My life in art

Front matter

NORTH DAKOTA STATE UNIVERSITY

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Contents

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Chapter II Family Life

HE generation to which my parents belonged consisted of people who had already crossed the threshold of culture, and who although they did not receive the benefits of higher

education, and in the majority of cases were educated privately, still made much of culture their own, thanks to their innate abilities. They were conscious creators of the new life. Numberless schools, hospitals, asylums, nurseries, learned societies, museums and art institutions were founded by their money, their initiative and even their creative effort. For instance, the famous clinics of Moscow, large enough to constitute a city in themselves, were built mostly by the initiative and the money of these men and their heirs. They made money in order to spend it on social and artistic institutions. And all this was done in a spirit of humility, in the silence of their studies.

In illustration, the manufacturer Pavel Tretyakov, who collected the riches of art galleries and donated them to the city of Moscow. In order to do this, he worked from early morning till late at night in his office and in his factory, and when he came home gave himself up to his gallery and to conversations with young artists in whom he felt the presence of talent. In a year or two the pictures of the young artists would find their way into his gallery, and they themselves would first become well known and then famous. And how humbly he practiced his philanthropy! Who would ever recognize the famous Russian Medici in the bashful, timid, tall and thin figure with the bearded, priestlike face? Instead of taking vacations he would spend his summers in becoming familiar with the pictures and museums of

EFA WIL YET E

Europe, and in his later years, in accordance with a long-maturing plan, he traveled systematically on foot through all Germany and France and part of Spain.

Another Mecenas, Soldatenkov, devoted himself to the publication of books that could not hope for large circulation, but were necessary to science, to social life, to culture and to education. His beautiful house, built in Greek style, became a library. There were never any garish lights in the windows of his house, and only the two windows of his study shone quietly long after midnight was past. And behind the glass of those two windows Soldatenkov was planning with a scientist or an artist some useful but unprofitable publication.

The merchant Shtchukin collected a gallery of modernistic French painters that included the best works of Cézanne and Picasso. All who wished to see his pictures were admitted freely to his house. His brother created a museum of Russian antiquities.

The merchant Bakhrushin founded the only museum of theatrical art in Russia and gathered in it all that was relevant to the Russian theatre.

And here is the figure of another of the creators of Russian life, which is altogether exceptional in its talent, its many-sidedness, its energy, and the strength and breadth of its impetus: I mean the famous philanthropist Savva Mamontov, who was at the same time an operatic artist, a stage director, a dramatist, the creator of Russian private opera, a supporter of art like Tretyakov, and the builder of many Russian railroads.

It is impossible to say how much Russia would have lost if Mamontov had not built the railroad north to Archangel and Murman to find an outlet to the ocean, and one south to the coal mines of the Donetz Basin, so as to bring coal to the north. And when he began this great labor he was laughed at and called a fortune-hunter and an adventurer. And what would have happened to Russian opera if Mamontov had not supported it? It would have still been ruled by

M Y “1b ENG AEA

Italian bel canto, and we would never have heard Chaliapin, who would be silent in the darkness of the provinces. Without Mamontov and Chaliapin we would never have known Moussorgsky, who had been pronounced anathema by the wiseacres and called a crazy musician ; we would not have known the best compositions of Rimsky- Korsakov, for ‘ Snegourochka, ” ‘“ Sadko,.” “The Tsar’s Bride, ” “ Saltan, ’ and ‘‘ The Golden Rooster ’’ were written for Mamontov’s opera, and were first produced in his theatre. We would never have seen the canvases of modern art from the brushes of Vasnetsov, Polenov, Serov, Korovin, who together with Repin, Antakolsky and all the other great artists of that time may be said to have grown up in the house of Mamontov. And we would never have seen the wonderful operatic productions that were the result of his own talented direction.

We had another generous philanthropist in the realm of the dramatic theatre — Savva Morozov. But I will not say anything about him now, for he is so closely connected with the Moscow Art Theatre that I will have to treat of him in detail in relation to the history of the rise and development of the Moscow Art Theatre itself.

Neighboring on our estate was the estate of our cousins, who had built up a world-famous manufactory of silks, velvets and other materials. They were very enlightened people, and stood at the forefront of the times, being the first to perfect a complete branch of manufacture in Russia, that of weaving. Their home was a meeting place for some very interesting people. But their friends were a little older than we were, and their manner of life and amusement differed from ours. The evenings were mostly taken up with discussions of social subjects, for that was the period of the great awakening of Russian social life: local agricultural councils were just coming into existence, municipal self-government was still a new experiment, as was also trial by jury.

