Борис Сергеевич Гречин
Русское зазеркалье
– Do you think that you can teach visual arts at an academic institution, then?
– Who would need me as a teacher?! – воскликнула я. – Sir Gilbert, you are a very, very nice person, but, forgive me, you are sort of…
– Naïve?
– Yes—that is, I didn’t mean to be rude.
– Naïve as I may be: can you imagine yourself in a situation when you teach, say, Russian avant-garde art to a group of sixteen- to eighteen-year-old students?
– Not really. I don’t like Russian avant-garde, the whole of it.
– What about Russian classical art of the nineteenth century?
– Gives me no inspiration either. You see, I could teach it all right, but I don’t feel like I can inspire my students by the subject that gives me no thrill. That wouldn’t be very honest towards my students, would it?
– I appreciate this position of yours very much, but it awfully complicates things. You… you must be a good and a brave person, Ms Florensky.
– What makes you think so, Sir Gilbert? – через силу улыбнулась я.
– The fact that you were not afraid to weep in public, – ответил мой собеседник серьёзно. – I would never be so…
– …Weak?
– …Self-forgetting, so daring even. There must be something that sends you good vibes, Ms Florensky. What is it, pray?
Я задумалась. Нам меж тем как раз принесли горячее, но мы оба не спешили есть. Насколько искренней нужно быть? С другой стороны: какая беда в искренности, если я всё равно возвращаюсь в Россию через две недели?
– There are fifteen to perhaps twenty Russian songs that I love very much, – призналась я наконец.
– Excellent! Can you give an academic talk on each of them?
– Yes, – ответила я, даже не успев подумать. – Yes, given that there will be somebody who needs it. Who on earth would need it here?
– Do you know the College of Contemporary Music in London? – ответил баронет вопросом на вопрос.
– No, why? – поразилась я.
– Your humble servant happens to be its… well, patron. Suppose I give a call to Mrs Mercy Walking, the principal. Suppose she invites you as, erm, an academic celebrity, a visiting professor who delivers a series of talks on the subject by which you feel very inspired. Two academic hours a day, five days a week, the whole course comprising twenty academic hours or so. This would give you temporary employment, which then would allow us to extend your work visa—but I would take care of your visa, I promise. How does it sound?
Я, кажется, застыла с открытым ртом, в то время как сэр Гилберт начал всё-таки есть, изредка поглядывая на меня и наслаждаясь произведённым впечатлением.
– I can find no words to express my gratitude, – собралась я с мыслями примерно через минуту.
– Don’t say anything, then, – он почти смеялся.
– Wait—I was saying that it sounds too good to be true. Will you ask from me something… specific in return?
– No, – невозмутимо ответил сэр Гилберт. – I am not a Harvey Weinstein, my dear. Just an old homosexual.
– Then—why are you doing this for a total stranger?
– For sentimental reasons – would you believe me? For some sentimental reasons which I am not going to disclose—not yet. We can have a talk about my reasons in a fortnight—provided you don’t say ‘no’…6
…Билет в Лондон я купила через сайт National Express тем же вечером. Через Сеть я нашла и оплатила жильё по адресу 247 Eversholt str. Сэр Гилберт посоветовал мне снять новое жильё в районе Kensal Green или, на худой конец, Chalk Farm, чтобы мне было проще добираться до новой работы. Ничего не находилось, но, уже почти отчаявшись, я вдруг набрела на сайт A&B Groups в районе Camden Town: они просили сорок фунтов посуточно за номер-студию. Оплата двух недель вперёд лишила меня бóльшей части сбережений, но жалеть не приходилось: или подвернётся ещё какая работа, или возвращаться в Россию, где у меня – ни профессии, ни знакомств, ни друзей, ни жилья, только родные берёзки да осинки. Поживём – увидим…
Сэр Гилберт обещал позвонить в девять вечера. Около часу я провела в томительном ожидании его звонка, веря всё меньше и меньше. Минутный великодушный порыв, пусть, но так ведь не делаются дела в Британии, где всё так предсказуемо и где никто не любит неожиданностей! К десяти, когда он наконец позвонил, я перестала надеяться совсем и, думаю, звучала слегка апатично. Чуть посмеявшись моему безверию, покровитель коллежа сообщил, что он обо всём договорился лучшим образом и что моя первая лекция пройдёт в понедельник в десять утра.
