Exile as Home: The Cosmopolitan Poetics of Leyb Naydus [1 ed.] 0822945061, 9780822945062

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EXILE AS HOME THE COSMOPOLITAN POETICS OF LEYB NAYDUS

Exile as Home The Cosmopolitan Poetics of Leyb Naydus Jordan D. Finkin

Including a critical essay by Naftoli Vaynig

HEBREW UNION COLLEGE PRESS UNIVERSITY OF PITTSBURGH PRESS

HEBREW UNION COLLEGE PRESS UNIVERSITY OF PITTSBURGH PRESS © 2017 Hebrew Union College Press Set in ITC Legacy Serif by Raphaël Freeman, Renana Typesetting Printed in the United States of America Awaiting c–i-p data

To David Gilner and the Staff of the Klau Library of Hebrew Union College, Cincinnati, for their dogged commitment to preserving the cultural heritage at the heart of this book & In Memory of Blanche Sudman

Contents Acknowledgmentsix Jordan D. Finkin, Exile as Home: The Cosmopolitan Poetics of Leyb Naydus 

1

Introduction: Leyb Naydus – Yiddish Argonaut

3



1. Diaspora Internationalism

13



2. Judeomorphism

33



3. “Full of Gold and Perfume”: Naydus and the Sonnet

53



4. Eastward Ho!: Naydus’s Exoticism and Orientalism

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5. Conclusion

105

Naftoli Vaynig, Naydus Studies

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Bibliography223 Index231

vii

Acknowledgments

My debts, as always, are many, my creditors unsung. While much of the work of this book took place while I was an intellectual na-venadnik, without an academic home, many pieces of this project nevertheless benefitted from the scholarly insights of colleagues from the publications, conferences, and conversations in which some of these ideas were first mooted. My chapter on sonnets is based on the article “What Does It Mean to Write a Modern Jewish Sonnet: Some Challenges of Yiddish and Hebrew,” Journal of Jewish Identities 7:1 (2014). My grappling with diaspora first began with a presentation entitled “What is the Opposite of Exile? A Question for Modern Jewish Literature,” given at the Gauss Seminar Symposium (“One Hundred Years of Primal Words: Five Explorations of Freud’s ‘On the Antithetical Meaning of Primal Words’ [1910]”) at Princeton University in 2010. To Daniel Heller-Roazen and the participants in that Symposium I offer my thanks for their insights and suggestions. Those ideas resurfaced in a more refined form, this time focused on Naydus, in a talk on “The Diaspora Internationalism of Leyb Naydus” given at a conference entitled “Spiritual Homelands – Wahlheimat – Elective Exiles” at the University of Virginia in 2015. My thanks to all of conferees for their comments and their contributions to the stimulating mix of perspectives on offer there. A constant source of intellectual and moral support to me personally, Kathryn Hellerstein has a remarkable and sensitively

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Acknowledgments

attuned ear for the subtleties of Yiddish poetry, of which I have been and hope to continue to be the grateful beneficiary. I finished the manuscript of this book while re-training to become a librarian. That I should end up at the Klau Library of Hebrew Union College almost at the same time that my book was accepted at Hebrew Union College Press is one of those felicitous flukes of fate for which I am filled with gratitude. It is a library like none other in the world, whose generous librarians and staff are committed to the principle that books are for use and that that principle is the first best means of preserving the cultural heritage contained within. I am unendingly grateful to Valerie Hotchkiss for sending me on the path to the Klau Library, and to David Gilner and the Klau’s librarians and staff for welcoming me in. I cannot begin to express my appreciation both for the professionalism of the staff of Hebrew Union College Press and also perhaps even more importantly for how pleasant an experience it was to work with them. My heartfelt thanks to David Aaron, Sonja Rethy, Jason Kalman, Angela Erisman, and everyone at the Press who had a hand in making this book a reality. For their endless wellsprings of support and encouragement my family and friends deserve much more than the thanks I offer. I feel my hand to have been guided to write about Naydus, because every day I spend with my wife, Sarah, and our boys, Dashiell and Emmett, fulfills the poet’s own design – “So shall life be beautiful.”

Exile as Home The Cosmopolitan Poetics of Leyb Naydus

Jordan D. Finkin

Introduction

Leyb Naydus – Yiddish Argonaut

It is early 1943. The forty-six-year-old Naftoli Vaynig has been a woodcutter in Svir, Belarus, for two years. As a policeman in the Vilne Ghetto, he had been shocked at the Aktion ordered by police chief Jakub Gens on Yom Kippur, 1941, and, as he fled fifty miles east to Svir, he admonished everyone he knew not to trust the Jewish police. Vaynig (originally Norbert Roze, born in 1897) was an important intellectual and cultural activist in interwar Poland; indeed, he was one of the foremost Jewish ethnographers and folklorists of that period. While still a teenager he began publishing articles on Yiddish literature. (Yiddish, it should be noted, was not Vaynig’s first language. The child of a Polonized family from Tarnów, he only began studying Yiddish in earnest at sixteen.) As his interest in ethnology grew, Vaynig argued strongly for the importance of folksong and folk literature in Yiddish literary history, and for the study of folklore more generally in Jewish historiography. As a cultural activist Vaynig was a forceful advocate for obtaining all manner of ethnographic and folkloric data by mobilizing teams of zamler – “collectors” – trained in the basic tools of ethnographic description, to gather information in situ in Jewish communities large and small. (It is an early version of what today we would call citizen scholarship or “crowdsourcing.”) These principles are laid out in YIVO’s (Yiddish Scientific Institute, a prominent Yiddish scholarly and cultural institute founded in Vilne in 1925) influential What Is Jewish Ethnography? (Handbook for Fieldworkers), which Vaynig 3

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Introduction

co-wrote in 1929.1 It was a theme he would reprise in a 1934 article in the Yiddish-Polish journal Landkentnish / Krajoznawstwo.2 This journal, edited by the indefatigable Emanuel Ringelblum – later the organizing force behind the Oyneg Shabes Archive in the Warsaw Ghetto – was dedicated to “questions of knowing-the-land [landkentenish] and tourism, the history of Jewish settlements [in Poland], folklore, and ethnography.”3 We see in his work how committed Vaynig was to the program underlying that catalog. Living in a place, and being part of it, meant participating in a complicated and sophisticated intellectual endeavor, one that also required active work and physical engagement – knowing the names on local gravestones as well as the names of the trees which shaded them. So, in 1943, with Jews penned in ghettos and their lives and cultures threatened with eradication, there is work to be done. After two years of labor in Svir, Vaynig decides to return to the Vilne Ghetto, to his family and his work. Though living in privation, he teaches, he organizes lectures and cultural events, he collects folklore, and he writes. It takes little effort to imagine the peril of impending doom – for themselves, their culture, their civilization – that those who endured it sensed daily, and this drive to save and preserve, felt in many ghettos during the war, remains a remarkable testament. In June of that year, several months prior to the Ghetto’s liquidation, Vaynig completed a long book-length essay on the Yiddish poet Leyb Naydus (1890–1918) in honor of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the poet’s death. Just months later Vaynig would die in a concentration camp in Estonia.4 In all that furious activity to collect and preserve what were likely the last living testaments of his culture, one may well ask: Why Naydus? Why this aestheticist decadent, this self-proclaimed dandy? Why this son of a wealthy family, this productive and talented wordsmith who died at the age of twenty-eight, who rarely ventured far from a few locales in his native Lithuania, and who left behind an assortment of largely unpublished poems and translations? And why would Vaynig write a monograph about this enigmatic poet – for which Vaynig was awarded a prize by the Ghetto’s Jewish Council, the capstone to his own remarkable legacy – emblazoning

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it with an epigraph from Horace: Non omnis moriar – “I will not die completely”? There are any number of possible and plausible answers to these questions. But our most important insights are to be gained by turning our attention to the poet himself, who, along with his work, is now largely forgotten, but about whom I cannot but agree with Vaynig’s ultimate assessment – that he was one of the preeminent innovators in the renaissance of Yiddish poetry.

Naydus’s Life and Work The contours of Naydus’s life are fairly well known.5 He was born in Grodno and grew up on the family estate in Kustin just outside the city. The family, while religious (his pious grandmother left a deep impression on him), was of a maskilic bent, open to the benefits of secular education, especially in literature. Naydus’s father was a well-to-do landowner and factory owner, and Naydus was brought up in a nobility-emulating bourgeois household, in a fine house with elegantly appointed apartments, a salon complete with a well-exercised piano, and surrounding forests and parkland which imbued Naydus with an enduring love of nature. Starting in 1901 he was sent to several schools in Poland, but was expelled from the last one in 1905 for activities involving the SSRP (the Zionist Socialist Workers Party). From 1908 to 1911 he attended Gymnasium in Vilne, but, though having finished his courses, he declined to take his exams. Except for brief stints, such as a stay in Ekaterinoslav early during the First World War, his life was spent predominantly moving between Kustin, Grodno, and Vilne. A prolific composer and translator, and a gregarious personality, wherever he went he was active in the local literary circles, and in Grodno especially he stood at the energetic center of a young coterie of writers and artists. In Zalmen Reyzen’s reminiscence of his last encounter with Naydus, shortly before Naydus’s death in 1918, he recalls how Naydus “sang Hasidic nigunim [tunes] as well as goyish and Gymnasium songs, and declaimed [poetry] and told jokes – how wonderfully he told them! – and played musical compositions on a glass harp, and improvised, and mimicked, creating a mood of true, sincere youthful exuberance.”6

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Introduction

Naydus died suddenly in December of 1918, apparently of a heart ailment, and was buried in Grodno. History has a way of mocking poets, and it is a cruel irony for a poet who loved his people and the natural landscapes of his native land that his final resting place, Grodno’s Jewish cemetery, no longer exists. It was razed by the Soviet government in the 1960s and a sports stadium was erected on the spot.7 Leyb Naydus was a restless wanderer. Not in his life – circumscribed as it largely was by the triangle of Vilne, Grodno, and Kustin – but in his art. His works ranged from his Lithuanian home, its landscapes and lifeways, to ancient Greece and exotic realms. He wrote traditional Yiddish quatrains, but also poured into Yiddish poetry verse forms it had seldom if ever seen: sonnets, terzinas, ghazals, triolets, and so forth. He translated from world literature, including significant translations of Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin and Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal. In his original work he pioneered the cosmopolitan with titles like “Pan’s Flute,” “Fata Morgana,” and “Con Sordino,” and cherished the intimacies of his surroundings with “My Folk,” “Lithuanian Landscapes,” and “Mother Earth.” His literary career spanned a mere eleven years, beginning with his first published poem in 1907 and ending with his untimely death. In that time his output was startlingly diverse and creative, and one is struck by how often the word “virtuoso” is applied to him in critical appraisals of his work. That he languished in relative Yiddish obscurity is likely the result of his first collections having appeared during wartime, when critical response was drowned out by historical events. A goodly amount of his poetry would not even appear until after his death, when dedicated friends undertook the labor of love of issuing his collected works. The challenge, and in some sense the relief, for a scholar approaching Naydus today is that there is simply a dearth of critical material on him.8 Apart from Vaynig’s study and the somewhat repetitive encomia of his friends, sustained critical appraisals can be found in only a very small number of articles and essays, which tend to fall into one or another of two camps. The generally favorable ones focus on the vibrancy of his aestheticist and cosmopolitan

Leyb Naydus – Yiddish Argonaut

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works, while dismissing the poetry on Jewish and national themes as sentimental and weak. On the other hand, those who are disinclined to favor Naydus find his world-literary pieces derivative and pat, while only in those works that explore Jewish motifs do they see what would have been seeds for mature development were it not forestalled by his death. That is, each camp likes what the other doesn’t, and vice versa. This protean aspect of Naydus entices the modern critic to figure out a way to understand his achievements without simply making him whatever one wants him to be. Mindaugas Kvietkauskas’s entry on Naydus in the volume Writers in Yiddish, for example, is one of the few contemporary works in English and does a good job of introducing Naydus in context and beginning to open him up to fresh interest and evaluation.9 But considering the volume, variety, and value of his poetry, Naydus is due an awakening of interest. The task I set myself in what follows is not an intellectual biography of Naydus, though I hope it might inspire or promote such a deserving undertaking. Nor is it a tour d’horizon of Naydus’s oeuvre. Rather, I want to find a way of reading Naydus that accounts for some of that critical disparity while isolating his remarkable – and neglected – contribution to Yiddish literature as a world literature, a part of, not apart from. Naydus criticism, in essentializing one or another idea or theme – his cosmopolitanism or his nationalism – misses the essential hybridity at work in his poetry, a hybridity that is a creative, energetic forward force in Yiddish letters. That he inscribed his sympathies for the Zionist Socialist Workers’ Party in many of his poems, for example, need not be at odds with his self-image as a latter-day poetic Argonaut. These aspects of Naydus were part of the same mode of self-exploration. To achieve this goal I will focus on a selection of the poems themselves, on close readings and explorations of Naydus’s poetic landscape, or, as Vaynig calls it, his “soulscape.”10 I am aware that such selective readings open one up to the charge that in picking-and-choosing one, however consciously or unconsciously, predetermines the meaning of the morceaux choisis; that one will never fail to find what one is looking for. In Naydus’s case, however,

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Introduction

what is there is so multifarious that a simple survey will obscure more than it will reveal. Moreover, Naydus is never coy; no reading of a poem will determine a course that poem does not seek to sail. There is little need, for example, to read anything into a late poetic credo like “I Am the Only One,” because Naydus is not hesitant about what he means: Ikh bin der eyntsiker, vos hob gefunen In unser mame-shprakh den sheynem klang; ikh hob antplekt in ir geheyme zunen, kameyes tayere fun raykhstn blank.

