Transcending the Borders of Countries, Languages, and Disciplines in Russian Émigré Culture 1527505359, 9781527505353

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Transcending the Borders of Countries, Languages, and Disciplines in Russian Émigré Culture

Transcending the Borders of Countries, Languages, and Disciplines in Russian Émigré Culture Edited by

Christoph Flamm, Roland Marti and Ada Raev

Transcending the Borders of Countries, Languages, and Disciplines in Russian Émigré Culture Edited by Christoph Flamm, Roland Marti and Ada Raev This book first published 2018 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2018 by Christoph Flamm, Roland Marti, Ada Raev and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-5275-0535-9 ISBN (13): 978-1-5275-0535-3

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface ....................................................................................................... vii Section 1: Russian Émigré Culture in General; Literature “And on its circuits the wind returns”: Intertextuality in Russian Émigré Poetry on Homecoming .................................................................. 3 Dagmar Gramshammer-Hohl “Living Literature”: Revolution, Civil War, Modernity and Life in Exile ...................................................................................................... 19 Ben Dhooge Pushkin in the House of Mirrors: The 1937 Centennial Celebrations in Belgium and the Squared One-or-Two-Cultures Paradigm................... 47 Wim Coudenys Shanghai Russians: Negotiating Cultural Heritage in a Far East Metropolis ................................................................................................. 59 Simo Mikkonen Facing Russia: Russian Cabaret Culture in the Post-War Period .............. 81 Olga Velitchkina Section 2: Arts Alexis Gritchenko’s Two Years in Constantinople, or Tsvetodynamos in Istanbul ................................................................................................ 103 Vita Susak Tale of an Émigré Artist in Istanbul: The Impact of Alexis Gritchenko on the 1914 Generation of Turkish Artists .............................................. 119 Ayúenur Güler The Great Little Lady of the Bombay Art World .................................... 143 Lina Bernstein

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Between “Academicians” and “Dissidents”: Russian Emigré Artists in Italy during the Cold War .................................................................... 159 Matteo Bertelé Toward a Transnational History of Russian Culture: The N.P. Kondakov Institute in Prague ................................................... 173 Marina Dmitrieva The Genesis of the Thomas Whitney Russian Art Collection ................. 199 Bettina Jungen Ilya Kabakov: A Representative Émigré Artist and the International (Émigré) Art Discourse ........................................................................... 215 Olga Keller Section 3: Music Leonid Sabaneev’s Apocalypse and Musical Metaphysics after 1917..... 231 Rebecca Mitchell Russian Sacred Music beyond the Frontiers of the USSR between the 1920s and the 1940s: Affirming Traditions, Seeking New Forms ..... 247 Svetlana Zvereva On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse: Hommage à Marina Tsvetayeva by Sofia Gubaidulina (1984) ................................. 273 Marina Lupishko Which Place is Called a Musical Home? Hyphenated Identities of Russian Émigré Composers ................................................................ 321 Elena Dubinets Abstracts – English/Russian .................................................................... 341 Contributors ............................................................................................. 359 Index ........................................................................................................ 365 Photo Credits ........................................................................................... 377

PREFACE

Since the publication of Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution? (Flamm et al. 2013) – the direct predecessor of this volume – some years ago, scholarly interest in topics regarding the culture of Russia Abroad and its exponents has not diminished: An ever increasing number of emigrated writers, artists, composers and other ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɵɟ ɞɟɹɬɟɥɢ [people active in the area of culture] of Russian origin are being investigated, émigré networks reconstructed, and archives explored. Furthermore places hitherto considered to be peripheral are re-evaluated and turn out to be focal points of the Russian diaspora, albeit on a minor scale than “Russian Berlin”, “Russian Paris” or even “Russian New York”. Thus the picture of the Russian emigration and its cultural impact becomes much more multifaceted and colourful. This second volume, again based on an international interdisciplinary conference held at Saarland University in Saarbrücken, testifies to the increased broadness of scholarly perspectives on Russian émigré culture. It displays new facets of this phenomenon of a vibrant culture far from its homeland and proposes new interpretations. Above all, it brings together Russian and non-Russian research on a subject that almost automatically tends to transport ideological subtexts, since many of the protagonists of Russian émigré culture had either been victims of ideological pressure or proclaimed ideologies of a specific Russian national and cultural identity or even of a spiritual mission. Understandably, present-day Russia looks at this topic, anathematised in Soviet times, differently, wishing to compensate for cultural losses, to unearth erased biographies, forbidden philosophies, and works of art hidden from the public, and to re-evaluate the relationship between Russia Abroad and Russia at Home in the sphere of culture. Music had formed the predominant part of the preceding anthology since the first conference had been conceived as part of the festival “Russian Music in Exile”, organised in 2011 to commemorate the 60th anniversary of the death of N. Medtner. The editors of the present volume deemed it appropriate to achieve more of an equilibrium by giving additional space to other areas of culture.

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*** The first section brings together papers devoted thematically to literature and geographically to “minor hotspots” of Russia Abroad. Chronologically it covers the time span from the earliest years of emigration up to the present. Of all the ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɵɟ ɞɟɹɬɟɥɢ that emigrated the writers and above all the poets among them were hit hardest by the loss of the homeland because their means of expression was language, in this case the Russian language. Whereas all the others might have to adapt to different tendencies, traditions etc., they could still use the tools they were familiar with. In the case of the writing profession sticking to the old tool, i.e. the Russian language, excluded them from the literary life of the country of adoption. Few of them chose to adapt linguistically partially or completely by writing in the old and the new language or by switching completely to the new language. The most famous example is undoubtedly Vladimir Nabokov who achieved fame first as a Russian, then as an English writer. The great majority, however, remained faithful to Russian as their language. It is not surprising therefore that they formed the core of émigré culture, that they championed the idea of Russia Abroad more than the others, that their circles were least open to fellow writers from the country of adoption,1 and that the wish to turn the clock back or at least to go back was strongest among them. One of the main themes on the mind of Russian émigrés in the first years after the revolution was the possibility of returning to Russia. Initial1

An advantage of this splendid isolation is their easy recognisability. It is not surprising, therefore, that scholarship dealing with Russian émigré culture concentrated mainly on literature. Publications devoted to “Russian Berlin” or “Russian Paris” always put special emphasis on literature, and the writers saw themselves more often than not as the avant-garde of the émigré community. It is not surprising, therefore, that the literature on Russian émigré literature is abundant. Until the advent of ɝɥɚɫɧɨɫɬɶ it (just like the literature it described) could only be published outside of the Soviet Union, and the authors were usually part of the émigré community (cf. Foster 1970, Karlinsky and Appel 1977, Kovalevsky 1971 and 1973, Shteyn 1978, Struve 1956, Poltoratsky 1972, to name just a few). Since then, however, Russian émigré literature and studies devoted to it have returned home (e.g. in the third, enlarged edition of Struve 1956, i.e. Struve 1996, published in Paris and Moscow, Bulgakov 1993, put together in the pre-war years, and newer publications such as Alekseev 1993, Glad 1999, Kasack 1996, Kodzis 2002, Mikhaylov 1993-2013, Nikolyukin 1994-1995 and 1997-2000) under the sobriquet ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ [the literature of Russia Abroad], and it has even achieved textbook status (cf. Agenosov 1998).

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ly the idea was widespread that emigration would only be temporary. Some artists were even able to move between Russia Abroad (at that time mainly Berlin) and Russia at Home (i.e. Soviet Russia and later the Soviet Union), and others returned in spite of the fact that the political situation had not changed. In many cases this decision proved to have disastrous, even fatal consequences either immediately or in the 1930s at the latest. Obviously the topic of returning home could best be addressed in literature. But literature is notoriously ambiguous, and Dagmar GramshammerHohl shows this in her analysis on Russian émigré poetry on homecoming. Often the overt message of literary texts is, as it were, subverted by pre- or intertexts and literary texts may in turn even subvert the reading of these pre- or intertexts. Thus the “grand homecoming narrative” prefigured in the return of the prodigal son and of Ulysses as well as another biblical motif, viz. the circularity of everything on earth, promise a “happy ending” on the surface. A closer reading, however, casts serious doubts on such a positive interpretation of both text and pre- or intertext. Another big question that had to be addressed by the Russian émigrés was their relationship to the countries receiving them and especially the contact to the cultural life of their new surroundings (and even to the cultural life as it evolved in the Soviet Union). In the centres of emigration (especially in Paris) and in the early years the dominating attitude was that of “splendid isolation”, neatly expressed in the concept of Russia Abroad. Ben Dhooge presents an alternative position taken by émigrés in one of the minor centres of the Russian emigration, viz. Prague.2 Here a group of poets under the name of ɋɤɢɬ ɩɨɷɬɨɜ saw the necessity of coming to terms with the new surroundings, with the new times, and even with Russia at Home in order to be prepared for a successful and triumphant return one day. In order to do so they proposed the concept of “living literature”. In the cultural history of the Russian emigration this position was rather marginal and it eventually faded away. For the Russian émigrés a way of cautiously opening up to the new cultural surroundings (while at the same time maintaining their cultural identity and asserting cultural equality or even superiority) was the presentation of their own culture. A prime example of this approach was the celebration of anniversaries of famous ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɵɟ ɞɟɹɬɟɥɢ, above all of poets, that were organised so as to be attractive to a non-Russian public as well. A special occasion was the Pushkin centennial in 1937. The multiple pitfalls inherent in such cultural events are demonstrated by Wim Coude2 On the Russian emigration in Prague cf. also the contribution of Marina Dmitrieva in the Fine Arts section.

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nys in his analysis of the celebrations in Belgium. The fact that the centennial was not only commemorated by the émigré community but also by representatives of the Soviet Union mirrored the one-or-two-cultures paradigm. But in Belgium the situation was further complicated by the fact that it is hardly possible to speak of a Belgian culture. The francophone and the Flemish community celebrated separately and differently, and the political and ideological overtones differed, too. In the end the Pushkin centennial in Belgium turned out to be more of a mirror of the cultural and political situation of the host country than a presentation of the great Russian poet to the Belgian (Flemish and francophone) public. Just as Belgium was not one of the centres of Russian emigration in Europe, so Shanghai could not claim to hold such a position in Asia. There the undisputed (and rather well-researched) centre was Harbin. The importance of Shanghai seemed to be minor by comparison. As Simo Mikkonen shows, however, this view may well be disputed, especially if the influence of the Russian émigrés in Shanghai on the local and even worldwide cultural life is taken into consideration. The importance of Shanghai is due to the fact that in contradistinction to Harbin, an essentially Russian town, Shanghai was a real metropolis where Russian culture was just one of many offerings to an affluent and interested public. Russian culture managed to hold its own in this cosmopolitan atmosphere and it achieved the highest degree of recognition in the realm of music and of ballet. Its influence reached as far as the American West Coast. Another aspect underlining the importance of Shanghai is the longevity of the Russian community there: it lasted until the Communist take-over in mainland China in 1949. But even after that Russian traditions lingered on in the now sinicised cultural life. The contribution of Olga Velitchkina goes one step further in time and in cultural symbiosis. She analyses a most particular facet of the cultural life of “Russian Paris”, viz. the cabaret culture. In its heydays, i.e. the interwar period, the cabarets catered to an affluent public that had stereotypical conceptions of what a “Russian cabaret” should be. The owners, managers, and those responsible for the programme did everything to meet the expectations of their patrons. An important part of the programme was always music, above all the so-called “Russian Gypsy music” that seemed to be the best expression of the unfathomable “Russian soul”. In the postwar years the tradition was continued, but eventually it became petrified and lost its attractiveness to the public. Fortunately, however, another tradition arose, one that was far more satisfying musically. A second generation of musicians that were much more open to the musical development in Russia at Home created a new kind of Russian cabaret. In their

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repertoire they amalgamated the old tradition (with the exception of the most worn-out evergreens such as Ʉɚɥɢɧɤɚ) with the music of Soviet Russian choirs touring Western Europe, with Russian folk music, with Soviet popular songs, and even with politically risqué material from the bard scene in the Soviet Union. In doing so they not only introduced the Soviet tradition to Russia Abroad, but they also preserved the émigré tradition and eventually transmitted it to Russia at Home.

*** The second section deals with the fate of Russian artists and researchers of art in less known places of Russian emigration and examines, thus going far beyond the reception of their art in the respective host countries, the changing ideas on Russian art in a global context. To be able to contextualise the papers regarding fine arts, it is helpful to take a look at previous art historical research on the Russian emigration. The “first wave” of Russian emigration – a result of the revolution of 1917 and the ensuing Civil War – became a topic in Soviet art history in the 1970s and 1980s in connection with the upcoming interest for the Silver Age. Initially emigration was touched upon only indirectly, through carefully commented publications of memoirs, diaries, letters and other documents. Important artists of the Silver Age like Alexandre Benois (Benois 1980), Mstislav Dobuzhinsky (Dobuzhinsky 1987), Konstantin Korovin (Zil’bershteyn, Samkov 1971), Konstantin Somov (Podkopaeva and Sveshnikov 1979), or the entrepreneur Sergei Diaghilev (Zil’bershteyn and Samkov 1982), returned after a long period of silence to the collective memory or, more precisely, to the consciousness of those social circles in the Soviet Union who shared cultural and intellectual interests. During the period of Perestroyka and even more so after the end of the Soviet Union the scholarly discourse on Russian emigration intensified both in Russia and in the West. The new opportunities for work in Russian archives which were up to this time hardly accessible and the possibility of free exchange between scholars from Russia and from abroad stimulated new research. Among the scholars from different disciplines who initiated discussions on art and influenced them continuously were well-known authors like John E. Bowlt (Bowlt 1981), Fritz Mierau (Mierau 1988), Marc Raeff (Raeff 1990), Karl Schlögel (Schlögel 1994) and many others. Dmitri Severyukhin, Oleg Leikind and Kirill Makhrov from St Petersburg

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deserve credit for having published encyclopedias on Russian émigré artists.3 Since the 1990s, research on Russian emigration in the area of art has been accompanied by a great number of exhibitions focusing on different issues.4 The art works and documents shown in these exhibitions came both from public and from private collections. That means that from the beginning art dealers and private collectors as well as public institutions were interested in art coming from those who dared to start a new life outside of the Soviet Union. Comprehensive exhibitions with “great names” turned the attention of the public also to those artists who neither represented the values and artistic orientations of the Silver Age nor those of the avant-garde, but managed the fate of being emigrants in an unorthodox way. It is interesting to see that exhibitions dedicated to artists like Ivan Miasoyedov and Nikolay Zagrekov were presented in Russia under the heading of “return”.5 This means that they were included in the universal Russian cultural heritage regardless of their political positions and place of birth in the former Russian empire. For several years now Russian collectors of art have been very active on the international art market trying to obtain pictures and other art works of their compatriots, among them a lot of emigrated artists. At the same time the topic of Russian artistic emigration has been a constant part of the programme of Russian publishing houses. The successor of the previously state-run publishing house “ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ” [Art], now a privately financed Moscow publishing house, “ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ – XXI ɜɟɤ” [Art – the 21st century] has featured the book series ɏɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ [Artists of the Russian emigration] for more than ten years now. This series includes lavishly designed monographs on Russian émigré artists (both famous ones and others who were not so wellknown in the West) who had moved to Berlin, Paris or New York. The texts are usually written by respected Russian and Western art historians. The series was started in 2005 with a survey of Andrey Tolstoy which followed the escape routes of the artists of the first wave of Russian emigration, including the stations Constantinople, Belgrade, Prague, Berlin and Paris, and presented a number of masterpieces. Furthermore, it listed a large number of different organisations founded by emigrants and described the wide spectrum of cultural and artistic activities. The author revised the old Soviet position which had tended to eliminate the emi3

Severyukhin and Leikind (1994); Leikind, Makhrov and Severyukhin (1999). See, for example: Ex.-cat. (1995), Ex.-cat. (2003), Ex.-cat. (2014). 5 See: Ex.-cat. (1998), Ex.-cat. (2004). 4

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grants from collective memory and had denied for ideological reasons that those artists might have had any value for their homeland. This new position put an emphasis on the idea that the artists who had left the Soviet Union and had gone through an individual artistic development in the diaspora were a genuine part of Russian art as a whole. In the preface to Tolstoy’s book, Dmitri Sarabyanov underlined the existence of very different forms of emigration: legal, illegal, accompanied by violence, voluntary, temporary or ultimate (Tolstoy 2005, 6). Subsequently, volumes of the series ɏɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ were dedicated to Nikolay Tarchov (Bialik 2006), Ivan Puni (Sarabyanov 2007), Nikolay Kalmakov (Bowlt and Balybina 2008), Chaim Soutine (German 2009), Marc Chagall (Rakitin 2010), Alexei Javlensky (Devyatyarova 2012), Zinaida Serebryakova (Rusakova 2014) and Natalia Goncharova (Lukanova 2017). These and other aspects are discussed later in the text in more detail. The fate of a book on Marie Vassilieff (Raev 2015) which initially was to be published in the same series, demonstrates a characteristic tendency of ɏɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ. After long delays the volume had been shortened and was consequently moved into another series, geared towards a broader audience of non-specialists. The reasons for this step are connected to the fact that this artist’s works did not reach prices on the art market as high as initially hoped for. Finally the book appeared under the title Ɇɚɪɢɹ ȼɚɫɢɥɶɟɜɚ. ɑɭɠɚɹ ɫɜɨɹ [Marie Vassilieff. The alien own]. The subtitle was chosen by the publishing house. It is symptomatic for the current Russian perspective that compatriots deciding to live abroad are seen as something like traitors. But at the same time, those who were successful in the West are welcomed back and presented as part of the one Russian culture. In the last years researchers have shed new light on the Russian emigration concerning the use of media. Susanne Marten-Finnes (2012) revealed the double-face of the famous magazine ɀɚɪɴ-ɉɬɢɰɚ [Firebird] which addressed German and French readers as well as the emigrants themselves. It was created by Aleksandr Kogan in Berlin and appeared from 1921 to 1925 in his publishing house “Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ” [Russian Art]. All 14 issues of the magazine were designed in a distinctively noble and retrospective manner. Furthermore ɀɚɪɴ-ɉɬɢɰɚ is also an example of the various contacts between parts of the emigrants and representatives of the new Soviet élite during the 1920s. In retrospect and concerning the artistic emigration there are three interconnected questions. The first one is related to the process of the selfpositioning of the emigrated artists and to the acceptance which they did or did not receive from the cultures of their host countries. In other words:

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their success depended on the degree of their integration into the new culture they were now living in. The second question concerns the standing they had or still have in the culture of their homeland. And the last question deals with the contribution of the Russian diaspora to world culture in the past and today. The essays in this publication, focusing on different locations, periods as well as personal and institutional representatives of Russian emigration, help to get more precise and subtle answers to these and other questions. The different texts lead the reader not primarily to the well-known centres of Russian emigration like Berlin or Paris, but rather to Istanbul, Bombay, Prague, Rome, and to the USA. While some of the essays are devoted to the first wave of Russian emigration, others deal with later stages up to the present. Vita Susak and Aiúenur Güler look at the short stay of the Ukrainian artist and participant of Moscow’s avant-garde movement in the 1910s, Alexis Gritchenko (1883-1977) in Istanbul/Constantinople. Both authors focus on different aspects of Gritchenko’s life and work there. They base their research on drawings, sketches and paintings created during his stay in Istanbul in 1919-1921 and draw on his picturesque memoirs. Susak examines how Gritchenko perceived the oriental town with its rich and diverse cultural heritage and the nimble live of its inhabitants. She shows how the artist managed to integrate the new impressions into his modern artistic language – the so called ɐɜɟɬɨɞɢɧɚɦɨɫ [Tsvetodynamos, i.e. Colour-Movement]. Güler attends to the contacts of Gritchenko to Turkish artists like øbrahim ÇallÕ (1882-1960) and NamÕk øsmail (1892-1935) and analyses the impact of Gritchenko on the development of modernism in Turkish art. Lina Bernstein writes about the Russian Jewish artist Magda Nachman (1889-1957), who came to Bombay in 1936 together with her husband, the Indian nationalist M.P.T. Acharya. Her text shows that artistic and financial success did not necessarily guarantee a full integration into Indian society. The art of Magda Nachman was – because of the ethnic otherness of the artist – regarded as unsuitable to represent a young and independent country searching for its national identity. The study of Matteo Bertelé focuses on two Russian artists who chose Italy as a place of emigration: the realist painter Gregorio Sciltian (19001985) and the abstract and action painter Mikhail Koulakov (1933-2015). Bertelé discusses the implications of political systems on their status within Italian society and art scene. Both artists took part in prestigious shows like the Venice Biennale and the Rome Quadriennale. But decisive for their success in Italy was the support of politically influential individuals

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like the pro-fascist critic Ugo Ojetti in the case of Sciltian or the non-dogmatic communist Enrico Crispolti in the case of Koulakov. Marina Dmitrieva examines in her essay the N.P. Kondakov-Institute (1925-1952) in Prague. This research centre, which was largely based on the personal enthusiasm of its members, focused on the study of Russian and Byzantine art and archaeology in exile with an emphasis on sacral art and nomadic cultures. It was supported by President Tomáš Garrigue Masarýk as well as by private sponsors and was in contact with many scholars, artists and intellectuals from Czechoslovakia and other countries. Dmitrieva characterises the research centre through its manifold activities as a place where the utopia of independent scholarly research met the utopia of Pan-Slavism. The essay of Bettina Jungen is devoted to the correlation between emigration and the collecting of art. Jungen describes the network that allowed the US diplomat, journalist and translator Thomas Porter Whitney (19172007) to assemble a remarkable collection of Russian modern and nonconformist art. According to Jungen, it was not by chance that many works purchased by Whitney were bought out of émigré households. Furthermore, several purchases were facilitated by the émigré poet Alexis Rannit (1914-1985), Whitney’s friend and adviser. Olga Keller deals with Ilya Kabakov (b. 1933), the most famous Russian émigré artist in today’s global art world. She aims to cover the mechanisms that led to contradictory assessments of his position in contemporary art. From a Western perspective Kabakov is considered to be both an integral part of contemporary world art and at the same time a prototypical representative of Russian art; in Russia he is accepted as an exception among his compatriots because of his successful career in the West.

*** The third and final section covers musical aspects of the Russian diaspora, a field of musicology which, apart from some big names such as Stravinsky and Prokofiev, has been explored above all by post-Soviet Russian researchers (cf. Flamm et al. 2013). Indicative of the growing awareness of Russian émigré culture outside from Russian musicology as well are the steps Richard Taruskin has undertaken recently. He is the most eminent specialist on Russian music of our times and, in view of his monumental study on the Russian ties of Stravinsky (Taruskin 1996), predetermined for this topic. His latest anthology is programmatically entitled Russian Music at Home and Abroad (Taruskin 2016) and contains, in addition to several texts on Stravinsky again, reflections on the émigré composer Arthur Lou-

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rié – who is being rediscovered with the help of a Swiss-based international society founded in 20056 and who has been the subject of a collection of scholarly essays (Móricz and Morrison 2014) – as well as on the general question “Is There a ‘Russia Abroad’ in Music?”. In the early 1930s, Lourié had published an article in three versions and languages, claiming there was a Russian school of composers in the diaspora, but failing to name any common features – it was hardly more than wishful thinking. Or maybe it was more than that: émigré ideology. Uncovering and understanding such constructions of identities, both of the protagonists and of their commentators, remains one of the difficult tasks of research on émigré culture. Rebecca Mitchell's contribution to this volume portrays Lourié’s contemporary Leonid Sabaneyev, known to the musical world mainly as Skryabin’s Eckermann. Sabaneyev’s transformation from the pre-revolutionary herald of ultra-modernist utopias to the apocalyptic nostalgic of a lost Silver Age is put in the wider context of Russian émigré mental history. Disillusioned with the cultural outcomings of the Bolshevik revolution, the concept of progress in itself had become questionable, it gave place to a pessimistic worldview of metaphysical loss, discernible both in Sabaneyev’s émigré writings and in the grandiose compositional project of his life in exile, the Apocalypse. The musical quality of the verses of Marina Tsvetayeva, a central figure of Russian émigré poetry, has been praised and described by famous colleagues such as Andrey Bely or Boris Pasternak, who were relying partially on vague concepts such as the leitmotif, transferred from music to poetry. In her article Marina Lupishko analyses the metrical structures of some of Tsvetayeva’s poems and puts them into the context of poetological discussions of contemporary writers, of modern scholarship, and of the poetess herself. Later Russian composers were well aware of Tsvetayeva’s characteristical deviations from standard prosody, as Lupishko demonstrates with examples taken out of vocal cycles from Sofia Gubaidulina and Dmitry Shostakovich. Thus, intimate links between Russian émigré and Soviet Russian culture are highlighted. A comprehensive picture of the development of Russian choir music in the first half of the 20th century is drawn in the contribution of Svetlana Zvereva. Preeminently concentrating on Orthodox sacred music, Russian choirs and church music composers faced hard times when religion was officially banned from public life in the 1920s. Against the general background of Orthodox church life both in the USSR and in the diaspora, Zvereva reconstructs first the stepwise disappearance of church choirs and 6

Cf. www.lourie.ch

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church music in the Soviet Union as well as the destinies of those musicians who stayed in Russia, some of them turning to secular repertoire. She then draws her attention to the fate of Russian church music and choirs in exile, their often mixed concert programmes and publishing activities, and the scarce emergence of new works. Though in Russian musicology many studies and documentary publications have already been dedicated to Russian church music, Zvereva’s article presents many seldom heard or completely unknown facets of this central aspect of Russian émigré culture. Finally, Elena Dubinets shares with us her insight into the complexity and diversity of multiple identities of present-day Russian émigré composers, often based on personal interviews. Already the biographies of first wave emigrants like Aaron Avshalomov (1894-1964), who abandoned his former wish of creating Jewish music when living for decades in China, show much more contradictions and fractures than often has been ascribed to Russian émigré composers. The simple idea of conserving one’s (Russian) identity is hardly any longer valid when confronted with the multiperspective lives and changing ambiences, audiences and music markets of present-day composers of Russian descent, and it gets even more complex when considering the self-reflection given by these composers either in writings, interviews – or musical works. Thus, Russian diaspora tends to dissolve in global culture.

*** A major problem encountered in preparing the papers for publication was the transliteration of Russian proper names. Basically British transliteration was used except in those cases when the names appear mainly in non-Russian sources in a specific. Still some inconsistencies remain.

*** A scholarly conference and the publication of conference materials is always a collective endeavour and has to rely on the efforts of many helpers. Not all of them can be mentioned here. Special mention goes to Marina Lupishko, who launched the idea of the conference and, as the main organiser, took care of most of the preparatory work. During the conference a team of the Department of Slavonic studies at the Saarland University helped to overcome many difficulties; special thanks go here to Magda Telus. Petya Moll and Marco Klüh of the same department provided

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invaluable help in preparing the papers for publication, as did Franziska Rundstadler. The editors would also like to thank the staff of Cambridge Scholars Publishing and, last but not least, the authors of the individual papers. Christoph Flamm Lübeck

Roland Marti Saarbrücken

Ada Raev Bamberg

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Transcending the Borders of Countries, Languages, and Disciplines in Russian Émigré Culture

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Flamm, Ch., Keazor, H. and Marti, R. (eds.) (2013), Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?, Newcastle upon Tyne: CSP. Foster, L. (1970): Ȼɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɳɧɨɣ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ, 1918-1968. 1-2, Ȼɨɫɬɨɧ: G. K. Hall. German, M. (2009): ɏɚɣɦ ɋɭɬɢɧ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ – XXI ɜɟɤ. Glad, J. (1999): Russia Abroad. Writers. History. Politics, Tenafly, Washington: Hermitage & Birchbark Press. Karlinsky, S. and Appel, A. (1977): The Bitter Air of Exile: Russian Writers in the West, 1922-1972, Berkeley: University of California Press. Kasack, W. (1996): Die russische Schriftsteller-Emigration im 20. Jahrhundert. Beiträge zur Geschichte, den Autoren und ihren Werken, München: Sagner. Kodzis, B. (2002): Ʌɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɵɟ ɰɟɧɬɪɵ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ 19181939. ɉɢɫɚɬɟɥɢ. Ɍɜɨɪɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɨɛɴɟɞɢɧɟɧɢɹ. ɉɟɪɢɨɞɢɤɚ. Ʉɧɢɝɨɩɟɱɚɬɚɧɢɟ, München: Sagner. Kovalevsky, P.E. (1971): Ɂɚɪɭɛɟɠɧɚɹ Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ. ɂɫɬɨɪɢɚ ɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɩɪɨɫɜɟɬɢɬɟɥɶɫɤɚɹ ɪɚɛɨɬɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ ɡɚ ɩɨɥɜɟɤɚ (19201970), Paris: Librairie des cinq continents. —. (1973): Ɂɚɪɭɛɟɠɧɚɹ Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ: Ⱦɨɩɨɥɧɢɬɟɥɶɧɵɣ ɜɵɩɭɫɤ, Paris: Librairie des cinq continents. Leikind, O., Makhrov, K. and Severyukhin, D. (1999): ɏɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ. 1917-1939. Ȼɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɫɥɨɜɚɪɶ, ɋɚɧɤɬɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝ: ɇɨɬɚɛɟɧɟ. Lukanova, A. (2017): ɇɚɬɚɥɢɹ Ƚɨɧɱɚɪɨɜɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ – XXI ɜɟɤ. Marten-Finnis, S. (2012): Der Feuervogel als Kunstzeitschrift. Žar Ptica. Russische Bildwelten in Berlin 1921-1926, Wien, Köln, Weimar: Böhlau. Mierau, F. (ed.) (1988): Russen in Berlin 1918-1933. Eine kulturelle Begegnung, Weinheim, Berlin: Quadriga-Verlag. Mikhaylov, O.N. (ed.) (1993-2013): Ʌɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ 1920-1940. 1-5, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɇɚɫɥɟɞɢɟ; ɂɆɅɂ ɊȺɇ. Móricz, K. and Morrison, S. (eds.) (2014): Funeral Games in Honor of Arthur Vincent Lourié, New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Nikolyukin, A.N. (ed.) (1994-1995): ɉɢɫɚɬɟɥɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ (1918-1940). ɋɩɪɚɜɨɱɧɢɤ 1-3, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɇɂɈɇ. —. (ed.) (1997-2000): Ʌɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɚɹ ɷɧɰɢɤɥɨɩɟɞɢɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ. 1-2, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɋɨɫɫɉȿɇ.

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Preface

Podkopaeva, A. and Sveshnikova, A. (eds.) (1979): Ʉɨɧɫɬɚɧɬɢɧ Ⱥɧɞɪɟɟɜɢɱ ɋɨɦɨɜ. ɉɢɫɶɦɚ. Ⱦɧɟɜɧɢɤɢ. ɋɭɠɞɟɧɢɹ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɢɤɨɜ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ. Poltoratsky N.P. (ed.) (1972): Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ ɜ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ. ɋɛɨɪɧɢɤ ɫɬɚɬɟɣ, ɉɢɬɬɫɛɭɪɝ: Ɉɬɞɟɥ ɫɥɚɜɹɧɫɤɢɯ ɹɡɵɤɨɜ ɢ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪ ɉɢɬɬɫɛɭɪɝɫɤɨɝɨ ɭɧɢɜɟɪɫɢɬɟɬɚ. Raev, Ⱥ. (2015): Ɇɚɪɢɹ ȼɚɫɢɥɶɟɜɚ. ɑɭɠɚɹ ɫɜɨɹ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ – XXI ɜɟɤ. Rakitin, V. (2010): Ɇɚɪɤ ɒɚɝɚɥ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ – XXI ɜɟɤ. Rusakova, A. (2014): Ɂɢɧɚɢɞɚ ɋɟɪɟɛɪɹɤɨɜɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ – XXI ɜɟɤ. Sarabyanov, D. (2007): ɂɜɚɧ ɉɭɧɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ – XXI ɜɟɤ. Schlögel, K. (ed.) (1994): Der große Exodus. Die russische Emigration und ihre Zentren 1917 bis 1941, München: C.H. Beck. Severyukhin, D. and Leikind, O. (1994): ɏɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ (1917-1941). Ȼɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɫɥɨɜɚɪɶ, ɋɚɧɤɬ-ɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝ: ɂɡɞɚɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨ ɑɟɪɧɵɲɟɜɚ. Shteyn, E. (1978): ɉɨɷɡɢɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɪɚɫɫɟɹɧɢɹ 1920-1977, Ashford: Ʌɚɞɶɹ. Struve, G. (1956): Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ ɜ ɢɡɝɧɚɧɢɢ. Ɉɩɵɬ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɨɛɡɨɪɚ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɧɨɣ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ, ɇɶɸ Ƀɨɪɤ: ɂɡɞɚɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨ ɢɦ. ɑɟɯɨɜɚ. —. (1996): Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ ɜ ɢɡɝɧɚɧɢɢ. ɂɡɞɚɧɢɟ ɬɪɟɬɶɟ, ɢɫɩɪɚɜɥɟɧɧɨɟ ɢ ɞɨɩɨɥɧɟɧɧɨɟ. Vil’danova, R.I., Kudryavtsev, V.B., Lappo-Danilevsky, K.Yu. Ʉɪɚɬɤɢɣ ɛɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɫɥɨɜɚɪɶ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ, ɉɚɪɢɠ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: YMCA-Press; Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɩɭɬɶ. (http://vtoraya-literatura.com/pdf/ struve_russkaya_literatura_v_izgnanii_1996_text.pdf) Taruskin, R. (1996): Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions. A Biography of the Works through Mavra, Berkeley/Los Angeles, CA: UCP. —. (2016): Russian Music at Home and Abroad. New Essays, Oakland, CA: UCP. Tolstoy, A. (2005): ɏɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ – XXI ɜɟɤ. Zil’bershteyn, I. and Samkov, V. (eds.) (1971): Ʉɨɧɫɬɚɧɬɢɧ Ʉɨɪɨɜɢɧ ɜɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɟɬ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɡɨɛɪɚɡɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ. —. (1982): ɋɟɪɝɟɣ Ⱦɹɝɢɥɟɜ ɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ. ɋɬɚɬɶɢ, ɨɬɤɪɵɬɵɟ ɩɢɫɶɦɚ, ɢɧɬɟɪɜɶɸ. ɉɟɪɟɩɢɫɤɚ. ɋɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɢɤɢ ɨ Ⱦɹɝɢɥɟɜɟ. ȼ 2-ɯ ɬɨɦɚɯ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɡɨɛɪɚɡɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ.

SECTION 1: RUSSIAN ÉMIGRÉ CULTURE IN GENERAL; LITERATURE

“AND ON ITS CIRCUITS THE WIND RETURNS”: INTERTEXTUALITY IN RUSSIAN ÉMIGRÉ POETRY ON HOMECOMING DAGMAR GRAMSHAMMER-HOHL

Introduction In literature of exile, memories of lost homes and reflections on possible or impossible returns play crucial roles. However, the question of how Russian literature of emigration displays and narrates return has, thus far, been widely ignored. Return can be thought of either as physical or as virtual return, either as realised practice, possible option, utopian projection or as an impossible, yet desired, dream. In any case, return (or non-return) plays an important role in diasporic consciousness and is therefore also inherent to the literature of emigration in one way or another. Whereas factual return has been comparatively rare among émigré writers – not only among Russian ones1 – imaginary homecomings are a recurring literary motif; for the displaced writer they are, in Svetlana Boym’s words, not even an artistic device, but a strategy for survival (Boym 2001, xvii). Vladimir Nabokov, in Strong Opinions, stated that the writer’s art was his real passport (cited in Boym 2001, 274). Nabokov himself was never tempted to travel back to Russia, although he constantly revisited his Russian past in his works. In a BBC interview in 1962 he claimed: I will never go back, for the simple reason that all the Russia I need is always with me: literature, language, and my own Russian childhood. I will never return. I will never surrender. (Nabokov 1962)

Among those who returned, there is, of course, the most prominent and tragic example of Marina Tsvetayeva, who travelled back to Russia in 1939 and “surrendered”, by committing suicide, in 1941. There are many

1

See, for instance, Behring et al. 2004, 639-649, and Neubauer and Török 2009.

4

Intertextuality in Russian Émigré Poetry on Homecoming

others who, upon their return, experienced new losses rather than retrieving what had been lost. As Yevgeny Vitkovsky put it: Ⱦɥɹ ɩɨɷɬɚ-ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɚ ɧɟɬ ɩɭɬɢ ɧɚɡɚɞ: ɨɧ ɩɨɬɟɪɹɟɬ ɥɢɛɨ ɝɨɥɨɫ, ɥɢɛɨ ɫɜɨɛɨɞɭ, ɥɢɛɨ ɠɢɡɧɶ, ɥɢɛɨ ɜɫɟ ɜɦɟɫɬɟ. […] Ⱦɥɹ ɩɨɷɬɚ-ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɚ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɏɏ ɜɟɤɚ ɩɭɬɶ ɤ ɞɨɦɭ ɡɚɤɪɵɬ. Ʌɢɲɶ ɱɭɠɚɹ ɡɟɦɥɹ ɫɩɨɫɨɛɧɚ ɞɚɬɶ ɠɢɡɧɶ ɟɝɨ ɩɨɷɡɢɢ. (Vitkovsky 1995, 14-15)

Thus, the final return seems to be the end of the story, and therefore linked, at least, to metaphorical death. The longing for and prospect of homecoming, on the other hand, set creativity and writing in motion. What can be observed in this connection is that literatures of exile – and notably return narratives – are characterised by a high degree of intertextuality. Topoi of expulsion, peregrination, and homecoming form part of world literature’s “aesthetic arsenal” (Behring 2004). Through intertextual references, literature of emigration lends the exilic experience a timetranscending quality: emigration is represented not as an individual’s fate, but rather as that of a worldwide, transhistorical community of exiles, exiled writers, writers in general, or even humankind itself (in the metaphorical sense of “exile”; see Bronfen 1993).2 Émigrés, thus, favour literary models in their writings that can be understood as “signs of identity in exile” (Behring 2004, 516). However, different emigrations seem to favour different models. In Polish literature of emigration, for instance, references to national martyrology are of particular importance (ibid., 517). Russian literature about return has its own set of preferred reference texts. This article’s aim is: – to give examples of recurring intertexts; – to provide analyses of selected works of first-, second-, and thirdwave emigration from the perspective of intertextuality, with a focus on poetry; and – to explore how Russian literature of exile negotiates what might be called the “grand homecoming narrative”, and how it subverts dominant models of narrating belonging, longing, and return.

2

On this “timelessness” see also Ranchin and Blokina (2016, 176): “[…] ɢɦɟɧɧɨ ɦɢɮɨɥɨɝɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɨɛɪɚɡɵ, ɝɟɧɟɪɢɪɭɸɳɢɟ ɢ ɧɚɤɚɩɥɢɜɚɸɳɢɟ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɵɟ ɫɦɵɫɥɵ ɡɚ ɞɨɥɝɨɟ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɜɫɟ ɧɨɜɵɯ ɢ ɧɨɜɵɯ ɢɫɬɨɥɤɨɜɚɧɢɣ ɢ ɜɚɪɶɢɪɨɜɚɧɢɹ, ɩɪɢɨɛɪɟɬɚɸɬ ɨɫɨɛɟɧɧɨ ɜɵɫɨɤɭɸ ɰɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ ɢ ɨɤɚɡɵɜɚɸɬɫɹ ɤɚɤ ɛɵ ɢɡɴɹɬɵ ɢɡ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɢ. […] ɉɨɷɬ, ɜɨɡɜɨɞɹ ɫɨɛɵɬɢɹ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɤ ɦɢɮɨɥɨɝɢɱɟɫɤɢɦ ɚɪɯɟɬɢɩɚɦ, ɢɡɵɦɚɟɬ ɢɯ ɢɡ ɩɨɬɨɤɚ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɢ, ɩɨɞɧɢɦɚɟɬ ɧɚɞ ɛɪɟɧɧɵɦ ɦɢɪɨɦ.”

Dagmar Gramshammer-Hohl

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Intertextuality Intertextuality has been described as “the text’s memory” (Lachmann 1990, 35). The manifest text (post-text) “remembers” a reference text (pretext), or, in other words, the present text reminds the readers of an absent text through signals of reference. The intersection, or even interaction (ibid., 71; Seljak 2010, 76), of both texts opens up a new textual quality. It provokes a semantic difference or, in Renate Lachmann’s words, a “semantic explosion” (Lachmann 1990, 57): intertexts may preserve, but also defer, dissimulate, hide, suspend, or delete original meanings (ibid., 37), thereby resisting disambiguation and the idea of a “closed” text. Through the crossing of two or more codes, intertextuality produces double or multiple readings – not only of the manifest, but also of the pre-texts. Theories of intertextuality thus reject the idea of a pre-text’s mere unidirectional impact on a post-text but assume that the post-text also influences the pretext, conferring new meaning to it (Seljak 2010, 78). Milan Kundera, in his French novel L’Ignorance [Ignorance] (2000), expresses the assumption that the homecoming of exiles is expected to be a “Grand Retour” [Great Return] capitalised, carried out in accordance with some preexisting “mode d’emploi” (Kundera 2005, 30) [operating instructions; Kundera 2002, 23]. These “operating instructions” obviously consist of the pre-texts that inform our preconception of what it means to return home: « Ce sera ton grand retour. » Et encore une fois : « Ton grand retour. » Répétés, les mots acquirent une telle force que, dans son for intérieur, Irena les vit écrits avec des majuscules : Grand Retour. Elle ne se rebiffa plus : elle fut envoûtée par des images qui soudain émergèrent de vieilles lectures, de films, de sa propre mémoire et de celle peut-être de ses ancêtres : le fils perdu qui retrouve sa vieille mère ; l’homme qui revient vers sa bienaimée à laquelle le sort féroce l’a jadis arraché ; la maison natale que chacun porte en soi ; le sentier redécouvert où sont restés gravés les pas perdus de l’enfance ; Ulysse qui revoit son île après des années d’errance ; le retour, le retour, la grande magie du retour. (Kundera 2005, 9) [“It will be your great return.” And again: “Your great return.” Repeated, the words took on such power that, deep inside her, Irena saw them written out with capital initials: Great Return. She dropped her resistance: she was captivated by images suddenly welling up from books read long ago, from films, from her own memory, and maybe from her ancestral memory: the lost son home again with his aged mother; the man returning to his beloved from whom cruel destiny had torn him away; the family homestead we all carry about within us; the rediscovered trail still marked by the forgotten footprints of childhood; Odysseus sighting his island after years of wan-

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Intertextuality in Russian Émigré Poetry on Homecoming dering; the return, the return, the great magic of the return.] (Kundera 2002, 4-5)

The common features of these pre-texts frame, as I argue, the “grand homecoming narrative”. Among the most widely used pre- or intertexts in Russian émigré literature on homecoming are: – the biblical “ɛɥɭɞɧɵɣ ɫɵɧ” [prodigal son]; – the Old Testament’s Book of Ecclesiastes with the verse about the wind that returns on its circuits (“ȼɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɟɬɫɹ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɧɚ ɤɪɭɝɢ ɫɜɨɢ”, which has become a winged word in Russian); – and, not least, the myth of Odysseus, previously mentioned in Kundera’s quotation – according to Alfred Schuetz, the “most famous home-coming in the literature of the world” (Schuetz 1945, 369).

The prodigal son An illuminative example of an intertextual reference to the parable of the prodigal son is Ivan Bunin’s well-known poem “ɂ ɰɜɟɬɵ, ɢ ɲɦɟɥɢ, ɢ ɬɪɚɜɚ, ɢ ɤɨɥɨɫɶɹ...”: ɂ ɰɜɟɬɵ, ɢ ɲɦɟɥɢ, ɢ ɬɪɚɜɚ, ɢ ɤɨɥɨɫɶɹ, ɂ ɥɚɡɭɪɶ, ɢ ɩɨɥɭɞɟɧɧɵɣ ɡɧɨɣ... ɋɪɨɤ ɧɚɫɬɚɧɟɬ – ɝɨɫɩɨɞɶ ɫɵɧɚ ɛɥɭɞɧɨɝɨ ɫɩɪɨɫɢɬ: “Ȼɵɥ ɥɢ ɫɱɚɫɬɥɢɜ ɬɵ ɜ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɡɟɦɧɨɣ?” ɂ ɡɚɛɭɞɭ ɹ ɜɫɟ – ɜɫɩɨɦɧɸ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɜɨɬ ɷɬɢ ɉɨɥɟɜɵɟ ɩɭɬɢ ɦɟɠ ɤɨɥɨɫɶɟɜ ɢ ɬɪɚɜ – ɂ ɨɬ ɫɥɚɞɨɫɬɧɵɯ ɫɥɟɡ ɧɟ ɭɫɩɟɸ ɨɬɜɟɬɢɬɶ, Ʉ ɦɢɥɨɫɟɪɞɧɵɦ ɤɨɥɟɧɹɦ ɩɪɢɩɚɜ. (Bunin 1967)

Bunin wrote these lines on 14 July 1918, two months after he had fled from Moscow to Odessa; from there he escaped to Constantinople in January 1920, leaving Russia forever (Vitkovsky 1995, 452). The reference to the prodigal son, in this text, clearly evokes a return setting. The peaceful and harmonious image of a warm summer’s day, depicted in the first two verses and revisited in the second stanza, marks the beginning and the end of the persona’s path of life. Between them, obviously, lie experiences that the lyric subject would rather forget. By the grace of God (“ɦɢɥɨɫɟɪɞɢɟ”) he is able to renew this past moment of happiness at the end of his life, although only in memory. His journey comes full circle, and he regains what had been lost. The initial peace and

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harmony, the resonance with the surrounding world, is identical with what is retrieved in the end – just as is the case in the Bible (Luke 15:11-32), in which the prodigal son is restored his former status and identity upon his return to his father’s house: the father’s kiss and embrace as well as the clothes and shoes the son is given demonstrate that he has recovered his former respectable position, and a ring is put on his finger, which grants him the right to act in the name of his family (see Rienecker 1969, 371). Jesus’s parable of the prodigal son, however, connotes first and foremost sin, guilt, repentance, and forgiveness. The son who left his fatherland has erred and done wrong, and only through his rueful return does he get absolution. From this perspective, Bunin’s poem can be read as expressing doubt that leaving one’s fatherland might result in happiness. Moreover, the one who leaves home in search of happiness elsewhere makes himself guilty: only upon his return can he be freed from his sin.

“And on its circuits the wind returns” (Eccles. 1:4-7) Another widely used biblical intertext is the following excerpt from the Old Testament Book of Ecclesiastes: 4

Ɋɨɞ ɩɪɨɯɨɞɢɬ, ɢ ɪɨɞ ɩɪɢɯɨɞɢɬ, ɚ ɡɟɦɥɹ ɩɪɟɛɵɜɚɟɬ ɜɨ ɜɟɤɢ. ȼɨɫɯɨɞɢɬ ɫɨɥɧɰɟ, ɢ ɡɚɯɨɞɢɬ ɫɨɥɧɰɟ, ɢ ɫɩɟɲɢɬ ɤ ɦɟɫɬɭ ɫɜɨɟɦɭ, ɝɞɟ ɨɧɨ ɜɨɫɯɨɞɢɬ. 6 ɂɞɟɬ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɤ ɸɝɭ, ɢ ɩɟɪɟɯɨɞɢɬ ɤ ɫɟɜɟɪɭ, ɤɪɭɠɢɬɫɹ, ɤɪɭɠɢɬɫɹ ɧɚ ɯɨɞɭ ɫɜɨɟɦ, ɢ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɟɬɫɹ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɧɚ ɤɪɭɝɢ ɫɜɨɢ. 7 ȼɫɟ ɪɟɤɢ ɬɟɤɭɬ ɜ ɦɨɪɟ, ɧɨ ɦɨɪɟ ɧɟ ɩɟɪɟɩɨɥɧɹɟɬɫɹ: ɤ ɬɨɦɭ ɦɟɫɬɭ, ɨɬɤɭɞɚ ɪɟɤɢ ɬɟɤɭɬ, ɨɧɢ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɸɬɫɹ, ɱɬɨɛɵ ɨɩɹɬɶ ɬɟɱɶ. (ȿɤɤɥ. 1, 4-7) 5

As a winged word in Russian, “the wind that returns on its circuits” has two essential meanings: first, it expresses the idea that everything recurs, and second, it signifies a return to the starting point, like in the biblical text (Shulezhkova 2011, 107). This second meaning prevails in Russian literature of emigration, throughout its different waves. It seems to be linked to the image of “ɜɡɜɢɯɪɟɧɧɚɹ Ɋɭɫɶ” [Russia in the whirlwind], introduced by Aleksey Remizov in his eponymous chronicle of the revolutionary years, published in 1927 (Remizov 1991). The revolution is associated with a whirlwind of destruction that sweeps and swirls up Russia, thus allowing for renewal and rebirth.3 3

In the chapter “Ɉ ɫɭɞɶɛɟ ɨɝɧɟɧɧɨɣ”, which had been published in 1918 and 1919 as a separate work (in 1919 under the title ɗɥɟɤɬɪɨɧ) and which is consi-

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We meet the reference to the returning biblical wind in poems of Vyacheslav Lebedev, Nikolay Otsup, Nikolay Turoverov, Irina Odoyevtseva, Vladimir Veydle, Aleksandr Galich, and Igor’ Chinnov. Interestingly, these poems do not refer exclusively to the biblical pre-text, but partly to each other as well. A dialogue can be observed which unfolds between these texts, developing competing readings of the original verses and thereby providing different narratives of homecoming. Skit poet Vyacheslav Lebedev referred to the “biblical wind” in his 1928 poem ȼɟɱɟɪɧɟɟ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɟɧɢɟ. Just as in Bunin’s poem discussed above, his poetic persona is a son that imagines his return home in the future: Ɉɫɬɚɜɲɢɫɶ ɠɢɬɶ, ɨɫɬɚɜɲɢɫɶ ɠɞɚɬɶ, ɇɟɫɭ ɬɟɛɹ, ɦɨɹ ɱɭɠɛɢɧɚ. ɂ ɜɨɬ – ɝɨɞɚ ɫɱɢɬɚɟɬ ɦɚɬɶ, Ʉɨɝɞɚ ɨɩɹɬɶ ɭɜɢɞɢɬ ɫɵɧɚ. ... ɂ ɹ ɜɟɪɧɭɫɶ ɫ ɱɭɠɢɯ ɞɨɪɨɝ, Ɍɚɤɨɣ ɫɦɢɪɢɜɲɢɣɫɹ ɢ ɠɚɥɤɢɣ. ɂ ɪɨɛɤɨ ɫɬɭɤɧɭ ɨ ɩɨɪɨɝ Ʉɨɧɰɨɦ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɞɨɪɨɠɧɨɣ ɩɚɥɤɢ. ɂ ɛɭɞɟɬ ɜɟɱɟɪ ɬɢɯ ɬɨɝɞɚ, ɉɨɞ ɤɪɢɤ ɫɬɪɢɠɟɣ ɧɚɞ ɤɨɥɨɤɨɥɶɧɟɣ. ɂ ɛɭɞɟɬ ɫɟɪɞɰɭ ɛɨɥɶɧɨ-ɛɨɥɶɧɨ Ɂɚ ɷɬɢ ɲɭɦɧɵɟ ɝɨɞɚ. ɂ ɛɭɞɟɬ ɜɧɨɜɶ ɩɨ-ɞɟɬɫɤɢ ɜɟɪɢɬɶ, ɉɨɞɧɹɜ ɬɵɫɹɱɟɥɟɬɧɢɣ ɝɧɟɬ. ɂ ɜɟɬɪɨɦ Ȼɢɛɥɢɢ ɞɨɯɧɟɬ Ɉɬ ɪɚɫɤɪɵɜɚɸɳɟɣɫɹ ɞɜɟɪɢ... Ɉ, ɤɚɤ ɭɡɧɚɸ ɫɪɟɞɶ ɦɨɪɳɢɧ Ɍɜɨɢ ɱɟɪɬɵ, ɱɬɨ, ɩɨɦɧɸ, ɛɵɥɢ... – Ɍɵ ɤɪɢɤɧɟɲɶ, ɠɚɥɨɫɬɧɨɟ: – ɂ ɹ, ɪɚɫɬɟɪɹɧɧɨɟ: –

«ɋɵɧ!»

«Ɍɵ ɥɢ?». (Lebedev 1994)

dered the “philosophical centre” of ȼɡɜɢɯɪɟɧɧɚɹ Ɋɭɫɶ (Averin and Danilova 1991, 20), it says: “ȼ ɨɝɧɟɧɧɨɦ ɜɢɯɪɟ ɩɪɨɛɚ ɞɥɹ ɡɨɥɨɬɚ / ɢ ɝɢɛɟɥɶ ɩɢɳɢ ɡɟɦɧɨɣ. / ɂ ɜɦɟɫɬɨ ɫɨɡɞɚɧɧɨɝɨ ɨɫɬɚɧɟɬɫɹ / ɨɞɧɨ ɫɨɡɢɞɚɟɦɨɟ – / ɩɟɪɫɬɶ ɢ ɫɟɦɟɧɚ ɞɥɹ ɪɨɫɬɚ.” (Remizov 1991, 370) And further on: “ȼɫɟ ɫɨɜɟɪɲɚɟɬɫɹ ɜ ɤɪɭɝɟ ɫɭɞɶɛɵ. / Ʌɸɞɢ, ɡɜɟɪɢ ɢ ɤɚɦɧɢ ɪɨɞɹɬɫɹ, ɪɚɫɬɭɬ, / ɱɬɨɛɵ ɩɨɝɢɛɧɭɬɶ, / ɢ ɩɨɝɢɛɚɸɬ, ɱɬɨɛɵ ɪɨɞɢɬɶɫɹ.” (ibid., 371) According to Stephen C. Hutchings, the circle that Remizov’s whirlwind describes is more of a “spiral in which each return to the beginning progressively raises the point of departure to a higher level” (Hutchings 1997, 217-218).

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There is no explicit reference to the prodigal son, though both sons are depicted in a similar way: Lebedev’s poetic persona is miserable and resigned, and he is knocking on the door of his homestead with humbleness. He has fled from the “noise” of his years in a foreign land (“ɲɭɦɧɵɟ ɝɨɞɚ”) to find the peace of home (“ɂ ɛɭɞɟɬ ɜɟɱɟɪ ɬɢɯ ɬɨɝɞɚ”). On the other hand, rather than a kindhearted father, it is his old mother who yearningly awaits his return – whereby mother figures traditionally symbolise the home- or motherland. Her opening of the door parallels the return of the biblical wind. However, the poetic persona’s homecoming is not as he had expected it. He is aware that his mother – that is, his former home – will have changed. Nevertheless, he is bewildered when facing her: he does not seem to recognise her, whereas she recognises him in an instant. The return of the same and to the same promised by the biblical verse thus turns out to be doomed to failure. In 1936, the first-wave poet Nikolay Otsup, on his part, wrote the following lines: ȼɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɟɬɫɹ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɧɚ ɤɪɭɝɢ ɫɜɨɹ, ȼɨɬ ɬɚɤɢɦɢ ɞɚɜɧɨ ɥɢ ɦɵ ɛɵɥɢ ɢ ɫɚɦɢ, ȼɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɟɬɫɹ ɦɨɥɨɞɨɫɬɶ, ɩɭɫɬɶ ɧɟ ɬɜɨɹ, ɋ ɬɟɦ ɠɟ ɫɱɚɫɬɢɟɦ, ɫ ɬɟɦɢ ɠɟ, ɜɫɩɨɦɧɢ, ɫɥɟɡɚɦɢ. ɂ ɱɬɨ ɛɵɥɨ ɭ ɦɧɨɝɢɯ ɝɨɞɚɦ ɤ ɫɨɪɨɤɚ, ɂ ɞɥɹ ɧɚɫ ɩɨɧɟɦɧɨɝɭ, ɬɵ ɜɢɞɢɲɶ, ɧɚɫɬɚɥɨ: ɋɢɥ, ɟɳɟ ɧɟ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɯ, ɞɨɜɨɥɶɧɨ ɩɨɤɚ, ɇɨ ɛɵɜɚɟɬ, ɱɬɨ ɢɯ ɢ ɫɟɣɱɚɫ ɭɠɟ ɦɚɥɨ. ɂ ɧɟ ɬɨ ɱɬɨɛɵ ɠɢɡɧɶ ɨɛɦɚɧɭɥɚ ɫɨɜɫɟɦ, Ⱦɚɠɟ ɝɪɭɛɨɫɬɶ ɟɟ ɛɟɫɩɪɟɞɟɥɶɧɨ ɩɪɚɜɞɢɜɚ, ɇɨ ɩɪɢɯɨɞɹɬ ɫɸɞɚ ɢ ɛɥɭɠɞɚɸɬ – ɡɚɱɟɦ? – ɂ ɭɯɨɞɹɬ, ɢ ɜɫɟ ɷɬɨ ɛɟɡ ɩɟɪɟɪɵɜɚ. (Otsup 1994)

In this poem, the two notions of “the wind that returns on its circuits” become intertwined. On the one hand, we are confronted with the idea of the eternal return of the typical life cycle: the persona appears as part of a “we” that shares its experiences with many other people. These experiences are linked to the stages of life. The poetic “we” positions itself on a threshold in the life’s middle: there is “still” strength, although it is fading, and some “already” lack energy. This image echoes Dante’s Divine Comedy with its well-known line “Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita” (“Ɂɟɦɧɭɸ ɠɢɡɧɶ ɩɪɨɣɞɹ ɞɨ ɩɨɥɨɜɢɧɵ” in Lozinsky’s translation) – another

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prominent intertext of Russian émigré literature that is worth investigating in more detail. The close link between the experience of displacement and the feeling of growing older is a common topos in literature of exile (see Gramshammer-Hohl 2015). It can be traced in this poem as well. The eternal coming and going of people, described in the last stanza, seems to equal a law of nature that is challenged by the poetic persona: why do people have to be wanderers (“ɛɥɭɠɞɚɸɬ – ɡɚɱɟɦ?”), the lyric subject asks. The verb “ɛɥɭɠɞɚɬɶ” (to roam, to wander, to err) is associated with the erring of the above-mentioned prodigal son, “ɛɥɭɞɧɵɣ ɫɵɧ”. From this perspective, Otsup’s poem can be read not only as an account of the eternal human life cycle and the certainty of people ageing, people dying and others being born, but also as a return narrative: it expresses the persona’s certainty in the closing of the circle, that is, in a future homecoming. Nikolay Turoverov, in four short verses written in 1937, takes up the “returning wind” motif, but contests the idea of an eternal recurrence of the same: ȼɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɟɬɫɹ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɧɚ ɤɪɭɝɢ ɫɜɨɹ, ɉɨɜɬɨɪɹɟɬɫɹ ɠɢɡɧɶ ɢ ɬɜɨɹ ɢ ɦɨɹ, ɉɨɜɬɨɪɹɟɬɫɹ ɜɫɺ, ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɧɚɲɚ ɥɸɛɨɜɶ ɇɢɤɨɝɞɚ ɧɟ ɩɨɜɬɨɪɢɬɫɹ ɜɧɨɜɶ. (Turoverov 1965)

It remains open what kind of love the persona is speaking of: love of another human being (a woman, a child), or love of the homeland. In any case, we are confronted here with the idea of exclusivity: there exist such strong feelings as cannot be renewed. In Irina Odoyevtseva’s poem “ɇɚɞ ɡɟɥɟɧɨɣ ɜɵɫɨɤɨɣ ɨɫɨɤɨɣ ɫɤɚɦɶɹ…”, published in 1952, the wind blows not only through space, but also through time. It is indeed reverting back; however, the persona does not know to which origins the wind is returning: to the lyric subject’s place of birth and former home in Petrograd, to Mesopotamia, the “cradle of civilisation”, or to Mount Ararat, where Noah’s Ark is said to have landed after the Flood: ɇɚɞ ɡɟɥɟɧɨɣ ɜɵɫɨɤɨɣ ɨɫɨɤɨɣ ɫɤɚɦɶɹ, Ʉɚɤ ɜ ɭɫɚɞɶɛɟ, ɤɚɤ ɜ ɞɟɬɫɬɜɟ, ɫ ɤɨɥɨɧɧɚɦɢ ɞɨɦ. ȼɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɟɬɫɹ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɧɚ ɤɪɭɝɢ ɫɜɨɹ, ȼ ɫɭɟɬɭ ɫɭɟɬɵ, ɨɫɬɨɪɨɠɧɨ, ɫ ɬɪɭɞɨɦ. ȼɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɟɬɫɹ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɤɪɭɝɚɦɢ ɧɚɡɚɞ, ɇɚ ɩɭɫɬɵɧɸ ɛɢɛɥɟɣɫɤɢɯ ɚɤɪɢɞ ɢ ɰɢɤɚɞ, ɇɚ ɝɨɪɭ Ⱥɪɚɪɚɬ, ɝɞɟ ɲɭɦɢɬ ɜɢɧɨɝɪɚɞ

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ɂɭɞɟɣɫɤɢ ɤɚɪɬɚɜɨ. ɇɚ Ɍɢɝɪ ɢ ȿɜɮɪɚɬ ȼɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɟɬɫɹ ɜɟɬɟɪ, ɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɨɦ ɡɜɟɧɹ. ɇɚ ɤɪɟɳɟɧɫɤɢɣ ɩɚɪɚɞ, ɧɚ ɪɨɞɧɨɣ ɉɟɬɪɨɝɪɚɞ, ȼɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɟɬɫɹ ɜɢɯɪɟɦ, ɤɪɭɝɚɦɢ ɨɝɧɹ… – ȼɟɬɟɪ, ɜɟɬɟɪ, ɤɭɞɚ ɬɵ ɭɧɨɫɢɲɶ ɦɟɧɹ?.. (Odoyevtseva 1994)

In this poem, there is no symmetry between the place of return and the place that one fled. The poetic persona is aware that “returning” is equal to not knowing where one will land or if one will be able to recognise that place. This “non-returning wind” motif, which was already present in Lebedev’s poem discussed previously, has been revisited by other writers as well – such as by Vladimir Veydle in his 1964 poem Ȼɟɪɟɝ ɂɫɤɢɢ: ȻȿɊȿȽ ɂɋɄɂɂ ɇɢ ɨ ɤɨɦ, ɧɢ ɨ ɱɟɦ. ɋɢɧɟɜɚ, ɫɢɧɟɜɚ, ɫɢɧɟɜɚ. ȼɟɬɟɪɨɤ ɭɦɢɥɟɧɧɵɣ ɢ ɫɢɧɟɟ, ɫɢɧɟɟ ɦɨɪɟ. ȼɵɩɥɵɜɚɸɬ ɫɥɨɜɚ, ɜ ɫɢɧɟɜɭ ɭɩɥɵɜɚɸɬ ɫɥɨɜɚ, ɍɫɤɨɥɶɡɚɸɬ ɫɥɨɜɚ, ɢɫɱɟɡɚɹ ɜ ɥɚɡɭɪɧɨɦ ɭɡɨɪɟ. ȼ ɷɬɭ ɫɢɧɸɸ ɦɝɥɭ ɭɩɥɵɜɚɬɶ, ɭɥɟɬɚɬɶ, ɭɥɟɬɟɬɶ, ȼ ɷɬɨɦ ɫɢɧɟɦ ɫɢɹɧɶɟ ɫɟɪɟɛɪɹɧɨɣ ɫɬɪɭɣɤɨɣ ɪɚɫɬɚɹɬɶ, Ȼɨɪɦɨɬɚɬɶ, ɭɦɨɥɤɚɬɶ, ɭɥɟɬɚɬɶ, ɭɥɟɬɟɬɶ, ɭɦɟɪɟɬɶ, ȼ ɬɟ ɫɥɨɜɚ, ɜ ɬɟ ɤɪɵɥɚ ɜɫɟɣ ɞɭɲɨɸ ɛɟɫɤɪɵɥɨɣ ɜɪɚɫɬɚɹ... ȼɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɟɬɫɹ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɧɚ ɤɪɭɝɢ ɫɜɨɢ, ɚ ɨɧɚ ȼ ɫɢɧɟɨɤɭɸ ɞɚɥɶ ɧɟɩɨɞɜɢɠɧɨɣ ɫɬɪɟɥɨɸ ɧɟɫɟɬɫɹ, ȼ ɝɥɭɛɢɧɭ, ɜ ɜɵɲɢɧɭ, ɞɨ ɛɟɡɞɨɧɧɨɝɨ ɫɢɧɟɝɨ ɞɧɚ... ɇɢ ɤ ɤɨɦɭ, ɧɢɤɭɞɚ, ɧɢ ɤ ɬɟɛɟ, ɧɢ ɤ ɫɟɛɟ ɧɟ ɜɟɪɧɟɬɫɹ. (Veydle 1994)

In this poem, the soul’s flight is linked to death (“ɭɥɟɬɚɬɶ, ɭɥɟɬɟɬɶ, ɭɦɟɪɟɬɶ”). However, whereas in literature of exile, death is often represented as “the final homecoming” and therefore connected to return, here death equates to the non-return. Irina Saburova, in her memoirs Ɉ ɧɚɫ [About us] (1972), referred to the biblical metaphor in the same mode, by writing: Ȼɨɥɶɲɟ, ɱɟɦ ɤɨɝɞɚ-ɥɢɛɨ, ɜ ɧɚɲɢ ɞɧɢ ɜ ɫɢɥɟ ɛɢɛɥɟɣɫɤɨɟ: ɜɫɟ ɦɵ ɫɬɪɚɧɧɢɤɢ ɧɚ ɷɬɨɣ ɡɟɦɥɟ... Ɇɵ, ɤɨɧɟɱɧɨ, ɜ ɨɫɨɛɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ: ɞɥɹ ɧɚɫ ɫɨɥɧɰɟ ɜɫɯɨɞɢɥɨ ɜ ɨɞɧɨɣ ɫɬɪɚɧɟ, ɚ ɡɚɯɨɞɢɬ ɜ ɞɪɭɝɨɣ, ɢ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɧɟ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɟɬɫɹ ɧɚ ɤɪɭɝɢ ɫɜɨɹ... (cited in Vitkovsky 1995, 17-18)

In 1979, the second-wave poet Igor’ Chinnov published the following lines in his poetry collection Ⱥɧɬɢɬɟɡɚ:

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Intertextuality in Russian Émigré Poetry on Homecoming ɋɟɝɨɞɧɹ ɹ ɫɪɚɡɭ ɭɡɧɚɥ ɬɨɬ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɜɟɱɟɪɧɢɣ, ɜɟɫɟɧɧɢɣ, – ɬɨɬ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɧɚɱɚɥɚ ɚɩɪɟɥɹ ɬɪɢɞɰɚɬɨɝɨ ɝɨɞɚ. Ɉɧ ɫɧɨɜɚ ɜɟɪɧɭɥɫɹ ɧɚ ɡɟɦɥɸ ɫ ɤɚɤɨɣ-ɬɨ ɩɥɚɧɟɬɵ, ɤɨɬɨɪɨɣ ɧɟ ɜɢɞɧɨ ɨɬɫɸɞɚ. Ⱥ ɩɪɨɲɥɨɣ ɡɢɦɨɣ ɤɚɤ-ɬɨ ɜɟɱɟɪɨɦ ɜɞɪɭɝ ɹ ɭɡɧɚɥ ɬɨɬ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɤɨɧɰɚ ɮɟɜɪɚɥɹ ɬɪɢɞɰɚɬɶ ɩɟɪɜɨɝɨ ɝɨɞɚ – ɩɨɱɬɢ ɭɠ ɩɨɥɜɟɤɚ ɧɚɡɚɞ! ɋɜɢɞɟɬɟɥɶ ɞɚɥɟɤɨɝɨ ɫɱɚɫɬɶɹ, ɋɜɢɞɟɬɟɥɶ ɫɜɢɞɚɧɢɹ ɫ ɧɟɣ! ɇɭ ɞɚ, ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɟɬɫɹ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɧɚ ɤɪɭɝɢ ɫɜɨɹ. Ɍɨɥɶɤɨ ɜɟɱɟɪ – ɜɨɬ ɜɟɱɟɪ ɫɟɝɨɞɧɹ ɞɪɭɝɨɣ. (Chinnov 1997)

The wind that returns “in the evening” is an extension that cannot be found in the biblical pre-text. However, it occurs in the exiled Russian bard Aleksandr Galich’s ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɹɹ ɩɟɫɧɹ [Last Song], written in 1977 (“ȼɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɟɬɫɹ ɜɟɱɟɪɨɦ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɧɚ ɤɪɭɝɢ ɫɜɨɹ…”; Galich 1981). Moreover, in the second stanza, Chinnov refers to another émigré poet’s verse – Georgy Ivanov’s. In Ivanov’s poem “ɇɚɞ ɪɨɡɨɜɵɦ ɦɨɪɟɦ ɜɫɬɚɜɚɥɚ ɥɭɧɚ…”, we find the well-known line “Ɇɵ ɠɢɥɢ ɬɨɝɞɚ ɧɚ ɩɥɚɧɟɬɟ ɞɪɭɝɨɣ…”, where the “other planet” signifies the lost homeland that lies so far away, both in space and time, that it can no longer be reached (Ivanov 1995). This reference therefore suggests that the wind is coming from the distant homeland, whereby this homeland is inaccessible, because it lies in the past. The wind can return to that “lost planet”, but it cannot reverse time.

The myth of Odysseus The most prominent intertext in narratives of return is the homecoming of Odysseus as conveyed in Homer’s Odyssey. It will be discussed in this chapter, using the example of third-wave poet and Nobel laureate Iosif Brodsky. Brodsky is known for making broad use of topoi of classical mythology. He addressed the myth of Odysseus as early as 1961 in his poem ə ɤɚɤ ɍɥɢɫɫ, when he was still living in the Soviet Union; his reflection on

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the poet’s exilic condition in a way foreshadowed his own. The experience of displacement is also linked, in this text, to the mythological figure of Ganymede, who was abducted by Zeus and made the cupbearer for the gods on Olympus: “[…] ɤɚɤ ɧɨɜɵɣ Ƚɚɧɢɦɟɞ / ɯɥɟɛɧɭ ɡɢɦɨɣ4 ɢɡɝɧɚɧɧɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɱɚɲɢ” (Brodsky 1998/I, 136). Odysseus’s wanderings mirror the poetic persona’s roaming through life. This becomes especially clear in the first and sixth stanzas: Ɂɢɦɚ, ɡɢɦɚ, ɹ ɟɞɭ ɩɨ ɡɢɦɟ, ɤɭɞɚ-ɧɢɛɭɞɶ ɩɨ ɜɢɞɢɦɨɣ ɨɬɱɢɡɧɟ, ɝɨɧɢ ɦɟɧɹ, ɧɟɧɚɫɬɶɟ, ɩɨ ɡɟɦɥɟ, ɯɨɬɹ ɛɵ ɜɫɩɹɬɶ, ɝɨɧɢ ɦɟɧɹ ɩɨ ɠɢɡɧɢ. […] Ɇɟɥɶɤɚɣ, ɦɟɥɶɤɚɣ ɩɨ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɚɦ, ɧɚɪɨɞ, ɹ ɞɜɢɝɚɸɫɶ, ɢ, ɤɚɠɟɬɫɹ ɨɬɪɚɞɧɨ, ɱɬɨ, ɤɚɤ ɍɥɢɫɫ, ɝɨɧɸ ɫɟɛɹ ɜɩɟɪɟɞ, ɧɨ ɞɜɢɝɚɸɫɶ ɩɨ-ɩɪɟɠɧɟɦɭ ɨɛɪɚɬɧɨ. […] (ibid.)

The myth of Odysseus is also the pre-text of another of Brodsky’s poems, Ɉɞɢɫɫɟɣ Ɍɟɥɟɦɚɤɭ, which he wrote in 1972, the year of his expatriation: Ɇɨɣ Ɍɟɥɟɦɚɤ, Ɍɪɨɹɧɫɤɚɹ ɜɨɣɧɚ ɨɤɨɧɱɟɧɚ. Ʉɬɨ ɩɨɛɟɞɢɥ – ɧɟ ɩɨɦɧɸ. Ⱦɨɥɠɧɨ ɛɵɬɶ, ɝɪɟɤɢ: ɫɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɦɟɪɬɜɟɰɨɜ ɜɧɟ ɞɨɦɚ ɛɪɨɫɢɬɶ ɦɨɝɭɬ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɝɪɟɤɢ... ɂ ɜɫɟ-ɬɚɤɢ ɜɟɞɭɳɚɹ ɞɨɦɨɣ ɞɨɪɨɝɚ ɨɤɚɡɚɥɚɫɶ ɫɥɢɲɤɨɦ ɞɥɢɧɧɨɣ, ɤɚɤ ɛɭɞɬɨ ɉɨɫɟɣɞɨɧ, ɩɨɤɚ ɦɵ ɬɚɦ ɬɟɪɹɥɢ ɜɪɟɦɹ, ɪɚɫɬɹɧɭɥ ɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɨ. Ɇɧɟ ɧɟɢɡɜɟɫɬɧɨ, ɝɞɟ ɹ ɧɚɯɨɠɭɫɶ, ɱɬɨ ɩɪɟɞɨ ɦɧɨɣ. Ʉɚɤɨɣ-ɬɨ ɝɪɹɡɧɵɣ ɨɫɬɪɨɜ, ɤɭɫɬɵ, ɩɨɫɬɪɨɣɤɢ, ɯɪɸɤɚɧɶɟ ɫɜɢɧɟɣ, ɡɚɪɨɫɲɢɣ ɫɚɞ, ɤɚɤɚɹ-ɬɨ ɰɚɪɢɰɚ, ɬɪɚɜɚ ɞɚ ɤɚɦɧɢ... Ɇɢɥɵɣ Ɍɟɥɟɦɚɤ, ɜɫɟ ɨɫɬɪɨɜɚ ɩɨɯɨɠɢ ɞɪɭɝ ɧɚ ɞɪɭɝɚ, ɤɨɝɞɚ ɬɚɤ ɞɨɥɝɨ ɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɭɟɲɶ, ɢ ɦɨɡɝ ɭɠɟ ɫɛɢɜɚɟɬɫɹ, ɫɱɢɬɚɹ ɜɨɥɧɵ, ɝɥɚɡ, ɡɚɫɨɪɟɧɧɵɣ ɝɨɪɢɡɨɧɬɨɦ, ɩɥɚɱɟɬ, ɢ ɜɨɞɹɧɨɟ ɦɹɫɨ ɡɚɫɬɢɬ ɫɥɭɯ. ɇɟ ɩɨɦɧɸ ɹ, ɱɟɦ ɤɨɧɱɢɥɚɫɶ ɜɨɣɧɚ, ɢ ɫɤɨɥɶɤɨ ɥɟɬ ɬɟɛɟ ɫɟɣɱɚɫ, ɧɟ ɩɨɦɧɸ.

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Some editions write “ɡɟɦɧɨɣ” instead of “ɡɢɦɨɣ”.

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Intertextuality in Russian Émigré Poetry on Homecoming Ɋɚɫɬɢ ɛɨɥɶɲɨɣ, ɦɨɣ Ɍɟɥɟɦɚɤ, ɪɚɫɬɢ. Ʌɢɲɶ ɛɨɝɢ ɡɧɚɸɬ, ɫɜɢɞɢɦɫɹ ɥɢ ɫɧɨɜɚ. Ɍɵ ɢ ɫɟɣɱɚɫ ɭɠɟ ɧɟ ɬɨɬ ɦɥɚɞɟɧɟɰ, ɩɟɪɟɞ ɤɨɬɨɪɵɦ ɹ ɫɞɟɪɠɚɥ ɛɵɤɨɜ. Ʉɨɝɞɚ ɛ ɧɟ ɉɚɥɚɦɟɞ, ɦɵ ɠɢɥɢ ɜɦɟɫɬɟ. ɇɨ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɛɵɬɶ ɢ ɩɪɚɜ ɨɧ: ɛɟɡ ɦɟɧɹ ɬɵ ɨɬ ɫɬɪɚɫɬɟɣ ɗɞɢɩɨɜɵɯ ɢɡɛɚɜɥɟɧ, ɢ ɫɧɵ ɬɜɨɢ, ɦɨɣ Ɍɟɥɟɦɚɤ, ɛɟɡɝɪɟɲɧɵ. (Brodsky 1998/III, 27)

This poem has been read autobiographically, as a message to Brodsky’s son, who stayed behind in Russia (see Boym 2001, 333; Ranchin and Blokina 2016, 166-167). In these lines, Odysseus does not know his own whereabouts. It is the reader who identifies the island as Circe’s. The poetic persona Odysseus is not aware that the gods, indeed, will decide on his return and that there will be a reunion with his son Telemachus in the future. The mythical intertext, thus, conveys a dissenting voice; the lyric subject’s hopelessness is contradicted by the promises of the reference text: return, reunion with the son left behind, as well as recovery of the hero’s rightful social status. As Ranchin and Blokina have observed, canonical readings of the myth view Odysseus’s struggles on his way home as a mere prelude to his happy homecoming; to Brodsky, however, Odysseus’s wanderings were even more important than the hero’s return (ibid., 179).5 The poem Ɉɞɢɫɫɟɣ Ɍɟɥɟɦɚɤɭ refers to yet another mythical homecoming: that of Oedipus who killed his father and married his mother upon his return to Thebes. From this perspective, Odysseus’s non-return might keep Telemachus from “Oedipal passions” and himself from death. Odysseus being killed by his son – albeit not by Telemachus, but by the son he bore with Circe – forms part of ancient versions of the myth, not recorded in the Homeric rendering of the story (Boym 2001, 26; Ranchin and Blokina 2016, 173). In this view, the hero’s return home rather invites trouble: murder and incest, caused by the danger of misrecognition.

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“[…] ɜ ɫɸɠɟɬɟ ɨ ɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɢɹɯ Ɉɞɢɫɫɟɹ ɛɟɞɫɬɜɢɹ ɢ ɛɨɪɟɧɢɹ ɧɚ ɞɨɥɝɨɦ ɩɭɬɢ ɞɨɦɨɣ ɧɟ ɛɨɥɟɟ ɱɟɦ ɩɪɟɞɞɜɟɪɢɟ ɫɱɚɫɬɥɢɜɨɝɨ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɟɧɢɹ – ɝɥɚɜɧɨɝɨ ɢ ɢɬɨɝɨɜɨɝɨ ɫɨɛɵɬɢɹ ɜ ɫɸɠɟɬɟ. Ⱦɥɹ Ȼɪɨɞɫɤɨɝɨ ɩɪɢ ɭɫɜɨɟɧɢɢ ɦɢɮɚ ɜɚɠɧɵ ɫɚɦɢ ɫɤɢɬɚɧɢɹ: ɜ «Ɉɞɢɫɫɟɟ Ɍɟɥɟɦɚɤɭ» ɜɨɡɦɨɠɧɨɫɬɶ ɜɫɬɪɟɱɢ ɫ ɫɵɧɨɦ ɩɪɢɡɪɚɱɧɚ, ɚ ɨ ɫɜɢɞɚɧɢɢ ɫ ɜɟɪɧɨɣ ɫɭɩɪɭɝɨɣ ɧɟɬ ɧɢ ɫɥɨɜɚ […].”

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Conclusion In summary, I have argued that Russian émigré writing, most notably poetry, makes broad use of intertexts dealing with homecoming: the parable of the prodigal son, the biblical motif of “the wind that returns on its circuits”, and, not least, the myth of Odysseus, the “most famous homecoming”. What unites these pre-texts is the idea of an implicit homecoming, of a return that, as a basic necessity, is already contained in the act of leaving. Another common feature is the journey’s circularity: the homecomer retrieves his lost identity and reasserts his former social status. This is what we might call the “grand homecoming narrative”. In the intertextual dialogue, however, these pre-texts appear as dissentting voices and provoke competing readings – not only of the manifest texts, but also of the pre-texts themselves. In Renate Lachmann’s words, the intertextual game subverts the pre-texts’ canonical function through a deliberate non-confirmation of their conveyed meanings (Lachmann 1990, 82). Intertextuality produces voices and counter-voices, contradictions and ambiguity. It thereby resists a disambiguated homecoming narrative and offers alternative readings of return – ones that forego circularity, retrievability, and closure.

Acknowledgements I would like to thank Caitlin Ahern for her competent proofreading of this article.

Bibliography Averin, B. V. and Danilova, I. F. (1991): Ⱥɜɬɨɛɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɩɪɨɡɚ Ⱥ. Ɇ. Ɋɟɦɢɡɨɜɚ. In: Remizov 1991, pp. 3-22. Behring, E. (2004): Paradigmenwechsel in der Schreibstrategie – Elemente einer Ästhetik des Exils? In: Behring et al. 2004, pp. 439-529. Behring, E. et al. (eds.) (2004): Grundbegriffe und Autoren ostmitteleuropäischer Exilliteraturen 1945-1989: Ein Beitrag zur Systematisierung und Typologisierung, Stuttgart: Steiner. Boym, S. (2001): The Future of Nostalgia, New York: Basic Books. Brodsky, I. (1998-2001): ɋɨɱɢɧɟɧɢɹ ɂɨɫɢɮɚ Ȼɪɨɞɫɤɨɝɨ ɜ 7-ɢ ɬɨɦɚɯ, ɋɉɛ.: ɉɭɲɤɢɧɫɤɢɣ ɮɨɧɞ. Bronfen, E. (1993): Exil in der Literatur: Zwischen Metapher und Realität. In: Arcadia 28, pp. 167-183.

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Intertextuality in Russian Émigré Poetry on Homecoming

Bunin, I. (1967): ɂ ɰɜɟɬɵ, ɢ ɲɦɟɥɢ, ɢ ɬɪɚɜɚ, ɢ ɤɨɥɨɫɶɹ… In: Bunin, I.: ɋɨɛɪɚɧɢɟ ɫɨɱɢɧɟɧɢɣ ɜ 9-ɢ ɬɨɦɚɯ. Ɍ. 8, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɏɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ, p. 8. Chinnov, I. (1997): ɋɟɝɨɞɧɹ ɹ ɫɪɚɡɭ ɭɡɧɚɥ… In: Vitkovsky 1997, p. 23. Galich, A. (1981): ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɹɹ ɩɟɫɧɹ. In: Galich, A.: Ʉɨɝɞɚ ɹ ɜɟɪɧɭɫɶ. ɉɨɥɧɨɟ ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɟ ɫɬɢɯɨɜ ɢ ɩɟɫɟɧ, Frankfurt/Main: ɉɨɫɟɜ, p. 406. Gramshammer-Hohl, D. (2015): Altern und Exil in der russischen Emigrationsliteratur. In: Zink and Koroliov 2015, pp. 255-266. Hutchings, S. C. (1991): Russian Modernism: The Transfiguration of the Everyday, Cambridge: Cambridge UP. Ivanov, G. (1995): ɇɚɞ ɪɨɡɨɜɵɦ ɦɨɪɟɦ ɜɫɬɚɜɚɥɚ ɥɭɧɚ… In: Vitkovsky 1995, p. 37. Kundera, M. (2002): Ignorance: A Novel. Translated by Linda Asher, London: faber and faber. —. (2005): L’Ignorance, Paris: Gallimard. Lachmann, R. (1990): Gedächtnis und Literatur: Intertextualität in der russischen Moderne, Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp. Lebedev, V. (1994): ȼɟɱɟɪɧɟɟ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɟɧɢɟ. In: Vitkovsky 1994, p. 126. Nabokov, V. (1962): Nabokov’s Interview. BBC Television. Accessed September 19, 2016. http://lib.ru/NABOKOW/Inter02.txt. Neubauer, J. and Török, B. Z. (eds.) (2009): The Exile and Return of Writers from East-Central Europe: A Compendium, Berlin, New York: de Gruyter. Odoyevtseva, I. (1994): ɇɚɞ ɡɟɥɟɧɨɣ ɜɵɫɨɤɨɣ ɨɫɨɤɨɣ ɫɤɚɦɶɹ… In: Vitkovsky 1994, p. 87. Otsup, N. (1994): ȼɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɟɬɫɹ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɧɚ ɤɪɭɝɢ ɫɜɨɹ… In: Vitkovsky 1994, p. 46. Ranchin, A. and Blokina, A. (2016): Ɇɢɮ ɤɚɤ ɬɟɤɫɬ ɢ ɦɢɮ ɤɚɤ ɤɨɞ: ɪɟɰɟɩɰɢɹ ɚɪɯɚɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɦɢɮɚ ɜ ɇɨɜɨɟ ɜɪɟɦɹ (ɧɚ ɩɪɢɦɟɪɟ ɬɪɚɤɬɨɜɤɢ ɫɸɠɟɬɚ ɨ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɟɧɢɢ Ɉɞɢɫɫɟɹ ɜ ɩɨɷɡɢɢ ɂɨɫɢɮɚ Ȼɪɨɞɫɤɨɝɨ. In: Ranchin, A.: Ɉ Ȼɪɨɞɫɤɨɦ. Ɋɚɡɦɵɲɥɟɧɢɹ ɢ ɪɚɡɛɨɪɵ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ȼɨɞɨɥɟɣ, pp. 165-184. Remizov, A. (1991): ȼɡɜɢɯɪɟɧɧɚɹ Ɋɭɫɶ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɋɨɜɟɬɫɤɢɣ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɶ. Rienecker, F. (1969): Das Evangelium des Lukas. 3rd ed, Wuppertal: Brockhaus. Schuetz, A. (1945): The Homecomer. In: American Journal of Sociology 50, pp. 369-376. Seljak, A. (2010): Intertextualität. In: Schmid, U. (ed.): Literaturtheorien des 20. Jahrhunderts, Stuttgart: Reclam, pp. 76-98.

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Shulezhkova, S. G. (2011): «ɂ ɠɢɡɧɶ, ɢ ɫɥɟɡɵ, ɢ ɥɸɛɨɜɶ…»: ɩɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ, ɡɧɚɱɟɧɢɟ, ɫɭɞɶɛɚ 1500 ɤɪɵɥɚɬɵɯ ɫɥɨɜ ɢ ɜɵɪɚɠɟɧɢɣ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɹɡɵɤɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɏɥɢɧɬɚ, ɇɚɭɤɚ. Turoverov, N. (1965): ȼɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɟɬɫɹ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɧɚ ɤɪɭɝɢ ɫɜɨɹ… In: Turoverov, N.: ɋɬɢɯɢ. Ʉɧɢɝɚ ɩɹɬɚɹ, ɉɚɪɢɠ: Pierrefitte. Accessed September 20, 2016. http://www.belousenko.com/books/poetry/turoverov_kniga_5.htm. Veydle, V. (1994): Ȼɟɪɟɝ ɂɫɤɢɢ. In: Vitkovsky 1994, p. 71. Vitkovsky, E. V. (1994): «Ɇɵ ɠɢɥɢ ɬɨɝɞɚ ɧɚ ɩɥɚɧɟɬɟ ɞɪɭɝɨɣ…»: Ⱥɧɬɨɥɨɝɢɹ ɩɨɷɡɢɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ 1920-1990 (ɉɟɪɜɚɹ ɢ ɜɬɨɪɚɹ ɜɨɥɧɚ). ȼ 4-ɯ ɤɧɢɝɚɯ. Ʉɧɢɝɚ 2-ɹ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɇɨɫɤɨɜɫɤɢɣ ɪɚɛɨɱɢɣ. —. (1995): «Ɇɵ ɠɢɥɢ ɬɨɝɞɚ ɧɚ ɩɥɚɧɟɬɟ ɞɪɭɝɨɣ…»: Ⱥɧɬɨɥɨɝɢɹ ɩɨɷɡɢɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ 1920-1990 (ɉɟɪɜɚɹ ɢ ɜɬɨɪɚɹ ɜɨɥɧɚ). ȼ 4-ɯ ɤɧɢɝɚɯ. Ʉɧɢɝɚ 1-ɹ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɇɨɫɤɨɜɫɤɢɣ ɪɚɛɨɱɢɣ. —. (1997): «Ɇɵ ɠɢɥɢ ɬɨɝɞɚ ɧɚ ɩɥɚɧɟɬɟ ɞɪɭɝɨɣ…»: Ⱥɧɬɨɥɨɝɢɹ ɩɨɷɡɢɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ 1920-1990 (ɉɟɪɜɚɹ ɢ ɜɬɨɪɚɹ ɜɨɥɧɚ). ȼ 4-ɯ ɤɧɢɝɚɯ. Ʉɧɢɝɚ 4-ɹ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɇɨɫɤɨɜɫɤɢɣ ɪɚɛɨɱɢɣ. Zink, A. and Koroliov, S. (2015): Unterwegs-Sein: Figurationen von Mobilität im Osten Europas, Innsbruck: Institut für Sprachen und Literaturen.

“LIVING LITERATURE”: REVOLUTION, CIVIL WAR, MODERNITY AND LIFE IN EXILE BEN DHOOGE

Like other diasporic cultures, interwar Russian émigré culture is characterised by an increased awareness of issues of (cultural) identity and memory. Without doubt, the most important element that contributed to this awareness is the loss of the homeland, combined with being banished to an essentially alien (and not necessarily welcoming) world and being expelled by an ideology that opposed much of what constituted pre-exilic society, culture and, hence, identity. In this regard, interwar Russian émigré culture is also characterised by increased attention to the very raison d’être of life in exile. As such, the year 1917 and its aftermath are omnipresent in the emigrants’ lives on the level of politics, society, and cultural production in the broadest sense of the word. When looking at the written word alone, for example, the events are clearly a very dominant topic in émigré historical writings, journalistic and publicistic texts, reminiscences by former generals and public figures, and lowbrow literature. However, despite their all-dominating nature, the events of 1917 and their aftermath are, surprisingly, not a major, let alone an important, topic in the mainstream literary production of the time. An exception to the rule is the literary oeuvre of the Prague based group, or, more correctly, community,1 ɋɤɢɬ ɩɨɷɬɨɜ [A hermitage of poets] (1922-1928) or ɋɤɢɬ (1928-1940). Some of the most prominent members of the young collective did, in fact, deal with the Revolution and its aftermath in their poetry and critical writings, especially during the first ten years of the group’s existence. Moreover, the community’s practice is also reflected on in some of its members’ critical writings. This young group from the émigré periphery is all the more relevant, as through its critical writings and literary practice it directly challenges the established émigré writers and with them mainstream émigré literature.

1

Ghent University & Research Foundation-Flanders L. Beloshevskaya speaks of Skit as a “ɫɨɞɪɭɠɟɫɬɜɨ” (Beloshevskaya 2006b).

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The present paper aims to shed light on how Skit deals with the Revolution and its aftermath and how its views and practice relate to the socalled “older generation” and their successors. First, it will sketch the dominant writers’ disinterest in writing literature on 1917 and what followed suit, then it will zoom in on the views of Skit’s mentor and of two of its members with regard to the same topic. The main emphasis of the paper is on how the views of these young poet-critics are put into practice by themselves and other members of Skit. Finally, the paper briefly discusses how the views of the Prague community relate to the debate on the viability and validity of (a separate) émigré literature. As it is impossible to exhaust the topic within the limitations of a paper, the present offering is first and foremost an introduction to the matter.

“Purely literary business” versus “activeness” During the interwar years, only a limited number of prose texts (see also Foster 1972) and poem and poetry collections devoted specifically to the year 1917, the Civil War and their immediate aftermath were published in the emigration.2 It is safe to speak of a general disinterest in the topic among writers and critics. In some cases one can even speak of an outspoken aversion to the events that led up to life in exile. The dismissive reaction of the prominent émigré literary critic Konstantin Mochul’sky to Aleksey Masainov’s Civil War poem Ʌɢɤ ɡɜɟɪɹ [The Face of the Beast] (1924), for example, is telling. In Masainov’s long and detailed poem (Masainov 1924), a man kills a soldier of the Red Army who then appears to be his own son. Mochul’sky finds the poem all too cruel: Ʌɢɪɢɤɨ-ɷɩɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɩɨɷɦɚ Ɇɚɫɚɢɧɨɜɚ, ɛɟɲɟɧɚɹ, ɤɪɨɜɚɜɚɹ, ɤɨɳɭɧɫɬɜɟɧɧɚɹ [...] ɉɨɷɬ ɧɚɝɪɨɦɨɠɞɚɟɬ ɫɬɪɚɲɧɵɟ ɫɥɨɜɚ, ɦɭɱɢɬɟɥɶɧɨ ɩɨɞɪɨɛɧɨ ɢɡɨɛɪɚɠɚɟɬ ɡɥɨɜɟɳɢɟ ɫɰɟɧɵ ɭɛɢɣɫɬɜɚ ɢ ɩɨɝɨɧɢ [...] [Masainov’s rabid, bloody, blasphemous lyric-epic poem ... The poet piles up terrible words, depicts in excruciating detail scenes of sinister murder and chase ...] (Mochul’sky 1925).

Of course, Mochul’sky’s disdain may have been purely a matter of taste, to which the violence and chaos of the events of 1917-1922 and their predecessor, the First World War, may have contributed. At the same time, it is more likely that the critic’s (escapist) disapproval first and foremost 2

For an overview of the prose texts, see Foster 1972, 153-162. For more on this aspect, see Dhooge, forthcoming 2017.

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had been conditioned by the overall negative attitude towards (and, in some cases, even aversion to) highbrow literature on the topic that dominated the émigré literary community during the interwar years. Boris Zaytsev strikingly describes this general attitude in a claim he made long after the tumultuous period: ɉɨɥɟɦɢɤɚ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ – ɞɟɥɨ ɩɭɛɥɢɰɢɫɬɨɜ. ɇɟɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɢ ɩɪɨɞɨɥɠɚɥɢ ɫɜɨɟ, ɱɢɫɬɨ-ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɨɟ ɞɟɥɨ. Ʉɨɧɟɱɧɨ, ɨɱɟɧɶ ɫɢɥɶɧɚ ɨɤɚɡɚɥɚɫɶ – ɨɫɨɛɟɧɧɨ ɭ ɫɬɚɪɲɢɯ – ɫɬɪɭɹ ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɬɟɥɶɧɚɹ. ɇɟ ɬɨ, ɱɬɨɛɵ ɜɫɟ ɩɪɨɲɥɨɟ ɛɵɥɨ ɩɪɟɤɪɚɫɧɨ, ɧɨ ɧɚɞ ɧɢɦ ɜɟɟɬ ɡɚɛɜɟɧɢɟɦ, ɭɫɥɚɠɞɚɸɳɢɦ ɢ ɭɤɪɚɲɚɸɳɢɦ. […] ȼ ɩɪɨɡɟ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ, ɞɚ ɢ ɫɬɢɯɚɯ ɬɨɝɨ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɢ ɨɱɟɧɶ ɦɚɥɨ ɨɛɥɢɱɟɧɢɹ, ɩɪɨɬɢɜɨɛɨɪɫɬɜɚ. Ɇɢɪɧɨɟ ɢ ɩɨɷɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɟ ɜ ɩɪɨɲɥɨɦ ɝɨɪɚɡɞɨ ɛɨɥɟɟ ɩɪɢɜɥɟɤɚɥɨ, ɱɟɦ ɜɨɣɧɚ, ɤɪɨɜɶ, ɧɚɫɢɥɢɟ, ɫɬɪɚɞɚɧɢɹ. (Zaytsev 1971, 4) [Political polemics is the business of publicists. Non-political writers continued with their own purely literary business. Of course, the current of memories turned out to be very strong, particularly among the older writers. It is not that the whole past was magnificent, but charming and embellishing oblivion was in the air. […] In the literary prose, as well as in the poetry of that time, there was very little unmasking, confrontation. The peaceful and the poetic in the past were far more attractive than war, blood, violence, suffering.]

Zaytsev’s statement suggests at least two cultural mechanisms that may have contributed to the overall negative attitude towards highbrow literature on the topic. The traumatic events of 1917 and the Civil war – the upheaval, the violence, the schism in society – were too numerous and too severe to discuss within the context of high literature. Moreover, the trauma of violence goes hand in hand with a second trauma that easily outweighs the first – the very loss of the homeland and everything that is inextricably connected to it, from the troubles of emigration to existential despair, including the feeling of being excluded from history (Slobin 2013, 23). This combination of traumas may have demanded peculiar ways of dealing with what happened, from disconnecting from the surrounding world to resorting to personal experiences, emotions, and memories. This certainly matches the remarkable “primacy of culture” that characterises interwar émigré culture (Andreyev 1971, 21). Additionally, this also corresponds with the most dominant trends in the literature of the time. Think of the “defeatist tendency” of which the poetry of Georgy Ivanov, the author of ɏɨɪɨɲɨ, ɱɬɨ ɧɟɬ ɐɚɪɹ… [It is good that there is no Czar...] (1930) is a prototypical example. The same goes for Georgy Adamovich’s emphasis on emotions, on “ɨɩɪɨɳɟɧɢɟ” [the simple life], and

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Revolution, Civil War, Modernity and Life in Exile

his conviction that writers should not focus too much on the phenomenal world – a reproach that Vladimir Nabokov encountered many times (Shrayer 1999, 165-166). And, last but not least, in Russian émigré literature there is also a strong tendency towards pre-revolutionary memories and nostalgia (Tihanov 2011, 366; Slobin 2013, 25). Despite the general aversion for literary writings on the events that led up to emigration and life in exile, Skit – or, more precisely, a number of writers of the Prague collective – makes those events if not a central theme, then at least a prominent and, more importantly, a valid one. The group was founded by a few young émigré writers and would become the leading group in Russian Prague during the interwar years. The artistic community arose in the so-called periphery of the Russian emigration, where the “older generation”, which de facto controlled the literary scene, did not have as much influence as in the cultural capital of the Russian emigration, Paris. It was a loosely organised and heterogeneous group of young poets, prose writers and critics, guided by the elder Al’fred Bëm, a critic, scholar and literary historian. In terms of ideology and artistic orientation, Skit was very open-minded, also with regard to Bolshevik culture,3 in contradistinction to the vast majority of émigré artists. Accordingly, the young Prague community did not feel constrained to thematise a topic that the established writers did not deem fit for literature – the Revolution and its aftermath. However, this only applies to the 1920s. By the end of the 1920s, there was a generational shift in Skit. Older members left, while younger writers joined the collective and generational differences started to cause serious frictions. As a result, Skit’s output covers two distinct periods: the 1920s and the 1930s. The main difference between the two periods is the dominant genre – narrative poetry for the 1920s, but lyrical poetry for the 1930s (Malevich 2005b, 17-18, Beloshevskaya 2006b, 74). It is not entirely clear how much influence Skit’s mentor, Bëm, had on the young writers of Skit, but it is beyond doubt that some of their ideas at least converge with their mentor’s views on society and the arts. Bëm holds that people need to be “active”, that is, that they need to be aware of and involved in what is happening in the surrounding world and that they need to try to influence the course of events, to help change and/or build the world. For Bëm, one of the most powerful means to achieve this goal – 3

See, for example, Aleksandr Turintsev’s article on Bolshevik poetry, ɉɨɷɡɢɹ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɣ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ [The poetry of contemporary Russia], in which the poet-critic is very positive about and devotes a lot of attention to the Futurists, young proletarian writers, and – most of all – Boris Pasternak, Sergey Yesenin and Nikolay Tikhonov (Lebedev 2007).

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“ɚɤɬɢɜɧɨɫɬɶ” [activeness] – was art. For that reason, art should not, Bëm states,4 focus on the (narrow) ‘I’ alone – the self, its feelings and its personal problems. Instead, it should focus on the (broader) surrounding world (Malevich 2005b, 6, 12-13, 15; Beloshevskaya 2006b, 25-26, 73-74). In his discussion of “activeness” Bëm does not really delve into concrete details or examples. There are some general references to the émigré context, but they are far from essential to Bëm’s general idea. The opposite is true for two of Bëm’s pupils, Aleksandr Turintsev and Vyacheslav Lebedev. Turintsev and Lebedev voice very similar views on the contents, function and role of contemporary émigré literature in several articles that were written in the second half of the 1920s and the early 1930s. Like Bëm, they stress the need not to observe merely one’s personal world and emotions, but to focus and, hence, influence the surrounding world, instead. As Bëm’s pupils take the émigré context as their point of departure, they focus first and foremost on the differences that exist between the writers of the dominant older generation and those of the younger one, more specifically – their different attitudes towards the present and the surrounding world. On the whole, both mentees hold very similar views, but they nonetheless emphasise different aspects, both in terms of motivation and realisation.

Narrating 1917-1922 In his 1926 article Ɉ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɹɯ ɜ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ [On Russian writers in the emigration] Turintsev claims – quite provocatively – that there is no “contemporary” émigré literature (Turintsev 2007c, 240). On the one hand, there are only the “old names” (“ɫɬɚɪɵɟ ɢɦɟɧɚ”), and no new names or groups come up, nor are there any discussions or practical attempts to create new forms, genres, schools, and so forth. In short, he states, “ɧɟɬ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ” [there is no literary life at all] (Turintsev 2007c, 241). The established writers were, of course, more than worthy, but the problem was, according to Turintsev, that they ignored and/or trivialised the recent past and the present – apparently, as supposes Bëm’s mentee, because they felt cut off from their homeland (Turintsev 2007c, 242-243). They do not write about the emigrants themselves, their moods, nor about exile as such. Alternatively, as Turintsev writes, with a clear reference to Masainov’s criticised poem: 4

Bëm makes this claim in his 1922 article Ɍɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ ɤɚɤ ɨɫɨɛɚɹ ɮɨɪɦɚ ɚɤɬɢɜɧɨɫɬɢ [Literature as a special form of activeness].

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Revolution, Civil War, Modernity and Life in Exile ɗɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɢɟ […] ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɢ ɩɪɨɫɬɨ ɨɬɜɨɪɚɱɢɜɚɸɬɫɹ ɨɬ «ɡɜɟɪɢɧɨɝɨ ɥɢɤɚ» ɷɬɢɯ ɥɟɬ […]. Ⱦɚɠɟ ɨɛɥɢɤɢ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ […] ɧɟ ɹɜɥɟɧɵ. ɇɟ ɧɚɲɥɢ ɫɜɨɟɝɨ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɜɨɩɥɨɳɟɧɢɹ ɧɢ ɨɬɞɟɥɶɧɵɟ ɤɪɚɫɨɱɧɵɟ ɬɢɩɵ, ɧɢ ɧɚɫɬɪɨɟɧɢɹ, ɧɢ ɬɪɚɝɟɞɢɹ ɧɚɞɥɨɦɥɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɢ ɛɟɡɞɨɪɨɠɶɹ ɜ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ (ɩɨ ɠɟɥɚɧɢɸ ɨɛɪɚɬɧɨɝɨ: – ɩɚɬɟɬɢɤɚ ɟɟ ɜɵɫɨɤɨɣ ɦɢɫɫɢɢ). (Turintsev 2007c, 243) [The émigré writers […] just turn away from the “face of the beast” of those years […]. Even the appearances of the emigration […] have not appeared yet. Neither the individual colourful types, nor the moods, nor the tragedy of brokenness and the absence of a clear path in the emigration (or, if one wishes the opposite: – the emotionalism of its high mission) have found their artistic realisation.]

For the poet-critic, this attitude was problematic. As he expresses it in Ʌɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɚɹ ɠɢɡɧɶ. Ɉ ɧɨɜɨɣ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɟ [Literary life. On the new Russian literature] (Turintsev 2007b)5 this attitude prevents émigré literature from being “modern” or “contemporary”, even if that literature is written “now” or if the heroes of that literature are confronted with contemporary situations: […] ɨɬ ɝɨɞɚ ɧɚɩɢɫɚɧɢɹ ɤɧɢɝɚ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɣ ɧɟ ɫɬɚɧɨɜɢɬɫɹ. Ɉɬ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɢ ɞɟɣɫɬɜɢɹ ɢ ɨɬ ɨɛɫɬɚɧɨɜɤɢ, ɜ ɤɨɟɣ ɨɧɨ ɩɪɨɢɫɯɨɞɢɬ, – ɬɚɤɠɟ. Ʉɥɨɛɭɤ ɧɟ ɞɟɥɚɟɬ ɦɨɧɚɯɚ. (Turintsev 2007b, 233) [[…] a book does not become contemporary due to the moment when it is written. Neither does it become contemporary due to the time of the action or due to the situation, in which the action takes place. Wearing a klobuk [hood] does not make one a monk.]

Readers, Turintsev claims, look at contemporary literature not just for its aesthetic value, but also for its cognitive value: they assume that a contemporary writer is equally involved in the present time in all its aspects as they themselves are but that the writer through his or her “ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɚɹ ɢɧɬɭɢɰɢɹ” [artistic intuition] can reveal what they themselves cannot. Literature (and art in general) does not only have an aesthetic 5 Turintsev’s article gives a solid overview of the present tendencies in Bolshevik literature. It is telling that the editors of the journal added a note to the critique, stating that they did not agree with Turintsev’s views, but that they had decided to print the article only because it provided an interesting overview of contemporary Soviet literature (Turintsev 2007b, 233). Turintsev speaks only of high literature and denounces middlebrow writers like Pëtr Krasnov and Nikolay Breshko-Breshkovsky, who wrote actively but in clichés about the past events.

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function, it is also “ɨɪɭɞɢɟ ɩɨɡɧɚɧɢɹ ɠɢɡɧɢ” [a means for the cognition of life] (Turintsev 2007b, 234). In the emigration, the reader could only rely on the biased émigré press, clichéd stories or nostalgic literature (Turintsev 2007c, 243). What the emigrant reader receives from the then-established writers, Turintsev asserts, is aesthetically pleasing, but useless literature. He does not get any reflection and guidance or insights, neither on past events nor on the present. It is too early, the poet-critic claims, to write great novels on the recent past and the present, but in poetry or short stories it should be possible to do this (Turintsev 2007c, 243-244). For Turintsev, Bolshevik literature was exemplary in this regard, for by narrating the Revolution and the Civil War it helped those who had experienced the events or who tried to understand them (Turintsev 2007b, 233-234; Turintsev 2007c, 243244). [...] ɧɟɥɶɡɹ ɨɬɪɢɰɚɬɶ ɨɞɧɨɝɨ, ɱɬɨ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ ɜ ɋɋɋɊ ɠɢɜɟɬ, ɨɧɚ ɢ ɧɭɠɧɚɹ, ɢ ɠɢɜɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ. Ɉɧɚ ɧɟ “ɧɨɜɚɹ” ɩɨ ɮɨɪɦɚɥɶɧɵɦ ɭɯɢɳɪɟɧɢɹɦ, ɚ ɢɦɟɧɧɨ ɜ ɫɢɥɭ ɬɨɝɨ, ɱɬɨ ɩɟɪɟɪɚɛɚɬɵɜɚɟɬ ɧɨɜɵɣ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥ. Ⱥɤɚɞɟɦɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɠɟ ɨɛɪɚɛɨɬɤɚ ɧɟ ɢɫɤɭɩɚɟɬ ɩɫɢɯɨɥɨɝɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɚɪɯɚɢɱɧɨɫɬɢ ɛɨɥɶɲɢɧɫɬɜɚ ɫɬɪɚɧɢɰ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɢɯ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɟɣ. (Turintsev 2007c, 244) [[…] one thing one cannot deny is that literature in the Soviet Union lives, that it is both a needed and a living literature. It is not “new” in terms of formal tricks, but exactly by the virtue that it treats the new material. The academic polishing after all does not compensate for the psychological archaism of the majority of pages by the émigré writers.]

The message is clear: émigré men and women of letters, too, need to tackle the surrounding world, to write “ɠɢɜɵɟ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɹ” [living literature], that is, literature that deals with the “ɠɢɜɵɟ ɥɸɞɢ” [living people], the “ɠɢɜɚɹ ɷɩɨɯɚ” [living epoch] (Turintsev 2007b, 234, 236). The most obvious way to achieve this goal is, of course, by creating literature (but not reading matter) that deals with the disruptive events of 1917 and their immediate consequences. Some members of Skit – mostly those members, male poets, had lived through the events as soldiers – held the same opinion and acted correspondingly.6 Turintsev’s Ʉɨɧɧɢɰɚ [Cavalry] (1925, Malevich 2005a, 93-95), for example, is an ode to the cavalry, the most beautiful part of the army:

6

Turintsev had served in Yudenich’s army, Sergej Rafal’sky was a soldier in Wrangel’s army, Lebedev was a veteran of the Voluntary army. On the lives of the members of Skit, see Malevich 2005a; Beloshevskaya 2006a.

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Revolution, Civil War, Modernity and Life in Exile Ɋɚɫɤɪɚɫɚɜɢɰɚ, ɰɚɪɢɰɚ ɤɨɧɧɢɰɚ, Ʉɪɚɫɨɬɟ ɬɜɨɟɣ ɤɬɨ ɧɟ ɩɨɤɥɨɧɢɬɫɹ! [Extreme beauty, tsarina cavalry, Who would not bow for your beauty!]

Immediately after this laudation, however, the action shifts to the “ɛɪɚɧɧɵɟ ɩɨɥɹ” [martial fields] – and the battle: ȼɫɟ ɤɪɭɱɟ ɫɬɪɟɦɢɬ, ɜɫɟ ɧɚɩɨɪɢɫɬɟɣ Ȼɟɡɡɭɛɨɣ ɧɚɜɫɬɪɟɱɭ, ɛɟɡ ɝɨɪɟɫɬɢ! [More and more severe, more and more energetic She rushes, towards the feeble, without sorrow!]

She seems unstoppable, but Death / the enemy nonetheless takes his share: ɋ ɨɩɚɫɤɨɣ ɤɬɨ ɧɟ ɩɨɫɬɨɪɨɧɢɬɫɹ, Ʉɬɨ ɜɫɬɚɧɟɬ ɧɚ ɞɨɪɨɝɟ?! Ɉɞɧɚ ɥɢɲɶ… Ɇɧɨɝɢɯ, ɦɧɨɝɢɯ, ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɣ ɩɟɪɟɪɜɚɜ ɝɚɥɨɩ, Ʉɨɫɨɸ, – ɧɚ ɡɟɦɶ... ɋɤɨɦɤɚɟɬ… [Who would not make way with caution, Who would stand on the road?! Only one… She crumples… Having broken off the last gallop Of many, many, with her scythe – onto the ground.]

Nonetheless, the cavalry pushes harder and rushes forward, “ɤɚɤ ɝɧɟɜɧɵɣ ɞɟɦɨɧ” [as an angry demon]: ɋɦɟɪɬɨɧɨɫɧɚɹ ɧɟɫɟɬɫɹ ɤɨɧɧɢɰɚ, ȼɪɚɠɶɹ ɝɨɥɨɜɚ – ɩɨɤɨɣɧɢɰɚ! [The lethal cavalry rushes, the enemy’s head of the cavalry is dead]

Another example is Turintsev’s ɗɩɢɡɨɞ [An episode] (1923, Malevich 2005a, 92-93), which narrates in detail an episode in the spring or autumn offensive on Petrograd by the White North-Western Army in 1919. Lebedev, too, wrote several poems narrating the Revolution and its aftermath, such as Ʉɚɜɚɥɟɪɢɣɫɤɚɹ ɛɚɥɥɚɞɚ [A Cavalry Ballade] (1925, Malevich 2005a, 101-106), which is a cynical story in verse, telling of

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how a cavalry captain leaves with his squadron and is ambushed. The sole survivor, the captain finds shelter at a farmer’s house, escapes his pursuers, thanks to the farmer’s daughter, wanders around looking to return to his army, but is eventually shot by his own troops. In the poem, lots of details of the war are presented: from the captain’s suffering to the situation at the Whites’ headquarters. Another example is Sergey Rafal’sky’s Ȼɭɧɬ [Riot] (1924, Malevich 2005a, 27-28). The poem primarily deals with the moral aspects of the events – the Russian Revolution is nothing more than an ordinary revolt aimed at seizing power, not at improving the lives of the people – but also gives detailed insight into the events themselves: ɍ ɬɸɪɶɦ ɧɟ ɦɨɥɤ ɳɟɦɹɳɢɣ ɠɟɧɫɤɢɣ ɩɥɚɱ, […] Ʉɬɨ ɜɫɩɨɦɧɢɬ ɜɫɟɯ ɛɨɣɰɨɜ ɭ ɛɚɪɪɢɤɚɞ ɢ ɤɬɨ ɡɚɛɵɥ ɬɪɟɜɨɠɧɵɣ ɬɪɟɫɤ ɪɚɫɫɬɪɟɥɨɜ, ɬɪɟɫɤ ɦɢɬɪɚɥɶɟɡ, ɨɪɤɟɫɬɪ ɫɬɚɥɶɧɵɯ ɰɢɤɚɞ, ɢ ɜɡɛɪɵɡɝɢ ɩɭɥɶ ɭ ɤɚɦɟɧɧɵɯ ɚɪɤɚɞ, ɢ ɜ ɫɭɞɨɪɨɝɚɯ ɪɭɯɧɭɜɲɟɟ ɬɟɥɨ. At nearby prisons the aching weeping of women has not fallen silent, […] Who will remember all the fighters at the barricades and who has forgotten the alarming crackle of executions, the crackle of machine guns, the orchestra of steel cicadas, and the spatters of bullets at the stone arcades, and a body that has collapsed in convulsions.

Ȼɭɧɬ, however, goes further than just describing the events. The poem also zooms in on how the émigré community deals with these past events that have actually determined their future. Despite the fact that most try not to remember them – or perhaps never really experienced them – they nonetheless flare up whenever the events are mentioned, whenever the raison d’être of their lives in exile is touched upon: ȼ ɤɚɮɟ ɬɪɟɜɨɝ ɧɟ ɡɧɚɟɬ ɩɟɩɟɪɦɟɧɬ,7 ɡɚɛɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɛɭɧɬ ɧɟ ɛɟɫɩɨɤɨɢɬ ɭɲɢ, – ɧɚ ɛɚɪɪɢɤɚɞɵ ɧɟ ɪɚɡɛɢɬɶ ɰɟɦɟɧɬ, – ɧɨ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɦɢɝ, ɨ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɛɵ ɦɨɦɟɧɬ – ɢ ɤɪɟɩɱɟ ɤɚɦɧɹ ɢ ɫɟɪɞɰɚ ɢ ɞɭɲɢ!

7

ɉɟɩɟɪɦɟɧɬ comes from the French pépère, “grandpa, daddy, elderly person” (Malevich 2005a, 27).

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Revolution, Civil War, Modernity and Life in Exile In the bar the old man does not know anxiety, the forgotten riot does not worry his ears, – one does not need to break cement for the barricades, – but only an instant, oh only a moment – and harder than stone become the hearts and souls!