Эрик так и не появился дома, и я почти спокойно приняла мысль о том, что четыре дня назад видела его в последний раз… в своей жизни? Может быть. Я написала Эрику что-то среднее между длинной запиской и коротким письмом и собрала небольшой рюкзак самых нужных вещей. Утром я вышла на Victoria Coach Station7 и села в метро до Mornington Crescent. Мне пришлось пережить пару неприятных минут в попытках забрать из шкафчика ключ от своего номера, но об этом я уже писала.
––
Занеся свои скромные покупки «домой», я отправилась в офис A&B Groups, который имел отдельный вход, не подвальный, а прямо с улицы. Понятия не имею, как расшифровывалось A&B в их названии, так и не удосужилась узнать. Apartments and breakfast?8 Завтрака они, впрочем, не давали, не было и намёка на общую столовую.
[Сноска дальше.]
– Hi! – приветствовал меня администратор, симпатичный высокий мулат.
– Hi, I booked yesterday. I’m a new guest from the room with the green diamond on the door.
– You must be Alice. Did you get in, finally? So sorry for the wrong code! Why didn’t you call me? – он всё так же белозубо улыбался.
– I did! – запротестовала я, разом отвечая на оба вопроса. – Then a gentleman passed by and helped me open the box with the key—and he might have inadvertently broken it…
– No problem, I will fix it.
Так просто! Нет, я определённо люблю эту страну.
Для очистки совести я спросила, не нужно ли мне возместить ущерб (мы, русские, мазохисты, правда?). Этого не требовалось, спасибо. И не нужно ли мне показать паспорт, записаться в какую-нибудь амбарную книгу? Нет, и этого не требовалось. Осмелев, я решилась спросить:
– Can I use the fireplace in my room?
Мулат обрабатывал этот вопрос секунд тридцать, прежде чем ответить:
– So your room has a fireplace… Are you sure you can handle a fireplace?
– I grew up in a village and I used to operate a regular oven for sixteen years of my life, – ответила я не без гордости. (Преувеличила, конечно, чуток: не с рождения ведь я печку топила.)
– What village?
– Lyutovo.
– Lieu-to-Woe? Never heard of it. Must be in the south. Err… You see, the regulations are such that…
– At night? – шепнула я, улыбаясь так обворожительно, как могла. – So that nobody sees the smoke? And with some extra payment?
– Okay, no extra payment, but you shouldn’t get caught, – сдался мулат. – And I didn't say that, remember? Hey, you… you must be Russian, right? (Это он наверняка догадался по моей «дикой» идее топить старый камин, сообразила я.) I love you Russians! Vladimir Putin, Russian dolls, babúshka! Need an adapter for your devices, by the way? You can borrow one for one pound; you get it back on the last day of your stay here. Sorry, we don’t have the PRAVDA channel here. Only BBC One to Four.
– I have no telly in my room, anyway, – ответила я, еле сдерживая улыбку.
– Really? – факт отсутствия телевизора поразил его не меньше, чем моё желание топить камин. Он соображал секунд двадцать, пока снова не расцвёл: – Ah yes, this it why it comes with a discount!9
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Справившись с нехитрым обедом («Что тут есть?!» – могла бы я воскликнуть вслед за героем «Кавказской пленницы»; правда, тому было нечего пить), я снова залезла в кресло и, наверное, больше часу просидела в каком-то оцепенении.
