Undercover in Mother Russia

And then there were the images in the Sixties of Yuri Gagarin, of the parades in Red Square, of the solemn and elderly leaders standing in array upon the Lenin mausoleum. All of these images suggested intensity of purpose, earnestness of meaning, and a kind of heroic individualism not at all compromised by the various forms of communalism. The Soviet worker, on the posters, was the image of humankind moving forward. Or so it seemed at the time. So I had always dreamed of visiting this place.

I WAS TOLD that Moscow is built in a series of three or perhaps four rings. In a sense it resembles a tree. It is reaching outwards to nourish its life. All great cities have this characteristic. Or it might be viewed as a series of wheels, thus confirming the English expression for mystery and complexity — “wheels within wheels”. I was also told that the richer or more powerful you became, your instinct was to move closer and closer to the Kremlin. In similar fashion the higher the floor in a restaurant, the more expensive the food.

IN A SENSE all cities are indivisible. There is a phenomenon, the city, that Moscow embodies. It is the sum total of all human fears and expectations — and, in this place, there is much to be feared and much to be hoped for. I had been informed that the Russians, and the Muscovites in particular, bear a countenance of gloom or of severity. So I made an especial study of faces. They were tired, contemplative, content, stolid, happy, distracted, eager or alert. But they were rarely despondent — not even on the Moscow underground, where you would expect the sum total of human misery to be at its highest. You could make a film out of the faces of Moscow, but it would not be a sad one.

It might, however, have its elements of pathos. The faces of the young businessmen of Moscow, for example, are filled with a positive lust. They are sweating for gain. They walk forward eagerly. They talk loudly on their mobile telephones, in even the most inappropriate circumstance. They are always on the move. They are often burly and thickset. They wear cream-coloured suits, bright ties, and shoes the colour of vanilla ice cream. They are pugnacious and preoccupied.

It might be absurd to seek out, in the modern city of Moscow, traces of its ancient past. It would be absurd, equally, to look for Dickensian echoes in 21st-century London. But wait a moment. There are in fact traces of the Dickensian world in the contemporary city — certain old courts, certain narrow alleys, certain dark streets that effortlessly recall what is considered to be a lost inheritance. There are certain people who call up Dickensian originals. There are certain situations — there are certain atmospheres — that partake of a past time. So why should this not be so of Moscow? Where is the Dostoevsky moment? Where is the Gogol moment? Or even the Pushkin moment?

Well, I am told, there is a difference. The social and cultural life of England has been undisturbed for many centuries. It has remained relatively stable. Here in Moscow everything has been changed by Revolution. Two revolutions in the short span of a century, when everything was swept aside. Everything died. Everything was reborn. What could survive such giant transitions?

This is, in one sense, correct. You can tell that Moscow is a serious city by the extent to which it destroys or sweeps aside that which it no longer wishes to accommodate. It has the ruthlessness of power, endemic to all organic life. If a street needs to be widened, then it is widened. If trees have to be chopped down, so that people may see the glittering shop fronts more clearly, then the trees will go. This is appropriate. This is healthy.

I VISITED a sculpture park in a rather nondescript district of Moscow. Here were kept the sweepings of the last revolution. Here was a statue of Lenin, broken in the middle where it had been toppled from its superior position. Here were statues of Brezhnev, Kosygin, and other failed heroes, left to adorn a patch of grass where once they had adorned a plinth. Here is a statue of Maxim Gorky, stone hat in stone hand, lying upon the ground. What is Gorky doing here?

The city is doing its work of necessary destruction. What is not necessary for its life is removed to a harmless space where, it seems, only the sparrows come — and perhaps a few lovers, seeking out solitude among the defunct heroes. They caress each other in the shadow of elaborate metal sculptures bearing such legends as “USSR Guarantees Peace in the Cold War” and “We Will Come to the Victory of Communist Labour”.

So what can survive such wholesale transition? It is reassuring to note, however, that some things spring up again as if they had never been lost. The resilience of religious faith is one such phenomenon. The innate beliefs of a people are not necessarily lost for ever. Take, for example, the small monastery affiliated to the community of Mount Athos that is now open for worshippers. It is a sacred space in the middle of the city, nestling beneath a towering Stalinki. The bells ring, and the people bow down before the icons. So there is a continuity.

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There are some who believe that religion has become the new weapon of the state, evincing a form of sacred nationalism, but this ignores the genuine piety and dedication of the people. If there is no vision, then the people perish. Moscow has rediscovered the vision. And here we must consider the Russian propensity for reverence and for worship. One evening as I walked past the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, in central Moscow, I observed a line of thousands of people; they were queuing for the chance to enter the great cathedral and venerate a relic. The palm of St Mary Magdalen has been translated to this church from a secluded monastery: these thousands of Russians, male and female, old and young, were waiting to glimpse, and to bow down before, the sacred hand.

The piety was reminiscent of a more secular place and occasion. There was an exhibition of Rembrandt paintings at the Pushkin Arts Museum, not far from the cathedral. The atmosphere in the gallery was very different from any that I had encountered in Europe. Small groups of Russians would cluster around each painting, observe its details very carefully, and quietly discuss it among themselves. There was an air of contemplation and study in the room. It was once more an attitude of reverence. But of course that propensity for veneration may account for the Russian habit of being ruled by autocrats and even by despots.

SO OLDER powers may rise again. I do believe that there is such a thing as the territorial imperative, by which I mean that a certain area — a street, a house, a neighbourhood — actively influences the lives and activities of all those who live upon it. The personality and behaviour of people are in part determined by the history of the earth on which they tread. And, if this is so, the ground of Moscow goes very deep.

