THE "STRAY DOG" CABARET
Excerpts from
Tales from the Days of my Life
Mikhail Mikhailovich Mogilyansky
(Translated by Irina Efimov)
1. Characters and Customs of the Cabaret
…Beginning in the year 1912, I found a new place in which to pass time during the evening (actually, it is more accurate to say - during the night) that was not without interest and even with certain benefits. In the second courtyard of the house next to the Mikhailovsky Theatre, in a deep basement, a cabaret for artists was opened, expressively named the "Stray Dog."
Moist from dampness, the peeling walls of the three tiny rooms, if one could call them that given their location in the cellar, were covered with bast matting that was painted over in the bright colours of some young artists' fantasies, mostly Sudeikin’s and Sapunov’s. There was a collection of cheap furnishings - wicker chairs, small sofas and little tables. In the even smaller fourth room, which could not actually be counted as a room, a window had been opened into yet another space where there was a kitchen wired, of course, with electric lighting. And artists from every discipline and pursuit, as well as their friends, were hospitably invited to gather here after midnight to conclude their working days in an atmosphere of friendly light-heartedness, jokes, grotesques, and occasionally in an unexpected outburst of the most serious of conversations concerning the most important of matters, the most worrying and burning questions of the day and which, more than once, would drag on until morning and then be renewed later that same day. Boris Pronin, a fellow townsman of mine - one with an unusually colourful, exotic biography - found his rightful place at the Stray Dog and, receiving the title of 'Hund Direktor' chewed all of our ears off about the launching of the Cabaret as if it were an event of global importance. He brought us all tickets for the grand opening, begging us to come without fail, insisting that it was going to be "simply splendid". But his persuasive eloquence was not sufficient to inform us in any detailed or, more importantly, any concrete way about these enticing coming events and to every question, which truly seemed irrelevant to him, that asked "Yes, but what is actually going to happen?" he could answer nothing more than "Just come; you will see and you won't regret it. I tell you, it will be splendid!" And yet I don't remember whether I attended the opening of the "Stray Dog" or not. I did go quite often and was complicit in the comparatively intimate circle of esteemed friends of the "Stray Dog”. It seems I didn't miss even one of its "great moments" although it did turn out that - thanks to my having been absent from Petrograd - I was not there on the evening when the Bal’mont scandal played out, ending in a general melee that ultimately led, by order of the city governor, to the premature, forced closing of this institution so popular with the artistic world.
And who didn't frequent the cabaret! Among the more or less regular visitors were: the poet Anna Akhmatova, who at that time appeared to me as a beautiful portrait painted by Serov's brush in the manner of the portait of Ida Rubenstein, the ballerina Karsavina in the company of her constant companion Akim Volynsky, the poets: N. Gumilev and Vl. Mayakovsky (already the author of "A Cloud in Trousers"), O. Mandelstam and Narbut, S. Gorodetsky and Kruchenikh and many, many more. (The harvest of poets at that time was higher than average.) There was Fyodor Sologub, who would greet his admirers with kisses in long embrace and among whom the actress Glebova clearly held the leading role, the artists Sudeikin, Sapunov (who would later drown near Teryok and for whom a memorial evening was held at the "Dog") and Doctor Kul'bin, the indefatigable proclaimer of all the latest "isms". I don't know what kind of artist he was - I never saw any of his paintings - but as to his qualities as a preacher, apart from his tirelessness, he had only a significant dose of irksomeness and an inherent talent for instantly robbing every new tendency of its freshness and turning it into a banal point in a catechism which, when followed, would pave the way for, if not the heavenly kingdom, then an honoured place among the heavenly host of the new aesthetic - Burlyuk and others. Kul’bin appeared to be a good, kind person, always ready to act as a patron to any young, new talent by supporting them both morally and materially. The doctor did not have a particularly brilliant mind but this did not stand in the way of his becoming one of the founders of the "Stray Dog”; in any case, he was one of the typical figures in its cast of characters. Also engraved in my memory is the no less typical figure, but in a completely different style, of the talented composer, Tsybulski - a huge hulking man with a good-natured and attractive face who was, alas, addicted to morphine, cocaine, and alcohol. I remember how, one day, already in the epoch of the "End of the Comedians", Boris Pronin, who had found shelter in the house of Mitka Rubenstein on the Fields of Mars, but who had not raised himself to any imitation of snobbery, took me aback with his unexpectedly happy tone (in the excited state which he rarely put aside, he would lose all distinction of tone) as he informed me:
“Mikh, have you heard!? Yesterday they sent Tsybulski away to the 23rd verst!”