I am the only one who has found the beautiful sound in our mother tongue; I have revealed her secret suns, Precious amulets of the richest luster.

Ikh bin der eyntsiker, vos hot farshtanen Tsu makhn farbiker den groyen raym; Azoy vi federn fun di fazanen, Loykht regnboygndik mayn ferz gehaym.

I am the only one who has understood how to make the grey rhyme more colorful; just like the feathers of pheasants my verse secretly shines like a rainbow.

Ikh bin der eyntsiker, ikh bin der eyner, Vos vebt dem luftikstn muzikgeshpin, Farshvendt aykh tsirungen, tseshtralte shteyner Mit di shatirungen fun faynstn min.

I am the only one, I am the one who weaves the most airy web of music, bestrewing you with ornaments, resplendent jewels in hues of the finest sort.

Ikh bin der eyntsiker, vos kon bavegn in ritmen boygevdike unzer shprakh, Vos hot zi opgevendt fun shmole shtegn, Un zi aroysgefirt tsum breytn shlyakh.

I am the only one who can with supple rhythms prod our language, who has diverted her from narrow trails and led her forth to the wide road.11

Leyb Naydus – Yiddish Argonaut

9

A sense of self-importance on the one hand – a hardly bashful and mostly brash stance typical of the decadents – and of mission on the other pervades this poem. The movement of verbs, from the past tense to the present to the modal can, echoes this averral that “I am the one who has done, is doing, and can do all of this. And the ‘this’ I am referring to is nothing less than the essential renovation of Yiddish poetic language.” In Naydus’s diagnosis, Yiddish’s poverty is one not of philosophy or content but of form and poetics; he does not opine on what to say, rather on how best to say it. First and foremost, Naydus sees the “web of music,” whose primary components are rhyme and rhythm, as the most important feature of this renovation. What others might lambaste as the whimsies of a rhymester Naydus accepts as the beating heart of the new poetry, the thing that will elevate Yiddish verse to a higher level of quality and significance.12 Indeed, in the third stanza, when Naydus speaks of “bestrewing” the reader with “ornaments and resplendent jewels,” the verb he uses – farshvendn – can also have the sense of “squandering, wasting, or throwing away on.” In this repurposing of critical vocabulary, Naydus seems to be saying that while his critics may think ornamentation – rhyme and rhythm – wasteful, he considers it vital and stakes his claim to artistry on its development. The second feature of Naydus’s imagined renovation has to do with the ability of Yiddish poetry to take its rightful place on a larger stage. Naydus’s efforts intended to move this poetry from “narrow trails” to “the wide road.” That is, to break out of the narrow confines of the parochial and into the wider world of international letters. This is not to say Naydus dismissed the “domestic” sphere of Jewish life; rather, he felt it incomplete. After all, though he began his writing career composing poems in Russian, he quickly focused his considerable energies on Yiddish, the Jewish associations of which are rather beyond question. That understanding the self requires understanding the other, and vice versa, is the percolating subtext of Naydus’s verse. That Naydus’s poetic project included simultaneously translating Verlaine, composing some of the first sonnets of quality in Yiddish, and writing poems with titles such as “Jewish Terzinas” indicates his commitment to that synthetic proposition.

10

Introduction

But Naydus did not understand his own creativity as achieving something ex nihilo. His metaphors insist on the innate, the natural, and the organic; he was not creating jewels, he was merely uncovering them. After all, “I am the only one who has found / The beautiful sound in our mother tongue; / I have revealed her secret suns [ . . . ].” Whatever we may describe as Naydus’s innovation, or introduction into Yiddish – whether images from Hellenic myth, European cultural terminology, Romantic eroticism, or the sonnet as the pinnacle of poetic cultivation – he saw as inherently part of Yiddish cultural patrimony. By making use of that patrimony, Yiddish would come into its own, enriched with new artistic possibilities.

Nota Bene This book has been conceived of as two voices in conversation about the works of Leyb Naydus. The earlier voice, that of Naftoli Vaynig, which was the inspiration for this project, adds an urgency to the topic, a grounding for the stakes of the undertaking, which I could not pretend to offer as eloquently. Vaynig was a leading intellectual light eclipsed by a barbarous moon. But his commitment to Naydus offers us the opportunity to recover not one, but two remarkable voices of Jewish culture in the early twentieth century. That is why I have made Vaynig’s complete essay – Naydus Studies – the companion essay in this book. My own contribution to this conversation takes the form of a series of chapters on some of the more salient of Naydus’s themes and innovations. Salient, that is, from the point of view of early twenty-first century Yiddish, Jewish, and world literary scholarship. By placing these two essays next to one another, the points of overlap and the discontinuities between these sets of observations, at a remove of nearly three quarters of a century, will give a more complete picture of the talents of Leyb Naydus and a greater appreciation of his importance. To achieve this end I have presented large amounts of poetry in full, in both the original Yiddish and in translation. By his own

Leyb Naydus – Yiddish Argonaut

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admission much of Naydus’s poetics is bound up with the musicality toward which he strove. It would therefore disserve his work not to present it in the original, to allow the reader to feel the cadences, to let the rhymes come washing over. By the same token, translation is a necessary component of this project. The translations I have made here are meant to serve the English-reading audience for the sake of content, not artistry. My translations are as a result more literal than literary. (Naydus’s poems do beg for the talents of such a translator; and it would be a great pleasure if this book were in some way to inspire an interest in Naydus translation.) Mayn harts iz ful mit zun un zig Mayn gayst – in himl lebt er! Ikh bin a meylekh nokh fun vig – Dokh on a kroyn un stsepter . . . ​

My heart is full of sun and triumph, My spirit’s over the moon! I’ve been a king since my swaddling – Just one without scepter or crown . . . ​

*

Chapter 1

Diaspora Internationalism

It has been something of a given both in scholarship and in the popular understanding that the modern Jewish experience is dominated by a sense of being in exile. This “exile-consciousness” envisions a Jewish people wandering the world, a grey weight of poverty, powerlessness, and persecution ever on their shoulders, until the Messiah should come to lift that burden. This deeply engrained view of the world is imprinted on a multi-millennia-long literary tradition. In the modern period, however, with the accelerated breakdown of the traditional ideas and institutions of Jewish communal life, exile itself came under attack from within. In the traditional Jewish understanding, exile was a spiritual condition plotted on a temporal axis; the Messiah would come when he was good and ready. Many modernized Jews, however, saw few benefits to that quiescence, seeing exile not as a temporal ailment but as a spatial one. As part of the political galvanization of Jews in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, important planks in various ideological platforms were devoted to addressing or redressing exile-consciousness. Territorial Zionism, for example, saw the ends of political and cultural autonomy achievable only in a physical nation state defined by and devoted to that autonomy. These goals were famously summed up in the slogan “the negation of the exile” (shlilat ha-golah) – a negation in space (leaving Europe) and in culture (most notably suppressing Yiddish in favor of Hebrew).

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Chapter 1

The territorialist approach, however, was not the only one. A commitment to the here and the now of Jewish life in eastern Europe and the Russian Empire was expressed in what came to be known as diaspora nationalism. This commitment embodied a recognition both of the aims of cultural autonomy and national self-determination, as well as of the fact that those aims should be striven for in situ, within the multi-ethnic political entities in which most Jews found themselves in eastern Europe. These two prominent options – again, only two among many – both expressed their opposition to exile-consciousness by calling for its negation. In the first case, this was to be accomplished through antithesis, namely through presenting the existence of a home to which one longs to return. In the second case, this was to be accomplished by transposing the terms of the discourse; that is, by understanding the existence formerly seen as exile as itself home – namely diaspora. The terminology of exile and diaspora common in cultural studies today largely comes out of Jewish Studies. More importantly, though, there is a good deal at stake in the distinction; not least of which are the moral duties incumbent upon each reading. If we understand the experience of not being at home as exile, then there is a duty to redress it; the goal of “negation of exile” is thus to promote some kind of return. However, if the experience is understood as diaspora, then “negating the exile” entails a moral obligation to cooperate, to mix, and to coexist. To use this terminology, then, Leyb Naydus was a diasporist.13 Deeply devoted to the unique cultural productions of his people, to the intimate, almost spiritual, bond between human beings and the natural environment of their native places and to what he saw as the Jewishness of that connection, Naydus pioneered the composition of high-art literary verse forms in Yiddish, extolling the beauties of Bengali flowers, tropical parrots, and ancient Greek paganism. Words from French, Italian, German, and Greek mingle freely with his Yiddish and often playfully with his Hebrew. In his synthetic, hybrid experiments with Yiddish poetry Naydus offers

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15

an aesthetic vision of what I call diaspora internationalism. That is, the essence of Jewishness is the spiritual, cultural, and artistic creativity which flows from an at-homeness in the world, in a shared vision of humanity that supersedes parochial containment or chauvinism. Take for example Naydus’s poem “My World” (Mayn velt, 1916), which begins with the following lines: Azoy vi templen gotishe in rash fun gasn shtotishe, – shtralt likhtik mayn ekzotishe, mayn vunderlekhe velt; vayt, vayt fun hayzer gasike, bay gertner ananasike in shleser vays-terasike – dort boy ikh mayn getselt.

Just like Gothic temples In the din of urban streets, – Brightly shines my exotic, My fantastic world; Far, far from street-bound houses, Near pineappley gardens In white-terraced palaces – There I’ll pitch my tent.

These lines give some small flavor of what was perhaps Naydus’s single greatest poetic achievement, the liberation of Yiddish rhyme. In this case the playfulness of the rhyme is accentuated by the meter, alternating iambs and pyrrhics (˘¯˘˘). The only two stressed rhymes of the stanza – velt–getselt (world–tent) – emphasize his hybrid vision. The poet seeks to escape his clamorous, dingy urban existence and enter into his “fantastic world.” This exotic vision – full of parrots, palms, pineapples, and pliant women – actually sets two idealized images against the dullness of modern city life.14 The first is “Gothic temples,” the great architectural wonders of European culture, analogous to the exotic “white-terraced palaces” of this tropical paradise.15 But the second is Naydus’s own contribution to the scene, his “tent.” The tent is a common and biblically resonant image of domestic space in Jewish literature and culture. It encodes a sense both of tradition and of nomadism or impermanence of home. For Naydus, though, it has only a positive valence. Indeed, in this poem it is a token of his contribution to this build-up of creative cultural motifs. And I see it as an apt summary of Naydus’s cultural achievement (a reconfiguration of Genesis 9:27): pitching the tents of Shem in the exotic palaces of Japheth.

