Russian Émigré Culture : Conservatism or Evolution? [1 ed.] 9781443863667, 9781443851527

Citation preview

Russian Émigré Culture

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

Edited by

Christoph Flamm, Henry Keazor and Roland Marti ,

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?, Edited by Christoph Flamm, Henry Keazor and Roland Marti This book first published 2013 Cambridge Scholars Publishing 12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2013 by Christoph Flamm, Henry Keazor, Roland Marti 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): 1-4438-5152-3, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-5152-7

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface ........................................................................................................ ix “My love, forgive me this apostasy”: Some Thoughts on Russian Émigré Culture ............................................................................................ 1 Christoph Flamm Section 1: Russian Émigré Culture in General; Literature The Participation of Russian Pre-revolutionary Diplomats in the Cultural Life of the Russian Emigration .................................................................. 19 Margarita Kononova “ɑɬɨ ɪɨɞɢɥɚ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ?” [What is it that the emigration engendered?] – Andrey Bely, Viktor Shklovsky and Aleksey Tolstoy in ‘Russian Berlin’ 1921-1923 .................................................................................................. 37 Katharina Bauer Un enfant prodige: Irène Némirovsky and Jewish Russia as Irretrievable Origin......................................................................................................... 57 Julia Elsky Section 2: Arts What is Artistic Form? Munich – Moscow 1900-1925 ............................. 69 Luka Skansi El Lissitzky, his Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge and their Jewish Inspirations............................................................................................ 89 Artur Kamczycki Russian Émigré Artists in Serbia (1920-1950) ........................................ 105 Jelena Mežinski Milovanoviü

vi

Table of Contents

Identity-shock: The Appearance of Multiple Identities in the Art of El Kazovszkij ...................................................................................... 125 Gabriella Uhl Section 3: Music Russian Collective Identity in Exile and Music in Berlin 1917-1933 ..... 139 Anna Fortunova Russian Music Institutions in Berlin in the 1920s: The Structure of a Network in Exile .............................................................................. 151 Maria Bychkova “Slavic Charm and the Soul of Tolstoy”: Russian Music in Paris in the 1920s ............................................................................................. 165 Anya Leveillé Stravinsky’s Svadebka (1917-1923) as the Quintessence of the Technique of “Building Blocks” ............................................................................... 179 Marina Lupishko Eurasianism in Perspective: Souvtchinsky, Lourié and the Silver Age ... 203 Katerina Levidou Musical Modernism in the Mirror of the Myaskovsky-Prokof’ev Correspondence ....................................................................................... 229 Patrick Zuk Vanka the Housekeeper by Nikolay Tcherepnin and Lady Macbeth by Dmitry Shostakovich: Contemporary Russian Opera in Interwar Belgrade................................................................................................... 245 Nadežda Mosusova “I have no country, I have no place”: The Borderless Artistic Home of Alfred Schnittke .................................................................................. 257 Thomas Radecke Contemporary Émigré Composers: How Russian are they? .................... 269 Elena Dubinets

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

vii

Abstracts – English/German/Russian ...................................................... 287 Contributors ............................................................................................. 325 Index ........................................................................................................ 333

PREFACE

Russian culture has always fascinated and puzzled the outside world and Western and Central Europe in particular. Russian icon-painting, the Russian novelists of the 19th century, Russian music and its performers, the proverbial ballets russes etc.; they were all perceived as the expression of that unfathomable “Russian soul” that seemed so familiar and yet so elusive. The situation became even more complex after the October Revolution that eventually led to a division: a Russian culture in Russia (or rather in the Soviet Union) and a Russian émigré culture came into being. The latter was, for political reasons, mainly studied in the West, and the analyses as well as the culture itself were often politically tainted. The political changes at the end of the last century brought about a revival of these studies, as Russian émigré culture could finally be recognised everywhere as an important part of Russian culture in general. Numerous conferences were held and their proceedings were published, usually devoted to particular periods (the several waves of emigration), particular centres of emigration (“Russian Berlin”, “Russian Paris”) or particular areas of culture (above all literature, but also the arts and music). In view of this it might seem superfluous to publish yet another volume to document yet another conference devoted to Russian émigré culture. This particular conference, however, is different from most of the others. It was conceived of as a companion to an international festival of music written by Russian émigré composers (Prokof’ev, Rakhmaninov, Stravinsky, Grechaninov, Tcherepnin, Denisov, Schnittke and many others). The festival was organised jointly by E. Derzhavina (Moscow), T. Duis and C. Flamm (both Saarbrücken) and took place in Saarbrücken in November 2011 to commemorate the 60th anniversary of the death of N. Medtner. The organisers felt strongly that a proper understanding of the music of these composers would not be possible without considering the larger context of Russian émigré culture in general, and thus the idea of the conference “Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?” was born, including, in addition to music, the visual arts and literature.

Preface

x

The conference papers were delivered in English or German, Russian being the third, “semi-official” language, often used in discussions. They were revised for the publication and are published in English, the original multilingualism of the conference being reflected in the abstracts (and in many cases in the papers where quotations are often given in Russian and in an English translation). 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 transcription. Still some inconsistencies remain. The editors wish to thank the Volkswagen Foundation for the generous financial support of the conference, Cambridge Scholars Publishing for their offer to publish the volume, the authors for their patience, F. Rundstadler and I. Stenger for linguistic assistance, and above all E. Treib for the painstaking labour of converting manuscripts written in widely varying styles into a camera-ready copy. Christoph Flamm Klagenfurt

Henry Keazor Heidelberg

Roland Marti Saarbrücken

“MY LOVE, FORGIVE ME THIS APOSTASY”: SOME THOUGHTS ON RUSSIAN ÉMIGRÉ CULTURE1 CHRISTOPH FLAMM

Ƞੇį’ ਥȖઅ ijİȪȖȠȞIJĮȢ ਙȞįȡĮȢ ਥȜʌȓįĮȢ ıȚIJȠȣȝȑȞȠȣȢ. (Aeschylos, Agamemnon, 1653) I know how men in exile feed on dreams of hope. Caelum, non animum mutant, qui trans mare currunt. (Horace, Epistles, I, xi, 27) They change their sky, not their soul, who rush across the sea.

Since Gorbachev’s perestroyka, Russian emigration, which had until then been anathema to Soviet authorities, has been thoroughly reconsidered both from within and outside of Russia. When president Boris Yel’tsin on 11 August 1994 issued the ukaz “Ɉɛ ɨɫɧɨɜɧɵɯ ɧɚɩɪɚɜɥɟɧɢɹɯ ɝɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɤɢ Ɋɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɨɣ Ɏɟɞɟɪɚɰɢɢ ɜ ɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɢ ɫɨɨɬɟɱɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɢɤɨɜ, ɩɪɨɠɢɜɚɸɳɢɯ ɡɚ ɪɭɛɟɠɨɦ“ [On the main directions of the state policy of the Russian Federation concerning compatriots living abroad], a decree ultimately resulting in the present-day federal bureau Rossotrudnichestvo which takes care of all matters concerning Russians living outside Russia, it was a symbol, a start signal for directing one’s minds anew to those millions that had left Russia in Soviet times. Since then, the study of Russian emigration as a phenomenon has become a separate branch of research. With the support of the Russian government, specialised university departments and public institutions have been founded, such as the Biblioteka-fond ‘Russkoe zarubezh’e’ in Moscow (1995), renamed Dom russkogo zarubezh’ya imeni Aleksandra Solzhenitsyna in 2005. The first steps were directed at emigrant networks and centres such as the YMCA Press in Paris, and such influential representatives of Russian émigré culture as Solzhenitsyn. In redefining a new post-Soviet identity, Russia had tried to pick up the broken ties of prerevolutionary culture, the most symbolic expression being the canonisation of the Romanovs in 2000, which took place in the resurrected Cathedral of

2

Some Thoughts on Russian Émigré Culture

Christ the Saviour on the banks of the Moskva which had been demolished under Stalin and replaced by a public swimming pool under Khrushchev. Separate from tsarist nostalgia, there has been a reconsideration of the incompatible “elements” of later Soviet times as well, of both the expelled and the suppressed, often referred to as the outer and inner emigration. This is a Russian heritage of its own, most often unconnected to prerevolutionary ideas. Obviously, Russian émigré culture is multifaceted. Now that ideological prescriptions and archival restrictions have generally disappeared – though subtle and even not-so-subtle ideological premises are discernible on both sides of the former iron curtain – research is being carried out in the most varied of ways, and with varied intentions: be it the realisation of Solzhenitsyn’s dream of a monumental All-Russian Memorial Library uniting the cultural heritage of the Russian diaspora on Russian soil, in order to heal the Russian soul, be it the correction of cultural historiography that has been distorted in Cold War times, or be it the application of colourful (even if faded) nationalist stamps on the disenchanting grey of globalised culture. As fragmentary as present-day knowledge of archival sources and artistic works might still be, the whole complex of primary and secondary materials concerning “Russia Abroad” (Russkoe zarubezh’e) has become immense. There are two ways of dealing with such a vast panorama: either dividing it into suitable portions according to research fields, chronological or geographical criteria, or contemplating the phenomenon in its entirety. The heuristic golden path should probably lead through a healthy combination of both perspectives – it would call for an interdisciplinary approach as well as for in-depth investigation of single representatives or their works of art: writings, paintings, compositions, choreographies, films etc.

Problems of definition But before thinking about “Russian émigré culture”, we should ask for more precise definitions. What is this expression supposed to cover and what are its limits? The first aspect is chronology. Obviously, the paramount historical significance of the October Revolution and its traumatic consequences has shaped – and thus narrowed – any perspective on Russian emigration as a whole. Seldom has the mass exodus after the Bolshevik revolution and Civil War, the so-called First Wave, been put within a broader perspective of Russian emigration, beginning with the siege of Byzantium by an army

Christoph Flamm

3

from the Kievan Rus’ in 906 A.D. and leading up to the present day (Glad 1999). Not only have there been second (World War II), third (the Brezhnev era) and fourth (the economical breakdown of the 1990s) waves, but also phases of considerable intellectual or economical emigration in tsarist times, not to mention those leaving Putin’s Russia more recently. So, while it can be stated that “the condition of formal exile” ceased to exist at the end of the Soviet Union in 1991 (Velis Blinova 2009: 19), it is impossible to close the book on Russian emigration in general. Artists like Kandinsky or Stravinsky who set foot in the West well before the Revolution are considered archetypes of Russian émigré culture, but here the (anti-)Soviet background only matters to a very small extent. Still, the question of whether or not one should view the Russian diaspora as an entity may depend on periodisation. Marc Raeff has argued that between the Civil War and World War II, Russia’s émigrés had indeed established a sort of exiled society, since most social classes were represented and the émigrés did not want to assimilate in their host countries for fear of denationalisation: “Russia Abroad was a society by virtue of its firm intention to go on living as ‘Russia’, to be the truest and culturally most creative of the two Russias that political circumstances had brought into being.” (Raeff 1990: 5) It remains questionable, though, to what extent sociological aspects allow the grouping together of émigré Russians in matters of aesthetics and cultural production. Often enough, this idea has been wishful thinking of those concerned. The so-called Paris group of Russian composers in the 1920s, which according to Arthur Lourié represented an unexplainable “Russian musical language” (Lourié 1932: 528), was evidently connected by biographical factors only, whereas aesthetical positions and stylistic profiles differed widely: “not a musical band of persons holding similar views, but merely a geographical one” (Sabaneyeff 1927: 235). Much the same can be said of the Paris group of Russian painters. The sort of unification that did happen to artistic exile communities was their sharing of common influences. Apart from chronological questions, every constituent of the expression “Russian émigré culture” seems in need of explication. “Russian”: Russia’s boundaries moved forward and (less often) backward across the centuries, and it has been home to many ethnic groups. Being part of a supranational entity, Soviet Russia spread its influence, its cultural models and its artistic protagonists even farther over vast territories. Is it appropriate to view the Georgian composer Giya Kancheli as part of Russian émigré culture, since his most intimate ties and influences

4

Some Thoughts on Russian Émigré Culture

were with Soviet composers outside Georgia, and he did not intend to write works portraying his Caucasian home? Would it be inappropriate if he had decided to write works in a nationalist spirit? There are no easy answers to such questions. However, isolated from the convergence or divergence of Soviet versus Russian definitions, and from the well-known problem of national identity, there has been a tacit understanding of principally separating Russian emigration from other, similar émigré movements, for example in other countries of the former Eastern bloc. Particularly in view of the supranational structures in Soviet times, covering de facto much of the cultural life of all of Eastern Europe, it seems inappropriate to apply traditional ideas of nationhood in this new context. Recently, attempts have been made to consider the tidings of Russian exile in a broader panorama of European countries (Gutthy 2009). “Émigré”: Though there are cases of artists being expelled physically (Joseph Brodsky was put on an aeroplane in 1972), in most cases it is difficult to distinguish clearly between the primary reasons for leaving Russia: were they political, economical, or personal (religious, spiritual, moral)? In spite of all the extremities and sufferings involved, it is clear that many emigrants after 1917 chose to leave their country primarily for reasons similar to those for which their ancestors in former centuries, or their descendants in more recent times, crossed borders, namely economical stability and a peaceful life; Rakhmaninov comes to mind. Many of the artists that left Russia did neither experience political pressure nor aesthetical disapproval, not to mention censorship or banning – notwithstanding the fact that censorship since tsarist times (and to the present day) has been a major issue in Russian cultural life. Looking at the first wave of artistic emigration after 1917, John E. Bowlt states that “neither disappointment in the proletarian dictatorship, nor alarm at state interference in the arts served as dominant reasons for the mass emigration of artists and writers. Reasons were often much more trivial and more mundane such as the lack of applies, physical discomfiture, personal enmities.” (Bowlt 1981: 215) Yet, the financial or professional misery of many emigrants still was the result of compulsory expropriation, social or institutional restructuration, their decision to move away thus inseparably bound to political actions. And with the exception of the experimental 1920s and the thaw period, artistic ideas, if directed at the public, had to suit expectations or at least to avoid offensive gestures. All this explains in a certain sense why the overall impression of émigré culture has often been its “political” character, in the words of the prose writer Alla Ktorova: “the main theme of émigré literature seemed to be a tiresome exposure

Christoph Flamm

5

of the evil Soviet government” (cit. after Glad 1999: 15). Western scholars in particular tended to stress the political dimensions of emigration and exile, and emphasised the political message or subtext of Russian émigré culture accordingly, especially in literature. But already Marc Raeff has put the interest in politics within the Russian exile community into perspective (Raeff 1990: 7-8). Very few writers were politically active. Nevertheless, the “works of these dissident writers have rarely been studied for their purely aesthetical value, and scholars are often unable to resist reading extra-textual political content.” (Gutthy 2009: 3) Meanwhile, new approaches to Russian émigré culture have become possible. This does not necessarily mean de-politicising the émigrés’ output only because it had seemingly been politicised before, in the aftermath of the Revolution, World War II and the Cold War. But it could mean trying to look on the cultural heritage of Russia abroad, at least in a first putative step, as if it had been created by anybody else who left his country. Significant questions could then be addressed more properly to works and authors – and their true political meaning or dimension might become much clearer. “Culture”: Until now, studies of Russian émigré culture have mostly been confined to literature. From the 1930s on, émigré writers themselves reflected on the state of their literature (Khodasevich 1933, Aldanov 1936; cf. Iswolsky 1942). From Struve’s initial survey (1956) to the dictionaries of our days (Nikolyukin 1997-2006), Russian émigré literature has been continuously explored separately, because it started doing so. Apart from this obvious circumstance, the exclusion of other areas of culture has been justified with the assumption that these did not express national identity so clearly: Modern Russian culture, it seems, found its strongest expression, in its most individualized and characteristic form, in literature. Of course, literary media are easily transmitted and seem to be the most ‘exportable’; and language is the one feature that defines a unique national identity. Painting and music can also claim to represent Russian cultural achievements in unique ways, but such claims are contestable, since music and visual arts are seen rather as universal and are more easily assimilated into the Western or world cultural scene. (Raeff 1990: 95)

This assumption is highly problematic. At the very least, a distinction should be made between artistic form and content: Though the Russian language is a defining aspect of Russian culture, it may be used to serve completely different purposes to those which have usually been claimed by Raeff and others, namely “preservation, conservation, and preparation

6

Some Thoughts on Russian Émigré Culture

[for the return]” (Mjør 2011: 48). And of course there are broad and deep Russian traditions in painting and music as well, traditions which have been discussed, defended and strengthened all throughout the 19th century, traditions based both on subject and on style – it may suffice to mention Stravinsky and the Russian works of his Swiss pre-war period. And if we want to understand the phenomenon of Russian émigré culture as a whole, the notion of culture must be broadened much further. A two-volume survey of the cultural heritage of the Russian emigration 1917-1940, published only a few years after the end of the Soviet Union (Chelyshev & Shakhovskoy 1994), dedicated whole sections to politics, philosophy and theology, genealogy, (natural) science and technology, literature, arts and archival matters. In the end, Igor’ Sikorsky’s helicopters are as much part of Russian émigré culture as Nabokov’s novels. But there is a much more serious methodological objection to most of the studies on Russian émigré culture (or parts of it): They are guided by the desire to see them as being coherent in some way, to see a common denominator for virtually all the émigré artists in their allegedly common intention to preserve and continue the traditions of their homeland, to create a collective cultural memory (cf. Mjør 2011: 49). This view is necessarily simplistic, for it does not take into account the possibility of aesthetical immigration, i.e. of choosing a new artistic home and expression in new surroundings, independent of passports. In any case, the intention of émigré artists should be deduced not only from their self-analyses, the émigré press and memorial literature, but from an analysis of their artworks as well. The inner perspective of self-reflection has to be measured against the outer perspective, which can be gained by comparison. Just how different such perspectives could be in Russian émigré circles has been expressed in a telling caricature of Illyustrirovannaya Rossiya (ill. 1). This leads us to the initial idea of the symposium that lies at the heart of this volume. It had been directed not only towards the artistic life of the Russian émigré culture, but especially towards its artistic products. To what extent do these works reflect conservation of traditions? Would this result in conservatism of artistic means as well, or does preserving Russian spirit allow for an evolution of style? In what way does the confrontation with cultural activities in other countries lead to interaction, or to rejection? If émigré artists really shared common aesthetical views, has their relationship been subjected to transformation according to different developments abroad? Or, to put it simply: is Russian émigré culture conservative or progressive, and how does this relate to the cultural developments in other countries – and in Russia itself?

Christoph Flamm

7

Illustration 1: Mad (Mikhail Aleksandrovich Drizo), Russkie emigranty, in: Illyustrirovannaya Rossiya, not dated (after Schlögel 1994). The captions run: Russian emigrants as imagined by the Bolsheviks; as imagined by the consuls who give visas; as imagined by the foreigners; as imagined by the inhabitants of Montmartre; as imagined by their kinsmen living in Russia; as they are in reality.

8

Some Thoughts on Russian Émigré Culture

Conservatism or evolution? Joseph Brodsky, the famous dissident poet and Nobel prize laureate who had been imprisoned in the USSR as a “social parasite” first (1962) and then forced into exile (1972), once spoke about his new life in America in metaphorical terms: “To be an exiled writer is like being a dog or a man hurtled into outer space in a capsule (more like a dog, of course, than a man, because they will never retrieve you). And your capsule is your language.” (Brodsky 1995: 32) Brodsky’s “capsule” does not simply mean the Russian language as compared to other, foreign languages: rather it is a personal idiom, wrapped in his mother tongue Russian. The metaphor drastically raises the problem of identity and cultural uprooting: What consequences does an artist face when leaving his home country? Will he get transplanted or become isolated, will his work be understood or rejected, what transformation will it undergo – if any? (And will there be differences regarding Russian émigré artists as compared to, let’s say, Irish or Greek emigrants?) One of the few Russian writers who indeed changed his poetic language in emigration was Vladimir Nabokov. It must have been an extremely painful step. This becomes evident in one of his poems of the mid-1940s: An Evening of Russian Poetry (1945). Here, at the end of an imaginary discussion about Russian literature, the American host wants to hear his Russian guest utter some flowery phrases. Nabokov’s poem indeed switches from English to Russian, but the Russian words are expressing the opposite of what would be expected (Nabokov 1970: 162-163): ‘How would you say “delightful talk” in Russian?’ ‘How would you say “good night”?’ Oh, that would be: Bessónnitza, tvoy vzor oonýl i stráshen; lubóv’ moyá, otstóopnika prostée. (Insomnia, your stare is dull and ashen, my love, forgive me this apostasy.)

Instead of a good night’s sleep after a cosy little chat, the guilt-ridden sleeplessness of a poet comes to the fore who betrayed his mother tongue, that is, his first and deepest love. These macaronic verses testify to Nabokov’s linguistic genius. Beyond that they are a shattering document of the traumatic consequences of emigration: The artist’s way of expres-

Christoph Flamm

9

sing himself is so deeply rooted in his language that a change of the idiom cannot leave the contents which are being transported unchanged. This interdependence of content and style (idiom) lies at the heart of our issue. If preservation is the intention of the émigré artist, what consequences will its realisation have on his creative output – will his stylistic appearance, his artistic techniques, his choice of subjects be deepfrozen together with a nostalgic worldview? Will he become an isolated dinosaur, or a member of a flock of dinosaurs grazing the meadow of fin de siècle grass? Answering such questions makes historiographical overviews difficult, since perspectives of this sort inevitably tend to focus on individual artists and their fate. Yet, facing the risk of over-simplifying matters, as a first step one could look for a typology. Its basic prototypes could be three: first, the keeper of traditions who seeks refuge in a poetic past that has been irretrievably lost; second, the developer who does not want to erect a monument to his own tradition, but rather takes it across the borders as an embryo, where his future development will reflect to some degree the experience of his new surroundings; third, the cosmopolitan who shakes off old traditions and acquires new ones. Three examples may illustrate this basic typology; for the sake of clarity, they are taken from the field of music only. Example 1: Sergei Bortkiewicz (1877-1952), the keeper of tradition. He is hardly known at all outside of circles enthusiastic about late romantic Russian piano music. Some of his piano pieces are charming echoes of Chopin and Arensky, but they show a personal idiom reflecting Tchaikovsky and Strauss as well. Having settled in Vienna, he retreated into his late romantic shell and hibernated untroubled in Nazi Austria. His First Symphony dating from 1937 is a real time machine. There is a Tchaikovskian theme of fate running through the entire work, and the finale depicts the exuberant dance atmosphere of an oriental bazaar in a manner that the Mighty Handful would have praised some fifty years earlier. But the apotheosis of the work comes in the form of the old Tsarist Hymn, very much like Tchaikovsky’s Overture 1812. Two decades after the October Revolution, old imperial Russia was resurrected in music, thanks to Bortkiewicz. Of course, this Symphony might be easily dismissed as a monstrous zombie, a bizarre symphonic Frankenstein bred in tsarist nostalgia, a manifestation as much of political as of musical reaction. Yet as a historical document, it is very revealing, because in his wish to compensate for the loss of his home by conserving past traditions, Bortkiewicz opted for a combination of both artistic language (style, technique, genre)

10

Some Thoughts on Russian Émigré Culture

and content. In this he was by no means alone: such aims were shared by other notable Russian émigré composers such as Glazunov and Grechaninov, though the latter not only adhered strictly to his stylistic ideals, but tried to reconcile Western and Eastern spirituality in composing both Russian orthodox and Roman Catholic church music, ultimately blending them in his Vselenskaya messa / Missa oecumenica op. 142 (1933-1936; Paisov 2004: 303-305). Rakhmaninov, however, had first fallen silent as a composer in emigration and then written music rather unlike his prerevolutionary output, music that has become partially cool, sometimes cynic, and that reflects some influence of jazz – in itself not very significant, but characteristically pointing at a loss of tradition. His works are nostalgic in a sense quite different to that of Bortkiewicz’s nostalgia: Rakhmaninov does not try to prolong the tradition he stems from, instead he realises its end, and it is this irrevocable end which he puts into music in his late works, much as his émigré fellow Nicolas Medtner does. Musicological ears have often been deaf to all these conservative and even reactionary tendencies, but Bortkiewicz does form part of cultural history in general and Russian émigré culture specifically, and he needs to be taken seriously, which does not necessarily raise his standing as a composer. Example 2: Igor’ Stravinsky (1882-1971), the developer or innovator par excellence. There is a photograph of him holding an identification number before his breast, as if sent to jail: It was taken when he applied for an extension of his residence permit to live in the US. But rumors of Stravinsky being arrested could easily have arisen, since he actually had committed an criminal offence: he had “disfigured” the American national anthem by adding sevenths in his arrangement of the Star Spangled Banner, for which reason the state of Massachusetts had almost imposed a fine of 100 $ on him. In the immediate years after settling in the USA, Stravinsky used American themes more than once: he wrote a Circus Polka for an elephant performance in the famous Barnum Circus, as well as soundtracks to anti-fascist propaganda films, parts of which eventually ended up in his orchestral Scherzo à la Russe. Its title was inherited from a piano piece by Tchaikovsky (op. 1 no. 1), but the Petrushka-like playfulness and rustic Russianness of the music was now entrusted to the Jazz orchestra of Paul Whiteman who had premiered Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. Maybe we need not call this Scherzo a Russian-American symbiosis, but it is undoubtedly a product of acculturation. Behind the American façade of instruments, the inner life of the music is Russian in a very specific and idiomatic way: The melodic substance is based on a mid-19th

Christoph Flamm

11

century collection of Russian folk tunes the composer had bought in a Los Angeles music store, and its structural aspects reflect those fundamental Stravinskian principles that ultimately stem from Russian folk devices (cf. Taruskin 1996: 1623-1632). Finally, example 3: the cosmopolitan. Alexander Tcherepnin (1899-1977), a second-generation émigré and a member of a whole family of Russian émigré composers, wrote music in a more or less neoclassical style. (After all, how do we even define neoclassicism?) Passing through Tbilissi in the first years after the Revolution, and having lived afterwards in Paris for many years and then in the Far East, Tcherepnin tried, among many other things, to combine Asia’s pentatonic mellifluousness with Western techniques, resulting in a hybrid neoclassicism à la chinoise. His second symphony actually is also called “the Chinese”. But this was only one of Tcherepnin’s many musical faces. He once tried to sum up the very varied circumstances of his life and the complex nature of his artistic identity as follows: Russian composer Georgian composer Composer of the School of Paris Chinese composer American composer is this a handicap or an advantage? […] I wandered around in forty countries, was at home everywhere and really felt at home nowhere. My only home is in my inner self, which remains the same and follows its own development. (cit. after Korabelnikova 2008: 144)

In spite of its obvious shortcomings, this typology could be extended onto painters and other artists, a task deliberately left open. How difficult this task will be if it is to be done with the necessary precision, can be seen from a study about the change of metrics in the poetry of émigré writers written between 1920 and 1940 (Smith 1978): So great are the differences between the single writers’ idioms that it seems almost impossible to draw general conclusions about the conservation or transformation of these Russian idioms in exile. The result is more or less the same if one turns to émigré painting (Bowlt 1981). But at the end of such tentative typologies, there could be a clearer picture of artistic behaviour and artistic development, connected to external factors such as biographical, geographical and political dispositions, as well as to aesthetical and ethical aspects. John Glad has proposed a grid of two intersecting continuums for classifying émigré writers (Glad 1999: 484):

12

Some Thoughts on Russian Émigré Culture

aesthetics

preservation Ň ņņņņŐņņņņ Ň assimilation-innovation

morality

As convincing as this diagram might be, it seems not to cover a specific question of émigré culture that at the end of our rough typology has been raised by Alexander Tcherepnin’s failure of defining himself: the idea of national identity.

Russian émigré culture and national identity Since the downfall of the Soviet Union, much has been written about Russian identity. Is this identity bound up with language, religion, citizenship or maybe even notions of “race”? There are no simple answers. Maybe for our purpose we do not even need an answer, but should perhaps ask another question: is it reasonable to think of artistic identity in the (late) 20th century in national terms? Still keeping to music history, the debates about the nature of national styles in the 18th century, the national schools of the 19th century, the politically tainted cultural chauvinism on the eve of World War I – had all this not ceased in favour of international styles such as neoclassicism, serialism, minimalism, or in favour of individualistic personal styles displaying ever greater diversity? Isn’t the musical history of the last hundred years more or less the story of the abandonment of the national idea? Looking at Russian music, at least two facts contradict this assumption. The first fact: In Soviet as well as in post-Soviet times the idea of the composer and his work being rooted in national characteristics has always been alive. Though the Soviet Union was conceived of as a supranational unity, the proclamation of the so-called Socialist Realism from 1932 onwards led to the cementation of national features in the arts: “National in form, socialist in content”, such was Stalin’s own definition. Each Soviet republic employed its own folk songs and dances in a repertoire that was meant to signalise optimism in instrumental music, and to support official ideology in vocal genres. After Stalin’s death, the use of folk elements didn’t stop: it became more abstract, symbolic, demanding. The “new folkloric wave” which emerged in Russia in the late 1950s (and which is in some ways connected to Stravinsky’s Russian works some forty years before) hardly ever penetrated the Iron Curtain, but from the

Christoph Flamm

13

1970s on Western audiences witnessed its fascinating offshoots in the work of Baltic or Caucasian composers who made iconic and spiritual use of traditional folk elements. In all these cases, the central idea has still been to represent one’s home culture in music. After the breakdown of the USSR, the whole of Eastern Europe experienced an outbreak of new and old nationalism, a sort of backlash against decades of forced internationalisation and heteronomy. An immediate result of this was the re-introduction of the vernacular languages as official languages. Has there been a reintroduction of national elements in post-Soviet musical life as well? So it seems. The second fact: The phenomenon of Russian emigration, which continues to the present day, shows that composers and historians alike have been working with national criteria – and not in spite of, but because of the loss of their home country. The extent of the impact of emigration on these artists has been explored from different angles, through surveys or interviews asking about traces of emigration or nostalgia in their works, about personal and national identities. Such questions have been addressed recently by the publishing house Sikorski in relation to its own composers, doubtlessly in an effort to stress the political and ethical quality (not to say superiority) of artists having left dictatorial regimes (Music and Emigration 2009). The answers varied enormously, according to age, circumstances of emigration, personal background etc. Today, leaving Russia does not imply the impossibility of returning. Many Russian composers living abroad do not see any connection between their nationality as stated on their passports and their creative output; some even find it humiliating to be categorised as émigré. Indeed, the American Slavist Carl Proffer took exception to this notion already in 1981: It smacks of the ghetto. It suggests something limited, narrow, parochial, perhaps of interest for a time, but with no hope of entering the permanent culture of a language. If writers are ‘only émigré writers’, they will probably be forgotten. ‘Émigré’ literature is by definition a minority literature, a literature of special pleading, and like other defensive, minority types of literature – women’s literature, gay literature, the literature of Michigan’s Northern Peninsula – the attributive adjective itself determines its final fate – the compost heap of culture. (cit. after Glad 1999: 30)

If we agree with Richard Taruskin that the traditional way of speaking about Russian music has always been ghettoisation (cf. Taruskin 2011), the music of Russian émigré composers forms a ghetto within the ghetto. But it seems very difficult to overcome these stereotypes if composers

14

Some Thoughts on Russian Émigré Culture

themselves are feeding them. The middle-aged Lera Auerbach (* 1973), who has lived in the USA since 1991, is immensely successful with melancholic works that mainly focus on Russian history and culture, on nostalgia, loss and death. Her Russian Requiem (2007) combines Russian poetry from Pushkin to Brodsky with orthodox prayers, it is dedicated to the victims of intolerance and repression. “Our memories define who we truly are”, so we are told by Auerbach in her preface. Isn’t this attitude astonishingly close to the late works of Rakhmaninov or Medtner? Lera Auerbach is a remarkable case, showing that the old images and sounds of Russian émigré culture are being perpetuated to the present day – and are still financially remunerative as well. It is probably no coincidence that her musical language is as conservative as those images of a distant Russian past. Hearing her works, one is inclined to feel that Auerbach has inherited and shouldered the heavy burden of Russia’s age-old suffering, that she is the last link in a long chain of émigré artists. Should we call this presumptuous? In his speech quoted above, Joseph Brodsky maintained that an exile has the right to address his own fate since it is the one thing that distinguishes him from others and thus might help success. Obviously, national categories are not only a historical reference system depending on objective administrative or political facts, but rather a condition of the subjective perception and self-definition of the artist himself. The resulting tension of internal and external identities in the work of art can only be understood and explained if the notion of nationality is implied as a potential category, even if that should be its absolute negation. Thus, the history of Russian émigré culture must not be written anew. But it should become broader, and some new perspectives should be added to the (very) old ones. It is a task that knows no borders. How fitting!

Bibliography Aldanov, Mark (1936): Ɉ ɩɨɥɨɠɟɧɢɢ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɨɣ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ, in: ɋɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɵɟ ɡɚɩɢɫɤɢ, 61, pp. 400-409 (available on www.emigrantika.ru). Bowlt, John E. (1981): Art in Exile. The Russian Avant-Garde and the Emigration, in: Art Journal, 41, pp. 215-221. Brodsky, Joseph (1995): On Grief and Reason. Essays, New York. Chelyshev, Evgeny Petrovich & Shakhovskoy, Dmitry Mikhaylovich (eds.) (1994): Ʉɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɟ ɧɚɫɥɟɞɢɟ ɪɨɫɫɢɣɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ 19171940, 2 vols., Moscow.

Christoph Flamm

15

Glad, John (ed.) (1990): Literature in Exile, Durham. —. (1999) Russia Abroad. Writers, History, Politics. Tenafly, NJ. Gutthy, Agnieszka (ed.) (2009): Literature in Exile of East and Central Europe, New York etc. (Middlebury Studies in Russian Language and Literature, 30). Iswolsky, Helen (1942): Twenty-Five Years of Russian Emigré Literature, in: Russian Review, 1, pp. 61-73. Khodasevich, Vladislav (1933): Ʌɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ ɜ ɢɡɝɧɚɧɢɢ, in: ȼɨɡɪɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ, 22 ɚɩɪɟɥɹ, 27 ɚɩɪɟɥɹ, 4 ɦɚɹ; reprinted in: Ʌɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɵɟ ɫɬɚɬɶɢ ɢ ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ, New York, 1954. Korabelnikova, Ludmila (2008): Alexander Tcherepnin. The Saga of a Russian Emigré Composer, Bloomington; Indianapolis. Lourié, Arthur (1932): The Russian School, in: The Musical Quarterly, 18, pp. 519-529. Mjør, Kåre Johan (2011): Reformulating Russia. The Cultural and Intellectual Historiography of Russian First-Wave Émigré Writers, Leiden (Russian History and Culture, vol. 7). Music and Emigration (2009): Sikorski Magazine 03/09 (available on www.sikorski.de/27/en/sikorski_magazine.html) Nabokov, Vladimir (1970): Poems and Problems, New York. Nikolyukin, Aleksandr (ed.) (1997-2006): Ʌɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɚɹ ɷɧɰɢɤɥɨɩɟɞɢɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ. 1918-1940, Moscow. Paisov, Yury (2004): Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪ Ƚɪɟɱɚɧɢɧɨɜ. ɀɢɡɧɶ ɢ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ, Moscow. Raeff, Marc (1990): Russia Abroad: A Cultural History of the Russian Emigration, 1919-1939, Oxford. Sabaneyeff, Leonid (1927): Modern Russian Composers, New York. Schlögel, Karl (ed.) (1994): Der große Exodus. Die russische Emigration und ihre Zentren 1917 bis 1941, Munich. Smith, G[erald] S[tanton] (1978): The Versification of Russian Emigré Poetry, 1920-1940, in: The Slavonic and East European Review, 56, pp. 32-46. Struve, Gleb (1956): Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ ɜ ɢɡɝɧɚɧɢɢ, New York. Taruskin, Richard (1996): Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions. A Biography of the Works Through Mavra, Berkeley; Los Angeles. —. (2011): Non-Nationalists and Other Nationalists, in: 19th-Century Music, 35, pp. 132-143. Velis Blinova, Mabel Greta (2009): Twentieth Century Russian Literature in Exile, in: Gutthy 2009, pp. 7-19.

16

Some Thoughts on Russian Émigré Culture

Notes 1

This article is primarily based on the opening lecture of the Festival “Russische Musik im Exil”, which took place in Saarbrücken on 6 and 13-19 November 2011, spoken without notes at the University of Music (Hochschule für Musik) Saar on 13 November 2011, and on those parts of it which have been elaborated and read at the Goethe University Frankfurt am Main, on 15 December 2011 as well as at the National University of Ireland, Maynooth, on 22 November 2012. Among the many persons to whom I am indebted for their support, special thanks go to Patrick Zuk, stary drug.

SECTION 1: RUSSIAN ÉMIGRÉ CULTURE IN GENERAL; LITERATURE

THE PARTICIPATION OF RUSSIAN PRE-REVOLUTIONARY DIPLOMATS IN THE CULTURAL LIFE OF THE RUSSIAN EMIGRATION* MARGARITA KONONOVA

As a rule, when Russian émigré culture is mentioned and when its special cultural mission and its significant contribution to the world is analysed, historians and other scholars usually mean literature, art, music, theatre and cinema and the names of brilliant Russian émigré writers, artists, musicians are remembered. But political culture has also been an important part of Russian pre-revolutionary national culture as a whole and of the culture of Russia Abroad in particular. Political culture is understood as a system of historically developed political traditions, norms, beliefs, values, ideals, ideas and models of political behaviour. It provides a reproduction of political life of a society on the basis of continuity. The political culture of pre-revolutionary Russia was destroyed by the Bolsheviks coming to power, but it continued in Russia Abroad. Political culture is formed by individual and group political cultures. Among the various political groups of the Russian emigration, Russian diplomats of the Imperial and Temporary governments deserve special consideration. Their political culture directly defined their actions in the emigration, influenced their reflections and creativity. In the present article we will consider for the first time the contribution of Russian diplomats to the cultural life of the Russian emigration. As a result of the refusal of Russian diplomatic representatives abroad to cooperate with the Bolshevist government and due to the solidarity of other officials of the Russian diplomatic and consular establishments as well as members of Russian colonies abroad, six Russian embassies, nineteen legations, three diplomatic agencies, a set of consular establishments sub*

The author expresses her sincerest appreciation and gratitude to Natasha O’Brien for her responsiveness and help during the preparation of the article for print.

20

The Participation of Russian Pre-revolutionary Diplomats

ordinated to them and ambassadorial (legation) churches formed the “nucleus” of a phenomenon “ɩɟɪɟɦɟɳɟɧɧɚɹ ɝɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ” [transferred statehood], that was characteristic for the future huge post-revolutionary Russia Abroad (the term was coined by the historian Miroslav Jovanoviü (Jovanoviü 1995: 675)). The traditional principles of strict centralisation and rigid bureaucratic hierarchy in the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the spirit of corporativism allowed Russian diplomatic representatives to quickly create a unifying centre in Paris and, under conditions of anarchy, to organise and to continue managing Russian colonies politically. The non-Bolshevist diplomats saw the main purpose of their activity in the execution of their official duties – protection of the national interests of Russia and Russian citizens abroad. The concepts of “ɱɭɜɫɬɜɨ ɞɨɥɝɚ”, “ɞɨɥɝ ɩɟɪɟɞ Ɋɨɫɫɢɟɣ”, “ɫɥɭɠɟɧɢɟ ɪɨɞɢɧɟ”, “ɡɚɳɢɬɚ ɱɟɫɬɢ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ” [call of duty, a duty to Russia, service to the homeland, protection of the honour of Russia] were of the utmost importance for Russian diplomatic representatives. Their understanding of Russia as a great power (among other powers) with her sphere of interests (according to the concept defined by the Vienna congress in 1814-1815), the primacy of the idea of the Russian state (statehood) and its “vital interests” formed the basis and “stem” of Russian nonBolshevist diplomatic mentality. Two kinds of diplomatic pre-revolutionary official duties defined all their various activities after 1917 in the twenties and even in the thirties (obviously changing eventually): on the one hand there was the protection of Russian territorial unity and of the place of Russia in the world, opposition to separatist tendencies, preservation of the inviolability of Russian national property abroad (for example, in Persia and China), and on the other hand the protection of the interests of compatriots abroad (prisoners of war, refugees, emigrants) and the rendering of legal, material, cultural support. In the following we will describe the main forms of participation of Russian diplomats in the cultural life of Russia Abroad.

Diplomats and culture First of all, we should note the participation of a number of Russian diplomats in the cultural mobilization of Russians abroad around the “Ⱦɟɧɶ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ” [the Day of Russian culture]. It was dedicated to the birthday of Aleksandr Pushkin, Russia’s great poet, on June 6 and was celebrated for the first time in 1925. In 1926 two Russian diplomats – the

Margarita Kononova

21

former imperial envoy to Serbia in 1912-1915 Grigory Trubetskoy and the former ambassador of the Provisional government in France Vasily Maklakov – published programmatic articles in the émigré press. Trubetskoy’s article Ȼɥɸɞɢɬɟ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɭ [Observe culture] was published in the newspaper ȼɨɡɪɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ [Renaissance] on March 7, 1926. It was his address to the Russian Foreign Congress in which he brought up the question of the need to give the emigration “ɠɢɜɵɟ ɞɟɣɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɟ ɡɚɞɚɱɢ, ɞɨɫɬɭɩɧɵɟ ɞɥɹ ɜɫɟɯ ɢ ɧɪɚɜɫɬɜɟɧɧɨ ɞɥɹ ɜɫɟɯ ɨɛɹɡɚɬɟɥɶɧɵɟ” [the live real tasks available to all and morally obligatory to all]. These tasks should help Russian refugees “ɩɟɪɟɠɢɬɶ ɬɹɝɨɫɬɧɨɟ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɨɠɢɞɚɧɢɹ ɜ ɫɨɡɧɚɧɢɢ, ɱɬɨ ɨɧɢ ɧɟ ɜɥɚɱɚɬ ɛɟɫɩɨɥɟɡɧɨɝɨ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɧɢɹ” [to endure the burden of waiting while realising that their existence is not useless]. Grigory Trubetskoy saw this task in the fight for the preservation of national culture. He understood this fight as a fight for “ɧɚɪɨɞɧɭɸ ɞɭɲɭ ɢ ɧɚɪɨɞɧɵɣ ɥɢɤ” [a national soul and a national face], and maintained that if Russians abroad would preserve national culture, emigrants would win the first and most important victory over the Bolsheviks (quoted in Kononova 2007: 148). Vasily Maklakov published his article in the newspaper ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɟ ɧɨɜɨɫɬɢ [Latest News] on June 10, 1926. He noted that usually national holidays of a people coincide with events of the state. No such celebration had ever existed in pre-revolutionary Russia. This celebration was born in exile. Maklakov saw a special and deep meaning in the fact that this symbol was found in events not of Russian history but of Russian culture: ɉɪɨɩɚɞɚɥɢ ɝɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɚ, ɧɨ ɫɨɯɪɚɧɹɥɚɫɶ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɚ, ɢ ɝɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ ɜɨɡɪɨɠɞɚɥɚɫɶ. [States vanished, but the culture remained, and statehood was revived].

Maklakov considered that Russian culture was stronger than Russian statehood and as long as culture prevailed Russia would live. He brought up the question of dangers to Russian culture: in Soviet Russia – from the haughty and ignorant state; abroad – from the temptations of European culture. He summed up: ɍ ɨɛɥɨɦɤɨɜ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɣ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɡɚ ɝɪɚɧɢɰɟɣ ɫɜɨɹ ɦɢɫɫɢɹ: ɛɟɪɟɱɶ ɧɚɲɭ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɭ (quoted in Kononova 2007: 149). [The remains of cultural Russia abroad have a mission: to protect our culture].

22

The Participation of Russian Pre-revolutionary Diplomats

In 1927 the celebration of the “Day of Russian culture” took place in Copenhagen. The meeting was opened by the chairman of the Emigrant committee baron Mikhail Meyendorf (the former Russian chargé d’affaires to Copenhagen) who welcomed his compatriots as well as the Danish guests. Professor Pedersen (the author of a Russian grammar for Danes and rector of Copenhagen university), the head of the Royal Library and the advocate of the Supreme Court Trolle (who protected the Russian church in Copenhagen from the Bolsheviks) were present (Yur’ev 1927: 3). On May 8, 1935, Maklakov reported to the Russian envoy to Bucharest S.A. Poklevsky-Kozell that a Pushkin Committee had been initiated by writers and formed in Paris to mark the centenary of the poet’s death (in 1937).1 According to Maklakov, he remained as chairman of this Committee only to preserve its non-partisan nature. Without him, different movements would not be able to agree on any other chairman but his position was purely formal and did not require an active role. Maklakov wrote: Ɉɞɧɚɤɨ ɢɧɨɝɞɚ ɨɬ ɷɬɨɝɨ ɩɪɚɜɢɥɚ ɩɪɢɯɨɞɢɬɫɹ ɨɬɫɬɭɩɚɬɶ; Ʉɨɦɢɬɟɬ ɩɨɫɬɚɧɨɜɢɥ ɨɛɪɚɡɨɜɚɬɶ ɜɨ ɜɫɟɯ ɫɬɪɚɧɚɯ, ɝɞɟ ɟɫɬɶ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ, ɦɟɫɬɧɵɟ ɤɨɦɢɬɟɬɵ ɞɥɹ ɩɪɢɧɹɬɢɹ ɭɱɚɫɬɢɹ ɜ ɩɨɞɝɨɬɨɜɤɟ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɨɹɳɟɝɨ ɱɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɧɢɹ. Ʉɨɧɟɱɧɨ, ɷɬɨ ɜɨɡɦɨɠɧɨ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɬɚɦ, ɝɞɟ ɧɚɣɞɟɬɫɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɤɨɥɨɧɢɹ, ɫɨɨɬɜɟɬɫɬɜɭɸɳɚɹ ɩɨ ɧɚɫɬɪɨɟɧɢɸ ɢ ɫɨɫɬɚɜɭ.2 [However, sometimes it is necessary to depart from this rule; the Committee decided to form local committees to take part in the preparation of the forthcoming celebration in all areas where Russians are present. This, of course, is only possible where a Russian colony with suitable views and membership exists].

In the winter of 1937 Russia Abroad marked the centenary of Pushkin’s death. The solemn meeting under the chairmanship of Maklakov took place on February 10, 1937, in Paris. It was opened by his speech.3 The offer of the Central Committee to organise Pushkin evenings in Russia Abroad met with support from a number of Russian diplomats. A big Pushkin event took place in London on February 10 under the chairmanship of Sir Samuel Hoare, the First Lord of the Admiralty. The former Russian chargé d’affaires to London, Evgeny Sablin, personally sent out 950 invitations for the event and 700 were accepted (Primakov 1998: 451). In Belgrade, the former Russian envoy to the Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats and Slovenes, Vasily Shtrandtman, became a member of the local Pushkin Committee. The solemn meeting took place in Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɞɨɦ

Margarita Kononova

23

ɢɦɟɧɢ ɢɦɩɟɪɚɬɨɪɚ ɇɢɤɨɥɚɹ II [The Russian House named after Emperor Nikolay II] in Belgrade (Bondareva 2009: 131). His opening speech in memory of Pushkin was published on February 10, 1937 in issue 306 of the Belgrade newspaper Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɝɨɥɨɫ [The Russian Voice] (Filin 1996: 346). Ɉne more form of Russian diplomats’ participation in the cultural life of Russia Abroad was the creation and/or organisation of material support for émigré cultural activities or representatives of culture. The former envoy of the Provisional government to Switzerland Ivan Efremov headed a Ʉɨɦɢɬɟɬ ɩɨɦɨɳɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɦ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɹɦ ɢ ɭɱɟɧɵɦ ɜɨ Ɏɪɚɧɰɢɢ [Committee to support Russian writers and scientists in France] from spring 1926 until autumn 1933. Under his leadership the ɋommittee assisted the poets K.D. Bal’mont and M.I. Tsvetaeva, the writer A.M. Remizov and many others. Efremov personally tried to draw the attention of philanthropists to the destiny of the philosopher S.L. Frank (Kel’ner, Pozner 2004: 296-297, 299-300, 302-303, 309-310). The role of Russian diplomats in the creation of cultural centres for Russian émigré communities should be noted especially. After the recognition of the USSR by Great Britain in 1924 Evgeny Sablin had to vacate the building of the Russian embassy, but he personally purchased a mansion in London which later became the Russian House – the public and cultural centre of the Russian emigration. Sablin was instrumental in organising events for Russian writers in the Russian House, e.g., for Boris Zaytsev and Ivan Bunin (Kaznina 1997: 383-384, 385). In 1937-1939 Vladimir Nabokov read his works numerous times (at “Sablin’s evening” as he called it). This helped him to survive a catastrophic lack of finances (Kaznina 1997: 299-302; Nabokov 1999). In Yugoslavia Vasily Shtrandtman took part in the creation of the Russian House named after Emperor Nikolay II on the territory of the former Russian embassy (architect V.F. Baumgarten). The Russian House was home to Russian-Serbian boys’ and girls’ schools, a museum dedicated to emperor Nikolay II, the Russian Scientific Institute, a museum of Russian cavalry, a magnificent library, a concert auditorium, a gym, a church, a number of societies, unions and other organisations (Kosik 2007: 166).

Diplomats and literature Russian diplomats were graduates from the most exclusive educational institutions of pre-revolutionary Russia (Imperial Alexander Lycée, St

24

The Participation of Russian Pre-revolutionary Diplomats

Petersburg University, Imperial Law School), they were imbued with European culture and many of them were creative and gifted people who made a lasting contribution to the development of Russian émigré culture in the sphere of literature. But until today their creative contribution remained in the shadow of that of other remarkable names of outstanding Russian émigré poets and writers. A graduate from the law department of St Petersburg University, the Russian chargé d’affaires in Great Britain in 1917-1919, Konstantin Nabokov (the uncle of the well-known writer Vladimir Nabokov), greatly loved theatre, opera and literature. In pre-revolutionary times he had been a member of the Russian Theatrical Society, the author of theatre performances and of translations of European plays. He also wrote theatre reviews. In 1900 his dramatic play The Brothers Karamazov was published under the pseudonym “K. Ⱦɦɢɬɪɢɟɜ” [K. Dmitriev] in St Petersburg. It was staged in Suvorin’s Maly Theatre. Ibsen’s Ghosts, translated by Nabokov, were staged as well. Among the plays Nabokov translated and adapted were the drama Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle and William Gillette, the comedyfarce Il frutto acerbo by Roberto Bracco and a number of other works (Koreneva 2001: 269). Nabokov maintained friendships with the wellknown Russian actors N.F. Arbenin (Gil’debrandt-Arbenina 1994) and P.N. Orlenev4 (Orlenev 1961: 82); he was on friendly terms with the writer Korney Chukovsky, who devoted his book ɇɚɬ ɉɢɧɤɟɪɬɨɧ ɢ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ (1908) [Nat Pinkerton and modern literature] to Nabokov. Nabokov also loved writing letters, and his correspondence evolved into an independent literary genre (Nabokov 1989; Sokolov 1995: 136152; Perkhin 2010). During his emigration, Nabokov’s creative activity evolved in a new direction – he actively cooperated with various Russian émigré editions as a publicist. In 1920-1921 Nabokov published a number of articles in the émigré English-language magazines Russian Life and The New Russia, such as: Pity, A labour leader’s challenge. A reply to Mr. Clyness, August (‘1914-1920’), Russian Art, The Interests of Russia and the Washington Conference, and The Quadrature of the Circle.5 In the early twenties Nabokov cooperated with the Berlin émigré newspaper Ɋɭɥɶ [The Helm] in which he published his ɉɢɫɶɦɚ ɢɡ Ʌɨɧɞɨɧɚ [Letters from London] under the pseudonym “Constans”. In 1922 alone he published more than 20 such letters.6 They contained very interesting observations on British political

Margarita Kononova

25

life; sometimes Nabokov finished them with a favourite subject of his – the review of theatrical performances in London. In 1921 Nabokov tried himself as a writer, having his memoirs published in Russian in Stockholm (ɂɫɩɵɬɚɧɢɹ ɞɢɩɥɨɦɚɬɚ) and in English in London (Nabokov 1921). In addition to his publicistic and literary activities, Nabokov was also engaged in cultural, educational and translational work. In the middle of April, 1922, the newspaper Ɋɭɥɶ reported that a cultural and educational commission had been formed under the auspices of the Russian Academic Group in Great Britain, with the purpose of organizing courses for students and adults and conducting classes in Russian subjects for children. In particular, the course “History of Russian literature and public thought” was approved, which according to the article should be taught by I.V. Shklovsky and Nabokov.7 In March 1924 Nabokov gave two lectures on the Russian revolution in Cambridge. According to Nabokov, the basis for his assessment of the consequences of the revolution was an excerpt from a letter the philosopher N.A. Berdyaev had sent about a year and a half previously to A.V. Tyrkova-Williams. In this letter Berdyaev wrote that ɛɨɥɶɲɟɜɢɡɦ ɟɫɬɶ ɞɭɯɨɜɧɚɹ ɛɨɥɟɡɧɶ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɧɚɪɨɞɚ, ɤɨɬɨɪɭɸ ɧɟɥɶɡɹ ɢɡɥɟɱɢɬɶ ɤɚɜɚɥɟɪɢɣɫɤɨɣ ɞɢɜɢɡɢɟɣ, ɱɬɨ ɩɪɢɪɨɞɚ ɛɨɥɶɲɟɜɢɡɦɚ ɪɟɮɥɟɤɬɨɪɧɚ, ɱɬɨ ɨɧ ɟɫɬɶ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɫɬɜɢɟ, ɚ ɧɟ ɩɪɢɱɢɧɚ [Bolshevism is a spiritual illness of the Russian people which can’t be cured by a cavalry division, that the nature of Bolshevism is that of a reaction, that it is a consequence, instead of the reason] etc.

According to Nabokov, the quote from Berdyaev’s letter read by him ɫ ɨɫɨɛɵɦ ɧɚɩɪɹɠɟɧɢɟɦ ɢ ɜɵɪɚɡɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɶɸ, ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɥɚ ɧɚ ɚɭɞɢɬɨɪɢɸ ɹɜɧɨ ɫɢɥɶɧɨɟ ɜɩɟɱɚɬɥɟɧɢɟ, ɜɵɪɚɡɢɜɲɟɟɫɹ ɜ ɚɩɥɨɞɢɫɦɟɧɬɚɯ8 [with special intensity and expressiveness, obviously made a strong impression upon the audience that was expressed in applause].

Nabokov also aspired actively to attract the attention of the English public to the best samples of Russian literature. In this undertaking he cooperated with the English poet and professor at the Birmingham Institute Alfred Hayes. In 1918, Hayes’s English translation of Pushkin’s Boris Godunov was published in London with Nabokov’s preface. In the summer of 1923, Nabokov gave two lectures about Boris Godunov in London, based on the

26

The Participation of Russian Pre-revolutionary Diplomats

writings of Pushkin and A.K. Tolstoy. These lectures attracted a rather large English audience. Nabokov discussed Boris Godunov’s identity and the research of Russian historians on the subject. He also read fragments of Pushkin’s and Tolstoy’s works translated by Alfred Hayes. Nabokov read the texts in English perfectly, but added to the translation the original sounds of Pushkin and Tolstoy that would be familiar to a Russian ear.9 The newspaper Ɋɭɥɶ reported that Hayes undertook a translation of the complete trilogy by Tolstoy. By July 1923, he had already translated four scenes from Tsar Boris. In 1924 Hayes’s English translation of the drama Tsar Feodor Ioannovich by Tolstoy was published with Nabokov’s preface and appendix in London (Tolstoy 1924). In 1926 Hayes’s translation of Tolstoy’s poetic drama The Death of Ivan the Terrible with Nabokov’s preface was published in London (Tolstoy 1926). Nabokov’s translations were remarkable as well. In 1922 his English translation of general N. N. Golovin’s book (written in cooperation with admiral A.D. Bubnov) Ɍɢɯɨɨɤɟɚɧɫɤɚɹ ɩɪɨɛɥɟɦɚ ɜ ɏɏ ɫɬɨɥɟɬɢɢ [The problem of the Pacific in the 20th century] was published in London (Golovin 1922). In the same year Nabokov helped his friend I.G. Shklovsky to translate his book about the third class element during the First World War into English (Antoshchenko 2001: 322). In November to December of 1925, Nabokov became interested in Sozerko Mal’sagov’s notes (who had escaped from a camp on Solovki), which were published in the Riga newspaper ɋɟɝɨɞɧɹ [Today] under the title ɋɨɥɨɜɤɢ. Ɉɫɬɪɨɜ ɩɵɬɨɤ ɢ ɫɦɟɪɬɢ (Ɂɚɩɢɫɤɢ ɛɟɠɚɜɲɟɝɨ ɫ ɋɨɥɨɜɤɨɜ ɨɮɢɰɟɪɚ ɋ.Ⱥ. Ɇɚɥɶɫɚɝɨɜɚ) [Solovki. The island of torture and death (Notes of officer S.A. Mal’sagov who escaped from Solovki)]. Nabokov’s interest was possibly awakened by his friend and journalist Dioneo’s (I.V. Shklovsky) assessment of Mal’sagov’s notes published in ɋɟɝɨɞɧɹ. The notes were described as a historical document of great value (Yandieva 2010). Due to Nabokov’s personal efforts, the book was translated into English very quickly and was subsequently published in London. It appeared in 1926 under the title An Island-Hell: A Soviet Prison in the Far North translated by the well-known British journalist Francis Hamilton Lyon (Mal’sagov 1926). In an obituary in memory of Nabokov, published in 1927, it was said in particular that he devoted the part of his life spent in emigration to the promotion of Russian culture among the English.

Margarita Kononova

27

Ⱥɪɬɢɫɬɢɱɟɫɤɢ ɜɥɚɞɟɹ ɚɧɝɥɢɣɫɤɢɦ ɹɡɵɤɨɦ, ɨɧ ɛɵɥ ɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɭɸɳɢɦ ɥɟɤɬɨɪɨɦ, ɩɪɨɫɜɟɳɚɜɲɢɦ ɛɪɢɬɚɧɰɟɜ ɜɨ ɜɫɟɦ, ɱɬɨ ɤɚɫɚɟɬɫɹ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ [Mastering English artfully, he was a wandering lecturer enlightening the British in all things Russian] (A.K. 1927: 11).

Evgeny Sablin (replacing Nabokov in 1919) also had the talent of a publicist. In particular he cooperated with the Parisian émigré magazine Ȼɨɪɶɛɚ ɡɚ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ10 [The Struggle for Russia] and the newspaper ȼɨɡɪɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ. In the latter he published materials on political events in England, state-ofthe-art reviews of events in the USSR, open letters such as Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɩɪɨɛɥɟɦɚ ɜ Ⱥɧɝɥɢɢ, Ⱥɧɝɥɢɣɫɤɨɟ ɦɧɟɧɢɟ ɨ ɜɨɡɦɨɠɧɨɫɬɹɯ ɜ ɋɋɋɊ, Ʉɨɧɫɟɪɜɚɬɨɪɵ ɩɪɨɬɢɜ ɛɨɥɶɲɟɜɢɤɨɜ, ɋɨɜɟɬɫɤɨɟ ɡɨɥɨɬɨ [The Russian question in England, The English position regarding future prospects in the USSR, Conservatives against Bolsheviks, The Soviet gold] and others under his initials “E.ɋ.” [E.S.].11 In 1937, at the centenary of Pushkin’s death, Sablin presented himself as a literary critic. A graduate of the Imperial Alexander Lycée, he found very interesting materials in the British Museum and gave a public lecture on the Lycée years in Pushkin’s life (Primakov 1998: 451). This report was published in the émigré newspaper Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɜ Ⱥɧɝɥɢɢ [Russians in England] (Filin 1996: 334). Leo Islavin, the former Russian envoy to Cetinje (Montenegro), was also a very interesting figure in literature. He was a cousin to the wife of the well-known Russian writer Leo Tolstoy. Leo Islavin’s name is mentioned in Tolstoy’s letters to Vladimir Islavin, his father. A graduate of the Imperial Law School, Islavin was known as a bibliophile and a collector even before the revolution. In 1912 he took part in the preparation of the publication of the letters from the Russian poet Feodor Tyutchev to his wife Ernestina that appeared in the magazine ɋɬɚɪɢɧɚ ɢ ɧɨɜɢɡɧɚ [Old and New]. Islavin’s wife – Sofiya Leonidovna – was the translator of these letters. Tyutchev’s 285 letters in her translation were published in four editions of ɋɬɚɪɢɧɚ ɢ ɧɨɜɢɡɧɚ in 1914-1916 (Gladkova 2003). Islavin gathered a fine collection of drawings by the artist I.A. Vsevolozhsky and others, consisting of two volumes of drawings from the years 1830-1890: delightful caricatures of diplomats of the Russian embassy in Paris, noblemen, and politicians.12 Already being in emigration, in 1929 Islavin published the letters of Tolstoy and his cousin, countess Aleksandra Tolstaya, written between 1857 and 1903, which he had translated into English, in the London publishing house “Methuen & Co.”. In 1929 Islavin also published historical materi-

28

The Participation of Russian Pre-revolutionary Diplomats

als in French under the title Documents: Nicolas Ier et François-Joseph in the French magazine Le Monde Slave. And in 1936 George Doks published four letters of Leo Tolstoy in the Prague magazine Slavia, three of which were addressed to Leo Islavin.13

Diplomats and music Some of the former Russian diplomats made a contribution to the development of musical culture of Russia Abroad. First of all, it is necessary to name Ivan Persiani, the former counsellor of the Russian embassy in Rome. He was an amateur composer, a pupil of the Russian composer Anatoly Lyadov (Kosik 2007: 18), and a member of the board of directors of the Russian Musical Society. The official of the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs S.V. Chirkin remembered that, according to people who knew Persiani closely, he was an exceptional piano player, and a strange illness of his right hand preventing him from playing was a serious blow for him. Persiani especially learned to write quite well with his left hand so as not to tire his right one which he reserved for music (Chirkin 2006: 48). In 1905, during the scandal connected with the dismissal of the composer Nikolay Rimsky-Korsakov from the Petersburg conservatory, Persiani left the board of directors of the Russian Musical Society. Destiny connected Persiani not only to music, but also to the ballet: In 1914 the famous ballerina Catherine Chislova became his wife. In 1927 Persiani moved from Rome to Belgrade where he began to work as a translator at the Yugoslav Ministry of Foreign Affairs. In 1928 Persiani was one of the founders of the Russian Musical Society in Belgrade. V.I. Belsky became its chairman (Barsova 2007). Persiani was elected as a board member of this society. According to Belsky, ɤɪɨɦɟ ɩɭɛɥɢɱɧɨɝɨ ɢɫɩɨɥɧɟɧɢɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɯ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɣ, ɫ ɰɟɥɶɸ ɩɪɨɩɚɝɚɧɞɵ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɨɜ ɢ ɢɫɩɨɥɧɢɬɟɥɟɣ, ɡɚɞɚɱɟɣ Ɉɛɳɟɫɬɜɚ, ɹɜɥɹɥɚɫɶ ɡɚɛɨɬɚ ɨ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɦ ɩɪɨɫɜɟɳɟɧɢɢ ɟɝɨ ɱɥɟɧɨɜ ɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɦɨɥɨɞɟɠɢ ɜɨɨɛɳɟ ... ɧɚɞɥɟɠɚɥɨ ɩɨɫɬɚɪɚɬɶɫɹ ɨɛɟɪɟɱɶ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɦɨɥɨɞɨɟ ɩɨɤɨɥɟɧɢɟ ɨɬ ɡɚɛɜɟɧɢɹ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɭɸɳɢɯ ɨɛɪɚɡɰɨɜ ɧɚɲɟɝɨ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ [in addition to the public performance of musical pieces with the goal of promoting Russian composers and performers, the purpose of the Society was the musical education of its members and of Russian youth in general ... it was necessary to try and protect the young Russian generation from forgetting existing models of our musical art].

Margarita Kononova

29

The Russian Musical Society did not forget pedagogical activity either; short courses on the theory and history of music were offered for conductors of church choirs, where practical harmony was read by Persiani (Kosik 2007: 213). Persiani also gave private lessons. For example, the Russian émigré composer Oleg Grebenshchikov, who returned to the USSR in 1956 took harmony lessons from him. According to the historian V.I. Kosik Persiani was the composer of the anthem of the Russian Falcons – the youth movement in emigration (Ʉɨsik 2007: 18). The Russian diplomatic representative in Bulgaria, Aleksey Petryaev, a former assistant to the Russian Minister of Foreign Affairs, who during the Civil war in Russia was appointed by Denikin to the post of diplomatic representative in Bulgaria, also appears to have been connected with the development of musical culture in emigration. Petryaev contributed to the establishment of the well-known choir of the Don Cossacks by Sergey Zharov, which was highly esteemed by the composer Sergey Rakhmaninov and the singer Feodor Shalyapin. Zharov wrote in his memoirs that Petryaev helped the choir in Sofia in 1921, promising his unconditional support. He saved the choir from disintegrating. On the first Sunday of their stay in Sofia, Zharov’s choir was already singing in the small church at the Russian embassy, and after the service the choir was asked to remain there as a permanent church choir. The invitation was accepted, and every Sunday the choir sang in the embassy church. That’s how its musical career began (Evfimy Ieromonakh 2004). Evgeny Sablin’s participation in the preparation of the celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of Feodor Shalyapin’s singing career should also be noted. In 1938 Sablin became a vice-chairman of the London office of the international committee of the Shalyapin celebration. The letters the singer sent to Sablin expressing appreciation of his efforts were published in Russia (Ivanov 1995). However, on April 12, 1938, Shalyapin died. On April 16 Sablin published ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɟɟ ɩɢɫɶɦɨ Ɏ.ɂ. ɒɚɥɹɩɢɧɚ [The last letter of F.I. Shalyapin] on the pages of the newspaper ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɟ ɧɨɜɨɫɬɢ.

Friendship with poets and writers It is also necessary to mention the creative friendship of some Russian diplomats with émigré poets and writers. The above-mentioned Ivan Persiani was amicable with the poet Vasily Sumbatov, who lived in Italy. Their friendship began during Persiani’s stay in Rome and continued after he moved to Belgrade, albeit in letters. Persiani was an expert on poetry

30

The Participation of Russian Pre-revolutionary Diplomats

and a severe critic (in his letters). He appreciated the purity of consonances and his criticism in the assessment of poems was based on strict musical principles. Vasily Sumbatov sent Persiani his poems – the latter’s opinion was important to him. In their letters Sumbatov and Persiani discussed various poetic questions: Pushkin’s influence on Sumbatov’s poetry, Benediktov’s creativity etc. (Alekseeva 2010: 64-69). Sumbatov dedicated some of his poems – ȼ ɚɥɶɛɨɦ ɂ.Ⱥ. ɉɟɪɫɢɚɧɢ [In I.A. Persiani’s album] as well as a sonnet ɂɜɚɧɭ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪɨɜɢɱɭ ɉ. [To Ivan Aleksandrovich P.] to Persiani. On September 16, 1927, Persiani published a review ɉɨ ɩɨɜɨɞɭ ɨɞɧɨɣ ɤɧɢɠɤɢ ɫɬɢɯɨɜ [On a book of poetry] under the pseudonym “Ȼ.ɇ.” [B.N.] in the Belgrade newspaper ɇɨɜɨɟ ɜɪɟɦɹ [New Times] in which he noted Sumbatov’s high level of poetic skill. Persiani wrote in particular: Ɇɧɟ ɫɨɜɟɪɲɟɧɧɨ ɹɫɧɨ, ɱɬɨ ɩɟɪɟɞ ɧɚɦɢ ɩɨɷɬ, ɧɚɫɬɨɹɳɢɣ ɩɨɷɬ Ȼɨɠɶɟɣ ɦɢɥɨɫɬɶɸ, ɚ ɤ ɬɨɦɭ ɠɟ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤ, ɦɚɫɬɟɪ ɫɜɨɟɝɨ ɞɟɥɚ. ɉɨɜɫɸɞɭ ɭ ɧɟɝɨ ɪɚɡɥɢɬɨ ɬɟɩɥɨɟ ɢ ɡɚɞɭɲɟɜɧɨɟ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɨ, ɜ ɨɫɨɛɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ, ɤɨɝɞɚ ɨɧ ɝɨɜɨɪɢɬ ɨ ɪɨɞɢɧɟ ɢɥɢ ɡɚɬɪɚɝɢɜɚɟɬ ɪɟɥɢɝɢɨɡɧɵɟ ɬɟɦɵ; ɟɝɨ ɨɩɢɫɚɧɢɹ ɩɪɢɪɨɞɵ ɭɞɢɜɢɬɟɥɶɧɨ ɜɟɪɧɵ; ɹɡɵɤ ɨɛɪɚɡɧɵɣ, ɤɚɪɬɢɧɧɵɣ, ɤɫɬɚɬɢ – ɝɪɚɦɦɚɬɢɱɟɫɤɢ ɜɩɨɥɧɟ ɩɪɚɜɢɥɶɧɵɣ, ɱɢɫɬɵɣ … (Alekseeva 2005: 447) [To me it is absolutely clear that before us is a poet, a real poet by the grace of God, and in addition to that an artist, a true master. He pours warmth and heart-felt feelings, in particular when he speaks about his homeland or mentions religious topics; his descriptions of nature are surprisingly true; his language is figurative, picturesque, and, by the way, grammatically correct, pure ...].

Another Russian diplomat, Paul Pustoshkin (the former second secretary of the Russian legation in the Hague, as of 1919 its first secretary and at last “charged with the liquidation of the affairs of the former Russian legation” until 1940) corresponded with the poet and art critic Sergey Makovsky in 1948-1956. Pustoshkin was a graduate of the Imperial Alexander Lycée, the son of a diplomat. Even before the revolution Pustoshkin was an “enthusiast” of Makovsky’s creativity; they met in the salon of Makovsky’s mother and in Paris (in 1908). Incidentally, Pustoshkin was present at a literary soirée at which Makovsky announced the future creation of the magazine Ⱥɩɨɥɥɨɧ [Apollo].14

Margarita Kononova

31

“Ɋɟɥɢɝɢɹ ɤɪɚɫɨɬɵ”, “ɱɢɫɬɨɟ ɰɟɥɶɧɨɟ ɫɥɭɠɟɧɢɟ ɩɪɟɤɪɚɫɧɨɦɭ” [the religion of beauty, the pure, integral service to beauty] – this is what attracted Pustoshkin to Makovsky’s creativity15. Judging by his letters to Makovsky, he understood the latter’s poetry very well. Makovsky appreciated it and did not forget to send Pustoshkin his new books regularly. It is worth noting that some facts of Pustoshkin’s personal biography in emigration were reflected on the pages of the literary correspondence between the writer Ivan Shmelev and Olga Bredius-Subbotina who lived in Holland (Shmelev Bredius Subbotina 1993; Shmelev 2005). Yet another Russian diplomat, Joseph Loris-Melikov – the former Russian envoy to Siam – became a good friend of the poetess Zinaida Gippius after the death of her husband Dmitry Merezhkovsky. The writer Nadezhda Teffi called Loris-Melikov “charming”, a person that was comprehensively educated. According to her, ɨɧ ɜɟɥɢɤɨɥɟɩɧɨ ɡɧɚɥ ɦɢɪɨɜɭɸ ɤɥɚɫɫɢɱɟɫɤɭɸ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɭ, ɫɬɚɪɵɯ ɢ ɧɨɜɵɯ ɮɢɥɨɫɨɮɨɜ ɢ ɭɱɢɥ Ɂ. Ƚɢɩɩɢɭɫ ɦɨɥɶɟɪɨɜɫɤɨɦɭ ɫɬɢɯɨɫɥɨɠɟɧɢɸ (Teffi 1955). [he perfectly knew world classical literature, old and new philosophers and taught Gippius to Molière’s versification].

After the end of World War II, Loris-Melikov was amicable with the writer Nina Berberova. He taught her Norwegian. In 1947 Berberova interviewed Loris-Melikov and used some of the data from this interview in her book Ʌɸɞɢ ɢ ɥɨɠɢ. Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɦɚɫɨɧɵ ɏɏ ɫɬɨɥɟɬɢɹ [People and Lodges. Russian freemasons of the 20th century] (Berberova 1997: 275). * * * Thus, Russian diplomats definitely played a role in the cultural life of Russia Abroad. Some of them formed an émigré public consciousness through articles and introduced Russian culture to a European public through translations, whereas others supported and consolidated émigré cultural activities, helped émigré cultural figures financially or in contrast, involved them in charity. Basically they all contributed, in one way or another, to the preservation of the phenomenon of Russia Abroad in their time.

32

The Participation of Russian Pre-revolutionary Diplomats

Bibliography Ⱥ.Ʉ. (1927, April 9): Ʉ.Ⱦ. ɇɚɛɨɤɨɜ, in: Ȼɨɪɶɛɚ ɡɚ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ, 20, p. 11. Alekseeva, L.F. (2005): ɋɭɦɛɚɬɨɜ ȼɚɫɢɥɢɣ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪɨɜɢɱ, in: Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ ɏɏ ɜɟɤɚ. ɉɪɨɡɚɢɤɢ, ɩɨɷɬɵ, ɞɪɚɦɚɬɭɪɝɢ: ɛɢɨɛɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɫɥɨɜɚɪɶ: Vol. 3. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, pp. 446-449. URL: http://lib.pushkinskijdom.ru/LinkClick.aspx?fileticket=VQspmnc4Tfg %3d&tabid=10547 (last accessed 10-19-2012). —. (2010): ȼ.Ⱥ. ɋɭɦɛɚɬɨɜ ɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɦ ɫɥɨɜɟ, in: ɂɡɦɟɧɹɸɳɚɹɫɹ Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ – ɢɡɦɟɧɹɸɳɚɹɫɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ: ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɨɩɵɬ ɏɏ – ɧɚɱɚɥɚ XXI ɜɟɤɨɜ: Issue III. ɋɚɪɚɬɨɜ, pp. 63-70. URL: http://www.sgu.ru/files/nodes/56803/Izm.Rossia-3.pdf (last accessed 03-29-2012). Antoshchenko, A.V. (2001): ɉɢɫɶɦɚ ɚɤɚɞɟɦɢɤɚ ɉ.Ƚ. ȼɢɧɨɝɪɚɞɨɜɚ ɂ.ȼ. ɒɤɥɨɜɫɤɨɦɭ (Ⱦɢɨɧɟɨ), in: ɂɫɬɨɪɢɹ ɢ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɤɢ 2001. ɂɫɬɨɪɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɜɟɫɬɧɢɤ Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, pp. 317-325. Barsova, L.G. (2007): Ɋɨɥɶ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɥɢɱɧɨɫɬɢ ɜ ɮɨɪɦɢɪɨɜɚɧɢɢ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɷɩɨɯɢ (ɧɚ ɩɪɢɦɟɪɟ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɢ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɚ ɇ.Ⱥ. Ɋɢɦɫɤɨɝɨ-Ʉɨɪɫɚɤɨɜɚ ɢ ɟɝɨ ɛɥɢɠɚɣɲɟɝɨ ɨɤɪɭɠɟɧɢɹ). Abstract of thesis. ɋɚɧɤɬ-ɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝ, URL: http://www.dissers.ru/avtoreferatidissertatsii-kulturologiya/a61.php (last accessed 03-29-2012). Berberova, N.N. Ʉɭɪɫɢɜ ɦɨɣ, URL: http://www.litmir.net/ br/?b=122279&p =121 (last accessed 03-29-2012). Berberova, N. (1997): Ʌɸɞɢ ɢ ɥɨɠɢ. Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɦɚɫɨɧɵ ɏɏ ɫɬɨɥɟɬɢɹ. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, URL: http://fictionbook.ru/author/berberova_nina_nikolaevn a/lyudi_i_loji_russkie_masoniy_xx_stoletiya/download.a6.pdf (last accessed 03-29-2012). Bondareva, E. (2009): ɉɭɲɤɢɧɫɤɨɟ ɧɚɫɥɟɞɢɟ ɞɥɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɜ ɢɡɝɧɚɧɢɢ: ɋɟɪɛɢɹ, 1937 ɝɨɞ, in: Ɇɢɯɚɣɥɨɜɫɤɚɹ ɉɭɲɤɢɧɢɚɧɚ: 49 ɋɟɥɶɰɨ Ɇɢɯɚɣɥɨɜɫɤɨɟ–ɉɫɤɨɜ, pp. 130-137. URL: http://pushkin.ellink.ru/sborniki/49.pdf (last accessed 03-30-2012). Chirkin, S.V. (2006): Ⱦɜɚɞɰɚɬɶ ɥɟɬ ɫɥɭɠɛɵ ɧɚ ȼɨɫɬɨɤɟ: Ɂɚɩɢɫɤɢ ɰɚɪɫɤɨɝɨ ɞɢɩɥɨɦɚɬɚ. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. Evfimy Ieromonakh (2004): “Ⱥɣ ɞɚ ɞɨɧɰɵ – ɷɯ, ɦɨɥɨɞɰɵ!”: Part 2, URL: http://www.pravoslavie.ru/jurnal/040517224601.htm (last accessed 03-30-2012). Filin, M.D. (1996): ɉɭɲɤɢɧɢɚɧɚ Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ Ɂɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ, 1918-1944: Ɇɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɵ ɞɥɹ ɛɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɢ, in: Ɇɨɫɤɨɜɫɤɢɣ ɩɭɲɤɢɧɢɫɬ III, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, pp. 323-357. URL: http://feb-web.ru/feb/pushkin/biblio/MP3323-.htm?cmd=p (last accessed 03-29-2012).

Margarita Kononova

33

Gil’debrandt-Arbenina, O. (1994): Ƚɭɦɢɥɟɜ, in: ɇɢɤɨɥɚɣ Ƚɭɦɢɥɺɜ. ɂɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɧɢɹ. Ɇɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɵ. Ȼɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹ. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, URL: http://gumilev.ru /biography/90/ (last accessed 03-29-2012). Gladkova, L.V. (Publ.) (2003): “Ya zhiv i ya Vas lyublyu” [“ə ɠɢɜ ɢ ɹ ȼɚɫ ɥɸɛɥɸ”]: ɩɢɫɶɦɚ Ɏ.ɂ. Ɍɸɬɱɟɜɚ ɤ ɪɨɞɢɬɟɥɹɦ, in: ɇɚɲɟ ɧɚɫɥɟɞɢɟ, 67-68, URL: http://www.nasledie-rus.ru/podshivka/6805.php (last accessed 03-30-2012). Golovin, N. (1922): The Problem of the Pacific in the Twentieth Century. By General N. Golovin, in collaboration with Admiral A. D. Bubnov. Translated by C. Nabokoff, etc. London. Grebenshchikov, O.S. (1979): Ʉɪɚɬɤɚɹ ɚɜɬɨɛɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɹ Ɉ.ɋ. Ƚɪɟɛɟɧɳɢɤɨɜɚ (ɤɚɤ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɚ-ɦɭɡɵɤɚɧɬɚ), URL: http://kajuta.net/node/ 1069 (last accessed 03-29-2012). Ivanov, M. (1995, December 27): Ɏɟɞɨɪ ɒɚɥɹɩɢɧ: “Ɂɨɥɨɬɨɟ ɞɧɨ” “ɛɟɥɵɯ ɩɹɬɟɧ”, in: Ɇɨɹ ɝɚɡɟɬɚ, 50, URL: http://www.newlookmedia.ru /?p=15813 (last accessed 03-30-2012). Jovanoviü, M. (1995): ɑɟɯɨɫɥɨɜɚɤɢɹ ɢ ɘɝɨɫɥɚɜɢɹ ɧɚ ɤɚɪɬɟ Ɂɚɪɭɛɟɠɧɨɣ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɜ ɩɟɪɜɨɣ ɩɨɥɨɜɢɧɟ 20-ɯ ɝɝ. ɏɏ ɜ., in: Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ, ɭɤɪɚɢɧɫɤɚɹ ɢ ɛɟɥɨɪɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ ɜ ɑɟɯɨɫɥɨɜɚɤɢɢ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɞɜɭɦɹ ɦɢɪɨɜɵɦɢ ɜɨɣɧɚɦɢ. Ɋɟɡɭɥɶɬɚɬɵ ɢ ɩɟɪɫɩɟɤɬɢɜɵ ɩɪɨɜɟɞɟɧɧɵɯ ɢɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɧɢɣ: Vol.2. ɉɪɚɝɚ, pp. 675-684. Kaznina, O.A. (1997): Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɜ Ⱥɧɝɥɢɢ. Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ ɜ ɤɨɧɬɟɤɫɬɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɨ-ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɵɯ ɫɜɹɡɟɣ ɜ ɩɟɪɜɨɣ ɩɨɥɨɜɢɧɟ ɏɏ ɜɟɤɚ. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. Kel’ner, V.E., Pozner, V. (2004): Ʉɨɦɢɬɟɬ ɩɨɦɨɳɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɦ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɹɦ ɢ ɭɱɟɧɵɦ ɜɨ Ɏɪɚɧɰɢɢ (ɂɡ ɚɪɯɢɜɚ ɋɨɥɨɦɨɧɚ ɉɨɡɧɟɪɚ), in: Russian Studies. ȿɠɟɤɜɚɪɬɚɥɶɧɢɤ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɮɢɥɨɥɨɝɢɢ ɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ, I (1), ɋɚɧɤɬ-ɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝ, pp. 269-313. Kononova, M.M. (2007): “ɐɟɦɟɧɬɢɪɭɸɳɢɟ” ɢɞɟɢ Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ Ɂɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ, in: Ⱥɤɬɭɚɥɶɧɵɟ ɚɫɩɟɤɬɵ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɢ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ: ɩɚɪɚɥɥɟɥɢ ɢ ɚɧɬɢɬɟɡɵ. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, pp. 142-158. Koreneva, Ɇ.Y. (2001): Ʉɨɧɫɬɚɧɬɢɧ ɇɚɛɨɤɨɜ: ɱɟɥɨɜɟɤ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɦɢɪɨɦ ɢ ɦiɪɨɦ, in: Ⱦɢɩɥɨɦɚɬɵ-ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɢ; ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɢ-ɞɢɩɥɨɦɚɬɵ. ɋɚɧɤɬɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝ, pp. 259-273. Kosik, V.I. (2007): ɑɬɨ ɦɧɟ ɞɨ ɜɚɫ, ɦɨɫɬɨɜɵɟ Ȼɟɥɝɪɚɞɚ?: Ɉɱɟɪɤɢ ɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɜ Ȼɟɥɝɪɚɞɟ (1920-1950-ɟ ɝɨɞɵ). Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, URL: http://www.inslav.ru/images/stories/pdf/2007_Kosik_Chto_mne_do_v as_mostovye_Belgrada.pdf?db8adf65b129933cb3579617fe9 84365=a 0663c321f2fcbb3186a8aaaa412a943 (last accessed 03-29-2012). Malsagov, S.A. (1926): An island-hell: a Soviet prison in the far north (the Solovetsky islands). London.

34

The Participation of Russian Pre-revolutionary Diplomats

Nabokov, C.D. (1989): Letters of a Russian diplomat to an American friend, 1906 – 1922. Lewiston; Queenstown; Lampeter. Nabokov, C. (1921): The ordeal of a diplomat. London, URL: http:// www.archive.org/stream/ordealofdiplomat00naboiala#page/n0/mode/2 up (last accessed 03-29-2012). Nabokov, S.S. (Publ.) (1981): ɂɡ ɩɟɪɟɩɢɫɤɢ Ʉ.Ⱦ. ɇɚɛɨɤɨɜɚ ɫ ɋ. ȼɢɬɬɟ ɢ ɞɪ., in: Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ Ⱥɥɶɦɚɧɚɯ. Paris, pp. 414-419. Nabokov, V. (1999): ɉɢɫɶɦɚ ɤ Ƚɥɟɛɭ ɋɬɪɭɜɟ, in: Ɂɜɟɡɞɚ, 4, URL: http://magazines.russ.ru/zvezda /1999/4/gleblet.html (last accessed 0329-2012). Orlenev, P. (1961): ɀɢɡɧɶ ɢ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɚɤɬɟɪɚ ɉɚɜɥɚ Ɉɪɥɟɧɟɜɚ, ɨɩɢɫɚɧɧɵɟ ɢɦ ɫɚɦɢɦ. Ʌɟɧɢɧɝɪɚɞ; Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. Perkhin, V.V. (Publ.) (2010, March 5): ɉɢɫɶɦɚ Ʉɨɧɫɬɚɧɬɢɧɚ Ⱦɦɢɬɪɢɟɜɢɱɚ ɇɚɛɨɤɨɜɚ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪɭ ȿɜɝɪɚɮɨɜɢɱɭ Ɇɨɥɱɚɧɨɜɭ, in: ɋɚɧɤɬɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝɫɤɢɣ ɭɧɢɜɟɪɫɢɬɟɬ, 3 (3810), URL: http://journal.spbu.ru/ ?p=1130 (last accessed 03-29-2012). Primakov, E.M. (Ed.) (1998): ɑɟɦɭ ɫɜɢɞɟɬɟɥɢ ɦɵ ɛɵɥɢ… ɉɟɪɟɩɢɫɤɚ ɛɵɜɲɢɯ ɰɚɪɫɤɢɯ ɞɢɩɥɨɦɚɬɨɜ 1934-1940: ɉɟɪɜɚɹ ɤɧɢɝɚ. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. Shmelev, I.S. (2005): ɉɟɪɟɩɢɫɤɚ ɫ Ɉ. Ⱥ. Ȼɪɟɞɢɭɫ-ɋɭɛɛɨɬɢɧɨɣ. ɇɟɢɡɜɟɫɬɧɵɟ ɪɟɞɚɤɰɢɢ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɣ: ɬɨɦ 3 (additional), ɱ. 1. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, URL: http://az.lib.ru/s/shmelew_i_s/text_0240oldorfo.shtml (last accessed 03-30-2012). Shmelev, I.S. Bredius-Subbotina, O.A. (1993): ɂ. ɋ. ɒɦɟɥɟɜ ɢ Ɉ. Ⱥ. Ȼɪɟɞɢɭɫ-ɋɭɛɛɨɬɢɧɚ: Ɋɨɦɚɧ ɜ ɩɢɫɶɦɚɯ: ɬɨɦ 1. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, URL: http://az.lib.ru/s/shmelew_i_s/text_0220.shtml (last accessed 03-302012). Sokolov, N.P. (Publ.) (1995): “...ȼɚɲ ɱɢɬɚɬɟɥɶ Ʉɨɧɫɬɚɧɬɢɧ Ⱦɦɢɬɪɢɟɜɢɱ ɇɚɛɨɤɨɜ”: ɂɡ ɩɢɫɟɦ Ʉ.Ⱦ. ɇɚɛɨɤɨɜɚ Ʉ.ɂ. ɑɭɤɨɜɫɤɨɦɭ. 1909 – 1910, in: ɑɬɟɧɢɟ ɜ ɞɨɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɨɧɧɨɣ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ 2, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, pp. 136-152. URL: http://www.chukfamily.ru/Kornei/Biblio/nabokov.htm (last accessed 10-21-2012). Teffi, N. (1994): Ɂɢɧɚɢɞɚ Ƚɢɩɩɢɭɫ, in: Ⱦɚɥɶɧɢɟ ɛɟɪɟɝɚ: ɉɨɪɬɪɟɬɵ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɟɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, URL: http://az.lib.ru/t/teffi/text_0150. shtml (last accessed 03-29-2012). Tolstoy, A.K. (1924): Czar Feodor Ioannovitch: A Drama in Verse, Rendered into English Verse by Alfred Hayes, with Preface and Appendix by C. Nabokoff. London. —. (1926): The Death of Ivan the Terrible: A Drama in Verse, by Alexis K. Tolstoi, Rendered into English Verse by Alfred Hayes, with a Preface by C. Nabokoff. London.

Margarita Kononova

35

Yandieva, Ɇ. (2010, June 1): “Ɇɚɥɶɫɚɝɨɜ – ɹɫɧɨ ɜɵɪɚɠɟɧɧɚɹ ɯɪɚɛɪɨɫɬɶ”, in: ɂɧɝɭɲɟɬɢɹ; 90-91, URL: http://www.gazetaingush.ru/ index.php?option=com_content&view=article&catid=19%3A2009-0605-07-27-08&id=22 57%3A-85-&Itemid=25 (last accessed 03-292012). Yur’ev (1927, June 17): Ⱦɟɧɶ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ ɜ Ʉɨɩɟɧɝɚɝɟɧɟ, in: ȼɨɡɪɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ, 745, p. 3.

Archival holdings [Ƚɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɚɪɯɢɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɨɣ Ɏɟɞɟɪɚɰɢɢ] State Archive of the Russian Federation (GARF). [Ɏɨɧɞ Ɋ-7788] Fund R-7788 (ɉɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɢɬɟɥɶ ɦɟɠɞɭɧɚɪɨɞɧɨɣ ɫɥɭɠɛɵ ɇɚɧɫɟɧɚ ɩɨ ɞɟɥɚɦ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ ɩɪɢ Ʌɢɝɟ ɇɚɰɢɣ ɜ Ɋɭɦɵɧɢɢ) [Ɋɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɢɣ ɝɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɚɪɯɢɜ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ ɢ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ] Russian State Archive of Literature and Art (RGALI). Fund 459 (ɋɭɜɨɪɢɧ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɟɣ ɋɟɪɝɟɟɜɢɱ) Fund 1496 (Ȼɟɪɞɹɟɜ ɇɢɤɨɥɚɣ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪɨɜɢɱ). Fund 2512 (Ɇɚɤɨɜɫɤɢɣ ɋɟɪɝɟɣ Ʉɨɧɫɬɚɧɬɢɧɨɜɢɱ).

Notes 1

At the end of February, 1935, a Central Pushkin Committee under Maklakov was formed in Paris. 2 V.A. Maklakov to S.A. Poklevsky-Kozell, 8 May 1935 in: [Ƚɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɚɪɯɢɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɨɣ Ɏɟɞɟɪɚɰɢɢ] State Archive of the Russian Federation [GARF], f. R-7788, op.1, ed. khr. 21, f. 164, l. 114. 3 See Ɍɨɪɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɟ ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɟ ɩɨɞ ɩɪɟɞɫɟɞɚɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨɦ ȼ.Ⱥ. Ɇɚɤɥɚɤɨɜɚ, ɉɪɟɞɫɟɞɚɬɟɥɹ ɉɭɲɤɢɧɫɤɨɝɨ ɤɨɦɢɬɟɬɚ ɜ ɞɟɧɶ 100-ɣ ɝɨɞɨɜɳɢɧɵ ɫɦɟɪɬɢ ɉɭɲɤɢɧɚ. Paris [1937], p. 6. 4 See the letters of K.D. Nabokov to A.S. Suvorin from 1899, 1900, 1901 in: [Ɋɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɢɣ ɝɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɚɪɯɢɜ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ ɢ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ] Russian State Archive of Literature and Art (hereafter RGALI), f. 459, op.1, ed. khr. 2841, ll. 3, 9 (on the back), 12 (on the back). 5 See for example: The New Russia. Edited by the Russian Liberation Committee. Feb. 5, 1920, vol. I, no. 1, pp. 19-20; ibid. Feb. 12, 1920, vol. I, no. 2, pp. 39-42; Russian Life: a monthly review. Edited by the Russian Liberation Committee. London, Aug. 12, 1920, vol. II, no. 28, pp. 458-461; ibid. August, 1921, no.1, pp. 4345; ibid. Sept.-Oct, 1921, no. 2-3, pp. 73-75; ibid. January, 1922, no. 5, p. 152. 6 See for example: Ɋɭɥɶ. Jan. 20, 1922; no. 358, pp. 1-2; ibid. Feb. 4, 1922; no. 371, p.2; ibid. Feb. 4, 1922; no. 383, ɋ.2; ibid. Feb. 28, 1922; no. 391; ibid. Mar. 8, 1922; no. 398, p. 2; ibid. Mar. 16, 1922; no. 405, p.1-2; ibid. Mar. 21, 1922; no. 409, pp.1-2; ibid. Mar. 28, 1922; no. 415, pp.1-2; ibid. Apr. 19, 1922; no. 432, p. 2;

36

The Participation of Russian Pre-revolutionary Diplomats

ibid. May 4 1922; no. 444, p. 2; ibid. May 14, 1922; no. 453, p. 5; ibid. June 7, 1922; no. 471, pp.1-2; ibid. June 27, 1922; no. 488, pp. 2-3; ibid. Sept. 26, 1922; no. 555, pp. 1-2; ibid. Oct. 4, 1922; no. 562. p. 2; ibid. Oct. 17, 1922; no. 573, p. 2; ibid. Nov. 26, 1922; no. 607, p. 5; ibid. Dec. 5, 1922; no. 614, p.1; ibid. Dec. 22, 1922; no. 629, pp. 1-2; ibid. Dec. 30, 1922; no. 643, pp. 1-2. 7 Ɋɭɥɶ. Apr. 14, 1922; no. 430, p. 3. 8 See K.D. Nabokov to I.V. Gessen, 19 March 1924 in: RGALI, f. 1496, op.1, ed. khr. 423, l. 1. 9 Ɋɭɥɶ. July 4, 1923; no. 761, p.5. 10 See Ȼɨɪɶɛɚ ɡɚ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ. Nov. 5, 1927, no. 50, pp. 20-21; ibid. Nov. 19, 1927, no. 52. pp. 11-12. 11 See for example ȼɨɡɪɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ. Jan. 4, 1927; no. 581, p. 2; ibid. Jan. 6, 1927; no. 583, p. 2; ibid. Jan. 9, 1927; no. 588, p. 2; ibid. Jan. 18, 1927; no. 595, p.2; ibid. Feb. 3, 1927; no. 611, p.2; ibid. Feb. 5, 1927; no. 613, p.2. 12 See the collection of Leo Islavin in Rarus’s Gallery, URL: http://www.raruss.ru /antiqbooks/str2/1131-vsev.html (last accessed 03-29-2012). 13 See Vaillant, A., Mazon, A., Grappin, H., Tesnière, L., Beaulieux L., Unbegaun B. Publications, in: Revue des études slaves, Tome 17, fascicule 1-2, 1937, p. 122. URL: http://www.persee.fr/web/revues/home/prescript/article/slave_0080-2557_ 1937_num_17_1_7643 (last accessed 03-30-2012). 14 See P.K. Pustoshkin to S.K. Makovsky, 25 June 1953, in: RGALI, f. 2512, op.1, ed. khr. 387, l. 7 (on the back). 15 See P.K. Pustoshkin to S.K. Makovsky, 3 April 1948, in: RGALI, f. 2512, op.1, ed. khr. 387, l. 1.

“ɑɌɈ ɊɈȾɂɅȺ ɗɆɂȽɊȺɐɂə?” [WHAT IS IT THAT THE EMIGRATION ENGENDERED?] – ANDREY BELY, VIKTOR SHKLOVSKY AND ALEKSEY TOLSTOY IN ‘RUSSIAN BERLIN’ 1921-1923 KATHARINA BAUER

Who represents Russian literature? Facing the rubble of the former Russian empire, torn by revolution and civil war, and aware of the powerlessness of the political groups in exile, the young writer Aleksandr Drozdov viewed Russian literature as being a representation of intellectual life and of utmost importance: ɇɟɥɶɡɹ ɜɟɪɢɬɶ, ɱɬɨɛɵ ɜ ɝɨɞɵ ɛɟɡɭɫɬɚɧɧɵɯ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɵɯ ɢɫɩɵɬɚɧɢɣ ɦɨɝɥɚ ɦɨɥɱɚɬɶ ɪɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ, ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɲɟɞɲɚɹ ɜɩɟɪɟɞɢ ɧɚɰɢɢ ɢ ɧɟɭɝɚɫɢɦɵɦ ɮɨɧɚɪɟɦ ɫɜɨɢɦ ɨɫɜɟɳɚɜɲɚɹ ɟɣ ɞɨɪɨɝɭ. (Fleyshman / Kh’yus / Raevskaya Kh’yus 2003: 29f.) [One can’t believe that during all the years of incessant national trials, Russian literature, having always walked ahead of the nation and lightened its way with an inextinguishable lantern, could become silent.]1

The importance of Russian culture was undisputed among the Russian intellectuals and artists living in exile, whereas the question who represented it was being discussed more and more controversially: Could only those authors who emigrated, were exiled or escaped and were now scattered in diasporic communities all over the world, claim to speak on its behalf? What about those who remained in Russia during the Civil War? Was it possible to take Russian culture abroad, or was its preservation and development bound to Russia’s genius loci – or, as Andrey Bely said: “Ⱦɭɯ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ” (Bely / Blok 1990: 509)?

38

Andrey Bely, Viktor Shklovsky and Aleksey Tolstoy in ‘Russian Berlin’

In the early 1920s the efforts to preserve the cultural community across and despite the huge territorial distance were still clearly visible. On the one hand the hope for an overthrow of the Bolsheviks was very high. On the other hand there was still close personal contact between the writers and artists abroad and those in Russia, which helped delay a falling apart of Russian culture. Finally, most of the emigrants expected to return soon and regarded their stay far away from home as only temporary (Burchard 2001: 18f.). Under the influence of the Bolsheviks’ political consolidation, however, the views on the situation of Russian literature, its imminent split, and the attempts to obtain cultural unity through cross-border magazine projects and publications of new literary works began to develop into very different directions. As a result of the introduction of the ɇɨɜɚɹ ɗɤɨɧɨɦɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɉɨɥɢɬɢɤɚ [New Economic Policy] in March 1921, simplifying travelling to and from Russia, an assessment of Russia’s post-revolutionary situation was becoming more complex. Numerous travellers arriving from Soviet Russia, among them many well-known writers such as Maksim Gor’ky, Boris Pil’nyak, Il’ya Erenburg, Lev Lunts or Sergey Esenin, drew a new, different picture of the country: Not being able and by no means wanting to deny the catastrophic living conditions as a consequence of the civil war they, nonetheless, highlighted the first signs of a new cultural life. Many rather conservative émigré intellectuals viewed the literary and artistic works or groups created under the circumstances of the revolution with suspicion: First of all, the alleged political commitment of the writers was frowned upon; secondly, the general aim of the avant-garde groups to destroy the “old” order reinforced, like a reflex, the emigration’s selfimposed “mission” to preserve the Russian cultural heritage in exile. However, it was not only writers living in post-revolutionary Russia who critically questioned the spiritual leadership of the emigration. After a prolonged re-evaluation and under the influence of the ɋɦɟɧɚ ɜɟɯ [Changing the Signposts] group Aleksey Tolstoy2 finally came to an optimistic reassessment of the situation in Soviet Russia. This rapprochement resulted in his distancing himself from other emigrants. Il’ya Erenburg remembered him bringing the situation in exile to the point:

Katharina Bauer

39

‘ɗɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɭɛɢɬɴ ɥɸɛɨɝɨ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɹ ɜ ɞɜɚ-ɬɪɢ ɝɨɞɚ...’ (Erenburg 1966: 415). [‘Emigration can kill any writer within two or three years…’]

Andrey Bely3 and Viktor Shklovsky,4 two other well-known colleagues of Tolstoy, shared his experience even during their relatively short stay in “Russian Berlin”. It became obvious for them that living as writers outside of Russia, they had no perspective – despite all the horrors and atrocities of the revolution which they had experienced themselves. This paper will examine the arguments of these three writers in the ongoing discussions about the future of Russian culture in- and outside of Russia. Aleksey Tolstoy, Viktor Shklovsky and Andrey Bely participated in the public discussion first and foremost with articles, speeches and open letters. Literary texts, therefore, will be considered only marginally. Despite being influenced by different aesthetic and ideological movements all three writers fought for a conscious reorientation towards Russia as the only place where a redesign of Russian culture was appropriate and indeed possible. Moreover the overlap at the level of metaphors and motifs, derived from the Slavophile tradition and cultural pessimism as expressed, e.g., in Oswald Spengler’s two volumes of Der Untergang des Abendlandes. Umrisse einer Morphologie der Weltgeschichte, is significant. 5 Contrasting the “rotten West” – where the powerless Russian emigration was living – with the newly born, rising Russia, these writers were working on their real as well as symbolic integration into the new community to which they were planning to return soon.

The Ambivalence of the October Revolution: creative chaos The authors shared an ambivalent attitude towards the revolution that was rooted in personal experiences during the war. Tolstoy was impressed by the people’s unbroken will to survive and to maintain at least a small part of their everyday life regardless of hunger, cold and death (Kryukova 1985: 356). The others emphasised the spiritual freedom, the space for artistic experiments, which was opened up by the abolition of the old order. Viktor

40

Andrey Bely, Viktor Shklovsky and Aleksey Tolstoy in ‘Russian Berlin’

Shklovsky described the conflicting perceptions of the revolution in the preface to the volume ɏɨɞ Ʉɨɧɹ [Knight’s Move] as follows: Ɉɞɧɢ ɝɨɜɨɪɹɬ: ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɥɸɞɢ ɭɦɢɪɚɸɬ ɧɚ ɭɥɢɰɟ, ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɟɞɹɬ ɢɥɢ ɦɨɝɭɬ ɟɫɬɶ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɱɟɫɤɨɟ ɦɹɫɨ… Ⱦɪɭɝɢɟ ɝɨɜɨɪɹɬ: ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɸɬ ɭɧɢɜɟɪɫɢɬɟɬɵ, ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɩɨɥɧɵ ɬɟɚɬɪɵ. [...] ȼ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɟɫɬɶ ɬɨ, ɢ ɞɪɭɝɨɟ. (Shklovsky 1990: 74f.) [Some say – in Russia people are dying in the street; in Russia people are eating, or capable of eating, human flesh… Others say – in Russia the universities are functioning; in Russia the theaters are full […] It’s all true. (Shklovsky 2005: 4)]

Andrey Bely spoke of a continuous oscillation between the desire for life and for death: “Ɍɚɤ ɠɢɬɶ ɧɟ ɦɨɝɭ: ɥɭɱɲɟ ɫɦɟɪɬɶ” (Bely 1923: 231) [I cannot live like that: it’s better to die] and “‘Ⱦɚ, ɠɢɬɶ – ɯɨɪɨɲɨ!’” (ibid.) [‘Yes, it’s good to live!’]. Viktor Shklovsky and Aleksey Tolstoy, on the other hand, identified revolutionary Russia with different kinds of femininity. Viktor Shklovsky wrote in ɋɟɧɬɢɦɟɧɬɚɥɶɧɨɟ ɩɭɬɟɲɟɫɬɜɢɟ [Ⱥ Sentimental Journey]: “‘ɛɨɥɶɧɚɹ ɤɪɚɫɚɜɢɰɚ’ ɛɪɟɞɢɥɚ” (2002: 172) [‘the sick beauty’ [...] talked deliriously] whereas Tolstoy associated Russia with cruel and furious femininity: Ʉɬɨ ɷɬɚ ɫɬɪɚɲɧɚɹ ɢ ɞɢɤɚɹ, ɫ ɨɞɟɠɞɨɣ ɜ ɡɟɦɥɟ, ɫ ɪɭɤɚɦɢ ɜ ɤɪɨɜɢ ɢ ɪɚɧɚɯ, ɫ ɢɫɤɚɠɟɧɧɵɦ ɦɭɤɨɣ ɛɟɡɭɦɧɵɦ ɥɢɰɨɦ! [...] ə ɬɜɨɹ ɪɨɞɢɧɚ! [...] Ɇɵ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɹɥɢ, ɱɬɨ ɜɫɬɪɟɬɢɦ ɩɪeɤɪɚɫɧɭɸ ɞɚɦɭ, ɜ ɤɨɤɨɲɧɢɤɟ ɢ ɝɨɥɭɛɨɦ ɫɚɪɚɮɚɧɟ, ɞɨɛɪɭɸ ɢ ɦɢɥɟɣɲɭɸ, ɱɬɨ-ɧɢɛɭɞɶ ɜɪɨɞɟ ɬɨɣ, ɱɬɨ ɪɢɫɭɸɬ ɧɚ ɦɚɲɢɧɚɯ Ɂɢɧɝɟɪɚ. Ⱥ ɩɨɹɜɢɥɚɫɶ ɧɟ ɞɨɛɪɚɹ ɢ ɧɟ ɩɪɟɤɪɚɫɧɚɹ. (Tolstaya 2006: 94f.) [Who is this terrible and wild one, with her clothes on the ground, with her hands in blood and wounds, with an insane face writhed in pain! […] It’s me, your motherland! […] We imagined that we would meet a gorgeous lady wearing a kokoshnik and a blue sarafan, warm-hearted and gentle, someone like those being drawn on “Singer” sewing machines. But neither a warm-hearted nor a gorgeous one appeared.]

Appalled by brutal events and incidents Tolstoy left Russia in 1919, after having worked briefly for the propaganda section of the White Army. He initially supported the anti-Bolshevik attitude of other refugees and assured his friend Ivan Bunin in 1921, after moving to Berlin:

Katharina Bauer

41

Ɂɞɟɫɶ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɭɟɬɫɹ ɩɨɤɨɣ ɜ ɦɚɫɫɟ ɧɚɪɨɞɚ, ɜɨɥɹ ɤ ɪɚɛɨɬɟ, ɧɟɦɰɵ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɸɬ, ɤɚɤ ɧɢɤɬɨ. Ȼɨɥɶɲɟɜɢɡɦɚ ɡɞɟɫɶ ɧɟ ɛɭɞɟɬ, ɷɬɨ ɭɠɟ ɹɫɧɨ. (Bunin 1967: 443) [Here one can feel the serenity of people, their will to work; the Germans work like nobody else. Bolshevism won’t succeed here, that’s already obvious.]

Nevertheless, Tolstoy’s attitude towards the supposedly ‘dead’ Russia changed very soon. By the spring of 1920 he wrote to his friend Aleksandr Yashchenko about a change in his own opinion he himself was rather surprised about. Contrary to his expectations he was able to gain something positive from the events because he believed that something great was happening (Tolstoy 1989: 286). Despite the life-threatening side effects of the complex birth-process of a new state, the will to live must remain unbowed. His preliminary summary was therefore: ɇɨ ɯɨɪɨɲɨ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɨɞɧɨ, ɱɬɨ ɫɟɣɱɚɫ ɦɵ ɭɠɟ ɦɢɧɨɜɚɥɢ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɱɢɫɬɨɝɨ ɪɚɡɪɭɲɟɧɢɹ (ɧɟ ɛɟɫɫɦɵɫɥɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɜ ɨɱɟɧɶ ɜɵɫɨɤɨɦ ɩɥɚɧɟ) ɢ ɜɯɨɞɢɦ ɜ ɪɚɡɪɭɲɢɬɟɥɶɧɨ-ɫɨɡɢɞɚɬɟɥɶɧɵɣ ɩɟɪɢɨɞ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ. Ⱦɨɠɢɜɟɦ ɢ ɞɨ ɫɨɡɢɞɚɬɟɥɶɧɨɝɨ. (ibid.: 286f.) [It’s good at least that we have already passed the time of pure destruction (not senseless only on a very high level) and are entering a destructivecreative period of history. We also live to see the creative period.]

Tolstoy was not the only one noticing a transition towards a constructive period. In January 1920 Vladimir Stankevich established the group Ɇɢɪ ɢ ɬɪɭɞ [Peace and Work] in Berlin. The members approved the revolution but rejected the Bolsheviks. Believing in an early end to all the destruction they relied on the dawn of a “creative period” for which they wanted to win the combined forces of the Russian emigration (Burchard 2001: 54f.). Stankevich’s position in the article ɇɚɡɚɞ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ [Back to Russia] provoked only negative reactions. His appeal to his countrymen to break up Russia’s isolation, to establish official and unofficial ties in order to prepare for a return to Russia, received no response (Hardeman 1994: 25). In fact Stankevich was accused of betraying the emigration through his arrangement with the Bolsheviks. In particular his advocating a return to Russia seemed for many to be suicidal at this point. (ibid.: 26). Although Aleksey Tolstoy was “changing his signposts” in 1920 as well, as mentioned above, he was still only thinking about the possibility of

42

Andrey Bely, Viktor Shklovsky and Aleksey Tolstoy in ‘Russian Berlin’

returning to Russia rather than actively planning it. But much like the members of Ɇɢɪ ɢ ɬɪɭɞ the writer underlined in his review of Claude Anet’s novel Ariane, jeune fille russe [ɇɢɬɶ Ⱥɪɢɚɞɧɵ] the absolute need to believe in Russia and to love it. In a situation where logical explanations failed to describe the revolutionary developments, only faith in the future remained. With this argument he can be seen as following the Slavophile tradition which confronts Western ratio with Russia’s ɜɟɪɚ [faith] and subordinated the former to the latter.6 Furthermore, the author presented two options: the conviction of the impending total destruction or the “flaming faith” that Russia would finally overcome pain, suffering, crime and madness and attain “ɩɪɚɜɞɚ” [truth]: ɑɬɨ ɛɭɞɟɬ ɫ Ɋɨɫɫɢɟɣ, ɦɵ ɧɟ ɡɧɚɟɦ ɢ ɧɢ ɩɪɟɞɭɝɚɞɚɬɶ, ɧɢ ɞɚɠɟ ɭɜɢɞɟɬɶ ɜɨ ɫɧɟ ɧɟ ɦɨɠɟɦ. ɇɨ ɟɫɥɢ ɜɫɟ ɫɵɧɵ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɛɭɞɭɬ ɜɟɪɢɬɶ ɜ ɤɨɧɟɱɧɨɟ ɞɨɛɪɨ ɟɟ, ɬɨ ɤɚɤ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɨɧɨ ɧɟ ɫɨɜɟɪɲɢɬɶɫɹ? (Tolstoy 1984: 54) [What will happen to Russia, we don’t know and we can’t foresee, not even catch a glimpse of it in a dream. But if all sons of Russia believe in the final good, how could it not be accomplished?]

The national-patriotic undertone expressed in the phrase “ɜɫɟ ɫɵɧɵ” can hardly be missed. Arguing with the responsibility of the “sons” towards “Mother Russia” Tolstoy invoked a symbol of collective identification that was deeply rooted in Russian culture (Sandomirskaya 2001). Beyond that specifically Russian national interpretation the writer attached the highest value to human love in general. As he pathetically concluded, love is the only force that could overcome all obstacles: Ɋɨɦɚɧ ɝɨɜɨɪɢɬ – ɬɚɣɧɚ ɜ ɥɸɛɜɢ. Ⱦɚ, ɬɚɣɧɚ ɜ ɥɸɛɜɢ. Ȼɭɞɟɬ ɥɸɛɨɜɶ, ɛɭɞɟɬ ɢ ɜɟɪɚ, ɛɭɞɟɬ ɢ Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ. (Tolstoy 1984: 54) [The novel says: the secret is in love. Indeed, the secret is in love. If there will be love, there will be faith, there will also be Russia.]