Narrating modernity The Revolution and its aftermath, of course, are just one aspect of the emigrants’ lives, albeit a quintessential one. While for Turintsev “living literature” first and foremost relates to the events themselves (i.e. what led up to life in exile, but also how one deals with the past while living in exile), Lebedev understands the term in a broader sense. In Lebedev’s view, “living literature” covers the present the author lives in (the same “ɠɢɜɚɹ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ” [living modernity] as in Turintsev’s articles) – that is, not only the events that led up to exile and possible reactions to them, but also everything that came after emigrating: the new reality, the émigré community’s new context, life in exile in modern Europe, life in the post-1917 world. However, there is an important caveat here. In his 1931 article ɉɨɷɡɢɹ ɢ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ [Poetry and Modernity], Lebedev states that merely including elements of the present or modernity is insufficient. Instead, modernity in all its aspects, or “living modernity”, should be accepted as an indisputable, natural, self-evident reality, inherent to modern man’s life. For that reason, modernity should not be treated as something negative, nor can it be sung of with admiration, as that would imply that it is not accepted as something normal. Lebedev names the Eiffel Tower as an example. Just naming the tower in a piece of literature written in the 1920s does not make that text modern by definition. (Moreover, for the Parisians the Eiffel Tower is nothing new, and modern man is not easily amazed.) What does make that text modern is including the many people jumping off the Paris landmark to commit suicide and the measures the French capital takes to stop the suicide attempts (Lebedev 2007, 279-281). For the same reasons, Lebedev does not consider Vladislav Khodasevich’s ȿɜɪɨɩɟɣɫɤɚɹ ɧɨɱɶ [European Night], which is full of references to modern European realia, modern, as it is – at least in Lebedev’s eyes – mostly negative about that new reality (Lebedev 2007, 281). European modernity is a much-neglected topic among most émigré writers, young and old, claims Lebedev (Lebedev 2007, 281). In émigré newspapers and journals, of course, life in Europe is a recurring theme (though one could argue about whether it is discussed mostly negatively or rather in a more balanced way). However, and here we see the same

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discrepancy we encountered in Turintsev’s articles with regard to writings on the Revolution and its aftermath, most established émigré writers and their successors, such as the poets of ɑɢɫɥɚ [Numbers], do not really cover their life in Europe. If they write at all about modern life, Lebedev says, they write about it as something unnatural, or they focus on it in order to vent their negative appreciation of the new circumstances or of how things have evolved. Instead of embracing the new reality, the majority of émigré writers first and foremost created aesthetically appealing literature and literature in which abstract and eternal themes took up a central place, but in which the “ɜɧɟɲɧɢɣ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɵɣ ɦɢɪ ɜɟɳɟɣ ɢ ɜɡɚɢɦɨɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɣ” [external contemporary world of things and relations] was no longer a valid theme: “ɦɥɚɞɲɚɹ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɧɚɹ ɩɨɷɡɢɹ […] ɡɚɛɚɥɥɨɬɢɪɨɜɚɥɚ ɩɨɱɬɢ ɟɞɢɧɨɝɥɚɫɧɨ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ ɜɨ ɜɫɟɯ ɟɟ ɩɪɨɹɜɥɟɧɢɹɯ ɢ ɜɢɞɚɯ ɤɚɤ ɬɟɦɭ ɞɥɹ ɫɬɢɯɨɜ” [the younger émigré poetry almost unanimously rejected modernity in all its manifestations and aspects as a theme for poetry] (Lebedev 2007, 279; cf. also 281). Embracing modernity, being modern, albeit in their own, specific context (“ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧ[ɧɵ] ɞɥɹ ɫɜɨɢɯ ɭɫɥɨɜɢɣ”), however, is a characteristic the classics share: Homer’s Odyssey, Pushkin’s ȿɜɝɟɧɢɣ Ɉɧɟɝɢɧ [Eugene Onegin] and Ʉɥɟɜɟɬɧɢɤɚɦ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ [To the Slanderers of Russia], Gogol’s Ɋɟɜɢɡɨɪ [The Government Inspector], Tolstoy’s ȼɨɣɧɚ ɢ ɦɢɪ [War and Peace] and, lastly, Mayakovsky’s poems all are “modern” to Lebedev’s mind (Lebedev 2007, 282). Being “modern within a specific context” is a necessity, as literature is “ɫɩɟɤɬɚɤɥɶ ɜɟɱɧɵɯ ɱɭɜɫɬɜ ɜ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɵɯ ɞɟɤɨɪɚɰɢɹɯ” [a spectacle of eternal emotions in modern scenery] (Lebedev 2007, 282). Emotions are eternal, but the setting is not. Not embracing reality, but taking up eternal themes instead, Lebedev warns, implies a constant repetition of the same emotions in an identical setting and, hence, inevitably leads to a devaluation of literature, to a clichéd literature: “ɨɬɪɢɰɚɬɶ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ – ɷɬɨ ɡɧɚɱɢɬ ɨɬɪɢɰɚɬɶ ɢ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɭ” [to deny modernity – means to deny literature as well] (Lebedev 2007, 282). Of all the members of Skit, Lebedev is the most consistent in creating poetry that deals with the new reality of life in Europe. Key in Lebedev’s poems is the need to accept life in exile, at least for the time being. In ɇɚ ɞɚɥɶɧɟɦ ɩɭɬɢ [On a distant journey] (1926-1928, Malevich 2005a, 116117), for example, Lebedev makes it a central theme: life in Russia and life in Prague are very similar and despite the fact that his memories tell him that everything in Russia – the North – might have seemed better, he still accepts life in Prague as an inevitability (and simultaneously secretly lashes out at the older generation and its successors who idealise the past).

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Revolution, Civil War, Modernity and Life in Exile ȼɫɟ ɬɚɤ ɠɟ, ɜ Ɍɭɥɟ ɢɥɢ ɜ ɉɪɚɝɟ, ɂɞɭɬ ɞɨɠɞɢ, ɲɭɦɹɬ ɥɟɫɚ, ɂ ɦɨɥɨɞɵɟ ɝɨɥɨɫɚ ɉɨɸɬ ɩɨ ɜɟɱɟɪɚɦ ɜ ɨɜɪɚɝɟ. – Ȼɵɬɶ ɦɨɠɟɬ, ɫɟɜɟɪɧɵɟ ɞɧɢ ȿɳɟ ɫɢɪɟɧɟɜɟɣ ɢ ɬɢɲɟ. ɂ ɫɟɪɞɰɭ, ɦɨɠɟɬ ɛɵɬɶ, ɫɪɨɞɧɢ ȼɟɬɪɹɤ, ɫɨɥɨɦɟɧɧɵɟ ɤɪɵɲɢ, ɉɨɥɹ, ɞɨɪɨɝɢ, ɫɤɪɢɩ ɬɟɥɟɝ. Ȼɨɠɧɢɰɚ ɧɚ ɦɨɫɬɭ ɩɨɤɚɬɨɦ, ɂ ɝɨɥɭɛɨɣ, ɜɟɱɟɪɧɢɣ ɫɧɟɝ ɉɨɞ ɧɟɠɧɵɦ ɪɨɡɨɜɵɦ ɡɚɤɚɬɨɦ. ɇɨ ɱɬɨ ɠɟ ɫɞɟɥɚɬɶ ɹ ɦɨɝɭ?.. Ʉɚɤ ɫ ɧɟɢɡɛɟɠɧɨɫɬɶɸ ɩɨɫɩɨɪɸ… – Ɍɚɤ ɨɬɴɟɡɠɚɸɳɢɟ ɜ ɦɨɪɟ Ƚɪɭɫɬɹɬ ɨ ɞɧɹɯ ɧɚ ɛɟɪɟɝɭ. […] ɇɭ ɱɬɨ ɠ… Ⱦɨɪɨɝɚ – ɞɚɥɟɤɚ. ɂ ɫɟɪɞɰɟ ɭɱɢɬɫɹ ɩɨɫɥɭɲɧɨ ɋɥɨɜɚɦ ɱɭɠɨɝɨ ɹɡɵɤɚ… [Still in the same way, in Tula or in Prague, Does it rain, do the woods rustle, Do young voices Sing in the evenings in the ravine. – It is possible that the northern days Are even more lilac-coloured and silent. And it is possible that the windmills, The reed roofs, the fields, the roads, The squeak of waggons are akin to the heart. The chapel gently sloping on the bridge, And the pale-blue evening snow Under the tender pink sunset. But what can I do?… It is as if I would contend with inevitability itself… In the same way those who travel to the sea pine For the days on shore. […] Well, then… The journey is long. And the heart obediently studies The words of a foreign language…]

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Lebedev and his colleagues not only look at their immediate surroundings, but also at the broader European context. They regularly draw on recent European and/or world events, which corresponds with Lebedev’s idea that the emigration should also embrace its new reality. Hence poems like Mikhail Skachkov’s Ɉɛɥɚɱɧɵɟ ɤɨɪɚɛɥɢ [Cloud ships] (Malevich 2005a, 210-211), which sings of the Battle of Penang in the First World War, when a German cruiser secretly sailed to the harbour of the Malaysian state Penang and sank two allied ships – a Russian and a French one. Lebedev’s ɗɤɫɩɟɞɢɰɢɹ ɧɚ ɫɟɜɟɪɧɵɣ ɩɨɥɸɫ [Expedition to the North Pole] (1930, Malevich 2005a, 157) narrates the rescue efforts for Umberto Nobile’s airship Italia, which crashed in the Arctic in May 1928, whereby the famous Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen went missing. Another example is ȿɜɪɨɩɟɣɫɤɢɣ ɫɟɧɬɹɛɪɶ 1929 ɝ. [European September of 1929] (1930, Malevich 2005a, 153), a dense and collage-like poem with a larger, pan-European range, which cryptically narrates some major events of September 1929: the Devonport shipyard having to wait to start building a new cruiser because of the negotiations for a new treaty between France, Italy, Japan, the United Kingdom and the United States aiming to prevent an arms race (the agreement, the London Naval Treaty, was signed in 1930); the adoption of the third Geneva Convention; the old French cruiser Jeanne d’Arc being replaced by a new one with the same name; the Graf Zeppelin’s first tour around the world and the “Großflugtag” in Kiel, when the Graf Zeppelin and other airships and airplanes were to be viewed at the Friedrich Krupp Germaniawerft; Lenin’s mausoleum being rebuilt in granite, Bolshevik soldiers guarding the mausoleum with bare bayonets (“ɲɬɵɤɢ” or “ɫɚɛɥɢ”) and/or wreaths of gladioli (“ɫɚɛɥɢ”) being laid down at the entrance to the mausoleum. All these events of world importance are, however, put in their true perspective, as the world just continues, regardless of what is happening in it: a mouse scratches around in a poor émigré writer’s apartment in green Prague; and night falls, ousting major events like revolutions and bringing to naught cultural differences (hence the different units of length): Ⱥ ɦɟɠ ɬɟɦ ɜ ɡɟɥɟɧɨɣ ɑɟɯɢɢ, ɇɨɱɶɸ, ɜ ɦɚɧɫɚɪɞɟ ɩɨɷɬɚ Ɇɵɲɶ ɜɨɪɨɲɢɥɚ ɞɨɫɩɟɯɢ ɇɚ ɦɨɳɚɯ ɜɵɫɵɯɚɸɳɟɝɨ ɥɟɬɚ. ɂ ɜ ɩɨɥɹɯ, ɡɚɤɪɭɝɥɟɧɧɵɯ, ɤɚɤ ɛɥɸɞɰɟ, ɑɟɪɟɡ ɦɟɬɪɵ, ɮɭɬɵ ɢ ɫɚɠɧɢ, ɇɨɱɶ ɲɥɚ ɬɟɦɧɟɣ ɢ ɜɚɠɧɟɣ ɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɣ, ɉɨɞ ɝɭɥɤɢɦ ɧɟɛɨɦ ɪɚɫɩɟɜɚɹ ɩɪɨɬɹɠɧɨ… [While in green Czechia,

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Revolution, Civil War, Modernity and Life in Exile By night, in a poet’s garret A mouse scattered its armour On the relics of the fading summer. And in the fields, rounded, like a saucer, Meters, feet and sazhens on, The night advanced, darker and more pompous than revolutions, Under the rumbling sky, singing loudly and protractedly.]

Besides current events, elements of modernity – high-speed trains, zeppelins, elevators, ice breakers, jazz music, and so on – are also abundant in Lebedev’s poetry and in poetry by other members of the artistic community. It is important to note, though, that these elements of modern times function mostly as common elements of European life instead of something Lebedev and his colleagues hate or, on the contrary, adore. See, for example, Lebedev’s ɒɧɟɥɶɰɭɝ [High-Speed Train] (1924, Malevich 2005a, 100), in which the lyric I travels “east”, “ɜ ɤɪɚɣ ɤɪɚɫɧɵɯ ɮɟɫɨɤ ɢ ɞɨɥɚɦ” [to the land of red fezzes and kaftans], “ɧɚ ɤɪɵɥɶɹɯ ɦɨɳɧɨɝɨ ɲɧɟɥɶɰɭɝɚ” [on the wings of a powerful high-speed train]. His destination is Bosnia and Herzegovina, with its muezzins, the Drina and the snowy Cincar. In this “eastern” location, where there is no place for boredom or spleen, he hopes to revive himself: ə ɨɠɢɥ ɜɞɪɭɝ, ɡɞɟɫɶ ɜɩɪɹɦɶ ɜɨɫɬɨɤ, Ɂɞɟɫɶ ɫɤɭɤɢ ɧɟɬ ɢ ɧɟɬɭ ɫɩɥɢɧɚ. [I all of a sudden came to life again, There is no boredom or spleen here.]

The poem is not about the contrast between modernity and non-modernity, between the high speed train and idyllic life and nature in the Balkans, about the differences between West and East, but rather about the complementariness of the two seemingly opposed spheres: a quick means of transport, which is able to bring the poet to his beloved Bosnia, but which will also bring him back to Prague. As such, Lebedev’s poem is not an ode to modernity, but rather just an acceptance of modernity tout court. Elements of modernity are equally important and “normal” in other poems, like Alla Golovina’s ȼ ɤɢɧɟɦɚɬɨɝɪɚɮɟ [At the cinema] (1931, Malevich 2005a, 343), which narrates a visit to the cinema and the lyric persona dating someone, or Vadim Morkovin’s ɍɬɪɨ… [Morning…] (1929, Malevich 2005a, 449), on a concert that the lyric persona reads about on a poster – “ɛɟɥɚɹ ɤɥɹɤɫɚ” [a white smudge] – in the street – and that he attends till late. At night he returns home, worse for wear.

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Acceptance of modernity in all its aspects does not mean that reality cannot be questioned – that is, not the facts or realia (that would be against the idea of living literature) – but how people behave within that reality (which corresponds with the idea that one also has to influence the course of events). In ɋɬɪɚɲɧɵɣ ɫɭɞ [Judgement Day] (1929, Malevich 2005a, 143), for example, Lebedev depicts the coming of Judgement Day. The people on earth do not expect it and make a fuss. The angels understand the people’s modern situation and promise that nobody will be excluded from Paradise: Ɉɬɜɟɱɚɥɢ ɥɸɛɟɡɧɨ, ɱɬɨ ɜ ɪɟɡɭɥɶɬɚɬɟ, ɤɨɧɟɱɧɨ, ɜɫɟ ɩɨɩɚɞɭɬ ɜ ɪɚɣ. [They answered amiably, that in the end, of course, everybody will get to heaven.]

Nonetheless, all the people are still unhappy, each for his or her own petty reasons – women cry (but admire the angels’ wonderful wings, spears and trumpets); those who are in love regret that it will be their last night and dawn, and that they have lost their precious time courting; men are angry that they will not be paid for this week’s work and that they will have to miss Sunday’s football game. Only an old beggar woman seems to understand fully what it is all about: ȼɫɬɚɥɚ ɫɱɚɫɬɥɢɜɨɸ ɢ ɜɟɫɟɥɨɣ, ɉɨɬɨɦɭ ɱɬɨ ɭɡɧɚɥɚ, ɱɬɨ Ȼɨɝ – ɟɫɬɶ… [Stood up happy and cheerful For she had found out that God exists…]

Besides people and society, Lebedev also criticises political systems and those in charge of those systems. In Ⱥɦɟɪɢɤɚɧɫɤɢɣ ɩɟɣɡɚɠ [American Landscape] (1929, Malevich 2005a, 151-152), for example, Lebedev depicts the United States as a country in which conservatism and racial inequality are major forces. The Prague poet accuses the then president (Herbert Hoover) of being racist and unwelcoming towards newcomers: ɉɪɟɡɢɞɟɧɬ ɪɚɡɦɵɲɥɹɟɬ ɨ ɱɢɫɬɨɬɟ ɪɚɫɵ ɂ ɬɨɩɢɬ ɜ ɦɨɪɟ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɢɟ ɤɨɪɚɛɥɢ. [The president ponders over the purity of the race And drowns ships with emigrants in the sea.]

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Also Lincoln is suggested to support, or at least not to oppose, racial inequality: [ȼɟɬɟɪ] [ɩ]ɭɬɚɟɬ ɛɪɨɧɡɨɜɵɟ ɜɨɥɨɫɵ Ʌɢɧɤɨɥɶɧɚ ɇɚɞ ɱɟɪɧɵɦ ɱɢɫɬɢɥɶɳɢɤɨɦ ɫɚɩɨɝ [[The wind] [t]angles Lincoln’s bronze hair Over the black bootblack.]

Other often highly contrasting aspects that are dealt with are the conservatism of the United States, its social inequality (an old mechanic working hard at the airfield), its success stories (business magnate John Rockefeller and aviator Charles Lindbergh, who gave a boost to commercial aviation by flying over the Atlantic), its entertainment industry (rum and whiskey, boxing, Palm Beach, dance halls, the tango), and so forth.

Narrating the future Lebedev’s views on the relationship between literature and reality, and on the importance of reality for the existence of literature, of course, differ considerably from Turintsev’s. Nonetheless, both views are complimentary manifestations of one and the same basic idea. Firstly, both Turintsev and Lebedev insist that one must write about reality, that one must be involved in the “present life”. Hence, it should not be surprising that both Turintsev and Lebedev focus first and foremost on cognition as a basic element of “living literature”. Secondly, both poet-critics also claim – albeit in a less explicit way than Bëm – that writers must influence the development of the surrounding world, something that can only be achieved through cognition. Hence Turintsev’s use of the term “literature” as a “means for the cognition of life”: one must know, accept and discuss the present world in order to be involved or to be able to change it. Turintsev and Lebedev perceive different ways to achieve this “activeness”. Turintsev explicitly states that literature can play a therapeutic role by helping people to understand and come to terms with the recent past. Lebedev implicitly points in the same direction, but suggests an additional approach: the need to name, experience, accept and, thus, digest the present – that is to say, life in Europe. Both modes of “activeness” are rather passive, however. While Turintsev and Lebedev do not really theorise on this matter, they – and with them other members of Skit – also foresee a more active way to achieve “activeness”: to look behind and try to understand how the present and the past are related, on the one hand, but also to look ahead and try to think of

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the future, a field that among writers of the older generation and its direct successors is largely beyond reach. A modest example is Lebedev’s Ʉɪɨɜɚɜɚɹ ɪɨɡɚ [Bloody Rose] (1922, Malevich 2005a, 96-97), which deals with the English Wars of the Roses. By itself, it is quite an unusual theme for the time, especially within the émigré context. However, the links with the Russian events are obvious: Reds versus Whites, and the Reds eventually winning. At the same time, however, the ending of the poem also leaves some hope for the future. As the Reds approach, a White countess sacrifices herself to save a sick White knight by committing suicide. Her blood colours the white rose on the knight’s helmet. When the Lancastrians arrive, the knight is considered one of them and is saved: Ɉɞɢɧ ɭɞɚɪ – ɢ ɪɨɡɭ ɷɬɭ Ɉɤɪɚɲɭ ɤɪɨɜɶɸ ɦɨɥɨɞɨɣ… Ⱦɜɢɠɟɧɶɟ… ɤɪɢɤ… – ɢ ɤɪɨɜɶ ɤɚɫɤɚɞɨɦ… Ɋɭɦɹɧɰɟɦ ɪɨɡɭ ɨɛɨɠɝɥɨ – […] […] Ʌɚɧɤɚɫɬɟɪ ɫɚɦ ɢɞɟɬ ɤ ɛɨɥɶɧɨɦɭ – ȼɡɝɥɹɧɭɥ ɧɚ ɪɨɡɭ… «ɗɬɨ ɧɚɲ!..» [One blow – and I will paint That rose with my young blood… A movement… a shout… – and blood runs like a cascade… The rose is burnt by the blush – […] […] Lancaster himself approaches the sick knight – He had a look at the rose… “He is one of us!…”]

Within the émigré context, the poem can be read as an assumption that the White emigration sacrifices itself for the future generations, who will be embraced again by the adversary, or that there will be a kind of reconciliation between the opposing parties. Assumed links between past and present thus have the potential to offer a (careful) peek at the future. Aleksey Eysner’s ȼ ɬɨɬ ɫɬɪɚɲɧɵɣ ɝɨɞ ɩɪɨɬɹɠɧɨ ɜɵɥɢ ɜɨɥɤɢ [In that terrible year wolves howled protractedly] (1927, Malevich 2005a, 273-275) narrates Napoleon’s 1812 campaign against Russia and Russia’s eventual counteraction and subsequent victory. The poem ends with the statement that now there is a new, “ɢɧɚɹ

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ɫɬɪɚɲɧɚɹ ɩɨɪɚ” [different terrible time] – that is, Bolshevik rule and life in exile, which are equally as catastrophic for Russia as Napoleon’s invasion. However, there is one major difference: this time there is nothing one can do but accept the fate of exile. Nonetheless, the poem also implies that keeping alive the memory of the victory over Napoleon may eventually lead to the emigrants striking back and gaining the upper hand: ɇɨ ɧɟ ɩɨɫɬɚɜɢɬɶ ɛɵɫɬɪɨ ɧɨɝɭ ɜ ɫɬɪɟɦɹ, ɇɟ ɡɚɤɪɢɱɚɬɶ ɞɨ ɯɪɢɩɨɬɵ ɭɪɚ. Ƚɥɚɡɚ ɩɨɬɭɩɢɜ, ɩɨ ɬɪɨɩɟ ɢɡɝɧɚɧɶɹ Ȼɪɟɞɟɦ ɦɵ ɧɢɳɢɦɢ. Ɍɨɫɤɭɟɦ ɢ ɦɨɥɱɢɦ. ɂ ɥɢɲɶ ɜ ɬɨɪɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɶɹɯ ȼɞɵɯɚɟɦ ɩɪɨɲɥɨɝɨ ɞɭɲɢɫɬɵɣ ɞɵɦ. ɇɨ ɧɢɤɨɝɞɚ ɧɟ ɨɬɤɚɠɭɫɶ ɨɬ ɩɪɚɜɚ ȼɨɡɨɛɧɨɜɥɹɬɶ ɜ ɭɲɚɯ ɩɨɛɟɞɵ ɡɜɨɧ ɂ ɜɨɫɤɪɟɲɚɬɶ ɩɚɞɟɧɢɟ ɢ ɫɥɚɜɭ ȼ ɜɟɥɢɤɨɦ ɢɦɟɧɢ: ɇɚɩɨɥɟɨɧ. [But we cannot quickly put our foot in the stirrup, We cannot cheer until we get hoarse. With downcast eyes, on the path of exile, We trudge like paupers. We are miserable and silent. And only in our solemn memories We breathe in the sweet-scented smoke of the past. But I will never decline my right To recall in my ears the sound of victory, And to revive the fall and glory In that great name: Napoleon.]

Often the link between past and future is more obvious. Rafal’sky’s Ȼɭɧɬ, for example, not only contains a moral judgement on the past (the French Revolution was a noble thing) and the present (the masses will not benefit from the October Revolution), but also hints at a possible, apocalyptic future. The corrupted Russian Revolution, claims Rafal’sky, will soon be followed by the Revolution of a “great Guest”, who is “already at the gate”: God. That moral revolution, however, will be very different from the previous one and bring justice, just like the noble French Revolution once did: ɨɧ ɭ ɜɨɪɨɬ ɜɟɥɢɤɨɥɟɩɧɵɣ Ƚɨɫɬɶ, ɢ ɫɤɨɪɨ ɤɚɦɧɢ ɫɬɚɧɭɬ ɜɵɬɶ ɢ ɤɚɪɤɚɬɶ!

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Ɉ, ɧɟ ɡɚɛɵɬɶ ɝɪɨɦɨɤɢɩɹɳɢɣ ɫɨɧ, ɢ ɦɢɥɥɢɨɧɨɜ ɬɨɩɨɬ ɜɟɥɢɱɚɜɵɣ, ɢ ɜɡɜɢɡɝɢ ɩɭɥɶ, ɢ ɚɥɵɣ ɩɥɟɫɤ ɡɧɚɦɟɧ, ɢ ɷɬɨ ɛɭɣɫɬɜɨ ɛɟɲɟɧɵɯ ɜɪɟɦɟɧ, ɢ ɫɦɟɪɬɧɵɣ ɤɪɢɤ ɧɟɱɟɥɨɜɟɱɶɟɣ ɫɥɚɜɵ! [the great Guest is already at the gates, and soon the stones will start to howl and croak! O, let us not forget the thunder-gurgling dream, and the majestic tramp of millions, and the screams of bullets, and the scarlet splash of banners, and that unruliness of the mad times, and the deadly shout of superhuman glory!]

Lebedev’s ɋɬɢɯɢ ɨɛ Ⱥɧɝɥɢɢ [Verses on England] (1929, Malevich 2005a, 128) works along the same lines, but has a different, European scope that is essentially just another realisation of the poet-critic’s idea that “living literature” should focus on the surrounding reality, in this case – life in Europe. The poem narrates all kinds of sordid events in which the British Empire was involved during the 1920s – support for the White movement during the Russian Civil War, British troops being sent to Shanghai in order to protect the international population in the city after the Shanghai Massacre of 1927, Tangier’s status as an international zone in which Great Britain played a dominant role, British rule in Singapore, major British influence in independent Egypt, and so on. By doing so, the poem hints at the imminent defeat of the British Empire, the last of empires to disappear in the new era – “ȿɳɟ ɨɞɧɨɣ ɂɦɩɟɪɢɢ ɤɨɧɟɰ”. Besides, the poem also suggests that Bolshevik Russia will benefit from the end of the British Empire and will take its place in the East: ɂ ɧɟ ɬɜɨɢ ɥɢ ɹɳɢɤɢ ɩɚɬɪɨɧ, Ɉɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɧɵɟ ɛɟɥɵɦɢ ɜ Ɋɨɫɬɨɜɟ, ɇɟ ɞɥɹ ɬɟɛɹ ɥɢ ɞɟɪɠɢɬ ɧɚɝɨɬɨɜɟ Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, ɩɟɪɟɩɪɚɜɥɹɹ ɧɚ Ʉɚɧɬɨɧ!?.. [Are not yours those chests of cartridges, That were left by the Whites in Rostov, And does not Moscow keep them ready to hand for you, Transporting them to Canton!?...]

There are many more examples,8 but the very height of this type of “active” poetry are the long, complex visionary poems by some of Skit’s 8

For example, Aleksey Fotinsky’s Ⱦɟɦɨɧɫɬɪɚɰɢɹ [Demonstration] (1928, Malevich 2005a, 76-80) or Turintsev’s ɋ ɧɟɞɚɜɧɢɯ ɩɨɪ ɦɧɟ ɱɭɞɢɬɫɹ ɜɫɟ ɱɚɳɟ…

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members. Think of Eysner’s Ʉɨɧɧɢɰɚ [Cavalry] (1928, Malevich 2005a, 280-284), which predicts a Eurasianist future for Europe: Russians take the lead in a barbarian Eurasian raid on Europe to “uncivilise” it, repeating past battles and sieges that were decisive for Russia’s development. Lebedev’s ɉɨɷɦɚ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɵɯ ɥɟɬ [Poem of Bygone Years] (1928, Malevich 2005a, 132-142), then, predicts a Westernist future, whereby Europeanised Russian émigrés will colonise Russia with European culture. Furthermore, the poem draws parallels between Napoleon’s eventual defeat and the imminent defeat of the Bolsheviks.9

Narrating “living emotions” One would almost forget that in their critical writings both Turintsev and Lebedev stress another manifestation of cognition as well, one that at first sight resembles what they actively denounce: lyricism, emotions, memories and even melancholy and nostalgia. Both poet-critics touch upon emotions as one of the many aspects of the “living present”, but they do not really focus on it. Instead, when discussing an “alternative” to the Parisian literature – which abounds in emotions – they seem to pay more attention to the tangible facts. Nonetheless, emotions are also crucial to their views. Turintsev refers explicitly to it when he discusses the need to help the people grasp what has happened: “Neither the individual colourful types, nor the moods or the tragedy of brokenness and the absence of a clear path in the emigration […] have found their artistic realisation” (Turintsev 2007c, 243). Lebedev, then, claims that literature is “a spectacle of eternal emotions in modern decorations.” (Lebedev 2007, 282) Naming, experiencing, accepting and, hence, digesting the present – i.e. life in Europe – helps to understand the emotions that the recent past and the present have invoked (even if these emotions are not very different from those that previous “present times” had caused). One may be inclined to consider this an illogicality, as Turintsev and Lebedev actually resist the literary production of the older generation because it focuses too much on the emotions of the individual. The main problem with mainstream émigré literature, however, is that it does not include the most basic form of cognition – insight into and acceptance of modernity. Instead, the “living present” is kept out of high literature and banished to ego-documents, middlebrow literature and, most of all, non[Since recently more and more often it seems to me …] (1924, Malevich 2005a, 90-91). 9 On these poems, see Dhooge, forthcoming 2017.

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literary texts (cf. also Foster 1972, 159; Blinova 2012, 334). The only kinds of cognition, then, that are to be seen in the established literature are the individual’s emotions and his private experiences. On their own, however, these by definition do not have the potential to affect the surrounding world. Moreover, the tendency towards memories and nostalgia focuses, if one follows the logic of Skit, on the opposite: not the “living present”, but rather on the “dead past”; not cognition, but rather oblivion; not acceptance, but rather resistance or rejection. In any case, the absence of such topics in Skit would actually be strange. After all, Russian émigré literature is a trauma-induced literature, which makes mourning and grief over what has been lost as essential to life in exile as the new reality one ends up in. Hence, those emotions also need to be cognised – i.e. named, experienced and accepted in literature – in order to achieve the intended involvedness and influence. Literary creations in which mourning and grief play a role can be equally “modern within their own context”, as long as the primary condition for creating “living literature” is met: to name, accept and, hence, digest the “living present”. In Sergey Rafal’sky’s poem Ɉɬɟɱɟɫɬɜɨ [Fatherland] (1926, Malevich 2005a, 41-42) the poetic persona reflects on his exilic experience in general and the act of remembering the homeland, in particular. The discovery of new worlds outside Russia initially fills him with interest and enthusiasm, but soon those feelings are replaced with melancholy. With time, thinking back on the lost homeland becomes an increasingly painful activity, but also an increasingly affectionate and tender one: ȼɫɟɝɨ ɛɨɥɶɧɟɣ, ɜɫɟɝɨ ɧɟɠɧɟɣ ɉɨɪɨɸ ɞɭɦɚɟɲɶ ɨ ɧɟɣ, Ɋɭɫɢ ɩɨɤɢɧɭɬɨɣ ɢ ɧɢɳɟɣ Ɉ ɝɨɪɟɫɬɧɵɯ ɟɟ ɩɨɥɹɯ, Ɉ ɞɥɢɬɟɥɶɧɵɯ ɟɟ ɫɧɟɝɚɯ, Ɉ ɫɬɚɪɨɣ ɰɟɪɤɜɢ ɧɚ ɤɥɚɞɛɢɳɟ… […] ɂ ɷɬɭ ɝɪɭɫɬɶ ɦɵ ɭɧɟɫɟɦ ɂ ɜ ɧɨɜɵɣ ɦɢɪ, ɤɚɤ ɜ ɧɨɜɵɣ ɞɨɦ, ɂ ɧɚ ɩɨɥɹɯ ɩɥɚɧɟɬɵ ɧɨɜɨɣ ȼɫɟɝɨ ɛɨɥɶɧɟɣ, ɜɫɟɝɨ ɧɟɠɧɟɣ ɇɚɦ ɫɭɠɞɟɧɨ ɦɟɱɬɚɬɶ ɨ ɧɟɣ, Ɂɟɦɥɟ ɫɜɨɟɣ, ɡɜɟɡɞɟ ɫɭɪɨɜɨɣ. [From time to time you think of her, Abandoned and poverty-stricken Rus’, With increasing pain and increasing tenderness,

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Revolution, Civil War, Modernity and Life in Exile Of her sad fields, Of her protracted periods of snow, Of the old church in the cemetery… […] And that sadness we will take with us To the new world, as to a new house, And on the fields of the new planet We are fated to dream about her, With increasing pain, with increasing tenderness, Our land, the stern star.]

Another example is Aleksey Fotinsky’s ɇɟɬ, ɹ ɧɟ ɬɜɨɣ, ɧɟ ɝɨɪɨɞɫɤɨɣ, ɧɟɡɞɟɲɧɢɣ… [No, I am not yours, not of this city, not of these parts…] (1926, Malevich 2005a, 76). In the poem, the lyric I emphasises that he is a stranger in the city and that he cannot write poetry about city life: “ɤɚɦɧɸ ɩɟɫɟɧ ɩɟɬɶ ɹ ɧɟ ɦɨɝɭ” [I cannot sing the stones’ praises]. Instead, he prefers to write on nature, which is dear to him (“ɪɨɞɧɨɣ”). The last two lines of the poem make clear that the contrast between city and countryside is just one aspect of the poetic persona’s “foreignness”. The poetic persona is twice a stranger: a stranger in the city, but also an emigrant: Ɇɨɹ – ɤɨɝɞɚ-ɬɨ. Ⱥ ɬɟɩɟɪɶ ɬɵ ɱɶɹ? Ɉ, ɪɨɞɢɧɚ, ɹ ɬɜɨɣ ɩɨɷɬ ɞɚɥɟɤɢɣ. [You were mine, once. But whose are you now? O, motherland, I am your distant poet.]

There are also quite a few cases where a positive or at least a non-rejective attitude towards the new reality is combined with mourning and grief. A particularly telling example is Sergey Rafal’sky’s ə ɫɦɟɲɨɧ ɫ ɦɨɢɦ ɤɨɫɬɸɦɨɦ ɫɬɪɚɧɧɵɦ [I am ridiculous in my strange suit] (1922, Malevich 2005a, 26-27), which deals with a specific consequence of being an emigrant. The poetic persona, badly dressed when compared to the rivals in his new town, is convinced that the local girls are not interested in him, as he is ɯɦɭɪɵɣ ɫɤɢɬɚɥɟɰ, ɫ ɜɟɱɧɨɣ ɞɭɦɨɣ-ɝɪɭɫɬɶɸ ɨ ɫɜɨɟɦ [a gloomy wanderer who is always sunk in sad thoughts about his fate]

All the poetic persona can do is think back to a romance he had earlier with a Russian girl and dream about her. The longing for the girl of his previous romance is as strong as his other desire: “ɱɭɞɨ ȼɨɫɤɪɟɫɟɧɶɹ

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Ɋɨɞɢɧɵ ɦɨɟɣ” [the miracle of the Resurrection of my Homeland]. Nonetheless, the poetic persona is not negative about his new environment. The girls are pretty and wanted (“ɞɟɜɭɲɤɢ ɤɪɚɫɢɜɵɟ ɢ ɠɟɥɚɧɧɵɟ”). The poetic persona is saddened, despite being in or near a loud café chantant and despite the twilight of a spring evening – pleasant things that actually should distract him: ɍ ɦɟɧɹ – ɨɞɧɚ ɬɭɩɚɹ ɪɚɧɚ, ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɛɨɥɶ, ɬɨɦɹɳɚɹ, ɤɚɤ ɛɪɟɞ, ɞɚɠɟ ɡɞɟɫɶ, ɭ ɲɭɦɧɨɝɨ ɲɚɧɬɚɧɚ, ɞɚɠɟ ɜ ɷɬɨɬ ɜɟɲɧɢɣ ɩɨɥɭɫɜɟɬ. [I only have one big dull wound, only a pain tormenting me like a delirium, even here, near the loud café chantant, even in this spring twilight.] (italics are mine – B.D.)

Emotions, melancholy, and grief are, of course, not always the central element. Much more often, emotions and facts go hand in hand, even in visionary poems like Lebedev’s ɉɨɷɦɚ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɵɯ ɥɟɬ, which contains quite some passages on the beautiful past and the grief and mourning caused by the Revolution and exile.10

The future of émigré literature Within the specific émigré context, with established writers dominating the literary scene and emerging writers struggling to get a forum, the Prague critics’ position is not just another literary credo, but also or even more so the product (or anticipation) of a generational clash. Turintsev and Lebedev latch onto a debate that occupied the émigré community during the interwar years – the debate on the viability and validity of an émigré literature, which is directly connected to the grand discussion on one or two literatures in which major writers and critics, such as Mikhail Tsetlin, Georgy Ivanov, Georgy Adamovich, Vladislav Khodasevich, Zinaida Gippius and many more took part. Turintsev sticks to the very obvious by criticising the older generation for failing to help the emigrant community to understand and digest the recent past, a goal that he and other members of Skit do hope to achieve. If émigré literature does not become “living”, if there will not be a new generation of writers that will deal with reality, Turintsev claims, then 10

On this, see Dhooge, forthcoming 2017.

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Russian literature will continue to exist solely in Bolshevik Russia. Convinced by this, Turintsev directly attacks Zinaida Gippius / Anton Krayny for claiming that émigré literature is the sole real Russian literature (Turintsev 2007c, 240-241). Lebedev suggests that there can be no valid future literature if writers fail to embrace the surrounding world or, in this case, the reality of life in exile in all its aspects. As the first generation and its successors actually largely do exclude that reality and prevent other writers from emerging (Lebedev 2007, 278), they, if one follows Lebedev’s logic, risk devaluating literature. This, then, would essentially jeopardise the creation and further development of a fully-fledged, viable Russian émigré literature. Put differently, in Lebedev’s conception the older generation has no role of importance to play in the future of Russian émigré literature if it continues to shield itself from the surrounding world: it will not help to create a future independent émigré literature, but rather, in its current form at least, will prevent such literature from emerging and maturing. The question remains, then, what the ideal path to a viable émigré literature would look like. Is it enough to accept the “living present” as it is and to write about it, as a main theme or otherwise, to hope for a return and to maintain Russian identity in the meantime, like Turintsev11 and other members of Skit do? Or do the emigrants need to become part of that new reality, which may possibly affect their (cultural) identity? Lebedev’s critical writings suggest that just including reality into literature is sufficient. His poetry in general and his ɉɨɷɦɚ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɵɯ ɥɟɬ in particular, however, seem to point to a bigger commitment. Ideally, the emigrants needed not only to tolerate life in exile, but also to learn from their new environment – that is, to obtain a European education (hence learning the language in ɇɚ ɞɚɥɶɧɟɦ ɩɭɬɢ), to absorb Europe’s (democratic) values and to get rid of their “Asiatic” characteristics. The ultimate aim of all this is not to renounce Russian identity or to become fully European. On the contrary, the Russian emigrants had to enrich their cultural identity in order to be able to return to Russia and to reclaim and civilise it:12 Ƚɪɨɯɨɱɭɬ ɭɧɢɜɟɪɫɢɬɟɬɵ Ɉɬ ɝɭɥɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɤɚɛɥɭɤɨɜ. 11

Turintsev explicitly states that he cannot stop being Russian: “ə ɨɬɨɪɜɚɬɶɫɹ ɨɬ ɪɨɞɢɧɵ, ɩɨɬɟɪɹɬɶ ɨɛɳɢɣ ɫ ɧɟɣ ɹɡɵɤ ɧɟ ɦɨɝɭ. ɋɥɭɲɚɹ ɫɟɛɹ, ɹ ɫɥɭɲɚɸ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ…” [I cannot tear myself away from my homeland, I cannot lose the common language I share with her. Listening to myself, I listen to Russia…] (Turintsev 2007b, 239). 12 On this topic, cf. Dhooge, forthcoming 2017.

Ben Dhooge Ɉ ɜɟɫɧɚɯ ɱɟɲɫɤɢɯ ɝɨɪɨɞɨɜ ɉɨɸɬ ɪɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɢɟ ɩɨɷɬɵ. […] […] ɇɟ ɢɡɦɟɧɢɬɶ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɫɭɞɶɛɵ: ɉɟɪɟɞ ȿɜɪɨɩɨɣ – ɧɚ ɤɨɥɟɧɢ! Ⱦɨɜɨɥɶɧɨ ɝɪɭɛɨɣ ɩɨɯɜɚɥɶɛɵ! Ⱦɨɜɨɥɶɧɨ ɚɡɢɚɬɫɤɨɣ ɥɟɧɢ! ɋɦɨɬɪɢ – ɫɚɦɨɡɚɛɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɬɪɭɞ ɂ ɝɟɪɨɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɫɤɭɤɚ Ɂɚɜɟɬ ɫɜɨɛɨɞɵ ɛɟɪɟɝɭɬ ɉɪɨɛɥɟɦɚɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɦɭ ɜɧɭɤɭ. ɂ ɯɚɪɬɢɣ ɜɨɥɶɧɨɫɬɟɣ ɡɟɦɧɵɯ Ɍɨɪɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɭɸ ɛɚɪɪɢɤɚɞɭ ȼ ɞɧɢ ɤɚɬɨɥɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɫɜɹɬɵɯ Ⱦɥɹ ɞɟɬɫɤɨɝɨ ɜɵɧɨɫɹɬ ɫɚɞɚ. ɂ ɩɪɢɭɱɚɟɬɫɹ ɢɝɪɚɬɶ ȼ ɩɟɫɤɟ ɪɟɫɩɭɛɥɢɤɚɧɫɤɢɯ ɫɤɜɟɪɨɜ ɂɧɚɹ, ɪɚɞɨɫɬɧɚɹ ɪɚɬɶ ɋɩɨɤɨɣɧɨɣ, ɦɭɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ ɷɪɵ. ɂ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɬɢɜɲɢɫɶ ɜ ɨɧɵɣ ɞɟɧɶ ɇɚ ɞɢɤɢɟ, ɪɨɞɧɵɟ ɩɚɲɧɢ, ȼ ɝɥɭɲɢ ɬɚɦɛɨɜɫɤɢɯ ɞɟɪɟɜɟɧɶ ɉɨɫɬɚɜɢɦ ɗɣɮɟɥɟɜɵ ɛɚɲɧɢ. [Universities roar With the rumble of Russian heels. About the springs of Czech cities Russian poets sing. […] […] One cannot change one’s fate: On your knees – for Europe!” Away with rude bragging! Away with Asiatic laziness! Look – work leading to selflessness And heroic ennui Guard the ordinance of freedom For the problematic grandson. And on the days of Catholic saints

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Revolution, Civil War, Modernity and Life in Exile Your descendants will bear out for their nursery school A solemn barricade Of the charters of civic liberties. And a different, happy army Of a quiet, steady era Will learn to play In the sand of the playgrounds of the Republic. And when finally, one day, we can return To the wild, native fields, In the backwoods of Tambov villages We will build Eiffel Towers.]

Lebedev’s poem is, of course, first and foremost a Westernist utopia. Its contextual message is very clear, however: the path that the older generation has chosen (and, in Lebedev’s view, has imposed on the whole émigré community) is a counterproductive one. Despite the poet-critics’ ambitions, the concept of “living literature” did not stand a chance against the dominant Parisian position. Even within Skit itself, as time went by, the “Parisian way” became more and more popular and eventually gained the upper hand. The very constellation of Skit definitely facilitated this: the group’s heterogeneity, some prominent figures leaving for Paris in the second half of the 1920s, the generational shift within the collective, the continual Parisian disdain for the periphery, and so forth (Malevich 2005b, 17-18, Beloshevskaya 2006b, 74).Whether that model was just very dominant or whether it was far more appealing to the cultural community that originated in a double trauma, remains unclear. In any case, by the 1930s “living literature” was no longer a topic in Prague, with few exceptions. The older generation continued to do what it did before, and the younger Parisian generation chose another path (on this see Livak 2003). If one now wants to read high literature about the Revolution, the Civil War and even life in Europe during the 1920s, there is not much written by émigrés. Whether émigré literature really did devaluate, as Lebedev feared, or whether emigrants were not able to digest the past events and modern reality are yet entirely different questions.

Bibliography Andreyev, N. (1971): Ɉɛ ɨɫɨɛɟɧɧɨɫɬɹɯ ɢ ɨɫɧɨɜɧɵɯ ɷɬɚɩɚɯ ɪɚɡɜɢɬɢɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ ɡɚ ɪɭɛɟɠɨɦ (Ɉɩɵɬ ɩɨɫɬɚɧɨɜɤɢ ɬɟɦɵ). In: Poltoratsky 1971, pp. 15-38.

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Beloshevskaya, L. (ed.) (2006a): “ɋɤɢɬ”. ɉɪɚɝɚ 1922-1940. Ⱥɧɬɨɥɨɝɢɹ. Ȼɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɢ. Ⱦɨɤɭɦɟɧɬɵ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɉɭɬɶ. —. (2006b): ɉɪɚɠɫɤɨɟ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɨɟ ɫɨɞɪɭɠɟɫɬɜɨ “ɋɤɢɬ”. In: Beloshevskaya 2006a, pp. 5-76. Blinova, O. (2012): L’émigration dans l’oeuvre de fiction de Zinaïda Hippius. Entre l’inacceptable et l’irréalisable. In: Krauss, Ch. and Victoroff, T. (eds.): Figures de l’émigré russe en France au XIXe et XXe siècle. Fiction et réalité, Amsterdam, New York: Rodopi, pp. 331-341. Dhooge, B. (forthcoming 2017): Civic Poetry in Russian Prague. Making Sense of the Recent Past and Present. In: Russian Literature. Foster, L. (1972): The Revolution and the Civil War in Russian Émigré Novels. In: Russian Review 31/2, pp. 153-162. Lebedev, V. (2007): ɉɨɷɡɢɹ ɢ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ. In: Malevich 2007, pp. 277-284. Livak, L. (2003): How It Was Done in Paris. Russian Émigré Literature and French Modernism, Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Malevich, O. (ed.) (2005a): ɉɨɷɬɵ ɩɪɚɠɫɤɨɝɨ “ɋɤɢɬɚ”. ɋɬɢɯɨɬɜɨɪɧɵɟ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɹ, ɋɚɧɤɬ-ɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝ: Ɋɨɫɬɨɤ. —. (2005b): Ⱥ. Ʌ. Ȼɟɦ ɢ ɩɪɚɠɫɤɢɣ “ɋɤɢɬ ɩɨɷɬɨɜ”. In: Malevich 2005a, pp. 5-24. —. (ed.) (2007): ɉɨɷɬɵ ɩɪɚɠɫɤɨɝɨ “ɋɤɢɬɚ”. ɉɪɨɡɚ, ɞɧɟɜɧɢɤɢ, ɩɢɫɶɦɚ, ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ, ɋɚɧɤɬ-ɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝ: Ɋɨɫɬɨɤ. Masainov, A. (1924): Ʌɢɤ ɡɜɟɪɹ: ɩɨɷɦɚ, ɉɚɪɢɠ: Ʉɧɢɝɨɢɡɞɚɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨ Ʉɪɵɥɚɬɵɯ. Mochul’sky, K. (1925): Ⱥɥɟɤɫɟɣ Ɇɚɫɚɢɧɨɜ. Ʌɢɤ ɡɜɟɪɹ. ɉɨɷɦɚ. Ʉɧɢɝɨɢɡɞɚɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨ Ʉɪɵɥɚɬɵɯ. ɉɚɪɢɠ 1924 ɝɨɞ. Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɞɪ Ʌɢ. ɋɧɟɠɧɚɹ ɦɟɫɫɚ. ɋɬɢɯɢ 1924-1925. ɂɡɞ. “ɉɪɟɫɫɚ”. Ɋɢɝɚ. In: Ɂɜɟɧɨ, 26 ɹɧɜɚɪɹ, pp. 104. Poltoratsky, N. (ed.) (1971): Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ ɜ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ, ɉɢɬɬɫɛɭɪɝ: Ɉɬɞɟɥ ɫɥɚɜɹɧɫɤɢɯ ɹɡɵɤɨɜ ɢ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪ ɉɢɬɬɫɭɛɪɝɫɤɨɝɨ ɭɧɢɜɟɪɫɢɬɟɬɚ. Shrayer, M. (1999): The World of Nabokov’s Stories, Austin: University of Texas Press. Slobin, G. (2013): Russians Abroad. Literary and Cultural Politics of Diaspora (1919-1939), Boston: Academic Studies Press. Tihanov, G. (2011): Towards a History of Russian Émigré Literary Criticism and Theory between the World Wars. In: Dobrenko, E. and Tihanov, G. (eds.): A History of Russian Literary Theory and Criticism. The Soviet Age and Beyond, Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, pp. 321-344.

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Turintsev, A. (2007a): ɉɨɷɡɢɹ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɣ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ. In: Malevich 2007, pp. 219-233. —. (2007b): Ʌɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɚɹ ɠɢɡɧɶ. Ɉ ɧɨɜɨɣ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɟ. In: Malevich 2007, pp. 233-239. —. (2007c): Ɉ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɹɯ ɜ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ. In: Malevich 2007, pp. 239-254. Zaytsev, B. (1971): ɂɡɝɧɚɧɢɟ. In Poltoratsky 1971, pp. 3-6.

PUSHKIN IN THE HOUSE OF MIRRORS: THE 1937 CENTENNIAL CELEBRATIONS IN BELGIUM AND THE SQUARED ONE-OR-TWO-CULTURES PARADIGM WIM COUDENYS

Introduction Until 1937, the Belgian reading public had hardly any idea who Aleksandr Pushkin was and what he represented for Russian culture (Coudenys 1999a). At best he had been the (unknown) author of famous operas such as M.P. Musorgsky’s Boris Godunov or P.I. Chaykovsky’s Queen of Spades.1 These operas were usually staged in French, which further alienated the Belgian audience from its Russian origins and occasionally inspired critics to discuss the untranslatability of the author, who was about to become the ‘Sun of Russian literature’ (Coudenys 1999a, 60-63). As a matter of fact, Pushkin’s position in Russian literature was not as uncontested as it may seem. He had only been canonised as Russia’s national poet during the 1880 inauguration of his statue in Moscow, and he had indeed induced a renewed interest in poetry during the Silver Age. After the October Revolution, the Bolsheviks had perceived Pushkin as a representative of the old regime and had referred him to the rubbish tip of history (Levitt 1989, 160-162; Sandler 2004). Only in the 1930s was Pushkin resuscitated as part of Stalin’s restoration policy of Russian national culture and became Russia’s, and eventually, after the Second World War, the World’s greatest poet (Voronina 2011). For opposite reasons, the Russian emigration had adopted him as their patron and as of 1925 celebrated his anniversary as the national holiday of Russia Abroad (Raeff 1990, 93, 211-212; Perel’muter 1999, 7-42). As such, Pushkin was a catalyst for the emergence of the famous ‘one-or-two-Russian cultures’ paradigm in Russian culture.

1

For example Closson 1921 and 1931 etc., cf. Stöckl 1974.

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The paradigm has had a huge impact on the reception of Pushkin abroad. From the 1930s through the 1970s, it roughly translated into a political left-right divide, with Pushkin either as a precursor of socialism or an apologist of tsarist autocracy. Its success, however, could be best measured by the general acceptance that Pushkin was indeed Russia’s national poet. What most researchers are unaware of, is that other factors have influenced the reception of Pushkin, too. This was particularly the case in Belgium, where at the time of the 1937 Pushkin celebration two literatures were emerging, one French and the other Flemish (Dutch), and were developing in different, if not opposite directions. Whatever the political, socio-economic and cultural causes of this development, it had a huge impact on the Belgian reception of Pushkin; it effectively lead to a squared one-or-two-cultures paradigm, a problem which only few people were aware of at the time.

The 1937 Pushkin celebration in Belgium: the francophone perspective When it came to celebrating Pushkin as Old Russia’s national poet, the Russian émigré community in Belgium had a huge asset because the poet’s grandson, Nikolay Pushkin (1885-1964), had been living in Brussels since 1923 (Rusakov 1992, 167-172; Coudenys 2004, 68). Already in 1924, on the occasion of the poet’s 125th birthday, Dmitry Shakhovskoy (1902-1989), an aspiring poet and student at the University of Leuven, organised a Pushkin commemoration in Brussels. Many Russian émigré writers and artists participated in the event: N.A. Pushkin, I.F. Nazhivin, L.L. Chatsky (L.I. Strakhovsky), G.A. Tsebrikov, DonAminado (A.P. Shpolyansky), M. Garov (M.A. Gagarin), A.S. Il’yashenko, M.M. Perovsky-Petrovo-Solovovo (Shakhovskaya 1975, 7-8; Shakhovskoy 1977, 235-238; Coudenys 2004, 93-96). Most of the speakers dwelled on Pushkin’s poetry; only two addressed Pushkin’s meaning for Russia. Nikolay Pushkin was obsessed with the Soviets blackening his grandfather’s reputation, whereas Fedor Nazhivin (1874-1940) stressed that Pushkin, as a national poet, bridged the gap between elites and the ordinary people in Russia, in old and new Russia alike (Pushkin 1926, 140-142; Nagivine 1924, 276-284).2 The keynote speaker of the evening, however, was Professor Henri Grégoire (1881-1964), a famous Byzantinist, founder of Slavic Studies in Belgium and a great admirer of Russian poetry (Backvis 1964; Zaborov 1986; Onatsky-Maline 1997; Alaverdian2

On Nazhivin, see Coudenys 1999b.

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Nazarian 1997). Grégoire had developed a new method for translating Slavic verse into French and had applied this with considerable success to Lermontov, Pushkin and Mickiewicz (Les Perles de la Poésie Slave, 1918) (Etkind 1982, 139-148; Besson 1983). After the war he became editor-inchief of the influential liberal journal Le Flambeau, which made a huge contribution to spreading Russian literature and culture in Belgium. Grégoire’s journal set the example for other journals such as La Revue belge, La Renaissance d’Occident and Ecrits du Nord, or newspapers like Le Vingtième Siècle and La Revue catholique des Idées et des Faits to do likewise. Thanks to Grégoire, Belgium discovered A.P. Chekhov, A.A. Blok, A.M. Remizov and early Soviet poetry (Mus 2011; Beghin 2014). In 1937, Grégoire, by then the leading Belgian scholar in Slavic and Byzantine studies, accepted to chair the Comité Pouchkine that would organize the centenary festivities in Brussels. On 7 February 1937, during a solemn ceremony at the Academy of Sciences in front of Belgian officials, foreign diplomats and the cream of the Russian emigration, professor Grégoire and his colleague Aleksandr Ekk (1876-1953) sang the praise of the “Prince of Russian Poets” and the “Miracle of Pushkin” (Grégoire 1937a; Grégoire 1937b; Eck 1937a; Grégoire etc. 1937). The festivities were concluded with a gala at La Monnaie opera house, where Boris Godunov was staged … in Russian (P.B. 1937; N.N. 1937e; Dupierreux 1937b). Only one music critic, Paul Tinel (1892-1974), went beyond the traditional approach of the famous opera and made a connection between the piece and its author, in whose honour the gala was organised. What Dostoyevsky had done for the novel – “revolutionise all our intellectual habits” – Pushkin had done for theatre, by creating “a Shakespearian drama on a Muscovite topic” (Tinel 1937). Apart from Adolphe Max, the immensely popular Mayor of Brussels, and Claude Backvis, Grégoire’s assistant at the Université Libre de Bruxelles, the committee consisted mainly of Russian émigrés; one of them was Nikolay Pushkin. The poet’s grandson was widely quoted in the contemporary press, repeating that his grandfather had been a loyal subject of the Tsar, a true Russian writer – echoing Dostoyevsky’s Slavophile acclamation during the 1880 inauguration of the Pushkin statue in Moscow – and beyond any doubt Russia’s national poet (Pouchkine 1937; Dupierreux 1937b; N.N. 1937i). The Club russe de Bruxelles, the centre of Russian émigré life in the Belgian capital, organised a series of events of its own accord. It invited speakers from Paris (S.M. Volkonsky, M.L. Gofman), had children perform scenes from Boris Godunov and A.S. Dargomyzhky’s Rusalka, gave local celebrities the floor (N.A. Pushkin; N.M. Kotlyarevsky read Dostoyevsky’s famous 1880 speech), and listened to romances, performed

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by local artists (M.A. Gagarin, A.S. Il’yashenko) (N.N. 1937h; Volkonsky 1937; Kupchinsky 1937). Another Russian member of the Comité Pouchkine was Zinaida Shakhovskaya (1906-2001), Dmitry’s sister. She belonged to a younger generation who did not identify with this politicised reading of Pushkin and Russian literature in general (Coudenys 2001), and broke ranks with her fellow émigrés. Reverberating the reigning opinion among her Belgian literary friends, she presented Pushkin as “a strange mix of Russian secular traditions and the very recent influence from Europe, notably France” (Schakhowskoy 1937a). She invited one of her Paris friends, the aspiring writer Vladimir Nabokov (1899-1977), to provide an alternative reading of Pushkin. On 21 January, in front of a Belgian public, Nabokov distanced himself from the ubiquitous romanticised and/or politicised interpretations and turned to the writings of Pushkin himself. In an attempt to purvey Pushkin’s genius to his French-speaking public, he made translations that sounded rather … French. This, however, was not because Pushkin had been a mere epigone of French literature (a traditional view in the West), but because his translator, i.e. Nabokov, was to a large extent a product of French culture himself! As it did not confirm the existing stereotypes about Pushkin, Nabokov’s Pouchkine, ou le vrai et le vraisemblable did not meet with success, let alone approval in the contemporary (and biased) press (Nabokoff 1937; N.N. 1937b; Dupierreux 1937c; Fischer 1937). Shakhovskaya further edited Hommage à Pouchkine 1837-1937, a volume of essays and translations by her Russian and Belgian friends (M.L. Gofman, G.P. Struve, V.V. Veydle, V.V. Nabokov, P. Fierens, R. Meurant, Z. & R. Vivier). She also wrote a short biography, Vie d’Alexandre Pouchkine, which wanted to establish Pushkin as a literary and, to a certain extent, religious hero, rather than a political one (Schakhowskoy 1937b; Schakhowskoy 1938). Both volumes turned out to be her farewell to émigré life. Only in the 1970s would she return as editor-in-chief of the Paris weekly Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɦɵɫɥɶ and in 1978 would she contribute to the famous Geneva conference on “Ɉɞɧɚ ɢɥɢ ɞɜɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ” (Shakhovskaya 1978). It was not Nabokov’s lecture or Shakhovskaya’s defection, however, that created confusion in Belgium, but the Soviets’ improbable ideological appropriation of Pushkin as a precursor of communism. On 30 January 1937, only days before the festivities organised by the Comité Pouchkine, the Belgian socialist daily Le Peuple announced that the Soviet government would meet the centennial of Pushkin’s death with “pomp and splendour”. In Belgium, Soviet ambassador Evgeny Rubinin (1891-1981) and Minister of Education Julius Hoste (1884-1954) presided over a com-

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mittee that would organise events in parallel with the festivities in Soviet Russia. There was no reference whatsoever to the Comité Pouchkine (Piérard 1937). On 11 February a Pushkin exhibition opened in the Palais des Beaux Arts; the picture of Pushkin that was drawn there did not resemble in the least the image that was presented by the Comité Pouchkine and the émigrés. During a solemn ceremony on 21 February, at the Academy of Sciences, Emile Vandervelde (1866-1938), the president of the Belgian Socialist Party, took the floor. He admitted that until very recently he had never heard of Pushkin; having accepted the invitation, he had worked through the available (Soviet) literature and fitted Russia’s national poet into his own world view. Although Vandervelde had always been very critical of the Soviet Union, by the mid-1930s he had come to the conclusion that it was the only power in the world that could answer the threats posed by Nazism and Fascism. Mimicking the Soviet rhetoric, Vandervelde stressed that Pushkin had played a key role in the social liberation movement of the 19th century, and he severely criticized the competitors of the Comité Pouchkine. “The other day, Mr. Eck, speaking to his exiled or banished compatriots and he himself no stranger to the woes of exile, refused to see in the Soviet acclaim of Pushkin, that pure aristocrat, anything but the surrender before a universal genius. Mr. Eck was wrong. If the entire Russian people love and honour Pushkin, it is because this aristocrat has come to them of his own accord; that he rose early to sow the seed, that he was, under the knout of Russian autocracy, the first minstrel of Liberty, the Precursor of the Revolution” (Vandervelde 1937). In the Brussels daily Le Soir, Richard Dupierreux (1891-1956) marvelled at the fact that depending on the source, Pushkin was either a ‘white’ or a ‘red’ poet, and he wondered ironically how long it would take before he became a Stalinist or Trotskyist (Dupierreux 1937d). Paul Colin (1890-1943), the astute critic of the right-wing journal Cassandre, had lots of misgivings about the gullibility of Western politicians and scholars, including Grégoire, who “had accepted like the Gospel and without verification the claims by foreign historians and critics. They have given in far too easily to the argument of authority” (Colin 1937). And in Terres Latines the poet Charles-André Grouas (1883-1968) exclaimed: “Oh, if only Pushkin would return! Native individualism annexed by collective tyranny” (Grouas 1937). In futile attempt to refute the criticism and save their reputation, Grégoire and his colleagues at the Slavic department of the Brussels university turned to narrow, philological studies of Pushkin and refrained from political statements (Eck 1937b; Lednicki 1937; Backvis 1937). The press and the general public took no heed.

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The 1937 centennial from a Flemish perspective In Flanders Pushkin was even more unknown than in the French-speaking part of Belgium. Flemish critics were aware of the ongoing festivities, but for lack of knowledge of Russian literature restricted themselves to repeating or summarising what they had read in the French or Dutch press. Gerard Walschap (1898-1989), a keen admirer of Dostoyevsky and Il’ya Erenburg, who at that time was trying to free himself of his claustrophobic Catholic environment, sang the praise of the European poet Pushkin (Pertinax 1937; cf. Coudenys 2007). The Francophile poet Renaat Joostens (1902-1973) merely reported on the ongoing discussions in the Frenchspeaking part of the country, without delving into the essence of the debate (Joostens 1937a; Joostens 1937b). The obscure but keen poet and critic Jan Schepens (1909-1994), the founder of ‘close reading’ in Flanders, did not want to engage in political discussions and focused on Pushkin’s biography and untimely death (Schepens 1937; cf. Coudenys 1999c). The majority of the Flemish critics, however, proved to be under the spell of the Catholic fascination with Dostoyevsky and adapted his famous 1880 Pushkin speech for a Flemish audience: Flemish writers should follow Pushkin’s example (i.e. being Russian and Orthodox) and become representatives of Flemish nationalism and Catholicism.3 This Flemish and Catholic reading of Pushkin also affected Herman Thiery (1912-1978), one of the very few people in Flanders who knew Russian (Pries 1983; Olbrechts 1991). Initially, he was not really interested in Pushkin – he was more of a Lermontov fan himself (Thiery 1934) – and did not attend any of the Brussels meetings. Although he was a fellow-traveller of the Soviet Union and as such was acquainted with the Soviet rhetoric surrounding Pushkin, his first articles were written in the Dostoyevskian style so typical of Flemish critics (Thiery 1937a; Brouwers 1979). In February 1937, however, he changed tack and published a series of articles about the “Prince of Russian Poets” in the socialist daily Vooruit. He tried to reconcile a ‘sociological’ (i.e. Soviet) with an ‘aesthetic’ approach, because, according to him, “art is a multi-categorical concept: it is the former, as well as the latter” (Thiery 1937b; cf. Thiery 1937c). Thiery became the Flemish Pushkin propagandist par excellence, but there is no doubt that a certain amount of self-interest was at play, too. Thiery, who after the war would become the mouthpiece of ‘magic realism’ in Fle-

3

N.N. 1937c, pp. 244, 276, 308, 341; N.N. 1937a; N.N. 1937g; N.N. 1937d; Valkenhoff 1937. Cf. Coudenys 1998.

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mish literature (under the pseudonym of Johan Daisne), proclaimed Pushkin as the … “precursor of trans-realism” (Thiery 1938d). Thiery also took the initiative to bring the official (Soviet-style) celebration to Flanders. Ambassador Rubinin and Minister Hoste jointly opened the Pushkin exhibition at the University of Ghent (18 May 1937). Remarkably enough, the Rector of the University, as well as the Mayor of Ghent and keynote speaker Marnix Gijsen (1899-1984) did not turn up for the meeting (N.N. 1937f). The socialist critic Achilles Mussche (18961974), one of the co-organisers of the meeting, openly wondered how Pushkin, the least Dostoyevskian of all Russian authors, could be considered Russia’s national poet. Thiery, again, tried to reconcile all opposing views. The meeting was concluded by Thiery, who recited his Flemish translation of the Bronze Horseman. The lectures and the translation were published by the bibliophile and future Belgian Prime Minister Achille Van Acker (1898-1975), under the rather bombastic title of “Pushkin 1837-1937. A Modest Flower to the Beautiful Crown, laid by Flanders on the Altar of a Universal Genius” (Boelaere et al. 1937).

Conclusion: the squared one-or-two cultures paradigm For almost a year, Belgium was in the grip of a fierce debate over the ‘Sun of Russian Literature’ and had considerable trouble to find its bearings in a tangle of contradictory views. Most critics were aware that Pushkin had fallen victim to an ideological controversy, but few possessed the necessary qualifications and knowledge to assess correctly what precisely was at stake. Moreover, within the Belgian context, literary opinions and views in the French and Dutch-speaking parts of the country were increasingly diverging and there was hardly a literary model that still applied to both parts of the country.4 As before, Flanders echoed ideas that circulated in France and the French-speaking part of Belgium – hardly anyone identified with the Netherlands and the Dutch! – but was losing touch with the content of these ideas. Typical in this respect was an article by Zinaida Shakhovskaya that appeared in the Flemish Catholic weekly Elckerlyc (Every-Man) under the fascinating title “a posthumous drawing and quartering”. In reality the article was translated from French and only addressed the ongoing debates in the southern part of the country; it failed to acknowledge the diverging Flemish views, which looked at Pushkin mainly through the eyes of Dostoyevsky. As such, it did not deliver on the ‘squared’ part of the title (Schakhowskoy 1937c). 4

See, for example, Meylaerts 2012.

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The latter testifies to a reality that was not yet (completely) acknowledged at the time, i.e. that there was no single Belgian reception model of Pushkin and that, hence, the diverging messages that both Russia Abroad and Soviet Russia were broadcasting would not be understood in the way they had been conceived or intended. If this ‘squared’ model applies to tiny Belgium, we cannot but conclude that it certainly applies to other receiving cultures as well. As such, we have to accept that the ‘one-or-twocultures-paradigm’ of Russian literature and culture is too simple a model. If, in the Belgian context, it is squared, we must assume that in a broader context of literary reception, it should at least be cubed, and in all probability even raised to the n-th power.

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—. (1978): Ʌɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɵɟ ɩɨɤɨɥɟɧɢɹ. In: Nivat, G. (ed.): Ɉɞɧɚ ɢɥɢ ɞɜɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ?, Genève: L’Age de l’Homme, pp. 52-62. Shakhovskoy, I. (1977): Ȼɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹ ɢ ɸɧɨɫɬɢ, Paris: YMCA-Press. Stöckl, E. (1974): Puškin und die Musik. Mit einer annotierenden Bibliographie der Puškin-Vertonungen 1815-1965, Leipzig: Deutscher Verlag für Musik. Thiery, H. (1934): De Kaukasus en zijn zanger Michaiel Joerjevietsj Lermontof. In: Arbeiderstoerisme 6, pp. 9-10, 276-277. —. (1937a): Een beroemd minnedicht. In: De Standaard, January 30, p. 10. —. (1937b): Bij het eeuwfeest van Aljeksàndr Sergéjevietsj Poésjkien’s overlijden. Prins der Russische poëten 1837-1937. In: Vooruit, February 21, p. 8. —. (1937c): Aleksândr Sergéjevietsj Poésjkien. ‘De zon der Russische poëzie’. Ter gelegenheid van de Herdenking van de honderdste verjaring van zijn Dood (1937). In: De Vlaamsche Gids 25, pp. 254277. —. (1937d): Poesjkien, Bron der Russische Letterkunde, Voorlooper van het Transrealisme. In: Onze Tijd 2, 2, pp. 209-210 Tinel, P. (1937): A la Monnaie. Le gala Pouchkine. Boris Godounov. In: Le Soir, February 13, p. 2. Valkenhoff, P. v. (1937): Alexander Poesjkin 1837 februari 1937. In: Volk 2, pp. 170-173. Vandervelde, E. (1937): Doubrovsky. Les prodromes de la révolution russe. In: Le Peuple, February 21, pp. 1-2. Volkonsky, S. (1937): ɋɥɨɜɨ ɨ ɉɭɲɤɢɧɟ. In: Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɟɠɟɧɟɞɟɥɶɧɢɤ ɜ Ȼɟɥɶɝɢɢ, February 19 & 26, March 5, pp. 4-5, 4-5, 3. Voronina, O. (2011): ‘The Sun of World Poetry’: Pushkin as a Cold War Writer. In: Pushkin Review 14, pp. 63-95. Zaborov, P.R. (1986): Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ ɜ ɬɪɭɞɚɯ ɛɪɸɫɫɟɥɶɫɤɨɝɨ ɭɧɢɜɟɪɫɢɬɟɬɚ. In: Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ 2, pp. 210-215.

SHANGHAI RUSSIANS: NEGOTIATING CULTURAL HERITAGE IN A FAR EAST METROPOLIS SIMO MIKKONEN

Russian emigration in the wake of the Russian Revolution and the Civil War, the so-called “first wave”, is usually associated with a westward movement, Russians settling in Prague, Paris, Belgrade and other European metropolises. The focus group of this article, however, escaped the tumult to the East, to China. While Harbin in Manchuria is arguably the best known Russian centre in China, essentially a Russian town that boomed right after the Russian Revolution, other Chinese cities received Russians as well. At first, Shanghai received only some thousands of Russians, who easily vanished into this city on its way to becoming one of the largest in the world. But as Shanghai itself grew rapidly, so did its Russian community. By the 1930s, Shanghai had become the most important Russian colony outside the Soviet Union in the East and one of the most important in the world.1 But why Shanghai? Sometimes the interwar Shanghai has been called “the port of last resort” (Van 2008, 61; Ristaino 2001, 29). Arguably, it was precisely that for those who escaped Harbin and Manchuria in the tumults of the 1930s, but by then, tens of thousands of Russians had made 1

Whom to count as Russian remains an important question. Since post-1917 emigration was of Russian imperial origin, Russians were not always ethnic Russians, but people that identified with the former Russian empire and spoke Russian. Inevitably, when speaking of Russians, sources do not differentiate between Ukrainians, Jews, Poles and many other subjects of the Russian empire. It is notable that these groups rarely separated themselves along national lines, rather identifying as émigrés from the former Russian empire. Russian was their lingua franca, feeling closeness to each other more than to other Europeans. Of these, Jews were sometimes the most distinct group, but even their background only became more important with the Japanese occupation in the late 1930s. Russian, then, was used to describe a culturally rather than nationally coherent group of people.

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Shanghai their home already, as well as considered Shanghai their home rather than a temporary point of respite on their journey to somewhere else. Instead of Russians, Shanghai was “the port of last resort” for several tens of thousands of European Jews who poured in after 1937. The story of Shanghai Russians has partly been buried under the better known story of these Jewish refugees. For Russians, Shanghai represented possibilities worth pursuing. The purpose of this article is to briefly describe the formation and composition as well as the influence of this important Russian émigré community that left its mark on Shanghai and China in many ways – some of them visible even today but mostly forgotten both in China and elsewhere. The focus of this chapter is on the composition and activities of Russian emigration in the 1920s, during the first decade of a major Russian presence in Shanghai and on the trends that made it possible for Russians to settle in Shanghai.2 The strategic interests of the Russian Empire in the late 19th and early th 20 centuries provide a backdrop for the later influx of White Russians into China. Vladivostok and the Russian base at Port Arthur had made Harbin a very important junction of what was known as the Chinese Eastern Railway, a Russian project that created a shortcut from Chita to Vladivostok through China instead of following the Russian border much farther north. But the railway also stretched south from Harbin towards inner China, a huge market that Russians wished to reach just as the British, French and Americans did. Thus, Harbin, a village of a few thousand fishermen in 1897, grew quickly into a bustling Russian city. Even before the Revolution, eastern parts of Russia and Manchuria had become places that drew refugees – many of them Jewish – from other parts of Russia (Van 2008, 61; Ristaino 2001, 29). Economic opportunities provided by the Russian expansion, such as the building of railroads and military bases, played an important role. After the Russo-Japanese war (1904–05), however, opportunities diminished, forcing Russians elsewhere. Shanghai, for example, saw the number of Russians rise from 47, mostly members of the Russian consulate in 1900 (Ristaino 2001, 27-28), to almost 800 by 1917 on the eve of the Revolutions of 1917. It was the Revolution, however, that caused substantial changes in the nature of Russian emigration to Shanghai. 2

This paper is part of a larger research project examining the dynamics and composition of the Russian émigré community in Shanghai. Other project members are Hon-Lun Yang and John Winzenburg from the Hong Kong Baptist University. We are currently finalising a tri-author monograph with the University of Hawaii Press providing an extensive outlook on the Russian musical emigration in Shanghai between the Russian and Chinese revolutions (1917-1949).

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The importance of Russian Shanghai is underscored by the fact that its heyday lasted over 30 years, from the Communist revolution in Russia in 1917 to the Communist Revolution in China in 1949. During these three decades, Shanghai was an international city. It had a Chinese majority but had major international colonies controlled by the French, British and Americans. Shanghai’s importance is highlighted by the fact that more than half of Chinese imports and exports flowed through the city, and Shanghai was basically controlled by foreign merchants. Apart from a few members of the elite, the Chinese were second-class citizens. The atmosphere in the city was one of an international metropolis, with the latest fashion, inventions and customs instantly flowing in from Paris, London, New York and Hollywood. Shanghai became a fashionable place to be – and visit – for the world’s elite. It was partly rural and partly urban as well as partly western and partly Chinese. It was essentially a bastion of hybrid culture (Smith 2000, 2). Adding to this concoction, Russian émigrés began arriving during the 1920s. Despite the international community numbering several thousand, it was Russians that as early as in the 1920s came to form the largest community of non-Chinese in the city.

Russian influx to Shanghai Whereas Harbin was first and foremost a Russian city, in Shanghai, the Russian language was of limited use. The official business language of Shanghai was English, and Chinese was the language of the great majority of Shanghai inhabitants. Although Russian émigrés were, on average, highly educated, considering the standards of the time, and many had represented urban and rural elites in the Russian empire, their first problem in Shanghai was that extremely few of them spoke either English or Chinese. The most common foreign languages spoken by Russians, French and German, were not as commonly used in China (Ablova 2007, 84). German influence only grew towards the 1930s and even then remained very limited. French, however, was more useful, as the other international colony of Shanghai was controlled by the French. Furthermore, the French area was the more affordable and less densely populated of the two colonies, resulting in the centre of the Russian colony forming within the French Concession. Linguistic issues initially pushed the Russians to seek protecttion from each other, for which purpose they formed a tightly knit community. As a result, Shanghai saw the emergence of a lively Russian language community with several publishing houses, newspapers and magazines, clubs, and parishes aiming at preserving Russian culture as émigrés remembered it (Ristaino 2001, 3; Bergere 2009, 296).

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The smaller city of Harbin and metropolitan Shanghai were different in many ways, but there were also differences in the composition of their Russian colonies. Russians in Harbin seem to have harboured more nationalist-minded émigrés than Shanghai. The reasons can be sought from the proximity of the Soviet border as well as from the more cosmopolitan setting found in Shanghai. While in Shanghai émigrés were by no means indifferent towards their home country, there were few patriotic associations that would strive for active measures against the Bolshevik rule in Russia. Illustratively, when the Bolshevik rule in Russia strengthened towards the end of the 1920s, the Shanghai Russian community entered its golden period, while Harbin was already waning. The Russian Bureau kept statistics that listed Russians seeking help. The statistics are not comprehensive, but they do reveal that Russian refugees arrived at Shanghai steadily. In 1922 there were 1268 arrivals. Each year until 1929, the number of new arrivals was between 877 and 1968 (Ristaino 2001, 52; Simpson 1938, 157; Van 2008, 57). These figures exclude most Jews, even if many of them spoke and aligned with Russians at the time. Most charity organizations did not separate refugees on their faith or nationality as long as they spoke Russian and came from the Russian empire, with Orthodox associations being the biggest exception. If the Jewish are excluded, there were around 2500 Russians in 1922, whereas by 1930 the community had quintupled to 13000 (Ristaino 2001, 52; Simpson 1938, 157; Van 2008, 57). Actual figures were most likely somewhat higher. With the Jewish included, the community was already close to 20,000, making it bigger than any other non-Asian group in Shanghai. In the 1930s, the yearly influx only increased, ranging between 1094 and 2025 from 1930 to 1936 (Simpson 1938, 156; Ristaino 2001, 69). In essence, the Russian community grew twelvefold from 1918 to 1930, whereas the rest of the non-Asian community only doubled during the same period. In official statistics, former subjects of the Russian Empire numbered around 36,000 in 1935.3 While this figure is not fully reliable (other sources suggest that the real figure is even higher), reliable figures of British (9225), American (3809) and French (1430) nationals remain far behind, even when put together (Ristaino 2001, 5). Furthermore, the Russian community kept increasing with the same pace, while other foreign communities mostly started to diminish during the 1930s (Ristaino 2001, 68).

3

According to some estimates, the Russian colony stretched close to 50,000 when Jews and other nationalities from the former Russian empire are counted together.

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Research on Shanghai Russians has been scarce thus far. General Shanghai histories do not put much emphasis on Russians, mostly mentioning them as playing supportive roles to more important people, such as bodyguards to rich Chinese, dance hostesses and even prostitutes, often linked to the Shanghai underworld.4 Many accounts refer to Shanghai Russians as people who had lost their country and possessions (Van 2008, 95; Sergeant 1991, 32-33). Such an image develops easily if one is to follow what was taking place in Shanghai’s night life or follow the files of the French court in Shanghai. For some Russians, several traumas and hardships led them to drink heavily and live in the past. Some simply saw opportunities in illegalities. According to the statistics of the French police, the Russians were the most active community in thefts and nightly hooliganism in Shanghai. Also, black market trade was common among Russians.5 It is more rarely admitted, however, that since the Russians outnumbered the French as inhabitants of the French Concession, it is little wonder that they also dominated the crime scene. Indeed, this narrow conception emphasising pessimism, past and crime does not do justice to the Shanghai Russians, whose community was much more diverse and active. These other sides of the émigré community and the rich lives many Russians managed to construct in Shanghai have received too little attention. Even in Russian, while there are several publications discussing Harbin Russians during the first half of the 20th century, when it comes to Shanghai Russians, works are few and far between.6 The majority of these books deal with the general composition of the Russian emigration and their activities and particularly political attitudes. Many of them give some room to Russian emigration in Shanghai as well. Furthermore, there is one major monograph that goes through the history of the Shanghai Russian emigration, written originally in Chinese but translated into Russian (but not into English) by Wang Zicheng (Van Chzhichen when transliterated from Russian) (Van 2008). The lack of research has also led to many misunderstandings about the Shanghai Russian community. According to Ablova, a visible share of 4

Even if Russians are often bypassed, the following histories mention Russian influence on Shanghai as an important one, although rarely going into much detail. Sergeant 1991; Bergere 2009; Ristaino 2001. 5 Van 2008, 97. Many Shanghai histories present Russians mainly through prostitution, crime and hooliganism and credit them for bringing poverty with a European face to Shanghai streets, see e.g. Wasserstrom 2009, 72. 6 Particularly on Shanghai: Zhiganov 1936; Balakshin 1958. Generally on Russian emigration to Shanghai, see Aurilene 2008; Khisamutdinov 2010; Ablova 2007; Ablazhei 2007.

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Russian émigrés in 1920s Shanghai were of Cossack background, officers and soldiers from across Siberia, with a notable amount of them arriving straight from Vladivostok, the last city in Siberia to surrender to the Red Army (Ablova 2007, 80). While there were Cossack detachments that arrived in Shanghai this way, and later gave birth to Cossack societies, they hardly dominated the Russian community. The same can be said about equating Russians with crime, or considering them to be refugees yearning to go back to Russia throughout the interwar period, something that is carried implicitly in the notion of “the port of last resort”. One reason for the disregard of the Russian community in Shanghai might actually lie in their initial status as refugees. Histories tend to be written from the viewpoint of winners, and while many Europeans left Shanghai well before the Chinese Revolution, most Russians did not have such a choice. Indeed, even if Russians were considered to be “western”, other people with European origins were drawn to Shanghai by business and other opportunities. Few Shanghai Russians would have left Russia without the events of 1917-1922. Russian émigrés were at first merely seeking refuge, something they could hold on to. Furthermore, while they made Shanghai their home, the end of the community came in 1949 when they were driven out of Shanghai, becoming refugees once again, and perhaps thus have fallen outside most scholarly attention. The majority of Russians were second-class citizens, often winding up doing the same jobs as the Chinese, errands that were considered inferior by other westerners. Even towards the late 1930s, after serving the Shanghai administration for decades, Russians were often excluded from the best jobs and ignored for promotions (Sergeant 1991, 39; Bergere 2009, 296-297). Russians sought shelter with each other, but in Shanghai, it was not possible to isolate themselves from others. As a result, even if Russians formed their own associations, businesses, educational establishments and other organisations, they were in dealings not only with other Europeans but increasingly with the Chinese as well. In certain trades, such as medicine, highly skilled Russians were greatly over-represented in Shanghai, serving other Europeans and the Chinese alike (Van 2008, 495-497). But perhaps the most salient field in which Russians excelled and dominated was the arts, music and dance in particular. In these areas, Russians certainly made a big difference, leaving a lasting mark on Shanghai and China. Some accounts even allege that Russians brought culture to Shanghai which had previously had merely some movie theatres (Sergeant 1991, 34). However, this is not quite true, since Shanghai’s Municipal Orchestra was already in operation before the Russians arrived – even if Russian musicians greatly enriched the ensemble. Yet, classical music,

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ballet, opera and operetta, as well as education in these areas, came to be dominated by Russians. Even popular music, with the jazz-craze of the 1920s, was dominated by Russian jazz bands. The audiences, however, were multinational.

The composition of the Shanghai Russian community The great exodus of Russians to China and Shanghai was definitely a result of the gradual defeat of White Russian forces in the Far East. Nothing indicates that lest for the Revolution, the Russian population in Shanghai would ever have risen above one thousand (Sergeant 1991, 32; Ristaino 2001, 34). But instead of ending up in Shanghai right away, Russians were constantly drawn in from Harbin, other cities in China and the Far East. Furthermore, the Russians in Shanghai were not exclusively “White Russians”, as Russians that fled the Bolshevik revolution from Russia are called. The Russian community in Shanghai was divided in its attitudes towards the Soviet Union, with some flatly rejecting everything Soviet, perhaps a majority indifferent and then some who had Soviet passports and at least partly approved of the Soviet Union. There were also occasional travellers from other parts of the globe who found a lively and interesting Russian community, eventually deciding to join it. The social construction of the Russian community was, thus, highly varied. During the first half of the 1920s, the stabilisation and assimilation of Russians in Shanghai was often difficult upon arrival, as they were impoverished and often traumatised. Some were unwilling but more often unable to find work to help them settle down. This became easier by the mid1920s. The struggle between the nationalist Kuomintang and the Communists led to wide unrest and general strikes of more than 100,000 Chinese workers in the summer of 1925. Numerous Russian refugees were called in to fill positions left vacant by the Chinese.7 The arising tumult between the Communists and the Kuomintang, and later with the Japanese, was helpful for the Russian community in other ways, too. The White Russian military was among the biggest contingent of Russians who had problems assimilating into the business-oriented foreign community in Shanghai. For people with a military background, with its own honour code and traditions, the situation of the early 1920s in Shanghai was difficult. With few external threats, the organised military establishment experienced 7

Van 2008, 80; Bergere 2009, 296; Ristaino 2001, 44-45. Wang (Van 2008, 80) suggests that during the strike, some 5000 Russians would have arrived in Shanghai.

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disdain and suspicion. Tables turned with increasing domestic turmoil in China. The guns and experience of the White Russian troops eventually made them the second largest nationality within the Shanghai Voluntary Corps (SVC), the international militia guarding Shanghai’s international settlement. A total of three Russian detachments were formed in the late 1920s. By the time of the first Japanese attack on Shanghai in 1932, Russians numbered over 450 within the SVC. What was exceptional about the Russian troops within the SVC was that unlike other nationalities, the Russians received a salary rather than being genuine volunteers (Ristaino 2001, 56-59). Furthermore, many Russians with a military background also joined local police forces and filled positions as guards. Especially wealthy Chinese people wanted to hire former Imperial soldiers as their personal bodyguards.8 The Union of Russian Bodyguards had close to 700 members in early 1930.9 The influx of Russians brought numerous legal issues, for which purpose an organization called the Bureau of Russian Affairs emerged. The Russian Bureau was headed by Victor Grosse, former consul of the Russian Empire, who had first arrived in Beijing in 1893 and moved to Shanghai in 1911. When the Soviet government made a deal with the Chinese government and old Russian Imperial consulates were closed down, Grosse continued as an official within Shanghai’s municipal administration dedicated to serving Russians.10 The Russian Bureau became the administrative centre of the Shanghai Russian community, Jewish émigrés included. Grosse was part of the established Russian community of Shanghai, and his knowledge of its administration proved highly valuable for incoming Russians. He had been abroad during the revolutions and the Civil War, so he was in a way impartial (Ristaino 2001, 50; Sergeant 1991, 42-43). The Bureau was a crucial development, as it provided official documentation. This was required by the municipal government and police. Documents were necessary for the refugee population to register as legal inhabitants as well as for receiving anything other than temporary work. Also, the Russian Bureau issued travel documents, occupying a quasi-diplomatic position (Ristaino 2001, 50-51). As a result, Shanghai saw less political struggle amongst Russians than Harbin, where White Russians had active political organisations but also a strong Soviet influence due to the railroad and closeness of the Soviet border. 8

Shankhaiskie telokhraniteli, Shankhaiskaia Zaria (henceforth SZ) 21.2.1928; Fedoulenko 1967, 80. 9 Soiuz bodigardov i vochmanov, SZ 5.2.1930. 10 Shanghai za tridtsat’ piat’ let. Vospominaniia iubiliara V.F. Grosse, SZ 26.2.1929; Balakshin 1958, 328-9; Sergeant 1991, 42-3; Ristaino 2001, 37.

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As the majority of Russian émigrés settled in the French part of Shanghai, they built close ties with the small but prosperous French community. The Russians to some extent integrated with already existing French establishments, especially schools, which were highly valued by Russians. The French were also ardent supporters of Russian cultural activities subsidising them financially as well. Yet, the Russian community also established a huge number of charities, societies and associations of its own. The registers of the French Concession reveal over 70 civic societies and organisations of Russian émigrés, about 10 parishes, some middle and higher educational establishments and more than 40 Russian magazines and journals. Even if some of these societies were more active than others, the numbers reveal great activity among émigrés. By 1928, Shanghai’s foreign media was talking about the birth of a Russian Concession, referring to booming Russian businesses and increasing activities which indicated that Russians had already become a distinct and influential group.11 Even so, the challenges facing individual émigrés were often major ones. Many had to take up occupations that had been alien to them before, such as factory work. Some émigrés with a trading background ended up establishing businesses, but the most successful tended not to stay in Shanghai, often moving to the United States, Australia or Canada,12 especially when times became more unstable in the 1930s. Regarding women, the situation was, at times, particularly dire. The previous family model in which women did not work proved often impossible in Shanghai, especially if the husband was unable to find work. Some émigré women even ended up in prostitution to earn a livelihood. The Russian “dancing girls” of Shanghai became famous, both as dancing partners and as prostitutes. There was also involuntary prostitution, kidnapping and forcing women into prostitution. In early 1929, the newspapers ran a story of a gang of six that was arrested for kidnapping children. This gang was led by an 18year-old man, who was found guilty of kidnapping 13 children and received 18 years in prison as a result.13 Shanghai had become a trading point for sending women to Macao, Java, Bangkok, Singapore and the ports of India, Egypt and Turkey (Ablova 2007, 85). But while the Russians were occasionally involved as kidnappers, more often they were the 11

Shankhaiskaia russkaia kontsessiia, SZ 15.6.1928; Shankhai rastet, SZ 23.1.1929. 12 Ablova 2007, 84-85. A good example is provided by Peter Balakshin, who moved from Shanghai to the United States in the early 1930s. His archive is held at the Bancroft Library, University of Berkeley, California. 13 Prigovor pokhititeliam, SZ 1.2.1929, 5.

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ones abused. In one public case, three Russian girls between the ages of 15 and 17 had been lured by a couple in Harbin with promises of work in Shanghai. The girls were about to be sent to become prostitutes.14 The Russian community did not remain indifferent: the widespread exploitation of women led to the establishment of the International Committee on the Protection of Russian Women and Children in Shanghai (Ablova 2007, 152).

Cultural life of Russian Shanghai In his introduction to the diaries of Ivan Serebrennikov, from Harbin, Marc Raeff mentions that Russian links outside their own community in China were almost exclusively with other westerners. According to Raeff, “It is difficult to escape the conclusion that the Russians felt and behaved much like members of an imperial society in a colony”.15 This seems to apply poorly to Shanghai, where Russians definitely could not, and often did not want to, isolate themselves from the Chinese. Admittedly, Raeff examines Harbin and its literary life. There were traces of these attitudes in Shanghai’s Russian literary life as well. In literature, language issues mattered more than in other areas of the arts, making connections with other nationalities limited. But language was an issue that extended far beyond literature. The growing community needed channels for exchanging ideas and communicating. For this purpose the Russian community created a vibrant publishing scene, with a surprising number of newspapers and magazines for the community. ɒɚɧɯɚɣɫɤɚɹ ɠɢɡɧɶ [Shanghai Life] (1919–) and other papers were followed by ɒɚɧɯɚɣɫɤɚɹ Ɂɚɪɹ [Shanghai Zaria] (SZ) and ɋɥɨɜɨ [Slovo], which became flagships of Russian newspapers in Shanghai.16 Both were published daily, but by the 1930s SZ was also supplemented with a separate afternoon paper, ȼɟɱɟɪɧɹɹ ɡɚɪɹ [Evening Zaria], as well as a handsome weekly, ɂɥɥɸɫɬɪɢɪɨɜɚɧɧɚɹ ɡɚɪɹ [Illustrated Zaria], committed to photographs of the Russian community. Several competing Russian publishing houses existed, printing books and magazines and ensuring that the Russian language was present in Shanghai. The 1930s can be seen as the golden age of Shanghai Russians, years when the community was at its largest, most active and influential and 14

Kak eksportiruet devushek v Shankhai, SZ 29.8.1930. Introduction of Marc Raeff to Khisamutdinov 2006, 14. 16 ɒɚɧɯɚɣɫɤɚɹ Ɂɚɪɹ, under editorship of L.V. Arnol’dov and established by magnate M.S.Lembich, became the most popular magazine among Russian émigrés in the Far East. (Van 2008, 98). 15

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surpassed Harbin in importance. Yet, Shanghai’s golden years were not only a result of the influx of Russians from Harbin or other places. New arrivals merely added to the already existing pool of talent within the Shanghai Russian community. The first Russian language cultural magazines were established, starting to record the activities of the Russian community as early as 1920. More often than not, these activities reached beyond the Russian community even at that time. To begin with, there were many performers traveling around the Far East, like Arnold Shtern’s operetta group, which consisted of 55 singers, dancers and musicians. It performed Russian and European operettas, like Franz Lehár’s Der Graf von Luxemburg, Valentin Valentinov’s ɇɨɱɶ Ʌɸɛɜɢ [A Night of Love] and Sydney Jones’s Geisha.17 In addition to Shtern’s group, impresario Carpi’s troupe branded as the Grand Italian Opera began to supplement his group’s mostly Italian artists with skilled Russian artists, dancers, singers and musicians. Carpi’s troupe performed operas around the Far East in the 1920s, from Singapore to Manila and from Japan to China, going occasionally as far as India.18 Shanghai was a regular stop. Typically, Carpi’s troupe would stay there for two weeks and give six performances a week, presenting something new each evening. The group was considered to be of a high standard and, based on its advertisements, had a full chorus, orchestra and ballet. The operas were typically Italian, like Tosca, La Traviata, Aida and Il barbiere di Siviglia.19 It seems that the growth of the Russian colony in Shanghai eventually led Carpi to take Shanghai as his base of operations, arranging Asian tours from there starting in 1929.20 He would also act as an impresario for several foreign artists arriving in Shanghai, Russian émigrés included. These groups toured the Far East for the first decade after the Revolution. Towards the end of the 1920s, artists in these groups – or even whole groups – tended to find more permanent bases of operations, either from Harbin or Shanghai. At the end of the 1920s, Shanghai already had a secure roster of Russian operetta and vaudeville artists performing in clubs and restaurants throughout Shanghai. By the early 1930s, many of these artists were already part of professional theatre groups. Operetta and stage repertories were often mixtures of European, American and distinctly Russian works. Vaudeville performances often included – or throughout the 1930s more typically consisted of – popular Russian genres like gypsy 17

Novosti teatra [Shanghai] 1/1921. Ot’ezd ital’ianskoi opery, SZ 9.3.1929. 19 Ad, SZ 3.3.1929 20 E.g. Ot kontory, SZ 14.2.1929. He reportedly received mail in Shanghai, thus he must have stayed there for more than a few weeks. 18

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romances and authors’ songs in Russian. Audiences were not merely Russian but increasingly of other nationalities as well, despite the language. Russian artists learned to skilfully negotiate programmes for concerts and events so that they included numbers that drew in international as well as Russian audiences. This was accomplished through trial and error in the 1920s, when Russians started organising concerts on their own. Classical musicians of high status established a strong foothold in Shanghai early on. While Russian associations committed to classical music and musical education were still up and coming, even in the early years of the 1920s there were notable Russian musicians who had found their home in Shanghai, performing for Russians and foreigners alike. On 20 April 1921, a concert consisting of music by Skryabin, Rakhmaninov and Rubinshtein was held. Mere weeks later, soprano Marianna Cherkasskaya, “primadonna of Petrograd’s Imperial Theatre, Milan’s ‘La Scala’ and Paris’s ‘Grand Opera’” together with bass Pyotr Selivanov, also from Petrograd, performed Russian and European opera classics. She was quick to make connections with the Shanghai Municipal Orchestra, Shanghai’s professional symphony orchestra, singing such demanding Wagner numbers as Isolde’s “Liebestod” and “Ho jo to ho!” (as a solo number) with great success.21 From the mid-1920s, Russians would form the core of the Shanghai Municipal Orchestra (SMO) as well as serve as an important pool of soloists for the SMO. However, Madame Cherkasskaya was one of those who had problems settling down, and her stay in Shanghai remained a brief one, even if she performed there actively during her stay. As early as 1922 she moved to Paris and performed in the Grand Opera for a year before relocating yet again to Riga, Latvia. While Cherkasskaya chose a life of wandering from one cultural metropolis to another, Selivanov chose to stay and became one of the backbones of the Russian community in Shanghai. He had graduated from the St. Petersburg (Petrograd) conservatory, having sung for three years at the Mariinsky and Alexandrovsky theatres, the main operatic stages of imperial Russia. He came to Shanghai in 1919, establishing his own music school (Kol’esnikova 1926, 220; Aurilene 2008, 155). Selivanov, who was among the first Russian artists in Shanghai, had a key role in beginning the education of singers and musicians that later filled positions in concerts and operettas in Shanghai. Selivanov’s circle developed into the LiteraryArtistic Association (LAO), which aimed at popularising Russian culture through lecture concerts, playing Dargomyzhsky, Glinka and Tchaikovsky, among others. Other musicians followed, and soon most of the instrumental 21

Novosti teatra [Shanghai] 1/1921 & 5/1921 & 2/1921.

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teachers were Russian. Inevitably, the students were not just Russian, but Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, English, French, German, Danish and American (Zhiganov 1936, 147). Several other graduates of the St Petersburg conservatory had reportedly settled in Shanghai during the first half of the 1920s, like soprano Evgeniya Levitina and pianist Kira Kuznetsova, who had previously been touring around the Far East (Kol’esnikova 1926, 221). Several dance studios by Russian ballerinas were also opened, such as one by Tatiana Svetlanova (Kol’esnikova 1926, 221). There were markets for Russian music teachers in Shanghai, a city with a lot of money and little culture. Spouses and children residing in Shanghai needed civilised things to do, and, even if there were not enough opportunities for concert pianists or stage singers, they could find students and set up their own school. In some cases, well-off Russians had learned the art of dance or music just for their own recreation while living in Imperial Russia, but now some of them had an opportunity to turn this into a profession. Furthermore, more ambitious teachers were even able to teach according to Russian traditions and introduce Russian music and traditions to their foreign students and audiences successfully. The impact can still be felt today (Yang 2012; Yang 2013). But which parts of Russian culture should be preserved was not a simple question. This question became acute as Bolshevik rule in Russia began to look less temporary. Many became anxious about preserving Russian culture as it had been before the Bolshevik Revolution. Russian artistic traditions were something typically considered to be at risk and important to preserve. This was illustrated in the “Days of Russian Culture”, a tradition adopted in the mid-1920s from other Russian émigré communities. It was held on the anniversary of Pushkin’s birth, and it was typically a fairly conservative event (Kol’esnikova 1925, 150). Pushkin’s 125th anniversary on 8 June 1924 marked the beginning of a tradition among Russian émigrés around the world to celebrate the anniversary as “the Day of Russian Culture”. It spread throughout centres of Russian emigration and was picked up in Shanghai as well. In 1930, Shanghai’s Days of Russian Culture had already been arranged for the sixth time. Two Russian educational institutes were responsible for the arrangements, overseen by the Russian Educational Association: the First Russian School and a Russian commercial institute, joined by the French College, which had a lot of Russian students. The event is interesting not only because of its completely Russian contents but also because of the attention it received. All the notables from the Russian community were in attendance. The programme itself consisted of choir

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and dance numbers, Pushkin’s verses or motives and excerpts from plays and poems by Pushkin, such as Boris Godunov, Rusalka and Poltava – all key works of the Russian cultural canon.22 A letter from the Russian Educational Association described the meaning of the Pushkin celebration as an attempt to preserve Russian culture. At the same time, it was a chance to prove the cultural power of the emigration as well as an important way to educate children about Russia and what it meant to be Russian. The event was compared to the Americans’ Fourth of July and other national celebrations that differed from festivities such as Christmas and Easter that were celebrated by virtually all Europeans.23 Pushkin Day was as much a celebration of Russian culture as it was a celebration of Russian national sentiments. A key concern of the Association was the distancing of Russian children from Russian traditions and assimilation into a cosmopolitan culture, which in a metropolis such as Shanghai was considered to be a major risk. The Association’s objective in arranging the Days of Russian Culture was to draw in support for Russian schools and to ensure the “preparing of a new army of people with Russian spirit”. Even if the collection of funds was part of the initiative, it was said that the main objective was cultural education.24 The extensive support of the Shanghai Russian community for these festivities speaks to the desire to keep Russian traditions alive, even if the people remained politically divided. Russian literary traditions were primarily an inner issue for the Russian community, which raised very limited interest outside the community. However, whenever Pushkin or other Russian literary heroes were arranged into musical works, choreographies or operas, the Russian cultural traditions resonated well with Shanghai’s international community. Perhaps the most obvious example of these influences is ballet, where Russian traditions had become the global gold standard on the eve of the Revolution. Sergei Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes had begun a world-scale ballet craze. This was also reflected in Shanghai. Already during the early part of the 1920s there were several Russian ballet studios. A few prominent visits by high-profile Russian prima ballerinas fuelled the ballet enthusiasm that lasted for decades. Visits by dancers associated with Ballets Russes, like Anna Pavlova (1922) and Kseniya Makletsova (1924), who showcased masterpieces of Russian ballet for Shanghai audiences, were particularly 22

Uspekh Pushkinskogo vechera, SZ 10.6.1930; K. Shendrikova, K pushkinskomu dniu, SZ 8.6.1930; Den’ Russkoi Kultury, SZ 1.6.1930; Programma Pushkinskogo vechera, SZ 8.6.1930. 23 G.E.R., Ko dniu Russkoi Kultury, SZ 8.6.1930. 24 Pushkinskii den’ v Shankhae, SZ 18.5.1930.

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important. In 1922, Anna Pavlova had performed her masterpiece Dying Swan as part of her troupe’s first oriental tour.25 Some of the visiting luminaries, like Makletsova, expressed deep sympathy for the Russian community – which in 1924 still included a lot of destitute people – and arranged charity concerts to raise money for them to help them build their community.26 The meaning of cultural events for the Russian émigré community, thus, went well beyond entertainment. Numerous charity concerts helped to gather funds for schools, buildings and institutions. The Russian hospital of Shanghai, for example, was established in 1926.27 Culture was a cohesive force for the Russian community that also brought respite from the burdens of being a refugee, and moreover it also helped to overcome otherwise fairly strict political boundaries. Anna Pavlova’s visit to Shanghai is often reported as an event that drew many young Russians to the world of ballet and led mothers to put their children in ballet schools. Pavlova was also hired to perform for local school children (French 2012; Shen 2012, 42). While few Russian students of Shanghai’s ballet schools became famous, many students represented other nationalities. The most famous was definitely Margot Fonteyn, the illustrious British ballerina, who resided in Shanghai as a teenager and had fond memories of her Russian teachers in Shanghai. For many Russian émigrés, ballet carried an aura of greatness, bringing back memories of Imperial Russia. But rather than becoming a backward-looking form of art, ballet became a staple in Shanghai’s cultural life. Full spectacles were only seen on a regular basis in the latter part of the 1930s, but excerpts and individual numbers were seen in all kinds of events throughout the 1920s and 1930s. Restaurants and night clubs hired trained ballet dancers for traditional numbers as well as all kinds of spectacles, vaudeville and revues. Exotic dance numbers were constantly advertised in newspapers. Interest in dance and ballet greatly exceeded the confines of the Russian community, even if it was single-handedly dominated by Russians. Another cultural field in which Russians excelled and that was important well beyond their own community was music. Music was also an area where Russians managed to spread their own traditions and culture amongst the other nationalities of Shanghai. The city’s musical life became essentially dominated by Russians, and this process was well on its way as early as the 1920s. By 1924, three Russian vocal studios that gave singing lessons had been established. The nightlife was not yet dominated by Russian operettas and cabarets, but small troupes already existed, such 25

Zheng Yangwen 2007, 256-257. Ad, Novaia Shankhaiskaia Zhizn’ 14.6.1924. 27 Illustrirovannaia Zaria 26.10.1930. 26

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as the one in the old Carlton theatre (Zhiganov 1936, 147). Shanghai’s numerous movie theatres and restaurants were the working places of many Russian musicians in the 1920s when they came to Shanghai. Virtually all respectable movie theatres had their own orchestra, and they were increasingly Russian.28 But many talented and ambitious musicians hoped for more. The SMO welcomed a steady row of Russian musicians. In 1917 only 10% of the SMO’s musicians were Russian, whereas by 1936 their share had reached 60%. Even if Italian Mario Paci continued to be the SMO’s main conductor, most other main roles were occupied by Russian émigrés (Van 2008, 471-472; Zhiganov 1936, 147; Aurilene 2008, 155). The Russian choir gave its first concert in December 1924 at Town Hall. Choir director Pyotr Mashin was then visiting Shanghai, and the row of concerts he organized was a major success. The concert cycle included spiritual concerts, such as a performance of Tchaikovsky’s Liturgy, which were particularly important for Orthodox Christians. Generally, the choir concerts consisted primarily of Russian songs, yet they drew a sizeable foreign audience (Aurilene 2008, 155; Zhiganov 1936, 147). Mashin then decided to relocate from Harbin to Shanghai, assuming a key role in Shanghai’s choir life. Russian musicians, like Mashin, introduced much lesser-known Russian music to Shanghai audiences. Even the SMO’s repertory came to increasingly include more Russian classical works towards the 1930s. Russian domination in certain areas of cultural production in Shanghai became almost comprehensive. In 1928, a major musical competition was organised in Shanghai for the 100th anniversary of Franz Schubert’s death. The prizes were mostly collected by Russians: the best choirs were all Russian and the piano and other instruments were also dominated by Russians. Yet, the Russians seem to have had a hard time working together. Instead, teachers worked primarily with their own students, only coming together for joint concerts every once in a while. The efforts of pioneering Russians, however, paved the way for the Shanghai Conservatory, established in autumn 1927 by Xiao Youmei and the Chinese National Government, but the top professors were Russian émigrés. The Shanghai Conservatory became the prime western musical establishment of China, with Russian professors Boris Zakharov (1887– 1943), Sergei Sergeyevich Aksakov (1890-1968) and many others (Yang 2012, 92-95). Zakharov had been touring practically since the Revolution and, tired of travelling, decided to stay in Shanghai. Aksakov, in turn, belonged to those that arrived via Harbin. Towards the late 1920s, many 28

Zvukovyia kartiny i muzykanty. Beseda s F. M. Ul'shteinom, SZ 17.2.1929.

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other notable Russians made similar choices, becoming crucial figures in Shanghai’s developing artistic and cultural life, which was becoming increasingly dominated by Russians. From the Russian point of view, the amount of Russian professors and the fact that much of the conservatory’s early teaching was modelled after Glazunov’s conservatory in St. Petersburg, made it resemble a Russian institution even if it was established and owned by the Chinese (Zhiganov 1936, 147). The story of the Shanghai Conservatory would likely have been very different if there had not been active Russian musical studios and a bustling musical scene with Russian musicians by the mid-1920s. Although the Russians never had a genuine artistic programme for Shanghai but rather merely a sum of individuals and organisations with different objectives, occasional editorials in Russian newspapers and proclamations of certain organisations suggested that the Russians might have shared a certain ethos about the Russian capability to make Shanghai cultured. This was manifested in spring 1929 when Shankhai Zaria proclaimed the cultural tasks needed to be undertaken by Shanghai. The city was quickly becoming a world metropolis, with only New York, London and Paris being more populous. Yet, the editors of Zaria lamented about Shanghai having lived in a cultural void. Zaria’s editorial pointed to the then current quantitative rise of cultural activities but also underscored that quality was lagging behind. Furthermore, while there were “golden and silvery bank buildings”, art galleries, palaces, and museums were all but missing.29 What could be read between the lines was that the Russians were the answer to the city’s needs. Indeed, the abovementioned editorial was published at an important crossroads. Shanghai was already on its way to becoming an artistic centre for the whole Far East. It was hardly a coincidence that the cultural rise of Shanghai took place while there was an influx of people of Russian background. In just a few years, Shanghai received its permanent operetta, drama theatre, opera and ballet groups – all established by Russians. In 1929, several future key members of Shanghai’s musical scene arrived in Shanghai, such as pianist Boris Zakharov, composer Sergei Aksakov, conductor Alexander Slutsky, operatic bass Vladimir Shushlin, operetta singer Zinaida Bittner and many others. The reason was partly related to world politics: Harbin’s situation and the Japanese invasion, as well as the general economic slump drove Russians to seek shelter and work in Shanghai. The Russians readily saw the Russian domination of Shanghai’s musical scene as a natural development. Shanghai’s foremost music 29

Lead editorial, Kul’turnyia zadachi Shankhaia, SZ 19.2.1929.

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historian and theorist, Sergei Aksakov, drew straight lines from RimskyKorsakov to Igor Stravinsky, also a Russian émigré, who, according to Aksakov, dominated the world musical scene from exile in Paris. Aksakov also mentioned other Russian émigré composers, including Glazunov, Prokofiev, Tcherepnin, Grechaninov, Sabaneyev and many others. Furthermore, Paris had Russian opera, and Russian opera groups also existed in Italy, Spain, Serbia and Latvia. In this sense, Aksakov claimed, Shanghai was still behind Europe in terms of music in 1929, but was developing fast. Aksakov saw that the Shanghai Conservatory could potentially develop into a great school if it would only follow the Russian school of music.30 For Shanghai Russians, the future of Shanghai’s cultural life was Russian. In many areas of artistic activity, this prophecy became a reality throughout the 1930s.

Conclusion Although it is chronologically beyond the scope of this article to speak about the end of the Russian community in Shanghai, it does help to explain the reason for the amnesia surrounding the Russian influence in Shanghai and China more generally. After all, the majority of Russian émigrés in Shanghai had originally left Russia because of the Bolshevik rule, whether it was for political, religious or social reasons, and felt they could not return. Therefore, the Russian émigré community was able to thrive in the 1930s and did not disperse during the war. After the Second World War, however, the international communities in Shanghai were already staggering, and the Soviets were allowed to spread their propaganda about moving to the Soviet Union within the Russian community. A small minority, professor Aksakov among them, acquired Soviet passports and chose to return to their motherland. Some of those who returned were persecuted, while many others who had been successful in Shanghai were denied access to major cities and lived the rest of their lives leaving few traces for historians to discover. Many Jews, in turn, heeded the call of Zionist organizations about moving to Israel. The majority of Russian émigrés, however, chose to stay. Yet, after the communists had seized power in China by 1949, all foreigners had to leave the country. The United Nations arranged for the evacuation of Russians to the remote island of Tubabao in the Philippines. There, most Russians had to wait for two years before their fate was satisfyingly arranged. Most were relocated to countries in South America, while some 30

O muzykal’nykh dostizheniiakh. Nasha beseda, SZ 10.6.1929.

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ended up in Australia. Eventually, most Shanghai Russians trickled towards the West Coast of the United States after a detour of some years in Brazil, Argentina or Australia throughout the 1950s. The émigrés who eventually reached San Francisco, Los Angeles, Seattle or Vancouver have also left more traces of their lives in Shanghai than those who returned to the Soviet Union (Hardwick 1993, 104). Yet, their stories fit poorly into Russian, Chinese or American historical narratives and have remained outside most attention. Thus, the Russians vanished from Shanghai in 1949 for good but not without leaving their mark. Especially Russian traditions in classical music and dance became deeply rooted in Chinese cultural life. Notable Chinese art establishments were initially under strong Russian influence or even imitated old Russian institutions, as the famous Shanghai Conservatory did. The fact that Russian artists and pedagogues had interacted not only with the international community but also with the Chinese ensured that they did not vanish without leaving traces. This, in turn, was made possible by the fact that the arts such as music and dance required less use of language than many other activities. Even if the Russian community initially had little proficiency in English, and even less so in Chinese, they could still teach arts to both the international community and the Chinese. Russian emigration in China is something that calls for more attention in the future. We have hardly enough information about this community to draw any kind of strong arguments, not to mention conclusions. But there are things we can safely say. Firstly, a large majority of the Russian émigré community in Shanghai was a result of the post-1917 exodus belonging to the so-called “first wave”. Secondly, Shanghai became the most important centre of Russian emigration in China after Soviet influence in Harbin started to grow in 1925 and particularly after Manchuria was taken over by the Japanese in the 1930s. Thirdly, the Russian émigré community in Shanghai was very lively. It was the biggest non-Asian community in this world-class city. The Russian influx also altered Shanghai drastically. The formerly colonial society of Shanghai was already cracking when the Russians began arriving by the thousands. The arrival of a sizable non-Chinese community that could not, and was not allowed to, become part of it was a major change. Furthermore, even if the Russian community aimed at preserving its traditions, it hardly isolated itself from other communities but rather played an important role in precommunist Shanghai. Through a better understanding of the composition and activities of the Russian community in Shanghai it is possible to understand the impact of Russian emigration and Russian traditions not

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only in China but also beyond, as this community dispersed to Australia and metropolises on the West Coast of North America.

Bibliography Ablazhei, N.N. (2007): ɋ ȼɨɫɬɨɤɚ ɧɚ ȼɨɫɬɨɤ: Ɋɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɚɹ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ ɜ Ʉɢɬɚɟ, ɇɨɜɨɫɢɛɢɪɫɤ: ɂɧɫɬɢɬɭɬ ɂɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɋɈ ɊȺɇ. Ablova, N.E. (2007): Ⱦɚɥɶɧɟɜɨɫɬɨɱɧɚɹ ɜɟɬɜɶ Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ, Ɇɢɧɫɤ: Ɋɟɫɩɭɛɥɢɤɚɧɫɤɢɣ ɢɧɫɬɢɬɭɬ ɜɵɫɲɟɣ ɲɤɨɥɵ. Aurilene, E.E. (2008): Ɋɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɚɹ Ⱦɢɚɫɩɨɪɚ ɜ Ʉɢɬɚɟ, 1920-1950-e ɝɝ, ɏɚɛɚɪɨɜɫɤ: ɑɚɫɬɧɚɹ ɤɨɥɥɟɤɰɢɹ. Balakshin, P. (1958): Ɏɢɧɚɥ ɜ Ʉɢɬɚɟ, San Francisco: Sirius. Bergere, M.-C. (2009): Shanghai: China’s Gateway to Modernity, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Fedoulenko, V. (1967): Russian Émigré Life in Shanghai, oral history transcript, UC Berkeley Library. French, P. (2012): The Badlands: More Stories from Midnight in Peking, New York: Penguin Books. Hardwick, S.W. (1993): Russian Refugee. Religion, Migration, and Settlement on the North American Pacific Rim, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Khisamutdinov, A.A. (ed.) (2006): Ʉɢɬɚɣ ɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ ɜ ɞɧɟɜɧɢɤɚɯ ɂ. ɂ. ɢ Ⱥ. ɇ. ɋɟɪɟɛɪɟɧɧɢɤɨɜɵɯ. Ɍɨɦ 1. "ɉɨɤɚ ɠɟ ɦɵ ɫɱɚɫɬɥɢɜɵ ɬɟɦ, ɱɬɨ ɧɢɱɬɨ ɧɟ ɭɝɪɨɠɚɟɬ ɧɚɦ...", 1919-1934, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɊɈɋɋɉȿɇ. —.(2010): Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɜ Ʉɢɬɚɟ. ɂɫɬɨɪɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɨɛɡɨɪ, ɒɚɧɯɚɣ: Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɤɥɭɛ ɜ ɒɚɧɯɚɟ. Kol’esnikova, E.E. (ed.) (1926): Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɢɣ ɚɥɶɦɚɧɚɯ Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ, ɒɚɧɯɚɣ: Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ. Ristaino, M.R. (2001): Port of Last Resort: The Diaspora Communities of Shanghai, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Sergeant, H. (1991): Shanghai, London: Jonathan Cape. Shen, L. (2012): Knowledge Is Pleasure: Florence Ayscough in Shanghai, Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Simpson, J.H. (1938): Refugees: Preliminary Report of a Problem, London: Royal Institute of International Affairs. Smith, S.A. (2000): Road is Made. Communism in Shanghai 1920-1927, Richmond: Curzon Press. Van Chzhichen (2008): ɂɫɬɨɪɢɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɜ ɒɚɧɯɚɟ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɩɭɬɶ.

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Wasserstrom, J.N. (2009): Global Shanghai, 1850-2010. A History in Fragments, London: Routledge. Yang, H.-L. (2012): The Shanghai Conservatory: Chinese Musical Life, and the Russian Diaspora, 1927-1949. In: Twentieth Century China 37, 1, pp. 73-95. —. (2013): Diaspora, Music and Politics: Russian Musical Life in Shanghai during the Interwar Period. In: Fairclough, P. (ed.): Twentieth Century Music and Politics: Essays in the Memory of Neil Edmunds, London: Ashgate, pp. 261-278. Zheng Yangwen (2007): From Swan Lake to Red Girl’s Regiment: Ballet’s Sinicisation. In: Kant, M. (ed.): The Cambridge Companion to Ballet, Cambridge: CUP, pp. 256-262. Zhiganov, V.D. (1936): Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɜ ɒɚɧɯɚɟ, ɒɚɧɯɚɣ: ɋɥɨɜɨ.

Newspapers Shankhaiskie telokhraniteli, SZ 21.2.1928 Soiuz bodigardov i vochmanov, SZ 5.2.1930 Shankhai za tridtsat’ piat’ let. Vospominaniia iubiliara V.F. Grosse, SZ 26.2.1929 Shankhaiskaia russkaia kontsessiia, SZ 15.6.1928 Shankhai rastet, SZ 23.1.1929. Prigovor pokhititeliam, SZ 1.2.1929, 5 Kak eksportiruet devushek v Shankhai, SZ 29.8.1930 Novosti teatra [Shanghai] 1/1921 Ot’’ezd ital’ianskoi opery, SZ 9.3.1929 Ad, SZ 3.3.1929 Ot kontory, SZ 14.2.1929. Novosti teatra [Shanghai] 1/1921 & 5/1921 & 2/1921 Uspekh Pushkinskogo vechera, SZ 10.6.1930 K. Shendrikova, K pushkinskomu dniu, SZ 8.6.1930; Den’ Russkoi Kultury, SZ 1.6.1930 Programma Pushkinskogo vechera, SZ 8.6.1930. G.E.R., Ko dniu Russkoi Kultury, SZ 8.6.1930 Pushkinskii den’ v Shankhae, SZ 18.5.1930. Ad, Novaia Shankhaiskaia Zhizn’ 14.6.1924. Illustrirovannaia Zaria 26.10.1930 Zvukovyia kartiny i muzykanty. Beseda s F.M. Ul’shteinom, SZ 17.2.1929. Lead editorial, Kul’turnyia zadachi Shankhaia, SZ 19.2.1929. O muzykal’nykh dostizheniiakh. Nasha beseda, SZ 10.6.1929.