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Chapter 1

Exilism Where better to begin than at the Beginning, noting how the Bible sets out, and immediately complicates, a distinction between home and exile. As Arnold Eisen has noted in his analysis of exile in the Jewish tradition, where Genesis defines the vocabulary of exile, from the Garden of Eden, Cain, Babel, and Abraham, to Joseph, Egypt, and Moses, Deuteronomy, in turn, supplies the vocabulary of homecoming – contingent of course on adhering to the divine order of things. Deuteronomy’s vocabulary of blessing as “home” and curse as “exile” therefore underscores a tension present since the beginning of Jewishness. “The fourteen verses of blessing are informed by all of the images of home which we have encountered in the Torah so far. The fifty-four verses of curses draw upon the counter-images of homelessness stored up in Genesis, and, no doubt, upon the people’s historical experience.”16 Jewish history, both within subsequent books of the Bible and without, is punctuated by Galut, the concept of Jewish exile . Indeed, living largely in a state and atmosphere of displacement, the Rabbis were at pains to devise a system of observance which could square that exilic experience with a set of divine commandments fundamentally linked to a patch of ground to which increasingly fewer Jews had any access. The core polarity of this exile-consciousness is therefore the oppositional pair “Exile – Home.” In the words of one commentator, Galut is “one central pillar” of Jewish identity.17 In this reading of Genesis and Deuteronomy, the Bible offers two different configurations of the relationship between Jewish ideas of exile and home. As a result, if exile must be associated with God’s “displeasure” – that is, with a divinely ordered existence – then, as Arnold Eisen notes, “[ . . . ] exile became more bearable, both because it was meaningful and because it was temporary.”18 In this temporariness the Galut model encodes the very idea of return or homecoming, some of the most problematic aspects of exile-­consciousness. But I need to place a caveat before this theoretical discussion of exilism and diasporism. While I am bringing together a variety of intellectual strands and historical examples of these ideas (and ideologies) I am not making any claim of historical filiation

Diaspora Internationalism

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or linkedness. Rather, these various strands were part of a set of options available to culture workers in the modern period. There is, for example, no link between how Alexandrine Jews understood their relationship to Jerusalem in the Hellenistic period (which will arise in a moment) and Jewish nationalist thought in Vilne in the interwar period. In short, this is not a diachronic discussion. However, in these examples we see a rich olla podrida of potentials, of options available to artists and intellectuals to chew on. It was a heady mix, which appealed to a poet of such syncretistic tendencies as Naydus, and which he explored with relish. The notion of return has two primary forms: a) a religious form, where homecoming is in effect deferred until the divinely sanctioned Messianic moment; and b) a political form, in which homecoming is conditional on any number of real-world factors. Though I will return to Return later, I will note one instructive early example. In an illuminating discussion of Jewish communities in the Greek-speaking eastern Mediterranean during the period of the Second Temple and sometime thereafter, Erich Gruen notes that while “Loyalty to one’s native land was a deep commitment in the rhetoric of the Hellenistic world” [ . . . ] “[i]t is noteworthy that the texts that speak of reverence for the patris [fatherland] do not speak of the ‘return.’”19 For this community, Jerusalem was important as a religious center, a site of pilgrimage and a destination for tithes. But no wealthy Alexandrian merchant transplanted himself to Palestine for ideological reasons. This is an important complication to the “Exile–Home” model. Next to the idea of return, one of the most salient features of exile – and one which serves as the jumping-off point for many modern discussions of diaspora – is the centrality of trauma. Under this rubric I hasten to make the important distinction between “exile as trauma” and “exile as traumatic memory.” This division expresses the difference between exile as a cultural trope on the one hand and the lived experience of trauma and dislocation of a specific exile on the other, a difference which cultural theorists sometimes unwittingly confuse or purposefully conflate. Sophia McClennen, for example, notes how works of theory often divorce

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“Exile” from specific exiles, asserting that every exile is a concrete, lived experience of trauma and dislocation. The problem is what happens in the subsequent generations born in exile.20 To posit a cultural pathology of depression can only work if one can also simultaneously posit a cultural pathology of exuberance. I argue that these are cultural options which Exile (capital-E) precludes, but which Diaspora (capital-D) enables. The cultural pathology of exile entails the “problem” of a traumatic reductionism. Fredric Jameson observes that the “experience of fear” is a hallmark of the post-Enlightenment condition, a fear which he characterizes as “the very ‘moment of truth’ of ghetto life itself, as the Jews and so many other ethnic groups have had to live it: the helplessness of the village community before the perpetual and unpredictable imminence of the lynching or the pogrom, the race riot.”21 This assessment of postmodern discomfiture uses the Jewish experience as its storehouse of vocabulary. But this recurrent image relies too heavily on the “lachrymose” view of Jewish history, to use Salo Baron’s lapidary phrase. The “ghetto” and the “village” are not the demographically or culturally important sites for calibrating exile-consciousness. Indeed, Paul Gilroy points out the analogous situation with the emblem of “slavery” in black diaspora studies. Here Gilroy quotes Molefi Asante, writing in a critical vein: “One cannot study Africans in the United States or Brazil or Jamaica without some appreciation for the historical and cultural significance of Africa as source and origin . . . ” 22 If black slavery is a kind of exile, which is how many theorists treat it, then the nature of the process of slavery obliterates any collective understanding of the original “home.” Its nature must therefore always be a creation. And unlike Zionism, where the collective “memory”/“history” is textually more stable and there is a Center – namely, Jerusalem – there is no analogous center for the descendants of slaves, except the monolithic symbol and figure of “Africa.” All of the preceding brings us to a theory of exile, one based on the rabbinic worldview mentioned above. The rabbinic texts sought to create an exilic time and space in which commandments could

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be kept despite the corrupt realities of this parallel time and space.23 This was handled by a rabbinic strategy of “sanctification,” over against the dangerous and tainting impurities of the world.24 If the pivotal question is “how does a Jew live in exile?” then the Rabbis would answer: “ . . . by drawing boundaries . . . ​by seeking, insofar as possible, to delimit a Jewish time and space into which idol worship and its attendant impurity do not intrude.”25 Among the “achievements” of such an exile theory which Eisen singles out, I note the Rabbis’ “pronounced ambivalence concerning the Land’s centrality – that that memory of and aspiration for the Land paradoxically made possible and meaningful a life lived somewhere else.”26 Such a “meaningful exile” is part of what we now call diaspora. In recapitulating the etymology of the word “diaspora” as both “scattering” and “sowing,” “with its promise of replanting, rerooting, and subsequent growth,” I share with other scholars the notion of the inherent productivity of diaspora.27 The rabbinic recognition of the nature of Exile (Galut) sets the foundation for, indeed allows for, Jewish cultural creativity, and indeed for the modern concept of diaspora. In one of the earlier versions of this argument – George Steiner’s influential essay “Our Homeland, the Text” – Steiner makes the claim that “the text was the instrument of exilic survival.”28 Indeed, in Shreiber’s condensation, Steiner’s argument maintains that as “[a] state of perpetual deferral, exile is wonderfully sustaining.”29 By refocusing the lens on sowing over scattering there is the implied critique that “return” has been understood as preprogrammed as a goal, no matter how “sustaining” or positive a given exilic state may be. The brief earlier discussion of the Hellenistic Jewish experience as an explicit diaspora offers both a useful counterpoint and a springboard to the idea of diasporism.

Diasporism As a foundational presumption, Exile–Home is understood as a stable, or static, relationship; wherever that exile might be, the home is a central tether. Diaspora, on the other hand, is a mobile system. Maeera Shreiber speaks of diaspora as a kind of “nomadism”

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in order “to represent the nonstatic, varied nature of this model of home, with its characteristic shifts in perspective, to depict those subtle shadings of grief and joy without inscribing yet another limiting binary opposition (e.g., diaspora vs. exile).”30 The exile model requires a monolithic Center and a corresponding periphery or margin. Diaspora, however, by inverting the relationship, as Paul Gilroy notes, dispenses with the need for a monolithic Center. Or at least, taking again the example of the Hellenistic Jewish Diaspora, it obviates the need for “return” – it only requires a recognition of the symbolic significance. This is the path the Rabbis took. And ultimately, as the fact of a secular Jewish literature shows, there is a strong attraction towards experimenting with relinquishing the center altogether. And while impediments to assimilation put in place by Christian Europe may have artificially invigorated diasporism, the model itself exerted a powerful draw at various times, places, and contexts. Naydus pursues just such a center-relinquishing experiment in the following poem: Ikh bin shtendik na ve-nad na ve-nad, vi a grikhisher nomad . . . ​ hob ikh heymen mer vi reymen, mer vi troymen in mayn zel; yedn tog a nayer shvel, s’varft mikh hastik vel tsu vel, vel tsu vel, barg tsu barg un dos lebn iz nisht karg! I am always a wanderer A wanderer, Like a Greek nomad; And I have homes more than spaces, more than the dreams in my soul; Every day a new threshold, I am cast hastily from wave to wave, Wave to wave, Mountain to mountain – And my life is not lacking.31

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In this brief untitled lyric Naydus investigates the meaning of the idea of home, setting it in terms that are distinctly diasporist. The two halves of the opening simile offer a central equation in Naydus’s poetic worldview. The first element of the striking rhyme comes from Hebrew (na ve-nad, “wanderer”) and the second from Greek (nomad), two cultural frames of reference brought together in the same poetic identity. The Hebrew word refers to the curse of vagabondage laid upon Cain for murdering his brother: “What did you do? How the sound of your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground! So now, cursed are you by the earth that opened with its mouth to take your brother’s blood from your hand. For when you work the soil, no more will it give you its strength. An exile shall you be upon the earth.” And Cain said to the Lord, “My punishment is greater than I can bear. Now you have this day driven me from the soil and I must hide myself from you, so shall I be an exile upon the earth and whosoever finds me will kill me.”32

What makes this passage in many ways so curious is that the punishment has more to do with land than it does with murder per se. Cain is doomed to be a wanderer upon the soil, never to derive sustenance from it. Naydus, however, transmogrifies the terms of the curse. To the wanderer the world becomes an endless source of inspiration, a continual wellspring of novelty and, indeed, sustenance. “My life is not lacking” – that is, life is a fruitful bounty. Being a “navenad,” a contemptible condition to the traditional Jewish mind, is for Naydus a prized state, one in which there is not one single Home in relation to which one’s own situation is reckoned, but rather there are numerous homes in which to revel. Turn, by contrast, to the second element of the rhyme – the “Greek nomad.” While the mythic literature sometimes depicts adventure-seeking, Greeks are not typically associated with a nomadic lifestyle. However, taken within the context of the restless wanderer topos the Greek nomad par excellence is Odysseus. The incantational echo of the Hebrew phrase emphasizes the transvaluation of Jewish wandering into something gloriously like one of the greatest

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of epic adventures. And where Erich Auerbach, for example, in his classic comparison of the biblical and Odyssean literary world views, highlights the contrasts between them, Naydus through his simile stresses their similarity. One of the more noticeable elements of this transvaluation is the weight that gets attached to a dynamic sense of reality and existence. In support of a cultural tension between dynamic and static models, Shlomo Berger notes how even “Eretz Israel becomes an ongoing changing concept within the diasporic space, and diaspora itself is hybrid terrain, shared by individuals and communities that develop different views of their (diasporic) location(s) and the homeland.”33 This historicized emphasis on the dynamic/changing nature of diasporic realities as opposed to the static conceptualization of Galut is key to understanding diasporism as a “modern” concept. Naydus’s positive evaluation of “I am cast hastily from wave to wave, / Wave to wave, / Mountain to mountain” argues in favor of the nearly organic flux of diaspora. And while the concepts of “diaspora” and “homeland” (that is, Jerusalem) did indeed exist for Hellenistic Jews, for example, these concepts were not subordinated one to the other, but were in some sense mutually reinforcing. Alexandrian Jews recognized the spiritual centrality of Jerusalem, but were happily rooted in their city and had little care to “return” to the homeland. As Gruen notes, the dichotomy “gloomy Exile vs. comforting Diaspora” is of relatively more recent coinage.34 Indeed: “The dichotomy [i.e. home vs. diaspora] is deceptive. Hellenistic Jews did not have to face the eradication of the Temple. It was there – but they were not. Yet they nowhere developed a theory or philosophy of diaspora.”35 That theory could only really come about once the rabbinically fostered theory of exile had more fully fledged. Understanding the “modernity” of diasporism means understanding how it develops from the inherent ambivalences of exile theory. Returning to the biblical well, Eisen notes that as a result of Cain’s criminal act, he “leaves God’s presence, enters on his endless wandering, fathers a child, and founds a city. Civilization

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has begun.”36 “Civilization” itself is therefore founded on, is predicated upon, exile. Which is to say that some part of exile serves an essential creative function. Moreover, while being compelled to leave home is eventually understood as punishment, the commandment to Abraham to leave his home – lekh lekha, “Go forth” – is distinctly not a curse, but rather a blessing.37 This ambiguity sets the symbolic stage for a later conceptual development: a kind of a breakdown of Exile (capital-“E”), back into exiles (small-“e”), and, ultimately I would argue, into diaspora.38 Within the exile theory, ultimately the only redress to exile per se is return, however deferred or conditional that may be. However, in the challenge of “diasporic consciousness” vs. exile consciousness, Daniel and Jonathan Boyarin note that “ . . . diasporic consciousness [is] a consciousness of a Jewish collective as one sharing space with others, devoid of exclusivist and dominating power . . . ” 39 Starting from the Jewish position, formulating a theory of diaspora involves “articulat[ing] a notion of Jewish identity that recuperates its genealogical moment – family, history, memory, and practice – while it problematizes claims to autochthony and indigenousness as the material base of Jewish identity.”40 Diasporism understands one culture’s desire to pursue its own creativity while “participat[ing] fully in the common cultural life of their surroundings.”41 The Boyarins conclude their manifesto: “Diasporic cultural identity teaches us that cultures are not preserved by being protected from ‘mixing’ but probably can only continue to exist as a product of such mixing.”42 And while the Boyarins’ forceful claims sounded heterodox at the time they were propounded, they euphoniously reverberate with Naydus’s own diasporic poetics.

