From Koktebel'to the Warsaw Station (1929–1931)
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Chapter 7: from Koktebel’ to the Warsaw Station (1929–1931) Zamiatin’s relaxed holiday in the Crimea was thrown into complete disarray at the end of August 1929, in the middle of a meal: “During lunch today (I always eat here, at Voloshin’s dacha) Veresaev dashed over, scrambled over the flowerbed (to Voloshin’s horror) and thrust into my hands a copy of Komsomol’skaia pravda (Komsomol Truth) from 27 August. A few minutes later Adrianov rushed over with copies of Literaturnaia gazeta and Vecherniaia krasnaia (The Red Evening Paper) from the 26th. There was general panic. Everywhere there are arti- cles concerning Pil’niak and me: why has Pil’niak’s novel Mahogany, which was banned by the censors, been published by ‘Petropolis’ [i.e. in Berlin], and why was the novel We published in Volia Rossii?”1 Pil’niak’s 1929 novella Mahogany had conjured up a nostalgic feeling for old Russia, and presented a distinctly ambivalent picture of events post-1917. The blatantly coordinated publication of these articles sig- nalled a sharp worsening of Zamiatin’s situation, and the attacks on him and Pil’niak that year would escalate to become one of the most notorious episodes in Soviet literary life during the 1920s.2 “On the occasion of these sensational newspapers, I bought a watermelon today and stuffed myself after lunch: I don’t know what will happen.”3 The articles criticised Zamiatin for not publicly denouncing Slonim’s Russian-language publication of We in Prague, and suggested he was guilty of actions which had compromised Soviet literature and drawn the sympathy of the Russian emigration towards writers like himself, Bulgakov, Zoshchenko and Pil’niak. “Every copy of a news- paper was literally torn apart, and every new piece of information was heatedly discussed by everyone. Zamiatin himself, to give him his due, behaved calmly.”4 He rightly understood straight away that this all formed part of a concerted campaign by RAPP against the VSP, whose board he had until so recently belonged to in Leningrad, and whose Moscow branch had just appointed Pil’niak as their Chairman. Chapter 7 199 He decided to leave Koktebel’ and join Liudmila, arriving at Sudak on 6 or 7 September. On the day of his departure, he wrote an inscription in a volume he presented as a gift to Voloshin, in which he compared himself to a monk being assailed by demons.5 During September the campaign intensified. The attacks on the VSP for its supposed lack of political principle were targeted on Zamiatin and Pil’niak, with groups of writers and workers being called upon to express in print their condemnation of the pair’s “cul- pable” actions. The Leningrad VSP wrote to Krasnaia gazeta to protest against this discrediting of one of its members. The Moscow VSP, meanwhile, hastily tried to distance itself from the two writers, pro- posing on 6 September that Pil’niak should stand down as Chairman, and referring Zamiatin’s case back to the Leningrad section. Three days later, FOSP, the umbrella organisation of which the VSP formed a part, published a resolution condemning the two authors’ publica- tion of their works abroad as “an example of the sabotaging of the interests of Soviet literature, and of the entire Soviet nation.” Pil’niak had already been in touch with him by telegram from Moscow, and on 8 September Zamiatin posted him the draft of a let- ter he proposed to send to the editors of Literaturnaia gazeta. In it, he pointed out that they had omitted to mention that We had been writ- ten 9 years previously (“the novel was completed in 1920”), and that its publication in Volia Rossii (which he had never seen) had not only taken place more than two years before, but had been prefaced with the edi- tor’s explanation that the extracts had been translated back into Russian from Czech. Perhaps disingenuously, he claimed: “Using even a modi- cum of logic, it’s obvious that such an operation on a work of art could not possibly have been conducted with the knowledge or consent of its author. I will say more: the author made an attempt to stop the opera- tion, but unfortunately was not successful.”6 Meanwhile, Pil’niak had pointed out that in publishing Mahogany with “Petropolis” in Berlin he had done nothing different from other well-respected Soviet authors such as Aleksei Tolstoy, Konstantin Fedin, and Mikhail Sholokhov. He emphasised that he had publicly complained about émigré interpre- tations of his work, and affirmed that henceforth he only wished to dedicate himself to the cause of Soviet literature. The Leningrad VSP urged Zamiatin to return in haste from the Crimea. In response, he sent them a copy of his proposed letter to Literaturnaia gazeta, together with a more detailed account