The Murals of Diego Rivera by Desmond Rochfort (1987)

Diego Rivera:

  • painted murals from 1921 to 1957
  • painted literally hundreds of mural panels
  • covered more wall space with murals than anyone else in history

Whether you like the murals comes down to a couple of questions:

  1. do you like the rejection of almost all 20th century artistic sophistication in favour of a deliberately figurative, almost cartoon-like style?
  2. do you respond to the composition and layout and design of specific murals?
  3. do you like the political or ideological message of the murals?

The message

As to point 3 – the message – I take it that Rivera’s repeated themes that the Aztecs had a fine civilization until the killer Cortes massacred them all, that Mexican peasants are noble and pure but are tyrannised and brutalised by their Hispanic masters, and that unemployed striking workers are being beaten up by the police while the spoilt rich bourgeoisie swigs cocktails in evening dress – so that the workers must take up arms and stage a revolution to overthrow the regime – I take it none of these ideas come as news to anyone any more, or that anyone gets very excited about murals with titles like ‘This is how the proletarian revolution will be’.

The Arsenal by Diego Rivera (1928)

The Arsenal by Diego Rivera (1928)

Given the thousands of paintings, murals and statues of Marx, Engels, Lenin and Stalin which festooned every space across the Soviet Union and eastern Europe for 70 years until its collapse in 1990… I take it no-one is excited by the image of Marx et al in a mural any more.

The opposite: all of Diego’s murals evoke a deep nostalgia for the long-lost period of the 1920s and 1930s when artists and poets and playwrights were all solidly left-wing, joined the Communist Party, made plays and poems and paintings and posters extolling the noble proletariat, confident that history was about to topple in their direction. How wonderfully certain they must have been.

Thinking about it, Rivera is very like Otto Dix, George Grosz and the other Weimar artists who used cartoons and caricature to express their seething anger at social injustice in the style which became known as The New Sobriety.

The only difference from them is in Rivera’s additional twin themes of colonisation and race. George Grosz didn’t have to go back to the era of the Reformation (1517) to explain 1920s Germany, but Rivera did have to go back to the Spanish conquistadors (1519) to explain 1920s Mexico.

The history of Mexico

Grosz didn’t feel compelled to draw a history of Germany; there were already countless histories of Germany; he was only interested in the corrupt and unfair present.

But Rivera did feel compelled to draw a history of Mexico, in fact he drew it again and again, because the meaning of Mexican history was still very fiercely contested in his age. After you get beyond the same kind of nostalgia for a simpler, more polarised and more politically charged artistic world that you get when you read Brecht or listen to Kurt Weill – after the purely proletarian concerns fade away – it is the multiracial and ethnographic aspects of Rivera’s imagery which sticks out.

The Ancient World by Diego Rivera (1935)

The Aztec World on the west wall of the National Palace of Mexico by Diego Rivera (1929)

After the initial burst of invention in the 1920s, what this book rather brings home is the repetitiveness of the imagery. Or, if a scholar argued that the actual images and compositions are amazingly diverse – maybe what I mean is the repetitiveness of the problem.

And the problem is – the meaning of Mexico. Where did it come from? Who are the Mexicans? What does it mean to be the joint heir of both the cruel Aztecs and the bloody conquistadors? When both sides very obviously had their shortcomings, which ones do you choose as your ancestors? Where is Justice? What – as Lenin said – is to be done?

The Ministry of Education murals 1922-28

Rivera’s first project was the biggest of his career, painting the walls of the galleries surrounding the two big courtyards of the Ministry of Education, which he renamed the Court of Labour and the Court of Fiesta. It took from 1923 to 1928 and by the end he’d created 235 panels or 1,585 square metres of murals.

At the same time he began a commission to paint a converted chapel at the new Universidad Autonoma de Chapingo. The earliest Education Ministry ones, like the entire Chapingo set, ones have a really primitive didactic feel. There are relatively few figures, carrying out archetypal actions set against a brown background. The influence of the early Renaissance is really visible: the bent figures of the mourning women entirely wrapped in their cloaks reminds me of Giotto.