Вот, у меня есть близкая моему сердцу музыка, о которой я могу говорить. Есть студенты, которым интересна она и мои разговоры о ней – или, может быть, просто интересна я сама как диковинный зверь из далёкой страны, где живут Vladimir Putin, matryoshkas и babúshkas. Беда только в том, что все эти годы я не прикасалась к этой музыке, убрала её на дальнюю высокую полку своей души как очень дорогой и хрупкий бабушкин сервиз, в который ты боишься наливать горячий чай повседневности. Мне почти больно было думать о том, что сервиз нужно снять с полки и выставить на всеобщее обозрение.
Может быть, отказаться от курса, отключить телефон?
Нет, дурно. И потому дурно, что непорядочно: я уже пообещала. И потому ещё дурно, что с этим курсом у меня есть надежда остаться, а без него дорога одна – возвращаться в Россию. Никаких типичных страхов и буйных кошмарных фантазий политэмигранта в моей голове нет, мне не страшно возвращаться. Но кроме того, что меня никто и ничто не ждёт, Россию я сама… предала своим отъездом? Возможно, я также невольно своим отъездом предала человека, которому была нужна больше всего, и… нет, не надо об этом думать. А ещё такой отказ будет поражением, сложением оружия, признанием того, что три года своей жизни я была просто довеском к очаровательному шалопаю, а перестав быть чужим довеском, сама оказалась ни на что не годна и ни к чему не способна. И последнее: вещи ведь делаются для того, чтобы пользоваться ими. Чашки – для того, чтобы из них пить, песни – для того, чтобы их слушали, храмы – для того, чтобы в них молились. Пусть бьются чашки, пусть критикуются и подвергаются насмешке песни, пусть оскверняются храмы – такова жизнь. Если бы их не было, было бы ещё печальней.
Встряхнувшись, я раздобыла в рюкзаке устройство, среднее между планшетом и нетбуком, села за кухонный столик, установила подключение к локальной беспроводной сети (пароль welcometocamden висел на доске объявлений в коридоре на первом этаже) и за два часа с небольшим разыскала в Сети около двадцати песен. Перебросила их через bluetooth-соединение с планшета на телефон. Вернулась в кресло с телефоном и наушниками. Что звучало тогда самым первым одиннадцать лет назад, когда я сидела в очень похожем кресле? Майя Кристалинская? Пусть будет Майя Кристалинская.
Постарею, побелею, как земля зимой.
Я тобой переболею, ненаглядный мой.
Я тобой перетоскую, переворошу,
По тебе перетолкую, что в себе ношу.
До небес и бездн достану, время торопя,
И совсем твоею стану – только без тебя.
Мой товарищ стародавний, суд мой и судьба,
Я тобой перестрадаю, чтоб найти себя.
Я узнаю цену раю, ад вкусив в раю,
Я тобой переиграю молодость свою.
Переходы, перегрузки, долгий путь домой…
Вспоминай меня без грусти, ненаглядный мой.
Осторожно, как вчера бокал, я вынула из ушей наушники. Разжала руку, позволив им упасть на пол. Что же это такое, за что мне это? Второй раз за два дня. Всего только второй раз за три года. Почему раньше в Британии я никогда не плакала? Из гордости своей? Или потому, что в отношениях с Эриком была сильной стороной, а мужчины не плачут? Или здесь просто нет ничего, о чём я могла бы плакать?
«Постарею, побелею» – ну да, куда же я денусь. «Перетоскую, переворошу» – а как же, уже ведь тоскую, уже ворошу, может быть, все эти годы тосковала и ворошила. Даже осторожно мечтала: что, если? И детки были бы красивые. Не будет теперь никаких деток. «По тебе перетолкую, что в себе ношу» – конечно, по тебе, по кому же ещё, не по Эрику ведь я буду это толковать. «Только без тебя» – и это сбылось. Со вчерашнего дня и навеки, аминь. Как здесь каждое слово про меня, какой это ужас… Как хорошо, что меня никто не видит, мои будущие студенты особенно… Тихо. Тихо. Уймись…
Я не буду включать анализ этой песни в планирование курса. Все остальные – пожалуйста. Эту – нет. Ах, да: прямо сейчас я встану с этого кресла. Умоюсь. Сделаю несколько упражнений из yoga for beginners.10 Приму душ. Выйду из номера и пойду гулять по Лондону, пока не стемнело. (И то ведь: была здесь раза четыре в жизни, так и сидела всё время в своём ливерпульском захолустье.) До центра дойду пешком. Заскочу в Poundland, куплю резинку для волос и новые стельки. Забреду в Британский музей или в Национальную галерею, поброжу по залам часа два. Выпью чашку кофе в Pret a Manger, послушаю уличных музыкантов на Трафальгарской площади. Поглазею на Парламент и Колесо обозрения. Куплю магнитик с красной телефонной будкой в сувенирной лавке. Неспешно вернусь домой на автобусе. Поваляюсь в постели, ни о чём не думая, не вспоминая, не жалея. И добросовестно сяду писать конспект первого занятия.