Naydus the Argonaut In an article written less than a year after Naydus’s death, Zalmen Reyzen sets out many of the critical tropes about Naydus’s work that have been repeated in some form or another ever since. At one point, after having gestured to a couple of forerunners in Yiddish poetry, Reyzen reiterates the impoverished state of Yiddish poetry

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at the time Naydus took up his pen. But then “[t]he poor Yiddish language, the common ‘jargon,’ began, under his [Naydus’s] artist’s fingers, to echo with the sound and rhythm of the most modern, most sensitive, and most finely honed poetry of the European Decadent-Parnassians.”43 Naydus’s experiments in sound, rhythm, and rhyme, and his innovations in form in Yiddish poetry, are inextricably linked to European poetry, especially decadence and Symbolism. It is not that Yiddish modernism is inconceivable without Naydus – though Naydus did have a larger influence on it than has generally been noted – but that Naydus conceived of it the way he did, as fundamentally hybrid, as enabled and enriched by “mixing,” which adds layers of depth and complexity to our understanding of Yiddish literature in the early years of the last century. His sonnet “The Argonaut” is a case in point: Ikh shvim shoyn lange yorn af mayn raykhn un fayn-geshnitstn zunikn argo; un meg mayn kop ingantsn vern gro – ikh tret nisht op fun veg fun eyntsik glaykhn.

I have floated for many long years upon my rich And finely carved, sunny Argo; And may my head go completely grey Should I deviate from the single straight way.

kh’shnayd-durkh di flakh fun yamen un fun taykhn, kh’bin nekhtn dort geven, un haynt – shoyn do; un shtralndik un nay iz yede sho, khotsh s’iz mir shver mayn vaytn tsil erraykhn.

I cleave through the plane of seas and rivers, Yesterday I was there, and today – already here; And every hour is radiant and new, Even though it is difficult to reach my distant goal.

s’kon zayn: mit oygn gliklekhe un mide vel ikh nokh ven derzen mayn kolkhide, tsu velkher s’tsilt mayn gantse yugend-kraft . . . ​

It may be: with fortunate and tired eyes I will yet sometime see my Colchis To which my entire youthful energy has aimed . . . ​

Diaspora Internationalism dervayl – in veg, tsu zukhn mayn kameye! s’muz ergets vu a prekhtige medeye ervartn mikh, dem yungn argonavt . . . ​

25

Meanwhile, on the way, to seek my amulet! Somewhere there must be a gorgeous Medea Awaiting me, the young Argonaut . . . ​44

“The Argonaut” is the final poem of his first major collection, Lirik, standing alone in a separate section titled, in roman type, FINALE. This sonnet – and I emphasize that it is a sonnet, a relative rarity in Yiddish at that time (a subject I will return to later) – presents Naydus’s self-image, again, as a Greek wanderer. Goals are great, Naydus says, but the journey itself is the most important thing. In Pushkin’s poem “Autumn” – Pushkin, incidentally, was a favorite of Naydus’s – he likens his moment of poetic inspiration to a ship at rest suddenly caught by the wind, its sails billowing and sailors scrambling to react. He ends famously: “It sails. But where then are we sailing to? . . . ” For Naydus that nautical question is notional. When Naydus’s Argonaut exults that “every hour is radiant and new” he means a radical inversion of the Greek myth in which the drive both towards recovering one’s birthright at whatever cost and towards revenge trumps all else. He also means to undermine the foundational presumption of place as ultimate goal: neither Colchis, home of the Golden Fleece, nor Iolkos, the rightful kingship over which would be proven by securing that Fleece, nor by extension Jerusalem, could ever serve as a goal worthier than the dynamic experience of life. The poem’s volta – the shift in theme, perspective, diction, etc., that marks the move from the first eight lines of a sonnet, the octave, to its final six, the sestet – moves from fact to conjecture, signaled by the phrase “It may be . . . ” Says Naydus’s Argonaut: It may well be that I get where I thought I was going, but what happens on the way is so much better. And while the rhymes of the octave are fairly conventional and straightforward, in the sestet they sparkle: mide– kolkhide (“tired”–“Colchis”), kameye–medeye (“amulet”–“Medea”), yugend-kraft–yungn argonavt (“youthful energy”–“young Argonaut”).

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These rhymes are startling hybrids, each pair containing a Greek element. And it is in the sestet where Naydus explores what this hybridity has to offer as a positive poetic value. Take, for example, the word “amulet” (kameye), which comes from a Hebrew word referring to an object from Jewish folk culture, inscribed with incantations to protect against danger. To rhyme this word with Medea is inspired. Medea, after all, functioned in this set of myths as a kind of sorceress or folk healer. Both rhyme words, amulet and Medea, are therefore magical protectors. In addition to this protective function the amulet is an aesthetic object. A little over a decade after this poem was published, the other great modern Lithuanian Yiddish poet, Moyshe Kulbak (1896–1937), wrote his well-known ode to the city of Vilne (“Vilne,” 1926) in which he famously says of the city, “You are a dark amulet set in Lithuania.” Naydus doubtless would have agreed. But for Naydus’s Argonaut, the amulet’s partner in rhyme, Medea, also functions as an image of the beautiful (“Somewhere there must be a gorgeous Medea . . . ”) and the erotic (“ . . . awaiting me, the young Argonaut”). Pursuing these beautiful things – the amulet and Medea – converts the “meanwhile” activities of the journey into the heart of the experience, an experience that has everything to do with the idea of youthfulness. That is what stands behind the capping rhyme: yugend-kraft–yungn argonavt (“youthful energy”–“young Argonaut”). Naydus is the Argonautical poet, valuing experience over goal, time over space, possibility over certainty, beauty over wealth, erotic expectation over satiety. These are the values of dynamic diasporic creativity. Returning to the Boyarins’ conclusion that cultural survival is predicated on hybridity, there is little doubt that the attitude which underlies it was explored with some sensitivity by many Jewish writers in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, including Naydus. Setting aside the expressly political claims, this articulation of a theory of diaspora incorporates two elements germane to a discussion of such writers: 1) hybridity, and 2) “positive” landlessness – in Naydus’s words “I have homes more than spaces.”45 The most notable token of hybridity in the Jewish case is

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that of language itself. Jewish languages or “Judeo-” languages ( Judeo-German or Yiddish, Judeo-Spanish or Ladino/Judezmo, Judeo-Arabic, Judeo-Persian, and so forth) are based on co-territorial host languages and therefore hybridity is essential. Yiddish is a case in point, based as it is on Middle High German, but with fully integrated strata from Old Romance, as well as from various Slavic, Semitic, and other languages. (Hebrew, too, especially in its “revived” post-Enlightenment form, could be understood in this hybrid context.)46 Shlomo Berger notes that in the Early Modern period: “[ . . . ] Yiddish was not a marker of Jewish identity, or Jewish diaspora identity (at least as it developed in the late nineteenth century). Hebrew remained the sacred language and also the basis of Ashkenazi identity.”47 The transition from early modern to modern Europe saw the slow process of Yiddish becoming a language of Ashkenazi identity-formation. Ultimately, in Berger’s thoughtful analysis, “Ashkenazi culture was defined by its Yiddish component and was necessarily diasporic in nature. ‘The Ashkenazi’ came into being, stimulating autochthonic feelings among Jews wherever they resided while formulating a Jewish culture based more or less on an imported segment of their host country’s culture.”48 For Naydus, Yiddish was clearly the marker and vehicle of hybridity. His father had been an amateur Hebrew poet, and Naydus, with a very solid Hebrew education, also wrote Hebrew verse from an early age. Moreover, he published some poems in Russian and composed a small collection in that language. Of the linguistic options available to him, though, Yiddish was the one he was most drawn to and from whose hybrid potentials he drew the greatest inspiration. It was not only the language’s overt linguistic layering which intrigued him, but also its capacity to bring together cultural strata in striking ways. This was food for his puckish poetic sensibilities. One need look no further than his poem “A Cabaret in the Forest: Scherzo” (A kabare in vald: scerzo) which begins A makhasheyfe an arure mit a shtime mit a beyzer voyet falsh di uvertyure fun “tanheyzer” . . . ​

An accursed witch With an evil voice Erringly howls the overture To Tannhäuser . . . ​49

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Apart from the impish dig at Wagner, Naydus’s rhymes offer a symphonic approach to the intercultural contact: Hebrew arure (“accursed”) rhymes with international uvertyure (“overture”), and Germanic beyzer (“evil”) with Yiddishized tanheyzer (“Tannhäuser”). The whole poem presents a jungle scene peopled by leaping gorillas, singing cicadas, marching lions, gnomes and fauns and nymphs and satyrs, even Hermes and Apollo, all capering to the raucous discord they create out of “L’air des clochettes” from Lakmé and the “Moonlight Sonata,” as well as arias from La Traviata and Pagliacci and Figaro. Naydus is right in calling it a scherzo, a “joke” or “jest.” But in its comic cacophony one hears a more organic unity of Yiddish language and European high culture, a hybrid poetics already ready to poke fun at its own excesses. The naturalness with which Yiddish is uttered in this forest folly belies any exilic meaning. The second salient feature of this theory of diaspora – positive landlessness – asserts that there is no need for return because there is no exile to redress. In speaking about his book Black Atlantic, Paul Gilroy maintained that: “First we have to fight over the concept of diaspora and to move it away from the obsession with origins, purity and invariant sameness.”50 No two diasporas are alike. “Very often,” he continues, the concept of diaspora has been used to say, “Hooray! we can rewind the tape of history, we can get back to the original moment of our dispersal!” I’m saying something quite different. That’s why I didn’t call the book diaspora anything. I called it Black Atlantic because I wanted to say, “If this is a diaspora, then it’s a very particular kind of diaspora. It’s a diaspora that can’t be reversed.”51

This “irreversible diaspora,” one which places no stakes on return, is the model of diaspora which Naydus’s vision of Yiddish literature is trying very hard to understand and work out. To bring this theoretical introduction to a conclusion, the simmering issue in all of the preceding has been Zionism. The modern Jewish theory of exile is preoccupied with it, and Eisen, for example, devotes much of his energies in exploring it as an integral part of his discussion of Galut. A centrally important question for Eisen – and a

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source of anxiety for many Zionist theorists from the beginning – is: What do we make of the successful diasporic communities?52 Mentioned before, there is a process of disintegration proceeding from Exile-to-exiles-to-diaspora. In this scheme, diaspora is the result of a process of decay. One can therefore anticipate tensions among competing claims to the meaning of diaspora. We have just seen one important version of that, namely the “irreversible diaspora.” Not all versions, of course, embrace that vision; the varieties of Zionism often encode these differing understandings. As Eisen notes, the “essence” of Zionism involves defining the meaning and consequences of “homecoming.”53 Eisen highlights the debate over the founding of the Diaspora Museum in Tel Aviv, the Bet Ha-tfutsot, “House of the Diaspora,” as emblematic of those differences.54 Use of the term tfutsot (“Diaspora”) not Galut (“Exile”) is key. If there exists a golah (Exile), then it is Zionism’s function – at least according to its dominant formulations – to “negate” that exile, both by means of promoting physical “Return” and by advocating alternatives to Jewish exilic culture. This “negation of the exile” – shlilat ha-golah – is a negative definition. In a tantalizing discussion of the mythological origins of signification, Lewis Hyde notes how it is only through a process of differentiation, substitution, or indeed opposition that meaning comes into being. When Hermes steals Apollo’s immortal cattle, it is only in the act of butchering them for sacrifice but ultimately not eating them (referring to it as “meat-not-eaten”) that they are understood in a sense as cattle. His restraint is key. As Hyde notes, “we do not get a sêma” – a meaning – “until we have the ‘not’ of meat-not-eaten.”55 In this sense, the “not” is not strictly speaking a negation. It is an opposition, creating the semantic space for substitution. And that is precisely the opening here. When a Zionist says “negating the exile” – shlilat ha-golah – he means a political, cultural, and ideological program centered around Return to Home. To a diasporist, however, such a program would be meaningless. For her, “negating the exile” would in fact mean the opposite: namely, negating the understanding of one’s current place even as exile, that is, as anything other than already being home.

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In Naydus’s poem “To One” (Tsu eynem) he responds to a critic who castigates a perceived lack of attention in his poetry to the real-world concerns of the Jewish people. [ . . . ] ikh tsevikl di goldne oytsres fun oryent, di lorber fun perikl, tsi afrodites prakht, vos blendt –

[ . . . ] I deploy The golden treasures of the orient, The laurels of Pericles Or Aphrodite’s dazzling splendor –

[ . . . ]

[ . . . ]

ikh vil durkhdem derhoybn di zel fun folk, vos shmakht un kvelt, un laytern zayn gloybn in shtoltser sheynkayt fun der velt!

By this I wish to elevate The languid, suffering soul of the people And to illuminate its faith With the proud beauty of the world!

un kh’boy in groyen goles dem raykhn shlos fun elfantbeyn; vi di geshtalt apolos, azoy zol zayn dos lebn sheyn!

