This, in the first few months, seemed the prevailing spirit in St Petersburg. As our armies showed themselves to be ill-equipped (partly because of profiteering, partly because of a lack of attention to detail typical of the romantic Russian) and were beaten in battle after battle, just as ten years earlier we had been beaten on the sea by the Japanese, morale went from the euphoric to the melancholic. Only the professional soldiers were left to try to save something of the ‘Russian steamroller’. They were too late.
When he went into exile to Germany after the Civil War, Krassnoff, Hetman of the Don Cossacks, pointed out in his books how decadence had already established itself through the capital, throughout Russia. As always, the smaller landlords suffered worst when the uprisings came. Those who created the situation had already fled. Only the poor, unwitting Tsar, his stupid, superstitious wife and their innocent children paid the full price of their folly. A stronger Tsar, as Krassnoff and other Whites explained, a more dignified Court, and there would have been no revolution at all. We should have gone on to greater glories and, with America, been the envy of the world. I say all this to give a general picture of St Petersburg at the time I arrived and to show that it was by no means only the Lenins and Trotskys who were complaining about the way the country was run. There was hardly anyone in the capital who did not think that something should be done. The Tsar was by no means the most popular ruler we had had. His foreign wife was carrying on a flirtation with a Siberian starets who was not even a proper priest (letters from her to him had been in circulation for three years) and she was a notorious drug-addict, unable to survive without morphine. Amongst the powerful families there was talk of abdication, of electing a stronger, more popular Tsar to ascend the throne which Nicholas, to be fair, had never wanted to occupy.
It should be said here that in those days cocaine-sniffing was a common habit in Russia, Vienna, Berlin and elsewhere. When the Bolsheviks took up the reins of power (like seizing the reins of a mad horse galloping towards a cliff) they used cocaine to a man and woman. There was no commissar without his supply. This is what gave the use a bad reputation. The whole of the high-ranking elite of the Third Reich, for instance, were familiar with the benefits of this distillation of the ordinary cocoa plant. Sometimes it seems to me that twentieth-century history is a history of its use and abuse. It supplied the energy which in turn fuelled the many upheavals (not all of them harmful) which have taken place in my lifetime. My use of cocaine was for a while abated, however, due to the routine I would follow for the next months. On the Monday I set off for my interview with my professor at the Polytechnic Institute. I travelled by steam-tram from the Wylie Clinic terminus.
My first ride on a steam-tram was an exhilarating experience. I went to the terminus early in the morning. The trams were like small single-carriage trains, running on rails and drawn by a boxlike locomotive (possibly a Henschel or an English ‘Green’). These locomotives can still be seen on narrow-gauge lines. In the summer some of the coaches would be open-sided, but in the winter they were enclosed. The locomotive itself had accommodation for about ten passengers. It was always these seats in winter which were the most coveted. There was no heating on the other coach. Needless to say my first trip to the Institute aboard the Number 2 tram was in the rear carriage, close to the door. In my new uniform and my greatcoat I was comparatively warm as we drove through the industrial suburbs. The misty streets were full of huddled figures on their way to factories like the famous Putilov Works. We passed into semi-rural country where bare trees and wooden fences seemed stuck at random into dirty snow and a smell of urine and oil predominated until one reached the middle-class suburbs and eventually, after about three-quarters of an hour, arrived at the Polytechnic buildings. These were unremarkable, institutional edifices and not in the least welcoming. Neither were the few students who watched my arrival. I asked the way to Doctor Matzneff’s office and was directed through various cold corridors, past many bleak, closed doors, until I found one bearing his name. I knocked. I was told to enter a bare, dark green room. I removed my cap, wondering if I should salute, for the professor wore a magnificent naval uniform. It was usual for retired military instructors to take positions in civil schools. Instead, I shook hands with him. He had a faded, sad-eyed look and was not the ogre I had expected. His hair was thin and grey; his moustache drooped and was snuff-stained. He remained standing near a small window which looked out across a courtyard. He could see above the green half-curtain on its brass rail, but I was too short to know what, if anything, he stared at.
‘You are Dimitri Mitrofanovitch Kryscheff?’
‘I am, your honour.’
‘You expect to study here, under me?’ He sounded deeply weary. For no good reason I felt sorry for him.
‘I hope so, your honour.’
‘You seem a polite young man.’
‘I wish to become a great engineer, your honour. I am delighted to have the opportunity ...’
He turned slowly, his sad eyes staring into mine. ‘You have a genuine wish to study here?’
‘It has been my ambition. All my life.’
Perhaps he was used to interviewing students who had failed to be accepted by better-class academies, who regarded the Polytechnic as a last resort. He grew a little more cheerful, though it was obvious he was not by nature a happy-go-lucky man.
‘Well, well.’ He sat down behind his desk. I remained standing, my cap in my hand. ‘That, at least, is a relief. I am probably as puzzled as you are, you know.’
‘Puzzled, your honour?’
‘You did not come here under conventional circumstances. You came on my recommendation. All being normal, you would not have a place here at all.’
‘I think I am qualified, your honour.’
‘That is commendable. And more than I hoped for. Do you wish me to examine you?’
