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Even-Zohar, Itamar 1990. "Gnessin's Dialogue and its Russian Models."
Polysystem Studies (= Poetics Today 11:1 [1990]), pp. 131-153.
[p. 131]

GNESSIN'S DIALOGUE
AND ITS RUSSIAN MODELS*

1. Dialogue in Modern Hebrew Literature: "Mendele's Method"

Writing dialogue in narrative has been one of the most difficult prob-
lems for Hebrew writers since the nineteenth-century Hebrew En-
lightenment. The beginning of that period concentrated upon depic-
tion of biblical times; thus imitations of biblical Hebrew dialogue could
be accepted as "natural." The moment, however, that narrative moved
forward in time, especially towards the present, one could no longer
justify this model of dialogue, which subsequently began to be pushed
from the center towards the periphery of Hebrew literature.1 In its
place came the option of renewed use of other diachronic levels of He-
brew.2 This had already begun with the late-Enlightenment writers,

* First version published 1985 in Slavica Hierosolymitana, VII: 17-36. A Hebrew ver-
sion published 1986 in Uri Nissan Gnessin: Studies and Documents, Dan Miron and
Dan Laor, eds. (Jerusalem: Mossad Bialik), 11-41. Special thanks to Elena Tolstoj
and Dmitri Segal for their valuable suggestions and remarks.

1. This periphery mainly consisted of translated and children's literature. In these
sections of the literary polysystem, both principles and items of the "Biblical" dia-
logue persisted until quite recently, i.e., perhaps until the end of the 1950s in
Israel. On the position of children's literature in the literary polysystem see Shavit
1978 and 1986.

2. Obviously, Mendele did not invent the synchronic use of different diachronic
components of Hebrew. This had been a time-honored habit in the so-called rab-
binical style, subsequently looked down upon as "impure" (and therefore "ridicu-
lous") by the Hebrew nineteenth-century Enlightenment people, much along the
same lines as European classicists mocked the "impure" use of Latin. But it was
Mendele who made it possible to go back to a more flexible use of the rich variety
of historical Hebrew, which resembled the previous rabbinical style, without, by
any means, being identical to it.

Poetics Today 11:1 (Spring 1990). Copyright © 1990 by The Porter Institute for
Poetics and Semiotics. ccc 0333-5372/90/$2.50.

[132]
but it is first and foremost Mendele Mokher Sfarim to whom the elabo-
ration of a new synthetic Hebrew (generally referred to as "the style")
has been attributed. The non-biblical features of this style as regards
vocabulary have often been discussed, but it seems that little attention
has been paid to the fact that it was not only vocabulary or grammar
--and at any rate not these alone--which accounted for the nature
of some sections of the new model. Particularly in the segments of
reported speech, this new model relied heavily on the possibility of in-
terpreting syntactic elements (word order and pauses) on the level of
sentence rhythm and intonation in a way that made it possible to im-
pose upon them features of another language, namely those of spoken
Yiddish. Thus, while on the one hand "original Hebrew" components
were used, on the other, totally new functions, instead of being re-
jected as "alien," were cleverly introduced into Hebrew. The probable
reasons for this were the following:

(1) The new functions belonged to a linguistic section entirely lack-
ing in Hebrew, i.e., for which there was no inventory of established
constituents or patterns. For, as far as the rhythmo-intonational fea-
tures of spoken language are concerned, no Jewish tradition of read-
ing aloud (the canonized texts) could have preserved such features
of Hebrew which dated from the time when it had been a spoken
vernacular.

(2) Moreover, there is normally a very low self-awareness of
rhythmo-intonational features in any language. This entire field,
although it constitutes one of the most conspicuously distinctive
features of any living language, has no institutionalized status for
speakers of the language comparable to the powerful normative status
of grammatical and lexical conventions. In other words, the Hebrew
reader did not really possess an "ear" with which to hear "non-
Hebrew" intonational patterns, because he had never heard "Hebrew"
patterns in the first place, and therefore could not possibly have been
aware of the fact that he had not been hearing them, or that he was
hearing others "instead." As long as the grammar and vocabulary, as
well as the various micro-combinations governed by them, seemed not
to violate the accepted standard, the whole discourse was accepted as
"genuine Hebrew." Larger combinations (on the sentence level and
beyond) were not conceived of as categories relevant to the norms re-
quired by the standard. Against this background, Mendele's method
of rhythmo-intonational transfer eventually rescued Hebrew from a
dead end and opened up new and fresh possibilities. Hebrew litera-
ture was subsequently moved from a situation where it suited only a
highfalutin style and romantic fascination with the distant past into
a situation where it could cope quite effectively with the present--in

[133]
other words, from a situation where it could function for just a narrow
segment of life to one where this segment could vastly expand.

 

2. Yiddish vs. Hebrew and Their Relation to Russian

The "Mendele method" quickly became a generative model for He-
brew literary language, i.e., it was adopted as an aggregate of prac-
tical principles ("instructions") for writing dialogues, alongside many
other sorts of loan-translations. Nevertheless, it was not at all a simple
transfer of an unstylized version of Eastern Yiddish vernacular into
Hebrew. This would not be an adequate description even for the Yid-
dish of Mendele (Mendele was a bilingual writer).3 True, Yiddish,
unlike Hebrew, was a living spoken language (with a number of vari-
eties). Yet it was far from being standardized, and moreover, it barely
possessed techniques for stylized literary simulation. In contrast, at
the same time, the most available adjacent literature, namely Russian,
had already established and fully elaborated a repertoire for dialogue
writing, as well as for correlation with other textual levels (such as
composition, plot, "characters," and thematics). Naturally, the need
for literary dialogue in Yiddish was just one of a large range of textual-
literary needs, which had to be fulfilled as quickly as possible with
whatever available means. But using Russian dialogue patterns for
Yiddish might even have been particularly convenient in comparison
with other textual levels, because some of those features of the spoken
Russian language which had been transferred through stylized simu-
lations into Russian literary language nearly overlapped with Slavic
features already absorbed by the Eastern Yiddish vernacular (espe-
cially in the regions of Podolia and Volhynia, but later over all new
territories of "the Ukraine"). This was the result of the process of
interference which had been taking place between Slavic vernaculars
and Yiddish in Slavic territories for some centuries (see above, "Rus-
sian and Hebrew"). It thus became possible for the Yiddish-writing
Mendele (in contradistinction to the Hebrew Mendele) to make mas-
sive use of Russian literary models, probably without creating an effect
of "foreignness." I do not contend that Yiddish literary dialogue was
not a stylized simulation (or at least an attempt at such simulation)

3. Only naive approaches to literary language assume that any part of it is a direct
registration of the writer's "natural" and "authentic" language. This is never the
case, even in literatures where the gap between standard and colloquial language
is relatively small. Normally, literary patterns are much more powerful than the
writer's "natural" language, and while using them may seem quite "normal," intro-
ducing elements from "natural" speech would very often look "awkward." On
Mendele's bilingualism see Perry 1984.

