03 December 2014
Nikolai Berdyaev and Lenin’s ‘Philosophy Steamer’
On 28 September 1922, a German steamer called the Oberbürgermeister Haken left Petrograd for Germany carrying a cargo of prominent Russian philosophers, scientists and other members of the intelligentsia. Six weeks later a second followed. Nearly two hundred intellectuals were expelled on these ‘philosophers’ ships’ taking what books and possessions they could carry. It was, as numerous historians recall, the culmination of one of Lenin’s last major campaigns before the series of strokes which would marginalise him politically and then, in 1924, kill him.
The ‘philosophers’ ship’ Oberbürgermeister Haken (image from Wikimedia commons).
The most famous figure to be exiled in this way was the Christian-existentialist philosopher Nikolai Berdyaev (Berdiaev). Once a Marxist and briefly a member of the Union of Liberation (Soiuz Osvobozhdeniia), Berdyaev had nevertheless become bitterly opposed to the Bolsheviks, writing that:
The Russian revolution has turned to be a consistent application of Russian nihilism, atheism, and materialism – a vast experiment based on the denial of all absolute spiritual elements in personal and social life… (‘Kto vinovat?’ (Who is to be blame?) in Russkaia svoboda, N 18, 1917. Pp. 3-9 – British Library P.P.4842.dca; translation from Donald Alexander Lowrie, Rebellious Prophet. A Life of Nicolai Berdyaev, p. 146)
Nikolai Berdyaev (eproduced in the English translation of his ‘essay in autobiography’, Dream and Reality (London, 1950) 010790.i.84.
Berdyaev’s public criticism of the regime had aroused the attention of the secret police, which included him in a list of 186 ‘anti-Soviet intellectuals’. He was arrested on the night of the 16th and, after a week in prison, released pending his deportation. Though he was not treated cruelly during this time, he was hurt badly by the idea of leaving for Germany.
In 1921 Russia’s civil war had ended, and although the Red Army had been victorious the Bolsheviks remained poised for a further outbreak of war. Dissident intellectuals were seen as a potential threat to be exploited by the enemies of the Bolsheviks. In this light Trotsky argued in favour of the expulsion in an interview with the American journalist Louise Bryant (published in Izvestiia, 30 August, 1922, p.1 ), comparing the case to that of the Socialist Revolutionary Party:
Recently you witnessed the trial of the [Socialist Revolutionaries], who, during the Civil War were the agents of foreign governments fighting against us. The court judged them as warranting the death penalty. Your press, for the most part, conducted a despairing campaign against our cruelty. Had we got the idea straight after October to the send the SR gentlemen abroad we could have saved ourselves from being called cruel. (Translation from Lesley Chamberlain, The Philosophy Steamer: Lenin and the Exile of the Intelligentsia, p. 121).
While the Bolsheviks sought to rationalize and Europeanize Russian society, many of the expelled intellectuals were idealists and religious adherents wedded to a more traditional Russia. For the Bolsheviks, the spirituality of the old intellectual classes was fundamentally opposed to the rationality of the new workers’ state. Berdyaev in particular was critical of their zealotry for modernity, attacking the way that socialists
… take over from bourgeois capitalist society its materialism, its atheism, its cheap prophets, its hostility against the spirit and all spiritual life, its restless striving for success and amusement, its personal selfishness, its incapacity for interior recollection. (Novoe srednevekov’e: Razmyshlenie o sud’be Rossii i Evropy. (Berlin, 1924; 8094.bbb.42) English translation from: Lewis Owens, ‘Metacommunism: Kazanzakis, Berdyaev and “The New Middle Age”’, Slavic and East European Journal vol. 45, no. 3 , p. 436)
As such, he looked forward to the start of a ‘new middle age’ of spiritual rebirth. After his deportation, Berdyaev lived in Berlin, where he and other exiles founded the Russian Scientific Institute, of which he served as the Dean, as well as the Religious-Philosophical Academy, before moving to France. He died in 1948 without seeing his country again. Had he stayed in Stalin’s Russia, it is unlikely that he would have survived the purges of the 1930s.
Mike Carey, Collaborative Doctoral Award Student
Bibliography
Lesley Chamberlain, The Philosophy Steamer: Lenin and the Exile of the Intelligentsia (London, 2007) YK.2007.a.12891.
Paul R. Gregory, ‘The Ship of Philosophers: How the Early USSR Dealt with Dissident Intellectuals’, Independent Review, vol. 13 no. 4 (Spring, 2009), 485-92.
Donald Alexander Lowrie, Rebellious Prophet. A Life of Nicolai Berdyaev (New York, 1960) 10865.bb.24.
Lewis Owens, ‘Metacommunism: Kazantzakis, Berdyaev and “The New Middle Age”, Slavic and East European Journal vol. 45, no. 3 (Autumn, 2001), 431-50. PP.8005.aa.
20 November 2014
A postmodern ‘War and Peace’
During the summer I attended a cinema relay of a new production of Prokofiev’s opera War and Peace based on Tolstoy’s novel, broadcast live from the Mariinsky II Theatre, St Petersburg. Today's anniversary of Tolstoy's death (on 20 November 1910) seems an apt moment to reflect on this. The performance, conducted by Valery Gergiev, was directed by Graham Vick with set designs by Paul Brown. In Vick’s second production of War and Peace we are offered a postmodern version of the work with references to both early 19th century Russia and to a modern world of dissolution and drug-taking. The costumes range from 19th century military and court dress to modern designer label jackets and jeans.
Vick’s angle in this production is to show the penetration of elements of war into the “Peace” section of the opera and vice versa. Thus in the first part tanks move across the stage while the chorus are dancing in period costume with the addition of gas masks; and in the second part (entitled War) a board with the word “mir” (peace) is on the stage all the time (as if it were a goal to aim for). The treatment of war in the second part is generalised to include references not only to the Napoleonic wars but also to the First and Second World War s, the invading forces having elements of both German and French uniforms and helmets. The production also includes film clips of 20th century wars.