BA’ MUL Fie iE

On holidays preceding the hunting season they would be occupied with target shooting for prizes. From noon to sunset all one heard was the sound of rifle fire. Many of the ladies and gentlemen present took part in the target practice; others were present merely as spectators. Picnicking, promenades in the woods, flirtations and betting provided entertainment for those who wished to escape the noise of rifle fire.

With the beginning of the hunting season, and until the coming of frosts, the kennels came into life. With dawn there would come the sound of the hunting horn; pedestrians and mounted kennel men, surrounded by full packs of dogs in leash, would rush hither and thither, and the hunters themselves would arrive in their equipages, singing, and followed by a wagon with provisions for their breakfast in the forest.

The children, of whom I was one, and who took no part in the hunt, would rise with the dawn to see the hunters off. I still remember the feeling of jealousy with which I looked at the excited faces of the hunters. On their return they would show the animals they had killed during the day, usually hares, foxes and wolves; then there would come a general washing-up, and sometimes even bathing, that is when the weather would allow it. At night there would be music, dances, games and charades. The part of entertaining the guests would usually fall to the share of our house.

At times both families would come together and arrange water festivals. The day would be given over to swimming for prizes, and the nights to rowing in gaudily painted boats. A tremendous rowboat, carrying a brass band, would precede the procession.

On St. John’s night old and young would take part in making an enchanted forest. Costumed in sheets, or masked for the purpose, some of us would get into the trees and wait for the coming of the fern seekers on whom we would mercilessly descend from our hiding places. If we hid in the bushes, we would rush out, and if in the

MY fT BENG Ag 1 grass, we would crawl out, but the result attained would be the same. Others, covering themselves and their boats with large white sheets, would come down the river with the current, standing upright on the boat bottoms, frightening and amusing all of us.

Often on some summer night all the neighbors would come together for the purpose of spending the whole night outside and of meeting the dawn. On one such night the watchman mysteriously acquainted us with the fact that some suspicious-looking characters were seen around the estate.

“Tramps! Let’s get them!”

We armed ourselves with sticks, umbrellas, rakes and brooms, and chose a leader. Then we divided, some going to the right, some to the left. We crept through the underbrush, sent out patrols, set ambushes, but at last got tired of it all, and sitting down in a meadow, began to sing songs. The other detachment, hidden in a rye field, slept snugly till the dawn. Meanwhile the supposed tramps, who were in reality some of our neighbors, had stopped looking for a lost pocketbook and were on their way home, when suddenly hearing scores of voices and seeing a group of people crawling in their direction through the grass, they ran to the other side and were met by armed bandits, or so it seemed to them at the time.

We sometimes practiced practical jokes that were even cruel. Their victim was a naive young German musician, who was our first music teacher. He was as innocent as a twelve-year-old girl and believed everything he was told.

He was once informed that there had appeared in the village a fat peasant woman who was madly in love with him, and who was doing everything she could to find him. This lovesick creation of our minds became a nightmare to the young German. One night, he came into his sitting room, undressed, and taking a candle in his hand walked into the neighboring bedroom, where he found what seemed to him to be a tremendous woman lying on his bed. Scared out of his wits,

RAMAL YoUTEE he ran to a window and jumped out. It was his luck that the window was not very high above ground. The watchdogs, seeing his naked legs, attacked him. He began shouting for help and woke up the whole house. Sleepy, frightened faces began to appear in the windows, and everybody shouted, without knowing what had happened. But the practical jokers, who were still stationed at their posts, interfered with the dogs, and saved the poor half-naked German. Meanwhile, the one who had impersonated the German’s beloved left the bed, leaving behind him an article of female clothing, and changing quickly into his own clothes, helped the rest to save the German from the dogs. The mystery remained unsolved, and the myth of the fat woman continued to frighten the naive German, who was later to become famous in the musical world. We would have driven him crazy in the end, had not my father interfered and put an end to our practical jokes at the young man’s expense.

All these jests of the elders paint them as practical jokers, idlers, and high livers, but the beauty of the thing lies in the fact that they were good business men, who knew how to work and how to play. They were the men who created the Moscow of those days. Promptly at six each morning they would leave their estates to board the train for the city. But it was not an easy matter to reach the city in those days. Not a single morning train would stop at our flag station. It was necessary to take a train going the other way and ride to the first station where all trains stopped. There one had to wait an hour until the Moscow train pulled in. And it was on this train that business men would reach the city at half after nine, having spent three and a half hours on their journey to work. You can well imagine what the happy practical jokers would do to amuse themselves during the long and tedious journey.