FACING RUSSIA: RUSSIAN CABARET CULTURE IN THE POST-WAR PERIOD OLGA VELITCHKINA

Introduction The Russian cabarets in Paris have long been an iconic feature of the cultural life of the Russian emigration. Legendary cabarets and their musicians are immortalised in novels, romanticised biographies, autobiographies, memoirs, and films. The cabaret music is now acknowledged as an important part of Russian cultural heritage as a whole. It has had a significant impact on entertainment music all over the world. However, despite its general recognition, this part of Russian culture is still largely understudied and deserves scholarly attention.1 This chapter proposes to look at the Russian cabaret culture from the point of view of “migration studies”, a model set up by recent studies in anthropology and ethnomusicology.2 According to Thomas Nail, the migrants 1

The book by the remarkable Bulgarian musician Konstantin Kazansky (1978) offers a survey of the Russian cabarets in Paris, based on the oral histories collected from his wife’s family members (one of the big Gypsy musician families, Codolban). Kazansky himself played a big role in the popularisation of cabaret music. For example, he made the arrangements for the vinyl LPs of Alësha Dimitrievich (Aliocha Dimitrievitch) and another premier Russian Gypsy musician – Volodya Polyakov (Volodia Poliakoff). The more recent publication by Maksim Kravchinsky (2008) contributes to the data collection up to the recent past, but it is not devoted specifically to the Paris emigration scene. In terms of serious ethnological research, a master’s thesis on Russian-Gypsy cabaret musicians was written by Dimitri Galitzine (2004) who is now pursuing his PhD in history on this topic. He also published a scholarly article devoted to a phenomenal representative of this culture, Alësha Dimitrievich (2005). 2 See for example Sayad (2004), Nail (2015), Pistrick (2015). The choice of the term ‘migrant’ instead of ‘emigrant’ or ‘immigrant’ is determined by a more global

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Facing Russia: Russian Cabaret Culture in the Post-War Period [...] experience (among other things) a certain degree of deprivation or expulsion from their social status. In this sense, the ¿gure of the migrant is not a “type of person” or ¿xed identity but a mobile social position or spectrum that people move into and out of under certain social conditions of mobility. (Nail 2015, 235)

Musical expression of the migration experience constitutes an important but often neglected part of this phenomenon. As Eckehard Pistrick notices in his recent book on Albanian migration songs: […] songs of displacement and travel are of vital importance in how migrants imagine themselves and their sociocultural situation and for how they construct social imaginaries, longings and belongings. Migration songs comment on movement through time and space. Migration songs are an essential part of the social imaginary of migrants. They formulate visions of the present and future in the light of a meaningful past. In them, the migrant and the community position themselves in relation to the suffering they have experienced. Singing has the power to reevoke events of the past and through the act of singing to bring the past into the present. This is why music inspired by migration makes it possible to decipher the cultural and sentimental dimensions of migration (Pistrick 2015, 2-3).

It is noteworthy, in my opinion, that the migration songs do not necessarily represent any special and/or closed genre or repertoire. Quite on the contrary, as the study of Russian cabaret culture shows, practically every musical genre and even songs originating in different cultures can evoke migrant feelings in a particular group and express the condition of the migrant, because of the circumstances of its performance. Thus, migration songs can be understood as a performative act, a particular way of making music, rather than as the concrete musical repertoire. This notion of performative act, englobing any appropriate musical repertoire, seems to be of particular importance in the study of migrant music, especially when we consider it as a reflexion of the mobile social position of migrants themselves: Describing migration songs as a performative, situational and contextually bound way of making music would privilege an inclusive approach that would make it possible to reconsider related musical repertoires such as love songs, laments, the songs of military recruits, working songs and even lullabies oscillating around a pivotal centre of migration songs. Migration songs are – unlike the material ‘objets mémoires‫ – ]…[ ތ‬not artefacts but view of this phenomenon, accepted in recent literature on the subject, while more traditional expressions like “émigré culture” are also used episodically.

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socially active in their immateriality, everywhere where they are performed and listened to. Unlike prayer books, family photographs or talismans, migration songs possess a powerful agency to influence public opinion and generate continuous discourses and counter-discourses, in their place of origin, in their host country and during travel” (Pistrick 2015, 3). This chapter aims to answer the following questions through a case study

of Russian post-war émigré musical life: how do migrants represent and imagine themselves through musical practice? How does music help them to accept and express their feeling of displacement? What are their concerns about the role they are playing in their adoptive culture as the ambassadors and representatives of their culture of origin? In the particular case of Russian post-war cabarets, these questions also involve the transmission of cultural values, including music, to the second generation of emigrants, who were changing attitudes toward their homeland and gradually turning towards acceptance, exchange and cooperation with their lost homeland. In trying to address these issues in the context of Russian emigration culture, I have chosen the post-war period, because it occupies a special place in emigration history. The people involved in Russian cultural life of this time were mostly from the second generation, born outside of the country from Russian parents or mixed families, but raised in the spirit of Russian culture, language, and music. They were trying to cope with their heritage, identity, integration or refusal to integrate, and acceptance or refusal of Soviet Russia. They found their ways in response to their personal family histories and through negotiating these histories with the surrounding culture. I propose to look at cabaret music from an ethnomusicological standpoint, exploring its functioning in a culture. I will take as an example the restaurant Balalaika that existed in Paris for more than 25 years starting from 1973. The Balalaika story exemplifies for me the three tendencies that were present at the time among the Russian Parisians: the search for their roots through Russian folk songs, keeping up with the inherited emigration identity, and opening up to the new repertoire coming from Soviet Russia. In order to understand what was special and typical in its history, we need to consider its larger social-cultural context.

History of Russian cabarets in Paris: inherited and invented cultural identity The origin of Russian cabarets in Paris goes back to the “golden twenties”, when they entered into the Parisian entertainment scene, proclaiming and

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glorifying “the art of living the Russian way”.3 This “Russian way of living” which they were presenting to the public was in fact only partly inherited from pre-revolutionary Russia; mostly, it was created in the 1920s in Paris where Russian emigrants, trying to cope with the bitterness of their loss, mythologised and reinvented the past. Konstantin Kazansky writing about Russian Parisian cabarets in the 1920s raises the important issue of “authenticity”: The authenticity, they [the cabaret entrepreneurs of the 1920s – O .V.] invented it. It was they who created it and their success was evident. They understood that no one can remake the nights of Saint Petersburg and Moscow on different soil and they replaced them with the Russian nights in Paris. The nights built on the heterogeneous foundation, but were inspired by the Russian taste for splendour, by the unique way of making a feast. (Kazansky 1978, 289)4

Music played a major role in the creation of this legend. The musicians perpetuated this mythical heritage and made their living by exploiting an already well-established model, based on the emotional, nostalgic and highly stylised Russian Gypsy songs, brought from the entertainment scene of pre-revolutionary Russia. Indeed, Gypsy songs were perceived by most Russian émigrés as a musical representation of their homeland, to the point that when asked “what (Russian) folk songs do you remember listening to or singing”, most elderly emigrants today tend to reply, “I really love Gypsy songs”.5 Gypsy songs in the context of Russian emigration culture evoked a good and carefree atmosphere, an easy way of living and prosperity, things that tended to be rare in emigrant life. Being already a product of social and cultural mobility (mixture of Russian and Gypsy stylistic musical idioms, social elevation of certain Gypsy families through singing and playing), those songs became still more popular in the emigration, as their initial nostalgia and longing were enhanced by this second migration experience.

3

See the witty note in Kazansky 1978, 287: “[...] it is difficult to resist Russian cabaret when there is an ambiance. It is difficult to get into the atmosphere of Russian cabaret when one does not have a good time there. And it is difficult to have a good time without spending all the money that one has.” 4 The original is in French. This and the following translations are made by the author. 5 Personal conversations conducted in preparation for a conference paper on the folklore in the musical life and works of Russian émigré composers in Goldsmith College, April 26, 2000.

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At the very end of the 1930s, under the threat of fascism, some artists (especially the Gypsies, like the Dimitrievich family) and cabaret owners departed for America and other countries, where they spread the fashion of this luxurious entertainment style among the upper levels of society. Only few Russian cabarets functioned under the occupation, but without any particular problems, as the German authorities also appreciated the Parisian entertainment scene, and Russian cabaret was one of its important attractions. At the end of the war, however, the second wave of fashion for Russian cabarets begins. They reopen one after another and attract high class public: international stars, intellectuals, people from the media and the artistic milieu. Their high prestige and popularity among international and French audiences was due to the legendary heritage of pre-war White Russians, partly stimulated by the popularity of Erich Maria Remarque’s novel Arc de Triomphe, which came out in 1946, and also those of other writers. In his book, Konstantin Kazansky qualifies this resurgence of public interest in Russian cabarets after World War Two as “just an excess of fever, a nostalgic love for the 1930s” (1978, 284). In light of the collected material, however, it looks like a more important phenomenon, rather a “silver age”, a continuation and proof of the vitality of the Russian emigration heritage. The subject is poorly documented, and in oral testimonies the years and names are often mixed up. The review of the Russian emigrant press reveals very little on the activities of the restaurants, and even less on those of the restaurant musicians. Usually, the owners put only an announcement about the opening of a new restaurant or cabaret, and then advertising notes before every big traditional feast (especially Christmas and Easter) in the press. Some owners, however, also announced their artistic programme and, only rarely, the names of musicians playing. But most of the time, the cabaret musicians were named in newspapers only when they participated in events outside of the restaurants, like the charity evenings and balls. In comparison to regular announcements and reviews of classical music concerts, this understatement of restaurant musicians seems unjust, but one has to keep in mind the ambiguous attitude of the Russian community towards the cabarets: pride was often mixed with reproach for luxury while many emigrants experienced extreme poverty. This lack of documentary sources makes it necessary to turn to oral histories. It is quite difficult to estimate the exact number of Russian Parisian cabarets in the post-war period and to establish their chronology. The

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monumental reference work on the Russian emigration6 gives the names of 84 restaurants and cabarets, including some specified as “mixed” (Russian-French, Russian-Jewish, Caucasian), but this number has to be taken with caution. In my research I came across about thirty names of cabaretrestaurants appearing in memoirs and documents, but the actual number of cabarets open simultaneously was much smaller, probably around ten. They often closed down and re-opened under another name, or passed from one owner to another. Some of them were quite short-lived, while others managed to attract and hold their audiences and had lasting success. By the 1950s, the tradition of Russian cabaret music seemed to be well established. The repertoire and style of the post-war period were both eclectic and unified; while based on a “core repertoire” (an established set of several dozen songs regularly requested by audiences), the cabaret scene allowed musicians great liberty to show their individuality. The typical set of instruments was the guitar, balalaika, violin, tambourine, and the accordion, but classical instruments (strings and piano, for example) were also in use in certain cabarets, if the space allowed for this, although much less than in the 1930s. Like the mixed and mobile identity of the songs, the performers were of extremely varied and mixed cultural origins and backgrounds, as is often the case in the creative, musical and artistic milieus.7 In a way, the musician’s ability to play music in the recognisable “emblematic” style mattered much more than his or her Russian cultural or linguistic identity. Furthermore, identity could change depending on the circumstances and the performance context. For example, when the Serbian Gypsy brothers Pëtr and Slobodan Ivanovich came to France and were introduced to the cabaret scene by their musician friend André Shestopalov, they learned the Russian and Gypsy “classical” cabaret repertoire, learned to play balalaika, and performed in cabarets as well as at various typical events of the Russian community (charity concerts, literary soirées, etc.). Later on, Shestopalov and the brothers Ivanovich formed a group called Les Tziganes Ivanovitch, in which the Gypsy identity was highlighted. Their LP record issued by Philips in 1971 had the title Me sem Rom [I am a Gypsy]. An introductory note placed on the back cover of the album comes from the famous French writer, film director and diplomat Romain Gary. He 6

See Mnoukhine et al. 2000-2002. Just citing a few examples, we note the prominent role of various groups of Gypsies (like the Codolban and Dimitrievich families, Vladimir Polyakov, the Ivanovich brothers), Russians, but also Romanians, Bulgarians (Konstantin Kazansky), Armenians (Karp Ter-Abramoff), Karaite (Ludmila Lopato), Jews, Georgians, as well as all kinds of people of mixed backgrounds. 7

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endorses and praises the young musicians’ authenticity in their expression of the spirit of old traditional songs, while renovating the form (in the words of Gary, being in tune with the “rhythms of all the young people of the world”). Visually, the album cover shows the musicians riding horses, in the style of cowboys, brandishing balalaikas and guitars instead of guns (figure 1). There are four musicians represented on the cover, the fourth one being Grégori Partog, a Frenchman of Armenian descent and thus also linked to the emigration, that brings to mind the analogy with the Beatles. Nevertheless, according to Shestopalov the cover rather represents a parody of the famous picture “Three Bogatyrs” of the Russian painter Viktor Vasnetsov (Bogatyr is a Russian epic warrior, a hero of epic songs). The group successfully toured in France and Europe in the early 1970s performing a medley of Gypsy and Russian repertoires.8

Figure 1. Cover of the LP of the Ivanovich Brothers, Philips, 1972. See centerfold for this image in colour.

8

Interview with André Shestopalov (15 March 2016).

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By the end of the 1960s, the seemingly timeless repertoire and style of Russian cabarets had reached a critical point. Konstantin Kazansky notices the stagnation and blames the restaurant owners and managers, as well as the public’s bad taste: Choosing to stick to the alleged tradition, the establishments [the cabarets – O.V.] of the 1960s pushed the singers and musicians to use eternally the same restricted and long overused repertoire. The cabaret artists, working for many years for audiences who themselves preferred catchy tunes of rather low quality, were always inspired by the same themes. In spite of themselves, they were constantly returning to the origins, as if the songs and the melodies had ceased to evolve for half of the century. This would not have been so bad, but these Gypsy romances, always the same, these instrumental tunes, always the same, this classic repertoire was embellished according to the precepts that dated from the same era as the repertoire itself. Only the musical ‘make-up’ and the presentation evolved; by the way, mostly for the worse (Kazansky 1978, 296).

We see, with the example of the Ivanovich, that it is not quite true. The musicians, conscious of this need to change, looked for other sources of inspiration and new expressions of identity. They found one of them in the new sound of Russian and Soviet music that they discovered at this time.

A new perception of Russia The victory over fascism, the end of the Stalin era, and international cultural events like the 6th festival of Youth in Moscow made a big impression on the general public and led people to think that Russia was starting to open up to the West. This created a highly positive image of the Soviet Union, in spite of the effects of the Cold War. This image was skilfully supported and employed by Soviet propaganda, making it a part of the “cultural diplomacy”. Starting from the end of the 1950s, Soviet musicians, both classical and popular, were regularly sent on tours, and enjoyed immense success with the Western public. In the early 1960s, distribution agreements were concluded between Melodia and the French label Le Chant du Monde (ideologically “friendly” with the USSR). Among the first records issued by Le Chant du Monde, were recordings of folk academic choirs and the Red Army Chorus with their highly stylised folk songs. This musical representation of folklore was forged by the Soviet authorities on the basis of socialist realist aesthetics, and although it represented quite a different repertoire and treatment of folklore compared with that of the emigration, it somehow resonated with the patriotic image of a strong power (ɞɟɪɠɚɜɚ in Russian),

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cultivated by the emigration, and at the same time the Soviet Union was perceived as a new, transformed country whose proclaimed social achievements fascinated the emigrant youth. The second generation emigrant musicians, for example, remember a very strong impression, made in their youth by the performances of the Aleksandrov Ensemble (known in the West under the name of the Russian Red Army Choir). This group first came to France for the Paris World Exhibition in 1937. They reappeared, after many years of absence, in 1960 with two month-long concert tours that were very successful and since then the group toured regularly in France approximately every three years, each time with more than 170 artists (singers, dancers and instrumentalists).9 It seems that at least some part of the Russian emigration community attended these concerts and was, like French audience members, fascinated by the image of force, unity and majesty of this big all-male ensemble, even if they did not appreciate the Soviet Union ideologically speaking.10 The core of the Ensemble – its choral group – was especially appreciated by the emigrants; its performance resonated well with their own choral culture, both ecclesiastical and secular. In the Orthodox Church, the presence of a capella choirs is obligatory. Furthermore, the whole congregation knows the tunes by heart and accompanies the choir with sotto voce singing. From the very beginning of its history, the emigration community viewed choral singing as a great tool of patriotic education. In Russian emigrant schools, singing the prayers and attending the Sunday church service was an essential part of education. Singing secular Russian songs was also encouraged. For example, in one of the boy-scout organisations, ȼɢɬɹɡɢ, according to the memoirs of one of its pupils, singing Russian songs accompanied almost all their daily activities, including daily chores, such as dish washing or potato peeling. All emigrant youth education organisations published song books, some of them with music sheets, while others contained only the texts.

9

This information was obtained from a personal conversation with Vladimir Antonov, former participant and historian of the Aleksandrov Ensemble and one of the authors of the book Historical chronicle of the Aleksandrov Ensemble, on 26 September 2016. The new edition of this book, now in preparation, will contain all dates and statistics of the Ensemble’s foreign tours. I thank Mr. Antonov for this information. 10 Personal conversation with the singer and artist Bielka (stage name, full name Bella Mijoin) on 11 February 2016.

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The Soviet songs, in particular those written in the folklore stylistic zone, entered the musical repertoire of the educational institutions of the Russian emigration community. For example, in the songbook of the ȼɢɬɹɡɢ, they were included in the general section of Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɩɟɫɧɢ [Russian songs] in the sub-section entitled ɋɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɵɟ ɩɟɫɧɢ [Modern songs] (sub-section 7 in the edition of 1975). As one could expect from the previous discussion, Gypsy songs were also included (in the next sub-section, number 8), still under the same chapter heading of Russian songs. In general, the second generation of emigrants was less unanimous in its hostility toward the Soviet Union, and on the musical level more receptive to the music coming from the other side of the Iron Curtain. The emigration musicians were attracted to this new Russian sound, as well as to the Soviet songs based on the same stylistics. André Shestopalov – one of the cabaret musicians from a ȼɢɬɹɡɢ background, – comments: We chose the songs not by the words, but by the melodies. What we searched for was first of all melodies that would be pleasant to sing and to listen to. Of course, we would avoid all mentions of Lenin and others in the 11 text.

Soviet lyrical war-time songs, such as Ɍɪɢ ɬɚɧɤɢɫɬɚ [Three tank soldiers] (1939), ȼɟɱɟɪ ɧɚ ɪɟɣɞɟ [Evening on the road] (1941), ɋɨɥɨɜɶɢ [The nightingales] (1944), Ɍɟɦɧɚɹ ɧɨɱɶ [Dark night] (1943), and others were included in the section of ȼɨɟɧɧɵɟ ɩɟɫɧɢ [War songs] under the subtitle ɋɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɵɟ ɜɨɟɧɧɵɟ ɩɟɫɧɢ [Modern war songs], carefully avoiding the mention “Soviet” (figure 2). In some of these texts the authors are indicated, while in others they are not. This circumstance brings them closer to the possibility of their being perceived as folk songs. Many post-war cabaret musicians, if they were of Russian origin, came from this second generation cultural milieu and brought into cabaret music this singing culture, naturally predisposed to incorporate popular folk and Soviet songs into the cabaret repertoire.

11

Personal conversation (interview) with the singer André Shestopalov (15 March 2016).

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Figure 2. The content page of the ȼɢɬɹɡɢ songbook (Pesennik 1975, 374-375), sub-section 5 of chapter 4: The “Modern war songs” sub-section is entirely composed of popular Soviet patriotic songs composed before and during the war

The middle-class cabaret The image of the Russian cabaret as being an extremely luxurious place where one could and should spend thousands in one night is partly a legend, the reality presenting a more nuanced picture. The famous places like Casanova (opened by Nikolay Kuznetsov in 1946) or later Raspoutine (opened by Helene Martini in 1965), served a high-class cosmopolitan elite. At the same time, there were also Russian restaurants intended for the gathering and entertainment of Russian emigrants with modest incomes. At the Zakuski, the last existing Russian old-style cabaret (a museum in a certain sense, as its owner Nikolay Novikov displays his great collection of photos and documents on its walls), one can see the photo of the interior of Baba Yaga, a restaurant owned by Pavel Trubnikov, in 1972-1975 (figure 3). The simplicity of its décor has nothing in common with the lavishness of the Raspoutine, or Sheherazade or other well-known places. Its name, Baba Yaga, and the style, seem to be almost a parody of the “high style” cabaret image.

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Figure 3. View of the interior of Baba Yaga (1972). Photo courtesy of Nikolay Novikov

For some places in the middle range, the attractiveness was based on their artistic programmes, and they were often owned or managed by the musicians. This is the case of the Romanian Gypsy singer Lida Goulesco, who owned two restaurants in succession, La Palata, in 1955, and later Tsarevich, or the famous virtuoso balalaika player Karp Ter-Abramoff (A la ville de Petrograd, then Karpouchka), Ludmila Lopato (Pavillon russe in 1961, then Chez Ludmila), and Marc de Loutchek (3 restaurants in succession known under the same name, the Balalaika12). These artists were at the same time the “artistic directors” and managers of cabarets, and could perform themselves or hire other musicians. They took great care of the quality of the musical performances and knew how to create an authentic cordial atmosphere that attracted celebrities and made people come back again and again. These restaurants were long-lasting and successful, striking a balance between exoticism and presence in the local musical scene. 12

In order to distinguish between the name of the group, that of the instrument itself and that of the restaurant, I will use the italics for the restaurant, and the quotes for the group.

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They were also loved by musicians who would come together after their work engagements to play for each other.

Balalaika: a case study The Balalaika was one of these smaller and more modest Russian restaurants where one would find middle-class people, White Russians from the second generation, more recent emigrants and Soviet dissidents, as well as Parisian intellectual and political figures. I have chosen to characterise the “Balalaika” musical group by presenting its three core musicians, Marc de Luchek (Loutchek), André Shestopalov and Bielka. The restaurant manager and the group leader was Marc de Luchek. Born in 1939 in the Paris suburbs into a Russian emigrant family, Marc had a solid classical music background in piano.13 According to his relatives and friends, the determining moment in his musical career was his meeting with Nikolay Orlovsky (sometimes spelled as Arlovski), one of the best Parisian guitarists and accompanists of the famous singer Sarah Gorbi.14 Under Orlovsky’s influence, Marc started studying the guitar and the balalaika. He began his career as a cabaret musician playing with the legendary Alësha Dimitrievich, with whom he made several recordings (reissued later on the 7th disk of the Balalaika series). Both Dimitrievich and the “Balalaika” ensemble created by Marc (vocals, guitars and balalaikas) appeared in the documentary De Taras Boulba à Gagarine by Claude Vernick and Francis Moraine (1967). At the beginning of the 1960s, Marc was already a well-known balalaika player, folk songs arranger, and he even temporarily took the direction of a balalaika orchestra at the Saint George boarding school in Meudon.15 His own group, simply called “Balalaika”, first started to play at the restaurant Chez Vodka, in the cellar of the three-story building called La Grande Séverine (in the Latin Quarter) 13 According to a family legend, he received the first prize in piano from the Paris Conservatory, but there is no documentary evidence to this. From newspaper reports (ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɟ ɧɨɜɨɫɬɢ, 1952, 1954) one can see that he studied piano at the Paris Rakhmaninov conservatory under the professor Elena Sobarnitskaya and took part in classical music concerts as a solo pianist and accompanist. 14 The information in Kravchinsky 2008, 108 about Orlovsky does not seem to be correct. Unlike many other guitarists, he played a Russian 7 string guitar. He arrived in France during or after World War Two. 15 The School of Saint George is the famous Russian boarding school established by the Jesuits in Meudon, a Paris suburb, in 1946. The balalaika orchestra, founded by P. Voloshin, gave many concerts and played an important role in the life of the Russian community.

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entirely dedicated to international entertainment (it also had a batoukada, a Brazilian percussion ensemble, a jazz-club, and a blues bar). Thus, his musical horizons seem to have been very open from the very beginning of his career The “Balalaika” group preceded the restaurant with the same name, which first opened near Bastille Square in Paris in 1973. Geographically, this place was rather far from the typical Russian cabaret locations (near Montmartre in the 1920-1930s, then in Passy near Trocadéro, and on the Champs Elysées) and the restaurant had to rely first on Parisian middle class public.

Figure 4. Playing scène at the Balalaika restaurant, 1970s (from left to right): Marc de Luchek, Igor Levkovets, André Shestopalov; Bielka, Pascal de Louchek (behind). Photo from personal archive, courtesy of Bielka Mijoin-Nemirovich

As the director of the band, Marc chose the musicians and the repertoire, made musical arrangements and also accompanied solo singers on the balalaika or the guitar. Moreover, he was not only a musical leader, but also the restaurant manager in charge of business and other personnel. According to the testimonies of his co-workers, all Balalaika personnel – the waitresses, the cashiers – were dedicated to music, and many were amateur singers or musicians themselves. They were attracted to this place be-

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cause of its specific musical atmosphere and were willing to stay for extra hours when the spontaneous jam sessions were organized. This, and also the quality of musicians, established the Balalaika’s reputation in the Russian musical community. Alësha Dimitrievich was a regular and welcomed guest, coming to Balalaika after his sets in Raspoutine. He is usually considered as a teacher (in a broader sense of the word) of a younger “Balalaika” musician, André Shestopalov. Like Marc, André also came from a Russian emigrant family with a musical background. His mother and aunt were dancers, while his father played the violin in Russian cabarets in his youth. However, André’s most significant musical impressions came from ȼɢɬɹɡɢ camps, which he attended regularly, and the Russian boarding school where he studied. At the end of the 1960s, with his friend playing the balalaika and a repertoire of three songs, he got a small job as a singer in a Russian restaurant, liked it and decided to pursue the career of restaurant musician. After working with the brothers Ivanovich for 5 years (1970-1975) he joined Marc de Luchek at the first Balalaika, where he participated in group performances and also developed, through time, a career as a soloist, specialising in Russian and Gypsy romances and the repertoire of Aleksandr Vertinsky. Later, he added the politically subversive Soviet bard songs (Okudzhava, Galich, Vysotsky, etc.) to this repertoire. This incredible – from the point of view of a Soviet listener – stylistic amalgam (who would think it possible to bring together such contradicting, incompatible musical repertoires?) meant for the emigration acceptance of one’s past and present, cultivating a spirit of respect and openness. The idea of mutual exchange, borrowing from the repertoire of Soviet folk and popular songs while giving back what the Soviet musicians had perhaps already forgotten (including the emigration tradition of cabaret music) is very natural for André Shestopalov. He advanced and defended this point of view in the interview in Claude Vernick’s documentary and this position summarises his musical experience rather well. The third important member of the “Balalaika” group, its recognisable female voice, Bella Mijoin-Nemirovski (stage name Bielka), had a very differrent background. Her parents were members of the Résistance movement and active participants in the Soviet-French Friendship society after the war. Her mother, of Russian-Jewish descent, grew up in France; she loved Russian music and often sang in Russian for her daughter. Bielka grew up listening to Soviet LP records, and joined the dance ensemble at the Russian-French Friendship society. She soon started to sing at the concerts and learned to play the balalaika on her own. Once, in the metro, she met people with balalaikas who were participants in the balalaika circle of

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the Russian Student Christian Movement. Together, they went to Chez Vodka to listen to Marc de Luchek’s “Balalaika” ensemble. This was a turning point. Bielka first worked with the brothers Ivanovich at the Taras Boulba cabaret, spent a year in Russia learning the language and joined the “Balalaika” orchestra in 1973.

Figure 5. Wall at the restaurant Zakouski featuring André Shestopalov (center), Alësha Dimitrievich (left) and Tsiganes Ivanovich (down). Photo O.Velitchkina. See centerfold for this image in colour.

Her most significant musical influence came from famous Russian feminine folk voices, above all Lidiya Ruslanova. In love with all sorts of Russian folk music, she participated in fieldwork missions of song collection in the Belgorod region of Russia in the 2000s and made a documentary film on village singing. As a singer she also interprets a medley of Eastern European folk songs – Jewish, Gypsy, Georgian, Ukrainian and others. Among her favourite Russian pieces there are folk songs (like different local forms of ɱɚɫɬɭɲɤɢ – short witty couplets), mostly borrowed from the repertoire of Russian academic folk choirs, lyrical songs by Soviet authors, film music, and also bard songs of the 1970s.

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Figure 6. Bielka as a member of the Balalaika ensemble. Photo courtesy of Bielka from her personal archive

This incredible mixture of origins, cultural backgrounds and types of music, coupled with a readiness to open up, to learn and to share, characterise the Balalaika’s musical heritage. Every interesting Russian or Eastern European musician passing through Paris was welcomed and given a place to perform. The Balalaika musicians cultivated good taste, consciously trying to stay away from the clichés. They banned the oldtime standards, like Ɉɱɢ ɱɟɪɧɵɟ [Black eyes] and Ʉɚɥɢɧɤɚ, and refused to perform them even on public request. They also elevated the status of a musician, avoiding singing “at the tables”, as was done traditionally in cabarets. This musically rich and creative atmosphere attracted a wide range of Parisian intellectuals, politicians and artists, as well as Russian political dissidents. As for the musicians, the Balalaika years stay in their

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memory as a formative musical experience. “We were happy just playing together, sharing and passing time. It also allowed us to make ɚ living, it was not an easy job, but we loved it” – concludes Bielka. The decline of Russian restaurant culture came in the late 1980s and was connected to many factors, mostly the change in people’s attitudes towards entertainment in general. For Russian cabaret musicians, in particular, the fall of the Berlin wall meant the arrival of Soviet and Eastern European musicians, driving down the prices of performances. At the beginning of the 1990s, with the general crisis, the days of the Russian restaurants were numbered. In the late 1990s the Balalaika restaurant also closed its doors. The musical heritage of this place was preserved in numerous records, issued first in the form of vinyl disks (2 volumes) and later as CDs (7 volumes). These records constitute the treasury of Russian emigration music. In conclusion, it may be said that music was a vital part of the Russian emigration experience, revealing the construction of a complex and multilayered cultural identity. For the post-war period, the musical components of this identity comprised, beyond the Orthodox Church singing and Russian-Gypsy classic cabaret repertoire, also Russian folk and Soviet music. In addition, the late Soviet years were marked by the active appropriation by the emigrants of the subversive bard songs. By encompassing and mixing all these musical styles, the emigrant musicians claimed their belonging, expressed the longing for the mythical homeland and created their vision of a united Russia long before it would be possible in political discourse or in real life. Musicians, at least those of the Balalaika circle, invited the public to cross political and geographical borders, to reconcile the opposites, and positioned themselves quite consciously as representing Russian music as a whole, but making it in “rhythm with all the people of the planet.”

Bibliography Aleksandrov, ȿ., et al. (2013): ɂɫɬɨɪɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɥɟɬɨɩɢɫɶ ɚɧɫɚɦɛɥɹ ɢɦɟɧɢ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪɨɜɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ƚɪɚɧɢɰɚ. Galitzine, D. (2004): Les tsiganes russes musiciens de cabaret: première approche de la constitution d’un stéréotype, Master thesis, dir. J.-P. Liegeois and B. Bréveau, Paris V-René Descartes-Sorbonne. —. (2005): Aliocha. In: Etudes Tsiganes, N°23-24, pp. 160-175. Kazansky, K. (1978): Cabaret russe, Paris: Olivier Orban. Kravchinsky M. (2008): Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɩɟɫɧɹ ɜ ɢɡɝɧɚɧɢɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ⱦɟɤɨɦ.

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Mnoukhine, L. et al. (2000-2002): L’Emigration russe. Chronique de la vie scientifique, culturelle et sociale, 1940-1975, Paris: YMCA-press. Nail, Th. (2015): The Figure of Migrant, Stanford, California: Stanford University Press. Pistrick, E. (2015): Performing Nostalgia – Migration Culture and Creativity in South Albania, Ashgate, SOAS Musicology Series, Farnham. Pesennik (1975): ɉɟɫɟɧɧɢɤ ȼɢɬɹɡɟɣ ɜ ɲɟɫɬɢ ɨɬɞɟɥɚɯ, Paris: ɊɋɏȾ. Sayad, A. (2004) The Suffering of the Immigrant, Cambridge, UK, Polity Press.

Discography Les Tziganes Ivanovitch, Me sem Rom (I am a Gypsy), Philips, gravure Universelle, Stereo/Mono, 6332 011, 1971. Balalaika. Chansons russes -1. (Disque vinyl), Disques Deesse, DDLX 191, Paris, n. d. Balalaika. Chansons russes-2. (Disque vinyl), Disques Deesse, DDLX 228, Paris, n. d. Balalaika. Chansons russes et Tsiganes russes, vol. 7. (Russian and Gypsy songs vol. 7). By Marɫ de Loutchek and Balalaika orchestra, featuring Aliocha Dimitrievitch. CD, 2010.

SECTION 2: ARTS

ALEXIS GRITCHENKO’S TWO YEARS IN CONSTANTINOPLE, OR TSVETODYNAMOS IN ISTANBUL VITA SUSAK

In the history of Russian artistic emigration in the 20th century Istanbul was perceived only as a “transit point”, a temporary location on the way to Western Europe. Very few documents and little information is preserved about this period. Andrey Tolstoy in his monograph ɏɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ [The artists of Russian emigration] (Tolstoy 2005) devotes several pages to Constantinople. He mentions a circle of officers at a military camp in Halliopoli that engaged in caricature (1921) along with the ɋɨɸɡ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɨɜ [Union of Russian Artists] that organised 10 exhibitions of Russian artists in Istanbul’s Lighthouse gallery in 19211922. Pretty soon, with the departure of its members, the Union’s activities faded. The exotic, different nature of the East, the illegibility of the alphabet and writing, and the Turkish authorities’ demands did not allow Slavic fugitives to enter this world. Artists did not have the tools and possibilities to create something in Istanbul. This widespread belief is true for the majority, but not for everybody. The stay in Istanbul was temporary, but could have lasted for several years. “Temporality” just like “frontier” actually takes some time and space. It is enough to try this on one’s own biography in order to understand how much can happen in two or three years. Alexis Gritchenko spent almost two years in Istanbul. In her publication, Turkish researcher Dr. Aysenur Güler analyses his impact on the artistic environment of Istanbul, while I would like to show the reverse process: how Constantinople–Istanbul influenced Alexis Gritchenko (1883-1977). This Ukrainian painter, art critic and connoisseur of ancient icons was a prominent figure in Moscow’s cultural milieu in the 1910s. In the 1920s he arrived in the French capital and joined the circle of the École de Paris. Gritchenko had been fascinated with Constantinople since childhood, when his grandfather, the ɱɭɦɚɤ [Ukrainian merchant/carter] told him about his journeys to lands overseas. Before going there, Gritchenko was already well acquainted with the Byzantine heritage, particularly with

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icons. In Moscow he founded the avant-garde movement ɐɜɟɬɨɞɢɧɚɦɨɫ [Colour-Movement]. Gritchenko adapted a new understanding of pictorial space pattern proposed by Cézanne and Picasso for the “reading” of ancient Russian icons. His monograph Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɢɤɨɧɚ ɤɚɤ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɠɢɜɨɩɢɫɢ [The Russian Icon as the Art of Painting] (Gritchenko 1917) remained not only an example of a stylistic analysis of the principal icon painting schools for many years (Gritchenko was the first to define the distinguishing features of the Novgorod and Pskov schools), but also a valuable source of knowledge: the two-volume catalogue of the Tretyakov Gallery has dozens of references to this work. (Antonova and Mneva 1963) As an avant-garde artist he combined his study with reflections and observations on the formal language of icons.1 In autumn of 1918 Gritchenko was appointed as a professor of ȼɏɍɌȿɆȺɋ [First State Free Art Workshops] in Moscow. He taught together with Aleksandr Shevchenko; a year later, in May 1919, they opened a large exhibition ɐɜɟɬɨɞɢɧɚɦɨɫ ɢ ɬɟɤɬɨɧɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɩɪɢɦɢɬɢɜɢɡɦ [Tsvetodynamos and tectonic primitivism] together with their students. 182 works were exhibited, including 69 paintings by Gritchenko. (Exh. cat. Moscow 1919) One of the paintings, ɋɟɪɵɣ ɦɨɫɬ [Gray Bridge], was acquired by the Tretyakov Gallery in 1918. After the exhibition, Gritchenko decided to leave Moscow. Despite his personal success, he did not accept the idea of a proletarian revolution. As he recalls in his memoirs, he locked his workshop, wrote on the door with chalk: “ɇɟɦɚɽ ɡɛɪɨʀ. ɉɪɨɲɭ ɡɛɟɪɟɝɬɢ”. [No weapons. Please keep safe!] and went to the train station.2 On 30 November 1919, Gritchenko went ashore in Istanbul and on 1 April 1921, he departed for the Greek port of Piraeus. The fund of Alexis Gritchenko in the Kyiv National Art Museum keeps his diaries, in which with fine handwriting in pencil the artist described his experiences. Based on these records and keeping a diary form, he published the book Deux ans à Constantinople. Journal d’un peintre [Two years in Constantinople. A Painter’s Diary] with 40 illustrations of his watercolours. (Gritchenko 1930) 1

In the second half of the 20th century, starting with Camilla Gray’s monograph, many researchers showed the influence of the icon on the East European avantgarde, cf. Gray 1962, 97, 100. It is worth mentioning some of the first publications on this topic: Betz 1977; Friedman 1978; Marcadé 1990, 179-181; Neklyudova 1991; Tarasov 1992; Petrova and Poetter 1993; Krieger 1998, and others. 2 The quote is taken from Gritchenko’s memoirs (Gritchenko 1967, 98) published in Ukrainian. We may assume that the original text of the note was in Russian and sounded something like “Ɉɪɭɠɢɹ ɧɟɬ. ɉɪɨɲɭ ɫɨɯɪɚɧɢɬɶ”.

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Life in Istanbul was a constant struggle for existence: no documents, no money, onions for a rescue – but often there were only onions. In describing his difficulties and challenges, Gritchenko neither complains nor dramatises them. They lurk in the shadows of the true joy that he was finally in Tsargorod, his childhood dream. His love for the city penetrates every page of his memoirs. Gritchenko loved Constantinople, its defense walls, the mosaics in Chora Church (Kariye Camii); he returned to the Hagia Sophia many times. But he was no less taken by Istanbul with its mosques and minarets, the fezzes on the heads of the Turks, and the figures of women wrapped in fabric: Comme Stamboul est beau! Je m’arrête à l’intersection de deux rues. La foule coule à flots, on dirait une rivière serré dans son lit. Quels caractères, quelle harmonie des couleurs et des sons. Je reste longtemps, debout, épiant tout cela, transporté d’enthousiasme, saisissant, par moment, mon carton d’une main nerveuse. (Gritchenko 1930, 110) [Istanbul is so wonderful! I stop at the intersection of two streets. The crowd flows by in waves like a river squeezed in its bed. What characters, what harmony of colours and sounds! I stand for a long time observing all of this entranced, nervously squeezing the cardboard in my hand from time to time.]

Strapped circumstances initially allowed him to only paint watercolours on paper. The artist noted: Quelle ironie du sort! J’ai toujours considéré l’aquarelle avec dédain, la traitant de ‘guitare’. (Gritchenko 1930, 44) [What irony of fate! I always looked at watercolours with contempt, thinking of them as ‘guitars’.]

In less than two years in Constantinople, Gritchenko created about 650 works – 400 watercolours and gouaches, 140 drawings and 10 oil paintings. Constantinople is Tsargorod is Istanbul, three names for the same city that mark its historical epochs. The artist benefited from each of these eras.

Byzantine Constantinople: Mosaics, frescoes, architecture Gritchenko carefully studied Constantinople’s Byzantine relics, first and foremost the mosaics and frescoes at the Church of the Holy Saviour in Chora (Kariye Camii) created at the time of the Palaeologan dynasty of the

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Figure 1. Alexis Gritchenko, Jesus Christ healing Apostle Peter’s mother-in-law, 1920. Watercolour on paper, 24,5 x 28 cm. Copy of a mosaic fragment in the Kariye Camii Church. Private collection, New Jersey, USA. See centerfold for this image in colour.

early 14th century and discovered not long before his arrival. He would not have had the chance, then, to see the grandiose mosaics of the Hagia Sophia, which “slumbered under the lime.” They were only just being uncovered in the 1930s. The artist examined the mosaics and frescoes in Chora through his binoculars – “step by step, detail by detail” – and sketched fragments of the compositions, but he made free modernist interpretations of them, and had no desire to reproduce them exactly like his friend Izmailovych did. Dmitry Izmaylovych (1890-1976) stayed in Constantinople from 1919 to 1927, initiated the establishment of the Society of Russian-Turkish artists, and his persona deserves a separate study. Izmaylovych devoted several years of his work to copying the frescoes of the Kariye Camii Church. (Podzemskaïa 1999) Gritchenko followed a different path. An eloquent example is a comparison of a

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mosaic fragment from the scene of Jesus Christ healing the Apostle Peter’s mother-in-law (Gospel of Matthew, 8: 14-17) and the light watercolour ‘translation’ done by Gritchenko. His own reflections and observations led him to the realisation that the key to Byzantine art is contemplation: Contemplation, telle est l’origine de la Byzance artistique. Elle seule donne la mesure de toute tendance, de toute inspiration, la clef de toutes les idées. C’est elle qui a fait naître l’ordre dans la composition, l’équilibre des volumes colorés, la vie abstraite, non pas pratique des choses vulgaires, l’émotion et l’image plastiquement réalisée et non pas la copie conventionnelle de la nature. (Gritchenko 1930, 194) [Contemplation, that is the origin of Byzantine art. It is the only thing that gives dimension to the whole movement, the whole inspiration and is the key to all ideas. It is contemplation that creates order in the composition, the balance of coloured shapes, an abstract and not literal life of ordinary things, emotions, images, realised plastically and not as a stencil copy of nature.]

The artist composed separate “hymns” to Constantinople’s architecture. The static nature of walls and temples offered a favourable foundation for the tectonic constructions and colourful, unfolding surfaces that the founder of Tsvetodynamos so loved. He often chose subjects that he could unfold into flat, geometric shapes. One watercolour – a view of Istanbul and the bay that Gritchenko chose for the cover of his 1964 album – looks almost like pure abstraction. In another tightly tailored composition with a view of Byzantine defense walls he achieves the sense of the massiveness of the old tower with a transparent layer of light ocher, and a crooked leftover pencil line looks convincingly like an ancient crack. Gritchenko’s work is distinguished by its lightness, even when two thirds of the compositional space are covered in the gray of the sky or the emerald of the surface of water. He lays down colour as a uniform mass. The minimalism of his technique gives small watercolours the grandness of simplicity. His inspiration in cubism is as obvious as his divergence from it. The laconicism of the icon painting that Gritchenko so loved also distinguishes his compositions with the landscapes of this city, where icon painting was born. Back when he was living on Büyükada Island3, Gritchenko was visited by the critic S. M. on 25 May 1920. Most likely this was Sergei Makovsky 3

In early March 1920, Gritchenko received permission as an artist to leave for Büyükada Island, the largest of the Prince Islands in the Sea of Marmara not far

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(1877-1962), the very same person who once published Gritchenko’s article on the group Ȼɭɛɧɨɜɵɢ ɜɚɥɟɬ [Jack of Diamonds] in Ⱥɩɨɥɥɨɧ [Apollo]. (See Gritchenko 1913) He spent a long time looking at his watercolours and, with sorrow for the lost “charm of the old scenery” said: Ce que j’aime, dans un paysage, c’est l’étendue, l’espace, le lointain. Dans votre paysage à vous, on ne pourrait pas se promener […] Dans vos travaux, il y a beaucoup de sens décoratif. (Gritchenko 1930, 107-108) [The thing I love about landscapes is the breadth, the space, the distance. It’s impossible to stroll around in the landscapes you’ve done. […] In your works there is much decorative meaning.]

Gritchenko answered him: Oui, je ne le nie pas, le sens décoratif – comme le rythme – c’est mon idéal. […] Avec cela, la décoration n’est pas un ornement, un motif, un art appliqué. Elle est la conséquence de la vie, de la pensée, du sentiment de l’artiste, le resultat de l’équilibre, du rythme, des hautes réalisations plastiques. (Gritchenko 1930, 108) [Yes, I don’t deny it. A decorative essence, just like rhythm, is my ideal. […] But, at that, decorativeness is not an ornament, a motif, or applied art. It is the consequence of life, thought, an artist’s feeling, the outcome of balance, rhythm, high plastic realizations.]

Every time he sailed from the island to Istanbul, Gritchenko looked upon the city with the enormous silhouette of the Hagia Sophia from the sea: Nous approchons [sic!] de Stamboul. Sa Grande Basilique nous apparaît nettement la première. Depuis combien de siècles son contour sobre de cube et de demi-sphère a ému les regards des pèlerins et des voyageurs. (Gritchenko 1930, 106) [We are approaching Istanbul. The first thing we see is the Great Basilica. How many centuries has the harsh contour of its nave and dome impas sioned the glances of pilgrims and travellers!]

He did a small sketch: a few lines, some scribbling, and some careless strokes make up the plan for a future painting. Gritchenko carefully noted the colours that would fill the canvas: from Istanbul, which were under England’s control. There the British had organised a camp for two thousand escapees whom they also provided with food. Gritchenko stayed on the island until mid-July 1920.

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Pendant les périodes grises de brouillard, la ville se transforme. Mystérieuse, elle n’a plus de limites ni en largeur, ni en hauteur. Tout s’édifie d’une façon irréelle, inattendue. C’est du futurisme naturel. Des flots de fumée d’un bleu sale; des boules de vapeur blanche se dispersent en petits nuages; le ciel gris, descend très bas, tout se hérisse, s’étend, s’emmitoufle. Les profils minces des minarets, comme arrachés de leurs coupoles, semblent marcher bizarrement dans le ciel. (Gritchenko 1930, 101) [During gray periods when a fog hangs in the air, the city changes. Being mysterious, it has no boundaries in breadth or height. Everything is built in some unrealistic, unexpected way. It is natural futurism: stripes of dirty blue smoke, balls of white steam that break up into little clouds. The gray sky touches down very low, everything is on alert, pulls apart, gets wrapped up in warmth. The slender profiles of minarets, as though they’ve been ripped from the bathhouses, seem to march wondrously in the sky.]

His painting Rain over the Hagia Sophia matches this verbose description.

Figure 2. Alexis Gritchenko, Rain over the Hagia Sophia, 1920. Oil on canvas, 72 x 77 cm. The Kyiv National Art Museum. See centerfold for this image in colour.

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Turkish Istanbul: Mosques, Persian miniatures, coffee houses No less was Gritchenko fond of Istanbul with its mosques and minarets. Constantinople Bleu et Rose [Azure and Pink Constantinople] was the name of Gritchenko’s exhibition that opened in 1922 in the Povolozky gallery in Paris. (Exh. cat. Paris 1922) From among the various colours of the East, he chooses the key ones: the azure of the mosques and palace interiors with their woven patterns of blue-gray tiles, and pink, the warm, sun-scorched colour of bricks of the Byzantine temples (plinths). Gritchenko’s Turkish Istanbul can be grouped according to a few favourite subjects: street scenes, prayers in mosques, Turks in coffee shops, Turkish women. Some first pieces reflect the chaos of activity and feelings the artist was experiencing: agitated hatching and many minute, colourful spots. They were not quite the colours he needed – he did not have the paint. Using what he had, he painted port scenes and the streets of Galata. In a few (not many) “arabesque” watercolours, Gritchenko succumbed to the calico of the East, but in general he stayed true to the principles of Tsvetodynamos. The artist would usually capture a fragment of some scene, generalise it as much as possible, and single out a few dominant pure colours, which he would flood the surface with, daringly leaving more or less of the paper near it blank. Lightness and an exquisite harmony of coloured planes – this best describes his watercolours. He often painted Turks at prayer in the mosques. The “gall” with which Gritchenko simplified the unbelievably complex and fine ornamentation on walls or in ceramic tiling is striking. The artist set the quick, rhythmic flourishes down in pencil and flooded everything with a transparent blue tone – and achieved the desired effect. He loved the interior of the Rüstem Pasha mosque. There are lines in his book that correspond to the subject of one of his watercolours and attest not only to the richness of the artist’s visual world, but also to his wisdom: A Roustem-Pacha, où j’ai pénétré avant que la clarté du jour embrasé ne se soit éteinte, j’ai été émerveillé par un spectacle inouï. A travers les arcades, les lumières tombent sur le mur de faïences. Elles se meuvent, en fer à cheval, comme si l’on battait des cymbales, avec une magnificence divine. Devant le mur, un kurde s’est pesamment affaissé sur une natte. Ses lourdes mains reposent sur ses genoux; il est figé dans l’attitude de Bouddha. […] Moment panthéiste de la plus haute signification: union du soleil, de la lumière, de l’homme priant comme un être primitif. Comme la vie est belle dans ses plus simples manifestations et images! (Gritchenko 1930, 113)

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[Rüstem Pasha, where I arrived yet before the light of the fragrant day had gone out, I was enchanted by an unheard-of spectacle. Between the arcades, lights fall on the tiled wall. They move in parabolas almost like someone hit a cymbal with divine generosity. Some Kurd got down heavily on his mat near the wall. His sturdy hands rest on his knees. He paused in the position of Buddha. […] A pantheistic moment of the highest significance: the combination of the sun’s light and of a person praying like a primitive being. How beautiful life is in its simplest displays and images!]

In Istanbul, Gritchenko remained true to his nature as a scholar trying to understand the paths of development of world art. He treated Turkish traditional art, and especially Persian miniatures, with no less interest than icons. The poet Rushen (1892-1959) took him to the Evkaf Museum, which had opened in 1914.4 Later Gritchenko would go back to look at the works of unknown Middle-Age masters for hours in silence. Without a doubt, the artist was familiar with examples of the Chinese watercolours and Japanese coloured engravings that had a great influence on European art in the early 20th century. Yet it was not they, but the Persian miniatures whose masterfulness fascinated him: Les miniatures persanes nous sont apparentées. Leur système artistique, en général, se développe dans une autre direction que le système des icones. Mais ils ont des points de contact, leur source est Byzance. A la base de leur production artistique a été mise avant tout la couleur. Au commencement fut la couleur. Elle est l’âme, le principe et le terme de toute œuvre d’art. […] La miniature s’épanouit sur une feuille de papier, l’icone est placée sur l’iconostase. Là et ici la même sphère et le même but de concevoir: ce qui est éminemment décoratif et abstraitement beau. […] Evkaf et Kahrié Djami sont à Constantinople deux endroits exceptionnels où l’artiste me parle en langue révélatrice; l’un, sur le mur par un petit cube colorié en émail; l’autre, sur du papier à l’aide d’un pinceau minuscule. (Gritchenko 1930, 265) [The Persian miniatures are related to us. In general, their art system developed in a different direction from the icon system, but they have points of intersection. They have their source in the Byzantine Empire. At the foundation of their art production lies colour. In the beginning there was colour. It is the soul, the foundation, and the expression of every work of art. […] The miniature unfolds on a sheet of paper; the icon is situated in the iconostasis. The same sphere and identical conceptual goal are found in both: that which is thoroughly decorative and abstractly beautiful. […] The Evkaf Museum and the Kariye Camii are two exceptional places in 4

As of 1923 this is the Islamic Museum in Istanbul.

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Alexis Gritchenko’s Two Years in Constantinople Constantinople in which the artist speaks as a creator: one on the walls with colourful cubes of smalt, and the other on paper with the help of a tiny brush.]

His favourite subjects were Turks in conversation at coffee shops. Nowhere does Gritchenko show a face – only oval blurs. The people’s poses create a dialogue; this is a method Gritchenko chose long before, when he was still doing his Caucasus sketches. He recalls how one time the owner of a coffee shop told him annoyedly: C’est interdit de dessiner des visages. “Yap baschka!” (fais quelque chose d’autre). (Gritchenko 1930, 272, 273) [It is forbidden to draw faces. “Yap baschka!” (do something else).]

Even when the artist was depicting a certain someone he did not betray his features, but left a blank oval. This was his tribute to Islam, but it was also a challenge to himself: to create a complete image exclusively through painterly methods. Gritchenko told a graduate of the St. Petersburg Academy who had come to look at his watercolours “in the Chinese style”: Je ne pense qu’aux couleurs, à la composition et à la forme, et non à la perspective et à l’état d’âme… (Gritchenko 1930, 177) [I think only about hue, composition, and form, and not about perspective of the state of the soul…]

Often Turkish fezzes pop out of his works as a few bright accents or a single central one: Ce qui me fait, chaque fois, tomber en admiration, ce sont les fez, qui se dressent en un tapis mouvant. […] Le fez! Il crée le style de la vie de Constantinopole. Tantôt comme un cylindre solitaire, tantôt comme une sphère aplatie, tantôt comme un carré net apparaissant derrière un turban, tantôt en groupe, – partout il s’inscrit, à merveille […]. (Gritchenko 1930, 167) [The thing that always gets me excited is the fezzes that get blown off like a moving carpet […] “The fez!” It defines the lifestyle of Constantinople. It can be a lonely cylinder or a flattened sphere or a square growing distinctly out of a turban or in a group – it’s ubiquitous […].

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Figure 3. Alexis Gritchenko, Le gamin d’Istanbul, 1921. Gouache on board, 33 x 26 cm. The Kyiv National Art Museum. See centerfold for this image in colour.

Women Turkish women evoked a special delight in Gritchenko as both a man and an artist. The East has greatly influenced Gritchenko’s images of females. Before coming to Istanbul, he created several portraits of women. Among those that survived was the early Portrait of Maria Rudenko (1912), painted in his native Ukrainian town of Krolevets, that reflects his impressionistic explorations.5 Gritchenko modelled the profile with a brush on a green and yellow background. The face is painted carefully; the manner of execution is pasty, to which he returned in the mid-1920s in the milieu of the École de Paris. Woman’s Portrait (1918) from the collection of the State Russian Museum in St Petersburg is an example of 5

This portrait is now preserved in a private collection in Kharkiv (Ukraine).

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Gritchenko’s Tsvetodynamos (“monumental tectonics”).6 It displays the ratio of geometric shapes of blue, white and red. Face and neck are “sculpted” with only a few patches of ocher – dark and lighter, but giving the impression that the character of the model is grasped and the portrait resembles the model. Thin compressed lips are visible, though not painted with a brush: Ultimate generalisation that has not yet spread beyond specific portrait image. While in Istanbul, Gritchenko faced the fact that it was forbidden to paint women in the traditional Turkish society. After entering the circle of “Generation 1914” artists, open to European art, he had a chance to circumvent this interdiction. His friends, the Turkish artists Ibrahim ÇallÕ (1882-1960) and NamÕk Ismail (1892-1935) were some of the first who dared to do this. ÇallÕ’s wife Münire and NamÕk’s sister Ulvie showed equal courage in agreeing to pose, especially since they did it in front of a foreigner. It is unknown just who is hiding behind the niqab in Gritchenko’s Turkish Woman (1921) from the collection of Temistokl Virsta. A black trapezoid covers the face in the very centre of the portrait, but there is no doubt that this is a portrait (!) and, at the same time, a combination of simple geometric (Cubist) planes. Was Gritchenko thinking about Malevych’s square when he placed this black form in the middle of the composition? It is quite possible, but he was resolving not a symbolic-worldview task, but a plastic one of a concrete image. Gritchenko did not get overly excited about Malevych’s work – that “of an interesting and ambitious person.” He recalled how he had been invited to Malevych’s workshop in a town near Moscow and shown his pieces: “ɤɚɪɬɢɧɢ ɫɤɥɚɞɟɧɿ ɡ ɤɜɚɞɪɚɬɿɜ ɭ ɞɜɨɯ-ɬɪɶɨɯ ɤɨɥɶɨɪɚɯ (Gritchenko 1967, 72) [paintings made up of squares in two or three colours.] The thin line of forehead that peeks out between the blue scarf on the Turkish woman’s head and the black veil on her face, evokes a genuine desire to look upon her. This “blue and yellow” Turk is one of the most laconic and most expressive examples of Tsvetodynamos. Gritchenko gave two other first-class paintings portraying Eastern women to his foundation that are currently held by the Kyiv National Art Museum. Neither of the faces is drawn in, but the artist’s memoirs allow us to identify them with some certainty. ÇallÕ’s wife is not among them. Gritchenko describes in great detail how he met her at Ibrahim’s home when the latter allowed him to do her portrait and Münire agreed to sit. They went together to the workshop at NamÕk’s house where Gritchenko 6 In the Exh. cat. Moscow, 1919, work No. 91, Woman in Red, is further labeled as “monumental tectonics.”

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drew her. Münire sat obediently for all the sessions, but was dissatisfied with the result, obviously looking forward to a realistic portrayal. It is unknown where this portrait is today; perhaps a description of the composition will contribute to its being found someday: Muniré est accroupie à l’orient le sur un coussin rond à rayures. Son voile retombe sur son visage; un triangle de chair apparaît sur sa poitrine entr’ouverte. […] Les teintes noires, vertes, couleur de noix de coco, roses, blanches, mouchetées de bleu, orange et rouges se combinent bien en un tableau; il m’est difficile de m’éloigner de la grande toile, la lumière tombe mal et on me dérange. 7 Septembre, 1920. (Gritchenko 1930, 166) [Münire is sitting in the Eastern fashion on a round cushion. Her veil falls across her face; a triangle of flesh from her slightly exposed breast appears. […] The colours – black, green, coconut, pink, and white sprinkled with navy, orange, and red – go together well in one painting. It is hard for me to step back from the great canvas, the lighting is bad, and I am constantly being disturbed. (7 September 1920).]

Gritchenko also did sketches and compositions of NamÕk’s “charming” sister Ülvie in his workshop. The slight form wrapped in a hijab in Green Turkish Woman from the National Art Museum in Kyiv might be her, or it might be “timide, modeste, au visage rond” [the timid, shy, round-faced] Halé, NamÕk’s student whom Gritchenko met at his house. (Gritchenko 1930, 171). Halé Asaf (1905-1938) became one of the most prominent Turkish female artists. This portrait is close to the blue-yellow Turkish Woman in its simplicity, whereas Turkish Woman in a Çârúaf is reminiscent of an Eastern carpet twinkling with a plethora of colour nuances and details. This is without a doubt a portrait of Ülvie; the artist describes it in his memoirs: Sa chevelure dorée est étroitement serrée par un ‘bacharti’, son voile noir rejeté sur la tête. L’ambiance s’accorde parfaitement avec la silhouette. Elle est prise, à la hauteur des épaules, en bas, dans l’angle droit du tableau. Très haut, au-dessus de sa tête, une image populaire représentant un chameau roux, courant à fond de train, un cercueil jaune sur son dos bossu. A droite une mosquée blanche avec son minaret. A côté du chameau, on voit marcher un imam vêtu d’une soutane noire. (Gritchenko 1930, 169) [Her golden hair is pulled tightly in a ‘bashart’, a black veil tossed on her head. The background is in perfect harmony with the figure. I paint her at the height of her shoulders in the lower, right-hand corner of the canvas. Very high above her head is a folk painting of a camel running last in a

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Alexis Gritchenko’s Two Years in Constantinople caravan, a yellow coffin on its hump. On the right is a white mosque with a minaret. An imam in a black robe is walking near the camel.]

Ülvie was different from most Turkish women. She received a European education, spent a year and a half living in Berlin and Hamburg, could play Bach and Beethoven on the piano, and spoke French. She found it oppressive to submit to the traditional laws, and so she stayed at home. She dreamed of the conservatory, which she confessed to the foreign artist. The enigmatic woman in the portrait is a woman from the East whose face is hidden. At the same time, she can be viewed as a European woman from the early 20th century: in a black hat with a veil, she is deep in thought over a cup of coffee. The artist depicts the ambiguity of Ülvie’s situation with exquisite painterliness.

Figure 4. Alexis Gritchenko, Veiled Turkish Woman, 1920. Oil on canvas, 99,5 x 76 cm. The Kyiv National Art Museum. See centerfold for this image in colour.

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Once in Paris, Gritchenko returned to ‘European’ portraits with faces. He painted the Portrait of a Turkish Woman, emancipated as of 1924, which is currently preserved in the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow. Was she the wife of an ambassador? An artist? Later, he mainly painted portraits of his own wife – Frenchwoman Lilas de Maubeuge, whom he married in 1927 and with whom he settled on the Côte d’Azur. He did not paint her often, preferring sea views and still lifes with seafood. The long pinceau manner, which will become the hallmark of the École de Paris, also marked Gritchenko’s work. He would depart from the refined simplicity of his Tsvetodynamos. However, the collectors and experts will evaluate his Constantinople works as some of the most original. Thomas Whittemore, the famous American archaeologist who studied the church of Hagia Sophia, bought 66 watercolours by Gritchenko in Constantinople in 1921. With this money the artist went to Greece, and then to Paris. In autumn his Istanbul works were exhibited at the Salon d’Automne (1921) next to the works by Fernand Léger. In 1922 the abovementioned exhibition Constantinople Bleu et Rose was displayed in Povolozki’s gallery. Another American, John Joseph Kerrigan bought 40 of his Constantinople watercolours in 1927, which allowed Gritchenko to make high-quality reproductions for the publication of his memoirs. A few countries and cities were crucial to his work. In Kiev, Gritchenko discovered painting and pure colours. Moscow put him among avant-gardists, and introduced him to Cubism and rich collections of icons; it was here that he developed his basic principles of colour movement. Istanbul allowed him to develop his own style once and for all; in Greece and Crete, the master achieved his zenith. The artist’s main beacon and his “mentor” was always Paris. The new ideas born in the French capital influenced Gritchenko in the early 1910s, and it was here in the 1920s that he was recognized as a representative of the École de Paris. After World War Two, New York offered the Gritchenko Foundation refuge, so that in the 21st century his works could be returned to Ukraine from across the ocean. Thanks to Constantinople, Gritchenko has his talent as a watercolourist – concluded French art critic René-Jean, the author of numerous texts about the artist. (René-Jean, 1930) In any case, Constantinople watercolours and paintings constitute a very original page in the artist’s oeuvre.

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Bibliography Antonova, V. and Mneva, N. (1963): Ʉɚɬɚɥɨɝ ɞɪɟɜɧɟɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɠɢɜɨɩɢɫɢ XI-ɧɚɱɚɥɚ XVIII ɜɜ. ȼ 2-ɯ ɬɨɦɚɯ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ. Betz, M. (1977): The Icon and Russian Modernism. In: Artforum 15, no. 10, pp. 38-45. Exh. cat. Moscow 1919. ɐɜɟɬɨɞɢɧɚɦɨɫ ɢ ɬɟɤɬɨɧɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɩɪɢɦɢɬɢɜɢɡɦ. Ʉɚɬɚɥɨɝ 12-ɣ Ƚɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ ɜɵɫɬɚɜɤɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. Exh. cat. Paris 1922. Constantinople Bleu et Rose. Peintures et aquarelles d’Alexis Gritchenko (1922), catalogue de l’exposition, préface de Claude Farɟrre et André Levinson, Paris: Galerie Povolozki. Friedman, M. (1978): Icon painting and Russian Popular Art as Sources of Some Works by Chagall. In: Journal of Jewish Art 5, pp. 94-106. Gray, C. (1962): The Great Experiment: Russian Art, 1863-1922, London: Thames and Huds. Gritchenko, A. (1913): Ɉ ɝɪɭɩɩɟ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɨɜ “Ȼɭɛɧɨɜɵɣ ɜɚɥɟɬ”. In: Ⱥɩɨɥɥɨɧ 6, pp. 31-38. —. (1917): Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɢɤɨɧɚ ɤɚɤ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɠɢɜɨɩɢɫɢ. ȼɨɩɪɨɫɵ ɠɢɜɨɩɢɫɢ. ȼɵɩɭɫɤ 3, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɢɡɞɚɧɢɟ ɚɜɬɨɪɚ. —. (1930): Deux ans à Constantinople. Journal d’un peintre, Paris: Quatre Vents. —. (1967): Ɋɨɤɢ ɛɭɪɿ ɿ ɧɚɬɢɫɤɭ. ɋɩɨɝɚɞɢ ɦɢɫɬɰɹ. 1908-1918, ɇɶɸ Ƀɨɪɤ: ɋɥɨɜɨ. Krieger, V. (1998): Von der Ikone zur Utopie. Kunstkonzepte der russischen Avantgarde, Köln,Weimar,Wien: Böhlau. Marcadé, V. (1990): Art d’Ukraine, Lausanne: L’Age d’Homme. Neklyudova, M. (1991): Ɍɪɚɞɢɰɢɢ ɢ ɧɨɜɚɬɨɪɫɬɜɨ ɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɦ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɟ ɤɨɧɰɚ XIX–ɧɚɱɚɥɚ XX ɜɟɤɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ. Petrova, E. and Poetter, J. (eds.) (1993): Ⱥɜɚɧɝɚɪɞ ɢ ɟɝɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɢɫɬɨɱɧɢɤɢ. Staatliche Kunsthalle Baden-Baden, Ƚɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɦɭɡɟɣ, ɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝ, Baden-Baden. Podzemskaïa, N. (1999): A propos des copies d’art bizantin à Istambul: les artistes russes émigrés et l’Institut byzantin d’Amerique. In: Histoire de l’art 44, pp. 123-140. René-Jean (1930): La vie romanesque d’un artiste russe à Constantinople de 1919 à 1921. In: Comoedia, Novembre 27, p. 3. Tarasov, O. (1992): ɂɤɨɧɚ ɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɦ ɚɜɚɧɝɚɪɞɟ 1910–1920-ɯ. In: ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ 1, pp. 49-51. Tolstoy, A. (2005): ɏɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ. ɏɏ ɜɟɤ.

TALE OF AN ÉMIGRÉ ARTIST IN ISTANBUL: THE IMPACT OF ALEXIS GRITCHENKO ON THE 1914 GENERATION OF TURKISH ARTISTS AYùENUR GÜLER

Alexis Gritchenko (Oleksa Hryshchenko, Ⱥɥɟɤɫɢɫ Ƚɪɢɬɱɟɧɤɨ) (18831977), the talented and curious artist of Ukrainian origin, travelled to Istanbul between 1919 and 1921, befriended and had a significant impact on the work of øbrahim (ÇallÕ)1 (1882-1960) and NamÕk øsmail (Ye÷eno÷lu)2 (18923-1935), who were later to become two of the most prominent artists of the 20th century in Turkey. øbrahim ÇallÕ and NamÕk øsmail were part of a group of artists called the 1914 Generation4, which also included Sami Yetik, Ruhi Arel, Ali Sami Boyar, Nazmi Ziya Güran, Hikmet Onat, øbrahim Feyhaman Duran and Hüseyin Avni Lifij. Gritchenko’s art and his progressive views on art impacted øbrahim ÇallÕ stylistically, whereas NamÕk øsmail was influenced conceptually. The rest of the 1914 Generation remained sceptical of Gritchenko’s views.

1

The last name legislation was introduced in 1934 by the Turkish Republic. Before 1934, the artists are referred to by their first name or their distinguishing epithet. 2 NamÕk øsmail’s last name Ye÷eno÷lu is rarely used in sources, since the artist died shortly after the last name legislation in 1935. 3 According to the information from the Civil Registry NamÕk øsmail was born in 1892 (not 1890 as stated in many sources). His epitaph also states 1892. This duality must be the result of the use of dual calendars, both Rumi and Hijri, in the Ottoman Empire. In an interview in Meúale conducted in 1928, NamÕk øsmail states that he was born in 1308. (Anonymous 1928, 1). Since the Rumi calendar was used for civic matters after Tanzimat (1839), the year 1308 denotes the Rumi calendar and, when converted to the Gregorian calendar, it corresponds to 1892. 4 The name 1914 Generation is given by Turkish art historians and scholars. 1914 Generation and ÇallÕ Generation are used interchangeably because øbrahim ÇallÕ was the most dominant, vibrant and outgoing character of his generation.

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Gritchenko’s interactions with Turkish artists reveal a great deal about the artistic scene and preoccupations in Istanbul. Gritchenko was a gifted observer and his memoirs, Deux ans à Constantinople, Journal d’un Peintre [Two Years in Constantinople 19191921, Diary of a Painter]5 published in Paris in 1930, are a valuable source for Turkish art historians and scholars, since they contain specific descriptions and rare information about the Istanbul art scene and its local artists in the 1920s. Gritchenko was a well-rounded artist by the time he came to Istanbul. He attended the art studios of Serhiy Svitoslavsky, Ivan Dudin, Konstantin Yuon, Pyotr Konchalovski and Ilya Mashkov, worked with Vladimir Tatlin (Susak 2010, 98), and had close contacts with collectors Sergei Shchukin and Ivan Morozov. He visited Paris in 1911 and established contacts with André Lhote, Alexander Archipenko and Le Fauconnier. (Hordynsky 1983, 3) In 1913, he travelled to Italy and was able to examine the Italian primitives. (Susak 2010, 98) He was an art theorist and a published author by the time he arrived in Istanbul. Among his many works, Ɉ ɫɜɹɡɹɯ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɠɢɜɨɩɢɫɢ ɫ ȼɢɡɚɧɬɢɟɣ ɢ Ɂɚɩɚɞɨɦ. ɏȱȱȱ–ɏɏ ɜ. (Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ 1913) [The Ties of Russian Painting with Byzantium and the West XIII-XX cc. (Moscow, 1913)] deserves attention. Soon after the Bolshevik revolution, Gritchenko fled Moscow, boarded a ship from Sevastopol and arrived in Istanbul in November 1919 (Susak 2010, 101). The 1920s’ Ottoman art scene had its roots in the westernisation process of the Empire. In the Ottoman Empire, until the last quarter of the 19th century, foreign artists and non-Muslim Ottoman artists, such as those of Armenian or Greek origin, were the major figures in painting and sculpture. The acceptance of painting and sculpture by the general population was hindered by religious convictions, since, in Islam, representation of living beings is looked down upon on the belief that creation is a gift unique to God. The sultan and his court were the main patrons and supporters of artistic endeavour in the Ottoman Empire. The 19th century witnessed bold steps taken by open-minded sultans; Sultan Mahmud II (r. 1808-1839) was the first sultan to order his portraits to be hung in the government agencies. The general public denounced his act, calling him the gavur (infidel) sultan. The first painting exhibition in the palace took place in 1845, during the reign of Sultan Abdülmecid (r. 1839-1861), where paintings by the Austrian painter Oreker were exhibited. (Cezar, 1995, 125) In 1871, Sultan Abdülaziz (r. 1861-1876) commissioned C. F. 5

A copy of Gritchenko’s book is in Mustafa Kemal Atatürk’s (founder of the Turkish Republic) private book collection in the Atatürk Mausoleum (AnÕtkabir) in Ankara.

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Fuller to sculpt his equestrian statue. These departures from tradition by the Ottoman rulers were received as controversial by the Muslim population. Both øbrahim ÇallÕ and NamÕk øsmail were born in the last two decades of the 19th century, when the Ottoman Empire was far from its height of power. The process of westernisation in all aspects of life had started roughly 150 years before these artists were born. While the sultan and his court were the driving force behind the westernisation efforts, economic and social reforms were often met with resistance from the general public. In the westernisation process, adoption of Europe’s developing technologies and know-how were seen as necessary for preventing the dissolution of the empire and for strengthening its position among the world powers. With this modernity, the Western modality of draughtsmanship and representation became increasingly necessary, particularly in the military and engineering schools, where technical drawing and cartography were taught. Painters with military and engineering school backgrounds began to emerge, primarily specialising in landscape and still life. The third decade of the 19th century witnessed the first students travelling to Europe to study and be trained in easel painting.6 The last quarter of the 19th century was a remarkable period in Ottoman history in terms of cultivating Ottoman artists of Muslim background. Today, Muslim Ottoman artists ùeker Ahmed Paúa7 (1841-1907), Hüseyin Zekai Paúa (1860-1919), Süleyman Seyid (1842-1913) and Osman Hamdi (1842-1910) are considered to be the “cornerstones” of Turkish art.8 Other than Hüseyin Zekai Paúa, they all had the opportunity to study art in Paris. However, among them, only Osman Hamdi was keen on figure painting, while the others specialised in landscape painting and still life. These painters went beyond copying nature and all developed their own individual style. Apart from their role as active artists, they took on other important tasks; in 1873 ùeker Ahmed 6

øbrahim Paúa and Ferik Tevfik Paúa were among the first students that were sent to Europe for art education; Hüsnü Yusuf Bey was sent shortly after. They belong to a group referred to as the Primitives by Turkish art historians. This group consisted of various artists from different generations that were affiliated stylistically. The Primitives dryly copied nature without any personal touch, giving utmost importance to perspective. For more information: Cezar 1995, 344-345 and Erol 1980, 92-93. 7 The artist’s real name is Ahmed Ali Paúa (1841-1907). “ùeker” is an epitaph meaning “sweet”. He is widely known as ùeker Ahmed Paúa due to his likable and pleasant personality. 8 Halil Paúa (1852-1939) and Hoca Ali Riza (1858-1930) can also be added as leading figures. See Cezar 1995, 345.

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Paúa organised a public painting exhibition in the imperial capital and Osman Hamdi9 was the first director of the Sanayi-i Nefise Mektebi [Academy of Fine Arts] established in 1882. While the country’s artistic landscape was evolving, øbrahim ÇallÕ was born in 1882 in a rural village in the Aegean region called Çal10, 550 kilometres from Istanbul. ÇallÕ completed elementary and middle school in Çal and attended high school in Izmir. His parents passed away at an early age and he lived with his elder sister and her husband. His aim was to move to Istanbul and this was made possible by the sale of land he had inherited. However, soon after his arrival in Istanbul, his gold coins were stolen and he took temporary jobs as a newsboy and wrote petitions for illiterate clients on the streets in exchange for money.11 In a tavern, ÇallÕ met an Ottoman-Armenian artist who talked to him about art and showed him his work. (DanÕú 1934, 7) From then on, ÇallÕ’s interest in art grew and he took up painting as a hobby, copying from postcards in his free time. He soon started to take lessons from an Ottoman-Armenian artist, Rupen Seropian (1875-1917). (DanÕú 1934, 7) Through his private art teacher Seropian, ÇallÕ met ùeker Ahmed Paúa’s son, øzzet Bey. (DanÕú 1934, 7) On one of his visits to øzzet Bey’s family mansion in Mercan, he met ùeker Ahmed Paúa. As mentioned above, ùeker Ahmet Paúa belonged to the first notable generation of Turkish artists and had close ties to the Sultan’s palace, since he was also the protocol officer. ùeker Ahmed Paúa gave ÇallÕ a personal recommendation, which ÇallÕ took to the director of the Academy of Fine Arts in Istanbul, Osman Hamdi Bey. øbrahim ÇallÕ enrolled at the academy in 1906. (Anonymous 1947) At the time, the Academy of Fine Arts was under great scrutiny by the public and its teachings were accused of being immoral and perverse. It was difficult to find male models and female models were out of the question; they could not pose for students even when dressed. The first painting instructors of the academy were the Italian Salvator Valeri and Joseph Warnia-Zarzecki of Polish origin, who stayed in Istanbul and taught at the academy for 32 years. It is often argued that Osman Hamdi’s 9

Osman Hamdi was also the first director of the Imperial Museum. “ÇallÕ øbrahim” meaning øbrahim of Çal, was first used as a distinguishing epithet among his peers and colleagues because of his common first name. After the last name legislation of 1934, øbrahim took ÇallÕ as last name. 11 øbrahim ÇallÕ gave numerous interviews where he summarised his early life. Although there are some slight biographical inconsistencies in the articles that have been published in the past about his early life, they are consistent in general. See DanÕú 1934, 1, 7; Tahsin 1960, 8-9; Toker 1947, 4. 10

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choice for foreign art educators was a conscious one; that Osman Hamdi believed that these foreign artists would be more fit to teach figure painting to the blossoming generations of Turkish artists. (Çoker 1983, 15) However, their effectiveness has often been a disputed subject, since, until the 1914 Generation, none of the Academy’s alumni had achieved notable recognition. (Cezar 1983, 18-19) After four years of education at the academy, ÇallÕ won a concours and travelled to Paris, where he entered the École des Beaux-arts and became Fernand Cormon's (1845-1924) student. While in Paris, ÇallÕ had difficulties with the French language. As a result, his exposure to culture was limited; moreover, he could not follow the prevalent art scene in Paris. When World War I broke out in 1914, ÇallÕ, like the rest of the 1914 Generation of artists, returned to Istanbul, the group’s name being coined from the year of their return. In the same year, ÇallÕ began to teach painting at the Academy of Fine Arts in Istanbul. (Cezar 1983, 76) The 1914 Generation of artists are generally labelled as “Turkish impressionists” due to their artistic inclinations because, when they returned to Istanbul, they started painting life and streets in Istanbul with an impressionistic palette.12 Even though ÇallÕ experimented with impressionism, he would not be considered an absolute impressionist because he did not eliminate dark colours from his palette and did not always work from nature. In 1920, 37 years after the Academy of Fine Arts was established in Istanbul, figure and nude painting were still taboo in the empire. After their return from Paris, the most important contribution of ÇallÕ, NamÕk øsmail and other artists of their generation was their consistent effort to assimilate figure painting into the country’s art scene.13 Moreover, ÇallÕ and NamÕk øsmail were pioneers among their generation for painting nudes and paved the way for the following generations. Even though these contributions were not influenced by Gritchenko, they should be noted as continuation of westernisation efforts. Alexis Gritchenko’s arrival and his interactions with ÇallÕ and NamÕk øsmail mark ÇallÕ’s break from tradition, even if for a limited period of time, and caused NamÕk øsmail to question tradition. When ÇallÕ and Gritchenko met, life in Istanbul was difficult. Gritchenko’s memoirs cover a tumultuous period in the Ottoman history. After World War I, the defeated Ottoman Empire was on the verge of collapse and the imperial capital was under allied occupation (1918-1923). In 1920, during the time of the occupation, Gritchenko was an important 12

Nazmi Ziya from the same generation is widely regarded as the leading Turkish impressionist due to his painting style and his desire to work from nature. 13 For more detailed information see: Gören 1995, 144.

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source of information for Turkish artists, since they could not travel abroad and observe the developments in art in person. Although Gritchenko’s memoirs reveal much about his exceptional friendship with ÇallÕ, regarding the Turkish artistic environment, Gritchenko witnessed a period in history of which we know very little. Even though Gritchenko was a well-rounded, established artist by the time he took refuge in Istanbul, he was not known internationally. Gritchenko reached Istanbul in late November 1919 and, on 22 July 1920, through his friend Dimitri Ismailovitch (1892-1976) (whom he refers to as Mitia), met ÇallÕ. (Gritchenko 1930, 141) As a Turkish painter, ÇallÕ was one of the first to recognise Gritchenko’s talent. Even though ÇallÕ had an atelier as a professor at the Academy of Fine Arts, he was open to learning from Gritchenko and experimenting with his innovative artistic ideas. Gritchenko wrote extensively about his friendship with ÇallÕ in his memoirs. His writings also present historians and art historians with an invaluable snapshot of the lives of Turkish artists during the period. This is especially noteworthy, given that none of the members from the 1914 Generation wrote a memoir. ÇallÕ was eager to spend time with Gritchenko and introduced him to many of his friends and colleagues in Istanbul’s art scene. Gritchenko came into contact with ÇallÕ’s wife Münire HanÕm and daughter Belma (1917-1992), who was three years old at the time. ÇallÕ insisted that Gritchenko remain and exhibit his works in Istanbul. (Gritchenko 1930, 215) Their friendship was useful for Gritchenko as he was able to subsist during his stay in Istanbul. In July 1920, Gritchenko sold three watercolours to the wife of the Turkish Consul in Switzerland, who was ÇallÕ’s friend, and Gritchenko recorded the sale as “Un événement d’importance” [an important event] (Gritchenko 1930, 145) in his memoirs. On another occasion, in October 1920, ÇallÕ and Gritchenko walked into a fabric store near Yeni Camii, where ÇallÕ presented Gritchenko’s works to a group of potential buyers. (Gritchenko 1930, 217) ÇallÕ’s flamboyant character and his efforts to sell Gritchenko’s works are described vividly in Gritchenko’s writings. ÇallÕ even opened his home to his foreign friend when Gritchenko was undergoing great hardship. In the same month of October 1920, Gritchenko was ejected from the hotel in which he was staying after being reported as a suspect, a “futurist” and a “bolshevik”. (Gritchenko 1930, 224 and 227) Gritchenko settled in an attic on the sixth floor at the ÇallÕ family residence. Gritchenko’s stay in the ÇallÕ home lasted for only two months. On the last day of December, the ÇallÕ family had to ask Gritchenko to leave because their Armenian landlord had learned that a Russian had taken refuge in their home and he was threatening to report the

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matter to the British authorities. (Gritchenko 1930, 248-249) Unsubstantiated accusations and an atmosphere of fear overshadowed life in Istanbul in the early 1920s. However, Gritchenko’s sojourn in Istanbul was a fruitful period artistically. Art historian Paul Fierens made the following observation with regards to Gritchenko’s Istanbul years: “These were two years of misery and of intense work which made of Gritchenko the artist and the man which today we so much admire.” (Fierens 1948, 49) Gritchenko’s works were the products of fresh observation and required premium knowledge of composition and draughtsmanship. He avoided direct imitation of nature. Without using shading, he masterfully conveyed volume, depth and the feeling of space with the use of colour planes.

Fig. 1: øbrahim Çalli, Petition Writer, 1921, oil on canvas, 63X53 cm, Cimcoz Family Collection, Istanbul. See centerfold for this image in colour.

ÇallÕ’s paintings known as the Mevleviler ve Arzuhalciler14 [Whirling Dervishes and Petition Writer] series were directly influenced by Gritchenko

14 øbrahim ÇallÕ’s student and a famous artist in his own right Bedri Rahmi Eyübo÷lu has written that Arzuhalci [Petition Writer] and Mevleviler [Dervishes]

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and, dating from as early as 1920-1921, are a turning point in ÇallÕ’s artistic life. During Gritchenko’s time in Istanbul, ÇallÕ and Gritchenko visited a dervish lodge to watch a spiritual ceremony. Among ÇallÕ’s personal belongings, various dervish themed drawings, some dated 1920, are found and coincide with Gritchenko’s stay in Istanbul.15 The strong stylistic resemblance to Gritchenko’s works is more evident in finished works, particularly when we compare ÇallÕ’s Mevlevihane [Dervish Lodge] (Güler 2014a, 356, illustration number 64) to Gritchenko’s Le Prédicateur [The Preacher] (Gritchenko 1930, 84) and ÇallÕ’s Arzuhalci [Petition Writer] (Fig. 1) to Gritchenko’s Turkish Woman in Chador (Susak 2010, 258). In Istanbul, Gritchenko’s choice of medium was watercolour; a difficult medium requiring swift gesture of the hand with delicate precision. In contrast, ÇallÕ’s choice of medium for his Whirling Dervishes and Petition Writer series is overwhelmingly oil paint, as it is in Whirling Dervishes (Fig. 2). It can be argued that this series of paintings was a breakthrough in the artistic life of the nation. However, Gritchenko’s impact on ÇallÕ, and therefore on the Turkish art scene, is overlooked by scholars. It is instead widely written and accepted by Turkish art historians that the first modernist influences came to Turkey through the artists Zeki Kocamemi and Ali Avni Çelebi, when they returned from Hans Hofmann’s Munich atelier in 1927.16 They were both ÇallÕ’s students at the Academy of Fine Arts in Istanbul before they went to study in Munich. After they returned from Munich, modernist influences were seen more widely in the exhibitions held in Istanbul. However, Gritchenko’s arrival and his works had provided an earlier opportunity for modernist influences but, arguably, this opportunity was missed and his methods did not disseminate to a wider group of artists, despite ÇallÕ’s efforts. From Gritchenko’s memoirs, we know that only ÇallÕ was receptive to Gritchenko’s art theories and innovative ideas among the 1914 Generation. From the perspective of the other artists of the 1914 Generation, Gritchenko was a refugee in Istanbul and was probably regarded as a fellow “Easterner”. For them, the “Western” perspective of art most likely had to be brought from Western Europe, not Russia. themed paintings of ÇallÕ had subtle influences from Gritchenko. See: Eyübo÷lu 1976, 10. 15 See illustrations 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59 in Güler 2014a, 346, 347, 348, 349, 350, 351. Illustration number 55 on page 348 is dated 1920. Some of these are preliminary sketches (illustrations 55, 57, 59) which were later turned into finished works (illustrations 64, 62, 63) (Güler 2014a, 348, 350, 351, 356, 354, 355). 16 Prof. Adnan Çoker interprets Zeki Kocamemi and Ali Avni Çelebi’s return as marking the beginning of 20th century painting in Turkey. See Çoker 1996, 11.

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Fig. 2: øbrahim ÇallÕ, Whirling Dervishes, oil on plywood, 62X76 cm, Cimcoz Family Collection, Istanbul. See centerfold for this image in colour.

In his Whirling Dervishes and Petition Writer series, ÇallÕ did not seek to express form or use shading, but instead put primary focus on colour, just as Gritchenko, according to his memoirs, advised him to do, which ultimately signified a break from tradition. ÇallÕ’s knowledge of composition helped him to follow Gritchenko’s advice easily. ÇallÕ’s Gritchenko-influenced series are the most original and successful works among those produced by Turkish painters at the time. In the following years, ÇallÕ did not have the resources to travel to Western European art centres to examine the developments in art and innovative artistic ideas in person, such as cubism, futurism and the other numerous ‘-isms’ being expounded since the late 19th century. As a result, he was not able to grasp and truly understand the philosophical background of these developments and ideas. In the end, ÇallÕ, after having embraced Gritchenko’s ideas, was unable to further develop them to another level and the Whirling Dervishes and Petition Writer series of paintings remain as the only examples of ÇallÕ’s work influenced by Gritchenko in terms of style.17 According to Nurullah Berk (1906-1982), one of ÇallÕ’s prominent students and an acclaimed artist, in ÇallÕ’s artistic life, the Whirling dervishes series is an isolated period, like 17

The Majority of ÇallÕ’s works do not have dates; as a result, it is difficult to assess the time period of his Gritchenko-influenced works. When the exhibition catalogues are reviewed, it is observed that ÇallÕ’s dervish-themed works were exhibited through the mid-1940s.

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an island; ÇallÕ’s most successful works are found in this series. (Olcay 1975, 21) Before leaving Istanbul, Gritchenko gave ÇallÕ 10 or 12 of his Istanbul watercolours.18 While the majority of these watercolours can no longer be traced, there is strong evidence that ÇallÕ passed on or sold at least three of them. Two of the watercolours ended up in the hands of Salah Cimcoz (1875/6-1947), one of the first collectors in Turkey and ÇallÕ’s friend and patron, who also purchased the majority of ÇallÕ’s Whirling Dervishes and Petition Writer series.19 In 1929-30, ÇallÕ traded one of Gritchenko’s watercolours with his student Arif Kaptan in exchange for one of his still life paintings.20 The other Turkish artist that Gritchenko came into close contact with is NamÕk øsmail, who was the youngest of the 1914 Generation. NamÕk øsmail was born into a wealthy family in 1892 in Istanbul.21 His father, øsmail Zühtü Bey, was Circassian and was a talented calligrapher who worked in the upper ranks of government. NamÕk øsmail had two siblings, whom Gritchenko mentioned in his memoirs: his older brother Hüsnü (1887-1938) and his younger sister Ulviye (1896-1964). NamÕk øsmail’s interest in art developed at an early age. After finishing elementary school, he went to the French schools St. Pulchérie and St. Benoit for three years. NamÕk øsmail continued his studies in the prestigious Galatarasary Imperial High School during the directorship of the renowned poet Tevfik Fikret, who encouraged him to paint. (Es 1935, 8) While growing up in Istanbul, his first teachers were Arslanyan22, M. Andres23 and ùevket

18

For the interview with Arif Kaptan conducted by Sema Olcay in March 1975, see: Olcay 1975, 21. 19 Salah Cimcoz was in exile in Malta during Gritchenko’s stay in Istanbul. This suggests that Salah Cimcoz most probably bought Gritchenko watercolours from øbrahim ÇallÕ. 20 The timeline of ownership is indicated at the back of this watercolour. See: Güler 2014a, 339. 21 All sources, except one, state that he was born in Istanbul. An article written by Elif Naci in 1933 indicates that NamÕk øsmail was born in Samsun, see: Naci 1933, 418. In an interview conducted with NamÕk øsmail in 1928, the artist states that he was born in Istanbul, see: Anonymous 1928. 22 Although cited as “Arslanyan” in many sources, the educator must be Vicen Arslanian (1866-1942) of Armenian origin who was born in Istanbul. He had graduated from the Fine Arts Academy in Istanbul in 1887, see: Kürkman 2004, 160. 23 NamÕk øsmail took private lessons from M. Andres who was a Frenchman who had studied art in Paris, see: Naci 1933, 418.

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(Da÷).24 According to a 1928 interview with NamÕk øsmail, his family sent him to Paris to study agriculture (Anonymous 1928, 8); instead he was interested in studying art. Upon the suggestion of his art teacher, M. Andres, NamÕk øsmail enrolled in the Académie Julian in Paris. While he was in Paris, he crossed paths with ÇallÕ, who was attending Cormon’s classes at the École des Beaux-arts. ÇallÕ introduced NamÕk øsmail to Cormon and showed him NamÕk øsmail’s work. (Günay 1937, 10 and Naci 1933, 416) Cormon admired the work and accepted him as a student in 1913. NamÕk øsmail also attended lessons in François Schommer's and Jean Paul Gervais’s ateliers. (Artun 2007, 157) World War I broke out while NamÕk øsmail was on vacation in Istanbul. He was sent to the Caucasus front as a reserve officer and, after being diagnosed with typhus, he returned to Istanbul. In 1917, along with ÇallÕ and other members of the 1914 Generation, the Ottoman authorities25 commissioned him to make heroic war compositions in the ùisli Atölyesi [ùiúli Atelier]26 The works of the ùiúli Atelier were exhibited in Istanbul in 1917 (Gören 1997, 52) and were shortly after destined to be sent to Vienna and Berlin for exhibition. NamÕk øsmail was tasked with accompanying the works and helping organise the exhibition. The exhibition in Vienna was held but the Berlin exhibition was first postponed because of delays in printing the exhibition catalogue and was subsequently cancelled following the armistice. (Günay 1937, 11) NamÕk øsmail did not return to Istanbul immediately and stayed in Berlin for two years. While there, he entered Lovis Corinth’s atelier.27 Also in Berlin, he associated with a group of disgruntled young Ottoman Turks, who shared his leftist ideas. They founded the Türkiye øúçi ve Çiftçi Partisi [Turkish Workers and Peasants Party] in 1919 and printed a periodical named Kurtuluú [Liberation]. (Tuncay 2009, 711) Upon his return from Berlin, NamÕk øsmail started work as an art teacher in Gazi Osman Paúa School in Istanbul. 24

Sevket (Da÷) (1876-1944) was a distinguished artist and an educator who was known for his mosque-themed paintings and interiors. 25 Different sources have different information regarding who initiated the ùiúli Atelier. In his book, Celal Esad Arseven states that it was the Director of the Intelligence Office Seyfi Paúa who initiated the ùiúli Atelier, see Arseven 1993, 62. Other sources state that the ùiúli Atelier must have been initiated under the supervision of the Minister of War Enver Paúa, see: Ya÷basan 2004, 46. 26 The term was coined by Prof. Adnan Çoker. The atelier was set up in the neighbourhood of ùiúli in Istanbul. 27 Various sources cite that, besides Corinth, NamÕk øsmail also took lessons from Max Liebermann (1847-1935) during his stay in Berlin, see: Arseven ([1961[?]), 205; Berk 1981, 4; Rona 1992, 19. However, during personal interviews, NamÕk øsmail never mentions studying with Max Liebermann.

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Gritchenko’s relationship with NamÕk øsmail was different to that with ÇallÕ, in that there is no evidence of a direct stylistic influence from Gritchenko in NamÕk øsmail’s works. On the other hand, NamÕk øsmail showed great interest in Gritchenko’s innovative ideas and welcomed Gritchenko to his house, where Gritchenko painted NamÕk øsmail’s and ÇallÕ’s family members. NamÕk øsmail and Gritchenko met in August 1920 when a group of Turkish artists, along with Dimitri Ismailovitch, visited Gritchenko. (Gritchenko 1930, 151) One month later, Gritchenko and Ismailovitch visited NamÕk øsmail at his home. (Gritchenko 1930, 164) In his memoirs, Gritchenko describes NamÕk øsmail’s home in detail, referring to an exquisitely decorated upper class home in the Beúiktaú neighbourhood of Istanbul. A painting named Bir ùark OdasÕ [An Oriental Room]28 by NamÕk øsmail, dated 1920, coinciding with Gritchenko’s stay in Istanbul, is most likely the Beúiktaú home described in Gritchenko’s memoirs. The furniture and the objects depicted in the painting match a photograph of an interior that is in NamÕk øsmail’s family collection. The use of a mirror while painting would explain the different alignment of the room and objects. Gritchenko’s description of Namik’s home matches the photograph: A gauche un divan, à droite un divan, à l’entrée un autre divan. L’un est large et bas, sans dossier, avec traversins ronds, décoré de glands d’argent. Au-dessus sont fixés des sabres, des yatagans, des pistolets anciens. [On the left a divan, on the right a divan, at the entrance another divan. One is wide and low, backless, with round bolsters, decorated with silver tassels. Sabers, yataghans, antique pistols are fixed above.] (Gritchenko 1930, 164)

Other evidence that ties the photograph to the room in Gritchenko’s memoirs is a description from Gritchenko of an image hanging in NamÕk øsmail’s home when he was drawing NamÕk øsmail’s sister, Ulviye: …une image populaire représentant un chameau roux, courant à fond de train, un cercueil jaune sur son dos bossu. A droite, une mosquée blanche avec son minaret. A côté du chameau on voit marcher un imam vêtu d’une soutane noire. […popular image of a red camel running at full speed, a yellow coffin on its humped back. On the right a white mosque with its minaret. Beside the camel, we see a walking imam dressed in a black cassock.] (Gritchenko 1930, 169) 28

The whereabouts of the painting is unknown, see: Rona 1992, 105.

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Gritchenko’s detailed descriptions in his memoirs have shed light on NamÕk øsmail’s choice of space, his home, in his painting An Oriental Room. Besides vivid descriptions of NamÕk øsmail’s home, Gritchenko’s memoirs also contain details of conversations and artistic activities that took place there, as well as his views on NamÕk øsmail’s art in general. Gritchenko was astonished by the overwhelming German influence on NamÕk øsmail’s art. Gritchenko had no doubt that NamÕk øsmail was talented; however, he was surprised to see everything drawn in black, yellow and green in a typical Munich style. (Gritchenko 1930, 165) The German influence is also confirmed by NamÕk øsmail in an interview where he states that during his years in Paris, he was young, saw much, but did not work hard and his painting technique was weak. However, in Germany, he worked hard and whatever he learned about painting, he owed it to his studies there. (Günay 1937, 11-12) Gritchenko thought that it was odd that the Germans exerted the same influence on Russians, Poles, Slavs and the Ottomans and questioned the reason behind this. During their exchange, NamÕk øsmail also delivered his views on Gritchenko’s art to the artist: Je serais très heureux de voir comment vous travaillez. Je réfléchis beaucoup à votre art. Il me plaît, mais je ne vous comprends pas bien, et je me demande si c’est là le vrai art. [I would be very happy to see you work. I think a lot about your art. I like it, but I do not understand you, and I wonder if this is real art.] (Gritchenko 1930, 166)

Gritchenko met the other members of the 1914 Generation in October 1920 in a Greek café close to ùiúli. (Gritchenko 1930, 213) In Gritchenko’s memoirs, Sami (Yetik), Feyhaman (Duran), Hikmet (Onat) were introduced in the section titled “Montparnasse Osmanien”. Gritchenko’s descriptions were vivid and filled with witty humour: Voici le gros Sami bey, parlant comme à travers une trompette, riant en roulements de tonnerre. [Here is the big Sami bey speaking like a trumpet, laughing like thunder.] (Gritchenko 1930, 213) Feïgaman aux dents de zinc [Feyhaman with zinc teeth] (Gritchenko 1930, 213)

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Tale of an Émigré Artist in Istanbul Khikmet modeste et nerveux, caressant sa cravate noire d’artiste (il parle avec un accent parisien d’une finesse exotique) [Modest and nervous Hikmet stroking his black artist tie (he speaks with a Parisian accent of an exotic finesse)]. (Gritchenko 1930, 213)

The director of the Academy of Fine Arts for Women was introduced as “Chemdi” (Gritchenko 1930, 213); however, to our knowledge, there was no Chemdi Bey working as a director at the time, implying that Gritchenko must have been confused about names.29 Gritchenko also mentioned the director of the Academy of Fine Arts for Men but did not give a name. During the years 1918-1921, Nazmi Ziya (Güran) was the director of the Academy of Fine Arts for Men, most likely the person Gritchenko was alluding to. In this section of his memoirs, Gritchenko refers to ÇallÕ as “mon prosélyte” [my proselyte] (Gritchenko 1930, 213). Gritchenko explained his art theories to this new, sceptical crowd of Ottoman painters in a simple language: Il y a de l’effet chez moi, mais un effet particulier: effet de couleurs, de construction et de caractère. Si l’on suit cette méthode, le reste se fait tout seul. Je ne pense ni au soleil, ni au plein air, ni à l’éclairage, ni à la ressemblance. Le trompe-l’œil n’est pas pour moi. [There is effect [in my art], but a particular effect: colour effect, construction and character. By following this method, the rest just happens. I think neither of the sun, nor the outdoors, not the lighting, nor the likeness. The trompe-l’œil is not for me.] (Gritchenko 1930, 213-214)

Gritchenko went on to say: “La vie modern exige une oeuvre créatrice nouvelle, une langue nouvelle, des forms nouvelles, de l’observation.” […Modern life requires a new creative work, a new language, new forms, observation] (Gritchenko 1930, 214) and explained in length how life in Istanbul with its women, street porters, bazaars and its port required a special kind of art. (Gritchenko 1930, 214) However, despite a long explanation by Gritchenko, his remarks were met with resistance by the Turkish artists: 29 The Academy of Fine Arts for Women was inaugurated in 1914 and its directors were Salih Zeki Bey, Mihri (Müúfik) HanÕm, Ömer Adil Bey and Cemil (Cem) Bey respectively, see Pelvano÷lu 2007, 26. The Academy of Fine Arts for Women merged with the Academy of Fine Arts for Men around 1924-25, shortly after the establishment of the Republic.

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‘Anatomie et perspective, c’est la grammaire de l’art’, énonce sans conteste le directeur aux lunettes. [‘Anatomy and perspective are the grammar of art’ the director with glasses enunciates undeniably.] (Gritchenko 1930, 214)

Gritchenko replied back: Je connais une autre grammaire, qui vous est malheureusement inconnue. Elle s’est épanouie dans vos images populaires. [I know another grammar, unfortunately unknown to you. It has flourished in your popular images.] (Gritchenko 1930, 214)

As the discussion continued, the group of Turkish artists asked Gritchenko whether he knew the fashionable portraitist of Paris, Jean Paul Laurens, which Gritchenko observed as “l’idéal suprême des peintres turcs” [the supreme ideal of Turkish painters] (Gritchenko 1930, 214), and he intentionally told them that he did not know the name. (Gritchenko 1930, 214) They replied in a dismissive manner: Bak, bak, Gritchenko ne connaît même pas de nom J.-P. Laurens, et pour nous, c’est le premier peintre français… [Bak, bak,30 Gritchenko does not even know the name of J.-P. Laurens, and for us, he is the premier French painter.] (Gritchenko 1930, 214)

This exchange, as told by Gritchenko, demonstrates that, in the first decades of the 20th century, the Turkish artists idolised one of the last representatives of the French academic style and were not ready to digest Gritchenko’s modernist views. In this respect, ÇallÕ and NamÕk øsmail were exceptions. On October 13th, 1921, a while after Gritchenko’s departure from Istanbul, an article by NamÕk øsmail was published in the periodical YarÕn, titled “Sanat Musahabesi: Klasik, Fütürist ve Primitif Ressamlar HakkÕnda BazÕ Fikirler” [Colloquy on Art: Some Thoughts on Classic, Futurist and Primitive Artists] (NamÕk øsmail 1337/1921, 3-5) It demonstrates the extent of NamÕk øsmail’s interest in Gritchenko’s work. NamÕk øsmail

30 Means “Look look” in Turkish. In his book, Gritchenko frequently uses Turkish words and expressions.

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wrote that, one year before, a futurist31 painter named Gritchenko lived in Istanbul, and described him with the following words: Bu, münzevi, çalÕúkan ve meczup adam kÕskanç bir itina ile sakladÕ÷Õ eserlerini bazen istedi÷i kimselere gösteriridi. [This recluse, hardworking and mad man would hide his works with jealous care and only occasionally show them to people of his choosing.] (NamÕk øsmail 1337/1921, 3)

NamÕk øsmail stated that hundreds and thousands of small watercolours mostly made up of juxtaposed coloured stains appeared to him and his friends as “anlaúÕlmaz bir muamma” [incomprehensible mystery]. (NamÕk øsmail 1337/1921, 3) According to NamÕk øsmail, one day, during one of his cheerful moments, Gritchenko displayed all of his works to him and his friends, arranging them in series of four. NamÕk øsmail noticed with amazement that after hours of viewing Gritchenko’s works, he let go of his need to comprehend what he was observing, and wrote the following describing his feelings: …ruhum kâh zÕt, kâh uygun renklerin ahengiyle, derin meçhul bir musikinin verdi÷i hazla dolmuútu […my spirit filled with a harmonious combination of opposing and matching colours and joy emanating from a deep, mysterious tune]. (NamÕk øsmail 1337/1921, 3-4)

In his article, NamÕk øsmail admitted that even though he admired the works he had seen, he understood their meaning neither during his viewing, nor at the time of his writing. He went on and questioned: …fakat sevmek ve be÷enmek için anlamak lazÕm mÕdÕr? […in order to admire and appreciate, is it necessary to understand?] (NamÕk øsmail 1337/1921, 4)

According to the article, when one of his friends asked Gritchenko whether he could paint using the principles of perspective and anatomy, Gritchenko replied: Yedi senedir menâzÕr ve teúrihi unutmak için çalÕúÕyorum. 31 In NamÕk øsmail’s article, the term “futurist” is used for describing Gritchenko’s art style.

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[For the past seven years, I have been working to forget the principles of perspective and anatomy.] (NamÕk øsmail 1337/1921, 4)

NamÕk øsmail went on to write that Gritchenko had dismissed all conventional principles of art and in return introduced “ahenk” [harmony] (NamÕk øsmail 1337/1921, 4) He also wrote the following regarding Gritchenko’s work: Fütüristlerin eserlerinde evler ve insanlar vardÕr. Fakat ne evler eve ve ne de insanlar insanlara benzerler. Fakat hayatla, maddi ve taklidi müúâbehetleri [benzerlikleri] olmasa bile, bir eser heyecan-Õ bediî [estetik heyecan] veriyorsa kâfi de÷il mi? [In futurists’ works there are houses and people. But houses don’t look like houses and people don’t look like people. Still, is it not enough if a work of art gives an aesthetic thrill even if it has no material or imitational similarities with life?] (NamÕk øsmail 1337/1921, 4)

The observations and comments in his article constitute important written evidence of how Gritchenko’s art and his tempting remarks were mindboggling to Turkish artists. Furthermore, the inclusion of a reproduction of an Istanbul-themed watercolour by Gritchenko in this article32 demonstrates NamÕk øsmail’s remarkable effort to publicise Gritchenko’s art. From Gritchenko’s memoirs, we learn that, in September 1920, Gritchenko advised NamÕk øsmail to go to Italy, which, he pointed out, was a better source of art than Germany (Gritchenko 1930, 175) and also related his own experiences in Italy in detail. Moreover, in October, Gritchenko even created an itinerary for NamÕk øsmail’s Italian trip. (Gritchenko 1930, 229) NamÕk øsmail asked for permission from the Gazi Osman Paúa School, where he was working at the time, and, when his request was denied, he resigned from his post and went to Italy in 1921. (Günay 1937, 11; Naci 1933, 419) He travelled from north to south, even visiting small villages, staying there for a year. (Naci 1933, 419) Gritchenko received a letter from Istanbul, informing him that NamÕk understood and appreciated Gritchenko’s art after observing the pre-Renaissance Italian painters. (Gritchenko 1930, 295, footnote 16) ÇallÕ and NamÕk øsmail lived differently than most of the rest of the population. Their education abroad had enabled them to adopt a more Western lifestyle. Although, during the last years of the empire, gender roles were still well-prescribed, these Turkish artists demonstrated more 32 The article is written in Ottoman Turkish and the name of Gritchenko’s watercolour is not specified, see: NamÕk 1921, 3.

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progressive lifestyles with regards to the role of women in their domestic households, and Gritchenko’s memoirs are a major source of evidence in this respect. While it was common for an artist’s wife, fiancée or sister to pose for him as a model, it was unusual for the lady of a household to pose for anyone outside that household. The fact that ÇallÕ’s wife, Münire, and NamÕk øsmail’s sister, Ulviye, posed as models for Gritchenko’s paintings speaks volumes to the extent of ÇallÕ’s and NamÕk øsmail’s Western lifestyles. One anecdote from Gritchenko’s writings makes this contrast in the society clear: When ÇallÕ’s wife and Gritchenko were walking to NamÕk øsmail’s home in Beúiktaú, a policeman or a guard, usually responsible for maintaining morality appeared and Münire had to walk a few steps behind Gritchenko, pretending not to know him (Gritchenko 1930, 166), since even walking side by side with an unrelated man was strictly forbidden. Gritchenko had further interactions with NamÕk øsmail’s sister, Ulviye (1896-1964), who was 24 years old at the time, which give additional insight into the lives of women during the era. Ulviye had graduated from a girls’ middle school in Beúiktaú and, like most upper class women of her generation, took private piano and French lessons. She stayed in Berlin with her brother and attended the conservatory there. (Günay 1937, 6-7) According to Gritchenko’s memoirs, Ulviye spent eighteen months in Berlin and Hamburg, going to concerts in the evenings. (Gritchenko 1930, 171) Ulviye complained to Gritchenko during their conversations about being confined to home and having to conform to a typical restrictive lifestyle, since, at the time, women were confined to the private realm and were expected not to have any aspirations other than being a homemaker. In 1920, when she was engaged to be married to a tobacco merchant named Ali Haydar (Günay 1937, 7), Gritchenko asked her why she was marrying and she replied that, if she were free, she would have stayed in high school and gone to the conservatory (Gritchenko 1930, 171), which would have allowed her to continue her education. Ulviye also told Gritchenko that she envied him because she knew little about Istanbul and, when asked why, she replied: Je suis toujours à la maison; je brode, je couds, je joue, je lis. [I’m always at home, I embroider, I sew, I play music, I read.] (Gritchenko 1930, 171)

One of the best portraits painted by NamÕk øsmail, dated 1920, (Fig. 3) is most likely that of Alexis Gritchenko, demonstrating the extent of their friendship and interactions during the artist’s stay in Istanbul. While the identity of the model remained a mystery to NamÕk øsmail’s descendants

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for a long period of time and despite the fact that Gritchenko does not mention NamÕk øsmail ever painting a portrait of him33, according to my assertions, based on resemblance to a Gritchenko photograph34 and the date of the painting, the sitter was, in fact, Gritchenko. Other photographs taken in NamÕk øsmail’s atelier show that he hanged the portrait in his working space and the prominent position of the portrait demonstrates that he was commemorating his friend.

Fig. 3: NamÕk øsmail, Alexis Gritchenko, 1920, 62X50 cm, oil on cardboard, Private Collection, Istanbul. See centerfold for this image in colour.

In 1921, the American Byzantologist and collector Thomas Whittemore purchased a collection of Gritchenko watercolours, which enabled the artist to leave Istanbul for Greece. Later in the year, he went from Greece to Paris, where he achieved great acclaim in the Salon d’Automne with the watercolours he had painted in Istanbul. He kept in touch with both ÇallÕ and NamÕk øsmail while in Paris. In 1921, he sent ÇallÕ three black and 33

øbrahim ÇallÕ painted a portrait of Gritchenko for a Turkish newspaper. (Gritchenko 1930, 227) We have no knowledge of whether this portrait by ÇallÕ was published. 34 For the photo by P. Nadar, see: Fierens 1948, introduction page.

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white reproductions of paintings he had exhibited in the Salon d’Automne. On the back of one of the reproductions, it is written: “Tsvetodinamos A. Gritchenko Salon d’Automne, 1921, Paris. A cher comrade beau peintre turque Ibrahim Chaali Auteur Paris 1921, XII.”35 Gritchenko probably wanted to share the excitement of his success with his Turkish colleague. In 1924, NamÕk øsmail travelled to Paris with his wife, Mediha, and, while there, won a contest to make illustrations for Pierre Loti’s book Les Désenchantées. (Es 1935, 8; Naci 1933, 419) A watercolour depicting a cemetery in Istanbul, painted by Gritchenko in 1920, currently part of a private collection in Istanbul, with an inscription, A Madame Mediha Namik A. Gritchenko 10.VI. 24 Paris, (Fig. 4) proves that the two artists met during NamÕk øsmail’s stay in Paris in 1924. The reproductions sent to ÇallÕ and the watercolour addressed to NamÕk øsmail’s wife are remaining proofs of correspondence between Gritchenko and his two Turkish artist friends following his departure from Istanbul.

Fig. 4: Alexis Gritchenko, Cemetery, 1920, 22,5X28,5 cm, watercolour on paper, Private Collection, Istanbul. See centerfold for this image in colour.

The 1914 Generation artists went on to take on important positions after the Turkish Republic was established in 1923. øbrahim ÇallÕ continued to work at the Academy of Fine Arts in Istanbul and retired in 1947. He had a 35

This document remains in a private collection in Istanbul. See: Güler 2014a, 334, illustration 38 and 39.

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long and successful career and, helped by his vibrant character and humorous personality, became a household name in Turkey, though without much financial success in his lifetime, like the rest of his generation. He played an important role as an esteemed teacher who helped raise an ambitious and productive generation of Turkish artists. His students have often praised him for his open mindedness, especially for allowing them to experiment with new techniques. ÇallÕ died in Istanbul in 1960, at the age of 78. NamÕk øsmail was one of the most talented members of the 1914 Generation and became the Academy’s director in 1927, where he was also a teacher. He implemented many reforms and transformed the school into a modern institution, thereby widely being referred to as the second founder of the Academy (Günay 1937, 24), with Osman Hamdi Bey being the first. In 1935, while still the director of the Academy, NamÕk øsmail died of a heart attack at the age of 43. In the absence of any other meaningful avenues of exchange with the external art world during the early 1920s, Gritchenko’s presence, views and style had a significant influence on øbrahim ÇallÕ and NamÕk øsmail. Gritchenko was an important inspiration and a driving force for ÇallÕ’s stylistic and thematic explorations. As for NamÕk øsmail, Gritchenko was a visionary who encouraged him to question his views on art. Gritchenko’s arrival and his works provided an opportunity for modernist views to disseminate in Istanbul; however, apart from ÇallÕ and NamÕk øsmail, the members of the 1914 Generation of artists were not ready to embrace these views and rejected them in favour of traditionalism. In the future, new documents, photographs and art works are likely to continue to emerge, shedding further light on Gritchenko’s friendship with his fellow Turkish artists. Gritchenko has become, through his memoirs, a lasting source of insight into an important era in Turkish art.

Bibliography Anonymous (1928): “Sanayi-i Nefise Akademisi Müdürü Ressam NamÕk øsmail Bey’le Mülakat.” Meúale, 1, 1 Temmuz. Anonymous (1947): øbrahim ÇallÕ, østanbul: Güzel Sanatlar Akademisi NeúriyatÕndan. Arseven, C.E. (1961[?]): Türk SanatÕ Tarihi Menúeinden Bugüne Kadar Heykel, Oyma ve Resim. Cilt III, østanbul: Milli E÷itim Basimevi. —. (1993): Sanat ve Siyaset HatÕralarÕm, østanbul: øletiúim YayÕnlarÕ. Artun, D. (2007): Paris’ten Modernlik Tercümeleri: Académie Julian’da ømparatorluk ve Cumhuriyet Ö÷rencileri, østanbul: øletiúim YayÕnlarÕ.

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Berk, N. (1981): “Ressam NamÕk øsmail.” Sanat Çevresi, A÷ustos, SayÕ 34. Cezar, M. (1983): Güzel Sanatlar E÷itiminde 100 YÕl, østanbul: Mimar Sinan Üniversitesi YayÕnÕ No: 3. —. (1995): Sanatta BatÕya AçÕlÕú ve Osman Hamdi. Cilt I & II, østanbul: Erol Kerim Aksoy Kültür, E÷itim, Spor ve Sa÷lik VakfÕ YayÕnÕ. Çoker, A. (1983): Osman Hamdi ve Sanayi-i Nefise Mektebi, østanbul: Mimar Sinan Üniversitesi YayÕnÕ, Toplu Sergiler 8. —. (1996): Cemal Tollu, østanbul: Galeri B YayÕnlarÕ. DanÕú, N.S. (1934) “NasÕl Muvaffak Oldular? Arzuhalci ÇallÕ nasÕl ressam olabildi?” Zaman, 28 Temmuz. Erol, T. (1980): “19. YüzyÕl Türk RessamlarÕ.” In: BaúlangÕcÕndan Bugüne Ça÷daú Türk Resim SanatÕ Tarihi, Cilt 1, østanbul: Tiglat BasÕmevi, pp. 77-170. Es, H.F. (1935): “De÷erli Bir Ressam ve ødareci: NamÕk øsmail.” Yedigün, 17 Nisan, No: 110, Cilt 5. Eyübo÷lu, B.R. (1976): “ÇallÕ Üzerine.” Türkiyemiz, SayÕ 18, ùubat 1976. Fierens, P.: (1948): Alexis Gritchenko Sa Vie Son Oeuvre. trans. Barnett D. Conlan, Paris: Édition Quatre Vents. —. (1948): “Painting” In: Alexis Gritchenko Sa Vie Son Oeuvre. trans. Barnett D. Conlan, Paris: Édition Quatre Vents. Gören, A.K. (1995): “Türk Resminde “1914 Kuúa÷Õ” SanatçÕlarÕnÕn ønsan Figürü Sorunu.” PhD diss., østanbul Üniversitesi. —. (1997): Türk Resim SanatÕnda ùiúli Atölyesi ve Viyana Sergisi, østanbul: ùiúli Belediyesi østanbul Resim ve Heykel Müzeleri Derne÷i. Gritchenko, A. (1930): Deux ans à Constantinople Journal d’un Peintre, Paris: Édition Quatre Vents. Güler, A. (2011): “Aleksis Griçenko ve ÇallÕ Kuúa÷Õ SanatçÕlarÕ.” In: Sanat DünyamÕz 125, pp. 38-49. —. (2014a): “øbrahim ÇallÕ.” PhD diss., Mimar Sinan Güzel Sanatlar Üniversitesi. —. (2014b): “Aleksis Griçenko’nun AnÕ KitabÕ IúÕ÷Õnda Griçenko-ÇallÕ Dostlu÷u.” In: Mahir, B. (ed.): Semra Germaner Arma÷anÕ, østanbul: Mimar Sinan Güzel Sanatlar Üniversitesi YayÕnlarÕ, pp. 101-113. —. (2015): “Aleksis Griçenko’nun østanbul’da øzini Sürmek.” In: Sanat DünyamÕz 144, pp. 4-9. Günay, ø.S. (1937): Büyük Türk SanatkarÕ NamÕk øsmail HayatÕ ve Eserleri, østanbul: M. Babok BasÕmevi. Hordynsky, S. (1983): “Alexis Gritchenko 1883-1977”. In: The Alexis Gritchenko Foundation Commemorative Exhibition, April 16- May 12,

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1983, New York: Ukrainian Institute of America. Exhibition catalogue, pp. 3-5. Kürkman, G. (2004): OsmanlÕ ømparatorlu÷u’nda Ermeni Ressamlar. Cilt I & II, Istanbul: Matusalem YayÕnlarÕ. Naci, E. (1933): “NamÕk øsmail San’atÕ, ùahsiyeti, Eserleri ve HayatÕ.” Yeni Türk MecmuasÕ, ùubat. NamÕk ø. (1921): “Sanat Musahabesi: Klasik, Fütürist ve Primitif Ressamlar HakkÕnda BazÕ Fikirler.” YarÕn, No:1, Teúrin-i Evvel 1337. (transcription from Ottoman Turkish Bengü Vahapo÷lu, Ekrem SÕrma). Olcay, S. (1975): “øbrahim ÇallÕ Üzerine ønceleme.” Master’s thesis, Hacettepe Üniversitesi. Pelvano÷lu, B. (2007): Hale Asaf Türk Resim SanatÕnda Bir Dönüm NoktasÕ, østanbul: YapÕ Kredi YayÕnlarÕ. Rona, Z. (1992): NamÕk øsmail, østanbul: YapÕ Kredi YayÕnlarÕ. Susak, V. (2010): Ukrainian Artists in Paris 1900-1939, Kyiv: Rodovid Press. Tahsin, O. (1960): “Ölümünden 13 Gün Sonra HayatÕnÕ Kendi Sesinden Dinledi÷im ønsan: øbrahim ÇallÕ.” Hayat, SayÕ: 24, 10 Haziran. Toker, M. (1947): “øbrahim ÇallÕ YarÕn Emekliye AyrÕlÕyor.” Cumhuriyet, 13 Temmuz. Tuncay, M. (2009): Türkiye’de Sol AkÕmlar 1908-1925. Cilt I. Istanbul: øletiúim YayÕnlarÕ. Ya÷basan, E. (2004): “Ressam Halife Abdülmecid Efendi (1868-1944).” In: ùerifo÷lu, Ö.F. (ed.): Hanedandan Bir Ressam Abdülmecid Efendi, østanbul: YapÕ Kredi YayÕnlarÕ, pp. 23-62.

