Open, Open,
The gates of the tsar!
Darkness dimmed and poured out far.
With clean heat
Burns the altar —
Resurrect, Christ,
Yesterday's tsar!
Tsvetaeva, 1917.
In Petrograd the Provisional Government sat in the Ermitage, the Winter Palace, where for 300 years one ruling family had revelled amid all the priceless beauty.
Now the former imperial family of Romanovs were under house arrest at their home the Aleksandr Palace in Tsarskoye Selo, closely guarded or were they? The rumours swirled in the streets, that the former Tsar and family, just citizens now was to be said to be travelling towards England, no they were soon to bee freed, no they were in severe house arrest.
Gleaming winter turned to gentle verdant spring and then summer as the dazzling sense of freedom still prevailed all around. Certain individuals in the Provincial Goverment sought influences from the French Revolution and party politics of that era. I wasn't amused because after my years in France, I knew all too well what was going on in France after the initial hype, of the Bastille days, no giants like Robespierre or Danton had yet appeared on the Russian political field. The Provisional Government formulated a declaration that was extremely free in all accounts, in it was a clause of pardoned political prisoners, and other clauses mostly concerning men, and their doings, but in in there was a complete freedom of thought and expresson, no censorship and for me the most important clause was the freedom of surffrage and votes for women.
I had heard that in the various parts of Russia there were fervent local nationalism and sense of true change happening. In Kyiv Перший Універсал Української Центральної Ради, the First Universal Ukrainian Central Rada had declared autonomy of Ukrainian nation, separate of Russian Provisional Government.
In both Petrograd and Moscow there was a much rejoicing in the streets, rapturours crowds assembled, and red flags were hoisted on to the roofs and hung from the windows. There was jubilant speeches, processions, and the Marseillaise echoed from every coner it seemed. I heard that the parishioners of Osvyshi, a village in the deep provinces of Tver, they offered " fervent prayers to thank the Lord for the divine gift of peoples victory, " and then they all proceeded to hold a requiem for the fallen soliders from the February days.
It seemed that everything had happened too fast, like a sudden train accident in the middle of the night, or a previously solid bridge collapsing underfoot, or a house falling apart. There was a strange sense of unreality everywhere. I noticed that it was strange to be still queued up at the store and get a package of dried fruit as well as coffee with other usual things to fill cupbroards with nessecities. The old oder of things were demolished, but life continued onwards, still somehow.
I observed that the Duma leadership began to build a bloodless image of the revolution, the events being described as a spiritual rebirth that was needed in the country, others assumed that all evils would disappear from this new cleaner world, despite that there still was bloody war on the Eastern front.
The debates echoed in Zinaida Nikolaevnas salog, as guests exchanged views. The mood was similar of earlier evenings, as she had told me in our New Year, before the known world had been turned upside down. All that hustle and bustle caused me a headache, so I got up from the pink divan I was sitting in, drank the glittering ruby red Madeira in my glass and walked to the piano and browsed the notes, and Zinaida Nikolaevnas sister Natalia came smoothly between me and the pianobench saying playfully:" The toast of Mariinsky, one of the greatest sopranos in years does not accompany herself, not even in intimate settings"and she shooed me in centre of the floor. I shrugged and with a small smile I started singing, Juliet's fierce, airy aria of love, as it fit into this hectic evening. Everyone listened quietly as my voice bound the erlier hectic mood into a calm and intense concentration.
When I had finished Zinaida Nikolaevna asked if I could sing a little more, so I continued on the French line, moving to Faust and then Dalila, although my voice was a little too bright for that role, but the salon space and the atmosphere of the evening seemed appropriate, as the fatefull strains of Dalias lovely aria came to end, there was roaring applause, soon after all the accolades and complitary embraces and well wishes, I slipped out of the apartment and walked down the stairs to my home.
The heat of August pressed the windows.
I lighted a candle and remembered Virgnie as always in these August-times, the deep aching sorrow was still there, echoing softly. Zvezda rested in her basket, she raised her head, as if to say, "good, when you're here you can feed me," her green eyes half-open, so I grouched near to her and made her plate, she ate her food with single minded concentration, it was wonder to behold. I was dressed in my usual home attire, the deep red kimono and swiftly plaited my hair then I read the post, and made dark sweet tea and reclined in the green divan, watching as light slowly faded.
Zinaida Nikolaevna had embroidered for me also a silk tasseled scarf, it was done in a intricate deep emerald vines and deep dark red, flowers, of multicolored hues they echoed my curret wardrobe, but clashed with the kimono, too much competing shades of delicate pinks and reds, so with a sigh I folded it near the piano, so silent, so often, in these days.
I had recived few letters.
