E.Yu. Poltavets
THE CHARIOT MOTIF AND ITS MYTHOLOGICAL AND RITUAL BASIS (AS ILLUSTRATED BY LEO TOLSTOY’S WORKS)
When travelling by land, the heroes of classical Russian literature generally use a wheeled carriage. The development of railways resulted in the fact that the train, as an everyday literary detail, inherited many of those functions which had been previously connected with the “literary carriages”—including, of course, the multifarious symbolism of vehicles,—and so the image of railway became one of the most profound cultural concepts (though some of these functions nowadays are acquired by the image of car). The information on the differences in design of varied carriages (for instance, horse carriages, barouches, droshkies, waggonettes, britzkas, and so forth), on the relationship between the vehicle and the social status and prosperity of its owner, as well as on etiquette principles guiding any movement through space (including, for example, the ceremonial ride)—all this interesting information can be easily found in the editions explaining the obscure places in Russian classical literature. So, the task of our article is quite different: it consists in the mythological-restoration (according to S.M. Telegin) analysis of the “chariot” motif as represented in literary works by the references to any animal-drawn wheeled carriages. The chariot symbolism is multifarious: Chichikov’s britzka with its bird-troika or the existential image of the cart of life in A.S. Pushkin’s poem of the same title. Even the tarantass in the eponymous story by V.A. Sollogub may be treated as a literary image with a certain symbolical aspect, though its transformation into a bird takes place only in the dream of a hero. However, the reconstruction of those meanings which are connected with the “chariot” motif is semantically relevant for the whole artistic structure even in the case of Russian realistic novel, where the references to vehicles are seemingly identical to other irrelevant details. In this regard, it should be noticed that the very mythologem of chariot is an interesting subject of study for those scholars who pay their attention to the mythological traditions as reinvented and yet continued, to the patterns of mythological and ritual meanings. Thus, comparing the ritual function of the chariot racings with the rendering and meaning of the respective motif in Homer’s Iliad, Vyacheslav Vs. Ivanov finds that methodological basis or model which could be properly implemented during other comparisons made between the reconstructed archaic material and the Classical Antiquity results of its remaking [5: p. 9]. This, however, concerns not only Greek and Roman literature. Speaking of the symbols and allegories rendered in A.S. Pushkin’s poetry—and, indeed, of the mythological-poetical images as transcendent phenomena,—M.F. Muryanov adds as if in an offhanded manner the following remark: The principle of continuity is sometimes realized imperceptibly: thus, the historians of technology were very surprised on discovering the fact that the rail gauge prevalent in Western Europe (1435 mm) is equal to the distance between the wheels of those carts, which were typical in the Mediterranean Region during Classical Antiquity; this is all the more surprising since the formers of the rail transport, calculating in the XIX century the optimal (i.e., providing the maximum car-motion stability) width for the railroad track, were guided by the equations of theoretical mechanics and not by archaeological data. For their part, the formers of the ancient carts, being mere practitioners, didn’t know the equations of theoretical mechanics at all. So, the coincidence between the new and the ancient gauge is a wonder of continuity, the one which took place against the will of the persons involved [7: p. 172]. Repeatedly analyzing the universal mythologem of chariot, A.M. Piatigorsky never stopped to emphasize the special role of Sanjaya and Krishna, the characters from the M ahābhārata, whose particular importance is connected with the fact that they are charioteers. According to the scholar, this occupation or function endows both Sanjaya and Krishna with a kind of super-knowledge: the “charioteer” is almost a universal mythological m etaphor for the soul, inasmuch as it is the Divine Soul which conveys its wisdom through the supernatural qualities of the charioteer [9: p. 182]. Having chosen the mythologem of chariot as a compelling example of traditions’ continuity—or even as a metaphor for the “intermediary” between the natural (knowledge) and its Devine equivalent, the Absolute [9: p. 183],— philologists appear to pay unknowingly tribute to a certain transcendental law, under which the charioteer and the team of horses turned out to be, many centuries ago, a metaphor for the soul (in the Indian religious and didactic epic Mahābhārata, as well as in Plato’s Phaedrus1), while the chariot itself was treated as an philosophical example for existential