The Artistic Life of Russia
Almost everybody in Russia is hungry and cold, and many surface critics
in Russia blame the Government for conditions for which they cannot be
held in any great degree responsible. It is perfectly true that in the
beginning, Committee management of an industry sometimes brought that
industry to a full stop. Kameneff is reported by Arthur Ransome to have
explained the non-working of certain excellent soap factories on the
double ground of lack of material and “because some crazy fool imagined
that to take an inventory you must bring everything to a standstill.”
“Establish a Commission,” he had previously said, “and soap instantly
disappears. But put in one man to see that soap is forthcoming, and
somehow or other we get it.” The greater part of the blame for the
hunger and privation must be placed upon those who made the wars which
have afflicted Russia so long.
Nobody can criticise the Government on one point, and that their
protection and encouragement of Art. The most grudging in his praise
must perforce admit that the Bolsheviki have shown their wisdom in
leaving undamaged up to the present the artistic side of Russian life;
whilst the just will give them credit for fostering Art by taking
special care of the artists and by bringing it within the reach of the
poorest classes in the community, hitherto totally shut out from the
best and finest which Art can give.
The concert halls and theatres of Petrograd and Moscow are crowded
every night. The British Delegation were taken several times to the
most wonderful performances of plays and operas it has been the lot
of most of them to see. I have myself seen operatic performances in
several European capitals, London and New York. It is true that the
orchestra in Vienna is finer. “Die Götterdämmerung” as performed in
Berlin excites the greatest admiration. Chaliapine himself has thrilled
immense audiences in Covent Garden. The singing and orchestration
in the two great Russian cities were very fine indeed, perhaps not
so fine as special performances in the other European capitals in
happier circumstances. But in the mere technique of production I have
seen nothing to equal the Russian performances. Not a detail had
been neglected, not a dress, nor a colour, nor a pose unstudied. The
lighting effects were astonishing. Here, a moon gave a moon’s light,
and a daybreak came as gently and softly as in Nature, and not with
the suddenness of breaking china.
In Petrograd we saw two performances, one Gluck’s “Orpheus” and the
other Bizet’s “Carmen.” In addition we had an hour at the ballet
on our way to the railway train and Moscow. The ballet is known in
London for the exquisite thing it is. A special interest for us
in Petrograd was the inclusion in the caste of gifted proletarian
children, whose dancing did nothing to lower the standard in these
things to which Russia has accustomed the rest of Europe for so long.
It was a very lovely rendering of the dream of a hopeless lover of his
princess-bride, who dies of grief and shock when the vision fades and
he is left with nothing but her veil of gauze.
Of “Carmen” I have seen a better performance from the point of view of
chorus singing and orchestral accompaniment. There was a disturbing
failure to keep together of chorus and orchestra which marred an
otherwise wonderful presentation of this well-known and favourite
opera. But again, the way in which it was staged was marvellous beyond
all words. And similarly with “Orpheus.” This wonderful work, rendered
with exquisite art, developed in one a mood of exaltation, and left one
with the feeling that here in the world of mystery and imagination,
of passionate and pure aspiration are the things which matter most,
and that the sordid battles of political theorists for intellectual
victories and argumentative triumphs are of very secondary importance.
One or two of the Delegates went to the green room between the scenes
to discover how far the new order of Society was satisfying to the
artists. One of the chief of these was asked if he experienced as much
sympathy and appreciation from the new type of audience as the old, and
whether he liked singing to the new as well as to the old. He replied
that to him the social position of the members of his audience did not
matter; that the mere appendages of the old-time theatre, the dresses,
the fans, the flowers and other fripperies meant nothing at all; that
understanding and sympathy were everything to the singer, and that in
these things, there was no difference between the old and the new.
The audiences were certainly very attentive and most appreciative.
They were composed in the main of quiet working folk and professional
men and women. There were very few good clothes, but everybody was
neat and tidy except about the feet. The only thing I noticed which
seemed to indicate that many in the audience were new to the music
was the applause when the curtain descended and before the orchestra
finished. The “clappers” were reproved by the more instructed part of
the audience, and will probably learn in time to respect the music till
the end. And anyhow, I have seen in London theatres exhibitions of bad
manners from people who fussed with their hats and cloaks during the
last moments of the play or concert, infinitely harder to endure than
the premature enthusiasm of the new opera-goers in Petrograd.
Certain nights at the Opera and theatre are reserved for soldiers and
sailors, certain others for Trade Unionists and other workers, and the
remainder are for the general public. The public pay for their places,
the workers go in free. The tickets are distributed to them in turn
through their organisations. So great is the demand for tickets that
many people are able to sell theirs at double the price, which they
frequently do, preferring the extra money to the music; whilst cunning
speculators buy up quantities of tickets and make a profitable deal
with them.
But the outstanding fact remains: That Opera and the best music and
plays are accessible to all, free to most, and that Art is tenderly
nurtured under the Soviet administration.
Artists are able to command big salaries in roubles, which, however,
are not really big salaries when compared with those offered by
foreign syndicates. Chaliapine, we were told by a Commissar, is able
to earn two hundred thousand roubles in one night. But when it is
borne in mind that ten thousand roubles can be bought for an English
pound and that £20 is the nightly sum commanded by one of the greatest
singers who ever lived, it is not so outrageous a reward as the little
Commissar appeared to think. It is, of course, very large when compared
with the two thousand to eight thousand roubles which (in round
figures) is the salary scale per month of the Trade Unions of Russia.
Sometimes the artists are paid in kind. The men and women who sang and
danced for our entertainment at the dinner in Petrograd were paid in
white flour, a much valued commodity; and were paid well.