Here is a characteristic conversation between one of the young men and an old priest.

“Where are you going, father?”’ begins the young man.

MY LIFE AN ART

“To Troitse, friend,’ answers the priest. “And where do you happen to be going? ”’ he continues, in order to make talk.

“To Moscow, father,” retorts the joker.

“To Moscow? What do you mean to Moscow?” The priest is wonderstruck.

“To Moscow. To Moscow,” the young man repeats.

“T think you are joking,” the priest replies, still unconscious that he is the butt of a joke, and ready to become angry.

“To Moscow,” the joker repeats again.

“To Moscow and to Troitse on the same train!” exclaims the priest in a hurt tone of voice, “ That is impossible!”

This is followed by a comic quarrel, and that ends in general laughter.

And here is another jest to make time pass. One of the stations had a foolish and impudent master, who liked to cause passengers all sorts of inconveniences. He would often make them change from one car to another that was full as it was, or examine their tickets twice instead of one time as was the custom.

We paid him for his every impudence. Just as soon as the train would stop at his station, which was called Mitishchi, one of us would leave the car as if he were in a hurry, and approaching the station master, would remove his hat politely and ask him pleasantly, “Tell me, please, what is the name of this station? ”’

“ Mitishchi,” the station master would answer gloomily.

“T am very, very much obliged to you,” the joker would say, bowing and retreating. But in a moment he would go back to the busy station master with another polite query.

“Tell me, please, how long does the train stay here?”

“Five minutes,” the station master would answer gloomily.

“T am very very much obliged to you.” ’

No sooner had the first joker disappeared, than a second one would appear from another side.

CONSTANTIN STANISLAVSKI

STANISLAVSKI’S MATERNAL GRANDMOTHER,

THE FRENCH ACTRESS VARLEY.

Par Ne YS WE

“Tell me, please, this is Mitishchi? ”

“Yes,” from the station master, even more gloomily than before.

thy}

“T thank you,” the second joker would say, retreating but returning at once. “I forgot. The train stops here ten minutes, I believe. ”

“Five minutes,” the station master would answer, nervously pulling at his beard.

A third joker would run up to the station master. “ Tell me, please, what station is this?”

“ Mitishchi. ”’

“ How long does the train stay here?”

“Five minutes. ”

“T am very much obliged to you.”

In this manner a fourth and a fifth and sometimes even a sixth questioner would appear, until the train began to move. Then the very last of them, sticking his head out of the window of the disappearing train would shout in a very frightened voice, “Is this really Mitishchi? ”

But the station master would not answer.

“ How long did the train stop here?” the man in the window, would yell but the train was already almost out of hearing.

As soon as they arrived in Moscow all these jokers at once became the most serious business men. They rushed along the streets leading from the railroad station to their offices or factories, in the best of equipages, as if competing for a prize at the races. This was the beginning of a working day that no man who is not a Russian could understand. We Russians cannot work systematically, but no one else can work as intensively and productively as we can for short periods.

At seven in the evening the business men would race along the streets again, this time to the train, and having entered the cars,

M YR IF Ee UN VAAGr turned again into care free jesters. And from the way-stations they raced to their homes in their troikas in order to get as much of care-free happiness into their lives as they could.

We, the children of the great fathers and creators of Russian life, tried to inherit from them the difficult art of being able to be rich. To know how to spend money properlv is a very great art.

The majority of our generation of rich people received a good education and were accuainted with world literature. We were taught many languages, we traveled very extensively, and in a word were plunged into the very heart of the maelstrom of culture. Having become equal in education to the nobles and the aristocrats, class distinctions disappeared as if of themselves. Common political and social work brought together all cultured people and made of them the Russian “intelligentsia’’; the last revolution destroyed all the remaining class barriers and pitched everybody into one common heap.

In order to acquaint you with our generation and give you an opportunity to judge how art developed in our time, I will try to describe my life in brief,

Chapter III Struggles With Obstinacy

Y father, a rich manufacturer and merchant, the owner of a mercantile firm a hundred years old, Sergey Vladimirovich Alexeiev, was a pure-blooded Russian. My mother, Elisaveta Vassilievna Alexeieva, had a Russian father and a French mother, — the once famous actress Varley who played in Petrograd in her time as a visiting star. This actress married the rich owner of a quarry in Finland, Vassily Abramovich Yakovlev, who erected the famous Column of Alexander on the Palace Square in Petrograd. A family tradition has it that when the pillar was being transported by sea from Finland, the ship was caught in a storm. During that night Yakovlev grew gray, for Tsar Nikolai the First, a man of very short moods, had ordered that the Column be placed in the square on time. Every means known to the art of navigation was used to save the ship, which hardly escaped sinking.

