Memories: From Moscow to the Black Sea

30

YEKATERINODAR was at this time our center, our White capital. And it really did have the air of a capital.

One glimpsed generals’ uniforms; one heard snatches of important conversations:

“I have ordered that…”

“The minister, however…”

“I shall issue a severe reprimand, without delay.”

Typewriters. Officials. Ordinary buildings now housing government institutions…

Unexpectedly, I received a letter from Novorossiisk—a request from the ship I had abandoned. I was being asked to go in person to the naval authorities and petition them to allow the Shilka to set sail for Vladivostok.

I cannot bear any kind of government institution or bureaucratic formality. Even just going to the post office to pick up an innocent registered letter has an unfortunate effect on me. The businesslike look on the face of the official asking for my signature instantly makes me forget the date, the year, and my own surname. You’re allowed to ask about the date, and if you look around you can sometimes spot the year on a wall calendar—but if you have to think about your own surname, the official will refuse to hand you the letter.

But I had no choice. I wanted to do our dear Shilka a good turn, and the thought of sailing east was appealing. Until now fate had only driven us straight down the map. Why shouldn’t we go sideways for a change?

I asked where the naval authorities were now housed and set off.

I was directed to a tall gentleman with a bright ginger beard. I no longer remember his name, only that he had ginger hair, that he was very courteous, and that his naval authority was considerable.

He didn’t ask me the date and he already knew my name, so I was able to babble out the Shilka’s request quite spiritedly.

He paused for a moment, then surprised me by saying, “Tell me, what makes you so eager to drown? Captain Ryabinin has made this request before. We refused it. The Shilka is a small vessel, and Captain Ryabinin has never sailed to Vladivostok. He’ll send you to the bottom of the sea.”

I defended the Shilka. So what if she wasn’t so very big? That hadn’t stopped her from reaching the Black Sea. And where had she sailed from? Vladivostok!

“We see that as a happy accident unlikely to repeat itself. If she makes the journey again, she’s sure to be caught in a typhoon.”

It didn’t feel right to explain that for me personally this would be the most interesting part of the journey. I only said I was certain that the Shilka could cope with any storms or typhoons.

The naval authority laughed. He did not share my confidence.

“It would be the end of the Shilka. Your Captain Ryabinin is a brave man, but we cannot permit such madness.”

I sent a sad telegram to the Shilka and gave up my attempts to intervene.

The rehearsals and the two evenings took up three or four days. Throughout this period I stayed with the impresario.

He was a very sweet man of French descent who had retained only one custom from his forgotten homeland: If roast chicken was being served, he liked to carve it himself, at the table.

Several months previously he had married a young actress from his company. She had quickly fattened up from her new life of plenty and had left the stage. Plump, pink, and sleepy, she flounced about in extravagant muslin frills, called her husband “Papa” and talked like a doll: “Pa-pa! Baby wants watermelon! Pa-pa!”

The house was always full. There were actors, actresses, and critics, and there were always people staying on for one meal or another. It was noisy, convivial, and chaotic. There was little talk of politics. People who had to return to Moscow, and who were free to return, mingled with people who knew they could never return. Not that anyone really knew anything anyway—it seemed easier to leave the understanding and decision-making to those of a more activist disposition. In this little artistic bohemia, people lived purely for their professional pursuits. Probably everyone was simply too frightened to give any real thought to what was going on around them.

More and more people kept appearing. By hook or by crook, new troupes of actors were constantly finding their way through from the north.

An elderly theater critic arrived. He had sent a telegram saying he was unwell and asking for a room to be made ready for him. Someone booked him into a hotel and two tenderhearted actresses went to the station to meet him.

“Everything’s ready,” they told him. “We’ve even ordered you a bath!”

“A bath?” repeated the now frightened critic. “Is my condition really so very serious?”

The actresses were embarrassed.

“No, no, of course not! It’s just so you can have a good wash after your dreadful journey.”

The critic smiled condescendingly.

“If that’s all there is to it, my dears, then I have to say that a bath is not something for which I feel any particular need.”

The two people I most remember from this motley crew are the silent cinema star Osip Runich and the comic actor and light opera singer Alexander Koshevsky[133]—a tragic individual who was always imagining himself to be mortally ill. Even as he was piling a third helping onto his plate, he would say despairingly, “Yes, I know my loss of appetite is most suspicious. Undoubtedly an early symptom of meningitis…”

He had an interesting wife, about whom one actress said, “She’s from a very interesting family. Apparently Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov is modeled on her auntie.”

Then the day came. They were putting on three of my little skits; the actresses were also going to read some of my short stories, sing a few of my songs, and recite some poems.

The impresario insisted that I read too. I fought long and hard, but in the end I was forced to yield.

Our actresses were getting excited. One after another they were rushing up to me and asking if I would allow them to do my makeup for me before I appeared on stage.

“What are you going to read?” they kept asking.

“I haven’t yet made up my mind.”

“What? I don’t believe it!”

In the evening, with much squealing, shrieking, and shouting, the house’s entire population hurried off to the theater. I decided to go a little later.

I quietly got dressed and went out.

It was a still night; the sky was dark and studded with stars. This made my soul too feel strangely still.

There are moments when threads snap—all the threads that tie what is earthly in the soul to the earth itself. Your nearest and dearest become infinitely distant, barely even a memory. Even the events in your past that once mattered most to you grow dim. All of the huge and important thing we call life fades away and you become that primordial nothing out of which the universe was created.

So it was on that night—the black, empty, round earth and the boundless starry sky. And me.

How long this moment lasted I can’t say. I was brought back by the sound of voices: People were walking past, talking loudly about the theater. And I remembered everything. This, I remembered, was my evening. I was going to have to hurry. I seemed to have wandered a long way—beside me I could see a bright strip of water and some little black walkways.

“Please! For the love of God!” I called out. “Which way is the theater?”

Someone told me.

I hurried off, clacking my heels on the pavement, so I could hear that I had returned to my ordinary everyday life.

Backstage there is much excitement and bustle.

“Denikin’s here![134] It’s a full house.”

From the wings I can see the front rows. Gold and silver lace, the glint of uniforms—true splendor.

This splendid hall is laughing and applauding. The laughter even spreads backstage.

Then I hear calls of “Author! Author!”

More bustle backstage. “Author! Where’s the author?”

“Where’s the author?” I repeat like an automaton. “Where’s the author? Oh my God! It’s my own play! I’m the author!”

What would my dear impresario make of all this? What if he knew what a strange creature he has invited to his theater! A normal author would have been a bundle of nerves all through the day. A normal author would be saying things like, “Feel my hands—they’re like ice!” And what do I do? I cultivate a state of cosmic non-being—and then, when the audience calls for me, I ask with calm curiosity, “Where’s the author?”

Yet he’ll be paying me as if I were a proper, sensible author!

“Get on stage!” yells the director.

I quickly put on a carefree smile, take hold of the hands stretched toward me and join the actors on stage to take my bow.

My last bow to a Russian audience on Russian soil.

Farewell, my last bow…