The enigma surrounding Maxim Litvinov’s escapades in Ireland (as referenced in Diaries dated September 29th and October 2nd) persistently deepens. It is now confirmed that the future advocate of Russian radical change, for a spell, was a commercial representative in Ireland, exchanging items as miscellaneous as haberdashery, religious images or scrap iron possibly, with families like the Kavanaghs of Inniskeen.
Acknowledgment must be given to Glenn Johnston, a Joycean hailing from Limerick but residing in New York, who pointed out an excerpt from Sylvia Beach’s autobiography. Being the publisher of Ulysses, she reminisced about renowned visitors to her bookshop in Paris during the twenties. She mentioned that among these visitors was the entire Litvinov clan. She highlighted that Mrs. Litvinov had English roots and claimed that Litvinov’s husband, soon to be Stalin’s foreign affairs advisor, was virtually Irish, as he studied in the same university as Joyce in Dublin.
While diving further into Maxim Litvinov’s life, also uncovering stories like the Cobblestone bar’s journey and the Battle of Balaclava, a question arises – Could this credit of Irish education hold any factual truth? None of the biographies encountered so far support this claim. Furthermore, this raises the doubt – how would Litvinov manage to squeeze in a university course amidst his hectic schedule as an insurgent expatriate. Around this time, Litvinov was engaged in manifold activities like purchasing firearms, masterminding bank robberies, and peddling gewgaws from doorstep to doorstep while exiled from Tsarist Russia.
Separated from this, an intriguing speculation emerges that the idea of visiting Sylvia Beach’s bookshop might have stemmed from Ivy Litvinov, Maxim Litvinov’s spouse and an avid Ulysses aficionado. Regarding her experience of reading the book, she confessed, “My emotions get the better of me every time I think about it and I end up in tears. The thought of picking up the book now fills me with trepidation as if it were an explosive device set to detonate.”
It remains a mystery whether Maxim Litvinov shared his wife’s adoration for the novel. Still, he might have felt connected to the mythological muse that inspired the novel.
An American publication released an “up-close analysis” in 1931 praising Litvinov for his willingness to interact with the western “adversaries of the working class”, unlike his more austere associates in Moscow – an aspect which was intriguingly encapsulated in one line: “To him, the Odyssey holds more appeal than the Iliad.”
In a rather different scenario, I crossed paths with an authentic veteran, Jimmy Doyle, during the Korean National Day event on Wednesday evening. A native of Dún Laoghaire, he had been a member of the UN force dispatched to Korea over seven decades ago to thwart the Soviet-endorsed invasion from the north. A tangible part of that country accompanies him everywhere – a walking stick gifted by local inhabitants after he sustained a leg injury.
I managed to reluctantly detach myself from the complimentary drinks at the Koreans’ event, and pedalled across the city to experience the last part of a Dublin History Festival discussion at the Cobblestone Bar in Smithfield. The session added another layer to my understanding of Russian history, thanks to Ireland’s former Derry-born envoy to Moscow, Jim Sharkey. He was in conversation with Tommy Graham, charting 50 years of Irish-Russian diplomatic ties. It was riveting to say the least.
The Cobblestone, however, is more renowned for its music than discourses. In the front room, a music session was underway, presided over by signs cautioning chatty imbibers to “Respect the musicians” in the listening area. A sense of familiarity hit me. The last pub I had dipped into – McNello’s in Inniskeen, just before I set off for Dublin from the Patrick Kavanagh carnival – also hosted a Cobblestone session. The musicians had travelled up from the Smithfield pub to Monaghan, converting the vicinity into a Cobblestony Grey Soil for one unforgettable night.
Usually, the rear room of this Dublin pub is not only associated with music but also known for something referred to as the “balaclava sessions”.
It may seem a bit ominous, but it’s not. The participants are not required to wear disguises, this simply symbolises the lack of an audience, thus allowing new musicians to perform without fear of criticism until they’re self-assured to transition into the main room. However, it’s worth noting that this month is the 170th anniversary of the Balaclava Battle, which not only gave this piece of headgear its name, but also contributed multiple sayings to the English language.
Part of the Crimean War, the battle featured the notorious Light Brigade Charge, the not-so-famous Heavy Brigade Charge, and the “Thin Red Line”. It was also the source of a widely cited French phrase, spoken by the surprised Gen Pierre Bosquet as he witnessed the Light Brigade’s daring actions: “C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la guerre” (“It’s magnificent but it is not war”).
This battle was where the British commander, typically blamed for the failed charge, etched his name in history. He was previously known for his frequently forgetful conduct of calling the Russian foe “The French”. A few months later, he died at 66, partly burdened by the stress of the Siege of Sevastopol, which drew a flood of condemnation. Nevertheless, he was shortly memorialised on a street sign in Dublin. Thus, indirectly, he plays a part in our owed appreciation for the widely cherished ballad Raglan Road.