During the big interval in the first opera in Moscow, a performance
of “Prince Igor,” an interesting thing happened: Trotsky came into
the anteroom to see the Delegates. We all crowded round him eager to
have the latest news from the Polish front from which he had just come
and to which he was immediately returning. He had to tell of great
victories over the Poles, and spoke with magnificent confidence of
overwhelming success to the Red armies.
Trotsky made his name and fame in Europe as the greatest of pacifists
and anti-militarists; but not in the garb of St. Francis did he enter
our midst!
Physically he is a remarkably fine-looking man; a Jew, dark and keen,
with penetrating eyes, and a quiet manner suggestive of enormous
reserves of strength. He was in an officer’s uniform, which fitted him
extremely well. When one of the Delegates was presented to him as a
conscientious objector who had served a term in prison for his faith,
he turned quickly and said, though not unkindly: “We can have nobody
here who preaches peace and wants to stop the war.”
The bell rang, and with Trotsky in our midst we re-entered the box, the
late Czar’s place in the vast theatre. Trotsky took his place in the
middle of the front row. I occupied the seat next to him on his right,
and so was in a position to see everything that happened. As soon as
the great audience caught a glimpse of Trotsky it rose like one man,
and with wild enthusiasm applauded its hero again and again. Naturally
we rose with the rest to pay our respects to the man who was leading in
his country’s battles and winning all the time. The cheers doubled and
trebled. People shouted themselves hoarse. It was the most spontaneous
thing I have ever seen. It was wonderful! And then a great burly sailor
in the first gallery sprang to the front and led both orchestra and
audience in the singing of “The Internationalé.” It was the one great
occasion on which we joined in the singing of this overworked ditty
with real and undiluted pleasure. This was because it was a natural
bursting into song of a great gathering standing to welcome its
conquering hero. It was a fine occasion.
Trotsky speaks only a very little English, but his French is fluent and
he was well understood. I should think he is very fond of music, for he
gave the closest and most serious attention to the performance.
At one point in the performance there came a tender love-scene.
“There,” said Trotsky turning to me and speaking in English for the
first time, “is the great international language.”
“Yes,” I replied, “you are right. But there is also another--Art. These
two great international languages of Love and Art will unite the world
in peace and happiness at last.”
I should think Trotsky is a man of throbbing vitality and of strong
feeling; once of splendid vision. The banner of international peace
and good-will on the basis of those principles afterwards adopted by
President Wilson, raised by Trotsky at Brest-Litovsk and since trampled
upon by the militarists of the world, marked him then a man of superb
ideals. He failed at Brest-Litovsk as Wilson failed at Paris. Only when
the nations dream them can such dreams as these come true.
The Art Theatre in Moscow is supposed to stand alone in lofty
pre-eminence amongst the world temples of Art. Men and women have come
from the four corners of the world to see how the work there is done.
We saw an old Russian drama enacted here, “Czar Feodor.” It was done
in the Russian language, but so perfect was the acting that the story
unfolded itself easily before our eyes; and, so far as an understanding
of the characters was concerned, we did not need the few notes in
English courteously supplied to us by the management.
It is a small theatre, without ornamentation of any kind. The audience
suggested a meeting of the Fabian Society in type, the middle-class
intellectual predominating. From beginning to end there was no
applause. It is the custom. Such fine art neither needs nor desires
noisy approval. So exacting is the service of Art here that the Czar
himself would not have been admitted before the interval had he been so
discourteous as to come late.
There is another little theatre in Moscow some of us visited, which is
developing along new lines, and which is leading a revolt against the
old, dramatic forms. Here we saw a perfect riot of extravagant colour
and design on Futurist lines. It was a mad story, madly told. Not to
this place would the weary worker come after a day’s hard toil, unless
the orgy of colour, the almost savage tilting at everything normal and
conventional in stage-life and stage-production could contribute to
the stimulation of tired nerve and body. The first impression was of a
madhouse. On second thoughts we rather liked it. Finally, we rejoiced
to know that the amiable Director is bringing his company to London as
soon as matters can be satisfactorily arranged.
It was eleven o’clock when we left this theatre, but still fresh and
fit we drove to a large house in a distant part of Moscow which was
the home of a Russian countess, but at present is called the Palace
of Arts, a club for intellectuals of the front rank. The countess is
graciously permitted the use of two or three rooms in the building,
but the rest is open to the members of the club and their guests. We
“happened in” on a very pleasant occasion, the birthday celebration
of one of Russia’s most distinguished living poets, Belmont. A gentle
little man, with grey hair and a pleasant smile, he extended to us the
hand of friendship and bade us welcome in a warm speech. One of us
replied suitably, and we then settled down to listen to the greetings
in their own verse or song of the poet’s brothers and sisters in the
craft. All had something to give him besides their words, a kiss on the
hand or the cheek, or a nosegay of flowers. It was very touching. It
showed us the old Art life of Russia still living in spite of the awful
conditions.
But as we went out I caught sight of a man whose poor knee pushed its
way through his torn garment, a poet whose fine eyes in a sunken face
were full of pain. And in the lobby in front of me as I prepared to
descend the grand old staircase was a woman in sables, though the night
was hot, whose feet were bound in slippers of felt.
We drove home in the early morning, the last light of sunset contending
with the first streaks of dawn. And I could not help wishing that the
Communists would ask the lady of the house to step out of her rooms in
the basement and consent to act as gentle hostess to these young and
enthusiastic worshippers of Art who assembled nightly in her house.
The next day I discussed with a young, curly-headed Communist whose
English was better than my own the wonders of art in Moscow.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “We were never able to have anything like that in
London. It cost too much. And the cheap seats were always full. It is
very fine indeed. But let me whisper something,” and here he gave a
half-rueful, mischievous smile, “it would be good to see and hear dear
old George Robey again!”