'The Blood of the Martyrs' from the Chapel at Chapingo by Diego Rivera (1926)

‘The Blood of the Martyrs’ from the Chapel at Chapingo by Diego Rivera (1926)

In both sets of murals you immediately see that his central achievement was to heave the entire concept of mural painting from its religious origins – and even from the heavily ‘symbolic’ imagery used by some secular, monumental muralists at the end of the 19th century –  and to consciously, deliberately and powerfully, turn it into the depiction of an entire nation, of Mexico – through portrayals of its geographic regions, of its favourite fiestas and festivals, of its industry and agriculture, using compositions packed with people, characters, caricatures, satire and sentiment.

To me many of them have a medieval interest in crowds. They remind me of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in their enjoyment of the variety and quirkiness of life – not forgetting that Chaucer’s variety also included bitter social satire, sentimental religiosity, and unquestioning praise of the medieval knightly code.

In just the same way Rivera features:

  • crowd scenes, whose pleasure derives from the sheer profusion of humanity, as in the village scenes of Brueghel
  • crudely bitter but still amusing social satire
  • revolutionary sentimentality – for example where a poor whipped peon is wrapped in a shroud or a fallen comrade is buried and the viewer is meant to choke back a sob of emotion
  • and throughout many of the murals runs unfettered praise for men draped in bandoliers and holding guns – revolutionaries, freedom fighters, guarantors of the Revolution etc.

The joy of crowds

The Day of The Dead - The Minitry of Education (Court of the Fiestas) by Diego Rivera (1924)

‘The Day of The Dead’ from The Ministry of Education (Court of the Fiestas) by Diego Rivera (1924)

The mass, the throng, the diversity of life – like Breughel.

Political satire

The Wall Street Banquet form the Ministry of Education (Court of the Fiestas) by Diego Rivera (1926)

‘The Wall Street Banquet’ from the Ministry of Education (Court of the Fiestas) by Diego Rivera (1926)

The rich are sat at table not to eat, but to read off a tickertape telling them the value of their stocks and shares. The bluntness of the idea and the grotesqueness of the faces remind me of George Grosz and other Weimar satirists who had been doing the same thing for eight years or more, just not on walls.

The noble poor

We are meant to compare and contrast the filthy rich with the noble poor, the liberated peasants, who live with simplicity and dignity. Eating what they grow themselves. For, as Zapata repeatedly said: the land belongs to he who tills it… and the fruits thereof.

Children. The elderly. All under the governance of the wise man, who is himself beholden to the female principle of the fruit of the soil, as worked by peasants (to the left) under the watchful gaze of a Party commissar (to the right).

'Our Bread from the Ministry of Education (Court of the Fiestas) by Diego Rivera (1928)

‘Our Bread’ from the Ministry of Education (Court of the Fiestas) by Diego Rivera (1928)

War is wrong

War is always wrong unless, of course, it’s your war, fighting for your cause.

Fighting in the imperialist war was, according to the Bolsheviks, foolishness. Not because there should be peace. But because workers of all lands should unite together to exterminate the bourgeoisie and other class enemies right across Europe, right around the world. A creed which certainly did lead to guerrilla and civil wars across Europe, Asia, Africa and the Americas, for much of the 20th century.

'In the Trenches' at the Ministry of Education by Diego Rivera (1924-28)

‘In the Trenches’ at the Ministry of Education by Diego Rivera (1924-28)

Off to America

It is ironic that, as soon as Rivera had become famous as a bitingly anti-capitalist, communist artist, he was taken up by … super-capitalist, mega-rich Americans.

The Yankees invited him to do murals at the San Francisco Stock Exchange (1930-31) and Art Institute (1931), at the Ford motor works in Detroit (1932), and then at the Rockefeller Centre in New York (1933). At the same time as Diego was the subject of the Museum of Modern Art’s second ever one-artist retrospective.

God, how simply fabulous the super-rich New Yorkers and their wives in their diamonds and furs look as they arrived for the opening night party! How simply adorable the fire-breathing Communist Mexican turned out to be! And so witty! And did you talk to his simply delightful wife!

