thought that it would be that way.

29

Years have passed in that belief, / 30not to entangle my thoughts.

31

This grows on me / 32like cold ice in summer’s heat.

33

As if I had never tried such things / 34neither generally nor because they are dear to me.

35

For which cognition, what reason / 36I will tell you later in the middle of this letter.

37

When nobody shall be surprised, / 38that the songs conquer me I do not know or see how.

39

I start to write them again in my way / 40Expecting amusement and repose.

41

Reflecting I stop and count my years; / 42see myself untrue and in the wrong, do not know where I stand.

43

Their number is not small (as we shall find out when we go on reading) / 44Because the current one leads on to seventy.

45

Realizing that only little time is left, / 46which should be used in the best way.

47

And this I try in the hope / 48of receiving God’s mercy;

org/title/ribanye-i-ribarscho-prigovaranye-i-razliche-stvari-ine/oclc/769787557 &referer=brief_results [both accessed October 20, 2015]. 20 The tonsure of a Dominican.

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49

pray to him with all my heart, / 50serve him both day and night;21

51

ask for forgiveness, spare no effort, / 52because of my sinful life and bad deeds;

53

decide to abandon songs and poetry, /

54

in order to have part of the house of

heaven, 55

which knows neither sorrow nor evil, / 56but happiness and peaceful living;

57

where health is good and life eternal, /

58

where every deed is good and days are

without night; 59

where there is neither cold nor sweat, where there is no remorse, / 60where there is rest without exertion, love without words;

61

where pure light shines on everything, / 62where there are countless joys,

63

because nothing on earth could be crazier, / 64more harmful and bad, than forgetting oneself

65

and the salvation of the eternal soul, / 66created forever – restless,

67

without trying to be better upon ascension,22 / 68and to change one’s bad ways to achieve a better life.

69

Because once youth passes, which does not know where it goes, / 70old age arrives which leads us to death.

71

Bodily wellbeing when it is ended, / 72unhappy the life that is left,

73

when eyes shine, stare angrily, / 74and ears murmur and hear all the worse,

75

when skin dries out and the face blanches, /

76

when weaknesses increase and

strength fades, 77

when the brow hangs wrinkly over eyes, /

78

querulous and sad, and the beard is

grey, 79

when the head is bald and complains of flies, / 80and talkative age disgusts everyone.

81

Shoulders hunchbacked, badly smelling mouth, / 82teeth twist and fall out,

83

the palate tastes little, / 84wits muddle and arms are weak.

85

Facial skin hangs loose, hair falls out, / 86chest is breathless after little effort;

87

when legs and feet swell, / 88just as helplessness grows;

89

when painful cough won’t stop / 90and knees are weak and shake;

91

when limbs cannot stand on the ground / 92wanting to lean back and rest;

93

when the voice gets hoarse talking, / 94when, breathing with difficulty, one wants to sit down;

95

when eating excites / 96and walking near home;

21 Go to mass. 22 At the hour of death.

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97

when legs stumble, / 98and draw the body where it does not want to go.

99

All these here enumerated ills / 100have their reason: they are the body’s messengers.

101

Each one announces the days to come: / 102prepare yourself for the journey, there is no abode in this world.

103

And those who have been in youth elevated by their mind / 104in old age sometimes lack memory,

105

are foolish and unpleasant,23 / 106so those who see them take pity.

107

What is man to do, / 108when life is an overripe fruit?

109

Think only of the summit, / 110whereby we receive life everlasting.

111

With the young we do not know their time ’till it is passed /

112

and often their

jump does not reach the goal. 113

But age knows by many signs / 114that it is near its completion and dissolution.

115

Two things one has to beware of / 116more than any other because they tend

117

again and again and forever / 118to lead us to sin:

119

heart and tongue, I say, because all life long / 120they are directed toward others.

121

The heart furthers new thoughts all the time /

122

and the tongue never abandons

its work; 123

wants to articulate what thought prepares, / 124to publicize it all openly.

125

We have to be careful, like with poison, / 126and beware when come to life

127

its power and its vanity, / 128so it does not deceive our soul and bring us harm.

129

Let everybody know his age of life / 130and assess what befits him

131

and act accordingly to his age / 132if he does not want to dirty himself and reckon,

133

the one who neither life nor being / 134wants to bring to sin and sinful state.

135

I told you that this which hates / 136songs and poetry befits old age.

137

But I wanted to be free / 138in order to visit you once more

139

with a gift worthy to honor you / 140and the thankfulness I owe you,

141

with a cordial and neat writing / 142and a (as you perceive) so-so poem;

143

if bodily I cannot visit / 144which would give me happiness and peace.

145

A friend brought it on, / 146to whom you made my mind seem great.

147

Coming home he told me, / 148how he had conversed with you about me.

149

Gave me here / 150your love, cordial and sweet.

23 Cicero in De senectute claims the opposite. According to him intellectuals keep their wits in old age: “But, it is said, memory dwindles. No doubt, unless you keep it in practice, or if you happen to be somewhat dull by nature.” (Cicero 1909-14: 16)

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I thank you for everything and present my regards, /

152

so that everybody knows

that I am yours. 153

Next to this letter for your love’s sake / 154I send some of my things in new form,

155

mentioned below, which I have counted / 156and put to verse as best I could.

157

So that, your honor, when you tire, / 158reading this letter have diversion.

159

If our luck does not allow us to meet / 160let God bring us together in heaven.

If the dating (1556) is correct, the author was 69 years old when he wrote the epistle. There seems to be nothing out of the ordinary with such a lament except the addressee. Mavro Vetranović had himself adhered to Hektorović’s formula of the appropriateness of certain literary topics to the ages of man. In his youth he had written love poetry, in his middle age political satire, and in his old age philosophical and nature poems. He was even older than Hektorović and had written extensively on the ages of man and death and turned yet again to some mythological topics in old age. The whole epistle is a paradox. Why does one old poet write an age lament to an even older one? This is especially unusual because age laments with their inherent teaching of formal wisdom were usually addressed to the young. Maybe Hektorović wanted to relate how he himself came to peace with physical unwellness and his own mortality. And why send a renunciation of poetry in a skillfully rhymed poem to a poet to extol their respective names? Together with this poem Hektorović must have sent some other literary texts to Vetranović – more “sinful” productions. One of them was probably a new version of Fishing and Fishermen’s Conversations, although the latter was addressed to Bartučević as it was quite common for Renaissance authors who shied of publication to spread their texts through personal correspondence. The epistle to Vetranović is a companion piece and counterpoint to the travel poem constituting Text 1. Both texts share the same 12 syllable measure (dvanaesterac) and many topics. The travel poem dedicated to life and the outer world begins the book and the epistle on age and the nether world concludes it and ends the second cycle of the book with an ominous “SFARHA” (“The End”), notwithstanding the following four additional texts.24

24 Text 12 obviously was the last text of Hektorović’s book as stated by “SFARHA” (“The End”) below. The final four texts, constituting their own cycle, were added later.

