Russia's Great Literary Master (2)
Even someone like me, who knows next to nothing about literature, has heard of Tolstoy. And if we're talking about someone of his caliber, he'd make the perfect figurehead, wouldn't he? The Minister of Culture and Arts of the Russian United States—the successor to Tolstoy! It would shut every critic's mouth in an instant. Besides, this felt like something I could handle personally. I couldn't travel all the way to Harbin, but I could at least show that the Tsarina herself was willing to step forward for the sake of Russian art.
“Well then, let's do it. Doesn't sound bad at all.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“If it's someone of Tolstoy's level, I should meet them myself.”
At my confident declaration, the State Duma members exchanged uneasy glances and kept silent. What were these people playing at?
“If you have something to say, speak up.”
“Well... we've seen Your Majesty's ways since the civil war, so we wouldn't dream of stopping you from going personally. But this time, must you go in disguise as a journalist?”
These people? I hadn't planned on doing that at all this time. They hadn't even noticed when I inspected the factories incognito. Their worries were completely unnecessary.
Ivan Bunin was a writer and poet from the days of the Russian Empire. Born in 1870 to a noble family in Voronezh, he began his literary career while working at a newspaper office, publishing poetry and prose in the paper The Homeland. He produced numerous poetry collections and novels. In 1903 he received the Pushkin Prize for his complete Russian translation of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's The Song of Hiawatha, and won the same prize again in 1909. That same year he was elected an honorary academician in the literature section of the St. Petersburg Imperial Academy of Sciences.
In actual history, when the revolution broke out in Russia he fled to France and lived as a stateless person. While active in France he was revered as Tolstoy's heir, and in 1933 became the first Russian to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. As an anti-communist, however, he rejected the Soviet Union's attempts to court him after World War II.
But in this history, his path diverged. As the Red-White Civil War intensified, Lenin and the Bolsheviks conscripted every able-bodied man. When even the noble-born Bunin faced the prospect of being dragged off, he chose to flee to France instead, hoping for a White Army victory. He had no desire to fight for the Bolsheviks.
In France he continued to pray for a White victory until the war's end, writing poems about his homeland's tragic reality. These works earned high praise even among the French. Once the civil war ended in White victory and the Russian United States was established, he returned home. In Moscow he founded the Russian United States Writers' Association and became its chairman. His poetry helped many Russians struggling in the war's aftermath, and within Russia he had already secured his place as a literary giant.
Then one day, a visitor arrived at the Writers' Association.
“Are you Ivan Bunin, Russia's great man of letters?”
“I am. And you are...?”
From the uniform, the visitor was clearly a soldier—a general, no less, with a cross pinned to her chest. And a woman. A young woman at that. He'd heard there had been quite a few female soldiers during the civil war, but could someone who practically reeked of nobility really have fought on those battlefields?
His head was still spinning with questions when the woman spoke again.
“Would you consider becoming the Minister of Culture and Arts?”
“Minister of Culture and Arts?”
Poetry and novels certainly fell under the umbrella of art, so the position wasn't entirely unrelated. But Minister of Culture and Arts? Who was this woman to offer him such a post?
As he pondered this, the woman clasped her hands behind her back and began circling him, speaking as she moved.
“So much was destroyed in the civil war. Russia is changing, yet still lacks so many things. Art, to be precise. We suffer from a shortage of creative activity and genuine creation. Countless artists were divided by the revolution and its conflicting ideologies. To revive Russia's tilted artistic world, the State Duma has decided to establish a new Ministry of Culture and Arts.”
Yes, he understood. He understood perfectly. But who exactly was the person saying all this? A parliamentarian from the State Duma? Or a female general who had distinguished herself in the White Army? These days, during the reform and reconstruction period, many Duma members were learning about the arts through newspapers and directly sponsoring associations. He knew the names of several such parliamentarians, but this young woman...?
Finally, Ivan Bunin had to ask the obvious question.
“May I ask who exactly is making me this offer?”
“Someone who can place you in the ministerial position. A figurehead is perfectly acceptable. Mr. Bunin, you need only focus on your creative work. We'll provide you with vice ministers and all the necessary staff.”
Someone who could appoint a minister? This young woman wearing a White Army general's uniform? A chill ran down Ivan Bunin's spine as the realization hit him. There was only one person it could be. Immediately, he offered the woman before him the proper courtesy due from a Russian noble.
“It is the greatest honor to meet the Tsarina!”
“Ah, please don't stand on such ceremony. After living through the civil war, I've grown rather tired of all that formality.”
Anastasia waved her hand dismissively, as if the whole thing were a nuisance.
“Even so, how could I fail to show proper respect to the Saint of All Russia and Tsarina?”
“If you want to show respect that badly, then accept the position.”
If he wanted to show respect? Ah, she meant the ministerial post she'd mentioned earlier.
“You mean the minister position?”
Anastasia nodded at his question. The sudden talk of becoming a minister made Bunin's head throb. Even if she was offering him the role of Minister of Culture and Arts, he couldn't grasp what she truly wanted. Why did it have to be him?
In the end, it came down to this.
“In Communist Germany, they suppress freedom of expression by persecuting artists. At times like these, shouldn't we be elevating our own artists?”
“It's a fine idea. But even if I am a famous writer, appointing me minister would create all sorts of problems, wouldn't it?”
“The Duma has already approved it. There won't be any demands for you to work in parliament or anything of that sort. You may continue exactly as before. Simply write for the development of Russian literature. That will be enough.”
True enough. What could a poet and novelist like himself actually do in an official capacity? The people beneath him would handle the practical work. After years in the literary world, Ivan Bunin's instincts were sharp. What the Tsarina was really saying was that Russia was a nation that honored its writers enough to appoint one as a minister. Such a gesture would surely draw many people away from Communist Germany.
