Illustrious Emperor, Alexander’s heir,
France welcomes thee, on this occasion fair.
In tongue of gods she bids me greetings bring;
Poets alone may thus address a King.
We uttered a “phew” of relief. The insolent braggart was none other than a poet, whose name Charlotte told us was José Maria de Heredia!
And you, Madame, who on this happy day
Alone a peerless loveliness display,
Let me, through you, bestow an accolade
On grace divine, of which your own is made!
The cadence of the verses intoxicated us. To our ears the resonance of the rhymes celebrated extraordinary marriages between words that were far apart: “stream-dream,” “gold-untold.” … We sensed that only such verbal artifices could express the exotic nature of our French Atlantis:
Behold the city! Fervent acclamation
From flag-decked Paris soars in celebration,
Where both in palace and in humble street
The three brave colors of our two lands meet …
’Neath golden poplars, all along her banks
The Seine conveys a joyful people’s thanks.
Affection follows where our eyes may see:
France greets her guests with all her energy!
Great works of peace are put in hand today:
This mighty arch will rise to lead the way
From this age into that which onward lies,
Linking two peoples and two centuries.
From this historic shore e’er each departs
May French hearts find response in both your hearts.
Before this bridge, sire, dream, and meditate,
Which to thy father France doth consecrate.
Like him, be strong: but merciful thy word;
Keep in its sheath thy battle-glorious sword;
Warrior at peace, bring peace to thine own land.
Tsar, let the spinning world turn in thy hand.
And like thy sire, keep earth in balance still:
Thy powerful arm sustain thy tireless will;
This honor is thy greatest legacy:
To win the love of a people that is free.
“To win the love of a people that is free”: this line, which had initially passed almost unnoticed in the melodious flow of the verses, struck home. The, a free people … Now we understood why the poet had dared to offer advice to the master of the most powerful empire on earth. And why to be loved by these free citizens was such an honor. On that evening, in the overheated air of the nocturnal steppes, this freedom seemed to us like a harsh and chilly gust from the wind that had made waves on the Seine, and it filled our lungs with a breeze that was heady and a little mad… .
Later we would learn to put the ponderous bombast of this declamation into perspective. But at the time, despite its focus on the particular occasion, what we could already detect in his verses was a French je ne sais quoi, which for the moment went without a name. French wit? French politeness? We could not yet say.
Meanwhile the poet turned toward the Seine and held out his hand, gesturing toward the dome of the Hôtel des Invalides on the opposite bank. His rhymed address was coming to a very painful point in the Franco-Russian past: Napoleon, Moscow in flames, the disastrous Berezina crossing… . Anxiously, biting our lips, we awaited his voice at this passage so fraught with risk. The tsar’s face went blank. Alexandra lowered her eyes. Would it not have been better to pass over it in silence, to pretend nothing had happened and go straight from Peter the Great to the current entente cordiale?
But Heredia seemed to set his sights even higher:
That distant shining dome against the sky
Still shelters heroes from a time gone by,
When French and Russians, jousting without rage,
Mingling their blood, foresaw a future age.
Bewildered, we kept asking ourselves this question: Why do we detest the Germans as much as we do — still recall the Teutonic aggression of seven centuries ago at the time of Alexander Nevski, as well as that of the last war? Why can we never forget the ravages of the Polish and Swedish invaders, ancient history from three and a half centuries ago? Not to mention the Tartars… . So why hasn’t the memory of the terrible catastrophe of 1812 tarnished the reputation of the French in Russian minds? Is it precisely because of the verbal elegance of that “jousting without rage”?
