Modern Russian Humour

"Russian Humour? Does it exist?"

...............Boris Mirsky (a Russian humorist)

I

Most of us, some with the help of Hollywood, others without it, picture the Russian as a person with a singular lack of humour, enveloped with gloom a La Dostojevsky. To us ‘Russian’ and ‘humour’ appear to be irreconcilable terms: he who speaks of Russian humour might as well speak of Muslim, Hindus or Roman Catholic, Protestants. And yet, there is a strong streak of the humorous lurking somewhere in the Slav soul.

"Russian gloom" has long been the favourite subject of discussions in literary societies throughout England and abroad for the past thirty years and more. We have connected, as literary critics do, Russian literature with Russian history in such a way that it would answer to the dictum: "Literature is a representation of life.".

By what appears to be an unexplainable process (which I shall try to explain later) we forgot that literature is also, as Aristotle said long ago, a criticism of life. Much of Russia’s humorous literature has been criticism, first of Tsarist Russia and afterwards, of ‘Bolshevik’ Russia. In other words, the practical-minded Russians believed in the wisdom of the old Greek who said, in effect, that humour without satire was like ‘Hamlet’ without the Prince of Denmark.

It has been hinted at the outset that Hollywood derived immense pleasure from time ‘un memorial’ by lampooning Bolshevik Russia. The culmination of the scurrilons attack took place in the popular show "Ninotchka". They say "Don’t pronounce it, see it" but unfortunately, only as an idea for an advertisement. The trade-mark of Russian mentality, Maurice Dekobra tells us, is expressed in the word "Nitchevo," pronounced "Skouchno." (I have not myself hazarded a guess as to how ‘Ninotchka’ must be pronounced because I would thereby prevent the reader from giving full play to his mind). Can any one without the highest sense of fun have such a spelling, and such a pronunciation? No, not even the English.

‘Ninotchka’, the typical Russian woman "with her cheek bones a little prominent, her smile a little cruel, her sapphire eyes a little steely", and "her pearl-necklace a little false" (?), is represented as incapable of understanding even Pat-and-Mike jokes. A friend of mine, writing from Poona, says, "If you remember ‘Ninotchka’ you will realize that women appreciate only slap-stick." I do not know whether he has misunderstood the film or whether, as is more probable, he has twisted the context to suit the exigencies of his letter; but that is not what Hollywood had at the of their mind. They were thinking neither of women in general, nor Russian women in particular, but of Russians in general.

In "Clicking of Cuthbert" P. G. Wodehouse introduces a Russian novelist as the guest of the evening at a suburban Literary Society. They expect him to appreciate the local novelist who has been influenced from his childhood by the great tradition of the Russian gloom, but he ignores the young fellow instead, he recognizes "Cootaboot Banks" (Cuthbert), the young golf-player, and after kissing him heartily on both his cheeks, in the Russian manner, proceeds to narrate a few golf anecdotes about himself–to the consternation of the other members who understand as little golf as Cuthbert understands literature. He speaks of the day when he was playing with Lenin and Trotsky and another, when somebody tried to shoot Lenin with a revolver. "You know, shooting Lenin with a revolver is our national game." And so on.

I do not suggest for a moment that Wodehouse had the theme of this article at the of his mind when he wrote that story. Far from it. But if we wish to read into it our thesis, we can do so with surpising ease–proving incidentally that nothing could have been farther from the humorist’s mind. The truth of this remark will be much better appreciated if we remember that after condemning the novelist Sovietski, and Nastikoff as worse than Sovietski, the Russian novelist proceeds to say, "Tolstoy and P. G. Wodehouse not bad. Not good, but not bad"–the implication that his own works are supreme being fairly obvious.

Let me quote to you from E.F. Bozman on "Translation: Le Style c’est I’homme"

Russia: No one can read Russian. That is why their books must be translated. The Russian language is very queer. It is very much like English in many ways, but it has not the jollity of A.E. Housman or George Gissing. Go, little translator, and render the big Russian books into your little-mother-tongue.

