My First Goose (Criticism)

Criticism

Kate Bernheimer

Bernheimer has a master’s degree in creative writing and edited Mirror, Mirror on the Wall: Women Writers Explore Their Favorite Fairy Tales (Anchor/Doubleday 1998). In the following essay, she discusses symbolism in “My First Goose.’’

When the disconsolate narrator kills a goose in Babel’s story “My First Goose,” he is not merely getting himself a nice supper. It is true that the narrator is miserably hungry, and that the Cossacks have denied him a share of their food. And the goose, waddling about innocently, makes an easy enough meal. Nonetheless, this goose serves several other functions in the story. Significantly, the goose is the story’s very first image, found at the very beginning — in the title. Even in the title, the image of the goose is symbolic and exceeds the boundaries of Babel’s plot. It is only the first goose; there will be others after the story ends. And by the end of the story, we can guess that those “others” will not be only geese. Babel makes the goose stand for several other things, through the use of symbolism. Charles Baudelaire, a nineteenth – century French writer of the Symbolist literary movement, defined symbolism as the use of “evocative bewitchment” — language that elevates details to mean more than just their physical parts. One of Babel’s favorite literary devices, symbolism, appears prominently throughout this short, disturbing tale.

The goose is central to the story’s plot, in which a weak narrator wins over the brute Cossacks, whom he must educate on socialism. Bespectacled, Jewish, learned, and small, the narrator demonstrates his own kind of strength by crushing the head of the goose to win over the brute Cossacks. According to The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics, a widely used resource that defines critical literary movements, one of the most popular symbols in literature was the swan, “a code word with shifting frames of reference representing pure beauty and the poet’s alienation from his surroundings.” Babel’s goose, a sort of ugly and awkward swan, works this way. Babel describes the unfortunate goose as “inoffensive,” while all the other characters — even a pathetic old woman — irritate the narrator. The goose, white and preening, stands in contrast to the nasty military camp, but eventually dies in “dung.” Its innocence cannot survive the filth of the camp on the physical level, or the “dung” of war on the symbolic level. Likewise, the narrator, identified with the goose and alienated from his surroundings, will lose his innocence to the war.

At the beginning of the story, the narrator admires the boots of Savitsky, the Cossack Commander, which are described as threatening yet seductive. When the narrator encounters the goose, he crushes its head beneath his own boot. Thus he identifies himself with the Cossacks in his violence.

The narrator’s difference from the Cossacks is crucial to the story’s symbolic weight. Other characters often mention the narrator’s spectacles and his frailty. Critics have agreed that the narrator of this story is Jewish, based on descriptions from other Babel stories in which this character appears. The fact that the narrator will not kill a human or rape a woman can be interpreted as symbolic of the morality of his Jewish faith. His faith prevents him from partaking in the kind of human cruelty required in this socialist, godless war. Instead, the narrator performs a symbolic sacrifice — the killing of the the goose. Just before killing the goose, the narrator exclaims “Christ!” and he shouts “Christ!” again immediately afterward, connecting the death of the goose with the sacrifice of Christ. The meaning of this connection, however, is unclear. Is the narrator embracing the ideal of Christian sacrifice, or does he reject the notion of Christian sacrificial beauty, stomping it with his boot? The ambiguity of this moment typifies the story and much of Babel’s prose.

Drawn throughout the plot, in an equally complex manner, is an association between eroticism and brute force. The narrator tells of the Commander’s legs, sensuous “like girls sheathed to the neck in riding boots.” Later in the story, the narrator sleeps with his legs entwined in other men’s legs, “dreaming of women.” More explicitly, at one point in the story, as the narrator walks to the Cossack camp, the old quartermaster advises him to “mess up a lady.” Yet the bespectacled narrator does not choose to rape. Instead, he shoves an old woman and stomps on her goose. (The landlady confesses to the narrator her suicidal thoughts, which would be considered a crime under Russian Orthodoxy. In this way the narrator becomes a sort of priest, in fact a “heathen priest,” as he is a non – Christian.) Throughout this sequence of exchanges, the goose comes to stand in for “a lady” and symbolizes the female. The goose and the feminine thus become associated with weakness or victimhood, yet the narrator also glorifies femininity and dreams of women romantically. In this way, the story strikes a disturbing but sensuous chord.

