As we all remember, at the beginning of the last century, the famous animal trainer and circus performer Vladimir Leonidovich Durov used to visit our city.
His controversial ride on a pig down Yekaterinoslavskaya Street (now Poltavskyi Shliakh) has been written about before.
We can also learn quite a few details about this story from Vladimir Leonidovich’s book *The Memoirs of the Durov Pig*. In the introduction, the author writes:
As we study the inner world of animals, striving to penetrate their minds, uncover the mysteries of nature, and discover whether they think as we humans do, we often put ourselves in the animals’ shoes and reason on their behalf. We ask ourselves whether they have any concept of an object, whether they feel, experience emotions, or distinguish between colors, sounds, and so on; and, by attributing our own thoughts and feelings to them, we put ourselves in their place—and vice versa. And so, one day, I transported myself in thought to another world—into the life of my pig—and imagined that I was looking at everything that was happening through her eyes. I imagined it and wrote these notes.
In Chapter VII, the author describes the events in Kharkiv from the perspective of a pig named “Chushka-Fintiflyushka.”
At the end of the summer, we were invited to Kharkiv. My education wasn’t quite finished yet; my teacher obviously wanted to turn me into a true scholar. And so, one morning, they dragged a small cart over to me, put a harness on me, and began tying two sticks—called shafts—to either side. It seemed extremely uncomfortable to me; I began to struggle, tore my harness, and even broke the front of the cart, but nothing helped. They harnessed me anyway. Since I had already received a fairly high level of education, I immediately understood what was expected of me. I was even delighted. After all, I could now serve as a substitute for a horse for my shrewd owner! And that’s exactly what happened… One evening, my teacher was sitting on my cage, deep in thought. Suddenly, I heard several cheerful voices nearby:
“Let’s all go to the ‘Old Bellevue’ restaurant for dinner tomorrow!”
These words were addressed to my teacher.
— “All right,” he replied, “I’ll go, but only if I can ride a pig.”
How proud I felt when I heard those words! Now I can openly compete with horses; now they won’t look at me as if I were a good-for-nothing creature! How eagerly I awaited the next day, and with what joy I let myself be harnessed to the carriage! Finally, we set off. A crowd of children saw us off. Laughter, shrieking, and shouts followed us…
“Pig! Pig!” the rowdy boys, who loved anything out of the ordinary, shouted at the top of their lungs.
— “That’s one horse for you!”
“It won’t make it!”
“It’ll take us to the barn!”
“Give us a ride, too!”
“After Senka comes the hat!”
You can’t even remember everything they shouted after us. But then we turned onto the main Yekaterinoslavskaya Street. That’s where our triumph really began. Cars heading to and from the train station veered off the road in front of us; passersby stopped; the horse-drawn tram driver, seeing the crowd and not knowing what was going on, grabbed the horn. That’s when I clearly realized what an important person I was! The coachman stared at me wide-eyed. He was so mesmerized that he involuntarily stopped the horses, and the horn slipped from his hands. The passengers rose to their feet and, as if from a box at the circus, shouted:
“Bravo! Bravo!”
Amid these shouts and applause, I was taking the teacher to lunch. But no sooner had I stopped than the teacher ordered that I be unhitched and given a drink, when a police officer suddenly appeared as if out of nowhere and shouted menacingly:
“Who gave you permission to ride through town on a pig?”
“No one,” the teacher replied defiantly, “I just don’t have a horse, so I’m riding a pig.”
“All right, we’ll put that in the report.” “In the meantime, I demand that you return immediately to the circus with your beast, but only through quiet side streets, so as not to draw crowds of onlookers.”And we had to turn back, as they say, having come away empty-handed…
The trial took place a few days later. At the end of his closing argument, Durov said:
“People look down on pigs for no good reason. I feel insulted on behalf of all pigs when I hear people who aren’t clean being called pigs. That’s deeply unfair.” A pig, strange as it may seem at first glance, wallows in the mud precisely out of a sense of cleanliness; it tries to use that mud to wipe away the germs on its body. Its short neck hinders its freedom of movement, and it cannot scratch itself like other animals; give it a different upbringing. I am accused in vain. I want to prove that pigs can be useful by transporting food, just as dogs transport milk abroad. I want to prove that pigs are useful not only after their death, when they end up on a human’s capricious table, but also while they are alive…
The magistrate cut Durov off before he could say anything more and, to the applause of those present, handed down an acquittal. But it wasn’t just this story that made Vladimir Leonidovich memorable to our city. Durov had a baby elephant named Baby. When they began unloading a train car full of animals at the freight station in Kharkiv, Baby flatly refused to come out. After several unsuccessful attempts, the handler Nikolai—driven to the end of his patience by the animal’s stubbornness—recalled an old trick used by circus trainers and began pricking the elephant with a sharp awl and dragging it by the ear with a steel hook. The elephant, of course, bellowed in pain, but stood rooted to the spot. Blood appeared on his ear. Eight more attendants rushed to Nikolai’s aid, armed with long iron poles, pitchforks, and clubs: they all beat poor Baby, but the elephant trumpeted and wouldn’t budge. After they reached Durov by phone—he was already in town—he immediately rushed to the train station.
