Solzhenitsyn and the Truth of History

August 1914, by Alexander Solzhenitsyn, (trans. Michael Glenny). New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1972, 622.

It is just one decade ago that Alexander Solzhenitsyn burst before the floodlights of history’s stage with the publication of his first novel, Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich Solzhenitsyn has acquitted himself well in his unavoidable role as the dissenting author, so well, in fact, that his name has almost become a household word as a synonym for man’s unquenchable thirst for freedom. In a day of the anti-hero, persons of widely divergent outlooks have found in hima hero. He has been lionized for each succeeding literary work. Readers around theworld hang on his every statement, for instance, his recent attack on the United Nations. He has been hailed variously as Russia’s greatest living writer, one of the world’s greatest living writers, and even one of the all-time great novelists. Such accolades are rare enough in any case, but when the writer has been before the public for a meager ten years, they are precedent–shattering indeed. Is there a similar case in all the annals of world literature?

So one can readily understand the tremendous excitement which has accompanied the appearance of a new novel by Solzhenitsyn, especially when the author announces that it is the first installment of a larger work which will, when completed, be his masterpiece. August 1914 has an internal coherence which allows for criticism according to aesthetic canons, but any analysis of its meaning must be tentative and open to qualification by our reading of the succeeding parts. Solzhenitsyn says that he expects that the whole work will take twenty years to complete and that he may not live to finish it, since he is already in his mid–fifties. At any rate, it is a rare delight to experience a great moment in the unfolding history of world literature.

Despite the stir in the intellectual community over this novel, it is not a good place for a newcomer to Solzhenitsyn to start. It is the first of his novels not to be based on his personal experiences. Instead, it is amonumental effort to reconstruct a specific moment in Russian history, a subject unfamiliar to most Americans. A great effort at historical research went into the making of this book, and Solzhenitsyn has complained that he was forbidden access to vital archival materials. Someone other than this reviewer will have to pass judgment on the novel’s historical accuracy. A Russian colleague of mine tells me that it is inaccurate at several points. Nevertheless, as is well understood by readers of Keats, who had Cortez discovering the Pacific Ocean instead of Balboa, historical inaccuracies need not mitigate the aesthetic worth of a piece of literature—or, for that matter, the thematic conclusions which the details are intended to serve.

Besides the foreignness of the history, American readers are apt to find the pace of the book discouraging. It starts slowly and moves ponderously. It is emphatically not the kind of book which will tickle the palate of the sated American reader who guzzles his drink at a stand–up airport bar before hurrying to catch his next commuter jet and open up a book. Solzhenitsyn is quite self–consciously writing for the ages. This novel would not have zoomed to the top of the best seller list apart from the boost of the author’s previously established reputation.

Nevertheless, August 1914 displays a continuity with the rest of the Solzhenitsyn corpus. Its slow beginning and heavy pace are not disssimilar to those of The First Circle and Cancer Ward. It also shares with them a large cast of characters and a compact time span. At least as measured by our usual expectations, plotting has never been a strong point with Solzhenitsyn. Rather, he offers something like a painting, the depiction of a social panorama. His humanist themes of individualism and freedom are consistent throughout his work, a testimony to the coherence of his worldview. If his career is ever divided into periods by the literary historians, it will not be on the basis of major shifts in his thinking about life.

August 1914 recounts the events of one month during World War I, in which Russia hastily and unpreparedly invaded Germany. The crucial event of the unsuccessful invasion is the surrounding and demolition of the Second Army led by General Samsonov, one of many characters taken directly from the historical record. Solzhenitsyn sees great import in this Russian defeat at the Battle of Tannenberg; thus the novel. Specifically, it is that turning–point in history when old Russia is shown to be incapable of fending for itself and is therefore vulnerable to all manner of destructive forces tearing at the national fabric. (The trilogy will, of course, take us through the Revolution of October, 1917.) Apart from this guiding generalization, a superhuman effort will be demanded of the reader to keep from becoming bogged down in the density of historical detail. While the minutiae of military maneuverings may still be annoying to most readers, it is justifiable by the need to show that chaos reigns. The reader may perhaps take some small consolation from the fact that most of the Russian generals have no idea of what they are doing and share his bafflement!