The treatment of the military leaders is interesting: while Napoleon changes from his imperial costume to modern dress, Kutuzov wears a similar period costume to the one worn in Vick’s earlier production in 1991 (he is also played by the same singer). Though, unlike the previous one, this Kutuzov goes out and fraternizes with the audience in a Brechtian fashion. Throughout there is a juxtaposition of the extremely colourful, conveying an intense feeling for life, and a more austere black and white, evoking a feeling of spiritual desolation. One striking use of colour is the yellow screen above a modern washroom. (You can see some images from the production here)
The relay also gave us an opportunity to experience the inside of the new Mariinsky II theatre with its splendid interior and acoustics. The vocal and orchestral performances of this performance under Gergiev were up to the Mariinsky’s usual high standard. I do hope this production will be released on DVD to complement Vick’s already highly valued earlier production. If you are interested in Tolstoy and music take a look at the British Library web pages written for the centenary of Tolstoy’s death in 2010. These include sections on Tolstoy’s attitude towards music and contemporary composers together with lists of musical adaptations of Tolstoy’s works (scores and recordings held by the British Library). They also include information on early and rare editions of Tolstoy’s works held by the British Library.
Peter Hellyer, Curator Russian Studies
Portrait of Tolstoy, 1880s. British Library Add. MS 52772 f.120.
12 November 2014
“Cursed orthography”: Revolution, Language and Identity
Writing in his diary in spring 1919, the Nobel Prize-winning Russian writer Ivan Bunin bitterly condemned the Izvestia newspaper’s use of what he called “Bolshevik orthography”. Introduced after the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution, the Russian orthographic reform of 1917-1918 streamlined the written Russian language to its current form. Yet while the reform was introduced by the Bolsheviks, changes to the orthography had been discussed, and even endorsed, by leading academic authorities long before the revolution.
Russian First World War propaganda poster entitled “Wilhelm's Nightmare” (Moscow, 1914). H.S.74/273.(24).
From the Bolsheviks’ perspective, the aim of the reform was to improve literacy among Russian speakers, including speakers of Russian as a second language, and thus foster a national and collective identity among its disparate peoples. The reform effectively simplified Russian orthography by replacing a number of letters with existing letters that had the same pronunciation. In addition, the changes also significantly economised the printing process by greatly restricting the use of ъ (tverdyi znak).
Red Army propaganda poster in the new orthography (Moscow, 1921). The caption reads “From Darkness into Light; From Battle to Books; From Misery to Happiness”. Cup.645.a.6, plate 21
Despite its pre-revolution origins the reform became a focus of anti-Bolshevik sentiment among the Russian émigré community which emerged after the revolution. White propaganda and émigré publications across the world continued to be printed in the old orthography right up until the Second World War. Effectively, as Marc Raeff argues, “one’s stand on the issue of orthography became symbolic of one’s opinion on the Soviet system or to the revolution”.
White Army propaganda poster in the pre-revolutionary orthography (date unknown). 1856.g. 8.
Similarly, a number of émigré writers insisted on their work being published in the pre-reform orthography, complaining that the new system tarnished the purity of the Russian language. Bunin himself swore that he would “never accept the Bolshevik orthography. If only because the human hand has never written anything like what is being written now in this script”. This unapologetic disregard for the new orthography can be seen in the wider context of the relationship between language and identity. For the Russian émigré community, the pre-revolutionary orthography represented a tie with their homeland and life before emigration. For them, accepting the new orthography would in effect not only indicate their support of the Bolsheviks, but also a break with the past.
Bunin’s “Diary of the Revolution” published in 1935 in the pre-revolution orthography. Ivan Alekseevich Bunin, Okaiannye Dni (Berlin, 1935), YA.1989.a.15918
The new orthography was not fully adopted by the émigré community until after the Second World War and the corresponding “second wave” of Russian emigration. The new émigrés were familiar with the reformed orthography and attached far less cultural and political significance to it. Émigré publishers and editors did however begin to accept the new orthography prior to the new wave of emigration. The reform particularly found support among younger émigrés due to its simplified rules and the availability of books printed in Soviet Russia. Changes in the attitude among the older émigré generation can also be seen as early as the mid-1930s. Alexander Kerensky, the prominent pre-revolutionary politician, adopted the new orthography for his émigré publication Novaia Rossiia as early as 1936. Bunin, on the other hand, was still very much standing his ground against the “cursed orthography”.
Émigré newspaper Novaia Rossiia from April 1936 edited by Alexander Kerensky, NP000451448.
Katie McElvanney, CDA PhD student, Collections Division
References:
Ivan Alekseevich Bunin, Okaiannye Dni (Berlin, 1935), YA.1989.a.15918
Ivan Alekseevich Bunin, Cursed Days: Diary of a Revolution, trans. by Thomas Gaiton Marullo (London, 2000). YC.2001.a.5248
Marc Raeff, Russia Abroad: A Cultural History of the Russian Emigration, 1919-1939 (New York; Oxford, 1990), YC.1991.b.4698
For more details about the reform see Marc L. Greenberg, The Writing on the Wall: The Russian Orthographic Reform of 1917–1918 http://russiasgreatwar.org/media/culture/orthography.shtml
24 October 2014
Person from a portrait: Ira Frederick Aldridge, the first black Othello
Growing in a provincial town in Soviet Ukraine in the 1960s, when the world was less globalised and foreign students were present only in main universities, I had very little opportunity to meet a black person in flesh. The first black person that I, aged 5, became aware of was ... Ira Frederick Aldridge! The portrait of a very sympathetic man, with big eyes and moustaches, adorned every book about the national poet of Ukraine, Taras Shevchenko (my parents had a very good library of Ukrainian literature). It was painted in black and white Italian pencil and finished by Shevchenko on 25 December 1858.
Shevchenko’s portrait of Ira Aldridge (image from Wikimedia Commons)
On 10 November 1858 Aldridge played Othello in one of St Petersburg’s theatres for the first time, and Shevchenko, a keen reader of Shakespeare and an ardent theatregoer, was in the audience, together with his Russian friends (the family of Count Fyodor Tolstoy and others). He was very excited by the acting and reduced to tears.
