Natasha's Dance (59 page)

    ’Where to? It’s obvious where to - home, if things are that bad. If things are like that, there’s a lot to be put in order.’

    ’But you’ll do yourself real harm, Vasily Dmitrich. I’m surprised that you even got here at all. Stay here, I beg you.’

    ’No, Brother Kapiton Timofeich, if I’m going to die, I’ll die at home. If I died here, God knows what a mess there’d be at home.’
¹³⁸

    The same peasant attitudes were noted by Tolstoy in
Three Deaths
(1856), by Leskov in
The Enchanted Pilgrim
(1873), by Saltykov-Shchedrin in
Old Days in Poshekhonie
(1887) and by practically every major Russian writer thereafter, so that in the end the stoicism of the peasants assumed the status of a cultural myth. This was the form in which it was repeated by Alexander Solzhenitsyn in
Cancer Ward
(1968), in the scene in which Yefrem remembers how ‘the old people used to die back home on the Kama’.

    They didn’t puff themselves up or fight against it or brag that they were going to die - they took death calmly. They didn’t shirk squaring things up, they prepared themselves quietly and in good time, deciding who should have the mare, who the foal, who the coat and who the boots, and they departed easily, as if they were just moving into a new house. None of them would be scared by cancer. Anyway, none of them got it.
¹³⁹

    But attitudes like this were not just literary invention. They were documented in the memoir sources, medical reports and ethnographic studies of the nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries.
¹⁴⁰
Some put down the peasants’ resignation to a serf-like fatalism in which death was viewed as a release from suffering. When they talked about their lot, the peasants often referred to the afterlife as a ‘kingdom of liberty’ where their ancestors lived in ‘God’s freedom’.
¹⁴¹
This was the idea behind Turgenev’s
Sketches,
in the story ‘Living Relic’, where a sick peasant woman yearns for death to end her suffering. Like many of her class, she believes that she will be rewarded for her suffering in Heaven and this makes her unafraid to die. Others explained such peasant fatalism as a form of self-defence. Death was such a common fact of village life that, to a degree, the peasant must have become hardened towards it. In a society where nearly half the children died before the age of five there had to be some way of coping with the grief. Doctors often noted that the parents of a village child would not react emotionally to its death, and in many of the poorest regions, where there were too many mouths to feed, women would even thank

    God for taking it away.
¹⁴²
There were peasant proverbs to advance the view that ‘It’s a good day when a child dies’.
¹⁴³
Infanticide was not uncommon, especially at times of economic hardship, and with children who were illegitimate it was practically the norm.
¹⁴⁴

    The desperate peasant woman in
The Brothers Karamazov
who has lost her boy is told by Zosima that God has taken him and given him the rank of an angel. In peasant Russia it was generally believed, in the words of a villager from Riazan province, that ‘the souls of little children go straight up to heaven’.
¹⁴⁵
Such thoughts must have been of real comfort. For the peasantry believed in a universe where the earth and spirit worlds were intimately linked in one continuum. The spirit world was a constant presence in their daily lives, with demons and angels at every turn. The fortunes of the souls of their kin were a matter of the highest importance. There were good and bad spirits in the Russian peasant world, and how a person died determined whether his spirit would also be good or bad. The peasant thought it was essential to prepare for death, to make the dying comfortable, to pray for them, to end all arguments with them, to dispose properly of their property, and to give them a Christian burial (sometimes with a candle and a bread ladder to help them on their way) in order that their souls could rise up peacefully to the spirit world.
¹⁴⁶
Those who died dissatisfied would return to haunt the living as demons or diseases. Hence, in many places it became the custom to bury murder victims, those who died by suicide or poisoning, deformed people and sorcerers and witches outside the boundaries of the cemetery.

    During a severe harvest failure it was even known for the peasants to exhume the corpses of those whose evil spirits were thought to be to blame.
¹⁴⁷
In the peasant belief system the spirits of the dead led an active life. Their souls ate and slept, they felt cold and pain, and they often came back to the family household, where by custom they took up residence behind the stove. It was important to feed the dead. All sorts of food would be left around the house where the spirit of the dead was believed to remain for forty days. Water and honey were mandatory, in popular belief, but vodka, too, was often left out to prepare the soul for its long journey to the other world. In some places they left money out, or placed it in the grave, so that the spirit of the dead person could buy land in the next world to feed itself.
¹⁴⁸

    At set times of the year, but especially at Easter and Pentecost, it was important for the family to give remembrance to the dead and feed their souls, in graveside picnics, with ritual breads and pies and decorated eggs. Breadcrumbs would be scattered on the graves to feed the birds - symbols of the souls that rose up from the ground and flew around the village during Easter time - and if the birds arrived it was taken as a sign that the spirits of the dead were alive and well.
¹⁴⁹
Dostoevsky was borrowing from this ancient custom in
The Brothers Karamazov
when he made Ilyusha, the dying little boy, ask his father to scatter bread around his grave ‘so that the sparrows may fly down, and I shall hear and it will cheer me up not to be lying alone’.
¹⁵⁰
The Russian grave was much more than a place of burial. It was a sacred site of social interchange between the living and the dead.

