"... Impressions of the night are fading,
The dawn is distant and so pale.
And in his past is there no guidance,
For what to wish, or where to go?
In banishment and doubt he's staying,
Upon the path without a way.
But soon his eyes with hope are burning,
Though not yet present in the mind,
The day will dawn when secrets open
And dreams will show the great expanse."
At home the night before, Dmitri had read Blok's speech, On the Calling of the Poet, which came out a few months before in the Petrograd Journal, The Messenger of Literature. Blok gave the speech on February 10th at the House of Writers in Petrograd to help celebrate the 84th anniversary of Aleksandr Pushkin's death. The speech turned out to be Blok's poetic statement. Blok's ideas never made more sense to Dmitri as they did that morning riding through Moscow in a streetcar. The ideas felt so closely aligned with Dmitri's being, that they could have been written by Dmitri himself. What made most sense to Dmitri in Blok's speech was when the poet talked about the "mob" or "rabble." That was not the common people, or the nation, -- but the bureaucrats, the officials, the vulgarians whose plan was to direct poetry through their own channels, to violate poetry's secret freedom and prevent poetry's mysterious, marvelous mission. That rabble required that the poet be useful, and serve the outer world. It required the poet to sweep garbage off the street, and enlighten people. As the child of harmony, bequeathed by Apollo, the Greek god of Lyric poetry, three labors or demands were placed upon the poet: first, to free sounds from the native anarchic element where they dwelled; second, to organize the sounds and give form to them; third, to bring that harmony into the outer world. It was at the level of the third labor that the poet collided with the rabble. The rabble was proficient at destroying the poet's freedom, his peace, and creativity. Blok knew that destruction was to be his fate as well.
Dmitri Dumatskoy was not naive enough to delude himself that he was on the same level as Pushkin and Blok. But he believed in his heart that he was on the same path to share their fates. The rabble of his day was choking the air out of him. Creatively, Olga Shpion had put an official end to the Ivan Grozny library project in the midst of breakthrough information from Professor Holtz in Germany. Dmitri anxiously awaited the correspondence promised him over a month ago from Holtz -- a copy of Johann Fichte's copy of the eye-witness account of actual manuscripts from the Tsar's library. Dmitri had to decide whether to pursue the project on his own, and try to publish his findings with Holtz in Germany; or simply drop the idea like a slave, and work on projects that Shpion assigned to him. Projects like the ones he had been doing the previous month -- uncreative, boring, mostly oriented around statistical analyses of rural and urban educational programs. Punishment projects, thought Dmitri, calculated by Shpion to sap his energy and creative juices, stifle and smother him!
And what of the situation on the home front? Another member of the rabble - Podly! What was he up to, throwing Zina's drunkard of a father into our lives? There is a connection here between Podly, Zina, and Ostavlyavich. It all began in Novgorod. This should be the happiest time in Zina's life - with Sasha, apparently healthy. The joys of motherhood, etc. And Zina is not happy. Rather, her unhappiness is profound. She cries much too much. And she can't paint! She, too, like Pushkin, Blok and I, is having the life sucked out of her. Her bones are picked clean. Towards the end of Blok's speech, he said that - Let the rabble beware of even the worst epithet. It dawns on me now! Vultures. Vultures! That's the word, that's what they are! Carrion-eating monsters!
Dmitri didn't wake up to his surroundings until the streetcar arrived at Istorichesky Proezd Street. That was the approach to Red Square. The view from there never failed to inspire him. In the foreground to the left was the massive red brick of the historical Museum. As a worker within the Education Ministry, Dmitri frequently did research there. The museum had a large collection of archeological exhibits, coins, metals, manuscripts, precious ornaments, historical documents, paintings, and other works of art. It conveyed the history of the people of Soviet Russia from as far back as the Stone Age. To the right was the Corner Arsenal Tower, one of the mightiest of the Kremlin's 20 towers. Then the Senate Tower, behind which stood the building where Dmitri worked. And in the background at the right was the 240 ft. high Savior Tower with its intricate four-sided clockwork and chimes, which contained a mind-boggling network of secret passageways, many of which have never been fully explored. Historically, it was the main gateway to the Kremlin. And to the left, at the end of the broad spectacle of Red Square, with at that hour of morning, just a smattering of multi-colored tents going up for the open air bazaar -- the Cathedral of Basil the Blessed.
Zina shared Dmitri's fascination and love for that fantastic piece of architecture. It was similar to motifs common to the famed wooden churches of northern Russia where Zina grew up. Some of the earliest drawings she made were of churches in and around Novgorod. Just after they were married, Zina made a series of paintings of St. Basil's. She experimented with different perspectives: details - close-ups, impressionistic, realistic, abstract approaches. She emphasized St. Basil's diversity of ornamental detail, its florid scrollwork, and riotously eclectic brickwork. She played with colors; red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, gold and silver. She exaggerated its already exaggerated features: the bulbous cupolas of each of the nine roofs; whimsy that contrasted sharply with the dour austerity of the Kremlin; the combination of the vibrant with the subtle and subdued palette; the bold patterns, and unrestrained exuberance that are the quintessence of Russian folk art.
