samizdat—underground publishing of materials forbidden by the Soviet government; a compounding of the Russian words “self” and “publishing”
sarafan—a full length, freely cut, sleeveless dress worn almost exclusively by peasant women
sazhen—a linear measure equivalent to seven feet, or 2.133 meters
shchi—a soup made of pickled cabbage (sauerkraut) usually on a beef stock
stanitsa—a large southern Russian/Cossack village; also an administrative unit
tachanka—a two-axle wagon drawn by two horses, similar to a buckboard
taiga—the unbroken forest belt of Siberia
tsarevich—crown prince
verst—a linear measure equal to .663 miles, or 1.06 km. (The proper form is versta, we use the anglicized variant.)
zemstvo—rural self-governing body established in the reign of Alexander II
A note on transliteration. The Library of Congress system is used in all bibliographical notation and throughout the text, except that in the text the designation for soft sign (’) has been dropped from the ends of words. Russian names which are widely known in English have been left in their popular spelling.
Part One
The Vanished Presence: Russia before 1914
On March 13, 1881, after numerous attempts, the terrorist group “Will of the People” finally succeeded in assassinating Alexander II, the “Tsar Liberator.” The hoped for collapse of the Russian government did not occur. And initially it was not fully clear what the outcome would be other than the belief among the realists that terrorism would not vanish from the Russian political landscape.
During the reign of Alexander III (1881–1894), there was a legitimate reason to believe that the nation would stabilize. Industry went into high gear, railroad construction soared, and the nation’s economy drew constant focus. These positive measures were countermanded by numerous policies aimed to lessen the impact of the Great Reforms, to further Russianize the nation, tighten the hold on minorities, and emphasize the role of the gentry. However, as Nicholas Riasanovsky correctly points out, this was precisely the class that was in decline. Political terror, as a result of severe government decrees issued in 1881, also declined.
Nicholas II (1894–1917), the last Russian tsar, has been much written about. The formalistic perceptions of him as a gracious and kind person in private, but a reactionary and limited ruler are safe to accept. Frequently vacillating, and not wishing to occupy the throne, Nicholas witnessed the demise of the Romanov dynasty and the Russian State. He was not a ruler capable of steering the nation through the turbulent years that lay ahead, particularly in that the belief in the efficacy of his autocracy continued to dominate his thought.
The Russian nation itself had frequently other agendas. Political parties and movements rose, demanding participation in government. A liberal coalition actually formed a “Union of Liberation.” Protests and strikes increased
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almost yearly. And the Revolution of 1905 evolving out of these movements is not a misnomer. Shaken by these events, particularly that of Bloody Sunday (January 22, 1905), the loss to Japan in the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–05, and the unparalleled nationwide strikes of October 1905, the Tsar buckled and issued the famous October Manifesto. This gave the Russian people civil rights and a Duma, which in effect made Russia a constitutional monarchy. But the credibility of the Tsar and his government was very weak. Nicholas’s desire to keep the Duma subordinate certainly did not help.
From this point on until the outbreak of World War I in the summer of 1914, the level of politicization in Russia was intense. Various parties and interest groups struggled for influence. The press was ablaze with every conceivable form of opinion. Social issues were intensely debated, and, after the assassination of Russia’s most capable minister, Stolypin, in 1911, the situation intensified as the government began its slide again into disarray.
Revolutionary extremism throughout the whole reign did not abate. As Anna Geifman has pointed out, over 17,000 people were either killed or wounded in assassination attempts.1 This extraordinary phenomenon, particularly when combined with other forces of politically motivated violence, had a devastating effect on the stability of the nation, already wracked by inordinate levels of dissent, problems, and an incapable government.