In his fictional epistolary novel Ɂɨɨ ɢɥɢ ɩɢɫɶɦɚ ɧɟ ɨ ɥɸɛɜɢ 7 [Zoo or Letters not about Love] Viktor Shklovsky, too, played with the allegorical analogy between love for Russia and the love of a woman. Shklovsky unfolded this in his text according to formalistic conventions:

Katharina Bauer

43

Ⱥɥɹ – ɷɬɨ ɪɟɚɥɢɡɚɰɢɹ ɦɟɬɚɮɨɪɵ. ə ɩɪɢɞɭɦɚɥ ɠɟɧɳɢɧɭ ɢ ɥɸɛɨɜɶ ɞɥɹ ɤɧɢɝɢ ɨ ɧɟɩɨɧɢɦɚɧɢɢ, ɨ ɱɭɠɢɯ ɥɸɞɹɯ, ɨ ɱɭɠɨɣ ɡɟɦɥɟ. ə ɯɨɱɭ ɞɨɦɨɣ. (Shklovsky 1964: 207) [Alya is the realization of a metaphor. I invented a woman and love in order to make a a [sic!] book about misunderstanding, about alien people, about an alien land. I want to go back to Russia. (Shklovsky 1971: 103)]

The desire to be allowed to return to Russia was not only important for the rejected lover, but also for the artist himself, who realised that his creativity was fading away: Ȼɟɞɧɚɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ! ɍ ɧɟɟ ɧɟ ɛɶɟɬɫɹ ɫɟɪɞɰɟ. [...] Ɇɵ ɡɚɪɹɠɟɧɵ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ, ɚ ɡɞɟɫɶ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɤɪɭɬɢɦɫɹ, ɤɪɭɬɢɦɫɹ ɢ ɫɤɨɪɨ ɫɬɚɧɟɦ. ɋɜɢɧɰɨɜɵɟ ɥɢɫɬɵ ɚɤɤɭɦɭɥɹɬɨɪɨɜ ɨɛɪɚɬɹɬɫɹ ɜ ɨɞɧɭ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɬɹɠɟɫɬɶ. (Shklovsky 1964: 196) [Poor Russian emigration! It has no heartbeat. […] Our batteries were charged in Russia; here we keep going around in circles and soon we will grind to a halt. The lead battery plates will turn into nothing but sheer weight. (Shklovsky 1971: 95)]

Within the novel the view remained focused on the worrisome situation of Russian literature in exile that found no way to come to terms with its European surroundings and was therefore heading towards its end. Though Aleksey Tolstoy repeatedly described the oppressive, desolate and uninspiring atmosphere in the émigré community8, he also drew a picture, especially up to 1921, of how art could help overcome destruction, hatred and hopelessness. One of Tolstoy’s key demands was that art must open up a perspective into the future, rather than focus on what has already happened and is past. Furthermore, he wrote in his article ɉɟɪɟɞ ɤɚɪɬɢɧɚɦɢ ɋɭɞɟɣɤɢɧɚ [In front of Sudeykin’s paintings], published in 1921: ɇɢɤɬɨ ɧɟ ɡɧɚɟɬ, ɤɚɤɢɦɢ ɞɨɪɨɝɚɦɢ ɩɨɣɞɟɬ Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ, ɤɚɤɨɜ ɩɭɬɶ ɟɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ, ɧɨ ɩɨ ɟɝɨ ɨɤɪɚɫɤɟ, ɩɨ ɟɝɨ ɜɡɥɟɬɭ ɭɠɟ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɭɟɬɫɹ ɜ ɬɭɦɚɧɟ ɝɪɹɞɭɳɟɝɨ ɜɟɫɟɧɧɢɣ ɪɚɫɰɜɟɬ, ɚ ɧɟ ɛɟɡɧɚɞɟɠɧɨɟ ɭɝɚɫɚɧɢɟ ɨɫɟɧɢ. (Tolstoy 1921: 25f.) [Nobody knows which way Russia will take, which way in the art, but by its colouring and by its rise one can feel in the fog of the future the blossoming of spring, instead of the hopeless fading of autumn.]

44

Andrey Bely, Viktor Shklovsky and Aleksey Tolstoy in ‘Russian Berlin’

The optimism Tolstoy voiced in his letter to Yashchenko (see above) in view of the transition to a “creative-destructive period of history” also applied to Russian art. When Tolstoy speaks in the same article of the “ɩɟɪɜɵɟ ɩɬɢɰɵ” [first birds] which had been “ɞɨɥɟɬɢɜɲɢɹ ɞɨ ɷɬɨɝɨ ɛɟɪɟɝɚ ɢɡ ɬɶɦɵ ɝɢɝɚɧɬɫɤɨɝɨ ɩɨɠɚɪɚ” (Tolstoy 1921: 26) [rescued from the horrors of the colossal fire on the other side], one is reminded of the Phoenix – even if these “birds” did not have to die in order to return as reborn. Finally Tolstoy summed up that Russian art must accomplish a synthesis between East and West, similar to the one Sudeykin achieved in his paintings. Although he admitted that the combination of these […] ɞɜɭɯ ɜɪɚɠɞɟɛɧɵɯ ɢ ɤɚɠɞɨɝɨ ɜ ɨɬɞɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɢ ɧɟɫɨɜɟɪɲɟɧɧɵɯ ɦɢɪɨɜ, ɜɥɟɤɭɳɢɯɫɹ ɢ ɧɟ ɦɨɝɭɳɢɯ ɩɨɫɬɢɝɧɭɬɶ ɞɪɭɝ ɞɪɭɝɚ, ɤɚɤ ɞɜɚ ɧɚɱɚɥɚ – ɦɭɠɫɤɨɟ ɢ ɠɟɧɫɤɨɟ (ibid.: 331) [[…] two hostile and imperfect worlds if considered individually, who feel attracted to one another yet cannot reach each other as the two primordial elements – male and female]

is extremely difficult, he proclaimed at the end the emotional victory of Russian art: Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ ɛɭɞɭɳɟɝɨ – ɛɥɚɝɨɞɚɬɶ ɢɡɨɛɢɥɢɹ, ɰɜɟɬɟɧɢɟ ɡɟɦɥɢ, ɦɢɪɨɜɚɹ ɬɢɲɢɧɚ. Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɦɭ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɭ – ɜɟɧɟɰ ɧɚ ɩɢɪɭ (Tolstoy 1921: 28). [The Russia to come will have the blessing of abundance, blooming of the land, peaceful silence. Russian art appertains to victory.]

In the eyes of Tolstoy it depended primarily on the willingness of those living in emigration whether the reunion of all cultural forces into “one family” would be successful. Only then would Russia win back her imperial grandeur and could save – as it was said again and again – the “rotting” European civilization. (Tolstoy 1989: 313f.) In a letter to Korney Chukovsky Tolstoy pointed out: Ɉɱɟɧɶ ɜɚɠɧɨ ɢ ɪɚɞɨɫɬɧɨ, ɱɬɨ ɦɵ ɫɧɨɜɚ ɫɬɚɧɨɜɢɦɫɹ ɨɞɧɨɣ ɫɟɦɟɣ. […] Ɋɚɞɨɫɬɧɨ ɩɨɬɨɦɭ, ɱɬɨ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ – ɩɨɪɚ ɞɨɦɨɣ. ɗɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ, ɪɚɡɭɦɟɟɬɫɹ, ɭɜɟɪɹɥɚ ɫɟɛɹ ɢ ɞɪɭɝɢɯ, ɱɬɨ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ – ɜɵɫɨɤɨɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɚɹ ɜɟɳɶ, ɫɨɯɪɚɧɟɧɢɟ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ, ɧɟɭɝɚɲɟɧɢɟ ɫɜɹɳɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɨɝɧɹ. ɇɨ ɷɬɨ ɬɚɤ ɝɨɜɨɪɢɥɨɫɶ, ɚ ɜ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɛɵɥɚ ɫɨɛɚɱɶɹ ɬɨɫɤɚ [...]. ɇɚ ɱɭɠɛɢɧɟ ɦɵ ɟɥɢ ɝɨɪɶɤɢɣ ɯɥɟɛ [...]. (ibid.)

Katharina Bauer

45

[It’s very important and joyful that we will become one family again. […] It’s joyful because it is time for the emigration to return home. Emigrants, of course, assured themselves and others that emigration is a matter of high culture and means the conservation of culture and the non-extinction of the sacred fire. But that’s what was said; in reality a terribly depressive mood reigned in the emigration. […] In foreign lands we ate bitter bread.]

Art and politics The apparent willingness to return that Tolstoy refers to here as being the broad consensus was, however, rarely encountered. This became evident in the extremely severe reactions that followed Tolstoy’s support for ɋɦɟɧɚ ɜɟɯ. Following the emergence of ɋɦɟɧɚ ɜɟɯ and ȿɜɪɚɡɢɣɫɬɜɨ [Eurasianism] 9 in the summer of 1921 the literary debates about the preservation and continuation of the cultural heritage or the development under the new social and political conditions acquired a more politicoideological dimension. In Sofia the ȿɜɪɚɡɢɣɰɵ [Eurasianists] appeared in public with the anthology ɂɫɯɨɞ ɤ ɜɨɫɬɨɤɭ [Exodus to the East] and in Prague, almost at the same time, ɋɦɟɧɚ ɜɟɯ published a volume with the name of the group as its title.10 Both groups advocated the recognition of the revolution and acted on the assumption that in the long run the Bolsheviks would be replaced. In particular the members of ɋɦɟɧɚ ɜɟɯ stressed that for the time being, no viable political alternative to the Bolsheviks existed. They, therefore, were in favour of a temporary cooperation with the Bolsheviks if it was in Russia’s best interest. Though, to achieve this, an early return to Russia would be indispensable.11 In Soviet Russia the appearance of ɋɦɟɧɚ ɜɟɯ was initially met with scepticism and distrust. In connection with their efforts to subvert the political emigration and persuade the largest possible number of Russians to return, the Bolsheviks accepted the group as a useful tool. The Berlin daily newspaper ɇɚɤɚɧɭɧɟ [On the Eve] was therefore launched in spring 1922 and unofficially financed by the Soviet side. For the sake of disseminating pro-Soviet ideas the political leadership accepted ɋɦɟɧɚ ɜɟɯ national-patriotic arguments for the time being. While Aleksey Tolstoy saw no pragmatic political alternative to a compromise with the Bolsheviks, this attitude was inacceptable for the majority of intellectual émigrés. In his famous Ɉɬɤɪɵɬɨɟ ɩɢɫɶɦɨ ɇ.ȼ. ɑɚɣɤɨɜɫɤɨɦɭ [Open letter to N.V. Chaykovsky] the writer, however, left

46

Andrey Bely, Viktor Shklovsky and Aleksey Tolstoy in ‘Russian Berlin’

no doubt that he disputed the special status of the Russian emigration as a moral community, regarding itself as guardian of Russia’s cultural heritage, as well as the mutual attributions of the roles of victim and culprit. Instead, he called pathetically for the patriotic sense of responsibility of his fellow countrymen: ȼɫɟ, ɦɵ ɜɫɟ, ɫɤɨɩɨɦ, ɫɨɛɨɪɧɨ ɜɢɧɨɜɚɬɵ ɜɨ ɜɫɟɦ ɫɨɜɟɪɲɢɜɲɟɦɫɹ. ɂ ɫɨɜɟɫɬɶ ɦɟɧɹ ɡɨɜɟɬ ɧɟ ɥɟɡɬɶ ɜ ɩɨɞɜɚɥ, ɚ ɟɯɚɬɶ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ ɢ ɯɨɬɶ ɝɜɨɡɞɢɤ ɫɜɨɣ ɫɨɛɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɣ, ɧɨ ɜɤɨɥɨɬɢɬɶ ɜ ɢɫɬɪɟɩɚɧɧɵɣ ɛɭɪɹɦɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɤɨɪɚɛɥɶ. ɉɨ ɩɪɢɦɟɪɭ ɉɟɬɪɚ. (Tolstoy 1989: 309) [We are all together culpable for everything that has happened. And my conscience calls me not to go into a cellar but to Russia and drive my nail – even if it’s just one – into the Russian ship that is torn by storms. Like Peter I.]

Old vs. new Russia In spring 1922 the discussions between Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ ɡɚ ɪɭɛɟɠɨɦ [Russia Abroad] and the intellectuals in post-revolutionary Russia about cultural hegemony reached their peak. The advocates of the “true” Russian culture, i.e. often the “old” writers following the pre-revolutionary traditions, encountered the representatives of the “new”, “young” Russian literature. Tolstoy was engaged in these debates about the place of the new Russian literature since he, as editor, preferably included works of (young) writers from Soviet Russia in the literary supplement of ɇɚɤɚɧɭɧɟ. Like Boris Pil’nyak in his article Ɂɚɝɪɚɧɢɰɚ [Abroad], 12 written after his visit to “Russian Berlin”, Aleksey Tolstoy also stated that the “new Russian literature” would arise in Russia – but not in exile. Tolstoy primarily mentioned the ɋɟɪɚɩɢɨɧɨɜɵe ɛɪɚɬɶɹ [Serapion brothers] and ɂɦɚɠɢɧɢɫɬɵ [Imaginists] as representatives of the new consciousness that characterised the new literature. He compared their texts – reapplying the bird imagery from ɉɟɪɟɞ ɤɚɪɬɢɧɚɦɢ ɋɭɞɟɣɤɢɧɚ – to the “ɝɨɪɬɚɧɧɵɟ ɝɨɥɨɫɚ – ɤɪɢɤɢ ɨɪɥɹɬ” (Tolstoy 1922: 5) [guttural sounds – cries of young eagles]. The new Russian poets were “ɞɟɬɢ ɩɨɥɟɣ ɜɨɣɧɵ” [children of the battlefields] as clearly expressed in both content and language of their writings: Ʉɨɪɨɬɤɢɟ, ɤɨɥɸɱɢɟ, ɫɬɪɟɦɢɬɟɥɶɧɨ ɞɟɣɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɟ, ɠɟɫɬɨɤɢɟ ɩɪɨɫɬɨɬɨɣ ɢ ɷɩɢɱɧɨɫɬɶɸ ɩɨɜɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɧɢɹ ɦɨɥɨɞɵɯ, ɟɞɜɚ ɜɯɨɞɹɳɢɯ ɜ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɭ, ɩɪɨɡɚɢɤɨɜ ɹɜɥɹɸɬ ɫɨɛɨɸ ɧɨɜɵɣ ɬɢɩ ɦɭɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ ɢ ɫɬɪɚɫɬɧɨɣ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ. (Tolstoy 1922: 6)

Katharina Bauer

47

[A new type of courageous and passionate literature shows itself through short, stinging, single-mindedly effective, brutal narrations (both in simplicity and epic breadth) of young prose writers, barely having entered literature.]

Viktor Shklovsky highly regarded the ɋɟɪɚɩɢɨɧɨɜɵe ɛɪɚɬɶɹ he had taught at the St. Petersburg Ⱦɨɦ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜ [House of Arts] in 1919/1920, mainly because they were not interested in “politics” or “mysticism” but in “ɦɚɫɬɟɪɫɬɜɨ” [mastery] (Shklovsky 1990: 148). While Aleksey Tolstoy did not refer to proletarian art at all, Shklovsky expressed his opinion about it in ɉɢɫɶɦɨ ɨ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɢ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ [Letter about Russia and to Russia]. He clearly rejected the claim of ɉɪɨɥɟɬɤɭɥɶɬ [Proletkul’t] to cultural leadership because it was based on ideological and not artistic arguments. At the end of the article Shklovsky formulated his provocative prognosis about the future of Russian literature: ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɧɟ ɬɚɦ, ɝɞɟ ɢɞɟɨɥɨɝɢɹ, ɚ ɬɚɦ, ɝɞɟ ɦɚɫɬɟɪɫɬɜɨ. Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ ɩɪɨɞɨɥɠɚɟɬɫɹ, ɢ ɩɨɤɚ ɜɵ ɧɟ ɛɭɞɟɬɟ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɬɶ ɜɦɟɫɬɟ ɫ ɧɚɦɢ, ɜɵ ɛɭɞɟɬɟ ɩɪɨɜɢɧɰɢɚɥɚɦɢ. (ibid.: 150) [Art is not there where ideology is, but where mastery is. Russian literature will continue to exist, and as long as you do not work with us, you’ll remain provincial.]

Like Shklovsky and Tolstoy, Andrey Bely, too, included the ɋɟɪɚɩɢɨɧɨɜɵe ɛɪɚɬɶɹ among the new talents of Russian literature while at the same time identifying the emigration with the past (Bely 1923: 217). Comparing the literature ɡɞɟɫɶ [here, in Berlin] and ɬɚɦ [there, in Russia] he came to a clear conclusion: He freely admitted that it was extremely difficult to write in post-revolutionary Russia. Nevertheless, it was there where the talents and luminaries lived – in contrast to Berlin: “ɡɞɟɫɶ ɹɜɢɥɢɫɶ ‘ɬɚɥɚɧɬɢɤɢ’; ɬɚɦ – ɫɨɡɪɟɜɚɥɢ ɬɚɥɚɧɬɵ: ɢ – ɤɨɪɢɮɟɢ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɥɢ” (ibid.: 228) [here tiny talents appeared; there real talents matured and leading authorities were working].

Proceeding then in the plural – “we” –, he also emphasised his own contribution to the artistic development in revolutionary Russia:

48

Andrey Bely, Viktor Shklovsky and Aleksey Tolstoy in ‘Russian Berlin’ ɦɵ ɲɥɢ ɜɩɟɪɟɞɢ, ɦɢɦɨ ‘ɥɨɡɭɧɝɨɜ’ ɢ ‘ɩɪɨɝɧɨɡɨɜ’, ɧɚɫɢɥɶɫɬɜɟɧɧɨ ɨɩɭɫɤɚɸɳɢɯɫɹ ɤɨ ɞɧɭ ɨɤɟɚɧɨɜ (ibid., emphasis in the original) [we advanced, without using slogans or forecasts which inevitably sink to the bottom of the oceans]

Opportunity for spiritual and cultural renewal Although Aleksey Tolstoy spoke sometimes with heroic pathos about the post-revolutionary literature, he was also familiar with the difficulties in accepting the revolution with all its cruel contradictions, recognising its significance and being prepared for the new consciousness that demanded the abandonment of individuality in favour of the collective. The writer was aware of the complex adaptation process to the new consciousness and its dangers, like romanticising the revolution or glorifying the war. But it was clear to him that there was no alternative: ə ɞɭɦɚɸ, ɱɬɨ ɫɚɦɨɟ ɪɚɡɭɦɧɨɟ ɞɥɹ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ – ɷɬɨ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɚɬɶɫɹ ɞɨɦɨɣ ɢ ɩɪɢɧɢɦɚɬɶ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ ɬɚɤɨɸ, ɤɚɤɚɹ ɨɧɚ ɟɫɬɶ. Ʌɸɞɹɦ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɤɢɦ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɬɶ ɧɚ ɜɟɥɢɱɢɟ ɧɚɲɟɝɨ ɨɬɟɱɟɫɬɜɚ, ɧɵɧɟ ɊɋɎɋɊ. (Tolstoy 1989: 332f.) [I think that it would be most reasonable for the emigration to return home and accept Russia as she is. Creative people should work for the greatness of our fatherland, the present RSFSR.]

His willingness to subordinate himself as an artist under the Bolshevik’s political leadership in order to serve the country evoked harsh criticism and disapproval: The traditional role for Russian intellectuals was either defined in opposition to the state or as its victim.13 Even Andrey Bely disliked 14 Tolstoy’s rapprochement to ɋɦɟɧɚ ɜɟɯ, although he shared in general Tolstoy’s evaluation of the situation in Russia as some passages from the article Ɉ «Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ» ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɢ «Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ» ɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɟ [About “Russia” in Russia and “Russia” in Berlin] (1923) will show. In his own reflections about the post-revolutionary situation Bely leaves no doubt that cultural life exists. But present-day Russia cannot be described with ordinary words or familiar terms. The new “ɥɚɧɞɲɚɮɬɵ ɫɨɡɧɚɧɢɹ” [landscapes of consciousness] are incomparable (ibid.: 509). Like Tolstoy, Andrey Bely criticised the emigrants’ belief in any rumours concerning events in Russia. Comparing Russia to a “laboratory” Bely wrote that only those could make profound

Katharina Bauer

49

statements about the developments who were there and observed the experiments with their own eyes. (ibid.: 511) Some chemical reactions, he nevertheless admitted, are not visible, even for the people in the laboratory. One can choose whether or not to trust the accuracy of the results. Coming from a very different metaphorical field, Bely was appealing to the faith of the people without, however, connecting it to cultural patterns of the 19th century as Tolstoy did. Again antithetically alternating between ɬɚɦ (in Russia) and ɡɞɟɫɶ (in exile), he complained about the emigration’s “ɥɟɛɟɞɢɧɚɹ ɩɟɫɧɶ” [swan song] whereas Russia was filled with the tune of the “ɫɨɥɨɜɶɢɧɨɟ ɩɟɧɶɟ” [singing of the nightingale] (ibid.) In contrast to Russia the emigration had enough food but due to its lack of participation in the spirit of the “new Russian culture” it was sinking deeper and deeper into pessimism. Like Tolstoy and Shklovsky, Bely was not trying to whitewash the difficult situation in Russia: ɇɟ ɞɭɦɚɣɬɟ, ɱɬɨ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɵɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɧɟ ɭɦɢɪɚɸɬ ɜ ɫɨɦɧɟɧɢɹɯ, ɜ ɪɚɡɭɜɟɪɟɧɢɹɯ, ɜ ɛɨɥɹɯ; ɜɫɟ – ɟɫɬɶ; ɧɨ ɟɫɬɶ ɢ ɢɧɨɟ: ɜɢɞɟɧɢɟ ɠɢɜɨɣ ɢ ɧɟɬɥɟɧɧɨɣ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ. (ibid.: 513) [Do not think that contemporary Russians aren’t dying of doubts, of losing faith and in pain right now – they are; but there is something more: the vision of living and incorruptible Russia.]

As Tolstoy had pointed out in his contribution to Sudeykin’s paintings, it was for Bely, too, a matter of perspective. One could either stick to past times and things gone by, or look towards the future. In his December 1921 lecture Ʉɭɥɶɬɭɪɚ ɜ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɣ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ [Culture in contemporary Russia] Bely already criticised that the flight “ɜ ɫɬɪɚɧɟ ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ” [to the land of memories] or the utopian was no alternative to the confrontation with the changed reality of life since the revolution: Ʉɚɤ ɬɚɤ? ɑɬɨ ɞɨɛɪɨɝɨ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɜɨɡɧɢɤɧɭɬɶ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ, ɤɨɝɞɚ ɹ ɭɜɟɡ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ ɭ ɫɟɛɹ ɜ ɝɨɥɨɜɟ? Ʉɚɤɚɹ ɬɚɤɚɹ Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ? ɉɭɫɬɨɟ ɦɟɫɬɨ ...? (Bely 1986: 17) [How is that? What good can arise in Russia if I’ve taken Russia away with me in my head? What kind of Russia could it be? A nonentity…?]

Viktor Shklovsky argued similarly by stating that Russian culture cannot be carried along just as you cannot take “ɫɨɥɧɟɱɧɵɣ ɫɜɟɬ ɜ ɛɭɬɵɥɤɟ”

50

Andrey Bely, Viktor Shklovsky and Aleksey Tolstoy in ‘Russian Berlin’

[sunlight in bottles] with you. (Shklovsky 1990: 189) Cut off from Russian culture and unable to feel at home in Europe, Viktor Shklovsky diagnosed an acute identity crisis from which he himself was not spared: ɗɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ ɢɞɟɣɧɨ ɧɟ ɭɞɚɥɚɫɶ. ɂɧɬɟɥɥɢɝɟɧɰɢɹ ɫɚɦɚ ɩɨ ɫɟɛɟ ɧɟ ɫɩɨɫɨɛɧɚ ɧɢ ɫɨɡɞɚɜɚɬɶ, ɧɢ ɯɪɚɧɢɬɶ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɭ. Ʉɨɧɟɱɧɨ ɦɵ ɠɢɥɢ ɡɚ ɝɪɚɧɢɰɟɣ, ɢ ɧɟ ɬɚɤ ɩɥɨɯɨ. ɇɨ ɯɥɟɛ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɣ ɹ ɟɥ, ɛɵɥ ɨɬɪɚɜɥɟɧ. Ɉɧ ɥɢɲɢɥ ɦɟɧɹ ɫɚɦɨɭɜɟɪɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ. (ibid.) [Emigration failed ideologically. Intelligentsia on its own is not able to create or to preserve culture. Of course we were living abroad, and not too badly. But the bread that I ate was poisoned. It deprived me of confidence.]

Already in these very few examples the fundamental difference between the majority of the émigré intellectuals and the few advocating a return to Russia becomes apparent. Whereas Russia was, for the former, a dead country where no one could live, the latter were ready to eclipse material deprivation, terror and chaos in favour of a testimony of a unique event of historical significance. Even though all three writers claimed a highly individual approach to the revolutionary events and its consequences, they searched for a powerful community they could represent and influence. As all of them criticised speculations about the present and future life in Soviet Russia they drew only a very general picture of the developments there and argued, as it were, ex negativo to persuade their compatriots to return.

Unproductiveness, self-deception, political agitation One of the targets Bely, Shklovsky, and Tolstoy focused upon in their texts was their compatriots’ tendency to take refuge in wishful thinking rather than to accept the – admittedly painful – political reality. Tolstoy repeatedly played with the contrast between the idealised imaginations of Russia as homeland and the sober reality in order to ridicule the political illusions of his countrymen abroad (Tolstoy 1989: 306). Bely, as well, clearly refused the political ambitions of various groups in exile: ɇɢ ɨɞɧɨ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɟ, ɚɝɢɬɚɰɢɨɧɧɨɟ ɧɚɱɢɧɚɧɢɟ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɯ ɥɟɬ ɧɟ ɩɪɢɜɟɥɨ ɧɢ ɤ ɱɟɦɭ [...] (Bely 1986: 18). [None of the political agitating attempts of the last years led anywhere.]

Katharina Bauer

51

He also made it clear that to him the “mission” of his compatriots seemed pointless because there were indeed cultural forces in Russia. Bely was close to Tolstoy’s criticism of the illusions and hallucinations of the emigrants when he accused his compatriots of preferring “ɜɵɜɨɞɵ” [conclusions] rather than accepting “ɮɚɤɬɵ” [facts]. (ibid.: 214) Finally, he asked provocatively: “ɑɬɨ ɪɨɞɢɥɚ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ?” [What is it that the emigration engendered?] – and answered soberly: “ɞɜɚ ɬɪɢ ɢɦɟɧɢ, ɨɛɟɳɚɸɲɢɯ ɝɥɹɞɶ” (ibid.: 228) [two, three interesting names]. So Bely’s résumé was finally self-evident: Ɉɝɪɨɦɧɚɹ ‘ɤɨɧɫɬɚɬɚɰɢɹ’ in abstracto ɢ ɦɢɧɢɦɚɥɶɧɚɹ ɪɟɚɥɢɡɚɰɢɹ in concreto – ɜɨɬ ɞɟɹɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɶ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɧɨɣ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ [...] (ibid.). [The preoccupation of Russia abroad consists of large, abstract ‘constatations’ and minimal concrete activities.]

In contrast, in “Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ ‘ɪɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɚɹ’” [‘Russian’ Russia] the main focus was on feasibility: ɨɱɟɧɶ ɬɪɭɞɧɨ ɤɨɧɤɪɟɬɧɨ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɬɶ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ; ɢ – ɜɨɬ ɠɟ: ɪɚɛɨɬɚɸɬ. (ibid., emphasis in the original) [it’s hard to work practically in Russia; nevertheless people work.]

In the article Ƚɢɛɟɥɶ ‘ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ȿɜɪɨɩɵ’ [The Death of ‘Russian Europe’] Viktor Shklovsky mentioned the alleged inefficiency of the literary exile as well: Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɧɚɭɤɚ, ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ, ɬɟɚɬɪ ɡɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɦ ɪɭɛɟɠɨɦ ɧɟ ɠɢɜɭɬ. (Shklovsky 1990: 190) [Russian science, literature, theatre can’t live beyond the Russian border.]

Already in Ɂɨɨ ɢɥɢ ɩɢɫɶɦɚ ɧɟ ɨ ɥɸɛɜɢ he lamented the lack of perspective: ɇɢɤɭɞɚ ɧɟ ɟɞɟɬ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɣ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧ. ɍ ɧɟɝɨ ɧɟɬ ɫɭɞɶɛɵ. ɇɢɤɚɤɨɣ ɬɹɝɢ. (Shklovsky 1964: 169) [Russian Berlin is going nowhere. It has no destiny. No propulsion. (Shklovsky 1971: 63)]

52

Andrey Bely, Viktor Shklovsky and Aleksey Tolstoy in ‘Russian Berlin’

Using this old literary topos he underlined once more the necessity to return to Russia. A few months before his definite voyage back to Russia in August 1923 Aleksey Tolstoy replied now with a clear ideological undertone to the accusations voiced from within the emigration. In the interview Ɉ ɡɚɝɪɚɧɢɱɧɨɦ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɦ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɟ ɢ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɨɪɚɯ [About Russian art and writers abroad] he described the situation of Russian literature abroad: while Russian theatre and the visual arts in Europe and America were celebrated, the literary groups in Paris, Prague and Berlin – blinded by hatred – barely wrote literary works, but dealt with political agitation against post-revolutionary Russia with an irreconcilable attitude (Tolstoy 1956: 34-36).

Summary For the politically, socially and culturally diverse Russian emigration the rapprochement towards Soviet Russia marked a major threat to the antiBolshevik consensus which served as a bipartisan foundation of the Russian diaspora. Regardless of the fact that only very few Russians returned home under the influence of ɋɦɟɧɚ ɜɟɯ or ȿɜɪɚɡɢɣɫɬɜɨ, their publications, however, led to fundamental discussions about the future of Russia as a cultural entity. Before the public appearance of the two groups the idea of unity dominated on the cultural level, despite the deep divide on the ideological-political level. Although a widespread consensus about the eminent role of Russian culture existed, the opinions about its future centre were diametrically opposed. The majority of Russian émigré intellectuals regarded the small number of returnees and their advocacy of post-revolutionary Russia with suspicion. In contrast to those declaring the preservation of the cultural heritage an inevitable “mission”, Bely, Shklovsky, and Tolstoy opted for a “new Russian literature” that could only be created in Russia herself. They identified the Russian emigration and its artefacts with a static past that was infected by the cultural decline of Europe and confronted it with the promising beginnings of a new culture in Soviet Russia. The arguments used to explain this attitude came from a relatively limited pool of patterns of perception which was used by followers of various political and aesthetic trends.

Katharina Bauer

53

In contrast to the sacralisation of the emigration’s mission Bely, Shklovsky, and Tolstoy strove for its reintegration into the post-revolutionary community. By embedding the revolution in a broad context of cultural history and depicting it with literary topoi they mythologised the revolution as a symbol for the spiritual and cultural renewal they wanted to participate in as part of an important community.

Bibliography Agursky, Mikhail (1980): ɂɞɟɨɥɨɝɢɹ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥ-ɛɨɥɶɲɟɜɢɡɦɚ. ɉɚɪɢɠ. Bauer, Katharina (2011): Flucht vor dem Tod: Heimkehr in Aleksej N. Tolstojs Roman „Aëlita. Der Untergang des Mars“. In: S. Juterczenka, K. Sicks (eds.): Figurationen der Heimkehr. Die Passage vom Fremden zum Eigenen in Geschichte und Literatur der Neuzeit. Göttingen, pp. 194-212. Bely, Andrey (1923): Ɉ „Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ“ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɢ „Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ“ ɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɟ, in: Ȼɟɫɟɞɚ, 1, pp. 211-236. —. (1986): Ʉɭɥɶɬɭɪɚ ɜ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɣ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ, in: The Andrej Bely Society Newsletter, 5, pp. 15-28. Bely, Andrey/Blok, Aleksandr (1990): Ⱦɢɚɥɨɝ ɩɨɷɬɨɜ ɨ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɢ ɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɢ. Mɨɫɤɜɚ. Beyer, Thomas R. (1995): Andrej Belyjs Rußland in Berlin, in: K. Schlögel (ed.): Russische Emigration in Deutschland 1918-1941. Leben im europäischen Bürgerkrieg. Berlin, pp. 311-322. Bunin, Ivan A. (1967): ɂɡ ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɣ ‚Ɍɪɟɬɢɣ Ɍɨɥɫɬɨɣ‘, in: Id.: ɋɨɛɪɚɧɢɟ ɫɨɱɢɧɟɧɢɣ ɜ ɞɟɜɹɬɢ ɬɨɦɚɯ, T. 9. Mɨɫɤɜɚ, pp. 433-445. Burchard, Amory (2001): Klubs der russischen Dichter in Berlin 19201941: Institutionen des literarischen Lebens im Exil. München. Erenburg, Il’ya G. (1966). Ʌɸɞɢ, ɝɨɞɵ, ɠɢɡɧɶ, in: Id.: ɋɨɛɪɚɧɢɟ ɫɨɱɢɧɟɧɢɣ ɜ ɞɟɜɹɬɢ ɬɨɦɚɯ. T. 8. Mɨɫɤɜɚ. Fleyshman Lazar’/Kh’yus Robert/Raevskaya-Kh’yus Ol’ga (eds.) (2003): Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧ 1921-1923. ɉɨ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɚɦ ɚɪɯɢɜɚ Ȼ.ɂ. ɇɢɤɨɥɚɟɜɫɤɨɝɨ ɜ Ƚɭɜɟɪɨɜɫɤɨɦ ɂɧɫɬɢɬɭɬɟ. ɉɚɪɢɠ/Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ Glad, John (1999): Russia abroad. Writers, history, politics. Washington D.C. Hardeman, Hilde (1994): Coming to terms with the Soviet regime: the „Changing signposts“ movement among Russian émigrés in the early 1920s. DeKalb. Iontsev, Vladimir A. (2001): ɗɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ ɢ ɪɟɩɚɬɪɢɚɰɢɹ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. Kissel, Wolfgang S. (2009): Paß-Visum-Geleitbrief. Zur Poetik der Per-

54

Andrey Bely, Viktor Shklovsky and Aleksey Tolstoy in ‘Russian Berlin’

meabilität in der Ära sowjetischer Reisebürokratie, in: W. Klein, W. Fähnders, A. Grewe (eds.): Dazwischen: Reisen – Metropolen – Avantgarden. Festschrift für Wolfgang Asholt. Bielefeld, pp. 185-198. Kratochvil, Alexander (1998): Die russische Rezeption von Oswald Spenglers „Der Untergang des Abendlandes“, in: Germanoslavica V (X), Nr. 2, pp. 177-198. Kraus, Hans-Christof (1998): Untergang des Abendlandes. Rußland im Geschichtsdenken Oswald Spenglers, in: G. Koenen (ed.): Deutschland und die russische Revolution 1917-1924. München, pp. 277-312. Kryukova, Alisa M. (ed.) (1985): A.ɇ. Toɥɫɬɨɣ. Ɇɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɵ ɢ ɢɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɧɢɹ. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. Levchenko Yan (2003): ɂɫɬɨɪɢɹ ɢ ɮɢɤɰɢɹ ɜ ɬɟɤɫɬɚɯ ȼ. ɒɤɥɨɜɫɤɨɝɨ ɢ Ȼ. ɗɣɯɟɧɛɚɭɦɚ ɜ 1920-ɟ ɝɝ. Ɍɚɪɬɭ. Oberländer, Erwin (1968): Nationalbolschewistische Tendenzen in der russischen Intelligenz. Die „Smena vekh“-Diskussion 1921-1922, in: Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas, 16, pp. 194–211. Pil’nyak, Boris (1990): Ɂɚɝɪɚɧɢɰɚ, in: ȼɫɬɪɟɱɢ ɫ ɩɪɨɲɥɵɦ, 7, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, pp. 189-195. Primochkina, Nina N. (1998): ɉɢɫɚɬɟɥɶ ɢ ɜɥɚɫɬɶ. Ɇ. Ƚɨɪɶɤɢɣ ɜ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɨɦ ɞɜɢɠɟɧɢɢ 20-ɯ ɝɨɞɨɜ. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. Sandomirskaya, Irina (2001): Ʉɧɢɝɚ ɨ ɪɨɞɢɧɟ. Ɉɩɵɬ ɚɧɚɥɢɡɚ ɞɢɫɤɭɪɫɢɜɧɵɯ ɩɪɚɤɬɢɤ. Wien (Wiener Slawistischer Almanach, Sonderband, 50). Schlögel, Karl (1987): Jemand in Berlin, in: Andrej Belyj: Im Reich der Schatten: Berlin 1921-1923. Frankfurt am Main, pp. 99-120. —. (2009): Petersburg das Laboratorium der Moderne 1909 – 1921. Frankfurt am Main. Shklovsky, Viktor (1964): Ɂɨɨ ɢɥɢ ɩɢɫɶɦɚ ɧɟ ɨ ɥɸɛɜɢ, in: Id., ɀɢɥɢɛɵɥɢ. ȼɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ, ɦɟɦɭɚɪɧɵɟ ɡɚɩɢɫɢ, ɩɨɜɟɫɬɢ ɨ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɢ: ɫ ɤɨɧɰɚ XIX ɜ. ɩɨ 1962 ɝ. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, pp. 119-208. —. (1971): Zoo or Letters not about Love. Translated from the Russian and edited by Richard Sheldon. Ithaca/London. —. (1990): Ƚɚɦɛɭɪɝɫɤɢɣ ɫɱɟɬ. ɋɬɚɬɶɢ – ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ – ɷɫɫɟ. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. —. (2002): ɋɟɧɬɢɦɟɧɬɚɥɶɧɨɟ ɩɭɬɟɲɟɫɬɜɢɟ, in: Id., „ȿɳɟ ɧɢɱɟɝɨ ɧɟ ɤɨɧɱɢɥɨɫɶ…“. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, pp. 15-266. —. (2005): Knight’s Move. Translation and introduction by Richard Sheldon. Normal/London. Tippner, Anja (2006): „Aller et retour, ou seulement aller, sans retour“: Exil als Lebensform und Metapher bei Elsa Triolet und Viktor Šklovskij, in: L. Bugaeva, E. Hausbacher (eds.): Ent-Grenzen. Ɂɚ ɩɪɟɞɟɥɚɦɢ. Intellektuelle Emigration in der russischen Kultur des 20. Jahr-

Katharina Bauer

55

hunderts. ɂɧɬɟɥɥɟɤɬɭɚɥɶɧɚɹ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ ɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɟ XX ɜɟɤɚ. Frankfurt am Main, pp. 105-127. Tolstaya, Elena (2006): „Ⱦëɝɨɬɶ ɢɥɢ ɦëɞ“: Aɥɟɤɫɟɣ ɇ. Ɍɨɥɫɬɨɣ ɤɚɤ ɧɟɢɡɜɟɫɬɧɵɣ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɶ, 1917-1923. Mɨɫɤɜɚ. Tolstoy, Aleksey N. (1921): ɉɟɪɟɞ ɤɚɪɬɢɧɚɦɢ ɋɭɞɟɣɤɢɧɚ, in: ɀɚɪɩɬɢɰɚ, 1, pp. 23-28. —. (1922): Ɉ ɧɨɜɨɣ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɟ, in: ɇɚɤɚɧɭɧɟ. Ʌɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɨɟ ɩɪɢɥɨɠɟɧɢɟ, 11. ɂɸɧɶ, pp. 5-6. —. (1956): Ɉ ɡɚɝɪɚɧɢɱɧɨɦ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɦ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɟ ɢ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɨɪɚɯ, in: Id.: Ɉ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɟ: ɋɬɚɬɶɢ, ɜɵɫɬɭɩɥɟɧɢɹ, ɩɢɫɶɦɚ. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, pp. 34-36. —. (1984): ɇɢɬɶ Ⱥɪɢɚɞɧɵ, in: Id.: Ɉ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɟ. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ, pp. 53-55. —. (1989): ɉɟɪɟɩɢɫɤɚ Ⱥ.ɇ. Ɍɨɥɫɬɨɝɨ ɜ ɞɜɭɯ ɬɨɦɚɯ. Ɍ. I. Moɫɤɜɚ. Urban, Thomas (2003): Russische Schriftsteller im Berlin der zwanziger Jahre. Berlin. Varlamov, Aleksey (2008): Ⱥɥɟɤɫɟɣ Ɍɨɥɫɬɨɣ. Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. Wiederkehr, Stefan (2007): Die eurasische Bewegung: Wissenschaft und Politik in der russischen Emigration der Zwischenkriegszeit und im postsowjetischen Russland. Köln.

Notes  1

Unless otherwise noted translations are mine – K.B. Aleksey Tolstoy left Russia in 1919 for Paris via Constantinople, moved to Berlin in 1921 and returned to the Soviet Union in August 1923. Regarding his emigration period cf. Tolstaya 2006, Varlamov 2008. 3 Andrey Bely was one of the travellers arriving in the West with official permission. He stayed in Berlin from November 1921 until October 1923 (Beyer 1995; Schlögel 1987). 4 Viktor Shklovsky escaped to Finland after the denunciation of the socialrevolutionary conspiracy in March 1922. In June 1922 he arrived in Berlin and stayed there – like Bely – until October 1923. He owed his permission to return to the influence of Vladimir Mayakovsky and Maksim Gor’ky (Urban 2003: 109). 5 Concerning Spengler’s image of Russia cf. Kraus 1998; Alexander Kratochvil (1998) has analysed Spengler’s reception in Russia. 6 Tolstoy’s science fiction novel Ⱥɷɥɢɬɚ [Aelita] is allegorically dealing with the contrast between West and East. Cf. Bauer 2011; Agursky 1980. 7 For detailed information and interpretation of Shklovsky’s novel cf., e.g., Kissel 2009; Tippner 2006 or Levchenko 2003. 8 For example in the novels ɇ.ɇ. Ȼɭɪɨɜ ɢ ɟɝɨ ɧɚɫɬɪɨɟɧɢɹ [N.N. Burov and his moods], Ɋɭɤɨɩɢɫɶ ɧɚɣɞɟɧɧɚɹ ɩɨɞ ɤɪɨɜɚɬɶɸ [The manuscript found under the bed] or ɑɟɪɧɚɹ ɩɹɬɧɢɰɚ [Black Friday]. 9 For further information about ȿɜɪɚɡɢɣɫɬɜɨ cf. Wiederkehr 2007, about ɋɦɟɧɚ ɜɟɯ Oberländer 1968. 2

56

Andrey Bely, Viktor Shklovsky and Aleksey Tolstoy in ‘Russian Berlin’

 10

ɂɫɯɨɞ ɤ ɜɨɫɬɨɤɭ. ɉɪɟɞɱɭɜɫɬɜɢɹ ɢ ɫɜɟɪɲɟɧɢɹ. ɍɬɜɟɪɠɞɟɧɢɟ ȿɜɪɚɡɢɣɰɟɜ. ɋɨɮɢɹ 1921; ɋɦɟɧɚ ɜɟɯ. ɋɛɨɪɧɢɤ ɫɬɚɬɟɣ. ɉɪɚɝɚ 1921. 11 In 1921 more than 120.000 people returned after the declaration of an amnesty for soldiers of the White Armies, but there were no intellectuals of renown among them (Glad 1999: 145). Vladimir Iontsev speaks of about 300 intellectuals returning between 1917 and 1925. The source for this number, however, remains unclear (Iontsev 2001: 374). 12 In Ɂɚɝɪɚɧɢɰɚ, issued on April 9th, 1922, Boris Pil’nyak stated that with few exceptions the “old writers” in- and outside of Russia were not able to create a new literature that would correspond to the new situation. As one of these exceptions Pil’nyak mentioned Aleksey Tolstoy and conveys some of his words to his readers in Russia: „ȼɢɞɟɥ ɜɫɸ ȿɜɪɨɩɭ ɢ ɫɬɚɥ ɦɢɡɚɧɬɪɨɩɨɦ, ɩɪɨɤɥɹɥ ɜɫɟ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɱɟɫɬɜɨ, ɢ ɬɟɩɟɪɶ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɨɞɧɚ ɜɟɪɚ, ɨɞɧɚ ɧɚɞɟɠɞɚ, ɱɬɨ Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ ɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɫɩɚɫɭɬ ɦɢɪ,– ɩɨɷɬɨɦɭ ɫɱɢɬɚɸ ɩɪɟɫɬɭɩɧɵɦ, ɱɬɨ ɩɨ ɫɥɚɛɨɫɬɢ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɫɢɠɭ ɡɞɟɫɶ.“ (Pil’nyak 1990: 193) [I saw all of Europe and became a misanthrope; I cursed all of humankind; and now I only believe and hope that Russia and the Russians will rescue the world. Therefore it seems criminal to me to be sitting here because of human weakness.] Until then Tolstoy had depicted his separation from Russia several times as a very hard fate but he never spoke about it in terms of a crime as he did here. 13 In his letter to Andrey Sobol’ Tolstoy wrote in June 1922: “ɗɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ ɪɭɝɚɟɬ ɦɟɧɹ ɫ ɨɫɬɟɪɜɟɧɟɧɢɟɦ: ɹ ɟɟ ɩɪɟɞɚɥ. ɇɨ ɦɟɧɹ ɪɭɝɚɸɬ ɢ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ: ɹ ɧɚɪɭɲɢɥ ɞɚɜɧɢɲɧɸɸ ɬɪɚɞɢɰɢɸ ɢɧɬɟɥɥɢɝɟɧɰɢɢ – ɛɭɞɢɪɨɜɚɬɶ ɩɪɚɜɢɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɨ.” (Tolstoy 1989: 323f.) [Emigration criticises me with frenzy: I betrayed it. But I’m also criticised in Russia: I broke the old tradition of the Intelligentsia, to offend the government.]; cf. also Schlögel (2009: 99). 14 In a meeting at the Berlin Ⱦɨɦ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜ in March 1922 their conflict finally peaked in a public dispute about the magazine ɇɚɤɚɧɭɧɟ (Beyer 1995: 320).

UN ENFANT PRODIGE: IRÈNE NÉMIROVSKY AND JEWISH RUSSIA AS IRRETRIEVABLE ORIGIN JULIA ELSKY

This article examines Irène Némirovsky’s early novella, Un enfant prodige [The Child Genius], in the context of her own experience as a Russian immigrant to Paris.1 Un enfant prodige recounts the rise and fall of a young Russian Jewish poet, Ismaël Baruch. It has gone unnoticed that this story was Némirovsky’s first intended publication, one which adds to and alters our understanding of her work. This early text draws on themes that she examined throughout her career, namely how an ambivalent relationship to national identity and origins affects the author’s identity, as well as the torment authors feel when they are rejected because of their ethnic origins. I will present research I have done on Némirovsky in her archives at the Institut Mémoire de l’Édition Contemporaine (IMEC), namely her letters, her journal, as well as her correspondence with her editors at the outbreak of World War II.2 Irène Némirovsky was born to a wealthy Jewish banking family in Kiev in 1903. Fearing the Bolshevik Revolution, her family immigrated to Paris in 1919. Settled in Paris, Némirovsky led the luxurious life of a wealthy adolescent. In 1926 she married Michel Epstein, a Jewish banker. Némirovsky first gained acclaim as an author with the success of her novel David Golder, which was published in 1929. Her first published story, Le Malentendu, appeared in 1926. I would argue, however, that Un enfant prodige is her first work written for publication, as she claimed in a 1930 interview in Les nouvelles littéraires to have written it at the age of eighteen, six years before it was published in Les œuvres libres. In a 1940 interview she dismisses the journalist’s question about this novella: Ne m’en parlez pas. Je viens d’y jeter un coup d’œil et j’ai refermé le livre bien vite: je le trouve si mauvais ! Aussi, je vous rappelle la circonstance atténuante: je l’ai écrit en 1923, à dix-huit ans. (Lefèvre 1935: 2)

58

Irène Némirovsky and Jewish Russia as Irretrievable Origin [Do not talk to me about it. I just took a glimpse at it and closed the book right away: I find it so bad! Also, I remind you of the mitigating circum3 stances: I wrote it in 1923 when I was eighteen.]

Her reaction is fitting in regard to a novella about youthful creation and rejection of identity. Némirovsky cannot bear to speak of the work only a few years after its publication, and not merely because she judges the writing as inferior. Rather, she is embarrassed by her work because she wrote it during her adolescence and it has an amateur quality. But this story, written at this early stage of her career is particularly interesting, for it reveals that from her very first story she was already working on a theme that she would develop throughout her career, namely Russian Jewish families. Many of Némirovsky’s stories contain stereotypically antiSemitic themes, such as money-hungry Jews described with large noses. For example, in Le Malentendu the Franco-French bourgeois Yves Harteloup describes Moses, whom he observes at a Parisian café: Mosès, le type du jeune Israélite riche, élégant, long nez pointu dans une face fine et pâle, compulsait des chiffres, comme un amoureux qui relit une lettre de sa maîtresse, avec des yeux avides... Yves l’enviait, et il se souvenait de ce que son chef, un jour, lui avait dit – un Juif aussi, celui-là, mais de vieille souche, avec un nez presque inconvenant et une barbe d’un gris sale: – Mon cher Harteloup, ce qui vous manque, c’est une goutte, une toute petite goutte de notre sang… Il revoyait le geste de la main molle et velue, et l’accent tudesque: «…Une coude, une doude bédide coude…» (Némirovsky 2010: 144-45) [Moses, the perfect example of a young Israelite, rich, elegant, with a long, pointy nose on a thin and pale face, was poring over figures, like a lover rereading a letter from his mistress, with avid eyes … Yves envied him, and remembered what his boss – he was a Jew too, but of the old stock, with an almost inconvenient nose and a dirty-grey beard – told him one day: – My dear Harteloup, what you need is a drop, just a little drop of our blood… He gestured with his limp and hairy hand, and in a Germanic accent: “A trob, jus a liddul trob”]

Furthermore, in an interview with L’Univers israélite in 1935, she openly criticized the Jews’ “amour de l’argent” [love of money]. (Auscher 1935: 669). She responds in this article to critics from the Jewish community who accuse her of anti-Semitism by explaining that she writes what she sees in her milieu, and that she portrays characters, not an entire race.

Julia Elsky

59

Furthermore, she argues that she is very public about the fact that she is Jewish. Némirovsky still published in extreme-right-wing, anti-Semitic journals such as Candide and Gringoire. She may have believed that her activity in the milieu of the French right wing would protect her. Ultimately, and tragically, Némirovsky died in 1942 at Auschwitz at the age of thirty-nine. Like the child-poet, the protagonist of Un enfant prodige, Némirovsky’s identity as an author was constantly in flux, continually demonstrating ambivalence towards her origins. The formation of her identity as an author went beyond her adolescence in Paris, all the way to her Russian Jewish heritage. The protagonist of Un enfant prodige, Ismaël Baruch owes his literary genius to the sorrows of the Jewish ghetto and the port city of Odessa on the Black Sea. His origins are described almost entirely free from nostalgia: Némirovsky compares the quick overturn of children to swarming vermin, and Ismaël’s brothers to rats in the harbour. It is a disease-ridden place where one child dies and the next is quickly born to replace him or her. The only aspect of Ismaël’s background that approaches softness is the description of his mother: “Elle était travailleuse, point plus avare qu’il ne fallait et de bonne conduite” [a hard worker, not more miserly than was necessary, and of good conduct]. (Némirovsky 1992: 15). And yet her most precious possession is the bit of wealth left from her past: her golden earrings. Money is the driving motive for Némirovsky’s Jews of the ghetto and the port. In the market scene, the Jewish merchants are described as wadding greedy birds: des Juifs … vêtus de leurs houppelandes graisseuses, qui sautillaient comme de vieux oiseaux, des échassiers déplumés, et qui comprenaient tout, connaissaient tout, vendaient de tout et achetaient davantage (Némirovsky 1992: 19-20) [the Jews clothed in their greasy houplands, long skirted tunics, hopping like old birds, like bald waders, who understood everything, knew everything, sold everything, and bought at an advantage.]

On the other hand, the Rabbi’s house is the only location in his hometown described in a positive light. It is a place of warmth during winter days, where Ismaël learns to read Hebrew and first shows his gift for words. It is this Hebraic learning that Ismaël channels when he discovers his literary and musical gift. The refrains he sings are, Némirovsky writes, like treasures deposited in his soul by God. The next night his songs in the

60

Irène Némirovsky and Jewish Russia as Irretrievable Origin

cabaret are foreign to the inhabitants of the port; they are “un inconscient écho des tristes chants juifs” [an unconscious echo of sad Jewish songs]. (Némirovsky 1992: 25). The origins of his talent are deeply connected to Judaism – they go beyond his lessons at the Rabbi’s to a sort of communal past. His literary skill draws on a melancholy poetry of the Jews going back for centuries that is unconsciously called forth in his creative act. And here again, Némirovsky does not refrain from including money as a key factor, even in Ismaël’s artistic talent: his “nature” leads Ismaël to demand money for his songs every night in the cabaret. (Némirovsky 1992: 24). The plot shifts with the appearance of the Barine, a failed poet himself who foreshadows Ismaël’s own demise. He whisks Ismaël away to become “the Princess’s,” his lover’s, entertainer. At first he is seduced by the luxurious lifestyle, the opposite of his childhood surroundings. He sees roses for the first time in winter; he falls in love with the Princess’s beauty. And yet, from the first night, he is revolted by this setting, anguished by the Princess who wants to “violenter sa libre vie” [violate his unconstrained life] (Némirovsky 1992: 38). There is a decadence and brutality in the world to which Ismaël has allowed himself to be assimilated. Némirovsky’s first novella, written in her adopted language of French, is thus about a budding Russian poet who has to come to terms with literary creation in another culture and in a language different from the one spoken at home. Just as Némirovsky was grappling with what it means to be a French writer, she composed a text about a Jewish Russian coming to terms with creating poetry while living in a secular Russian world. Ismaël is a mirror image, the reversed vision of herself. In the forum of her professional interviews Némirovsky revealed – or was provoked to reveal – her sentiments towards not only her Russian origins, but her Jewish ones as well. Némirovsky was evidently, and to her dismay, perceived by her French interviewers and reviewers as a Russian Jewish author who chose the French language, rather than as a French author. In the 1930 article in Les nouvelles littéraires she is described as Beau type d’israélite : … un accord parfait et rare, l’intellectuelle slave, familière aux habitudes de Sorbonne, et la femme du monde [A beautiful Israelite type: … a perfect and rare harmony of the Slavic intellectual, familiar with the habits of the Sorbonne, and a well-bred lady].

Julia Elsky

61

The last term the interviewer uses to describe Némirovsky, femme du monde, implies not only class but also cosmopolitanism. At the beginning of an interview in Les nouvelles littéraires in June 1938, Janine Delpech writes that in the context of her tasteful Parisian apartment, Némirovsky looks all the more exotic, invoking her Russian background: Près du boulevard des Invalides … dans ce cadre où l’on imagine volontiers une bourgeoise timide, voire une provinciale, Irène Némirovsky paraît plus russe, plus profondément mystérieuse que si l’on pouvait trouver la moindre trace d’exotisme dans son costume ou le décor de sa vie. [Near the Boulevard des Invalides … in this setting where one easily imagines a shy bourgeois, or even a provincial woman, Irène Némirovsky seems all the more Russian, more profoundly mysterious than if you could find the slightest trace of exoticism in her costume or in the décor of her life.]

Her characterisation as Russian, often as a Russian Jew is pertinent, according to her interviewers, to her identity specifically as a writer. In the same article, Delpech praises Némirovsky’s work for combining a Slavic understanding of the world with the clarity of French writing. Delpech describes Némirovsky’s writing: Un tempérament, une appréhension du monde et des êtres très slaves, une clarté et un sens de la composition bien français: ce mariage d’inclination permet à cette Russe de nous donner des œuvres qui nous passionnent sans trop nous déconcerter (Delpech 1938: 3) [A constitution, an apprehension of the world and of very Slavic people, a very French clarity and sense of composition: this marriage by inclination permits this Russian to give us works that impassion us without being too disconcerting.]

This Russian author, the reviewer writes, provides the French audience with fascinating books that do not disturb them too much. The key to Némirovsky’s success according to this interviewer is that she is Russian but not too Russian. Two years later, in a 1940 interview, Némirovsky finally responded to these characterisations, openly expressing her views on her identity as a French and Russian woman: Puis, qu’entendez-vous exactement par français et slave? Oui, je sais bien ; français veut dire mesure, maîtrise de soi, harmonie. Mais slave ? Est-ce désordre ? Est-ce fatalisme ? Ou mysticisme ? Ou pessimisme ? Vous

62

Irène Némirovsky and Jewish Russia as Irretrievable Origin voyez, c’est à moi de vous interviewer. … je désire, j’espère, je crois être un écrivain plus français que russe. J’ai parlé le français avant de parler le russe. J’ai passé la moitié de mon enfance dans ce pays, et toute ma jeunesse et ma vie de femme jusqu’à ici. Je n’ai jamais écrit en russe que des rédactions scolaires. Je pense et je rêve même en français. Tout cela est tellement amalgamé à ce qui demeure en moi de ma race et de mon pays, qu’avec la meilleure volonté du monde, il m’est impossible de distinguer où finit l’un, où commence l’autre. (Higgins 1940: 4) [Then, what do you mean exactly by French and Slavic? Yes, I know well; French means measure, mastering of the self, harmony. But Slavic? Is it disorder? Is it fatalism? Or mysticism? Or pessimism? … I desire, I hope, I believe to be a French writer more than a Russian one. I spoke French before I spoke Russian. I spent most of my childhood in this country, and all of my youth and my life as a woman until now. I never wrote in Russian except for some school papers. I think and I even dream in French. All this is so intermixed with what remains in me of my race and my country, that even with the best intentions in the world, it is impossible for me to distinguish where one ends and the other begins.]

Némirovsky insists that she is more French than Russian, based on her linguistic history and the fact that the majority of her life was spent in France. She desired and believed herself to be a French writer rather than a Russian immigrant or Jewish writer who just happened to choose to live in France and to write in French. But towards the end of her statement, she contradicts herself and reveals that she does retain her Russian identity as well as that of her “race,” Judaism. These elements are so mixed in her mind that they have become indistinguishable. This ambivalence is perceptible: while she wished to be a purely French author, Némirovsky always wrote about Russian Jews. Authorship, in both Némirovsky’s and Ismaël’s careers, is deeply connected to the origin. Némirovsky claimed that assimilating to France was central to her identity as an author. But for her character, Ismaël, assimilation is at the root of his demise, both physically and mentally. In the second half of Un enfant prodige, we see Ismaël as a pampered adolescent, after the great illness that caused the loss of his genius. He is ultimately rejected by the Princess and met with scorn, not only by his greedy family, but also by the entire Jewish ghetto community. He is forced to return home, where his greedy parents cynically shun him and cast him off to work for a cousin. The theme of rejection by one’s own literary patrons is another parallel with Némirovsky’s own story. Throughout the 1930s reviews for many of

Julia Elsky

63

her books appeared, usually very favourable. There were even contracts drawn up to adapt her novels to films, though David Golder was the only project that came to fruition (1930). However, the year 1940 marked a huge shift in her relationship with her publishers as a result of a change in French laws under the Vichy government. On October 3, 1940 Vichy published its discriminatory Statut des Juifs [Jewish statutes] that, among other humiliations, forbade Jews from holding positions as Directeurs, gérants, rédacteurs de journaux, revues, agences ou périodiques, à l’exception de publications de caractère strictement scientifique (Andrieu 2000: 89) [directors, managers, and editors of journals, reviews, news agencies or periodicals, with the exception of publications that are strictly scientific in their nature].

This law resulted in her tense correspondence with Candide, an antiSemitic, right-wing journal published by Editions Fayard, where Némirovsky had previously published. Némirovsky maintained that as a novelist and short story writer she did not fall under the professions outlawed to Jewish writers. The Fayard publishing house disagreed. She had received the first half of her payment for a novel she was commissioned to write, but after having completed it Némirovsky requested that Fayard accept her book and pay her in full. She was met with a cold response. They countered that she could keep the advance of 30,000 francs, but they could not pay her the rest since they could not publish her work. This response led to a heated exchange between her and Monsieur Jean Fayard himself. A draft of a letter asking for help from another anti-Semitic journal, Gringoire, reveals her anguish during this period. Throughout the letter, her tone becomes more desperate. Finally, she crossed out what she wrote. For example she begins a sentence “Je suis absolument seule et déçue” [I am completely alone and disappointted].4 Later she starts to write of “cette circonstance tragique pour moi” [this tragic circumstance for me] stopping mid-word only to cross out this fragment of a sentence.5 The situation is indeed a strange one: Némirovsky, a Jewish writer who had published in Gringoire and Candide, and whose books with anti-Semitic themes had been praised, now writes to one of them discussing her “tragic” situation as a Jewish writer who can no longer publish under the Vichy government. Her despair seems to be one mixed with material need and complete anguish in discovering that she was indeed not the French author she had strived to be. Publishing in journals that discriminated against her “race,” writing

64

Irène Némirovsky and Jewish Russia as Irretrievable Origin

works with undertones or even outright themes of anti-Semitism in her portrayal of Jewish characters did not exclude her from Vichy law. After her arrest by the gendarmes in Issy l’Evêque in 1942, her husband, Michel Epstein, wrote to the German ambassador in France, Otto Abetz, to argue for Némirovsky’s liberation: “bien que ma femme soit de race juive, elle y parle [dans ses livres] des Juifs sans aucune tendresse” [though my wife is of the Jewish race, she speaks of Jews [in her books] without any tenderness]. Epstein argues in the same letter that she had published for journals like Gringoire, whose director Horace de Carbuccia (to whom Némirovsky wrote her anxious letter) “n’a certainement jamais été favorable ni aux Juifs, ni aux communistes” [certainly had never been favorable to Jews or Communists].6 He draws on Némirovsky’s fiction writing to claim a place for her as a Frenchwoman who should not be arrested. This disturbing statement, in a desperate attempt to save his wife, only further underscores the growing impossibility of being both French and Jewish. Némirovsky’s ambivalent texts starting from the 1920s demonstrate that she struggled with the idea of an impossible marriage of French and Jewish identity, long before Vichy’s discriminatory laws and the beginning of the deportations. Un enfant prodige is in many ways a coming-of-age story, in which the young Ismaël deals with issues of his cultural and religious background and the source of literary genius. But there is an important aspect of Jewish assimilation in the narrative, and I believe that this is where Nemirovsky’s story comes in. Her own questions about being a French author, as opposed to a Russian or Jewish one, are intricately related to Ismaël’s struggle with identity. While the story does contain unfavourable views of the Jews, they are a backdrop to Ismaël’s failure to assimilate. Despite looking and acting the part of a little Russian lord, he is forced to return penniless to the Jewish quarter, stripped of his status of Child Genius. Némirovsky could not know this when she wrote her first novella, but she too would ultimately be denied the right to be a French author in the horrors of World War II. This paper, then, addresses two opposing views of Némirovsky in the press and among scholars since the posthumous publication of her novel Suite Française made her a bestselling author around the world. On the one hand, Némirovsky is often represented as a model of an assimilated, talented Jewish French writer who fell victim to the Nazis. But behind this, there lies a more complicated and disturbing relationship towards Judaism that is intricately linked to her identity as an author. On the other hand, at the other end of the spectrum,

Julia Elsky

65

she is often denounced as an anti-Semite or a self-hating Jew. This early text, which has a very raw quality, demonstrates that Némirovsky grappled with how to reconcile Jewish, Russian, and French identity. In the 1930s, the France that she called home was becoming more and more intolerant of its Jewish and immigrant population, culminating in the dark years of the Second World War and Némirovsky’s own deportation and death.

Bibliography Archives Institut Mémoire de l’Edition Contemporaine. Fonds Irène Némirovsky.

Books Andrieu, Claire et al. (2000): La Persécution des Juifs de France, 19401944, et le rétablissement de la légalité républicaine: recueil des textes officiels, 1940-1999, Paris. Némirovsky, Irène (1929): David Golder, Paris. —. (1992): Un enfant prodige, Paris. —. (2004): Suite française, Paris. —. (2010): Le Malentendu, Paris. Philipponnat, Olivier and Patrick Lienhardt (2007): La vie d’Irène Némirovsky, Paris. Weiss, Jonathan (2005): Irène Némirovksy, Éditions du Félin.

Articles Auscher, Janine (July 5, 1935): Nos interviews : Irène Némirovsky, in : L’Univers israélite, pp. 669-670. Carroll, David (2012): Excavating the Past: Suite française and the German Occupation of France, in: Yale French Studies, pp. 69-98. Delpech, Janine (June 4, 1938): Chez Irène Némirovsky ou la Russie Boulevard des Invalides, in: Les nouvelles littéraires, p. 3. Higgins, Georges (March 30, 1940) : Les Conrad français: Irène Némirovsky, in: Les nouvelles littéraires, p. 4. Lefèvre, Frederic (January 11, 1930): Une révélation: Une heure avec Irène Némirovsky, in: Les nouvelles littéraires, pp. 1-2. Suleiman, Susan Rubin (2010): Choosing French: Language, Foreignness and the Canon (Némirovsky/Beckett), in: French Global: A New Approach to Literary History, pp. 471-87.

66

Irène Némirovsky and Jewish Russia as Irretrievable Origin

Suleiman, Susan (2012): Irène Némirovsky and the “Jewish Question” in Interwar France, in: Yale French Studies n.121, pp. 8-33.

Notes 1

Un enfant prodige was published originally under the title “L’enfant génial” in Les œuvres libres 70 (December 3, 1927). Gallimard republished this story as “Un enfant prodige” in 1992. Némirovsky’s original title did not, then, feature a play on the words prodigy (prodige) and the prodigal son (prodigue). I thank Professor Roland Marti for this question. The translations I use throughout this article are all my own. My translation of this story is published in Yale French Studies’ special issue on Irène Némirovsky and Jonathan Littell (2012). 2 I would like to thank Albert Dichy of the Institut Mémoire de l’Édition Contemporaine (IMEC) for the permission to publish archival material from the Fonds Némirovsky. 3 According to Némirovsky she was eighteen in 1923. However, her biographers list her date of birth as February 24, 1903, making her twenty at the time she wrote Un enfant génial. 4 IMEC : NMR 5.29, Lettres d’Irène Némirovsky à la revue Candide. Lettre à M Breuty (November 8, 1940) 5 Ibid. 6 Consulted at IMEC: NMR 5.10, Letter from Michel Epstein to Otto Abetz (July 27, 1942); republished in annex of Némirovsky 2004: 421.

SECTION 2: ARTS

WHAT IS ARTISTIC FORM? MUNICH – MOSCOW 1900-1925 LUKA SKANSI

Munich was, at that time, the embankment that contained in Eastern Europe the influence of French painting with its barbaric ‘pontaventism’.1 Science is the materialization of the reality for the reason, art is the materialization of the reality for the eye.2

For a large part of Russian artistic culture at the turn of the century, Munich represented not only one of the most important centres of innovation in the artistic production in Europe, but rather an alternative to artistic events, subsequent to Impressionism, that spread slowly from Paris all over the continent. On closer inspection there is a fully-fledged pilgrimage towards the schools, the ateliers and the institutions of the Bavarian capital, starting from the 1880s and continuing until the outbreak of the First World War. The reasons for this migration are only partially cultural or scientific: it was a common practice for Russian middle and upper class families to send children to study in Germany, especially for Jewish families, due to constraints imposed by the Czarist regime on their access to higher education.3 In the winter semester between 1912 and 1913 there were about 5000 Russian students registered at German universities, while in Munich alone there were 552 of them.4 Il’ya Repin, one of the greatest painters of Russian realism, called Munich the “greenhouse of German art”, or the “German Athens”. Together with Pavel Chistyakov, the master of an entire generation of Russian painters at the turn of the century (such as Polenov, Vrubel’ and Surikov), he recommended their students from the St. Petersburg Academy attend painting schools in Munich, in particular, the private school of the Slovenian artist Ažbe Anton (1862-1905), considered in those years to be one of the most important pedagogues in Central Europe.5 Ažbe’s school was at the time the largest private academy in the city and one of the most popular

70

What is Artistic Form? Munich – Moscow 1900-1925

destinations for young painters, together with the atelier of the Hungarian painter Simon Hollóssy,6 attended by Vladimir Favorsky, the future dean of the Vkhutemas. Since 1891, the year the school was founded, to 1905, the year of Ažbe’s death, a consistent number of Russian artists from different generations spent a formative period here. The most renowned among them were Valentin Serov, Mstislav Dobuzhinsky, Ivan Bilibin, Vasily Kandinsky, Aleksey Yavlensky, Igor’ Grabar (who would be Ažbe’s first assistant for some years) 7 , Vladimir and David Burlyuk, Kuz’ma Petrov-Vodkin, Aristarkh Lentulov and Mikhail Matyushin. Some of these artists, once back in Russia, would join the Moscow faculty of arts (MUZhVZ), or would operate within their own private schools; others, such as the Burlyuk brothers, Kandinsky or Matyushin, would organise exhibitions, events and publications that would have a decisive role in promoting the avant-garde movements on the national and international art scene. Not all Munich art scene is linked obviously to Ažbe’s school. Munich was a complex cultural universe at that time, where various artistic trends coexisted, starting from the emerging languages of Secession, the birth of expressionist movement, the neoclassical review promoted by figures linked to the Werkbund and to the first hints of abstract art in the work of the artist-architect August Endell, and the painting circle of the Neu Dachau-Gruppe. 8 In general, some of the crucial figures of the future Moscow avant-garde art scene spent a formative period in Germany. Lissitsky, for example, attended the Technische Universität in Darmstadt, and his entire career would be characterized by a strong relationship with German and Swiss contexts. 9 The sculptor and author of the Realist Manifesto Naum Gabo studied in Munich starting from 1910. His education interests ranged from physics and theoretical physics – he attended courses given by Wilhelm Röntgen and Arnold Sommerfeld – to art history and art theory: he was an assiduous student of Theodor Lipps’s and Heinrich Wölfflin’s lessons.10 Furthermore, Germany represented an attractive pole for the young Russian students of history and the theory of art and architecture. The main Russian art historians of the first half of the 20th century shared a formation experience in Germany, and particularly in Munich in the departments of Art History, Aesthetics and Philosophy, where they became acquainted with the theories of Konrad Fiedler, Theodor Lipps, August Schmarsow, Cornelius Gurlitt, Adolf Hildebrand, Heinrich Wölfflin and Paul Frankl. The aesthetic theories of the German “formalist

Luka Skansi

71

school”, the treatises on Raumkunst, the Einfühlungstheorie, as shall be explained later in the essay, would be quickly absorbed and endorsed by Aleksandr Gabrichevsky, Aleksey Sidorov, Vladimir Favorsky, Igor’ Grabar, Mikhail Alpatov, art historians, Munich students and Germanophiles: in the years following the Revolution, these scholars have been particularly active in disseminating German texts and theories in Russia, and their scientific and cultural activity in the twenties and thirties is considered as a fundamental scientific endeavor in establishing a modern iskusstvovedenie [the discipline of art history] in the Soviet Union. In this context, it is important to note that some of the renowned and influential German essays in art and architectural history have been available in Russian in the first two decades of the 20th century: Heinrich Wölfflin’s Die Klassische Kunst, Renaissance und Barock and Kunstgeschichtliche Grundbegriffe, Adolf Hildebrand’s Das Problem der Form in der bildenden Kunst, Albert Brinckmann’s Plastik und Raum.11 The aim of this text is not to enumerate all the experiences that Russian scholars had in relation to the German prewar context, but rather to demonstrate how rooted the German theoretical studies were in the formation of the Russian artistic, architectural and in a wider sense aesthetical culture, between the 1910s and 1930s: a repercussion that has often been neglected but, as will be made clear in the following analysis, was simply latent. There is no specific stylistic influence, no migration of “taste” for a specific trend or for specific artistic or architectural stylemes. On the contrary, this influence can be better traced by following a broader theoretical discourse that affects the same foundations of artistic production in a paradigmatic way. This is the reason why it is found in different fields of artistic expression, in aesthetic theories, manifestoes, teaching methods, often in seemingly incompatible environments, or in figures that apparently could not be assimilated to the same cultural milieu. It derives from one crucial epistemological problem that, in fact, arose in Germany starting from the last decades of the 19th century: the notion of space in figurative arts, or better, the problem of the spatiality of the artistic form [Raumkunst, prostranstvennost’ formy]. This notion represented an almost exclusive object of reflection and research for artists, architects, art historians, philosophers of this period; it was faced as a cultural “problem”, as an epistemological shift that helped to redefine the instruments for understanding reality and the relations that artistic and intellecttual production establishes with reality. In other words, these intellectuals redefined the “coordinates” of the artistic object, its actual status: it was no

72

What is Artistic Form? Munich – Moscow 1900-1925

longer solely observed, measured and judged by its material and linguistic component, but it was conceived as the result of both its volumetric and its spatial component. The spatial aspect took such a decisive role that it became the basis upon which to build a new definition of the aesthetic value of the artistic and architectural works. But what exactly is the spatial component of form, and why did this abstract concept become the object of reflection of such an important intellectual community between the end of the 19th century and the 1920s? And to which extent can an influence on Russian artistic, architectural or urbanistic practice really be discussed? The new critical category – Raum – introduced a key component into the sphere of artistic and architectural thought: a sensory, empathic relation between a human being and a work of art, or, speaking in architectural and urbanistic terms between man and his physical environment. Without going too deeply into the development of German aesthetic thought of the late 19th century, and trying to avoid in this discourse the complex nuances that differentiate the single theoreticians, we may assume that the notion of space is nothing but a way of defining the “irrational” aspects of the works of art and architecture. These aspects have been identified as essential in the distinction between an artifact and a work with artistic value. For German theorists, the artistic component of a form and the phenomenological quality of form cannot meet its physical, volumetric or utilitarian component: the analysis requires a different focus in order to comprehend the reasons behind its aesthetic “status”. Different theorists have proposed their own answers concerning this question: for example Vischer, with his definition of empathy (Einfühlung) – a process by which the mind tends to find its self-representation in art –, Lipps with his Raumästhetik – the idea that the psychology of the forms should convey a more general syntax of art forms –, Wölfflin with his interest in the visual aspect of architecture – the psychologising as a true criterion of aesthetic evaluation of architecture.12 We can assume that, in general, the German aesthetic debate on this topic recognised two fundamental processes that affect the relationship between the subject (the human mind) and the object (the work of art). The first one is related to the conviction of the centrality of perception: our sensory apparatus (mainly visual and tactile senses) is the fundamental filter for our comprehension of the material reality. The process of perception offers us information on external objects and ideas on the representation of

Luka Skansi

73

reality (of an object, a physical phenomenon): this idea of reality is directly related to the relationship established between our perception and our mental elaboration of that data. This process, which affected the artistic and theoretical debate on the arts, was recognised initially by the scientist Hermann Helmholtz as intuitive and innate, as it belongs to our natural and innate perceptual features, and therefore is autonomous from reality.13 Spatial perception was seen as the basis of all our awareness of reality. Wölfflin would later argue that through the psychology of perception – which is the process by which we try to gain all of our understanding of the world – in a certain sense we bring order to reality.14 The second generally accepted concept is the recognition of the process of abstraction: for German theorists the human mind founds artistic satisfaction only in the transition from one “lower” level – in which the form is an expression of its material, physical quality – to a “higher” level, in which the form is solely a product of the mind, where the material elements have been used by the means of the expression of form. The process of abstraction is what makes a composition of colours a work of art, a carved volume a sculptural work, or a building a work of architecture. The critique of the centrality of the technical and functional component in architecture is evident: art is definitely autonomous from reality, and space synthesises and conceptualises the different aspects of its aesthetic values. In this sense, Schmarsow’s definition of architecture, contained in his famous essay Das Wesen der architektonischen Schöpfung (1894), is extremely clarifying. Psychologically, the intuited form of three dimensional space arises through the experiences of our sense of sight, whether or not assisted by other physiological factors. All our visual perceptions and ideas are arranged, are ordered, and unfold in accordance with this intuited form; and this fact is the mother lode of art whose origin we seek. (…) Our sense of space [Raumgefühl] and spatial imagination [Raumphantasie] press toward spatial creation [Raumgestaltung]; they seek their satisfaction in art. We call this art architecture; in plain words, it is the creatress of space [Raumgestalterin].15

The intellectual that absorbed German aesthetic theories in a wider sense, and in particular the chapters concerning the issues of spatiality in architecture, was the art historian and art theorist Aleksandr Georgievich Gabrichevsky (1891-1968), a crucial figure, not only for the artistic and

74

What is Artistic Form? Munich – Moscow 1900-1925

architectural culture in the Soviet Union, but for the entire legacy of Soviet culture of the twentieth century. Almost unknown to Western historiography, his importance has only recently been reconsidered in Russia – though still in a very fragmentary way – after a period of almost total amnesia and “forced” removal from disciplinary environments. 16 His production was extraordinarily rich and included heterogeneous theoretical aspects of artistic creation, music, philosophy and architecture, with competences and interests ranging from classical to contemporary subjects.17 Gabrichevsky studied Art History at the Moscow University. During his studies, in 1914, he attended the Munich University and in particular Paul Frankl’s seminar on the analysis of architectural monuments.18 In the same year, Frankl, one of the most famous of Wölfflin’s pupils, published his famous treatise Die Entwicklungsphasen der neueren Baukunst, 19 where he analysed the evolution of the architectural space in religious and civil buildings from the fifteenth to the nineteenth century, and discussed the analytical methods of Wölfflin, Riegl and Schmarsow. This book seems to have had a great influence on Gabrichevsky, although his texts are in general imbued with references to the aforementioned German aesthetic culture. In 1923, Gabrichevsky wrote two fundamental essays: Arkhitektura and Prostranstvo i massa v arkhitekture [Space and Volume in Architecture].20 His aim was to define the epistemological nature of the artistic component of architecture and its relationships with the utilitarian aspects of the discipline: In a more strict sense architecture indicates: 1) a special kind of spatial arts, creating buildings, that manifests itself not in the utilitarian aspects, but is contemplated as an artistic creation, as a visual artistic unity of spatial relations. 2) a particular aesthetic category […], that expresses the nature of the aesthetic object as a structure, as a construction, as a result or an image of a rational utilitarian building.21

The art of architecture, i.e. its aesthetic value is to be found within its spatial quality, a characteristic that architecture shares with all other forms of art. Gabrichevsky promptly defines the differences between the different aesthetic categories of painting, sculpture and architecture: […] in painting, every quality of spatial relations is reduced to the expressive gesture on the material surface, in sculpture this quality is given

Luka Skansi

75

by the organic metamorphosis of a solid substance, while in architecture, we always have a juxtaposition or opposition of space and volume, between the spatial nucleus and a materic envelope.22

Architecture, unlike the compositional strategies with surfaces and volumes operated in painting and sculpture, is formed by two indivisible components, that are facing each other and that collaborate to form the aesthetic quality of architecture – the volume and the space –, and each one is defined by its own composition rules and characteristics. Regarding the spatial component, for Gabrichevsky architecture must be experienced in the dynamic sense, observed all around, perambulated. He reported how art historians have already produced a classification of basic types of spatial and architectural volumes, according to the principles of movement and orientation: the differentiation of form can actually be based on a centripetal (Zentralraum), longitudinal (Langraum) or transversal orientation (Breitraum), between forms made for a “moving man” (Gehraum) or a “standing, motionless man” (Verweilraum). “Architectural space” – continues Gabrichevsky – “can not only be perceived as an adequate expression of human functions, but also as an adequate expression of some irrational elements, not amenable to anthropomorphic control (mastery)”.23 In other words, the extent of the aesthetic value of architecture is measured by the degree of its incisiveness on man’s sensitive apparatus, on the irrational component of his mind. These sensations are provoked, according to Gabrichevsky, by two different formal phenomena: architecture is a synthesis of the expressive qualities of the caves – quarry buildings made of amorphous volumes – and of monumental buildings, made of volumes and masses. The architectural form is therefore defined – following Hegel’s definitions of the individual arts, in the third part of his Aesthetics 24 – as the synthesis of negative architecture [otritsatel’noe zodchestvo] and infinite sculpture [neogranichennaya skul’ptura].25 The volumetric component of architecture is better defined in his essay Prostranstvo i massa v arkhitekture: architecture is “a contrast and synthesis of spatial dynamics and material tectonics”. 26 Volume is expressed through the materialisation of the complex relationship between structure and architectural language. It is interesting to note that by introducing the definition of the tectonic meaning in architecture, Gabrichevsky declares his position within the contemporary architectural debate: In recent times, thanks to the development of technology and to the emergence of a new architectural style, theorists are inclined to once again

76

What is Artistic Form? Munich – Moscow 1900-1925 reject any boundary between utilitarian practice and artistic value, and are ready to recognise the beauty in any functional tool to the extent of its usefulness.27

The reasons that caused the German “formalist” school to criticise the type of architecture that identifies its essence in purely structural and functional components can clearly be found in Gabrichevsky’s essays. But, considering the period in which these essays were written (1923), another criticism manifests through these texts – a critique towards the functionalist slogans promoted by the emerging constructivist movement: the utilitarian component was simply not accepted in an aesthetic discourse on architecture. Gabrichevsky avoids any direct reference to the constructivist manifestoes of Aleksey Gan (Konstruktivizm, 1922) and Aleksandr Vesnin (Credo, O zadachakh khudozhnika, 1922), but it seems clear that his position diverges from the contemporary constructivist instances, that instead focus the priorities of architecture on the degree of its efficiency, rationalisation, function. Gabrichevsky draws from different theoretical sources. There are references to Wölfflin, Schmarsow in his writings; the tectonic aspects of architectural form are probably derived from Semper or Bötticher; but the union of two different theories (Raumkunst and Tektonik) into the same discourse is quite rare and can be probably referred to Frankl‫ݠ‬s Das Entwicklungsprinzip.28 Gabrichevsky’s knowledge of German aesthetic literature becomes even more evident in the list of encyclopaedic entries he edited for the dictionary of the Russian Bibliographic Institute.29 Besides the monographic entries on “Tietze”, “Schmarsow”, “Riegl”, “Schnaase” and “Worringer”, he edited the entry Formal’nyj metod [the formal method]. Here he identifies the main historiographical contribution of the German school, not so much in the general formal approach in studies on art, but above all in having institutionalised the contemporary iskusstvovedenie as an autonomous scientific discipline. During his Munich years, Gabrichevsky met Kandinsky, with whom he developed a close friendship and had intense intellectual debates, although he was already acquainted with avant-garde environments in Moscow, in particular with Larionov, Goncharova, the Burlyuk brothers, Popova and Fal’k. With the outbreak of the First World War he returned to Moscow where he graduated in 1915; in 1917 he achieved the academic quailfi-

Luka Skansi

77

cations he needed to begin his academic activity with a thesis entitled Space and composition in the Art of Tintoretto.30 Gabrichevsky’s pedagogical activity began in the early postwar years and was divided between different cultural institutions and universities in Moscow. Between 1917 and 1925 he taught in the Department of “Theory and History of Art” at the Moscow State University, at the MIKhIM [Moskovsky institut istoriko-khudozhestvennykh izyskaniy i muzeevedeniya], but the most interesting aspect of his work from this period is represented by his active participation in the founding of the RAKhN – Rossiyskaya akademiya khudozhestvennykh nauk [Russian academy of artistic sciences].31 The institute was officially founded in October 1921, under the auspices of the Minister for culture and education Anatoly Lunacharsky, and was initially composed by three departments: the psycho-physiological (directed by Kandinsky), the philosophical,32 and the sociological department. Gabrichevsky worked actively with Kandinsky on structuring – in both theoretical and practical sense – the psychophysiological department, and he was at the same time directly responsible for the creation of a section for spatial arts [sektsiya prostranstvennykh iskusstv] that assembled sculpture, painting and architecture into one single analytical framework. He held several seminars in the institute33 and collaborated in producing the Slovar’ khudozhestvennoy terminologii [Art Terms Dictionary], a scientific project within the RAKhN, where he himself edited the entries “abstraction”, “grotesque”, “representation”, “archeology” and “architecture”: the content of the latter merged into the aformentioned essays Arkhitektura and Prostranstvo i massa v arkhitekture, as discussed previously. Within this institution, between its different departments and activities, he was in contact with eminent members of the Russian pre-and postrevolutionary culture: philosophers, poets and writers (Bely, Bryusov, Voloshin, Shervinsky, Akhmatova, Pasternak), musicians and choreographers (Neygauz, Rikhter, Rumnev), artists (Kandinsky, Fal’k, Natan Al’tman), art theorists and art historians (Florensky, Favorsky, Sidorov, Nekrasov, Tsvetaev) and architects (Ivan Zholtovsky and Moisey Ginzburg).34 The project for the creation of the psycho-physiological laboratory had already been discussed in a working group formed within the Inkhuk, starting from 1920, inspired by Kandinskij and composed by artists and art theorists (Fal’k, Favorsky and Gabrichevsky).35 The instances that bound

78

What is Artistic Form? Munich – Moscow 1900-1925

the group in this brief experience were the common interest in the definition of the relationship between art and the cognitive sciences, with the aim to found a science of arts based on the relationship between art and human sensations. 36 After leaving the Inkhuk, Kandinsky and his associates moved the entire work program to the emerging psychophysiological department at RAKhN with the aim “to discover the internal laws on which the creation of art is based, in each of his different forms of expression, and on these bases to found the principles of the creation of the total work of art [sinteticheskogo khudozhestvennogo vyrazheniya]”.37 The department began working in August 1921 with seminars held by the physicians Uspensky (“The role of science in the study of art work”) and Lazarev (“Colours and their physico-chemical analysis”), 38 and it continued during the winter semester with conferences held by the originators of the department: Bakushinsky, Kandinsky, Gabrichevsky, Mashkovtsev.39 The academic year 1922–23 was entirely dedicated to specific topics of artistic production such as rhythm, space and time. A specific commission was formed for each topic, with the aim of organising and promoting lectures and discussions that ranged from broader aesthetic and philosophical aspects to the specific relationships between these topics and the different forms of artistic expression: painting, sculpture and architecture. In that year Konstantin Malevich, among others, lectured “On principles of art: on color, light, on pointilizm in space and time”,40 and Konstantin Yuon, an important pedagogue from the late Imperial Russia, painting teacher to Vladimir Favorsky and of the avant-garde artists Tatlin and Aleksandr Vesnin. In the protocol of the Commission we find the requirement to include psychology in art analysis and art history, as a science that provides the main tools for the study of spatial forms. Adolf Hildebrand’s essay Das Problem der Form is quoted as a seminal book for understanding the relationship between human perception, artistic form and composition methods.41 The aim of the Commission is to investigate the analysis of the perception of spatial forms and the content of their dynamic elements, the perception of parallels, proportions and symmetry, the criteria of the perception of depth, and space perception.42 In the winter between 1923 and 1924, the “Commission for the Experimental Study of Rhythm” organised a series of lectures on rhythm in sculpture (Nedovich), painting (“Rhythm and composition in the ancient Russian painting”, Tarabukin), nature (Vul’f), a report on the “Congress

Luka Skansi

79

On Rhythm” held in Geneva (Chetverikov), and a conference on the psychology of rhythm according to Theodor Lipps (Rumer). One of the founders of the constructivist movement in architecture, Moisey Ginzburg, held a seminar here about the rhythmic element in architecture, in four sessions between December 1923 and February 1924, which Ginzburg published in his two renowned books (Ritm v arkhitekture and Stil’ i epokha).43 Perception, rhythm, space, time, sensation, the physiological analysis of colour, the relationship between art and the sciences: following these general – but revealing – pieces of information that document the work inside the RAKhN, and in particular inside its psycho-physiological laboratory, we can conclude that topics which characterised the research of a considerable part of the German scientific community entered Russia not only through single and isolated “transmission channels” but even became the study subject of a multidisciplinary research centre. The theory of art and architecture and analysis of physiological and perceptive systems started to collaborate in the structuring of seminars regarding the study of specific artistic and architectural devices such as rhythm and space. The paradigms that emerged from the German art and architectural historiography of the last decades of the nineteenth century, such as the autonomy of art and the definition of the aesthetic value of artistic forms, were proposed inside the RAKhN, and reconnected to the activity of distinguished scientists like Hermann Helmholtz, Ernst Mach and Wilhelm Wundt. Their handbooks, the foundational studies in the field of psychophysiology – many of them already available in Russian before the First World War – were widely known, including their far from limited observations on the general problems of contemporary aesthetics.44 However, regardless of the short existence of the RAKhN,45 and despite it being impossible to measure its effective importance for the development of art and architecture in Soviet Russia, it seems interesting, if not necessary, to think about its scientific project, and about the number of figures, so crucial in those years that initially subscribed it. This multidisciplinary institution – in the still unexamined panorama of the research institutes active in Moscow after the First World War – collected historians, artists, musicians, choreographers, physiologists, physicians, biologists, and psychologists. The generation of art historians grouped in the RAKhN (Sidorov, Nekrasov, Bakushinsky, Favorsky and Gabrichevsky) were all students of the Moscow University chair of Art History before the revolution, and they all shared a strong intellectual link with

80

What is Artistic Form? Munich – Moscow 1900-1925

Germany. At this time there was also a small number of artists (Kandinsky, Favorsky and Fal’k) and architects (Zholtovsky and Ginzburg) inside the RAKhN, the latter present in the activity of the institute, but not in the design of programs of work.46 Apart from Kandinsky, Bakushinsky and Nekrasov, all these figures taught more or less simultaneously within the Vkhutemas, while Favorsky became its rector between 1923 and 1926. It was during Favorsky’s direction that Gabrichevsky held three courses within the Vkhutemas (“Renaissance”, “History of modern painting” and “Theory of spatial arts”), parallel to Pavel Florensky’s course “Theory of perspective” which was also developed inside the RAKhN, according to some studies.47 The relation and the parallelism between the topics that run through the RAKhN project and some of the Vkhutemas preliminary courses are issues yet to be explored and demonstrated. What should be emphasised is that the landscape of cultural institutions in Moscow after the First World War is increasingly complex, entwined and rich. Furthermore, the more one penetrates the structure of the faculty of the main architectural and artistic school of the USSR – the Vkhutemas, the Soviet Bauhaus – the more the historiographical “mystification” – and narrowness – in which it was confined becomes evident. A wide range of theoretical teaching, which appeared in the school from 1921 onwards, and together with the contribution of Favorsky, Gabrichevsky, Florensky and Ginzburg, constituted a real critical counterpart to the generally known productivism, constructivism, the appeals for the organisation of production, the activism architects acting as producers of the new socialist reality. Moreover, some of the topics that circulated within the RAKhN (space, rhythm ...) were already present in the architectural environments in the early months after the Revolution. The world of production of the form, and in particular the so-called “rationalist” wing of the Soviet debate (referring to the researches of Ladovsky, Dokuchaev, Krinsky, and partially Mel’nikov and Golosov)48 is parallel to many of the themes of the world that theorises and historicises the genesis of architectural form: these connections are still to be investigated.

Bibliography Ambrožiþ, Katarina (ed.) (1988): Wege zur Moderne und die Ažbe-Schule in München – Pota k Moderni in Ažbetova šola v Münchnu, Ljubljana. Borisova, Elena A.; Kazhdan, Tat’yana P. (1971): Russkaya arkhitektura kontsa XIX – nachala XX veka, Moscow.

Luka Skansi

81

Borisova, Elena A. (1979): Russkaya arkhitektura vtoroj poloviny XIX veka, Moscow. De Magistris, Alessandro (1997): URSS anni ’30-’50: paesaggi dell’utopia staliniana, Milano. De Rosa, Maria Rosaria (1990): Theodor Lipps: estetica e critica delle arti, Napoli. Frankl, Paul (1968): Principles of architectural history: the four phases of architectural style, 1420-1900, Cambridge, Mass. —. (1962): Gothic Architecture, Harmondsworth. Gabrichevsky, Aleksandr Georgievich (1992): Sbornik materialov, Moscow. —. (1993): Teoriya i istoriya arkhitektury. Izbrannye sochineniya, Kiev. —. (2002): Morfologiya iskusstva, Moscow. Ginzburg, Moisey (1923): Ritm v arkhitekture, Moscow. —. (1924): Stil’ i epokha: problemy sovremennoj arkhitektury, Moscow. —. (1982): Style and epoch, Cambridge, Mass. Grabar, Igor’ (2001): Moya zhizn’, ed. by M.V. Volodarsky, Respublika, Moscow. Hammer, Martin; Lodder, Christina (2000): Constructing modernity. The art and career of Naum Gabo, New Haven/London Hegel, W. G. Friedrich (1963): Estetica, Milano. Helmholtz, Hermann (1967): Opere, Torino. Khan-Magomedov, S.O. (1979): Diskussiya v Inkhuk-e o sootnoshenii konstruktsii i kompozitsii (janvar’-aprel’ 1921 goda). Problemy, lyudi, dokumenty, in: Trudy VNIITE, 20, pp. 46-50. —. (1994); INKhUK i ranny konstruktivizm, Moscow. Kirichenko, Evgeniya (1977): Moskva na rubezhe dvukh stoletiy, Moscow. —. (1982): Russkaya arkhitektura 1830-1910-kh godov, Moscow. Lissitzky-Küppers, Sophie ed. (1968): El Lissitzky: life, letters, texts, Greenwich, Conn. Mallgrave, Harry Francis; Ikonomou, Eleftherios (eds.) (1994): Empathy, form and space: problems in German aesthetics, 1873-1893, Santa Monica. Markuzon, Viktor (1976): Aleksandr Georgievich Gabrichevsky (19811968), in: Sovetskoe iskusstvoznanie, 1, pp. 346-347. Quilici, Vieri (ed.) (1969): L’architettura del costruttivismo, Bari. Pertseva, T.M. (1979): Poiski form vzaimosvyazi nauki i iskusstva (po materiyalam Gakhna), in: Trudy VNIITE, 21, pp. 30-42. Pogodin, Fedor (2004); A. G. Gabriþevskij: biografia e cultura: “Slavia”, n. 1, pp. 67-69.

82

What is Artistic Form? Munich – Moscow 1900-1925

Severzeva, Ol’ga; Stukalov-Pogodin, Fedor (1997): Breve profilo di un intellettuale negli anni di Stalin. A. G. Gabriþevskij in URSS anni ’30’50. Paesaggi dell’utopia staliniana, Alessandro De Magistris ed., Milano, pp. 127-132. Senkevitch, Anatole Jr. (1983): Aspects of spatial form and perceptual psychology in Soviet Architecture of the 1920’s, in: Via. Architecture and Visual Perception, Cambridge, Mass. Skansi, Luka (2007): Form, style, history, autonomy. Moisej Ginzburg and Ritm v arhitekture, in: Fabrications. The Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, Australia and New Zealand, 17, 2, pp. 26-49. Sternin, Grigory Yu. (1994): Russkaya khudozhestvennaya kultura vtoroy poloviny XIX veka – nachala XX veka, Moscow. Tafuri, Manfredo (1980): La sfera e il labirinto, Einaudi, Torino. Vischer, Robert; Vischer, Friedrich Th. (2003): Simbolo e forma, Torino. Weiss, Peg (1979): Kandinsky in Munich. The Formative Jugendstil Years, Princeton. Williams, Robert C. (1972): Culture in Exile. Russian Emigrés in Germany 1881-1941, Ithaca/London. Wölfflin, Heinrich (1985): Psicologia della architettura, Venezia.

Notes 

1 This statement was pronounced by Kuz’ma Petrov-Vodkin, and quoted by Sternin 1994: 127. 2 “ɧɚɭɤɚ ɟɫɬɶ ɨɮɨɪɦɥɟɧɢɟ ɞɟɣɫɬɜɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɢ ɞɥɹ ɪɚɡɭɦɚ, ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ – ɨɮɨɪɦɥɟɧɢɟ ɞɟɣɫɬɜɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɢ ɞɥɹ ɝɥɚɡɚ”, Aleksandr G. Gabrichevsky, Problema arkhitekturnogo sinteza kak vzaimnoy organizatsii massy i prostranstva, originally published in Zhurnal Gakhn, n. 3, 1927, now in Gabrichevsky 1993. 3 The statistics reveal that Jewish students attended mainly medicine, chemistry, engineering and law universities, while Russian upper class students chose Germany mainly for philosophical studies. At the time, the neo-Kantian department in Marburg, held by Hermann Cohen and Friedrich Lange, was one of the most popular among Russian students: Boris Pasternak and Nikolai Berdyaev were formed here, among others. Williams 1972. 4 The most substantial presence was recorded in Berlin (1.174) and Leipzig (758), the other main destinations were Königsberg, Heidelberg and Halle. In almost all universities Russians accounted for half of the foreign students, and often the majority of them were Jewish. Ibid. p. 25. 5 Katarina Ambrožiþ, Ažbetova šola 1891-1905, in Ambrožiþ 1988. 6 Simon Hollósy (1857-1918), Hungarian painter and teacher, founded his painting academy in Munich in 1886. His school was attended by many Russian painters. 7 Igor’ Emmanuilovich Grabar (1871-1960) was an important figure for the Russian artistic culture of the twenties. He was active as a painter but above all as an

Luka Skansi

83

 art historian, being the author of the monumental History of Russian art: Istoriya russkogo iskusstva, Izdanie I. Knebel, Moscow (1909-1914). Supervisor of the Galeriya Tret’yakov in 1913, Grabar was officially named its director in 1918, and remained so until 1925. From early 1918 he was active in the Narkompros section for the conservation of works of art; he would also head the museums section of Narkompros. Grabar 2001. 8 The group was formed by Adolf Hölzel, Ludwig Dill and Arthur Langhammer. Hölzel was Oskar Schlemmer’s and Johannes Itten’s painting teacher. According to Peg Weiss, Kandinsky only became aware of Hölzel’s work in the Bauhaus years. Weiss 1979. 9 On Lisitzky’s postwar activity see Lissitzky-Küppers 1968; Manfredo Tafuri, Urss-Berlino 1922: dal populismo all’“internazionale costruttivista”, in Tafuri 1980. 10 Gabo took a study trip to Italy during 1913, based on an itinerary prepared by the same Wölfflin, before permanently leaving Germany because of the impending war. Hammer, Lodder 2000: 21. 11 Heinrich Wölfflin, Klassicheskoe iskusstvo. Vvedenie v izuchenie ital’yanskogo vozrozhdeniya, Brokgauz-Efron, S. Petersburg (1912); Renessans i barokko, Gryadushchy den’, S. Petersburg (1913); Osnovnye ponyatiya istorii iskusstv. Problema evolyutsii stilya v novom iskusstve, Del’fin, Moscow (1922). Adolf Hildebrand, Problema formy v izobrazitel’nom iskusstve i sobranie statey, Musagaet, Moscow (1914), translated and edited by Vladimir Favorsky, together with eight other essays that the German sculptor published in the first decade of the 20th century. Albert Erich Brinckmann, Plastika i prostranstvo, Izdatel’stvo Akademii Arkhitektury, Moscow (1935), translated by E. A. Nekrasov, edited and introduced by Alpatov. There are also translations of other Munich-based historians such as Wilhelm Hausenstein and Oskar Wulff. But the list could be continued, especially if we extend the boundaries to outside of the strict discipline of art history: many books by Oswald Spengler were already available before the war, while some of the seminal studies on physiology and optics, extremely important for the psychophysiological aspects of the formalist reading of art and architecture – written by Hermann Helmholtz, Ernst Mach and Wilhelm Wundt – soon became the object of an important epistemological debate regarding the relationships between science, politics and art, having a strong impact upon all of Marxist culture in the period between the two revolutions of 1905 and 1917. Skansi 2007. 12 I refer to Robert Vischer, Über das optische Formgefühl. Ein Beitrag zur Ästhetik, Credner, Leipzig 1873, translated as Sul senso ottico della forma. Un contributo all’estetica, in Vischer 2003; Theodor Lipps, Ästhethik. Psychologie des Schönen und der Kunst, partially translated in De Rosa 1990; Heinrich Wölfflin, Prolegomena zu einer Psychologie der Architektur, translated in Wölfflin 1985. 13 I refer to Hermann Helmholtz’s treatises Handbuch der physiologischen Optik (1856) and Die Lehre von den Tonempfindungen (1863) translated as Trattato di ottica fisiologica, Sull’analisi dei suoni mediante l’orecchio and I fatti nella percezione in Helmholtz 1967.

84

What is Artistic Form? Munich – Moscow 1900-1925



14 “La nostra organizzazione dei corpi fisici è la forma con cui comprendiamo tutto ciò che è fisico.” Wölfflin 1985: 37. [Our organisation of the physical bodies is the structure through which we understand all that is physical] (My translation). 15 August Schmarsow, Das Wesen der architektonischen Schöpfung, translated as The Essence of Architectural Creation, in Mallgrave, Ikonomou, 1994: 286-287. 16 Gabrichevsky was inscribed in the “black lists” in 1931 and arrested several times. The definitive exclusion occurred in 1941 when, accused of “cosmopolitanism”, he was first expelled from the Akademiya Arkhitektury, jailed in Lubyanka prison and later sentenced to confinement in the city of KamenskUral’sky. He was saved thanks to a direct intervention by his friend, the renowned architect Ivan Zholtovsky, and enabled to return to Moscow, but he could no longer teach. From then on, he dedicated himself entirely to translations. The biographical information is taken from Markuzon, 1976; Gabrichevsky 1992; Gabrichevsky 1993; Severzeva, Pogodin 1997; Gabrichevsky 2002; Pogodin 2004. 17 In addition to his teaching activity, Gabrichevsky translated many classical architectural books (from German and Italian): Daniele Barbaro’s I Commentari ai Dieci Libri di Vitruvio, Vignola’s La Regola dei cinque ordini, Vasari’s Le Vite, Michelangelo’s Le Lettere, Ascanio Condivi’s La vita di Michelangelo Buonarrotti, Benvenuto Cellini’s Trattato di scultura, Filippo Baldinucci’s Vita di Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Macchiavelli’s Mandragora, Benedetto Croce’s La poesia di Dante, Georg Simmel’s essay Goethe. He also edited and annotated Bryusov’s translation of Goethe’s Faust, and the complete works of Goethe published in 1933. 18 Gabrichevsky 2002: 846. 19 Paul Frankl, Die Entwicklungsphasen der neueren Baukunst, Teubner, LeipzigBerlin 1914. English translation: Frankl 1968. The book is actually dedicated to Wölfflin. Frankl studied with the master during the preparation of Die Klassische Kunst and Grundbegriffe. A short but acute biography of Frankl was written by Nikolaus Pevsner in Frankl 1962. 20 Arkhitektura was written as an encyclopedic entry for the Art Terms Dictionary, a scientific project developed inside the RAKhN; Prostranstvo i massa v arkhitekture was originally published in Zhurnal RAKhN, n.1, 1923, pp. 292-390; the third important essay relating to these topics is Problema arkhitekturnogo sinteza kak vzaimnoy organizatsii massy i prostranstva, Gabrichevsky 1993. 21 Italics mine. “ȼ ɛɨɥɟɟ ɭɡɤɨɦ ɫɜɨɟɦ ɡɧɚɱɟɧɢɢ ɚɪɯɢɬɟɤɬɭɪɚ ɨɛɨɡɧɚɱɚɟɬ: 1) ɨɫɨɛɵɣ ɜɢɞ ɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜ, ɫɨɡɞɚɸɳɢɯ ɩɨɫɬɪɨɣɤɢ, ɤɨɬɨɪɚɹ ɹɜɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɧɟ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɩɨɥɟɡɧɨɣ ɜɟɳɶɸ, ɧɨ ɢ ɫɨɡɟɪɰɚɟɬɫɹ ɤɚɤ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɟ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɟ, ɤɚɤ ɧɚɝɥɹɞɧɨɟ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɟ ɟɞɢɧɫɬɜɨ ɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ ɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɣ. 2) ɨɫɨɛɭɸ ɷɫɬɟɬɢɱɟɫɤɭɸ ɤɚɬɟɝɨɪɢɸ, ɜɵɪɚɠɚɸɳɭɸ ɩɪɢɪɨɞɭ ɷɫɬɟɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɨɛɴɟɤɬɚ ɤɚɤ ɫɬɪɭɤɬɭɪɭ, ɤɚɤ ɤɨɧɫɬɪɭɤɰɢɸ, ɤɚɤ ɪɟɡɭɥɶɬɚɬ ɢɥɢ ɩɨɞɨɛɢɟ ɪɚɡɭɦɧɨɝɨ ɰɟɥɟɫɨɨɛɪɚɡɧɨɝɨ ɩɨɫɬɪɨɟɧɢɹ”. Arkhitektura, Gabrichevsky 1993: 1. 22 Italics mine. “[…] ɜ ɠɢɜɨɩɢɫɢ ɜɫɟ ɛɨɝɚɬɫɬɜɨ ɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ ɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɣ ɫɜɟɞɟɧɨ ɤ ɜɵɪɚɡɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɦɭ ɧɚɱɟɪɬɚɧɢɸ ɧɚ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɩɨɜɟɪɯɧɨɫɬɢ, ɚ ɫɤɭɥɶɩɬɭɪɚ ɞɚɟɬ ɨɪɝɚɧɢɱɟɫɤɨɟ ɩɪɟɬɜɨɪɟɧɢɟ ɦɚɫɫɢɜɧɨɣ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɢ ɤɚɤ ɫɚɦɨɰɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ, ɚ ɜ ɚɪɯɢɬɟɤɬɭɪɵ ɦɵ ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɢɦɟɟɦ ɫɨɩɨɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɢɟ ɢɥɢ ɩɪɨɬɢɜɨɩɨ-

Luka Skansi

85

 ɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɢɟ ɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɚ ɢ ɦɚɫɫɵ, ɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɹɞɪɚ ɢ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɨɛɨɥɨɱɤɢ”. Arkhitektura, Gabrichevsky 1993: 3. 23 “…ɚɪɯɢɬɟɤɬɭɪɧɨɟ ɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɨ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɜɨɫɩɪɢɧɢɦɚɬɶɫɹ ɧɟ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɤɚɤ ɚɞɟɤɜɚɬɧɨɟ ɜɵɪɚɠɟɧɢɟ ɮɭɧɤɰɢɣ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɤɚ, ɧɨ ɢ ɤɚɤ ɚɞɟɤɜɚɬɧɨɟ ɜɵɪɚɠɟɧɢɟ ɧɟɤɨɟɣ ɢɪɪɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɫɬɢɯɢɢ, ɧɟ ɩɨɞɞɚɸɳɟɣɫɹ ɚɧɬɪɨɩɨɦɨɪɮɧɨɦɭ ɨɜɥɚɞɟɧɢɸ.” Arkhitektura, Gabrichevsky 1993: 2. 24 Hegel 1963. 25 Prostranstvo i massa v arkhitekture, in Gabrichevsky 1993: 7. 26 “…ɩɪɨɬɢɜɨɩɨɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɢɟ ɢ ɫɢɧɬɟɡɢɪɨɜɚɧɢɟ ɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ ɞɢɧɚɦɢɤɢ ɢ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɬɟɤɬɨɧɢɤɢ.” Prostranstvo i massa v arkhitekture, Gabrichevsky 1993: 6. 27 “ȼ ɧɨɜɟɣɲɟɟ ɜɪɟɦɹ, ɜ ɫɜɹɡɢ ɫ ɪɚɡɜɢɬɢɟɦ ɬɟɯɧɢɤɢ ɢ ɡɚɪɨɠɞɟɧɢɟɦ ɧɨɜɨɝɨ ɚɪɯɢɬɟɤɬɭɪɧɨɝɨ ɫɬɢɥɹ, ɬɟɨɪɟɬɢɤɢ ɫɤɥɨɧɧɵ ɜɧɨɜɶ ɨɬɪɢɰɚɬɶ ɜɫɹɤɭɸ ɪɚɡɧɢɰɭ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɰɟɥɟɫɨɨɛɪɚɡɧɨɫɬɶɸ ɩɪɚɤɬɢɤɢ ɢ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɧɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɫɬɶɸ, ɢ ɝɨɬɨɜɵ ɩɪɢɡɧɚɬɶ ɜɫɹɤɨɟ ɰɟɥɟɫɨɨɛɪɚɡɧɨɟ ɨɪɭɞɢɟ ɩɪɟɤɪɚɫɧɵɦ ɜ ɦɟɪɟ ɟɝɨ ɩɨɥɟɡɧɨɫɬɢ”. Arkhitektura, Gabrichevsky 1993: 2. 28 The great debate by Semper and Bötticher on the notion of Tektonik that characterises the German architectural culture of the second half of the 19th century, was practically ignored by the Russians until the early years following the revolution. The same can be said about the other major issue discussed here – the interpretation of architecture as Raumkunst. There have not been any references to these two notions in Russian treatises since the 1850s. Apolony K. Krasovsky, Grazhdanskaya arkhitektura, St.Peterburg, 1851; N. G. Chernyshevsky, Esteticheskie otnosheniya iskusstva k deystvitel’nosti, 1855; Vladimir O. Shervud, Opyt issledovaniya zakonov iskusstva. Zhivopis’, skul’ptura, arkhitektura i ornament, Moscow 1895; Vladimir Apyshkov, Ratsional’noe v noveyshey arkhitekture, St. Peterburg 1905; Boris N. Nikolaev, Fizicheskie nachala arkhitekturnykh form, St. Peterburg 1905; Pavel Strakhov, Esteticheskie zadachi tekhniki, Moscow 1906; P. P. Sokolov, Krasota arkhitekturnykh form – osnovnye printsipy, St. Peterburg, 1912. Even in the urbanistic area, Sitte’s ideas about an urban design based on the dimensioning of squares for the adequate perception of buildings were not assimilated by Vladimir Semenov (Blagoustroystvo gorodov. Moscow, 1912), Mikhail Dikansky (Postroyka gorodov, ikh plan i krasota, Petrograd, 1915). The Russian handbooks on the history of the 19th century do not discuss these questions: Borisova, Kazhdan 1971; Kirichenko 1979; Kirichenko, 1982. 29 Entsiklopedichesky slovar’ Russkogo bibliograficheskogo instituta Granat, Moscow, 1926-1927. Now in Gabrichevsky, 1993. 30 Prostranstvo i kompozitsiya v iskusstve Tintoretta, published in Gabrichevsky, 2002. 31 In 1925, the Akademiya was known as GAKhN (Gosudarstvennaya akademiya khudožestvennykh nauk – State Academy of Artistic Sciences); in the early months of 1929 the institute was transferred to Leningrad. 32 The other departments were directed by G. G. Shpet and V.M. Friche, respecttively.

86

What is Artistic Form? Munich – Moscow 1900-1925



33 Priroda plastiki [The nature of plastic volume, 1922], Problema vremeni v iskusstve Rembrandt’a [The problem of time in the art of Rembrandt, 1922], Struktura khudozhestvennoy formy [The structure of artistic form, 1923], Nauchnoe i khudozhestvennoe mirosozertsanie Gete [Goethe’s scientific and artistic visions], Vremya v prostranstvennykh iskusstvakh [Time in spatial arts], Prostranstvo i kompozitsiya Tintoretto [Space and composition in the art of Tintoretto], Odezhda i zdanie [Covering and construction], Markuzon 1976. 34 Within the Akademiya Arkhitektury, Gabrichevsky worked with Ginzburg on a History of architecture, starting from 1939. On Gabrichevsky and Ginzburg’s friendship see: Markuzon 1975. 35 Khan-Magomedov 1979; Khan-Magomedov 1994; Senkevitch jr. 1983. 36 Programma dei lavori dell’Inkhuk secondo un piano di Kandinskij, in Quilici, 1969. Senkevitch jr. 1983. 37 “Ɋɚɫɤɪɵɬɶ ɜɧɭɬɪɟɧɧɢɟ ɡɚɤɨɧɵ, ɩɨ ɤɨɬɨɪɵɦ ɫɬɪɨɹɬɫɹ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɟ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɹ ɜ ɫɮɟɪɟ ɤɚɠɞɨɝɨ ɨɬɞɟɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ, ɢ ɧɚ ɷɬɨɣ ɛɚɡɟ ɭɫɬɚɧɨɜɢɬɶ ɩɪɢɧɰɢɩɵ ɫɢɧɬɟɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɜɵɪɚɠɟɧɢɹ”. Otchet o deyatel’nosti fiziko-psikhologicheskogo otdeleniya. [Summary of the activities of the psycho-physiological department]. RGALI, f. 941, op. 12, ed. khr. 1, l. 26. 38 Letopisi deyatel’nosti fiziko-psikhologicheskogo otdeleniya [Chronicles of the psycho-physiological department], RGALI, f. 941, op. 12, ed. khr. 17, l. 1. 39 The conferences were held by Bakushinsky (“Pryamaya i obratnaya perspektiva” [The direct and inverse perspective] and “Vospriyatie i perezhivanie proizvedeniy iskusstva” [Perception and sensation of artistic creation]), Kandinsky (“Osnovnye elementy v zhivopisi” [The basic elements of painting]), Gabrichevsky (“Uchenie o khudozhestvennoy forme” [Studies on the aesthetics of form]), Mashkovtsev (“Problema prostranstva v zhivopisi” [The problem of space in painting]). 40 “O khudožestvennom nachale: o tsvete, svete, puantilizme v prostranstve i vremeni”, in Protokol zasedaniya gruppy po izucheniyu prostranstvennogo iskusstva. [Protocol of the meeting of the study group of spatial art] RGALI, f. 941, op. 12, ed. khr. 8, l. 11. 41 RGALI, f. 941, op. 12, ed. khr. 8, l. 1. The role this book played in the avantgarde movements in Russia is still unexplored. Its importance for the Inkhuk group and for Dokuchaev was analysed in the brilliant essay written by Senkevitch jr. 1983. 42 RGALI, f. 941, op. 12, ed. khr. 17, l. 1. 43 Ginzburg 1923; Ginzburg 1924. The conferences “Stil’ i epokha” (7 and 23 December 1923), “Puti sovremennoy arkhitektury” [The directions of contemporary architecture] (6. 2. 1924) and “Skhema prostranstvennykh myshleniy” [An outline of spatial thinking] (8. 2. 1924) are named in Plan rabot fiziko-psikhologicheskogo otdeleniya RAKhN na 1923 g., [Work plan of the RAKhN psycho-physiological department for 1923], RGALI f. 941, op. 12, ed. khr. 1, l. 3. 44 Ernst Mach, Analiz oshchushcheniy, Moscow, 1907; from the different translations of Wundt texts starting from the 1890s we recall Max Wundt, Ocherki psikhologii, Moscow, 1912, Problemy psikhologii narodov [Völkerpsychologie]

Luka Skansi

87

 and Vvedenie v psikhologiyu, both Kosmos, Moscow 1912, Fantaziya kak osnova iskusstva, St. Peterburg 1914. To understand the extent of the influence of these books in Russia, it is interesting to recall Lenin and his book Materializm i empiriokrititsizm, Zveno, Moscow 1909 (translated into English as Materialism and Empirio-Criticism, Foreign Languages Publishing House, Moscow 1952) with the subtitle Kriticheskie zametki ob odnoy reakcionnoy filosofii [Critical Comments on a Reactionary Philosophy]. Lenin harshly attacked the epistemological positions rooted in Mach’s theories and Mach’s followers in Russia. Skansi 2007. 45 In 1929 RAKhN/Gakhn was transferred to Leningrad, but in 1926 its activity was already drastically reduced. 46 The friendship between Zholtovsky and Gabrichevsky is documented in Gabrichevsky 2002. Gabrichevsky wrote one of the most important essays on the work of Zholtovsky, published posthumously, A. G. Gabrichevsky, I.V. Zholtovsky kak teoretik. Opyt kharakteristiki, in Arkhitektura SSSR, n. 3-4, 1983. 47 Pertseva 1979. 48 For the teaching methods applied at the Vkhutemas basic courses see the journal Izvestiya Asnova (1926); Arkhitektura Vkhutemasa, Moscow, 1927; Elementi arkhitekturno-prostranstvennoy kompozitsii, (ed. by B. F. Krinsky, I.V. Lamtsov, M. A. Turkus) Gosstroyizdat, Moskva, 1934; Konstantin Mel’nikov, Mir khudozhnika, Iskusstvo, Moscow, 1985.