Ira Aldridge as Othello, frontispiece from Leben und Künstler-Laufbahn des Neger Ira Aldridge (Berlin, 1853; 10881.a.1)
On November 12 Shevchenko met Aldridge personally in the house of Count Tolstoy where Shevchenko was a frequent guest. They became great friends (Aldridge called Shevchenko “an artist” finding difficult to pronounce the Ukrainian surname). Two young daughters of Count Tolstoy, Katya and Olya, often served as interpreters for them. On 6 December Shevchenko sent a letter to his Russian actor-friend (a former serf, like Shevchenko himself) Mikhail Shchepkin, full of admiration about the talent of Aldridge, “who does miracles on the stage”. “He shows live Shakespeare”, wrote Shevchenko. Friend of Shevchenko artist Mikhail Mikeshin made a satirical sketch of Shevchenko in awe before Aldrigde and Shevchenko himself added “My mute awe before Ira Aldridge” (picture below).
In 1913 Leonid Pasternak made his drawing of Aldridge and Shevchenko which is reproduced in books about them. The original is kept in the Bakhrushin State Central Theatre Museum in Moscow.
In 1861-1866 Aldridge visited many places in Ukraine: Kyiv, Kharkiv, Odessa, Zhytomyr, and Elisavetgrad. He learned Russian and German and successfully performed using these languages too. His performances attracted large audiences everywhere. The well-known Ukrainian dramatist Ivan Karpenko-Karyi walked miles from the village of Bobryntsi to Elisavetgrad to see his performance.
The biography of this extraordinary African-American actor (especially famous in Shakespearean roles) is fascinating and continues to attract well-deserved attention. His bicentenary in 2007 was celebrated in many countries and the proceedings of a seminar about him were published in Germany in 2009: Ira Aldridge 1807-1867. The Great Shakespearean Tragedian on the Bicentennial Anniversary of his Birth (Frankfurt am Main, 2009; YD.2009.a.9405).
In 2012, Red Velvet, a play by Lolita Chakrabarti about Aldridge and his taking the role of Othello (published as a book; London, 2014; YK.2013.a.13939) was premiered at the Tricycle Theatre in London, with Aldridge played by Adrian Lester. (The play returned in 2014; see excerptss here). More and more people are now discovering Aldridge's extraordinary life.
The British Library holds books about Aldridge in various languages. The oldest English booklets date from the 19th century, when young Ira, after leaving New York, was acting in Dublin, Edinburgh, Bath, and London: John Cole, A Critique on the Performance of Othello by F. W. K. [or rather, Ira] Aldridge, the African Roscius (Scarborough, 1831; 11794.g.29) and A brief memoir and theatrical career of Ira Aldridge, the African tragedian. (London, ca. 1855; 1608/4459 - picture below).
The 20th- and 21st-century biographies and critical studies about Aldridge include: Herbert Marshall, Ira Aldridge : the Negro tragedian (London, 1958; 11799.e.34); Owen Mortimer, Speak of me as I am: the story of Ira Aldridge (Wangaratta, 1995; YA.1996.a.22306); Ira Aldridge: the African Roscius, edited by Bernth Lindfors (Rochester, N.Y., 2007; v.28 8001.250050); Martin Hoyles, Ira Aldridge: celebrated 19th century actor (London, 2008; YD.2007.a.8267); Bernth Lindfors, Ira Aldridge: The Early Years, 1807-1833 (Rochester, NY, 2011; YC.2012.a.22286) and the same author’s three-volume Ira Aldridge (Rochester, NY, 2011-2013; 8001.250050)
Herbert Marshall’s book was translated into Ukrainian during Soviet times by the Mystetstvo (Art) publishing house (Aira Oldridzh: nehrytianskyi trahik (Kyiv, 1966) X.898/2832). Ukrainian authors mainly explored the friendship of Taras Shevchenko and Ira Aldridge, as in Ivan Kulinych’s Poet i trahik (Kyiv, 1964; X.908/1462) where the author collected memoirs of witnesses of this great friendship.
The Library holds the Russian original of a book by theatre historian and critic Sergey Durylin (1886-1954) about the life of Aldridge (Moscow-Leningrad, 1940; 11797.a.32) and its recent translation into English by Alexei Lalo (Trenton, 2014; awaiting shelfmark). A Hungarian-language book was published in Romania in 1969 (Ernő Igeti, Az idegen csillag. Ira Aldridge regényes élete (Bucharest, 1969) X.989/6820).
This well-travelled and much-loved actor (he also played in Germany, Hungary and Serbia) died while on tour in Poland on 7 August 1867. His plans to return to his native USA after the end of the Civil War there (he was also an outspoken abolitionist) were never realised. Aldridge was given a state funeral in Poland and his tomb is in the Old Cemetery in Łódź.
Tomb of Ira Aldridge in Łódź (picture by Jan W. Raczkowski from Wikimedia Commons)
Every October, during Black History Month it is heart-warming to pay tribute to this great life which touched the lives and imagination of other people in many countries and cultures. Taras Shevchenko, whose bicentenary we celebrate this year, was one of them.
Olga Kerziouk, Curator Ukrainian Studies
20 October 2014
Ukrainian printing in the Russian empire
As a result of the Union of Lublin in 1569, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth was formed, and Kiev (Kyiv) with other Ukrainian territories were transferred to the Crown of the Kingdom of Poland. Lviv and its neighbouring territories had already been part of the Polish Crown from the 14th century. A series of uprisings, the most successful one being under the command of Bohdan Khmelnytsky, resulted in the creation of a Cossack state. Between 1654 and 1667 a series of treaties between the newly formed Cossack Hetmanate, the Russian Empire and the Kingdom of Poland led to the agreement, according to which part of Ukraine on the left bank of the river Dnieper became part of the Russian Empire with the administrative status of ‘Hetmanate’. Although Lviv was also stormed and taken by the Khmelnytsky army, the city and the rest of the Western Ukrainian territories remained under Polish rule until the First Partition of Poland in 1772, when Lviv became the capital of the Kingdom of Galicia and Lodomeria within the Austrian empire.
The eastern territories of Ukraine became part of the Russian Empire and Ukrainian presses became subject to Russian Imperial censorship carried out by the Holy Synod, although it took some time to tighten restrictions.
The output of the Kiev Monastery of the Caves press apart from liturgical literature traditionally included sermons, poems, original works on philosophy and theology. In the mid-17th century, the press was managed by Innokentii Gizel’ (1620-1688), a prominent scholar and public figure. He was an author of a Synopsis, the first popular history of the East Slavonic nations.
