Pushkin's Other Square

In 1757, Russia was expecting a change of rulers, but nobody was able to predict just when this change would take place. 

The 48-year-old Empress Elizabeth was very ill and already an old woman by the standards of that time. Her expected heir was her nephew Peter Fyodorovich, who had been waiting for some time for his aunt to die. Peter’s wife Catherine, meanwhile, could not stand him. Yet the couple had one thing in common: they both detested the ruling empress, who hated them in return. 

In parallel with this court battle, Russia was engaged in a real war, one that involved not barbed remarks and hostile glares, but exploding projectiles and dying soldiers. 

The strife between the empress and her heirs was petty and fractious, but at least there was a certain logic to it. It is almost impossible, on the other hand, to see the logic behind Russia’s entry into the Seven Years War in 1757. 

By the mid-18th century, England and France had been contesting influence over Europe and North America for some time. That is what started the war. But why had Prussia, Portugal, and Hanover taken the side of England, while Russia, Austria, Spain, Saxony, and Sweden supported the French? Because each of these countries had some grievance against a country on the other side. One diplomatic thread became tangled up with another, and the result was a conflict that engulfed all of Europe, by some counts taking a half million lives. 

Russia had no pretensions to faraway colonies and no territorial disputes with Prussia or England. In those days, there were probably few people in St. Petersburg who had more than the haziest notion that such places as Hannover and Portugal even existed. If there was anyone with whom Russia might have fought over territory, it was Sweden, with whom Russia was now, as fate would have it, an ally. So what was the point? Well, one could always cite notions like “influence in Europe” or “geopolitical interests.” 

Indeed it was purportedly “geopolitical interests” that sent Russian troops toward Prussia’s eastern frontier in May 1757. They were led by one of the most eminent of Russia’s grandees – Field Marshal Stepan Fyodorovich Apraksin. The field marshal was several years older than the empress; he had been born in 1702 – one of a long line of boyars – and was well aware of his exalted lineage. His aunt, Marfa Matveyevna, had been married to Tsar Fyodor Alexeyevich, older brother to Peter the Great. His father and uncle had both held important posts under Peter and Peter’s successors. In short, Apraksin knew his worth and conducted himself accordingly. 

Reading about the movements of the Russian army during the summer of 1757, one might be forgiven for forming the impression that this was not the mid-18th century, but pre-Petrine Rus, an era when it befitted a personage of distinction to take his time. What would Peter the Great – who moved quickly, acted energetically, shot from the hip, and confronted problems head on – have thought if he could see the pace at which Apraksin’s troops advanced? They set out in May and approached Königsberg (present-day Kaliningrad, a distance of about 800 km) only in August. 

The reason is clear – Stepan Fyodorovich was heading into battle with an entourage of 120 servants and all the accoutrements appropriate to his station – clothing, dishware, and other comforts that took 250 horses to haul. Presumably, other officers were also not traveling light. The troops inched their way along.

 To make matters worse, they were advancing on one of Europe’s finest armies: Prussian soldiers drilled and trained by the great innovator of military science, Frederick the Great. Apraksin was lucky that the king was currently busy fighting Austria and that his troops in East Prussia were being commanded by the unexceptional Field Marshal Lehwald. Had he been forced to face Frederick, the fate of the Russian army would have been quite lamentable. 

In fact, the Russian field marshal had other reasons to advance at this leisurely pace, beyond maintaining his dignity. He was closely monitoring events in St. Petersburg, from which informants were keeping him apprised of the Empress’ health. The heir to the throne, Grand Duke Peter, was known to be an ardent admirer of the Prussian king. This meant that, as soon as Elizabeth died and Peter III took over, the war would end. Why hurry into battle if it would earn the wrath of the future ruler? Apraksin moved at a snail’s pace. This pace cost many soldiers their lives to disease, but what did that matter compared with the royal indisposition that all of St. Petersburg was following?

In August, Apraksin was, nevertheless, forced to take on the Prussian army. The Russians outnumbered the Prussians three-to-one, but they still came close to losing. Even after his military success – at the cost of many lives – Apraksin did not reap the fruits of victory. In St. Petersburg, Elizabeth’s health was deteriorating, and the field marshal ordered that troops be withdrawn from Königsberg.

But then came some unexpected news: the empress was recovering. Her health was improving, and she was infuriated by the news from the military theater. Between May and August, Apraksin’s army had lost more than 12,000 men. Yet only 2,500 of these had died in combat – the rest had succumbed to disease. Furthermore, Elizabeth knew that Apraksin was a protégé of her chancellor, Alexei Bestuzhev-Ryumin. The empress owed a lot to Bestuzhev-Ryumin. He had helped her attain the throne and for many years had guided her foreign policy. But now his star was fading. 

