Pasternak was also hostile to the poem. He poured out his reproaches to me (this was when M. was already in Voronezh). Only one of these reproaches stands out in my memory: "How could he write a poem like that when he's a Jew?" I still do not see the logic of this, and at the time I offered to recite the poem to him again so he could tell me exactly what it was wrong for a Jew to say, but he refused with horror.
The reaction of those who first heard the poem was reminiscent of Herzen's story of his conversation with Shchepkin, who went to London to ask him to stop his activities because all the young people in Russia were being arrested for reading "The Bell." Fortunately, however, nobody suffered because he had heard M.'s poem. M., moreover, was not a political writer, nor was his role in society in any way like Herzen's. Though who is to say where the distinction lies? And to what extent is one obliged to protect one's fellow citizens? I am surprised that Shchepkin was so concerned about Herzen's young compatriots and wanted at all costs to shield and cloister them from the outside world. As for my own contemporaries, I cannot say that I would want to expose them to any hazards—let them live out their lives in peace and do the best they can in these hard times. It will all pass, God willing, and life will come into its own again. Why should I try to waken the sleeping if I believe that they will in any case wake up by themselves one day? I do not know whether I am right, but, like everybody else, I am infected by the spirit of passivity and submissiveness.
All I know for certain is that M.'s poem was ahead of its time, and that at the moment it was written people's minds were not ready for it. The regime was still winning supporters and one still heard the voices of true believers saying in all sincerity that the future belonged to them, and that their rule would last for a thousand years. The rest, who no doubt outnumbered the true believers, just sighed and whispered among themselves. Their voices went unheard because nobody had any need of them. The line "ten steps away no one hears our speeches" precisely defines the situation in those days. The "speeches" in question were regarded as something old and outmoded, echoes of a past that would never return. The true believers were not only sure of their own triumph, they also thought they were bringing happiness to the rest of mankind as well, and their view of the world had such a sweeping, unitary quality that it was very seductive. In the pre-revolutionary era there had already been this craving for an all-embracing idea which would explain everything in the world and bring about universal harmony at one go. That is why people so willingly closed their eyes and followed their leader, not allowing themselves to compare words with deeds, or to weigh the consequences of their actions. This explained the progressive loss of a sense of reality—which had to be regained before there could be any question of discovering what had been wrong with the theory in the first place. It will still be a long time before we are able to add up what this mistaken theory cost us, and hence to determine whether there was any truth in the line "the earth was worth ten heavens to us." But, having paid the price of ten heavens, did we really inherit the earth?
3 6 Capitulation
had a long period of silence—about five years between
• 1926 and 1930—when he wrote no verse (though he did write some prose during this time). The same thing happened for a time with Akhmatova, and with Pasternak it lasted a good ten years. "It must be something about the air," said Akhmatova—and there was indeed something in the air: the beginning, perhaps, of that general drowsiness which we still find so hard to shake off.
Was it just coincidence that these three active poets were stricken by dumbness for a time? Whatever the differences in their basic attitudes, the fact is that before they could find their voices again, all three had first to determine their places in the new world being created before their eyes—and this they could only do by learning from experience how it affected everybody else. The first to fall silent was M. This was probably because he was the one most acutely affected by the process of determining what his place was. The question of his relationship to the times was, for him, central to his life and poetry, and his character was such (to quote his own line: "In spirit he was not as the lilies") that he was incapable of glossing over rough edges—if anything, he tended to the opposite. When he stopped writing verse in the middle of the twenties, what was it in the air that stifled him and made him fall silent?*
Judging by externals, we have lived through not just one but several epochs. A historian can easily divide the last forty years into periods or stages which may seem not only different but incompatible with each other. I am convinced, however, that each one logically followed from its predecessor. True, the top group was always changing, and with it even the physical appearance of Soviet functionaries (at one moment, for example, we suddenly noticed that dark ones had given way to fair ones—but these too were soon removed from office). After each major change, the whole style of life and leadership were modified, but there was nevertheless an element of sameness throughout these successive stages. These rulers of ours who claim that the prime mover of history is the economic basis have shown by the whole of their own practice that the real stuff of history is ideas. It is ideas that shape the minds of whole generations, winning adherents, imposing themselves on the consciousness, creating new forms of government and society, rising triumphantly—and then slowly dying away and disappearing. Viacheslav Ivanov once
* Author's Note: It was at this time that M. began to suffer from heart trouble and shortness of breath. My brother, Evgeni Yakovlevich, always used to say it was not so much a physical as a "class" disease. This was borne out by the circumstances in which he had his first attack in the middle of the twenties. Marshak had come to see us and was telling M. at great length in his saccharine way what poetry was. He was laying down the official line, and, as usual, spoke with great feeling, carefully modulating his voice. He is a superb fisher of men, whether weak, susceptible ones or men of power. M. did not argue with him—he had nothing in common with Marshak. But suddenly he could stand it no longer and he heard a ringing in his ears that drowned out Marshak's orotund voice. This was his first bout of angina pectoris.
said in my presence—we visited him on our way through Baku in 1921—that he had fled from Moscow and sought seclusion in Baku because he had become convinced that "ideas have ceased to rule the world." What Dionysian cults did he understand by "ideas," this teacher and prophet of the pre-revolutionary decade, if he had failed to see, at the time of our conversation, what enormous territories and vast numbers of people had just been won over by an idea? The idea in question was that there is an irrefutable scientific truth by means of which, once they are possessed of it, people can foresee the future, change the course of history at will and make it rational. This religion—or science, as it was modestly called by its adepts— invests man with a god-like authority and has its own creed and ethic, as we have seen. In the twenties a good many people drew a parallel with the victory of Christianity, and thought this new religion would also last a thousand years. The more scrupulous developed the analogy further and mentioned the historical crimes of the Church, hastening to point out, however, that the essence of Christianity has not been changed by the Inquisition. All were agreed on the superiority of the new creed which promised heaven on earth instead of otherworldly rewards. But the most important thing for them was the end to all doubt and the possibility of absolute faith in the new, scientifically obtained truth.