Alexander Blok (1880-1921)
Alexander Alexandrovich Blok was born in St Petersburg. His father was a professor of law in Warsaw, his mother a literary translator and his maternal grandfather the rector of St Petersburg University. His parents separated soon after his birth and he spent much of his childhood at Shakhmatovo, his maternal grand-father's estate near Moscow. There he discovered the religious philosopher Vladimir Solovyov and the poetry of Tyutchev and Fet, both of whom were still surprisingly little known. Shakhmaovo would remain for Blok the image of a lost paradise.
In 1903 Blok married Lyubov Mendeleyeva, the daughter of Dmitry Mendeleyev, the chemist who created the periodic table. It was to Lyubov he dedicated his poem-cycle “Verses about the beautifu1 Lady” (1904). For well over a year, however, the marriage remained unconsummated. Eventually, Lyubov seduced him, but this did not help; Blok appears to have felt that sex was humiliating to women. The couple remained together, but their marriage was largely asexual; both had affairs with others.
The idealism of Blok's first book yielded to a recognition of the tension between this idealism and reality — and the Beautiful Lady yielded her place to the more louche figure of the Stranger. 'The Stranger', written when Lyubov was close to leaving Blok for his fellow-poet Andrey Bely, is one of Blok's most famous poems. Here we present it in two translations: English and Scots. As well as some of his best-known love poems, and poems about the Muse, we include two poems in free verse, both imbued with a warmth and a gentle humour lot generally associated with Blok.
The greatest of Blok's later poems are meditations on Russia's destiny. 'The Twelve' (1918) is an ambiguous welcome to the October Revolution. In staccato rhythms and colloquial language, the poem evokes a winter blizzard in revolutionary Petrograd; twelve Red Guards marching through the streets seem like Christ's Twelve Apostles. Many of Blok's fellow-writers hated this poem for its apparent acceptance of the Revolution
Most Bolsheviks, on the other hand, disliked the poem for its mysticism. Blok's biographer Avril Pyman writes, `Blok had spent two months prior to his composition of "The Twelve" walkingthe streets, and the snatches of conversation written into the poem, the almostcinematic, angled glimpses of hurrying figures slipping and sliding over or behind drifts or standing rooted in indecision as the storm rages around them work as in a brilliantly cut documentary film. [. .] Musically, the different rhythms are unified by the wind [. . .] stilled only in the last line.14
Towards the end of his life Blok's chronic depression deepened. For nearly two years between 1916 and 1918 he wrote nothing. After writing 'The Twelve' and one other poem in less than two days — and noting, 'A great roaring sound within and around me. Today, I am a genius' — he sank into a still longer silence. 'All sounds have stopped,' he told Korney Chukovsky. 'Can’t you hear
that there are no longer any sounds?' During his last three years Blok wrote several prose articles, but only one poem, 'To Pushkin House', an invocation of Pushkin's joy and 'secret freedom'.
Boris Pasternak tells how Mayakovsky once suggested they go together to defend Blok at a public event where he was likely to be criticized: 'By the time we got [there] . . . Blok had been told a pile
of monstrous things and they had not been ashamed to tell him that he had outlived his time and was inwardly dead — a fact with which he calmly agreed.'15
In spring 1921 Blok did indeed fall ill, with asthma and heart problems. His
doctors wanted him to receive medical treatment abroad, but he was not allowed
to leave the country, in spite of the pleas of Maxim Gorky. Blok died on 7
August 1921.
Blok was idolized in his day and is still considered one of Russia's greatest poets, but there have always been doubting voices. In his memoir “Petersburg Winters” Georgy Ivanov recounts a
conversation between himself and his mentor Nikolay Gumilyov. In reply to Ivanov's claim that,
however blasphemous it may be, ‘The Twelve' is a work of genius, Gumilyov replies, 'So much the worse if it is! The worse both for poetry and for Blok himself. Don't forget that the Devil is a genius too — so much the se both for the Devil and for us all’ 16 D. S. Mirsky writes, ‘But great though he is, Blok is also most certainly an unhealthy morbid poet, the greatest and most typical
of a generation whose best sons were stricken with despair and incapable of overcoming their pessimism except by losing themselves in a dangerous and ambiguous mysticism or by
intoxicating themselves in a passionate whirlwind.’ 17. Only four years earlier, Mirsky had said that if he had to choose between 'The Twelve' and all the rest of Russian literature put together, he would hesitate. 18. Few poems can have had such power to polarize opinion
— let alone the opinions of a single person.