‘I am ready, sir.’
He took a sheet of paper from his drawer. Reading from it he asked me straightforward questions on various scientific and engineering principles. I answered them easily. At the end of the session there was a faint smile on his face. ‘You are right, Kryscheff. You are perfectly well qualified for your place.’ I wondered why he was so surprised. He shrugged. ‘Since you’re here there’s a possibility you will benefit. But for what purpose?’
‘I wish to be a great engineer, sir. To bring Russia many inventions. To increase her fame and her prosperity.’
‘You are an idealist?’
‘I’m no radical, your honour.’
‘That, too, is a relief. My son ... Well, you were told, eh?’
‘No, your honour.’
‘Well, then, it’s confidential. Between your Mr Green and myself. My son was not as sensible. I was grateful to Mr Green for helping ... He has been very kind. I am glad to return the favour.’
‘Your son is in trouble, sir?’
‘He’s travelling abroad.’ Doctor Matzneff sighed. He rubbed at his moustache. ‘There are hot-heads at this Institute, Kryscheff. You would do well to avoid them.’
‘I shall, your honour.’
‘We all come under suspicion. Particularly with the War. It’s not as bad as nineteen-five or six, but it is still bad. People have been shot, Kryscheff.’
‘I know that, your honour.’
‘And exiled.’
‘I have an abhorrence, your honour, of politics. The only paper I read is Russkoye Slovo.’
A deeper sigh than the last. ‘Read it and believe it, Kryscheff. All you need otherwise are your textbooks, eh?’
‘My views exactly, your honour.’
We shook hands. He looked forward to seeing me in his class next day. I took the steam-tram back to my lodgings behind the Finland Station. I would discover from fellow students that Doctor Matzneff had been a radical in his youth. His son had followed in his footsteps. My uncle’s agents had probably bribed officials to commute a prison sentence to one of exile. That was how I came to have a special mentor at the Ins
titute.
Uncle Semya and his associates were responsible for more philanthropic acts than many public charities. It is encouraging that not all ‘secret brotherhoods’ are revolutionaries, Freemasons or Zionists. In the spiritual teachings of Gurdjieff (himself an Armenian), Blavatski (a Russian) or even the Christian-Jew Steiner (an Austrian), we learn of groups sometimes called ‘the White Ones’: great, wise men and women party to the wisdom of the ages, who try to help mankind without ever interfering with the course of history. For a while I was a member of the Theosophists, then the Anthroposophists, and lastly a Gurdjieff group I briefly attended in London. Naturally, I cannot speak here of what I learned. It is against all their laws. I saw a man only recently who broke the Code of the Gurdjieffschini. He was mesmerised in a telephone box and has not woken up since (we shared a hospital ward for a few weeks when due to a typical administrative oversight I was thrown in with the senile patients). I will not go so far as to suggest that my Uncle Semya belonged to this ‘White Brotherhood’, but he formed part of a network of international businessmen I simply call ‘the men of good-will’. It was thanks to them, and they existed in all civilised countries, that I received my higher education. And if I received it under a false name, well, that is all part of the necessity for secrecy, I think.
I was already becoming used to being Kryscheff and so adaptable was I in those days that sometimes I all but forgot my original name. I was soon Dimka to Madame Zinovieff’s daughters, Olga and Vera, and even the good widow herself would use this term of affection. I did not mind it when we were alone, but found it embarrassing when the other guests were present. I tended to keep myself to myself both at home and at school. Marya Varvorovna’s address was still carefully preserved but I did not find time to see her. My regular trips on the tram were my only relaxation. On these I read fiction, usually H. G. Wells or Jack London in the cheap, red editions published by a London firm and sold in the English bookshop in Morskaya. They could sometimes be bought second-hand from street-stalls if one were lucky. A good deal of my money went on such luxuries, but they were well worth it.
Sometimes, too, I bought books in German and French. Many of the best engineering texts were in German and many of the best books on aviation were in French. And so my various languages improved imperceptibly, for I had no one on whom to try them out.
For my first year I led an impeccably dull and studious life. A major event would be an occasional visit to Nevski Prospect, still the longest and widest street I think I have ever seen, to look in the windows of the big stores, with their magnificent collections of goods. I would visit the covered bazaars which are such a feature of Russian life (they have started the idea in the Portobello Road now) where one great building houses dozens and dozens of small kiosks and stalls. Usually I accompanied the Zinovieffs to the shops: sometimes to the kino or the theatre; sometimes to a small café where we would have coffee or tea and cream-cakes à la Viennoise.
I had hardly needed any of my own store of cocaine, let alone what had been in the snuff-box (it was kept in ice on the window-sill to preserve its efficacy). My studies were comparatively easy. The oral examinations with Dr Matzneff had taken on the nature of friendly chats. Russian examinations are almost always oral, which is why we have such good memories for conversations and events. My professor had become increasingly well-disposed to me. He realised I was not only a serious student of science, but a clever one. I made very few friendships with other students. Most of them did not seem to like me much. I had once or twice been asked if I were of ‘foreign blood’. When I said I came from Ukraine, I was even asked if I were not a ‘half-Jew’. I became sensitive on the subject. Jews were only allowed beyond the Pale of Settlement by special permission. I had received no such permission because I needed none. I was a true Slav, through and through. This gave offence to the few Jewish students. Happily I escaped any major upsets because some of the other pupils sided with me and drove the Jews back into their little enclave.
