Bykaŭ and Baradulin: A Creative Literary Friendship
Arnold McMillin
One of Baradulin’s poems, written in 1989, is called ‘Za słovam Bykava idu!’ (I follow Bykaŭ’s words!), and the theme of my talk is, indeed, the creative literary friendship between two of Belarus’s most outstanding writers of the last half century: the late Vasil Bykaŭ and Ryhor Baradulin.
It is, actually, unsual for great contemporaries in the world of the arts to respect and admire each other. One only has to think of, for example, Prokof’ev’s description of Stravinskii’s music as ‘Bach on the wrong notes’ or, slightly nearer to the theme of this paper, the fact that two of Russia’s greatest writers, Tolstoi and Dostoevskii, apparently never even met. Belarusians are not, of course, Russians (there is, of course no need to remind anyone here of that), and there is a much greater sense of community and shared interests and values amongst Belarusian writers, from Janka Kupała and Jakub Kołas to the leading poet and prose writer of the present day, Ryhor Baradulin and Vasil Bykaŭ. Bykaŭ, of course, spent his last years in enforced exile, whilst Baradulin has remained closely tied to Belarus and, in particular, their shared native Vušača region. Both Bykaŭ and Baradulin act as moral and patriotic beacons in a country where values of all kind, including the linguistic heritage, are in constant danger of erosion through political decisions and inertia. My paper today is intended to highlight the ways in which over several decades they have responded to each other with love and admiration, paying particular attention to the remarkable collection of poems and drawings entitled Listy ŭ Chielsinki (Letters to Helsinki, 2000) and their last joint project, ‘Kali rukajucca dušy…’ (‘When Souls Shake Hands…’, 2003). This is not the place to quote extensively their highly perceptive comments on each other’s work, although it is tempting, since both have unassailable reputations in any case, though in my opinion, Baradulin’s triptych of articles on Bykaŭ written 1993-94 and Bykaŭ’s brief but intense and immensely perceptive introduction to Baradulin’s collection of poems published at about the same time, Treba doma byvać čaściej… (One Should Be at Home More…) are amongst the best things written by anyone about these two writers.
This lecture was given to the Anglo-Belarusian Society in 2004.
In an interview seven years ago Baradulin remembered how in the early 1960s Vasil Bykaŭ brought him from Hrodna where he then worked, a book of gruesomely lavish tributes to Stalin by Belarusian writers. In it Bykaŭ had inscribed the words, ‘Read and do not repeat the mistakes of your elders’. The book was probably a treasure of this library: Ad ščyraha serca: Piśmy biełaruskich narodu tavaryšu Stalinu (From a Sincere Heart: Letters from the Belarusian People to Comrade Stalin, published in 1952), edited by Piatruś Broŭka who contributed to it with particular enthusiasm and invention. Later, Baradulin recalls, he and his friends would make merry by singing some of these choice verses in praise of Stalin to well-known popular tunes.
At around this time, in 1962, Baradulin wrote the first of his poems dedicated to Bykaŭ: ‘Busieł’ (The Stork) seems to be mainly about patience and frustration, as the poet spends much energy, for many years trying in vain to catch a stork, Belarus’s national bird, by the tail:
Непаседа,
даўгацыбы бусел -
Даўняе вясны
забыты сон.
…Я злавiць яго
за хвост цягнуўся,
Дражнiцца
i уцякае ён.
Змораны,
я доўга плачу потым.
Суцяшаць
стараюцца усе:
- Бусел ходзiць
у чырвоных ботах
I табе
такiя ж
прынясе…
Горбiць плечы гора,
горбiць праца.
Усяго спаўна
мне лёс паслаў…
Вось ужо i скронi серабрацца.
Ды яшчэ й цяпер
лаўлю бусла.
Ну, на гэты раз
вярнуся з птахам -
Я ж за iм прайшоў
багата вёрст!
Нада мною -
крылы белым дахам.