THE GREAT LITTLE LADY OF THE BOMBAY ART WORLD LINA BERNSTEIN

An Episode from an Émigré Life: The Russian Artist Magda Nachman On 12 February 1951, the Russian-born artist Magda Nachman Acharya died in Bombay, India – where she had been living since 1936 – at the age of 61. A few days later, the Free Press Bulletin of Bombay ran an obituary that began thus: Fate struck a cruel blow to the art world on Monday last. The large gathering of artists and art-lovers, who had thronged the hall of the Foreign Language Institute to witness the opening of the exhibition of the paintings of the versatile artist Magda Nachman, were in for a melancholy surprise. Magda Nachman, it was announced, had passed away a few hours before the opening of the exhibition.1

Other local newspapers also carried obituaries. The journal Aesthetics2 devoted half of its January–March 1951 issue to articles on Nachman solicited from several Indians and Europeans living in India. The writers included the editor of the journal, R.C. Gupta; the modern dancer Hilde Holger; the lama Anagarika Govinda; the artist Li Gotami; a correspondent of the Jewish Advocate Miss H. Kohn; the Czech writer in India Vilem Haas; art critic Hermann Goetz; British cultural affairs officer Wayne M. Hartwell; Major C.E. Dust; Mrs Gertrude Murray Correa; and the writer Irene Pohrille. From these articles and other obituaries it 1

“Magda Nachman Truly Interpreted India,” signed P.K.S. The Free Press Bulletin of Bombay, no. 3, March 1951. 2 Aesthetics 5, no. 1 (1951): 2–18. Aesthetics promoted modern Indian artists and published illustrated essays on the newest developments in world art. Under the same cover one could find pictures by M.F. Hussain, Jamini Roy, and K.H. Ara, and works by Picasso, Braque, and Matisse as well as works by Chinese and Japanese artists.

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becomes clear that Magda Nachman had achieved acclaim and that her loss was keenly felt by friends and admirers of her art. In a private letter to Magda Nachman’s close friend the Viennese modern dancer Hilde Holger, who had moved to London in 1948 after nine years’ exile from Vienna in Bombay, Charles Petras, the founder of the Institute of Foreign Languages (I.F.L., sometimes F.L.I.) in Bombay, a meeting place for the cultures of India and the West,3 wrote, Please read now the other side of this letter and don’t be shocked […] On 12.2.51 Magda Nachman died two hours before the opening of her exhibition at the FLI in Bombay, so that Oscar Brown had to open it as a Memorial Exhibition. Over 500 people came & within an hour they sold paintings for 6000. – The newspapers were carrying headlines about her & it. It is said that Bombay had never seen as brilliant a gathering as the one that night. Yes, a bit late […] isn’t it?4

Petras was Nachman’s friend and supporter, and the note of regret at the end of his letter is understandable. Magda Nachman had spent most of her adult artistic life on the run, as it were, and India was her last refuge. Magda Nachman was born in 1889 in Pavlovsk (near St Petersburg), the daughter of a Lutheran mother and Jewish father who had moved to the capital from Riga. She attended school in St Petersburg, and then in 1907, began her artistic career at the renowned Zvantseva Art Academy, where she studied with Leon Bakst, Mstislav Dobuzhinsky, and later Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin. Magda Nachman’s artistic sensibility developed under the influence of her teachers, especially Bakst, and in reaction to a host of competing artistic trends that were raging around her. When she left Petersburg for Moscow in 1916, after having participated in a number of important art exhibitions,5 Magda Nachman had every reason to believe that she would go on to fulfil herself as a Russian artist in Russia. But the twentieth century was even then beginning to shuffle the deck. After years of hardship in Moscow during World War I, the Revolutions of 1917, and then in the Russian provinces during the Civil War and the period of War Communism, she left Soviet Russia in 1922 for 3

Petras expanded his institute to New Delhi in 1950, where he arranged performances, cultural radio programmes, and exhibitions, including Magda Nachman’s second posthumous solo show in 1952. 4 The Hilde Holger family archive, London, UK. 5 Some of the exhibitions in which Magda Nachman took part include those mounted by the World of Art Association in 1912, 1913; a benefit show for wounded soldiers organised by the art bureau of N.E. Dobychina in 1914; and the muchdiscussed exhibition The Art of 1915 organised by K.V. Kandaurov in Moscow.

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Berlin. In 1933, escaping the Nazi persecution, she moved to Switzerland, and finally in 1936, she fled to Bombay to join her husband, the Indian revolutionary M.P.T. Acharya, whom she had met and married in Moscow in 1921 and who had returned to India a year earlier.6 Through all her exiles and despite every hardship, Magda Nachman continued painting, and all the while supported herself and her husband through her chosen profession. Her prolific output notwithstanding, the artist Magda Nachman is almost unknown in Russia, except as an occasional footnote in works on the famous Russian literary figures Marina Tsvetaeva, Vladimir Nabokov, and Maximilian Voloshin on account of her 1913 portraits of Tsvetaeva and her husband, Sergey Efron, and a later (1933) portrait of Nabokov; a few sentences she wrote on the death of Irina Efron;7 and her appearance in some group photographs taken at Voloshin’s house in Koktebel. There are a few Crimean landscapes done by her in or around Koktebel that are in private collections in Russia. Recently, a painting by her, A Peasant, has resurfaced in the Kazan Art Museum (saved by a courageous curator after having been condemned in 1948 as a work of formalism and discarded from the museum’s roster). The picture was exhibited in the Russian Museum show The Circle of Petrov-Vodkin (June–September 2016). Magda Nachman’s letters to various correspondents can be found in several Russian archival collections. And that, to my knowledge, is about all that has survived of Magda Nachman’s work and life in Russia before her departure. In India, however, Magda Nachman soon made a name for herself in artistic circles and among the elites of Bombay. In the obituary cited above, she was referred to as the “great old lady of the Bombay art world.” India, of course, was an uncommon destination for Europeans pushed around by the calamities of the first half of the twentieth century. Fearing professional competition and social burden, the British were notoriously stingy with their visas, and the few that they issued went generally to the young and capable. British policy restricted entry into India even by persons who were not found politically undesirable and whose friends or relatives already in India were ready to render support. The numbers are chilling: from January 1938 to February 1939, the Government of India, having decided that not more than 150 foreigners could compete for employment in India, issued 269 entry visas to Jewish refugees, among them 128 women and 16 children.8 Magda Nachman and her friends Petras 6

On Acharya, see Subhramaniam 1995. See Bernstein 2016. 8 See Oesterheld 1999. 7

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and Holger were among the few lucky ones. Magda Nachman managed to sail to India only because a nine-year struggle with British authorities carried on by her husband during the couple’s years in Berlin finally yielded them British passports along with assurances that Acharya would not, as a former nationalist fighter, be arrested on his arrival in India. Figure 1 shows a photograph of Magda Nachman in Bombay taken around 1938.

Figure 1. Magda Nachman in Bombay, India, ca. 1938 (courtesy of Sophie Seifalian)

According to Gyan Prakash, Bombay of the 1930s was a cosmopolitan city: The elites heard swing and jazz sounds in clubs and restaurants and watched Hollywood films in the new Art Deco theatres. The world of workers in chawls and slums lay far away from the cosmopolitan glitter of the elites, but there too the winds of change were blowing. While the Congress activists mobilised the working-class neighbourhoods for national agitations, the Communists organised the mill hands for militant industrial actions. Politically energised by anti-colonialism and Marxism, many middle-class intellectuals found stimulation in the modern metropolitan milieu of Bombay. Writers and artists from North India flocked to the city, seeking opportunities to practice their craft in newspapers, literary journals, and growing film industry. (Prakash 2010, 119)

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A few pages later, he again states that Bombay was a magnet for writers, artists, and political activists, who found the city both attractive and repelling: Intellectuals and artists were drawn to Bombay’s pulsating modernity, but they also viewed it as deeply contradictory. If the city’s promise of progress and freedom attracted them, they were also repelled by its depredations and injustices […] By the 1930s, Bombay was a place to be if you were a writer, an artist, or a radical political activist. Already a preeminent centre of commerce and industry, the Backbay Reclamation and the Improvement Trust’s housing and transportation projects had imparted it the urban form of a metropolis by the early thirties. (Prakash 2010, 128)

Another writer, Rudi von Leyden, in an art review in the Times of India wrote, “Bombay appears to be an art minded city. One exhibition follows the other.” (7 February 1942) Arriving there in 1936, Magda Nachman might well have felt that she had gone back in time to her student years in Petersburg of the 1910s and the Berlin of the 1920s. Political engagement and debate along with experimentation with “avant-garde” approaches to art in Bombay in the late 1930s and the 1940s would have reminded her of similar debates in St Petersburg and Moscow earlier in the century. European modern art did not really arrive in India until December 1922, when an exhibition of works by Paul Klee and Wassily Kandinsky was held in Calcutta. Indian artists then slowly began experimenting with cubism, primitivism, and other avant-garde movements, along with earlier historicism, naturalism, and academism: the very same approaches to art that had been debated in St Petersburg and Moscow earlier in the century. Magda Nachman would also have been familiar with the accusations hurled at Indian contemporary artists of having become epigones of the West, or the opposite – revivalists of ancient traditions that had lost their vitality in the modern world. The urgent question, “how to stay Indian and become modern,” echoed the earlier question, “how to stay Russian and become modern.” Both countries were “Oriental,” as it were, experiencing the “anxiety of influence” (as Harold Bloom called it),9 looking longingly at Western modernity and at the same time reinventing, and also inventing, their folk traditions as part of an expression of national identity. As Partha Mitter writes: If sympathy for the poor was nothing new, the elite discovery of the peasant in the 1920s as the “authentic” voice of the nation was altogether novel. (Mitter 2007, 29) 9

See Bloom 1973.

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Cities and their elites had become bastions of urban colonial civilization in India, as they had similarly become westernised in Russia. One should therefore look to the countryside to find a “pure” India untouched by colonial influence and a “pure” Russia untouched by Western influence: It is the vision of primitivism as an alternative to Western “rationality” promised by non-Western thought that formed the crucial bridge between Western and Indian primitivists. (Mitter 2007, 34)

Russians, too, looked to the countryside for the authenticity of the lowbrow that could stand in opposition to petty bourgeois, middlebrow values. They found it, or imagined it, in the folk life of the village. Thus the Indian Jamini Roy, in his primitivist paintings, and Sergey Diaghilev, in producing such ballets as The Rite of Spring and Les Noces, had the same agenda: to stage a revolt against the bourgeois worldview through the exaltation of the primitive. All this would have been familiar to Magda Nachman, which helped her to orient herself in the new environment and make India her home rather quickly even without the presence of a Russian diaspora. Knowledge of foreign languages helped Magda Nachman as well. She had been bilingual since childhood (Russian and German) and had good command of English, French, and later even Italian, doing occasional translations from those languages. Beginning shortly after her arrival in India and continuing throughout the rest of her life, Magda Nachman began exhibiting at the Bombay Art Society. Her pictures appeared in each of the society’s catalogues of that time. She also had regular solo shows at the society’s salon and at the Institute of Foreign Languages, and one at the Chetana gallery, in 1947, where her portrait of the famous dancer Shrimati Shanta Rao appeared (Figure 2). Reviews of these shows can be found in the Times of India, in the art quarterly MARG, and in the Bombay Chronicle. From these publications, which mention specific paintings and give the numbers of works presented in each show, it becomes clear that Magda Nachman was a prolific and versatile painter, respected in Bombay by connoisseurs of art.10

10

I had an extremely difficult time locating Magda Nachman’s pictures in Mumbai, even those mentioned and described in the reviews. In my six weeks in India I was able to find only thirteen works among dozens whose existence is documented, most of them portraits done for particular families.

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Figure 2. “Portrait of a Dancer” 1947 (from the frontispiece of G. Venkatachalam’s important book on Indian dance, Dance in India, 1947). See centerfold for this image in colour.

Magda Nachman associated herself particularly closely with the Progressive Artists Group, who banded together in Bombay in the late 1930s and 1940s. The art historian Yashodhara Dalmia asserts: In a twist of destiny, the war émigrés from Europe who landed in Bombay proved to be deeply involved with the arts and became central to its development in India in its formative years. (Dalmia 2001, 59)

In his autobiographical notes, Kekoo Gandhy, a promoter of the Indian avant-garde and founder of the preeminent Gallery of modern art in Bombay (the gallery opened only in 1963) echoed Dalmia:

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The Great Little Lady of the Bombay Art World The unexpected arrival of all these Europeans – most of them Jews fleeing from Austria – really started the Progressive movement off […] With [the artist] Langhammer came a lot of professionals, doctors […] a sort of miniinflux of Jews. They valued art and provided patronage […] They had a great enthusiasm for Indian artists – who else was interested? – and they pioneered buying. (Ghandy http://www.india-seminar.com/2003/528/ 528%20kekoo%20gandhy.htm)

Gandhy’s gallery exhibited contemporary artists, including Magda Nachman, and in particular The Progressives, many of whom had European training either outside of India or inside the country from European teachers. Magda Nachman was one of those “war émigrés” who participated in the development of Indian modern art. In many newspaper reports, Magda Nachman’s name is surrounded by the names of those younger artists. Though she painted in a style very different from theirs, she exhibited together with them and became their mentor. In her own art, Magda Nachman remained faithful to her youthful understanding of what modern art should be, shying away from the “isms” being debated in India at the time. The Indian countryside, the poor in its midst, the animals who shared and supported the life of her human models, and the expressive world of dance, both Indian and European, were the subjects of Magda Nachman’s work.11 Often, she found her models on the city streets, like in the portrait of a Marathi woman in Figure 3. She worked in oil, pastel, watercolour, and graphite. Her admirers singled her out as an exceptional draughtsman. A number of commentators mentioned the variety of emotions that Magda Nachman was able to communicate through her portraits and the sincerity of her manner, as evident, for example, in the portrait of a boy shown in Figure 4. The critical response to her art in the Bombay press was laudatory, yet as a European, Magda Nachman was not fully accepted into the Indian art establishment and was treated as something of an outsider even though her work, according to the critics, “shows such a thorough understanding for the Indian soul.”12 On the other hand, Magda Nachman’s marriage to an Indian left her an outsider to the European community, as her close friend Hilde Holger, for whose modern school of dance Magda Nachman designed costumes and stage sets, remarked in notes for an obituary: One of my greatest friends in Bombay was Magda Nachman, a Russian artist and pupil of Bakst […] The European community did not give [her] 11

Images of all works by Magda Nachman known to the author can be found on the website magdanachmanacharya.org. 12 Goetz 1947–1948, 80.

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much support because she was married to an Indian, and for the Indians her art was too westernised; but in my opinion she was the artist with the deepest understanding for the suffering of the Indian people.13

Figure 3. A Marathi Woman, 194? (from the collection of Brian and Darryl D’Monte, Mumbai, India). See centerfold for this image in colour.

13

The Hilde Holger family archive. One can find the following description of Hilde Holger on the web: “Hilde Boman-Behram (née Sofer) (1905–2001), better known by her stage name Hilde Holger, was an Austro-Hungarian-born British expressionist dancer, choreographer, teacher, and educator.” To the string of nationalities (ethnicities?) one can add that she was also Jewish, married to a Parsee man, and had two children with him. Where did she belong?

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Figure 4. Portrait of a Boy, 1945 (from the collection of Noam Mualem Yosef, Gilboa, Israel). See centerfold for this image in colour.

In 1947, having lived and painted in Bombay for over ten years, Magda Nachman now considered herself so much an Indian artist that she applied to the Bombay regional selection committee for inclusion in the Exhibition of Art Chiefly from the Dominions of India and Pakistan, 2400 B.C. to 1947 A.D., which was to be mounted at the Royal Academy of Arts at Burlington House, in London, in the winter of 1947–1948. The art selection committee rejected her application on the grounds of her European roots, education, and ethnicity. In other words, she was not sufficiently Indian. The famous and influential Indian physicist, art collector, and amateur artist Homi Bhabha, who had sat on the regional committee and disagreed with its decision, argued against Magda’s exclusion for what he considered to be invalid reasons. He wrote on behalf of her application to the

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prominent cultural figure, poet, and politician Sarojini Naidu, who stood at the head of the All-India Committee for the London Exhibition of Indian Art, and to Maulana Azad, the Minister of Education. Bhabha saw the case of Magda Nachman Acharya as an important touchstone for working out the principles that would underlie Indian law and custom for future approaches to such “cases.” At stake was the very definition of the notion of an “Indian artist”: how far removed from Europe did one have to be in order to represent India? After all, Bhabha wrote, […] half a dozen of the pictures chosen by the committee are painted in purely European style, and practically all the others show the unmistakable influence of European art.14

As a member of the tiny ethnic minority of Parsees, Homi Bhabha well understood Magda’s predicament and the predicament of his multinational country. Furthermore, Bhabha was living in his native Bombay quite by chance. In his summer holiday of 1939, he had returned home from the Cavendish Laboratory at the University of Cambridge, where he had been conducting research in atomic physics. The outbreak of war in Europe that September kept him in India, where he decided to remain. And so instead of becoming a British scientist of Indian extraction, Bhabha became the father of the Indian nuclear program. India would have to decide where her artists, many of whom spanned two civilizations, belonged. This public and private dilemma is vividly exemplified in the life and art of the eminent Indian artist Amrita Sher-Gil, herself of mixed parentage and cultures. In her work Two Girls, Sher-Gil portrayed her divided heritage and “double” identity: a dark-skinned girl with brown eyes is sitting next to a standing light-skinned girl with blue eyes whose arm embraces the dark shoulder, yet their bodies are separated by a white cloth. Does this dual portrait address the artist’s feelings about herself (Who am I? Where do I belong?), or does it represent the public perception of her? The predicament of Magda Nachman Acharya is similar to that of Sher-Gil. Magda does not fit anywhere comfortably. In his 1947–1948 laudatory essay Magda Nachman: A Russian Interpreter of India, the art critic and member of the executive committee for the 1947 London exhibition Hermann Goetz made the case for Magda, comparing her to foreigners in other nations who eventually became the pride of those nations. He wrote: 14 Archive of the TIFR, ref no. 40. A letter to Maulana Azad, the Minister of Education.

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The Great Little Lady of the Bombay Art World Magda Nachman is one of the best Bombay artists, highly esteemed by a small circle of art connoisseurs, critics and cultured people, but badly neglected by the average art public. She has been awarded many distinctions. Amongst her portrait-sitters are some of the most prominent people. Her pictures can be seen in several Indian embassies. But her name is only occasionally heard in the bustle of official art life and publicity. She has often enough been treated as an outsider by those trying to ride on the crest of a rising nationalism. She, who has to support an invalid veteran of the national movement, was pushed aside in the name of Indian nationalism. […] She has not bowed before any of those fashions which official art tends to favour and which in later generations arouse such a nausea of stale meretriciousness. She simply tries to be honest to herself, to her themes, to her art. And for this reason her art shows such a thorough understanding for the Indian soul. [Magda Nachman] is an artist between two civilizations, an outsider in search of the Indian soul. She is quiet, humble, understanding. Magda Nachman’s is a mature art, far from the noise and bustle of the market, an art of silence, of the soul, Russian in its tradition, international in its qualities, Indian in its deep and warm understanding. (Goetz 1947– 1948, 79, 83)

Given Magda Nachman’s experience, there is little doubt that the rejection by the Indian establishment in 1947 of her work and of herself was painful. Akbar Padamsee, a contemporary Indian painter, recalled, over half a century after the event, Nachman’s entrance at a fellow artist’s studio that he was visiting: She ran in with a piece of paper in her fist and shouted, “They rejected me! They rejected me! Who are they to reject me? What do they know about art? They rejected my work!” She was standing there […] terrible.15

How many times had she been uprooted? How often had she been on the run? How many times had she experienced a sense of homelessness? And now, after all that, having finally established herself in far-off India, with an Indian husband, as an Indian artist and mentor to Indian artists, she was told that here, too, she was a stranger. In a letter to Homi Bhabha, Magda Nachman wrote: I think that being married to an Indian for 25 years and going with him through all the sufferings, privations and dangers of exile and besides being an Indian national does entitle me to take part in an exhibition of Indian artists. Moreover, India is not a racial unit. So in the end, the prejudice against me is chiefly a colour prejudice, and it is difficult to understand how people who have suffered from the colour bar can apply it to 15

Conversation with the author (February 2014).

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others. It is inferiority feeling with utter want of imagination that leads to this result. – It is the power of mental inertia against which it is impossible to fight for an isolated human being. Only the awakening of the right kind of pride can improve matters. The more grateful I am to you and Mrs Thiroja Wadia for having the courage to stand up against the prejudice of the great majority and to fight out of idealism even a losing battle.16

In the political upheavals of 1947–1948, Magda decided to stay in India, although her close friends, both Indian and European (among them Hilde Holger and her Parsee husband, Dr Boman-Behram), were leaving a country in turmoil and civil war. She had made India and Indian-inspired art her home. Not many Indians know that the oft-quoted words of Homi Bhabha that adorn art galleries and shine as epigraphs in writing on Indian modern art come from his letter to the Minister of Education Maulana Azad in defence of Magda Nachman Acharya: We all hope [that] with its newly achieved freedom, India will become the leading country of Asia and one of the leaders in cultural matters, and it can achieve this in the artistic sphere not by a mere repetition of its ancient forms but by the creation of new art forms, possibly through synthesis of the ancient Indian and European traditions in art.17

If only Magda could have lived to see her triumph. Those with whom Magda worked and lived and who wrote obituaries for her understood her predicament only too well, either being themselves in a similar situation or understanding the subtleties of it from the experiences of others. Loving India, as is evident from her paintings, and yet being not of it defined Magda’s place, or rather her displacement, forced on her by the twentieth century. For the casualties of the twentieth century, the identities multiplied: Magda, half Jewish, half German Russian, with the deepest cultural ties to Western Europe, lived and worked in India. These multiple layers caused misunderstanding and prejudice against her and were part of what caused Magda to be loved and respected by many, as is evident from the outpouring of memories about her by those who considered her a friend, a supporter, and even a sort of guru. Magda Nachman the refugee reached the end of her life far away from her native land, yet surrounded by friends who cared about her and loved her. As Hilde Holger put it in her obituary, Magda Nachman “had many

16 17

Archive of the TIFR, ref no. 271. Ibid., ref no. 40.

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great friends who adored her as I did.”18 Another memoirist, Irene Pohrille, who calls Magda Nachman the “little stout lady with the charming face,” echoes this sentiment: “She used to help struggling young artists who adored her. Magda Nachman had many friends who were devoted to her.”19 And so although she was driven from her home by fate, she ended up in a place that she might have called home. For what is home, after all, if not a place of caring and loving friends? “Quiet, almost shy,” according to Goetz, Magda Nachman had touched many lives. On her death, an outpouring of memories spilled over the pages of newspapers and journals. The obituaries were a tribute to her “sincerity and her hatred of ostentation and humbug, her innate kindness and her sense of humour and fun” (H. Kohn).20 The Times of India reported on the exhibition of her work that had opened on the day of her death: Mr Oscar Brown, the Chief Presidency Magistrate of Bombay, declaring her posthumous exhibition open, paid a tribute to the artist’s courage, her versatile faculties, and uncanny gift of deep human insight.21

He called her a “magnificent lady.” In the same issue of the Times of India, Rudi von Leyden wrote, The great little lady of the Bombay art world is no more. As an artist she died in harness. All those who take one of her pictures home from this exhibition will take with them a small part of this friendly, generous, and tragic figure that was Magda Nachman. One of Europe’s countless persecuted, she instinctively understood those who stand by the road-side when life passes by and she painted them not so much with pity but with a feeling for the tragic condition and dignity of the simple and the poor. Her sympathy with human nature made her a good observer of type and a portraitist of a very special human kind. The younger generation of artists in Bombay had in her a faithful friend and understanding critic. Although conservative in her own style of work, she welcomed and encouraged those who went in search of horizons new. They will remember her for her gentleness and for the strength with which she lived through a life that was all but kind to her. And these two qualities, gentleness and strength, speak to us from every painting in this exhibition, which is a fitting memorial to her life’s work.22 18

The Hilde Holger family archive, London. Aesthetics 1951, p. 18. 20 Ibid. p. 14 21 The Times of India, February 13, 1951. 22 Ibid. “Understanding of Human Values: Magda Nachman’s Works.” 19

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The Free Press Bulletin of Bombay declared that the “great old lady of the Bombay art world, who had been a faithful friend and understanding critic of the young artists, had been gathered by the great beyond.” Her life, the bulletin went on, “was a continuously brave fight against adversities which would have broken a weaker character or hardened a less noble mind.”23 And here is one more among her contemporaries, the journalist Gertrude Murray Correa: Even in our bravest and brightest moments, few of us are able to do anything than fling a veil of shimmering pretence over the ugliness, the grimness of the present day world. Magda Nachman not only faced it, and without shrinking – she proved to us that there is still nobility, courage, endurance and love around us everywhere, to rejoice and uplift the hearts of all who remember our common humanity.24

Time did not preserve Magda’s life in the amber of the Russian Silver Age. After Petersburg and Koktebel, there were Moscow and Russian provinces, Berlin and Switzerland, and finally Bombay. The Magda Nachman who began life as the sheltered offspring of a well-to-do cultured Petersburg family and then was hit in the face by the twentieth century firmly asserted her will against the external circumstances of her life. She would not allow that hostile century to crush her. Magda, that delicate, quiet, and considerate woman, never deviated from her artistic and spiritual calling.

Archives Archive of the Tata Institute for Fundamental Research (TIFR), Homi Bhabha, personal papers. The Hilde Holger family archive, London, UK.

23 “Magda Nachman Truly Interpreted India,” The Free Press Bulletin of Bombay, March 1951. The contemporaries addressed Magda Nachman with terms of endearment and respect, even during her life. The leading art journal of the time MARG, in the overview of the exhibitions in the first quarter of 1950 announced a one woman show: “Magda Nachman, the Grand Old Lady of Bombay, had her usual show at the F.L.I. Hall. There was the usual gentleness in her colours and humanness in her themes.” (The review is signed J.M.). MARG 1950, no. 2: 60. “Grand Old Lady” is an epithet often used to refer to Magda Nachman when she is mentioned in the press. 24 Aesthetics (1951): 17.

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Bibliography Aesthetics 5, no. 1 (1951), pp. 2–18. Bernstein, L. (2016): «ɍɦɟɪɥɚ ɜ ɩɪɢɸɬɟ ɋɟɪɟɠɢɧɚ ɞɨɱɶ–ɂɪɢɧɚ»: Ɍɟɤɫɬ ɢ ɤɨɧɬɟɤɫɬ. In: Toronto Slavic Quarterly 56, pp. 1–8. Bloom, H. (1973): The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dalmia, Y. (2001): The Making of Modern Indian Art: The Progressives, New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Gandhy, K. (2003): The Beginnings of the Art Movement. (http://www.india-seminar.com/2003/528/528%20kekoo%20gandhy.htm) Goetz, H. (1947–1948): “Magda Nachman: A Russian Interpreter of India.” In: Bulletin of the Baroda Museum and Picture Gallery, no. 5, pp. 79-83. Leyden, R. v. (1951): Understanding of Human Values: Magda Nachman’s Works. In: Times of India, 13 February. MARG (Pathway), Bombay art quarterly, v. 4 (1950), no. 2. Mitter, P. (2007): The Triumph of Modernism, London: Reaktion Books. Oesterheld, J. (1999): British Policy Towards German-Speaking Emigrants in India, 1939–1945. In: Bhatti, A. and Voigt, J.H. (eds.): Jewish Exile in India, 1933–1945, New Delhi: Manohar, in association with Max Mueller Bhavan, pp. 25–44. P.K.S. (signed) (1951): Magda Nachman Truly Interpreted India. In: The Free Press Bulletin of Bombay, no. 3, March 1951. Prakash, G. (2010): Mumbai Fables, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Subhramaniam, C.S. (1995): M.P.T. Acharya: His Life and Times, Revolutionary Trends In The Early Anti-Imperialist Movements In South India And Abroad, Chennai: Institute of South Indian Studies. The Times of India, February 7, 1942; February 13, 1951. Venkatachalam, G. (1947): Dance in India, Bombay: Nalanda Publications.

BETWEEN “ACADEMICIANS” AND “DISSIDENTS”: RUSSIAN EMIGRÉ ARTISTS IN ITALY DURING THE COLD WAR MATTEO BERTELÉ

Among West-European countries, Italy has played a crucial role in the international post-Thaw cultural policies of the Soviet Union. This was mainly due to two reasons: Italy had the largest Communist Party in a capitalist country, and, at the same time, lacked personal contacts, information and knowledge about Soviet culture. Unlike France or Germany, historically Italy had no relevant Russian anti-Soviet émigré community. These factors made it a fertile soil for bilateral relations (Reccia 20122013). The cultural Cold War was extremely divisive in Italy: the country was split into two main ideological factions (conservative and progressive), respectively incarnated by two main political forces (Christian Democracy and the Communist Party). In this context, the few Russian artists based in Italy played a minor, but not insignificant role. I will turn my attention to two key figures: Gregorio Sciltian [Grigoriy Shiltyan] and Mikhail Koulakov [Mikhail Kulakov].1 Sciltian left Russia in 1917, travelled through major émigré centres such as Constantinople, Vienna, Berlin and Paris, and in 1923 settled down in Rome, where he died in 1985; Koulakov left directly to Italy in 1976, where he spent the rest of his life and died in 2015. The lack of reliable literature about Sciltian’s early life and work forces us to rely on his memoirs as the main source of information on his activity before World War II, all the while keeping in mind that this is a self-generated and self-celebrating text. The title itself, Mia avventura [My Adventure], betrays the main intention of the book, namely to provide an exciting, mostly anecdotic, personal account. The selection of episodes 1

For the names of both artists, I will adopt the transliteration that they used themselves after emigrating.

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and encounters, along with the exclusion of others, are eloquent expressions of Sciltian’s self-historisation and self-characterisation in the postwar cultural debate. He evokes Italy as a “fixed idea” that has been haunting him since his childhood, and which later became his “promised land”. His fascination for the bel paese was largely influenced by the European classics of the Grand Tour literature, from Stendhal to Goethe, but also by the insightful notes on contemporary Italy written by Russian art historian Pavel Muratov (Sciltian 1963, 74). The most conspicuous omission in Sciltian’s autobiography is his personal relation to the fascist regime, which coincided with the rise of his artistic fortune. It all started at the Venice Biennale in 1936, during the first edition to be boycotted by world powers such as the United States, the Soviet Union and Great Britain as a response to Mussolini’s expansionist policy in Africa. The empty English pavilion hosted the Mostra degli stranieri residenti in Italia [Exhibition of Foreign Artists Residing in Italy], which was limited nevertheless to members of art unions, who in the catalogue were addressed as “camerati”. The exhibition, intended as a showcase for the regime’s hospitality and international aura, did not meet the expectations of national critics, most of whom criticised the show for lacking a convincing homogenous concept (Bertelé 2013, 307). On that occasion, Sciltian was represented only by one work, Sorprese in Giardino [Surprises in the Garden] (1935-36), a canvas rich in reminiscences of Caravaggio and of contemporary paintings of the Novecento group. Sciltian’s work went unnoticed in Venice on that occasion and did not step into the spotlight until six years later. In 1942, in the most tragic year of the war, Sciltian’s career took an unexpected turn thanks to an enthusiastic review of his work, published in Il Corriere della Sera by Ugo Ojetti, the most influential critic during the fascist Ventennio. Sciltian ends his memoirs with this key event, omitting all its imminent consequences, such as the organisation of a retrospective show at the Venice Biennale in 1942, imposed at the very last moment by Government authorities. On that occasion, his canvas Surprises in the Garden, renamed Bacco in taverna [Bacchus in a Tavern], was disputed between two prominent buyers: III Reich Vice Chancellor Hermann Göring, and Italian Foreign Minister Galeazzo Ciano. The latter, being also Mussolini’s son-in-law, finally acquired the painting for a record price, and shortly later commissioned Sciltian to do a portrait, completed after numerous sessions at Palazzo Chigi (1947, ill. 1) (Sciltian 1973). During his lifetime, the artist never gave an account of this episode, which became known only in 1991 in the course of an interview with the artist’s widow, Elena Boberman Sciltian (Mazza 1991).

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If Sciltian’s personal involvement with the fascist élite was not completely evident until the end of the Cold War, his solo show at the last fascist Biennale generated in the following decades a profound split between his economic success as a prominent portraitist for the nouveaux riches and his critical misfortune among art professionals (Sbarbaro 2015, 41). At the first two post-war Biennials, Sciltian obtained lapidary reviews: in 1948, he was labelled by the national daily La Stampa as a “far right artist” (Rossi 1948), while in 1950 L’Unità, the newspaper founded by Antonio Gramsci, branded his paintings as simply “horrible” (Maltese 1950). By that time, Sciltian had signed the manifesto of the Pittori Moderni della Realtà [Modern Painters of Reality] (1947), where he reiterated his favourite biographic leitmotif: the total rejection of the École de Paris and of any form of cosmopolitan modernism and his devotion to academic figurative painting. His personal appropriation of “reality” was strongly condemned by leftist art critics: to them, the depiction of reality was possible through progressive forms and social issues, and not through a cold, mimicking approach to individual – mostly anecdotic – subjects. A few years later, a review in L’Unità reported: Sulle labbra di Sciltian la parola realismo non può che essere un inganno, un trucco, un equivoco. Dov’è infatti illusione non può esserci, per definizione, realtà, ma soltanto ‘illusione della realtà’, cioè un realismo fittizio, un falso realismo. (Maltese 1951) [In Sciltian’s mouth, the word ‘realism’ can only be a deception, a trick, a misunderstanding. Indeed where there is illusion there cannot be, by definition, reality, but only the ‘illusion of reality’, that is, a fictitious realism, a false realism].

Sciltian’s post-war “frozen” interior scenes have been described by a prominent contemporary Italian critic as a “saponification” of painting (Baldacci 2015, 57): an epithet which can be easily associated with the frequent definition of late Stalinist socialist realism as the lakirovka [lacquering] of reality.2 Like post-war sots-realist painting, the imitative 2

Such criticisms were not new to Sciltian who, already in the 1940s, had been branded as an “imbalsamatore di persone e di cose, che al posto delle pupille, forse ha due lenti fotografiche” (Zanzi 1942) [an embalmer of persons and things, with perhaps two photo-lenses instead of eyes]; “artista tutto preso da una mentalità calligrafica che esclude a priori la grande arte” (Damerini 1942) [an artist with a calligraphic mentality, which excludes great art a priori]; and “un artista atonale, freddo, razionale, un alambicco di bravure inutile” (M.V. 1942) [an artist who is atonal, cold, rational, and who distills a needless bravura].

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photo-realistic canvasses of Sciltian lent themselves to serial reproduction, thus becoming popular in other formats and with other purposes. This was the case of the painting Il filatelico [The Philatelist] (1947), which was reproduced on a postage stamp in Cuba in a special edition issued for the “Day of the Postage Stamp”. La scuola dei modernisti [The Modernists’ School] (1955-56, ill. 2) is Sciltian’s most explicit anti-avant-garde manifesto: in the painting, art amateurs are turning the natural beauty of the model into a doodle.3 On the far right side of the canvas, Sciltian portrays two prominent art critics: Roberto Longhi, main promoter of the “Painters of Reality” (from Caravaggio to Sciltian himself), and Lionello Venturi, patron of the new tendencies in Italian abstract art. (Sgarbi 2015) While the former seems to be sarcastically winking at the viewers from the canvas, with his glasses reflecting and embracing the whole scene, the latter is staring, shocked, at a collective session of abstract painting that he has been encouraging with his academic and curatorial activities. Sciltian’s frustration towards contemporary modernist tendencies brought him to nostalgic speculations: Durante tutta la mia vita mi sono sempre chiesto se ho fatto bene ad abbandonare la mia casa e la Russia […] e che cosa sarebbe accaduto se io fossi rimasto. […] Le mie aspirazioni alla pittura realista forse avrebbero trovato terreno più propizio in Russia che non nell’Europa occidentale, ancora oggi in preda al cosiddetto “avanguardismo”. In Russia, fin d’allora, esisteva il culto e l’amore per il buon disegno realistico anche fra gli artisti di Mosca e Leningrado. Avrei potuto quindi trovare il terreno adatto alla mia educazione artistica, mentre il realismo era messo al bando tanto che ancor oggi debbo lottare contro gli adepti della cosiddetta scuola montparnassiana. (Sciltian 1963, 85-86) [Throughout my life I’ve always wondered whether it was a good idea to abandon my homeland […] and what would have happened if I had stayed in Russia […]. My aspirations to realistic painting would perhaps have found a more fertile soil there than in Western Europe, still in the grip of the so-called “avant-garde”. In Russia, the love for good drawing-based painting has always been cultivated by artists in Moscow and Leningrad. There, I could have found the proper soil for my art education, while in Europe realism was banned to such an extent that even today I have to fight against the followers of the so-called Montparnasse school]. 3

A similar sarcastic detraction of modernist painting was depicted shortly later by sots-realist Fedor Reshetnikov in Ɍɚɣɧɵ ɚɛɫɬɪɚɤɰɢɨɧɢɡɦɚ [Secrets of Abstract Art] (1958), a triptych on the bourgeois fortune of abstract painting, from prerevolutionary Russia up to contemporary capitalistic countries.

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Sciltian wrote this text in 1962. One year later, he included it in his autobiography, on the eve of the triumph of Neo-Dada and Pop Art in Europe, launched from the American Pavilion at the Venice Biennale in 1964. On that occasion, Sciltian expressed his attachment to figurative, realistic painting in its main stronghold at Giardini, the Soviet Pavilion: in a short comment left in the guestbook, he wished the Pavilion’s artists and promoters further success and luck.4 Given his position, the artist was given many opportunities to visit the Soviet Union starting from 1958, when he was commissioned to paint an altar for the Cathedral of Echmiadzin, in Armenia. On the same occasion, he was able to sell a trompe l’oeil painting to journalist Aleksey Adzhubey, Nikita Khrushchev’s son-in-law. Once again, Sciltian’s connections to State leaders gave him extraordinary opportunities, such as the retrospective solo show held in 1983 at the Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts. For the first time in Sciltian’s homeland the exhibition showcased a wide selection of his paintings and lithographs, representing half a century of activity in emigration. On that occasion, a short catalogue was published with a selection of critical essays that had previously appeared in Italian and Russian, including a contribution unequivocally titled ɏɭɞɨɠɧɢɤ-ɪɟɚɥɢɫɬ [A Realist Artist], where Sciltian’s work was celebrated as a “story about men” and ascribed to the “humanist” tradition of Soviet painting. Special attention was given to his paintings on social subjects, such as I vagabondi [Beggars] (1943, ill. 5), described as depicting “ɬɪɚɝɟɞɢɸ ɧɚɪɨɞɚ, ɜɜɟɪɧɭɬɨɝɨ ɮɚɲɢɫɬɫɤɨɣ ɤɥɢɤɨɣ Ɇɭɫɫɨɥɢɧɢ ɢ ɛɟɫɫɦɵɫɥɟɧɧɭɸ ɜɨɣɧɭ” (Paklin 1983) [the tragedy of a nation, victim of the fascist clique of Mussolini, and a senseless war], or Mors atomica [Atomic Death] (1978, ill. 6), praised as a memento mori about the risks of “a nuclear apocalypse”. The former painting echoes Vasiliy Perov’s critical realism from the 1860s, while the latter is a manifest tribute to Karl Bryullov’s ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɣ ɞɟɧɶ ɉɨɦɩɟɢ [The Last Day of Pompei] (1830-1833). A great admirer of Bryullov, Sciltian owned three of his sepia drawings, which he donated to the Pushkin Museum on the occasion of his solo show (Khalpakhch’yan 2012). Thus, Sciltian’s work was associated with the beloved masters of nineteenth-century Russian painting, halfway between the romantic, archaic academicism of Bryullov and the critical realism propagated by the ɉɟɪɟɞɜɢɠɧɢɤɢ [The Itinerants], of which Perov was the first prominent leader. Sciltian’s lifework was therefore celebrated as that of an émigré artist paying tribute to Russian national painting and 4

Guestbook at the Soviet Pavilion, Venice Art Biennale, 1962. Russian Archive of Literature and Art (ɊȽȺɅɂ) Moscow, ɮ. Ɇɢɧɢɫɬɟɪɫɬɜɨ Ʉɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ ɋɋɋɊ (2329), ɨɩ. 4, ɟɞ. ɯɪ. 1652.

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who, in the full maturity of his career, was looking back at the figurative tradition of his homeland. He was received by the museum’s legendary director, Irina Antonova, with the words: “Welcome back, Maestro”. (Sciltian 1983, p. 64) In 1985, two years after the Moscow exhibition, Sciltian died in Rome at the age of 87. In 1987, his widow donated twenty drawings and seven paintings to the Department of private collections of the Pushkin Museum. One of them was the acclaimed Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬ [Russian Emigrant] (1936), where his father-in-law, Abram Boberman, was canonically portrayed as the wealthy Russian émigré in Paris, smoking a pipe and reading in a bistrot the most popular emigration newspaper, ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɟ ɧɨɜɨɫɬɢ. This donation to the main Russian museum of Western art was welcomed by Soviet authorities, who by the mid-eighties had inaugurated a new cultural policy aimed at recovering and preserving the heritage of the Russian emigration, even within State-controlled private collections. By the end of the 1950s, Mikhail Koulakov started performing action painting sessions in private apartments and non-artistic public institutions, such as the Institutes of Physics and the Houses of Cultures. In 1975, he married Marianna Molla, an Italian citizen with a Russian background. He obtained a visa in a short time and moved to Rome, while maintaining his Soviet citizenship. The same year he held his first solo show outside the USSR at the International bookshop Paesi Nuovi in Rome, and started taking part in group exhibitions of Soviet unofficial art held in London, Paris and Vienna.5 Koulakov’s first solo show in a proper art space was held in the Roman gallery Il Trifalco in January 1977. By that time, among Soviet non-conformists, only Manezh artists Ernst Neizvestny and Eliy Belyutin, both eight years older than Koulakov, had had solo shows in Italy, with artworks mostly acquired through diplomatic channels.6 5

Unofficial Art from the Soviet Union (London: Institute of Contemporary Art, 19 January – 27 February 1977); Exhibition in Favour of the Children of the Soviet Political Prisoners (London: Parkway Focus Gallery, 28 January – 12 February 1977); Salon d’art sacré (Paris: Palais du Luxembourg, 1977); Russischer Winter (Vienna: Kunsthaus Wien, 1977). 6 Ely Bielutin: un pittore russo d’avanguardia (Montecatini Terme: Centro d’arte La Barcaccia, 2-14 August 1969); Ernst Neizvestny (Rome: Galleria d’arte il Gabbiano, 15 February – 4 March 1971). By that time Vasiliy Sitnikov had also had a solo show in Italy (Mostra antologica di Wassili Sitnikov. Opere dal 1931 al 1971, Avezzano: Centro Iniziative Culturali, December 1971 – January 1972). See also the two-artist exhibition Bielutin-Sitnikov (Rome: Delta International Art Center, 8 October – 3 November 1973). One of the promoters of the above-mentioned artists was painter and art critic Franco Miele, author of three concise monographs published in the 1960s and the 1970s by the publishing house Prospettive in Rome:

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The 1977 exhibition at Il Trifalco presented artworks realised both in the Soviet Union and in the countryside near Rome, where the artist had settled down with his wife. In the catalogue, Koulakov was introduced as a “Soviet avant-garde painter”, and his work embedded both in the tradition of Russian historical avant-garde and in Western contemporary non-figurative movements (Crispolti 1977a). The author of the text and curator of the exhibition was the prominent pro-communist art critic Enrico Crispolti, who, already in 1965, had organised the group show Alternative Attuali II [Actual Alternatives 2] in L’Aquila. The exhibition had marked the Italian debut of Soviet unofficial artists, including members of two opposite groups: the surrealists gathered around the Sretenskiy Bul’var in Moscow, and the kinetic collective Ⱦɜɢɠɟɧɢɟ [Movement], founded in 1962. Crispolti’s main intention was to display the works of Soviet artists not as an exotic extension of Western Art, but, on the contrary, as an equal expression of contemporary universal tendencies. While exposing the lack of information in the West about the art scene of Socialist Europe, Crispolti also proved that the latter was not isolated from the international context (Crispolti 1966). Thanks to Koulakov’s presence in Italy, the local art community was finally given the chance to meet an underground artist and to get acquainted with his work in a direct way and without any transborder preselection and mediation. Starting from 1980, the artist’s name would regularly appear as the Italian correspondent of the tamizdat journal Ⱥ - ə. ɀɭɪɧɚɥ ɧɟɨɮɢɰɢɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ — A-Ya. The Unofficial Russian Art Revue. Still in 1977, Koulakov took part in two pivotal group shows in his adoptive country. The first one was a special edition of the Quadriennale in Rome, devoted to foreign artists residing in Italy and intended to give them as much exposure as possible in the national and international art scenes: Raramente è accaduto che un artista straniero attivo in Italia sia stato presentato come un protagonista in padiglioni o in sezioni del suo paese, né d’altra parte lo si poteva trovare nelle rassegne italiane, tra gli italiani: seguitava fatalmente ad essere uno straniero per noi, un transfuga per i suoi, un emarginato per tutti (Bucarelli 1977, 9) [It rarely happened that a foreign artist working in Italy was presented as a protagonist in the national pavilion of his own country [at the Venice Bien-

Dinamismo plastico in Ernst Neizvestny; Simbolismo di Ely Bielutin; Sogni e realtà di Wassilli [sic] Sitnikov.

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These are the words of Palma Bucarelli, Director for over thirty years of the Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna [National Gallery of Modern Art] in Rome. Bucarelli was one of the most influential supporters of abstract art in Italy, as proved by the artworks displayed at the Quadriennale under her supervision on that occasion. Koulakov’s second important show that year was La nuova arte sovietica: una prospettiva non ufficiale [The New Soviet Art: An Unofficial Perspective], held in Venice at the end of 1977 in the framework of the notorious Biennale del dissenso culturale [Biennial of Cultural Dissent], an ambitious one-month multidisciplinary programme that included conferences and meetings with dissident scholars and writers from socialist Europe, as well as theatre and music performances. Branded by Soviet authorities as a hostile anti-socialist event, the Biennale del dissenso culturale triggered an international diplomatic crisis and was a cause of profound embarrassment within the Communist Party of Italy, rapidly exploited by other left-leaning parties, such as the Socialist party, to which Carlo Ripa di Meana, president of the Biennale, belonged. (Lomellini 2010, 130-140; Caccamo 2008) A political compromise was reached when the non-dogmatic communist Crispolti was invited to collaborate with the first appointed curator of the art programme of the Biennale, Gabriella Moncada, an art historian who knew Russian and had personal contacts with Russian artists, both in Moscow and in the émigré milieu in Paris. Nevertheless, East-European countries, under Kremlin pressure, denounced and boycotted the Biennale initiative, and as a result the art selection was reduced to Soviet artworks that were already outside the Soviet Union at the time, loaned by WestEuropean collectors or émigré artists. As the only prominent artist living in Italy, Koulakov could supply a wide personal selection of works, both on paper and canvas, painted in the last seventeen years (War for Freedom, 1960, ill. 3; Men-Mountains, 1977, ill. 4; Family, 1966, ill. 7). Koulakov’s works were displayed in the section Gesto, Materia, Immagine [Gesture, Matter, Image], alongside those of Vladimir Nemukhin, Lidiya Masterkova, Dmitriy Plavinskiy, Eliy Belyutin, Evgeniy Rukhin and Yuriy Zharkikh. As one of the seven sections of the show, it was intended to document the birth of unofficial Soviet painting, as the prima configurata reazione alle sollecitazioni di modelli occidentali, nello scorcio degli anni Cinquanta (Crispolti 1977b, 70)

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[first configured reaction to solicitations of Western models, at the end of the 1950s].

For this reason, numerous art critics considered this section outdated, and took it as a clear demonstration of the backwardness of Soviet contemporary art at large. In order to keep up with the “happening” practices of the Seventies, Koulakov, at the time a master of martial arts, staged in front of his canvas a kung fu action, broadly reported by the yellow press. Koulakov distanced himself from any form of political statement and manipulation: Non siamo noi che protestiamo. Sono quelli del Cremlino che protestano. Noi siamo semplici, normali pittori che fanno quello che gli viene di fare (Fallaci 1977) [It’s not us who are protesting, but the Kremlin is. We are just ordinary painters, we simply do what we want to do].

By qualifying the artists on display in Venice as “unofficial”, the curators distanced themselves from the ambiguous label of “dissent”, which Crispolti regarded as a “sensationalistic and inconsistent formula”, lending itself to various forms of speculation. (Crispolti 1977c, 28) Nevertheless, the art exhibition, being part of the controversial Biennale del dissenso culturale, was unavoidably framed as an essentially ideological event with inner political purposes. (Sasvári 2014) It is not accidental that most of the accounts and reviews of the art exhibition were reported in the press affiliated to minor Left and Centre forces (such as the Italian Socialist, Social-Democratic and Republican parties), which aimed to undermine the cultural supremacy of communist and pro-communist intellectuals, presenting themselves as a valuable and more democratic alternative. At the same time, the main government force, the Christian-Democrats, did not intend to jeopardise the political and social status quo, and therefore were fundamentally hostile to any form of destabilisation, even when directed against official Soviet culture. On the other side, many orthodox communist intellectuals refused, as a matter of principle, to get in contact with Koulakov. One of them was the most celebrated Italian artist in Socialist countries and a member of the Italian Communist Party: Renato Guttuso. A childhood friend of Marianna Molla, Guttuso supported the Koulakovs as long as they were still living in the Soviet Union, but interrupted all contacts with them once they relocated to Italy.7 He did so even though they had left the country as a legally married couple and not as political re7

Marianna Molla-Koulakova to the author, 12 November 2015.

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fugees from the so-called “third wave” of Russian emigrants – also known as “dissident wave” – triggered by the Helsinki Final Act of the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (1975). Guttuso’s attitude is very representative of the biases of the art world, which often affected the critical reception and the personal approach to Russian émigré artists and encouraged misleading generalisations and segregations. In the Italian artistic debate during the Cold war, the work of Sciltian and Koulakov is mostly defined and perceived in terms of a contrast between opposite poles: academism and avant-garde, realism and modernism in Sciltian; official and unofficial, conformism and non-conformism in Koulakov. Strongly connected to those aesthetic categories are the strategies of self-perception and self-representation adopted by the two artists: in the fascist period Sciltian used to stress his italianità, his longing for the birthplace of Classical and Renaissance art, while the Italian press portrayed him essentially as a foreigner, sometimes as an Armenian, sometimes as a Russian. After World War II, national categories were replaced by ideological criteria and associations: Italian critics did not emphasise Sciltian’s geographical provenience, but rather his conservative credo, seen as an aftermath of his collusion with the fascist regime. As a reaction, Sciltian stressed his “russianness”, for instance in his set designs for Prokofiev’s War and Peace (Maggio Musicale, Florence, 1953) and for Stravinsky’s Mavra (La Scala, Milan, 1955) as well as in his illustrations for Anna Karenina, published as a series in the weekly magazine Il Tempo (1967). The final acknowledgement of Sciltian’s personal recovery of his Russian roots coincided with the retrospective show held at the Pushkin Museum. Koulakov, in his turn, was mostly perceived as a Socialist response to European Art Informel and to American Abstract Expressionism, i.e. as an evident incarnation of cultural détente and of the penetration of Western products and trends beyond the Iron Curtain (Micacchi 1977; Crispolti, 1977b, 71). His work was ascribed to a global fascination for the New York art scene, rather than to the demonstration of a transnational Zeitgeist. Indeed, little attention was paid to the fact that Koulakov, as he frequently stated, had started dripping colour on the canvas as early as in 1957 – two years before the famous American National Exhibition in Moscow – without being familiar with Jackson Pollock’s work or in general with Abstract Expressionism. (Koulakov 2008, 161) Koulakov distanced himself from any association with New York action painting: the latter was universally intended as a “revolt against the canons of figurative art” and therefore lacked the main trigger of Koulakov’s own artistic process, namely meditation: “The choice of the gesture occurs in the process of

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meditation, and not in the process of realization” (Koulakov 1981, 37). The innovative character of Koulakov’s work is also acknowledged by art historian Ekaterina Degot’, who considers him one of the pioneers of underground modernism of the 1950s and 1960s, where abstract expressionism converges with performance art (Degot’ 2000, 159). As highlighted above, Koulakov’s career underwent a breakthrough in 1977, a year marked by violent political and social turmoil, mass protests and street fights in Italy: in this general atmosphere, the artist’s work was associated with a widespread counterculture, regardless of which State ideology was being rejected. For Crispolti himself, this was the essential meaning of the word “avant-garde”, namely any artistic statement or movement opposed or alternative to the dominant power. From this perspective, the unofficial art scene from Socialist Europe was considered closer to the original, radical spirit of the avant-garde especially when compared to Western “avanguardia ufficiale tipica delle prospettive del nostro ‘consumismo artistico’” (Crispolti 1977a) [official avant-garde, typical of our ‘artistic consumerism’]. Both Sciltian and Koulakov achieved recognition after participating in group shows of foreign artists residing in Italy, organised by eminent State institutions, such as the Venice Biennale and the Rome Quadriennale. Nevertheless, a more effective support was supplied by their patrons, profascist Ojetti and pro-communist Crispolti, as a demonstration that single personalities are more influential than public institutions. This is especially true for Italy, a country with a tradition of emigration rather than immigration, and therefore with no appropriate policies, infrastructures or organisations specifically devoted to the reception and integration of immigrants from abroad. In the second half of the 1970s, Italy was a common country of transition for Soviet refugees, but only in few cases was it their final destination (Starodubtseva 2010, 43). In a country with no relevant Soviet diaspora, neither Sciltian nor Koulakov had to face common stereotypes usually associated with Russian émigré artists: they never met personally and lived with scarce connections to their compatriots. It is also true that they were not deprived of the right to enter the Soviet Union, which they kept visiting till the very last years of their lives. Recent events – such as the recovery of Gregorio Sciltian’s private archive and a series of commemorative shows devoted to Mikhail Koulakov – will shed further light on their heritage and provide sources for further research.8 8

Mikhail Koulakov. L’Umbria, seconda patria (San Gemini: Palazzo Vecchio, 26 September – 11 October 2015); Mikhail Koulakov: il Maestro e Roma (Rome: Loft

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Bibliography Baldacci, P. (2015): Gregorio Sciltian. Un ricordo e alcune considerazioni, In: Sbarbaro, S. (ed.): L’illusione di Sciltian. Inganni pittorici alla prova della modernità, exh. cat. (Florence: Villa Bardini, 3 April – 6 September 2015), Firenze: Edizioni Polistampa, pp. 57-74. Bertelé, M. (2013): “1936”. In: Molok, N. (ed.): Russian Artists at the Venice Biennale (1895-2013), Moskva: Stella Art Foundation, pp. 306-307. Bucarelli, P. (1977): Internazionalità della cultura. In: 10. Quadriennale Nazionale d’Arte: artisti stranieri operanti in Italia, exh. cat. (Rome: Palazzo delle Esposizioni, June – July 1977), Roma: De Luca, pp. 8-9. Caccamo, F. (2008): La Biennale del 1977 e il dibattito sul dissenso. In: Nuova Storia Contemporanea 4, (July – August 2008), pp. 119-132. Crispolti, E. (1977): I primi documenti sull’avanguardia pittorica e plastica nell’U.R.S.S. In: Marcatré 19-20-21-22, April 1966, pp. 418-421. —. (1977a): Michail Kulakov, exh. cat. (Rome: Galleria Il Trifalco, January 11-31). —. (1977b) Gesto, materia, imagine. In: Crispolti, E. and Moncada, G. (eds.): La nuova arte sovietica. Una prospettiva non ufficiale, exh. cat. (Venice: Palazzetto dello Sport all’Arsenale, 15 November – 15 December 1977), Venezia: Marsilio, pp. 69-71. —. (1977c): Il Dissenso di Crispolti. In: Segno 5, (October 1977), pp. 2829. Damerini, G. (1942): La XXIII Biennale di Venezia. In: Sul mare 7-8 (July – August 1942). Degot', E. (2000): Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɏɏ ɜɟɤɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɍɪɢɥɢɫɬɧɢɤ. Fallaci, N. (1977): I disubbedienti dell’Est. In: Oggi, 10 December 1977. Khalpakhch’yan, V. (2012): ɂɬɚɥɶɹɧɫɤɢɣ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤ-ɭɪɨɠɟɧɟɰ ɇɚɯɢɱɟɜɚɧ-ɧɚ-Ⱦɨɧɭ — Ƚɪɢɝɨɪɢɣ ɂɜɚɧɨɜɢɱ ɒɢɥɬɹɧ (1900-1985): ɠɢɡɧɶ ɢ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ (paper presented at the All-Russian Conference “Ⱥɪɦɹɧɟ ɘɝɚ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ: ɢɫɬɨɪɢɹ, ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɚ, ɨɛɳɟɟ ɛɭɞɭɳɟɟ”, Rostovna-Donu, 30 May – 2 June 2012), http://armeniansite.ru/kulturaarmenii-v-litsakh/361-italyanskij-khudozhnik-urozhenetsnakhichevani-na-donu-grigorij-ivanovich-shiltyan-1900-1985-zhizn-itvorchestvo.html Koulakov, M. (1981): In the Studio. In: A-Ya 3, pp. 35-37.

Gallery, 20 November – 31 December 2016); Mikhail Koulakov. Il cosmo nel gesto (Terni: Palazzo di Primavera, 24 September – 16 October 2016).

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—. (2008): Autobiography. In Mikhail Koulakov: Works from 1958 to 2008, exh. cat. (Moscow: Tretyakov State Gallery, 10 September – 5 October 2008; Rome: Museo Nazionale di Palazzo Venezia, 30 October – 30 November 2008). Artistic and Publishing Company, pp. 161168. Lomellini, V. (2010): L’appuntamento mancato. La sinistra italiana e il dissenso nei regimi comunisti (1968-1989), Firenze: Le Monnier. Maltese, C. (1950): Una nuova umanità nelle sale della XXV Biennale. In: L’Unità, 9 June, p. 3. —. (1951): L’inganno di Sciltian. In: L’Unità, 28 November, p. 3. Mazza, A. (1991): Al museo Puškin di Mosca le ultime opere di Gregorio Sciltian. In: Il Giornale di Brescia, 12 April. Micacchi, D. (1977): Materia e gesto di Koulakov. In: L’Unità, February 1, p. 8. Paklin, N. (1983): ɏɭɞɨɠɧɢɤ-ɪɟɚɥɢɫɬ // Ƚɪɢɝɨɪɢɣ ɒɢɥɬɹɧ, ɤɚɬ. (Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ȽɆɂɂ ɢɦ. ɉɭɲɤɢɧɚ, ɂɸɧɶ 1983 ɝ.). Reccia, A. (2012-2013): L’Italia nelle relazioni culturali sovietiche, tra pratiche d’apparato e politiche del disgelo. In: eSamizdat IX, pp. 23-42, (http://www.esamizdat.it/rivista/2012-2013/pdf/reccia_eS_20122013_(IX).pdf) Rossi, Ⱥ. (1948): Schierati in campo dalla destra all’estrema sinistra. In: La Stampa, 29 June, p. 3 Sasvári, E. (2014): Eastern Europe Under Western Eyes. The ‘Dissident Biennale’, Venice, 1977. In: Comparativ 4, pp. 12-22. Sbarbaro, S. (2015): L’avventura di un’iniziazione. Il Mistero dell’arte e il Mestiere del pittore. In: Sbarbaro, S. (ed.): L’illusione di Sciltian. Inganni pittorici alla prova della modernità, exh. cat. (Florence: Villa Bardini, 3 April – 6 September 2015), Firenze: Edizioni Polistampa, pp. 13-56. Sciltian, G. (1963): Mia avventura, Milano: Rizzoli. —. (1973): Per un mio quadro Ciano e Goering hanno litigato. In: Oggi, 18 October, pp. 152-155. —. (1983): Ho riconquistato Mosca. In: Oggi, 16 November, pp. 64-65. Sgarbi, V. (2015): La realtà, tutta la realtà di Sciltian. In: Sette 42, 16 October, p. 29. Starodubtseva, Z. (2010): Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ, ɝɚɥɟɪɟɢ ɢ ɩɟɪɢɨɞɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɢɡɞɚɧɢɹ ɧɚ Ɂɚɩɚɞɟ. In: Obukhova, A. and Starodubtseva, Z. (eds.): Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɚɪɬ-ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɟ. ȼɬɨɪɚɹ ɩɨɥɨɜɢɧɚ ɏɏ – ɧɚɱɚɥɨ ɏɏI ɜɟɤɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ƚɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɐɟɧɬɪ ɋɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ, pp. 29-45.

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V. M. (1942): Sguardo sulla mostra veneziana. In: Libro e moschetto, August. Zanzi, E. (1942): Scultori e pittori alla XXIII Biennale. In: La Gazzetta del Popolo, 27 June.

TOWARD A TRANSNATIONAL HISTORY OF RUSSIAN CULTURE: THE N.P. KONDAKOV INSTITUTE IN PRAGUE MARINA DMITRIEVA

The Kondakov Institute in Prague (1925-1952) was a center for the study of Russian and Byzantine art and archaeology in exile, with an emphasis on sacral art and nomadic cultures. It was named in honour of the Russian art historian Nikodim Pavlovich Kondakov, who spent the last years of his life in Prague. With its library and archive specialising in art and archaeology, its publications (such as the yearbooks of the Seminarium Kondakovianum,1 thematic issues of Ɂɨɝɪɚɮɢɤɚ devoted to questions of Christian iconography, and ɋɤɢɮɢɤɚ, oriented towards Eurasian studies), public lectures and exhibitions, it was intended as a space of cultural memory of the pre-revolutionary Russian culture and was particularly dedicated to the preservation of the Russian scholarly tradition. Formed in 1925 as the Seminarium Kondakovianum by a group of young Russian émigrés, former pupils and followers of Kondakov from Russian and Czechoslovak academia, it was renamed Ⱥɪɯɟɨɥɨɝɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɢɧɫɬɢɬɭɬ ɢɦɟɧɢ ɇ.ɉ. Ʉɨɧɞɚɤɨɜɚ [the N.P. Kondakov Archaeological Institute, AINPK] in 1931. The Institute was partly funded by the Czechoslovak Republic through a grant from the Foreign Ministry, personally supervised by President Tomáš Garrigue Masarýk, and it was additionally financed by private donations and sales of publications. It survived, more or less successfully, both German occupation and the very first postwar years of Soviet rule. In the early 1950s the Kondakov Institute was dissolved and its holdings distributed among the Institute of Art History, the Slavonic Institute of the Academy of Sciences, the National Gallery of Arts and the Museum of Decorative Arts and Industry in Prague.2 1

Vols. 9-11 of 1937-1940: Ⱥɧɧɚɥɵ ɂɧɫɬɢɬɭɬɚ ɢɦɟɧɢ ɇ.ɉ. Ʉɨɞɚɤɨɜɚ = Annales de l’Institut Kondakov (Seminarium Kondakovianum). 2 I would like to thank Kristina Uhliková, the curator of the AINPK archive at the Ùstav dƟjin umƟní AV ýR in Prague, for facilitating my access to these significant

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During its existence, the Kondakov Institute was more than just part of the Russian exile culture in the Czechoslovak Republic, which was one of the major destinations for Russian émigrés after the October Revolution. This small institution, located for most of its existence in private apartments in Prague, was a site of vibrant interaction and intensive collaboration with the international scholarly community. The specifics of it’s thematic approach, in line with the interests of the Institute’s patron, encouraged the development of various links to American and European science in the fields of Byzantine and Oriental studies, classical archaeology and studies of nomadic cultures. The yearbooks of the Seminarium Kondakovianum provided a prestigious platform for the dissemination of actual research results in several disciplines, particularly art history, archaeology, philology and history. Due to its policy of publishing highly regarded papers in Russian, English, French and German, and its pursuit of fruitful personal contacts with numerous scholars in Europe, the USA and even the Soviet Union, the Kondakov Institute gained worldwide renown as a scholarly institute. Despite cherishing a nostalgic longing for bygone pre-revolutionary Russia, the Institute’s members saw its culture as the dynamic outcome of ethnic transfers. This innovative approach, applied especially in the field of nomadic cultures, opened up a challenging research perspective that differed from the purified image of Russian culture that typically emerged in the isolation of exile. Some founding members of the Seminarium Kondakovianum, such as George V. Vernadsky and Nikolay P. Toll’, or active participants like Tat’yana N. Rodzyanko or Pyotr N. Savitsky, shared the ideology and interests of Eɜɪɚɡɢɣɫɬɜɨ [Eurasianism], an influential ideology among the Russian emigrants based mainly in Prague. Central to this movement was the idea of a “third way” by which the historical and cultural path of Russia, which belongs geographically and culturally both to Europe and to Asia, diverged from the main trajectory of European history.3 I shall argue that this specific orientation, which determined many of the Institute’s activities, contributed substantially to the high esteem it enjoyed in the international scientific community. What were the goals and methods of the Kondakov Institute, and what were its strategies for institutional survival? materials of Russian intellectual history. My special gratitude to dr. JíĜí Roháþek, the head of the Archive, for the permission to publish the images. For the history of the Kondakov Institute see: Roháþek 1995; Kopecká and Dandová 1995; Beißwenger 2001; Belyaev 2000. 3 For just a few examples of the extensive scholarly literature on the subject see: Hann 2016; Bassin, Glebov and Laruelle 2015; Shlapentokh 2007.

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Ill. 1: The first yearbook of the Seminarium Kondakovianum, 1926 with an Scythian rider as its emblem. See centerfold for this image in colour.

Nikodim P. Kondakov The art historian Nikodim Pavlovich Kondakov (1844-1925) was internationally known for his research on Byzantine art, Russian icons and antiquities in the South of the Russian Empire.4 Before leaving Bolshevik Russia, Kondakov had been a professor at the University of St Petersburg, curator of the Medieval Department of the Hermitage, and member of the 4

Kondakov and Tolstoy 1889-1899.

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Imperial Archaeological Commission, which coordinated archaeological and historic research and preservation activities in the Russian Empire. Initially interested in classical antiquity in southern Russia, he was then drawn to Christian Oriental and Byzantine studies. His scientific trips took him to Georgia, Greece and Macedonia, and on to Egypt, Turkey, Palestine and Jordan. Kondakov systematised the periodisation of Byzantine art and Russian icon painting and gained international recognition as the “father” of Russian Byzantine studies.5

Ill. 2: The portrait of Kondakov painted by the Princess Yashvil

5

Minns 1924; Kondakov 1927; Kyzlasova 1985; Kyzlasova 2004; Beißwenger 1999.

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After the revolution of 1917, Kondakov moved from St Petersburg to Yalta and then to Odessa, departing from Soviet Russia in 1920 and heading for Constantinople, then Varna and Sofia. Finally, in 1922, he found himself appointed extraordinary professor of Eastern European art history at Charles University in Prague. In the last two years of his life, he held a lecture course on the medieval culture of Eastern Europe (in Russian). As a charismatic teacher and universal scholar, he attracted many Russian students who retained the memory of their mentor’s lectures at the university and the seminars conducted in his private apartment. Thanks to personal connections with Czechoslovakia’s President Tomáš G. Masarýk, who was especially interested in Russian culture,6 Kondakov benefitted from that powerful politician’s patronage. The elderly professor also privately tutored Masarýk’s daughter, Alice Masaryková. Kondakov’s major work on Russian iconography was published in Prague with a generous state grant of 100,000 Czech crowns.7 This work was dedicated to “the Czech people”. The Russian art historian had, on his many trips and “on thousands of notes and sheets of paper” (Lazarev 1925, 18), accumulated knowledge of a prodigious scope. His first biographer, the Soviet art historian Viktor Lazarev, approached his task by following in Kondakov’s steps, first studying Byzantine manuscript miniatures. In addition to icon painting, Kondakov’s interests included the history of literature, historical costume and everyday life, religion and ethnography. What distinguished Kondakov’s “inductive” scholarly method, according to Lazarev, was his “pure historicism and cultivation of pragmatic facts” (Lazarev 1925, 17). The first director of the Seminarium Kondakovianum, the historian George V. Vernadsky, described this approach differently in his introduction to the first yearbook for 1926. Vernadsky regarded artifacts, both in their “plastic sense” and as symbols of the culture to be studied, as the focus of Kondakov’s attention. Not only did Kondakov expand his study of Byzantine Art to the Balkan Peninsula, the Sinai and Syria and explored the relations between East and West; he also envisioned Russian archaeology as a new “universal science” that aspired to “embrace the history of civilization”. Following the Eurasian ideology, Vernadsky interpreted Kondakov’s ideas as the key to conceiving of Russia historically as a multinational state that was heir to the great oriental empires but centred on her titular nation – the Russians. 6

Masarýk 1919. Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɢɤɨɧɚ [The Russian Icon], vols. 1-4, Prague, 1929-1933 (two vols. of text and two vols. of illustrations). An abridged English version is also available: Kondakov, The Russian Icon (Oxford: Clarendon Press 1927).

7

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Toward a Transnational History of Russian Culture Elle [l’archéologie] démonstrera en même temps que l’Etat Russe est l‘héritier historique des grands empires de l’Orient et que le peuple russe a réuni et rassemblé autour du centre Russe par son développement moral et par son histoire la Crimée et le Caucase, la Sibérie et l’Asie Centrale. (Vernadsky 1926)

This interdisciplinary approach to the history of culture and to the understanding of the dynamics of cross-border cultural processes was in fact demonstrated in Kondakov’s last work, Ɉɱɟɪɤɢ ɢ ɡɚɦɟɬɤɢ ɩɨ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɫɪɟɞɧɟɜɟɤɨɜɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ ɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ [Sketches and Notes on the History of Medieval Art and Culture], published by the Czech Academy of Sciences under the supervision of the anthropologist Lubor Niederle (Kondakov 1929). This collection of his lectures at Charles University, edited by his son Sergey, gives a picture of the elder Kondakov’s methodological and thematic orientation in his later years. The title of his inauguration lecture at the university, “The Role of the Slavonic Peoples in the History of Medieval Art and Culture,” paved the way for lectures dealing with the greater region of “Eastern Europe” in the early Middle Ages. Kondakov understood this area, comprising Eastern, Central and Southeastern Europe, as an open space of creative exchange between Oriental and European cultures. He pointed out that the cultural history of migration in Central and Eastern Europe in the Early Middle Ages offered an approach to the “dark period” between antiquity and the High Middle Ages, a period of “barbarian paganism” that had not yet attracted much attention from European scholars. Although it was not completed by himself, this work opens up an impressive panorama of migration processes of forms, such as the “animal style”, which travelled from Persia and China to the Byzantine Empire, Bulgaria and Hungary. Kondakov described links between Slavic paganism and Persian Zoroastrianism, and between the late Rome Keszthely culture in antique Pannonia and the Pazyryk finds in Siberia held in the collections of the Hermitage. He emphasised the role of barbarian culture in Byzantine art and pointed out connections between the steppes of European Sarmatia and the plains of Siberia by identifying nomadic tribes that moved all over Eurasia, bringing with them their symbolic forms and patterns. He was interested in magical traditions, such as Shamanism, across cultures. With his “hydraulic” metaphors, Kondakov distinguished between culture’s main streams, its influences and its “drifts” (Russian ɡɚɧɨɫɵ), which all contributed to the creation of the culture. ɉɨɤɚ ɧɟ ɛɭɞɭɬ ɧɚɭɱɧɨ ɩɨɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɵ ɜɨɩɪɨɫɵ ɝɥɚɜɧɵɯ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɵɯ ɬɟɱɟɧɢɣ, ɜɥɢɹɧɢɣ ɢ ɡɚɧɨɫɨɜ, ɫɪɟɞɧɟɜɟɤɨɜɚɹ ɚɪɯɟɨɥɨɝɢɹ ɞɨɥɠɧɚ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨ ɞɜɢɝɚɬɶɫɹ ɜɧɟ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɵɯ ɜɥɟɱɟɧɢɣ ɢ ɩɪɢɬɹɡɚɧɢɣ. (Kondakov 1929, 62)

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[Until scholarship has clarified the issues surrounding these main cultural streams, influences and drifts, archaeology of the Middle Ages should temporarily remove itself from the sphere of national attachments and claims.]

This perspective was the legacy Nikodim Kondakov left to his pupils in Prague. According to Kondakov, Russian cultural identity was, then, a common endeavour of various nationalities of the Russian Empire and beyond it. In an earlier work, written together with I.Tolstoy (Kondakov and Tolstoy, 1889-1899), he had described the Russian style as influenced by that of ancient Greek colonies on the Black Sea coast, as well as by Byzantine and Persian traditions. These influences reached Russian art via the Caucasus, Central Asia and the shores of the Danube. This broad geographic scope was very similar to the cultural geography elaborated by the Eurasian Pyotr Savitsky, who lived in Prague and was closely connected with the Kondakov Institute.8 He took part in its regular meetings, and his monograph on the culture of Eurasia was planned as a ɋɤɢɮɢɤɚ publication. In 1945 Savitsky was arrested by the Soviet counter-intelligence squad ɋɦɟɪɲ and interned for eight years in the Soviet Gulag. Though given the option to live in Moscow, he returned to Prague in 1958 and died in April 1968, shortly before the Soviet occupation of Czechoslovakia. Kondakov espoused a very original idea of the creation of culture. As he saw it, every culture results from taking and giving. A “new” culture enriches a more developed culture by creating its own quality from the mixture of traditions. Thus the Byzantine Empire had contributed to European culture by enriching its ancient heritage with oriental and “barbarian” elements, and Russian culture in turn had merged with the ancient, Byzantine and barbarian cultures. In this way Kondakov wove Russian art and culture into the broader tapestry of world culture. As Martin Beißwenger has argued, Kondakov had an answer to the central question of Russian culture – Russia’s position between the Orient and the Occident. This question – a subject of endless debates between the Slavophiles and the Westerners – was an essential feature of Russian émigré culture. In Kondakov’s view, the Russian cultural tradition was a synthesis of the heritage of antiquity and the impact of the barbarian cultures, and heir to the Byzantine Empire. Hence, Russian culture became part of a transcultural network deeply rooted in antiquity (Beißwenger 2001, 28-29).

8

Savitsky 1928; Sládek 1992.

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Eurasian nomadic cultures and lives As mentioned earlier, the core of the Institute was a small group of emigrants from Russia who were pupils, followers or admirers of Nikodim Kondakov. Their mission was initially to serve as a bastion of Russian culture in face of Soviet barbarism by collecting, studying, publishing and memorialising. A main objective was to preserve the tradition of pre-revolutionary Russian science, with which the Communist regime appeared to have broken. At the beginning of their exile, most of them believed Bolshevik rule would soon end and concerned themselves mainly with the future of Russia and their own role in it. Many of the Kondakov Institute’s members and authors were adherents of Eurasianism. These “Eurasians” were attracted to the East in terms of both scientific interests and geopolitical aspirations (encompassed in ideas such as the revival of Genghis Khan’s empire).9 Their most important publication was called ɂɫɯɨɞ ɤ ȼɨɫɬɨɤɭ [Exodus to the Orient] (Savicky et al. 1921). Although Russian Orthodox culture and morality were central to their identity, the traditions of the Turan and Finno-Ugric peoples were equally important in shaping ideas of what they called the ɫɨɛɨɪɧɵɣ ɫɭɛɴɟɤɬ [assembly individual], from the Russian word ɫɨɛɨɪ for ‘assembly’ or ‘cathedral’). They were also influenced by socialist ideas and Russian cosmism. Their focus was the search for the "civilizational identity" of Eurasian Russia as an autarchic state. The state was seen as a pillar of cultural and social development of Eurasian Russia, but as such, it had to be placed under the auspices of the Russian Orthodox Church. This étatist approach bore some resemblance to the Soviet official ideology, and Eurasianism was critiqued as such by the Soviet non-conformist intelligentsia (Avtonomova and Gasparov 1997). The Eurasians also regarded the Soviet empire, with its proclaimed internationalism under the leading role of the Russian people, as a successor to the great empires of the past. For that reason the Eurasian community was partly infiltrated by the Cheka. It also explains why this ideology is still popular in Russia among nationalists with imperialist ambitions. Another pillar of the Kondakov Institute was the idea of cultural affinity among the Slavic peoples. Kondakov expressed it also in his book Ɉɱɟɪɤɢ ɫɪɟɞɧɟɜɟɤɨɜɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ ȼɨɫɬɨɱɧɨɣ ȿɜɪɨɩɵ (Kondakov 1929). The theme was also taken up by the Prague Linguistic Circle, particularly by Roman Jakobson in his theory of the ɹɡɵɤɨɜɨɣ ɫɨɸɡ [linguistic area] 9 Nikolay Andreev reminisced about the “orientalist” furnishings of the Tolls in Prague (Nikolay Toll was married to George Vernadsky’s sister) (Andreev 1994).

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(Jakobson 1954).10 In an article written in American exile that gave impetus to Slavonic studies in the USA, Jakobson asked: What enables us to refer to Czechs, Slovaks, Poles, Lusatian Sorbs, Slovenes, Croats, Serbs, Macedonians, Bulgarians, Ukrainians, Byelorussians and Russians by the single all-encompassing term, the “Slavic” peoples? What is their common denominator?

The memoirs of Nikolay Y. Andreev, the last acting director of the Kondakov Institute, describe the fruitful soil for these ideas in Prague. One example was the original “pan-Slavonic” teaching system at Charles University, where Polish professors were free to give their lectures and seminars in Polish, Russians in Russian, and “Yugoslavs” in Serbian, as well as in Czech. The students were expected to know or to understand all the Slavonic languages. As Andreev pointed out, the Czechs “grasped that Slavonic studies were an international discipline” (Andreev 1994). Both concepts – Eurasianism and the idea of the Slavic Union – were interwoven with geopolitical interests. The Czech Russophiles, following President Masarýk, saw Czech culture as a bridge between Russia and the Roman-Germanic and RomanAnglo-Saxon cultures. The Russian émigrés enjoyed the backing of politicians: besides Masarýk and the then foreign minister Edvard Beneš, the influential politician Karel KramaĜ (along with his Russian wife Nadezhda, née Abrikosova) was a supporter of the Russian émigré community. For a while this created a very special Russophile atmosphere in Prague. In 1921 the Czech government started an initiative called Ruská pomocná akce [Action russe] with the aim of supporting and grooming young Russian specialists to return to Russia after the Soviets’ collapse and was evaluated as “an exceptional act in the history of humankind and of selfless help of one people to the sons of another”. 11 For some years, this support provided an economic basis for Russian immigrants, who benefited from Russian schools, universities, clubs, exhibitions, archives and writers’ unions.12 But in 1925, when the Seminarium Kondakovianum was founded, Action russe was already in decline. By the end of the 1920s it was clear that Russia would not “normalise”. Recognising that pragmatic relations had to be established in both diplomacy and culture, the government gradually 10

Jakobson 1931, 67; Toman 1995. Postnikov 1928, 7; Riha 1958, 22-26. 12 For Prague as a hub of emigration, see: Chinyaeva 2001; Raeff 1990; Schlögel 1994, here especially Sládek1994; cf. also Sládek 1993. 11

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withdrew its subsidies for the Russian immigrants. Czechoslovakia’s recognition of the Soviet Union in 1934, Masarýk’s retirement in 1935 and his death two years later had serious consequences for both the Russian émigré community in Prague and the Kondakov Institute. Despite its privileged position – an object of jealousy within the Russian community – the Kondakov Institute struggled continuously for its institutional survival. Its founding members’ living was assured by modest grants from the government. In 1928, the presidential office even made two scholarships available for Charles University students to be affiliated with the Seminarium Kondakovianum. One of those scholars was Nikolay Y. Andreev, who had recently moved to Prague from Estonia. Besides receiving state support, the Seminarium Kondakovianum was also partly subsidised by the American industrialist Charles R. Crane, who was interested in Slavic cultures. His son John was Masarýk’s private secretary and an honorary member of the Kondakov Institute. Crane’s daughter Frances married Jan Masarýk, the son of the president and diplomat. Their sporadic donations sustained the Institute as state assistance dwindled. Connections established by the princess Natalia Yashvil, one of the founding members of the Institute, enabled the Insitute to secure important backing through contacts to European nobility. One of the main supporters was prince Karel Schwarzenberg, a young dilettante historian and scion of an influential Bohemian and Austrian noble family who participated in the meetings of the Seminar for decades. At the Institute’s meeting of February 1943, for example, he gave a lecture on “Imperial Rule in Byzantium and Europe in the Middle Ages.”13 Karel – who, like his brother František Schwarzenberg, claimed to have ties to the Czech resistance movement – actively supported the Institute even at the beginning of Soviet rule. A former radical Czech nationalist, Karel joined the Anti-Fascist society and later the Union of Friends of the Soviet Union. From 1946 until his emigration to Austria in 1948, he was the head of the Institute. The Kondakov Institute also generated some income from robust sales of publications and membership fees. It had an elaborated range of memberships: honorary supporting members, honorary members, founding members, scholar-members and corresponding members. In 1938 its 36 supporting members included Charles R. and John Crane, Jan Masarýk (who until the Munich Agreement was a Czech ambassador in London), his sister Alice Masaryková, the diplomat Josef Girša and Karel Schwarzenberg.14 13

Archive AINPK, KI – 1 (protocols 1940-1945), sv. 9. ɍɫɬɚɜ Ⱥɪɯɟɨɥɨɝɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɢɧɫɬɢɬɭɬɚ ɢɦɟɧɢ ɇ.ɉ. Ʉɨɧɞɚɤɨɜɚ [Statute of the N.P.Kondakov Archaeological Institutes], in AINPK 3.

14

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Despite changes in location and scarcity of space, the Institute carefully preserved a collection of icons, coins, Copt fabrics and archaeological objects (Ill. 3-4) (Hlaváþková 1995). The Institute’s co-founder and benefactor Princess Natalia Yashvil and her daughter Tatiana N. Rodzianko (daughter-in-law of Mikhail Rodzianko, President of the Russian Duma) convened a workshop devoted to icon painting that was also attached to the Institute. Natalia Yashvil painted portraits of Kondakov and also, after his death, of the art historian Nikolay Belyaev as modern icons (Ill. 2). A very valuable collection of icons from the private holdings of the Russian manufacturer, editor and art patron Koz’ma T. Soldatenkov, brought from Russia by the former manager of Yashvil’s estate and member of the Czech Legion Josef (Iosif Iosifovich) Girša and owned by a nephew of Yashvil who lived in London, was also part of the Institute’s collection. Upon the death of Maria C. Tenisheva, a friend of Princess Natalia and herself an artist and patron of the arts, Tenisheva’s library and the enamel workshop were moved from Paris to the Kondakov Institute in Prague. The workshop came under the protection of Tatiana Rodzianko. A crucifix made there is still preserved in the private Schwarzenberg chapel in the St. Vitus Cathedral.

Ill. 3: Photo of the Kondakov Institute, 1930s

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Ill. 4: Photo of the Kondakov Institute, 1930s

Although the members and most of those participating in the life of the Institute had very modest lifestyles and sacrificed their personal needs for their work, securing the Institute’s existence remained a challenge. In the second half of the 1920s it was facing ruin. In 1927, through the mediation of Mikhail I. Rostovtzeff, a student of Kondakov’s who lived in the USA and was a history professor at Yale, the Institute’s founding member George Vernadsky accepted a job offer from Yale University. For a while he tried to coordinate the Institute’s activities from a distance, but ultimately he had to give up his position as a director. After an unsuccessful attempt to appoint the Byzantine studies specialist Alexander Vasiliev, another American-Russian scientist, the art historian Alexander P. Kalitinsky became acting director. The orientalist Nikolay P. Toll and icon expert Nikolay Belyaev were respectively appointed vice-director and secretary. Besides attending to organisational duties and their own scientific interests, the founding members supervised publications. The Institute developed a strict scientific routine of regular meetings with presentations that inspired profound discussions.15 15

For a vivid description by L. Hamilton Rhinelander, who managed to interview some members of the Institute in the USA and Britain, and to study Vernadsky’s papers at Yale see Rhinelander 1974.

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Initially, the declared mission of the Seminarium Kondakovianum was to preserve Kondakov’s legacy by maintaining yearbooks and other publications. However, after its first years of successful existence its goals and purposes became more ambitious. As A.P. Kalitinsky formulated it in a letter to Yuri Roerich, the Institute’s primary aim was to seek the sources of Russian culture by following the methods of Nikodim Kondakov; secondarily, it strove to maintain a distance from current political issues by remaining a purely scholarly and independent institution. After that, its mission was to restore the “unity of Russian scholarship” that had been destroyed by the Revolution.16 The Kondakov Institute saw itself as mediating between Russian science (including Soviet Russian scholars, who were isolated from the West) and a community of colleagues worldwide through correspondence, distribution of publications and above all the fostering of the international character of these publications. The prolonged regular meetings were mostly held four times a year, even during the war. In 1927, the Austrian art historian Josef Strzygowski, who had had influential connections in the Imperial Russian Archaeological Commission and regarded Kondakov with great respect, visited the Seminar – and “not his invidious colleagues at Charles University”.17 Until the early 1930s, publications were exchanged between the Seminarium Kondakovianum and certain provincial Soviet institutions, such as the Kherson Museum in Ukraine or Ural University in Sverdlovsk (before 1924 and since 1991 Yekaterinburg). Between 1926 and 1928, several Soviet experts contributed to publications of the Seminarium Kondakovianum in Prague. But, as Nikolay Andreev wrote later, “it led to a repression of Soviet archaeologists in which the contacts had frozen to death by the early 1930s” (Andreev 1994). Participation in international congresses was hampered by financial problems. Nikolay Toll was invited to chair the International Congress of the History of Art (Stockholm, 1933) but had to decline the invitation. A few years later, though, he was able to take part in the excavations of Dura Europos (1935-1937) led by M. Rostovtzeff.18 Again with the help of Natalia Yashvil, in 1937 Nikolay Andreev and Irina Okuneva were able to

16 Letter of Kalitinsky to Yuri Roerich from 01.-03-1931. In: Archive AINPK, KI – 8, sv. 2. 17 Josef Strzygowski attended a meeting of the Seminarium Kondakovianum on 25.07.1927 (Archive AINPK, KI–1). On Strzygowski’s connections to Russian scholars see Dmitrieva 2015. 18 Toll’s photographs of the Dura Europos are found in the Archive AINPK, KI – 47-50. On Dura Europos see Rostovtzeff 1938.

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undertake an expedition to the Pskov-Pechora cloister, which at the time was part of the independent republic of Estonia. In 1929, there was an attempt to fuse the Institute with Nicholas Roerich’s foundation. Set up in 1921 by the painter Nicholas Roerich (18741947) and his family and staff, the Nicholas Roerich Master Institute of United Arts in New York existed until 1937, when it had to close for financial reasons. It received generous support from the wealthy American broker Louis L. Horch, who even built a skyscraper for Roerich’s institute and its collections in New York. But ultimately, Roerich’s ambitions and external circumstances combined to frustrate the attempt to bring the Seminarium Kondakovianum under the “protectorate”19 of Roerich and secure an American sponsor. Roerich’s institute, like the Seminarium Kondakovianum, was centred on its founder’s interests, combining research and collection activities in the field of oriental culture with instruction in the visual and performing arts and the cultural history of the Russian Empire. Roerich’s institute combined the goal of preserving Russian culture abroad with interest in nomadic cultures and the East. His son Yuri Roerich, a specialist in the ethnography of nomadic peoples, contributed to publications of the Kondakov Institute. The main difference between Roerich’s foundation and the Kondakov Institute was the general spiritual and mystical orientation of the former. Its synthetic program combined elements of Buddhism, Hinduism, pantheism and theosophy with the Russian Orthodox faith. Roerich and his wife were adherents of the doctrine of Agni Yoga, which had many followers in the USA and Europe. A sister institution, the Urusvati Research Himalaya Institute, was based in Punjab, India. Nicholas Roerich had an ambivalent relationship with the Soviet authorities. On the one hand, in 1918, he emigrated from Russia via Finland to Britain and then to the USA as a critic of the Bolshevik regime. On the other hand, he tried to maintain contacts with Russia and to unite Communism and Buddhism in a contradictory ideology (Mahatma Lenin). The Soviet government had even supported his expeditions to Central Asia, Mongolia and Siberia in the 1920s and granted him entry into the Soviet Union. Yuri Roerich returned to the Soviet Union in 1957 and was affiliated with the Academy of Sciences. Nicholas Roerich’s second son, the painter Svyatoslav Roerich, who lived in Bangalore, India, bequeathed 19

The interpretation of this attempt at fusion is a matter of controversy. For a proRoerich position see: Rosov 1996. A version critical of Roerich – Belyaev 2000 – is confirmed by the documents in the archive (Archive AINPK, KI – 8, sv. 2 and KI –15).

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a part of the family estate to the Roerich Museum and Centre in Moscow.20 In 1931 the Kondakov Institute attained the institutional status of an officially recognised private institution. Its statutes recognised Czech and Russian as its two official languages. The Archaeological N.P. Kondakov Institute was established. In April and May of 1932, the Institute organised a very successful exhibition of icons from its own collection in the central Prague gallery – the TopiþĤv salon. At that time the Institute was confronted with some dramatic events. First came the death of the Russian icon painting expert Nikolay Belyaev in a traffic accident in 1930. Then another ranking member, the art historian Alexander Kalitinsky, was arrested under unclear circumstances. Unable to recover from a nervous breakdown, he finally left Prague and took up residence in Paris. In 1933 Tatiana Rodzianko died, followed by Natalia Yashvil in 1939. That year, Nikolay Toll, the de facto head of the Institute, moved with his family via Belgrade to the USA. In early 1938 an effort was made to relocate the Institute to Belgrade under the protection of the Yugoslavian regent, Prince Paul (Janþárková 2004). However, the objections of some members to this filiation between Prague and Belgrade proved controversial enough to provoke a split in the familial community. Then in 1941, the building of the Belgrade Institute was bombed, and its director Dmitry Rasovsky and his wife, Irina Okuneva, perished under the rubble together with part of the library. The remainder of the books were salvaged and moved back to Prague. Given these vicissitudes, it is striking how conscientiously the principle of non-involvement in politics was kept, despite the drastic intrusion of politics into the Institute. Dramatic events like the Munich Agreement of 1938, the German annexation of Czechoslovakia and the outbreak of war are hardly noticeable in the protocols of meetings, which were held regularly even during the war. Only through careful reading of the notes and protocols can one decode the anxiety of survival. For example, the protocol of 1946 contains a remark on the correspondence with the last acting director, Nikolay Andreev, who had been arrested by the Soviet authorities in 1945 and was now in a Soviet internment camp in Germany. After his internment he went to Britain and lived the rest of his life in Cambridge. From his memories and those of his daughter, Ekaterina Andreeva, it became clearer how the strategies of mimicry worked in 20

In February 2017 the Russian Ministry of Culture attempted to expel the Roerich Museum from its building and to disperse its collections, which were privately donated. The legal situation of the museum remains unclear.

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different regimes by maintaining the necessary distance.21 In 1944-1945, Andreev even managed to invite the painter Evgeny Klimov, whom he had met in the Pechory monastery in 1937, to handle the restoration of icons from the Institute’s collection.22 During the war, the members of the Institute strove to position themselves so as not to be confused with Russian Nazi collaborators, highlighting their aspiration to be an institution of international renown. Contacts with the German rector of the then Deutsche Karls-Universität [German Charles University] were successfully established, as were contacts with the Russian authorities later on. Even a revenue stream was found in profitable sales in Germany of reproductions of icons from the Institute’s collection: thus its members cleverly exploited the need for heavenly protection in these turbulent times.

Ill. 5: Interior of the Kondakov Institut with photographies of Hitler and Emil Hácha, 1942

21

Interview with Andreev’s daughter Ekaterina Andreeva, broadcast on Radio Svoboda http://www.svoboda.org/a/408128.html 15.05.2017. 22 Memoirs of Evgeny Klimov about his work at the Kondakov Institute: Klimov 1996-1997.

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The Institute’s strategic manoeuvering is likewise evident in its selfrepresentation. A photograph taken in 1942 shows photos of Hitler and President Emil Hácha on the wall, alongside portraits of Kondakov and Belyaev (Il. 5). And an inventory from 1950 mentions images of Stalin and Klement Gottwald as signs of the new power.23 In the second half of the 1940s, the Institute tried to establish closer ties with the Soviet Academy of Sciences under the pretence that “some members were Soviet citizens” (this was untrue; in fact they were stateless holders of Nansen passports). Having contacted the official Soviet specialist on medieval history Boris D. Grekov and the Vice President of the Academy, the Marxist historian Vyacheslav P. Volgin, they were ready to “coordinate their activities with the plans of the Academy of Sciences of the SU”.24

The Kondakov Institute in the Russian cultural landscape of Prague The Kondakov Institute enjoyed something of a privileged position due to Kondakov’s personal relations with Masarýk, but other important Russian cultural organisations were present in Prague too. One of them was the Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɡɚɝɪɚɧɢɱɧɵɣ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɚɪɯɢɜ, or Ⱥɪɯɢɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɢ [The Russian Historical Archive Abroad or the Archive of the Russian Revolution], founded in 1923 to collect documents pertaining to Russian culture in exile and testimonies about the Russian emigration. During the Soviet occupation of Czechoslovakia, this archive and others from abroad were brought to the Soviet Union and became part of the secret Ɉɫɨɛɵɣ ɚɪɯɢɜ [Special Archive]. Now it is available for study as part of the Ƚɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɚɪɯɢɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɨɣ Ɏɟɞɟɪɚɰɢɢ, GARF [State Archive of the Russian Federation]. Another private initiative of the émigré community was the Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨ-ɢɫɬɨɪɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɦɭɡɟɣ, RKIM [Russian Cultural-Historical Museum], which was founded in 1933 at the Free Russian University in Prague and based in Zbraslav Castle. Its founder, Valentin F. Bulgakov, a former secretary of Leo Tolstoy who had been expelled from Soviet Russia in 1923, echoed the Kondakov Institute’s members by pointing to the “idealistic” purposes of the museum: “All political ambitions are excluded from the Museum’s activity. It is grounded in ideal, objective fundamentals.” Prague was seen as a highy advantageous place to found the Russian emigrants’ museum, owing to its “Slavic soil, where 23 24

Archive AINPK, KI – 1, sv. 1, 6. Stalin and Gottwald: KI – 3. Sv. 2. Archive AINPK, KI – 10, sv. 4, 5; KI – 1 (protocols 1946-1948).

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the question of location and other practical matters are more easily resolved.” (Bulgakov 1938, 16)25 Besides the archived materials of Russian writers, scientific archives and an important collection of “Pushkiniana” (collected by the painter and bibliophile Nikolay Zaretsky), the museum also held a valuable collection of paintings, all donated by the artists. The collection included works by artists living not only in Prague, but also in other centres of the Russian emigration: Paris, Berlin, the Baltic states. In 1939 a theatre department was created; it was noted for its collection of memorabilia related to the Ballets Russes and Fyodor Shalyapin. In 1938, a Roerich department opened – another example of Roerich’s expansive activities. The museum also organised exhibits featuring renowned Russian painters – Ilya Repin (then an emigrant himself) in 1936 and Fedor Malyavin in 1937. In 1941 the Germans arrested Bulgakov, and the museum was closed. When Bulgakov applied for Soviet citizenship in 1948, some parts of the collections were transported to the Soviet Union and distributed among different institutions.26 In other centres of exile like Berlin or Paris, the émigré community was mostly isolated from the outer world, but in Prague it was different. 27 There, groups of artists like Skithové (The Scythians) united Czechs with Russians, Ukrainians, Chuvash, and Kalmyks. Members of Skithové also taught at the ɍɤɪɚɢɧɫɤɚɹ ɫɬɭɞɢɹ ɩɥɚɫɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜ [Ukrainian Plastic Arts Studio]. Russians also participated in the influential Czech group Manes. Exhibitions were supported by Czech clubs and associations like the ýesko-Ruská Jednotá [Czech-Russian Unity Association] (19191939), chaired by the journalist and translator František Taborský. The ɋɨɸɡ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɨɜ [Union of Russian Painters], founded in 1929, organised exhibits in the gallery of the Czech writer JíĜí Karásek. Leading avant-garde artists living in Paris, such as Ivan Puni (French: Pougny, 1929), Marc Chagall (1934) and Alexandra Exter (1937), exhibited in Prague, as did representatives of traditional artistic movements like Ilya Repin (who had several exhibitions in Prague, together with his son Yuri) and Mstislav Dobuzhinsky (1926). Another of these, Ivan Bilibin, the leading artist of the group Ɇɢɪ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ [World of Art], not only exhibited in Prague in 1927 but also designed theatre sets for theatres in 25

See: Shcheblygina (ed.) 2015. For the last 20 years of his life, Valentin Bulgakov was director of the Tolstoy Museum of Yasnaya Polyana. The artifacts were distributed to the Tretyakov Gallery, the Historical Museum, the Bakhrushin Museum of Theatre and the State Archive for Literature and Art (RGALI). 27 See: Elenev 1928; Tolstoy 2005; Janþárková 2011, 296f. 26

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Prague and Brno in 1936 and 1937. Bilibin was also asked to paint murals for the Russian chapel at the cemetery of the Dormition brotherhood in Olšany. The cartoons for the murals were perhaps his last work in exile before going back to Russia. The church had been designed by the Prague émigré architect Vladimir Brandt with the support of John Crane, and was completed between 1941 and 1946 – in the middle of the war. The cartoons are made in the traditional style of Russian church paintings and are preserved in the archive of the Kondakov Institute (Il. 6).

Ill. 6: Cartoons of Ivan Bilibin for the Russian church in Olšany, Prague. See centerfold for this image in colour.

The most representative exhibit of 18th to 20th century Russian art from exiles’ collections was organised in Klam Gallas Palace in Prague in 1935 by the art historian Nikolay Okunev, a specialist on Russian icons, who was close to the Kondakov Institute (Janþárková 2012). A great event in Prague were exhibits of Boris Grigoriev. In May and June 1926, Skithové mounted an exhibit of this painter, curated by the writer and economist Dalmat Likhutin. At the center of the representative exhibit (about 40 pictures and 40 drawings) was the cycle Ʌɢɤɢ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ

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[Faces of Russia], 1921-1924, which was juxtaposed with new works created in Normandy, France. His paintings and drawings unified the expressiveness of icons with the suggestive, hyper-realistic exactitude of portrait observation. The exhibition was quite successful, even though Grigoriev was not present. In March and April 1929, an important section of an exhibition Skithové mounted at the French institute in Prague was again dedicated to Grigoriev, along with the Skithové member Grigory Musatov. This time Grigoriev was present and was even commissioned to paint President Masarýk’s portrait. In addition to the well-known paintings from the monumentally powerful Ɋɚɫɫɟɹ and Ʌɢɤɢ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ cycles, Grigoriev also showed new works he had produced in Chile as well as his painting Ramayana, dedicated to Gandhi (Galeeva and Kostina 2011, 235). The big tryptych Ʌɢɤɢ ɦɢɪɚ [Faces of the World, 1920-1931], Il. 7-8, a centrepiece of the exhibit, was acquired by the National Gallery and is still displayed there. This work, which integrated sketches and portraits made in Russia, France and Chile, demonstrated Grigoriev’s latest approach to painting, which he called “Planetarian art”. These canvases feature portraits of luminaries such as the regisseur Vsevolod Meyerhold, the poet Viktor Kamensky, the musician Wanda Landowska and Maksim Gorky alongside those of Breton fishers. The Orthodox metropolitan Platon and the British Catholic priest and freemason James Ingall Wedgwood represent the critical clergy. At the centre of this strange kaleidoscope is a portrait of the “grandmother of the Russian revolution”, the social revolutionary Ekaterina BreshkoBreshkovskaya, whom Grigoriev had met in Prague. The figures are alienated, altered, and disguised. They include grotesque, almost caricatured persons like the “Caucasian” in the middle or the “American” beside him. The faces of the “people”, some blank, some intent, occupy the front row, while the politicians and artists behind them are positioned as teammates or puppet-theatre figures: Kamensky is pictured as a harmonica player, Meyerhold appears in proletarian garb, Landowska looks out of a cuckoo clock. It is a world’s fair of vanity, an ironic and pessimistic illustration of the history of mankind, inspired more by the surrealist symbolism of the Bosch imaginary than by the mythical mysticism of Russian icon painting. By merging Russian history with world history, East with West, the Russian icon tradition with that of the European retable painting, Grigoriev searched for an universal artistic language able to give an expression for a history of civilisation, with Russia as an important part of it.

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Ill. 7: Boris Grigoriev, The Faces of the World, 1920-1931, National Gallery, Prague. See centerfold for this image in colour.

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Ill. 8: Boris Grigoriev, The Faces of the World, 1920-1931, National Gallery, Prague. See centerfold for this image in colour.

What conclusions can one draw? The followers, disciples and friends of Nikodim Pavlovich Kondakov were pursuing a mirage – a utopia of independent, apolitical scholarship that would restore and continue a 19th-century tradition ruptured by the Bolshevik Revolution. Surprisingly, this utopia cheated reality by managing to eke out a relatively long existence. Through good contacts and enthusiasm, a handful of selfless scholars with a clever publication policy

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and experience in letter-writing were able to build and maintain a network of scholars all over the world. One of them was the Czechoslovak president Masarýk, who admired Russian culture and Leo Tolstoy (whom he visited in Yasnaya Polyana shortly before the writer’s death). Thus did two utopias meet: the utopia of independent scholarship and the utopia of panSlavism, which Masarýk supported as a continuation of another 19thcentury tradition – that of the pan-Slavist movement initiated in Prague by František Palacký. Kondakov’s scholarly method did not just open the way to the conservative Orthodox religious strand of Russian emigrant culture. The Eurasian view – no matter how dangerous and étatist – led to a candid understanding of Russian culture as a culture of exchange, transfer and meeting of civilisations. The result was contradictory. Followers of Kondakov’s method were oriented to a bygone scholarly tradition reaching back into the 19th century, and maintained contacts with similarly inclined international scholars like Josef Strzygowski. Many of their activities were backed by an imperial mindset of Eurasianism that came dangerously close to Soviet imperialism. Their strategy of manoeuvering for survival was made possible by multiple compromise and personal self-sacrifice. The Institute’s marginal and non-political status may be the reason that its holdings, unlike most of the archives of the Russian emigration in Prague, were not confiscated by the Soviet Trophy Commission. Instead they have survived, well preserved, at the Institute of Art History of the Czechoslovak Academy of Sciences, offering vivid proof of a scientific utopia in a situation of exile.

Bibliography Andreev, N. (1994): ɉɪɚɠɫɤɢɟ ɝɨɞɵ. In: ɇɨɜɵɣ ɦɢɪ 11 (http:// magazines.russ.ru/novyi_mi/1994/11/andreev.html 03.04.2017) Avtonomova, N. and Gasparov, M. (1997): əɤɨɛɫɨɧ, ɫɥɚɜɢɫɬɢɤɚ ɢ ɟɜɪɚɡɢɣɫɬɜɨ: ɞɜɟ ɤɨɧɴɸɧɤɬɭɪɵ, 1929-1953. In: ɇɨɜɨɟ ɥɢɬɟɪɬɭɪɧɨɟ ɨɛɨɡɪɟɧɢɟ 23 (http://magazines.russ.ru/nlo/1997/23/gasparov.html 3.03.2017) Bassin, M., Glebov, S. and Laruelle, M. (eds.) (2015): Between Europe and Asia: The Origins, Theories, and Legacies of Russian Eurasianism, Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Beißwenger, M. (1999): ɀɢɡɧɟɧɧɵɣ ɩɭɬɶ ɢ ɧɚɭɱɧɚɹ ɞɟɹɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɶ ɇ.ɉ. Ʉɨɧɞɚɤɨɜɚ ɜ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ. In: Lapteva, L.P (ed.): Ɂɚɪɭɛɟɠɧɵɟ ɫɥɚɜɹɧɟ ɜ ɩɪɨɲɥɨɦ ɢ ɧɚɫɬɨɹɳɟɦ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ⱦɢɚɥɨɝ ɆȽɍ, pp. 165-183.

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—. (2001): Das Seminarium Kondakovianum in Prag (1925-1952). Geschichte einer russischen wissenschaftlichen Institution, Magisterarbeit an der Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin. (http:// www.nd.edu/~mbeisswe/Martin%20Beisswenger_Seminarium%20Ko ndakovianum.pdf 12.03.2017) Belyaev, S.A. (2000): ɋɟɦɢɧɚɪɢɣ ɢɦɟɧɢ ɇ.ɉ.Ʉɨɧɞɚɤɨɜɚ – ɧɟɨɬɴɟɦɥɟɦɚɹ ɱɚɫɬɶ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ. In: Ⱦɪɟɜɧɹɹ Ɋɭɫɶ 1, pp. 95-105. Bulgakov, V. (1938): ɏɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɟ ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɟ Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ Ʉɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɂɫɬɨɪɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɦɭɡɟɹ ɩɪɢ Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɦ ɋɜɨɛɨɞɧɨɦ ɭɧɢɜɟɪɫɢɬɟɬɟ ɜ ɉɪɚɝɟ. In: Bulgakov, V. and Yupatov, A. (eds.): Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɡɚ ɪɭɛɟɠɨɦ, ɉɪɚɝɚ, Ɋɢɝɚ: ɉɟɪɜɵɣ Ɍɢɩɨɝɪɚɮɫɤɢɣ ɤɨɨɩɟɪɚɬɢɜ. Chinyaeva, E. (2001): Russians outside Russia. The Emigré Community in Czechoslovakia 1918-1938, München: R. Oldenbourg Verlag. Dmitrieva, M. (2015): Josef Strzygowski und Russland. In: Scholz, P.O. and Dáugosz, M.A. (eds.): Von Biala nach Wien. Josef Strzygowski und die Kunstwissenschaften, Wien: European University Press, pp. 151-174. Elenev, N. (1928): Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɢɡɨɛɪɚɡɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɜ ɉɪɚɝɟ. In: Postnikov, S.P (ed.): Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɜ ɉɪɚɝɟ: 1918-1928 ɝɝ., ɉɪɚɝɚ, pp. 284310. Galeeva, T. and Kostina, D. (2011): Russian Emigré Artists Boris Grigoriev and Grigory Musatov and 1920s-1930s Prague: Between “Russian Exoticism” and Western Modernism. In: Centropa 13/3, pp. 227-240. Hann, C. (2016): A Concept of Eurasia. In: Current Anthropology 57/1, February 2016 (htpps://www.eth.mpg.de/4030934/Concept-ofEurasia.pdf 12.03.2017). Hlaváþková, H. (1995): Ze sbirek bývalého Kondakovova institute. Ikony, koptské textilie (Národní Galerie v Praze, Sbírka Starého UmČní, Klášter sv. Anežky ýeské, 15. února – 16. dubna 1995). Jakobson, R. (1931): Ʉ ɯɚɪɚɤɬɟɪɢɫɬɢɤɟ ɟɜɪɚɡɢɣɫɤɨɝɨ ɹɡɵɤɨɜɨɝɨ ɫɨɸɡɚ, ɉɚɪɢɠ. —. (1954): Comparative Slavic Studies. In: The Review of Politics, 16/1 (Jan. 1954), pp. 67-90. Janþárková, J. (2004): Praga – Belgrad – Praga (Archeologicheskii institut im. N.P. Kondakova v 1938-1941 godach, in ɉɪɢɥɨɡɢ ɡɚ ɤʃɢɠɟɜɧɨɫɬ, jɟɡɢɤ, ɢɫɬɨɪɢjɭ ɢ ɮɨɥɤɥɨɪ (ɉɄJɂɎ) 70 1-4 (Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ 2004), pp. 269-280. —. (2011): ɑɟɲɫɤɚɹ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɚɹ ɫɪɟɞɚ ɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ-ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɵ. In: SLAVIA 80/2-3, pp. 289-302.

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—. (2012): ɂɫɬɨɪɢɤ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ ɇ.Ʌ. Ɉɤɭɧɟɜ (1885-1949). ɀɢɡɧɟɧɧɵɣ ɢ ɧɚɭɱɧɵɣ ɩɭɬɶ, Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2012. Klimov, E.E. (1996-1997): ɂɡ ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɣ ȿ.ȿ. Ʉɥɢɦɨɜɚ. In: Ɂɚɩɢɫɤɢ Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɚɤɚɞɟɦɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɝɪɭɩɩɵ ɜ ɋɒȺ, Ɍ. XXVIII, ɇɶɸ-Ƀɨɪɤ, pp. 96-158. Kondakov, N. and Tolstoy, I. (1889-1899): Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɞɪɟɜɧɨɫɬɢ ɜ ɩɚɦɹɬɧɢɤɚɯ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ, ɜ 6 ɜɵɩ, ɋɚɧɤɬ-ɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝ. Kondakov, N. (1927): ȼɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ ɢ ɞɭɦɵ, Prague: Seminarium Kondakovianum. —. (1929): Ɉɱɟɪɤɢ ɢ ɡɚɦɟɬɤɢ ɩɨ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɫɪɟɞɧɟɜɟɤɨɜɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ ɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ / PĜíspČvky k dČjinám stĜedovČkého umČní a kultury, Praha: ýeská Akademia VƟd. Kopecká, L. and Dandová, M. (1995): Nikodim Pavloviþ Kondakov: (1844-1925): písemná pozustalost, Praha: Literární archív Památníku národního písemnictví v Praze. Kyzlasova, I. (1985): ɂɫɬɨɪɢɹ ɢɡɭɱɟɧɢɹ ɜɢɡɚɧɬɢɣɫɤɨɝɨ ɢ ɞɪɟɜɧɟɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ: Ɏ. ɂ. Ȼɭɫɥɚɟɜ, ɇ. ɉ. Ʉɨɧɞɚɤɨɜ: ɦɟɬɨɞɵ, ɢɞɟɢ, ɬɟɨɪɢɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɡɞɚɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨ ɆȽɍ. —. (2004): Ɇɢɪ Ʉɨɧɞɚɤɨɜɚ: ɉɭɛɥɢɤɚɰɢɢ. ɋɬɚɬɶɢ. Ʉɚɬɚɥɨɝ ɜɵɫɬɚɜɤɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɩɭɬɶ. Lazarev, V. (1925): ɇɢɤɨɞɢɦ ɉɚɜɥɨɜɢɱ Ʉɨɧɞɚɤɨɜ: 1844-1925, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ⱥɜɪɨɪɚ. Masarýk, T.G. (1919): The Spirit of Russia, vols. 1-2, London, New York: Allen & Unwin, Macmillan. Minns, E.H. (1924): N.P.Kondakov: The Father of Russian Archaeology. In: The Slavonic Review, 3/8, pp. 435-437. Postnikov, S. (ed.) (1928): Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɜ ɉɪɚɝɟ, ɉɪɚɝɚ. Raeff, M. (1990): Russia Abroad. A Cultural History of the Russian Emigration, 1919-1939, New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rhinelander, L.H. (1974): Exiled Russian Scholars in Prague: The Kondakov Seminar and Institute. In: Canadian Slavonic Papers / Revue Canadienne des Slavistes 16/3, pp. 331-352. Riha, T. (1958): Russian Émigré Scholars in Prague after World War I. In: The Slavic and East European Journal, 2/1, pp. 22-26. Roháþek, J. (1995): Nikodim Pavloviþ Kondakov a jeho pražské dƟdictví. In: DƟjiny a souþastnost 17/2, pp. 34-38. Rosov, V.A. (1996): ɇɟɭɞɚɜɲɟɟɫɹ ɩɨɩɟɱɢɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨ. Ʉ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɜɡɚɢɦɨɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɣ ɂɧɫɬɢɬɭɬɚ Ƚɢɦɚɥɚɣɫɤɢɯ ɢɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɧɢɣ «ɍɪɭɫɜɚɬɢ» ɢ ɂɧɫɬɢɬɭɬɚ ɢɦ. ɇ.ɉ. Ʉɨɧɞɚɤɨɜɚ ɜ ɉɪɚɝɟ. In: Ⱥɪɢɚɜɚɪɬɚ, ɇɚɱɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɜɵɩɭɫɤ, pp. 153-167.

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Rostovtzeff, M.I. (1938): Dura-Europos and its Art, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Savitsky, P. (1928): Ɉ ɡɚɞɚɱɚɯ ɤɨɱɟɜɧɢɤɨɜɟɞɟɧɶɹ (ɉɨɱɟɦɭ ɫɤɢɮɵ ɢ ɝɭɧɧɵ ɞɨɥɠɧɵ ɛɵɬɶ ɢɧɬɟɪɟɫɧɵ ɞɥɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ?), ɉɪɚɝɚ: ȿɜɪɚɡɢɣɫɤɨɟ ɤɧɢɝɨɢɡɞɚɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨ. Savitsky, P., Suvchinsky, P., Trubetskoy, N. and Florovsky, G. (1921); ɂɫɯɨɞ ɤ ȼɨɫɬɨɤɭ. ɉɪɟɞɱɭɜɫɬɜɢɹ ɢ ɫɜɟɪɲɟɧɢɹ. ɍɬɜɟɪɠɞɟɧɢɟ ɟɜɪɚɡɢɣɰɟɜ, ɋɨɮɢɹ: Ȼɚɥɤɚɧ. Schlögel, K. (ed.) (1994): Der große Exodus. Die russische Emigration und ihre Zentren 1917 bis 1941, München: C.H. Beck. Shcheblygina, I. (ed.) (2015): ɋɨɯɪɚɧɢɬɶ ɞɥɹ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ. Ʉ 80-ɥɟɬɢɸ Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ Ʉɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨ-ɂɫɬɨɪɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɦɭɡɟɹ ɜ ɉɪɚɝɟ. Ʉɚɬɚɥɨɝ ɜɵɫɬɚɜɤɢ, 20 ɦɚɹ – 20 ɚɜɝɭɫɬɚ ɜ Ɍɪɟɬɶɹɤɨɜɫɤɨɣ ɝɚɥɟɪɟɟ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɍɪɟɬɶɹɤɨɜɫɤɚɹ ɝɚɥɟɪɟɹ. Shlapentokh, D. (ed.) (2007): Russia between East and West: Scholarly Debates on Eurasianism, Leiden, Boston. Sládek, J. (1992): Život a dílo P.N. Savického. In: Volné sdružení þeských rusistĤ VIII, Praha, pp. 48-56. Sládek, Z. (1993): Ruská emigrace v ýeskoslovensku. Problémy a výsledky výzkumu. In: Slovanský pĜehled 79/1, pp. 1-13. —. (1994): Das ‘russische Oxford’. In: Schlögel, K. (ed.): Der große Exodus. Die russische Emigration und ihre Zentren 1917 bis 1941, München: C.H. Beck, pp. 218-233. Tolstoy, A. (2005): ɏɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ. Istanbul – Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ – Praha – Berlin – Paris, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ – XXI ɜɟɤ. Toman, J. (1995): The Magic of a Common Language: Jakobson, Mathesius, Trubetzkoy, and the Prague Linguistic Circle, Cambridge (Mass.): MIT Press.

