Romanov Riches: Russian Writers and Artists Under the Tsars

with close to 100,000 men of both armies wounded or dead. It was so confused that both sides claimed victory.

When we think of the Battle of Borodino, we imagine it through the eyes of the fictional Pierre Bezukhov from Tolstoy’s novel. But there was a real observer of that clash of two giant camps, a person in many ways similar to Bezukhov, just as much a dreamer with a lofty and pure soul: the poet Zhukovsky. “We stood in the bushes at the left flank, which the enemy was pressing; shells flew at us from an invisible source; everything around us roared and thundered; huge clouds of smoke rose along the entire semicircle of the horizon, as if from a universal fire, and finally with a terrible white cloud enveloped half the sky, which quietly glowed above the battling armies.”

Zhukovsky had joined the army as a corporal, serving in the staff of one-eyed Kutuzov and working in propaganda: he wrote leaflets, proclamations, and daily bulletins. That practical activity gave birth to his patriotic verse cantata “A Bard in the Camp of Russian Warriors.”

It was a veritable hymn to the might of the Russian army. Zhukovsky mentioned many brave officers by name, finding encouraging words for each one. For that reason, the rather long poem circulated instantly throughout the Russian army in manuscript copies. As one officer noted in his diary of 1812, “We often read and discuss ‘A Bard in the Camp of Russian Warriors,’ Mr. Zhukovsky’s latest work. Almost all of us have already memorized it. What poetry! What an inexplicable gift to rouse the spirits of soldiers!”¹⁴

Another popular poem in those days was the fable “Wolf in the Dog House.” This small masterpiece by Ivan Krylov (1768–1844), whose aphorisms are so ingrained in Russian culture that they are often taken for folk proverbs, described the current military and political situation: after Borodino, Napoleon tried to reach peace with Kutuzov, but was rebuffed.

In the fable, the wolf (Napoleon) sought easy pickings in the sheep manger but by mistake ended up in the dog house (Russia), where he was surrounded by dogs and tried to negotiate with the experienced dog keeper (Kutuzov), who breaks off the clever wolf’s entreaties:

You are gray, and I am gray-haired,

I know your vulpine nature well,

And hence my custom:

I only talk peace with wolves

After I have skinned them.

There was a story about this fable: allegedly Krylov had guessed Kutuzov’s strategy—to exhaust Napoleon’s troops—and so Kutuzov liked declaiming it to his impatient young officers who were straining to enter battle with the French again. Reading from the manuscript Krylov had sent him and reaching the words, “You are gray, and I am gray-haired,” Kutuzov would stress the words and “remove his cap and point to his hair. Everyone present was delighted by that spectacle and joyous exclamations resounded all around,”¹⁵ a witness recounted. Krylov’s short fable was more effective than a long military explanation.

In executing his clever plan, Kutuzov made a great sacrifice—he surrendered ancient Moscow to Napoleon. Going against public opinion and Alexander I’s will, Kutuzov declared, “The loss of Moscow does not mean the loss of Russia … By yielding Moscow we will prepare the end for the enemy.”

Hysterical official propaganda urged the majority of Muscovites to evacuate the city hastily, and Napoleon entered an empty city, which met him with fires that consumed more than two-thirds of Moscow in a few days.

Napoleon blamed the arson on the Russians; the Russians accused the French. In the end, the French army, left without housing and food, abandoned Moscow, with Napoleon cursing “that terrible country” and “those Scythians.” As the wise Kutuzov had predicted, it was the beginning of the end of the French emperor.

CHAPTER 5

Alexander I, Zhukovsky, and Young Pushkin

Pursuing Napoleon’s vanishing army, Alexander’s troops entered Europe in January 1813. Kutuzov died soon after. Napoleon still managed to gather a new force, but it was clear that his star was waning.

The famous “Battle of the Nations” at Leipzig opened the way to Paris for Alexander I and his allies. The day Russian troops entered the French capital, Alexander smugly told one of his generals, “Well, what will they say in St. Petersburg now? Wasn’t there a time when they adored Napoleon and took me for a simpleton?”

Europeans, liberated from Napoleon, called Alexander “king of kings,” like Agamemnon in The Iliad. He also became a patron of the arts throughout Europe: Beethoven dedicated his violin sonatas op. 30 to him, and later the tsar supported young Chopin, giving him a diamond ring.

In Russia, he was deified and the title of “Blessed” was bestowed upon him, which Alexander I modestly refused. Among the chorus of praise Zhukovsky’s crystalline and strong voice stood out with his 1814 ode “To Emperor Alexander.”

Starting out as a pensive lyric poet, Zhukovsky, to the surprise of many (and perhaps himself), confidently moved to the unofficial spot of number one state poet, replacing the elderly Derzhavin. In his “Bard in the Camp of Russian Warriors,” Zhukovsky came up with an apt poetic description of the political and mythos-making role of culture: “Bards are allies of leaders; / their songs give life to victories.” In his epistle “To Emperor Alexander” we find another important aphorism, “The voice of the lyre is the voice of the people,” which delighted the young Pushkin.

In his verse, Zhukovsky praised “the Blessed” but also gave his monarch bold and unusual advice, all the more prescient because it was later echoed in the thoughts, fate, and posthumous legend of Alexander I:

Leave for a time your magnificent throne—

The royal throne is surrounded with unfaithful praise—

Cover your royal brilliance, alone enter

The crowd, and listen to the murmur.

Pushkin knew this poem (and many others by Zhukovsky) by heart, and even ten years later proudly commented, “This is how a Russian poet speaks to the tsar.”

“To Emperor Alexander” became Zhukovsky’s pass into the imperial palace, turning him into “the new state poet, probably the last in the empire’s history and certainly the last to be accepted in equal measure by the authorities and by educated society.”¹

It was a remarkably intricate political and cultural dance, with the poet and the court taking careful steps toward each other, wary of appearing vain, silly, vulgar, or insincere. The initiator of the rapprochement with Zhukovsky was the royal family: back in the spring of 1813, the widow of Paul I, Maria Fedorovna, rewarded Zhukovsky for his “Bard in the Camp of Russian Warriors” with an expensive ring and ordered a special edition of the poem.