My complexion was no darker than most. I was frequently compared by old ladies to the Tsarevitch himself, the poor little boy whom Rasputin claimed to have ‘cured’. It was not as if I had any Semitic characteristics, save my father’s mark, that stupid operation done ‘for the sake of health’. But the most damaging rumours spread magically. It is not always possible to stop them, however privately one lives. In Germany, I believe, the operation was already common and it became ‘quite the thing’ amongst ordinary people in England and Canada between the wars. Doctors recommended it. The same is true in America. But certainly not in Tsarist Russia! My dead father’s curse follows me still. It will follow me, I suppose, to the grave. I could wind up in the Jewish Cemetery in Golders Green. That would be an irony. The rabbis would spin if they knew a gentile lay next to them. My hope is that I will have the full Orthodox Service. I shall, as soon as possible, speak to the Archbishop of the Bayswater Orthodox Church which I attend whenever my health allows. It is so moving, the Russian service; all the white and gold, the incense, the people standing about the priest while he blesses them: then the icons are carried in procession. I celebrated the main holy days with the Zinovieffs in St Petersburg. This was almost the only time in my youth I was able to experience the wonderful feeling of acceptance and joy known to the true believer. It is a strange thing that the people which knows best how to worship God is today denied God in its own country!
My relationship with my fellow students left much to be desired but I had the comfort of the Zinovieffs, my regular letters from Esmé, and less frequently from my mother and Captain Brown; the close, enthusiastic interest shown in my progress by Dr Matzneff, who soon made me his favourite. Since it was not possible for me to afford the long journey back and forth to Kiev every holiday, I spent the vacations in Petersburg and Dr Matzneff would have me visit his own apartment which, although rather dark and empty, had the feel of a home that had once been happy and not unprosperous. Here were books on all the subjects I was studying: physics, applied mechanics, electrical and architectural engineering, draughtsmanship, mathematics and so on, and they were available for me to borrow, together with books on subjects not really related to my studies but which also interested me, such as ordinary architecture, geography and astronomy.
On only one occasion did Dr Matzneff ask me anything about my past. He supposed I had become Kryscheff because of my ‘background’. I said that it was true we had not been rich. My mother could not afford the fees of the recognised schools and colleges but my uncle was helping with my education.
‘And your uncle is associated with Mr Green.’
‘Mr Green is his agent in the capital. My uncle is in shipping.’
This seemed to enlighten Dr Matzneff. ‘Of course, you could not get the necessary travel permissions, so you used another person’s... ?’
I believed that my uncle, I said, had known Dimitri Kryscheff would not be using his place at the Polytechnic. Dr Matzneff held up a tactful hand and said I need tell him no more. This was just as well. I had little else I could tell him. Thereafter, my professor showed me even more attention and needless to say I came in for almost exactly the kind of cruelty and name-calling I had experienced a few years earlier as a pupil of Herr Lustgarten.
Consequently, I did not mix with the other students. I was in one way relieved, for too many of them entertained the most cynical and bloodthirsty radical ideas. The Okhrana, the political police, came to the Institute more than once. The ordinary ‘pharaohs’ (a disparaging slang term for the police) also kept a regular eye on the place. I did sometimes miss the camaraderie I had experienced in Odessa. St Petersburg, it seemed to me, was a place where healthy companionship could not be found. I had lost the will to visit Marya Varvorovna. All the boys of my own age at the fashionable military schools kept mistresses amongst the shop-girls and smalltime actresses who were only too glad to give themselves to a ‘gentleman’. Even the skating rinks and dance-halls were in the main private enclaves for those wi
th money. St Petersburg sometimes seemed a series of castles behind whose walls privileged people engaged in every vice and pleasure. In the meantime, on the far island outskirts of the city, like some vast besieging army of the damned, the excluded, lay the camps of a more menacing enemy than any threatening from Prussia. The inner city contained the fortresses of light, of glass and diamonds and brilliant, beautiful people. The outer city, with its huge, bleak factories, its chimneys from which poured blood-red flames and sulphuric yellow smoke, with its filthy canals, with its sirens wailing like lost souls, held the fortresses of darkness. From them one day would issue the engulfing, defiling Mob. And who was to blame for this? It was the Duma. That ineffectual body aped the parliaments of the West but failed to find any roots in Russian soil or credibility in Russian hearts. The Duma was a sop to the revolutionists. It should never have been allowed to come into existence. It had no true power at any time, save the power of speech, which it abused daily. The Duma strangled Russia with words. It talked us into the War. It talked us into Defeat. It talked us into the Revolution. It talked itself into the Bolshevik prisons and eventually it talked itself in front of Bolshevik firing squads, which is what it had deserved all along. Russia never wanted democracy. She wanted strong leadership. Eventually, at the cost of everything she held sacred, she was to receive it again.