Several major themes thread their ways through the novel. Of these, the primary one is Solzhenitsyn’s concern for truth. The novel concludes with the epigram, “Untruth did not begin with us; nor will it end with us.” The truth which he is after in particular in this novel is the truth of history and its meaning. But one cannot speculate on the meaning without first having the facts at his disposal; thus the importance of the details of his historical reconstruction, even if at the expense of boring some of his readers. The Russian authorities have too long, for their own ideological purposes, kept accurate factual accounts of events from the people which would allow them to draw their own meanings from the facts. Solzhenitsyn is concerned to recover for the Russian people truthful facts. We may call this a concern for truth at its lowest, or most fundamental, level. A minor figure expresses it thus: “The stuff of history is not opinions but sources. And your conclusions are determined by the source materials, even if they contradict your preconceived views” (548). It is easy enough to extrapolate the radical implications which such a procedure will have for a totalitarian state, and it is no wonder that the commissars consider Solzhenitsyn an enemy.

The concern for truth appears over and over again in the novel. For instance, it appears in the doctored newspaper accounts of the events on the front line; at the moment of defeat, the public reads of heroic Russian fighting which will bring victory with God’s help. Worse, the military dispatches send back the same false but self-serving versions of the events. The theme culminates in the final chapter, when the archduke gathers his defeated generals for a post-mortem. In unison, they heap the blame on the head of the dead General Samsonov, who was undeserving of such obloquy. Fortunately, an honest man, Colonel Vorotyntsev, is present, and he is determined “to speak out once and for all” (601). He calls this truth-telling “a sacred duty,” reminiscent of his author’s own words in other contexts. That Vorotyntsev is ultimately not heeded is part of the tragedy of Russian history, but Solzhenitsyn places great importance on the responsibility of a man to speak the truth as he knows it, whether or not others listen to him. The pragmatism of careerists will not do; one’s first loyalty must be to the truth.

Another theme of the novel, which is congruent with the author’s other writings, is the nobility of the individual. This theme is enunciated by one of his minor figures, Varsonofiev—and Solzhenitsyn includes a series of minor figures to speak his mind and to place his interpretation upon events. Countering the expressions of two students, Varsonofiev asserts, “ . . . we should develop our soul. There is nothing more precious than the development of a man’s soul; it is more important than the well-being of countless future generations” (409). Another minor figure, Professor Andozerskaya, in a rebuttal of economic and environmental determinism, tells her students, “But apart from the environment there is also a spiritual tradition, hundreds of spiritual traditions! There is, too, the spiritual life of the individual, and therefore each individual has, perhaps in spite of his environment, a personal responsibility—for what he does and for what other people around him do” (p.549). Sozhenitsyn’s Christianity is becoming more and more widely acknowledged (see Philip Rahv’s review in New York Review of Books, Oct. 5, 1972. 14), and it is no accident that the above-cited spokeswoman is a professor of medieval history who praises that period for its “intense spiritual life” which was “predominant over material existence” (548).

The traditional Christian humanist view of man keeps in tension his grandeur and his misery. The part of that equation which is in need of resuscitation today is the grandeur, and Sozhenitsyn displays many images of this in his novel. But what is most striking and doubtless disconcerting to many readers, is that his images of human grandeur and valor are to be found among military men, and here Sozhenitsyn seems deliberately to flaunt his soldiers in the face of the militant anti-militarists. He explains why: those soldiers, who are “ridiculed by liberal writers,” nevertheless “represented, in purified and concentrated form. The vitality and courage of the whole nation” (357). He speaks in praise of ideas far out of fashion: patriotism, nationalism, the dignity of soldiering, the just war.

Another major theme of August 1914 is ones responsibility toward his fellows. The great example of this is Colonel Vorotyntsev, one of the two sympathetic major characters and the closest thing to an authorial alter ego in this novel. Vorotyntsev is a very capable and energetic man who does much more than could reasonably have been expected of a man of his rank to bring about a Russian victory. His character is almost non-Russian, perhaps Western and even German in its combination of intelligence and energy. In his devotion to duty he could easily have come out of a Puritan or Calvinist tradition. And he is able to inspire in others a sense of responsibility for their fellows. In an outstanding scene Vorotsyntsev tries to rally a fleeing regiment to the probably suicidal task of covering the retreat of the larger army. Standing before them, he considers alternate possibilities. He could invoke the concept of honor or their obligation to Russian allies, but such abstractions ill suit their desperate straits. He could ask them to die for the Tsar, but he despises the Tsar and the corrupt system over which he presides. He could appeal to the name of God. But why should God prefer a Russian victory to a German? He could appeal to the fatherland, but he knows the concept means less to them than it does to him. Finally, he says, simply, “Brothers! Isn’t it selfish to save ourselves at the expense of others? We haven’t far to go from here to reach Russian territory, we could easily make it—but if we did, other regiments would simply be cut to pieces” (360). And, although without enthusiasm, they do respond to the call to help their brothers in need. If there is one watershed issue, one separator of sheep from goats, in this novel, it is just this. Who will help his brothers? Those who do not are the villains. Those who do are the heroes.

