58
Chapter Five
the accumulated social emotions and political needs. It did not understand that an energy was building and that it was dangerous to hold it back.
Censorship hurt us in the wallet as well. Both editors, in Iaroslavl and in Ekaterinoslav, accepted all my articles and were ready to publish them. Not infrequently, the censors disallowed them. No one paid me for these pieces. It was not easy to figure out what would pass and what would not.
In Ekaterinoslav a battle was also being waged between the lieutenant governor and the editor, Lemke. The latter was a retired military officer, feisty, and with a substantial desire to play a role in leftist circles. Later, he wrote several books on censorship and on the revolution. But at that time, he was a neophyte journalist. I do not know whether he was already a member of the Social Democrat Party, though later he became a member of the Communist Party. As editor of Pridneprovskii Krai, Lemke warred ardently against the local censors as did, by the way, many provincial editors. The sequence was as follows. The galleys of the typeset issue were sent to the censor. He would check off the unacceptable segments. When the sheet, marked up in red censor’s ink, was returned to the editorial office, it had to be patched up hurriedly at night. The offending sections had to be somehow patched up by filling the devastated galleys with material previously passed by the censorship.
Lemke tried establishing a new procedure. He started to distribute the newspaper in the form in which it was received from the censor. The pages were replete with white spaces. The bureaucrats were angry, but there was no law forbidding blank spaces within articles and between articles. Finally, Lemke overdid it. I do not know if he put together an issue that was particularly severe or whether the censor was angry that evening. The galley proofs returned almost wholly smeared with red. No clean space was left, just the headlines and broken lines of unintelligible text. Lemke printed the bald newspaper and sent his subscribers the blank pages with scattered separate phrases.
The authorities went crazy. Pridneprovskii Krai was shut down. However, the newspaper’s proprietor, the millionaire contractor Kopylov, was on good terms with the local administration and knew how to handle his affairs. He obtained permission to publish the newspaper anew but without Lemke. The latter, in response to his firing, immediately sent his colleagues a letter in which he announced that he had left the editor’s post on a “matter of principle.” He asked whether we were agreeable to signing a collective statement that we were also leaving and would not work for Pridneprovskii Krai without him.
For myself and for the majority of the contributors, this was a most unpleasant event. Pridneprovskii Krai buttressed my lean budget. They paid me five kopeks per line and paid punctually, something that could not be said
Aleksandra Tyrkova-Williams, A Woman’s Autonomy
59
about Severnyi Krai. But, nothing could be done. Such was the habit of Russian writers and journalists. We were employed by, and left editorial offices like small herds. I sighed, but wrote Lemke that he could use my signature.
A few days had passed when my servant led a stocky gentleman into my living room. He had a round beard, quick eyes, and a thick gold chain which gleamed on his colorful vest.
“Allow me to introduce myself—Kopylov.”
With a dandyish actor’s gesture, playing the part of a grandee on the provincial stage, he raised my hand to his lips and audibly kissed it.
“I am very pleased to meet you. Kindly be seated.”
The contractor’s sharp eyes surveyed my cramped room, estimated the cost of my chairs and couch, upholstered in cheap cretonne, noticed the sole bookshelf, a plain painted table, the floor without a rug, the pictureless walls, and then confidently they turned to me.
“And I, little lady, am happy to make your acquaintance. I wanted to do this for a long time. God has given you a bold pen. Even fit for a man . . . ha . . . ha . . . ha . . . The readers approve very much.”
“Thanks for telling me. From afar it is difficult for me to determine whether they approve or not. We writers like to be praised by our readers. Thank you.”
“No, thanks be to you. The news venders are asked: ‘Is Vergezhskii in the issue? If not, I won’t give you the five kopeks. Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . . All think that Vergezhskii is a man, but look at Vergezhskii.”
He scrutinized me with unceremonious approval. He was amused at the “little lady” who worked for him, who received his money. Without giving me time to collect myself, he began to tell me about himself, attempting to make me understand that his sweep was wide.
“Come to visit us in Ekaterinoslav and see how people live there. You will meet your readers. You can stay at my place for a while. I will gather some guests to meet you. The whole district knows me; I not only own the newspaper but the theatre as well. I am a great lover of the theater. However, it consumes heaps of money. Much more than the newspaper.”
“Tell me stories. I’ve heard that the newspaper gives you a good income.”
He grinned, self-satisfied.
“You heard? Well, I can’t complain, but the money could be better used. I didn’t start the newspaper for purposes of income.”
“Not for income? For what then?”
“For pleasure. A publisher of a large newspaper is someone, after all. But the theater, even though it is an expensive toy, is even more entertaining. I am a happy person and actors are cheerful people. Not to speak of the actresses. Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . .”
60
Chapter Five
I demonstratively stayed silent. He understood. Such contractors who come from humble backgrounds to become millionaires were perceptive people and pretty good psychologists. Kopylov once again surveyed the cheap furnishings of my living room, wriggled in the chair, and looking past me out the window, offhandedly asked:
“Might you have a ready article? I’ll send it in.”
