Cultural Amnesia (4 page)

Anna Akhmatova

Peter Altenberg

Louis Armstrong

Raymond Aron

ANNA AKHMATOVA

Born in Odessa, educated in Kiev and launched into poetic immortality as the beautiful incarnation
of pre-revolutionary Petersburg, Anna Akhmatova (1889–1966) was the most famous Russian poet of her time, but the time was out of joint. Before the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917, Anna
Andreyevna Gorenko, called Akhmatova, already wore the Russian literary world’s most glittering French verbal decorations: her work was avant-garde, and in person she was a femme
fatale. Love for her broken-nosed beauty was a common condition among the male poets, one of whom, Nikolay Gumilev, she married. After the Revolution, Gumilev was one of the new
regime’s first victims among the literati: the persecution of artists, still thought of today as a Stalinist speciality, began under Lenin. Later on, under Stalin, Akhmatova included a
reference to Gumilev’s fate in the most often quoted part of her poem “Requiem.” (“Husband dead, son in gaol / Pray for me.”) In the last gasp of the Tsarist era
she had known no persecution worse than routine incomprehension for her impressionistic poetry and condemnation by women for her effect on their men. The Russia of Lenin and Stalin made her
first a tragic, then an heroic, figure. After 1922 she was condemned as a
bourgeois element and severely restricted in what she could publish. After World War II, in 1946,
she was personally condemned by Andrey Zhdanov, Stalin’s plug-ugly in charge of culture. She was allowed to publish nothing new, and everything she had ever written in verse form was
dismissed as “remote from socialist reconstruction.” Her prestige abroad helped to keep her alive at home, but also ensured that her life could never be comfortable: the security
police were always on her case. In the 1950s she was rehabilitated to the extent that a censored edition of her collected poems was officially published. (“Requiem” was among the
poems missing: Isaiah Berlin, who visited her in Moscow in 1946, was correct when he predicted that it would never be published in Russia as long as the Soviet Union lasted.) Unofficially,
however, her work had always circulated, whether in samizdat or, in that peculiarly Russian tribute to greatness, from mouth to mouth, by memory. Akhmatova was the embodiment of the Russian
liberal heritage that the authoritarians felt bound to go on threatening long after it had surrendered. As such, she was an inspiring symbol, but when a poet becomes better known than her
poems it usually means that she is being sacrificed, for extraneous reasons, on the altar of her own glory. In Akhmatova’s case, the extraneous reasons were political. It should be a
mark of reasonable politics that a woman like her is not called upon to be a heroine.

This lyrical wealth of Pushkin . . .

—ANNA AKHMATOVA,
“PUSHKIN’S ‘STONE GHOST’”

S
OME LANGUAGES ARE
inherently more beautiful than others, and Russian is among the most beautiful of all. For anyone learning Russian, a phrase like “lyrical wealth” comes singing out of the page like a
two-word aria from an opera by Moussorgsky. I noted it down as a soon as I saw it. In 1968 the West German publishing house that called itself Inter-Language Literary Associates produced a
magnificent
two-volume collection of Akhmatova’s works in verse and prose. I bought those books in London in 1978, when I was in my first stage of learning to read the
language. I never got to the last stage, or anywhere near it: but I did reach the point where I could read an essay without too much help from the dictionary. (Memo to any student making a raid
on the culture of another language: essays are always the easiest way in.) Reading Akhmatova’s essays, it was soon apparent that she would have been an excellent full-time critic of
literature if she had been given permission. But of course she wasn’t, which brings us immediately to the point.

If the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution had never happened, the cafés of Petersburg and Moscow would
probably have dominated this book. Petersburg, in particular, would have rivalled Vienna. (If the Nazis had never come to power, Vienna and Berlin would have continued to rival Paris, but
that’s another matter, although one we are bound to get to soon enough.) The Russian cultural upsurge in the years before the Revolution was so powerful that after the Revolution it took a
while to slow down. (In the emigration, it never slowed down, but it did thin out as time went on: whereas Diaghilev was a whole movement in the arts, Balanchine’s influence was confined to
the ballet, and Nureyev and Baryshnikov, though they could create contexts, did so mainly for themselves—wonderful as they both were, they were just dancers.) Largely because the new regime
took some time to purge itself of apparatchiks with a taste for the artistically vital, the Revolution, inheriting an unprecedented cultural efflorescence, spent its first decade or so looking
like the benevolent guardian of a realized dream. Left-leaning culturati in the West were able to fool themselves for decades afterwards that a totalitarian regime had somehow opened up new
possibilities for making art a political weapon in the eternal struggle to free the people’s creative will. The dazzle-painted agitprop trains and the snappily edited newsreels of Dziga
Vertov were seen as signs of vigour, which they were, and of truth, which they were not.

