Sergei Tretyakov E-Book

Robert Leach

• Herausgeber: Glagoslav Publications B.V. (N)
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 419

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Sergei Tretyakov is one of those artists and intellectuals from the first half of the twentieth century whose name is known, but whose achievements are barely recognized. He seems curiously elusive. Who exactly was he? What did he do? A victim of Stalin’s Great Terror, declared an ‘enemy of the people’, his works were ‘disappeared’ and his name forbidden to be mentioned.

But he was at the very heart of avant-garde modernism. He collaborated with Sergei Eisenstein both in the theatre and on films, and was behind Eisenstein’s formative theory of ‘the montage of attractions’. He was one of Vladimir Mayakovsky’s most intimate associates. He was a crucial influence in the formulation of Vsevolod Meyerhold’s biomechanics and of Bertolt Brecht’s Verfremdungseffekt, and he was a potent force behind Walter Benjamin’s The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.

His influence grew from the astonishing range of his intellectual and artistic work. He was a distinguished poet and playwright, and a formidable cultural theorist. He played the piano with skill, precision and feeling, he could draw cartoons good enough to be reproduced in newspapers, he became one of Russia’s foremost radio broadcasters, and he was an outstanding photographer.

At the same time, he was a warm and affectionate husband and father, a bold, argumentative and charismatic friend, and a shrewd observer of revolutionary Russia’s hopes and struggles.

This book uncovers the multifarious facets of this fascinating artist and thinker, sets his ideas in the context of his time and for the first time reveals the significance of his diverse achievements.

Leseprobe

Sergei Tretyakov

A Revolutionary Writer in Stalin’s Russia

Robert Leach

Glagoslav Publications

Contents

Introduction

Prologue

1. Childhood

2. Moscow - The Silver Age

3. Revolution

4. Moscow - A Golden Age

5. The Left Front of Art

6. Professor Te Ti-Ko

7. Roaring China

8. I Want a Baby

9. Factography

10. To the Kolkhoz

11. Sharing a Bonfire

12. 1935

13. At the Crossroads

14. And Afterwards

Epilogue

Photos

Notes

Sergei Tretyakov

A Revolutionary Writer in Stalin’s Russia

by Robert Leach

Proofreading by Richard Coombes

© 2021, Robert Leach

Book cover and interior design by Max Mendor

Publishers Maxim Hodak & Max Mendor

© 2021, Glagoslav Publications

www.glagoslav.com

ISBN: 978-1-914337-19-2 (Ebook)

First published in September 2021

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This book is in copyright. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Introduction

‘Human biographie s, or parts of them, make the most remarkable books.’

– Sergei Tretyakov, 1934

Sergei Tretyakov collaborated closely with Sergei Eisenstein in both film and the theatre. He was one of the poet Vladimir Mayakovsky’s most intimate associates. He was a crucial influence in the formulation of Vsevolod Meyerhold’s biomechanics and of Bertolt Brecht’s Verfremdungseffekt. He was a potent force behind Walter Benjamin’s The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. He was therefore absolutely at the heart of avant-garde modernism. Yet he seems curiously elusive. Who exactly was he? What did he do? A victim of Stalin’s Great Terror, declared an ‘enemy of the people’, his works were ‘disappeared’ and his name forbidden to be mentioned.

The first aim of this biography, therefore, is to excavate Tretyakov’s life, to give a more rounded, more detailed account of his work, and to indicate the vitality and continued relevance of his thought. A second aim is to humanize him. When he is mentioned in works on Russian Futurism or the avant-garde of the 1920s, he seems a distant, almost austere, figure. This book aims to show him as a warm, even charismatic person, an energetic youngster who became an affectionate and caring husband and a fun-loving father. He was kind, sociable and possessed a strong sense of humour and irony. He made rhymes and drawings of and about his siblings, his friends and acquaintances, and he was a gentle and tender-hearted nurse when any member of his family was sick. But he was also an unyielding writer-fighter, the implacable proponent of a happier, revolutionized future.

From his earliest years, expectations were placed on him. He was a leader of the games he played with his brothers and sisters when he was a child, and he turned into a brilliant student and a young poet of the highest promise. He was also interested in ideas. When he addressed a subject, he was determined to get to the bottom of it. He was argumentative and passionate in his belief in the need to drive his projects forward. To call Tretyakov a ‘revolutionary writer’ (as the subtitle of this book does) is actually to underestimate him. A poet and a playwright, he was in fact an artistic polymath, an intellectual and a formidable cultural theorist. He played the piano with skill, precision and feeling, he could draw cartoons good enough to be reproduced in newspapers, he became one of Russia’s foremost radio broadcasters, and he was an outstanding photographer. He approached everything he did ambitiously and critically. He consciously strove to articulate the function of his art, to show how it could organise life, and he addressed these questions thoughtfully and productively.

He lived in a time of transition, when the world was just moving into the technological and informational age, and all this fired him. He worked on such a variety of projects simultaneously that the biographer is sometimes baffled by how to keep each strand of his life and work in balance and comprehensible. For instance, in 1928, Tretyakov was engaged with the theatre and the fate of his play I Want a Baby,1 he was heavily involved with film-making in the Georgian Film Studios, he was editing the avant-garde journal New LEF, he was experimenting in depth with photo-journalism, he published a long book about China, and he was answering the call of the First Five Year Plan for writers and artists to go to the countryside and help with the collectivization of agriculture. For most people, one or two of these undertakings would have sufficed; for Tretyakov, they were not even all his activities in that one year. Consequently, in this book, the reader will find that the contents of many of the chapters overlap in terms of the time they cover, as each one tends to follow only one or two strands of Tretyakov’s work over a period of years.