EL LISSITZKY, HIS BEAT THE WHITES WITH THE RED WEDGE AND THEIR JEWISH INSPIRATIONS1 ARTUR KAMCZYCKI

Eleazar Markovich Lissitzky (1890-1941) is widely known as a JewishRussian avant-garde artist who made significant contributions to abstract art in the early 20th century.2 He is the author of architectonical projects such as “Cloud-irons”, “The Lenin Tribune” as well as the creator of advertisements for the Pelikan company, among others. He designed graphic layouts for magazines such as ȼɟɳɶ – Objet – Gegenstand and Broom, and co-founded the International Fraction of Constructivists. His unique vision found expression in his PROUN (Project for the Affirmation of the New).3 But he is less known as an ardent champion of Jewish art, as an active member of the Kultur Lige, and the author of splendid books inspired by Jewish (and Yiddish) literary culture and avant-garde spirit.4 Like the projects of other Jewish artists and intellectuals of his generation, Lissitzky was to develop a dynamic relationship between Jewish culture and the secular world. His project and the multivalence of kabbalah suggest an openness to different paths of interpretation. The focus here is on a few points of Lissitzky’s trajectory from Judaic themes (and Jewish forms of representation) to secular abstraction, Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge in particular [fig. 1]. El Lissitzky was brought up in a religious family in Vitebsk and then in Smolensk where he lived with his orthodox grandparents. He knew not only Yiddish but also Hebrew, while one of the most important books in his family’s collection was a Russian edition of The Jewish Encyclopedia which was first published in 1910.5

90

Lissitzky, his Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge and their Jewish Inspirations

Fig. 1

As a child he already exhibited artistic skills and at the age of 14 started to master his abilities under the tutelage of the Jewish painter Jehuda Pen. Rejected by St. Petersburg Academy of Arts because of the Jewish quota, Lissitzky went to Darmstadt in 1909. While studying in Germany (at the Technische Hochschule until 1914), he explored ancient Jewish synagogues, manuscripts and graveyards.6 His investigations and growing interest in Jewish forms of artistic expression were a result of the contemporary ignition of Jewish collective national awareness and were part of the Jewish Renaissance (Jüdische Renaissance)7 started by Martin Buber. As he recalled: a whole generation of Jewish school children and yeshiva students had found that the study of sacred texts did not satisfy them: their Jewishness demanded more. […] Seeking to find ourselves and the shape of our time we tried to peer into the so-called ‘folk creations’. At the beginning of our era, this path was trodden by almost all the various nations. My own case

Artur Kamczycki

91

in point followed this same logic when, suddenly one summer, I let myself return to ‘the folk’.8

Between 1916 and 1919 El Lissitzky (together with another Jewish artist, Isachar Rybak) made a series of sketches and drawings of old Jewish buildings (synagogues in particular) located along the Dnieper river and in Mohilev in Ukraine. The works were performed for the Jewish Ethnographic Society in St. Petersburg on the initiative of historian Simon Dubnov and poet Shlomo Ansky. Lissitzky’s drawings and text about the Mohyliv synagogue were published in the German journal Milgroim and its Hebrew equivalent Rimon in 1923. In 1917, he also took part in the Moscow exhibition of Jewish painters and sculptors in the Lemercier gallery.9 Lissitzky is also known to have illustrated eighteen Yiddish and Hebrew publications between 1917 and 1923, and currently research has identified thirty such publications. Among the most notable were Sikhes Kholim [Small Talks, Legend of Prague], a story in prose by Moses Brodersohn, published in 1917 and Khad Gadia [One Kid] in 1919. Mani Leib’s Yingl Tsingl Khvat, which Lissitzky illustrated during a brief stay in Warsaw in 1921, was published in Kultur Lige, which was committed to a fusion of Jewish folk traditions with contemporary art concerns. In 1922 he started working with Kazimir Malevich in the Institute for the History of Material Culture in St. Petersburg where he devoted himself to attempts of creating a spatial version of Suprematism that was to consist of abstract three-dimensional forms called “architectons”.10 These projects are not only bold and innovative artistic ideas but symbols of a utopian belief in the possibility of creating a new artistic language for expressing the new post-revolutionary reality (Soviet Russia). The concept of a connection between artistic and social activity and the relationship between the new language of forms and the new organisation of institutions of social life played important roles here. The language of artistic expression changed radically at that time with the stress shifting to issues of art and form which became main subjects of artistic practice and theory.11 It is believed that Malevich and the theory of Suprematism helped Lissitzky to develop an original creative method. Just like Malevich, Lissitzky used abstract compositions of simple geometric shapes in his paintings and prints. Malevich’s Suprematism expressed the artist’s need to go “beyond

92

Lissitzky, his Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge and their Jewish Inspirations

the real world of objects”. He considered himself to have “destroyed the circle of the horizon and gone out of the domain of objects”.12 According to Malevich, Suprematism did not create a new world of feelings but a new, direct representation of the world of feelings in general. Pictures composed of the simplest geometric shapes such as a square, a circle, and a triangle were a new syntax, a painter’s new language. Its dominant feature was its form and its painterly existence. In 1918, Lissitzky was appointed to the art panel of the new Commissariat of Enlightenment. He worked on festival decorations and produced the best-known abstract revolutionary poster, Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge (1919) [fig. 1]. The scholars dealing with the history of art consider the poster to exemplify the application of the new artistic language for the needs of the contemporary agitation and political struggle.13 The acute-angled triangle is emerging from the upper left part of the picture, puncturing the circle situated on the right hand side and pointing to its center. The simple geometric forms which appear to constitute a somewhat abstract composition acquire an ideological quality here, with the white colour symbolising the supporters of the old order (the White movement) and red representing the Bolsheviks. This ideological nature of the poster can also be attributed to Lissitzky’s use of certain “powers” and geometric structures. The elements of the language of artistic Suprematism become conveyors of politically-loaded messages and meanings. The artist’s efforts focus on finding autonomous qualities of the artistic elements while retaining the logical narration within the picture (or rather of the picture). This work is often interpreted as an affirmation of the revolutionary events and the victory of the new order forces over the “old world”.14 The revolution, which was supposed to bring social emancipation and civilisational progress, also evoked artists’ hopes of devising a completely new language for describing and perceiving the world. Lissitzky himself wrote: In Moscow in 1918 the short circuit which split the world in two flashed before my eyes. This single blow pushed the time we call the present between yesterday and tomorrow like a wedge. My efforts are now directed to driving the wedge deeper. One must belong to one side or the other – there is no mid-way.15

Artur Kamczycki

93

This concept is represented in an interesting way by Lissitzky’s project of the Apikojres (translated as Atheist) magazine cover from 1931 [fig. 2]. Apikojres is a heretic – a Jew who does not believe in revelation and negates traditional religion and will therefore not have a share in the world to come and is bound for eternal damnation.16 In Yiddish, this word is often used to describe someone who has opinions that contradict the orthodox doctrine.17 Lissitzky suggests here that a revolution requires sacrifice and transformations in the name of the new, better world.

Fig. 2

It needs to be stressed here that the revolutionary ideas stemmed directly from the Jewish messianic faith in an imminent redemption, class equality, general justice, conquering time and the introduction of a (utopian)

94

Lissitzky, his Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge and their Jewish Inspirations

constant and ideal state.18 Obviously, the idea required the deconstruction of the contemporary reality and this is why the coming of the Messiah and the radical change that was to follow evoked fear within Jewish tradition. Nevertheless, the Jewish masses generally welcomed the Bolshevik Revolution as a harbinger of freedom and an end to tsarist repression. Lissitzky too, like most of his Russian colleagues, not only hailed it, but very enthusiastically employed his art in its service. He designed the first flag for the Central Committee of the Communist Party for the 1918 May Day celebrations, and helped produce propaganda works in Moscow in the autumn of 1918.19 Lissitzky was hopeful that the younger generation would accept the Revolution: The educated were expecting the ‘new era’ to arrive in the shape of a Messiah ... mounted on a white horse. But ... it came in the shape of Russian Ivan ...in tattered and dirty clothes, barefoot ... only the youngest generation recognized this [...].20

It should be kept in mind that it was not only Malevich who influenced the form of the poster. Jewish iconographic and pictorial sources were also of great importance for the “architectons” project, especially the ones coming from the Jewish manuscripts which El Lissitzky had known very well since the time of his childhood, as well as the ones by M. Chagall who was interested in the Jewish mysticism and employed kabbalistic elements in his works.21 There were a number of kabbalistic motifs circulating at the time [fig. 3.]. One of them, dated to 1708, was described by Ziva Amishai-Maisels as “kabbalistic diagrams of the breaking of the vessels containing the divine light, causing their fragments to fall to earth (to disseminate evil)”.22 This visual projection refers to the creation of the world (universe) by the infinite God, Ein Sof, which literally means “without an end”.23 According to Isaac Luria, whose writing was very popular in the 19th century Jewish religious world, God’s first step in the cosmogonic process was Tzimtzum, that is, contraction or withdrawal into Himself. Before the world could come to being, an empty space had to be made because, if God is Ein Sof – everywhere, there is no space for the creation of the world (the concept of Tzimtzum, i.e., self-constriction, withdrawal into the inside, became an important and very evocative symbol for later kabbalists).24

Artur Kamczycki

95

Fig. 3

This kabbalistic motif is very often represented metaphorically as a wedge driven into a circle or as a line coming out of the circle’s center. According to the tradition when the infinite God, Ein Sof (occupying the whole space of the universe), wished to create the world, he withdrew to the central point, where his light dwelled, and contracted this light by moving it to the space around the central point (so that an empty space was made).25

The light emanating from this point collides with the frame of the structure in which the light is contained causing it to crack – a concept called the breaking of the vessels. Therefore, God failed and created an imperfect world. The divine self-contraction was indispensable for the process of creation but it conceived a world that needs alteration (tikkun). A split occurred during the process of creating – a division that seems to have been necessary for the creation of the world.

96

Lissitzky, his Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge and their Jewish Inspirations

This process is represented by a wedge or a line coming from the centre and creating a breach. In Jewish tradition this motif is understood from two seemingly contradicting points of view: one considers it to be an act of creating the world whereas the other sees it as the suggestion, possibility or even necessity of destroying it. In other words, the breaking of the vessels had to take place so that the world we live in could come into existence – the notion of destruction is inherent in the process of creation. As one of the Eastern European Hasidic mentors, Shneur Zalman of Liadi, would state “all beauty and majesty dwells where two contradictory things absorb each other”.26 It is worth noting that the Bible talks about creating the world by dividing. More specifically, the first verse of the Book of Genesis is Bereshit Bara Elohim et haShamaim ve et haArec which means “In the beginning, God divided the heaven and the earth”. (Genesis, 1:1). By borrowing visual forms from Jewish tradition, Lissitzky’s project is metaphorically referring to the concepts which were present in this tradition, that is, the deconstruction of the old order so that a new and better one – resembling the messianic vision of the world – could be created (the red wedge breaking the white circle). The illustration from the Zikaron Birushalaim manuscript [Remembrance of Jerusalem] from 1743 is worth mentioning here as well [fig. 4]. At first glance, the picture seems to evoke what was a common motif in the Jewish illuminative tradition, that is, Jerusalem as a concentric, spherical row of walls (but also a reference to the kabbalistic diagrams of Paamon verimon from 170827 [fig. 3]). The Zikaron Birushalaim manuscript depicts Jericho and Joshua just before the collapse of the city’s walls. Here, an architectonic wedge is opening the city. What is significant here is that the picture evokes the traditional representation of Jerusalem as a circle (Lissitzky exhibited his painting entitled Jericho at the “World of Art” exhibition in St. Petersburg in 1917, but the work did not survive.28 Tearing down the Jericho walls was a prerequisite for the construction of Jerusalem and its temple by David and Solomon. Moreover, the evocative representation of Joshua reminds of the images of the Messiah and Elijah blowing a shofar by the gates of Jerusalem.

Artur Kamczycki

Fig. 4

97

98

Lissitzky, his Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge and their Jewish Inspirations

The idea of revolution, as has already been mentioned, is connected with the coming of the Messiah whereas the new architectonic challenge refers to the concept of building an ideal Jerusalem, wherever it was supposed to be built. The formation of the idea of “Utopia” in the European artistic tradition29 may be marked as the moment when the destruction of the Second Temple, the dispersion of the Jews and the rise of Christianity created a distance between the image and the reality of the Holy City. For Jews, dispersed all over the world, the real Jerusalem was gradually transformed into a mystical city, the object of holy nostalgia and desired future reconstruction. Its visual topology was gradually compressed to the image of the Temple.30 This intention – as Igor Doukhan points out – forms the basis of the European concept of Utopia, referring to the most distant and vague future and the past in order to escape the present. Such an understanding of artistic Utopia presumes that Utopia is not something fantastic, but rather an idea which actualises the most profound and archetypical levels and great force of cultural “regeneration”.31 The title of Lissitzky’s 1920 manifesto, Suprematism in World Reconstruction, is also pertinent to this concept. Before 1917 Lissitzky made illustrations for Hayim Nahman Bialik’s story about King Solomon (Shlomo ha-Melech). The story was featured in a Hebrew journal for Young people, Shtilim [Samplings], published in Moscow in 1917.32 One part of it contains a picture relating to the construction of the temple by Solomon. Legend has it that after God prohibited him from using steel to crack stones, Solomon wondered how to catch the demon Asmodeus who was given the secret device for splitting stones.33 Lissitzky’s architectonic aspirations should also be touched upon at this point. He described his PROUNs as “the interchange station between art and architecture”.34 They constituted sort of an intermediate state between abstract painting (II Jewish Commandment, Ex. 20:4; Deu. 5:7) and the utopian architecture that was yet to come. “Our lives – he wrote – rest on a new, communist fundament made of reinforced concrete. Thanks to the PROUNs, a new, communist city will be built on this fundament. The city will be a monolith – he continued – where people of the whole world will live”.35 He can be understood as metaphorically referring to the idealistic

Artur Kamczycki

99

and utopian Jerusalem which was supposed to be erected after the coming of the Messiah. In 1919, as has already been mentioned, he prepared the illustrations for the Yiddish book Yingl Tsingl Khvat [The Mischievous Boy], containing children’s poems written by Mani Leib (Brahinsky).36 This is an impressive edition, where illustrations interact with the text and with the letters [fig. 5]. On the last page of the book, the artist included a rooster (alluding to himself) standing on the number 10, which in Hebrew is represented by the letter yud. Below that, without any apparent relation to the text, Lissitzky attached a stylized form of the kabbalistic phrase Ein Sof meaning “without an end” which refers to the infinity of the Hebrew God as well as to the act of creating the world. The book ends at this point, however the Ein Sof symbol, seemingly unrelated to the text, suggests that there is going to be a continuation. The phrase is broken up graphically so that the arrangement of the letters forms another wedge pointing upwards.

Fig. 5

100 Lissitzky, his Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge and their Jewish Inspirations

This pattern seems to have been borrowed from Sefer Yetzirah [The Book of Creation] dated to the 2nd century CE [fig. 6]. It was reproduced in the 13th century and copies were available in rabbinate schools and yeshivas at the turn of the 19th century.37

Fig. 6

Sefer Yetzirah can also be translated as the “Book of the Forming Letter yud which is represented in the Hebrew alphabet by a simple comma. The sign can be traced back to a dot, with its numerical value being 10 (the Hebrew language does not have punctuation marks).38

Artur Kamczycki

101

Interestingly, the yud is inserted between each verse of the text from the Sefer Yetzirah page in question. The letter divides as well as creates the text. The book talks about God creating the world using letters which constitute independent entities. It is these, forming the alphabet, that God used to create everything that exists. In turn, the alphabet itself (according to Jewish tradition) emerged from a point that turned into a small wedge and served as a basis for creating the remaining letters. That point was the letter yud.39 Moreover, in Jewish tradition, the idea that letters are building blocks of the universe is found in the first century CE when Rabbi Akiva interpreted the shape of the letters as indicative of certain kinds of powers and was concerned with their transmutational possibilities.40 There is a remarkable similarity between Akiva’s observation and a key statement by Lissitzky concerning the infinity of the text. As Lissitzky himself wrote: “The letter is an element which is itself composed of elements”.41 It is worth mentioning that reproductions not only of Sefer Yetzirah but also of another book concerned with letters, that is, Sefer haOt [The Book of Letter]42 by Abraham Abulafia from the 13th century, were made in Vienna in 1876, Wrocáaw in 1887 and St. Petersburg in 1922.43 Thus, El Lissitzky’s concepts on the role of art (avant-garde) exhibit complex relations between Jewish tradition and the revolutionary ideology. The Red Wedge is not only a determinant but also building material for the new, revolutionary (messianic/utopian) reality, as well as a motif that is deeply rooted in the representational tradition of Jews. Many people of Lissitzky’s (Jewish) generation were very concerned with recovering tradition and a secular world. Tradition often consists of an effort to re-establish the essential connection between man and the source of language. Today’s interest in the kabbalah and its influence on avant-garde Jewish artists is probably connected to certain strains of mystical theory and practice being more open to interpretation than normative Judaism. The effort to find kabbalistic links in the world of Lissitzky suggests a critical search for a secret doctrine at the heart of his work.

102 Lissitzky, his Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge and their Jewish Inspirations

Along with many artists born in traditional families, Lissitzky considered modern art (constructivism)44 to be not only a tool of emancipation, but also a way to participate in the new, secular culture and to break away from the religious, conservative circle. Jewish tradition was often an important, albeit hidden, element of artistic and ideological inspiration. It was significant to seemingly secular creative ideas and El Lissitzky is its best example.

Bibliography Amishai-Maisels, Ziva (1995/96): Chagall’s Dedicated to Christ: Sources and Meanings, in: Jewish Art, 21-22, pp. 68-94. Apter-Gabriel, Ruth (ed.) (1988): Tradition and Revolution. The Jewish Renaissance in Russian Avant-Garde Art. 1912-1928, Jerusalem. Apter-Gabriel, Ruth, El Lissitzky’s Jewish Works, in: Apter-Gabriel, Ruth (ed.) (1988), pp. 101-124. Doukhan, Igor (1997/8): Beyond the Holy City: Symbolic Intentions in the Avant-Garde Urban Utopia, in: Kühnel, Bianca (ed.). The real and Ideal Jerusalem in Jewish, Christian and Islamic Art, Jewish Art (Journal) 23/24, Jerusalem, pp. 565-574. Elior, Rachel (2009): Mistyczne Ĩródáa chasydyzmu, (transl. M. Tomal), Kraków. Glatzer Wechsler, Judith (1995): El Lissitzky’s ‘Interchange Stations’: The Letter and the Spirit in: Nochlin, Linda, Garb, Tamar (ed.). The Jew in the Text. Modernity and the Construction of Identity, London, pp. 187-200. Glazova, Anna (14. 02. 2011): El Lissitzky in Weimar Germany http://spintongues.msk.ru/glazova27eng.htm; http://vladivostok.com/speaking_in_Tongues/glazova27eng.htm. Hemken, Kai-Uwe (1990): El Lissitzky: Revolution und Avantgarde, Cologne. Kampf, Avram (1990): Chagall to Kitaj. Jewish Experience in 20th Century Art. London. Karp, Avraham (1991): From the Ends of the Earth. Judaica Treasures of the Library of Congress, Washington. Kazimierz Malewicz (1983): Exhibition Catalogue Zeszyt Teoretyczny Galerii GN, GdaĔsk. Kochan, Lionel (1990): Jews, Idols and Messiahs. The Challenge from History, Oxford. Lissitzky-Küppers, Susane (1992): El Lissitzky: Life, Letters, Texts, London.

Artur Kamczycki

103

Margolin, Vivian (1997): The Struggle for Utopia, Chicago. Ouaknin, Marc-Alain (2006): Tajemnice Kabaáy, Warszawa. Paszkiewicz, Piotr, ZadroĪny, Tadeusz (eds.) (1997): Jerozolima w kulturze europejskiej (transl. Pruscy, Krystyna, Krzysztof), Warszawa. Piotrowski, Piotr (1993): Artysta miĊdzy rewolucją i reakcją. Studium z zakresu etycznej historii sztuki awangardy rosyjskiej, PoznaĔ. Prokopowicz, Mariusz (1994): KsiĊga Jecirah. Klucz kabaáy, Warszawa. Schmidt, Gilia, Gerda (1999): The First Buber. Youthful Zionist Writings of Martin Buber, New York. Scholem, Gershom (1974): Kabbalah, Jerusalem. —. (1996): Kabaáa i jej symbolika, (transl. Wojnakowski, Ryszard) Kraków. —. (1997): Mistycyzm Īydowski i jego gáówne kierunki (transl. Kania, Ireneusz), Warszawa. Torah. Pentateuch (2006) (transl. Cylkow, Izaak), Kraków. Tumarkin-Goodman, Susan (1996): (ed.) Russian Jewish Artists in a Century of Change. 1890-1990, New York. Turowski, Andrzej (1990): Wielka utopia awangardy: artystyczne i spoáeczne utopie w sztuce rosyjskiej 1910-1930, Warszawa. —. (2004): Supremus Malewicza, Warszawa. Wolitz, Seth L. (1996): Experiencing Visibility and Phantom Existence, in: Tumarkin-Goodman, Susan (ed.) (1996), pp. 14-15.

Notes 1

A similar text under a different title that employed different argumentation has already been published in Polish in: Studia Europea Gnesnense 4 (2011). 2 See more in: Hemken 1990; Margolin, 1997; Glazova (14. 02. 2011) http://spintongues.msk.ru/glazova27eng.htm. 3 See more in: Turowski 1990. 4 Apter-Gabriel 1988; Tumarkin-Goodman 1996. 5 Lissitzky-Küppers 1995: 20-21. 6 Apter-Gabriel, in: Apter-Gabriel 1988: 102. 7 Schmidt 1999: 30-34; Kampf 1990: 15-43. 8 Lissitzky, E. 1923, after: Apter-Gabriel 1988: 101. 9 Tumarkin-Goodman 1996: 196; Apter-Gabriel 1988: 105. 10 See more in: Turowski 1990; Turowski 2004. 11 Piotrowski 1993: 55-66. 12 Kazimierz Malewicz 1983:122. 13 Turowski 1990: 20; Piotrowski 1993: 15-22. 14 Piotrowski 1993: 47. 15 Lissitzky-Küppers 1992: 325.

104 Lissitzky, his Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge and their Jewish Inspirations

16

Tumarkin-Goodman 1996: 14-15. Wolitz 1996: 14-15. 18 See more in: Kochan 1990. 19 Apter-Gabriel, in: Apter-Gabriel 1988: 111. 20 Lissitzky-Küppers 1992: 331, quoted after: Apter-Gabriel 1988: 118. 21 Glatzer Wechsler 1995: 190. 22 Amishai-Maisels 1995-96: 75. 23 Scholem 1974: 138-139. 24 Scholem 1997: 302-351. 25 After Scholem 1997: 320-330. 26 After Elior 2009: 240. 27 See more in: Karp 1991: 87. 28 Apter-Gabriel 1988: 105. 29 See: Turowski 1990. 30 See more in: Paszkiewicz, ZadroĪny, 1997; Kühnel 1997/8. 31 Doukhan 1997-8: 565-574. 32 Glatzer Wechsler 1995: 191. 33 See: Glatzer Wechsler 1995: 194, f 30. 34 Piotrowski 1993: 56, 64. 35 After Glatzer Wechsler 1995: 194. 36 See also: Apter-Gabriel 1988: 111. 37 Scholem 1997: 101-114. 38 Prokopowicz 1994: 19. 39 Ouaknin 2006: 277-280. 40 Glatzer Wechsler 1995: 194. 41 After Glatzer Wechsler 1995: 194. 42 See: Scholem 1997: 158-201. 43 Glatzer Wechsler 1995: 194. 44 See: Turowski 1990. 17

RUSSIAN ÉMIGRÉ ARTISTS IN SERBIA (1920-1950) JELENA MEŽINSKI MILOVANOVIû

More than 40,000 Russian refugees arrived in the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes that would later become Yugoslavia, in the period from 1919–1922 after the October Revolution. Many of these immigrants remained in Serbia; the majority were people of higher education. They were able to adapt to the cultural life of their new “homeland”, particularly in the field of science. Some were admitted to the Serbian Royal Academy. They worked as university professors or distinguished themselves in particular scientific fields (Vladimir Moshin, Aleksandr Solov’ev, Vladimir Farmakovsky, George Ostrogorsky, Anton Bilimovich, Yakov Khlitchiev, etc.).1 In the Serbian, mostly Russophile local community, Russian emigrants were welcomed warmly. There was a general awareness of their intellectual potential, which the post-war Serbia longed to foster. By establishing Russian schools, cadet corps and institutes for girls and building Russian churches, they could “preserve” their Russian heritage for a long time.2 Due to most of them coming from towns, very often from larger cities in Russia, emigrants were the bearers of progress in many spheres of urban middle-class culture. Russian women organised the first fashion show in Belgrade. Fashion salons run by female Russian emigrants had a very good reputation in the Serbian capital between the two wars. Lidia Iraklidi opened one of the first beauty salons in Belgrade and in the Balkans.3 In the capital of Serbia there were also traditional Russian shops where you could buy toys and items of applied arts that were hand-made in the spirit of the Modern style of Abramtsevo and Talashkino.4

106

Russian émigré Artists in Serbia (1920-1950)

In the spirit of the epoch of fashion, jazz, commercials, cars and gramophones slowly gained popularity in Belgrade and towns throughout Serbia between the two world wars. The nightlife in the capital could not be described without including the famous Russian singers and performers who worked in the various clubs in the city.5 The popular dancer, Josephine Baker – who came to Belgrade from Paris in 1929 where she was as popular as a troupe of Russian Ballets and Anna Pavlova – relaxed in the Russian bar Jar after her performances, listening to Russian songs.6 Contrary to the Serbian patriarchal family hierarchy and relations in provincial communities, Russians tended to preserve pre-revolutionary home and family etiquette. Russian women, then, indirectly supported the emancipation of women in Serbia.7 A great number of them were professsional singers and ballet dancers. Well-educated female artists came from Russia to Serbia (Ivan Kramskoy’s student Elisaveta Karpova-Kardashevich, Elena Kiseleva-Bilimovich, Elena Charikova, Maria von Brandt Nenadiü)8. It was considered slightly avant-garde for a young girl to study art in the relatively conservative Serbian community that existed between the two wars. Nevertheless, Russian girls did enroll at the Royal Art School in Belgrade in the same numbers as their Russian male colleagues.9 These enrolment figures can be explained at least in part by the conservative tradition of the Victorian way of bringing up female children who were supposed to embroider, play the piano, sing beautifully and paint water colours. Modern Russian young women in Serbia could easily find jobs as art teachers with these “skills”. Russian emigrants in Serbia made great contributions to the field of pedagogy.10 Most Russian émigré educators were high school teachers. Even the most remote provinces in Serbia remember having at least onɟ Russian teacher.11 No matter how conservative and traditional emigrants’ approach may have been in the field of art pedagogy,12 it was a precious investment in the Serbian culture in the first half of the 20th century. In Serbia, in the last twenty years, research related to the works of Russian emigrants in the field of art has been defined and intensified. About three hundred painters and sculptors as well as dozens of architects who arrived in Serbia after the Russian Revolution have been registered. Some of them are well-known, but others are known only by their signature found on paintings in small private collections.

Jelena Mežinski Milovanoviü

107

These artists were most active in the Serbian local community between the years 1920 and 1950, when they had to emigrate yet again because of the communist regime, the very same reason for which they left Russia.

Russian “trendy” artists and motifs Russian architects made a huge contribution to the development of Serbian architecture through monumental public edifices in the spirit of Academicism (Nikolay Krasnov – Figure ʋ 1, Vasily Androsov, Vasily Baumgarten), the construction of churches and buildings in the national and Byzantine style (Viktor Lukomsky) as well as the development of the Modern style in architecture.13

Figure ʋ 1: Nikolay Krasnov, The Ministry for Woods and Ore and The Ministry for Finance, Belgrade, 1920s–1930s, postcard

Just as Filip Malyavin and Il’ya Repin were typical representatives of Russian art for European audiences, so too were Stepan Kolesnikov, Afanasy Sheloumov and others for the Serbian community. It was “fashionable” to own genre scenes based on the life of Russian salesmen (kuptsy), in the spirit of Boris Kustodiev. Typical subjects include: Russian winters, churches, pretty girls in national costumes and racing troikas. A great demand for Kolesnikov’s modern paintings resulted in their hyper-production.14 The audience, both Russian and Serbian, asked

108

Russian émigré Artists in Serbia (1920-1950)

for the works of the marinists – Ivan Ayvazovsky’s grandson and a student, a prolific author Aleksey Hanzen (Figure ʋ 2) as well as Arseny Sosnovsky and Ipolit Maykovsky.15

Figure ʋ 2: Aleksey Hanzen, View of the Sea (private collection), photo by Milan Milovanoviü

In the fashionable salons of Belgrade, you could find the works of the Russian realist, member of the Peredvizhniki [Wanderers], Repin’s contemporary and friend, one of the oldest emigrant painters in Serbia, Nikolay Kuznetsov, together with Kolesnikov and another of Repin’s students, Elena Kiseleva-Bilimovich.16 More modest members of the middle class could obtain a water colour winter or sea landscape by Rumyantsev, or paintings by A. Ksendzov. The taste of the clientele was inclined towards the new movements, which were coming from Paris and other European centres, in the spirit of the colourist expressionism or post-impressionism of Pierre Bonnard and Edouard Vuillard. These styles would become one of the main principles of the Belgrade Intimist School of poetic realism between the two wars. In addition to a great number of Serbian authors, Russian émigré artists welcomed these new movements. They include: Vasily Reznikov (Figure ʋ 3) – close to the Blue Rose and to Viktor Borisov-Musatov, Pavel

Jelena Mežinski Milovanoviü

109

Kravchenko (Figure ʋ 4), Grigory Samoylov, Nicolas Poliakoff, who was André Lhote’s student and later his associate17 and Nikolay Isaev.

Figure ʋ 3: Vasily Reznikov, Old Belgrade (private collection), photo by Jelena Mežinski Milovanoviü

Figure ʋ 4: Pavel Kravchenko, Portrait of the Writer Sergey Slastikov Kaluzhanin (private collection), photo by Milan Milovanoviü

110

Russian émigré Artists in Serbia (1920-1950)

Finally, copies of famous works of Russian classics, such as Ivan Shishkin and Ivan Ayvazovsky were made by Russian artists (A. Sidorenko and V. Puzanova, respectively) for the Serbian art market. They also copied trendy painters who were, at that time, in great demand in Central Europe, e.g., Nikolay Bogdanov-Belsky (copied by Vasily Antipov). In cities that were developing in post-war Serbia, a longing for the development of modernism was expressed. This in turn led to a great demand for portraits, because every “modern” citizen wanted his family or his personal portrait to be made by a famous artist. Less famous young painters worked for more modest clients. Some Russian emigrant painters such as Boris Pastukhov18 (Figure ʋ 5), Mikhail Khrisogonov and Larisa Baranovsky-Shramchenko found their clientele in these circles.

Figure ʋ 5: Boris Pastukhov, Portrait, printed in the catalogue of the exhibition: (1937) ɉɟɪɢɨɞɢɱɧɚ ɢɡɥɨɠɛɚ ɪɭɫɤɢɯ ɭɦɟɬɧɢɤɚ, 26 ɞɟɰɟɦɛɪɚ 1937 ɝ. – 10 jɚɧɭɚɪɚ 1938 ɝ., Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ

Jelena Mežinski Milovanoviü

111

A number of Russian photographers worked in Serbia.19 Cheaper forms of family portrait were, then, available for those who could not afford to commission paintings. Photo studios often hired Russian painters to improve photographs by giving them the look of “the latest fashion”, adding make-up or changing the sitter’s hairstyle. This is how Valentina and Aleksey Vasil’ev started their career and they continued to paint portraits for the city clientele even long after World War II. Few Russian émigré painters could hope for a commission from the upper classes of society, nor the opportunity to portray the ruler’s family, i. e. to try the most conservative form of the portrait expression. A “trendy” portrait of Queen Marija Karaÿorÿeviü by Filip Malyavin,20 who would only come to Belgrade to exhibit, shows the connection with his portraits of European rulers as well as similar portraits that were painted by Savely Sorin at that time in Europe. Russian artists gave their own interpretation to their depictions of the ruling dynasty. The Russian artist Vsevolod Gulevich21 painted his portrait of Karaÿorÿe influenced by the portrait of Vožd (Leader) by the Serbian artist Paja Jovanoviü.22 S. Kolesnikov as well as Boris Obrazkov made portraits of the Karaÿorÿeviü dynasty. Portraying members of the ruling dynasty did not always imply direct contact with the court. Some authors relied on photographs and their works were intended for less official causes or lower ranking offices of public administration. This practice is documented in a photograph in which the young Russian architect Grigory Samoylov is shown while painting a portrait of King Aleksandar Karaÿorÿeviü (Figure ʋ 6). G. Samoylov – one of the very few Russian emigrants who stayed in Serbia even after the arrival of communism in Yugoslavia in the early 50s – was involved in the renovation of the interior of the Serbian Academy of Sciences and Arts. This led to another opportunity, to paint a portrait of a ruler. He painted Josip Broz Tito for the public spaces of this Serbian cultural institution, using, again like V. Gulevich, Paja Jovanoviü’s portrait as a model.23

112

Russian émigré Artists in Serbia (1920-1950)

Figure ʋ 6: Grigory Samoylov painting a portrait of King Aleksandar Karaÿorÿeviü, photo: Jelena Mežinski Milovanoviü’s collection

Popular visual culture The Serbian newspaper Politika published a women’s page in which the Russian Vladimir Gedrinsky’s fashion designs appeared. A journalist, novelist and illustrator, the Russian Ana Stepanova Delijaniü, made illustrations and fashion sketches for Serbian women’s magazines during the 30s. She was a fashion editor in the Belgrade magazine Moda u slici i reþi (The Fashion in Pictures and Words) in 1939 and she published popular love stories under the “trendy” pseudonym Miryt (“trendy” since this foreign name in Serbia, where there is a tradition of Slavic names, sounded like the name of a Hollywood movie star).

Jelena Mežinski Milovanoviü

113

Russian artists in the Serbian local community, most of them young and badly in need of money (V. Gedrinsky) or still students at Belgrade University (G. Samoylov24 – Figure ʋ 7) or Art School, later Academy, (Evgeny Prudkov,25 Nikolay Tishchenko, Matey Reitlinger, Konstantin Kuznetsov, Yuri Lobachev), accepted commissions to illustrate books, primarily in series for young people like Plava ptica, Novo kolo, Zlatna knjiga (A Blue Bird, A New Series, A Golden Book).26

Figure ʋ 7: Grigory Samoylov, Book Illustration for the Children Tales, first page, published in Belgrade 1929

Their work was based on traditional illustrations for fairy tales by Viktor Vasnetsov and the illustrations made by the Russian art colony Abramtsevo and The World of Art (Mir iskusstva).27 In the field of caricature, Russian emigrants took over the work of The World of Art from the period of the Russian Revolution 1905. The artists

114

Russian émigré Artists in Serbia (1920-1950)

who worked for famous Serbian magazines and daily newspapers were V. Gedrinsky (Politika), Yuri Lobachev (Brka, Politika, Ošišani jež), Nikolay Tishchenko (Ošišani jež) and Konstantin Kuznetsov, who also worked on posters with anti-Soviet propaganda during World War II.

Figure ʋ 8: Yury Lobachev, Page from the Comic Strip Baš ýelik, published in: Ȼɨɝɞɚɧɨɜɢʄ, ɀɢɤɚ (1976): ɑɭɞɟɫɧɢ ɫɜɟɬ ȭɨɪɻɚ Ʌɨɛɚɱɟɜɚ, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, pp. 90.

The comic strip developed out of the world of book illustrations, caricatures and new art forms like photography and film. The appearance of a new, modern form of artistic expression in Serbia is connected to the group of Russian artists living there. The Belgrade Circle of a Comic Strip appeared between the years 1934 and 1941 (Y. Lobachev – Figure ʋ 8, Nikolay Navoev, Sergey Solov’ev, Konstantin Kuznetsov, Aleksey Rankhner, Ivan Shenshin).28

Jelena Mežinski Milovanoviü

115

Scenography and costume design The contribution of Russian emigrants, brought up on traditions of Russian theatre at the end of the 19th century, was enormous. It was reflected in all spheres of theatre life in Serbia: the involvement of the Russian architect N. Krasnov in the renovation of the theatre building Manjež in Belgrade and the activities of Russian directors, opera singers, ballet artists, performers, choreographers and accompanists. At the time when Sergei Diaghilev included Pablo Picasso and other avant-garde artists in his Russian Ballets in Europe,29 Russian artists imbued Serbian scenography and costume design by the more conservative influences of Mamontov’s Opera, the theatre circle of Princess Maria Tenisheva in Talashkino, and The World of Art and Russian Ballets from the period before World War I. The Belgrade scenography workshop of the National Theatre was formally led by the Serbian artist Jovan Bijeliü. However, from 1921 – 1925 it was led by a Russian architect and scenographer from the circle of Leon Bakst and Alexandre Benois, Leonid Brailovsky, who worked with his wife, Rimma Brailovsky.30 The Russian style prevailed at the Belgrade National Theatre and a great number of Russians worked on scenography and costumes (V. Gedrinsky,31 Nikolay Isaev, Vasily Reznikov, Vladimir Zagorodnyuk, Anany Verbitsky – Figure ʋ 9). Russian scenographers also worked for other Serbian theatres (Sergey Kuchinsky,32 Kosta Eliot, Nikolay Morgunenko, Ivan Lukomsky, Aleksey Toporin, Vladimir Trofimov, Zinaida Benson, Vasily Antipov). V. Gedrinsky might have been involved in modern trends of scenography and costume design more than anyone else. He took part in international congresses and exhibitions of applied arts and scenography in order to keep pace with novelties on the world scene. Even later, when he lived in Europe and visited Belgrade theatres in the 1960s and 1970s, Gedrinsky had an important influence on further development of the Serbian scene.33

116

Russian émigré Artists in Serbia (1920-1950)

Figure ʋ 9: Anany Verbitsky, Sketch for Scenography (private collection), photo by Jelena Mežinski Milovanoviü

Church art In the spirit of modern development of conservation and restoration in Serbia, Russian authors (including Elena Vandrovski, Vsevolod Gulevich, Sergei Kamenev, Vasily Rudanovsky,34 Viktoriya Puzanova) worked on conservation of cultural monuments together with local ones. One of the most important endeavors to preserve cultural monuments was initiated at the state level. In the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes a group of painters, mostly Russian emigrants, formed Oplenaþka dvorska ekipa (The Oplenac Court Circle) (Figure ʋ 10). It was led by a Russian, the engineer Sergey Smirnov, the architect N. Krasnov and the Serbian architect Pera J. Popoviü. Between 1922 and 1930 they worked for King Aleksandar and as an archeological expedition they visited Serbian medieval churches and collected material for the decoration of the most representative orthodox mausoleum in the newly-established state – the Oplenac Mausoleum of the Royal family. Boris Obrazkov, Ivan Diky, Nikolay Meyendorf, Vladimir Predoevich, Evgeny Varun-Sekret, Matey Reitlinger worked together on this team. About three hundred copies of frescoes were taken from more than sixty churches.35

Jelena Mežinski Milovanoviü

117

Figure ʋ 10: The Oplenac Court Circle, The Frescoes in The St. Andrew Court Chapel in Dedinje, photo: Jelena Mežinski Milovanoviü’s collection. Between the 1920s and the 1950s the icon painters of The Oplenac Court Circle painted and made icons for dozens of temples, private clients and for the Serbian Orthodox Church.

Activities of Russian icon painters from Oplenac determined the principle that the Serbian Church followed. Modern aspirations of some associations of Serbian artists like Zograf, on the other hand, were viewed with mistrust. Activities of Russian emigrants had a logical connection with the

118

Russian émigré Artists in Serbia (1920-1950)

education of Serbian icon painters in Russia as well as a widespread activity of acquiring Russian icons and equipment for Serbian churches at the end of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th centuries.36 In the sphere of traditional artistic expression, probably the most conservative by definition, several groups and Russian artists, individuals, were involved in church icon painting. The school of icon painting, led by the Russian “Old Believer” Pimen Sofronov, was established in 1934 in the Monastery Rakovica near Belgrade. There were Russian students (Aleksandar Kazanov, Antony Krylov, Boris Shopovalov and Nikolay Shelekhov, and future hierarchs of the Russian Church in diaspora – Bishop Ioann of Estonia and the West European Metropolitan Antony Bartoshevich with seat in Geneva) and many Serbian students who would become the main bearers of Serbian religious art from the late 1930s to the 1970s.37 Traditional icon painting evolved towards modern times through the works of Russian émigré artists. Contrary to traditional icon painting circles around Oplenac and Rakovica and the activities of the Russian icon painter of Byzantine orientation Ivan Mel’nikov, there were Russian painters who, like Andrey Bitsenko38 in Serbia, continued the tradition of the Russian style “Modern” of Viktor Vasnetsov, Mikhail Vrubel’, Mikhail Nesterov, Nikolay Rerikh and also in the tradition of realistic academic painting (Boris Selyanko’s studio, Vladimir Pirozhkov).39 The Oplenac Court Circle was involved in the decoration of the basement of the Court in Dedinje in Belgrade, based on Nikolay Krasnov’s sketches and in the spirit of the Kremlin. Themes from Serbian national poetry were painted in some rooms. The scenes from the poem Tsar Dušan’s Wedding Celebration were used to decorate the wine cellar.40 They were reinterpretations in the spirit of Vasily Surikov, Andrey Ryabushkin, Boris Kustodiev, Ivan Bilibin. Motifs from national poetry and in the case of Russia from fairy tales, were actually very much in fashion at the end of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th centuries. In the 20s and the 30s Russian authors presented their own vision of the Serbian national epic poetry and tales. Russian painters from The Oplenac

Jelena Mežinski Milovanoviü

119

Court Circle drew from national poetry to paint church walls. Prince’s dinner from the Kosovo cycle poetry was used to paint the hagiography of St. Lazar in the church in Priboj.41 The Kosovo song cycle consists of many Serbian epic poems concerning the Battle at Kosovo Field in 1389. Saint Prince Lazar’s dinner with his comrades took place the evening before the decisive battle between the Serbs and the Turks in which Lazar lost his life and became a martyr. Motifs from national poetry were typically reinterpreted in comic strips like Tsar Dušan’s Wedding Celebration, Decline of the Town Pirlitor, A Castle in the middle of nowhere, Baš ýelik, Biberþe (Y. Lobachev), Maksim Crnojeviü’s Wedding Celebration (N. Navoev), whose pioneers in the Serbian local community were Russian authors. The Russian architect Igor’ Blumenau (1939) designed his house on Pašino Brdo in Belgrade in the spirit of a Serbian medieval house42. Recreating medieval structures was the style of post-modernism. Following the same model of the medieval concept, motifs from national poetry were used in three architectural dimensions. Blumenau transformed the medieval Serbian house into a modern villa where he lived with his family, thereby rejecting the mass production of the consumer society and promoting his own aesthetics, independent of modernism.

Summary Russian émigré artists in Serbia can be considered successors to the movements of Realism, Impressionism, Secession, Symbolism of the circle The World of Art and The Blue Rose, as well as to some aspects of Expressionism, at the time when these movements were no longer considered avant-garde. Instead they preserved the tradition of the Russian cultural renaissance, The Silver Age, in opposition to the left-oriented intellectuals. Fleeing the Russian communist revolution, Russian emigrants in Serbia did not support the idea of revolution in art. We can find just a few details of abstract art in Anany Verbitsky’s book illustrations, in the work of Pavel Kravchenko, in Vladimir Zagorodnyuk’s scenography. They created the sphere of “moderate modernism” of the 1930s by following the mainstream and evolution in art and popular culture in the new local community. The absence of avant-garde modernism in the artistic expression of Russian artists in Serbia is the result of a number of Russian avant-garde

120

Russian émigré Artists in Serbia (1920-1950)

artists’ emigration to the West. This cultural pattern was stimulated by the ruling regime, i.e. by King Aleksandar himself who wanted to preserve cultural and artistic heritage of the destroyed Russian Empire in his newlyestablished state of the South Slavs. During the socialist period in Serbia, the art of Russian emigrants was considered conservative, non-progressive, promoting only the negative elements in Serbian art since it tended to preserve middle-class values in cities. These artists were pushed to the margin of the artistic scene. Certain Yugoslav and Serbian artists faced the same destiny. Since the beginning of the 21st century, there has been a reevaluation of some elements of Serbian art heritage. To complete this understanding of Serbian art, it is necessary to include Russian artists who were active on the Serbian scene throughout the twentieth century. We can only talk about Russian artists’ true assimilation into modern artistic processes in the second generation, the generation of artists born in Serbia, the children of Russian emigrants. The bearers of modern influences within the Serbian artistic group of Medijala between the 1950s and the 1970s were Igor Vasiljev, Leonid Šejka, and Olja Ivanjicki.43

Bibliography Bénézit, Emmanuel (1976): Poliakoff (Nicolas), in: Dictionnaire critique et documentaire des peintres, sculpteurs, dessinateurs et graveurs, vol. 8, Paris, p. 405. Ȼɥɭɦɟɧɚɭ, ɂɝɨɪ (1997): ɋɭɞɛɢɧɟ ɪɭɫɤɢɯ ɟɦɢɝɪɚɧɚɬɚ ɭ Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞɭ, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. Ȼɨɝɞɚɧɨɜɢʄ, ɀɢɤɚ (1994), Ɋɭɫɢ ɫɭ ɞɨɲɥɢ ɢɥɢ ɩɨ ɜɟɞɪɨɦ ɞɚɧɭ ɦɨɠɟɬɟ ɜɢɞɟɬɢ ɜɟɱɧɨɫɬ, in: Ɋɭɫɤɚ ɟɦɢɝɪɚɰɢʁɚ ɭ ɫɪɩɫɤɨʁ ɤɭɥɬɭɪɢ ɏɏ ɜɟɤɚ, 2 vols. Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, pp. 70-77. Ȼɨɭɥɬ, Ⱦɠɨɧ (1991): ɏɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɬɟɚɬɪɚ 1880-1930. ɋɨɛɪɚɧɢɟ ɇɢɤɢɬɵ ɢ ɇɢɧɵ Ʌɨɛɚɧɨɜɵɯ-Ɋɨɫɬɨɜɫɤɢɯ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. ɑɭɩɢʄ, ɋɢɦɨɧɚ (2011): Ƚɪɚɻɚɧɫɤɢ ɦɨɞɟɪɧɢɡɚɦ ɢ ɩɨɩɭɥɚɪɧɚ ɤɭɥɬɭɪɚ. ȿɩɢɡɨɞɟ ɦɨɞɧɨɝ, ɩɨɦɨɞɧɨɝ ɢ ɦɨɞɟɪɧɨɝ (1918-1941), ɇɨɜɢ ɋɚɞ. Ⱦɚɛɢʄ, ȴɭɛɢɰɚ (1996): Ɋɭɫɤɢ ɭɦɟɬɧɢɰɢ ɟɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɢ ɭ ȼɨʁɧɨɦ ɦɭɡɟʁɭ, ɤɚɬɚɥɨɝ ɢɡɥɨɠɛɟ, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ.

Jelena Mežinski Milovanoviü

121

Ⱦɢɦɢʄ, ȴɭɛɨɞɪɚɝ (1994): Ɋɭɫɤɨ ɲɤɨɥɫɬɜɨ ɭ Ʉɪɚʂɟɜɢɧɢ ȳɭɝɨɫɥɚɜɢʁɢ 1918-1941, in: Ɋɭɫɤɚ ɟɦɢɝɪɚɰɢʁɚ ɭ ɫɪɩɫɤɨʁ ɤɭɥɬɭɪɢ ɏɏ ɜɟɤɚ, 1 vols. Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, pp. 49-50. Ⱦɢɦɢɬɪɢʁɟɜɢʄ, Ʉɨɫɬɚ (2003): Ʉɪɚʂɢɰɚ ɪɭɫɤɟ ɪɨɦɚɧɫɟ. ɀɢɜɨɬɧɚ ɢɫɩɨɜɟɫɬ ɝɨɫɩɨɻɟ Ɉɥɝɟ ȳɚɧɱɟɜɟɰɤɟ, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ. Ⱦɪɱɚ, ɇɚɬɚɲɚ (2001): Ɋɭɫɤɢ ɥɢɤɨɜɧɢ ɭɦɟɬɧɢɰɢ – ɟɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɢ ɭ ɇɢɲɭ, in: Ɂɛɨɪɧɢɤ ɇɚɪɨɞɧɨɝ ɦɭɡɟʁɚ ɭ ɇɢɲɭ, 10, ɇɢɲ, pp. 241-266. Gray, Camilla (1986): The Russian Experiment in Art 1863-1922, London, NewYork. Group of Authors (2009): ɉɚʁɚ ȳɨɜɚɧɨɜɢʄ (1859-1957), Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ. Group of Authors (2010): Ƚɨɞɢɲʃɚɤ CXVI ɋɪɩɫɤɟ ɚɤɚɞɟɦɢʁɟ ɧɚɭɤɚ ɢ ɭɦɟɬɧɨɫɬɢ ɡɚ 2009, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ. ȳɨɜɚɧɨɜɢʄ, Ɇɢɨɞɪɚɝ (1990), Ɉɩɥɟɧɚɰ. ɏɪɚɦ ɫɜɟɬɨɝ ȭɨɪɻɚ ɢ ɦɚɭɡɨɥɟʁ Ʉɚɪɚɻɨɪɻɟɜɢʄɚ, Ɍɨɩɨɥɚ. —. (1996): Ⱦɨɫɟʂɚɜɚʃɟ ɪɭɫɤɢɯ ɢɡɛɟɝɥɢɰɚ ɭ Ʉɪɚʂɟɜɢɧɭ ɋɏɋ 19191924, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ. ȳɨɜɚɧɨɜɢʄ, Mɢɪɨɫɥɚɜ (2007): ɂɡɛɟɝɥɢɰɟ ɭ ɋɪɛɢʁɢ: ɩɪɢɜɚɬɧɨɫɬ ɭ ɫɟɧɰɢ ɬɪɚɭɦɟ in: Group of authors, ɉɪɢɜɚɬɧɢ ɠɢɜɨɬ ɤɨɞ ɋɪɛɚ ɭ ɞɜɚɞɟɫɟɬɨɦ ɜɟɤɭ, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, pp. 839-871. Ʉɚɞɢʁɟɜɢʄ, Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɚɪ (1994): ɂɡɥɨɠɛɟ ɪɭɫɤɢɯ ɚɪɯɢɬɟɤɚɬɚ ɭ Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞɭ ɢɡɦɟɻɭ ɞɜɚ ɫɜɟɬɫɤɚ ɪɚɬɚ, in: Ɋɭɫɤɚ ɟɦɢɝɪɚɰɢʁɚ ɭ ɫɪɩɫɤɨʁ ɤɭɥɬɭɪɢ ɏɏ ɜɟɤɚ, 1 vols. Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, pp. 293-300. Ʌɚɤɢʄɟɜɢʄ-ɉɚɜɢʄɟɜɢʄ, ȼɟɫɧɚ (1994): ɂɥɭɫɬɪɨɜɚɧɚ ɲɬɚɦɩɚ ɡɚ ɞɟɰɭ ɤɨɞ ɋɪɛɚ, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ. Ʌɨɛɚɱɟɜ, ȭɨɪɻɟ (1997): Ʉɚɞ ɫɟ ȼɨɥɝɚ ɭɥɢɜɚɥɚ ɭ ɋɚɜɭ. Ɇɨʁ ɠɢɜɨɬɧɢ ɪɨɦɚɧ, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ. Ɇɚɤɭʂɟɜɢʄ, ɇɟɧɚɞ (2007), ɐɪɤɜɟɧɚ ɭɦɟɬɧɨɫɬ ɭ Ʉɪɚʂɟɜɢɧɢ ɋɪɛɢʁɢ (1882-1914), Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ. Maliü, Goran (2002): Ruski fotografi u Jugoslaviji, in: Refoto, 14, Beograd, pp. 56-57. Ɇɟɠɢɧɫɤɢ, ȳɟɥɟɧɚ (1994): Ⱦɟɥɚ ɪɭɫɤɢɯ ɭɦɟɬɧɢɤɚ ɭ ɛɟɨɝɪɚɞɫɤɢɦ ɩɪɢɜɚɬɧɢɦ ɡɛɢɪɤɚɦɚ, in: Ɋɭɫɤɚ ɟɦɢɝɪɚɰɢʁɚ ɭ ɫɪɩɫɤɨʁ ɤɭɥɬɭɪɢ ɏɏ ɜɟɤɚ, 2 vols. Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, pp. 84-91. —. (1994): ȳɟɥɟɧɚ Ⱥɧɞɪɟʁɟɜɧɚ Ʉɢɫɟʂɨɜ Ȼɢɥɢɦɨɜɢɱ, in: Ɋɭɫɢ ɛɟɡ Ɋɭɫɢʁɟ. ɋɪɩɫɤɢ Ɋɭɫɢ, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, ɇɨɜɢ ɋɚɞ, pp. 141-148. —. (1998): ɋɥɢɤɚɪɫɬɜɨ ɰɪɤɜɟ ɋɜɟɬɨɝ Ʉɧɟɡɚ Ʌɚɡɚɪɚ ɭ ɉɪɢɛɨʁɭ ɧɚ Ʌɢɦɭ, in: Ɇɢɥɟɲɟɜɫɤɢ ɡɚɩɢɫɢ, 3, ɉɪɢʁɟɩɨʂɟ, pp.135-149. Ɇɟɠɢɧɫɤɢ, ȿɥɟɧɚ (1999): Ʉɭɱɢɧɫɤɢɣ ɋɟɪɝɟɣ ɂɜɚɧɨɜɢɱ, in: Ʌɟɣɤɢɧɞ, Ɉɥɟɝ Ʌ; Ɇɚɯɪɨɜ Ʉɢɪɢɥɥ ȼ; ɋɟɜɟɪɸɯɢɧ, Ⱦɦɢɬɪɢɣ ə: ɏɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ 1917–1939. Ȼɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɫɥɨɜɚɪɶ, ɋɚɧɤɬ-ɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝ, pp. 358-359.

122

Russian émigré Artists in Serbia (1920-1950)

—. (1999): ɉɪɭɞɤɨɜ ȿɜɝɟɧɢɣ ɇɢɤɨɥɚɟɜɢɱ, in: Ʌɟɣɤɢɧɞ, Ɉɥɟɝ Ʌ; Ɇɚɯɪɨɜ, Ʉɢɪɢɥɥ ȼ; ɋɟɜɟɪɸɯɢɧ, Ⱦɦɢɬɪɢɣ ə: ɏɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ 1917–1939. Ȼɢɛɥɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɫɥɨɜɚɪɶ, ɋɚɧɤɬɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝ, p. 474. Ɇɟɠɢɧɫɤɢ Ɇɢɥɨɜɚɧɨɜɢʄ, ȳɟɥɟɧɚ (2004): Ȼɢɰɟɧɤɨ Ⱥɧɞɪɟʁ ȼɚɫɢʂɟɜɢɱ, in: ɋɪɩɫɤɢ ɛɢɨɝɪɚɮɫɤɢ ɪɟɱɧɢɤ, vol. 1, ɇɨɜɢ ɋɚɞ, pp. 556-557. —. (2004): Ⱦɟɥɚ ɫɥɢɤɚɪɚ ɤɪɭɝɚ “ɋɜɟɬ ɭɦɟɬɧɨɫɬɢ” ɭ ɛɟɨɝɪɚɞɫɤɨɦ ɇɚɪɨɞɧɨɦ ɦɭɡɟʁɭ, in: Ɂɛɨɪɧɢɤ ɇɚɪɨɞɧɨɝ ɦɭɡɟʁɚ, ɢɫɬɨɪɢʁɚ ɭɦɟɬɧɨɫɬɢ, XVII/2, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, ɪɪ. 377-403. —. (2007): Ⱦɟɥɚɬɧɨɫɬ ɪɭɫɤɢɯ ɟɦɢɝɪɚɧɚɬɚ ɭ ɨɛɥɚɫɬɢ ɰɪɤɜɟɧɟ ɥɢɤɨɜɧɟ ɭɦɟɬɧɨɫɬɢ ɭ ȳɭɝɨɫɥɚɜɢʁɢ, in: Ɋɭɫɤɚ ɞɢʁɚɫɩɨɪɚ ɢ ɫɪɩɫɤɨ–ɪɭɫɤɟ ɤɭɥɬɭɪɟɧ ɜɟɡɟ, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, pp. 153-171. —. (2011): ɉɨɜɨɞɨɦ ʁɭɛɢɥɟʁɚ ɋȺɇɍ 1841-2011. Ⱦɪɭɲɬɜɨ ɫɪɩɫɤɟ ɫɥɨɜɟɫɧɨɫɬɢ, ɋɪɩɫɤɨ ɭɱɟɧɨ ɞɪɭɲɬɜɨ, ɋɪɩɫɤɚ ɤɪɚʂɟɜɫɤɚ ɚɤɚɞɟɦɢʁɚ, ɋɪɩɫɤɚ ɚɤɚɞɟɦɢʁɚ ɧɚɭɤɚ, ɋɪɩɫɤɚ ɚɤɚɞɟɦɢʁɚ ɧɚɭɤɚ ɢ ɭɦɟɬɧɨɫɬɢ ɢ ɥɢɤɨɜɧɚ ɭɦɟɬɧɨɫɬ. ɇɚɫɬɚʁɚʃɟ ɍɦɟɬɧɢɱɤɟ ɡɛɢɪɤɟ ɋȺɇɍ, in: Ⱥɤɚɞɟɦɢɰɢ – ɥɢɤɨɜɧɢ ɭɦɟɬɧɢɰɢ ɢɡ ɍɦɟɬɧɢɱɤɟ ɡɛɢɪɤɟ ɋɪɩɫɤɟ ɚɤɚɞɟɦɢʁɟ ɧɚɭɤɚ ɢ ɭɦɟɬɧɨɫɬɢ, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, ɪɪ. 19-47. Ɇɢɥɚɧɨɜɢʄ, Ɉɥɝɚ (1994): Ɋɚɡɜɨʁ ɫɰɟɧɨɝɪɚɮɢʁɟ ɢ ɤɨɫɬɢɦɨɝɪɚɮɢʁɟ ɭ ɇɚɪɨɞɧɨɦ ɩɨɡɨɪɢɲɬɭ ɭ Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞɭ in: 125 ɝɨɞɢɧɚ ɇɚɪɨɞɧɨɝ ɩɨɡɨɪɢɲɬɚ ɭ Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞɭ, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, pp. 246-369. Milanoviü, Olga; Celio Cega, Antun; Slivnik, Franþiška (1987): Vladimir Žedrinski, scenograf i kostimograf, Beograd. Ɇɢɥɨɜɚɧɨɜɢʄ, Ɇɢɥɚɧ (1994): Ⱥɪɯɢɬɟɤɬɚ Ƚɪɢɝɨɪɢʁɟ ɂ. ɋɚɦɨʁɥɨɜ, Ɋɭɫɤɚ ɟɦɢɝɪɚɰɢʁɚ ɭ ɫɪɩɫɤɨʁ ɤɭɥɬɭɪɢ ɏɏ ɜɟɤɚ, 1 vols. Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, 308314. Ɇɨɲɢɧ, ȼɥɚɞɢɦɢɪ (2008): ɉɨɞ ɬɟɪɟɬɨɦ. Ⱥɭɬɨɛɢɨɝɪɚɮɢʁɚ, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ. Ɇɨɫɭɫɨɜɚ, ɇɚɞɟɠɞɚ (2003): Ⱦɟɥɨ Ȼɪɚɢɥɨɜɫɤɢɯ ɢ ɫɪɩɫɤɚ ɦɟɻɭɪɚɬɧɚ ɫɰɟɧɚ ɭ ɨɝɥɟɞɚɥɭ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɟ, in: Ɇɭɡɢɤɨɥɨɝɢʁɚ, 3, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ 2003, pp. 81-113. ɇɟɤɥɸɞɨɜɚ, Ɇɢɥɢɰɚ Ƚ. (1991): Ɍɪɚɞɢɰɢɢ ɢ ɧɨɜɚɬɨɪɫɬɜɨ ɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɦ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɟ ɤɨɧɰɚ ɏIɏ – ɧɚɱɚɥɚ ɏɏ ɜɟɤɚ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. ɉɟɬɪɨɜ, Ɇɢɯɚɢɥɨ (1928): ɂɡɥɨɠɛɚ ɪɭɫɤɢɯ ɭɦɟɬɧɢɤɚ ɭ Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞɭ, Ʌɟɬɨɩɢɫ Ɇɚɬɢɰɟ ɫɪɩɫɤɟ, 102, ɇɨɜɢ ɋɚɞ, ɪɪ. 441-443. (1930): ȼɟɥɢɤɚ ɢɡɥɨɠɛɚ ɪɭɫɤɟ ɭɦɟɬɧɨɫɬɢ, ɤɚɬɚɥɨɝ ɢɡɥɨɠɛɟ, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ. ɉɨɞɫɬɚɧɢɰɤɚɹ, Ɍɚɬɶɹɧɚ Ⱥ. (2003): ɋɬɟɩɚɧ Ʉɨɥɟɫɧɢɤɨɜ, 1879-1955, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. ɉɨɥɨɜɢɧɚ, ɉɟɪɚ (1994): Ɋɭɫɤɢ ɟɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɢ ɦɨʁɢ ɝɢɦɧɚɡɢʁɫɤɢ ɩɪɨɮɟɫɨɪɢ, in: Ɋɭɫɤɚ ɟɦɢɝɪɚɰɢʁɚ ɭ ɫɪɩɫɤɨʁ ɤɭɥɬɭɪɢ ɏɏ ɜɟɤɚ, vol. 1, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, pp. 241-245.

Jelena Mežinski Milovanoviü

123

ɉɨɩɨɜɢʄ, Ȼɨʁɚɧɚ (2000): Ɇɨɞɚ ɭ Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞɭ 1918-1941, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ. Popoviü, Bojana (2011): Primenjena umetnost i Beograd 1918-1941, Beograd. ɉɪɨɫɟɧ, Ɇɢɥɚɧ (2006): Ⱥɪɯɢɬɟɤɬɚ Ƚɪɢɝɨɪɢʁɟ ɋɚɦɨʁɥɨɜ, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ. ɉɪɨɬɢʄ, Ɇɢɨɞɪɚɝ Ȼ. (1970), ɋɪɩɫɤɨ ɫɥɢɤɚɪɫɬɜɨ ɏɏ ɜɟɤɚ, vol. 2. Puškadija-Ribkin, Tatjana (2006): Emigranti iz Rusije u kulturnom i znanstvenom životu Zagreba, Zagreb. Ɋɚʁɱɟɜɢʄ, ɍɝʂɟɲɚ (1994): ɋɢɧɨɞɫɤɚ ɢɤɨɧɨɩɢɫɧɚ ɲɤɨɥɚ ɭ ɦɚɧɚɫɬɢɪɭ Ɋɚɤɨɜɢɰɚ ɤɨɞ Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞɚ, in: Ɋɭɫɤɚ ɟɦɢɝɪɚɰɢʁɚ ɭ ɫɪɩɫɤɨʁ ɤɭɥɬɭɪɢ ɏɏ ɜɟɤɚ, vol. 2, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, pp. 78-82. Ɋɭɫɚɤɨɜɚ, Ⱥɥɥɚ Ⱥ. (1995): ɋɢɦɜɨɥɢɡɦ ɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɠɢɜɨɩɢɫɢ: ɩɪɨɬɨɫɢɦɜɨɥɢɡɦ, Ɇɢɯɚɢɥ ȼɪɭɛɟɥɶ, “Ɇɢɪ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ”, ȼɢɤɬɨɪ ȻɨɪɢɫɨɜɆɭɫɚɬɨɜ, “Ƚɨɥɭɛɚɹ ɪɨɡɚ”, Ʉɭɡɶɦɚ ɉɟɬɪɨɜ-ȼɨɞɤɢɧ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ. ɒɤɚɥɚɦɟɪɚ, ɀɟʂɤɨ (1983): Ⱥɪɯɢɬɟɤɬɚ ɇɢɤɨɥɚ Ʉɪɚɫɧɨɜ (Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ 1864 – Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ 1939), in: ɋɜɟɫɤɟ Ⱦɪɭɲɬɜɚ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɱɚɪɚ ɭɦɟɬɧɨɫɬɢ, 14, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, pp. 109-129. ɋɭɛɨɬɢʄ, ɂɪɢɧɚ (1994): Ɋɭɫɤɢ ɫɥɢɤɚɪɢ ɭ ɛɟɨɝɪɚɞɫɤɨɦ ɇɚɪɨɞɧɨɦ ɦɭɡɟʁɭ, in: Ɋɭɫɤɚ ɟɦɢɝɪɚɰɢʁɚ ɭ ɫɪɩɫɤɨʁ ɤɭɥɬɭɪɢ ɏɏ ɜɟɤɚ, 2 vols, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, pp. 64-69. Ɍɨɲɟɜɚ, ɋɧɟɠɚɧɚ (1994): Ʉɚɩɢɬɚɥɧɚ ɞɟɥɚ ɪɭɫɤɢɯ ɚɪɯɢɬɟɤɚɬɚ ɭ Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞɭ, in: Ɋɭɫɤɚ ɟɦɢɝɪɚɰɢʁɚ ɭ ɫɪɩɫɤɨʁ ɤɭɥɬɭɪɢ ɏɏ ɜɟɤɚ, 1 vols. Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, pp. 303-307. ȼɭʁɨɜɢʄ, Ȼɪɚɧɤɨ (1978): ɋɬʁɟɩɚɧ Ɏʁɨɞɨɪɨɜɢɱ Ʉɨɥɟɫɧɢɤɨɜ (1879-1955), in: ɋɜɟɫɤɟ Ⱦɪɭɲɬɜɚ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɱɚɪɚ ɭɦɟɬɧɨɫɬɢ, 5-6, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, pp. 49-66. ɀɢɜɤɨɜɢʄ, ɋɬɚɧɢɫɥɚɜ (1987): ɍɦɟɬɧɢɱɤɚ ɲɤɨɥɚ ɭ Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞɭ 19191939, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ.

Notes 1

Ɇɨɲɢɧ, ȼɥɚɞɢɦɢɪ (2008); Group of Authors (2010): 36, 49, 57. ȳɨɜɚɧɨɜɢʄ, Mɢɪɨɫɥɚɜ (1996); ȳɨɜɚɧɨɜɢʄ, Mɢɪɨɫɥɚɜ (2007): 841, 843, 846, 847, 864, 865. 3 ɉɨɩɨɜɢʄ, Ȼɨʁɚɧɚ (2000): 86; ȳɨɜɚɧɨɜɢʄ, Mɢɪɨɫɥɚɜ (2007): 856, 857. 4 Gray, Camilla (1986): 12, 16-18, 20, 21, 23, 28, 35, 39, 43, 44, 47, 50, 56, 100, 114, 247. 5 Ⱦɢɦɢɬɪɢʁɟɜɢʄ, Ʉɨɫɬɚ (2003). 6 ɑɭɩɢʄ, ɋɢɦɨɧɚ (2011): 43, 47, 58. 7 ȳɨɜɚɧɨɜɢʄ, Mɢɪɨɫɥɚɜ (2007): 856, 858. 8 ɉɟɬɪɨɜ, Ɇɢɯɚɢɥɨ (1928): 441-443; (1930): ȼɟɥɢɤɚ ɢɡɥɨɠɛɚ ɪɭɫɤɟ ɭɦɟɬɧɨɫɬɢ, ɤɚɬɚɥɨɝ ɢɡɥɨɠɛɟ, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, 32. 9 ɀɢɜɤɨɜɢʄ, ɋɬɚɧɢɫɥɚɜ (1987). 10 Ⱦɢɦɢʄ, ȴɭɛɨɞɪɚɝ (1994): 49-50. 2

124

11

Russian émigré Artists in Serbia (1920-1950)

ɉɨɥɨɜɢɧɚ, ɉɟɪɚ (1994): 241-245. Ɇɢɥɚɧɨɜɢʄ, Ɉɥɝɚ (1994): 338. 13 ɒɤɚɥɚɦɟɪɚ, ɀɟʂɤɨ (1983): 109-129; Ɍɨɲɟɜɚ, ɋɧɟɠɚɧɚ (1994): 303-307; Ʉɚɞɢʁɟɜɢʄ, Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɚɪ (1994): 293-300. 14 ȼɭʁɨɜɢʄ, Ȼɪɚɧɤɨ (1978): 49-66; ɉɨɞɫɬɚɧɢɰɤɚɹ, Ɍɚɬɶɹɧɚ Ⱥ. (2003). 15 Ɇɟɠɢɧɫɤɢ, ȳɟɥɟɧɚ (1994): Ⱦɟɥɚ ɪɭɫɤɢɯ ɭɦɟɬɧɢɤɚ ɭ ɛɟɨɝɪɚɞɫɤɢɦ ɩɪɢɜɚɬɧɢɦ ɡɛɢɪɤɚɦɚ, in: Ɋɭɫɤɚ ɟɦɢɝɪɚɰɢʁɚ ɭ ɫɪɩɫɤɨʁ ɤɭɥɬɭɪɢ ɏɏ ɜɟɤɚ, 2, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, pp. 86, 87. 16 Ɇɟɠɢɧɫɤɢ, ȳɟɥɟɧɚ (1994): ȳɟɥɟɧɚ Ⱥɧɞɪɟʁɟɜɧɚ Ʉɢɫɟʂɨɜ Ȼɢɥɢɦɨɜɢɱ, in: Ɋɭɫɢ ɛɟɡ Ɋɭɫɢʁɟ. ɋɪɩɫɤɢ Ɋɭɫɢ, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, ɇɨɜɢ ɋɚɞ, pp. 141-148. 17 Bénénzit, Emmanuel (1976): 405; ɋɭɛɨɬɢʄ, ɂɪɢɧɚ (1994): 65. 18 Puškadija-Ribkin, Tatjana (2006): 156-157. 19 Maliü, Goran (2002): 56, 57. 20 Ɇɟɠɢɧɫɤɢ-Ɇɢɥɨɜɚɧɨɜɢʄ, ȳɟɥɟɧɚ (2004): Ⱦɟɥɚ ɫɥɢɤɚɪɚ ɤɪɭɝɚ “ɋɜɟɬ ɭɦɟɬɧɨɫɬɢ” ɭ ɛɟɨɝɪɚɞɫɤɨɦ ɇɚɪɨɞɧɨɦ ɦɭɡɟʁɭ, in: Ɂɛɨɪɧɢɤ ɇɚɪɨɞɧɨɝ ɦɭɡɟʁɚ, ɢɫɬɨɪɢʁɚ ɭɦɟɬɧɨɫɬɢ, XVII/2, Ȼɟɨɝɪɚɞ, 386. 21 Ⱦɚɛɢʄ, ȴɭɛɢɰɚ (1996): 17-19. 22 Group of Authors (2009): 234. 23 Ɇɟɠɢɧɫɤɢ Ɇɢɥɨɜɚɧɨɜɢʄ, ȳɟɥɟɧɚ (2011): 35-37. 24 Ɇɢɥɨɜɚɧɨɜɢʄ, Ɇɢɥɚɧ (1994): 308-314; ɉɪɨɫɟɧ, Ɇɢɥɚɧ (2006). 25 Ɇɟɠɢɧɫɤɢ, ȿɥɟɧɚ (1999): 474. 26 Ʌɚɤɢʄɟɜɢʄ-ɉɚɜɢʄɟɜɢʄ, ȼɟɫɧɚ (1994). 27 ɇɟɤɥɸɞɨɜɚ, Ɇɢɥɢɰɚ Ƚ. (1991): 116; Ɋɭɫɚɤɨɜɚ, Ⱥɥɥɚ Ⱥ. (1995): 25, 28, 45, 50, 51, 54, 55, 58-60, 133. 28 Ȼɨɝɞɚɧɨɜɢʄ, ɀɢɤɚ (1994): 70-77; Ʌɨɛɚɱɟɜ, ȭɨɪɻɟ (1997). 29 Ȼɨɭɥɬ, Ⱦɠɨɧ (1991): 22, 25, 26, 27. 30 Ɇɢɥɚɧɨɜɢʄ, Ɉɥɝɚ (1994): 300, 305, 269-350. 31 Milanoviü, Olga; Celio Cega, Antun; Slivnik, Franþiška (1987). 32 Ɇɟɠɢɧɫɤɢ, ȿɥɟɧɚ (1999): 358-359. 33 Ɇɨɫɭɫɨɜɚ, ɇɚɞɟɠɞɚ (2003):106–107. 34 Ⱦɪɱɚ, ɇɚɬɚɲɚ (2001): 241, 248, 257-266. 35 ȳɨɜɚɧɨɜɢʄ, Ɇɢɨɞɪɚɝ (1990): 39, 41, 51, 70, 83-85, 87-89, 92, 94-96, 98, 100, 103, 104, 107, 110, 120, 124, 129, 130, 135, 137, 142, 144, 147, 150-152, 178, 189, 196, 197, 202, 206, 207, 210, 211, 217, 227-229, 230. 36 Ɇɚɤɭʂɟɜɢʄ, ɇɟɧɚɞ (2007): 55-57, 60. 37 Ɋɚʁɱɟɜɢʄ, ɍɝʂɟɲɚ (1994): 78-82. 38 Ɇɟɠɢɧɫɤɢ Ɇɢɥɨɜɚɧɨɜɢʄ, ȳɟɥɟɧɚ (2004): Ȼɢɰɟɧɤɨ Ⱥɧɞɪɟʁ ȼɚɫɢʂɟɜɢɱ, in: ɋɪɩɫɤɢ ɛɢɨɝɪɚɮɫɤɢ ɪɟɱɧɢɤ, vol. 1, ɇɨɜɢ ɋɚɞ, 556-557. 39 Ɇɟɠɢɧɫɤɢ Ɇɢɥɨɜɚɧɨɜɢʄ, ȳɟɥɟɧɚ (2007): 153-171. 40 Popoviü, Bojana (2011): 43. 41 Ɇɟɠɢɧɫɤɢ, ȳɟɥɟɧɚ (1998): 135-149. 42 Ȼɥɭɦɟɧɚɭ, ɂɝɨɪ (1997): 32-39. 43 ɉɪɨɬɢʄ, Ɇɢɨɞɪɚɝ Ȼ. (1970): 450-451, 525-533. 12

IDENTITY-SHOCK: THE APPEARANCE OF MULTIPLE IDENTITIES IN THE ART OF EL KAZOVSZKIJ GABRIELLA UHL

This presentation concerns the work of El Kazovszkij, a visual artist of Russian origin who was educated and lived in Hungary. He/she1 has already given accounts of the problem of his/her identity and in order to determine his/her situation as it is communicated in numerous interviews, these publications will be examined as autobiographical texts. This paper will primarily focus on the cultural milieu of his/her life, because his/her mixed sexual identity must have derived from his/her emigration (most precisely from his/her ‘linguistic turn’). First of all, one must explain why El Kazovszkij is discussed in a book dedicated to emigrant Russian culture, and how his/her emigrant status can be interpreted. We need to remember that changing countries was not a personal choice for El Kazovszkij, but the result of her family history, as well as history in the broader sense, the historical situation. Elena Kazovskaya was born in Leningrad in 1948, into a family of intellectuals. Her father, a physicist, met his fate at the hands of the Russian intelligentsia, and was sentenced to a term in a Siberian labour camp in 1949; he was saved from certain death and sent to do research in China, only thanks to the influence of Soviet-Russian nuclear physicist Andrei Dmitrievich Sakharov (1921–1989), who was later, in 1975, a Nobel peace prize laureate. Receiving no information about him for years, his wife, a student of art history and the mother of a young child, chose what seemed a convenient form of emigration: she married a man who was studying architecture in Leningrad (now St. Petersburg), the citizen of a socialist ally country, Hungary. While she started to enjoy a greater, if not spectacularly substantial, degree of freedom, the reunification of the family was more arduous: ten years passed before her daughter could join her in Hungary. In the interim, Elena was looked after by her grandparents, who had been deported from Leningrad to Nizhny Tagil in the Urals – the lot

126

The Appearance of Multiple Identities in the Art of El Kazovszkij

Stalin’s Soviet Union allotted to a woman who had served as a doctor during the Second World War and her engineer husband. Air pollution in this industrial city meant the average age was little above 40; after 4 pm, the streets were only populated by drunks; and the schools were a gathering-place for children from families whose lives went awry. Elena’s best friend at school was a girl of German origin, who had double linguistic ties, while adhering to German customs in the family. When she later emigrated to Germany, her Russian upbringing prevented her from settling perfectly in the new old country. Even if indirectly, El Kazovszkij became familiar with the issues of identity change early on. It must be stated, however, that Elena enjoyed a harmonious family life, the tempestuous political environment aside. The years she spent with her grandparents opened her to the rich Russian cultural heritage (particularly literature and music), which would define her cast of mind, becoming the foundation of the linguistic-cultural identity that always remained a part of his/her personality and work. Boasting a vast and diverse collection of Russian and classic European literature and philosophy, her grandparents’ library was as conducive to a happy childhood as her grandfather’s musical talent and the time they spent playing chamber music. The home library introduced her to what was to be another cornerstone of her “intellectual identity,” Greek mythology. She claimed her favourite volume at the time was a Russian translation of Károly Kerényi’s Germanlanguage Greek Mythology.2 If a mythological perspective is adopted on time as well as on relations, it will not seem accidental that El Kazovszkij apparently learnt about ancient mythology from an emigrant, the Hungarian historian of religion and classical scholar Károly Kerényi (18971973),3 a close friend and colleague of C.G. Jung, who had moved to Switzerland in 1946. Kerényi’s position became untenable in his homeland when philosopher György Lukács, another luminary of international renown, called him a supporter of fascism. It goes to show how complicated the conditions of the politically closed yet intellectually open-minded academia were in the Soviet Union and the socialist countries, to the extent that El Kazovszkij could read the book of an author who remained banned in Hungary for a long time.4 As Khrushchev was consolidating his power, El Kazovszkij’s father could return to Leningrad, and she could follow her mother to Hungary. It was not the geographic but the linguistic change that had the greatest influence on El Kazovszkij’s life and later work. The culture she had absorbed was European, so geographically she felt at home. It was muteness or speech-

Gabriella Uhl

127

lessness that constituted a trauma, the experience of not having a language to speak. With no way to access the world all of a sudden, the teenager was compelled to find new methods of communicating and pushed to exploring new means of expression. Thanks to the interest of the Russian school of formalism, and particularly to the interpretation of Bakhtin,5 the compulsion to travel and to eat, the hyperbolical sensual apprehension of the world that became a standard topos of European literature after Rabelais,6 was to define El Kazovszkij’s personality and work. A verbal person who had revelled in the flexibility, colourfulness and richness of language (Russian), she was now robbed of the power of speech, exposed to a language that was not pliable, but hard and impenetrable. Her emigration was not spatial, but intellectual, and temporal. If her earlier interest in literature made her inhabit the time of the 19th-century classic novel, the change of the linguistic environment definitely made her withdraw into an extended mythological time. The dynamic process of creating and destroying worlds, the salient feature of Kazovszkij’s visual art, particularly the performances, can be traced back to this traumatic shift. The very choice of a fragile because irreproducible form, the structure of a genre whose documentation is at best contingent, is indicative of the ceaseless struggle between the certain and the uncertain in his/her art. Before introducing and analysing his/her art and the poetry that only came to light posthumously, a few words on the concept of the “author” and the “subject” are in order. Both the New Criticism and Russian formalism were critical of the practice of explaining a literary work by referring to the author’s biographical data, although not for ideological reasons. While both schools acknowledge the value of looking at the function of personality in literature, they believe such an enquiry should concern the literary transformation of biographical facts. The best-known discussions of the author’s role in literature are Roland Barthes’ The Death of the Author and Michel Foucault’s What is an Author? What they question is not the significance of the author for the operation of the literary work, but the idea of making this role absolute, total.7 The French new feminism of the 1960s and 1970s proposed a new narratology that is based precisely on the textualization of the subject. The problems of authorial subjectivity gain a peculiar representation in these essays because due to its involvement in emancipation, feminist criticism had to acknowledge both its need for a strong,

128

The Appearance of Multiple Identities in the Art of El Kazovszkij

central subject – dictated by its ideological stakes, its advocacy –, and the necessity of a postmodern, decentralised subject.8 The author and her biography became a central concern again, if with different emphases, with the work of Helene Cixous in the 1990s and 2000s.9 Cixous thinks all writing is by necessity autobiographical, and lifeas-fiction is nothing but an endless text. The desire to reveal direct biographical elements, i.e. the unconscious dimension, is a key feature of her work. She thinks all writing is self-writing, which indirectly seeks revelation. Readers cannot help but read auto-fictions as autobiographies, because authors are driven by a ceaseless desire to recreate the past in an attempt to understand the present. The trauma usually appears in childhood memories, the problem becomes manifest in a loss of identity, the clinging to the continuity that is provided by cultural roots. The identity crisis that is inherited from an eventful childhood is both a stimulus and an obstacle to remembering, making the classic memoir (interview) impossible, in a sense. It opens the way to lyrical works, understood in any case as role play, or, as in the case of El Kazovszkij, towards performance, which stands on the border between visual and verbal expression. The “language” left behind and the new life situation provide a ceaseless motivation for works of a subjective focus (whether literary or visual), a constant search for an answer to the question “Who am I?”10 Discussions of El Kazovszkij’s work rely expressly on Cixous’s findings, because this is an oeuvre which forms an inseparable whole with the biography. The source for biographical detail is not an autobiography, but a series of interviews he/she gave over time (quite unusually in the Hungarian scene), as well as his/her poems in Russian,11 which complement these and confirm or emphasize emotional influences. Let us now return to the trauma of muteness/speechlessness in Kazovszkij’s life. It was a transitory period in which she eventually learnt Hungarian and became bilingual in the sense of having two different languages: Hungarian for everyday life and Russian for literature, with the distance constantly growing between the two. She could use both, but she could neither travel nor translate between the two languages. This was also the time for another trauma of identity, the loss of the old selfhood and the search for a new one. He/she was to discover and come to terms with sexual difference, becoming in face the first Hungarian artist and participant of the public discourse of the seventies and eighties to

Gabriella Uhl

129

speak openly about his/her sexuality and to acknowledge gay-queer culture. This provided him/her with opportunities to get to know other subcultures, which he/she became conversant with – but between which, as between the languages, he/she could not mediate. These cultural cross-dressings pushed the teenage Kazovszkij, who had envisioned a literary career but who had lost the security of language, towards the means of expression that the visual arts had to offer. His/her art is distinguished by bold themes and a tension that exists between the traditional structure of the picture and the myth-creating act with which he/she shaped and interpreted her life by creating his/her own myth about his/her identity and gender using invented stories. As he/she often pointed out in his/her interviews, he/she found her artistic forebears not in Russian culture, but in the works of the Italian painter Antonello di Messina and the French artist Georges de La Tour. His/her pictures adhere to the classic balance of the picture field (foreground, middle-ground, background). Marked by a generously vigorous brushwork, all her works have a strict structure. He/she is simply aware of the centuries of painterly tradition, which she puts to bravura use. Nowhere is the originality of her painting more conspicuous than in the still life, a genre he/she reinvented through extensive use. It is a genre that relies on meticulous observation, and warns of mortality. If Kazovszkij’s art is free from fastidiousness, it is rich in accurately designed symbols: his/her pictures are informed by a complex interplay of meanings, with symbols revived from the Greek myths engaging in a danse macabre with other emblems of European civilization, acquiring old-new senses. The twodimensional still life and the three-dimensional performance were the most influential constituents of Kazovszkij’s work which were new and original in the Hungarian scene and were in sync with the European trends (Viennese Actionism, Orlan, Tadeusz Kantor). Her performances (the Djan Panaoptics / Wax Works) were still lifes that became animated before turning solid again, giving a dynamic presentation of the time that is condensed in a still image. Accompanied by music, lavish scenery and texts that were always classical, these performances offered a chance to experience the making of a two-dimensional image, involving as it were all the knowledge that is necessary for the creation of a picture (such as, for example, the knowledge of how to organise the pictorial space or balance the colours). These works open up, divulge secrets, and are consequently very intimate, delving deep into the subject. They are intellectual

130

The Appearance of Multiple Identities in the Art of El Kazovszkij

autobiographies. They provide the scene for the disclosure of traumas, the struggle of identities. All this in a medium, whose form/structure holds up the very unsteadiness and frailty of human life, thanks to its fragility and transience: as a genre the performance is irreproducible, like all the energy that is produced in it and by it. The artist himself/herself made attempts at reproduction in the sense that the performances and the pictures are related through complex imagery, much of the iconography being repeated. To cite but one example, being bound by language is represented by an abundance of threads and ropes and bound figures; the countless torsos represent (among other things) linguistic incompleteness, while they also have their precedents in the history of art. Let me point to another type of picture in Kazovszkij’s œuvre whose interpretation hinges on what defined his/her art and his/her personality, the linguistic trauma. For a time he/she was keen on the structure of the cartoon strip, relishing its rich potential for narrative. These pictures lay bare his/her text-centred approach, showing the roundabout ways chosen by a verbal person when not having full access to language. Note that he/she often added inscriptions to his/her pictures, quotes or passing remarks – interestingly in Hungarian. There is a strong cohesion between the images and the texts, while the latter also create an ironic distance when they almost “overexplain” the situations: In one period of his/her art life he/she used a swan as a main theme on his/her poems and pictures, for example, thus referring to the ballet Swan Lake by Petr Il’ich Tchaikovsky and here especially the new interpretation by Matthew Bourne who replaced the female corps de ballet with exclusively male dancers. El Kazovszkij saw Bourne’s choreography, which debuted in 1995, twelve times (or even more) in London and all over Europe.12 He/she then wrote a series of poems in 1999/2000 titled New Swan Lake which directly refer to the Bourne performance. It is most interesting to observe how El Kazovszkij was playing with the masculine and feminine endings and pronouns throughout the poems, and it is especially this grammatical game that refers to the homosexuality and gender topic, thus celebrating Bourne’s choreography as the first homosexual interpretation of Swan Lake.13 Moreover, he/she then began to also use the swan image in his/her pictures – however, poems and images did not only reinforce each other that way, but El Kazovszkij even relied upon language in her images. In one work, Does the Soul Pass away from 1992 (GyĘr, Municipal Museum of Art)14 he/she already expresses the topic of the picture – a sort of “death and resurrection” – in a very clear and understandable way. But he/she additionally emphasised (and thus somewhat “overexplained”) the content

Gabriella Uhl

131

of the image by adding the written question (and the painting’s title) “Does the soul pass away?” As seen here, when discussing El Kazovszkij’s œuvre, one must make mention of poetry which he/she wrote throughout his/her life, but the existence of which she revealed only to his/her closest friends; even fewer people had a chance to actually read it. The poems were only published posthumously, first in the Russian original, and then in Hungarian. This was Russian poetry, not only on account of its language, but also because of the tradition it originated in and which it is a part of. The language of course determines the rhythm of the poems, while formally they draw solely on the requirements and possibilities of classic Russian literature, making a rich and nuanced use of idiom and structure. The classic schooling, however, results in a conservative turn, because the means of expression are confined to the Russian of the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries. We could consider this a form of intellectual emigration, a conscious identification with an age, a formal game – but Kazovszkij’s playful, but always polished, always precise Russian is stuck in the early 20th century. It is accurate, in the terms of the context it imitates, but it is conservative from a 21st century perspective. We must distinguish the topics – always provocative, original, bold, like the questions posed by the performances – from the form, which is always the most traditional. And this is not a postmodern game, a persiflage, but a device used in all seriousness. While his/her visual art broke old moulds, the hand that wrote his/her poems was guided by tradition, because this was the language he/she possessed. This was what he/she admired, what he/she found flexible enough to use, what he/she chose to pass on. Ʉɧɢɠɤɚ Ⱦɠɚɧɚ Aɧaɝɪɚɦɦɵ In memoriam Can Togay 1. Ⱦɨɥɢɧɚ ɡɚɥɢɬɚ ɜɨɞɨɣ ɀɢɜɨɣ ɜɨɞɨɣ ɜ ɩɪɭɞɚɯ ɢ ɪɟɤɚɯ — Ⱥɪɬɟɪɢɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɜɨɞɨɩɨɣ, ɇɚ ɞɧɟ — ɛɟɫɫɨɧɧɢɰɚ ɫ ɩɨɥɜɟɤɚ Ɍɨɝɞɚ ɦɵ ɠɢɥɢ ɫ ɧɟɣ ɜɫɸ ɧɨɱɶ,

132

The Appearance of Multiple Identities in the Art of El Kazovszkij Ɉɞɢɧ ɪɚɡ ɜ ɧɚɲɟ ɩɨɤɨɥɟɧɶɟ. Ƚɨɞɚ ɝɨɫɬɹɬ ɜ ɩɪɢɝɨɬɨɜɥɟɧɶɹɯ: Ⱥ ɜɞɪɭɝ ɩɨɜɬɨɪɢɲɶɫɹ ɬɨɱɶ ɜ ɬɨɱɶ. ɂɡɥɢɲɧɢ ɩɪɨɱɢɟ ɬɜɨɪɟɧɶɹ. 2. Ⱦɨɪɨɝɚ ɧɚ ɦɨɪɟ, ɧɚ ɸɝɨ-ɜɨɫɬɨɤ, ɀɟɦɱɭɠɢɧɚ ɩɥɨɬɢ ɡɚɫɬɪɹɥɚ ɜ ɤɨɪɚɧɟ Ⱥɪɵɤ ɜɨɫɤɪɟɫɢɬ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɡɧɨɹ ɞɨɪɨɝ, ɇɚɪɤɨɬɢɤɢ ɝɨɫɬɸ ɝɨɬɨɜɹɬ ɡɚɪɚɧɟɟ. Ɍɨɩɨɪɳɢɬɫɹ ɩɚɦɹɬɶ, ɧɟ ɥɟɡɟɬ ɜ ɨɬɤɚɡ. Ɉɬɞɚɬɶ? Ɍɨɥɶɤɨ ɡɚɦɟɪɬɜɨ, ɜ ɬɪɚɜɥɟ ɢ ɞɪɚɤɟ. Ƚɥɭɯɢɟ ɛɵɫɬɪɢɧɵ ɜ ɪɚɫɳɟɥɢɧɚɯ ɝɥɚɡ, Ⱥɨɪɬɚ ɛɟɫɱɢɧɫɬɜɭɟɬ, ɧɟɤɨɝɞɚ ɩɥɚɤɚɬɶ. ɂɫɤɨɧɧɵɣ ɩɭɫɬɵɪɶ ɨɩɚɥɺɧ ɧɚ ɩɨɤɚɡ. 3. Ⱦɥɢɧɧɚɹ ɥɚɜɢɧɚ, ɀɚɞɧɚɹ ɦɨɥɢɬɜɚ, Ⱥɪɤɚ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɛɢɬɜɵ, ɇɟɤɨɝɞɚ ɪɚɡɞɜɢɧɭɬɶ. Ɍɨɩɶ, ɫɬɪɭɢ ɞɜɟ ɤɚɪɢɯ, Ɉɩɨɥɡɟɧɶ ɜ ɛɨɥɨɬɟ, Ƚɭɥɤɨɣ ɬɶɦɨɣ ɨɛɦɨɬɚɧ Ⱥɥɥɚɞɢɧ ɢ Ⱦɚɪɢɣ. ɂɫɩɨɜɟɞɶ, ɢɤɨɬɚ. 4. Ⱦɨɪɨɝɨ ɥɢ ɩɥɚɱɟɧɨ? ɀɚɥɤɨ ɥɢ ɡɚ ɜɟɪɭ? Ⱥɥɚɹ ɏɢɦɟɪɚ, ɇɚɡɜɚɧɧɚɹ ɩɥɚɬɢɧɨɣ. Ɍɚɪɬɚɪ, ɝɞɟ ɩɚɪɢɥɚ, Ɉɛɨɠɝɥɚ, ɫɩɚɥɢɥɚ, Ƚɨɪɫɬɤɚ ɩɟɩɥɚ ɫɟɪɨɝɨ – Ⱥɬɬɢɤɚ ɏɢɦɟɪɨɜɚ, ɂɞɨɥɚɦ – ɦɨɝɢɥɚ.

Gabriella Uhl 5. Ⱦɚɥɺɤɢɣ ɢɫɬɨɱɧɢɤ ɜ ɞɚɥɺɤɢɯ ɝɨɪɚɯ, ɀɚɪɚ. ɂ ɩɪɨɯɥɚɞɚ ɩɪɢɦɨɪɶɹ ɜ ɩɨɞɨɥɟ. Ⱥɠɭɪɧɚɹ, ɫɬɪɨɣɧɚɹ Ⱥɡɢɹ ɜ ɩɪɚɯ ɇɚ ɜɨɥɧɚɯ ɪɚɫɫɵɩɚɥɚɫɶ ɝɨɪɫɬɨɱɤɨɣ ɫɨɥɢ. Ɍɟ ɬɺɩɥɵɟ ɫɬɪɚɧɵ, ɜ ɤɨɬɨɪɵɯ ɧɟ ɠɢɥ, Ɉɩɪɚɜɨɣ ɫɥɭɠɢɜɲɢɟ ɫɧɚɦ ɢ ɫɚɩɮɢɪɚɦ, Ƚɨɪɟɜɲɢɟ ɝɚɡɨɦ ɧɟ ɧɚɣɞɟɧɧɵɯ ɠɢɥ, Ⱥɪɢɣɰɚɦ ɝɚɪɟɦɵ ɫɭɥɢɜɲɚɹ ɥɢɪɚ. ɂɫɬɨɱɧɢɤ ɜ ɫɚɞɭ, ɫɚɦ Ⱥɥɥɚɯ ɡɚɥɨɠɢɥ. 6. Ⱦɜɚ ɞɧɹ ɹɧɜɚɪɫɤɢɯ – ɜɟɫɶ ɦɨɣ ɫɤɚɪɛ, ɀɟɥɚɧɢɹ – ɜ ɫɭɯɨɦ ɛɪɢɤɟɬɟ. Ⱥɩɪɟɥɶ ɭɠɟ ɠɢɜɟɬ ɜ ɩɪɢɦɟɬɟ, ɇɨ ɛɟɡ ɬɟɛɹ ɨɧ ɫɭɯ ɢ ɫɬɚɪ. Ɍɪɢɛɭɧɚ ɜɟɪɵ ɢ ɦɨɥɢɬɜ, Ɉɬɤɪɨɣɫɹ, ɬɚɣ ɢ ɥɟɣɫɹ ɫɧɨɜɚ, Ƚɨɪɚ, ɩɨɜɟɪɢɜɲɚɹ ɫɥɨɜɭ, Ⱥɥɥɟɟɣ ɫɬɚɜɲɢɣ ɦɨɧɨɥɢɬ, ɂɫɤɨɦɵɣ ɞɥɹ ɩɪɨɡɪɟɧɶɹ ɩɨɜɨɞ. 7. «Ⱦɵɲɚɬɶ ɞɨ ɤɨɧɰɚ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɷɬɢɦ ɥɢɰɨɦ ɀɢɬɶ ɡɞɟɫɶ. ɉɪɨɠɢɜɚɬɶ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɷɬɨ ɞɜɢɠɟɧɶɟ. Ⱥɪɟɧɭ ɩɵɬɚɥɢɫɶ ɭɤɪɵɬɶ ɨɬɪɚɠɟɧɶɟɦ, ɇɨ ɜ ɧɚɬɢɫɤɟ ɫɥɨɜɚ ɭɤɪɵɬɶɟ – ɧɚ ɫɥɨɦ. Ɍɭɧɧɟɥɶ ɜ ɬɢɲɢɧɭ, ɚɠ ɞɵɯɚɧɢɟ ɫɜɨɞɢɬ, Ɉɩɚɥɵ ɩɵɥɹɬɫɹ ɜ ɝɨɪɸɱɟɣ ɩɨɪɨɞɟ. Ƚɨɪɢɬ. ɇɨ ɦɟɱɬɚɟɬ ɫɤɨɪɟɣ ɩɟɪɟɫɬɚɬɶ, Ⱥɪɫɟɧɨɦ ɭɦɵɜɲɢɫɶ ɩɪɨɩɚɫɬɶ ɜ ɧɟɛɨɫɜɨɞɟ. ɂɫɥɚɦ ɛɟɡ Ⱥɥɥɚɯɚ, ɢ ɤɪɟɫɬ ɛɟɡ ɏɪɢɫɬɚ. 8. Ⱦɨɬɪɨɧɭɬɶɫɹ ɞɨ ɝɥɚɡ ɩɨɥɧɨɱɧɵɯ, ɀɢɜɭɳɢɯ ɡɚ ɱɭɠɨɣ ɨɝɪɚɞɨɣ, Ⱥɥɥɚɯ ɢɯ ɡɚɬɨɱɢɥ ɧɚɪɨɱɧɨ – ɇɟɪɭɤɨɬɜɨɪɧɚɹ ɧɚɝɪɚɞɚ.

133

134

The Appearance of Multiple Identities in the Art of El Kazovszkij Ɍɪɚɜɚ ɡɟɥɺɧɚɹ ɜ ɩɭɫɬɵɧɟ, Ɉɩɭɲɤɚ ɥɟɫɚ ɧɚ ɪɚɫɫɜɟɬɟ Ƚɚɡɨɧ ɧɟɩɨɱɚɬɵɣ ɨɬɯɥɵɧɟɬ. Ⱥɥɢɡɚɪɢɧ ɤɪɚɩɥɚɤ ɫɭɯɨɣ ɨɬɧɵɧɟ ɂ ɪɚɫɩɵɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɧɚ ɜɟɬɟɪ. 9. «Ⱦɭɲɚ» - ɞɪɟɜɧɟ ɢɦɹ ɬɜɨɺ, ɀɢɜɢ! Ⱦɭɲ ɥɸɞɫɤɢɯ ɜɨɞɨɺɦ. Ⱥ ɟɫɥɢ ɧɟ ɞɚɲɶ ɧɚɦ ɧɢ ɤɚɩɥɢ, ɇɟ ɫɛɭɞɟɬɫɹ ɢɦɹ ɬɜɨɺ. Ɍɭɪɱɚɧɤɚ – ɞɭɲɚ ɬɜɨɹ ɫɩɢɬ, Ɉɤɧɨ ɢɡ ɚɝɚɬɨɜɵɯ ɩɥɢɬ, Ƚɨɪɢɫɬ ɢ ɩɪɢɱɭɞɥɢɜ ɭɡɨɪ ɢɯ, Ⱥɥɶɤɨɜ ɩɺɫɬɪɵɦ ɲɺɥɤɨɦ ɨɛɥɢɬ, ɂɫɤɭɫɧɵ ɪɟɡɧɵɟ ɡɚɬɜɨɪɵ. əɧɜɚɪɶ-ɦɚɪɬ 1975 ɝ.

ɗɥɶ Ʉɚɡɨɜɫɤɢɣ, 2011: Ʉɧɢɝɚ Ⱦɠɚɧɚ. Ɋɟɞɚɤɬɨɪ Ⱥɤɨɲ ɋɢɥɚɞɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɍɪɢ ɤɜɚɞɪɚɬɚ.

Notes 1

The use of double pronouns refers to the artist’s double sexual identity after the beginning of El Kazovszkij’s identity crisis. 2 Die Mythologie der Griechen 1-2, Zürich 1956. 3 Karl Kerenyi’s books: Die griechisch-orientalische Romanliteratur, Tübingen 1927; Dionysos und das Tragische in der Antigone, Frankfurt/Main 1935; Apollon, Wien 1935; Pythagoras und Orpheus, Zürich 1939; Die antike Religion, Amsterdam 1940; Mythologie und Gnosis, Amsterdam 1942; Die Tochter der Sonne, Zürich 1944; Der göttliche Arzt, Basel 1948; Niobe. Neue Studien über antike Religion und Humanität, Zürich 1949; C. G. Jung - K. Kerényi: Einführung in das Wesen der Mythologie. Das göttliche Kind. Das göttliche Mädchen, Zürich 1951; Die Mythologie der Griechen 1-2, Zürich 1956.; Die Religion der Griechen und Römer, Zürich 1966; Werke 1-4, Zürich 1975. 4 Kerényi Károly’s (Karl Kerenyi) books were published in Hungarian from the late 1970s: Görög mitológia, Budapest 1977; Pseudo Antisthenés. Beszélgetések a szerelemrĘl, Budapest 1983; Hermés a lélekvezetĘ, Budapest 1984; Halhatatlanság és Apolló-vallás, Budapest 1984; Mi a mitológia? Budapest 1988; Beszélgetések levélben, Budapest 1989; Az égei ünnep, Budapest 1995; Az isteni orvos, Budapest 1997.

Gabriella Uhl

5

135

Ɇɢɯɚɢɥ Ɇɢɯɚɣɥɨɜɢɱ Ȼɚɯɬɢɧ: Ɍɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ Ɏɪɚɧɫɭɚ Ɋɚɛɥɟ ɢ ɧɚɪɨɞɧɚɹ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɚ ɫɪɟɞɧɟɜɟɤɨɜɶɹ ɢ ɪɟɧɟɫɚɧɫɚ, 1940/1965. 6 Pantagruel (Les horribles et épouvantables faits et prouesses du très renommé Pantagruel Roi des Dipsodes, fils du Grand Géant Gargantua 1532); Gargantua (La vie très horrifique du grand Gargantua, père de Pantagruel, fils de Grandgousier 1534); Le Tiers Livre des faicts et dicts héroïques du noble Pantagruel. (1546); Le Quart Livre des faicts et dicts heroïques du bon Pantagruel. (1552); Le Cinquième Livre et dernier des faits et dits héroïques du bon Pantagruel (1564) posthume. 7 Burke, Seàn (1992): The Death and Return of the Author. Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press. 8 Braidotti, Rosi (1994): Nomadic Subjects – Embodiment and Sexual Difference in Contemporary Feminist Theory, New York: Columbia University Press. 9 Cixous, Helene, Calle-Gruber, Mireille (1997): Rootprints: Memory and Life Writing, London, New York: Routledge; Sellers, Susan, Cixous, Helene (1996): Authorship, Autobiography and Love, Cambridge: Polity Press, Oxford: Blackwell. 10 Smith, Sidonie, Watson, Julia (2001): Reading Autobiography: A Guide for Interpreting Life Narratives. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. 11 ɗɥɶ Ʉɚɡɨɜɫɤɢɣ (2011): Ʉɧɢɝɚ Ⱦɠɚɧɚ. Ɋɟɞɚɤɬɨɪ Ⱥɤɨɲ ɋɢɥɚɞɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɍɪɢ ɤɜɚɞɪɚɬɚ. 12 See for this: András Lányi (2008): El Kazovszkij: Én és a hattyúm / Me and my Swan, in: El Kazovszkij Kegyetlen testszínháza / El Kazovszkij’s Cruel Theatre of the Body, ed. by Gabriella Uhl, Budapest: Jaffa Kiadó 2008, 189-192. 13 ɗɥɶ Ʉɚɡɨɜɫɤɢɣ (2011): Ʉɧɢɝɚ Ⱦɠɚɧɚ. Ɋɟɞɚɤɬɨɪ Ⱥɤɨɲ ɋɢɥɚɞɢ, Ɇɨɫɤɜɚ: Ɍɪɢ ɤɜɚɞɪɚɬɚ, 281 – 338. 14 Oil on wood, 170 x 140 cm.

SECTION 3: MUSIC

RUSSIAN COLLECTIVE IDENTITY IN EXILE AND MUSIC IN BERLIN 1917-1933 ANNA FORTUNOVA

ɇɟ ɧɚɲɚ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɤɚ ɢ ɷɤɨɧɨɦɢɤɚ ɢ ɧɟ ɧɚɲɚ ɧɚɭɤɚ ɭɛɟɞɢɥɢ ɟɝɨ [Ɂɚɩɚɞ] ɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ «ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɫɬɢ», ɚ – ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɧɚɲɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ. ɉɟɪɟɞ ɧɚɲɟɣ ɪɟɱɶɸ, ɧɚɲɟɣ ɩɟɫɧɶɸ, ɧɚɲɟɣ ɩɥɚɫɬɢɤɨɣ ɲɚɩɤɭ ɥɨɦɚɟɬ ɝɨɪɞɵɣ ɦɢɪ. (Bayan 1921: 4) [It is not our politics, our economics or our science that has convinced [the West] of the value of Russian culture, but only our art. […] The proud world takes off its hat to our language, our song, our plasticity.] Ʉɭɥɶɬɭɪɚ ɫɨɡɞɚɟɬ ɢɞɟɧɬɢɱɧɨɫɬɶ ɧɚɲɟɝɨ ɧɚɪɨɞɚ ɢ ɹɜɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɜɚɠɧɵɦ ɮɚɤɬɨɪɨɦ ɧɚɲɟɝɨ ɫɭɜɟɪɟɧɢɬɟɬɚ. ȼɟɞɶ ɢɦɟɧɧɨ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɚ ɩɨɡɜɨɥɹɟɬ ɧɚɦ ɫɤɚɡɚɬɶ, ɱɬɨ ɦɵ – ɞɟɬɢ ɜɟɥɢɤɨɣ ɫɬɪɚɧɵ. (quoted in Petrov 2012) [Culture creates our people’s identity and is a decisive element of our sovereignty. […] For it is our culture in particular that allows us to say: We are the children of a great country.]

These citations are divided by a vast gulf of space and time: The first quotation was published in the Russian magazine Ɍɟɚɬɪ ɢ ɠɢɡɧɶ [Theatre and Life] in 1921 in Berlin; the second was part of a speech held in 2012 in Moscow, in celebration of an annual state-sponsored award for artistic and cultural achievements. Likewise, there is a considerable difference between the social status of the authors. Although we cannot identify the person behind the name Bayan (most likely a pseudonym), it is safe to say that he or she belonged to the Russian exiles in Berlin. The second statement, on the other hand, was published not too long ago on the webpage ITAR-TASS, one of the most eminent Russian news agencies – and it was authored by a prominent player in world politics: Vladimir Putin gave that speech in his capacity as Russian prime minister, only to be re-elected as President of the Russian Federation the following day. Nevertheless, both of these statements have much in common: They emphasise the role Russian culture has always played in establishing

140

Russian Collective Identity in Exile and Music in Berlin

Russia’s identity both within and beyond its borders, giving its citizens a sense of collective identity as well as assigning the country a specific place in a global context. While Putin directly uses the term our people’s identity (meaning the collective Russian identity), this specific concept cannot be found in the citation published in 1921. However, it bears pointing out how often the word “our” is repeated in Bayan’s statement. In the Russian version it appears six times in a sentence containing only a total of 30 words, leading to a considerable degree of redundancy. It would have been easy to substitute other terms to avoid such repetitions,1 but they were deliberately included as a stylistic device. Accordingly, it is quite likely that the author wanted to communicate a phenomenon that could be referred to as a national collective identity today, but which lacked a proper term to describe it back then. The term collective identity has become quite significant over the course of the last few decades, connecting academic disciplines as diverse as philosophy, sociology, psychology, and history. Klaus Zimmermann defines the concept of identity as a juxtaposition of “I/We versus the Others”, an individual or collective construct generated by social interaction within a society (cf. Zimmermann 1992: 90ff). The contrast between “We” and “the Others” was very important in distinguishing a collective identity of the “first wave” of Russian emigrants in Germany from two entities simultaneously: a) We (the Russian exiles) and the new Russia. b) We (the Russian exiles) and the Germans. If we take this contrast into account while looking specifically at the Russian musical culture in Berlin in the 1920s, two opposite poles come to the fore: a) We (the Russian musicians in exile) and the music of the Soviet Union. b) We (the Russian musicians in exile) and German music. Whether this comparison (or even this confrontation) was made deliberately or unconsciously is of secondary importance in this particular instance. What matters is that it can be detected in many Russian source texts from Berlin in the 1920s (for example, press releases, memoirs, or letters), and that it was taken for granted. According to the German philosopher

Anna Fortunova

141

Vittorio Hösle, the presence of a collective identity is indicated as follows: Menschen mit einer kollektiven Identität müssen zunächst gemeinsame Bewusstseinsgehalte haben. Zweitens müssen sie auch wissen, dass sie über gemeinsame Bewusstseinsgehalte verfügen; ja, sie müssen drittens sogar wissen, dass alle wissen, dass sie über gemeinsame Bewusstseinsgehalte verfügen: Erst diese Steigerung der Reflexivität in die dritte Potenz konstituiert kollektive Identität. […] Doch nicht nur die Annahme eines gemeinsamen Bewusstseins, sondern auch die Ansetzung eines kollektiven Unbewussten ist durchaus plausibel […]. (Hösle 1997: 350) [People with a collective identity need to exhibit a sense of a shared mental content, first and foremost. Secondly, they need to know that they possess this shared mental content. And thirdly, they even need to know that others are aware of their shared mental content: Only this final increase of reflexivity to the third degree constitutes a collective identity […]. Not only the assumption of a shared consciousness is eminently plausible, but also the supposition of a collective unconscious.]

