Isolde Page 2

  Writing thus, she did all she could to reconcile the schism that had existed since the revolution, following which so many lives, and Russian literature itself, had diverged on two very different paths: Soviet and émigré. This homage to her exiled compatriots, most of whom were now dead and with whom her relations had undergone such considerable strain over the years, was the final act of her literary life, and one of its most meaningful.

  Whether as poetry, prose or memoir, Odoevtseva’s writing was always a departure from the mainstream—and Isolde is no exception. Just as her verse written in Petrograd after the revolution was remarkable for its overt anti-Bolshevist partisanism, so, too, in exile Odoevtseva’s prose fiction would chart a very different course from that of her contemporaries, winning renown and courting controversy in equal measure. In vast distinction to the elegiac, nostalgic prose of the older generation of exiled writers, Odoevtseva’s maintained the grace and youthful vigour of her poetry, dispensing with the dangerous political overtones and shifting its focus to the no-less-daring realms of female sexuality and desire.

  Her debut novel is a work of considerable piquancy for its time, as The Angel of Death witnessed its fourteen-year-old protagonist fall in love with the lover of her married older sister, with devastating consequences. Odoevtseva’s even more audacious second novel, Isolde, appeared on the heels of this early success two years later, in 1929. A modernist reversioning of the archetypal love triangle, the mediaeval legend of Tristan and Isolde, the novel explores the competing drives of love and death, Eros and Thanatos, amid the hermetic world of adolescents and against a backdrop of exilic trauma and despair. Despite their seemingly tender years, Odoevtseva’s children, a pair of Russian-born siblings and their coevals, are on the cusp of adulthood, coy, erotically charged, and increasingly conscious of budding sexuality and the violent impulses it stimulates. With such dangerous, unmistakably Freudian overtones, Odoevtseva’s children share the same perverse, reclusive universe as Jean Cocteau’s “holy terrors” in Les Enfants terribles, which debuted in the same year.

  Isolde projected, with cinematic precision, a dark, troubling vision of wayward youth living on the fringes of society, provoking vociferous outrage and polarizing critical opinion among the exiled literary establishment. Pavel Milyukov, the former politician turned scandalized editor of Paris’s leading émigré newspaper, Poslednie novosti, condemned the novel: “It’s high time to tell this talented young writer that she’s heading for a dead end.” Though so much remains off-stage, merely hinted at, others still called the novel deplorable, tasteless and immoral, accusing Odoevtseva of casting the gravest aspersions on the moral probity of émigré youths. The critic Mark Slonim charged Odoevtseva with abusing “sexual spice”; the novelist Vladimir Nabokov took issue with the “dry” style, the lesbian overtones and stereotyping of the English; and Kirill Zaitsev, then editor of the nationalist and religiously oriented Rossiia i slavianstvo, in a pearl-clutching fit of moral indignation dubbed the whole thing “frightful”.

  Put simply, the novel was not at all what was expected of an émigré author in terms of subject matter or style: from a Russian perspective, it was all much too modern, much too European, much too explicit, much too close to the bone. In daring to depict the criminal and sexual exploits of a group of adolescents, Isolde shocked readers with its portrayal of themes not only considered taboo, but also in some quarters deemed beneath the austere dignity of the Russian canon. Not since Mikhail Artsybashev’s Sanin in 1904 had Russian letters witnessed so perturbing a treatment of sexual mores, and, even then, never before those of youths belonging to a supposedly respectable class. The arbiters of literary discernment in the diaspora, who viewed their mission primarily as one of cultural preservation in the face of the Soviet peril, were fundamentally conservative and preached the continuation of Russia’s literary tradition, namely that of the nineteenth century. Yet Odoevtseva’s troubled and unsettling portrayal ran counter to the classic Tolstoyan image of a golden childhood spent amid the serene, tranquil glories of Russia’s past. Instead, she opted to banish her children from that Eden and thrust them into a profane world in which the trauma of their exile is a forbidden subject, in which the vanity and egotism of their mother results in their emotional neglect and abandonment, in which the dark mechanisms of their psyches are set in motion by sexuality, desire and criminal instinct. Hers is a world still reeling from the horrors of the revolution and the Great War, shimmering with the vain and hollow distractions of les années folles—its casinos, cocktails, dance halls and jazz bands—fully conscious of their impotence to save, let alone enrich, the lives of these unhappy children. Lost between childhood and adulthood, Odoevtseva’s enfants terribles inhabit a liminal space, on the fringes of society and morality, a grim universe in which lurid individuals lurk at every corner, ever ready to exploit and abuse them. Far from the hackneyed, nostalgic idyll demanded by convention, Odoevtseva’s vision of adolescence presented her compatriots with a disturbing glimpse into the present, bearing witness to the total breakdown and disintegration of a family with disastrous, tragic results.