Even on that occasion, the composer had somehow managed to scramble back from the 23rd verst and, in mid-July of 1917 when I was leaving Petrograd for an extended period, hurrying to get home - I only had two hours to make the train and was leaving with my whole family - I met Tsybulski on Nevsky Prospect. Smiling pleasantly, he offered:
“Let's stop in at my place. We'll share a bottle!”, and he showed me a bottle of vodka that was hidden under his coat.
I thanked him for the offer and expressed my regret that I could not take him up on it since I was afraid of being late for my train.
“But I live close by!” Tsybulsky continued, offended, “and does it really take that long to liquidate a bottle?!”
But I, to his great annoyance, stood my ground. And not long after, this deep, thoughtful man and incomparably talented composer fell victim to his own self-destructive weaknesses.
One cannot, of course, enumerate all of the artists and esteemed guests of the "Dog", among whom I recall even the famous Max Linder. During the time that his Artistic Theatre was performing, his young company not only filled the basement but also stepped up onto the stage themselves, acting out cheerful and very witty trifles. This humble, tiny stage also witnessed performances by musicians, singers, ballerinas, rarely according to any predetermined programme but most often in the order of unexpected improvisation. But more often than anyone else, poets took the stage, inspiring in the declamation of their poetry. From here, Vl. Mayakovsky shocked "pharmacists" - (the most abusive word in the basement, it was used to brand the hardened, philistine backwardness and the vulgar, narrow smugness of mediocrity) - with verses that stood as the finale in one of his "lyrical" poems: "And watching from heaven //Some kind of scoundrel // In majesty, like Lev Tolstoy".
The young Mayakovsky - the rising star in the poetic heavens - was, at that time, in a permanent state of heightened desire to shock "pharmacists". This desire clothed him in a yellow blouse with black parallel stripes which itself resounded in his poetic performances on the stage.
L. Nikulin, one of the eulogistic memoirists to write about Mayakovsky ("Znamya", 1939, No.9) claimed that, “The famous yellow blouse will always remain in the history of Russian poetry" and, in order to extend its "historical" role, he testifies that "I myself saw the frenzy it brought on among the hereditary subscribers to "Russkiye Vedomosti", and "Rech", “thinking” women, and long-haired students of a social-revolutionary appearance". I too "myself saw" (and more than once) the reaction in auditoriums to the deliberate and accentuated shock, pursued by any means (and at that time with the "yellow blouse") in Mayakovsky's performances, but as to the episodes of "frenzy" which he was clearly striving for, I remember only single outbursts from effusive and unrestrained people. The great majority of those in the audience, made up of every type and category of the intelligentsia in those days, accepted the poet with sympathy. (Russians in general love any display of impudence and even the atmosphere of scandal which, in those oppressive "peaceful" times, was not only tempting but often an absolute necessity.) Even-tempered people would only shrug their shoulders in bewilderment, finding the entire assortment of shocking elements, including the "historical" - according to Nikulin - "yellow blouse" - to be "naive”, counting considerably less than the obviously huge talent of this young poet and, most importantly, completely unnecessary to his "success". But due to Mayakovsky's nature and his mentality at the time, the greatest, albeit "ordinary" success was not enough; he was born with an inclination for 'succes de scandale' and it possessed him like an illness. Bland success, without offence, did not satisfy him.
With regards to the "hereditary subscribers", those who read "Russkiye Vedomosti" did so in significant numbers not only because the "moderate and careful" traditionalism of this "professorial" Moscow newspaper explained its success among the "moderate and careful" liberal intelligentsia, but also because G. Ouspensky, Korolenko, Chekhov, and many other beloved Russian writers were among its contributors, as were K. Timiryazev, Menzbir, and Stoletov among other notable authoritative scholars. Also, it was this paper that awoke, for many, an interest in the practice of German social-democracy through the talented correspondence of Yolos from Berlin which kept readers up to date and informed on the latest struggles there. But, of the regular subscribers to "Rech", this is an obvious 'lapsus' which I cannot understand. What sort of "regular subscribers" could there have been to the Kadets' own party journal which, at that time, had been in publication for less than 10 years?