Noah's Ark – illustration from Synopsis, Kiev, 1681 (the British Library holds a facsimile edition (Cologne, 1983) X.0900/189(17))
Another prominent clergyman, Lazar Baranovych, initiated the opening of a new printing house in Novgorod-Siverskii (1674), which was later relocated to Chernihiv (1680). The British Library holds the 1691 Chernihiv edition of Runo oroshennoe by Dimitry of Rostov (C.192.a.222) – a book of miracles performed by the icon of the Mother of God of Chernihiv (picture below).
In Western Ukraine, the press at the Uniate Monastery in Pochaiv (in operation between 1730-1918), became the most productive. This press published books in Church Slavonic, Ukrainian, Russian, Greek, Latin and Polish, serving Orthodox Christians, Uniates, and Catholics. It specialised in liturgical books and literature related to the Holy icon of Mary, Mother of God of the Pochaiv Monastery. The British Library has several Pochaiv editions, including two of the 18th century.
An Irmologion – a book of texts for liturgical singing – published in Pochaiv in 1794 (474.d.10)
The Pochaiv Monastery press competed with the Lviv Brotherhood press and until the first Partition of Poland tried to transfer exclusive rights to print liturgical books from Lviv to Pochaiv. In 1772 the Lviv Brotherhood press won the court case, but it was no longer relevant, as Lviv became part of Austria, and Pochaiv remained in Poland. Ironically, the Partition of Poland helped to boost printing activities in Pochaiv, as before 1772 the Pochaiv Press could not publish certain liturgical books that the Lviv Press had exclusive rights for. As a result of the next Partition of Poland Pochaiv ended up in the Russian Empire, and of course, the press had difficulties with printing and distribution of Uniate editions, although it escaped such strict control as publishers in the territories of the Hetmanate. At the end of the 18th century, the press signed contracts with Old Believers to produce their books. The Russian officials soon found out about these contracts, and the press was almost closed. In 1830-31 the monks supported the Polish uprising, printing leaflets and pamphlets for the Poles. As a result, the monastery was transferred to the Orthodox Church, and printing which by the mid-19th century became the main source of income for the monastery, fell under control of the Orthodox Church.
As printing and publishing in the Russian empire was very much focused in the two capitals, civil Cyrillic types appeared in Ukraine only in the second half of the 18th century: in 1764 a press opened in Elisavetgrad (now Kropyvnytskyi), in 1793 in Kharkiv, in 1787 in Kiev, and in 1793 in Ekaterinoslav (now Dnipro). The end of the 18th century and first half of the 19th was a period of establishing a network of Russian state publishers in Ukraine. A new printing house in Mikolaiv became very active at the end of the 18th century.
Ukrainian culture became subject to enforced russification, so the formation of a modern Ukrainian literary language was delayed till the beginning of the 19th century. The first book in literary Ukrainian – Ivan Kotliarevskii’s mock-heroic version of Virgil’s Aeneid – was published in St Petersburg in 1798. Unfortunately, the British Library doesn’t hold the first edition of this work, but of course, numerous consequent editions are available.
A private St Petersburg publisher V. Plavil’shchikov produced some books in the Ukrainian language, including a Ukrainian Grammar (Grammatika malorossĭskago nari︠e︡chii︠a︡, 1818; 1332.e.5.(1.)) compiled by A. Pavlovskii. As many Ukrainians moved to the two Russian capitals, works of contemporary Ukrainian authors who later became classics of Ukrainian literature – Taras Shevchenko, Hryhorii Kvitka-Osnov’ianenko (1778-1843), Mykhaylo Maksymovych (1804-1873) – were first published in St Petersburg and Moscow. The first collection of works by the prominent Ukrainian public figure and writer Hryhorii Skovoroda (1722-1794) appeared in St Petersburg in 1861. A short-lived Ukrainian journal Osnova (‘Basis’) was also published in St Petersburg.
The leading academic publisher in Ukraine was Kharkiv University Press (opened in 1805), but its production was primarily in Russian. The press issued several works on Ukrainian studies, original Ukrainian historical documents and some classical Ukrainian authors. Ukrainian modern journalism in Russian and Ukrainian also started in Kharkiv, where 12 periodical titles appeared between 1812 and 1848.
The Kiev Monastery of the Caves Press kept publishing liturgical and religious texts in Church Slavonic, but also catered for primary schools, seminaries and the general public, publishing calendars and serials. The Kiev-Mohyla Academy was shut by the Russian authorities in 1817, and Kyiv University was opened instead in 1834. A year later a university press was set up, which supplied textbooks for secondary and higher education institutions and published scholarly works by the university professors. Another state publishing house was established in Odessa in 1814. It specialised in literary almanacs and scholarly works. In 1839 the Odessa Society for History and Antiquities set up a press to publish their proceedings.
The liberal reforms of Tsar Alexander II made it possible for Ukrainians to publish in their language. The period of liberalisation was short-lived, and already in 1876 a decree that prohibited printing (including ‘lyrics’ for printed music) in Ukrainian was issued. The types of material that were exempted were historical documents, ethnographic sources and very selective fiction and poems, subject to censorship. Export of books from abroad was also banned. Some works by Ukrainian authors did not pass Imperial censorship and appeared abroad in uncensored editions; for example Shevchenko’s Kobzar’ was published in Prague in 1876 (11585.k.11; see picture below).
However, new private publishing houses became active at the end of the 19th century. These enterprises aimed to popularise literature among the lower classes, and therefore their books were produced cheaply with small print runs. See, for example, a collection of Ukrainian poetry and prose published in Kyiv in 1902.
This page opening from vol. 1 of this three-volume collection (012265.i.7) shows a portrait of and lyrics by Mykola Verbytskyi, also a contributor to the journal Osnova.
Making books accessible for the wider public was the main goal of the publishing activities of various Ukrainian cultural organizations, such as societies for literacy in Kyiv and Kharkiv and the St Petersburg-based ‘Charity for publishing useful and cheap books’ (1898-1917). Apart from these organisations and other publishers who produced some Ukrainian books, in 1909, there were almost 20 Ukrainian publishing houses, and the overall number of Ukrainian books published between 1798 and 1916 is about 2,800 titles.
During the First World War production figures fell dramatically, but the printing industry quickly revived in the independent Ukraine (1917-1921): about 80 titles appeared in 1917, compared with over a hundred in 1918.
