Commentary: The Golden Cockerel
Some time ago, I stumbled upon “The Golden Cockerel and Other Fairy Tales”, written by Aleksandr Pushkin, illustrated by Boris Zvorykin, published by Doubleday. It was a used bookstore find; the golden spine drew my attention; the name drew my interest.
Like most people, I had heard of Pushkin, read criticism of Pushkin, even read some of the writers he was to influence (most notably Tolstoy and Gogol, though Turgenev has a home on my computer also). One day, I had planned to trudge[1] through the English translation of Eugene Onegin; I had never dreamt that my introduction to Russia’s best beloved poet would be a fairy tale.
In the introduction to my copy, Rudolf Nureyev writes that “The Golden Cockerel”, along with others, is “derived from folktales told by peasant from time immemorial, they are the oldest voice of Mother Russia.” Although the origin of “The Golden Cockerel” is somewhat murky, I wholeheartedly agree with Nureyev’s sentiment. The sense of everyday, even in the court of the Tsar, is not only unmistakable—it is unmistakably fairy tale, unmistakably Pushkin.
Sometimes called the “Byron of Russia”, Aleksandr Sergei Pushkin was born to a boyar[2] family in Moscow. As the old story goes, his lineage was noble, but his parents were impoverished, often borrowing serving ware from neighbours on which to serve their guests. Pushkin’s parents, like many of the time, took little interest in their son, leaving him to the care of his grandmother and his nurse, Arina Rodionova A serf woman who had refused the offer of freedom, Rodionova would become an essential component of and advisor to Pushkin’s work.
Analysis
Because it is a literary fairy tale, analysis of the elements within “The Golden Cockerel” is difficult. The story does not conform to standard tropes and paradigms; its origin is a point of some contention. Let’s begin with an overview of the story’s history.
In 1832, the American author Washington Irving published a collection of short stories, essays, and verbal sketches, called “Tales of the Alhambra”. Two chapters of the work tell of “The House of the Weathercock” and “The Arabian Astrologer”, in which the King of Granada, wishing to retire, finds himself oft-besieged and unable to protect his country. Soon, an astrologer visits the King, offering to fashion a weathercock which will alert him to approaching danger. The story continues, detailing the astrologer’s greed and the discovery of a “beautiful Christian princess”, whom the astrologer warns may be an evil sorceress.
Pushkin’s story, “The Golden Cockerel” was written in 1834.
At first, this seems unremarkable--two writers, from two continents, two entirely separate cultural backgrounds-- stumble upon a certain piece of folklore. Irving’s tale is written in a somewhat dense, imitative style, drawing on Arabian histories, folklore, and legends; Pushkin’s is concise and uncluttered, eliminating many plot elements in Irving’s telling, while adding the episode of Dadone’s sons. Irving’s astrologer survives. Pushkin’s does not. But it must be noted that by 1830, Washington Irving was well-known in Russia, and Pushkin is known to have owned a French copy of “Tales of the Alhambra”.
The idea of Pushkin “borrowing” from Irving is a controversial one. The link was first discovered in 1933, by Anna Akhmatova. Though it is now widely accepted within the Western World, several Russian scholars have taken exception to this idea. In a chapter about Irving for the “History of American Literature” A.A. Eilstratova “remarks that ‘The Tale of the Golden Cockerel’ might be shown to have a relationship with ‘The Legend of the Arabian Astrologer’ in Irving’s ‘Alhambra’”[Fiske, p.30]. The scholar’s notes are cautious and not inflammatory but “History of American Literature” still received a scathing attack from A. Tarasenkov, who also listed Elistratova as a groveler before the West[Fiske, p.30]. It is always hard to please everybody; where Pushkin is concerned, it is impossible.
Akhmatova added to the controversy of her discovery by suggesting that Pushkin may have over-simplified Irving’s tale, leaving characters and motivations under-developed, thereby rendering his work in some ways inferior in some ways to Irving’s[Fiske, p.29]. Other scholars, such as B. Tomasevskij, also “acknowledged Irving’s legend as the source of Pushkin’s tale, but [stressed] the extent to which Pushkin had departed from the original[Fiske, p.29].” The merit of each work remains subjective, though many have weighed on the side of Pushkin. Interestingly, Akhmatova’s criticism of Pushkin focuses on fairy tale elements—most notably the lack of motivation and characters playing on the reader’s pre-conceived stereotypes. To me, these elements are part of what makes Pushkin’s work a fairy tale, and Irving’s a short story.
As to the actual origin of the story? It still remains unclear. When Pushkin published “The Golden Cockerel”, it was generally accepted to be a piece of Russian folklore. Other evidence, also brought to light by Akhmatova, suggests that Irving’s story was most likely his own creation, not at all based on earlier legend. Who’s to say which is which and what is what? Not me, that’s for sure.