Among the Soviet Union’s apologists in the West, it was commonly supposed that, while the self-exiled Stravinsky no
doubt enjoyed his personal freedom, Prokofiev and Shostakovich gained from being thought important by the power that paid them, and that this putatively fruitful relationship between creativity
and a centralized state
had been established in the early years after the Revolution. In reality, the intelligentsia was already doomed, simply because Anatoly Lunacharsky, the
commissar for culture, wielded absolute power over the artists. He could wield it benevolently only with the indulgence of his superiors, which was withdrawn in 1929, the year the nightmare began
to unfold unmistakably even to those who had been carried away when they thought it was a dream. (Awareness could be fatal: Mayakovsky, the poet most famous for transmitting state policy through
works of art, shot himself not because he was mad, but because he was mad no longer—he had suddenly woken up to the dreadful fact that his creative enthusiasm had been used to cosmeticize
mass murder.)

Akhmatova, to her credit, had always tried to stay aloof from the Revolution. But the Revolution was never likely to pay
her the courtesy of staying aloof from her. As early as 1922, her poetry had been correctly identified as politically unhelpful, and she was forbidden to publish any more of it. The ban was
relaxed temporarily in 1940, but we need to remember that Akhmatova, as a poet, was never really allowed to function. She earned her living mainly from translation and journey-work in prose. (As
a consequence, a threat in 1947 to expel her from the Writers’ Union was tantamount to a sentence of death.) Praising Pushkin, as she did in the essay that mentioned his “lyrical
wealth,” was as close as she was allowed to get to saying something subversive. As it happened, it was permissible to place a value on a poet’s specifically poetic gifts as long as
the poet was accepted as exemplifying—or, in Pushkin’s case, heralding—the correct political direction. If she had been caught even thinking about the “lyrical
wealth” of, say, Osip Mandelstam, she would have been in even more trouble than usual. Osip Mandelstam had been murdered by Stalin in 1938. There had been a time when Osip, like most of the
male poets of his generation, had been in love with Akhmatova. She had returned his affection, much to the annoyance of his wife Nadezhda, who, in her essential book
Hope Against Hope
, can be found forgiving Akhmatova for alienating Osip’s affections. Nadezhda Mandelstam knew that the glamorous Akhmatova, like Tolstoy’s
Natasha Rostova, needed to be adored: she was a vamp by nature. If there had been no revolution, Akhmatova could have made her seductive nature her subject, in the manner of Edna St. Vincent
Millay but to even greater effect. History denied her
the opportunity to sublimate her frailties. It made her a heroine instead. There were crueller fates available in
Stalinist Russia, but that one was cruel enough.

What we have to grasp is that it needn’t have happened to her. History needn’t have been like
that. That’s what history is: the story of everything that needn’t have been like that. We also have to grasp that art proves its value by still mattering to people who have been
deprived of every other freedom: indeed instead of mattering less, it matters more. For the Russians, Akhmatova was iconic not just for what she had done, but for the majesty of what she had not
been allowed to do. An admirer of Akhmatova, the writer and intellectual Nina Berberova, left the Soviet Union in 1921, the very year that Gumilev was shot and Akhmatova was proscribed. Written
in her last years, Berberova’s delightful book about her life in the Russian emigration,
The Italics Are Mine
(1991), traces the whole tragically
fascinating experience of exile far into her old age (she died in America in 1993). In the book she tells the story of the Writers’ Library, the bookshop in Moscow where the books of the
old intelligentsia were traded for food after the Revolution. If there had been no revolution, the Writers’ Library would have gone on being one of the most enchanting bookshops in the
world. You could eat there, have a drink, write a poem, fall in love, and, above all, speak freely. It was a literary café. All too soon, there were no such places left in Russian cities.
There was nowhere to lead the life of the mind except the mind. That thought would reduce us to despair if it were not for the evidence that humanist values are real, not notional: they persist
even in conditions of calculated deprivation. 1947 was a particularly bad year for Akhmatova. Every effort was made to deprive her of almost everything except life. Yet she could call herself
rich. With Pushkin to read, she still had “lyrical wealth.” The belief that such wealth is our real and inextinguishable fortune is the belief behind this book.