Several research projects in the 1990s that focused on the topic of the Russian emigration (for example, Nazarov 1994) showed how three distinct kinds of “mission”2 dominated the first wave of Russian emigration. First among these was the task of preserving and honouring the collective identity of the “old Russia” and to keep it alive outside of Soviet Russia and thus to save (pre-Revolutionary) Russian culture from oblivion. This was closely connected to the construction of a new collective identity in exile. This new collective identity was a very complex phenomenon, for its primary point of reference, namely pre-Revolutionary Russia, was no longer in existence. Most emigrants were decidedly opposed to Soviet Russia and the new regime that had seized power in 1917. This political change resulted in permanent exile, for returning meant facing the risk of death. But even if the emigrants had been able to return to Russia, it would no longer have been the country they remembered. This fact probably led to some emotions which were quite characteristic of the first wave of emigration. I will return to this later. Many Russian exiles tried to lead a life which was very similar to the one they had led in the old Russia, and thus they cultivated old-fashioned values as well as pre-Revolutionary culture. One manifestation of this can be seen in their musical life, particularly in concerts performed by Russian artists for a Russian audience, often featuring vocal music that was not

142

Russian Collective Identity in Exile and Music in Berlin

translated into German. The Russians in exile often recollected the “good old days” and their native land which was now gone forever. In the Russian enclave, musicians who could incite this sense of yearning were highly favoured, as can be seen from the description of a concert in Berlin, given by the chansonnier Aleksandr Vertinsky (1889-1957): ȼɟɱɟɪɨɦ ɨɝɪɨɦɧɵɣ Ȼɥɸɬɧɟɪ-ɡɚɥ ɛɵɥ ɩɟɪɟɩɨɥɧɟɧ. […] Ʉ ɦɨɢɦ ɫɤɪɨɦɧɵɦ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɚɦ ɥɸɞɢ ɬɹɧɭɥɢɫɶ ɩɨ ɪɚɡɧɵɦ ɩɪɢɱɢɧɚɦ. […] Ɇɨɢ ɩɟɫɧɢ ɨɛɴɟɞɢɧɹɥɢ ɜɫɟɯ. Ɉɧɢ «ɪ ɚ ɡɦ ɵ ɜ ɚ ɥ ɢ » ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɸ, ɩɨɞɬɚɱɢɜɚɹ ɲɚɝ ɡɚ ɲɚɝɨɦ ɢɯ «ɭɛɟɠɞɟɧɢɹ», ɷɬɢ ɡɵɛɤɢɟ ɩɨɫɬɪɨɣɤɢ ɛɟɡ ɮɭɧɞɚɦɟɧɬɚ, ɤɚɤ ɪɚɡɦɵɜɚɟɬ ɦɨɪɟ ɩɟɫɱɚɧɵɟ ɛɟɪɟɝɚ. Ɇɨɹ ɨɪɝɚɧɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɥɸɛɨɜɶ ɤ ɪɨɞɧɨɣ ɫɬɪɚɧɟ, ɨɛɥɟɱɟɧɧɚɹ ɜ ɹɫɧɭɸ ɢ ɩɨɧɹɬɧɭɸ ɜɫɟɦ ɮɨɪɦɭ, ɩɪɨɧɢɡɵɜɚɥɚ ɢɯ ɧɚɫɤɜɨɡɶ. ɂ ɪɚɧɢɥɚ ɢɯ ɫɥɚɞɤɨ ɢ ɛɨɥɶɧɨ... ɇɚ ɦɨɢɯ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɚɯ ɨɞɧɢ ɩɥɚɤɚɥɢ, ɞɪɭɝɢɟ ɯɦɭɪɢɥɢɫɶ, ɤɪɢɜɹ ɪɨɬ. Ɍɪɟɬɶɢ ɢɪɨɧɢɱɟɫɤɢ ɭɫɦɟɯɚɥɢɫɶ. ɇɨ ɲɥɢ ɜɫɟ. ɉɨɬɨɦɭ ɱɬɨ ɤɚɠɞɵɣ ɢɡ ɧɢɯ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɹɥ ɫɟɛɟ ɪɨɞɢɧɭ ɬɚɤɨɣ, ɤɚɤ ɨɧ ɯɨɬɟɥ... ɚ ɹ ɜɟɞɶ ɩɟɥ ɨ Ɋɨɞɢɧɟ! (Vertinsky 1991: 100) [In the evening, the large Blüthner Hall was overcrowded. […] People flocked to my humble concerts for various reasons. […] My songs united them all. They “w a s h e d a w a y ” the stain of emigration, gnawed at their convictions, those fragile constructions without foundation, like the waves at the sand. My organic love for the homeland, clad in a clear form understood by everyone, permeated them through and through – and wounded them, sweet and smarting… At my concerts, some cried while others scowled, screwing their mouths. Others laughed ironically. But everyone came. Because every single one of them imagined our home country the way he liked… and I sang about our home country, after all!]

Vertinsky had already enjoyed celebrity status prior to the Revolution and maintained his fame among exiles throughout the world. “Russian Berlin” is undoubtedly a special case in history, as evidenced by the fact that the city was referred to as the “second capital of Russia.” In 1922, Paul Schwers commented sarcastically in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung: “Berlin ist halt die zweite Hauptstadt von Russland geworden!” [Berlin has become the second capital of Russia, it just has!] (Schwers 1922: 832). But other details also serve to illustrate the extraordinary situation: In 1923 alone, 350,000 Russians tried to find a new home in Berlin – and thus constituted about one tenth of the total population of the German capital. The city was brimming with Russian schools, colleges (among them the Russian conservatory), concert agencies, theaters, publishing companies, libraries, shops, cafés, and restaurants. The cultural life of “Russian Berlin” was multi-faceted. In the memoirs of

Anna Fortunova

143

Roman Gul’ (1896-1986), who lived in Berlin from 1920 to 1933, we can read: Ɍɟɩɟɪɶ ɧɟɫɤɨɥɶɤɨ ɫɥɨɜ ɨ ɦɭɡɵɤɟ ɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɦ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɟ. Ɉɧɚ ɛɵɥɚ ɧɚ ɛɨɥɶɲɨɣ ɜɵɫɨɬɟ. […] Ʉɚɤ ɜɢɞɢɬɟ, ɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɦ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɨɦ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɟ 1920-ɯ ɝɨɞɨɜ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ ɛɵɥɨ ɫɤɨɥɶɤɨ ɭɝɨɞɧɨ – ɨɬ ɇ.Ʉ. Ɇɟɬɧɟɪɚ ɢ Ⱥ.Ʉ. Ƚɥɚɡɭɧɨɜɚ, Ɏ.ɂ. ɒɚɥɹɩɢɧɚ ɢ Ɂ. ɘɪɶɟɜɫɤɨɣ ɞɨ ɯɨɪɚ ɞɨɧɫɤɢɯ ɤɚɡɚɤɨɜ ɢ ɛɚɥɚɥɚɟɱɧɵɯ ɨɪɤɟɫɬɪɨɜ. (Gul’ 2001: 180, 182) [And now a few words about music in Russian Berlin. It was at its peak. […] As you can see, in Russian émigré Berlin in the 1920s, there was as much music as you liked: from N.K. Medtner and A.K. Glazunov, F.I. Shalyapin and Z. Yur’evskaya to the Don Cossacks choir and balalaika orchestras.]

Concerts featuring Russian vocal music, sung in Russian by Russian singers for a Russian audience, were no exception in the cultural life of “Russian Berlin,” most likely because they were closely tied to a new collective Russian identity in exile.3 This can clearly be deduced from an analysis of the Russian press that was published in Berlin at the time. The following are some reviews taken from the Russian newspaper Ɋɭɥɶ [The Helm], which shed some light on several aspects of the topic of Russian national identity and music in 1920s Berlin. Ɋɭɥɶ was one of the German capital’s most prominent daily newspapers in Russian. During the eleven years of its existence (1920-1931), 3309 issues were released. The phenomenon of collective identity played a very important role throughout all these years. Already in one of the first issues, published on 27 January 1921, we find a review of a concert given by the Afonsky choir, titled Ʉɭɫɨɱɟɤ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ [A Piece of Russia]: Ɍɚɤ ɧɚɡɵɜɚɟɦɵɣ «ɛɟɥɵɣ» ɨɮɢɰɟɪɫɤɢɣ ɥɚɝɟɪɶ ɜ ȼɸɧɫɞɨɪɮɟ. Ƚɭɫɬɚɹ ɦɝɥɚ ɢ ɧɚɫɬɨɹɳɢɣ ɨɫɟɧɧɢɣ ɞɨɠɞɶ – ɧɭɞɧɵɣ, ɜɴɟɞɥɢɜɵɣ. Ʉɨɥɵɯɚɹɫɶ, ɩɨɛɥɟɫɤɢɜɚɟɬ ɮɨɧɚɪɶ, ɨɫɜɟɳɚɹ ɧɟɛɨɥɶɲɭɸ ɫɬɚɧɰɢɣɤɭ, ɚ ɧɚ ɩɥɚɬɮɨɪɦɟ, ɪɚɡɛɭɯɲɟɣ ɨɬ ɜɨɞɵ, ɜɫɸɞɭ ɫɥɵɲɢɬɫɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɪɟɱɶ – ɩɨɱɬɢ [ɤɚɤ] ɩɨɞ Ɇɨɫɤɜɨɣ, ɝɞɟ-ɧɢɛɭɞɶ ɜ Ɇɚɥɚɯɨɜɤɟ. […] ɏɨɪ ɷɬɨɬ ɜɦɟɫɬɟ ɫ ɟɝɨ ɞɢɪɢɠɟɪɨɦ ɢ ɨɫɧɨɜɚɬɟɥɟɦ – ɤɚɩɢɬɚɧɨɦ Ⱥɮɨɧɫɤɢɦ – ɝɨɪɞɨɫɬɶ ɥɚɝɟɪɹ. Ȼɨɥɶɲɢɧɫɬɜɨ ɯɨɪɢɫɬɨɜ ɧɟ ɡɧɚɥɢ ɧɨɬ. ɇ[ɢɤɨɥɚɣ] Ⱥɮɨɧɫɤɢɣ ɡɚɧɢɦɚɥɫɹ ɫ ɤɚɠɞɵɦ ɜ ɨɬɞɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɢ, ɢ ɬɟɩɟɪɶ ɜɫɟ ɪɚɡɛɢɪɚɸɬ ɞɨɜɨɥɶɧɨ ɫɜɨɛɨɞɧɨ ɫ ɥɢɫɬɚ. ɋɪɟɞɫɬɜ ɧɟ ɛɵɥɨ ɞɚɠɟ ɧɚ ɩɨɤɭɩɤɭ ɧɨɬ – ɩɪɢɩɨɦɢɧɚɥɢ, ɡɚɩɢɫɵɜɚɥɢ ɩɨ ɩɚɦɹɬɢ; ɫɟɣɱɚɫ ɜ ɪɟɩɟɪɬɭɚɪɟ Ɋɢɦɫɤɢɣ-Ʉɨɪɫɚɤɨɜ, Ɋɚɯɦɚɧɢɧɨɜ. ɋɨɡɞɚɧɧɵɣ ɛɭɤɜɚɥɶɧɨ ɢɡ ɧɢɱɟɝɨ, ɯɨɪ ɷɬɨɬ ɬɟɩɟɪɶ, ɫɩɭɫɬɹ ɝɨɞ[,] ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɹɟɬ ɫɨɛɨɣ ɭɠɟ ɢɡɜɟɫɬɧɭɸ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɭɸ ɨɪɝɚɧɢɡɨɜɚɧɧɭɸ ɜɟɥɢ-

144

Russian Collective Identity in Exile and Music in Berlin ɱɢɧɭ, ɨ ɧɟɦ ɧɟɨɞɧɨɤɪɚɬɧɨ ɩɢɫɚɥɢ ɜ ɝɚɡɟɬɚɯ ɢ, ɩɨɫɥɟ ɪɹɞɚ ɜɫɟɧɨɳɧɵɯ ɢ ɨɛɟɞɟɧ ɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɛɟɪɥɢɧɫɤɨɣ ɰɟɪɤɜɢ, ɟɝɨ ɩɪɢɝɥɚɲɚɸɬ ɞɥɹ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɧɵɯ ɜɵɫɬɭɩɥɟɧɢɣ. […] Soldatenheim ɩɟɪɟɩɨɥɧɢɥɢ ɩɪɢɟɯɚɜɲɢɟ ɫɩɟɰɢɚɥɶɧɨ ɧɚ [ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬ ɢɡ] Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɚ, ɦɧɨɝɨ ɧɟɦɰɟɜ ɢɡ ɝɨɪɨɞɤɚ. (G. 1921: 5) [The so-called “White” officer camp in Wünsdorf: The thick fog and an altogether dreary and bothersome autumn rain. A swaying lantern gleams, illuminating a tiny station. And on the platform, swollen from all the rain, the Russian language can be heard everywhere – almost like near Moscow, somewhere in Malakhovka. […] This choir with its founder – Captain Afonsky – is the pride of the camp. Previously most of the singers could not read music. N[ikolay] Afonsky tutored each of them in private – and now all of them can sing right from the sheet with comparative ease. They did not even possess the resources to acquire sheet music – they remembered and committed the songs to paper from memory alone; now RimskyKorsakov and Rakhmaninov are part of the repertoire. Created literally from nothing, this choir has become a known artistic fixture; several newspapers have written about it, and after several all-night vigils and liturgies in the Russian church in Berlin, the members have been invited to participate in concerts. […] The soldiers’ home is brimming with [guests] arriving from nearby Berlin, as well as with Germans from the town.]

It is evident that the anonymous author of this review is proud of the choir and its director. This author obviously felt proud of his compatriots who tried to develop and support Russian culture and art, even while being deprived of their home. Such a feeling of pride is a very distinctive feature of the Russian diaspora and closely tied to national identity. Often musicians who had already achieved a certain kind of fame in the “old Russia” were received with open arms by the Russian public and reviewers in Berlin. The concerts of Sergey Rakhmaninov, Aleksandr Glazunov, Fedor Shalyapin, or performances of Anna Pavlova are examples of that. Such enthusiasm was most likely grounded in more than just artistic appreciation. Every significant presentation of Russian stage works, every performance by a Russian artist gave the Russian community in Berlin more than just a night at the theatre. It was an important gathering point and an unforgettable cultural, sometimes even political, event. All of which, combined with the feeling of pride, helped in maintaining a distinct Russian identity and in establishing a sense of being a unified group. This was all the more important because the first wave immigrants and the other Russian citizens of Berlin were by no means a homogeneous community. For instance, one such event for the “Russian colony” in Berlin was a

Anna Fortunova

145

jubilee concert by the folk singer Nadezhda Plevitskaya (1884-1940), which turned into a “demonstration” of the feeling of “national unity”: Ʉɨɧɰɟɪɬ ɉɥɟɜɢɰɤɨɣ ɛɵɥ ɛɨɥɶɲɟ, ɱɟɦ ɨɛɵɱɧɵɣ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬ, ɢ ɞɚɠɟ ɛɨɥɶɲɟ, ɱɟɦ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬ ɸɛɢɥɟɣɧɵɣ. Ɇɵ ɱɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɥɢ ɛɨɥɶɲɭɸ ɪɭɫɫɤɭɸ ɩɟɫɟɧɧɢɰɭ, ɩɪɢɧɟɫɲɭɸ ɜ ɝɨɪɨɞɚ ɜɟɥɢɤɭɸ ɩɪɟɥɟɫɬɶ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɧɚɪɨɞɧɨɣ ɩɟɫɧɢ, ɱɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɥɢ ɛɨɥɶɲɭɸ, ɯɨɪɨɲɭɸ ɪɭɫɫɤɭɸ ɠɟɧɳɢɧɭ, ɩɥɨɬɶ ɨɬ ɩɥɨɬɢ ɫɜɨɟɝɨ ɧɚɪɨɞɚ, ɞɨɱɶ ɤɪɟɫɬɶɹɧɢɧɚ ɢ ɫɨɥɞɚɬɚ, ɠɟɧɭ ɫɨɥɞɚɬɚ, ɫ ɧɚɦɢ ɩɪɨɲɟɞɲɭɸ ɬɹɠɟɥɵɟ ɩɭɬɢ, ɫ ɧɚɦɢ ɞɟɥɹɳɭɸ ɞɨɥɸ ɢɡɝɧɚɧɢɹ. ɇɨ ɤɪɨɦɟ ɷɬɨɝɨ ɢ ɛɨɥɶɲɟ ɷɬɨɝɨ ɦɵ ɱɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɥɢ ɜ ɇ[ɚɞɟɠɞɟ] ȼ[ɚɫɢɥɶɟɜɧɟ] ɧɟɤɢɣ ɜɵɫɨɤɢɣ ɫɢɦɜɨɥ. ɂɦɹ ɟɦɭ – Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ. ɑɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɧɢɟ ɇ.ȼ. ɩɪɟɜɪɚɬɢɥɨɫɶ ɜ ɞɟɦɨɧɫɬɪɚɰɢɸ. Ɍɨ ɛɵɥɚ ɞɟɦɨɧɫɬɪɚɰɢɹ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɟɞɢɧɫɬɜɚ, ɞɟɦɨɧɫɬɪɚɰɢɹ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɚ ɪɨɞɢɧɵ, ɤɨɬɨɪɨɣ ɥɢɲɟɧɵ ɜɫɟ: ɢ ɦɵ ɧɚ ɱɭɠɛɢɧɟ, ɢ ɬɟ, ɤɬɨ ɨɫɬɚɥɢɫɶ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ; ɪɨɞɢɧɵ, ɜɫɟɯ ɩɪɢɦɢɪɹɸɳɟɣ, ɜɫɟɯ ɩɪɨɳɚɸɳɟɣ, ɜɫɟɯ ɩɪɢɧɢɦɚɸɳɟɣ. Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɩɟɫɧɹ ɉɥɟɜɢɰɤɨɣ – ɛɟɫɯɢɬɪɨɫɬɧɚɹ, ɩɪɨɫɬɚɹ, ɧɨ ɝɥɭɛɨɤɚɹ, ɜɨɥɧɭɸɳɚɹ, ɢɞɭɳɚɹ ɢɡ ɝɥɭɛɢɧɵ ɧɚɪɨɞɧɨɣ ɞɭɲɢ, – ɩɨɤɚɡɚɥɚ ɧɚɦ ɷɬɨɬ ɨɛɪɚɡ ɪɨɞɢɧɵ. ɂ ɡɚ ɷɬɨ ɜɟɥɢɤɚɹ ɫɥɚɜɚ ɚɪɬɢɫɬɤɟ. (Tatarinov 1925: 4) [Plevitskaya’s concert was more than just an ordinary concert and even more than a jubilee concert. We celebrated a great Russian singer, who brought to the towns the charm of the Russian song; we celebrated a great, good Russian woman, flesh of the flesh of her people, a peasant’s and soldier’s daughter, a soldier’s wife, who had travelled the hard ways with us, who shares the exile’s lot with us. But in addition and above all, we celebrated in N[adezhda] V[asil’evna] a symbol. Its name is Russia. N.V.’s celebration turned into a demonstration. It was a demonstration of national unity, a demonstration of the feeling for one’s homeland, a homeland which all of us are deprived of: we who are in strange lands and those who stayed in Russia; a homeland which reconciles us, forgives us, accepts us. Plevitskaya’s Russian song is unsophisticated, simple, but deep, stirring; it comes from the depth of the people’s soul – it shows us this image of our homeland. And for that, great glory to the singer.]

As hinted above, the phenomenon of Russian national identity in exile was very complex and created specific emotions that were characteristic for some of the Russian emigrants. These feelings could be called sadness or melancholy, and they are not only manifest in several newspaper articles, but also in personal documents (for example memoirs and letters): ɋɥɭɲɚɹ ɟɝɨ [Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪɚ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪɨɜɢɱɚ] ɩɟɧɢɟ ɬɚɤ [ɢ] ɭɯɨɞɢɲɶ ɜ ɯɨɪɨɲɟɟ ɩɪɨɲɥɨɟ, ɯɨɬɶ ɧɚ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɡɚɛɵɜɚɹ ɨɛ ɭɪɨɞɥɢɜɨɦ ɧɚɫɬɨɹɳɟɦ. (Legato 1921: 5) [When you hear his [Aleksandr Aleksandrovich’s] singing, you seem to

146

Russian Collective Identity in Exile and Music in Berlin disappear into the pleasant past, forgetting the ugly present – if only for a while.]

Especially those artists who had acquired fame prior to the Revolution were fundamentally important for the creation of a Russian identity in exile. One of the key figures of the so-called “ɪɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɟ” [Russia Abroad] was the then-famous basso Fedor Shalyapin who gave concerts in Berlin in the 1920s with relative regularity. His name appears frequently in the newspaper Ɋɭɥɶ; apart from (predominantly enthusiastic) reviews, he is present as well in some interviews: ɇɚ ɦɨɣ ɜɨɩɪɨɫ, ɜɟɪɧɨ ɥɢ, ɱɬɨ Ɏɟɞɨɪ ɂɜɚɧɨɜɢɱ ɩɪɟɞɩɨɥɚɝɚɟɬ ɨɫɬɚɬɶɫɹ ɡɚ ɝɪɚɧɢɰɟɣ, ɨɧ ɪɟɡɤɨ ɨɬɜɟɬɢɥ. — ə ɪɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɤ ɢ ɝɞɟ ɛɵ ɹ ɧɢ ɛɵɥ, ɹ ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ, ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɢ ɛɭɞɭ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ. ȼ ɷɬɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɪɚɡɞɚɺɬɫɹ ɬɟɥɟɮɨɧɧɵɣ ɡɜɨɧɨɤ. Ʉɬɨ-ɬɨ ɫɩɪɚɲɢɜɚɟɬ ɒɚɥɹɩɢɧɚ ɨ ɟɝɨ ɧɚɫɬɪɨɟɧɢɢ, ɢ ɨɧ ɨɬɜɟɱɚɟɬ: — Ɍɚɤ ɧɢɱɟɝɨ, ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɫɤɭɱɧɨ. ɏɨɬɟɥ ɛɵ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ ɫɤɨɪɟɟ. Ⱦɚ ɭɠ ɛɨɥɶɧɨ ɹ ɡɚɩɪɨɞɚɥɫɹ. (Levin 1924: 4) [Fedor Ivanovich replied brusquely to my question of whether he plans to stay abroad: — I am a Russian, and no matter where I am, I am always in Russia, always Russian, and I will always remain in Russia. The phone rings. Somebody asks Shalyapin about his mood, and he replies: — So-so… but bored. Would like to go to Russia as soon as possible. But I’m fully booked for a long time ahead.]

This short interview is another example of the sadness and home-sickness that was typical for many Russian emigrants of the first wave. Another important aspect of the collective Russian identity in exile could be called the sense of need for Russian music. In an interview for Ɋɭɥɶ, another prominent figure of “Russia Abroad”, the conductor Sergey Kusevitsky, remarked: — ȼ ɩɪɨɲɥɨɦ ɝɨɞɭ ɹ ɞɚɥ ɪɹɞ ɫɢɮɨɧɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɢ ɫɨɥɶɧɵɯ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɨɜ. Ȼɨɥɶɲɭɸ ɪɚɞɨɫɬɶ ɞɨɫɬɚɜɢɥɢ ɦɧɟ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɵ ɜ ɉɚɪɢɠɟ. ɇɚ ɧɢɯ ɦɨɠɧɨ ɛɵɥɨ ɜɢɞɟɬɶ ɜɫɟɯ ɧɚɯɨɞɹɳɢɯɫɹ ɜ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɢɬɟɥɟɣ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ, ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɨɝɨ, ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɢ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɦɢɪɚ. ə ɫɟɛɹ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɨɜɚɥ, ɤɚɤ ɧɚ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɟ ɜ ɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝɟ, — ɤɚɡɚɥɨɫɶ, ɱɬɨ ɷɬɨ ɨɞɢɧ ɢɡ ɚɛɨɧɟɦɟɧɬɧɵɯ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɨɜ. ȼ ɡɚɥɟ ɛɵɥɚ ɧɚɩɪɹɠɟɧɧɚɹ ɚɬɦɨɫɮɟɪɚ ɢ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɨɜɚɥɨɫɶ, ɤɚɤ ɧɟɨɛɯɨɞɢɦɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɪɭɫ-

Anna Fortunova

147

ɫɤɢɦ. Ɏɪɚɧɰɭɡɫɤɚɹ ɩɪɟɫɫɚ ɩɨɫɜɹɬɢɥɚ ɪɹɞ ɜɨɫɬɨɪɠɟɧɧɵɯ ɫɬɚɬɟɣ ɷɬɢɦ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɚɦ. […] ɗɬɨɬ ɫɟɡɨɧ ɹ ɧɚɱɢɧɚɸ ɫ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɚ, ɝɞɟ ɹ ɛɭɞɭ ɞɢɪɢɠɢɪɨɜɚɬɶ 25 ɢ 28 ɨɤɬɹɛɪɹ ɜ Ɏɢɥɚɪɦɨɧɢɢ. ə ɫɨɫɬɚɜɢɥ ɩɪɨɝɪɚɦɦɭ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɢɡ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɚɜɬɨɪɨɜ. Ȼɨɥɶɲɢɧɫɬɜɨ ɫɨɱɢɧɟɧɢɣ, ɜɨɲɟɞɲɢɯ ɜ ɩɪɨɝɪɚɦɦɭ, ɢɫɩɨɥɧɹɟɬɫɹ ɜɩɟɪɜɵɟ ɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɟ. (N.N. 1921: 4) [Last year I gave some symphonic and solo concerts. The concerts in Paris filled me with great joy. You could find all the Russian émigré representatives of the political, literary, artistic and musical sphere there. I felt like I used to during the concerts in Saint Petersburg – it seemed to me as if it were one of the subscription concerts. The atmosphere in the hall was tense and you could feel how essential Russian art is to the Russians. The French press dedicated a long series of enthusiastic articles to these concerts. […] This season, I will commence my work in Berlin where I will conduct on 25 and 28 October. I have put together a programme consisting exclusively of Russian composers. Most of the works on the programme will be played in Berlin for the first time.]

This interview shows us just how much Russian art mattered to Russians. In the 1920s Russian journalists in Berlin used every available opportunity to demonstrate that Russian art was, if not essential to the Germans, then at least of great interest to them. Many reviews were dedicated to Russian operas performed by German soloists or German orchestras in German opera houses. Sometimes, such press reports are quite critical, and the authors note that Germans could not find access to Russian music: “ɇɨ ɝɥɚɜɧɚɹ ɛɟɞɚ, ɤɨɧɟɱɧɨ, ɜ ɬɨɦ, ɱɬɨ ɧɟɦɰɚɦ ɫɨɜɟɪɲɟɧɧɨ ɱɭɠɞ ɞɭɯ ɨɩɟɪɵ ɑɚɣɤɨɜɫɤɨɝɨ” [But the worst misfortune is, of course, that the spirit of Tchaikovsky’s opera is completely alien to the Germans] (O[frosimov] 1921: 5). If we compare this quote from Ɋɭɥɶ with the claim made by a critic in Ɍɟɚɬɪ ɢ ɠɢɡɧɶ [Theatre and Life] in the same year – namely that only Russian art could possibly convince the West of the value of Russian civilization – we can detect a certain clash of attitudes about the role of music in Russian national identity abroad. Not only Russian, but also German reviewers had very different opinions about Russian music in Berlin in the 1920s. For instance, in the musical newspaper Signale für die musikalische Welt of September 1924, Max Chop wrote, with noticeable irony, about Fedor Shalyapin’s concert, which, in his opinion, was attended only by Russians, and for which there were no German programs: “Es macht Spaß, in der Hauptstadt des Deutschen Reichs sich als Deutscher völlig vereinsamt zu fühlen” [It is fun to feel completely isolated as a German in the capital of the German Reich] (Chop 1924: 1403).

148

Russian Collective Identity in Exile and Music in Berlin

Three years earlier and contrary to Max Chop, Ferdinand Haager had mentioned with enthusiasm in his review about the Russian cabaret ɋɢɧɹɹ ɩɬɢɰɚ [Blue Bird] that Russian art had the potential to “unite all people”: Es ist kein Zufall, dass wir heute gerade die russische Kunst schätzen und suchen. Sie ist irgendwie der Ausdruck einer tiefen Sehnsucht, für die wir in der westeuropäischen Kunst keinen Widerhall mehr finden. Wir erwarten von ihr die Erfüllung irgendeiner Hoffnung, die ungeahnt und unerklärlich in uns schlummert, und diese ist es, die all die verschiedenen Menschen eint, über deren Länder des blauen Vogels Sommerflug führte. (Haager 1990: 348-349) [It is no coincidence that, today, we are appreciating and seeking out Russian art. It expresses some deep melancholy, the counterpart of which we are unable to find in Western European art. We expect from it the realisation of some hope that is dormant in us, unnoticed and unexplainable. And this hope is what unites all those different people whose countries the summer flight of the “Blue Bird” was crossing over.]

Such contradictions, and the observations on which they are based, are quite characteristic for the musical life in “Russian Berlin” in the years between the two World Wars. It is true that they make the phenomenon of “Russian musical Berlin,” and the role which it played for the Russian national identity abroad, more complicated but – at the same time – more tempting for researchers.

Bibliography Bayan (1921): ȼɨɥɲɟɛɧɨɟ ɨɩɟɪɟɧɢɟ, in: Ɍɟɚɬɪ ɢ ɠɢɡɧɶ 1921, No. 4, p. 4. Chop, Max (1924, September 17): Fedor Schaljapin, in: Signale für die musikalische Welt, p. 1403. G. (1921, January 27): Ʉɭɫɨɱɟɤ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ, in: Ɋɭɥɶ, p. 5. Gul’, Roman (2001): ə ɭɧɟɫ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ, vol. 1, Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ ɜ Ƚɟɪɦɚɧɢɢ, Moscow. Haager, Ferdinand (1990): Der Wanderflug des „Blauen Vogels“, in: Mierau, Fritz (ed.): Russen in Berlin, Leipzig, pp. 346-349. Hösle, Vittorio (1997): Moral und Politik: Grundlagen einer politischen Ethik für das 21. Jahrhundert, Munich. Legato (1921, May 26): Ʉɨɧɰɟɪɬ Ⱥ.Ⱦ. Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪɨɜɢɱɚ, ɩɨɫɜɹɳɟɧɧɵɣ ɑɚɣɤɨɜɫɤɨɦɭ, in: Ɋɭɥɶ, p. 5. Levin, S. I. (1924, April 11): ɍ ɒɚɥɹɩɢɧɚ, in: Ɋɭɥɶ, p. 4.

Anna Fortunova

149

Nazarov, Mikhail (1994): Ɇɢɫɫɢɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ, vol. 1, 2nd ed., Moscow. O[frosimov], Yu[ry] (1921, November 16): ȿɜɝɟɧɢɣ Ɉɧɟɝɢɧ ɜ ɒɚɪɥɨɬɬɟɧɛɭɪɝɫɤɨɣ ɨɩɟɪɟ, in: Ɋɭɥɶ, p. 5. Petrov, Michail (2012): ȼɵɞɚɸɳɢɦɫɹ ɪɨɫɫɢɹɧɚɦ ɜɪɭɱɟɧɵ ɩɪɟɦɢɢ ɩɪɚɜɢɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɚ 2011 ɝɨɞɚ. URL: http://www.itar-tass.com/c1/357880.html (accessed 15 March 2012). Schwers, Paul (1922, November 10): Review, in: Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, p. 832. Tatarinov, V. (1925, January 7): ɘɛɢɥɟɣɧɵɣ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬ ɇ.ȼ. ɉɥɟɜɢɰɤɨɣ, in: Ɋɭɥɶ, p. 4. Vertinsky, Aleksandr (1991): Ɂɚ ɤɭɥɢɫɚɦɢ, ed. by Yury Tomashevsky, Moscow. Zimmermann, Klaus (1992): Sprachkontakt, ethnische Identität und Identitätsbeschädigung: Aspekte der Assimilation der Otomí-Indianer an die hispanophone mexikanische Kultur (Bibliotheca Ibero-Americana, 41), Frankfurt am Main. N.N. (1921, October 22): ɋ. Ʉɭɫɟɜɢɰɤɢɣ ɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɟ, in: Ɋɭɥɶ, p. 4. (Translated from German into English by Jan-Erik Ella and from Russian into English by Anna Fortunova)

Notes 1

For example by re-wording it like this: “ɇɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɤɚ, ɷɤɨɧɨɦɢɤɚ ɢɥɢ ɧɚɭɤɚ ɭɛɟɞɢɥɢ ɟɝɨ [Ɂɚɩɚɞ] ɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ «ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɫɬɢ», ɚ – ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ. ɉɟɪɟɞ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɪɟɱɶɸ, ɩɟɫɧɶɸ, ɩɥɚɫɬɢɤɨɣ ɲɚɩɤɭ ɥɨɦɚɟɬ ɝɨɪɞɵɣ ɦɢɪ.” [It is not Russian politics, economics or science that have convinced [the West] of the value of Russian culture, but only Russian art. […] The proud world takes off its hat to Russian language, Russian song, and Russian sculpture.] 2 “Ɇɵ ɧɟ ɜ ɢɡɝɧɚɧɢɢ, ɦɵ ɜ ɩɨɫɥɚɧɢɢ” [We are not in exile, we are on a mission.] (Nazarov 1994: 3). 3 It is remarkable that many Russian artists living in Berlin, such as the tenor singer Aleksandr Aleksandrovich, played and sang Russian music in their concerts for the most part. Aleksandrovich organised a series of “historical concerts” at the beginning of the 1920s, which he devoted mostly to Russian vocal music of the 19th century.

RUSSIAN MUSIC INSTITUTIONS IN BERLIN IN THE 1920S: THE STRUCTURE OF A NETWORK IN EXILE MARIA BYCHKOVA

The first wave of Russian emigration was triggered by the social and economic chaos in the wake of the October Revolution and the resulting civil war. Large Russian colonies formed in France (most notably in Paris), the Balkan States, Turkey (formerly the Ottoman Empire), Finland, Czechoslovakia and China among many other countries. At the beginning of the 1920s, however, an enormous number of Russians were concentrated in Berlin where they formed the so-called “Russian Colony”. Russian immigration to Berlin peaked in 1923. According to information from the Gesellschaft zur Unterstützung der Flüchtlinge in Berlin [Society for the Support of Refugees in Berlin], out of a total of 600,000 Russians living in Germany in 1923, approximately 360,000 Russians lived in the capital (Volkmann 1966: 5).1 There are several reasons which made Berlin an attractive destination for Russian émigrés, though for many it turned out to be only a temporary residence. One important factor was the geographical location of Berlin as the one major “Western” European city closest to the Russian Empire. Following the ratification of the Treaty of Rapallo on 16 April 1922, Soviet Russia was officially recognised by the Weimar Republic, opening the way to the West via Berlin for Soviet citizens wanting to leave their homeland temporarily or permanently (cf. Schlögel 1994: 256ff.). Another contributing factor was the financial crisis and inflation in the Weimar Republic, which led to a favourable exchange rate for the rouble against the German currency. Finally, the exiles’ choice of Berlin as a place of residence was influenced by the many mutual cultural ties that Karl Schlögel has called the German-Russian “kulturelle Nähe” [cultural proximity] (Schlögel 1998: 9).2

152

Russian Music Institutions in Berlin in the 1920s

The wave of Russian émigrés to Berlin began to decrease in the second half of the 1920s, and thus the development of Russian cultural life took place in a very concentrated period of five to six years. The German currency reform of 1923/24 and the strengthening of the German mark made life significantly more expensive for Russians living in Germany. At the same time the German government also tightened residence regulations for Russian émigrés through restrictions in employment and by making it more difficult for emigrants who had lost their citizenship to obtain new passports (cf. Sabennikova 2002: 251; Vinnik 2006: 363ff.). The majority of Russian émigrés came from the upper social classes and comprised mainly officers, members of the nobility and artists. The German diplomat Wipert von Blücher (1883-1963) described the unusual structure of the Russian community in the 1920s in his memoirs: Das russische Emigrantentum in Berlin war eine Pyramide, von der nur die Spitze übergeblieben war. Es fehlten die unteren und mittleren Volksschichten, die Arbeiter und Bauern, Handwerker und kleinen Kaufleute. Stattdessen waren Offiziere, Beamte, Künstler, Finanziers, Politiker und Mitglieder der alten Hofgesellschaft vertreten. (Blücher 1951: 53) The makeup of the Russian community in Berlin was a pyramid, of which only the top remained. It lacked the lower and middle social classes: workers and farmers, craftsmen, and small merchants. Instead it contained officers, civil servants, artists, financiers, politicians and members of the old court society.

Emigrants from these social circles brought with them a high demand for a multifaceted cultural life that was intended to be equal in every way to the cultural life of their former homeland. Given the number of Russian émigrés and the intensity of their actions, this led to a separate specific subculture in Berlin’s vast cultural scene. Institutionally, this subculture exerted its influence through several organisations which were founded by Russian émigrés and which formed the core of cultural life in “Russian Berlin”. By cooperating with associations and organisations of every kind, these institutions helped needy and destitute artists to survive physically: several organisations supplied financial help for their members. They also offered more financially independent émigrés possibilities to develop cultural activities within the circles of their compatriots and thus create a miniature “Russia” for themselves. In terms of music, this institutionalisation became manifest in many organisations which had various profiles and aims. These can be divided

Maria Bychkova

153

into groups according to the following characteristics: pedagogical and artistic organisations, publishing houses, artistic agencies, and professional associations, among others. Based on news releases and the Russian press in Germany (in particular Berlin), Karl Schlögel’s Chronicle of Russian life in Germany 1918-1941 lists more than 40 music-related Russian organisations, most of which were founded in the 1920s in Berlin (Schlögel et al. 1999: 571ff.). Further musical institutions are mentioned in the files of the theatre police and other archival sources, such as the Russian Foreign Historical Archive.3 These sources contain a wealth of information including statutes of institutions, minutes of executive meetings, personal documents of the members, financial documents etc. For the study of music-related organisations in Russian Berlin, posters and concert programmes are sources of particular interest. Unfortunately however, all these data are fragmented, and there are currently no collections which chronologically cover the activity of any institution. Despite the disparity of the existing data, we can still try to recreate the picture of musical life in Russian Berlin. Music played a large role in the everyday activities of the émigrés’ organisations. Many musical events were organised by institutions that otherwise had nothing to do with music. In view of all the professional societies, national associations, military organisations and other interest groups that held concerts and music evenings regularly or on special occasions, the artistic activity of the Russian colony in Berlin was extremely intensive. This phenomenon deserves particular attention: within a short period of time in Berlin, a miniature replica of the multifaceted Russian musical culture emerged. In spite of the keen interest in the history of the Russian community in Berlin, little research has been carried out on the musical life of the émigrés, in particular the activities of the numerous musical institutions. And yet a detailed study of these organisations would provide insights into new facets of the history of “Russian Berlin”. It is a widely held view that the Russian colony was an isolated microcosm which, though quite large, was limited to a certain area and immune to outside influences. For instance, Vladimir Nabokov maintained that during 15 years in Germany he had never read any German newspaper and “ɧɢɤɨɝɞɚ ɧɟ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɨɜɚɥ ɧɢ ɦɚɥɟɣɲɟɝɨ ɧɟɭɞɨɛɫɬɜɚ ɨɬ ɧɟɡɧɚɧɢɹ ɹɡɵɤɚ” [never felt the least disadvantaged for not knowing the German language]

154

Russian Music Institutions in Berlin in the 1920s

(Nabokov 2012: 251). His cousin, the composer Nicolas Nabokov wrote in his memoirs that the huge Russian colony that splashed all over Berlin did not penetrate deeply into the life of Berliners. It remained a kind of detached superstructure. Astonished and perplexed by this eastern invasion, the Berliners went about the complicated business of their own lives, disoriented by […] their economic and political crises (Nabokov 1975: 119-120).

In his eyes, this isolation was also due to the émigrés’ restrictions on themselves and their own problems. A similar view was held by the Russian music critic Robert Engel, who considered that Russian émigrés in Berlin left almost no traces in the field of music, because they “unterließen es […] einen Aufbau der deutsch-russischen Musikbeziehungen auf einer neuen, erweiterten und vertieften Grundlage zu verwirklichen” [abandoned their efforts to realise German-Russian musical relations based on a new, expanded and deepened basis] (Engel 1926/27: 187). To illustrate the similarity of opinions from the German side, the researcher Mareike Katchourovskaja quotes the newspaper Montag Morgen [Monday morning] which mentioned that, despite the relatively large number of Russians in Berlin, very little is actually known about them, because “sie leben irgendwie isoliert von den Berlinern” [they live somehow isolated from the Berliners] (quoted in Katchourovskaja 2008: 8). These statements are interesting as they reflect a (seeming) lack of active cooperation between Russian émigrés and Berliners. Many émigrés lived in the district of Charlottenburg, which became known as “Charlottengrad” because of its many Russian inhabitants. Here, in the centre of Berlin, one of the major intercultural European cities with countless artistic movements and genres existing simultaneously, many important cultural centres had their home, making it inevitable that the paths of immigrants and native Berliners would cross. However, this geographical proximity was no guarantee for the interrelationship between the two cultural spheres. While some émigrés did not want to establish contacts with German citizens, there were many who came to Berlin knowing that it would not be possible to return to Russia in the near future and who already had ties to the western music community (either personally or at least socially). Detailed research on the activities of the various Russian music institutions has shown that both of these two different groups of émigrés were represented at the institutional level.

Maria Bychkova

155

One of the most important features of “Russian Berlin” was the networking nature of its cultural life. This network came into being through the institutions’ constant cooperation in two different directions: within the Russian circles in Berlin and between Russian and German artists. As to the first type of cooperation, namely the interaction within the immigrant circles themselves, it is clear that a central function of such organisations was the maintenance and constant updating of cultural memory. Without any doubt, relationships between the émigrés were very strong, as were attempts to preserve their own culture in exile and to foster a Russian national identity. This desire was transferred to the musical activities of the institutions. One cannot overemphasise the importance of these cultural activities for the survival of the Russian diaspora: the discontinuation of such relations would have led to the disappearance of the sense of community among the Russians abroad (cf. Grosul 2008: 14). Consequently, certain organisations focused on the internal cooperation with Russian musicians. The central goal of the ɋɨɞɪɭɠɟɫɬɜɨ ɢɦɟɧɢ Ƚɥɢɧɤɢ [Glinka Society], for instance, was the cultivation and promotion of Russian culture abroad. Its main function was to circulate Russian music and make it popular. The activities of this institution (that was in existence from at least 1928 to 1931) consisted of organising not only various concerts, but also thematic evenings, lectures and readings. The Glinka Society events (at least those that are documented) mainly took place at Augusta School (Elßholz Str. 34-37 in Berlin) and primarily commemorated significant historical dates or were centred on a particular Russian theme, as is evident from the following examples: an evening in honour of Anton Rubinstein’s 100th birthday on 23 November 1929, concerts on the 25th anniversary of Mitrofan Belyaev’s death (10 January 1929), an evening of folksongs (19 December 1930), an event “Ɍɚɧɟɰ ɜ pɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɟ” [The dance in Russian music] on 19 December 1929, a lecture about Lermontov in music on 25 September 1929, several concerts honouring Glinka, etc. Only Russian artists took part in these events. As press reports of these events appeared only in the Russian language newspapers, it can be assumed that the activities of this institution focused on the émigré public. The Glinka Society is only one of many examples which support the view that the Russian community in Berlin was an isolated circle.

156

Russian Music Institutions in Berlin in the 1920s

Archival sources, however, also show another type of cultural network: namely, the cooperation between Russian émigrés and their German colleagues. As already mentioned, the structure of the Russian colony was very heterogeneous in terms of the émigrés’ desire for integration. Consequently, the success or failure of such cooperation depended on the individual efforts of the participants in this process. While the Russians’ wish to be integrated played an important role, it was also dependent on the readiness of Berliners to accept a foreign culture. Yet reactions of the German cultural community to the initiatives of their Russian colleagues varied greatly. A few German cultural representatives took an active part in the institutionalisation of Russian life in Berlin. The co-founder of the Verein für das russische Theater in Berlin [Association for the Russian Theatre in Berlin], Dr. Walther Schotte (1886-1958), who was well known as a journalist and longstanding editor of the Preußische Jahrbücher, outlined the duties of his association as follows: […] den brotlosen Künstlern der großen russischen Kolonie hier Verdienstmöglichkeiten zu verschaffen und durch das Interesse deutscher Kreise an der russischen Kultur einen Beweis der Freundschaft zu geben, von dem wir uns für die Zukunft einen gewissen politischen Effekt versprechen. (Schotte 9.10.1919) [[…] to give the penniless artists of the large Russian colony here a chance to earn money and, through the interest of German circles in Russian culture, to give proof of our friendship, from which we hope to obtain certain political effects in the future.]

In contrast, Dr. Baron zu Putlitz (1860-1922), the executive director of the Deutscher Bühnenverein [German Stage Association], in an attempt to prevent the first Russian theatre in Berlin from obtaining a license, claimed to see in der Gründung derartiger russischer Theater eine schwere Gefahr für die Berliner Theaterbetriebe (Putlitz 1919) [a real danger for Berlin theatres in the founding of such a Russian theatre].

His colleague, president of the Genossenschaft Deutscher BühnenAngehöriger [Union of Employees of the German Stage] Gustav Rickelt (1862-1946) maintained that

Maria Bychkova

157

durch den Vertrieb eines russischen Theaters den anderen Berliner Theatern ein erheblicher Abbruch getan wird und damit auch die Existenz der […] deutschen Schauspieler gefährdet werden kann (Rickelt 1919) [the marketing of a Russian theatre would cause considerable damage to other Berlin theatres and thus endanger the existence of the German actors].

The founding of a Russian opera studio in Berlin in 1922, for example, was met with this overtly ironic comment in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung: Die Russifizierung Berlins macht Fortschritte: eine eigene russische Universität in der Hauptstadt des deutschen Reichs ist einstweilen zwar erst Projekt, aber eine russische Opernschule ist bereits eingerichtet und wird in den Räumen des Konservatoriums des Westens (Charlottenburg, Grolmanstr. 27) am 15. Oktober eröffnet werden […]. ([N.N.] Russische Opernschule 1922) [The Russification of Berlin is making progress: a Russian university in the capital of the German Reich is for the time being only a project, but a Russian opera school has already been organised and will be opened in the rooms of the Western Conservatory (Charlottenburg, Grolmanstr. 27) on 15 October […].]

At the same time, the announcement in the Berliner Börsen-Courier of the opening of the new Russian theatre Ƚɨɥɭɛɨɣ ɫɚɪɚɮɚɧ [The Blue Sarafan] sounded neutral, if not friendly. According to this newspaper, the new theatre intended to unter Ausschaltung jeglicher politischer Tendenzen dem Berliner Publikum die russische Kunst nahe [zu] bringen [make Russian art accessible to the Berlin public, excluding any political intentions].

Above all, it cultivated die Hauptgebiete der besonders dem deutschen Publikum bekannten russischen Kunst […]; das Ballett, den Romanzenvortrag, den Zigeunerchor und das Balalaikaorchester ([N.N.] Blauer Sarafan 1919) [the main fields of the Russian arts especially well known to the German public, namely ballet, the performance of romances, the gypsy choir, and the balalaika orchestra.].

158

Russian Music Institutions in Berlin in the 1920s

These examples highlight that on the German side, the activities of Russian institutions were received very differently. The Russian diaspora offered Berliners the opportunity to improve their understanding of Russian culture. However German musicians and artists were afraid of the competition in their already difficult financial positions. These initial fears of the emigrants’ performances are surprising: Russians performing at Russian community events, organised for members of that same community, could hardly be seen as a threat to German theatres. But in 1919 a great number of Russian cultural events suddenly appeared in Berlin, arousing the interest of the local public. These performances were also attended by German critics, whose reviews were often positive, for example regarding a theatre play in Ƚɨɥɭɛɨɣ ɫɚɪɚɮɚɧ [The Blue Sarafan]: Die Bilder und einzelnen Szenen sind so geschickt zusammengestellt, die Mimik der Künstler so gut, dass man zum Verstehen der russischen Sprache wirklich nicht bedarf. (Kgg. 1919) The images and single scenes are so cleverly put together, the expressions of the artist are so good that one does not really need to understand the Russian language.

Such reviews could lure the public away from the German theatres, and this, of course, worried German artists. The president of the Genossenschaft Deutscher Bühnen-Angehöriger wrote to the police headquarters that durch den Betrieb eines ausländisches Theaters den Berliner Theatern eine große Zahl von Besuchern verloren geht (Rickelt 1919) [through the enterprise of a foreign theatre Berlin theatres will lose a large number of visitors].

Moreover, the Russian émigrés with German patrons managed to attract German sponsors for the Russian theatres. Walther Schotte, for example, declared his willingness to provide security in order to allow the establishment of the Association for the Russian Theatre in Berlin (cf. Schotte 28.10.1919). The financing of this theatrical enterprise was organised, to the surprise of the German public, with the assistance of the German Foreign Ministry. Such support of a Russian organisation was commented in the Berlin press as follows:

Maria Bychkova

159

Es ist immerhin erfreulich, dass das Auswärtige Amt sich wenigstens in einer Hinsicht betätigt und dadurch seinen Dornröschenschlaf unterbricht. Ob es aber wirklich die Aufgabe hat, russischen Theatergründern Geld zu verschaffen, scheint uns doch einigermaßen fraglich. ([N.N.] Lustspieltheater in Berlin 1919) It is, after all, pleasing that the Foreign Ministry is active in at least one respect, and thereby interrupting its beauty sleep. Whether it is really its task to supply the Russian theatre founders with money, however, seems to us somewhat questionable.

Evidence of Russian-German cooperation at the institutional level can be found in different émigré music institutions. One of the most important and active educational organisations was the Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɤɨɧɫɟɪɜɚɬɨɪɢɹ [Russian Conservatory]. This conservatory was founded by Russian immigrants and officially opened in the autumn of 1922 (Schlögel et al. 1999: 127).4 The guiding force of this initiative was the composer S. A. Liberzon from Odessa.5 The departments of this institution brought together a large number of outstanding artists and educators, including the cellist Gregor Pyatigorsky (1903-1976), the violinist Lea Luboshuts (1885-1965), the singer Anna El-Tur (1886-1954), the former professor of the St Petersburg Conservatory and “Kammersängerin” Thérèse Leshetitskaya-Dolinina (1873-1956), the pianist Isabelle Vengerova (1877-1956), and in later years the longstanding accompanist of Jascha Heifetz, the pianist Emmanuel Bay (1891-1968).6 According to newspaper reports, this institution was active until at least 1927.7 Considering the relatively short lifespan of the Russian colony in Berlin, the conservatory existed for a considerable time span compared to other institutions (the Russian magazine Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ [Music] for instance, was in circulation for just one edition, and the aforementioned Glinka Society probably existed for only three years). In its first years, the conservatory mainly consisted of Russian immigrants. But in the course of only a few years it had become known as more than just an educational institution for Russians. According to a 1927 review in Ɋɭɥɶ – one of the early leading Russian daily newspapers in Berlin – there were as many Russian students and professors as there were German ones ([N.N.], Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɤɨɧɫɟɪɜɚɬɨɪɢɹ 1927). The author accredits this in part to the decline of the Russian colony as well as to the popularisation of the conservatory in German music circles. It is remarkable that the review highlights the equality between the conservatory and similar German institutions, stating that it offers

160

Russian Music Institutions in Berlin in the 1920s ɫɜɨɢɦ ɭɱɚɳɢɦɫɹ ɬɟ ɠɟ ɩɪɚɜɚ ɢ ɩɪɟɢɦɭɳɟɫɬɜɚ, ɤɚɤ ɢ ɜɫɹɤɚɹ ɞɪɭɝɚɹ ɤɨɧɫɟɪɜɚɬɨɪɢɹ ɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɟ (ibid.) [its students the same rights and privileges as every other conservatory in Berlin].

However, in the article this transformation is also considered a threat to the original artistic principles of the conservatory. Further cooperation between Russian and German organisations concerned the regular production of joint concerts. One such concert was held by the Berliner Symphonieorchester in conjunction with the orchestra of the ɋɨɸɡ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɯ ɞɟɹɬɟɥɟɣ [Association of Russian Musicians] on 19 September 1930; it featured, among other works, the Berlin premiere of Glazunov’s Fourth Symphony. The Russian conservatory also hosted similar intercultural events, for instance a concert on 26 January 1923 benefitting the Deutscher Schriftstellerverband [German Writers’ Association], where many educators of the conservatory participated (Schlögel et al. 1999: 154). It is also necessary to mention a few organisations which were conceived as Russian-German institutions and which maintained mutual contacts. A few examples include the Ausschuss zur Förderung der Wechselbeziehungen zwischen deutschem und ukrainischem Chorgesang [Committee for the Promotion of Interrelations between German and Ukrainian Choral Singing], the ɇɟɦɟɰɤɨ-ɪɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɨɛɳɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɟ ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɟ [Deutsch-russische Freundschaft, German-Russian Friendship], and the Ɉɛɴɟɞɢɧɟɧɢɟ ɝɟɪɦɚɧɫɤɢɯ ɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɨɜ ɢ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɟɣ [Union of German and Russian Artists and Writers]. It is not clear how much the activities of the latter association had to do with music. The press reported an appeal for aid to victims of the Russian famine that was organised in August 1922 by the Union of German and Russian Artists and Writers. According to the press release, several prominent figures signed this proclamation, including Wilhelm Furtwängler, Bruno Walter, Arthur Schnabel, Alexander Glazunov, Nikolai Medtner, Leonid Kreutzer, several educators at the Russian conservatory and other artists (Schlögel et al. 1999: 115). Until now, no further information on this initiative has appeared, but the names mentioned indicate the seriousness of the society. The most flexible organisations which actively worked in both Russian and German artistic circles were the many concert agencies and entrepreneurial enterprises. Many of these not only concentrated on an émigré

Maria Bychkova

161

audience, but also put on concerts for German listeners. One of these agencies was run by the Russian concert promoters Abraham and Alexander Gorlinsky (1898-?) who worked with several Berlin ensembles and soloists, both German and Russian. Another person engaged in this mediating, intercultural activity was the agent Peter Sirota (1884-?) who worked with world famous artists, such as the opera singers Joseph Schwarz and Fedor Shalyapin, the conductor Serge Kusevitsky, Igor’ Stravinsky, and Serge Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes. These concerts and events were aimed at the Russian as well as German public. Such music agencies were competitive in the German market and were not limited exclusively to émigré circles. Beyond the stereotypical image of the Russian colony in Berlin as a selfcentred and isolated circle with its own institutions, focusing on the preservation of Russian culture for Russian émigrés, there were many organisations that cooperated with their German colleagues. This type of collaboration helped dismantle barriers of language and culture and established new meeting grounds for both cultures. Accordingly, the Russian music institutions in Berlin were marked concurrently by conservatism and seclusion as well as evolution and exchange.

Archival holdings Landesarchiv Berlin, Polizeiakten, Russisches Theater [A Pr. Br. Rep. 030-05, Nr. 930]: Putlitz, Joachim Gans zu (30.10.1919): Der geschäftsführende Direktor des Deutschen Bühnenvereins an den Herrn Polizei-Präsidenten [letter]. Rickelt, Gustav (15.11.1919): Präsident der Genossenschaft Deutscher Bühnenangehörigen an das Polizeipräsidium [letter]. Schotte, Walther (28.10.1919): an den Herrn Polizeipräsidenten von Berlin [letter]. —. (9.10.1919): Verein für das russische Theater in Berlin an den Herrn Polizei-Präsidenten von Berlin [letter]. Kgg. (1919, December 22): Der blaue Sarafan, in: newspaper title unreadable [newspaper clipping in: Landesarchiv Berlin, Polizeiakten, Russisches Theater]. [N.N.] Blauer Sarafan (1919, October 6), in: Berliner Börsen-Courier [newspaper clipping in: Landesarchiv Berlin, Polizeiakten, Russisches Theater].

162

Russian Music Institutions in Berlin in the 1920s

[N.N.] Lustspieltheater in Berlin (1919, October 29), in: newspaper title unreadable [newspaper clipping in: Landesarchiv Berlin, Polizeiakten, Russisches Theater].

Bibliography Blücher, Wipert von (1951): Deutschlands Weg nach Rapallo. Erinnerung eines Mannes aus dem zweiten Gliede, Wiesbaden. Dena (1922, January 1): Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɜ Ƚɟɪɦɚɧɢɢ, in: Ɋɭɥɶ, p. 1. Engel, Robert (1926/27): Russische Musik in Deutschland, in: Osteuropa. Zeitschrift für die gesamten Fragen des Europäischen Ostens, 2. Jahrgang, Heft 4, Berlin. Grosul, Vladislav (2008): Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɟ ɜ ɩɟɪɜɨɣ ɩɨɥɨɜɢɧɟ XIX ɜɟɤɚ, Moscow. Katchourovskaja, Mareike (2008): Die russische Öffentlichkeit im Berlin der Weimarer Republik, Frankfurt am Main (Europäische Hochschulschriften, ser. 3, Geschichte und ihre Hilfswissenschaften, vol. 1053). L.L. (1923, December 22): ɍɱɟɧɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɜɟɱɟɪ, in: Ɋɭɥɶ, p. 8. Lomtev, Denis (2002): An der Quelle: Deutsche Musiker in Russland. Zur Entstehungsgeschichte der russischen Konservatorien, Lage-Hörste. Nabokov, Nicolas (1975): Bagázh. Memoirs of a Russian Cosmopolitan, New York. Nabokov, Vladimir (2012): Ⱦɪɭɝɢɟ ɛɟɪɟɝɚ, St Petersburg (first published as “Conclusive Evidence” in 1951). Sabennikova, Irina (2002): Ɋɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɚɹ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ 1917-1939, Tver’. Schlögel, Karl (1994): Berlin. Stiefmutter unter den russischen Städten, in: id. (ed.), Der große Exodus. Die russische Emigration und ihre Zentren 1917 bis 1941, Munich, pp. 234-259. —. (1998): Berlin, Ostbahnhof Europas. Russen und Deutsche in ihrem Jahrhundert, Berlin. Schlögel, Karl, Kucher, Katharina, Suchy, Bernhard, Thum, Gregor (eds.) (1999): Chronik russischen Lebens in Deutschland 1918-1941, Berlin. Stengel, Theophil, Gerigk, Herbert (1940): Lexikon der Juden in der Musik, Berlin. Vinnik, Aleksey (2006): Ƚɟɪɦɚɧɫɤɢɟ ɜɥɚɫɬɢ ɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɣ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧ ɜ 1920-ɟ ɝɝ: ɉɨ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɚɦ Ɋɨɫɫɢɣɫɤɨɝɨ ɝɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɜɨɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɚɪɯɢɜɚ, in: Lazar’ Fleyshman (ed.), Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧ 1920-1945. Ɇɟɠɞɭɧɚɪɨɞɧɚɹ ɧɚɭɱɧɚɹ ɤɨɧɮɟɪɟɧɰɢɹ 16-18 ɞɟɤɚɛɪɹ 2002 ɝ., Moscow. Volkmann, Hans-Erich (1966): Die russische Emigration in Deutschland 1919-1929, Würzburg.

Maria Bychkova

163

[N.N.] Russische Opernschule (1922, October 6), in: Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, p. 739. [N.N.] Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɤɨɧɫɟɪɜɚɬɨɪɢɹ (1927, September 18), in: Ɋɭɥɶ, p. 8.

Notes 1

The Russian daily newspaper in Berlin, Ɋɭɥɶ [The Helm], reported over 300.000 Russian refugees at the beginning of 1922 based on data from the German ministry of the interior (Dena 1922). However, it must be noted that many emigrants did not legally register (cf. Schlögel 1994: 237). There is also no information about the number of Russian emigrants in Berlin in the second half of the 1920s. According to the League of Nations, only 45.000 Russians still lived in Germany in 19361937 (cf. Sabennikova 2002: 252). 2 These cultural relations had developed in various social strata over the course of several centuries and had thus provided a basis for the first wave of Russian emigration to Berlin (cf. Lomtev 2002). 3 This archive was founded 1923 in Prague and transported to Moscow in 1945. Today the archive collection is located in various cities of the former Soviet Union. 4 It is worth noting that a similar institution – the Russian Conservatory – was opened in Paris in 1924. 5 Little is known today about Liberzon who taught a composition class at the Berlin Russian conservatory (L.L. 1923). He might be identical to “Dr A.S. Liberzon”, mentioned as a composer and Kapellmeister from Odessa in Stengel/Gerigk 1940, p. 161. 6 Many of these musicians travelled to the USA a little later where they successfully established their careers. 7 A more exact date has not yet been determined.

“SLAVIC CHARM AND THE SOUL OF TOLSTOY”: RUSSIAN MUSIC IN PARIS IN THE 1920S ANYA LEVEILLÉ

From the very beginning of the 1920s, France was one of the most important destinations for the Russian diaspora, with about eighty thousand émigrés living there between the two world wars (Gousseff 2008: 106). They had a particularly strong presence in Paris, where the census counted almost forty-five thousand Russian émigrés in 1926.1 More specifically, the French capital attracted the elite of the Russian artistic circles, including many musicians, conductors, composers and dancers. These émigrés founded various groups and associations, starting in the early 1920s, which then played an important role in the development of Russian culture abroad. The meetings of lawyers’, engineers’, doctors’, students’ and artists’ organisations that were announced in the Russianlanguage daily newspapers ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɟ ɧɨɜɨɫɬɢ [Latest News] and ȼɨɡɪɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ [Rebirth] were regularly punctuated by musical interludes performed by Russian émigré artists. These little concerts, which obviously emphasised the Russian repertoire (mostly music for voice and chamber ensembles), gave the émigré musicians and composers an opportunity to find an audience. The important position that music held in émigré circles is indicated by Lev Mnoukhine in his monumental Chronique de la vie culturelle, scientifique et sociale à Paris [Chronicle of cultural, scientific, and social life in Paris], which gives a day-by-day account of the various events that dotted the life of the Russian diaspora from 1920 to 1940 (Mnoukhine 1995). Apart from the musical interludes that took place in the context of such nonmusical events, however, the émigrés also set up structures needed to promote and spread Russian music, thereby recreating the institutions they had known at home. In February 1921, Baron Nicolas von Drizen (18681935) founded the ɋɨɸɡ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɯ ɞɟɹɬɟɥɟɣ [Union of

166

Russian Music in Paris in the 1920s

Russian Musicians and Composers]. This organisation, which was active from 1921 to 1924, arranged a variety of events dedicated to Russian music, with a first series of concerts taking place in June 1921 in the Salle Pleyel. The conductor Serge Kusevitsky, who lived in Paris from 1921 to 1924, quickly established himself within the musical scene as one of the most important promoters of Russian music. He organised a Festival de musique russe [Festival of Russian music] in April and May 1921, with three concerts in the Salle Gaveau and the Grand Opéra, which were greeted with lively enthusiasm in the Parisian press. The concerts were dedicated to a veritable retrospective of Russian music, with works by Glinka, Mussorgsky, Tchaikovsky, Skryabin, Lyadov, Stravinsky and Prokof’ev. Even though, at the first concert, most of the audience was made up of Russian émigrés, 2 the French critics recognised the conductor’s mastery and the originality of the programmes. Kusevitsky then went on to conduct concerts of Russian music every year through 1928, taking care to present a balance of classical and contemporary repertoires (including works by émigré composers such as Stravinsky, Prokof’ev, Obukhov, and Dukelsky). Apart from Kusevitsky, other émigré composers and musicians also took part in a multitude of concerts and festivals in Paris. In the same spring of 1921, the musical offerings to the Parisian public in addition to Kusevitsky’s festival included an evening of Russian and French music; a musical matinée intended for young Russians organised by Maria Olenina d’Alheim; a concert entitled Une soirée à Saint Pétersbourg [An Evening in Saint Petersburg] organised by Baron von Drizen; two recitals by the pianist Aleksandr Borovsky (1889-1968) and the cellist Evsey Belousov (1881/82-1945) (with works by Skryabin, Glazunov, and Prokof’ev); two evenings of Russian songs sung by Vera Janacopoulos-Stal (YanakopulosStal’; 1892-1955); the premiere of Prokof’ev’s ɒɭɬ [The Buffoon] as part of Sergei Diaghilev’s Ballets russes; and another concert of Russian symphonic music conducted by Grigory Zaslavsky (?-1953), without even mentioning the concerts of Gypsy music, Ukrainian choirs, and other recitals that were given that spring! These are just a few examples from 1921, but there was a similar level of effervescent musical activity throughout the 1920s and into the early 1930s. On the topic of the abundance of Russian music, we read as early as 1921:

Anya Leveillé

167

Ɇɵ ɡɞɟɫɶ ɩɪɢɫɭɫɬɜɭɟɦ ɫɟɣɱɚɫ ɩɪɢ ɫɜɨɟɛɪɚɡɧɨɦ ɡɚɜɨɟɜɚɧɢɟ ɉɚɪɢɠɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɦɢ ɚɪɬɢɫɬɚɦɢ: ɧɟ ɝɨɜɨɪɹ ɭɠɟ ɨ ɫɢɦɮɨɧɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɚɯ Ʉɭɫɟɜɢɰɤɨɝɨ, ɦɵ ɢɦɟɥɢ ɜ ɬɟɱɟɧɢɟ ɞɜɭɯ ɧɟɞɟɥɶ ɞɜɚ ɪɟɰɢɬɚɥɹ ɩɢɚɧɢɫɬɚ Ⱥ. Ȼɪɚɢɥɨɜɫɤɨɝɨ, ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬ ɝɝ. Ȼɨɪɨɜɫɤɨɝɨ ɢ Ȼɟɥɨɭɫɨɜɚ ɢ ɥɢɞɟɪ-ɚɛɟɧɞ Ƚɠɢ. əɧɚɤɨɩɭɥɨɫ-ɋɬɚɥɶ. (ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɟ ɧɨɜɨɫɬɢ, 10 May 1921, No. 324, p. 4) [We are witnessing an extraordinary conquest of Paris by Russian artists, not to mention the symphonic concerts organised by Koussevitzky, during two weeks we heard two recitals given by pianist A[lexander] Brailovsky, a concert of MM. Borovsky and Belousov and a liederabend by Mrs. Yanakopulos-Stal’.] Ʉɨɧɰɟɪɬɵ, ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɵ, ɰɟɥɵɟ ɩɨɬɨɤɢ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɨɜ, ɰɟɥɵɟ ɥɚɜɢɧɵ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɨɜ. ɇɟ ɫɜɢɞɟɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɭɟɬ ɥɢ ɷɬɨ ɨ ɫɢɥɟ, ɨ ɛɨɝɚɬɫɬɜɟ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ? (ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɟ ɧɨɜɨɫɬɢ, 20 January 1921, No. 230). [Concerts, concerts. Floods of concerts, avalanches of concerts […] Is this not a testimony to the power and richness of artistic life?]

What, then, were the reasons for this fervent excitement? “Le Russe chasse son ennui par la musique” [Russians use music to fight their boredom], wrote André Cœuroy in his Panorama de la musique contemporaine in 1928 (Cœuroy 1928: 17). Yet more seriously, in spite of living conditions that were both morally and materially trying, the Russian artistic diaspora strove not only to continue its creative work, but also to preserve and carry on Russian culture and to pass it on to the younger generation. For these reasons, the development of musical education patterned on the Russian institutions had been an very early essential priority of the émigrés, who established several schools of music during the 1920s and 1930s. On 15 October 1921, an announcement appeared in ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɟ ɧɨɜɨɫɬɢ that the conductor Zaslavsky had opened a school called the ɉɟɬɪɨɝɪɚɞɫɤɚɹ Ɏɢɥɚɪɦɨɧɢɹ ɜ ɉɚɪɢɠɟ [Petrograd Philharmonic in Paris]: Ɉɬɤɪɵɬɢɟ ɉɟɬɪɨɝɪɚɞɫɤɨɣ Ɏɢɥɚɪɦɨɧɢɢ ɜ ɉɚɪɢɠɟ ɩɨɞ ɪɭɤ. Ƚ. Ɂɚcɥɚɜɫɤɨɝɨ. Ɉɬɞɟɥɟɧɢɹ: ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɟ, ɞɪɚɦɚɬɢɱɟcɤɨɟ, ɨɩɟɪɧɨɟ, ɢ ɛɚɥɟɬɧɨɟ. ɉɪɢɝɥɚɲɟɧɵ ɮɪɚɧɰɭɡɫɤɢɟ ɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɩɪɨɮɟɫɫɨɪɚ. (Quoted in Mnoukhine 1995: 46) [Opening of the Petrograd Philharmonic in Paris under the direction of G. Zaslavsky. Departments: music, theatre, opera and ballet. The lessons are taught by French and Russian teachers.]

168

Russian Music in Paris in the 1920s

Unfortunately, I was not able to find further information about this institution, but it would appear that it stopped offering classes in 1924, the year in which the Conservatoire Russe de Paris was founded. The Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɧɚɪɨɞɧɵɣ ɭɧɢɜɟɪɫɢɬɟɬ [Russian Popular University], which opened in 1921, also offered musical education and was actively involved in the founding of the Paris Russian Conservatory in 1924. The Conservatory, in turn, was able to bring together the diaspora’s most important forces, and it became the centre of Russian musical activity in Paris. A reviewer from the Ménestrel recalled that the aim of the Conservatory, whose founding director was Nikolay Tcherepnin, was to créer, avec des éléments proprement nationaux (professeurs, élèves et répertoire), un enseignement musical russe […] et à la fois laboratoire d’études ouvert aux Français qui voudraient approfondir leur connaissance de la musique russe. (Le Ménestrel, 7 November 1924, p. 462) [create a Russian musical education with national elements (Russian teachers and students and a Russian repertory), and also to become a demonstration school that would be open to the French who were interested in deepening their knowledge of Russian music.]

Another reviewer, reporting in the Revue Musicale on the opening of the Conservatory and emphasising its role as a “promoter” of Russian musical culture abroad, welcomed the creation of such an institution, writing: Que la Russie musicale, répandue à l’heure actuelle dans le monde entier, occupe dans le mouvement artistique général une place de tout premier ordre, c’est un lieu commun de le constater. En bien des pays, déjà, les musiciens russes s’étaient groupés pour constituer des foyers de culture nationale. L’idée de créer à Paris un centre de ce genre, envisagée depuis un certain temps, vient enfin d’être réalisé. Le nouveau Conservatoire russe, pour fêter son inauguration, convia ses amis à un concert donné à la Maison Pleyel, qui restera du reste le siège de son enseignement. […] Ce Conservatoire a pour but de maintenir une certaine tradition, une certaine culture musicale propre à la Russie, puis de donner aux Français et en général aux étrangers toutes facilités pour étudier l’art de ce pays. (Petit 1924: 158) [It is a commonplace to note that musical Russia, which has now spread throughout the entire world, is at the forefront of the general artistic movement. Russian musicians had already joined forces in a number of countries in order to set up centers for their national culture. The idea of creating such a centre in Paris, which has been under consideration for some time, has finally been brought to fruition. To celebrate its opening,

Anya Leveillé

169

the new Russian Conservatory invited its friends to a concert given in the Maison Pleyel, which will incidentally also be home to the Conservatory’s classes […] The goal of this Conservatory is to maintain a certain tradition, a certain musical culture that is unique to Russia, and then to give every opportunity to French people and to foreigners in general to study this country’s art.]

We can see, then, that Russian musical life in Paris was not confined to émigré circles but was, rather, fully integrated into French musical life.

A national school in exile In the article in the Ménestrel briefly quoted above, dealing with the founding of the Paris Russian Conservatory, the reviewer emphasised the fact that the creation of that institution was evidence of a attitude complexe que nous retrouverons chez tout écrivain ou chez tout artiste russe: désir de se fondre dans notre civilisation occidentale, tout en conservant intact un prosélytisme artistique russe – étrange combinaison de déracinement et de persistance nationale. (Le Ménestrel, 7 November 1924, p. 462) [complicated attitude that we find in every Russian writer or artist: the desire to blend into our Western civilisation while at the same time preserving a certain sort of Russian artistic proselytising—a strange combination of rootlessness and of national persistence.]

The phrase “strange combination of rootlessness and of national persistence” seems a particularly apt description of the somewhat paradoxical state of the Russian musical diaspora (and, more specifically, of the composers within it), which, while integrating itself into its new host country, still wanted to maintain its national identity through the recreation of a “Russian school in exile”. This latter designation may, in fact, be somewhat problematic, because it is so difficult and risky to gather, under one banner, a group of composers who, in spite of having been regrouped together in the same place, took aesthetic paths very distinct from each other (such as following the Romantic tradition, taking the Russian national path, or connecting to different currents of the avant-garde). Be that as it may, the “Russian school in exile” or “emigrant Russian school” was frequently referred to in articles that appeared during the 1920s and 1930s, indicating that the émigrés were perfectly conscious of the uniqueness of their musical diaspora, which was trying to carve out its

170

Russian Music in Paris in the 1920s

own path somewhere between preservation and assimilation. In 1933, for example, the composer Arthur Lourié, in an article entitled ɉɭɬɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɲɤɨɥɵ [The Ways of the Russian School] wrote that one could obviously consider all of the composers who were grouped together this way as belonging to the same school since, in spite of their different orientations, they spoke the “ɨɛɳɢɣ ɞɥɹ ɜɫɟɯ ɹɡɵɤ, ɬ.-ɟ. ɪɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɹɡɵɤ“ [same language for all, i.e. the Russian musical language] (Lourié 1933: 228). According to Lourié, this “Russian identity” is not so much something that can be discerned in a common musical project or current as it is an attachment that ties all of these musicians to Russian culture in the widest sense of the term, including language, literature, folklore, and music. Aleksandr Tcherepnin (the son of Nikolay Tcherepnin), who was a regular music reviewer alongside his activities as a composer, also posed the question of what it was exactly that characterised a Russian national school developing outside of Russia. In an article published in ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɟ ɧɨɜɨɫɬɢ, Tcherepnin asserted that exile ɧɟ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɧɟ ɧɚɪɭɲɢɥ, ɚ ɟɳɺ ɛɨɥɟɟ ɜɵɹɜɢɥ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɟ ɧɚɩɪɚɜɥɟɧɢɟ ɷɦɢɝɪɢɪɨɜɚɜɲɢɯ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɨɜ (quoted in Korabel’nikova 1999: 194) [not only had not impeded the development of a national expression in the music of emigrant composers, but it had in fact encouraged it].

If, for certain composers, including Sergey Rakhmaninov, exile meant a draining of their creative powers, for others the uprooting was taken as a new stimulus, particularly in the way it strengthened the national element in their work. In his memoirs, Aleksandr Grechaninov, echoing Aleksandr Tcherepnin, noted that it was exile that had led him to become aware of this “national element”: ɇɟɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɢ ɡɚ-ɝɪɚɧɢɰɟɣ ɠɚɥɭɸɬɫɹ, ɱɬɨ ɛɭɞɭɱɢ ɨɬɨɪɜɚɧɧɵɦɢ ɨɬ ɪɨɞɧɨɣ ɩɨɱɜɵ, ɨɧɢ ɧɟ ɦɨɝɭɬ ɡɞɟɫɶ ɬɜɨɪɢɬɶ. ɍ ɦɟɧɹ ɷɬɨɝɨ ɧɟ ɛɵɥɨ. ɇɚɨɛɨɪɨɬ. ə ɦɧɨɝɨ ɡɞɟɫɶ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɥ ɢ ɜ ɫɨɱɢɧɟɧɢɹɯ ɦɨɢɯ, ɧɚɩɢɫɚɧɧɵɯ ɡɞɟɫɶ, ɤɚɤ ɛɭɞɬɨ ɟɳɟ ɛɨɥɟɟ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɭɟɬɫɹ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɤɨɥɨɪɢɬ, ɱɟɦ ɜ ɩɪɟɠɧɢɯ, ɧɚɩɢɫɚɧɧɵɯ ɞɨɦɚ. Ɂɞɟɫɶ ɢɡɞɚɥɟɤɚ ɹ ɟɳɟ ɨɫɬɪɟɟ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɭɸ ɜɫɺ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɢ ɨɳɭɳɚɸ ɝɥɭɛɠɟ ɫɜɨɸ ɥɸɛɨɜɶ ɢ ɩɪɢɜɹɡaɧɧɨɫɬɶ ɤ ɪɨɞɢɧɟ. Ʉɨɧɟɱɧɨ, ɷɬɨ ɧɟ ɦɨɝɥɨ ɧɟ ɨɬɪɚɡɢɬɶɫɹ ɢ ɧɚ ɦɨɢɯ ɡɞɟɲɧɢɯ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɯ. (Grechaninov 1934: 118-119) [Certain Russian émigré writers complain about the creative difficulties caused by being uprooted. I have to say that I have not had any such

Anya Leveillé

171

problems. On the contrary, I have done a lot of work abroad, and the works that I have written here are even more marked by the Russian national colour. Here, far from my homeland, I feel and experience my love for Russia and my attachment to it even more strongly. This feeling, of course, could not but be reflected in my music.]

It is important to emphasise that the concept of a national music certainly had a different meaning for a “traditionalist” composer such as Grechaninov than it had for Aleksandr Tcherepnin or for Lourié, who were connected with the currents of the avant-garde. For these latter composers, the idea of a national music no longer meant the routine use of folk themes and other exotic clichés. In fact, in the article already quoted above (and already in its slightly older English variant), Lourié insisted on this point: ȿɫɥɢ ɛɵ ɧɟ ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɢɣ, ɫɭɞɶɛɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ ɧɚ Ɂɚɩɚɞɟ ɛɵɥɚ ɛɵ ɫɟɣɱɚɫ, ɜɟɪɨɹɬɧɨ, ɫɨɜɟɪɲɟɧɧɨ ɢɧɨɣ. Ȼɥɚɝɨɞɚɪɹ ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɨɦɭ, ɧɨɜɚɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɧɚ Ɂɚɩɚɞɟ ɜɵɲɥɚ ɧɚ ɦɟɠɞɭɧɚɪɨɞɧɭɸ ɚɪɟɧɭ. Ɉɧɚ ɧɟ ɭɬɪɚɬɢɥɚ ɩɪɢ ɷɬɨɦ ɫɜɨɟɝɨ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɯɚɪɚɤɬɟɪɚ, ɧɨ ɨɬɥɢɱɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɣ ɨɫɨɛɟɧɧɨɫɬɶɸ ɧɚɲɟɣ ɡɚɩɚɞɧɨɣ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɫɤɨɣ ɝɪɭɩɩɵ ɹɜɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɬɨ, ɱɬɨ ɜ ɧɟɣ ɥɢɤɜɢɞɢɪɨɜɚɧɵ ɬɟ ɭɫɬɚɧɨɜɤɢ ɧɟ «ɷɤɡɨɬɢɤɭ», ɤɨɬɨɪɚɹ ɫɱɢɬɚɥɚɫɶ ɩɪɟɠɞɟ ɧɟɨɛɯɨɞɢɦɨɣ ɩɪɢɧɚɞɥɟɠɧɨɫɬɶɸ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɬɢɥɹ, ɤɚɤ ɤɚɜɢɚɪ, ɜɨɞɤɚ ɢ ɛɚɥɚɥɚɣɤɚ. Ȼɟɡ ɧɚɥɢɱɢɹ ɷɬɨɣ «ɷɤɡɨɬɢɤɢ», ɡɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɨɣ ɧɟ ɩɪɢɡɧɚɜɚɥɢ ɜ ȿɜɪɨɩɟ ɩɪɚɜɚ ɧɚ ɫɜɨɺ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɟ ɥɢɰɨ. Ɍɟɩɟɪɶ ɷɬɨ ɭɠɟ ɜ ɩɪɨɲɥɨɦ. ɉɨɫɥɟ ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɨɝɨ, ɦɨɥɨɞɵɟ ɧɚ Ɂɚɩɚɞɟ ɭɠɟ ɤɚɤ ɛɵ ɩɨ ɬɪɚɞɢɰɢɢ ɢɞɭɬ ɡɚ ɧɢɦ ɩɨ ɩɭɬɢ ɪɚɡɪɟɲɟɧɢɹ ɨɛɳɢɯ ɩɪɨɛɥɟɦ, ɚ ɧɟ ɫɩɟɰɢɮɢɱɟɫɤɢ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɵɯ. (Lourié 1933: 228) [But for Stravinsky, the fate of Russian music in the West would probably have been quite different by now. As I have already remarked, Stravinsky found an outlet from the national plane to the universal, and therefore, thanks to him, the new Russian music in the West has entered the international arena. It has not forfeited its national character, but a distinguishing peculiarity of our Western group of composers is that the “exotics” which Europe used to consider an indispensable national attribute of the Russian style have been eliminated. The young men of the West are already following what might be termed the Stravinsky tradition, and treading the path which leads towards the solution of general, and not restricted and specifically national, problems. (Lourié 1932: 528)]

Stravinsky himself, ironically, had criticised Skryabin for writing music “stripped of any national character” (quoted in Schloezer 1929: 11).

172

Russian Music in Paris in the 1920s

Russian music under the scrutiny of Parisian critics It was not necessarily obvious to everyone that the “Russianness” of Russian music could not simply be boiled down to a list of “exotic” clichés, including “popular” and “barbaric” components. The Parisian public’s taste for Russian music had been shaped, through Diaghilev’s first Russian seasons, precisely by the display of such clichés, and it was no simple task to convert this public to the appreciation of a different kind of “national expression”, especially since the main Parisian orchestras (including the Pasdeloup, Caméléon, Lamoureux, and Colonne concerts) exploited the rich commercial lode that Slavicism offered by regularly including works of the Mighty Five. This repetitiveness was noted by Boris de Schloezer, who, in the columns of ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɟ ɧɨɜɨɫɬɢ in early 1921, lamented the way these programs were all so similar to each other and so timid: ɏɨɬɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɜ ɉɚɪɢɠɟ ɜ ɥɢɰɟ Ɇɭɫɨɪɝɫɤɨɝɨ, Ȼɨɪɨɞɢɧɚ, Ɋɢɦɫɤɨɝɨ-Ʉɨɪɫɚɤɨɜɚ ɢ ɛɥɢɠɟ ɤ ɧɚɦ ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɨɝɨ ɨɞɟɪɠɚɥɚ ɭɠɟ ɤɪɭɩɧɵɟ ɩɨɛɟɞɵ ɢ ɧɟɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɢ ɡɞɟɫɶ ɠɚɥɭɸɬɫɹ ɧɚ ɨɤɚɡɵɜɚɟɦɨɟ ɟɸ ɱɪɟɡɦɟɪɧɨɟ ɜɥɢɹɧɢɟ, ɧɭɠɧɨ ɩɪɢɡɧɚɬɶɫɹ, ɱɬɨ ɧɚɲɟ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɡɧɚɸɬ ɜɨ Ɏɪɚɧɰɢɢ ɨɱɟɧɶ ɩɨɜɟɪɯɧɨɫɬɧɨ ɢ ɧɟɞɨɫɬɚɬɨɱɧɨ. ɑɬɨ ɧɚɯɨɞɢɦ ɜ ɩɪɨɝɪɚɦɦɚɯ ɡɞɟɲɧɢɯ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɨɜ? «ȼ ɫɪɟɞɧeɣ Ⱥɡɢɢ» Ȼɨɪɨɞɢɧɚ ɢ «ɒɟɯɟɪɚɡɚɞɚ» Ɋɢɦɫɤɨɝɨ-Ʉɨɪɫɚɤɨɜɚ; ɢɡɪɟɞɤɚ «ɋɚɞɤɨ» ɢ «Ɂɨɥɨɬɨɝɨ ɉɟɬɭɲɤɚ». ȼɨɬ ɢ ɜɫɺ. Ɇɨɠɧɨ ɩɪɚɜɨ ɩɨɞɭɦɚɬɶ, ɱɬɨ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɩɹɬɢ, ɩɨɫɥɟ Ɇɨɝɭɱɟɣ Ʉɭɱɤɢ, ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɟ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ, ɡɚ ɢɫɤɥɸɱɟɧɢɟɦ ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɨɜɟɪɲɟɧɧɨ ɢɫɬɨɱɢɥɨɫɶ. ȼɨ Ɏɪɚɧɰɢɢ ɡɧɚɤɨɦɵ ɛɨɥɟɟ ɢɥɢ ɦɟɧɟɟ ɫ ɬɟɦɢ ɬɟɱɟɧɢɹɦɢ ɧɚɲɟɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɦɵɫɥɢ, ɤɨɬɨɪɨɟ ɢɫɯɨɞɢɬ ɨɬ Ƚɥɢɧɤɢ, ɢɫɬɨɱɧɢɤɢ ɤɨɬɨɪɨɝɨ – ɧɚɪɨɞɧɨɟ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ, ɧɚɪɨɞɧɚɹ ɩɟɫɧɹ. Ɏɪɚɧɰɭɡɵ, ɜ ɤɨɧɰɟ ɤɨɧɰɨɜ, ɢɧɬɟɪɟɫɭɸɬɫɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɨɣ ɩɨɫɬɨɥɶɤɭ ɥɢɲɶ, ɩɨɫɬɨɥɶɤɭ ɨɧɚ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɢɦ ɷɤɡɨɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ […]. (ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɢɟ ɧɨɜɨɫɬɢ, 4 February 1921, No. 243.) [Even though Russian music, as it is embodied in Mussorgsky, Borodin, Rimsky-Korsakov and, closer to us, Stravinsky, has had such victories that certain critics here go so far as to deplore its influence, considering it to be excessive, it should nevertheless be recognised that our musical art is only known in the most superficial and incomplete way in France. What do we find in concert programmes? Borodin’s In the Steppes of Central Asia, Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherezade and, more rarely, Sadko and The Golden Cockerel. That’s it. A person would be forgiven for thinking that after The Five, Russian musical creativity, aside from Stravinsky, had completely withered away. In France, what is known, more or less, are the currents of our musical thought that flow from Glinka, the tradition that has its roots in

Anya Leveillé

173

popular art and song. Ultimately, the French are only interested in Russian music when it comes in exotic trappings […].]

In the French press, meanwhile, there were also critics pointing out that it was time for the public to realise that the younger generation of émigré composers was gradually distancing itself from its Russian “national” heritage in order to develop a more “cosmopolitan” musical language, in line with the spirit of the times. Commenting on a programme of modern Russian music that was put on as part of the Caméléon concert series, in December 1923, one reviewer noted that the Western public had unfortunately pris l’habitude de considérer comme authentiquement russes les seules œuvres offrant ces mêmes effets de pittoresque qui ne saillaient que trop chez un Balakirev ou chez un Rimsky-Korsakoff. Or, bien au contraire, sous des influences tantôt germaniques, tantôt françaises, ou à la suite d’une réaction très délibérée, des compositeurs comme Scriabine, Stravinsky ou Prokofiev apparaissent bien avoir rompu avec une « manière » que jusqu’alors nous croyions purement nationale. (Concerts du Caméléon, in: Le Ménestrel, 4 January 1924, p. 5) [gotten into the habit of only considering those works as authentically Russian that included the picturesque effects that were only too much in evidence in the work of Balakirev or Rimsky-Korsakov. However, showing that this is not the case, there are composers such as Skryabin, Stravinsky or Prokof’ev who, whether under Germanic or French influences, or as a deliberate reaction, appear to have thoroughly broken with a “style” which up until then we had believed to be completely national.]

Nevertheless, whether it was national or international, Russian music sold well! All throughout the 1920s, Parisian ensembles such as the Lamoureux Orchestra, Colonne, the Société de Musique Indépendante [Independent Music Society], the Poulet concerts and especially the Pasdeloup orchestra (conducted by Rhené-Baton and then Albert Wolff) regularly included concerts and festivals of Russian music in their programmes. Although these groups often played the “classic” repertoires (works by the Mighty Five, Tchaikovsky, or Glazunov), it was not at all uncommon, especially in the second half of the decade, to hear pieces by the most important émigré composers like Aleksandr Tcherepnin, Nicolas Nabokov, Arthur Lourié or Ivan Vyshnegradsky. In response to this Russian onslaught on Paris, reviewers started to display a certain amount of irritation by the end of the decade. If we look at 1928,

174

Russian Music in Paris in the 1920s

we see that Russian programmes were being put on by one French group after another at a dizzying rate, including the concerts and festivals of the Society of Conservatory Concerts, the Pasdeloup Concerts, the Walter Straram Concerts, the Independent Music Society, and even the “Union of Women Teachers and Composers”. Reacting to this overrepresentation of Russian works and exasperated at the small proportion of French works included in the Parisian orchestras’ repertoires, Jacques Heugel, director of the music journal Le Ménestrel, proposed that France should follow Italy’s example and require the orchestra heads to devote at least half of their programmes to national pieces in order to “accorder à la musique française la place qui devrait équitablement lui revenir” [give French music the place that should in all fairness be accorded to it] (Le Ménestrel, 16 March 1928, p. 128). Other critics and reviewers then, in turn, following Heugel, expressed their reactions to the Russian presence. One of them asked, after one of the Pasdeloup group’s many Russian concerts, whether it was le public français qui les réclame ou bien Pasdeloup a-t-il une clientèle de Russes réfugiés? (Pasdeloup Concerts, in: Le Ménestrel, 23 March 1928, p. 133) [the French public that was demanding them, or whether Pasdeloup has a clientèle of Russian refugees?].

Both interpretations were in fact correct: on the one hand, the concerts attracted émigrés, and at the same time, the French infatuation with Russian music appeared to be far from over, as demonstrated by another review, of a concert given by the Kedroff vocal quartet3 in 1930: Il semble vraiment que la musique russe ait le pouvoir de plonger tout un public dans un état voisin de l’hystérie. Un thème vaguement populaire, deux cris gutturaux et autres gosiers asiatiques – la salle se pâme, s’anéantit; c’est l’extase, le charme slave et l’âme de Tolstoï. Que ce quatuor Kedroff n’ait rien de spécialement remarquable, que la musique qu’il chante, comme cette Valse des fleurs de Tschaïkowsky, soit à rendre jalouse une carte postale en couleurs, qu’importe! Un vent de gloire amère et de subtile souffrance courbe toutes les têtes et déracine tous les cœurs. Le public parisien fait le même accueil à la Symphonie Pathétique qu’au Prince Igor, à la Nuit sur le Mont Chauve qu’à Boris Godounow. Il faut bien le dire, cela paraît un peu ridicule. (Concerts Lamoureux, in: Le Ménestrel, 17 October 1930, p. 433)

Anya Leveillé

175

[It really appears to be the case that Russian music has the power to plunge an entire audience into a state bordering on hysteria. A vaguely popular theme, two guttural cries and other Asian throats – the room swoons, is overcome; suddenly it’s ecstasy, Slavic charm, and Tolstoy’s soul. What does it matter that the Kedroff quartet is not particularly remarkable; what does it matter that the music it sings, like that Waltz of the Flowers by Tchaikovsky, is something that a colour postcard might be envious of? A whiff of bitter glory and subtle suffering turns all their heads and uproots all their hearts. The Parisian public gives the same welcome to the Pathetic Symphony as it does to Prince Igor; to the Night on the Bare Mountain as to Boris Godunov. It really has to be said: it seems a little ridiculous.]

And yet, as happens with every fashion, the craze for Russian music did finally fade away, gradually, over the course of the 1930s. The major Russian composers who had worked in Paris continued their emigration: Vladimir Dukelsky (1929), Dimitri Temkin (1929), Nicolas Nabokov (1934), Igor’ Stravinsky (1939), Aleksandr Grechaninov (1939), Arthur Lourié (1941), and Aleksandr Tcherepnin (1949) all left for the United States, while Sergey Prokof’ev returned to the Soviet Union in 1936. Having lost its most important representatives, Paris’s Russian musical school also lost any justification for existing. But, as the musicologist Leonid Sabaneev pointed out in a long article written in 1937, covering musical creativity among emigrants, it was not all that surprising to witness the end of this “Russian school in exile”, which could never have continued to exist indefinitely outside of its native country: ɇɚɫɬɨɹɳɟɣ, ɫɨɜɫɟɦ ɸɧɨɣ ɦɨɥɨɞɟɠɢ, ɩɪɚɜɞɚ, ɧɟɬ, ɢ ɷɬɨ ɬɪɚɝɢɱɧɨ ɢ ɡɚɫɬɚɜɥɹɟɬ ɡɚɞɭɦɚɬɶɫɹ ɧɚɞ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɫɭɞɶɛɨɣ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ. ȼɩɪɨɱɟɦ, […] ɦɵ ɭɠɟ ɩɪɢɛɥɢɠɚɟɦɫɹ ɤ ɩɪɟɞɟɥɶɧɵɦ ɫɪɨɤɚɦ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɜɫɹɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ, ɩɨɫɥɟ ɱɟɝɨ ɨɧɚ ɢɥɢ ɜɩɢɬɵɜɚɟɬɫɹ ɨɛɪɚɬɧɨ ɜ ɫɜɨɸ ɫɬɪɚɧɭ ɢɥɢ ɚɫɫɢɦɢɥɢɪɭɟɬɫɹ ɜ ɱɭɠɨɣ. (Sabaneev 1937: 393) [Unfortunately, there is no real next generation of composers, which is truly tragic and which forces us to take a hard look at the fate of Russian music abroad. We must admit that we are now coming to the end of the lifecycle that every wave of emigration must face, the point at which the emigrants either return home or become completely assimilated into their new host country.]

176

Russian Music in Paris in the 1920s

Bibliography Aubin, Tony (1930): Concerts Lamoureux, in: Le Ménestrel, 17 October 1930, p. 433. Cœuroy, André (1928): Panorama de la musique contemporaine, Paris. Gousseff, Catherine (2008): L’Exil russe. La fabrique du réfugié apatride (1920-1939), Paris. Grechaninov, Aleksandr (1934): Ɇɨɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɚɹ ɠɢɡɧɶ, Paris. Korabel’nikova, Lyudmila (1999): Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪ ɑɟɪɟɩɧɢɧ: Ⱦɨɥɝɨɟ ɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɢɟ, Moscow. Lourié, Arthur (1932): The Russian School, in: The Musical Quarterly, vol. 18, No. 4, pp. 519-529. —. (1933): ɉɭɬɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɲɤɨɥɵ, in: ɑɢɫɥɚ. ɋɛɨɪɧɢɤɢ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ ɢ ɮɢɥɨɫɨɮɢɢ, vol. 7-8, Paris, pp. 218-229. Mnoukhine, Lev (1995): Ɋɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɟ. ɏɪɨɧɢɤɚ ɧɚɭɱɧɨɣ, ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɣ ɢ ɨɛɳɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ 1920-1940, Ɏɪɚɧɰɢɹ. L’Émigration russe. Chronique de la la vie scientifique, culturelle et sociale 1920-1940, France, vol. 1, 1920-1929, Moscow; Paris. Petit, Raymond (1924): Inauguration du Conservatoire russe, in: La Revue musicale vol. 5, December 1924, pp. 158-159. Sabaneev, Leonid (1937): Ɇɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɟ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ ɜ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ, in: ɋɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɵɟ ɡɚɩɢɫɤɢ, No. 64, 1937, p. 393-409; reprinted in: L. L. Sabaneev, ȼɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ ɨ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ, ed. by T. Yu. Maslovskaya, Moscow 2011, pp. 203-218. Schloezer, Boris de (1921): Ɍɟɚɬɪ ɢ Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ, in: ɉɨɫɥɟɞɧɵɟ ɧɨɜɨɫɬɢ, 4 February 1921, No. 243. —. (1929): Igor Stravinsky, Paris.

Notes  1

This figure is put forward by Catherine Gousseff: “Dans le département de la Seine, la prépondérance des Russes dans la masse des étrangers est remarquable. En 1926, 45’000 Russes (dont près de 5’000 naturalisés) y résident; ils constituent le troisième groupe d'étrangers après les Italiens et les Belges.” [In the Department of the Seine, the preponderance of Russians among the foreigners is remarkable. In 1926, 45,000 Russians (of whom about 5,000 were naturalised) were living there; they constituted the third largest group of foreigners, after the Italians and the Belgians.] (Gousseff 2008: 125) 2 “Au moins pour les non-Russes, qui n’étaient pas la majorité dans la salle, ce fût une surprise, une contagion d’allégresse irrésistible que, pour débuter, ce fougueux entrain donné à l’ouverture de Russlan et Ludmila, de Glinka.” [For the nonRussians, at least, who were a minority in the audience, the beginning was a

Anya Leveillé

177

 surprise, an irresistible and contagious joy, this fiery spirit given to the overture of Glinka’s Ruslan and Lyudmila.] (Le Ménestrel, 29 April 1921, p. 188) 3 Founded as the first Russian male vocal quartet in Saint Petersburg in 1897 by Nicolas Kedroff (Nikolay Kedrov, 1871-1940) as the “Saint Petersburg Vocal Quartet”, the ensemble went on its first European tour in 1907, organised by Sergei Diaghilev. Buoyed by the success of that tour, the quartet then made a European tour every year through 1915, collaborating with a number of other artists, including Fedor Shalyapin in 1911. In 1917, Nicolas Kedroff emigrated with his family first to Berlin, and then to Paris, where he reconstituted the ensemble as the Kedroff Quartet.

STRAVINSKY’S SVADEBKA (1917-1923) AS THE QUINTESSENCE OF THE TECHNIQUE OF “BUILDING BLOCKS” MARINA LUPISHKO

Ɉɬɫɟɛɹɬɢɧɚ, ɦɢɥɵɣ ɞɪɭɝ, ɜɫɺ ɷɬɨ – ɋɜɚɞɟɛɤɚ ɷɬɨ ɧɢɱɬɨ ɢɧɨɟ, ɤɚɤ ɫɢɦɮɨɧɢɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɩɟɫɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɥɨɝɚ. [All this is baloney, my dear friend. Svadebka is nothing other than a symphony of the song-like quality of Russian melos and of Russian speech.] (Stravinky’s margin note on p. 214 of Asafiev’s A Book About Stravinsky, held in the composer’s archive in Paul Sacher Stiftung, Basel; partial tr. in Zemtsovsky 1996)

Stravinsky’s ambivalent attitude Russian folklore, which parallels his ambivalent attitude towards his native land, is best seen in the following passage about Bartók in Conversations with Igor Stravinsky: “I could never share his lifelong gusto for his native folklore. This devotion was certainly real and touching, but I couldn’t help regretting it in the great musician” (Stravinsky & Craft 1959: 82). In the fifth chapter “The Avatars of Russian Music” of Poetics of Music, Stravinsky talks at length about Russian folklore, using this word in the pejorative sense: as one of the two pillars (narodnost’ and partiynost’ – ethnological truth and party membership) of Socialist Realism, the infamous creative method of which he made much fun in his book (Stravinsky 1962: 115-117). In his lectures, Stravinsky sets off the “unconscious utilization of folklore” by Glinka and Tchaikovsky against the Mighty Five, the precursors of the Soviet composers, who consciously “sought to graft the popular strain upon art music” (Stravinsky 1962: 97-98). The composer sees himself, of course, as a follower of the former of the two traditions of folklorism. Yet inconsistency as a typically Russian trait of character was not totally alien to Stravinsky, otherwise it would be hard to justify another much-revealing statement

180

Stravinsky’s Svadebka as the Technique of “Building Blocks”

ibidem: “I use [academic musical formula] as knowingly as I would use folklore. They are raw material of my work” (Stravinsky 1962: 88). As Richard Taruskin has shown in his fundamental study (1996), the composer’s adherence to the tradition of Russian folklore was based on several different factors, of which the devotion to the aesthetic principles of his teacher Rimsky-Korsakov is not the most prominent. What pushed Stravinsky into conscious exploration of Russian folklore was, first and foremost, the unexpected loss of the possibility of absorbing it in the subconscious way in his homeland (Taruskin 1996: 1135). Switzerland, the country that became their permanent shelter during the years of World War I, lacked a large Russian-speaking community, and thus the Stravinskys had to rely on their inner sources to teach their four small children the Russian language and culture. Another important catalyst for Stravinsky’s Russophilism during the Swiss years was his collaboration under Diaghilev with the painters and stage designers of the Ballets Russes. In Switzerland, he was especially close to Leon Bakst (1866-1924), the stage and costume designer of The Firebird, to Alexandre Benois (1870-1960), the stage and costume designer of Petrushka and The Nightingale, and to the two founders of Russian Futurism, Mikhail Larionov (1881-1964) and his wife Natalya Goncharova (1881-1962). The latter two developed the costume designs and stage settings for Bayka and Svadebka, respectively (staged in 1922 and 1923). Last but not least, Stravinsky’s friendship and collaboration with Charles-Ferdinand Ramuz (1878-1947), a prominent Swiss writer and a patriot of his native rural canton of Vaud, should be evoked (Gordon 1983). Overall, the six years of the “Swiss exile” (roughly 1914-1920) played a very important role in the coming-to-be of Stravinsky. Viktor Varunts points out that the general direction of Stravinsky’s development during this period was a search for new forms of expression, on the one hand, and a further liberation from the grip of the programme music principle, inherited from Rimsky-Korsakov, on the other (Varunts 1988: 439). The vocal works of the Swiss period – Svadebka, Bayka, Pribautki, Berceuses du chat, Trois histoires pour enfants, Quatre chants russes, Podblyudnye – although by genre direct heirs of Romanticism, also testify to the growing awareness of these matters. Already in Souvenirs de mon enfance, started during his formative years with Rimsky-Korsakov and completed in October 1913 (Walsh 1999: 223), the composer is at play with the sonoric and accentual side of the word material. Varunts, who links Stravinsky’s

Marina Lupishko

181

aspirations with similar experiments in Russian futurist poetry by Velimir Khlebnikov (Varunts 1988: 438-9), observed: ɋɨɜɟɪɲɟɧɧɨ ɹɫɧɨ, ɱɬɨ ɨɬɧɵɧɟ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪ ɧɚɱɢɧɚɟɬ ɨɬɞɚɜɚɬɶ ɩɪɟɞɩɨɱɬɟɧɢɟ ɧɟ ɫɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɫɦɵɫɥɨɜɨɣ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɟ ɫɬɢɯɚ, ɫɤɨɥɶɤɨ ɟɝɨ ɡɜɭɱɚɧɢɸ. [It is perfectly clear that from now on, the composer begins to give preference not so much to the semantic side of the verse, as to its sound.] (Varunts 1988: 438, tr. is mine – M. L.)

It is quite possible that Stravinsky knew Khlebnikov’s poetry and that this acquaintance came from Goncharova and Larionov, who made illustrations for Khlebnikov’s publications starting from 1912. Elsewhere I argue that the main impulse for the production of all the neoRussian vocal works of the Swiss period was a linguistic interest in Russian folk verse (rather than song), frequently asserted by the composer in his writings, letters, and interviews (Lupishko 2005: 5-10). It is confirmed, for example, in a letter from Grigory Aleksinsky (1879-1967), an exiled politician, dated 4 / 17 April 1916: Ɂɧɚɤɨɦɫɬɜɨ ɫ ȼɚɦɢ, ɧɟɫɦɨɬɪɹ ɧɚ ɤɪɚɬɤɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ ɟɝɨ, … ɦɧɨɝɨɦɭ ɧɚɭɱɢɥɨ. ȼ ɨɫɨɛɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɛɵɥɨ ɦɧɟ ɧɟɨɠɢɞɚɧɧɨ ɢ ɨɱɟɧɶ ɩɪɢɹɬɧɨ ɭɜɢɞɟɬɶ, ɱɬɨ ȼɵ, ɤɨɬɨɪɨɝɨ, ɤɚɸɫɶ, ɞɨ ɡɧɚɤɨɦɫɬɜɚ, ɹ ɫɱɢɬɚɥ ɡɚ ‘ɞɟɤɚɞɟɧɬɚ’ ɢ ɩɪ., ɢɞɟɬɟ ɤ ɢɫɬɨɤɚɦ ɧɚɪɨɞɧɨɣ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɩɨɷɡɢɢ ɢ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɢ ɬɚɦ ɧɚɯɨɞɢɬɟ ɬɨɥɱɤɢ ɞɥɹ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɮɚɧɬɚɡɢɢ ɢ ɜɞɨɯɧɨɜɟɧɢɹ. [My acquaintance with you, although of short duration, … taught me many new things. Especially it was pleasantly surprising to discover that you – the person who, let me confess, I had considered before our first meeting to be a ‘decadent’ and so on – are turning to the very source of Russian folk poetry and life in order to find there a stimulus for your fantasy and inspiration.] (Varunts 2000: 350, tr. and italics are mine – M. L.)

While discussing Bayka and Podblyudnye with Robert Craft in Expositions and Developments, Stravinsky remembered: “The music of Renard begins in the verse” (Stravinsky & Craft 1962: 120) and “I was compelled to [the text of Podblyudnye] for their musico-rhythmic qualities, after a single reading” (Stravinsky & Craft 1962: 119). Concerning Svadebka, Stravinsky recalls: My wish was… to present actual wedding material through direct quotation of popular – i.e. non-literary – verse. I waited two years before discovering my source in the anthologies by Afanas’ev and Kireievsky, but

182

Stravinsky’s Svadebka as the Technique of “Building Blocks” this wait was well rewarded, as the dance-cantata form of the music was also suggested to me by my reading of these two great treasures of the Russian language and spirit (Stravinsky & Craft 1962: 114-115, italics mine – M.L.).

The libretto of Svadebka consists almost entirely1 of texts of various archaic and recent folk wedding songs from the collection of ritual folk song texts by the 19th-century folklore collector Petr Kireevsky (1808-56), the book that Stravinsky procured while on his last trip to Russia in July 1914, shortly before World War I (Walsh 1999: 238-240). The study of these and other folk collections during the summer of 1914 lead the composer to the so-called “rejoicing discovery” (Stravinsky & Craft 1962: 121; Taruskin 1996: 1198ff; Lupishko 2007: 10ff). Unlike the chansons russes of the same period, which are all settings of finished samples of folklore, the libretti of Bayka and Svadebka represent complex montages of original text fragments of various lengths, with occasional insertion of a line or two of Stravinsky’s own (Birkan 1971: 172ff). As in Bayka and perhaps even more consistently, an editing of the text sources took place here. Like a typical folk singer, the composer shakes up the original text, expanding, more often than abbreviating, words, phrases, lines, and stanzas, inserting proper names, pronouns, particles, exclamations, syntactic parallelisms, dialecticisms, repetitions, and so on. The result of this editing is a mosaic of bits of texts and poetic metres, in which irregular tonic verse2 patterns prevail over regular (e.g. trochaic) poetic metres (Lupishko 2010: 5-10). It should not be forgotten that Svadebka differs from Bayka and some vocal cycles from the same period in that its texts are song texts, not fairytales or pribautki (children’s games half-spoken half-sung). That is to say, these texts do not exist without a musical performance, and therefore one of the most important factors at play there is the interaction between the musical and the poetic metre. Stravinsky could hardly have heard the songs performed live.3 But the daringly free musical treatment given to the texts by the composer is noteworthy: not only several different texts sound simultaneously (as recalls Ramuz, Stravinsky’s friend and translator of his Russian vocal works),4 but endless syntactic parallelisms and repetitions – both horizontal, in one voice, and vertical, between the voices – of words, phrases, and poetic lines permeate the final edifice; at times, the words are even “torn to pieces”, as in the apocope (slovoobryv) of the first line, “Ʉɨɫɚ ɥɶ ɦɨɹ, ɤɨ…” [Oh, my tresse].

Marina Lupishko

183

Overall, one can agree with Taruskin that “the words, as presented in the libretto that finally took shape, have become a babble” (1996: 1347) and that “the music, often acting independently of the words and at times at a fairly abstract level, is the prime shaper of the ballet’s form” (1996: 1349, italics in the text), and not the folk poetry, which in itself is quite irregular. However, in Svadebka Stravinsky continues to use his old “tried-and-true” techniques of text-setting (Lupishko 2009: 66-73) and discovers new ones that evoke the overall term “the technique of building blocks”. The term “building block” is taken from an interview given by the composer in Barcelona in 1928, where Stravinsky compares such works as Svadebka and Oedipus Rex (1926-27). Stravinsky’s words are cited in a retelling of the interviewer: ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɢɣ ɝɨɜɨɪɢɬ ɧɚɦ, ɱɬɨ ɜ ɐɚɪɟ ɗɞɢɩɟ ɫɥɨɜɨ ɹɜɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɩɪɨɫɬɵɦ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɨɦ, ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨ ɮɭɧɤɰɢɨɧɢɪɭɸɳɢɦ ɩɨɞɨɛɧɨ ɛɥɨɤɭ ɦɪɚɦɨɪɚ ɢɥɢ ɤɚɦɧɹ ɜ ɚɪɯɢɬɟɤɬɭɪɟ ɢ ɫɤɭɥɶɩɬɭɪɟ. ɋɜɚɞɟɛɤɚ, ɤ ɩɪɢɦɟɪɭ, ɫɨɫɬɨɢɬ ɢɡ ɩɟɫɟɧ, ɜ ɤɨɬɨɪɵɯ ɧɟɬ ɛɨɥɶɲɨɝɨ ɥɨɝɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɦɵɫɥɚ, ɧɨ ɜɡɚɦɟɧ ɜ ɫɬɢɯɚɯ ɩɨɞɱɟɪɤɧɭɬɵ ɩɪɟɠɞɟ ɜɫɟɝɨ ɪɢɬɦɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɢ ɡɜɭɤɨɜɵɟ ɜɨɡɦɨɠɧɨɫɬɢ. ɇɚɲ ɹɡɵɤ, ɨɛɴɹɫɧɹɟɬ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪ, ɧɟɨɬɞɟɥɢɦ ɨɬ ɷɦɨɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɫɬɢ, ɱɭɜɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ, ɱɬɨ ɪɚɡɪɭɲɚɟɬ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɭɸ ɰɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ ɫɥɨɜɚ. [Stravinsky tells us that in Oedipus Rex the word is a simple construction material which functions musically as a block of marble or a block of stone in architecture and sculpture. Les Noces, for instance, consists of songs which do not bear much logical sense, but instead in these poems their sonic and rhythmic qualities are emphasized. Our language, as the composer explains, is inseparable from emotionality and sensuality, which undermine the musical value of the word.] (La Veu de Catalunya, Barcelona, March 25, 1928; cit. in Varunts 1988: 83, tr. is mine – M. L.)

A classical example of the technique of “building blocks”, often referred to in the literature (although the blocks here are musical motives, rather than words and syllables), is the female chorus “Ne klích’, ne klích’, lebyódushka” found in the first tableau at rehearsal figure [9]. At the heart of this tableau, there is one of the most archaic parts of the Russian folk wedding ritual – devichnik, the unplaiting of the bride’s braid. The girlfriends, being bored by the bridal lament, start “a fresh song of consolation” (Asafiev 1982: 132) to the bride. The original text in Kireevsky is a predominantly three-stress tonic verse with dactylic endings: ɇɟ ɤɥɢɱɶ, ɧɟ ɤɥɢɱɶ, ɥɟɛɺɞɭɲɤɚ, ɇɟ ɤɥɢɱɶ, ɜ ɩɨɥɟ ɛɟɥɚɹ, ɇɟ ɩɥɚɱɶ, ɧɟ ɬɭɠɢ, ɇɚɫɬɚɫɶɸɲɤɚ, ɇɟ ɩɥɚɱɶ, ɧɟ ɝɪɭɫɬɢ, ɞɭɲɚ Ɍɢɦɨɮɟɟɜɧɚ.

Ne klích’, ne klích’, lebyódushka, Ne klích’, v póle bélaya, Ne plách’, ne tuzhí, Nastás’yushka, Ne plách’, ne grustí, dushá Timoféyevna.5

aba ba aba aaba

184

Stravinsky’s Svadebka as the Technique of “Building Blocks”

Says Asafiev: The basis of [the chorus] construction is an alternation of different arrangements and lengths of measure set forth at a steady pace (crotchet = 120). It also exhibits some of Stravinsky’s favorite adoptions from folk traditions: the collision of accents produced by strong beats, or a fivemeasure phrase divided into one plus four (Asafiev 1982: 132).

This rather vague description refers to the “trochaic substitution”6 syncopated endings of the poetic lines that give the dance-like character to the song by colliding the literary accent with the shifted ones: “lebyódUshka”, “bélAya”, “Nastás’yUshka”, “TimoféyEvna” (re-accented vowels are shown in capital letters). The “five-measure phrase divided into one plus four” refers to the first two lines of this verse, set in the first five measures of the music: “Ne klích’, ne klích’, lebyódushka, / Ne klích’, v póle bélaya.” The phrase can be just as easily divided into four plus one, for the melodic line alternates freely between the repetition of the first rhythmic motive a (e2-c#2-e2) and that of the second rhythmic motive b (e2-c#2-e2-f#2-e2). The repetitions of certain words (“ne klich’” and “ne plach’”) and the varying lengths of poetic lines gave Stravinsky a possibility to vary musical phrases accordingly. Valentina Kholopova quotes this chorus as an illustration of Stravinsky’s “variation of the motives’ length” method (1971: 204-205). Although the basic musical phrase is two measures long – comprising two motives, a and b – it comes back alternating with the “detached” a motive, so that an impression is created that the length of the principal motive is always varied: aba ba aba aaba (Example 1, rehearsal figure [9], see also the scheme above). The second tableau shows a parallel ritual – that of tidying the groom’s curls – being held at exactly the same time as the events of the first tableau. The character of the second tableau is “masculine, clear, spare, and rich” (Asafiev 1982: 136). This character emanates from the refrain (rehearsal figure [27], [30], [33], [44]), set to the verse which had previously appeared as a tenor solo line at the end of the first tableau at fig. [21]. In the second tableau, the same text has acquired the character of an incantation: “Prechistaya Mat’” (the “Purest Mother”, i.e. the Holy Virgin) is ordered by the groom’s wedding party to come and comb the groom’s curls. The two-stress tonic verse in Kireevsky is quite regular and quasi-trochaic (accents are shown as ´ and ` ; S = strong syllable, w = weak syllable):

Marina Lupishko Original version ɉɪɟɱɢɫɬɚɹ ɦɚɬɶ, ɏɨɞɢ ɤ ɧɚɦ ɭ ɯɚɬɶ, ɋɜɚɯɟ ɩɨɦɨɝɚɬɶ Ʉɭɞɪɢ ɪɚɫɱɟɫɚɬɶ, ɏɜɟɬɢɫɶɟɜɵ ɤɭɞɪɢ, Ʉɭɞɪɢ ɪɚɫɱɟɫɚɬɶ, ɉɚɦɮɢɥɶɢɱɚ ɪɭɫɵ.