And I build in grey Exile The sumptuous palace of ivory; Like the statue of Apollo So shall life be beautiful!56

Deployment entails command and ownership of something as well as an understanding of its value in new contexts. Naydus well understood the stakes of commandeering European and Western high culture, in its historical sweep from antiquity to modernity, for the enrichment of Yiddish literature from within and from without. His use of groye goles (“grey Exile”) here is ironic. By rhyming that most reverberant topos with apolos (“Apollo”) and declaring that his goal is to create art and make life “beautiful,” he begins to articulate a diasporic poetics uniquely able to achieve that goal. Captured within the concept of “negating the exile” is how the cultural work of literature becomes an active and creative participant in the moral discourse involved. That is why it is so important to pay very close attention to literature, especially in the Jewish case. But lest I overstate my case, Freud relates an anecdote about a guide

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at a wax museum who “was conducting a company of old and young visitors from figure to figure and commenting on them: ‘This is the Duke of Wellington and his horse’, he explained. Whereupon a young lady asked: ‘Which is the Duke of Wellington and which is his horse?’ ‘Just as you like, my pretty child,’ was the reply. ‘You pays your money and you takes your choice.’”57 Exile or Diaspora – you takes your choice, but don’t think it’s an easy one.

Chapter 2

Judeomorphism

One vexed problem for literatures of “smaller” languages is how reflexive the association should be between national or cultural identity and the work of art. Is a poem in a Jewish language by definition about understanding Jewishness? This is a vexed question for these literatures because such a burden is not necessarily laid upon the literatures of “large” languages. One does not automatically ask of a French poem, say, the nature of its Frenchness, or how germane Germanness is to a German one. In Naydus’s work one can see a tension between a keen interest in exploring Jewishness and Jewish themes on the one hand, and, on the other, the artistic possibilities of the Yiddish language that do not rely on that thematic inventory. That Naydus was committed to the cultural life and national aspirations of his people is beyond doubt. Jewishness is inscribed self-consciously on countless poems. In the better of these poems that Jewishness is complicated, nuanced, hybrid; in the less successful ones it is anthemic, trite, undemanding. The largest concentration of Jewish-themed poems is contained in the sequence My People (Mayn folk). In it Naydus collects poems on family, on festive religious occasions, on memorials to deceased Yiddish writers, and he even offers militant, even jingoistic calls to arms, to bloody the soil in defense of a hazily defined struggle for Jewish national pride. In the latter vein, take, for example, the late poem “To My People” (Tsu mayn folk, 1918), with its slogan-like “Stand on 33

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guard!”; “Protect what’s yours!”; “Don’t beg for consolation!”; and its exhortatory conclusion: Gloyb in dayn kraft! meg zayn dayn kerper tsevundet, tseshtokhn, – gloyb in dayn osid mit festn bitokhn, gloyb in dayn kinftikn groysn nitsokhn, – gloyb in dayn kraft!

Believe in your strength! No matter how battered and bruised be your body, Believe in your future with resolute faith, Believe in your great triumph to come, Believe in your strength!58

These are not the lines of the virtuosic aesthete, nor of the accomplished national sloganeer. The sentiment is clear, but the poetic merits do not match. More striking and persuasive are those poems in which Naydus deals with Jewishness from an elegiac or intimate standpoint, most notably with regard to Jewish material culture and to family. Recalling Zalmen Reyzen’s reminiscence of him, Naydus was a collector, ready with all sorts of Hasidic melodies, gentile songs, student ditties, and the like. This almost folkloric acquisitiveness resonates with intellectual trends in his native Jewish Lithuania where Jewish ethnography was popular and influential. Responding to the perceived loss of Jewish physical culture in the “declining” shtetls, and given renewed vigor as a result of the cataclysm of the First World War, Jews mounted strong appeals to “salvage” what was vanishing and what was threatened with oblivion. The Yiddish Scientific Institute (YIVO), for example, famously sought to enlist a vast network of citizen ethnographers, deputing them to collect as much ethnographic material and information as possible. To aid them YIVO prepared the previously mentioned pamphlet entitled What is Jewish Ethnography? (Handbook for Fieldworkers) in which the rationale for and principles of ethnographic fieldwork were explained simply and directly. In a section on “Folk Art” the authors – one of whom was the very Naftoli Vaynig who would later write Naydus Studies – lay out the stakes of salvage work: A friend writes of a Polish shtetl: In their synagogue one finds an old volume of Psalms, its pages are adorned with drawings. Some-

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times German artists would come and copy the drawings; today it lies about somewhere with the synagogue wardens. Our synagogues and study-houses are, in part, little museums of old Jewish folk art: the curtains of the ark, candelabra, Torah pointers, paintings, alms plates, adornments on the walls, etc. The largest portion of Jewish art used to be concentrated in the synagogues. Today everything is abandoned, covered in dust; and how many relics have been lost!59

For Naydus, just as important as the act of salvage was the aesthetic experience of the oldness itself. In his poem “Jewish Terzinas” (Yidishe tertsinen, 1918) he writes about this fetish of antiqueness: Es falt mayn zele oft bagaystert koyrim far yedn shpur fun altertimlekh prakht; kh’hob lib fargelbte, shtoybike makhzoyrim,

My soul often kneels, inspired, Before every trace of antique splendor; I love yellowed, dusty prayer books,

vos tsien-tsu mit kishefdiker makht; That lure with magic power; gemores alte, dike folyantn, Old Talmuds, thick folios, in velkhe s’iz di eybikayt In which eternity is enclosed . . . 60 farmakht . . . ​

Naydus goes on to extol not only the dusty exhalations of yellowed tomes, but also parchment scrolls, silk ark curtains, kiddush cups, and wrought-metal menorahs. This tour of Jewish material culture and ethnographic artifacts rolls back, scroll-like, “to guard the radiant soul / of that most distant time, of long-departed generations . . . ” To achieve that end, however, Naydus composes his poem in terzinas, a formal distinction he makes explicit in the very title of the poem. And not only are they terzinas (tercets, or three-line stanzas) but they are terza rima, that is, tercets employing interlocking rhymes (ABA BCB CDC, and so forth). This terza rima rhyme scheme was first devised and used by Dante, most famously in his Divine Comedy. Since then it has been associated with journeys of knowledge, and its structural emphasis on the interconnected nature of life’s experiences has led to a wide use in western poetry. Naydus’s choice to use this form for a poem about Jewish ethnographic artifacts not

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only carves a place for Jewish cultural heritage out of the European artistic patrimony, but also legitimizes that as a safe space of salvage for those Jewish traditions. Naydus shows how the links in the rich chain of Jewish tradition can be connected by terza rima, another instance of his hybrids of poetic form and content that are not contradictory but rather complementary, indeed essential. Family is the other theme in which Naydus invests his poetic energy in Jewishness. A prominent example is his poem “My Grandma” (Mayn bobeshi). In it Naydus presents a portrait of his own beloved grandmother, whose simple, natural piety had a profound effect on him.61 It is not fortuitous that this poem opens the sequence Mother Earth (Mame-erd), because it is precisely the connection between nature and religious practice which Naydus paints as organic: Es leshn zikh langzam in mayrev di flamen, es vern antshvign di feyglshe lider; di bobe shloft-ayn mit dem gortn tsuzamen, un shtil af di kni blaybt der ofener sider.

The flames slowly fade in the west, The birdsongs fall silent; Grandma falls asleep together with the garden, And the open prayer book rests quietly on her knees.62

Naydus presents the grandmother praying outdoors as an obvious choice. Indeed, the grandmother and the garden are in harmony, slumbering “together” in a simple intimacy. Moreover, Naydus describes a mutual implication of nature and prayer. The evening-time muting of birdsong echoes the falling away of the grandmother’s prayers, a relationship reflected in the rhyme lider–sider (songs–prayerbook). As Naydus continues: In gortn, in shotn fun grine aroves, fleg ikh bay di fis fun mayn bobeshi lign, un zi, a fartifte in ire makhshoves, flegt mayses dertseyln mir shtil mit a nign.

In the garden, in the shadow of the green willows, I would lie at the feet of my grandma, And she, deep in her thoughts, Would tell me stories in a quiet melody.63

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Again, nature and music connect to spiritual contemplation. What’s more, the intimacy of this intergenerational relationship is enhanced by the natural setting, its tranquility and the grandmother’s pious reverie fostering the melodic exchange. It is, however, the initial rhyme word which instantly focuses the reader’s attention. By using the Hebrew aroves for “willows” instead of the more common, unmarked Yiddish word verbe, Naydus introduces Psalm 137: By the rivers of Babylon there we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. Upon the willows [‘aravim] there we hung our harps For our captors asked us for words of song, our persecutors asked us for merriment: ‘Sing for us a song of Zion.’ How can we sing a song of the Lord on foreign soil?64

Consonant with his diaspora internationalism, Naydus discards the traditional maudlin overtones of this primary Jewish source text of exile and replaces it with something intimate and positive. In the place of the Psalm’s sense of upheaval and its calling into question even the ability to sing, Naydus offers stability and poetic creativity. At home among the willows and in the bosom of his family, Naydus transforms the exile text par excellence from a grandiose and loaded religious and cultural trope into a story told at one’s grandmother’s feet. From a reverie on exile Naydus shifts to a different set of Jewish themes: Fun felder-vaytkayt kumt di malke shabes. ot tsindt zikh shoyn a shtern umgerikht. es zingen shire ergets nont di zhabes. di bobe hot shoyn opgebentsht di likht.

From the distant fields comes the Sabbath Queen. Just now a star shines unexpectedly. Somewhere nearby the frogs sing hymns. Grandma has already finished the blessing over the candles.65

The Sabbath Queen is a traditional Jewish personification of the Sabbath, notable especially at the beginning of the holiday when she is greeted and ushered into the Jewish home. In this stanza,

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Naydus associates the Queen with his grandmother, a primary figure in his own concept of Jewish royalty. Again, all of the features that orient the scene are in nature: the fields, the star, the frogs. And as if upping the ante on the other instances in which nature and prayer are connected, in this case it is the frogs themselves that sing Sabbath hymns. (Incidentally, Naydus seems to have an affinity for frogs reciting Jewish prayers; elsewhere we read “A screechy chorus of birds sounds / With the nightingale at its head. / From the green pond is heard / A frog at his Shema prayer”; or “The sun has scattered fine little gold coins / Over the round pond, lying calmly; / The young little frogs on the bank croak pleasantly, / Singing a holy hymn to God, Blessed be He . . . ”)66 This move from natural soundscapes paralleling or echoing religious ones to actual Jewish frogs is at the center of Naydus’s complicated technique of Judaization.

Hybrid Times and Spaces There is a point in Naydus Studies at which Vaynig turns his attention to precisely this issue of Judaization. In discussing Naydus’s poem “On an Autumn Day” (In a harbstikn tog, 1917) Vaynig notes that it is a nature poem, true, but with a Jewish conception of the world, with a conception of Jewishness; nature is here not simply anthropomorphic, but actually Judeomorphized, even more Judaized than Mendele would have done in such a case. And indeed, despite all of the possible interpretations and commentaries, this whole poem from beginning to end is merely a commentary on the single concept “Hoshanah Rabbah,” a kind of poetic, emotional Rashi for the name of a holiday which is bound to our Jewish beliefs and experiences with exactly that image of nature. Just this way of Judaizing nature, or of perceiving it in a Jewish way, via Jewish spiritual categories (let us also call this way: Mendelizing) that neither aim at awakening nor at being connected to reminiscences of kheyder or school, but rather at bringing forth what is emotionally Jewish – that is how Naydus proceeds. And what really is his greatest innovation is the fact that this way of his produces no foreignness. Because it would seem very strange to introduce into pure nature-lyrics what seems to be so abstract

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and generally human, Jewish, even Jewish-religious, as well as Jewish-liturgical concepts, as an organic component of thought, image, and linguistic expression. But actually in that detail lies hidden the secret of Naydus’s synthesis of Europeanness and Jewishness, of secularity and traditionalism, of general human nature and the Jewish spirit.67

Vaynig refers here to Mendele Moykher-Sforim, the penname and authorial persona of Sholem Yankev Abramovitsh (1835–1917), one of the first and most influential modern Yiddish – and Hebrew – prose writers. An adherent of the Jewish Enlightenment (Haskalah) Mendele tried with his literature to expose the foibles, faults, and fault lines in Jewish life, behavior, and belief, especially in the shtetls and villages that were the demographic center of Jewish eastern Europe in this period. Reading a work of Mendele’s one feels as if those shtetls were the center of the world, and not the hinterlands of European history. This sense of a Jewish center of gravity is what Vaynig means when he compares Judaization in Mendele and Naydus. Vaynig’s larger point, however, has to do not with a transposition or substitution of categories and content, but rather with an amalgamation of them, a hybridization. Vaynig makes a point of singling out temporal concepts as some of the more important sites of Naydus’s Judeomorphism. In a perhaps overly sweeping generalization he observes that Naydus never uses the European-Christian names of the months, but rather the Jewish calendrical names, such as Kheshvan, or Elul [ . . . ] Calendar dates and time designations are also the names of Jewish holidays. Elul is, then, something other than September or October, not because it is itself more Jewish, more homey, nor because modern national Jewish thinking requires a return to its own world of concepts, but rather because the holidays that bind us to the natural transitions during the four seasons of the year we reckon not with the foreign but with the Hebrew names for the months. And it is not only for the sake of the religious meaning that we do this, but really because from our earliest youth we associate in our minds the Jewish calendrical names with images and moods of the changes in nature. In them really do reside emotional

