52
PARTISAN REVIEW
thrills of slippery suspension. In their attitude toward literature they
were curiously conservative; with them soul-saving came first, log–
rolling next, and art last. A retrospective glance nowadays notes the
surprising fact of these free belles-Iettrists abroad aping fettered
thought at home by decreeing that to be a representative of a group
or an epoch was more important than to be an individual writer.
Vladislav Hodasevich used to complain, in the twenties and
thirties, that young
emigre
poets had borrowed their art form from
him while following the Merezhkovski and Adamovich cliques in
modish
angoisse
and soul-reshaping. I developed a great liking for
this bitter, lean, sickly man, wrought of irony and metal-like genius,
whose poetry was as complex a marvel as that of Tiutchev or Blok.
He was, physically, of a somewhat simian aspect, with triangular nos–
trils and heavy brows, and when I conjure him up in my mind he
never rises from the hard chair on which he sits, his thin legs crossed,
his eyes glittering with malevolence and wit, his long fingers screwing
into a holder the half of a C
aporal Vert
cigarette. There are few
things in modern world poetry comparable to the poems of his
"Heavy Lyre," but unfortunately for his fame the perfect frankness
he indulged in when voicing his dislikes made him some terrible
enemies among the most powerful critical coteries. Not all the
Adamites were Dostoevskian Alioshas; there were also a few thugs in
the group, and Hodasevich's poetry was played down with the
thoroughness of a vindictive racket.
Another independent writer was Bunin. I had always preferred
his little-known verse to his celebrated prose (their interrelation,
within the frame of his work, recalls Hardy's case). At the time I
found him tremendously perturbed by the personal problem of
aging: the first thing he said to me was to remark, with satisfaction,
that his posture was better than mine, despite his being some thirty
years older than
I.
He was basking in the Nobel prize he had just
received and invited me to some kind of expensive and fashionable
eating place in Paris for a heart-to-heart talk. Unfortunately I happen
to have a morbid dislike for restaurants and cafes, especially Parisian
ones- I detest crowds, harried waiters, bohemians, vermouth concoc–
tions, coffee,
zakuski,
floor shows, and so forth. I like to eat and drink
in a recumbent position (preferably on a couch) and in silence.
Heart-to-heart talks, confessions in the Dostoevskian manner are
also not in my line. Bunin, a spry old gentleman with a rich and