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It seems that Hektorović’s views on age are more modern than they seem at first, except for adolescents, where he is quite rigidly prescriptive: boys should be useful, obedient and quiet, and girls pretty and pious. The reason for this is that not much can be expected from them, except strength from the boys and beauty from the girls. Their intellect is not yet developed and besides, one never knows whether they will live to their prime. At that time of life one should be active and creative. Contemplation is especially advisable for the elderly. Old age is not to enjoy and hang on to riches or profane enjoyments such as literature but to prepare for eternity. All in all, socially prescribed age roles apply only to those of average intellect. According to Hektorović they should behave in accordance with social rules and wisdom handed down through time. But for intellectuals – regardless of their age, gender and income – such rules do not apply.

R EFERENCES Ardalić, Vladimir (1899): “Bukovica. Život u zadruzi”, in: Zbornik za narodni život i običaje 4, 196-220 and 5, 1-50. http://dizbi.hazu. hr/object/view/12774 [accessed October 20, 2015]. Bandalović, Gorana/Buzov, Ivanka (2012): “Odnosi u seljačkoj obitelji i položaj žene u zagorskoj Dalmaciji”, in: Godišnjak TITIUS: godišnjak za interdisciplinarna istraživanja porječja Krke 4 (4), 195-209. Bezić Božanić, Nevenka (1997): “Hvarke i Viške u svjetlu arhivskih izvora od 16. do 18. stoljeća”, in: Prilozi povijesti otoka Hvara 10 (1), 101109. Brezak-Stamać, Dubravka (2012): “Književno-povijesni pregled poslanica u stihu i prozi u povijesti europskoga pjesništva od antike do renesanse”, in: Croatica et Slavica Iadertina, 8/2 (8), 403-438. http://hrcak.srce.hr/98686 [accessed October 20, 2015]. Brunner, Hellmut (ed.) (1997): Die Weisheitsbücher der Ägypter: Lehren für das Leben. Zürich. Burrow, John Anthony (1986): Ages of Man: A Study in Medieval Writing and Thought. Oxford. Cicero (1909-14): On Old Age. New York (= Harvard Classics 9/2). http://www.bartleby.com/9/2/.html [accessed February 14, 2016].

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Čoralić, Lovorka (2013): “Tragovima hrvatskih trećoredica u Mlecima (15.-18. stoljeće)”, in: Croatica Christiana Periodica 37 (71), 23-39. Franičević, Marin (1983): Povijest hrvatske renesansne književnosti. Zagreb. Göckenjan, Gerd (2000): Das Alter würdigen: Altersbilder und Bedeutungswandel des Alters. Frankfurt/Main. Goy, Edward D. (tr.) (1997): Fishing and Fishermen’s Conversations by Petar Hektorović. Stari Grad. Hektorović, Petar (1986): Djela Petra Hektorovića. Ed. by J. Vončina. 5th edition. Zagreb. Koch, Christoph (1998): “Zu den Anfängen der Ovidrezeption in Dalmatien. Die lateinischen Beschäftigungen des Petar Hektorović”, in: Aspetti della Cultura dei Laici in Area Adriatica 2, 259-367. Novak, Slobodan Prosperov (1996): Povijest hrvatske književnosti. 1: Od početaka do Krbavske bitke 1493. Zagreb. Novak, Slobodan Prosperov (1997): Povijest hrvatske književnosti. 2: Od humanističkih početaka do Kašićeve ilirske gramatike 1604. Zagreb. Pezelj, Vilma (2006): “Naznake pravnog položaja žene u srednjevjekovnom Zadru”, in: Zbornik radova Pravnog fakulteta u Splitu 43 (3-4), 523-551. Stagl-Škaro, Natalia [forthcoming]: Petar Hektorović (1487-1572). Werk und Leben eines Dichters der kroatischen Renaissance. Ins Deutsche übertragen, eingeleitet und kommentiert. Wien, Köln.

The Elderly and Old Age in a Russian Chronicle N ICOLETTA C ABASSI

I NTRODUCTION One of the oldest and most valuable codices preserving a collection of Old Russian chronicles is the Laurentian Codex (Laurentian Chronicle, Lavrent’evskaja letopis’); it is named after the monk Lavrentij, who had it compiled in 1377 (based on an early text ending in 1305) upon request of the Prince of Suzdal’ Dmitrij Konstantinovič. In my contribution, I will analyze representations of old age and the elderly as conveyed in this codex.1 I will also take into consideration the text The Testament of Vladimir Monomakh (Poučenie Vladimira Monomacha), handled by the same codex; though regarded as an independent writing in itself, it constitutes another possible source for examining representations of old age. According to the Russian Primary Chronicle (Povĕst’ vremjan’nych” lĕt”), as preserved in the Laurentian Codex, “Slavs settled also on the Dnieper, and were likewise called Polyanes. Still others were named Derevlians […] Thus the Slavic race was departed” (Russian Primary

1

The edition I refer to was published in 2001 under the redaction of A. I. Cepkov (2001), and it was prepared according to the previous first volume of the Complete Collection of Russian Chronicles (Polnoe sobranie russkich letopisej, first published in 1846; main editor: Ja. I. Berednikov).

264 | C ABASSI

Chronicle, hereinafter R.P.C.: 53)2 (“Словѣне пришедше и сѣдоша по Днѣпру и нарекошася Поляне, а друзии Древляне, зане седоша в лѣсѣхъ […] тако разидеся Словѣнский языкъ” [Lavrent’evskaja letopis’, hereinafter L.L.: 5-6]). Originally, all the ancient tribes lived in communities consisting of different clans: “While the Polyane lived apart and governed their families […] each one lived with his gens on his own land, ruling over his kinsfolk” (R.P.C.: 54) (“Полем же жившемъ особѣ и володѣющемъ роды своими […] и живяху кождо съ своимъ родомъ и на своихъ мѣстѣхъ, владѣюще кождо родомъ своимъ” [L.L.: 8]). In a long period of nomadism, in which old men were considered natural leaders of the people (Minois 1988: 32), the elderly bore the spirits of the ancestors: indeed, it is continuously underscored that Slavs lived under their fathers’ laws and according to the tradition of their fathers (“Имяху бо обычаи свои, и законъ отець своихъ и преданья” [L.L.: 12]); their unwritten law, based on the authority of their ancestors, runs through the whole chronicle like a refrain, giving us a first significant clue to approach the topic of how the elderly and old age are represented in the Laurentian Codex.

