de Kiriko, "Metaphysical Interior with the Arm of David" (fragment, 1968)
Vladislav Khodasevich
(1886-1939)
Баллада
(Мне невозможно быть собой...) Владислав
Ходасевич
Мне невозможно быть собой,
Мне хочется сойти с ума,
Когда с беременной женой
Идет безрукий в синема.
Мне лиру ангел подает,
Мне мир прозрачен, как стекло,
А он сейчас разинет рот
Пред идиотствами Шарло.
За что свой незаметный век
Влачит в неравенстве таком
Беззлобный, смирный человек
С опустошенным рукавом?
Мне хочется сойти с ума,
Когда с беременной женой
Безрукий прочь из синема
Идет по улице домой.
Ремянный бич я достаю
С протяжным окриком тогда
И ангелов наотмашь бью,
И ангелы сквозь провода
Взлетают в городскую высь.
Так с венетийских площадей
Пугливо голуби неслись
От ног возлюбленной моей.
Тогда, прилично шляпу сняв,
К безрукому я подхожу,
Тихонько трогаю рукав
И речь такую завожу:
"Pardon, monsieur, когда в аду
За жизнь надменную мою
Я казнь достойную найду,
А вы с супругою в раю
Спокойно будете витать,
Юдоль земную созерцать,
Напевы дивные внимать,
Крылами белыми сиять,-
Тогда с прохладнейших высот
Мне сбросьте перышко одно:
Пускай снежинкой упадет
На грудь спаленную оно".
Стоит безрукий предо мной,
И улыбается слегка,
И удаляется с женой,
Не приподнявши котелка.
1925
d
Literal Translation
A Ballad
I’m at a loss which way to turn,
I feel like going out of my mind,
When, along with his pregnant wife,
A one-armed man walks into the cinema.
An angel hands me a lyre,
My world is as transparent as glass,
While in just a minute now he’ll gape, open-mouthed,
At the idiocies of Charlot [Charlie Chaplin].
Why does this quiet, mind-mannered man,
With the ravaged sleeve
And so sorely disadvantaged,
Trudge through his age unnoticed?
I feel like going out of my mind,
When, along with his pregnant wife,
The one-armed man leaves the cinema
And sets off along the street for home.
Then I take a leather strap,
And with a lengthy bellow
I have at my angels with backhand swipes,
And the angels fly up through the wires
Into the municipal heavens.
That’s the same way that the spooked pigeons
Rose up from the squares of Venice,
Beneath the feet of my beloved.
Then, having properly doffed my hat,
I walk up to the one-armed man,
Softy touch his sleeve
And pronounce the following speech:
“Pardon, monsieur, when I’m down in hell,
For my insolent life
Having found a just punishment,
And you, with your spouse, in heavenly paradise,
“Are calmly hovering about,
Contemplating the earthly vale of tears,
Hearkening unto marvelous melodies,
With your white wings gleaming,
“Then from the fresh cool heights
Thrown me down a single feather;
Or let a snowflake fall
On my scorched breast.”
The one-armed man stands in front of me,
And he faintly smiles,
And he retires with his wife,
Not having doffed his derby.
d
Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
The Ballad of the One-Armed Man with the
Pregnant Wife
What’s this? Am I in what they call a life?
Are we in France or in Nineveh?
A one-armed man with pregnant wife
Just walked into the cinema.
The angels give me lyres to play,
My world’s pellucid, clear as glass;
And, meanwhile, this guy gapes away,
While Charlie Chaplin shows his ass.
How come this twerp with ravaged sleeve,
A man of peace, of no small charm,
Can trudge so calmly, unaggrieved
Through worlds that take away an arm?
This can’t be here; it’s Nineveh,
Is what I think when with his wife
The unarmed leaves the cinema,
And heads for home to live his life.
That’s when I shriek, my molars gnash,
I take my leather belt in hand,
My angels’ backs I whip and lash;
My angels scatter, then disband,
Fly high into the city skies.
Reminds me of the way spooked doves,
On St. Mark’s Square did flutter-flies
Beneath the feet of my best love.
Then graciously I doffed my hat
And walked up to the unarmed man;
First touched his sleeve, tried brief chitchat,
Then made this speech in trite deadpan:
“Pardon, monsieur, when I’m in hell,
For my disgusting sins requited,
While you, with spouse, in heaven dwell,
(‘Tis true, my life is sore benighted),
“You’ll be aloft, immured in grace,
An eye trained on the sins below,
With no vexations, not a trace,
Your white wings wreathed in hallowed glow,
“Then from your perch on cloudlet blest
Please throw me down a feather light;
Or, soothing to my scorched, burnt breast,
Let one small snowflake land, alight.”
The man with one arm looked at me,
A grin upon his phizog soft,
Departed then his wife and he;
His derby hat he left undoffed.
d
Translation by Michael Frayn
Ballad
Oh, quietly mad I’d like to be —
I can’t keep calm to save my life —
When at the cinema I see
A one-armed man with pregnant wife.
To me a harp will angels bring,
The world grows limpid as a pool —
But open-mouthed he’ll sit and grin
While Charlie Chaplin plays the fool.