Varley soon separated from Yakovlev, leaving him two children, my mother and an aunt.

Yakovlev married a woman who had a Turkish mother and a Greek father, and this woman practically brought up my mother. Her house was conducted in a very aristocratic fashion. It seems that the court manners acquired by her from her mother, who was stolen from the Turkish Sultan’s harem, at last showed themselves. This Turkish woman had been shipped by her Greek husband from Constantinople in a box, and it was only after the ship that carried them was safely out of the reach of the Sublime Porte that the box was opened and the haremite freed.

MY LIE NSA

My mother’s sister, who married my father’s brother, was very like her Turkish stepmother. They gave famous dinners and balls and the most prominent merchants felt honored to be invited to these, for members of the aristocratic circle often appeared at them. At that time the aristocracy was still shy of the merchant class, and the breaking of class prejudices was considered a signal honor in our circles of society.

I remember those balls. Instead of tablecloths there were roses brought by express trains from Nice and Italy. The guests would arrive in four-in-hands and six-in-hands, with their lackeys sitting stiff in their liveries in the back seats and astride the horses. Bonfires would be lighted in the street opposite the house to keep the horses warm, and the drivers were served food as they gathered around the fires. The lower stories of the house were given over for the entertainment of the servants. The ladies came with necks and bosoms covered with jewels, and those who liked to figure out the riches of others would be busy appraising the value of the gems. Those who seemed to be the poorest in the company considered themselves unhappy and were ashamed of their poverty. The richer women believed themselves the queens of the ball. More than a few tears were shed because of the prevalence of poverty among: the millionaires.

Moscow and Petrograd danced for all they were worth in those days. During the season balls took place every day, and young dancers were often forced by circumstances to attend two or three balls in the course of one evening. Cotillions with the most peculiar figures, with rich gifts and prizes for the dancers, would last till five in the morning. The balls usually ended in broad daylight, and the young men, hurriedly changing their clothes, would go directly to their work in offices and mercantile houses.

Unlike the others of their circle, my parents did not enjoy worldly life and visited these gala affairs only when they could not avoid

»TRUGGEES WITH OBSTINATCY them. They were very home-loving people. My mother spent all her time in the nursery, devoting herself completely to her children — __

— and there were ten of us. My father, until his marriage, slept in the same bed with his father, who was famous for his old-fashioned patriarchal method of life. After his marriage, my father passed to his conjugal couch, where he slept to the end of his days, and where he died. My parents loved each other when they were young and when they were old. They loved their children and tried to } keep them as near themselves as they could.

Of my infancy I remember most clearly only the very best and the very worst. If I am not to reckon my memories of my own christening, which I created after the stories of my nurse so clearly in my mind that even until now I consider myself a conscious witness of that ceremony —my remotest recollection begins with my first stage appearance.

This took place on our estate, about thirty versts! from Moscow, in one of the wings of our house. A small children’s stage was erected there, with a plaid cloth instead of a curtain. As custom has it, the entertainment was composed of tableaux, in this case the four seasons of the year. I was about two or three years old at that time, and impersonated Winter. The stage was covered with cotton; in the centre there was a small evergreen, also covered with cotton, and on the floor, wrapped in a fur coat, with a fur hat on my head, and a long beard that would insist on crawling up my forehead, sat I, without knowing where to look and what to do. This impression of aimlessness, bashfulness and the absurdity of my presence on the stage, was felt by me subconsciously at that time, and even now it is alive in me and frightens me when I am on the stage. After the applause, which I remember was very much to my liking, I was placed on the stage again, but in a- different pose. A candle was lit and placed in a small bundle of branches to make the

*A verst is not quite two thirds of a mile.

sini TSE

MY LIFE: UN AiR:

effect of a fire, and I was given a small piece of wood which I was to make believe I put into the fire.

“Remember, it is only make-believe. It is not in earnest,” the others explained to me.

And I was strictly forbidden to bring the piece of wood close to the candlelight. All this seemed nonsensical to me. Why should 1 only make believe when I could really put the wood in the fire? And perhaps that was what I had to do, just because I was forbidden to do it?