Just to make this point quite clear, the mural Rivera painted in San Francisco adorns the stairs leading up from the Stock Exchange itself to the Stock Exchange’s private luncheon club. The word ‘elitist’ is thrown around a lot by left-wing critics, but could a location be more restricted and elite?

But it was the murals he made in Detroit which Rivera himself considered the best he ever made. He was intensely professional about preparing the space, researching the engineering and technology of car manufacture, and then creating compositions which are awesome in scale, packed with detail, but so cunningly composed as to create a beautiful sense of rhythm and flow.

Crucially for the patron Edsel Ford, and the Art Institute which hosts them, and for admiring visitors generally, there is next to no political content in them whatsoever. They simply show men at work in modern factories, hymns to the marvel of modern technology.

North Wall at the Detroit Institute for Arts by Diego Rivera (1933)

North Wall at the Detroit Institute for Arts by Diego Rivera (1933)

The Detroit murals were followed by a falling-out with the owners of the Rockefeller Building who had commissioned a big mural in the lobby of their swanky new Manhattan skyscraper but cancelled it when Rivera insisted on painting in the face of Lenin.

With no other commissions in view, Diego reluctantly returned to Mexico in 1934 where he fell out with the government and devoted the rest of the decade to easel painting and political activism.

He only returned to mural painting in 1940 with the immense panorama of ‘Pan-American unity’ painted in America again, for the Golden Gate International Exposition in San Francisco.

I think what this book shows is that far from showing ‘Mexico’ any clear political way ahead (there wasn’t, after all, anything like a Communist revolution in Mexico. In fact precisely the opposite, the bourgeois class consolidated its permanent grip on power by inventing a ‘big tent’ political party during the 1930s – the Institutional Revolutionary Party – designed to incorporate all political factions and classes and thus make elections and political parties unnecessary, and the PRI went on to rule Mexico without interruption until the year 2000) Rivera’s work really brings out and dramatises

  1. its history to date (along with the more garish aspects of the contemporary situation – rich versus poor – town versus country – peasant versus landowner – Marx versus Henry Ford)
  2. puts ordinary Mexicans, the peasants and farmers and soldiers and workers and priests and landowners and urban passersby – all of them – up on the wall to be seen and recognised as Mexican

I think this explains why modern, post-political, post-communist scholarly commentary prefers to dwell on what it calls issues of ‘identity’ rather than the more blatantly communist elements in Diego’s work. It’s safer.

Mexico as a maze

Looking at Rivera’s densely packed and colourful later works, from the 1940s and 1950s, makes you realise that Rivera certainly created a strong visual identity for his country and countrymen in the 1920s and 1930s – but then remained trapped in the maze of that Mexican history and, above all, snagged on the horns of that Mexican dilemma: are we European or Indian? Aztec primitivists or scientific rationalists? Workers or bosses? Mestizos or criollos?

To some extent you could argue that the very packed-out nature of his great interlocking mural of Mexican history which decorates the stairwells of the National Palace in Mexico City – the way Aztecs and conquistadors, knights and peasants, the contemporary Mexican government and the heroes of the 1910 revolution, are all combined in the same image – captures the overwhelming, confusing and directionless nature of Mexican history.

As this book admits, Rivera’s history pictures present ‘a history shorn of many of the qualifications and complexities associated with the historical transformation of Mexico’ (p.59). In other words, a historical fantasy.

History of Mexico mural in the main stairwell of the National Palace by Diego Rivera (1929-35)

History of Mexico mural in the main stairwell of the National Palace, by Diego Rivera (1929-35)

There’s a great deal of ‘Where’s Wally’-type pleasure to be had from identifying different groups of characters in these vast paintings – and figuring out who they are and how they fit into the national story.

Rivera and his contemporaries, supported by some critics, often explained his socially conscious murals as the modern equivalent of Christian iconography. Just as the frescos of the Renaissance depicted key moments in the story of Christ and illuminated key ideas in Christian theology for an illiterate audience so, they argued, Rivera’s murals were designed as visual guides to the illiterate Mexican peasant and prole, explaining key moments of Mexican history, showing Karl Marx with his arm stretched out pointing towards a better future.