  For all the reactionary chill, Isolde enjoyed a warmer reception among the younger members of the diaspora, who discerned in it their own sense of loss and alienation, their own confused longing for a Russia that many of them did not know or, at best, remembered only vaguely. Evoking the nihilistic mood of many young émigrés, Isolde captured something essential of the zeitgeist. Caught between Russia and Europe, between past and present, doubly marginalized within their own marginalized community, the younger generation was inherently better placed to appreciate the diverse shades of Odoevtseva’s fiction, as well as its technical and thematic leaps forward, which took their cue from European literature and intellectual thought. Immediately apperceiving its daring innovativeness in the realm of feminine perspective, the young novelist and critic Vladimir Varshavsky commented:

  Despite the impropriety of bringing up sexual character in the arena of literary criticism, one is still drawn to say: until now literature has known only women as seen through the eyes of men, not the life and world as seen through the enigmatic eyes of women. Of course, there have been women writers, but hardly any of those whom I have read wrote about what they saw with their own eyes as they looked at life up close, at point-blank range. In depicting the world, they always employed intellectual assumptions shared by men, in the majority of cases invented by men, which is to say that they were playing, as it were, their roles in some obligatory theatre built by men. In… Isolde, Irina Odoevtseva charts out a new course for women’s literature. The story of a fourteen-year-old girl’s sensual perception of life and the hitherto unknown female image that emerges from it reveal to us something truly new.

  It is in precisely this spirit, one of presenting “something truly new”, that Irina Steinberg and I offer up this English translation of Isolde, the first since its original publication in Russian ninety years ago. It is our firm hope that Odoevtseva, having discovered “temporary immortality” on the banks of the Neva, will once again live awhile abroad.

  B S K

  London–Kiev, 2018

  ISOLDE

  Part One

  I

  “THIS IS WHAT the sea was like when Isolde sailed upon it.” Cromwell shut his book and looked out over the horizon. “This is what the sea was like when Isolde sailed upon it, to Tristan.”

  The sky grew pink with the approaching sunset. Wave ran over wave. The wind ruffled the cotton towels laid out on the beach. Round shells glinted dimly in the grey sand. And far away in the distance, right on the horizon, a bright white sail stood out against the silky blue sea.

  “This is what the sea was like…”

  A seagull flew over his head with a cry, almost clipping him with the sharp tip of its wing. Cromwell flinched.

  “What’s come over me?” he thought angrily, blushing with embarrassment. “I’m flinching like a little girl! I’ll soon be scared of mice at t
his rate.”

  He tossed the book away and turned over to lie on his back.

  France was to blame. Yes, France was most definitely to blame. He was never like this at home.

  He cast his mind back to the green fields of Scotland, to the castle with its grand square rooms, to Eton, where he had boarded that winter term. You wouldn’t have caught him flinching there! But here in Biarritz life was completely different—mad, fun, even a little seedy. Yes, that was the word: seedy. And there was the perpetual rush of the ocean. And the bracing air. And these stupid books. And the eternal waiting, the constant premonition of love… He scanned the horizon again.

