Eric A. De Haard

Notes on Second-Person Narration: Tolstoj’s First Sevastopol’ Story

      Tolstoj’s Sevastopol’ stories are usually regarded as a trilogy, as forming a more or less integrated whole. Unity of historical space, time and theme, of aspects of style and composition, seem to justify such a view. Nevertheless, a number of contrasting features, some self-evident, others not so obvious, give sufficient cause for toning down these similarities and underlining some significant differences which bring out each story’s individual qualities and independence. Thus, to mention some of these, “Sevastopol' v dekabre mesjace” (“Sebastopol in the month December”) differs from the two later stories in size, thematic arrangement, narrative structure, outlook on war, and the patriotic morale-boosting tone that grows stronger towards the end (cf. Scheffler 1973: 77, 80-82). “Sevastopol’ v mae” (“Sebastopol in May”) and “Sevastopol’ v avguste 1855 g.” (“Sebastopol in August 1855”) are opposed on such levels as “authorial voice” (prominent vs subdued) and choice of characters (a sequence of episodic characters vs two central heroes, connected by family ties). Besides, Tolstoj seems to strike a balance between unity and individuality by means of the titles, using, on the one hand, anaphora (place) and substitution from a closed paradigm (time), and, on the other hand, seemingly insignificant variation (“mesjace” [“month”], and “1855 g.”) which disrupts the full syntactic parallelism, and, as it were, provides each story with its own individual touch.
       This paper is devoted to an examination – in both a diachronical and a contrastive respect – of those characteristics of the first story which make it not just different, but even exceptional.
       “Sevastopol’ v dekabre mesjace” certainly gives cause for being called an “ocerk” (“sketch”), as it often is, rather than “rasskaz” (“story”)¹. Like the Russian physiological sketch of the 1840s, it is essentially descriptive, rather than narrative, the scenes and incidents depicted are part of a general picture, rather than integrated in a plot. At first sight, conventions of fiction are lacking and a first impression might be that of a detailed factual report, of a piece of journalism. But journalism not without a message. It strives to challenge traditional misconceptions about war –  this war in particular – and to replace them by an understanding of what it is really like. But the feature that especially interests us here, which links up “Sevastopol’ v dekabre mesjace” with the popular genre of the “ocerk”,² is the use of forms of address. This ancient rhetorical device, aimed at involving the audience emotionally and intellectually in the subject matter, is especially favoured by most Russian sketch writers³.
         Such manifestations of address are often exhortations, or more polite invitations, to perform some mental activity, or presumptions of such an activity: “vy dumaete” (“you think”), “vy soglasites’” (“you will agree”), “ne gnevajtes’” (“do not be angry”), “mozet byt’, sprosite vy” (“maybe you will ask”), etc. Sometimes the addressee is projected as perceiving the described reality – locations in Petersburg or Moscow and the (usually professional) types that inhabit them – conditionally-hypothetically, for example in Grebenka’s “Peterburgskaja storona”: “Если у вас много денег, если вы живете в центре города, катаетесь по паркетной мостовой Невского проспекта и Морских улиц, если ваши глаза привыкли к яркому свету газа и блеску роскошных магазинов, и вы, по врожденной человеку способности, станете иногда жаловаться на судьбу, станете отыскивать причины для своих капризов, для своих мнимых несчастий, то советую вам прогуляться на Петербургскую сторону, эту самую бедную часть нашей столицы. Посмотрите [...] Вспомните [...] вы оцените [...] ваши глаза приятно отдохнут [...]. На Петербургской вы найдете и несчастного купца-банкрота [...] найдете заштатного чиновника [...] найдете мастеров без подмастерьев [...] Вы можете отыскать людей [...] (RO, 1986: 161-164). (If you have a lot of money, if you live in the centre of the city, if you drive along the smooth pavement of the Nevsky Prospekt and the Morskaya Streets, if your eyes are accustomed to the bright light of the gas lamps and the splendor of luxurious shops, and if you, by a natural human property, sometimes complain about your lot, looking for reasons for your caprices, for your imagined misfortunes, then I recommend to take a walk on Peterburgskaya Storona, this poorest part of our capital. You will see [...] You will remember [...] you will judge [...] your eyes will pleasantly rest on [...] On Petersburgskaya Storona you will find an unfortunate bankrupt merchant [...] you will find an unemployed official [...] you will find a master craftsman without apprentices [...] You can find people [...].)
Regularly such a conditional-hypothetical motivation is omitted and the addressee is metaphorically projected straightaway in a position which allows him to observe the depicted scenes. Thus the opening sentence of Grigorovic’s “Peterburgskie sarmansciki” (“Petersburg Organ-Grinders”) reads: “Взгляните на этого человека, медленно переступающего по тротуару; всмотритесь внимательно во всю его фигуру […] наблюдайте за ним […], посмотрите как старательно завертит он рукою […]. (FP 1984: 84). (Look at this man as he slowly moves along the sidewalk, look attentively at his whole figure, observe him [...], look how diligently he turns his arm [...].)