elusiveness and, moreover, even as an ancient metaphor for the exercise in semiotics as described below. It is also important for philology that charioteers were not only warriors but often sūtas (as in M ahābhārata), i.e. bards of heroic exploits, storytellers, and poets, prophets and sages (this connection is characteristic not only for the epics of ancient India: let’s remember, for instance, the epithet of the wise Nestor—the Gerenian horseman, the chariot of Elijah the Prophet, and the legends of Alexander the Great attributing him the fulfillment of the prophecy about the authority over all Asia territory by the cutting of the Gordian Knot, which was, as is known, a part of a chariot). In the case of Buddhism, the charioteer also has an honorable place. According to the biography of Siddhārtha Gautama, it was precisely prince’s driver who opened his eyes to the existence of human sufferings. The heroes of M ahābhārata Arjuna and his charioteer Krishna should be treated as connected with the myth of the twin Ashvins. According to the Rigveda,
1 The Gogolian motif of the bird-troika as connected with Plato’s Phaedrus and the theme of Gogol’s Platonism were thoroughly analyzed by E.A. Smirnova and M. Weisskopf in their scholarly works. the Ashvins—the celestial gods, whose appellation derives from the word ashva meaning horse— steer the cosmic chariot which dispels the darkness. (The twin myth is extremely relevant for M ahābhārata.) In this, almost every part of the chariot and harness has its own allegorical meaning: the body means righteousness, the awning—conscientiousness, the horses—senses, the whip—sacred books, the charioteer himself—reason, and so on. In the case of Hinduism, this symbology covers even more extensive range of details than in Plato’s philosophy; according to A. Coomaraswamy, the symbology of chariot is Indian to the same extent as Platonic [6: p. 261]. Ego is the passenger, the owner of the chariot […], Reason – the coachman […] it (i.e., Reason—A.P.) can, because of its dual nature, both human and divine, exalted and evil, either to allow the horses to lapse from virtue […] driving into the area of paganism […] or to guide them in accordance with the will of the Spirit [6: p. 261-262]. Therefore, the charioteer—an owner of so many holy objects and a performer of such sacred actions—has supernatural abilities and even is a god, as is the case with Krishna, who, in his turn, may be treated as an avatar of Vishnu. As for the harness, it is called yoga in Epic Sanskrit; this polysemantic word, one of the key concepts of M ahābhārata, is generally translated into Russian as sopryazhenie (i.e., junction or conjugation). In L.N. Tolstoy’s novel W ar and Peace, the concept of sopryazhenie is also extremely important being intensified by the semantic difference between the two Russian verbs, zapryagat (to harness) and sopryagat (to join or to unite). This correlation of meanings may be compared with the one of Epic Sanskrit: the word yoga in the sense of harness is historically connected with the Russian noun igo (oppression or yoke). When the charioteer harnesses his horses, he simultaneously joins or unites them with the chariot, i.e. performs the most important soteric action, being a savior of the world that will die if he stops. Under the doctrine of Krishna, personal social duty should be “joined” with the general duty, which is the universal harmony of the world [4: p. 327]. In the novel W ar and Peace, it is precisely the riding-master (or, according to some English translations, the groom; in the Russian original, bereytor) who wakes up Pierre Bezukhov at the inn with the words it is time to harness (zapryagat nado) which are perceived by the dreaming hero as the voice from on high repeating the request to unite (sopryagat). This phonetic and semantic affinity between the lexemes zapryagat and sopryagat can’t be considered as a play on words—the one masterfully demonstrating a further device of psychological characteristic—but as a token of the most important “yoga” subtext characteristic for the episode. Of course, the riding-master rendered here isn’t a serf coachman; he could be a free man, a foreigner (as in the case of the novel Anna Karenina, where the riding-master is an Englishman) serving as an instructor, horse trainer, and so on. Nevertheless, the riding-master has a relation with the horses; he drives them and so should be regarded—along with the coachman—as an “heir” of the mythological charioteer. And it could therefore be stated that, from the perspective of the mythological tradition, the sacred words are said by the “right” person. It is also the riding-master who helps Pierre to reach the inn at Mozhaysk. All this Pierre’s pilgrimage to the field of Borodino is marked by the “charioteers” and “chariots” which enable his travel and have an important role to play in the novel. Thus, before the departure, Pierre gives the orders to his head coachman Yevstafievich—a man who