Still, I never imagined the Tsarina Anastasia was this kind of person.
As a noble himself, he wasn't ignorant of the imperial family. Perhaps the civil war had changed her.
“Did Your Majesty prepare all this personally?”
“No. I'm ashamed to admit that with everything else on my plate, I hadn't even known about a great writer like yourself. The Minister of Administration told me.”
“I see.”
While working in Moscow, the State Duma members must have learned of his reputation from France and evaluated him highly.
“It seems the State Duma is quite familiar with your writing. You were famous in France as well, I hear.”
“You flatter me.”
In France, his writings had gained fame simply because they mourned his homeland's suffering during the civil war. He'd never imagined the words would reach even the Tsarina who had ended that war. At this point, refusing felt rather difficult.
“Then, will you accept the position of minister?”
Anastasia smiled warmly and extended her hand. Take it if you accept—that was the implication.
“I don't know if my literary talent is worthy of such honor, but if it is needed for Russia, I will accept.”
“Then I look forward to working with you, Minister of Culture and Arts.”
Ivan Bunin took the young Tsarina's hand in his own.
After the communist revolution in the German Free Socialist Republic, artists in Germany could no longer breathe freely. Painters, poets, novelists—every one of them. They were all forced to produce paintings and writings that served communist propaganda according to the Party's directives. As the only nation where the communist revolution had succeeded, they had to showcase its virtues to the world. The Party had therefore restricted artists exclusively to communist propaganda activities.
Thomas Mann and Heinrich Mann were such a pair of artistic brothers.
“Brother, are we really going to keep living under the Communist Party like this?”
“What, you want us to leave Germany?”
“We can't go on this way. My novel—the fruit of twelve years of effort—has been blocked!”
The German Communist Party suppressed artists. Or rather, not all artists. If one wrote content praising communism, denouncing the bourgeoisie, or calling for world revolution in line with the Party's tastes, they would instead be awarded the German Socialist Hero Medal.
“Then shall we go to East Prussia or Austria?”
“We're going to Russia.”
To Russia, all of a sudden?
“Huh. I thought you'd suggest East Prussia.”
Heinrich Mann knew his younger brother supported the Kaiser's conservatism, so he had expected him to choose East Prussia. But Russia?
“No matter what, I can't defend a Kaiser who brought the country to this state.”
“Then why Russia?”
When Heinrich tilted his head in confusion, his brother handed him a newspaper. It was from Austria.
“It's a newspaper that came out in Austria not long ago.”
Heinrich Mann read through the paper his brother Thomas had given him. It said that the great literary master Ivan had been appointed Minister of Culture and Arts of the Russian United States. He was the chairman of the Russian United States Writers' Association. Since his appointment, a craze for novels was sweeping Russia. Heinrich recalled the stories of Ivan Bunin, the novelist who had built a reputation in France by writing for a short time. That Ivan Bunin had become Russia's Minister of Culture and Arts.
“The great master Ivan Bunin has been made Minister of Culture and Arts?”
“They say that because so many artists died in the civil war, Russia is offering special treatment to artists. Even painters from the Königsberg Academy of Arts are heading there.”
Many artists had already fled Communist Germany for Lithuania, East Prussia, or Austria. What remained were only those who weren't true artists—mere puppets who listened to the Party's every word. But some had chosen Russia instead. Unlike Communist Germany, which suppressed artists, Russia's policy of favoring them created a beneficial contrast.
“But Russia?”
Russia was a choice he had never even considered. He hadn't expected his brother to utter the word, nor to show any interest in it. There were other options—Austria, East Prussia, and the other great powers.
“If we go, they'll publish my book immediately.”
Ah, of course. So that was why he'd suddenly settled on Russia. It was to release the work he'd prepared all this time. Heinrich had thought there might be some grand reason, but in the end... Tsk.
Heinrich Mann let out a deep sigh and shook his head.
“Hah. So it's about your book after all.”
Well, after twelve years of preparation, it must feel like his feet were on fire. He probably wanted to do something about it no matter what.
Thomas Mann slammed both hands on his brother's desk and stared sharply at Heinrich.
“I won't deny that it's part of the reason. But many of those who went to Lithuania or Austria have now decided to head to Russia instead.”
“Is Russia that attractive?”
He had heard that Russia was gradually healing from the wounds of civil war and developing under the spirit of being Byzantium's successor.
“We need to go now, while the communists are still only restricting our writing to Party-approved works.”
Communist Germany was currently only forcing writers to produce works for the Party while restricting other free literary activities. If the number of artists leaving Germany increased, they would surely block the exits midway. That authoritarian Communist Party would make examples of artists, purging them and turning them into slaves of the Party.
Ever since the establishment of Communist Germany, these brothers had been unable to live with any peace of mind. In the original history, Thomas Mann would have published The Magic Mountain, the culmination of twelve years of effort. In this world, that was impossible. Going to the German Empire, which now consisted of only East Prussia, felt wrong, and many had already gone to Lithuania or Austria. In fact, even some artists who had settled in those places were now moving on to Russia.
Heinrich Mann pondered for a brief moment. After all, he had also considered going to America. Looking at how the country was being run by the communists, leaving for another nation seemed better. His brother must have already discussed it with his wife before coming to him. If they simply sat here worrying, the path to leaving the country might be closed off later. It was better to leave now, while the communists were still saying, in so many words, that if you were dissatisfied, you should get out.
Then what was there to hesitate about?
Heinrich Mann stood up, brushing off his clothes.
“All right. Let's go.”
“See? I knew you'd come with me if I asked, brother.”
The Mann brothers, Heinrich and Thomas, immigrated to Russia with their families.