          Only later the addressee is conditionally invited to continue his imaginary walk and his observations: “Если вы хотите иметь [о квартире шарманщика] точное понятие, то потрудитесь нагнуться и войти в первую комнату” (FP 1984: 90). (If you want to have a true idea [about the organ-grinder’s living quarters], then take the trouble to stoop and enter the first room [...].)
          In these examples, and in other sketches as well, the addressee can be equated with the fictional reader who is metaphorically or hypothetically transferred from his metanarrative armchair into the depicted world and thus becomes an onlooker and “visitor” (Cf. Kokorev: “Rasscedrites’, posetitel’” [“Be generous, visitor”], RO 1986: 466), even if his status of reader, or the act of reading, is not explicitly mentioned. However, Grigorovic, for example, makes it clear that his “vy” (“you”) is a reader (“I esli vy so mnoju soglasny, to mne necego i prosit’ vas citat’ dalee: vy eto sdelaete sami” [“And if you agree with me, then I need not ask you to read on: you will do that by yourself”] – FP 1984: 86), whereas in Grebenka’s “Peterburgskaja storona” such indications are lacking, but understood.
      Thus the fictional, projected readers in the “ocerki” are implicitly or expressly specified, endowed with a set of features, which results in a more or less circumscribed image. They are well-to-do, of noble birth (at least upper-class), and well-educated city-dwellers (Petersburg or Moscow), properties which they basically share with their narrators (and their authors). But they are ignorant of, or totally uninterested in the parts of the city and the social groups depicted, which they could find just around the corner, if they were not too indolent or indifferent to leave their comfortable homes. The sketch narrator’s approach to his reader, as manifested in the moral and mental properties attributed to his addressee, varies from kind, polite and flattering to hostile and aggressive. Of course, these variations are part of the diverse emotional-stylistic repertoires of the narrators, which range from witty and bantering to serious and contemplative, from laconicity to profuse indignant rhetoric.
      Thus, for example, Grigorovic, true to his Karamzinian-Dickensian origins, flatters his reader and endows him with a sensitive soul: “Случалось ли вам итти когда-нибудь осенью поздно вечером по отдаленным петербургским улицам? [...] Погода всегда имеет сильное влияние на расположение духа, и вам как-то невольно становится грустно. Постепенно одна за другою приходят на ум давно забытые горести; одно печальное, неотрадное наполняет душу, и невыразимая тоска овладевает всем существом вашим [...] Вдруг посреди безмолвия и тишины раздается шарманка; [...] Вы как будто бы ожили, сердце ваше сильно забилось, грусть мгновенно исчезает, и вы бодро достигаете дома (FP 1984: 105). (Did you ever happen to walk on an autumn evening in the streets of St. Petersburg away from the centre? [...] The weather always has a strong effect on one’s mood and somehow you begin to feel sad. Gradually long-forgotten woes crop up in your mind, only sad and unpleasant things fill your soul and melancholy beyond expression takes hold of your whole being [...] Suddenly the silence is broken by a street organ; [...] You are revived, as it were, your heart starts pounding, your sadness immediately disappears and you come home fully refreshed.)
      But others, like Grebenka, take a harsh stance towards their readers, as can be seen in the above quotation from “Peterburgskaja storona”. Actually, Grebenka’s derisive tone is only a weak echo of his predecessor Basuckij, whose “Vodovoz” (“The Water-Carrier”) from his 1840 collection Nasi, spisannye s natury russkimi (Our People, Depicted from Nature by [us] Russians) can be considered the first real “physiological” sketch: “Вы, которым поддельный груз вашей жизни кажется столь невыразимо значительным, столь нестерпимо тяжелым, вы, полагающие, что на Атлантовых раменах вашей светскости и важности держите шар земной с блаженством его обитателей, [...] если вздумаете только уклонить одно плечо от привычного положения, вы, посвящающие ежедневно три часа на животненный акт питания, [...] вы, проводящие четыре часа на вечере, в котором развитием избалованного вкуса и неутомимой жажды наслаждений дана жизнь самым дивным, самым невероятным снам огненного воображения и ненасытимой чувственности, [...], вы, отнимающие от жизни лучшую часть на рысканье, необходимое для поддержания связей и влияния, на мотовство, [...] на карточную игру [...], скажите: жалуясь всегда, на все, в этой жизни, созданной вами для себя, по воле своей, думали ли вы когда-нибудь о тех, которые никогда не жалуются на жизнь, не избранную ими, но тяжело упавшую на них из урны судьбы? [...] Видали ли вы по крайней мере когда-нибудь вблизи одного из тех низших, необходимых тружеников земли, [...] в груди которых бьются сердца, столько же, как наши, способные глубоко и прекрасно чувствовать, [...], которые страдают молчаливо, терпят с христианским смирением? – Нет, вы этого не решали; вы об этом не думали; вы не видали этого близко! Вам некогда! [...] С одним из этих низших я хочу вас сблизить [...] не бойтесь, на минуту только” (RO 1986: 21-22). (You, to whom the imaginary burden of your life seems so inexpressibly important, so unbearably heavy, you, who think that on the Atlas shoulders of your good-mannered importance you carry the whole globe with the well-being of its inhabitants [...] if you decide to move only one shoulder from its usual position [...] you, who spend three hours daily on the animal act of feeding, you who spend four hours at an evening, where, by the development of spoiled taste and the indefatigable thirst of pleasure, life is blown into the most miraculous and most improbable dreams of an inflamed imagination [...] you, who use the best part of life to spend it on running about in order to secure connections and influence, on wastefulness [...] on playing cards [...], tell me, always complaining about everything in this life, all created by yourself, of your own will, did you ever think about those who never complain about a life they did not choose, that only fell heavily on them from the urn of fate? [...] Have you ever at least seen from near by one of those lowly, indispensable workers of the earth [...] in whose breast a heart beats, just like ours, that is capable of deep and beautiful feelings [...] who suffer in silence, with Christian patience? – No, you did not, you did not think of this, you did not see this from nearby! You have no time! [...] With one of these lowly people I want to make you acquainted [...] Do not be afraid, just for a minute.)