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Chapter 2 meanings and content, and so for every Jew, however modern or modernist he may be, Elul is more clear and evocative than the foreign-sounding and official October.68

As we have seen, for Naydus the production of poetic intimacy entailed the construction of links and connections with nature. Understanding early autumn on an emotional level meant disencumbering “time vocabulary” of connotations of the “official,” and therefore dry and mechanical, calendar, and instead invigorating it with a set of resonances drawn from Jewish lifeways, Jewish religious rituals, and ultimately from the biblical treasury. The Jewish calendar for Naydus was therefore both a human way of reckoning time and an organic way of understanding it. Modern Yiddish as well as Hebrew poetry have had an abiding interest in time, in investigating how it works, how we understand it, and how we use it to understand ourselves.69 And more important than time alone is its relationship to space. As part of the Jewish inheritance of exile-consciousness, Jewish poetry often tries to carve spaces out of time, metaphorical places of one’s own in the absence of actual ones over which to exert control or autonomy. In the Jewish mind, time was primary and space secondary; coming to understand space often meant envisioning it in temporal terms. But Naydus approached space slightly differently. For Naydus, a loving and intimate connection to actual physical space was played out in his poetry in a way that was seldom seen so exuberantly in Yiddish letters. His most intricate meditations on that connection involve not only space and time, but also, not surprisingly, the hybrid dynamic of his diaspora internationalism. A case in point is a late untitled poem which begins “The rainbow burns colorfully” (Farbik brent der regnboygn, 1917). However, in order to expand my reading of this poem, I will set it side-by-side with a poem published a decade later, the Hebrew poet Avraham Shlonsky’s “Labor” (Amal, 1927).70 Shlonsky (1900–1973) was an infuential poet and editor, and a leading figure in Hebrew modernism in Palestine. Though a committed Hebraist, he was certainly aware of Yiddish literature, and his acquaintance with the Yiddish modernist Peretz Markish, for example, is well known. (The same

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Markish, that is, who held Naydus in such high esteem.) I am not claiming any direct connection between Naydus’s and Shlonsky’s work generally, nor between these two poems specifically, but rather that their production in overlapping social and literary environments make their points of affinity more than fortuitous. Farbik brent der regnboygn, s’tut mit faykhtn duft a vey. gey in feld itst tsu di stoygn funem shmekndikn hey.

The rainbow burns colorfully, It aches with a damp odor. Go into the field now to the stacks Of fragrant hay.

verbes firn dort a shmues vegn tamuz, zun un hoz; un vi goldene retsues viklen taykhlekh zikh in groz.

The willows there are chatting About Tammuz, sun, and hares; And like golden tefillin straps The streams wind through the grass.

bay di vegn un in griber margaritkes kon men zen; un di feygelekh betsiber davnen shakhris mit a bren.

Along the paths and in the ditches Daisies can be seen; And the little birds congregate And fervently pray shacharit.

emets dort, bay kustes yene, shpilt a dorfishn romans; s’dukht – er ruft undz oykh zayn nene fun dem groysn yontev pans

Someone there by those bushes Is playing out a village romance; It seems – we too are commanded to enjoy Pan’s great holiday.71

*

“Labor” Clothe me, kosher mama, in splendor in a coat of many colors And with the dawn lead me to labor. My land wraps itself in light like a tallit, Houses stand like phylacteries, And like tefillin-straps roads flow down, palm-paved. Here a lovely town will pray the shacharit prayer to its Creator. And among the creators – is your son Abraham, Poet-paver in Israel. And in the evening in twilight Papa will return from his burdens And as a prayer he will whisper contentedly;

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Chapter 2  – The son dear to me, Abraham, Skin and sinews and bones – Hallelujah. Clothe me, kosher mama, in splendor in a coat of many colors And with the dawn lead me to labor.72

Naydus’s poem opens with a typically Romantic flourish, a synaesthetic assault on the senses: the burning image of the rainbow causing pain by a wet smell. Sight, smell, and touch all blend together at dawn. But instead of rosy fingers, this dawn bears a rainbow, the biblical image of God’s providence. From the lofty heights of nature Naydus moves swiftly down to human culture, especially to a pungent marker of agricultural labor: the freshmown hay. Shlonsky’s poem begins less Romantically perhaps, but with a similarly biblically inflected flash of color: the “coat of many colors.” This refers to Genesis 37:3 in which Joseph’s coat represents parental blessing. This poem also begins at dawn and similarly moves directly to labor. While Naydus speaks of agricultural work, Shlonsky refers to road-paving in the Jezreel Valley as part of the Zionist project of reclaiming the land through construction and public works. (Shlonsky himself participated in this work when he returned to Palestine in the 1920s.) Though the two poems are distinct, their points of contact are still tantalizing. Both of the poems move in their second stanzas to describing the surrounding physical terrain in terms of traditional Jewish religious raiment. Shlonsky sees the land, the hills and the valley, as a religious Jewish man at prayer, complete with prayer shawl – the bright light of morning is like the white tallit – and phylacteries – the phylactery boxes are the houses on the hills (the word for “house,” bayit, is the same as that for “phylactery box”), and the hanging phylactery straps are like the roads winding down those hills. Especially in the latter aspect, the relationship of the Jewish religious terminology to nature is one of domination and subordination, of bringing nature under the control of human culture. And in the process, the land is reclaimed by human labor in a socialist substitution for a divine warrant.

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Naydus’s second stanza, by contrast, goes in a different direction. It presents nature itself as something Jewish; the streams as phylactery straps do not subordinate the grass through which they flow but rather coordinate with it. They are both elements of a single harmonious natural world which speaks in a Jewish way. The willows after all are carrying on a conversation. (I note that in this case Naydus uses the Yiddish word verbes for “willows.” This may indicate less of a biblical resonance, or, if that exilic topos is present, it is in a domesticated sense; the willows’ conversation after all is not lachrymose, or at least not directly so.) In point of fact their conversation during the prayerful dawn centers on aspects of the natural world. And confirming Vaynig’s observation, the willows do not speak of midsummer, but of Tammuz, the Hebrew month corresponding to late June and July. In Yiddish, Tammuz connotes high heat and bright sunshine.73 However, Tammuz is also the name of an ancient Near Eastern deity of fertility, who famously dies toward the end of summer to be reborn again at the winter solstice. (The traditional ceremony of women weeping for the dead god is memorialized in Ezekiel 8:14 – “And He brought me to the door of the gate of the house of the Lord that was to the north; and there the women sat who were weeping for Tammuz” – in which the practice is derided as one of the many abominations performed at the Temple.) Naydus intends the association with nature, with fertility and fecundity, and his nearly pantheistic embrace of other cultural traditions, especially in the ancient eastern Mediterranean, makes the god Tammuz a real presence in the poem (though without the connotation of abomination we find in Ezekiel). Naydus’s almost Nietzschean outlook on antiquity and vitality, while not unique in Jewish literature of the period, is still unusual and here startling. The exile-bearing willows are not weepy symbols, neither as mourners for Jewish tragedy nor, for that matter, for lost ancient belief. Rather, they chat cheerily of what is hale and hearty in the world. Elsewhere, in the final section of the long thirty-two-part poem Intimate Melodies (Intime nigunim, 1918), the poet deplores the coming winter and implores the earth – his “mother and sister” – to hold

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onto him tightly as if to fend off the cold and decay. In addressing the earth he describes how mayne lokn faln, vi di tsvaygn fun dayne aroves, af di nakete bregn fun dem elultaykh; horkh – emets singt: “tsedoke tatsil mimoves!” – dos bagrobt men mayn zumer, un oykh daynem tsuglaykh . . . ​

My curls fall like the branches of your willows Upon the bare banks of the Elultime river; Listen – someone’s singing: “Charity saves from death!” – So they’ve buried my summer, and yours as well . . . ​74

Naydus once again orchestrates a scene of willowy wistfulness. In these lines he converts the exilic trope from a spatial to a temporal frame of reference. After all, the river over which the willows sway is not defined by place but by time: Elul, that is, the late-summer Jewish month corresponding to parts of August and September. The atmosphere becomes mournful as a disembodied voice intones: “Charity saves from death!” (or “Righteousness delivereth from death!” which is how the King James Bible renders this pithy turn of phrase from Proverbs 10:2). This formula was traditionally intoned by the indigent at cemeteries after a funeral, as a way of begging for alms. Naydus picks up the image of death and burial in the following line, in this case reemphasizing the substitution of time for space, interring a season instead of a physical being. The death of Tammuz – both a being (the deity) and a time (the midsummer month) – recurs here in a more elegiac tone than in “The Rainbow Burns Colorfully.” But unlike the traditional mournfulness of exile, focusing as it does on being on foreign soil at an unendurable distance from home, Naydus’s temporal dislocation is temporary, emphasized by the unendingly cyclical structure of time, which promises rebirth, and the ability to “save from death.” Returning, however, to “The Rainbow Burns Colorfully,” not only do the willows speak in a Jewish way, but nature generally also prays in a Jewish way. The streams may be like phylactery straps, but the birds gather actually to pray shacharit, the morning prayer, which is usually performed near dawn. Here Shlonsky and Naydus diverge in a significant way. Shlonsky’s image of the prayerful

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community is of a town, a human construction and the product of human labor. Naydus’s Jewish congregants are parts of nature itself, not agents of its subdual. Naydus’s Judaization of space is therefore essential – not accidental or artificial. Building on Vaynig, the Judeomorphism Naydus constructs is both spatial and temporal. However, this image of Jewishness is not monolithic and separate, but rather participates in a larger organic conception of humanity and culture. Naydus’s use of Tammuz gives us an indication of how this works, blending as it does the Jewish month with the emotional resonance of the midsummer season in which it occurs, as well as blending present-day religious ritual with ancient Near Eastern beliefs. Naydus chooses, moreover, to end his poem with the frolicsome enjoyment of “Pan’s holiday.”75 Ancient Greek festivities of nature and fertility seem, at least on the surface, to be anathema to early twentieth-century Jewish piety. That Naydus saw pagan nature and Jewish piety not as contradictory but as complementary demonstrates his commitment to a hybrid poetics, a Yiddish poet’s Jewish take on Terence – homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto.

A Jewish Language of the World Beyond Judeomorphic time and space, Naydus also impresses Jewishness on the world through language itself. It is not only that Naydus is a virtuoso rhymer, and that he especially seems to revel in rhyming in unpredictable ways with words from all kinds of languages. But it is also when he modulates our expectations of his rhymes by pairing more conventional rhyme pairs with very carefully chosen “exotic” elements that we can understand more fully what his Judaization is meant to accomplish. We routinely encounter Naydus taking a particular kind of pride in his deft deployment of Hebrew rhymes in his poetry. There are times when these words come fast and furious, and other times when they are used very sparely. In those instances, especially when the word is an unusual one and not part of the everyday Yiddish vocabulary, we are meant to take closer note. This is the case in a late sequence, Pan’s Flute (Di fleyt fun pan,

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written in Kustin in 1917). And it is more than fortuitous that the figure of Pan recurs in these pastoral settings especially during spring and summer, times of fecundity and vitality. (The fact that the word pan- means “all” or “whole” gives a kind of thematic flavor to Naydus’s project of cultural synthesis. Moreover, by the late nineteenth century, Pan was becoming in Western literature “a useful symbol for cultural history, to be equated with whatever the author thinks of as typically Greek.”)76 Pan’s Flute is a series of forty self-described “aquarelles,” each one composed of two fourline stanzas. They are pastoral vignettes about a man from the city come to refresh himself in the Lithuanian countryside, where his encounters with nature allow him to put aside his citified cares (“To leave the butterfly undisturbed / To dance upon your cheek, / And to forget completely / Who are Kant and Maeterlinck . . . ”).77 And as we might expect, he even develops a romantic interest from afar in a local peasant girl, the seventeen-year-old and aptly named Christina. At one point, she catches him watching her washing clothes in the river: “Akh!” – zi zet mikh . . . ful faribl un farshemt farn “panitsh” loyft zi flink tsurik in shtibl mit a vildn tayve-kvitsh . . . ​

“Ah!” – She saw me . . . Quite offended And ashamed before the “young squire” She ran nimbly back into her house With a wild scream of passion . . . ​78

The one Hebraic word in this section – tayve, “passion” – indicates not just strong emotion, but desire and sexual attraction. Typical of many of Naydus’s poems about women, it depicts a kind of fantasy or wish fulfillment, translating offense and shame into what he perceives as barely concealed sexual desire. That the desire of a gentile peasant girl for the dandified Jewish man is bald-faced tayve is a linguistic Judaization of an emotion and an illicit interreligious relationship, no matter how imaginary. In section twenty-four, Naydus moves past the solitary, though pregnant, word and invests an entire scene with a Jewish tone.

