The King of England
Long ago and far away, in 1995 in Moscow, I was having a far grander time than I have had since then, up until this very year, when I finally had a truly, deeply good time once more. This is a story of a legend, and also a museum, and some truly epic bad breath.
There are museums that every foreign tourist in Moscow visits. The Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts is not one of them, although its star is rising, and it no longer seems to be virtually ignored in literature for tourists. Nevertheless, the core tourist sights in Moscow are the Kremlin, the Tretyakov Gallery, Arbat Street, and McDonalds. The Pushkin is part of the next tier, one of the secondary sights. Originally designed to house copies of great Classical and European artworks for study, the Pushkin is now a major museum, albeit an eccentric one. While the Tretyakov Gallery is known for its collections of icons and twentieth-century Russian art, and the Hermitage in St. Petersburg is known for its impressionist paintings and the sheer vastness of its collection, the Pushkin houses an eclectic collection of extraordinary ancient artifacts, reproductions of Classical and Western European art, and original Western European art from the eighth century to an exceptional twentieth-century collection, making this museum difficult to package for the weekend tourist. The eccentricity of the collection may even attract eccentric patrons, as I learned during my visit to the Pushkin.
I was utterly enthralled by this museum. I started out on the first floor, checked out their special exhibit of engravings by a man named Hieronymus Cock, a Flemish artist who lived from 1510 to 1570, zipped through a few rooms, marveled at the size of David's ankles in the room of reproductions of Classical statues, stopped to examine the Byzantine icons more closely, was particularly fascinated by the cuneiform tablets and seals, looked at every last goddess figure so I could report back to my friend Debbi, and was pondering the Egyptian art and hieroglyphs when, there in the Egyptian room, a dishevelled old man approached me with a bunch of papers in his hand. The top sheet bore a drawing of a dragon. The man asked me something unintelligible in Russian. I don't think I caught a single word. Despite all my years studying Russian, this year is the first year that I made any headway in understanding street Russian. I shook my head and peered intently at an artifact, hoping he'd give up and leave.
He did no such thing. He repeated his query, as rapidly and as incomprehensibly as he had asked it the first time. Again, I couldn't make heads or tails of it. I responded in Russian, "I don't know. I don't even understand. I'm not Russian." This was Error #1. I had only excited his interest: "Where are you from?"
Reluctantly, I answered, "I'm an American." Here was Error #2. I immediately resolved to start answering that question with "I'm from Finland."
The man began speaking to me in English and asked me if I understood him. I did. Great: "I am king of England." (He pronounced it as "kink of England," but I knew what he meant.) Without being asked, he explained that he spoke English with an accent because of an unfortunate speech impediment. Apparently someone less trusting than I had attempted to disprove the origin he claimed for himself.
Well, okay, I thought, this was certainly mildly entertaining, but not nearly as entertaining as what came next. He attempted to prove his lineage by reciting his own version of English history in verse. It was quite long, and he knew it all by heart, although he did have a typed version in his sheaf of papers. In Russia it is common to memorize large amounts of poetry. I have to tell you that I was suitably impressed, but the woman guarding the collection was not. She stalked over to inform him sternly, "No lecturing without a permit." She was a dear woman with a good heart. Nevertheless, the King of England was undeterred. His poetry was all perfectly metrical and rhymed, although there were some strange enjambements, as though it was British history as told by Tom Lehrer.
Despite my interest, too soon I began to reel from over-exposure to his breath and became desirous of escape. I was grateful for the return of the guard and the forceful repetition of her admonition. The man who would be king protested, "I'm not lecturing, we're only chatting!" but she would have none of it, and I interjected, "I need a drink," and made my escape.
I was reminded of this episode a year later in the Japanese garden at Boston's Museum of Fine Arts, where I saw posted the familiar admonishment "No lecturing."
There are museums that every foreign tourist in Moscow visits. The Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts is not one of them, although its star is rising, and it no longer seems to be virtually ignored in literature for tourists. Nevertheless, the core tourist sights in Moscow are the Kremlin, the Tretyakov Gallery, Arbat Street, and McDonalds. The Pushkin is part of the next tier, one of the secondary sights. Originally designed to house copies of great Classical and European artworks for study, the Pushkin is now a major museum, albeit an eccentric one. While the Tretyakov Gallery is known for its collections of icons and twentieth-century Russian art, and the Hermitage in St. Petersburg is known for its impressionist paintings and the sheer vastness of its collection, the Pushkin houses an eclectic collection of extraordinary ancient artifacts, reproductions of Classical and Western European art, and original Western European art from the eighth century to an exceptional twentieth-century collection, making this museum difficult to package for the weekend tourist. The eccentricity of the collection may even attract eccentric patrons, as I learned during my visit to the Pushkin.
I was utterly enthralled by this museum. I started out on the first floor, checked out their special exhibit of engravings by a man named Hieronymus Cock, a Flemish artist who lived from 1510 to 1570, zipped through a few rooms, marveled at the size of David's ankles in the room of reproductions of Classical statues, stopped to examine the Byzantine icons more closely, was particularly fascinated by the cuneiform tablets and seals, looked at every last goddess figure so I could report back to my friend Debbi, and was pondering the Egyptian art and hieroglyphs when, there in the Egyptian room, a dishevelled old man approached me with a bunch of papers in his hand. The top sheet bore a drawing of a dragon. The man asked me something unintelligible in Russian. I don't think I caught a single word. Despite all my years studying Russian, this year is the first year that I made any headway in understanding street Russian. I shook my head and peered intently at an artifact, hoping he'd give up and leave.
He did no such thing. He repeated his query, as rapidly and as incomprehensibly as he had asked it the first time. Again, I couldn't make heads or tails of it. I responded in Russian, "I don't know. I don't even understand. I'm not Russian." This was Error #1. I had only excited his interest: "Where are you from?"
Reluctantly, I answered, "I'm an American." Here was Error #2. I immediately resolved to start answering that question with "I'm from Finland."
The man began speaking to me in English and asked me if I understood him. I did. Great: "I am king of England." (He pronounced it as "kink of England," but I knew what he meant.) Without being asked, he explained that he spoke English with an accent because of an unfortunate speech impediment. Apparently someone less trusting than I had attempted to disprove the origin he claimed for himself.
Well, okay, I thought, this was certainly mildly entertaining, but not nearly as entertaining as what came next. He attempted to prove his lineage by reciting his own version of English history in verse. It was quite long, and he knew it all by heart, although he did have a typed version in his sheaf of papers. In Russia it is common to memorize large amounts of poetry. I have to tell you that I was suitably impressed, but the woman guarding the collection was not. She stalked over to inform him sternly, "No lecturing without a permit." She was a dear woman with a good heart. Nevertheless, the King of England was undeterred. His poetry was all perfectly metrical and rhymed, although there were some strange enjambements, as though it was British history as told by Tom Lehrer.
Despite my interest, too soon I began to reel from over-exposure to his breath and became desirous of escape. I was grateful for the return of the guard and the forceful repetition of her admonition. The man who would be king protested, "I'm not lecturing, we're only chatting!" but she would have none of it, and I interjected, "I need a drink," and made my escape.
I was reminded of this episode a year later in the Japanese garden at Boston's Museum of Fine Arts, where I saw posted the familiar admonishment "No lecturing."
posted by Margo at 11:58 AM
1 Comments:
I have been to dinner parties where a No Lecturning sign would have been welcome indeed.
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