Guests at
Satan’s Great Ball.
(The
20-Year-Old Lad Matures.)
Posting #20.
“Usually, the poet
gives the people his works.
Blok gives himself. He simply
portrays his
own life, which, fortunately
for him, is so
wondrously rich in internal
struggle,
catastrophes, and
enlightenments.”
N. S. Gumilev on A. A. Blok.
Already in February 1903, Blok writes a poem about his
wife’s betrayal. –
“You
have left for a rendezvous with your lover,
I’m
alone. I’ll forgive. I’m silent.
You
don’t know to whom you are praying,
He
is playing and trifling with you…”
Apparently, Blok was well aware of who his wife’s
lover was, which is evidenced by the following lines:
“…You
are giving yourself to him with passion;
It
doesn’t matter, I am keeping the secret…”
Blok closes this poem with the following four lines,
showing that he is speaking not as a husband but as a poet:
“...All
that is fogginess in your heart
Will
clear up in my quietude,
And
when he abandons you,
You
will confess to me only…”
This very strange poem proves already that I am on the
right track. Blok is writing about his wife.
In his next poem dated March 11, 1903, Blok writes the
following:
“I
was dreaming merry thoughts,
I
dreamt that I wasn’t alone.
I
thought of a miracle come true…
The
soul is filled with an unprecedented…
With
me is spring thought,
I
know that you aren’t alone.”
Also present in this poem is the word “chudo,”
“miracle.” M. Bulgakov calls the 20-year-old lad a “dreamer” and a “chudak,”
“oddball.”
Already in the 2nd poem of the 5th
cycle of Verses About a Fair Lady,
Blok writes in June 1903:
“I am
awake, a thoughtful dreamer,
At the bed rest in secret
sorcery.
Your features, a philosopher
and sculptor,
I’ll recreate and pass them
on to you.”
And in the 6th cycle of Verses About a Fair Lady, Blok calls
himself “chudak”:
“He
was greeted everywhere
In the streets on sleepy
days.
He was walking and carrying
his miracle,
Stumbling in the frosty
shade…
He was marveled at, with
laughter,
They said that he was a
chudak…”
Apparently, Blok used the word “chudo, miracle” to
describe his own poetry, while he used the word “chudak, oddball” to describe
himself. On this basis I am writing in my chapter Who is Who in Master that when the conversation between Ivan and
master turns to “poet” and “chudo” on the second page of the 13th
chapter of Master and Margarita,
having learned that Ivan is a poet, master reacts in the following manner:
“However
as a miracle? All right, I am ready to accept it on faith. Are your verses any
good? Say it yourself.
They
are monstrous! – with a
sudden courage and sincerity pronounced Ivan.”
This confirms my interpretation to the effect that
Blok calls his poetry “chudo,” and calls himself “chudak.” “Are your verses any
good? Say it yourself.”
This is Bulgakov’s interpretation, and considering
that I am working on Bulgakov’s text in my work, my own interpretation
coincides with Bulgakov’s interpretation.
Having presented my evidence, I am returning to Marina
Tsvetaeva’s memoirs. –
“Also then at the zoo I found out that the
blue cloak beloved to anguish by all Russia was the blue cloak of Lyubov Dmitriyevna
[Mendeleeva, Blok’s wife].”
Here is Blok’s titleless poem opening his poetry cycle
Retribution:
“Of
bravery, of heroism, of glory,
I
was forgetting on the sorrowful earth
When
your face in a simple frame
Was
shining before me on the table…”
But something happened between Blok and his wife:
“...But
the hour had come and you left the house.
I
threw the covenant ring into the night.
You
gave your destiny to another,
And
I forgot the beautiful face.”
In all likelihood, both Blok and Mendeleeva were
walking through life according to their own individual ways. This is how Blok
explains it:
“The
days were flying, whirling in a cursed swarm,
Wine
and passion were ravaging my life…”
In other words, Blok is confessing that he was
neglecting his wife.
“…And
I remembered you before the prie-dieu,
And
I was calling you, like I was calling my youth…”
Blok is trying to exculpate himself:
“…I
was calling you, but you never looked back,
I
was shedding tears, but you did not deign.
Sorrowfully,
you wrapped yourself in a blue cloak,
And
left your home into the soggy night…”
Blok ends his poem almost like he started it:
“…No
more dreams of tenderness and glory,
All
has passed away, the youth is gone!
Your
face in its simple frame –
I
had taken it off the table with my own hand.”
To be continued…
***
No comments:
Post a Comment