A Leningradian in Moscow,
A Moscovite in Leningrad
...and both in St. Pete
Warning: All ideas expressed in this article are the products of the author’s
personal feelings, experiences and moods. Any feelings of the reader, such as empathy,
sympathy, antipathy or other, cannot therefore be considered the responsibility of the
author.
Astrologers claim that cities, like humans, have their own horoscopes
and their own fortunes. Even if you don’t trust fortune-tellers, you will most probably
agree that every city has its own aura, face, or character (no matter
what you might call it), which makes it seem someone rather than something or
somewhere. You may have seen and heard a lot about it, yet your own first
glimpse provides you with a unique personal experience. There are cities we admire and
cities we hate; cities we feel like visiting and cities we try to avoid; cities we miss
and cities we fall in love with. A city may look quite different in different situations
and in different ages. We could compare a city with a flamboyant girl, or a lonely old
lady, a splendid and arrogant gentleman, or an ugly and mischievous miser; at times it’s
a businessman, at times it’s a warrior, and at times it’s a vampire.
Despite the diversity, cities preserve their own “selves” through
all their lives. The longer the life, the more exciting the story; and we may be as
fascinated by the history of a long dead city as we would by the biography of a long dead
hero. Cities can even be generally accepted as feminine or masculine. But there is only
one you never confuse with others, and it’s the one you were born in. For we never
question the onliness of mothers. Or fathers.
I am lucky to have been born in a marvelous city: Leningrad. That’s
the first trick, being forever fixed in my passport. By the way, one of the things I
really feel sorry about is the fact that the remarkable medals Born in Leningrad were
introduced only a few years after my birth, so, unlike my fairly vain cousins, I was
deprived of the happiness of having one. I still can’t get used to calling myself a
Petersburger, as the word still sounds somewhat too “Victorian” for me (or is it too
Pushkinian?). As a matter of fact, I’ve been a Moscovite for too long to have a right to
try on this new old name. Let those who face the problem every day decide who they are.
They have to. As to me, the “lucky” outsider, I wonder what they now call such homely
phenomena as Lengas, Lensovet and Lenfilm. Is it SaintPetegas? Or is
it SPBsovet? Or Petfilm?! In fact, it’s not at all ridiculous. It’s
strange, it’s alien, and it’s offensive. But this is not the point; as I was going to
describe just what it’s like to have been born in... my native city.
First of all, a few words about the city’s names. Whatever you call
it, personality prevails. And this personality has always been masculine. Speaking of a
city as a personality, I should have used the feminine pronouns she, her – just
wonder at the omnivorous English language: e.g. Iraq and her leaders!). As it is
impossible to use the masculine ones, I’ll content myself with calling him it. Another
point concerning names is that Leningrad has never ever had any associations with
Lenin – at least for those who were born there. It’s absolutely independent, very
pleasing in sounding, and forms associations only with the city, concerning all its
wonders and events. You’d never dare call the Blockade and the citizens in it by any
other name. Pasternak or Berggolz were Leningradians, exactly as Dostoyevsky or Nekrasov
were Petersburgians. Petrograd was short-lived, so those who left remained Petersburgians,
whereas those who stayed soon became Leningradians (provided their Soviet period lasted
long enough).
My family moved from Leningrad when I was only six. However, it turned
out to be enough to torment me ever since. I remember during sleepless nights, years after
we had moved, the acute pain in the heart and tears in my throat at the sound of the song Город
над вольной Невой..., the overwhelming desire to escape, to literally
run along the railroad, embrace the stones of the pavement, kiss them and give way to
tears. This is not a metaphor – this is exactly what I have always felt when arriving in
Leningrad. My heart used to beat wildly, spasms in the throat prevented me from speaking,
I had to make a considerable effort not to fall down on my knees, not to kiss the walls,
the lions’ muzzles, the torches and the old trees. Not to shock passers-by, I greeted
the city silently, saying all the tender words in my heart, embracing my dear friend, my
only true love, singing the song of joy, the Hymn to the Great City.
It would be a mistake to think that I was taken to some dull town or
village. We moved to the international scientific city of Dubna at the time of its early
glory: the sixties in full swing, nuclear physics, Nine Days in a Year, songs by
Okudjava, and the citizens, hardly any of whom was older than thirty. The lovely tiny city
in the forest among four rivers, the Volga. I hated it all: the fresh air, the woods and
the modern cottages. I felt deprived of my Leningrad. This lasted for ten years, until I
finished school; then there came another blow. I learned that my grandparents couldn’t
take me to live with them. Living in a hostel that far away was considered impossible, and
eventually I found myself in Moscow – a student of the Moscow State University.
