Джон Апдайк - Memories of the Ford Administration

One wants to imagine Buchanan happy in Russia, amid the four-horse carriages, the gilt, the unmelting snows, the unending balls, the stately pace of court intrigue, the flirtatious ladies (some speaking English) of the royal circles. As with Benjamin Franklin in the French court a half-century before, an American in the plain dark clothes of a democrat charmed the court like a dwarf, like a black-skinned Ethiopian — a delegate from a different sort of space. When the world was emptier, it was larger; there were blanks on the map wherein explorers could win fame, and travel skirted the realms of fantasy. The diary Buchanan kept of his trip to Moscow in June of 1833 [9] Moore, ed., Works , Vol. II, pp. 348–63. seems happy, with its descriptions of pious monks and rascally muzhiks in tanned sheepskins. Of the Reverend Father Antoine, the archimandrite or abbot of Troitza Monastery, sixty-two versts north of Moscow, Buchanan seems almost enamored: His long beard was of a most beautiful chestnut color, and made his appearance venerable notwithstanding his comparative youth. I shall never forget the impression which this man made upon me . Bronze figures on the door of a church in Novgorod were strange and barbarous figures not unlike those of Mexico . He was far from home, and was amused when a Princess Ouroussoff in Moscow inquired if the United States still belonged to England and whether they spoke the English language in America . Conversation with another hostess, Madame S — , would have been agreeable but for the constant interruption of a parrot which screeched as if it had been hired for the occasion . Moscow, since its conflagration in 1812, has lost, however, in a great degree, that romantic and Asiatic appearance which it formerly presented. The cumbrous and rude magnificence of palaces irregularly scattered among Tartar huts, has given place to airy and regular streets in all directions. It appears to be in a prosperous condition. That which chiefly distinguishes it from other cities is the immense number of churches. Their cupolas, in all colors and of all forms, rising above the summits of the houses and glittering in the sun, are very striking and imposing objects . Also imposing, though less attractive, were the armies of peasant women offering themselves as wet nurses to the directors of the Foundling Hospital, or Imperial House of Education: It was quite a novel spectacle for me to pass through the long ranges of women, with infants in their arms, or in the cradle. Everything was clean and in good order; though the women were anything but good-looking . He was more favorably impressed by the poor but noble children of the Alexander Institution, orphaned by such misfortunes as cholera, recruited from all over the empire, 250 boys and as many girls . He was especially impressed by the girl students, collected at dinner, all dressed alike, in green frocks and white aprons, which came over their arms.… Previous to taking their seats, they sang a hymn in Russian as a blessing. Their performance was excellent. Here the goodness and piety of the female heart shone out in a striking manner . His escort, a Mr. Gretsch, editor of the Bee in St. Petersburg, made a speech in Russian, explaining that Buchanan was the minister of the United States, a great and powerful republic. That the people there were well educated and well informed; but that every person had to labor. That their Government was a good one; but no paternal emperor existed there, who would become the father of orphans and educate them at his own expense . At the Troitza Monastery, Buchanan was impressed not only by the chestnut beard of the young archimandrite but by the uninscribed tomb of Boris Godunov, by magnificent specimens of embroidery wrought by the Empresses Elizabeth, Anne, and Catherine the Second, and by a crystal in which the image of a kneeling monk was miraculously embedded. At Peterhoff, at an imperial fête, [10] Moore, ed., Works , Vol. II, pp. 368–9. he was enchanted by the extent and ingenuity of the waterworks — they place candles under the shutes of the water and thus have an illumination under the water — and by a carp which has been in the lake for a century, with a collar round its neck. It, with others, comes to the edge of the water at the sound of a bell, every morning, to receive its breakfast .

Happiness! What is it? It can be breakfast. It can be a foreign country, where we are treated as a guest, and our ignorance of the language shields us from many difficulties. At the fête, the royalty in attendance and numerous dignitaries, including Buchanan, mounted singular vehicles on four wheels and drawn by two splendid horses which the diarist can describe no better than by imagining a double sofa with a single back, on which ten of us could sit back to back comfortably, five on each side . [Later,] we slowly promenaded through all these walks, the sides of which were covered by immense crowds of spectators. The effect of the illumination was brilliant. The Grand Duke Michel was on horseback, and great precautions were evidently taken, on account of the Polish conspiracy .

Yet it leaves, happiness, as little residue in the memory as pain. We have in the end only a few flat images painted in calcium on the wet stuff of brain cells, a set of signs no more enduring than a fresco sunk in crumbling plaster. We read in Young’s Night Thoughts of gorgeous tapestries of pictur’d joys! Just following the three lines which Buchanan or Judge Franklin incorporated into Ann’s obituary, the next three run

And a bliss short of perpetuity, the implication is, is hell. We want life eternally, or else its joys are hopelessly poisoned; its tie to bliss breaks at every breeze . Buchanan was happy, whirling in the rosy rounded arms of Aleksandra Fedorovna. “ D’une santé délicate ,” we are told by the La Grande Encylopédie touchingly, “ elle dut souvent quitter la Russie pour aller vivre à l’étranger. Son souvenir est resté populaire chez les Russes .”

Mon souvenir de Madame Arthrop est imparfait. J’ai oublié beaucoup, depuis cette escapade . And yet we sought, in the approved manner of the Ford era, to give each other happiness, for a stolen interim. Before Jennifer’s return to our booth, Ann contrived, in the guise of resuming humorous denigration of her “minimal” room above us, to let me know its number, casually yet distinctly, “five oh eight,” with an eye-flare — an alteration of hazel iris as of Wendy Wadleigh’s blue when carnally entered — that left no doubt of the centrality of the signal being given. That imaginary price tag fluttering near her face had become the size of a flag of surrender. I remember the number still, 508, each curved numeral plump with sexual invitation.

When our little threesome broke up, as it shortly did — Jennifer off with her girl-pals toward an attempt at nocturnal study, her mother into the elevator to attempt a night’s sleep away from her chintzy Connecticut bedroom — there was nothing for me to do but stroll outside, beneath the aloof and scudding moon, skip diagonally down the fascist breadth of stairs, chafe my hands and huff my breath against the spring chill as if this would explain my behavior to a hypothetical witness watching me, and rapidly stride through a well-worn pondside grove where entangled young couples fell apart at my passing like tapped chocolate apples. Then, a conspicuous insouciance wrapped around my racing heart, I went diagonally back up the broad stairs, around to the other entrance to the Student Center, which was populated by now with only a handful of torpid stragglers, and sidled toward the elevators, where in time, at the push of a button, a steel box appeared, prepared to make me vanish like a rabbit in a false-bottomed hat. My guilt at not being home on schedule, able to answer the telephone with its torrent of needy nagging, I suppressed with the reflection that, as de Tocqueville was among the first to point out, Americans prize freedom above all other goods. Tied though I was, to two women, five children, a mother, and an unfinished book, did I have no rights of movement? Was this the Soviet Union, where one needed a permit to go from Omsk to Tomsk? Was this already 1984, with Big Brother’s sister watching my every move? I flicked myself through the rubber-edged elevator doors, pushed the green number that spelled ascent and adventure and Ann, and with halting steps silenced by the orange carpeting made my way down the corridor. I had never been up here in this part of the collegiate dominions before. Arrows indicated odd numbers to the right, even to the left. 502, 504, 506, bingo.