Глава 1
[Cноска через несколько страниц.]
Dear young ladies, dear young gentlemen, dear other, I am very happy to see you. My name is Alice Florensky. I am your visiting professor for the Russian Non-Classical Music of the Late Twentieth Century. I will give you nine or ten lectures, each followed by a group discussion. My choice of the songs we will be talking about will be explained somewhat later; for now, you can rest assured that all of the songs we shall deal with definitely deserve your attention.
I am still hesitant about your assessment: I believe the course will result in a test. This is an optional course, though; it is therefore highly likely that you will just have an (oral?) fail or pass exam, or given no assessment at all. Your activity in our discussions may be taken into account in your final assessment. All these issues are still to be cleared. I promise to clear them as soon as possible and to give you more precise information next time.
This opening lecture is devoted to Igor Sarukhanov, a Russian rock musician, composer, and artist of Armenian descent, born in 1956. We shall begin with some core terms, though: with defining these terms or, rather, with un-defining them; I mean, with questioning their validity in the context of our course.
The fact that ‘anything,’ any cultural or pseudo-cultural phenomenon—including obscenities even – is worth an academic discussion, has now become general knowledge. (I will avoid songs containing obscenities as conscientiously as I can; sorry about those of you who were anticipating them.) To put it in simpler terms, if coprophagy can be defined academically or even given a series of lectures about, so of course can pop culture. Anyone who teaches arts and humanities has to plainly accept the fact that the academic knowledge of today progressively detaches itself from any moral responsibility for what it describes. Speculations on why it is happening would lead us far beyond our subject, so let us probably drop them altogether.
All this having been said, it still remains unclear how far we can rely on those very terms—‘folk music,’ ‘rock music,’ ‘pop music,’ ‘bard music,’ ‘military music,’ or even ‘symphonic music’—when talking about the Russian music of the late twentieth century. On the one hand, most of the Russian songs that we shall look into can be categorised in those terms. It is more or less obvious, for instance, that, whereas describing Victor Tsoi as a successful rock star of the 90es, we would hardly apply this definition to, say, Valery Obodzinsky. (Victor Tsoi was more than just that, to note in parenthesis: over the years after his death, his figure has acquired a sort of cult status.) And yet, there is a certain line up to which all those terms, when applied to the Russian music of the period, are still workable. Beyond this line, these definitions become bereft of any practical sense: they simply ‘fall into water’ of fruitless terminological speculations and drown there.
Let me give you three examples. Here is Nikolay Rastorguyev, performing a romance song, or just a ‘romance’—I am positive that you are familiar with the term. The Oxford Dictionary of Music states that a romance ‘generally … implies a specially personal or tender quality.’ The romance in question is, indeed, a delicate love song with a gentle melody, its text being a fine specimen of the Russian poetry of the early twentieth century and written by Nikolay Gumilyov, an influential Russian poet, literary critic, and traveller who was arrested and executed by the secret Soviet police in 1921. And yet, Nikolay Rastorguyev is very far from being a typical romance singer. He is, in fact, the frontman of Lyube, a well-known Russian rock band. I would further say that Lyube is a patriotic rock band, and that it also is Vladimir Putin’s favourite musical collective, to make it even more complicated. All things considered, do we deal with a romance or a rock song in this particular case?