This harmless man, unmarked by fate,
With empty sleeve and swelling wife,
For what, in such lopsided state,
Does he drag out his modest life?
Oh, quietly mad I’d like to go
When afterwards out in the street —
Still with his pregnant wife in tow —
The one-armed man again I meet.
I go and get a leather whip
And then, with long-drawn warning cry,
I give the angels just one flip,
And upwards through the wires they fly
To perch high up above the street.
So pigeons once in every square
Of Venice scattered at our feet
To see my love come walking there.
Politely taking off my hat,
Up to the one-armed man I go.
His empty sleeve I lightly tap,
And thereupon address him so:
“Mon dieu, monsieur, when I in hell
Am served the way my haughty life
Has merited so richly well,
And you in heaven with your wife
Your shining snow-white wings array
And on them peacefully upsway,
And wondrous melodies assay,
And this sad vale of tears survey —
Then from those chilly heights remote,
I beg you, let one feather go,
That it may like a snowflake float
Down on my burning breast below.”
The one-armed man he smiles slightly,
And ventures no reply to that.
Goes off, rather impolitely,
Not bothering to raise his hat.
d
Translator’s Comments
(U.R. Bowie)
Most poems, you read them, and you have at least some idea
what they’re “about.” Not this one. Lots of things are puzzling about this
“Ballad.”
Not so the other poem that Khodasevich gave the same
title four years previously. In the other “Ballad”—the original and translation
are posted next to this one on my blog—we have the poet bewailing his hopeless
and desperate life, feeling sorry for himself and for all the objects in the
room. He begins consoling himself, rocking back and forth, and suddenly the
gift of poetry comes to him.
At first the words don’t count for much, but then the
music weaves itself into his song, takes on artistic force, and the poet is
pierced by the sharp blade of creative art. In the next few stanzas the poet
rises above his miserable existence, someone puts a “heavy lyre” in his hands,
and he sings his poetry. The poem ends with the appearance of Orpheus, perhaps
summoned up by the creative efforts of the poet.
So there it is, the theme of creative art, of how
inspiration can raise a genuine artist above the circumstances of his less than
ideal everyday existence.
Now for the second “Ballad,” the one about the one-armed
man with the pregnant wife. We begin in the first stanza with the poet’s
astonishment, and even indignation, when he sees that man and his wife walk
into a Paris cinema. The second stanza introduces the theme of art, and seems
to contrast the poet’s high art with the lowly antics of Charlie Chaplin on
screen. Once again, the lyre stands as emblematic of high art. “An angel hands
me a lyre,” so I’m the poet who, by way of my verses, sings the kind of art sent
down from the gods. Note that in the first “Ballad” this was a “heavy lyre,” so
that the tone of indignation here may have something to do with the theme of an
artist’s difficult path.
What’s hard to comprehend is what seems the poet’s
disdain, even anger, for the man missing an arm. We would expect in a poem
describing such a cripple at least a semblance of sympathy. After all, a man
with one arm in the Paris of 1925 probably lost it in the Great War. But there
is no sympathy on the part of the poet. Why?
Does the poet see this ordinary man as the antithesis
of himself, an artist? As if he were saying, “This guy gapes at banal art, at
Charlie Chaplin’s antics, while I, a poet, concern myself with lofty matters.” But
something to consider: the poet himself is in that cinema as well, watching
that Chaplin movie. The poet, nonetheless, seems offended by the very presence
of the one-armed man in his world. When the man with his pregnant wife leaves
the cinema, the poet expresses the same feelings that he expressed when he
first saw the man: “I watch him leave the cinema and I feel like going out of
my mind.”
At this point we have another puzzling development.
The poet takes a leather strap and begins going at his angels, those who, we
presume, act something like muses to him; they help him compose his creative
art. He drives them away, and they fly up on trolley wires into the skies. This
is followed by a stanza that doesn’t even seem to belong in this poem,
comparing the way the routed angels flew up to the way pigeons once had
fluttered up in Venice, under the heels of the poet’s “beloved”—who, we
presume, is his wife of that time, Nina Berberova. Why bring the beloved into
this poem? Puzzling.
The rest of the poem describes how the poet behaves, more
than strangely, and quite insolently, out on the street. He walks up to the one-armed
man and engages him in a one-way conversation. His words dripping sarcasm, he
tells the man that he, surely, will make it to heaven when he dies, while he,
the poet, will pay for his sinful life by being sent to hell. He begs, again
ironically and insolently, for the one-armed man to send him down a single
feather to hell, or a snowflake to soothe his burnt breast. Quite naturally and
justifiably, the man ventures no reply to this bizarre behavior; he and his
wife depart without saying a word, and that’s the end of the poem.
So what’s going on? Surely it’s not enough to assert
that here we have a dichotomy, between genuine high art (represented by the
poet), and low bourgeois art, Charlie Chaplin’s art (appreciated by the common
man). While positively portrayed in the other poem called “Ballad”—where the
poet as creator is shown triumphantly asserting the power of art, represented
by Orpheus—the figure of the poet here in the second “Ballad” is portrayed
negatively, as unfeeling and arrogant. No reader of the poem can miss this. But
why does the poet and narrator act the way he does?
