A good argument for keeping it brief, no matter what the circumstances. General Eisenhower displayed his talent—and genius—for simplicity. The occasion was the end of World War II. He had gathered his SHAEF officers around him for photographs and newsreels. Then it was time to sit down and write the cable informing the Allied commanders that they had at last prevailed in the greatest military effort in history. One by one, Ike’s officers sat down to compose the message, each more flowery and self-consciously historical than the last. Finally, Eisenhower thanked them all and wrote it himself: THE MISSION OF THIS ALLIED FORCE WAS FULFILLED AT 0241, LOCAL TIME, MAY 7TH, 1945.
But the most concise military dispatch of all time was sent in 1844—the same year the telegraph was invented—by General Sir Charles Napier, after he had successfully captured the Indian province of Sind, now in Pakistan. It was all of one word long: PECCAVI. In Latin, that translates: “I have sinned.”
Latin’s not in use much anymore among battlefield commanders, and now we live in a time when machines can transmit the entire text of Moby-Dick in less than a second. Who’s got time to be brief? But for a while there, the sending was awfully good.
—Forbes FYI, November 1998
WHAT’S A BODY TO DO?
Since the Soviet Union folded in 1991, Russia has been tippy-toeing around the dead mouse on the national living room floor, namely Lenin’s embalmed corpse.
Every few years, someone suggests doing something about it. Some weeks ago, Vladimir Medinsky, Russia’s minister of culture, said in a radio interview that he thought it was time Lenin was put to use pushing up the daisies. Not his exact words, but that was the basic drift.
When the subject came up in 2009, the Community Party leader, Gennadi A. Zyuganov, went predictably ballistic. These periodic suggestions send Russia’s old hard-line Communists into a spluttering rage. Yes, Russia still has a Communist Party; some myths really do die hard.
“Discussions about removal and reburial are simply provocative,” he declared. “Any attempt to vulgarize or rewrite the Soviet period and diminish the memory of Lenin . . . is an attempt to undermine the integrity of the Russian federation.”
Mr. Zyuganov runs for president on a regular basis, making him the Harold Stassen of Russian politics, only snarly and frightening.
According to an April opinion poll cited by the British newspaper The Guardian, more than half of Russians now favor burying the god that failed. In his radio interview, Mr. Medinsky pledged to make it an occasion to remember and to observe all the obsequies.
If nothing else, the prospect of a state funeral poses questions of protocol, like—who gets to represent the United States?
Answer: This is why we have vice presidents. Really, it would be worth it just for the look on Joe Biden’s face as the cortege moves past. And what an opportunity for some unscripted Bidenesque remarks.
I’ve just read a 1998 book called Lenin’s Embalmers, by Ilya Zbarsky and Samuel Hutchinson. It’s fascinating, in a horrible sort of way. Over the last eighty-eight years, Lenin’s corpse has had more adventures than most live people. In the words of the Grateful Dead, “what a long, strange trip it’s been.” The author, who died in 2007, was the son of Boris Zbarsky, one of Lenin’s original embalmers. Boris was keeper of the body for nearly thirty years, earning a pretty good living (by Soviet standards) and, better still, immunity from Stalin’s terror.
Dictator Remains Management was not at the time a huge field; more of a boutique industry. There just weren’t all that many scientists back then who knew how to keep a body fresh and pinkish. Stalin couldn’t afford to toss Boris into the Gulag along with tens of millions of other Russians. Boris wasn’t arrested and thrown into prison—for no particular reason—until 1952, one year before Stalin died. He almost made it to the finish line.
Many sons follow Dad into the family business, but when Ilya Zbarsky entered the mausoleum in 1934, age twenty-one, it was surely a Guinness World Record moment. By the time he ran afoul of the government—like Dad, for no particular reason—he’d been in charge of the remains for almost twenty years. A good run, all in all.
After 1991, Ilya looked up his file in the KGB archives and learned that he and his father had been denounced in 1949 for “counterrevolutionary conversations.” There in the margin of the report he saw Stalin’s handwriting: “Must not be touched until a substitute is found.” That was job security in Soviet Russia, circa 1949.