In 1988 I met Tatyana Sergeyevna Gomolitskaya-Tretyakova, the adopted daughter of Sergei Tretyakov, who never had children of his own. She was known by the diminutive, ‘Tanya’, which is how she usually appears in this book. Her encouragement set me off on this project to make Tretyakov’s life and work more accessible to the world. She was a beautiful person, beautiful in her appearance and in her soul. How she retained this intrinsic beauty after all she had been through, I am not qualified to explain. My personal tribute to her appears in the Epilogue to this book, which was originally published by Q.Q. Press in 2004.

Over a period of years I talked with her at length. She stayed at my house in England on more than one occasion, and I saw much of her in Moscow. I recorded some of our conversations, she wrote down for me some of her thoughts and memories, and she gave me copies of playscripts, articles, typescripts and books. These included the memoir, running to over twenty closely-typed pages, ‘My Family’, written by her aunt, Tretyakov’s younger sister, Nina, when that lady was well into her eighties. These materials form a unique source for this book, but they are unpublished. Consequently, usually in the text, where I quote other writers, I have added footnotes to my published sources, but where there are no footnotes, the quotation is taken from one of the typescripts (or sometimes manuscripts) given to me by Tanya. All translations are mine unless otherwise stated.

I wish to record my sincere thanks to many people who have helped to make this book possible.

First of these, of course, for the reasons given above, is Tanya Tretyakova, who committed suicide in 1996. Even after her death, she continued to motivate and inspire me.

I am also deeply grateful to Mark Rozovsky, who invited me to direct the first Russian production of Tretyakov’s formerly-banned play, I Want a Baby, at his Teatr u Nikitskikh Vorot in Moscow. Thanks, too, to my assistant director, Svetlana Sergiyenko, to my translator and personal assistant, Angela Yermarkova, to Viktoria Zaslavskaya who played the part of Milda, and to the whole of the theatre company, actors and crew, who worked on that production.

I have directed this play twice in England, and I would like to thank all those who took part in those productions, too, especially Sarah Rose and Caroline Hadley, my two English Mildas. Thanks too to those who took part in my production of Gas Masks at the Midlands Arts Centre in 1989.

Many people have answered my queries, entered into correspondence with me, supplied me with information, or read various chapters of the book in draft form. I wish to thank all of them, including Janis Silavs who showed me round Riga Gymnasium (secondary school), John Biggart, Katerina Clark, Chris Creed, Eddi Ditschek, Mark Gamsa, Rod Griffiths, Tatjana Hofmann, Steve Holland, Jules Horne, Christina Lodder, Simon Nicholls, David Parker and Olga Taxidou. Any mistakes, omissions or misapprehensions in this book, however, are – needless to say – my responsibility.

To my wife, Joy Parker, a special thank you for reading drafts of the book, for reading the part of Milda in public and above all for living with Sergei Mikhailovich and all his works for so many years.

Finally I would like to record my gratitude to Ksenia Papazova of Glagoslav Publications for her enthusiasm, her efficiency and her support throughout my ‘Tretyakov project’. She never thought when she took on the project that it would include playing a part in public readings in English of I Want a Baby, but even here she did not let me – or Tretyakov – down!

Robert Leach

Prologue

Death of a Poet

At the end of March 1930, Sergei Tretyakov returned home to Moscow from the ‘Communist Lighthouse’ kolkhoz (collective farm) where he had been working as a cultural animateur.

A fortnight later, on the morning of 14 April, the phone rang in the Tretyakov flat. Olga Viktorovna, Tretyakov’s wife, answered. She went pale, put the phone down. ‘Volodya Mayakovsky has shot himself’, she said. Their sixteen-year-old daughter, Tatyana, burst into tears, but it was as if Olga had been turned to stone. Tretyakov himself immediately left for Mayakovsky’s flat, but the phone in their apartment kept ringing. Olga repeated to all the callers: ‘Yes, it’s true, this morning’. As her daughter explained, ‘Everybody was ringing because if Olga Viktorovna said it, they knew it was true’.

Mayakovsky’s body was moved that afternoon to his flat in Hendrikov Alley. The OGPU, the secret police, were in charge. That evening Olga and Tatyana went there, joining Sergei in the adjoining room. Mayakovsky ‘lay on the couch in his own room, covered with a rug to his chest, and on his chest was a rose. It was only because of this that one could accept that he was dead. We sat in the next room, weighed down with immense grief. This was not only the shock and the bitterness at the loss of a great poet and a close friend, but a kind of inconceivable sense of the approach of something horrific’, Tatyana wrote.

She had known Mayakovsky for almost a decade. Indeed on one occasion when she was a small girl, he had strapped her small body to his own and they had dangled together on a rope over the stage of the Meyerhold Theatre in Moscow while he declaimed his ferocious lines as ‘The Person of the Future’ in his play Mystery Bouffe. Tretyakov had known him for much longer. They had been bohemian Futurist poets together before the First World War, when Mayakovsky had had a brief love affair with one of Tretyakov’s sisters. After the revolution they had stood shoulder to shoulder as revolutionary writers: they read their poems together at poetry recitals, they had worked on pro-Soviet advertising jingles and posters together, and they had co-edited the revolutionary avant-garde journal, LEF.

For three days, Mayakovsky’s body lay in state at the Writers’ Club with a changing guard of honour of poets and writers – Tretyakov, Nikolai Aseyev, Boris Pasternak, Viktor Shklovsky, the artist Alexander Rodchenko, the former Minister for Education and the Arts, Anatoly Lunacharsky, and others. There was a screen like a slanted black wall over the casket as endless crowds, probably at least 150,000 people, filed past.