And at that time, I had already distinguished two quite separate (...) threads in Mayakovsky's poetry. The first indicated a great, an exceptionally great poetic talent. The other - also exceptional - was the ability to create, to craft poems that were quite good both technically and structurally. With all of the poet's subsequent successes, achieved with the status of a universally recognized 'maitre'a, the honesty and intentionality of his poetic craft, for me, always diminished his higher achievements while the always persistent desire to shock damaged the seriousness of his ideological purpose. He conquered and succeeded according to his talent, but any deep, internal work on his part appears insufficient. Despite his incomparable mind, he lacked a seriousness, and a sustained and well-honed conviction. I later discovered, through biographical accounts, that he had been brought to trial through a police inquest because of his propaganda among the workers. I did not know this then, nor could I have even suspected that it was possible: the poet was made from entirely different stuff than the many representatives of the progressive Russian intelligentsia who, viribus unitis promoted a proletarian class movement, impregnating it with the rudiments of the theory without which practice would have been left blind.
Igor Severyanin's poetic evenings met with tremendous success, albeit before a not very exacting public, and from this same stage there were performances by such famous poets as O. Mandelshtam, Narbut (to whom the audience would shout: "Recite the one about the Turk impaled on a stake" to which the poet, very worried for some reason, would answer: "That poem is not for public recitation".) I also recall how the futurist (or, it seems, the ego-futurist) Kruchenykh appeared on the stage and declared: “I will now recite my best poem - No. 14.” He paused, and then threw both arms up in the air, causing his jacket to rise up as well which left a gap of an inch or two between it and his trousers. Deeply inspired, he cried out, "YU!" Kruchenykh's "best poem" - No. 14 - was rendered by this single sound.
For more theoretical addresses, apart from the permanent presence of Dr. Kul'byn, the stage was taken by a certain Zdanevich who delivered a lecture "On the Painting of Faces" for which the lecturer had painted images of arrows on both of his cheeks; and S. Gorodetsky who took the stage to deliver the founding proclamation of Acmeism, and many others with themes of no less "vital importance."
The buffet at the Cabaret, as a rule (in order to avoid excesses) did not serve vodka; this would show up only occasionally as an achievement of "Stray Dog democracy", but aside from beer and light wine, it did serve stronger drinks: - rum and cognac. It would happen that, sometime around 5 o'clock at night (morning), and sometimes even later, there would be 15-20 people still left in the basement who would somehow huddle together in the centre of the biggest room and unwittingly unite into a single group as everyone became acquaintances without any introductions. And the bottles of wine not yet finished were shared, creating a mood of deep intimacy, sharpened seriousness, or unrestrained jest and an almost childish inclination for foolishness. I recall that on one of these occasions, sitting with my friend B.A. Landau and sharing a bottle of champagne to celebrate an important event in his life, the wicker chairs of those still remaining in the basement were moved together and the artist N.N. Khodotov appeared on my right. To make our acquaintance, we clinked glasses and then, looking at me carefully, he said:
"You dealt with Leonid Andreev perfectly that time; you dismissed him as he deserved!"
But I had to object, refusing as unearned what had been ascribed to me.
"But, come now! To whom are you saying this?! I know you perfectly well."
Who he had mistaken me for remained unclear, but he and I had never met before even though he was convinced that he could not be mistaken, and to my timid observation:
"But I have never met Leonid Andreev" he burst with indignation:
"Well, just drop it then, - what, have I gone crazy? I am not drunk, my dear man!”
Convinced of the hopelessness of my objections, I was forced to retract them and accept what I had not earned.
In the capacity of Hund Direktor, Boris Pronin, like a faithful servant, arrived when the Cabaret opened and would not leave until the last guests were gone. He would often fall asleep somewhere on a couch in a corner and stay in the basement until noon the following day. His wife was his right hand, helping with issues of administration and house-keeping, but he worked tirelessly in order that the fires burning on all of the Stray Dog's altars did not go out, and that, God willing, the basement was not penetrated by 'pharmacists'. He knew all of the guests, was a friend to each of them, and they all knew him.