  The enormous sun was lowering itself slowly into the rose-tinged waves. And the sky, as if freeing itself of the sun’s weight, was becoming ever lighter, ever clearer, ever paler. Everything around Cromwell grew paler, airier, softer. The high turrets of the bathhouse faded into the misty air, the bare cliff-face grew soft mossy-blue shadows, while the grey sand glinted gently. In this crepuscular light, even the bathers in their glistening wet costumes seemed to be an extraordinary silver people, who had appeared out of nowhere and were now swimming off into the unknown.

  Cromwell heard the sand crunching faintly behind him. He turned around. Isolde was walking straight towards him. Her wide white cape was billowing in the wind. Her fair hair fell around her shoulders. Her big, bright, limpid eyes looked out to sea searchingly, as if she were expecting something. She walked quickly, with a sure and light step, her neat little head held high. She was not walking, but floating through the foggy air.

  “Isolde,” he whispered in confusion. “Isolde!”

  She seemed to have heard him. She turned her head and looked at him as she walked past. Cromwell felt a warm light on his face, as if bathed in the morning sun. He closed his eyes with a sigh. The light tripped across his face, across his shoulder and then disappeared. He opened his eyes. Isolde was gone. All around him was deserted. He was alone, lying on the hard, wet sand. He was cold. Where was Isolde? Where had she disappeared to? He stood up and looked around.

  Swimmers’ heads bobbed up and down in the waves, but Isolde’s was not among them—he would have recognized her by her blonde hair. He quickly started walking along the beach, staring at every passer-by, but he couldn’t see her anywhere. Maybe she didn’t actually exist? Maybe he had imagined her? Of course, he must have done. Where could a girl like that have come from? Girls like her didn’t really exist. He had spent too long out in the sun, too long dreaming up Isolde. He had imagined it all.

  No, she was real, flesh and blood. He could still feel her warm gaze on his skin and hear the sand crunching under her feet. He hadn’t imagined it. Surely, he hadn’t seen her only to lose her straight away?

  As he walked along the wide, empty beach, his heart thudded dully.

  “What nonsense,” he thought, consoling himself. “She couldn’t have disappeared just like that. If I don’t find her today, then I’ll see her tomorrow. I’m getting myself worked up over nothing. And what’s she to me anyway?”

  He shrugged.

  “She’s just some girl.” He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and turned back, whistling a tune. “What nonsense.”

  That was when he heard the scream. A desperate scream that carried across the beach. Other voices rose in reply. Frightened voices.

  “She’s drowned? Who is it? Who’s drowned?”

  “A girl has just drowned!”

  People ran from all sides towards the spot where Cromwell had just been lying. He ran with them. He couldn’t quite understand it, but he could already feel the weight of irreparable destitution in his heart.

  She had drowned. A girl had drowned. It was her, Isolde. He ran and ran, stumbling as he went, overtaking the others.

  “Isolde. Isolde has drowned,” he kept repeating to himself nonsensically.

  Gasping for breath, he ran up to the crowd of people gathered around her. He squeezed his way through, pushing someone out of the way. In front of him, on the wet sand, lay a girl. He fell to his knees beside her in horror. But it was not Isolde. The girl’s wet hair, short and black, had fallen all over her face. Her button nose was strangely white. Her face was calm. Exceptionally calm. Even her half-open mouth and blue lips couldn’t detract from this calmness and the pure, simple look on her face. Her black swimsuit hadn’t had time to dry and water was seeping through it onto the sand. Her thin, childish legs were squeezed together demurely. Her arms were spread wide open.

  It wasn’t Isolde. Cromwell lifted his face up to the sky, took a deep breath and felt a joyful sense of release all through his body. He laughed out loud. Catching himself, he looked around—nobody had heard him.

  “The doctor! The doctor’s here!”

  A gentleman in a grey suit kneeled in front of the girl and pressed his ear to her wet chest. Everyone was looking at him. Maybe it wasn’t too late? But the gentleman shook his head and stood up again, brushing the sand off his knees.