THE GENESIS OF THE THOMAS WHITNEY RUSSIAN ART COLLECTION BETTINA JUNGEN

Introduction1 Thomas Porter Whitney (1917-2007) was a Russophile with multiple ties to Russia: he studied Russian history at Columbia University, spent the Second World War in the foreign service in Moscow, married a Russian woman, translated Solzhenitsyn and other works of modern Russian literature, and collected Russian books, archives, and fine arts at his home in Connecticut. “I only hope that in my effort [to collect], I will do justice to those to whom [the collection] is dedicated – the Russian intelligentsia. They gave all of us very much indeed. And it is time that someone should remember them,”2 he said in a speech delivered in 1980. The majority of his art collection represents the Silver Age of Russian art, dating back to the years between 1890 and 1930. A significant aspect of the collection is art and culture in emigration. Whitney mostly collected in the West, which means that all the books, archives, and artworks had “emigrated” from the Soviet Union either with their previous owners or with dealers. At the time these objects came to the West – between the 1920s and 1970s – they had little chance of being seen publicly in their country of origin. In this way, they represent the fate of the Russian 1

This article would not have been possible without the many contributions of Stanley Rabinowitz, Henry Steele Commager Professor and Professor of Russian and director of the Center for Russian Culture at Amherst College, who gave me access to the Whitney archives and shared his deep knowledge of the collection and the collector. I also would like to thank Ekaterina Kudriavtseva and William Taubman for their advice, which guided my enquiries in fruitful directions. Last but not least, my gratitude goes to Sheila Flaherty-Jones, who edited the manuscript with great care and attention. 2 Speech given before the Friends of the Robert Frost Library at Amherst College on Friday, 25 April 1980, unpublished typescript, The Amherst Center for Russian Culture.

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cultural elites who left their country or went into inner emigration in order to live an undisturbed life. The collector was also personally in touch with émigré intellectuals and artists living in the United States, including Roman Goul, Naum Gabo, and his close friend and adviser Alexis Rannit. In addition, he supported the émigré magazine ɇɨɜɵɣ ɀɭɪɧɚɥ [The New Review] for many years, both financially and as a member of its board of directors.

Immersing in Russian matters Whitney graduated from Amherst College in Amherst, Massachusetts in 1937. In his autobiography, Russia in My Life (Whitney 1962), Whitney writes that he had entered college with an interest in European history. It was on the suggestion of his college adviser that he decided to develop a specialisation in Russian history. By the time Whitney graduated, the Soviet Union had been recognised by the United States for only four years. Stalin’s great purges, which brought about the imprisonment and deaths of half a million to over a million (estimates vary widely) perceived enemies, including artists and intellectuals, reached their peak that same year. In the 1930s, many opinions – both pro- and anti-Communist3 – circulated in U.S. books and media, yet they left the young student unsatisfied. He claimed that he was one of few Americans seriously interested in Russia at that time (Whitney 1962, 8), and entered a graduate program in Russian history at Columbia University in the autumn of 1937, having spent the summer after his Amherst graduation acquiring the foundations of the Russian language at the University of California, Berkeley. In the late summer of 1941, while Whitney was working on his doctoral thesis in New York, and only months before Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor, which led the United States to enter the war, his adviser at Columbia, Professor Geroid Robinson, invited him to join the East European Section of the newly created Service of Strategic Information (1942-1945 Office of Strategic Services). (Whitney 1962, 21-34) Along with other academics who were knowledgeable in Russian matters and Russian language, Whitney spent the Second World War generating reports on the Soviet economy for the U.S. government. In May 1944, 3

While anti-Soviet opinions made up the majority, some foreign observers, including the U.S. ambassador to Moscow, Joseph E. Davis, appeared to believe that the executions in 1937-38 were justified. The controversial journalist Walter Duranty made readers of the New York Times believe that Soviet citizens in the early 1930s were faring much better than was in fact the case, downplaying in particular the famine of 1932.

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a year before the end of the war, he was sent to Moscow to work in the foreign service. In his autobiography, he details his impressions of memorable meetings with Soviet officials and scholars, and offers insights into various political situations. Three years after his arrival, when the war was over, he was still in Moscow, now writing for the Associated Press. Within months of his arrival in Moscow, Whitney had met his future wife Julia Zapolskaya, a singer and songwriter, with whom he decided to stay in Russia after the war was over. Through her, the young American experienced the joys and sorrows of everyday life in Soviet Moscow and became familiar with many Russian artistic elites and the difficult reality in which they lived and worked. Only in 1953, after Stalin had died, was Julia Whitney allowed to leave the USSR, and the couple settled in New York. Upon Julia’s death in 1965, Whitney regarded his then-small collection as a personal monument to his late wife and her family and – in a wider sense – to Russian culture.4 Art, however, is not a theme discussed in Whitney’s book, which he published in 1962 while Julia was still alive and in which he gave priority to other interests. It seems that his mission in the early 1960s was to educate Western audiences about life under a socialist regime and about Soviet Russia – as he did by writing for the Associated Press. In addition, his professional attention focused on history and politics rather than art. In his 1980 speech at Amherst College, Whitney mentioned that he did not collect art while living in Russia, explaining he had lacked the time, energy, and taste to do so, and because his contact with Russian citizens had been very limited.5 Whitney did not even get a chance to familiarise himself with Russian modernist art, which he later collected, before he went to Moscow in 1944 or during his years in Russia. By the time he graduated, there was barely any information about Russian modernism circulating either in the Soviet Union or in the West. In the previous decade, the Russian art scene in the United States had been based largely, if informally, in New York City, where it was very lively, with numerous artists – including Boris Anisfeld, Boris Grigor’ev, and Louis Lozowick – coming, going, and staying in the city. They were featured in notable exhibitions, including one at the Brooklyn Museum in 1923 and at Grand Central Palace, New York City, in 1924.6 In 1925 Lozowick published Modern Russian Art (Lozowick 4

Speech given before the Friends of the Robert Frost Library at Amherst College on Friday, 25 April 1980, unpublished typescript, The Amherst Center for Russian Culture. 5 Ibid. 6 See also Lampard 2001, 161-171.

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1925), in which he assembled a remarkable cross section of avant-garde art, featuring movements from Fal’k’s Cézannism to Malevich’s suprematism. Yet by the 1930s, what few exhibitions of Russian art there were covered either past centuries up to the late 1900s or displayed Socialist Realism, like Christian Brinton’s The Art of Soviet Russia (Brinton 1934-1935) at the Pennsylvania Museum of Art and, of course, the Soviet Pavilion at the 1939 New York World’s Fair. Whitney, therefore, started his career as an expert in Russian and Soviet affairs at a time when significant parts of Russia’s twentieth-century arts languished in obscurity.

The market Fine arts attracted the collector’s attention by the end of the 1960s, when Russian modernist art had regained a visible place in the Western art market. It was likely a lucky coincidence that Whitney was ready to embrace the fine arts at a time when interesting works became available, though their availability might also have triggered his interest. There had been a slow increase in information about Russian art in the English-language press since the mid-1950s. A 1960 article in Life, “The art of Russia that nobody sees,” presented Russian nonconformist art to a wide audience and introduced the avant-garde artist Pavel Filonov, whose works had neither been shown in the Soviet Union no in the West since the 1930s. Two years later Camilla Gray published her groundbreaking book The Russian Experiment in Art 1863-1922. (Gray 1962) It was the first comprehensive presentation of avant-garde art in English, written from within Russia. Gray had married Oleg Prokofiev – son of the composer – and she became interested in art, in favour of which she gave up her studies at the Bolshoi Theatre ballet school. According to writer Gennady Aigi, she managed to obtain a surprising amount of inside information, not accessible to a wide audience in the Soviet Union or in the West. (Aigi 2002, 47-48) The book became the foundation of knowledge about the Russian avant-garde and its increasing popularity in the West. At auctions in Europe and the United States, twentieth-century Russian paintings appeared every now and then in the 1960s, yet there were no sales dedicated solely to Russian avantgarde art. Ingrid Hutton, co-owner of the Leonard Hutton Galleries in New York City, remembers that in 1964 her husband bought a painting by Natalia Goncharova, Fishing (1909), at an auction of impressionist and modern paintings at Sotheby’s,, which triggered the couple’s interest in Russian art and laid the foundation for the gallery’s involvement with the avant-garde. (Hutton 1981, 211-214)

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Early twentieth-century Russian art experienced what amounted to a significant jump in publicity at the end of the 1960s through the 1970s, which was when Whitney acquired most of his collection. In addition to Kandinsky and Chagall, only a few names of Russian Avant-Garde artists had been established by then, most notably among them Kazimir Malevich. The latter came to prominence in the aftermath of a 1958-59 traveling exhibition of his work, organized by the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam. By 1970 gallery owners had discovered the potential of the Russian Avant-Garde, particularly geometrical abstraction, and started promoting it: Antonina Gmurzynska in Cologne; Annely Juda and Harry Fischer, both in London; Jean Chauvelin in Paris; Rosa Esman and Leonard Hutton, both in New York. Many artworks passed through these galleries before they entered Whitney’s collection. Since works by already-famous artists, in particular Malevich, were difficult to obtain, the founders of these galleries discovered materials that were equally good in quality but by less well-known artists. With their exhibitions and the accompanying catalogues – frequently featuring texts by recognised specialists in the field – the galleries educated potential buyers and cultivated a sensitivity for Russian avant-garde art in the population.7 Demand for Russian avantgarde art, however, remained rather low throughout the mid-1970s and, accordingly, so did prices.

Building the collection When he returned from the Soviet Union, Whitney brought books and a few icons home. He makes no mention, however, of which ones. Ten years later, he said he “began to become acutely aware that there was a golden opportunity available for a collector in the field of Russian rare books of the 20th century.”8 To his holdings he therefore began to add rare books, including ɋɚɞɨɤ ɫɭɞɟɣ [A Trap for Judges] illustrated by David and Vladimir Burliuk; ɋɚɞɨɤ ɫɭɞɟɣ II [A Trap for Judges II] illustrated by David Burliuk, Elena Guro, and Natalia Goncharova; ɂɝɪɚ ɜ ɚɞɭ [A Game in Hell] illustrated by Olga Rozanova and Kazimir Malevich; ȼɡɨɪɜɚɥ [Explodity] illustrated by Rozanova, Goncharova, Malevich, and Nikolai Kulbin; and Ɍɪɨɟ [Three] illustrated by Malevich, as well as periodicals, including a full run of Ɇɢɪ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ [World of Art], ɀɚɪɴ ɉɬɢɰɚ [The 7

I am very grateful to Ekaterina Kudriavtseva for sharing her insights into the Russian art market and recommending relevant literature. 8 Speech given before the Friends of the Robert Frost Library at Amherst College on Friday, 25 April 1980, unpublished typescript, The Amherst Center for Russian Culture.

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Firebird], issues of Ʌɟɮ [LEF] and ɇɨɜɵɣ Ʌɟɮ [New LEF]. While he mostly bought books from private parties, he shopped on a regular basis at a store called Saint Petersbourg in Paris, owned by the late Yakob Lempert. Another important part of his collection were the writings of notable poets, playwrights, critics, journalists, and others, as well as the items they collected, such as newspaper clippings and ephemera of all sorts. Included in these archives are the papers of Zinaida Gippius and Dmitri Merezhkovsky, Aleksey Remizov and S. Dovgello-Remizova, Zinaida Shakhovskaya, Roman Goul, and Konstantin Solntsev, as well as the ɇɨɜɵɣ ɀɭɪɧɚɥ [New Review] archive. Whitney started his collection of Russian art with the purchase of icons at two auctions held in 1970 at Christie’s and Sotheby’s in London. He later said, Although the late Julie and I had brought with us to America a few icons, I had not purchased any more until I became actually conscious, partly through talking with Gabo and reading his work, partly through other reading, of the fundamental importance of Russian icon painting for all Russian art, including even the most Modern and Avant-Garde Russian art.9

While participating at the icon auctions, Whitney learned that Sotheby’s were planning a sale of twentieth-century Russian art in July of the same year. At this sale, he bought thirteen works, which laid the foundation for his collection in the areas of avant-garde and modernist fine art. Between 1970 and 1980, the collector successfully bid at four out of six auctions dedicated solely to Russian art. He acquired approximately one-third of his collection at auctions and from private galleries. Many of the galleries he bought from were located in New York City, among them the Leonard Hutton Galleries; Vladimir Hessen (Ƚɟɫɫɟɧ), a private émigré dealer operating out of his apartment; La Boetie; and Rosa Esman. In addition, he also bought from other dealers in Europe and the United States. The works Whitney purchased from dealers and at auction were, on average, of very good quality. He did not have to worry much about questions of authenticity in the first years of his collecting. Although not all questions regarding particular works can be answered at present, the most significant errors are misattributed or misdated works or works coming out of an artist’s school rather than being created by the artist him- or herself. The latter applies particularly to a few works on paper that were sold at Sotheby Parke Bernet’s auction of twentieth century Russian paintings, drawings, and watercolors in 1979 as the work of Filonov. For sellers as 9

Ibid.

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well as buyers, big names and works from an artist’s most avant-garde period were, of course, much more attractive than the names of littleknown students or followers or late career works. I would argue, however, that mistakes happened less often because of deliberate attempts at obfuscation or deception, and were more often simply the result of a lack of information or access to source materials. Uncertainty could, obviously, also be used as an advantage: where accurate and proven information seemed to be unobtainable, any information that came with the work – guesses, memories, and certifications of previous owners, “experts,” or artists’ relatives – could be taken for granted and passed on as fact. Forgery, however, became a problem Whitney was aware of, and, in fact, almost made him stop collecting. He recalled that Sotheby Parke Bernet offered a three-dimensional cardboard collage by Ivan Puni in November 1979, with a certificate by the artist’s widow that was marked last minute as “posthumous reconstruction.”10 Forgeries apparently appeared as early as the 1960s. Nikolai Khardzhiev mentions “pseudo-Malevichs,” which were shown in exhibitions organised by the Grosvenor Gallery in London in 1962, Jean Chauvelin in Paris in 1970, and the Andrew Dickson White Museum of Art, Cornell University in 1971. (Khardzhiev 2002, 148) Therefore, Whitney always requested a detailed provenance record for each work he bought from dealers. His correspondence with Hessen offers particular insights into the provenance of his collection: the dealer apparently sold some works that he bought in the USSR and exported to the United States; he had, however, acquired the majority of his stock from artists in the West, such as Nicolai Benua or Georgy Pozhedaev, and from the descendants of artists, including Anna Benois-Cherkesova, the daughter of Alexandre Benois. He also sold works formerly owned by distinguished émigrés like the ballet master Boris Knyazeff and the collector Issar Gurvich. In addition to public sales, Whitney also bought from friends and artists. While these works, which make up another third of the collection, all have an excellent provenance, they vary to a significant degree in quality. For roughly one-third of the collection it was not possible to establish provenance based on Whitney’s archive. It is clear that he did not document his transactions in a systematic way or in a file dedicated to this purpose. In 1966 Whitney visited Russia again and met contemporary artists, including Mikhail Shemyakin, Vladimir Yankilevsky, and Ernst Neizvestny. Records do not indicate whether he acquired works during the trip, but it likely sparked his interest in and awareness of Nonconformist art. Non10

Ibid.

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conformist works from pre-emigration and émigré periods form a small and somewhat random portion of Whitney’s collection. Notes in his files indicate that numerous works were gifts from the artists, likely given to Whitney in later years in return for his support. The nonconformist section is particularly rich in prints, drawings, and small sculptures by Neizvestny, whom Whitney continued to support after the artist’s emigration to the United States. Several works on paper are dedicated to the collector. According to Neizvestny’s wife and manager, Anna, however, the collector was not close friends with the artist and did not socialise with him. The same is true for another émigré artist, Serge Hollerbach, a descendant of art and literary critic Erik Hollerbach (Ƚɨɥɥɟɪɛɚɯ). Throughout his life Hollerbach has practiced figurative and narrative art, with street and beach scenes among his favourite topics. Whitney met Hollerbach in the early 1980s through his adviser Rannit, who held the artist in high esteem and was apparently hoping that the collector would acquire some works. After purchasing a few drawings and paintings, Whitney invited Hollerbach to join him at the ɇɨɜɵɣ ɀɭɪɧɚɥ [The New Review] in the late 1980s, where they worked together closely.11 The journal was established in New York in 1942 and belongs to the oldest social-political, literary, and cultural periodicals of the Russian-language diaspora. From the beginning it aimed at unifying the intellectual forces of all generations of the emigration. It published materials from former Russian and Soviet citizens who had settled in Europe, the United States, Latin America, China, Australia, and Israel and also works created in the USSR but forbidden by the Soviet censor. It is hard to say whether Whitney was truly interested in this contemporary art and in the artists themselves. It seems likely that he acquired most of these works in order to encourage and financially support the artists, and in doing so to pursue his mission for the collection. We know, for instance, that he purchased several paintings from Ivan Goul by the rather obscure Paris-based artist Dmitry Merinov, which he did not particularly appreciate and did not have on display in his home.12 By 1990 Whitney had amassed some 670 works of fine art by over 160 artists. One of the collection’s great merits is its diversity. The collector not only captured major trends in Russian art – those that had been integrated into the Western art historical canon, that is – but paid tribute to the multifaceted artistic currents – including sacred art, book illustration, geometrical abstraction, stage design, and the manifold treatments of repre11 12

Author’s interview with Sergei Hollerbach, 19 October 2015. Amherst Center for Russian Culture, John Bowlt Materials, letter 14 May 1984.

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sentational motifs – that shaped twentieth-century Russian art. Hence, the collection includes a variety of famous avant-garde artists, such as Kazimir Malevich, Lyubov Popova, Aleksandr Rodchenko, Ivan Klyun, and Il’ia Chashnik (Fig. 1), Olga Rozanova, Natalia Goncharova, Mikhail Larionov (Fig. 2), Pavel Filonov, Kuz’ma Petrov-Vodkin (Fig. 3), and Boris Grigor’ev (Fig. 4), as well as modernist artists of the turn-of-the-century, including Alexandre Benois, Ivan Bilibin, Konstantin Somov, Nikolai Rerikh, and Mstislav Dobuzhinsky. But it also features less well-known artists – frequently book illustrators – like Yulya Arapova, Nikolai Zaretsky, and Fedor Rozhankovsky. In addition, Whitney collected late works created in emigration by formerly leading avant-garde artists, for example, Goncharova and Exter, which do not feature the artists’ iconic style but played a significant role in their œuvre. Other artists replicated their most popular style throughout their lives, such as Dobuzhinsky, who is represented in the collection with early works as well as costume and set designs from the 1930s and 1950s. Since the artist became a US citizen in 1939 and was based in New York City, his work was readily available on the American market.

Figure 1. Il’ia Chashnik (1902-1929), Red Circle and Suprematist Cross, ca. 1925. India ink and watercolor on paper, 45.4 x 37.1 cm. Gift of Thomas P. Whitney (Class of 1937). Mead Art Museum at Amherst College, Amherst, Massachusetts, 2001.198. See centerfold for this image in colour.

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Figure 2. Mikhail Larionov (1881-1964), Landscape with Wagon (Paysage: Étude), ca. 1909. Oil on canvas laid on fiberboard, 72.1 x 70.2 cm. Gift of Thomas P. Whitney (Class of 1937). Mead Art Museum at Amherst College, Amherst, Massachusetts, 2001.20. See centerfold for this image in colour.

Figure 3. Kuz’ma Petrov-Vodkin (1878-1939), Mother of God with Child, 1922. Oil on board, 34.0 x 38.4 cm. Gift of Thomas P. Whitney (Class of 1937). Mead Art Museum at Amherst College, Amherst, Massachusetts, 2001.372. See centerfold for this image in colour.

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Figure 4. Boris Grigor’ev (1886-1939), An Old Man with a Goat, 1920. Oil on canvas, 40.3 x 66.7 cm. Gift of Thomas P. Whitney (Class of 1937). Mead Art Museum at Amherst College, Amherst, Massachusetts, 2001.280. See centerfold for this image in colour.

Whitney displayed the collection in his house, where it covered the walls. He did not speak – or write – much about the art collection, but among his favourite paintings were, according to his friend Stanley Rabinowitz, Robert Fal’k’s Bouquet on a Chair with Red Coverlet, which hung in his bedroom, an urban Scene of Paris by Fal’k, as well as Aleksandr Rodchenko’s Composition.13 In order to have more works on view, the collector converted a large barn on his property into an exhibition and office space. In 1980 Whitney organised the only public exhibition of his collection, entitled Invention and Tradition: Selected Works from the Julia A. Whitney Foundation and the Thomas P. Whitney Collection of Modernist Russian Art at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. He also lent works to other exhibitions. The largest project was The Avant-Garde in Russia 1910-1930: New Perspectives, organised by Stephanie Barron at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art in 1980, which opened its second iteration in November of the same year at the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden in Washington, DC. Whitney lent works by several artists, including Kamensky, Popova, Chashnik, and Malevich to this exhibition, which focused on geometrical abstraction. Whitney’s Constructivist and Suprematist holdings, along with works by Larionov, Goncharova, and his only painting by Pavel Filonov, Flight into Egypt (ca. 1913-1918),14 par13

Author’s conversation with Stanley Rabinowitz, June 2014. Works at the Mead Art Museum, AC 2001.18, AC 2001.343, AC 2001.24. 14 Mead Art Museum, AC 2001.21.

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ticipated in some ten exhibitions, while the majority of his collection was not shown in public before he gave it to the Mead Art Museum at Amherst College in 2000-2001.

Friends and advisers Many people directly or indirectly participated in the building of the collection as sellers, middlemen, and most importantly as advisers. Among Whitney’s first advisers was Naum Gabo, who lived about a half-hour drive from Whitney’s house in Connecticut. Gabo, a Russian constructivist sculptor, left the Soviet Union in 1922 and lived in Germany, France, and England before he settled in the United States in 1947. The two men met around 1964 and became very close friends. Gabo liked being at Whitney’s place, surrounded by Russian art. The particular character of the collection evoked memories of Gabo’s beloved Russia and the culture of his youth and made him feel at home. This can be taken as a sign that Whitney collected out of a Russian spirit rather than from a Western perspective. Gabo discussed matters of Russian history, politics, literature and art (frequently in Russian). (Hammer, Lodder 2000, 459; Nash, Merkert, Gabo 1985, 254-255) In 1970, Whitney acquired Vertical Construction No. 2 (1965-1966) as the centrepiece of a small Gabo collection, which includes the drawing of a proposed Tower on Trubnaya Ploshchad in Moscow (1919), a copy of the Realist Manifesto (1920),15 and a series of monoprints Opus 1-12, one of which (no. 12) was a thank-you gift for the party that Whitney had hosted to celebrate the artist’s 80th birthday. Over the years, Whitney met other experts in Russian art, including Christina Lodder and John Bowlt, both of whom published their first, groundbreaking books in the early 1980s and were able to advise and inspire the collector based on their experiences. Among his acquaintances was also French collector René Guerra, from whom he purchased a couple of paintings by Mikhail Andreenko(-Nechitailo). Whitney’s closest adviser, however, was the émigré poet Alexis Rannit. Born in 1914 in Estonia – then part of the Russian Empire – Rannit studied applied arts, researched Lithuanian literature, and was closely connected to the theatre and opera in Kaunas, Lithuania. During the Second World War, he emigrated to Germany, and in 1953 he moved to the United States, where he completed his Master’s thesis in art history on Lithuanian artist Mikalojs Ciurlionis at Columbia University. Having 15

Mead Art Museum, AC 2001.600, AC 2001.194, AC 2001.99, AC 2001.554.112.

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worked in libraries before, he became the curator of Slavic and Eastern European collections at the Yale University library in 1961. Rannit was roughly a generation younger than many avant-garde artists, but he knew many of them in person and knew about their significance within Russian culture. His vast network spanned a large part of the Russian intelligentsia in emigration, including acclaimed writers and artists. The poet’s constant fight for the cause of the Russian intelligentsia and against the Soviet regime was likely a foundation of the mutual sympathy that developed between him and Whitney. The two men probably became acquainted in the late 1970s, while Whitney was planning his University of Virginia exhibition. For the show’s catalogue Rannit wrote all the entries as well as the introduction. (Rannit 1980; see also Hollerbach 1981) Rannit’s contributions to the volume reveal his knowledge and love of the represented artists and the nature of Russian modernism, though they fall short of offering information about the individual works’ contexts. The general nature of the writing probably had two reasons: on the one hand it was unlikely the goal of both the author and the collector to provide in-depth information about single objects, but to offer an introduction into a little-known area of art to a wider audience and in particular “to show the artists whom the other exhibitions of Russian art did not represent.”16 On the other hand, accurate facts and details about the particular artists and works featured in the exhibition were not readily at hand, and Rannit’s comments about sales he facilitated imply that his view on Russian art focused on movements and artist’s names rather than details about single works. During the preparation of the exhibition Rannit and the director of the University of Virginia Art Museum, David Lawall, had an argument about what art was worth showing: If you and I differ in general view-point, Lawall wrote, it may be that I would prefer to see a larger image of what is worthwhile in Russian art, the achievement that is of universal validity. You, on the other hand, seem to be more preoccupied with the very evident failings of the Russian govern-

16 Emphasis in the original. Amherst Center for Russian Culture, Alexis Rannit Materials, folder 1, undated letter to Whitney. Exhibitions of Russian avant-garde art in the years before or in 1980 included The Avant-Garde in Russia 1910-1930: New Perspectives at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (1980); Liberated Colour and Form: Russian Non-objective Art, 1915-1922 at the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art (1978); Revolution: Russian Avant-Garde 1912-1930 at the Museum of Modern Art, New York (1978).

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Although the letter expresses one individual’s opinion about Russian art and culture, it appears symptomatic for the difference between the interests of a “traditional” Western audience and Rannit’s as well as Whitney’s mission. Both valued Russian art beyond aesthetic innovation but as representative of Russian culture in a broad sense. After the exhibition Rannit wrote to Whitney: Notwithstanding some struggle, the Virginia exhibition was worth it, was worth any troubles. The significance of your collection is now much clearer [highlighted in the original]. And, if you decide to enlarge it, you can now concentrate on truly important works only.18

It seems, however, that concentrating on “truly important works” was not Whitney’s goal, since purchases from the 1980s show the same pattern as the earlier acquisitions: highlights and less significant works are represented in equal parts, indicating a strategy that had as its aim the creation of a collection with tremendous breadth and depth. Whitney mentions in a letter to Rannit that he was “interested only in things of very superior quality, of indubitable authenticity, and, of course, of acceptable price.”19 He entrusted his friend to explore potential acquisitions in his favourite bookstores and galleries in New York and Europe on his behalf and frequently asked him to evaluate works with regard to their authenticity. Rannit also helped the collector with the conservation and framing of purchased works and he facilitated numerous purchases, including works from his own collection, which provided him with some extra income. Among Rannit’s sales were works by Annenkov – three pre- and post-emigration drawings and a couple of prints – a print by Vladimir Favorsky, and a drawing by the little-known artist Aleksandr Grinev. Rannit’s experience enabled him to make good judgements in most instances, and Whitney trusted him completely. On the occasion of his purchase of two sketchbooks by Elena Guro from Mirra Mejlakh-Orlov in Brookline, Massachusetts, he wrote:

17

Yale University Library, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Aleksis Rannit Papers, GEN MSS 715, box 28, file 1, folder 2, letter 23 April 1980. 18 Amherst Center for Russian Culture, Alexis Rannit Materials, folder 1, letter 17 October 1980. 19 Yale University Library, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Aleksis Rannit Papers, GEN MSS 715, box 41, letter 24 April 1978.

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On the Guro notebooks I have many qualms. The notebooks are not signed. The text such as is there is totally illegible. The drawings in them are very casual. She is so far really still an unknown. ... Your own enthusiasm for this acquisition leads me to accept your judgment on faith.20

Conclusion By the 1980s, Thomas Whitney was an excellent connoisseur of Russian art. While he was not a professional art historian, he educated his eye by seeing a large amount of works and he learned much from his friends and advisers. He was fortunate that his wish to collect Russian art coincided with the appearance of Russian modernism on the art market after it had been hidden in private collections and museum storage rooms in the Soviet Union for some three decades. Whitney did not take a superficial approach in his collecting, however, but he pursued his mission to establish a monument to the Russian intelligentsia with great dedication and persistence. The comments with which he annotated auction catalogues – about his or Rannit’s preferences, about the quality and preferability of certain works, and about the prices they fetched – offer insight into his serious work with the material. When Whitney gave the collection to Amherst, it was lacking information about many works’ context, exact dates, and artists. Apparently neither Whitney nor Rannit were enthusiastic about researching and documenting facts that did not immediately relate to questions of authenticity and visual appeal. The collection represents diverse aspects of late nineteenth- and twentieth-century Russian art from symbolism to suprematism. It includes icons and both early- and late-career works by acclaimed artists like Goncharova and Larionov, and offers a glimpse into nonconformist art. While Whitney deliberately collected smaller works for financial and possibly storage reasons, his collection reflects the limited availability of Russian art at the time. Despite certain restrictions, Whitney managed to assemble a comprehensive and inclusive collection, relying especially on his network of émigré artists and friends, collectors, and galleries, as well as his own personal taste, which was open to many forms of visual expression.

20 Amherst Center for Russian Culture, Alexis Rannit Materials, folder 1, letter 28 February 1979.

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Bibliography Aigi, G. (2002): Nikolai Khardzhiev and the Maiakovsky Museum, Moscow. In: Petrova, E. (ed.): A Legacy Regained: Nikolai Khardzhiev and the Russian Avant-Garde, St Petersburg: Palace Editions, pp. 43-49. Brinton, C. (ed.) (1934-1935): The Art of Soviet Russia, Philadelphia: Pennsylvania Museum of Art and American Russian Institute. Gray, C. (1962): The Russian Experiment in Art 1863-1922, London: Thames and Hudson. Hammer, M. and Lodder, C. (2000): Constructing Modernity: The Art and Career of Naum Gabo, New Haven, London: Yale University Press. Hollerbach, S. (1981): The Whitney Collection of Modernist Russian Art: A Review Article. In: Slavic and Eastern European Journal 25, no. 4, pp. 87-92. Hutton, I. (1981): The Leonard Hutton Galleries’ Involvement with Russian Avant-Garde Art. In: Art Journal 41, no. 3, pp. 211-214. Khardzhiev, N. (2002): Introduction to Kazimir Malevich’s “Autobiography” (parts 1 and 2). In: Petrova, E. (ed.): A Legacy Regained: Nikolai Khardzhiev and the Russian Avant-Garde, St Petersburg: Palace Editions, pp. 147-156. Lozowick, L. (1925): Modern Russian Art, New York: Museum of Modern Art / Société Anonyme. Nash, S.A., Merkert, J. and Gabo, N. (1985): Sixty Years of Constructivism, Munich: Prestel-Verlag. Rannit, A. (ed.) (1980): Invention and Tradition: Selected Works from the Julia A. Whitney Foundation and the Thomas P. Whitney Collection of Modernist Russian Art, Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. The art of Russia that nobody sees: an exclusive report on the astonishing hidden rebellion by young painters who defy the official line by going modern. In: Life, 28 March 1960. Turbow Lampard, M. (2001): Russian Artists in New York. In: Turbow Lampard, M., Bowlt, J.E. and Salmond, W.R. (eds.): The Uncommon Vision of Sergei Konenkov, 1874-1971: A Russian Sculptor and His Times, New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, pp. 161-171. Whitney, T. P. (1962): Russia in My Life, New York: Reynal.

ILYA KABAKOV: A REPRESENTATIVE ÉMIGRÉ ARTIST AND THE INTERNATIONAL (ÉMIGRÉ) ART DISCOURSE OLGA KELLER

Visualisation and translation of the Soviet Ilya Kabakov launched an international career after his emigration from Moscow in the late 1980s. The former “unofficial” Moscow conceptualist was discovered by influential Western curators who engaged in the process of presenting his “total installations” in the most renowned museums and including him in significant exhibitions (Magiciens de la Terre, 1989; Dislocations, 1991; Documenta 9, 1992; The 45th Venice Biennale, 1993; Whitney Biennial, 1997; Global Conceptualism, 1999). Nonetheless, Kabakov has been haunted by issues of his legitimisation and cultural translation for a long time. Kabakov’s installations such as The Man Who Flew into Space from His Apartment from the series Ten Characters (1989), The Red Wagon (1991), The Toilets (1992) and other “typically Soviet” works of the 1990s confront the viewer with utopian aspirations of Soviet modernity, ideological propaganda promising the “bright future”, as well as grey everyday life in communal apartments with a commonly shared kitchen, closet, and corridor – at first glance. His metaphors are often misread as literal reconstructions of Soviet spaces, or as symbols. It all depends on the beholders’ point of view, if they take the Soviet experience as totalitarian, ideological, lacking privacy and coined by commodity deficit, in a word: as a traumatic one. Or, on the contrary, they recover its potential as an emancipatory, communal, collective, non-capitalist, de-alienated, solidly united and utopian alternative to the experience of modernity in the capitalist Western world. Subjects of the installations have changed with the passing of time, and Kabakov’s commentary remains suspended between aversion and nostalgia.

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In the 1990s, Western musealisation of the “relics of communism” (Groys 1997, 155) attested to a certain degree their dysfunctionality in the Soviet and post-Soviet reality. Isolated from the original context, they appeared exotic, strange and different enough from Western artistic production. Kabakov has resolved the problem of the inadequate presentation of his work by elaborating a new genre of the total installation that functions as an autonomous museum space. “Installation is an attempt by the artist to take control over the context and thereby the interpretation, perception, and the art historical integration of his work” (Groys 1997, 163). On the one hand museum presupposes a historical oblivion, on the other it prevents the same. Kabakov has been ambitioned not only to be acknowledged by art history and to preserve his artistic work in Western museums, but rather to save (fragments of) the Soviet past from oblivion, for it was the first modern civilization the decay of which we could witness (Groys 2001, 339). Undeniably, Ilya Kabakov has contributed much to render Soviet experience visible within the Western museum space. But visibility is not an equivalent to comprehensible understanding. That is the reason for Mikhail Ryklin’s dubious hesitation concerning the actuality of Kabakov’s international integration: Inclusion in museums where perception of iconic signs does not necessarily need to be mediated is less exclusive than the historical and philosophical discourses. That means that the global significance is ascribed not to Kabakov’s visualised, material artwork as such, but rather to an illegible longing that is inherent to the total installation (Ryklin 2005, 653). To encapsulate this in a formula: The aesthetically articulated, materialized content is translated by Kabakov in a sophisticated manner. Thus, exactly this part of visualised Soviet experience could be integrated in museums as well as in the narrative. What Ryklin refers to is a particular, perhaps the most important part of the installation for which there is no “independent and anonymous discourse of the Soviet” (Ryklin 2005, 652). During the Soviet period, Moscow conceptualism was a circle of “unofficial” artists who elaborated mechanisms of self-interpretation and used the Soviet material to investigate the “post-utopian” time they lived in. They cultivated a general distrust regarding any external interpretation and contextualisation of their artistic work. Soviet criticism – if it was art criticism at all – on the one hand ignored the activity of that micro-community, but on the other hand “official” scholarship’s approach would have been inadequate for professional investigations. During and after perestroika, Russian art establishment was neither equipped for confrontations with the West nor with a new generation of Russian critics, curators and artists.

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Viktor Misiano, whose curatorial and editorial projects remain central in advancing and fostering Russian contemporary art since the late 1980s, complained in 1990 about the “passive role” of Soviet establishment: Exhibition spaces are open to any initiative, particularly when a Westerner will cover the costs. Soviet magazines are willing to publish work by any foreign author […]. The Soviet art world outstrips its colleagues […]. [A]rtistic community, with its absence of qualified consultants, has not provided a single example, not even of an anthropological sort, on contemporary art criticism. (Misiano 1990, 106)

The majority of theorists writing on Kabakov’s work are Russian émigrés, or have at least chosen self-imposed emigration. Many of their works have meanwhile been translated into Russian. Boris Groys is today’s key reference, particularly in Europe and Germany. The philosopher and art theorist has provided solid ground for further analysis on Soviet “unofficial” and contemporary Russian art. The scope of his account on Kabakov is constantly growing. Since his catalogue contribution for the artist’s first solo exhibition at the Kunsthalle Bern in 1985, Groys can indeed be seen as an integral part of the project “phenomenon Kabakov”. After all, it has to be mentioned that the majority of Kabakov’s “translators” are associated with the former circle of Moscow conceptualists, whose spiritus rector has been Groys since the 1970s. Margarita and Victor Tupitsyn are familiar with Kabakov’s work and the Moscow “unofficial” art scene, too. After their emigration in the late 1970s, they organised a variety of seminal exhibitions in the United States, published on Soviet and post-Soviet artists, and – like most emigrants – were confronted with prejudices of Western museum staff: “They looked at me differently”, Margarita Tupitsyn recalls, “because they were always suspicious that émigrés can never really tell the story. There is a conviction that we are conservative; that we always hate the country that we left”. After perestroika, art community’s attitude towards Russian émigrés changed. “There was more trust: you became more authentic” (Fowle 2016, 16). Tupitsyn was the first one who published on Kabakov in Flash Art (1986), in a period when the artist was hardly known in the West (Tupitsyn 1986). “Russian-born, Western-trained” scholars such as Svetlana Boym, Mikhail Ryklin, Ekaterina Degot, and the above-mentioned theorists, have the knowledge of both Western academic discourse as well as Soviet and Russian cultural context. They loom large in the understanding of contemporary Russian culture and its Soviet legacy. The challenge faced by these academics is to reintegrate Russian art and to ensure its

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historicization. In Mikhail Ryklin’s view, Kabakov and Groys were the pioneers in reflecting possibilities to succeed in the global art world after emigration (Ryklin 2005, 626). In the interview of Kabakov and Groys published in English and German in Parkett 1992, Kabakov admitted: I understand my own functioning in the West not as a functioning in the midst of life, but as an existence inside of certain artistic institutions […] [Y]ou involuntarily become foremost a Russian, a representative of your own culture – and all your problems are not yours personally, but Russian problems. (Kabakov and Groys 1992, 37-38)

On the one hand, Kabakov has finally found the institutions, infrastructure, and art criticism – all the professional mechanisms he lacked in Moscow. He was ambitioned to compensate three decades of missed opportunities to exhibit. On the other hand, “in the West you exist as a cultural persona […] after which you can no longer be ignored at home.” Abroad, “they want you exactly because you are a Russian artist” (Misiano 1990, 106).

Strategies for survival In the mid-1990s the cardinal question occurred: Why is it, that some artists from (Soviet) Russia have been able to survive in the West, and some of them failed? In an interview with Robert Storr, Kabakov answered as follows: [W]hen these artists arrived in the West, they turned out to be part of modernist past. […] In my situation, the circumstances were such that art was not my native home. I looked at art almost from the perspective of art history, from the perspective of the overall cultural situation. […] I looked at the Soviet culture in which I grew up through the eyes of an outsider, which means I was also looking at myself through an outsider’s eyes. The same is true for me in the West; I live here, but I look at everything from the sidelines. (Storr and Kabakov 1995, 67-68)

What Kabakov tries to make clear by using the term “outsider”, are in fact coordinates of art history within which the Russian émigré artist has located himself. At the congress in Sweden 1995, where he was invited to speak about his “Strategies for survival”, Kabakov defined himself primarily as a “culturally relocated person”.

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I am supposed to guess just what it is in me that is typical. And I, it seems to me, have guessed. I am a ‘relocated person’. […] It is pleasant to feel like a so-called individual, but it is no less if not more pleasant to reveal and display your individuality not as something exceptional, but just the opposite, as something very, highly characteristic and typical. (Kabakov 1995, 55-56)

In his speech, Kabakov focused less on the alleged typicality, but much more on the stylistic and conceptual devices as well as on calculated strategies which are indispensable for contemporary artistic practice: According to Kabakov, first of all, the émigré artist’s vector should be directed towards visual representation in “nonprofit organizations” (Kabakov 1995, 61). To convince and be selected by curators, the artist “elaborates a theory of ‘his own niche’” (Kabakov 1995, 67) including three components: “[…] his speech should be comprised of a contemporary ‘vocabulary’, a ‘new’ utterance pronounced taking into account precisely this vocabulary, and an individual ‘accent’, personal dominants of this utterance” (Kabakov 1995, 66). To endow his work with international legible visual language, solid knowledge of art history is essential because without the knowledge of all – I want to repeat the horrible and frightening word ‘ALL’ – the pages and preferably along with the notes published at the end in fine print, any work, and not only a new or original one, in this terrible Western art word is useless. (Kabakov 1995, 67)

The accent, on the contrary, is the “inalienable colour and shading of his national culture” (Kabakov 1995, 68) on which the artist does not have to work or to worry about. It seems to be much more complicated, according to Kabakov, to formulate a new statement, “this accursed ‘new’ thing without which you simply wouldn’t be ‘admitted’ anywhere” (Kabakov 1995, 67). For a general explanation of what is meant by the new, Kabakov refers to Boris Groys’s book Über das Neue, published in 1992.1 The idea discussed in the book On the New was developed after a period of Western perestroika-enthusiasm for the Soviet Union and Russia. It deals, in a broader sense, with the integration of new and innovative artistic or theoretical production that claims the right to become part of cultural archives (museum, encyclopaedia etc.). In Groys’s opinion, the new emerges in the process of “revaluation of values”. Via “negative adaptation”, the new refers howsoever to and continues the established narrative. Strategically formulated and articulated, innovation (the new) 1 English translation: Groys 2014; Russian translation: Groys 2015. Further quoted from Groys 1992b. Unless otherwise noted, translations are my own.

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demands a comparison of phenomena which have neither been compared nor collated before. On the aesthetic and formal level, tradition can be radically denied, but at the same time the artist or theorist has to provide an alternative proposition to what he denied, thereby compensating the rupture he caused in the archive (Groys 1992b, 87-88). The existing “value boundary between the cultural archive and the profane realm” is the locus where the new can be formulated. Moreover, the intensity of a work of art and its value or relevance for cultural archive is determined by the ability of artists and intellectuals to confront the most elitist levels of traditional culture with the most profane phenomena which, on their part, lie beyond any cultural references. It is not necessary at all, according to Groys, to conceal their incompatibility. On the contrary, the dichotomy between culture and non-culture should be clearly articulated and visually discernible. (Groys 1992b, 70-72). The innovation targets not so much the “devalorisation of art” but the “valorisation of the profane” (Groys 1992b, 78). Setting the above-mentioned concept2 against Kabakov’s story about strategies for entering the Western art world, total installation could be considered as being the aesthetic realisation of what Groys describes as the new: To make his “Russian” art comprehensible to the Western audience, it has been insufficient to present works lacking the Russian-Soviet atmosphere: heavy, repressive, boringly grey, hopeless, and infinitely sad. And if the Western viewer can remain indifferent as he stands before such ‘strange things’ located in clean, bright halls of a museum or kunsthalle, then he cannot remain so when he is surrounded on all sides by ‘such air’. (Kabakov 1995, 74)

Kabakov has confronted one of the most elitist cultural spheres – the museum – with the profane (atmo-)sphere of Soviet everyday life. The total installation can be seen as an act of “valorisation of the profane”, as it is described by Groys. The way in which Kabakov estimates his “cultural move” or, as he usually says, his “business trip” is not irrelevant. He perceives his emigration not as a transition from one cultural context to another, but rather as a transition “from underneath the ruins and fragments of a culture that had existed at one time and had been totally destroyed” (Kabakov 1995, 70). From Kabakov’s “perspective of art history, from the perspective of the overall cultural situation” the mature artist has entered the “valuable cultural archive” from the “profane realm”.3 2

The content of Groys’s book is delineated here in a simplified and reduced form. The given article is intended to discuss the artistic practice of Ilya Kabakov and to abstain from conditions of his personal life.

3

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In spite of his confession to Western culture and its institutions, the Russian émigré could do nothing but accept “his own niche” therein. Further in his report, Kabakov emphasises the difference between the Western culture’s “own children” and the strangers: Western culture is so vital, so stable, its roots are so deep and so alive, it is so productive that it […] absorbs, recasts and dissolves in itself all destructive actions by its own ‘children’ and […] it sees in these actions its very own development […]. [T]his criticism, like the destruction itself, is permitted, if it can so be expressed, only from its own children. […] The newcomer here is ‘forever’ – I repeat this fatal word ‘forever’ – left with only those possibilities which are reserved for guests, and there are only two of them: to talk about how you feel in your ‘guest’ position or about the place you come from. (Kabakov 1995, 71-72)

Distinctive aspects of Kabakov’s strategies become evident: In the West, he is performing the role of a storyteller who works with Soviet-Russian material and artistically recreates the profane, local context. He also claims to abstain from any kind of subversive practices and institutional critique. But much more striking is the artist’s readiness to reveal and display his identity according to the rules of Western discourse.

Reconstructing identity The way in which Soviet experience is constructed by the West corresponds partially to the authentic. The émigré gets the chance to reconstruct his authentic identity according to the rules of representation at international venues. Belting and Buddensieg argue that modern exclusion of non-Western artists has developed more subtle forms. One can speak of a pseudo-inclusion, which obliges ‘the others’ to reveal their origin as context, or as a label of identity in order to have the right to be represented in the Western art scene.4

Expected identity is based on Western scholarly notions of diverse stereotypes. Successful émigrés are those who operate strategically with these expectations. That means that Russian émigré artists have to re-formulate their own identity according to the line of the existing narrative (Kabakov and Groys 1996, 12-84). Ryklin correctly states with regard to Russian émigré artists and intellectuals that the only possibility to awake any 4

Belting and Buddensieg 2013, 63. Unless otherwise quoted, translations are my own.

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interest in the Western art world and academic community is to “sacrifice your own identity” (Ryklin 2005, 631). What remains problematic is the definition, perception and evaluation of Soviet experience. From within, it appears as something unique and incomparable; from the Western point of view, the Soviet experience is seen as an integral part of the Western experience. Russia “was the limit of the Western world and its experimental lab, the exotic land of communist utopia and absolutist dystopia, of revolution and stagnation” (Boym 1994, 24).

Discursive difference Similar to Kabakov’s comparison of the Western culture’s “own children” and the “guests” is Ryklin’s attitude towards Western leftist intellectuals with whom he and his Moscow colleagues interacted during perestroika and in the early 1990s5. Despite permanent critique of the capitalist system including art and culture, the participation of Western Marxists in the “discursive archive” is not restricted. Though operating against the mainstream, critical theory draws from a preserved canon of interpretations on the Soviet. Their Eastern counterpart, while accepting the capitalist society more composedly, can hardly get access to the established narrative (Ryklin 2005, 644). Despite the fact that the concept of Soviet or socialist experience is well elaborated by Western scholarship there is no common ground among Western and Eastern theorists, and very few can be seriously considered as key figures in the intellectual exchange: Not to idealise communism has been the objective of thinkers from the East, whereas Western Marxists have insisted on analysing communism as the last global alternative to the capitalist order that has kept realms open for utopia. For critical intellectuals from the East, the existence of a nonsocialist West sustained the dream that there could be ‘normalcy’ in social life. For their counterparts in the West, the existence of the noncapitalist East sustained the dream that the Western capitalist system was not the only possible form of modern production. (Buck-Morss 2000, 238)

Susan Buck-Morss seems to agree with Ryklin concerning the short-term effects of a “common critical discourse” (Buck-Morss 2000, xii). She

5

On the period of exchange between Moscow and Western scholars from the late 1980s to the early 1990s, see Buck-Morss 2000, 214-278.

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recalls a conference from 1990,6 the goal of which was “including Soviet experience within the meaning of postmodernism” as well as considering postmodernism symptomatic for the post-communist condition: Moreover, in terms of postmodern culture there were ways one could argue that the Soviet Union was in advance of the rest of the world, having attained this new historical stage before the capitalist West. Political cynicism, anti-utopianism, distrust of all totalizing discourses – were not these characteristics of postmodernity already well established in Soviet dissident culture as part of the intellectual legacy of de-Stalinization? (BuckMorss 2000, 232-233)

The “anti-utopianism” mentioned by Buck-Morss is often analysed in a comparative way with the Soviet post-utopianism that was coined by Groys. His Gesamtkunstwerk Stalin7 is paradigmatic for the perception of the avant-garde during the 1980s. Mikhail Epstein’s account on Russian postmodernism extends and confirms the post-utopian vector (Epstein 1995; Epstein 1999). Kabakov and the circle of Moscow conceptualists have shared a common point of view and have been particularly critical towards the avant-garde’s utopian ambitions to change the world radically. Soviet artists of the 1980s reassessed the avant-garde with regard to its immanent totalitarian tendencies. From the post-utopianist perspective, the project of communist modernism and modernisation failed and remained unfulfilled. For artists like Kabakov, the future-oriented prospect of utopia is losing its power in reality.8 Post-utopianism, according to the critical statement of Boris Buden, meanwhile claims to be more than an artistic movement. The notion has been applied to the entire historical period of the post-communist East, named ‘the post-communist condition’ (Buden 2009, 175-177). After the disintegration of the Soviet Union, nostalgia affected “some immigrants and Soviet dissidents for the clear sense of what was the empire of evil; of aging left intellectuals in the West who began to realise there is no way ‘back in the USSR’” (Boym 1994, 284) and from today’s point of view, it seems that longing for utopia, for a utopian way of thinking – at least on the academic and cultural level – has become possible again.

6

The conference took place at the Inter-University Center in Dubrovnik in October 1990, cf. Buck-Morss 2000, 230. 7 Groys 1988; English translation: Groys 1992a; Russian translation: Groys 1993. 8 On Moscow conceptualists’ reflection of historical avant-garde’s utopianism, see Arns 2004.

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We are all post-Soviet In the context of post-communist discourse, utopia is conceived not only as the Eastern dream and trauma, but rather as a global, collective longing: In her in-depth analysis on nostalgia, Svetlana Boym attests to our epoch a “global epidemic of nostalgia, an affective yearning for a community with a collective memory, a longing for continuity in a fragmented world” (Boym 2001, xiv). In a similar manner to Buck-Morss and Boym, Charity Scribner argues in her Requiem for Communism that the socialist project also belonged to Western Europeans. Most Western intellectuals never lived or visited the Eastern Bloc, but many of them, especially those of a leftist orientation declared an investment in socialism with a fervor matched only, perhaps, by Soviet ideologues. (Scribner 2003, 4)

Utopian aspirations of the last century are now transmitted into the realm of culture, because “culture becomes an important meeting ground for the collective.” The “culture’s potential for social change exceeds that of the work-space” (Scribner 2003, 158). Capitalists and socialist countries share a common experience of trauma, collective sorrow, and loss. Cultural production such as film, literature and art that “recalls the socialist collective does not simply indulge in melancholia for an idealised communist or welfare state of the past. Rather, it heightens the awareness that something is missing from the present” (Scribner 2003, 3). A postcommunist utopia is neither conservative, nor restorative. The hypothesis of a post-communist condition means that improvement is impossible without the past, the emancipatory promise of utopia is confirmed. Postcommunism does not aim to restore the past, or to assume that the whole world could have been better in the past. It rather accents the thesis that a better world is impossible when ignoring the past. Buck-Morss is of the same opinion that we all are sharing the experience of change and loss. Now the experience is no longer named the Soviet one, but the postSoviet: […] ‘post-Soviet’ refers to an ontology of time […]. The post-Soviet condition does not describe as a curio the specimens who presently inhabit the former Soviet Union, to define ‘their’ situation or their culture as unique. This is not about ‘failed modernity’, or collective cultural difference based on linguistic specificity. Rather: we are all post-Soviet. […] It is the condition, the historical moment that is shared. (Buck-Morss 2006, 498)

Buden’s quite cynical conclusion as well as comments on the above-mentioned discourse culminate in his assumption of careerist aspirations that

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motivate the socialist way of thinking. Such a perspective may promote one’s academic position but it will never provoke real social changes (Buden 2009, 171). Ryklin suggestively indicates that Kabakov’s total installations recreate not a global but an “exclusively Soviet experience” (Ryklin 2005, 650) for which there is a specific “self-made” discourse. Reasonable arguments for agreeing with that hypothesis can be found in Kabakov’s Soviet past when he was the leading member of an “internal emigrant community”. Quite abruptly, he found himself in a position “between international elite and nostalgia for the unimpeached moral purity of the old underground” (Misiano 1990, 106). With regard to Kabakov’s success in the West, Boym holds the opinion that it is not due to his recreation of Russian and Soviet exotica for foreigners, but precisely the opposite […] [T]he experience of longing itself and its hidden dimensions. Kabakov’s distracted Western viewers all share this intimate and haunting longing that often overwhelms them in the middle of a crowded museum, but most of them have too little time to figure out what exactly they are longing for. (Boym 2001, 326)

According to Kabakov’s story, the recreation of the “Russian-Soviet atmosphere” is the focal point – not the objects at all. “Independent and anonymous” international discourse cannot exist yet – to my mind, too – because the Western art world has partially been able to abolish its affection for commodity and consumption, be it critical or positive. What still remains focal in the West is still the (art) object. As Keti Chukhrov stated, “the West confronted capitalism and bourgeois ideology through a different paradigm”, that of subversion and criticism (Chukhrov 2013, 255). It becomes relatively evident when the Marxist scholar Buck-Morss reflects on differences between Soviet and Western thinkers in the wake of perestroika: But in our own critiques of capitalism, our neo-Marxist categories remained largely unmodified despite sea-changes in the global political and economic situation. We seemed, generally, to be reviving the official polarization between Eastern and Western discourses but this time with the positions reversed, the “East” using every stereotype of the Cold War to characterize its own totally unique, totally totalitarian past, and the “West” mouthing a standard criticism of capitalist, commodity culture that would have been acceptable in the USSR long before glasnost’.” (Buck-Morss 2000, 236-237)

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Here, the question has to be posed once again “whether or not the Soviet experience is regarded as an obsolete authoritarian past, or as an alternative modernity, which, notwithstanding all its failing, contained valuable elements” such as “emancipatory experience” (Chukhrov 2013, 253), “dealienated forms of life” and “absence of market economy” (Chukhrov 2013, 254), as well as “new modes of communication” (Chukhrov 2013, 255). These categories are beyond strategies of criticism and subversion, but much closer to Kabakov’s aesthetics. The communist experience he inherited as well as the local context where he matured as an artist is “sometimes emancipatory, and often very contradictory” (Chukhrov 2013, 259). The “contradictory” part is brilliantly visualised, objectified and intensively discussed. Often, the ironic and reflective nostalgia in Kabakov’s oeuvre remains incomprehensible.

Bibliography Arns, I. (2004): Objects in the Mirror Can Be Closer than They Appear. Die Avantgarde im Rückspiegel. PhD thesis. Humboldt-Universität Berlin. Belting, H. and Buddensieg, A. (2013): Zeitgenossenschaft als Axiom von Kunst im Zeitalter der Globalisierung. In: Kunstforum International 220, pp. 61-69. Boym, S. (1994): Common Places. Mythologies of Everyday Life in Russia, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. —. (2001): The Future of Nostalgia. New York: Basic Books. Buck-Morss, S. (2000): Dreamworld and Catastrophe. The Passing of Mass Utopia in East and West, Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. —. (2006): The Post-Soviet Condition. In: East Art Map. Contemporary Art and Eastern Europe, London: Afterall, pp. 494-99. Buden, B. (2009): Zonen des Übergangs: Vom Ende des Post-Kommunismus, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Chukhrov, K. (2013): Between Revisited Historical Socialism and Imported Western Discourses. In: Dziewanska, M., Degot, E. and Budraitskis, I. (eds.): Post-Post-Soviet? Art, Politics & Society in Russia at the Turn of the Decade, Warsaw: Museum of Modern Art, pp. 251-260. Epstein, M. (1995): After the Future. The Paradoxes of Postmodernism and Contemporary Russian Culture, Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press.

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Epstein, M., Genis, A. and Vladiv-Glover, S. (1999): Russian Postmodernism. New Perspectives on Post-Soviet Culture, New York: Berghahn Books. Fowle, K. (2016): The New International Decade. 1986-1996. In: Fowle, K., Addison, R. (eds.): Exhibit Russia: The New International Decade, Prague: Artguide s.r.o., pp. 6-35. Groys, B. (1988): Gesamtkunstwerk Stalin. Die gespaltene Kultur der Sowjetunion, München, Wien: Carl Hanser. ––. (1992a): The Total Art of Stalinism. Avant-Garde, Aesthetic Dictatorship, and Beyond, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. ––. (1992b): Über das Neue. Versuch einer Kulturökonomie, München, Wien: Carl Hanser. ––. (1993): ɍɬɨɩɢɹ ɢ ɨɛɦɟɧ. ɋɬɢɥɶ ɋɬɚɥɢɧ. Ɉ ɧɨɜɨɦ. ɋɬɚɬɶɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɂɧɚɤ. ––. (1997): Die Musealisierung des Ostens. In: Groys, B.: Die Logik der Sammlung. Am Ende des musealen Zeitalters, München, Wien: Carl Hanser, pp. 154-166. ––. (2001): Ein Mann, der die Zeit überlisten will. In: Engelmann, P. (ed.): Kabakov, I.: Die 60er und 70er Jahre: Aufzeichnungen über das inoffizielle Leben in Moskau, transl. by Wolfgang Weitlaner, Wien: Passagen, pp. 333-341. ––. (2014): On the New, London: Verso. —. (2015): Ɉ ɧɨɜɨɦ. Ɉɩɵɬ ɷɤɨɧɨɦɢɤɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ad Marginem, Ƚɚɪɚɠ. Kabakov, I. (1995): A Story About a Culturally Relocated Person. In: Chambert, C. (ed.): Strategies for Survival-Now! Lund: The Swedish Art Critics Association Press, pp. 55-77. Kabakov, I. and Groys, B. (1992): With Russia On Your Back. In: Parkett 34, pp. 35-39. —. (1996): Dialog über den Westen. In: Krüger, M. (ed.): Die Kunst der Installation, München, Wien: Carl Hanser, pp. 12-84. Misiano, V. (1990): Soviet Art on the Road to a New Identity. In: Barzel, A. and Jolles, C. (eds.): Contemporary Russian Artists, Prato: Museo d’Arte Contemporanea Luigi Pecci, pp 104-107. Ryklin, M. (2005): Die Reise in den Westen. In: Groys, B., von der Heiden, A. and Weibel, P. (eds.): Zurück aus der Zukunft. Europäische Kulturen im Zeitalter des Postkommunismus, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, pp. 617-661. Scribner, C. (2003): Requiem for Communism, Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.

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Storr, R. and Kabakov, I. (1995): An Interview with Ilya Kabakov. In: Art in America 83, no.1, pp. 60-69, 125. Tupitsyn, M. (1986): Ilya Kabakov. In: Flash Art, no.126, pp. 67-69.

Olga Velitchkina

Figure 1. Cover of the LP of the Ivanovich Brothers, Philips, 1972

Figure 5. Wall at the restaurant Zakouski featuring André Shestopalov (center), Alësha Dimitrievich (left) and Tsiganes Ivanovich (down). Photo O.Velitchkina

Vita Susak

Figure 1. Alexis Gritchenko, Jesus Christ healing Apostle Peter’s mother- in-law, 1920. Watercolour on paper, 24,5 x 28 cm. Copy of a mosaic fragment in the Kariye Camii Church. Private collection, New Jersey, USA

Figure 2. Alexis Gritchenko, Rain over the Hagia Sophia, 1920. Oil on canvas, 72 x 77 cm. The Kyiv National Art Museum of Ukraine

Figure 3. Alexis Gritchenko, Le gamin d’Istanbul, 1921. Gouache on board, 33 x 26 cm. The Kyiv National Art Museum of Ukraine

Figure 4. Alexis Gritchenko, Veiled Turkish Woman, 1920. Oil on canvas, 99,5 x 76 cm. The Kyiv National Art Museum of Ukraine

Ayúenur Güler

Figure 1. øbrahim Çalli, Petition Writer, 1921. Oil on canvas, 63 x 53 cm. Cimcoz Family Collection, Istanbul

Figure 2. øbrahim ÇallÕ, Whirling Dervishes. Oil on plywood, 62 x 76 cm. Cimcoz Family Collection, Istanbul

Figure 3. NamÕk øsmail, Alexis Gritchenko, 1920. Oil on cardboard, 62 x 50 cm. Private Collection, Istanbul

Figure 4. Alexis Gritchenko, Cemetery, 1920. Watercolour on paper, 22,5 x 28,5 cm. Private Collection, Istanbul

Lina Bernstein

Figure 2. Magda Nachman Acharya, Portrait of a Dancer, 1947. Frontispiece of G. Venkatachalam’s important book on Indian dance, Dance in India, 1947

Figure 3. Magda Nachman Acharya, A Marathi Woman, 194?. Collection of Brian and Darryl D’Monte, Mumbai, India

Figure 4. Magda Nachman Acharya, Portrait of a Boy, 1945. Collection of Noam Mualem Yosef, Gilboa, Israel

Matteo Bertelé

Ill. 1. Gregorio Sciltian, Portrait of Galeazzo Ciano (Ritratto di Galeazzo Ciano), 1943. Oil on canvas, 116 x 96 cm. Gardone Riviera, Fondazione Il Vittoriale degli Italiani

Ill. 2. Gregorio Sciltian, The Modernist’s school (La scuola dei modernisti), 1955-56. Oil on canvas, 120 x 145 cm. Milano, Adreani Collection

Ill. 3. Mikhail Koulakov, War for Freedom, 1960. Ink on paper, cardboard, 77 x 56 cm. Koulakov Collection

Ill. 4. Mikhail Koulakov, Men-Mountains, 1977. Oil on canvas, 92 x 67 cm. Koulakov Collection

Ill. 5. Gregorio Sciltian, Beggars (I vagabondi), 1943. Oil on canvas, 100 x 80 cm. Milano, Adreani Collection

Ill. 6. Gregorio Sciltian, Mors atomica, 1978. Oil on canvas, 215 x 150 cm. Gardone Riviera, Fondazione Il Vittoriale degli Italiani

Ill. 7. Mikhail Koulakov, Family, 1966. Oil on canvas, 67 x 92 cm. Koulakov Collection

Marina Dmitrieva

Ill. 1. The first yearbook of the Seminarium Kondakovianum, 1926 with an Scythian rider as its emblem

Ill. 6. Cartoons of Ivan Bilibin for the Russian church in Olšany, Prague, 19241925, 99 x 79 cm (the image 93 x 65,5 cm) from the Archive of the Kondakov Institute, Prague. Institute of Art History, Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic, Prague

Ill. 7: Boris Grigoriev, The Faces of the World, 1920-1931. Oil on plywood, 250 x 520 cm. National Gallery, Prague

Ill. 8: Boris Grigoriev, The Faces of the World, 1920-1931. Oil on plywood, 250 x 520 cm. National Gallery, Prague

Bettina Jungen

Figure 1. Il’ia Chashnik, Red Circle and Suprematist Cross, ca. 1925. India ink and watercolour on paper, 45,4 x 37,1 cm. Mead Art Museum, Amherst College, Gift of Thomas P. Whitney (Class of 1937)

Figure 2. Mikhail Larionov, Landscape with Wagon (Paysage: Étude), ca. 1909. Oil on canvas laid on fiberboard, 72,1 x 70,2 cm. Mead Art Museum, Amherst College, Gift of Thomas P. Whitney (Class of 1937)

Figure 3. Kuz’ma Petrov-Vodkin, Mother of God with Child, 1922. Oil on board, 34 x 38,4 cm. Mead Art Museum, Amherst College, Gift of Thomas P. Whitney (Class of 1937)

Figure 4. Boris Grigor’ev, An Old Man with a Goat, 1920. Oil on canvas, 40,3 x 66,7 cm. Mead Art Museum, Amherst College, Gift of Thomas P. Whitney (Class of 1937)

SECTION 3: MUSIC

LEONID SABANEEV’S APOCALYPSE AND MUSICAL METAPHYSICS AFTER 1917 REBECCA MITCHELL

Reflecting on the changes introduced by the Bolshevik seizure of power in 1917, music critic Leonid Sabaneev (1881-1968) wrote about emigration that a new era began for me from the moment when, on a far from lovely day, all the so-called ‘bourgeois newspapers’ were closed by the Bolsheviks and my thoughts about music and musical performances were left hanging in silence.1

Sabaneev contrasted the new Soviet regime with the “good old days” in Russia, in which, he claimed, with nostalgic longing for the Silver Age, it was generally believed that music existed “outside of” politics – a worldview brought to a crashing end by the new Marxist ideology of the state. From emigration, this earlier era in which music had existed outside of political or social trends seemed hopelessly naïve. What point was there, Sabaneev concluded with resignation, in even discussing this “prehistoric” (ɞɨɢɫɬɨɪɢɱɟɫɤɨɟ) time before 1917 when everything had changed irreversibly? This mood of bitter resignation towards a transformed (and apparently inferior) modern world, together with nostalgia for an earlier Russia, where he believed that art had still held “mystery”, were common in Sabaneev’s musical criticism during his years of emigration.2 In actual fact, however, Sabaneev’s relationship both to the prerevolutionary and early Soviet eras of musical life was far more complex than this self-narration would suggest. It was, after all, an eminently strange kind of “silence” that stranded Sabaneev’s thoughts about music and musical performances after 1917. A short perusal of the composer and critic’s 1

Sabaneev, L. “Zhurnalizm i rabota v gazetakh” (undated), Box 1, p.1, Bakhmeteff Archive, Sabaneev Collection. 2 A number of these articles are held in the Bakhmeteff Archive, Sabaneev Collection. Some were also recently republished in Sabaneev 2005.

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activities in the fledgling Soviet state are impressive: Sabaneev served as a founding member of the State Institute for Musical Research (ȽɂɆɇ – Ƚɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɢɧɫɬɢɬɭɬ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɧɚɭɤɢ), the president of the Moscow branch of the Association of Contemporary Music (ȺɋɆ – Ⱥɫɫɨɰɢɚɰɢɹ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ), and, from 1921, as chair of the Academy of Artistic Sciences (ȽȺɏɇ – Ƚɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɚɹ Ⱥɤɚɞɟɦɢɹ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ ɧɚɭɤ).3 He also contributed countless articles to early Soviet music periodicals and found the time both to offer general-educational lectures to the Soviet “masses” and to publish a series of books devoted to making musical knowledge and education accessible to a broader audience, all prior to his departure from the Soviet Union in 1926.4 It is tempting to read Sabaneev’s intellectual shifts from imperial Russian to Soviet to émigré life as mere political expediency, the zigzagging path of an individual seeking to carve out a space for himself within a rapidly transforming world. Indeed, Sabaneev’s apparent reticence to acknowledge his Soviet-era work was hardly surprising given the internal tensions of the Russian émigré community vis-à-vis the new Soviet state.5 Moreover, his decision not to return to the Soviet Union after an approved business trip to Europe in 1926 left an indelible black mark on the music critic and composer’s status within the Soviet Union.6 Nevertheless, Sabaneev’s creative trajectory was actually far more consistent than such apparent political maneuvering would suggest. Ultimately, the very concepttual categories through which Sabaneev made sense of the world around him, themselves forged within the hothouse culture of late imperial Russia, continued to guide his interpretation of the world through the upheaval of revolution, his adaptation to life under a new political order, and ultimately, his emigration. As a cultural-intellectual historian, I am deeply interested in how former residents of the Russian empire made sense of the upheavals they had experienced. What conceptual frameworks did they employ to make sense of their lives? How did they strive to connect their past and present into a coherent narrative? How were prerevolutionary intellectual concepts and categories adapted to new realities, and how did they influence perceptions 3

Together with Vladimir Derzhanovsky, Sabaneev helped to found the Moscow ȺɋɆ on 29 November 1923 (Nelson 2004, 49). 4 Sabaneev 1923; Sitsky 1994, 291-302; Nelson 2004, 41-43. Journals that Sabaneev contributed to include Teatral’naia Moskva, K novym beregam, Muzykal’naia kul’tura, Sovremennaia muzyka and Muzyka i revoliutsiia. 5 On internal divisions within Russia Abroad, see for instance Raeff 1990; Jordon 2016. 6 On this negative view of Sabaneev, see for instance Sitsky 1994, 291-302.

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of past, present and future in the aftermath of revolutionary upheaval? And finally, how did music and perceptions of music shape this attempt to make sense of their lives? Employing the tools of Reinhart Koselleck’s conceptual history (Begriffsgeschichte), in this paper I use Leonid Sabaneev as a case study through which to examine how music’s symbolic importance continued to be interpreted within intellectual categories developed prior to 1917.7 While the framework within which he conceptualised the role of music remained surprisingly consistent, gradual disillusion with the ultimate triumph of human progress – and modernity itself – led Sabaneev to embrace a subjective temporality of an idealised past associated with the lost world of late imperial Russia. In his study of modernity, Koselleck emphasised the “space of experience” (Erfahrungsraum) and “horizon of expectation” (Erwartungshorizont) that shape human history, demonstrating that, in the modern age, the space of human experience no longer served as the central basis from which people imagined their future. Ideas of progress and a search for newness replaced an older emphasis on tradition and a world in which one’s future expectations were directly shaped by past experience.8 In late imperial Russia, growing anxiety over the path history seemed to be following gave rise to a conception of “musical time” as an alternative to “historical” or “calendar” time: through music, ordinary temporality, the temporality of modernity, could be transcended. Whether salvation from the present was to come through progression to a new level of humanity or a return to “eternal values”, there was a shared idea that music was a path through which to escape the contradictions and uncertainties of the modern age (Mitchell 2016, 27-49). But what happened to such conceptions of temporality within the context of war, revolution and emigration? Despite Leonid Sabaneev’s claim that there was “no point” in “remembering” events prior to 1917, in actuality the Russian émigré community (like Sabaneev himself) was obsessed with memory and with the problem of historical time. Klára Móricz has argued that

7

Koselleck 2004; Koselleck 2002. Koselleck’s approach, which acknowledges that certain concepts underpin all human experience even while their content shifts over time, provides a valuable methodology for tracking both shifts and continuities after 1917. 8 For Koselleck, Erfahrungsraum includes personal experience as well as cultural, social and political circumstances.

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Within this “suspended time,” she claims, the utopian temporality of the pre-revolutionary years, in which the future took precedence over the present, was replaced with a new temporality, in which the past predominated. (Móricz 2014, 18)

In other words, the temporality experienced by many Russian émigrés actually reversed the temporal claim advanced by Koselleck: the realm of experience often proved more desirable than the horizon of expectation, leading to a renewed emphasis on, and idealisation of, the past. Building on Koselleck’s conceptual framing of time in her analysis of the phenomenon of nostalgia, Svetlana Boym asserted that “nostalgia, as a historical emotion, is a longing for that shrinking ‘space of experience’ that no longer fits the new horizon of expectations.” (Boym 2001, 9-11) Thus, she concluded, nostalgia itself was a quintessentially modern conception of temporality; one, moreover, that was common amongst the first wave of Russian émigrés. Leonid Sabaneev, once one of the most outspoken supporters of modernist musical progress, offers a particularly striking example of this temporal shift from progressive time to nostalgic memory. From envisioning a world of constant human progress, in music as in science and society as a whole, Sabaneev gradually dissociated himself from the very idea of progress, retreating uncomfortably into a notquite-idealised memory of Russian Silver Age culture, a past that he embodied in both his music criticism and in many of his still unpublished later musical compositions, most notably The Apocalypse.

Sabaneev’s conceptual world: Musical metaphysics before 1917 One of the few consistencies in Sabaneev’s uneven path is his continued engagement with the worldview of musical metaphysics: a worldview that emerged in late imperial Russia, whose conceptual roots continued to feed both early Soviet and émigré life. In late imperial Russia, a curious meld of aesthetic ideas borrowed from such figures as Friedrich Nietzsche, Arthur Schopenhauer and Russian philosopher Vladimir Solov’ev gave rise to a widespread view of music as a metaphysical, mysterious and unifying force, able to overcome the divisions of modernity and reunify Russian society: a worldview I have elsewhere defined as “musical metaphysics”

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(Mitchell 2016). It was an interpretation circulated by cultural elites (writers, philosophers, musicians) who were themselves centred in urban centres of the empire (particularly Moscow and Petersburg). This cluster of ideas connected with music provided a shared framework, within which music’s significance was widely interpreted in the periodical press, contemporary programme notes, and personal letters. Musical metaphysics can be summarised in three overlapping categories: music as unity, musical time, and the search for Orpheus. Building on ideas borrowed from Schopenhauer (The World as Will and Representation) and Nietzsche (The Birth of Tragedy), music was seen as the ultimate unifying force, able to overcome the divisions of modernity (whether political, social or cultural): regardless of where an observer found the source of contemporary disunity, music was commonly cited as a central means of transcendence. It was also generally believed that music could lift the listener (or participant) out of normal temporal experience into “musical time”: a space of aesthetic transformation that would ultimately serve to usher in a better future. Finally, such an emphasis on music’s power gave rise to widespread attempts to define which contemporary Russian composer might be able to fulfill music’s promise. In this search for a contemporary “Orpheus”, different composers with contrasting musical styles were alternately touted or condemned according to their perceived ability to create music with the proper effect on its audience.9 As an active member of Moscow’s musical community, Sabaneev was a key figure in the construction and propagation of musical metaphysics as a worldview. Born in Moscow in 1881, Sabaneev pursued the study of physics, mathematics and music at the Moscow Conservatory and Moscow University.10 His involvement in scientific as well as musical studies strengthened his belief in the need for a scientific, scholarly approach to music that complemented his essentially idealist conception of music’s influence. Sabaneev soon established himself as an active music critic, composer and close friend and supporter of Aleksandr Skryabin, the composer who for a time embodied the greatest “Orphic” expectations of the era. It was in this guise that Sabaneev’s own variety of musical metaphysics took shape. Embedded in Sabaneev’s particular vision of “musical time” was an aestheticised approach to human progress that he identified in both scientific and artistic realms, arguing that each historical era needed music that 9

For a detailed discussion of this worldview and its application to Rachmaninov, Skriabin and Medtner prior to 1917, see Mitchell 2016. 10 Leonid Sabaneev to Boris Iurgenson (25 February 1915), RGALI f.931, op.1, ed.khr.96.

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responded to the unique spirit and developments of that era. In 1911, he argued that “the current epoch is distinguished specifically by the revaluation of the most basic principles upon which music has rested for many centuries,” 11 and claimed that human hearing was evolving into an ever more refined skill in which attentive listeners could make out more precise tonal differentiation than had been possible for earlier generations. Indeed, Sabaneev’s admiration of Skryabin was based on an interpretation of the composer that found in his creative development the ultimate embodiment of this “modern” temporality. Skryabin was, for Sabaneev, the embodiment of the new “Orpheus”: the composer whose music would usher in a fundamentally new era in the history of the human spirit. This argument formed the basis, both of his interpretation of Skryabin’s “Prometheus” chord as an intuitive uncovering of the natural series of overtones governing all music, and his own attempts to establish a new, 53note scale that could serve as the basis for contemporary musical creativity (Sabaneev 1910a, 6-10; Sabaneev 1910b, 85-88; Sabaneev 1911a, 286294; Sabaneev 1911b: 452-457; Sabaneev 1912b, 334-337; Sabaneev 1915, 18-30; Mitchell 2016, 87-90). Sabaneev’s obsession with musical progress was intimately tied to the belief that music had a clear psychological impact on an audience. At the basis of all music, he argued, lay “the direct and immediate language of emotions, willful impulses.” The task of the contemporary composer was the “gradual expansion of the emotional content of music”: to awaken new, more refined emotions and moods that would in turn help to usher in a new era of history.12 Contemporary humanity had moved beyond the emotional expression of a composer like J.S. Bach so that, Sabaneev argued, Bach’s music no longer had noticeable emotional impact on audiences (Sabaneev 1912a, 170). Skryabin’s music, in contrast, offered new aural possibilities to listeners and awakened new kinds of emotions unrecognisable to earlier generations of humanity. It was, in a word, the very epitome of progress. Having framed his interpretation of musical progress so decisively around the work of Skryabin, Sabaneev was shocked by the sudden and unexpected death of the composer in 1915, and he struggled to incorporate this new development into his narrative of music. Already in his 1916 book Skryabin, Sabaneev assailed the composer’s failure to fulfill the task of Orpheus – earning him the opprobrium of many of Skryabin’s more mystically-inclined admirers (Sabaneev 1916). In an act of either mourn11

Sabaneev 1911c, 1210-1214. See also Sabaneev 1911d, 1242-1248. Sabaneev 1911c, 1210-1214. See also Sabaneev 1911d, 1242-1248 (53-note scale).

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ing or of hubris, Sabaneev took on the task of composing a massive piano sonata (Op. 15) in memory of Skryabin. This work, built in part upon ideas borrowed from Skryabin’s unfinished manuscript for his Preparatory Act (ɉɪɟɞɜɚɪɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɟ Ⱦɟɣɫɬɜɨ – a work that itself had been conceived by Skryabin as an intermediary work on the path towards the ultimate completion of his Mystery) almost seems to have been conceived as a demonstration of Sabaneev’s ability to succeed compositionally where Skryabin had failed. Though published only in 1924, it stands as the final product of Sabaneev’s pre-revolutionary identity.13 Disenchantment with Skryabin, however, did not lead to disillusion with musical metaphysics itself, as his activities in the early Soviet state demonstrate.

Redefining musical metaphysics in a workers’ state In the years after 1917, Sabaneev quickly found his footing within the new Bolshevik regime. Indeed, his emphasis on the need to scientifically understand the basis of music, as well as his belief that music had a direct impact on human psychology found a sympathetic audience within the Soviet regime. Active in multiple state-supported institutions, and serving as music editor for Pravda and Izvestiia, Sabaneev initially found it possible to adapt to the Soviet context with relatively little reworking of his vision of musical metaphysics (Sitsky 1994. 291-292). He maintained his evolutionary idea of musical progress, while adding a new gloss about the historical role of the bourgeoisie and the need for education of the masses. Applying Charles Darwin’s idea of evolution to music, he argued that the most important aspects of the classical musical tradition would be preserved through education of the masses. The other creative works, which were connected solely with the “moods and feelings of the bourgeoisie”, had no purpose in building a new society and would simply vanish (Sabaneev 1925, 28-33). While opposed to an overly simplistic reduction of music to a form of ideology, Sabaneev retained his belief that music’s power to affect the human psyche had a real and demonstrable effect that would be of use in the contemporary age.14 Thus, in 1925, Sabaneev argued that music had

13

Sitsky 1994, 291-302. Sabaneev, Sonata op. 15. I am grateful to Jonathan Powell for sharing his reflections on this Sonata with me. 14 Thus, in 1924, Sabaneev wrote that “Music IS NOT IDEOLOGY which is somehow attached to it. It is a pure construction of sound […] [M]usic does not express ideas, it does not express ‘logical’ constructions. Rather it has its own musical aural world, its own musical ideas, and its own internal musical logic. It is a

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the ability to influence the listener, imposing upon him or her a sequence of definable experiences. “Music not only organises sounds, but organises the human psyche with these sounds,” he argued. This allows the composer to call forth a given experience in a person through the combination of music’s basic elements (rhythm, melody, harmony, connection of voices and timbre). (Sabaneev 1925, 13)

Reinvigorating yet another trope of musical metaphysics, he emphasised music’s unifying power as a factor in its social importance for the Soviet state: not only could music express the experience of a single person, but it could actually combine the masses in a single emotional experience. The problem faced by music in “bourgeois” society was that it had been torn away from this uniting task, and Sabaneev spared no ink in targeting those modernist and “Leftist” musical trends that he saw as deviating from music’s true purpose (Sabaneev 1925, 5-6).

Emigration and the temporality of nostalgia In the sources I have examined, the precise cause of Sabaneev’s decision to abandon the Soviet Union is never openly stated; nevertheless, his celebration of the inherently progressive nature of the Revolution seems to have dimmed by 1925.15 By this time, Sabaneev had already begun working on the massive composition that would preoccupy him in coming years: The Apocalypse. An extant piano sonata, based on “themes from the Apocalypse” demonstrates a mental shift from an embrace of progress to an emphasis (at least artistically) on destruction and, perhaps, transcendence of time.16 However, it was only after Sabaneev’s permanent departure from the Soviet Union in 1926 that he began to openly express disillusion with his image of temporality as constant progress to new levels of human experience. For Sabaneev, this was not so much disenchantment with the goals of musical metaphysics, but rather with the disjuncture beclosed world, and the gulf between it and logic and ideology usually can only be breached in a forced and artificial way.” Quoted and trans. in Nelson 2004, 50. 15 According to the records of the State Academy of Artistic Science (ȽȺɏɇ), Sabaneev applied for permission to go abroad on a work-related trip on 7 January 1926. This request was approved, and Sabaneev was on official leave from 18 January to 7 June 1926. He was officially removed from the list of the Academy as an “emigrant” on 1 December 1929. See RGALI f. 941, op. 10, d. 541, esp. ll.2432. 16 “Sonata (Sur les thèmes de l’“Apocalypse”),” 1925, LC Sabaneev collection.

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tween contemporary society and what he considered to be the true role of music. Rather than continuing to forge new realms of human experience through music, Sabaneev mourned; contemporary society no longer saw the need for the power of music. Music, it seemed, had become a space of the past rather than a maker of the future. As he reflected in an article for the British journal Music and Letters, it may very well be that music in general is ‘finished’ – music as an historical document of the culture of the European world. Personally I am more and more inclined to this exceedingly pessimistic opinion. (Sabaneev and Pring 1928b , 502)

Repeated extensively from emigration, Sabaneev’s sharp critique of contemporary life and music focused on several interrelated complaints: first, the commercialisation of music and unsophisticated demands of a broader listening audience had destroyed the high art that had once existed, leading to a “vulgarisation” of music. Second, the contemporary world itself, a world of “hygiene” was no longer conducive to musical creativity. Music, Sabaneev argued, like the world itself, had lost its “mystery”: everything has become plain and easy to understand […] [T]he annihilation of mystery in the world, its ‘accessibility’ has also destroyed the sense of mystery in the hearts of men, has made their psychology dull and ordinary. (Sabaneev and Pring 1928b , 502-503)

Like European civilisation, Sabaneev concluded, “music has grown old […] It seems suddenly to have wrinkled and withered, and this has occurred of late years, almost during the war and post-war period.” (Sabaneev and Pring 1928b , 503) The years since 1917 thus came to mark for Sabaneev the entry into “a new era, an anti-musical era, in which, generally speaking, there will of a surety be no place for music.” (Sabaneev and Pring 1928a, 209-210) Aghast that music had lost its pioneering spirit, Sabaneev even occasionally lashed out against the very musical metaphysics that he had once believed in so fervently. As he wrote to Aleksandr Krein in 1928: “I remember our ‘old, other’ specialties. Truly the sun rose and set in a single composition. Only here [in emigration] did I understand that this was only hypnosis and delusion, that our musical slavery was a small dead end in a large world. For his reason, I now have a skeptical and angry relationship to the musical sphere […] What good are these universal perspectives which never offer any sort of happiness, but only a

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thrashing of nerves and a spoiling of life?”17 Rather than ushering in a better future, music had become a space of the past. Despite this apparent rejection of music, however, Sabaneev found it impossible to disentangle himself from his own creative work, instead working obsessively on his Apocalypse. Perhaps the most significant aspect of Sabaneev’s unpublished manuscripts is the insight they give us into his conceptual world after emigration: a space in which he seems to have fixated upon recapturing the lost world of late imperial Russia. Themes and motives drawn from prerevolutionary Russian culture, freely mixed with apocalyptic biblical imagery suggest a mental link between Sabaneev’s pre-revolutionary world and his émigré existence. These found expression in a series of vocal works written by Sabaneev in the late 1920s and preserved in manuscript form at the Library of Congress. Included in these works are musical settings of poems by Silver Age poets Konstantin Bal’mont (Ɂɚɱɟɦ?, [Why]) and Aleksandr Blok (Religio) within a tonal palette deeply influenced by the works of Skryabin, as well as compositions for which Sabaneev (following the example of his erstwhile idol) composed both text and music.18 The consistent atmosphere of these works is striking in their re-envisioned temporality. While in the pre-revolutionary era, Sabaneev had emphasised the progressive development of new emotional experiences for humanity, each of these later works dwells instead in a realm of suspended temporality. Loss and transcendence are highlighted, and the realms of the eternal and heavenly are regularly contrasted with the fleeting and earthly. This is perhaps best expressed in the work Mantras, in which the composer links together late romantic musical language (extended and tritone-based harmonies), and textual imagery that unites Hinduesque ideas of reincarnation with mourning for a lost “fatherland” and a transcendent moment when, in the hour when I remember all / And when I am not afraid of the horror of my previous existence / I will hear the bell proclaiming the end of time.19

17

Leonid Sabaneev to Aleksandr Krein (5 January 1928), RGALI f. 2435, op. 2, no. 183. 18 LC Sabaneev Collection. The unpublished vocal manuscripts include two settings of Bal’mont’s Ɂɚɱɟɦ,, two settings of Blok’s texts (Religio, Ɋɨɠɞɟɧɧɵɟ ɜ ɝɨɞɵ ɝɥɭɯɢɟ) and several vocal works for which Sabaneev himself seems to have written both text and music (Ƚɨɪɧɵɣ ɂɟɪɭɫɚɥɢɦ [Mountainous Jerusalem], Ɇɚɧɬɪɚɦɵ [Mantras]). 19 Sabaneev, Ɇɚɧɬɪɚɦɵ, LC Sabaneev Collection.

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The memory of Skryabin, and his eclectic borrowing from Eastern thought is evident here. The distinction between these shorter vocal compositions and the massive manuscript of Sabaneev’s Apocalypse is also blurred. Examination of handwritten text jotted on the side of the score for Mantras reveals a direct conceptual link between the two works: a quotation (in Latin) from the biblical Book of Revelation (the source of the text for the Apocalypse), chapter five, verse four: Et ego flebam multum, quoniam nemo dignus inventus est aperire librum, nec videre eum. [I cried bitterly because no one could be found who was worthy to open the scroll or look inside it.]20

Could this be a lament that Skryabin had proven himself unworthy to serve as Orpheus and unlock the gates to the next, ecstatic stage of existence? Or is it disenchantment with the promised utopia of the early Soviet state that Sabaneev had recently abandoned? It is, in any event, clear that this compendium of works existed within a single conceptual universe that recoiled from Sabaneev’s earlier progressive conception of human creativity. Instead, they suggest a nostalgic gesture to a mystical worldview now considered (even by the composer himself) as “outlived”, despite the fact that his creative impulses continued to find fruition within the same conceptual framework of musical metaphysics that he claimed to have abandoned. The shadow of Skryabin looms large over all the works, both in harmonic language and conception: Sabaneev repeatedly referred to the Apocalypse as his “Mystery”, even while, unlike his deceased friend, he had no vision of the work actually bringing about the end of the physical universe.21 The echo of Sabaneev’s lost Orpheus is similarly notable in the sheer performance strength required by Sabaneev’s Apocalypse. While scarcely comparable to the approximately seven days that Skryabin’s Mystery was to have lasted, the massive proportions of the Apocalypse are not to be shrugged off. Estimated to last 10 hours in performance, and requiring a minimum of 272 performers to stage, including 10 solo singers (soprano, alto, contralto, 2 tenors, 2 baritones, 3 basses), a separate choir of 4 soloists (high tenor, tenor, baritone, bass), 3 choirs containing a minimum of 40 members apiece, as well as a full orchestra and organ, the requirements for staging overreached any possible performance strength 20

Revelation 5:4, Good News Bible (London and Glasgow: Harper Collins Publishers, 1976), 315. 21 Sabaneev to Krein (25 May 1929), RGALI f. 2435, op. 2, no. 183.

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Sabaneev might have imagined mustering while still residing in the Soviet Union, much less as an impoverished émigré in France.22 Such financial challenges were indeed keenly on his mind, as he observed in an article from 1937: a composer, falling into the Abroad, was forced to create without the resonance of a listener, without performance, without publication, without the response of critics[….] [If] under these circumstances it nevertheless turned out that composers did not disappear, that they nevertheless write music, then this trend cannot be considered anything but the appearance of true artistic heroism.23

Under such circumstances, Sabaneev himself clearly did not expect his work to actually see performance. As he expressed to Krein, he continued to labour upon his magnum opus merely “for himself”, without hope of a larger audience.24 In its musical language, the Apocalypse demonstrates a creative impulse unwilling to abandon that of the composer’s Silver Age idol. Its extended tonal palette evokes a similar tonal world to Skryabin’s late works. The score is full of bell-like chords, fanfares and markings such as “misterioso” and descriptions of the music’s expressive goal, such as “stars falling from heaven,” that reflect Skryabin’s influence, and demonstrate a clear creative continuity with the romances composed by Sabaneev several years earlier. Apart from the “Voice of God”, which was to be projected through an invisible megaphone, modernist innovations Sabaneev had previously espoused (including his own imagined 53-note scale) are entirely absent. What does such a score tell us? On the one hand, it encodes an intended performance, an envisioned aural expression that the composer himself had little hope of having performed in his lifetime. Sabaneev felt all too keenly the “untimeliness” of his work in a world that no longer needed music. While musical metaphysics had once posited the central role of music transforming life and providing a new collective basis for society, by the time he was working on the Apocalypse, Sabaneev viewed music as something that he worked on “for himself” in his spare time. In his quest to complete his own version of Skryabin’s unfinished mission, he 22

The performing requirements for the piece are given in the opening material for the score. See Sabaneev, “L’Apocalypse,” LC Sabaneev Collection (uncatalogued). 23 Sabaneev, “Ɇɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɟ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ ɜ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ,” in Sabaneev 2005, 203218, here 207. First published in ɋɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɵɟ ɡɚɩɢɫɤɢ no. 64 (1937). 24 Sabaneev to Krein (5 January 1928), RGALI f. 2435, op. 2, no. 183.

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lifted himself out of quotidian, everyday existence, devoting himself to the private, creative and “untimely” world of composition, a world in which the lost, mystical temporality of pre-revolutionary Russia could be recaptured. In contrast, reflecting on the current age, Sabaneev mourned: Today if there can be art, then it is only ‘industrial’ (ɩɪɨɢɡɜɨɞɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɟ), in general the world strives towards simplification and to the destruction of feelings and sensations, to hygiene and sanitarily simple life. The future life (ɛɵɬ will be hygienic, but not artistic – there will be comfort, wonderful waterclosets and washbasins, good cars and planes, but it will be weak in music and artistic work – they are not needed. It is very possible that music in general will be banned as a destruction of quiet and hygiene […].25

By the late 1920s, Sabaneev had established himself in France as a leading music critic offering analysis of Russian music (both in the emigration and in the USSR) to both European and émigré communities. In his writings, he recycled ideas about art that had first appeared in his pre-revolutionary texts related to Skryabin. Thus, by 1931 he claimed that he had “always” held a mystical conception of art, and that he continued to acknowledge the “grandeur” of the “essence of the idea of an art-religion.” While Skryabin had been mistaken in the personal deviation of his vision of ecstasy, it was perhaps now the time “most fitting to remember Skryabin, if not in his music, at least in his religious idea.” (Sabaneev and Pring 1931, 789-792) In order to find itself, he concluded, “music must abjure the idea that it is complete in itself.” (Sabaneev and Pring 1931, 792) In order to survive, music needed, in short, to reignite the mystery that had, in the realm of pre-revolutionary Russian culture, seemed so close to fulfillment. Sabaneev’s creative struggles provide insight into far more than just his own artistic path. Rather, they mirror an important shift in how many Russian émigrés came to experience and conceptualise temporality itself from the space of emigration, a shift echoed in numerous other émigré publications and letters.26 As it became increasingly clear that the Bolshevik regime would not fall apart quickly and allow the return of those who had fled for political reasons, many émigrés retreated into an idealised world of Russian culture: a world that had existed before the revolution, a space not geographically bound to the physical borders of Russia, which they could still possess and in which they could continue to experience, 25 26

Sabaneev to Krein (25 May 1929) RGALI f. 2435, op. 2, no. 183 See for instance Mitchell (forthcoming).

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imagine and create a “Russian” identity. For Sabaneev, this “Russian” cultural space was uniquely individual: a space in which he composed his Apocalypse and continued to dream of music’s transformative power – albeit as a deeply inward space, rather than as a collective, world-shattering event. Sabaneev was far from unique in this creative path. The space of “memory” in émigré literature has recently drawn scholarly attention, while Klára Móricz has demonstrated the artistic trajectory of composer Arthur Lourié, whose obsession with temporality and memory bears marked resemblance to Sabaneev’s own lesser-known path (Slobin 2001, 516; Móricz 2014). Sabaneev’s unpublished musical manuscripts shared a fate similar to that of their creator. Never performed in his lifetime, Sabaneev tried at one point to sell his archive to the Library of Congress: an attempt to barter art for the fulfillment of daily, quotidian needs that failed. When his mystical and hopelessly untimely output was reduced to the status of a physical object, the mid-twentieth century proved itself to indeed be an era without use for his creative work. Only after 1973 was Sabaneev’s creative output acquired by the Library of Congress from Sabaneev’s widow, winding up in the archive’s basement, uncatalogued and forgotten.27 The laconic comment “Apocalypse: order uncertain” on one file folder demonstrates that this is a physical trace far removed from performed reality. It remains today an evocation of one particular émigré’s experience of the liminal temporality of emigration: a nostalgic idealisation of a bygone age in which music had the power to transform reality, a lofty era in which educated society had dared to imagine that Russia had a messianic calling to reawaken spiritual meaning for all humanity. Musical metaphysics lived on as a space of memory rather than in the active pursuit of world transformation. As Sabaneev himself had lamented to his friend Krein in 1928, “Today’s world is not for music.”28

27 Edward N. Waters to Mr. Valitsky (8 March 8 1973). LC Music Division: Old Correspondence. In this letter, written in response to a previous letter from a Mr. Gherman, Mr. Waters asks about the possibility of purchasing the score to the Apocalypse, for which the widow had apparently requested a sum of $350.00. 28 Sabaneev to Krein (5 January 1928), RGALI f. 2435, op. 2, no. 183.

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Bibliography Archives Rossiiskii gosudarstvennyi arkhiv literatury i iskusstva [Russian State Archive of Literature and Art] (RGALI) f.931(P.I. and V.P. Iurgenson) f.941(Gosudarstvennaia akademiia khudozhestvennykh nauk) f.2435 (Aleksandr Abramovich Krein) Library of Congress Music Division: Old Correspondence Leonid Sabaneev Collection (uncatalogued) Bakhmetev Archive Leonid Sabaneev Collection

Published Sources Bernandt, G.B and Yampol’sky, I.M. (1974): Ʉɬɨ ɩɢɫɚɥ ɨ ɦɭɡɵɤɟ: Ȼɢɨɛɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɫɥɨɜɚɪɶ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɯ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɨɜ ɢ ɥɢɰ, ɩɢɫɚɜɲɢɯ ɨ ɦɭɡɵɤɟ ɜ ɞɨɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɨɧɧɨɣ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɢ ɋɋɋɊ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɋɨɜɟɬɫɤɢɣ Ʉɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪ. Boym, S. (2001): The Future of Nostalgia, New York: Basic Books. Good News Bible (1976), London and Glasgow: Harper Collins Publishers. Jordon, P.A. (2016): Stalin’s Singing Spy: The Life and Exile of Nadezhda Plevitskaya, Lanham, Boulder, New York, London: Rowman & Littlefield. Koselleck, R. (2002): The Practice of Conceptual History: Timing History, Spacing Concepts, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. —. (2004): Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time, New York: Columbia University Press. Mitchell, R. (2016): Nietzsche’s Orphans: Music, Metaphysics and the Twilight of the Russian Empire, Yale University Press. —. (forthcoming): In Search of Russia: Sergei Rachmaninoff and the Politics of Musical Memory after 1917”. In: Slavonic and East European Review. Móricz, K. (2014): Introduction: Endgames and Funeral Games. In: Móricz, K. and Morrison, S. (eds.) (2014): Funeral Games in Honor of Arthur Vincent Lourie, Oxford University Press. Móricz, K. and Morrison, S. (eds.) (2014): Funeral Games in Honor of Arthur Vincent Lourie, Oxford University Press.

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Nelson, A. (2004): Music for the Revolution. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press. Petrogradskoe Skryabinskoe obshchestvo. Izvestiia 2, Petrograd: Skryabinskoe obshchestvo, 1917. Raeff, M. (1990): Russia Abroad: A Cultural History of the Russian Emigration, 1919-1939, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sabaneev, L. (1910a): ɉɪɨɦɟɬɟɣ. In: Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ 1, 27 ɧɨɹɛɪɹ, pp. 6-10. —. (1910b): ɋɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɵɟ ɬɟɱɟɧɢɹ ɜ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɦ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɟ. In: Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ 4/5, 22 ɞɟɤɚɛɪɹ, pp. 85-88. —. (1911a): “ɉɪɨɦɟɬɟɣ” ɋɤɪɹɛɢɧɚ. In: Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ 13, 26 ɮɟɜɪɚɥɹ, pp. 286-294. —. (1911b): Ʉ ɜɨɩɪɨɫɭ ɨɛ ɚɤɭɫɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɨɫɧɨɜɚɯ ɝɚɪɦɨɧɢɢ ɋɤɪɹɛɢɧɚ. In: Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ 20, 16 ɚɩɪɟɥɹ, pp. 452-457. —. (1911c) ɇɨɜɵɟ ɩɭɬɢ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɚ. In: Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ 54, 12 ɞɟɤɚɛɪɹ, pp. 1210-1214. —. (1911d): ɇɨɜɵɟ ɩɭɬɢ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɚ. In: Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ 55, 17 ɞɟɤɚɛɪɹ, pp.1242-1248. —. (1912a): ɇɢɤɨɥɚɣ Ɇɟɬɧɟɪ. In: Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ 63, 28 ɮɟɜɪɚɥɹ, pp. 169-172. —. (1912b): Ɇɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɟ ɛɟɫɟɞɵ: Ɇɨɞɟɪɧɢɡɦ. In: Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ 72, 14 ɚɩɪɟɥɹ, pp. 334-337. —. (1915): ɗɜɨɥɸɰɢɹ ɝɚɪɦɨɧɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɨɡɟɪɰɚɧɢɹ. In: Ɇɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɢɤ 2, pp. 18-30. —. (1916): ɋɤɪɹɛɢɧ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɋɤɨɪɩɢɨɧ. —. (1923): Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ ɪɟɱɢ: ɷɫɬɟɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɟ ɢɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɧɢɟ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɋɚɛɨɬɧɢɤ ɩɪɨɫɜɟɳɟɧɢɹ. —. (1925) ɑɬɨ ɬɚɤɨɟ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ȽɂɁ, Ɇɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɫɟɤɬɨɪ. —. (2005): ȼɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ ɨ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ʉɥɚɫɫɢɤɚ XXI. Sabaneev, L. and Pring, S.W. (1928a): Nikolai Medtner. In: The Musical Times 69: 1021 (March 1928), pp. 209-210. —. (1928b): The Destinies of Music. In: The Musical Times 69: 1024 (June 1, 1928), pp. 502-506, here 502. —. (1931): Skriabin and the Idea of a Religious Art. In: The Musical Times 72: 1063 (September 1, 1931), pp. 789-792. Sitsky, L. (1994): Music of the Repressed Russian Avant-Garde, Westport, Conn. and London: Greenwood Press. Slobin, G. N. (2001): The ‘Homecoming’ of the First Wave Diaspora and its Cultural Legacy. In: Slavic Review 60:3 (Autumn 2001), pp. 513529.

RUSSIAN SACRED MUSIC BEYOND THE FRONTIERS OF THE USSR BETWEEN THE 1920S AND THE 1940S: AFFIRMING TRADITIONS, SEEKING NEW FORMS SVETLANA ZVEREVA

One of the most notable features on the musical landscape of the early twentieth-century Russian Empire is the large-scale choral movement which swept across not just the major cities but also distant outposts. The growth in the number of choirs – mainly church choirs, the improvement of their skills and the increasing complexity of the repertoire, resulting partly from the introduction of women to church choirs,1 raised choral singing to the forefront of music. Certain choirs attained such a high standard of performance that they allowed composers to liken them to a symphony orchestra capable of meeting the most diverse artistic challenges.2 Through foreign tours by the finest choirs of the time – the Synodal Choir from Moscow and Aleksandr Andreyevich Arkhangel’sky’s choir from St

1

The first experiment in replacing boys with women in a church choir was carried out in 1884 by the choirmaster Aleksandr Arkhangel’sky. (See Arkhangel’sky’s own reminiscences in the article: Arkhangel’sky 1913.) This experiment was subsequently applied widely. (See: Kastal’sky 2006) We are not aware of any official instructions from the Holy Synod concerning the introduction of women into church choirs. The scholarly literature mentions the approval of an initiative on these lines in Moscow by Makary, the Metropolitan of Moscow, but as late as 1916 (Kazakevich [ed.] 2004). 2 This topic was developed in the papers and discussions at the choral congresses which began taking place in Russia in 1908. Here are some lines from a statement made by the well-known church composer Aleksandr Nikol’sky at the first of them: “Should we not hold fast to the opinion that the choir is the full sibling of the orchestra? The choir is the orchestra of human voices. Just as the large modern orchestra knows no difficulties, so there should be none for the choir either.” ([Anon.] 1908)

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Petersburg3 – as well as through the publication of Russian sacred music in the west4 – Russian choral art became known beyond Russia’s borders. Choral singing, rather than instrumental music, was the predominant element in Russian music over many centuries. Singing in church was the musical genre most widely heard throughout all levels of society. During the eighteenth century, however, when secular genres were cultivated increasingly, church choral art receded by comparison into the background. The aristocracy viewed church art as a whole as a field tilled primarily by the lower classes. Only in the late nineteenth century did church music begin to attract the attention of musicians of the highest professional character and to retrieve its former position in the hierarchy of the arts. Society’s awareness of the value of the nation’s artistic heritage, collecting monuments of folk and church art, studying them, exhibiting them in museums and displaying them at concerts went hand in hand with the emergence and development in the 1890s of the New (national) Direction in Russian sacred music, whose main idea was a reliance on profound national traditions and the national musical heritage. The revolution which broke out in October 1917 destroyed the “symphony” of political power and the church which had taken shape over centuries; the musical art of the church, whose development in imperial Russia had been supported at the level of the state, became a manifestation of a marginal culture in the USSR. Against the background of the new authorities’ negative attitude to religion, church organisations previously subsidised by the Holy Synod were abolished or transformed, among them 3

The Moscow Synodal Choir made appearances abroad in April 1899 (Vienna), April and May 1911 (Rome, Florence, Vienna and Dresden), December 1912 (Nice) and October 1913 (Berlin). Compilations of Russian and foreign articles shedding light on the performances of the Synodal Choir abroad are cited in the following books: Naumov (ed.) 1987; Naumov, Rakhmanova, Zvereva (eds.) 2004, 1046-1067. The St Petersburg Choir conducted by Aleksandr Arkhangel’sky performed in December 1907 in Berlin and Leipzig and in May 1912 in Dresden. Moreover, during the same period Russian sacred music was given concert performances by the choirs directed by Russian church choirmasters stationed abroad: Anatoly Arkhangel’sky (Austria), Ivan Gorokhov (USA), Vasily Kibal’chich (Switzerland) and Adrian Kharkevich (Italy). See: Levashev and others (eds.) 2011, 572, 574, 576, 577, 588, 616 etc. 4 In the early twentieth century musicians outside Russia had the opportunity of performing Russian sacred music thanks to publications issued by the British and American firms Novello & Co, Bayley & Ferguson, and The Boston Music Co. The latter two firms paid attention to music by composers of the New Direction (Rakhmaninov, Kastal’sky, Grechaninov etc.). For further details, see Zvereva 2009.

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the Moscow Synodal Choir and the Synodal School of Church Music, which had been in the forefront of the choral movement. Secular forms of music now benefited exclusively from the support of the state. Experience embedded in pre-revolutionary church practice lay at the root of choral art and education in the USSR in a modified form, however. A great many choir musicians were drawn into proletarian “musical construction”.5 With the introduction of the NEP,6 the anti-church policy was softened somewhat. Even after several years of wartime social tensions, later fanned by Bolshevik propaganda directed against monarchy, the bourgeoisie, land ownership, religion, and the culture of the previous ruling class, believers experienced an unprecedented spiritual uplift and later nostalgically recalled the “unforgettable and unrepeatable aroma of the bright age when the church was once more ruled by a Patriarch in the 1920s” (Rozova 1994, 71). Many major pre-revolutionary church choirmasters served in churches right up until 1928 – Nikolay Mikhaylovich Danilin, the conductor of the Moscow Synodal Choir, and the composer of sacred music Pavel Grigor’yevich Chesnokov, for instance. At church services and concerts of sacred music it was possible to hear compositions intended for large, technically accomplished choirs. For example, the ȼɫɟɧɨɳɧɨɟ ɛɞɟɧɢɟ [AllNight Vigil] of Sergey Vasil’yevich Rakhmaninov [Rachmaninoff] was performed in a church in Kazan’ in December 1922 at a concert of sacred music conducted by Ivan Semyonovich Morev.7 However rarely, church music continued to be performed in concert halls too until 1926. For instance, a concert of sacred music conducted by Konstantin Sil’vestrovich Alekseyev took place on 25 March 1923 in the 5

Russian sacred music in the 1920s and 1930s is the subject of the book: Rakhmanova (ed) 2015. Much material on this subject may be found in the symposia: Grigor’yeva (ed.) 2000, 2002, 2005. For information about how the prerevolutionary conception of the development of church music and programmes for a course on church music were changed in accordance with the needs of Soviet choral culture, see: Zvereva (ed.) 2006, 129-218. The destinies of a number of church musicians and the legacy of sacred music after the revolution are also considered there. 6 NEP – the New Economic Policy adopted by the Soviet state in 1921 and replacing the policy of “War Communism” was associated with liberalising the country’s economic development. The programme ceased to operate in 1928 after the adoption of the Five-Year Plan for developing the national economy. The Plan set out a “three-in-one task for the radical reconstruction of society”: industrialisation, collectivisation of agriculture and cultural revolution. [Please indicate source of quotation] 7 Zvereva (ed.) 2006, 737, 949.

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Great Hall of the Moscow Conservatoire at which works by Rakhmaninov and Aleksander Dmitriyevich Kastal’sky were heard (Rozova 1994, 68). Archdeacon Konstantin Vasil’yevich Rozov took part in the concert as soloist. On 12 and 14 February 1926 triumphal performances of Rakhmaninov’s ȼɫɟɧɨɳɧɨɟ ɛɞɟɧɢɟ sung by the State Academic Choral Kapella conducted by Chesnokov were given in the same hall.8 But this choir, in which many church singers sang, was almost entirely “renewed” by the authorities afterwards, to discourage further recourse to this field of repertoire by singers whose specialism had been sacred music. After 1926 it became impossible for state ensembles to perform sacred music in the USSR. On the eve of the campaign by the Soviet government to sell treasures from the Hermitage in Leningrad to the West, which unfolded between 1929 and 1934, however, a performance of Rakhmaninov’s ȼɫɟɧɨɳɧɨɟ ɛɞɟɧɢɟ was created “for export”. This occurred in January 1928, when the Leningrad Academic Kapella conducted by Mikhail Georgiyevich Klimov was sent abroad on a concert tour.9 (The Leningrad Academic Kapella was the successor of the Court Singing Kapella which was nationalised after the revolution; besides boys, women too began to sing in it). This event was a historic one, insofar as it was the first time a Russian choir had gone abroad after the revolution. Over the course of the tour, which lasted from 1 January until 24 February 1928 and included Latvia, Germany, Switzerland and Italy, some 33 concerts were given with two programmes: the first comprised 19 arrangements of songs of the peoples of the USSR, while the second contained Rakhmaninov’s ȼɫɟɧɨɳɧɨɟ ɛɞɟɧɢɟ and a selection of folksongs.10 The post-revolutionary catastrophe did not put an end to the flow of creativity in sacred music. A whole series of choral cycles and single compositions written in the post-revolutionary years by such masters as Kastal’sky, Aleksander Tikhonovich Grechaninov [Gretchaninoff], Aleksander Vasil’yevich Nikol’sky, Nikolay Nikolayevich Cherepnin [Tcherepnin], Chesnokov, Sergey Mikhaylovich Lyapunov, Nikolay Semyonovich 8 Rakhmanova (ed) 2015, 598-599. Rakhmaninov’s ȼɫɟɧɨɳɧɨɟ ɛɞɟɧɢɟ was not heard in the USSR until the 1950s when the choir of the church of the Consolation of All Sorrows in Moscow began to perform it under their choirmaster Matveyev. See: Shumsky 2005, 86. 9 Klimov’s diary was published in the symposium: Mikhaylov, Ol’khov, Romanovsky (eds) 1971, 95-151. 10 See the compilation of articles from the foreign press concerning the touring abroad of the Leningrad Academic Kapella in the same publication (pp. 129-151). A few articles also appeared in the émigré press: L.L. 1928, 11 and 27 January; E.F. 1928, 15 January.

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Golovanov, Aleksander Alekseyevich Olenin, Maksimilian Oseyevich Shteynberg, Fr Georgy Yakovlevich Izvekov etc are worth of mention. In a few cases the circumstances which prompted composers to write sacred music are known. For example, Nikolay Nikolayevich Kedrov, at the time the director of the famous male-voice quartet bearing his name, wrote one of his earliest compositions in 1918. According to some sources, this composition arose in response to news of the murder of the tsar’s family, including Grand Duke Ioann Konstantinovich whom he knew well. (After taking holy orders Ioann Konstantinovich perished with his brothers and Grand Duchess Yelizaveta Fyodorovna in a mineshaft near Alapayevsk.) From that time on sacred music began to attract Kedrov increasingly. In 1920 Nikolay Kedrov revived his quartet in Petrograd. He recalled later, already in emigration: In the indescribably difficult living conditions in St Petersburg, we would settle round the stoked-up stove in my cold flat and lovingly devise a repertoire of wonderful old Russian folksongs, works by the glorious Russian classics and composers from abroad. […] Sometimes we were so enthralled that we lost all sense of time and would sit up until early morning. We would then walk to the early morning service in a nearby church and sing there. And this always produced such joy in the hearts of the clergy and tears of gratitude from the faithful (at that time it was still possible to pray in churches!) that we ourselves were no less joyful than the others, knowing that we could bring a ray of consolation into the impenetrable gloom of the lives of our fellow-citizens.11

In November 1921 the Metropolitan of Petrograd Veniamin (Kazansky) told Kedrov of his wish that during the service on the day in memory of the Ecumenical Teachers and Proselytisers Saints Basil the Great, Gregory the Theologian and John Chrysostom, music in the languages of all the Christian peoples of Europe should be sung.12 After beginning to compose using Greek texts, Kedrov embarked on pieces in Latin, German and Church Slavonic. He recalled later: The variety of languages involuntarily elicited a variety of musical styles: Byzantine harmonies, strict Protestant chorals and the free style of Catholic melodies could be heard in the music of the Liturgy.13

11

Kedrov, N.N. 1933. [Anon.] 1933, 8 July. 13 [Anon.] 1933, 4 July. 12

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It is possible that Kedrov wrote his best-known work, Ɉɬɱɟ ɧɚɲ [The Lord’s Prayer], which went on to achieve wide dissemination in churches of various Christian denominations, for the same service in 1921. In 1922 a setting of Ȼɨɝɨɪɨɞɢɰɟ Ⱦɟɜɨ, ɪɚɞɭɣɫɹ [Mother of God, Virgin, rejoice] was composed by a close acquaintance of Kedrov’s – the St Petersburg Conservatoire professor Lyapunov. After the revolution, he became the churchwarden of the Conservatoire church and tried to impede its closure; he was arrested and put before a “revolutionary” court in a group of 86 people including Metropolitan Veniamin of Petrograd already mentioned.14 Ȼɨɝɨɪɨɞɢɰɟ Ⱦɟɜɨ, ɪɚɞɭɣɫɹ was composed directly in the hall where the court sitting took place. The autograph reads “20 June 1922. Composed during the sitting of the Revtribunal. S. Lyapunov”.15 After six months of imprisonment. Lyapunov was released and in the same year left for Paris with his family. It was also in that year that Kedrov and the singers in his quartet left Soviet Russia forever. A state campaign designed to discredit the church was in the meantime gathering momentum.16 In the course of it saints’ tombs were opened, antireligious festivals were organised, periodical publications were issued – and even some sheet music. Some of the composers of these musical works mocking the priesthood had themselves been linked with the church (for example, Dmitriy Stepanovich Vasil’yev-Buglay, who had been a student at the Synodal School of Church Music). In the years of the “FiveYear Plan for Atheism” (1932-1937) even Dmitriy Dmitriyevich Shostakovich was involved in the cause of anti-religious propaganda. In 1934-35 he composed music for a cartoon film based on Pushkin’s ɋɤɚɡɤɚ ɨ ɩɨɩɟ ɢ ɟɝɨ ɪɚɛɨɬɧɢɤɟ Ȼɚɥɞɟ [Tale of the Priest and his Workman Balda],17 performed in 1935 as a suite in Leningrad on the occasion of the 18th anniversary of the October revolution. After the death of the head of the Russian Orthodox Church Patriarch Tikhon (Belavin) in1925, the state’s ideological machine set course for the complete liquidation of the Orthodox religion in the country. In 1928 the authorities imposed a secret ban on composers disseminating sacred music, and one year later issued a secret circular “About measures to streng14

Tsypin 1997, 96-90. Cited from: Artyomova 2012, 18. 16 The stages in the anti-religious campaigns as well as the specific actions against the church taken by the state are reflected in a number of publications: Enisherlov (ed.) 1932; Valk and others (eds.) 1957; Rozenbaum 1985; Mazyrin (ed.) 2006; Beglov (ed.) 2008 etc. 17 A surviving fragment of the cartoon film is posted on the internet: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tMwPNDC_-7A 15

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then anti-religious work” (Vasil’yeva, Beglov (eds.) 2008, 233). From that time on, the war on religion came to be equated with the class-political struggle. In the 1930s it was only the most courageous composers who wrote sacred music; among them was Nikolay Semyonovich Golovanov, the conductor of the Bol’shoy Theatre. It became impossible to perform not just liturgical music but even music of a philosophical-religious character at concerts. For instance, Sergey Ivanovich Taneyev’s cantata ɉɨ ɩɪɨɱɬɟɧɢɢ ɩɫɚɥɦɚ [At the Reading of a Psalm] was removed from the repertoire of the State Academic Kapella in 1934 on account of “church influences”.18 Even before the revolution, there had been a considerable overlap in personnel, activity, ideas and organisations between scholars and composers working in Russian church music and those active in Russian folk music, a community of interest which continued throughout the 1920s. With the beginning of collectivisation in the countryside and the liquidation of the prosperous stratum of the peasantry, the process of “windingdown” the ethnographic direction in scholarship and art came about together with the simultaneous Sovietisation of folk creativity.19 Fr Sergey Sergeyevich Shchukin, who after the revolution directed a circle of Christian youth in Moscow and was subjected to arrests and exile, wrote in his declining years: As I look back, I recall the years of Soviet life as permeated by this dualism. An outward life entirely subordinated to the state flowed on all around: the five-year plans were fulfilled, the press extolled the achievements of Soviet construction, schools and universities instilled an atheist, materialist worldview and so on. But a spiritual and cultural life of a completely different order (involving religion, ideas, scholarship, family) ran in parallel, unseen by the simple eye, which enveloped the inner world of people who had not submitted to the power of the state. This profound, intense life obstinately resisted the efforts of the Bolsheviks to stifle any spiritual movement, any freedom of thought. This resistance to a totalitarian state never ceased and could not be stopped, since, in the last resort it was rooted in “personal catacombs”, that is, in the souls of individual persons.20

18

Murin (ed.) 2011, 31. For attempts to divide folklore genres into “progressive” and “conservative” ones and to subordinate folk creativity to “proletarian consciousness”, see the book Efanova (ed.) 1994. 20 Shchukin 2010, 164-165. 19

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By 1939 there remained about 100 active Orthodox cathedral and parish churches in the whole of Russia.21 The destruction of churches was accompanied by the physical annihilation of the clergy and repression of church people: out of 146,000 clergy and monastics numbered in Russia in 1917, by 1939 90,000 had been shot and tens of thousands were in camps and exile.22

By the late 1930s, there remained only a few spiritual centres supported mainly by women parishioners across the territory of the huge country. In a country where atheism had been implanted by fire and sword, where the traditional national culture had been subjected to destruction and re-formation, not only had an “internal emigration” taken shape but also a “catacomb church”.