[134]
of spoken Yiddish. I merely claim that this simulation went through
Russian models, i.e., made use of the principles of stylized simulation
which were current in the Russian literary language. Thus, although
one could say that this is a case of "double stylization" (involving both
stylized Russian and living spoken Yiddish), dialogue in Yiddish could
nevertheless be considered a rendering of living authentic language.

This, however, was not the case for Hebrew. The calque (loan-
translation) method could not be taken to represent any "authentic"
language, but only a successful game of make-believe, i.e., a style
which successfully and in quite a sophisticated manner reflects some
authentic language, definitely different from the one actually em-
ployed in reality, that is, not Hebrew. Moreover, the double stylization
available to Yiddish became established even more strongly in Hebrew
because of the basic make-believe state of its dialogues. In addition,
just as Yiddish literature made use of Russian as the closest available
repertoire of literary options, so gradually did Hebrew, as its center
moved from Germany-Prussia to the Czarist Empire. Mendelean He-
brew dialogue, much as it sometimes seems a successful imitation, via
calques, of Yiddish speech, is in fact more often than not a Hebrew
transfer of Russian literary dialogue. Where one does find more in-
dicators of calques from Yiddish (as in many of Brenner's stories), or
when the characteristics of Russian literary dialogue are more con-
spicuous (as in most of Cnessin's later novels), one can play at solving
the riddle of "what language the literary figures really used in life."4
But, as indicated above, Yiddish and Russian features often overlap,
and solving the riddle becomes difficult. This is quite a complicated
situation, which can be understood only when one takes into account
the historical circumstances of Hebrew and the literary needs it had
to fulfill. One can also understand how it was possible for the Hebrew
reader to decipher such a complex model. One way or another, even if
the Hebrew reader was not perfectly trilingual, he had already become
familiar with the Russian conventions. This is, of course, no longer
the case with the modern Hebrew reader (Israeli in most cases), who,

4. Such a question is neither esoteric nor peculiar to Hebrew literature. One can
raise the same question for many of the heroes populating nineteenth-century
Russian prose. For instance, such writers as Pushkin or Tolstoj do not always take
the trouble to report the original language of their heroes' speech, although they
would go quite far in quoting French (or, more rarely, English). Yet there is no
doubt that part of the repliques written in Russian in fact represent speech in
some other language, notably French. For instance, many of the conversations be-
tween Prince Andrej Bolkonskij and Count Pierre Bezuxov, although reported in
Russian, were probably conducted in French, as can be inferred from the features
of the Russian they supposedly speak. (On "authenticity" in reporting speech see
below, "Authentic Language and Authentic Reported Speech.")

[135]
though acquainted--through literary tradition--with quite a few con-
ventions, is likely to miscomprehend just as many. This applies even to
"professional readers" such as critics and text analysts, who either have
forgotten or never learned the peculiar history of their own literature.

 

3. Gnessin and the Russian Context

Uri Nissan Gnessin is one of the major Hebrew writers who widely
utilized the Mendelean method, while developing it and going his own
way in elaborating literary models employing a Russian and general
European repertoire. He became, no doubt, both source and prece-
dent for new means of translating Russian literature, adopted much
later (in the late 1920s) by Shlonsky and his followers. On the other
hand, certain principles and items prevailing in the narrative prose in
Palestine of the 1940s definitely emanate from his writings, although
more often than not mixed with repertoremes from other sources.
In spite of the major role he played in the history of Hebrew liter-
ary repertoire, Gnessin has been viewed as quite an esoteric writer, a
view which has some basis if Hebrew literature is considered in isola-
tion. But Gnessin's esoteric nature, his uniqueness, bizarre elements,
stylistic eccentricities, decadent and fragile figures, elegiac nature de-
scriptions, the giggling and laughter of his "heroes" and "heroines,"
as well as other elements take on a very different appearance when
viewed in the context of Russian literature. In this context, Gnessin
appears solidly rooted, anchored in a luxuriant literary tradition, and,
consequently, "more comprehensible." He turns out to have been a
child of his time and its fashions no less than an individual writer with
unique ways of expressing his "personal Weltschmerz."

The "classical" historical-comparative study of literature (generally
known as "Comparative Literature") has tended to deal with texts
rather than models, with individual writers rather than with histori-
cal mechanisms of literature as a whole, with the center of canonized
literature exclusively rather than with non-canonized strata or even
peripherally canonized literature. As a result, links between litera-
tures have often gone undetected even when they exercised a decisive
influence on these literatures' development and nature. Links have
tended to be sought only in the expected places. Yet intercultural con-
tacts in general, and inter-literary contacts in particular, are not always
so simple and overt as they might seem, and it is not always the most
famous and central writers who serve as the source for features bor-
rowed and adopted by a target literature. More often than not, this
transfer, or movement of models, takes place through less renowned
writers who have not gained a central canonized position and who
were likely to have been quickly forgotten after their deaths, yet who

[136]
might have been extremely popular and widely read. This may have
been due partly to the fact that the models such writers tend to use are
more transparent and "digestible," but partly, too, it is precisely their
non-central position in the literary polysystem which makes an easier
penetration possible. In this connection, Shmeruk's (1969) suggestion
that the "prophetic poems" written by the Hebrew national poet Bialik
were linked to a long "prophetic tradition" in Russian poetry and most
particularly to models elaborated by a minor (but popular) Russian
poet, Nadson, is indeed "a lucky discovery." Unfortunately, such neat
and beautiful discoveries are infrequent. Yet the assumption that such
links might exist (in this or that particular moment of literary history)
has by now become indispensable for historical poetics. With this idea
in mind, an examination of Gnessin's prose indeed reveals many affini-
ties with some less notable Russian writers. It is thus neither Tolstoj
nor Dostoevskij nor even Turgenev who seems to have been important
in this connection, but rather such writers as Gleb Uspenskij, Vsevo-
lod Garshin, Leonid Adreev, Aleksandr Kuprin, Mixail Arcybashev,
as well as the more famous Gor'kij, Chekhov, and Ivan Bunin. Many
of these writers, and above all Andreev, were among the most popu-
lar and widely read of their time, and probably nowhere more widely
renowned and admired than among the young Jewish intelligentsia
in the provincial towns of White Russia and the Ukraine. This list of
names is certainly incomplete and will undoubtedly acquire further
names once additional research has been done.

Out of the broad range of relevant aspects of the Gnessinian model's
connection with the Russian literature, dialogue seems to be one of
the most central and interesting junctures. The problems of Hebrew
dialogue as described above on the one hand, and the conspicuousness
of dialogue in narrative on the other, make it an interesting mat-
ter for investigation. The following pages will present the findings of
such an investigation, based on four of Gnessin's late stories: "Aside"
(1905), "Meanwhile" (1906), "Not Yet" (1910), and "At" (1912--1913;
published posthumously).

 

4. Russian Dialogue: Principles of Composition and Style

Dialogue can be observed from two different aspects: composition and
style.

