St Petersburg

I was struck by Akhmatova’s uncanny ability, which I later learned was very characteristic of her, to combine seemingly incompatible historic periods and events and make complex parallels between them, showing, in Akhmatova’s opinion, a predestination and repetition of the apparently most unexpected and unpredictable turns of fate. For this witness to and participant in the cataclysms of the twentieth century, who had survived immeasurable suffering and trials, the times were out of joint, and setting them right was the most natural undertaking, her daily duty. Akhmatova extended with ease an instantaneous but sturdy thread between the snows of 1916 and 1965, at the same time conscious of the significance of such a union, only superficially random, which inevitably took on a profound cultural and philosophical meaning. For me, this calm imperiousness in dealing with time and space was one of the most significant lessons I took away from my encounters with Akhmatova. That is why I trace to that extraordinary May day in Komarovo, filled with transcendent music and illuminated by the marvelous rainbow, the impulse realized almost thirty years later in this book.

Whenever I visited the Russian Museum in Leningrad—to my mind the best collection of Russian art in the country—I often stopped in the section devoted to early-twentieth-century painting by the enormous decorative panel created in 1908 by Leon Bakst, a leading figure in the artistic association Mir iskusstva (World of Art) and famous in the West as the art director of Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes. Entitled Terror Antiquus (Ancient Terror), that imposing painting depicted the destruction of ancient Atlantis, the mythical civilization that flourished, according to Plato, on an enormous island in the Atlantic Ocean. The island’s inhabitants had achieved incredible cultural and spiritual heights but the gods punished them for their excessive pride. Atlantis was swallowed up forever by the churning ocean.

Bakst’s painting, with its bird’s-eye view of the violent storm, the ancient temples slipping into the ocean, and the theatrical flash of lightning crossing the canvas, made a striking impression on me. I was particularly struck by the statue in the center of the composition, a goddess who accepted with a calm smile the destruction of the civilization that had given birth to her. The goddess was isolated from the chaos around her by a higher wisdom, a higher knowledge that protected her.

I was a teenager then and found out only later that Bakst, a passionate devotee of the ancients, had depicted in Terror Antiquus the goddess Aphrodite, who symbolized for him the victory of love and art over blind destruction. And still later that painting seemed to me the almost perfect visual metaphor for the Atlantis of the twentieth century—the glorious culture of the city in which I lived.

Founded in 1703 as Sankt-Peterburg by Peter the Great on the eastern shore of the Gulf of Finland, the capital of the Russian Empire, this city, twice willfully and unwisely renamed (it became Petrograd in 1914 and Leningrad in 1924), was world famous as an architectural gem, with resplendent palaces proudly lining the banks of the spectral Neva.

The beauty of Petersburg’s historic buildings is obvious. Erected with unparalleled sweep, luxury, artistry, and refinement, they exude an almost mystical enchantment, particularly during the white nights of early summer, which plunge the classical architecture into an atmosphere of fantasy.

But I was always more attracted and mystified by the great works of literature and music created in that magical city or inspired by it: the works of Pushkin, Glinka, Gogol, Dostoyevsky, Mussorgsky, Tchaikovsky—speaking of the nineteenth century alone. In Petersburg, the inanimate excitingly came to life, palaces and monuments moved onto the pages of prose and poetry or were reflected in the spellbinding music, only to freeze once again on the granite banks of the river and along the open squares but now enriched and elevated, like magically enticing symbols.

The classic, and perhaps greatest, example of this symbiosis is the legendary fate of the equestrian statue of Emperor Peter by Etienne Maurice Falconet, unveiled in 1782 in the center of the Russian capital on the orders of Catherine the Great. Onlookers were struck by its power and by the strength with which the sculptor had realized his idea—the emperor, dressed in a Roman toga and crowned with a laurel wreath, imperiously extending his hand while proudly looking down from his rearing steed on the city that he created and that personifies Russia. But this bronze monument did not acquire its true symbolic significance for Petersburg’s fate and its status as the capital’s most famous silhouette until the publication in 1837 of The Bronze Horseman, the narrative poem written four years earlier by Alexander Pushkin.