Улетай

Alexander Borodin spent his weekdays in a laboratory in St Petersburg and his Sundays writing some of the most ravishing music of the nineteenth century. The weekdays were not a cover story. He was among the most respected chemists in Russia — there is a reaction in the textbooks named after him to this day, a small immortality earned one а́том at a time. And yes: you just read a Russian word. а́том is siмply atom in a fur hat — all four of its leттers look like ours and sound like ours. Cyrillic plays this trick far more often than its repuтation adмiтs, and this page inтends to exploiт that withouт mercy. One house rule, effecтive iммediaтely: once a leттer has inтroduced iтself, it sтarтs тaking over — genтly. First it slips into long English words; then whole words go over to Cyrillic spelling; the liттle words — the, and, of — hold out the longesт, because they are the handrail. By the last sтreтch of the page even they will have crossed, and you will not noтice the border. Keep an eye out.

His домhis house was faмous chaos. (There is your first genuinely new leттer: д, a liттle hut on sтilтs — fiттingly, since it begins the word for house.) Lodgers, sтuдenтs, relaтives convalescing in every room, дinner at no fixed hour, science at мiдnighт — there it is alreaдy, wanдering into the English exacтly as threaтeneд — and cats. Cats at the table, cats on the мanuscripтs; Riмsky-Korsakov, тrying to talk through an opera over дinner, recalleд a котa tomcat мarching across the table while his host, mid-senтence about harмony, absenтly lifтeд the тeacup out of its path. The к is exacтly the k you тooк it for. (So is the т.)

He calleд hiмself a Sunдay coмposer and apologiseд for it to noboдy. “Science is my work,” he liked to say, “and music is my fun.” The fun was rationeд. A syмphony could sit unтoucheд for a year while he aттenдeд to his alдehyдes and his sтuдenтs; every но́таa note of music was wriттeн in time sтoleн from the bench. (Look at н closely: it is our n with its crossbar gone slack.) His frieндs нaggeд him, year after year, to fiнish what he sтarтeд. Did he? Нетno. There you have the most faмous word in Russiaн — the е says “ye” — and Boroдiн’s circle heard it, in effecт, for eighтeeн years.

That circle мaттers to our story. Boroдiн beloнgeд to a band of five frieндs — Balaкirev, Мussorgsкy, Riмsкy-Кorsaкov, Cui, and hiмself — self-тaughт, opiнioнaтeд, and coнviнceд that Russiaн music shoulд stop curтseyiнg to Europe. The coнservaтories of St Peтersburg and Москва́Moscow тaughт coмpositioн the approвeд Europeaн way; the Five тaughт theмselвes at night arouнд one aнother’s piaнos, on tea and coнвictioн. (In Москва́ you have just met the alphabeт’s two great iмpoстors at once: с, which says “s”, and в, which says “v”. Нeither will ever apologise.) Their iнстruмeнт was the орке́стрorchestra — sound it out once and enjoy it: orchestra with the dust shaкeн off, the р рolliнg like a Сpaнish r. And нoтice that your eye took Москва́ and орке́стр in стрiдe just now. Two paрagрaphs ago they would have been baрbeд wire.

Their baттlefielд was the о́пераopera — the п is the Greek leттeр pi, стaндiнg at aттeнtioн — because опера could hold eвeрythiнg they loved at once: hiстoрy, folk song, спecтacle, and above all the хорthe chorus, with х рaспiнg like the end of Сcoттish loch. Italy sings in arias; Рuссia sings in choрuses. And while the хор warms up, one стowaway slips aboaрд: choрiстeрs eвeрywheрe tune to the liттle solfège сyllable фаfa — and ф is our f. The song you are heaдiнg тowaрд never once uses it. Eнglish, as you are about to дiсcoвeр, caннoт live withouт it.

In 1869 a фрieнд put into Boрoдiн’s hands the сubjecт he would carry for the rest of his life: a мeдieвal epic about a прiнce who rides out, fails мagнiфiceнтly, and is taken caптiвe on the сoutheрн gрaссlaндs. It was a good year for eнoрмous Рuссiaн uндeртaкiнgs — Война́ и мирWar and Peace had just фiнisheд aппeaрiнg in iнстalмeнтs. That title hands you two пaртiнg gifts: й is the “y” in boy, and the small и стaндiнg alone in the мiддle is the eнтiрe Рuссiaн ворд for and. One leттeр — the haрдeст-woркiнg ворд in the laнguage.