The funeral was held at 3 o’clock on the afternoon of 18 April. The first speaker was Sergei Tretyakov. After other speeches, the coffin was draped in black and borne by Tretyakov, Aseyev, Osip Brik and others to the hearse. In the street, mounted police had to hold back the swarming crowds, who followed the procession past more crowds, including people hanging out of windows, up lamp posts and on roofs. At the crematorium the throng was so dense the cortege could hardly pass through. Only family and Mayakovsky’s closest friends, including the Tretyakovs, were allowed in. They paid their last respects, the ‘Internationale’ was played, and the coffin disappeared from view.

Tatyana Tretyakova wrote: ‘Then the end, and the terrible anguish. My father threw himself into work’. But something had changed.

1

Childhood

Sergei Mikhailovich Tretyakov was born in the small town of Kuldiga (then called Goldingen) in west Latvia on 21 June 1892.

The region was largely forested. In the summer there were berries to be picked and in the autumn mushrooms. Midsummer days had twenty hours of daylight; midwinter days were correspondingly short.

What is now the independent country of Latvia was then a province in the Russian Empire, though for much of its history it had been dominated by Sweden or Germany and the Lutheran Church. The struggle between Germanic and Russian influences, and the fact that both were in conflict with any independent Latvian aspirations, was the cause of ongoing social and indeed political tensions which simmered, not necessarily openly, all through Tretyakov’s childhood. It may be illustrated by the existence and use of different languages in the country at the time – Russian, German and Latvian (also known as Lettish). Thus, Sergei Eisenstein, the future theatre and film director, who grew up in Latvia at the same time as Tretyakov, recorded that he spoke German first, and then Russian, whereas Tretyakov himself claimed that the language he spoke first was Latvian.

By the end of the eighteenth century, Latvia, which incorporated what had been Swedish Livonia and the independent Duchy of Courland, where Kuldiga was situated, had become part of the Russian empire, and in the following decades the tsars devoted considerable energy to Russifying the province. The abolition of serfdom throughout the Russian empire in 1861 was one step in this process, and from the 1880s Tsar Alexander III’s policies overtly aimed at reducing the sway of the landholding Baltic German nobility. A primary battleground was over the language question. Alexander III ruled that Russian should become the official language, replacing the use of German – and incidentally Latvian – in educational establishments and in the conduct of official business. It was not a way to reduce tensions.

However, the Russian influence was not entirely baleful. Once serfdom was abolished, Latvia began to industrialise. Railways, factories and banks were opened, and cultural life – new schools, theatres, museums and public parks – began to flourish. In terms of industrial productivity, Riga became the third most productive city behind Moscow and St Petersburg in the Russian empire, and it was the empire’s busiest port. Moreover, the long sandy beaches on the Gulf of Riga led to its development as a spa in the 1880s, and it became noted for nude bathing. By the 1890s, over ninety per cent of the Latvian population could read, and Riga’s growing importance and prosperity led to the building of some of the most spectacular art nouveau buildings in the world. Typically, they were tall, decorative, and even palatial, and still today almost a third of the buildings in the centre of Riga are in this style. It is worth noting, too, that many of the most impressive were designed by Mikhail Osipovich Eisenstein, father of Sergei Eisenstein.

At the same time there was a slow national awakening in Latvia, with an emphasis, perhaps not surprisingly, on the Latvian language. Even as early as the 1850s the ‘Young Latvian’ movement was gaining adherents. A largely cultural campaign which excavated traditional folk arts, crafts, stories and legends, it was instrumental in planting the seeds of the idea of Latvian independence, and by the 1890s it had given way to the ‘New Current’, a much more political and aggressive nationalist organisation. It was led by two brothers-in-law, the poet Rainis (whose real name was Janis Plieksans) and Peteris Stucka, and found its voice in their newspaper, Dienos Lapa. Self-proclaimed Marxists, New Current was behind the founding of the Latvian Social Democratic Labour Party, and became most active in the 1905 Russian Revolution.

These developments were clearly observable in Kuldiga. With a population approaching 10,000 by 1900, this pleasant town stands at a crossroads between the waterway of the Venta River and the overland route between Riga and Prussia. With wide streets, slatted wooden houses and Lutheran, Catholic and Orthodox churches, Kuldiga is probably best known for the Rumba waterfall, which is reputed to be the widest in Europe at 250 metres. In the second half of the nineteenth century, small industrial enterprises sprang up, making needles, cloth, tobacco products, soap, and vodka and soft drinks. In 1868 the City Hall was erected, followed by a new bridge over the Venta, a new prison, and a German-language secondary school. Social civic societies were established, such as the German Society, the Muse Union and the Latvian Fellowship Union, a gym hall was built in 1877 where annual sporting festivals were held, and a Cyclists Union was formed in 1880. The first local newspaper, the German language Goldingenscher Anzeiger, began publishing in 1876, and the Baltic Teachers’ Seminary, noted for its choral concerts, was founded here ten years later.

It was in this expanding town that Sergei Tretyakov’s parents, Mikhail Konstantinovich Tretyakov and Elfrida Emanuelevna Meller, met, fell in love and were married. They were an energetically happy couple, but there were skeletons in both their cupboards.

When they met, Elfrida was governess in a well-to-do Kuldiga family, but she had come there from Archangel in the far north of Russia, where her German-speaking, strict Lutheran family lived. Her father taught German in the Archangel secondary school. He was renowned for the flowers he grew in his garden, including, for example, pale blue and black tulips imported from the Netherlands, and his garden was a sight not to be missed by visitors to Archangel. Her mother was Dutch (née van Brinnen), and there were seven children in the family – five boys, none of whom survived into adulthood, and two girls, Elfrida and her sister Emma, a spinster who came to live near the Tretyakovs and who was adored by the Tretyakov children.