Bozman has in this passage given us another reason why we do not know of the existence of Russian humour, namely, the difficulty of the Russian language. It is probably true that it lacks the jollity of the English tongue, for most Russian humour, like much French poetry, is sad. A famoos ‘Russian poet after reading the humorist Gogol’s story of the ‘Dead Souls’ was reported to have exclaimed, "My God Russia is indeed a sad country.’ Nikolai Gogol has often been compared to Charles Dickens without discredit to either, and may be called the father of Russian Humour. He is also the father of modern Russian Literature.

II

Before Gogol there was not much Russian fiction worth the name. As Dostojevsky said, "We are all descended from Gogol’s story of the ‘Cloak’". It appears to us quite comic when we come across modern Russian litterateurs proudly declaring that their humour has its traditions, (traditions which are less than a hundred and, fifty years old). Russian literature, on account of its ‘young-ness’, (all Russian humour existing is modern) has not very many conventions to break. The ‘young-ness’ of Russia thus enables her to pursue more freely new lines of development in literature–as it has done in the realm of political and economic planning.

With the possible exception of Dostojevsky, that ‘cruel genius’ every older Russian author has humorous stories to his credit. The explanation of this is not far to seek. The political and other turmoils through which Russia passed during the past few decades made it imperative for the Slav people to devise means of ‘escape’. Humour, being one of the recognised shock absorbers, was very much in demand–and it was forthcoming in accordance with the strictest laws of supply and demand.

Gogol has anticipated not only later Russian humorists, but even humorists of other nations. To mention just one example: In his "Letters of a Lap-Dog" he has incredibly foretold the coming of P. G. Wodehouse’s "The Mixer"–to which we might add fine sub-title, "The Diary of a watch-dog."

Anton Tchekhov, with whose plays every student of world-literature is familiar, started as a writer of humorus stories. It has been said of this author of, Russian "Heart-break houses" that "he make us laugh whilst Gogol makes us cry." Mysterious are the ways of Russian writers!

The third Russian writer on a par with Tchekhov and Gogol is Gorki. The word ‘Gorki’ means ‘bitter,’ but sometimes Alexey Maximovich Pyeshkov (‘Gorki’ being the pen-name) is indeed sweet. On the whole his humour (as distinguished from his serious work) might be termed ‘bitter-sweet,’ not merely on account of a love for puns, but with a certain amount of respect for propriety. This passage from "Promtov’s Marriage" is typical of him.

My wife did nothing but scold me for my friendship with the minor Canon, and did her utmost to draw me into her gang of literary people and humbugs. Every evening she received "the most serious and respectable people of the town," as she put it. She was right they looked as serious as if they were hanged.

I was rather fond of reading myself in those days, only nothing. I ever read bothered me in the least and I don’t see why it should have—

Evidently my readers and I are not with promtov. He prodeeds:

But those people–I mean my wife and her worthy friend–got so terribly excited from reading a book that one might have imagined their hair was being pulled out. My idea is this: a book–well, what of it? A book’s a book if it’s a good one, so much the better. All books are written for the same purpose. They all try to prove that what’s good is good, and what’s bad is bad.

There are three sections into which Russian literature of the past hundred and odd years has been divided: but we shall have no need to adhere to it. Of the five great Russian writers who are most popular in India–Gogol, Dostojevsky, Tolstoy, Tchekhov and Gorki–three are practitioners of the slippery art of humour. Dostojevsky is the gloom-master; and Tolstoy, the moral-master, has (as Bernard Shaw points out) the strongest satirical pen. "He does not write paragraphs about the absurdity of one man sitting as judge over another on the fallibility of the human mind, on the theme of ‘Judge not that ye be not judged.’ He simply mentions that before occupying his judicial seat the Judge went through a course of gymnastics in his private chamber." The first few pages of "Resurrection" show Tolstoy as a super artist.