(1) The compositional aspect consists of the network of relations
between the dialogue-units and other textual components as well as
the relation of one unit with others: the relations between the sepa-
rate repliques or between replique groups, and the relation of both
with non-dialogic textual segments, i.e., narration. These relations are
normally manifested through elements of replique concatenation and

[137]
the levels of coherence of repliques in the text. In conventional and
well-established dialogue in narrative prose, the repliques are regu-
larly concatenated and are accompanied by ancillary phrases (" - x
x x, said Y nodding"), while the transition from them to other nar-
rative segments is actualized either by formalized connectives ("after
that," "then") or by elements expressing the space-and-time succes-
sion (e.g., a sentence following a replique: "X fell silent. Over his head
the sky shone brightly . . ."). Naturally, the degree of concatenation
tightness varies with the model preferred. With the so-called "sym-
metrical" dialogue (the "question-and-answer dialogue"), tightness is
strong enough to resist any attempts of "realistic" prose to break away
and create "natural conversation."5

(2) The stylistic aspect consists of the micro-structural features of
the individual repliques, i.e., their linguo-stylistic features such as vo-
cabulary, grammatical characteristics, syntax (rhythm and intonation
included), and register.

As far as can be generalized about such a prolific and variegated
literature as nineteenth-century Russian literature, it seems that both
central and less central Russian prose writers normally employ dia-
logue composition of the "conventional" type. Nevertheless, the indi-
vidual replique is not always a well-rounded and complete sentence,
conveying coherent information and constructed according to stan-
dard written norms. Russian writers have always had a "good ear

5. Here is an example of a tightly concatenated dialogue:

The next morning host and guest had their tea out in the garden under an old
lime.

"Maestro!" said Lavretsky during the course of their talk, "you'll soon have to
compose a triumphal cantata."
"For what occasion?"
"The occasion of the marriage of Mr. Panshin and Liza. Didn't you notice how
he was courting her yesterday? It seems that everything's going along fine between
them."
"It will not happen!" exclaimed Lemm.
"Why not?"
"Because it's impossible. However," he added after a short pause, "anything's pos-
sible. Especially among you, here in Russia."
"We'll leave Russia out of it for the time being: but what do you find wrong in
such a marriage?"
"Everything's wrong, everything." [ . . . ]
(Ivan Turgenev, Home of the Gentry. Richard Freeborn, trans. Penguin Books, 1970
etc.: 96; first Russian edition: 1858).

This dialogue segment is concatenated almost in a classical way: an element a
in replique I generates element a1 in replique 2, and so on. (For what occasion?
the occasion of // everything's going along? -> it will not happen // why not?->

because // here in Russia -> we'll leave Russia out // what do you find wrong? ->
Everything's wrong; and so on.) These repliques are coherently constructed in the
question-and-answer fashion which makes the scene one of plot-advancing.

[138]
for the spoken language, and even literary "classicists" introduced ele-
ments of natural speech into their repliques. As is well known, this
tendency became stronger from Pushkin onwards. At its height it pro-
duced very far-reaching simulation (actually "islands of simulation" in
most cases) of the spoken vernacular on the level of the individual re-
plique. In addition to introducing elements from non-literary vocabu-
lary and some techniques of phonetic imitation, two basic principles
seem to have characterized the nature of Russian repliques at least
since Pushkin's time:

(a) Void pragmatic connectives (VPC's). In the "stock" of Russian lan-
guage as well as in Russian literary repertoire, VPC's are highly de-
veloped. Indeed, despite the fact that VPC's are universal--English,
for instance, possesses such VPC's as "well," "then," "I say," "look,"
"why," and "what"--there is no parallel in other literary languages to
the variety and intensity of VPC usage in Russian. Beside the vari-
ous functions that VPC's play for characterization, mise-en-scène of
narrative situations and segmentation, they also help in disturbing the
bookish nature of reported speech. For early-nineteenth-century Rus-
sian prose, it sufficed to insert two or three VPC's into an otherwise
standard stylized replique in order to completely alter its rhythmo-
intonational structure and at least to partly simulate living spoken
speech.

A particular category of VPC's as regards both form and func-
tion consists of the various onomatopoeic sounds such as Mts, Tss, Tc,
spitting (Fu, Tfu), coughing or clearing the throat (gm), hesitation (e-e
[ = eh eh]), laughter and giggling (Ha-ha-ha, Hi-hi-hi, Hé-hé-hé [all reg-
istered with "x"]), various aspirations, puffs and whisks (Ha, Ha-Ha,
Hé? [registered with "x," sometimes with "g"; thus, "Ga" = "ha," etc.]),
moans (Ax, Ex), disapproval (Tèk [variant of tak], Fu), and many others:
A, Aha (written "aga"), Ps, Psh, Ksh, Xmy, Trax ( = English "bang"), Brr
(denoting shivering), and so on. (Most of the sounds quoted here are
taken from Chekhov's writings, where they abound, but the majority
also occur in most Russian writing.)

(b) Stops and pauses. Just as any spoken language would use VPC's
verbally to fill void intervals, so would there be a high proportion of
elliptic sentences, stops, and pauses, i.e., time intervals void of verbal
material. In Russian narrative prose, ellipsis, stops, and pauses are
all conventionally marked with three dots ( . . . ). In contrast to most
other European literatures, Russian has made far-reaching use of this
universal principle to the extent that it has almost become a distinctive
feature of Russian style (and a great headache to translators). This
device made it possible to disturb the bookish nature of repliques,
probably even more drastically than with the use of VPC's.

[139]

5. Gnessin's Dialogue: Composition

Although plausibly borrowed from the Russian repertoire, Gnessin's
principles of dialogue composition operate differently. Rarely do we
find replique groups making successive and coherent scenes, as was
traditionally adopted, in principle, by the Russian writers. The Gnes-
sinian replique groups, even when they approach a scene-making dia-
logue, are not directly interlinked. More peculiarly conspicuous are
the single repliques inserted into the middle of narration segments.
In both cases (replique groups and single repliques) the text quickly
retreats from repliques to other reporting techniques: narration and
inner monologue (combined discourse included). As a result, the pro-
portion of repliques in the Gnessinian text is much lower than the
average among both Russian fiction writers and Gnessin's Hebrew con-
temporaries. For instance, the average of repliques per page in the
four stories (novels/novellas) discussed in this article is 2.19 as opposed
to an average of between 3.5 and 5 in the case of Russian writers, or
3.22 in the case of another Hebrew writer, Brenner.6 Many functions,
then, which in Russian prose are normally imposed on dialogue are
here transferred to narration and monologue. This is by no means
merely a quantitative matter, but one which has immediate implica-
tions for the nature of repliques, taken both individually and as dia-
logue. Even when the repliques appear in groups which come close to
coherently concatenated dialogue (let alone when they appear singly),

6. The rates were drawn from samplings of 100 successive pages chosen at ran-
dom. Obviously, such average rates do not indicate the specific nature of any one
text or another, but only indicate general preferences of writers as regards their
policy with repliques and their function in narrative. The numbers here do not
bear any significance per se, but rather serve as indicators of norms when taken on
a comparative basis. Here are some figures:

Dostoevskij (Crime and Punishment): 4.9, Uspenskij (various stories): 5, Garshin
(various stories): 4, Chekhov (various stories): 4.35, Andreev (various stories): 3.9
Bunin (various stories): 5, Kuprin (various stories): 3.5. The average rates for
Gnessin's stories are: "Aside": 1.1,"Meanwhile": 3.13,"Not Yet": 2.33,"At": 2.1. In
Brenner's stories the following rates have been found: "In Winter": 3.34, "Round
the Point": 2.77, "From A. to M.": 3.36, and the general average rate: 3.22, which
is higher than Gnessin's but lower than most Russian writers checked.