knew everything, could do anything, and was known to all Moscow—that he would leave that night for the army at Mozhaysk (trans. by Louise and Aylmer Maude) [for the Russian original see: 13: VI, p. 190]. In Mozhaysk, there are the carts with the wounded that block the way; later, in the same town, Pierre sees a doctor’s britzka and gives his carriage to a familiar wounded general. A carriage appears again in the narration when the hero returns to Moscow and meets Natasha near the Sukharev Tower. As Pushkin wrote, our Automedons are fire (from Eugene Onegin—A.P.; trans. by Henry Spalding) but this isn’t their main feature. On the whole, in the case of Russian classical literature, the coachman, driver, and groom are indicated as not only “fire” but also as “wise” characters. It may be seen from the example of Savelich, the mentor of Grinev (the novel The Captain’s Daughter by Pushkin), who is a former groom and has a corresponding name Arkhip, which means “master of the horses” in translation from Greek. One can also remember the coachman Seliphan from N.V. Gogol’s novel D ead Souls, whose name is a Russian form of the Greek name Silvanus and so reminiscent of Silvanus of the Seventy. And, of course, this principle is true for the novel W ar and Peace as well, notwithstanding the profusion of everyday details specific to this literary work. Thus, the Rostovs’ old coachman Yefim—w ho was the only one the Countess trusted to drive her— is characterized in nearly the same way as Mikhail Kutuzov is portrayed in the novel: His thirty years’ experience had taught him… (trans. by Louise and Aylmer Maude) [for the Russian original see: 13: VI, p. 330]. Let’s consider now the famous Tolstovian comparison between Napoleon and a boy, who, being inside a carriage and pulling the strings, imagines himself to be a driver. Within the mythological context, this comparison acquires particularly scathing meaning since the French Emperor is ridiculed here not only as a fool who fancies himself a master of the world but also as a nonentity who imagines himself to be a god. Most likely, Plato’s chariot acts as a reminiscent background not only in the case of the bird-troika in D ead Souls but also in the description of the foolhardy coachman Balaga provided in W ar and Peace. The episode where Anatole and Dolokhov are preparing for the abduction of Natasha involves the narration about Balaga’s offences committed by the hero when he was in the service of Anatole and Dolokhov, about the risks he faced with. And not only Balaga but even Natasha herself—as rendered in the episodes of her infatuation for Anatole—may well be treated as reminiscent of that Plato’s horse which recklessly ruches forward being obsessed by a devastating passion. And it is not accident that the “infatuation” plotline is preceded by the riding scenes taking place on the hunt, as well as by all the “hubristic” semantics of the hunting myth—right up to the hunting dance performed by the heroine in her uncle’s house. In the early 1880s, Tolstoy planned to write a C hristian story under the title Walk in the Light while there is Light, which was finished later and published in Russia only in 1893. The work is set in the times of the first Christians, and its plot may be regarded as parabolic rather than historical. At the Olympic Games Julius, a protagonist of the story, took part in the chariot races which ended badly for him: his chariot was off to the left by a digit [for the Russian original see: 12: XXVI, p. 280] and collided with another one, so that Julius fell to the ground and was seriously injured, which provided him, during the period of sickness, with a leisure to review his life (trans. by Nathan Haskell Dole) [for the Russian original see: 12: XXVI, p. 279] and later resulted in hero’s wish to embrace Christianity. Although the ethical clarification took some time, the accident with the chariot was certainly among the milestones of hero’s moral revival (in this regard, one cannot but recall the episode of Austerlitz and its importance for the Andrey Bolkonsky plotline). Therefore, the Roman (or pagan) symbolism of the chariot races is radically changed in the story: the falling can’t “slow down” the spiritual growth of the hero but, on the contrary, “intensifies” it. In this regard, it is relevant to recall the following words uttered by Pierre Bezukhov in the novel W ar and Peace: W e imagine that when we are thrown out of our accustomed grooves that all is lost, but it is only then that what is new and good begins (trans. by Louise and Aylmer Maude) [for the Russian original see: 13: VII, p. 235]. As for the novel C rime and Punishment by F.M. Dostoevsky, the famous scene of Raskilnikov’s dream about the horse-killing is especially interesting for us in this work, since it provides the reference to the even more archaic levels of the chariot myth, i.e. to its “twin” semantics. While the first Mikolka kills the horse that can’t move off a cart which is too