"During a Mariinsky Theater performance of the opera Eugene Onegin, Feodor Shalyapin, in the role of Gryomin, tore the epaulets off his uniform and threw them into the orchestra -- as a sign of protest against the White Army's advance on St. Petersburg."
That little story made me stop and think.
Because, in Shakespeare's words -- "Though this be madness, yet there is a method in't."
Until now, people have always explained all such zig-zags on Shalyapin's part by his heightened, artistic nervousness; the impulse of the moment; extreme emotional exhuberance in times of great stress. He did it, they say, as if in a state of delirium, not knowing five minutes beforehand what he was going to do.
That was how they explained it when Shalyapin unexpectedly sang the revolutionary song Dubinushka in 1905.
That was how they explained it when he suddenly knelt in front of the Tsar, on the Mariinsky stage, in 1909.
That is, most likely, how they will explain his tearing-off of the epaulets.
But wait a minute! It is precisely the case of the epaulets that arouses a most categorical suspicion: might not all three of these actions, by any chance, have been carefully thought out and prepared in advance?
Here is my reasoning:
Many of you probably know that when the sad ceremony of an officer's demotion must take place, its most showy, done-for-effect aspects are taken care of ahead of time -- the epaulets are partly unstitched, the sword is filed down somewhere near the middle.
The reason why this is done is obvious: the commanding officer, upon announcing the verdict, must, with a quick flourish, tear off the guilty man's epaulets and throw them to the ground; he must take the man's sword out of its scabbard and, bumping it lightly against his knee, break it in two and toss the pieces in different directions.
The preliminary preparations are needed to avoid the laughable, farcical scene of a man grabbing another by his epaulets, and pulling as hard as he can -- yet not being able to tear them off. You cannot keep dragging someone by the shoulder for five minutes, grunting and straining; you cannot spend ten sweat-drenched minutes trying to break the sword, banging it repeatedly against your swollen knee, stepping on it with your foot, and finally having to ask a couple of spectators to help you complete the job.
Shalyapin is too good an actor; he is aware of all theatrical conventions, and has an excellent feel for effect. And he knows all too well that the theater's tailor, when making a costume, intends it to last for decades -- so all the parts are sewn together very tightly and thoroughly. After all, the tailor does not imagine that Prince Gryomin's uniform might ever need to undergo an epaulet removal!
Therefore I claim that Shalyapin's showy tearing-off of his epaulets was not an impromptu gesture, was not caused by a sudden surge of emotion.
Shalyapin would never have permitted himself, on stage, any risk of an unseemly, grunt-filled struggle with a stubborn pair of epaulets that wouldn't come off.
No! There was indeed a method in this madness.
"Gavrila!" the famous bass must have said to the tailor, the day before the show. "Gavrila! Unstitch the epaulets on the Gryomin uniform for me."
"But why do you need that, Feodor Ivanovich?"
"None of your business, pal. This is high politics, and you're a mere louse. Just make it so they're hanging by a thread."
But then -- wait! Then the Dubinushka story is undermined, too; then the kneeling also seems very suspicious to me; were these really sudden, unexpected, momentary outbursts?
Might it not, rather, have been like this:
Police chief's office, 1905.
"Mr. Shalyapin would like to see you."
"Ah... Ask him in, ask him in! To what do I owe the pleasure, Feodor Ivanovich?"
"Oh, I'm just here for a little chat," replied the celebrated singer in his deep voice. "So, what do you guys do around here? Hunt down revolutionaries?"
"Yes, heh heh heh. That's our job."
"Keep up the good work. Is it mostly young hotheads?"
"Yes, for the most part."
"Do they all sing Dubinushka?"
"Once in a while."
"And what do you do to those who sing it? I bet you throw them in the slammer, eh?"
"No, not at all. Just singing Dubinushka -- that's pretty tame stuff. Sometimes, we give them a stern lecture; that's about it."
"Oh, really? Well, I'll be off, then. I don't want to distract you from your work."
Later that same day, Shalyapin gave a stunningly formidable performance of Dubinushka. And people explained: there comes a time when even stones cry out.
And one day in the summer of 1909, Shalyapin called his tailor (probably the same Gavrila), and said:
"For tomorrow's show, sew some foam pads on the inside of my trousers, right at the knees."
"But, Feodor Ivanovich... It'll make them swell out."
"Don't argue with me! Politics is a complicated business, and you're just a hick. Do as I tell you."
It is my guess that when Yudenich enters St. Petersburg, first and foremost among the rejoicing population will be Shalyapin -- and, his wonderful eyes sparkling, he will start singing Miron Yakobson's The Three-Colored Banner in his succulent bass.
"That's Shalyapin for you," the crowd will reverently say. "His Russian heart simply couldn't contain itself -- he just couldn't help but break into an impromptu song!"
But this impromptu was planned the same day as Gavrila unstitched the epaulets: while Gavrila was doing that, Isayka was, on his boss' orders, sneaking across the front line and into the White Army's camp -- to get a fresh copy of The Three-Colored Banner.
So wide, so unbelievably wide and diverse is the Russian soul! There is so much that can fit inside it.
It reminds me of Gogol's famous "Plyushkin's pile."
Do you remember? "Exactly what the pile consisted of was hard to determine, since it was covered in so much dust that the hands of anyone touching it would instantly resemble gloves. Most conspicuously protruding were a broken-off piece of a wooden shovel, and part of an old boot."
Same here -- everything is piled together in a most curious combination. A monogrammed snuff-box, a gift from the Tsar himself; a blood-stained, torn-up red flag; a "His Majesty's Soloist" certificate; the score of the Internationale; and, right there, you can see the corner of Yakobson's Three-Colored Banner sticking out.
Pile it on, brother.