Judeomorphism Vi a yakhsen a mekhutn shteyt der vald. durkh grozn grin di murashkes-liliputn shmayen-um aher-ahin.

s’shpringt a veverke a gele. “kuku” klingt. es shmekt mit vayn. un di zun, der goldner pele, varft in grozn rendlekh shayn . . . ​

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Like a pedigreed father-in-law Stands the forest. Through the green grass The Lilliputian ants Bustle about hither and thither. A tawny squirrel hops out. A cuckoo sounds. It smells of wine. And the sun, that golden wonder, Casts gold coins of light into the grass . . . ​79

In this case Judeomorphic nature is not presented in a religious or ritual context. Rather, it is the familial context of the description that is distinctly Jewish. While mekhutn means “father-in-law,” the concept is actually slightly more involved. A mekhutn refers to the parent of an in-law child, and as a category it has to do with the relationship between the sets of parents of a married couple. That relationship is marked by the fine gradations of social rank and wealth which brought the two families together. One of the important variables of social prestige in that situation concerns yikhes, or one’s lineage, the nobility and achievements of one’s ancestry. One can therefore recognize a “pedigreed father-in-law” by his hauteur. That is how the forest stands, haughty and proud amidst the hustle and bustle of those around it. Naydus seeks to cut that arrogance down to size, not overtly but suggestively. This is the kind of covert moralizing one sees in epigrammatic works like fables, or indeed in some of these aquarelles. As in Aesop’s “The Ant and the Grasshopper,” the hustling and bustling here is the province of the ant, so small in comparison to the stately trees of the forest. And as in that fable, the ants’ providence and industry contrasts directly with the aloof pines. Moreover, for “ants” Naydus uses the compound murashkes-­ liliputn. Both words entered Yiddish from Slavic sources, the first element – murashke – means “ant,” while the second – liliput – means “dwarf ” or “midget,” stressing how very small the ants are by contrast. (The word liliput itself of course comes from Jonathan Swift’s

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Lilliputians, which only serves to heighten the satirical edge of Naydus’s poem.) But for Naydus to rhyme mekhutn–liliputn ingeniously belies the trees’ size and reduces their figurative stature. It does so by yoking together a manifestly Jewish concept and term with a humorous and fanciful one. This all happens within an arcadian context, the rustic simplicity of which makes the connections between what’s Jewish and what’s non-Jewish – between the Jewish conceptual world and that natural world – organic, not forced or artificial. Finally, in the long poem The Earth Awakens (1919) Naydus presents one of his more sustained meditations on the beauty and harmony of nature set organically in a Jewish temporal context. Full of the flora and fauna of Lithuania, the poem describes the poet wandering the landscape between Nissan (March–April) and Sivan (May–June) and describing in sonorous sextillas his vision of the vernal grandeurs there are to behold. Of course, as we have come to expect, nature offers its orisons to God in a Jewish accent. The tall oaks pray and the little birches recite the Prayer for Dew (un di beryozkes zogn tal), that is, a prayer traditionally delivered on the first day of Passover (in mid-Nissan).80 By the end of the poem the poet is ready to give a summary expression of his experience. Although in general Naydus tends not to strike a prophetic pose, here, in the only direct quoted speech of the poem, the poet echoes Balaam’s blessing of the Israelites (Numbers 24:5): Un a plutslung a baglikter, shray ikh oyset, an anttsikter tsu der ufgebliter velt:  – o, ma toyvu oyholekho! shtil arum . . . un nor dos ekho khazert-iber es in feld . . . ​

And as someone made suddenly happy I cry out, enraptured, To the blossoming world:  – Oh, how goodly are your tents! All around it’s still . . . And only the echo Repeats in the field . . . ​81

The prophet Balaam, charged by the king of Moab to curse the Israelites, blesses them instead. Standing atop Mount Pe’or, looking down into the desert at the Israelite camp, laid out so orderly tribe

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by tribe, Balaam sees both how favored they are by God and how beautiful their encampment is: “How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling-places, O Israel.” That formulation has been used endlessly in Jewish literatures with any number of interpretations. In the text itself the blessing applies to human habitation, to the marks of a human culture and civilization. Balaam, however, said more than just that one phrase, and Naydus cleverly picks up on the metaphorical vocabulary of the blessing as Balaam expands upon the goodliness of the camp: “Like palm-trees outstretched, like gardens by the river, like aloes planted by God, like cedars by the waterside” (Numbers 24:6). Naydus inverts Balaam’s metaphor, likening nature to the camp and not vice versa. In this way nature is primary – the thing whose goodliness is to be blessed. With this inversion, Naydus Judaizes nature on an even more fundamental, biblical level.82 One can find many more of these examples, shorter instances and longer passages in which Naydus explores Jewishness as a way of understanding the world, or comes to grips with the idea of Jewishness itself, its meaning and implications for being a modern Jew – a condition the Hebrew poet Yehudah Leib Gordon hailed as “being a man when you go forth and a Jew within your tent.” That is, these are not contradictory or opposite states but complementary ones. That said, Jewishness was not Naydus’s primary poetic concern. However, when it did arise, either as a specific topic or more passingly, he developed a way of looking at the world “Jewishly.” This was the “Judeomorphic” technique which Vaynig noticed and began to describe. By way of concluding this chapter, I return to Naydus’s manifesto-like poem “To One” (Tsu eynem), which I dealt with briefly in an earlier section. In this poem, which is found in the sequence My People, Naydus responds directly to a critic who has presumably taken him to task for caring too much for aesthetic qualities and failing to attend to what Jewish readers want and need.

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Chapter 2 Du bist gerekht avade: ikh bin der prister fun natur, un oykh fun der elade gefinstu oft in mir a shpur.

You are right of course: I am the priest of nature, And also of the Hellenic You’ll often find a trace in me.

[ . . . ]

[ . . . ]

o gloyb mir, liber rikhter: kh’hob lib mayn folk azoy vi du; nor nimes iz der dikhter di foyle groykayt un di ru.

Oh believe me, dear judge: I love my people as well as you; But the poet finds ever so tiresome The lazy greyness and the indolence.

kh’tseshpreyt di dalet ames fun unzer shprakh vos payn nor molt; ikh tsir es un tseflam es fun faynstn oysterlishn gold.

I spread out the four cubits Of our language, which describes only pain; I adorn it and burnish it With the finest, uncommon gold.

ikh vil durkhdem derhoybn di zel fun folk, vos shmakht un kvelt, un laytern zayn gloybn in shtoltser sheynkayt fun der velt!

By this I wish to elevate The languid, suffering soul of my people And to illuminate its faith With the proud beauty of the world!

un kh’boy in groyen goles dem raykhn shlos fun elfantbeyn; vi di geshtalt apolos, azoy zol zayn dos lebn sheyn!

And I build in grey Exile This sumptuous ivory palace; Like the statue of Apollo So shall life be beautiful!83

In his riposte Naydus maintains that the critic has in effect leveled a fallacious criticism. The Jewishness espoused by the critic is neither vital nor productive, but dull and oppressive. First of all, for the idea to be meaningful there can and must be more than one monolithic expression of Jewishness, more than one set of themes and images to characterize it. And second, an artist needs something to work with; a poet cannot make art from what is grey and languid. Naydus is not coming to destroy but to fulfill, as it were.

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He wants to “elevate” and “illuminate.” To do this he needs “the proud beauty of the world.” That is, Naydus’s concept of Jewishness entails understanding and engaging with the wider world and broader humanity, and the ability to adopt and adapt their positive contributions, over against insularity and isolation. Naydus does not enter Apollo’s domain, but he allows Apollo’s statue into his. In his poem “Before the Statue of Apollo” (Le-nokhach pesel apolo, 1899), the Hebrew poet Shaul Tshernikhovski (1875–1943) envisions a Jew standing in front of a beautiful Greek statue of Apollo, likely in a museum. As he contemplates the statue, the Jew entertains two parallel trains of thought. The first explores the meaning of the statue, the role of art and beauty for Greek religion and culture. The second tries to make an analogy with Jewish religion and culture. European Jewish religion has demeaned and constrained the biblical God, once so majestic, fierce, and powerful. In kneeling before the statue of Apollo, the Jew bows “to life, to strength, and to beauty.”84 Those are the essential elements for a healthy, creative modern culture. A rumination on Apollonian beauty and harmony (Tshernikhovsky had clearly absorbed something of the Nietzschean atmosphere of the time) has brought the Jewish observer to that realization for his own people. This is no less the case for Naydus. It is difficult, for example, not to hear a Tshernikhovskian echo in this stanza from “Only the Strong! . . . ” ​(Nor shtarke! . . . , 1914): deriber kni ikh heylik far apollos Therefore I kneel solemnly before fareybikte un shtralndike glider . . . ​ Apollo’s un kh’lib zey mer, vos mer s’iz der Immortalized and radiant harmider limbs . . . ​ fun unzer vistn muskul-lozn And I love them more the louder goles . . . ​ grows the din Of our miserable muscle-less Exile . . . ​85

Though less in thrall to the awesome power of the biblical God of the whirlwind – Naydus’s heroes in the latter poem are after all “the hero Samson,” “the Papuans,” and “the medieval Huns / with their

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great, mighty Attila” – Naydus nevertheless shared with Tshernikhovsky a wish to “ungrey” Jewish culture. He sought through his poetry to build for it a “sumptuous palace of ivory” and thereby make life beautiful. But, lest one think there was no ardor in Naydus’s Judeomorphic depiction of the world, I will end with the following stanza from the eighteenth section of Intimate Melodies. In this emotionally and erotically charged section the poet takes his paramour to the cinema of an evening. In this stanza, the music works a kind of magic on the lovers: Azoy troyrik hot geshpilt der struniger orkester, geshpilt di rirende “elegye” fun massne, un unzere hent hobn zikh gekeytelt alts shtayfer un fester un shtil gebrent hot mayn harts – der heyliker sne . . . ​

So sadly the string orchestra played, Performing the moving Élégie of Massenet, And our hands entwined tighter and firmer still And silently my heart burned – the holy Bush . . . ​86

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Chapter 3

“Full of Gold and Perfume”: Naydus and the Sonnet

The sonnet is a short poem with a long history. It originated in early to mid-thirteenth-century Sicily as a written form for the courtier elite of Frederick II. Championed by Dante and Petrarch, it gained widespread popularity and geographic range. (The first non-Italian sonnets were actually written in Hebrew by Immanuel of Rome in the late thirteenth century.) Sonnets have been subject to many periods of particular enthusiasm, notably among the French Symbolists and their subsequent admirers. Both slavishly copied and creatively remodeled, the sonnet remains both a staple of the poetic toolkit and a symbol of high culture and poetic refinement. There is perhaps no other single form that so immediately conjures the image of “poetry.” The form itself is fairly simple and straightforward. At its most basic level, the sonnet is a fourteen-line poem with a set rhyme scheme. In its original structure (the so-called Italian or Petrarcan version) the sonnet is composed of two sections: the first containing eight lines, or the octave (which can be separated into two quatrains), and the second containing six lines, or the sestet (which can be separated into two tercets). The octave generally deploys two rhymes, while the sestet deploys three. Commonly the sonnet and its rhyme scheme will look something like this: ABBA ABBA CDE CDE (though there is some greater variety in the sestet). One 53

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immediately notices the slight imbalance between number of lines and number of rhymes, between a kind of measured calm and a quickened pace. Typically, the transition from octave to sestet is also accompanied by a volta, or shift in image, theme, voice, or some other noticeable aspect of the poem. The discernable shift in the volta is emphasized by the physical layout of the poem. The Russian-Jewish literary critic Arkadii Gornfeld (1867–1941) noted that “Those who divide the sonnet into two sections see it as a kind of question-and-answer, image-and-interpretation, thesis-and-metathesis. The first eight lines are a kind of raising up. The reader is elevated together with the poet, they feel tense and await resolution. The second section comes – the six final lines – and provides the answer, the resolution, the repose . . . ” 87 Gornfeld is hinting at the fact that some of the potential for the sonnet as a modern verse form lies in the physical fact of the poem, its visual as well as its sonic attributes. The sonnet was brought to England some time in the early sixteenth century. However, given the relative paucity of rhyming words in English, the form underwent some modification. To the extent that the sonnet is familiar to the English reader it is most likely to be in its Shakespearean form, namely ABAB CDCD EFEF GG, where the imbalance between sections is far greater than in the Italian version. Indeed, while the volta modulates between two roughly commensurable halves, the English version drives steadily towards a concluding couplet which functions more as a pithy aphorism. It is interesting to note that the Yiddish sonnet, even when produced in America, tended to a much greater degree to use the Italian form. More than a form, then, the sonnet is a concept. That is, its formal fixity is ultimately notional. After all, even from its very beginning the sonnet attracted a large amount of formal experimentation; a treatise on Italian verse forms from 1332 lists sixteen different kinds of sonnet.88 The sonnet’s attractiveness inheres in a set of interconnected aspects. First of all, the sonnet, in whatever guise, is defined by a clearly delineated set of formal constraints that are easy to assimilate. Secondly, as a result of those rules, the

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sonnet exhibits a sense of compression, focus, and orderliness. Formal restrictions and limits often liberate a poet, who perceives those challenges as a goad to creativity. And thirdly, given the structural modulation of the volta, the sonnet has a sense not only of internal dynamism but also of discursive variability. The sonnet speaks through an internal conversation, which gives it its suppleness. Its potential as a distinctly modern verse form is clear in its startling variety.