Here is ‘In a Frontline Forest,’ a very exemplary Soviet military song of WWII, ‘official propagandistic crap,’ as some of you would perhaps want to define it. (Spoiler: it is not.) Will you now admit that it in no way resembles a military march? The song is said to be very popular among common Soviet soldiers who also composed its alternative lyrics, thus creating a folk song in the truest sense of this definition. So which one of the two categories, being ‘military songs’ and ‘folk songs,’ does ‘In a Frontline Forest’ fall into?
And now, here is the State Orchestra of Byelorussia/Belarus, performing the symphonic version of Victor Tsoi’s ‘Blood Group.’ Can ‘Blood Group’ still be seen as a piece of rock music when performed in this manner?
I want to make quite clear that all the mentioned songs are not rare and extraordinary exceptions. For the Russian music of the period, it seems to be the general rule to mix up different musical genres or to transgress their boundaries every time the artist thinks fit do to so.
We might want to speculate about the reasons underlying this methodological anarchy. We will go on and on speculating about them endlessly, though, unless we fail to grasp one simple fact, namely how deeply the Russian vision of what music generally is—or shall be—differs from the West-centered vision of music.
Over years, decades, and centuries, most of you have got accustomed to the image of a pop singer fabricating away ‘nice tunes’ of relatively low cultural value to please teenagers, housewives, or perhaps manual workers in order to get their admiration and—obviously enough—their money. You also have a mental image of a rock celebrity who deliberately provokes and shocks the public conscience by all means possible; probably in order to reform his or her countrymen, to challenge important social or political problems, and thus to make the society he or she lives in a better place. (Forgive me these oversimplifications: you know as much as I do that they are a far too simple way to describe the musical landscape of the West.) In Soviet Russia, these cultural clichés have never worked, and it still remains unclear whether they work in the Russian Federation of today.
You do not feel compelled to win the hearts of teenagers as long as your income in no way depends on the sales of your new album; actually, you cannot profit from your album either: it is the Communist Party that owns your work and allows you to be active creatively. Or, more recently, you cannot make a fortune from your new album because your brand-new compositions emerge somewhere on the Russian web shortly after its official release, leaked by some copyright pirates, so why bother at all? Intellectual property is not a concept widely recongised by Russians or even by Russian official bodies, and there is something within Russian mentality that makes it almost impossible for us to ever truly recognise this concept—our deep contempt towards individualism and petty-bourgeois profit gaining, perhaps. You do not need—you do not dare, probably—to question the moral foundations of society since those very foundations are unquestionable, in the Russia of today as much as in the Soviet period. Rather than that, you can concentrate on creating songs that claim to describe ‘higher values’ or deliver to your audience some important messages about the basics of human existence. (I am painfully aware of the fact that ‘higher values’ is a pretty vague term, and so are ‘the basics of human existence.’) In other words, Russian bard and rock music of the period looks very unimpressive when seen through the lens of politics, but it becomes extraordinarily interesting as soon as you start to interpret it in terms of philosophy—or maybe religion.
This was my explanation of why you cannot be over-confident when applying conventional genre definitions to the Russian music of the period. You can take it or leave it, you also can come up with a better explanation, and you will be very welcome to do so during our discussion.
Having done with the preliminaries, let us turn to Igor Sarukhanov’s ‘Skripka-Lisa.’ The song, written in 1997, was a hit of the late 90es, and it still evokes sweet nostalgic memories in a great number of Russians.
The name of the song suggests a pun; you also may see it as a typical mondegreen. The term mondegreen was coined by Sylvia Wright, and American writer, in 1954.
They have slain the Earl O' Moray,
And laid him on the green.
Can you, too, hear it as ‘And Lady Mondegreen’ the way she did when she was a child?