heavy, the second Mikolka acts as a hero of the “substitutional suffering”: he wants to take on the crime he didn’t commit and in this way becomes Raskolnikov’s sacrificial “twin”, who, in his turn, is opposed to Raskolnikov’s evil “twin” represented by the first Mikolka, a killer. At the same time, the first Mikolka may be regarded even as a kind of immolator, because the horse sacrifices (for example, the Ancient Indian Ashvamedha) are among the most widespread archaic rituals. Different types of vehicles are mentioned in the novel W ar and Peace, including carriages, barouches, kibitkas, carts, camions, and drays. When the Rostovs are going to a ball, they use—in accordance with the requirements of etiquette—a carriage, while droshkies and waggonettes are appropriate in the case of hunting trips. Kutuzov uses a barouche or coach (kolyaska in the Russian original). Natasha’s elopement with Anatole was to be realized by means of a “troika”, whether a wheeled carriage or a sled, since Moscow streets were cleared from the snow during the winter. The drays on which the Rostovs were planning to drive away their belongings and which were eventually given to the wounded are just a big carts. Different types of sleds may be also found in the novel but the wheeled carriages are more diverse and much more frequent here. In the case of outstanding literary works, there are neither insignificant details nor names and surnames selected at random (Yu.N. Tynyanov). Thus, the episode where the Rostovs leave Moscow (before the city will be occupied by the oncoming French army) has a certain mythological undertones intensified by the deliberately lengthy descriptions of the Countess’s carriage, coachman, horses, returns for the forgotten things, and instructions given to a coachman. All this is nothing more than a certain account of an “ark” under preparation, and during this very activity Petya Rostov once again (i.e., the second time since the post-hunting episode when the sleeping hero ...was carried out like a corpse and laid in the waggonette (trans. by Louise and Aylmer Maude) [for the Russian original see: [13: V, p. 278]) is rendered as a person whose future is dangerous: the carriage proved out to be too small for all the passengers and … there was a question as to where Count Pyotr Ilyich was to seat (trans. by Louise and Aylmer Maude) [for the Russian original see: 13: VI, p. 328]. In this context of the righteous preparations for the removal to ark, Berg’s concern for the chiffonier serves as a last semantic detail of the mythological plot, since, in the case of ark–and–flood” myths, the saving transport facility is usually attacked by the evil and harmful forces. According to the same mythological patterns, the just should be opposed to the unjust, while the saving transport facility (ark or pumping) should be taken away by a chthonic deity (for example, by mouse); sometimes, the egoistical animals, on the contrary, leave ark or another “vessel” on their own accord (as it is the case, for example, with the raven that instead of finding out a patch of dry land ended up devouring its favorite carrion). According to the myths of North American Indian, even arrows can serve as a resort: the righteous man shoots them into a cloud and then, catching hold of their shafts, rises himself above the flood. Good people and animals are saved in this way, although the evil ones try to disrupt their plans. A disaster may be described as a violation of the habitable universe [1: p. 105], as a phenomenon providing a new and exotic image to the familiar things. This is particularly true for the Rostovs before their departure from Moscow in 1812, and this very atmosphere paradoxically endowed Natasha with the mental powers necessary to overcome the crisis caused by the story with Anatole. An existential calamity, however, is not yet a catharsis but a necessary condition for it. In the novel W ar and Peace, only the death of Prince Andrey Bolkonsky has a cathartic quality. The animation, the enthusiasm, the care for the wounded: all of these are the manifestations of solidarity with other people when the both sides—the Rostovs and the commoners—are united by the perils of war. The wounded who were placed in the house for the night, are logically taken into the “family ark” in the morning. According to Roland Barthes, this euphoria may be called euphoria of the lucky method, just as if one has time to harvest the crop or remove the laundry before the rainstorm—or just as if, in an adventure story, a drawbridge is raised at the very last moment [1: p. 107]. The myth of ark is a blissful myth, since it allows the humanity to distance itself from the elements, to become coherent, as well as to gain the necessary conscience of its abilities in order to derive from the disaster itself the confidence that the world may be rearranged in accordance with the human will [1: p. 107]. And the sense of cohesion, in its turn, generates the sense of compassion. So, the