Выбрать главу

Mandelshtam redirected his attention to Stalin, forcing himself to the act of degradation inflicted on almost every poet, doomed or saved, in the 1930s: an ode to Stalin. But, incapable of simulation, he failed. Stalin appears as a counterpart to himself, the negative of the poet, sometimes through the same image, as an ‘idol in a cave’ surrounded by bones, trying ‘to recollect his human guise’. Only in ambiguity could Mandelshtam attempt any conciliation. Like novelists such as Bulgakov and Zamyatin, he was interested in the mind and pathology of his enemy to the point of sympathy, but not of panegyric.

In April 1937, Mandelshtam was denounced as a Trotskyist: although his exile was coming to an end, he was living on borrowed time. That spring, inspired by the marriage of Natasha Shtempel as well as the suicides and disappearances in Voronezh, there is a final burst of lyricism, as though he were confident that the survival of his verse was assured. The influence of Keats (Nadezhda knew English poetry) seems to underlie his poems on the Cretan urns and the Greek flute, which stand for a continuous creative spirit that moves from one ephemeral vessel to another. The Greek flute commemorates not only a Voronezh musician who was purged, but the Hellenic creative spirit which the poet no longer has the strength to express: ‘Clods of clay in the sea’s hands… My measure has become disease.’ The Russian language seems to prove the involvement of death in creation: mor, disease, links with mera, measure, just as the syllable ub is present in the words for lips, murder, diminish. The Greek thalassa and thanatos, sea and death, are the beginnings and endings of poetry, as their assonance shows.

Mandelshtam was virtually the only important Russian poet writing in the mid 1930s. The purges had silenced every major talent. Pasternak wrote his Artist in 1936, during a brief lull in the terror, but soon succumbed to the prevailing atmosphere; Nikolay Zabolotsky relied on his Aesopic, fauve technique to write about the disjointing of the times, while appearing to praise the brave new world around him, but the censors understood him and he was swept away in the same wave that destroyed Mandelshtam. Even abroad, poetic inspiration had apparently deserted Marina Tsvetayeva: Mandelshtam had no cultural milieu, no critical response, no publications after 1934 and even his private readers were too frightened to respond. The Voronezh poems were written for the poet and a shadowy posterity: the lack of feedback is one of the reasons for their nervous, cryptic and compressed tone.

Their exile officially expired, the Mandelshtams managed to spend only three days in Leningrad and Moscow: they found temporary shelter in Kalinin. Then in spring 1938, with suspicious ease, they were found a place in a country sanatorium: on 2 May, Osip Mandelshtam was arrested. The protectors of poets at the court of Stalin were soon themselves to face the firing squad: Mandelshtam was processed as a counter-revolutionary and, starved, perhaps deranged, died in a transit camp in far-eastern Siberia on 27 December 1938.

With extraordinary determination, like the women at the cross, Nadezhda, Natasha Shtempel and Anna Akhmatova ensured his resurrection and the eventual triumphant entry of his poetry into the Judaic and Hellenic tradition. At enormous risk they preserved what they could in the chaos of the war years and the repressive years of Stalin’s senility. A very few Russian critics, such as Khardzhiev and Shklovsky, and a few intrepid foreign scholars ensured that Mandelshtam’s name, by the mid 1960s, became known not only to two new generations of Russian readers, but to virtually the entire world. As James Greene and, before him, Paul Celan have shown, Mandelshtam’s concern for precision, musicality and continuity make him one of the most translatable poets Russia has ever produced. In Russian poetry, his influence began in the 1960s: as a protégé of Anna Akhmatova, Joseph Brodsky became a vector of Mandelshtamian poetics for Russian poets. While we cannot say that a tradition of Jewish verse exists in Russia, Judaism, as Mandelshtam puts it, ‘like a drop of musk filling a whole house’, adds a tension and internationalism to a lyrical tradition which could not otherwise have survived the rarefaction of the atmosphere.

Donald Rayfield, 1988



(1913, 1916, 1923 AND 1928)

The careful muffled sound Of a fruit breaking loose from a tree In the middle of the continual singing Of deep forest silence…
(1) 1908
Suddenly, from the dimly lit hall You slipped out in a light shawl; The servants slept on, We disturbed no one…
(3) 1908
To read only children’s books, treasure Only childish thoughts, throw Grown-up things away And rise from deep sorrows.
I’m tired to death of life, I accept nothing it can give me, But I love my poor earth Because it’s the only one I’ve seen.
In a far-off garden I swung On a simple wooden swing, And I remember dark tall firs In a hazy fever.
(4) 1908
On pale-blue enamel, Conceivable in April, Birch-trees lifted branches And eveninged imperceptibly.
Fine netting cut Thin patterns exactly: A design on a porcelain plate Traced accurately
By the considerate artist On his firmament of glass – Knowing a short-lived strength, Oblivious of sad death.
(6) 1909
What shall I do with the body I’ve been given, So much at one with me, so much my own?
For the quiet happiness of breathing, being able To be alive, tell me to whom I should be grateful?
I am gardener, flower too, and not alone In the world’s dungeon.
My warmth, my exhalation, one can already see On the window-pane of eternity.
The pattern printed in my breathing here Has not been seen before.
Let the moment’s condensation vanish without trace: The cherished pattern no one can efface.