It is precisely at this point that Solzhenitsyn chiefly takes issue with Tolstoy (who appears briefly as a character in the book). Running throughout the novel is a love–hate relationship with the author of War and Peace, and in important ways August 1914 can be seen as his version of the subject and even his rebuttal of his master. On this crucial issue Tolstoy avers that men do not control their own destinies, do not make history, but rather that impersonal forces of history rule the fates of men. For all his love of Tolstoy the writer, Solzhenitsyn feels compelled to draw a sharp line of distinction from him here, and Vorotyntsev is his answer.

The final theme which we will consider is the one embodied in Solzhenitsyn’s other hero, General Samsonov: the theme of Tragedy. And here we come to a theme which transcends anything which has appeared in the earlier fiction of Solzhenitsyn. In the novels rooted in his autobiography, he presented a vivid picture of suffering, but it was always undeserved suffering inflicted upon innocents by totalitarian oppressors. The books were protests against that oppression. Now we come to something different and more elemental. In Samsonov we have a character who approximates the tragic heroes of the Western literary tradition, a man who suffersand dies and whose tragic end grows in large measure out of his own failures, yet a man who retains his dignity and integrity to the end. The meaning of the tragic events escapes him, but he dies affirming the will of God. There is a fatuous invoking of the will of God which Solzhenitsyn artfully punctures with his epigram, “Praying kneads no dough.”But no such rebuke applies to Samsonov. As in all great tragedy, so here the element of mystery pertains. Without the least denial of personal responsibility, the fact remains that finite man can never comprehend the whole of reality. To come to that position and still retain faith is, for Solzhenitsyn, worthy of great praise.

A chief Russian trait, and one praised fulsomely by Slavophiles (and Solzhenitsyn has many of the marks of one), is the passive endurance of suffering. Although he is a general and therefore an active agent in the debacle of Tannenberg, Samsonov is depicted as “a sacrificial lamb” with “the look of pre-ordained doom” (429). It is in this depiction of Samsonov that August 1914 ismost fully a confirmation of Solzhenitsyn’s earlier statement that in his writing he listens only to the sad music of Russia and writes only of it.

The two main characters, Samsonov and Vorotyntsev, combine to give us something of the kernel of the “message” of this novel. Samsonov, an object of affection for Solzhenitsyn, represents the old Russia. Samsonov, an actual historical personage, is a religious man who counts the days by the spiritual significations of the ecclesiastical calendar. But Samsonov dies in the war; old Russia is impotent to cope with the realities of the twentieth century. Enter Vorotyntsen, and “it dawned on Samsonov that in this man God had sent him the very person he lacked on his staff . . .” (91). Vorotyntsev, with his Western traits, symbolizes that ingredient which must be added to the traditional Russian character if it is to survive in modern times. Solzhenitsyn praises “the doers” as opposed to “the rebels” (602), and this includes praise of engineers, who cannot remake the world according to some utopian blueprint, but will do the best that can be done with the real one, even if within restrictive limits. It is worth recalling that Solzhenitsyn himself was trained in physics and mathematics, and perhaps we should not find too surprising his appreciation of applied science. This is yet another way in which he distinguishes himself from the majority party of the literary intelligentsia. Now it is significant that Vorotyntsev is not an actual historical personage but a fictional addition. The real Russia, as depicted by Samsonov, needs something which it does not have, and Solzhenitsyn is attempting to point out just what that is in his characterization of Vorotyntsev.

It would be easy but incorrect to set Samsonov and Vorotyntsev in juxtaposition to each other, to make them mutually exclusive, to make them stand, respectively, forRussia past and Russia future. Nowhere does Solzhenitsyn praise one at the cost of damning the other. Both represent characteristics which he admires, and it is his purpose—and one which serves as a mark of the breadth of the man—to hold out the possibility of having both at the same time. When the two men were together, they were perfectly compatible. So what we have, I think, is an author who is basically Slavophile but who sees real and necessary virtues among those praised by the Westernizers. He is not content to eulogize long-suffering Russia. But certainly he does not reject the Russian heritage. Rather, he urges the incorporation into his beloved Russia of those worthy traits which have given the West preeminence in the world, while still retaining those spiritual qualities of old Russia which have made it morally superior, in his mind, to the spiritually sterile, mechanized West. That Solzhenitsyn does not embody in one character both qualities—a spiritual acceptance of even a tragic fate and effectual activity to aid men in the world of the living—may mean that he himself could not, that he feels within himself a split between the contemplative and active modes, the life of faith and the life ofworks.