Babel’s use of the goose in “My First Goose” shares historical literary significance with William Butler Yeats’s famous poem “Leda and the Swan,” which was written at nearly the same time. In that poem, using the swan as the central symbol, Yeats also explores the themes of war and religion. Yeats begins the poem with following lines:

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

In this poem, Leda is raped by the god Zeus, who has taken the guise of a swan. Leda gives birth to Helen of Troy: consequently, this act leads to the sack of Troy, and the foundation of Greek civilization, and, according to some critics, the establishment of Christianity. In Babel’s story, one also finds images of thighs, twitching wings, and women. Yet while Yeats’s swan is unequivocally “great,” though violent, Babel’s goose cannot survive. Rather, the goose, despite its goodness, is actually completely helpless, like its blind female owner. As a Jew in a country where Jews were traditionally persecuted, Babel’s narrator identifies with this victim. He cannot brutalize anything without disturbing his conscience. Thus the goose can here be seen as yet another symbol — a Jew. Yeats’s swan is his poem’s protagonist, masculine and terrible. Babel’s goose is his story’s victim, feminine and hapless.

Russian folklore had a great influence on Babel’s writing, both syntactically and formally. The story of “My First Goose” bears resemblance to a well – known Russian folktale called “The Wondrous Wonder, The Marvelous Marvel.” In the folktale, an unhappy husband finds a magical goose. Whenever the goose is killed and roasted, it comes back to life, symbolizing eternal wealth. However, the goose also contributes to the destruction of the marriage. In the husband’s absence, the goose witnesses the wife’s infidelity. The goose sticks the wife to her lover and drags them to the town square. There they are discovered by the disillusioned husband, who beats his wife. The goose is finally crushed. Here the goose symbolizes goodness and an inevitable fall from grace. The sad husband in the folktale exclaims, “How can I help being sad?” Likewise, the narrator in “My First Goose” is “depressed,” and his heart brims over.

The goose bears the weight of eternal sadness just as it embodies eternal beauty. Such is the way of socialism, which is so glorified, flying a straight and lovely line, yet causes violence and cruelty in the war. The propaganda officer knows this, and folds into himself with fear. The goose will come to life in other forms, and meet a similar fate.

Source: Kate Bernheimer, for Short Stories for Students, Gale, 2000.

Rena Korb

Korb has a master’s degree in English literature and creative writing and has written for a wide variety of educational publishers. In the following essay, she discusses the narrator’s dual personality in “My First Goose.’’ Red Cavalry, Isaac Babel’s 1926 collection of 35 stories, drew on the author’s experience as a war correspondent for the Red Army during the tumultuous Russian Civil War. From the start, Babel conceived the collection as a larger whole composed of individual parts. In fact, he referred to the stories as “excerpts” or “chapters” of a book. Writes David McDuff in the Reference Guide to World Literature, Red Cavalry “marks the pinnacle of Babel’s literary achievement.” In his study Isaac Babel, Milton Ehre further commends the collection, finding it the “most important fiction to come out of the Russian Revolution.” Most of the stories are told from the point of view of Lyutov, a Jewish war correspondent, as he travels with the Cossack army on their 1920 campaign in Poland. Lyutov, educated and possessing a poet’s sensibility, is juxtaposed against the violent backdrop of war and the coarseness of the soldiers.

McDuff further writes that Red Cavalry “demonstrates the duality of his [Babel’s] nature most forcefully and vividly. .. his personality splits in two.” Lyutov wavers between what he is — the “bespectacled, bookish, and sensitive” war correspondent — and what he wants to become — “a true revolutionary and Bolshevik solider with no fear of blood and killing.” Indeed, “My First Goose”, which Babel placed eighth of 35 stories, depicts a Lyutov drawn to the trappings of the war and wanting the respect of its major players. Savitsky, Lyutov’s new commander, becomes an object of admiration that appeals to Lyutov on multiple sensory levels. Lyutov views “the beauty of his gigantic body” and notes the details of his costume — the purple breeches, the raspberry cap, the medals on his chest. Savitsky assails Lyutov on an olfactory level as well as a visual one. Lyutov smells Savitsky’s “unobtainable scent and the sickly sweet coolness of his soap.” These few words are meaningful, for they demonstrate at the same time that Lyutov inherently understands he will never truly be like the Cossacks (“unobtainable”), he also recognizes that their characteristics are not those to which a person such as himself should aspire (“sickly sweet”). Yet, Lyutov concludes the opening paragraph by affirming again the attractiveness of Savitsky in his comparison of the commander’s “long legs” to females. Lyutov’s inner conflict, succinctly set up in these opening sentences, is at the core of “My First Goose” and many of the stories in Red Cavalry.