(The following texts have been checked: Brenner 1937, Kol kitbe [Collected Writ-
ings], (Tel Aviv: Shtibel), I: 1-107 ("In Winter"), 131-232 ("Round the Point"),
237--305 ("From A. to M."); Dostoevskij 1973, Prestuplenie i nakazanie, in Polnoe sob.
soch. (Moscow: Nauka), VI: 3-106; G. I. Uspenskij 1955, Razoren'e ocherki i rasskazy,
in Sob. soch. (Moscow: Goslitizdat), II: 98-199; Vs. Garshin 1909 (St. Petersburg:
Lit. Fond), 111-213; A. Chekhov 1966, Rasskazy 1886, in Sob. soch. (Moscow: Gos-
litizdat), IV: 215-315 (and also 166-197, 466-510, 210-214); L. Andreev 1971,
Povesti i rasskazy v dvux tomax (Moscow: Xud. Lit.), I: 47-148; I. A. Bunin 1965,
Povesti i rasskazy 1890-1901, in Sob. soch. (Moscow: Xud. Lit.), 1: 7-108; A. I. Kuprin
1953, Sochinenija (Moscow: Goslitizdat), 112-220, 275-305, 384-433.)

[140]
they never constitute an attempt to record a whole conversation or
even a segment of it. They are based on the principle of "conveying
the tone of speech" rather than "conveying speech itself," as if the
writer were somebody sitting at a distance, overhearing a conversation
without catching every single word but only fragmentary sentences.
This kind of reported speech, which is consistent with impressionistic
aesthetics, determines a whole set of specific decisions on the stylistic
level of the individual replique (see below).

From the point of view of composition, the subject of this section,
this principle explains how Gnessin's repliques are relatively liberated
from temporal and spatial coherence constraints. It seems natural,
therefore, that they should appear not in continuous or successive
blocs, but with intervals (spaces) between.

 

5.1. The Single Replique

The single replique device, where a single replique appears on its own
in the middle of narration, probably distinguishes Gnessin's compo-
sition. Obviously this kind of replique is intended to break up the
monotony of large narrative blocs. It is obvious that these repliques
serve to present elements mentioned in the narration segments prior
to their appearance. There seems to be, however, yet another function,
less transparently obvious, but perhaps more decisive for composition,
which has become a systematic structural principle for Gnessin, and
a central item in his narrative model. It is an organizational function,
an indispensable "construction," without which a writer (of any text)
cannot take the elementary steps of text making, namely concatena-
tion of the textual elements: linking one sentence to another and one
paragraph to the next in accordance with certain prevailing norms.
The single repliques in Gnessin's text serve to advance the text, i.e., to
generate one segment from a preceding one and to create an "ele-
gant" transition. The single replique frequently appears (sometimes
with an ancillary phrase) as a finalizing element for some prior nar-
ration segment, often illustrating, as indicated above, an item already
mentioned. Segment-finalizing elements are quite a standard item
in the various models of textual segmentation in European, includ-
ing Russian, literature. In nineteenth-century narrative prose a norm
prevailed which required clear demarcation between segments. But
alongside devices of direct demarcation (especially words/particles de-
noting space-and-time relations) there also began to evolve devices of
indirect demarcation, those which could not immediately be identi-
fied as such. Gnessin's single replique is clearly used in this manner.
On the one hand, this makes it possible for him to smoothly concate-
nate a new segment with a preceding one; on the other hand, this

[141]
smooth concatenation is achieved not by an "artificial device" imposed
by an external narrator, but conveyed, as it were, in a subtler manner
"by events themselves," which of course divert our attention from the
story's organizational aspects. Nothing could have been more admi-
rable from the point of view of either "realism" or even more explicitly
"impressionism," both of which required that organizational aspects
be concealed or "blurred." The "slice of life" aspired to by these lit-
erary movements was meant simply to "tell itself" rather than be told
by somebody whose (alien) presence is conspicuous. Thus, the use of
an element such as the replique, which conventionally draws atten-
tion to the representational level of narrative, is also a sophisticated
means of accomplishing the altogether different purpose of organi-
zation/construction while satisfying the requirements of the relevant
norm. In this connection, it is neither content nor length of replique
that matters for composition (Gnessin's repliques consist very often
of one syllable only, such as "nu," "ha," "ah"), but rather its textual
position alone.

Another standard textual advancer similar to the single replique, and one which
was adopted by Gnessin from the Russian, is that of segments of songs or dec-
lamations, inserted by one character or another. Taken literally, it seems an in-
credible "tranche de vie" was it actually likely that people would suddenly stand
up somewhere (a room, street, road, forest, pavement, public park), open their
mouths in the middle of a conversation or moment of silence, and either recite
some famous strophe or sing a song? This behavior, which undoubtedly strikes us
as theatrical and unrealistic, was no fantastic invention, but based on habits, or
rather mannerisms, of the intelligentsia. Nevertheless, like so many other items
of reality, its transcription has ultimately become an item of "official realia in th
cultural repertoire," a conventional realeme gradually carrying fewer and fewer
representational functions and more and more stylistic-organizational functions,
such as those of breaking monotony and diverting us with some "living piece"
of life, but above all, that of serving as a textual transition, a sort of deus ex
machina of textual construction, mobilized out of the blue to save a writer stuck
with a certain segment he knew it was high time to end, without knowing how to
do so elegantly. In Gnessin's stories, this device takes on an even stronger power
to mislead (i.e., to draw attention away from its organizational function) than in
Russian prose due to the fact that some parts of the declamations and songs are
quoted in Russian, without any Hebrew translation. This emphasizes, as it were,
the "authenticity" of the item, as do the graphic conventions indicating intona-
tions, with the help of which the reader is reminded of the tune. It is possible that
the relative independence of coherence constraints in these passages suggested
to Gnessin a way of developing his single replique device, though this is only a
guess.

5.1.1. The Single Replique Illustrations and Notes

The segmentational function of the single replique is normally manifested in the
following way

[142]
Narration-unit (and/or inner monologue) ending with a sentence + colon

    |
SINGLE REPLIQUE
    |
connective/s (for linking and transfer) (e.g., then, after, and when, and +
verb)
    |
New narration-unit

Here are some illustrations. Translations are as literal as possible:

(1 ) [narration segment, last sentence ] [ . . . ] and he was getting excited and
asking every other minute [SINGLE REPLIQUE ] - Do you understand? Do you
understand me? [connective + new narration segment ] And when Rosa was
reluctant even after, [ . . .] ("Aside," 14).

