Ten years ago the French Slavic scholar and collector Rene Guerra invited me to his lecture in St. Petersburg’s main library. I arrived at the designated time, but stopped in the hallway before the auditorium’s open doors: there were so many people that even squeezing inside the assembly hall was clearly impossible. I looked around. There was a cultured audience in attendance, with thoughtful looks and literary diction. My acquaintance soon approached the microphone. He surveyed the hall, pronounced just two phrases and went silent. A storm of applause shook the Petersburg auditorium and interrupted the speaker. Rene shuddered from surprise; initially he couldn’t understand what had happened. But here’s what happened: this outstanding, cultured, well-educated St. Petersburg public, perhaps for the first time in many decades, heard clean Russian language, unadulterated by Soviet newspeak and street “language” of new Russian pop. Beneath the arches of the assembly hall in an ancient library there literally resounded a voice from the past. From the far distant, but not yet forgotten past of the truly great Russia. And who brought us this Russian language? France’s Rene Guerra.
It so happened that, when still a boy, Rene found himself among a Russian immigrant environment in Paris. Annenkov, Zaitsev, Sharshun, Odoevtseva, Chekhonin, Dobuzhinsky, Serebryakova, Bushen – they, their pure great-Russian language, their aesthetic values shaped the young Rene Guerra, determined his life path and the Slavophile’s profession. Nowadays he is famous across the world as the owner of a priceless collection of artwork and correspondence of legendary artists, writers, and representatives of Russia’s emigrant culture. He is an expert and guardian of these amazing treasures.
One evening I visited him on the outskirts of Paris in Issy-les-Moulineaux. I crossed the threshold and entered a house-museum. The exquisite frames on the walls protected originals. Guerra only does Xerox copies. Unique books signed by great authors on the shelves. Collections of Russian domestic utensils from previous centuries.
We spoke for several hours, after which I had the chance to look at his archive. We descended to the basement of this giant house, I leaned against a small table and Rene temporarily disappeared in a labyrinth of abundant shelves. He soon appeared with a small folder in his hands. I opened the folder. Yellowed notebook pages with steady, impetuous handwriting. Purple ink, a feather pen. I looked at him inquisitively: what is this? “These are Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva’s letters,” quietly, almost in a whisper, he answered. Unable to speak, I sat and gradually realized what I was holding.
That evening, my eyes witnessed so many works of art unknown in Russia, my fingers touched so many letters of great Russian authors unknown in their homeland… Nowhere again did I ever encounter such happiness.
Rene, of course, was content. He continuously told me about his own Russians, whom my generation didn’t know. Furthermore, he happily dove into the language: pouring forth sayings and jokes. It should be noted that he masterfully cursed. Eventually, we drank a bottle of noble French wine from the Rhone valley and agreed to meet the following day near the clock tower at Sainte Genevieve des Bois cemetery.
…We walked among Russian graves and tombstones, like through city streets, and Rene gestured at the next stone like as if it were a house inhabited to this day.
“And here are Gippius and Merezhkovsky”, he said. “Here’s the prince Vladimir Nikolaevich Argutinsky-Dolgorukov,” there – prince Felix Yusupov; here’s his wife Irina Alexandrovna – beauty of czarist blood. This is the great Russian artist Konstantin Somov, and here – Ivan Bunin. There, further, is the excellent author and playwright Nikolai Evreinov. And here – the pride of Russian art Konstantin Korovin. There – the writer Alexander Remizov, and here – the first dancer of Diaghilev’s ballets Sergey Lifar. And there – the great Rudolf Nureyev. See – Sergey Bulgakov – pride of Russian theology. Here’s the general Kutepov. And there’s Alexander Galich. Let’s keep going. Here’s Viktor Nekrasov, remember In Stalingrad’s Trenches? And here’s Vladimir Maximov. And there’s Andrey Tarkovsky. There it’s written: “To someone who saw an angel”…
Together we walked around this city, or rather entire country of Russians in exile. And he showed everything and spoke, spoke, spoke… As if this country is never-ending.
Yuri Lepsky
Source: Rossiyskaya Gazeta