"Ah! You're here!" He would arrive at some small table or other and, greeting everyone with a kiss, would seat himself among the gathered company. They would be drinking champagne and he would have a glass himself before suddenly noticing a group of not yet welcomed friends at the next small table. He would join them, share a glass of beer, and then move on, drinking rum, and then champagne again, then beer... No wonder he would fall asleep in a corner somewhere, but on waking would instantly become preoccupied with some housekeeping problem.
"Vera, where is Vera?"
But his wife could not be found.
"What time is it?"
"Five."
"Well, of course, she has gone home. After all, she has classes starting in the morning." (She was a school teacher and it was remarkable how, teaching her classes from morning until after dinner, she was able to combine it with her work at the Cabaret from 11:00 until 3:00 or 4:00, and sometimes even later.)
As to any friendly observations that he worried little about his wife, Boris would answer:
"Yes, i know, - she loves me and it is always pleasant for her to do something pleasant for me."
But, in the end, the wife could not endure all this pleasantness and, either as the "Dog" was coming to an end, or soon after it closed, she married one of the regular guests of the basement, the artist-architect B. During ‘the end of the comedians’, attempting to claim inheritance of the ”Dog", the new hostess, already Boris's wife, was an especially practical woman who took him firmly in hand and this, for him, was so insufferable that he was soon forced to 'changer la femme.'
I happened to bring A.M. Aleksandrov to the "Dog" (this was already during the time of the 4th State Duma) and it proved so much to his liking that he became a regular and he, in turn, brought A.M. Kolyubakin who also began to call at the Cabaret often. Once, after a meeting of a faction of the K-D's (Constitutional Democrats), Aleksandrov brought a whole company of Kadet politicians with him: A.M. Kolyubakin, N.V. Nekrasov, V.A. Stepanov, Papadjanov, L.A. Velikhov. This happened on the eve of the "Dog's" collapse. Shortly after, I left for the Zemstvo meeting in Gorodnya while, in the basement, the Bal'mont scandal broke out. And when I returned, A.M. complained to me with jovial laughter:
"Listen here, there are such eccentrics in the world! There, in your Cabaret, a little scandal played out, there was a fight, but you have probably heard of this already?
“But, of course, and in every detail."
"Well then, imagine, my colleague Papadjanov made such a pretentious claim!: "Aleksander Mikhailovich! What kind of place have you led me to?! I am not comfortable here: they know me in Turkey.” (Papadjanov, an Armenian by nationality, was a lawyer in Baku). “But honestly, Mikhail Mikhailovich, am I to blame for the fact that he is known in Turkey?!"
A.M Aleksandrov and L.A. Velikhov had also participated in a memorable escapade at the "Stray Dog" during a private function that was closed to the public. As it happened, I somehow ended up with them around 2:00 in the morning at the famous "Vienna", a refuge for that same literary and artistic bohemia that filled the "Dog" (however, with a surplus of "pharmacists"). On our way to the furthest back corner, we exchanged greetings with Boris Pronin and the artist P.V. Samoylov who were sitting in the centre of the restaurant in the company of three young women whom we did not know. After half an hour or so, Pronin approached us.
"Look, the bell is going to ring in a quarter of an hour or so, and we will all be thrown out of the "Vienna"."
"The devil take it” Aleksandrov interrupted him, “and I have no desire to head home."
Velikhov and I shared this sentiment. We were all in that state of exhaustion that does not seek rest, but runs from it. Boris, sensing our mood, brightened.
“So why are you moaning?”
“But where are we going to go?"
"Well, to that I have a suggestion: let's go to the "Stray Dog" (this happened sometime in late May, the white nights had already begun, and since the tour of the Moscow Artistic Theatre had ended, the "Dog" was closed until the fall.) “P.V. Samoylov and our girls are also coming. I have a bottle of champagne there, and a pound of Swiss cheese, so grab another bottle of red wine, a few buns and something else to eat and we'll be on our way."
We accepted Boris's suggestion without any objections, paid up and followed him to join his group. L.A. Velikhov went to the buffet for supplies. But at Boris's table we saw only Samoylov.
"But where are the girls?” Boris asked with some surprise.
"Who knows? They probably left."
"What do you mean, they left? How long ago?"
"Just now. They are probably just out on the street."
"Wait, I'll catch up with them!" and he rushed for the exit.
