works will be found plenty of unprintable invectives.
It is only with the French, mind you, that he "stands
on ceremony." He loathes them, but admits that he
rather fears them. He sometimes substitutes asterisks
for the word "French." You never can tell, you
know; the French might put him. out ....
Posajnoy's literary tastes are simple enough. The
one author he quotes is Barkov. Of Essenin, he
wr.ites:
The odor of a privy
Is a nasty one, indeed;
And so, this is a poet,
'Twould be better not to read.
Of Goomilev:
We have to give a loud "tee-hee"
A t this civilian poetry.
Marina Tsvetaeva is for him a "prime numskull."
Our author, on the other hand, looks upon himself
as an authentic poet:
These my poems are meant to be
Read by the aristocracy.
It is with a mournful note that Posajnoy looks
back on his past, especially his sprees. In such af-
fecting moments, he beholds about him his old regi-
mental companions and brimming bottles of wine.
He tells us how, modestly .imitating Caligula, he
brought his stallion, Pegasus, into the officers' club:
Into the room, as if to dine,
He came and took a swig of wine,
Then gobbled a white rose bouquet
And did his dung upon a tray.
Those were no scurvy times; and, ah!
How the populace shouted a wild "Huzza!"
And thundered applause with right good will-
Oh, memories, be still! be still!
Posajnoy used to get drunk in Paris as well as
Russia, in the
cafe chantant
known as the Moulin
Rouge. He sighs lugubriously at the recollection:
'Twas all of twenty years ago,
I strolled into this hostelry,
Without a care, I'd have you know,
For I was a poet, young and free,
Scattering gold with thoughtless hand,
In all the world not one regret,
Letting my French hosts understand
That it wa.s they who were in my debt.
On Christmas Eve,
1926,
he recalls another Christ-
mas, that of
1902:
.
Scorning the stuffed and festive bird,
I took my Hussar's loved cornet;
And I carried, too, upon my word,
A bouquet of flowers, the violet.
Tonight, I stare at a gloomy pot,
For I have not an extra sou;
8
N
a
violets shall be my lot;
My supper a paltry cabbage-stew.
Following the rout of the White Army, Posajnoy
sought service with the English. In one of his books,
there is a portrait of him in the uniform of a British
soldier. Disgruntedly he relates: "I proffered my'
sword to the English." But apparently the latter
were none too pleased over this self-conferred
sword, and Posajnoy pulled up stakes for Paris.
Here, even more bitter experiences awaited our Hus-
sar poet; for he finally had to go to work as a day-
laborer in the Renault automobile works.
The official spokesmen for the emigres are in the
habit of saying that what they have lost is fatherland
and ideals, church and native heath. Posajnoy is
much more candid. He gives us a detailed inventory
of the losses he has suffered:
It's goodby now to downy beds
A nd naps until midday;
It's goodby opera and ballet,
Goodby to old and sparkling wine;
Cornets, comrades, all must go;
For I now have to fall in line
A nd drill for ]\;/onsieur Renault.
The following verses are dedicated "to himself" :
He who was born, born above all
For mountain, wood, the savage plains,
B
am
for parade-ground, glittering ball,
Must pine away in factory chains,
Must drown here in a vat of dung-
He who once spent his every day
In banquetings and at the chase
And many a pleasant warrior way-
A laborer's chores now his disgrace,
A s he goes down unwept, unsung.
He hates M. Renault, calling him a "frog-catcher
and penny-grabber." This does not mean, to be sure,
that his hatred is o( the sort that a worker might
feel toward his boss. No, Posajnoy is not a worker;
even in the factory, he .isa Black Hussar still. If he
hates Renault, it is for the reason that he, Posajnoy,
is compelled to work in a factory. He recalls how
the Russian nobility took in the French royalists:
"Our fathers fed the famishing marquis with
heaven's
own
milk." Whereas he has to be content
with the usual "coffee and." He waxes indignant:
"The French would leave a Black Hussar to starve
.in th~ Renault sewer."
Stronger and'stronger grows his hatred for every-
body and everything-above all, for the Jews: "It
is with the Asiatic cavalry that you ought to talk to
the countrymen of Moses
I
What, stand on ceremony
w'ith them
I
Well, that's too bad! Enough of pacifist
palaver-stamp out the Jew louse
I ...
Let Jew
blood flow in a ceaseless flood
I"
He is not any easier
on the Lettish: "I'll wipe out all your villages; I'll
MARCH,
1936
