This story is most often characterized as “sentimentalism.” The author intends to evoke a strong emotional response to his characters and narrative. At some level we as readers are to enjoy this evocation of sentiment. You may answer anyone of these questions, but be sure to read the responses that predate your own.
1) How does the narrator establish an atmosphere conducive to a strong emotional response?
2) What gets “lost in translation” from the story to the cartoon?
3) How are we to judge the value of this (or any) story? Is there a moral lesson? Are we “better” human beings for having read it?
4) Do you think it possible to write such a story and believe in it? Or is this author manipulating us like puppets, simply to prove that he can?
5) Why can we not simply accept the hard reality of life and appreciate Erast’s decision?
3) The narrator sets the stage very well. In the beginning of the story, Karamzin paints too perfect a picture. Liza and her mother suffer the loss of the father, and Liza often cries at this loss, but she is a diligent girl and takes care of the mother. Thus we sympathize with her, and want her to find happiness. Liza does indeed find this happiness in Erast, a man from the city.
Despite dropping hints that the innocent love in the beginning would not last (“without suspecting any bad intentions” (p. 57)), Karamzin gives us relief and joy when inexperienced and naïve Liza finds love in Erast and her world takes on a new meaning. Due to her inexperience, her love for Erast is complete and unhesitant.
This perfect picture exaggerates Liza’s later loss of Erast. Thus when Erast breaks her heart just when she thought she had recovered from the loss of her father, and after she had given her body to him, it stirs a strong response of condemnation and disgust not just because of a man abandoning a girl after he’s bored of her, but also because of a city dweller exploiting the naïveté of a simple country girl.
3) I think the value of this (or any other story) is based not necessarily on the morals it imparts, but on a combination of how it makes the reader feel and what the reader learns or takes from it. Stories can have purely entertainment or enjoyment value and they can have solely a moral purpose to impart, but I think good literature, literature that continues to be read, has elements of both. If a story does not draw me in and engage me with its prose, plot, or characters, then I don’t think it can be classified as good literature, even if it imparts a momentous moral judgment. In the same vein, if a story is only entertaining, but leaves me with no lasting thoughts or questions about life then it is not literature worth reading. So I think the value of literature, and its merit, rest on a combination of its beauty as a piece of art (enjoyment value) and the questions it raises or human truths it imparts. Poor Liza contains several beautiful descriptions of nature, although it is certainly a less beautiful work of art (for me) after the descriptions of how much Erast and Liza love each other. Although there may be morals to consider from the text, it does explore fundamental human truths about the loss of love and trust or betrayal. Instead of asking whether I am a better human after having read this, have I somehow interacted with my humanity in reading this novel? Rather than judge the end result of my improved character, I think the value of the literature is in the process of interacting with the work – was I moved by its beauty as a piece of art and did I learn, or did it make me question, some aspect of my humanity?
1) In Poor Liza, Karamzin displays his mastery of the short story as he quietly manipulates the reader with a variety of narratological and narrative techniques meticulously infused throughout the text. The constructed narrator serves as influential agent as he includes carefully selected details of the surrounding scenery, all the while foreshadowing events of the main narrative and imposing moral attitudes on unaware readers. Karamzin’s narrator is an active character, omniscient or third party at will throughout the narration, and thus able to contribute opinions and emotional interjections. In the introductory presentation of scene, the narrator laments the fate of imagined monks, incapable of tears, suffering through the final moments of life. He immediately ingrains in readers the concept of life as something ultimately unfulfilling with death as the merciful, yet tragic end. Additionally, Karamzin repeatedly mentions the deep pond and oak trees throughout the text, guiding the reader’s consciousness before the scenery’s grave significance is revealed.
I believe our emotions are fundamentally determined by the overwhelming presence of binaries. Karamzin weaves into the text a battle between the opposing entities of emptiness and fullness, day and night, man and woman, and water and fire, among others. Throughout the short piece, readers’ emotions are turbulently cast back and forth while we observe the essential conflict between hot, passionate life, and cold, dank death. Every time Liza’s cheeks burn with embarrassment and flattery we are as nervous and blushing as a teenage girl, just as with each tear shed we fall closer to the cold, muddy earth, reminded endlessly of the heaviness of the soul. The battle between incompatible forces is ultimately and expectedly won when Liza hurls herself into that familiar deep pond, freeing her body from a laden existence.
