READ RUSSIA PRIZE 2020 shortlisted titles - excerpts

Excerpt: Woe from Wit

And who is “everyone”? I ask you.
Decrepit brains, deplorable antiquities.
These enemies of free expression, 

unearthing their ideas from an old stock of 

faded headlines: Surrender of Ochakov, 

Crimea pacified—the past is their obsession.
The composite Grumbler, hoarsely and off-key, 

singing one tune only: How it used to be, 

failing to observe about himself,
that he is old and sitting on the shelf.
Show us these great men, where do they keep state, 

these fathers of our country we’re to emulate? 

Are these the robber barons, profiteers, and crooks 

protected from the law by friend and relative, 

whose money flows like water through a sieve
to furnish palaces, import French cooks, 

worshipped by their clientele in exile,
who hope to see, never mind how vile,
the old regime restored?…

…These are the men no others can replace! 

These are the men we’re told we must revere! 

These are our judges and our arbiters!
But just suppose a young man should appear 

who has no use for rank, or office, who prefers 

to study, to engage with men long dead,
to learn the best of what’s been thought and said, 

or, more, is urged by promptings of the heart 

to the creation of enduring art,
they raise the hue and cry: Help! Fire!
He’s a dreamer, dreams are dangerous! 

Uniforms! that’s what they admire!
How many used to hide, behind
their epaulettes and braid, a vacant mind!
Is that the path cut out for us?

We’re known for our good manners far and wide, 

for tactfulness, and rules of thumb that guide
our conduct—take, for instance, the long-held tradition 

that holds a son is heir to the position
of his father: He may be a sorry sort,
but with two thousand serfs, he’ll find a bride, 

whereas a man, by wide report
spirited, but eaten up by pride,
isn’t of our ilk, as one might say.
We value gentle birth and, add to that, 

hospitality: the welcome mat
is always out, no one’s turned away;
the uninvited, too, especially foreign 

visitors—scoundrels, honest men,
who cares: the table’s set for everyone.
A Muscovite’s not hard to recognize:
we bear a special stamp. Take youth, our sons
and grandsons: how we rail against them: then, surprise! 

They turn fifteen, and teach their teachers.
And take our elders, how worked up they get
when they critique their fellow creatures,
men of ancient lineage, men in debt
to no one, and when judging the administration,
God forbid that anyone should eavesdrop!
Not that they are keen on innovation!
Horrors, no! They rage until they’re fit to drop, 

discuss, debate, then close up shop
and home they go to dinner. Men like these
could run the country, sir, their brilliance strikes you dumb! 

And mark my words, the time will come
when we shall need their expertise. 

As for the ladies—try to hold them down.
They lay down laws that they themselves ignore.
A game of cards erupts into a war.
I know. I had a wife once of my own.
She could have strategized the French retreat
or occupied a Senate seat.
Irena Vlasevna! Lukerya Alexevna!
Tatiana Yurevna! Pulcheria Andrevna!
As for their daughters! How they turn one’s head! 

The King of Prussia, on a visit, was astounded! 

Because they’re pretty? No. Because they’re so well bred. 

And really! Where can girls to equal them be found? 

They know the art of dressing to a T,
wear yards of velvet, silk, and organdy.
They’ll sing you French romances, hit with ease
the topmost notes in all the melodies;
short on words, how eloquent their faces are.
They cling to uniforms, for love of land and tsar.
No, there can be no surer fact than this: 

Moscow is a city that is—sui generis.