Isadora and Essenine. Ii

I

ALTHOUGH Essenine liked publicity, — anything, in fact, that could increase his ‘fame,’ — he refused quite consistently to talk to interviewers. I think he must have suspected that their curiosity was mainly for Isadora’s latest ‘lover,’ her latest acquisition, not for the renowned Russian poet. He felt hurt.

Only once did he make an exception. It was for the editor of a big Belgian newspaper. Essenine consented to be interviewed, with me assisting in the process.

The editor, a typical, highly civilized European gentleman, with a beard, eyed the poet with tremendous interest and then asked him how he liked the country — Belgium, in this case.

Essenine suddenly became quite voluble and fluent. Instead of his usual taciturnity and reserve in the presence of inquisitive strangers and his famous cloak of childish innocence, — he could, at will, become very stupid, looking at the world out of blue, wondering eyes from which the shrewdness vanished as if by magic, — he broke forth into a regular tirade, not only about Belgium in particular, but about Europe in general. It was difficult to interpret the swiftly following phrases which dropped with a heavy finality, like stones: —

‘I don’t like it. I don’t understand it. Tell them ’ — this to me — ‘that I hate small things. Everything here is small. The people are small, their automobiles are small, their houses are small. Their very life seems small . . . these people look as if they lived for their houses instead of having their houses built for them. They work and save, work and save, and buy one of these houses — to keep a watch on it — for life. All this damned security! . . . Inside they seem dead.’

And much more in the same vein. The editor listened, looked alarmed, then clearly uncomfortable. He had put a sincere though trite question, but he did not expect an equally sincere though rude answer. Now and then he said, ‘Tiens’ — that great French expression which helps to carry a conversation over any rough ground. Occasionally he lifted an eyebrow, while Essenine rambled on and on and then suddenly paused and said with unmistakable feeling: —

‘I feel cramped, crowded. I cannot write in these countries, in these damned hotels.’

And he lifted his heavy shoulders in a queer gesture as if he wanted to stretch his arms. There was the dry rippling sound of breaking thread. Half of his coat sleeve was ripped open.

It was a fitting climax to the interview.

The editor, with a final, astonished ‘ Tiens,’ left with the look of a man who got more than he asked for; and presently Essenine, in a different coat and in a more peaceable mood, continued to complain to me about Europe. . . . Not a shred was left of her — ‘carrion, foul, dead’ were his most favored expressions.

II

Of Ostend I do not remember much. We went there to be near the sea, but all I recall of it are the high dunes and a terrible, cold wind. It was so terrible a wind that I still remember running away from it and hiding in the hotel. And I can still see Isadora, returning from a solitary walk on the beach, exulting in it, exclaiming how she had loved it, her dark curls dancing wildly around her face, her eyes sparkling.

Often in those days it seemed to me that it was Isadora — nearing fifty and looking no more than thirty-five — who was younger than any of us; younger than Jeanne, calm, devoted Jeanne who was on the right side of thirty, younger than the youthful Essenine, with his broken, tragic, and twisted soul, and younger than I who was at that idiotic stage of youth when one is old and the world holds no more wonders. . . .

I had several glimpses of the Casino, with its gayly dressed crowds sitting at the little tables, drinking apéritifs and whatnots, looking a trifle bored, as befits society. But by far the most vivid memory of Ostend had to do with neither the slate-colored sea nor the wind nor the Casino, but the much more practical matter of renting a piano for Isadora on a Sunday.

I do not recall exactly how the piano incident started. I think Mr. Lawton, the pianist, had arrived, and Isadora, finding her room of just the right proportions to dance in, wanted to start rehearsing immediately. There was simply a sudden, urgent need of a piano. It was the most important thing in the world. It had to be procured at once. And it was up to me.

There was a piano at the hotel, of course. I remembered having seen it in the salon downstairs. But that could not be moved. ‘ Oh non! ’ said the portier firmly.

‘But then,’ said I, ‘will you please call up the piano stores and let them send up a good upright to Madame’s suite at once?’

‘But it is Sunday, mademoiselle,’ he replied. ‘It is impossible. No workingmen will move a piano to-day.’ His smile was so placating and the shrug of his shoulders so expressive! I had a suspicion that inwardly the fellow enjoyed the situation . . . those grandes artistes have such crazy notions!

However, the word ‘impossible’ did not exist in Isadora’s vocabulary. I knew it well by now. Could n’t he phone to the residence of some piano dealer, I wanted to know, and find out whether a piano could not be brought immediately for a special remuneration? Surely some workingmen would like to earn a little extra money?