2) With the cartoon and reading, you can see differences in the ways each represents this tale. The opening of the cartoon of “Poor Liza” opens straight to the scene of Liza handing over flowers to Erast and falling in love with him. To me, the reading presents much more of a romantic background, a naïve village girl falls in love with an aristocrat from Moscow not knowing whether or not he loves her in return. Also the actually reading allows our minds to roam. With no direct talking or quotes from the characters, we lose a sense of who they are. We can’t imagine Liza’s soft voice refusing the rubles from Erast, or Liza explaining to the young girl that she has let down her mother. However, the music does a great job of controlling our emotions. It changes our moods from happiness to sadness, and from joy to disdain towards Erast. Equally, the colors in the animation controls our emotions significantly as well. For me, I would say the overall part that is lost is the individuality of the characters. We are not provided with much in the animation to allow us to dream up or conjure what we feel is right for the characters, were as in the reading, I could easily recreate Liza in my mind as a person rather than an animated doll. The reading does a better job at setting up this tale through the characters and quotes then does the animation of “Бедная Лиза/ Poor Liza”
1. The opening passage, filled with descriptive adjectives and repetition, sets a mood of nostalgia. Moscow and the nature in which the lyrical I finds himself are described in a very vivid and poetic way. This allows the reader to plunge into the scene and experience the melancholic ambiance that causes the narrator to ponder upon and imagine the sad stories of human kind. The depictions of the surroundings, in contrast to the description of lush nature, seem intentionally more gloomy. The “ruins of a tombstone”, Moscow’s personification as a “helpless widow” and the forsaken cottage are pictures as pitiful as the story of “poor Liza” to come. His declaration of love to “those things, which touch [his] heart and make [him] shed tears of tender grief” are the final cut to emphasize the load of tragic sensation that awaits the reader.
In order to get an emotional response from the reader the narrator himself uses a language that is filled with adjectives. In the story of Liza, the stress put upon exploring the feelings and thoughts of mainly her, but also Erast, which invites the reader to put her/himself into the role of either and then consider his/her reactions in a similar situation. In this way he engages the reader on a deeper level.
4) It is certainly possible to write a story such as “Poor Liza” and believe in it to some extent. Even if, as Jieming suggests, Liza is “too perfect” she nevertheless contains enough of a human quality to make her a believable, relatable character. For any author to write a story for an audience means that the author at least has faith in its ability to affect people.
No author can claim that they’re entirely free of manipulative tactics in their writing. For what the author does is subject the reader to their train of thought. Certainly, causing the reader to think as the author does can be thought of as manipulation, but I would argue that it is nothing but a necessary component of literature in communicating a story. The puppet analogy isn’t entirely fair either as the author is merely guiding the reader on some journey of the author’s selection. But the reader remains free to color that journey however he or she pleases, or to resist a tug from the puppet-master’s strings. The author guides the reader to tell a story, not to prove their manipulative abilities.
Specifically, Karamzin has many instances where he forcibly guides the reader to conclusions. His pathetic repetiton of “Liza, Liza” (58-9) and characterization of Liza as a “new, pure, open heart” (59) pushes the reader towards sympathizing with Liza. But it is up to the reader to think and read, to acknowledge the tugs of the “puppet-master.”
4. Karamzin uses certain tricks that, at least for me, explain how this story might be deemed as sentimentalism. Perhaps the most significant is his distancing the narrator (and thus himself) from the reader through an indirect recounting of Liza’s tale. The narrator plays no role in the story itself, lending an aspect to his emotional commentary throughout to which the audience can — and is supposed to — relate. In this way, Karamzin does manipulate the reader, but it is a stretch to say that he does this solely for his own enjoyment, or that he himself does not believe in the story. I’d say, rather, that Karamzin’s emotions are genuine, and that his belief in the inevitable victimizing of a stratified society is great enough that he is willing to persuade his audience by tugging on their heartstrings. For he himself may have seen similar struggles against class in his own life, the only difference in this story being what Jieming pointed out, that he hyperbolizes somewhat in painting “too perfect a picture” of Liza’s rise and fall. This hyperbole is too great, I think, for Karamzin not to believe in the foundational messages in regard to Liza’s social standings and how it shapes her as an individual. For Karamzin to go to such length with sentimentalism only to exploit the reader seems cheap and unjust to me.