Soviet history is often indistinguishable from Orwell’s fiction. When Lenin died, Stalin appointed a Committee for the Immortalization of Lenin’s Memory. Immediately there were fierce disagreements as to how, exactly, to immortalize the actual remains.
I’ll spare you the details, but suffice to say the committee gave the job to Ilya’s father and another scientist named Vorobiev. Both recognized that a lot more than their scientific reputations was on the line. Next time you think you’re under pressure at work, consider Comrades Zbarsky and Vorobiev, with Stalin and Dzerzhinsky breathing over their shoulders. How is it coming? Wonderfully! Couldn’t be better! Look—no tan lines! It took them four months, but they got it right.
When World War II arrived in the form of General Heinz Guderian’s tanks, Zbarsky and son were charged with spiriting the body out of Moscow—to Siberia, which seems apt, karmawise.
Lenin had a good war, unlike 25 million other Russians. In far-off Tyumen, the Zbarskys had all the time in the world to attend to Himself’s maintenance. Indeed, by 1945, Ilya wrote, “the condition of the corpse had improved considerably.” You look great! You been exercising?
The saga of Lenin’s remains is a uniquely Russian story. His caretakers got drunk on the alcohol used in embalming Lenin’s corpse, and in one instance, one of them was caught groping the other’s daughter. What fun it must have been. There are group photos of them striking jaunty poses, as if they’ve gathered for a picnic.
And here was Khrushchev in 1956, growling, “The mausoleum stinks of Stalin’s corpse.” Stalin was embalmed and laid out beside Lenin between 1953 to 1961, when Khrushchev said enough and ordered him buried beneath the Kremlin wall.
Lenin remains, the Sleeping Beauty from Hell. Perhaps when his heir, President Vladimir V. Putin, is finished shipping combat helicopters to shore up his friend Bashar al-Assad of Syria he’ll have time to consider his minister of culture’s modest proposal.
Footnote: In 1991, when I was editing a publication for Forbes, I engaged in a hoax and briefly persuaded the world that the Russian government was preparing to auction off the body.
The story garnered quite a lot of play. A none-too-happy Russian interior minister denounced me for my “impudent lie” and called it “an unpardonable provocation.” It kind of made my day.
But a number of readers of the magazine apparently didn’t get the memo that it was all a hoax. The Kremlin was deluged with offers.
My favorite came from the head of a Virginia printing company, who accompanied his bid with this note:
“We are in the final planning stages of our new corporate headquarters. We were recently discussing the new lobby and saw the need for an appropriate centerpiece. Our interior designer has agreed with us, and feels that suitable arrangements can be made to house Mr. Lenin’s body here.”
—The New York Times, July 2012
AS I WAS SAYING TO HENRY KISSINGER
The Fine but Tricky Art of Name-Dropping (with apologies and a curtsey to Master Upman Stephen Potter)
THE SURNAME DROP
Many novices ask: When is it appropriate to drop the surname while dropping the name? The surest sign of the amateur is the Superfluous Surname Gambit. Classically: I ran into Warren Beatty and Jack Nicholson.
Many a gambit has come to grief this way. Contrast with the much cleaner: I ran into Warren and Jack. (See the Counter Warren Gambit, below.) Note that the Surname Drop should be employed only when the given name is distinctive.
THE COUNTER-SURNAME DROP
Our friend B
. Conrad, of San Francisco, is an aficionado of this technique.
So you call him David, do you? I’ve known him for twenty years now. We’re close as can be, but I still call him “Mr. Rockefeller.” Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but this first-name stuff these days drives me batty.
THE COUNTER-WARREN GAMBIT
Grandmaster J. Tierney, of New York, New York, introduced this one memorably at a dinner party. The guest, himself adept at the Surname Drop, had been going on at length about his great pal Warren. Tierney let him exhaust himself, then suavely countered: Oh, you mean the actor.
“Actor” was pronounced disparagingly, as in “pig farmer.” This was swiftly followed with I assumed you meant Warren Buffett.
While the guest was fumbling, Tierney finished him off with: I wish I had more time for things like movies.