Elements
As noted above, analysis of the elements within “The Golden Cockerel” is difficult. Certainly, parts of it most likely refer to political tensions, the relationship between Pushkin and the Tsar, and Pushkin’s view of the aristocracy. There is a political element, but what can it be? Surely not the most obvious elements—Pushkin’s other work is far too subtle for that[Abraham, p.47].
But is it? Fairy tales, though complex affairs, are not prized for their subtlety. And Pushkin, who had grown up steeped in the old words, would know this.
Tsar Dadone
Dadone wages war, then is surprised when other rulers wage war in return. Dadone sends his sons, one after another, to fight an unknown enemy. Dadone sees his sons dead, then takes up with the Princess camped by their cooling corpses. Dadone reneges on his promise. Dadone kills the astrologer.
Is Dadone evil? No, not really.
Thoughtless? Yes. Uncaring? Yes. Stupid? Yes. But he’s not evil.
Pushkin’s Russia was an autocratic one. Nicholas I, the Iron Tsar, was a strict conservative and expansionist; said expansionism led to the Crimean War. Coming to power in a post-Decembrist state, Nicholas established a body of police, the Corps de Gendarmie, to put down the spirit of revolution. But political fervour continued to surge through the streets as everyday Russians grew tired of Tsarist rule. Subversive literature, much of it by Pushkin, was spread about St. Petersburg and Moscow (eventually leading to Pushkin’s six year exile). Is Dadone, stupid and uncaring, representative of Nicholas and his unyielding policies and attitudes? Is he “a symbol of stupid autocracy[Abraham, p. 46]”?
Like Nicholas, Dadone is an expansionist; like Nicholas, Dadone bites off more than he can chew; and, like Nicholas[3], Dadone goes back on his promises.
The Princes, the Astrologer, and the Queen
What is the purpose of Dadone’s sons? There are no sons in the Washington Irving story; why has Pushkin added them, rather than have Dadone ride out to seek the danger?
Most fairy tales tell things in threes—three sons, three daughters, three attempts. Such adherence to perceived fairy tale structure is a strong feature of literary tales—consider the three episodes in d’Aulnoy’s The White Cat, or the use of time in Wilde’s The Nightingale. Although such structures are seemingly superficial, they result in a certain fairy tale tone, lending a story credence not only as a part of the fairy tale genre, but as a story that may be aged, and appreciated as such, rather than written off as new, nascent, and nothing.
In the Irving story, the King of Granada does not beat about the bush. The moment his advisors wake him, he is out of bed and dressing; soon after he is astride his horse, riding toward the source of the danger and his rendezvous with the Queen of Shamakhan. The plot is set. We know the danger. We know how it ends.
Seven days go by and more,
But no message from the corps:
Has the march been rough or quiet-
Naught to tell it or deny it.
Cockerel goes off once more!
Tracking down the elder's corps,
Rides the younger with another
To the rescue of his brother.
Presently subsides the bird;
And again no more is heard!
And again the people, troubled,
Wait a week, their fears redoubled.
Yet again the cock is heard…
“What could the matter?” we ask. “Why has the eldest not returned? Where is the youngest?” True, we know that both sons will fail, but the how, the why, and the who are drawn out, building to the climax of Dadone’s own trip.
Then it preys upon each mind:
Not a camp or battleground,
Not a warriors' burial mound,
Is encountered near or far.
The suspense builds—when Dadone finally comes upon the silken tent, the dead princes, and the Queen of Shamakhan, it is easy to fit the pieces together. And yet, “Numb he stands - her sight outstuns/Aye! the death of both his sons”. What can this mean? Is this woman, the Queen of Shamakhan, really so beautiful? Or is there more to her? The lines are a clue, a hint at the character and power of the Queen.
And how did the princes come to die?
Both his noble princes, slain,
Pierced each by the other's charge…
What could bring two brothers to such dangerous blows? Seven days, Pushkin tells us, pass before the younger sons sets out. Seven days pass before Dadone sets out. Seven days pass before Dadone returns home, the Queen of Shamakhan alongside. Might we imagine that the eldest son, like the Tsar, is welcomed by the Queen? And, if so, what of the youngest son? Surely he, too, cannot be immune to
“the prize of maidens,
Queen of Shamakhan, in radiance
Lambent like the morning star…”
After all, we know the Queen’s beauty is magical, for no right father is so easily distracted by the death of his only children. Although her motives remain unclear, the Queen’s character has become apparent in just a few lines; the princes’ death has given her depth.