But to the casual observer, his vast panoramas of Mexican history (like the one shown above) just look like a mess. A confusing and perplexing gallimaufrey of historical events and figures all thrown together into an almost indecipherable crowd.

They become, if you like, charming illustrations for an already-educated bourgeoisie. you have to be already very well educated to understand what is going on in his murals.

Hence his wild success with – not just Americans – but the very richest of the richest Americans. He wasn’t feted by John Steinbeck and Dorothea Lange – the socially conscious artists – in New York. He was adulated by the Rockefellers and the Guggenheims and the Astors.

Maybe it’s a simplistic thought, but it seems to me that the more sophisticated and complex Riviera’s murals became, the more they became popcorn, bubblegum cartoons, full of fascinating detail, but lacking the anger and energy of his earliest works.

Pan American Unity by Diego Rivera (1940)

Pan American Unity by Diego Rivera (1940)

Pure against impure

To dig a little deeper, comparing the background and enactment of the Mexico City murals against the American ones, and reading up about Rivera’s wild enthusiasm for America, the conclusion I draw is that – he liked America because it was so psychologically untroubled.

I know there had been forty years of rocky industrial relations since the 1890s, and a march of unemployed workers ended in shooting only weeks before Rivera arrived in Detroit to paint his mural there. But the Americans Rivera met were all full of national self-confidence, self-belief, untroubled by doubts. This was the exact opposite of the deeply troubled intellectual class in Mexico.

And, in my opinion, the reason for this is that the white Americans he met had essentially exterminated the native peoples in order to own the land and country. Nothing held them back. They were creating the American Dream free and untrammelled by negative thoughts or anxieties. As far as they were concerned it was a big empty space, ripe for the taking.

Whereas Mexico had been, and was still, held back by massive guilt for its colonial oppression, for the extermination of an obviously highly cultured civilisation. And Mexican intellectuals could never forget this fact because the majority of the Mexican population was mestizo or mixed race, in your face wherever you went, and almost all condemned to grotesque rural poverty.

The central problem of Mexican society – the land question – was an ongoing problem inherited from the Spanish, the systematic semi-slavery of the vast majority of the population of illiterate forced labourers, mostly descended from the original tribal peoples.

America didn’t have that problem, having very effectively exterminated its native peoples and not intermarried with them. Instead, Rivera met nothing but rich, confident, exuberant representatives of a boundlessly confident Master Race, carried along by the knowledge that they led the world in science and technology.

In other words, Rivera was a pioneering example of the Post-Colonial Predicament which trapped and challenged thousands of writers and artists, and tens of millions of subject peoples around the world, for much of the 20th century.

I think it’s this which makes Rivera truly revolutionary: not the slogans and pictures of Marx, but the fact that he struggled all his life to make sense of the mixed heritage of coloniser and colonised, struggling to reconcile two completely different histories, traditions, languages and ethnic identities. And if he didn’t really, in the end, succeed, it was an honourable failure and nonetheless produced a lifetime of wonderful, inspiring and fascinating public art.

The book

This is a large-format art book, containing just 104 pages, of which:

  • seven present a thorough chronology of Mexican history from Independence (1811) to the end of the reforming Cárdenas presidency in 1940, with many evocative b&w photos
  • one page carries a poem by Pablo Neruda
  • two pages of Bibliography
  • four of notes

Which leaves 81 pages of text, illustrated with about 30 contemporary black-and-white photos and 120 plates of the murals, of which 37 are in colour.

I found the text heavy going. It was written in 1987, which is a long time ago and people back then, especially academics in the humanities, still put a lot of faith in international communism. The text completely lacks the dry style, lively humour and interesting psycho-sexual speculation which makes Patrick Marnham’s biography of Rivera so enjoyable and thought-provoking.

A lot of the photos aren’t that great, and the black and white plates are quite small.