The sight of the cathedral triggered the remembrance of a dream from last night, where Dmitri was lost in a series of semi-lit catacombs within St. Basil's Cathedral. Ancient Russian signposts kept telling him that he wouldn't find what he was looking for there. The answer seemed to be just down the corridor where the light was stronger, but Dmitri woke up before he got there.
Dmitri also remembered that as he was leaving the apartment that morning, Zina briefly mentioned a dream that she had had during the night. It was something to do with the Cathedral's namesake, St. Basil the Blessed, the Holy Fool. Ascetic beggar, flagellant, ecstatic - he was driven mad by his fervor for and devotion to Christ. Having given up all material possessions, he lived in the wilderness and went into the towns and villages only to beg for food and preach about Christ. He was feared by many, but held in awe by all. He cared not for a person's rank or position in society. He would chastise anyone whose faith seemed to be lacking, or whose behavior was unchristian. Zina's dream seemed to be terribly confused. The Holy fool was her father, Ostavlyavich, and the person that the fool was berating, and preaching to. Drunkenness and money, making money, was at the heart of the dream which took place in the yard at 120 Novokirovskaya ... That's about all that Zina was able to tell Dmitri before he left for work ...
As he approached the cathedral, and the clock in the Savior Tower struck 7:45 a.m., large snowflakes began to fill the air. As they landed on his face, Dmitri began to shake himself free of his thoughts. Yes, there was much to be done, and many decisions to make. But then, the work day was about to begin. Dmitri had to go through the Savior Tower into the dour austerity of the Kremlin.
he Tsar and his entourage had been in the little town almost a week. They had settled into the monastery of St. Aleksandr, and the Tsar was pleased with the accommodations. The flag of Russian Autocracy, the two-headed eagle, symbolizing the symphony of church and state was hung from the monastery roof. The Tsar and Tsarina had a suite of rooms. Metropolitan Makari insisted upon sharing the quarters of the Abbot. On December 8th, about 1:00 p.m., Tsar Ivan was putting his writing instruments and paper back into the gold and silver box where they belonged. He was about to extinguish several candles on the desk in the monastery library where he had been writing. He had left the library door open. Two of his personal guards stood by the door in the hall outside the library. Lit torches hung from the walls of the hall. Tsar Ivan yawned. Then he extinguished all the candles and sat in the dark library peering into the lighted hall. He desired to think for awhile before retiring to bed.
He had just written another letter to his one-time advisor and friend, Prince Andrey Kurbsky. "The Traitor!" Tsar Ivan muttered as he tugged at his long prematurely gray beard in disgust. He had been exchanging letters with Kurbsky for over seven months: since the Prince, as commander of the Russian Army, had lost a decisive battle against the Lithuanians; and not wanting to wait for humiliation and disgrace, decided to go over to the Lithuanian side. In his letters to Tsar Ivan, Kurbsky defended his action with the theory that it was simply his ancient Russian right as a boyar to exercise his freedom of service. "Goddamn the boyars!" Tsar Ivan again muttered in the darkness. The Tsar had been waging war with the aristocratic and powerful class of Russian citizens since 1546, when he was 16 years old, and began to rule that country with the aid of a counsel of advisors. Ivan's position was uncompromised, and had not changed since he sent his first missive to Kurbsky in the care of the Lithuanian King, Sigismund August. "Traitor!" Ivan wrote it in Lithuanian with the help of a translator - one word, in bold capital letters.
Early the next morning, Tsar Ivan came into the Abbot's chambers where Metropolitan Makari was sitting at a little table drinking tea. The Abbot bowed to the Tsar, and left the room to go to the chapel for morning prayers. The Tsar sat down, and Makari poured tea into a second glass that was on the table.
"Good morning, little Father," Makari said to the Tsar.
"Good morning, teacher," answered the Tsar. The Metropolitan had been tutor and friend to Ivan for over 20 years.
"I wrote out some notes that you might want to look at when you write your communication to the people of Moscow. If you threaten them with your abdication, that might be best. Tell them you want unlimited power to crush those boyars for interfering with the affairs of the church and state. Appeal to them as their, 'little Father,' always seeking their best interest, but unable to perform your God-given duties because of the boyar subversion. Tell them you have my blessing, and the might of God behind you." Having said that, Metropolitan Makari sipped his tea.
Tsar Ivan looked pleased. "Goddamn the boyars, and God bless you, teacher."
mitri Dumatskoy's thoughts took hold of him more profoundly than ever before. Lost in those thoughts, flashing like stars, he walked mechanically. It was Monday morning, October 7th. He several times bumped into people on his way to the streetcar stop on Krasnoprudnaya. Comments like,