Curiously, in this period of great ferment, Russia was witness to a stunning cultural explosion, the fabled Silver Age. There are identifiable and innovative movements in literature, both poetry and prose, such as Symbolism and Acmeism. Music continues to excel in such major figures such as Scriabin, Rachmaninoff and Stravinsky, as well as the recrudescence of church choral music. Russian ballet was a sensation in Europe with Nijinsky in productions by Diaghilev. And Russian art, whether that of painting or theater set design, was truly avant-garde. Vrubel, Kandinsky, Malevich, Chagall, and Gon-charova, to name just a few, barely need introduction. As to the perception of “naming,” were we to merely list the names of writers and poets of the Silver age, the task would be dauntingly lengthy. Akhmatova, Pasternak, Mandel-stam, Bely, Sologub, Gumilev, Tsvetaeva, Blok, Mayakovsky.
Juxtaposing the cultural explosion to the feverish political turmoil is tantalizing. Was it clear in the social circumstances that a serious fissure in the body politic existed? Was the cultural flowering one that was hurtling through a limited time frame? Were there instances where the idyllic estate life still existed? Educated Russians were keenly aware of the great debates in society. The fledgling civil freedoms were savored deeply. Where Russia should move as a nation was a time concern, though perhaps one that was less keenly felt thousands of miles from the major cities. Despite all of this acuteness and
The Vanished Presence: Russia before 1914
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involvement, no one could be expected to see that entry into World War I was through the gates of doom.
Nickolas Lupinin
NOTE
1. Anna Geifman, Thou Shalt Kill: Revolutionary Terrorism in Russia, 1894–1917 (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1993).
Chapter One
Viktor Chernov, Idylls on the Volga
Viktor Chernov is best known for an intense political activism. While yet a teenager in the 1880’s, he committed himself to the revolutionary cause and was a hunted man by the 1890’s. A man of great independence, he nevertheless became a member of the SR’s (Social Revolutionaries), a party he was later to head. Strong pro-peasant and terroristic policies were hallmarks of the SR’s and Chernov was notoriously indefatigable in the pursuit of both. The Bolshevik victory in 1917 did not prove to be the answer and he ultimately had to flee Russia. The selection below describes a boy coming of age and hardly hints at the future terrorist. One could say that Chernov lived many lives, from the Volga region of his birth to his death in New York in 1952. This excerpt is from Chernov’s Pered burei [Before the Storm]. New York: Izd. Imeni Chekhova, 1953.
I was born amidst the boundless steppes beyond the Volga in the town of Novouzensk, Samara Province, but spent my childhood, boyhood and callow youth in the town of Kamyshin on the broad expanse of the Volga River. Kamyshin lay on the right bank of the Volga where the now-shallow Kamyshinka flows into it. But in the memory of the old-timers the shallow river was once a broad watery expanse covered by thickets of bulrushes. Back in those times, small flotillas of daring river pirates would hide there seeking refuge and freedom in the Volga wilderness from the burdens and laws of the Tsarist regime. They were constantly at war with the world which they had rejected. They would wait in ambush for lone commercial vessels or for whole fleets and shoot out like an arrow into the fast mid-stream while startling the waters with their local, non-Russian, shout: “Saryn’ na kichu” (come
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out on the stern), which was a demand for immediate surrender to the mercy of the attackers.
Some of the old-timers w
ould mix fact with folklore and even point out the favorite hide-outs of legendary pirates Vas’ka Chaloi, Erem Kosolap, and Kuz’ma Shaloput. But to the west of Kamyshin there indisputably was a huge fortress mound in the shape of a radically truncated pyramid with a flat and rather broad top. It stood out in its protruding loneliness amidst the flatness of the surrounding steppe. Local tradition tied it to the name of Sten’ka Razin [an 18th-century rebel], but it had to be much older. For a long time, visiting archeologists wanted to excavate it, but it never went further than talk.
Important sounding and authoritative words poured from such talk—Khazars, Cuman, and Uzzes. It seemed that these ancient names created a greater impression on the eavesdropping children than they had on their busy elders. The whistling sound of the name Uzzes had a magical impression on us. We imagined them as riders fused with their steeds, men who were almost centaurs. We loved playing at being Uzzes, clambering on to unharnessed horses with the help of hostlers as they led them to the Volga to drink and bathe. We enjoyed whooping wildly as we imagined our docile quadrupeds to be wild ponies of the steppe.