The book gives generous quotes from contemporaries, especially the other muralists of the day such as David Alfaro Siqueiros, and a highlight is the vitriolic attack which Siqueiros launched on Rivera in the mid-1930s, accusing Diego of selling out and becoming a bourgeois painter.

There is a lot of small detail, about minor murals missed by Marnham’s biography, and a number of sidebars pleasantly go off on a tangent from the main narrative with what are in effect little articles explaining all aspects of Mexican culture, which are diverting and often very interesting.


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Tales From the Don by Mikhail Sholokhov (1926)

Rereading Tales From the Don (1925) by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by HC Stevens (1961), in a lovely Abacus edition from 1983 and now being read in 2012.

Four distinct layers and contexts overlaying each other.

Two months of reading Soviet literature has inured me to the extraordinary level of violence and cruelty you encounter. This time round I am more struck by Sholokhov’s political tendentiousness. The Reds are generally heroes, including some super-heroic communist youths. Sholokhov went on to become the leading representative of Russia’s ‘Socialist Realism’ and a very high ranking official in the USSR Communist Party. He was, accordingly, reviled by dissidents and liberals. Maybe rightly so. But among the brutality and the propaganda I am enjoying the wonderful Nature poetry of his writing, lyrically translated by Stevens. In terms of style and sensuous detail this is the most rewarding of all the Soviet books I’ve read.

Although the tough, tragic young communist heroes remind me of the sentimental macho heroism of Hemingway, and, apparently, later Sholokhov goes ripely sentimental as Hemingway did.

The stories are all cast in very short numbered scenes, reminiscent of Dr Zhivago.

1. The Birthmark Nikolka, 18, leader of the Red squadron, tipped off by the brutalised mill owner, charges a party of bandits, is shot dead by his own father who recognises him from his birthmark.

2. The Herdsman Young Gregory Frolov is elected herdsman of the village despite his communist sympathies and the reluctance of the village elders. He spends the summer out on the steppe with his sister. The calves die of steppe murrain. The elders blame his atheism. He is encouraged to dream of a better life by a commissar. He writes a letter on tobacco leaves to the commissar in the town. Weeks later the head of the village rides up accuses him, and shoots him dead.

3. Shibalok’s family Shibalok in a gang of Reds. They encounter a raped woman, Daria, by the roadside. Shibalok takes her in and looks after her despite the comrades’ opposition. She learns to drive the cart. They quarter in a town. The rebels hold the other end. The reds have no ammunition but keep it secret. But are attacked in the night and flee. Shibalok comes across Daria in a clearing having the baby like an animal. She admits she was always a rebel, a spy, and tipped them off. Shibalok lets her have the baby then kicks her about and shoots her. The whole story is being told by Shibalok in a monologue as he hands the baby over to the head of an orphanage.

4. The Food Commissar Young Bodyagin, the food commissar, returns to the village of his upbringing. There his father is holding out. He’s rounded up and Bodyagin is powerless, indifferent, as he’s shot and hacked down. Later Whites return and Bodyagin and a comrade flee on horse. They come across an orphan in the snow, Bodyagin insists on picking him up, saving him. As the pursuers close in, Bodyagin sends the orphan on his way and he and the comrade make a last stand. Cut to days later when the crows are pecking at their corpses.

5. The Chairman of the Republic Revolutionary Military Soviet Told as a monologue by another communist hero, this one was appointed chairman of a republic the size of the village. He is going a journey with the commissar when they are pursued by 6 or 7 Whites who hack down the cowardly commissar, then try to persuade the Chairman to give up, but he scatters his tobacco to the wind and they hack him and then shoot him twice. But then other Reds ride up to the rescue. When he comes round he’s lost his left leg and other wounds. A food requisition ride into town. Our man tells his story:

He had nothing to answer to that; and, squeezing my hand very hard, he rode off the way he had come.