III

When we come to the humorists of the period of the World War I, we find that they are mostly satirical. A man called Arkady Avertchenko has gathered around his review, "Satiricon", a band of the wittiest of Russian writers. He is pouring playful scorn and invective against Tsarist Russia, thus acting as the ‘shining supplement of Public Laws.’ His arrows of satire feathered with wit, and wielded with sense,’ flew home to their mark. Result? They got seats in state-carriages; some as modern theatre-critics get cinema-tickets; and others for their journey to Siberia.

The understanding of Russian satire of this time generally requires a previous knowledge of Russian history and even that of the Russian language: but, sometimes, it can be appreciated without the political connotation in the same way as "Gulliver’s Travels" is appreciated by children.

The late nineteenth-century writer, Mikhail Saltykov (nom-de-plume ‘Shchedrin’) is famous for his attacks on red-tapism which deserve to be much better known. His sketch entitled, "Two Generals and a Peasant" is typical of his satire:

Some years ago there lived in Petersburg two generals. Now these generals had grown old in the service of the government, having spent the whole of their lives in small civil offices, and, consequently, knew nothing else beyond the mere routine of their duties. Their entire vocabulary consisted of such words as ‘I remain, sir, most respectfully yours.’ In due time the generals retired on a pension, each hired a cook and they settled down in Redtape Avenue to a comfortable old age."

With the advent of the Bolshevik regime, the whips of "Satiricon" had to flee–on account of their outspoken criticism of the new regime. Thus we find many of the humorists leaving Moscow for Paris, London and other capitals. (Avertchenko died in Prague in the year 1924.) With the exception of Vlass Dorochevitch, who was killed in the thick of the Revolution, most Russian humorists left their homes.

The following is an incident narrated by Avertchenko, which speaks of the astonishment of the Russians when they heard that a trunk reached its destination properly. Incidentally, it helps to brush up our knowledge of Russian history:

"You’re not going to tell me that he lost his trunk as well?" ejaculated the sea-dog as if he had been shot.

"Why, no, that’s the miracle: in January, 1920, the trunk arrived safe and sound in Sebastopol! The whole country was topsy-turvy. The Petersburg-Sebastopol line was in the hands of marauders. To begin with there was the Ukranian hetman Skoropadski with his cossacks; then came Petlura’s gangs who overthrew him and got into power; then the bandit Makho’s rabble; after that there were the white volunteers; and last of all the new Bolsheviks; towns were being burned and were passing from hands to hands; railway stations were being burned and were being pillaged, every thing was being seized down to the smallest parcel; baskets and trunks emptied of their contents, were filled with stones–yet the minister’s trunk continued its journey slowly but surely like an industrious ant, and, after peregrinating for a year and a half, ended by reaching its destination untouched, exactly as it had started–"

Don. Aminado is considered to be the best Russian humorist outside Russia to-day. He writes paragraphs of two sentences or less. Here is an observation of his on the subject of "Coups d’etat":

When a coup d’etat fails it is called a revolt. But a revolt that is successful called a coup d’etat.

The following, which will be equally topical, is from Aminado’s "A Few Words About America":

The Americans themselves are very good-natured and kind; suffice it to say that in their largest prison at Sing-Sing they organize excellent concerts for those condemned to death, on the eve of their execution they first execute a few hymns and then Chaliapine is executed, and after that there is a general distribution of sandwiches.

In recent times women have played a very important part in Soviet politics. So, too, in Russian literature. Mme. Estafieva, Princess Metchersky and Mme. Nadine Teffy being prominent figures. Mme Teffy, an exiled authoress, reveals in her skits a keen insight into the psychology of every day life. From "At the Restaurant":

When a lady enters a restaurant, she assumes a dignified air, she tries to look important and somewhat condescending.

Dressed in her best, she wishes to convey the impression that she is wearing her everyday toilet. If she is badly dressed she does her best to give the idea that she only wears smart clothes at home and does not bother to put them on when she dines at a restaurant (so that the restaurant should not get conceited).

When a gentleman enters a smart restaurant he pretends he is a regular customer. But if it is just an ordinary restaurant he affects a slightly contemptuous air.