of the whole affair. He explained that he had quite simply posted the manuscript 200 Chapter 7 to Berlin in 1920 or 1921, with the reasonable expectation that it would be published in Russian simultaneously there and in Petrograd. The novel had subsequently been published in translations into English and Czech, and he had never disguised the fact, nor received any objections to this. He had read the novel in public meetings of the VSP in 1923–24, and nobody had protested at the time. He also pointed out that he had asked Erenburg to try and get Volia Rossii to stop the 1927 publication, and claimed he had asked Slonimsky to approach them as well. “I am mentioning all these chronological details so as to demon- strate to what extent the question of my novel We has been artificially attached to the campaign that has been mounted against the VSP.”7 He complained that he had been condemned at a meeting in Moscow even before his own explanations had been solicited, and asked how his comrades from the VSP who were present could have allowed such a thing. On 12 September, Zoshchenko told Slonimsky: “I feel sorry for Zamiatin. It’s an ugly spectacle, when a ‘European’ and ‘Anglophile’ is dragged face-down through the dirt. It’s a vulgar sight. And if they start shouting at me too much, then I’ll just lay down my arms. I’ll write a letter to the newspapers to say that I’m giving up all literary work for the time being.”8 On 21 September, just after Zamiatin reached Moscow from the Crimea, both Pil’niak and Pasternak resigned from the newly purged Moscow VSP. Fedin was one of those who had attended the meetings of the Moscow VSP, and he had now returned to Leningrad. Zamiatin wrote to him that same day: Today I’ve learned that you’ll be holding a general meeting of the [Leningrad] VSP, and that members of the new board (of the new?) VSP have set off from Moscow with the purpose of bring- ing the Leningraders to heel. […] Evidently the question of the novel We will be raised at this general meeting. […] I’ve decided not to come back for tomorrow’s meeting: if the Leningraders turn out to be just as feeble as the Muscovites, then I have no desire to see that shameful sight. If the meeting is like the one in Moscow (Gor’ky accurately described that as a “lynching”), then nothing I say will change by one iota the resolutions they pass, which have been prepared well in advance […]; and if the general meeting in Leningrad turns out to be different, then my presence will be superfluous, since I can add nothing to the explanations I asked N. V. Tolstaia[-Krandievskaia] to pass on to Chapter 7 201 you. What’s more, if I were to start speaking myself, then I would start saying such harsh things that no good would come of it.9 He explained that Pil’niak had not delivered his Literaturnaia gazeta letter in the end, because they both now agreed that it was not detailed enough, and so he planned to write a new one, which to some extent would be shaped by the outcome of the next day’s meet- ing. He suggested adding one more point to those he had sent Fedin already: “The utopian novel We, written in 1919–20, is above all a pro- test against every kind of mechanisation of man, against turning him into a machine; the American critics in their reviews of the novel We called to mind the system which has been applied in America in the factories of Henry Ford. Reflections of the epoch of War Communism can be found in this novel, but it is of course impossible to connect it to the present day.”10 In other words, he denied again that the Soviet system had been the main satirical target of the novel. The decisive VSP meeting of 22 September was indeed a humilia- tion for the Leningraders, as Fedin reported back to Zamiatin: “Yesterday probably differed very little from the VSP’s ‘eventful day in Moscow.’ The disarray and the confusion of the board were terri- ble to see. Decisions were taken in haste, and under such monstrous pressure, that by the end everyone felt quite crushed. […] The ‘work’ went on from three in the afternoon, when the board’s meeting began, until midnight, when the general meeting ended. The only difference between things in Moscow and in Leningrad was that the old board remains in place here, to conduct a purge and then hold new elections in October. […] As for your own case, the board was unanimous in dis- agreeing with the Muscovites.” Nevertheless, they had been unable to sway the outcome: “What that boils down to in essence — setting aside the rhetoric — is the following: 1) your giving permission for a transla- tion into English is deemed a political error; 2) it was noted that you hadn’t acknowledged this error in any of your explanations; 3) you haven’t renounced the ideas expressed in the novel We, which our society considers to be anti-Soviet.