*** While the sun was setting on church life in Soviet Russia during the interwar decades the diasporas abroad were experiencing a dawn. As one of the most influential church leaders of Russia Abroad, Metropolitan Yevlogy (Georgiyevsky) wrote, in the diasporas, “despite the grief and horror of life, a religious spring was in the air”.23 The overwhelming number of refugees of the post-revolutionary wave were Russian by nationality

21

Vasil’yeva, Beglov (eds.) 2008, 289. A comparison of this figure with the number of churches in the Russian Empire in 1914, when there were 54,923 churches and chapels, 478 men’s and 475 women’s monasteries testifies to the scale of destruction in the Soviet era. (Ibid., 66.) 22 Mitrofanov 2002, 371. Even more shocking statistics for clergy shot and arrested are reported in the article: Emel’yanov 2004. The author writes: “The fourth wave of persecutions exceeded the 1922 persecution by approximately 10 times in the number of arrests (and for people shot by 80 times). Every second person was shot (there were about 200,000 arrests and 100,000 executions in 1937-1938).” It is not superfluous to add that the Orthodox St Tikhon University of the Humanities in Moscow, on whose website this article appears, is working intensively to create a database of ‘New martyrs and confessors who suffered for Christ in the years of persecution of the Russian Orthodox Church in the twentieth century’. The results may be found here: http://www.pstbi.ccas.ru/bin/code.exe/frames/m/ind_oem.html/charset/ans 23 Evlogiy 1994, 458.

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(95.2%) and Orthodox by faith.24 P.Ye. Kovalevsky, an historian of the Emigration, noted that: where Russian colonies emerged or groups of Russians simply settled, their first concern was to build a church, or at least arrange a place where church services could be conducted. Russians gathered around the churches, and a church was always at the centre of their communal and cultural life (Kovalevsky 1970, 200).

Consolidating the refugees around a church which then became “Russian territory” shared by all the refugees, and searching for spiritual support and the meaning of life in the church were altogether natural, bearing in mind that the majority of refugees in a foreign society, just as in their homeland, were also in a situation of “internal emigration”. In the early 1920s, while the post-revolutionary diasporas were becoming established, only the old stock of repertoire was current. But at the same time beyond the borders of the USSR a number of the newest compositions written in Russia were published. For instance, between 1925 and 1928 ɒɟɫɬɶ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɞɭɯɨɜɧɵɯ ɩɟɫɧɨɩɟɧɢɣ [Six Russian Sacred Pieces] op. 51 by Cherepnin and ɋɬɪɚɫɬɧɚɹ ɫɟɞɦɢɰɚ [Holy Week] by Shteynberg were published in Paris by the former St Petersburg music publisher W. Bessel & Cie. with the help of their partner-firm Breitkopf & Härtel. Notable creative results in the field of sacred music began to be obvious as early as the second half of the 1920s and became especially clear during the 1930s. In many respects the guarantee of success was the activity of eminent Russian composers who found themselves abroad: Aleksandr Konstantinovich Glazunov, Igor’ Fyodorovich Stravinsky, Cherepnin, Aleksander Grigor’yevich Chesnokov, Grechaninov, Kedrov, Konstantin Nikolayevich Shvedov and others, as well as that of those young émigrés who set out along a musical path: Ivan Semyonovich Lyamin, Nikolay Nikolayevich Kedrov Jr, Maksim Yevgrafovich Kovalevsky, Hieromonk Filip (Gardner) and others. 24

Kovalevsky 1971, 200. The contemporary historian Zoya Bocharova provides more detailed information about the make-up of the post-revolutionary wave of emigration: “The flows of emigrants, both regulated and illegal, are associated primarily with the final defeat of the White armies. For that reason military ranks made up a significant share of them. It was mainly Russians who left (95.2%). Among the civilian population, men predominated (73.3%), from the age-group most capable of working (from 17 to 55 – 85.3%), and with a preponderance of educated people (from 54.2% to 70%). Children formed about 10.9% and old people 3.8% of the total figure” (Bocharova 2014, 44).

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The boundary between Russian concert choirs and church choirs was merely nominal. In reality, the former admitted secular music to their repertoire and often sang in Russian churches, while the latter performed in concerts and included secular music – most often folksongs – in their repertoire. Accordingly, the discourse of Russian choral culture abroad accommodated this traditional branch of the nation’s art as well. Rakhmaninov, Grechaninov, Shvedov, Isay Aleksandrovich Dobroveyn (Dobrowen), Aleksander Stepanovich Il’yashchenko, Sergey Alekseyevich Zharov (Jaroff), Sergey Aleksandrovich Trailin and other musicians contributed to the assimilation of Russian, Cossack and Ukrainian layers of folksong. Spiritual verses and religious traditions, subjects from Russian history, philosophical-religious texts and Russian poetry roused the interest of composers of choral music (Kedrov, Cherepnin, Aleksander Grigor’yevich Chesnokov, Grechaninov, Il’yashchenko and others). Publication of new choral music and republication of old music was usually brought about by émigré publishing enterprises.25 The emergence of the first Russian choral-music publisher was linked with the activities of the All-Student Russian Choir named after Aleksandr Arkhangel’sky in Prague.26 First, a music-copying office attached to the Choir was founded in 1924; it sought to supply Russian choirs outside Russia with sheet music and help combat “irresponsible, often anonymous copying of sheet music, which has intensified recently, and often leads in the long run to unbelievable distortion of the original melodies”.27 The office also sold music published before the revolution, material which came from the new states formed on the territory of the Russian Empire, and from the USSR. In 1928, this office (in conjunction with the well-known Russian cultural organisation in Prague, the Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɨɱɚɝ [Russian Hearth]) was converted into a music-publishing firm issuing inexpensive music produced in small print-runs by a simple process known as “mechanical lightscript”. Sheet music copied and printed by the choir circulated widely in several countries. Archpriest Simeon Pavlovich Solodovnikov disseminated sacred music in France in the first half of the 1930s and Germany in the late 1930s. He 25

Cf. footnote 4. In various years the All-Student Russian Choir, which existed in Prague from 1921 to 1950, was conducted by Ivan Robertovich Veber, Grechaninov, Yevgeny Feofilovich Dyukov, Boris Stepanovich Yevtushenko, Vasily Fyodorovich Kibal’chich, Nikolay Andreyevich Kozhin, Iosif Vladimirovich Krbets, Pyotr Petrovich Miloslavsky, Ariadna Nikolayevna Novikova-Ryzhkova, Gustav Ivanovich Pekhar and Aleksandr Grigor’yevich Chesnokov. 27 [Anon.] 1928, 4. 26

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had fled from the USSR across the Finnish border in 1930 and served in Russian churches in France, Great Britain and Germany. He copied out music by hand himself and published it lithographically. His editions of music from the Ɉɛɢɯɨɞ (the collection of hymns for worship, texts and music) of the Moscow Synodal Choir, works by Rakhmaninov, etc. are well known in particular. One of the most interesting interwar publications is the ɋɛɨɪɧɢɤ ɰɟɪɤɨɜɧɵɯ ɩɟɫɧɨɩɟɧɢɣ [Collection of Church Songs] edited by Cherepnin and published in Paris by the Institut de Théologie Orthodoxe Saint-Serge in 1939. Besides works by Cherepnin himself and Miliy Alekseyevich Balakirev, the collection contained pieces by the “Paris Russians” Grechaninov and Glazunov. Three sacred works by Stravinsky were also published in Paris by Sergey Aleksandrovich Kusevitsky’s (Koussevitsky) Ɋɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɨɟ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɟ ɢɡɞɚɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨ [Édition russe de musique or Russischer Musikverlag]: Ɉɬɱɟ ɧɚɲ [The Lord’s Prayer] in 1932, ɋɢɦɜɨɥ ɜɟɪɵ [Credo] in 1933 and Ȼɨɝɨɪɨɞɢɰɟ ɞɟɜɨ [Ave Maria] in 1934. Stravinsky was one of the comparatively numerous group within the émigré community whom the Revolution had found already living abroad and who either could not or was unwilling to return to Russia after 1917. By his biography, culture and compositions Stravinsky must beyond question be considered part of the Russian diaspora. If his attitude to fellow Russian émigrés, and especially to their organisations was not straightforward, his active engagement with Russian Orthodoxy from 1926, when he first thought of writing these short sacred works, was sincere (Campbell 2013). The Russian Emigration’s celebrations in 1938 of the 950th anniversary of the baptism of Rus’ lent impetus to the publication of Russian music, both sacred and “historical”. The publication of music dedicated to Saint Prince Vladimir for this event was undertaken in several countries by the Vladimir Jubilee Committees.28

*** After the revolution, it was for the most part border states which had at one time been part of the Russian Empire (Finland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania and Poland) and states bordering on Russia (Romania, China, 28

For example: Ƚɢɦɧ ɫɜɹɬɨɦɭ ɤɧɹɡɸ ȼɥɚɞɢɦɢɪɭ by Ɇikhail Fiveysky and Ɉ ȼɥɚɞɢɦɢɪɟ – ɤɪɚɫɧɨɦ ɫɨɥɧɵɲɤɟ. Ȼɵɥɢɧɚ ɫ Ɍɢɯɨɝɨ Ⱦɨɧɚ by Igor’ Buketov were published in New York. The composition ɉɟɫɧɶ ɫɜ. Ɋɚɜɧɨɚɩɨɫɬɨɥɶɧɨɦɭ ɤɧɹɡɸ ȼɥɚɞɢɦɢɪɭ by Cherepnin was published in Paris – all in 1938.

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Turkey and Bulgaria) that took in Russian refugees. A significant part of the Russian population in several of these countries had been born there, or had been resident since long before the revolution. Seeking favourable socio-economic and political conditions, refugees moved on to countries of the so-called secondary emigration – Serbia, Czechoslovakia, France, Belgium, Germany and others. In the early post-revolutionary years, Berlin was considered the capital of Russia Abroad. From 1921, Germany was a place to which it became possible to make a “ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɤɨɦɚɧɞɢɪɨɜɤɚ” [creative research trip] from Soviet Russia. As a consequence, very many members of the intelligentsia had the opportunity to leave hunger-stricken Russia during the 1920s, at least for a time. Many Russian writers and poets lived permanently in Berlin or visited it; at that time no other foreign city demonstrated such a wealth of Russian publishing activity as the German capital. The research trip often ended in emigration. In 1921, Berlin became for a certain time the centre of the WestEuropean Diocese of the Russian Orthodox Church and Archbishop Yevlogy (Georgiyevsky), the head of the diocese, settled there in that year. Thanks to his efforts, Russian Orthodox parishes were founded in Berlin, Tegel, Dresden, Wiesbaden, Bad Kissingen, Baden Baden and Hamburg. Moreover, communities appeared in camps for Russian prisoners of war and settlements of refugees in Wünsdorf, Quedlinburg, Lichtenhorst and Scheuen. Of the Russian conductors who lived in Germany in the 1920s and 30s and directed local mixed-voice church choirs, the most active were P.I. Andreyevsky (he conducted a church choir in Berlin which also appeared in concerts and on the radio as the “Great-Russian National Chorus”) and Mikhail Ivanovich Feokritov [Theokritoff]. The latter’s name is associated with the emergence of Russian sacred music in Great Britain, where he moved from Germany in 1946, directing the choir of the Cathedral of the Dormition in London from 1956. Nikolay Petrovich Afonsky, who in the 1930s became a prominent musical figure of world class, also began his career in Germany. As a military man who had served first in the Tsar’s army and then in the White army during the Civil War, he found himself in a camp for displaced persons in Wiesbaden, where in 1922 he conducted the choir of the Orthodox Church of St Elizabeth. The choir successfully undertook concerts in 1922, giving some 40 concerts in the Rhine Valley. In 1923 Afonsky received a highly flattering proposal to become choirmaster of the Society for Lovers of Church Music being organised in Berlin by Petr Petrovich Suvchinsky (Souvtchinsky). He preferred, however, to move to Paris,

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where he was taken on at the Cathedral of St Aleksandr Nevsky, which became the cathedral church of the Diocese of Western Europe of the Russian Orthodox Church. With the Metropolitan’s Choir Afonsky undertook a number of brilliant international tours in the 1930s and made recordings, including ones with the legendary bass Fyodor Ivanovich Shalyapin. With the beginning of the economic crisis in 1923, ‘Russian Berlin’ began to empty. The intelligentsia hastily abandoned the German capital, setting off as a rule for Paris, which right up to the Second World War was recognised as the centre of Russia Abroad.

*** A whole series of Russian churches was situated in Paris and its suburbs (Sainte-Geneviève des Bois, Meudon, Clamart, Petit Clamart, Asnières, Chaville, Ozoir-la-Ferrière, etc). They were not just spiritual centres but cultural ones as well, used for libraries, courses, lectures, literary evenings and concerts. Certain churches became centres of choral singing – for example, the church attached to the Institut de Théologie Orthodoxe SaintSerge (founded in 1925) in Paris where Mikhail Mikhaylovich Osorgin worked with the choir; the church of St Nicholas in the suburb of Boulogne-Billancourt (founded in 1926) where Pyotr Vasil’yevich Spassky served as choirmaster; the Gallipoli church of St Serafim of Sarov on the rue Lecourbe (founded in 1932) where Leonid Pamfilovich Dol’sky was the choirmaster; the church of the Icon of the Sign of the Mother of God (founded in 1928) where from its foundation until 1937 the choirmaster was Boris Mikhaylovich Ledkovsky. The church of the Three Patriarchs, where the few adherents of the Moscow Patriarchate gathered, opened in 1931. This small parish, despised by the majority of émigrés, nonetheless came to be remembered as a centre for singing thanks to the talented choirmaster Serafim Aleksandrovich Rodionov, who was there from 1931 to 1948, and his assistant and successor Fyodor Sergeyevich Patorzhinsky. It was also there that the well-known church musician Kovalevsky gained his experience. The history of each Russian church abroad reflected the history of the Russian church emigration, often in combination with conflicts over ecclesiastical and political jurisdictions. The musical repertoire in nearly all the churches mentioned, however, was determined not by affiliation to a particular branch of Orthodoxy but by the character of the worship, the choirmasters and the rectors. The churches all adhered to the liturgical practice and dogma of Russian Orthodoxy, including its musical traditions.

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At the same time, some very bold projects associated mainly with the development of Orthodoxy outside Russia were carried out. The most radical musical experiments were conducted in France, where in 1937 the “Commission for the Affairs of Western Orthodoxy” began its work.29 One of its main aims was to restore the liturgical practice of the ancient undivided Christian Church and reconstruct the office of the so-called Gallican liturgy which had been celebrated on the territory of modern France from the 4th to the 8th century. The musical aspect of the work, on which Kovalevsky was engaged, consisted in seeking means to use Russian musical hymnography and the authentic Gregorian legacy in a single service of worship. Sacred music in the emigration was often composed as a response to the torments suffered by the church in Soviet Russia. The materials in the archive of N.N. Kedrov Sr preserved in his heirs’ archive in Paris, show that in the late 1920s the composer was editing and supplementing a cycle of pieces entitled ɂɡ ɜɢɡɚɧɬɢɣɫɤɨɣ ɥɢɬɭɪɝɢɢ [From the Byzantine Liturgy].30 He dedicated his work to the memory of Metropolitan Veniamin (Kazansky), found guilty in the ‘affair of the church people’ and shot on 13 August 1922. It was based on znamenny chant, which the composer considered the Russian continuation of the Byzantine tradition. The ȼɫɟɥɟɧɫɤɚɹ ɥɢɬɭɪɝɢɹ [Ecumenical Liturgy] was performed by the Metropolitan’s Choir conducted by Afonsky and Kedrov’s male-voice quartet on 9 July 1933, in the St Aleksandr Nevsky Cathedral in Paris (Enka 1933). The debate begun in Russia before the revolution, about the ideals of Russian sacred music, what the attributes of Russian style were, what national tradition was and so on, was resumed, now on foreign soil. The dispute between the champions of the New Direction who extolled Russian antiquity, and the followers of the St Petersburg direction associated with West European musical influence, refused to die down over the course of the whole century. The New Direction was born in the late nineteenth century in Moscow and was associated with the names of musicians from the Synodal School of Church Music circle as well as some like-minded people from St Petersburg. The New Direction manifested itself brilliantly in the pre-revolutio29 The Commission for the Affairs of Western Orthodoxy whose members included Fr Mikhail Bel’sky, Vladimir Lossky, Yevgraf and Maksim Kovalevsky, began its work in Paris after the accession of several Catholic communities to the Moscow Patriarchate. (See: Tyushagin 2005) 30 Individual manuscripts from this cycle are in the archive of the composer’s grandson Protodeacon Alexandre Kedroff, the choirmaster of the St Aleksandr Nevsky Cathedral in Paris.

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nary years, but did not reach deeply into the life of the people, remaining an art of the stratum of church musicians who were well equipped professionally. After the revolution a number of composers from the New Direction (Grechaninov, Rakhmaninov, Shvedov, Aleksander Grigor’yevich Chesnokov etc.) found themselves in the emigration. If they did compose sacred music, however, it was in far smaller quantity than when they had lived in Russia. The banner of the New Direction in Russian sacred music was raised in the 1920s and 1930s by musicians such as Osorgin, Kovalevsky, Archbishop Gavriil (Chepur), Al’fred Al’fredovich [Alfred Julius] Swan, Hieromonk Filip (Gardner), Zharov, Ivan Andreyevich Kolchin etc, who were all connected in some way with church practice and choral performance. In the Paris of the 1930s, the idea of forming a choir which would specialise in performing ancient chants was discussed at the Ikona Society.31 It was anticipated that this choir would travel to study with the monks of the ancient Russian Valaam Monastery, which after the end of the First World War was on Finnish territory. There, a church musician could study not only the ancient tradition of singing in sound but also in books using ‘hook’ notation for monophonic church chants. Russian Old Believers living in the Baltic states had also been custodians of old musical traditions from time immemorial. Although in the 1920s and 1930s the music of the composers of the New Direction had not achieved widespread dissemination among the choirs of Russian churches, it had become an inalienable part of the concert repertoire of Russian choirs. The famous Don Cossack Chorus conducted by Zharov carried their advocacy of the New Direction round the whole world in concerts. A graduate of the Synodal School of Church Music in Moscow, Zharov arguably did more than any other musician in the emigration to spread the legacy of the New Direction outside the USSR.

31

This society of admirers of ancient Russian icon-painting was founded in Paris in 1927 on the initiative of Vladimir Ryabushinsky and set itself the goal of spreading knowledge of the Russian icon. In the course of time the society became a notable focus for Russian culture in France. This society of admirers of ancient Russian icon-painting was founded in Paris in 1927 on the initiative of Vladimir Ryabushinsky and set itself the goal of spreading knowledge of the Russian icon. In the course of time the society became a notable focus for Russian culture in France. See: Vzdornov, Zalesskaya, Lelekova 2002.

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*** It was not only Russians living in France who made a contribution to the composition of sacred music in the 1920s and 1930s but also composers from other countries. Russian choral culture blossomed very luxuriantly in states whose territory had at one time belonged to the Russian Empire. For example, in 1939, in the former Pskov province, at that time in Estonia, the Second All-State Russian Festival of Song Slet took place. 60 Russian choirs and 25 orchestras from Estonia, Lithuania, Latvia (including Latgale) and Finland, numbering 3,500 people, participated.32 Vivid pages in Russian cultural life were written in the cities of Harbin and Shanghai. Besides the Orthodox cathedral church, 21 Russian Orthodox churches and two monasteries were active in Harbin until the Cultural Revolution in China. All but two of these churches were built in the 1920s and 1930s. A service at which the choir sang was held daily in most of them. A card index compiled by the church singer Sofiya Semyonovna Troitskaya testifies to the large number of singers and choirmasters in the city between the 1920s and the 1960s: it lists the names of 370 people.33 Lenten concerts of sacred music were organised in one of the large halls in Harbin every spring, where a combined choir made up of choirmasters, singers, priests and deacons from many churches sang. Concerts were often arranged where a composite choir of church singers, soloists and a small Russian orchestra performed choruses by Bach, Haydn’s oratorios the Seven Last Words of our Saviour from the Cross and The Creation, and Mozart’s Requiem.34 Many singers and choirmasters resident in Harbin and Shanghai also took part in secular musical life: they sang in opera and operetta choruses and secular concerts. Some of the choirmasters – Ippolit Petrovich Raysky, Fr Pavel Shilyayev, Kolchin, Pyotr Filippovich Raspopov, Viktor Vladimirovich Gorodilin, among others – wrote sacred music during their years in China. The choirmaster was often the music teacher for the singers as well. In both Soviet Russia and Russia Abroad, training in church music was carried out at the individual church – unlike pre-revolutionary Russia, where people could also study church music on special courses in educational institutions. Russian community and cultural life was also vibrant in Prague where the All-Student Russian Choir was founded in 1921 with the support of the 32

See: Shuvalov, Pen’kin, Solov’yov (eds.) 1939. Troitskaya 1995, 3; Khisamutdinov 2000, 32-33, 163; Melikhov 2003, 262-265; Chzhichen 2008, 476-478 and others. 34 Troitskaya 1995, 16. 33

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country’s government; it gave concerts widely. Many Russian musicians were its choirmasters, and the most prominent of them was Arkhangel’sky, the conductor from St Petersburg. The choir of the church of St Nicholas directed by Fyodor Fyodorovich Nikishin was also famous. A Day of Russian Culture timed for the birthday of Aleksander Sergeyevich Pushkin was celebrated for the first time in Prague in 1925. In subsequent years, this celebration embraced colonies of Russians all round the world and was invariably accompanied by choral singing. Of the composers living in Prague who made the greatest contribution to the development of Russian music, including church music, Trailin must be mentioned.35 Russian choir musicians also had a wide field of activity in the Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats and Slovenes, where they headed choirs in the many Russian churches, educational institutions and homes for war veterans and the elderly. Besides Bishop Gavriil (Chepur) and his disciple Hieromonk Filip (Gardner) (already mentioned), Yevgeny Prokhorovich Maslov, Aleksey Vasil’yevich Grin’kov, Boris Petrovich Arsen’yev and other composers contributed to the composition of sacred music. The Russian presence in a substantially Orthodox state was also marked by the refugees making a cardinal contribution to local musical life.36 After the revolution, a major Russian-speaking diaspora formed in the USA as well,37 where New York Russians gathered around three parishes: that of St Nicholas founded in tsarist times, plus two new ones – of Christ the Saviour and of the Holy Virgin Protection. In the mid-1930s the latter parish had a large choir directed by Semyon Ye. Andreyev which also gave concerts and appeared on the radio. A Society of Supporters of Church Music was created in the church to sustain the choir; the Society was led by members of the parish – Prince Aleksey Aleksandrovich Obolensky (who won fame as a singer) and the renowned conductor Mikhail Mikhaylovich Fiveysky. The parish of the church of Christ the Saviour was also famous for its excellent choir under the direction of Sergey Viktorovich Savitsky; a Russian club, library, school and concerts were organised at this parish. The Russian Easter Matins was transmitted over American radio for the first time from the church of Christ the Saviour on 12 April 1930. One of the most significant Russian ensembles founded in the USA was the Symphonic Cappella conducted by Vasily Fyodorovich Kibal’chich. Russian choir life also developed on the west coast. A Russian National Chorus was founded in San Francisco in 1923, which by 1928 comprised 45 singers conducted by Fyodor Vasil’yevich Kostin. 35

See: Meleshkova 2008. See: Arsen’yev 2013; Taras’yev 2010. 37 See: Zvereva 2009; Khisamutdinov 2010, 95-97. 36

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New sacred music was also written in the USA: the composers included Igor’ Konstantinovich Buketov and Andrey Petrovich Glagolev, besides Shvedov mentioned previously.38

*** With the start of the Second World War, cultural and ecclesiastical life in the European diasporas began to ebb away.39 At the same time, a heady resurgence of church life began in the territories of the USSR seized by the Third Reich. Statistics tell us about the extent of rehabilitation of churches: Around 9,400 churches were opened on USSR territory occupied by German troops. Moreover, almost 60 monasteries were re-established – 45 in the Ukraine, 6 in Belorussia and 6 or 7 in the RSFSR. (Shkarovsky 2003, 28)

Not only were churches reinstated in the captured lands but church music was created and choirs multiplied.40 The ecclesiastical and cultural policy of the occupation authorities was determined by the objective of winning over supporters among the population persecuted in the time of Soviet power. We know that the struggle conducted in the USSR with ‘the kulak phenomenon’ (the wealthiest stratum of the peasantry) and ‘survivals of the past’ in the countryside had overwhelming consequences for the development of folk art which the authorities attempted to confine in a straitjacket of ideology. As a propaganda alternative, the folklore movement, including the collecting and musical arrangement of folklore, was supported by German agencies in the former national republics. The policy of eradicating the traditional national constants in the spheres of religion, culture and ideas, so aggressively pursued in the USSR, turned into their ‘restoration’ during the years of the Second World War. A large place in the periodical publications and radio broadcasts transmitted under the control of the new authorities was taken up by 38

In the USA sacred music by émigré composers of the late 1930s and 1940s was published by the Russian Music Co. headed by Gabriel Grabilin. The firm also republished pre-revolutionary music. Russian sacred music with text in English was published in the USA in the inter-war period by such firms as Neil A. Kjos Co., Hall & McCreary Co. of Chicago, E.C. Schirmer Music Co. of Boston, M. Witmark & Sons, and Galaxy Music Co. of New York. 39 See the article Zvereva 2013. 40 For more detail, see Zvereva 2014.

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material devoted to Russian traditions forgotten in Soviet times – for instance, the celebration of church festivals; they told of composers and writers of the Russian emigration or authors who were not allowed to be mentioned in the USSR and so on. In the material concerned with Russian literature, readers’ attention was drawn to such aspects as its religious character, Great-Russian patriotism and nationalism (Kovalyov 2004, 338340). The narrative devoted to Russian culture and literature in Russian newspapers and radio broadcasts emanating from the occupied lands was close to that of the émigré press. The Berlin Russian-language newspaper ɇɨɜɨɟ ɫɥɨɜɨ [New Word] frequently provided material for publication in Russia. Its employees would visit population centres in the occupied areas while correspondents from Russia visited Germany. Many Russian émigrés on the territory of Germany itself co-operated with the German concert and propaganda organisations – they gave concerts for German military units, made gramophone recordings which were issued by Vineta – that was the name of the subdivision of the Eastern Department of the Reichsministerium für Volksaufklärung und Propaganda.41 The records, later used in camps for prisoners of war and Ostarbeiter as well as radio transmissions, contained Russian, Ukrainian and Cossack songs, Orthodox church music, excerpts from Russian operas, Soviet songs, dance music etc. At least 80 million Soviet people – or about 40% of the population of the USSR – found themselves under occupation. 30 million of them lived in the Russian Federation, where in the very first months of the war the Hitler régime ruled in twelve regions and provinces. The Russian lands seized by occupying troops turned into a species of Russia Abroad whose border with Soviet territory was the constantly shifting line of the front. It is not difficult to imagine that émigrés from several European countries flocked to their historic homeland. Members of the anti-Soviet organisation ɇɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨ-ɬɪɭɞɨɜɨɣ ɫɨɸɡ ɧɨɜɨɝɨ ɩɨɤɨɥɟɧɢɹ, ɇɌɋɇɉ [NationalLabour Union of the New Generation NTSNP] were the most active in striving to reach the USSR; its representatives went to work in a number of population centres. They set themselves up with work in city and district administrations, publishing houses, radio cells, theatres and concert organisations and had the opportunity to exert a certain influence on the content of cultural life. Supporting the church and reviving old cultural 41

The Polydor and Grammophon firms issued propaganda recordings for the occupied territories of the USSR. See the catalogues at: http://russian-records.com /search.php?search_keywords=Chevtschenko

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traditions were among the aims of members of NTSNP in the occupied territories. The historical sources contain much information about church choirs. For instance, as soon as the Germans arrived in Smolensk, the cathedral was opened and a choir under the direction of Mikhail Ivanovich Andreyev assembled (Kruchinin 1943). The choir was re-established in the church of the Icon of the Saviour Not Made with Hands in the Okopnoye cemetery in 1943, and it was directed by T.I. Grigor’yev, a graduate of the Moscow Conservatoire.42 Church-music life in Belorussia and other national republics of the USSR was particularly rich. For example, in November 1941 M.I. Nikolayevich, the chorus master of the Belorussian Theatre, organised a Metropolitan’s choir which contained the finest singers from the choir of the opera company of the Belorussian Theatre in Minsk. A 30-strong children’s choir conducted by the choirmaster A.F. Alekseyeva sang for services in the Cathedral of St Peter and St Paul in Minsk. In April 1943 courses for psalm-singers and choirmasters opened in Minsk and lasted for six months (Silova 2005, 5, 10). The opera singer and composer of church music Mikhail Sergeyevich Konstantinov directed a church choir in Yuzovka (the present-day Donetsk).43 New sacred music was also composed. But since evidence about it did not find its way into periodicals, it is extremely scarce. It has emerged that sacred music was written during the occupation by the choirmaster and psalm-singer from Gdov Sergey Dmitriyevich Pleskach and the Belorussia-resident composers Nikolay Nikolayevich Shcheglov, Aleksey Yevlampiyevich Turenkov and Nikolay Yakovlevich Rovensky (Ravinsky). After the arrival of the Soviet army Turenkov and Pleskach were arrested by the state security organs. The former was sentenced to ten years in corrective labour camps “for aiding the German occupiers”; after the death of Stalin he returned to Minsk but died three years after being released.44 Traces of the latter disappeared in the bowels of the GULAG.45 Shcheglov (under the name Kulikovich) and Rovensky left for the West along with German troops and joined the ranks of the émigrés in the “second wave”.

42

[Anon.] 1943. Pavlova 1996. 44 ɀɟɪɬɜɵ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɪɟɩɪɟɫɫɢɣ. Ȼɚɡɚ ɞɚɧɧɵɯ: http://lists.memo.ru/ index19.htm See also Gustova 2011, 10-11. 45 ɇɨɜɨɦɭɱɟɧɢɤɢ ɢ ɂɫɩɨɜɟɞɧɢɤɢ Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɉɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɧɨɣ ɐɟɪɤɜɢ XX ɜɟɤɚ. Ȼɚɡɚ ɞɚɧɧɵɯ: http://www.pstbi.ccas.ru/bin/db.exe/ans/nm/?TYZCF2JMTdG6XbuDeuLVee1b67 4Zs8CZeG02f8XWs8WZceXb** 43

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*** After the end of the war several million former Soviet citizens found themselves on the territory of Western Europe in camps for Displaced Persons. Many of them did not return to the USSR but merged into the national diasporas of various countries, mainly the USA. Thus, Shcheglov-Kulikovich died in Chicago in 1969, and Rovinsky in Louvain in Belgium in 1953. The Russian emigration of the postwar ‘second wave’, like the emigration of the first, post-revolutionary ‘wave’, strove to preserve traditional Russian art, including choral culture. Russia Abroad, however, modest as regards human and administrative resources, was in many respects unable to compete with Soviet Russia where during the postwar years a powerful amateur choral movement begun in the 1930s was renewed, where the prerevolutionary system of musical education was not only restored but multiplied, and where a huge stratum of secular choral music had arisen. At the same time, it was precisely Russia Abroad that, once it had found its feet, raised aloft the banner in those fields of creativity which the musicians of Soviet Russia had no opportunity to develop. The contribution of the Russian Emigration to the field of sacred music is particularly inestimable. The rebirth of church music which began in Russia along with the rebirth of the church after the disintegration of the USSR would not have been so triumphal had it not been for the efforts of the Russian Emigration, which beyond the frontiers of the historic homeland succeeded in preserving and augmenting the pre-revolutionary heritage. Translated by Stuart Campbell

Archival holdings Kedrov, N.N. (1933): Letter to Baroness M.P. Vrangel. In: Hoover Institution on War, Revolution and Peace, Stanford University. Mariia Vrangel Coll. Box 28. Folder 16.

Bibliography [Anon.] (1908): 1-ɣ ȼɫɟɪɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɢɣ ɫɴɟɡɞ ɪɟɝɟɧɬɨɜ ɰɟɪɤɨɜɧɵɯ ɯɨɪɨɜ ɢ ɞɟɹɬɟɥɟɣ ɧɚ ɩɨɩɪɢɳɟ ɰɟɪɤɨɜɧɨɝɨ ɩɟɧɢɹ. In: Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ ɢ ɠɢɡɧɶ [Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ], ʋ 7, pp. 8-9. [Anon.] (1928): Ȼɸɪɨ ɩɨ ɩɟɪɟɩɢɫɤɟ ɧɨɬ. In: Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɯɨɪɨɜɨɣ ɜɟɫɬɧɢɤ, Prague: ɂɡɞɚɧɢɟ Ɉɛɳɟɫɬɭɞɟɧɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɯɨɪɚ ɢɦɟɧɢ Ⱥ.Ⱥ.

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Gustova, L. (2011): ɐɟɪɤɨɜɧɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɟɹ Ɍɭɪɟɧɤɨɜɚ. Ʉ 125ɥɟɬɢɸ ɫɨ ɞɧɹ ɪɨɠɞɟɧɢɹ. In: ɐɚɪɤɨʆɧɚɷ ɫɥɨɜɚ 4 (450), 28 ɫɬɭɞɡɟɧɹ, pp. 10-11. Grigor’yeva, A.V. (ed.) (2000): Ɇɨɫɤɨɜɫɤɚɹ ɪɟɝɟɧɬɫɤɨ-ɩɟɜɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɫɟɦɢɧɚɪɢɹ. 1998-1999. ɋɛɨɪɧɢɤ ɫɬɚɬɟɣ, ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɣ, ɚɪɯɢɜɧɵɯ ɞɨɤɭɦɟɧɬɨɜ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɋɜɹɬɢɬɟɥɶ Ʉɢɩɪɢɚɧ. —. (2002): Ɍɪɭɞɵ Ɇɨɫɤɨɜɫɤɨɣ ɪɟɝɟɧɬɫɤɨ-ɩɟɜɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɫɟɦɢɧɚɪɢɢ. 20002001, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. —. (2005): Ɍɪɭɞɵ Ɇɨɫɤɨɜɫɤɨɣ ɪɟɝɟɧɬɫɤɨ-ɩɟɜɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɫɟɦɢɧɚɪɢɢ. 20022003, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɉɚɥɨɦɧɢɤ. Kastal’sky, A.D. (2006): ɀɟɧɳɢɧɵ ɜ ɰɟɪɤɨɜɧɵɯ ɯɨɪɚɯ (Ɉɬɜɟɬɵ ɧɚ ɜɨɩɪɨɫɵ ɪɟɞɚɤɰɢɢ). In: Zvereva, S.G. (ed.): Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɞɭɯɨɜɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɜ ɞɨɤɭɦɟɧɬɚɯ ɢ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɚɯ, ɬ. 5: Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪ Ʉɚɫɬɚɥɶɫɤɢɣ. ɋɬɚɬɶɢ, ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɵ, ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ, ɩɟɪɟɩɢɫɤɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɂɧɚɤ, pp. 98-100. Kazakevich, A.N. (ed.) (2004): ɉɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɧɚɹ Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ ɜ 1917-1921 ɝɨɞɚɯ. ɋɛɨɪɧɢɤ ɞɨɤɭɦɟɧɬɨɜ ɢ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɨɜ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɡɞɚɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨ Ƚɥɚɜɚɪɯɢɜɚ Ɇɨɫɤɜɵ, pp. 652-653. Khisamutdinov, A.A. (2000): Ɋɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɚɹ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ ɜ Ⱥɡɢɚɬɫɤɨ-Ɍɢɯɨɨɤɟɚɧɫɤɨɦ ɪɟɝɢɨɧɟ ɢ ɘɠɧɨɣ Ⱥɦɟɪɢɤɟ, ȼɥɚɞɢɜɨɫɬɨɤ: ɂɡɞɚɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨ Ⱦɚɥɶɧɟɜɨɫɬɨɱɧɨɝɨ ɭɧɢɜɟɪɫɢɬɟɬɚ. —. (2010): Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɋɚɧ-Ɏɪɚɧɰɢɫɤɨ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ȼɟɱɟ. Kovalevsky, P. (1970): Ɂɚɪɭɛɟɠɧɚɹ Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ. ɂɫɬɨɪɢɹ ɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨ-ɩɪɨɫɜɟɬɢɬɟɥɶɧɚɹ ɪɚɛɨɬɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ ɡɚ ɩɨɥɜɟɤɚ (1920-1970), Paris: Librairie de Cinq Continents. Kovalyov, B.N. (2004): ɇɚɰɢɫɬɫɤɚɹ ɨɤɤɭɩɚɰɢɹ ɢ ɤɨɥɥɚɛɨɪɚɰɢɨɧɢɡɦ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ. 1941-1944, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ȺɋɌ; Ɍɪɚɧɡɢɬɤɧɢɝɚ. Kruchinin, (1943): Ʉ ɞɜɭɯɫɨɬɥɟɬɢɸ ɫɦɨɥɟɧɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɨɛɨɪɧɨɝɨ ɯɨɪɚ. In: ɇɨɜɵɣ ɩɭɬɶ [ɋɦɨɥɟɧɫɤ]. 1943. ʋ 62 (184). 8 August. L.L. (1928, 11 January): Ƚɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɚɹ ɤɚɩɟɥɥɚ. In: Ɋɭɥɶ [Berlin], ʋ 2165. L.L. (1928, 27 January): ɏɨɪɵ (ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɢ ɧɟɦɟɰɤɢɟ). In: Ɋɭɥɶ [Berlin], ʋ 2177. Levashev E.M. and others (ed.) (2011): ɂɫɩɨɥɧɟɧɢɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ ɡɚ ɪɭɛɟɠɨɦ. In: ɂɫɬɨɪɢɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ. 1890-1917, vol. 10B, book 2: ɏɪɨɧɨɝɪɚɮ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: əɡɵɤɢ ɫɥɚɜɹɧɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ. Mazyrin, A.: (ed.) (2006): ɂɡɴɹɬɢɟ ɰɟɪɤɨɜɧɵɯ ɰɟɧɧɨɫɬɟɣ ɜ Ɇɨɫɤɜɟ ɜ 1922 ɝ. ɋɛɨɪɧɢɤ ɞɨɤɭɦɟɧɬɨɜ ɢɡ ɮɨɧɞɚ Ɋɟɜɜɨɟɧɫɨɜɟɬɚ Ɋɟɫɩɭɛɥɢɤɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɉɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɧɵɣ ɋɜɹɬɨ-Ɍɢɯɨɧɨɜɫɤɢɣ Ƚɭɦɚɧɢɬɚɪɧɵɣ ɭɧɢɜɟɪɫɢɬɟɬ. Meleshkova, N.V. (2008): Ɋɨɥɶ ɩɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɧɨɣ ɰɟɪɤɜɢ ɜ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɜ ɉɪɚɝɟ. In: XVIII ȿɠɟɝɨɞɧɚɹ ɛɨɝɨ-

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ɫɥɨɜɫɤɚɹ ɤɨɧɮɟɪɟɧɰɢɹ ɉɋɌȽɍ: Ɇɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɵ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɡɞɚɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨ ɉɋɌȽɍ, pp.192-199. http://pstgu.ru/download/1279885458.meleshkova.pdf Melikhov, G.V. (2003): Ȼɟɥɵɣ ɏɚɪɛɢɧ: ɋɟɪɟɞɢɧɚ 20-ɯ., Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɩɭɬɶ. Mikhaylov, A.V., Ol’khov, K.A., Romanovsky, N.V. (eds.) (1971): ɏɨɪɨɜɨɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ, issue 2, Ʌɟɧɢɧɝɪɚɞ: Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ. Mitrofanov, Georgiy, protopriest (2002): ɂɫɬɨɪɢɹ Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɉɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɧɨɣ ɐɟɪɤɜɢ. 1900-1927, ɋɚɧɤɬ-ɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝ: ɋɚɬɢɫ. Murin, A.A. (ed.) (2011): ȿɥɢɡɚɜɟɬɚ Ʉɭɞɪɹɜɰɟɜɚ. Ɇɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɜɟɤ, ɋɚɧɤɬ-ɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝ: OOO “Ȼɟɪɟɫɬɚ”. Naumov, A.A. (ed.) (1987): ɉɚɦɹɬɢ Ⱦɚɧɢɥɢɧɚ. ɉɢɫɶɦɚ, ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ, ɞɨɤɭɦɟɧɬɵ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɋɨɜɟɬɫɤɢɣ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪ, pp. 24-48. Naumov, A.A., Rakhmanova, M.P. and Zvereva, S.G. (eds.) (2004): Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɞɭɯɨɜɧɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɜ ɞɨɤɭɦɟɧɬɚɯ ɢ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɚɯ, v. 2, book 2: ɋɢɧɨɞɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɯɨɪ ɢ ɭɱɢɥɢɳɟ ɰɟɪɤɨɜɧɨɝɨ ɩɟɧɢɹ: Ʉɨɧɰɟɪɬɵ. ɉɟɪɢɨɞɢɤɚ. ɉɪɨɝɪɚɦɦɵ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: əɡɵɤɢ ɫɥɚɜɹɧɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ. Pavlova, T.M. (1996): Ɇɢɯɚɢɥ ɋɟɪɝɟɟɜɢɱ Ʉɨɧɫɬɚɧɬɢɧɨɜ (ȼɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ ɞɨɱɟɪɢ). In: Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɠɢɡɧɶ [San Francisco], 28 December. Rakhmanova, M.P. (ed) (2015): Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɞɭɯɨɜɧɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɜ ɞɨɤɭɦɟɧɬɚɯ ɢ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɚɯ, vol. 2, book 1: Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɩɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɧɨɟ ɰɟɪɤɨɜɧɨɟ ɩɟɧɢɟ ɜ XX ɜɟɤɟ: cɨɜɟɬɫɤɢɣ ɩɟɪɢɨɞ. 1920-1930-ɟ ɝɨɞɵ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: əɡɵɤɢ ɫɥɚɜɹɧɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ. Rozenbaum, Yu.A. (1985): ɋɨɜɟɬɫɤɨɟ ɝɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɨ ɢ ɰɟɪɤɨɜɶ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɇɚɭɤɚ. Rozova, L.K. (1994): ȼɟɥɢɤɢɣ ɚɪɯɢɞɢɚɤɨɧ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɡɞɚɬɟɥɶɫɤɢɣ ɨɬɞɟɥ Ɇɨɫɤɨɜɫɤɨɝɨ ɉɚɬɪɢɚɪɯɚɬɚ. Shkarovsky, M.V. (2003): ɉɨɥɢɬɢɤɚ Ɍɪɟɬɶɟɝɨ ɪɟɣɯɚ ɩɨ ɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɸ ɤ Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɉɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɧɨɣ ɐɟɪɤɜɢ ɜ ɫɜɟɬɟ ɚɪɯɢɜɧɵɯ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɨɜ 19351945 ɝɨɞɨɜ. (ɋɛɨɪɧɢɤ ɞɨɤɭɦɟɧɬɨɜ), Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ƚɪɚɚɥɶ. Shchukin, Sergiy, protopriest (2010): ɉɪɨɬɢɜ ɬɟɱɟɧɢɹ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɋɭɪɨɠ. Silova, S.V. (2005): Ʉɪɟɫɬɧɵɣ ɩɭɬɶ. Ȼɟɥɨɪɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɩɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɧɚɹ ɰɟɪɤɨɜɶ ɜ ɩɟɪɢɨɞ ɧɟɦɟɰɤɨɣ ɨɤɤɭɩɚɰɢɢ 1941-1944 ɝɝ, Ɇɢɧɫɤ: Ȼɟɥɨɪɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɗɤɡɚɪɯɚɬ. Shumsky, S.A. (2005): ɇɢɤɨɥɚɣ ȼɚɫɢɥɶɟɜɢɱ Ɇɚɬɜɟɟɜ – ɯɨɪɨɜɨɣ ɞɢɪɢɠɟɪ ɢ ɪɟɝɟɧɬ. 1909-1992. In: Grigor’yeva, A.V. (ed.) (2005): Ɍɪɭɞɵ Ɇɨɫɤɨɜɫɤɨɣ ɪɟɝɟɧɬɫɤɨ-ɩɟɜɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɫɟɦɢɧɚɪɢɢ. 2002-2003, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɉɚɥɨɦɧɢɤ, pp. 85-89. Shuvalov, M.P., Pen’kin, N.N. and Solov’yov I.F. (eds.) (1939): ɋɛɨɪɧɢɤ ɜɬɨɪɨɝɨ ɜɫɟɝɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɫɥɟɬɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɯɨɪɨɜ ɜ ɗɫɬɨɧɢɢ. 1-2 ɢɸɥɹ 1939 ɝ. Petseri (Pechory).

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Taras’yev, A. (2010): Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɰɟɪɤɨɜɧɵɟ ɯɨɪɵ ɢ ɪɟɝɟɧɬɵ ɜ Ȼɟɥɝɪɚɞɟ. 1920-1970. ɂɡ ɪɭɤɨɩɢɫɢ ɤɧɢɝɢ ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɣ. In: ɇɨɜɵɣ ɠɭɪɧɚɥ. ʋ 259. ɂɸɧɶ. http://drupal.newreview.webfactional.com/node/47 Troitskaya, S. (1995): Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɏɚɪɛɢɧ. ȼɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ. Brisbane. Tsypin, Vladislav, protopriest (1997): ɂɫɬɨɪɢɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɰɟɪɤɜɢ. 19171997, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɡɞɚɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨ ɋɩɚɫɨ-ɉɪɟɨɛɪɚɠɟɧɫɤɨɝɨ ȼɚɥɚɚɦɫɤɨɝɨ ɦɨɧɚɫɬɵɪɹ. Tyushagin, V.V. (2005): Ƚɚɥɥɢɤɚɧɫɤɢɣ ɨɛɪɹɞ ɜ ɉɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɧɨɣ ɐɟɪɤɜɢ, in: ɉɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɧɚɹ ɷɧɰɢɤɥɨɩɟɞɢɹ, ɬ. 10: ȼɬɨɪɨɡɚɤɨɧɢɟ – Ƚɟɨɪɝɢɣ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, ɐɟɪɤɨɜɧɨ-ɧɚɭɱɧɵɣ ɰɟɧɬɪ «ɉɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɧɚɹ ɷɧɰɢɤɥɨɩɟɞɢɹ», pp. 368-372, http://www.pravenc.ru/text/161584.html Valk, S.N. and others (ed.) (1957): Ⱦɟɤɪɟɬɵ ɋɨɜɟɬɫɤɨɣ ɜɥɚɫɬɢ: 25 ɨɤɬɹɛɪɹ 1917 ɝ. – 16 ɦɚɪɬɚ 1918 ɝ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ƚɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɟ ɢɡɞɚɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ, vol. 1. Vasil’yeva O.Yu, Beglov, A.L. and others (eds.) (2008): Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɉɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɧɚɹ ɐɟɪɤɨɜɶ. XX ɜɟɤ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɂɡɞɚɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨ ɋɪɟɬɟɧɫɤɨɝɨ ɦɨɧɚɫɬɵɪɹ. Vzdornov, G.I., Zalesskaya, Z.E. and Lelekova, O.V. (2002): Ɉɛɳɟɫɬɜɨ “ɂɤɨɧɚ” ɜ ɉɚɪɢɠɟ. 2 ɬ., Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɉɪɨɝɪɟɫɫ-Ɍɪɚɞɢɰɢɹ. Zvereva, S.G. (2009): ɂɡɞɚɧɢɹ ɞɭɯɨɜɧɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ ɡɚ ɩɪɟɞɟɥɚɦɢ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ. In: ɉɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɧɚɹ ɷɧɰɢɤɥɨɩɟɞɢɹ, ɬ. 21: ɂɜɟɪɫɤɚɹ ɢɤɨɧɚ Ȼɨɠɢɟɣ Ɇɚɬɟɪɢ – ɂɤɢɦɚɬɚɪɢɣ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɐɟɪɤɨɜɧɨ-ɧɚɭɱɧɵɣ ɰɟɧɬɪ «ɉɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɧɚɹ ɷɧɰɢɤɥɨɩɟɞɢɹ», pp. 580-585. —. (2009): ɋɭɞɶɛɵ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɯɨɪɨɜɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ ɜ ɋɒȺ ɜ 1910-1930ɟ ɝɨɞɵ ɜ ɨɛɳɟɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɦ ɢ ɰɟɪɤɨɜɧɨɦ ɤɨɧɬɟɤɫɬɟ. In: Ⱦɟɹɬɟɥɢ ɚɦɟɪɢɤɚɧɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ ɢɡ Ɋɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɨɣ ɢɦɩɟɪɢɢ, ɋɚɧɤɬɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝ: Palace Editions, pp. 213-221. —. (2013): Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɞɭɯɨɜɧɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɡɚ ɩɪɟɞɟɥɚɦɢ ɋɋɋɊ ɜ 1940-ɟ ɝɨɞɵ: ɤɨɧɬɭɪɵ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ. In: Zvereva, S.G. (comp.): Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɟ: ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɢ ɩɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɢɟ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ⱦɨɦ Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ Ɂɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ ɢɦ. Ⱥ. ɋɨɥɠɟɧɢɰɵɧɚ, pp. 284-313. —. (2014): ɀɢɡɧɶ ɢ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɜ ɨɤɤɭɩɢɪɨɜɚɧɧɨɦ ɋɦɨɥɟɧɫɤɟ ɢ ɧɟɤɨɬɨɪɵɯ ɞɪɭɝɢɯ ɫɨɜɟɬɫɤɢɯ ɝɨɪɨɞɚɯ ɜ ɝɨɞɵ ȼɟɥɢɤɨɣ Ɉɬɟɱɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ ɜɨɣɧɵ. In: ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ. Ɍɟɨɪɢɹ ɢ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɹ 16, pp. 113-182. http://theatre.sias.ru/upload/iblock/21a/imti_2016_14_113_182_zverev a.pdf Zvereva, S.G. (ed.) (2006): Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɞɭɯɨɜɧɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɜ ɞɨɤɭɦɟɧɬɚɯ ɢ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɚɯ, vol. 5: Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪ Ʉɚɫɬɚɥɶɫɤɢɣ. ɋɬɚɬɶɢ, ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɵ, ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ, ɩɟɪɟɩɢɫɤɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɂɧɚɤ.

ON THE “MELODIC QUALITY” OF TSVETAEVA’S LYRIC VERSE: HOMMAGE À MARINA TSVETAYEVA BY SOFIA GUBAIDULINA (1984) MARINA LUPISHKO1

ȼɫɹɤɢɣ ɩɨɷɬ ɩɨ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɭ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬ, ɞɚɠɟ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ. [Every poet is essentially an émigré, even in Russia.] Marina Tsvetaeva, “The Poet and Time” (1932) (Tsvetaeva 1994V: 335).

Marina Tsvetaeva suffered from unjust criticism all her life. Critics accused her of obscurity, of lack in taste, of an excessive pathos and cacophonous rhythms in her poetry, of syntactic incoherence in her prose, of pseudo-folklorism and of sentimentalism. Amazingly, some of her harshest critics had very famous names. Out of the three sadly infamous reviews of her poetry – by Valery Bryusov, Osip Mandelshtam, and Vladislav Khodasevich2 – the last one stands out by its initial tone of objectivity and a certain insight: ɋɭɞɶɛɚ ɨɞɚɪɢɥɚ Ɇɚɪɢɧɭ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɭ ɡɚɜɢɞɧɵɦ ɢ ɪɟɞɤɢɦ ɞɚɪɨɦ: ɩɟɫɟɧɧɵɦ. ɉɨɠɚɥɭɣ, ɧɢ ɨɞɢɧ ɢɡ ɧɵɧɟ ɠɢɜɭɳɢɯ ɩɨɷɬɨɜ ɧɟ ɨɛɥɚɞɚɟɬ ɜ ɬɚɤɨɣ ɫɬɟɩɟɧɢ, ɤɚɤ ɨɧɚ, ɩɨɞɥɢɧɧɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɫɬɶɸ. ɋɬɢɯɢ Ɇɚɪɢɧɵ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ ɛɵɜɚɸɬ ɜ ɨɛɳɟɦ ɬɨ ɛɨɥɟɟ, ɬɨ ɦɟɧɟɟ ɭɞɚɱɧɵ. ɇɨ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵ ɨɧɢ 1

Saarland University, Saarbrücken. The last stages of research for this paper, as well as the organisation of the international conference “Russian Émigré Culture: Transcending the Borders of Countries, Languages, and Disciplines”, were supported by the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation. I am grateful to Nila Friedberg, Irina Shevelenko, Alexandra Smith, Gerald Stanton Smith, and James Bailey for sharing their publications, suggestions, and encouragements with me. 2 Shevelenko 2015, 208-216. See also the discussion of Leon Trotsky’s and Vladimir Mayakovsky’s discrediting opinions of Tsvetaeva’s poetry in Karlinsky 1985, 128-131.

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse ɜɫɟɝɞɚ. ɂ ɷɬɨ – ɧɟ ɫɥɚɳɚɜɨ-ɨɩɟɪɟɬɨɱɧɵɣ ɦɨɬɢɜɱɢɤ ɂɝɨɪɹ ɋɟɜɟɪɹɧɢɧɚ, ɧɟ ɜɧɟɲɧɟ ɩɪɢɹɬɧɚɹ «ɪɨɦɚɧɫɤɚɹ ɩɟɪɟɥɢɜɱɚɬɨɫɬɶ» Ȼɚɥɶɦɨɧɬɚ, ɧɟ ɡɚɥɢɯɜɚɬɫɤɨɟ ɬɪɟɧɶɤɚɧɶɟ Ƚɨɪɨɞɟɰɤɨɝɨ. «Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ» ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ ɱɭɠɞɚ ɩɨɝɨɧɢ ɡɚ ɜɧɟɲɧɟɣ ɷɮɮɟɤɬɧɨɫɬɶɸ, ɨɱɟɧɶ ɫɥɨɠɧɚ ɩɨ ɜɧɭɬɪɟɧɧɟɦɭ ɫɬɪɨɟɧɢɸ ɢ ɛɨɝɚɬɟɣɲɢɦ ɨɛɪɚɡɨɦ ɨɪɤɟɫɬɪɨɜɚɧɚ. (Khodasevich 1923, cit. in Shevelenko 2015, 214) [Fate has given Marina Tsvetaeva an enviable and rare gift, that of singing. Perhaps none of the living poets possesses in the same degree as she does a true gift for music. In general, the poems of Marina Tsvetaeva can be more or less successful, yet they are always musical. And it is neither like the sugary operetta tune by Igor Severyanin, nor like the pleasant “romance iridescence” by Balmont, nor like the rollicking strum by Gorodetsky. Tsvetaeva’s “music” is foreign to any pursuit of external effect, very complex in its inner structure, and orchestrated in the richest possible way.] (translations are mine unless otherwise noted)

Taken as a whole, however, this short review of Tsvetaeva’s two books of poetry that were published in Berlin in the same year – Ɋɟɦɟɫɥɨ [Craft] (1923) and ɉɫɢɯɟɹ. Ɋɨɦɚɧɬɢɤɚ [Psyche. Romanticism] (1923) – was slightly sarcastic in its tone and largely negative in its essence. At the end of the review signed “F. Maslov” and published in the Soviet journal Ʉɧɢɝɚ ɢ ɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɹ [Book and Revolution] (1923, No. 4), Khodasevich stated that ȼ ɤɨɧɰɟ ɤɨɧɰɨɜ – ɫɨ ɜɫɟɯ ɫɬɪɚɧɢɰ «Ɋɟɦɟɫɥɚ» ɢ «ɉɫɢɯɟɢ» ɧɚ ɱɢɬɚɬɟɥɹ ɫɦɨɬɪɢɬ ɥɢɰɨ ɤɚɩɪɢɡɧɢɰɵ, ɨɱɟɧɶ ɞɚɪɨɜɢɬɨɣ, ɧɨ ɜɫɟɝɨ ɥɢɲɶ ɤɚɩɪɢɡɧɢɰɵ, ɦɨɠɟɬ ɛɵɬɶ – ɢɫɬɟɪɢɱɤɢ… Ɍɚɤɢɯ ɥɢɰ ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɦɧɨɝɨ ɜ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɟ, ɧɨ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ ɢɯ ɧɢɤɨɝɞɚ ɧɟ ɩɨɦɧɢɬ. (Khodasevich 1923, cit. in Shevelenko 2015, 216, italics in the text) [In sum the face of a capricious – perhaps a gifted one – but still a capricious and perhaps a hysterical woman looks at the reader from every page of Ɋɟɦɟɫɥɚ and ɉɫɢɯɟɹ … Such faces are always many in literature, but the history of literature does not remember them”.3

The opening words cited above, on the other hand, were probably suggested to the critic by Andrey Bely (1880-1934), his closest friend in Berlin at that time and the person who, according to Khodasevich’s memoirs, influenced him the most. Bely was 12 years older than Tsvetaeva, and his

3

Khodasevich reconciled with Tsvetaeva at the end of his life, becoming a major critical champion of her poetry and prose in the 1930s (Karlinsky 1985, 205).

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positive opinion was very important in her eyes, as it linked her directly to the Silver Age Symbolist poets. Bely was also the first poet to welcome Tsvetaeva’s appearance in Berlin in May 1922, where she was going to meet her husband Sergey Efron after a four-year-long separation. On 15 May 1922 (or a day after), Marina and her daughter Ariadna, after having arrived in Berlin by train, met with Andrey Bely at the Pragerdiele café on Pragerplatz (Saakyants 1988, 373). There Tsvetaeva gave Bely the book of poetry Ɋɚɡɥɭɤɚ [Separation], newly published in Berlin by the Ƚɟɥɢɤɨɧ Press with the assistance of Ilya Ehrenburg (her other book ɋɬɢɯɢ ɤ Ȼɥɨɤɭ [Poems to Blok] was also published there before her arrival). The next day, on 16 May 1922, Bely sent to Tsvetaeva a personal letter of admiration: Ƚɥɭɛɨɤɨɭɜɚɠɚɟɦɚɹ Ɇɚɪɢɧɚ ɂɜɚɧɨɜɧɚ, ɩɨɡɜɨɥɶɬɟ ɦɧɟ ɜɵɫɤɚɡɚɬɶ ɝɥɭɛɨɤɨɟ ɜɨɫɯɢɳɟɧɢɟ ɩɟɪɟɞ ɫɨɜɟɪɲɟɧɧɨ ɤɪɵɥɚɬɨɣ ɦɟɥɨɞɢɟɣ ȼɚɲɟɣ ɤɧɢɝɢ «Ɋɚɡɥɭɤɚ». ə ɜɟɫɶ ɜɟɱɟɪ ɱɢɬɚɸ – ɩɨɱɬɢ ɜɫɥɭɯ; ɢ – ɩɨɱɬɢ ɪɚɫɩɟɜɚɸ. Ⱦɚɜɧɨ ɹ ɧɟ ɢɦɟɥ ɬɚɤɨɝɨ ɷɫɬɟɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɧɚɫɥɚɠɞɟɧɢɹ. Ⱥ ɜ ɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɢ ɤ ɦɟɥɨɞɢɤɟ ɫɬɢɯɚ, ɫɬɨɥɶ ɧɭɠɧɨɣ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɪɚɫɯɥɹɛɚɧɧɨɫɬɢ Ɇɨɫɤɜɢɱɟɣ ɢ ɦɟɪɬɜɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ Ⱥɤɦɟɢɫɬɨɜ, ɜɚɲɚ ɤɧɢɝɚ ɩɟɪɜɚɹ (ɷɬɨ – ɛɟɡɭɫɥɨɜɧɨ). (Saakyants 1988, 373-374, italics in the text) [Dearest Marina Ivanovna, may I express my profound admiration of the completely winged melody of your book Razluka. I am reading it all night long – almost out loud – and am almost singing it. I have not had such an aesthetic pleasure for a long time. As regards the melody of the verse, much needed after the lack of discipline of the Muscovites and the deadness of the Acmeists, your book is the first one (without any doubt).]

Having finished the letter, Bely wrote a review on Razluka and published it in the Berlin newspaper Ƚɨɥɨɫ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ [The Voice of Russia] on 21 May 1922 (No. 971) (Shevelenko 2015, 212). In his review, Bely tried to figure out why, notwithstanding the fact that “ɨɛɪɚɡɵ – ɛɟɞɧɵɟ, ɫɬɪɨɱɤɢ – ɷɮɮɟɤɬɧɵɟ, ɚ ɷɮɮɟɤɬɵ – ɞɟɲɟɜɵɟ” [the images are poor, the lines showy, and the effects cheap], he was completely dazzled by the beauty of Tsvetaeva’s lyrics. His answer was “melody”: ɗɬɢ ɫɬɪɨɱɤɢ ɱɢɬɚɬɶ ɧɟɜɨɡɦɨɠɧɨ: ɩɨɸɬɫɹ .... Cɬɪɨɱɤɢ ɢ ɫɬɪɨɮɵ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɞɟɪɠɚɬɫɹ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɦɟɥɨɞɢɟɣ ɰɟɥɨɝɨ, ɩɨɞɱɢɧɹɸɳɟɝɨ ɪɢɬɦɢɱɟɫɤɭɸ ɚɪɬɢɤɭɥɹɰɢɸ, ɩɪɟɧɟɛɪɟɝɚɸɳɭɸ ɜɫɟɸ ɩɥɚɫɬɢɤɨɜ ɨɛɪɚɡɨɜ ɡɚ ɧɟɧɭɠɧɨɫɬɶɸ ɢɯ ɩɪɢ ɩɥɚɫɬɢɱɧɨɦ ɹɫɧɨɦ ɧɚɩɟɜɟ; ɫɬɢɯɨɬɜɨɪɟɧɢɹ Ɇɚɪɢɧɵ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ ɧɟ ɩɪɨɱɢɬɵɜɚɟɦɵ ɛɟɡ ɪɚɫɩɟɜɚ. (Saakyants 1988, 374-375) [These lines are impossible to read – only to sing… Lines and stanzas are held together only by the melody of the whole, they subordinate them-

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse selves to the rhythmic articulation and neglect all the plastic aspects of her imagery, which become useless at the existence of a plastically clear-cut tune; Marina Tsvetaeva’s poems cannot be read without singing.]

In his review, Bely mentions the book he had read recently, Ɇɟɥɨɞɢɤɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɥɢɪɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɬɢɯɚ [The Melodics of Russian Lyric Verse] by Boris Eykhenbaum (Petrograd: OPOJAZ, 1922) (Saakyants 1988, 375). Boris Eykhenbaum was a member of the OPOJAZ circle [Ɉɛɳɟɫɬɜɨ ɢɡɭɱɟɧɢɹ ɉɨɷɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ əɡɵɤɚ, the Society for the Study of Poetic Language], which began its activity in 1916 and formed the Petrograd school of Russian formalists, along with Viktor Shklovsky, Viktor Zhirmunsky, Yury Tynianov, Boris Tomashevsky and others. (We should mention in parentheses the huge influence that Bely’s book ɋɢɦɜɨɥɢɡɦ [Symbolism] had on Russian formalists. Bely’s article “Ʌɢɪɢɤɚ ɢ ɷɤɫɩɟɪɢɦɟɧɬ” [Lyrics and Experiment] (Bely ([1910] 1994), the first attempt in history to initiate the study of Russian poetic metrics as compared to rhythmics, proclaimed in 1910 the necessity of studying poetry from a scientific point of view, which later became the slogan of formalism.)4 Eykhenbaum’s book was the first extensive study of Russian lyric poetry of the 19th century (Zhukovsky, Pushkin, Tyutchev, Lermontov, Fet). The author focused most of his attention on the ɦɟɥɨɞɢɤɚ [melodics] of the poetic text. Having borrowed the (rather blurred) term “melodics” from the writings on the “pronunciational-aural philology” of the German linguist Eduard Sievers (1850-1932) (Sievers 1912), Eykhenbaum considered it to be an immanent quality of poetry. Contrary to Sievers who defined “melodics” in term of phonetics, Eykhenbaum viewed it as a kind of symmetry of syntax of the poem, i.e. symmetric constructions such as word and phrase repetitions, parallelisms, enjambements, and inversions (Eykhenbaum 1922, 6). The syntax of the verse, according to the author, is implemented not only in its rhythm and its “instrumentation” (phonetics), but also in its “intonation” (the sonoric or “melodic” quality of the verse that cannot be adequately put on paper, Hansen-Löve 2001, 300). Eykhenbaum distinguished between three types of verse: 1) ɞɟɤɥɚɦɚɬɢɜɧɵɣ, declamatory verse like odes; 2) ɧɚɩɟɜɧɵɣ, sung melodious verse; 3) ɝɨɜɨɪɧɨɣ, spoken verse (Eykhenbaum 1922, 8).5 Only in the melodious 4

“The fundamental significance of Andrey Bely for the theory of verse was deliberately belittled by the formalists” (Hansen-Löve 2001, 294, fn. 474). Among the most important formalist studies of Russian poetry, we should mention Tynyanov 1924, Zhirmunsky 1925, Brik 1927, and Tomashevsky 1927, 1929. 5 Zhirmunsky, in his 1922 review of Eykhenbaum’s book, approved of Eykhenbaum’s distinguishing between ɡɜɭɱɧɨɫɬɶ (the general sonority of the verse: allite-

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type does the “pure lyric intonation” function as a form-making device that subordinates all other factors, rhythmic, phonetic or syntactic (Hansen-Löve 2001, 301, fn. 482). As if in polemics with Eykhenbaum, Bely wrote: ɋ ɫɢɧɬɚɤɫɢɫɨɦ ɨɛɵɱɧɨ ɧɟ ɨɞɨɥɟɟɲɶ ɫɥɨɜɨɫɨɱɟɬɚɧɢɟ ɩɨɷɬɟɫɫɵ; ɚ ɜ ɩɟɧɢɢ ɨɧɨ ɹɫɧɟɟ ɜɫɟɝɨ. Ɇɟɥɨɞɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɥɟɣɬɦɨɬɢɜ ɫɥɵɲɢɦ ɜ ɰɟɥɨɦ ɜɫɟɯ ɫɬɪɨɮ. (Saakyants 1988, 375, italics mine) [With [the notion of] syntax [only] one cannot understand word combinations used by the poet, while singing explains them the clearest of all. A melodic leitmotif is heard in practically all stanzas.]

What is responsible for creating “melodic leitmotifs” in Tsvetaeva, according to Bely? Poetic rhythm. In Tsvetaeva’s verses he finds such curious combinations of antique poetic feet as “choriambs” (SwwS), “spondees” (S S), “ionics ascending” (wwSS) or “ionics descending” (SSww), “amphibrachs overloaded with Bacchic feet”, “paremic and glyconic verse”, “paeonization of iambs”, and so on (here and in the following examples S means “strong syllable” and w means “weak syllable”). Bely concludes: Ɇɟɥɨɞɢɹ Ɇɚɪɢɧɵ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ ɹɜɥɟɧɚ ɰɟɥɵɦ ɦɧɨɝɨɨɛɪɚɡɢɟɦ ɪɢɬɦɨɜ. […] [ȿɟ] ɦɟɥɨɞɢɢ ɧɟɨɬɜɹɡɧɵ, ɧɚɫɬɨɣɱɢɜɵ […]. (Saakyants 1988, 376377) [Marina Tsvetaeva’s melody is represented by a whole multitude of rhythms […]; [her] melodies are haunting, persistent […].]

Bely is right of course in his conclusions, but his attempt to explain the melodic quality of Tsvetaeva’s poetry by combinations of antique poetic feet, some of which are nowadays completely obsolete, is awkward;6 no wonder Tsvetaeva later confessed in the essay on Bely ɉɥɟɧɧɵɣ ɞɭɯ [A Captive Spirit] (1934) that she did not understand three quarters of Bely’s metrical analysis (Tsvetaeva 1994IV: 244). In a letter to the young émigré critic Aleksandr Bakhrakh (later known in France as Alexandre Bacherac), ration, rhymes, etc.) and melodichnost’ (the melodic quality of the poetic intonation) (Zhirmunsky 1922, 116). 6 Linking poetic language to music was one of the tendencies of the period. In the 1910s-1920s there appeared numerous quasi-scientific theories, often put forward by futurist and constructivist poets, that attempted to analyse poetic metre using musical categories, e.g. Boris Kushner’s Ɉ ɡɜɭɤɨɜɨɣ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɟ ɩɨɷɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɪɟɱɢ (1916), Fyodor Platov’s Ƚɚɦɦɚ ɝɥɚɫɧɵɯ (1916), Aleksandr Tufanov’s Ʉ ɡɚɭɦɢ (1924), A.P. Kvyatkovsky’s Ɍɚɤɬɨɦɟɬɪ (1929), etc.

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Tsvetaeva stated that until recently she could not even tell a dactyl from an iamb (Tsvetaeva 1995VI: 557-560). This letter to Bakhrakh, dated 9 June 1923, was a response to his review of her book of poetry Ɋɟɦɟɫɥɨ (1923) in the Berlin periodical Ⱦɧɢ [Days] of 8 April 1923, entitled ɉɨɷɡɢɹ ɪɢɬɦɨɜ [The Poetry of Rhythms]: ɍɬɜɟɪɠɞɚɸ, ȼɵ ɩɪɚɜɵ. Ɍɚɤ, ɠɢɜɹ ɫɬɢɯɚɦɢ ɫ – ɞɚ ɫ ɬɟɯ ɩɨɪ ɤɚɤ ɪɨɞɢɥɚɫɶ! – ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɷɬɢɦ ɥɟɬɨɦ ɭɡɧɚɥɚ ɨɬ ɫɜɨɟɝɨ ɢɡɞɚɬɟɥɹ Ƚɟɥɢɤɨɧɚ, ɱɬo ɬɚɤɨɟ ɯɨɪɟɣ ɢ ɱɬo ɬɚɤɨɟ ɞɚɯɬɢɥɶ. (əɦɛ ɡɧɚɥɚ ɩɨ ɧɚɡɜɚɧɢɸ ɛɥɨɤɨɜɫɤɨɣ ɤɧɢɝɢ, ɧɨ ɫɬɢɯ ɨɩɪɟɞɟɥɹɥɚ ɤɚɤ «ɩɭɲɤɢɧɫɤɢɣ ɪɚɡɦɟɪ» ɢ «ɛɪɸɫɨɜɫɤɢɣ ɪɚɡɦɟɪ».) ə ɠɢɜɭ – ɢ ɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɬɟɥɶɧɨ ɩɢɲɭ – ɩɨ ɫɥɭɯɭ, ɬ. ɟ. ɧɚ ɜɟɪɭ, ɢ ɷɬɨ ɦɟɧɹ ɧɢɤɨɝɞɚ ɧɟ ɨɛɦɚɧɵɜɚɥɨ. (Tsvetaeva 1995VI: 558) [I declare that you are right.7 Having lived with poetry since – well, since I was born! – only last summer I learned from my editor Helikon8 what an iamb is and what a dactyl is. (I knew iamb from the title of Blok’s book of poetry but I used to define poetic metres as “Pushkin’s metre” and “Bryusov’s metre”).9 I live – and therefore write – according to my hearing, that is, intuitively, and this method has never let me down.]

This letter and the following response of Bakhrakh, who resided in Berlin at that time, brought to life a string of similar letters to her unknown admirer, an intelligent literary critic 10 years her junior, written with all the emotional intensity this woman-poet in her thirties was capable of.10 In developing this epistolary romance, which lasted throughout the summer of 1923 and beyond, Tsvetaeva was escaping not only from the difficulties of her earthly existence in Czechoslovakia, but mainly from the fact that Boris Pasternak, the devotee of Ɋɟɦɟɫɥɨ and her alter ego for many years to come, had not written to her since February. This is why – precisely because she was a woman and wanted to rouse an interest in herself – we 7

Bakhrakh muses about Tsvetaeva’s future development as a poet: “ȼ «Ɋɟɦɟɫɥɟ» ɩɪɟɞɟɥ ɛɵɥɵɯ ɭɫɬɪɟɦɥɟɧɢɣ. Ɍɚɤ ɞɚɥɶɲɟ ɧɟɬ ɩɭɬɢ. Ⱦɚɥɶɧɟɣɲɟɟ ɲɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɧɢɟ ɷɬɢɦ ɩɭɬɟɦ – ɲɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɧɢɟ ɤ ɩɪɨɩɚɫɬɢ, ɜ ɛɟɡɞɧɭ; ɜ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɭ ɨɬ ɩɨɷɡɢɢ ɤ ɱɢɫɬɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɟ.” [Craft represents the limit of past aspirations. There is no farther way on this road. Continuation in this direction means leading towards the abyss, falling into the abyss; going away from poetry to pure music.] 8 The nickname of Abram Vishnyak (Karlinsky 1985, 117). 9 One of Aleksandr Blok’s books of poetry was titled əɦɛɵ [Iambs] (1919). 10 See in the same letter (Tsvetaeva 1995VI: 557): “ə ɧɟ ɥɸɛɥɸ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɢ, ɧɟ ɥɸɛɥɸ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɨɜ. Ɉɧɢ ɜ ɥɭɱɲɟɦ ɫɥɭɱɚɟ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɨɞɹɬ ɧɚ ɦɟɧɹ ɜɩɟɱɚɬɥɟɧɢɟ ɧɟɭɞɚɜɲɢɯɫɹ ɢ ɩɨɫɟɦɭ ɨɡɥɨɛɥɟɧɧɵɯ ɩɨɷɬɨɜ.” [I don’t like criticism and I don’t like critics. At best, they give me the impression of being failed and thus embittered poets.]

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should take her revelations with caution. Tsvetaeva knew well her basics in poetic prosody because she regularly attended the theoretical courses on metrics given by Andrey Bely in the Ɇɭɫɚɝɟɬ publishing house in 1910, although she later admitted that she never listened attentively because she could not understand Bely’s terminology (Tsvetaeva 1994IV: 224, 228; Shevelenko 2015, 50-51).11 Bakhrakh was one of those rare critics who sensed the complexity of Tsvetaeva’s poetic methods and perhaps even made her reflect on her own processes of writing poetry. In his reviews Bakhrakh pointed not only to the all-pervasive rhythms (“ɪɚɡɧɭɡɞɚɧɧɵɣ ɜɢɯɪɶ ɪɢɬɦɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɤɨɥɟɛɚɧɢɣ” [the unbridled whirlwind of rhythmic fluctuations]) and the musical quality of her poetry (“ɞɚɥɶɧɟɣɲɟɟ ɲɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɧɢɟ ɷɬɢɦ ɩɭɬɟɦ … ɜ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɭ ɨɬ ɩɨɷɡɢɢ ɤ ɱɢɫɬɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɟ” [further going along this road ... away from poetry to pure music]), but also to the way her verses were printed on page, in particular, to the important role played by the dashes:12 Ɍɨ, ɝɞɟ ɝɥɚɜɧɨɟ, ɧɚɢɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɟ ɤɪɨɟɬɫɹ ɜ ɡɧɚɤɚɯ ɩɪɟɩɢɧɚɧɢɹ, ɜ ɬɟɯ ɢɥɢ ɢɧɵɯ ɪɚɫɫɬɚɧɨɜɤɚɯ ɩɚɭɡ; ɬɨ, ɱɬɨ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɫɬɪɨɢɬɶɫɹ ɧɚ ɨɞɧɢɯ ɭɞɚɪɧɵɯ ɫɥɨɝɚɯ – ɫɬɢɯɢ ɥɢ ɢɥɢ ɧɚɞɨɟɜɲɢɟ ɤɭɧɫɬɲɬɸɤɢ? Ⱦɥɹ ɩɪɢɦɟɪɚ: Ʉɨɧɶ – ɯɪɨɦ, Ɇɟɱ – ɪɠɚɜ. Ʉɬɨ – ɫɟɣ? ȼɨɠɞɶ ɬɨɥɩ. ɢ ɬ. ɞ. (ɫɬɪ. 58). ɉɪɨɱɟɫɬɶ ɛɟɡ ɬɨɱɧɟɣɲɟɝɨ ɫɨɛɥɸɞɟɧɢɹ ɚɜɬɨɪɫɤɨɣ ɜɨɥɢ, ɢ ɩɪɚɯɨɦ ɪɚɫɩɚɞɟɬɫɹ ɡɚɦɚɧɱɢɜɨɫɬɶ ɜɫɟɣ ɩɨɫɬɪɨɣɤɢ. (Bakhrakh 1923, cit. in Mnukhin 2003I: 137-141) [Something in which the most essential and the most important is hidden behind punctuation marks and various constellations of pauses; something that can be built on stressed syllables only – are these real poems or boring Kunststück? For example: Ʉɨɧɶ – ɯɪɨɦ, Ɇɟɱ – ɪɠɚɜ. Ʉɬɨ – ɫɟɣ? ȼɨɠɞɶ ɬɨɥɩ, etc. (page 58). Try reading it without an exact adherence to the author’s will, and the entire alluring poetic construction would fall into ashes.]

11

Irina Shevelenko gives quite a few other examples of Tsvetaeva’s provocative statements, such as intentionally disguising herself as an amateur, in the face of the official literary circles both in Russia and in emigration (Shevelenko 2015, 15-16, 50-51, 310-311). 12 See Simon Karlinsky on Tsvetaeva’s use of dashes: “Individual words are often broken up by dashes which create stresses where they do not occur in normal Russian prosody. This is one of the devices that enabled Tsvetaeva to create new, unprecedented meters” (Karlinsky 1985, 141).

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse

Three years later, in her most polemic essay ɉɨɷɬ ɨ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɟ [A Poet on Criticism] (1926)13 Tsvetaeva described her own process of poetry writing as follows: ɋɥɭɲɚɸɫɶ ɹ ɱɟɝɨ-ɬɨ ɩɨɫɬɨɹɧɧɨ, ɧɨ ɧɟ ɪɚɜɧɨɦɟɪɧɨ ɜɨ ɦɧɟ ɡɜɭɱɚɳɟɝɨ, ɬɨ ɭɤɚɡɭɸɳɟɝɨ, ɬɨ ɩɪɢɤɚɡɭɸɳɟɝɨ. Ʉɨɝɞɚ ɭɤɚɡɭɸɳɟɝɨ – ɫɩɨɪɸ, ɤɨɝɞɚ ɩɪɢɤɚɡɭɸɳɟɝɨ – ɩɨɜɢɧɭɸɫɶ. ɉɪɢɤɚɡɭɸɳɟɟ ɟɫɬɶ ɩɟɪɜɢɱɧɵɣ, ɧɟɢɡɦɟɧɢɦɵɣ ɢ ɧɟ ɡɚɦɟɧɢɦɵɣ ɫɬɢɯ, ɫɭɬɶ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɸɳɚɹ ɫɬɢɯɨɦ. (ɑɚɳɟ ɜɫɟɝɨ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɦ ɞɜɭɫɬɢɲɢɟɦ, ɤ ɤɨɬɨɪɨɦɭ ɡɚɬɟɦ ɩɪɢɪɚɫɬɚɟɬ ɨɫɬɚɥɶɧɨɟ.) ɍɤɚɡɭɸɳɟɟ – ɫɥɭɯɨɜɚɹ ɞɨɪɨɝɚ ɤ ɫɬɢɯɭ: ɫɥɵɲɭ ɧɚɩɟɜ, ɫɥɨɜ ɧɟ ɫɥɵɲɭ. ɋɥɨɜ ɢɳɭ… ȼɫɟ ɦɨɟ ɩɢɫɚɧɶɟ – ɜɫɥɭɲɢɜɚɧɶɟ. Ɉɬɫɸɞɚ, ɱɬɨɛɵ ɩɢɫɚɬɶ ɞɚɥɶɲɟ – ɩɨɫɬɨɹɧɧɵɟ ɩɟɪɟɱɢɬɵɜɚɧɢɹ… Ɍɨɱɧɨ ɦɧɟ ɫ ɫɚɦɨɝɨ ɧɚɱɚɥɚ ɞɚɧɚ ɜɫɹ ɜɟɳɶ – ɧɟɤɚɹ ɦɟɥɨɞɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɢɥɢ ɪɢɬɦɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɤɚɪɬɢɧɚ ɟɟ. (Tsvetaeva 1994V: 285, italics in the text) [I always listen to something continuously yet unevenly sounding in me, something indicating or something ordering. If it is indicating, I argue with it, if it is ordering, I obey it. The ordering element is the primary, the unchangeable and the unchanged verse, the very essence of it disguised as a poem (which is often represented by the last two lines, to which all other lines attach themselves gradually). The indicating element is my auditory road to verse. I hear the tune; I do not hear the words (yet). I start looking for the right words … All my writing is thus listening. Hence, in order to write on, constant re-reading… As if the whole thing were given to me from the very beginning, some melodic or rhythmic contour of it.]

Further evidence of Tsvetaeva’s conscious use of punctuation marks, accents, hyphens, and dashes14 is found in her letter to Pierre Souvtchinsky (Pyotr Suvchinsky), dated 4 September 1926: ɋɟɣɱɚɫ ɰɟɥɢɤɨɦ […] ɩɨɝɥɨɳɟɧɚ ɩɟɪɟɩɢɫɤɨɣ Ɍɟɡɟɹ, ɨɫɨɛɟɧɧɨ ɬɪɭɞɧɨɫɬɹɦɢ ɧɚɱɟɪɬɚɧɢɹ ɧɟɤɨɬɨɪɵɯ ɦɟɫɬ (ɭɞɚɪɟɧɢɹ, ɩɚɭɡɵ). Ȼɭɞɶ ȼɵ ɡɞɟɫɶ, ȼɵ ɛɵ ɦɧɟ ɜɫɺ ɨɛɴɹɫɧɢɥɢ. […] ɋɦɨɬɪɢɬɟ: […]

13

The title can be understood either as “A Poet on Criticism” or as “A Poet about a Critic” (Karlinsky 1985, 70). 14 In Tsvetaeva’s published verses, hyphens and dashes interchange, as in the last lines of Ɇɨɥɨɞɟɰ [The Swain] (1922): “Ⱦɨ – ɦɨɣ/ȼ ɨɝɧɶ ɫɢɧɶ”. In a letter to her editor Roman Goul of 12 December 1922, Tsvetaeva distinguished between a connecting dash (-) and a dividing dash (–): “Ȼɭɞɶɬɟ ɜɧɢɦɚɬɟɥɶɧɵ ɤ ɡɧɚɤɚɦ, ɨɫɨɛɟɧɧɨ ɤ ɬɢɪɟ – (ɪɚɡɴɟɞɢɧɢɬɟɥɶɧɵɦ) ɢ - (ɫɨɟɞɢɧɢɬɟɥɶɧɵɦ).” [Please pay attention to punctuation, especially to a dividing (–) and a connecting dash (-)] (Tsvetaeva 1994IV: 606).

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1) ɋɩɢɬ, ɫɤɪɵɬɭɸ ɢɫɬɢɧɭ ɉɨɡɧɚɜɲɚɹ ɞɭɲ. 2) ɋɩɢғ ɬ, ɫɤɪɵғ ɬɭɸ ɢɫɬɢɧɭ ɉɨғ ɡɧɚғ ɜɲɚɹ ɞɭɲ. – ɪɚɡɧɨɟ ɜɟɞɶ? – Ɇɧɟ ɧɭɠɧɨ ɜɬɨɪɨɟ, ɜɬɨɪɵɦ ɧɚɩɢɫɚɧɨ. Ɍ.ɟ. ɭɞɚɪɹɸɬɫɹ ɪɚɜɧȩ ɩɟɪɜɵɣ ɢ ɜɬɨɪɨɣ ɫɥɨɝɢ, ɨɬ ɪɚɜɧɨɣ ɭɞɚɪɹɟɦɨɫɬɢ, ɜ ɩɪɨɦɟɠɭɬɤɟ, ɟɫɬɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨ, ɩɚɭɡɚ. Ⱦɪɭɝɨɣ ɩɪɢɦɟɪ:… 1) ȼɟɬɜɶ, ɜɥɚɝɨɣ ɧɟɫɨɦɚɹ, ɋɬɪɚɫɬɶ, ɱɬɢ ɟɺ – ɫɩɢɬ 2) ȼéɬɜɶ, ɜɥáɝɨɣ ɧɟɫɨɦɚɹ, ɋɬɪáɫɬɶ, ɱɬɢғ ɟɺ – ɫɩɢɬ NB! Ɍɨ, ɱɬɨ ɦɧɟ ɧɭɠɧɨ. Ɇɧɟ ɧɭɠɟɧ ɡɜɭɤ ɦɨɥɨɬɚ ɜ ɩɟɪɜɨɦ ɫɥɨɝɟ, ɬɹɠɟɥɨɟ ɩɚɞɟɧɢɟ ɫɥɨɝɚ. ɇɨ ɩɟɱɚɬɚɬɶ ɜɫɺ ɫ ɭɞɚɪɟɧɢɹɦɢ – ɧɟɜɨɡɦɨɠɧɨ. Ɉɝɪɚɧɢɱɢɜɚɸɫɶ ɩɨɦɟɬɤɨɣ: «ɭɞɚɪɹɸɬɫɹ ɩɟɪɜɵɣ ɢ ɜɬɨɪɨɣ ɫɥɨɝɢ» ɢ ɜ ɫɥɨɜɚɯ ɦɧɨɝɨɫɥɨɠɧɵɯ – ɬɢɪɟ. ɉɪɢɦɟɪ:… Ɍɟ-ɥɚ ɧɚɫɵɳɚɟɦɵ, Ȼɟɫ-ɫɦɟɪɬɧɚ ɚɥɱɛɚ… (Tsvetaeva 1995VI: 322-323). [Now I am… completely absorbed in copying Theseus,15 especially by the difficulties in the notation of certain places (accents, rests). If you were here, you would have explained everything to me. … Look at it: 1) ɋɩɢɬ, ɫɤɪɵɬɭɸ ɢɫɬɢɧɭ ɉɨɡɧɚɜɲɚɹ ɞɭɲ. 2) ɋɩɢғ ɬ, ɫɤɪɵғ ɬɭɸ ɢɫɬɢɧɭ ɉɨғ ɡɧɚғ ɜɲɚɹ ɞɭɲ. – aren’t these two different things? – I need the second variant, it is written as the second variant. That is, the first and second syllables are equally stressed, and between these two equal stresses there is, naturally, a rest. Another example: 1) ȼɟɬɜɶ, ɜɥɚɝɨɣ ɧɟɫɨɦɚɹ, ɋɬɪɚɫɬɶ, ɱɬɢ ɟɺ – ɫɩɢɬ 2) ȼéɬɜɶ, ɜɥáɝɨɣ ɧɟɫɨɦɚɹ, ɋɬɪáɫɬɶ, ɱɬɢғ ɟɺ – ɫɩɢɬ

15

The poem Theseus (lated re-titled as Ariadne), written in Czechoslovakia in 1923-1924 and re-edited in St. Gilles, from where Tsvetaeva sent her letter, was printed in the Eurasianist journal ȼɟɪɫɬɵ [Versts] (1926, No. 2).

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse NB! this is what I need. I need a sound of a hammer in the first syllable, a heavy drop of it. But it is impossible to print everything with stresses. So I confine myself to a remark: ‘both the first and the second syllables are stressed’, and I use dashes in multisyllable words [as a stress sign]. Example: Ɍɟ-ɥɚ ɧɚɫɵɳɚɟɦɵ, Ȼɟɫ-ɫɦɟɪɬɧɚ ɚɥɱɛɚ…]

This letter is not only evidence of animated discussions on poetry with Souvtchinsky, whose essay on Blok Tsvetaeva admired (see her letter to Souvtchinsky of 2 June 1926), but also of the fact that she herself pondered from time to time over theoretical issues (contrary to what she said earlier to Bakhrakh). Such instructions were sometimes included in the printed volumes of her poetry as footnotes. In the collection of poetry ɉɨɫɥɟ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ [After Russia] (Paris 1928), containing the lyrics from 1922 to 1925, the verse “Ⱦɭɦɚɥɨɫɶ: ɛɭɞɭɬ ɥɟɝɤɢ…” (9 July 1922) is printed with a footnote to the first line of the second stanza (*) that reads: “ɍɞɚɪɹɟɬɫɹ ɢ ɨɬɪɵɜɚɟɬɫɹ ɩɟɪɜɵɣ ɫɥɨɝ. ɉɨɦɟɱɟɧɨ ɧɟ ɜɟɡɞɟ” [The first syllable is stressed and separated. Not indicated everywhere.] (Tsvetaeva 1994II: 133, fn. 1, tr. in Smith 1975, 341). ɇɟ – ɩɨɡɞɧɨ ɟɳɺ!* ȼ ɪɚɫ – ɫɜɟɬɧɵɟ ɳɟɥɢ (ɇɟ ɩɨɡɞɧɨ!) – ɟɳɺ ɇɚɦ ɩɬɢɰɵ ɧɟ ɩɟɥɢ.

Similarly, a footnote (*) to the first line of the third stanza of the verse “ɉɨɦɧɢ ɡɚɤɨɧ…” (20 June 1922) from the same collection reads: “ɍɞɚɪɹɸɬɫɹ ɢ ɨɬɪɵɜɚɸɬɫɹ ɩɟɪɜɵɣ, ɱɟɬɜɟɪɬɵɣ ɢ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɣ ɫɥɨɝɢ: ɇɚ – ɛɟɪɟɝɭ – ɪɟɤɢ.” [The first, fourth and last syllables are stressed and separated] (Tsvetaeva 1994II: 125, fn. 1). ȼ ɦɢɪɟ, ɝɞɟ ɪɟɤɢ ɜɫɩɹɬɶ!,* ɇɚ ɛɟɪɟɝɭ – ɪɟɤɢ, ȼ ɦɧɢɦɭɸ ɪɭɤɭ ɜɡɹɬɶ Ɇɧɢɦɨɫɬɶ ɞɪɭɝɨɣ ɪɭɤɢ...

In a letter to Charles Vildrac of October 1930, Tsvetaeva insisted that “Pour que une chose dure il faut qu’elle soit une chanson”16 [in order for a poem to last, it must become a song]. In her essay ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɩɪɢ ɫɜɟɬɟ 16

Tsvetaeva 1997, 521, italics in the text.

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ɫɨɜɟɫɬɢ [Art in the Light of Consciousness] (1932), Tsvetaeva returned briefly to the topic of inner hearing that preceeds poetry writing: ɋɥɵɲɭ ɧɟ ɫɥɨɜɚ, ɚ ɤɚɤɨɣ-ɬɨ ɛɟɡɡɜɭɱɧɵɣ ɧɚɩɟɜ ɜɧɭɬɪɢ ɝɨɥɨɜɵ, ɤɚɤɭɸɬɨ ɫɥɭɯɨɜɭɸ ɥɢɧɢɸ – ɨɬ ɧɚɦɟɤɚ ɞɨ ɩɪɢɤɚɡɚ... ɇɨ ɭɛɟɠɞɟɧɚ, ɱɬɨ ɢ ɡɞɟɫɶ, ɤɚɤ ɜɨ ɜɫɟɦ, ɡɚɤɨɧ ɟɫɬɶ. (Tsvetaeva 1994V: 370) [I hear not words but some silent tune inside my head, some hearing line, going from a hint to an order… But I am convinced that here, as in everything, there is a law.]17

In 1935, when her most productive years of poetry writing were already behind her, Tsvetaeva retrospectively admitted in Ɇɚɬɶ ɢ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ [My Mother and Music] that her obsession with dashes was not accidental: Ʉɨɝɞɚ ɹ ɩɨɬɨɦ, ɜɵɧɭɠɞɟɧɧɚɹ ɧɟɨɛɯɨɞɢɦɨɫɬɶɸ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɪɢɬɦɢɤɢ, ɫɬɚɥɚ ɪɚɡɛɢɜɚɬɶ, ɪɚɡɪɵɜɚɬɶ ɫɥɨɜɚ ɧɚ ɫɥɨɝɚ ɩɭɬɟɦ ɧɟɩɪɢɜɵɱɧɨɝɨ ɜ ɫɬɢɯɚɯ ɬɢɪɟ, ɢ ɜɫɟ ɦɟɧɹ ɡɚ ɷɬɨ, ɝɨɞɚɦɢ, ɪɭɝɚɥɢ, ɚ ɪɟɞɤɢɟ – ɯɜɚɥɢɥɢ (ɢ ɬɟ ɢ ɞɪɭɝɢɟ ɡɚ «ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ») ɢ ɹ ɧɢɱɟɝɨ ɧɟ ɭɦɟɥɚ ɫɤɚɡɚɬɶ, ɤɪɨɦɟ: «ɬɚɤ ɧɭɠɧɨ», – ɹ ɜɞɪɭɝ ɨɞɧɚɠɞɵ ɝɥɚɡɚɦɢ ɭɜɢɞɟɥɚ ɬɟ, ɦɥɚɞɟɧɱɟɫɬɜɚ ɫɜɨɟɝɨ, ɪɨɦɚɧɫɧɵɟ ɬɟɤɫɬɵ ɜ ɫɩɥɨɲɧɵɯ ɡɚɤɨɧɧɵɯ ɬɢɪɟ – ɢ ɩɨɱɭɜɫɬɜɨɜɚɥɚ ɫɟɛɹ ɨɦɵɬɨɣ: ɜɫɟɣ Ɇɭɡɵɤɨɣ ɨɬ ɜɫɹɤɨɣ «ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ». (Tsvetaeva 1994V, 21-22, italics in the text) [Later on, when I, out of the urge to find my own rhythms, started to break out and to tear off words into syllables by means of dashes, so unusual in poetry (the practice for which I was often criticised and rarely praised – both criticised and praised because of my “modernism”) and when I could say nothing else in my defence except “I need them” – suddenly one day I pictured those song texts of my early childhood, full of their own legitimate dashes, and I felt forgiven, as if my guilt of “modernism” were entirely washed away by Music.]

Let us take a look back at the first two stanzas of the fourth tableau of Ariadne (Theseus) (Tsvetaeva 1994II, 610, fn. 1):18 17

Cf. the discussion of ɝɭɥ (buzz) and ɷɯɨ (echo) in Mayakovsky’s essay Ʉɚɤ ɞɟɥɚɬɶ ɫɬɢɯɢ [How to Make Poems] (1926). I am grateful to Nila Friedberg for this parallel. 18 The footnote (*) to the first line sends the reader to another such footnote in the third tableau, the one to the lines “ɉɚɥ – ɋ ɦɨɥɨɬɨɦ ɫɯɨɠɢɣ/Ɂɜɭɤ – ɦɨɥɨɬɚ ɡɵɤ”: “Ɇɟɠɞɭ ɩɟɪɜɵɦ ɢ ɜɬɨɪɵɦ ɫɥɨɝɨɦ ɩɟɪɟɪɵɜ, ɬ.ɟ. ɪɨɜɧɚɹ ɭɞɚɪɹɟɦɨɫɬɶ ɩɟɪɜɨɝɨ ɢ ɜɬɨɪɨɝɨ ɫɥɨɝɚ. Ɍɢɪɟ ɦɧɨɸ ɩɪɨɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɨ ɧɟ ɜɫɸɞɭ.” [Between the first and the second syllable there is a break, i.e. equal stresses on the first and second syllables. The dashes are not indicated everywhere.] (Tsvetaeva 1994II, 601, fn. 1).

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse ɋɩɢɬ, ɫɤɪɵɬɭɸ ɢɫɬɢɧɭ* ɉɨ-ɡɧɚɜɲɚɹ ɞɭɲ. ɋɩɢɬ, ɧɟɝɨɣ ɧɚɫɵɳɟɧɧɚɹ. ɋɩɢ! – Ȼɨɞɪɫɬɜɭɟɬ ɦɭɠ.

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ȼɟɬɜɶ, ɜɥɚɝɨɣ ɧɟɫɨɦɚɹ! ɋɬɪɚɫɬɶ, ɱɬɢ ɟɟ – ɫɩɢɬ! Ʌɢɲɶ ɬɟɦ ɢ ɛɟɫɫɨɧɟɧ ɹ, ɑɬɨ ɧɟɝɨɣ ɧɟ ɫɵɬ.

S Sww Sww S Sww S S Sww Sww S Sww S

The metre of the verse is a three-stress dol’nik or, rather, a logaoedic trimeter (see my fn. 22), based on dactylic trimeter -0-2-2 alternating with -0-2- (here and elsewhere numbers indicate inter-ictic intervals, that is, the number of weak syllables between metrically stressed syllables, and hyphens indicate metric stresses). Altogether, there are twelve such stanzas, which gradually accumulate into what might be called a “melodic leitmotif” of the verse, to use Bely’s not very accurate term. According to Eykhenbaum’s observation (see above), in this verse the particular “melodic leitmotif” subordinates the syntax and thus becomes an important factor of Tsvetaeva’s elevated style. The collisions of stressed syllables in the opening of each line are reflected in the syntax of the poem and represent a form of address, a form of imperative. The use of gramatically important one-syllable words “ɫɩɢɬ”, “ɫɩɢ”, “ɜɟɬɜɶ”, “ɫɬɪɚɫɬɶ”, “ɞɭɲ”, “ɦɭɠ” and “ɫɵɬ” is stipulated by the requirements of style of this monologue – a solemn confession of love from Theseus to the sleeping Ariadne. In his extended analyses of Ʉɪɵɫɨɥɨɜ [The Pied Piper] (1925) (see Pasternak’s letters to Tsvetaeva of 14 June and 2 July 1926, in Azadovsky, Pasternak, Pasternak 1990, 144-148, 153-158), Boris Pasternak, the second poet to find “melodic leitmotif” in Tsvetaeva, used the untranslatable expressions “ɡɚɞɚɥɛɥɢɜɚɧɶɟ, ɚɧɟɫɬɟɡɢɪɨɜɚɧɶɟ ɫɥɨɜɚ” [battering, anaesthetising of the word] and “ɨɫɚɬɚɧɟɧɶɟ ɜɨɫɫɬɚɸɳɟɝɨ ɧɚ ɫɟɛɹ ɪɢɬɦɚ” [the infuriation of the rhythm that rebels against itself] (Azadovsky, Pasternak, Pasternak 1990, 147). Pasternak discusses the multiple appearances of the main character’s leitmotif “ɂɧɞɨɫɬáɧ” [Indostán] (Azadovsky, Pasternak, Pasternak 1990, 155-157) and remarks: ȼɨɨɛɳɟ ɬɵ ɜ ɷɬɨɦ ɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɢ ɜɚɝɧɟɪɢɚɧɤɚ, ɥɟɣɬɦɨɬɢɜ ɬɜɨɣ ɩɪɟɢɦɭɳɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɢ ɫɨɡɧɚɬɟɥɶɧɵɣ ɩɪɢɟɦ. (Azadovsky, Pasternak, Pasternak 1990, 147) [Now, you are a real Wagnerian in this respect; leitmotif is one of your predominant and conscious methods.]

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Apart from the term “melodic leitmotif”, which does not reflect the complexity of the phenomenon, one is tempted to use Eykhenbaum’s term monotony – an author’s reading of a verse, as compared to a reader’s reading. Eykhenbaum does not define monotony in his book of 1922; however, he cites Sievers (Eykhenbaum 1922, 18) who carried out a mass experiment by dividing all poetry readers into two categories: Selbstleser (“selfreaders”, whose subjective interpretations change the poem’s rhythmic and metric structure) and Autorenleser (“author’s readers” who try to adhere to the author’s hearing), of which Sievers preferred the latter. Let us consider the opening lines of a verse by Lermontov (1841): ȼɵɯɨɠɭ ɨɞɢɧ ɹ ɧɚ ɞɨɪɨɝɭ; ɋɤɜɨɡɶ ɬɭɦɚɧ ɤɪɟɦɧɢɫɬɵɣ ɩɭɬɶ ɛɥɟɫɬɢɬ; ɇɨɱɶ ɬɢɯɚ. ɉɭɫɬɵɧɹ ɜɧɟɦɥɟɬ ɛɨɝɭ, ɂ ɡɜɟɡɞɚ ɫ ɡɜɟɡɞɨɸ ɝɨɜɨɪɢɬ. [Alone I set out on the road; The flinty path is sparkling in the mist; The night is still. The desert harks to God, And star with star converses.]

If one reads this verse as prose, the necessity to find the right intonation would cause one to make a logical accent either on “ɨɞɢɧ” or on “ɧɚ ɞɨɪɨɝɭ”. Both variants, however, would sound awkward in the context of a poetic reading because the ambiguity of intonation is an essential part of it. In fact, both the poetic metre and the syntax of the poem require a monotonous reading which would put equal stresses on each word in the trochaic pentameter. As in numerous other cases in Russian poetry, here the syntax is inverted in the first line (“ȼɵɯɨɠɭ ɨɞɢɧ ɹ ɧɚ ɞɨɪɨɝɭ” instead of “ə ɨɞɢɧ ɜɵɯɨɠɭ ɧɚ ɞɨɪɨɝɭ”) precisely in order to attenuate the normative phrasal accentuation.19 The characteristic “melodic leitmotifs” of Tsvetaeva – Versstimme (Sievers 1912), monotony (Eykhenbaum 1922, 18), or the “rhythmic impulse” (Brik 1927(3), 17-20) – do not depend entirely on the particuliarities of her syntax, however; they result, as Bely observed in 1922, primarily from a repetitive use of idiosyncratic poetic metres. In fact, the “melodic quality” is a result of a particular rhythmic and metric complexity of Tsvetaeva’s lyric verse: a certain complex pattern of stress omissions and/or syllable omissions is repeated over an important number of poetic lines, creating “a rhythmical drive (inertia)” (Smith 19

This and other examples of monotony are discussed in Nevzglyadova 1975, 121.

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1975, 332), which influences the perception of the following lines a posteriori and thus leaves no doubt about the conscious use of the method. Among several possible readings of the rhythmic formula, there exists one that corresponds in the best possible way to Tsvetaeva’s own internal hearing. Such interpretations can be many precisely because the melodic quality of her verse is not – or not entirely, except for her dashes, hyphens, colons, line breaks and stress marks – reflected in her texts.20 However, it is an objective reality that can be perceived by more sensitive readers of her poetry and studied by literary scholars, metrists, and musicologists.21 Among the specialists of Russian poetry, there has long existed an opinion that “Tsvetaeva’s rhythms are often cacophonous” (James Bailey’s personal letter to the author, February 2009). In the hierarchy of Russian literary poetic metres, one traditionally distinguishes five categories: 1) binary metres (trochee, iamb); 2) ternary metres (dactyl, amphibrach, anapest); 3) the dol’nik, i.e. a less regular metre with a constant number of ictuses per line and with a restricted number of syllables between ictuses (usually 1 or 2); 4) strict accentual/tonic verse with a constant number of ictuses per line and a free number of unstressed syllables between them; 5) free non-metrical accentual/tonic verse (Bailey 2004, 252). Gerald S. Smith established the existence of a sub-class of logaoedic metres (i.e., poetic metres built on an alternation of binary and ternary feet in one line, used as a repetitive pattern from one line to another) that feature prominently in Tsvetaeva and that can be assigned to a position between 20 Cf. “ɉɟɱɚɬɧɵɣ ɬɟɤɫɬ – ɧɟ ɮɚɤɬ, ɚ ɩɪɨɛɥɟɦɚ” [The printed text is not a fact but a problem.] (Eykhenbaum 1922, 17, italics in the text). “Ɋɢɬɦɢɱɟɫɤɨɟ ɞɜɢɠɟɧɢɟ ɩɟɪɜɟɟ ɫɬɢɯɚ. ɇɟ ɪɢɬɦ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɛɵɬɶ ɩɨɧɹɬ ɢɡ ɫɬɢɯɨɬɜɨɪɧɨɣ ɫɬɪɨɤɢ, ɚ ɨɛɪɚɬɧɨ – ɫɬɢɯɨɬɜɨɪɧɚɹ ɫɬɪɨɤɚ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɛɵɬɶ ɩɨɧɹɬɚ ɢɡ ɪɢɬɦɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɞɜɢɠɟɧɢɹ” [The rhythmic movement precedes the printed verse. It is not that the rhythm can be understood from the poetic line but vice versa – the poetic line can be understood from the rhythmic movement.] (Brik 1927 (3), 16). 21 Among them, there are Gleb Struve (first citation below) and Fyodor Stepun (second citation below) who wrote in the 1950s: “ɇɨ ɩɪɢ ɜɫɟɦ ɜɥɟɱɟɧɢɢ ɤ ɛɟɡɦɟɪɧɨɫɬɢ, ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ ɜ ɜɵɫɨɤɨɣ ɫɬɟɩɟɧɢ ɩɪɢɫɭɳɟ ɛɵɥɨ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɨ ɮɨɪɦɵ: ɟɟ ɯɚɨɫ ɩɪɨɧɢɡɚɧ ɫɬɪɨɟɦ.” [Apart from all her aspiration for immeasurability, Tsvetaeva possessed an inherent sense of form to a high degree: her chaos is penetrated with a system]. “Ɉɬɥɢɱɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɣ ɱɟɪɬɨɣ ɟɟ ɩɨɷɡɢɢ ɹɜɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɫɨɱɟɬɚɧɢɟ ɜɢɯɪɟɜɨɣ ɜɞɨɯɧɨɜɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɫ ɫɨɡɧɚɬɟɥɶɧɨɣ, ɩɨɱɬɢ ɪɚɫɫɱɟɬɥɢɜɨɣ ɪɟɦɟɫɥɟɧɧɨɫɬɶɸ.” (both are cit. in Struve 1956, 147, 152) [A distinguished feature of her poetry is a combination of vortex-like inspiration with conscious, almost calculated mastery.] For a musicologist’s perspective, see Varunts 1979. See also Karlinsky 1985, 143144, 180-181 for a comparison of Tsvetaeva’s logaoedic metres to Igor Stravinsky’s folklore-inspired musical rhythms in Petrushka and Les Noces.

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the syllabo-tonic metres (binary and ternary) and the dol’nik.22 The author notes, however, that the categorising of a metre as logaoedic poses difficulties of establishing a clear borderline between the dol’nik and a regular binary or ternary metre, therefore metrical structures with logaoedic lines should be examined within the stanza rather than the single line taken as the basis for metrical analysis (Smith 1975, 331-334).23 Overall, in the last two years of her life before emigration (1920-1921), “logaoedic metres emerge as the third largest class in Tsvetaeva’s lyric poetry” after the binary and ternary metres (Smith 1975, 338-339). They comprise around 40 percent of her preferred poetic metres, exceeding the binary and ternary metres, during the first two years of emigration (1922-23), “the last phase of Tsvetaeva’s intense activity as a poet” (Smith 1978, 37-38, see also his Table 5 on p. 38). Below I give an example of a dol’nik by Fyodor Sologub (1903, fragment), which is characterised by an alternation of 7- and 8-syllable lines and by a constant presence of three ictuses in each line (cit. in Bailey 2004, 225). Note the inversion of syntax in the first two lines. Ɍɪɟɩéɳɟɬ ɫéɪɞɰɟ ɨɩɹғ ɬɶ. Ȼɥéɞɧɚɹ ɩɨɞɧɹɥáɫɶ ɡɚɪɹғ , – Ȼéɞɧɚɹ! ɉɪɢɲɥá ɜɫɬɪɟɱáɬɶ

My heart is trembling again. A pale dawn rose, A poor one! It came to greet

22 “In the typology of Russian verse, logaoedic metres can be assigned […] to a position between the syllabo-tonic metres and the dol’nik. They are distinguished from the syllabo-tonic metres by virtue of possessing intervals that vary horizontally between several ictuses of the line, and from the dol’nik by virtue of the fact that these intervals remain vertically consistent from line to line” (Smith 1975, 331). 23 According to Efim Etkind, there is no frontier zone between the dol’nik and logaoedic verses: “ɋɨɝɥɚɫɧɨ ɪɚɫɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɟɧɧɨɦɭ ɦɧɟɧɢɸ, ɥɨɝɚɷɞɵ – ɧɟɭɤɥɸɠɢɟ, ɱɭɠɞɵɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɩɪɨɫɨɞɢɢ ɨɛɪɚɡɨɜɚɧɢɹ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɧɟɩɪɟɦɟɧɧɨ ɜ ɤɨɧɰɟ ɤɨɧɰɨɜ ɞɨɥɠɧɵ ɩɪɢɜɟɫɬɢ ɤ ɩɨɛɟɞɟ ɬɨɧɢɤɢ, ɬɨ ɟɫɬɶ ɤ ɞɨɥɶɧɢɤɭ. ɗɬɨ ɪɚɫɫɭɠɞɟɧɢɟ ɧɟɨɫɧɨɜɚɬɟɥɶɧɨ. Ⱦɨɥɶɧɢɤɢ ɢ ɥɨɝɚɷɞɵ ɧɟ ɩɟɪɟɯɨɞɹɬ ɞɪɭɝ ɜ ɞɪɭɝɚ, ɷɬɨ ɩɪɨɬɢɜɨɩɨɥɨɠɧɵɟ ɪɢɬɦɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɮɨɪɦɵ: ɜ ɞɨɥɶɧɢɤɚɯ ɪɟɱɶ ɩɪɟɨɛɥɚɞɚɟɬ ɧɚɞ ɫɬɢɯɨɦ, ɜ ɥɨɝɚɷɞɚɯ ɫɬɢɯ ɧɚɞ ɪɟɱɶɸ.” (Etkind 1991, 323) [According to a widespread belief, logaoedic verses are clumsy conglomerates alien to the Russian prosody, which must necessarily evolve themselves into tonic verse, that is, the dol’nik. This reasoning is unfounded. The dol’nik and logaoedic verses do not evolve themselves into one another; they are two distinctly different metric structures: in dol’niks free speech prevails over poetry, in logaoedic verses poetry prevails over speech.]. On the role of the dol’nik in Russian poetry in the 19101920s, see Gasparov 1984, 227-229. Logaoedic verses in Russian literature are treated in Zhirmunsky 1925, 236ff, Shengeli 1960, 150-154, Kholshevnikov 1971, 429-436, and Gasparov 1984, 129-131, 186-188, 226-227.

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse Ɂɥóɝɨ, ɡɨɥɨɬóɝɨ ɰɚɪɹғ .

The evil golden tsar.

Here the poetic metre is formed by the natural accentuation of the words, which gives this dol’nik its characteristic irregular feel. Compare it to an example of Tsvetaeva’s “homogeneos logaoedic construction” below (Smith 1975, 332-333). Tsvetaeva’s verse below can be described as a regular three-ictus dol’nik with ictuses on the third, sixth, and eighth syllable or, better, as a logaoedic trimeter based on anapestic trimeter with an incomplete last foot (two syllables instead of three) (Smith 1975, 333). The inter-ictic intervals are thus 2-2-1-. The rhyme scheme is aabbcc (masculine rhymes only); there are six lines in each stanza. Note Tsvetaeva’s use of stress marks on “ɜɨɪɨɬɚғ ɯ” and “ɩɪɚғ ɞɟɞɨɜɵ”: (1) *** (24 May 1918, Tsvetaeva 1994I: 407) Ɇɪɚɤɨɛɟɫɢɟ. – ɋɦɟɪɱ. – ɋɨɞɨɦ. Ȼɟɪɟɝɢɬɟ Ƚɧɟɡɞɨ ɢ Ⱦɨɦ. Ⱦɨɥɝ ɢ ȼɟɪɧɨɫɬɶ ɫɩɭɫɬɢɜ ɫ ɰɟɩɢ, ɑɟɥɨɜɟɤ ɦɨɥɨɞɨɣ – ɧɟ ɫɩɢ! ȼ ɜɨɪɨɬɚғ ɯ, ɤɚɤ Ȼɥɚɝɚɹ ȼɟɫɬɶ, Ȼɟɥɵɦ ɫɬɪɚɠɟɦ ɞɚ ɜɫɬɚɧɟɬ – ɑɟɫɬɶ.

wwS wwS wS wwS wwS wS wwS wwS wS wwS wwS wS wwS wwS wS wwS wwS wS

Ɉɛɜɟɞɢɬɟ ɫɜɨɣ ɞɨɦ – ɦɟɠɨɣ, Ⱦɚ ɧɟ ɜɧɢɞɟɬ ɜ ɧɟɝɨ – ɑɭɠɨɣ. Ȼɟɪɟɝɢɬɟ ɨɬ ɡɥɨɛɵ ɜɨɥɧ ɋɚɞɢɤ ɫɵɧɚ ɢ ɞɟɞɨɜ ɯɨɥɦ. ɉɨɞ ɭɞɚɪɚɦɢ ɡɥɨɣ ɫɭɞɶɛɵ – ȼɵɲɟ – ɩɪɚғ ɞɟɞɨɜɵ ɞɭɛɵ!

wwS wwS wS wwS wwS wS wwS wwS wS wwS wwS wS wwS wwS wS wwS wwS wS

Some of the logaoedic verses are more problematic than others. Below I give an example of a lyric that can be described either as a 3-ictus dol’nik or as a logaoedic verse alternating between amphibrachic trimeter with feminine endings (lines 1-3) and dactylic trimeter with masculine endings (line 4) (Smith 1980, 104-105), the rhyme scheme is AbAb. Such alternating structures are common in the mature Tsvetaeva: “The dominant twoelement alternating structure begins to appear in 1916” (Smith 1980, 119). According to Smith, assigning the verse to the logaoedic metre only can be considered problematic because in the second line of the first stanza, the ictus on the particle “ɱɬɨ” is unfulfilled in the rhythm, while in the third line of the first and last stanzas, the ictus on “ȼɚɫ” is felt stronger than the one on “ɱɟɪɟɡ”: The location of the middle ictus [on “ɱéɪɟɡ”] is not stipulated by a strong word-stress, and the metrical structure of these lines as it were hovers be-

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tween 1-1-2- and 1-2-1-. Contextually, however, these lines are pulled towards the 1-2-1- of the remaining first, second, and third lines (Smith 1980, 105). (2) *** (to Osip Mandelshtam, 12 February 1916, Tsvetaeva 1988I: 57) ɇɢɤɬɨ ɧɢɱɟɝɨ ɧɟ ɨɬɧɹɥ! Ɇɧɟ ɫɥɚɞɨɫɬɧɨ, ɱɬɨ ɦɵ ɜɪɨɡɶ. ɐɟɥɭɸ ȼɚɫ – ɱɟɪɟɡ ɫɨɬɧɢ Ɋɚɡɴɟɞɢɧɹɸɳɢɯ ɜɺɪɫɬ.

wSw wS wSw wSw wS wS wSw Sww Sw or wSw wSw Sw? Sww Sww S

ə ɡɧɚɸ, ɧɚɲ ɞɚɪ – ɧɟɪɚɜɟɧ, Ɇɨɣ ɝɨɥɨɫ ɜɩɟɪɜɵɟ – ɬɢɯ. ɑɬɨ ȼɚɦ, ɦɨɥɨɞɨɣ Ⱦɟɪɠɚɜɢɧ, Ɇɨɣ ɧɟɜɨɫɩɢɬɚɧɧɵɣ ɫɬɢɯ!

wSw wS wSw wSw wS wS wSw wS wSw Sww Sww S

ɇɚ ɫɬɪɚɲɧɵɣ ɩɨɥɺɬ ɤɪɟɳɭ ȼɚɫ: Ʌɟɬɢ, ɦɨɥɨɞɨɣ ɨɪɺɥ! Ɍɵ ɫɨɥɧɰɟ ɫɬɟɪɩɟɥ, ɧɟ ɳɭɪɹɫɶ, ɘɧɵɣ ɥɢ ɜɡɝɥɹɞ ɦɨɣ ɬɹɠɺɥ?

wSw wS wSw wSw wS wS wSw wS wSw Sww Sww S

ɇɟɠɧɟɣ ɢ ɛɟɫɩɨɜɨɪɨɬɧɟɣ ɇɢɤɬɨ ɧɟ ɝɥɹɞɟɥ ȼɚɦ ɜɫɥɟɞ… ɐɟɥɭɸ ȼɚɫ – ɱɟɪɟɡ ɫɨɬɧɢ Ɋɚɡɴɟɞɢɧɹɸɳɢɯ ɥɟɬ.

wSw wS wSw wSw wS wS wSw Sww Sw or wSw wSw Sw? Sww Sww S

Below I give a few more examples of Tsvetaeva’s poems written in heterogeneous logaoedic metres. In all these poems, dashes, hyphens, line breaks, and colons are used to delineate poetic feet. The first verse below (3) resembles a two-stress dol’nik but is in fact a logaoedic verse based on dactylic dimeter -2-. The verse could be seen as featuring silent feet (marked with a dash by Tsvetaeva in line 4 and as Ø in the scheme below).24 It is obvious that the two-ictus metric construction (the so-called logaoedic dimeter) is not always reflected in Tsvetaeva’s line breaks (see, e.g., her arbitrary line breaks in “Ɇɨɣ/ Ⱦɨɦ”, “ɍɡɤɢɯ ɩɨɞɨɲɜ – ɫɥɟɞ”, and “Ȼɨɣ. – Ȼɪɨɲɟɧɧɵɣ ɦɨɣ!”). 24

Although the controversial issue of silent syllable feet is beyond the scope of this paper (for an overview of the issue, see Lupishko 2011), I would nonetheless like to remind the reader of Joseph Brodsky’s remark: “It’s hard to find another poet who has made such skillful and abundant use of caesura and truncated feet” (Brodsky 1987, 201). Many of Brodsky’s observations in his two essays on Tsvetaeva, “Footnote to a Poem” (1981) and “A Poet and Prose” (1979), are pertinent to the topic of this study.

