In reading this fifty-page-long story, I followed the instructions that Saunders set out for us in the first story, curious to see whether the process would prove valuable.
Saunders, himself, took a unique approach with the first of the seven stories he considers herein; he offered commentary after each page of the Chekov story for a time, after every couple of pages once the habit was established. He suggested that we ask ourselves a series of questions about our experience after the first page and, then, repeat the exercise after a significant plot point in the story.
Since then, he has saved his commentary on each story until we have read through the entire story ourselves (then, followed it with additional commentary on his commentary) and I have adjusted how I’ve paused to answer his questions, depending on the length of the story. This story is published in ten parts, so I paused at the end of the first and at the end of the fifth.
The first question is how we would summarise the story so far (without looking). What I have learned is that I consider myself exceedingly clever if I remember one character’s first name—even though, often, there is more than one character introduced at the beginning of a story, each with a full name, and sometimes a place-name as well.
With this Tolstoy story, I learned that I was so concerned with trying to remember two characters’ first names (because the story’s title indicated that both men would be significant, so I figured I needed to up my literary game), that the answer to the second question (what we, as readers, find ourselves wondering about) was something Tolstoy actually answered clearly on the first page. But all my attention was, apparently, focussed on remembering that second name.
Then, as I scanned what I had written for the previous three stories, I realised that I had forgotten to record my answers for the second set of questions in the second story. (That story did not have any breaks, so I guess I simply had no occasion to pause. Except that I distinctly remember putting down my book and picking it up again many times during that story, recognising my impatience with the level of detail while simultaneously realising that every detail had a purpose. So, actually, there were plenty of opportunities in which I could have paused to note my expectations.)
With these stories, I choose my reading time carefully so that I can finish reading the story in a single sitting. So that there is no additional noise or disruption. So that it is early enough I am not winding down, if the day is too near to its end. And I have my notebook and pencil at hand channelling my inner-student, not only so that I can record the answers to my questions, but also scribble words or phrases that stand out, on a loose sheet alongside (as a reference for writing these posts).
In short, even when I feel like I’m paying attention, I’m not. And I would not have noticed this, if I had not followed this series of prompts. Saunders introduced the idea of TICHN—Things I Couldn’t Help Noticing—about his own reading of these stories. My corollary should be TICNIWN—Things I Didn’t Notice I Wasn’t Noticing. Even in what I would consider nearly ideal circumstances.
This is not a very comfortable feeling, but I suspect it’s true of most of us. That the cat meows because it’s been days since their last meal. That the phone jingles for the notifications you haven’t yet silenced. That the slamming sound from the driveway heralds a delivery. That a rumble from the gut hints of the desirability of a bowl of corn chips with salsa or a strip of chocolate snapped from the bar. And then, after spending a few minutes with a story that the writer has likely spent days (at least—perhaps weeks, months even) writing, we judge and move on.
But here is what I have retained of “Master and Man”. We have Nikita and Vasili in the winter, on the disappointing side of a holiday, travelling during a snowfall that becomes a storm, Mukhorty pulling the sledge.
We have the hiccup of a start-stop that repeats, from an initial shift from a trip-for-one to a trip-for-two, then two errant attempts to move in the right direction that result in their getting off-track and landing in the wrong place. Some brief respite in a villager’s home, where there is warmth and nourishment and tea—and musings on the importance of tradition. Then a nightfall journey that results in a final misdirection, with each of the two-legged travellers’ hallucinations—which reflect their social status and privileges and struggles, pride and insecurities— feeling like two side-trips, after motion has ceased.
Saunders reminds us of the way in which our attention is engaged (with this long journey a curious echo of the shorter journey in the first story), of specificity and descriptions (how much information is relayed in certain phrases—as in the second story), of the patterning (here with the ineffectual journeys and the dwindling contents of a clothesline—as in the third story) and Freytag’s Triangle (also in the third story).
He identifies and charts a structure for all ten parts (with references to Nabokov, Kundera, and one of Tolstoy’s classic biographers as well as Sophia, his wife, along the way) and again for a shadow structure. He refers to philosophical and existential elements, and how one interprets markers of that sort alongside questions of literal navigation in a landscape transformed by snow. The usefulness of all this highlighted by the fact that this is the longest story so far, the commentary offering just the kind of guidance that these characters yearned for, in the dark, in the storm.