Prechístaya Màt’, Khodí (khodí) k nam u khàt’ Svákhe pomogàt’ Kúdri raschesàt’, Khvetís’evy kùdri, Kúdri raschesàt’, Pamfíl’icha rùsy.7

185

wSwwS wSwwS

Stravinsky’s version Sw Sw S Sw (Sw) Sw S

A B’

SwwwS SwwwS wSwwSw SwwwS wSwwSw

Sw Sw S Sw Sw S Sw Sw Sw Sw Sw S Sw Sw Sw

B A C A C

Stravinsky begins to set this verse as a trochaic trimeter Sw Sw S, complete with an eighth note rest to signify a masculine ending8 (Example 2, rehearsal figures [27], m. 1). In order to do this, he inevitably employs “trochaic shifts” (Bailey 1993: 60) at the beginning of poetic lines: “prEchistaya” instead of “prechístaya”, “khOdi” istead of “khodí”, and so on.9 Then he begins to play with these metrically similar lines: he adds one more “khodi” to the line 2 (m. 2) and cuts off eighth note rests at the end of lines 2 and 4 (mm. 3 and 5). Yet the “trochaic feel” does not disappear, since the first syllable of each line is accented in the music. This peculiar metric structure of the refrain has been studied in literature without taking into consideration the ambiguous poetic metre of the original text and its “quasi-trochaic” representation in Stravinsky’s music (e.g., the analysis of this passage according to Lerdahl-Jackendoff’s usage in Horlacher 1995: 299, ex. 5).10 In her conclusion, Gretchen Horlacher rejects the notion of a “background periodicity” as suggested by Pieter van den Toorn (e.g., van den Toorn 2003: 290-291), proposing instead the notion of an “inherently irregular” metre (Horlacher 1995: 303). It should be stressed again that what happens metrically in the music cannot be separated from the entire music-text coordination and could be best explained by Kholopova’s term “variation of the motives’ length”, only if it is applied not to musical motives but to word-formulas. The A motive (or rather, a “word-formula”) “Prechistaya mat’” d2 -d2-d2-c2-d2, the B motive “Khodi k nam u khat’” d2-c2-f2-e2-d2, and the C motive c2-d2-f2-e2d2-c2 “Khvetis’evy kudri” come back in their normal and expanded forms (B’, by addition of one more “khodi”), with or without the final eighth note rest. These variants are freely alternated and interpolated by Stravinsky in a sequence of A B’ B A C A C B’ B A (rehearsal fig. [27][28]). A more recent study proposes to look at this exerpt as an embodiment of “Stravinsky’s hiccups” – metrically ambiguous rhythmic structures that purposedly inhibit our sense of entrainment, the subconscious coor-

186

Stravinsky’s Svadebka as the Technique of “Building Blocks”

dination process between the listener and the music (London 2008: 3).11 “In this Tableau, a game is being played with the popevka figure [the A motive] and its relation to its implied meter”, observes the author (London 2008: 7). Although there is a prevailing sense of a “somewhat unstable” 3/4 metre, Stravinsky’s bar lines undermine, rather than promote, our sense of 3/4. Only in mm. 2, 4, and 6 the beginnings of the motives coincide with the crochet-note level beat, while in mm. 3 and 5 there are “hiccups” resulting from the violation of the underlying crochet-note beat (see Example 3). Justin London draws attention to the fact that the initial notes of the motives are always marked by a three-stroke roll in the snare drum or a dynamic accent. This helps to bring back to some extent the musical-verbal entrainment between the musicians, the vocal soloists, and the listeners. Russian traditional peasant wedding songs are known for their unique poetic metres (Bailey 1993: 149-209, 2001: 137-161). A typical folk wedding song often features a centre-stressed pentasyllabic formula wwSww either in the second hemistich (as in: “Ɉɬɫɬɚɜɚɥɚ ɥɟɛɟɞɶ ɛɟɥɚɹ / Ʉɚɤ ɨɬ ɫɬɚɞɚ ɥɟɛɟɞɢɧɨɝɨ” / “Otstavála lébed’ bélaya / Kak ot stáda lebedínogo” Sw Sw wwSww) or in both (as in the 5+5 metre with a cesura: “ə ɜɟɱɨɪ ɦɥɚɞɚ ɜɨ ɩɢɪɭ ɛɵɥɚ, /ȼɨ ɩɢɪɭ ɛɵɥɚ, ɜɨ ɛɟɫɟɞɭɲɤɟ” / “Ya vechór mladá vo pirú bylá / Vo pirú bylá, vo besédushke” wwSww wwSww).12 These pentasyllabic formulas are reflected both in the text of the balletcantata and in the composer’s setting of it. While preparing himself for Svadebka, Stravinsky copied a huge amount of wedding folk texts from Kireevsky and other sources, without necessarily setting all of them to music. Among those verses that did not find their way into Svadebka, there are two excerpts of two-stress tonic verses that feature episodic 5+5 metres in one or both hemistiches (underlined). Both of these examples also feature Russian folk re-accentuation (shown in capital letters): 1. Ʌɸɛɢɦɚɹ ɦɨɹ ɩɨɞɪɭɠɟɧɶɤɚ! 2. ɉɪɢɱɟɲɢ-ɤɚ ɦɧɟ ɛɭɣɧɭ ɝɨɥɨɜɭ, 3. Ɂɚɩɥɟɬɢ ɦɧɟ ɪɭɫɍ ɤɨɫɭ, 4. ɍɠ ɬɵ ɢɡ ɤɨɪɧɸ ɬɭɝɨɯɨɧɶɤɨ, 5. ɋɪɟɞɢ ɤɨɫɵ ɦɚɥɺɯɨɧɶɤɨ, 6. ɉɨɞ ɤɨɧɟɰ-ɬɨ ɚɥɭ ɥɟɧɬɨɱɤɭ. 7. ɍɠ ɬɵ, ɫɜɟɬ, ɦɨɹ ɪɭɫȺ ɤɨɫɚ! 8. Ɋɭɫɚ ɤɈɫɚ ɧɟɞɨɪɨɳɟɧɚ, 9. Ⱥɥɚ ɥɟɧɬɚ ɧɟɞɨɧɨɲɟɧɚ.13

Lyubímaya moyá podrúzhen’ka! Pricheshí-ka mne búynu gólovu, Zapletí mne rusU kosú, Uzh ty iz kórnyu tugókhon’ko, Sredí kosy malyókhon’ko, Pod konéts-to alu léntochku. Uzh ty, svet, moya rusA kosá! Rúsa kOsa nedoróshchena, Ála lénta nedonóshena.

wwSww wwSww wwSww wwSww wwSww wwSww

Marina Lupishko 1. ɇɟ ɩɨɤɢɧɶ ɠɟ ɦɟɧɹ ɛɈɥɶɧɭ, ɝɨɪɶɤɭɸ 2. ɉɪɢ ɫɬɚɪɨɫɬɢ ɢ ɩɪɢ ɯɜɨɪɨɫɬɢ, 3. ɇɟ ɦɟɧɹɣ ɦɟɧɹ, ɝɨɪɟɦɵɲɧɭɸ, 4. ɇɚ ɫɜɨɸ ɦɨɥɨɞɭɸ-ɬɨ ɠɟɧɭ.14

Ne pokín’ zhe menyá bOl’nu, gór’kuyu Pri stárosti i pri khvórosti, Ne menyáy menyá, goremyshnuyu, Na svoyú molodúyu-to zhenú.

187 wwSww wwSww wwSww wwSww

In Svadebka, pentasyllabic endings of adjacent poetic lines of a two-stress tonic verse are often assigned similar melodic-rhythmic formulas, e.g. the melismatic endings of lines 1 (“karavá-a-atushka”) and 3-6 in the last episode of the ballet-cantata, the glorification of the nuptial bed, in the fourth tableau at rehearsal fig. [130]: 1. ɉɚɫɬɟɥɶɹ ɦɨɹ, ɤɚɪɚɜɚɬɭɲɤɚ! 2. ɇɚ ɤɚɪɚɜɚɬɭɲɤɟ ɩɟɪɢɧɭɲɤɚ, 3. ɇɚ ɩɟɪɢɧɭɲɤɟ ɭ ɡɝɨɥɨɜɶɢɰɚ,

Pastél’ya moya, karavàtushka! Na karavátushke perìnushka, Na perínushke u zgolòv’itsa,

4. ɍ ɡɝɨɥɨɜɶɢɰɚ ɨɞɢɹɥɢɰɚ,

U zgolov’itsa odiyàlitsa,

5. ɉɨɞ ɞɢɹɥɢɰɨɦ ɞɨɛɪɵɣ ɦɨɥɨɞɟɰ, 6. Ⱦɨɛɪɵɣ ɦɨɥɨɞɟɰ ɏɜɟɬɢɫɭɲɤɚ,

Pod diyalitsom dobryi molodets, Dobryi mólodets Khvetìsushka,15

wwSww wwSww wwSww wwSww wwSww wwSww wwSww wwSww wwSww

In another example from the third tableau “Seeing-Off the Bride” (rehearsal fig. [68]-[69]), the second hemistiches are also constantly pentasyllabic (wwSww). Stravinsky treats this two-stress tonic verse with an enviable constancy that removes all doubts as to his “unconscious” attitude to Russian folk verse: all the pentasyllabic hemistiches are set to identical rhythmic motives complete with “trochaic substitution” syncopated endings: Sw wSw (two quavers, a quaver, a crochet and a quaver). 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

ɉɪɢɬɚɩɟɥɚɫɶ ɫɜɟɰɚ ɜɨɫɤɭ ɹɪɨɝɨ, ɉɟɪɟɞ ɨɛɪɚɡɨɦ ɞɨɥɝɨ ɫɬɨɸɰɢ. ɉɪɢɫɬɨɹɥɚ ɤɧɹɝɢɧɹ ɫɤɨɪɵ ɧɨɠɟɧɶɤɢ, ɉɟɪɟɞ ɛɚɰɭɲɤɨɣ ɝɨɪɶɤɨ ɩɥɚɰɭɰɢ. ɍɠ ɤɚɤ ɛɨɫɥɨɜɢɥɢ ɨɧɢ ɞɟɜɢɰɭ Ⱦɚ ɱɬɨ ɧɚ ɱɟɬɵɪɟ ɧɚ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɭɲɤɢ ɏɥɟɛɨɦ-ɫɨɥɶɸ, ɋɩɚɫɨɦ-ɨɛɪɚɡɨɦ.

8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

Pritapélas’ svétsa vósku yárogo, Péred óbrazom dólgo stóyutsi. Pristoyála knyagínya skóry nózhen’ki, Péred bátsushkoy gór’ko plátsutsi. Uzh kak boslovíli oní dévitsu Da chto na chetyre na storónushki Khlébom-sól’yu, Spásom-óbrazom.16

wwwwSw wwSww wwSww wwSww wwS wwSw wwSww wwSww wwSww wwwwSw wwSww wwwwSw wwSww wwSw wwSww

Æ Sw wSw Æ Sw wSw Æ Sw wSw Æ Sw wSw Æ Sw wSw Æ Sw wSw Æ Sw wSw

188

Stravinsky’s Svadebka as the Technique of “Building Blocks”

Sometimes regular poetic metres (e.g. trochaic tetrameters) come “disguised” in the music of Svadebka as irregular tonic verses – and vice versa. At the culminating point of the second tableau, two measures before rehearsal fig. [49], two readings of the ritual command to the Holy Virgin “Off to the wedding with you!” are set for the first time vis-à-vis one another: one pentasyllabic with an opening melisma in 5/8 Sww Sw “Póod’ na svád’bu” and another trochaic in 4/8 Sw Sw “Pod’ na svád’bu!”. This juxtaposition appears elsewhere in the tableau (Example 4, 2 mm. before and 6 mm. after rehearsal fig. [49]). The preliminary early sketch found in Stravinsky’s archive in the Paul Sacher Stiftung Basel features an empty staff under-texted with “Pó-od’ na svád’bu, / Pod’ na svád’bu” and divided into a 5/8 measure and a 4/8 mesure (Figure 1). Similarly to Russian folklore, elements of the Russian folk language function in Svadebka as a special type of oral notation.17 This means that certain words and phrases are assigned to fixed melodic-rhythmic formulas, which allows the composer to continue re-arranging these “building blocks” ad libitum. The final episode of the third tableau is a common request for blessing, addressed to the Lord himself: “Boslovi, Bozha” [God Bless us]. The three words “Boslovi, Bozha, Bozhun’ka”, already introduced within the incantation of the Purest Mother at rehearsal figure [49] (Example 4), prepare a “semantic crescendo” (Birkan 1966: 246), which reaches its climax with the exclamation “Oy!” in one measure before rehearsal figure [59]. Now the two endearing names for God in Russian peasant language (“Bózha” and “Bózhun’ka”, from the literal “Bog”) become the two rhythmic motives: two quavers “Bózha” (Sw) and a syncopated “trochaic substitution” “BozhUn’ka” (wSw). The folk forms of the imperative “bless [us]” – “Baslaví” (“boslovi”) and “Baslóv”, from the literal “blagosloví” – are also incarnated by two rhythmic motives: a triplet (Sww) and a duplet (Sw), to which the two endearing names of God are added in alternation. The result is a complex and colourful mosaic of word-formulas, replete with pentasyllabic word-formulas set in 5/8 (cf. Example 4, rehearsal figure [49], analogous to rehearsal fig. [59], and Example 5, rehearsal fig. [61]; see also the early sketch of rehearsal fig. [61], Figure 2): Rehearsal fig. [49] Ȼɨɫɥɨɜɢ, Ȼɨɠɚ, Ȼɨɫɥɨɜɢ, Ȼɨɠɚ, Ȼɨɠɭɧɶɤɚ Rehearsal fig. [59]

BOslovi, Bózha, BOslovi, Bózha, BozhUn’ka

Sww Sw Sww Sw wSw

5/8 5/8 + 4/8

Marina Lupishko Ȼɚɫɥɚɜɢ, Ȼɨɠɚ, Ⱦɨ ɞɜɭɯ ɩɨɫɚɠɺɧ, Ȼɚɫɥɚɜɢ, Ȼɨɠɚ, Ⱦɨ ɞɜɭɯ ɩɨɪɚɠɞɺɧ,

189

BAslavi, Bózha, Do dvukh posazhyón, BAslavi, Bózha, Do dvukh porazhdyón,

Sww Sw Sw Sw S Sww Sw Sw Sw S etc.

Baslov, Bózha, BozhUn’ka! Baslov, BozhUn’ka!18

Sw Sw wSw Sw wSw

Rehearsal fig. [61] Ȼɚɫɥɨɜ, Ȼɨɠɚ, Ȼɨɠɭɧɶɤɚ! Ȼɚɫɥɨɜ, Ȼɨɠɭɧɶɤɚ!

The onomatopoeic refrain “Ay, lyúshen’ki, lyulí!” of the chorus “Yágoda s yágodoy sokatílasya” that opens the fourth tableau (Example 6, 2 mm. before rehearsal figure [88]) functions as another collection of wordmotives (“building blocks”). The very first text is the famous glorifying song “Yágoda s yágodoy sokatílasya”, recorded by Pushkin from his nanny or perhaps invented by the great Russian poet altogether (Taruskin 1996: 1335). According to Birkan (1966: 248), in order to expand the original text in Kireevsky, Stravinsky added lines 3-4 from a different text and invented lines 7-8 and the “lyúshen’ki” refrain. 1. 2. Refrain 3. Refrain 4. Refrain

əɝɨɞɚ ɫ ɹɝɨɞɨɣ ɫɨɤɚɬɢɥɚɫɹ, əɝɨɞɚ ɹɝɨɞɟ ɩɨɤɥɨɧɢɥɚɫɹ. Ⱥɣ, ɥɸɥɢ, ɥɸɥɢ, ɥɸɥɢ! Ʌɸɲɟɧɶɤɢ, ɚɣ ɥɸɥɢ! əɝɨɞɤɚ ɤɪɚɫɧɚ, ɤɪɚɫɧɚ! Ⱥɣ ɥɸɥɢ! Ɂɟɦɥɹɧɢɱɤɚ ɫɩɟɥɚ, ɫɩɟɥɚ! Ⱥɣ, ɥɸɲɟɧɶɤɢ, ɥɸɥɢ

Yágoda s yágodoy sokatílasya, Yágoda yágode poklonílasya. Ay, lyulí, lyulí, lyulí! Lyúshen’ki, ay lyulí! Yágodka krásna, krásna! Ay lyulí! Zemlyaníchka spéla, spéla! Ay, lyúshen’ki, lyulí!19

This collection consists of trochees “lyúli” (Sw), iambs lyulí (wS), trochaic dimeters (two quavers and a crochet) “Ay, lyulí” (Sw S), dactyls (a crochet and two quavers) “lyúshen’ki” (Sww), and syncopated trochaic substitution “lyushEn’ki” (wSw). The first “lyushEn’ki” is centre-stressed in 2 mm. before rehearsal figure [88], while the second is normally forestressed as “lyúshen’ki” in 2 mm. before rehearsal figure [89] (compare m. 1 and m. 7, Example 6). The back-stressed “lyulí” (wS) comes back syncopated and fore-stressed as “lyUli” (Sw) in mm. 5-6 after rehearsal figure [109]. Here is how this “oral notation” would be typically realised in actual Russian folk practice (a hypothetical example, featuring silent syllable feet – see more on this in Lupishko 2007: 18-21):20 Lyúli, lyúli, lyúshen’ki,21 Lyúli, lyúshen’ki, lyulí, Ay, lyúli, lyúli, lyúli, Ay, lyúshen’ki, lyulí!

Sw Sw S Sw Sw Sw Sw S S Sw Sw Sw S Sw Sw S

190

Stravinsky’s Svadebka as the Technique of “Building Blocks”

Among the preparatory sketches to Svadebka, featuring texts only from Kireevsky 1911, Stravinsky scribbled a musical setting of “Ay, lyuli, ay, lyuli, lyuli!” in three measures with changing metres (4/8, 5/8, 2/8). This early sketch (Figure 3) already contains both the trochaic “lyúli” (m. 1) and the iambic “lyulí” (mm. 2-3): this is the germ out of which the rest of the onomatopoeia will grow.22

Conclusion In his 1928 interview given in Barcelona, Igor’ Stravinsky compares Svadebka (1914-1923) to Oedipus Rex (1926/27) in that in both works “the word is a simple construction material which functions musically as a block of marble […] in architecture and sculpture”. This statement sheds a new light on the most innovative work of Stravinsky’s Swiss period (1914-1920). In Svadebka, Stravinsky the librettist constructs the libretto according to the rules of Russian folk versification, which he had previously assimilated while working on Bayka (1915/16) and the Russian vocal cycles. Stravinsky the composer, however, goes further: he employs the conventional text-setting methods and introduces an innovative technique of “building blocks”. This technique, however, is not a complete invention of Stravinsky: from times immemorial it has been used in Russian folklore as a mnemonic device. Similarly to sung Russian folklore where musical motives are memorised, transmitted and performed with the help of word-formulas, elements of the folk language function in Svadebka as a kind of “oral notation”: words and syllables, having been assigned fixed motivic formulas, are fragmented and rearranged each time in a slightly different order, producing semantically similar but rhythmically and metrically unequal phrases and words. No strict rules for such performance practice exist in Russian folklore – the rules are implicit and depend on the skill of the folk singer. The skill of Stravinsky the folk singer is the most evident in Svadebka. The composer obviously had a fine feeling not only for Russian folk music, but also for Russian folk verse, and, having finished Svadebka, was far better placed than anyone else to talk – as in our opening epigraph – about the inseparability of the two.

Marina Lupishko

191

Bibliography Books Asafiev, Boris (1982): A Book About Stravinsky, translated by Richard F. French, introduced by Robert Craft, Ann Arbor, Michigan (russ. original edition 1929). Bailey, James (1993): Three Russian Lyric Folk Song Meters, Columbus, OH. —. (2001): ɂɡɛɪɚɧɧɵɟ ɫɬɚɬɶɢ ɩɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɦɭ ɧɚɪɨɞɧɨɦɭ ɫɬɢɯɭ [Selected papers on Russian folk verse], translated, edited, and introduced by M. L. Gasparov, Moscow and CEU. Kireevsky, Petr (1911): ɉɟɫɧɢ, ɫɨɛɪɚɧɧɵɟ Ʉɢɪɟɟɜɫɤɢɦ, ɬɨɦ 1, “ɉɟɫɧɢ ɨɛɪɹɞɨɜɵɟ” [Songs collected by Kireevsky, vol. 1, “Ritual songs”], ed. by V. F. Miller and M. N. Speransky, Moscow. Kholopova, Valentina (1971): ȼɨɩɪɨɫɵ ɪɢɬɦɚ ɜ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɟ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɨɜ XX ɜɟɤɚ [The problems of rhythm in the works of the 20thcentury composers], Moscow 1971. Lerdahl, Fred, Jackendoff, Ray (1983): A Generative Theory of Tonal Music, Cambridge, MA. Ramuz, Charles-Ferdinand (1997): Souvenirs sur Igor Stravinsky, Rezé. Sheyn, Pavel (1989): ȼɟɥɢɤɨɪɭɫ ɜ ɫɜɨɢɯ ɩɟɫɧɹɯ, ɨɛɪɹɞɚɯ, ɨɛɵɱɚɹɯ, ɜɟɪɨɜɚɧɢɹɯ, ɫɤɚɡɤɚɯ, ɥɟɝɟɧɞɚɯ ɢ ɬ.ɩ. [The Great Russian in his songs, rituals, customs, beliefs, tales, legends, etc.], Moscow. Stravinsky, Igor (1962): Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons, tr. by A. Knodel and I. Dahl, New York. Stravinsky, Igor’ (1998, 2000, 2003): ɉɟɪɟɩɢɫɤɚ ɫ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɦɢ ɤɨɪɪɟɫɩɨɧɞɟɧɬɚɦɢ, ed. by V. Varunts, 3 vols., Moscow. Stravinsky, Igor, Craft, Robert (1959): Conversations with Igor Stravinsky, London. —. (1962): Expositions and Developments, London. —. (1972): Themes and Conclusions, London. Stravinsky, Vera, Craft, Robert (1978): Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents, London. Taruskin, Richard (1996): Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: A Biography of the Works through Mavra, 2 vols., Berkeley, CA. Varunts, Viktor (ed.) (1988): ɂ. ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɢɣ – ɩɭɛɥɢɰɢɫɬ ɢ ɫɨɛɟɫɟɞɧɢɤ [I. Stravinsky, the writer and interviewee], Moscow. Walsh, Stephen (1999): Stravinsky: A Creative Spring. Russia and France, 1882-1934, London.

192

Stravinsky’s Svadebka as the Technique of “Building Blocks”

Articles Birkan, Rafail (1966): Ɉ ɩɨɷɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɦ ɬɟɤɫɬɟ «ɋɜɚɞɟɛɤɢ» ɂɝɨɪɹ ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɨɝɨ [On the poetic text of Igor’ Stravinsky’s “Svadebka”], in: Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɧɚ ɪɭɛɟɠɟ XX ɜɟɤɚ, Moscow-Leningrad, pp. 239251. —. (1971): Ɉ ɬɟɦɚɬɢɡɦɟ «ɋɜɚɞɟɛɤɢ» [On the thematic material of “Svadebka”], in: ɂɡ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ XX ɜɟɤɚ, Moscow, pp. 169-188. Gordon, Tom (1983): Stravinsky and C.-F. Ramuz: A Primitive Classicism, in: Canadian University Music Review 4, pp. 218-243. Horlacher, Gretchen (1995): Metric Irregularity in “Les Noces”: The Problem of Periodicity, in: Journal of Music Theory 39, pp. 285-309. Jakobson, Roman (1966): Slavic Epic Verse, in: id., Selected Writings, vol. 4, The Hague, pp. 414-463. Kippen, James, Bell, Bernard (1992): Modelling Music with Grammars: Formal Language Representation in the Bol Processor, in: Computer Representations and Models in Music, London, pp. 207-238. London, Justin (2008): Cognitive and Aesthetic Aspects of Metrical Ambiguity, colloquium talk given at the University of Alberta, accessed at . Lupishko, Marina (2005): Stravinsky and Russian Poetic Folklore, in: ex tempore 12/2, pp. 1-24. —. (2007): The ‘Rejoicing Discovery’ Revisited: Re-accentuation in Russian Folklore and Stravinsky’s Music, in: ex tempore 13/2, pp. 136. —. (2009): Stravinsky’s Bayka (1915-16): Prose or Poetry?, in: ex tempore 14/2, pp. 60-77. —. (2010): Stravinsky’s Svadebka (1914-23) as the ‘direct quotation of popular – i.e. non-literary – verse’, in: ex tempore 15/1, pp. 1-21. —. (2011) “Grib-borovik” or “Charka-gorelka”? Stravinsky’s Treatment of Russian Folk Trochaic Tetrameter, in: Australian Slavonic and Eastern European Studies 25, pp. 1-37. Taranovsky, Kirill (1956): The Identity of the Prosodic Bases of Russian Folk and Literary Verse, in: For Roman Jakobson. Essays on the Occasion of His Sixtieth Birthday, The Hague, pp. 553-558. Van den Toorn, Pieter (2003): Stravinsky’s “Les Noces” (“Svadebka”), and the Prohibition against Expressive Timing, in: Journal of Musicology 20 (2), pp. 285-304. Zemtsovsky, Izaliy (1996): Stravinsky: “Les Noces” and Russian Village Wedding Songs, in: Ethnomusicology 40/3, pp. 536-540.

Marina Lupishko

Musical Examples (Reprinted with kind permission of Chester Ltd., London.) Example 1: Stravinsky, Svadebka / Les Noces, rehearsal fig. [9]-[10]:

193

194

Stravinsky’s Svadebka as the Technique of “Building Blocks”

Example 2: Stravinsky, Svadebka / Les Noces, rehearsal fig. [27]-[28]:

Example 3: Justin London’s scheme of the first six measures of rehearsal fig. [27] (London 2008: 3), with bar numbers and motive designations added:

Marina Lupishko Example 4: Stravinsky, Svadebka / Les Noces, rehearsal fig. [48]-[49].

195

196

Stravinsky’s Svadebka as the Technique of “Building Blocks”

Example 5: Stravinsky, Svadebka / Les Noces, rehearsal fig. [61]-[62]:

Marina Lupishko Example 6: Stravinsky, Svadebka / Les Noces, rehearsal fig. [87]-[88]:

197

198

Stravinsky’s Svadebka as the Technique of “Building Blocks”

Figures Figure 1: Preliminary Sketch for “Pod’ na svád’bu” at 2 mm. before rehearsal fig. [49], Photo MS 110-0503, Image Courtesy Igor Stravinsky Collection, Paul Sacher Foundation

Marina Lupishko

199

Figure 2: Preliminary Sketch for “Baslov, Bozha, Bozhun’ka!” at rehearsal fig. [61], Photo MS 110-0506, Image Courtesy Igor Stravinsky Collection, Paul Sacher Foundation

200

Stravinsky’s Svadebka as the Technique of “Building Blocks”

Figure 3: Preliminary Sketch for “Ay, lyuli, ay, lyuli, lyuli!” at 2 mm. before rehearsal fig. [88], Photo MS 110-0480, Image Courtesy Igor Stravinsky Collection, Paul Sacher Foundation

Notes 1

In Stravinsky in Pictures and Documents, Kireevsky 1911 is referred to as “the only source [of Svadebka] apart from three lines in A.V. Tereshchenko’s Byt Russkogo Naroda (1848 edition, vol. II, p. 332), used at rehearsal figure [93] [Ulyu-lyu, sobaki! Ulyu-lyu, borzye, ulyu-lyu, kosye!]” (Stravinsky & Craft 1978: 132). Stravinsky consulted the collections of Tereshchenko, Sheyn, and Sakharov, which also contain a preliminary exposition of the peasant wedding ritual and a number of wedding folksong texts. Stravinsky’s use of song text fragments from these anthologies and of spoken formulas from the related entries in Dal’s Ɍɨɥɤɨɜɵɣ ɫɥɨɜɚɪɶ ɠɢɜɨɝɨ ɜɟɥɢɤɨɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɹɡɵɤɚ (Explanatory Dictionary of the Living Great-Russian Language) is documented by Taruskin in his chapters 15 and 17 (1996: 1140-1141; 1324-1349; 1422-1440). Afanas’ev’s book of folk fairy tales became the text source of the surrounding vocal and instrumental works: Bayka, Pribautki, Berceuses du chat, Trois histoires pour enfants, L’histoire du soldat.

Marina Lupishko

2

201

The 20th-century researchers of Russian folk verse (Jakobson 1966, Taranovsky 1953, Bailey 1993) divide it into two types: regular – syllabo-tonic, featuring a distinct poetic metre – and irregular – accentual or tonic verse that has a constant number of metrical stresses per line but a varying number of syllables between them (Bailey 1993: 14). The irregular tonic metres are traditionally divided into strict tonic verse (two-stress and three-stress) and free tonic verse (the latter resembles more prose than poetry). 3 Russian folk wedding songs with the texts similar to those of Stravinsky can be found on the audio CD Stravinsky: Les Noces and Russian Village Wedding Songs, performed by the Pokrovsky Ensemble, Elektra-Nonesuch, 1994. For a review of this recording and a new appraisal of Svadebka see Zemtsovsky 1996. 4 “Je m’en souviens, j’ai dû m’y débrouiller moi-même (ce qui ne s’est pas fait sans peine, bien que je n’eusse que des syllabes à mettre en place) et dans des complications de mesure qui supposaient de véritables opérations arithmétiques pour en trouver le dénominateur commun” [I recall that at first I had to cope all by myself with the difficulties of the [poetic] metre – a task that had never been simple, taking into account that all I had to do was to distribute the syllables correctly – and this task often required literally mathematical operations for the purpose of finding a common denominator] (Ramuz 1997: 62; tr. and italics mine – M. L.). 5 “Don’t honk, don’t honk, swan, Don’t honk in the field, white swan. Don’t cry, don’t grieve, Nastasyushka, Don’t cry, don’t be sad, dear Timofeyevna” (unless specified, hereafter in the footnotes, tr. are by Theodore Levin and Dmitri Pokrovsky from the audio CD recording Stravinsky: ‘Les Noces’ and Russian Village Wedding Songs, Electra-Nonesuch, 1994). 6 Normally, the term “trochaic substitution” describes the replacement of an iamb by a trochee, although here it refers to the replacement of a dactylic ending (Sww) with a re-accented trochaic ending (wSw; S=strong syllable, w=weak syllable). 7 “Holy Mother, Come (come) to our house, To help the svakha To comb the curls, Khvetis’s curls, Pamfilich’s curls.” 8 The alternation of feminine (Sw) and masculine (S) endings is normative for Russian folk and literary trochaic verse (see more on this in Lupishko 2011). 9 It is beyond the scope of this paper to enter into a detailed discussion of Russian folk re-accentuation and its representation in Stravinsky’s music. This issue has been covered extensively in Lupishko 2007. 10 The author explains her approach in fn. 13: “Although this is texted music, the accentual structure of the text does not help determine the location of downbeats, for Stravinsky does not coordinate syllabic accent and metric accent in this work (and in many others). Taruskin […] has demonstrated that Stravinsky often purposely avoided this alliance” (Horlacher 1995: 307-308). As it has been shown, the musictext alliance is always present to a greater or lesser extent in the Russian vocal works of Stravinsky. 11 “The B motive is a direct musical analog to a common type stutter and ‘repair’ in speech, where one repeats part of a phrase. The repair is either the iteration of a mistake, or more plausibly, the re-iteration of a deviant utterance to show that it was not a mistake” (London 2008: 5). The composer once talked about “a melodic-

202

Stravinsky’s Svadebka as the Technique of “Building Blocks”

rhythmic stutter of my speech from Les Noces to the Concerto in D [1947]” (Stravinsky & Craft 1972: 58). 12 What is perceived as a stressed syllable in one folk poetic metre, can be considered unstressed in another. This relativity of word stress (compared to phrasal stress) allows James Bailey and other linguists to view any Russian folk verse as existing in several different metric variants, both regular (trochee, anapest, the 5+5 metre) and irregular (strict 2-stress and 3-stress tonic verse, free tonic verse, prose). Consider e.g. a tonic verse variant of the 5+5 verse cited above: “Ya vechor mlada / Vo piru byla, / Vo piru byla, pirushke, / vo besedushke.” 13 This verse is marked as being on “page 199”, presumably of Kireevsky 1911, see microfilm folio 110-0474 in the Paul Sacher Stiftung, Basel (the first instance of reaccentuation is marked by Stravinsky’s hand, the rest is added in accordance with the poetic metre). 14 This verse is titled in Stravinsky’s hand as “the duo for alto and soprano for the end of the first act” (microfilm folio 110-0479, re-accentuation is added). 15 “My bed, my bed, On the bed is a feather bed, On the feather bed is a headrest, At the headrest there’s a blanket, Under the blanket there’s a good fellow, The good fellow Khvetisushka.” 16 “The solid wax candle melted, Standing long before the icon. The princess stiffened her quick legs, Crying bitterly before the father. Oh how they blessed the virgin, Oh how they blessed her for good, With bread and salt, with the icon of the Saviour.” 17 As in North Indian tabla-playing, where musical motives are memorised, transmitted and performed with the help of word-formulas called bols – quasi-onomatopoeic mnemonics that represent drum-strokes – which also facilitate improvisation: dha, ti, ge, na, tirakita, dhee, tee, ke, etc. (see more on this in Kippen/Bell 1988: 208). 18 “Bless, Lord! Bless, Lord, Lord! Bless, Lord, the two who were born, Bless, Lord, the two who are seated… Bless, Lord, Lord! Bless, Lord!” 19 “A berry rolled to a berry, A berry bowed to a berry. A berry is red, red. The strawberry is ripe, ripe.” 20 This hypothetical example demonstrates structural potentials of the flexible linguistic accent in the Russian folk language. Note that both accentual variants of the word “lyuli” are possible in folklore. The two variants function in exactly the same way as feminine and masculine endings do in literary verse: they alternate to produce “well-formed” trochaic stanzas (Lerdahl/Jackendoff 1983: 68ff, 74ff). 21 Sheyn 1989: 14. 22 Another preparatory sketch, microfilm folio 110-0472, contains all kinds of onomatopoeia copied all over the page from one of Stravinsky’s text sources, presumably Kireevsky 1911 (marked “page 226, No. 823”): “Alo, lo, lo! Olo, olo, olo, lo, lo! Ey ali, ali, Ali lyay… Oy di, oy di, oy, rano moya! Oy redi, oy redi! Oy, rano, rano rano!”

EURASIANISM IN PERSPECTIVE: SOUVTCHINSKY, LOURIÉ AND THE SILVER AGE1 KATERINA LEVIDOU

Ⱦɚɜɧɨ ɭɠɟ ɛɵɥɨ ɫɤɚɡɚɧɨ, ɱɬɨ ɜ ȿɜɪɨɩɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɢ ɫɦɟɪɬɶ, ɚ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ – ɠɢɡɧɶ. Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ ɟɞɢɧɫɬɜɟɧɧɚɹ ɫɬɪɚɧɚ ɜ ɦɢɪɟ, ɝɞɟ ɩɪɨɩɚɫɬɶ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɠɢɡɧɶɸ ɢ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨɦ ɧɟ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɭɟɬ. Ʉɚɤɚɹ ɠɢɡɧɶ – ɬɚɤɨɟ ɢ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ, ɧɨ ɧɟɬ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɧɢɦɢ ɪɚɡɪɵɜɚ. ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ – ɧɟɨɛɯɨɞɢɦɨɫɬɶ. Ȼɨɥɶɲɟ ɧɢɝɞɟ ɜ ɬɚɤɨɣ ɦɟɪɟ ɷɬɨɣ ɧɟɨɛɯɨɞɢɦɨɫɬɢ ɭɠɟ ɧɟɬ. ȿɟ ɧɚɜɹɡɵɜɚɸɬ. (Lourié collection, Doss. 37.3: 11)2 [It has long been said that in Europe art is death, but in Russia it is life. Russia is the only country in the world where the gap between life and art does not exist. What is art is also life, and there is no gap between them. Art in Russia is a necessity. Nowhere else does this necessity exist to such an extent. It has been imposed.] ȿɜɪɨɩɚ ɩɨɛɟɠɞɟɧɚ ɤɚɤ ɞɨɧ Ʉɢɯɨɬ. Ɉɧɚ «ɨɛɪɟɥɚ» ɪɚɡɭɦ ɢ ɭɦɢɪɚɟɬ. «Ƚɢɝɚɧɬɵ ɢ ɱɭɞɨɜɢɳɚ» ɟɟ ɩɨɛɟɞɢɜɲɢɟ, ɧɟ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɭɸɬ, ɨɧɢ ɜɵɞɭɦɚɧɵ ɧɚɦɢ, ɬ.ɤ. ɦɵ ɩɨɡɜɨɥɢɥɢ ɢɦ ɜɨɡɧɢɤɧɭɬɶ. ȿɜɪɨɩɚ ɬɚɤ ɠɟ ɧɟ ɫɭɦɟɥɚ ɡɚɳɢɬɢɬɶ ɫɜɨɸ ɫɜɨɛɨɞɭ, ɤɚɤ ɢ ɞɨɧ-Ʉɢɯɨɬ ɧɟ ɫɭɦɟɥ ɫɞɟɥɚɬɶ ɷɬɨ. (Lourié Collection, Doss. 37.3: 9) [Europe is defeated just like Don Quixote. She “acquired” reason and is dying. The “Giants and beasts” that defeated her do not exist, they are invented by us, as we allowed them to emerge. Europe thus failed to defend her freedom, just as Don Quixote could not do so.]

On 29 May 1913, in the new Théâtre des Champs-Élysées in Paris, a “rite” was performed, a “rite” that marked the course of Western music. At the end of a stormy evening, on which The Rite of Spring was premiered, Igor’ Stravinsky, who had entered the venue merely as a distinguished representative of Russian music, walked out reborn as the avant-garde composer par excellence. This, to be sure, was a transformation with repercussions not only on a personal, but also on a national level. Stravinsky’s success,

204

Eurasianism in Perspective: Souvtchinsky, Lourié and the Silver Age

as well as the achievements of his up-and-coming compatriot Sergey Prokof’ev, reassured the Russian people that Russian music was eventually being rid of its provinciality (a provinciality epitomised largely through references to folk music), that at last it was figuring at the forefront of world artistic developments. The consequent boost of national pride compensated in every respect for the price paid for this transformation, that is, the gradual internationalisation of these composers’ musical idiom. However, following the dislocation of millions of Russians from their motherland in the context of what has become known as the “first wave” of Russian emigration, the one instigated by the 1917 Revolution, the question of contemporary Russian music’s loyalty to the national character surfaced in “Russia Abroad” (Lourié 1932: 527).3 In a nationalistic spirit – a typical symptom of exile – Russian émigrés deemed themselves the only genuine continuers of Russian history and culture, and felt responsible for protecting their national identity and cultural heritage. For they were convinced they had to be ready one day to take over the country’s destiny, when the time came to return home. Consequently, the Russian language became a symbol of their Russianness, and literature featured as the expatriates’ “final homeland, everything that Russia was and that Russia will be” in the words of Dmitry Merezhkovsky (1865-1941) (quoted in Johnston 1988: 48). Nevertheless, due to the very nature of music – which is seemingly independent from verbal ideas and devoid of linguistic barriers – and as a result of the embrace of musical modernism by distinguished Russian émigré composers, the question of Russian music’s place in the cultural life of Russia Abroad proved to be more complex, even more so because modernist music did not manifestly address pressing émigré identity preoccupations. The association of Stravinsky’s name with neoclassicism, especially, which the composer himself fostered starting from the 1920s (Messing 1996), suggested – and has been largely interpreted as – his distancing himself from his Russian background. Yet, notable efforts to accommodate the ostensibly international musical style of neoclassicism within the Russian cultural heritage were made by some eminent members of the Parisian émigré community in the context of the so-called Eurasianist movement. The intellectual and musicologist Pierre Souvtchinsky (Petr Suvchinsky, 1892-1985) and the composer Arthur Lourié (Artur Lur’e, 1891/92-1966),4 who espoused Eurasianism, laid out their particular outlooks on music, more generally, and on Stravinskian neoclassicism, more specifically, in several articles published in the Russian émigré and Western European presses.5 In discussing

Katerina Levidou

205

Russian music’s destiny and, at the same time, seeking to legitimise Stravinskian neoclassicism’s place in Russian culture, both thinkers drew and built on Silver Age culture and thought, thus adopting and carrying forward in Russia Abroad some of the key cultural and more widely intellectual concerns of pre-Revolutionary Russia.6

Eurasianism: Emergence and background Eurasianism (Souvtchinski 1990a) was a historiosophic interwar Russian émigré movement, which bore both nationalistic and modernist traits (Glebov 2003). It was articulated by a homonymous political group, which was founded officially in 1921 by Souvtchinsky, the linguist and ethnographer Nikolay Trubetskoy (1890-1938), the economist and geographer Petr Savitsky (1895-1968) and the Orthodox theologian Georgy Florovsky (1893-1979) (Mirsky 1927-1928: 312). Eurasianism’s founding was marked by the publication of a collaborative collection of essays entitled ɂɫɯɨɞ ɤ ȼɨɫɬɨɤɭ. ɉɪɟɞɱɭɜɫɬɜɢɹ ɢ ɫɜɟɪɲɟɧɢɹ. ɍɬɜɟɪɠɞɟɧɢɟ ɟɜɪɚɡɢɣɰɟɜ [Exodus to the East. Forebodings and Events. An Affirmation of the Eurasians], which was published in Sofia in 1921, although Trubetskoy’s 1920 monograph ȿɜɪɨɩɚ ɢ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɱɟɫɬɜɨ [Europe and Humanity] is widely deemed as the first Eurasianist publication (Trubetskoy 1920). Both volumes were printed by the Russian-Bulgarian publishing house in Sofia (co-founded by Souvtchinsky, Nikolay Zhekulin, a well-known journalist from Kiev, and Ruschu Mollov, a Bulgarian who made a career in the Russian imperial service), around which the Eurasianists congregated (Glebov 2011: 109). Several collective volumes of essays and brochures were published subsequently that laid out Eurasianist ideas (Laruelle 1999: 335-337), while two short-lived publications, the newspaper ȿɜɪɚɡɢɹ [Eurasia] (Clamart, 1928-1929) and the journal ȼɟɪɫɬɵ [Milestones] (Paris, 1926-1928) also voiced Eurasianist views, the latter primarily with reference to cultural issues (Weststeijn 1994) – both were co-edited by Souvtchinsky, while Lourié was one of the editors of the former (Struve 1984: 292, Smith 1995: 167). Even though Eurasianists had hoped to disseminate their ideology in Soviet Russia, the movement was soon secretly penetrated by agents of the GPU, the Soviet secret service (Smith 1995: 910). In 1928 it split into a right- and a left-wing faction. The former comprised the “orthodox” Eurasianists Trubetskoy and Savitsky, and the latter Souvtchinsky. Souvtchinsky reportedly stated that he was the one who did and undid the movement (“C’est moi qui ai fait et défait le mouvement”; Losskaya 2002: 194), thus acknowledging his role in defending the proSoviet line that led to the demise of the organised political movement of

206

Eurasianism in Perspective: Souvtchinsky, Lourié and the Silver Age

Eurasianism (Glebov 2005). Following the 1928 split, some members, including Trubetskoy and Souvtchinsky, gradually became disillusioned and withdrew. Eurasianism continued to exist in the 1930s under Savitsky’s direction; however, lacking Trubetskoy’s and Souvtchinsky’s input, it declined. The Eurasianist movement was the offspring of efforts by some émigré intellectuals to grasp the historical and political circumstances that had led to their expatriation. The redefinition of Russian national identity became a key means towards this end. The Eurasianists identified Russia as “Eurasia”, which they perceived – in a proto-structuralist fashion (Glebov 2008) – as an autonomous geographical and cultural entity that effectively covered the space occupied by the Soviet Union. The emergence of the utopian vision of Eurasia as a distinct cultural and political unity can only have been encouraged by the experience of the Russian empire’s disintegration due to the Russian Revolution and the ensuing Civil War (Glebov 2011: 106-107). Ethno-culturally Eurasia was allegedly marked by the merging of Asian (Finno-Ugric, Tartar-Turkic and Mongolian) and European features. Yet the dynamics between these two perceived elements of the Eurasian nation were quite peculiar: the Eurasianists idealised and laid emphasis on the former, while they viewed the latter through a critical lens. This particular conception of national character reflected Russia’s pre-Revolutionary fascination with the East (Bassin 2006: 71-79, Laruelle 2007: 30) – expressed, among others, through japonisme (Bartlett 2008) and surely cultivated through Russia’s entanglement in the Russian-Japanese war (1904-1905) – and scepticism towards the Western European civilisation. The country had, of course, expanded towards the East in a colonialist manner subsequent to its liberation from the Mongol yoke in the fifteenth century. However, the question of its relationship with Asia essentially only surfaced in the early eighteenth century, following the Petrine reforms that aimed to Europeanise the country. The Orient thus assumed the role of the exotic “other” in Russia’s self-identification vis-à-vis Europe, which had considerable reservations as to Russia’s Western face. Under the spell of nationalism, which was articulated in Russia in various forms, Asia was gradually transformed into a means of marking the country’s difference from – and, eventually, superiority over – Europe (Bassin 2006: 72). Scythianism was a prominent manifestation, in the realm of culture, of Russia’s endorsement of an Asian identity that presumably involved virtues lacking in European countries. Building on this intellectual tradition, Eurasianism significantly marked a

Katerina Levidou

207

radical disentanglement of Russia from Europe through its conceptualisation as a synthesis between West and East (Bassin 2006: 79). The Eurasianist ideology put forward the view of the Russian nation’s distinctiveness from and superiority over Europe, denouncing the Western European civilisation as despotic and decadent. Souvtchinsky’s Eurasianist articles specifically were saturated with such a modernist rhetoric of a crisis in the modern Western world (Glebov 2003). In this context, the Eurasianists even argued that the Eastern Slavs purportedly differed from the Western Slavs thanks to ethno-psychological connections with Asiatic peoples, thus distancing themselves from Slavophilism (Mirsky 19271928: 312). They actually sought to substantiate historically such a distinction from the West by means of a positive interpretation of the “Tatar yoke” on the basis of its perceived role in the ethno-psychological formation of the Russian nation. Moreover, they construed the Mongol Empire of Genghis Khan as having laid the foundations of the Russian state by uniting Eurasia (Glebov 2011: 111-112). The Russian civilisation’s distinctiveness from the European one had supposedly been smothered and concealed by Russia’s Europhile monarchy since the reign of Peter the Great (Mirsky 1927-1928: 312). In fact, the Eurasianists felt that the introduction of European models into Russia by Peter the Great in the eighteenth century had contaminated the national self-consciousness of the Russian intelligentsia, and had resulted in a division into lower and upper classes, and, by extension, in a distancing of the country’s intelligentsia from the people. Russia’s Europeanisation and the ensuing split into two classes, they claimed, eventually led to the Bolshevik Revolution, which they condemned for being founded on Western ideology as well as for its rejection of religion. They considered, however, that the social upheaval that came with the Revolution helped free Russia’s Eurasian essence from European admixtures; it allegedly constituted the revolt of the Russian masses against the domination of the Europeanised upper class (Mirsky 1927-1928: 312). The subsequent purification signified that it was time for Russia to assume the global mission for which it was destined, a mission whose accomplishment involved integrated political and cultural action: to rescue humanity from the decadent Western civilisation, which had been subdued by reason, and replace it with a “religious” culture – Eurasianists were devoted to Russian Orthodox Christianity, whose acceptance was a central element in the movement (Glebov 2003: 21). Such a conception of the nation’s messianic mission clearly builds on the intellectual tradition of the “Russian Idea” (cf. Kelly 1999: 1-17). The “religious” culture the Eurasianists envisaged – which Souvtchinsky espe-

208

Eurasianism in Perspective: Souvtchinsky, Lourié and the Silver Age

cially advocated in his writings (Suvchinskii 1996) – would reconcile the spiritual with the material, implementing a synthesis whose perceived value, according to the Eurasianists, the Bolsheviks failed to appreciate (Glebov 2011: 110). Eurasianism effectively became the point of contact of certain thinkers from a variety of disciplines – such as linguistics, geography, theology, history, literary history and aesthetics – that accommodated their individual intellectual interests. Their scholarly conclusions were combined into a world-view that sprang from their effort to grasp the historical and political circumstances that instigated the ordeal they were going through in exile. Eurasianist ideology, though, was typified by a striking pluralism of voices articulated within the boundaries of Eurasianism’s basic doctrine. On the artistic level, for example, Souvtchinsky advanced modernist tenets, which the more conservative Trubetskoy condemned as leftist and dangerous (Glebov 2003: 22-23). As mentioned earlier, disparity of views eventually arose on the political level too, which led to the movement’s dissolution. Nevertheless, Eurasianist ideology, being a powerful, if not coherent, world-view that exceeded politics, outlived the interwar political movement through which it was propagated. Remarkably, Eurasianism lived on in the thoughts of many members of the Eurasianist movement, notably Trubetskoy, Savitsky (Glebov 2005) and Souvtchinsky (Levidou 2011), throughout their lives. Souvtchinsky, for instance, referred to Russia as Eurasia in an article on Stravinsky written as late as 1975 (Souvtchinsky 1982: 45). Eurasianism drew upon Russia’s rich intellectual and cultural tradition in multiple ways. The Silver Age, in particular, was a major source of inspiration. Indeed, Russian Symbolist and Futurist art, and especially the Scythian movement, were influential in the shaping of the notion of Eurasia through a fascination with Asia, expressed, for instance, in the poetry of Velimir Khlebnikov, Aleksandr Blok and Andrey Bely (Riasanovsky 1996: 137, Toman 1995: 198-199). More specifically, works such as Vladimir Solov’ev’s ɉɚɧɦɨɧɝɨɥɢɡɦ [Pan-Mongolism] (1894), Bely’s ɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝ [Petersburg] (1916) and Blok’s ɋɤɢɮɵ [The Scythians] (1918) may be identified as heralds of the concept of the Eurasian space, a space envisaged as the place of unity or reconciliation of East and West, and associated with an apocalyptic vision (Laruelle 1999: 51-52, Laruelle 2007: 26-29, Sériot 1999: 73). The cover of ɂɫɯɨɞ ɤ ȼɨɫɬɨɤɭ, designed by the young artist Pavel Chelishchev (1898-1957) – Souvtchinsky’s protégé at the time – notably depicted a galloping mare, which is an

Katerina Levidou

209

allusion to Blok’s 1908 poem ɇɚ ɩɨɥɟ Ʉɭɥɢɤɨɜɨɦ [On the Field of Kulikovo] (Blok/Kemball 1954, Toman 1995: 199), yet another work by Blok that articulated the vision of a Eurasian landscape, in which the Tatar hordes emerged as a powerful revolutionary force that will do battle with Europe (Matich 2005: 157-158). The Eurasianist volume indeed echoed the idea of the beginning of “high and rebellious days”, voiced by the warrior-poet (Pyman 2006: 311); Souvtchinsky’s writings did so in a most vivid language. After all, Blok had been instrumental in foregrounding the issue of the Russian intelligentsia’s distancing from the people (Glebov 2011: 109), prophesying that this split would lead to a revolution with transformative power (Pyman 2006: 311-312), a fundamental Eurasianist concern (Suvchinsky 1999a; Glebov 2006: 189-194). Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring (1913) and Prokof’ev’s Scythian Suite (1915) could also have encouraged the emergence of Eurasianist views through references to Russia’s pagan past and Scythian tribes respectively, communicating an impulse to dissociate the nation from the modern Western civilisation – in the latter case, by turning to the East specifically. Small wonder, then, that Eurasianism had such an appeal to the artistic world, but also, that art – especially music and literature – became a key point of reference in Souvtchinsky’s Eurasianist writings.

Pierre Souvtchinsky and the problem of contemporaneity (ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ) Born into a wealthy family in St Petersburg, Souvtchinsky was a dedicated supporter of the arts, especially of music, in pre-Revolutionary Russia. He was an enthusiast of modernism, which he promoted through sponsorship and co-editorship of two short-lived musicological journals: Ɇɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɢɤ [The Musical Contemporary] (1915-1917) – which the composer Vladimir Dukelsky described as “the most luxurious musical magazine ever printed” (Duke 1955: 38) – and Ɇɟɥɨɫ: ɤɧɢɝɢ ɨ ɦɭɡɵɤɟ [Melos: Books about Music] (1917), as well as through concerts organised under the aegis of both journals. Following the outbreak of the 1917 Revolution, he moved to Kiev, apparently when his Petrograd apartment was expropriated (effectively on 15 January 1918, although Lenin signed the decree of expropriation on 20 August 1918) and he was asked not only to share it, but also to stop hosting concerts organised under the auspices of Ɇɟɥɨɫ (Walterskirchen 2006: 19). He had probably taken up residence in the Ukraine by 13 June 1918 (Akimova 2011: 45), where he took part in efforts to reform local musical life (Langlois 2004: 25-26). Eventually, however, he fled westwards, possibly worried about his bourgeois back-

210

Eurasianism in Perspective: Souvtchinsky, Lourié and the Silver Age

ground (Walterskirchen 2006: 20) – according to one account, after a violent incident, the assassination of a White Russian in his house in Chorivka, near Kiev (Langlois 2004: 29). Subsequently, he proceeded via a typical émigré route through Istanbul, Sofia (1920) and Berlin (1921) to Paris, where he settled in 1925 and lived for the rest of his life. The specific path Souvtchinsky followed in emigration arguably shaped his life. It was perhaps in Istanbul, and definitely in the Bulgarian capital, that he, Trubetskoy, Savitsky and Florovsky conceived the idea of the Eurasianist movement. Moreover, in Berlin he renewed his acquaintance with Stravinsky, whom he had met in the 1910s, and became a friend and collaborator of his. This was a decisive and fortunate event in his life, as he confessed in an autobiographical note of 1982 (Souvtchinski 1990b: 78). Indeed, Stravinsky became in his friend’s eyes the chosen artist-genius who marked the contemporaneous cycle of music history (Levidou 2011). Souvtchinsky’s Eurasianist writings are saturated with an apocalyptic rhetoric that delineates what he perceived as the tragedy of modern times (Suvchinsky 1923: 108). The Russian intellectual described the modern condition as one in which the organic progression of the world had been breached and equilibrium had been lost (Suvchinsky 1922, Suvchinsky 1923, Suvchinskii 1996). The modern individual had been seized by the mechanistic world process and had surrendered to illusory idols of the future. What Souvtchinsky considered as the source of the evil was the submission of modern man to reason, a distinctly Romano-Germanic ideal. Modern humanity had consequently lost the capacity for a truthful conception of the world. ɑɟɥɨɜɟɱɟɫɬɜɨ ɠɢɥɨ ɜɹɥɨ, ɞɪɹɛɥɨ, ɛɟɡɛɨɠɧɨ, ɪɚɫɬɥɟɜɚɹ ɫɟɛɹ ɜ ɭɬɨɧɱɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɦɢɫɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɨɳɭɳɟɧɢɣ ɢ ɫɚɦɨɧɚɞɟɹɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɪɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɢɡɦɚ, ɧɨ ɫ ɬɨɝɨ ɦɝɧɨɜɟɧɢɹ, ɤɨɝɞɚ ɧɚɱɚɥɚɫɶ ɷɩɨɯɚ ɞɟɣɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ ɬɪɚɝɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɫɨɛɵɬɢɣ, ɤɨɝɞɚ ɧɚɞ ɡɟɦɥɟɸ ɢ ɜ ɟɟ ɝɥɭɛɢɧɚɯ ɡɚɲɟɜɟɥɢɥɫɹ ɯɚɨɫ – ɜɫɟ ɥɸɞɢ ɜɧɟɡɚɩɧɨ ɪɚɡɞɟɥɢɥɢɫɶ ɧɚ ɞɜɨɟ, ɧɚ ɞɜɚ ɫɬɚɧɚ: ɧɚ ɨɛɟɡɭɦɟɜɲɢɯ, ɜɡɦɟɬɟɧɧɵɯ ɭɠɚɫɧɵɦ ɜɢɯɪɟɦ, ɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨ ɨɫɥɟɩɲɢɯ ɢ ɨɝɥɨɯɲɢɯ, ɬɜɨɪɹɳɢɯ ɧɟ ɩɨ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɜɨɥɟ, ɢ ɧɚ ɨɪɨɛɟɜɲɢɯ, ɢɫɩɭɝɚɜɲɢɯɫɹ, ɡɚɬɚɢɜɲɢɯɫɹ ɞɨ ɩɨɬɟɪɢ ɫɩɨɫɨɛɧɨɫɬɢ ɪɚɡɭɦɟɧɢɹ. ɇɟɧɚɜɢɞɹɬ ɢ ɩɪɨɤɥɢɧɚɸɬ ɬɨ, ɱɬɨ ɧɚɞɨ ɩɨɧɹɬɶ ɢ ɩɪɢɧɹɬɶ…[…] ȼɟɫɶ ɦɢɪ, ɜɫɤɨɥɵɯɧɭɜɲɢɣɫɹ ɫɬɪɚɲɧɨɣ ɫɭɞɨɪɨɝɨɣ ɜɨɣɧɵ, ɧɵɧɟ ɜɵɛɢɬ ɢɡ ɩɪɨɲɥɨɝɨ ɫɨɫɬɨɹɧɢɹ ɫɚɦɨɭɜɟɪɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɢ ɪɵɯɥɨɝɨ ɩɨɤɨɹ – ɧɚɫɬɨɪɨɠɢɥɫɹ ɜ ɬɪɟɜɨɝɟ ɢ ɠɞɟɬ. ɏɨɱɟɬ ɩɨɧɹɬɶ, ɧɨ ɩɨɤɚ ɧɟ ɩɨɧɢɦɚɟɬ. ɑɭɜɫɬɜɭɟɬ ɫɦɟɪɬɧɭɸ ɬɪɟɜɨɝɭ, ɤɨɬɨɪɚɹ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɤɨɧɱɢɬɶɫɹ, ɥɢɛɨ ɤɚɬɚɫɬɪɨɮɨɣ ɫɦɟɪɬɢ, ɥɢɛɨ ɫɦɟɧɢɬɶɫɹ ɧɨɜɵɦ ɬɪɟɩɟɬɨɦ ɠɢɡɧɢ. (Suvchinsky 1997: 93-94, 95)

Katerina Levidou

211

[Humanity has lived drowsily, witheredly, godlessly, corrupting itself through refinement of mystical sensations and presumptuousness of rationalism, but from the instant when the age of effectively tragic events and, above the earth and in its depths, chaos, began to stir, all the people suddenly divided into two, two camps: those who are enraged, furled up by the horrifying whirlwind, temporarily blinded and deafened, who are acting not on their own volition; and, those who have become numbed, frightened, and hidden, to the point of losing the ability to reason. They hate and curse that which must be understood and accepted… […] The entire world, shaken by the frightening convulsion of the war and currently knocked out of its former condition of self-confidence and lymphatic wellbeing, has pricked up its collective ears in alarm, and is waiting. It wants to understand, but so far is not understanding. It senses the deathly alarm, which could either end in a catastrophe of death or be replaced by a new tremble of life. (Suvchinskii 1996: 26–27)]

For Souvtchinsky, the truthful conception of the world entailed a religious conception of actuality, the ability to discern God’s intention behind contemporary events. What was imperative was the recognition of the religious nature of contemporary historical events, particularly of the Bolshevik Revolution. ȿɫɬɶ ɫɬɪɚɲɧɵɟ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɚ, ɭɠɚɫɧɵɟ ɷɩɨɯɢ, ɤɚɤ ɚɩɨɤɚɥɢɩɫɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɜɢɞɟɧɢɹ, ɜɪɟɦɟɧɚ ɜɟɥɢɤɢɯ ɫɛɵɜɚɧɢɣ Ɍɚɣɧɵ, ɫɬɪɚɲɧɵɟ ɢ ɛɥɚɝɨɫɥɨɜɟɧɧɵɟ, ɤɨɝɞɚ, ɜ ɤɚɤɨɦ-ɬɨ ɨɛɳɟɦ, ɬɚɢɧɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɦ ɩɨɪɵɜɟ – ɰɟɥɵɟ ɩɨɤɨɥɟɧɢɹ ɬɹɧɭɬɫɹ, ɜɨɡɧɨɫɹɬɫɹ ɤ ɜɟɥɢɤɢɦ ɬɚɣɧɚɦ ɧɟɛɚ, ɢɥɢ ɤɨɝɞɚ ɧɟɛɟɫɚ, ɬɚɢɧɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɸ ɫɭɳɧɨɫɬɶɸ ɫɜɨɟɸ ɧɚɜɢɫɚɸɬ, ɫɧɢɠɚɸɬɫɹ, ɩɨɞɨɛɧɨ ɨɝɪɨɦɧɵɦ ɤɪɵɥɶɹɦ, ɧɚɞ ɡɟɦɥɟɸ. ɑɟɥɨɜɟɱɟɫɤɨɟ ɢ Ȼɨɠɟɫɤɨɟ ɜɧɟɡɚɩɧɨ ɫɛɥɢɠɚɟɬɫɹ, ɫɬɚɧɨɜɹɫɶ ɞɪɭɝ ɩɟɪɟɞ ɞɪɭɝɨɦ ɜ ɧɨɜɨɦ ɨɬɤɪɨɜɟɧɢɢ, ɜ ɧɨɜɨɦ ɩɨɫɬɢɝɚɧɢɢ. Ȼɨɝ – ɜ ɧɚɫ, ɦɵ – ɜ Ȼɨɝɟ, ɧɨ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɜ ɦɝɧɨɜɟɧɢɹ ɜɟɥɢɱɚɣɲɢɯ ɧɚɩɪɹɠɟɧɢɣ ɞɭɯɚ, ɦɵ ɪɟɚɥɶɧɨ ɩɨɫɬɢɝɚɟɦ ɷɬɨ. (Suvchinsky 1997: 74) [There are frightening times, terrifying epochs, like apocalyptic visions, times of great realization of the Mystery, times frightening and blessed, when in some general, mysterious burst entire generations reach out for, and are uplifted to, the great mysteries of the sky, or when the skies by their mysterious essence hover over, lowered, like huge wings, above the earth. The human and the divine suddenly approach each other, opening up to each other in a new revelation, a new conception. God is in us, we are in God, but only in instants of the greatest strains of the spirit do we actually grasp this. (Suvchinskii 1996: 17)]

Souvtchinsky’s interpretation of revolutionary events through a spiritual lens could only have been encouraged by the mystic undertones of Blok’s work, especially his poem Ⱦɜɟɧɚɞɰɚɬɶ [The Twelve] – notably the ap-

212

Eurasianism in Perspective: Souvtchinsky, Lourié and the Silver Age

pearance of Christ leading the procession of the twelve revolutionaries – which was released by the Eurasianist Russian-Bulgarian publishing house with an introduction by Souvtchinsky in 1921.7 Souvtchinsky saw one way in which modern humanity could attain religious perception of the world: the restoration of the truthful sensation of time. This, for him, entailed the overcoming of historical time, which may be achieved if time is intuited as a succession of static, temporal points rather than as a continuous and dynamic, horizontal sequence of events: “ɋ ɨɛɟɢɯ ɫɬɨɪɨɧ ɤɚɠɞɨɝɨ ɫɨɛɵɬɢɹ – ɛɟɡɞɧɚ” (Suvchinsky 1997: 78) [“An abyss is on both sides of every event” (Suvchinskii 1996: 19)]. Such static temporal points would then join the region of reality with the sphere of the eternal. Humanity, Souvtchinsky argued, could comprehend eternity itself only through the static quality, the “ɜɟɱɧɵɣ ɦɢɝ” [eternal moment] (Suvchinsky 1923: 110). Music had for him a unique ability to draw apart any moment of time, to stop time, a capacity which rendered it a valuable instrument for attaining true, religious consciousness of the world (Suvchinsky 1921: 21). As a consequence of its perceived power to transcend time – hence to offer true, religious consciousness of the world – music was placed by Souvtchinsky at the top of the artistic hierarchy – just as in Schopenhauer’s aesthetics, in which music is considered a direct manifestation of the nature of Will. Brief discussions of music’s relationship with time are scattered in some of Souvtchinsky’s Eurasianist pieces (Suvchinskii 1996: 21-23, Suvchinsky 1922: 17, Suvchinsky 1923: 111-112) – it should be noted that Souvtchinsky was considered as the main specialist on music among the Eurasianists; although Trubetskoy wrote studies on folk music, they do not really deal with music as an art form, as Souvtchinsky pointed out to the musicologist and ethnologist André Schaeffner in a 1965 letter (Souvtchinsky 1965). He only elaborated on the issue after he withdrew from Eurasianism in his 1939 article La notion du temps et la musique (Souvtchinsky 1939), in which he juxtaposed Stravinsky and Wagner, favouring the Russian composer. This notorious essay builds on earlier ideas that had appeared in his Eurasianist writings. The Russian intellectual distinguished between everyday, historical time, and what he called “musical time”, “khronos”. He described khronos as a musical experience of time, whose functional means of realisation music is, in other words, as time experienced through music (Souvtchinsky 1939: 72). Khronos could take the form of either “psychological time” or “ontological time”. Music that conveys “psychological time” is a kind of notation of the composer’s

Katerina Levidou

213

emotive state at the time of inspiration. Such music is inferior to music that expresses “ontological time”, which communicates a higher, ontological reality. According to Souvtchinsky, Wagner’s music falls under the former category, Stravinsky’s under the latter, which justifies his superiority over his German counterpart. Souvtchinsky’s ideas on time and consciousness reverberate with Henri Bergson’s philosophy, who identified two types of time and consciousness, one continuous and one discontinuous.8 However, Bergson advocated that an authentic awareness of reality involves continuity, while Souvtchinsky deemed that the comprehension of recent history would only be achieved if historical evolution were viewed as a succession of selfsufficient moments, considered as independent historical “knots”, which no longer adhere to causality. Souvtchinsky’s outlook on time and music has been readily associated with respective ideas voiced in Western Europe in the early twentieth century; Charles Kœchlin’s 1926 article Le temps et la musique – which also built on Bergson’s philosophy of time – has been highlighted as a possible source of inspiration for Souvtchinsky (Akimova 2011: 123-147). Nevertheless, the appreciation of immobility, and the view that the absolute can only be grasped through transcendence of time actually aligns him with Russian intellectual history and, indeed, with certain contemporaneous thinkers. The Russian religious thinkers Semen Frank (1877-1950) and Evgeny Trubetskoy (1863-1920), whose thought echoes – although eventually diverges from – Bergson’s ideas (Fink 1999), are two cases in point. Frank and Evgeny Trubetskoy did not associate truthful consciousness of the world with the sensation of the continuous flow of time, but with transcendence of time, and with consciousness of the absolute’s timelessness (Levidou 2011: 616). Souvtchinsky’s particular understanding of time, his ideas on music’s relationship with time, and his distinction between the real world and a higher reality, a “more real” world, which can be grasped with the help of music, unmistakeably build on Silver Age thought. The differentiation between realia (external reality) and realiora (a higher reality), put forward by Vyacheslav Ivanov (1866-1949), comes to mind. The key place Souvtchinsky ascribed to music in the world arguably emanates from the Russian Symbolist conception of life and art as being inseparably linked, captured by the term ɠɢɡɧɟɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ [life creation], the fusion of art and life. In this context, art, and music especially, was deemed to be a door to a higher spiritual realm, a means through which human reality could be transformed from a lower to a higher level of existence; in other

214

Eurasianism in Perspective: Souvtchinsky, Lourié and the Silver Age

words, art, particularly music, was thought to possess a transformative or theurgic power. Moreover, the term “musical time” had already been employed in Russian Symbolism (Mitchell 2011: 10-13). Blok notably distinguished between “calendar” and “musical” time (Rosenthal 1983: 76) in a fashion that brings to mind Souvtchinsky’s differentiation between the historical time of everyday reality and the state of a higher ontological reality, which can be grasped through “musical time”.9 For Blok, “calendar” time referred to the measurable, linear passage of time and “musical” time described the sudden transformation from one state to another through some type of revolutionary upheaval (Mitchell 2011: 10), clearly the equivalent of Souvtchinsky’s perception of time intuited as a succession of separate temporal points. Through this distinction, Blok wished to underline music’s supposed opposition to the goal-directed, achievement-oriented industrial Western society (Rosenthal 1983: 76), a viewpoint in line with Souvtchinsky’s preference of a “vertical” conception of time. It should be noted, though, that Souvtchinsky’s discussion of “musical time” is at variance with Blok’s in one significant way: he considered the expression of emotions to be inferior to the pure expression of transcendental reality, while for Blok the theme of music was interlinked with that of passion (cf. Banjanin 2007: 261). Silver Age thought, especially Blok’s ideas, found its way into Eurasianist ideology through Lourié as well.

Arthur Lourié’s revolutionary vision Even though Lourié was not a member of the organised political group of Eurasianists – his religion was surely one reason for this, since he was a Catholic, a convert from Judaism, and embracing Russian Orthodoxy was a key element of Eurasianism – he was dedicated to the Eurasianist vision, and remained so until the end of his life.10 Although the greatest part of his work (particularly his post-1922 output) was composed in a personal neoclassical style that was inspired, initially, from Stravinsky’s, he had already fashioned himself into an artistic revolutionary through his early career steps (Graham 1979). Partly self-taught, he abandoned his studies in the St Petersburg Conservatory in 1913, before graduating, thus distancing himself from prevalent musical thought. In the 1910s he was regarded as a leading Futurist of his generation especially after signing the 1914 Russian Futurist manifesto Ɇɵ ɢ Ɂɚɩɚɞ [We and the West] and composing music for Vladimir Mayakovsky’s (1893-1930) poem ɇɚɲ ɦɚɪɲ [Our March] (1918). With the outbreak of the 1917 Russian Revolution, and following Blok’s call to “ɫɥɭɲɚɬɶ ɦɭɡɵɤɭ ɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɢ” [listen to the music of the

Katerina Levidou

215

Revolution], expressed in the Symbolist poet’s article ɂɧɬɟɥɥɢɝɟɧɰɢɹ ɢ ɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɹ [The Intelligentsia and the Revolution], he decided to join the political revolution. From January 1918 until January 1921 he served as Head of the Music Department of the Commissariat of Enlightenment (Narkompros). Subsequently, he taught at the Petrograd Institute of Art History with the musicologist and composer Boris Asaf’ev, but soon afterwards fled to Germany in 1922, where he lived in Berlin and Wiesbaden. Eventually, he was given permission to settle in Paris in 1924, and stayed there until 1941, when he emigrated to the USA. In the Parisian capital Lourié became Stravinsky’s right-hand man and his closest attaché during the interwar years – although problems arose in their relationship in the 1930s. In 1926 he met the neo-Thomist French Catholic philosopher Jacques Maritain (1882-1973), who remained a friend and supporter, even a spiritual mentor, until the end of his life. What Lourié had expected from the political revolution was a more comprehensive transformation of the world: a spiritual revolution (Levidou 2012). The idea of transforming human consciousness, which such a spiritual revolution entailed, builds on the Symbolist aspiration to carry humankind to a higher state of consciousness, which Skryabin had notably wished to implement in his unfinished Ɇɢɫɬɟɪɢɹ [Mysterium]. Blok, in particular, had ascribed to music an instrumental role in the revolution. For him the revolution involved not so much political and economical reforms, but a cataclysmic, cathartic, musical experience, which would transform individuals, the nation and possibly humankind itself. He actually claimed that, by not partaking in political action, one would “betray music, which we can only hear if we cease to hide from anything at all” (Hackel 1975: 44): “ɇɟɬ, ɦɵ ɧɟ ɦɨɠɟɦ ɛɵɬɶ ‘ɜɧɟ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɤɢ’, ɩɨɬɨɦɭ ɱɬɨ ɦɵ ɩɪɟɞɚɞɢɦ ɷɬɢɦ ɦɭɡɵɤɭ, ɤɨɬɨɪɭɸ ɦɨɠɧɨ ɭɫɥɵɲɚɬɶ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɬɨɝɞɚ, ɤɨɝɞɚ ɦɵ ɩɟɪɟɫɬɚɧɟɦ ɩɪɹɬɚɬɶɫɹ ɨɬ ɱɟɝɨ ɛɵ ɬɨ ɧɢ ɛɵɥɨ.” (Blok 1989: 294) Yet, it was gradually becoming clear that the cultural situation in Bolshevik Russia had little to do with such a conception of revolution. Small wonder, then, that Lourié defected as soon as the opportunity occurred. For Lourié, Eurasianism became the new context that accommodated his ideal of a spiritual revolution, a revolution that would transform human consciousness and would redeem humankind from the degenerate modern condition, a revolution that he associated with music. During his émigré years he composed several articles, published in Russian, French and English, many of them propagating Stravinsky’s work (Dufour 2006). In those writings he voiced certain ideas which were in line with Eurasianist

216

Eurasianism in Perspective: Souvtchinsky, Lourié and the Silver Age

ideology. The cultural agenda Lourié put forward through such articles was symptomatic of the general tendency in the émigré community to reflect on the nation’s destiny and role in history. In this context, in the early 1930s he presented a peculiar perspective on music history. He identified three elements in post-First World War musical culture: the German, the Latin (French) and the Slav (Russian) (Lourié 1932). He recognised an alliance between the Slav and the Latin, which, he asserted, was not based so much on aesthetic tenets, but on their common objective of overthrowing the authority of German music, which had hitherto dominated the other two musical cultures (Lourié 1932: 519). Lourié’s particular vision of music history reflected the cultural and intellectual bonds between Russia and France that had been established long before the Bolshevik Revolution. At the same time, Lourié’s analysis of the relationship between these three musical cultures reflected the Eurasianist vision of Russia as a protagonist in world history after the outbreak of the Bolshevik Revolution. Lourié visualised the unravelling of recent music history by means of a Hegelian dialectical historical circle, which had already come to completion (Lourié 1933). He perceived the German element as the thesis of this dialectical historical circle, represented by Brahms’s music. The equilibrium of musical components within form, which typified German music and derived from German classicism, was disturbed with the advent of modernism. Modernism constituted the antithesis in Lourié’s dialectical historical circle, and signified a transfer of the centre of musical developments from Berlin to Paris. This disruption took place in two successive steps: first the Impressionistic focus on harmony, and subsequently the concentration on rhythm. According to Lourié, the focus on rhythm was effected in Stravinsky’s “Russian” output, and signalled the decay of the Latin element. The latter step was also accompanied by the break from traditional tonality. The synthesis of the two opposite historical forces and the restoration of classical principles, primarily the reinstatement of balance among the elements of musical form, were attempted by neoclassicism. This signified the completion of the dialectical historical circle in question. As the circle of music history was progressing, and with the advent of modernism, form had developed into a leading preoccupation, Lourié argued, and as a result its balance with content had been lost. The dry interest in form in contemporary music had eventually turned into formalism. Even the style that had become known as neoclassicism had

Katerina Levidou

217

ultimately been seized by formalist tendencies, and had degenerated into barren restoration of classical forms. Lourié anticipated the emergence of a new type of form, which would restore the lost equilibrium between form and content, and hence would reinstate spiritual meaning in art. This, according to him, would be the genuine neoclassical music. Unsurprisingly, Russia surfaced in his writings as a strong candidate for accomplishing such music with spiritual content.

An émigré “Orpheus” Lourié was reluctant to name any composer specifically as the one who would implement a synthesis of form and spiritual content in his music, the one who would therefore guide humankind to the spiritual revolution of the future. True, two articles of his that appeared in Eurasianist publications, ȿɜɪɚɡɢɹ and ȼɟɪɫɬɵ (Lur’e 1926 and 1929), unreservedly identified Stravinsky as world music’s hope for the future. Within his neoclassical forms, Lourié argued, Stravinsky had achieved the limitation of the individualistic principle by subordinating the ego to superior and eternal values, an aspect which endowed Stravinsky’s work with the spiritual content Lourié had been expecting. Significantly, he associated Stravinsky’s music not with the expression of “calendar time” – which typifies “egocentric” music – but with a musical conception of time (Lur’e 1926: 120). Lourié’s understanding of music’s connection with time was in line with Souvtchinsky’s, and it is not unlikely that it had been inspired by Blok. Lourié actually attributed the superiority of Stravinsky’s “theocentric” music to its particular relationship with time, thus heralding Souvtchinsky’s views on the subject. Indeed, Lourié’s categories of “egocentric” and “theocentric” music parallel Souvtchinsky’s distinction between music that articulates “psychological” and “ontological” time. Nevertheless, other articles by Lourié are less specific about the composer, or in fact the culture that would implement music with spiritual content, although one senses his aspiration that Russia would be the chosen nation in music (Lourié 1933: 97). The uncertainty and volatility in Lourié’s discussions of music history should be attributed to personal circumstances: changes in his relationship with Stravinsky in the 1930s, as well as his growing appreciation of, and confidence in, his own music. The evolution of his compositional idiom (even after his second emigration) towards a neoclassicism that would effect an equilibrium between form and content – fostered by increasing expressions of his religiosity – was surely encouraged by his Eurasianist vision of Russia’s messianic mission to redeem modernity through cultural means. Nonetheless, while pursuing

218

Eurasianism in Perspective: Souvtchinsky, Lourié and the Silver Age

this ideal Lourié grew isolated from major artistic activities and trends during his post-War American years. Eventually, his name and work fell into oblivion. Souvtchinsky was also preoccupied with Russian music’s destiny and sought to identify a composer that would implement Russian music’s special role in history. Prokof’ev, having possibly inspired Souvtchinsky’s Eurasianist ideas through his early Scythianism, and being a friend of his, was an obvious candidate for the position. Yet, the solution eventually appeared in the person of Stravinsky. One would naturally think that it is Stravinsky’s Russian style, with its primitivism and references to a prehistoric past, that matched the Eurasianist agenda. Nevertheless, Souvtchinsky wholeheartedly embraced Stravinsky’s neoclassical production as harmonious with Eurasianist ideology. Some technical traits of Stravinsky’s neoclassical style were to some extent anticipated in Souvtchinsky’s early writings. As early as 1922, Souvtchinsky associated the dedication to form encountered in some cases of modernist experimenttation with the search for religious foundations in art and subversion of individuality (Suvchinsky 1922: 114-115; cf. Glebov 2003: 21-22). He also noted the contemporary interest in forms of the distant past, which are typical of times of religious art, and expressed his hopes that such interest would contribute to the establishment of a religious revival in the world (Suvchinsky 1923: 121). His article La notion du temps et la musique consolidated his appreciation of Stravinsky’s music with reference to its relationship with time, inaugurating a body of writings through which the Russian intellectual analysed the Stravinsky “phenomenon” and interpreted his fundamental role in music history (Levidou 2011). Souvtchinsky’s and Lourié’s quest for a musical genius who would fulfil Russia’s messianic mission to redeem the debauched Western civilisation was not without precedent in the sphere of Russian culture. The scene had been set in the early twentieth century, and particularly in the aftermath of the 1905 Revolution, by a distinct group within Russian educated society (Mitchell 2011). Drawing on German philosophers such as Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, but also on Russian Christian thinkers such as Vladimir Solov’ev (1853-1900), these philosophers, poets, musicians and other educated members of the upper and middle social strata had put forward a musical metaphysics that argued for music’s ability to transform and unify humankind, which rendered it capable of redeeming the decadent Western civilisation. Significantly, they had advocated the advent of a Russian composer, a musical “Orpheus”, who would transform material reality

Katerina Levidou

219

through his music. Several composers had figured as candidates, including Aleksandr Skryabin, Nikolay Medtner and Sergey Rakhmaninov. However, such voices gradually died down as the German heritage on which their ideas were based came under attack (Mitchell 2011: iii). They did not vanish, though. Just as with several aspects of Russian pre-Revolutionary culture and thought, this intellectual strand fed into émigré views, and, thanks to Souvtchinsky and Lourié, it found its way into the Western European musical press as well. Consequently, Stravinsky’s neoclassicism, through which Russia presumably became a leading musical force, was by no means deemed incompatible with his national identity within the Eurasianist intellectual context. On the contrary, in the eyes of Eurasianists, particularly after Stravinsky’s return to the Orthodox religion in the 1920s, and its incorporation in his neoclassical aesthetics, he became the “chosen” artist, whose work asserted the Eurasianist belief that the time had come for Russian art to assume its role in effecting the religious culture they visualised. Stravinsky was therefore conceptualised, essentially, as Russia’s musical “Orpheus” in exile, thought to be carrying out a messianic mission through his creation, thus serving not only his nation, but in fact all of humankind.

Beyond Eurasianism Following the dissolution of the Eurasianist movement, Souvtchinsky’s and Lourié’s ways parted. Souvtchinsky stayed in Paris until the end of his life in 1985. In the 1940s he met Pierre Boulez and became a supporter and collaborator of his for the concert society Domaine musical (Aguila 1992), while he also grew fond of the younger generation of European modernist composers. Nevertheless, he never lost faith in Stravinsky’s music, with the exception of a short interval in the 1950s, when his relationship with the composer temporarily grew tense (Langlois 2004: 8081). Lourié, however, withdrew from the forefront of artistic developments and distanced himself from musical experimentation especially after he emigrated to the USA, pursuing his personal ideal of a spiritual neoclassicism. In the late 1930s he fell out with Stravinsky; actually, his postSecond World War diaries contain several bitter comments about his former “idol” and his artistic choices.11 By the time he emigrated he was probably on bad terms with Souvtchinsky, too. In a letter to his close friend Raïssa Maritain, on 16 July 1946, he confessed that for a long time he had considered Souvtchinsky to be an enemy of his (Lourié 1946). He

220

Eurasianism in Perspective: Souvtchinsky, Lourié and the Silver Age

even suspected that Souvtchinsky – who was then advisor on Russian music for the Parisian radio – had been undermining performances of his Symphonic Suite from The Feast during the Plague.12 Even if the post-Eurasianist paths Lourié and Souvtchinsky followed differed significantly, both remained dedicated to Eurasianist ideology.13 Lourié’s American diaries and notebooks are indeed awash with entries that articulate Eurasianist views, capturing a Eurasianist apprehension with a crisis of the Western world due to the reign of reason – such as the statement that serves as this article’s second epigraph –, criticism of the Bolsheviks, and the conviction that salvation of humankind would come from Russia by means of a spiritual awakening, in which art would play an instrumental role (Levidou 2012: 79-80, 87, 94, 95). Passages that disclose the composer’s dedication to Silver Age thought – such as the first epigraph, which resonates the conception of ɠɢɡɧɟɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ are also frequent. Such entries reveal that Lourié’s idiosyncratic neoclassicism – even in the post-War years – was far from being an international style detached from Russian culture. Rather, it was firmly grounded in the Russian intellectual tradition and was dictated by his Eurasianist vision. As for Souvtchinsky, his ideas on music and time, fostered by his Eurasianist perception of the world, found a fervent supporter in Stravinsky. Having read Souvtchinsky’s 1939 article, the composer asked for his friend’s help in drawing up the Norton lectures delivered at Harvard University (1939-1940), later published as his Poétique musicale [Poetics of Music] (Dufour 2006: 213-244). The chapter on Russian music was effectively written by Souvtchinsky (Dufour 2006: 215), while Stravinsky openly acknowledged his embrace of his friend’s views on music and time. The actual extent of Eurasianist ideas that found their way into what could be described as Stravinsky’s influential bible of neoclassicism, thanks to Souvtchinsky’s involvement in the project, remains to be explored.

Katerina Levidou

221

Bibliography Archives Paul Sacher Foundation, Basel: Arthur Lourié Collection : Quatre cahiers ms. The Paragon Series Compositional Book, Doss. 37.3. Jacques & Raïssa Maritain Archive, Cercle d’études Jacques & Raïssa Maritain, Kolbsheim: Lourié, Arthur V. (1946): Letter to Raïssa Maritain dated 14/VI/46-17/VI/46, Raïssa Maritain à Arthur Lourié 1927-1960. Médiathèque Musicale Mahler, Paris: Fonds Schaeffner, Souvtchinsky 261: Souvtchinsky, Pierre (1965): Letter to André Schaeffner dated 6 July 1965.

Published sources Aguila, Jesus (1992): Le Domaine musical: Pierre Boulez et vingt ans de création contemporaine, Paris. Akimova, Irina (2011): Pierre Souvtchinsky: parcours d’un russe hors frontière, Paris. Banjanin, Milica (2007): The Transformation of Time: From Calendar to Cando, in: Russian Literature, 62, no. 3, pp. 255-269. Bartlett, Rosamund (2008): Japonisme and Japanophobia: The RussoJapanese War in Russian Cultural Consciousness, in: The Russian Review, 67, pp. 8-33. Basker, Michael (2001): The Silver Age: Symbolism and Post-Symbolism, in: The Routledge Companion to Russian Literature, ed. Neil Cornwell, London, pp. 136-149. Bassin, Mark (2006): Asia, in: The Cambridge Companion to Modern Russian Culture, ed. Nicholas Rzhevsky, Cambridge, pp. 57-84. Blok, Alexander, Kemball, Robin (1954): On the Field of Kulikovo, in: Russian Review, 13, no. 1, pp. 33-37. Blok, Aleksandr (1989): Ⱦɧɟɜɧɢɤ, Moscow. Dufour, Valérie (2006): Stravinski et ses exégètes (1910-1940), Brussels. Duke, Vernon (1955): Passport to Paris, Boston and Toronto. Fink, Hilary L. (1999): Bergson and Russian Modernism: 1900-1930, Evanston. Glebov, Sergei (2003): Science, Culture, and Empire: Eurasianism as a Modernist Movement, in: Russian and East European Books and Manuscripts in the United States: Proceedings of a Conference in Honor of the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Bakhmeteff Archive of

222

Eurasianism in Perspective: Souvtchinsky, Lourié and the Silver Age

Russian and East European History and Culture, eds. Tanya Chebotarev and Jared S. Ingersoll, New York, London and Victoria, pp. 13-31. —. (2005): A Life with Imperial Dreams: Petr Nikolaevich Savitsky, Eurasianism, and the Invention of “Structuralist” Geography, in: Ab Imperio, 3, pp. 299-329. —. (2011): The Mongol-Bolshevik Revolution: Eurasianist Ideology in Search for an Ideal Past, in: Journal of Eurasian Studies, 2, pp. 103114. Glebov, Sergey (2006): Le frémissement du temps: Petr Suvchinsky, l’eurasisme et l’esthétique de la modernité, in: Pierre Souvtchinski, cahiers d’étude, ed. Eric Humbertclaude, Paris, pp. 163-223. —. (2008): Wither Eurasia: History of Ideas in an Imperial Situation, in: Ab Imperio, 2, pp. 345-376. Graham, Irena (1979): Arthur Sergeevic Lourié – Biographische Notizen, in: Hindemith Jahrbuch, 8, pp. 186-207. Hackel, Sergei (1975): The Poet and the Revolution: Aleksandr Blok’s “The Twelve”, Oxford. Humbertclaude, Eric (2012): La liberté dans la musique (Beethoven, Souvtchinski, Boulez), Château-Gontier. ɂɫɯɨɞ ɤ ȼɨɫɬɨɤɭ. ɉɪɟɞɱɭɜɫɬɜɢɹ ɢ ɫɜɟɪɲɟɧɢɹ. ɍɬɜɟɪɠɞɟɧɢɟ ɟɜɪɚɡɢɣɰɟɜ (1921), Sofia. Johnston, Robert H. (1988): New Mecca, New Babylon: Paris and the Russian Exiles, 1920-1945, Kingston. Kelly, Aileen M. (1999): Views from the Other Shore, New Haven and London. Korabelnikova, Ludmila (2008): Alexander Tcherepnin: The Saga of a Russian Émigré Composer, ed. Sue-Ellen Hershman-Tcherepnin, transl. Anna Winestein, Bloomington and Indianapolis. Russian original edition (1999): Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪ ɑɟɪɟɩɧɢɧ: ɞɨɥɝɨɟ ɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɢɟ, Moscow. Langlois, Frank (2004): Introduction, in: Pierre Souvtchinsky, Un siècle de musique russe (1830-1930). Glinka, Moussorgsky, Tchaïkowsky, Strawinsky et autres écrits; Strawinsky, Berg, Messiaen et Boulez, ed. Frank Langlois, Arles, pp. 13-95. Laruelle, Marlène (1999): L’idéologie eurasiste russe ou comment penser l’empire, préface Patrick Sériot, Paris and Montreal, 1999. —. (2007): The Orient in Russian Thought at the Turn of the Century, in: Russia Between East and West: Scholarly Debates on Eurasianism, ed. Dmitry Shlapentokh, Leiden, pp. 9-38.

Katerina Levidou

223

Levidou, Katerina (2011): The Artist-Genius in Petr Suvchinskii’s Eurasianist Philosophy of History: The Case of Igor’ Stravinskii, in: Slavonic and East European Review, 89, no. 4, pp. 601-629. —. (2012): Arthur Lourié and his Conception of Revolution, in: Muzikologija (Belgrade), 13, pp. 79-100. Losskaya, Veronika (2002): Ⱦɢɫɤɭɫɫɢɹ “Ɉ ɟɜɪɚɡɢɣɫɬɜɟ ɐɜɟɬɚɟɜɨɣ”, in: Marina Tsvétaeva et la France, eds. Véronique Lossky and Jacqueline de Proyart, Paris, pp. 194-195. Lourié, Arthur (1932): The Russian School, in: Musical Quarterly, 18, no. 4, pp. 519-529. —. (1933): The Crisis of Form, in: Music and Letters, 14, no. 2, pp. 95103. Lur’e, Artur (1926): Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɨɝɨ, in: ȼɟɪɫɬɵ, 1, pp. 119-135. —. (1929): Ʉɪɢɡɢɫ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ 2, in: ȿɜɪɚɡɢɹ [Evraziia], 8, p. 8. Matich, Olga (2005): Erotic Utopia: The Decadent Imagination in Russia’s Fin-de-siècle, Madison. Messing, Scott (1996): Neoclassicism in Music: From the Genesis of the Concept through the Schoenberg/Stravinsky Polemic, Rochester. Mirsky, D. S., Prince (1927-1928): The Eurasian Movement, in: Slavonic Review, 6, pp. 311-320. Mitchell, Rebecca A. (2011): Nietzsche’s Orphans: Music and the Search for Unity in Revolutionary Russia, 1905-1921, PhD dissertation, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. Móricz, Klára (2008a): Decadent Truncation: Liberated Eros in Arthur Vincent Lourié’s The Blackamoor of Peter the Great, in: Cambridge Opera Journal, 20, no. 2, pp. 181-213. —. (2008b): Shadows of the Past: Akhmatova’s Poem without a Hero and Lourié’s Incantations, in: Twentieth-Century Music, 5, no. 1, pp. 79108. Poldiaeva, Elena (2002): Story of a Disagreement between Serge Prokofiev and Pierre Souvchinsky, in: Three Oranges Journal, 3, pp. 26-29. Pol’dyaeva, Elena (2005): ȼ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɦ ɤɪɭɝɭ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɡɚɪɭɛɟɠɶɹ: ɩɢɫɶɦɚ ɤ ɉɟɬɪɭ ɋɭɜɱɢɧɫɤɨɦɭ, Berlin. Pyman, Avril (2006): A History of Russian Symbolism, Cambridge and New York. Riasanovsky, Nicholas V. (1996): Afterword: The Emergence of Eurasianism, in: Exodus to the East. Forebodings and Events. An Affirmation of the Eurasians, eds. Ilya Vinkovetsky and Charles Schlacks, trans. and bibliographical essay Ilya Vinkovetsky, afterword Nicholas V. Riasanovsky, California, pp. 115-142.

224

Eurasianism in Perspective: Souvtchinsky, Lourié and the Silver Age

Rosenthal, Bernice G. (1983): The Spirit of Music in Russian Symbolism, in: Russian History, 10, pp. 66-77. Rubins, Maria (2005): Introduction, in: Twentieth-Century Russian Émigré Writers, ed. Maria Rubins, Detroit, pp. xv-xxix. Sériot, Patrick (1999): Structure et totalité: les origines intellectuelles du structuralisme en Europe centrale et orientale, Paris. Smith, G. S., ed. (1995): The Letters of D. S. Mirsky to P. P. Suvchinskii, 1922-31, Birmingham. Souvtchinski, Pierre (1990a): L’Eurasisme, in: (Re)Lire Souvtchinski, ed. Eric Humbertclaude, La Bresse, pp. 65-71. —. (1990b): Notice autobiographique, in: (Re)Lire Souvtchinski, ed. Eric Humbertclaude, La Bresse, pp. 7-8. —. (1990c): Quatre observations et réflexions sur la Russie, in: (Re)Lire Souvtchinski, ed. Eric Humbertclaude, La Bresse, pp. 99-127. Souvtchinsky, Pierre (1939): La notion du temps et la musique: réflexions sur la typologie de la création musicale, in: Revue Musicale, 20, no. 191, pp. 71-80. —. (1953): Introduction: domaine de la musique russe, in Musique russe; études réunies, ed. Pierre Souvtchinsky, vol. 1, Paris, pp. 1-26. —. (1982): Stravinsky au près et au loin, in: Stravinsky: études et témoignages, ed. François Lesure, Paris, pp. 13-52. Speaight, Robert (1966): Arthur Lourié: A Study in the Artistic Conscience, in: New Blackfriars, 48, no. 557, pp. 27-33. Struve, Gleb (1984): Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɚ ɜ ɢɡɝɧɚɧɢɢ, Paris. Suvchinskii, Petr P. (1996): The Age of Faith, in Exodus to the East. Forebodings and Events. An Affirmation of the Eurasians, eds. Ilya Vinkovetsky and Charles Schlacks, trans. and bibliographical essay Ilya Vinkovetsky, afterword Nicholas V. Riasanovsky, California, pp. 17-29. Suvchinsky, Petr (1922): ȼɟɱɧɵɣ ɭɫɬɨɣ, in: ɇɚ ɩɭɬɹɯ, Moscow and Berlin, pp. 99-133. —. (1923): Ɇɢɪɨɫɨɡɟɪɰɚɧɢɟ ɢ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ, in: ɋɨɮɢɹ. ɉɪɨɛɥɟɦɵ ɞɭɯɨɜɧɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ ɢ ɪɟɥɢɝɢɨɡɧɨɣ ɮɢɥɨɫɨɮɢɢ, ed. N. A. Berdyaev, Berlin, 108-124. —. (1997): ɗɩɨɯɚ ɜɟɪɵ, in: ɂɫɯɨɞ ɤ ȼɨɫɬɨɤɭ, ed. Oleg S. Shirokov, Moscow, pp. 74-98. —. (1999a): Ⱦɜɚ ɪɟɧɟɫɫɚɧɫɚ. 1890-1900ɟ ɢ 1920ɟ ɝɨɞɵ, in: ɉɟɬɪ ɋɭɜɱɢɧɫɤɢɣ ɢ ɟɝɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ, ed. Alla Bretanitskaya, Moscow, pp. 214219.

Katerina Levidou

225

—. (1999b): ɉɪɟɞɢɫɥɨɜɢɟ ɤ ɩɨɷɦɟ Ⱥ. Ȼɥɨɤɚ “Ⱦɜɟɧɚɞɰɚɬɶ”, in: ɉɟɬɪ ɋɭɜɱɢɧɫɤɢɣ ɢ ɟɝɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ, ed. Alla Bretanitskaya, Moscow, pp. 145151. —. (1999c): Ɍɢɩɵ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɚ (ɩɚɦɹɬɢ Ⱥ. Ȼɥɨɤɚ), in: ɉɟɬɪ ɋɭɜɱɢɧɫɤɢɣ ɢ ɟɝɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ, ed. Alla Bretanitskaya, Moscow, pp. 130-144. Toman, Jindrich (1995): The Magic of Common Language: Jakobson, Mathesius, Trubetzkoy, and the Prague Linguistic Circle, Cambridge, MA and London. Trubetskoy, Nikolay S. (1920): ȿɜɪɨɩɚ ɢ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɱɟɫɬɜɨ, Sofia. Walterskirchen, Konrad (2006): Pëtr Suvþinskij (1892-1985), in: Pierre Souvtchinski, cahiers d’étude, ed. Eric Humbertclaude, Paris, pp. 1125. Weststeijn, Willem G. (1994): The Russian Émigré-journal Versty, in: Reviews, Zeitschriften, Revues: die Fackel, die Weltbühne, Musikblätter des Anbruch, Le disque vert, Mécano, Versty, ed. Sophie Levie, Amsterdam and Atlanta, pp. 169-197.

Notes 1

Unless otherwise indicated, translations are mine. I would like to thank Tatiana Baranova Monighetti for editing my transcriptions from Lourié’s notebooks, and Philip Bullock for helping me refine my translations of them into English. 2 Lourié’s notebook “The Paragon Series Compositional Book” dates from his American years. 3 The first wave of Russian emigration took place during the interwar period, the second one emerged after the Second World War, while the third wave began in the early 1970s and continued through the 1980s (Rubins 2005: xv). The term “Russia Abroad” was introduced by Gleb Struve in 1956 (Struve 1984: 7). 4 The exact year of Lourié’s birth remains to be verified. It seems that the composer himself considered 1892 to be the year he was born, which is written on his gravestone in Princeton and on concert programmes during his lifetime. However, certain scholars believe 1891 to be his birth date (Móricz 2008a, 2008b). 5 Extensive lists of Souvtchinsky’s and Lourié’s writings have been provided by Dufour (2006), Akimova (2011: 327-334) and Humbertclaude (2012: 83-98). 6 For a brief account of the Silver Age see (Basker 2001). On the impact of the Silver Age on Lourié’s late music see (Móricz 2008a, 2008b). 7 Souvtchinsky and Blok met in January 1914 and remained in contact after Souvtchinsky left Petrograd, following the Bolshevik Revolution. On 15 February 1918 they visited Zinaida Gippius together; we know of a telephone conversation between them on 19 March 1918, possibly while Souvtchinsky was in the Ukraine; they also met on 28 June and 8 July 1919 (Walterskirchen 2006: 14, 20). Souvtchinsky wrote the introduction to the publication of Blok’s Ⱦɜɟɧɚɞɰɚɬɶ as well as another essay on the Symbolist poet in the second Eurasianist collection of

226

Eurasianism in Perspective: Souvtchinsky, Lourié and the Silver Age

essays, on the occasion of Blok’s death (Suvchinsky 1999c). Despite the resonance of Blok’s work for Eurasianism, Souvtchinsky’s writings on him are far from hagiographies (Walterskirchen 2006: 35-47, Glebov 2006: 192). For example, he criticised Blok’s religious sentiments and his personal understanding of the revolution for remaining merely on the level of feelings (Suvchinsky 1999b: 147) and not getting across a formula to tackle the socio-political situation (Glebov 2006: 192). The Russian intellectual was also critical of Symbolism as a whole, due to the movement’s interest in “false mysticism” (Glebov 2011: 110). We should not forget that he had condemned Prokof’ev’s choice to write an opera based on a novel by Valery Bryusov, namely Ɉɝɧɟɧɧɵɣ ɚɧɝɟɥ [The Fiery Angel] (first version 1923; second version 1927), since he deemed that such a work would be a very dangerous thing for contemporary consciousness (Poldiaeva 2002: 28): “ɞɥɹ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɫɨɡɧɚɧɢɹ ɨɩɟɪɚ ɧɚ Ȼɪɸɫɨɜɚ ɨɱɟɧɶ ɨɩɚɫɧɚɹ ɜɟɳɶ” (Pol’dyaeva 2005: 83). Lourié, in contrast, deemed Blok the most perfect human being he had ever met and acknowledged the impact of his ideas on his own thought and work on several occasions (Levidou 2012: 70, 81, 84), having, for instance, set several of his poems to music. 8 Bergson’s views on time were outlined in his doctoral dissertation, Essai sur les données immédiates de la conscience (1889) and subsequent works such as Matière et mémoire (1896), L’Évolution créatrice (1907) and Durée et simultanéité (1921). 9 Souvtchinsky, however, was critical of Blok’s renowned urge to listen to the music of the Revolution, since, for him, the poet’s pronouncement lacked clarity. He claimed that Blok thought he heard the music, but remained deaf to music, since he was more interested in the deafening noise of alarm bells and of chaos (Walterskirchen 2006: 45-46, Glebov 2006: 192). 10 Alexander Tcherepnin was also quite open about his embrace of Eurasianist ideology, although he did not get involved in the activities of organised Eurasianism (cf. Korabelnikova 2008: 107-109, 154-156, 188). 11 Lourié’s personal diaries are held in the Arthur Lourié Collection of the Paul Sacher Foundation in Basel. 12 The orchestral score of the opera-ballet is signed: “Maloja (Engadine) 1931, Paris 1933”; the Symphonic Suite was completed in 1943. 13 The term “Eurasia” appears a few times in Souvtchinsky’s writings following his withdrawal from the organised Eurasianist movement (Souvtchinsky 1953: 16, Souvtchinsky 1982: 45, Souvtchinski 1990c: 122-127), including in his notes for the Harvard lectures, on which Stravinsky’s Poétique musicale was based (Dufour 2006: 217). Lourié’s dedication to Eurasianist ideology may be inferred from several excerpts from his post-Second World War diaries and notebook (Levidou 2012). See also a passage from his 1949 diary that alludes to Eurasianism through reference to Khlebnikov, the “Asian wind”, the juxtaposition of decadent Europe with lively Asia, and the vision of “Christ in Asia” (Korabelnikova 2008: 156). Moreover, see an article by Robert Speaight – who knew Lourié – published shortly before the composer’s death in 1966, which suggests Lourié’s dedication to Eurasianist ideas: “Moreover, Lourié, like so many Russian exiles – and notably

Katerina Levidou

227

Berdiaeff, whom he must have known – has a charity towards the Revolution whatever they may think of its deviations. They see beyond it to a messianic vocation of universal brotherhood, of which they believe Russia to be the destined standard-bearer. Lourié seems even to imagine a kind of theocratic socialism” (Speaight 1966: 32).

MUSICAL MODERNISM IN THE MIRROR OF THE MYASKOVSKY-PROKOF’EV CORRESPONDENCE PATRICK ZUK

Throughout much of Prokof’ev’s lengthy period of foreign exile, Nikolay Myaskovsky remained one of the strongest and most durable links to his homeland. Although they had few opportunities to meet in person except during Prokof’ev’s sporadic visits to the USSR after 1927, they kept up a regular exchange of letters from 1923 until he eventually returned for good in 1936. This correspondence, which can only be read in an expurgated Soviet edition,1 not only constitutes an unusually rich source of information about both men’s creative endeavours and professional activities during this phase of their careers, but also offers fascinating glimpses into the circumstances of contemporary Soviet musical life. The present essay explores what it reveals concerning Prokof’ev’s responses to the work of his Soviet colleagues and Myaskovsky’s ambivalence towards musical modernism – matters of considerable significance in helping us to understand the influences that shaped Soviet musical creativity during the 1920s and early 1930s. Myaskovsky and Prokof’ev’s association had commenced some sixteen years previously when they first encountered one another in Lyadov’s composition class at the St Petersburg Conservatoire. Although Myaskovsky, a mature student of twenty-five, was ten years older than his precocious classmate, they struck up a rather unlikely comradeship that proved of decisive importance for their artistic development. It largely grew out of their shared interest in new music – a topic that they soon discovered was inadvisable to broach with their teacher, who abhorred modernist idioms and scorned stylistic explorations that ventured beyond the confines of a narrowly circumscribed academic orthodoxy.2 In the absence of a sympathetic mentor, the two young composers came to rely on one another. They met regularly to play through scores in piano-duet reductions and exchanged lively letters taken up with detailed discussions

230

Musical Modernism in the Myaskovsky-Prokof’ev Correspondence

of their latest compositions. Prokof’ev found the older man to be a perceptive and knowledgeable critic, and as he acknowledged in later life, “ɷɬɚ ɩɟɪɟɩɢɫɤɚ ɩɪɢɧɟɫɥɚ ɦɧɟ ɛɨɥɶɲɟ ɩɨɥɶɡɵ, ɱɟɦ ɫɭɯɢɟ ɥɹɞɨɜɫɤɢɟ ɭɪɨɤɢ” [this correspondence gave me much more than Lyadov’s dull lessons] (Shlifshteyn 1956: 16).3 For his part, Myaskovsky equally derived much stimulus from their relationship, but the ten-year disparity in their ages inevitably presented a barrier to closer intimacy. Moreover, it soon became apparent that Prokof’ev’s self-absorption limited his interest in the doings of others and his response to Myaskovsky’s compositions was rather muted, much as he admired his abilities in other respects. A diary entry for the 17 October 1908 records his belief that Myaskovsky would not become a great composer: ɨɧ ɫɨɱɢɧɹɟɬ ɭɱɺɧɨ, ɨɧ ɱɚɫɬɨ ɫɨɱɢɧɹɟɬ ɤɪɚɫɢɜɨ, ɨɧ ɦɧɨɝɨ ɫɨɱɢɧɹɟɬ, ɧɨ ɹɪɤɨɝɨ, ɡɚɯɜɚɬɵɜɚɸɳɟɝɨ ɢ ɨɪɢɝɢɧɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ – ɭ ɧɟɝɨ ɧɟɬ. (Prokof’ev 2002a: 57)4 [He is a supremely literate musician and his music is often beautiful, he composes a great deal, but he lacks the necessary element of brilliance and compelling originality.]

Myaskovsky sensed his unspoken reservations, but accepted the situation with good grace and remained unstinting in his acknowledgement of Prokof’ev’s talent.5 Their association continued after Myaskovsky graduated from the Conservatoire in 1911, but was sustained almost exclusively by letter once Myaskovsky was called up for military service on the Austrian front upon the outbreak of the First World War. The two men lost touch altogether for the best part of five years subsequent to Prokof’ev’s departure for America in May 1918. By the time they resumed epistolary contact in January 1923, their personal circumstances had altered dramatically. Prokof’ev, now resident in Germany, was on the threshold of international recognition as a composer and virtuoso pianist. In the aftermath of the October Revolution, Myaskovsky had emerged from comparative obscurity to become a prominent figure in national musical life, having been appointed Professor of Composition at the Moscow Conservatoire and Deputy Director of the Music Section of the People’s Commissariat of Enlightenment6 in 1921. As is evident from the warm tone of their initial exchanges, both men welcomed the renewal of their association, despite their continued maintenance of a certain formality and reserve.7 Myaskovsky made no secret of the fact he regarded Prokof’ev as one of the

Patrick Zuk

231

outstandingly talented figures in contemporary music and his letters repeatedly express his pleasure on becoming acquainted with the younger man’s latest compositions. His appreciation of the artistic stimulus that Prokof’ev provided was undoubtedly all the more keen in the prevailing conditions of “ɧɟɜɟɪɨɹɬɧɵɣ ɢɧɬɟɥɥɟɤɬɭɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɝɨɥɨɞ” [unbelievable intellectual starvation] that he movingly described in a letter of January 1924, as contact with the outside world was extremely limited and the dire state of the economy had brought concert activity virtually to a standstill (Kozlova et al 1977: 184). Prokof’ev’s reports about the international musical scene and his regular gifts of scores of new works that were otherwise unobtainable represented a lifeline during this difficult period. He also used his growing network of foreign professional contacts to promote music by Myaskovsky and other Soviet composers abroad.8 Myaskovsky in turn provided invaluable practical advice on professional matters connected with the Soviet Union and was instrumental in assisting the rapid growth of Prokof’ev’s reputation there. Prokof’ev indubitably appreciated Myaskovsky’s support, but the tensions that had previously underlain their relationship soon re-emerged. A fundamental difficulty was presented by his lack of enthusiasm for the older man’s compositions, or indeed, for those of the younger composers in his circle. Like Stravinsky, he considered the music of his fellow countrymen to be provincial and old-fashioned because it continued to reflect the influence of conservative senior figures such as Glazunov, Medtner and Rakhmaninov – all of whom were the butt of sharp remarks in his letters. When Myaskovsky sent him scores by Anatoly Aleksandrov and Samuil Feynberg, for example, he responded rather tepidly, confessing that he found their music dull and stylistically outmoded.9 Nor was he always very diplomatic in expressing his opinions to Myaskovsky, for whom this was a rather sensitive subject. To some extent, Myaskovsky inclined to a similar view of the current state of Russian composition: he fully shared Prokof’ev’s impatience with the reactionary artistic outlook that dominated the Conservatoires in their youth and keenly admired the work of leading modernist figures such as Schoenberg and Debussy.10 Yet, in spite of his experimentation with an “advanced” harmonic language in some of his early works, Myaskovsky was uninterested in the pursuit of novelty for novelty’s sake and temperamentally reluctant to break radically with the past. Unlike Stravinsky and Prokof’ev, who devoted much of their creative energies to writing for the stage, Myaskovsky’s preoccupations were largely focussed on the symphony, a genre in which he aspired to become a worthy successor to Tchaikovsky, and, in later life,

232

Musical Modernism in the Myaskovsky-Prokof’ev Correspondence

also on the string quartet.11 Myaskovsky’s output up to 1923 suggests that he struggled to negotiate the powerfully contending claims of modernity and of the Russian musical traditions to which he felt so strongly attached. It is instructive, for instance, to compare the conservative idiom of his First Symphony of 1908 with the dissonant harmonic language employed in several settings of poems by Zinaida Gippius that date from around the same time. If one did not know otherwise, it would be difficult to credit that they were written by the same composer, so striking is the stylistic duality that they manifest. This tension remained unresolved in the music that Myaskovsky composed after the war, and by the time that he resumed contact with Prokof’ev, his uncertainty about the future direction of his work had become acute. Matters were not helped by the challenging conditions presented by the transformed Soviet cultural landscape. In a letter of 23 December 1923, Myaskovsky confided in Prokof’ev that his self-doubt had resulted in complete creative paralysis: ɏɨɬɹ ɞɨɥɠɟɧ ɨɬɤɪɨɜɟɧɧɨ ɫɤɚɡɚɬɶ, ɭ ɦɟɧɹ ɬɚɤɨɟ ɫɟɣɱɚɫ ɨɳɭɳɟɧɢɟ, ɱɬɨ ɹ ɫɨɜɫɟɦ ɨɛɟɡɞɚɪɟɥ — ɩɨɬɟɪɹɥ ɩɨɱɜɭ ɩɨɞ ɧɨɝɚɦɢ. […] Ɉɞɧɢɦ ɫɥɨɜɨɦ — ɫɢɠɭ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɞɜɭɯ ɫɬɭɥɶɟɜ, ɢ, ɤɨɧɟɱɧɨ, ɜ ɫɨɫɬɨɹɧɢɢ ɩɨɥɧɨɝɨ ɛɟɫɩɥɨɞɢɹ. (Kozlova et al 1977: 179–180) [I must tell you frankly that I have the feeling of having completely lost my talent – of having lost the ground under my feet. […] In a word, I am falling between two stools, and, it goes without saying, am in a state of utter barrenness.]