To discuss at length the positive thematic concerns of the novel is to place the emphasis where the author places it. He is as far from a decadent writer as could be imagined. Still, he offers pictures of decadence in an effort to highlight by contrast what he considers to be virtuous and healthy. His decadents take two forms: selfish, incompetent military men and ideologically deluded revolutionaries. Both forms are shown to be deficient in the crucial matter of responsibility for other living, concrete individuals.

The novel offers a full gallery of generals who represent the decay within Tsarist Russia. They are timeservers who are much more concerned with the furthering of their careers than with the defense of Mother Russia. Zhilinsky, Artamonov, Klyuev—their name is legion. Those sending orders to the front are inept but never admit to anything less than infallibility. Those who receive orders seek to avoid the ones that might endanger their lives, leave other forward units unsupported, and bungle what few military engagements they have. The picture of the Russian brass, with a few exceptions, is one of lack of preparation, coordination, a sense of strategy, a sense ofduty, and even common sense.

Solzhenitsyn is equally hard on the revolutionary intellectuals. They are depicted most clearly in the student, Sasha Lenartovich. When Sasha tries to surrender to the Germans to preserve his life for the great purpose of bringing a revolution in the name of the people, Solzhenitsyn fairly bristles at the hypocrisy. Sasha considers himself superior to the herd and is unwilling, even under the most pressing conditions, to come to the rescue of his fellow–soldiers. His (and other radical students’) ideological fulminations could be transferred almost verbatim to today’s young radicals. These are the only parts of the novel which are available to the cheap–and–easy “relevance” applications, and they will be most unwelcome by the most devout “relevance”-worshipers.

What we have, then, in this novel is theexpression of a man who is profoundly anti-collectivist, anti-determinist, anti-utopian, anti-revolutionary, and even anti-liberal, but who is equally adamantly pro-individual, pro-patriotism, pro-nationalism, pro-history, pro-tradition, pro-religion. So far Solzhenitsyn, as a dissenter against totalitarianism, has received an almost uniformly good press from American liberals. Yet with each passing work and pronouncement of his, it becomes increasingly clear that he is at odds with them. So it should not come as a surprise, the virus of ideology being as strong as it is today, that eventually some liberals would begin to express some hesitancy about and even reaction against him. The clearest such incipient reaction is the review of August 1914 by Mary McCarthy in Saturday Review (October 1972). In all this, cultural conservatives may well discover what I believe to be the case: that Solzhenitsyn’s basic ideas correspond very closely indeed with their own, and the more so the further he articulates them (and here I cannot but show a certain impatience for that final volume of this trilogy-in-progress which will deal with the Russian Revolution). It is not at all fanciful to imagine that through the good offices of Alexander Solzhenitsyn some of the traditional values cherished by conservatives will be restored to a place of dignity and respect which they do not presently enjoy.

Great care is needed in commenting in this area, for the worst thing that any reviewer could do is to play partisan politics over Solzhenitsyn’s fiction (which, I trust it will be granted, is not done by drawing distinctions and recognizing alignments that exist in the fact of the matter). Solzhenitsyn’s fiction is a monumental achievement much too expansive to be squeezed into the mold of a narrowly political, partisan view; and to politicize his work would be to play the game according to the rules set down by the Soviet censors themselves, who judge him by the political measure only and do not see him as concerned primarily with human and moral values. So it should be the yearning of every conservative admirer of Solzhenitsyn that his liberal admirers will retain their enthusiasm for him. An example which I hope will be multiplied is Philip Rahv’s review in New York Review of Books, which recognizes the philosophical distance between Solzhenitsyn and the Left but which refuses to apply ideological criteria in an evaluation of this work of art.

What, then, is to be our final evaluation of the novel as a work of art? I confess that, upon a first reading, I did not like it as well as I did The First Circle and Cancer Ward. After perusing it again, I am not so sure. An older Russian man who knows more Russian history than I do (or than Solzhenitsyn had access to, for that matter) insists that this is Solzhenitsyn’s greatest book. I have the sneaking suspicion that he is right and that it is our (my) American parochialism which keeps us (me) from seeing it clearly. All of which is to say that in the long run Solzhenitsyn will prove to be a good judge of the relative merits of his works when he calls this present work-in-progress his masterpiece.