But the French je ne sais quoi was revealed, above all, as the presence of a woman. Alexandra was there, drawing unobtrusive attention to herself, hailed in every speech in a much less pompous but considerably more elegant manner than her husband. And even within the walls of the Académie Française, where the smell of old furniture and fat, dusty volumes stifled us, this je ne sais quoi allowed her to preserve her femininity. Yes, even among these old men, whom we imagined to be peevish, pedantic, and a little deaf, on account of the hairs in their ears. One of them, the director, rose and with a glum expression declared the session open. Then he fell silent, as if to gather up his thoughts, which, we were sure, would quickly make all his listeners aware of the hardness of their wooden seats. The smell of dust grew thicker. Suddenly the old man lifted his head; a sly twinkle came into his eye, and he spoke: “Sire, Madame! Almost two hundred years ago Peter the Great arrived one day unexpectedly at the place where the members of the Académie were gathered and joined in their deliberations… . Your Majesty does even more today: you have added one honor to another by not coming alone.” (He turned to the empress.) “Your presence, Madame, will bring to our solemn proceedings something quite unaccustomed… . Charm.”
Nicholas and Alexandra exchanged rapid glances. And the orator, as if he had sensed that it was time to turn to the main topic, amplified the vibrations in his voice as he asked himself in a highly rhetorical manner: “May I be permitted to say it? Your show of interest addresses not only the Académie but our national language itself… . Which for you is not a foreign language. In this we sense a particular desire to enter into more intimate communication with French taste and the French spirit… .”
“Our language”! Over the top of the pages that our grand-mother was reading out to us, my sister and I looked at one another, struck by the same insight. “… Which for you is not a foreign language.” So that was it, the key to our Atlantis! Language, that mysterious substance, invisible and omnipresent, whose sonorous essence reached into every corner of the universe we were in the process of exploring. This language that shaped men, molded objects, rippled in verse, bellowed in streets invaded by crowds, caused a young tsarina who had come from the other end of the world to smile… . But above all throbbed within us, like a magical graft implanted in our hearts, already bringing forth leaves and flowers, bearing within it the fruit of a whole civilization. Yes, this implant, the French language.
And it was thanks to this twig blossoming within us that we gained access that evening to the box prepared to welcome the imperial couple at the Comédie Française. We unfolded the program: Un Caprice by Alfred de Musset; fragments from Le Cid; the third act of Les Femmes savantes. At that time we had not read any of those. It was a slight change of timbre in Charlotte’s voice that enabled us to grasp the importance of these names for the inhabitants of Atlantis.
The curtain rose. The whole company was onstage in ceremonial roles. The leading player stepped forward, bowed, and spoke of a country that we did not immediately recognize:
Like a vast world, there is a country fair,
Whose far horizons never terminate,
Whose soul is rich and rare,
Great in the past, in future yet more great.
Blond with her corn, white with the white of snow,
Leaders and men, her sons walk firm and sure.
Let fate smile on her so
She harvests gold on virgin earth and pure.
For the first time in my life I was looking at my country from the outside, from a distance, as if I were no longer a part of
it. Transported to a great European capital, I looked back to contemplate the immensity of the cornfields and the snow-covered plains by moon-light. I was seeing Russia in French! I was somewhere else. Outside my Russian life. To be thus torn asunder was so painful and at the same time so thrilling that I had to close my eyes. I was afraid of not being able to return to myself, of being stranded in that Parisian evening. Screwing up my eyes, I inhaled deeply. The warm wind of the nocturnal steppe suffused my being once more.
That day I decided to steal her magic from her. I wanted to be one step ahead of Charlotte, to make my way into the festive city before her, join the tsar’s entourage without waiting for the hypnotic halo of the turquoise lampshade.
The day was dull, gray — a sad and colorless summer’s day, one of those that, amazingly, stay in the memory. The breeze, which smelled of wet earth, billowed out the white net curtains on the open window. The fabric came to life, acquired density, then fell back again, letting someone invisible enter the room.
Happy in my solitude, I put my plan into execution. I pulled out the Siberian suitcase onto the rug near the bed. The catches emitted that light clicking that we awaited each evening. I threw back the great lid and bent over those old papers like a pirate over the treasure in a chest....