Katya Rogatchevskaia, Lead East European Curator
15 October 2014
Lermontov – 200 years since the birth of the great Russian writer
The Russian writer Mikhail Iur’evich Lermontov was born on 15th October 1814. As a poet he is ranked with Pushkin as one of Russia’s greatest and as a novelist and playwright he is regarded as one of the earliest exponents of Russian psychological realism. He was born in Moscow into an aristocratic family, his mother being a Stolypin and his father being descended from the Scottish family of Learmonth that had settled in Russia in the 17th century.
Portrait of Lermontov from A.G. Bil’derling, Lermontovskii Muzei Nikolaevskogo Kavaleriisskogo Uchilishcha (St Petersburg, 1883) 11926.bb.17.
His early poetry shows the influence of Pushkin, German Romanticism and the works of the English poet Lord Byron. The most famous of these is Demon which he started in 1829 and worked on for 10 years. It tells the story of the Demon, a fallen angel who attempts to seduce Tamara, a Georgian princess. After finally yielding to him she dies from his fatal kiss and he is left alone again at the end. The poem was banned for its carnality and for being sacrilegious by the Russian censors and was only published for the first time in full in Berlin in 1856. The British Library holds this edition.
Illustration from an English translation of The Demon (London, 1875). 11585.g.28
It was first translated into English by A. C. Stephen in 1875 and in the same year was made into an opera with music by Anton Rubinstein (libretto: Pavel Viskovatov). The opera was popular in its day and ha been revived several times in recent years (notably in a performance given by the Mariinsky Theatre conducted by Valery Gergiev at the Barbican, London in 2009). The British Library holds the original score of the opera (St Petersburg, 1876; H.754.e), and the 1974 recording conducted by Boris Khaikin, just released on CD, will soon be acquired. The Demon was also the subject of The Demon Seated (1890), one of the most powerful and influential paintings by the Russian painter Mikhail Vrubel.
Costume designs for Masquerade by Aleksandr Golovin from Maskarad Lermontova v teatral’nykh eskizakh A. IA. Golovina. (Moscow, 1941). 11797.f.44.
Lermontov’s most famous dramatic work is Maskarad (Masquerade), a play in verse written in 1835. The main character is Arbenin, a wealthy aristocrat who after a fit of jealousy at a masked ball has to face the consequences of murdering his innocent wife – the result is his descent into madness. This play also had a difficult time getting past the censors and it was only staged after Lermontov’s death in a revised version in 1852 at the Aleksandrinsky Theatre. At the time of the February Revolution in 1917 a landmark production of the play took place in the Aleksandrinsky Theatre with designs and costumes by Aleksandr Golovin. Produced by Vsevolod Meyerhold with music by Glazunov it featured innovatory theatrical devices such as “tall mirrors that flanked the proscenium opening in order to break down the barriers between stage and audience” (see Meyerhold, On Theatre, translated by Edward Braun; London, 1969; X.900/4423.). This production was revived frequently until 1941. In that year Aram Khachaturian wrote his famous incidental music for a production of the play at the Vakhtangov Theatre, Moscow. In 1954 Khachaturian recorded the waltz, nocturne and mazurka from the Suite conducting the Philharmonia orchestra for Columbia (BL Shelfmark 1CD0058649). The Kondrashchin version from 1958 (1CD0149609) is also recommended.
Title page and illustration “The Princess Mary” from Mikhail Lermontov, A Hero of our own Times (London, 1854). 12590.f.14
For a period of his life Lermontov was exiled to the Caucasus, the scenery, people and customs of which provided a background to many of his works including his great novel Geroi nashego vremeni (A Hero of our Time). Pechorin, the hero (or rather anti-hero) of the title is an example of the psychological type in Russian literature known as “the superfluous man” (Lishnii chelovek). This type, usually a well-educated young man from the upper echelons of society who has no outlets for his talents in contemporary life, is condemned to roam the world cynically playing with the ambitions and emotional lives of others just out of boredom and a sense of the futility of life (an embryonic existentialist in fact!). However like his forerunner Eugene Onegin, this Byronic hero is not only manipulative and pleasure- seeking, but also sensitive and intelligent and deeply aware of his own contradictions. The novel consists of five interlocking stories with Pechorin as the main protagonist. In the longest story, Princess Mary, Pechorin not only flirts with Princess Mary (whom he doesn’t really desire) at the same time as having an affair with his ex-lover Vera, but in the process also manages to kill his best friend in a duel. Even at the end when he believes his true feelings lie with Vera, he gives up chasing after her when his horse collapses. Perhaps the key to the meaning of the title of the novel is in Lermontov’s foreword “A Hero of our Time … is in fact a portrait, but not of an individual; it is the aggregate of the vices of our whole generation in their fullest expression”.
The British Library holds the first part of the original publication of Geroi nashego vremeni and the second part in the third edition (St Petersburg 1840, 1843; 12590.e.2.) It was first translated into English as Sketches of Russian Life in the Caucasus (London, 1853; 12590.f.18), and as A Hero of our own Times (London, 1854; 12590.f.14). A notable later translation was made by Vladimir Nabokov in 1958 (the British Library holds an edition published Oxford, 1984; X.958/21060).
The British library also holds two rare early editions and two fine art editions of Lermontov’s poetry:
Stikhotvoreniia. (St. Petersburg, 1840, 1842). C114.h.13 and C.114.h.14.
Kaznacheisha. With a frontispiece, title page and vignettes by M. V. Dobuzhinsky. (St Petersburg, 1913). Cup.501.g.19.
A song about Ivan Vasilyevich … translated by John Cournos. With decorations by Paul Nash. (London, 1929). C.98.h.30.
Peter Hellyer, Curator Russian Studies
26 September 2014
Kazimir Malevich - pioneer of Russian abstract art
“Look, just look, the Vistula is near”. Poster designed by Kazimir Malevich with caption by Vladimir Mayakovsky (Moscow, 1914). HS.74/273(3)
Having just viewed the excellent Malevich exhibition at Tate Modern, I was reminded that many of the images on display appear in items held by the British Library. For example the figure of an officer on one of the series of anti-German propaganda postcards in the “Works on paper” section with the caption “Look, just look, the Vistula is near” appears again on one of the lithographed posters Malevich designed for the project “Today’s Lubok” in the same year. In both the postcard and poster (which uses different colours) you can already see the tendency towards depicting the human figure as being made up of geometrical shapes, the use of bright colours (also found in Russian folk paintings or lubki) and the stylised patterns (e.g. to depict grass) of contemporary Primitivist paintings.