Savitsky’s ensuing actions immediately demonstrate his masculinity. Even before uttering a word, he hits his riding – switch against the table. Only after such physical assertion does Savitsky return to everyday matters, pulling Lyutov’s order toward him and completing it. Savitsky’s initial and accurate assessment of Lyutov is recognized in this order, for Savitsky allows Lyutov to serve anywhere the army goes except at the front. Savitsky’s assessment of Lyutov must be based solely on Lyutov’s physical appearance. Lyutov’s glasses immediately symbolize his sensibility; Lyutov is not a true soldier. Savitsky is even more derisive when he finds out that Lyutov studied law at the university and calls him a “milksop.”

Savitsky turns Lyutov over to the billeting officer, who sums up the prevailing attitude that Lyutov is sure to face: ”‘Our lads here have a stupid thing about glasses, and there’s nothing to be done about it. Your man of distinction — he’s not to be found here.” The officer further illuminates that the Cossacks value violence and pillage; ‘“But lay a finger on a lady,’” he says, ”’the properest lady that ever there was, and our fighting lads will give you a fond caress...’”

Lyutov, however, cannot hide his true self. The Cossacks immediately dislike him. A young soldier even picks up his trunk and hurls it through the air. When it spills open, further, if unnecessary, evidence of Lyutov’s nature reveals itself in the form of manuscripts that fall on the ground. The young soldier then “turned his posterior to me and. . . began to emit some disreputable sounds.” Although Lyutov recognizes the crudeness of the action — and that the soldier’s only real accomplishment is just a “simple knack,” not really a “special” one — Lyutov’s inner harmony is still disturbed. His attempts to calm himself by reading a speech of Lenin’s in the newspaper do no good, for “the Cossacks tripped over my legs, the lad mocked me tirelessly, and the welcome lines of print approached me by a thorny road and were unable to get to me.”

Seemingly without thought, Lyutov takes definitive action that will win him a place among the Cossacks. Significantly, he “put down his newspaper” before demanding of a peasant woman that she feed him, an action that symbolizes his rejection of his truer refined self. When she ignores his request, he “gave her a shove in the chest with [his] fist” and then grabs a white goose from the yard. The goose is Lyutov’s stand – in for the pure woman whose rape the billet officer had advised would alter the men’s opinion. Indeed, Lyutov describes his killing of the goose in sexually violent and degrading terms. “I caught up with it and bent it down to the ground; the goose’s head cracked under my boot, cracked and overflowed. The white neck was spread out in the dung, and the wings began to move above the slaughtered bird.” Then Lyutov sets about “delving into the goose with the sword.” Lyutov’s actions mimic on a minute level those of the Cossack soldiers, feared in Eastern Europe for their destruction of Jewish villages as well as their attacks on the women who live there. He chases the fleeing goose, harshly subdues it, forces it to open itself to his superior physical presence, and then penetrates it with a sword, or phallus. That the sword does not belong to Lyutov — who, it must be remembered, is a Jew — demonstrates that he is only borrowing the violence of the Cossack soldier, but that he does not own such a characteristic. Indeed, to become a Cossack would be to act against his own people.

At first, the Cossacks seem not to notice him, for they “sat unmoving, straight as priests, and had paid no attention to the goose.” One Cossack, however, shows that they did witness Lyutov’s actions. He says, “‘The lad will do all right with us,’” and winks Lyutov’s way. Despite this gesture of acceptance, Lyutov demonstrates his unease with what he has done. He “wiped the sword dry with sand,” but he can’t wipe away his actions or his guilt. He remains “in torment” and views the tawdriness of his physical surroundings. Yet, his interior debate is ever present. At the same time that he sees the moon hanging in the sky “like a cheap earring,” he also watches the Cossack eat their supper with “restrained elegance.”