A. Boukhov wrote the sketch, "Rules of Conduct (for the use of others)". His "Art-Lovers" reminds you of Stephen Leacock’s "Mrs. Newrich Buys Antiques." Boukhov is also the author of the awfully funny "End of Sherlock Holmes" (on account of which he has earned many sighs of relief from readers).

Vlass Dorochevitch’s "How Hassan Lost His Trousers" is a very popular piece, as it is included in more than one collection of Russian stories. The following is from Metcalfe Wood’s translation:

Ah! well, such is the title of the story.
"How Hassan Lost his Trousers"
And this is how it happened:
In the large and beautiful town of Baghdad there lived
a merchant, rich and respected.
What was his name?
When he played at the knee of his mother–(is not
paradise at the knee of his mother?) she called him:
Hassan-Hekki. Hassan, the Happy.
He was young, beautiful, intelligent and rich.
Immensely rich
What did he need!
However Hassan resolved to marry–

There are many such jokes about marriage, and proverbs about women. As this is not an anthology of Russian jokes, but a study of Russian humour, we will not try to exhaust them subject-wise–but give a joke or two to illustrate our point. A. Boukhov says:

There are again some people who pay court out of sheer laziness, owing to an innate liking for slavery.

Dominado quotes for his art the "celebrated apothegm attributed to the wise and blessed Krichnamoorthi":

A bachelor lives like a man and dies like a dog: a married man lives like a dog and dies like a man.

Here are a few relevant Russian proverbs:

Cherish your wife as you would your salvation, and beat her as you, would your coat.

If your wife were a guitar, you could hang her up after playing.

A dog is wiser than a woman, for it does not turn upon its master.

It is a moot question whether proverbs are part of Modern literature: but they do serve to illustrate the development of the spirit and mentality of a nation.

IV

I make no excuse for not attempting an analysis of Russian humour by subjecting it to the ordeals of the dissection table,–not even by pleading that I am an anti-vivisectionist. For this is "so complicated and so difficult that the hair of the most learned psychologists on the subject has turned snowy white." I confess I am not a most learned psychologist: I confess also that I do not desire to let my hair turn snowy white so soon.

The scientist’s account of a joke is one of the greatest jokes we can think of; for, whereas science deals with studied observations and inferences therefrom, laughter is created by a spontaneous reaction. If you begin to consider whether a joke is worth laughing at or not, and finally decide that it is worth laughing at you find that you can’t. Those who have read Henri Bergson’s great book on "Laughter" have done so without laughing even once. And besides, Russian humorists do not like certain kinds of philosophising. Typical is the extract given below from Ivan Khemitzer’s sketch of the "Philosopher", who falls into a ditch:

He concluded that an earthquake had superinduced a momentary displacement of his corporeal axis, thus destroying his equilibrium, and, in obedience to the law of gravity as established by Newton, precipitating him downward until he encountered an immovable obstacle–namely, the bottom of the ditch.

When his father arrived with the rope, the following conversation ensued:

"I have brought a rope to pull you out with. There now, hold on tight to that end, and don’t let go while I pull".

"A rope? Please inform me what a rope is before you pull"–

Matthew Arnold had the questionable habit of quoting just a line from one poet (preferably in Greek or Latin) and place by its side a line from a Middle English poet, and then say that the Greek is the better–a conclusion with which we heartily used to agree on account of our wonderful knowledge of Greek. Un-Arnold-like, I have tried to give sufficiently representative quotations from the various Russian writers in good English translation*: and since I have not tried to draw comparisons on the strength of them, I have a clean conscience on the subject.

There is a large section of people who think that a drab economic and socia1 equality prevails in Russia, and that, on this account, there is no incentive for the progress of art and science and literature in that country. This notion is quite pardonable, and we have, in this article, so far done nothing to dispel it. On the contrary, we have been probably encouraged to think that the Soviet Government have tried to make Russia a humourless nation by driving out of the country all the established humorists of the time. This is a complicated question, leading us into the province of politics; we shall not pretend to tackle it here.

What we can assert is that there is good humour in the U.S.S.R. of today, just as there is scientific, literary and artistic progress. Modern Soviet Russian humour does not appear to be so sad as that of Tsarist Russia. This is not wishful thinking, though I myself sometimes used to suspect that it was.