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse (3) ɋȿɊȬɀȿ (to Sergey Efron, from the cycle Ɋɚɡɥɭɤɚ, May 1921, Tsvetaeva 1994II: 25) Ȼɚɲɟɧɧɵɣ ɛɨɣ Ƚɞɟ-ɬɨ ɜ Ʉɪɟɦɥɟ. Ƚɞɟ ɧɚ ɡɟɦɥɟ, Ƚɞɟ –

Sww S Sww S Sww S S Ø

Ʉɪɟɩɨɫɬɶ ɦɨɹ, Ʉɪɨɬɨɫɬɶ ɦɨɹ, Ⱦɨɛɥɟɫɬɶ ɦɨɹ, ɋɜɹɬɨɫɬɶ ɦɨɹ.

Sww S Sww S Sww S Sww S

Ȼɚɲɟɧɧɵɣ ɛɨɣ, Ȼɪɨɲɟɧɧɵɣ ɛɨɣ. Ƚɞɟ ɧɚ ɡɟɦɥɟ – Ɇɨɣ Ⱦɨɦ, Ɇɨɣ – ɫɨɧ, Ɇɨɣ – ɫɦɟɯ, ɍɡɤɢɯ ɩɨɞɨɲɜ – ɫɥɟɞ.

Sww S Sww S Sww S S S S S S S Sww S S Ø

Ɍɨɱɧɨ ɪɭɤɨɣ ɋɛɪɨɲɟɧɧɵɣ ɜ ɧɨɱɶ Ȼɨɣ. – Ȼɪɨɲɟɧɧɵɣ ɦɨɣ!

Sww S Sww S S Sww S Ø

Below I give an example of a logaoedic trimeter, based on dactylic trimeter, with the rhyme scheme aBaB, i.e. masculine endings alternate with feminine endings. As in the lyric to Osip Mandelshtam above (2), the last line of each stanza is a trochaic trimeter, which contradicts the basic dactyl of the rest of the stanza (-2-1-1/T3). These fluctuations between binary and ternary poetic feet are a distinct feature of Tsvetaeva’s logaoedic constructions. Note Tsvetaeva’s hyphen on “ɤó-ɥéɧ” and her stress marks on “ɜɞóɥɶ ɫɬéɧ” and “ɤó-ɥéɧ”. (4) ɉɅɈɓȺȾɖ (unfinished poem, fragment, April 1922, Tsvetaeva 1994II: 99) Ɉɤɚ ɤɪɵɥɚɬɵɣ oɬɤɨɫ:25 25

Sww Sw Sw

In the notebook, this verse is accompanied by Tsvetaeva’s later comments in parentheses “oɱɟɜɢɞɧɨ, ɫɬɪɚɯ ɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɚ” [obviously, the fear of space] and “ɩɨɫɥɟɞɧɟɟ ɫɥɨɜɨ Ɇɨɫɤɜɵ” (Tsvetaeva 1997, 85-86) [the last word of Moscow, i.e. the last verse written before her departure to Berlin]. The first line reads in the

Marina Lupishko ȼɛɪɨɞ ɢɥɢ ɜɞóɥɶ ɫɬéɧ? Ɂɧɚɸ ɢ ɩɶɸ ɪɨɛɨɫɬɶ ȼ ɱɚɲɟɱɤɚɯ ɤó-ɥéɧ.

Sww S S Sww S Sw Sw Sw S

ɇɟɬ ɝɨɥɭɛɹɦ ɡɺɪɟɧ, ɇɟɬ ɩɥɨɳɚɞɹɦ ɬɪɚɜ, ɂɛɨ ɛɵɥɚ – ɦɨɪɟɦ ɉɥɨɳɚɞɶ, ɤɪɟɦɧɟɦ ɫɬɚɜ.

Sww S Sww S Sww S Sw Sw

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Sw S Sw S

My final example is a poem dedicated to Boris Pasternak, a reaction to his book of poetry ɋɟɫɬɪɚ ɦɨɹ – ɠɢɡɧɶ [My Sister Life] (1922). It is an example of a logaoedic tetrameter based on dactylic tetrameter with interictus intervals 0-2-2-0-, in the last line of each stanza 0-2-2- (Smith 1975, 338).26 Colons, commas, and dashes are used as metric markers; silent feet at the end of each stanza are marked as Ø. (5) *** (to Boris Pasternak, 8 July 1922, Tsvetaeva 1988II: 188) ɇɟɩɨɞɪɚɠɚɟɦɨ ɥɠɟɬ ɠɢɡɧɶ: ɋɜɟɪɯ ɨɠɢɞɚɧɢɹ, ɫɜɟɪɯ ɥɠɢ… ɇɨ ɩɨ ɞɪɨɠɚɧɢɸ ɜɫɟɯ ɠɢɥ Ɇɨɠɟɲɶ ɭɡɧɚɬɶ: ɠɢɡɧɶ!

Sww Sww S S Sww Sww S S Sww Sww S S Sww S S Ø

ɋɥɨɜɧɨ ɜɨ ɪɠɢ ɥɟɠɢɲɶ: ɡɜɨɧ, ɫɢɧɶ… Sww Sww S S (ɑɬɨ ɠ, ɱɬɨ ɜɨ ɥɠɢ ɥɟɠɢɲɶ!) – ɠɚɪ, ɜɚɥ. Sww Sww S S Ȼɨɪɦɨɬ – ɫɤɜɨɡɶ ɠɢɦɨɥɨɫɬɶ – ɫɬɚ ɠɢɥ… Sww Sww S S Ɋɚɞɭɣɫɹ ɠɟ! – Ɂɜɚɥ! Sww S S Ø

notebook as "Ɉɤɚ ɤɪɵɥɚɬɵɣ ɨɛɵɫɤ” (see the corrected variant “Ɉɤɚ ɤɪɵɥɚɬɵɣ óɬɤɨɫ” in Tsvetaeva 1994II: 99); “óɬɤɨɫ” should be read with a stress on the first syllable in order to maintain the rhyming scheme AbAb, with alternating feminine and masculine rhymes. The rest of this verse is in accordance with the metric scheme above. 26 In a personal letter to the author of this paper (February 2009), Bailey attributes this poem to iambic tetrameter (lines 1-3) alternating with iambic dimeter (line 4), and the basic metre of the previous poem to a “rather messy” trochaic trimeter. This attribution resulted in a misunderstanding between us that was partly responsible for the fact that this paper remained unfinished for several years. I take this opportunity to thank wholeheartedly Prof. James Bailey for his valuable explanations and suggestions, some of which I took while preparing this paper for publication in 2016.

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse ɂ ɧɟ ɤɨɪɢ ɦɟɧɹ, ɞɪɭɝ, ɫɬɨɥɶ Ɂɚɜɨɪɨɠɢɦɵ ɭ ɧɚɫ, ɬɟɥ, Ⱦɭɲɢ – ɱɬɨ ɜɨɬ ɭɠɟ: ɥɛɨɦ ɜ ɫɨɧ. ɂɛɨ – ɡɚɱɟɦ ɩɟɥ?

Sww Sww S S Sww Sww S S Sww Sww S S Sww S S Ø

ȼ ɛɟɥɭɸ ɤɧɢɝɭ ɬɜɨɢɯ ɬɢɲɢɡɧ,

Sww Sww Sw S

ȼ ɞɢɤɭɸ ɝɥɢɧɭ ɬɜɨɢɯ ‘ɞɚ’ – Ɍɢɯɨ ɫɤɥɨɧɹɸ ɨɛɥɨɦ ɥɛɚ: ɂɛɨ ɥɚɞɨɧɶ – ɠɢɡɧɶ.

Sww Sww S S Sww Sww S S Sww S S Ø

*** The 20th century has confirmed Bely’s observation about the “melodic quality” of Tsvetaeva’s lyric verse: hundreds of songs were composed to her poems in many different styles, from pop-music to avant-garde. Some of them became musical hits, as did the songs by Mikael Tariverdiev from the famous Soviet film ɂɪɨɧɢɹ ɫɭɞɶɛɵ, ɢɥɢ ɋ ɥɺɝɤɢɦ ɩɚɪɨɦ! [The Irony of Fate, or Enjoy Your Bath!] (1975). The existing cycles of Alfred Schnitke (1965), Boris Tishchenko (1970), Dmitry Shostakovich (1973), and Sofia Gubaidulina (1984) all prove the attractiveness of Tsvetaeva’s poems to the so-called “serious” composers. A brief examination of Sofia Gubaidulina’s 1984 cycle ɉɨɫɜɹɳɟɧɢɟ Ɇɚɪɢɧɟ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ [Hommage à Marina Tsvetayeva] for SATB chorus a cappella27 is proposed below in order to substantiate the idea about the metric origin of the “melodic quality” of Tsvetaeva’s lyric poetry. The settings of logaoedic verses in Gubaidulina’s cycle are compared to the more traditional settings of such verses in Shostakovich’s cycle ɒɟɫɬɶ ɫɬɢɯɨɬɜɨɪɟɧɢɣ Ɇɚɪɢɧɵ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ [Six Poems by Marina Tsvetaeva] (1973) for contralto and piano. The four verses chosen by Gubaidulina for her settings date from two different periods of the poet’s life (settings I-III from Moscow 1921; setting V from Paris 1934; setting IV is an interlude that uses no verse in particular) and can be schematically divided into three types: 1) logaoedic (I); 2) syllabo-tonic with one unequivocal reading (II and V) ; 3) syllabotonic with different readings possible (III). The verses of settings I and III belong to the cycle ɍɱɟɧɢɤ [The Disciple], dedicated to Sergey Volkonsky (19 and 23 April 1921, respectively).

27 The music of this cycle is discussed in detail in Kholopova, Restagno (1996, 263-266). See also Gubaidulina 1994, Tsenova 2000, Shirieva 2016.

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Setting I “ɉɚɥɨ ɩɪɟɧɢɠɟ ɜɨɥɧ” [Below the Waves] is written as a sixvoice zero “reverberational canon” (Shirieva 2016, 152), in which melodic phrases rush down chromatically, while the musical rhythm is permeated by triplets. The fast tempo and an intricate fabric of stretto-like “motet polyphony” (Kholopova 1996, 264) make it difficult to perceive the poetic text. The verse that resembles a three-stress dol’nik has been attributed by Smith to a heterogeneous logaoedic metre with alternating 0-2-1- and dactylic dimeters (0-2-1-/D2, Smith 1980, 108, see also Smith 1975, 346, fn. 44; a stress on the proposition “ɱéɪɟɡ” is optional but it preserves the homogeneous metric scheme of the verse).28 Dactylic dimeters could indeed be perceived in odd lines; however, Gubaidulina sets this verse as logaoedic 0-2-1-/0-2-1, in triplets in 3/4, placing stressed syllables on downbeats and prolonging them according to the “rule of prosody”29 (Ex. 1). Between Figures 1 and 4 the setting procedes by polyphonic “blocks” (two-line segments), separated by whole-measure rests and organised according to the Fibonacci series into 8-, 13-, 21- and 21-beat segments (Kholopova 1996, 264).30

28 Bailey (personal letter to the author, February 2009) attributes this verse to a three-stress dol’nik with a zero anacrusis and with constant stresses on the first, fourth, and sixth syllables in odd lines, remarking that “the rhythm in the first four (five?) syllables of all lines is identical”. According to Smith (1975, 346, fn. 44), the metre here is equivalent to the one of the lyric to Anna Akhmatova (1915): “ɍɡɤɢɣ ɧɟɪɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɫɬɚɧ /ɇɚɞ ɮɨɥɢɚɧɬɚɦɢ. /ɒɚɥɶ ɢɡ ɬɭɪɟɰɤɢɯ ɫɬɪɚɧ /ɉɚɥɚ ɤɚɤ ɦɚɧɬɢɹ”. Since the dactylic dimeter of even lines is much more obvious in the 1915 lyric than here, I stand by Bailey’s vision, which is close to my interpretation of this verse as logaoedic trimeter alternating 0-2-1- and 0-2-1. 29 Most Russian composers of the end of the 19th century adopted a strict rule of correlation between musical and poetic metric accents in vocal music, the so-called “rule of prosody”: ictuses in poetry should fall on strong or relatively strong beats in music. 30 The top voice alone is also organised into segments according to the Fibonnacci series: 5 beats (ɉɚɥɨ ɩɪɟɧɢɠɟ ɜɨɥɧ), 8 beats (Ɍɢɯɨ ɜɡɨɲɥɢ ɧɚ ɯɨɥɦ /ȼɟɱɧɵɟ – ɞɜɨɟ), 8 beats (Ɍɟɫɧɨ – ɩɥɟɱɨ ɫ ɩɥɟɱɨɦ – /ȼɫɬɚɥɢ ɜ ɦɨɥɱɚɧɶɟ), 5 beats (Ⱦɜɚ – ɩɨɞ ɨɞɧɢɦ ɩɥɚɳɨɦ /ɏɨɞɹɬ ɞɵɯɚɧɶɹ).

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse

Example 1. S. Gubaidulina, Hommage à Marina Tsvetayeva, (1) “ɉɚɥɨ ɩɪɟɧɢɠɟ ɜɨɥɧ” [Below the Waves] (rehearsal fig. 1), reproduced by permission of Musikverlage Hans Sikorski GmbH & Co.

Marina Lupishko ɉɚɥɨ ɩɪɟɧɢɠɟ ɜɨɥɧ Ȼɪɟɦɹ ɞɧɟɜɧɨɟ. Ɍɢɯɨ ɜɡɨɲɥɢ ɧɚ ɯɨɥɦ ȼɟɱɧɵɟ – ɞɜɨɟ.

Sww Sw S Sww Sw Sww Sw S Sww Sw

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Leaden day has dipped Below the waves. The two – eternal – Have quietly ascended the hill.

Ɍɟɫɧɨ – ɩɥɟɱɨ ɫ ɩɥɟɱɨɦ – ȼɫɬɚɥɢ ɜ ɦɨɥɱɚɧɶɟ. Ⱦɜɚ – ɩɨɞ ɨɞɧɢɦ ɩɥɚɳɨɦ ɏɨɞɹɬ ɞɵɯɚɧɶɹ.

Closely – side by side – They climbed in silence. Two breaths mingling Under one cloak.

Ɂɚɜɬɪɚɲɧɢɯ ɫɩɹɳɢɯ ɜɨɣɧ ȼɨɠɞɶ – ɢ ɜɱɟɪɚɲɧɢɯ, Ɇɨɥɱɚ ɫɬɨɹɬ ɞɜɨɣɧɨɣ ɑɺɪɧɨɸ ɛɚɲɧɟɣ.

The leader of dormant wars to come, And of those past, Now still and mute Like twin dark towers.

Ɂɦɢɹ ɦɭɞɪɟɣ ɫɬɨɹɬ, Ƚɨɥɭɛɹ ɤɪɨɬɱɟ. – Ɉɬɱɟ, ɜɨɡɶɦɢ ɜ ɧɚɡɚɞ, ȼ ɠɢɡɧɶ ɫɜɨɸ, ɨɬɱɟ!

Wiser than serpents, Gentler than doves, – Father, take us back, Into your life, Father!

ɑɟɪɟɡ ɜɫɟ ɧɟɛɨ – ɞɵɦ ȼɨɢɧɫɬɜ Ƚɨɫɩɨɞɧɢɯ. Ȼɨɪɟɬɫɹ ɩɥɚɳ, ɞɜɨɣɧɵɦ ȼɡɞɨɯɨɦ ɩɪɢɩɨɞɧɹɬ.

The sky is thick with the smoke Of sacred battles. The cloak stirs and flutters, Lifted by a double sigh.

Ɋɟɜɧɨɫɬɶɸ ɜɡɨɪ ɪɚɡɴɹɬ, Ɇɨɥɢɬ ɢ ɪɨɩɳɟɬ… – Ɉɬɱɟ, ɜɨɡɶɦɢ ɜ ɡɚɤɚɬ, ȼ ɧɨɱɶ ɫɜɨɸ, ɨɬɱɟ!

Their eyes, filled with fervour, Plead and murmur, – Father, take us into the sunset, Into your night, father!

ɉɪɚɡɞɧɭɹ ɧɨɱɢ ɜɯɨɞ, Ⱦɵɲɚɬ ɩɭɫɬɵɧɢ. Ɍɹɠɤɨ – ɤɚɤ ɫɩɟɥɵɣ ɩɥɨɞ – ɉɚɞɚɟɬ: – ɋɵɧɟ!

Rejoicing in the coming of night, The wilderness breathes. Heavy – like falling fruit – An echo: Son!

ɋɦɨɥɤɥɨ ɜ ɫɜɨɟɦ ɯɥɟɜɭ ɋɬɚɞɨ ɥɸɞɫɤɨɟ. ɇɚ ɡɨɥɨɬɨɦ ɯɨɥɦɭ Ⱦɜɨɟ – ɜ ɩɨɤɨɟ (Tsvetaeva 1988I: 143).

The human flock is silent In the byre. On the hill of gold The two are at peace.31

31 I am using Elizabeth Long’s translation of the cycle’s lyrics from the CD recording’s brochure (Gubaidulina 2006, 23-29).

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse

Example 2. S. Gubaidulina, Hommage à Marina Tsvetayeva, (1) “ɉɚɥɨ ɩɪɟɧɢɠɟ ɜɨɥɧ” [Below the Waves] (rehearsal fig. 4-5), reproduced by permission of Musikverlage Hans Sikorski GmbH & Co.

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A change of texture starts at the alto-tenor unison of the monologue at Figure 4 “Ɉɬɱɟ, ɜɨɡɶɦɢ ɜ ɧɚɡɚɞ, ɜ ɠɢɡɧɶ ɫɜɨɸ, ɨɬɱɟ!” (Ex. 2). A similar setting for the lines “Ɉɬɱɟ, ɜɨɡɶɦɢ ɜ ɡɚɤɚɬ, ɜ ɧɨɱɶ ɫɜɨɸ, ɨɬɱɟ!” is given at Figure 8. In both cases, the words “ɨɬɱɟ” are separated in the musical setting from the rest of the line by quarter-note rests; the same goes for the bass solo “ɋɵɧɟ!” at Figure 10.32 The enigmatic verse of Gubaidulina’s setting II “Ʉɨɧɶ” [Horse] (July 16, 1921) under the original title ȼɨɡɜɪɚɳɟɧɢɟ ɜɨɠɞɹ [The Return of the Leader] represents an experiment in itself: it is made entirely of onesyllable feet or “collisions of spondees”, to use Bely’s expression. It is in fact a monometer, like in “Ɇɨɣ /Ⱦɨɦ, /Ɇɨɣ – ɫɨɧ, /Ɇɨɣ – ɫɦɟɯ” (see verse (3) above). Gubaidulina’s setting is made in a pointillistic manner, where one-syllable words are set to thirds and are distributed unequally among the voices in time, which results in some of these “collisions” being exaggerated in the music (“ɪɠɚɜ-ɤɬɨ”, “ɱɚɫ-ɜɡɞɨɯ”, etc.). The influence of Webern’s pointillism is omnipresent here, also in the use of the twelve-tone technique (Shirieva 2016, 153) (Ex. 3).

32

Gubaidulina once admitted that all her works were religious: “As I understand it, I have never written non-religious pieces” (Gubaidulina, Lukomsky 1998, 30-31).

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse

Example 3. S. Gubaidulina, Hommage à Marina Tsvetayeva, (2) “Ʉɨɧɶ” [Horse] (rehearsal fig. 1-2), reproduced by permission of Musikverlage Hans Sikorski GmbH & Co.

Marina Lupishko Ʉɨɧɶ – ɯɪɨɦ, Ɇɟɱ – ɪɠɚɜ. Ʉɬɨ – ɫɟɣ? ȼɨɠɞɶ ɬɨɥɩ.

S S S S

S S S S

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The horse lame, The sword rusty, Who is he? The leader of crowds.

ɒɚɝ – ɱɚɫ, ȼɡɞɨɯ – ɜɟɤ, ȼɡɨɪ – ɜɧɢɡ. ȼɫɟ – ɬɚɦ.

Each step an hour, Each sigh a century, Eyes cast down, Everyone there.

ȼɪɚɝ. – Ⱦɪɭɝ. Ɍɟɪɧ. – Ʌɚɜɪ. ȼɫɺ – ɫɨɧ… – Ɉɧ. – Ʉɨɧɶ.

Foe. Friend. Thorn. Laurel. All a dream… Him. The horse.

Ʉɨɧɶ – ɯɪɨɦ. Ɇɟɱ – ɪɠɚɜ. ɉɥɚɳ – ɫɬɚɪ. ɋɬɚɧ – ɩɪɹɦ (Tsvetaeva 1994II: 49).

The horse lame, The sword rusty, The mantle worn, The back straight.

The verse of setting III “ȼɫɺ ɜɟɥɢɤɨɥɟɩɶɟ” [All Magnificence], along with the one of the first setting, belongs to Tsvetaeva’s cycle ɍɱɟɧɢɤ [The Disciple] (1921). The verse has three stanzas, each stanza contains three lines instead of four, the rhyme scheme is AAb. Lines 1, 2 and 3 in each stanza feature synctactic parallelisms so characteristic of Tsvetaeva’s style, lines 1 and 3 end with the same words in each stanza. According to Bailey (personal letter to the author, February 2009), “the striking feature of the intonational organisation of this verse is that the first line is carried over to the second which has a clear break in the middle” (enjambement or a run-on line in English), while “the third line repeats the same pattern”. What seems at the first glance to be “clearly a trochaic trimeter” (Bailey’s letter to the author, February 2009; see Reading 1 on the scheme below) can also – and equally well – be interpreted as a logaoedic trimeter (Reading 2 on the scheme below). If one takes into account the dashes and their importance as metric markers for Tsvetaeva, one tends to pronounce what follows after the dash (i.e. the mid-line break) somewhat faster than the rest of the line; on the contrary, the feminine endings tend to be pronounced more slowly (Reading 2).

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse

Reading 1 (T3) ȼɫɺ ɜɟɥɢɤɨɥɟɩɶɟ Sw Sw Sw Ɍɪɭɛ – ɥɢɲɶ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɥɟɩɟɬ Sw Sw Sw Ɍɪɚɜ – ɩɟɪɟɞ Ɍɨɛɨɣ. Sw Sw S

Reading 2 (L3) S Sww Sw S Sww Sw S Sww S All magnificence of Trumpets is but whispering of Grass – before You.

ȼɫɺ ɜɟɥɢɤɨɥɟɩɶɟ Ȼɭɪɶ – ɥɢɲɶ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɳɟɛɟɬ ɉɬɢɰ – ɩɟɪɟɞ Ɍɨɛɨɣ.

All magnificence of Storms is but twittering of Birds – before You.

ȼɫɺ ɜɟɥɢɤɨɥɟɩɶɟ Ʉɪɵɥ – ɥɢɲɶ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɬɪɟɩɟɬ ȼɟɤ – ɩɟɪɟɞ Ɍɨɛɨɣ (Tsvetaeva 1988I: 145).

All magnificence of Wings is but quivering of Eyelids – before You.

After a non-verbal introduction featuring “choral crescendos” (gradual increases in the mass of sound), Gubaidulina sets this verse as logaoedic in a chordal psalmodic fashion, on the d-minor sixth-chord at Figures 6-7. The dash after “ɬɪɚɜ” (Ex. 4, m. 3), which marks the mid-line break in Reading 2, is set to two quarter-note rests in the music (the same goes for “ɩɬɢɰ” and “ɜɟɤ”). Gubaidulina’s triplets on “ɜɟɥɢɤɨɥɟɩɶɟ” and “ɩɟɪɟɞ Ɍɨɛɨɣ” and the eighth-notes on the feminine endings adhere strinctly to Reading 2 (Ex. 4, mm. 1, 4). However, the second line is set as if it were borrowed from Reading 1: as a trochaic trimeter (Ex. 4, m. 2).

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Example 4. S. Gubaidulina, Hommage à Marina Tsvetayeva, (3) “ȼɫɺ ɜɟɥɢɤɨɥɟɩɶɟ” [All Magnificence] (rehearsal fig. 6-7), reproduced by permission of Musikverlage Hans Sikorski GmbH & Co.

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse

The Interlude (setting IV) repeats the rhythmic leitmotif “ɜɫɺ ɜɟɥɢɤɨɥɟɩɶɟ” [all magnificence] a countless number of times across all the voices; further on (Figure 3), it is combined polyphonically with certain lines from the setting “Ʉɨɧɶ” (“ɤɨɧɶ”, “ɜɫɺ ɫɨɧ”, “ɦɟɱ ɪɠɚɜ”, “ɤɨɧɶ ɯɪɨɦ”, “ɨɧ – ɤɨɧɶ”). The ternary feel of the logaoedic verse from setting III is also preserved throught this setting. The meaning of the interlude? Tsvetaeva’s word play, pushed to the extreme by Gubaidulina (Ex. 5).

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Example 5. S. Gubaidulina, Hommage à Marina Tsvetayeva, (4) Interlude (rehearsal fig. 1-2), reproduced by permission of Musikverlage Hans Sikorski GmbH & Co.

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse

The verse of the final setting V “ɋɚɞ” [The Garden] is written in an iambic dimeter (1 October 1934); it was left unpublished during Tsvetaeva’s life (Shevelenko 2015, 405). In the last two stanzas, the poetic metre is doubled to become a trochaic tetrameter. The musical setting features a bass solo, accompanied by chromatic clusters of the chorus; from Figure 10 on, canonic imitations start to invade the choral accompaniment (Ex. 6). As Valentina Kholopova observes in her book, Tsvetaeva’s verse is so deep and complete that it requires attention mainly to the poetic text itself, therefore the poetic metre rests unchanged in the setting; the most important poetic lines are given to the soloists (Kholopova, Restagno 1996, 266).

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Example 6. S. Gubaidulina, Hommage à Marina Tsvetayeva, (5) “ɋɚɞ” [The Garden] (rehearsal fig. 1), reproduced by permission of Musikverlage Hans Sikorski GmbH & Co.

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Gubaidulina’s final setting carries the main semantic load of the cycle, similarly to Shostakovich’s setting V “ɇɟɬ, ɛɢɥ ɛɚɪɚɛɚɧ” [No, Sounded the Drum!] from his 1973 cycle, that reveals the composer’s premonition of the hypocrisy shown by the authorities at his own funeral (Tsvetaeva’s verse is about Pushkin’s funeral).33 In 1984 Gubaidulina, who had set Tsvetaeva’s lyrics ten years earlier in ɑɚɫ ɞɭɲɢ [The Hour of the Soul] (1974), was definitely attracted to this particular verse by the parallel between the poet’s and her own fate, the fate which Gerard McBurney has identified, without any parallel to Tsvetaeva, as “the dreadful isolation and lack of opportunity in which she has lived a greater part of her career, as well as the persistent criticism to which she has in fact been subjected” (McBurney 1988, 121).34 In her book, Irina Shevelenko discusses Tsvetaeva’s identity crisis, or rather, her crisis of self-identification as a poet, that gradually took place in the 1930s: While before the revolution she thought of herself mainly as a noble woman and compared herself in 1917 to a déclassée, after the revolution she was forced by the circumstances to acknowledge herself as a poet and to start acting like a professional writer (Shevelenko 2015, 131139). This new self-identification of Tsvetaeva continued well in to the 1920s and even flourished in emigration, supported by the royalties from her numerous publications35 and her private sponsors, by her links to the émigré literary elite of Berlin, Prague, and Paris, and by the stipend from the Czech goverment that continued until the early 1930s (Karlinsky 1985, 174-175, 212). Yet in the late 1920s and the 1930s, Tsvetaeva’s initially self-imposed and mythologised isolation in the West36 was exacerbated by 33 On the autobiographical meaning of vocal music in Shostakovich’s heritage, as well as on the controversy around the composer’s highly debatable remark in Solomon Volkov’s Testimony, “When I combine music with words, it becomes harder to misinterpret my intent” (Volkov 1979, cit. in Maes 2008, 232), see Maes 2008, 231-2 and her end note 3. 34 Gubaidulina in an interview in 1996: “I feel a very special connection to Marina Tsvetaeva. Marina ended her life (in suicide) in the small town Elabuga very close to Chistopol’, my place of birth… I lived in Chistopol’ for the first seven months of my life. Nevertheless I feel a significant symbol in our geographic closeness: I started where she finished. Her fate was extremely tragic: she was destroyed by the vulgarity of Soviet ideology, the aggressiveness of the Soviet system” (Gubaidulina, Lukomsky 1998, 30-31). 35 “It would not be an exaggeration to say that in late 1925 and early 1926 Tsvetaeva was the most frequently published writer of the Russian emigration” (Karlinsky 1985, 152). 36 On the “exilic behaviour”, see Tucker 1991, xv. See also Karlinsky (1985, 176) on the two personal myths Tsvetaeva maintained in her poetry and correspondence

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the consequences of the global economic crisis of 1929-30, by her extremely ambiguous political situation in the Russian émigré circles and by personal problems. In 1927-28 she was still speculating nonchalantly in her letters to Pasternak on the prospects of her possible return to the USSR, but at the end of 1934, when this verse was written, her return became an imminent reality. A national identity crisis followed (Stock 2001, 764-765).37 In her verse Tsvetaeva, as if arguing with her husband who insisted on the family’s departure to the Soviet Union (Saakyants 1999, 601), is praying to God to send her a well-deserved garden – in France? not in Russia, in any case! – a deserted garden where she would quietly grow old, a garden without an eye or an ear, without laughing, whistling, or criticism. Sofia Gubaidulina, who asked God for a similar garden in her setting of 1984, found it in the 1990s in Appen near Hamburg.38 In 1934, Tsvetaeva already had a premonition – see the last stanza – that she would never find it. Ɂɚ ɷɬɨɬ ɚɞ, Ɂɚ ɷɬɨɬ ɛɪɟɞ, ɉɨɲɥɢ ɦɧɟ ɫɚɞ ɇɚ ɫɬɚɪɨɫɬɶ ɥɟɬ.

wS wS wS wS wS wS wS wS

For this hell, For this madness, Grant me a garden In my old age.

ɇɚ ɫɬɚɪɨɫɬɶ ɥɟɬ, ɇɚ ɫɬɚɪɨɫɬɶ ɛɟɞ: Ɋɚɛɨɱɢɯ – ɥɟɬ, Ƚɨɪɛɚɬɵɯ – ɥɟɬ…

In my old age, My long suffering: Years of labouring, Years of toil…

ɇɚ ɫɬɚɪɨɫɬɶ ɥɟɬ ɋɨɛɚɱɶɢɯ – ɤɥɚɞ: Ƚɨɪɹɱɢɯ ɥɟɬ –

In my old age; For the dog – a bone For the hot years –

in the West, of her living as an outcast in Paris and of her banishment from the émigré press after 1926; see also the opening epigraph to this paper. 37 In a letter to George Ivask of 12 May 1934, Tsvetaeva wrote: “ɋɨ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɵ ɦɚɬɟɪɢ ɭ ɦɟɧɹ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɜɨɜɫɟ ɧɟɬ, ɚ ɫɨ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɵ ɨɬɰɚ – ɜɫɹ […] ə ɢ ɞɭɯɨɜɧɨ – ɩɨɥɭɤɪɨɜɤɚ.” [On my mother’s side I have nothing Russian at all, on my father’s side – all of Russia […] Spiritually I am also a half-caste.] (Tsvetaeva 1995VII: 388, italics in the text, partly tr. in Stock 2001, 764, with my corrections added – M.L.). 38 Gubaidulina says to an interviewer of Sikorsky Magazine (Sikorsky Magazine 3 (2009), p. 11, , ) that “she is infinitely grateful to Germany for being able to live here […] in a living environment which is almost ideal for her, even like a paradise, and which has been extremely fruitful for her production”.

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse ɉɪɨɯɥɚɞɧɵɣ ɫɚɞ…

A cool garden…

Ⱦɥɹ ɛɟɝɥɟɰɚ Ɇɧɟ ɫɚɞ ɩɨɲɥɢ: Ȼɟɡ ɧɢ-ɥɢɰɚ, Ȼɟɡ ɧɢ-ɞɭɲɢ!

For this fugitive, Grant a garden With neither face Nor soul!

ɋɚɞ: ɧɢ ɲɚɠɤɚ! ɋɚɞ: ɧɢ ɝɥɚɡɤɚ! ɋɚɞ: ɧɢ ɫɦɟɲɤɚ! ɋɚɞ: ɧɢ ɫɜɢɫɬɤɚ!

A garden: no one coming! A garden: no one looking! A garden: no one laughing! A garden: no one singing!

Ȼɟɡ ɧɢ-ɭɲɤɚ Ɇɧɟ ɫɚɞ ɩɨɲɥɢ: Ȼɟɡ ɧɢ-ɞɭɲɤɚ! Ȼɟɡ ɧɢ-ɞɭɲɢ!

Grant me a garden With no one to hear, No ‘dear one’! Not a living soul!

ɋɤɚɠɢ: ɞɨɜɨɥɶɧɨ ɦɭғ ɤɢ – ɧɚғ ɋɚɞ – ɨɞɢɧɨɤɢɣ, ɤɚɤ ɫɚɦɚ.

Say, ‘Enough of this torture,’ In this garden – alone like you.

(ɇɨ ɨɤɨɥɨ ɢ ɋɚɦ ɧɟ ɫɬɚɧɶ!) – ɋɚɞ, ɨɞɢɧɨɤɢɣ, ɤɚɤ ɬɵ ɋɚɦ.

(But do not come too close!) This garden, lonely like me.

Ɍɚɤɨɣ ɦɧɟ ɫɚɞ ɧɚ ɫɬɚɪɨɫɬɶ ɥɟɬ… Such a garden, in my old age – Ɍɨɬ ɫɚɞ? Ⱥ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɛɵɬɶ – ɬɨɬ ɫɜɟɬ? ‘That garden? Or perhaps that world?’ ɇɚ ɫɬɚɪɨɫɬɶ ɥɟɬ ɦɨɢɯ ɩɨɲɥɢ – In my old age, grant me this ɇɚ ɨɬɩɭɳɟɧɢɟ ɞɭɲɢ. For the absolution of my soul. (Tsvetaeva 1988I: 302).

*** Gubaidulina was not the only composer attracted to Tsvetaeva’s logaoedic verse, one should name at least one more: Dmitry Shostakovich.39 Shostakovich came to appreciate Tsvetaeva’s lyrics and prose at the end of his life, after having learnt from the American doctors that his condition was incurable (Emerson 2004, 209). The cycle for contralto and piano ɒɟɫɬɶ ɫɬɢɯɨɬɜɨɪɟɧɢɣ Ɇɚɪɢɧɵ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ [Six Poems of Marina Tsvetaeva] (Op. 143) was written during a holiday in Estonia from July 31 to August 7, 1973; in 1974 it was arranged for voice and chamber orcherstra as Op. 39

Alfred Schnittke was the first among Soviet composers to set Tsvetaeva’s poetry, his cycle dates from 1965, the year of the first important Soviet publication of Tsvetaeva’s selected works (Tsvetaeva 1965).

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143a. In selecting the poems for this cycle, Shostakovich chose the most relevant ones to him, his life, and his spirituality: recognition of the artist’s creations (setting I, “Ɇɨɢ ɫɬɢɯɢ” [My Verses]), love (setting II, “Ɉɬɤɭɞɚ ɬɚɤɚɹ ɧɟɠɧɨɫɬɶ?” [Whence This Tenderness?], conscience (setting III, “Ⱦɢɚɥɨɝ Ƚɚɦɥɟɬɚ ɫ ɫɨɜɟɫɬɶɸ” [Hamlet’s Dialogue with his Conscience]), artist versus dictator (settings IV and V, “ɉɨɷɬ ɢ ɰɚɪɶ” [The Poet and The Tsar] and “ɇɟɬ, ɛɢɥ ɛɚɪɚɛɚɧ...” [No, Sounded the Drum!]), and glorification of art and the artist (setting VI, “Ⱥɧɧɟ Ⱥɯɦɚɬɨɜɨɣ” [To Anna Akhmatova]) (Moshevich 2004, 176). The verse of Shostakovich’s setting II “Ɉɬɤɭɞɚ ɬɚɤɚɹ ɧɟɠɧɨɫɬɶ?” [Whence This Tenderness?] (18 February 1916, dedicated to Osip Mandelshtam) is a homogeneous logaoedic trimeter with a one-syllable anacruse 1-2-1-1/1-2-1- and with the rhyme scheme in which three femininine endings are followed with a masculine ending AAAb (Smith 1975, 347, fn. 48).40 In the music, the triplets consisting of three quarter-notes or of a half-note and a quarter-note in the changing metres 3/2 and 2/2 follow the logaoedic poetic feet of the verse rather closely (Ex. 7).

40

The rhythmic characteristics of this verse (constant stresses on the second, fifth and seventh syllables) have been studied in great detail by the mathematician A.M. Kolmogorov and the semiologist V.Vs. Ivanov (Kolmogorov 1968, Ivanov 1968). These two articles are discussed at length in Bailey 1972 and Smith 1975. One of the first scholars to apply the term “logaoedic” to Tsvetaeva’s verse was George (Yury) Ivask, Tsvetaeva’s correspondent in the 1930s (Smith 1975, 332, fn. 6; Karlinsky 1985, 65).

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Example 7. D. Shostakovich, Six Poems by Marina Tsvetaeva, (2) “Ɉɬɤɭɞɚ ɬɚɤɚɹ ɧɟɠɧɨɫɬɶ?” [Whence This Tenderness?] (mm. 1-22) (Shostakovich 1984, 121122).

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse Ɉɬɤɭɞɚ ɬɚɤɚɹ ɧɟɠɧɨɫɬɶ? ɇɟ ɩɟɪɜɵɟ – ɷɬɢ ɤɭɞɪɢ Ɋɚɡɝɥɚɠɢɜɚɸ, ɢ ɝɭɛɵ Ɂɧɚɜɚɥɚ ɬɟɦɧɟɣ ɬɜɨɢɯ.

wSww Sw Sw wSww Sw Sw wSww Sw Sw wSww Sw S

ȼɫɯɨɞɢɥɢ ɢ ɝɚɫɥɢ ɡɜɺɡɞɵ, – Ɉɬɤɭɞɚ ɬɚɤɚɹ ɧɟɠɧɨɫɬɶ? – ȼɫɯɨɞɢɥɢ ɢ ɝɚɫɥɢ ɨɱɢ ɍ ɫɚɦɵɯ ɦɨɢɯ ɨɱɟɣ. ȿɳɺ ɧɟ ɬɚɤɢɟ ɝɢɦɧɵ ə ɫɥɭɲɚɥɚ ɧɨɱɶɸ ɬɺɦɧɨɣ, ȼɟɧɱɚɟɦɚɹ – ɨ ɧɟɠɧɨɫɬɶ! – ɇɚ ɫɚɦɨɣ ɝɪɭɞɢ ɩɟɜɰɚ. Ɉɬɤɭɞɚ ɬɚɤɚɹ ɧɟɠɧɨɫɬɶ, ɂ ɱɬɨ ɫ ɧɟɸ ɞɟɥɚɬɶ, ɨɬɪɨɤ Ʌɭɤɚɜɵɣ, ɩɟɜɟɰ ɡɚɯɨɠɢɣ, ɋ ɪɟɫɧɢɰɚɦɢ – ɧɟɬ ɞɥɢɧɧɟɣ?41 (Tsvetaeva 1994I: 254).

The verse of setting VI, “Ⱥɧɧɟ Ⱥɯɦɚɬɨɜɨɣ” [To Anna Akhmatova] (19 June 1916) is the first from Tsvetaeva’s eponymous cycle of 1916. The verse is a homogeneous logaoedic pentameter 1-1-2-2-1- (Smith 1975, 340, fn. 25); the rhyme scheme is aBaB. Here the poetic rhythm somewhat differs from the poetic metre, as Tsvetaeva slightly changes the metric scheme, varying the number of syllables and shifting metric stresses. Shostakovich’s setting is exemplary in following the “rule of prosody” – stressed syllables on metrically stressed beats – rather strictly; the logaoedic ternary feet are set to three quarter-notes and binary feet are set to a half-note and a quarter (Ex. 8).42 The last two lines of the first stanza, “Ɍɵ ɱɺɪɧɭɸ […]” and “ɂ ɜɨɩɥɢ ɬɜɨɢ […]”, start out as amphibrachic dimeter both in the music and in the poetry.43 In the last line, one syllable is omitted from the metric scheme: “– Ⱥɯɦɚɬɨɜɚ! – ɢ ɫɟɪɞɰɟ ɫɜɨɺ ɜ 41 This verse resembles the one discussed above in (2) (“ɇɢɤɬɨ ɧɢɱɟɝɨ ɧɟ ɨɬɧɹɥ!”) – it is from the same period, also dedicated to Mandelshtam, and viewed by G. Smith as a heterogeneous logaoedic verse alternating 1-2-1- (lines 1-3) with dactylic trimeter (line 4) (Smith 1980, 105). 42 Ruch’yevskaya (1966, 82) remarks that ternary metres generally have fewer possibilities for musical transformation than binary metres. 43 Also the first line of the third stanza “Ɇɵ ɤɨɪɨɧɨɜɚɧɵ” starts as a dactylic dimeter both in music and in poetry (not shown on the scheme above). There are also a few cases where the metric stress is not fulfilled in the rhythm, as for example on the words “ɱɺɪɧɭɸ”, “ɲɚɪɚɯɚɟɦɫɹ”, “ɩɪɟɤɪɚɫɧɚɹ”, etc.

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ɩɪɢɞɚɱɭ”.44 Etkind points out that Tsvetaeva, perhaps for the first time in Russian poetry, prolongs her stresses quantitatively: the name should be in fact read with a twice-prolonged vowel A: “– Ⱥɯɦá-aɬɨɜɚ!”, which would also restore the poetic metre (Etkind 1991, 330). Shostakovich also creates a prolonged stop in his music at this point (mm. 133-136).

44

The enjambement (run-on lines) “Anna/ – Akhmatova!” from the second stanza have been refered to in literature as an onomotopoeic interpretation of the name of the second greatest female poet of Russia (Timenchik 1972, cit. in Zubova 1999, 32-33).

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Example 8. D. Shostakovich, Six Poems by Marina Tsvetaeva, (6) “Ⱥɧɧɟ Ⱥɯɦɚɬɨɜɨɣ” [To Anna Akhmatova] (mm. 1-56) (Shostakovich 1984, 137-138).

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On the “Melodic Quality” of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse Ɉ, Ɇɭɡɚ ɩɥɚɱɚ, ɩɪɟɤɪɚɫɧɟɣɲɚɹ ɢɡ ɦɭɡ! Ɉ ɬɵ, ɲɚɥɶɧɨɟ ɢɫɱɚɞɢɟ ɧɨɱɢ ɛɟɥɨɣ! Ɍɵ ɱɺɪɧɭɸ ɧɚɫɵɥɚɟɲɶ ɦɟɬɟɥɶ ɧɚ Ɋɭɫɶ, ɂ ɜɨɩɥɢ ɬɜɨɢ ɜɨɧɡɚɸɬɫɹ ɜ ɧɚɫ, ɤɚɤ ɫɬɪɟɥɵ.

wSw Sww Sww Sw S wSw Sww Sww Sw Sw wSw wSw Sww Sw S wSw wSw Sww Sw Sw

ɂ ɦɵ ɲɚɪɚɯɚɟɦɫɹ ɢ ɝɥɭɯɨɟ: ɨɯ! – ɋɬɨɬɵɫɹɱɧɨɟ – ɬɟɛɟ ɩɪɢɫɹɝɚɟɬ, Ⱥɧɧɚ Ⱥɯɦɚɬɨɜɚ! – ɗɬɨ ɢɦɹ – ɨɝɪɨɦɧɵɣ ɜɡɞɨɯ, ɂ ɜ ɝɥɭɛɶ ɨɧ ɩɚɞɚɟɬ, ɤɨɬɨɪɚɹ ɛɟɡɵɦɹɧɧɚ.

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Ɇɵ ɤɨɪɨɧɨɜɚɧɵ ɬɟɦ, ɱɬɨ ɨɞɧɭ ɫ ɬɨɛɨɣ Ɇɵ ɡɟɦɥɸ ɬɨɩɱɟɦ, ɱɬɨ ɧɟɛɨ ɧɚɞ ɧɚɦɢ – ɬɨ ɠɟ! ɂ ɬɨɬ, ɤɬɨ ɪɚɧɟɧ ɫɦɟɪɬɟɥɶɧɨɣ ɬɜɨɟɣ ɫɭɞɶɛɨɣ, ɍɠɟ ɛɟɫɫɦɟɪɬɧɵɦ ɧɚ ɫɦɟɪɬɧɨɟ ɫɯɨɞɢɬ ɥɨɠɟ.

wSw Sww Sww Sw S wSw Sww Sww Sw Sw wSw Sww Sww Sw S wSw Sww Sww Sw Sw

ȼ ɩɟɜɭɱɟɦ ɝɪɚɞɟ ɦɨɺɦ ɤɭɩɨɥɚ ɝɨɪɹɬ, ɂ ɋɩɚɫɚ ɫɜɟɬɥɨɝɨ ɫɥɚɜɢɬ ɫɥɟɩɟɰ ɛɪɨɞɹɱɢɣ… ɂ ɹ ɞɚɪɸ ɬɟɛɟ ɫɜɨɣ ɤɨɥɨɤɨɥɶɧɵɣ ɝɪɚɞ, – Ⱥɯɦɚɬɨɜɚ! – ɢ ɫɟɪɞɰɟ ɫɜɨɺ ɜ ɩɪɢɞɚɱɭ. (Tsvetaeva 1988I: 75).

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*** The music of poetry is not a very rewarding subject to write a scholarly paper on. There are simply not that many people who are sensitive enough to understand and appreciate this aspect of poetry. For a scholar, the problem is evident – how to study the musical aspect of poetry, if nothing or next to nothing about the way the verse should sound is indicated in the written or published text? Where is one supposed to take the information from? In my paper, I made an attempt to reunite several visions of the “melodic quality” of Tsvetaeva’s lyric verse put forward by some of the most sensitive readers of her poetry, including the poet herself. The oftencited “melodic quality” of Tsvetaeva’s lyric poetry in the Russian émigré literary criticism of the 1920s (by Khodasevich, Bely, Bakhrakh) and in her personal correspondence (Pasternak) could be viewed as an entirely subjective opinion, were it not for the fact that most of these authors tried to provide a rational explanation of the phenomenon. Although in the poet’s essays and letters she often stated, perhaps deliberately, that her poetry writing was intuitive, publications of her poetry from the 1920s on were supplied by Tsvetaeva with various signs of metric articulation, such as dashes, hyphens, stress marks, and line breaks. While using these metric markers continuously throughout her publishing career, Tsvetaeva was very likely insisting on one particular reading of the verse to which she wanted the reader to adhere to strictly.

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Sofia Gubaidulina’s 1984 vocal cycle ɉɨɫɜɹɳɟɧɢɟ Ɇɚɪɢɧɟ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ [Hommage à Marina Tsvetayeva], especially settings I and III, as well as settings II and VI of Dmitry Shostakovich’s cycle ɒɟɫɬɶ ɫɬɢɯɨɬɜɨɪɟɧɢɣ Ɇɚɪɢɧɵ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ [Six Poems of Marina Tsvetaeva] (1973), add to our understanding of how the “melodic leitmotifs” of Tsvetaeva’s logaoedic verses come to life when the verse is set to music. Gubaidulina does not only choose the optimal metric reading of the poem, she also insists on this reading by offering us multiple repetitions of it over the entire setting, as is the case with a “logaoedic interpretation” of the trochaic verse in her setting III “ȼɫɺ ɜɟɥɢɤɨɥɟɩɶɟ”. In both cases these Russian composers choose the metric versions that corresponds in the best possible way to Tsvetaeva’s signs of metric articulation and possibly also to the poet’s own internal hearing of her verse. Out of the two cycles, that of Gubaidulina is much more polyphonic and dialogical in the literary, Bakhtin’s, understanding of these words.45 In her quest for the fullest possible exploration of the sound space, the modernist Gubaidulina searches for and finds this dialogue in the poetry of Tsvetaeva, breaking her verse into fragments, creating the contrast out of different volumes of sound masses, and using a variety of polyphonic (in the musical understanding of the word) techniques – of canon, choral crescendo, pointillism, etc. – which might obscure the pronunciation of the verse but nonetheless contribute to our understanding of its overall meaning (the battle of forces, striving from darkness to light, a prayer). As compared to Gubaidulina, Shostakovich sets Tsvetaeva’s poetry in a more traditional manner, giving preference to linear melodies, organised in accordance with the rule of prosody, with qualitative ways of distinguishing between the stressed syllables and the unstressed ones.

Bibliography Azadovsky, K.M., Pasternak, E.B., and Pasternak, E.V. (eds.) (1990): ɉɢɫɶɦɚ 1926 ɝɨɞɚ. Ɋɚɣɧɟɪ Ɇɚɪɢɹ Ɋɢɥɶɤɟ, Ȼɨɪɢɫ ɉɚɫɬɟɪɧɚɤ, Ɇɚɪɢɧɚ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɚ, Mɨɫɤɜɚ: Kɧɢɝɚ. Bailey, J. (1972): Some Recent Developments in the Study of Russian Versification. In: Language and Style 5/3, pp. 155-191. —. (2004): ɂɡɛɪɚɧɧɵɟ ɫɬɚɬɶɢ ɩɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɦɭ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɨɦɭ ɫɬɢɯɭ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: əɡɵɤɢ ɫɥɚɜɹɧɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ. Bely, A. ([1910] 1994): ɋɢɦɜɨɥɢɡɦ ɤɚɤ ɦɢɪɨɩɨɧɢɦɚɧɢɟ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɋɟɫɩɭɛɥɢɤɚ. 45

I am grateful to Alexandra Smith for this observation.

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Brik, O. (1927): Ɋɢɬɦ ɢ ɫɢɧɬɚɤɫɢɫ: Ɇɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɵ ɤ ɢɡɭɱɟɧɢɸ ɫɬɢɯɨɬɜɨɪɧɨɣ ɪɟɱɢ. In: ɇɨɜɵɣ ɥɟɮ 3, 4, 5, 6 . Brodsky, J. (1987): Less Than One: Selected Essays, London: Penguin Books. Eykhenbaum, B. (1922): Ɇɟɥɨɞɢɤɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɥɢɪɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɬɢɯɚ, ɉɟɬɪɨɝɪɚɞ: OɉɈəɁ. Emerson, C. (2004): Shostakovich and the Russian Literary Tradition. In: Fay, L.E. (ed.): Shostakovich and His World, Princeton: Princeton University Press, pp. 183-226. Etkind, E. (1991): ɋɬɪɨɮɢɤɚ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ (ɥɨɝɚɷɞɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɦɟɬɪɢɤɚ ɢ ɫɬɪɨɮɵ). In: Kemball, R., Etkind, E. and Heller, L. (eds.): Marina Tsvetaeva: actes du 1er colloque international (Lausanne 30.063.07.1982), Bern: Slavica Helvetica, Bd. 26, pp. 307-331. Gasparov, M. (1984): Ɉɱɟɪɤ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɬɢɯɚ. Ɇɟɬɪɢɤɚ, ɪɢɬɦɢɤɚ, ɪɢɮɦɚ, ɫɬɪɨɮɢɤɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɇɚɭɤɚ. —. (1988): Ȼɟɥɵɣ-ɫɬɢɯɨɜɟɞ ɢ Ȼɟɥɵɣ-ɫɬɢɯɨɬɜɨɪɟɰ. In: Lesnevsky, S. and Mikhaylov, A. (eds.): Ⱥɧɞɪɟɣ Ȼɟɥɵɣ: ɩɪɨɛɥɟɦɵ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɚ. ɋɬɚɬɶɢ, ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ, ɩɭɛɥɢɤɚɰɢɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɋɨɜɟɬɫɤɢɣ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɶ, pp. 444-460. Gubaidulina, S. (1984): Hommage à Marina Tsvetayeva, a MS score, courtesy of Paul Sacher Stiftung, Basel. —. (1994): ‘Ⱦɚɧɨ ɢ ɡɚɞɚɧɨ’: ɂɧɬɟɪɜɶɸ ɫ Ɉ. Ȼɭɝɪɨɜɨɣ. In: Ɇɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɚɹ Ⱥɤɚɞɟɦɢɹ 3, pp. 1-7. —. (2006): The Canticle of the Sun, Hommage à Marina Tsvetayeva, CD recording, David Geringas, cello, Danish National Choir, dir. Stefan Parkman, Chandos Records. Gubaidulina, S., and Lukomsky, V. (1998): ‘The Eucharist in My Fantasy’: Interview with Sofia Gubaidulina. In: Tempo 206, pp. 29-35. Hansen-Löve, A. (2001) Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɮɨɪɦɚɥɢɡɦ: Ɇɟɬɨɞɨɥɨɝɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɪɟɤɨɧɫɬɪɭɤɰɢɹ ɪɚɡɜɢɬɢɹ ɧɚ ɨɫɧɨɜɟ ɩɪɢɧɰɢɩɚ ɨɫɬɪɚɧɟɧɢɹ, translated from German by S. Romashko, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: əɡɵɤɢ ɫɥɚɜɹɧɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ. Ivanov, V. (1968): Ɇɟɬɪ ɢ ɪɢɬɦ ɜ «ɉɨɷɦɟ ɤɨɧɰɚ» Ɇ. ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ. In: Kholshevnikov, V., Likhachov, D. and Zhirmunsky, V. (eds.): Ɍɟɨɪɢɹ ɫɬɢɯɚ, Ʌɟɧɢɧɝɪɚɞ: ɇɚɭɤɚ, pp. 168-201. Karlinsky, S. (1985): Marina Tsvetaeva: The Woman, Her World and Her Poetry, Cambridge: ɋambridge University Press. Kholopova, V., and Restagno, E. (1996): ɋɨɮɢɹ Ƚɭɛɚɣɞɭɥɢɧɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ʉɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪ.

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Kholshevnikov, V. (1971): Ʌɨɝɚɷɞɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɪɚɡɦɟɪɵ ɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɩɨɷɡɢɢ. In: Alekseev, M. (ed.): ɉɨɷɬɢɤɚ ɢ ɫɬɢɥɢɫɬɢɤɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ, Ʌɟɧɢɧɝɪɚɞ: ɇɚɭɤɚ, pp. 429-436. Kolmogorov, A. (1968): ɉɪɢɦɟɪ ɢɡɭɱɟɧɢɹ ɦɟɬɪɚ ɢ ɟɝɨ ɪɢɬɦɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɜɚɪɢɚɧɬɨɜ. In: Kholshevnikov, V., Likhachov, D. and Zhirmunsky, V. (eds.): Ɍɟɨɪɢɹ ɫɬɢɯɚ, Ʌɟɧɢɧɝɪɚɞ: ɇɚɭɤɚ, pp. 145-167. Kushner, B. (1916): Ɉ ɡɜɭɤɨɜɨɣ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɟ ɩɨɷɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɪɟɱɢ. In: ɋɛɨɪɧɢɤɢ ɩɨ ɬɟɨɪɢɢ ɩɨɷɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɹɡɵɤɚ 1, ɉɟɬɪɨɝɪɚɞ, pp. 47-50. Kvyatkovsky, A. (1929): Ɍɚɤɬɨɦɟɬɪ: ɨɩɵɬ ɬɟɨɪɢɢ ɫɬɢɯɚ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɫɱɟɬɚ. In: Zelinsky, B. and Sel’vinsky, I. (eds.): Ȼɢɡɧɟɫ. ɋɛɨɪɧɢɤ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɨɝɨ ɰɟɧɬɪɚ ɤɨɧɫɬɪɭɤɬɢɜɢɫɬɨɜ. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ȽɂɁ. Lupishko, M. (2011): Grib-borovik or Charka-gorelka? Stravinsky’s Treatment of Russian Folk Trochaic Tetrameter. In: Australian Slavonic and Eastern Europeans Studies 25, pp. 1-37. Maes, F. (2008): Between Reality and Transcendence: Shostakovich’s Songs. In: Fairclough, P. and Fanning, D. (eds.): The Cambridge Companion to Shostakovich, Cambridge, pp. 231-258. McBurney, G. (1988): Encountering Gubaidulina. In: The Musical Times 129/1741, pp. 120-125. Mnukhin, L. (ed.) (2003): Ɇɚɪɢɧɚ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɚ ɜ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɟ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɢɤɨɜ, 2 vols, vol. 1: 1910-1941, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ⱥɝɪɚɮ. Moshevich, S. (2004): Dmitri Shostakovich, Pianist, Montréal: McGillQueen’s Press. Nevzglyadova, E. (1975): Ɇɟɥɨɞɢɤɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɥɢɪɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɬɢɯɚ. In: ɂɡɜɟɫɬɢɹ ɚɤɚɞɟɦɢɢ ɇɚɭɤ ɋɋɋɊ, ɋɟɪɢɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ ɢ ɹɡɵɤɚ 34/2, pp. 115-128. Platov, F. (1916): Ƚɚɦɦɚ ɝɥɚɫɧɵɯ. In: ɐɟɧɬɪɢɮɭɝɚ 2, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. Ruch’yevskaya, E. (1966): Ɉ ɫɨɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɢ ɫɥɨɜɚ ɢ ɦɟɥɨɞɢɢ ɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɤɚɦɟɪɧɨ-ɜɨɤɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɟ ɧɚɱɚɥɚ XX ɜɟɤɚ. In: Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɧɚ ɪɭɛɟɠɟ XX ɜɟɤɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, Ʌɟɧɢɧɝɪɚɞ: Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ, pp. 65-110. Saakyants, A. (1988): ȼɫɬɪɟɱɚ ɩɨɷɬɨɜ: Ⱥɧɞɪɟɣ Ȼɟɥɵɣ ɢ Ɇɚɪɢɧɚ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɚ. In: Lesnevsky, S. and Mikhaylov, A. (eds.): Ⱥɧɞɪɟɣ Ȼɟɥɵɣ: ɩɪɨɛɥɟɦɵ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɚ. ɋɬɚɬɶɢ, ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ, ɩɭɛɥɢɤɚɰɢɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɋɨɜɟɬɫɤɢɣ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɶ, pp. 367-385. —. (1999): Ɇɚɪɢɧɚ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɚ. ɀɢɡɧɶ ɢ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɗɥɥɢɫ Ʌɚɤ. Shengeli, G. (1960): Ɍɟɯɧɢɤɚ ɫɬɢɯɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ƚɨɫɥɢɬɢɡɞɚɬ. Shevelenko, I. (2015): Ʌɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɵɣ ɩɭɬɶ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ. ɂɞɟɨɥɨɝɢɹ, ɩɨɷɬɢɤɚ, ɢɞɟɧɬɢɱɧɨɫɬɶ ɚɜɬɨɪɚ ɜ ɤɨɧɬɟɤɫɬɟ ɷɩɨɯɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɇɨɜɨɟ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɨɟ ɨɛɨɡɪɟɧɢɟ.

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Shirieva, N. (2016): ɉɪɢɧɰɢɩɵ ɫɬɪɭɤɬɭɪɧɨɣ ɨɪɝɚɧɢɡɚɰɢɢ ɯɨɪɨɜɵɯ ɫɨɱɢɧɟɧɢɣ ɋɨɮɢɢ Ƚɭɛɚɣɞɭɥɢɧɵ, Ʉɚɡɚɧɶ: Ⱥɫɬɨɪ ɢ ə. Shostakovich, D. (1984): Collected Works in 42 vols., vol. 33, Moscow: Muzyka, pp. 117-142. Sievers, E. (1912): Rhytmisch-melodische Studien, Heidelberg: Winter. Smith, G.S. (1975): Logaoedic Metres in the Lyric Poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva. In: The Slavonic and East European Review 53/132, pp. 330354. —. (1978): The Versification of Russian Emigré Poetry. In: The Slavonic and East European Review 56/1, pp. 32-46. —. (1980): Compound Meters in the Poetry of Marina Cvetaeva. In: Russian Literature 8, pp. 103-123. Stock, U. (2001): Marina Tsvetaeva: The Concrete and the Metaphoric Discourse of Exile. In: The Modern Language Review 96/3, pp. 762777. Struve, G. (1956): Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ ɜ ɢɡɝɧɚɧɢɢ, New York: ɂɡɞɚɧɢɟ ɢɦɟɧɢ ɑɟɯɨɜɚ. Tomashevsky, B. (1927): Ɍɟɨɪɢɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ. ɉɨɷɬɢɤɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, Ʌɟɧɢɧɝɪɚɞ: ȽɂɁ. —. (1929): Ɉ ɫɬɢɯɟ: ɫɬɚɬɶɢ, Ʌɟɧɢɧɝɪɚɞ: ɉɪɢɛɨɣ. Tsenova, V. (2000): ɑɢɫɥɨɜɵɟ ɬɚɣɧɵ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ ɋɨɮɢɢ Ƚɭɛɚɣɞɭɥɢɧɨɣ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɆȽɄ. Tsvetaeva, M. (1965): ɂɡɛɪɚɧɧɵɟ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɹ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, Ʌɟɧɢɧɝɪɚɞ: Cɨɜɟɬɫɤɢɣ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɶ. —. (1988): ɂɡɛɪɚɧɧɵɟ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɹ ɜ ɞɜɭɯ ɬɨɦɚɯ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɏɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ. —. (1994-95): ɂɡɛɪɚɧɧɵɟ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɹ ɜ ɫɟɦɢ ɬɨɦɚɯ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɗɥɥɢɫ Ʌɚɤ. —. (1997): ɋɜɨɞɧɵɟ ɬɟɬɪɚɞɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: ɗɥɥɢɫ Ʌɚɤ. Tucker, M. (ed.) (1991): Literary Exile in the Twentieth Century. An Analysis and Biographical Dictionary, New York: Greenwood. Tufanov, A. (1924): Ʉ ɡɚɭɦɢ. Ɏɨɧɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɢ ɮɭɧɤɰɢɢ ɫɨɝɥɚɫɧɵɯ ɮɨɧɟɦ, ɉɟɬɪɨɝɪɚɞ: ɂɡɞɚɧɢɟ ɚɜɬɨɪɚ. Tynyanov, Yu. (1924): ɉɪɨɛɥɟɦɚ ɫɬɢɯɨɬɜɨɪɧɨɝɨ ɹɡɵɤɚ, Ʌɟɧɢɧɝɪɚɞ: Academia. Varunts, V. (1979): ȿɞɢɧɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɫɩɪɚɜɨɱɧɢɤ: ɫɨɛɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɫɥɭɯ. In: Ɂɜɟɡɞɚ 4, pp. 194-197. Zhirmunsky, V. (1922): Ɇɟɥɨɞɢɤɚ ɫɬɢɯɚ. In: Ɇɵɫɥɶ 5, pp. 109-139. —. (1925): ȼɜɟɞɟɧɢɟ ɜ ɦɟɬɪɢɤɭ. Ɍɟɨɪɢɹ ɫɬɢɯɚ, Ʌɟɧɢɧɝɪɚɞ: Academia. Zubova, L. (1999): əɡɵɤ ɩɨɷɡɢɢ Ɇɚɪɢɧɵ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ (ɮɨɧɟɬɢɤɚ, ɫɥɨɜɨɨɛɪɚɡɨɜɚɧɢɟ, ɮɪɚɡɟɨɥɨɝɢɹ), ɋɚɧɤɬ-ɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝ: ɋɉɛȽɍ.

WHICH PLACE IS CALLED A MUSICAL HOME? HYPHENATED IDENTITIES OF RUSSIAN ÉMIGRÉ COMPOSERS ELENA DUBINETS

Russian classical music is a globally recognised brand, like vodka, caviar and Dostoevsky; however, from early on it has been more than “just” Russian. Back in the Imperial period, while accommodating patriotic dispositions propagated by official promulgations of Russian nationalism, it became multiethnic and multicultural. During Soviet times, many composers of different ethnicities learned to satisfy the new political agendas while sometimes expressing doublethink in music. Post-Soviet composers regularly exploit certain ethnic, political or social features of the explosive Russian/Soviet cultural mix as they choose those elements that help secure both audiences and funding. Different constituencies of their identities can play out in different circumstances, often triggered by commercial ruse and career-related benefits. Those who found themselves outside of the former Soviet borders represent a typical blend of ethnicities and characteristics of the multiethnic Soviet identity. After leaving the former Soviet territories, some of them have changed their countries of residence multiple times. Now that borders are open, many come back either permanently or for short visits. These border crossings, diasporic embodiments and homecomings, often irrespective of citizenship, inevitably reflect upon the formation of the composers’ creative identities.

Different passport, same culture Diaspora represents a textbook example of the situations when cultural and national belonging do not coincide. When the person rejects the monopolistic powers of a nation state and is propelled into global or private arenas while seeking new financing and societal options, a new type of relationship between an individual and a territory transpires.

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Indeed, diasporas challenge the very existence of the nation-state as they legitimise people of the same ethnic descent and culture outside of the nation’s borders. If nation state implies a congruency between society, culture and territory, diaspora contests the idea that a nation-state is coterminous with its inhabitants. Through its abilities to conduct a productive extraterritorial dialogue, diaspora exposes the nation-state’s values to a broader world. When immigrants obtain new citizenship and begin both formally and civically to belong to another state, they can still be rooted in previous social experiences and cultural attachments while being totally independent from their old country’s governing and societal structures. In fact, the linkages between the émigrés from the USSR are more likely to be based on cultural and social connections than on territorial or ideological principles. Overall, it may be more appropriate to define Russian diaspora through culture rather than through place and ethnic solidarity, demoting its geographical and national connections. As Anne de Tinguy asserts, Russian migrants in principle tend to keep their cultural identity and consciousness, and it is this identity that plays the decisive role in their lives and careers – to an even greater extent than class and other distinctions (Tangi 2012, 458). As if to confirm this statement, pianist Yefim Bronfman observed: “They say that it’s possible to move a person out of Russia, but it’s impossible to move Russia out of a person” (Dubinets 2016, 238). Bronfman was born in 1958 into a Jewish family from Tashkent (Uzbekistan), moved to Israel as a teenager and now lives in New York, spending half of his time touring the world extensively. Despite his transnational affiliations, he describes himself as a typical Russian: In any country I meet with my Russian friends. In New York or Washington I can speak only Russian. Such is human nature: when a person moves away from his motherland, he begins longing to get closer to his own roots. […] I long to communicate with Russians, especially with people of my and the following generations. We have a lot in common which is not possible to explain or put in words (Dubinets 2016, 240).

The irony of this example is evident in the fact that these rather nationalistic views were expressed by a person who has never been a Russian citizen. Having achieved incredible success on the international professional arena, Bronfman still feels very “Russian” at heart. For him, as for many other emigrants, the Russian language-based culture is a link that connects them with their past.

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Bronfman’s identity was constructed as a Soviet-Jewish rather than a Russian identity. It was situated in the musical heritage shaped by Soviet cultural policies, when musicians from central Russian conservatories were sent to establish “national schools” based on local folklore in the non-Russian Soviet republics (including Uzbekistan where Bronfman was born and began studying music). Bronfman’s Jewish lineage allowed him to emigrate to Israel during the “Jewish” wave of emigration from the USSR in the 1970s. His belonging to the Russian music culture and, though indirectly, to the famous Russian pianistic school eased his acceptance as a musician on the international level (this is not to diminish his actual accomplishments, which are immense and well deserved). Having been a US citizen for a quarter of a century, Bronfman has become a supranational musician belonging to the entire world. Some of the diasporic composers are formally not Russian either because they represent different ethnicities or were born outside of present Russian borders. All of them, however, belong to the Russophone (or, for a universally accepted ease of statement, “Russian”) diaspora due to their use of the Russian language as lingua franca and their identification with Russian culture. When discussing the latter, I use the term “Russian” in a rather blurred old-fashioned way to designate both what is russkii by culture and language (which is much broader than solely Russian ethnicity) and rossiiskii by state (which also includes the wider, imperial, connotations). As Helge Blakkisrud noted in his essay on the latest iteration of the Russian national identity, “Russian culture – with all its multi-ethnic contributors – has provided the civic identity with a cultural depth” (Blakkisrud 2016, 270). Yet, Blakkisrud stipulates that “according to the Kremlin, the russkii identity should not be constrained by state borders; it represents a separate, unique civilisation (russkii mir). The new take on national […] opens up the boundaries for expansion to the Russian and Russified diaspora in the neighboring states” (Blakkisrud 2016, 271). The contemporary Russian cultural civilization is even broader and includes the Russophone diaspora in the far-abroad countries. However, listening to the music of the Russian émigré composers will not necessarily reveal their nationality, and I wish to challenge any essentialist understandings of Russian music and especially of its manifestation in the art of the émigré composers. Having attained prominence through their work that helped define their native state and its culture musically, and despite encountering both the initial difficulties inherent in emigration and the fact that their names were generally unknown in their

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new environments,1 most of the émigré composers eventually continued their musical endeavors. While struggling to gain artistic recognition and economic independence outside of the familiar frameworks of their native country, many of them have learned to commodify their identities because of practical calculations, in order to obtain certain advantages or benefits. Many have found personal and professional satisfaction in a diasporic incarnation that untethered their creativity and allowed them to reinvent themselves in order to reach new audiences. Their uneasy relationships with their original and adopted cultures influenced, or continue to influence, their musical representations. Thus, their identities are not static and essential but, rather, fluid and contextually shaped.

Under the rubric of “Russian composers” The émigré composers strive to find their individual ways to expand their reach beyond the diasporic boundaries and to break away from the confines of emigration. If émigré writers can continue writing in their native language (since diasporic communities will always supply a sufficient number of hungry readers and the not very taxing assistance needed to organise publication and distribution of the literary works), the composers must exploit, invent or modify extensive infrastructures to bring their music to public performances. This is crucial because, aside from a printing mechanism, composers need interpreters (i.e. performers, and often a substantial number of them when it comes to operas and symphonies), presenting partners and venues in which to have their music performed, and an entire recording industry to have it preserved for posterity. They have to self-create a discourse combining elements of belonging to the larger world with a highly individualized approach, often by means of including references to their original cultural background. Combining the local and the global and inscribing the national into the context of the universal, the works of Russian émigré composers receive cultural meaning and gain contextual symbolism based on individual models and social conventions. As Walter Santagata acutely summarised, “culture is a major component of social quality, primarily because its production and consumption favors the development of the social fabric in terms of tighter community cohesion, better quality human relations, feelings of trust, willingness to 1

Among exceptions to this rule are such prominent older émigré composers as Alfred Schnittke, Sofia Gubaidulina, Arvo Pärt and Giya Kancheli who left their native countries when they were already well known in the West.

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co-operate, and a stronger sense of identity” (Santagata 2010, 38). Specific behaviours are shaped within particular cultural (rather than nationalistic) contexts that create an emotional space for perceptions and memories, as recent research in cultural psychology has shown (Brewer and Yuki 2013). Such cultural contexts can stipulate certain outcomes depending on how composers chose to reflect or reject elements of ethnic or national attachment. It is their affiliation with Russian culture, as opposed to the often irrelevant fact of their formal belonging to a certain state, that distinguishes composers as they express themselves. Abjuring one’s commitment to the motherland does not necessarily mean breaking with one’s cultural roots. Many of the émigré composers continue to value and preserve their cultural origins, now divorcing them from the originating geographical territories. It is revealing to observe that most Russian émigré composers, no longer required to nurture the nation-constituting loyalties and ideologies or confined by emigration and travel restrictions, tend to remain tied artistically to their country of origin and to long for its cultural values, while at the same time building new civic attachments in the globalised world. They still come under the rubric of “Russian composers” even if they are able to find cause to reinvent themselves and reach new and wider audiences. For instance, Victor Kissine elaborated on his own experience: One might have expected a [creative] slump or stress from emigration, but it didn’t happen that way. In spite of all the difficulties associated with these new circumstances, from the very first day I began working, and with a productivity I hadn’t expected. From the standpoint of my method, stylistic changes are obvious, and they are deep ones. This isn’t the same thing, though, as the internal aesthetic axis, which for me is the foundation of my style – this has remained unchanged, I believe. […] I think that in the end I have continued to be a Russian composer who was brought up under the influence of Russian music. (Dubinets 2016, 110)

For many composers, the task of forming their creative identity after emigration becomes a kind of artistic mission in its own right, one even larger than the problem of shaping a style. In her study about theatre in exile, Yana Meerzon noted that, in their existential need for public significance, “the artists find it necessary to adapt their original poetic, dramatic or performative language of expression to the needs and the tastes of their new audiences” (Meerzon 2012, 11). Composers, too, target their works at a specific market of potential listeners and donors. Their creative output becomes defined by a constant self-referential reconciliation of their

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past and their present, which is impregnated with the unresolvable tension between their idiosyncratic history and their appeal to a worldwide audience. These composers translate their quotidian conditions filtered through their imaginations into the self-fashioned sound worlds often grounded in nothing less than their original ethnic cultural roots. The composers bring the Russian culture to the West and continue to nurture it in their new habitats, while their political and ideological identification with Russia withers and vanishes. At the present time, when the diaspora’s mission of opposing Soviet Russia and preserving old Russia’s values has become irrelevant, diasporans enjoy whatever comes with their cultural background that brings them the pleasure of consumption or business benefits. For many of them, affiliation with Russian culture provides legitimacy both within Russia and abroad that can be leveraged for success. The reverse side of this, however, reveals that it is specifically such affiliation with Russia that some artists might want to avoid, either for political or practical reasons. Some develop identity ambiguity as a result of what might be called a double spin-off. Others long for emotional attachment with Russian culture yet worry that their individuality might disappear if they embrace its communal rules and rites. Some forge ethnic nodes sincerely, out of love and passion for Russian culture; others pragmatically strive to accommodate the specific market of their potential listeners and donors. As composer Anton Batagov astutely noted, “we try to ‘be ourselves,’ that is to be a Russian who offers as a product to the market his Russianness, irrationality and other qualities that don’t exist in the West but are in demand there if they are packaged correctly.”2

Hyphenated identities Émigré composers have to learn how to inhabit the local and the global space simultaneously, in times when previously strong alliances based on territory, religion or social class are becoming weaker. No longer constrained by geographical boundaries and dispersed across the globe, members of diasporic societies are now connected with their native lands, their new homelands and the entire world through the globalised 2

Dubinets 2016, 275. It is important to note that sometimes composers package and promote other, non-ethnic-components such as certain compositional techniques or religious beliefs, as in the case of Batagov himself and his older colleague Alexander Rabinovitch-Barakovsky, both of whom have been included in certain music communities thanks to their minimalistic style and Buddhist approach.

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infrastructure, creating along the way new consortiums, social fields and meanings. The way diasporic identities have been formed in the past twenty years has been completely restructured by the newest developments in digital communication and information technologies. Digital connectivity has enabled people to venture beyond face-to-face relationships and reliance on state-circulated media into an even more egalitarian society. Such technologies have transformed music distribution and consumption practices and made music more accessible and portable. User generated features and contents have revolutionised the very business model of culture and the old distinction between consumption and production. Composers who maintain an online presence can now publicise their own works and achievements and be heard by broad communities both in their native country and elsewhere. For émigré composers, the ability to upload recordings of their music onto the internet, to self-publish (as Dmitri Smirnov and Elena Firsova, who organised their own publishing house, Meladina Press, have done3) and to send their scores electronically to any orchestra in the world has created unprecedented opportunities both for employment and for the satisfaction of being heard and appreciated. Ultimately, the emigrants are now generally able to utilise their humansocial capital to their advantage and to control to what degree they need to assimilate. Even the concept of assimilation in a host country has become contested as “an ethnocentric and patronizing imposition on minority peoples struggling to retain their cultural and ethnic integrity” (Alba and Nee 2003, 1). Diasporic settlements assume an intellectual and often political importance specifically due to their initial rootedness and kinship with another part of the world and the celebration of the characteristic values and mores previously cultivated in their native country. Although established in a new territory, on a daily basis émigrés often continue to operate within the framework of the cultural rites and civic routines of their motherland’s recent past, which have travelled with them in their minds and imaginations to the new place. They manifest their Russianness through their lifestyles, social communications, and artworks, broaching new discussions on the fundamental issues of territory and nation in the post-Soviet space. Even those who have successfully integrated into a “foreign” situation often remain “ethnical separatists” (Remennick 2009, 221) and continue segmenting their lives between exercising their old culture at home and 3

Firsova is also published by Boosey & Hawkes, London; Hans Sikorski, Hamburg and G. Schirmer, New York.

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utilizing their newly acquired skills in professional and formal circles. Larissa Remennick suggests the term “adhesive acculturation” (Remennick 2009, 221) for this type of integration in which adaptive behavioural layers (language, skills, appearance) overlay the “immutable primal traits.” Such integration creates a sense of conscious empathy with members of the same ethnic community as they share a specific spectrum of symbols for collective representation and quotidian realities of communication and reciprocity. They refer to their joint mythical past in search of a positive heritage, often claiming, with an air of self-congratulation, to be inheritors of a “more advanced” cultural legacy. Nevertheless, despite this perceived unity and increased consciousness of cultural homogeneity among diasporans, the notion of “immutable primal traits” rooted in a person’s native culture contradicts the real state of affairs. Identity, and especially cultural identity, is never static but is constantly constructed and reconstructed in response to the contingencies of real life (Laruelle 2009, 4). As Stuart Hall pointed out, cultural identity is a matter of “becoming” as well as of “being.” It belongs to the future as much as to the past. It is not something which already exists, transcending place, time, history and culture. Cultural identities come from somewhere, have histories. But, like everything which is historical, they undergo constant transformation. Far from being eternally fixed in some essentialized past, they are subject to the continuous “play” of history, culture, and power. (Hall 2005, 236)

Thus, when exploring issues of composers’ identities and their efforts to self-transform in new circumstances, it’s important to remember that we must not conflate the composers with a concept of their nation or ethnicity, or even of place and time. Their identities cannot be historicised as they are not set in stone in any given period; they keep evolving and embracing multiple characteristics. Within each nation or ethnicity (that is, within political, social, cultural and psychological boundaries) there are often fluid processes that can both divide and unite people of different origin, natives and emigrants alike, as they share networks and infrastructures. Often, at the intersection of broader existential and aesthetic experiences, a so-called hyphenated – or, in the words of Edward Said, “contrapuntal” (Said 2000, 186) – self-awareness, or interethnic imagination, emerges. Émigré composers might keep alternating elements of their identities as they express themselves in the new circumstances, and their identities get enriched in the process. Composer Boris Filanovsky (b. 1968) calls this phenomenon a “flickering identity.” Despite leaving Russia only a few years ago (in

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2012), he has already lived in two new countries. He reflects upon his experiences in a rather indicative way: More than 40 years I stayed in one place, in my native city, and suddenly I left it, and then left the new country. I became twice foreign. I feel myself like a balloon that is trying not to deflate. I felt like a Jew in the Russian sphere. When I left for Israel, I felt like a European there. Upon arriving in Germany I found myself a carrier of the Russian culture, but with an Israeli passport.4 […] I feel myself at home here in Germany from the standpoint of self-identification as a musician. This is my culture. Thus, I have a triple flickering identification that depends on where I am. And this is hardly surprising and quite habitual. In Russia I had one and a half identity: you are a Russian speaker but you feel like a Jew. After my departure my identity began to double and to triple. (Dubinets 2016, 230)

The term “flickering identity” is used by Filanovsky not only in relation to his cultural place in the society, but also in regard to the music that he began writing in emigration. In his 2013 piece play.list, “flickering identity” signifies the degree to which the composer’s own creative personality is expressed differently in each movement. Filanovsky explains in the commentary to the piece: The best prospects for the future of music lie perhaps not with the composer but with the listener. Listeners build themselves contexts that would occur to no composer, and they are rarely deliberate about it. I tried to approach my material the way a listener approaches a playlist. Listeners want variety. Composers, who strive to be themselves and no one else, do not. My work reflects upon the desire of the listener: hence its formal properties. It consists of eleven parts of four different types, each placing what is properly mine and what isn’t into a special network of relations. […] The result is a composition of flickering identity. (Dubinets 2016, 232)

The form-shaping solution that Filanovsky established for expressing a “flickering identity” is not poly-stylistics or crossover. He decided to split the elements of his music language into multiple layers which would function independently: metric structure as a “time code”; melody without syntax; syntax without melody; chords only as connectors between different musical materials, acting only as switches, without actual music. These elements obtain new qualities as they develop and gradually become one another. 4

Filanovsky has also retained his Russian citizenship.

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The most interesting puzzle of the cycle is the Endless Melody (movement 10). While Filanovsky typically avoids using any recognizable material, this movement entirely consists of tiny quotations shuffled in an arbitrary order, like in a real playlist. These disparate quotations do not organize a cohesive whole. The flickering identity doesn’t let the overall form be a summation of its parts. Each element is manifested individually and alternates with the others randomly. If we understand “flickering” as taking certain segments out of consecutive history and selecting certain identities from the multitude of possible options, it becomes clear why Filanovsky enjoys the anti-teleological idea of a playlist which doesn’t allow predictions of meaningful purposive movement. As if to mirror the unpredictability of the quotation order in Filanovsky’s piece, some émigré composers activate elements of their multiple identities and adjust the principles of their music creation depending on their latest situations. Here is where the question of one’s ethnicity versus one’s cultural belonging often comes into play (and let us remember that these allegiances are entirely separate from the national belonging). Many ethnically Jewish composers who have left the Soviet Union since the 1970s had a very strong Soviet/Russian identification. For some of them Russianness became no less important abroad than the Jewishness which enabled their emigration; others decided to play out their Jewish card. How did they choose? In most cases, their decision was influenced by the considerations related to the benefits allocated for a certain ethnicity.

Commodified identities Artistic success may be measured in terms of its aesthetic, ethical, social, spiritual or educational importance, and it can also be viewed in purely commercial terms. The correlations between popularity and artistic cohesion can be traced through the public vote in the forms of ticket and record purchases; audience and music critic reception; awards received; and sponsorship requests granted. Some more savvy composers use such metrics to their advantage, identifying and capturing opportunities to secure larger audiences and additional funding. This often influences their trajectories, with new music becoming a commercial product competing in a marketplace. The marketing scholars Michela Addis and Morris B. Holbrook asked when describing the work of the composers, “should they pursue their own ideals of artistic integrity as a pure creative expression of their most profound thoughts and deepest feelings, or should they instead try to please their targeted markets in order to gain popular acceptance and

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commercial success?” (Addis and Holbrook 2010, 141). Or, perhaps, is there a path to be followed that might lead jointly to each of these types of success? An ability to utilise ethnic belonging to one’s advantage can play out in curious ways when a person can choose from various areas of inclusion. Tara Zahra’s illuminating essay on “national indifference” includes an interesting example from the history of the Bohemian lands, where “nationalist competition engendered a virtual bidding war for the souls of children. Both Czech and German schools and welfare institutions offered parents free lunches, textbooks, clothing, and even Christmas gifts to attract higher enrolments and expand the ranks of the nation. It is hardly surprising that when questioned about his national loyalties in 1948, one bilingual factory worker frankly replied, ‘It is a matter of who is giving more’” (Zahra 2010, 100). In a similarly opportunistic fashion, many Russian-speaking Jews, who can identify both as Russians and Jewish, routinely chose to prefer one of these ethnicities depending on the benefits for which they would be eligible. Finding themselves in Israel, they would habitually self-identify as Russians because they could not compete with the native Israelis on the ground of ethnic legitimacy, but would be visible both politically and socially as Russians. On the other hand, in New York, Russian identity would not be much of an advantage, but in partnership with the American Jews, Russian-speaking Jews could become members of a respected and economically powerful community and even have political influence. As David D. Laitin noted, what this perspective underlines is that diasporas do not necessarily emphasize the most cherished elements in their identity repertoires; rather, after “counting comrades” – potential allies – they choose that aspect of their identities that allows them to maximize electoral influence. (Laitin 2004, 6)

Composers are in the same boat: more often than not they intentionally professionalise their ethnic identity through music. It is often possible to parse their behaviour, as these artists change their loyalties upon emigrating, drawing on dormant elements of their multiethnic identities in an effort to become more eligible for the advantages offered by their adoptive communities. They make a rational choice, which involves a cost-benefit analysis, to play out the pragmatic, market-driven commodification of ethnicity and conversely its rejection, each for the purpose of welfaremaximising expediency. As Richard A. Peterson noted, to obtain the attention of the so-called gatekeepers – that is those who would accept or

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reject their works to the music market, – “in periods when aesthetic standards become so tolerant of diversity that it is difficult for newcomers to produce works that are aesthetically provocative, they may try to gain notice by challenging political or moral sensibilities” (Peterson 1994, 172). For example, before leaving the USSR in 1979, St Petersburg composer David Finko created, among other works, the symphonic poem Ɋɭɫɶ, [Russia] 1974) and the opera ɗɬɚ ɩɟɫɧɹ [This Song], (1970) based on a patriotic story by the hard-core Boris Polevoy which featured a Russian folk song ɑɟɪɧɵɣ ɜɨɪɨɧ [Black Raven].. After he arrived in the United States, not only his compositions but even their titles began to sound Jewish: for instance, soon upon emigration he renamed his early symphonic work from the Soviet period, originally titled Ƚɟɪɨɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɛɚɥɥɚɞɚ [A Heroic Ballad] (1965), as Holocaust: Ghetto Uprising. With this gesture, Finko clearly activated the emotional manipulation that James Loeffler puts at the centre of the entire “Holocaust music” idea. Loeffler noted that artists and audiences who engage in this endeavor may think they are honoring the past and grappling with hard truths. But in reality they are indulging in a form of psychological play-acting. They imagine the music to contain a pre-set, generic Holocaust message that can be activated through performance and listening. (Loeffler 2013)

As well as, we should add, through consciously embracing the respective subject matters. Composer Louis Andriessen expressed his disgust with the way many of his colleagues utilised the tragic Anne Frank story to their advantage: I don’t trust those composers who tackled this subject in the 1960-70s when this book was very popular. They justified it by saying that this subject touches everyone because everyone feels guilty about Holocaust. […] But the thing is that a “cantata about Anne Frank” would guarantee full house; and if even one short Jewish melody is included into it the success would be secured entirely. But this is not the best reason to take up a new work. (Ovchinnikov 2013)

Finko seemed to have thought otherwise. Not only did he author a liturgical work for Sabbath Eve Service, Hear, O Israel (1986), he also wrote a tone poem The Wailing Wall (1983) and several operas on Jewish topics: The Klezmers (1989), The Kabbalists (1990), The Enchanted Tailor (unfinished) and Abraham and Hanna (1992). Finko proclaimed that he had been deprived of the possibility to write anything related to his

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ethnicity while living in the USSR and now wanted to create “Jewish music based on the Jewish melodic elements and on the mentality of the Jews. ... I dreamt of doing for Jewish music what Glinka did for Russian music” (Leytes 2003, 256). It is fully understandable why Finko, having left the country where celebrating his ethnicity had been unwelcome and even subject to prosecution, would want to compensate for his negative memories (which included the killing of his grandparents by the Nazis) by dedicating his art to his ethnic identity. But would he have striven to do the same if he had ended up living not in a wealthy Jewish community in Philadelphia but rather in a different ethnic setting?

New identities Some émigré composers go even further and try not only to choose from their existing traits but also to obtain new loyalties. The most dramatic transformation of all happened to another composer of Russian Jewish descent from an earlier generation, Aaron Avshalomov (1894-1964). Avshalomov was the only son of a Juhuru (Caucasian Mountain Jew) whose parents had been expelled to the Russian Far East in the 1870s. As a child, he was sent to study Hebrew at the local synagogue school. In 1913, when Aaron was studying medicine in Zurich at the insistence of his father but beginning to realise that he wanted to dedicate his life to music, he learnt that the Society for Jewish Folk Music in St Petersburg organised a competition to identify a composer for the “best Jewish opera,” and he decided to apply. In his cover letter Avshalomov apologized for the “poor Jewish” quality of his overture entitled Esther that he submitted to the competition but indicated that his true wish was to become a Jewish composer: “I want very much to familiarize myself with the form of Jewish melody. […] My soul sings with Jewish melodies. I hear so many songs – but I just cannot manage to capture them on paper” (Loeffler 2010, 157). Having soon returned to his parents in Siberia, Avshalomov left Russia again after the 1917 revolution, spent some brief time in the USA where he got married to an American woman and then in 1918 brought his young family to China where he lived until 1947. He decided to become the first composer to combine musical elements of traditional Chinese culture with Western classical music techniques and dedicated the rest of his creative life to glorifying the Chinese history in music. He wrote in the 1930s: Chinese music should not remain an antiquarian object: it ought to be developed. Into the texture of old melodic patterns there should be woven

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Why did Avshalomov abandon his Jewish inclinations so radically? One likely explanation for this is that there was no audience for Jewish music in China and he was hoping to develop a new identity to accommodate the market. Composer Mark Kopytman followed an opposite trajectory, establishing a non-Jewish self-representation early on and then moving on to become an important Jewish composer. He was born in 1929 in Ukraine and studied medicine and music in Lviv. After graduating from the Moscow Tchaikovsky Conservatory he worked at the conservatories in the Soviet republics of Kazakhstan and Moldova. In 1972 he emigrated to Israel and became one of the most successful Israeli composers, having received an important academic position as Professor of Composition, then Dean and later the Deputy Head of the Rubin Academy of Music and Dance in Jerusalem where he served until his death in 2011. In each place where he lived, he studied local folklore and incorporated it into his music. He told me the following: My path to folklore was merely intuitive because in my Conservatory years I was far from folk music. My first meeting with it happened in Kazakhstan, where I moved in 1958. … I, of course, wanted to get acquainted with Kazakh folklore and did many choral adaptations of the folk songs and a lot of didactic pieces for different instruments. Already half a year later listeners noted that I had managed to find the right approach to the interpretation and development of Kazakh music. When I went to Moldova, I started doing adaptations of Moldovan music. But there something else happened. Moldova itself, as it is well known, is situated at the crossroads of cultures, and its music has been influenced by the Rumanian, Ukrainian (after all, I was born in Ukraine), Jewish, Hungarian, and other traditions. This folklore turned out to be very close to me. (Dubinets 2016, 50)

The exploration of the cultural crossroads that Kopytman observed in Moldova brought him to discovering the Yiddish culture that he hadn’t known before: Before arriving in Israel I had not even known Israeli music at all! By my education and upbringing I am a typical Russian intellectual. I had no clear idea about Jewish culture except the holidays in my family with very tasty dishes. I started to develop a deeper interest in Jewish culture right before my departure. (Dubinets 2016, 50-51)

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But the Jewish culture Kopytman decided to explore upon arriving in Israel turned out to be far removed from the Yiddish-inflected crossroads he began feeling close to in Moldova. Long before Kopytman’s arrival in Israel the Yiddishkeit of the Ashkenazi Jews from Eastern Europe had become marginalised there in favor of the more ancient forms of Jewishness. This process was part of the search for Israeli’s new identity that would be independent from the humiliating experiences of Holocaust. Sensitive to this, in the hope of culturally integrating with his new country, Kopytman started looking for another kind of Jewishness and yet another kind of folklore that would bring his newly understood idea of Israeliness to life. He turned to some of the oldest Jewish poetry, including the Aramaic texts dating back to the 2nd-4th centuries in his work Letters of Creation (1988) and the texts by Abraham Abulafia from the 13th century in his chamber opera about the tragic fate of a medieval Jewish minnesinger Susskind von Trimberg and in the vocal works Rotations (1979) and Circles (1986). Kopytman also studied the folklore of one of the oldest communities – the Yemenite one. The most well-known of Kopytman’s pieces, Memory (1981) for orchestra, for which he was awarded the Koussevitzky International Recording Award, includes a beautiful Yemenite folk song that is intended to be performed by a Yemenite folk singer. Even though this song was added after the piece had been mostly finished, it appears to be no less organically integrated with the composer’s style than the sound of the piece is with the idea of Israeliness. Would Kopytman have developed his Jewish identity had he stayed in Ukraine, Kazakhstan or Moldova? Most certainly not. Perhaps he would have become a Moldovan or Kazakh composer the same way Avshalomov became a Chinese composer. It is worth mentioning that, similarly to Finko, Kopytman did not avoid the practice of renaming his old works for the sake of achieving new goals of national belonging. He orchestrated his old string quartet and gave it a new Jewish-sounding title: As far back as 1966 I wrote the Second String Quartet in memory of my father. And in 1981, when I had a great deal of work (I wrote my second opera and Memory), I received a commission from the Great Synagogue in Jerusalem to write a piece for its inauguration. For me it was a huge honour: I was not born in Israel, but Israel was my home and I was proud to have such a commission. However, I had no time to work. My wife gave me some advice: “Take your Second Quartet and rearrange it as an orchestra piece.” I was opposed to that idea at first, but in the end I did it. I added several bars, emphasised the cello part, and changed the texture a little. This composition – Kaddish – received a second life; it has been performed extensively in different countries. And every review says that this

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Which Place is Called a Musical Home? is a Jewish piece by a Jewish composer! But it was written long before my emigration, when I did not yet know Jewish music. (Dubinets 2016, 51).

How is it possible that the same piece could be attributed as an authentic work by a Ukrainian composer first and then by an Israeli composer? Kopytman himself quoted that “latent genetic processes” underscore his music, but, to amplify the effect, Kopytman chose to give the old piece a title – Kaddish – that would resonate with the circumstances of his new residency and commission.

Returning to the roots Another Russian-Jewish composer, Alexander Raskatov, who also has a composition titled Kaddish, has a complete command of multiple cultures and interchangeably switches between his Russian and Jewish music representations. Raskatov was born in Moscow in 1953, emigrated to Germany in 1994 and now lives in France. He openly recognises his hyphenated ethnic and cultural identity: I feel myself a Russian composer. As for my Jewish origin, some time ago I talked to [Armenian composer] Avet Terterian when we saw each other in the House of Creative Art. He tried to convince me by saying: “Don’t you understand, Sasha, that you are both this and that; you should feel only much richer.” Indeed, I consider my personal roots rather generous: if my reflexes and my type of reasoning come from my Jewish pedigree, my culture is still Russian. […] I hope that I have preserved my Russian musical approach, but I am not repudiating other roots and, quite the opposite, I am trying to cultivate them to a certain extent. (Dubinets 2016, 180).

Let us note that in the above quote Raskatov only mentions the allegiances inherited by birth or from the cultural situation in his native country. However, his self-identification after emigration must include influences obtained in his secondary and tertiary host countries, first Germany and then France, plus certain other worldwide references disseminated by globalisation. In 2012-13, while living near Paris, Raskatov wrote a piano concerto for the Japanese pianist Tomoko Mukayiama, co-commissioned by the Seattle Symphony (USA) and the Residentie Orkest (The Netherlands). This concerto may seem “international” for most of the piece, but at its final climax it suddenly and inescapably becomes very Russian. The idea of the concerto came to the composer during an evening visit to a butterfly greenhouse somewhere in Western Europe where he saw hundreds of

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beautiful wood-nymphs flying around him. Enchanted, he decided to write short pieces about some of them. Twelve different butterflies, each with its own behaviour, colour, size and flight pattern, inspired twelve brief movements that were combined into a cycle of miniatures similar to Schumann’s Papillons or Prokofiev’s Visions fugitives. It’s a kaleidoscopic display of the colourful single images that never get formally developed, and there are no transitions between them. The elusive and fleeting butterflies of the first Chopinesque movement yield in the second to a dark and heavy brass chorale that supports the prowling piano steps of a ghostly apparition. The third study hovers in the realm of uncatchable staccato leaps. In the fourth, the growling phantom, seemingly from a haunted world, returns in the midst of a chromatically flowing river of piano figurations. The bell ringing, in turn, brings on a series of mysteriously crawling tritonic triplets shadowed by owl-like screeches. The fifth movement is a study on furiously repeated notes in the piano, violently interrupted by chromatic passages in double octaves. In the next piece, another set of images from an unknown and threatening fantasy world is represented by disparate and eerie chords and then by more bell ringing and sinister brass statements. The graciously hovering butterflies return in the following movement. An army of the big-winged creatures (supported by full orchestra clusters in fortissimo) collides in the eighth piece with a lonesome voice pleading in the very high register of the piano. An oriental place is featured in the ninth piece through pentatonic relationships; the brief 10th movement introduces quickly leaping and skipping piano chords. The recurrent bell strokes are interspersed in the 11th movement with a simple syncopated melody in the piano part that charms with an open-hearted sincerity. The austere but strong emotional break into the final movement of the piece presents the most impressive surprise: while playing the piano, the soloist begins to sing without words in an untrained voice, humming at first and then getting louder, but still without reinforcing the singing vocally or dramatically. Raskatov used here an old northern Russian folk song that he found in a collection called ɉɟɫɧɢ ɉɢɧɟɠɶɹ [Songs from Pinezhie] compiled by Evgeny Gippius and Zinaida Evald in 1937. After the first few original opening measures, Raskatov unveils the song in his own manner. It begins in the piano part and then continues in the voice, and suddenly audience members start to relate to it; people might even feel compelled to sing along. The composer originally wrote this song for the piano only, but then, on top of the slightly different realisation of the same melody simultaneously in both hands, he added a quasi-folk vocal part, thus recreating a multivoiced Russian heterophonic style.

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This unusual song, performed in an untrained voice at the end of a virtuoso concerto, conjures up an imagined association with a distant place (unknown land) and time (ancient) that resonates with the listeners even if they are not familiar with the authentic Russian folk music. For them, it triggers strong, though second-hand, reminiscences of an idealised past represented by the composer, even though this past was never experienced by the listeners in their own lives. Put in the concert ritual at a symphony hall, this relic world is devoid of the performance treatment that would be natural for this song in its original context of a Russian village. This altered world, however, still has the connotations of longing that help translate the composer’s knowledge and feelings about his native land into the emotional references for the Western audience members. Why did Raskatov decide to insert a Russian folk song into a concerto written for Western audiences? The composer explained: When I was 5-6 years old, my family spent the summer at a dacha near Moscow and once we went for a walk in a nearby forest. I still remember a forest clearing where I saw some powder-blue butterflies. […] More than fifty years later, when I was working on the piano concerto, I remembered those pale butterflies of my country, and this reminiscence took me to a very different forest. These butterflies began associating in my brain with severe northern nature – maybe because now I am located in Europe, south of Moscow. This memory gave me the idea to use music of the North that could reflect my sadness related to the loss of my childhood and my country. (Dubinets 2016, 193-194)

This nostalgic feeling was represented by a composer of Jewish origin from Russia living outside of its borders through an ancient folk song from a village he never visited. Cultural affiliation does not easily overlap with citizenship, place of residency, religious or ethnic identity. The originality and innovation that émigré composers exhibit not only while demonstrating their passions in their musical works, but also when skillfully bringing these creations to the market, are indicative of their expertise in pursuing successes through the socially shared elements of musical culture. Are these composers the cynical careerists looking for profits and benefits? It is hard to pretend that any shifts or perspectives, if they remain within the area of non-commercial classical music, can bring substantial profit to anyone, especially if the composers adhere to contemporary musical language in their works. Perhaps our composers simply want to outsmart their respective situations in order to keep doing what they have a calling for: writing music. Whatever status might be obtained or sacrificed in this process is only a tool; what matters is whether or not the results of these modifications make for good music.

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Bibliography Addis, M. and Holbrook, M. B. (2010): Dreaming of Artistic Excellence, Popularity, or Both? In: O’Reilly, D. and Kerrigan, F. (eds.): Marketing the Arts: A Fresh Approach, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 141-152. Alba, R. and Nee, V. (2003): Remaking the American mainstream: Assimilation and Contemporary Immigration, Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. Avshalomov, J. and Avshalomov, A. (2002): Avshalomovs’ Winding Way: Composers Out of China – A Chronicle, Philadelphia: Xlibris. Blakkisrud, H. (2016): Blurring the boundary between civic and ethnic: The Kremlin’s new approach to national identity under Putin’s third term. In: Kolstø, P. and Blakkisrud, H. (eds.): New Russian Nationalism: Imperialism, Ethnicity and Authoritarianism 2000-15, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, pp. 249-274. Brewer, M. B. and Yuki, M. (2013): Culture and group processes, New York: Oxford University Press. Dubinets, E. (2016): Ɇɨɰɚɪɬ ɨɬɟɱɟɫɬɜɚ ɧɟ ɜɵɛɢɪɚɟɬ: Ɉ ɦɭɡɵɤɟ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɇɭɡɢɡɞɚɬ. Hall, S. (2005): Cultural Identity and Diaspora. In: Braziel, J. E. and Mannur, A. (eds.): Theorizing Diaspora, Malden: Blackwell Publishing Ltd, pp. 233-246. Laitin D.D. (2004): The De-cosmopolitanization of the Russian Diaspora: A View from Brooklyn in the ‘Far Abroad.’ In: Diaspora: A Journal of Transnational Studies 13, No. 1, pp. 5-35. Laruelle, M. (2009): In the Name of the Nation: Nationalism and Politics in Contemporary Russia, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Leytes, R. (2003): ȼɞɨɯɧɨɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤ. Ɉ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɟ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɚ Ⱦɚɜɢɞɚ Ɏɢɧɤɨ. In: The Coast, pp. 256-257. Loeffler, J. (2010): The Most Musical Nation: Jews and Culture in the Late Russian Empire, New Haven: Yale University Press. —. (2013): Why the New ‘Holocaust Music’ Is an Insult to Music – and to Victims of the Shoah. In: Tablet Magazine, July 11. Available from: http://www.tabletmag.com/jewish-arts-andculture/music/137486/holocaust-music-victims?print=1 [Accessed 9 March 2017]. Meerzon, Y. (2012): Performing Exile, Performing Self: Drama, Theatre, Film, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Ovchinnikov, I. (2013): ə ɦɨɝ ɛɵ ɩɢɫɚɬɶ ɢ ɩɪɨɫɬɭɸ ɦɭɡɵɤɭ. ɂ ɩɨɩɩɟɫɧɢ. ɇɨ ɢɯ ɠɟ ɩɢɲɭɬ ɜɫɟ. In: ȼɨɥɧɚ, 18 ɧɨɹɛɪɹ. Available from:

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http://volna.afisha.ru/heroes/ya-mog-by-pisat-i-samuyu-prostuyumuzyku-i-poppesni-tozhe-no-ih-zhe-pishut-vse/ [Accessed 9 March 2017]. Peterson, R. A. (1994): Culture Studies through the Production Perspective: Progress and Prospects.” In: Crane, D. (ed.): The Sociology of Culture: Emerging Theoretical Perspectives, Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 191-220. Remennick, L. (2009): Former Soviet Jews in Their New/Old Homeland: Between Integration and Separation. In: Tsuda, T. (ed.): Diasporic Homecoming: Ethnic Return Migration in Comparative Perspective, Stanford: Stanford University Press, pp. 208-224. Said, E. (2000): Reflections on Exile and Other Essays, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Tangi, A. de (2012): Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ ɢ ɪɨɫɫɢɹɧɟ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɩɚɞɟɧɢɹ ɠɟɥɟɡɧɨɝɨ ɡɚɧɚɜɟɫɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɋɨɫɫɩɟɧ. Santagata, W. (2010): The Culture Factory: Creativity and the Production of Culture, Berlin, Heidelberg: Springer-Verlag. Zahra, T. (2010): Imagined Noncommunities: National Indifference as a Category of Analysis. In: Slavic Review 1, pp. 93-119.

ABSTRACTS

Lina Bernstein: The Great Little Lady of the Bombay Art World In 1922, the Russian artist Magda Nachman (1889–1951), student of Leon Bakst and Kuz’ma Petrov-Vodkin at the Zvanseva Art Academy, in St Petersburg, left Russia for Berlin, together with her husband, the Indian nationalist M.P.T. Acharya, whom she met and married in Moscow in 1921. By 1936, the couple were settled in Bombay, India, where Magda established herself as a successful artist among the city’s elite. This paper relates an episode from Magda’s life in Bombay – her exclusion from a London exhibition of Indian art due to her ethnicity. Art critics and cultural figures came to her defense, most prominent among them Homi Bhabha, the father of the Indian nuclear programme, who used Magda’s case to elucidate the question of who should be considered Indian at the dawn of Indian independence.

Matteo Bertelé—Between “Academicians” and “Dissidents”: Russian Emigré Artists in Italy during the Cold War The paper is devoted to the presence and fortune of Russian émigré artists living in the second half of the 20th century in Italy, the West-European country with the largest Communist Party. During the Cold war, aesthetic matters were intertwined with ideological and national issues, affecting the strategies of self-positioning adopted by the artists themselves as well as the critical reception of their works. Among Russian émigré artists residing in Italy, distinctions were made not only between emigrants of the first and second wave, but also between figurative and non-figurative artists. The study focuses on two eloquent cases: realist painter Gregorio Sciltian (1900-1985), and abstract and action painter Mikhail Koulakov (1933-2015).

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Wim Coudenys—Pushkin in the House of Mirrors: The 1937 Centennial Celebrations in Belgium and the Squared One-or-Two-Cultures Paradigm The centennial of A.S. Pushkin’s death in 1937 was met with pomp in both the Soviet Union and Russia Abroad. In Belgium, as in other countries, the contradictory representation of Russia’s national poet as signboard of former (tsarist) Russia, as well as a precursor of Soviet culture, caused considerable confusion. The Russian émigré community in Belgium boasted the presence of Nikolai A. Pushkin, the poet’s grandson, and had direct access to the conservative press. The Soviets, on the other hand, used the celebrations to lure sympathising intellectuals into believing that the iconoclast period in Russian culture now belonged to the past. The confusion was further enhanced by the specific Belgian situation, in which two literatures, Flemish (Dutch) and French, were existing next to each other. As both literatures were increasingly becoming autonomous and developing reception models of their own, this led to an even more confused image of Pushkin and Russian culture, émigré as well as Soviet. This article focuses on the attempts by both Soviets and émigrés to influence the ‘Belgian’ public, without being aware of the dynamics that were at play within the ‘Belgian’ literary system(s). As a result, these attempts misfired and further blurred the image of Pushkin in/and Russian culture. On a theoretical level, the article wants to present the concept of the squared one-or-two-cultures-paradigm, i.e. the idea that the issue of ‘one or two cultures’ is not restricted to the ‘sending’ side (émigrés & Soviets), but also applies to the ‘receiving’ end (in this case: Belgium).

Ben Dhooge—“Living Literature”: Revolution, Civil War, Modernity and Life in Exile This paper aims to shed light on how the Prague community of Russian émigré writers, Skit Poơtov or Skit, dealt with themes that were not quite popular among writers of the dominant older generation and their followers: the Revolution, the Civil War, life in exile, modern life in Europe, life after 1917. The paper zooms in on the concept of “living literature” as it was coined in the critical writings by two prominent members of Skit, Aleksandr Turintsev and Vjaþeslav Lebedev. Specific attention is paid to how the concept challenges the standards of the older generation, but the main emphasis of the article is on how the concept is put into practice by the poet-critics themselves and by their peers from Skit.

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Marina Dmitrieva—Toward a Transnational History of Russian Culture: N.P. Kondakov Institute in Prague The Kondakov Institute (Seminarium Kondakovianum), which was founded in 1925 in Prague by Russian exiled scholars, pupils of Nikodim Pavlovich Kondakov, who spent his last years in Prague, was a center for the study of the Byzantine and Russian art and of nomadic cultures. Thanks to the enthusiasm and dedication of its members and their thoughtful research and publication policy, as well as their broad personal contacts, this institution has gained an international reputation in scientific circles, which went far beyond the Russian emigrant community. Overcoming numerous difficulties, the Institute survived under different political regimes until 1952. Looking at the activities of the Kondakov Institute in the situation of the exile, the article argues that its goals, although oriented towards Kondakov's broad scientific interests, especially of the Prague period, largely followed the ideology and interests of the emigrant movement of Eurasianism, one of the centers of which was Prague. Following these lines, the Russian culture and the culture of Eastern Europe as a whole were considered not as autochthonous phenomena, but as a dynamic space of transnational contacts and cultural transfers.

Elena Dubinets—Which Place is Called a Musical Home? Hyphenated Identities of Russian Émigré Composers Composers who have left the former USSR represent that country’s typical mixture of ethnicities (Russian, Jewish or those from Soviet republics) and possess characteristics of the multi-ethnic imperial identity. Some of them have changed their countries of residence multiple times and, more recently, come back home for visits. Such border crossings, diasporic embodiments and homecomings inevitably reflect upon the composers’ creative identities, and often a hyphenated self-awareness emerges at the intersection of broader existential and aesthetic experiences. This article explores how the multiple moves of such Russian-Jewish composers as Aaron Avshalomov, David Finko, Mark Kopytman, Alexander Raskatov and Boris Filanovsky have influenced their self-identity and artistic mission.

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Dagmar Gramshammer-Hohl—“And on Its Circuits the Wind Returns”: Intertextuality in Russian Émigré Poetry on Homecoming In literature of exile, memories of lost homes and reflections on possible or impossible returns play crucial roles. This chapter investigates Russian émigré poetry on return from the perspective of intertextuality: it examines the various ways in which these texts refer to each other. In common imaginings of homecoming, the hero, like Odysseus or the prodigal son, usually retrieves the comfort of the secure and familiar. However, homecoming can also be represented as returning to a now-foreign land that essentially differs from that which one once was forced to leave. By providing analyses of selected poems of first-, second- and thirdwave emigration, this paper explores how Russian émigré literature subverts dominant models of representing belonging, longing, and return.

Ayúenur Güler—Tale of an Émigré Artist in Istanbul: The Impact of Alexis Gritchenko on the 1914 Generation of Turkish Artists The Ukrainian artist Alexis Gritchenko’s (1883-1977) memoirs Two Years in Constantinople, Diary of a Painter, published in Paris in 1930, give a detailed account of his interaction with local artists in 1920’s Istanbul. During his sojourn in Istanbul, Gritchenko befriended the Turkish artists øbrahim ÇallÕ (1882-1960) and NamÕk øsmail (1892-1935) who were the foremost members of the group of artists known as the 1914 Generation. In the 1920s, Gritchenko’s talent and progressive ideas on art impacted øbrahim ÇallÕ stylistically, whereas NamÕk øsmail was influenced conceptually. The rest of the 1914 Generation artists remained sceptical of Gritchenko’s views. ÇallÕ’s series of paintings known as the Whirling Dervishes and Petition Writer Series (due to their subjects) are heavily influenced by Gritchenko’s art. These paintings, dating from 1920, are a turning point in ÇallÕ’s artistic development. When compared to the work of other painters of the 1914 Generation, it can easily be seen that the series were a breakthrough in the artistic life of the nation. Even though Gritchenko’s influence on NamÕk øsmail’s art is not as visible as it is in ÇallÕ’s we know that NamÕk øsmail travelled to Italy in 1921 from Gritchenko’s memoirs, after being encouraged by Gritchenko’s and his accounts of his experience there.

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NamÕk øsmail was to write an article discussing Gritchenko’s art and works a while after Gritchenko’s departure from Istanbul. Gritchenko brought a fresh perspective to occupied Istanbul and, for the first time, an element of 20th century modernism was introduced into the Turkish art scene.

Bettina Jungen—The Genesis of the Thomas Whitney Russian Art Collection Thomas Porter Whitney (1917-2007) was a US diplomat, a journalist, a translator, a Russophile, and a collector of Russian art, journals, archives, and rare books. In the 1970s and ’80s he assembled a collection of over 650 artworks – icons, paintings, works on paper, and sculptures – which represent leading as well as less prominent modernist and nonconformist artists. His collecting coincided with the increased availability of Russian avant-garde art in the West. Whitney acquired the majority of his works at auction and from dealers, artists, and friends. Many works came out of émigré households and several purchases were facilitated by émigré poet Alexis Rannit, Whitney’s friend and adviser. The collector’s goal was to build a collection that, in its breadth and depth, would serve as a memorial to the Russian intelligentsia.

Olga Keller—Ilya Kabakov: A Representative Émigré Artist and the International (Émigré) Art Discourse Ilya Kabakov’s established position in today’s global art world and his image have been formulated by Western critics and Russian émigré experts, whose theoretical work is constantly extended and complemented by current research. A decade after his emigration from Moscow in the1980s, Kabakov has become an integral part of Western art historical narrative, a prototype and epitome of Russian contemporary art. Diametrically opposed to that typicization, in Russia he is primarily accepted as an exception, as one of the few Russian émigré artists in the West who has succeeded to have a career. Aiming to discuss Kabakov’s representative status, this contribution focuses on relevant aspects of his aesthetic strategies, his self-conception as emigrant, and on problems of intellectual discourse.

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Marina Lupishko—On the "Melodic Quality" of Tsvetaeva’s Lyric Verse: Hommage à Marina Tsvetayeva by Sofia Gubaidulina (1984) The author examines the notion of the “melodic quality” of Marina Tsvetaeva’s lyric verse (Bely 1922, Eikhenbaum 1922, Khodasevich 1923, Bakhrakh 1923, Pasternak 1926), using the quantative approach of the Russian school of metrics (Bely 1910, Zhirmunsky 1925, Gasparov 1984, Bailey 1972, 2004). This “melodic quality” is seen as a result of a particular rhythmic and metric complexity of Tsvetaeva’s logaoedic metres, found in Tsvetaeva’s mature lyric verse (1916-1923) and singled out as a sub-class by G.S. Smith (Smith 1975, 1978, 1980). The analysis of the musical treatment of logaoedic verses in settings I and III of Sofia Gubaidulina’s vocal cycle Hommage à Marina Tsvetayeva for SATB chorus a cappella (1984), as well as in settings II and VI of Dmitry Shostakovich’s cycle Six Poems of Marina Tsvetaeva for contralto and piano (1973), confirms the metric analyses proposed in Smith 1975 and Smith 1980. In both cases the composers choose the metric version that corresponds in the best possible way to Tsvetaeva’s signs of metric articulation and possibly also to her own internal hearing of the verse.

Simo Mikkonen—Shanghai Russians – negotiating cultural heritage in a Far East metropolis This article focuses on Russian emigration to Shanghai, China, after the revolutions of 1917. Russian influx to Shanghai took place at the time, when this former colonial city was becoming one of the leading metropolises in the world. The city was in semi-colonial state, the city centre controlled by Europeans, and outskirts by the Chinese majority. However, unlike other nationalities with European origins in Shanghai, Russians were mostly poor, influencing their status. Nevertheless, Russian colony became highly influential for both Shanghai and China in many areas. Especially the booming artistic scene of Shanghai was almost single-handedly dominated by Russians. Furthermore, when later taken over by the Chinese, many of them were educated by Russians. This article goes through early phases of Russian emigration to China, its composition and attempts to preserve their Russianness in a global metropolis.