"Boris, wait!" I stopped him, "Why do you need to catch up with them?"
"What, do you think we'll get by without girls?"
"Of course we'll get by."
"Then, excellent! Let's go without girls, the devil take them! Even better."
And the five of us set off for the "Dog".
Because of our friendly and free conversation, warmed by red wine and then by champagne, the hours of the night flew by unnoticed; the talk ended with an inspired recitation by Samoylov. And what didn't he recite to us! The finale was Al. Tolstoy's "Snom Popova".
"Fine fellow!" Aleksandrov praised the artist, "To your health!" and offered him a glass, while Boris, addressing me with melancholy gestures, was explaining that the bottles of champagne (it turned out that he had three of these) were already empty.
Samoylov sat down (he had been reciting standing up) trying to recover his breath.
"So, rest a little, my friend, and then...
"What then? No, that's enough. Better if you tell us, what is happening in that State Duma of yours?"
Aleksandrov's face showed displeasure which Samoylov did not notice.
"What are all of you there thinking? Why did you, finally...." and he began to spout such unimaginable rubbish that we all checked our watches at the same moment. Having seen the time, we rose to leave.
"My God, it's already 8 o'clock in the morning!"
We bid each other farewell and left. A few hours earlier, as we had made our way from the "Vienna" to the "Dog" the sky had been cloudless. Now a drenching rain was pouring down. And not a single cab to be found. It was only on Nevsky, at the Police Bridge, already soaked to the bone, that I found a carriage and set off for my Vasilevsky Island.
2. THE END OF THE "DOG"
The more frivolous "friends of the Dog" reacted calmly, almost dismissively to the Bal'mont scandal.
"They beat Bal'mont? So what? It’s not the first time it’s happened…”
But in the eyes of the most flippant - the Hund Director Boris - it was felt that some danger was now hanging over the heads of his favourite children and he closed the basement to the public as a matter of caution. Returning from Gorodnya, and being informed that something had occurred at the "Dog", I telephoned him and asked.
"Boris, what’s happened at the "Dog?”
Boris was very glad to hear my voice, as if I carried in my hands the means to rescue him.
"Mikh, my dear, how wonderful that you are back! Come to the "Dog" tonight after 8 o'clock, without fail. I am worried that the governor might close us down, so for the moment I am not admitting the public but the closest friends of the "Dog" still gather there in the evenings. Come without fail. Maybe you can suggest something. And I'll tell you the whole story."
That evening I learned all of the details of the incident from Boris which, surprisingly, were laid out without invention or exaggeration, and by questioning eye-witnesses to determine what had taken place. Even more surprisingly, I learned that the Hund Director had been sleeping soundly in the next room and having been awakened suddenly by a clamour, appeared on the threshold amazed to see an actual fistfight.
In short, the scene unfolded like this.
Among the guests in the overcrowded basement that evening was the poet, K.D. Bal’mont, a well-known figure recently returned to the capital after traveling around the world during his years of emigration.
The evening was proceeding more or less as usual, although there was perhaps a little more drinking than normal at the small table where the famous guest occupied a central place. This soon became evident when this guest began to show his “capriciousness” by shoving money into the hands of anyone who happened to walk by his table and saying, with undue familiarity:
"Hey, bring me a bottle of rum! (There were no servers in the basement and anyone wanting something from the buffet had to get it themselves.)
"Go yourself!" answered the person he had stopped who, shrugging his shoulders and hurrying to get past, was pursued by "You boor!" which, in order to avoid a row, he needed to "not have heard." Women hurried to save themselves from Bal’mont’s attempts at paying them impudent attention. In their rush, they did not appreciate the literary retorts of the drunken poet. The crowd, by then, was breaking up in earnest and there remained only a relatively small number of "close friends" and a few random late guests. Finally, Bal'mont, glass in hand, stood up from his table. An elderly gentleman approached him - the famous Pushkinist Morozov - and said:
"Allow me to make your acquaintance. I have long been an admirer of your poetic talent and..."
"Old man!" interrupted the poet, "I do not like your physiognomy!" and he splashed the face of his “admirer” with wine from his glass.