L EXICON

OF

O LD AGE

First of all, a few lexical explanations should be introduced here: the short and long adjective star”/staryj,3 when occurring in the positive degree (L.L.: 49, 66, 137, 234), indicate a man who has reached a venerable age (“достигший преклоннаго возраста” [Sreznevskij 1989/3: 496]). Though the term staryj refers to a single dominant trait – age –, other secondary meanings are implied, hinting at what were the dominant features of older Russian men: wisdom and reasonableness (ibid.: 500), as we will see further. Comparative and superlative degrees are also widespread (L.L.: 8, 19, 91, 109, 129, 149, 156, 179 [2], 183, 234, 238, 316, 356, 357,

2

Unless otherwise indicated, translations are taken from Cross (1973).

3

It is related to Lith. stóras (“fat, bulky”), Old Isl. stórr (“big, strong, important, male”), with a second grade vocalism, Old Ind. sthirás (“strong, sturdy”) (Fasmer 2004: 747).

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261, 367, 431, 433) and they refer to “elder” and “the eldest”: starĕjš-, starĕj-. The derived form starec” or star’c” occurs frequently in the text (L.L.: 125, 137, 156, 184, 185 [2], 183, 234, 238, 437, 507, 509) as well: in addition to the first signification (“old man”), it expands to include a secondary concrete meaning of “monk, hermit,” which not only defines a generic elder monk, but it highlights the authoritative function of the elderly within the ecclesiastical community, as illustrated by the living examples of the starec” Matvej or Feodosiji (L.L.: 185-186), or the Igumen Sergěj (L.L.: 507). Furthermore, it denotes the specific pedagogical role of teacher assigned to senior monks (Krys’ko 2006: 209). The plural form starcy (L.L.: 16, 79, 80, 100, 104 [2], 105, 124) is used as a synonym of starĕjšina (see further), for “those most influential and authoritative members of the clan (rod”) or of the community (obščina)”4 (Krys’ko 2006: 209).5 The female noun derived from the same stem, starĕjšina, therefore, points not only at the “older” (staršij), but also at the most authoritative and eminent member of the clan and of the town council (Sreznevskij 1989/3: 503), revealing how the elderly was integrated in positions of government.6

4

Author’s translation [N.C.].

5

In the community, as a rule, was the narodopravstvo, whose function was to solve important social issues relating to the inhabitants of a specific territory. At the head of the community (obščina) usually stood the elder (starĕjšina) of the clan: he was revered and respected. On this issue, Procopius of Caesarea said: “[T]hese tribes, Slavs and Аnts, are not governed by a single person, but since ancient times live in democracy, and therefore happiness and unhappiness is by them considered to be everybody’s matter.” (Prokopij Kesarijskij 1993: 576; author’s translation [N.C.])

6

This was also related to the system of succession of the starĕjšinstvo, introduced by Jaroslav the Wise (see Krys’ko 2006: 207-208): the territories were divided among brothers according to the priority of birth; the older the prince was, the better the dominion he could inherit. But this partition was not definitive: he who died let the other brothers advance, so that somebody could always reach the upper step of the “staircase,” at the top of which was the oldest, the prince of Kiev (Gitermann 1991: 74).

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Other significations occur in the chronicle as “chief, main,”7 but it also develops the signification of “priest, presbyter” (Krys’ko 2006: 207). All these elements let us infer that the aged could attain roles of command and control, as the verbal form stemming from the same root shows: starĕjšinstvovati (“command, direct, lead” [ibid.: 208]). In the Povĕst’ vremjan’nych” lĕt” circumlocutions recalling old age are rare (though not so for death, see further); the most recurrent adjectives emphasize some of the main features of that age: mild (smĕrena) and wise (mudryja). The masculine noun starik”8 never occurs in the chronicle, neither do verbs related to the act of aging, such as starĕtisja (“become old or older” [ibid.: 207]). In the chronicle there are only few occurrences (L.L.: 140, 186, 209) of the feminine noun starost’ (“old age”). Thus, we can conclude that the elders were considered people with experience, with precious knowledge, hence the idea of the wisdom of older generations. The aged could therefore advise, heal and predict the future, very often being compared to magicians and sorcerers. The search for the terminology related to old age emphasizes the ontological superiority of the senior, involving realities of different natures: political, social and religious.

7

As the chief angel, Michael (L.L.: 85), or Oleg’s senior squire (“he thus summoned his senior squire and inquired […]” [R.P.C.: 69]) (“[…] призва [князь] старейшину конюхомъ, рече […]” [L.L.: 38]). We should add that this meaning refers to the hereditary system (see above), as testified in one of the second productive meanings as “primate, supremacy” (pervenstvo, glavenstvo; Sreznevskij 1989/3: 504), registered in the chronicle (L.L.: 508, 465, 496).

8

The term starik” has a primary meaning of “old man,” but we would like to draw attention to the plural form mentioned in later documents (late 16th century), signifying “authoritative witness among seniors who had long lived in a certain place, who dedicated themselves to solving controversial issues of land” (Krys’ko 2006: 210; author’s translation [N.C.]): this way (like starcy) old men in Russia played a social and political function in the local jurisdiction, as they settled the land disputes.

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W HEN D O T HEY B ECOME O LD ? The chronicle lacks precise indications on when people become old: we will highlight only a few observations here, trying to consider how much the contemporary classification of old age differs from the pre-modern: indeed the old age of these mythical personalities would perhaps now be considered only as adulthood, since the average lifespan in the chronicle seems to range from 30 to 55 years: the prince Izjaslav, who died at the age of 54, is described still healthy and vital as “fair of appearance and imposing in stature” (R.P.C.: 166) (“Бѣ же Изяславъ мужь взоромъ красенъ и тѣломъ великъ” [L.L.: 196]). In the year 955 princess Ol’ga, who was approximately 35 years old, found the Christian faith she had been looking for since reaching adulthood (R.P.C.: 83), “отъ възраста” (L.L.: 61), which was associated with procreation and fertility at that time: she is counted as one of the longest-living women in the codex, since she died “old” (“стары суща” [L.L.: 66]), at the age of 49. Jaroslav Mudryj’s age is revealed thus: “all the years of his age were seventy six” (R.P.C.: 143) (“Живе же всѣхъ лѣтъ 76” [L.L.: 158]). Perhaps the explicit hint had to highlight Jaroslav’s longevity and remind the reader that God granted a long life to the right and wise men, just like Abraham, the biblical father who died “full of days.” Moreover, the prince Andrej Bogoljubskij, Monomach’s nephew, prays to God for “defeating his enemies and a long life”9 (“побѣду на противныя и многа лѣта” [L.L.: 352]). An interesting documentation on the practical evaluation of the ordinary elderly man in this society is provided by an episode referring to the peace treaty between Russians and Greeks, in the year 945, with the indication of the values of ordinary Christian prisoners: If the Russes bring in young men or grown girls […] the Greeks shall pay a ransom of ten bezants each […] if the latter are of middle age, the Greeks shall recover them on payment of eight bezants each. But in the case the captives are old persons or young children, the ransom shall be five bezants. (R.P.C.: 75)

9

Author’s translation [N.C.]. Some of the English translations are by the author, since Cross’s text is based on Karskij’s edition (1926) through the year 1116, while ours is referring to the first complete edition of the Laurentian Primary Chronicle (1846), through the year 1305.

