XXXVII 14th June 2005
From the south of France, driving first through the vineyards, passing many favourites, like Condrieu - the month of June is most beautiful. In Leszczyn all work is now done, and farmers are waiting for the rewards to come: relaxation turns happily to a moment of well earned laziness. I turned off the road, between rich wheat fields, of Alsace - and stopped in Ronchamp, the site of a sculpture, a church designed by le Corbusier - a man with whose thoughts I have lived for sixty years. As a student I wrote in June 1949: “He studies man, his needs, society, modern requirements and the answers offered by modern techniques, and only after exhaustive analysis, which he is destined to continue all through his life, he begins his synthesis, and he commences his art. He faces nature, he studies the shape of a tree and the qualities of a horizon. This nature has been forced and regimented too long by man, he breaks with the tradition of Versailles and brings her under, over, around and inside the house, he brings her through the pane of glass and through the Ferro concrete roof of a bungalow, he never has enough of her and he grants her complete freedom.” It was written before he built Ronchamp.
The drive up to it is very steep, like a tunnel, under cover of coniferous trees, arriving suddenly at the open summit, a short climb to open space, with white sculpture rising straight out of the ground, wrapped this day, naturally it seemed, with 380 heat. One sometimes gets the deepest intimacy of the moment, which now moved me as no architecture did for a long time - how sometimes all adds to a single meaning, the concrete, the nature, the past and the future, as something in a dream, to uttermost ends of feeling; I felt with deep emotion I was watching a moving clip of his spirit, with a sense of fulfilment: it hinted at meaning of nature and of Leszczyn.
Russia is a nation of people emotionally charged and communicating with their ability, to express their feelings facially. There is a certain quiet resignation in the people on the metro; which may convey the present social mood, but nevertheless, thatʼs what it conveys - while we donʼt see it on London tube, where emotions are kept at bay. But, this aside, they speak in Moscow whether aware of it or not, with their faces; thatʼs how society communicates here.
A young woman comes with her boyfriend and sits facing me in a café where I am having a Valpolicella. Her face immediately starts communicating - she trusts his selection, appreciates the wide choice available and gives the waitress her respect, she accepts decision being made and conveys the memory of the other time. Her eyes now open to his conversation convey the value of what he says, a sudden recognition of a sentiment and upward glance: trying to remember what were grandmaʼs recipes, which she feels momentarily guilty for having forgotten. She rears back, appreciation and awareness, that what he speaks is a little above her ken, but with confidence that she comprehends in overall terms, a little glance of tarnished virtue thrown at her bag, from which she brings a Marlborough and puffs at it weakly, and a glance at me. Dismissing a voyeur, she returns to the respect for what he is saying, with a fixed eye contact and momentarily turns to her super-cream Caporcinella, with a tiredness of dismissal but, nevertheless, as tasty as Arbat can do; she may not have said a word, but she has spoken eloquently, for half an hour, with her companion who is fascinated and working very genuinely. I only see the back of his head, which has a good shape and moves eloquently from side to side with his words. She is not a great beauty, has a Gainsborough English look, of an oval face with a forehead a little too narrow, blond hair, dropping freely to the side of her ears. Her eyes are her glory, which with the equipment around them, brows, eyelashes, comely wrinkles, can say anything, and of course there is her beautiful mouth, not used much, which she turns with slight lower cheek muscles, to convey all more sensual meanings. This would be a pick of a Sarah Bernhard, Francoise Rosay or Ingrid Bergman, but of course she has more, that inimical gift of Marilyn, speaking miles without knowing. When I left I had a look at his face it was good. Perhaps they were talking like Lara and Zhivago? She had her legs crossed under the table, not ready for him? Russian people are like that, and to understand this language, what a very happy gift for a Modern Europe.