The son of the insulted man jumped up from his divan and struck the poet in the face. From all sides, defenders of Bal'mont threw themselves onto Morozov's son. Morozov, too, had his defenders. Someone who had been asleep in the next room appeared on the threshold behind Pronin and, not understanding what was happening, jumped into the fray, punching anyone who turned up under his fist. The little dog that ran out from under the divan, the symbolic patron of the basement, behaved the same way: with a ringing bark she threw herself at the brawlers, grabbing at their legs in a frenzy. Those who watched from the divans, too heavy with reluctance to move from their places, dissolved into laughter. Bal'mont stood at the side, striking a pose like Nero watching Rome burn.
The fight ended with the young Morozov being thrown out among catcalls, without his coat or hat, followed by cries of:
"Get out, you scoundrel, you apothecary!”
The late autumn weather forced the exile to return for his coat. His appearance at the top of the stairs prompted a new wave of abuse. But the man in charge of the coat check understood what was needed and threw Morozov his coat and hat. Everything started to calm down. And the elderly Morozov and Bal'mont disappeared from the basement without notice. Suddenly, the door upstairs opened once more.
"Comrades!" cried the young Morozov, appearing in the doorway, "I am on my way to the police station to make a complaint that someone took one thousand roubles from my pocket during the scuffle."
A single, unified roar of indignation answered him; only “apothecary!” could be clearly heard among the many sounds in that chaos of words.
He returned a second time, appearing in the doorway 5 minutes later to announce:
"Friends, calm yourselves. I have found the money... in my other pocket."
This time, someone added a bottle to the chaos of words which broke against the door as it closed behind the vanishing Morozov.
Accepting Pronin's invitation to come after 8 o'clock in the evening and entering the basement, I found around 20 of the "closest friends of the 'Dog'" and an alarmed 'Hund Director'. It seems that he was the only one who displayed any genuine alarm, showing that even he had a capacity for seriousness when his most heartfelt interests were at stake, and the 'Dog' was, after all, his most beloved offspring. As far as the 'friends' went, their obvious lighthearted indifference to the fate of the "Dog' offended its director. But in the midst of these 'friends', arriving as he did daily after 8 o'clock in the evening, wearing his yellow blouse with the parallel black stripes was Vl. Mayakovsky, and the Hund Director's offended heart gave way to other feelings since it always trembled with joy in the face of every "wonderful" advocate of the new arts.
It was at this time that A.M Sats had arrived in Petrograd from Chernigov. The father of an entire brood of Pronin's chums and lady friends, he was very annoyed that the 'Dog' was not functioning normally and wanted, without fail, to spend his evenings with the 'Dog's friends’; he persuaded me to join him. In the course of that week, I spent several hours in the basement, chatting with A.M. over a bottle of wine or black coffee, watching scenes such as: Mayakovsky, surrounded by two or three young women, sitting on a high stool in front of a mirror and constantly looking at his own reflection, tilting his head to the right, to the left...
"Oh, how you admire yourself!" one of the young women said.
"But isn't it true that I am handsome?!"
"You would be much more handsome" the girl replied meekly, "if you thought less about how handsome you were, if you forgot about it."
"What the devil do you understand about beauty!?" the offended poet parried a blow, but this had no effect on his mood or overly familiar conduct.
Every time I appeared, Boris would approach me for advice:
"Mikh, tell me, can I open the 'Dog', or should I continue to observe "caution, caution, caution, gentlemen!"
I would answer that, honestly speaking, I didn't understand what something like "caution" could mean, and that I wasn't sure if it wouldn't be more reasonable to give the impression that absolutely nothing had happened and to carry on "Dogging".
“Look”, I reminded him, "An anarchist once threw a bomb at a meeting of the French Chamber of Deputies (in the early 1890's)... It turned out that the bomb was not very "successful", no one was killed, but there were wounded and a general fear and anxiety; might there not be another anarchist in the hall (the one who threw the bomb was quickly apprehended) who might throw a second one? But the smoke cleared, and the Chairman of the Tribunal announced with a calm voice: "The meeting will continue." And you, Boris, as the Hund Director, might also…”
"Mikh, this is wonderful! And I would be ready to do so, but you see, we consulted with some serious jurists, and they advised "caution." It is on their advice that we have, for the moment, closed the basement..."
It was at this moment that A.M. Sats came in, and Boris was already shouting to him:
"And you, Aleksandr Mironovich, what do you think?”, and gave him an account of what our conversation was about. A.M. took the side of the "serious" jurists.