(2) [narration segment, last sentence ] [ . . . ] and again she pointed with her
finger at the huge pile of cushions and pillows on the bed, to say [SINGLE RE-
PLIQUE ] - And here it will be possible to sleep . . . [connective + new narration
segment] After that they took Hagzer [ . . . ] (ibid., 15).

(3) [narration segment, last sentence ] [ . . . ] and his lips were issuing a stifled
reproach [SINGLE REPLIQUE ] - Vera . . . [segment-finalizing phrase ] And the
latter was liberating her poor fly and digging her head in her book. ("Mean-
while," 41).

(This segment-finalizer was needed in order to have a sharply marked new
segment; the one-word replique "- Vera . . ." is the vehicle which made it possible
to insert this required finalizer.)

Here is a comparative illustration from Leonid Andreev's "Pet'ka v dache" ("Pete
in the summer house") of the same compositional device:
[narration segment, last sentence] [ . . . ] he smiled with embarrassment
replying [SINGLE REPLIQUE ] - Good! . . . [connective + new narration seg-
ment ] And then he went back to the cruel forest [ . . . ] (Andreev, cf. n. 6,
73-74; for other examples [though without connectives] see ibid., pp. 68, 72,
and perhaps 78).

 

5.2. Replique Groups

Replique groups, with the exception of those approaching a classical
concatenated set, behave very much like the single replique. They, too,
are used to concatenate narration segments (and inner monologues),
even within a spatio-temporally united episode, and thus advance the
text. In other words, even when a group of repliques appears, it does
not advance the text scenically, i.e., not by direct inter-replique con-
catenation, but by linking a replique to a preceding narration segment
(which sometimes does not even belong to the same spatio-temporal
unit), to the next new replique and so on. Moreover, these repliques
are often just an enlarged statement ("speech unit") of one character

[143]
(i.e., a character says something, then comes a narration segment, then
s/he continues the sentence started before, and so on). Clearly, this
kind of alternation prevails also in the classical dialogue convention
(or at least there one has replique ancillary phrases as linking units
between repliques, i.e., elements of text advancement). But it is the
degree of deviation from this convention, with the purpose of impos-
ing a predominantly organizational function on the replique, which
determines, in most cases, Gnessin's particular usage.

5.2.1. Replique Groups: Illustrations and Notes

The compositional principle governing replique groups is the alternation between
repliques and short narration segments, instead of a successive set (series) of
repliques. Here are two examples

 

(1) [narration segment, last sentence ] [ . . . ] And Hagzer exclaimed with joyous
frivolity [replique No. 1:] - How much light and life, there! But no, you will
not go home now! [connective + narration segment, last sentence with colon ]
And after a short while they were already walking [-], and he was slightly
slapping her nose now and then with a trembling hé-hé [replique No. 2:] -
Ay, Hanna! [connective + 3rd narration segment + colon ] And Hanna was
laughing loudly, [-] and his head tended aside and his lips chattered: [replique
No. 3:] - But a kiss, Hanna? A kiss is permitted - isn't it? [connective + 4th
narration segment with combined speech ] and she laughed with a loud and
tinkling voice [-] how strange is that man, ha-ha-ha! And only one thing she
would like to know, who taught him such things, ha-ha-ha? (The last sentences
are combined, not reported, speech.) ("Aside," 28-29.)

(2) [a narration segment opening with a connective from the preceding seg-
ment, which ends with a single replique + segment-finalizer ] And once he
was sitting like that [--] and replying with a menacing tone to all those who
would then address him [replique No. 7 ] - Popka, I'm hungry! [a narration-
transferring segment ] At that moment his eyes caught sight of little Vera [--]
and there his lips uttered [replique No. 2:] - Popka . . . [a passage sentence
to replique No. 3:] But immediately his eyes were hovering around and he
added [replique No. 3:] - Eh, Vera, this is how you prepare your homework?
(Here another narration segment follows, which brings us to another time "and
many days later it happened that [ . . . ]" and ends with a colon and a single
replique, followed by a narration segment which starts with the word "later.")
("Meanwhile," 41.)

A compositional model closer to the one described here can be found, for in-
stance, in Gor'kij's Childhood, a novel of reminiscence. Indeed, Gnessin's device
in this respect is quite similar to one generally used in reminiscences the narrator
summarizes events which took place in the past, skipping and omitting events in
his journey through space and time, indicating the repetitious nature of the vari-
ous events and actions (usually expressed by the continuous tense form + "and"
and when he was x-ing," "and he was x-ing," etc.).

[144]

6. Gnessin: Style on the Level of Individual Repliques

On the level of style, Gnessin's adoption of the Russian conventions
is even more far-reaching than on the level of composition. Here,
too, the Russian principles are adopted in a systematized and schema-
tized manner. Gnessin adopted the principle of VPCing and that of
stopping-and-pausing and made them almost exclusive features of
repliques. These principles, though highly characteristic of Russian
prose, are by no means the only ones employed. Rather, they are used
side by side with other more classical devices, and their character is
therefore much more variegated. Even in the case of Russian writers
who come very close to Gnessinian proportions, such as Gleb Uspen-
skij, there is no relinquishing of the classical scene as plot-advancer,
nor of the well-rounded full-sentence repliques. Gnessin's selection of
only one out of a larger variety of options in the Russian repertoire
seems not only to have been dictated by the universal law of system-
atization and schematization normally involved with transfer, but, as
it turned out, also to have been compatible with his compositional
decisions, perhaps even dictated by the latter, if we seek stronger con-
straints. These decisions reduced both the interest and need for full-
sentence coherent repliques, because the kind of concatenated dia-
logue designed to advance the plot by scenes had been almost totally
eliminated.

 

6.1. VPC's (Including Onomatopoeic Sounds)

I have pointed out above how essential VPC's seem to be for a suc-
cessful simulation of speech, even in cases when the structure of a
reported utterance is quite close to that of a standard written one.
But the use of VPC's was entirely different for Russian than for He-
brew. Russian literary language had to make only one major decision,
namely which of the VPC's current in the spoken vernacular it would
be worthwhile adopting. Hebrew literary language, on the other hand,
could adopt no VPC's from any spoken Hebrew vernacular. The only
decision facing Hebrew writers involved which elements it would be
possible to impose a VPC function on by making a calque of Russian lit-
erary language (and/or Yiddish mediated by the Russian). Naturally,
only those writers prepared to utilize the Russian repertoire were in
a position to do this. Brenner and Gnessin "opened the door" for
all subsequent writers as regards adoption of VPC's, but their con-
temporaries, many of whom never actually accepted "the Mendelean
method," were often unwilling to adopt VPC's, even in translating
from the Russian.
Gnessin's VPC repertoire is fairly rich, including mostly the follow-

[145]
ing elements: and, but, there, "nu," yet, why, here, and is, seemingly, look
here, s-o, good, m-yes, at any rate, so-so, of which the most frequent are
and, but, and there (in the story "Not Yet"--also nu). These three VPC's
illustrate the degree of sophistication sometimes achieved in modern
Hebrew with the use of calques. For all three frequently appear in
authentic historical Hebrew, and the fact that they regularly appear
in initial positions made it relatively likely for them eventually to be
accepted as VPC's. It is no wonder that some, at least, have also been
absorbed into modern Hebrew speech. As for the high frequency of
"and" as a connective in the general fashion of impressionism, this
undoubtedly facilitated its acceptance even in combinations deviating
from the traditional language.