He might try. He doubted. Some more shrugging of shoulders and waving of hands. Then, suddenly, Isadora appeared on the steps — graceful, gracious, wonderfully poised.

I explained things. ‘Let me see,’ she said. ‘I know the opera director. I have danced there. I am sure that he would let me use the big hall at the opera house. Do run down and see him.’

I ran down. I literally ran, and I got to the Opera, a big old beautiful building. I tried different doors, and finally found one open. I don’t know why I did not try to call up the director on the phone and explain the matter to him. It was incredibly stupid, but that’s what I did, anyway.

I got into the opera house and wandered around in a maze of odd halls and corridors. I did not find the director’s room at once. When I did, it was empty. I wandered out again. And then I met a boy, freckled, redhaired, and amiable. I asked him where I could find the opera director. He grinned, showing a row of splendid teeth, and did not reply. I asked him again, enunciating my French slowly. He smiled again and made a negative movement with his head. Then he spoke in a strange tongue I had never heard before: it was neither German, French, nor Dutch, any of which I should have understood. Then it dawned on me: it was Flemish! But the word ‘director,’ I reflected, was an international word, and so I repeated it slowly, looking into the boy’s eyes, trying to make him understand. He kept on grinning, amiable and kind.

I walked away, trying to think what to do next. Suddenly the Flemish boy appeared at my side. He pointed to an empty car, a little closed sedan, parked at the curb. And he jabbered on in Flemish. . . .

A man who was passing explained that the boy was trying to tell me the parked car belonged to the director of the Opera. He was out, but would return soon. This was where he always parked the car.

I thanked the gentleman and gave the red-haired boy a tip. Then I went to the car and sat in it. Since the director would return to it, I would wait for him right there.

The car was well upholstered and very cozy. I enjoyed sitting in it. I had had such a busy morning . . . and I fell asleep. . . .

When I awoke it was nearly four and I stared at my wrist watch in dismay. The director had never turned up; he had evidently changed his plans. I took one of Isadora’s visiting cards, with which I was always plentifully supplied, and wrote a note to him, begging him to call up Isadora at the hotel at once. I stuck the card on the dashboard, and ran back to our hotel.

When I got up to the floor of Isadora’s suite, I was met by the faint, muffled sound of a piano. I was just going to knock on the door of the salon when Essenine appeared from another and stopped me instantly.

‘Don’t go in. She is rehearsing. She hates to be disturbed.’

I never learned how or when Isadora got that piano. And, truth to tell, I did not much care — as long as she got it.

III

It was in Venice. The gondola was large, with an elaborate baldachin in the centre; the gondolier was tall and lanky, with something proud in his carriage, in the way he dipped his heavy oar and then straightened himself out again. . . . The night was beautiful, with a sky full of stars; and the water of the lagoon was like a huge shiny black sheet.

Under the velvet baldachin Isadora sat alone, very still — with that enchanting grace which made one think of her as a beautiful sculpture that had become alive. In the dim light one could see the curve of her full white throat and one beautiful arm resting on the edge of the boat. The rest of her form was obscured by the shadows.

In the bow Essenine was telling me about his life — in a manner simple and detached, as if he were talking of someone else. The silence of that Venetian night was so full that the distant sound of a gondolier’s song and the tiny splash of the oar, as it dipped at long, regular intervals, seemed but to intensify it, and Essenine’s voice was hardly more than a murmur, a soft murmur telling tales which seemed incredible and fantastic.

He talked of his early childhood as a poor, bare-legged peasant boy; of the day when he wrote his first poem, at the age of nine; of the many poems he had written from then on, in secret, so no one should know; of how, at seventeen, he chose but a few and burned all the rest; how his people were trying to make a pop¹ out of him — because he was so clever and so precocious; how often he had been flogged because he ran away from school; of his uncle, the ‘ ruthless ’ man who administered the beatings; of beautiful faces, and of the most beautiful face he had ever seen, that of a young nun in a Russian convent — a face that was absolutely guileless and pure; of his rise to fame and his life in Petrograd; of his running away from the army; of women; of convents; of words, words that were alive and others that were dead; of the language of plain people, peasants, pilgrims, and thieves, which was always alive; of many other things. . . .

His voice was soft and his eyes dreamy, and there was that about him which made one think that his soul was like a child’s, mysteriously wise yet utterly tender. . . .

There was a slight thud, a little splash; the boat landed somewhere, the murky water licking the bottom step of a dark Venetian quay. There was Isadora’s voice, speaking Italian to the gondolier; the hands of small beggar boys, outstretched for pennies. . . . The magic spell was broken. We were in Italy again.