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(Елико хрестеянъ отъ власти нашея плѣнена приведуть Русь, ту аще будеть уноша, или дѣвица добра, да вдадять златникъ 10 и поимуть и; аще ли есть средовѣчь, да вдасть золотникъ 8 и поимуть и; аще ли будеть старъ, или дѣтещь, да вдасть златникъ 5. [L.L.: 49])

The lowest value (5 bezants, i.e. gold coins), due to the limited probability of survival of the child and the devaluation of the old man in respect to the active young, shows clearly the reality of a society in which the elderly and children formed a separate group among the weakest members of the community, particularly exposed to mistreatment and abuses.

W ISDOM

AND

E XPERIENCE

There is no real description of exterior and physical features of old age in the Laurentian Chronicle: the image of the elderly is not presented in a direct way, except for an allusion to the venerable Feodosij Pečerskij, mentioning the hermit’s body for the “hair of his head still adhered” (R.P.C.: 171) (“И власи главнии притяскли бяху” [L.L.: 204]). Similarly, the old woman remains invisible. Physical weakness and decreased vital force of old age seem to be compensated by the wisdom and the experience of the elderly, who are spiritual and moral mentors of their people, and sometimes shining examples of spiritual and intellectual qualities. Moreover, in a society in which the role of mediator and guardian of the collective memory still belonged to those who could remember and narrate, and in which knowledge was attained through relating to older generations, the elderly could play an active and vital role. The image of the wise elder occurs whenever the need for decisionmaking in fateful events is evident. Aged people, in fact, despite not having the capacity for active military life, appear in crucial moments, in desperate situations – as is shown in saving Belgorod from the Pechenegs, during which an elderly man suggests that, rather than surrendering, the residents resist for three more days and invites them to hide tubs with food and drink in the wells in order to deceive the Pechenegs: “But the one old man […] [u]pon hearing this decision, he summoned the city-elders […]. Then the ancient said: ‘Listen to me: do not surrender for three days, and do as I tell

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you’” (R.P.C.: 123) (“Бѣ же единъ старець […]. Cе слышавъ, посла по старѣйшины градьскыя […]. И рече имъ: ‘послушайте мене, не передайтеся за 3 дни, и я вы что велю, створите’” [L.L.: 124-125]). The foresight, the experience and the cunning attempt of the old man helps Belgorod’s inhabitants to get rid of the Pechenegs, even when this advice went against the city elders’ (starĕjšina) decision. Here is evidence of the pragmatic wisdom of the starĕjšina: the resolution was taken by the elders according to the realistic conditions of Belgorod’s people, who could no longer stand the hunger. The experience and the balance of wise old age contrasts with the intemperance and the recklessness of youth: the wicked and evil Svjatopolk rules Kiev (the year is 1015) and a warning comes to him: Woe unto that city in which the prince is young, loving to drink wine amid music and in the company of young councilors. God bestoweth such princes in requital for sin, and taketh away from Jerusalem the strong, the giant, the valiant man, the judge, the prophet, the moderate elder, the able councilor, the cunning artificer, the learned, the wise and the obedient. I shall appoint a youth to be their prince, and a brawler to be their ruler. (R.P.C.: 130) (Лютѣ бо граду тому, в немь же князь унъ, любяй вино пити съ гусльми и съ младыми свѣтникы. Сяковыя бо Богъ даеть за грѣхы, а старыя и мудрыя отъиметь, якоже Исаия глаголеть: отъиметь Господь отъ Иерусалима крѣпкаго исполина, и человѣка храбра, и судью, и пророка, и смѣрена старца, и дивна свѣтника, и мудра хитреца, и разумна, послушлива; поставлю уношю князя имъ, и ругателя обладающа ими. [L.L.: 136-137])

Old age carries the burden of wisdom and inner balance and seems to lack those vices that are inherent to youth – lust, passion for sensual pleasures (“to drink wine amid music” [“любяй вино пити съ гусльми”]), i.e. sins, instead of temperance, (“the moderate elder” [“смѣрена старца”], says the copyist, quoting Isaiah), intellectual strength or sapience, the hallmarks with which old age is often associated in the chronicle. Hence, the elderly should be honored by young people, who have the duty to pay them respect and consideration. However, if this trait deals with the idealized stereotype of old age already present in the Old Testament and Greek tradition (Azzali Bernardelli 2006: 327-333), we find these virtues to

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be associated not exclusively with old age, but also with the young men who observe the laws of the fathers. For instance, in addition to the young Gleb, the wise Jaroslav, who sat on the throne of his father and his ancestors at the age of 28 years (L.L.: 139), proved to be wise, fair and temperate; the same happens to his son Vsevolod: From his childhood, the pious prince Vsevolod had been servant of God. He loved justice, aided the poor, rendered due honor to bishops and priests, loved monks exceedingly and ministered to their necessities. He abstained from drunkenness and indulgence, and was therefore beloved from his father. (R.P.C.: 174) (Cий бо благовѣрный князь Всеволодъ бѣ издѣтьска боголюбивъ, любя правду, набдя убогыя […], излиха же любяше черноризци, подаяше требованье имъ; бѣ же и самъ въздержася отъ пьяньства и отъ похоти, тѣмь любимъ бѣ отцемь своимъ […]. [L.L.: 208-209])

This is all reminiscent of the topos of the puer senex, the child or the young man, as wise as the old, evidence that this is not an exclusive privilege of old age.

