Vladislav Khodasevich
(1886-1939)
Джон Боттом
1
Джон Боттом славный был
портной,
Его весь Рэстон знал.
Кроил он складно, прочно шил
И дорого не брал.
2
В опрятном домике он жил
С любимою женой
И то иглой, то утюгом
Работал день деньской.
3
Заказы Боттому несли
Порой издалека.
Была привинчена к дверям
Чугунная рука.
4
Тук-тук - заказчик
постучит,
Откроет Мэри дверь, -
Бери-ка, Боттом, карандаш,
Записывай да мерь.
5
Но раз... Иль это только
так
Почудилось слегка? -
Как будто стукнула сильней
Чугунная рука.
6
Проклятье вечное тебе,
Четырнадцатый год!..
Потом и Боттому пришел,
Как всем другим, черед.
7
И с верной Мэри целый день
Прощался верный Джон
И целый день на домик свой
Глядел со всех сторон.
8
И Мэри так ему мила,
И домик так хорош,
Да что тут делать? Все равно:
С собой не заберешь.
9
Взял Боттом карточку жены
Да прядь ее волос,
И через день на континент
Его корабль увез.
10
Сражался храбро Джон, как все,
Как долг и честь велят,
А в ночь на третье февраля
Попал в него снаряд.
11
Осколок грудь ему пробил,
Он умер в ту же ночь,
И руку правую его
Снесло снарядом прочь.
12
Германцы, выбив наших вон,
Нахлынули в окоп,
И Джона утром унесли
И положили в гроб.
13
И руку мертвую нашли
Оттуда за версту
И положили на груди...
Одна беда – не ту.
14
Рука-то плотничья была,
В мозолях. Бедный Джон!
В такой руке держать иглу
Никак не смог бы он.
15
И возмутилася тогда
Его душа в раю:
"К чему мне плотничья рука?
Отдайте мне мою!
16
Я ею двадцать лет кроил
И на любой фасон!
На ней колечко с бирюзой,
Я без нее не Джон!
17
Пускай я грешник и злодей,
А плотник был святой, –
Но невозможно мне никак
Лежать с его рукой!"
18
Так на блаженных высотах
Всё сокрушался Джон.
Но хором ангельской хвалы
Был голос заглушен.
19
А между тем его жене
Полковник написал,
Что Джон сражался как герой
И без вести пропал.
20
Два года плакала вдова:
"О Джон, мой милый
Джон!
Мне и могилы не найти,
Где прах твой погребен!.. "
21
Ослабли немцы наконец.
Их били мы как моль.
И вот – Версальский, строгий мир
Им прописал король.
22
А к той могиле, где лежал
Неведомый герой,
Однажды маршалы пришли
Нарядною толпой.
23
И вырыт был достойный Джон,
И в Лондон отвезен,
И под салют, под шум знамен
В аббатстве погребен.
24
И сам король за гробом шел,
И плакал весь народ.
И подивился Джон с небес
На весь такой почет.
25
И даже участью своей
Гордиться стал слегка.
Одно печалило его,
Одна беда – рука!
26
Рука-то плотничья была,
В мозолях... Бедный Джон!
В такой руке держать иглу
Никак не смог бы он.
27
И много скорбных матерей
И много верных жен
К его могиле каждый день
Ходили на поклон.
28
И только Мэри нет как нет.
Проходит круглый год –
В далеком Рэстоне она
Всё так же слезы льет:
29
"Покинул Мэри ты свою,
О Джон, жестокий Джон!
Ах, и могилы не найти,
Где прах твой
погребен!"
30
Ее соседи в Лондон шлют,
В аббатство, где один
Лежит безвестный, общий всем
Отец, и муж, и сын.
31
Но плачет Мэри: "Не хочу!
Я Джону лишь верна!
К чему мне общий и ничей?
Я Джонова жена!"
32
Всё это видел Джон с небес
И возроптал опять.
И пред апостолом Петром
Решился он предстать.
33
И так сказал: "Апостол
Петр,
Слыхал я стороной,
Что сходят мертвые к живым
Полночною порой.
