CALENDAR OF THE REVOLUTION
259
lects a bush torn by a storm or a frozen tree as omen or token. The writ–
ing on the wall is the writing on the face of nature itself. Even in these
passages, which would by themselves make an impressive anthology of
Pasternak's poetry in prose, his range is limited-he rarely succeeds, for
instance, in the drawing of an urban scene; and not infrequently there
is a note of affectation and preciosity in his manner of pressing on the
reader the symbolical meanings "hidden" in landscape or mood. All the
same, Pasternak the image-maker and word-polisher shows himself at
his best.
Unfortunately, a novel aspiring to the large and realistic scale can–
not be built around such lyrical fragments. The author's evident attempt
to do so has only shown up the perplexing contrast between his sophisti–
cated word-mastery and his ineptitude as a novelist. His plot is, from
beginning to end, a jumble of absurd and assiduously concocted coinci–
dences, such as would have discredited a novelist even in Stendhal's days.
The
deus ex machina
jumps incessantly before our eyes. Without his help
the author simply does not manage to establish any connection between
the characters, to bring them together, to separate them, and to evolve
and resolve their conflicts. He fails in this because he does not manage
to develop and bring alive the characters themselves. Even Zhivago is
little more than a blurred shadow. The psychological motivation of his
behavior is incoherent. The author substitutes for it exalted lyrical and
symbolic allusions; and he speaks for Zhivago and on his behalf instead
of letting the personality speak for itself. "Everything in Yuri's mind was
mixed up together and misplaced and everything was sharply his own–
his views, his habits, and his inclinations. He was unusually impression–
able and the freshness and novelty of his vision were remarkable." "The
vigor and the originality of his poems made Yuri forgive himself what
he regarded as the sin of their conception, for he believed that originality
and vigor alone could give reality to a work of
art...."
"Shyness and
lack of simplicity [were] entirely alien to his nature." The superlatives
which the author heaps on his hero and the subtle poetic aura by which
he surrounds him cannot give reality or depth to the figure. Zhivago's
attitudes towards his wife and mistress, and towards his many children
born of three women, are strained or never assume verisimilitude: not
for a single moment does the father come alive in
him
(and none of
his
children has any individuality). Not only the author sings his hero's
praises-nearly all the characters do the same. Nearly all are
in
love
with Yuri, adore him, approve his ideas, echo his deep reflections, and
nod their heads at whatever he says.