S OCIAL

AND

R ELIGIOUS S TATUS

The wisdom of old age, embracing the knowledge and experience of a lifetime, enabled the elderly to have a particular function. As previously mentioned, the elderly were recognized as authorities, spiritual guides for those who held positions of responsibility (especially if they were young). The plural of the term starcy indicates not only individual elders, as has been demonstrated above, but also the institution of the elders with a specific task in the community, beside the prince and the boyars: we can distinguish, as a matter of fact, the “town council of the elders” (starcy gradskie), and the simple “council of the elders” (starcy ljudskie); through these institutions the elders became representatives of a community, and not only of an age or simply members of a class. Here are a few examples: Belgorod’s above-mentioned starĕjšina, or the elders (starcy) that Vladimir Svjatoslavič frequently addresses, summons and questions (L.L.: 80, 100, 104, 105), or, again, the legendary episode of the Khazars who ask their elders

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about the tribute offered by the Polyane. They are given a premonitory answer by the starĕjšina, referencing the Old Testament: The Khazar elders then protested: “Evil is this tribute, prince […] all this has come to pass […]. The outcome was the same in the time of Pharaoh, King of Egypt, when Moses was led before him, and the elders foretold that he should subjugate Egypt.” (R.P.C.: 58) (И рѣша старци Козарьстии: “не добра дань, княже! […] Се же сбысться все […]. Яко при Фаравонѣ, цари Еюпетьстѣмь, егда приведоша Моисеѣя предъ Фаравона, и рѣша старѣйшина Фараоня: сей хощетъ смирити область Еюпетьскую […].” [L.L.: 16])

Still, here the role played by the elders comes out of meditation on life cases, and that is why the old voice sounds prophetic (“and this has come to pass”) and long-sighted, as if associated with the supernatural power of a magician or a sorcerer. The influential role played by the elderly in society is then quite obvious: no wonder that, thanks to its privileged relation with the political and religious power, the starcy, according to an evaluation made by Novgorodians, ended up being worth more than an ordinary man, but not as much as the boyars (L.L.: 140). Even in the religious and monastic community, an important role is played by the abbot (igumen), who teaches, warns and transmits knowledge to his monks, as a father does with his children: here the old man can become a shining example of faith and prayer to the young, as is the case with Feodosij Pečerskij. The prior of the community was a spiritual guide at that time, the spiritual eye to whom young monks had to submit: both young and old monks had to bestow honor and prompt obedience to the starec”. Feodosij’s speech was usually marked by “obedience and attention to old fathers” (“к старѣйшимъ покоренье и послушанье”), on one hand, and by “love and admonition to the younger brethren” (“к меншимъ любовь и наказанье”), on the other (R.P.C.: 156; L.L.: 179). And yet, when he was about to “leave this world,” he exhorted his brothers to choose a successor, “old or young,” according to God’s will (L.L.: 181). Feodosij looks as venerable as the fathers of monasticism, Saba, Euthymius and Antonio, because he was “heir of the patriarchs, since [he has] followed their instruc-

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tions, their usage and their continence, and [has] maintained their rule” (R.P.C.: 173) (“отцемь наслѣдникъ бывъ, послѣдовавъ ученью ихъ и нраву ихъ, въздержанью ихъ, и правило ихъ правя” [L.L.: 206]). The death of Feodosij Pečerskij is marked by characteristic elements in the tradition of the venerable fathers, where asceticism overcomes old age, and attention is paid to the physical aspect: death is like a sleep, a radiant light appearing above the cave. After he is dead, his joints are still intact, his hair is still attached to the head, it smells of incense all around – everything recalls the great and venerable monk.10 In the life of these monks, old age is also the time of prophetic visions, and the charismata are accentuated, as happens to the old man Matvej (L.L.: 184-186), who had the particular talent of being clairvoyant and predicting the future. Constant spiritual vigilance prevents the man from sinning: he too resembles Abraham, who died “at a ripe old age” (R.P.C.: 161) (“в старости добрѣ” [L.L.: 186]).

F ATHERS

AND

C HILDREN

In 1096 Vladimir Monomach left his spiritual will to his children, The Testament of Vladimir Monomakh (Poučenie Vladimira Monomacha), handed down by the Laurentian Codex. The will represents a work of didascalic character that he, as father, once having attained old age and near to death (see below), felt the urge to pass on to his own children, often quoting a series of topoi of the liturgical and devotional literature: be meek, listen to old people and obey them as to your father. The decrease in strength of the old father had to be compensated with the honor you bestowed him, not only related to the field of family and parents, but to all elderly people in social, legal and ethical respects.

10 The monk conceived of life as a pilgrimage, a journey; its values were related to the heavenly life beyond the earthly one. The relationship with human time appeared then radicalized: the monk, in fact, reset time, abolishing the night’s sleep to devote his time to prayer. Personal time was skipped, and the young monk tended to attain the severity of old age, while the old reproduced the simplicity of the child (Giannarelli 2007: 785).

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The present chronicle, like Old Russian literature (just consider the Izbornik of 1076) as a matter of fact, presents plenty of admonitions and exhortations to obey the parents and their positive examples: Gleb the Saint, for instance, is praised as an “obedient” son (“[…] поиде, бѣ бо послушливъ отцю” [L.L.: 195]), and the exhortation made by Ol’ga to Svjatoslav – a quotation from Exodus – sounds imperious and threatening: “Whosoever heedeth not his father or his mother, shall suffer death.” (R.P.C.: 84) (“[А]ще кто отца ли матере не послушаеть, то смерть прииметь” [L.L.: 62].) Andrej Bogoljubskij bows down before his father in sign of submission and obedience (“поклонивъся отцю” [L.L.: 312]), before starting to command the rank, as he was the elder brother (“зане бѣ старѣй тогда въ братьи” [L.L.: 316]). On the order of seniority was based the right of inheriting (see footnote 6): that is why one of the chronicle’s refrains (L.L.: 157, 240, 357, 433, 493) is to listen to the oldest brother and to the father: only this way could Jaroslav (the son of Vsevolod III) live in great happiness (“and Jaroslav listened to his eldest brother Georgij, and to his father […] and the joy was great”11 (“послуша убо Ярославъ брата своего старѣйшаго Гюрья, и отца своего […] и бысть радость велика” [L.L.: 433]). Jaroslav Mudryj had already urged his children to love one another (and to listen to their elder brother: L.L.: 157), otherwise they would lose their forefathers’ land, as in fact happened. If the social and political system strictly relied upon the values of familiar unity and harmony, family discord and hatred was a sign of the presence of the devil, as for the prince of Rjazan’, Gleb, “by Satan instigated to the brother’s murder”12 (“наущенъ сотоною на братоубииство” [L.L.: 418]). The fourth commandment of the Holy Bible echoes clearly through the chronicle: children are parents’ staff: “My son, may God bless you, since I hear of your meekness and I rejoice” – says Jaroslav – “that you have rendered my old age peaceful” (R.P.C.: 174) (“сыну мой! благо тобѣ, яко слышю о тобѣ кротость, и радуюся, яко ты покоиши старость мою” [L.L.: 209]). Konstantin, Vsevolod Gjurgevič’s son, is praised for his obedience to his father; by emulating this behavior, children, if virtuous, are their fathers’ pride: “A reasonable son is obedient to his father and shall eat

