"My moment, my hour, my day, my year, my age.
And I hear, that somewhere in the world – thunder."
Tsvetaeva.
The newspapers reported propaganda and war news, in endless cycle.
The lines of the Eastern Front were frozen, it encompassed at its greatest extent the entire frontier between the Russian Empire and Romania on one side and the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Bulgaria, the Ottoman Empire and the German Empire on the other. It stretched from the Baltic Sea in the north to the Black Sea in the south, involved now of Eastern Europe, and stretched deep into Central Europe as well.
The mechanical warfare, completely changed the rules of the game. This was, no romantic adventure like in novel of Tolstoy, no Austerlitz, this was Waterloo, the haunting twilight of Russian armed forces. For during the first year of the war all the soldiers who had received military training were killed in the Russian army, except for the officers, and the men who came to replace them, well they were completely untrained, could not even march, let alone anything else. In addition, Stavka and the courtiers of high command from the ecelons of court fought a constant struggle for the army.
Nikolai II was surrounded by all high command, they were more courtiers than the soldiers required by the current situation. They had time to take long walks in the fragrant coniferous forests and write long letters to their wives, or mistresses, while the army masses, were without proper equipment, or maintenance, because the equipment lines were too far away from the troops.
Tsarina Alexandra had organized some courtwomen into nursing staff, into a military hospital where, she and the two eldest Grand Dutchesses did exhausting nursing work, alongside Red Cross professionals, among the multitudes of wounded soliders and military elite. Alexandra had taken over the temporary command, while Tsar was at front, and above all, the monk's shadow hovered. Alexandra's sister, Ella, who had founded a monastery with her own funds and acted as an abbess, had written a letter of appeal at the beginning of the war to Nicholas II asking to sever their relationship with Rasputin, or otherwise destruction would come. This petition was not complied with. The dissatisfaction of the people with the course of events only increased, growing, and more and more toxic rumors began to circulate.
Before that war with Japan, two people had appeared in the court, soon there was whispering the of whole country about them. One of them was Rasputin, and the other a young court lady, Anja, who managed to stay close to the tsarist couple for a very long time. I once happened to see this mysterious Anja, it was in 1908 and I was on the street, coming back from Mariinsky, and there were luxury carriages in front of me, one of which was a half-lying young woman with a feather in a wide hat. Her eyes were large and bluish, and her feet covered in a fur mantle. She assured her immortal allegiance and love to the rulers, both of them, and power, the sweet scent of power, and influence or so the bulevard gossip stated.
All that glitter of gilded palaces, and Mariinskys epolence seemed now, lewd and futile waste, as with one gilding food could be bought for many. In that season I performed in La Nozze di Figaro in the role of Countess.
The ballet and opera sparkled as the public, who wanted oblivion of the prevailing conditions seemed to flock in Mariinsky. Ballet dancers danced now of Tchaikovsky's works, especially the Swan Lake, almost constantly, Odile / Odette's role was almost like a depiction of a divided war situation, on the front, as the music did make the audience weep.
I had written back to Marina Ivanova, and a glowing correspondence arose between us, which was sometimes exhausting. There was a strong almost mystical preconception combined with a careless unconcern about the war reality and I wondered how long that would last. The one day I had recived a letter from Walter, that did explain why I had not heard of Anne for some time, as usually she wrote to me almost as often as did Nathalie, Katherine, but with the war, even international post was not as fast as it were in the time Before.
Somewhere 1915.
"Now, on my way, somewhere far away. I can no longer stand the nervousness, guilt, and endless haunting charmed call of the piper. So I'm doing my bit, and I'm now part of the faceless war machine of Canada and the British Empire.
During the farewell something happened that I have to write just for you, because you understand, you always understand, we share an unspoken agreement. At the train platform, the farewells were emotional. Rilla my-Rilla pressed me to say goodbye to Una, to kiss her, which I did, a light sisters kiss on her alabaster cheek, I wouldn't have wanted to do it, but refusing in that situation would have caused a great stir.
The look of Unas eyes as I walked away, there was something unforgettable in their blue hue, calm and deep longing, wistful, what ever it is, haunting me to the depths of my soul. I am glad of it, maybe that small kindness of a gesture can protect me, for what lies ahead; endless exercises, marches, stab exercises, and attacks, mud, dirt and cold, and the trenches, there is no more beauty left in the world, everything has been shelled to pieces. I hope we will continue this correspondence for as long as possible, but in the future it may be better if we write in English, to avoid misunderstandings, and possible interrogations.
I have written and submitted a poem, it is the only thing that I have written in months. I have now some form of peace, but it will not last long I fear."
soon to be private, WCB.
After reading the letter, I had to get out, in the fresh air, so I grabbed my blue jacket, and ran out of my apartment, out to the hustle and bustle of Liteniyi.
The sky was bright gray, the clouds were moving fast, the light was fluttering in Fontanka, and I was leaning my head in my hands and praying that everything would go well because Walter had probably been practicing for several weeks now.
The tone of the letter was submissive, and melancholy, but very, very awake, the curtain that had always isolated Walter from the rest of the world had now been torn aside, by war.
In Europe, the war continued to crush people, like some giant meat grinder, the fire of machine guns, mustard gas, mud, and barbed wire. Breaking the previously blooming abundant fields, and rivers, into slaughterhouse, and that horribleness had now caught Walter, too as it had countless others, nameless, men, and boys.
Weeks and months rolled past, autum give way to winter, and then spring, in full flush.
Then one day I received a breathless letter from Anne, it was almost entirely pure stream of consciousness, and it announced in a glowing style that Walter had received a cross for exceptional bravery, and that his new poem had immediately became a classic.
It was read, quoted, and printed everywhere, it aroused emotions, the young girls wept, the men moved, and the mass machinery, the war machinery, was pleased as it brought more volunteers to the front.
The newspaper cutting from The Spectator with a poem The Piper, by W. C. Blythe, private.
"One day the Piper came down the Glen…
Sweet and long and low played he!"
I read the concise verses feeling dazzled. Walter had written his old childhood vision open, the poem was charming and highly contagious, therefore suitable for propaganda purposes.
However, I wondered how his idealism had withstood the tsunami, blood, bad conditions of mechanized war, and the uproar, he who was so sensitive.
Walter, despite his sensitivity, had the steel and conviction that had taken him to front, deep into the fields full of red poppies, to the graceful villages, and farms, and to the depths of the trenches, but there was still evening sky, were the stars glittered, and the moon casted its pale shadow to one pale blackhaired private.
A/N:
I have here taken the liberty to quote first lines of LMMs "The Piper". It is wonderful, as is "The Aftermath" another poem of LMMs that she ascribed to Walter in The Blythes Are Quoted, her final work.