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...AT 60 ANSWERING QUESTIONS FROM SAKRAT JANOVIČ
Arnold McMillin
My interest in Belarusian literature came to me via study of the language, and, in particular, the development of the vocabulary of the literary language in the 19th century, the title of my doctoral dissertation. Aready interested in languages at school (French, Spanish, German and Latin) I had been glad of the challenge as a student at London University (1959-63) of taking up the Russian language. On graduating, I immediately began postgraduate research into 18th-century Russian poetry, but before long I was inspired by the inaugural lecture of Professor Robert Auty, a charismatic new professor of Comparative Slavonic Philology (a subject, alas, no longer existing in any British university) in which he called for more research into the Slavonic languages. Abandoning Sumarokov, Lomonosov and their ilk, I asked him whether I could study Slavonic philology (a topic in which I was not trained) with him. He agreed to supervise me, on the strength of my first degree, and amongst his suggestions was the development of the modern Belarusian language, a very neglected topic in Britain in 1963.
It was not long before I was put in touch with the flourishing Belarusian community in London led by the late Bishop Časłau Sipovič. Here I was greeted with great kindness by the priests who did everything they could to help me in my work, suggesting books and offering information and advice. Also a source of encouragement was another non-Belarusian enthusiast, currently the editor of the Belarusian Chronicle, Guy Picarda.
These experiences were to be repeated in Miensk itself. As the holder of a scholarship to study for a year in Moscow, I made a month’s visit to Miensk in order to consult linguists at the Institute for Language Study at the Belarusian Academy of Sciences. Led at the time by Dr Arkadzi Žurauski, the scholars there showed me great friendship and I was given complete freedom to use their kartateka for the multi-volume defining dictionary of Belarusian which was, even then, in preparation.1 Time was short, and I was pleasantly surprised and touched to be allowed to use the Institute’s facilities in the evenings when everyone else had gone home. This trust contrasted greatly with the pictures on the walls of the staircase leading to the Institute which were covered with naive pictures of what to do in the case of nuclear attack (by Britain?). On returning to London in 1965 I became a Lecturer in Russian Language and Literature, much delaying my dissertation which was finally defended in 1971 and subsequently became a book (London, 1973).
Shortly after that I was invited by the editor of an enterprising German academic series (Bausteine zur Geschichte der Literatur bei den Slawen) to write a short history of Belarusian literature in English.2 Since there was at that time no serious work on this topic in any Western language, it seemed necessary to try to fill a gap, and the book became far longer than had been originally envisaged. During my doctoral work I had got to know from a linguistic viewpoint many 19th-century texts and, in the process, become familiar with some Soviet publishing practices; for example, a text described as «abbreviated» turned out to be exactly the same length as the original, except that the word «Žyd» had been removed twice.3 Something comparable happened later to one of my own texts which appeared in Russian in Miensk, the translator having carefully removed every mention of Stalin’s name. Bykau, of course, has bitter experience of bowdlerization through translation into Russian.4
Work on this book aroused my deep interest in Belarusian literature,and the survey was eventually published in Giessen, Germany in 1977. Now long out of print,5 it still appears to arouse some interest in Belarus, particularly amongst younger people (who have never seen it and are not aware of all its many faults), since it was «forbidden fruit», kept in a spetsfond; at the time it was rumoured that a Russian translation of it had been made, perhaps for the benefit of the three reviewers in Połymia (boh trojcu lubić, or perhaps it was just a case of «safety in numbers»); comprising one genuine scholar,6 one grey nonentity, and one highly placed apparatchik, they paid me a compliment which I have always relished, by accusing me of «bourgeois objectivism».
When in 1976 I was lucky enough to become Professor of Russian at Liverpool University, it was not so easy to keep up with Belarusian studies, due to the lack of appropriate library facilities, but in 1987 I returned to London as Professor of Russian Literature, and since then have increasingly devoted more and more of my time to Belarusian rather than Russian language and literature, although I have an active side interest in Russian music.