The British Library holds four lithographed First World War posters designed by Malevich. One of these – “Wilhelm’s Merry-go-round” (HS 74/273(4)) – is also displayed in the British Library’s current exhibition Enduring War.
Kazimir Malevich, “Prayer” from Vzorval by Aleksei Kruchenykh. (St Petersburg, 1913). C.114mm.28.
Also included in the “Works on paper” section of the exhibition is Malevich’s “Molitva” (Prayer). This appears in the lithographed Futurist publication Vzorval by Aleksei Kruchenykh (known in English as “Explodity”). It is in the Cubo-Futurist style which combines the multi-viewpoints and cylindrical machine like shapes of Cubism (cf. Léger) with the dynamic approach of Futurism though here applied in the Russian manner to a static meditative pose rather than depicting movement.
During his Futurist period Malevich developed the theory of alogism where colour is divorced from the object that is being depicted. This combined with the irrationalism of the Russian Futurists can be seen in An Englishman in Moscow (1914) where objects of different scale and unnatural colour are combined in a surrealistic collage.
Nikolai Punin, Pervyi tsikl lektsii. (Petrograd, 1920). C.145.a.2.
There are several examples of book covers designed by Malevich included in the exhibition. One also held by the British Library is his cover for Nikolai Punin’s, Pervyi tsikl lektsii (First cycle of lectures). This cover exemplifies the use of bright colours and geometrical forms of Malevich’s abstract Suprematist style for a book about drawing in modern art.
Kazimir Malevich, O novykh sistemakh v iskusstve. (Vitebsk, 1919). C.114.n.46.
In 1919 Malevich joined the art school set up by Chagall in Vitebsk. Here he began to produce books that promoted Suprematism as the correct method for modern art. His ideas were elucidated further in the manifesto O novykh sistemakh v iskusstve (On New systems in Art) published in Vitebsk in 1919. This publication was hand produced in the Art School by transfer lithography with a linocut (see above) by El Lissitzky. It was republished in abbreviated form by Narkompros as Ot Sezanna do suprematizmu (From Cezanne to Suprematism) in 1920. (C.127.g.11.)
“A spiritualistic séance in the Kremlin” from Mikhail Karasik, Utverditeliu novogo iskusstva. (St Petersburg, 2007). HS.74/1966. Reproduced by permission of the artist.
An interesting use of Malevich’s Suprematist imagery can be seen in Mikhail Karasik’s artist’s book of 16 lithographs entitled Utverditeliu novogo iskusstva (To the Affirmer of the New Art). In No.6 “A spiritualistic séance in the Kremlin: Stalin calls upon the spirit of Malevich” his black square and a robotic looking figure together with the letters of the artists’ collective UNOVIS are merged into a contemporary photo of Stalin making a speech.
Peter Hellyer, Curator Russian Studies
References
Other original works by Malevich held by the British Library:
Kazimir Malevich, Bog ne skinut: iskusstvo, tserkov', fabrika [God is not cast down: art, church, factory], (Vitebsk, 1922). C.114.n.33.
Kazimir Malevich, Ot kubizma i futurizma k suprematizmu: novyi zhivopisnyi realizm [From Cubism and Futurism to Suprematism: new painterly realism], 3rd edition. (Moscow, 1916). C.114.mm.25.
Artists books containing illustrations by Malevich:
Daniel Kharms, Na smert’ Kazimira Malevicha [On the death of Kazimir Malevich], (St Petersburg, 2000). Lithographs and commentaries by Mikhail Karasik. Cover decorated with a fabric design by Malevich. HS.74/1743
Aleksei Kruchenykh and Velimir Khlebnikov, Igra v adu [Game in hell], 2nd enlarged ed. (St Petersburg, 1914). Cover and 3 lithographs by Malevich. Cup.406.g.2 and C.114.mm.41.
Aleksei Kruchenykh, Pobeda nad solntsem; opera [Victory over the sun: opera], music by M. Matiushin, (St Petersburg, 1913). A set design by Malevich appears on the cover. C.114.mm.9.
Aleksei Kruchenykh, Slovo kak takovoe [Word as such.], (Moscow, 1913). Cover illustration (Reaper) by K. Malevich. C.114.mm.23.
Troe [Three] by V. Khlebnikov, A. Kruchenykh, and E. Guro, (St Petersburg, 1913). Cover and drawings dedicated to the memory of E. Guro by K. Malevich. C.105.a.7
Zina V. and Aleksei Kruchenykh. Porosiata [Piglets], (St Petersburg: EUY, 1913). Cover (Peasant woman) and illustrations (including “Portrait of a builder”) by Malevich. C.104.e.21
Useful reference sources:
Malevich edited by Achim Borchardt-Hume. (London, 2014.) [Catalogue of the Tate Modern exhibition]
Leaflet text of Malevich exhibition at Tate Modern by Simon Bolitho.
17 September 2014
The Colour of Hope – Irina Ratushinskaya in the ‘Small Zone’
25 years ago, the first Russian edition of Irina Ratushinskaya’s prison memoirs, Seryi – tsvet nadezhdy (Grey is the Colour of Hope), came out in London, under the auspices of the Overseas Publications Interchange. Born in 1954 in Odessa (then the USSR, now Ukraine), at the age of 29 Ratushinskaya was convicted to seven years’ confinement for dissident activity (writing religious poetry), and served a sizeable part of her sentence in the female penal colony ZhKh-385/3-4 in Mordovia. There she was kept together with the prominent human rights activists Tatiana Velikanova, Tatiana Osipova, Raisa Rudenko, Galina Barats, Lagle Parek and a few others, who, unlike most ordinary criminals, were entitled to neither amnesty nor parole. The book’s title refers to the colour of the uniform that the colony’s political prisoners had to wear. As their only crime was hoping for the country’s better future (and trying to do something to bring it closer), the garb indicating their outcast status also came to symbolise, for Ratushinskaya at least, their defiantly optimistic expectations.