Lyutov is soon rewarded for his behavior. All of a sudden, the “most senior of the Cossacks” invites Lyutov to join the men and share their supper until the goose is ready. Surovkov extends his welcome to Lyutov along with the spare spoon stowed in his boot. Earlier, Lyutov had experienced “loneliness without parallel,” but now the men set about “making a place” for Lyutov, both literally and physically. The young soldier who had previously mocked Lyutov moves over so Lyutov can sit down and the men listen eagerly as Lyutov reads Lenin’s speech aloud. Now the men value his literacy. It can be assumed from Savitsky’s previous words that the men cannot read themselves, and this inadequacy on their part shifts the balance of power. Lyutov reads “loudly, like a deaf man triumphant,” asserting his new sense of belonging, even his superiority. The night also welcomes him, tucking him up “in the life – giving moisture of its crepuscular sheets” and placing “its motherly palms on my burning forehead.” Significantly, Lyutov’s acceptance comes with twilight, and the blackness of the sky seemingly reflects the dark turn of his soul. Lyutov, however, ignores the symbolism inherent in his own narrative.

Lyutov also deliberately rejects the obvious differences between himself and the Cossacks. While his pleasure at his acceptance is reflected in his ability to enjoy Lenin’s speech, he again takes pleasure in its intellectual puzzle; “I read and rejoiced and watched out, as I rejoiced, for anything crooked in the Lenin straightness.” The Cossacks, by contrast, admire the directness of Lenin’s words. ‘“The truth tickles every nostril,’ said Surovkov, when I had finished, ’and how is a man to pull it from the pile, yet Lenin hits it at once, like a hen pecking a grain of corn. . .’” The importance of Surovkov’s statement — the indication that it reflects the Cossacks’ unquestioning view of the world — is underscored by Lyutov’s narration: “Surovkov, platoon commander [italics mine] of the staff squadron, said this [italics mine] about Lenin.”

At the end of the story, Lyutov joins five other men sleeping in the hayloft. There, though “our legs tangled together,” Lyutov is still not one of them. For he “had dreams and saw women in my dreams.” What happens in these dreams is not made clear, but it would seem that continued violence takes place, for Lyutov narrates’ ’only [italics mine] my heart, stained crimson with murder, squeaked and overflowed” — the implication being that his brain, the organ of intelligence, rejects any notions of compassion; no matter how he tries, he will remain at heart a sensitive, thoughtful person. The end of the story, however, forecasts the ongoing anxiety that will meet Lyutov’s attempts to insert himself into the Cossack regime.

Source: Rena Korb, for Short Stories for Students, Gale, 2000.

What Do I Read Next?

• Russian Fairy Tales, collected by Aleksandr Afanas’ev and translated by Norbert Guterman (1945), is a collection recommended by respected Jewish author Isaac Bashevis Singer that includes 200 traditional folk and fairy tales and is full of important Russian literary motifs that were influential on Babel’s work.
• Enormous Changes at the Last Minute (1979) by Grace Paley, an American writer, is a short story collection marked with irony and wit that sketches tales in the lives of several characters, most particularly Faith, a young woman getting divorced. The stories draw upon a Yiddish tradition of humor and tragedy. This collection was adapted into a popular film of the same title, which stars Ellen Barkin.
• The Collected Stories (1983) by Isaac Bashevis Singer, a Yiddish writer, contains magical elements and a deeply moral sensibility and explores the Jewish immigrant experience in America.
• Arrested Voices: Resurrecting the Disappeared Writers of the Soviet Regime (1996) by Vitalii Shentalinskii is a non – fiction book that looks at the KGB (Russian police) files on Russian writers repressed during Stalin’s reign. Until glasnost, the fates of Soviet Russia’s most prominent writers were not known. Shentalinskii inspects detailed KGB reports describing how these writers — including Babel and his friend Maxim Gorky — were arrested, tortured, falsely accused of crimes, imprisoned, and even executed.
• The Oxford Book of Jewish Stories (1998), a collection of stories by 52 Jewish writers and edited by Ilan Stavans, begins with a tale by the Hasidic Rabbi Nakhman (1772 – 1811) of Bratzlav, Poland. This collection includes the writing of such celebrated authors as Franz Kafka, Isaac Babel, Saul Bellow, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Grace Paley, Cynthia Ozick, and Philip Roth. The stories were written originally in about a dozen languages, and the authors are from around the world. The variety of themes include anti – Semitism and the Holocaust, but also domestic affairs, biblical subjects, and interreligious and ethnic relations.