      Basuckij's indignant and sarcastic accusation designs a most unfavourable image of the reader. Throughout the text such sarcastic quips are meted out to this reader, but in vain, he learns nothing from the newly acquired information about the humble and miserable life of water-carriers. At the end, he is still the same insensitive and indifferent person as at the beginning: When he learns from a conversation that a drowned man has been found, he wonders if it is a person of high rank, or if there is a sensational story behind it. But when he hears that it is probably just a fisherman or a water-carrier, his natural reaction is: “Во-до-воз! О, представьте! А я думал... Тут, подняв брови и испустив презрительно ‘Пфф!..’, вы хладнокровно удаляетесь.” (A wa-ter-car-rier! Oh, just think of it! But I thought... Then you raise your eyebrows and you utter a disdainful ‘Pff!’ and you coolly go away.)
         However, regardless of the diversity of the narrator’s attitude towards his addressee, his general function is to serve as an embodiment of ignorance or misunderstanding, as a slot to be filled in with the information the sketch narrator wishes to convey.

         When we confront “Sevastopol’ v dekabre mesjace” with these typical “ocerki”, it seems that Tolstoj just borrows the device of second-person narration from the repertoire of his predecessors. For instance, in the beginning of the story we find: “Вы подходите к пристани [...] Вы выбираете [ялик], который к вам поближе, шагаете через полусгнивший труп какой-то гнедой лошади [...] и подходите к рулю. Вы отчалили от берега [...] Вы смотрите на полосатые громады кораблей [...] Вы слушаете равномерные удары весел [...]” (1932: 3-4). (You go to the landing stage [...] You choose [the dinghy] nearest to you, you step over the half-rotten carcass of a bay horse [...] and move on to the rudder. You push off from the shore [...] You look at the enormous striped ships [...] You listen to the regular strokes of the oars.)
But, of course, Tolstoj was not simply a sketch writer. As is often the case, he uses a traditional device for his own purposes and imparts to it a new, qualitatively different, significance, which is to be demonstrated in the following.
A short selection from Tolstoj criticism displays an interesting variety of terms in which aspects of the story’s narrative structure are characterized: “ljubopytstvujuscij korrespondent” (“interested correspondent”); “zritel’, kotorogo [avtor] vodit za ruku” (“onlooker, whom [the author] holds by the hand”) (Ejchenbaum 1922: 119);
“Pervyj sevastopol’skij ocerk napisan v forme korrespondencii ili obozrenija, s charakternoj zamenoj avtorskogo ‘ja’ obrascennym k citatelju ‘vy’” (“The first Sebastopol sketch is written in the form of a correspondence or a review, with the characteristic replacement of the author’s ‘I’ by ‘you’ addressed to the reader”); “on vodit za ruku predpolagaemogo zritelja” (“he leads the presupposed reader by the hand”); “putevoditel’” (“guide”) (Ejchenbaum 1928: 168); “citatel’ nezametno dlja sebja delaetsja odnim iz geroev rasskaza” (“the reader imperceptibly for himself becomes one of the heroes of the story”); “vy idete po Sevastopolju, i tot, kto soprovozdaet vas, postojanno obrascaetsja k vam kak by s preduprezdeniem” (“you go about Sebastopol and he who accompanies you continually addresses you as if to warn you”); “Pri etom avtor, rukovodja citatelem, takze javljaetsja dejstvujuscim licom: on vedet citatelja tuda, gde soversajutsja sobytija” (“Here the author, leading the reader, is also an acting person: he leads the reader to where the events take place”) (Bursov 1960: 197, 198); “Povestvovanie v rasskaze vedetsja kak by ot lica samogo citatelja” (“narration in the story takes place as if issuing from the reader himself”); “na pervom plane ‘vy’, to est’ sam citatel’” (“in the foreground [is/are] ‘you’, that is the reader himself”) (Sifman I960: 423); “Rasskaz postroen kak osmotr goroda kakim-to neizvestnym zainteresovannym i nedavno priechavsim celovekom” (“the story is constructed as an inspection of the town by an unknown interested person who has recently arrived”); “povestvovatel’ preduprezdaet citatelja” (“the narrator warns the reader”); “idja dalee za povestvovatelem, citatel’ delaet osibku” (“walking on behind the narrator the reader makes a mistake”) (Sklovskij 1974: 184-186); “The story jumps about as the nameless narrator jots down what he sees, walking