34
Так приоткрой свои врата,
Дай мне хоть как-нибудь
Явиться призраком к жене
И только ей шепнуть,
35
Что это я, что это я,
Не кто-нибудь, а Джон
Под безымянною плитой
В аббатстве погребен.
36
Что это я, что это я
Лежу в гробу глухом –
Со мной постылая рука,
Земля во рту моем".
37
Ключи встряхнул апостол
Петр
И строго молвил так:
"То – души грешные. Тебе ж –
Никак нельзя, никак".
38
И молча, с дикою тоской
Пошел Джон Боттом прочь,
И всё томится он с тех пор,
И рай ему невмочь.
39
В селенье света дух его
Суров и омрачен,
И на торжественный свой гроб
Смотреть не хочет он.
1926
d
Literal
Translation
John
Bottom
John Bottom was a great tailor,
All of Reston knew him.
He cut his cloth smoothly, he sewed soundly,
And did not overcharge.
In a neat little house he lived
With his beloved wife,
And worked all day long,
Now with a needle, now with an iron.
Orders were brought to Bottom,
Sometimes from afar.
A cast-iron hand
Was screwed to the door.
Knock-knock, a customer knocks,
Mary opens the door,
“Bottom, get your pencil;
Measure it and write it down.”
But once . . . Or did it only
Kind of seem that way?
[It was] as if the iron hand
Knocked harder.
Eternal damnation to you,
Year 1914!
Then to Bottom came,
As to all others, his turn.
And all day long the faithful John
Said his goodbyes to faithful Mary,
And all day long he gazed from all sides
At his little home.
Mary was so dear to him,
And the little house was so fine,
But what could be done? For all the same
You couldn’t take them with you.
Bottom took with him a photo of his wife
And a lock of her hair,
And within a day a ship
Had taken him over to the continent.
John fought bravely, like them all,
As duty and honor demand,
But in the early morning hours of February 3
A piece of shrapnel hit him.
The shrapnel pierced his chest,
He died that same night,
And that fragment of a shell
Tore off his right arm.
Having beaten back our guys,
The Germans scurried back to their trenches,
And in the morning John was carried away
And laid in a grave.
We found a dead arm
Some mile or so from there,
And placed in on his chest …
Only one problem: the wrong arm.
That hand was that of a carpenter,
All callused. Poor John!
No way he could hold a needle
With such a hand.
Then his soul in paradise
Spoke up indignantly:
“What do I need with the arm of a carpenter?
Give me back my own!
“With that hand I cut cloth for twenty years,
To any kind of style!
On it [the arm] I had a ringlet of turquoise,
Without it I’m not John!
“Let’s say I was a sinner and scoundrel,
And that carpenter was a saint,
Still it’s just utterly impossible
For me to lie here with his arm!”
So went on John with plaintive cries,
Up in the blessed heights.
But his voice was drowned out
By a choir [singing] angelic praise.
Meanwhile his wife
Wrote a letter to the colonel,
That John had fought like a hero
And had disappeared without a trace.
The widow wept for two years:
“O John, my dearest John!
I cannot even find the grave
Where your remains are buried!”
At last the Germans weakened.
We beat them to a pulp.
And then came the Treaty of Versailles, a harsh
peace,
The king made them sign it.
And one day to that grave
Where lay our unknown hero,
A lot of field marshals came
A mob of officers in full dress uniforms.
And worthy John was exhumed
And taken off to London,
And with fireworks, the flapping of banners
Was buried in an abbey.
And the king himself walked behind the coffin,
And all the people wept.
From up in heaven John was amazed
To be so esteemed.
He even began, at least a little,
To take pride in his fate.
One thing saddened him though,
That one misfortune—the arm!
That hand of the carpenter
Was all calloused. Poor John!
In such a hand no way he could ever
Hold a needle.
And many grieving mothers
And many faithful wives
Came each day to bow down
At his grave.
And only Mary never came,
A whole year passed;
In far-away Reston she
Went on shedding tears:
“You’ve abandoned your Mary,
O John, cruel John!
Alas, even the grave is not to be found
Where your remains are buried!”
Her neighbors told her to go to London,
To the abbey, where alone
Lies an unknown, common to all
Father, husband and son.