One from Anne, ever since September 1916 she wrote now with black bordered letterpaper, in it she calmly asked after my well-being in these turbulent times, and closed the letter with her love, and well wishes. Another letter was from Marina Ivanovna and I read cramped pages with great interest:
" I gave birth to another child, a daughter, I named the child Irina. Writing goes well despite new everyday challenges as the servants have left, and I can't cook, but luckily the children are getting milk for now. Loneliness is heavy thing to bear. I am writing play currently, it is a reinterpretation of an ancient myth. I attach to this letter a new poem, an Easter poem that reflects a little about my feelings about recent news. I heard that Sonja has released more of her new work, and she apparently still lives in Sudak in the Crimea, with her Eraskaya, that actress, her sister Vera is operasinger, mezzo in Moscow. Sonja is writing an operalibretto called Almast, and I am wondering if it will ever come to be anything. Funny that we're both trying out theater now.Serzoja is still on the front. Often in the evenings I read Rilke and Goethe and Akhmatova, have you met her, her lyrics are like a nebula in a clear sky, and so distant. I have written several of my poems for her, but so far she has not done a similar service in her own production."
The enclosed poem was titled to the Tsar on Easter. The lines were strak and glimmering full of traditional Easter mystery coupled with Tsars abdication and a promise of new age, of red hoards and masses, it seemed to be very apt.
Humming gently I wrote a few replies to my ongoing correspondance to Katherine, Nathalie, Marina, Anne and Una as gilmmering light of the oillamp flicered in the lagre mirror, turning everything more shadowy than usual, as August turned into September.
The mood in Petrograd was dangerous, the wheather was fine, dry cloudless and clear. The parlamentary elections of Provisonal Goverment were postponed, again. Mass speeches and large-scale rallies shook Petrograd, speakers from all walks of life frothed at the captive audiences, moderate liberals, constitutional democrats, and socialists, and some also tried to make connections with the Bolsheviks. The liberation from the tsar's rule had brought bread, but not enough change, and the city was buzzing like a quiet and large cauldron full of water, which is slowly but surely heating to scalding hot.
I heard a rumor that rising Bolshevik politician would be speaking from the balcony of the town house of Krezenskaya, the owner of the house, the celebrated ballet dancer had fled in February, leaving the house at the mercy of the conquerors, all its beautiful, aesthetic, for politicians, red banners, their black leather jackets to hang on the stairs, and muddy boots, to tramble carpets and shatter the crystals.
On a beautiful wide wrought-iron and glass balcony, stood a short bald mustached man, dressed in a modest but good-quality suit.
The crowd whispered that he was Ulyanov, his partyname was Lenin, and he was purpoted to be one of the best speakers in the Bolshevik Party, along with Trotsky.
I listened as this man, whom no one on the street would look at twice, as he spoke simply and convincingly about the conditions prevailing, the war and the shortage of bread, and the propaganda of the bourgeoisie, and the corruption of the remnants of the ruling regime that was still visible throughout Petrograd. The speech continued fiercely, and the people around me nodded.
I looked at the man once more, and I turned my back on the new future he was building and walked to the Mariinsky, to practice while they were still being held. I did not like that Lenin's way of talking about bourgeois pollution, at all.
The silence in my home was deep and downy and lonely, so I went to the piano and started to play as Zvezda jumped at shadows in my feet, her claws sharp in my ankles and calves. Music echoed, it glimmered like raindrops on roses and when I had finished the night had fallen and everywhere was still.
I felt deeply that the whole month of September were full of silent threat, it was not known what would happen in next months.
October came, and with it the lush and clear, sky was bright gray-blue and the water of Neva like a shimmering silvered mirror. On the morning of October 25, I woke up to the fact that posters had been glued, pasted everywhere during the night, calling for the overthrow of the provisional government and the transfer of all power to the councils, to the soviets.
That same evening I was in Mariinsky, not performing but watching ballet,Tchaikovsky's music glowed, The Nutcracker and Eros choreographed by Mikhail Fokin, the music was also Tchaikovsky's Serenade for string orchestra. The audience around me was restless all exchanging the latest news, and evening newspapers ran along the lines, hovering slowly along the lines like white swans. The atmosphere was extremely tense and waiting, the assumption being that the Bolsheviks might attack the Ermitage, where the provisional government was still sitting, ineffective and paralyzed. As the performance began and the first chords echoed a spectacular shot was heard, everyone jumped from their seats. The crusader Aurora had fired the shot, the attack had begun, and the Bolsheviks captured government officials.
In next few days I heard rumours that there was to be a new culture minister who, should decide the new age of arts, in these still tremulous times, despite the February victory and the coup in October, there still was a war on, and mass casualites mounted, and people demanded peace.
The atmosphere was extremely tense. It seemed as if the people were divided, into those who were in favor of a new government and a new future, and into those who were waiting and seeing what was to come, or opposed the new regime with alacrity.
Personally, I was in a state of great uncertainty, for what art form like Ballet and Opera would most reflect the depravity of old times, like Mariinsky, in their world wiew.
I heard someone whisper on the street, "I don't think the current administration will stay up for more than two weeks. Soon they will be hanged on ornate balconies." A couple of days after that coup at Ermitage, Petrograd theaters stopped working in protest against the government of Lenin and Lunastarski.
