“But that’s not the point.”
“What is the point then?” Pasternak, who was fascinated by Stalin, said he wanted to come for a talk. “About what?” asked Stalin.
“About life and death,” said Pasternak. The baffled Stalin rang off. However, the most significant conversation took place afterwards, when Pasternak tried to persuade Poskrebyshev to put him through again. Poskrebyshev refused. Pasternak asked if he could repeat what had been said. The answer was a big yes.
Stalin prided himself on understanding brilliance: “He’s doubtless a great talent,” he wrote about another writer. “He’s very capricious but that’s the character of gifted people. Let him write what he wants, and when!”
Pasternak’s whimsy may have saved his life, for, later, when his arrest was proposed, Stalin supposedly replied: “Leave that cloud-dweller in peace.”1
Stalin’s intervention is famous but there was nothing new about it: as Nicholas I was for Pushkin, so Stalin was for all his writers. Stalin pretended he considered himself just a casual observer: “Comrades who know the arts will help you—I am just a dilettante”2 but he was both gourmet and gourmand. His papers reveal his omnipotent critiques of writers, who wrote to him in droves.
Stalin’s ultimate pet writer was “the Proletarian Poet,” Demian Bedny, a Falstaffian rhymester, with good-natured eyes gazing out of a head “like a huge copper cauldron,” whose works appeared regularly in Pravda and who holidayed with Stalin, rendering an endless repertoire of obscene anecdotes. Rewarded with a Kremlin apartment, he was a member of the literary Politburo. But Bedny began to irritate Stalin: he bombarded him with complaints, and his egregious poems, in a long and farcical correspondence, while engaging in drunken escapades inside the Kremlin: “Ha-ha-ha! Chaffinch!” Stalin exclaimed on one such letter. Worse, Bedny stubbornly resisted Stalin’s criticisms: “What about the present in Russia?” Stalin scribbled to him. “Bedny leaves in the mistakes!”
“I agree,” added Molotov. “Must not be published without improvements.” Stalin was tired of his drunken poet and expelled him from the Kremlin: “There must be no more scandals inside the Kremlin walls,” he wrote in September 1932. Bedny was hurt but Stalin reassured him: “You must not see leaving the Kremlin as being sacked from the Party. Thousands of respected comrades live outside the Kremlin and so does Gorky!”3
Vladimir Kirshon was one of Gorky’s circle and another recipient of GPU funds who liked to send Stalin everything he wrote. When he was in favour, he could do no wrong: “Publish immediately,” Stalin scrawled on Kirshon’s latest article when returning it to Pravda’s editor.
When Kirshon sent in his new play, Stalin read it in six days and wrote back: “Comrade Kirshon, your play’s not bad. It must be put on in the theatre at once.”4 But Kirshon was being rewarded for his political loyalty: he was one of the hacks who viciously destroyed Bulgakov’s career.
However, after the creation of Socialist Realism, Kirshon wrote to Stalin and Kaganovich to ask if he was out of favour: “Why are you putting the question of trust?” Stalin replied by hand. “I ask you to believe the Central Committee is absolutely happy with your work and trusts you.”5 The writers also turned to Stalin to sort out their feuds: Panferov wrote to Stalin to complain that Gorky was mocking his work. Stalin’s comment? “Vain. File in my archive. Stalin.”6
When he did not like a writer, he did not mince words: “Klim,” he wrote to Voroshilov about an article, “my impression: a first-rate chatterer who thinks he’s the Messiah. Yeah! Yeah! Stalin.”[68] When the American novelist Upton Sinclair wrote to Stalin asking him to release an arrested movie-maker, Stalin commented: “Green steam!” 7 Stalin’s favourite theatre was the Moscow Arts so he was gentler with its famous director, Stanislavsky, blaming his opinion on his colleagues. “I didn’t highly praise the play Suicide (by N. Erdman)… My nearest comrades think it empty and even harmful…”8
His “nearest comrades,” much less literary than he, became unlikely literary tyrants too: Stalin, Molotov and Kaganovich (an uneducated cobbler) decided artistic matters. Molotov turned on Bedny, for example, with an absurd mixture of personal threat and literary criticism. Bedny, a gossip, even dared to play Stalin off against Molotov who lectured him gravely:
“I read Stalin’s letter to you. I agree absolutely. It cannot be said better than by him…” Molotov warned him about rumours of disagreements between the leaders—“You did your bit too, Comrade Bedny. I didn’t expect such things. It’s not good for a proletarian poet…” Molotov even gave poetical advice: “It’s very pessimistic… you need to give a window through which the sun can shine (heroism of socialism).”9
Stalin often informed Gorky and other writers that he was correcting their articles with Kaganovich, a vision that must have horrified them. At the theatres, Stalin evolved a pantomime of giving his judgement on a new play which was followed to the letter by Kaganovich and Molotov. In the Politburo’s loge and the room behind it, the avant-loge, where they ate between acts, Stalin commented on the actors, plays, even the décor of the foyer. Every comment became the subject of rumours, myths and decisions that affected careers.