On a separate note, I wanted to share a modern short story that reminds me very much of this one. It is “Three Men and One Woman,” by the Chinese author Shen Ts’ung-wen. If you like reading your pages by the dozen and necrophilia, this should be right up your alley.
http://books.google.com/books?id=3nngkptK9WoC&pg=RA1-PA253&lpg=RA1-PA253&dq=three+men+and+a+woman+chinese&source=bl&ots=Y9ST7SL9vi&sig=eYWu0rovCsf04667Drdqz-uwFzA&hl=en&ei=ADZzS-KOH8eztgeI4uD4CQ&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=8&ved=0CCEQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q=three%20men%20and%20a%20woman%20chinese&f=false
5) Erast made a promise to Liza and consciously made a decision to take responsibility for her. Liza began this story poor and working hard but also content and competent. When she came of age, Liza could have easily secured a marriage with a wealthy peasant or at least someone, who would also take responsibility for her. Actually, Erast even took her virginity the day that the son of a rich peasant came to court her.
Erast knew exactly what it meant to take Liza’s virginity. He took advantage of her naivety and inexperience in love. Women have no way of making a living or maybe not even subsistence in a Russian economy without a husband. By taking her virginity, Erast has ruined her to all suitors except for him. Basically, Erast has become Liza’s last chance. Also, he never attempted to take her virginity until a suitor came to court Liza, making actions seem to be an assertion of ownership of her and further victimizing Erast.
If Erast’s misfortune had come from some strange chance outside of his control, maybe then his actions would be somewhat permissible. However, his loss is due to his bad gambling habits and therefore not to be “appreciated”. Therefore Erast should suffer through poverty with Liza rather than leaving her to an almost inevitable suicide. However, although his actions were not appreciable or excusable, I do believe that his actions could be seen as a “hard reality of life” for young women of the time. Liza was warned against such “evil men” (56), but maybe the gravity of her situation should have been explained to her more starkly.
4. I doubt Karamzin really believed in the story as a sequence of events that could occur in the way he describes them. From the detailed and mood-laden description of the monastery to the foreshadowing to the one-dimensional characterization, the story strikes the note of a fairytale or a parable rather than the “true story” that the narrator claims it is. Karamzin seems to be aiming for maximum emotional impact, which he achieves by cranking everything up to the extreme: Liza’s character, Erast’s character, the nature of their love, the setting, what happens, their reactions to what happens, etc. In a story that sets a mood as strong as this one, and goes through such radical changes in emotion, realism is not so important. Still, I don’t think Karamzin is necessarily manipulating us, or if he is it’s not necessarily a bad thing. He is certainly intentionally playing on our emotions as readers, according to the sentimentalist tradition, but that is a legitimate strategy. The emotional import of literature is as important as character development or philosophical messages or social realism or anything else. Karamzin simply chooses to focus in on this particular aspect of literature, at the expense of the others, in order to make that aspect as powerful as possible. What we feel in response to this story is as important as what we might think in response to another kind of story.
5. After reading this story I am reminded both of Turgenev’s critique of romanticism through his character Pavel Petrovich in Fathers and Sons as well as Olenin in Tolstoy’s The Cossacks. We find these characters reprehensible because they have aspirations they are unable to maintain due to the contrast of their ardent emotions and general distractedness that seems to dominate their lives. The same is true for Erast, because, as evidenced by Karamzin’s description of his light hearted manner and the means in which he indebted himself, as readers we have trouble believing that at any point was he ever truly exposed to a “hard reality.” Pavel’s ludicrous defense of his brother’s honor leads him to deserved harm, while Olenin is so mawkish that his exploits seem a vapid defense against a life with no meaning. Neither of these men were forced into their respective fates, nor was Erast, who with a touch of self-control could have saved some semblance of honor. We are left with a resentment of Erast and cannot dismiss his deeds as an unfavorable yet necessary outcome because he belongs to the ilk of Pavel and Olenin, of men who have invited tragedy by being cavalier with the lives of others.