On the way back, Essenine and I sang Russian folk songs, and the gondolier, a little surprised at this competition in his own game, nevertheless applauded heartily. After a while Essenine, still in a talkative mood, started speaking of Russia again. But it was a different Essenine now. The other, the poet, who seemed simple and naïve and, somehow, wise, whom I had known only for a short hour or two, had vanished. This was the ordinary Essenine I knew: bland, noncommittal, pretending to be somewhat of a fool, but rather secretive, with eyes which had such sly corners to them. He talked of Bolshevism and I asked whether he knew Lenin.

‘Lenin is dead!’ he whispered back.

I nearly jumped. This was in 1922 and Lenin was very ill.² He was surrounded by famous German physicians; every now and then one read in the papers their official bulletin.

‘Why are you joking like this, Sergei Aleksandrovitch? ’

We both whispered, as if we were afraid that someone might overhear.

‘I am not joking. He has been dead for almost a year,’ came the whispered reply, ‘but we cannot let this be known, for Bolshevism would collapse in one hour. There is no leader strong enough to take his place. Can’t you see?’

‘But, Sergei Aleksandrovitch, one cannot conceal such news. It’s impossible. One might succeed for a few days, perhaps a week, but no longer.’

‘We have succeeded. We had to. No one knows. Only a few trusted people,’ His voice was that of a conspirator. It was at this moment that I began to suspect his hoax, but, instead of protesting, I now pretended to be convinced. I wanted to hear more. It seemed so very exciting.

‘You see,’ the quiet voice continued, ‘once in a great while, if someone insists, the physicians let him in just for a minute and show the visitor that Lenin is asleep. He is not asleep. He is embalmed! Dead! Marvelously embalmed. These Germans did it; it took them weeks to do it. They are putting off the announcement from week to week, until we can find a strong leader. Bolshevism cannot exist without a strong man. In the meantime they keep on issuing bulletins of his gradual decline. Have n’t you noticed it? Have n’t you noticed how few people are admitted? That there are no interviews?’

I sat completely entranced. What a story! Even if this was just a hoax, what a magnificent plot! It fired my imagination. The quiet voice continued : —

‘But if you squeal one word, you won’t live! There are ways and means. We have spies everywhere!’

I said not a word. My back was full of shivers; I was divided between admiration and a desire to laugh. Essenine sat with a satisfied, secretive smile. He looked a little insane.

‘What are you two muttering about?’

Isadora’s voice. . . . Isadora, who had been so silent all evening and had sat alone, lost in heaven knows what dreams, now joined us and another spell was broken. But that night I could hardly sleep, for the story he had told me, so fantastic and yet so plausible, had got hold of my imagination.

It still seemed probable. What a plot, if it were true!

IV

The conversation in which I had to assist on the following morning was the most ghastly of all my interpreting jobs and I made a sorry business of it. I saw, the moment I entered the room, that some sort of serious discussion was going on and that Isadora and Essenine were n’t getting anywhere, for he turned to me at once with a little cry of relief: —

‘A, vot Miss Kinel! Perevoditie. ’ (‘Ah, there is Miss Kinel! Please translate.’)

Then he settled back in his chair with an air of being ready for business : —

‘When we get to Paris I want my own key. I want to come and go as I please and walk alone if I feel like it.’

‘What is it?’ demanded Isadora.

I translated, avoiding Isadora’s face and looking straight ahead of me.

‘No damned ordering me about. I am not sick and I am not a child. Tell her that.’

I did — with a slight modification.

Isadora was silent.

Essenine paused slightly. Then: —

‘I am not going to beat about the bush — or cheat. ... I want absolute freedom — other women if I like. If she wants my company, I shall stay in her house, but I don’t want any interference.’

It was at this point that I broke down on my job. I cried: —

‘I can’t tell her that, Sergei Aleksandrovitch. Please!’

‘You have to! It’s your job!’

‘I won’t!’

From Isadora, anxiously: —

‘What does he want now?’

‘Oh, he is just restless — he does n’t mean half of it. . . . He wants to — do as he pleases when you go to Paris. ’

I knew I looked guilty and confused and that Isadora guessed I was n’t telling all of it. This time she did not insist. She merely watched Essenine’s face. He was working himself up a little more: —

‘ I am not going to be kept cooped up in a hotel like a slave. If I can’t do what I want, I shall leave. I can take a boat from here and go to Odessa. I want to go back to Russia.’

Isadora caught the word ‘Odessa’ and her eyes were full of fear. Essenine saw this, and he leaned back in his chair with a satisfied look. He had scored a point. It was obvious; he could get anyt hing if he threatened to leave. For some moments he looked abstracted, his forehead all creased, his whole face puckered up. . . . Then he smiled slowly and said musingly: —

‘ It will be interesting . . . these French women ... I have heard so much about them.’