Akhmatova famously referred to Blok as 'the tragic tenor of the epoch'.19 And in 'To the
Muse' Blok wrote:
And I knew a destructive pleasure
in trampling what's sacred and good,
a delirium exceeding all measure —
this absinthe that poisons my blood!
(trans. Stephen Capus)
The Stranger 20
Over the restaurants on sultry evenings
the stale hot vapours rise,
and a corrupting spirit born of springtime.
sounds in the drunken cries.
Over the boredom of suburban villas,
the alleys dusty-dry,
glimmers the golden sign above the
baker's,
and tired children cry.
And every night beyond the level
crossings,
with bowler hats askew,
saunter the local wits with girls a-giggle,
to criticize the view.
Over the lake is heard the creak of rowlocks,
and female shrieks resound,
while high above, the moon, surprised at nothing,
grins meaningless and round.
And every night my glass reflects my image,
friend of my solitude,
who by the strange wine's aromatic power,
as I am, is subdued.
The sleepy waiters, stuck beside the tables,
watch for an empty glass,
while drunken men, with eyes like rabbits', bellow:
'In vino veritas!'
But every evening at the fated hour —
or is it just my dream? —
a figure moves across the misted window,
a girl in silks that gleam.
Slowly she passes through the drunken rabble,
companionless and fair,
and by the window sits, a mist of perfume
spread round her in the air.
Her silken waist, her ,hat of sable feathers,
her narrow hand with rings,
seem to exhale a breath of long-forgotten
and legendary things.
Tranced by the wonder of her nearness, striving
to pierce her shadowy veil,
I look on an enchanted shore, a distance
beyond some magic pale.
Unspoken mysteries to me are given,
another's sun is mine;
transfused through every corner of my being,
steals the astringent wine.
Within my brain the drooping ostrich feathers
wave languidly and sweep;
blue on that distant shore the eyes that flower,
immeasurably deep.
Safe in my soul there lies a hoarded treasure,
whose key is only mine —
Oh, you were right indeed, you drunken monsters,
the truth is found in wine.
(1906)
Frances Corn ford and Esther Polianowsky Salaman
At darknin' hings abune the howff
a weet and wild and eisenin' air.
Spring's spirit wi' its waesome sough
rules owre the drucken stramash there.
And heich abune the vennel's pokiness,
whaur a' the white-weshed cottons lie,
the Inn's sign Minters in the mochiness,
and lood and shrill the bairnies cry.
The hauflins 'yont the burgh boonds
gang ilka nicht, and a' the same,
their bonnets cocked; their bluid that stounds
is playin' at a fine auld game.
howff tavern eisenin' lustful stramash uproar vennel's alley's
bunters. mochiness glimmers ... dampness
hauflins 'yont young lads beyond stounds throbs
And on the lochan there, hauf-herted
wee screams and creakin' oar-locks soon'.
And in the lift, heich, hauf-averted,
the mune looks owre the yirdly roon'.
And ilka evenin', derf and serious
(Jean ettles nocht o' this, puir lass),
in liquor, raw yet still mysterious,
a'e freend's aye mirrored in my glass.
Ahint the sheenin' coonter gruff
thrang barmen ding the tumblers doun;
'In vino veritas' cry rough
and reid-een'd fules that in it droon.
But ilka evenin' fey and fremt
(Is it a dream nae wauk'nin' proves?)
as to a trystin'-place undreamt,
a silken leddy darkly moves.
Slow gangs she by the drunken anes,
and lanely by the winnock sits;
frae'r robes, atour the sunken anes,
a rooky dwamin' perfume flits.
Her gleamin' silks, the taperin'
o' her ringed fingers, and her feathers
move dimly like a dream wi'in,
while endless faith aboot them gethers.