The Russian [skripkalisa] can be interpreted as either ‘the screeching (Russian “skrip”) of a wheel (Russian “kolesa”),’ probably a wheel of an old traditional horse-carriage, which is the most obvious interpretation, given the next line that speaks of muddy roads, full of puddles. Or, again, the name can be read as ‘a violin’ (Russian ‘skripka’) that somehow resembles, or maybe imitates, a ‘vixen’, a she-fox (Russian ‘lisa’). At the first glance, the second reading makes no sense whatever, and yet, the official name of the song is ‘Skripka-Lisa,’ ‘A Violin [Resembling] a Fox’—or maybe it is the fox who imitates the violin, who knows… One must have a Soviet background to fully understand that—to understand, that is, why the name of the song was so absurdly distorted. Because of the aesthetic reasons, one might say: a violin sounds much better than a screeching wheel, figuratively and literally so. The fact is that Russian artists are not particularly concerned with purely aesthetic reasons as long as ‘more important issues’ are at stake.
My own interpretation is as follows: the audience is given a hint, a signal that there is an important message in store and that this message is deliberately encrypted by means of a metaphor. Who would care to encrypt it if it hasn’t been important? Various figures of speech and ‘Aesopian language’ had been the standard operating tools of those Soviet dissidents who somehow managed to get a position of, say, a film director, but who were prohibited by the Soviet censorship to directly express their social views on ‘the ugly reality of the country they lived in.’ An instant rapport between the artist and his or her audience was established every time any such metaphor emerged. ‘Now, listen!’ those metaphors said. ‘Here comes someone who can reveal the truth. Pay attention!’
After 1991, the situation changed drastically. In the ‘New Russia,’ you wouldn’t need any sort of the metaphorical language any longer. You could criticise the social reality at your heart’s content—nobody cared, just because nobody really listened to. You don’t really pay attention to social critics when you have more urgent issues to take care of—your own survival, for instance. ‘Freedom of speech’ it was all right, but, allow me to say, a very starving sort of freedom. Why would Igor Sarukhanov still use those ‘disguising metaphors’ in 1997 when it was completely safe to say the truth in plain words, namely, that the wheels of the carriage we call ‘the Russian state’ are old and screeching? Everyone who had eyes could directly observe that simple fact. A great question. Please note it as one of the questions for our discussion. Allow be to give you a hint, though. Those of you who are familiar with The Demons by Fyodor Dostoyevsky might remember the figure of Stepan Verkhovensky, a political radical in his youth, a conformist in his fifties, who, when being left completely undisturbed and long forgotten by the authorities of the province he lived in, still proudly posed himself as a person ‘under secret surveillance.’ I guess Igor Sarukhanov wouldn’t be overly happy about my comparing him to Stepan Verkhovensky. Why? We might want to discuss this question, too.
The subject of the song is in all probability a troupe of wandering circus artists who tour to different venues—along the dirty roads with puddles, accompanied by the screeching of the wheel. Or maybe by the song of a fox-like violin, or by howls of a violin-like fox even. Do they also have a fox that performs simple tricks on the circus stage? The first verse mentions another ‘wounded animal’ (or is it the same?) who ‘wants to escape in the fields’ and ‘has no shelter.’ This wounded animal is our love, the song says. It looks like there are two persons in the artistic troupe who, when loving each other, obviously feel very unprotected. Why do they? Because of their being a same-sex couple whose relationship is not looked upon favourably even among the circus artists with their liberal views? I leave it to your own interpretation.
The question is of course provocative: your humble lecturer doesn’t see it that simple. Igor Sarukhanov probably addresses his audience each time he says ‘you,’ ‘our love’ can therefore be easily interpreted as ‘our love for our country,’ our patriotism, a feeling that is ‘shy,’ ‘wants to escape into the fields’ and ‘has no shelter.’ You had to physically be in Russia in her 90es to feel why patriotism in Russia could—and still can, probably—be spoken about in such categories.