about the town and its fortifications”; “the narrator is talking to you, as if you had been there too, and were sharing his reminiscence with him” (Christian 1969: 59); “Indem der Erzahler seinen Leser an die Hand nimmt und ihn durch Sewastopol fuhrt, ohne ihn wieder loszulassen, macht er diese Erzahlung zu einem Dialog” (“As the narrator takes the reader by the hand and leads him through Sebastopol without letting go of him he turns this story into a dialogue”); “[...] an dem Leser (oder Zuschauer) [...]” (“[...] to the reader (or onlooker)”) (Dieckmann 1969: 88); “[...] Autor und Leser, die gemeinsam das Stadtpanorama beachten [...]” (“[...] author and reader who view the town panorama together [...]”); “Das eigenartige ist nun, da? Autor und Leser nicht nur gemeinsam auftreten, sondern gewisserma?en zu einer Person verschmelzen” (“What is special is that author and reader do not only appear together, but to a certain extent also fuse into one person”) (Braun 1978: 63); “‘Sevastopol’ v dekabre’ postroen kak monolog-obrascenie k citatelju-sputniku” (“‘Sebastopol in December’ is constructed as a monologue addressed to a reader-companion”); “Voobrazaemyj citatel’-svidetel’, a byt’ mozet, i ucastnik istoriceskich sobytij [...]” (“The imaginary reader-witness, and perhaps, also participant in the historical events [...]”) (Iscuk 1984: 46).
From all these examples there arises a more or less metaphorical picture: The narrator (“author”) “leads” or “guides” a “reader/companion/visitor/observer”. One may also note that most of these critics employ modal expressions in their statements: “kak by” (“as it were”), “as it were”, “gewisserma?en” (“to a certain extent”), “byt’ mozet” (“perhaps”). Of course, there is no reason to object a priori to the impressionistic metaphoricity and modal incertainty in such comments. Yet it is worth while attempting to give a more precise account of the narrative structure, departing from the key terms in these very examples, especially in order to assess whether and how Tolstoj puts the popular and even hackneyed device to original use.
There is an obvious contradiction in calling one and the same person both a “reader” and an “observer”. Strictly speaking, these functions, the one being metanarrative, the other intradiegetic, are incompatible. But there are two possibilities of reconciliation. The two functions may alternate in the course of the text, or the gap between them can be bridged by means of figurative signification. In the latter case the question arises which way the metaphor works: which is the primary, literal function (compared), which the figurative (comparator)? When we return to the above-quoted fragments from the sketches we can see that both principles, of alternation and metaphor, are operative. The reader – expressly addressed as such – is invited to leave his armchair and go out into the streets, or he is projected as making the mental effort of imagining himself as a direct observer. Thus the “literal” fictional reader metaphorically becomes an observer. The comments on “Sevastopol’ v dekabre mesjace” quoted above adequately convey this process that is characteristic of the “ocerki”. But does this also apply to Tolstoj’s story? Who precisely is this addressee, whom do the second-person pronominal and verbal forms refer to, whom do they include or exclude?
Basically second-person forms (and first-person plural inclusive forms) are deictics referring to the receiver in a communicative situation. In everyday communication the identity of this receiver is usually self-evident, even though here doubts and misunderstandings may occur with respect to reference and scope of inclusion (cf. “Are you speaking to me [too]?”). As regards literary texts this communicative situation is much more complicated. Its multilevelled structure is problematical (cf. e.g. Schmid 1973: 17-38), and so are the general and specific status and identity of addressees on one of these levels, the fictional narratees (cf. Prince 1973, Levin 1973)⁴.
What clues to the identity and status of the “Vy” (“you”) does Tolstoj’s story provide? In fact, hardly any but his being addressed in the first piece of dialogue as a nobleman:
“ – На Графскую, ваше благородие? Пожалте, – предлагают вам свои услуги два или три отставных матроса, вставая из яликов” (“To the Grafskaya, your Honour? Please! – a couple of retired sailors offer their services, getting out of their dinghies”) (1932: 3-4).