But Mary wept, “I don’t want to!
I’m true only to John!
What do I need with a generic, nobody’s husband?
I’m John’s wife!”
John saw all this from the heavens
And murmured his plaints again.
And then he decided to
Appeal to the Apostle Peter.
And so he said, “Apostle Peter,
I’ve heard rumors that
The dead can go down and visit
The living in the midnight hour.
“So open your gates a crack
And let me at least somehow
Appear as a ghost to my wife
And just whisper to her,
“That it’s me, it’s me,
Not somebody, but John
Who is buried in that abbey
Beneath the tombstone of the Unknown.
“That it’s me, it’s me
Who lies in that lonely grave,
And with me a hateful arm,
And earth in my mouth.”
The Apostle Peter rattled his keys
And sternly said:
“There’s sinful souls down there;
No way you’re allowed, no way.”
And silently, feeling deeply saddened,
John Bottom went away,
And since then he languishes all the time,
And cannot stand paradise.
In the Kingdom of Light his spirit
Feels grim and oppressed,
And he doesn’t care to look
Upon the triumphant spectacle of his grave.
d
Literary
Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie
The Ballad of John
Bottom’s Arm
John Bottom was a tailor fine,
In Reston known as such.
He cut cloth well, he stitched in line,
And did not charge too much.
He made his home a tidy house,
There lived his loving wife withal,
And through the day at peace with spouse
He plied his needle, iron, awl.
From far and wide to him they came
With things to sew, restore.
A hand of iron, his badge of fame,
Was fastened to the door.
Knock-knock, a client at the door,
And Mary sees him in;
“Bottom, dear, here’s one more chore,
So get to pinning, measuring.”
But once . . . such fancies we ignore,
(It only seemed that way?),
The knock of iron hand on door
Presaged and augured skies of gray.
May you be damned and go to hell,
Infernal 1914 year!
Conscription loomed, its axe then fell,
On Bottom as on others near.
And all day long the faithful John
Said his goodbyes to Mary true,
And all day long he gazed upon
His home and hearth with woeful rue.
So dear to him this house and grounds,
So precious Mary sweet,
But when the bugle call resounds
You march to their drumbeat.
He took a photograph of wife,
A lock of her fair hair,
And then a ship bore off his life
To France and battle’s blare.
John fought the good fight, fearlessly,
He fought for honor, dutybound,
But in the murk on 2/03
A random shell his body found.
The shrapnel pierced him through the chest,
And ripped away an arm,
He lay with mortal wound in breast;
That night he bought the farm.
The Krauts entrenched repulsed our fight,
Though we were staunch and brave;
We bore John off at morning’s light
And laid him in a grave.
Some kilo off, plus just a bit,
We found an arm that random lay;
Along with John we buried it,
The wrong, mistaken amputee!
A joiner’s hand on that arm were,
In calluses, o woe!
No way poor John with such a paw
Could plie a needle, sew.
And then his soul in heaven grim
Waxed sore indignantly:
“What use to me a joiner’s limb?
Give me the arm that goes with me!
“For twenty years with that same hand
I cut and measured fabric fine!
A turquoise ringlet my armband,
That hand’s what made me genuine!
“Let’s say I was a reprobate, to sin a
devotee,
And that same joiner was a saint,
That his arm’s mine it still can’t be,
No way that’s fair, it ain’t!”
So wailed our John his plaintive woes
Up in his new home on Cloud Nine,
But angels’ songs in glory’s throes
Drowned out his grievous whine.
And meanwhile faithful Mary wrote
To John’s C.O. on Victory Day,
Said John had fought “his best,” unquote,
And vanished then, gone M.I.A.
For two years did the widow rave,
“O John, who went a-soldiering,
I cannot even find the grave
Where your dear flesh lies moldering.”
At last the Germans’ gumption ceased,
We beat them to a yeasty pulp,
And at Versailles they signed the peace,
Although the terms made them gasp-gulp.
And one day to that forlorn grave
Where lay our hero inconnu,
A coterie of big brass came
A hotshot, decked-out retinue.