3)
I agree with Hillary in her assessment that all stories are to be judged by two criteria. There is an entertainment value (which can be cerebral – in the case of Joyce, or romantic – in the case of this, or thrilling.. etc etc..). Along with the entertainment value there is a moral value, which is often imparted with the denouement of the story.
There are two moral effects one could draw from the story. The superficial one finds itself in a vicarious broadening of experience. We are privy to the inner life of Liza and can empathize with her grief in light of the betrayal. Because of this vicarious empathy our own emotional perspective is influenced and perhaps altered. However, I find this moral response flawed because the story is too one dimensional and sentimental to leave any lasting impression on an emotional perspective that is not entirely flighty. If the story is read in this manner then Liza’s fate can be attributed merely to “unluckiness”. For who is to say that the same fate could not befall anyone? Cruelty, betrayal, and tragedy unfortunately affect everyone in a slew of guises.
In continued dredging of the story, another, more concrete, moral is to be found in Liza’s lament on page 60 – “Maybe we would forget our souls if tears never dropped from our eyes.” And Liza thought: “Ah! I will forget my soul, before I forget my dear friend!”. However overwhelmingly tempting it is to abdicate one’s soul in favor of a lover the consequences of such an action are dire enough to make the act severely unadvisable. Poor Liza is too inexperienced and naive to be conscious of this and so she falls victim to one of the uglier consequences of a consuming love.
Karazmin’s “Poor Liza”‘s worth and value seem to be drawn from the power of emotion for the characters, narrator and readers. Karazmin sets the scene for this level of emotion through the relationships Liza has with her mother and Erast.
Karamzin paints Liza’s devotion to her aging mother as the picture of selflessness and responsibility. When describing this relationship Karazmin uses extreme language which emphasizes the intense emotion involved. Liza is described as “God’s mercy, …provider, and the joy of old age” for her mother.
Liza’s instant, naive love for Esrat displays the emotional frailty of romantic affection. Once their relationship enters the sexual realm, Liza “lived and breathed only in him”. Therefore, when he betrays their love, she is utterly shattered.
The extremity of Liza’s relationships further emphasize the desperation of her sorrow when Erast becomes engaged to another woman. Karazmin continually writes in hyperbolic language, emphasizing the wild abandon with which Liza relates to others. The deepness of Liza’s emotional distress effectively imparts the reader with their own emotional attachment to Liza.
5) We cannot simply except the hard reality presented to us because the love between Liza and Erast seems real in the beginning because of the narrator’s emotional descriptions. Liza is such a perfect woman; she is considerate, hardworking, attractive, and compassionate. How could something so terrible happen to such a person. In western literature those in love will always be together in life and in death. It breaks down barriers to bring together people and is seen as the most important thing in life. So, there is something that is incongruous between the love Erast shows at the beginning of the story and the decision he makes at the end. It shows that Erast values his social position and wealth higher than his love for Liza. We see this act of Erast as almost inhuman because the only humane thing he could have done was except his debts and start a new life with Liza. At the end, the narrator says that Erast “considered himself a murderer”(pg. 67). As would anybody who scorned someone’s love and drove them to suicide. We cannot believe at the end that Erast and Liza become reconciled after death, as the narrator states. It is incredibly hard to believe that Erast’s relationship Liza was anything more to him than a pleasant distraction.
1)I agree with Helena, that half the battle of establishing an emotional roller-coaster is over by the top of page 55, at which point the narrator has described the ‘gloomy Gothic towers’ of the churches and their inhabitants (a religious, awe-struck environment); established the narrative as being within a network converging on and forming the Russian Empire (capital e), placed firmly at the center; all as he reports casually and in dialogue with the reader, asking us to join him in appreciating the beauty and sorrow in his picture of Moscow.