Moreover, the Russian repertoire was even more helpful, for there
are limits to how many new functions can be imposed, at least to begin
with, on forms current in any target language without creating effects
of artificiality. Therefore, the fact that Russian literary language had
massively adopted onomatopoeic sounds for VPC functions undoubt-
edly helped Gnessin control the number of VPC's, at least to a certain
extent. The quantity of onomatopoeic sounds in his stories is higher
than that of the other kinds of VPC's, in initial as well as other posi-
tions. Surely this preference for sounds is intimately linked with the
clear and conspicuous nature of these "Ah"s, "Ha-ha"s, "Eh"s, which
more readily evoke the impression of "living speech" than morphemic
elements whose deciphering--at least as far as the habits of language
comprehension are concerned--is not automatic to the same degree,
in Hebrew as well as in Russian.

6.1.1. Replique with VPC's: Illustrations and Notes

(1) [ . . . ] they laughed very much at her remark, namely that - And here one
will be able to sleep . . . ("Aside," 16). (initial VPC: 'and.')

(2) [ . . . ] and he was rubbing his hands with glee and kicked vehemently with
his foot and exclaimed in a loud cheering voice - And here is also winter, Rosa!
(ibid., 16) (initial VPC's 'and' and 'here.')

(3) [ . . . ] and his head leaned on his hand and his face looking outside and
there he says with a weary and gloomy naive smile to Mina, who for some
reason pressed her little hand into his, once, twice and three times, and her
face was so sympathetic and sad - Here I go . . . perhaps you will tell me what
for? ("Meanwhile," 61 ) (initial VPC: 'here.')

It should be noted that in illustrations (1), (2), and (3), not only are the Russian
VPC's transparent, but so are other Russian elements as well. In illustration (2), it
is not only "and here" (= Russian nu vot, a vot, or da vot) which is typical, but
especially the word "also" (in this particular context = Russian i, which means
both "and" and "also"), which is used in Russian for emphasis, while it is not com-
patible at all with the authentic Hebrew usage (in English, too, it seems that this

[146]
"also" makes "no sense"). *"A vot i zima" would be perfectly colloquial in Russian.
It would roughly mean "Look here, it is already winter, isn't it?" or "Well, why,
it's winter already," or the like.

In illustration (3), not only is "here" Russian (= Russian vot), but so is the use
of the present tense (accepted in such contexts in modern Hebrew, too). In all
other respects, the phrase needs translation to contemporary Hebrew. In English,
it should read "So (there) I am going/Well, I am going/gone."

As indicated above, "and" is the Hebrew equivalent for Russian both "a" and "i"
(sometimes even for Russian "da"), which are the most frequent literary VPC's in
Russian. Unfortunately, there has been no research as to which kinds of "and" are
still acceptable to modern Israeli Hebrew speakers, although most speakers seem
to have no difficulty indicating which cases are and which are not acceptable. For
instance, the following would probably be accepted as "authentic" Hebrew today
(but does not seem to be acceptable in English)

 

(4) Later, when he recalled [ . . . ], a thought came up - And maybe he is right
[ . . . ] ( 'Not Yet," 72).

On the other hand, in the following illustrations, the Russian "and" is still
transparent

(5) When she was inside the train, outside of which door were the arm-rests of
Uriel's seats, she breathed heavily and added - And what? Linka has gone her
way? (ibid., 106).

(6) [ . . . ] and he was somewhat frightened and lifted her head a little and
drew his face to hers and asked with a serious and generous mood [spirit]
And you here - here you get yourself old, Ah? (ibid., 115).

(7) But when she was already standing on the platform of the train, which was
ringing and hurrying, and her hand was put inside his to bid farewell, she
laughed somewhat brokenly and exclaimed - And good-bye . . . and good-bye
. . . Ha-ha [ . . . ] (ibid., 135).

In illustration (6) the Russian model is transparent even for other components
sentence structure, rhythm and intonation (expressed graphically by a long dash),
and VPC of the syntagm ("here"), the reflexive verb ("you get yourself old" ex-
pressed with one verb + preposition), the finalizing VPC "Ah?" All these features
have not been absorbed by the living modern Hebrew, but remain totally alien.
An English translation should probably read "Well, folks, you here are getting a
little old, what?" / "going and making yourself old, what?" In all illustrations, the
Russian is easily reconstructable (5) "and what" = Russian "A chto?" (6) "and you
here - here you" = Russian "A vy zdes' - vot vy . . . ], and (7) "And good-bye" =
Russian "I proshchaj . . . ," all perfectly colloquial and established conventions fo
literary reported speech.

6.1.2. Onomatopoeic Sounds Illustrations and Notes

Gnessin's repertoire of onomatopoeic sounds is almost totally identical with the
Russian, even in those cases in which the Russian representation of certain sounds
is awkward, or unmotivated, for Hebrew. Some of the most common sounds are
Hm, Xme, Ts-e, Ax, Ex, Ah, Eh, Mts, Fu (rather than Yiddish "fuj," also current in

[147]
Russian!), tfu, no-no-no, Aha, Kxm, s-s-s, Xm-xm, Trrax! Pss, Xa, Xa-xa, Xa-xa-xa,
Xi-xi, Xe-xe, Xo, Hi, Ho-ho, hé-hé. There is no answer whatsoever why this series
of laugh and breaths should be rendered in Hebrew by "x" instead of "h." It is "x"
rather than "h" in Russian because the latter has no "h," while Hebrew has!- Never-
theless, as is often the case with interference, it was the Russian model which
prevailed, and the use of "x" became the norm not only for literary transcriptions
in Hebrew (as well as in Yiddish) literary language, but also for modern Hebrew
colloquial as "the natural onomatopoeic sound for laughter" or "for mocking" (in
such expressions as "Xa-xa [or Xa]!" = "very funny!").
Here are some illustrations

 

(1) - Ax, dog! Ah? ("Meanwhile," 57).

(2) - Xa-xa-xa, look. The same frivolous spirit, the doctor's, xa-xa-xa. One of the
notebooks of the wretched doctor, xa-xa-xa . . . ("Not Yet," 77).

(3) - Ax, with his grace's pardon, at the harbor we'll meet . . . M-selle Rootless
is also going today . . . Ax (ibid., 79).

(4) - Eh, a brave one she was. I swear! Where is she now. Ah?

(5) - N-r-r-r . . . s-o! What else? Perhaps you were thinking - it is in vain we are
living, Atlis? N-r-r . . . (ibid., 109).

(These sentences, read against the background of modern Hebrew, would sound
as awkward as they do in this English rendering. They are however easily "re-
translatable" into their possible Russian models.)