11 Author’s translation [N.C.]. 12 Author’s translation [N.C.].

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of the fruit of the righteous”13 (“сынъ благоразумный послушливъ отцю, и плода праведнаго снѣсть” [L.L.: 408-409]). The large number of biblical quotations in the chronicle aims to highlight the duties of filial piety: e.g. taking care of the aged body and soul, and providing the old parents spiritual and moral support. As in civil society, even more so in the religious community, Feodosij feels a spiritual and paternal relation toward his monks and therefore addresses all as a family of “brothers, fathers and sons” (R.P.C.: 157) (“братья моя, и отци мои и чада моя!” [L.L.: 181]). In a monastery, good order and fraternity were preserved only if […] the youngest were subject to elderly, they did not dare to speak in their presence, but always in submission and humility and great obedience persisted […] also old ones nourish love for the younger, they educate, comfort them as beloved children […]. (R.P.C.: 159) ([…] меншии покаряющеся старѣйшимъ и не смѣюще предъ ними глаголати, но все с покореньемъ и с послушаньемъ великымъ; такоже и старѣйшии имяху любовъ к меншимъ, наказаху, утѣшающе, яко чада възюбленая. [L.L.: 183])

On the contrary, harsh words are addressed to those who are not respectful to fathers, or who outrage and offend old age: Svjatoslav Jaroslavič violates the paternal order, which is the divine one, banishes his brother and settles in Kiev (L.L.: 178), for “it is a great sin to break the commandment of one’s father” (R.P.C.: 155) (“Велий бо есть грѣхъ преступати заповѣдь отца своего” [L.L.: 178]). The contrast between fathers and children has dangerous social and political effects, evident in the opposition of old age and youth in the government: young people are more prone to debauchery and rashness, as previously mentioned, and might ruin the city with their foolishness and dissipation. One of the greatest pains for a parent is just what Vsevolod Jaroslavič suffers, due not only to the ordinary diseases of incipient old age (“in his illness” [R.P.C.: 174] [“в болѣзнехъ своихъ” (L.L.: 209-210)]), but to the fact that he is under the mindless influence of his young nephews, leading to the downfall of the whole town through robberies and dishonest, knavish

13 Author’s translation [N.C.].

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trades. He is victim, therefore, not only of the influences of this unbridled youth, but of the fragility of his own age as well: He suffered distress at the hands of his nephews, who importuned him with their demands for various domains. During these troubles, he was afflicted also by sickness, to which old age was added. He then began to take pleasure in the opinions of the young men, and consulted with them […] The people no longer had access to the Prince’s justice, judges became corrupt and venal, and the Prince in his illness was ignorant of these abuses. (R.P.C.: 174) ([П]ечаль бысть ему отъ сыновець своихъ, яко начаша ему стужати, хотя власти […]. В сихъ печали всташа и недузи ему, и приспѣваше старость к симъ; и нача любити смыслъ уныхъ, свѣтъ творя с ними […], и людемъ не доходити княже правды, начаша ти унии грабити, людий продавати, сему не вѣдущу в болѣзнехъ своихъ. [L.L.: 209])

S YMPTOMS

OF

O LD AGE

Pains, diseases and symptoms that old age brings are often in line with the values of Christian ethics, with our ephemeral earthly existence, as Vladimir Monomach remarks at the age of 72: “We are but mortal, today we live and tomorrow we shall be in the grave” (R.P.C.: 210) (“смертни есмы, днесь живи, а заутра в гробѣ” [L.L.: 237]). This is a very human feeling accompanying the last phase of human life, as seen in his pages devoted to his children, echoing the bitter awareness of vanitas vanitatum of every human glory. Old age is probably the period when men in civil community can devote themselves to meditation and thinking on life, as Vladimir does: “I meditated in my heart and praised God, who has led me, a sinner, even to this day” (R.P.C.: 206) (“помыслихъ в души своей и похвалихъ Бога, иже мя сихъ дневъ грѣшнаго допровади” [L.L.: 232]). One of the worst pains, previously mentioned, is Vsevolod’s spiritual and intellectual gloominess. His dissolute grandchildren affect him badly: not only by offending him and hurting his feelings, but, most of all, by exposing the loss of his intellectual faculties – an apparent incongruity with the usual image of a wise elder: the aged man, indeed, can be easily influ-

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enced, he seems to be more impressionable and frail. In his illness we could only infer an allusion to Vsevolod’s loss of mental faculties due to his age. A context of silent pain and sadness is also suggested by the premature death of the children for those (many) fathers surviving this painful sorrow in the chronicle. Together with the diseases of the spirit, those of the body must be contemplated: one of the characteristic signs of old age (from the perspectives of both the elderly and children) is certainly physical weakness and illness, quite always leading to death: Svjatopolk, after killing Boris, in order to attire Gleb, provides the excuse that “his father was very ill” (R.P.C.: 128) (“[…] отець тя зоветь, не сдравить бо велми” [L.L.: 132]), so that Gleb rushes to his fatal destiny: his hurry shows his filial devotion – as mentioned previously – as well as the fact that physical disease was often lethal for the elders. This also explains the constant calls of the fathers to their children not to abandon them, disclosing indeed one of the greatest fears of old age: loneliness. There is no way of knowing what types of illness old people suffered from, as there are no detailed descriptions reported in the chronicle; however, sickness and old age seem to be intertwined and often associated with incumbent death. The old monk Isakij (L.L.: 192) is transported infirm from the cave where he lived to the monastery and soon dies, as does Princess Ol’ga, who tells her son Svjatoslav that she is already sick and close to death (she will expire three days later; L.L.: 66). Jaroslav, “being unwell […] and there he fell seriously ill […] The end of Jaroslav’s life drew near, and he gave up the ghost” (R.P.C.: 143) (“Самому же болну сущю […] разболѣся велми […] Ярославу же приспѣ конець житья и предасть душю свою Богу” [L.L.: 157-158]). This is an expression for death recalling the Bible and the hagiographic tradition, like the one formulated by Vsevolod, “when his hour came” (R.P.C.: 174) (“пришедшю же часу” [L.L.: 210]), or the beautiful image for the prince’s death (and many of them), about to seat himself in the sleigh (“As I sat upon my sledge” [R.P.C.: 206] [“[c]ѣдя на санехъ” (L.L.: 232)]), referring to the old Russian custom of bringing the dying people on a sleigh to the church: the last journey, metaphor for the life-journey coming to an earthly end in Christ (the Church). A peaceful transition to death is emphasized, as if it was a ra-

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re event at the time: “quietly and silently passed away”14 (“[…] тихо и безмолвно преставися” [L.L.: 415]). The princess Ol’ga was the first to make the order not to hold the trizna, the ritual funeral banquet, but to bury her (L.L.: 66) instead: a proper burial appears to be a sign of respect for the parents’ death, emphasized by the Christian teaching. Scattered in the chronicle is the mentioning of the burial in a tomb; the parental tie was so close that even after death a man had to be preserved in a visible manner, with tangible signs: his burial close to the ancestors was the last note to be registered: “and he was put next to the fathers and grandfathers”15 (“и приложися къ отьцемь и дѣдомъ своимъ” [L.L.: 415]).