There is another kind of continuity. There are certain highly specific — that is to say, highly characteristic — people whose bearing and manner and expression display all the signs of lost inheritance. There were many times on this visit when I would say to myself: “There is a 19th-century face,” or: “There is a typical 18th-century face.” So the old woman, dressed in black and with a black shawl over her head, bows down before an icon and kisses the floor. There are a thousand years in that movement — years of worship and pain and prostration. What is a revolution or two compared to that?

A note on clothes: there is scarcely any item of clothing worn in Moscow (and particularly worn by the women) that would not seem odd or strange on the streets of London. It would mark out the person as “foreign”. But I cannot fathom out what this “foreignness” consists of. Here the clothes seem perfectly natural and appropriate. But under other skies they become unfamiliar. Why is this? They are not clothes to be noticed here. Perhaps that is the difference. Perhaps that is why I notice them.

TVER

IT WAS A stopping place for Catherine the Great. So perhaps we can pause here, too. Among a little settlement of wooden houses rises the Church of the White Trinity, constructed on the orders of Ivan the Terrible. We meet by the ancient porch a young man — scarcely more than a boy — dressed in a black cassock that reaches down to his shoes. He is an assistant to the priest. He is tall and thin, with a pale face and large tremulous eyes. He tells us the story of the bones of St Makari, which are a sacred relic within this church.

Two men, with the gaunt and emaciated faces of vagrants, stand in front of a pillar and listen eagerly to his story. It seems that the bones were originally preserved in a church at Kalyazin; but some decades ago the church was submerged on the orders of the Soviet authorities, who wished to create a lake there. Only the tower now rises above the waters. But the bones of this Coptic saint were saved. The young man talks in a low, melodious voice; he is utterly serious and intent. Only the slight faltering or nervousness in his eyes betrays his innocence. The church, like all Russian churches, is dark; it is lit only by candles and by the glowing icons that cover the walls. The pillars are thick, the windows small and deep, the cupolas high and narrow.

As the young man talks, three men with great bushy beards — looking much as I imagine bandits or revolutionaries to look — enter the church. In turn they cross themselves before one icon and kiss it; then they make the sign of the cross again and kiss another icon. Then they bow reverently before the inlaid coffin of St Makari, and kiss it.

If I had to express the essential foreignness of this world, these unworldly kisses would suffice. When I return to London I discover some words from that saint: “Pray simply. Do not expect to find in your heart any remarkable gift of prayer. Consider yourself unworthy of it. Then you will find peace. Use the empty, dry coldness of your prayer as food for your humility.” There is a passage in The Brothers Karamazov where two characters discuss the importance of prayer, and the fact that faith can move mountains.

“Wait!” one of them exclaims. “So you believe that there are two men who can move mountains, you still believe in their existence? Ivan, ponder upon that little detail. Write it down. Here you have the secret of the entire Russian character! ... I am right, am I not? A faith like that is wholly and essentially Russian, is it not?” That is what I was hoping to find — the faith that is “essentially Russian” — and in the Church of the White Trinity it was to be found.

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Around the church the settlement of wooden houses, variously painted green and blue and yellow, looks ancient. It might be a community of serfs or “souls”, and in fact the inhabitants fulfil all my expectations of serfs — the sturdy and healthy children, the strong and capacious women, the somewhat emaciated men sporting a week’s worth of stubble. One of the streets is named Dostoevsky Street, adding to the illusion. But these apparently ancient houses were built in the 1940s or 1950s; they seem to be old because they follow closely the old models. It is one way that “old” Russia survives.

This wooden village sets the tone for the rest of Tver. It is shabby, but picturesque. It sprawls. It is Asiatic in tendency. There is no shortage of space, so public spaces are not very important. They are ragged and indeterminate. They are “nobody’s land”. People squat on the ground and watch the world go by. It is clear Moscow is a unique phenomenon.

THE ROAD TO TORZHOK

We pass the Village of Fools, on our way to Sunshine Town. Here are the izba, once the small family houses of the serfs and peasants, which have remained an integral feature of the Russian landscape. Here are the dachas, the wooden holiday residences of the Muscovites, dotted on the ground like sentry boxes. Watermelons are sold by the side of the road, piled up in great heaps. There are flower sellers, too, along the road. I glimpse the gardens with green fences, and small log huts. Every second car looks as if it has been involved in a crash. During a bout of “mushroom rain”, the charming phrase for a short shower, we visit an ancient estate. It was once owned by one of the serf-owning aristocracy; in more recent times it became a training camp for the KGB, and then a hospital. After that it became a prison for young offenders. It is now being renovated and turned into a hotel. It is called “Little Heaven”. Heaven can change in every generation.

TORZHOK

We met her standing by the side of the road, and engaged her in conversation. She had a cardboard box, with some spare strips of cardboard, at her feet. She was not begging. She was simply standing beside the road. “You look like my brother, sir. I lost my brother in the war.” She meant the second world war. “I lost my husband in the war. I lost my two sons in the war. Now my neighbour worries me a lot. He was in prison for 20 years, and now he has come back. He has no job, so he drinks. He drinks all the time. He steals from me.” She dabs her eyes. An ancient bus, with curtains on the windows, goes by. “A nice woman gave me this coat.” It is a blue raincoat, stained and worn, buckled at the waist. She wears a scarf. “I have bought my bread, and now I am going home.” She had a high quavering voice which reached a wail of intensity. “I have applied to the local office for help, but they ignore me. They run away when they see me. I told them that I would write to Putin about them.” She is 92.

My companion gave her some roubles. The old woman made the sign of the cross, in that great sweeping gesture that the Russians use, and kissed her on the cheek. She had whiskers on her chin, and her face was a frame of creases; but her eyes were still bright.