These remarks prompted a remarkable and highly revealing exchange of letters. Much of Prokof’ev’s lengthy response on 3 January 1924 is taken up with describing his responses to Myaskovsky’s Fifth Symphony of 1918, a work he had not previously known and which he had undertaken to play through for the conductor Serge Kusevitsky in the hope that he could interest him in performing it in Paris. He was clearly taken aback by the symphony’s very traditional musical language, which is deeply indebted to nineteenth-century Russian precedents. In style and sensibility it was far removed not only from the music that he himself was composing at the period (such as the opera The Fiery Angel), but also from that of virtually every modernist composer then prominent. It seemed to furnish incontrovertible evidence that Soviet composers were hopelessly out of touch with mainstream musical developments. Prokof’ev reported that Kusevitsky had reacted very negatively and urged his friend to take serious heed of this fact, as the conductor was not only a fine musician, but

Patrick Zuk

233

was also thoroughly au courant with sophisticated international musical opinion. He continued: [ə] ɞɨɥɠɟɧ ɧɚ ȼɚɫ ɨɛɪɭɲɢɬɶɫɹ, ɢɛɨ ɹ, ɝɨɜɨɪɹ ɩɪɹɦɨ, ɧɟ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɧɟ ɜ ɜɨɫɬɨɪɝɟ ɨɬ ɧɟɟ, ɧɨ ɨɬ ɦɧɨɝɨɝɨ ɩɪɨɫɬɨ ɜ ɭɠɚɫɟ. Ⱦɚ! ɜ ɷɬɨɣ ɫɢɦɮɨɧɢɢ ɧɟɫɤɥɚɞɧɨɟ, ɦɟɪɬɜɹɳɟɟ ɜɥɢɹɧɢɟ Ƚɥɚɡɭɧɨɜɚ! Ʉɚɤ ɨɛɴɹɫɧɢɬɶ ɜɥɢɹɧɢɟ ɷɬɨɝɨ ɤɚɞɚɜɪɚ? […] ȼɟɞɶ ɢɡɜɟɫɬɧɨ, ɱɬɨ Ƚɥɚɡɭɧɨɜ ɧɟ ɤɥɚɫɫɢɤ — ɢɛɨ ɤɥɚɫɫɢɤ ɟɫɬɶ ɫɦɟɥɶɱɚɤ, ɨɬɤɪɵɜɲɢɣ ɧɨɜɵɟ ɡɚɤɨɧɵ, ɩɪɢɧɹɬɵɟ ɡɚɬɟɦ ɟɝɨ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɬɟɥɹɦɢ. Ƚɥɚɡɭɧɨɜ ɠɟ ɫɨɛɪɚɥ ɯɨɪɨɲɢɟ ɪɟɰɟɩɬɵ ɢ ɫɞɟɥɚɥ ɢɡ ɧɢɯ ɞɨɛɪɭɸ ɩɨɜɚɪɟɧɧɭɸ ɤɧɢɝɭ. [...] Ƚɥɚɡɭɧɨɜ ɦɨɝ ɫɭɦɦɢɪɨɜɚɬɶ ɜ ɫɟɛɟ ɧɟɫɤɨɥɶɤɨ ɫɬɚɪɵɯ ɪɟɰɟɩɬɨɜ ɢ ɞɚɠɟ ɩɪɢɜɥɟɱɶ ɤ ɫɟɛɟ ɧɟɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɫɟɪɞɰɚ «ɧɨɜɢɡɧɨɸ ɨɬ ɫɦɟɫɢ ɞɜɭɯ ɫɬɚɪɢɧ», — ɧɨ ɟɝɨ ɜɥɢɹɧɢɟ ɛɟɫɩɥɨɞɧɨ ɢ ɪɨɠɞɚɟɬ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɬɥɟɧ […] ȼɨɡɶɦɟɦ 5 ɢɥɢ 6 […]: ɷɬɨ ɛɥɟɞɧɨ, ɧɟɭɤɥɸɠɟ, ɫɬɚɪɨ, ɢ ɛɟɡ ɦɚɥɟɣɲɟɝɨ ɜɨɠɞɟɥɟɧɢɹ ɤ ɡɜɭɤɭ, ɛɟɡ ɦɚɥɟɣɲɟɣ ɥɸɛɜɢ ɤ ɨɪɤɟɫɬɪɭ, ɛɟɡ ɜɫɹɤɨɣ ɩɨɩɵɬɤɢ ɜɵɡɜɚɬɶ ɟɝɨ ɤ ɤɪɚɫɤɟ, ɠɢɡɧɢ ɢ ɡɜɭɱɚɧɢɸ. […] Ⱥ ɧɚɱɚɥɨ ɮɢɧɚɥɚ — ɛɨɠɟ, ɤɚɤɨɣ ɛɟɫɩɪɨɫɜɟɬɧɵɣ Ƚɥɚɡɭɧɨɜ! Ʉɚɤɨɟ ɩɪɟɧɟɛɪɟɠɟɧɢɟ ɤ ɢɧɫɬɪɭɦɟɧɬɨɜɤɟ! Ɍɨɱɧɨ ɧɢɤɨɝɞɚ ɧɟ ɛɵɥɨ ɧɢ ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɨɝɨ, ɧɢ Ɋɚɜɟɥɹ […]. Ⱥ ɡɚɤɥɸɱɢɬɟɥɶɧɵɟ ɫɬɪɚɧɢɰɵ — ɧɟɭɠɟɥɢ ɯɨɬɶ ɧɚ ɩɪɨɳɚɧɢɟ ɧɟɥɶɡɹ ɩɨɞɧɟɫɬɢ ɤɚɤɨɟ-ɧɢɛɭɞɶ ɹɪɤɨɟ ɬɭɬɬɢ, ɜɦɟɫɬɨ ɫɯɟɦɚɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɫɬɨɥɛɨɜ ɢɡ ɛɟɥɵɯ ɧɨɬ? [...] ə ɫɱɚɫɬɥɢɜ ɩɪɨɱɟɫɬɶ ɜ ȼɚɲɟɦ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɧɟɦ ɩɢɫɶɦɟ, ɱɬɨ ȼɵ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɭɟɬɟ ɫɟɛɹ ɛɟɡ ɩɨɱɜɵ ɩɨɞ ɧɨɝɚɦɢ: ɷɬɨ ɡɧɚɱɢɬ, ɱɬɨ ȼɵ ɜ ɝɥɭɛɢɧɟ ɩɟɪɟɠɢɜɚɟɬɟ ɱɬɨ-ɬɨ ɛɥɢɡɤɨɟ ɤ ɬɨɦɭ, ɱɬɨ ɢ ɹ ɩɨɱɭɜɫɬɜɨɜɚɥ, ɝɥɹɞɹ ɧɚ ɩɹɬɭɸ ɫɢɦɮɨɧɢɸ. Ʉɭɞɚ ɢɞɬɢ? Ⱥ ɜɨɬ ɤɭɞɚ: ɫɨɱɢɧɹɬɶ, ɩɨɤɚ ɧɟ ɞɭɦɚɹ ɨ ɦɭɡɵɤɟ […], ɚ ɡɚɛɨɬɹɫɶ ɨ ɫɨɡɞɚɧɢɢ ɧɨɜɵɯ ɩɪɢɟɦɨɜ, ɧɨɜɨɣ ɬɟɯɧɢɤɢ, ɧɨɜɨɣ ɨɪɤɟɫɬɪɨɜɤɢ; ɥɨɦɚɬɶ ɫɟɛɟ ɝɨɥɨɜɭ ɜ ɷɬɨɦ ɧɚɩɪɚɜɥɟɧɢɢ, ɢɡɨɳɪɹɬɶ ɫɜɨɸ ɢɡɨɛɪɟɬɚɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɶ, ɞɨɛɢɜɚɬɶɫɹ ɜɨ ɱɬɨ ɛɵ ɬɨ ɧɢ ɫɬɚɥɨ ɯɨɪɨɲɟɣ ɢ ɫɜɟɠɟɣ ɡɜɭɱɧɨɫɬɢ, ɨɬɤɪɟɳɢɜɚɬɶɫɹ ɨɬ ɩɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝɫɤɢɯ ɢ ɦɨɫɤɨɜɫɤɢɯ ɲɤɨɥ, ɤɚɤ ɨɬ ɭɝɪɸɦɨɝɨ ɞɶɹɜɨɥɚ, — ɢ ȼɵ ɫɪɚɡɭ ɩɨɱɭɜɫɬɜɭɟɬɟ ɧɟ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɩɨɱɜɭ ɩɨɞ ɧɨɝɚɦɢ, ɧɨ ɢ ɤɪɵɥɶɹ ɡɚ ɫɩɢɧɨɸ, ɢ ɝɥɚɜɧɨɟ — ɰɟɥɶ ɜɩɟɪɟɞɢ. ə ɧɟ ɫɨɦɧɟɜɚɸɫɶ, ɱɬɨ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪɨɜ ɢ Ɏɟɣɧɛɟɪɝ ɢ ɨɫɬɚɥɶɧɵɟ — ɞɢɜɧɵɟ ɪɟɛɹɬɚ, ɧɨ ɷɬɢ ɦɟɬɧɟɪɨɜɫɤɢɟ ɨɫɤɨɥɤɢ ɜɢɫɹɬ ɧɚ ȼɚɫ ɤɚɤ ɤɚɦɧɢ ɢ ɧɟɜɢɞɢɦɨ ɬɹɧɭɬ ȼɚɫ ɜ ɬɟɩɥɨɟ, ɭɸɬɧɨɟ ɛɨɥɨɬɨ. Ȼɨɥɨɬɧɨɦɭ ɠɢɬɟɥɸ ɜ ɛɨɥɨɬɟ — ɪɚɣ; ɭ ȼɚɫ ɠɟ, ɱɟɥɨɜɟɤɚ ɫɜɟɠɟɝɨ, ɧɟɜɨɥɶɧɨ ɜɵɪɵɜɚɟɬɫɹ ɤɪɢɤ ɭɠɚɫɚ ɩɪɢ ɩɨɝɪɭɠɟɧɢɢ: «ɫɩɚɫɢɬɟ, ɩɨɞɨ ɦɧɨɣ ɧɟɬ ɬɜɟɪɞɨɣ ɩɨɱɜɵ!» ȿɳɟ ɛɵ, ɝɞɟ ɠ ɜ ɛɨɥɨɬɟ ɞɚ ɬɜɟɪɞɚɹ ɩɨɱɜɚ! Ɋɚɡɜɟ ɱɬɨ ɧɚ ɞɧɟ. (Kozlova et al 1977: 181–182) [I must also come down hard on you, for, to be blunt, not only I am not in raptures over [the symphony], but I am absolutely horrified by much of it. Yes! This symphony reveals the clumsy, deadly influence of Glazunov. How can one explain the influence of this cadaver? […] After all, we know

234

Musical Modernism in the Myaskovsky-Prokof’ev Correspondence that Glazunov is not a great composer – for a great composer is a bold spirit, someone who discovers new laws which are then adopted by his followers. All Glazunov did was to collect fine recipes and make a good cookery book out of them. […] Glazunov could sum up in his work a few old recipes and even win a few hearts with his “novelty from a blend of two antiquities” – but his influence is barren and brings forth nothing. […] Take, for example, [the passages at] rehearsal numbers 5 or 6 […] they’re pale, clumsy, outdated, without the slightest feeling for timbre, without the slightest love for the orchestra; there’s no attempt to conjure it into colour, life and sonorousness. […] And the start of the finale – God almighty, what hopeless Glazunov! What lack of regard for orchestration! As if Stravinsky or Ravel had never existed. […] And the closing pages – couldn’t you at least have wound up with some kind of a vivid tutti, instead of simplistic clumps of minims and semibreves? […] I am glad to read in your last letter that you feel you have lost the ground from under your feet: that means that in your heart of hearts, you are experiencing something like what I felt when I looked at the Fifth Symphony. Where do you go from here? Here’s where: you should compose, not thinking about the music for the time being […], but seeking to create new approaches, a new technique, and novel orchestration. You should rack your brains to this end, sharpen your ingenuity, and strive for colourful and fresh sonorities at any cost. You should shun the compositional schools of St Petersburg and Moscow as you would a sullen devil – and you will immediately feel not only the ground under your feet, but wings on your back and most important of all – the way forward. I don’t doubt that Aleksandrov, Feynberg and the rest are all fine fellows, but these chips off the old Medtner block12 are hanging around your neck like a stone and are invisibly dragging you down into a warm and cosy bog. To a bog dweller, a bog is paradise; but an original fellow like you gives a shout of horror as you sink down: “Save me, there’s no firm ground underfoot!” You bet, for where will you find firm ground in a bog? Only at the very bottom.]

Prokof’ev’s concluding words of encouragement were unquestionably sincere – but he nonetheless left Myaskovsky in no doubt that he considered the style of the Fifth Symphony to be so hopelessly passé that it stood no chance of finding favour outside a provincial backwater like Moscow. His unflattering characterisation of the city as a bog [ɛɨɥɨɬɨ] strikingly recalls Diaghilev’s employment of the same metaphor to describe St Petersburg in a conversation that the composer had recorded in his diary several years previously: Diaghilev informed him that, from an artistic point of view, the city was “ɛɨɥɨɬɨ, ɢɡ ɤɨɬɨɪɨɝɨ ɜɚɫ ɨɛɹɡɚɬɟɥɶɧɨ ɧɚɞɨ ɜɵɬɚɳɢɬɶ, ɢɧɚɱɟ ɨɧɨ ɜɚɫ ɡɚɫɨɫɺɬ” [a bog which we’ll have to drag

Patrick Zuk

235

you out of, otherwise it will suck you in] (Prokof’ev 2002a: 551). Prokof’ev’s perspective on the matter, needless to say, was shaped by his own preoccupations and anxieties – not least, his ambition to establish himself as one of the leading figures in contemporary composition in company with Stravinsky. From such a vantage point, Myaskovsky seemed in danger of committing professional suicide by succumbing to the dreaded influence of the Rimsky-Korsakov school. Prokof’ev emphatically underlined the stark choice with which he was faced: he either had to evolve a compositional idiom that sounded respectably up-to-date, or he would have to forfeit any hope of making a reputation outside the Soviet Union. It says much for Myaskovsky’s equanimity of temperament that he did not take offence at such brutally frank criticisms: his reply of 12–16 January 1924 was entirely amiable and calm in tone. While he freely acknowledged the symphony’s shortcomings and the likelihood of its being accorded a cool reception by Parisian audiences, he nonetheless intimated that he considered Prokof’ev’s judgement excessively harsh and insisted that the score was far from being devoid of merit. He also pointed out that the younger man’s criticisms showed little understanding of the conditions in which Soviet composers had to live and work. If he and his colleagues seemed unaware of the latest stylistic fashions, this was scarcely surprising, as foreign publications had been unavailable until very recently. Moreover, it was currently impossible for them to improve their proficiency at instrumentation by dint of practical experience. Only a single orchestra was functioning in Moscow – that of the Bolshoi Theatre. On the rare occasions that it gave symphony concerts, the programmes consisted exclusively of popular classics: there were no opportunities to hear new music of any description, let alone for composers to secure performances of their own orchestral works. He suggested that Prokof’ev was not quite correct in speaking off his “ɧɟɥɸɛɨɜɶ” [lack of love] for the orchestra, adding: ɧɟɥɶɡɹ ɥɸɛɢɬɶ ɬɨɝɨ, — ɱɬɨ ɧɟ ɡɧɚɟɲɶ, ɢɫɩɨɥɧɢɬɶ ɫɜɨɟ ɫɨɱɢɧɟɧɢɟ ɪɚɡ ɜ 2 ɝɨɞɚ, ɞɚ ɢ ɬɨ ɤɨɟ-ɤɚɤ, ɜɟɞɶ ɷɬɨ ɧɢɱɟɝɨ ɧɟ ɞɚɟɬ, ɤɪɨɦɟ ɦɢɦɨɥɟɬɧɵɯ ɨɳɭɳɟɧɢɣ; ɡɧɚɧɢɹ ɢ ɥɸɛɨɜɶ ɩɪɢ ɷɬɨɦ ɩɪɢɨɛɪɟɫɬɢ ɨɱɟɧɶ ɬɪɭɞɧɨ. [it’s impossible to love something that you do not know. When you can only hear what you’ve written once every two years, and then with difficulty, it provides you with nothing other than fleeting impressions: it is very difficult to acquire knowledge and love under such circumstances.]

236

Musical Modernism in the Myaskovsky-Prokof’ev Correspondence

His letter concluded rather forlornly: ȼɟɪɨɹɬɧɨ, ɹ ɛɭɞɭ ɟɳɟ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɬɶ, ɢ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɬɶ ɢɧɚɱɟ, ɱɟɦ ɞɨ ɫɢɯ ɩɨɪ, — ɧɨ ɪɟɤɨɦɟɧɞɭɟɦɚɹ ɦɧɟ ȼɚɦɢ ɩɨɱɜɚ ɧɚɯɨɞɢɬɫɹ ɩɨɱɬɢ ɱɬɨ ɧɚ ɞɪɭɝɨɣ ɩɥɚɧɟɬɟ. ɏɨɬɹ, ɜɨ ɜɫɹɤɨɦ ɫɥɭɱɚɟ, ɬɟ ɷɫɤɢɡɵ ɞɥɹ 8-ɣ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɹ ɫɟɣɱɚɫ ɞɟɥɚɸ, ɞɚɸɬ ɦɧɟ ɤɨɟ-ɤɚɤɢɟ ɧɚɞɟɠɞɵ, ɧɨ ɭɞɚɫɬɫɹ ɥɢ ɷɬɨ ɨɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɢɬɶ, ɧɟ ɡɧɚɸ. ə ɨɱɟɧɶ ɛɨɸɫɶ ɨɩɭɫɬɢɬɶɫɹ ɜɨɜɫɟ. (Kozlova et al 1977: 184) [I’ll probably continue to compose – and compose in a different way than I’ve done up to now – but the “firm ground” that you recommend seems almost as if it’s on another planet. Although the sketches that I’m currently making for the Eighth [Symphony] give me some hope, whether or not I’ll be successful, I don’t know. I’m very much afraid of completely going to seed.]

Although Myaskovsky maintained a dignified front, Prokof’ev’s devastating criticism must nonetheless have been deeply dispiriting, all the more so because it came from someone whose abilities he deeply admired and who spoke with an authority deriving from first-hand experience of musical life in some of the world’s major artistic centres. Its inevitable result was to intensify his chronic tendency to self-doubt, although he made a concerted effort to act on Prokof’ev’s advice, to judge from the music that he wrote over the next few years. The Eighth Symphony (1925), to which he had alluded in his letter, displays much greater sophistication in its writing for the orchestra; while the harshly astringent harmonic language of the Fourth Piano Sonata (1925) and the Tenth Symphony (1927), which sometimes borders on atonality, represented a stylistic extreme in Myaskovsky’s output up to that point. His corresponddence with Prokof’ev continues to convey his acute self-consciousness about the style of his work and ongoing concern whether it would meet with the younger man’s approval, which led him to disown even some of the finest music that he had composed to date. Describing a recent performance of his Sixth Symphony (1923) in a letter of 11 May 1924, he goes out of his way to disparage its “hackneyed” idiom and the alleged clumsiness of its orchestration (Kozlova et al 1977: 192). A few months later, he expressed anxiety that the score of the Seventh Symphony (1922) would need “a lot of tidying up” after its premiere and confessed that the Eighth had been “getting him down”, as “ɨɞɧɚ [ɱɚɫɬɶ] ɫɭɲɟ ɞɪɭɝɨɣ, ɢ ɯɭɠɟ ɜɫɟɝɨ ɮɢɧɚɥ” [one movement is duller than the next, and the finale worst of all] (Kozlova et al 1977: 201). Self-deprecating remarks of this nature are to be routinely encountered in his letters well into the 1930s.

Patrick Zuk

237

And yet, for all that Prokof’ev and Myaskovsky strove during the early and mid 1920s to evolve self-consciously “progressive” styles that would be accorded critical validation in the West, both men display an equally intense ambivalence towards the music that was currently being written there. It is interesting to note that although their letters abound in references to the work of contemporary composers, comparatively few of them are positive in tone: their comments tend to be lukewarm at best, and are highly derogatory at worst. The two men employed an extensive vocabulary of invective to characterise music and composers that they disliked: ɱɟɩɭɯɚ [trash], ɱɭɲɶ [garbage], ɩɨɲɥɹɬɢɧɚ [commonplace vulgarity], ɛɚɧɚɥɶɧɨɫɬɶ [banality], ɛɟɡɞɚɪɧɨɫɬɶ [talentless nonentity] and so on. The prominent Russian émigré figures, such as Medtner, Rakhmaninov and Stravinsky, are all deemed to be in decline. Scornful words are reserved for the work of Ravel, Milhaud, Poulenc, Casella and many eminent composers. A typical passage in this vein occurs in a letter of 16 August 1925 in which Myaskovsky tried to console Prokof’ev for the disappointing response of the Parisian critics to his recently premiered Second Symphony: Ʉɨɝɞɚ ɹ ɠɞɚɥ ɢɫɩɨɥɧɟɧɢɹ ȼɚɲɟɣ ɫɢɦɮɨɧɢɢ, ɦɟɧɹ ɜɫɟ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɭɝɧɟɬɚɥɚ ɦɵɫɥɶ, ɱɬɨ ɷɬɨ ɛɭɞɟɬ ɧɟ ɤɨ ɞɜɨɪɭ ɬɚɦ. Ɉɱɟɧɶ ɭɠ ɭ ɦɟɧɹ ɫɥɨɠɢɥɚɫɶ ɞɭɪɧɚɹ ɤɚɪɬɢɧɚ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɟɜɪɨɩɟɣɫɤɨɝɨ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɚ. Ʌɟɝɤɨɜɟɫɧɨɫɬɶ ɢ ɛɚɧɚɥɶɧɨɫɬɶ ɮɪɚɧɰɭɡɨɜ ɢ ɢɬɚɥɶɹɧɰɟɜ (Ɋɚɜɟɥɶ, Ʉɚɡɟɥɥɚ, Ɇɚɥɢɩɶɟɪɨ, Ɇɢɣɨ, Ɉɪɢɤ, Ⱥɥ. ɑɟɪɟɩɧɢɧ ɢ ɞɪ., ɞɚɠɟ Ɉɧɟɝɝɟɪ ɦɧɟ ɤɚɠɟɬɫɹ ɛɨɥɶɲɟ ɦɚɫɬɟɪɨɦ ɧɚ ɦɚɥɵɟ ɞɟɥɚ — ɫɦ. «Ⱦɚɜɢɞɚ»), ɧɟɜɟɪɨɹɬɧɚɹ ɫɭɯɨɫɬɶ ɢ ɝɪɭɛɨɫɬɶ ɧɟɦɰɟɜ (ɏɢɧɞɟɦɢɬ, Ʉɚɦɢɧɫɤɢɣ, ɞɚɠɟ Ʉɲɟɧɟɤ, ɯɨɬɹ ɭ ɷɬɨɝɨ ɟɫɬɶ ɢɧɨɝɞɚ ɬɟɦɩɟɪɚɦɟɧɬ) ɢɥɢ ɚɦɨɪɮɧɨ-ɩɪɨɬɨɩɥɚɡɦɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɛɟɫɤɪɨɜɧɨɫɬɶ ɥɭɤɚɜɨɦɭɞɪɫɬɜɭɸ–ɳɟɝɨ ɒɺɧɛɟɪɝɚ ɢ ɟɝɨ ɜɵɜɨɞɤɚ — ɩɪɹɦɨ ɧɟ ɡɧɚɟɲɶ, ɤɭɞɚ ɫɭɧɭɬɶɫɹ, ɚ ɬɭɬ ɟɳɟ ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɢɣ ɫɨ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɛɟɥɢɛɟɪɞɨɣ (ɧɟ ɜɩɚɥ ɥɢ ɨɧ ɜ ɞɟɬɫɬɜɨ?)! ə ɜ ɩɨɥɧɨɦ ɨɬɱɚɹɧɢɢ, ɢɛɨ, ɟɫɥɢ ɢ ɜ ȿɜɪɨɩɟ ɧɢɱɟɝɨ ɧɟɬ, ɬɨ ɤɭɞɚ ɠɟ ɩɨɞɚɬɶɫɹ, ɢɛɨ, ɟɫɥɢ ɭ ɧɚɫ ɦɨɠɧɨ ɫɨɱɢɧɹɬɶ ɜɫɟ, ɱɬɨ ɯɨɱɟɬɫɹ, ɬɨ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɩɨɬɨɦɭ, ɱɬɨ ɜɫɟ ɪɚɜɧɨ ɧɟɝɞɟ ɢɫɩɨɥɧɹɬɶ. (Kozlova et al 1977: 219) [While I was awaiting the performance of your symphony, I was constantly oppressed by the thought that it wouldn’t go down well there. I have formed a pretty dire picture of modern composition in Europe. The triviality and banality of the French and Italians (Ravel, Casella, Malipiero, Milhaud, Auric, Al[eksandr] Tcherepnin and so on; even Honegger seems more of a petit maître – look at [King] David); the unbelievable aridity and coarseness of the Germans (Hindemith, [Heinrich] Kaminski, even – KĜenek, although he sometimes shows some personality) or the amorphously protoplasmic bloodlessness and beating-about-the-bush of Schoenberg13 and his litter – you simply do not know where to turn. And then

238

Musical Modernism in the Myaskovsky-Prokof’ev Correspondence there’s Stravinsky, with his rubbish (has he lapsed into his second childhood?)! I am in a state of complete despair, for if there’s nothing doing in Europe, then where is there left to go? If we here are able to compose whatever we want, it’s only because there’s nowhere to get it performed.]

Writing a few months later on 14 December 1925, Myaskovsky comments à propos of the bewildering variety of contemporary musical fashions in Paris: ȼɨɨɛɳɟ, ɹ ɭɛɟɞɢɥɫɹ, ɱɬɨ ɬɚɦ ɩɪɨɫɬɨ ɩɨɬɟɪɹɥɢ ɜɫɹɤɢɣ ɫɦɵɫɥ, ɞɚɠɟ ɧɟ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɡɞɪɚɜɵɣ. ɗɬɚ ɛɨɪɶɛɚ ɫ ɪɨɦɚɧɬɢɡɦɨɦ, ɩɪɟɤɥɨɧɟɧɢɟ ɩɟɪɟɞ 18 ɜɟɤɨɦ ɢ ɨɞɧɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨ ɨɛɨɠɚɧɢɟ Ɇɭɫɨɪɝɫɤɨɝɨ, ɚ ɜ Ƚɟɪɦɚɧɢɢ Ɇɚɥɟɪɚ — ɦɟɳɚɧɫɤɭɸ ɫɟɧɬɢɦɟɧɬɚɥɶɧɨɫɬɶ — ɷɬɨ ɜɫɟ ɬɚɤɚɹ ɧɟɥɟɩɢɰɚ, ɤɨɬɨɪɚɹ ɫɚɦɚ ɫɬɚɧɨɜɢɬɫɹ ɪɨɦɚɧɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ. ɉɪɨɬɢɜɧɨ ɞɭɦɚɬɶ. ɂɧɨɝɞɚ ɹ ɦɟɱɬɚɥ ɫɴɟɡɞɢɬɶ ɡɚ ɝɪɚɧɢɰɭ, ɩɪɚɜɞɚ, ɱɬɨɛɵ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɩɨɱɭɜɫɬɜɨɜɚɬɶ ɩɭɥɶɫ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɢ ɭɫɥɵɯɚɬɶ ȼɚɫ ɜ ɧɚɞɥɟɠɚɳɟɦ ɜɢɞɟ, ɧɨ ɛɟɪɟɬ ɠɭɬɶ ɢ ɤɚɤɨɟ-ɬɨ ɩɨɱɬɢ ɨɬɜɪɚɳɟɧɢɟ, ɟɳɟ ɭɫɭɝɭɛɥɹɟɦɨɟ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɪɚɫɫɤɚɡɨɜ ɧɚɲɢɯ ɩɭɬɟɲɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɢɤɨɜ. (Kozlova et al 1977: 228–229) [On the whole, I am convinced that they have simply lost all sense in Paris – and not just commonsense. This war against Romanticism, the worship of the eighteenth century and simultaneously the adoration of Musorgsky, and in Germany of Mahler’s vulgar sentimentality – all of this is such an absurdity, that it is becoming Romantic of itself. It is sickening to think of it. Sometimes I used to dream of taking a trip abroad, if only, it is true, to feel the pulse of musical life and to hear you under proper conditions, but the thought of it makes my flesh creep and induces something tantamount to revulsion, which has been intensified further after hearing the stories that people here have brought back from their travels.]

Foreign musical life is characterised as decadent and in a state of decay. In a letter of 30 January 1932 detailing his negative reactions to the Ravel G major Piano Concerto, which he dismisses as “ɬɢɩɢɱɧɨ ɫɚɥɨɧɧɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ” [typical salon music], redolent even in places of background music heard in restaurants, Myaskovsky remarks: “ɑɬɨ-ɬɨ ɟɫɬɶ ɬɥɟɬɜɨɪɧɨɟ ɜ ɚɬɦɨɫɮɟɪɟ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɵɯ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɧɵɯ ɡɚɥ, ɟɫɥɢ ɞɚɠɟ ɬɚɤɨɣ ɬɨɧɤɢɣ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤ, ɤɚɤ Ɋɚɜɟɥɶ, ɫɤɨɥɶɡɢɬ ɜ ɩɨɲɥɨɫɬɶ.” (Kozlova et al 1977: 374–375) [Something is rotten in the atmosphere of modern concert halls if such a subtle artist as Ravel slides into vulgarity.] The vehemence of these remarks regarding the state of new music in the West is often startling – especially when one considers Myaskovsky’s active involvement in the Ⱥɫɫɨɰɢɚɰɢɹ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ [Association for Contemporary Music] from its foundation in 1923. While they should

Patrick Zuk

239

undoubtedly be contextualised to some extent, as it is not difficult to think of other composers of the period who expressed themselves in a comparably intemperate manner about the work of their contemporaries (Arnold Schoenberg being an excellent case in point), the fact remains that they are uncomfortably reminiscent of the xenophobic rhetoric of the infamous Central Committee resolution on music promulgated in 1948 – which, ironically, censured both Prokof’ev and Myaskovsky, together with other leading Soviet composers, for succumbing to the decadent influence of the West. (It is interesting to note that in his preface to the Soviet edition of the two composers’ correspondence, Dmitry Kabalevsky adduces such comments as evidence of Myaskovsky’s astute recognition of a serious crisis of contemporary bourgeois culture heralding its disintegration; Kozlova et al 1977: 16.) Nor can these passages easily be explained away as a self-protective strategy adopted to avert unwelcome attention from the Soviet security organs, which routinely intercepted foreign correspondence. They are completely consistent in tone with the reviews and articles that Myaskovsky contributed to his friend Vladimir Derzhanovsky’s journal Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ [Music] before the First World War, which similarly dismiss much Western composition as decadent, trivial and banal. Indeed, his discussion of the nineteenth-century symphony in his essay Tchaikovsky and Beethoven14 of 1912 employs a trope long familiar in Russian cultural and intellectual discourse – namely, the contrast between the progressive degeneration of culture in the West and the promise of its regeneration in the East. Dismissing the work of every western symphonist of note from Schubert to Mahler, Myaskovsky made the remarkable claim that the tradition had lapsed into decadence after Beethoven’s demise until its instauration by Tchaikovsky, who had not only shown that its future lay in Russia, but had also prepared the way for his homeland’s pre-eminence [ɩɟɪɜɟɧɫɬɜɨɜɚɧɢɟ] in international musical life. By the late 1920s, he may well have believed that the fateful responsibility for ensuring the continuance of a high musical culture lay with the USSR, now that it seemed threatened with extinction elsewhere. Prokof’ev’s music alone aroused Myaskovsky’s admiration and enthusiasm. In a letter of 15 September 1923, for example, he tells his friend: ɋɟɣɱɚɫ «ɒɭɬ» ɧɟ ɫɯɨɞɢɬ ɭ ɦɟɧɹ ɫ ɪɨɹɥɹ — ɛɟɫɩɪɟɪɵɜɧɨ ɥɚɤɨɦɥɸɫɶ ɢɦ — ɩɪɟɜɨɫɯɨɞɧɚɹ ɜɟɳɶ, ɩɟɫɬɪɚɹ, ɡɚɬɟɣɥɢɜɚɹ, ɰɟɩɤɚɹ, ɫ ɧɟɜɟɪɨɹɬɧɨ ɹɪɤɢɦɢ ɢ ɡɚɩɚɞɚɸɳɢɦɢ ɨɫɧɨɜɧɵɦɢ ɷɥɟɦɟɧɬɚɦɢ, — ɧɨ ɟɟ ɦɨɠɧɨ ɛɪɚɬɶ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɧɟɛɨɥɶɲɢɦɢ ɞɨɡɚɦɢ — ɫɥɢɲɤɨɦ ɢɡɵɫɤɚɧɧɨ. ə ɞɨɥɠɟɧ ɫɨɡɧɚɬɶɫɹ, ɱɬɨ ɩɨɥɶɡɭɸɫɶ ȼɚɲɟɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɨɣ ɞɚɠɟ ɫ ɝɢɝɢɟɧɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɰɟɥɶɸ: ɤɨɝɞɚ ɧɚɝɥɨɬɚɟɲɶɫɹ ɜɫɟɯ ɷɬɢɯ Ȼɚɪɬɨɤɨɜ, ȼɟɥɥɟɲɟɣ, Ʉɲɟɧɟɤɨɜ, ɉɭɥɟɧ-

240

Musical Modernism in the Myaskovsky-Prokof’ev Correspondence ɤɨɜ, Ƚɪɨɲɟɣ, ɏɢɧɞɟɦɢɬɨɜ ɢ ɞɪ., — ɩɪɨɫɬɨ ɩɨɬɪɟɛɧɨɫɬɶ ɹɜɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɜɵɣɬɢ ɩɨɞɵɲɚɬɶ ɱɢɫɬɵɦ ɢ ɡɞɨɪɨɜɵɦ ɜɨɡɞɭɯɨɦ ȼɚɲɢɯ ɭɝɨɞɢɣ. (Kozlova et al 1977: 169) [The score of Chout hasn’t been taken off the piano – I’ve been feasting on it constantly. It’s a magnificent piece – colourful, ingenious, and cohesive, with unbelievably vivid and memorable basic elements – but it can only be taken in small doses – it’s too concentrated. I must confess that I even use your music for hygienic purposes: when one has had one’s fill of all these Bartóks, Welleszes, KĜeneks, Poulencs, Groszes, Hindemiths and so on, one simply has to go outside to breathe the pure and healthy air of your estates.]

His choice of metaphors is noteworthy: the “pure” and “healthy” fresh air of Prokof’ev’s music helps to fight off “infection” by western influences. Prokof’ev’s judgements concerning the music of his western contemporaries are generally couched in more moderate language, but they tend to be no less severe. In the light of the tension evident in their correspondence between a desire for western critical recognition of their modernist credentials and a simultaneous radical questioning of the basis of western critical authority and the West’s claim to cultural hegemony, it is interesting that both composers soon became disenchanted with the restless stylistic exploration and the jusqu’au-boutisme characteristic of much music of the 1920s. In an interview of 1926, Prokof’ev informed an American newspaper columnist of his conviction that “the experimentation with harmonic idiom which has been going on feverishly for the last ten or fifteen years has for the time being almost run its course” (Quoted in Nice 2003: 224). A diary entry of 1929 suggests an even greater measure of critical distance from this trend: [ɋɥɨɜɨ] «ɦɨɞɟɪɧ» ɜ ɦɭɡɵɤɟ ɛɵɥɨ ɩɪɢɲɩɢɥɟɧɨ ɤ ɩɨɢɫɤɚɦ ɧɨɜɵɯ ɝɚɪɦɨɧɢɣ, ɚ ɡɚɬɟɦ ɤ ɩɨɢɫɤɚɦ ɤɪɚɫɢɜɨɝɨ ɜ ɮɚɥɶɲɢ ɢ ɫɥɨɠɧɨɫɬɢ; ɧɚɢɛɨɥɟɟ ɩɪɨɧɢɰɚɬɟɥɶɧɵɟ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɵ ɩɟɪɜɵɟ ɭɬɨɦɢɥɢɫɶ ɷɬɢɦ ɢ ɩɨɜɟɪɧɭɥɢ ɤ ɩɪɨɫɬɨɬɟ, ɧɨ ɧɟ ɫɬɚɪɨɣ, ɚ ɢɳɚ ɩɪɨɫɬɨɬɵ ɧɨɜɨɣ […]. (Prokof’ev 2002b: 674) [[The word] “modern” in music was pinned to the quest for new harmonies, and then the quest for beauty in dissonance and complexity; the most perspicacious composers first tired of this and turned to simplicity, but of a new kind rather than an old […].]

Patrick Zuk

241

The style of several works that Prokof’ev composed in the later 1920s, including the ballet Le pas d’acier (1925-26) and the American Overture (1926) for large chamber ensemble adumbrates the “new simplicity” that he would publicly declare to be his artistic aim in the early 1930s, especially in their extensive recourse to diatonicism: their musical language affords a striking contrast to the complexity of the Second Symphony and The Fiery Angel, composed earlier in the decade. Myaskovsky’s output manifests a comparable stylistic trajectory. Only a few months after learning of Prokof’ev’s plans for the American Overture15, he informed him of his intention to compose a series of lighter works for chamber orchestra in a more straightforwardly diatonic idiom, as he wished to set himself the challenge of writing music that would be “cheerful, accessible and uncomplicated [ɧɟɡɚɬɟɣɥɢɜɵɣ]” (Kozlova et al 1977: 252, 292).16 This development was distinctly surprising, especially if one considers that the project originated while Myaskovsky was at work on the Tenth Symphony – a nightmarish, feverishly dissonant score which is perhaps the most complex of his compositions in an Expressionist style. As in Prokof’ev’s case, these works marked a turning point in his artistic development: from the early 1930s onwards, his harmonic language became more firmly tonal and increasingly explored the resources of diatonic modality. Ironically, if Prokof’ev had criticised his previous work for being insufficiently sophisticated and “modern”, he now found fault with Myaskovsky’s brand of “new simplicity”. His responses to the older man’s work remained condescending. In more benign moods, he was content merely to damn it with faint praise; a diary entry made after hearing the Eleventh Symphony (1932) reads: “Ʉɪɚɫɢɜɵɟ ɝɚɪɦɨɧɢɢ, ɦɧɨɝɨ ɢɧɬɟɪɟɫɧɨɝɨ, ɧɨ ɤɚɤ ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɧɟ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɨɬɞɟɥɚɬɶɫɹ ɨɬ ɩɪɨɜɢɧɰɢɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ.” [Lovely harmonies, lots of interesting things, but as always he cannot shake off his provincialism.] (Prokof’ev 2002b: 814) The Twelfth Symphony (1932), on the other hand, he considered only “ɫɪɟɞɧɟ” [“fair to middling”], finding its simplicity to be “ɧɟ ɧɨɜɚɹ, ɚ ɫɬɚɪɚɹ” [“old rather than new”] (Prokof’ev 2002b: 826-827). A few concluding remarks: In seeking to understand the reasons that prompted the marked change in style manifest in both Prokof’ev and Myaskovsky’s work from the late 1920s onwards, it is not easy to judge how much weight should be placed on external factors – particularly the growing official hostility to modernist idioms in the USSR – as distinct from internal, psychological ones, such as the desire for creative selfrenewal that many artists experience when they come to feel that a

242

Musical Modernism in the Myaskovsky-Prokof’ev Correspondence

particular vein of exploration had been exhausted and a phase of their work has consequently drawn to a close. While it is naturally impossible to pronounce on the matter with complete certainty, given the intangibility of some of these considerations, the two men’s correspondence strongly suggests that the importance of internal factors should not be underestimated. Furthermore, their negative opinion of the state of contemporary composition in the West and the climate of critical opinion prevalent in major artistic centres such as Paris also raises important questions concerning the nature of their attitudes towards the circumstances of Soviet musical life after 1932, and the extent to which they may have felt hindered in their freedom of creative self-expression by official artistic policy. It is by no means impossible that both came to believe that modern composition worthy of the name could only flourish and be accorded due critical recognition in the USSR – an environment seemingly not subject to the tyranny of what Nikolay Medtner memorably described as the “ɦɨɞɚ ɧɚ ɦɨɞɭ” [fashion for fashion] (Metner 1935: 108).

Bibliography Kolovsky, O. (ed.) (1980): Ʉɪɢɬɢɤɚ ɢ ɦɭɡɵɤɨɡɧɚɧɢɟ: ɋɛɨɪɧɢɤ ɫɬɚɬɟɣ, ɜɵɩ. 2, Leningrad. Kozlova, M. et al (eds.) (1977): ɋ.ɋ. ɉɪɨɤɨɮɶɟɜ ɢ ɇ.ə. Ɇɹɫɤɨɜɫɤɢɣ: ɉɟɪɟɩɢɫɤɚ, Moscow. Lamm, O. (1989): ɋɬɪɚɧɢɰɵ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɛɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɢ Ɇɹɫɤɨɜɫɤɨɝɨ, Moscow. Metner, N. (1935): Ɇɭɡɚ ɢ ɦɨɞɚ. Ɂɚɳɢɬɚ ɨɫɧɨɜ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ, Paris. Nice, D. (2003): Prokofiev: From Russia to the West 1891-1935, New Haven and London. Prokof’ev, S. (2002a): Ⱦɧɟɜɧɢɤ: 1907-1918, ed. Svyatoslav Prokof’ev, Paris. —. (2002b): Ⱦɧɟɜɧɢɤ: 1919-1933, ed. Svyatoslav Prokof’ev, Paris. Prokofiev, S. (2006): Diaries 1907-1914: Prodigious Youth, trans. and annotated Anthony Philips, London. —. (1998): Selected letters of Sergei Prokofiev, trans. and ed. Harlow Robinson, Boston. —. [1959]: S. Prokofiev: Autobiography, Articles, Reminiscences, ed. S. Shlifstein and trans. Rose Prokofieva, Moscow. Shlifshteyn, S. (1956): ɋ.ɋ. ɉɪɨɤɨɮɶɟɜ: ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɵ, ɞɨɤɭɦɟɧɬɵ, ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ, Moscow.

Patrick Zuk

243

Shlifshteyn, S. (ed.) (1964): ɇ.ə. Ɇɹɫɤɨɜɫɤɢɣ: ɋɨɛɪɚɧɢɟ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɨɜ ɜ ɞɜɭɯ ɬɨɦɚɯ, Moscow. Vlasova, Y. and Sorokina, Y. (eds.) (2009): ɇɚɫɥɟɞɢɟ: Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ – ɦɢɪɨɜɚɹ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɚ, Moscow.

Notes 1

Kozlova et al (1977) contains virtually all of the surviving correspondence – 451 letters exchanged between 1907 and 1950, the year of Myaskovsky’s death. Over 250 of these date from the period 1923-1936. It is difficult to judge to what extent the text may have been subject to editorial interference, as the originals, which are housed in the Russian State Archive for Literature and Art (RGALI), are currently unavailable for consultation. The Foreword acknowledges the omission of some “excessively sharp remarks” (presumably about persons who were still alive at the time of publication), as well as passages dealing with matters of minor interest (such as the arrangements for postal delivery of scores and orchestral parts) – but emphasises that such cuts were not very numerous (vide pp. 28-29). English versions of selected letters are given in Prokof’ev (1998), but the correspondence has yet to be translated in its entirety. All translations in the present essay are my own, unless otherwise acknowledged. 2 In his autobiography, Prokof’ev recalled one of Lyadov’s characteristically splenetic outbursts: “‘ə ɧɟ ɩɨɧɢɦɚɸ, ɡɚɱɟɦ ȼɵ ɭ ɦɟɧɹ ɭɱɢɬɟɫɶ? ɉɨɟɡɠɚɣɬɟ ɤ Ɋɢɯɚɪɞɭ ɒɬɪɚɭɫɭ, ɩɨɟɡɠɚɣɬɟ ɤ Ⱦɟɛɸɫɫɢ.’ ɗɬɨ ɩɪɨɢɡɧɨɫɢɥɨɫɶ ɬɚɤɢɦ ɬɨɧɨɦ, ɬɨɱɧɨ ɨɧ ɝɨɜɨɪɢɥ: ɭɛɢɪɚɣɬɟɫɶ ɤ ɱɨɪɬɭ!” [‘I cannot understand why you bother to study with me. Go to Richard Strauss, go to Debussy.’ He might as well have said, ‘Go to the devil!’] Shlifshteyn 1956: 17. English translation as given in Prokof’ev [1959]: 25. 3 English translation as given in Prokof’ev [1959]: 24. 4 English translation from Prokof’ev 2006: 65. 5 As is evident from a letter of 24 September 1913 to his friend Vladimir Derzhanovsky, Myaskovsky had no illusions about the rather one-sided nature of their association: “ȿɳɟ ɨ ɉɪɨɤɨɮɶɟɜɟ; ɯɚɪɚɤɬɟɪɢɡɭɸ ȼɚɦ ɫɭɳɧɨɫɬɶ ɦɨɢɯ ɫ ɧɢɦ ɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɣ: ɨɧ ɦɧɟ ɩɨɤɚɡɵɜɚɟɬ ɜɫɟ ɫɜɨɢ ɫɨɱɢɧɟɧɢɹ ɢ ɢɡɪɟɞɤɚ ɦɢɥɨɫɬɢɜɨ ɫɨɝɥɚɲɚɟɬɫɹ ɫ ɡɚɦɟɱɚɧɢɹɦɢ; ɹ ɟɦɭ ɩɨɤɚɡɵɜɚɸ ɫɜɨɟ, ɥ ɢ ɲ ɶ ɟɫɥɢ ɨɧ ɧɚɫɬɨɹɬɟɥɶɧɨ ɩɪɨɫɢɬ; ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɫ ɫɚɦɨɣ ɛɨɥɶɲɨɣ ɨɯɨɬɨɣ ɛɭɞɭ ɞɥɹ ɧɟɝɨ ɞɟɥɚɬɶ ɜɫɟ ɜɨɡɦɨɠɧɨɟ, ɧɨ ɞɥɹ ɫɟɛɹ ɫɚɦ ɨɬ ɧɟɝɨ ɧɢɱɟɝɨ ɧɟ ɬɪɟɛɭɸ, ɧɟ ɩɪɨɲɭ ɢ ɞɚɠɟ ɩɪɨɫɢɬɶ ɧɟ ɯɨɱɭ, ɜɨɨɛɳɟ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɧɚɦɢ ɫɜɹɡɶ: ɟ ɝ ɨ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɢ, ɛɵɬɶ ɦɨɠɟɬ, ɥɢɱɧɚɹ ɫɢɦɩɚɬɢɹ.” [My relationship with [Prokofiev] is, in essence, like this: he shows me all his compositions and graciously agrees with my observations from time to time. I only show him mine if he asks insistently. I will always be glad to do whatever I can for him, but I do not demand anything for myself in return: I do not ask and do not even want to ask. The link between us is based on his music, and, perhaps, some personal sympathy.] (Reproduced in Lamm 1989: 73).

244

6

Musical Modernism in the Myaskovsky-Prokof’ev Correspondence

This institution, which was generally referred to as Narkompros (an acronym formed from ɇɚɪɨɞɧɵɣ ɤɨɦɢɬɟɬ ɩɪɨɫɜɟɳɟɧɢɹ), functioned as the Soviet ministry for arts, sciences and education. 7 Throughout the forty-three years of their association, the two composers always addressed each other in the formal second person plural. 8 Prokof’ev acted as an intermediary for Myaskovsky in dealing with a number of eminent conductors, including Sergey Kusevitsky and Henry Wood: see, for example, his letters to Myaskovsky of 4 January 1924, in which he alludes to dealings with both of the latter on Myaskovsky’s behalf (Kozlova et al 1977: 148149). 9 See, for example, Prokof’ev’s remarks about Aleksandrov in his letter of 5 October 1923 (Kozlova et al 1977: 171-172). 10 Lyadov’s dismissive attitude continued to rankle with Myaskovsky for many years: in an autobiographical essay of 1936 he admitted to recalling his former teacher “ɫ ɭɠɚɫɨɦ” [with horror] (Ⱥɜɬɨɛɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɡɚɦɟɬɤɢ ɨ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɤɨɦ ɩɭɬɢ [Autobiographic remarks on my creative development], in Shlifshteyn 1964, ii: 13). Myaskovsky published several highly laudatory reviews of early works by Schoenberg in Derzhanovsky’s journal Ɇɭɡɵɤɚ, but was sceptical about his dodecaphonic compositions: for a discussion, see Natal’ya Vlasova, Ⱥ. ɒɟɧɛɟɪɝ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ: ɂɡ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɜɨɫɩɪɢɹɬɢɹ [A. Schoenberg in Russia: On the history of his reception], in Vlasova and Sorokina eds. 2009: 56-94. Debussy remained one of his favourite composers: his diary entry for 24 November 1934 describes La Mer as ‘ɥɭɱɲɚɹ ɩɚɪɬɢɬɭɪɚ ɧɚ ɫɜɟɬɟ’ [the finest score in the world] (Lamm 1989: 236). 11 Myaskovsky intermittently considered writing an opera based on Dostoevsky’s novel The Idiot, but the project did not progress beyond the planning stage (see Lamm 1989: passim). In a notable early essay, Myaskovsky not only defended the stature of Tchaikovsky’s creative achievement at a time when such a view was decidedly unfashionable, but also declared him to be Beethoven’s most significant successor as a symphonist: see ɑɚɣɤɨɜɫɤɢɣ ɢ Ȼɟɬɯɨɜɟɧ [Tchaikovsky and Beethoven], Shlifshteyn ed. 1964, ii: 62-71. For a discussion of this essay, see Iosif Rayskin, Ⱥɪɬɢɫɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɜɨɫɬɨɪɝ ɢ ɢɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɬɟɥɴɫɤɚɹ ɝɥɭɛɢɧɚ: ɇ. Ɇɹɫɤɨɜɫɤɢɣ ɨ ɉ. ɑɚɣɤɨɜɫɤɨɦ–ɫɢɦɮɨɪɧɢɫɬɟ [Artistic rapture and analytic depth: N. Myaskovsky on P. Tchaikovsky as a composer of symphonies] in Kolovsky ed. 1980: 207-216. 12 Ɇɟɬɧɟɪɨɜɫɤɢɟ ɨɫɤɨɥɤɢ – literally, “Medtner splinters”. 13 The epithet ɥɭɤɚɜɨɦɭɞɪɫɬɜɭɸɳɢɣ ɒɺɧɛɟɪɝ – a coinage of Myaskovsky’s own – is scarcely translatable. It derives from an ironical wordplay on the Russian idiom ɧɟ ɦɭɞɪɫɬɜɭɹ ɥɭɤɚɜɨ, which can be approximately rendered as “without beating about the bush” (or, in German, “ohne Umschweife”). 14 See fn 11 above. 15 Prokof’ev described the work in his letters to Myaskovsky of 28 June and 1 September 1926 (see Kozlova et al 1977: 247, 248-249). 16 The three suites in question were published as Op. 32 Nos. 1-3 under the collective title Ɋɚɡɜɥɟɱɟɧɢɹ [Divertissements].

VANKA THE HOUSEKEEPER BY NIKOLAY TCHEREPNIN AND LADY MACBETH BY DMITRY SHOSTAKOVICH: CONTEMPORARY RUSSIAN OPERA IN INTERWAR BELGRADE NADEŽDA MOSUSOVA

The name of Nikolay Tcherepnin is well known in the world of ballet. It is easy to find him in books on the history of dancing, but it is not possible to find his name in opera histories or opera encyclopedias, not even in general histories of music. Familiar as a ballet composer, Tcherepnin’s rich output of operas, orchestral and chamber works, songs, piano and church music is almost forgotten. It is also important to notice that until now, except for Ol’ga Tompakova’s monograph (Tompakova 1991), writings about him are scarce although many of his compositions have been published, as well as his early reminiscences.1 Born in Russia in St Petersburg, Nikolay Nikolaevich Tcherepnin (18731945) became one of the leading musical figures of his country in 1902 when he was appointed to conduct the Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɫɢɦɮɨɧɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɵ [Russian Symphonic Concerts]. A pupil of Nikolay RimskyKorsakov, Tcherepnin made his international fame in 1909 with the ballet Pavillon d’Armide (premiered in St Petersburg in 1907 as ɉɚɜɢɥɶɨɧ Ⱥɪɦɢɞɵ with Anna Pavlova) in the gala opening of Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes in Paris. The composer left his native country after World War I, emigrating with his family (wife and son Aleksandr, 1899-1977) from Tiflis to Paris. In emigration he completed and orchestrated Modest Musorgsky’s opera ɋɨɪɨɱɢɧɫɤɚɹ ɹɪɦɚɪɤɚ [The Fair at Sorochintsy], premiered in Monte Carlo in 1923 (in French), and he continued to compose ballets for Anna Pavlova (1881-1931), who had actually helped him to reach France in 1921 from the very turbulent Soviet Russia.

246

Contemporary Russian Opera in Interwar Belgrade

In exile Tcherepnin was also engaged in arranging the 18th century comic opera by Mikhail Sokolovsky and Evstigney Fomin Ɇɟɥɶɧɢɤ – ɤɨɥɞɭɧ, ɨɛɦɚɧɳɢɤ ɢ ɫɜɚɬ [The Miller Who Was a Wizard, a Cheat, and a Matchmaker], performed (in Russian) in 1929 by the Opéra Russe in the Théâtre du Vieux-Colombier in Paris (Tompakova 1991: 75, 107). Tcherepnin then turned to Russian literature for his own operas. He composed two of them on a Russian libretto: ɋɜɚɬ [The Matchmaker], after Aleksandr Ostrovsky’s (1823-1886) play Ȼɟɞɧɨɫɬɶ ɧɟ ɩɨɪɨɤ [Poverty is no Vice], first (and only once?) performed in Paris in a circle of music lovers in 1930 with piano accompaniment (Tompakova 1991: 95); and ȼɚɧɶɤɚ Ʉɥɸɱɧɢɤ [Vanka the Housekeeper] in Belgrade in 1933.2 The latter’s world premiere was and still is almost unknown in the musical literature, because artistic events in the Balkan periphery or semiperiphery of Europe, such as Serbia or former Yugoslavia, Bulgaria and Greece, tend to be ignored (Mosusova 2011b: 3). But music centres at the margin of Europe were and are not as unimportant as it may seem today. In 1920/21 a big wave of refugees from Russia reached the Balkan peninsula, many of them settling in the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, with a majority choosing Serbia as their permanent residence (Mosusova 1994: 124). In the capital there were quite a lot of Russian artists, and the development of Belgrade’s opera and ballet between the two World Wars depended widely on Russian émigrés: singers, dancers and stage and costume designers, often of the front rank. They improved the musical, theatrical and general cultural life in Belgrade as well as in the Serbian provinces. Artists from the Russian Imperial (Bol’shoy and Mariinsky) Theatres built up the musical repertoire in the National Theatre of the Serbian (in those days Yugoslav) capital which had originally hosted only drama. After the First World War opera and ballet were put on a permanent basis. The latter became an independent part of the National Theatre thanks to the Russian dancers (Mosusova 2011a: 377). Some of them came directly from Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes like Elena Polyakova (1884-1972) in Belgrade and Margarita Froman (1890-1970) in Zagreb (Mosusova 2011b: 8). In the National Theatre, Russian artists established first Italian (Verdi, Puccini) and French (Gounod, Massenet) operas, then the Russian repertoire (Tchaikovsky, Musorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov and Borodin) with excellent interpreters who also paid tribute to their new home country by performing local stage works as well. In the 1920s four Serbian operas were mounted and sung by Russians in Belgrade: Ženidba Miloševa [Miloš’s Wedding] and Knez od Zete [Prince of Zeta] by Petar Konjoviü, Suton [Twilight] by Stevan Hristiü and Zulumüar [The Oppressor]

Nadežda Mosusova

247

by Petar Krstiü. But, according to the opinion of leading musicians in Belgrade, the main and only Serbian opera house was still lacking an international contemporary repertoire. “Contemporary”, in this case, meant mainly compositions from the beginning of the 20th century, before World War I. So, for instance, Madama Butterfly and JenĤfa, both premiered in 1904, were first performed in Belgrade in 1920 and 1928, respectively, Salome (1905) in 1931, La Fanciulla del West (1910) in 1932, Der Rosenkavalier (1911) in 1937. This may be interpreted as “retarded actuality” or “old modernity”, but it is also due to the late founding of the Belgrade Opera. It is therefore interesting to observe how two “fresh” foreign operas of the 1930s, Vanka and Ʌɟɞɢ Ɇɚɤɛɟɬ Ɇɰɟɧɫɤɨɝɨ ɭɟɡɞɚ [Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District], were incorporated into the repertoire of the Belgrade Opera. The appearance of Vanka the Housekeeper has a history. Until 1932 the ballet repertoire in Belgrade consisted of classic works (all three ballets by Tchaikovsky, as well as Glazunov) and some pieces of more contemporary European composers like Debussy, Ravel, Nedbal or Stravinsky (Mosusova 2011a: 379). Among the new works staged was the ballet Ɋɨɦɚɧ ɦɭɦɢɢ [Le Roman de la momie, The Romance of the Mummy] by Nikolay Tcherepnin from Anna Pavlova’s repertoire, composed by him and first performed by the ballerina in 1924, in Ivan Clustine’s choreography. It was brought to Yugoslavia by Nina Kirsanova (1898-1989), member of the Belgrade Ballet, former main character dancer (1927-1931) of Anna Pavlova’s troupe. Tcherepnin’s full-length work (three acts and four scenes with prologue and epilogue) was retitled in Serbian Tajna piramide [The Secret of the Pyramid] and premiered on June 25, 1932. It was mounted and danced by the prima of the Belgrade ensemble Kirsanova. The ballet found resonance and approval among spectators, critics, and also among the Belgrade National Theatre’s officials: the director of Opera and Ballet Stevan Hristiü (1885-1958) conducted The Secret of the Pyramid in presence of the composer. After that achievement, Serbian authorities decided to perform also an opera from Tcherepnin, his newly composed stage-work Vanka the Housekeeper. In the run-up of the premiere, several concerts of Tcherepnin’s music were organized in Belgrade in 1933. The composer conducted one of the performances of his ballet The Secret of the Pyramid on 22 April. It was a festive gala to the benefit of the Russian Red Cross under the patronage of queen Mary of

248

Contemporary Russian Opera in Interwar Belgrade

Yugoslavia.3 On 5 June, Tcherepnin conducted compositions of RimskyKorsakov in a concert devoted to the master, together with his own Sinfonietta, written in 1915-1917 and dedicated to the memory of his teacher. On 15 June, Tcherepnin conducted his church music performed by the united Belgrade Russian choirs. The next month, on 7 July, Vanka the Housekeeper, opera in nine scenes to be performed without interruption, was premiered in Belgrade. The composer led two performances. For his new opera, Tcherepnin turned to a very popular text of his youth, the drama ȼɚɧɶɤɚ Ʉɥɸɱɧɢɤ ɢ ɉɚɠ ɀɟɚɧ [Vanka the Housekeeper and Page Jean] by Fedor Sologub (1863-1927), written and premiered in 1908, staged by Nikolay Evreynov (1879-1953). In 1909, a silent movie of Vanka the Housekeeper was produced in Russia. The poet Sologub belonged to the symbolist movement and was already famous for his novel Ɇɟɥɤɢɣ ɛɟɫ [The Petty Demon] before writing Vanka where he depicted two parallel “medieval” stories, Russian and French, as seen by the common Russian people. The irony of Sologub’s drama oscillates between “caddishness” and “refinement” (Shevchenko 2008: 14) which may seem unusual, but it was a combination not uncommon among symbolists. Tcherepnin, composer and librettist in one person, dedicated his one-hour opera-farce to the memory of Musorgsky which speaks for itself regarding the vocal organization of Vanka (reminiscent of Musorgsky’s ɀɟɧɢɬɶɛɚ [The Marriage]). How can one explain why Tcherepnin turned his attention to this text, standing apart from all his previous and future compositions, after the highly romantic sujet of the Pavillon d’Armide (fantastic ballet in one act and three scenes) based on Théophile Gautier’s story Omphale, after his subtle church compositions, not to mention the incidental music with orchestral prelude for Edmond Rostand’s drama La princesse lointaine composed in 1899? Maybe Tcherepnin had enough of French romanticism; that would explain why he excluded the French component of Sologub’s drama, i.e. the mocked medieval gallantry, basing his libretto only on the Russian parts and deleting some vulgarities from Sologub’s text. The retouches did not affect the main genre of the opera much, mingling indecency and sentimentality, and therefore called “opera-lubok” by Tcherepnin’s biographer Tompakova (1991: 84).4 In some undetermined time, the peasant youngster Vanka comes to a boyar or prince, offering his services. Vanka tells the Prince and his wife that he

Nadežda Mosusova

249

is fed up with the village life and leaving his home, parents and unloved wife for some better place. The Prince employs Vanka as his groom. After some time, satisfied with Vanka’s service in the stable, the Prince elevates Vanka to the position of housekeeper. Now perils begin. In the garden, the Princess Annushka is foisting herself upon Vanka, who eagerly accepts her advances. Soon the affaire continues in Annushka’s bedroom. The liaison between Vanka and his lady lasts for a prolonged period till the Princess, suddenly conscience-stricken, begins to fear for her reputation as well as for Vanka’s life. She forbids him to visit pubs, since he might talk too much under the influence of alcohol and reveal their secret relationship, and then the Prince would discover his wife’s infidelity and put Vanka to death. Vanka promises to avoid pubs, but cedes to the calls of pub women. There he drinks and talks about his lover Annushka. The Prince’s spies and henchmen present in the pub seize Vanka and bring him before the Prince who orders his execution. But Vanka escapes with the help of the Princess who bribes the executioners to behead a passing-by Tatar instead of her beloved. The Finale shows the Prince punishing his wife by flogging her. She accepts the punishment. The people praise their Prince and the Princess. This is a quasi happy-end in drama and opera, whereas in the folksongs on which Sologub’s drama is based, Vanka is hanged and Annushka dies either from grief or at the hands of her angry husband. Tcherepnin’s music for Sologub’s matrimonial parody parallels the writer’s sarcasm with a special treatment of folk material. The composer dwells in a pandiatonic system, with diatonic and chromatic clusters adorning the bold turns in the opera’s modulatory system. The use of folksongs is inevitably connected with diverse complicated rhythmical formulas in the orchestra and in the demanding vocal parts (soloists and choir), reminding us of Stravinsky’s and Prokof’ev’s compositions,5 and especially of Shostakovich’s ɇɨɫ [The Nose]. Tcherepnin could hardly have been familiar with Shostakovich’s first opera. It would be interesting to compare both stage works appearing at the same time. The leading Serbian music critics were not acquainted with The Nose, either, so they compared Vanka with JenĤfa, premiered in Belgrade in 1928, claiming that Tcherepnin surpassed Janáþek. They were surely familiar with later operas by the Czech composer as well: Prague and Brno were not far away from Belgrade. On the other hand, Tompakova (1991: 89) suggests parallels between Vanka, exhibiting the rough Russian comedy of manners, and Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District, pointing at the ɛɵɬ6 scenes in both.

250

Contemporary Russian Opera in Interwar Belgrade

When deciding to put on the repertoire Shostakovich’s Katerina the Belgrade theatrical authorities did not intend to confront the two operas, one émigré, another Soviet. It was pure coincidence that there were two operas in the programme, divided by the “red curtain”,7 in the 1930s. Both, one a comedy, the other a tragedy, dealt with adultery, one in “high” society, another in commercial circles – young wives betraying elderly unloved husbands with working men. Here the analogies in content do end. Musically, both on a general level and in details, the operas have hardly anything in common: Tcherepnin depends on Russian folklore, Shostakovich on the actual achievements of Western music of his time, especially on jazz. It would also be a hard task to find similarities in dramaturgy. Lady Macbeth of the Russian province, the childless Katerina, according to Nikolay Leskov’s (1831-1895) story of the same name, is a coldblooded murderess, like her Shakespearian prototype, well known to the writer. She leads a bored life in the house of a rich merchant from the Izmaylov family, falling in love with one of her husband’s workers, Sergey. The affaire is discovered by the old Izmaylov who threatens to tell his son, her absent husband, everything. The same evening Katerina poisons her father-in-law. When the younger Izmaylov returns, he reproaches Katerina for her behaviour, rumours about her liaison having reached him out of town. Katerina and Sergey now act together and kill her husband. They bury the dead body in the cellar. Finally they both suffocate a young relative, heir of part of Izmaylov’s property. While the two first crimes could be regarded as self-defence, the third one (conceived by Sergey) is certainly a calculated murder (in the first degree), and it is therefore omitted by the composer. To enhance Leskov’s story, Shostakovich and the librettist Aleksandr Preys (1905-1942) interpolated some episodes from texts of other Russian writers, using works of Ostrovsky and Saltykov-Shchedrin, the old Izmaylov’s intention to rape Katerina being the librettist’s addition (in Leskov’s story Boris Izmaylov is 80 years old) and the wedding of Katerina and Sergey (which is absent from Leskov’s work) supposedly the invention of the composer. Ah, these weddings in Russian operas! Always interrupted! Shostakovich could not resist the operatic tradition of his homeland. Lady Macbeth, a “ɬɪɚɝɟɞɢɹ–ɫɚɬɢɪɚ” [satirical tragedy] in four acts, nine scenes, was premiered in Leningrad (Maly Theatre) on 22 January 1934. While the Vanka premiere in Belgrade passed unnoticed, undeservedly, even in the Yugoslav context, Lady Macbeth immediately became a

Nadežda Mosusova

251

Russian/Soviet hit, acclaimed in the composer’s country as “the great proletarian opera” (Gojowy 1983: 59). Within two years there were 83 performances in Leningrad, 97 in Moscow. Abroad, especially in the USA, musicians were eager to perform a modern Russian opera; they had had nothing similar since Prokof’ev’s Ʌɸɛɨɜɶ ɤ ɬɪɟɦ ɚɩɟɥɶɫɢɧɚɦ [The Love for Three Oranges]. Lady Macbeth was staged in Cleveland and performed in New York and Philadelphia in 1935 with almost the same cast (Kopytova 2012: 105-111). Premieres in Stockholm and Bratislava took place in 1935 as well (Kopytova 2012: 111-114). In Yugoslavia, this international success was noticed and the musical authorities were very anxious to get the opera in order to stage it. It took considerable time to obtain the orchestral material, supposedly because of the total lack of diplomatic relations between the Soviet Union and Yugoslavia (until 1940). Cultural exchange with the Soviet Union was a private affair: Leftist members of the Russian diaspora in Yugoslavia and local communists could obtain (e.g. via Paris or Prague) Soviet newspapers and literature, plays by Soviet writers were “smuggled” and staged in local theatres in the late 1920s and 1930s. Even émigré troupes had some of them in their repertoire. Several works of Soviet composers reached Yugoslav concert halls: in Belgrade, the audience got acquainted with Shostakovich hearing his First Symphony on 25 April 1934. In the late 1930s, Soviet films could be seen in Yugoslav cinemas. On 28 January 1936, the newspaper ɉɪɚɜɞɚ [Truth] published the notorious attack on Lady Macbeth entitled ɋɭɦɛɭɪ ɜɦɟɫɬɨ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ [Chaos instead of Music]. This was not like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. Shostakovich’s previous opera The Nose had been attacked in 1930 by the Union of Proletarian Musicians for its bourgeois decadency, and taken off the repertoire. Lady Macbeth, once glorified, was anathematised in 1936. Some sources relate that Stalin himself visited one of the performances in Moscow in December 1935 (Gojowy 1983: 62) and was put off by the opera text and the music naturalistically displaying some “delicate” situations. The result was the article, with a destructive effect, of course, but somehow it did not upset the opera authorities in the Kingdom of Yugoslavia (surely not the performers in Prague and Zurich, either). Even the Marxists among the Yugoslav/Serbian musical experts were silent about the “pogrom”, writing only that with Katerina Shostakovich eclipsed the glory of Stravinsky. Maybe they had not heard about the ɉɪɚɜɞɚ article, but they must have known something. In spite of inexistent diplomatic relations and the ban of the Communist party or any

252

Contemporary Russian Opera in Interwar Belgrade

Communist activities in the Yugoslav Kingdom, the subversive Communist/Soviet propaganda was very strong. Some people must have been informed about the sudden withdrawal of Shostakovich’s second opera from all stages in the URSS. Be that as it may, Lady Macbeth was premiered with great success in Ljubljana on 12 February 1936, as if nothing had happened, two weeks after the ɉɪɚɜɞɚ article (!), in Zagreb on 16 June 1937, in Belgrade in the same year on 12 November. In Belgrade the opera title Katerina Izmaylova from the first performance in Moscow was used. It could be interesting to parallel Tcherepnin and Shostakovich with regard to the treatment of their librettos. While Tcherepnin, as a gentleman of the old school avoided the banalities of Sologub’s story, Shostakovich, trained in the Soviet Union as “ein in proletarischer Etikette geschulter Dialektiker” [a dialectician trained in proletarian etiquette] (Gojowy 1983: 55), together with his librettist Preys, added much of their very bold and sometimes shocking fantasy to the sober narrative of Leskov. According to newer sources, some obscenities had to be deleted in the printed vocal score in 1935 in Moscow (Neef 1994: 628). Therefore we do not know what the text of the opera looked like in Yugoslav theatres.8 Obviously the same orchestral material was used in the three opera houses, most probably in an already cleansed Russian version, translated into Slovene and Serbo-Croatian. What was seen and heard in the United States or elsewhere is beyond the scope of our article. Nevertheless, we wonder how audiences in the USA reacted to an opera with such a rough vocabulary,9 with corresponding grotesque orchestral descriptions of “making love”, not to mention the composer’s sympathising with the protagonist, blaming circumstances of “darkness in tsarist Russia” for the crimes committed. The opera’s brutal erotic verismo, from a prude American perspective, could be seen as a Communist tendency (Gojowy 1983: 60). That is quite possible, and it could be reasonable to reconsider the music and text of Lady Macbeth in the context of actual life in the URSS. Musicians in Yugoslavia did not look at it this way, in spite of everyday news in the Yugoslav press about the processes in Soviet Union, people being condemned to death and executed. Belgrade critics of the opera, deeply impressed by the composer’s geniality, kept lamenting Katerina and the bad life in Russian 19th century.

Nadežda Mosusova

253

Both operas were praised and admired by critics before and after their Belgrade premieres, but they did not meet much response among the spectators. It is interesting that a large percentage of the Russians living in Belgrade or Yugoslavia did not or could not pay more attention to Tcherepnin’s opera, though at the same time emigrant organisations in Yugoslavia and Belgrade paid a separate large tribute to their illustrious compatriot: Soon after the premiere of Vanka the Housekeeper, namely on 14 July 1933, a concert was devoted to vocal and instrumental music of Tcherepnin in the newly-built Russian cultural centre Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɞɨɦ in Belgrade. Many local Russian artists took part in it, headed by Vladimir Bel’sky (1866-1946), an inhabitant of the Yugoslav capital and the wellknown librettist of Nikolay Rimsky-Korsakov. But why were they absent when Vanka was put on stage? It is important to underline that in the 1930s, a lot of émigré singers had already retired from the Belgrade Opera because of their age. Therefore, maybe, Vanka was no peculiar attraction for Russians, maybe also because it had been translated into Serbian. Maybe the leftist émigrés would not go to listen to Tcherepnin (and Sologub, who had died in Leningrad completely neglected) for political reasons – but they did not support the Soviet Katerina either. Vanka was performed only three times in Belgrade, Katerina also. The restaging of the latter opera in 1939 did not help; the Serbian audience simply would not accept it, being evidently traditionally oriented. Both contemporary operas were put ad acta, much to the regret of the leaders of the Opera in Belgrade who lamented in the press that all efforts had been futile: those of the soloists, the ensemble, the stage designer Vladimir Zhedrinsky (1899-1974) who had equipped both Vanka and Katerina, and last but not least of the directors: Yury Rakitin (1882-1952), once a personal friend of Sologub, for the first opera, Erich Hetzel (1899-1944) for the second, translator Velimir Živojinoviü for Vanka, Krešimir Baranoviü for Katerina, preparing them with skill, devotion and love. After his stay in Belgrade, Nikolay Tcherepnin experienced success two more times in Yugoslavia: the above-mentioned arrangement of Musorgsky’s The Fair of Sorochintsy being performed by Serbian artists on 27 September 1933 in Belgrade and the ballet Ɂɚɱɚɪɨɜɚɧɧɚɹ ɩɬɢɰɚ (Ɋɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɜɨɥɲɟɛɧɚɹ ɫɤɚɡɤɚ) [The Enchanted Bird (Russian Fairy Tale)] choreographed by Petr Gresserov-Golovin in Ljubljana, with the premiere on 19 October of the same year.

254

Contemporary Russian Opera in Interwar Belgrade

Is there any meaning or significance at all in the whole story? Yes, there is. The performances of the two operas discussed proved that at least musical leaders, among them Russian artists in Yugoslavia/Serbia, were able to mount distinguished contemporary foreign works as well as complex domestic operas, namely the Serbian music drama Koštana by Petar Konjoviü (1883-1970), performed in 1931 by the National Theatres of Zagreb, Belgrade and Ljubljana with taste and professional dignity. Some Serbian critics drew a parallel between Konjoviü and Tcherepnin, considering the opera of the emigrated Russian composer very important for young generations of Yugoslav musicians.

Bibliography Gojowy, Detlef (1983): Dimitri Schostakowitsch: mit Selbstzeugnissen und Bilddokumenten, Reinbek bei Hamburg. Kopytova, Galina (2012): “Ʌɟɞɢ Ɇɚɤɛɟɬ Ɇɰɟɧɫɤɨɝɨ ɭɟɡɞɚ” ɡɚ ɪɭɛɟɠɨɦ ɜ 1930-ɟ ɝɨɞɵ [“Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District” abroad in the 1930s] in: ɒɨɫɬɚɤɨɜɢɱ. ɂɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɧɢɹ ɢ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɵ, ɜɵɩ. 4, Moskva, pp. 102-130. Milin, Melita (2003): The Russian Musical Emigration in Yugoslavia after 1917, in: Muzikologija, 3, Beograd, pp. 65-80. Mosusova, Nadežda (1994): Ɋɭɫɤɚ ɭɦɟɬɧɢɱɤɚ ɟɦɢɝɪɚɰɢʁɚ ɢ ɦɭɡɢɱɤɨ ɩɨɡɨɪɢɲɬɟ ɭ ȳɭɝɨɫɥɚɜɢʁɢ ɢɡɦɟɻɭ ɞɜɚ ɫɜɟɬɫɤɚ ɪɚɬɚ [Russian Artistic Emigration and Music Theatre in Yugoslavia between the two World Wars], in: Ɋɭɫɤɚ ɟɦɢɝɪɚɰɢʁɚ ɭ ɤɭɥɬɭɪɢ XX ɜɟɤɚ, vol. 2, ed. by Ɇɢɨɞɪɚɝ ɋɢɛɢɧɨɜɢʄ, Beograd, pp. 139-149. —. (2007): Ɇɭɡɢɱɤɢ ɬɟɚɬɚɪ ȳɭɪɢʁɚ ȴɜɨɜɢɱɚ Ɋɚɤɢɬɢɧɚ [The Music Theatre of Yury L’vovich Rakitin], in: ȳɭɪɢʁ ȴɜɨɜɢɱ Ɋɚɤɢɬɢɧ. ɀɢɜɨɬ, ɞɟɥɨ, ɫɟʄɚʃɚ – ɘɪɢɣ Ʌɶɜɨɜɢɱ Ɋɚɤɢɬɢɧ. ɀɢɡɧɶ, ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ, ɜɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ, ed. by ȿɧɢɫɚ ɍɫɩɟɧɫɤɢ, Ⱥɥɟɤɫɟʁ Aɪɫɟʃɟɜ ɢ Ɂɨɪɚɧ Maɤɫɢɦɨɜɢʄ, Novi Sad and Beograd, pp. 195-217. —. (2011a): Belgrad zwischen den beiden Weltkriegen und in der Kriegszeit als Ballett- und Tanztheaterstadt, in: Musik-Stadt. Traditionen und Perspektiven urbaner Kulturen, ed. by Helmut Loos, Leipzig, pp. 374-384. —. (2011b): Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes and the Ballet in the Balkans and other European Countries 1920-1944: Marking the Centenary of Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes (1909-2009), in: Music and Society in Eastern Europe, vol. 6, ed. by Jelena Milojkoviü-Djuriü, Idyllwild, California, pp. 1-15.

Nadežda Mosusova

255

Neef, Sigrid (1994): Dmitri Dmitrijewitsch Schostakowitsch, in: Pipers Enzyklopädie des Musiktheaters, vol. 5, ed. by Carl Dahlhaus, Munich and Zurich, pp. 626-630. Shevchenko, Ekaterina (2008): ɗɫɬɟɬɢɤɚ ɛɚɥɚɝɚɧɚ ɢ ɟɟ ɡɧɚɱɟɧɢɟ ɜ ɫɬɚɧɨɜɥɟɧɢɢ ɫɢɦɜɨɥɚ ɜ ɞɪɚɦɚɬɭɪɝɢɢ Ɏ. ɋɨɥɨɝɭɛɚ [Low Farce Aesthetics and Its Impact on the Appearance of Symbols in the Dramas of F. Sologub], in: ɂɡɜɟɫɬɢɹ ɋȺɆȽɍ, ɋɟɪɢɹ Ƚɭɦɚɧɢɬɚɪɧɵɟ ɧɚɭɤɢ, ɪɚɡɞɟɥ Ɏɢɥɨɥɨɝɢɹ, ɜɵɩ. 1, Samara, pp. 10-31. Tcherepnin, Nikolay (1976): ȼɨɫɩɨɦɢɧɚɧɢɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɧɬɚ, Leningrad. Tompakova, Ol’ga (1991): ɇɢɤɨɥɚɣ ɇɢɤɨɥɚɟɜɢɱ ɑɟɪɟɩɧɢɧ. Ɉɱɟɪɤ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɢ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɚ, Moskva.

Notes 1 Tcherepnin’s unfinished memoirs have been published in the USSR (Tcherepnin 1976). 2 The piano scores of both operas were printed by Belyaev in Leipzig in 1930. 3 Tcherepnin soon got close to the Court: There were rumours that he was foreseen as founder of Belgrade music conservatory. With the assassination of King Aleksandar I Karaÿorÿeviü of Yugoslavia in October 1934 the plan was abandoned. 4 A ɥɭɛɨɤ (lubok) is a bark or wood-cut, i.e. folk art carved on wood-plates or crust. 5 Prokof’ev was Tcherepnin’s pupil in St Petersburg Conservatory. 6 The Russian word ɛɵɬ can be translated as every-day life or way of living, habit or custom. 7 We cannot use the expression “Iron Curtain” here, invented after the Second World War. 8 Tcherepnin’s and Shostakovich’s scores were destroyed by bombs, together with the whole Belgrade National Theatre, in April 1941. 9 The moral was probably saved by the troupe ɂɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɣ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ (The Art of Musical Russia, Inc.) singing in Russian while performing in the USA (Kopytova 2012: 105-106).

I would like to express my gratitude to Galina V. Kopytova for sending me her newly published article about Lady Macbeth by Dmitry Shostakovich.

“I HAVE NO COUNTRY, I HAVE NO PLACE”:1 THE BORDERLESS ARTISTIC HOME OF ALFRED SCHNITTKE THOMAS RADECKE

Chronologically, Alfred (Garrievich) Schnittke (1934-98) is part of the last wave of emigrants from the Soviet Union (officially still existing, but already in the state of collapsing). As late as October 1989, he first moved to West Berlin (the quote in the title of the paper dates to that year). He did so after long deliberation and rather reluctantly. At the beginning of the 80s he declared in private conversation (on the occasion of a musical biennial in East Berlin) that he could get the inspiration necessary for composing only in Moscow.2 He said this even though there was, so to speak, not a drop of Russian blood in his veins. As a matter of fact, he never migrated from one country to another neither geographically nor culturally. It is furthermore not quite correct to say that he migrated only once. Rather he was spiritually homeless – a Volga-German living successively in Vienna, Moscow, Berlin and finally Hamburg and finding his final resting place in a Russian Orthodox cemetery in Moscow. Schnittke was the son of Harry Schnittke,3 an assimilated Jew of Latvian origin who had emigrated in 1926 from Frankfurt and of Maria Vogel, a Catholic Volga-German. He was born in Engels (or rather: Engel’s), the capital of the autonomous Volga-German Soviet Republic.4 He reported that the first language he regained after a stroke in 1985 was the VolgaGerman dialect that had been “asleep” for 200 years and that was replete with words that could be found in Mozart’s letters. He regained this language even before Russian and German.5 If his mother tongue was thus open to linguistic history, then his polystylistic composing as he called it (for the first time in a reference to his 2nd Violin Sonata quasi una sonata)6 was open to the whole history of music as far it was available for him since he regarded all of this musical material as being present. This included more than only Russian musical history going all the way back to the 19th century. In order to assess the

258

The Borderless Artistic Home of Alfred Schnittke

associative aesthetics of his musical language (e.g., quotations versus assonances) properly, the key concepts occurring in the title of this conference, viz conservatism and evolution, have to be specified. From the beginning of his studies in Moscow in 1953 he was influenced in his style of composing mainly by Shostakovich, Prokof’ev, Stravinsky, Hindemith, Honegger and Orff. Still the official Soviet ideology of Socialist Realism that determined cultural life from about 1935 onwards accused him of not (or insufficiently) being progressive basing this accusation on his diploma composition, the oratory Nagasaki written in 1958. At the same time, however, he was accused of not being progressive in the subversive milieu of the inofficial so-called catacomb concerts of the Warsaw Autumn as well (with his 1st Violin Concerto of 1957).7 His late emigration to West Berlin (less than a month before the fall of the Berlin Wall) is a turning point in his biography, but it is not the starting point of an aesthetic discourse across the “Iron Curtain” since one has to take into account his concert tours to the West starting in 19778 (interestingly enough he was allowed to go abroad less than five years after the Soviet verdict on his 1st Symphony),9 his position as a visiting professor in Vienna from 1980 onwards and several memberships in academies (in West and East Berlin, Stockholm, Munich).10 This discourse had started much earlier, viz. in Moscow and more or less as a soliloquy. It was forced upon him, e.g., in 1980 when he was not allowed to travel to London to the premiere of his 2nd Symphony.11 His attitude towards the “benevolent dictatorship” of the USSR, the country whose citizen he was for the most part of his life, was thus most ambivalent.

I. Schnittke as a “composing Soviet citizen” nolens volens This ambivalence began in Schnittke’s early childhood. As a seven-yearold he lived through the forced relocation of most of his Volga-German neighbours and friends to Siberia and Central Asia. On the other hand, he received his first music lessons at a Moscow central school financed by the very same Stalinist regime.12 Finally, it was the outcome of World War II that promoted Schnittke’s accelerated interest in music leading to his decision to make music his profession at the age of fourteen: The Soviet occupying forces sent his father, a journalist, to Vienna for two years as the editor of a German-speaking newspaper. There Alfred took piano and accordion lessons. Even more important, however, was the fact that he got acquainted with music on a European scale by visiting the opera and concerts. Back in Moscow he used his training as a choir master that he

Thomas Radecke

259

received at a music college to perfect his piano technique (he played Rakhmaninov’s 2nd Piano Concerto in his final exam) and his theoretical background in harmony and counterpoint. The latter were continued in his study subjects composition, harmony and instrumentation at the Moscow conservatory from 1953-58. It was, however, the private lessons he took with the Jewish-Romanian Filip Herúcovici, a student of Berg and Webern that acquainted him with the music of the Second Viennese School.13 Schnittke’s opus 1 is the violin concerto mentioned above. It was composed in 1956/57 and shows the influence of serial music.14 It was revised in 1963 and printed in 1968. Such a history of publication spanning more than a decade is a typical example of the difficulties encountered by young Soviet composers. They can still be observed in the late phase of Socialist Realism (after 1953) and even in the ‘thaw’ period initiated by Khrushchev. It was still necessary then to emphasise “Closeness to the People”, “Popularity” and “Partisanship” as well as “Social Usefulness”. Schnittke‘s diploma concert was the oratorio Nagasaki in five movements (on verses of Soviet and Japanese poets). According to the Soviet point of view it was obsolescent because it used outdated or overly “conservative” expressionist stylistic means. Thus the 3rd movement presented the apocalypse of the city through vibraphone and trombone glissandi, but without ending on a positive note expressing confidence in victory and hope for the future. In the next year Schnittke recanted by composing the cantata Songs of War and Peace in a folkloristic style. This duplicates the events surrounding Shostakovich’s 4th and 5th Symphonies two decades earlier and can be interpreted as an “evolution” supporting state ideology. In 1960 Schnittke was finally admitted to the Association of Composers of the USSR.15 This was not a precondition for his works to be performed, but necessary in order for them to be printed or recorded in the context of a state-planned economy. The early sixties were marked by Schnittke’s attempts at dodecaphony, serialism, aleatorics and graphic sound production. The latter was effected through the Music Synthesator accessible in the basement of the Moscow Skryabin House and financed by the state-owned record company Melodiya to be used for experimental purposes. In it, the generators of the 72stage octave were activated by photoelectric cells operated by scraping off black wax from the surface of a glass plate. Edison Denisov and Sofiya Gubaydulina used the Synthesator for their compositions as well. When Schnittke abandoned these experiments, he included them in his stylistic repertoire nonetheless, thus bringing musical history up to date. It was due

260

The Borderless Artistic Home of Alfred Schnittke

to the suggestions and influence of Luciano Berio, Charles Ives and Henri Pousseur, but above all of Bernd Alois Zimmermann and his “ball shape of time” that he included such polystylistic elements in his compositions.16 Beginning in 1961, Schnittke, much like Shostakovich, improved his meager income as a teacher of instrumentation at the Moscow Conservatory by composing fifteen scores of theatrical music and more than sixty scores for feature and documentary films (as well as eight animated cartoons in typically Russian style). These were functional genres that gave him much more leeway for compositional experiments than music for the Soviet concert hall. Furthermore, Stalin himself had concentrated film production in an independent ministry and it was thus, strangely enough, taken away from the supervision of the Association of Composers that in turn depended on the Ministry of Culture.17 Here, too, Schnittke’s personal evolution towards Polystylistics continues, as it were, in a subliminal way. In 1977 a concert tour to West Germany and Austria together with Gideon Kremer and others signifies his breakthrough with the 1st Concerto grosso which, in addition to idiomatic stylistic quotations and allusions, e.g., the bizarre and banal tango in the Rondo, includes elements from several film soundtracks of the years 1973-76.18

II. Schnittke’s long internal emigration from the Soviet Union, a virtual “no-land” This chapter of Schnittke’s biography is best exemplified by his 1st Symphony (composed 1969-72) and this probably corresponds to his intention. For Schnittke the symphony is das zentrale Werk, weil alles darin enthalten ist, was ich jemals im Leben gehabt und gemacht habe, sowohl das Schlechteste und Kitschigste – auch die Filmmusiken – als auch das Ernsteste. […] Alle späteren Werke sind Fortsetzungen davon und dadurch bedingt. [the central work, because everything I ever had and did in my life is included in it, the worst and most kitschy (including the film soundtracks) as well as the most serious […] All later works are continuations thereof and conditioned by it.]19

Allusions to others such as the Viennese Classics, Mahler, Grieg, Chopin and Tchaikovsky are not literal quotations (as in the case of Zimmermann), but rather idiomatic.20 The premiere of the composition planned to take

Thomas Radecke

261

place in Moscow in 1972 was cancelled and postponed by the apparatchiks of culture of the Soviet Communist Party to 1974 and to Gor’ky (now Nizhny Novgorod). This “forbidden city” of the dissidents (made famous in the early eighties by the physicist Andrey Sakharov) was almost inaccessible even within the Soviet Union. This performance is only documented in a tape recording and it was on the basis of this recording and thus without considering visual effects that the composition was discussed in the journal Sovetskaya Muzyka in no less than fifteen reviews. Schnittke himself names Berio’s 3rd movement of his Sinfonia (written in 1968/69), which is a textual and musical collage from the FischpredigtScherzo of Mahler’s 2nd Symphony as an immediate model for his composition. Schnittke himself was deeply influenced by Mahler. In 1982 he said about his 1st Symphony that here Gebrauchsmusik in ein Stück durch einen thematisch-motivischen Zusammenhang kommt. […] Da kommen z. B. unendlich lange, harte, aggressive und tonsprachlich sehr massierte Variationen über das Dies irae vor. Man hört es zunächst nicht deutlich, dann wird es immer deutlicher, wird zu einem Raster für eine Zwölftonreihe usw. Nun hört man es ganz deutlich und dann auf einmal nehme ich zwei Töne von diesem Dies irae, die zufällig mit einem Schlager identisch sind, und es kommt plötzlich ein Stückchen aus diesem Schlager und das ganze kippt um und schlägt zusammen in Banalität – was eigentlich in diesem Fall gar nicht so falsch ist, denn Dies irae und teuflische Banalität, das hat eine Verbindung. [casual music gets into a piece through a thematic-motivic connection. […] There are, e.g., infinitely long, hard, aggressive and musically very massive variations on the Dies irae. At first, it is not heard very clearly, but then it becomes clearer and clearer and turns into a pattern for a 12-tone series etc. Now, it is heard absolutely clearly, and then, all of a sudden, I take two notes from this Dies irae which happen to be identical with a popular tune and all of a sudden, a small part of this tune surfaces and the whole thing tips over and collapses into banality. In this case this is not too bad since the Dies irae and diabolical banality are somehow connected.]21

The Russian composer Nikolay Korndorf,22 who emigrated to Canada confesses that upon hearing Schnittke’s 1st Symphony for the first time he interpreted it as openly anti-Soviet. For him, as for many of his contemporaries it has the deeper meaning of laying bare the pretence and absurdity as well as all the disgusting realities of the Soviet way of life: Die in der Sinfonie enthaltenen Impulse des Protests und der Entlarvung waren derart offensichtlich, daß der Eindruck entstand, der Komponist wolle sich mit aller Gewalt an dem abreagieren, was irgendwie den

262

The Borderless Artistic Home of Alfred Schnittke Stempel des offiziösen sowjetischen Musikapparates trug: an erstarrten Normen, der Problemlosigkeit, am Typus der herrschenden Musik selbst, an der Ikonisierung der Klassik und schließlich an der verfestigten und versteinerten Vorstellung vom Wesen der Musik überhaupt. Von jeder Seite, von jedem Detail präsentierte sich die Sinfonie vorsätzlich antioffiziell und dem entgegengesetzt, was üblicherweise „Sowjetische Musik“ genannt wurde: durch Bedeutung und Ungewöhnlichkeit der musikalisch-philosophischen Probleme anstelle von Inhaltslosigkeit und vorgetäuschter Tiefe, durch totale Entfesselung anstelle von totem Akademismus und sogenannter „Tradition“, durch Freiheit anstelle beschränkter Denkweisen und durch die Behandlung der Gattung „Sinfonie“ anstelle des offiziellen Verständnisses davon, wie eine Sinfonie zu schreiben ist und was das überhaupt sei. […] Aufgrund ihrer Wirkung gehört die Sinfonie zu jener kleinen Zahl herausragender Werke, die man nicht oft hören kann; von ihnen zu sagen, man liebe sie, wäre falsch, denn man kann eine Musik nicht oft hören, nach der man sich völlig entkräftet und krank fühlt; es ist unmöglich, derart starke Emotionen öfters zu durchleben, unmöglich, eine so brutale Aussage zu lieben. […] Ich teile die Meinung derjenigen, die sagen, Schnittke habe mit dieser Sinfonie Schlußpunkte oder große Ausrufezeichen gesetzt. […] den ersten Schlußpunkt setzte er mit der Entwicklung der wirkungsvollen und dramatischen Sinfonie […] Der zweite Schlußpunkt ist mit der Entwicklung des Expressionismus gesetzt. […] Der dritte Schlußpunkt ist ein Punkt in der Entwicklung einer bestimmten Strömung [der reinen Materialinnovation] der europäischen Avantgarde. [Hierbei] bietet Schnittke nach sich nur einen Weg an – den Weg in eine andere, möglicherweise entgegengesetzte Richtung. [The moments of protest and unmasking were completely obvious. They created the impression that the composer had the irrepressible urge to attack everything that had to do with officious Soviet musical bureaucracy: rigid norms, the lack of conflict, the prevalent type of music, the glorification of the classical period and, finally, the hardened and petrified idea of the very essence of music. Every aspect, every detail of the symphony was meant to be anti-official and opposed to what was usually called “Soviet music”: in the meaningful and unexpected musical and philosophical problems instead of emptiness and faked depth, in complete unleashing instead of dead academism and so-called “tradition”, in freedom instead of limited ways of thinking and in the way the genre “symphony” is treated instead of the official understanding of how to write a symphony and what a symphony should be in the first place. […] Due to its effect, the symphony is one of a small number of outstanding works that you can listen to only rarely; it would be wrong to say that you love them because it is impossible to repeatedly listen to music that leaves

Thomas Radecke

263

you feeling completely weakened and ill; it is impossible to live through such strong emotions several times, impossible to love such a brutal statement. […] I share the opinion of those who say that Schnittke made several final statements or clear exclamation marks with his symphony. […] the first can be seen in the development of an effective and dramatic symphony […] The second is the development of expressionism. […] The third is a statement regarding the development of a certain trend [i.e. of pure material innovation] within the European avant-garde. [In doing so,] Schnittke leaves but one road to take, the road in a different, possibly the opposite direction.]23

The creation and premiere of this work coincides with the reign of Brezhnev in the Kremlin (1964-82), exacerbated after the “Prague Spring” of 1968 by a period of increasing repression against intellectuals that has been dubbed the “Russian Winter” in the culminating period of the “Cold War”. Schnittke expressed his surprise to Detlef Gojowy, a journalist from Cologne specialising in music, that analyses of his music, even though it was far from being unknown in the West, could not appear in the journal Die Musikforschung because the beginnings of the politics of détente (after the Berlin Four Power Agreement of 1972) were not to be jeopardised. Such politics must have struck him as highly opportunistic since the seventies were no longer the period of the fight against “Formalism”. Rather, the politico-ideological repressions had been replaced by a struggle for power between the privileged establishment (e.g., the music apparatchik Dmitry Kabalevsky) and the unprivileged younger generation striving to achieve public fame. This struggle continued in the Soviet music media until 1991. Furthermore, it was in the German Democratic Republic of all places that the VIIIth Congress of the United Socialist Party (SED) in 1971 had propagated the slogan: “Let all the flowers blossom!” Another fact indicates how explosive the 1st Symphony was in those days: the West German Radio (WDR), then the leading German broadcasting station in matters of music, chose not to include the symphony in its festival Begegnungen mit der Sowjetunion [Meetings with the Soviet Union] hereby not only acting on Schnittke’s behalf.24 Schnittke himself considered the completion of his 1st Symphony to be the most dramatic break in his œuvre. On the other hand, it was also eine Brücke zwischen allem Vorangegangenen und dem Folgendem: Ich begann immer mehr, mich nicht darauf zu konzentrieren, wie ich etwas sagen wollte, sondern, was ich sagen wollte.

264

The Borderless Artistic Home of Alfred Schnittke [a bridge between all that preceded and all that was to come: More and more, I began to concentrate not on how I wanted to say something, but on what I wanted to say instead.]25

III. Schnittke in his own musical world In 1972, Schnittke retired from his safe position at the conservatory in order to work as a free composer.26 It would be a misinterpretation to see this as an expression of his opposition as Detlef Gojowy points out in his article published in the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung “Tschaikowskys eigenwillige Erben” [Tchaikovsky’s unconventional heirs] saying that these musikalischen Neuerer versuchen sehr scharf zwischen Musik und Politik zu trennen und sähen sich höchst ungern in der Rolle von „Opponenten“ […], es geht ihnen […] um den Ausbau vorhandener Positionen, um die Selbstverständlichkeit ihres Wirkens und ihrer fachlichen Kompetenz. [musical innovators try to draw a strict distinction between music and politics and only reluctantly see themselves as “opponents” […], they are rather interested […] in extending existing positions, in seeing their work and their professional competence as being something normal.]27

What, then, are these existing positions for Schnittke and how does he extend them polystylistically (or after 1972 and the 1st Symphony rather: which of them)? On the one hand‚ these are not exclusively “national” traditions. On the other hand, they are partly (and this might seem paradoxical) contemporary traditions that Schnittke had to acquire first. They were, however, for him just as historical as Gregorian chant. These contemporary traditions include the works of Luigi Nono, Pierre Boulez, Karlheinz Stockhausen and György Ligety as well as their theoretical writings. These writings in turn stimulated a large literature and in order to follow up on this he had to be provided with scores, recordings and new information, something that was still risky in those days. Seemingly in contradiction to this is his predilection for traditional genres such as sonata, string quartet, instrumental concerto and symphony that seem completely “old-fashioned” (even surviving the end of Socialist Realism). They might be an expression of a specifically Russian and late romantic conservatism. However, they turn out to be rather unreliable “hallucinations”: Thus, the 2nd Sonata for violin and piano (1968) is subtitled quasi una sonata, this being an ironic allusion to Beethoven’s quasi una

Thomas Radecke

265

fantasia (the so-called Moonlight Sonata) and is in reality, to quote Schnittke himself ein Bericht über die Unmöglichkeit der Sonate in Form einer Sonate […] Die Sonate beginnt mit einem lauten und kurzen g-Moll-Dreiklang. […] Es war das erste ganz neu konzipierte Stück nach einer sehr langen Zeit nur serieller Musik. Auf einmal mußte ich dieses Stück schreiben, ohne konstruktive Regeln […] Zwischen diesem Dreiklang und einem dissonierenden Violinakkord […besteht] die Lösung […] darin, daß nichts gelöst wird […] Polystilistik ist für mich die bewußte Ausspielung der Stilunterschiede, wodurch ein neuer musikalischer Raum entsteht und eine dynamische Formgestaltung wieder ermöglicht wird, die durch die Überholung des tonalen Denkens im Laufe der Avantgarde-Entwicklung unmöglich geworden war. [a report on the impossibility of the sonata in the form of a sonata […] The sonata begins with a loud and short g minor triad. […] After a very long time of concentrating on serial music it was the first piece conceived in a completely new way. All of a sudden I had to write this piece, without relying on constructive rules […]. Between this triad and a dissonant violin chord the solution [consists] in not solving anything. […] Polystylistics means for me consciously pitting stylistic differences against each other and thus creating a new musical space and enabling a dynamic form that had become impossible due to the obsolescence of tonal thinking in the course of the development of the avant-garde.]28

Prior to the opening of the Soviet Union as a consequence of perestroika Schnittke’s music was not easily accessible both from a political and strategic point of view, but also because it was not easily understood when taken out of the context of Soviet life (cf., e.g., the introduction of harpsichord and Concerto grosso as a result of the relatively late reception of pre-classical music in the seventies, or in general, the high amount of irony in his compositions). Thus, Schnittke’s “market value” was rather limited for a long time. Afterwards, however, he became a celebrity very quickly and was highly honoured: All distinctions and awards he received outside the Communist Bloc (with the exception of the membership in the West Berlin academy) date from after 1986.29 The topic “Schnittke and religion” deserves some consideration as well. Suffice it to point out two facts. In 1982 he converted to Catholicism in Vienna (biographically a historical place for him). On the other hand, he was given an Orthodox burial next to other famous Russian artists in the cemetery of the Moscow Novodevichy Monastery. The rites were performed by a Russian-Orthodox priest who had been his confidant in

266

The Borderless Artistic Home of Alfred Schnittke

difficult times. He subtitled his 2nd Symphony (Saint Florian, 1979) Missa invisibilis, and his 4th Symphony (with choir, 1984), combines (in an ecumenical way, as it were) Orthodox, Catholic, Protestant and Jewish chants.30

Bibliography Alfred Schnittke in a dialogue with Julia Makejewa and Gennadi Zypin. „Etwas außerhalb meiner selbst wird durch mich hörbar.“ (1994), in: Alfred Schnittke zum 60. Geburtstag – eine Festschrift, ed. Internationale Musikverlage Hans Sikorski, Hamburg, pp. 20-24. Autoren der Beiträge (1994), in: Alfred Schnittke zum 60. Geburtstag, pp. 306-312. Biographische Daten (1994), in: Alfred Schnittke zum 60. Geburtstag, pp. 11-13. Borchardt, Georg (1994): Die Werke der jüngsten Jahre, in: Alfred Schnittke zum 60. Geburtstag, pp. 43-45. Gojowy, Detlef (1994): Frühe Begegnungen mit Alfred Schnittke, in: Alfred Schnittke zum 60. Geburtstag, pp. 35-42. Herbort, Heinz Josef (1994): Laudatio anlässlich der Verleihung des Hamburger Bach-Preises (1992) an Alfred Schnittke, gehalten am 11. Januar 1993, in: Alfred Schnittke zum 60. Geburtstag, pp. 15-19. Köchel, Jürgen (1994): Zum Erscheinen dieser Festschrift, in: Alfred Schnittke zum 60. Geburtstag, pp. 8-10. Korndorf, Nikolaj (1994): Gedanken zu Alfred Schnittkes 1. Sinfonie, in: Alfred Schnittke zum 60. Geburtstag, pp. 55-59. Kostakeva, Maria (2005): Im Strom der Zeiten und der Welten. Das Spätwerk von Alfred Schnittke, Saarbrücken. Lesle, Lutz (1994): Das Mitschaffen am Turmbau der Gegenwartsmusik – aus meinen Gesprächen mit Alfred Schnittke, in: Alfred Schnittke zum 60. Geburtstag, pp. 25-30. Preise und Auszeichnungen (1994), in: Alfred Schnittke zum 60. Geburtstag, p. 14. Strobel, Frank (1994): Alfred Schnittke als Filmkomponist, in: Alfred Schnittke zum 60. Geburtstag, pp. 31-34. Systematisch-chronologische Werkübersicht, Filmmusiken (1994), in: Alfred Schnittke zum 60. Geburtstag, pp. 130-134. Systematisch-chronologische Werkübersicht, Kammermusikwerke (1994), in: Alfred Schnittke zum 60. Geburtstag, pp. 109-123 Systematisch-chronologische Werkübersicht, Sinfonien (1994), in: Alfred Schnittke zum 60. Geburtstag, pp. 85-91.

Thomas Radecke

267

Wissmann, Friederike (2005): article Schnittke, Alfred, in: MGG2, section of persons, vol. 14, Kassel et al., columns 1534-1539.

Notes 1

Kostakeva 2005: 18. Conversation with Michael Berg, Weimar, to whom I am indebted for this information. 3 Lesle 1994: 26. 4 Biographische Daten 1994: 11; Herbort 1994: 15-16. 5 Lesle 1994: 26. 6 Wissmann 2005: 1534-1535; Herbort 1994: 17. 7 Biographische Daten 1994: 11; Herbort 1994: 15-16. 8 Biographische Daten 1994: 12-13; Herbort 1994: 16. 9 Korndorf 1994: 56; Gojowy 1994: 41. 10 Biographische Daten 1994: 12-13. 11 Wissmann 2005: 1535. 12 Biographische Daten 1994: 11; Herbort 1994: 15. 13 Biographische Daten 1994: 11; Gojowy 1994: 38-39. 14 Wissmann 2005: 1537. 15 Biographische Daten 1994: 11-12; Herbort 1994: 15-16; Wissmann 2005: 1534. 16 Biographische Daten 1994: 12; Gojowy 1994: 38. 17 Gojowy 1994: 41; Systematisch-chronologische Werkübersicht, Filmmusiken 1994: 130-134. 18 Köchel 1994: 8; Strobel 1994: 31; Biographische Daten 1994: 12; Herbort 1994: 16-17; Kostakeva 2005: 27. 19 Alfred Schnittke, cited according to Borchardt 1994: 43. 20 Wissmann 2005: 1538. 21 Systematisch-chronologische Werkübersicht, Sinfonien 1994: 86; Kostakeva 2005: 21. 22 Autoren der Beiträge 1994: 309. 23 Korndorf 1994: 55-56 and 58-59. 24 Gojowy 1994: 40-41. 25 Alfred Schnittke in a dialogue with Julia Makejewa and Gennadi Zypin 1994: 20. 26 Biographische Daten 1994: 12. 27 In: Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 17 Jan. 1970, quoted from Gojowy 1994: 37. 28 Kostakeva 2005: 12 and 16; Herbort 1994: 17; Systematisch-chronologische Werkübersicht, Kammermusikwerke 1994: 119. 29 Preise und Auszeichnungen 1994: 14. 30 In an interview 1981, cited in Systematisch-chronologische Werkübersicht, Sinfonien 1994: 86; Kostakeva 2005: 18 and 25. 2

CONTEMPORARY ÉMIGRÉ COMPOSERS: HOW RUSSIAN ARE THEY? ELENA DUBINETS

Point of arrival: A Russia of one’s own ɉɨɱɬɢ ɭ ɜɫɹɤɨɝɨ ɨɛɪɚɡɨɜɵɜɚɥɚɫɶ ɜ ɝɨɥɨɜɟ ɫɜɨɹ ɫɨɛɫɬɜɟɧɧɚɹ Ɋɨɫɫɢɹ. (Nikolay Gogol’, Ⱥɜɬɨɪɫɤɚɹ ɢɫɩɨɜɟɞɶ, 1855) (Gogol’ 1952: 451) [Almost everybody had formed their own Russias in their own heads.]

While living abroad, Nikolay Gogol’ made two trips back to his native land, each time realizing that the Russia of his memories was not the same as the Russia he saw upon returning. The Russia he encountered in no way conformed to the perfect and integrated image he had formed in his mind while he was away. However, as soon as he left Russia, his familiar and personal mental picture materialised once more. Many artists – Russian by blood, origin, or culture, living outside of her borders – try to connect “their own Russias” to the reality of their native country. They reinvent their past, clouding their displaced memories and imagining an illusory motherland, a Russia that no longer exists. In this process of reinvention, they create not only their artistic works but also the distinct cultural references through which Russia is judged by the recipients of their art. They imagine traces of a certain national identity that might influence generations of people. Combined together, these traces, compiled from multiple artistic outlooks, complete a cultural discourse which, in turn, becomes a framework for a process of inscribing Russian national identity, substantiated through ethnic, political and social developments. This identity and the Russian myth in general are sustained

270

Contemporary Émigré Composers: How Russian Are They?

and popularised mostly through cultural texts which become interpreted and reinterpreted, accepted and opposed, clarified or obscured. We should also keep in mind that Russia is often perceived as a cultural and linguistic entity rather than political or ethnic.1 For many composers, the cultural identity created through musical works has become a kind of artistic mission in its own right, one even larger than the problem of shaping a unique style. How do contemporary Russian composers feel about their nationality and what processes do they go through as they write music in the context of a foreign environment? Do émigré composers seek cultural identification with their new surroundings or do they attempt to keep ties with the country of their ethnic descent? Is music by Russian émigré composers still to be considered Russian or not? Do the composers regard themselves as “Russian”? Does musical ethnicity survive a move away from one’s homeland? There is no one correct answer to these questions. Composers who have left the Soviet Union and later the Russian Federation in the “post-thaw” decades – that is, roughly, in the last fifty years which constitutes the period of our research – approach their expatriation and national self-identification from many different positions, and their ready, even voluminous, consideration of the émigré experience suggests that it is crucial in their concept of themselves and their artistic work. Combining the local and the global and inscribing the national into the context of the universal, works of the Russian émigré composers receive cultural meaning and gain contextual symbolism based on individual ethnic models and social conventions. In the period of globalisation and open borders, one might even question the notion of an emigrant composer as being valid. Does such a notion provide a welcome set of associations in a new environment or does it limit one’s perceptions of oneself and one’s work? Composers are by their very nature of different minds. Alexander Raskatov, born in Moscow in 1953, who emigrated to Germany in 1994 and is currently living in Paris, questions the entire concept of the word “emigrant”:

Elena Dubinets

271

Ⱥ ɜɨɨɛɳɟ «ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬ» – ɩɨɧɹɬɢɟ ɚɛɫɭɪɞɧɨɟ. ȿɫɥɢ ɚɧɝɥɢɱɚɧɢɧ ɩɨɟɞɟɬ ɠɢɬɶ ɜ ɒɜɟɣɰɚɪɢɸ, ɨɧ ɠɟ ɧɟ ɛɭɞɟɬ ɫɱɢɬɚɬɶɫɹ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɦ ɭ ɫɟɛɹ ɜ ɫɬɪɚɧɟ. ə ɧɟ ɡɧɚɸ ɚɦɟɪɢɤɚɧɫɤɢɯ ɢɥɢ ɹɩɨɧɫɤɢɯ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɨɜ-ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ. ɋɥɨɜɨ ɷɬɨ ɫɟɣɱɚɫ ɡɜɭɱɢɬ ɭɧɢɡɢɬɟɥɶɧɨ ɢ ɫɬɚɪɨɦɨɞɧɨ. Ɇɢɝɪɢɪɨɜɚɬɶ ɞɨɥɠɧɵ ɦɵɫɥɢ, ɚ ɝɞɟ ɜ ɷɬɨɬ ɦɨɦɟɧɬ ɧɚɯɨɞɢɬɫɹ ɬɟɥɨ – ɷɬɨ ɭɠɟ ɜɬɨɪɨɣ ɜɨɩɪɨɫ. ə ɫɟɛɹ ɥɢɱɧɨ «ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɦ» ɧɟ ɫɱɢɬɚɸ. ə, ɦɨɠɟɬ ɛɵɬɶ, ɦɟɧɶɲɟ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬ, ɱɟɦ ɬɨɬ, ɤɬɨ ɫɟɣɱɚɫ ɜ Ɇɨɫɤɜɟ ɢɥɢ ɉɢɬɟɪɟ ɫɨɱɢɧɹɟɬ ɧɚ ɦɚɧɟɪ ɚɦɟɪɢɤɚɧɫɤɨɝɨ ɦɢɧɢɦɚɥɢɡɦɚ. ɇɨ ɩɪɨɫɬɨ ɬɟɪɪɢɬɨɪɢɚɥɶɧɨ ɨɧ ɧɚɯɨɞɢɬɫɹ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ, ɚ ɹ – ɧɟɬ. (2005; Dubinets 2012)2 [In general, “emigrant” is an absurd notion. If a British man moves to Switzerland, he is not considered an emigrant in his native country. I don’t know any American or Japanese émigré composers. This word sounds humiliating and outdated. One’s thoughts might migrate, but it shouldn’t matter where the body is located. I don’t consider myself an emigrant. Perhaps, I am less an emigrant than somebody in Moscow or St Petersburg writing in the style of American minimalism. He or she is simply located in Russia, and I am not.]

Raskatov touches upon several important issues related to emigration in general. What is exile? Is it a geographical displacement, or is it a dislocation of identity? How does the difference between “self-exile” – when artists create remote spaces in their minds meant to be an alternative to the real world, often without leaving the country or community – and “forced departure”, exile or emigration with very strong ties remaining to a native land or society, reflect in the composers’ artistic self-consciousness? Obviously, there are different behavioural scenarios for integrating oneself into a new musical arena, and some composers may tend to reject their cultural and educational background, instead re-educating themselves, merging into the surrounding music environment. It is almost impossible, however, for a mature Russian composer, moving abroad, to abandon his or her roots and begin to conceive and write music in a totally different fashion. In some cases, the anxiety associated with moving to another country blocks the process of composing: many Russian composers, including Joseph Schillinger, Andrey Volkonsky, and others, stopped writing music almost entirely when they left Russia.

272

Contemporary Émigré Composers: How Russian Are They?

Case one Andrey Volkonsky: Stopped composing almost entirely when outside of Russia Ɇɵ, ɠɢɜɹ ɜ ɤɚɤɨɣ-ɥɢɛɨ ɬɨɬɚɥɢɬɚɪɧɨɣ ɫɢɫɬɟɦɟ, ɩɨɫɬɟɩɟɧɧɨ ɬɟɪɹɟɦ ɱɭɜɫɬɜo ɨɬɜɟɬɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ. ɋɜɨɛɨɞɚ – ɨɱɟɧɶ ɬɹɠɟɥɵɣ ɝɪɭɡ. […] ɫɢɥɶɧɨ ɪɚɡɜɢɬɨɟ ɷɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɟ ɧɚɱɚɥɨ ɩɨɡɜɨɥɹɟɬ ɦɧɟ ɩɢɫɚɬɶ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɬɨ, ɱɬɨ ɹ ɫɱɢɬɚɸ ɜ ɞɚɧɧɵɣ ɦɨɦɟɧɬ ɱɟɫɬɧɵɦ. [...] Ʉɨɝɞɚ ɹ ɩɟɪɟɛɪɚɥɫɹ ɧɚ Ɂɚɩɚɞ, ɫɬɚɥ ɟɡɞɢɬɶ ɧɚ ɜɫɹɤɢɟ ɚɜɚɧɝɚɪɞɧɵɟ ɮɟɫɬɢɜɚɥɢ, ɬɨ ɧɚɫɥɭɲɚɥɫɹ ɫɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɩɥɨɯɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ, ɱɬɨ ɩɢɫɚɬɶ ɜ ɷɬɨɦ ɧɚɩɪɚɜɥɟɧɢɢ ɦɧɟ ɩɨɤɚɡɚɥɨɫɶ ɭɠɟ ɧɟɱɟɫɬɧɵɦ. (Andrey Volkonsky, quoted in Drozdova 1996) [While living in a certain totalitarian system, we gradually lose a sense of responsibility. Freedom is a very heavy load. […] my overdeveloped ethic principles permit me to write only whatever I consider to be honest at the moment. […] When I moved to the West and began attending different avant-garde festivals, I heard plenty of bad music and decided that it would be dishonest to write in this direction.]

Volkonsky (born 1933 in Geneva, died 2008 in Aix-en-Provence; from 1947 to 1972 lived in the Soviet Union) wasn’t a dissident or a dissenter. Through his art (both as a composer and as a performer) he not only resisted, but also renounced everything that was commonplace. Hence there are arrhythmic runs in his biography to early music, avant-garde, serialism and other types of experimental departing from traditional compositional norms and techniques. In each of these directions Volkonsky was able to make an imprint not just as a talented pioneer but as a brilliant pathfinder. Even though he didn’t create a large number of works or his own compositional school, and even though he spent the last third of his life outside Russia, he was the one who inspired generations of Russian musicians. Volkonsky’s role consisted primarily of opening a window into Europe through which unknown materials and information could flow back into the Soviet Union. Volkonsky was never ahead of his time in terms of compositional processes; however, several of the compositional techniques he used had been prohibited in the Soviet Union before he brought them there. A similar situation arose with the initial introduction of historically informed performance practices of early music which before Volkonsky had been completely unknown in the USSR.