Do you think my pains were cured? There are so many people in Russia
dreaming of Moscow, willing to see Moscow, eager to study or work in Moscow. The point is
that none of them come from my native city. No way. I kept considering myself an exile
Leningradian, and preferred to introduce myself this way rather than admit my coming from
Dubna. Even travelling elsewhere, I introduced myself not as a Moscovite, but as a
Leningradian, whose ill fortune prevented her from living in her beloved native city.
I should admit, however, that there was a period of temporary release
and – oh, yes! – sort of falling in love with Moscow. And this is the point at which I
can tell you the true difference between the two. It’s the view of one who managed to
live with both. It’s like having been married twice. One can be married even more, but
one can’t have had more than one true love. Still, my idea of the two cities is hardly
marred by any bias: I’ve lived in Moscow for too long.
My short love for Moscow wasn’t in the least the kind of feeling real
Moscovites should have. They must feel something very similar to what I felt towards St
Pete. Poor Moscovites! Where on earth are they supposed to find the stones of their
childhood? Is there a place in this city where a grandmother can remember herself playing?
Can her grandchildren see the same environment, the same sights? The happiness given to
everyone born in old cities like London, Prague, or Madrid is cruelly smashed in Moscow by
the wide prospects and high-rise rectangles of stone and glass, mixed in time, style and
origin. A few churches, whose facades have undergone too much redecorating and
reconstructing, are not necessarily those which one’s grandmother used to see. The
newest trend of revitalizing the past (e.g. Christ the Saviour, or the gate at the Red
Square), mixed with various innovations (e.g. the Neglinka River), can be quite misleading
even for Moscow’s usual visitors. Unfortunately, the coming Tercentenary has caused some
“Europeanization” of my native city as well, though it’s nothing really serious. It
has always been European. Nevertheless, I admired the sight of the yard where my mother
had lived: it’s now a perfect Spanish or Italian interior with elegant benches, neat
bushes and stylish porches. Of course, it’s not the dark, dirty and stinky yard of my
and her childhood. But I definitely dislike the outside: Manezhnaya Square had never been
covered with coloured plates, and the sight of some smaller passages, now banning cars,
unpleasantly reminds me of the new Old Arbat, forever lost for those who remember it.
My short love for Moscow was the love of the newcomer. On the one hand,
I had been partially cured of my pangs, being placed in a busy megalopolitan environment,
as urbanism was part of my madness. On the other hand, I discovered Moscow’s theatres
and restaurants. In the course of my restless and exciting student’s life, I got used to
eating out with my friends (Champagne and all), and then return back to the hostel in a
taxi. That was the thing I loved about Moscow: the night city glistening with lights, huge
prospects running swiftly under the wheels of a comfortable car, luxurious restaurants and
millions of people who never care who the hell you are or what the hell you are doing. The
dream that kept arising out of those not too frequent occasions was always the same: to
have my own home, my own car, my own husband and my own prestigious job in Moscow. Now
that I’ve got all these, I feel shamefully “moscovized” – like too many others.
What I really think of it is that Moscow makes people dream of luxury and
prestige! And when I come to see my native city, I feel ashamed.
Thus, my love for Moscow appeared to be, first and foremost, the love
for the University (it’s like the Vatican – a city in the city), and the love for the
busy and exciting urban life. As soon as I graduated, the brilliant Moscow of
entertainment changed into the monotonous and immensely dull Moscow of labour. I had to
travel in the overcrowded underground and buses to the industrial outskirts, where I found
out that Moscovites who live and work in such areas, still called by the names of former
villages, are still villagers. They speak the specific accent of Moscow’s surroundings;
they call going to the centre going to Moscow, yet they hardly ever leave their
‘village’; but they do consider themselves above all, being Moscovites. Of
course, they could not understand what I was missing: they thought St Petersburg was just
another goddam hole where people only dream of becoming Moscovites like them. Their stupid
pride along with complete ignorance, bias and primitive arrogance made me change my mind.
I realized that my homelessness and being just a screw in the huge and inhuman machine
called Moscow would hardly ever let me win. And even if I do, I’ll become one of
those winning newcomers – with iron fists, earthly spirits and strife for more. So I
left. Where to?
Yes! Lucky me! It was twenty years since I was taken away from my dear
friend, my omniscient philosopher, my poet, my all! How’ve you been, Leningrad, Your
Majesty? How on earth could I have dwelt anywhere else?
And there came another turning point: I had to get used to the city not
as an admirer from afar, but as a resident. I was getting to know the city which I had
visited many times before: rediscovering streets, squares, and palaces. Gorgeous,
classically flawless and remarkably picturesque buildings were in abundance; many of them
badly needed redecorating, but it was impossible to imagine the amount of money to keep
them all in order. Marvelous fences – each unique, breath-taking embankments and totally
different bridges, proud and flying Klodt’s horses. If I were to use just three words,
I’d say: space, light and majesty. Space, which has nothing to do with Moscow’s
gigantism – the space of harmony; light in both meanings – the never heavy buildings,
statues and bridges, enlightened by the genius of their designers, who worked with respect
to the works of their predecessors, thus creating the space; and the majesty, which has
nothing to do with arrogance – the majesty and splendor of Classicism, the wisdom of
balance and order.