Grandmaster Tierney will be familiar to readers as the inventor of the famous Out-Box Ploy. The dinner guest is steered into Tierney’s study on some pretext. Lying in the Out tray on his desk is an eight-by-eleven-inch glossy photo of himself, signed in large lettering: To Bill Gates, Glad I could help. Best, JT.
Alternately, To Meryl Streep, With deepest affection, J.
ROYALS
Extreme caution must be exercised while royal-name-dropping within the United States. The correct stance is that while one is of course delighted to be on intimate terms with the royal families of Europe, one is always conscious of the Revolution, Valley Forge, Bill of Rights, etc. This republican imperative can be used to advantage. A variation of it is the Confused Commoner Gambit, which has been used with effect by R. Atkinson, a British subject. He lets it slip that he has just spent some quality time with the Prince of Wales. Then adds:
One minute you’re calling him “Sir,” and the next, you’re stuffing a crumpet down his trousers.
This can be adapted to American usage. P. Cooke of Lakeville, Connecticut, gets the ball rolling by serving his guests Pimm’s Cups, then shrugs:
It’s one thing not to bow. It is our American birthright. But even though he’s asked me to—repeatedly—I just can’t bring myself to call him “Charles.”
A more modest approach is to steer the conversation toward an apparently unrelated topic, such as tanning lotions, and then casually announce:
The Queen Mother has the most remarkable skin.
This should be quickly followed with: Strictly between us, I find her the sweetest of the whole bunch. Giggly. Fun. Loves her gin and tonic. And puts you right at ease.
Immediately rebuke yourself for having revealed this “out of school,” and suggest forcefully that you do not want to see yourself quoted on Facebook, especially with Ascot approaching. Finish with:
It would only make things in the Royal Enclosure bloody awkward for me.
THE POSTHUMOUS DROP
Safest of all, as chances of contradiction or being challenged are minimized. R. Clements, of Blue Hill, Maine, uses this approach.
RC: (looking up from magazine, sighing heavily): Well, thank God, is all I can say.
Listener: About what?
RC: That it never got out about us. Miracle, really.
Listener: About who?
RC: Oh, nothing.
At this point, Clements excuses himself, leaving the magazine opened to an article about Princess Diana.
RC (returning, wiping his eyes with tissue): Can I fix you another?
Listener: What did you mean by that?
RC (with a hint of defiance, fighting back tears): Nothing. I shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place.
Variation openings
—I told her not to marry Charles in the first place.
—It’s at times like this that I miss her the most.
—I really wish that brother hadn’t turned Althorp into a damned petting zoo.
Followed by
—Of course, I’m no one to ask. I did practically live there for a while.
Clements then adamantly refuses to discuss it further. A few minutes later, he morosely interjects: Couldn’t see a thing at the funeral. Wouldn’t you know, I was seated directly behind Luciano Pavarotti. Just my luck.
OTHER ROYALS
Some novice droppers prefer to start off by invoking intimacy with Lesser Royalty. This is considered okay technique, but notoriety should be imputed to the Lesser Royal in order to compensate for his/her obscurity. T. Wilder, of Bethesda, Maryland, an advanced gamesman, typically begins as follows:
So, have you spent much time in Umvig-Glumstein?
The answer usually reliably no, he proceeds:
Well, if you ever get there, let me know and I’ll arrange for you to see Schloss Schlitz. For my money, it’s far more dramatic than Mad Ludwig’s desperate attempt at attention getting, and yet it manages to be so—I don’t know—gemütlich at the same time.
If he suspects the listener knows a few words of rudimentary German, Wilder deploys the Teutonic Escalator. In place of gemütlich, substituting: Oh what is the German for it? Farbleflemmerchinzengespritz? (chuckling to himself) Yes, that’s it— Parsifal, Act Two, scene three. Why can’t I ever remember?
Note that Wilder has audaciously put several balls in play simultaneously: his privileged access to the nonexistent castle, and Listener’s assumed lack of knowledge of European geography and conversational German.
Listener now on the defensive on several fronts, Wilder continues:
The current Graf is an old, old friend. Last of a line, direct descendant of Philip of Swabia; for my money, one of the less gaga Holy Roman Emperors. Isaiah Berlin and I used to get into fisticuffs over it. I miss Isaiah.