blissful myth of ark has finally taught Natasha how one can be both suffering and compassionate. In the novel W ar and Peace, the ark myth merges with the chariot one and produces a synthesis that is only natural and semantically profound. But in the case of the short story entitled W hat For? (1906), the “Exodus” situation is rendered as fatal rather than saving: the tarantass can’t hide the hero named Migursky and treacherously reveals him instead of the children’s coffins. Although the author sympathizes with the Migurskys (who, in their turn, have real historical prototypes), the substitution of the dead children by the living adult (who, however, is regarded as a dead in the literary work) fails probably because of that obsequial chariot semantics—that implacable archaic meaning—which isn’t reflected at the plot level and is unknown to the heroes of the short story. According to M.F. Muryanov, The archaic intellect distinguishes in the abstract notion of a moving vehicle something astonishing and powerful, something belonging to the higher heavenly world. This surmise is derived from the fact that an Egyptian high-ranking official was portrayed as riding in his chariot even in those situations when it would be easier and more natural to go on foot [7: p. 171]. The sacral meaning of chakra (i.e., circle, wheel, centre) extends to the chariot. If one loses a wheel or even a whole chariot in a battle, it is tantamount to disgrace or defeat (this is especially so in the case of the Vedic myths and M ahābhārata). In the Bible, the chariot could symbolize the Throne of God. The concept of the sun’s chariot was common to all the Indo-European peoples, as can be seen from their burial rites where the chariot (or, more correctly, the cremation of a corpse on a chariot) provided the dead person with the way to heaven so as the deceased could meet his or her divine forbears. It is yet another reason why the image of driver/charioteer has a special semantics, while the fire wheel presupposes not only solar meaning but is also connected with the rites of passage. Let’s single out the chariot on which the twin Ashvins bring the sun from the darkness: its image is related with the rites of this type, with initiations, with the liminal locus. In this regard, S.M. Telegin writes as follows: The initiation journey is necessary to dispel all the night terrors of one’s own unconscious, to take a new life, as well as to reach a higher level of conscience, which, upon entering its precincts, is like a dawn [11: p. 101]. Among the most mysterious of the Rigveda hymns is the one under the title A Conversation between a Boy and his Dead Father (or, according to the Russian translation by T.Ya. Elizarenkova, A Boy and a Chariot. The Voice of Father [M alchik i kolesnica. Golos ottsa]). This hymn is often considered as obscure even for the Rigveda scholars because of its profoundly archaic basis [3: p. 18] and represents a boy grieving for his father who has gone to the other world; the boy receives from him the following answer: The voice of father: Oh boy, the new chariot Without wheels, which you have created in your imagination, Which has one draught pole but goes in all directions, You are standing on it without knowing (that). Oh boy, this chariot, In which you rode from the inspired, It pulled the chant behind itself: From here, the chant was moved to a ship. The author: Who begot the boy? Who rode in the chariot? Who can now explain to us How the handing over occurred? It’s the abode of Yama… [2]. According to indologists, this hymn has as its main content cosmologic themes, as well as the mystery of death. Thus, the chariot symbolizes a funeral offering which, in its turn, is followed by the glorification of Yama’s realm (strictly speaking, it isn’t only a realm of death but also a kind of eternal universe—this one where the gods have their dwelling). N.N. Veletskaya cites numerous analogies of this hymn peculiar to Slavonic folklore (let us add that the latter was well known to Tolstoy) emphasizing that the images of chariot and ship are connected here with the notion of the way to other world, i.e. with the return to the celestial forbears. According to authoritative dictionaries, the data of Slavonic languages indicate that the most ancient chariot symbols are related to the “Upper World”, i.e. to heaven and cosmos. So, the words designating a wheeled carriage or its parts are used for the star and constellation names (see, for example, the [Russian—A.P.] appellations for Ursa Major: C art, Wagon, Dray, Bullock-Cart [Voz, Povozka, Telega, Arba]) [10: p. 243]. Further analyzing A Conversation between a Boy and his Dead Father, N.N. Veletskaya writes as follows: The most ancient text— this one reflecting the common Indo-European conceptions of the mysterious relationship between the living and their forbears in the other world— has versatile parallels in Slavonic folklore (including fairy tales, lamentations, bylichkas [the