Elena Dubinets

273

Volkonsky was able to identify several ways to make his art oppose the romanticism that he could not tolerate. Apart from the dodecaphonic principles that allowed him to organise his musical thinking (it was “the order” that Volkonsky thought was the most important factor of a rational arrangement of the entire world and of art in particular), he began performing and promoting early music of the pre-Bach era. However, he never incorporated any stylisations of early music into his own compositions. While dodecaphony and serialism (which Volkonsky never used in their exact forms) allowed him to express himself through calculations and strict structural rules, aligning very well with his personal qualities, early music led him to a creative interpretation of the preexisting objective essence. Why was this exceptionally talented musician unable to find himself a way into the “big music” of the West and why did he almost stop composing when he grew older? Here is one of the possible explanations. Honest and uncompromising to the limit, Volkonsky didn’t want to adapt to the changing musical times. All composers of his generation realised that avant-garde was in crisis, however, virtually all except him were able to find their way out: Valentin Sil’vestrov arrived at a Proustian sentimentalism, Arvo Pärt at a spiritually infused minimalism, Alfred Schnittke at polystylism, Edison Denisov continued to work within serialism. Volkonsky didn’t accept any of these ways. He did not reject the serialistic technique because he couldn’t tolerate any romanticised subjectivism, but he didn’t want to continue working within the boundaries of serialism, anticipating that it would lead to a dead end; sadly, he was not able to find a comparable substitute or alternate path. It is no accident that almost each of his works written in the West was in a new manner or in a new style: he was searching intensely for exciting results. However, he found them in the art of performance and in studying early music, thus achieving a noble exit from a crisis.

Settlement: A huge Russian irrational invasion in the West For a time, in the mid-1920’s, so many Russian composers worked abroad that professional critics distinguished between a “Russian school on Soviet territory” and a “Russian school in Western Europe.” But with few exceptions, the Russian composers “in exile” did not survive the permanent estrangement from their homeland. The future of Russian music remained on Russian soil. (Schwarz 1972: 20)

274

Contemporary Émigré Composers: How Russian Are They? Musicians, composers, artists who leave Russia now will produce a huge Russian irrational invasion in the West. (Ivashkin 1992: 556)

The art of émigré composers, however different and distant it is from the art of composers living in Russia, has been an important component of Russian music culture as a whole. Artur Lur’e (Lourié) wrote at the beginning of the 1930s that “in attempting to define the present state of the Russian school, we must treat the two sections of it as independent bodies: we must consider what is happening in the musical world of the U.S.S.R., and what is being accomplished by Russian music in the West.” (Lourié 1932: 528) Indeed, Russian composers who left Russia as a result of the 1917 Revolution made a considerable contribution to both Russian and world music culture. By the end of the Stalinist regime the doors were firmly closed, and no more composers were allowed to emigrate. However, by the 1970s a new wave of emigration had resumed. It involved performers and then composers, beginning with Andrey Volkonsky, Aleksandr Rabinovich and Valery Arzumanov. In the post-Soviet era of globalisation the situation changed again and the balance between the two “schools” of Russian music was broken. In an article on the beginning of the perestroika period, Aleksandr Ivashkin observed that: “In fact, one can say that Russian culture exists more now in the West than in Russia itself.” (Ivashkin 1992: 543) Indeed, emigration appeared to be a typical solution for many composers in the late Soviet and early perestroika years, when it became easier to leave the country than it had been in earlier periods. All of these émigré composers are still regarded as “Russian composers.” Does this mean that the quality of Russianness is easily identifiable in music or does it merely state that these composers were born in Russia?

Case two Alfred Schnittke: The irony of “Russian features” Understanding Russianness means rejecting both the mystical veils of Russian inscrutability and simplistic political explanations, and instead paying due attention to the complexity, heterogeneity and mutability of this giant mythical structure, of the symbolic world of national identification created by generations of Russians in order to mirror and protect the imagined Self. (Hellberg-Hirn 1998: 253)

Elena Dubinets

275

In order to get a commission from the London Symphony Orchestra to write a piece for its centennial season, Dmitry Smirnov (born 1948), a Minsk-born composer living in England since 1991, had to persuade the orchestra management that he was, by his current nationality, a British composer: he even had to produce his British passport as proof. The result of this commission, Smirnov’s Triple Concerto No. 2 for double bass, harp and violin, was premiered at the Barbican in May 2004. However, the nationality stated in one’s passport does not mean that the composer writes music which reflects this particular nationality. Smirnov’s Triple Concerto confirms this, as it clearly represents a nonBritish compositional approach with its typically post-Shostakovichian musical landscape. This work attempts to create a musical portrait of Russia, a retrospective view from the outside. Russian features often become more obvious in the art of a given composer only after he or she is removed from the Russian scene; this is true even if the composer had not been considered particularly “Russian” while still in Russia. As if to confirm that not only music critics and audiences, but also the composers themselves identify some presumed Russian unity, Alfred Schnittke, who was half-German and half-Jewish and lived most of his life in Russia, said at the beginning of the 1990s, before his emigration to Germany: Ɇɨɹ ɠɢɡɧɶ ɩɪɨɠɢɬɚ ɩɨ ɩɪɟɢɦɭɳɟɫɬɜɭ ɡɞɟɫɶ, ɢ ɬɨ, ɱɬɨ ɷɬɚ ɠɢɡɧɶ ɫ ɫɨɛɨɣ ɧɟɫɥɚ, ɧɟ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɟ ɜɩɟɱɚɬɥɟɧɢɹ, ɧɨ ɢ ɠɢɡɧɟɧɧɵɣ ɨɩɵɬ, ɩɪɟɞɨɩɪɟɞɟɥɹɟɬ ɦɨɸ ɩɪɢɧɚɞɥɟɠɧɨɫɬɶ ɤ ɷ ɬ ɨ ɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɢ ɟɟ ɩɪɨɛɥɟɦɚɬɢɤɟ. ɂ ɰɢɬɢɪɭɸ ɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɧɚɪɨɞɧɵɟ ɩɟɫɧɢ ɢɥɢ ɧɟɬ, – ɧɟ ɢɦɟɟɬ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɡɧɚɱɟɧɢɹ. Ɍɨɥɶɤɨ ɫɦɟɪɬɶ ɒɨɫɬɚɤɨɜɢɱɚ ɩɪɢɜɟɥɚ ɤ ɨɫɨɡɧɚɧɢɸ ɬɨɝɨ, ɱɬɨ ɒɨɫɬɚɤɨɜɢɱ ɩɨ-ɧɚɫɬɨɹɳɟɦɭ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɣ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪ – ɧɟ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɩɨ ɜɧɟɲɧɢɦ ɩɪɨɹɜɥɟɧɢɹɦ (ɨɧ ɨɛɪɚɛɚɬɵɜɚɥ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɩɟɫɧɢ), ɧɨ ɩɨ ɜɫɟɦɭ. ȼ ɤɚɠɞɨɣ ɞɟɬɚɥɢ ɬɨɝɨ, ɱɬɨ ɨɧ ɞɟɥɚɥ, – ɩɪɢ ɥɸɛɨɣ ɨɫɬɪɨɬɟ ɢɥɢ ɧɟɨɛɵɱɧɨɫɬɢ ɹɡɵɤɚ – ɨɧ ɨɫɬɚɜɚɥɫɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɦ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɨɦ. […] ə ɞɭɦɚɸ, ɱɬɨ ɧɟɱɬɨ ɜ ɷɬɨɦ ɪɨɞɟ ɩɪɨɢɡɨɣɞɟɬ ɜ ɛɭɞɭɳɟɦ ɫ ɨɰɟɧɤɨɣ ɪɚɛɨɬɵ ɬɚɤɢɯ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɨɜ, ɤɚɤ Ⱦɟɧɢɫɨɜ, Ƚɭɛɚɣɞɭɥɢɧɚ, ɢ ɞɚɠɟ ɫ ɨɰɟɧɤɨɣ ɦɨɟɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ. (Schnittke, quoted in Ivashkin 1994: 151) [My life has been spent mainly here [in Russia], and what this life brought with it – not only musical impressions, but also life experience – predetermines my belonging to this life and its problems. And it does not matter whether I quote Russian folk songs or not. Only Shostakovich’s death led to the realisation that Shostakovich was a truly Russian composer – not only in external appearance (he arranged Russian songs), but in

276

Contemporary Émigré Composers: How Russian Are They? everything. In every detail of what he did, with every sharp and unusual turn of his [musical] language – he was a Russian composer. […] I think that something like this will happen in the future with an evaluation of the work of such composers as Denisov, and Gubaydulina, and with an evaluation of even my music.]

Schnittke did not specify just what made his colleague’s music sound Russian. But did he not imply that the content of “Russianness” was clear to every Russian-speaking reader of his interview? Russianness is a huge conglomerate of the real and the imagined, the connected and the unrelated, the ethnic and the multicultural. There is no need to seek “an underlying unity” or “a mysterious Russian soul” in the work of Russian émigré composers because these qualities are indeed obscure and unclassifiable. It is impossible and may be completely unnecessary to classify the constituent elements of a national music identity and different aspects of its realisation in the art of composers or to distinguish what percentage of inherited and what percentage of acquired knowledge exists in the music of any given composer. However, behavioural and cognitive incentives of music creation should be considered while analyzing any piece of music, especially the music of contemporary composers, because there may be an influence of ethnic and social sources on the process of composition. The problem of musical identity can be approached with the tools of cognitive musicology, and the art of creating music and of musical style can be defined in terms of behavioural patterns rather than specific aesthetic embodiments alone. Many aspects of composition are based on generalisations derived from one’s ethnic and social musical experiences, including the implicit knowledge of the most important musical idioms and the sound encodings of a certain culture in a certain period of time. These ethnic and social cognitive schemas influence the way the composer creates and perceives, regardless of his or her current technical, aesthetic and stylistic orientations. The presence of ethnic components in a composer’s referential knowledge has an important influence on the idea generation process. This is why Russian émigré composers of the postthaw and especially of the post-perestroika period are generally inclined to follow the norms of Russian music, suggesting that their previous ethnically-rooted musical experiences influence their potential to organise sounds into pieces of music.

Elena Dubinets

277

Case three Alexander Raskatov and Valery Arzumanov: Preserving the Russian musical approach ɇɟ ɫɥɟɞɭɟɬ ɥɢ ɪɚɡ ɧɚɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɨɬɤɚɡɚɬɶɫɹ ɨɬ ɜɫɹɤɨɣ ɬɨɫɤɢ ɩɨ ɪɨɞɢɧɟ, ɨɬ ɜɫɹɤɨɣ ɪɨɞɢɧɵ, ɤɪɨɦɟ ɬɨɣ, ɤɨɬɨɪɚɹ ɫɨ ɦɧɨɣ, ɜɨ ɦɧɟ, ɩɪɢɫɬɚɥɚ ɤɚɤ ɫɟɪɟɛɪɨ ɦɨɪɫɤɨɝɨ ɩɟɫɤɚ ɤ ɤɨɠɟ ɩɨɞɨɲɜ, ɠɢɜɟɬ ɜ ɝɥɚɡɚɯ, ɜ ɤɪɨɜɢ, ɩɪɢɞɚɟɬ ɝɥɭɛɢɧɭ ɢ ɞɚɥɶ ɡɚɞɧɟɦɭ ɩɥɚɧɭ ɤɚɠɞɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɟɧɧɨɣ ɧɚɞɟɠɞɵ? Ʉɨɝɞɚ-ɧɢɛɭɞɶ, ɨɬɨɪɜɚɜɲɢɫɶ ɨɬ ɩɢɫɚɧɢɹ, ɹ ɩɨɫɦɨɬɪɸ ɜ ɨɤɧɨ ɢ ɭɜɢɠɭ ɪɭɫɫɤɭɸ ɨɫɟɧɶ. (Nabokov 1990: 174) [Ought one not to reject any longing for one’s homeland, for any homeland besides that which is with me, within me, which is stuck like the silver sand of the sea to the skin of my soles, lives in my eyes, my blood, gives depth and distance to the background of life’s every hope? Some day, interrupting my writing, I will look through the window and see a Russian autumn. (Nabokov 2001: 163)]

Most of the interviewed composers eagerly confirm their readiness to return to their roots even in emigration. Alexander Raskatov explains his feelings about his national identity: When one lives in Russia, one’s affiliation with the country is implied. Our fate throws us to another world, as if we were molecules, and we begin to weave a web, a small thread of restoring some inner connections with our country. We cannot erase certain things in ourselves, even if we want to. If we try to do so artificially, it will be quite visible and it will be heard. In this regard, every piece should give an answer to this ancient question. I hope that I have preserved my Russian musical approach. (2005; Dubinets 2012)

Raskatov’s music is built on the intersection of two major strata: the compositional schooling established at the Russian conservatories and the ultra-new, postmodern disposition, with an unblinking gaze at global issues. An exceptional sense of musical form, skilfulness in orchestration, and harmonic confidence join in Raskatov’s works with boundless experiment, freedom and a certain authority of the utterance. Raskatov expresses himself with extreme candour, touching the strings of pain and hope, sorrow and expectation. The drama of his sound poems unfolds from the infernal abyss to passionate lyrical heights, but never betrays a sense of sincerity and often enthralls the listener with the possibility of grasping the “truth”. Raskatov’s quest for new ways of expression is often based on the spoken word, and, having used texts in many languages, he obtains the

278

Contemporary Émigré Composers: How Russian Are They?

“most complete satisfaction” (in his own words) (2005; Dubinets 2012) when he works with Russian poetical and liturgical texts, creating their Russian melodic equivalents. Composer Valery Arzumanov was born in Vorkuta in 1944 and though he has lived in France since 1974, he can be called a chronicler of the Soviet era. The sufferings of the Soviet system hostages who had gone through the Gulag camps made an indelible imprint on his own history and are perceived by him as a guarantee of the inner purity and the illuminating humanism of these people. Deeply felt protest against the Soviet system is combined in Arzumanov’s art with a touching nostalgic note and inescapable longing for home. This melancholic combination is the foundation of his art, which is sincere and anti-pathetic in its nature. A son of an Armenian father, he said in an interview: “There is not a drop of Russian blood in me. I am not making a stand for being Russian in terms of my nationality – it is more culture and language for me, as for Lermontov, Blok and many others.” (2005; Dubinets 2012) Arzumanov was brought up within the Soviet system and despite having spent more than half of his life outside of it, he was never able to alter the creative determinants of his style and his music remained very Russian-sounding in its essence. Based on the variety of viewpoints among my interviewees, most composers continue to write music after arriving in their new environment displaying a strong national-oriented basis in their current works. This is true even if they intend to adapt fully to their new location and cultural milieu – and it is sometimes the case even if they no longer wish to be regarded as artistic representatives of their native country. The convergence of expatriation with one’s new citizenship has shaped many unique creative results. The “invidious” consigning of Russian composers to a ghetto (to use Richard Taruskin’s unforgettable image (Taruskin 2010: 787)) is not substantiated by speculations attempting to locate some unifying features where there are none. It is most importantly the composer’s own placement of him- or herself in terms of ethnic or, rather, cultural and social attribution that determines the self-consignment to this ghetto. When not only music critics but also the composers themselves believe that they write Russian music and only Russian music, then all discussions

Elena Dubinets

279

about the obsolescence of the concept of Russianness become useless. As Taruskin writes, “if a cliché, however disprovable, is accepted by artists and embodied in their art, then it has indeed become a stylistic determinant” (Taruskin 2000).

Case four Nikolay Korndorf: “This is my vocabulary, my language, my culture” I belong to the direction in Russian music which, independent of the composer’s style, typically addresses very serious topics: philosophical, religious, moral, the problems of a person’s spiritual life, his relationship with the surrounding world, the problem of beauty and its relationship with reality, as well as the problem of loftiness and meaning in human beings and in art, the relationship of the spiritual and the anti-spiritual. (Korndorf 2001)

Nikolay Korndorf’s ethnic biases helped him forge a unique compositional path in his new country, as the following example from his biography clearly shows. Soon after his emigration to Canada in 1991 Korndorf decided to write a string quartet in the genre of requiem, based on Catholic liturgical melodies. He went to a library, made copies of many Gregorian chants and began to work. He felt very uncomfortable until he realised that he was unable to find inspiration in the Catholic masses and Latin texts. He exchanged Latin for Church Slavonic, turned to the melodic idioms of ancient Russian chants – and the String Quartet (1992) was soon finished. Korndorf remarked that he was very surprised at his subconscious reluctance to incorporate a foreign music tradition (though one very well known to him through classical settings) and at his mental readiness to adopt and develop the “native” music models. As he said: “This is my vocabulary, my language, my culture.” (2000; Dubinets 2012) Korndorf described his own national attribution: I undoubtedly feel myself a Russian composer. I was raised on Russian literature, and my whole system of thinking is purely Russian. My view on art, on the destiny of art, on the destiny of an artist is entirely adopted from the Russian classics. And, of course, publically oriented criticism, which was the nature of everyone with the exception of only Gubaidulina. Shostakovich, Schnittke, and [Arvo] Pärt undoubtedly belonged to Soviet music. And I include myself with it. This music was not without time and

280

Contemporary Émigré Composers: How Russian Are They? space, it was an immediate reaction to what was happening. (Korndorf 2001)

In Korndorf’s statement, the notion of “Russianness” is happily extended to embrace its “Soviet” connotations, revealing an imperial identity common among many Russian composers living both in Russia and abroad. Current Russian geographical boundaries do not coincide with its ethnic and cultural frames in the minds of many intellectuals, which is why music by many composers includes “non-Russian” components. The Soviet social system produced a specific music conglomerate which left an imprint on the art of all its composers and was embraced as part of the Soviet musical identity. This conglomerate included not only folk roots and classical Russian art traditions, but also music by other ethnicities of the Russian and later Soviet empire, Soviet patriotic and popular songs, the pre-war tango, music by the guitar poets (bards) and many other “nonhigh-art” and seemingly “non-ethnic” components. Korndorf has combined all of these components into a single whole and formulated a concept of “underground music” as a “bias” for composers. According to Korndorf, “underground music” is a certain “secondary” music culture that exists within any artist: “It is something natural, primitive, spontaneous, instinctive, perceptible, physiological.” (Korndorf n.d.) Korndorf thought that a composer should write only music that was inherent to himself. For instance, for Korndorf himself, the songs of Vladimir Vysotsky constituted musical influences equal in importance to Beethoven’s sonatas. A similar specifically Russian type of socially and politically oriented experimentalism can be seen in many post-Soviet works. Former Soviet composers themselves have developed a kind of perfect pitch in identifying certain political references imbedded in their works, even when the compositions do not engage with any particular social point of view. As Taruskin has efficiently summarised, owing to the historical circumstances in which Russian artists have worked, the symbology of Russian art is exceptionally rich and multivoiced. In an autocratic or oligarchical society in which political, social, or spiritual matters could not be openly aired, such matters went underground into historiography and art. The art of no other country is so heavily fraught with subtexts. (Taruskin 1997: xviii)

Elena Dubinets

281

After the Soviet era, some composers have tried to free their art from the political connotations of the past. However, all attempts by commentators and composers to free the styles from their social contexts are in vain. It is impossible to extract the “extramusical” and to leave only the “musical” component of the mixture. An artist in Russia is still considered by many to be a visionary purveyor of truth, personally responsible for the moral health of the nation. In the famous words of Evgeny Evtushenko: ɉɨɷɬ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ – ɛɨɥɶɲɟ, ɱɟɦ ɩɨɷɬ. ȼ ɧɟɣ ɫɭɠɞɟɧɨ ɩɨɷɬɚɦɢ ɪɨɠɞɚɬɶɫɹ ɥɢɲɶ ɬɟɦ, ɜ ɤɨɦ ɛɪɨɞɢɬ ɝɨɪɞɵɣ ɞɭɯ ɝɪɚɠɞɚɧɫɬɜɚ, ɤɨɦɭ ɭɸɬɚ ɧɟɬ, ɩɨɤɨɹ ɧɟɬ. (Evtushenko 1967: 2) [A poet in Russia is more than a poet. There the fate of being born a poet falls only on those stirred by the pride of belonging, who have no comfort, and no peace.]

This “politicism” seems to be so deeply ingrained in the consciousness of Russian composers that it remains no matter where they live or in what styles they work. Because of this sense of citizens’ responsibility imbedded into the works of many composers, a piece of music heard by the ‘innocent ear’ is often identifiable as the work of a Russian composer, and this is why the entire concept of Russian music identity, however obscure and outdated it may seem, is such fruitful soil for research.

Point of departure: Anton Batagov and the most recent variation of exile Ɇɨɰɚɪɬ ɨɬɟɱɟɫɬɜɚ ɧɟ ɜɵɛɢɪɚɟɬ — ɩɪɨɫɬɨ ɢɝɪɚɟɬ ɜɫɸ ɠɢɡɧɶ ɧɚɩɪɨɥɺɬ. (Okudzhava 1969) [Mozart does not choose a motherland, simply, he plays all his life, as it is.]

Contemporary composers living abroad have a new option that had not been granted to their predecessors during the Soviet times: to visit Russia at will. Each of them finds his or her personal way of relating to their native country. Many of them live between two or several countries, having homes in multiple places. One of them – pianist and composer Anton Batagov (born in Moscow in 1965) – has relocated to the USA and then back to Russia several times.

282

Contemporary Émigré Composers: How Russian Are They?

The post-Cagean philosophy of Batagov’s projects eliminates boundaries between “performance” and “composition” by viewing all existing musical practices, from ancient rituals to rock/pop culture and advanced computer technologies, as potential elements for performing/composing. The postminimalist language of Batagov’s compositions is rooted in harmonic and rhythmic patterns of Russian church bells, old believers’ chants and folk songs seamlessly mixed with the spirit of Western minimalism, the dynamic pulse of early Soviet avant-garde, and the unfading scent of rock music. Most of Batagov’s works written since the late 1990s are deeply influenced by Buddhist philosophy and practice. I would like to close my essay with a quotation from my interview with him. He says: What if we try to not pay so much attention to the “national aspects of musical self-identification”? What if we forget that we are Russians and have to look in a certain way before the others? It doesn’t mean that we would publically cut off our roots in the way people reject their citizenship, and would forget everything (good or bad) that got stuck to them in terms of “culture.” Everything “Russian” which has to show itself in this music will appear on its own, and it will take its natural shape and form. This natural quality cannot be achieved when a composer is getting obsessed with an idea of presenting himself as a “Russian composer in the West.” And if the “Russian” doesn’t show up, so be it! Obviously, when we come to a different country, we cannot help hoping to be accepted, to be recognized as part of the picture, but at the same time to be valued for uniqueness. But as soon as we begin trying 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, we stop “being ourselves” right away. We don’t become Americans or French and rather we become a person lost in delusions – his own as well as collective. (2009; Dubinets 2012)

Bibliography Bassin, Mark, Kelly, Catriona (eds.) (2012): Soviet and Post-soviet Identities, Cambridge. Billington, James H. (2004): Russia in Search of Itself, Washington, Baltimore and London. Drozdova, Oksana (1996): Ⱥɧɞɪɟɣ ȼɨɥɤɨɧɫɤɢɣ: ɇɟ ɞɭɦɚɸ, ɱɬɨ ɛɵɥ ɚɜɚɧɝɚɪɞɢɫɬɨɦ, in: ɋɟɝɨɞɧɹ (Moscow), 19 July.

Elena Dubinets

283

Dubinets, Elena (2010): Ⱥɧɞɪɟɣ ȼɨɥɤɨɧɫɤɢɣ: ɉɚɪɬɢɬɭɪɚ ɠɢɡɧɢ, Moscow. —. (2012): Mozart does not choose a motherland: On music of the contemporary Russian emigration. Manuscript. Evtushenko, Evgenii (1967): Prayer before the Poem, in: The Bratsk Station and other New Poems, as translated by T. Tupikina-Glaessner, G. Dutton and I. Mezhakoff-Koriakin, Garden City, N.Y. Franklin, Simon, Widdis, Emma (eds.) (2004): National Identity in Russian Culture. An Introduction, Cambridge. Frolova-Walker, Marina (2007): Russian Music and Nationalism from Glinka to Stalin, New Haven and London. Gogol’, N. V. (1952): ɉɨɥɧɨɟ ɫɨɛɪɚɧɢɟ ɫɨɱɢɧɟɧɢɣ, vol. 8, Moscow. Hellberg-Hirn, Elena (1998): Soil and Soul: The Symbolic World of Russianness, Aldershot. Ivashkin, Alexander (1992): The Paradox of Russian Non-Liberty, in: Musical Quarterly, 76, pp. 543–556. —. (1994): Ȼɟɫɟɞɵ ɫ Ⱥɥɶɮɪɟɞɨɦ ɒɧɢɬɤɟ, Moscow. Kelly, Catriona, Shepherd, David (eds.) (1998): Constructing Russian Culture in the Age of Revolution 1881-1940, Oxford and New York. —. (1998): Russian Cultural Studies. An Introduction, Oxford. Korndorf, Nikolai (2001): Brief Statement about my Work, URL: http://www.korndorf.ca/old/Statment.htm (last accessed 04-14-2012). —. (n.d.): Underground Music, unpublished ms. Lourié Arthur (1932): The Russian School, in: Musical Quarterly, 18, pp. 519–529. Nabokov, Vladimir (1990): Ⱦɚɪ, Moscow. —. (2001): The Gift, translated by Michael Scammell and Dmitri Nabokov in collaboration with Vladimir Nabokov, London. Okudzhava, Bulat (1969): ɉɟɫɟɧɤɚ ɨ Ɇɨɰɚɪɬɟ, URL: http://www.bokudjava.ru/M_55.html (last accessed 12-17-12); translated by Alec Vagapov: Mozart, URL: http://zhurnal.lib.ru/a/alec_ vagapov /okud-alldoc.shtml (last accessed 04-14-2012). Olson, Laura J. (2004): Performing Russia: Folk Revival and Russian Identity, London and New York. Riasanovsky, Nicholas V. (2005): Russian Identities. A Historical Survey, Oxford. Ritzarev, Marina (2007-2008): “A Singing Peasant”: An Historical Look at National Identity in Russian Music, in: Min-AD: Israel Studies in Musicology Online, Vol. 6, URL: http://www.biu.ac.il/HU/mu/minad/07-08/Ritzarev-A_Singing.pdf (last accessed 10-01-2012).

284

Contemporary Émigré Composers: How Russian Are They?

Schwarz, Boris (1972): Music and Musical Life in Soviet Russia, 1917– 1970, New York. Taruskin, Richard (1997): Defining Russia Musically: Historical and Hermeneutical Essays, Princeton. —. (2000): Where Is Russia’s New Music? Iowa, That’s Where, in: New York Times, 5 November 2000. —. (2009): On Russian Music, Berkeley, Los Angeles, London. —. (2010): Music in the Nineteenth Century, Oxford (The Oxford History of Western Music, vol. 3). Tolz, Vera (2001): Russia, London and New York.

Notes 1

This issue, as well as the problems of Russian music identity, has recently been studied by leading specialists in Russian history and music. See the following sources, among others: Bassin & Kelly 2012, Billington 2004, Franklin & Widdis 2004, Frolova-Walker 2007, Hellberg-Hirn 1998, Kelly & Shepherd 1998a and 1998b, Olson 2004, Riasanovsky 2005, Ritzarev 2007-2008, Taruskin 1997 and 2009, Tolz 2001. 2 All previously unpublished interviews can be found in the manuscript of my most recent book (Dubinets 2012).

ABSTRACTS

KATHARINA BAUER “ɑɌɈ ɊɈȾɂɅȺ ɗɆɂȽɊȺɐɂə?” [WHAT IS IT THAT THE EMIGRATION ENGENDERED?] – ANDREY BELY, VIKTOR SHKLOVSKY AND ALEKSEY TOLSTOY IN “RUSSIAN BERLIN” 1921-1923 The article focusses on three Russian writers – Aleksey Tolstoy, Viktor Shklovsky and Andrey Bely – and their views about the future location of Russian literature navigating its way back to Russia as the only place where a new concept of Russian culture made sense and could be realised. The analysed texts show that in spite of their different aesthetic and ideological backgrounds, they have much in common on the level of metaphors and motives that can often be traced back to Slavophile tradition. They aimed to return to Russia – even a Russia destroyed by civil war and ruled by the Bolsheviki – and they strove for a real and symbolic integration into the new community which they contrasted with the emigration that was devoid of meaning and power.

MARIA BYCHKOVA RUSSIAN MUSIC INSTITUTIONS IN BERLIN IN THE 1920S: THE STRUCTURE OF A NETWORK IN EXILE The first wave of Russian emigrants in Germany was most visible in Berlin. Most of the immigrants were members of the upper classes, especially officers, members of the nobility and artists. These circles had high demands on a diversified cultural life, and given the large number of immigrants, they formed a subculture of their own. At the institutional level, this subculture was established by several organisations that structured the musical life of the emigrants. The Russians’ musical organisations and institutions in Berlin in the 1920s related to different areas of musical life. They can be divided into several groups according to their profiles: educational and artistic organizations, publishers, professsional societies, etc. The study of the activities of these institutions shows numerous instances of collaboration both within the Russian colony and with German colleagues. The so-called “Russian Berlin” was thus not an isolated microcosm, but a network whose components were influenced by

288

Abstracts

both Russian activities and by the German environment. Based on archival documents and press reports, some aspects of this network are discussed.

ELENA DUBINETS CONTEMPORARY ÉMIGRÉ COMPOSERS: HOW RUSSIAN ARE THEY? How does musical ethnicity survive a move away from one’s homeland? Works of the Russian émigré composers receive cultural meaning and contextual symbolism based on individual ethnic models and social conventions, but how durable is it? There is no need to seek “an underlying unity” or “a mysterious Russian soul” in the work of Russian émigré composers because these qualities are obscure and unclassifiable. Nevertheless, some of the Russian émigré composers discussed in the article were able to establish the important determinants by which they judged their cultural affiliation. As point of departure, the article takes the words of the composers themselves as they articulate in the interviews how they feel they relate to their native culture and to their newly-chosen cultures, how they understand the socially conditioned assumptions and culturally informed experiences over several generations. Identifying a national affiliation in music is but one way of recognizing how specific mental habits develop within the established social and cultural discourse and are expressed in music. Composers discussed include Andrey Volkonsky (France), Alexander Raskatov (Germany-France), Nikolay Korndorf (Canada), Valery Arzumanov (France), Dmitry Smirnov (England), and Anton Batagov (USA) among others.

JULIA ELSKY UN ENFANT PRODIGE: IRÈNE NÉMIROVSKY AND JEWISH RUSSIA AS IRRETRIEVABLE ORIGIN The paper discusses Irène Némirovsky’s novella, Un enfant prodige (1927). Némirovsky, born to a wealthy Russian Jewish banking family, immigrated to Paris in 1919. Un enfant prodige, written in 1923, is the first story Irène Némirovsky wrote expressly for publication, even though she did not publish it until one year after Le Malentendu, in 1927. This

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

289

seminal story contains important themes that would reoccur in her work, as well as in her personal life, which came to a tragic end at Auschwitz in 1942. The analysis concentrates on this early work, in the context of Némirovsky’s own experience as a Russian immigrant to Paris, to explore how she deals with questions of identity as they relate to issues of assimilation and authorship. The story also explores the torment authors feel when they are rejected because of their ethnic origins, a despair that Némirovsky herself would feel at the end of her life. Némirovsky applies the theme of literary genius to comment on the fate of the Jews in Russia, revealing her deep ambivalence towards her own Jewish identity. Un enfant prodige is a tale about literary genius that comes about in early adolescence. The protagonist Ismaël’s talents rely on his connection to the Jewish community, in spite of his contact with Russian culture, which is portrayed as seductively destructive. However, in describing Ismaël’s family, as well as the entire Jewish ghetto, Némirovsky employs typical stereotypes of greed and miserliness. Finally, in the dark ending of this novella, literary genius becomes a faculty linked to a place and a time to which one can never return once they have been left behind.

CHRISTOPH FLAMM “MY LOVE, FORGIVE ME THIS APOSTASY” SOME THOUGHTS ON RUSSIAN ÉMIGRÉ CULTURE After the downfall of the Soviet Union the study of Russian emigration has become a separate branch of research in cultural history. The usual starting point were the émigré writers of the so-called First wave in the interwar years, who themselves had begun reflecting about the cultural heritage of Russia Abroad. Meanwhile, efforts have been made to view literature as part of Russian émigré culture as a whole and the interwar period as part of a continuous Russian emigration beginning in the Middle Ages and leading up to the present. Thus it is difficult to define Russian émigré culture clearly. While political and biographical aspects have often been put to the fore, aesthetical questions still lack thorough treatment, not least because the emigrants’ self-declared mission of conserving Russia’s past has too often been imposed on Russian émigré culture as a whole. With regard to the impact of emigration on artists’ aesthetics, a basic typology is proposed, distinguishing between the conservation, development and abandonment of traditions. Finally, Russian émigré culture all

290

Abstracts

over the 20th century has led to a continuation of ideas of nationalism in the arts – ideas which otherwise have been overcome since long.

ANNA FORTUNOVA RUSSIAN COLLECTIVE IDENTITY IN EXILE AND MUSIC IN BERLIN 1917-1933 Research on the Russian emigration conducted in the 1990s showed that the first wave of Russian emigration was dominated by three distinct senses of “mission”. One of them was the task of remembering “Old Russia” and her collective identity in order to maintain a “little piece of home” beyond the borders of the Soviet Union, and thus to preserve her (pre-revolutionary) culture. This effort was connected with the creation of a new collective identity in exile. Many Russians tried to lead a life that was very similar to their previous existence in Russia and to uphold traditional values as well as pre-revolutionary culture. In the musical life of Berlin in the 1920s, this was evident in concerts by Russian artists for a Russian audience, often with vocal music in Russian that did not feature a German translation. The Russians in Berlin often mused on the “good old times” and their old home, both of which were irrevocably lost. It is notable how many Russian artists living in Berlin focussed so much on playing and singing Russian music. This essay explores to what extent music was instrumental in the construction of a collective Russian identity in exile.

ARTUR KAMCZYCKI EL LISSITZKY, HIS BEAT THE WHITES WITH THE RED WEDGE AND ITS JEWISH INSPIRATIONS. Lazar Mordukhovich Lisitsky, known also as El Lissitzky, is one of the most recognisable figures of the Soviet avant-garde of the beginning of the 20th century. He is the author of such architectonical projects as “Cloudirons” and “The Lenin Tribune” as well as the creator of advertisements for the Pelikan company, among others. He designed graphic layouts for magazines such as Objet, Gegenstand, and Broom and co-founded the International Fraction of Constructivists. His unique vision found expression in his PROUN (Project for the Affirmation of the New). But he is

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

291

less known as an ardent champion of Jewish Art, as an active member of the Kultur Lige, and the author of splendid books inspired by Jewish literary culture and avant-garde spirit. The text focuses on the analysis of one of Lissitzky’s works – Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge – and intends to point out his inspirations taken from the Jewish tradition of depicting the theme of a wedge being stuck into a wheel. This motif relates to the idea of creating the world, which is relevant for the Soviet revolutionary interpretation, but also refers to the roots of Jewish mysticism and the kabbalist idea of division as a prerequisite of creation. These projects are not only bold and innovative artistic ideas but constitute symbols of the utopian belief in the possibility of creating a new artistic language for expressing the new post-revolutionary reality (Soviet Russia). There are strong parallels between Messianism and the Revolution and Lissitzky was to develop a dynamic relationship between Jewish culture and the secular world.

MARGARITA KONONOVA THE PARTICIPATION OF RUSSIAN PRE-REVOLUTIONARY DIPLOMATS IN THE CULTURAL LIFE OF THE RUSSIAN EMIGRATION The article deals with the major forms of participation of the Russian nonbolshevist diplomats in the cultural life of Russia Abroad in the years 1920-1930, their literary creation, their activity as publicists and in the sphere of music, as well as their friendship with émigré poets and writers.

ANYA LEVEILLÉ “SLAVIC CHARM AND THE SOUL OF TOLSTOY”: RUSSIAN MUSIC IN PARIS IN THE 1920S In the early 1920s, Paris was the focal point of Russian emigration. The French capital was host to dozens of musicians – composers, music scholars and performers – who played a decisive role in European musical life. Whereas prominent figures such as Rakhmaninov, Stravinsky, Medtner and Prokof’ev have been the subject of considerable research, many other protagonists of Russian musical life in France (such as Niko-

292

Abstracts

lay and Aleksandr Tcherepnin, Ivan Vysnegradsky, Nikolay Obukhov, Arthur Lourié, Nikolay Nabokov, Vladimir Dukelsky, Aleksandr Grechaninov, Thomas de Hartman, and Fedor Akimenko) remain largely unknown to this day. These émigré composers were seeking integration into their host country, while at the same time safeguarding and disseminating Russian music, for instance by founding associations, music schools and opera companies in Paris. Moreover, Russian music was not confined to the artistic circles of emigrants, but it was also represented in Parisian concert series such as the Pasdeloup, Caméléon, Colonne, and Lamoureux concerts. The development and public reception of Russian music in Paris is examined here, based on reports and critiques of both the Russian and French Parisian press during the 1920s.

KATERINA LEVIDOU EURASIANISM IN PERSPECTIVE: SOUVTCHINSKY, LOURIÉ AND THE SILVER AGE Interwar Eurasianism, a Russian émigré intellectual and political movement, emerged from the attempt by certain expatriate intellectuals to understand the historical and political circumstances that led to their expatriation. It drew upon the nineteenth-century Slavophile nationalist tradition, among others. At the same time and in a modernist spirit, it criticised the modern Western world as despotic and decadent, and advocated its replacement by a Eurasian “religious” culture, which would redeem humankind, leading it to the end of history. The implementation of the Eurasianists’ messianic vision for Russia entailed integrated political and cultural action. This article reconstructs what could be described as the Eurasianist cultural agenda put forward by the intellectual Pierre Souvtchinsky – a founding member of Eurasianism – and the composer Arthur Lourié – who espoused Eurasianism. Music, in particular Russian music, would play a crucial part in the implementation of the anticipated Eurasianist “religious” culture for Souvtchinsky and Lourié. Musical neoclassicism, particularly Stravinsky’s neoclassical style, was the strongest candidate for accomplishing this Eurasianist artistic ideal. Souvtchinsky’s and Lourié’s views on music – which, although not identical, were compatible – are analysed and put into the context of Russian cultural and intellectual history. More specifically, strong links with Silver Age culture and thought are highlighted. Such links are manifest in perceptions such as music’s capacity to effect transcendence of time and

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

293

help attain a higher state of consciousness, and the artists’ crucial role in redeeming humankind.

MARINA LUPISHKO STRAVINSKY’S SVADEBKA (1917-1923) AS THE QUINTESSENCE OF THE TECHNIQUE OF “BUILDING BLOCKS” In an interview in Barcelona in 1928, Igor’ Stravinsky compared Svadebka (Les Noces, 1917-23) to Oedipus Rex (1926-27), maintaining that in both works, the word is a kind of construction material which functions musically as a block of marble or stone in architecture and sculpture (Varunts 1988). Although not the whole truth, this statement sheds new light on the genesis of this most innovative work of Stravinsky’s Swiss period. As a librettist, Stravinsky constructs the libretto of Svadebka according to the rules of Russian folk versification, which he had previously assimilated while working on Bayka (Renard, 1915-16) and the Russian vocal cycles of the Swiss period. As a composer, however, he goes further: he employs both the conventional “trochaic” method and a new “purely tonic” method of text-setting of, accordingly, regular and irregular verse, as well as introduces the modernist technique of “building blocks”. Similarly to sung Russian folklore, elements of the folk language in Svadebka function as a kind of oral notation: words and syllables are fragmented and rearranged each time in a slightly different order, producing semantically similar but rhythmically and metrically unequal phrases and sentences.

JELENA MEŽINSKI MILOVANOVIû RUSSIAN ÉMIGRÉ ARTISTS IN SERBIA (1920-1950) Among the many Russian emigrants who fled the October Revolution and emigrated to Serbia and the Kingdom of Yugoslavia during the period 1920-1950, there were approximately 300 artists. In general, they continued the tradition of Russian artistic form of the end of the 19th century, with few experiments in the avant-garde. These Russian painters and architects fulfilled the cultural needs of the emigrant community and of a wider circle of the conservative Serbian middle class (N. Krasnov, S. Kolesnikov, A. Hanzen, B. Pastukhov, E. Kiseleva-Bilimovich, A. Sheloumov). Cultural policy, defined by the ruling

294

Abstracts

circles close to the Royal Court, supported the Russian emigrant artists in their conservation of the traditional style. Russian emigrants were quite active in the painting of churches (A. Bitsenko, I. Mel’nikov, The Oplenac Court Circle, P. Sofronov’s Icon Painting School at the Rakovica Monastery), and they made important and innovative contributions to the definition of a modern approach to the local mediaeval heritage. The Comic Strip Belgrade Circle mostly featured Russian emigrants (Y. Lobachev, K. Kuznetsov). While in Europe, the Russian scenographers and costume designers around The World of Art circle followed avantgarde currents, the more conservative Russian emigrants on the Serbian scene (L. Brailovsky, V. Gedrinsky, V. Zagorodnyuk) initiated the development of modern Serbian theatre.

NADEŽDA MOSUSOVA VANKA THE HOUSEKEEPER BY NIKOLAY TCHEREPNIN AND LADY MACBETH BY DMITRY SHOSTAKOVICH: CONTEMPORARY RUSSIAN OPERA IN INTERWAR BELGRADE In the time between the First and Second World Wars, opera and ballet flourished at the Belgrade National Theatre mainly thanks to Russian émigrés, i.e. the artists that laid the foundation for the repertoire and developed it. This is especially noticeable in the first decade after the war. Later on, on July 7, 1933, Yury L’vovich Rakitin presented the one-act musical farce Vanka the Housekeeper at the opera of the Belgrade National Theatre. The piece had been written shortly before. The composer, who lived as an émigré in Paris, based the opera on a drama by Fedor Sologub familiar to Russian theatre goers ever since its première in 1908 at the Kommissarzhevskaya Theatre in St Petersburg. This was a sensational event in the capital of Serbia/Yugoslavia. It was preceded by the première of Tcherepnin’s ballet The Secret of the Pyramid (Novel of a Mummy) 1932. The ballet was received by Belgrade theatre goers with so much enthusiasm that the management of the National Theatre commissioned a new opera from the composer. The reviews in Belgrade newspapers of Tcherepnin’s music and of the presentation of his work, staged in Serbian translation, were euphoric. Vanka the Housekeeper, however, was cancelled after only three performances. The Serbs didn’t appreciate the modern music and the Russian émigrés in Belgrade were rather indifferent to the novelty of their compatriot.

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

295

D.D. Shostakovich’s opera suffered the same fate. Musicians in Belgrade had been looking towards its presentation in Serbian language with impatience. The première that took place on November 12, 1937 led to many positive and enthusiastic reactions in the press, but Lady Macbeth from Mtsensk District had little success with the audience. Both the artists and the reviewers therefore had to regret twice in a row that “Love’s Labour’s Lost”, since Vanka and Lady Macbeth would turn out to be the only newest operas of the international repertoire to be staged in Belgrade between the two World Wars. In staging the two operas the management of the National Theatre had not intended to contrast an émigré and a Soviet opera. It just so happened that they were staged in Belgrade one after the other which of course calls for a comparison, even though there is hardly any similarity between Vanka and Lady Macbeth.

THOMAS RADECKE “I HAVE NO COUNTRY, I HAVE NO PLACE”: THE BORDERLESS ARTISTIC HOME OF ALFRED SCHNITTKE Alfred Schnittke (1934-98) belongs to the last generation of emigrants (1989) from the Soviet Union. His was not a one-time geographical or cultural migration from one country to another, rather he was spiritually homeless, as it were: born as a Volga German, then living in Moscow, Vienna, Moscow again, Berlin, and finally Hamburg. Schnittke was the son of a Frankfurt Jew and a Catholic, living as Volga Germans in the Soviet Republic. He reported that the first language which he regained in hospital after his stroke in 1985 was a Volga German dialect that was two hundred years old and long since extinct. If the linguistic mixture of his mother tongue can be considered to be open to the history of language, his musical output starting with his so-called polystylistic composing since 1968 might be called open to the entire history of music, which was always present for Schnittke. Being influenced by Stravinsky, Shostakovich, Hindemith and Orff, he was not considered as very progressive, neither by official Soviet ideology nor within the subversive milieu of the so-called catacomb concertos of the Warsaw Autumn. Considering his concert tours, visiting professorship and memberships of academies of the arts in the West starting in 1977, his late emigration to the West was by no means the starting point of an æsthetic discourse across the “Iron Curtain”. This

296

Abstracts

discourse had rather taken place long ago for Schnittke, in Moscow and – not least because of restrictions on his travels – within himself.

LUKA SKANSI WHAT IS ARTISTIC FORM? MUNICH-MOSCOW 1900-1925 From the 1880s till the outbreak of the First World War, Germany was an attractive destination for young Russian students of the history and theory of art and architecture. The main Russian art historians of the first half of the 20th century received part of their education in Germany and particularly in Munich, where they became acquainted with the theories of Konrad Fiedler, Theodor Lipps, August Schmarsow, Cornelius Gurlitt, Adolf Hildebrand, Heinrich Wölfflin and Paul Frankl. The aesthetic theories of the German “formalist school”, the treatises on Raumkunst and the Einfühlungstheorie were quickly absorbed and endorsed by Aleksandr Gabrichevsky, Aleksey Sidorov, Vladimir Favorsky, Igor’ Grabar and Mikhail Alpatov. In the years following the Revolution, these scholars were particularly active in disseminating German texts and theories in Russia, and their scientific and cultural activity in the twenties and thirties is considered today as being a fundamental scholarly endeavour in establishing a modern iskusstvovedenie [the discipline of art history] in the Soviet Union. The essay explains how essential the German theoretical studies were in the formation of Russian artistic, architectural and in a wider sense aesthetic culture between the 1910’s and 1930’s: a repercussion that has often been neglected but was simply latent. There is no specific stylistic influence, nor a migration of popularity of a specific trend or specific artistic or architectural styles. On the contrary: this influence can be recognised more easily by following a broader theoretical discourse that affects the very foundations of artistic production in a paradigmatic way: the notion of space in figurative arts, or more accurately, the problem of the spatiality of artistic form [Raumkunst, prostranstvennost’ formy].

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

297

GABRIELLA UHL IDENTITY-SHOCK THE APPEARANCE OF MULTIPLE IDENTITIES IN THE ART OF EL KAZOVSZKIJ The painter El Kazovszkij (1948-2008) already calls attention to the fact that his/her œuvre is nurtured by several traditions with his/her name. He/she has already given accounts of the problem of his/her identity and the indetermination of his/her situation. The article primarily concentrates on the cultural milieu which defined his/her childhood: the industrial city Nizhny Tagil in the Ural Mountains where school was the gathering place for the desperate children of parents in a hopeless situation. At the same time he/she could use the enormous library of the grandparents where he/she buried him/herself in the great works of Russian and European literature and philosophy. Then he/she followed his/her mother to Hungary in his/her adolescence. The article attempts to find answers to the following questions analysing his/her autobiography, poems (written in Russian and published after his/her death in 2010 in Moscow) and his/her art as well: i) His/her knowledge of literature was chiefly in Russian. What did his/her migration mean for him/her linguistically, as someone who was an extremely verbal person? ii) In numerous of his/her pictures text also appears. These texts are all in Hungarian but until now he/she said that his/her linguistic ties were fundamentally Russian. How can we evaluate the texts on his/her paintings and performances? iii) He/she always openly accepted the divergent nature of his/her sexual identity. How is his/her art to be explained from this perspective?

PATRICK ZUK MUSICAL MODERNISM IN THE MIRROR OF THE MYASKOVSKYPROKOF’EV CORRESPONDENCE This essay examines the responses of Sergey Prokof’ev and Nikolay Myaskovsky to musical modernism during the 1920s and early 1930s, drawing on their voluminous exchange of correspondence during Prokof’ev’s period of foreign exile. In these letters, the two men record their impressions of music by a variety of contemporary composers, as well of

298

Abstracts

each other’s recent work. Their frank exchanges indicate an increasing disenchantment with the stylistic jusqu’au boutisme of the 1920s and scepticism about what struck them as the quest for novelty for novelty’s sake, as well as considerable anxiety concerning critical perceptions of their compositions. This correspondence sheds a fascinating light on both men’s creative trajectories in the 1930s, when they abandoned the complex and highly dissonant musical language that they had evolved during the previous decade in favour of what Prokofiev termed “a new simplicity” of manner.

KATHARINA BAUER “ɑɌɈ ɊɈȾɂɅȺ ɗɆɂȽɊȺɐɂə?” [WAS HAT DIE EMIGRATION HERVORGEBRACHT?] – ANDREJ BELYJ, VIKTOR ŠKLOVSKIJ UND ALEKSEJ TOLSTOJ IM „RUSSISCHEN BERLIN“ 1921-1923 Im Beitrag werden anhand von Textbeispielen Aleksej Tolstojs, Viktor Šklovskijs sowie Andrej Belyjs drei Stimmen vorgestellt, die sich in den Diskussionen über den künftigen Ort der russischen Literatur für die bewusste Orientierung zurück nach Russland aussprechen, als dem einzigen Ort, an dem ein Neuentwurf der russischen Kultur sinnvoll und möglich ist. Dabei zeigen sich trotz unterschiedlicher ästhetischer und weltanschaulicher Prägungen zahlreiche Überschneidungen auf der Ebene der Metaphern und Motive, die oftmals der slavophilen Tradition entstammen. Die reale Rückkehr nach Russland anstrebend – auch in ein vom Bürgerkrieg zerstörtes und von den Bol’ševiki regiertes –, arbeiten die genannten Schriftsteller an ihrer realen und symbolischen Integration in die neue Gemeinschaft, deren Bedeutung sie mit der Sinn- und Machtlosigkeit der Emigration kontrastieren.

MARIA BYCHKOVA RUSSISCHE MUSIKALISCHE INSTITUTIONEN IN BERLIN IN DEN 20ER JAHREN: DIE STRUKTUR EINES NETZWERKS IM EXIL Die erste Welle russischer Emigranten war in Deutschland am stärksten in Berlin vertreten. Den größten Teil der Einwanderer bildeten Mitglieder der höheren Gesellschaftsschichten, vor allem Offiziere, Adlige und Künstler. Diese Kreise stellten hohe Ansprüche an ein vielfältiges Kulturleben, und angesichts der großen Zahl von Einwanderern bildete sich hier eine eigene Subkultur. Auf institutioneller Ebene entstanden in dieser Subkultur mehrere Organisationen, die dem Musikleben der Emigranten eine Struktur gaben. Die musikbezogenen Organisationen und Institutionen im Berlin der 1920er Jahre betrafen verschiedene Gebiete des Musiklebens. Sie lassen sich ihrem Profil entsprechend in mehrere Gruppen unterteilen: pädagogische und künstlerische Organisationen, Verlage, Berufsverbände usw. Die detaillierte Untersuchung der Tätigkeit dieser Institutionen zeigt

300

Abstracts

zahlreiche Kooperationen sowohl innerhalb der Russischen Kolonie als auch mit deutschen Kollegen. Das so genannte „russische Berlin“ war somit kein isolierter Mikrokosmos, sondern ein Netzwerk, dessen Komponenten sowohl von russischen Aktivitäten als auch von der deutschen Umgebung geprägt wurden. Einige Aspekte dieses Netzwerkes werden anhand von Archivdokumenten und Presseberichten dargestellt.

ELENA DUBINETS ZEITGENÖSSISCHE RUSSISCHE KOMPONISTEN IN DER EMIGRATION: WIE RUSSISCH SIND SIE? Bleibt eine ethnische Zugehörigkeit in der Musik außerhalb der Heimat bestehen? Das Schaffen der russischen Komponisten in der Emigration ist voller kultureller Bedeutung und beziehungsreicher Symbolik, die sich auf individuelle ethnische Modelle und gesellschaftliche Konventionen gründet, aber wie dauerhaft ist sie? Es ist nicht nötig, eine „grundlegende Einheit“ oder eine „geheimnisvolle russische Seele“ in den Werken der emigrierten russischen Komponisten zu suchen, weil diese Eigenschaften obskur und nicht klassifizierbar sind. Dennoch haben es einige der hier behandelten russischen Komponisten geschafft, einige wichtige Parameter aufzustellen, nach denen sie ihre kulturelle Zugehörigkeit definieren. Der Ausgangspunkt dieses Beitrages ist die Frage, wie sich die Komponisten selbst zu ihrer eigenen Kultur und zu ihrer neu gewählten Kultur verhalten, wie sie ihre sozial bedingten Voraussetzungen und kulturell fundierten Erfahrungen über mehrere Generationen hinweg verstehen. Eine nationale Spezifik in der Musik zu identifizieren ist nur ein Weg um zu erkennen, wie die spezifischen angeborenen geistigen Eigenheiten innerhalb eines festgelegten sozialen und kulturellen Diskurses zu musikalischem Ausdruck gefunden haben. Zu den behandelten Komponisten gehören Andrej Volkonskij (Frankreich), Aleksandr Raskatov (DeutschlandFrankreich), Nikolaj Korndorf (Kanada), Valery Arzumanov (Frankreich), Dmitrij Smirnov (England), Anton Batagov (USA) und andere.

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

301

JULIA ELSKY UN ENFANT PRODIGE: IRÈNE NÉMIROVSKY UND DAS JÜDISCHE RUSSLAND ALS EIN NICHT ERREICHBARER URSPRUNG Der Beitrag analysiert Irène Némirovskys Novelle Un enfant prodige [Ein Wunderkind] (1927). Némirovsky stammte aus einer reichen jüdischen Bankiersfamilie in Russland und wanderte 1919 in Paris ein. Un enfant prodige, geschrieben 1923, ist die erste Geschichte, die Irène Némirovsky in der Absicht schrieb, sie zu veröffentlichen, obwohl die Erzählung dann erst ein Jahr nach Le Malentendu erschien. Diese für das Verständnis von Némirovsky zentrale Geschichte enthält wichtige Motive und Themen, die in ihrem schriftstellerischen Werk, aber auch in ihrem persönlichen Leben mehrfach wieder auftauchen und in ihrem tragischen Tod 1942 in Auschwitz kulminierten. Die Analyse konzentriert sich auf diesen frühen Text und stellt ihn in den Kontext von Némirovskys eigener Erfahrung als russische Emigrantin in Paris und untersucht, wie sie mit Fragen der Identität umgeht, soweit sie mit Assimilation und schriftstellerischer Tätigkeit zusammenhängen. Die Geschichte untersucht auch den Zwiespalt, in dem sich Schriftsteller befinden, wenn sie aufgrund ihrer ethnischen Herkunft zurückgewiesen werden, eine Situation, die Némirovsky selbst am Ende ihres Lebens spüren sollte. Némirovsky nutzt das Thema des literarischen Genies, um das Schicksal der Juden in Russland zu kommentieren, und macht dadurch gleichzeitig ihre grundsätzliche Ambivalenz hinsichtlich ihrer eigenen jüdischen Identität deutlich. Un enfant prodige ist eine Erzählung über literarisches Talent, das in früher Adoleszenz aufblüht. Die Begabung des Protagonisten Ismaël hängt von seiner Verbindung zur jüdischen Gemeinschaft ab, obwohl er in Kontakt mit der russischen Kultur steht, die als verführerisch und destruktiv gleichzeitig dargestellt wird. Bei ihrer Beschreibung von Ismaëls Familie und auch des gesamten jüdischen Gettolebens verwendet Némirovsky aber die stereotypen Vorstellungen von Raffgier und Erbärmlichkeit. Der negative Schluss der Novelle zeigt, dass literarisches Talent eine Begabung wird, die an einen bestimmten Ort und eine bestimmte Zeit gebunden ist, zu denen man nicht zurückkehren kann, wenn man sie einmal zurückgelassen hat.

302

Abstracts

CHRISTOPH FLAMM „MEINE LIEBE, VERZEIH DEM RENEGATEN“ ZU EINIGEN FRAGEN DER KULTUR DER RUSSISCHEN EMIGRATION Seit dem Zusammenbruch der Sowjetunion ist die Beschäftigung mit der russischen Emigration zu einem eigenständigen Forschungszweig der Kulturgeschichte angewachsen. Als Ausgangspunkt dienen oft die Schriftsteller der sogenannten Ersten Welle in den Zwischenkriegsjahren, die über das kulturelle Erbe eines Russland außerhalb seiner Grenzen selbst reflektiert hatten. Mittlerweile sind Versuche unternommen worden, die Literatur nur als einen Teil der russischen Emigrantenkultur und die Zwischenkriegszeit nur als Teil einer kontinuierlichen russischen Emigration zu betrachten, die vom Mittelalter bis in unsere Tage reicht. Die russische Kultur der Emigration definitorisch klar abzugrenzen, ist also schwierig. Während politische und biographische Aspekte oft in den Vordergrund traten, bedürfen Fragen ästhetischer Art noch eingehenderer Betrachtung, nicht zuletzt deswegen, weil die selbsterklärte Mission der Emigranten, die russische Vergangenheit zu bewahren, zu oft auf die gesamte Emigrantenkultur übertragen wurde. Im Hinblick auf die Auswirkungen der Emigration auf die Ästhetik der Künstler wird eine basale Typologie vorgeschlagen, die zwischen Bewahrung, Entwicklung und Preisgabe der Traditionen unterscheidet. Abschließend wird darauf hingewiesen, dass die russische Kultur in der Emigration über das ganze 20. Jahrhundert hinweg zu einer Aufrechterhaltung des Gedankens von der nationalen Konnotation der Künste geführt hat – ein Gedanke, der anderswo seit langem als überwunden galt.

ANNA FORTUNOVA RUSSISCHE KOLLEKTIVE IDENTITÄT IM EXIL UND RUSSISCHE MUSIK IM BERLIN DER ZWANZIGERJAHRE In den 1990er Jahren haben Forschungen zur russischen Emigration gezeigt, dass die erste Welle der russischen Emigration von drei verschiedenen Arten der „Mission“ charakterisiert wurde. Eine davon war die Aufgabe, die Erinnerung an das „Alte Russland“ und seine kollektive Identität wach zu halten, um so ein „Stück Heimat“ außerhalb der Grenzen

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

303

der Sowjetunion und zugleich ihre (vorrevolutionäre) Kultur zu bewahren. Diese Aufgabe war geknüpft daran, eine neue kollektive Identität im Exil zu finden. Viele Russen versuchten, ein Leben ähnlich dem früheren in Russland zu führen, sie hielten traditionelle Werte und die vorrevolutionäre Kultur aufrecht. Im Berliner Musikleben der 1920er Jahre zeigte sich dies in Konzerten von russischen Künstlern für ein russisches Publikum, oft mit Vokalmusik in russischer Sprache ohne deutsche Übersetzung. Die Russen in Berlin sinnierten oft über die „guten alten Zeiten“ und die alte Heimat, die beide unwiderruflich verloren waren. Es fällt auf, wie viele in Berlin lebende russische Künstler Wert darauf legten, russische Musik zu spielen und zu singen. Dieser Aufsatz untersucht, inwieweit Musik maßgeblich an der Konstruktion einer kollektiven Identität im russischen Exil beteiligt war.

ARTUR KAMCZYCKI EL LISSITZKY, SEIN BILD SCHLAG DIE WEIßEN MIT DEM ROTEN KEIL UND SEINE JÜDISCHEN INSPIRATIONSQUELLEN Lazar’ Morduchoviþ Lisickij, auch als El Lissitzky bekannt, ist eine der auffälligsten Persönlichkeiten der sowjetischen Avantgarde im frühen 20. Jahrhundert. Er ist der Autor von Architekturprojekten wie etwa „Wolkenbügel“ und „Lenintribüne“ ebenso wie der Schöpfer von Werbekampagnen der Firma Pelikan und anderen. Er entwickelte das graphische Layout für Zeitschriften wie Objet, Gegenstand, Broom, und begründete mit anderen die Internationale Fraktion der Konstruktivisten. Seine einzigartige Vision von Kunst fand ihren Ausdruck im PROUN (Projekt für die Bestätigung des Neuen). Weniger bekannt ist er als ein glühender Verfechter jüdischer Kunst, als aktives Mitglied der Kultur Lige und als Autor prächtiger Bücher, die gleichermaßen von der jüdischen literarischen Tradition und dem Geist der Avantgarde inspiriert sind. Der Aufsatz konzentriert sich auf die Analyse eines Werks von Lissitzky: Schlag die Weißen mit dem roten Keil. Er weist auf die Inspirationen hin, die aus der jüdischen Tradition kommen und darin bestehen, einen Keil darzustellen, der in ein Rad gesteckt wird. Dieses Motiv hängt mit der Vorstellung der Erschaffung der Welt zusammen, die einerseits für die sowjetische revolutionäre Interpretation des Bildes von Bedeutung ist, gleichzeitig aber auf die Wurzeln im jüdischen Mystizismus und auf die kabbalistische Idee der Teilung als Grundvoraussetzung der Schöpfung verweist.

304

Abstracts

Diese Projekte sind nicht nur der Ausdruck kühner und innovativer künstlerischer Ideen, sondern sie sind auch Symbole des utopistischen Glaubens, es sei möglich, eine neue künstlerische Sprache zu schaffen, um die neue postrevolutionäre Wirklichkeit Sowjetrusslands auszudrücken. Es existieren deutliche Parallelen zwischen Messianismus und Revolution, und Lissitzky wollte eine dynamische Beziehung zwischen jüdischer Kultur und der säkularen Welt entwickeln.

MARGARITA KONONOVA DIE BETEILIGUNG DER RUSSISCHEN VORREVOLUTIONÄREN DIPLOMATEN AM KULTURELLEN LEBEN DER RUSSISCHEN EMIGRATION Der Artikel behandelt die wichtigsten Formen der Beteiligung russischer nichtbolschewistischer Diplomaten am kulturellen Leben der russischen Emigration in den Jahren 1920-1930. Insbesondere werden dabei ihre literarische Produktion, ihre publizistischen Aktivitäten und diejenigen im Bereich der Musik behandelt, ebenso ihre freundschaftlichen Beziehungen mit Dichtern und Schriftstellern der Emigration.

ANYA LEVEILLÉ „DER SLAVISCHE CHARME UND DIE SEELE TOLSTOJS“ RUSSISCHE MUSIK IM PARIS DER ZWANZIGERJAHRE In den frühen 1920er Jahren war Paris das Zentrum der russischen Emigration. Frankreichs Hauptstadt beherbergte Dutzende Musiker – Komponisten, Musikforscher und Interpreten – , die im europäischen Musikleben eine entscheidende Rolle spielten. Während prominente Figuren wie Rachmaninov, Stravinskij, Medtner und Prokof’ev Gegenstand vielfältiger Forschungen gewesen sind, blieben viele Repräsentanten der russischen Musik in Paris bis heute nahezu unbekannt (etwa Nikolaj und Aleksandr ýerepnin, Ivan Vyšnegradskij, Nikolaj Obuchov, Artur Lur’e, Nikolaj Nabokov, Vladimir Dukelskij, Aleksandr Greþaninov, Thomas de Hartman, Fedor Akimenko). Diese emigrierten Komponisten wollten sich in ihrem Gastland integrieren, zugleich aber die russische Musik bewahren und verbreiten, zum Beispiel durch die Gründung von Gesellschaften, Musikschulen und Operntruppen. Zudem war russische Musik nicht nur

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

305

auf die Künstlerzirkel der Emigranten beschränkt, sie wurde auch in Pariser Konzertreihen wie den Concerts Pasdeloup, Caméléon, Colonne und Lamoureux repräsentiert. Der Beitrag untersucht die Entwicklung und öffentliche Rezeption der russischen Musik in Paris anhand der Berichte und Kritiken der Pariser russischen wie französischen Presse während der 1920er Jahre.

KATERINA LEVIDOU EURASISCHE BEWEGUNG IN ZEITGENÖSSISCHER PERSPEKTIVE: SOUVTCHINSKY, LOURIÉ UND DAS SILBERNE ZEITALTER Die eurasische Bewegung der Zwischenkriegszeit war eine geistige und politische Strömung, die aus dem Versuch einiger emigrierter Intellektueller hervorging, die historischen und politischen Umstände zu begreifen, die zu ihrem Heimatverlust geführt hatten. Sie stützte sich unter anderem auf die Tradition der Slavophilen aus dem 19. Jahrhundert. Zugleich kritisierte sie aus einer modernistischen Haltung heraus die gegenwärtige westliche Welt als despotisch und dekadent, sie propagierte ihre Ablösung durch eine eurasische „religiöse“ Kultur, welche die Menschheit erlösen und das Ende der Geschichte herbeiführen würde. Die Umsetzung dieser messianischen Vision der Eurasier erforderte eine integrierte politische und kulturelle Aktion. Dieser Beitrag rekonstruiert, was man die eurasische kulturelle Agenda nennen könnte, die von dem Denker Pierre Souvtchinsky, einem Gründungsmitglied des Eurasianismus, und von dem Komponisten Arthur Lourié aufgestellt wurde, der sich dem Eurasianismus verschrieben hatte. Für Souvtchinsky und Lourié sollte Musik, vor allem russische Musik, eine entscheidende Rolle bei der Umsetzung der avisierten eurasischen „Religionskultur“ spielen. Der musikalische Neoklassizismus, insbesondere Strawinskys neoklassizistischer Stil, galt als stärkster Kandidat für das Erreichen dieses künstlerischen Ideals. Souvtchinskys und Louriés Ansichten zur Musik – die zwar nicht identisch, aber vergleichbar sind – werden analysiert und in den Kontext der russischen Kultur und Geistesgeschichte gestellt. Insbesondere werden die engen Verbindungen zu Kultur und Geistesleben des Silbernen Zeitalters beleuchtet. Solche Verbindungen zeigen sich etwa in der Vorstellung, dass die Musik die Zeit überwinden und einen höheren Bewusstseinszustand zu erreichen helfen könnte, und in der Rolle des Künstlers als Erlöser der Menschheit.

306

Abstracts

MARINA LUPISHKO STRAVINSKIJS SVADEBKA (1917-1923) ALS INBEGRIFF DER „BAUSTEIN-TECHNIK“ In einem 1928 in Barcelona gegebenen Interview vergleicht Igor’ Stravinskij Svadebka (Les Noces, 1917-1923) mit Oedipus Rex (19261927), insofern als in beiden Werken das Wort ein Baustoff ist, der in der Musik wie ein Marmor- oder Steinblock in der Architektur oder Skulptur fungiert (Varunts 1988). Obwohl das nicht die ganze Wahrheit ist, wirft diese Aussage ein neues Licht auf die Entstehung von Stravinskijs innovativstem Werk der Schweizer Periode. In Svadebka baut Stravinskij als Librettist den Text nach den Regeln der russischen Volksdichtung, die er zuvor während der Arbeit an Bajka (Renard, 1915-1916) und den russischen Vokalzyklen der Schweizer Zeit assimiliert hatte. Stravinskij als Komponist geht jedoch weiter. Er verwendet sowohl die herkömmliche „trochäische“ und eine neue „rein tonische“ Methode der Komposition zu vorgegebenen regelmäßigen und unregelmäßigen Versen, und führt außerdem die neue modernistische Technik der „Bausteine“ ein. Genau wie im russischen Volkslied funktionieren die Elemente des russischen Volksdichtungstextes in Svadebka ähnlich einer mündlichen musikalischen Notierung. Einzelne Wörter und sogar Silben werden fragmentartig dargeboten, und zwar jedes Mal in einer anderen Reihenfolge, wodurch semantisch ähnliche, metrisch und rhythmisch aber ungleiche Phrasen und Sätze entstehen.

JELENA MEŽINSKI MILOVANOVIû KÜNSTLER DER RUSSISCHEN EMIGRATION IN SERBIEN (1920-1950) Unter den zahlreichen russischen Emigranten, die vor der Oktoberrevolution flohen und im Zeitraum von 1920-1950 nach Serbien bzw. ins Königreich Jugoslawien emigrierten, befanden sich ungefähr 300 Künstler. Im Allgemeinen waren sie der Tradition der russischen Kunst vom Ende des 19. Jahrhunderts verpflichtet, und es gab nur wenige Experimente auf dem Gebiet der Avantgarde. Diese russischen Maler und Architekten befriedigten die Bedürfnisse der Emigrantengemeinde, aber auch eines weiteren Kreises der konservativen serbischen bürgerlichen Bevölkerung (N. Krasnov, S. Kolesnikov, A. Han-

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

307

zen, B. Pastuchov, E. Kiseleva–Bilimoviþ, A. Šeloumov). Die Kulturpolitik, die von den herrschenden Kreisen im Umfeld des königlichen Hofes diktiert wurde, unterstützte die russischen Künstler in der Emigration darin, ihren traditionellen Stil beizubehalten. Die russischen Emigranten waren besonders aktiv auf dem Gebiet der Kirchenmalerei (A. Bicenko, I. Mel’nikov und der Oplenac Hofkreis, P. Sofronov’s Ikonen-Malschule im Kloster Rakovica), und sie leisteten wichtige und innovative Beiträge zur Definition eines neuen Zugangs zum mittelalterlichen kulturellen Erbe. Der Comicstrip-Kreis von Belgrad setzte sich hauptsächlich aus russischen Emigranten zusammen (Ju. Lobaþev, K. Kuznecov). Während in Europa die russischen Bühnenbildner und Kostümentwerfer im Umfeld des Kreises Die Welt der Kunst der Avantgarde verpflichtet waren, zeichneten die eher konservativen russischen Emigranten auf der serbischen Bühne (L. Brailovskij, V. Gedrinskij, V. Zagorodnjuk) für die Entwicklung des modernen serbischen Theaters verantwortlich.

NADEŽDA MOSUSOVA VANKA DER KAMMERDIENER VON NIKOLAJ ýEREPNIN UND LADY MACBETH VON DMITRIJ ŠOSTAKOVIý: DIE ZEITGENÖSSISCHE RUSSISCHE OPER IN BELGRAD ZWISCHEN DEN WELTKRIEGEN In der Zwischenkriegszeit blühten Oper und Ballett im Belgrader Nationaltheater dank der russischen Flüchtlinge, Künstlern, die die Grundlage für das Oper- und Ballett-Repertoire legten und es weiterentwickelten, und zwar vor allem während der ersten Nachkriegsdekade. Am 7. Juli 1933 präsentierte Jurij L’voviþ Rakitin in der Oper des Belgrader Nationaltheaters die erst kurz zuvor vollendete einaktige musikalische Farce Vanka der Kammerdiener. Die Grundlage für die Oper des Komponisten, der als Emigrant in Paris lebte, bildete ein Theaterstück von Fedor Sologub, das den russischen Theaterbesuchern seit der Premiere 1908 im Petersburger Kommissarževskaja-Theater bekannt war. Diesem ungewöhnlichen Ereignis in der Hauptstadt Serbiens/Jugoslawiens ging die Premiere des Balletts von ýerepnin, Das Geheimnis der Pyramide (Roman einer Mumie), 1932 voraus. Das Ballett gefiel dem Belgrader Publikum dermaßen, dass die Direktion des Nationaltheaters beim Komponisten eine neue Oper in Auftrag gab. Die Belgrader Kritiker schrieben euphorische Rezensionen über die Musik von ýerepnin und über die Gestaltung seines Werks, das in serbischer Übersetzung aufgeführt wurde. Vanka der Kammerdiener aller-

308

Abstracts

dings erlebte nur drei Aufführungen. Die Serben goutierten die zeitgenössische Musik nicht, und die russischen Emigranten in Belgrad verhielten sich gegenüber der Novität ihres Landsmannes eher gleichgültig. Dasselbe Schicksal erfuhr die Oper von Dmitrij Šostakoviþ, deren Aufführung ebenfalls in serbischer Sprache vom musikalischen Belgrad mit Ungeduld erwartet wurde. Die Premiere, die am 12. November 1937 stattfand, führte zu vielen positiven und begeisterten Reaktionen in der Presse, aber Lady Macbeth aus Mcensk hatte bei den Zuschauern wenig Erfolg. Die Künstler und Kritiker konnten demzufolge gleich zwei Mal eine vergebliche Liebesmüh bedauern, denn Vanka und Lady Macbeth sollten die einzigen neuesten Opern des Weltrepertoires bleiben, die in der Zwischenkriegszeit auf Belgrader Bühnen aufgeführt wurden. Die Direktion des Nationaltheaters hatte im Übrigen nicht die Absicht, eine Emigranten- und eine sowjetische Oper einander gegenüberzustellen. Es ergab sich aber so, dass sie in Belgrad fast unmittelbar nacheinander aufgeführt wurden, was natürlich nach einem Vergleich ruft, obwohl kaum eine Ähnlichkeit zwischen Vanka und Lady Macbeth besteht.

THOMAS RADECKE „ICH HABE KEIN LAND, ICH HABE KEINEN PLATZ“: DIE GRENZENLOSE KÜNSTLERISCHE HEIMAT DES ALFRED SCHNITTKE Alfred Schnittke (1934-98) gehört der letzten Emigrantengeneration (1989) aus der Sowjetunion an. Dabei migrierte er weder geographisch noch kulturell einmalig vom einen ins andere Land, er war vielmehr von Geburt an gleichsam ein geistig Staatenloser: Wolgadeutscher, Moskauer, Wiener, Moskauer, Berliner, Hamburger. Schnittke wurde als Sohn eines Frankfurter Juden und einer Katholikin in der Wolgadeutschen Sowjetrepublik geboren. Er berichtete, dass die erste Sprache, die er nach seinem Schlaganfall 1985 im Krankenhaus wieder erlangte, das zweihundert Jahre zuvor „eingeschlafene“ Wolgadeutsch war. War so schon die Mixtur seiner Muttersprache offen zu ihrer Sprachgeschichte, wurde sein erstmals 1968 so bezeichnetes polystilistisches Komponieren offen zur gesamten Musikgeschichte, die Schnittke als gegenwärtig auffasste. So widerfuhr es ihm, v. a. geprägt durch Stravinskij, Šostakoviþ, Hindemith und Orff, gleichzeitig nach offizieller sowjetischer Ideologie und im subversiven Milieu der sog. Katakombenkonzerte des Warschauer Herbsts als wenig progressiv angesehen zu werden. Seine quasi-Spätaussiedlung nach West-

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

309

berlin ist angesichts seiner Konzertreisen, Gastprofessur und Kunstakademie-Mitgliedschaften im Westen ab 1977 längst nicht mehr als Zäsur der Ausgangspunkt eines ästhetischen Diskurses zwischen dies- und jenseits des „Eisernen Vorhangs“. Vielmehr fand dieser Diskurs bei ihm schon lange vorher statt: in Moskau und gleichsam mit sich selbst – auch notgedrungen, etwa durch Ausreiseverbot.

LUKA SKANSI WAS HEIßT KÜNSTLERISCHE FORM? MÜNCHEN-MOSKAU 1900-1925 Seit den 80er Jahren des 19. Jahrhunderts bis zum Ausbruch des Ersten Weltkriegs war Deutschland ein attraktives Ziel für junge russische Studierende der Geschichte und Theorie von Kunst und Architektur. Die wichtigen russischen Kunsthistoriker der ersten Hälfte des 20. Jahrhunderts erfuhren einen Teil ihrer Ausbildung in Deutschland, und zwar vor allem in München, wo sie sich mit den Theorien von Konrad Fiedler, Theodor Lipps, August Schmarsow, Cornelius Gurlitt, Adolf Hildebrand, Heinrich Wölfflin und Paul Frankl vertraut machten. Die ästhetischen Theorien der deutschen „formalen Schule“, die Abhandlungen zu Raumkunst und die Einfühlungstheorie wurden von Aleksandr Gabriþevskij, Aleksej Sidorov, Vladimir Favorskij, Igor’ Grabar und Michail Alpatov rasch aufgenommen und unterstützt. In den Jahren nach der Revolution verbreiteten diese Wissenschaftler deutsche Texte und Theorien in Russland mit besonderem Nachdruck, und ihre wissenschaftliche und kulturelle Tätigkeit in den 20er und 30er Jahren wird heute als zentrales Element beim Aufbau einer modernen Kunstwissenschaft (iskusstvovedenie) in der Sowjetunion gesehen. Der Artikel legt dar, wie grundlegend die deutschen theoretischen Abhandlungen für die Ausbildung der russischen künstlerischen, architektonischen und in einem weiteren Sinne ästhetischen Kultur im Zeitraum zwischen 1910 und 1930 waren. Es handelt sich dabei um eine Rezeption, die oft vernachlässigt wurde, aber latent immer vorhanden war. Wir können zwar nicht von einem spezifischen stilistischen Einfluss oder der Migration einer „Vorliebe“ für einen spezifischen Trend oder für einen spezifischen Kunst- oder Architekturstil sprechen. Ganz im Gegenteil: Der Einfluss ist leichter zu erkennen, wenn man einen breiteren theoretischen Ansatz wählt, der gleichsam paradigmatisch die Grundlagen der künstlerischen Produktion beeinflusst: die Konzeption des Raumes in der darstel-

310

Abstracts

lenden Kunst oder, besser noch, das Problem der Räumlichkeit der künstlerischen Form (Raumkunst, prostranstvennost’ formy).

GABRIELLA UHL IDENTITÄTSSCHOCK MULTIPLE IDENTITÄTEN IN DER KUNST VON EL KAZOVSZKIJ Der/die Maler/in El Kazovszkij (1948 – 2008) weist schon durch seinen/ihren Namen auf die Tatsache hin, dass sein/ihr Werk auf verschiedene Traditionen zurückgeht. Er/sie hat das Problem seiner/ihrer Identität und die Unbestimmtheit seiner/ihrer Situation schon mehrfach thematisiert. Der Artikel befasst sich primär mit dem kulturellen Milieu, das seine/ihre Kindheit bestimmte: die Industriestadt Nižnij Tagil im Ural, wo die verzweifelten Kinder aus Familien in aussichtslosen Situationen in der Schule zusammenkamen. Gleichzeitig konnte er/sie die umfangreiche Bibliothek der Großeltern nutzen, wo er/sie sich in die bedeutendsten Werke der russischen und europäischen Literatur und Philosophie vertiefte. Später, als Teenager, folgte er/sie seiner/ihrer Mutter nach Ungarn. Der Artikel sucht Antworten auf die folgenden Fragen, indem seine/ihre Autobiographie, die Gedichte (in russischer Sprache geschrieben und erst nach seinem/ihrem Tod 2010 in Moskau veröffentlicht) und seine/ihre Kunst analysiert werden. 1) Seine/ihre Kenntnis der Literatur bezog sich hauptsächlich auf das Russische. Was bedeutete in diesem Kontext seine/ihre Migration in sprachlicher Hinsicht, wenn man berücksichtigt, dass er/sie eine ausgesprochen sprachlich orientierte Person war? 2) In zahlreichen seiner/ihrer Bilder kommt auch Text vor. Diese Texte sind alle ungarisch, aber laut seinen/ihren eigenen Aussagen fühlte er/sie sich sprachlich hauptsächlich dem Russischen verbunden. Wie sollen die Texte, die sich auf seinen/ihren Bildern befinden und in seinen/ihren Performances vorkommen, interpretiert werden? 3) In der Öffentlichkeit akzeptierte er/sie immer die abweichende Natur seiner/ihrer sexuellen Identität. Wie ist seine/ihre Kunst aus dieser Perspektive zu interpretieren?

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

311

PATRICK ZUK MUSIKALISCHER MODERNISMUS IM SPIEGEL DER KORRESPONDENZ ZWISCHEN MJASKOVSKIJ UND PROKOF’EV Dieser Aufsatz untersucht die Reaktionen von Sergej Prokof’ev und Nikolaj Mjaskovskij auf die musikalische Moderne in den 1920er und frühen 1930er Jahren, gestützt auf ihren umfangreichen Briefwechsel während Prokof’evs Zeit im Ausland. In diesen Briefen halten beide ihre musikalischen Eindrücke von zahlreichen zeitgenössischen Komponisten fest, ebenso wie von den jeweils neuen Werken des anderen. Ihr freimütiger Gedankenaustausch belegt eine zunehmende Enttäuschung über den stilistischen jusqu’au boutisme der 1920er Jahre und eine Skepsis gegenüber dem, was sie zuvor auf der nach Suche nach dem Neuen um des Neuen willen begeistert hatte, auch eine gestiegene Angst vor Kritik an ihren Werken. Diese Korrespondenz wirft ein faszinierendes Licht auf die kreative Entwicklung beider Komponisten in den 1930er Jahren, als sie jene komplexe und sehr dissonante Tonsprache, die sie im Jahrzehnt zuvor entwickelt hatten, zugunsten einer „neue Simplizität“ des Ausdrucks aufgaben, wie sie Prokof’ev bezeichnete.

KȺɌAɊɂɇȺ ȻȺɍȿɊ «ɑɌɈ ɊɈȾɂɅȺ ɗɆɂȽɊȺɐɂə?» – ȺɇȾɊȿɃ ȻȿɅɕɃ, ȼɂɄɌɈɊ ɒɄɅɈȼɋɄɂɃ ɂ ȺɅȿɄɋȿɃ ɌɈɅɋɌɈɃ ȼ «ɊɍɋɋɄɈɆ ȻȿɊɅɂɇȿ» 1921-1923 ȼ ɫɬɚɬɶɟ ɧɚ ɨɫɧɨɜɚɧɢɢ ɬɟɤɫɬɨɜ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɟɹ Ɍɨɥɫɬɨɝɨ, ȼɢɤɬɨɪɚ ɒɤɥɨɜɫɤɨɝɨ ɢ Ⱥɧɞɪɟɹ Ȼɟɥɨɝɨ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɵ ɬɪɢ ɝɨɥɨɫɚ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɜ ɞɢɫɤɭɫɫɢɢ ɨ ɛɭɞɭɳɟɦ ɦɟɫɬɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ ɜɵɪɚɠɚɸɬ ɫɜɨɸ ɬɨɱɤɭ ɡɪɟɧɢɹ ɜ ɩɨɥɶɡɭ ɫɨɡɧɚɬɟɥɶɧɨɣ ɨɪɢɟɧɬɚɰɢɢ ɧɚ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɟɧɢɟ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ ɤɚɤ ɜ ɟɞɢɧɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɟ ɦɟɫɬɨ, ɜ ɤɨɬɨɪɨɦ ɢɦɟɟɬ ɫɦɵɫɥ ɢ ɜɨɡɦɨɠɟɧ ɧɨɜɵɣ ɩɪɨɟɤɬ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ. ɉɪɢ ɷɬɨɦ, ɧɟɫɦɨɬɪɹ ɧɚ ɪɚɡɥɢɱɧɭɸ ɷɫɬɟɬɢɱɟɫɤɭɸ ɢ ɦɢɪɨɜɨɡɡɪɟɧɱɟɫɤɭɸ ɨɤɪɚɫɤɭ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɭɸɬ ɦɧɨɝɨɱɢɫɥɟɧɧɵɟ ɩɟɪɟɤɥɢɱɤɢ ɧɚ ɭɪɨɜɧɟ ɦɟɬɚɮɨɪ ɢ ɦɨɬɢɜɨɜ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɱɚɫɬɨ ɢɦɟɸɬ ɫɜɨɟ ɩɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɟ ɜ ɧɚɫɥɟɞɢɢ ɫɥɚɜɹɧɨɮɢɥɨɜ. ɋɬɪɟɦɹɫɶ ɜ ɪɟɚɥɶɧɨɦɭ ɜɨɡɜɪɚɳɟɧɢɸ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɸ, – ɞɚɠɟ ɜ ɪɚɡɪɭɲɟɧɧɭɸ ɜ ɝɪɚɠɞɚɧɫɤɨɣ ɜɨɣɧɟ ɢ ɭɩɪɚɜɥɹɟɦɭɸ ɛɨɥɶɲɟɜɢɤɚɦɢ – ɞɚɧɧɵɟ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɢ ɝɨɬɨɜɢɥɢɫɶ ɤ ɪɟɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɢ ɫɢɦɜɨɥɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɢɧɬɟɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɜ ɧɨɜɨɟ ɨɛɳɟɫɬɜɨ, ɡɧɚɱɟɧɢɟ ɤɨɬɨɪɨɝɨ ɨɧɢ ɩɪɨɬɢɜɨɩɨɫɬɚɜɥɹɥɢ ɛɟɫɫɦɵɫɥɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɢ ɛɟɫɫɢɥɢɸ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ.

ɆȺɊɂə ȻɕɑɄɈȼȺ ɊɍɋɋɄɂȿ ɆɍɁɕɄȺɅɖɇɕȿ ɈɊȽȺɇɂɁȺɐɂɂ ȼ ȻȿɊɅɂɇȿ ȾȼȺȾɐȺɌɕɏ ȽɈȾɈȼ: ɋɌɊɍɄɌɍɊȺ ɋɈɌɊɍȾɇɂɑȿɋɌȼȺ ȼ ɗɆɂȽɊȺɐɂɂ ɉɟɪɜɚɹ ɜɨɥɧɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɜ Ƚɟɪɦɚɧɢɢ ɛɵɥɚ ɜ ɧɚɢɛɨɥɶɲɟɣ ɫɬɟɩɟɧɢ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɚ ɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɟ. Ɂɧɚɱɢɬɟɥɶɧɭɸ ɱɚɫɬɶ ɩɟɪɟɫɟɥɟɧɰɟɜ ɫɨɫɬɚɜɥɹɥɢ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɢɬɟɥɢ ɜɵɫɲɢɯ ɫɥɨɟɜ ɨɛɳɟɫɬɜɚ – ɩɪɟɠɞɟ ɜɫɟɝɨ, ɨɮɢɰɟɪɵ, ɚɪɢɫɬɨɤɪɚɬɵ ɢ ɞɟɹɬɟɥɢ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ. Ɍɪɟɛɨɜɚɧɢɹ ɤ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɜ ɷɬɢɯ ɤɪɭɝɚɯ ɛɵɥɢ ɨɱɟɧɶ ɜɵɫɨɤɢ, ɬɚɤɢɦ ɨɛɪɚɡɨɦ, ɢɧɬɟɧɫɢɜɧɚɹ ɞɟɹɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɶ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ (ɭɱɢɬɵɜɚɹ ɢɯ ɛɨɥɶɲɭɸ ɱɢɫɥɟɧɧɨɫɬɶ) ɫɮɨɪɦɢɪɨɜɚɥɚ ɫɨɛɫɬɜɟɧɧɭɸ ɫɭɛɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɭ ɜ ɧɟɦɟɰɤɨɣ ɫɬɨɥɢɰɟ. ɇɚ ɢɧɫɬɢɬɭɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɦ ɭɪɨɜɧɟ ɞɚɧɧɚɹ ɫɭɛɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɚ ɛɵɥɚ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɚ ɦɧɨɠɟɫɬɜɨɦ ɨɪɝɚɧɢɡɚɰɢɣ, ɫɬɪɭɤɬɭɪɢɪɨɜɚɜɲɢɯ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɭɸ ɠɢɡɧɶ ɩɟɪɟɫɟɥɟɧɰɟɜ. Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɟ ɨɪɝɚɧɢɡɚɰɢɢ ɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɟ 1920-ɯ ɝɨɞɨɜ ɨɯɜɚɬɵɜɚɥɢ ɪɚɡɥɢɱɧɵɟ ɫɮɟɪɵ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɞɟɹɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɢ. ɉɨ ɫɜɨɟɦɭ ɩɪɨɮɢɥɸ ɨɧɢ ɦɨɝɭɬ ɛɵɬɶ ɪɚɡɞɟɥɟɧɵ ɧɚ ɩɟɞɚɝɨɝɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɢ ɢɫɩɨɥɧɢɬɟɥɶɫɤɢɟ ɨɪɝɚɧɢɡɚɰɢɢ, ɢɡɞɚɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɚ, ɩɪɨɮɟɫɫɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɵɟ ɫɨɸɡɵ

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

313

ɢ ɬ. ɞ. ɂɡɭɱɟɧɢɟ ɞɟɹɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɢ ɷɬɢɯ ɨɪɝɚɧɢɡɚɰɢɣ ɜɵɹɜɥɹɟɬ ɦɧɨɝɨɱɢɫɥɟɧɧɵɟ ɩɪɢɦɟɪɵ ɢɯ ɫɨɬɪɭɞɧɢɱɟɫɬɜɚ ɤɚɤ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɫɨɛɨɣ, ɜ ɪɚɦɤɚɯ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɨɣ ɫɰɟɧɵ, ɬɚɤ ɢ ɫ ɧɟɦɟɰɤɢɦɢ ɤɨɥɥɟɝɚɦɢ ɡɚ ɟɟ ɩɪɟɞɟɥɚɦɢ. Ɍɚɤɢɦ ɨɛɪɚɡɨɦ, «ɪɭɫɫɤɢɣ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧ» ɧɟ ɛɵɥ ɢɡɨɥɢɪɨɜɚɧɧɵɦ ɨɬ ɜɧɟɲɧɟɝɨ ɜɥɢɹɧɢɹ ɦɢɤɪɨɤɨɫɦɨɫɨɦ, ɚ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɥ ɜ ɬɟɫɧɨɣ ɫɜɹɡɢ ɫ ɨɤɪɭɠɚɸɳɟɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɨɣ, ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɹɹ ɫɨɛɨɣ ɫɟɬɶ ɜɡɚɢɦɨɫɜɹɡɚɧɧɵɯ ɨɪɝɚɧɢɡɚɰɢɣ. ȼ ɞɚɧɧɨɣ ɫɬɚɬɶɟ ɧɚ ɩɪɢɦɟɪɚɯ ɚɪɯɢɜɧɵɯ ɞɨɤɭɦɟɧɬɨɜ ɢ ɫɨɨɛɳɟɧɢɣ ɩɪɟɫɫɵ ɛɭɞɭɬ ɪɚɫɫɦɨɬɪɟɧɵ ɧɟɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɚɫɩɟɤɬɵ ɬɚɤɨɝɨ ɫɨɬɪɭɞɧɢɱɟɫɬɜɚ.

ȿɅȿɇȺ ȾɍȻɂɇȿɐ ɋɈȼɊȿɆȿɇɇɕȿ ɄɈɆɉɈɁɂɌɈɊɕ-ɗɆɂȽɊȺɇɌɕ: ɇȺɋɄɈɅɖɄɈ Ɉɇɂ ɊɍɋɋɄɂȿ? ɋɨɯɪɚɧɹɟɬɫɹ ɥɢ ɷɬɧɢɱɟɫɤɚɹ ɩɪɢɧɚɞɥɟɠɧɨɫɬɶ ɜ ɦɭɡɵɤɟ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɩɟɪɟɟɡɞɚ ɟɟ ɚɜɬɨɪɚ ɡɚ ɪɭɛɟɠ? Ɍɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɨɜ-ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ ɧɚɩɨɥɧɟɧɨ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɵɦ ɡɧɚɱɟɧɢɟɦ ɢ ɤɨɧɬɟɤɫɬɭɚɥɶɧɵɦ ɫɢɦɜɨɥɢɡɦɨɦ, ɨɫɧɨɜɚɧɧɵɦ ɧɚ ɢɧɞɢɜɢɞɭɚɥɶɧɵɯ ɷɬɧɢɱɟɫɤɢɯ ɦɨɞɟɥɹɯ ɢ ɫɨɰɢɚɥɶɧɵɯ ɨɛɵɱɚɹɯ, ɧɨ ɧɚɫɤɨɥɶɤɨ ɨɧɢ ɞɨɥɝɨɜɟɱɧɵ? ɇɟɬ ɧɭɠɞɵ ɢɫɤɚɬɶ «ɥɟɠɚɳɭɸ ɜ ɨɫɧɨɜɟ ɨɛɳɧɨɫɬɶ» ɢɥɢ «ɦɢɫɬɢɱɟɫɤɭɸ ɪɭɫɫɤɭɸ ɞɭɲɭ» ɜ ɫɨɱɢɧɟɧɢɹɯ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɨɜ-ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ, ɩɨɫɤɨɥɶɤɭ ɷɬɢ ɤɚɱɟɫɬɜɚ ɧɟɹɫɧɵ ɢ ɧɟ ɩɨɞɞɚɸɬɫɹ ɤɥɚɫɫɢɮɢɤɚɰɢɢ. Ɉɞɧɚɤɨ ɧɟɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɢɡ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɨɜ, ɱɶɟ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ ɪɚɫɫɦɚɬɪɢɜɚɟɬɫɹ ɜ ɞɚɧɧɨɣ ɫɬɚɬɶɟ, ɫɭɦɟɥɢ ɭɫɬɚɧɨɜɢɬɶ ɜɚɠɧɵɟ ɩɚɪɚɦɟɬɪɵ, ɩɨ ɤɨɬɨɪɵɦ ɨɧɢ ɨɰɟɧɢɜɚɸɬ ɫɜɨɸ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɭɸ ɩɪɢɧɚɞɥɟɠɧɨɫɬɶ. Ɉɩɨɪɧɨɣ ɬɨɱɤɨɣ ɞɥɹ ɞɚɧɧɨɣ ɫɬɚɬɶɢ ɫɬɚɥɨ ɬɨ, ɤɚɤ ɫɚɦɢ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɵ ɨɬɧɨɫɹɬɫɹ ɤ ɫɜɨɢɦ ɪɨɞɧɵɦ ɢ ɧɨɜɵɦ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɚɦ, ɤɚɤ ɨɧɢ ɩɨɧɢɦɚɸɬ ɫɨɰɢɚɥɶɧɨ ɨɩɪɟɞɟɥɟɧɧɵɟ ɩɪɟɞɩɨɫɵɥɤɢ ɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɵɣ ɨɩɵɬ, ɩɪɨɲɟɞɲɢɣ ɞɨ ɧɢɯ ɱɟɪɟɡ ɧɟɫɤɨɥɶɤɨ ɩɨɤɨɥɟɧɢɣ. Ɉɩɪɟɞɟɥɟɧɢɟ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɩɪɢɧɚɞɥɟɠɧɨɫɬɢ ɜ ɦɭɡɵɤɟ – ɷɬɨ ɨɞɢɧ ɢɡ ɫɩɨɫɨɛɨɜ ɨɫɨɡɧɚɧɢɹ ɬɨɝɨ, ɤɚɤ ɫɩɟɰɢɮɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɭɦɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɟ ɩɪɢɜɵɱɤɢ ɪɚɡɜɢɜɚɸɬɫɹ ɜɧɭɬɪɢ ɭɫɬɚɧɨɜɥɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɫɨɰɢɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɝɨ ɞɢɫɤɭɪɫɚ ɢ ɜɵɪɚɠɚɸɬɫɹ ɜ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɯ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɹɯ. ɋɪɟɞɢ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɨɜ, ɭɩɨɦɹɧɭɬɵɯ ɜ ɞɚɧɧɨɦ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɟ, Ⱥɧɞɪɟɣ ȼɨɥɤɨɧɫɤɢɣ (Ɏɪɚɧɰɢɹ), Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪ Ɋɚɫɤɚɬɨɜ (Ƚɟɪɦɚɧɢɹ-Ɏɪɚɧɰɢɹ), ɇɢɤɨɥɚɣ Ʉɨɪɧɞɨɪɮ (Ʉɚɧɚɞɚ), ȼɚɥɟɪɢɣ Ⱥɪɡɭɦɚɧɨɜ (Ɏɪɚɧɰɢɹ), Ⱦɦɢɬɪɢɣ ɋɦɢɪɧɨɜ (Ⱥɧɝɥɢɹ), Ⱥɧɬɨɧ Ȼɚɬɚɝɨɜ (ɋɒȺ) ɢ ɞɪɭɝɢɟ.

314

Abstracts

ɘɅɂə ȿɅɖɋɄȺə ȼɍɇȾȿɊɄɂɇȾ: ɂɊȿɇ ɇȿɆɂɊɈȼɋɄɂ ɂ ȿȼɊȿɃɋɄȺə ɊɈɋɋɂə ɄȺɄ ɇȿȾɈɋəȽȺȿɆɕȿ ɂɋɌɈɄɂ

ȼ ɫɬɚɬɶɟ ɩɪɢɜɨɞɢɬɫɹ ɚɧɚɥɢɡ ɧɨɜɟɥɥɵ ɂɪɟɧ ɇɟɦɢɪɨɜɫɤɢ [ɂɪɢɧɚ ɇɟɦɢɪɨɜɫɤɚɹ] ȼɭɧɞɟɪɤɢɧɞ (1927). ɇɟɦɢɪɨɜɫɤɢ ɪɨɞɢɥɚɫɶ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɜ ɛɨɝɚɬɨɣ ɫɟɦɶɟ ɟɜɪɟɣɫɤɨɝɨ ɛɚɧɤɢɪɚ. ȼ 1919 ɝɨɞɭ ɫɟɦɶɹ ɩɟɪɟɟɯɚɥɚ ɜ ɉɚɪɢɠ. ȼɭɧɞɟɪɤɢɧɞ, ɧɚɩɢɫɚɧɧɵɣ ɜ 1923, ɷɬɨ ɩɟɪɜɚɹ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɹ, ɧɚɩɢɫɚɧɧɚɹ ɂɪɟɧ ɇɟɦɢɪɨɜɫɤɢ ɫ ɰɟɥɶɸ ɞɚɥɶɧɟɣɲɟɣ ɩɭɛɥɢɤɚɰɢɢ, ɯɨɬɹ ɪɚɫɫɤɚɡ ɛɵɥ ɨɩɭɛɥɢɤɨɜɚɧ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɫɩɭɫɬɹ ɝɨɞ ɩɨɫɥɟ Le Malentendu [ɇɟɞɨɪɚɡɭɦɟɧɢɟ]. ɗɬɨɬ, ɞɥɹ ɩɨɧɢɦɚɧɢɹ ɇɟɦɢɪɨɜɫɤɢ, ɰɟɧɬɪɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɪɚɫɫɤɚɡ ɫɨɞɟɪɠɢɬ ɜ ɫɟɛɟ ɜɚɠɧɵɟ ɦɨɬɢɜɵ ɢ ɬɟɦɵ, ɧɟɨɞɧɨɤɪɚɬɧɨ ɜɨɡɧɢɤɚɸɳɢɟ ɜ ɟɺ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɹɯ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɜ ɟɺ ɥɢɱɧɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ, ɢ ɫɬɚɜɲɢɟ ɤɭɥɶɦɢɧɚɰɢɟɣ ɟɺ ɬɪɚɝɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɫɦɟɪɬɢ ɜ 1942 ɜ Ɉɫɜɟɧɰɢɦɟ. Ⱥɧɚɥɢɡ ɫɤɨɧɰɟɧɬɪɢɪɨɜɚɧ ɧɚ ɷɬɨɦ ɪɚɧɧɟɦ ɫɨɱɢɧɟɧɢɢ ɜ ɤɨɧɬɟɤɫɬɟ ɫɨɛɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɨɩɵɬɚ ɇɟɦɢɪɨɜɫɤɢ ɤɚɤ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɤɢ ɜ ɉɚɪɢɠɟ ɢ ɪɚɫɫɦɚɬɪɢɜɚɟɬ, ɤɚɤ ɨɧɚ ɡɚɬɪɚɝɢɜɚɟɬ ɜɨɩɪɨɫɵ ɫɚɦɨɫɨɡɧɚɧɢɹ, ɟɫɥɢ ɨɧɢ ɫɜɹɡɚɧɵ ɫ ɚɫɫɢɦɢɥɹɰɢɟɣ ɢ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɶɫɤɨɣ ɞɟɹɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɶɸ. Ɋɚɫɫɤɚɡ ɚɧɚɥɢɡɢɪɭɟɬ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɩɪɨɬɢɜɨɪɟɱɢɜɨɫɬɶ, ɤɨɬɨɪɭɸ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɭɸɬ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɢ, ɨɬɜɟɪɠɟɧɧɵɟ ɢɡ-ɡɚ ɫɜɨɟɝɨ ɷɬɧɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɩɪɨɢɫɯɨɠɞɟɧɢɹ, ɫɢɬɭɚɰɢɹ, ɤɨɬɨɪɭɸ ɇɟɦɢɪɨɜɫɤɢ ɩɪɢɲɥɨɫɶ ɢɫɩɵɬɚɬɶ ɫɚɦɨɣ ɜ ɤɨɧɰɟ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ. ɇɟɦɢɪɨɜɫɤɢ ɢɫɩɨɥɶɡɭɸɬ ɬɟɦɭ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɨɝɨ ɝɟɧɢɹ, ɱɬɨɛɵ ɩɪɨɤɨɦɦɟɧɬɢɪɨɜɚɬɶ ɫɭɞɶɛɭ ɟɜɪɟɟɜ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ, ɢ ɫɨɡɞɚɟɬ, ɬɚɤɢɦ ɨɛɪɚɡɨɦ, ɩɪɢɧɰɢɩɢɚɥɶɧɭɸ ɚɦɛɢɜɚɥɟɧɬɧɨɫɬɶ ɜ ɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɢ ɫɜɨɟɝɨ ɫɨɛɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɟɜɪɟɣɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɚɦɨɫɨɡɧɚɧɢɹ. ȼɭɧɞɟɪɤɢɧɞ – ɷɬɨ ɪɚɫɫɤɚɡ ɨ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɶɫɤɨɦ ɬɚɥɚɧɬɟ, ɩɪɨɫɧɭɜɲɟɦɫɹ ɜ ɪɚɧɧɟɣ ɸɧɨɫɬɢ. Ɍɚɥɚɧɬ ɩɪɨɬɚɝɨɧɢɫɬɚ ɂɫɦɚɷɥɹ ɡɚɜɢɫɢɬ ɨɬ ɟɝɨ ɫɜɹɡɢ ɫ ɟɜɪɟɣɫɤɨɣ ɨɛɳɢɧɨɣ, ɯɨɬɹ ɨɧ ɧɚɯɨɞɢɬɫɹ ɜ ɤɨɧɬɚɤɬɟ ɫ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɨɣ, ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɧɨɣ ɨɞɧɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨ ɢ ɫɨɛɥɚɡɧɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɣ ɢ ɪɚɡɪɭɲɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɣ. Ɉɩɢɫɵɜɚɹ ɫɟɦɶɸ ɂɫɦɚɷɥɹ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɜɫɸ ɠɢɡɧɶ ɟɜɪɟɟɜ ɜ ɝɟɬɬɨ, ɇɟɦɢɪɨɜɫɤɢ ɢɫɩɨɥɶɡɭɟɬ, ɨɞɧɚɤɨ, ɫɬɟɪɟɨɬɢɩɵ ɠɚɞɧɨɫɬɢ ɢ ɭɛɨɠɟɫɬɜɚ. Ɍɪɚɝɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɤɨɧɟɰ ɧɨɜɟɥɥɵ ɩɨɤɚɡɵɜɚɟɬ, ɱɬɨ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɶɫɤɢɣ ɬɚɥɚɧɬ – ɷɬɨ ɞɚɪɨɜɚɧɢɟ, ɫɜɹɡɚɧɧɨɟ ɫ ɨɩɪɟɞɟɥɟɧɧɵɦ ɦɟɫɬɨɦ ɢ ɨɩɪɟɞɟɥɟɧɧɵɦ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɟɦ, ɤ ɤɨɬɨɪɵɦ ɧɟɥɶɡɹ ɜɟɪɧɭɬɶɫɹ, ɟɫɥɢ ɢɯ ɭɠɟ ɨɞɢɧ ɪɚɡ ɩɨɤɢɧɭɥɢ.

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

315

ɉȺɌɊɂɄ ɁɍɄ ɆɍɁɕɄȺɅɖɇɕɃ ɆɈȾȿɊɇɂɁɆ ȼ ɁȿɊɄȺɅȿ ɉȿɊȿɉɂɋɄɂ ɆəɋɄɈȼɋɄɈȽɈ ɂ ɉɊɈɄɈɎɖȿȼȺ ɗɬɚ ɫɬɚɬɶɹ ɚɧɚɥɢɡɢɪɭɟɬ ɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɟ ɋɟɪɝɟɹ ɉɪɨɤɨɮɶɟɜɚ ɢ ɇɢɤɨɥɚɹ Ɇɹɫɤɨɜɫɤɨɝɨ ɤ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɦɭ ɦɨɞɟɪɧɢɡɦɭ ɜ 20-ɟ ɝɝ. ɢ ɜ ɧɚɱɚɥɟ 30-ɯ ɝɝ. ɏɏ ɫɬɨɥɟɬɢɹ, ɨɫɧɨɜɵɜɚɹɫɶ ɧɚ ɢɯ ɨɛɲɢɪɧɨɣ ɩɟɪɟɩɢɫɤɟ ɜɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɩɪɟɛɵɜɚɧɢɹ ɉɪɨɤɨɮɶɟɜɚ ɡɚɝɪɚɧɢɰɟɣ. ȼ ɷɬɢɯ ɩɢɫɶɦɚɯ ɨɛɚ ɨɬɦɟɱɚɸɬ ɫɜɨɢ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɟ ɜɩɟɱɚɬɥɟɧɢɹ ɨ ɦɧɨɝɨɱɢɫɥɟɧɧɵɯ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɚɯ-ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɢɤɚɯ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɞɪɭɝ ɨ ɞɪɭɝɟ. ɂɯ ɨɬɤɪɨɜɟɧɧɵɣ ɨɛɦɟɧ ɦɧɟɧɢɹɦɢ ɫɜɢɞɟɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɭɟɬ ɨ ɜɨɡɪɚɫɬɚɸɳɟɦ ɪɚɡɨɱɚɪɨɜɚɧɢɢ ɜ ɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɢ ɫɬɢɥɢɫɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ jusqu’au boutisme 20-ɯ ɝɝ. ɏɏ ɫɬɨɥɟɬɢɹ ɢ ɫɤɟɩɫɢɫɟ ɜ ɬɨɦ, ɱɬɨ ɢɯ ɩɪɟɠɞɟ ɜɨɫɯɢɳɚɥɨ ɜ ɩɨɢɫɤɚɯ ɧɨɜɨɝɨ ɜɨ ɢɦɹ ɧɨɜɨɝɨ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɨ ɜɨɡɪɨɫɲɟɦ ɫɬɪɚɯɟ ɩɟɪɟɞ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɨɣ ɢɯ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɣ. ɗɬɚ ɩɟɪɟɩɢɫɤɚ ɢɡɭɦɢɬɟɥɶɧɨ ɩɪɨɥɢɜɚɟɬ ɫɜɟɬ ɧɚ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɤɨɟ ɪɚɡɜɢɬɢɟ ɨɛɨɢɯ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɨɜ ɜ 30-ɟ ɝɝ. ɏɏ ɫɬɨɥɟɬɢɹ, ɤɨɝɞɚ ɨɧɢ ɨɬɤɚɡɚɥɢɫɶ ɨɬ ɬɨɝɨ ɫɥɨɠɧɨɝɨ ɢ ɨɱɟɧɶ ɞɢɫɫɨɧɢɪɭɸɳɟɝɨ ɹɡɵɤɚ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ, ɫɮɨɪɦɢɪɨɜɚɧɧɨɝɨ ɢɦɢ ɜ ɩɪɟɞɵɞɭɳɟɦ ɫɬɨɥɟɬɢɢ, ɪɚɞɢ «ɧɨɜɨɣ ɩɪɨɫɬɨɬɵ» ɢɫɩɨɥɧɟɧɢɹ, ɧɚɡɜɚɧɧɨɣ ɬɚɤ ɉɪɨɤɨɮɶɟɜɵɦ.

ȺɊɌɍɊ ɄȺɆɑɂɐɄɂɃ ɗɅɖ ɅɂɋɂɐɄɂɃ, ȿȽɈ ɄȺɊɌɂɇȺ «ɄɅɂɇɈɆ ɄɊȺɋɇɕɆ ȻȿɃ ȻȿɅɕɏ» ɂ ȿȽɈ ɂɋɌɈɑɇɂɄ ȼȾɈɏɇɈȼȿɇɂə ȼ ȿȼɊȿɃɋɄɈɃ ɄɍɅɖɌɍɊȿ

Ʌɚɡɚɪɶ Ɇɨɪɞɭɯɨɜɢɱ Ʌɢɫɢɰɤɢɣ, ɬɚɤɠɟ ɲɢɪɨɤɨ ɢɡɜɟɫɬɧɵɣ ɤɚɤ ɗɥɶ Ʌɢɫɢɰɤɢɣ, ɨɞɢɧ ɢɡ ɜɵɞɚɸɳɢɯɫɹ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɢɬɟɥɟɣ ɫɨɜɟɬɫɤɨɝɨ ɚɜɚɧɝɚɪɞɚ ɧɚɱɚɥɚ ɏɏ ɫɬɨɥɟɬɢɹ. Ɉɧ ɹɜɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɚɜɬɨɪɨɦ ɬɚɤɢɯ ɚɪɯɢɬɟɤɬɭɪɧɵɯ ɩɪɨɟɤɬɨɜ ɤɚɤ «Ƚɨɪɢɡɨɧɬɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɧɟɛɨɫɤɪɟɛ» ɢ «Ʌɟɧɢɧɫɤɚɹ ɬɪɢɛɭɧɚ», ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɫɨɡɞɚɬɟɥɟɦ ɪɟɤɥɚɦɵ ɞɥɹ ɮɢɪɦɵ «ɉɟɥɢɤɚɧ». Ɉɧ ɨɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɥɹɥ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɟ ɨɮɨɪɦɥɟɧɢɟ ɞɥɹ ɬɚɤɢɯ ɠɭɪɧɚɥɨɜ ɤɚɤ Objet, Gegenstand, Broom, ɢ ɫɬɚɥ ɨɞɧɢɦ ɢɡ ɨɫɧɨɜɚɬɟɥɟɣ «Ɇɟɠɞɭɧɚɪɨɞɧɨɣ ɮɪɚɤɰɢɢ ɤɨɧɫɬɪɭɤɬɢɜɢɫɬɨɜ». ȿɝɨ ɭɧɢɤɚɥɶɧɨɟ ɜɢɞɟɧɢɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ ɧɚɲɥɨ ɫɜɨɟ ɜɨɩɥɨɳɟɧɢɟ ɜ ɩɪɨɟɤɬɟ ɉɊɈɍɇ (ɩɪɨɟɤɬ ɭɬɜɟɪɠɞɟɧɢɹ ɧɨɜɨɝɨ). Ɇɟɧɟɟ ɢɡɜɟɫɬɟɧ ɨɧ ɤɚɤ ɫɬɪɚɫɬɧɵɣ ɷɧɬɭɡɢɚɫɬ ɪɚɡɜɢɬɢɹ ɟɜɪɟɣɫɤɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ, ɚɤɬɢɜɧɵɣ ɱɥɟɧ «Ʉɭɥɶɬɭɪ-ɥɢɝɟ» [ɥɢɝɚ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ] ɢ ɤɚɤ ɚɜɬɨɪ-ɝɪɚɮɢɤ

316

Abstracts

ɜɟɥɢɤɨɥɟɩɧɵɯ ɤɧɢɝ, ɜɵɩɨɥɧɟɧɧɵɯ ɜ ɪɚɜɧɨɣ ɫɬɟɩɟɧɢ ɜ ɞɭɯɟ ɬɪɚɞɢɰɢɣ ɟɜɪɟɣɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ ɢ ɚɜɚɧɝɚɪɞɚ. Ɍɟɤɫɬ ɫɬɚɬɶɢ ɫɤɨɧɰɟɧɬɪɢɪɨɜɚɧ ɧɚ ɚɧɚɥɢɡɟ ɪɚɛɨɬɵ Ʌɢɫɢɰɤɨɝɨ: «Ʉɥɢɧɨɦ ɤɪɚɫɧɵɦ ɛɟɣ ɛɟɥɵɯ» ɢ ɭɤɚɡɵɜɚɟɬ ɧɚ ɜɞɨɯɧɨɜɟɧɢɟ ɚɜɬɨɪɚ, ɢɫɬɨɱɧɢɤɨɦ ɤɨɬɨɪɨɝɨ ɹɜɥɹɸɬɫɹ ɬɪɚɞɢɰɢɢ ɟɜɪɟɣɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ, ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɧɨɟ ɜ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɰɢɢ ɤɥɢɧɚ, ɜɪɟɡɚɸɳɟɝɨɫɹ ɜ ɤɪɭɝ. ɗɬɨɬ ɦɨɬɢɜ ɨɬɧɨɫɢɬɫɹ ɤ ɢɞɟɟ ɫɨɡɞɚɧɢɹ ɦɢɪɚ, ɢɦɟɸɳɟɣ, ɫ ɨɞɧɨɣ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɵ, ɛɨɥɶɲɨɟ ɡɧɚɱɟɧɢɟ ɞɥɹ ɫɨɜɟɬɫɤɨ-ɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɨɧɧɨɣ ɢɧɬɟɪɩɪɟɬɚɰɢɢ ɤɚɪɬɢɧɵ, ɨɞɧɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨ ɫ ɷɬɢɦ, ɭɯɨɞɹɳɟɣ ɤɨɪɧɹɦɢ ɜ ɟɜɪɟɣɫɤɢɣ ɦɢɫɬɢɰɢɡɦ ɢ ɭɤɚɡɵɜɚɸɳɟɣ ɧɚ ɤɚɛɛɚɥɢɫɬɢɱɟɫɤɭɸ ɢɞɟɸ ɞɟɥɟɧɢɹ ɤɚɤ ɨɫɧɨɜɧɭɸ ɩɪɟɞɩɨɫɵɥɤɭ ɫɨɡɢɞɚɧɢɹ. ɗɬɢ ɩɪɨɟɤɬɵ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɹɸɬ ɫɨɛɨɣ ɧɟ ɩɪɨɫɬɨ ɫɦɟɥɵɟ ɢ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɟ ɧɨɜɚɬɨɪɫɤɢɟ ɢɞɟɢ, ɧɨ ɢ ɹɜɥɹɸɬɫɹ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɫɢɦɜɨɥɚɦɢ ɭɬɨɩɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɜɟɪɵ, ɡɚɤɥɸɱɚɸɳɟɣɫɹ ɜ ɜɨɡɦɨɠɧɨɫɬɢ ɫɨɡɞɚɧɢɹ ɧɨɜɨɝɨ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɹɡɵɤɚ ɞɥɹ ɜɵɪɚɠɟɧɢɹ ɧɨɜɨɣ ɩɨɫɥɟɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɨɧɧɨɣ ɞɟɣɫɬɜɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɢ ɋɨɜɟɬɫɤɨɣ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ. ɋɭɳɟɫɬɜɭɸɬ ɹɜɧɵɟ ɩɚɪɚɥɥɟɥɢ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɦɟɫɫɢɚɧɢɡɦɨɦ ɢ ɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɟɣ, ɢ Ʌɢɫɢɰɤɢɣ ɠɟɥɚɥ ɫɨɡɞɚɬɶ ɞɢɧɚɦɢɱɟɫɤɨɟ ɫɨɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɟ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɟɜɪɟɣɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɨɣ ɢ ɫɜɟɬɫɤɢɦ ɦɢɪɨɦ.

