His revolutionary refusing final confession is a man of enormous spiritual strength, suffering but righteous. We see a contemporary Jesus Christ, arms crossed, prison jacket open at his sunken chest. This was Repin’s response to his fellow Wanderer Kramskoy’s controversial painting Christ in the Wilderness (1872), where the same question of moral choice was interpreted in a much more conventional vein.
Repin had a complex relationship with the leader of the Wanderers, the charismatic Kramskoy. Kramskoy was both teacher and older comrade. It was Kramskoy who initiated a conversation with Repin one evening about Christ and His temptations: “Almost every one of us has to solve the fateful question, to serve God or mammon.”
Repin was stunned by Kramskoy’s profoundly personal reaction to the Bible. “Of course, I’ve read it all before, I even studied it with boredom and listened to it in church, sometimes without any interest … But now! Can it be the same book?”9
That made all the more bitter Kramskoy’s transformation from fiery advocate of artistic independence into a fashionable portraitist, who charged 5,000 rubles for each work and used his newfound fortune to build a luxurious two-story dacha and studio near St. Petersburg with vast grounds, strawberry patches, greenhouse, bathing pool, and a large staff.
Wealth and fame ruined Kramskoy, Repin thought. “Among his friends, Kramskoy had long lost his charm … They called his portraits dry, officious, his painting old-fashioned, colorless, and tasteless.” It reminded Repin of the sorrowful tale of the fall of an artist, described by Gogol in “The Portrait.” Kramskoy gained entrée to the highest government circles, and painted the coronation of Alexander III, but he never could finish the work he had planned ten years earlier, Rejoice, King of Judea.
Kramskoy developed an addiction to morphine, aged rapidly, grew gray, and whenever anything upset him, he would clutch his heart, breaking off the conversation, cautiously sinking to his Persian ottoman in his chic St. Petersburg apartment. “Nothing left of the passionate radical,”10 Repin concluded bitterly. Kramskoy died of a heart attack before reaching fifty, during a portrait session, brush in one hand, palette in the other, without a cry or moan.
Just a month before Kramskoy’s death, the composer Alexander Borodin, fifty-three, also succumbed to a heart attack. Borodin was one of the most important members of a group of Russian composers (which also included Modest Mussorgsky, Nicolai Rimsky-Korsakov, Mily Balakirev, and César Cui) dubbed the Mighty Bunch, known in the West as the Mighty Five. The received wisdom was that there was a lot in common between the Mighty Bunch and the Wanderers: both artistic associations were traditionally described as outsiders rebelling against official art and espousing “realism” in their works.
It was more complicated than that. The Wanderers were trained at the Academy of Arts, receiving a superlative professional polish. The Bunch, on the other hand, learned from one another (under the supervision of the strict and suspicious Balakirev). This had a negative effect on their technical prowess and hindered their composing (especially for Mussorgsky and Borodin).
However, freedom from the routine conservatory methods allowed the Bunch to make bold artistic breakthroughs that subsequently influenced Puccini, Debussy, and Ravel, and made their music admired in the West. The Wanderers, on the other hand, remained a local Russian phenomenon.
It is true that both the Wanderers and the Mighty Bunch were nationalists and proponents of social relevance for art. But several of the pillars of the Wanderers (Repin, Vassily Surikov, Victor Vasnetsov, especially in their later years) moved away from the naturalistic approach that originally brought them national fame. The Bunch was always marked by an attraction to fantasy and vivid exoticism. Mussorgsky could even be called a proto-expressionist.
Alexander III was also a nationalist, perhaps the most sincere and consistent of all the Romanovs beginning with Peter I (only two women could rival him in that regard—Elizabeth I and Catherine the Great). Under Alexander III the imperial court, which used to communicate in French and German, suddenly spoke Russian. They stopped drinking French wines, which were replaced, to the dissatisfaction of many courtiers, by “Crimean vinegar.”
The continual marriages to German princesses by his predecessors made Alexander III’s “Russian” blood rather dubious, but he looked like a fairy-tale folk hero: a broad-shouldered giant with reddish blond hair and a stern look. The Wanderer Surikov considered Alexander III a true representative of the Russian people: “There was something grand about him.”11
Alexander III created the first museum of national art—today the world-famous Russian Museum in St. Petersburg. It is hard to overestimate the ideological and practical significance of that gesture: it was declared at the summit of authority that Russian art has museum value, not a view shared by many at the time.
The tsar’s collection highlighted the works of the Wanderers. He also patronized the great playwright Alexander Ostrovsky, whose delicious comedies of merchant life corresponded to the Wanderer aesthetic. In 1884, Alexander III bestowed an annual pension of 3,000 rubles on Ostrovsky, followed by a “special audience,” joking as they met, “I hope you know who I am, and I know you. I am very pleased to see you at the palace.”12
One would have expected Alexander to support the Bunch as well, but that did not happen. There is a simple explanation. In those days, many connoisseurs disliked the works of the Mighty Bunch: they seemed ugly, vulgar, and crass. Mussorgsky’s music was mercilessly mocked by both Turgenev and Saltykov-Shchedrin.
Alexander III loved Tchaikovsky’s music. Today it may seem that one can love Tchaikovsky and Mussorgsky both, but back then the two geniuses seemed—to themselves and others—to represent polar opposites in music. The usually gentle and tactful Tchaikovsky exclaimed wrathfully, “I send Mussorgsky’s music to the devil with all my heart; it is the most banal and vile parody of music.” Mussorgsky responded in kind.
So it comes as no surprise that Alexander III, who had pushed through Tchaikovsky’s Eugene Onegin into the repertoire of the imperial theaters, would have personally crossed off a new production of Mussorgsky’s Boris Godunov from the planned season in 1888 of the Maryinsky Theater.
That fact led the Soviet critics to proclaim that the highest authorities had been implacably hostile to Mussorgsky. In fact, Mussorgsky had a patron at the very top: Terty Filippov, who had served more than twenty years in the State Comptroller’s Office (he was its director; in fact, Filippov reported personally to the monarch between 1889 and his death in 1899). Controlling the revenues and expenses of all state and public funds, Filippov was one of the most powerful officials in the land.
Filippov was a curious and even extravagant character. The illegitimate son (according to gossip) of a provincial postmaster, he made his fantastic state career thanks to his reputation as an effective manager, honest and incorruptible—very rare in Russia, both then and now.
Filippov’s friends, impressed by his erudition in cultural and religious matters, saw him as a potential minister of education or high procurator of the Holy Synod. But Pobedonostsev was high procurator and very wary of Filippov as a possible rival.
The views of both men were similar: they were staunch conservative defenders of the autocracy and the Orthodox Church. Yet there had been a time when Filippov was an ardent reader of Belinsky’s articles and George Sand’s novels, a “ruthless atheist” and almost socialist. His outlook changed, but traces of his Bohemian youth remained.