Let us now have a look at the second verse. ‘For thousands of years we, you and I equally, are doomed to…’ To “mykat’ ”, which verb leaves me almost helpless, Russian though as I am. The closest possible translation would be I guess ‘to suffer from’ and ‘to get along with,’ ‘to patiently endure something,’ ‘to suffer from something while you are getting along with it.’ A very Russian vision—I might even say, a very Orthodox Christian vision—of suffering which is ‘beneficial in itself’ (well, not really), as it allegedly ‘purifies our soul from Evil.’ I wholeheartedly reject this vision, which doesn’t mean to say that my rejection of it is in any way exemplary for a Russian—I might be a bad Russian, after all. This is what the Russian songs that we discuss in this course are about. Just touch any of them—and you will be overwhelmed, overflowed by the multitude of cultural phenomena it refers to, including Dostoyevsky, a thousand years of Russian Christianity, and God knows what else.
We are, the text says, doomed to maintain this half-friend-half-foe relationship with ‘something in our destiny,’ still left untouched ‘by the malicious ravens.’ Black ravens play an important part in Russian pre-Christian mythology; they usually symbolise Death. The song probably says that those of us who will be still alive will envy the dead. A very dismal vision of Russian life as a purgatorium, shared only by relatively few artists. I do not subscribe to it, and yet I felt like it wouldn’t be very fair not to mention those artists in our course altogether. It is the second part of the verse, though, that makes the whole of it so remarkable.
For thousands of years we are doomed to be waiting for the Driver, and then
We who have hearts of the rich but carry beggar’s bags will flop down in the mud, when [he] yells at us, ‘Go down!’
The Driver definitely must be seen as the Vozhd, the National leader, the Tsar. To be honest, I would not know what to say if you asked me where the line between a vozhd and a tsar should be drawn. To me, all these terms are synonymous, de facto if not de jure. Russia has always been, and still is, an authoritarian state. (This is what you wanted me to say, didn’t you?) To ignore this fact of our social reality would be absurd, and yet, your humble lecturer and Igor Sarukhanov happen to have diametrically opposed views on whether having a monarch is beneficial or bad for a nation. Any admirer of the British royal family would perhaps be on my side… We are not talking about my humble person, though. For Igor Sarukhanov, the Driver cannot help being a tyrant and a dictator, one who shouts at you ‘Go down!’—and then you bluntly fall in the mud, a rich man in your heart though you are. You probably remember Boris Berezovsky and the sad end of his life: he, too, had to obey this command and to ‘go down,’ speaking metaphorically. In Russia, you cannot contradict the Driver, however rich you are.
My subjective opinion is that Sarukhanov’s characters with their ‘hearts of the rich’ can hardly earn sympathies of an average Russian. It is the ‘poor and condemned,’ to use Dostoyevsky’s phrase, who win our hearts. We are not really sorry for the rich, thrown in the mud. Would the artist attribute ‘hearts of saints’ to his protagonists he undoubtedly would make us love them. The problem is, saints are not upset by the command to go down. This is what they are doing all the time, anyway. It reminds me of a short talk between the Russian Tsar and Bazil the Blessed, fool for Christ, in Boris Godunov, Modest Mussorgsky’s famous opera. Why does the beggar reject monarch’s humble request to pray for the salvation of tsar’s soul? Another question that we might want to discuss later on.
The whole of the second verse can basically be seen—or, rather, heard—as the voice of the Russian liberal intelligentsia, moaning about the fact that the ‘only civilised people in this wild country’ (sarcasm on my side) are forced to ‘go down’ by the Driver, be this Driver Nicholas I, Joseph Stalin, or Vladimir Putin. The pro-Western liberal intelligentsia in Russia will be lamenting until the second arrival of Christ. If Christ Himself asked those people to follow Him, to join Him in the Heavenly Kingdom, and to please leave behind all their petty thoughts and bad mental habits, this being the only condition for their rise—they would still say the strict Driver had forced them to go down. Does it sound too ecclesiastical? I cannot help it.
There are two things that reconcile me with this song, though, one of them being sweet memories of my adolescence. All these songs—along with some understanding of them—have been ‘transmitted’ to me by one of my teachers, a person of whom I think very highly, so they cannot be really bad, however sentimental it may sound. The second reason is the third verse of ‘Skripka-Lisa’ that asks us to