ɆȺɊȽȺɊɂɌȺ ɄɈɇɈɇɈȼȺ ɍɑȺɋɌɂȿ ɊɍɋɋɄɂɏ ȾɈɊȿȼɈɅɘɐɂɈɇɇɕɏ ȾɂɉɅɈɆȺɌɈȼ ȼ ɄɍɅɖɌɍɊɇɈɃ ɀɂɁɇɂ ɊɍɋɋɄɈɃ ɗɆɂȽɊȺɐɂɂ

ȼ ɫɬɚɬɶɟ ɪɚɫɫɦɚɬɪɢɜɚɸɬɫɹ ɫɚɦɵɟ ɨɫɧɨɜɧɵɟ ɮɨɪɦɵ ɭɱɚɫɬɢɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɧɟɛɨɥɶɲɟɜɢɫɬɫɤɢɯ ɞɢɩɥɨɦɚɬɨɜ ɜ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɜ 1920-ɯ ɢ 1930-ɯ ɝɝ. Ɉɫɨɛɨɟ ɜɧɢɦɚɧɢɟ ɭɞɟɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɩɪɢ ɷɬɨɦ ɢɯ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɧɨɦɭ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɭ, ɩɭɛɥɢɰɢɫɬɢɤɟ, ɞɟɹɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɢ ɜ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɫɮɟɪɟ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɢɯ ɞɪɭɠɟɫɤɢɦ ɫɜɹɡɹɦ ɫ ɩɨɷɬɚɦɢ ɢ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɹɦɢɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɚɦɢ.

Ⱥɇə ɅȿȼȿɃȿ «ɋɅȺȼəɇɋɄɂɃ ɒȺɊɆ ɂ ȾɍɒȺ ɌɈɅɋɌɈȽɈ» ɊɍɋɋɄȺə ɆɍɁɕɄȺɅɖɇȺə ɀɂɁɇɖ ȼ ɉȺɊɂɀȿ ȾȼȺȾɐȺɌɕɏ ȽɈɌɈȼ ɏɏ ɋɌɈɅȿɌɂə ȼ ɧɚɱɚɥɟ 20-ɯ ɝɨɞɨɜ ɏɏ ɫɬɨɥɟɬɢɹ ɉɚɪɢɠ ɛɵɥ ɰɟɧɬɪɨɦ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ. ȼ ɫɬɨɥɢɰɟ Ɏɪɚɧɰɢɢ ɠɢɥɢ ɞɟɫɹɬɤɢ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɧɬɨɜ, ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɵ,

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

317

ɦɭɡɵɤɨɜɟɞɵ ɢ ɢɫɩɨɥɧɢɬɟɥɢ, ɢɝɪɚɸɳɢɟ ɪɟɲɚɸɳɭɸ ɪɨɥɶ ɜ ɟɜɪɨɩɟɣɫɤɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ. ȿɫɥɢ ɜ ɬɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɬɚɤɢɟ ɡɧɚɦɟɧɢɬɨɫɬɢ, ɤɚɤ Ɋɚɯɦɚɧɢɧɨɜ, ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɢɣ, Ɇɟɞɬɧɟɪ ɢ ɉɪɨɤɨɮɶɟɜ ɛɵɥɢ ɩɪɟɞɦɟɬɨɦ ɦɧɨɝɨɫɬɨɪɨɧɧɟɝɨ ɢɡɭɱɟɧɢɹ, ɬɨ ɦɧɨɝɢɟ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɢɬɟɥɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ ɜ ɉɚɪɢɠɟ ɨɫɬɚɜɚɥɢɫɶ ɢ ɨɫɬɚɸɬɫɹ ɞɨ ɫɢɯ ɩɨɪ ɩɨɱɬɢ ɧɟɢɡɜɟɫɬɧɵɦɢ (ɧɚɩɪɢɦɟɪ, ɇɢɤɨɥɚɣ ɢ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪ ɑɟɪɟɩɧɢɧ, ɂɜɚɧ ȼɵɲɧɟɝɪɚɞɫɤɢɣ, ȼɥɚɞɢɦɢɪ Ⱦɭɤɟɥɶɫɤɢɣ, Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪ Ƚɪɟɱɚɧɢɧɨɜ, Ɍɨɦɚɫ ɞɟ ɏɚɪɬɦɚɧɧ, Ɍɟɨɞɨɪ Ⱥɤɢɦɟɧɤɨ). ɗɬɢ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɵ-ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɵ ɯɨɬɟɥɢ ɢɧɬɟɝɪɢɪɨɜɚɬɶɫɹ ɜ ɫɬɪɚɧɭ ɩɪɟɛɵɜɚɧɢɹ ɢ ɨɞɧɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨ, ɨɞɧɚɤɨ, ɫɨɯɪɚɧɢɬɶ ɢ ɪɚɫɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɢɬɶ ɪɭɫɫɤɭɸ ɦɭɡɵɤɭ, ɨɪɝɚɧɢɡɨɜɵɜɚɹ, ɧɚɩɪɢɦɟɪ, ɨɛɳɟɫɬɜɚ, ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɟ ɲɤɨɥɵ ɢ ɨɩɟɪɧɵɟ ɬɪɭɩɩɵ. Ʉɪɨɦɟ ɬɨɝɨ, ɪɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɧɟ ɨɝɪɚɧɢɱɢɜɚɥɚɫɶ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɦɢ ɤɪɭɠɤɚɦɢ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ, ɨɧɚ ɛɵɥɚ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɚ ɜ ɩɚɪɢɠɫɤɢɯ ɰɢɤɥɚɯ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɨɜ, ɬɚɤɢɯ ɤɚɤ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɵ Pasdeloup, Caméléon, Colonne ɢ Lamoureux. ɋɬɚɬɶɹ ɚɧɚɥɢɡɢɪɭɟɬ ɪɚɡɜɢɬɢɟ ɢ ɨɛɳɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɟ ɜɨɫɩɪɢɹɬɢɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ ɜ ɉɚɪɢɠɟ, ɨɫɧɨɜɵɜɚɹɫɶ ɧɚ ɫɬɚɬɶɢ ɢ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɭ, ɤɚɤ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ, ɬɚɤ ɢ ɮɪɚɧɰɭɡɫɤɨɣ ɩɪɟɫɫɵ ɉɚɪɢɠɚ.

KȺɌȿɊɂɇȺ ɅȿȼɂȾɍ ȿȼɊȺɁɂɃɋɄɈȿ Ⱦȼɂɀȿɇɂȿ ɋ ɋɈȼɊȿɆȿɇɇɈɃ ɌɈɑɄɂ ɁɊȿɇɂə: ɋɍȼɑɂɇɋɄɂɃ, ɅɍɊɖȿ ɂ «ɋȿɊȿȻɊəɇɕɃ ȼȿɄ» ȿɜɪɚɡɢɣɫɤɨɟ ɞɜɢɠɟɧɢɟ ɦɟɠɜɨɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɩɟɪɢɨɞɚ ɛɵɥɨ ɞɭɯɨɜɧɨ-ɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɦ ɬɟɱɟɧɢɟɦ, ɩɨɹɜɢɜɲɢɦɫɹ ɧɚ ɫɜɟɬ ɛɥɚɝɨɞɚɪɹ ɩɨɩɵɬɤɟ ɢɧɬɟɥɥɟɤɬɭɚɥɨɜ ɜ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɩɨɧɹɬɶ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɢ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɨɛɫɬɨɹɬɟɥɶɫɬɜɚ, ɩɪɢɜɟɞɲɢɟ ɤ ɩɨɬɟɪɟ ɢɯ ɪɨɞɢɧɵ. Ɉɧɨ ɨɩɢɪɚɥɨɫɶ ɜ ɱɚɫɬɧɨɫɬɢ ɧɚ ɬɪɚɞɢɰɢɸ ɫɥɚɜɹɧɨɮɢɥɨɜ XIX ɜɟɤɚ. Ɉɞɧɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨ ɫ ɷɬɢɦ ɨɧɨ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɨɜɚɥɨ ɫ ɦɨɞɟɪɧɢɫɬɤɨɣ ɩɨɡɢɰɢɢ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɵɣ ɡɚɩɚɞɧɵɣ ɦɢɪ ɤɚɤ ɞɟɫɩɨɬɢɱɧɵɣ ɢ ɞɟɤɚɞɟɧɬɫɤɢɣ ɢ ɩɪɨɩɚɝɚɧɞɢɪɨɜɚɥɨ ɧɚ ɫɦɟɧɭ ɟɦɭ ɟɜɪɚɡɢɣɫɤɭɸ «ɪɟɥɢɝɢɨɡɧɭɸ» ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɭ, ɤɨɬɨɪɚɹ ɨɫɜɨɛɨɞɢɬ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɱɟɫɬɜɨ ɢ ɩɪɢɜɟɞɟɬ ɤ ɤɨɧɰɭ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ. Ⱦɥɹ ɪɟɚɥɢɡɚɰɢɢ ɷɬɨɣ ɦɟɫɫɢɚɧɫɤɨɣ ɢɞɟɢ ɟɜɪɚɡɢɣɰɟɜ ɬɪɟɛɨɜɚɥɢɫɶ ɨɛɴɟɞɢɧɟɧɧɵɟ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɵɟ ɞɟɣɫɬɜɢɹ. Ⱦɚɧɧɚɹ ɫɬɚɬɶɹ ɜɨɫɫɨɡɞɚɟɬ, ɱɬɨ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɛɵɬɶ ɧɚɡɜɚɧɨ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɣ ɟɜɪɚɡɢɣɫɤɨɣ ɩɪɨɝɪɚɦɦɨɣ ɞɟɣɫɬɜɢɣ, ɪɚɡɪɚɛɨɬɚɧɧɨɣ ɦɵɫɥɢɬɟɥɟɦ ɉɶɟɪɨɦ ɋɭɜɱɢɧɫɤɢɦ, ɨɞɧɢɦ ɢɡ ɨɫɧɨɜɚɬɟɥɟɣ ȿɜɪɚɡɢɣɫɬɜɚ, ɢ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɨɦ Ⱥɪɬɭɪɨɦ Ʌɭɪɶɟ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɣ ɛɵɥ ɭɜɥɟɱɟɧ ȿɜɪɚɡɢɣɫɬɜɨɦ. Ⱦɥɹ ɋɭɜɱɢɧɫɤɨɝɨ ɢ Ʌɭɪɶɟ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ, ɩɪɟɠɞɟ ɜɫɟɝɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ, ɞɨɥɠɧɚ ɛɵɥɚ ɢɝɪɚɬɶ ɪɟɲɚɸɳɭɸ ɪɨɥɶ ɜ ɪɟɚɥɢɡɚɰɢɢ ɩɪɨɜɨɡɝɥɚɲɟɧɧɨɣ ɟɜɪɚɡɢɣɫɤɨɣ «ɪɟɥɢɝɢɨɡɧɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ». Ɇɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɧɟɨɤɥɚɫɫɢɰɢɡɦ,

318

Abstracts

ɨɫɨɛɟɧɧɨ ɫɬɢɥɶ ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɨɝɨ ɜ ɞɭɯɟ ɧɟɨɤɥɚɫɫɢɰɢɡɦɚ, ɫɱɢɬɚɥɫɹ ɫɢɥɶɧɟɣɲɢɦ ɫɪɟɞɫɬɜɨɦ ɜ ɞɨɫɬɢɠɟɧɢɢ ɷɬɨɝɨ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɢɞɟɚɥɚ. ȼɡɝɥɹɞɵ ɋɭɜɱɢɧɫɤɨɝɨ ɢ Ʌɭɪɶɟ ɧɚ ɦɭɡɵɤɭ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɯɨɬɶ ɢ ɧɟɢɞɟɧɬɢɱɧɵɟ, ɧɨ ɫɨɩɨɫɬɚɜɢɦɵɟ, ɚɧɚɥɢɡɢɪɭɸɬɫɹ ɜ ɤɨɧɬɟɤɫɬɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ ɢ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɞɭɯɚ. Ɉɫɨɛɟɧɧɨ ɨɫɜɟɳɟɧɵ ɬɟɫɧɵɟ ɫɜɹɡɢ ɫ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɨɣ ɢ ɞɭɯɨɜɧɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɶɸ «ɋɟɪɟɛɪɹɧɨɝɨ ɜɟɤɚ». Ɍɚɤɢɟ ɫɜɹɡɢ ɩɪɨɹɜɥɹɸɬɫɹ, ɧɚɩɪɢɦɟɪ, ɜ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɢɢ ɨ ɬɨɦ, ɱɬɨ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɦɨɠɟɬ ɩɪɟɨɞɨɥɟɬɶ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɢ ɩɨɦɨɱɶ ɞɨɫɬɢɱɶ ɛɨɥɟɟ ɜɵɫɨɤɨɝɨ ɫɨɫɬɨɹɧɢɹ ɫɨɡɧɚɧɢɹ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɜ ɪɨɥɢ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɚ ɤɚɤ ɫɩɚɫɢɬɟɥɹ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɱɟɫɬɜɚ.

ɆȺɊɂɇȺ ɅɍɉɂɒɄɈ ɋȼȺȾȿȻɄȺ ɋɌɊȺȼɂɇɋɄɈȽɈ (1917-1923) ɄȺɄ ɄȼɂɇɌɗɋɋȿɇɐɂə ɌȿɏɇɂɄɂ «ɋɌɊɈɂɌȿɅɖɇɕɏ ȻɅɈɄɈȼ» ȼ ɢɧɬɟɪɜɶɸ, ɞɚɧɧɨɦ ɜ 1928 ɝɨɞɭ ɜ Ȼɚɪɫɟɥɨɧɟ, ɂɝɨɪɶ ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɢɣ ɫɪɚɜɧɢɜɚɟɬ ɋɜɚɞɟɛɤɭ (1917-23) ɫ ɨɩɟɪɨɣ ɐɚɪɶ ɗɞɢɩ (1926-27), ɧɚɯɨɞɹ, ɱɬɨ ɜ ɨɛɨɢɯ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɹɯ «ɫɥɨɜɨ ɹɜɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɩɪɨɫɬɵɦ ɦɚɬɟɪɢɚɥɨɦ, ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨ ɮɭɧɤɰɢɨɧɢɪɭɸɳɢɦ ɩɨɞɨɛɧɨ ɛɥɨɤɭ ɦɪɚɦɨɪɚ ɢɥɢ ɤɚɦɧɹ ɜ ɚɪɯɢɬɟɤɬɭɪɟ ɢ ɫɤɭɥɶɩɬɭɪɟ» (ȼɚɪɭɧɰ 1988). Ȼɭɞɭɱɢ ɞɚɥɟɤɨ ɧɟ ɢɫɱɟɪɩɵɜɚɸɳɢɦ, ɷɬɨ ɫɪɚɜɧɟɧɢɟ ɩɪɨɥɢɜɚɟɬ ɬɟɦ ɧɟ ɦɟɧɟɟ ɧɨɜɵɣ ɫɜɟɬ ɧɚ ɝɟɧɟɡɢɫ ɢɧɧɨɜɚɰɢɨɧɧɨɣ ɜɟɪɲɢɧɵ ɲɜɟɣɰɚɪɫɤɨɝɨ ɩɟɪɢɨɞɚ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɚ ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɨɝɨ, ɤɚɤɨɣ ɹɜɥɹɟɬɫɹ ɋɜɚɞɟɛɤɚ. ȼ ɋɜɚɞɟɛɤɟ ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɢɣɥɢɛɪɟɬɬɢɫɬ ɫɬɪɨɢɬ ɥɢɛɪɟɬɬɨ ɜ ɫɨɨɬɜɟɬɫɬɜɢɢ ɫ ɩɪɚɜɢɥɚɦɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɧɚɪɨɞɧɨɝɨ ɫɬɢɯɨɫɥɨɠɟɧɢɹ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɟ ɨɧ ɭɫɜɨɢɥ, ɪɚɛɨɬɚɹ ɧɚɞ Ȼɚɣɤɨɣ (1915-16) ɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɦɢ ɜɨɤɚɥɶɧɵɦɢ ɰɢɤɥɚɦɢ ɲɜɟɣɰɚɪɫɤɨɝɨ ɩɟɪɢɨɞɚ. ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɢɣ-ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪ, ɨɞɧɚɤɨ, ɢɞɺɬ ɞɚɥɶɲɟ: ɨɧ ɢɫɩɨɥɶɡɭɟɬ ɤɚɤ ɬɪɚɞɢɰɢɨɧɧɵɣ «ɯɨɪɟɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ», ɬɚɤ ɢ ɧɨɜɵɣ «ɱɢɫɬɨ-ɬɨɧɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ» ɦɟɬɨɞ ɫɨɱɢɧɟɧɢɹ ɜɨɤɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ ɧɚ ɬɟɤɫɬ ɫɨɨɬɜɟɬɫɬɜɟɧɧɨ ɫɢɥɥɚɛɨɬɨɧɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɢ ɱɢɫɬɨ-ɬɨɧɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɬɢɯɚ, ɚ ɬɚɤɠɟ ɜɜɨɞɢɬ ɦɨɞɟɪɧɢɫɬɫɤɭɸ ɬɟɯɧɢɤɭ «ɫɬɪɨɢɬɟɥɶɧɵɯ ɛɥɨɤɨɜ». Ʉɚɤ ɢ ɜ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɦ ɩɟɫɟɧɧɨɦ ɮɨɥɶɤɥɨɪɟ, ɷɥɟɦɟɧɬɵ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɝɨ ɧɚɪɨɞɧɨɝɨ ɬɟɤɫɬɚ ɮɭɧɤɰɢɨɧɢɪɭɸɬ ɜ ɋɜɚɞɟɛɤɟ ɩɨɞɨɛɧɨ ɧɟɤɨɣ ɭɫɬɧɨɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɧɨɬɚɰɢɢ: ɨɬɞɟɥɶɧɵɟ ɫɥɨɜɚ ɢ ɞɚɠɟ ɫɥɨɝɢ ɞɚɸɬɫɹ ɮɪɚɝɦɟɧɬɢɪɨɜɚɧɨ ɢ ɤɚɠɞɵɣ ɪɚɡ ɜ ɧɟɫɤɨɥɶɤɨ ɢɧɨɦ ɩɨɪɹɞɤɟ, ɩɪɨɢɡɜɨɞɹ ɫɟɦɚɧɬɢɱɟɫɤɢ ɫɯɨɠɢɟ, ɧɨ ɦɟɬɪɢɱɟɫɤɢ ɢ ɪɢɬɦɢɱɟɫɤɢ ɧɟɪɚɜɧɵɟ ɮɪɚɡɵ ɢ ɩɪɟɞɥɨɠɟɧɢɹ.

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

319

ȿɅȿɇȺ ɆȿɀɂɇɋɄAə ɆɂɅɈȼȺɇɈȼɂɑ ɊɍɋɋɄɂȿ ɏɍȾɈɀɇɂɄɂ-ɗɆɂȽɊȺɇɌɕ ȼ ɋȿɊȻɂɂ (1920-1950) ɉɨɫɥɟ Ɉɤɬɹɛɪɶɫɤɨɣ ɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɢ, ɜ ɋɟɪɛɢɢ ɢ Ʉɨɪɨɥɟɜɫɬɜɟ ɘɝɨɫɥɚɜɢɢ ɫ 1920 ɩɨ 1950 ɝ. ɨɤɚɡɚɥɨɫɶ ɦɧɨɠɟɫɬɜɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ. ɋɪɟɞɢ ɧɢɯ ɧɚɫɱɢɬɵɜɚɥɨɫɶ ɛɨɥɟɟ 300 ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɨɜ. ȼ ɨɫɧɨɜɧɨɦ, ɢɯ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɥɨ ɬɪɚɞɢɰɢɹɦ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɯ ɧɚɩɪɚɜɥɟɧɢɣ ɤɨɧɰɚ ɏIɏ ɜɟɤɚ, ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɢɡɪɟɞɤɚ ɩɪɢɧɢɦɚɹ ɜɥɢɹɧɢɟ ɚɜɚɧɝɚɪɞɚ. Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ ɢ ɚɪɯɢɬɟɤɬɨɪɵ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɥɢ ɧɟ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɞɥɹ ɫɜɨɟɝɨ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɨɝɨ ɤɪɭɝɚ, ɧɨ ɢ ɞɥɹ ɛɨɥɟɟ ɲɢɪɨɤɨɝɨ ɫɪɟɞɧɟɝɨ ɤɥɚɫɫɚ ɤɨɧɫɟɪɜɚɬɢɜɧɨɝɨ ɫɟɪɛɫɤɨɝɨ ɝɨɪɨɞɫɤɨɝɨ ɧɚɫɟɥɟɧɢɹ (ɇ. Ʉɪɚɫɧɨɜ, ɋ. Ʉɨɥɟɫɧɢɤɨɜ, Ⱥ. Ƚɚɧɡeɧ, Ȼ. ɉɚɫɬɭɯɨɜ, ȿ. Ʉɢɫɟɥɺɜɚ-Ȼɢɥɢɦɨɜɢɱ, Ⱥ. ɒɟɥɨɭɦɨɜ), ɫɥɟɞɭɹ ɩɪɢ ɷɬɨɦ ɝɨɫɭɞɚɪɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɤɟ, ɛɥɢɡɤɨɣ ɞɜɨɪɭ, ɤɨɬɨɪɚɹ ɜ ɨɛɥɚɫɬɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ ɩɨɞɞɟɪɠɢɜɚɥɚ ɛɨɥɟɟ ɬɪɚɞɢɰɢɨɧɧɵɯ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɨɜ. Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɵ ɚɤɬɢɜɧɨ ɭɱɚɫɬɜɨɜɚɥɢ ɜ ɪɚɫɩɢɫɵɜɚɧɢɢ ɦɧɨɠɟɫɬɜɚ ɫɟɪɛɫɤɢɯ ɰɟɪɤɜɟɣ (Ⱥ. Ȼɢɰɟɧɤɨ, ɂ. Ɇɟɥɶɧɢɤɨɜ, ɉɪɢɞɜɨɪɧɚɹ ɚɪɬɟɥɶ Ɉɩɥɟɧɰɚ, ɒɤɨɥɚ ɢɤɨɧɨɩɢɫɢ ɉ. ɋɨɮɪɨɧɨɜɚ ɩɪɢ ɦɨɧɚɫɬɵɪɟ Ɋɚɤɨɜɢɰɚ). ɂɯ ɜɤɥɚɞ ɜ ɢɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɧɢɟ ɢ ɧɨɜɵɣ ɩɨɞɯɨɞ ɤ ɫɨɯɪɚɧɟɧɢɸ ɫɟɪɛɫɤɨɝɨ ɫɪɟɞɧɟɜɟɤɨɜɨɝɨ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɝɨ ɧɚɫɥɟɞɢɹ ɛɵɥɢ ɜɟɫɶɦɚ ɡɧɚɱɢɬɟɥɶɧɵ. Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɢ – ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɵ ɛɵɥɢ ɫɨɬɪɭɞɧɢɤɚɦɢ ɹɞɪɚ Ȼɟɥɝɪɚɞɫɤɨɣ ɲɤɨɥɵ ɤɨɦɢɤɫɨɜ (ɘ. Ʌɨɛɚɱeɜ, Ʉ. Ʉɭɡɧɟɰɨɜ). Ʉɨɝɞɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɨɮɨɪɦɢɬɟɥɢ ɫɰɟɧɵ ɢ ɤɨɫɬɸɦɨɜ ɤɪɭɝɚ Ɇɢɪ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ ɜ ɟɜɪɨɩɟɣɫɤɢɯ ɬɟɚɬɪɚɯ ɭɠɟ ɧɚɯɨɞɢɥɢɫɶ ɩɨɞ ɜɥɢɹɧɢɟɦ ɚɜɚɧɝɚɪɞɚ, ɫɰɟɧɨɝɪɚɮɢɢ ɢɯ ɛɨɥɟɟ ɤɨɧɫɟɪɜɚɬɢɜɧɵɯ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɬɟɥɟɣ – ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ ɜ ɋɟɪɛɢɢ – ɞɚɥɢ ɡɧɚɱɢɬɟɥɶɧɵɣ ɬɨɥɱɨɤ ɪɚɡɜɢɬɢɸ ɫɟɪɛɫɤɨɝɨ ɬɟɚɬɪɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ.

ɇȺȾȿɀȾȺ ɆɈɋɍɋɈȼȺ ȼȺɇɖɄȺ ɄɅɘɑɇɂɄ ɇɂɄɈɅȺə ɑȿɊȿɉɇɂɇȺ ɂ ɅȿȾɂ ɆȺɄȻȿɌ ȾɆɂɌɊɂə ɒɈɋɌȺɄɈȼɂɑȺ: ɋɈȼɊȿɆȿɇɇȺə ɊɍɋɋɄȺə ɈɉȿɊȺ ȼ ɆȿɀȼɈȿɇɇɈɆ ȻȿɅȽɊȺȾȿ Ȼɥɚɝɨɞɚɪɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɦ ɛɟɠɟɧɰɚɦ, ɜ Ȼɟɥɝɪɚɞɫɤɨɦ ɇɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɦ ɬɟɚɬɪɟ ɩɪɨɰɜɟɬɚɥɚ ɨɩɟɪɚ ɫ ɛɚɥɟɬɨɦ. Ɉɧɢ ɡɚɥɨɠɢɥɢ ɨɫɧɨɜɭ ɨɩɟɪɧɨɝɨ ɢ ɛɚɥɟɬɧɨɝɨ ɪɟɩɟɪɬɭɚɪɚ ɢ ɩɪɨɱɧɨ ɪɚɡɜɢɜɚɥɢ ɟɝɨ, ɨɫɨɛɟɧɧɨ ɜ ɬɟɱɟɧɢɟ ɩɟɪɜɨɝɨ ɞɟɫɹɬɢɥɟɬɢɹ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɉɟɪɜɨɣ ɦɢɪɨɜɨɣ ɜɨɣɧɵ.

320

Abstracts

ȼ 1933 ɝ., 7 ɢɸɥɹ ɘɪɢɣ Ʌɶɜɨɜɢɱ Ɋɚɤɢɬɢɧ ɩɨɫɬɚɜɢɥ ɜ ɛɟɥɝɪɚɞɫɤɨɣ Ɉɩɟɪɟ ɇɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɬɟɚɬɪɚ, ɧɟɞɚɜɧɨ ɞɨ ɷɬɨɝɨ ɡɚɤɨɧɱɟɧɧɵɣ ɨɞɧɨɚɤɬɧɵɣ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɣ ɥɭɛɨɱɧɵɣ ɮɚɪɫ ɇ. ɇ. ɑɟɪɟɩɧɢɧɚ ȼɚɧɶɤɚ Ʉɥɸɱɧɢɤ. Ɉɫɧɨɜɨɣ ɨɩɟɪɵ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɚ, ɩɪɨɠɢɜɚɜɲɟɝɨ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɦ ɜ ɉɚɪɢɠɟ, ɹɜɢɥɚɫɶ ɩɶɟɫɚ Ɏɺɞɨɪɚ ɋɨɥɨɝɭɛɚ, ɡɧɚɤɨɦɚɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɦ ɬɟɚɬɪɚɥɚɦ ɫ ɩɪɟɦɶɟɪɵ ɜ ɋɬ. ɉɟɬɟɪɛɭɪɝɟ ɫɨɫɬɨɹɜɲɟɣɫɹ ɜ Ɍɟɚɬɪɟ Ʉɨɦɢɫɫɚɪɠɟɜɫɤɨɣ ɜ 1908 ɝ. ɗɬɨɦɭ ɧɟɡɚɭɪɹɞɧɨɦɭ ɫɬɨɥɢɱɧɨɦɭ ɫɨɛɵɬɢɸ ɜ ɋɟɪɛɢɢ/ɘɝɨɫɥɚɜɢɢ ɩɪɟɞɲɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɥɚ ɩɪɟɦɶɟɪɚ ɛɚɥɟɬɚ ɑɟɪɟɩɧɢɧɚ Ɍɚɣɧɚ ɩɢɪɚɦɢɞɵ (Ɋɨɦɚɧ ɦɭɦɢɢ) ɜ 1932 ɝ. Ȼɚɥɟɬ ɜ ɬɚɤɨɣ ɫɬɟɩɟɧɢ ɩɨɧɪɚɜɢɥɫɹ ɛɟɥɝɪɚɞɰɚɦ, ɱɬɨ ɞɢɪɟɤɰɢɹ ɇɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɬɟɚɬɪɚ ɡɚɩɪɨɫɢɥɚ ɭ ɤɨɦɩɨɡɢɬɨɪɚ ɧɨɜɭɸ ɨɩɟɪɭ. Ȼɟɥɝɪɚɞɫɤɢɟ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɢ ɧɚɩɢɫɚɥɢ ɛɥɟɫɬɹɳɢɟ ɨɬɡɵɜɵ ɨ ɦɭɡɵɤɟ ɑɟɪɟɩɧɢɧɚ ɢ ɨɛ ɨɮɨɪɦɥɟɧɢɢ ɟɝɨ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɹ, ɢɫɩɨɥɧɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɜ ɫɟɪɛɫɤɨɦ ɩɟɪɟɜɨɞɟ. Ɉɞɧɚɤɨ ȼɚɧɶɤɚ ɤɥɸɱɧɢɤ ɞɨɠɢɥ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɞɨ ɬɪɟɯ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɢɣ. ɋɟɪɛɚɦ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɚɹ ɦɭɡɵɤɚ ɧɟ ɩɪɢɲɥɚɫɶ ɤɫɬɚɬɢ, ɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɨɟ ɧɚɫɟɥɟɧɢɟ Ȼɟɥɝɪɚɞɚ ɨɬɧɟɫɥɨɫɶ ɞɨɜɨɥɶɧɨ ɪɚɜɧɨɞɭɲɧɨ ɤ ɧɨɜɢɡɧɟ ɫɜɨɟɝɨ ɫɨɨɬɟɱɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɢɤɚ. Ɍɨ ɠɟ ɫɚɦɨɟ ɩɪɨɢɡɨɲɥɨ ɫ ɨɩɟɪɨɣ Ⱦ. Ⱦ. ɒɨɫɬɚɤɨɜɢɱɚ, ɢɫɩɨɥɧɟɧɢɟ ɤɨɬɨɪɨɣ, ɬɚɤɠɟ ɧɚ ɫɟɪɛɫɤɨɦ ɹɡɵɤɟ, ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɵɣ Ȼɟɥɝɪɚɞ ɨɠɢɞɚɥ ɫ ɧɟɬɟɪɩɟɧɢɟɦ. ɉɪɟɦɶɟɪɚ, ɫɨɫɬɨɹɜɲɚɹɫɹ 12 ɧɨɹɛɪɹ 1937 ɝ., ɜɵɡɜɚɥɚ ɦɧɨɝɨ ɩɨɥɨɠɢɬɟɥɶɧɵɯ ɢ ɜɨɫɯɢɳɺɧɧɵɯ ɫɬɪɚɧɢɰ ɜ ɩɪɟɫɫɟ, ɧɨ ɛɨɥɶɲɨɝɨ ɭɫɩɟɯɚ ɭ ɡɪɢɬɟɥɟɣ Ʌɟɞɢ Ɇɚɤɛɟɬ ɦɰɟɧɫɤɨɝɨ ɭɟɡɞɚ ɧɟ ɩɨɥɭɱɢɥɚ. ɂɫɩɨɥɧɢɬɟɥɹɦ ɢ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɚɦ ɨɫɬɚɜɚɥɨɫɶ ɠɚɥɟɬɶ ɡɚ ɫɭɝɭɛɨ ɩɪɨɩɚɜɲɢɣ ɬɪɭɞ: ȼɚɧɶɤɚ ɢ Ʌɟɞɢ Ɇɚɤɛɟɬ ɨɤɚɡɚɥɢɫɶ ɟɞɢɧɫɬɜɟɧɧɵɦɢ ɜ ɦɢɪɟ ɧɨɜɟɣɲɢɦɢ ɨɩɟɪɚɦɢ, ɩɨɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɧɵɦɢ ɧɚ ɛɟɥɝɪɚɞɫɤɨɣ ɫɰɟɧɟ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɞɜɭɦɹ ɦɢɪɨɜɵɦɢ ɜɨɣɧɚɦɢ. ɍ ɞɢɪɟɤɰɢɢ ɇɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɬɟɚɬɪɚ ɧɟ ɛɵɥɨ ɧɚɦɟɪɟɧɢɣ ɫɨɩɨɫɬɚɜɥɹɬɶ ɞɜɟ ɨɩɟɪɵ, ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɫɤɭɸ ɢ ɫɨɜɟɬɫɤɭɸ. ɇɨ ɜɵɲɥɨ ɬɚɤ, ɱɬɨ ɩɨɹɜɢɥɢɫɶ ɨɧɢ ɜ Ȼɟɥɝɪɚɞɟ ɩɨɱɬɢ ɨɞɧɚ ɜɫɥɟɞ ɡɚ ɞɪɭɝɨɣ, ɱɬɨ ɜɧɭɲɚɟɬ ɢɞɟɸ ɢɯ ɫɪɚɜɧɢɜɚɧɢɹ, ɯɨɬɹ ɜɪɹɞ ɥɢ ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɭɟɬ ɤɚɤɨɟ ɥɢɛɨ ɫɯɨɞɫɬɜɨ ɦɟɠɞɭ ȼɚɧɶɤɨɣ ɢ Ʌɟɞɢ Ɇɚɤɛɟɬ.

ɌɈɆȺɋ ɊȺȾȿɄȿ «ɍ Ɇȿɇə ɇȿɌ ɋɌɊȺɇɕ, ɍ Ɇȿɇə ɇȿɌ ɆȿɋɌȺ»: ȻȿɁȽɊȺɇɂɑɇȺə ɏɍȾɈɀȿɋɌȼȿɇɇȺə ɊɈȾɂɇȺ ȺɅɖɎɊȿȾȺ ɒɇɂɌɄȿ Ⱥɥɶɮɪɟɞ ɒɧɢɬɤɟ (1934-98) ɩɪɢɧɚɞɥɟɠɢɬ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɧɟɦɭ ɩɨɤɨɥɟɧɢɸ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ (1989) ɢɡ ɋɨɜɟɬɫɤɨɝɨ ɋɨɸɡɚ. ɉɪɢ ɷɬɨɦ ɧɟɥɶɡɹ ɫɤɚɡɚɬɶ, ɱɬɨ

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

321

ɨɧ ɛɟɫɩɨɜɨɪɨɬɧɨ ɦɢɝɪɢɪɨɜɚɥ ɤɚɤ ɝɟɨɝɪɚɮɢɱɟɫɤɢ, ɬɚɤ ɢ ɞɭɯɨɜɧɨ ɢɡ ɨɞɧɨɣ ɫɬɪɚɧɵ ɜ ɞɪɭɝɭɸ, ɫɤɨɪɟɟ ɨɧ ɛɵɥ ɫ ɪɨɠɞɟɧɢɹ ɱɟɥɨɜɟɤ ɛɟɡ ɪɨɞɢɧɵ: ɫɧɚɱɚɥɚ ɩɨɜɨɥɠɫɤɢɣ ɧɟɦɟɰ, ɩɨɬɨɦ ɦɨɫɤɜɢɱ, ɠɢɬɟɥɶ ȼɟɧɵ, ɫɧɨɜɚ ɦɨɫɤɜɢɱ, ɠɢɬɟɥɶ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɚ ɢ ɧɚɤɨɧɟɰ, ɝɚɦɛɭɪɠɟɰ. ɒɧɢɬɤɟ ɪɨɞɢɥɫɹ ɜ Ɋɟɫɩɭɛɥɢɤɟ ɇɟɦɰɟɜ ɉɨɜɨɥɠɶɹ ɜ ɫɟɦɶɟ ɮɪɚɧɤɮɭɪɬɫɤɨɝɨ ɟɜɪɟɹ ɢ ɤɚɬɨɥɢɱɤɢ. Ɉɧ ɪɚɫɫɤɚɡɵɜɚɥ, ɤɚɤ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɚɩɨɩɥɟɤɫɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɭɞɚɪɚ ɜ 1985, ɟɳɺ ɜ ɛɨɥɶɧɢɰɟ, ɩɟɪɜɵɣ ɹɡɵɤ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɣ ɟɦɭ ɜɫɩɨɦɧɢɥɫɹ, ɛɵɥ ɤɚɤ ɪɚɡ ɩɨɜɨɥɠɫɤɢɣ ɞɢɚɥɟɤɬ ɧɟɦɟɰɤɨɝɨ ɹɡɵɤɚ, ɫɭɳɟɫɬɜɨɜɚɜɲɢɣ ɨɤɨɥɨ ɞɜɟɫɬɢ ɥɟɬ, ɢ ɧɵɧɟ ɢɫɱɟɡɧɭɜɲɢɣ. ɉɨɞɨɛɧɨ ɫɦɟɲɟɧɧɨɣ ɬɟɤɫɬɭɪɟ ɟɝɨ ɪɨɞɧɨɝɨ ɹɡɵɤɚ ɨɬɤɪɵɜɲɟɣɫɹ ɞɥɹ ɹɡɵɤɨɜɨɣ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ, ɧɚɱɢɧɚɹ ɫ 1968 ɟɝɨ «ɩɨɥɢɫɬɢɥɢɫɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ» ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɹ, ɜ ɤɨɬɨɪɵɯ ɨɧ ɜɢɞɟɥ ɩɪɨɹɜɥɟɧɢɟ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ, ɨɬɤɪɵɥɢɫɶ ɞɥɹ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɦɭɡɵɤɢ. ɇɚ ɟɝɨ ɬɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ ɡɧɚɱɢɬɟɥɶɧɨ ɩɨɜɥɢɹɥɢ ɋɬɪɚɜɢɧɫɤɢɣ, ɒɨɫɬɚɤɨɜɢɱ, Ƚɢɧɞɟɦɢɬ ɢ Ɉɪɮɮ. Ɉɧ ɛɵɥ ɧɟ ɪɚɡ ɤɪɢɬɢɤɨɜɚɧ ɡɚ ɧɟɤɨɬɨɪɭɸ ɩɪɨɝɪɟɫɫɢɜɧɨɫɬɶ, ɧɟ ɫɨɨɬɜɟɬɫɬɜɭɸɳɭɸ ɨɮɢɰɢɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɫɨɜɟɬɫɤɨɣ ɢɞɟɨɥɨɝɢɢ, ɚ ɬɚɤ ɠɟ ɡɚ ɩɪɢɧɚɞɥɟɠɧɨɫɬɶ ɤ ɩɨɞɪɵɜɧɨɣ ɫɪɟɞɟ, ɬɚɤ ɧɚɡɵɜɚɟɦɵɯ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɨɜ ɤɚɬɚɤɨɦɛ ȼɚɪɲɚɜɫɤɨɣ Ɉɫɟɧɢ. ɇɟɥɶɡɹ ɫɤɚɡɚɬɶ, ɱɬɨ ɟɝɨ ɩɟɪɟɫɟɥɟɧɢɟ ɜ Ɂɚɩɚɞɧɵɣ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧ ɩɨɥɨɠɢɥɨ ɧɚɱɚɥɨ ɟɝɨ ɷɫɬɟɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɞɢɫɤɭɫɫɢɢ ɦɟɠɞɭ ɞɜɭɦɹ ɫɬɨɪɨɧɚɦɢ «ɠɟɥɟɡɧɨɝɨ ɡɚɧɚɜɟɫɚ». ɇɚɱɢɧɚɹ ɫ 1977, ɭ ɧɟɝɨ ɭɠɟ ɛɵɥɢ ɝɚɫɬɪɨɥɢ, ɝɨɫɬɟɜɵɟ ɩɪɨɮɟɫɫɭɪɵ ɢ ɱɥɟɧɫɬɜɚ ɚɤɚɞɟɦɢɢ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜ ɧɚ ɡɚɩɚɞɟ. ɗɬɚ ɜɧɭɬɪɟɧɧɹɹ ɞɢɫɤɭɫɫɢɹ ɫɤɨɪɟɟ ɧɚɱɚɥɚɫɶ ɟɳɺ ɜ Ɇɨɫɤɜɟ, ɧɟɜɨɥɶɧɨ, ɩɨɞ ɜɥɢɹɧɢɟɦ ɱɚɫɬɵɯ ɡɚɩɪɟɬɨɜ ɧɚ ɜɵɟɡɞ ɢɡ ɫɬɪɚɧɵ.

ɅɍɄȺ ɋɄȺɇɁɂ ɑɌɈ ɁɇȺɑɂɌ ɏɍȾɈɀȿɋɌȼȿɇɇȺə ɎɈɊɆȺ? Ɇɘɇɏȿɇ-ɆɈɋɄȼȺ 1900-1925 C 80-ɯ ɝɨɞɨɜ XIX ɫɬɨɥɟɬɢɹ ɞɨ ɧɚɱɚɥɚ ɉɟɪɜɨɣ ɦɢɪɨɜɨɣ ɜɨɣɧɵ Ƚɟɪɦɚɧɢɹ ɩɪɢɜɥɟɤɚɥɚ ɦɧɨɝɢɯ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɫɬɭɞɟɧɬɨɜ, ɢɡɭɱɚɸɳɢɯ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɸ ɢ ɬɟɨɪɢɸ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɚ ɢ ɚɪɯɢɬɟɤɬɭɪɵ. Ƚɥɚɜɧɵɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨɜɟɞɵ ɩɟɪɜɨɣ ɩɨɥɨɜɢɧɵ ɏɏ ɫɬɨɥɟɬɢɹ ɩɨɥɭɱɚɥɢ ɱɚɫɬɶ ɫɜɨɟɝɨ ɨɛɪɚɡɨɜɚɧɢɹ ɜ Ƚɟɪɦɚɧɢɢ ɢ ɩɪɟɠɞɟ ɜɫɟɝɨ ɜ Ɇɸɧɯɟɧɟ, ɝɞɟ ɨɧɢ ɡɧɚɤɨɦɢɥɢɫɶ ɫ ɬɟɨɪɢɹɦɢ Ʉɨɧɪɚɞɚ Ɏɢɞɥɟɪɚ, Ɍɟɨɞɨɪɚ Ʌɢɩɩɫɚ, Ⱥɜɝɭɫɬɚ ɒɦɚɪɫɨɜɚ, Ʉɨɪɧɟɥɢɭɫɚ Ƚɭɪɥɢɬɬɚ, Ⱥɞɨɥɶɮɚ ɏɢɥɶɞɟɛɪɚɧɞɚ, Ƚɟɧɪɢɯɚ ȼɺɥɶɮɥɢɧɚ ɢ ɉɚɭɥɹ Ɏɪɚɧɤɥɹ. ɗɫɬɟɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɬɟɨɪɢɢ ɧɟɦɟɰɤɨɣ «ɮɨɪɦɚɥɢɫɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɲɤɨɥɵ», ɬɪɭɞɵ ɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɮɨɪɦɵ [Raumkunst] ɢ ɬɟɨɪɢɹ ɜɱɭɜɫɬɜɨɜɚɧɢɹ [Einfühlungstheorie] ɛɵɫɬɪɨ ɛɵɥɢ ɜɨɫɩɪɢɧɹɬɵ ɢ ɩɨɞɞɟɪɠɚɧɵ Ⱥɥɟɤɫɚɧɞɪɨɦ Ƚɚɛɪɢɱɟɫɤɢɦ, Ⱥɥɟɤɫɟɟɦ ɋɢɞɨɪɨɜɵɦ, ȼɥɚɞɢɦɢɪɨɦ Ɏɚɜɨɪɫɤɢɦ, ɂɝɨɪɟɦ Ƚɪɚɛɚɪɟɦ ɢ Ɇɢɯɚɢɥɨɦ Ⱥɥɩɚɬɨɜɵɦ. ȼ

322

Abstracts

ɩɨɫɥɟɞɭɸɳɢɟ ɝɨɞɵ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɢ ɷɬɢ ɭɱɟɧɵɟ ɨɱɟɧɶ ɚɤɬɢɜɧɨ ɪɚɫɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɹɥɢ ɧɟɦɟɰɤɢɟ ɬɟɤɫɬɵ ɢ ɬɟɨɪɢɢ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ, ɚ ɢɯ ɧɚɭɱɧɚɹ ɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɚɹ ɞɟɹɬɟɥɶɧɨɫɬɶ ɜ 20-ɟ ɢ 30-ɟ ɝɨɞɵ ɫɱɢɬɚɟɬɫɹ ɫɟɝɨɞɧɹ ɧɚɱɚɥɨɦ ɫɨɡɞɚɧɢɹ ɫɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨɜɟɞɟɧɢɹ ɜ ɋɨɜɟɬɫɤɨɦ ɋɨɸɡɟ. ɋɬɚɬɶɹ ɩɪɨɥɢɜɚɟɬ ɫɜɟɬ ɧɚ ɬɨɬ ɮɚɤɬ, ɧɚɫɤɨɥɶɤɨ ɨɫɧɨɜɨɩɨɥɚɝɚɸɳɢɦɢ ɛɵɥɢ ɧɟɦɟɰɤɢɟ ɬɟɨɪɟɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɟ ɬɪɭɞɵ ɞɥɹ ɮɨɪɦɢɪɨɜɚɧɢɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ, ɚɪɯɢɬɟɤɬɭɪɧɨɣ ɢ ɜ ɲɢɪɨɤɨɦ ɫɦɵɫɥɟ ɷɫɬɟɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ ɜ ɩɟɪɢɨɞ ɫ 1910 ɩɨ 1930 ɝɝ. ȼ ɷɬɨɦ ɫɥɭɱɚɟ ɪɟɱɶ ɢɞɟɬ ɨ ɜɨɫɩɪɢɹɬɢɢ, ɤɨɬɨɪɵɦ ɱɚɫɬɨ ɩɪɟɧɟɛɪɟɝɚɥɢ, ɧɨ ɤɨɬɨɪɨɟ ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɫɤɪɵɬɨ ɩɪɢɫɭɬɫɬɜɨɜɚɥɨ. ɏɨɬɶ ɦɵ ɢ ɧɟ ɦɨɠɟɦ ɝɨɜɨɪɢɬɶ ɨ ɤɨɧɤɪɟɬɧɨɦ ɫɬɢɥɢɫɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɦ ɜɥɢɹɧɢɢ ɢɥɢ ɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ «ɩɪɟɞɩɨɱɬɟɧɢɹ» ɤɨɧɤɪɟɬɧɨɣ ɬɟɧɞɟɧɰɢɢ ɢɥɢ ɤɨɧɤɪɟɬɧɨɦɭ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɦɭ ɢɥɢ ɚɪɯɢɬɟɤɬɭɪɧɨɦɭ ɫɬɢɥɸ. ɋɨɜɫɟɦ ɧɚɨɛɨɪɨɬ: ɜɥɢɹɧɢɟ ɥɟɝɱɟ ɪɚɫɩɨɡɧɚɬɶ, ɟɫɥɢ ɜɵɛɪɚɬɶ ɛɨɥɟɟ ɲɢɪɨɤɢɣ ɬɟɨɪɟɬɢɱɟɫɤɢɣ ɩɨɞɯɨɞ, ɜɥɢɹɸɳɢɣ, ɬɚɤ ɫɤɚɡɚɬɶ, ɜ ɩɚɪɚɞɢɝɦɚɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɦ ɫɦɵɫɥɟ ɧɚ ɨɫɧɨɜɵ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɹ: ɤɨɧɰɟɩɰɢɹ ɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɚ ɜ ɢɡɨɛɪɚɡɢɬɟɥɶɧɨɦ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɟ ɢɥɢ, ɟɳɟ ɥɭɱɲɟ, ɩɪɨɛɥɟɦɚ ɩɪɨɫɬɪɚɧɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɯɭɞɨɠɟɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɣ ɮɨɪɦɵ [Raumkunst].

ȽȺȻɊɂȿɅȺ ɍɅɖ ɒɈɄ ɋȺɆɈɋɈɁɇȺɇɂə ɆɇɈȽɈɅɂɄɈɋɌɖ ȼ ɂɋɄɍɋɋɌȼȿ ɗɅ ɄȺɁɈȼɋɄɈȽɈ ɏɭɞɨɠɧɢɤ ɗɥ Ʉɚɡɨɜɫɤɢɣ (1948 – 2008) ɭɤɚɡɵɜɚɟɬ ɭɠɟ ɫɜɨɢɦ ɢɦɟɧɟɦ ɧɚ ɬɨɬ ɮɚɤɬ, ɱɬɨ ɜ ɟɝɨ/ɟɟ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɯ ɩɪɨɫɥɟɠɢɜɚɸɬɫɹ ɪɚɡɧɵɟ ɬɪɚɞɢɰɢɢ. ȿɝɨ/ɟɟ ɬɟɦɨɣ ɭɠɟ ɧɟɨɞɧɨɤɪɚɬɧɨ ɫɬɚɧɨɜɢɥɚɫɶ ɩɪɨɛɥɟɦɚ ɫɨɛɫɬɜɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɫɚɦɨɫɨɡɧɚɧɢɹ ɢ ɧɟɨɩɪɟɞɟɥɟɧɧɨɫɬɢ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɫɢɬɭɚɰɢɢ. ȼ ɫɬɚɬɶɟ ɜ ɩɟɪɜɭɸ ɨɱɟɪɟɞɶ ɪɚɫɫɦɚɬɪɢɜɚɟɬɫɹ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɚɹ ɫɪɟɞɚ, ɨɩɪɟɞɟɥɢɜɲɚɹ ɟɝɨ/ɟɟ ɞɟɬɫɬɜɨ: ɩɪɨɦɵɲɥɟɧɧɵɣ ɝɨɪɨɞ ɇɢɠɧɢɣ Ɍɚɝɢɥ ɧɚ ɍɪɚɥɟ, ɝɞɟ ɲɤɨɥɚ ɛɵɥɚ ɦɟɫɬɨɦ ɜɫɬɪɟɱɢ ɨɬɱɚɹɜɲɢɯɫɹ ɞɟɬɟɣ ɢɡ ɫɟɦɟɣ, ɧɚɯɨɞɹɳɢɯɫɹ ɜ ɛɟɡɧɚɞɟɠɧɨɣ ɫɢɬɭɚɰɢɢ. Ɉɞɧɨɜɪɟɦɟɧɧɨ ɨɧ/ɨɧɚ ɦɨɝ/ɥɚ ɩɨɥɶɡɨɜɚɬɶɫɹ ɨɝɪɨɦɧɨɣ ɛɢɛɥɢɨɬɟɤɨɣ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɛɚɛɭɲɤɢ ɢ ɞɟɞɭɲɤɢ, ɝɞɟ ɨɧ/ɨɧɚ ɭɝɥɭɛɥɹɥɫɹ/ɭɝɥɭɛɥɹɥɚɫɶ ɜ ɫɚɦɵɟ ɜɵɞɚɸɳɢɟɫɹ ɩɪɨɢɡɜɟɞɟɧɢɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɢ ɟɜɪɨɩɟɣɫɤɨɣ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ ɢ ɮɢɥɨɫɨɮɢɢ. ɉɨɡɞɧɟɟ, ɩɨɞɪɨɫɬɤɨɦ, ɨɧ/ɨɧɚ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɥ/ɚ ɡɚ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɦɚɬɟɪɶɸ ɜ ȼɟɧɝɪɢɸ. Ⱥɧɚɥɢɡɢɪɭɸ ɟɝɨ/ɟɟ ɚɜɬɨɛɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɸ, ɫɬɢɯɢ (ɧɚɩɢɫɚɧɧɵɟ ɧɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɦ ɹɡɵɤɟ ɢ ɨɩɭɛɥɢɤɨɜɚɧɧɵɟ ɥɢɲɶ ɜ 2010 ɝɨɞɭ ɜ Ɇɨɫɤɜɟ ɩɨɫɥɟ ɟɝɨ/ɟɟ ɫɦɟɪɬɢ) ɢ ɟɝɨ/ɟɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ, ɫɬɚɬɶɹ ɢɳɟɬ ɨɬɜɟɬɵ ɧɚ ɫɥɟɞɭɸɳɢɟ ɜɨɩɪɨɫɵ. 1) ȿɝɨ/ɟɟ ɡɧɚɧɢɟ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ ɛɵɥɨ ɜ ɨɫɧɨɜɧɨɦ ɧɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɦ ɹɡɵɤɟ. ɑɬɨ

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

323

ɨɡɧɚɱɚɟɬ ɬɨɝɞɚ ɜ ɷɬɨɦ ɤɨɧɬɟɤɫɬɟ ɟɝɨ/ɟɟ ɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɹ ɜ ɹɡɵɤɨɜɨɦ ɨɬɧɨɲɟɧɢɢ, ɟɫɥɢ ɭɱɟɫɬɶ, ɱɬɨ ɨɧ/ɨɧɚ ɛɵɥ/ɚ ɢɫɤɥɸɱɢɬɟɥɶɧɨ ɫɨɫɪɟɞɨɬɨɱɟɧ/ɚ ɧɚ ɫɥɨɜɟ. 2) ȼ ɟɝɨ/ɟɟ ɦɧɨɝɨɱɢɫɥɟɧɧɵɯ ɤɚɪɬɢɧɚɯ ɩɪɟɞɫɬɚɜɥɟɧɵ ɬɟɤɫɬɵ. ȼɫɟ ɷɬɢ ɬɟɤɫɬɵ ɧɚ ɜɟɧɝɟɪɫɤɨɦ ɹɡɵɤɟ, ɧɨ ɫɨɝɥɚɫɧɨ ɟɝɨ/ɟɟ ɡɚɹɜɥɟɧɢɹɦ ɨɧ/ɨɧɚ ɱɭɜɫɬɜɨɜɚɥ/ɚ ɫɟɛɹ ɜ ɹɡɵɤɨɜɨɦ ɫɦɵɫɥɟ ɫɜɹɡɚɧɧɵɦ/ɫɜɹɡɚɧɧɨɣ ɜ ɨɫɧɨɜɧɨɦ ɫ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɦ ɹɡɵɤɨɦ. Ʉɚɤ ɫɥɟɞɭɟɬ ɩɨɧɢɦɚɬɶ ɬɟɤɫɬɵ ɜ ɟɝɨ/ɟɟ ɪɚɛɨɬɚɯ? 3) Ɉɧ/ɨɧɚ ɩɪɢɡɧɚɜɚɥ/ɚ ɜɫɟɝɞɚ ɩɭɛɥɢɱɧɨ ɩɪɨɬɢɜɨɪɟɱɢɜɨɫɬɶ ɫɜɨɟɣ ɫɟɤɫɭɚɥɶɧɨɫɬɢ. Ʉɚɤ ɫɥɟɞɭɟɬ ɩɨɧɢɦɚɬɶ ɟɝɨ/ɟɟ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɨ ɫ ɷɬɨɣ ɬɨɱɤɢ ɡɪɟɧɢɹ?

ɏɊɂɋɌɈɎ ɎɅȺɆɆ «ɅɘȻɈȼɖ ɆɈə, ɈɌɋɌɍɉɇɂɄȺ ɉɊɈɋɌɂ» ɇȿɄɈɌɈɊɕȿ ɊȺɁɆɕɒɅȿɇɂə Ɉ ɄɍɅɖɌɍɊȿ ɊɍɋɋɄɈɃ ɗɆɂȽɊȺɐɂɂ

ɉɨɫɥɟ ɪɚɫɩɚɞɚ ɋɨɜɟɬɫɤɨɝɨ ɋɨɸɡɚ ɢɡɭɱɟɧɢɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɫɬɚɥɨ ɫɚɦɨɫɬɨɹɬɟɥɶɧɨɣ ɨɬɪɚɫɥɶɸ ɧɚɭɤɢ ɢ ɢɫɫɥɟɞɨɜɚɧɢɹ ɜ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ. ɑɚɫɬɨ ɨɬɩɪɚɜɧɨɣ ɬɨɱɤɨɣ ɫɥɭɠɚɬ ɩɢɫɚɬɟɥɢ ɬɚɤ ɧɚɡɵɜɚɟɦɨɣ ɩɟɪɜɨɣ ɜɨɥɧɵ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɦɟɠɜɨɟɧɧɨɝɨ ɩɟɪɢɨɞɚ, ɧɚɱɚɜɲɢɟ ɪɚɡɦɵɲɥɹɬɶ ɨ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɧɨɦ ɧɚɫɥɟɞɢɢ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɡɚ ɟɟ ɩɪɟɞɟɥɚɦɢ. Ɇɟɠɞɭ ɬɟɦ, ɭɠɟ ɛɵɥɢ ɫɞɟɥɚɧɵ ɩɨɩɵɬɤɢ ɪɚɫɫɦɨɬɪɟɧɢɹ ɥɢɬɟɪɚɬɭɪɵ ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɤɚɤ ɱɚɫɬɢ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ, ɚ ɦɟɠɜɨɟɧɧɵɣ ɩɟɪɢɨɞ – ɬɨɥɶɤɨ ɤɚɤ ɱɚɫɬɢ ɧɟɩɪɟɪɵɜɧɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ, ɭɯɨɞɹɳɟɣ ɫɜɨɢɦɢ ɢɫɬɨɤɚɦɢ ɜ ɫɪɟɞɧɟɜɟɤɨɜɶɟ ɢ ɩɪɨɞɨɥɠɚɸɳɟɣɫɹ ɞɨ ɧɚɲɢɯ ɞɧɟɣ. Ɍɚɤɢɦ ɨɛɪɚɡɨɦ, ɞɚɬɶ ɨɩɪɟɞɟɥɟɧɢɟ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɜɟɫɶɦɚ ɫɥɨɠɧɨ. ȼ ɬɨ ɜɪɟɦɹ ɤɚɤ ɚɫɩɟɤɬɵ ɩɨɥɢɬɢɤɢ ɢ ɛɢɨɝɪɚɮɢɢ ɱɚɫɬɨ ɜɵɞɜɢɝɚɥɢɫɶ ɧɚ ɩɟɪɟɞɧɢɣ ɩɥɚɧ, ɜɨɩɪɨɫɵ ɷɫɬɟɬɢɱɟɫɤɨɝɨ ɯɚɪɚɤɬɟɪɚ ɬɪɟɛɭɸɬ, ɨɞɧɚɤɨ, ɛɨɥɟɟ ɨɛɫɬɨɹɬɟɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɪɚɫɫɦɨɬɪɟɧɢɹ, ɢ ɧɟ ɜ ɩɨɫɥɟɞɧɸɸ ɨɱɟɪɟɞɶ ɢɡ-ɡɚ ɬɨɝɨ, ɱɬɨ ɫɚɦɨɩɪɨɜɨɡɝɥɚɲɟɧɧɚɹ ɦɢɫɫɢɹ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ: ɫɨɯɪɚɧɢɬɶ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɟ ɩɪɨɲɥɨɟ, ɩɟɪɟɧɨɫɢɥɚɫɶ ɡɚɱɚɫɬɭɸ ɧɚ ɜɫɸ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɭ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ. ɉɪɢɧɢɦɚɹ ɜɨ ɜɧɢɦɚɧɢɟ ɜɥɢɹɧɢɟ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɧɚ ɷɫɬɟɬɢɤɭ ɯɭɞɨɠɧɢɤɨɜ, ɩɪɟɞɥɚɝɚɟɬɫɹ ɨɫɧɨɜɧɚɹ ɬɢɩɨɥɨɝɢɹ, ɤɨɬɨɪɚɹ ɪɚɡɥɢɱɚɟɬ ɫɨɯɪɚɧɟɧɢɟ, ɪɚɡɜɢɬɢɟ ɢ ɨɬɤɚɡ ɨɬ ɬɪɚɞɢɰɢɣ. ȼ ɡɚɤɥɸɱɟɧɢɢ ɨɬɦɟɱɚɟɬɫɹ, ɱɬɨ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɚ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ ɧɚ ɩɪɨɬɹɠɟɧɢɢ ɜɫɟɝɨ XX ɫɬɨɥɟɬɢɹ ɩɨɞɞɟɪɠɢɜɚɥɚ ɢɞɟɸ ɧɚɰɢɨɧɚɥɶɧɨɝɨ ɧɚɱɚɥɚ ɜ ɢɫɤɭɫɫɬɜɟ – ɢɞɟɸ, ɫɱɢɬɚɜɲɭɸɫɹ ɭɠɟ ɞɚɜɧɨ ɝɞɟ-ɥɢɛɨ ɭɫɬɚɪɟɜɲɟɣ.

324

Abstracts

ȺɇɇȺ ɎɈɊɌɍɇɈȼȺ ɊɍɋɋɄȺə ɄɈɅɅȿɄɌɂȼɇȺə ɂȾȿɇɌɂɑɇɈɋɌɖ ȼ ɂɁȽɇȺɇɂɂ ɂ ɆɍɁɕɄȺɅɖɇȺə ɀɂɁɇɖ ȼ ȻȿɊɅɂɇȿ ȾȼȺȾɐȺɌɕɏ ȽɈȾɈȼ ȼ ɬɪɭɞɚɯ, ɜɵɲɟɞɲɢɯ ɜ ɫɜɟɬ ɜ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ ɜ 1990ɟ ɝɨɞɵ ɢ ɩɨɫɜɹɳɺɧɧɵɯ ɢɫɬɨɪɢɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɰɢɢ, ɨɬɦɟɱɚɟɬɫɹ, ɱɬɨ ɞɥɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɨɜ ɩɟɪɜɨɣ ɜɨɥɧɵ ɛɵɥɢ ɱɪɟɡɜɵɱɚɣɧɨ ɜɚɠɧɵ ɬɪɢ «ɦɢɫɫɢɢ». Ɉɞɧɨɣ ɢɡ ɧɢɯ ɛɵɥɚ ɦɢɫɫɢɹ ɫɨɯɪɚɧɟɧɢɹ ɞɨɛɪɨɣ ɩɚɦɹɬɢ ɨ «ɫɬɚɪɨɣ Ɋɨɫɫɢɢ» ɢ ɟɺ ɤɨɥɥɟɤɬɢɜɧɨɣ ɢɞɟɧɬɢɱɧɨɫɬɢ, ɦɢɫɫɢɹ ɫɩɚɫɟɧɢɹ ɢ ɫɨɯɪɚɧɟɧɢɹ ɞɨɪɟɜɨɥɸɰɢɨɧɧɨɣ ɤɭɥɶɬɭɪɵ. ɗɬɨ ɛɵɥɨ ɬɟɫɧɨ ɫɜɹɡɚɧɨ ɫ ɮɨɪɦɢɪɨɜɚɧɢɟɦ ɧɨɜɨɣ ɤɨɥɥɟɤɬɢɜɧɨɣ ɢɞɟɧɬɢɱɧɨɫɬɢ ɜ ɢɡɝɧɚɧɢɢ. Ɇɧɨɝɢɟ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɵ ɫɬɚɪɚɥɢɫɶ ɜ ɧɨɜɵɯ ɭɫɥɨɜɢɹɯ ɜɟɫɬɢ ɩɪɢɜɵɱɧɵɣ ɞɥɹ ɧɢɯ ɨɛɪɚɡ ɠɢɡɧɢ. ȼ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɨɣ ɠɢɡɧɢ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɚ ɞɜɚɞɰɚɬɵɯ ɝɨɞɨɜ ɷɬɨ ɩɪɨɹɜɥɹɥɨɫɶ, ɜ ɱɚɫɬɧɨɫɬɢ, ɜ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɚɯ ɪɭɫɫɤɢɯ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɧɬɨɜ ɞɥɹ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɩɭɛɥɢɤɢ. Ɋɭɫɫɤɢɟ ɷɦɢɝɪɚɧɬɵ ɜ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɟ ɞɭɦɚɥɢ ɨ «ɫɬɚɪɨɦ ɞɨɛɪɨɦ ɜɪɟɦɟɧɢ», ɤɨɬɨɪɨɦɭ ɧɢɤɨɝɞɚ ɛɨɥɶɲɟ ɧɟ ɫɭɠɞɟɧɨ ɛɵɥɨ ɜɟɪɧɭɬɶɫɹ. ɉɪɢɦɟɱɚɬɟɥɶɧɨ, ɱɬɨ ɦɧɨɝɢɟ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɧɬɵ ɧɟɪɟɞɤɨ ɢɫɩɨɥɧɹɥɢ ɜ ɫɜɨɢɯ ɤɨɧɰɟɪɬɚɯ ɢɫɤɥɸɱɢɬɟɥɶɧɨ ɪɭɫɫɤɭɸ (ɧɟɪɟɞɤɨ – ɜɨɤɚɥɶɧɭɸ) ɦɭɡɵɤɭ. ȼ ɞɚɧɧɨɣ ɫɬɚɬɶɟ ɚɜɬɨɪ ɡɚɞɚɺɬɫɹ ɜɨɩɪɨɫɨɦ, ɤɚɤɭɸ ɪɨɥɶ ɢɝɪɚɥɚ ɦɭɡɵɤɚɥɶɧɚɹ ɠɢɡɧɶ Ȼɟɪɥɢɧɚ ɞɜɚɞɰɚɬɵɯ ɝɨɞɨɜ ɜ ɮɨɪɦɢɪɨɜɚɧɢɢ ɪɭɫɫɤɨɣ ɤɨɥɥɟɤɬɢɜɧɨɣ ɢɞɟɧɬɢɱɧɨɫɬɢ ɜ ɢɡɝɧɚɧɢɢ.

CONTRIBUTORS

Katharina Bauer studied Cultural History of East- and Central Eastern Europe, Polish and German Studies at Bremen University since 2000 and received her M.A. degree in 2007. Between 2008 and 2011 she held a GCSC PhD Scholarship (International Graduate Centre for the Study of Culture, Justus-Liebig-Universität Giessen). Since October 2011 she has been working as a Research Assistant at the Department of Slavic Languages in Giessen. The working title of her PhD thesis is „Rückkehr in die Sowjetunion – Rückkehr in die ‚Heimat‘? Literarische Heimatkonzeptionen in ausgewählten Texten A.N. Tolstojs“ in which she deals with the motifs of “return” and “homeland” as being the main themes in Tolstoy’s writings following his return from exile to Soviet Russia.. Maria Bychkova was born in 1983 in Kiev (Ukraine). She began her musical education at the Glier Music College in Kiev as a pianist. In 2006 she graduated from the State University of Music and Drama Hanover as a piano teacher, and in 2009 received a Magister’s degree from the National Tchaikovsky Academy of Music in Kiev. In 2012 she received a Master’s degree in Historical Musicology at the University of Music, Drama and Media Hanover. Since 2012, she is a research associate of the DFG project “Russian-German Musical Encounters 1917-1933: Analysis and Documentation” at the Hanover University of Music, Drama and Media. Her dissertation deals with Russian music institutions in Berlin in the 1920s. Elena Dubinets, PhD, is Vice President of Artistic Planning for the Seattle Symphony and Artistic Advisor for the Seattle Chamber Players. She is Chair of the City of Seattle Music Commission and also serves on the Advisory Boards of University of Washington’s School of Music and Slavic Department. Dubinets’ scholarly work has led her to publish numerous articles and books, including Made in the USA: Music is What Sounds Around on American experimental music (Moscow, 2006), and Prince Andrei Volkonsky: A Score of Life (Moscow, 2010). She has recently finished working on her fourth book, which is about the composers of the contemporary Russian diaspora. Her interest in crosscultural exchange has led Dubinets to present several music festivals in

326

Contributors

Russia, Europe, Latin America and the United States, including all six of the Seattle Chamber Players’ Icebreaker festivals and two Alternativa festivals of American music in Russia. Dubinets received M.A. and Ph.D. degrees from the Moscow State Tchaikovsky Conservatory in Russia and has lived in the United States since 1996. In 2002, she was a Stipendiat at the Paul Sacher Stiftung in Basel, Switzerland, studying the manuscripts of Morton Feldman and Conlon Nancarrow. In June 2013, she was a NEH Summer Fellow at Columbia University/Harriman Institute “America's Russian-speaking Immigrants & Refugees: 20th Century Migration & Memory." Julia Elsky is a Whiting fellow in the French Department of Yale University. Her dissertation is entitled “French and Foreign: Émigré Writers in Vichy France.” Her primary interests include émigré writers and artists in France during the Vichy years, as well as translation, bilingualism, and the intersection of language and assimilation. Her translation of Irène Némirovsky’s novella Un enfant prodige is published in Yale French Studies (2012, special issue on Irène Némirovsky and Jonathan Littell). In 2011 she was an invited researcher at the Centre d’histoire de Sciences Po (Paris) through the support of a Fox Fellowship (Yale University, MacMillan Center for International Affairs,). In 2012 she was a recipient of a Bourse Chateaubriand from the French government, and was affiliated with the Ecole Normale Supérieure (Paris). Christoph Flamm is Professor of Applied Musicology at the University of Klagenfurt, Austria. He received his PhD at Heidelberg University in 1995. From 1994 to 2001 he has worked full-time as member of the editorial staff of the encyclopedia Die Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart. He was scientific assistant at the Department of Music History of the Istituto Storico Germanico in Rome from 2001 to 2004. In 2005 he was awarded a two-year grant from the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft. In 2007 he received his Habilitation at the University of the Saarland in Saarbrücken. He has been Visiting Professor at Berlin University of the Arts in 2011/12. Anna Fortunova studied musicology, art journalism, and music dramatic theory at the State Academy for Music and Marketing at the Academy of Civil Service in Nizhny Novgorod (Russia). She finished her PhD thesis on “The Ballet of Dmitry Shostakovich as a Cultural Phenomenon of the 1920s and 1930s” in 2007. As a student and a postgraduate student, she received several Russian grants and awards. From 1999-2008 she worked as a teacher of music history and aural training at a music school in her

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

327

home town, as a concert dramaturge at the Nizhny Novgorod philharmonic orchestra, and as a freelance music journalist. In the winter term of 2008, she was employed as a lecturer for historical musicology at the State University for Education in Nizhny Novgorod. In 2009-2011 she was a fellow of the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation and researched the topic “Russian Musical life in 1920s Berlin” at the Hanover University of Music, Drama and Media. Since 2012, she has been a scholarly fellow at the research centre Music und Gender, and is a research associate for the DFG-project “Russian-German Musical Encounters 1917-1933: Analysis and Documentation” at the Hanover University of Music, Drama and Media. Artur Kamczycki wrote a M.A. thesis on Auschwitz: Monument, Museum, Place in 2002 (Art History Department, Adam Mickiewicz University in PoznaĔ). He was twice awarded scholarships at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem (2002/03, 2007/08). In 2009 he defended his Ph.D. thesis on Theodor Herzl and The Zionist iconography till 1933 at the Adam Mickiewicz University in PoznaĔ, Poland. In 2011 he was awarded a scholarship at the Libeskind’s Museum in Berlin funded by UAM in PoznaĔ and the European Union. Currently he is a lecturer at the Adam Mickiewicz University in PoznaĔ, Poland (Collegium Europeaum Gnesnense, Department of Culture of European Judaism). Margarita Kononova holds a PhD in History and works as a senior researcher at the Institute of General History of the Russian Academy of Sciences. She is the author of Russian diplomatic representatives in emigration (1917-1925) (2004) and Italian echoes in the creative destiny of Marina Tsvetaeva (2010). She was editor-in-chef of Actual aspects of history and contemporaneity of the Russia Abroad: parallels and antitheses (2007). Anya Leveillé was born in Leningrad in 1980. She graduated from the Geneva Conservatoire de Musique with a Master’s in Music Pedagogy and completed an MA in Music Studies and Russian at the University of Geneva in 2008. Since 2009, she has been working on her PhD at the University of Bern, focusing on the development of Russian music in exile in the early twentieth century. She regularly contributes concert and CD reviews to the Geneva newspaper Le Courrier. Since 2013 she has been working for the Swiss radio station RSR as a music journalist for several musical programs.

328

Contributors

Katerina Levidou is External Scientific Collaborator at the University of Lausanne (supported by a grant from the Igor Stravinsky Foundation), where she previously held a Swiss Federal Scholarship (2011-2012). In 2007-2011 she was Junior Research Fellow at Christ Church, University of Oxford. She studied musicology, the piano and music theory at undergraduate level in Athens, Greece. She received a Master’s degree in musicology from King’s College London (funded by the A.S. Onassis Benefit Foundation) and a doctorate from the University of Oxford (funded by the Ismene Fitch Foundation and a Vice-Chancellor’s Fund Award). Her doctoral thesis explores the intersection of Stravinskian neoclassicism with interwar Eurasianist ideology. As a researcher at the University of Lausanne she studied the aesthetics of Ivan Wyschnegradsky. She has published various articles and book chapters on Russian and Greek music (for example in the Journal of the Royal Musical Association and the Slavonic and East European Review). Currently she is working on a monograph that evolved out of her doctoral thesis and is co-editing two volumes of essays, which explore the reception of Greek antiquity in music since the nineteenth century. Her research interests include Eastern European (especially Russian and Greek) music, modernism, nationalism, emigration, music and politics, music and spirituality and musical constructions of identity. She is co-convenor of the Russian and East European Music Study Group of the British Association for Slavonic and East European Studies. Marina Lupishko has two educational backgrounds: in cultural history (art history, aesthetics, linguistics, literature) and in music (piano, music theory, musicology). She did her undergraduate studies at the Kharkov Music College and at the Kharkov State University (Ukraine), then continued her post-graduate studies at the University of Massachusetts/ Amherst, USA, and at the University of Toronto, Canada. Her Ph.D. dissertation on Stravinsky’s settings of Russian folk verse was defended at Cardiff University, UK (2006). Marina Lupishko has presented at international conferences in the UK, Germany, Switzerland, France, and the USA. Her research has appeared in Mitteilungen der Paul Sacher Stiftung (Switzerland), ex tempore (USA), Russian Literature (the Netherlands), Australian Slavonic and Eastern European Studies and other scientific journals. In 2012, she has been awarded an Alexander von Humboldt postdoctoral fellowship to be held at Jacobs University, Bremen, Germany.

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

329

Jelena Mežinski Milovanoviü received a degree in the History of Art from the Faculty of Philosophy, University of Belgrade in 1996. She is a recipient of the Belgrade National Museum Award for her work on the National Museum’s collection of the works of the Russian artists gathered in the artistic movement The World of Art (Mir iskusstva). In 1993, she participated in the Belgrade National Museum’s project, “The Russian Artists in Serbia”. Between 1996 and 1998 she worked at the Department of the History of Art at the Faculty of Philosophy in Belgrade. Since 1998 she has been working at the Serbian Academy of Sciences and Arts (SASA) Gallery and as of 1999 she is the Gallery’s Deputy Manager. Between 1993 and 2006 she curated or co-curated numerous exhibitions of Russian emigrant artists. From 1999-2012 she participated in organizing the SASA members exhibitions, SASA Art Collection exhibitions and collaborated as an expert in preparing more than 45 exhibitions within the SASA Gallery. At present, she is working on a thesis entitled “The Russian Emigrants Artistic Activity in the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes and Yugoslavia (1920-1950)” in the History of Art Department at the Faculty of Philosophy in Belgrade (postgraduate studies). Nadežda Mosusova, musicologist and composer, scientific advisor of the Musicological institute SANU (Serbian Academy of Sciences and Arts) and professor of music history at the Belgrade Faculty of Music (now in retirement). She finished her studies and made her career in Belgrade, obtaining PhD at the Ljubljana University. The main fields of her research include music in Serbia and other Slavonic countries (musical nationalism), opera and ballet of the 19th and 20th centuries, impact of Russian emigration on the music and theatre in Europe and both Americas. She is also the author of monographs on Serbian composers, numerous studies concerning analysis and aesthetics of the musical stage, has been a participant of many theatrical and musicological congresses at home and abroad, is a collaborator of opera and ballet encyclopedias, a member of domestic and foreign societies such as the Union of Serbian Composers in Belgrade, the Society Ferdinand Gonseth (Switzerland) and the Executive Board of the International Council of Dance (CID-UNESCO) in ParisAthens. She is the coordinator of the Project Contemporary Serbian musical scene of SANU and a former member of the Jury for the Monaco Nijinsky Dance Award in Monte Carlo. As a composer she wrote mainly chamber music.

330

Contributors

Thomas Radecke was born in 1968 in Eisleben (Saxony-Anhalt). He studied music teaching and musicology at the Franz Liszt Academy of Music in Weimar as well as pedagogy and English Literature at the Friedrich Schiller University of Jena. His MA thesis is devoted to the composer Carl Christian Agthe (1762-97) at the court of Anhalt. In 1998, he was founding member of the Academia Musicalis Thuringiae (Society for Early Music in Thuringia). He worked at the Institute of Musicology at the University of Music in Weimar/University of Jena and received his PhD there in 2003 with a thesis on music performed to German productions of Shakespeare’s plays around 1800. As a lecturer, he specialized in early music at the University of Music and Theatre in Leipzig (2003-2005). Since 2005, his research has been focussed on the reception of the Allgemeine Deutsche Musikverein (1861-1937). In 200912, he was lecturer at the Institute of Musicology at Saarland University, Saarbrücken. Luka Skansi (1973) is a historian of architecture and a Post-doctoral fellow at University IUAV in Venice. He received his Ph.D. (2006) at the School for Advanced Studies in Venice with research on the prerevolutionary Russia (1900-17) and the influence of 19th German Aesthetics on the writings and the projects of the Soviet avant-garde. His research interests range from Russian and Soviet architecture, Peter Behrens, Italian architecture of the ’50 and ’60 to the architecture in ex Jugoslavia – the results have been published in different books, magazines and encyclopedias. In 2008 he curated in Vienna (Architektur am Ringturm Gallery) an exhibition on slovenian architecture in the XXth century (Architektur. Slowenien_Meister & Szene). In 2009 he received an honourable mention on the Bruno Zevi Prize for his historical-critical essay on russian architecture of the twenties. He recently finished his research on italian architect Gino Valle and published two books: Gino Valle. Deutsche Bank Milano (Milano: Electa 2009) and Gino Valle complete works (with Pierre-Alain Croset, Milano: Electa 2010). In 2012 he was a Visiting Scholar at the Canadian Center for Architecture, Montreal. Gabriella Uhl’s first degree was a Master’s in history and literature from the Eötvös Lóránd University (Budapest). She then wrote her PhD thesis about the Central-European baroque literature (1999). She studied economics at the Corvinus (Economical and Technical) University (Budapest) and graduated with a degree in art history (MA) from Eötvös Lóránd University (Budapest). She worked as a researcher at the Hungarian

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution?

331

Academy of Science, and afterwards as a chief curator of the Ernst Museum (part of the Kunsthalle, Budapest). She spent four years (20072011) in the Baltic States working as a correspondent for the leading Hungarian art magazines and published a book and several articles on the contemporary art scene there. She lectured art history and cultural management at the Moholy-Nagy University (University of Art & Crafts, Design), Budapest. She specialised in marginal and gypsy art. She is the author of many publications on the contemporary Hungarian and CentralEuropean art scene. Recently she is working as a free-lance curator and editor of Praesens the Central-European visual art magazine. Patrick Zuk lectures in the Music Department at the University of Durham. He is currently working on a study of the symphonies of Nikolay Myaskovsky. His article ‘Nikolay Myaskovsky and the events of 1948’ was recently published in the February 2012 issue of Music and Letters.

INDEX

The index includes all the names in the text and the notes of the articles. The names in the bibliographies to the articles have not been referenced but they are indirectly represented through the bibliographic information in the text and the notes. Russian names are generally given in their transliterated form (cf. Preface, p. x). In cases where the variant spellings in the sources quoted differ considerably (e.g. Chaykovsky and Tchaikovsky) cross-references have been added. Abetz, O. 64, 66 Abulafia, A. 101 Aeschylos 1 Afanas’ev, A.N. 181, 200 Afonsky, N.P. 144 Aguila, J. 219 Agursky, M.S. 55 Akhmatova, A.A. 77 Akimova, I. 209, 213, 225 Akiva 101 Al’tman, N.I. 77 Aldanov, M.A. 5 Aleksandar Karaÿorÿeviü 111, 112, 116, 120, 255 Aleksandrov, A.N. 231, 244 Aleksandrovich, A. 146, 149 Alekseeva, L.F. 30 Aleksinsky, G. 181 Alpatov, M.V. 71 Ambrožiþ, K. 82 Amishai-Maisels, Z. 94, 104 Andrieu, C. 63 Androsov, V.M. 107 Anet, C. 42 Ansky, S. 91 Antipov, V. 110, 115 Antony (Bartoshevich) 118

Antoshchenko, A.V. 26 Apter-Gabriel, R. 103, 104 Apyshkov, V. 85 Arbenin, N.F. 24 Arensky, A.S. 9 Arzumanov, V.G. 274, 277, 278 Asaf’ev, B.V. 179, 183, 184, 215 Auerbach, L. 14 Auric, G. 237 Auscher, J. 58 Ayvazovsky, I.K. 108, 110 Ažbe, A. 69, 70 Bach, J.S. 273 Bailey, J. 185, 186, 201 Baker, J. 106 Bakhtin, M.M. 127, 135 Bakst, L.N. 115, 180 Bakushinsky, A.V. 78–80, 86 Bal’mont, K.D. 23 Balakirev, M.A. 173 Baldinucci, F. 84 Banjanin, M. 214 Baranova Monighetti, T. 225 Baranoviü, K. 253 Baranovskaya-Shramchenko (Baranovsky-Shramchenko), L.V. 110

334 Barbaro, D. 84 Barsova, L.G. 28 Barthes, R. 127 Bartlett, R. 206 Bartók, B. 179, 239, 240 Basker, M. 225 Bassin, M. 206, 207, 284 Batagov, A.A. 281, 282 Bauer, K. 37–56 Baumgarten, V.F. 23, 107 Bay, E. 159 Bayan 139 Beaulieux, L. 36 Bel’sky, V.I. 28, 253 Bell, B. 202 Belousov, E. 166, 167 Bely, A. 37, 39, 40, 47–52, 55, 77, 208 Belyaev, M.P. 155, 255 Benediktov, V.G. 30 Bénénzit, E. 124 Benois (Benua), A.N. 115, 180 Benson, Z. 115 Berberova, N.N. 31 Berdyaev, N.A. (Berdiaeff) 25, 82, 227 Berg, A. 259 Berg, M. 267 Bergson, H. 213 Berio, L. 260, 261 Beyer, T.R. 55, 56 Bialik, H.N. 98 Bijeliü, J. 115 Bilibin, I.Ya. 70, 118 Bilimovich, A.D. 105 Billington, J.H. 284 Birkan, R. 182, 188, 189 Bitsenko, A.V. 118, 124 Blok, A.A. 37, 208, 209, 211, 214, 215, 217, 225, 226, 278 Blumenau, I. 119, 124 Bogdanov-Bel’sky, N.P. 110 Bogdanoviü, Ž. 114, 124 Bondareva, E.A. 23 Bonnard, P. 108 Borchardt, G. 267

Index Borisova, E.A. 85 Borisov-Musatov, V.E. 108 Borodin, A.P. 172, 246 Borovsky, A. 166, 167 Bortkiewicz, S. (Bortkevych, S.E.) 9, 10 Bötticher, K. 76, 85 Boulez, P. 219, 264 Bourne, M. 130 Bowlt, J.E. 4, 11, 124 Bracco, R. 24 Brahms, J. 216 Braidotti, R. 135 Brailovsky (Brailovskaya), R.N. 115 Brailovsky, L.M. 115 Bredius-Subbotina, O.A. 31 Breuty, M. 66 Brezhnev, L.I. 3, 263 Brinckmann, A. 71, 83 Brodersohn, M. 91 Brodsky, I.A.(J.) 4, 8, 14 Bryusov, V.Ya. 77, 226 Buber, M. 90 Bullock, P. 225 Bunin, I.A. 23, 40, 41 Burchard, A. 38, 41 Burke, S. 135 Burlyuk, D.D. 70, 76 Burlyuk, V.D. 70, 76 Burov, N.N. 55 Bychkova, M. 151–163 Cage, N. 282 Calle-Gruber, M. 135 Casella, A. 237 Cellini, B. 84 Chagall, M. 94 Charikova, E. 106 Chaykovsky, N.V. 45 Chaykovsky, P.I. (= Tschaikovsky, P.I.) Chelishchev, P.F. 208 Chelyshev, E.P. 6 Cherepnin (= Tcherepnin) Chernyshevsky, N.G. 85 Chetverikov, I.P. 79 Chirkin, S.V. 28

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution? Chislova, E.G.(C.) 28 Chistyakov, P.P. 69 Chop, M. 147, 148 Chopin, F. 9, 260 Chukovsky, K.I. 24, 44 Cixous, H. 128, 135 Clustine, I. (Khlyustin, I.N.) 247 Cœuroy, A. 167 Cohen, H. 82 Condivi, A. 84 Constans (= Nabokov, K.D.) Craft, R. 179, 181, 182, 200, 202 Crnojeviü, M. 119 Croce, B. 84 ýupiü, S. 123 Dabiü, Lj. 124 Dal’, V.I. 200 Dante 84 De Carbuccia, H. 64 De La Tour, G. 129 De Rosa, M.R. 83 De Schloezer, B. 171, 172 Debussy, C. 231, 243, 244, 247 Delpech, J. 61 Dena 163 Denisov, E.V. 259, 273, 275, 276 Derzhanovsky, V.V. 239, 243, 244 Di Messina, A. 129 Diaghilev (Dyagilev), S.P. 115, 161, 166, 172, 177, 234, 245, 246 Dichy, A. 66 Dikansky, M. 85 Diky (Dikoy), I.P. 116 Dill, L. 83 Dimiü, Lj. 123 Dimitrijeviü, K. 123 Dioneo (= Shklovsky, I.V.) Dmitriev, K. (= Nabokov, K.D.) Dobuzhinsky, M.S. 70 Doks, G. 28 Dokuchaev, N.V. 80 Dostoevsky, F.M. 244 Doukhan, I. 98, 104 Doyle, A.C. 24 Drþa, N. 124 Drizo, M.A. (pseud. Mad) 7

335

Drozdov, A.H. 37 Drozdova, O. 272 Dubinets, E. 269–284 Dubnov, S. 91 Dufour, V. 215, 220, 225 Dukel’sky, V.A. (Duke, V.) 209 Dukelsky, V.A. 166, 175 Dušan (tsar) 118 Dyagilev, S.P. (= Diaghilev, S.P.) Efremov, I.N. 23 El Kazovszkij (Kazovskaya, E.) 125–135 El Lissitzky 70, 83, 89–104 Elior, R. 104 Eliot, K. 115 Elsky, J. 57–66 Endell, A. 70 Engel, R. 154 Epstein, M. 57, 64, 66 Erenburg, I.G. 38 Esenin, S.A. 38 Evfimy (Ieromonakh) 29 Evreynov, N.N. 248 Evtushenko, E.A. 281 Fal’k, R.R. 76, 77, 80 Farmakovsky, V.V. 105 Favorsky, V.A. 70, 71, 77–80, 83 Fayard, J. 63 Feynberg, S.E. 231 Fiedler, K. 70 Filin, M.D. 23, 27 Fink, H.L. 213 Flamm, C. 1–16 Fleyshman, L. 37 Florensky, P. 77, 80 Florovsky, G.V. 205, 210 Fomin, E.I. 246 Fortunova, A. 139–149 Foucault, M. 127 Frank, L. 23 Frank, S. 213 Frankl, P. 70, 74, 76, 84 Franklin, S. 284 Friche, V.M. 85 Frolova-Walker, M. 284 Froman, M.P. 246

336 Furtwängler, W. 160 Gabo, N. 70, 83 Gabrichevsky, A.G. 71, 73–80, 82, 84–87 Gan, A.M. 76 Ganzen, A.V. (= Hanzen, A.V.) Gautier, T. 248 Gedrinsky, V. 113–115 Gershwin, G. 10 Gessen, I.V. 36 Gil’debrandt-Arbenina, O. 24 Gillette, W. 24 Ginzburg, M.Ya. 77, 79, 80, 86 Gippius, Z.N. 31, 225, 232 Glad, J. 3, 5, 11, 13, 56 Gladkova, L.V. 27 Glatzer Wechsler, J. 104 Glazova, A. 103 Glazunov, A.K. 10, 143, 144, 160, 166, 173, 231, 233, 234, 247 Glebov, S. 205, 206, 207, 209, 218, 226 Glinka, M.I. 155, 166, 172, 176, 177, 179 Godunov, B. 25, 26 Goethe, J.W. 84, 86 Gogol’, N.V. 269 Gojowy, D. 251, 252, 263, 264, 267 Golosov, ? 80 Golovin, N.N. 26 Goncharova, N.S. 76, 180, 181 Gor’ky, M. 38, 55 Gorbachev, M.S. 1 Gordon, T. 180 Gorlinsky, A. 161 Gounod, C. 246 Gousseff, C. 165, 176 Grabar, I.E. 70, 71, 82 Graham, I. 214 Grappin, H. 36 Grebenshchikov, O.S. 29 Grechaninov, A.T. 10, 170, 171, 175 Gresserov-Golovin, P.S. 253 Grieg, E. 260 Grosul, V. 155

Index Grosze, W. 240 Gubaydulina, S.A. (Gubaidulina) 259, 275, 276, 280 Gul’, R.B. 143 Gulevich, V.K. 111, 116 Gurlitt, C. 70 Gutthy 4, 5 Haager, F. 148 Hackel, S. 215 Hammer, M. 83 Hanzen (Ganzen), A.V. 108 Hardeman, H. 41 Hausenstein, W. 83 Hayes, A. 25, 26 Hegel, G.W.F. 75, 85 Heifetz, J. 159 Hellberg-Hirn, E. 275, 284 Helmholtz, H. 73, 79, 83 Hemken, K.-U. 103 Herbort, H.J. 267 Herúcovici, F. 259 Hetzel, E. 253 Heugel, J. 174 Higgins, G. 62 Hildebrand, A. 70, 71, 78, 83 Hindemith, P. 237, 240, 258 Hoare, S. 22 Hollóssy, S. 70, 82 Hölzel, A. 83 Honegger, A. 237, 258 Horace 1 Horlacher, G. 185, 201 Hösle, V. 141 Hristiü, S. 246, 247 Humbertclaude, E. 225 Ikonomou, E. 84 Ioann (Bulin, N.A.) 118 Iontsev, V.A. 56 Iraklidi, L.M. 105 Isaev, N.A. 109, 115 Islavin, L.V. 27, 36 Islavin, V.A. 27 Islavina, S.L. 27 Iswolsky, H. (Izvol’skaya, E.A.) 5 Itten, J. 83 Ivanjicki, O. 120

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution? Ivanov, M. 29 Ivanov, V.I. 213 Ivashkin, A. 274, 275 Ives, C. 260 Jackendoff, R. 185, 202 Jakobson, R. 201 Janáþek, L. 249 Janacopoulos-Stal (= YanakopulosStal’, V.) Johnston, R.H. 204 Jovanoviü, M. 20, 123, 124 Jovanoviü, P. 111 Jung, C.G. 126, 134 Kabalevsky, D.B. 239, 263 Kadijeviü, A. 124 Kamczycki, A. 89–104 Kamenev, S. 116 Kaminski, H. 237 Kampf, A. 103 Kancheli, G. 3 Kandinsky, V.V. 3, 70, 76–78, 80, 83, 86 Kantor, T. 129 Karaÿorÿe 111 Karp, A. 104 Karpova-Kardashevich, E. 106 Katchourovskaja, M. 154 Kazanov, A. 118 Kazhdan, T.P. 85 Kaznina, O.A. 23 Kazovskaya, E. (= El Kazovszkij) Kedrov, N.N. 174, 175, 177 Kel’ner, V.E. 23 Kelly, A.M. 207 Kelly, C. 284 Kemball, R. 209 Kerényi, K. 126, 134 Khan-Magomedov, S.O. 86 Khlebnikov, V.V. 181, 208, 226 Khlitchiev, Ya.M. 105 Khlyustin, I.N. (= Clustine, I.) Khodasevich, V.F. 5 Kholopova, V. 184, 185 Khrisogonov, M.M. 110 Khrushchev, N.S. 2, 126, 259 Kh’yus, R. 37

337

Kippen, J. 202 Kireevsky, P.V. 181, 182, 189, 190, 200, 202 Kirichenko, E. 85 Kirsanova, N. 247 Kiseleva-Bilimovich, E.A. 106, 108, 124 Kissel, W.S. 55 Kochan, L. 104 Köchel, J. 267 Kœchlin, C. 213 Kolesnikov, S.F. 107, 108, 111 Kolovsky, O. 244 Konjoviü, P. 246, 254 Kononova, M. 19–36 Kopytova, G.V. 251, 255 Korabel’nikova, L. 11, 170, 226 Koreneva, M.Y. 24 Korndorf, N.S. 261, 267, 279, 280 Kosik, V.I. 23, 28, 29 Kostakeva, M. 267 Kozlova, M. 231–233, 236–241, 243, 244 Kramskoy, I.N. 106 Krasnov, N.P. 107, 115, 116, 118 Krasovsky, A.K. 85 Kratochvil, A. 55 Kraus, H.-C. 55 Kravchenko, P. 109, 119 Kremer, G. 260 KĜenek, E. 237, 239, 240 Kreutzer, L. 160 Krinsky, V.F. 80, 87 Krstiü, P, 247 Krylov, A. 118 Kryukova, A.M. 39 Ksendzov, A. 108 Ktorova, A. 4 Kuchinsky, S. 115 Kühnel, B. 104 Kusevitsky, S. 146, 161, 166, 232, 244 Kustodiev, B.M. 107, 118 Kuznetsov, K. 113, 114 Kuznetsov, N. 108 Ladovsky, N.A. 80

338 Lakiüeviü-Paviüeviü, V. 124 Lamm, O. 243, 244 Lamtsov, I.V. 87 Lange, F. 82 Langhammer, A. 83 Langlois, F. 209, 210 Lányi, A. 135 Larionov, M.F. 76, 180, 181 Laruelle, M. 205, 206, 208 Lazar (saint) 119 Lazarev, P.P. 78 Lefèvre, F. 57 Lenin, V.I. 87, 209 Lentulov, A.V. 70 Lerdahl, F. 185, 202 Lermontov, M.Yu. 278 Leshetitskaya-Dolinina, T. 159 Leskov, N.S. 250 Lesle, L. 267 Levchenko, Ya. 55 Leveillé, A. 165–177 Levidou, K. 203–227 Levin, T. 201 Lhote, A. 109 Liberzon, S.A. 159, 163 Ligety, G. 264 Lipps, T. 70, 72, 79, 83 Lissitsky, L.M. (= El Lissitsky) Lissitzky-Küppers, S. 83, 103, 104 Lobachev, Yu.P.(Lobaþev, Ð.) 113, 114, 119, 124 Lodder, C. 83 Lomtev, D. 163 London, J. 186, 194, 201 Loris-Melikov, I.G.(J.) 31 Losskaya, V. 205 Luboshuts, L. 159 Lukács, G. 126 Lukomsky, I. 115 Lukomsky, V.V. 107 Lunacharsky, A.V. 77 Lunts, L.N. 38 Lupishko, M. 179–202 Lur’e, A.S. (Lur’ya, N.I., Lourié, A.V.) 3, 170, 171, 173, 175, 203–227, 274

Index Luria, I. 94 Lyadov, A.K. 28, 166, 229, 230, 243, 244 Lyon, F.H. 26 Macchiavelli, N. 84 Mach, E. 79, 83, 86, 87 Mad (= Drizo, M.A.) Mahler, G. 238, 239, 260, 261 Makejewa, J. 267 Maklakov, V.A. 21, 22, 35 Makovsky, S.K. 30, 31, 36 Makuljeviü, N. 124 Mal’sagov, S.A. 26 Malevich, K.S. 78, 91, 92, 94, 103 Maliü, G. 124 Malipiero, G.F. 237 Mallgrave, H.F. 84 Malyavin, F.A. 107, 111 Mamontov, S.I. 115 Mani Leib (Brahinsky) 91, 99 Margolin, V. 103 Marija Karaÿorÿeviü 111, 247 Maritain, J. 215 Maritain, R. 219 Markuzon, V. 84, 86 Mashkovtsev, N.G. 78, 86 Massenet, J. 246 Matich, O. 209 Matyushin, M.V. 70 Mayakovsky, V.V. 55, 214 Maykovsky, I.D. 108 Mazon, A. 36 Medtner, N. (Metner, N.K.) 10, 14, 143, 160, 219, 231, 234, 237, 242 Mel’nikov, I.Yu. 118 Mel’nikov, K. 80, 87 Merezhkovsky, D.S. 31, 204 Messine, S. 204 Meyendorf, M.F. 22 Meyendorf, N.F. 116 Mežinski Milovanoviü, J. 105–124 Michelangelo 84 Milanoviü, O. 124 Milhaud, D. 237 Milovanoviü, M. 124

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution? Mirsky, D.S. 205, 207 Miryt (= Stepanova Delijaniü, A.) Mitchell, R.A. 214, 218, 219 Mjør, K.J. 6 Mnoukhine, L. 165 Mollov, R. 205 Morgunenko, N. 115 Móricz, K. 225 Mošin, V. (Moshin, V.A.) 105, 123 Mosusova, N. 124, 245–255 Musorgsky, M.P. 166, 172, 238, 245, 246, 248, 253 Myaskovsky, N. 229–244 Nabokov, K.D. (pseud. Constans, K. Dmitriev) 24–27, 35, 36 Nabokov, N. 154, 173, 175 Nabokov, V.V. 8, 23, 24, 153, 154, 277 Navoev, N. 114, 119 Nazarov, M.V. 141, 149 Nedbal, O. 247 Nedovich, D.S. 78 Neef, S. 252 Neklyudova, M.G. 124 Nekrasov, A.I. 77, 79, 80, 83 Némirovsky, I. 57–66 Nesterov, M.V. 118 Neygauz, G.G. 77 Nice, D. 240 Nietzsche, F. 218 Nikolaev, B.N. 85 Nikolyukin, A.N. 5 Nono, L. 264 O[frosimov], Yu. 147 O’Brien, N. 19 Oberländer, E. 55 Obrazkov, B.I. 111, 116 Obukhov, N. 166 Okudzhava, B.Sh. 281 Olenina d’Alheim, M. 166 Olson, L.J. 284 Orff, C. 258 Orlenev, P.N. 24 Ostrogorsky, G.A. 105 Ostrovsky, A.N. 246, 250 Ouaknin, M.-A. 104

339

Paisov, Yu.I. 10 Pärt, A. 273, 280 Pasternak, B.L. 77, 82 Pastukhov, B.I. 110 Paszkiewicz, P. 104 Pavlova, A. 106, 144, 245, 247 Pedersen, H. 22 Pen, J. 90 Perkhin, V.V. 24 Persiani, I.A. 28, 29, 30 Pertseva, T.M. 87 Peter I. the Great 46, 207 Petrov, M. 123, 139 Petrov-Vodkin, K.S. 70, 82 Petryaev, A. 29 Pevsner, N. 84 Picasso, P. 115 Pil’nyak, B.A. 38, 46, 56 Pinkerton, N. 24 Piotrowski, P. 103, 104 Pirozhkov, V. 118 Plevitskaya, N.V. 145 Podstanitskaya, T.A. 124 Pogodin, F. 84 Poklevsky-Kozell, S.A. 22, 35 Pokrovsky, D.V. 201 Pol’dyaeva, E. 226 Polenov, V.D. 69 Polovina, P. 124 Polyakov (Poliakoff), N.G. 109 Polyakova, E.D. 246 Popova, L.S. 76 Popoviü, B. 123 Popoviü, P.J. 116 Poulenc, F. 237, 239, 240 Pousseur, H. 260 Pozner, V. 23 Predoevich (Predaevich), V.Ya. 116 Preys, A.G. 250 Primakov, E.M. 22, 27 Proffer, C. 13 Prokof’ev, S.S. 166, 173, 175, 204, 209, 218, 226, 229–244, 249, 251, 258 Prokopowicz, M. 104 Prosen, M. 124

340 Protiü, M.B. 124 Proust, M. 273 Prudkov, E. 113 Puccini, G. 246 Pushkin, A.S. 14, 20, 22, 25, 26, 30 Puškadija-Ribkin, T. 124 Pustoshkin, P.K. 30, 31, 36 Putin, V.V. 3, 139 Puzanova, V. 110, 116 Pyatigorsky, G. 159 Pyman, A. 209 Quilici, V. 86 Rabelais, F. 127, 135 Rabinovich, A. 274 Radecke, T. 257–267 Raeff, M. 3, 5 Raevskaya Kh’yus, O. 37 Rajþeviü, U. 124 Rakhmaninov, S.V. 4, 10, 14, 29, 144, 170, 219, 231, 237 Rakitin, Yu.L. 253 Ramuz, C.-F. 180, 182, 201 Rankhner, A. 114 Raskatov, A. 270, 271, 277, 278 Ravel, M. 233, 234, 237, 238, 247 Reitlinger (Rajtlinger), M. 113, 116 Rembrandt 86 Remizov, A.M. 23 Repin, I.E. 69, 107, 108 Rerikh, N.K. 118 Reznikov, V.N. 108, 109,115 Rhené-Baton (Baton, R.-E.) 173 Riasanovsky, N.V. 208, 284 Rickelt, G. 156, 157, 158 Riegl, A. 74, 76 Rikhter, T.D. 77 Rimsky-Korsakov, N.A. 28, 144, 172, 173, 180, 235, 245, 246, 248, 253 Ritzarev, M. 284 Röntgen, W. 70 Rosenthal, B.G. 214 Rostand, E. 248 Rubins, M. 225 Rubinstein, A. 155 Rudanovsky, V. 116

Index Rumer, M.A. 79 Rumnev, A.A. 77 Rumyantsev, B.B. 108 Rusakova, A.A. 124 Ryabushkin, A.P. 118 Rybak, I. 91 Sabaneyeff (= Sabaneev, L.) 3, 175 Sabennikova, I. 152, 163 Sablin, E.V. 22, 23, 27, 29 Sacher, P. 179, 188, 198–200, 202 Sakharov, A.D. 125, 200, 261 Saltykov-Shchedrin, M.E. 250 Samoylov, G.I. 109, 111–113 Sandomirskaya, I.I. 42 Savitsky, P.N. 205, 206, 210 Schaeffner, A. 212 Schillinger, J. 271 Schlemmer, O. 83 Schlögel, K. 55, 56, 151, 153, 159, 160, 163 Schmarsow, A. 70, 73, 74, 76, 84 Schmidt, G.G. 103 Schnaase, K. 76 Schnabel, A. 160 Schnittke, A. 257–267, 273–276, 280 Schnittke, H. 257 Schoenberg, A. 231, 237, 239, 244 Scholem, G. 104 Schopenhauer, A. 212, 218 Schotte, W. 156 Schubert, F. 239 Schwarz, B. 273 Schwarz, J. 161 Schwers, P. 142 Šejka, L. 120 Sellers, S. 135 Selyanko, B. 118 Semenov, V. 85 Semper, G. 76, 85 Senkevitch, A. Jr. 86 Sériot, P. 208 Serov, V.A. 70 Severzeva, O. 84 Shakhovsky 6

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution? Shalyapin, F.I. 29, 143, 144, 146, 147, 161, 177 Shelekhov, N. 118 Sheloumov, A.I. 107 Shenshin, I. 114 Shepherd, D. 284 Shervinsky, S.V. 77 Shervud, V.O. 85 Shevchenko, E. 248 Sheyn, P. 200 Shishkin, I.I. 110 Shklovsky, I.G. 26 Shklovsky, I.V. 25, 26 Shklovsky, V.B. 37, 39, 40, 42, 43, 47, 49–52, 55 Shlifshteyn, S.I. 230, 243, 244 Shmelev, I.S. 31 Shopovalov, B. 118 Shostakovich, D. 245–255, 258, 260, 275, 276, 280 Shpet, G.G. 85 Shtrandtman, V.N. 22, 23 Sidorenko, A. 110 Sidorov, A.A. 71, 77, 79 Sikorsky, I.I. 6 Sil’vestrov, V.V. 273 Simmel, G. 84 Sirota, P. 161 Sitte, C. 85 Škalamera, Ž. 124 Skansi, L. 69–87 Skryabin, A.N. 166, 171, 173, 215, 219 Slastikov Kaluzhanin, S. 109 Smirnov, D. 275 Smirnov, S. 116 Smith, G.S. 11, 205 Smith, S. 135 Sobol’, A. 56 Sofronov, P.M. 118 Sokolov, N.P. 24 Sokolov, P.P. 85 Sokolovsky, M.M. 246 Sologub, F.K. 248, 249, 252, 253 Solov’ev, A.V. 105 Solov’ev, S. 114

341

Solov’ev, V. 208, 218 Solzhenitsyn, A.I. 1 Sommerfeld, A. 70 Sorokina, Y. 244 Sosnovsky, A.P. 108 Speaight, R. 226, 227 Spengler, O. 39, 55 Stalin, I.V.(J.) 12, 251, 260 Stankevich, V.B. 41 Stepanova Delijaniü, A. 112 Sternin, G.Yu. 82 Stockhausen, K. 264 Strakhov, P. 85 Straram, W. 174 Strauss, R. 9, 243 Stravinsky, I.F. 3, 6, 10, 12, 161, 166, 171–173, 175, 179–203, 209, 210, 212, 213, 215–220, 226, 231, 233–235, 237, 238, 247, 249, 251, 258 Strobel, F. 267 Struve 5, 205, 225 Subotiü, I. 124 Sudeykin, S.Yu. 43, 44, 46, 49 Sumbatov, V.A. 29, 30 Surikov, V.I. 69, 118 Suvchinsky, P.P. (Souvtchinsky) 203–227 Suvorin, A.S. 24, 35 Szilágyi, Á. 134, 135 Tafuri, M. 83 Tarabukin, N.M. 78 Taranovsky, K. 201 Taruskin, R. 11, 13, 180, 182, 183, 189, 200, 201, 278–281, 284 Tatlin, V.E. 78 Tchaikovsky, P.I. 9, 10, 130, 147, 166, 173–175, 179, 231, 239, 244, 246, 247, 260, 264 Tcherepnin, A.N. 11, 12, 170, 171, 173, 175, 226, 237, 245 Tcherepnin, N.N. 168, 170, 245– 255 Teffi, N. 31 Temkin, D. 175 Tenisheva, M.K. 115

342 Tereshchenko, A.V. 200 Tesnière, L. 36 Tietze, H. 76 Tintoretto 85 Tippner, A. 55 Tishchenko, N. 113, 114 Tito, J.B. 111 Togay, C. 131 Tolstaya, A.A. 27 Tolstaya, E.D. 40, 55 Tolstoy, A.K. 26, 37–52, 55, 56 Tolstoy, L.N. 27, 165, 174, 175 Tolz, V. 284 Toman, J. 208, 209 Tompakova, O. 245, 246, 248, 249 Toporin, A. 115 Toševa, S. 124 Trofimov, V. 115 Trubetskoy, E.N. 213 Trubetskoy, G.N. 21 Trubetskoy, N.S. 205, 206, 210, 212 Tsvetaev, I.I. 77 Tsvetaeva, M.I. 23 Tumarkin-Goodman, S. 103, 104 Turkus, M.A. 87 Turowski, A. 103, 104 Tyrkova-Williams, A.V. 25 Tyutchev, F.I. 27 Tyutcheva, E. 27 Uhl, G. 125–135 Unbegaun, B. 36 Uspensky, N.E. 78 Vaillant, A. 36 Van Beethoven, L. 239, 244, 264, 280 Van den Toorn, P. 185 Vandrovski, E. 116 Varlamov, A.N. 55 Varun-Sekret, E. 116 Varunts, V. 180, 181 Vasari, G. 84 Vasil’ev, A. 111 Vasil’ev, V. 111 Vasiljev, I. 120 Vasnetsov, V.M. 113, 118 Velis Blinova, M.G. 3

Index Vengerova, I. 159 Verbitsky, A. 115, 116, 119 Verdi, G. 246 Vertinsky, A.N. 142 Vesnin, A.A. 76 Vesnin, A.A. 78 Vignola, G. (Barozzi da Vignola) 84 Vinnik, A. 152 Vischer, R. 72, 83 Vlasova, N. 244 Vlasova, Y. 244 Vogel, M. 257 Volkmann, H.-E. 151 Volkonsky, A.M. 271–274 Voloshin, M.A. 77 Von Blücher, W. 152 Von Brandt Nenadiü, M. 106 Von Drizen, N. 165, 166 Vrubel’, M.A. 69, 118 Vsevolozhsky, I.A. 27 Vuillard, E. 108 Vujoviü, B. 124 Vul’f, G.V. 78 Vyshnegradsky, I.A. 173 Vysotsky, V.S. 280 Wagner, R. 212, 213 Walsh, S. 180, 182 Walter, B. 160 Walterskirchen, K. 209, 210, 225, 226 Watson, J. 135 Webern, A. 259 Weiss, P. 83 Wellesz, E.J. 239, 240 Weststeijn, W.G. 205 Whiteman, P. 10 Widdis, E. 284 Wiederkehr, S. 55 Wissmann, F. 267 Wolff, A. 173 Wölfflin, H. 70–74, 76, 83, 84 Wolitz, S.L. 104 Wood, H. 244 Worringer, W. 76 Wulff, O. 83 Wundt, W. 79, 83, 86

Russian Émigré Culture: Conservatism or Evolution? Yanakopulos-Stal’, V. 166, 167 Yandieva, M. 26 Yashchenko, A.S. 41, 44 Yavlensky, A.G. 70 Yel’tsin, B.N. 1 Yuon, K.F. 78 Yur’ev 22 Yur’evskaya, Z. 143 ZadroĪny, T. 104 Zagorodnyuk, V. 115, 119 Zalman, Sh. 96 Zaslavsky, G. 166, 167 Zaytsev, B. 23

Zemtsovsky, I. 179 Zharov, S.A. 29 Zhedrinsky, V.I. 253 Zhekulin, N.S. 205 Zholtovsky, I.V. 77, 80, 84, 87 Zimmermann, B.A. 260 Zimmermann, K. 140 Živkoviü, S. 123 Živojinoviü, V. 253 Zu Putlitz, J.G. 156 Zuk, P. 16, 229–244 Zypin, G. 267

343