Mirsky wrote a little before 1930:

Home-dweller or exile, absolutist or revolutionist, we laugh at our failings, see fun in the dreary and interminable round of daily life. A race that has the courage to make the silent steppes echo with its laughter is a healthy race in spite of everything. It will survive its most severe trials and worst calamities. It will win through by reason of its optimism, which is a sure sign of its vitality–laughter is a healthy balm for which no chemist has the prescription.

To-day, a few years after 1940, we at once see the truth of his remarks made from Paris. It was at one time possible for a Jane Austen to come out uninfluenced by a French Revolution: but such a thing is impossible for a Madame Teffy. Literature of to-day can scarcely live divorced from Politics.

Those who know the Russian language have said that Alexander Kuprin deserves to be at least as popular as Tchekhov. He left Russia, like so many other literary men older than Zoschenko and Kataev, but his stories have been written for consumption in Soviet Russia. "Mechanical Justice" contains a plea, in the manner of Swift, for the flogging of children by a machine instead of by human agency, for "the personal confrontment of two individuals inevitably awakens hate, fear, irritation, revengefulness, contempt and, what is more, a competitive stubbornness in the repetition of crime and punishment."

Michael Zoschenko’s story of the "Old Rat" is mildly humorous like most other stories written after the Revolution by Russia’s younger writers–and is about the old rat of a clerk who insists on seeing for himself all the stages in the manufacture of an aeroplane, towards the cost of which he has contributed a gold rouble.

Valentine Kataev’s story, "Things" has been described, as ‘farcical’ but I do not see any farce in it. The theme of this story illustrates Karel Capek’s observations on cats. The feline species are essentially feminine and are attached to ‘things’ rather than individuals. The cat is attached to the home, not to the master. If the master moves house, the dog moves long with him; but the cat stays on.

In Madame Estafieva’s "Vania", there is a tear-drawing social study, with a touch of humour introduced when the mother looks upon her step-son in two different lights.

"What striking dissimilarity between the characters of father and son!" thought Anna, picturing to herself the quiet, unsociable Vania, "He must resemble his mother!" and once more the feeling of jealousy, which had tortured her so much in the past, awakened in her heart.

When Vania spreads sweetness and light in the unfortunate home at Christmas time with well-thought out presents.

She gazed at the face of Vania, reddened with joyful excitement, at his eyes that were now speaking with merriment from under her thick eyelashes, and noted with surprise the striking resemblance of the boy to her dead husband.

"Why have I never before noticed it?" she reproached herself in thought.

Even Boris Pilniak’s story on Peter the Great ("His Majesty Kneeb Piter Komondor"), which has gained a good deal of well-deserved attention as throwing much light on the post-Revolutionary valuation of Peter, possesses the mild humour–which is a characteristic of a race which feels it has achieved something.

One can go on like this endlessly but it is not advisable to do so, since writing about Russian humorists and English poets very often prevents the readers from reading them. On the whole, the very latest Russian homour does not seem to be as boisterous as that of earlier generations. A people who find life itself quite pleasant do not perhaps find the necessity for horse laughs, which, they are apt to think, indicate hollowness–the product of an unhappy nation. The happy, light touch is discernible in modern Russian fiction, both humorous and serious. No slap-stick for them!

* The writer is indebted for his quotations from the various Russian authors to:

1. Ernest Benn Ltd., London (Great Russian Short Stories, edited by Stephen Graham).

2. T. Werner Laurie Ltd., London. (The Crimson Smile–La Rire dans la Steppe–edited by Maurice Dekobra).

3. Haldeman Julius Co., Girard, Kansas. (Masterpieces of Russiain Humour, edited by E. Haldeman-Julius).

4. The Educational Book Co., London. (The Masterpieces Library of Short Stories, Vol. XIII. Edited by Sir J. A.Hammerton).

The quotations from Boris Mirsky are from his introduction to "The Crimson Smile" specially written for that volume under the caption, "Commonsense of the Crowd".