stories about allegedly happened events—A.P.], and epic songs). <…> Here, the orphan speaks about the fate of the deceased person who has decently conducted his or her life <…>. The response to the wistful son—notwithstanding all its complicated imagery which could be understood only by the initiated— promotes an understanding of the sepulchral realm as conceived at that time, explains those ways through which one can reach the other world, as well as describes the whole universe with its eternal alternation of life and death. The ignorant youth learns about the better fate of the mortals— about the domain of the forefather Yama who rules the world of the sacred forbears [3: p. 18-19]. In the case of the novel W ar and Peace, traces of this archaic hymnical structure may be found in the episode where dreaming Nikolenka Bolkonsky addresses his father. Though the images of any animal-drawn wheeled carriages are absent in this episode, one can easily remember that Prince Andrey makes his last way from Borodino to Yaroslavl precisely in a carriage. In the short story entitled Divine and Human, the cart in which Svetlogub is taken to the execution appears to the old dissenter to be a chariot. So, the two “divine-like” personages provided in Tolstoy’s works—namely, Prince Andrey and Svetlogub—are sent to their deaths on the animal-drawn wheeled carriages, which is not only consistent with the pan-mythological obsequial chariot semantics but also with the Vedic conceptions according to which one can arrive at the celestial realm of the forbears only by a chariot of fire ascending into heaven. Sitting on a “chariot” (i.e., on the trophy baggage-wagon), Petya Rostov creates his both victorious and perimortem hymn. After the Borodino battle, Pierre has a symbolical dream sleeping in a carriage which may be regarded here as a kind of “funeral chariot”. And being in captivity, he feels a connection with the whole universe sitting by a wheel of an unharnessed cart. As for the gun-carriage, it was often considered as a sign of military valor, so the body of a dead hero was placed on it during funeral ceremonies (like, so to speak, on a shield in Sparta). (K.M. Simonov’s poem entitled according to its first line The Major Brought the Boy on the Gun-Carriage (1941) preserves this meaning, which is intensified here by the fact that the poem is about a child.) However, in the case of Tolstoy’s novel War and Peace, the heroic Captain Tushin offers a place on Matvevna’s gun-carriage to Nikolay Rostov—who isn’t a heroic person at all—merely because of his, Tushin’s, human empathy. The image of chariot can also illustrate life’s illusiveness—as it is the case with the Buddhist philosophical dialogue entitled M ilinda’s Questions (also known in English translations as M ilinda Panha or The Questions of King Milinda). According to the dialog, a chariot doesn’t exist until it is assembled from its separate parts, and just like there will be no chariot when it will disintegrate into its components. But this example only precedes an even more profound interpretation, this one relating to semiotics: “Chariot” is but a word used when one speaks about the object composed of wheels, draught pole, chariot-body, and other parts but from the word itself one can’t conclude what object it is and what parts make it up [8: p. 51]. In Plato’s dialog Theaetetus, Socrates mentions the component parts of a wagon for the same purpose. As for the novel W ar and Peace, the different opinions on the nature of locomotive’s movement are provided here. In this, the very explanation of the movement as if “disintegrates” into its component parts: thus, for the first peasant the reason for the movement is the devil, for the second—the German, for the third—the wheels, smoke, steam, etc. The description of this guess-work allows the author to elucidate—like in the ancient philosophical systems—some of the notions which could be regarded as highly abstract. If the Platonic and Hinduistic texts are focused on: a) “structure” of the soul; b) the patterns of human thought and language, the novel W ar and Peace is centered on the evolutionary patterns of humankind and history. The chariot, as a universal symbol, also implies power, and that is why the issue of power—the one raised in the third chapter of the second epilogue—is connected with the thoughts of the locomotive. From the provided examples it can be concluded now that the mythological and ritual semantics of chariot is manifested in the novel W ar and Peace to the full extent. D ifferent symbols, myths, rites, tenets, and doctrines have an identical meaning but this identity is neither the result of an external adoption nor the consequence of a historical continuity: it is mainly due to their metaphysical and timeless content—J. Evola writes about the transcendent unity of religions [14: p. 180] expanding this view to myths and rites. The fate of the chariot mythologem provides a striking illustration of this thesis.