Byzantium Endures (32 page)

Above a black and barren sea ...

If ever I was going to develop a taste for modern poetry, I would have done so in Kolya’s company. Very late into the first night I found myself on the doorstep of my lodgings watching a carriage jogging off back towards the twinkle of the city while I fumbled for the bell. I was admitted by a desolate Madame Zinovieff who exclaimed about the state of my uniform and then, realising I was drunk, cried out that she had betrayed me and let me fall into bad company. I explained to her I had been dining with a famous Count and this, of course, mollified her a little. When I could not recall his name, she began to mutter and complain. She was not angry with me, but she had promised Mr Parrot I would come to no harm. She was responsible for my moral welfare. I assured her this was a unique occasion. I had had to accept the Count’s invitation. It would have been bad manners to have done otherwise.

She helped me to bed and out of my uniform. I fell asleep so heavily that if the next day had not been Sunday I should have missed school. I awoke with a hangover. A sense of depression was relieved when I discovered in one of the top pockets of my uniform jacket a screw of paper filled with two grams of the finest cocaine. A little of this snuffed into both nostrils and I was a new man. I was too late for breakfast, as a smiling, head-shaking Madame Zinovieff informed me, so I took one of my books on electrical engineering and enjoyed a glass or two of weak tea at a nearby café. I read the chapter on the Lundell Protected Ventilated Six-Pole Motor which even by that time was outmoded. The trouble with textbooks is that they tend to reflect what their writers learned twenty years before. This was for me, however, light reading compared to the abstractions I had been absorbing through most of the week. The chapter gave me some ideas for a development of the conventional hoisting-motors then coming into use on some battleships; this in turn led me to theorise about aeroplanes which could be launched from ships without needing a conventional runway. In that little café in Viborgskaya behind the Finland Station on a spring morning in 1916 I invented the modern aircraft carrier. It was nothing more than an exercise. When I had made my sketches and worked out all the mechanics involved, I crumpled up the paper and threw it away. Later I would return to the idea and make better plans, but it will give my readers some hint of how prolific I had become, how casually I had learned to treat advanced conceptions. I returned home for lunch and spent the afternoon studying the specifications of Waygood and Otis Electrical lifts with Rosenbusch Controllers, with a view to the building of an hydraulically operated deck which could be lowered when not in use and raised when the planes came in to land. I also developed a method of mooring airships at sea, also by means of electrical winches, so that the dirigibles could be towed until needed, then carry out bombing raids far beyond their expected range.

If I had taken my plans to the War Office or the Admiralty at that time, the whole course of the War would have changed. Russia would have emerged stronger and triumphant, a leader in modern military and engineering science, the greatest Power of her day. The British-converted tractors, the ‘tanks’, would have been as nothing compared to our airship-bombers and aircraft-carriers. I think I already guessed not only that the people who ran the ministries were corrupt or conservative, but that they were actively interested in making a separate peace with Germany. Had they been able, they would have capitulated eighteen months before the Bolsheviks gave away vast areas of our country. These were not recovered for years, in many cases not until after the Second World War when the old Russian boundaries were restored. In 1916 green and pink areas on the map represented the two largest empires the world has known. The Russians almost lost theirs through the agency of the Duma and the Jews. The British lost theirs through laziness, self-contempt and an exaggerated idea of the ability of savages to understand the principles of Christian decency. Two Empires have been destroyed forever. Only a few vestiges of their culture remain in corners of the world as yet uncorrupted by sentimental liberalism and a wish to placate at any cost the wily, unscrupulous Oriental.