Паспрабуй
злавi
бусла за хвост…
The combination of simplicity with the subtle art that conceals art in this poem is entirely characteristic of Baradulin’s work throughout his life.
Fifteen years later he dedicated another poem to Bykaŭ, linking philosophy with the natural world, ‘My na ahoń hladzim…’ (We Gaze at the Fire…’). Again simplicity of form, musicality and a broad idea are features:
Мы на агонь глядзiм
Пры вогнiшчы рудым.
Як схiмнiк-нелюдзiм,
Знiкае ў неба дым.
Гарыць агонь-багач
I цемру й цiш iрве.
Цень жудасцi,
Пабач, -
Ступае на траве.
Найнакш
I прашчур наш,
Укленчыўшы агню,
Узняў свой позiрк
Аж
Да зор
Упершыню.
Зглыдаў агонь датла
Галля рудую медзь.
I нам пасля святла
Страшней у змрок глядзець.
In the poem whose title I mentioned at the beginning, ‘Za słovam Bykava idu!’ (I Follow Bykaŭ’s Words!), we are reminded strongly that the two writers, as indeed, several others, good, bad and indifferent (they include Broŭka!), come from the same part of Belarus, as in the opening lines:
Чытаю Быкава
I зноў
Вяртаюся ў краiну сноў,
У старану маю лясную,
Якую,
Покуль я iсную,
Люблю ў затуле туманоў,
Ей плачу, бачу, ёй блазную.
Завецца ўшацкай старана…
He describes himself as being led by Bykaŭ’s ‘economical line’ (Aščadny bykaŭski radok), showing how it evokes in him by the simplest of means, a strongly emotional memory of his native region. A word with the same root as aščadny (našča – on an empty stomach) plays a prominent part in the opening of Baradulin’s triptych of articles about Bykaŭ. Here are the first three lines:
Нашча трэба чытаць Васiля Быкава.
Нашча трэба думаць пра Васiля Быкава.
Нашча трэба хiнуцца душой да святла слова ягонага.
Not for nothing did Bykaŭ refer to Baradulin as ‘the nightingale of Belarus’, and in my review of the relationship of these two writers it is essential to stress that, artistically, they are completely different: Bykaŭ’s severe, even harsh, realism, relating past to present is far from the virtuosic, highly metaphorical, playful nature of much of Baradulin’s poetry. They do, however, as I have already mentioned, thoroughly appreciate the essence of each other’s work. Where they are truly close is in their patriotism, their concern for the future of Belarus and its language, and their intolerance of immorality. Baradulin has an excellent portmanteau word for the sort of immorality they had to fight: kulasoramunieprabivajemyja, and no one can forget the political critics who in the late Soviet period who attacked Vasil Bykaŭ for his ‘moralizing’. Above all, they have played a huge role as inspirational leaders of all nationally conscious Belarusians.
In his essay of 1993 entitled ‘Apostał nacyi’ (The Nation’s Apostle) Baradulin links Bykaŭ with such great figures of the past as Skaryna, Kalinoŭski and Kupała, suggesting, rightly, that it is Bykaŭ who made Belarusian literature known in the world. Acclaiming him as ‘the shining apostle of the nation’, he, also rightly, observes that, though apostles are few, they cannot be stopped and that ‘the nation will live so long as its apostles live’ (in memory as well as in physical life). In another essay of the same year, ‘Kosmas Vasila Bykava’ (The Cosmos of Vasil Bykaŭ), Baradulin describes Bykaŭ as personifying the conscience and intellect of Belarus, as bearing his fatherland within himself.
The third essay of this triptych, written a year later, is entitled ‘Jak vasilok u žycie Biełaruščyny’ (Like a Cornflower in the Corn of the Belarusian World). Even better known than the stork as a national symbol, of course, is the cornflower, and Baradulin seems to relish the phonemic connection of the work ‘vasilok’ with that of his friend Vasil. In one poem, ‘Vasilkovaja bałada’ (Ballad of a Cornflower), he clearly links Vasil and vasilok (there is also a Vasilicha). Two lines will be enough to establish this association:
Капаць акопы
Пайшоў Васiлёк.
So, Vasil for Baradulin is also the national symbol, vasilok.
It is, perhaps, not surprising that the severe prose writer Vasil Bykaŭ is less effusive about his friend than vice versa. Apart from the intrinsic differences between prose and poetry, Bykaŭ’s mission to speak the truth about the past and present of his unfortunate country is made the more powerful by his use of understatement and reserve. Baradulin’s form of patriotism and concern for the future is more emotional and, at times, openly bitter. Nonetheless, Bykaŭ from early years encouraged his younger colleague, and in his introduction to a milestone collection of Baradulin’s works, Treba doma byvać čaściej, referred with total conviction to Baradulin’s unswerving conscience, and to the universal, even encyclopedic nature of his verse.
The most touching and, in literary terms, finest expressions of Baradulin’s attitude towards Bykaŭ are in the outstanding little book Listy ŭ Chielsinki where Bykaŭ’s quasi-naive sketches of Finnish life complement brilliantly some of Baradulin’s most heartfelt verses. In them the poet both laments his friend’s absence and begs him to return home, although he probably knows better than anyone the impossibility of that happening.
The book is divided into letters from Vušača, letters from Miensk, with Bykaŭ’s sketches forming the third and last part. For simplicitiy of reference, the first letter from Vušača, for instance, will be referred to as V1, and the third letter from Miensk as M3, and so on. These verse epistles are, unsurprisingly, far from cheerful, as the last two lines of the first one dated 3 July 1998 demonstrate:
Яшчэ iмгненьне -
I душа завые…
Although each poem stands independently, some themes and images inevitably recur. For instance, Bykaŭ is directly and indirectly compared to a prodigal son (something that requires considerable poetic license in view of the writer’s involuntary exile); memory and forgetfulness are also recurrent themes to which Baradulin brings vivid imagination and characteristically rich imagery. Religious feelings are to the fore in some of the letters, but even more frequent are poems placing nostalgia for the joys of Belarusian rural life alongside the far more negative reality of life for the poet. One poem of 11 February 1999, for example, ends with a heartrending paradox:
На радзiме чужыя – свае,
На чужыне свае – чужыя…
Another poem, after some expressions of optimism for a distant future, ends: ‘А пакуль усё наадварот’ (For the time being everything is the other way round).
Asserting the need for everyone to have a guardian angel, Baradulin seems to refer indirectly to Bykaŭ as a prodigal son, and in a letter of 12 March 1999 the prodigal son is sought by the stars, but the last lines indicate that, wherever he is physically, he will live in his own country for ever:
На зямлi, дзе продкi спачываюць,
Дзе б нi быў,
Жывеш да скону дзён.
Baradulin appears to oscillate between impatience and resignation: V8 one poem, for instance, ends with the word para… (it is time…), whilst the end of another gains pathos by repetition:
Пацiху самота
Да змоўклай тугi
Звыкае,
Звыкае,
Звыкае…
Baradulin seems tired and depressed, and a poem of 12 April 1999 ends with four lines of the simplest pathos:
Голас жыве – I жыве спадзяваньне. Голас жыве – I трывога жыве…
Baradulin’s imagery is very characteristic, as in the last five lines of a poem of 1 December 1999:
I тоiцца
Журба ў жывой красе.
Журбою пахнуць
Словы нашы ўсе,
Наш хлеб надзённы.
Memory takes many forms in these verse epistles. In one there is a danger of silence away from native places:
Гаворыць забыцьцё.
А ты нямееш…
Memory can also be a prison, and this theme dominates in a poem of 11 January 1999 which begins thus:
Памяць -
Цямнiца суровая -
Вязьняў не адпускае,
У хмары iх замуроўвае,
Як у жывыя скалы.
Not everyone, however is imprisoned by memory: in a poem of two months later, for example, memory is portrayed as a fierce wild beast which, as Baradulin bitterly observes, spares tame animals; it is not difficult to decode the latter as conformist writers, a characteristic feature of intolerant societies:
Памяць – дзiкi зьвер,
Вiдаць, таму
Ён усiх прыручаных шкадуе…
I shall end my brief review of Listy ŭ Chielsinki with a letter dated 5 October 1999, from Hospital No. 10 (incidentally, the only poem to have a specific address). In it the clouds bear a message to Baradulin’s dearest friend:
Нахмурылiся хмары на мяне,
Што даўнавата не сачыў за iмi.
Плывуць сабе ў нябеснай старане
Дарогамi бясьследнымi сваiмi.
Я iмi перадаць хачу паклон
Найдарагому сябру на чужыне.
Сум асланiўшы, дагарае клён,
Аддаўшы долу золатам данiну.
Пастух нябесны, вецер, не ганi
Так хутка хмары,
Дай iм запынiцца.
Дай падзiвiцца зь цiхай сьветлынi,
Якая ў даўганоч выгнанцу сьнiцца…
The final joint venture between Bykaŭ and Baradulin, ‘Kali rukajucca dušy…’, appeared in 2003, the year of Bykaŭ’s death. Subtitled simply ‘Poetry and Prose’, it takes as its title an evocative line from one of Baradulin’s poems. This unique book comprises verse epistles by Baradulin and three sets of prose miniatures, described as parables, by Bykaŭ. The poems, also in three sections, were written as follows: twenty-six to Germany from the Vučača region (from underneath the eves of mother’s house); eighty-three to Germany from Miensk (from beneath a glassy sky); and eighteen to Golden Prague from Miensk (covered by a gloomy blizzard). The prose sections, which are philosophical rather than epistolary in form, are entitled ‘Baiki žyćcia’ (Fairytales of Life [echoing Kołas]), ‘Abiazbožany lud’ (A People Who Have Lost Their God), and ‘Chutarancy’ (Farming Folk). There are also a few graphic sketches by Bykaŭ, recalling the illustrations in Listy z Chielsinki, as well as some reflections on the phenomenon of verse correspondence. Having first explained the immense importance of the correspondence for him during his exile, and having explained that this ‘duet’ is not intended to be more powerful than a solo voice, Bykaŭ turns, ironically, to a theme, memorably raised by Janka Kupała a century earlier in his poem, ‘A chto tam idzie?’ (And, Say, Who Goes There?, 1905-07):
It is a pity, but we Belarusians, despite everything (at times ourselves too), still try hard to prove to the world that we have an unshakeable desire to call ourselves people. At least, not worse than other people.
The book concludes with a stirring prose reflection by Baradulin, ‘Daraści!’ (Grow Up To [Him]!), in which he reflects on the genre of parable as employed by Bykaŭ, pointing out the futility of trying to retell or explain a parable, and underlining his friend’s unique role, not only as the nation’s conscience but as the apostle entrusted with the thankless task of keeping the people’s memory awake and not letting them sleep, however strong the desire to shut their eyes to what is going on. In ‘Sinoptyk’ (The Weatherman) Bykaŭ remarks with melancholy irony, ‘Усё добра, калi ёсьць надзeя, тады й сьпiцца лeпeй’ (Everything’s alright when you have hope; then you sleep better too). The temptation to quote Baradulin extensively is not reduced by the melancholy nature of many of the poems in this volume, and the difficulty of quoting Bykaŭ’s concise, precise prose is as difficult in his last book as it was in the stories with which he made his name in the 1960s. I shall, however, attempt to convey briefly something of the flavour of this unusual and very touching volume.
Of Bykaŭ’s written contributions, half of the parables had already appeared in print: mostly in his 1999 collection, Pachadžanie (Wanderers) and one in New Zealand Slavonic Papers. The new ones published for the first time in Kali rukajucca… are in the same deeply pessimistic vein, and readers of Pachadžanie will know what to expect, and be delighted to find more reflections in the same genre. Earlier in his career Byakaŭ was plagued by ignorant critics who accused him of self-repetition, but these philosophical miniatures with a strong political undercurrent cover a wide range of themes within the same genre. Despite Baradulin’s warnings quoted above, that one should read and not retell or interpret parables, some idea of their content may be given now a few brief outlines. The first of the new tales in Pachadžanie, ‘Nasarohi iduć’ (The Rhinoceros are Coming), concerns a tribe led by Ko who are attacked by rhinoceros-people and forced to surrender their crops and valuables, then their womenfolk. Ko is opposed by Džo, who disappears before a major, ultimately victorious, battle against the rhinoceros-people in which Ko is amongst the slain. When he returns no one invites him to take Ko’s place as leader, and he does not ask for that: he knew how to deal with rhinoceros. In ‘Viaźnica Traum’ (The Traum Prison) the prisoners long for freedom and engage in a hunger strike, whilst protests by those outside the prison lead to a destructive and violent struggle with the authorities. Despite the dire situation beyond the prison walls, the prisoners still longed for liberty, and eventually they are released into the cold and hunger outside. The euphoria of reunion, however, is soon dispelled by the lack of anything to eat. A former prisoner, Vosip, takes charge but can offer only heady rhetoric, and after bloody recriminations and accusations, some of the prisoners return to their prison. Allies of the regime soon come and crush the remains of the rebellion, hanging Vosip in the prison yard. The parable ends thus:
Зьняволeныя ў бальшанi паставiлiся да таго абыякава, бо ўжо пeрасталi паважаць свайго завадатара, якi змусiў усiх пeражыць нeмалую мiнтрэгу. I нe дамогся нiчога.
Baradulin’s poems in this book, like those in Listy ŭ Chielsinki, are untitled apart from the prominent numeration that precedes each one. Bykaŭ’s titles, on the other hand, are notably brief for such short pieces, just as they were in Pachadžanie. A few examples of the new ones will suffice: ‘Čarapy’ (Skulls), ‘Honar i śmierć’ (Honour and death), ‘“Druhaja alternatyva”’ (‘A Second Alternative’), ‘Vieža’ (The Tower), ‘Ideja’ (An Idea) and so on. t is from the latter parable that Baradulin quotes Bykaŭ’s ironic, almost bitter, remark that the people do not want ideas because their stomachs are rumbling. Bykaŭ’s parables are immensely thought provoking, condensed and yet unostentatiously elegant, melancholy though anything but maudlin expositions of his last thoughts about his native country.
Baradulin’s last verse letter to Bykaŭ is a bitter reflection about Belarus as a jewel in Europe’s crown, a beggar to which Europe will not extend a hand, whilst those who wish to seize the jewel have for centuries not held back. Eternity is the theme of his penultimate letter; for all the short memories of some of their fellow-countrymen, Bykaŭ and Barudulin, the outstanding representatives of Belarusian literature in the twentieth century, are sure of eternity. The poem is not, of course, from this point of view, but it has a wry twist:
Лiст сeмнаццаты
Нe на вeчнасьць,
А на разьвiтаньнe
Пiшуцца шчымлiвыя радкi.
Вeчнасьць –
Самасьцьвeрджаная панi,
Ёй самоту слухаць нe з рукi.
Вeчнасьцi сябe самой хапаe,
На паслугах мудрасьць у яe.
Вeчнасьць –
Гаспадыня нe скупая,
Лiшняe ахвоча раздаe.
The relationship between Belarus’s best prose writer and greatest living poet, whilst undoubtedly interesting in the form it takes, provides yet another example of the remarkable warmth and generosity for which the Belarusian people are well known.
This lecture was given to the Anglo-Belarusian Society in 2004.