 

6.2. Micro-Phonetic Simulation

Another of the interesting cases of transfer from Russian on the level
of micro-phonetic simulation is the initial "M," normally inserted be-
fore initial VPC's to denote "start of speech from the state of closed
lips" (something like a continuous "mmmm" sound before one opens
one's mouth). The regular Russian forms are N-net, N-da, M-da, while
in Gnessin we get M-ken ("Meanwhile," 46), M . . . nu (ibid., 59), M-
na! ("Not Yet," 79).7 It should perhaps be noted that while the sound
string md (in the Russian M-da) is phonetically motivated (as regards
articulation base), the Hebrew string mk (in M-ken) is definitely not,
as it combines a back with a front sound, which only makes it more
obvious how little simulation of real speech there is here, but rather
an imitation of speech in another language. (Also, whereas Russian
has either "M" or "N," only "M" was adopted by Gnessin.)

7. Da means "yes," Net means "no" in Russian, and the Hebrew ken ("yes") is a ver-
bal translation of da. Nu means "well" in Russian, and has been adopted with the
same meaning in both Yiddish and Hebrew. "Na" is a Yiddish exclamation, never
adopted by Hebrew, but apparently not rejected as "alien" by Gnessin.

[148]

6.3. Stops-and-Pauses

As previously indicated, Gnessin makes almost an exclusive use of the
Russian device of stops-and-pauses. The further the distance from
Gnessin's time, the more this device was interpreted in Hebrew liter-
ary criticism as an expression of characters' psychologies, namely their
"incoherent souls." The three dots, which are the normal graphic con-
vention for representing stops-and-pauses (see 6.3.1 below for details),
are normally taken in Hebrew as in English to denote "unfinished
thoughts" as well as "hesitations and doubts," which came to seem
perfectly compatible with the sort of characters populating Gnessin's
novels. Such a reading, however, is anachronistic. Characters who are
by no means "rootless, confused, hesitating and doubting" in Gnessin's
writings (as well as in the writings of others who adopted the same con-
vention) also speak with stops-and-pauses. It is true that according to a
certain prevailing aesthetic conception, especially the one which highly
appreciates a positive (univalent) correlation between the various tex-
tual levels, an "unrelaxed" mode of speech must be an expression of
the "unrelaxed nature" of characters. But the general distribution of
this device makes it clear that its main purpose is to conform to cer-
tain norms of representing speech in literature. It certainly solved for
Gnessin the nagging problem of how to report speech in a manner
that would not sound artificial, constrained, or "bookish," and more
especially the problem of how to convey the "tone of speech." The
Russian technique was adopted by him almost rigorously with only
one meaningful difference. Having become almost a total principle in
his texts, it is much more monotonous and repetitious than in normal
Russian literary prose. It seems worthwhile to note in this connection,
if only to underline how ridiculous some interpretations of correla-
tions in literary works are, that Leonid Andreev's rootless and erratic
heroes, whose similarity to Gnessin's characters is sometimes striking,
do not normally speak with stops-and-pauses at all. On the other hand,
Gleb Uspenskij's heroes, who are neither rootless nor erratic, utter a
remarkable quantity of unfinished sentences.

As with all the other techniques described above, this too is not ex-
clusive to Gnessin in Hebrew prose, although it seems that he carried
it further than anybody else. It was this concentration of so many Rus-
sian principles in one and the same narrative model that may explain
its impact, greater than any other Hebrew model, on the "second russi-
fication generation," which dominated Hebrew literature between the
1930s and the 1950s in Israel (for details see "Russian and Hebrew:
The Case of a Dependent Polysystem"). From this "second genera-
tion," many such Russo-Hebraic elements were passed on to the rep-
ertoire of Hebrew fiction written ever since.

[149]
6.3.1. Stops-and-Pauses: Illustrations and Notes

There are several ways of expressing stops and/or pauses. The most frequent,
though not the only one, is the three dots ( . . . ) convention. However, not each
case of three dots represents both stop and pause. In order for both to take place,
there needs to be some syntactic deviation as well unfinished syntagms, omission
of some element (e.g., after preposition "to say to ....," "this one that"), or inco-
herent concatenation. On the other hand, a stop can take place without any dots
at all, while three dots can express only a pause (i.e., without a stop) when they
follow unstopped sentences. Quite often, the onomatopoeic sounds also serve to
achieve a stop and/or pause (especially "xa" and "xa-xa"). E.g.:

 

(1) - 1, in these last days . . . not only the business of writing - in general . .
Supposedly, you don't even know what it was . . . it seems and [i.e., that, =
Russian i] nothing . . . what? But you look well, and here - not this, something
different, not this - and everything is here! ("Aside," 25).

(2) - What are you muttering there, fellow? She's overcooked something? Xa-xa
. . . Et! Nonsense! [ . . . ] ("Meanwhile," 49-50).

(3) - M-selle Rootless? Ax, M-selle Rootless, the one that . . . - The one that? . .
Ax, you joker from the family of clowns, Ah? Clearly the man knows already
some unmistakable features of her, Xa-xa; but why don't you finish? ("Not
Yet," 79).

(4) - You follow this iron rule. That is . . . since we are as fond of that "life," a
you say . . . an iron rule. The lot, I say, of such ones like us - is those women
that . . . that are ripe. Xa. You see? You are delicate soul - and I say who are
ripe . . . Ax, please. This face-of-a-lamb-whose-hair-hasn't-been-cut-yet of a
babychild who hasn't sinned - what is it for? Xa-xa. [ . . . ] ("Not Yet," 154).

(5) - Seems so, Xe-xe. Cogito - ergo sum, xe-xe, Cogito . . . there . . . already a
new flesh and blood, a new "xe-xe." . . Nausea! ("At," 251).

(6) - Another? possible . . . What would you mean by another? Ax, true - as
regards what she said before; goat . . . he would like - but again this fried
porridge [ = messy business], xa-xa . . . [ . . . ] ("At," 229).

(As with many of the preceding illustrations, these are almost as awkward in
contemporary Hebrew as they are in English, with the exception, of course, that
one normally accepts them as a natural part of traditional Hebrew literary style,
while no such possibility could ever be the case for English. "Translating back" into
Russian would, however, go very smoothly, and indeed, it would be quite difficult
to explain to a Russian reader why some of these repliques are rather peculiar for
a non-Russian literature.)

 

6.4. Rhythm and Intonation

In vocal performance, or while hearing/reconstructing "with one's
inner ear," all the replique elements described contribute to the
rhythmo-intonational level, which, as already indicated, does not per-

[150]
tain at all to the language in which the text is written, but to another
language, notably Russian or Yiddish. The stops-and-pauses, VPC's
and onomatopoeic sounds, as well as elements of micro-phonetic simu-
lation, all participate in making the rhythmo-intonational pattern. In
addition, Gnessin even takes the trouble to mark rhythms, tones, and
intonations using other accessories. On the syntactic level, one of the
conspicuous means he uses for creating a "living rhythm" is repeti-
tion (" - In vain you think so, in vain you think so" ["Meanwhile," 57];
" - And if the unimportant, my dear doctor - if the unimportant, the
[ . . . ]" ["Not Yet," 73]), which is characteristic of almost any spoken
vernacular, yet has most clearly become a standard item in Russian lit-
erary style, from whence it is taken here. (Such repetitions, although
possible in colloquial English, do not, however, seem normal for styl-
ized literary style.)