From this form of address it can be concluded that he is serving in one of the lower ranks of the military or civilian hierarchy, most probably the former. But other individualizing specifications of this addressee are lacking in the text. He remains an anonymous instance, without a past, without any concrete background, without external characteristics. His image as a person is made up only of the actual and hypothetical activities ascribed to him in the course of the text: moving about the besieged town, experiencing the new surroundings, engaging in a few conversations, and, most important of all, responding emotionally and intellectually to the scenes he witnesses. The story is based on the repeated pattern of the addressee’s initial bias and misconceptions, a confrontation with reality and his subsequent recognition of the true circumstances in Sebastopol, the true spirit of its defenders, of what this war is really like. Implied in this pattern are some indispensable characteristics of the addressee, viz. a certain willingness to learn, open-mindedness and sensitivity. Thus, Tolstoj’s “vy” (“you”) is only defined by all he does, says and feels, not by any identifying predicates. But he certainly is a “visitor”, a “witness”, an “observer”.
However, as concerns the other function of addressees, nowhere in the story is he addressed as a “reader”, not even as a “hearer”. Now there are several sketches in which, unlike those by Basuckij, Grebenka and Grigorovic quoted above, the addressee functions only as an observer and is not explicitly projected as a reader, e.g. Vistengof’s “Kupcy” (“The Merchants”), Tolbin’s “Jaroslavcy” (“Jaroslav Folk”). In these cases it seems quite natural to regard the addressee as a reader by metaphorical implication, as having left his lazy chair and gone out into the streets. At this point we see a number of differences that distinguish “Sevastopol’ v dekabre mesjace” from its forerunners. In the traditional sketches the figurative step from reader to onlooker is facilitated by the topographical unity of the reader’s and the observer’s space (Petersburg, Moscow). Even though these two spaces may be worlds apart in social and psychological respect, the unknown, interesting world the sketch aims to depict is just around the corner. Obviously, in Tolstoj’s story such a move, both literally and figuratively, is much more difficult to achieve.
Furthermore, sketches in which the reader status is not made explicit, often compensate by introductory hypothetical-conditional constructions which create a frame for the reader/onlooker fluctuation. Cf. the fragment above from Grebenka’s “Peterburgskaja storona” and also, e.g.: “Если вы, катаясь по Москве, заедете в Грузины и Садовую, то в маленьких, неопрятных домах увидите расположенные таборы цыган” (“If you ride about Moscow and go to Gruziny and Sadovaya, then in the small dirty houses you will see the gipsy camps”) (Vistengof, “Cygany” (“The Gipsies”), RO 1986: 118).
Such a conditional framework is also lacking in Tolstoj’s story. The introductory sentences are simply declarative, it is an established fact that the addressee arrives in Sevastopol’: “Vy podchodite k pristani” (“You go to the landing stage”), “zapach [...] porazaet vas” (“you are struck by the smell”), “[...] predlagajut vam svoi uslugi” ([...] “they offer you their services”), “Vy otcalili ot berega” (“You push off from the shore”)
(1932: 3-4). Only within this factual-declarative framework there occur other – hypothetical, predictive, imperative – modalities: “No vgljadites’ blize v lica etich ljudej” (“But take a closer look at these people’s faces”) (5), “Da! vam nepremenno predstoit razocarovanie, ezeli vy v pervyj raz v Sevastopole” (“Yes, you will definitely be disappointed, if you are in Sebastopol for the first time”) (6), “Teper’, ezeli vasi nervy krepki, projdite v dver’ nalevo” (“Now, if your nerves are strong enough, go through the door on the left”) (8), “Zdes’ uvidite, mozet byt’, celovek pjat’ matrosov” (“Here you will see, perhaps, five or six sailors”) (13).
In spite of these interspersed variations, the basic status of the depicted scenes and the visitor’s reactions is determined by present tense declaration of fact. This determines the addressee’s status as a character in the story, fully enclosed within the narrated world, far removed from any reading activity.
A major distinguishing feature of “Sevastopol’ v dekabre mesjace”, which reinforces the addressee’s status as a character-observer is the pervasiveness of his presence in the text. In the typical “ocerk” the addressee is projected as perceiving subject in only part of the text. Such fragments alternate with either more or less objective descriptions, or with scenes presented by the narrator, who makes no effort to conceal his ego and his personal involvement. The text parts governed by the addressee’s point of view may range from a single paragraph to longer stretches, but never are description and narration filtered through the addressee’s perspective as consistently and pervasively as in Tolstoj’s story. Only the opening and closing paragraphs with their description of nature form an exception, although they can also be interpreted as falling within the scope of Tolstoj’s visitor.