Stalin attended a new play on Peter the Great by Alexei Tolstoy, another newly returned émigré writer who, besides Gorky, was the richest author of the Imperium. Count Tolstoy, an illegitimate and renegade nobleman, had returned to Russia in 1923 where he was hailed as the “Worker-Peasant-Count. ” This literary gymnast specialized in understanding Stalin, boasting, “You really do have to be an acrobat.” His Peter the Great play, On the Rack, was attacked by Bolshevik writers. Stalin left shortly before the end, accompanied to his car by the crestfallen director. Sensing Imperial disapproval, the play was attacked viciously inside the theatre until the director returned triumphantly to announce: “Comrade Stalin, in speaking with me, passed the following judgement: ‘A splendid play. Only it’s a pity Peter was not depicted heroically enough.’” Stalin received Tolstoy and gave him “the right historical approach” for his next project, a novel Peter the Great.
This routine was repeated exactly when Kaganovich rejected a new production by the avant-garde theatrical director Meyerhold and was pursued to his car by the disappointed artist. Yet he protected the Yiddish actor Solomon Mikhoels. Like eighteenth-century grands seigneurs, the magnates patronized their own theatres, their own poets, singers and writers, and defended their protégés[69] whom they “received” at their dachas and visited at home. “Everyone goes to see someone,” wrote Nadezhda Mandelstam in her memoirs that provide a peerless moral guide to this era. “There’s no other way.” But when the Party turned against their protégés, the grandees abandoned them swiftly. 10
The artists were fascinated by Stalin: Pasternak longed to meet him. “Can I meet you?” wrote the poet Gidosh eagerly. Meyerhold appealed to Stalin for a meeting which he said would “lift my depression as an artist” and signed it “Loving you.”
“Stalin not here now,” wrote Poskrebyshev.11
On 30 July, a month after Hitler’s Night of the Long Knives, Stalin headed down to the Sochi dacha where he was meeting his old favourite, Kirov, who had no wish to be there, and his new one, Andrei Zhdanov, who must have been honoured to be invited. There were four of them because Zhdanov brought along his son, Yury, Stalin’s future son-in-law, a young man whom the Vozhd was to regard as an ideal Soviet man. They had gathered to write the new history of Russia.
68
When Stalin read Andrei Platonov’s satire on the “Higher Command” of collectivization,
69
There was one other returned émigré whom Stalin personally favoured. Ilya Ehrenburg, a Muscovite and Jewish Bohemian novelist, friends with Picasso and Malraux, complained of persecution by the Party. His old schoolfriend Bukharin appealed for him. Stalin scrawled on the letter: “To Comrade Kaganovich, pay attention to the attached document—don’t let the Communists drive Ehrenburg mad. J. Stalin.” Molotov and Bukharin helped Mandelstam. Voroshilov aided his own stable as well as his “court painter” Gerasimov. Kirov protected the Mariinsky Ballet, Yenukidze the Bolshoi. Yagoda patronised his own writers and architects, often meeting them at Gorky’s mansion. Poskrebyshev received the tenor Kozlovsky at home.