Mikhail Konstantinovich was born in Trubchevsk, Orlovsky Province, south west of Moscow. His grandfather was a self-made shoemaker and cobbler but his son, Konstantin, seems to have been something of a wastrel, overfond of alcohol. Mikhail, however, was a clever boy, especially good at Maths, and his teacher, a Mr Sokolov, spotted his potential. Weighing up the situation, Sokolov suggested to Mikhail’s mother that the boy should live with him and his family, and this move probably ensured his successful school career. Mikhail graduated with a gold medal, which enabled him to be accepted as a student at the Teachers’ Seminary in Moscow. From here he obtained his first job, teaching Maths in the gymnasium at Yelgava, then called Mitau, before moving to the gymnasium in Kuldiga. His was a restless intelligence: for instance, in later life he taught himself to make shoes like his grandfather, and he also learned bookbinding, and though he remained a member of the Orthodox Church, he indefatigably upheld Tolstoy’s social philosophy.

The marriage brought Elfrida and Mikhail into sharp conflict with her parents. Once they had decided to marry, Elfrida had to convert to Orthodoxy, at which point she took the name Yelizaveta. Her inflexible Lutheran father was furious, and refused to accept her. It cast a shadow over the otherwise gregarious Yelizaveta’s life, and though she and her father were superficially reconciled some years later when Yelizaveta brought the five year old Sergei to visit her parents in Archangel, the rapprochement was partial at best.

Nevertheless she and her husband created a warm, affectionate family. They loved each other and rarely if ever quarrelled. Their shared liberal values meant that they never smacked the children, and if it was Mikhail who spoiled them and Yelizaveta who was the stricter of the two, they never disagreed about how the children should be brought up. Sergei (‘Seryozha’) was the eldest and there were four other boys – Vyacheslav (‘Vava’), Valery (‘Lyussik’) who died at the time of the Bolshevik revolution, Oleg (‘Olezhika’ or ‘Olka’) and Lev (‘Levushka’) who succumbed to kidney disease in 1940. The three girls were Natalia (‘Natasha’), Nina, and Yevgenia, the youngest child, born in 1903. Both Natasha and Nina became actresses: Natasha emigrated to Paris, but Nina, having trained in the Stanislavsky system, remained in Russia. She was reputedly the best looking of the girls.

All the children were gifted, especially in the arts, but probably Seryozha was the most talented. He quickly discovered his natural abilities in the arts, drawing cartoons of his family and friends, learning the piano and discovering he had perfect pitch, and writing little verses about his brothers and sisters. When he was three his father taught him to swim and he became an enthusiastic swimmer. He remembered at the age of four taking gigantic strides down the street in Kuldiga and hearing a voice shouting in Lettish: ‘Pietur! Pietur! Pagaid bishkin!’ (‘Hold on! Hold on! Wait a bit!’). The rhythm of this echoed in his head, as did the cries of the street hawkers who plied their trades in the town. He attended church assiduously, and soon learned the service by heart. These were perhaps scraps which fed his nascent attraction to poetry.

Meanwhile as a small child he played outdoors by creating a feast of berries which he served to himself on a plate made of a maple leaf. His game of ‘robbers’ climaxed when he stabbed his ‘victim’ with a wooden sword, then robbed the body before performing a solemn funeral rite for him. Indoors, he remembered imagining the chair legs as trees and digging up imaginary mushrooms, only to discover that in reality mushrooms are not dug up but gathered. This realization made him furious with himself for what he described later as pandering to a non-realist illusion – an intellectual response which he claimed led to his later theoretical formulations about the arts.

When he was eight he encountered a ‘real’ poet for the first time in his life. This was Vsevolod Yefgrafovich Cheshikhin, translator of Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde. ‘He sat on the verandah of the dacha by the Riga seashore on a small chair with his back to the people passing by and wrote. It seemed to me that his ink flowed like water’. Here was perhaps a model to be followed.

In 1902 the family moved to Tartu in Estonia which, like Latvia, was within the Russian tsarist empire. Tartu was famed for its ancient University, and among young Estonians there was a strong movement, similar to the ‘Young Latvian’ movement, to rid the province of the longstanding oppressive German culture and landlordism. Like Latvia’s ‘New Current’, the young Estonians claimed to be Marxist, and they, too, would support the 1905 revolution. The family lived in the centre of the city at 11 Myasnitskaya Street in a five-room, first floor flat across the main boulevard from the Emayogi River. It was here that Yevgenia was born, and the family hired a nanny to help them cope.

The Tretyakovs still found plenty of ways to amuse themselves. Mikhail, the father, kept bees in seven squat yellow hives in the garden of the school where he now taught, beside a pond alive with noisy frogs, fruit trees and flowers. Seryozha was his father’s assistant in the bee-keeping project: they both wore black net masks making them resemble, as Nina Tretyakova put it, ‘devils practising witchcraft over the little yellow dwellings’. Yelizaveta, the mother, followed her estranged father’s hobby of cultivating exotic flowers, and the flat became known to their friends as the ‘Botanical Gardens’. She even grew an Italian palm tree in a tub.

When Nina and Lyussik fell seriously ill with scarlet fever, their father was their chief nurse, fussing around them in a white lab coat, following the doctor’s instructions. Seryozha was again his chief assistant, and he cared for the two younger children ‘very tenderly’. One of his jobs was to feed them grapes, which he peeled, removing the pips before commanding the patient to open their mouth. Then he lobbed the fruit into the gaping maw. By this time he was wearing spectacles, but his sister remembered him as tall, handsome and very kind. He was also progressing with his piano playing: he was to become something of a virtuoso amateur musician, playing the piano for pleasure or relaxation for the rest of his life. His sister remembered how he would practice for hours works by Liszt, Skryabin, Chopin and others, and how the family would ‘get cosy on the big sofa and listen to him play’.