The key instructive feature in this fourth story is what Saunders calls “causality” which is “to the writer what melody is to the songwriter”—how the writer makes “one thing seem to cause the next”—a superpower that seems to be the crux of the matter. It’s where trust resides. It’s what creates for readers a sense of inevitability (even when we are perfectly capable of seeing just how many directions that sledge might have travelled.)
The surprising turn of events in Saunders’ Afterthought (his commentary on his commentary) for this story is his invitation to rewrite the tenth chapter. Technically he’s offering students the opportunity to learn by mimicry (a common element of creative writing classes, and not always with an assigned writer—sometimes a writer with whom the student feels an affinity).
But I was more amused by the idea of changing some story elements, and this brushes up against spoilers for the story’s outcome, so if you don’t want to know the ending, you should stop reading now.
Because at the end of the story’s ninth part in the story, you know not all of three characters who ventured out into the storm will survive in the tenth. In my rewrite, I would save Mukhorty. Rather than strand him in the open, I would leave him in that ditch near the road, into which the sledge dips and lodges at one point. He would be sheltered from one side there and, then…this is where I get lost, trying to have the two men fall from road-level but still preserve the layering that Tolstoy creates in his man-sandwich, by having the horse positioned beneath them both, potentially the warmest of the trio.
But even if my version of the story resulted in the same man surviving and the same man dying, my rewrite changes the nature of the story completely. Because Tolstoy’s commentary on the deceased (his selfishness, his deceitfulness, his unjust behaviour to his social inferior) is a commentary on the privileged and powerful—the master. And Tolstoy’s commentary on the survivor (his steadfastness and recent sobriety, his obedience overriding even common sense, his loyalty to his employer) is a commentary on the servant and peasant class—the man.
But what becomes of that relationship when one imagines a tenth part with an ending that prioritises Mukhorty? Isn’t Nikita in some ways Mukhorty’s master? He readies him for the journey, he feeds and waters him, warms him early in the story. It’s said that the reason Vasili employs Nikita is partly because he is kind to animals, and more than once on the journey, we see Vasili overlook Mukhorty and Nikita intervene. But ultimately Nikita does not protect Mukhorty in the very way that Vasili protects his charge Nikita. If we are meant to be impressed by Vasili’s saving Nikita, are we meant to be saddened by Nikita’s inability to protect and preserve Mukhorty (or Vasili’s disinterest in so doing)?
But there’s plenty to say about Tolstoy’s actual story without changing a single thing: it provokes all sorts of questions. Which is why it’s so satisfying to be reading this in company.
Links to the earlier stories, including Bill’s and Bron’s posts of course, are on the project page and the next three stories are listed below.
Anton Chekhov “In the Cart” 1897 (February) Trans. Avrahm Yarmolinsky
Ivan Turgenev “The Singers” 1852 (March) Trans. David Magarshack
Anton Chekhov “The Darling” 1899 (April) Trans. Avrahm Yarmolinsky
Leo Tolstoy “Master and Man” 1895 (May) Trans. Louise Mude and Aylmer Maude
Nikolai Gogol “The Nose” 1836 (June) Trans. Mary Struve
Anton Chekhov “Gooseberries” 1898 (July) Trans. Avrahm Yarmolinsky
Leo Tolstoy “Alyosha the Pot” 1905 (August) Trans. Clarence Brown
(I like your second cover much better than the first, which has no relevance to the story).
You are a much better student than I and I admire your commitment to a) taking in what Saunders says; and b) trying it out. That is the purpose of the book after all. I am much more inclined to do what I always have, even in my university days, which is read/listen to a book or lecture first and think/write about it later.
I was impressed by what Saunders said about facts and about causality, and as with repetition, I think we will now see those things in the following stories (Perhaps he even presents the stories in an order which allows him to build up his theories of writing).
I think the interlude with the villagers, which was presented in a lot of detail, was interesting because firstly it illustrates what Saunders said in an earlier month about ‘irrelevant’ detail making stories more believable; secondly, it enables us to easily imagine an alternative (less dramatic) ending where Vassily and Nikita spend the night safe and warm in front of a fire (and Mukhorty under his blanket in the stables); and thirdly, because in the end, it was not important at all, just another ‘wrong turn’.