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Rebecca Mitchell—Leonid Sabaneev’s Apocalypse and Musical Metaphysics after 1917 Drawing upon the tools of Reinhart Koselleck’s conceptual history (Begriffsgeschichte), this article explores the post-1917 activity of music critic and composer Leonid Sabaneev as a case study through which to examine how, both in the new Soviet state and within the Russian émigré community, music’s symbolic importance continued to be interpreted within intellectual categories developed prior to 1917. While the framework within which Sabaneev conceptualised the role of music remained surprisingly consistent both before and after the revolution, gradual disillusion with the ultimate triumph of human progress – and modernity itself – led Sabaneev to embrace a subjective temporality of an idealised past associated with the lost world of late imperial Russia.

Vita Susak—Alexis Gritchenko’s Two Years in Constantinople, or Tsvetodynamos in Istanbul Istanbul was a short transit point for most émigrés from the Russian Empire after the revolution of 1917. They dreamed of getting to Western Europe, having no means or possibilities for creative work in Istanbul. This common story is not the case for Alexis Gritchenko (1883-1977) – an Ukrainian artist, one of the participants of the avant-garde movement in Moscow in the 1910s, he left Russia in 1919 and spent almost two years in Constantinople (1919-1921). The cultural heritage (Byzantine and Ottoman monuments, mosques, Persian miniatures) and the flamboyant life of the Turkish capital had a deep influence on his works that can be observed in Gritchenko’s cityscapes, genre scenes, “faceless” portraits and images of Turkish women. The Constantinople period is considered one of the most original in the artist’s work.

Olga Velitchkina—Facing Russia: Russian Cabaret Culture in the Post-War Period This chapter proposes to look at the Russian Parisian post-war cabaret culture from the point of view of migration studies, emphasising the sociocultural context and meaning of musical performances taking place in exile. The post-war period is chosen because it occupies a special place in the history of Russian emigration. The people involved in the Russian cultural life of this time were mostly from the second generation of emi-

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grants, born outside of the country from Russian parents or mixed families, and raised in the spirit of Russian culture. The case study examines how the cabaret artists represented and imagined themselves through music; how they constructed their identity and how they saw their position between their adoptive and “home” culture. Music reveals the construction of a complex and multi-layered cultural identity comprising, in different proportions, Orthodox Church singing, Russian and Russian-Gypsy prerevolutionary entertainment music, Russian folk music and partly also Soviet music, both from official and subversive strata. By encompassing and mixing all these musical styles, the emigrant musicians were overcoming political and ideological borders crossing Russian cultural space that in the long term helped to its reunion.

Svetlana Zvereva—Russian Sacred Music beyond the Frontiers of the USSR between the 1920s and the 1940s: Affirming Traditions, Seeking New Forms After the revolution sacred music in Russia became a marginal species of art supported only by representatives of the ‘internal’ emigration. In the external emigration at the same time this art not only continued developing but also acquired special significance as a means of manifesting and preserving national identity. The article discusses sacred-music life in the USSR and the Russian diasporas in Germany, France, the USA and other countries in the 20s and 30s as well as the territories of the USSR occupied by the Third Reich in the 1940s. The development of sacred music is shown as a single interconnected process, taking on particular characteristics depending on the historical and political context.

Ʌɢɧɚ Ȼɟɪɧɲɬɟɣɧ—ȼɟɥɢɤɚɹ ɦɚɥɟɧɶɤɚɹ ɥɟɞɢ ɚɪɬɢɫɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɦɢɪɚ Ȼɨɦɛɟɹ ȼ 1922 ɝɨɞɭ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɰɚ Ɇɚɝɞɚ ɇɚɯɦɚɧ, ɫɬɭɞɟɧɬɤɚ Ʌɶɜɚ Ȼɚɤɫɬɚ ɢ Ʉɭɡɶɦɵ ɉɟɬɪɨɜɚ-ȼɨɞɤɢɧɚ, ɩɨɤɢɧɭɥɚ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ ɢ ɜɦɟɫɬɟ ɫɨ ɫɜɨɢɦ ɦɭɠɟɦ, ɢɧɞɢɣɫɤɢɦ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɢɫɬɨɦ Ɇ.ɉ.Ɍ. Ⱥɱɚɪɢɹ, ɡɚ ɤɨɬɨɪɨɝɨ ɨɧɚ ɜɵɲɥɚ ɡɚɦɭɠ ɜ Ɇɨɫɤɜɟ ɜ 1921, ɩɨɫɟɥɢɥɚɫɶ ɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɟ. ȼ 1936 ɫɭɩɪɭɝɢ ɩɟɪɟɟɯɚɥɢ ɜ ɂɧɞɢɸ ɢ ɨɛɨɫɧɨɜɚɥɢɫɶ ɜ Ȼɨɦɛɟɟ, ɝɞɟ ɇɚɯɦɚɧ ɫɬɚɥɚ ɢɡɜɟɫɬɧɨɣ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɰɟɣ. Ⱦɚɧɧɚɹ ɫɬɚɬɶɹ ɩɨɜɟɫɬɜɭɟɬ ɨɛ ɨɞɧɨɦ ɷɩɢɡɨɞɟ ɢɡ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɇɚɯɦɚɧ ɜ Ȼɨɦɛɟɟ: ɜ 1947, ɢɡ-ɡɚ ɟɜɪɨɩɟɣɫɤɨɝɨ ɩɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɹ

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ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɰɵ, ɤɨɦɢɫɫɢɹ ɩɨ ɨɬɛɨɪɭ ɪɚɛɨɬ ɞɥɹ ɜɵɫɬɚɜɤɢ ɢɧɞɢɣɫɤɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ ɜ Ʌɨɧɞɨɧɟ ɨɬɤɚɡɚɥɚɫɶ ɩɪɢɧɹɬɶ ɟɟ ɤɚɪɬɢɧɵ. ȼ ɟɟ ɡɚɳɢɬɭ ɜɵɫɬɭɩɢɥɢ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɟ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɢ ɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɵɟ ɞɟɹɬɟɥɢ, ɫɚɦɵɦ ɜɢɞɧɵɦ ɢɡ ɤɨɬɨɪɵɯ ɛɵɥ ɏɨɦɢ Ȼɚɛɚ, ɨɬɟɰ ɢɧɞɢɣɫɤɨɣ ɚɬɨɦɧɨɣ ɩɪɨɝɪɚɦɦɵ ɢ ɫɟɪɶɟɡɧɵɣ ɰɟɧɢɬɟɥɶ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ. ɇɚ ɡɚɪɟ ɧɟɡɚɜɢɫɢɦɨɫɬɢ ɂɧɞɢɢ ɨɧ ɢɫɩɨɥɶɡɨɜɚɥ ɞɟɥɨ ɇɚɯɦɚɧ ɤɚɤ ɬɟɫɬ ɞɥɹ ɜɵɹɫɧɟɧɢɹ ɜɨɩɪɨɫɚ, ɤɨɝɨ ɫɥɟɞɭɟɬ ɫɱɢɬɚɬɶ ɢɧɞɢɣɫɤɢɦ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɨɦ (ɭɱɟɧɵɦ, ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɟɦ) ɜ ɦɧɨɝɨɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɫɬɪɚɧɟ.

Ɇɚɬɬɟɨ Ȼɟɪɬɟɥɟ—Ɇɟɠɞɭ "ɚɤɚɞɟɦɢɫɬɚɦɢ" ɢ "ɞɢɫɫɢɞɟɧɬɚɦɢ". Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ-ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɵ ɜ ɂɬɚɥɢɢ ɜɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ "ɏɨɥɨɞɧɨɣ ɜɨɣɧɵ" Ɍɟɤɫɬ ɩɨɫɜɹɳɟɧ ɧɚɫɥɟɞɢɸ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɨɜ-ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ, ɠɢɜɲɢɯ ɜɨ ɜɬɨɪɨɣ ɩɨɥɨɜɢɧɟ 20-ɝɨ ɜɟɤɚ ɜ ɂɬɚɥɢɢ, ɡɚɩɚɞɧɨ-ɟɜɪɨɩɟɣɫɤɨɣ ɫɬɪɚɧɟ ɫ ɫɚɦɨɣ ɤɪɭɩɧɨɣ ɤɨɦɦɭɧɢɫɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɩɚɪɬɢɟɣ. ȼɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɯɨɥɨɞɧɨɣ ɜɨɣɧɵ, ɷɫɬɟɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɜɨɩɪɨɫɵ ɩɟɪɟɩɥɟɬɚɥɢɫɶ ɫ ɩɪɨɛɥɟɦɚɦɢ ɢɞɟɨɥɨɝɢɱɟɫɤɢɦɢ ɢ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɵɦɢ, ɡɚɬɪɚɝɢɜɚɹ ɫɬɪɚɬɟɝɢɢ ɫɚɦɨɩɨɡɢɰɢɨɧɢɪɨɜɚɧɢɹ, ɩɪɢɧɹɬɵɟ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɚɦɢ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɤɪɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɨɰɟɧɤɨɣ ɢɯ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɣ. Ɋɚɡɥɢɱɢɹ ɩɪɨɜɨɞɢɥɢɫɶ ɧɟ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɚɦɢ, ɩɪɢɧɚɞɥɟɠɚɳɢɦɢ ɩɟɪɜɨɣ ɢ ɜɬɨɪɨɣ ɜɨɥɧɟ, ɧɨ ɢ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɮɢɝɭɪɚɬɢɜɧɵɦɢ ɢ ɧɟɮɢɝɭɪɚɬɢɜɧɵɦɢ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɚɦɢ. ȼ ɷɬɨɦ ɢɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɧɢɢ ɪɚɫɫɦɚɬɪɢɜɚɸɬɫɹ ɞɜɚ ɹɪɤɢɯ ɩɪɢɦɟɪɚ: ɠɢɜɨɩɢɫɟɰ-ɪɟɚɥɢɫɬ Ƚɪɢɝɨɪɢɣ ɒɢɥɬɹɧ (1900-1985) ɢ ɚɛɫɬɪɚɤɬɧɵɣ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤ-ɚɤɰɢɨɧɢɫɬ Ɇɢɯɚɢɥ Ʉɭɥɚɤɨɜ (1933-2015).

Ɉɥɶɝɚ ȼɟɥɢɱɤɢɧɚ—Ʌɢɰɨɦ ɤ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ: ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɤɚɛɚɪɟ ɜ ɉɚɪɢɠɟ ɜ ɩɨɫɥɟɜɨɟɧɧɵɣ ɩɟɪɢɨɞ ȼ ɫɬɚɬɶɟ ɪɚɫɫɦɚɬɪɢɜɚɟɬɫɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɚɹ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɤɚɛɚɪɟ ɜ ɉɚɪɢɠɟ ɜ ɩɨɫɥɟɜɨɟɧɧɵɣ ɩɟɪɢɨɞ ɫ ɬɨɱɤɢ ɡɪɟɧɢɹ ɦɨɞɟɥɢ ɢɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɧɢɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɨɩɵɬɚ ɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ. Ɉɫɨɛɨɟ ɜɧɢɦɚɧɢɟ ɭɞɟɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɫɨɰɢɨɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɦɭ ɤɨɧɬɟɤɫɬɭ ɢ ɡɧɚɱɟɧɢɸ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɢɫɩɨɥɧɟɧɢɹ ɜ ɭɫɥɨɜɢɹɯ ɢɡɝɧɚɧɢɹ. ȼ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɩɨɫɥɟɜɨɟɧɧɵɣ ɩɟɪɢɨɞ ɡɚɧɢɦɚɟɬ ɨɫɨɛɨɟ ɦɟɫɬɨ, ɬɚɤ ɤɚɤ ɜ ɷɬɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɜ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɣ ɢ ɨɛɳɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɞɢɚɫɩɨɪɵ ɧɚɢɛɨɥɟɟ ɚɤɬɢɜɧɵɦɢ ɫɬɚɧɨɜɹɬɫɹ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɢɬɟɥɢ ɜɬɨɪɨɝɨ ɩɨɤɨɥɟɧɢɹ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ, ɪɨɞɢɜɲɢɟɫɹ ɜɨ Ɏɪɚɧɰɢɢ ɢ ɜɨɫɩɢɬɚɧɧɵɟ ɜ ɞɭɯɟ ɢ ɰɟɧɧɨɫɬɹɯ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ. ɇɚ ɩɪɢɦɟɪɟ ɨɬɞɟɥɶɧɵɯ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɧɬɨɜ ɞɟɥɚɟɬɫɹ ɩɨɩɵɬɤɚ ɨɬɜɟɬɢɬɶ ɧɚ ɜɨɩɪɨɫɵ ɨ ɬɨɦ, ɤɚɤ ɚɪɬɢɫɬɵ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɜɵɪɚɠɚɥɢ ɫɟɛɹ ɢ ɫɜɨɸ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɭɸ ɩɪɢɧɚɞ-

350

Abstracts

ɥɟɠɧɨɫɬɶ ɱɟɪɟɡ ɦɭɡɵɤɭ, ɤɚɤ ɨɧɢ ɜɢɞɟɥɢ ɫɜɨɟ ɩɨɥɨɠɟɧɢɟ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɞɜɭɦɹ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɚɦɢ. ɂɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɧɢɟ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ ɨɬɤɪɵɜɚɟɬ ɫɥɨɠɧɭɸ ɢ ɦɧɨɝɨɫɥɨɣɧɭɸ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɭɸ ɢɞɟɧɬɢɱɧɨɫɬɶ ɟɟ ɧɨɫɢɬɟɥɟɣ, ɫɨɱɟɬɚɸɳɭɸ ɜ ɪɚɡɧɨɣ ɩɪɨɩɨɪɰɢɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɭ ɩɪɚɜɨɫɥɚɜɧɨɝɨ ɰɟɪɤɨɜɧɨɝɨ ɩɟɧɢɹ, ɧɚɫɥɟɞɢɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɢ ɰɵɝɚɧɫɤɨɣ ɷɫɬɪɚɞɵ ɩɪɟɞɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɨɥɧɧɨɣ ɷɩɨɯɢ, ɪɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɮɨɥɶɤɥɨɪ ɢ ɫɨɜɟɬɫɤɭɸ ɦɭɡɵɤɭ, ɜ ɟɟ «ɨɮɢɰɢɨɡɧɨɦ» ɢ «ɞɢɫɫɢɞɟɧɫɬɤɨɦ» ɩɪɟɥɨɦɥɟɧɢɹɯ. ɑɟɪɟɡ ɢɫɩɨɥɶɡɨɜɚɧɢɟ ɢ ɫɨɱɟɬɚɧɢɟ ɪɚɡɧɨɨɛɪɚɡɧɵɯ ɫɬɢɥɟɣ, ɦɭɡɵɤɚɧɬɵ ɩɚɪɢɠɫɤɢɯ ɤɚɛɚɪɟ ɩɪɟɨɞɨɥɟɜɚɥɢ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɢ ɢɞɟɨɥɨɝɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɝɪɚɧɢɰɵ, ɪɚɡɞɟɥɹɜɲɢɟ ɟɞɢɧɨɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɟ ɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɨ ɢ ɜ ɧɟɦɚɥɨɣ ɫɬɟɩɟɧɢ ɫɩɨɫɨɛɫɬɜɨɜɚɥɢ ɟɝɨ ɨɛɴɟɞɢɧɟɧɢɸ.

Ⱦɚɝɦɚɪ Ƚɪɚɦɫɯɚɦɦɟɪ-ɏɨɥɶ—«ȼɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɟɬɫɹ ɜɟɬɟɪ ɧɚ ɤɪɭɝɢ ɫɜɨɢ»: ɂɧɬɟɪɬɟɤɫɬɭɚɥɶɧɨɫɬɶ ɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɨɣ ɩɨɷɡɢɢ ɨ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɟɧɢɢ ɧɚ ɪɨɞɢɧɭ ȼ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ ɨ ɩɨɬɟɪɹɧɧɨɣ ɪɨɞɢɧɟ ɢ ɪɚɡɦɵɲɥɟɧɢɹ ɨ ɜɨɡɦɨɠɧɨɦ – ɢɥɢ ɧɟɜɨɡɦɨɠɧɨɦ – ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɟɧɢɢ ɢɝɪɚɸɬ ɜɚɠɧɟɣɲɭɸ ɪɨɥɶ. ȼ ɞɚɧɧɨɣ ɫɬɚɬɶɟ ɪɚɫɫɦɚɬɪɢɜɚɸɬɫɹ ɫɬɢɯɢ ɨ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɟɧɢɢ ɫ ɬɨɱɤɢ ɡɪɟɧɢɹ ɢɧɬɟɪɬɟɤɫɬɭɚɥɶɧɨɫɬɢ: ɨɫɜɹɳɚɟɬɫɹ, ɤɚɤɢɦ ɨɛɪɚɡɨɦ ɷɬɢ ɬɟɤɫɬɵ ɫɨɨɬɧɟɫɟɧɵ ɞɪɭɝ ɫ ɞɪɭɝɨɦ. ȼ ɲɢɪɨɤɨ ɢɡɜɟɫɬɧɵɯ ɩɨɜɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɧɢɹɯ ɨ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɟɧɢɢ ɧɚ ɪɨɞɢɧɭ ɝɟɪɨɣ – ɤɚɤ Ɉɞɢɫɫɟɣ ɢɥɢ ɛɥɭɞɧɵɣ ɫɵɧ – ɫɧɨɜɚ ɧɚɯɨɞɢɬ ɩɨɤɨɣ ɜ ɪɨɞɧɨɦ ɢ ɛɥɢɡɤɨɦ ɨɤɪɭɠɟɧɢɢ. ɇɨ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɟɧɢɟ ɧɚ ɪɨɞɢɧɭ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɢɡɨɛɪɚɠɚɬɶɫɹ ɢ ɤɚɤ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɟɧɢɟ ɜ ɫɬɪɚɧɭ, ɫɬɚɜɲɭɸ ɱɭɠɨɣ ɢ ɫɢɥɶɧɨ ɨɬɥɢɱɚɸɳɭɸɫɹ ɨɬ ɬɨɣ, ɤɨɬɨɪɭɸ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɚ ɤɨɝɞɚ-ɬɨ ɡɚɫɬɚɜɢɥɢ ɩɨɤɢɧɭɬɶ. ȼ ɫɬɚɬɶɟ ɩɪɨɜɟɞɟɧ ɚɧɚɥɢɡ ɢɡɛɪɚɧɧɵɯ ɩɨɷɦ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɩɟɪɜɨɣ, ɜɬɨɪɨɣ ɢ ɬɪɟɬɶɟɣ ɜɨɥɧ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɣ ɩɨɤɚɡɵɜɚɟɬ, ɤɚɤ ɪɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɧɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ ɫɬɚɜɢɬ ɩɨɞ ɫɨɦɧɟɧɢɟ ɤɨɧɜɟɧɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɵɟ ɪɟɩɪɟɡɟɧɬɚɰɢɢ ɬɨɫɤɢ ɢ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɟɧɢɹ.

Ⱥɣɫɟɧɭɪ Ƚɸɥɟɪ—Ɋɚɫɫɤɚɡ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɚ-ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɚ ɜ ɋɬɚɦɛɭɥɟ: ȼɥɢɹɧɢɟ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɢɫɚ Ƚɪɢɬɱɟɧɤɨ ɧɚ ɬɭɪɟɰɤɢɯ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɨɜ ɉɨɤɨɥɟɧɢɹ 1914 ɝ. ȼɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ ɭɤɪɚɢɧɫɤɨɝɨ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɚ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɟɹ Ƚɪɢɳɟɧɤɨ (18831977) Ⱦɜɚ ɝɨɞɚ ɜ Ʉɨɧɫɬɚɧɬɢɧɨɩɨɥɟ, Ⱦɧɟɜɧɢɤ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɚ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɛɵɥɢ ɨɩɭɛɥɢɤɨɜɚɧɵ ɜ 1930 ɝɨɞɭ ɜ ɉɚɪɢɠɟ, ɞɟɬɚɥɶɧɨ ɨɩɢɫɵɜɚɸɬ ɟɝɨ ɜɡɚɢɦɨɞɟɣɫɬɜɢɟ ɫ ɦɟɫɬɧɵɦɢ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɹɦɢ 1920-ɯ ɝɨɞɨɜ ɜ ɋɬɚɦɛɭɥɟ. ȼɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɫɜɨɟɝɨ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɩɪɟɛɵɜɚɧɢɹ ɜ ɋɬɚɦɛɭɥɟ Ƚɪɢɳɟɧɤɨ ɩɨɞɪɭ-

Transcending the Borders of Countries, Languages, and Disciplines in Russian Émigré Culture

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ɠɢɥɫɹ ɫ ɬɭɪɟɰɤɢɦɢ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɚɦɢ ɂɛɪɚɝɢɦɨɦ Ʉɚɥɥɢ (1882-1960) ɢ ɇɚɦɢɤɨɦ ɂɫɦɚɢɥɨɦ (1892-1935), ɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɛɵɥɢ ɝɥɚɜɧɵɦɢ ɱɥɟɧɚɦɢ ɝɪɭɩɩɵ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɨɜ, ɢɡɜɟɫɬɧɨɣ ɤɚɤ ɉɨɤɨɥɟɧɢɟ 1914. ȼ 1920-ɯ ɝɨɞɚɯ ɬɚɥɚɧɬ ɢ ɩɪɨɝɪɟɫɫɢɜɧɵɟ ɢɞɟɢ Ƚɪɢɳɟɧɤɨ ɜ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɟ ɨɤɚɡɚɥɢ ɫɬɢɥɢɫɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɟ ɜɥɢɹɧɢɟ ɧɚ ɂɛɪɚɝɢɦɚ Ʉɚɥɥɢ ɢ ɤɨɧɰɟɩɬɭɚɥɶɧɨɟ ɜɥɢɹɧɢɟ ɧɚ ɇɚɦɢɤɚ ɂɫɦɚɢɥɚ. Ɉɫɬɚɥɶɧɵɟ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ ɉɨɤɨɥɟɧɢɹ 1914 ɫɤɟɩɬɢɱɟɫɤɢ ɜɨɫɩɪɢɧɢɦɚɥɢ ɜɡɝɥɹɞɵ Ƚɪɢɳɟɧɤɨ. ɇɚ ɫɟɪɢɸ ɤɚɪɬɢɧ Ʉɚɥɥɢ, ɢɡɜɟɫɬɧɭɸ ɤɚɤ "Ʉɪɭɠɚɳɢɟɫɹ ɞɟɪɜɢɲɢ ɢ ɫɟɪɢɹ ɩɟɬɢɰɢɣ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɹ", ɢɡ-ɡɚ ɬɟɦ ɫɢɥɶɧɨɟ ɜɥɢɹɧɢɟ ɨɤɚɡɚɥɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ Ƚɪɢɳɟɧɤɨ. ɗɬɢ ɤɚɪɬɢɧɵ, ɞɚɬɢɪɨɜɚɧɧɵɟ 1920-ɦɢ ɝɨɞɚɦɢ, ɹɜɥɹɸɬɫɹ ɩɨɜɨɪɨɬɧɵɦ ɦɨɦɟɧɬɨɦ ɜ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɦ ɪɚɡɜɢɬɢɢ Ʉɚɥɥɢ. ɋɪɚɜɧɢɜɚɹ ɤɚɪɬɢɧɵ ɞɪɭɝɢɯ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɨɜ ɉɨɤɨɥɟɧɢɹ 1914, ɦɨɠɧɨ ɥɟɝɤɨ ɭɜɢɞɟɬɶ, ɱɬɨ ɫɟɪɢɢ ɫɬɚɥɢ ɩɪɨɪɵɜɨɦ ɜ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɧɚɰɢɢ. Ⱦɚɠɟ ɯɨɬɹ ɜɥɢɹɧɢɟ Ƚɪɢɳɟɧɤɨ ɧɚ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɇɚɦɢɤɚ ɂɫɦɚɢɥɚ ɧɟ ɬɚɤɨɟ ɡɚɦɟɬɧɨɟ, ɤɚɤ ɧɚ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ Ʉɚɥɥɢ, ɢɡ ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɣ Ƚɪɢɳɟɧɤɨ ɦɵ ɡɧɚɟɦ, ɱɬɨ ɇɚɦɢɤ ɂɫɦɚɢɥ ɜ 1921 ɝɨɞɭ ɛɵɥ ɜ ɂɬɚɥɢɢ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɩɨɥɭɱɟɧɢɹ ɩɨɞɞɟɪɠɤɢ Ƚɪɢɳɟɧɤɨ ɢ ɟɝɨ ɪɚɫɫɤɚɡɚɥ ɨ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɬɚɦ. ɋɪɚɡɭ ɠɟ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɨɬɴɟɡɞɚ Ƚɪɢɳɟɧɤɨ ɢɡ ɋɬɚɦɛɭɥɚ ɇɚɦɢɤ ɂɫɦɚɢɥ ɧɚɩɢɫɚɥ ɫɬɚɬɶɸ, ɜ ɤɨɬɨɪɨɣ ɪɚɫɫɦɚɬɪɢɜɚɥ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɢ ɪɚɛɨɬɵ Ƚɪɢɳɟɧɤɨ. Ƚɪɢɳɟɧɤɨ ɩɪɢɜɧɟɫ ɫɜɟɠɢɟ ɩɟɪɫɩɟɤɬɢɜɵ ɜ ɨɤɤɭɩɢɪɨɜɚɧɧɵɣ ɋɬɚɦɛɭɥ ɢ ɜɩɟɪɜɵɟ ɜ XX ɜɟɤɟ ɦɨɞɟɪɧɢɡɦ ɛɵɥ ɩɪɢɜɧɟɫɟɧ ɜ ɬɭɪɟɰɤɨɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ.

Ɇɚɪɢɧɚ Ⱦɦɢɬɪɢɟɜɚ—Ʉ ɬɪɚɧɫɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ: ɂɧɫɬɢɬɭɬ ɇ.ɉ. Ʉɨɧɞɚɤɨɜɚ ɜ ɉɪɚɝɟ Ⱥɪɯɟɨɥɨɝɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɢɧɫɬɢɬɭɬ ɢɦɟɧɢ ɇ.ɉ. Ʉɨɧɞɚɤɨɜɚ ɜ ɉɪɚɝɟ (ɩɟɪɜɨɧɚɱɚɥɶɧɨ Seminarium Kondakovianum), ɨɫɧɨɜɚɧɧɵɣ ɜ 1925 ɝɨɞɭ ɝɪɭɩɩɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ ɢɡ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ, ɭɱɟɧɢɤɚɦɢ ɢɡɜɟɫɬɧɨɝɨ ɜɢɡɚɧɬɢɧɢɫɬɚ ɇ.ɉ. Ʉɨɧɞɚɤɨɜɚ, ɩɪɨɜɟɞɲɟɝɨ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɟ ɝɨɞɵ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɜ ɉɪɚɝɟ, ɛɵɥ ɰɟɧɬɪɨɦ ɢɡɭɱɟɧɢɹ ɜɢɡɚɧɬɢɣɫɤɨɝɨ ɢ ɞɪɟɜɧɟɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ ɤɨɱɟɜɵɯ ɧɚɪɨɞɨɜ. Ȼɥɚɝɨɞɚɪɹ ɷɧɬɭɡɢɚɡɦɭ ɢ ɫɚɦɨɨɬɜɟɪɠɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɟɝɨ ɫɨɡɞɚɬɟɥɟɣ ɢ ɢɯ ɩɪɨɞɭɦɚɧɧɨɣ ɢɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɬɟɥɶɫɤɨɣ ɢ ɩɭɛɥɢɤɚɰɢɨɧɧɨɣ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɤe, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɨɛɲɢɪɧɵɦ ɥɢɱɧɵɦ ɤɨɧɬɚɤɬɚɦ, ɷɬɨɬ ɢɧɫɬɢɬɭɬ ɩɪɢɨɛɪɟɥ ɦɟɠɞɭɧɚɪɨɞɧɭɸ ɢɡɜɟɫɬɧɨɫɬɶ ɜ ɧɚɭɱɧɵɯ ɤɪɭɝɚɯ, ɜɵɯɨɞɹɲɭɸ ɞɚɥɟɤɨ ɡɚ ɩɪɟɞɟɥɵ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɨɨɛɳɟɫɬɜɚ. Ɉɧ ɩɪɨɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɥ, ɩɪɟɨɞɨɥɟɜɚɹ ɬɪɭɞɧɨɫɬɢ, ɩɪɢ ɪɚɡɧɵɯ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɪɟɠɢɦɚɯ ɜɩɥɨɬɶ ɞɨ 1952. ɋɬɚɬɶɹ ɡɚɞɚɟɬɫɹ ɜɨɩɪɨɫɨɦ, ɤɚɤɨɜɚ ɛɵɥɚ ɫɬɪɚɬɟɝɢɹ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɧɢɹ ɧɚɭɱɧɨɝɨ ɢɧɫɬɢɬɭɬɚ ɜ ɭɫɥɨɜɢɹɯ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ. ȼ ɫɬɚɬɶɟ ɭɬɜɟɪɠɞɚɟɬɫɹ, ɱɬɨ, ɨɪɢɟɧɬɢɪɭɹɫɶ ɧɚ ɨɛɲɢɪɧɵɟ ɧɚɭɱɧɵɟ ɢɧɬɟɪɟɫɵ Ʉɨɧɞɚɤɨɜɚ, ɞɟɹɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɶ ɢɧɫɬɢɬɭɬɚ ɜɫɟ ɠɟ ɜɨ ɦɧɨɝɨɦ ɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɥɚ ɢɞɟɨɥɨɝɢɢ ɢ ɢɧɬɟɪɟɫɚɦ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɨɝɨ ɞɜɢɠɟɧɢɹ ɟɜɪɚɡɢɣɫɬɜɚ, ɨɞɧɢɦ ɢɡ ɰɟɧɬɪɨɜ ɤɨ-

352

Abstracts

ɬɨɪɨɝɨ ɛɵɥɚ ɉɪɚɝɚ. ȼ ɫɜɹɡɢ ɫ ɷɬɢɦ ɢ ɨɩɢɪɚɹɫɶ ɧɚ ɢɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɧɢɹ ɇ.ɉ. Ʉɨɧɞɚɤɨɜɚ ɉɪɚɠɫɤɨɝɨ ɩɟɪɢɨɞɚ, ɪɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɚ ɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɚ ȼɨɫɬɨɱɧɨɣ ȿɜɪɨɩɵ ɜ ɰɟɥɨɦ ɪɚɫɫɦɚɬɪɢɜɚɥɢɫɶ ɜ ɬɪɭɞɚɯ ɂɧɫɬɢɬɭɬɚ ɧɟ ɤɚɤ ɚɜɬɨɯɬɨɧɧɵɟ ɹɜɥɟɧɢɹ ɫɚɦɨɛɵɬɧɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ, ɚ ɤɚɤ ɞɢɧɚɦɢɱɟɫɤɨɟ ɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɨ ɬɪɚɧɫɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɵɯ ɤɨɧɬɚɤɬɨɜ ɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɝɨ ɬɪɚɧɮɟɪɚ.

Ȼɟɧ Ⱦɨɨɝɟ—"ɀɢɜɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ": Ɋɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɹ, ɝɪɚɠɞɚɧɫɤɚɹ ɜɨɣɧɚ, ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ ɢ ɠɢɡɧɶ ɜ ɢɡɝɧɚɧɢɢ". ȼ ɧɚɫɬɨɹɳɟɣ ɫɬɚɬɶɟ ɪɟɱɶ ɢɞɟɬ ɨ ɬɨɦ, ɤɚɤ ɩɪɚɠɫɤɨɟ ɫɨɞɪɭɠɟɫɬɜɨ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɢɯ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɟɣ, “ɋɤɢɬ ɩɨɷɬɨɜ” (ɢɥɢ “ɋɤɢɬ”), ɨɛɪɚɳɚɥɨɫɶ ɫ ɬɟɦɚɦɢ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɧɟ ɩɨɥɶɡɨɜɚɥɢɫɶ ɛɨɥɶɲɨɣ ɩɨɩɭɥɹɪɧɨɫɬɶɸ ɭ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɢɬɟɥɟɣ ɜɥɢɹɬɟɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɫɬɚɪɲɟɝɨ ɩɨɤɨɥɟɧɢɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɨɪɨɜ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɢɯ ɛɥɢɡɤɢɯ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɬɟɥɟɣ. Ɍɟɦɵ ɷɬɢ ɫɜɹɡɚɧɵ ɫ ɢɞɟɹɦɢ ɜɨɫɩɪɢɹɬɢɹ Ɋɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɢ, Ƚɪɚɠɞɚɧɫɤɨɣ ɜɨɣɧɵ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɜɨɩɪɨɫɚɦɢ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɜ ȿɜɪɨɩɟ, ɢ ɲɢɪɟ, ɠɢɡɧɢ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɫɨɛɵɬɢɣ 1917 ɝɨɞɚ. ȼ ɫɬɚɬɶɟ ɪɚɫɫɦɚɬɪɢɜɚɟɬɫɹ ɤɨɧɰɟɩɰɢɹ “ɠɢɜɨɣ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ”, ɤɨɬɨɪɚɹ ɛɵɥɚ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɚ ɜ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɨɣ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɟ ɞɜɭɯ ɜɵɞɚɸɳɢɯɫɹ ɱɥɟɧɨɜ ɫɨɞɪɭɠɟɫɬɜɚ “ɋɤɢɬ”: Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪɚ Ɍɭɪɢɧɰɟɜɚ ɢ ȼɹɱɟɫɥɚɜɚ Ʌɟɛɟɞɟɜɚ. ɍɞɟɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɨɫɨɛɨɟ ɜɧɢɦɚɧɢɟ ɬɨɦɭ, ɤɚɤɢɦ ɨɛɪɚɡɨɦ ɷɬɚ ɤɨɧɰɟɩɰɢɹ ɨɫɩɚɪɢɜɚɟɬ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɵɟ ɫɬɚɧɞɚɪɬɵ ɫɬɚɪɲɟɝɨ ɩɨɤɨɥɟɧɢɹ ɚɜɬɨɪɨɜ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ, ɤɚɤ ɨɧɚ ɩɪɢɦɟɧɹɥɚɫɶ ɧɚ ɩɪɚɤɬɢɤɟ ɩɨɷɬɚɦɢ-ɤɪɢɬɢɤɚɦɢ ɢ ɢɯ ɫɨɪɚɬɧɢɤɚɦɢ ɩɨ ɫɨɞɪɭɠɟɫɬɜɭ.

ȿɥɟɧɚ Ⱦɭɛɢɧɟɰ—"Ɇɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɚɹ ɩɪɨɩɢɫɤɚ? «Ɇɟɪɰɚɸɳɚɹ» ɢɞɟɧɬɢɱɧɨɫɬɶ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɨɜɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ." Ʉɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɵ, ɩɨɤɢɧɭɜɲɢɟ ɬɟɪɪɢɬɨɪɢɸ ɛɵɜɲɟɝɨ ɋɋɋɊ, ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɹɸɬ ɫɨɛɨɣ ɬɢɩɢɱɧɨɟ ɞɥɹ ɷɬɨɣ ɫɬɪɚɧɵ ɫɨɱɟɬɚɧɢɟ ɷɬɧɢɱɧɨɫɬɟɣ (ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ, ɟɜɪɟɣɫɤɨɣ ɢ ɞɪɭɝɢɯ), ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɫɨɯɪɚɧɹɸɬ ɷɥɟɦɟɧɬɵ ɢɦɩɟɪɫɤɨɣ ɢɞɟɧɬɢɱɧɨɫɬɢ. ɇɟɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɢɡ ɧɢɯ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɨɬɴɟɡɞɚ ɫɦɟɧɢɥɢ ɧɟɫɤɨɥɶɤɨ ɫɬɪɚɧ ɩɪɨɠɢɜɚɧɢɹ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɩɨɫɟɳɚɥɢ ɪɨɞɢɧɭ. ɉɟɪɟɟɡɞɵ, ɞɢɚɫɩɨɪɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɩɟɪɟɜɨɩɥɨɳɟɧɢɹ ɢ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɟɧɢɹ ɞɨɦɨɣ ɨɬɪɚɠɚɸɬɫɹ ɧɚ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɟ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɨɜ, ɢ ɧɟɪɟɞɤɨ ɧɚ ɩɟɪɟɫɟɱɟɧɢɢ ɪɚɡɧɨɪɨɞɧɵɯ ɷɤɡɢɫɬɟɧɰɢɚɥɶɧɵɯ ɢ ɷɫɬɟɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɩɟɪɟɠɢɜɚɧɢɣ ɭ ɧɢɯ ɜɨɡɧɢɤɚɟɬ ɬɚɤ ɧɚɡɵɜɚɟɦɨɟ «ɦɟɪɰɚɸɳɟɟ» (ɢɥɢ «ɩɟɪɟɦɟɠɚɸɳɟɟɫɹ») ɫɚɦɨɨɳɭɳɟɧɢɟ. Ⱦɚɧɧɚɹ ɫɬɚɬɶɹ ɩɨɤɚɡɵɜɚɟɬ, ɤɚɤ ɦɧɨɝɨɤɪɚɬɧɵɟ ɩɟɪɟɦɟɳɟɧɢɹ ɬɚɤɢɯ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɟɜɪɟɣɫɤɢɯ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɨɜ, ɤɚɤ Ⱥɚɪɨɧ Ⱥɜɲɚɥɨɦɨɜ, Ⱦɚɜɢɞ Ɏɢɧɤɨ, Ɇɚɪɤ

Transcending the Borders of Countries, Languages, and Disciplines in Russian Émigré Culture

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Ʉɨɩɵɬɦɚɧ, Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪ Ɋɚɫɤɚɬɨɜ ɢ Ȼɨɪɢɫ Ɏɢɥɚɧɨɜɫɤɢɣ, ɩɨɜɥɢɹɥɢ ɧɚ ɢɯ ɫɚɦɨɢɞɟɧɬɢɮɢɤɚɰɢɸ ɢ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɭɸ ɦɢɫɫɢɸ.

ɋɜɟɬɥɚɧɚ Ɂɜɟɪɟɜɚ—Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɞɭɯɨɜɧɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɡɚ ɩɪɟɞɟɥɚɦɢ ɋɋɋɊ ɜ 1920-40-ɟ ɝɨɞɵ: ɭɬɜɟɪɠɞɟɧɢɟ ɬɪɚɞɢɰɢɣ, ɩɨɢɫɤ ɧɨɜɵɯ ɮɨɪɦ ɉɨɫɥɟ ɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɢ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɞɭɯɨɜɧɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɫɬɚɧɨɜɢɬɫɹ ɦɚɪɝɢɧɚɥɶɧɵɦ ɜɢɞɨɦ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ, ɤɨɬɨɪɨɟ ɩɨɞɞɟɪɠɢɜɚɥɨɫɶ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɢɬɟɥɹɦɢ «ɜɧɭɬɪɟɧɧɟɣ» ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ. ȼ ɬɨ ɠɟ ɜɪɟɦɹ, ɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɡɚɝɪɚɧɢɱɧɵɯ ɞɢɚɫɩɨɪɚɯ ɷɬɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɧɟ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɩɪɨɞɨɥɠɚɥɨ ɪɚɡɜɢɜɚɬɶɫɹ, ɧɨ ɢ ɩɪɢɨɛɪɟɥɨ ɨɫɨɛɨɟ ɡɧɚɱɟɧɢɟ ɤɚɤ ɫɩɨɫɨɛ ɩɪɨɹɜɥɟɧɢɹ ɢ ɫɨɯɪɚɧɟɧɢɹ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɢɞɟɧɬɢɱɧɨɫɬɢ. ȼ ɫɬɚɬɶɟ ɨɛɫɭɠɞɚɟɬɫɹ ɞɭɯɨɜɧɨ-ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɚɹ ɠɢɡɧɶ ɜ ɋɋɋɊ ɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɞɢɚɫɩɨɪɚɯ Ƚɟɪɦɚɧɢɢ, Ɏɪɚɧɰɢɢ, ɋɒȺ ɢ ɞɪɭɝɢɯ ɫɬɪɚɧ ɜ 1920-1930-ɟ ɝɨɞɵ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɧɚ ɨɤɤɭɩɢɪɨɜɚɧɧɵɯ III ɪɟɣɯɨɦ ɬɟɪɪɢɬɨɪɢɹɯ ɋɋɋɊ ɜ 1940-ɟ ɝɨɞɵ. Ɋɚɡɜɢɬɢɟ ɞɭɯɨɜɧɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ ɩɨɤɚɡɵɜɚɟɬɫɹ ɤɚɤ ɟɞɢɧɵɣ ɜɡɚɢɦɨɫɜɹɡɚɧɧɵɣ ɩɪɨɰɟɫɫ, ɩɪɢɨɛɪɟɬɚɸɳɢɣ ɬɟ ɢɥɢ ɢɧɵɟ ɨɫɨɛɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɜ ɡɚɜɢɫɢɦɨɫɬɢ ɨɬ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɢ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɤɨɧɬɟɤɫɬɚ.

Ɉɥɶɝɚ Ʉɟɥɥɟɪ—ɂɥɶɹ Ʉɚɛɚɤɨɜ: Ɋɟɩɪɟɡɟɧɬɚɬɢɜɧɵɣ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤ-ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬ ɢ ɢɧɬɟɪɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɵɣ (ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɢɣ) ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɞɢcɤɭɪc ȼɵɞɚɸɳɚɹɫɹ ɩɨɡɢɰɢɹ ɂɥɶɢ Ʉɚɛɚɤɨɜɚ ɜ ɫɟɝɨɞɧɹɲɧɟɦ ɝɥɨɛɚɥɶɧɨɦ ɚɪɬɦɢɪɟ ɢ ɟɝɨ ɢɦɢɞɠ ɛɵɥɢ ɫɮɨɪɦɭɥɢɪɨɜɚɧɵ ɤɚɤ ɡɚɩɚɞɧɵɦɢ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɚɦɢ, ɬɚɤ ɢ ɷɤɫɩɟɪɬɚɦɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ, ɱɶɢ ɬɪɭɞɵ ɩɨɫɬɨɹɧɧɨ ɪɚɫɲɢɪɹɸɬɫɹ ɢ ɞɨɩɨɥɧɹɸɬɫɹ ɚɤɬɭɚɥɶɧɵɦɢ ɢɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɧɢɹɦɢ. ɋɩɭɫɬɹ ɞɟɫɹɬɢɥɟɬɢɟ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɢɡ Ɇɨɫɤɜɵ ɜ 1980-ɯ, Ʉɚɛɚɤɨɜ ɫɬɚɥ ɧɟɨɬɴɟɦɥɟɦɨɣ ɱɚɫɬɶɸ ɡɚɩɚɞɧɨɝɨ ɧɚɪɪɚɬɢɜɚ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɢɫɤɭɫɬɜ, ɩɪɨɬɨɬɢɩɨɦ ɢ ɨɥɢɰɨɬɜɨɪɟɧɢɟɦ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ. Ⱦɢɚɦɟɬɪɚɥɶɧɨ ɩɪɨɬɢɜɨɩɨɥɨɠɧɨ ɷɬɨɣ ɬɢɩɢɡɚɰɢɢ, ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɨɧ ɜ ɩɟɪɜɭɸ ɨɱɟɪɟɞɶ ɜɨɫɩɪɢɧɹɬ ɤɚɤ ɢɫɤɥɸɱɟɧɢɟ, ɤɚɤ ɨɞɢɧ ɢɡ ɧɟɦɧɨɝɢɯ ɩɪɢɡɧɚɧɧɵɯ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɨɜ-ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ ɧɚ Ɂɚɩɚɞɟ. ɋɬɚɪɚɹɫɶ ɜɵɹɜɢɬɶ ɪɟɩɪɟɡɟɧɬɚɬɢɜɧɵɣ ɫɬɚɬɭɫ Ʉɚɛɚɤɨɜɚ, ɞɚɧɧɚɹ ɫɬɚɬɶɹ ɫɮɨɤɭɫɢɪɨɜɚɧɚ ɧɚ ɪɟɥɟɜɚɧɬɧɵɯ ɚɫɩɟɤɚɯ ɟɝɨ ɷɫɬɟɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɫɬɪɚɬɟɝɢɣ, ɫɚɦɨɨɩɢɫɚɧɢɹ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɚ ɤɚɤ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɚ, ɢ ɧɚ ɩɪɨɛɥɟɦɚɯ ɢɧɬɟɥɥɟɤɬɭɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɞɢɫɤɭɪɫɚ.

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Abstracts

ȼɢɦ Ʉɭɞɟɧɢɫ—ɉɭɲɤɢɧ ɜ ɞɨɦɟ ɡɟɪɤɚɥ: ɋɬɨɥɟɬɢɹ ɫɦɟɪɬɢ Ⱥ.ɋ. ɉɭɲɤɢɧɚ ɜ Ȼɟɥɶɝɢɢ, ɢɥɢ ɤɜɚɞɪɚɬɧɵɣ ɩɚɪɚɞɢɝɦ «ɨɞɧɚ ɢɥɢ ɞɜɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ» ɋɬɨɥɟɬɢɟ ɫɦɟɪɬɢ Ⱥ.ɋ. ɉɭɲɤɢɧɚ ɜɫɬɪɟɬɢɥɢ ɫ ɩɨɦɩɨɣ ɤɚɤ ɜ ɋɨɜɟɬɫɤɨɦ ɋɨɸɡɟ, ɬɚɤ ɢ ɜ Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɦ Ɂɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɟ. Ɉɞɧɚɤɨ, ɩɪɨɬɢɜɨɪɟɱɢɜɨɟ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɢɟ ɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɦ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɦ ɩɨɷɬɟ ɤɚɤ ɨ ɜɵɜɟɫɤɟ ɢɦɩɟɪɚɬɨɪɫɤɨɣ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɢɥɢ ɩɪɟɞɲɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɢɤɟ ɫɨɜɟɬɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ ɫɛɢɜɚɥɨ ɫ ɬɨɥɤɭ ɡɚɩɚɞɧɭɸ ɩɭɛɥɢɤɭ, ɢ ɜɤɥɸɱɚɹ ɛɟɥɶɝɢɣɫɤɭɸ. Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɨɟ ɨɛɳɟɫɬɜɨ ɜ Ȼɟɥɶɝɢɢ ɯɜɚɫɬɚɥɨ ɩɪɢɫɭɬɫɬɜɢɟɦ ɜ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɫɪɟɞɟ ɇ.Ⱥ. ɉɭɲɤɢɧɚ, ɜɧɭɤɚ ɩɨɷɬɚ, ɢ ɢɦɟɥɨ ɧɟɩɨɫɪɟɞɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɞɨɫɬɭɩ ɤ ɦɟɫɬɧɨɣ, ɤɨɧɫɟɪɜɚɬɨɪɫɤɨɣ ɩɪɟɫɫɟ. ɋɨɜɟɬɫɤɨɟ ɩɪɚɜɢɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨ, ɫɨ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɵ, ɩɨɥɶɡɨɜɚɥɨɫɶ ɫɬɨɥɟɬɢɟɦ, ɱɬɨɛɵ ɭɛɟɠɞɚɬɶ ɫɢɦɩɚɬɢɡɢɪɭɸɳɢɯ ɫɨɜɟɬɚɦ ɢɧɬɟɥɥɟɤɬɭɚɥɨɜ ɜ ɬɨɦ, ɱɬɨ ɧɚɤɨɧɟɰ ɩɪɨɲɟɥ ɢɤɨɧɨɛɨɪɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɩɟɪɢɨɞ ɫɨɜɟɬɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ. ɉɭɬɚɧɢɰɚ ɟɳɟ ɭɜɟɥɢɱɢɜɚɥɚɫɶ ɬɨɣ ɫɩɟɰɢɮɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɛɟɥɶɝɢɣɫɤɨɣ ɫɢɬɭɚɰɢɟɣ, ɝɞɟ ɨɞɧɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɭɸɬ ɞɜɟ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ, ɮɪɚɧɤɨɹɡɵɱɧɨɣ ɢ ɮɥɚɦɚɧɞɫɤɨɣ (ɧɢɞɟɪɥɚɧɞɫɤɨɣ). ɂɦɟɧɧɨ ɜ ɷɬɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɨɛɟ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ ɫɬɚɧɨɜɢɥɢɫɶ ɛɨɥɟɟ ɧɟɡɚɜɢɫɢɦɵɦɢ ɞɪɭɝ ɨɬ ɞɪɭɝɚ ɢ ɪɚɡɜɢɜɚɥɢ ɫɨɛɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɟ ɦɨɞɟɥɢ ɜɨɫɩɪɢɹɬɢɹ ɢɧɨɫɬɪɚɧɧɵɯ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪ. ɗɬɨ ɧɟ ɩɨɦɨɝɚɥɨ ɥɭɱɲɟɦɭ ɩɨɧɢɦɚɧɢɸ ɦɟɫɬɚ Ⱥ.ɋ. ɉɭɲɤɢɧɚ ɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɟ. ɋɬɚɬɶɹ ɫɨɫɪɟɞɨɬɨɱɢɜɚɟɬɫɹ ɧɚ ɩɨɩɵɬɤɚɯ, ɤɚɤ ɫɨɜɟɬɫɤɢɯ, ɬɚɤ ɢ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɢɯ, ɩɨɜɥɢɹɬɶ ɧɚ ɛɟɥɶɝɢɣɫɤɭɸ ɩɭɛɥɢɤɭ, ɧɟ ɞɚɜɚɹ ɫɟɛɟ ɨɬɱɟɬ ɨ ɬɨɦ, ɤɚɤɚɹ ɢɦɟɧɧɨ ɞɢɧɚɦɢɤɚ ɢɝɪɚɥɚ ɜɧɭɬɪɢ ɛɟɥɶɝɢɣɫɤɢɯ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɵɯ ɫɢɫɬɟɦ. ɋɥɟɞɨɜɚɬɟɥɶɧɨ, ɷɬɢ ɩɨɩɵɬɤɢ ɩɨɦɟɲɚɥɢ ɯɨɪɨɲɟɦɭ ɩɨɧɢɦɚɧɢɸ ɡɧɚɱɟɧɢɹ Ⱥ.ɋ. ɉɭɲɤɢɧɚ, ɚ ɟɳɟ ɛɨɥɶɲɟ ɜɜɟɥɢ ɜ ɡɚɛɥɭɠɞɟɧɢɟ ɛɟɥɶɝɢɣɫɤɭɸ ɩɭɛɥɢɤɭ. ɇɚ ɬɟɨɪɟɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɦ ɭɪɨɜɧɟ, ɫɬɚɬɶɹ ɯɨɱɟɬ ɩɪɨɞɜɢɧɭɬɶ ɤɨɧɰɟɩɰɢɸ ɤɜɚɞɪɚɬɧɨɝɨ ɩɚɪɚɞɢɝɦɚ «ɨɞɧɚ ɢɥɢ ɞɜɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ», ɬ.ɟ. ɢɞɟɹ, ɱɬɨ ɩɚɪɚɞɢɝɦ ɨɩɪɟɞɟɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɧɟ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɩɟɪɟɞɚɱɟɣ ɨɩɪɟɞɟɥɟɧɧɨɣ ɬɟɦɵ (ɫɨ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɵ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ ɢɥɢ ɫɨɜɟɬɨɜ), ɧɨ ɢ ɜɨɫɩɪɢɹɬɢɟɦ ɟɟ (ɜ ɞɚɧɧɨɦ ɫɥɭɱɚɟ, ɛɟɥɶɝɢɣɫɤɨɣ ɩɭɛɥɢɤɨɣ).

Ɇɚɪɢɧɚ Ʌɭɩɢɲɤɨ—Ʉ ɜɨɩɪɨɫɭ ɨ “ɦɟɥɨɞɢɱɧɨɫɬɢ” ɥɢɪɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɫɬɢɯɨɜ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ: “ɉɨɫɜɹɳɟɧɢɟ Ɇɚɪɢɧɟ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ” ɋɨɮɢɢ Ƚɭɛɚɣɞɭɥɢɧɨɣ (1984) ȼ ɫɬɚɬɶɟ ɚɜɬɨɪ ɚɧɚɥɢɡɢɪɭɟɬ ɩɨɧɹɬɢɟ «ɦɟɥɨɞɢɱɧɨɫɬɢ» ɜ ɩɪɢɦɟɧɟɧɢɢ ɤ ɥɢɪɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɩɨɷɡɢɢ Ɇɚɪɢɧɵ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ (Ȼɟɥɵɣ 1922, ɗɣɯɟɧɛɚɭɦ 1922, ɏɨɞɚɫɟɜɢɱ 1923, Ȼɚɯɪɚɯ 1923, ɉɚɫɬɟɪɧɚɤ 1926), ɢɫɩɨɥɶɡɭɹ ɤɨɥɢɱɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɩɨɞɯɨɞ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɲɤɨɥɵ ɩɨɷɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɦɟɬɪɢɤɢ (Ȼɟɥɵɣ 1910,

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ɀɢɪɦɭɧɫɤɢɣ 1925, Ƚɚɫɩɚɪɨɜ 1984, Ȼɷɣɥɢ 1972, 2004). «Ɇɟɥɨɞɢɱɧɨɫɬɶ» ɪɚɫɫɦɚɬɪɢɜɚɟɬɫɹ ɤɚɤ ɪɟɡɭɥɶɬɚɬ ɨɩɪɟɞɟɥɟɧɧɨɣ ɪɢɬɦɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɢ ɦɟɬɪɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɫɥɨɠɧɨɫɬɢ ɰɜɟɬɚɟɜɫɤɢɯ ɥɨɝɚɷɞɨɜ, ɩɪɟɜɵɲɚɸɳɢɯ ɜ ɡɪɟɥɨɣ ɥɢɪɢɤɟ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ (1916-1923) ɜɫɟ ɨɫɬɚɥɶɧɵɟ ɦɟɬɪɵ ɢ ɜɵɞɟɥɟɧɧɵɯ ɜ ɤɚɱɟɫɬɜɟ ɩɪɨɦɟɠɭɬɨɱɧɨɝɨ ɤɥɚɫɫɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɩɨɷɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɦɟɬɪɨɜ Ⱦɠ. ɋ. ɋɦɢɬɨɦ (ɋɦɢɬ 1975, 1978, 1980). Ⱥɧɚɥɢɡ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɪɟɢɧɬɟɪɩɪɟɬɚɰɢɢ ɥɨɝɚɷɞɨɜ ɜ ɱɚɫɬɹɯ I ɢ III ɜɨɤɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɰɢɤɥɚ ɋ. Ƚɭɛɚɣɞɭɥɢɧɨɣ ɉɨɫɜɹɳɟɧɢɟ Ɇɚɪɢɧɟ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ ɞɥɹ ɯɨɪɚ ɚ cappella (1984), ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɜ ɱɚɫɬɹɯ II ɢ VI ɰɢɤɥɚ Ⱦ. ɒɨɫɬɚɤɨɜɢɱɚ ɒɟɫɬɶ ɫɬɢɯɨɬɜɨɪɟɧɢɣ Ɇɚɪɢɧɵ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ ɞɥɹ ɤɨɧɬɪɚɥɶɬɨ ɢ ɮɨɪɬɟɩɢɚɧɨ (1973), ɩɨɞɬɜɟɪɠɞɚɸɬ ɦɟɬɪɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɚɧɚɥɢɡ, ɩɪɟɞɥɨɠɟɧɧɵɣ Ⱦɠ. ɋ. ɋɦɢɬɨɦ (ɋɦɢɬ 1975, 1980). ȼ ɨɛɨɢɯ ɫɥɭɱɚɹɯ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɵ ɫɬɪɟɦɹɬɫɹ ɜɵɛɪɚɬɶ ɦɟɬɪɢɱɟɫɤɭɸ ɜɟɪɫɢɸ, ɤɨɬɨɪɚɹ ɫɨɨɬɜɟɬɫɬɜɭɟɬ ɧɚɢɥɭɱɲɢɦ ɨɛɪɚɡɨɦ ɦɟɬɪɢɱɟɫɤɢɦ ɱɥɟɧɟɧɢɹɦ ɭ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ, ɜɨɡɦɨɠɧɨ, ɟɟ ɫɨɛɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɦɭ ɜɧɭɬɪɟɧɧɟɦɭ ɩɪɨɱɬɟɧɢɸ ɫɬɢɯɚ.

ɋɢɦɨ Ɇɢɤɤɨɧɟɧ—Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɚɹ ɢɧɬɟɥɥɢɝɟɧɰɢɹ ɒɚɧɯɚɹ, 1919-1949: Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɚ ɜ ɤɨɫɦɨɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɧɨɦ ɤɨɧɬɟɤɫɬɟ ȼ ɬɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɤɚɤ ɨɫɧɨɜɧɚɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ ɜ 1917-1922 ɝɨɞɚɯ ɩɪɨɢɫɯɨɞɢɥɚ ɧɚ ɡɚɩɚɞ, ɜ ȿɜɪɨɩɭ, ɡɧɚɱɢɬɟɥɶɧɚɹ ɱɚɫɬɶ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ ɨɛɨɫɧɨɜɚɥɚɫɶ ɜ Ʉɢɬɚɟ, ɨɫɨɛɟɧɧɨ ɜ ɏɚɪɛɢɧɟ ɢ ɒɚɧɯɚɟ. Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɛɵɥɢ ɤɪɭɩɧɟɣɲɢɦ ɧɟɚɡɢɚɬɫɤɢɦ ɦɟɧɶɲɢɧɫɬɜɨɦ ɜ ɤɨɫɦɨɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɧɨɦ ɒɚɧɯɚɟ, ɧɨ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɭɟɬ ɦɚɥɨ ɢɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɧɢɣ ɷɬɨɣ ɞɢɚɫɩɨɪɵ. ɗɬɨ ɫɟɪɶɟɡɧɵɣ ɧɟɞɨɫɬɚɬɨɤ ɩɨ ɧɟɫɤɨɥɶɤɢɦ ɩɪɢɱɢɧɚɦ. ȼɨ-ɩɟɪɜɵɯ, ɩɪɢɬɨɤ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɬɪɚɧɫɮɨɪɦɢɪɨɜɚɥ ɝɨɪɨɞɫɤɨɣ ɩɟɣɡɚɠ, ɫɞɟɥɚɜ ɟɝɨ ɝɥɚɜɧɵɦ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɦ ɰɟɧɬɪɨɦ ɧɚ ɜɫɟɦ Ⱦɚɥɶɧɟɦ ȼɨɫɬɨɤɟ. ȼɨ-ɜɬɨɪɵɯ, ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɩɟɞɚɝɨɝɢ, ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɵ ɢ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɧɬɵ ɨɤɚɡɚɥɢ ɜɥɢɹɧɢɟ ɧɚ ɤɢɬɚɣɫɤɭɸ ɤɥɚɫɫɢɱɟɫɤɭɸ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɭɸ ɬɪɚɞɢɰɢɸ. ȼ-ɬɪɟɬɶɢɯ, ɞɟɫɹɬɤɢ ɬɵɫɹɱ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɒɚɧɯɚɹ, ɧɚɯɨɞɹɳɢɟɫɹ ɜ ɝɨɪɨɞɟ, ɝɞɟ ɩɪɨɠɢɜɚɟɬ ɧɟɫɤɨɥɶɤɨ ɦɢɥɥɢɨɧɨɜ ɠɢɬɟɥɟɣ, ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɹɸɬ ɫɨɛɨɣ ɢɧɬɟɪɟɫɧɭɸ ɞɥɹ ɢɡɭɱɟɧɢɹ ɞɢɚɫɩɨɪɭ. ɒɚɧɯɚɣɫɤɢɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɫɬɚɥɢ ɞɨɦɢɧɢɪɨɜɚɬɶ ɧɚ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ ɫɰɟɧɟ, ɨɫɨɛɟɧɧɨ ɜ 1930-ɯ ɢ ɜɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɜɬɨɪɨɣ ɦɢɪɨɜɨɣ ɜɨɣɧɵ. ɇɟɫɦɨɬɪɹ ɧɚ ɩɪɢɧɚɞɥɟɠɧɨɫɬɶ ɤ ɨɞɧɨɣ ɞɢɚɫɩɨɪɟ, ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɛɵɥɢ ɞɚɥɟɤɨ ɧɟ ɟɞɢɧɵ: ɛɵɥɨ ɧɟɫɤɨɥɶɤɨ ɨɫɨɛɟɧɧɨɫɬɟɣ, ɪɚɡɞɟɥɹɸɳɢɯ ɞɢɚɫɩɨɪɭ ɧɚ ɛɨɥɟɟ ɦɟɥɤɢɟ ɱɚɫɬɢ. ɉɨɦɢɦɨ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɵɯ ɢ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɝɪɚɧɢɰ, ɨɞɧɢɦ ɢɡ ɮɚɤɬɨɪɨɜ ɛɵɥɨ ɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɟ ɤ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɟ. Ɇɧɨɝɢɟ ɜ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɦ ɫɨɨɛɳɟɫɬɜɟ ɢɦɟɥɢ ɤɨɫɦɨɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɧɨɟ ɦɢɪɨɜɨɡɡɪɟɧɢɟ, ɫɦɟɲɢɜɚɹɫɶ ɫ ɞɪɭɝɢɦɢ ɟɜɪɨɩɟɣɰɚɦɢ ɢ ɤɢɬɚɣɰɚɦɢ, ɜ ɬɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɤɚɤ ɞɪɭɝɢɟ ɫɬɪɟɦɢɥɢɫɶ ɫɨɯɪɚɧɢɬɶ ɬɨ, ɱɬɨ ɨɧɢ ɫɱɢɬɚɥɢ ɩɨɞɥɢɧɧɨɣ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ

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Abstracts

ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɨɣ, ɫɜɨɛɨɞɧɨɣ ɨɬ ɛɨɥɶɲɟɜɢɫɬɫɤɢɯ ɜɥɢɹɧɢɣ. ɇɚɫɬɨɹɳɚɹ ɪɚɛɨɬɚ ɧɚɩɪɚɜɥɟɧɚ ɧɚ ɬɨ, ɱɬɨɛɵ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɢɬɶ ɧɟɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɜɵɜɨɞɵ ɨ ɪɨɥɢ, ɤɨɬɨɪɭɸ ɢɝɪɚɥɢ ɲɚɧɯɚɣɫɤɢɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɜ ɪɚɡɜɢɬɢɢ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ ɫɮɟɪɵ ɒɚɧɯɚɹ. Ɉɧɚ ɨɫɧɨɜɚɧɚ ɧɚ ɨɛɲɢɪɧɨɣ ɪɚɛɨɬɟ ɫ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɚɦɢ ɧɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɦ ɹɡɵɤɟ, ɫɨɡɞɚɧɧɵɦɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɞɢɚɫɩɨɪɨɣ ɒɚɧɯɚɹ, ɫɨɛɪɚɧɧɵɦɢ ɢɡ ɚɪɯɢɜɨɜ ɢ ɯɪɚɧɢɥɢɳ ɩɨ ɜɫɟɦɭ ɦɢɪɭ. Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɜ ɒɚɧɯɚɟ ɭɱɪɟɞɢɥɢ ɧɟɫɤɨɥɶɤɨ ɝɚɡɟɬ ɢ ɠɭɪɧɚɥɨɜ ɨɫɬɚɜɢɜ ɜ ɪɟɡɭɥɶɬɚɬɟ ɫɨɬɧɢ ɩɟɱɚɬɧɵɯ ɡɚɩɢɫɟɣ.

Ɋɟɛɟɤɤɚ Ɇɢɬɱɟɥɥ—«Ʌɟɨɧɢɞ ɋɚɛɚɧɟɟɜ ɢ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɚɹ ɦɟɬɚɮɢɡɢɤɚ ɩɨɫɥɟ 1917ɝɨ ɝɨɞɚ» ȼ ɞɚɧɧɨɣ ɫɬɚɬɶɟ, ɫ ɩɨɦɨɳɶɸ ɩɨɞɯɨɞa «ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɩɨɧɹɬɢɣ» (Begriffsgeschichte) Ɋɟɣɧɯɚɪɬɚ Ʉɨɫɟɥɥɟɤɚ, ɢɫɫɥɟɞɭɟɬɫɹ ɞɟɹɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɶ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɚ ɢ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɚ Ʌɟɨɧɢɞɚ ɋɚɛɚɧɟɟɜɚ ɩɨɫɥɟ 1917 ɝɨɞɚ, ɤɚɤ ɩɪɢɦɟɪ ɬɨɝɨ, ɤɚɤ ɢ ɜ ɧɨɜɨɣ ɫɬɪɚɧɟ ɋɨɜɟɬɨɜ, ɬɚɤ ɢ ɫɪɟɞɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɢɦɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ, ɫɢɦɜɨɥɢɱɟɫɤɨɟ ɡɧɚɱɟɧɢɟ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ ɩɪɨɞɨɥɠɚɥɨ ɢɧɬɟɪɩɪɟɬɢɪɨɜɚɬɶɫɹ ɩɨɫɪɟɞɫɬɜɨɦ ɢɧɬɟɥɟɤɬɭɚɥɶɧɵɯ ɤɚɬɟɝɨɪɢɣ, ɫɥɨɠɢɜɲɢɯɫɹ ɞɨ 1917 ɝɨɞɚ. ȼ ɬɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɤɚɤ ɤɨɧɰɟɩɬɭɚɥɶɧɚɹ ɨɫɧɨɜɚ, ɢɫɩɨɥɶɡɭɟɦɚɹ ɋɚɛɚɧɟɟɜɵɦ ɞɥɹ ɚɧɚɥɢɡɚ ɪɨɥɢ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ ɨɫɬɚɜɚɥɚɫɶ ɧɚ ɭɞɢɜɥɟɧɢɟ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɬɟɥɶɧɨɣ ɤɚɤ ɞɨ, ɬɚɤ ɢ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɢ, ɩɨɫɬɟɩɟɧɧɨɟ ɪɚɡɨɱɚɪɨɜɚɧɢɟ ɜ ɤɨɧɟɱɧɨɦ ɬɪɢɭɦɮɟ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɩɪɨɝɪɟɫɫɚ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ, ɩɪɢɜɟɥɨ ɤ ɬɨɦɭ, ɱɬɨ ɋɚɛɚɧɟɟɜ ɩɨɜɟɪɧɭɥɫɹ ɤ ɫɭɛɴɟɤɬɢɜɧɨɣ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɢɞɟɚɥɢɡɢɪɨɜɚɧɧɨɝɨ ɩɪɨɲɥɨɝɨ, ɚɫɫɨɰɢɢɪɭɟɦɨɝɨ ɫ ɩɨɬɟɪɟɧɧɵɦ ɦɢɪɨɦ ɢɦɩɟɪɫɤɨɣ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ.

ȼɢɬɚ ɋɭɫɚɤ—“Ⱦɜɚ ɝɨɞɚ ɜ Ʉɨɧɫɬɚɧɬɢɧɨɩɨɥɟ” Ⱥɥɟɤɫɟɹ Ƚɪɢɳɟɧɤɨ, ɢɥɢ ɰɜɟɬɨɞɢɧɚɦɨɫ ɜ ɋɬɚɦɛɭɥɟ ɋɬɚɦɛɭɥ ɛɵɥ ɤɪɚɬɤɢɦ ɬɪɚɧɡɢɬɧɵɦ ɩɭɧɤɬɨɦ ɞɥɹ ɛɨɥɶɲɢɧɫɬɜɚ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ ɢɡ Ɋɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɨɣ ɢɦɩɟɪɢɢ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɢ 1917 ɝ. Ɉɧɢ ɦɟɱɬɚɥɢ ɞɨɛɪɚɬɶɫɹ ɞɨ ɡɚɩɚɞɧɨɣ ȿɜɪɨɩɵ. ɍ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɨɜ ɧɟ ɛɵɥɨ ɫɪɟɞɫɬɜ ɢ ɜɨɡɦɨɠɧɨɫɬɟɣ ɱɬɨ-ɬɨ ɫɨɡɞɚɜɚɬɶ ɜ ɋɬɚɦɛɭɥɟ. ɗɬɨ ɪɚɫɯɨɠɟɟ ɦɧɟɧɢɟ ɧɟ ɫɨɨɬɜɟɬɫɬɜɭɟɬ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɟɹ Ƚɪɢɳɟɧɤɨ (1883-1977) – ɭɤɪɚɢɧɫɤɨɝɨ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɚ, ɨɞɧɨɝɨ ɢɡ ɭɱɚɫɬɧɢɤɨɜ ɚɜɚɧɝɚɪɞɚ 1910-ɯ ɝɝ. ɜ Ɇɨɫɤɜɟ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɣ ɩɨɤɢɧɭɥ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ ɜ 1919 ɝ. ɢ ɩɨɱɬɢ ɞɜɚ ɝɨɞɚ (1919-1921) ɩɪɨɜɟɥ ɜ Ʉɨɧɫɬɚɧɬɢɧɨɩɨɥɟ. Ʉɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɟ ɧɚɫɥɟɞɢɟ (ɜɢɡɚɧɬɢɣɫɤɢɟ ɩɚɦɹɬɧɢɤɢ, ɦɟɱɟɬɢ, ɩɟɪɫɢɞɫɤɚɹ ɦɢɧɢɚɬɸɪɚ) ɢ ɩɟɫɬɪɚɹ ɠɢɡɧɶ ɬɭɪɟɰɤɨɣ ɫɬɨɥɢɰɵ ɩɨɜɥɢɹɥɢ ɧɚ ɧɟɝɨ, ɧɚɲɥɢ ɤɨɧɤɪɟɬɧɨɟ ɩɪɨɹɜɥɟɧɢɟ ɜ ɝɨɪɨɞɫɤɢɯ ɜɢɞɚɯ, ɠɚɧɪɨɜɵɯ ɫɰɟɧɚɯ, «ɛɟɡɥɢɤɢɯ» ɩɨɪɬɪɟɬɚɯ ɢ ɢɡɨɛɪɚɠɟɧɢɹɯ ɬɭɪɟɰɤɢɯ

Transcending the Borders of Countries, Languages, and Disciplines in Russian Émigré Culture

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ɠɟɧɳɢɧ. Ʉɨɧɫɬɚɧɬɢɧɨɩɨɥɶɫɤɢɟ ɚɤɜɚɪɟɥɢ ɫɱɢɬɚɸɬɫɹ ɧɚɢɛɨɥɟɟ ɨɪɢɝɢɧɚɥɶɧɵɦɢ ɜ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɟ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɚ.

Ȼɟɬɬɢɧɚ ɘɧɝɟɧ—ɋɨɛɪɚɧɢɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ Ɍɨɦɚɫɚ ɍɣɬɧɢ: ɂɫɬɨɪɢɹ ɫɨɡɞɚɧɢɹ Ɍɨɦɚɫ ɉɨɪɬɟɪ ɍɢɬɧɢ (1917-2007) ɛɵɥ ɞɢɩɥɨɦɚɬɨɦ, ɠɭɪɧɚɥɢɫɬɨɦ, ɪɭɫɨɮɢɥɨɦ, ɤɨɥɥɟɤɰɢɨɧɟɪɨɦ ɪɟɞɤɢɯ ɤɧɢɝ, ɠɭɪɧɚɥɨɜ, ɪɭɤɨɩɢɫɟɣ ɢ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɣ ɜɢɡɭɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ. ȼ 1970ɯ ɢ 80ɯ ɨɧ ɫɨɛɪɚɥ ɤɨɥɥɟɤɰɢɸ ɢɡ ɛɨɥɟɟ, ɱɟɦ 650 ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɣ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ – ɤɚɪɬɢɧ, ɪɢɫɭɧɤɨɜ ɢ ɫɤɭɥɶɩɬɭɪ ɤɚɤ ɜɟɞɭɳɢɯ, ɬɚɤ ɢ ɦɟɧɟɟ ɢɡɜɟɫɬɧɵɯ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɨɜ ɦɨɞɟɪɧɢɡɦɚ ɢ ɧɨɧɤɨɧɮɨɪɦɢɡɦɚ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɢɤɨɧɨɩɢɫɧɵɯ ɪɚɛɨɬ. ɉɟɪɢɨɞ ɫɨɡɞɚɧɢɹ ɢɦ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɤɨɥɥɟɤɰɢɢ ɫɨɜɩɚɥ ɫ ɩɨɹɜɥɟɧɢɟɦ ɧɚ ɡɚɩɚɞɧɨɦ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɦ ɪɵɧɤɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɚɜɚɧɝɚɪɞɧɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ. ɍɢɬɧɢ ɩɪɢɨɛɪɺɥ ɛɨɥɶɲɭɸ ɱɚɫɬɶ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɣ ɧɚ ɚɭɤɰɢɨɧɚɯ, ɭ ɝɚɥɟɪɟɣ, ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɨɜ ɢ ɞɪɭɡɟɣ. Ɉɱɟɧɶ ɦɧɨɝɢɟ ɢɡ ɷɬɢɯ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɣ ɢɡɧɚɱɚɥɶɧɨ ɩɪɢɧɚɞɥɟɠɚɥɢ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɚɦ, ɢ ɧɟɦɚɥɨ ɩɨɤɭɩɨɤ ɛɵɥɨ ɫɞɟɥɚɧɨ ɩɪɢ ɩɨɫɨɛɧɢɱɟɫɬɜɟ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɢɫɚ Ɋɚɧɧɢɬɚ, ɷɫɬɨɧɫɤɨɝɨ ɩɨɷɬɚ, ɠɢɜɲɟɝɨ ɜ ɋɒȺ – ɞɪɭɝɚ ɢ ɫɨɜɟɬɱɢɤɚ ɍɢɬɧɢ. ɐɟɥɶɸ ɤɨɥɥɟɤɰɢɨɧɟɪɚ ɛɵɥɨ ɫɨɡɞɚɧɢɟ ɦɟɦɨɪɢɚɥɚ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɢɧɬɟɥɥɢɝɟɧɰɢɢ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɢ ɜ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ.

CONTRIBUTORS

Lina Bernstein received her doctoral degree in comparative literature from the University of Massachusetts. She then taught Russian and comparative literature at Franklin and Marshall College. She has published on topics in Russian cultural history spanning the eighteenth through twentieth centuries, including a monograph on Nikolai Gogol’s last book, which considered the book’s reception history and cultural significance. Subsequent essays have been on topics in art and literature and the individuals who created them, including nineteenth-century Russian salon culture, Russian letter-writing manuals, and eighteenth-century Russian merchant portraits. She is currently working on a biography of the Russian/Indian artist Magda Nachman. Matteo Bertelé is a post-doc research fellow and works as a contract lecturer in “History of Modern Art in Eastern Europe” and as scientific secretary of the Centre of Studies of Russian Art (CSAR) at the Department of Philosophy and Cultural Heritage of Ca' Foscari University of Venice. In 2011 he obtained his Ph.D. with a thesis on the History of Russian Art, partially published in the book Russian Artists at the Venice Biennale 1895-2013, which was nominated “Book of the Year” by the “Art Newspaper Russia”. Since 2006 he has been a member of the research group “Russkie v Italii” (www.russinitalia.it). His main research projects and publications regard Russian émigré artists, Soviet and Socialist visual culture, exhibition studies, and the cultural dimension of the Cold War. Wim Coudenys is professor of Russian and European (cultural) history at the University of Leuven (KU Leuven). He specialises in Belgian-Russian cultural relations and the history of the Russian emigration. He is the author of a biography of the prolific émigré writer Ivan Nazhivin (Onedelachtbaren! 1999) and of a history of the Russian emigration in Belgium (Leven voor de tsaar. 2004). In 2014 he published an ‘alternative’ history of Russia (Het geheugen van Rusland) and his history of the Belgian-Russian (military) relations during WWI is due in 2017. In between, he did some research on the role of translation in the emergence of Russian history in the 18th century (in Kritika, forthcoming). Wim Coudenys is chairman of the Belgian Association of Slavists.

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Contributors

Ben Dhooge wrote his Ph.D. dissertation on Andrej Platonov’s language (2007, Ghent University). Currently he is a research professor of Russian literature at the Department of Languages and Cultures at Ghent University and a postdoctoral scholar at the Research Fund Flanders. His research focuses on early twentieth-century Russian literature, both Soviet and émigré. He has been working on Platonov’s œuvre, the reception of linguistic experimentation in literature in early 20th century Russian émigré culture, on the “constructivist” journal Vešþ’-Gegenstand-Objet, on the Prague literary community Skit Poơtov, and on the émigré literary reception of the Revolution and the Civil war during the interwar period. Marina Dmitrieva is a Senior Researcher in Art History at the Leibniz Institute of History and Culture of Eastern Europe (GWZO) in Leipzig, Germany. Her fields of interest include the transnational aspects of the visual culture in Central and Eastern Europe from the Renaissance to postsocialist urban space, and the historiography of art. Before joining the Leipzig Centre in 1996, she was a researcher at the Institute of Art History in Moscow and taught at the universities of Freiburg i. Br., Basel, Hamburg and Bremen in Germany. She is currently involved in a research project on the utopian imagination in Central and Eastern Europe. Elena Dubinets is Vice President of Artistic Planning for the Seattle Symphony and Affiliate Assistant Professor at the University of Washington. She has published four books and numerous articles, primarily on contemporary Russian and American music. She was a NEH fellow at America’s Russian-speaking Immigrants & Refugees Summer Institute at Columbia University in New York (2013) and a stipendiary at the Paul Sacher Stiftung in Basel (2002). Dubinets has given presentations at the meetings of the American Musicological Society, Society for American Music, International Musicological Society, Sowjetische Musik im Ausland (Hanover) and other conferences. Dubinets received M.A. and Ph.D. degrees from the Moscow State Tchaikovsky Conservatory in Russia and has lived in the U.S. since 1996. Dagmar Gramshammer-Hohl is Senior Lecturer in the Department of Slavic Studies at the University of Graz, Austria. She studied Slavic and Romance languages, literatures, and cultures in Graz, Moscow, and Rouen and holds two master’s and a doctoral degree from the University of Graz. She specialises in literary and cultural studies with a focus on 20th-century Russian literature, gender, and age/aging studies. In her Ph.D. thesis (2002) she analysed representations of women’s aging in Russian liter-

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ature. Her current research project focuses on narratives of homecoming in Russian and Bosnian/Croatian/Serbian literature of exile. D. Gramshammer-Hohl is an alumna of the Austrian Academy of Sciences. In 2011 she received the Excellence in Teaching Award of the University of Graz. Ayúenur Güler was a Research Assistant in the Department of Art History at the Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University in Istanbul between 2011 and 2017. Ms Güler completed her PhD at the Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University in 2014 and obtained her Master’s degree in art history from the same institution in 2009. She holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in International Affairs from the George Washington University. Ms Güler’s dissertation focused on the life and works of øbrahim ÇallÕ (1882-1960), the leading painter of the 1914 generation of Turkish artists. She has published numerous articles in Turkish on Alexis Gritchenko, the Russian artist of Ukrainian origin, and his relation to the Turkish artists of the 1914 generation during his sojourn in Istanbul (1919-1921). Ms Güler’s research interest lies in the area of early 20th century Turkish painting and 18-19th century European painting and sculpture. She has taught 18th and 19th century European Painting and Sculpture at the Department of Art History at the Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University. She currently resides in London and continues to work on her book project. Bettina Jungen was the Thomas P. Whitney, Class of 1937, Curator of Russian Art at the Mead Art Museum at Amherst College in Amherst, Massachusetts, from 2009 to 2016, where she researched the collection and publicly presented it in nearly a dozen thematic exhibitions. Her scholarly expertise lies in the areas of early twentieth-century Russian and European modernism as well as Soviet art. Since earning her PhD from the University of Zurich, with a thesis on Russian-Soviet sculptor Vera Mukhina, Jungen has published widely on Mukhina and early Soviet art, taught art history at the universities in Zurich and Basel, and lectured in the US and Europe. For her work on the Whitney collection, she received fellowships from the Likhachev Foundation in St Petersburg and the National Endowment for the Humanities. Olga Keller: After completing her M.A. in Art History and Slavic Literature (Justus-Liebig University in Giessen), 2013 she started her doctoral research analysing and contextualising Ilya Kabakov’s artistic practice and international perception. Her further research interests in Russian art of the 20th century as well as in contemporary Russian culture were presented on several international conferences.

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Contributors

Marina Lupishko has studied history, music theory, and musicology in Ukraine, the USA, and Canada. Her Ph.D. dissertation about the influence of the metrics of Russian folk poetry on Stravinsky’s music was defended at Cardiff University in 2006. Marina Lupishko has presented at international conferences in Europe, Russia, and the USA, and has published her research in Mitteilungen der Paul Sacher Stiftung, ex tempore, Russian Literature, Australian Slavonic and Eastern European Studies, Musurgia, Wiener Slawistischer Almanach, as well as in the collections Russian Emigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution? (2013) and Music and Figurative Arts in the 20th Century (2016). In 2013-2015 she was an Alexander von Humboldt postdoctoral fellow at Jacobs University Bremen and Saarland University, Saarbrücken. Simo Mikkonen is Academy of Finland Research Fellow at the Department of History and Ethnology, University of Jyväskylä (Finland). He is specialised in 20th Century Russian and Eastern European history, cultural and artistic diplomacy, and émigrés. He has published extensively on cultural, international and transnational East-West connections, particularly from the Soviet perspective, including a monograph State Composers and the Red Courtiers. Music, Ideology and Politics in the Soviet 1930s (Mellen 2009), and edited volumes Beyond the Curtain: Entangled Histories of the Cold War-Era Europe (Berghahn 2015), as well as Music, Art, and Diplomacy: East-West Cultural Interactions and the Cold War (Routledge 2016). Rebecca Mitchell is an Assistant Professor of Russian History at Middlebury College (Vermont, USA). Her research interests include Russian and European cultural/intellectual history and the interconnections between music and identity. Her first book, Nietzsche’s Orphans: Music, Metaphysics and the Twilight of the Russian Empire (Yale University Press, 2016), which was awarded the 2016 W. Bruce Lincoln Book Prize by the Association for Slavic, East European and Eurasian Studies (ASEEES), examines the interrelationship between imperial identity, nationalist tensions, philosophical ideals, and musical life in the final years of the Russian Empire (1905-1917). Vita Susak: Museum Curator, Art Historian, PhD in Art History (the State Institute of Art History, Moscow, 1997). During 1992-2016 she worked as a chief curator of the Department of European Art (19th-20th cc.) in the Lviv National Gallery of Arts in Ukraine. She taught at the Ivan Franko National University of Lviv. Vita Susak has published numerous articles

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on Ukrainian, Polish, Jewish, Russian modern art history. She has obtained a number of fellowships (the Diderot, 2000; the Gaude Polonia, 2006; the Landis & Gyr, 2006) and she was a Fulbright scholar at the Columbia University in New York (2008-2009). In 2010, she published the monograph Ukrainian Artists in Paris. 1900-1939 (in Ukrainian, English and French). Olga Velitchkina received her Master's Degree from the Moscow Tchaikovsky Conservatory and then a PhD in Ethnomusicology from the Ohio State University in 1998. Since then she has been living and working in France where she is currently an independent researcher and artistic director of the association LADO including several performing groups. She is a member of the French Society for Ethnomusicology and has taken part in numerous international conferences on subjects concerning Russian and Soviet music and Russian traditional music. Svetlana Zvereva is a Senior Research Fellow at the State Institute for Art Studies, Moscow. A specialist in Russian music of the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries, including the Russian diasporas, and in late-medieval Russian music, she has published a monograph on Kastalsky in Russian (1998) and English (Ashgate, 2003), and edited the multi-volume series Russian Sacred Music in Documents and Materials (1998 to the present) and the symposium The Russia Abroad: Music and Russian Orthodoxy (2013). She has contributed articles to Die Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart, Pravoslavnaya entsiklopediya, Istoriya russkogo iskusstva, etc. She teaches Russian to graduate students of singing at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland and is joint musical director of Russkaya Cappella (Glasgow).

INDEX

Abdülaziz, Sultan 120 Abdülmecid, Sultan 120 Ablazhei, N. 63 Ablova, N. 61, 63–64, 67–68 Abrikosova, N. 181 Abulafia, A. 337 Acharya, M. P. T. 145–146 Adamovich, G. 22, 41 Addis, M. 332–333 Adzhubey, A. 163 Afonsky, N. P. 258–260 Ahern, C. 15 Aigi, G. 202 Akhmatova, A. A. 293, 309, 312– 313, 315 Aksakov, S. 74–76 Alaverdian-Nazarian, K. 48–49 Alba, R. 329 Alekseyev, K. S. 249 Alekseyeva, A. F. 266 Amundsen, R. 31 Andreenko, M. 210 Andreev, N. 180–182, 185, 187–188 Andreeva, E. 187–188 Andres, M. 128–129 Andreyev, M. I. 266 Andreyev, N. 21 Andreyev, S. Y. 263 Andreyevsky, P. I. 258 Andriessen, L. 334 Anisfeld, B. 201 Annenkov, Y. 212 Antonov, V. 89 Antonova, I. 164 Antonova, V. 104 Ara, K. H 143 Arapova, Y. 207 Archipenko, A. 120 Arel, R. 119

Arkhangel’sky, A. A. 247–248, 256, 263 Arnol’dov, L. 68 Arsen’yev, A. 263 Arsen’yev, B. P. 263 Arseven, C. E. 129 Arslanyan, V. 128 Artun, D. 129 Artyomova, E. G. 252 Asaf, H. 115 Atatürk, K. 120 Aurilene, E. 63, 70 Averin, B. V. 8 Avshalomov, A. 335–337 Avtonomova, N. 180 Azad, M. 153, 155 Azadovsky, K. M. 284 Bach, J. S. 236, 262 Backvis, C. 48–49, 51 Bagatov, A. 328 Bailey, J. 273, 286–287, 291, 293, 299 Bakhrakh, A. 277–279, 282, 316 Bakhtin, M. 317 Bakst, L. 144 Bal’mont, K. D. 240 Balakirev, M. A. 257 Balakshin, P. 63, 66 –67 Baldacci, P. 161 Barron, S. 209 Bassin, M. 174 Beghin, L. 49 Beglov, A. K. 252–254 Behring, E. 3–4 Beißwenger, M. 174, 176, 179 Bel’sky, M. 260 Beloshevskaya, L. 19, 22–23, 25, 44 Belting, H. 221

366 Bely, A. 274–277, 279, 285, 292, 297, 316 Belyaev, N. 183–184, 186–187, 189 Belyaev, S. A. 174 Belyutin, E. 164, 166 Beneš, E. 181 Benois, A. 205, 207 Benois-Cherkesova, A. 205 Benua, N. 205 Bergere, M.-C. 61, 63–65 Berk, N. 127, 129 Bernstein, L. 143–158 Bertelé, M. 159–172 Besson, J. 49 Betz, M. 104 Bhabha, H. 152–155 Bielka 89, 93–98 Bilibin, I. 190–191, 207 Bittner, Z. 75 Blakkisrud, H. 325 Blinova, O. 39 Blok, A. A. 49, 240, 275, 278 Blokina, A. 4, 14 Bloom, H. 147 Boberman, A. 164 Boberman, E. 160 Bocharova, Z. S. 255 Boelaere, F. V. T. v. 53 Bowlt, J. 210 Boyar, A. S. 119 Boym, S. 3, 14, 217, 222–225, 234 Brandt, V. 191 Braque, G. 143 Breshko-Breshkovskaya, E. 192 Breshko-Breshkovsky, N. 24 Brewer, M. B. 327 Brik, O. M. 276, 285–286 Brinton, C. 202 Brodsky, I. 12–14, 289 Bronfen, E. 4 Bronfman, Y. 324–325 Brouwers, J. 52 Brown, O. 156 Bryullov, K. 163 Bryusov, V. Y. 273 Bucarelli, P. 165–166

Index Buck-Morss, S. 222–225 Buddensieg, A. 221 Buden, B. 223–225 Buketov, I. K. 257, 264 Bulgakov, V. F. 189–190 Bunin, I. A. 6–7 Burliuk, D. 203 Burliuk, V. 203 Bɺm, A. 22–23, 34 Caccamo, F. 166 ÇallÕ, ø. 114, 119, 121–130, 132– 133, 135–139 Campbell, S. 257, 267 Caravaggio, M. 162 Çelebi, A. A. 126 Cézanne, P. 104 Cezar, M. 120–121, 123 Chagall, M. 190, 203 Chasnik, I. 207, 209 Chatsky, L. L. ( = Strakhovksy, L. I.) 48 Chauvelin, J. 203, 205 Chaykovsky, P. I. 47, 70 Chekhov, A. P. 49 Chemdi, Bey 132 Cherepnin, N. N. 76, 250, 255–257 Cherkasskaya, M. 70 Chesnokov, A. G. 256, 261 Chesnokov, P. G. 249–250, 255 Chinnov, I. 8, 11–12 Chinyaeva, E. 181 Chukhrov, K. 225–226 Chzhichen, V. 59–60, 62–65, 262 Ciano, G. 160 Cimcoz, S. 128 Closson, E. 47 Çoker, A. 123, 126, 129 Colin, P. 51 Commager, H. S. 199 Corinth, L. 129 Cormon, F. 123, 129 Coudenys, W. 47–58 Crane, C. R. 182 Crane, J. 182, 191 Crispolti, E. 165–169 D’Monte, B. 151

Transcending the Borders of Countries, Languages, and Disciplines in Russian Émigré Culture D’Monte, D. 151 Daisne, J. 53 Dalmia, V. 149 Damerini, G. 161 Dandová, M. 174 Danilin, N. M. 249 Danilova, I. F. 8 DanÕú, N. S. 122 Dante 9 Dargomyzhsky, A. S. 49, 70 Darwin, C. 237 Davis, J. E. 200 Degot’, E. 169, 217 Derzhanovsky, V. 232 Dhooge, B. 19–46 Diaghilev, S. 72, 148 Dimitrievich, A. 81, 93–96 Dmitrieva, M. 173–198 Dobroveyn, I. A. 256 Dobuzhinsky, M. 144, 190, 207 Dobychina, N. E. 144 Dol’sky, L. P. 259 Don-Aminado ( = Shpolyansky, A. P.) 48 Dostoyevsky, F. M. 49, 52–53, 323 Dovgello-Remizova, S. 204 Dubinets, E. 323–342 Dudin, I. 120 Duppierreux, R. 49–51 Duran, F. 131 Duranty, W. 200 Dust, C. E. 143 Dyukov, Y. F. 256 Eck, A. 51 Efanova, L. E. 253 Efron, I. 145 Efron, S. 145, 275, 290 Ehrenburg, I. G. ( = Erenburg, I. G.) Ekk, A. 49 Elenev, N. 190 Emel’yanov, N. E. 254 Emerson, C. 308 Enisherlov, M. 252 Enka, N. 260 Epstein, M. 223 Erenburg, I. G. 52, 275

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Erol, T. 121 Es, H. F. 128, 138 Esman, R. 203–204 Etkind, E. G. 49, 287, 313 Evald, Z. 339 Exter, A. 190, 207 Eykhenbaum, B. M. 276–277, 284– 286 Eysner, A. 35, 38 Eyübo÷lu, B. R. 126 Fal’k, R. 202, 209 Fallaci, N. 167 Favorsky, V. 212 Feokritov, M. I. 258 Ferik Tevfik, Paúa 121 Fet, A. A. 276 Feyhaman, ø. 119 Fierens, P. 50, 125, 137 Fikret, T. 128 Filanovsky, B. 330–332 Filip, Hieromonk 255, 261, 263 Filonov, P. N. 202, 204, 207, 209 Finko, D. 334–335, 337 Firsova, E. 329 Fischer, G. 50 Fischer, H. 203 Fiveysky, M. M. 257, 263 Flaherty-Jones, S. 199 Fonteyn, M. 73 Foster, L. 20, 39 Fotinsky, A. 38, 40 Fowle, K. 217 Frank, A. 334 French, P. 73 Friedberg, N. 273, 283 Friedman, M. 104 Fuller, C. F. 120–121 Gabo, N. 200, 204, 210 Galeeva, T. 192 Galich, A. A. 8, 12, 95 Galitzine, D. 81 Gandhi, M. 192 Gandhy, K. 149–150 Garov, M. ( = Gagarin, M. A.) 48, 50 Gary, R. 86–87

368 Gasparov, M. 180, 287 Gavriil, Bishop 263 Genghis Khan 180 Gervais, J. P. 129 Gijsen, M. 53 Gippius, E. 339 Gippius, Z. N. 41–42, 204 Girša, J. 182–183 Glagolev, A. P. 264 Glazunov, A. K. 75–76, 255 Glebov, S. 174 Glinka, M. I. 70, 335 Gmurzynska, A. 203 Goethe, J. W. 160 Goetz, H. 143, 150, 153–154, 156 Gofman, M. L. 49–50 Gogol’, N. V. 29 Golovanov, N. S. 251, 253 Golovina, A. 32 Goncharova, N. 202–203, 207, 209, 213 Gorbi, S. 93 Gören, A. K. 123, 129 Göring, H. 160 Gorky, M. 192 Gorodetsky, S. M. 274 Gorodilin, V. V. 262 Gorokhov, I. 248 Gotami, L. 143 Gottwald, K. 189 Goul, I. 206 Goul, R. 200, 204, 280 Goulesco, L. 92 Govinda, A. 143 Grabilin, G. 264 Gramsci, A. 161 Gramshammer-Hohl, D. 3–17 Gray, C. 104, 202 Grechaninov, A. T. 76, 250, 255– 256, 261 Grégoire, H. 48–49, 51 Grekov, B. D. 189 Grigor’ev, B. 191–194, 201, 207, 209 Grigor’yev, T. I. 266 Grigor’yeva, A. V. 249

Index Grigoriev, B. ( = Grigor’ev, B.) Grin’kov, A. V. 263 Grinev, A. 212 Gritchenko, A. 103–117, 119–120, 123–128, 130–139 Grosse, V. 66 Grouas, C.-A. 51 Groys, B. 216–221, 223 Gubaidulina, S. A. 273, 292–298, 300–303, 305–308, 317, 326 Guerra, R. 210 Güler, A. 103, 119–141 Günay, ø. S. 129, 131, 135–136, 139 Gupta, R. C. 143 Güran, N. Z. 119 Guro, E. 203, 212–213 Gurvich, I. 205 Gustova, L. 266 Guttuso, R. 167–168 Haas, V. 143 Hácha, E. 189 Halil, Paúa 121 Hall, S. 330 Hamdi, O. 121–123, 139 Hammer, M. 210 HanÕm, M. 114–115, 124, 132, 136 Hann, C. 174 Hansen-Löve, A. 276–277 Hardwick, S. 77 Hartwell, W. M. 143 Haydar, A. 136 Haydn, J. 262 Hessen, V. 204–205 Hitler, A. 189, 265 Hlaváþková, H. 183 Hofmann, H. 126 Holbrook, M. B. 332–333 Holger, H. 143–144, 146, 151, 155– 156 Hollerbach, E. 206 Hollerbach, S. 206, 211 Homer 12, 29 Horch, L. L. 186 Hordynsky, S. 120 Hoste, J. 50, 53 Hüseyin Zekai, Paúa 121

Transcending the Borders of Countries, Languages, and Disciplines in Russian Émigré Culture Hüsnü Yusuf, Bey 121 Hussain, M. F. 143 Hutchings, S. C. 8 Hutton, I. 202 Hutton, L. 203 øbrahim, Paúa 121 Il’yashenko, A. S. 48, 50, 256 Ioann Konstantinovich, Grand Duke 251 øsmail Zühtü, Bey 128 øsmail, N. 114–115, 119, 121, 128– 131, 133–139 Ismail, Ü. ( = øsmail, U.) øsmail, U. 114–116, 136 Ismailovitch, D. ( = Izmailovych, D.) Iurgenson, B. 235 Ivanov, G. 12, 21–22, 41 Ivanov, V. V. 309 Ivanovich, P. 86, 95 Ivanovich, S. 86, 95 Ivask, G. 307 Izmailovych, D. 106, 124, 130 Izvekov, G. Y. 251 øzzet, Bey 122 Jakobson, R. O. 180–181 Janþárková, J. 187, 190–191 Jones, S. 69 Joostens, R. 52 Jordon, P. A. 232 Juda, A. 203 Jungen, B. 199–214 Kabakov, I. I. 215–223, 225–226 Kalitinsky, A. P. 184–185, 187 Kamensky, V. 192, 209 Kancheli, G. 326 Kandaurov, K. V. 144 Kandinsky, W. 147, 203 Kaptan, A. 128 Karásek, J. 190 Karlinsky, S. 273–274, 278–280, 286, 306, 309 Kastal’sky, A. D. 247, 250 Kazakevich, A. N. 247 Kazansky, K. 81, 84–86, 88

369

Kedrov, N. N. 251–252, 255–256, 260 Keller, O. 215–228 Kerrigan, J. J. 117 Khalpakhch’yan, V. 163 Khardzhiev, N. 205 Kharkevich, A. 248 Khisamutdinov, A. A. 63, 68, 262– 263 Khodasevich, V. F. 28, 41, 273– 274, 316 Kholopova, V. 292–293, 304 Kholshevnikov, V. 287 Khrushchev, N. 163 Kibal’chich, V. F. 248, 256, 263 Kissine, V. 327 Klee, P. 147 Klimov, E. 188 Klimov, M. G. 250 Klyun, I. 207 Knyazeff, B. 205 Kocamemi, Z. 126 Kohn, H. 143, 156 Kol’esnikova, E. 70–71 Kolchin, I. A. 261–262 Kolmogorov, A. 309 Konchalovski, P. 120 Kondakov, N. P. 173, 175–180, 183–185, 189, 194–195 Konstantinov, M. S. 266 Kopecká, L. 174 Kopytman, M. 336–338 Koselleck, R. 233–234 Kostin, F. V. 263 Kostina, D. 192 Kotlyarevsky, N. M. 49 Koulakov, M. ( = Kulakov, M.) 159, 164–169 Kovalevsky, M. 260 Kovalevsky, P. Y. 255, 259, 261 Kovalevsky, Y. 260 Kovalyov, B. N. 265 Kozhin, N. A. 256 KramaĜ, K. 181 Krasnov, P. 24 Kravchinsky, M. 81, 93

370 Krayny, A. 42 Krbets, I. V. 256 Krein, A. 239–244 Krieger, V. 104 Kudriavtseva, E. 199, 203 Kulbin, N. 203 Kundera, M. 5, 6 Kupchinsky, D. G. 50 Kürkman, G. 129 Kusevitsky, S. A. 257 Kushner, B. 277 Kuznetsov, N. 91 Kuznetsova, K. 71 Kvyatkovsky, A. P. 277 Kyzlasova, I. 176 Lachmann, R. 5, 15 Laitin, D. D. 333 Landowska, W. 192 Larionov, M. 207–209, 213 Laruelle, M. 174, 330 Laurens, J. P. 133 Lawall, D. 211 Lazarev, V. 177 Le Fauconnier, H. 120 Lebedev, V. 8–9, 11, 22–23, 25, 27– 29, 31–35, 37–38, 41–42, 44 Ledkovsky, B. M. 259 Lednicki, W. 51 Léger, F. 117 Léhar, F. 69 Lelekova, O. V. 261 Lembich, M. 68 Lempert, Y. 204 Lenin 31, 90 Lermontov, M. Y. 49, 276, 285 Levitina, E. 71 Levitt, M. C. 47 Levkovets, I. 94 Leyden, R. van 147, 156 Leytes, R. 335 Lhote, A. 120 Liebermann, M. 129 Lifij, D. 119 Lifij, H. A. 119 Likhutin, D. 191 Lindbergh, C. 34

Index Livak, L. 44 Lodder, C. 210 Loeffler, J. 334–335 Lomellini, V. 166 Long, E. 295 Longhi, R. 162 Lopato, L. 86, 92 Lossky, V. 260 Loti, P. 138 Louchek, P. de 94 Loutchek, M. de 92–95 Lozowick, L. 201 Luchek, M. de ( = Loutchek, M. de) Lukomsky, V. 297, 306 Lupishko, M. 273–321 Lyapunov, S. M. 250, 252 Maes, F. 306 Mahmud II., Sultan 120 Makary, Metropolitan 247 Makletsova, K. 72–73 Makovsky, S. 107 Malevich, K. S. 114, 202–203, 207, 209 Malevich, O. 22–23, 25– 27, 29, 31–33, 35, 37– 40, 44 Malevych, K. S. ( = Malevich, K. S.) Maltese, C. 161 Malyavin, F. 190 Mandelshtam, O. E. 273, 289–290, 309 Marcadé, V. 104 Martini, H. 91 Masainov, A. 20, 24 Masarýk, J. 182 Masarýk, T. G. 173, 177, 181–182, 189, 192, 195 Masaryková, A. 177, 182 Mashin, P. 74 Mashkov, I. 120 Maslov, Y. P. 263 Masterkova, L. 166 Matisse, H. 143 Maubeuge, L. de 117 Max, A. 49 Mayakovsky, V. V. 29, 273, 283

Transcending the Borders of Countries, Languages, and Disciplines in Russian Émigré Culture Mazyrin, A. 252 Mazza, A. 160 McBurney, G. 306 Meana, C. R. de 166 Medtner, N. 235 Meerzon, Y. 327 Mejlakh-Orlov, M. 212 Meleshkova, N. V. 263 Melikhov, G. V. 262 Merezhkovsky, D. S. 204 Merinov, D. 206 Merkert, J. 210 Meurant, R. 50 Meyerhold, V. E. 192 Meylaerts, R. 53 Micacchi, D. 168 Mickiewicz, A. 49 Miele, F. 164 Mijoin-Nemirovski, B. ( = Bielka) Mikhaylov, A. V. 250 Mikkonen, S. 59–79 Miloslavsky, P. P. 256 Minns, E. H. 176 Misiano, V. 217, 218, 225 Mitchell, R. 231–246 Mitrofanov, Protopriest 254 Mitter, P. 147–148 Mneva, N. 104 Mnoukhine, L. 86 Mnukhin, L. 279 Mochul’sky, K. 20 Molla, M. 164, 167 Moncada, G. 166 Moraine, F. 93 Móricz, K. 233–234, 244 Morkovin, V. 32 Morozov, I. 120 Moshevich, S. 309 Mozart, W. A. 262 Mukayiama, T. 338 Muratov, P. 160 Murin, A. A. 253 Murray Correa, G. 143 Mus, F. 49 Musatov, G. 192 Musorgsky, M. P. 47

371

Mussche, A. 53 Mussolini, B. 160, 163 Nabokov, V. V. 3, 22, 50, 145 Nachman, M. 143–150, 152–156 Naci, E. 128–129, 135, 138 Nadar, P. 137 Nagivine, I. F. ( = Nazhivin, I. F.) Nail, T. 81–82 NamÕk, ø. 135 Napoleon 35–36 Nash, S. A. 210 Naumov, A. A. 248 Nazhivin, I. F. 48 Nee, V. 329 Neizvestny, E. 164–165, 205–206 Neklyudova, M. 104 Nelson, A. 232, 238 Nemukhin, V. 166 Neubauer, J. 3 Nevzglyadova, E. 285 Niederle, L. 178 Nietzsche, F. 234–235 Nikishin, F. F. 263 Nikol’sky, A. V. 247, 250 Nikolayevich, M. I. 266 Nobile, U. 31 Novikov, N. 91–92 Novikova-Ryzhkova, A. N. 256 Obolensky, A. A. 263 Odoyevtseva, I. 8, 10–11 Oesterheld, J. 145 Ojetti, U. 160, 169 Okudzhava, B. 95 Okunev, N. 191 Okuneva, I. 185, 187 Ol’khov, K. A. 250 Olbrechts, A.-M. 52 Olcay, S. 128 Olenin, A. A. 251 Ömer Adil, Bey 132 Onat, B. 131 Onat, H. 119 Onatsky-Maline, M. 48 Orlovsky, N. 93 Osorgin, M. M. 259, 261 Otsup, N. 8–10

372 Ovchinnikov, I. 334 Paci, M. 74 Padamsee, A. 154 Paklin, N. 163 Palacký, F. 195 Pärt, A. 326 Partog, G. 87 Pasternak, B. L. 22, 278, 284, 291, 307, 316 Pasternak, E. B. 284 Pasternak, E. V. 284 Patorzhinsky, F. S. 259 Pavlova, A. 72–73 Pavlova, T. M. 266 Pekhar, G. I. 256 Pelvano÷lu, B. 132 Pen’kin, M. M. 262 Perel’muter, V. 47 Perov, V. 163 Perovsky-Petrovo-Solovovo, M. M. 48 Pertinax ( = Walschap, G.) Peterson, R. A. 333–334 Petras, C. 144–145 Petrova, E. 104 Petrov-Vodkin, K. 144–145, 207– 208 Picasso, P. 104, 143 Piérard, L. 51 Pistrick, E. 81–83 Platov, F. 277 Plavinskiy, D. 166 Pleskach, S. D. 266 Podzemskaïa, N. 106 Poetter, J. 104 Pohrille, I. 143, 156 Polevoy, B. 334 Pollock, J. 168 Polyakov, V. 81, 86 Popova, L. 207, 209 Postnikov, S. 181 Powell, J. 237 Pozhedaev, G. 205 Prakash, G. 146–147 Pries, A. 52 Pring, S. W. 239, 243

Index Prokofiev, O. 202 Prokofiev, S. S. 76, 168, 339 Puni, I. 190, 205 Pushkin, A. S. 29, 47–54, 71–72, 252, 263, 276, 306 Pushkin, N. A. 48–49 Rabinovitch-Barakovsky, A. 328 Rabinowitz, S. 199, 209 Rachmaninov, S. V. ( = Rakhmaninov, S. V) Raeff, M. 47, 68, 181, 232 Rafal’sky, S. 25, 27, 36, 39–40 Rakhmaninov, S. V. 70, 235, 249– 250, 256–257, 261 Rakhmanova, M. P. 248–250 Ranchin, A. 4, 14 Rannit, A. 200, 210–213 Rao, S. S. 148 Raskatov, A. 338–340 Rasovsky, D. 187 Raspopov, P. F. 262 Raysky, I. P. 262 Reccia, A. 159 Remarque, E. M. 85 Remennick, L. 329–330 Remizov, A. M. 7–8, 49, 204 René-Jean 117 Repin, I. 190 Rerikh, N. K. 186, 207 Reshetnikov, F. 162 Restagno, E. 292, 304 Rhinelander, L. H. 184 Rienecker, F. 7 Riha, T. 181 Rimsky-Korsakov, N. 76 Ristaino, M. 59–60, 62–63, 65–66 Riza, H. A. 121 Robinson, G. 200 Rockefeller, J. 34 Rodchenko, A. 207, 209 Rodionov, S. A. 259 Rodzianko, T. N. ( = Rodzyanko, T. N.) Rodzyanko, T. N. 174, 183, 187 Roerich, N. K. ( = Rerikh, N. K.) Roerich, S. 186

Transcending the Borders of Countries, Languages, and Disciplines in Russian Émigré Culture Roerich, Y. 185–186, 190 Roháþek, J. 174 Romanovsky, N. V. 250 Rona, Z. 129–130 Rosov, V. A. 186 Rossi, A. 161 Rostovtzeff, M. I. 184–185 Rovinsky, N. Y. 266–267 Roy, J. 143, 148 Rozanova, O. 203, 207 Rozenbaum, Y. A. 252 Rozhankovsky, F. 207 Rozov, K. V. 250 Rozova, I. K. 249–250 Rubinin, E. 50, 53 Rubinshtein, A. 70 Ruch’yevskaya, E. 312 Rukhin, E. 166 Rusakov, V. 48 Rushen 111 Ruslanova, L. 96 Ryabushinsky, V. 261 Ryklin, M. 216–218, 221–222, 225 Saakyants, A. 275–277, 307 Sabaneev, L. 76, 231–244 Sabaneyev, L. ( = Sabaneev, L.) Saburova, I. 11 Said, E. 330 Salih Zeki, Bey 132 Sandler, S. 47 Santagata, W. 326–327 Sasvári, E. 167 Savitsky, P. N. 174, 179 Savitsky, S. V. 263 Sayad, A. 81 Sbarbaro, S. 161 Schakhowskoy, Z. 50, 53 Schepens, J. 52 Schlögel, K. 181 Schnittke, A. 292, 308, 326 Schommer, F. 129 Schopenhauer, A. 234–235 Schubert, F. 74 Schuetz, A. 6 Schumann, R. 339 Schwarzenberg, F. 182

373

Schwarzenberg, K. 182 Sciltian, G. ( = Shiltyan, G.) 159– 164, 168–169 Scribner, C. 224 ùeker Ahmed, Paúa ( = Ahmed Ali Paúa) 121–122 Selivanov, P. 70 Seljak, A. 5 Serebrennikov, I. 68 Sergeant, H. 63–66 Seropian, R. 122 Severyanin, I. 274 ùevket ( = ùevket Da÷) 128 Seyid, S. 121 Sgarbi, V. 162 Shakespeare, W. 49 Shakhovskaya, Z. A. 48, 50, 53, 204 Shakhovskoy, D. 48 Shakhovskoy, I. 48 Shalyapin, F. I. 190, 259 Shcheblygina, I. 190 Shcheglov, N. N. 266–267 Shchukin, S. S. 120, 253 Shemyakin, M. 205 Shen, L. 73 Shengeli, G. 287 Sher-Gil, A. 153 Shestopalov, A. 86–87, 90, 93–96 Shevchenko, A. 104 Shevelenko, I. 273, 275, 279, 304, 306 Shirieva, N. 292–293, 297 Shkarovsky, M. V. 264 Shklovsky, V. B. 276 Shlapentokh, D. 174 Shostakovich, D. D. 252, 292, 306, 308–309, 311–313, 315, 317 Shrayer, M. 22 Shtern, A. 69 Shteynberg, M. O. 251, 255 Shulezhkova, S. G. 7 Shumsky, S. A. 250 Shushlin, V. 75 Shuvalov, M. P. 262 Shvedov, K. N. 255–256, 261 Sievers, E. 276, 285

374 Silova, S. V. 266 Simpson, J. 62 Sitnikov, V. 164–165 Sitsky, L. 232, 237 Skachkov, M. 31 Skriabin, A. N. ( = Skryabin, A. N.) Skryabin, A. N. 70, 235–237, 240– 243 Sládek, J. 179, 181 Sládek, Z. 181 Slobin, G. N. 21–22, 244 Slutsky, A. 75 Smirnov, D. 329 Smith, A. 273, 317 Smith, G. S. 273, 282, 285–289, 291, 293, 309, 312 Smith, S. 61 Sobarnitskaya, E. 93 Soldatenkov, K. T. 183 Solntsev, K. 204 Solodovnikov, S. P. 256 Sologub, F. 287 Solov’ev, V. 234 Solov’yov, L. F. 262 Solzhenitsyn, A. 199 Somov, K. 207 Souvtchinsky, P. P. ( = Suvchinsky, P. P.) Spassky, P. V. 259 Stalin 47, 189, 200–201, 266 Starodubtseva, Z. 169 Stendhal 160 Stock, U. 207 Stöckl, E. 47 Storr, R. 218 Stravinsky, I. F. 76, 168, 255, 257, 286 Struve, G. P. 50, 286 Strzygowski, J. 185, 195 Subhramaniam, C. S. 145 Susak, V. 103–118, 120 Suvchinsky, P. P. 258, 280, 282 Svetlanova, T. 71 Svitoslavsky, S. 120 Taborský, F. 190 Tahsin, O. 122

Index Taneyev, S. I. 253 Taras’yev, A. 263 Tarasov, O. 104 Tariverdiev, M. 292 Tatlin, V. 120 Taubman, W. 199 Tchaikovsky, P. I. ( = Chaykovsky, P. I.) Tcherepnin, N. N. ( = Cherepnin, N. N.) Tenisheva, M. C. 183 Ter-Abramoff, K. 86, 92 Thiery, H. 52–53 Tihanov, G. 22 Tikhonov, N. 22 Tinel, P. 49 Tingui, A. de 324 Tishchenko, B. 292 Toker, M. 122 Toll, N. 180, 184–185, 187 Tolstoy, A. 103, 190 Tolstoy, I. 175, 179 Tolstoy, L. N. 29, 189, 195 Toman, J. 181 Tomashevsky, B. V. 276 Törok, B. Z. 3 Trailin, S. A. 256, 263 Trimberg, S. v. 337 Troitskaya, S. S. 262 Troll’, N. P. 174 Trotsky, L. 273 Trubnikov, P. 91 Tsebrikov, G. A. 48 Tsenova, V. 292 Tsetlin, M. 41 Tsvetaeva, A. 275 Tsvetaeva, M. I. 3, 145, 273–292, 294–296, 298–308, 311–313, 315–317 Tsypin, V. 252 Tucker, M. 306 Tufanov, A. 277 Tuncay, M. 130 Tupitsyn, M. 217 Tupitsyn, V. 217 Turenkov, A. Y. 266

Transcending the Borders of Countries, Languages, and Disciplines in Russian Émigré Culture Turintsev, A. 22–26, 28–29, 34, 38, 41–42 Turoverov, N. 8, 10 Tynyanov, Y. N. 276 Tyushagin, V. V. 260 Tyutchev, F. I. 276 Uhliková, K. 173 Ul’shtein, F. 74 Valentinov, V. 69 Valeri, S. 122 Valk, S. N. 252 Valkenhoff, P. v. 52 Van Acker, A. 53 Vandervelde, E. 51 Varunts, V. 286 Vasil’eva, O. Y. 253–254 Vasil’ev-Buglay, D. S. 252 Vasiliev, A. 184 Vasnetsov, V. 87 Veber, I. R. 256 Velitchkina, O. 81–99 Veniamin, Metropolitan 251, 260 Venkatachalam, G. 149 Venturi, L. 162 Vernadsky, G. V. 174, 177–178, 180, 184 Vernick, C. 93, 95 Vertinsky, A. 95 Veydle, V. V. 8, 11, 50 Vildrac, C. 282 Vishnyak, A. 278 Vitkovsky, E. V. 4, 6, 11 Vivier, R. 50 Vivier, Z. 50 Volgin, V. P. 189 Volkonsky, S. M. 49–50, 292 Volkov, S. 306 Voloshin, M. 145 Voloshin, P. 93 Voronina, O. 47 Vysotsky, V. 95 Vzdornov, G. I. 261 Wagner, R. 70

375

Walschap, G. 52 Warnia-Zarzecki, J. 122 Wasserstrom, J. 63 Waters, E. N. 244 Wedgwood, J. I. 192 Whitney, J. 201 Whitney, T. P. 199–213 Whittemore, T. 117, 137 Winzenburg, J. 60 Wrangel, P. 25 Xiao, Y. 74 Ya÷basan, E. 129 Yang, H.-L. 60, 71, 74 Yankilevsky, V. 205 Yashvil, N. 182–183, 185, 187 Yelizaveta Fyodorovna, Grand Duchess 251 Yesenin, S. A. 22 Yetik, S. 119, 131 Yevlogy, Archbishop 258 Yevlogy, Metropolitan 254 Yevtushenko, B. S. 256 Yosef, N. M. 152 Yudenich, N. 25 Yuki, M. 327 Yuon, K. 120 Zaborov, P. R. 48 Zahra, T. 333 Zakharov, B. 74–75 Zalesskaya, Z. E. 261 Zanzi, E. 161 Zaretsky, N. 190, 207 Zaytsev, B. 21 Zharkikh, Y. 166 Zharov, S. A. 256, 261 Zheng, Y. 73 Zhiganov, V. 63, 71, 74–75 Zhirmunsky, V. M. 276–277, 287 Zhukovsky, V. A. 276 Zicheng, W. ( = Chzhichen, V.) Ziya, N. 123, 132 Zubova, L. 313 Zvereva, S. 247–271

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378

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