Listening in on the conversations of elders was one of my greatest pleasures. I would have given a great deal to be present at the lessons of my older sisters. But I was gently shooed away because no one believed that I could diligently sit though the lessons without interrupting. Then I resorted to a trick. Long before the lessons would begin, I would penetrate the revered room whose secrets were kept from me, hide under the long and broad table and sit there for hours, not ever coughing, sneezing, or budging. It turned out that I had a rare memory, something akin to perfect pitch in music. Soon, I, unable to read, would memorize almost everything that was taught to my older siblings, especially poetry, so that I was able to correct and prompt my sisters whenever they stumbled. Once, filled to overflowing with all this content, I could not control my excitement and openly entered the competition with my sisters when they were forced to show off their learning at a family gathering. My success was the greatest, but the general consternation was even greater: where did an illiterate child get all this, to the point of memorizing long poems by Pushkin? I could not provide a satisfactory answer. Then they began noticing that I would disappear during lessons and, guessing correctly, extracted me from underneath the table with great triumph and laughter. At that point, I was permitted to attend lessons, but silently and with decorum. After that my zeal cooled considerably. The forbidden fruit had been sweeter.
I grew up largely as an unsupervised, enterprising Huckleberry Finn. A boat, a pair of oars, and several fishing poles were my charter to freedom. I would
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stop by the kitchen for an old pot, a hunk of bread, two or three onions, as many potatoes as possible, and, most important but easily forgotten, a small packet of salt. I would catch all the fish I wanted, giving myself over to the task with a rare fanaticism and, at times, imagining that I had no equal in it. My chowder would cook up rich and thick; the fire would crackle merrily under the pot, and the potatoes baked in its embers were the sweetest of all victuals.
But if the fish were really biting, I would forget all about eating, and bring home all my plain ingredients. My vanity consisted in catching large fish in places where everyone was satisfied with small fry. I had become thoroughly knowledgeable in the ways of all the local fish and knew from the motion of the bobber whether I was dealing with a greedy perch, a slow tench, a lazy and imposing bream, or a powerful and persistent carp. In order to get to my beloved spots in time for the best fishing, I would leave long before the rising of the sun. Once there, hidden in the cattails and bulrushes, I would witness nature—untouched by humans and trusting—perform its mystery of awakening. Light as a ballerina, barely touching the lily pads, a snipe would race by. Once, having been clever enough to catch it, I discovered its secret: it was almost bodiless, almost pure down and feathers. Then a cautious duck would swim out followed by its scurrying young brood. On shore, they would be ravenously watched by a slim and graceful polecat. Sometimes, it would frolic in the sun. I have yet to see anything as delightful as its grace and lightness, its joyous rushes, leaps and rolls. But one had to lay in wait patiently for such a scene and I knew few people who managed to do so. Twisting in all directions, a water snake would swim by; a curious turtle would raise its head above the water. Close to the shore, a female hedgehog would prowl for mice and snakes, followed by her litter of young, whose needles were soft and not yet steel-gray, but brownish-green. Angling teaches a person two things—the discipline of endless patience and a profound sense of living nature.
From the beginning, the city to me was stifling, crowded and unpleasant, and the family home was largely alien for reasons I will explain later. I consciously fled both. What joy it was to steal away from the walls of the dull inhospitable house; to climb into a large boat at twilight, reach mid-stream and give oneself over to the will of the mighty current, imagining that we were being carried above buried palaces and tombs of Khazar lords, full of mysteries and uncountable riches which had been concealed by a shift in the river’s channel. And on a night when the moon was full, what could be better than to be enchanted by the moon’s sorcery as it lay down across the waters, a shimmering silver road barely trembling and wavering at its edges. And what an unimagined sense of vigor would flow into my heart as the big four-cornered sail billowed tautly in the wind and the boat would race against the current driving trees, fields, houses, and belfries backward.