Month turned, vivid and chaotic October to bleak and grizzly November. There was now civil war raging around Russia, the country was being divided into two to Reds and Whites and various different frontlines and alliances. The White resistance consisted not only of monarchists, but also of various counter-revolutionary factions across Russia and large numbers of volunteers, but the officers were partly monarchist, in that they wanted to reverse the Russian historical clock backwards to pre-1917 as the Tsar as the anointed representative of God on earth and the main force behind the movement was the cruel sword of vengeance.
Most of my companions were intelligentisia and artistis, they were opposed to this current regime, but at the same time some of them saw the larger opportunities to get culture in the masses such as open and free lecture halls, discussions of various subjects, effort to improve of illtiteracy, and education.
I saw the appeal of bolshevik rethoric to the wide masses, for the message was simple, communist propaganda, they were told what they wanted to hear, what they had tried to fight under the previous regime, to no avail. I was afraid, for I had seen Lenin and heard his virulent speech against my class as it were.
The former imperial family was still under house arrest in Tsarskoye Selo, or maybe not. Admittedly, I wondered why Britain, for example, did not accept them as refugees but the family crouched in the midst of its former glory of ever-tightening restrictions, apparently they were forbidden to walk to a nearby church, perhaps the the persons in charge were afraid of conspiracies and liberation plans?
One day in early evening in December I walked home from Mariinsky in the light snowfall. I had cleaned various bags of supplies that had accumulated there over the years, broken ribbons, make-up brushes, old costume patterns, manuscripts, and so on, and replenished my tea and biscuit store, in a tin box.
I noticed a flaming headline on a magazine and handed the change to the magazine vendor. I folded the magazine and speeded up my steps, the snow came really smoothly, large sticky flakes that piled up on the ground as deceptive blanket and made it difficult to walk fast.
Finally at home I made steaming hot tea, and settled in the divan to read.
The magazine was of communist make, its name was Krasnaya Gazeta and it wrote of the prevailing conditions in virulent style:
"The bourgeoisie builds the most fantastic desires on ridiculous rumors, and wherever these fat cats meet, there is talk of those desires."
When I read that colum I hit the ivory keyboards, once and twice played angry scale, then folded the magazine among the others to be burned, next to my logpile and gave Zvezda a large dose of food. Then I dressed in my new dark blue silk and walked upstairs, as it was a salon night.
At Zinaida Nikolaevas people talked, argued and enjoyed the refreshments and the atmosphere. I noticed that a little mustachioed man was watching me for a long time. I had performed earlier in the evening, and soon it would be my turn for the second performance.
The man walked to me and he told me in confidental wishper: "now it is so mademoiselle that Lenin hates Petrograd, the city is imperial and bureaucratic, and its intelligentsia is an unnecessary, invertebrate liberal force, full of counter-revolutionary feelings and plots. So I would suggest that you pack your little dresses away and emigrate and soon."
I looked at the man for a long and quiet moment, I felt my pulse pounding fiercely, and I knew I was pale and bloodless, then with an enourmous effort I straightened my back and, with a empty smile, handed him a new glass of champagne, and the man nodded at me and dissapeared into mingling mass.
I sung the wistful, emotive aria of Neddas Qual flamme avea nel guardo, from Leoncavallios Pagliacci. The two act opera is highy emotive tragedy of acting troupes inner conflicts. In the aria Nedda ponders of her secret love and the reason of her husbands potential of jelously and rage, natures mysteries, and gentle flying birds, in the sky that always bring solace to her. There were a lot of high notes, and my voice glittered performance calmed my frazzeld nerves down after that man´s sudden and unheard of suggestion.
Afterwards I noticed that Zinaida Nikolaevna was writing something intently, and I wondered what it was, as she usually didn't write anything on salon nights, too much fuss and constant interruptions, but then I noticed it was her diary, or the volume I imagined to be one.
After finishing writing Zinaida Nikolaeva came to me, rose water and powder surrounded us, like a light cloud and she said in pursuit of lightness,"the times are difficult, and very fatal, you will notice that Blok has not been here for a long time, we have burned our mutual bridges, and that poem, the Twelve, well the less it is talked about the better. Do you drink another glass with me?"
She smiled lightly at me, and suddenly looked very cat-like, narrow and slender, with a pink mist-like scarf on her shoulders, and a long pink dress hem stretching on the shiny parquet.
I looked out from the large windows, curtained with handmade lace. The reddish dawn glimmered like frozen diamonds, frost weaved ice flowers in the windows, and the house of Dom Muruzi, looked like a frozen pink cake, that was buried under snowdrifts.
A/N
Here is an accelerated overview of some events that happened during the autumn and winter of 1917-1918 in Russia. The civil war begun in November 1917, it was long and drawn out conflict with multi-sided frontlines, and alliances. It totally reworked the map of then Russia, lots of new nations formed its aftermath or gained independnce, and Ukraine was one of them, Слава Україні!
Двена́дцать,(1918) The Twelve, is a controversial long poem by Blok, it is know to be one of the first poetic responses to the October Revolution of 1917.