I seek, in this captivity,
to pierce the veils that darklin fa'
— see white clints slidin' to the sea,
and hear the horns o' Elfland blaw.
lochan lake lift sky yirdly roon' earthly round derf taciturn
ettles nocht knows nothing thrang . . . ding busy. . . bang
fremt taciturn winnock window
frae'r atour from her ... about rooky dwamin' misty, swooning
I ha'e dark secrets' turns and twists,
a sun is gi'en me to baud,
the whisky in my bluid insists,
and spiers my benmaist history, lad.
And owre my brain the flitterin'
o' the dim feathers gang aince mair,
and, faddomless, the dark blue glitterin'
o' twa een in the ocean there.
My soul stores up this wealth unspent,
the key is safe and nane's but mine.
You're richt, auld drunk impenitent,
I ken it tae — the truth's in wine.
Hugh MacDiarmid
*
She came in out of the frost,
her cheeks glowing,
and filled my whole room
with the scent of fresh air
and perfume
and resonant chatter
that did away with my last chance
of getting anywhere with my work.
Straightaway
she dropped a hefty art journal
onto the floor
and at once
there was no room any more
in my large room.
haud hold spiers my benmaist asks my inmost
All this
was somewhat annoying,
if not absurd.
Next, she wanted "Macbeth"
read aloud to her.
Barely had I reached
"the earth's bubbles|" 21
which never fail to entrance me
when I realized that she,
no less entranced,
was staring out of the window. I
A large tabby cat
was creeping along the edge of the roof
towards some amorous pigeons.
What angered me most
was that it should be pigeons,
not she and I,
who were necking,
and that the days of Paolo and Francesca
were long gone.
(1908)
Robert Chandler
*22
When you stand in my path,
so alive, so beautiful,
yet so tormented;
when you talk only of what is sad,
when your thoughts are of death,
when you love no one
and feel such contempt for your own beauty —
am I likely to harm you?
No . . . I'm no lover of violence,
and I don't cheat and am not proud,
though I do know many things
and have thought too much ever since childhood
and am too preoccupied with myself.
I am, after all, a composer of poems,
someone who calls everything by its name
and spirits away the scent from the living flower.
For all your talk of what is sad,
for all your thoughts of beginnings and endings,
I still take the liberty
of remembering
that you are only fifteen.
Which is why I wish
you to fall in love with an ordinary man
who loves the earth and the sky
more than rhymed
or unrhymed
talk of the earth and the sky.
Truly, I will be glad for you,
since only someone in love
has the right to be called human.
(1908)
Robert Chandler
The Sugar Angel
Through the closed nursery doors, the sugar angel
stares through the chink to see
the children playing at the Christmas party,
the brightly candled tree.
Nana is making up the crackling fire,
a blaze for Christmas Day.
Only the sugar angel — he is German —
wastes, warm and sweet, away.
First comes the softening of his little feathers,
the melting of his feet,
the tiny head falls back, he makes a puddle,
minute and warm and sweet.
And then the puddle dries away. The mistress
looks everywhere in vain,
while old deaf Nana, who remembers nothing,
grumbles and looks again.
You fragile creatures of our dearest daydreams!
Break, melt and vanish away
in the bright-burning blaze of hourly happenings,
the clatter of everyday.
Only a little mischievous girl, recalling
the breath of days departed,
will weep for you in secret for a moment.
A child is tender-hearted.
(1909)
"Frances Cornford and Esther Polianowsky Salaman"
In a Restaurant
Will I ever forget it, that mythical night:
in the blaze of the setting sun
an abyss divided the sky in two
and the street lamps came on one by one.
I sat in a crowd by the window while somewhere
an orchestra sang about love;
I sent you a rose in a glass of champagne
as gold as the heavens above.
Returning your arrogant look with a mixture
of pride and confusion, I bowed;
with studied disdain you turned to your escort:
'That one, too, is in love with me now.'
All at once the ecstatic strings thundered out
in response . . . But still I could see
from your show of contempt, from the tremor that shook
your hand, that your thoughts were with me.
You jumped up from your place with the speed of a bird
that's been startled; your languid perfume,
the swirl of your dress as you passed, died away
like a vision that's over too soon.
But out of its depths a mirror reflected
your glance as you cried: `Now's your chance!'
And a gypsy, jangling her beads, sang of love
to the dawn and started to dance.
(1910)
Stephen Capus
from "Dances of Death"
Night, lantern, side street, drugstore,
a mindless, pallid light.