Another item is word order, which is also highly typical of the "other
language" that Hebrew follows. This is achieved by embedded (inter-
polated) VPC's, such as "for example" or "that is" ( = Russian "napri-
mer" and "znachit" respectively), which unavoidably evoke a certain
recognizable intonational pattern: "Here is, that is, your Hagzer . . .
("Aside," 30: = *Vot eto znachit, vash Xagzer).

When word order does not seem to suffice as an indication of intona-
tion or pitch, Gnessin employs the technique of spaced letters (equiva-
lent to English italicizing). Another means is putting a pause between
two elements of a sentence, normally "in the place of a copula" (there
is no formal copula for the present tense in either Hebrew or Rus-
sian), that is, between subject and predicate. This is quite a typical
Russian construction, and is normally expressed by a long dash: "Do
you understand? By us people--spitting!" ("Meanwhile," 55. A rough
equivalent translation would be: *"You understand, people [human
beings] in this place [society] of ours don't have any value," or perhaps
*"You get it, here they spit on you." The Russian would be easier to
reconstruct: *"Ponimaesh? U nas ljudi--t'fu!").8

Still another conventional device for indicating tones, prolonged syl-
lables + specific pitch (normally a rising one), or just a prolongation is
interpolating syllables with dashes: Tu-niks, Wa-it ("Not Yet," 86), N-o
(ibid., 87), Run-ning ("Aside," 21), Fa-act! Yes, Fa-a-act . . . (ibid., 29),
Wha-at? What did you sa-ay? ("Meanwhile," 41), Fo-orgotten ("Not
Yet," 119), and so on. Most of these "make no sense" in English, as no

8. The long dash is utilized, however, by some Russian writers instead of three
dots, but probably with a reverse stylistic purpose, i.e., to emphasize the continua-
tion of the sentence rather than its incompleteness. This makes it necessary to
actualize a different intonation altogether: "Here -- [do you] hear -- [he] goes!"
(Gor'kij, My Universities). "Indeed, this way -- you will lie down!" (ibid.), "From
afar I've seen you -- going." (ibid.).

[151]
specifically recognizable patterns can be actualized here, but are quite
current in Russian, rendering easily recognizable tones. The same
holds true for Yiddish, too, and perhaps some can be found in Jewish
American English (which has partly penetrated non-Jewish speech in
the United States).

 

7. Conclusion

The dynamic development of Hebrew over recent generations, and its
departure from Russian (both in literature and in all verbal-textual
cultural activity) since the end of the 1950s, in fact altered, for the
modern Israeli, the nature of a sizable proportion of literature written
at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth centuries.
Nevertheless, the lexical and grammatical linguistic continuity, as well
as the established habit of both accepting and actively reading a lit-
erature written in a "literary" language (i.e., which does not resemble
contemporary language), still create and sustain the illusion of "im-
mediate understanding." No such immediate understanding would
be the case, for instance, with either the French or English reader
for sixteenth- or even eighteenth-century French and English texts
respectively. A child in an Israeli elementary school is, however, ex-
pected to be able to read Biblical texts fluently, with no other aid
than supplied by "word explanations," whereas recent literature does
not seem to demand any such explanations at all. Yet we have seen
that this is not really the case; late-nineteenth-century Hebrew litera-
ture sometimes needs more explanation than ancient Hebrew (for a
contemporary Hebrew speaker).

One should not really wonder why research into these problems has
not developed. The view that Hebrew maintained intimate and close
links, not only with Russian or some other modern literature, but with
many other literatures and languages throughout the ages, has not
been favored by modern attitudes. Since Romanticism and its ideas
about "genuine identities" of nations, carried by their language and
literature, the manifestations par excellence of national "spirit," inter-
cultural interference has become a touchy subject. In all European
literatures, many scholars devoted both time and energy to "prove"
that "influence" has not taken place (notably in French "Comparative
Literature"). The struggle of Hebrew for new recognition and revival,
so intimately linked with the social and political struggle for national
revival, did not encourage treatment of an undesirable past which one
wanted to shed. For the new generations who grew up with Hebrew
as the sole language in Palestine (and later in the State of Israel), He-
brew literature has been presented as autonomous, free of any links
to anything else. Severing Hebrew literature from its surroundings

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throughout the ages does not make it possible to understand its his-
torical development, and the profile of many central texts is distorted
as we lose clues to the many and varied decisions taken to ensure He-
brew literature's survival. Moreover, with the a-historical fashion still
dominating some centers of literary studies, the reading of all Hebrew
texts as if they had been written during the same period and in ex-
actly the same language, has meant that Hebrew research has mostly
ignored particularities and differences.

Hebrew writers, from the beginning of the Hebrew Enlightenment
period, struggled to find new narrative models appropriate to the
new literary norms to which they aspired to conform. This strug-
gle was carried out under specific circumstances--the writer's liter-
ary language was not his spoken vernacular and nobody yet knew
what an everyday "natural" Hebrew sentence sounded like in real life.
Even when spoken Hebrew did start to emerge in Palestine (probably
towards the mid-1890s), the peripheral position Hebrew-Palestinian
culture assumed in the system of Hebrew letters in general prevented
it from being taken into consideration. It was under these circum-
stances that the Hebrew writer had to produce a text which would not
look "poor" or "inferior" even in the eyes of the most highly trained
readers when compared to texts they could potentially read in other
languages.

No doubt, the constraints of both Hebrew language and Hebrew
literature determined the directions taken by Hebrew writers. Never-
theless, as I have tried to show in this and other papers (in the present
collection), these constraints did not constitute the only decisive factor.
Obviously, many writers simply succumbed to them, and certain ten-
dencies were naturally encouraged more than others. Those writers,
however, who became actively involved with the elaboration of central
models did not give up describing realia, to take one instance, just be-
cause there were difficulties with word denotations, nor did they give
up reporting speech, to take another instance, because nobody knew
how a "Hebrew" should actually speak. In these cases, i.e., when the
literary norms required it, literary interests (functions) did not subju-
gate themselves to the state of the language, but rather maneuvered
to find solutions in spite of it. In this struggle, the massive use of
Russian repertoire became a central option for an effective and quick
elaboration of new models. Evidently, Gnessin was one of the major
figures in developing tools for this use. It makes no difference whether
one values his writings today or not (in the Hebrew literary milieu,
people are never neutral about Gnessin) for one to be able to appreci-
ate his literary skills, the professional manner in which he handles the
making of a text, and his deep awareness of key principles of the nar-

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rative activity. Many of his solutions, created under specific pressures,
have either become obsolete or standard stock for certain antiquated
products, irrelevant to the new circumstances. For this he cannot be
blamed. The trouble is that, observed through this blurred looking
glass, his portrait often looks deplorably distorted to us.