I have found Belarusian literature very different from English, Russian or, for that matter, French and Spanish, but none the less very rich in particular areas. Amongst my favourites of earlier Belarusian literature are the humane and lucid biblical commentaries of Frańcišak Skaryna with their magnificently executed and very original engravings, and the memoir writing of Fiodar Jeułašeuski which gives such a vivid picture of his times amidst the sometimes tedious religious controversies of the age. An exciting discovery of recent times has been Mikoła Husouski’s Carmen bisonis. From the Belarusian renaissance I particularly respect and enjoy Maksim Bahdanovič, the lyrics of Janka Kupała and the narrative poems of Jakub Kołas, especially the inimitable Symon muzyka, whose violin has been such a potent symbol for nationalist aspirations ever since. In recent years I have become very familiar with what I have called the Belarusian literary diaspora: writers who have left their country voluntarily or involuntarily (émigrés and exiles); those who have not moved, but whose frontier has moved (the Belarusian community in eastern Poland); and those Belarusian writers who «happen» to live in, for example, Russia, Latvia or Ukraine. My survey of the writing of these three groups, which include a number of excellent writers and poets, is due to be published in Birmingham, UK in autumn 2001. In 1999 my book about Belarusian literature in the 1950s and 1960s appeared (again in Germany) and a translation of it into Belarusian is due to be published by «Biełaruski knihazbor» in early summer 2001. It is, of course, a great pleasure that since the collapse of the Soviet Union, for the time being at least, it is possible to talk more openly and to meet readers, critics and writers in Belarus.
Now I am in the early stages of my biggest project of all: a survey of Belarusian literature from the 1970s to the millennium (the present day). In the past I have occasionally been sent books from authors I have never met, in Belarus and Poland, but in recent years the quantity of these generous gifts has greatly increased and is a cause for sincere and heartfelt gratitude. Meeting the writers with whom one is concerned is a luxury long denied to foreign critics by the Soviet regime and a great source of interest and pleasure at the present time.
Is Is Belarusian literature likely to be widely read in Western countries? Lands with more stable historical backgrounds than Belarus (and no large and aggressive neighbours) have produced a greater range of literature over the centuries, not least in memoirs and exegetical commentaries, although this takes nothing away from Skaryna and Jeułašeuski. The rustic and folk tradition of Belarusian literature is hardly developed in, for instance, English literature where it remains, at most, marginal. Another major difference between English and Belarusian culture is the status of language, and its vigorous defence in Belarusian literature. The concern for the Belarusian language, which is a vital and legitimate concern for both metropolitan and expatriate Belarusian literature, has only faint echoes elsewhere: the threat of English to German and, especially, French; the threat of American to British English, for example.7 The preservation of language, a main priority if Belarusian national consciousness is not to go into abeyance, simply has no equivalent in, for instance, England, Germany or France; Wales or Ireland would be nearer comparisons, constantly threatened by «universal» English.
Like poems about the language, and stories regretting loss of the countryside (to which I shall return), war literature in the West tends to be more localized than the brilliantly specific yet universal parables of Vasil Bykau. The popular historical novels of Uładzimir Karatkievič have their equivalents elsewhere, but without the vital charge and significance that makes his work so important for Belarus. Language and history are obviously vital for the preservation of national identity, and so it is unsurprising that the Russianizing Soviet regime used regularly to try to pass off Bykau as a Russian writer, a trick to which I have tried to draw attention at every opportunity.
Because of the extremely large quantity of books published in English, there are not nearly so many translations from foreign literatures in Britain and America as there is in Germany, Italy and France, to say nothing of the Scandinavian countries. Occasional poems or short stories appear in anthologies of East European literature, but, on the whole, even translations of modern Russian books, if they appear at all, quickly disappear again from bookshop shelves. Thus, the prospects for extensive translations of Belarusian literature into authentic English are not strong, although, of course, some of the works of Vasil Bykau and Sakrat Janovič have been successfully translated. Janka Bryl and Michaś Stralcou have both produced stories which would go well into English, and there might also be a readership for Karatkievič’s romantic historical novels. When all is said and done, however, much of Belarusian literature is very specific in its concerns and, perhaps, remote from the literary world of post-war Western Europe. The average anglophone reader would find it difficult to understand the implied political background to most writing (unless it were foregrounded as, for example, in the novels of Solzhenitsyn) and the nostalgia for the countryside so prominent in Belarusian writers in eastern Poland has no real equivalent in English literature.8 Naturally, most writers discuss the problems and life of their own countries, but only the best of them are able to make them of universal interest.9
It is a sad fact that Belarus, first known for its artificially «independent» seat at the UN, has in recent years only entered Western consciousness through the difficult political situation there, which is, almost certainly, unique in contemporary Europe. As the language seems to be, as always, under threat of erosion, not least because of the indifference or hostility of the country’s leadership, it is very encouraging to observe the younger generation more aware of their linguistic heritage than their parents have been. Although they may not all be aware of it, an important role in this conservation process is played by the Belarusian writing in eastern Poland, where linguistic treasure is being preserved as assiduously as the gold deposits of corrupt political leaders in other countries. Also in Poland, the encouragement and publication of young people’s writing in Belarusian is particularly welcome, and a sign that the future of Belarusian literature is far from being only in its past.