For many years, Bestuzhev-Ryumin had received a “pension” from the English government and had promoted a Russian-English alliance. Now, as the 1850s drew to a close, nothing was turning out as he had hoped. England had joined with Prussia and was fighting Russia. Russia had been forced to ally with France. The entire system of international relations that Bestuzhev-Ryumin had worked so hard to put in place had collapsed. 

Sensing the empress’ displeasure, the aging chancellor began cultivating a close relationship with the young Grand Duchess Catherine. He could see that she was much smarter and more energetic than her husband, and together they began to plan her ascent to the throne, bypassing Peter. But, with Elizabeth’s recovery, these plans came undone. Bestuzhev-Ryumin was arrested and Apraksin found himself burdened with two liabilities: he had been unsuccessful in his military campaign and he was closely associated with a conspirator.

Bestuzhev-Ryumin survived in internal exile until Elizabeth’s death in late 1761. He lived to see Peter III take the throne – and be overthrown by his wife, who would become one Russia’s greatest rulers, Catherine the Great. She freed the former chancellor from exile and allowed him to live out his days in honor. 

Apraksin was less fortunate. He was tried for his unsuccessful military campaign and convicted of treason. He steadfastly denied the charges against him. Legend has it that Elizabeth, upon hearing about this, said, “There is but one thing for us to do – put an end to the investigation and acquit the innocent.” Under interrogation, Apraksin is said to have been asked one last time to acknowledge his guilt. He stood firm, and so one of the members of the investigating commission, preparing to carry out Elizabeth’s instructions, said, “Well then, there is only one thing for us to do...” The field marshal, evidently believing he was about to be tortured, collapsed in an apoplectic fit and died soon thereafter. 

And what about the war with Prussia? It continued until 1762 with mixed success, its ups and downs often paralleling the state of Elizabeth’s health. As soon as Peter III became emperor, he concluded a treaty with his Teutonic idol. This allowed Catherine to proclaim him an enemy to Russian interests, giving a cover of legitimacy to her conspiracy to overthrow and kill her husband. Later, however, Catherine enjoyed many years of friendship, correspondence, and treaties with the very same Frederick II. 

Russia really had no reason to enter the Seven Years War. Perhaps the lazy and hapless Field Marshal Apraksin had the right idea when he withdrew his soldiers from eastern Prussia? Perhaps, as he claimed, he was just trying to look after the well-being of his remaining soldiers.

In June of 1957, Leningrad marked its 250th anniversary with wildly phantasmagoric celebrations.

No, there was no math error. As every Leningrader knew, St. Petersburg was founded in May 1703. But in May of 1953, just two months after Stalin’s death, no one had the courage to openly celebrate anything, so the festivities were put off for four years. 

By 1957, things were quite different. Most of the country’s population looked to the future with optimism. It was the right time for a celebration. On top of everything else, the occasion coincided with another noteworthy event: the 120th anniversary of poet Alexander Pushkin’s death. Twenty years before, during a blood-drenched 1937, Pushkin’s centennial had been marked with universal jubilation. Now, even though 120 was not a nice, round number, it still seemed a good time to erect a memorial to Alexander Sergeyevich in the center of St. Petersburg. It wound up being dedicated in June, two weeks after Pushkin’s birthday, but that did not seem to bother anyone.

The young sculptor Mikhail Konstantinovich Anikushin had presented his design back in 1949, during preparations to mark the 150th anniversary of Pushkin’s birth. No memorial was built for that anniversary, so Anikushin’s design was retrieved from the archives. Anikushin had, of course, depicted Alexander Sergeyevich the way authorities and second-rate teachers of Russian literature imagined him: joyous, confident, with an outstretched right arm. Something like an inexperienced tenor singing an operatic solo. 

This design contrasted sharply with the melancholy and contemplative Pushkin unveiled on Moscow’s Strastnaya Square (now Pushkin Square) for Pushkin’s 1899 centennial, and designed by a sculptor with a similar-sounding name – Opekushin. But in 1957 Anikushin’s creation was more in step with the times. So it was decided to place the memorial in the very center of the city, on the Square of the Arts, in front of the Russian Museum. The sculptor was rewarded with a trip to Italy. Could a young artist, especially one who had grown up in a closed country, have dreamed of anything more?

They say that the trip to Italy so impressed the sculptor that he resolved to redo his creation. But it was too late. Perhaps it was for the better. On the morning of June 19, several hours before the dedication ceremony, Anikushin was making a few finishing touches on the statue. He climbed up on his bronze creation but then lost his footing. As he was falling, his jacket caught on the poet’s expressively outstretched arm. Anikushin came to believe that the poet himself had saved his life. Until his dying day, he insisted he felt Pushkin holding on to him, not letting him fall. 

