Frightful times are upon us. Fresh graves
Will be crammed everywhere rather soon.
Death and famine will come here in waves,
And eclipse both the sun and the moon.
Arid earth was thirsty for rain:
And the warm red liquid was spread
Over the trampled plain.
Akhmatova 20.7.1914.
I soon noticed that the inhabitants of the city of Petrograd were divided rather gracefully into two parts, those who were leaving for the front, and those who remained in the city, those who left considered themselves heroes, whether they left as volunteers or through vocations. Those who remained in the city made every effort to reconcile their possible guilt. Everyone talked about the war, of the troops, propaganda, or mass casualities, even at Mariinsky.
One morning I was going to Mariinsky, when in the middle of the street, I was overtaken by an entourage, a slender, dark-haired royal woman, and two men, one in a creamy suit, wearing a top hat and a walking stick, he was small and extremely ugly, the other was Blok, debonair and suave as usual, looking like he had fled from his admirers, he raised his hat, to me, and said:
"Jelizaveta Petrovna, we're just going to lunch, do you want to join us?" I glanced quickly at the others in the party, the slender woman Akhmatova, did not seem to notice me at all, and the man in a cream-colored suit nodded eagerly, and said with a nasal voice, " please, do come, so that will make the table full."
The man in the cream was Nikolai Stepanovitš Gumiljov, a poet whose verses were full of exoticism, adventures in the savannas of Africa, and socializing in the park of Tsarskoye Selo. Gumiljov had received the war with glowing enthusiasm, he had spoken out himself to the front, as a volunteer of the Ulan Regiment, his in his poetry echoed enlightened and ecstatic patriotism, one person had stated in a ironic tone in the salon of Zinaida Nikolaevna, that Gumiljov's patriotism was as unreserved as his religious convictions were cloudless.
I ate my lunch, soup and sidesalad a la francaise, quietly and observed these greatnesses of modernism up close. Gumiljov talked about war and the craftsmanship of writing, and the war he had declared against symbolism. I was amused by these inter-territory struggles between the literary circles, which were also constantly held at Zinaida Nikolaevnas salong, with varying degrees of success. Suddenly, Gumiljov stopped talking and looked at me intently and for a long time, he said,
"Mademoiselle you have such a face that poems will still be written about them," stretching his voice in french, Akhmatova, looked at me now, fleetingly and said, " Kolja, you say that only because she doesn't have a ring, or she does, and it is utterly wonderful, but not a wedding one, and because she's blond, as you are partial to them, too. I've seen her in Mariinsky, and sometimes at Stray Dog too, she's a singer, operatic one, and none of your common boulevard butterflies you're trying to catch." Blok nodded and concurred," Anna Andreevna speaks the truth, I have met this young woman a few times in Dom Muruzi, and her voice is wonderful, as is her poise, and elegance, Zinaida Nikolaevna, is quite charmed by her". Gumiljov snorted, and replied: " Dom Muruzi, that too pink place where the spider lurks, and weaves its webs." After the gray-eyed poet had left to to some errand or another, Gumiljov looked at us and said emphasizing, in his nasal voice, " Are they really sending him to the front too? Just as if they were overthrowing the nighingales to the pits." Anna Andreevna looked at him, quickly, and fleetingly cold, and stated, "as a pacifist, Blok, of course, does not treat this situation in the same way as you, Kolja, I do not think that he goes to the front, but writes about the war otherwise, or not."
Soon after that quelling remark the luncheon was at end, and we nodded to each other and left, each to our disparate places, I to Mariinsky, Akhmatova to Summer Garden, and Gumiljov to Vasilevsky Ostrov to meet some promising talents.
In Petrograd it was predicted that Russian troops would be in Berlin by December 1914, but luck turned, in the first eleven months the Russians lost more than one and a half million men wounded, fallen or imprisoned in bloody battles. Rumors circulated in the capital about a catastrophic shortage of weapons and ammunition, stupid and cowardly generals, theft and bribery plaguing maintenance forces.
There was talk in the streets of treason, of the Tsarina and Rasputin, the power behind that led the country to destruction, there were plots in every corner. There was a curfew, people were only allowed on the streets until eight in the evening, but in the middle of all this there was still culture, it bloomed.
There were charity nights with well-known names, one night I went to one, the hall was crammed full of people and of smoke, and Anna Andreevna stood on stage and recited poems. Akhmatova had changed her poetry, her style had become even more strak. I froze when I listened to them, the self-destruction prevailing seemed natural and topical, but later, later as the war dragged on, verses became horrific, almost defamatory, in their tone.
"Send the bitter years of illness,
suppressive, burning
insomnia,
take my child,
my beloved
and the secret gift of the song –
on the crust of the land
on my knees at the time of prayer:
remove the dark cloud from over Russia
turn it into light,
into rays of glory."
A black cloud hung over European capitals, and one of darkest moods was in Petrograd. Once I returned from a walk and noticed that there were a group of boys sitting at the statue of Falconets, the statue of Puskins poem, of Peter I, smoking tobacco and shouting insults at passers-by, a cold pierced my soul, the last days were coming, the elegance was over.
I often sat in Zinaida Nikolaevna's salon, she smoked her perfumed tobacco, and wrote in those days with extreme fervor, once she looked at me, brightly, straight, through her monocle, and stated;
"Everyone has suddenly received a political revival, the whole intelligentsia is boiling, but one thing is clear, the war cannot continue for Russia without a revolution."
After hearing her words, I looked around that familiar pink room, imagining faceless masses marching along Nevsky, as in 1905, towards the Ermitage, destroying everything and dancing in shards of imperial splendor, like sans coulettes in Versailles at the time of blood spilling in terror in 1790s, and I wondered, it may or it may not come to pass.
Letters still arrived, from Canada, and Paris.
Anne wrote that there was a gloomy mood in Ingelside, as Jem was one of the first to wolunteer, as was Jerry Meredith, Nan had received the news heavily. Once when she was collecting warbonds, Rilla had found a small baby, partly orphan, she had taken him, to Ingelside, inside a large soup bowl, the child's name was James Anderson, but it was shortened to Jims. Nan and Di were in Redmond, as was Walter, Shirley was in Queens, and read flight literature, quietly and resolutely.
I had received very gloomy, and desponent letters from Walter, from Redmond:
" someone had poured his bag full of white feathers, and some of the professors were now looking at him in ascance, as he was not yet on the front, most of hiss classmates, of his age, and even some of the younger ones also rushed to enlist, with ecstatic enthusiasm, full of propagandistic frevour. The Piper played his wild melody constantly, Walter wrote that he felt the call of the melody constantly, like a strong burn.
After reading that sentence, I knew in my heart that Walter was following that call, to the front, sooner or later, it was inevitable, like an obsession. The shimmering reddish sunlight reflected off the window, it looked just like blood. I looked out the window, everywhere was deserted, and still, no marching, not yet, the morning had dawned, again a new morning, and a new day of war.