Of when young Poplavskiy first visited Odoevtseva and Georgiy Ivanov in Paris
From On Seine’s Banks
By Irina Odoevtseva
…But now it's 1928. I am in the company of my and Adamovich's shared (but especially my) French "avant-gardist" friend George Bataille, am getting ready to go out to a surrealistic opening reception. He is trying to open for me new horizons. But all three of us - Georgiy Ivanov, Adamovich, and myself - shared a fairly sceptical attitude towards his discoveries. We, who had seen in our time both futurism and all kinds of nadaists, could hardly be startled by any surrealism.
Bataille was in awe of the Russian Revolution, which didn't anger us, but seemed rather amusing, and served as no impediment to our friendship. To us this future great philosopher seemed very cute and naive, a total sweetheart, and not all that smart.
As always happens before going out, I extensively twirl around in front of the mirror in the hallway, trying on first one, then another hat. Hats still played a substantial role within the feminine wardrobe back in those days. I owned many hats - for all of life's possible contingencies. Bataille is waiting patiently. Georgiy Ivanov is glancing at the clock: "It's four fifteen. Seems Poplavsky won't show up after all. And how he vowed and swore, that he'd be at my place no later than three thirty. And the way he begged to be received. What disgrace. Won't ever let him over again."
"He probably overslept or forgot...", I tell him, trying to sound reconciliatory. "Don't steam at him!" Georgiy Ivanov shrugs his shoulders:
"What a thing for me to steam about. Just imagine. How he begged though... For me to listen to his poems. And now he doesn't show up."
I pull on gloves and for the final time look myself over in the mirror. "Please, if he's being held up for any reason, just call him on the telephone." Without that ritualistic parting phrase I wouldn't even dare to leave the house. But whenever I'm actually late, I nonetheless almost never get around to calling.
"I'll be back by dinner, there's nothing to worry about."
Georgiy Ivanov opens the door. In front of it, holding in one hand his glasses and in the other a notebook, stands Poplavsky. In surprise, he drops the glasses and the notebook to the floor. Filled up to the brim pages fall to his feet.
"Poplavsky!", Georgiy Ivanov yells out in surprise, while bending down to pick up the dark glasses lying on the rug. After all, without them Poplavsky probably can't see a thing. The fact that he wears glasses "idly", not needing them one bit, but only "for obscuring the eyes", is not yet known to Georgiy Ivanov.
Poplavsky looks perfectly discombobulated. All of this seems so hilarious, that I fail to hold back my laughter.
"So, why exactly were you standing there and not ringing?", I manage to ask through my laughter.
"I...", Poplavsky explains in an almost weeping voice, "...have been standing here for a very long time. Maybe longer than half an hour. I arrived too early. And was so afraid to ring. I just simply couldn't..."
Finally, all of the pages have been picked up, and Bataille and I depart.
That evening, I was - just like always - late for dinner, but Georgiy Ivanov didn't even start to grumble. He passionately began to read for me fragments of Poplavsky's poems:
"Listen to this one; it's all so incredibly talented, even though it does strongly resemble Rimbaud."
"Why don't you visit us,/
Once we've departed...
…
Please don't you busy yourselves
With my footsteps,
I have assigned them, erased,
To the wind..."
From this day forth, Georgiy Ivanov, who had discovered many young talents, among them Smolenskiy, got seriously busy with Poplavsky.
To start off, he withstood a battle with Adamovich, who at that time had not yet even begun to recognize Poplavsky's poems, and then took Poplavsky to see the Merezhkovskiys.
Zinaida Nokolayevna received him well and he soon became a desired guest at "The Sundays". And it was soon discovered that Poplavsky was an amazing orator. Even better than "the immigration's own goldenwhiskers" Adamovich…
Endless discussions were the primary content of not only the meetings of "The Green Lamp", but also "The Sundays". Poplavsky would constantly shine at them.
Yes, I repeat, he was an amazing orator.
This was despite his extremely unwinning appearance - the appearance of a blind person. Hence the dark glasses, which obscured his blind-seeming eyes. Although, to be fair, he could see perfectly well. He himself must have been aware of that strangest of impressions conjured by his eyes, and never removed the dark glasses. The eyes, indeed, are the mirror of the soul. But it's doubtful that his eyes were the mirror of his soul. His were strange, unpleasant eyes, which drew an altogether revolted response from so many people, did not at all mirror his soul: the soul of a poet.
For all that, his dark glasses were also sometimes useful in a more day-to-day way. In the metro or on the bus, even during the rush hours, a sitting spot would invariably be found for a him: give way to the poor blind fellow.
Adamovich, in his oratorial career, was also helped along but his very large and beautiful eyes, penetratingly pointed into the distance, and his elegant Petersburgian stretched-out appearance. Poplavsky, conversely, was all crumpled up, carelessly dressed, and on stage made a rather pitiful impression. His voice was nasal and vaguely ever-offended, almost weepy. One would imagine, how could anyone publicly perform given such endowments?
And yet, it only took for him to climb, sidelong, onto the stage and to utter a few barely connected words, toss his head and stretch himself out, and suddenly his speech was flowing uncontrollably, amazing one with its brilliance, with the poignancy of its thoughts and, most importantly, with its paradoxes, and sometimes downright stunning its listeners. In this way, during what may have been his very first performance at "The Green Lamp", he proclaimed that he mourns the lot of all hardworking folks, but especially of the cargo-movers and the prostitutes…