We’ve obtained photographs of her various affairs. She used to be the biggest joke going at our office, a standing joke, said Pyotr Alexeev, and I won’t tell you what he meant. It’s untrue that she was nearsighted, but like most of these so-called “intellectuals,” she kept her precious head up her ass, or somebody else’s—you can’t imagine all the filthy things I’ve seen her do!—so it proved a simple enough business to keep an eye on her. I for my part enjoy more of a challenge. If I say so myself, I’m very adept at foiling the designs of sneaks. For instance, had he been left to me, Solzhenitsyn never could have smuggled his poisonous Gulag Archipelago to the other side. Once it fell into the hands of The New York Times, that so-called “history” did us incalculable harm. In time we’ll give him what Trotsky got.
One thing I’ll say for Akhmatova: She cooperated with us, for the sake of her son. (One of her postwar odes runs: Where Stalin is, is freedom, / Earth’s grandeur, and peace! What a good little whore!) From our point of view she really did keep her nose clean—as clean as anyone can who sticks her nose up other people’s…—oh, the things I’ve seen!
Ignorant people say that she founded a secret society of grief. Take it from me; that never happened. I’m in a position to say so. I know what that woman ate for breakfast for the past thirty years!
I do grant that she had her admirers. The Seventh Northern Elegy is clever enough, for all its unwholesomeness. (To tell you the truth, literature bores me.) The first time I saw her, she was wearing one of her many necklaces, posing in profile, wrapped up in herself, with her eyes slyly half-closed.—Not bad! I said to Pyotr Alexeev.—Amidst the other poets of her time, she stood out as much as E. E. Konstantinovskaya would have if she’d been transported into one of Larionov’s paintings of pinkish-purple-fleshed, meaty-thighed dancers.
The Trotskyite N. Punin, who admitted to drinking her urine and whom I myself personally arrested—you’ll like this part: We disposed of his predecessor Gumilyev on 25 August 1921, so when we took Punin away,18 in ’49, we waited until 26 August, just to keep her guessing!—liked to argue, and I’ve got his exact words somewhere, that art does not so much derive from life as actually change the perception and appreciation of it, casting itself across existence like a shadow. Unfortunately, he was correct. Derivative as she was, Akhmatova definitely made her mark—like a bitch in heat. It wasn’t just her perverted lovers; it was our Soviet culture that she pissed on.
Anna Akhmatova, née Gorenko, is best known for two poems, first and foremost the nasty “Requiem,” which attacks the “organs” of state security, and incidentally slanders our prison system. Shostakovich was among that literary effort’s admirers; I wish I had enough space to tell you a few things about that cocksucker. (On the other hand, he did make us laugh from time to time; I don’t mind telling you that my job has its compensations. In 1953 Akhmatova was trying to impress him with some drivel she’d written about his Seventh Symphony, and he thanked her in his usual insincere fashion, then went to the Hotel Sovietskaya and said to his then mistress, G. I. Ustvolskaya, ingenuously assuming the walls don’t have ears: Basically, I can’t bear having poetry written about my music.) Our line on that so-called “work of art” was this: Since she had the good sense not to make a cause out of it, why not let her live out her pathetic little life? We’d already isolated her. Shooting her might have lost us hard currency in the West. Since “Requiem” accuses us, and we already know ourselves, it’s of zero investigative interest.
That leaves the “Poem Without a Hero,” whose publication I for my part have always welcomed. Do you remember when Hitler staged that exhibition of degenerate art? Don’t get me wrong; every time I see a German I want to string him up by the balls; nonetheless, I’m man enough to say this straight: Hitler wasn’t incorrect in that instance. Now, “Poem Without a Hero” is as degenerate as anything the Nazis banned. It portrays the so-called “life” of a clique of a parasites and intellectuals in Leningrad before our Revolution. This was the Symbolist epoch, whose atmosphere N. Berdayev aptly characterizedas the putrefied air of a hothouse. My children even studied it in school (I had the teacher arrested). To me the main interest of the poem is this: All the characters are real, in which case have we identified all those bastards and sent them where they belong?
Once upon a time I found beauty, but beauty left me. I can’t say that I’m the worse for the experience, because it helped me appreciate that pallid, dreamy face, the dark eyes and dark bangs, the shadowy sensuality of Akhmatova. After the war her portrait hung in the Shostakoviches’ apartment in Moscow; I know why. That famous regality of hers, which so many found condescending, was a quality entirely lacking in Elena Konstantinovskaya, who was shy rather than retiring, sad instead of grave. Akhmatova’s calm was impregnable, thanks to the greatness which she knew herself to possess, or be possessed by; Konstantinovskaya’s was a leaden defensive mask. Both women proved extraordinarily selfish in love; but in Akhmatova’s case we can speak of a higher fidelity to the Muse; in Konstantinovskaya’s, of an irremediable disappointment. In 1934 she sent Shostakovich a one-line note in a cipher all her own, with the attached invitation: Whoever translates this gets to keep me. I don’t mind informing you that we opened this communication and did our best to decode it; we failed. (Pyotr Alexeev wanted to get her for that, but I was magnanimous; I said: Hands off!) The point is that there was, self-evidently, a key to Konstantinovskaya’s inner world, and one other person had it. He allowed the key to fall from his hand; he said to himself: What a, a, I mean, what an error I’ve committed! Oh, my God, Lyalka; oh, my God…—As for him, he had his own world beneath the piano keys. He was engaged in what it’s now fashionable to call inner emigration. At my office we don’t much care for that term, and I’ll tell you why: Hindemith, von Karajan and Furtwängler make music for the Hitlerites, and then, when it’s all over, they have the effrontery to plead: Word of honor, I wasn’t really here! I couldn’t possibly have collaborated, since I was living in my head the entire time!—You know what I say to that? I say: Give ’em eight grams! And if you don’t know what that means, believe me, you’re better off.
Now, what about Akhmatova? In a sense, everybody who could read Russian was invited into her inner world. It’s true that many of her most so-called “personal” lyrics remained unpublished in her lifetime, but in our Soviet Union we don’t give a shit about individualism anyhow. The half-belligerent, half-adoring mockeries by that suicide to be, Mayakovsky, expressed true love, of course, based on an intimate knowlege acquired only through words: icons and ivy, private kisses, ambiguous embraces behind the shutters of old Saint Petersburg. Mayakovsky dreamed of her, to be sure; once I watched him stalk her through the pavilions of the Tauride Garden; but all he got from her was a yellow dress in summer, blue snow in winter, you know, that kind of thing, which any other also gets—talk about promiscuity! Pyotr Alexeev, who although he’ll never admit it is still in love with her, insists that every time he rereads “At the Seashore” he inhales the lilac fragrance of Akhmatova’s braids. He, Mayakovsky and dozens more—what’s wrong with our Russian men?
18
I quote from his diary: