Sunday, June 18, 2017

The Mask of Valery Larbaud, #valerylarbaud, #ronpadgett, #billzavatsky

Vehicles of Poetry and the Sadness of Travel


Book review of The Poems of A. O. Barnabooth by Valery Larbaud (Black Widow Press, 2008).  Translated by Ron Padgett and Bill Zavatsky. #valerylarbaud #thepersonalreview


One almost wishes Valery Larbaud had not created the fictional persona of A. O. Barnabooth to disguise his authorship of the poems that make up this delightful collection.  Originally published in 1908 under two different French titles—Poèmes par un riche amateur and Le Livre de M. Barnabooth, précédé d’une vie de Barnabooth par X. M. Tournier de Zamble—this updated translation seems at pains in the introduction to explain the convergences and deviations between Larbaud’s fictional alter-ego and the man himself.   That’s partly because Ron Padgett and Bill Zavatsky’s translation does not include the fictional Journal intime that normally accompanies the French edition and thus explains Barnabooth’s role as the poems' titular creator.  Furthermore, his phenomenal story seems a mostly exaggerated version of Larbaud’s own—as if the latter required the picaresque features of an imaginary biography to exonerate him for certain facts on the ground, facts he worried might disqualify him as a serious poet:  most importantly his substantial personal wealth.  Having purchased for him many of the cosmopolitan travel experiences he writes about in his poems, Larbaud’s riches help to explain the variety of cultures he seems to be enjoying, the exotica in which he immerses himself, and the luxurious detachment with which he often observes it, for instance, from the deck of a private yacht.
Rather than draining away the literary merit of the poems, however, these simple facts of Larbaud’s biography, I think, lend them an affecting familiarity, one that contemporary readers, assuming a more globalized perspective on the nature of travel and literary production, will find both poignant and uncanny on discovering his work.  It is oddly touching and queer in our era of bombastic consumption and nepotistic stardom to learn that Valery Larbaud considered his wealth a possible impediment to the recognition of his genuine talents as a poet.  The mask of Barnabooth, then, was created to deflect the ridicule he feared his poetic endeavors might provoke on being offered up to the public and its literary arbiters.  In the end, as interesting as the stratagem might seem, Barnabooth becomes the vestigial remnant of a literary subterfuge whose function was quickly dissipated once the French literati of the day had embraced Larbaud’s work and the poet had revealed his identity.
Reading these poems now, we often sense we are hearing Larbaud’s own voice, his sweetly melancholic disposition fully eclipsing the braggart mask of his fictional stand-in.  Once we get past the title page of Padgett’s and Zavatsky’s edition, Barnabooth spasmodically fades away until the “Private devotions” that come at the end.  It is here that we discover a surprising envoi “To Mr. Valery Larbaud” signed by Barnabooth “himself,” though by the time we see his name again, we have trouble recalling who this entitled personage might be.  In fact the envoi seems to acknowledge the collection as Larbaud’s alone, citing certain private references, a signature nostalgia and fretful regret for unfulfilled desires.  The fictional hero asks permission to drop his cameo role in a book for which he no longer feels suited:  “But wouldn’t there be a way, with me, your companion of so many years,/ To leap out of this era […] these miserable latest Paris-London-Vienna fashions/ Into the sun and warm air of the Empire?/ Like those goldfish at Valbois during a hot spell” (143).   Modernity seems too hot for Barnabooth who prefers the old ways.
Larbaud’s authorial mask proves a reluctant one, even if another in the collection—a poem entitled “Mask”—reminds us how futile it is to seek the actual man behind the words of ANY poem, given that some level of imposture is endemic to all creative writing and its mimicries of intimacy between writer and reader.  Comparing his private mask to other literal ones in the “old Venetian style,” Larbaud asks, with Baudelairean stealth,

that some reader, my brother, to whom I speak
Through this pale and shining mask,
Might come and place a slow and heavy kiss
On this low forehead and cheek so pale,
All the more to press upon my face
That other face, hollow and perfumed. (23)

Even as the masks fuse they seem to multiply between reader and text and thus to increase the many selves behind them.  Like so many travelers raised in a cosmopolitan milieu, Larbaud searches for a truer self while recognizing how easily the places one visits can alter the verbal self-portrait one has already created as a substitute for oneself:  places like the cities one is charmed by, the souvenirs one buys, the acquaintances one makes—overlaying but sometimes erasing the past and its apparent primacy in the establishment of identity.   The poems thus partake of a synaesthesia of past and present, the familiar and the strange (or new), of truth and artifice, the Self and the Other that Victor Segalen, another French poet and traveler of the time, seemed transfixed by and almost a victim of—his inner “otherness” multiplying itself to the point of dispersion and “autoscopy”.[1]  But unlike Segalen, who wrote extensively about China and Polynesia, Larbaud’s itineraries are more firmly rooted in Europe, assiduously crisscrossing the Mediterranean and Black Seas, even if they sometimes also extend farther out (and farther back) to the Americas where the poet stages his alter-ego’s birth but the real attraction of which seems more cultural and linguistic than nostalgic.   (The settings in the poem “Yaravi,” for instance, bounce back and forth from the Bosporus to the Tyrrhenian Sea, yet the title itself refers to a folk tradition originating in the Andes, one of many references to folk lyrics in Spanish.)  The centrality of Europe, however, proves dominant by the end of the book with its long, multi-tiered poem of that same name.    
            Right away in the collection Larbaud allegorizes his irrepressible impulse both for indulging himself and for physical travel in a verse “Prologue” premised on the funny if sometimes embarrassing rumblings of the “borborygmi”:  the intestinal groans that tend to erupt at socially inopportune moments.  In these irrepressible gurglings from the depths of one’s bowels Larbaud finds a surprising physical parallel to his personal longings—whether for pleasure or its discontents—longings almost every poem in the collection encapsulates and extols in some way.  As if to extend this analogy of guts and brains, peristalsis and sentiment, the Ode that comes next transforms these intestinal spasms into a network of deluxe express trains fanning out across Europe and Asia, a network Larbaud exuberantly celebrates.  It is a kind of anticipatory “Prose of the trans-Siberian” that both condenses and fragments Blaise Cendrars’s modernist masterpiece of verbal locomotion.   But instead of transporting us across the Russian steppes like the train Cendrars was inspired by, the ode simply evokes it in a catalog of first-class trains Larbaud seems to have ridden, like some lyrical Paul Theroux negotiating the great railway bazaar of the world.  From the Harmonika-Zug to the Orient Express, Larbaud hurls his readers forward with verbal exultation toward what he calls “the unsayable” and “[the] eternal aspiration for vague things” (13).  But the things he aims at bring their burden of sadness, too, something Larbaud always acknowledges before concluding his poems, as if to say that that was really the point of it all: the poignancy that mysteriously enriches the pleasure of travel.  Another poem about railway travel or its aftermath is the exquisite “Old Station at Cahors,” which describes an abandoned train station serving a forgotten destination, a station the poet compares to an aging, if still flirtatious woman, mostly ignored but sometimes gently tickled by the memory of her aging amours:  the huffing steam trains that once filled her encompassing quais. 
            Conspicuously evocative of sea travel are “Indian Ocean,” “Night in the Port,” and “Mers-el-Kebir,” three poems in which a speaker lounges comfortably on the deck or in the cabin of an imaginary cruise ship, steaming under the stars at night or docking at a town once lived in.  The first of these might seem the most exotic, set as it is “on the deck of a big ship/ On the way to the Dutch East Indies” (25), but the poem heightens one’s sense of isolation on the sea at night under a star-filled sky unimpeded by the “Himalaya of sails” one would find on the old wooden ships.  The speaker is nowhere but where the stars tell him, “gazing at infinity gazing down on [him,]” a “vision of Creation, immensely/ Silent” (25).  Engulfed by this awesome quietude, he thinks back longingly to something simpler:  a cool spring morning he once enjoyed in Marseille as he looked out his hotel window onto the city’s old port and its famous Chateau d’If.  The other two poems carry us to towns on the coast of Africa where the poet recalls the narrow lives of the people he knew there if also the enchanting song of two girls—unseen by each other—whose “united voices” persuade the poet he is not only the “wounded paloma [dove]” of which they sing, but is himself “this passing moment[,]” this “African evening” (53).  He becomes his destination, but his latest destination is always just another screen of himself. 
            The singing of the two girls in the previous poem echoes another written in tribute to the songs and voices of former servants.  Though we are supposed to be in mind here of Barnabooth, born and raised in Argentina, one is reminded of the patrician pleasure Larbaud must have regularly taken in having a bevy of servants to cater to his needs whenever he experienced the more 

expansive moments of health,
One of those cruel moments when one is really oneself!
Living in a corner of a city’s hundred thousand folds, 
Like a criminal thought in a brain,
Able to buy everything in the dazzling shops, 
Like those in Paris, Vienna, or London, 
Restaurants, jewelers, wide-open streets 
(The stomach like loaded saddlebags, the eyes 
Two lighted lanterns).”  (39)

Among these women’s voices are those of the sambas (mulatto servants), pure toned and deep, singing the zarzuelas of yesteryear.  At the center of these delicious memories are thoughts of Lola, an old servant with “crazy eyes staring into the distance” and one “Rose Auroy, in the embassy gardens,/ In streaked raffia and red silk scarf dotted with buttercups,” telling the poet her riddling sirandanes.  Amparo, Carmeta, and Angustias soon follow, “[filling] this heart that dedicates these tears to [them]” (41).  Though this may seem a bit patronizing, there is a grace conferred on the women in a way that suggests genuine regret for the past and the unique circumstances that provoked or inspired the memory of it.  It is the kind of sadness that comes from realizing, at a certain stage in life, that one’s good fortune and security are probably completely undeserved—though the same could be said of one’s bad fortune.  Still, these deep feminine voices suggest another kind of wealth even in servitude, something even the poet cannot fully grasp.   
            If Larbaud’s admission of the sheer joy of consumerism startles the reader at times, one is no less surprised by the strong link the poet makes between pleasure and criminality.  Larbaud takes this notion farthest in “L’Eterna Volutta” in which the connection between human suffering and the inhuman delight anyone might take in it is repeatedly if ambiguously sounded.  The translators’ notes inform us that in his journal Barnabooth claims to have written the poem at a time when he was despairing over his own baseness.   But the poem seems more interesting without the explanatory framework as the verses oscillate unpredictably between civilization’s highest values and the viler genealogies Nietzsche attributes to them.  No sooner has the poem listed all the beauties of feeling that might justify the human race than it announces how easily they are quelled by “the eternal voluptuousness of suffering!” (33).  Yet the poem never definitively establishes whether the poet’s sympathies are with the afflicted or with the afflicters; both seem to claim him as their own, like a kind of cosmopolitan Kurtz—the best that Europe can produce—suddenly losing his moral coordinates as soon as he’s given the opportunity to satisfy his secret appetites.  But this Kurtz hasn’t penetrated the jungles of the Congo:  it’s the labyrinth of department stores and restaurants one finds in the great cities of the world that have unhinged the speaker.   Though done with a seductive playfulness or even sentimentality at times, Larbaud captures an unsettling if all too familiar truth about the potential cruelty of pleasure, thanks mostly to the insensitivity of the pleased.  Something Larbaud himself somehow always avoids.
            In the magnificent assemblage of poems that make up “Europe” we catch a glimpse of the charming majesty of the “gone world” of the early Twentieth Century and what it must have been like to explore even the farthest eastern boundaries of the western world in the few remaining years before the Great War would shatter Europe’s peace.  Sailing at midnight on—what else?—a Cunard liner, the poet hears the ocean waves lapping the ship’s flanks in hushed tones at the approach of the continent.  The passengers see flashes of lightning in the distance, only to realize they are the beams of “a lighthouse, like a madman/ Whirling its flaming head in the night, a giant dervish” (101). 

So it’s you, Europe, you I surprise at night.
I find you once again in your perfumed beds, O my loves!
I saw the first and foremost
Of your billions of lights.
There are the civilized nations,
With their enormous capitals, so luminous that at night,
Even above the gardens, their skies are pink. (103)

This doesn’t prevent Larbaud from giving a nod, expressed with a “fie,” to the colonies that contributed so much to the old empires and new nations wrangling for position in the vastness of peopled cities and the empty plains around them, all laid before us in these poems.  But in the colonies, “which have/ Only the marvels of nature” and where bored colonials, “[dressed] in white linen, in towns with nowhere to buy anything,/ [Do] nothing but think of you, [and] through you, Europe” (105).  While seeming to extol the colonizer’s self approval—his sense of ruling the world “Through knowledge, behind the scenes, as if [Europe] held/ The strings of these colorful puppets in a single fist”—the poet notes how dizzy one gets on high as if in the evil grip of temptation:  “As if someone were murmuring to you, ‘All this I will give to you,’ on the mountain top!” (105). 
From “slumming in the night-spots” to skirting the Dalmatian coast where sea bays fold into mountains “[c]renellated with inaccessible Venetian citadels,” to plashing in a silver bathtub in London, or Stockholm (with its “Little Red Riding Hoods”) or Berlin (where “nothing of importance/ Has been built since 1810”), the pageant of Europe is luxuriously displayed for the reader, if casually discovered from a series of vehicular windows opening onto the highways and byways of its beautifully proportioned landscapes, its encrusted borders along the villages, towns, and cities pinning it to the map of the world.  Larbaud never shrinks from fashionable excess, but like all good travelers, he knows when it’s time to forsake the beaten track and return “to the virgin forests,/ The desert, the prairie, the colossal Andes,/ The White Nile, Teheran, Timor, the South Seas,/ The entire planetary surface ours for the asking!” (107).
Aside from certain suitably prosodic substitutes, Padgett’s and Zavatsky’s translation avoids bending the English language in any way that might unduly strain its lovely frame.  Beautiful as the French originals may be, there is such a thing as reproducing too much Frenchness in the English; instead, the present translations fit themselves very snugly into the idiom of the book’s “target language,” to use the terminology of translation theorists.  This seems to be the tendency of most American translations today—to assume that other cultures and languages will readily fit in with the public patter of the American scene and its various political correctives.  But at no time does this translation seem at odds with the sensibility of the original except when it’s Larbaud’s sensibility itself, a certain unease of dislocation, wrinkling up the sheen of his sophisticated, but never condescending, French.  Even the prickliest connoisseurs of Gallic taste will know they are in expert hands.   The same sense of surety is evident in the detailed but unfussy notes that accompany the poems, an intellectual relief to have on hand but also a pleasure to flip back and forth through—helpful, learned, worldly.  The book, now ten years old, is a forgotten gem of a collection, like a rediscovered cabinet of curiosities waiting to be despoiled of its surprises.   



[1] See Charles Forsdick’s discussion of Segalen in which he claims that “[t]he descriptions of the meeting of ‘moi-même et l’autre’ in Équipée appears to be that of an authentic experience of autoscopy.”  Forsdick, C. Victor Segalen and the Aesthetic of Diversity: Journeys Between Cultures. Oxford Univesity Press, 2000: 212-213.