Moreover, the ego of the narrator in “Sevastopol’ v dekabre mesjace” is restricted in its explicit manifestation to two inconspicuous occurrences: “Ja govorju: ‘robko sprasivaete’ [...]” (“I say: ‘you will ask timidly’[...]”) (6), and ‘Odnogo ja bojus’, ctо [...] vy nicego ne uvidite” (“I am afraid of one thing: that [...] you will see nothing”) (13-14).This almost complete elimination of the “I” of the narrator, of course, does not mean that he disappears as centre of knowledge and evaluation of the world depicted here. On the contrary, seemingly paradoxically, the narrator makes himself felt as strongly as can be, through the address of his character, following the slightest movements and details of his inner life and expressing them in his own terms. Actually, the relationship between the narrator and his character is exactly analogous to a uniselective third-person narrator and his hero (cf. Friedman 1955).

        This leads us to the issue of “second-person narration” in general, and how Tolstoj’s story relates to this peripheral and “experimental” form. By far its most famous – and perhaps unique, as far as novel-length texts are concerned – representative is Michel Butor’s 1957 novel La Modification.⁵ It is worth while considering some comments on Butor’s work that may shed light on aspects of Tolstoj’s story as well.
In a well-known statement Booth underlines, among other things, the eccentricity of second-person narration: “Efforts to use the second person have never been very successful, but it is astonishing how little real difference even this choice makes. When I am told, at the beginning of a book, “You have put your left foot... You slide through the narrow opening... Your eyes are only half open...”, the radical unnaturalness is, it is true, distracting for a time. But in reading Michel Butor’s La Modification, from which this opening comes, it is surprising how quickly one is absorbed into the illusory “present” of the story, identifying one’s vision with the “vous” almost as fully as with the “I” and “he” in other stories” (1961: 150n).
This comment fits well into his argument that in narration “perhaps the most overlooked distinction is that of a person” (ibid.). Casparis criticizes Booth – among other things – for not asking why hardly any novels are written in the second person (1975: 37-38). One may also wonder why this form of narration should be “unnatural” and why the critic, nevertheless, found it surprisingly easy to identify his vision with the addressee, as if the difference from first- and third-person narration hardly mattered.⁶
As regards the “unnaturalness” of the form, it may of course be noted that the majority of all third-person narration is equally “unnatural”, and dependent upon the conventional acceptation of the omniscient narrator’s “superhuman” knowledge of characters’ inner life. But more important, just as first-and third-person fictions have their counterparts in – or can be considered modelled after – non-fictional genres and text types (memoirs, confession; report, historiography), so have second-person texts. For example, it is a device frequently employed in cookery books (cf. Casparis 1975: 124) and travel guides or tourist brochures (cf. van Rossum-Guyon 1970: 115)⁷.
However, the most significant analogies have been drawn by Butor himself in his theoretical-programmatic essays. “Celui a qui l’on raconte sa propre histoire” (“He, to whom is own story is told”) may be a suspect, or a witness, interrogated by a detective or prosecutor, who formulates for this addressee what he does not want to admit, or what he has forgotten, or is unable to articulate. “Ainsi, chaque fois que l’on voudra decrire un veritable progres de la conscience, la naissance meme du langage ou d’un langage, c’est la seconde personne qui sera la plus efficace” (“Thus, each time one wishes to depict a true progress of consciousness, the birth itself of language or alanguage, the second person is the most efficient”) (Butor 1964a: 66, 67). What Butor’s novel and Tolstoj’s story have in common is, indeed, a growing consciousness, and, to a certain extent, an articulation of what the character is unable to express.
But there are other features shared by the two texts: the absence of a modalizing (conditional or suppositional) frame, the sustained and all-encompassing presence of the addressed character, and, on the one hand, the elimination of the ego of the primary subject of speech, on the other, the implicit, but very strong manifestation of the uniselective omniscient narrator – in spite of, and simultaneously through, the forms of address.
However, apart from all more or less self-evident divergences between the works on all levels,⁸ they exhibit one major difference that is of particular relevance for the present discussion. As has been noted above, Tolstoj has provided his visitor with almost no individualizing features at all. Despite the implied sensitivity and flexibility of mind he remains an anonymous shadow, whose only palpability in the world of the story derives, it seems, from his talks and encounters with the defenders of Sevastopol’. Butor’s hero is a full-fledged character in every sense of the word, a man with a present, even a future, but also a past, – which are represented alternately in the text (cf. van Rossum-Guyon 1970: 195-196, 238-239). He is portrayed in rich detail with respect to social status, background and inner life, and has a vividly evoked physical existence. And, perhaps most important, he has a name, even though it is striking that Butor introduces it at a rather late stage (van Rossum-Guyon 1970: 142), and almost casually, as it were, reluctantly, wishing to maintain anonymity as long as possible. First the reader is obliquely informed that his surname is Delmont (Butor 1957: 64), later we learn that his first name is Leon (118). Afterwards neither occurs any more.
