Vladimir Horowitz, in a Chaliapin memorial concert at Hunter College, New York, about thirty-four years later. Chapter Seven It was the Revolution. Everything was disrupted in a mighty gust of wind that changed direction chaotically and spread like wildfire. It was a hunt—a hunt for Whites and Reds, for the ghosts and for the living. The wounded with their insides out charged forward, and none believed himself dead. The cries for vengeance or freedom made calls for mercy too feeble to hear. The mice of yesterday were the tigers of today, and rabbits laughed like hyenas. Oh, what a hunting ground, what deafening noises! Cries, barking, shots filled the streets of Moscow, still wet with tears from the time of Rurik. Princes were smoked out of palaces. Grandmothers, sons, daughters, and grandchildren crawled from under Louis XIV beds like poisoned vermin. Pianos were dropped from windows and diamonds exchanged for a loaf of bread. The generals bombarded a factory of workers. All were on the run, foam dripping from their mouths. They were mad dogs—but there were no Pasteur, no laboratories, no hospitals in sight. It was a frenzied convulsion. All was blood. A gigantic volcano had come to life, and Russia trembled. The serfdom, pogroms, and uprisings of the past were just a small show. The fury in France and its guillotines were fit only for nursery games. Now it was different. It was a great spectacle, a monster show within a show, and all were characters in it, free to unfold their genius in deadly improvisations. It was the time of awakened anger, and many had waited long for it. I was fourteen, and I wanted to participate and be swept up in the torrent, but I held on and just listened—to the guns firing, and to the trumpeting voices proclaiming that the gods, demigods, and the centuries-old rule of the House of Romanoff had fallen. The great uprising of the masses was terrifying, yet astonishingly many went about their daily lives. I had a room, but I could not think of study, and I had to work. My landlady was a modiste who employed three workers. Very friendly, she often invited me for a meal and asked me not to worry about the rent. She was married and had a child whose father visited them regularly. She said that he knew many musicians.
Vladimir Horowitz, in a Chaliapin memorial concert at Hunter College, New York, about thirty-four years later. Chapter Seven It was the Revolution. Everything was disrupted in a mighty gust of wind that changed direction chaotically and spread like wildfire. It was a hunt—a hunt for Whites and Reds, for the ghosts and for the living. The wounded with their insides out charged forward, and none believed himself dead. The cries for vengeance or freedom made calls for mercy too feeble to hear. The mice of yesterday were the tigers of today, and rabbits laughed like hyenas. Oh, what a hunting ground, what deafening noises! Cries, barking, shots filled the streets of Moscow, still wet with tears from the time of Rurik. Princes were smoked out of palaces. Grandmothers, sons, daughters, and grandchildren crawled from under Louis XIV beds like poisoned vermin. Pianos were dropped from windows and diamonds exchanged for a loaf of bread. The generals bombarded a factory of workers. All were on the run, foam dripping from their mouths. They were mad dogs—but there were no Pasteur, no laboratories, no hospitals in sight. It was a frenzied convulsion. All was blood. A gigantic volcano had come to life, and Russia trembled. The serfdom, pogroms, and uprisings of the past were just a small show. The fury in France and its guillotines were fit only for nursery games. Now it was different. It was a great spectacle, a monster show within a show, and all were characters in it, free to unfold their genius in deadly improvisations. It was the time of awakened anger, and many had waited long for it. I was fourteen, and I wanted to participate and be swept up in the torrent, but I held on and just listened—to the guns firing, and to the trumpeting voices proclaiming that the gods, demigods, and the centuries-old rule of the House of Romanoff had fallen. The great uprising of the masses was terrifying, yet astonishingly many went about their daily lives. I had a room, but I could not think of study, and I had to work. My landlady was a modiste who employed three workers. Very friendly, she often invited me for a meal and asked me not to worry about the rent. She was married and had a child whose father visited them regularly. She said that he knew many musicians.
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