And worthy-of-the-honor John
Was disentombed, back home transferred;
With much to-do (the king looked on),
In abbey his remains interred.
As I just said the king was there,
And all the hoi polloi a-blubber.
As John looked down from heaven fair,
He thought, All this for one poor bugger?
A touch of pride lit up his brain,
At least a modicum, could be,
But still one fact caused him much pain:
That wrong, fallacious amputee!
The joiner’s hand was calloused, tough,
O woe is he, poor John!
A needle in a hand so rough
No way he’d ever lay hands on.
And many were the mothers sad,
Many were the wives so true
Who came each day in anguish clad
To bow down at his grave with rue.
But Mary through a whole long year
To that famed abbey never came;
In far-off Reston, Lincolnshire,
She wept, bereavement did declaim.
“Oh, John, cruel John, you’ve left your love,
O woe is me, your Mary true!
For all I know, poor mourning dove,
Your grave could be in Timbuktu!”
“To London,” said her neighbors, “go,
To abbey where the Unknown lies;
A soldier, though he’s named ‘John Doe,’
Is each combatant concretized.”
But Mary cried, “That’s not my loved one!
To John alone, my John I’m true!
What’s he to me, some unknown someone?
I’m Johnny’s wife while skies are blue!”
From his perch high on Cloud Nine’s heights
John watched his wife with sympathy.
That’s when he thought it meet and right
To plead his case at Peter’s knee.
He said to him, “Apostle Pete,
They say that we ’neath heaven’s bower
Can visit earth, our dear helpmeet,
Converse with her at midnight hour.
“So let me squeeze through your front gate
And then I’ll somehow find a way
To visit her in ghostly shape
And whisper one thing, if I may,
“That I’m the one who’s there, it’s me,
Her own dear John beneath that stone,
In Londontown, on abbey lea,
In sepulchre that’s marked ‘Unknown.’
“That I’m the one who’s there, it’s me
Who molders in that grave sans mirth,
With vile arm beside my knee,
And mouth stopped up with sand and earth.”
His keys he rattled, did dour Pete,
To John with frown he sternly quoth:
“On earth of turpitude it reeks;
You’re not allowed down there, by troth!”
Pete’s verdict hit poor Johnny hard,
In sorrow deep John slinked away,
And since that time his soul feels charred,
And Paradise is sheer dismay,
Although he dwells in heaven’s light,
To bleakness is his soul a slave,
And never does he cast his sight
Down on the glory of his grave.
d
Translator’s Comments
(U.R. Bowie)
Here we have one more poem on the theme of amputated arms, which seemed to be much on the mind of Khodasevich in the 1920’s. See (on this blog) my commentary and translation, “The Ballad of the One-Armed Man With Pregnant Wife.”
The poem “John Bottom,” although not designated a ballad, seems more deserving of that title than two others given the title “Ballad”: the one about the one-armed man with pregnant wife and the one I’ve translated as “Orpheus Ascendant.” Another translator titles the latter as “The Ballad of the Heavy Lyre.”
Of these three ballads “John Bottom” is also the one that best fits in the category of light verse. Its irony, simple rhymes and common meter seem to be suggesting, “I am not to be taken seriously.” Perhaps the oddest thing about this poem is its ending.
Khodasevich leads us to believe that such a bagatelle might have a happy ending, but such is not the case. The reader, at least one reader (me), is left feeling disappointed, and a bit heavy-laden when the thing ends with (1) John’s never managing to let his true love and wife Mary know that he is the one buried in the tomb of the unknown soldier, and (2) John’s attempts to redress his grievance in the next world (his having been buried with the wrong amputated arm) proving fruitless.
On the whole, the poet’s obsession with the theme of amputated limbs comes out looking rather grim and morbid. The writer of fiction is the god of his works, but omniscient Khodasevich is not a very benevolent and caring god when it comes to poems about men with missing arms. In “The Ballad of the One-Armed Man With Pregnant Wife” his narrator’s attitude toward the one-armed man in the cinema is less than generous, to put it mildly, and in “The Ballad of John Bottom’s Arm” he treats the theme with light irony but ends the tale on a sour note.