    One of the last utterances Tolstoy made, as he lay dying in the stationmaster’s little house at Astapovo, was ‘What about the peasants? How do peasants die?’ He had thought a lot about the question, and had long believed that the peasants died in a different way from the educated classes, a way that showed they knew the meaning of their lives. The peasants died accepting death, and this was the proof of their religious faith. Tolstoy meant to die in that way, too.
¹⁵¹
Many years before, he had written in his diary: ‘When I am dying I should like to be asked whether I still see life as before, as a progression towards God, an increase of love. If I should not have the strength to speak, and the answer is yes, I shall close my eyes; if it is no, I shall look up.’
¹⁵²
No one thought of asking him the question at the moment of his death, so we shall never know how he crossed the frontier which had brought him so much agony and so much doubt. There was no reconciliation with the Church, despite Tolstoy’s flight to Optina. The Holy Synod tried to win him back and even sent one of the Optina monks to Astapovo, where Tolstoy became stranded, too ill to go on, after he had left the monastery. But the mission failed - none of Tolstoy’s family would even let the monk see the dying man - and so in the end the writer was denied a Christian burial.
¹⁵³

    But if the Church refused to say a mass for the dead man, the people said one for him in another way. Despite the attempts of the police to stop them, thousands of mourners made their way to Yasnaya Polyana, where amid scenes of national grief that were not to be found on the

    death of any Tsar, Tolstoy was buried in his favourite childhood spot. It was a place in the woods where, many years before, his brother Nikolai had buried in the ground a magic stick on which he had written the secret about how eternal peace would come and evil would be banished from the world. As Tolstoy’s coffin was lowered into the ground, the mourners started singing an ancient Russian chant, and someone shouted, in defiance of the police who had been instructed to impose the Church’s excommunication of the writer to the end, ‘On your knees! Take off your hats!’
¹⁵⁴
Everyone obeyed the Christian ritual and, after hesitating for a moment, the police kneeled down too and removed their caps.

    overleaf:
Scythian figures: late nineteenth-century archaeological engraving

    Before he turned to art Kandinsky thought he might become an anthropologist. As a student reading law at Moscow University, he had fallen ill in his final year, and to recuperate he had set off on a trip to the remote Komi region, 800 kilometres north-east of Moscow, to study the beliefs of its Finno-Ugric tribes. Travelling by train as far as Vologda, where the railway stopped, he then sailed east along the Sukhona river, entering the forests of ‘another world’, as he recalled, where the people still believed in demons and spirits. Anthropologists had long marked out the Komi region as a meeting point between Christianity and the old shamanic paganism of the Asiatic tribes. It was a ‘wonderland’ where ‘the people’s every action is accompanied by secret magic rituals’.
¹
The trip left an indelible impression on Kandinsky. The shamanism he discovered there became one of the major inspirations for his abstract art.
²
‘Here I learned how to look at art’, he would later write - ‘how to turn oneself around within a painting and how to live in it.’
³

    Kandinsky’s journey east was a journey back in time. He was looking for the remnants of the paganism which Russian missionaries had described in that region from medieval times. There were ancient records of the Komi people worshipping the sun, the river and the trees; of frenzied whirling dances to summon up their spirits; and there were legendary tales about the Komi shamans who beat their drums and flew off on their horse-sticks to the spirit world. Six hundred years of church-building had given no more than a gloss of Christianity to this Eurasian culture. The Komi people had been forcibly converted to the Christian faith by St Stephan in the fourteenth century. The area had been colonized by Russian settlers for several hundreds years, and the culture of the Komi, from their language to their dress, bore a close resemblance to the Russian way of life.

    Ust-Sysolsk, the region’s capital, where Kandinsky lived for three summer months in 1889, looked much like any Russian town. It consisted of a small classical ensemble of administrative buildings in the centre of a sprawling settlement of log-built peasant huts. As Kandinsky did his fieldwork, recording the beliefs of the old people

    21.
Group of Komi people in typical clothing,
c. 1912

    and looking for motifs of shamanistic cults in their folk art, he soon found traces of this ancient pagan culture concealed underneath the Russian one. None of the Komi would describe themselves as anything but Orthodox (at least not to someone from Moscow), and in their public rituals they had a Christian priest. But in their private lives, as Kandinsky ascertained, they still looked to the old shamans. The Komi