Time passed, and the Hund Director began to grow more optimistic. But his optimism betrayed him and his "caution" did not help. I don't recall whether the basement was opened for public gatherings again, but I do remember very well that not long after this, the Governor, in compliance with requests made by the Okhrana, closed the "Stray Dog." Even the "closest friends" were unable to meet in the basement for a memorial, unwilling to risk being charged with holding an "illegal gathering."
"The Stray Dog" was a refuge for the "amusement of mischievous, frolicking adults”, for the night owls of the literary-artistic world who, finishing their work at the theatre, or their editing, or at their own writing tables, needed to dampen their nervous tension so that sleep might come but, unused to remembering sleep before the earliest rays of dawn, this many-membered Bohemia would need to find some relief, made weary by the unreality of their lives. But the claims that create some sort of faculty, almost a laboratory of new art out of the 'Dog' - in all seriousness, such claimants adopt, to a significant extent, that same "pharmacistism" that they themselves reviled, and the number of memorable "particular examples" were, without question, limited. This "pharmacistism" is further fanned by the recollections of those memoirists who attempt to portray the innocent 'Dog' as their version of an heroic advance-post in the search for new artistic roads: - Burlyuk performed there; there, the doctor Kul'byn tirelessly…; Mayakovsky was there; and there was…
Forgiving Burlyuk and Doctor Kul'bin their sins, both voluntary and involuntary, they did in any case amuse those who sought some diversion with their particular excerpts, but one should not include Mayakovsky in their company. He was much wiser; a full-blooded youthful strength was revealed in his stunts, an urgent inclination toward light-hearted playfulness. Yet, now and then, he would suddenly be overcome by the mortal blows of the "eternal banality of the human race”. While he was never isolated or lonely at the “Dog”, he was all the more misunderstood and unsupported by friendly sympathy.
The assertions of current "historians" and memoirists (1939) that Mayakovsky, from the time of his earliest literary pursuits, met with a hostile front from the "leading" literary circles are, by the way, untrue. Those literary circles which claimed to preserve the best traditions and "beliefs" of Russian literature (most importantly in the unwavering populist camp) directed equal condemnation and hostility toward any innovation - modernism, symbolism, and all aspects of futurism. It was because of this that Mayakovsky, for them, settled the question with his yellow blouse and his "improprieties" in the style of a "sublime rotter" and with which the poet teased them. The blouse, and the "improprieties" did not, however, hinder a particularly lively and sensitive section of the literary front from valuing the true worth of Mayakovsky's huge poetic talent from the time of his earliest success. "A Cloud in Trousers" had already evoked a universal acknowledgement that a large and serious power had entered the literary world in the person of this young poet, one that invited great hopes for the future. Here, his childish "pranks" were not considered to be of any importance, and those who did pay attention to them saw them as more of a “disgrace.” The poet’s work had the essential qualities necessary to challenge a waning world which he, at that time, did not recognize in its fullest measure. Evidence of this lay not so much in his “pranks” as in the absence of any urge to remove himself from his circle of “fellow-travellers” and comrades: Mayakovsky lost his way among Burlyuk, Kul’bin, and Kamensky - three advocates of personal quests and novelties - among others, with their “word-clanging aimlessness,” and did not find his own path, one that was able to accommodate his huge talent…
But even much later, perhaps right up until the end of his regretfully short journey, Mayakovsky never outlived his weakness for “pranks” that ranked well below his talent. On the whole, he inarguably positioned himself as, raised himself to (and occupied) the place of “the best, most talented poet of our soviet epoch” (Stalin). He did so with his talent and the unbending, uncompromising pursuit of his ideological line. However, he did not shrink from using fairly simple means to advance his own success: he would use one part of his audience, in fun, to tease and excite the other, always achieving his goal of a ‘succes de scandal’. On the other hand, he could also play the slightly vulgar hand of “hail-fellow-well-met”, and in this respect, more than once, was no stranger to that style reminiscent of the delight of a fellow with a reputation for being “a sincere man, his own man.” He came, he looked around, he smiled, and blanketed everyone with such a performance that they all laughed happily and said, “See, you can tell right away, - he is a sincere man, he is his own man!” Never was there an element of anything approaching ‘delight’ in Mayakovsky’s success.