C ONCLUSIONS The elders in the Laurentian Chronicle form a separate group in the human community alongside women, men and children; of these four groups, children and the elderly are the most vulnerable in the community. The frequent wars, clashes and conflicts here recorded threatened life, making uncertain the achievement of an advanced age and a peaceful death: in a world in which life expectancy was still relatively low, aging was considered a kind of conquest and passing away in old age was presented as a divine gift. In the Laurentian Primary Chronicle, old age has a sporadic and fragmentary presence: no complete or organic vision is provided to the reader. Physical or psychological descriptions of old age’s emotional or affective states (e.g. tiredness, loneliness or sadness) or of degenerative processes (very rare are the hints at diseases or loss of mental faculties) are eschewed, as are typological characterizations of the old man (the babbler, the drunkard or the greedy). The physical characteristics of aging are often disregarded in favor of spiritual connotations: the old man is described less in his weakness and physical decline than in his prudence, awareness, temperance, wisdom and authority. Thus, old age acquires a special value within the social, political and religious spheres: famous princes as well as anon-

14 Author’s translation [N.C.]. 15 Author’s translation [N.C.].

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ymous individuals or groups (the starĕjšina) defend the values of the tradition, while within ascetic monastic life, the elderly appear bright and full of spiritual energy and their visions and charismata are accentuated. But if old age has its own pedagogical value by advising, warning and transmitting knowledge and experience, the pursuit of sapience seems not to be exclusive of old age (as proved by the figure of puer senex). Old age, as I have tried to show, emerges silently from the tales of the codex in its contradictions and inconsistencies, idealized (as a period of spirit and wisdom) but also gloomy (in its fragility and weakness); however, within the intersection of pagan and Christian worlds, it always remains the firm conviction of the ethical value of the honor attributed to the elderly, bearer of a spirit of the ancestors or image of God the Father.

R EFERENCES Azzali Bernardelli, Giovanna (2006): “La letteratura dei primi tre secoli, tra antropologia classica e spiritualità cristiana”, in Mattioli, Umberto (ed.): Senectus. La vecchiaia nell’antichità ebraica e cristiana. Vol. 3. Bologna, 207-334. Cepkov, Aleksandr (ed.) (2001): Russkie letopisi. T. 12: Lavrent’evskaja letopis’. Rjazan’. Cross, Samuel Hazzard (ed.) (1973): The Russian Primary Chronicle. 3rd ed. Cambridge, Mass. Fasmer, Maks (2004): Ėtimologičeskij slovar’ russkogo jazyka. T. 3. Moskva. Giannarelli, Elena (2007): “La vecchiaia nel monachesimo antico”, in Mattioli, Umberto (ed.): Senectus. La vecchiaia nell’antichità ebraica e cristiana. Vol. 3. Bologna, 747-786. Gitermann, Valentin (1991): Storia della Russia. 3rd ed. Vol. 1. Firenze. Krys’ko, Vadim (2006): Slovar’ russkogo jazyka. XI-XVII vv. Vyp. 27. Moskva. Minois, Georges (1988): Storia della vecchiaia dall’antichità al rinascimento. Bari. Prokopij Kesarijskij (1993): Vojna s persami. Tajnaja istorija. Perevod i kommentarii A. A. Čekalova. Moskva. Sreznevskij, Izmail (1989): Slovar’ drevnerusskogo jazyka. T. 1-3. Moskva.

Contributors

Cabassi, Nicoletta, is a confirmed researcher in Slavic Studies at the University of Parma, Italy. She attained a PhD in Comparative Slavic Literatures at the University of Milan and a postdoctoral fellowship at the University of Bari. Currently she teaches Slavic philology and Russian language at the University of Parma. Her interests focus on literary, cultural and linguistic interactions between Russia, Italy and the Balkans and on collecting Slavic material in Italian private/public archives. She has been coordinator of the agreement for scientific and educational cooperation between the universities of Parma, Tula, Moscow (RANEPA), Novi Sad, and Belgrade. Among her publications are Cabassi/Imanalieva, L’opera comica russa nel Settecento (2010); Cabassi/Imanalieva, Sbitenščik. Il venditore di sbiten’ (2013); Cabassi, Esopova basna kod Dositeja Obradovića (2015). Duży, Wiesława, is assistant professor in the Institute of History at the Polish Academy of Sciences. She studied History and Sociology and holds bachelor’s, master’s and doctoral degrees from the Nicolaus Copernicus University in Toruń, Poland. In her PhD thesis she analyzed different approaches to aging presented by authors of Polish memoirs written at the end of the 18th and beginning of the 19th centuries. Results of the PhD project were published in 2016 in Opava, Czech Republic (Pamiętnikarze polscy przełomu XVIII i XIX wieku wobec starości). Currently, Wiesława Duży is preparing a research project which focuses on the history of the body in Central Europe in the early modern era and is working on a project concerning the edition of early modern historical sources. She cooperates with the Silesian University in Opava and the Nicolaus Copernicus University in Toruń; she is co-editor of Klio. Czasopismo poświęcone dziejom Polski i