Thus, logically speaking, as the “vous” (“you”) in La Modification evidently refers to an entirely specific, unique, individualized character who is a full member of the narrated world, there are no metanarrative “readers” or “hearers” addressed here. The actual recipient of the text is overhearing, and in a way, “eavesdropping”, rather than listening to this prolonged addressed monologue.⁹ When considered from such a strict point of view, it might come as a surprise that critics are convinced that the (or a) “reader” is addressed here, e.g.: “Comme la deuxieme personne designe l’etre a qui l’on parle, le lecteur, destinataire oblige du message, se trouve ici, en outre, explicitement designe. [..] C’est bien a nous que le discours s’adresse. On remarquera l’efficacite rhetorique du procede qui, impliquant le destinataire reel du message dans la situation decrite, l’incite a s’engager dans la situation reelle”  (“As the second person designates the person to whom one speaks, the reader, as inevitable receiver of the message, also finds himself explicitly designated [...] It is surely to us that the discourse is addressed. Quite striking is the rhetorical efficiency of the device, which, by implicating the real receiver of the message in the depicted situation, incites him to engage himself in the real situation”) (van Rossum-Guyon 1970: 115). Cf. also Michel Butor’s own metapoetic statements, with obvious reference to his earlier novel:
“A l’interieur de l’univers romanesque, la troisieme personne “represente” cet univers en tant qu’il est different de l’auteur et du lecteur, la premiere “represente” l’auteur, la seconde le lecteur” (“Within the novel’s universe, the third person “represents” this universe, inasfar as it is different from author and reader, the first person “represents”the author, the second person the reader”) (1964a: 67). “C’est pourquoi s’introduit parfois dans l’ouvrage un representant du lecteur, de cette deuxieme personne a qui l’auteur  s’adresse: celui a qui l’on raconte sa propre histoire” (“That is why sometimes in the work a representative of the reader is introduced, of this second person to whom the author addresses himself: to whom one narrates his own story”) (1964b: 97).
In these formulations we notice the discrepancy between “explicitement” and “impliquant” and the equation of “reader” and character. These discrepancies can also be seen in Leiris’s essay on Butor’s novel, but they are attenuated by means of modal
expressions: “Or La Modification, a l’exception de rares passages, est ecrite a la deuxieme personne du pluriel: c’est vous-meme, lecteur, que le romancier semble mettre poliment en cause et il suffit de quelques brefs coups d’oeil jetes sur les lignes imprimees […] pour que vous vous sentiez en presence d’une invitation, sinon d’une summation. […] Vous entreprenez donc […] la lecture de ces 283 pages grand format, seules a meme de vous reveler quel genre d’attention l’auteur attendait de ce public qu’a vous seul vous representez, pourquoi il a procede comme s’il s’agissait d’etablir explicitement de lui a vous un rapport de personne a personne et ce a quoi il desirait vous mener [...] Le personnage central et presque unique du livre [...] a qui lecteurs et lectrices, attrapes dans les rets du “vous” et de l’indicatif present, ne peuvent pas ne pas tendre a plus ou moins s’identifier [...]” (“With the exception of very few passages, La Modification is written in the second person plural: it is you yourself, reader, whom the novelist politely seems to implicate and just a quick glance at the printed lines will suffice [...] for you to feel yourself confronted with an invitation, even a summons [...] Thus you undertake [...] the reading of these 283 large pages which reveal to you what kind of attention the author expected from the public which you represent on your own, why he has acted as if his purpose was to establish explicitly a relationship with you from person to person and where he wanted to lead you [...] The central and almost only character in the book [...] with whom readers, male and female, caught in the nets of the “you” and the indicative present tense, will almost inevitably identify themselves to a certain extent [...]”) (1957: 287-288).
The modal expressions here soften the logical incompatibility between the status of explicit “character” and “implicit” reader. Leiris’s account (and van Rossum-Guyon’s and Butor’s as well) demonstrates the semantic complexity of second-person narration, to which a strictly logical view – in which the character is addressed and the reader merely eavesdropping – might do unjustice.

         If the “vous” of La Modification, which refers primarily to its fully individualized character Leon Delmont, is perceived by all as referring secondarily to, and implying, the reader, then it goes without saying that this also holds for “Sevastopol’ v dekabre mesjace”. The anonymity and relative abstractness of the visitor’s personality leave even more room for actual readers to feel addressed as well. Thus, when we reconsider the selection of comments on Tolstoj’s story given above (a selection that could easily be enlarged by similar descriptions), there is sufficient reason to accept the term “reader” they all contain, even though they are incorrect – with the exception of Sklovskij – in speaking indiscriminately of “visitor” and “reader” or giving priority to the latter.
