Uncle Gilya

Vladimir Gilyarovsky, or Uncle Gilyai, as he was affectionately called, was a living legend. Even today, 150 years after his birth (November 26, 1853) this journalist, poet and writer of prose is widely revered, especially among Muscovites, whose city he described so well. At the turn of this century, Gilyarovsky was so well known that you could command any cab driver to take you “To Gilyarovsky’s!” and he would know to take you to Stoleshnikov Lane, where Uncle Gilyai lived until his death in 1935. 

The writer Konstantin Paustovsky, one of Gilyarovsky’s friends, described him thus: “If the expression ‘picturesque character’ existed in the Russian language, it would fit this man perfectly. Gilyarovsky was truly picturesque, both in his biography, looks, speech, manners, in his childishness and in his multi-faceted and bubbling talent.”

Gilyarovsky looked like an archetypal Zaporozhsky Cossack, with a long moustache, and many stories were told about his amazing physical strength: reputedly, Uncle Gilyai was so strong that he could tie an iron poker in a knot.

When Gilyarovsky was 17, he left his hometown of Vologda and spent the next ten years away from home. He changed jobs many times, herding wild horses, hauling barges on the Volga, working in a circus company, traveling with actors, and serving as a volunteer soldier in the 1877-8 Russo-Turkish War. In 1881, Gilyarovsky settled in Moscow and started to write for various periodicals. He soon became a very popular figure. The writer Alexander Kuprin even wrote to Uncle Gilyai that he “could more easily imagine Moscow without the Tsar-Bell or the Tsar-Cannon than without you, the very hub of Moscow.” 

In Moscow, Gilyarovsky was “the king of reportage,” a journalist who was writing about everything and who people said knew today what was going to happen tomorrow. He was famous for his intimate knowledge of the city and knew a great number of Muscovites, including beggars and thieves. In 1887, Gilyarovsky published his first book, The Shantytown People, but it was quickly banned by censors.

Gilyarovsky was both a member of the Russian Society of Arts and Letters and an Honorary Fireman. He also was friend to such celebrated persons as Anton Chekhov, Ivan Bunin, Alexander Blok, Maxim Gorky, Fyodor Shalyapin and others. He left apt descriptions of all of them in his Friends and Meetings (1934) and A Life on the Move (1928). 

In 1924, Gilyarovsky’s most famous book, Moscow and Muscovites, was published. In it, Moscow customs and Muscovites’ lives — from merchants to card sharks to ghosts — are described in poignant and humorous detail. The book has never been translated into English, so two short, humorous extracts from the book are offered in the column at right.

Once, an interesting thing happened. A lady came to an antique dealer, looked at the pictures for a long time and finally chose the one which was signed “I. Repin.” There was a label on the picture saying that it cost 10 rubles. 

“Here you are. Ten rubles. I am taking the picture. But if it’s not genuine, I’ll bring it back. Today, I’m having dinner at my friends’ and Repin will also be there. I’ll show him the picture.” 

The lady went to dinner and showed Repin the picture. Repin roared with laughter. He asked for a pen and ink and wrote at the bottom of the picture: “This is not Repin. I. Repin.” The picture was returned to Sretenka and, thanks to Repin’s autograph, was sold for 100 rubles.

8

We were walking. A grimy ragamuffin stopped us and begged for some money. Gleb Ivanovich was about to take some money out of his pocket, but I stopped him and, taking out a one-ruble note, told the beggar:

“We do not have small change. Go to the store, buy cigarettes for five-kopeks, bring the change and I’ll give you money to pay for a night’s lodging.”

“I’ll be right back!” growled out the man, splashing through the mud to one of the shops some 50 steps away and disappearing into the mist.

“And bring the cigarettes right here, we’ll wait!” I shouted.

“OK,” said the voice from the mist. Gleb Ivanovich screamed with laughter.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Ha-ha-ha, ha-ha-ha! I would love to see him bring the change! And cigarettes! Ha-ha-ha!”

It was the first time that I heard Gleb Ivanovich laughing like this. He was still laughing when we heard the steps splashing through the mud, and the man appeared in front of us, opening a huge, blackened palm filled with cigarettes, copper coins and glittering silver. 

“90 kopeks change. I’ve taken five kopeks for myself. Here are your “Zarya” cigarettes. Ten of them.”

“Wait, what is this? You brought them?” asked Gleb Ivanovich.

“Why shouldn’t I? How could I run away with someone else’s money? Did you think that I …” said the ragamuffin confidently.

“Well… well,” muttered Gleb Ivanovich. 

I gave the copper coins to the fellow and wanted to keep the silver and the cigarettes, but Gleb Ivanovich said: “No, no, give it all to him… Everything. For his amazing honesty. Because it’s…”

I gave all the change to the ragamuffin, who was so surprised that, instead of thanking me, just said: “You are just cranks, gentlemen! I say, how could I steal when you trusted me?”

“Let’s go! Let’s get out of here … We’ll never see anything better. Thank you!” Gleb Ivanovich turned to the ragamuffin, bowed to him and quickly led me away from the square.