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powszechnym (Klio. Journal of Polish and World History) and a member of the European Network in Aging Studies (ENAS), the Scientific Society in Toruń and the Polish Society of Medical History. Geiger Zeman, Marija, is senior research associate at the Institute of Social Sciences Ivo Pilar in Zagreb, Croatia. In addition, she is an external lecturer at the Faculty of Textile Technology and at the University of Applied Sciences VERN. She graduated in Sociology (BA, MA, PhD) from the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences, University of Zagreb. In her scientific work she is interested in gender issues, aging, marginalized populations and qualitative methodology. In 2009 she received the Annual Science Award in the field of social sciences, awarded by the Croatian Parliament. Goletiani, Liana, is tenured researcher at the Department of Studies in Language Mediation and Intercultural Communication of the State University of Milan, Italy. She studied German and Slavic Languages and Literatures at Kharkiv State University and Frankfurt Goethe University and holds a doctoral degree from the Frankfurt Goethe University. Her publications are mainly concerned with contact linguistics, pragmalinguistics and conversational analysis. She is author of a book about communication failure in the Russian and Ukrainian dialogue (Munich 2003/2012). Her current linguistic research has focused on the morphosyntactic features of legal language. More recently, her research interests also include literary representation of social issues in Ukrainian literature. Gramshammer-Hohl, Dagmar, is senior lecturer in the Department of Slavic Studies at the University of Graz, Austria. She studied Slavic and Romance Languages, Literatures and Cultures in Graz, Moscow and Rouen and holds two master’s and a doctoral degree from the University of Graz. She specializes in literary and cultural studies with a focus on 20th-century Russian literature, gender and age/aging studies. In her PhD thesis (2002) she analyzed representations of women’s aging in Russian literature. Her current research project focuses on narratives of homecoming in Russian and Bosnian/Croatian/Serbian literature of exile. Dagmar GramshammerHohl was granted the Prof. Paul Petry Award in Aging Studies in 1998; she is an alumna of the Austrian Academy of Sciences and a member of the Eu-

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ropean Network in Aging Studies (ENAS). In 2011 she was granted the Excellence in Teaching Award of the University of Graz. Leben, Andreas, is professor of Slovene Literature and Cultural Studies at the University of Graz, Austria. He studied Slavistics and Ethnology in Vienna, Ljubljana and Prague and holds a master’s and a doctoral degree from the University of Vienna. His research focus is on 20th- and 21st-century Slovene literature, autobiographical writing, cultural transfer, memory culture and the literature and culture of the Slovene minority in Austria. He is co-editor (with Alenka Koron) of the volume Avtobiografski diskurz (2011) and head of the project “Bilingual literary practice in Carinthia after the discontinuation of mladje (1991) and its position in the supra-regional sphere of interaction,” financed by the Austrian Science Fund (FWF). Meletis, Dimitrios, is research assistant and PhD student in the Department of Linguistics at the University of Graz, Austria. He studied Linguistics and Slavic Languages, Literatures, and Cultures in Graz and holds two master’s degrees from the University of Graz. His research interests include grapholinguistics, the syntax-semantics interface, Russian pop culture and television studies. He has published books on the materiality of writing and the semantics of the genitive of negation in Russian and is currently completing his PhD thesis on the naturalness of scripts and writing systems. Remonato, Ilaria, is a fellow researcher in Russian literature at Verona University, Italy. She studied English and Russian Languages, Literatures and Cultures in Verona and graduated with a dissertation devoted to a comparison between literary vampires in English and Russian works of the 19th century. Afterwards she obtained a four-year grant from the same institution to study Russian linguistics. She holds a PhD in Literatures and Literary Theory. Her focus was on Russian literature, namely on the late Soviet period. Her final thesis, which later became a monography, was devoted to the prose poem Moskva-Petuški by Venedikt Erofeev (Tra movimento e stasi: polisemia del viaggio in Moskva-Petuški di Venedikt Erofeev). She has taken part in international conferences and published articles on linguistics, on Russian 20th-century literature (Il’f and Petrov, Rasputin, Erofeev, Dovlatov) and on literary translation. Her current research topics deal with

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old age in Russian literature and with the semiotic functions of objects in selected late Soviet works. Savkina, Irina, is senior lecturer in the Faculty of Communication Sciences at the University of Tampere, Finland. She studied Russian Language and Literature at the University of Leningrad (St. Petersburg) and holds a master’s degree from the Herzen State Pedagogical University of Russia and a doctoral degree from the University of Tampere, Finland. She specializes in literary and cultural studies with a focus on the history of Russian literature and culture, gender studies, autobiography studies, Russian popular culture and mass media. She is the author of three books about Russian women’s literature and more than 160 scholarly articles, including several articles about the images of older women in Russian literature. Her current research project is devoted to the study of diaries of the Soviet period, including diaries of young people, of old people and of ordinary women. Stagl-Škaro, Natalia, is associate professor at the Department for Cultural and Communication Studies at the University of Dubrovnik, Croatia. She studied Slavic Philology and English and American Studies at the Universities of Salzburg, Moscow (The Peoples’ Friendship University of Russia) and Zagreb and holds a master’s and a doctoral degree from the University of Salzburg. After a two-year postdoc with a Schrödinger grant from the Austrian Science Fund (FWF) in Bonn, Germany, she taught in Tuzla and Mostar, BiH. Her emphasis in research and teaching is on Slavic literary and cultural studies, oral literature and interculturality as well as overlaps between literature and ethnography. Her current book project entitled Petar Hektorović and his Fishing and Fishermen’s Conversation and other things: Living and Working in the Croatian Renaissance gives synchrone and diachrone representations of Dalmatia in the 16th century. Voľanská, Ľubica, is a research fellow at the Institute of Ethnology of the Slovak Academy of Sciences in Bratislava. She studied Ethnology and History at the Comenius University in Bratislava, University of Regensburg and University of Vienna. She holds a doctoral degree from the Institute of Ethnology of the Slovak Academy and the Comenius University in Bratislava. In a long-term perspective she is dealing with the ethnological re-

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search of kinship and family, old age, intergenerational relations, (auto)biographical research and historical anthropology. Her current book project focuses on old age and aging in autobiographical texts in Bratislava and Vienna. She taught courses on family, kinship and intergenerational relationships at the Department of Ethnology and Museology at the Comenius University. She is a member of the Management Committee on behalf of the Slovak Republic in the COST Action “Ageism – A Multinational Interdisciplinary Perspective” (2014-2018). Zeman, Zdenko, is scientific advisor at the Institute of Social Sciences Ivo Pilar in Zagreb. He graduated in Sociology (BA, PhD) and Philosophy (BA, MA) from the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences, University of Zagreb. From 1992 until 2001 he was the executive editor and a member of the Editorial Board of the journal Društvena istraživanja (Social Research). In his current professional work he has developed interest in sociological theories of (post)modernization, aging and gender issues. His empirical work is based on qualitative methodology. Zink, Andrea, is professor of Slavic Literatures and Cultures at the University of Innsbruck, Austria. She studied Slavic Philology, Philosophy and Eastern/Southeastern European History in Munich, Berlin (Free University) and Leningrad. She holds a master’s degree from the Free University of Berlin and a PhD from the University of Basel, Switzerland, where she also received her Venia docendi. Her main fields of research are Russian and Bosnian/Croatian/Serbian literatures and cultures, gender studies and literary and cultural theory. Her current research topics include the representation of work and commerce in Russian Realism (19th century) and ethical concepts in post-Yugoslav literature.