Òýêñò íàï³ñàíû ¢ àäêàç íà ïðîñüáó àá ³íòýðâ’þ.
Àðíîëüä Ìàêì³ë³í – ïðàôýñàð ˸íäàíñêàãà Óí³âýðñ³òýòó, ã³ñòîðûê áåëàðóñêàé ë³òàðàòóðû, êðûòûê. Ñâàþ äîñüëåäíóþ ¢âàãó êàíöýíòðóå íà ÕÕ ñòàãîäçüäç³, àñàáë³âà íà ²²-îé ïàëîâå. Àäíà çü ÿãî àïîøí³õ êí³ã çüÿâ³ëàñÿ òàêñàìà ¢ ïåðàêëàäçå íà áåëàðóñêóþ ìîâó, „Áåëàðóñêàÿ ë³òàðàòóðà ¢ 50-60-ûÿ ãàäû ÕÕ ñòàãîääçÿ”, (Áåëàðóñê³ Êí³ãàçáîð, ̳íñê 2001). Ïðàô. À. Ìàêì³ë³í ïë¸ííà ïðàöóå ³ ¢ ãàë³íå äîñüëåäࢠòâîð÷àñüö³ áåëàðóñê³õ ï³ñüìåíüí³êà¢, ïðàæûâàþ÷ûõ ó ýì³ãðàöû³, ÿê ³ ¢ áåëàðóñê³õ ìåíøûíÿõ ó Ïîëüø÷û (Áåëàñòîöê³ Êðàé), ó ˳òâå (³ëåíø÷ûíà), ó Ëàòâ³³ (Ëàòãàë³ÿ). Àðíîëüä Ìàêì³ë³í – ãýðîëüä áåëàðóñêàé ë³òàðàòóðû íà Çàõàäçå, ÿå ïêðøààäêðûâàëüí³ê äçåëÿ òàìòýéøàé ë³òàðàòóðíàé ñüâåäàìàñüö³.
1 Equally helpful was advice on practical matters (this was 1965) such as how to find a washing powder which would not destroy my nylon shirts.
2 Then particularly, but also now, German Slavistics were broader in outlook than their equivalent in Britain, when Slavist has often seemed to mean simply Russianist.
3 In one of my own texts which was put into Russian for publication in Miensk, the translator carefully removed every mention of Stalin’s name. This is rather more than a detail: during a discussion of my 1977 book in the Writers’ Union in Miensk, Vasil Bykau memorably noted that, to judge by the number of citations in the Index, Stalin must have been a great writer.
4 Examples are many, including the change of the name Trotski to Protski in Treciaja rakieta or the complete removal of national elements and criticism of the state of Belarusian agriculture in Alpijskaja balada.
5 That there was at least some academic interest in things Belarusian is shown by the relative speed with which this book was bought.
6 This same scholar included me in an article under the title «Krivye zerkala».
7 Incidentally, the language sections of English bookshops contain dictionaries of a great number of «Englishes»: American, of course, but also Canadian, Australian, New Zealand, Indian, Irish, Scottish, Welsh and others.
8 It is said, however, that between 70% and 80% of English people imagine they would prefer to live in the country than the town.
9 In the 1970s and 1980s, for instance, I found the «best» English writers, like Susan Hill and Margaret Drabble, very provincial compared with American writing of the same time, like John Cheever and Don DeLillo, for example.
Ïóáë³êóåööà íà ñàéöå ç ëàñêàâàé
çãîäû Àá'ÿäíàíüíÿ Villa
Sokrates
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Ïîëüñê³ à¢êöû¸í