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But the Volga was not always indulgent or obedient. Calm and magical on a quiet night, it would become inclement and threatening when struck by a moriana. That is what we called a severe and persistent windstorm from the sea, “the broad Caspian.” It blew from the south, but it was no southern breeze. It would make the enraged Volga rear up and whip its waves into whitecaps. Its raging was no joke. It would rip apart rafts of logs coming down from the Kama River and scatter the heavy timber like matchsticks. The steam ferries which ran between the high and low banks of the river, would not dare to venture out into the storm and would hunker down wherever they could when caught by the weather in the hope that the moriana would cease by nightfall and they could take up their whistling and huffing the next morning. Even the passenger steamers, wary of being smashed against piers, would seek a sheltered spot in the river and wait out the storm on all anchors.
Once two playmates and I almost drowned when caught by a moriana on the “other side” where our fishing passion had taken us. It seemed that my buddies in all our exploits were always younger than myself. I recruited them, was their leader, and they depended on me as their senior. At that time I was a bit shy of ten; one of them was nine and the other eight. A moriana sometimes struck unexpectedly, with a scant warning to the experienced eye that was a dark gray strip along the water to the south. I noticed it in time and we rowed ashore, having decided to get home on the steam ferry. But the ferry was not running at all that day. We were out of luck. The moriana stormed with all its might. Suppressing our disappointment, we decided to wait it out. And then, as if in spite, out of the undergrowth there came toward our beached boat four professional Volga fishermen. They were huge men and not cowed by the storm, having seen its like before. They were preparing to cross the river under canvas sail, the strength of which they trusted completely.
One of the men, noticing our envious glances, suddenly said, “Hey, lads, come with us. We’ll tow you.” He may have been half-joking, but we immediately seized the opportunity with joy. The oldest of the fishermen, clearly displeased, grumbled something to his mates. They seemed to pause, but the offer had been made and accepted. Their pride and self-confidence along with the Russian trust in the blind luck of “what if?” kept them from backing out. Once agreed, it was a done deal. A rope from our prow was tied to their stern and the sail was unfurled. Then everything followed with lightning speed. The sail billowed
forward, and we took off. The shore quickly receded. We were in a happy delirium when suddenly a thunderclap resounded right over our heads. The trusted sail had split right in half, punished by the wind and the extra load. Suddenly the men’s faces darkened. They quickly glanced at each other, and one of them clearing his throat said: “Well, lads, we’ll have to take to the oars to get out of this one, but you had better go back, that shore
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is nearer.” The rope was thrown back to us and we were left at the mercy of the raging waves.
I knew that we should not row back in a direct line because then we would be parallel to the waves and any one of them could overturn us. We had to go at an angle and slice the waves with our prow while slowly approaching the shore. I managed to explain this to my eight-year-old helmsman, but the rudder was mounted high on the boat and was useful only in calm weather. Now, every time the stern was lifted by a wave, the rudder spun uselessly in the air. Then we had to steer with the oars, and rowed with interruptions and half-effort. After all, we only had the strength of kids. The boat danced on the waves, but whether we were making progress or were being blown away by the wind, no one could tell. Shivering goose-bumps ran up and down my body. Nothing was helping, the only way out was to the bottom. I kept this thought to myself, pretending that everything was fine, but I think that the boys were not convinced by my show of courage.
Suddenly one of them, the one manning the second pair of oars, let them slip from his hands. He began to cross himself repeatedly and tell us in a breaking voice that all was lost, and that all we could do was get on our knees and pray to God. At that moment, my “helmsman” began to cry like a child and call for his mother. Aware that I was the oldest and responsible for them, I responded with some furious curse words and for some time desperately rowed for the three of us until they finally came to their senses and began to take part. I did not know how much time had gone by, but it seemed an eternity. To add to our troubles, water kept rushing in over the gunwales and had to be bailed out, but there was no one to do it. Vainly I looked around the horizon—there was no one in sight, no one was coming to help us. It was like being in a death agony.
The Russian Century Page 2