At the top I recognized certain photos; I saw the tsar and tsarina again in front of the Panthéon, then on the banks of the Seine. No, what I was looking for was located farther down, in that compact mass blackened with printer’s type. Like an archaeologist, I lifted up one layer after another. Nicholas and Alexandra appeared in places unknown to me. One more layer, and I lost sight of them. Then I saw long battleships on a slack sea, airplanes with ridiculous short wings, soldiers in trenches. In my attempt to locate a trace of the imperial couple, I was now digging at random, mixing up all the cuttings. For a moment the tsar came into view on horseback, an icon in his hands, in front of a row of kneeling foot soldiers… . His face seemed aged, somber. But I wanted him to be young again, accompanied by the beautiful Alexandra, cheered by the crowds, celebrated in fervent verses.
It was right at the bottom of the suitcase that I came upon a clue at last. The headline in large letters — “Glory to Russia!” — left no room for doubt. I smoothed out the paper on my knees, as Charlotte used to do, and began softly to mouth the lines:
Great God, there is good news to tell!
With joyful hearts we greet the day,
To see collapse the citadel,
Where slaves once groaned their lives away!
To see a people’s pride reborn,
The torch of justice raised on high!
To celebrate this happy morn,
Friends, let your flags and banners fly!
It was only when I reached the chorus that I paused, seized by a doubt: “Glory to Russia”? But what had become of that land, “blond with her corn, white with the white of snow”? That “country fair” whose soul was “rich and rare”? And what were these slaves doing here, groaning their lives away? And who was the tyrant whose downfall was being celebrated?
In confusion, I went on to recite the chorus:
All hail, Russia, all hail to you!
People and soldiers together stand!
All hail to you, all hail to you,
Who now redeem your Fatherland!
All hail the Duma’s newfound power,
Its sovereign voice will soon have spoken,
For happiness now comes the hour,
With all your chains forever broken.
Suddenly some headlines caught my eye, poised above the lines of verse:
NICHOLAS II ABDICATES: RUSSIA’s 1789. RUSSIA FINDS FREEDOM. KERENSKY — THE RUSSIAN DANTON. PETER AND PAUL FORTRESS — RUSSIA’S BASTILLE— TAKEN BY STORM. COLLAPSE OF AUTOCRACY …
Most of these words meant nothing to me. But I grasped the essential. Nicholas was no longer the tsar, and the news of his downfall had inspired an ecstatic explosion of joy among the people who, only yesterday, were cheering him and wishing him a long and prosperous reign. Indeed I had a very clear memory of Heredia’s voice, which still echoed round our balcony:
It was thy father forged a bond that tied
Russia to France, in brotherly hope allied.
Hear now great Tsar, how France and Russia bless
Thine own name, with thy patron’s name, no less!
Such a reversal seemed to me inconceivable. I could not credit so base a betrayal. Especially on the part of a president of the Republic!
The front door banged. Hastily I gathered up all the papers, closed the suitcase, and pushed it under the bed.
At dusk, because of the rain, Charlotte lit her lamp indoors. We took our places beside her exactly as we used to in our evenings on the balcony. I listened to her story: Nicholas and Alexandra were in their box at the theater, applauding Le Cid. ...I observed their faces with a disillusioned sadness. I was the one who had glimpsed the future. This knowledge weighed heavily on my child’s heart.
“Where is the truth?” I wondered, as I followed the narrative distractedly. (The imperial pair stand up, the audience turn to give them an ovation.) “These same spectators will soon be cursing them. And nothing will remain of these few fairytale days! Nothing …”
The ending, which I was condemned to know in advance, suddenly seemed to me so absurd and so unjust, especially at the height of the celebration, amid all the bright lights of the Comédie Française, that I burst into tears, pushed aside my little stool, and fled to the kitchen. I had never wept so uncontrollably. Furiously I shrugged off my sister’s hands when she tried to comfort me… . (I so resented her, she who still knew nothing!) Through my tears I cried out despairingly: “It’s all a cheat! They’re traitors! That liar with his mustaches … Some president! It’s all lies… .”