In 1905 Seryozha was accepted as a pupil at the prestigious Riga Gymnasium, which had been founded as early as 1211 and so was one of the world’s oldest educational establishments. The school’s alumnae from this period included poets, architects, scientists (including a Nobel Prize winner for Chemistry) and politicians, one of whom was Peteris Stucka, co-founder of the New Current movement and later leader of the Bolshevik government of Latvia at the time of the Latvian war of independence in 1918. The school is still housed in the imposing, white-fronted building which Seryozha knew, with wide corridors and high ceilings, where footsteps echo on the uncarpeted floors and the classrooms still contain straight rows of old-fashioned school desks. The Gymnasium was funded by the state, not the city, and consequently accepted students from across the Baltic provinces.

Pupils were aged from 11 to 20, and the main teaching language was Russian. For students who did not speak Russian there were two years of preliminary classes which concentrated on teaching the language. The basic subjects taught, which Seryozha must have learned, were religious studies, Russian, Latin, mathematics, and sports. These subjects were compulsory throughout the student’s life at the Gymnasium. In the earlier years, geography, art (mostly drawing) and handwriting were added to this basic curriculum, and these subjects were more or less replaced by Greek, physics, history, German and French from the second, third and fourth grades, while Logic and Cosmology were added in the final year. School started at 9 a.m. and continued until 3 p.m., and each class contained between 35 and 40 pupils. The best students graduated with gold medals, which gave them access to Universities such as Riga, Tartu, St Petersburg and Moscow.

Two years after Seryozha had started his school career here, his father, Mikhail Konstantinovich, was appointed Inspector of National Schools in Latvia, and the family moved to Riga. They rented a cottage near the beach on the gulf of Riga, though Mikhail Konstantinovich also retained a pied à terre in Riga itself, where Seryozha stayed during the school term time. The boy’s interests at this time ranged widely, from collecting stamps to spiritualism to archaeology and beyond. He read classical literature – ‘Ovid’s primitive hexameters’ particularly appealed – and modern Russian authors such as Konstantin Balmont, Alexander Blok, Mikhail Kuzmin and even more controversial authors like Igor Severyanin, and continued to draw cartoons. In fact his sketch book, full of cartoons, fell into the hands of the headteacher, who easily recognized one caricature as being of himself. Instead of – as expected – flying into a rage at the boy’s impertinence, he was delighted, and begged Seryozha to let him have it. When Seryozha gave it to him, he carefully preserved it.

As for poetry, his earliest work mixed Lettish and Russian more or less unintelligibly, but created interesting ‘soundscapes’:

Lyura – plyura

Noodle - poodle1

Of course he learned rude rhymes from other boys, which amused him, but he attempted to create more ambitious works of his own, including love poetry –

It was in the snow

That I saw her:

You appeared to me,

And wound round my heart.

He also made a bold attempt at writing an epic, which described the events of a single day. It opened:

The air is pure, the day clear

Under the limpid shade.

It continued in a style which aimed to emulate Gorky’s Song of the Stormy Petrel and Song of the Falcon, but he felt it became contaminated by echoes of Alexei Tolstoy as well as the children’s author Sasha Chorny, and he left it unfinished. He was also the moving spirit behind a class-created ‘civic poem’ which was sent to the writer and human rights activist, Vladimir Korolenko, though no answer was received.

Seryozha was top of his class all through his years at the Gymnasium, and consequently was highly valued by his teachers, though by his own admission he never worked hard at his school books. Still, one teacher told his father that he had never had a student like him – the best pupil he had ever taught, he said. He made friends easily, and many of these visited the family home where they argued, laughed, and enjoyed themselves. Seryozha began to enjoy girls’ company, too, laughing with them, making eyes at them and composing little poems for them. At home, he organised any of his contemporaries who visited into a sort of choir to sing favourite Latvian folk songs, or led them in traditional dance figures, perhaps indicating his own sympathies with the New Current movement. All this was watched over by his parents’ benevolent eyes. Seryozha’s relationship with his mother was particularly strong at this time. When he arrived from Riga at the cottage, he would spend time with her relating what had happened to him that day, perhaps sharing his troubles with her.

In the dark winter afternoons, Seryozha would arrive home, sometimes accompanied by his father in his long fur coat, the pockets of which contained little presents for the younger children. The big stove gave off a warm glow, the samovar was on the table, beside sweets and cakes. Sometimes the family would go skating as the light faded. In summer, long walks were more in order. In the evenings, the family would sit outside till late, talking, Seryozha telling jokes, making comedy out of the day’s happenings or reading his latest comic poem about one or other of his siblings:

Here along the edge of the wood,

A hen strolls pensively.

Olka the rascal shoos it along,

His little freckles bursting with life,

His nostrils forward-pointing like a cannon.

Or:

Vava blooms like a spring flower.

One day he will grow,

But time stands still waiting for this

And Vava stays the same.

In fact Vyacheslav grew to be taller than Seryozha. Favourite games were hoopla, ‘Cossacks and brigands’, and lapta (somewhat similar to cricket or baseball except that the bowler or pitcher had a bat, too, with which he or she hit the ball towards the striker).

They went out at daybreak with large baskets into the forest to find mushrooms, which grew there in wonderful abundance, as well as soft fruit, bilberries and wild raspberries. When they brought their harvest home, they formed a sort of factory chain on the terrace under the management of their mother – one washed the fruit, another dried them, one put them in the pot to boil, another pickled them. The mother was indeed the centre of the family, especially at this time. She not only played the piano well, she also made all the children’s clothes. She insisted they all wrote diaries, and, being a native German speaker, she made them all learn German. She read them stories in German and one day each week only German was permitted to be spoken in the house.