However, the semantic complexity of the forms of address in La Modification and “Sevastopol’ v dekabre mesjace” is different from the semantic shifts in the “ocerki”. It is not based on the hypothetical or metaphorical transformation from reader to visitor, but on the inherent polysemy of the second-person forms involved. Both French “vous” and Russian “vy” (“you”) (and the corresponding adjectival and verbal forms, except some predicates and verbal tenses, e.g. either “vous etes arrive” (“you have arrived”, sg.) or “arrives” (pl.)  vs. only “vy priechali” (“you have arrived”, both sg. and pl.)) may designate {informal, non-singular, addressee}, {formal, non-singular, addressee} or {formal, singular, addressee},¹⁰ while the uses of formal/informal in both languages are more or less identical. It is this semantic and referential polyvalence that enables the effect that in both works the reader may feel included in the text, “caught in its nets”, which is testified by all the critics quoted above.¹¹
It must be noted here that language-specific differences may complicate attempts to generalize about second-person narration. Thus, English “you” with its absence of distinguishing between formal and informal has even more semantic flexibility. Moreover, it also allows an indefinite-generalizing interpretation (cf. Casparis 1975: 41), in contrast to Russian (where normally the second person singular is used) and French (“on”) One may wonder whether this makes a significant difference and even increases the force of appeal, say, in the English translation of Butor’s novel.¹²
Thus, through the activation of inherent polysemy readers are “invited”, or even “summoned” (Leiris) to become directly involved in the world the text evokes, or, as Casparis puts it: “The reader can no longer resist the impression that he is addressed surreptitiously, and expected to identify himself with the experience; an experience which at once sounds unique and general (1975: 107)
“Identification”, “involvement” are effects that all literary works strive for, and it can be achieved by all types of narratives, first- and third-person, but these do so in an oblique manner. By contrast, the specific properties of second-person narration, as embodied in otherwise so different texts as “Sevastopol’ v dekabre mesjace” and La Modification, allow, or impose, the immediate identification which came to Booth so surprisingly quickly. In fact, it may be supposed that this identification is too immediate and too compelling for this type of narrative, in its pure and pervasive form, to become productive. It seems to leave too little flexibility for the reader to bring nuances to his identification, to distance himself in some respects, and to identify himself in others. Its obtrusive didacticism (“un recit a la deuxieme personne [...] est toujours un recit didactique” (“a narrative in the second person [...] is always a didactic narrative”) (Butor 1964a: 66)) and, one may add, its restriction to a single point of view, seem to impose too many limitations, even though it has resulted in a few eminent works of literature.

        The problem of complete or partial identification is discussed in Gary Saul Morson’s article “The Reader as Voyeur: Tolstoj and the The Poetics of Didactic Fiction”, which deals with some fundamental issues concerning Tolstoj’s story. Morson’s refreshing point of departure is that “it is simply inappropriate to ask whether great art can be didactic; the fact is, that it often is” (1978: 465). His central argument is that Tolstoj challenges aesthetic detachment (466) and that “the strategy [of Tolstoj’s fictions] is both to be and deny being literature”. For “Sevastopol’ v dekabre” this means that “the reader is trapped between two conflicting sets of conventions, as the story alternately insists on being read as fiction and as journalism” (467). The effect of the second-person address is that the reader – who thinks that he can simply be a tourist – wishes to keep his aesthetic distance, but is unable to do so. He becomes “culpable”, a “voyeur”, “responsible for what [he] looks at”, “implicated in the crime of disinterested observation” of the horrors he witnesses. In the final analysis, “what the tourist of Sevastopol’ learns to see is himself” (471).
Morson has strong points in asserting that Tolstoj strives for an aesthetics that does not permit detached enjoyment, and in stressing the use Tolstoj makes of the tension between fact and fiction. But would he go as far as to reproach readers who do not feel “culpable”, “voyeurs”, and “implicated in crime”, yet appreciate the story’s qualities, partly identifying, partly distancing themselves? Certainly Tolstoj focuses on the horrors of war, and his anti-romantic, laconic depiction of it may well be more impressive and terrifying than any other image. The story is certainly concerned with some “timeless” themes and values, but an important aspect of “Sevastopol’ v dekabre mesjace” remains its topicality. The story is not just descriptive, it is overtly patriotic, and it aims strongly to keep up morale in early 1855. The readers it strives to implicate are first and foremost those at the home front. The historical distance can hardly be felt more deeply than when we read towards the end of the story: “Главное, отрадное убеждение, которые вы вынесли, это – убеждение в невозможности взять Севастополь [...]” (“The main, comforting conviction you take with you, is the conviction of the impossibility of the taking of Sebastopol”) (1932: 16).
The story works towards this desired state of mind and level of insight through the learning process ascribed to the projected visitor, and if the reader fully identifies himself with this “hero” and his experience, he reaches the same, rather than being culpable, or responsible for what he witnesses. To return to the analogies drawn by Michel Butor, Morson’s terms correspond with the type of interrogation in which a prosecutor confronts a defendant with facts he does not want to admit – an analogy which is, indeed, largely valid for La Modification. But quite apart from the fact that a defendant may be innocent, it seems more appropriate to regard “Sevastopol’ v dekabre mesjace” as an unaestheticized, yet highly artistic realization of the other analogy Butor formulated more than a century later: The second person is eminently suited for articulating what a witness cannot yet express, for evoking a “true growth of consciousness”.

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