I was getting to know the people, which presupposed that I had to get
rid of my unintended “Moscoviteness”. First of all, they said, stop screaming and
gesticulating, speak slowly, quietly and distinctly. Secondly, do not behave as if you
were the centre of everyone’s attention – be tolerant. And finally, change the topic.
The world around appeared to be quite different not only in architecture, but in
atmosphere. I sympathize with the Moscovites: there are so many newcomers that you can
hardly find a place where you can enjoy the wonderful Moscovite accent, Moscovite faces,
see real Moscovites as a community. In St Pete it is still possible to communicate in the
real Leningradian–Petersburgers environment. I remember voiles on women’s hats, their
high-heeled shoes and tiny hats above their fur collars in the cold winter. In my native
city women have never worn kerchiefs on their heads, but hats! By hats I do
not mean the knitted shapeless stuff common in Moscow, but real hats. It always grieves me
when I’m addressed in Moscow as a ‘woman’, though I can’t find the
appropriate word to fit the context, but I’ve never been addressed this way in
Petersburg.
The Moscow crowd is diverse and multiple. Everyone tends to stand out.
The difference between the two cities is often referred to as the difference between
Europe and Asia. In earlier centuries there used to be the difference between aristocrats
and merchants. Moscow in the days of the Russian Empire remained the main trading centre.
It is still the centre of commerce. I’d also compare St Pete to Moscow as a cathedral to
a church. You can hardly find a church in St Petersburg – only European cathedrals. It
does influence one’s perception of religion: for me, it is therefore full of light,
space and majesty. It unites, it’s universal. Churches, especially the oldest ones, seem
to be dark, pressingly medieval, and too small for a unity or even community. Moscow has
always been a city of diversity and contrast – in architecture, style, nationalities,
religion; everyone has tended to be unique, and most often offensively individual. Nobody
seems to care about others. I’ve always wondered why, if somebody needs to ask the way,
they ask nobody around but me. Do I look that native? Or just friendly? I’ve always
thought I have the same ‘preoccupied’ and hurried look typical of a Moscovite, but
evidently I’m mistaken. While I’m giving directions, people around rush on,
intensifying the look and doubling the speed. In St Petersburg, if you ask someone, you
immediately find yourself in the middle of a whole group willing to help.
Contrasts can be found in St Pete as well. It’s the contrast between
the dirty yards and gorgeous streets, industrial districts and palaces, usual for a
capital. But the age of the glory of Russia, the Russian Empire, is commemorated in every
stone, every lion’s muzzle and every torch of this city. Every street ends by a
carefully designed sight, a special facade, and not just because it meets another street.
There is nothing incidental. The glory has been preserved both in look and in spirit. It
is impossible to get rid of this spirit once you’ve breathed it in. This spirit is
higher than money, higher than power, and higher than anyone’s personal interest.
When still a little girl, I once witnessed an argument about the War
between my mother and her Moscovite acquaintance, who said, ‘How stupid it was of you
Leningradians to hold on to your city and die because of those stupid stones! You should
have been saving your lives!’ At which mum, naturally shocked by this statement,
retorted, ‘It’s no use trying to explain it to those who rushed out of their city like
rats even before the enemy approached it!’ She meant the infamous panic in Moscow in
1941. This dialogue stuck in my head. I was astonished, because for me it was enough to
hear Shostakovich’s Leningrad Symphony only once not to adopt the idea. He never
doubted; composing it there. The starving musicians in the frozen concert hall never
doubted. The public exhausted by starvation, hard work and loss never doubted. They
attended it despite the frost, the hunger, the grief and the bombs. They applauded. But
those who were in charge, those in Moscow who commanded which city to save, thought
differently. They cared only to save Moscow. They cared about their own prestige. None of
them had the courage of Kutuzov. As a result, we had too many victims: both among those
who were sent to defend Moscow, and among those who refused to leave Leningrad…
My own new life as a Leningradian didn’t last: in two years I was
doomed to return to Moscow and have lived there since. Painful though it was, I had to
follow my husband, and my recently recovered romantic spirit played against me, when I
left behind the last chance of settling down in my beloved St Pete.
Both my sons were born in Moscow. They are extremely proud of it. They
say they love this city, though they hardly ever visit its cultural centres. Their tastes
and clothes are diverse. They lack tolerance and unity. They find little interest in
classicism and still less in romanticism. They do not read poetry. They tend to be
pragmatic. They are Moscovites.
But then one day they say, ‘We haven’t been to Petersburg for
ages... what about a bit of travelling?’
By Irina Korotkina,
member of a most remarkable
academic body of devoted,
tolerant, and friendly real Moscovites
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