The summer of 1909 was particularly remembered because the seventeen-year-old Seryozha organised his siblings to construct on the beach a huge labyrinth made of sand. It took them several days to create this masterpiece even though the sand was damp enough to make building with it comparatively easy. The labyrinth was made of trenches two metres deep and over twenty metres in extent. It had a sand-made flight of steps for people to enter it, and each of the children had a ‘room’ of their own, the finest being reserved for Seryozha. A flag was flown near the entrance, sacks of new-mown hay made cushions and mattresses, plates, dishes, knives and forks were requisitioned from the family kitchen, and flowers were brought in and arranged in Seryozha’s retreat. This enormous enterprise attracted the attention of all sorts of holidaymakers and local people, who came from miles around to admire it. ‘They ooh-ed and aah-ed and told of the glory of the Tretyakov labyrinth all down the coast’, and it was literally months before all traces of it had been washed away.

Nina remembered one evening in 1912 near the seashore. The children were barefoot. Mikhail Konstantinovich sat on the little porch, his wife not far away, while Seryozha and Natasha sat on the step beside him, and Vava and Nina found room for themselves on the lower step. The night was warm and fragrant with jasmine and lilies, and they watched the stars gradually appear as the sky darkened. When the moon emerged, the scene was washed with a pale light. For a long time they sat silently, until the father began to speak of the stars. He knew the names of many of them, how far they were from earth, how the constellations had been formed and the cosmic history of the planets, the sun and the moon. Nina remembered: ‘We sat spellbound, suppressing our breathing so as to hear papa the whole night through! He seemed like a magician!’ And she added: ‘Under the influence of things like that, our rare, wonderful Seryozha grew up and was formed’.

Yet beyond the peace and fun of this almost idyllic life, the forces of discontent were rising not just throughout the Baltic states, but through the whole Russian Empire, and this social and political unrest must also have impinged on Seryozha’s consciousness. The world was entering the bloodiest century in human history, and Russia was at the start of fifty years of irreducible storm and stress. 1905, the year Seryozha went to Riga Gymnasium, was also the year of the ‘first’ Russian revolution. In Riga, when news of the shooting of peaceful demonstrators in St Petersburg on 9 January was received, a general strike was called. On 13 January the strikers were confronted by the tsarist police and soldiers, who opened fire: 73 were shot dead and more than two hundred wounded. Over the following months, many rose against the oppression of the tsarist regime and also against the privileged German nobility whose huge wealth and land holdings were a stark provocation to poor Latvian peasants and workers. New councils (‘soviets’) were formed, mostly in rural districts, to voice the people’s discontent, and over four hundred estates were seized and often burned to the ground. Through the summer and autumn there were armed conflicts between the poor and their German landlords, notably in Courland around Kuldiga.

In August, martial law was declared by the tsar’s pitiless Governor General, Baron A.N. Meller-Zakomelsky, and Cossack cavalry units were drafted in to protect German property holders. The reprisals were brutal: over two thousand Latvian people were executed without trial, teachers and intellectuals as well as peasants, and the military torched ordinary houses and some public buildings in their revenge. More than two and a half thousand Latvians were exiled to Siberia, and many more fled to become refugees in other parts of Europe. Though this dampened the fire of revolution, it failed to extinguish it, and dissent continued for years, marked by daring or insurrectionary acts. In January 1906 a band of revolutionaries raided the main police station in Riga and liberated their comrades held there, and over a period of years the struggle continued even beyond the bounds of Latvia. In the notorious Sidney Street siege in London, for instance, in January 1911, there was a shootout between Latvian revolutionaries on the one hand and on the other the Horse Guards and the Scots Artillery, overseen by Winston Churchill, then British Home Secretary. This smarting political bitterness festered like an inflamed sore through all Seryozha’s formative years.

But in the summer of 1913, he graduated from Riga Gymnasium with a Gold Medal, and entered the Law Faculty of Moscow University.

2

Moscow - The Silver Age

The Moscow to which Sergei Tretyakov came as a student in 1913 was a city in the throes of rapid change. St Petersburg was the capital of the tsarist empire, but Moscow was its engine. Though Russia was still an overwhelmingly rural country, the population of Moscow had now reached a million and a half, and there was an air of thrusting self-confidence in it. Moscow was brash where St Petersburg was effete, and the difference was crystallised in each city’s favourite dramatists: where Moscow loved Chekhov and Gorky, St Petersburg preferred Blok and Andreyev. The poet and composer, Mikhail Kuzmin, wrote of

The loud Moscow accent, the peculiar words, the way they clicked their heels as they walked along, the Tatar cheekbones and eyes, the moustaches twirled upwards, the shocking neckties, brightly-coloured waistcoats and jackets, the sheer bravado and implacability of their ideas and judgments.1

The leaders of the city were at this time demanding a much greater voice in the nation’s affairs, one commensurate with what they deemed to be their economic and political significance: after all, Moscow had its own newspaper, its own political party, and a burgeoning civic magnificence, evident in new buildings such as the Metropole Hotel, the Trade and Construction Headquarters, and the Moscow Art Theatre.