Live on for twenty years or more —
it'll be the same; there's no way out.
Try being reborn — start life anew.
All's still as boring and banal.
Lantern, side street, drugstore, a few
shivering ripples on the canal.
(1912)
Robert Chandler
The Kite
Over the empty fields a black kite hovers,
and circle after circle smoothly weaves.
In the poor hut, over her son in the cradle
a mother grieves:
'There, suck my breast: there, grow and take our bread,
and learn to bear your cross and bow your head.'
Time passes. War returns. Rebellion rages.
The farms and villages go up in flame,
and Russia in her ancient tear-stained beauty,
is yet the same,
unchanged through all the ages. How long will
the mother grieve and the kite circle still?
(1916)
Frances Corn ford and Esther Polianowsky Salonan
***
from "The Twelve"
From street to street with sovereign stride . .
— Who's there? Don't try to hide!
But it's only the wind playing
with the red banner ahead.
Cold, cold, cold drifts of snow.
— Who's there? No hiding now!
But it's only a starving hound
limping along behind.
Get lost, you mangy cur —
or we'll tickle you with our bayonets.
This is the last of you, old world —
soon we'll smash you to bits.
The mongrel wolf is baring his fangs —
it's hard to scare him away.
He's drooping his tail, the bastard waif . . .
— Hey, you there, show your face!
Who is it waving our red banner?
Wherever I look — it's dark as pitch!
Who is it flitting from corner to corner
always out of our reach? [. . .]
Crack-crack-crack! And the only answer
is echoes from house to house.
Only the whirlwind's long laughter
criss-crossing the snows.
Crack-crack-crack!
Crack-crack-crack!
From street to street with sovereign stride,
a hungry cur behind them . . .
While bearing a blood-stained banner,
blizzard-invisible,
bullet-untouchable,
tenderly treading through snow-swirls,
hung with threads of snow-pearls,
crowned with white haloes of roses —
who,
who else
but Jesus Christ?23
(1918)
Robert Chandler
Notes
12. “The Bronze
Horseman”: The equestrian statue of
Peter the Great by Etienne Falconet, long an emblem of Petersburg. Commissioned by Catherine the Great, this
was unveiled on 7 August 1782, the official centenary date of Peter’s accession
to the throne, in a square close to the
River Neva.
13. “Nevá”:
Stanley Mitchell chose, Russian style, to stress the last syllable of the
river's name. Antony Wood chose to stress the first syllable, English-style. It
seemed best to accept this clash as a salutary reminder that translation
inevitably entails inconsistencies.
14. Mitchell died before completing his
translation of “The Bronze Horseman.” His version of the 'Prologue' is superb, but
he would certainly have revised it further. With his family's permission, we have
made small changes to six passages we believe Stanley would himself have
revised had he lived longer.
15. “the pen of
Karamzin “: Nikolay Karamzin's twelve-volume Istoriia gosudarstva Rossiiskogo
(History of the Russian State, 1818-29).
16. “Before
it”: A line left unrhymed in the original.
17. Petropolis . . . Poseidon: 'Petropolis' is a
Greek form of 'Petersburg'. Poseidon is the Greek god of the oceans. Triton is
his son and messenger; his emblem is a trident.
18. the ill work crimson-covered: Crimson or
purple was the ceremonial colour of the Tsar's mantle. This line refers not
only to the dawn but also to the Tsar's failure to deal adequately with the
flood.
Count Khvostov:
Dmitry Khvostov (1757-1835) was a bad poet generally loved for his good nature. Karamzin once wrote of Khvostov's passion for versifying: 'Here is
love that is worthy of a talent. He has none, but he deserves to have it'
(Pis'rna N. M. Karamzina k I. I.
Dmitrievu (Petersburg: Akademiia
nauk, 1866), p. 379).
20. “Wedding Song”: Pushkin presents this as a
folk song, but it is his own composition.
21. “Exegi monurnentum”: A version of “Exegi monumenturn” by the Latin
poet Horace (65-8 BC. For a version by Derzhavin, see p. 13.
22. Alexander's
Column: A column erected on
Palace Square in Petersburg in honour of Tsar Alexander I (1777-1825).
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