1 Vladimir Rosing Memoirs of a Social, Political and Artistic Life Transcribed, Edited & Annotated by Richard Rosing 2 To G.L. with all my love and gratitude1 1 The identity of “G.L.” is a mystery. The dedication exists in one of the earliest manuscript books, written in the 1930s. Because it is the only dedication Val ever made, it has been retained here. 3 Prologue Without an End, Without Beginning One never knows what lies beyond the instant; one never knows when and where began the chain that brought this instant or the next. Our finest intellect vainly tries to grasp, to understand what lies beyond its scope — the infinite — the endless space and time, without an end, without beginning. As I write this very instant, and as you read this line, somewhere a new life is born, and somewhere a life has ended. To understand the reason for and the purpose of our lives, to understand the cruelty of nature — when God who has created all and rules is a God of love — is a vain effort. We must accept that it exists beyond our understanding, yet the human brain in all its arrogance and conceit refuses to accept defeat, and carries on the struggle to conquer nature, space, and maybe time; but it cannot conquer time, that goes relentlessly forward, forward, bringing in its course the endless joys, misery and suffering of human minds and bodies. In any case, here on this Earth some say true life only begins unhampered by the body — [the] bones, flesh, nerves and senses that bring to us mortals such joy and such cruel suffering. Who knows? Some of us think we do. We build such castles, such paradise in our imagination. The flesh may rot, but we — the souls — we live forever as part of the infinite and all its glory. But do we? Why do I write all this? It's not my subject, but I just saw a happy man. He was walking either to his work or maybe to join his lover. I envied him. He was young. Life must have seemed beautiful to him — his thoughts gay. His clothes were immaculate, with a flower in his buttonhole. In his thoughts of romance, with the anticipation of its joy, the fate in his future was eradicated from every movement of his body. Oh, joy of love, the blessing of mankind: this glorious power to re‐create our lives through others, to procreate our self into the future — new life, with its never ending chain of cells and atoms. I followed him, to bask a little in his happiness. He stopped, looked at his watch; smiled, seemed undecided; made up his mind, changed it again, and started to cross the street. On the pavement (still wet from a passing April shower) a Ford came gaily down the street, bouncing like a lightweight champion on her springs. A banana peel was innocently lying useless, discarded — thrown by a passerby into the street. The innocent happy foot of our unknown friend stepped on it. He slipped and fell. The brakes of the Ford squealed and skidded. There was a cry — the end. How terrible, how unexpected, how strange. How true it really is that one never knows what waits beyond the instant… Perhaps it is a ridiculous unwanted banana peel, a stupid Ford, and the many tears of those that are left behind. What was the force that brought about that instant which ended all his mortal hopes? Was it in the instant when he decided to cross the street? Or previous to that, when the banana peel fell on the pavement, thrown by a passerby? Or, was it because the owner of the car was late for his appointment, and he hurried? (Had he not been late, he would have 4 passed the spot a few minutes earlier.) Oh no, the chain of circumstances starts earlier. You can trace it backward to when our friend met the girl he was to see today and fell in love with her — that instant was his doom, yet he did not know it; he was glad about it; he fell in love; he called to see her, and called again. They were to marry. Had he not met her, he would not have been there today crossing that street. But it goes even further back, to his parents, who decided to come live in London instead of Manchester. It was their fault. His father was doing well in Manchester. His mother wanted to live in London, so they changed their residence; it doomed their one beloved son — but they did not know. Or, perhaps [it was even] before that, to the first meeting of his parents and their love — yes, you can even trace it to their parents for having met and married — and so on, back and back, until we can't go any further into the infinite of the past ages, because there are only atoms, swirling and floating (seemingly aimlessly, but not really aimlessly) in their perpetual motion in the infinite of space, creating life that is ever‐changing in its form — new species forming, shaping different kinds of bodies, always forging ahead to accommodate the strange thing we call soul, concentration of mind, ego or consciousness. What does it matter what it is called? It’s there, enthroned within our body, which is its instrument and slave — if we only but know. Instead, the body pretends it is our master, enslaving us through our senses, creating desires, greed, hate, wars, and struggle — with rare glimpses of peace, happiness, and contentment. My life had all of this… Oh, how many times events, emotions, or actions of great magnitude inspired me to write [the story of] my life: the life of a rebel who fought against injustice, cruelty, and selfishness, against outlived traditions — stupider politics — and art. How many times I began to write [about] the amazing kaleidoscope of people, from Kings to starving peasants, who have crossed my path — and on rereading tore up the pages. There was no sense to it. No focus. Every time I began to work, I felt that I had not yet achieved the purpose of my life. My life had a dual interest: that of an artist and that of a politician — both to me of equal vital interest and importance. In the artistic world I was recognized, and some of my influence was accepted. But in the political world — where I could have had an influence to the point of changing the history of the world and saving countless lives — my advice was ignored. To the great leaders, I was only an artist — and what does an artist understand or know in politics! It seems that all the monstrous gigantic blunders, which have cost millions of lives, are a prerogative only for state secretaries, presidents, and prime ministers. My often‐lonely voice in the political marshes and quicksand was lost. It was a tragedy for me to see how so many of my predictions came true and plunged the world into a great catastrophe which still threatens us today. At that time it could have been so easily avoided — and at a minute cost in comparison to what we have paid, and what we may yet be called to pay. We are living on borrowed time. There is very little that we can do now, but that little may yet bring reason to the world — and to those who believe in the finest and the most beautiful thoughts, and the great ideals of the great masters, and not of the wild beast. 5 This is not just the story of my life. It is the story of the utmost fantastic period of human history — and my small part in it. It is also the story of the music and art which I have served faithfully all my love and of many great ones with whom I worked and had contact — and it is the story of those wonderful women who helped to shape my life, inspired me to achievement and progress. Now I can look back and find meaning and reasons for some of the things I did, lessons I learned, privations and hurt I endured. I must give a prayer of gratitude to the hand of Providence which guided me and saved my life in many instances. Now I feel I can intelligently write of what my life has been, of the successes and mistakes I made, of those people I loved, and friends who helped me make my life this great adventure it has been — and still is. 6 1890 — The Twilight of the 19th Century I was born in the twilight of the 19th century as the world was entering a new era.2 There were people whose memories were still fresh with the horrors of the Franco‐Prussian war, the American Civil War, and who took part in the Crimean war against England and France (who were now stout allies of the Russian bear). There were even people still living who had taken part in defending the sacred soil of Russia against Napoleon. There was still a messy situation over the liberated serfs, as no doubt there was in America. Russia was firmly ruled by the autocracy of Nicholas II, whose ruling house would celebrate its 300 years in 1913. Nothing could change this... A few stupid students tried to organize little worthless strikes and were thrown into prison and sent into exile in Siberia. They created mutinies in prison, went on hunger strikes, sang forbidden revolutionary songs — but it all seemed like a musical comedy and no one took it seriously.