Russia was a society deeply divided, the classes rigidly stratified. At the top, of course, was the tsar. Deeply shaken by the revolutionary events of 1905, Nicholas II had with single-minded determination reasserted his authority, and now, in this year of 1913, his fight back climaxed with a series of events to commemorate the tercentenary of the Romanov dynasty, which had ascended the throne in 1613. He undertook a pilgrimage to various historic sites, a journey which ended in Moscow, where he prayed in the Cathedral of the Assumption. Beneath the royal family, but welded to it, was the Orthodox Church, whose ubiquity and power was seen in the ikons visible everywhere – in homes, businesses and shops, as well of course as in the magnificent glittering churches, of which there were so many.

The real power in the city, however, belonged to the ‘merchants’, the bourgeois businessmen, who demonstrated their importance when the tsar arrived in Moscow. Ordered to attend the emperor in the second reception room in the Kremlin when the nobility were to be received in the first, they refused, demanding equality with their supposed superiors – and attaining it. They were the Morozovs, the Shchukin brothers, the Alexeyev family (whose scion, known as Konstantin Stanislavsky, had founded the Moscow Art Theatre): their fortunes were immense, garnered from their huge enterprises – over half Moscow’s businesses employed more than a thousand workers each, and industrial production doubled between the ‘first’ revolution in 1905 and the outbreak of world war in 1914.

But the workers rarely felt the benefit. Because of the fast-increasing demand for factory labour, many peasants flowed into Moscow, which had little by way of suitable accommodation. Many lived in dormitories or barracks which were insanitary and overcrowded. Their working day usually lasted for at least ten hours and wages were less than half of those paid to British workers in comparable positions at the time. No wonder there were strikes – over half a million Russian workers were involved in strike action in 1912, more in 1913. There was a sense that everything was provisional, that political instability – perhaps worse – was virtually inevitable.

And beside, but outside, this simmering volatility was the intelligentsia, the perhaps declassé intellectual elite, cut off from bourgeoisie and worker alike, and consisting of writers, musicians, artists and, of course, students, now including Sergei Tretyakov. Actually, the world of the University was not entirely beyond the political struggle. In 1905, over 3,000 students had demonstrated against the autocracy, burning a large portrait of the tsar and bedecking the University buildings with red flags; and in 1911, when the government moved to limit the University’s autonomy, large numbers of the academic staff resigned in protest. The curriculum was still narrow and government-imposed, and a degree was seen as a stepping-stone to nothing much more than a career in the civil service. Tretyakov studied jurisprudence, and though the fees were very low, he earned extra money by tutoring young people, as did other students. But in his case at least, his devotion to his family remained strong, and he gave most of what he earned to his mother.

What really excited Tretyakov when he arrived in Moscow was what has come to be known as the ‘Silver Age’ of Russian arts and culture. It was a sudden unexpected blossoming which made Russian theatre, dance, and poetry newly admired in western Europe, where it became synonymous with everything modern and chic. St Petersburg was the centre of this upsurge, where the royal family marvelled at Fabergé’s eggs and where daring night clubs were filled with animated punters. These years before the First World War marked the height of fashionable Symbolism, the ivory tower of Vyacheslav Ivanov, the less easily classified avant-gardism of Fyodor Sologub, Mikhail Kuzmin and Nikolai Yevreinov and the strange mysticism of Dmitri Merezhkovsky and Zinaida Gippius. Self-conscious self-doubt was the vogue, and was shared by other, greater poets – Alexander Blok, Andrei Bely, Konstantin Balmont. It was also, of course, the great age of Russian ballet, of the choreographer Mikhail Fokin, and dancers such as Vaslav Nijinsky, Anna Pavlova and Tamara Karsavina. In music, there was a new flowering in the work of composers such as Alexander Skryabin, Alexander Glazunov, Sergei Rachmaninov and others. In Moscow, the deep bass voice of Fyodor Chalyapin was heard, first at Mamontov’s private opera, then at the Bolshoi. And these were the years when the Moscow Art Theatre of Konstantin Stanislavsky and Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko was at its most influential and popular, and the comedy of its offshoot, the Bat cabaret, under Nikita Balieff, was provoking howls of laughter. The most charismatic and brilliant name in the theatrical world, however, was Vsevolod Meyerhold, and Tretyakov recorded almost with awe two meetings with Meyerhold at this time.

The first took place on the beach at Riga in 1913. Meyerhold appeared, ‘a Childe Harold figure in a Spanish cape’. Tretyakov did not dare to approach him, but he wrote a ‘hyper-Kuzminish’ poem in which he speaks of ‘sighing’ Meyerhold’s name in a typical Silver Age image, ‘an amber sigh’.2 His second meeting was at a party he attended at the great director’s flat in St Petersburg. The discussion was animated, much of it centring on contemporary poets and poetry. Meyerhold strongly advocated the work of the newest and youngest poets, not just well-known names like Severyanin, Burlyuk or Shershenevich, but a writer of whom Tretyakov had never even heard – Vasilisk Gnedov. Gnedov was a radical Futurist whose best known work, perhaps, was his poem ‘The End’, which consisted of the title followed by a blank page. Tretyakov had been a star in his own right in Riga; now his eyes were opening to a much wider, more astonishing cultural and aesthetic world.

The Futurists were the new force in the arts. Poets, playwrights, painters, musicians, they were dedicated to sweeping away the timid and inoffensive (as they saw them) Symbolists. But they went further than this, and swore they would throw the great Russian classical writers, Pushkin, Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy, ‘overboard from the Ship of Modernity’.3 This was from the aggressive and controversial manifesto, published in 1912 under the signatures of David Burlyuk, Alexander Kruchyonykh, Vladimir Mayakovsky and Viktor Khlebnikov, and called, provocatively enough, A Slap in the Face of Public Taste. Schismatic and cliquey, the Futurists’ love affairs were often torrid but brief, and they formed and fractured artistic alliances with alarming frequency. Among the Futurist poets and other writers, for instance, there were the Moscow Hyleans who became Cubo-Futurists, who opposed the St Petersburg Ego-Futurists, who were allied with the Moscow Mezzanine of Poetry, many of whom were to dissolve into the Centrifuge group in 1914.