“No. You know . . . We . . .”
He didn’t let me finish:
“I’ve heard, little lady, I’ve heard. These are trifles. I have a solid newspaper, and I know how to get on with the authorities. Write the way you wrote. We did not and will not offend you. We can raise the honorarium and set a fixed sum. Would you like to receive a little advance? Why bother with the mail when my office is in my pocket.”
He pulled his office out from his jacket and opened the thick billfold. Habitually believing in the omnipotence of money, he might have truly thought that the sight of hundred-ruble notes would make me amenable. I did not get angry and just laughed.
“No, thank you. What advance? Your editor left and with him so did his co-workers. I left as well. That’s it.”
“In truth, little lady, why should you leave? I already have a new editor. He will continue things as before. And you, write as before also. We’ll make a new agreement, a better one. Would you like to?”
My smile confused him. He saw how I lived and hoped that I was not so foolish as to refuse a good income. Patting the billfold with his hand, he gently attempted to convince me:
“Why refuse the money? Take an advance and we’ll settle sometime in the future. I won’t push you; you’ll repay me whenever you want. Just write. Well, how much money shall I peel off?”
I stood up.
“None. We’re all even. The office sent me everything. But I cannot write for you anymore. You find this difficult to understand. Every one of your worker’s artels has its own rules. We writers are also an artel. If one is affected, all have to back him up. That’s how it is with us.”
He stood as well. In bewilderment, he rotated the billfold in his hands, still surprised that such a rich argument did not break a woman’s stubbornness. He put it inside his jacket and, without the previous familiarity, somewhat tenuously offered his hand. I put mine in it. Why should I be angry with him? The more so, since I was told that he had given Lemke a full year’s salary, something he did not have to do. His co-workers, however, did not be
nefit materially from this. I didn’t know how I would pay next month’s rent.
Aleksandra Tyrkova-Williams, A Woman’s Autonomy
61
Kopylov stopped in the doorway. A sly smirk flitted across his smart peasant face.
“Oh little lady, little lady, how prickly you are . . . Unapproachable . . . And I was coming to St. Pete thinking Vergezhskii would go to Palkin’s for dinner with me and then to the theater. Some theater! Some Vergezhskii!”
We exchanged glances. The sharp eyes of the wealthy peasant betrayed mockery at my inability to make a go of things. But there was a reflection of something else also. My polite but decisive refusal elicited a sporting approval in him.
“Yes, this Vergezhskii is something,” I said also smiling.
“What can one say? Everyone has their own habits. There’s nothing to be done. Good luck.”
I never saw him again, did not write for his newspaper, and quickly became impoverished. I still did not know how to fight for survival and sometimes it was very difficult.
Then a catastrophe occurred. Lida died. She was thirty years old, full of life, energy, interests, and love. She occupied a position in which her talents, kindness, and social instincts could be broadly applied. She died from pernicious anemia. She passionately wanted to have children. She was pregnant several times and miscarried each time during the eighth month. Doctors warned her against pregnancy, that her life was at risk. But the maternal instinct turned out to be stronger than the sense of self-preservation. She tried to be a mother one more time. And again she failed to carry to term. The premature birth brought on acute anemia. She died slowly, cognizant that she was dying, but to the end maintained her cheer. Though bedridden, she continued to receive guests. She tried not to talk about her illness and forced her visitors to tell her about their lives, of what was occurring in literary circles, and of assorted day to day minutiae.
The death of Lida Tugan-Baranovskii saddened not only her relatives. For me it was an irreplaceable loss. In my new, still unsettled life, Lida’s kind wisdom was a great support. Without her, life became colder and it was more difficult to find one’s way. I frequently went to see Aleksandra Arkad’evna [Lida’s mother]. I felt Lida’s emanation while next to her. I came to be even closer to Mikhail Ivanovich [Lida’s husband]. He was greatly saddened, became helpless and perplexed, muttered unintelligibly, stayed silent for hours, and could not work. I felt very sorry for him.
An unbeliever, during these dark days he circled around the eternal questions. In a childish way he grasped at the possibility of personal immortality, but without God. He did not join the church nor read the Gospels, but read Kant instead. He grasped at spiritualism. His sister, the pretty E. I. Nitte, who
62
Chapter Five
had inspired Kuprin to write the story “The Garnet Bracelet,” organized a séance in her handsomely appointed and spacious apartment on Furshatskaia [street]. It was with Ian Guzik, a Lithuanian shepherd who had become famous as a powerful medium. Mikhail Ivanovich took me to one of these seances. Phenomena occurred which I will not attempt to explain, but I stand behind the accuracy of my descriptions.