Cover of the first edition of Seryi – tsvet nadezhdy (London, 1989). British Library YC.1990.a.8192.
As prison literature goes, Ratushinskaya’s book is rather traditional when it describes the forced labour conditions, deliberately (and not always successfully) designed to deter offenders from further crimes. In the words of a colony officer (compared by Ratushinskaya to the infamous Else Koch, the ‘Bitch of Buchenwald’), “with the kind of life you live here, you’d never want to come back”. To the best of their ability, Ratushinskaya and her fellow inmates try to defend themselves against their environment by equally traditional methods, from deceit and insubordination to hunger strikes. Among other forms of resistance are growing an illicit vegetable patch and reading.
(Readers of this blog may be curious to find out that Ratushinskaya’s colony had a library but no catalogue. Moreover, some books, especially modern ones – mostly about ‘love’ and ‘war’– were hardly identifiable. They lacked a beginning and end because other prisoners used the first and last pages as cigarette papers. Yet the colony’s political prisoners (never more than a dozen at any one time) did read the relatively undamaged 19th-century Russian classics, up to ten volumes a fortnight or so. Their jailers did not mind, believing that this was better than writing letters of complaint.)
The fact that Ratushinskaya serves her time in a women’s prison does not significantly alter the generally familiar picture of penal conditions for both genders. It is true that, overall and practically everywhere, “women are far less likely to be arrested, tried, convicted and imprisoned than are men. … [Women] have less extensive criminal experience in … burglary, robbery, and larceny, and they less often have a long history of penal confinement. … They are more often involved in homicide cases where the murder victim is the husband or lover …, friend …, or child” (David A. Ward and Gene G. Kassebaum, Women’s Prison, (London, 1966), YC.1993.a.1109, pp. 59, 67, 62). Yet women’s sufferings in confinement are largely comparable to those of men, even though women apparently tend to “suffer more from separation from families and disruptions of familial roles” (ibid., p. 70).
Women are especially vulnerable in certain circumstances, and their jailers rarely hesitate to take advantage of these. For example, during her transfer from a Moscow train station to Lefortovo prison, two guards offered Ratushinskaya sex with either of them, claiming they were doing her a favour (if she fell pregnant she might be released early). When in Mordovia, she and her fellow inmates were blackmailed by a colony officer who threatened to send them to dangerously cold isolation cells: “Do you think you’d be capable of conception after that?” Other similar instances include a KGB officers’ visit to the showers area with naked women inside, and the embarrassing need to explain to a colony doctor, a colony chief and a state prosecutor how many sanitary towels a woman requires during her period. All this is, unfortunately, quite typical of reports about women in confinement – not only in the USSR.
Where the book does differ from many prison memoirs is in the nuances of Ratushinskaya’s attitude. Uncharacteristically, she and her fellow inmates do not hate their jailers: “We feel sorry for them, with a touch of contempt. Poor them – what is the principal difference between their lives and the prisoners’? Always in the same labour camp and wouldn’t dare say a word against an order”. Ratushinskaya explains: “Under no circumstances should you allow yourself to feel any hatred. Not that your tormentors don’t deserve it. But if you let the hatred in, there’ll be so much of it in all your years in jail that it’ll replace everything else inside you, and your soul will be disfigured and corroded”. She adds: “The only way to remain human in a labour camp is to feel other people’s pain stronger than your own”. Easier said than done?
Irina Ratushinskaya (photo by Mikhail Evstafiev from Wikimedia Commons) CC BY-SA 2.5
For Ratushinskaya, her and other political prisoners’ sentences, unjust as they seemed, still served a particular purpose: if women could withstand prison conditions without giving up their principles (as Ratushinskaya and most of her fellow inmates managed to do), “cowardly men should be ashamed of themselves. And if my fellow countrymen stop being cowards, life may well change beyond one’s wildest dreams”. The disappearance of labour camps would signify such a momentous change for her (“Labour camps exist not to form but to destroy human personality ... For how long will they remain in my land?” she says). Alas, the camps are still there. According to the Russian Federal Penitentiary Service (FSIN), as of 1 August 2014, there were 675,400 prisoners in Russian colonies and jails, 50,000 of them women.
Until recently, the first Russian edition of Ratushinskaya’s book could not be found in the British Library because of a cataloguing error, which has now been rectified. The book has been translated into French, German, Swedish, Finnish, Danish, Norwegian, Italian, Dutch and Japanese. The translations in the blog are mine, but a published English version is also available (YC.1989.a.7849).
Andrei Rogatchevski, University of Tromsø
12 September 2014
A nurse, a poet and a girl – women’s diaries of the Great War
In Russian cultural memory the First World War does not occupy the same place as in the cultural memories of other peoples who fought this war. One of the reasons, of course, is that it was overshadowed by the events of the Russian Revolution. For the Russians, the Great War did not come to an end, as it did for the other nations, on 11 November 1918. Therefore, it was not properly reflected upon either in Soviet or in émigré Russian literature. Russian authors and poets had a very short time window to respond to the war, which they certainly did, but it proved almost impossible to reflect on it thereafter. As diaries and memoirs often manifest themselves as intermediaries between document and fiction, it was interesting to see what was written and published in Russian in these autobiographical genres. Not surprisingly, as with literature, there is no abundance of diaries or memoirs solely devoted to the time of the war and where wartime events, emotions and thoughts are at the core of the work. In any case, there are fewer diaries and memoirs left from the time of the First World War in Russian than, for example, those describing the Russo-Japanese war of 1904-1905.
The three examples which I shall present here are all created by women.
We do not know anything about Lidiia Zakharova, who in 1915 published a book Dnevnik sestry miloserdiia: Na peredovykh pozitsiiakh (‘Diary of a wartime nurse: on the front line’; X.700/19594). The book was published in the series Biblioteka Velikoi Voiny (‘The Great War library’) and of course was meant to be part of wartime propaganda.
An advertisement at the at the end of Lidiia Zakharova’s Dnevnik sestry miloserdiia, for other publications in the series.