But 1913, the year Tretyakov arrived in Moscow, was the annus mirabilis of the Futurists, when they produced a wealth of pamphlet collections (‘almanacs’ they liked to call them), and staged their first theatre presentations: Mayakovsky’s Vladimir Mayakovsky, a Tragedy and the opera Victory Over the Sun by Khlebnikov, Kruchyonykh and Mikhail Matyushin. They also made a notorious film, inspired by the artists Mikhail Larionov and Natalia Goncharova, Drama in the Futurists’ Cabaret No. 13, which was released in January 1914. In the visual arts there were Rayonnists, Suprematists, and Non-Sense Realists, who formed groups like the Jack of Diamonds and the Donkey’s Tail, and exhibited, including in the notorious ‘Target’ exhibition in Moscow. The founder of Suprematism, Kazimir Malevich, designed the extraordinary and original costumes and backcloths for Victory over the Sun. The Futurists were noisy and iconoclastic, they painted their faces and wore extravagant costumes, and caused mayhem and outrage by their performances in cabarets and on the streets. Two of their most prominent artists, Vladimir Tatlin and Malevich, actually came to blows at the provocatively-titled exhibition ‘The Last Exhibition of Futurist Painting’ in St Petersburg in 1915.

This was the dazzling, dynamic world which appeared before Tretyakov when he arrived in Moscow. His first ambition was to be a poet. Besides those schoolboy attempts already noticed, he had tried more public poems, such as patriotic verses about the Russo-Japanese War of 1904-5, and he estimated that he had written over 1,500 poems by this time. But he admitted later that most of them were as detached from life ‘as the ocean bottom is from a shellfish in the shallows’. He was scared out of his wits by ‘real’ writers like Sergei Yablonovsky, an art critic who was to disparage Futurist art so brutally that Aristarkh Lentulov, one of the Moscow-based ‘Jack of Diamonds’ painters, was constrained to squeeze a tube of yellow paint onto a square of cardboard and exhibit it as ‘Sergei Yablonovsky’s Brain’. But Tretyakov was excited, eager to take part in the ferment, and, as Viktor Shklovsky put it, ‘Never was poetry more open to invasion’.4 And only the poet, according to Ivan Ignatiev in this year of 1913, ‘holds in his power the keys to the gates of the Future’. Tretyakov’s own efforts were excitable, even grotesque:

The switch hiccoughed

And the room gaped white.

So they were already in print?

Ah, this is poetry?

Well, where are you!

Eat better water melons.

Isn’t it true?

On approval.

Don’t say a word – muse …5

As good fortune would have it, another Moscow University Law student, a year ahead of Tretyakov, was equally enthralled by Futurist poetry. He was Boris Lavrenov, a Ukrainian who had published his first verses in 1911. Tretyakov, with encouragement from a friend, took a ‘madrigal-style’ poem of his to Lavrenov, who was active in the newly-forming Mezzanine of Poetry group centred around Vadim Shershenevich. Though Lavrenov’s contributions to the new group’s first ‘almanac’, Vernissazh, are poems described by one of Futurism’s most discerning critics, Vladimir Markov, as ‘exaggeratedly foppish’,6 he was obviously a well-practiced networker: he also appeared in the film, Drama in the Futurists’ Cabaret No. 13. Later he became known as a novelist, and he was to help formulate the theory of ‘drama without conflict’ in the 1930s and win a Stalin Prize in 1946 and again in 1950.

Shershenevich was a prolific poet, dramatist and theorist who was busily buzzing with his project to create the new Mezzanine of Poetry. He was the son of a Professor in the Faculty of Law in which Tretyakov was studying, but his writings, as one critic noted, ‘express a fundamentally avant-gardist rebellion: he is alienated, bitter, aggressively hostile, but at the same time witty, ironic and humorous’.7 The group met at Lavrenov’s lodging, and consisted usually of Lev Zak, the artist also known as Khrisanf, Konstantin Bolshakov, Rurik Ivnev, as well as Lavrenov himself, Shershenevich and Tretyakov, with David Burlyuk and Alexei Kruchyonykh also in attendance occasionally. Zak proclaimed from their inception that these Futurists were ‘all a little crazy’, but the group – and Shershenevich in particular – was extremely important to Tretyakov, whose poetry now appeared in the group’s first almanac, Vernissazh, published in the autumn of 1913. Shershenevich’s fundamental argument was that ‘our era has changed human sensibility too much for my verses to be similar to the works of past years’, and he proposed a completely new subject matter: the city, the machine, urban life. But formally he also contended that ‘poetry is the art of combining self-sufficient words, word-images. The poetic text is an uninterrupted series of images’. These images should be based on ‘exceptional novelty’, he said, and should be ‘fast as a bullet’,8 and their purpose was to rejuvenate the subject. Shklovsky famously suggested that a stone’s ‘stoniness’ should re-emerge because of the power of the poetic image, though this was not perhaps as original an idea as it seemed to many at the time. Shelley, for instance, had argued a hundred years earlier that poetry ‘purges from our inward sight the film of familiarity which obscures from us the wonder of being’. Nevertheless, all this, which seemed so new, was absorbed by Tretyakov, pushing his work towards quintessential Futurism. Shershenevich and Tretyakov became fast friends, and despite the vicissitudes and quarrels among the individuals and the groups forming the Futurist movement, the two remained close at least until the revolution: when Shershenevich published his major theoretical treatise, Green Street, in 1916, he dedicated it to Tretyakov.