Because we are already looking for beauty in these surroundings, it is not a far cry for him to direct our attention to the story of Poor Liza, who herself is a form of awesome beauty – like the nearby monastery. As the story develops, so does our relationship to Liza, and we receive information as if it were gossip on a familiar person. This kind of narrative invites us to place Liza into our own lives, in a sense, and see our humanity in her. Despite the novel’s ‘he-told-me-while-sipping-coffee’ tone, the narrator often places us directly in the character’s mind, hearing thoughts: ‘Erast felt an unusual agitation in his blood – never had Liza seemed so exquisite to him…’ Then, as they approach the carnal act, we knowingly read that the two are trembling unaware of why, only to be interrupted by our friend (the narrator), asking where Liza’s guardian angel has gone! Because we are so connected to Liza, we cannot help but cringe and grit our teeth as the rest unfolds.
5) I think there is significant motivation to say that Erast has done nothing outside the limits of his status. Liza is poor and a woman; two factors which immediately determine that Erast has complete control of their relationship. Liza is also without a father, or any other masculine figure whose presence would incite Erast to act in a more gentlemanly manner. It would appear that Liza’s social and economic position in the community, and the fact that Erast has made no official contract binding him to this low-status woman, makes it hard to admonish Erast in any legal way despite the fact that his behavior is reprehensible. Knowing the impracticality of such an unequal marriage, especially once Erast no longer has the fiscal ability to provide for Liza, makes his alternative marital selection perfectly logical. However, very few people who read this work would ever come away with that impression.
As a reader we are made to feel great sympathy for Liza’s position, not because of some calculated rationale for Erast’s behavior, but because the author invokes a sincere human response for his protagonist. We are unable to just “accept the hard reality of life” because as sentient life we feel for Liza’s character and the suffering she had to endure on a level that transcends the basic facts of political or economic circumstances. It is difficult to view what Erast did as strategic of diplomatic, when Liza’s reaction makes it seem like pure abandonment. The way the author chose to conclude his story makes condemnation of Erast and sympathy for Eliza almost the only realistic responses.
The narrator establishes not just an atmosphere but an “amphitheater,” a “marvelous picture” (53) that powerfully drives our emotional response to “Poor Liza.” The theatricality of the narrator’s vista of Moscow is one that resurfaces throughout the story. From the melodramatic descriptions of Liza’s face reflecting nature’s colors to Erast’s desire to embody “those times (real or unreal)” of “novels and idylls” (58), there is a clear sense of artifice at play. This idea is bolstered by the implication of an audience that the narrator often addresses (e.g. “The reader can easily imagine what she was feeling at this moment.” (64)).
Yet, the narrator tempers these theatrical strokes by grounding the story in the realm of history. For example, after reflecting on a deserted monastery (which mirrors the dilapidated cottage where Liza once lived), the narrator declares, “All of this renews in my memory the history of our fatherland…when unhappy Moscow, like a defenseless widow, looked to God alone for help in her ferocious calamities” (54). The similarity between “unhappy Moscow” and “poor Liza” is unquestionable. Moreover, it is no accident that, as Joanna pointed out, so many important and devastating moments in the story take place under the shade of “hundred year old oaks [by] a deep, clear pond that had been dug in ancient times” (60). The scene is rooted in history, which adds weight to the narrator’s tale and certainly strengthens the reader’s emotional response to it.
I’m sorry, my comment was in response to #1.
2) There are several elements, some more important than others, which get lost in the translation from short story to cartoon. There are a few plot points that are very noticeable. The first is the failure to convey the point that Erast’s deserting of Liza is due to military obligations. Also, the scene of Erast’s new wife being revealed to Liza is different, as it almost involves a confrontation between Liza and this new woman and there is no exchange of money. Finally, upon Liza’s death, she is on the water’s edge alone, as opposed to in the company of the neighbor girl.