  “It’s too late. Heart attack.”

  “Is she dead?” He saw a head pop up from behind someone’s shoulder. She was wearing a green rubber bathing cap that covered her ears. Her big bright eyes narrowed in curiosity and horror.

  “Is she dead?”

  Isolde. It was her. He had found her. He moved towards her and held her by the elbow. She gave him the same look of curiosity and horror.

  “Is she dead?” she asked again.

  Her arm was trembling. She was standing beside him, so close to him, in her bright green swimsuit, which was still damp. She kept shifting from one foot to the other in agitation.

  A woman was running along the beach towards them. She was fast, but unsteady on her feet. Her white skirt billowed up over her knees, revealing occasional glimpses of pink suspenders with metal clasps on her thighs. Her high-heeled shoes kept getting stuck in the sand. She was exhausted, but she kept running, all the while pressing a ball of wool with long, shiny knitting needles to her chest, as if the wool and the needles were her salvation.

  The crowd parted in front of her.

  Cromwell held Isolde by the elbow.

  “Let’s go, you don’t need to see this.”

  She let him lead her away.

  When they reached the bathhouse, he sat down on the sand. She sat down next to him.

  “They should have saved her! Why didn’t they save her?” Her lips were trembling. “It’s awful.”

  “Yes, it’s awful. Are you a careful swimmer? Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  She didn’t seem surprised that this boy, a stranger, was asking her to promise him something.

  “I promise. But she should have been saved,” she added quickly. “She was only twelve and she was an excellent swimmer. Her father just came down from Paris last night.”

  She threw her arms around her knees. The toenails on her tiny, tanned feet were painted with bright nail varnish.

  “What does she paint them for?” The thought crossed his mind.

  She kept looking back to where the dead girl lay. He could see only the back of her head, in its bright green cap, and a part of her suntanned cheek.

  “How awful,” she said again, but her voice was calmer this time. “Are you English?” She turned to face him. “I’m Russian. What’s your name?”

  “Cromwell.”

  “Cromwell? Are you named after the Cromwell?” she said, recollecting something and pointing over her shoulder, as if just there, behind her, stood all the centuries of the past.

  “Yes, my namesake.”

  “Your parents must have known their history.”

  “They must have done.” He smiled. “And what’s your name?”

  “Liza.”

  He shook his head.

  “No, your name is Isolde.”

  “Isolde? Who’s Isolde?”

  He held out his book. “It’s all in here, everything about you. You can borrow it if you like.”

  “This book is about me?” She open
ed the book and read out the title: Tristan and Isolde.

  “No,” she said quietly. “It’s not about me. Isolde was a queen. But I’ll read it anyway. Thank you.”

  They sat next to each other on the sand. The sun had already set.

  “Would you give me a cigarette, please,” she said.

  “You smoke?”

  “Naturally.”

  She lay back and crossed her thin legs one over the other. The smoke from her cigarette floated straight up into the sky. She didn’t look like Isolde now. In her bright green swimsuit, she looked more like a grasshopper.

  “No, I’m no queen,” she repeated. “In fact, I’m very modern. Why do you look at me like that?”

  “You ought to get dressed. It’s cold now and you could catch a chill.”

  She jumped to her feet.

  “Very well,” she agreed. But he was suddenly seized by the fear that he would lose her again.

  “I’ll wait for you. What are you doing tonight? Do you have plans?”

  “No. But I’ll go home for dinner. I’m famished.”

  “Well, since nobody’s expecting you, you can come and have dinner with me. Let’s go. I have my car here.”

  “Your car? Your own car?”

  “Yes, I got it this spring for passing my exams.”

  “What make is it?”

  “It’s a Buick.”

  “A Buick,” she repeated, and laughed with delight. “Your very own Buick! Hold on, I’ll only be a minute.”

  She ran up the stairs to the bathhouse, clearing two steps at a time.

  He stood there, waiting for her. The dead girl was slowly stretchered away past him.