I have come to Moscow for the first time, a civilian ex-combatant, to take part in 60th year Anniversary of the end of war, which is attended by all nations including the Germans. My Embassy kindly arranged a fine recommendation letter*, fully stamped by “Defence & Air Attaché”, both in English and Russian, confirming my contribution to the Patriotic War in Normandy, which together with my war medals brandished by Spinks, furnished many salutes, but did not open any doors, firmly shut to protect international nobilities. The Embassy invited me to a reception for the British sailors of Archangel Convoys; in early fifties I had a friend, Henry, who served on the corvettes doing this run, and I know well the suffering and the dangers which they survived; the meeting with their Russians counterparts was staged in a grand manner, in beautiful British Embassy on the quayside, looking across the river to the Kremlin. There were two platoons of guardsmen, beating welcome and presenting arms in the courtyard, and inside a beautiful Russian maiden, playing accordion for dancing after a welcoming speech by the Ambassador. There was a very international diplomatic corps. I talked with many, including a Russian high ranking, be-medalled old sailor, who was surprised when I told him that I fought sitting on Shermans, “not very good, not as good as our T34” he said and added “but your lorries were better than ours.” He then fetched from his pocket a couple of sailorʼs memorial medals and presented them to me.
Moscow is a fine city with broad avenues sweeping around the Kremlin, evocative for me remembering my fatherʼs boyhood there and his Revolution memories, as well as of literature and writers I admire. Amongst these Alexander Herzen, whose house near Arbat I visited; he was undoubtedly the most cultured and outstanding social writer and thinker of socialism; the house appears to be as he left it (he died in Paris, in 1872) and is managed, in French, by very ancient ladies, economising prudently by walking before me to switch a light on, in the next room of my advance and turning off behind me.
The Kremlin is a fairy story, surrounded by great brick battlements, around which walking one morning I joined with a large group of veteran officers with medals across their chests; we stopped on the steps of a memorial - resting against the walls, and as we stood there a company of guardsmen in full dress, with a standard and drums, marched stopping in front of us, presented arms and saluted us. We then all turned and saluted the memorial. I felt proud standing with them, remembering that in March 1944, we were told in the OCTU about the battle of Kursk, the greatest tank battle ever, in which some of them may have taken part. This city is the heart of a great country; where rivers develop, like their civilisation - from north to south, from Novgorod to Kiev and not alas - from west to east or vice versa, which may have been easier for the relations with Poland. In Western Europe freedom and democracy is often identified as a majority rule, with a minority right to disagreement. The Slavonic notion has always been something different, an urge towards a comradeship - a bond between man and man; expressed by a search for unanimity, with minority not tolerated and seen as anti-social. It arose perhaps from thousands of years of resolutely holding together, against incursions from the east, but causes much misunderstanding with the West, developing in a gentler clime. Some ruthless traditions, arising from it, brought also with it a sense for justice, often overlooked, in other parts of Europe; we hope that the twain shall meet.
The 1st May is now a communist party holiday frowned upon by the government. The crowds were carefully observed by police - when walking spontaneously up the Petrsakaya, at the top of which were the tribunes where we sat, with a number of fiery speeches which were followed by great procession of military vehicles including ancient Citroens, and brass bands including British, French and German with flags flying and a sense of unity of Europe. It was followed by women soldiers dancing and singing, making a great show, finishing with dancing in the street as fervent as on Victory Day in Piccadilly. A spontaneous show by people taking part in an unofficial festival.
The Pushkin Museum is like a corner of Victoria and Albert, not so grand; I visited when there was an opening of an exhibition of historical buildings and the visitors were obviously the Moscow elite, intellectual looking, often a mother and daughter together or young lovers, as in Musée dʼOrsay.
The Great Patriotic War Exhibition is something else: Versailles type approach through avenues of sculptures and the building itself in vast scale using a unique system of deeply recessed displays starting with real objects of war and destruction, gradually receding into a painted background - as for instance of Kursk. Knowing the story of these battles well, made me share their drama and grandeur.
On the 9th May which was the day of the official Festival with Putin and all heads of states, I could not get into the Red Square and watched impressive comings and goings in the streets leading to it. The afternoon display which I attended with the Embassy staff in a stadium, normally used for ice skating, was both military and musical, combining marching drill with the musiciansʼ clowning and Russian ballet and all countries displaying their talents, which compensated a little for missing the morning. The fact that one half of the nation celebrates the First, while the other the Ninth of May is a little puzzling, but I was glad to have been here for both, even if not quite sure which was closer: it was a good quandary to be left with: Revolution or Barbarossa?