When you read it, it is very difficult to believe that the diary was indeed written in field hospitals and trenches, although some scenes are very vivid and disturbing. However, the book is full of clichés, like the overwhelmingly forgiving attitude shown by Russian soldiers towards German prisoners, the good humour and modesty displayed by war heroes, or kind treatment of a Jew and a Polish girl which allowed them to demonstrate their profound gratitude to the Russians. In her narrative, Lidiia Zakharova also mentioned that she had somehow copied samples of soldiers’ letters which are quoted in the book as proofs of the heroism, courage, humanity and simplicity of their authors. Artificially sweet and lacking any individual character, they are reminiscent of a book of patriotic poetry created by Zinaida Gippius, a poet well established on the Russian literary scene by 1914 (photo below from Wikimedia Commons).
The book Kak my voinam pisali i chto oni nam otvechali: kniga-podarok (‘How we were writing to warriors and what they were replying: a book-present’; Moscow, 1915), which is very rare and unfortunately not held at the British Library, consists of poems written in the form of letters from three ordinary Russian women to soldiers. The letter-poems and the replies were written in stylized folk-poetic language, but as one of the contemporary researchers puts it, “the soldiers clearly did not have the language of their own to express their feelings and thoughts, and the overall result was … stereotypical and banal … (Ben Hellman, Poets of Hope and Despair. The Russian Symbolists in War and Revolution (1914-1918); Helsinki, 1995, YA.2002.a.8054,p. 148).
However, Zinaida Gippius’s own diary, published in Belgrade in 1929 under the title Siniaia kniga (1914-1917) (‘The Blue Book (1914-1917’); 09455.ee.31), is a very interesting story of a poet and intellectual who undertook the task of documenting the times. In the preface to the 1929 edition Gippius wrote: “’Memoirs’ can give the image of the time. But only a diary gives it in its continuity”.
This correlates with the words of Gippius’s contemporary Virginia Woolf: “So they [memoirs] say: ‘This is what happened’; but they do not say what the person was like to whom it happened. And the events mean very little unless we know first to whom they happened” (Virginia Woolf. Moments of Being: Autobiographical Writing. New edition edited by Jeanne Schulkind. (London, 2003; YC.2003.a.4621), p. 79).
And the person “whom events happened to” is very vividly portrayed in the diaries of another woman – Ekaterina Nikolaevna Razumovskaia (née Sain-Vitgenshtein or in the German version: Katherina Sayn-Wittgenstein) (1895-1983), one of six children born into the old noble family of Prince Nikolai Sain-Vitgenshtein.
She was 19 when the war began and 23 when the family left Russia for good. Until 1973 the diaries were completely forgotten and kept among other old papers in sealed boxes. Only after Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn had appealed to Russians abroad to send him their documents, memoirs and diaries to facilitate his work on the novel Avgust 1914 (August 1914) did Ekaterina Razumovskaia remember about her diaries. They were published first in German and then in Russian (1986) shortly after her death. Her diary is not only a document of wartime life (in many ways her ‘experience’ was common to thousands of people and her ‘analysis’ of the events was entirely based on newspapers and the opinions of her family members), but it is also a coming-of-age narrative with the major events of the 20th century in the background. And because of that, a hundred years later we still can feel her fear and anxiety when reading: “What is the year 1915 preparing for us? How much sorrow, how much joy? Never before has the burning question about the future arisen so acutely as on this first night of the New Year. Never before have we felt such a sharp fear in front of the black abyss of unknown. I’m peeking into this abyss and my head is spinning and darkness arises in front of my eyes. Everything is in Lord’s hands, come what may!” (, p. 41).
Katya Rogatchevskaia, Lead Eastern European Curator (Russian Studies)
01 September 2014
Is Bazarov human after all?
Having recently seen a revival of Brian Friel’s dramatic adaptation of Fathers and Sons “after the novel by Turgenev”, I am struck how central Bazarov is to this novel even though in this version he hardly says anything when he first appears. Instead of hearing his Nihilistic philosophy set out reinforced by all the strength of his personality, we hear Bazarov’s beliefs and aspirations described in the words of his disciple Arkady Kirsanov with brief interjections of confirmation of correctness from Bazarov.
Turgenev in 1838 from A.G. Ostrovsky, Turgenev v zapisiakh sovremennikov (Leningrad, 1929) X.958/4290.
It is fascinating to think Turgenev found the inspiration for the strength of Bazarov’s personality when on a visit to the tempestuous Blackgang Chine on the Isle of Wight (This inspiration is explored in Tom Stoppard’s play Salvage (The Coast of Utopia - Part III, p.84-87) in which Turgenev appears; you can read the relevant excerpt here.) But do we see this force expressed when he confronts his most fearsome ideological adversary, the anglophile Pavel Kirsanov? On the contrary he is quite submissive and refuses to express any interest in the duel in which he is invited to take part.
Ironically, where Bazarov does express a good deal of emotion and passion is in his declaration of love for the wealthy widow Anna Odintsova, a love of the romantic kind which he has earlier dismissed as a myth. Perhaps this, then, is the whole point of the novel – to show the impossibility of a totally nihilistic personality (at least with his background – better attempts at this type of character were made by Dostoevsky). Bazarov inherits the ordered approach to life of his doctor father with his commitment (though using outdated methods) to improving society embodied in his continual use of Latin quotations, but he also has the passion of his mother (which in her case is directed towards religion, which Bazarov despises).
What is also brilliantly realised in this dramatization and in Lyndsey Turner’s production at the Donmar Warehouse is the lasting effect that Bazarov has on others, notably in the final scene after his death where Arkady has an emotional outburst reminding the chattering classes who have almost returned to their trivial preoccupations what a great loss has occurred to them and Russia in the death of Bazarov – the force of his personality is very much present in that last scene even though he isn’t.
The British Library holds a copy of the first edition of the original Russian text of Fathers and Sons (Отцы и Дети) published in Moscow in 1862 (12590.h.25). The title page of this copy is reproduced above. The first English translation of the novel by Eugene Schuyler was published in 1867 (12590.bb.21). Among the notable subsequent English translations held by the British Library is that of Constance Garnett. Translated as Fathers and Children (the literal meaning of the title), this was included in the Novels of Turgenev (London, 1894-99; 012590.e.50.)
Peter Hellyer, Curator Russian Studies
References
Brian Friel, Fathers and sons: after the novel by Ivan Turgenev (London, 1987). YC.1987.a.9790
Patrick Waddington, Turgenev and England (London, 1980) X.950/2479
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