To me, the most glaring difference is the mood of the story. The two representations elicited quite different emotions in me. While reading the story, I sympathized with Liza. I felt as if I was watching a train wreck and I could do nothing to stop it. Also, I was left with a feeling of the weight of tragedy. After watching the cartoon, however, I felt none of those things. With the cartoon, I was not able to connect with any of the characters as human. The cartoon representation was just too bizarre. I think that this is a critical difference. As noted in the prompt, the story is sentimentalism, and in the cartoon version, the only emotion evoked in me was muddled discomfort.
Even after reading the first page of “Poor Liza,” it is clear to the reader why this story is most often characterized as “sentimental.” It is in fact a sentimental piece of literature in which Karamzin’s exceedingly romantic language and exaggeration of the three very one-dimensional characters make the story sound almost satirical. The author’s overwhelming sympathy for Liza, along with the many “Oh!”s and other such exclamations throughout the story, make it difficult for the reader to believe that the author himself sincerely believes in the story. I see “Poor Liza” not as an attempt by Karamzin to manipulate the reader, but rather as an entertaining, satirical work by which the reader almost wants to let him/herself be swept away. I think Karamzin could have easily written a story that manipulates the reader by reducing his glorification of the scenery and situations between Liza and Erast and by not including an omniscient narrator who sympathizes with Liza in every other paragraph. The exaggeration adds something unique to the story, something which sets it apart from your typical romance novel. I was surprised, however, when the narrator separated himself even more from the story he was recounting and poses questions to the reader in the last couple of pages. But then again, this could also be a simple attempt by Karamzin to manipulate us, to make us think about and question exactly what he wants us to question…
^ this was in response to #4^
5. We cannot accept Erast’s decision because we expect more from literature than we do from real life. We know that reality is hard and that life is a challenge where not every relationship ends in happiness; not every person lives happily ever after. However, we want more from literature. When we read literature, we want to be taken out of the real world for a time. We look to literature as an escape to something better. We might be able to understand Erast’s decision, after all it makes economic and social sense, but we don’t want it to. We want the easy decision, the right decision, to be Liza. Liza is a sweet girl who loves Erast; Erast is a somewhat shady nobleman, but he loves Liza; we are supposed to want them to end up together. Karamzin knows this and his narrator exploits it to draw us in and make us remember the story.
One interesting thought I had while reading Poor Liza is that Karamzin most likely wrote this thinking of an audience that would primarily identify with Liza. However, reading the story at Middlebury, I know more people like Erast than I do like Liza. I think that Erast is a much more easily realized character for us. I can imagine Liza, but only because I have read other books with similar characters. Erast is a character whom I can really bring to life in my mind through experience with the world. He is well-off, but not terribly wealthy; educated, but not amazingly smart; and he wants to be deeper person than he is. Liza is a very kind, simple, country girl who gets pulled in over her head.
I read a rather silly/offensive editorial in today’s Moscow Times bashing the recent Ukrainian elections – the title was “Letting Poor People Vote is Dangerous”. In many ways it’s disturbing to see how ancient this perception is. Liza is good and her goodness is founded to her innocence and naiveté. She works, loves her mother and mourns her father; moreover, she suffers, as the holy Russian peasantry “ought” to suffer. However, she cannot assimilate the pragmatic and removed attitudes of the gentry into her life. Furthermore, once she loses her innocence there is noticeable change in the narrator’s tone towards her – he stops extolling her virtues. He only seems to return to his former attitudes after she has killed herself upon learning of Erast’s well-intentioned deception.
I think the reader is sensitized to this lamentable story because of the characters’ contrasting personalities: both are emotionally immature, but Liza is deliberate and immobile, while Erast is impulsive and free. Both characters crystallize their traits as the story progresses, culminating in Liza’s suicide and Erast’s interminable guilt – he cannot understand that his actions have consequences. I am not certain, but I believe it would be easier to accept the cruelness of the world were Erast deliberately exploiting Liza; there is something about having potential and not using it that bothers me on a grand scale.