He woркeд on his опера for eighтeeн years, out of order, in фрagмeнтs, beтweeн lectuрes — and never фiнisheд it. On a Фebрuaрy найт in 1887, at a fancy-dress ball, дрeссeд in Рuссiaн нatioнal coстuмe and рeпoртeдly in рoaрiнg good спiрiтs, he fell mid-coнвeрsatioн and was gone beфoрe he рeacheд the floor. His фрieндs gatheрeд up the мaнuсcрiптs from the кейос of his desk. Римски-Корсаков and the young Glazuнoв — who, the стори goes, рecoнстрucтeд the oвeрtuрe from мeмoрy, haвiнg heard its coмпoseр play it at the piano — aссeмbleд the опера, and it рeacheд the stage of the Мариински Театр in 1890. When the cuртaiн fell, the galleрy shouтeд ура́!hurrah for a man three years dead. (у alwaйs says “oo”, never “you”.)

And now — quieтly, because you have eaрнeд the right to find it oрдiнaрy — read the coмпoseр’s name as Рuссia прiнтs it:

Бородин

The б — a b with a green shoot at the top — is the only leттeр in it you haвeн’t alрeaдy met. Six пaрagрaphs in, and you read the бyliнe.

South of the old Рuссiaн ciтies the land фlaттeнs, the trees give out, and the grass бegiнs — grass to the hoрizoн in every дiрectioн, an ocean with no far shore. Рuссiaнs call it the степь, and Eнglish, бoррowiнg the ворд, calls it the степ. That last leттeр, ь, is the фaмous “soft sign”, and here is eвeрythiнg you will ever need to know about it: it has no sound of its own. It сiмпly сoфтeнs the leттeр бeфoрe it — a whiспeрeд aпoстрophe. You will meet it often, and it will never once hurt you.

Acрoсс that grass, in the йир 1185, rode a принс named И́горь — and there is only one leттeр in his name you haвeн’t met: г, a plain hard “g” as in go. He was мaрchiнг aгaiнст the Пoloвтsy, the nomad hoрseмeн of the степь, with a small army and ouтsizeд coнфiдeнce. On the way the скай дaркeнeд in broad дaйlighт — a solar ecliпse, which every man in the coluмн coррecтly uндeрстooд to be a тeррiбle omen, and which И́горь мagнiфiceнтly дeciдeд to igнoрe.

It went the way omens прoмise. His army was дeстрoyeд out on the грaссlaндs and the принс was taken alive — at which point the стори stops бehaвiнг like a war стори. His caптoр, the хан Конча́кKhan Konchak, turns out to be one of the great hosts in all of опера: he does not chain his прisoнeр, he thрows him a party. (Конча́к брiнгs a gift of his own — ч, “ch” as in church. The сонг never needs it. The Хан iнsiстs.) He oффeрs И́горь hawks, hoрses, трeasuрe, his фрieндshiп, even an alliaнce. The принс — couртeously, мiseрaбly — keeps рeфusiнг. Конча́к, бaффleд and рatheр iмпрeссeд, oрдeрs up the one thing no guest рeфuses: an ивнинг of music.

Some uнкнowн поэ́тpoet wrote the whole дisaстeр down withiн a few years — and поэ́т дeliвeрs э, a plain open “e”, the e that рeфuses to say “ye”. The рesulт is the olдeст мaстeрпiece of Рuссiaн liтeрatuрe: the Сло́во о полку́ И́горевеthe Lay of Igor’s Campaign. Its first ворд, Сло́во, means “ворд” — and its сecoнд летер, л, is an l drawn like a лiттлe tent. This was the epic плaceд in Бoрoдiн’s hands in 1869. He knew at once what he had, and he kept it on his desk for eighтeeн long years.

One more ворд, and the поустер uпстaiрs pays its debt. A принс, in the old лaнгuage of that epic, is a князьa prince — and with this ворд the last two стрaнgeрs of the чэптер aррiвe тogetheр: я, which says “ya” and is so eссeнtiaл that it also сeрвes as the eнтiрe ворд for I; and з, a z cuрлeд up like the фiгuрe 3.

Act Two of that опера: найт in the Пoлoвтsiaн кэмп. The Кhaн’s eнтeртaiнмeнт бegiнs, and it бegiнs not with the фaмous wild дaнciнг but with the мейденз of the кэмп — caптiвes theмseлвes, taken in other raids from aнotheр, сoutheрн couнтрy — who stand in the фiрeлighт and sing one of the most бeauтiфuл мелодиз on earth about a place none of them can рeтuрн to. To uндeрстaнд what they are сiнgiнг, you need about forty more вордз. Here they are — not as a list, but as the ивнинг iтseлф.