He said this exactly with the air of a small boy who is terribly eager to taste some kind of new pastry he has heard talked about.

I studied him for a moment and then said, calmly and with conviction: —

‘A viedz Vy poriadochnaya svolotch.’ (‘You know, you are really quite a dirty skunk.’)

And then I stopped — amazed at what I had said. But Essenine merely looked up, as if interrupted in his pleasant dream, and smiled. There was an awkward pause. I got up to go. Seeing mo leave, Essenine said suddenly: —

‘What about my last night’s telegrams? Has there been any reply?’

‘I have n’t sent them. You see . . . you were still a little drunk and I thought . . .’

His face went white, as it always did when he got angry. He said with a sort of quiet menace: —

‘You know, you ought to do what you are told — not what you think.’

I was filled with anger and humiliation and tried to explain why I thought he could n’t possibly want those telegrams to be sent if he were sober. They were addressed to two of his literary friends, one in Moscow, another in Berlin, and he asked them to come at once. I knew that Isadora and he were going to America very soon to fulfill her contract, and I knew that one friend at least, the one in Moscow, would probably never even reach them before they left, what with visas, passport difficulties, and so on.

Essenine listened with a set face. His anger never broke out at once; he would merely become pale and his eyelids turn pink, but one sensed the turmoil within him. Isadora, watching our faces, now demanded to know what it was all about, and I translated briefly. To my surprise, she took Essenine’s part.

‘You should have sent them. You should obey his instructions, no matter how nonsensical they may seem. We could always send another telegram later, refuting the first,’ she said. ‘You must n’t contradict him. You know how sick he is. The doctor in Wiesbaden said we should never make him angry.’ She spoke very kindly, as if trying not to hurt my feelings.

I said I was sorry, not quite sincerely, and went to the door. ‘Come and join us for lunch,’ cried Isadora. But I made no reply. I went down to the beach, had a swim, and then lay on the sand, meditating on the vicissitudes of being a secretary to people of genius and temperament, and wondering whether this was how things would always be when Essenine went off the water wagon for good; also swearing to myself that this was the last job of private secretary in my career. . . .

My vow was fulfilled amazingly soon, for when I returned to the Excelsior after luncheon I found Jeanne alone, packing, and with the news that Madame and Monsieur were at the bank getting money and were leaving for Paris that night. The familiar ‘Faites vos malles, mademoiselle,’ was lacking. There was no message for me. I might not have existed. So I returned to my room and packed too.

When I went up to Isadora’s room later in the afternoon, she stretched out her hand and cried: —

‘I am terribly sorry! It’s Essenine. He hates you now.’

She looked troubled and very gracious in her desire not to hurt me. I said, ‘Never mind, Isadora. It’s just as well. I was really quite rude to him this morning.’

‘He says he can’t trust you,’ Isadora said; ‘not after that incident with the telegrams and yesterday with the medicine in his wine. He can never trust you again.’

‘But, Isadora,’ I cried, ‘have n’t you told him that it was your idea, not mine, to put the medicine in the wine?’

She smiled a little guiltily and said simply: ‘No.’

Great Scott, what was one to do? I saw her point at once: as long as I was being fired anyway because Essenine ‘did n’t trust’ me, I might as well bo blamed for everything. . . . We talked of this and that, and while we talked Essenine entered. He was full of warm cordiality, the made-up kind at which he was quite adept, obviously with the desire to part on good terms, although it was clear he was glad that the traitress was going. He asked me to see his literary friends in Berlin, gave me numerous addresses, describing his more intimate boon companions very minutely, even to the fact of their being good lovers or not. . . . ‘This one is very . . . and that one is not so good . . . and that one is no good altogether’— all this in the frank coarse Russian way which he liked to adopt when he teased anyone and which was humorous in spite of the coarseness. But I was not in a humorous mood. I was stiff with resentment. I said just ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ and ‘All right.’

Said Isadora, who hated friction and who always forgave things and forgot slights: —

‘Oh, do make up with him. Don’t be angry.’ And so we shook hands all around and said good-bye. . . .

I left the Lido on the same afternoon, feeling a little lost. Leaving Isadora and Essenine was like stepping off a brightly lit stage with the actors on it etched in sharp, clear outlines and with lots of high lights — and jumping into the dark, murky orchestra where the people, by comparison, were shadowy, unreal, and half dead. . . . After Isadora and Essenine, the ordinary world seemed a little gray.