The narrative technique also prevents the reader from coming to terms with this harsh situtation. The opening images are scenes of pastoral beauty and innocence juxtaposed with monastic sterility and death, preparing the reader for a futile romance. The narrator develops the relationship quickly and without depth as though the characters were children, which brings thoughts like, “If only they were mature…” into this poor reader’s head. Additionaly, he also leaves several details to the reader’s imagination – which enhances the reader’s sympathy. Finally, the dramatic irony that pervades the whole story (Erast’s relationship with the mother, repeated references to “poor” Liza, etc.) is like watching a train wreck in slow motion and being able to do nothing about it. I also believe that the narrator exhibits some characteristics that make him seem as likely to be an Erast, which indicates that this fate may befall some other poor girl.
3) I honestly wasn’t too fond of this short story by Karamzin, and by extension thought it has little moral value. The whole narrative of Poor Liza was constructed to elicit simple empathy from the reader, to such an extent that (as Nathan points out) the Narrator distances himself and acknowledges the fact that the reader can easily intuit the emotions of Liza or the mother throughout the story. Further, when Erast and Liza first get together, the foreshadowing of tragedy in Liza’s eyes was too obvious to miss, “No, I don’t need an oath” she says in a certainly naïve tone “I believe you, Erast, I believe. Could you deceive poor Liza” (59). Because the reader does so little work to feel such pathos, the inclination to invest in relationships with the characters and narrator just is not there. I don’t believe that we can be ‘better’ human beings for having read the short story, simply because it fails to challenge us in any way beyond an elementary consideration of the inevitable tragedy of social status. I guess, given that, I see the characterization of the story as “sentimental” as a negative – even the word itself implies an unwillingness to challenge the status quo, a satisfied and complacent view of the current paradigm. The only way to resolve my issues with the story is to see it as ultimately ironic, though I’m not sure if I can do that based on the fact that the story is commonly called ‘sentimental’ and I know of no context of the author’s life and narrative outside of these pages. Theoretically, however, if it were ironic then at least Karamzin would be putting a piece of himself into the story, attempting to suggest that he sees something unique that might be important for the reader to consider.
4. I believe it’s possible, but unlikely, that an author would write such a story and appeal to it directly for significant truth. In a similar vein to Nelson, I think that Karamzin intends his tale satirically or at least somewhat ironically. After all, he might have written a full-blown tragedy—or not prefaced the ugliness of Liza’s situation with the narrator’s apparent ramblings about his favorite haunts and vistas in Moscow (maybe, just maybe, these illustrate the preponderance or obscurity of Liza’s predicament, or are meant to juxtapose this moral rankness with beauty, but Karamzin doesn’t quite seem to justify his opening, sentimental vignettes). Karamzin does not likely believe in his story because he never endows it with full moral weight: how can the reader take him seriously with such a broad, singsong prelude, cursory character introductions (e.g. of Erast on 58) that foreshadow the tale’s conclusion before we even delve into its heart? The story is fairy-tale-ish in its simplicity, yet its content (love, honor, deception) wants a complex moral pedagogy. Within the actual narrative, I may believe or become entranced by the hefty ideas under consideration until the narrator admits he cannot, in fact, describe the situation. However, coming into and out of (a paragraph wraps up Erast’s life and, more crucially, the rambling narrator’s connection to this tale?) the story, I find an inner phoniness (as Holden might say) or sarcastic irony to Karamzin’s sentimentalism. What’s more, the label “sentimental” disregards most satiric qualities.
Karamzin simply doesn’t give me the tools to experience, say, catharsis at the supposedly morally tragic end (i.e. he [purposefully?] obviously and unapologetically tells of events and emotions, instead of showing them). Thus, I feel more a puppet manipulated by Karamzin’s aesthetic and intellectual ideas, than an autonomous witness to and moral judge of his story. I see this tale as sentimentalist primarily insofar as it asks the reader to consider, ironically or not, how the “hard reality of life” has impacted Liza (with whom I sympathize upon reading even the title), rather than presenting this “hard reality” objectively as such. What if, for instance, Karamzin had written the story sympathetically to Erast?—which might easily be done considering the change in circumstances that led tragically to his acceptance of rote marriage over true love, etc., etc.