In a word, as soon as the curtain rose, I put out the hand with the piece of wood towards the fire with great interest and curiosity. It was easy and pleasant to do this, for there was meaning in that motion; it was a completely natural and logical action. Even more natural and logical was the fact that the cotton caught fire. There was a great deal of excitement and noise. I was unceremoniously lifted from the stage and carried into the big house, where I was severely scolded. In short I had failed cruelly, and the failure was not to my taste. These four impressions, of the pleasure of success, of the bitterness of failure, of the discomfort of unreasonable presence on the stage, and the inner truth of reasoned presence and action on it, control me on the stage even at the present day.

In order to keep us children nearer to the home hearth, our parents listened willingly to all our demands. Thanks to this, our house often changed its physiognomy in accordance with what was going on there at any given time. For instance, my father, who was well known as a philanthropist, founded a dispensary for the peasants. My oldest sister fell in love with one of the doctors in the dispensary and the entire house began to manifest an extraordinary interest in medicine. Sick people came from all the corners of the earth and all the comrades of my brother-in-law would gather for interminable consultations.

Soon my second sister fell in love with a neighbor, a young Ger-

SG GEE SLED OBSTINACY man merchant. Everybody in the house began speaking German and the house itself became filled with foreigners. We youngsters tried to dress in European fashion, and all who were able grew side beards and changed the manner of combing their hair.

But then my oldest brother fell in love with the daughter of a simple Russian merchant who wore long Russian boots, and the entire house became a model of simplicity. The samovar never left the table; all of us drank too much tea; we forced ourselves to go regularly to church; we arranged solemn services, invited the best church choirs and sang early mass in chorus ourselves. Then my third sister feil in love with an expert bicylist, and all of us donned woolen stockings, short trousers, bought bicycles and learned to ride.

At last my fourth sister fell in love with an opera singer, and the entire house began to sing. Many of the famous singers of that time were guests in our house and especially on our estate. We sang in the house and in the woods— romances by day and serenades by night. We sang in rowboats and we sang in the bathhouse. Every day at five, just before dinner, the singers would meet there. They would stand in a row on the roof and begin to sing a quartette. Before the final note they would dive from the roof into the river, and as soon as their heads emerged from the water, they would finish the quartette on a high note. He who finished first was always declared winner. Those who were present would make up a purse for him.

What I remember best are the emotions which I lived through in the period of my struggle with obstinacy and not so much the facts that caused them. One such event took place in my early childhood, in the dining room, during breakfast. I was very mischievous, and my father called my attention to it. I answered him foolishly, without any anger, without thinking much. He laughed at me, and I became angry, not so much at him, I remember, as at myself. Not being able to find what to say, I grew confused and even more angry at myself. In order to hide my confusion and show that I was not afraid of my father, I uttered an altogether senseless threat. I don't know myself how it left my tongue.

“T won't let you go to Auntie Vera.”

“ Foolish,” said my father, “what do you mean you wont ket me go?”

Knowing that I had said something very foolish, and growing even more angry at myself, I became altogether obstinate, and did not notice myself how I repeated:

“T won't let you go to Auntie Vera. ~

My father shrugged his shoulders and was silent. This hurt me. He did not want to speak to me. Then the worse I was, the better it would be.

“IT won't let you go to Auntie Vera! I won't let you go to Auntie Vera! I won't let you go to Auntie Vera!” I repeated the same sentence insistently and almost impudently, changing the intonation of the words each time.

My father ordered me to be still, and just because of that I said, very distinctly:

“T WON'T LET YOU GO TO AUNTIE VERA!”

Father read his paper in silence. But I could see that he was irritated.

“IT won't let you go to Auntie Vera! I won't let you go to Auntie Vera! I won't let you ge to Auntie Vera!” I hammered at him in dull and obstinate anger, powerless to combat the evil force which had carried me away. Feeling how weak I was in its grasp, I began to be afraid of it.

“T won't let you go to duntie Vera,” I said again, after a pause and against my own will, feeling that I could no longer contral myself.

My father began to threaten me, and I began to repeat the same

J ERUGGEES WrPH.OBSHINACY foolish sentence louder and more insistently, all due to my inertia. My father rapped on the table with his finger, and I imitated his gesture, accompanying it with the same old sentence. My father rose; 1 did so also, with the same refrain. My father raised his voice in anger (this had never happened to him before); I raised mine also, but it trembled. He controlled himself and spoke softly. I remember that this touched me greatly and that I wanted to surrender. But against my own will I repeated the impudent sentence again, which made it look that I was making a laughingstock of my father. My father warned me that he would put me in the corner. I repeated-my foolish sentence, imitating his tone.