6. The Watchman in the Vegetable Plots Mitka is 14. His violent father who won medals in the war is appointed to the district court martial. He criticises his son, Fiodor, who hobnobs with the peasants and throw a jug which hits him in the head. Fiodor persuades Mitka to get the keys to the stable from the sleeping father. Fiodor saddles the best horse and escapes to the Reds in the forest. His father knocks Mitka to the floor and savagely systematically kicks him unconscious. Days later Red prisoners are brought and paraded into the village. Mitka’s father hits defenceless prisoners with his saber. Mitka persuades his mother to take cakes to the red prisoners kept in the cattle shed, crawling through the wire to give them to the guards. One day Mitka comes home to find his mother beaten to death by his father; he flees to the steppe to become a watchman of the vegetable plots. Each night he hears the Cossacks executing prisoners up at the ravine. One day Cossacks ride up to ask if he’s seen escapees. When they’re gone he finds a man crawling behind the hut. It’s his brother Fiodor. He tends him then, when a rider comes, hides him under a pile of scrub in the shanty. It is Mitka’s father. He is just about to discover Fiodor hiding when Mitka takes the axe and staves his head in. They flee. They swim across the Don to freedom.

7. The Family Man First person narrator takes a ferry with an old old ferryman. The ferry drifts and crashes into a tree midstream. He has 9 children. The eldest two boys run off to join the Reds. And they conscript the ferryman. One day they bring in Red soldiers and among them is his son. They bring him up to him and expect him to stab him. He apologises to his son, and beats him with the blunt end of a bayonet, but then runs away while the Cossacks cut him up. He is promoted to sergeant. The following Spring they reach the town of Balashov, and there the Cossacks learn his son Ivan has come over to their side, they track him and bring him before his father and charge him with taking him to the local court martial, expecting him to let him get away. Instead the ferryman lets him get down and run, but then shoots him. Then cradles him in his arms till he dies. And why? Because he has the other 7 to look after. He is, after all, a family man.

8. The Shame-Child Long story about 8 year old whose grandfather beats him till his father comes home from the war with gingerbread and stories. A commissar visits with many papers including a photo of Lenin. Mishka asks for it and cherishes it as a relic. The other village children beat him for having a communist as a father. After a space the father volunteers to go and join a red squadron outside the village fighting some Whites. Days later the Whites tell the villagers to collect the corpses and the grandfather brings home the boy’s dad butchered and slashed with sabres. Then the granddad settles Mishka on a horse and tells him to go and fetch the reds to do vengeance. In the dark the reds fire on the approaching horse which falls on its side crushing the boy’s leg. He passes out imagining Lenin holding his arms out to him.

9. The Diehard The old peasant Pakhomich is run off the road in his heavily laden sledge by the troika of the landowner Colonel Boris Alexandrovich Chornoyarov. His son, Mikhail returns from the town with clean hands and in the uniform of a Cadet. Pak, his sons Ignat and Grisha decide to leave for the Reds. The Colonel holds a village meeting, holding up Misha as a model for betraying his father and brother. A quick scene as the red are surrounded fighting, a metal train pulls out, they try to flee across the river. Ignat’s little boy takes grandmother to see the horse corpse washed up on the riverbank; it is of course her son and she falls to her knees. In a separate scene Mishka is asked by the captain what to do with his father and brother. They are marched off to a ravine and shot, as a she wolf gives birth and howls in the nearby woods.

10. The Way and the Road
Part one –
Piotr (17) and his father (51) are felters, backbreaking work. A White requisitioning officer comes demanding their year’s worth of felt boots, they refuse, Piotr is knocked unconscious, his father lashed and beaten and dragged off to prison. Piotr comes round and visits him. Pathos. At home staring out the window hears his father is being beaten. Runs to the square but it’s too late. Dialogue between the horrible priest’s wife and the fat village chairman. Who helped put the boot in and kick Piotr’s father to death.

Piotr puts his trust in Sidor but he is hauled off to be shot by the Whites. Then he’s approached by Alexander Fourth and his son who plan to blow up the White ammunition store, and Piotr successfully does it but the guards see him and shoot him as he runs away. They hide out in a holde in the dung brick pile, then sneak away through the snow to the house of the forester. But the villagers are waiting for them and capture them and are marching them to the village when they escape and make a break. The Cossacks shoot Alexander IV dead but Piotr and ? hide in the rabbit warren of mines in the hill for 2 days. When they emerge they see the Red column marching into village and run up and hug them and treat them like heroes.