Since then, Pushkin’s memorial has become the focal point of one of the most beautiful plazas in St. Petersburg. Some might not care for its pomposity and shallow romanticism, but it seems we should look beyond that. Anikushin’s sculpture is a memorial not only to Pushkin, but to an era – to 1957 – when so many believed that truth and justice would triumph in the end. And in the Russian mind, no one is more closely associated with the ideas of truth and justice than Pushkin. 

The Square of the Arts (Ploshchad Iskusstv) is surrounded by exquisite buildings. Much of this grand complex was built or restored by Carlo Rossi, who is largely responsible for St. Petersburg’s majestic style. But pausing next to Pushkin’s statue, one can look around and see not only marvelous architecture, but living history embodied in stone. The main building on the square is the former Mikhailovsky Palace, built for one of the sons of Paul I, the Grand Duke Mikhail Pavlovich. Mikhail was a playboy and a dimwit. He nearly died during the revolt of December 14, 1825, when one of the Decembrists shot at him. It was the Grand Duke’s good fortune that his would-be assassin was the eternal maladroit Wilhelm Küchelbecker (see article on Maximilian Voloshin, page 28). Not long beforehand, he had dropped his pistol in the snow, so, of course, the bullet did not reach its intended target.

Here, in front of the palace, in the plaza that was then called Mikhailovskaya Square, in August 1878, the revolutionary Stepnyak-Kravchinsky thrust a dagger into General Mezentsev of the Gendarmerie – the political police – and was able to gallop away from his pursuers on a gallant stallion waiting for him at the square’s edge. Terror was on the rise; just two and a half years later, the tsar himself would be assassinated not far from here, along Yekaterininsky Canal (renamed Griboyedov Canal in 1923).

Now Mikhailovsky Palace is occupied by the Russian Museum, one of the finest collections of Russian paintings in the world. The government purchased it in the late 19th century and renovated it to suit the museum’s needs. One of its buildings has been named the Benois Wing, in honor of the architect Leonty Benois, who was in charge of the renovation. This name opens a door into another rich vein of Russian history: the artists, architects, and art critics of the Benois family.

Mikhailovskaya Square was renamed the Square of the Arts for good reason: the Maly Opera and Ballet Theater is also here. This theater looms large in Russian culture. The building was constructed in 1833 and opened with two performances: the ballet Cupid in the Village (Amur v derevene – where else would you find Cupid in the Russia of serfdom if not in the countryside, where happy villagers dance with carefree abandon?) and the musical comedy, Acquainted Strangers, written by Pyotr Karatygin, a member of a theatrical dynasty that is as illustrious as the Benois art dynasty. 

Next door is the Russian Museum of Ethnography, with priceless collections devoted to the cultures of the peoples of Russia. Today, many of the ethnic groups represented in the museum’s collections live outside the Russian Federation, but their artifacts remain in the museum as a memento of Russia’s imperial past. 

Another building on the square is the Grand Hall of the St. Petersburg Philharmonic. Today’s concert-goers can imagine the balls held here in the 19th century, when the building belonged to the capital’s Assembly of the Nobility, as well as performances by 19th-century musical superstars, such as Liszt, Wagner, Berlioz, or Mahler. Or they can mentally travel to another era: the horrifying years of the Leningrad Siege. It was here, in 1942, that the hungry and haggard – but not beaten – musicians of the Leningrad Philharmonic performed Shostakovich’s 7th Symphony. 

Another local remnant of the Soviet era is the Apartment Museum of Isaac Brodsky, the artist famed for his numerous and feckless depictions of Lenin. Brodsky’s inept paintings were proclaimed the crown of Socialist Realism and held up as an example (both by the critics and the artist himself) to all manner of “Formalists.”

Next we find the Grand Hotel Europe, a symbol of a very different world. Its walls witnessed Tchaikovsky’s honeymoon – his ill-fated attempt to find family happiness. They also beheld visits by Turgenev and fine dining by the likes of Grishka Rasputin and such a vast array of crowned heads from throughout the world that it would be hard to name them all.

Other masterpieces of architecture look onto the square. Each building signals a sort of stratum of Russian history. By studying them, we can learn a lot about the Russia of the last 200 years. Meanwhile, in the center of it all stands the happy-go-lucky Alexander Pushkin, without a care in the world. For a half century now he has beckoned with outstretched arm, as if sending an ironic greeting to his melancholy twin in Moscow.