one’s own among strangers, a stranger among one’s own

On March 10, 1937, Evgeny Zamyatin, a Russian émigré writer and author of We, died of a heart attack in Paris at the age of 53.

Yevgeny Zamyatin managed to go abroad thanks to the mediation of Gorky in October 1931. From February 1932 to March 1937, he lived and tried to work (wrote screenplays, worked on the first part of the historical novel The Scourge of God) in France, which, however, did not become a second home for him … However, he was just about to leave from Soviet Russia, where his works had long ceased to be printed, Yevgeny Zamyatin quite soberly, without illusions, looked at his future semi-emigre life in Europe, which was also reflected in his letter to Stalin:

“I know it will be very difficult for me abroad, because I can’t be there in the reactionary camp – my past speaks quite convincingly about this (belonging to the RSDLP (b) in tsarist times, at the same time in prison, twice expulsion, bringing to trial during the war for the anti-militarist story). I know that if here, by virtue of my habit of writing according to my conscience, and not on command, I am declared right, then sooner or later, for the same reason, I will probably be declared a Bolshevik. But even under the most difficult conditions there I will not be sentenced to silence, there I will be able to write and publish – even if not even in Russian.

As Doctor of Philology, Chief Researcher of the Pushkin House (IRLI) Vladimir Tunimanov noted in the article “The Last Travels Abroad and the Funeral of Evgeny Ivanovich Zamyatin” (published in the Quarterly of Russian Philology and Culture. St. Petersburg, 1996, No. 2), it is not known what impression the confessions-prophecies made on Stalin, but in emigre literary circles they were, of course, quite noticed, as they also paid attention to Gorky’s mediating mission:

“All this could not but be alarming. Moreover, the cautious and independent behavior of Zamyatin in the West dispelled any hopes for the active anti-Bolshevik activity of the disgraced writer who escaped with such difficulty from the Soviets.

As Zinaida Gippius wrote about Zamyatin in 1934 in her diary, “a semi-Soviet semi-immigrant, a former friend of Gorky.”

Zamyatin’s stubborn unwillingness to become a complete emigrant irritated many. As Nina Berberova recalled, in Paris Zamyatin lived very closed, did not know anyone:

“I once spent two hours with Zamyatin in the Danton cafe, on the corner of Saint-Germain Boulevard, a stone’s throw from the Russian bookstore, where we met by chance. This was in July 1932. He did not know anyone, did not consider himself an emigrant, and lived in the hope of returning home as soon as possible. I do not think that he believed that he would live to see such a possibility, but it was too terrible for him to finally give up this hope. I knew him in 1922, in St. Petersburg, I spoke with him several times at the literary evenings of the Serapion brothers and met with him at the same table the new year 1922. He came up to me in the bookshop on Rue Éperon and held out his hand.

– Do you know?

There was no one around. We went out.

In the café he lit his pipe, propped his face on both hands, and listened to me for a long time. Then he spoke himself. He always had the tone of an elder, the tone of a teacher, a slightly contrived tone, and I felt it. He was feignedly optimistic, saying that it was necessary to “wait out”, “sit quietly”, that some animals and insects know this tactic: do not fight, but hide. To live later.

I was of a different opinion. For me, life could not be an expectation. His face became gloomy. It was generally unhappy with him, but now it has become both more motionless and darker than ten years ago. And there was silence, long, painful, where I understood that he knew that I was right, and knew that I knew that he knew that I was right. But I did not want to go back to the beginning of the conversation (about what is there and what is here). I suddenly realized that he had nothing to live with, that he had nothing to write about and for no one, that he hated those, but us … a little despises. And I thought: if you are here, then say it loudly, do not hide what happened to you, how you were tortured there, Russian writer, how you were driven to despair, and make an open choice. No, I did not dare to tell him this: I felt sorry for him. Live and be quiet. This was now his tactic. But it couldn’t be mine.”

(quoted from Nina Berberova’s book “Italics is mine.” AST, Moscow, 2021)

As Vladimir Tunimanov, a researcher of the writer’s work and biography, writes, Zamyatin’s life was hard in Russia, where he was branded and doomed to silence, but in France he often had a very hard time:

“Literary work could satisfy only the most elementary needs. There was no fixed angle. I had to adapt to the conditions of life in a foreign country, where there were a lot of Russian writers, and there was almost no demand for their works. Zamyatin did not want to be a “dweller” in France. Of course, with his energy and European education, he would eventually find a worthy place in this world, perhaps he would be able to fulfill his cherished plans. Slowly, but with amazing tenacity, he went to this goal. Gradually they got used to his special status in France and in emigre circles, where he was alienated, but respected. Zamyatin became close to individuals from the émigré environment, but not to parties and publications.”

Therefore, few admirers and friends came to his funeral at the distant and unprestigious Thie cemetery in the suburbs of Paris. Marina Tsvetaeva, who was present at this funeral ceremony, wrote to Vladislav Khodasevich on March 13, 1937:

“In general, I’m yours – now it’s a long time to explain – but to be short: mine, these are those and I – those who are neither ours nor yours. I thought about this with bitterness and gratitude yesterday at Zamyatin’s fresh grave, with these (mental) words I threw a pinch of clay on his coffin. Why weren’t they? Of the writers, I was the only one – and even then a writer. Another writer was Damanskaya. It was terrible, poignantly poor – both in people and flowers – rich only in clay and winds – four oncoming ones. (…) We were supposed to meet with Zamyatin on the third day, on Thursday, the 11th, with mutual friends. He said: – If I’m healthy.

He died on the 10th, on Wednesday, at 7 o’clock in the morning – alone. That is, at 7 o’clock he was found dead. I have a wild resentment for him.”

As Vladimir Tunimanov clarifies, in addition to Tsvetaeva and Damanskaya, Mark Slonim, Roman Gul and Gaito Gazdanov were also among the writers at the funeral.

It was raining. There was no church funeral, not even any “speeches”. The coffin was lowered directly into the water that flooded the bottom of the grave. Everything was meager, sparsely populated and somehow overpowering, making one think about the unusual and tragic fate of the remarkable Russian writer, from whom the homeland disowned and indifferently accepted by the picky and long accustomed to everything Europe.

PS At home, the works of Yevgeny Zamyatin will be hushed up for another half century, but in exile (more broadly – in the Western world), his work will only be opened after death.

Sergei Ishkov.

Photo from https://ru.wikipedia.org