I do not know if Charlotte had guessed the reason for my distress (doubtless she had noticed the disarray caused by my rummaging in the Siberian suitcase: perhaps she had even come across the fateful page). In any event, touched by this unexpected outburst of weeping, she came and sat on my bed, listened to my fitful sighs for a moment, and then, finding my palm in the darkness, slipped a little rough pebble into it. I closed my fist round it. Just from the feel of it, without opening my eyes, I recognized the “Verdun” pebble. From now on it was mine.
4
At the end of the holidays we left our grandmother’s. Now Atlantis was blotted out by the mists of autumn and the first snow-storms — by our Russian life.
For the city we went home to had nothing in common with silent Saranza. This city stretched along both banks of the Volga and, with its million and a half inhabitants, its arms factories, its broad avenues with large apartment blocks in the Stalinist style, it was the incarnation of the power of the empire. A gigantic hydroelectric station downstream, a subway under construction, and an enormous river port proclaimed, for all to see, the very image of our fellow countryman — one who triumphed over the forces of nature, lived in the name of a radiant future, strove mightily for it, and cared little for the ridiculous relics of the past. Furthermore our city, because of its factories, was out of bounds to foreigners.… Yes, it was a city where one could feel the pulse of the empire very strongly.
Once we had returned, this rhythm began to set the tempo for our own gestures and thoughts. We were drawn into the snowy breathing of our fatherland.
The French implant grafted in our hearts did not stop either my sister or myself from leading an existence similar to that of our comrades: Russian became our regular language once more, school shaped us in the mold of exemplary Soviet youngsters, paramilitary exercises accustomed us to the smell of powder; to the crack of practice grenades; to the idea of the western enemy we should one day have to fight.
The evenings on our grandmother’s balcony were no more, it seemed to us, than a childish dream. And when during our history lessons the teacher spoke of “Nicholas II, known to the people as Nicholas the Bloody,” we made no connection bet
ween this mythical executioner and the young monarch who had applauded Le Cid in Paris. Not at all; they were two different men.
One day, however, more or less by chance, this juxtaposition took place in my head: without being asked, I began to talk about Nicholas and Alexandra and their visit to Paris. My intervention was so unexpected and the biographical details so abundant that the teacher seemed taken aback. Snorts of amazement spread around the classroom: the rest of the class did not know whether to regard my speech as an act of provocation or as a simple fit of delirium. But already the teacher was regaining control of the situation; he rapped out, “It was the tsar who was responsible for the terrible catastrophe at Khodynka Field — thousands of people trampled to death. It was he who gave the order to open fire on the peaceful demonstration of January 9, 1905 — hundreds of victims. It was his regime that was guilty of the massacres on the River Lena — a hundred and two people killed! It was by no means a coincidence that Lenin picked his name. He even used his own pseudonym to excoriate the crimes of tsarism!”
But what affected me most was not the vehement tone of this diatribe. It was a disconcerting question that formulated itself in my head during the break, while the other pupils were assailing me with their mockery. (“Oh, look! He’s wearing a crown, this tsar!” yelled one of them, pulling my hair.) The question was apparently quite simple: “Yes, I know he was a bloody tyrant; it says that in our history book. But if so, what is to be done about that brisk wind, smelling of the sea, that blew over the Seine? about the music of those verses that were carried away by that wind? about the scraping of the golden trowel on the granite? What is to be done about that day long ago? For I feel its atmosphere so strongly.”
No, for me it was not a question of rehabilitating Nicholas II. I believed my history book and my teacher. But that far-off day; that wind, that sunny air? I was confused in these disordered reflections, part thoughts, part images. As I pushed away my laughing comrades, who were snatching at me and deafening me with their taunts, I suddenly felt terribly jealous of them: “How fortunate not to carry within oneself that day of great wind, that past so palpable and apparently so useless. Yes, to have only one view of life. Not to see as I see.…”
Dreams of My Russian Summers Page 4
