Русское зазеркалье
Шрифт:
Метнувшись к карману моего платья, Змея неуловимым движением языка достала зеркальце и, зажав его во рту, поставила прямо передо мной.
– Смотри в зеркало! – приказала она. – Просто смотри, без всяких глупостей.
Я послушалась её и поняла, что моё маленькое зеркальце – на самом деле начало коридора, в который достаточно сделать первый шаг, чтобы вернуться в свою комнатку-студию с уже прогоревшим камином, на Землю, где вещи имеют постоянные цвет, размер и форму, где никогда не встретишь говорящих ежей и где моё путешествие покажется фантазией не совсем здорового человека.
Глава 3
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Dear students, today’s talk is about war songs in both Soviet and contemporary Russia. With one of these songs we shall deal at some more length. Before we look at the song in question I guess I shall say a few words about the genre itself.
What do you imagine is a military song? Is it a march inspiring you as a soldier to keep pace when marching, something like the ‘British Grenadiers March’? Or is it a cheerful piece of folk music, something like ‘Soldier, Soldier, Will You Marry Me’? Or is it a sentimental composition, something like ‘We’ll Meet Again,’ a 1939 British song made famous by singer Vera Lynn, something that resonates with soldiers going off to fight as well as with their families and sweethearts? Or is it an anti-war song, revealing to us how cruel each war is, something like ‘War Child’ by the Cranberries?
Both Soviet and Russian musical culture gives you all that: it provides you with a rich variety of both marches and sentimental melodies, both official anthem-like compositions inspiring Soviet citizens to fight their enemies and folk tunes, all of which refer to war this way or another. How do all of them fit into our course? Even though all these old, very old songs were heart-warming for our great-grandfathers, how would they suddenly become relevant for someone who lived in the 90es of the 20th century? And – another important question – do they still have a chance to become relevant for us now?
For a Russian, this last question is absurd—because of the simple fact that Russia is a state that is permanently at war. Pacifism, philosophy of nonviolence, ‘Make love, not war’—all these concepts and slogans may be attractive for an average European citizen or for Leo Tolstoy, indeed, but not for an average Russian. I am well aware of the fact that what I am saying sounds very provocative as it is. I would go even further and ask you a question: Why don’t most Russians share Leo Tolstoy’s pacifistic views? (You can note it as a question for our discussion, even though I was actually going to answer it by myself later on.)
‘Because he was a civilised person unlike most of us who are bloodthirsty barbarians’—isn’t this the answer that you want me to give? I am honestly afraid this answer would miss the point. You see, when considering Leo Tolstoy and his being a ‘civilised person,’ I cannot help recalling a Russian joke which seems to me very funny—I am not sure that it will make the same impression on you, though. Here it is.
A refined old lady complains, ‘What would Leo Tolstoy say if he only knew that Russian troops are in the Crimea and that Russia is at war with all civilised nations?’
A man replies, ‘Strange as it happens, the sub-lieutenant Leo Tolstoy used to say “Battery, fire!” precisely in the circumstances that you have described.’
Hopefully, you had time to go over the article on the Crimean war I sent you before. I think I must add that Leo Tolstoy served as a young artillery officer during the Crimean War and was in Sebastopol during the 11-month-long siege of Sebastopol in 1854–55. He was recognised for his courage and promoted to lieutenant—which is probably why we Russians grant him the right to be a pacifist and why we don’t bear him any grudge for his being one.
The Crimean war is recorded in the Annals of English poetry, The Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred, Lord Tennyson being one of its reflections. The poem reflects on a failed military action involving the British light cavalry led by Lord Cardigan against Russian forces during the Battle of Balaclava on October 25, 1854, otherwise known as the massacre at Balaclava, and praises the courage of the British light dragoons.
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
And so on it goes. A masterpiece as this poem is, I would be very puzzled if asked to teach it to Russian students (not that I have any). I do see it as an important literary and human effort, providing some consolation for grief-stricken mothers of the deceased soldiers. And yet, I would have to face the difficulty of explaining why my would-be Russian students should admire the heroic six hundred, the reasons of this difficulty being obvious. People in general don’t easily admire those who invade their country in order to kill them or their nearest ones. But let’s stop with sarcasm for the time being. In my opinion, honest confrontation is still better than dishonest harmony or mutual ignoring each other, as it provides us with an opportunity to learn something about the person or the nation that we confront. You see, people sometimes quarrel even with their beloved ones. To be certain, such conflicts may produce violence which is obviously detestable. I hope I don’t sound as someone who justifies domestic violence when I say that, erm, even hitting your partner in the eye still delivers to him or her a message of some sort and still gives him or her a chance to understand something; whereas your polite refusal to discuss the issue simply ‘makes you both face a blank wall’ which is the end of any relationship. You are free to disagree with me; please explain the reasons of your disagreement if you do.
I cannot recall any particular period in Russian history completely devoid of wars and conflicts of any sort. In the 80es of the last century, it was the war in Afghanistan; in the 90es, it was the Chechen war; now, we have Syria and the Donbass region which is at war with the rest of the Ukraine. Please allow me, firstly, to use the definite article with both the Crimea and the Ukraine; allow me, secondly, not to pass political judgments of any sort: I am as little inclined to justify any military conflict as I dread the idea to feel sorry for my country, especially when considering that all these conflicts, whichever way they are presented to the Western audience, are seen by Russians as acts of self-protection. The concept of a patriotic war, meaning a war that is fought against the enemy who has invaded your own country and endangers the very survival of your nation, a war which is, therefore, highly justifiable, definitely is a part of the Russian genetic code. (Please look up the historical reasons by yourselves and explain them during the second part of our meeting.) I am in no way trying to make this concept a part of your own world-view: you are still very welcome to say how much you detest war and dread violence; you may even try a pilgrimage to Yasnaya Polyana to perform a thanksgiving puja on the tomb of Leo Tolstoy, the godfather of pacifism, whom the great-great-grandfathers of some of you might have encountered in the battlefield as the sub-lieutenant of the enemy (how ironical it is, don’t you find?). What I was trying to say is that military songs in Russia are something you live with. They are a part of your school education; they are a part of national holidays when you hear a lot of them on the radio or in public gardens; they are a part of your everyday life when, say, you go through an underground passage and see a guy in a camouflage uniform with a guitar in his hands. It is not just some poor ex-soldiers who sing them, though; Russian pop- and rock singers love to perform songs of WWII and occasionally write songs about recent conflicts. (‘How disgusting!’ I almost hear you whisper. ‘A real North Korea!’ In this case, please direct your indignation against Alfred, Lord Tennyson whom you, after James Joyce, might also want to call ‘only a rhymester’ or maybe a lousy propagandist. You are free to call everyone by whatever name and so to voluntarily destroy what is left from your classical heritage.)