* * * *

SEVEN

NOW I REACHED the most intense period of my whole creative life. During the week, I attended lectures. I read books years in advance of what was being taught on the official syllabus. In the early evenings I took the steam-tram home and made my own notes. Then, at around eight or nine at night and with some gesticulating and lip-pursing from Madame Zinovieff, I would join Kolya at his flat or at one of the cabarets we favoured. He would recite endless poetry in French, English, Russian and abominable German. I would tell him how a Zeppelin was constructed, or the principle allowing the tank to function, or how electricity is generated. I believe he sometimes paid as much attention to my lectures as I paid to his poetry. I had become a sort of mascot of the New Age for him, but he was always polite and never at any time was he rude and he would never allow anyone to offend me. At
The Scarlet Tango
and
The Wandering Dog
bohemian artists, foreigners, criminals, and the
crème de la crème
of revolutionaries who would soon be serving with Kerenski or Lenin, all met together to talk, to listen to music, to find sexual companionship and sometimes to fight. This particular admixture of experience was ideal for me. I at last discovered a source of women and Marya Varvorovna was forgotten. They were prepared to treat love as cheerfully as my Katya had treated it. I had male admirers and was flattered, but did not succumb to them. There were many girls or older ladies who found it exciting to quote the pornographic ravings of Mandelstam and Baudelaire at me, then take me to their wonderful beds. There I could lie upon silk. There I could wash myself with warm, perfumed water. I became increasingly self-confident again. I found it was possible to reduce the amount of my reading. Now there was hardly a field in which I was not profoundly conversant.

By the time the Summer Vacation came I was ready for a holiday. With Kolya, Hippolyte, a girl who called herself ’Gloria’, after the English fashion (though she was Polish), and a couple of ’poets’, we visited the Summer Gardens and broad quays of the Neva, took the rare steamer up the river, enjoyed picnics on the banks, or lunches at those magnificent wooden establishments on several floors, not unlike Swiss ski-lodges, which catered for the steamer-trade and by now were pleased to welcome any sort of customer.

Empty of the haut-monde, St Petersburg filled up with wounded soldiers and sailors, with nurses on leave from the Front who sought consolation in the arms of healthy civilians (there were all too few of us left). This wealth of femininity even distracted agitators like Lunarcharsky, who became Commissar of Education under Lenin, or Onipko, the notorious anarchist, who had helped spark the abortive 1905 revolution. For obvious reasons these were ineligible for the army. Happily, Kolya had few intimates in this latter group, though the proprietor of
The Wandering Dog
(one Boris Pronin who saw himself as a kind of Russian Rudolphe Salis, of
Chat Noir
fame), seemed only too pleased to welcome these incendiaries, bombs and all!

I should make it clear here that I was no hypocrite. I aired my own views frequently and often found others who supported me, particularly amongst the ‘Pan-Slavic’ group. Even those who disagreed seemed to treat me with the best possible humour. If I had not had the lesson of my father, I might have been caught up in their infantile enthusiasm for destruction and change. I drank absinthe in the company of beautiful whores. My compatriots were revolutionaries, vagabonds, poets. They nicknamed me The Professor or The Mad Scientist and bought me more wine and listened to me as few have listened to me since. These same people were to survive the Revolution only at the expense of their humour, their irony, their very souls. They became the grey men of Lenin and his successors. Some died early - Blok and Grin - and did not live to see the destructive consequences of their foolish hopes. Most, like Mandelstam, were to see all their visions decay, all their hope fade, all their courage and generosity become a weapon turned against them to insult and degrade them. This was, indeed, the last year of their Revolution, that year of 1916, for their enthusiasm lay in the dream of Utopia, not in the reality which was to trap me as much as it trapped them. I was lucky to escape. Some (Mayakovski, for instance) escaped only through suicide.

The Wandering Dog
was closed by the police, but the bohemian life continued. The War appeared to be improving and victories were reported. British armoured cars and Russian Cossacks plunged through the mud of Galicia and forced the Uhlans and the Austrian infantry to retreat. But bread became harder to obtain. The lines of miserable working people, their faces shaded by caps and shawls, as if in mourning, became familiar irritations: to the poets who spoke of the pathos of it, to the revolutionaries who foretold the risings, to the ordinary middle-class public, called in Russian slang the ‘boorzhoo’, who had become increasingly the prey of thieves robbing them of their groceries and their money. The War was draining us. They should have spent money on food and distributed it free. Then we might have averted Chaos. But the Tsar’s ministers were too obsessed with War, and the revolutionaries actually wanted people to starve so they would rise. The boorzhoo could think only of their own families; they had been called upon to give up everything to help with the War, to supply the soldiers at the Front. There is no need here to go into the whys and wherefores of the Revolution. Too many émigrés; too many historians; too many Bolshevik revisers-of-the-past have done that already. We have had a thousand versions of
Ten Days That Shook The World.
Perhaps we should have at least ten versions of
A Thousand Books That Bored The World.
I shall not add to all that. What happened, happened. We did not really believe it would happen, though so many warned of it. Poetry, when it becomes reality, rarely pleases anyone, least of all the poets.