11. The Foal Trofim is a Red fighter. His mare has a foal. He’s ordered to shoot it but can’t bring himself to. It follows his mother into battle and spooks the other horses. Eventually the squadron is fleeing across the Don and comes under machine gun fire. Most of the squadron get to safety but Trofim hears the foal whinnying, caught in a whirlpool, and swims to its rescue and carries it to shore, exhausted where he is shot dead by a White bullet from the opposite bank.

12. The Azure Steppe Old Zakhar tells the narrator the story, remembers working for the mad old Tomalin landowner who used to goad the horses, then cut their traces to torment them. He has a stroke. Zakhar looks after him till his death. Years later the Tomalin son returns from the war a very fine officer. He tracks down Zakhars grandsons who had gone & volunteered for the Reds. They are brought into the village where Zakhar begs for their lives. The cruelty of the rich man’s son who toys with him then kicks him in the mouth; when Semyon’s wife goes to beg, he ties the husband and wife together. Both boys are shot on the ground and then tossed into the road in front of the passing carts, some of which run over their legs. But miraculously Anikei survives, but with his legs amputated. He measures his height against the dead Semyon’s growing son.

13. Alien Blood Gavrila’s son goes off to fight in the War but never returns. His father and mother mourn and make him clothes for his return. One day a village neighbour who was in the same squadron returns and reluctantly tells them he saw their son hacked down by Cossack sabres. Unexpectedly Gavrila is cornered by Red grain requisition squad and is in the middle of being harassed by them when a group of Whites storm the village and shoot all four, then themselves are chased off by pursuing Reds. Gavrila goes to see the corpses in the communal threshing barn where he discovers one is still alive.? Carries him to his peasant home where he and his old wife nurse him back to health and uneasily come to love him. Red officers pass through commending the old man on his care. The survivor is called Nikolai but they rename him Piotr after their missing son. They tend him back to health and he works the farm with them. But then a letter comes from his comrades at the foundry which has been idle since 1917. He feels duty bound to return to them. Gavrila sees him off blinded by tears.

14. A Mortal Enemy The enmity between Yefim, a poor peasant and Ignat, a richer peasant or kulak, in the village of Podgornoe. Yefim reports Igant for hoarding grain to escape tax. Ignat kicks out Yefim’s niece from working for him. Yefim reports him. Ignat throws dead wolf cubs into Yefim’s farm so the mother wolf comes and kills his livestock. Yefim visits Igant who is admiring his pedigree dog, and Yefim brains him with an axe. One night a face appears in the window at night and tries to shoot Yefim. Days later he is walking back from the district centre when he is overtaken by three men, can’t escape on the ice, stumbles over a metal jack skidded at his feet, and then is beaten and pitchforked to death.

15. The Farm Labourers In the little village of Danilovka are two streets one of the kulaks one of shanties, rebuilt after a fire. Old man Naum Boitsov is invited to geld Father Alexander’s stallion. The horse kicks him in the chest and kills him, his 16 year old son Fedor is an orphan. He goes to work for the miserly peasant, Zakhar Denisovich who works him like a dog and only pays a rouble a month. Some wandering workers arrive with a mechanical threshing machine, living a free and easy life and getting drunk on vodka. They are scandalised at how badly Zakhar treats Feodor, there is a big argument over dinner. Eventually Zakhar and Feodor fight and the boy leaves. He goes to the District centre where he meets young communists. He feels, as he says, as if he’s come home to meet his kith and kin.

He returns to the village and gets a proper job with a contract with an old peasant but who treats him with respect. Slowly Feodor gets to know the other young contract workers and propagandises them, eventually getting them to go on strike on the eve of the summer mow. He persuades the doubting young men. And a scene where the richer peasants reluctantly agree that it’s just.

Hearty communist propaganda!


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