Wilder has now deftly insinuated that his views on the Holy Roman Emperors are controversial and have been a cause of tension between him and a leading intellectual. Continuing:
Anyway, the Graf is a dear old thing. Gives us the run of the place every August. Of course there are 236 bedrooms, so it’s not as though we’re constantly bumping into each other in the hallway.
Wilder now moves in for the kill:
Anyway, if you’re in the vicinity, I could try to fix it for you to stick your head in and have a poke around. I’d arrange for you to meet him, but he can be a bit, you know, formal.
THE DNA INSINUATOR
If no royal opening presents itself, steer the conversation around to how you faint at the doctor’s office every time they take blood. Then in a tone of mild annoyance:
I just got another letter from the Kremlin. They’re after me to give them a DNA sample so they can settle this damned authenticity question about the czar’s bones. (Sighing.) I’ve been ignoring them for months. Well, they say they only need a drop or two. I suppose I owe it to the family.
THE CONVERSATIONAL OBJECTIVE CORRELATIVE
Place a misshapen lump—any nondescript material will do—inside a glass display case along with a temperature gauge and mount it in a prominent place. Deflect initial inquiries, then in a world-weary tone, say it is the preserved heart of George III, king of Britain:
My great-great-great-great-grandfather was Nathan Hale. His brother, my great-great-great-whatever uncle, never quite forgave the Brits for hanging him. When he was visiting England he stole into the royal tomb and removed it. A bit gruesome, I know, but I can’t bring myself just to put it in a safe deposit box. I must get around to giving it back one of these days, except I’m not really sure how to go about it. Don’t let on. It would only create a huge to-do.
THE STAR AND BAR
Extreme care must be exercised here, as many Southerners are meticulously versed in genealogy. Disaster befell P. Harding of Athens, Georgia, in the course of gambiting that he was a direct descendant of General Jubal Early, only to be icily informed by someone present that the general had died without issue. Harding countercountered by saying that the general had had a liaison with a (beautiful) farm girl on the eve of the Battle of Cedar Creek, and that the resulting love child was Harding’s great-great-grandfather.
Unfortunately,
this only inflamed present company as it implied moral turpitude on the part of the Confederate god, and the evening ended in acrimony and remonstration.
One way to flush out any genealogically savvy Southerners is the Auto-Derogator Gambit. Declare, in a voice loud enough to carry the room, that it is now “universally conceded” that T. J. “Stonewall” Jackson was “vastly overrated” as a strategist. If no one approaches you with a fire poker, then the way is cleared for you to say how much this new scholarship pains you, inasmuch as you are the general’s great-great-nephew. The rest of the evening can now be devoted to refuting the new scholarship. (Note: This is a variation on the Macedonian Sacrifice, perfected by D. Reigeluth of Harrison, New York, who uses it to affect aloofness while claiming direct descent from Alexander the Great. Or as we in the family call him, Alexander the Occasionally Great.
THE GEOGRAPHICAL PREEMPT
Extremely adaptable. Can be easily inserted into any lull in the dinner conversation.
(With a trace of annoyance) Really, a week in Monaco is just too much. Frankly three days would be more than enough. Rainiers, Hapbsurgs, Hohenzollerns, Romanovs. After a while, one yearns to be among ordinary people.
Or:
(With exasperation) Five days at Balmoral! Shoot me! I have only so much conversation about grouse. On the other hand, I’m devoted to Princess Anne. (Adding casually) You going over this year?
When a listener replies that he is not, nod sympathetically.
Just as well. Anne says the shooting’s off this year.
THE GNOSTIC PARRY
G. Semler of Barcelona has written several well-regarded monographs on Counter Strategies. His most popular is the Kissinger Refuse:
Guest: I just spent the weekend with Henry Kissinger.
GS: Isn’t it exciting, his news?
Guest: News? What news?
GS: He didn’t mention? Oh. Henry does like to play his cards close to his chest. Still, if he had you out to the house, I’m surprised he didn’t . . . well, probably for the best.
But Enough About You: Essays Page 40