Something about this poem reminds me of Dostoevsky,
the way he could delve into the darkest spots in the human soul and find
disturbing truths. Although the sight of a man missing an arm inspires pity, it
may also dredge up unpleasantries. When we come upon a crippled or retarded
person, despite our wish to feel sympathetic, we may experience aggressive,
repellent feelings. Our insipient sympathy is quelled by some deep antagonism. Not
entirely alien to human nature is the way a pack of dogs sets upon the one dog
hopping on three legs, and rips out his throat.
Then again, one of the most ticklish things about the
human psyche is its obsession with sexuality. The man’s wife is pregnant, and
this is somehow offensive. We do not like to conjure up in our minds the scene
that led to this pregnancy. There’s something unpleasant, even base, about imagining
a man with one arm engaged in copulation. The scene touches spots in our soul
that we do not want touched. Our reaction, in spite of our better angels, is
indignation, anger.
That’s what I think this poem is about. Not about art
or the creative process at all, but about how we—in the baseness of our worst
instincts—can sometimes drive away “the better angels of our nature” and behave
with our fellow man and woman in unconscionable ways.
d
Online, in Russian, there is an extensive discussion of
this poem between two literary critics, Lev Oborin and Varvara Babitskaja. They
delve into a number of ancillary issues and bring in parallels with other
Russian poetry. Airing out in detail Khodasevich’s attitude toward the cinema,
they also describe his penurious life in Paris emigration and his relations
with Nina Berberova. They even speculate which Charlie Chaplin film the
protagonists of the poem watched that day.
They nominate the film “The Kid” (1921), which
features the central character’s dream in which he goes to heaven and becomes
an angel. Charlie wears wings and flies around. There is also one scene in
which a feather flutters down, and there is violence amidst the angels—an angel
policeman shoots at an angel bum.
Some discussion is devoted to the missing arm or arms.
The word bezrukij, by the way, is oddly ambiguous in Russian; it can
mean “one-armed,” or “armless,” and only the context will tell which. Is the
man in the Khodasevich poem missing both arms or only one? There are several hints
that he is one-armed, and I have translated the poem accordingly. I note that
in his translation Michael Frayn did the same. The third stanza refers to only
one “ravaged sleeve,” and, after all, the poet asks him to throw down a feather
from heaven, and he needs an arm for that!
Apparently, the subject of missing arms was much on the
mind of Khodasevich. In 1926, only a year after the second “Ballad” poem was
published, he wrote a poem titled “John Bottom,” about a British tailor killed
in WW I. This poem, in fact, is much more worthy of the title, “A Ballad” than
either of the two poems discussed above, but it did not receive that title.
When killed by a shell Bottom loses his arm. It is blown off, but someone
else’s arm is buried with him. Although given the honor of being buried in the
Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Bottom finds himself in heaven with the wrong arm,
that of a carpenter. Unable to sew in heaven with the carpenter’s callused
hand, the tailor Bottom finds the afterlife a letdown.
d
Here’s part of
a letter that Khodasevich wrote in Nov., 1922, shortly after he emigrated to
the West, to the literary critic Mikhail Gershenzon, a close friend: “I have
the feeling as if I have sat for a long time on a soft divan, very comfortably,
but then my legs have swollen up; I need to stand up and cannot . . . Here [in
emigration] I’m not exactly myself, I’m minus something left in Russia, and
it’s large and itchy, like an amputated leg that you still have an intolerable
sensation of, but that you cannot replace . . . I’ve bought myself a very nice
artificial leg made of cork . . . I dance on it (i.e., write verses), so that it
would seem to be not noticeable; [but] I know that on my own leg I would dance
differently, maybe even worse, but in my own way, the way that’s natural for my
leg to dance, but unnatural for a cork leg . . . So far things are gruesome.”
В ноябре 1922 года поэт, лишь недавно оказавшийся в эмиграции,
писал своему близкому другу литературоведу Михаилу Гершензону: «У меня
бывает такое чувство, что я сидел-сидел на мягком диване, очень
удобно, — а ноги-то отекли, надо встать — не могу.
<...> Я здесь <в эмиграции> не равен себе, а я здесь
минус что-то, оставленное в России, при том болящее и зудящее, как
отрезанная нога, которую чувствую нестерпимо отчетливо, а возместить не могу
ничем. И в той или иной степени, с разными изменениями, это есть
или будет у всех. И у Вас. Я купил себе очень хорошую
пробковую ногу <...> танцую на ней (т. е. пишу стихи), так
что как будто и незаметно, — а знаю, что на своей я бы
танцевал иначе, может быть, даже хуже, но по-своему, как мне полагается
при моем сложении, а не при пробковом. <...> Пока что —
жутко». (From Arzamas Academy Materials online; the article, by Pavel Uspensky,
is titled “Emigration as a Parade of Freaks: Why Everyone in the Later Poetry
of Khodasevich Is Maimed.”)