The gentle sound of the trainer’s voice and his soothing touch calmed the elephant; he stepped out of the train car and followed Vladimir Leonidovich like a dog all the way to the circus. A few days later, the big-eared performer gave a brilliant performance on the Kharkiv stage. However, he then suddenly refused to perform and, instead of going on stage, headed out onto the street. Afraid of being crushed by the giant, the attendants—unable to stop him—simply ran after the animal. Durov, dressed in a clown costume and with his face painted for the show, couldn’t follow him. When he came out on stage, he said, “Kids, my Baby has a tummyache and went to the pharmacy by himself to get some medicine.” The joke worked, and they believed it—after all, a person can’t laugh and joke in the face of danger. After the show ended, Durov changed his clothes and rushed off in pursuit of the runaway. By that time, the elephant had already caused quite a stir throughout Kharkiv with his escapade. Without ever losing his way, Baby strode confidently—as if he’d been living in our city for a long time—toward the freight yard. Its gates, bolts, and lock proved no obstacle to the elephant and were soon flung open in all directions. Then, after crossing the entire yard and circling the long stone warehouses, the animal headed straight for a familiar platform, to the spot where his railcar had previously been parked. However, the railcars had already been moved to another track. Not finding them, the elephant stopped as if nothing had happened. That’s where Durov found him. Later, while investigating the reasons for the elephant’s escape, Vladimir Leonidovich learned that, just before going on stage, Baby had been terrified by a broom because he had never seen one before. Where else could he have run but to the railcar?!
One of Durov’s favorite dogs was a very intelligent dachshund mix named Zapyatayka. After giving birth to her first litter of puppies, she lost the use of her hind legs. Naturally, her owner took it upon himself to treat her. While on tour in Kharkiv, Durov discovered a tumor under his beloved dog’s paw and took her to the Veterinary Institute. In his book *Grandpa Durov’s Animals*, he recalls this story:
“I beg you, Professor, don’t be so formal with my dog—she’s no ordinary dog. Please save her.”
The professor smirked; he was apparently in a hurry and said impatiently,
“All dogs are just dogs.”
Unfortunately, the tumor turned out to be malignant, and the dog died a few days later.
During his performances, Vladimir Leonidovich Durov often joked about political topics and mocked those in power. For this, he was repeatedly expelled from various provinces. I’d very much like to recall two stories on this subject involving his younger brother, Anatoly Leonidovich Durov, who was no less famous as a clown and animal trainer.
One of the most popular circus performers in the empire at that time, he was not afraid to openly criticize officials and police officers during his performances. In his book *In Life and in the Arena*, published in 1914, he wrote honestly about himself on the very first page: “I am both better and worse than what people say about me.”
In the chapter titled “Something Political,” Durov Jr. recalls a very interesting incident related to this topic:
“My ‘promoter’ has just returned from Kharkiv; his job was to travel from city to city and advertise my arrival. For the most part, the posters read: ‘Durov Is Coming,’ ‘The Famous Anatoly Durov Is Coming,’ and so on. The small flyers, half a sheet of standard paper, were worded roughly as follows:
So here I am,
and I’ve brought a pig with me.
Goats, hares, foxes,
roosters, and rats.
A full house
awaits us, and a huge sensation.
Even the Moors
have bestowed laurels upon me.
I’ve been a hit with all
peoples.
I’ll captivate
and entertain
everyone with a host of puns—
Anatoly Durov.About ten to fifteen thousand of these flyers were distributed in every city, and to save money, they were ordered in large quantities.
“So, how’s it going?” I asked the manager.
“Well, Anatoly Leonidovich, I just got here yesterday, and something funny happened to me.” “What happened?”
“Well, you see, when I was leaving Kharkiv, I got on a train car.” A porter carried several bundles in after me, each containing several thousand leaflets. Two men in plain clothes sat down next to me, and I struck up a conversation with them. But it struck me as odd: no matter where I went, one of them always followed me. So I arrived in Elisavetgrad, handed the leaflets to a cab driver, and drove up to the “Passage” hotel, where I’d stayed before. No sooner had I entered the courtyard than I was surrounded by my fellow train passengers, led by a bailiff and police officers. They all kindly helped me carry my luggage to my room.
“What did you bring?” asked the bailiff. “Open it up!”
“It’s too early for that!” I replied. “I’ll post them, and you’ll read them.”
“No, you certainly won’t get away with that!” I heard, and in an instant the police officers cut the strings with their sabers; bundles of leaflets scattered across the floor. One of my companions grabbed the leaflets, and the bailiff read aloud: “Here I am, and I’ve brought a pig with me.” Everyone exchanged glances.
“Damn it, and I came all the way from Kharkiv for this!” said the gentleman in exasperation—who, as I later learned, turned out to be an undercover agent…
In the first half of the 20th century, a famous clown and animal trainer became a highly unwelcome figure in our region. The reason was that on December 16, 1907, in Slavyansk at Tyurin’s circus, during a performance, the nobleman Anatoly Leonidovich Durov delivered speeches that were offensive to the government, namely:
…Abroad, people aren’t beaten with whips, but here it’s the opposite. Abroad, people aren’t shot at with cannons, but here it’s the opposite. Abroad, idiots aren’t put in charge, but here it’s the opposite. Abroad, they’re careful with their ammunition, but here it’s the opposite…
On March 31, the governor reviewed the circumstances of the case and determined that Durov’s presence in the Kharkiv Governorate was detrimental to public order and peace.
However, as early as October 16, 1908, the ban on Durov’s stay in our lands was lifted.
More than 100 years have passed, but little has changed. After all, Anatoly Leonidovich was right: “But with us, it’s the opposite…”
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