We sat down around a long table in the living room. There were twelve of us, perhaps fifteen. Guzik’s companion, his impresario, sat at one end of the table. He had collected money from us in advance, three rubles per person. It was he who told us how to conduct ourselves during the séance. Guzik himself stayed morosely quiet. He had a strange, hard gaze. The large room was weakly lit by a lamp under a dark shade which stood at the far end of the living room. But one could distinguish the outlines of people and objects. Tugan sat on one side of Guzik and V. K. Agafonov on the other. The latter was a young geologist who later became a well known scholar in France. Tugan and Agafonov held Guzik tightly by the hands. They put their legs against his and thus controlled all his movements. Only his head remained free. I sat next to Agafonov. All present held each other’s hands and created a chain. But we continued to chat and joke until the impresario told us to be quiet. It became still. All that could be heard was the medium’s breathing, becoming less frequent and deeper. After a few minutes, some object flew above our heads. Judging by the sound of the strings, this was the guitar which had been lying on a table at the opposite end of the living room. Certain sounds and rustling from the corners were heard. Right behind me, the sound of a spoon against glass resonated. This was the glass which had been placed on the floor, quite far from the table. Now, behind our backs, this glass made its way around the table. The spoon tinkled as if someone was tapping it against the glass. This was just like in the story of the mouse running around the dark room and ringing a bell in order to fool the evil stepmother.
One of the ladies screamed loudly:
“Oh, oh, I’m being hit with something shaggy across my face!”
“Something shaggy?” the impresario repeated. “That means the spirit of the Prussian soldier Wilhelm has arrived. Please sit still. This is a very crude spirit. If you resist, he can hit you very hard. If anyone feels that the chair is being yanked out from under you, one must get up right away or there can be unpleasant consequences.”
As if in precise confirmation of his words, the chair under me began to be pulled. There was no one behind me. Agafonov was sitting on my left, another close acquaintance on my right. They would not tease me with such foolish stunts. Furthermore, their hands were in mine. I could not but have noticed their movement. Adhering to the instructions, I got up without breaking
Aleksandra Tyrkova-Williams, A Woman’s Autonomy63
the chain while continuing to hold my neighbors’ hands. After some moments the same mysterious being moved the chair back into place. Here something most strange and unpleasant occurred. I wanted to sit down but it turned out that someone was sitting in the chair and was not letting me sit down. But the chair was empty. In a few moments this strange presence seemed to melt away. The chair freed up. But no sooner did I sit down when something shaggy swept across my face, as if I was brushed with an animal’s tail.
That is all that I saw from Guzik. I treated this with a cool curiosity. But poor Mikhail Ivanovich could not part with the insane hope of corporeally seeing, hearing, and sensing his deceased wife and imagined that Guzik would somehow link him with Lida. He insistently pleaded with the impresario and reiterated sadly and incoherently:
“You say this is Wilhelm? Can’t you ask him to leave? Send someone else . . . The one we want . . .”
“We can’t today. The séance is ended. The medium is already awakening.”
Truly, one could hear how the rhythm of his breathing was changing, that Guzik was moving. During the séance he was completely motionless. The light was turned on. The medium was sitting and pale. The look of his strange eyes had become even more grim. All of this was unusual and extremely interesting for me. But why link the tinkling of the spoon and the shaggy strokes with the souls of the departed? I could not understand how Mikhail Ivanovich found solace in these disconnected phenomena. But I pitied him all the more! Involvement in spiritualism ended shortly. Tugan and I were arrested for participating in a street demonstration. He was sent out of St. Petersburg, though not for long.
Chapter Six
Nikolai Volkov-Muromtsev, Memoirs
Nikolai Volkov-Muromtsev was born in 1902 to a family of the nobility and gentry. The family lived on its estate, a productive grain and dairy farm near Viaz’ma, a city of 30,000 east of Smolensk. Young Nikolai was tutored in French and English and had in-laws who were members of the English upper classes. The choice of the three segments from his memoirs is not accidental. His ability to combine family and personal narrative with the tumultuous historical background is keenly apparent. He writes with pithiness and clarity. The evocation of life whether in the city or on the country estate carries the stamp of unforced authenticity. Rarely in memoir literature do we see a description of a city, Viaz’ma in this case, done so affectionately and informat
ively. Taken from Nikolai Volkov-Muromtsev, Iunost’ot Viaz’my do Feodosii [My Youth from Viaz’ma to Theodosia]. Paris: YMCA Press, 1983.
VIAZ’MA: THE TEXTURE OF A CITY
Viaz’ma had a population of 35,000. It was the center of the linen industry and had three leather and two match factories. The streets were cobblestoned and only the rich merchants paved in front of their homes with other materials, be it asphalt or wooden blocks. The Viaz’ma merchants were exceptional. Nowhere in Russia, I believe, was there such a congregation of old merchant families. In 1478 Ivan III conquered Novgorod, but the Novgorodians did not calm down. There were many other campaigns under Vasilii III and Ivan the Terrible. After one of these campaigns, the Muscovites decided that Novgorod would never be pacified while the old merchant class remained there. So they dispatched the merchants to Viaz’ma. It was enough to look at a list
64
Nikolai Volkov-Muromtsev, Memoirs
The Russian Century Page 10