Pronin opened a new establishment called
Prival Komendiantoff
(The Retreat of the Harlequinade). It is difficult to translate the exact sense of the name.
Comedian’s Halt,
perhaps. We all found it very appropriate and praised Pronin when he appeared, leading a mangy mongrel by a piece of ribbon (‘all that is left of the Dog’) and promising that this establishment would be even finer than the last. It was certainly more elaborate. Negro boys dressed to look as if they had come from the Court of Haroun-el-Raschid served at the tables. Murals of a blatantly radical nature covered the walls and ceilings. From the walls stared negro masks, the lighting issuing from their eye-sockets. The same negro band played the same raucous music whenever we were not having to listen to another new poet or ‘petite chanteuse’, or watching the posturings of some Pierrot mime while a horse-faced woman in a long purple dress droned on about the moon. Black female impersonators sang jazz songs. Female impersonators were the rage of Café Society. At odds with all this avant-gardism were girls in peasant costume; table-cloths made of bright peasant hand-woven fabrics; ‘folk-art’ ceramics, to remind us that this was, after all, Russia; that we were not Frenchmen or even Germans. The cellos groaned and the mime-artistes twisted their silly bodies into parodies of the human form. The jazz-band wailed. The little songstresses sang in tiny, toneless voices about the death of birds and mayflies. We talked and drank and whored. Sometimes it would be dawn before I (nowadays wearing a velvet jacket, red Ukrainian boots, riding trousers and a Cossack shirt) would stagger out into morning sunshine over the Field of Mars.

Here, colourful soldiers still paraded above the heads of our ‘menagerie’ which, as usual, was in a series of cellars. Hussars and streltsi trotted and marched in polished leather, in carefully brushed serge, in brass and gold braid, and we would wander past, some of us hardly able to stand, staring in astonishment at these vestiges of the old world. We would be moved along by policemen who seemed, more frequently, to share our attitudes. Futurists would pause in their constant bickerings with Acmeists (there were as many opposing artistic camps as there were political). Social Revolutionaries would stop in mid-sentence in an argument with Tolstoyans and watch open-mouthed as a band struck up or a column of blue-coated, red-hatted soldiers wheeled and turned to the sound of patriotic marches. I was infected by the general cynicism. I think there was hardly anyone in Petrograd by that time who was not. I think if we had stumbled out of
The Harlequinade
one morning and seen German troops parading, we should scarcely have noticed. If we had noticed we should not have cared. The artists would have announced the coming of the Germans as the first sign of a ‘new age’ in Art. The revolutionaries would have said this was a sure sign the people would rise up at any moment. The cynics would have said that German efficiency was better than Russian incompetence. And that would have been the end of it. We half-believed that this strange dream would continue until we all died the early, romantic deaths we expected to die in a sufficiently distant future. Nobody took anything very seriously, I think, except Kolya, who, with Tolstoi, had faith in the natural divinity of the human spirit. My faith was in the triumph of Man’s ingenuity over all the vicissitudes of nature, including human nature. Both of us, I am sure, were as guilty as everyone of adding to the rhetoric of despair. It was easy to be smart and drink champagne and toast the triumph of the working-class. One forgot the slow transformation taking place everywhere. St Petersburg, an unnatural city, easily blockaded, cut off from her supplies by virtue of her physical geography, pretended to herself she was not under siege and that Victory was a month or two away. By the autumn, when it seemed we were completely beaten, as we had been beaten by the Japanese at Port Arthur, the fashionable carriages were fewer than ever in the Nevski. Merchants and landowners saw Moscow as a safer wintering place than Peter. And Kolya, with some amusement, quoted Kipling, of whom he was also very fond;