Succour from a gelding sage,
Planet-reckoner and mage;
Sent a runner to implore him
And the magus, brought before him…
Who is this astrologer on whom the Tsar calls? In his preface to The Golden Cockerel, the librettist V. Belsky remarks upon “the way in which Pushkin has shrouded in mystery the relationship between his two fantastical characters: The Astrologer and the Queen. Did they hatch a plot against Dodon? Did they meet by accident, both intent on the king's downfall?[Abraham, p.53]”
Why, moreover, is he “gelded”? Is this a hint, a comment, that wise men are castrated by autocracy and stupidity? Certainly, Pushkin had experienced much to embitter him toward the Tsar. In a letter, he once wrote,
“I have seen three Tsars in my life. The first ordered me to take off my hat, and as I was too young to be scolded myself, he scolded my nurse instead. The second was hardly an admirer of mine, and although the third has raised me to the exalted rank of gentleman of the bedchamber in my dotage, I have no great desire to change him for a fourth. Let us leave well enough alone.”
Twice, Nicholas I had cuckolded the poet—first in 1826, then in 1834. In the first instance, the Tsar recalled Pushkin from exile—after the failure of the Decembrist revolt-- on the condition that he stop writing “subversive poetry”. The Tsar then continued, saying that from then on, he, and he alone, would edit and annotate Pushkin’s work. It was a great compliment, but a great insult, too: Nicholas I had, in essence, made Pushkin his pet protégé and captive, a bird in a gilded cage.[Massie, p.208]
In the second instance, the Tsar appointed the then 34 year old Pushkin to the post of gentlemen of the bedchamber. It was a clearly inappropriate appointment—gentlemen of the bedchamber were usually boys, aged between 15 and 18—because he wished Pushkin and pretty wife to attend court functions and balls. Early on, Nicholas I had become infatuated with Pushkin’s wife, riding by the house and inviting her often to court; seeing the state of affairs, Pushkin tried to keep away from the Tsar as much as possible. But the Tsar could not be deterred; Pushkin was soon stuffed into a page boy uniform and forced to partake in court duties, while his wife went about town with the Tsar.
Considering these events, it is not particularly surprising that Pushkin has painted the tale’s authority figure, Tsar Dadone, as a careless, thoughtless, and cruel fool. The Astrologer, meanwhile, seems a fair portrait of the poet himself: as we have seen, like the poet, he is gelded; like the poet, he is clever; like the poet, he has been mistreated by the Tsar. But Pushkin has also implied that the Astrologer may have more than simple greed in his mind when he asks for the Queen of Shamakhan. As the Tsar asks the eunuch, “And - what use is she to you?”
What use indeed? Why would the Astrologer ask for a woman when he lacks will and means? Is it possible that the Astrologer has recognised his like in the Queen of Shamakhan? Could he be seeking to rid the Tsardom of an evil influence? Did Pushkin the political, subversive, popular poet see himself in such a light? There is no clear answer, of course, except that which the long-dead poet would give us—none, to be exact. But the idea of a linkage between these two characters is not new. As noted above, the librettist Belsky also wonders about the pair. “Did they hatch a plot against Dodon?” he writes. ”Did they meet by accident, both intent on the king's downfall?[Abraham, p. 53]”
I wonder.
When I first read the story, I was taken with it; every now and then I would pluck the book from the shelf and leaf through it, my eyes lingering upon Zvorykin’s bright, illumination-style illustrations, my mind picking at, playing with, rearranging words upon the page. Posting the story for Fairy Tale Fridays seemed a good thing to do—certainly, if I loved the tale so much, wouldn’t other people? And then came the commentary.
Pushkin, his work, his influences, and, of course, “The Golden Cockerel”, provides a lot of reading material. To be sure, I have ploughed through it eagerly, learning and laughing and almost wishing that I had been alive at a time play tickets were so coveted they were sold on the black market, a time when the ideas of liberty and love were carried upon the breath of every person. Here, I have tried to present what seemed the most pertinent facts, the most interesting scholarship, and a few of my own views and interpretations—but I recommend that any and every reader I am fortunate enough to have engage in some research of their own, for, limited by time and words, I am certain that I have done neither the author nor his time justice.
Footnotes:
[1] My choice of verb is no reflection on the quality of Pushkin’s work, but rather on the difficulty of translating that which is complex and subtle into a second language, particularly a one such as English to whom it bears little familial feeling.
[2] Old aristocracy, next in rank to a prince.
[3] See Pushkin's biography for more.
References:
Fiske, J. C., “The Soviet Controversy over Pushkin and Washington Irving”, Comparative Literature, Vol 7., No. 1 (Winter, 1955), pp. 25-31.
http://links.jstor.org/sici?sici=0010-4124%28195524%297%3A1%3C25%3ATSCOPA%3E2.0.CO%3B2-M
Abraham, G., “Satire and Symbolism in 'The Golden Cockerel'”, Music & Letters, Vol. 52, No. 1 (Jan., 1971), pp. 46-54.
http://links.jstor.org/sici?sici=0027-4224%28197101%2952%3A1%3C46%3ASASI%27G%3E2.0.CO%3B2-W
Massie, S., 1980, “Land of the Firebird: The Beauty of Old Russia”, Hearttree Press, n.p.