The Modern Yiddish Sonnet 89 The sonnet’s place in Yiddish is underappreciated. The investment of poetic energy on the sonnet brackets off the high-water period of Yiddish verse. From the first decade of the twentieth century, when Naydus began to use the sonnet to infuse Yiddish poetry with the energy and eminence of Western traditions, to the early ­nineteen-fifties when the American-Yiddish poet Mani Leyb (1883–1953) finished writing a series of fifty or so masterful sonnets, comprising one of the last great works of Yiddish poetry, the Yiddish sonnet represents a literary synthesis that helped energize and animate Yiddish literature. That said, comparative little has been written about Yiddish sonnets collectively.90 The first Yiddish sonnet still rests in obscurity. From time to time one encounters the American Yiddish poet Fradl Shtok (1890–unknown), credited with having introduced the sonnet into Yiddish in the early 1910s.91 (By way of comparison, Naydus’s first dated sonnet is from 1910.) This attribution seems to have resulted from an error accepted as fact. The critic Abraham Tabachnik notes that a work by Dovid Hofshteyn and Fude Shames erroneously credits Shtok as the first Yiddish sonneteer, a mistake which subsequent critics overlooked.92 Tabachnik points to at least five sonnets by the American Yiddish poet Morris Vintshevski (1856–1932) – the first of which is dated 1892 – as well as at least one sonnet by Morris Rosenfeld (1862–1923), which preceded Shtok’s sonnets.93 These largely isolated examples are generally of unexceptional quality. (Though the fact that one of the earliest Yiddish sonnets, for example, is a eulogy to Friedrich Engels published

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shortly after his death in 1895 indicates that the high-art ethos of the form not always evident in the sonnet’s Yiddish incarnation.)94 Given the importance of the sonnet to European poetry – a model for so much in the creation of modern Yiddish literature – it is remarkable how late it ultimately appears in Yiddish. However, more important to the Yiddish sonnet than this lateness are certain details of Yiddish literary history. Yiddish had a long-standing perceived opposition between poetry intended to be read and folksong. Moreover, in the last decades of the nineteenth century, Yiddish’s poetic language underwent a shift to tonic­-syllabic meters.95 This confluence of a high-art ethos – namely, the identification of the notion of literature with forms and genres understood as belonging to high culture in the West – and a “new” metrical structure required a “training in the creation of new poetic” forms.96 That the sonnet stands out in this training is no accident. In its drive to retrain itself, Yiddish poetry drew heavily on folk culture. Despite conflicting attitudes towards it, the folksong in particular was central to the creation of Yiddish poetry and the Yiddish sonnet.97 Indeed, the sonnet gives us a glimpse at how a young literature’s demands for high-art forms can come up against a culture’s ready-made and accessible forms. African-American sonnets, especially in the Harlem Renaissance, for example, offer an instructive parallel with the development of Jewish sonnets. In his discussion of the black protest sonnet, Gary Smith poses the question “why the New Negro poets were drawn to the European sonnet – a four-hundred-year old, genteel literary form that traces its roots to the sixteenth-century Italian sonnet – as opposed to folk forms more native to the black American experience, such as the antebellum sermon, folk songs, and spirituals.”98 This question recapitulates an ideological argument during the Harlem Renaissance between (a) those like Langston Hughes, an advocate for a kind of “folk poetics,” who saw in inherited “white” verse forms such as the sonnet an imposition of middle-class white “respectability” and values antithetical to more native forms of black literary individuality, and (b) those “formalists” such as Countee Cullen

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who countered that focusing on the blackness of black verse makes such poets “racial artists instead of artists pure and simple.”99 This analysis echoes the terms of the debate among Jewish cultural activists in the first decades of the twentieth century.100 On one side stood those who maintained that the sole responsibility of the Jewish artist was the development of the means of expressing essential Jewish cultural and spiritual values; on the other were those who advocated the artist’s absolute freedom – including from the constraints of presenting only “Jewish” content – to pursue his or her art, wherever it may lead. It is no coincidence that while the Hebrew poet Chaim Nachman Bialik (1873–1934) – a forceful advocate of the centrality of essential Jewish content – wrote only one sonnet (and a satirical one at that), his contemporary Shaul Tshernikhovski (1875–1943) – a proponent of greater deparochialization in art – championed the form. The opening up of folk culture, and folksong in particular, to artistic development put at the disposal of the poet significant resources, including a renewed stress on the importance of rhyme. Rhyme stands at the heart of the developmental phase of the modern Yiddish sonnet for several reasons, not least of which because rhyme answered both sides of the cultural debate: not only were there indigenous traditions of inventive rhyming, such as those of the wedding performers (badkhonim) and other itinerant musicians, but Yiddish rhyme was receptive to external literary traditions as well, beginning with medieval and early modern German literary traditions. As Uriel Weinreich notes in his groundbreaking study of Yiddish rhyme, while modern Russian literature’s “rediscovery” of rhyme had an important impact on Yiddish, Yiddish nevertheless drew on a much longer and fuller tradition of rhyme of its own.101 Moreover, rhyme is terribly important to the development of the modern sonnet in general. (In Clive Scott’s aphoristic definition, “the sonnet is a rhyme-scheme.”102) This was central to the sonnets of the French Symbolists, some of whom were known to pick out their rhyme words before writing a sonnet and letting the rhymescheme dictate their composition.103 And not only did the Symbolists exert a profound influence on the modern sonnet in general,

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but also on the development of the Yiddish sonnet, and on Leyb Naydus in particular. By my count, in his various published collections Naydus wrote no fewer than sixty sonnets.104 Many of these were composed during brief flurries of activity. For example, among the dated poems five sonnets were written in December of 1914, eight between May and August of 1915, nine in April of 1916, and four in October and November of 1916. Clearly Naydus was prone to sonnet enthusiasms. As it turns out, that is not unexpected. Many poets who take up the form become enamored of it, writing sonnets either in sequences, often long ones, or in abundance. Shakespeare famously penned one hundred and fifty sonnets, Wordsworth hundreds, and Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal, which Naydus translated into Yiddish, is chock full of them. I have called this propensity for sonnet profusion graphorrhea; though the earlier “sonnettomania” seems apt as well.105 However one names the phenomenon, writing sonnets – plural – seems from early on in the modern period to have become part of what it meant to participate in the tradition. And Naydus clearly intended to participate. True, he found the form congenial for its own aesthetic attributes. But more than that, he saw the sonnet as an essential feature of the “sumptuous ivory palace” he was building for Yiddish. It is not by chance that many forms of modernism would seize on the sonnet as a focus of their reinterpretive vision of literary history. Here was a form that was both fixed and plastic, that hearkened back to the Renaissance with its classical balance and to the dawn of vernacular poetry, that was written for and by the elites and was open to self-satire and democratization. Take, for example, the Nicaraguan poet Rubén Darío (1867–1916), who founded a literary movement in late nineteenth-century Spanish letters, particularly in Latin America, known as modernismo. This largely aestheticist movement sought, among other things, to invigorate Spanish literature with European, especially French, Symbolism. Darío and Naydus shared an adoration of the Symbolists and of the sonnet, of which Darío wrote many. In his famous sonnet “Yo persigo una forma . . . ” (1900) – which begins “I am pursuing a form

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that my style cannot find” (Yo persigo una forma que no encuentra mi estilo) – one can read this “form” as something spiritual or Platonic. But this elusive Golden Fleece of poetry for which the poet hunts may well be the sonnet itself. Naydus’s and Darío’s “pursuit” of this form transcended imitation. It was rather a participation in and development of a tradition. In Darío’s words, “the bud of a thought that seeks to be a rose” (botón de pensamiento que busca ser la rosa). The importance of Naydus’s sonnets goes beyond their intrinsic value, and beyond the rarefied air of Yiddish aestheticism. On its surface, the work of the Soviet Yiddish modernist poet Perets Markish (1895–1952), especially his early poetry, bears little resemblance to that of Naydus. Markish was a brash Yiddish Expressionist, who saw himself as an overturner of the tables of literary tradition and poetic convention. It is unclear whether Markish and Naydus ever met. However, one of Naydus’s closest friends, Avraham Zak, recalls that among Naydus’s ardent admirers in the Warsaw literary community was Perets Markish (who, incidentally, was delegated to Grodno for the unveiling of the Naydus memorial). Markish, himself often disheveled in appearance, used to say: “If only Naydus had lived! The pinnacle would he have been among us; every poet must be jealous of such a master of the honed word!”106

For Markish to speak this way of a poet like Naydus, who shared little with him in terms of overall aesthetics and poetics, is noteworthy on its own. We must remember, however, that it was Naydus’s Yiddish literary activities, not to mention his activism – his organization of poetic events and his engaged enthusiasm – that inspired many with an interest in Yiddish poetry. It is likely that Naydus’s work in part confirmed in Markish the idea that Yiddish was a viable poetic medium.107 The natural landscapes of Markish’s early works – in the collection Thresholds (Shveln, 1919) or the long poem Volhynia (Volin, 1921) – are reminiscent of Naydus and indeed owe much to him. Naydus’s championing of the sonnet, moreover, made a clear impression on Markish. For a poet of Markish’s proclivities, choosing to write a sonnet would seem unusual were it not for Naydus – and Markish wrote at least one hundred twenty-five sonnets!

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Rhyme One of the most consistent criticisms of Naydus the poet centered on some version of his being a rhymester. For example, though A. Y. Zakuski held Naydus in esteem, in his quasi-commemorative essay he still singled out the fact that Naydus “too often and too frivolously plays around with rhyme and sound.” To Zakuski’s mind what detracted most from Naydus’s work was “his naïveté and his desire to introduce [into Yiddish poetry] a salonizing tone which has neither importance nor influence in Jewish life.”108 That essay, however, appeared in the journal Grodner Opklangen (Echoes of Grodno) in 1951. In a publication dedicated to memorializing a lost community after the Holocaust, one can well imagine a bitter edge to remembering Naydus’s apparent “frivolity.” Vaynig’s essay, however, written in the very midst of that nightmare, sees things differently. Vaynig offers a sarcastic repudiation of those among Naydus’s critics who seize on his rhymes the way Zakuski does: With a wave of the hand, belittlingly, Naydus is demeaned as a rhymester, that is, rhymes come too easily to him, rhymes flow from him in uncommon abundance. And his form was bold and perfect. How is that? Is that possible? Is that normal? Here’s a defect – the bride is too beautiful. But the sign of a poet, of a true singer (even though, according to modern theories, it can also be otherwise) is the ease of rhyme-spinning. Rhyme – even in the modernist form of blank verse or some other way – is the original element of poetry, a natural element of the poetic psyche, like fire or water, which, when excited, are elemental forces. Does the critic fear a wedding jester’s rhymes? So what would he make of such rhyme-masters as Markish, Broderzon, Lutski, Sutzkever? Erase their memory? Oh, then he must also with a stroke of his pen be rid of Reyzen who also rhymes as easily as a songbird.109

Rhyme is “the original element of poetry”; it is a way of focusing on the music of the language. To understand Naydus’s work – and to understand why the sonnet meant so much to him – one has to appreciate how central that conception of rhyme was to his poetics.

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Given Naydus’s investment in rhyme, it is unsurprising that he was drawn to the sonnet. Whatever one may say about the history of the form, about its conceptual development and the diversity of its content and subject matter, at its basic level, as the French symbolists also realized, “the sonnet is a rhyme-scheme.” Moreover, “it is the rhyme that has put the sonnet at the centre of a whole complex of European forms and their differing national associations.”110 Put another way, different languages have different rhyme capabilities, and rhyme means different things in different poetic traditions.111 Creativity in the use of rhymes and the construction of rhyme schemes marks many of these traditions, including and especially Yiddish. Again, it is not a stretch to suggest that the combination of the importance of rhyme to the modern sonnet tradition and Naydus’s own love of inventive rhyming drew him to the form. That imaginative rhyming formed a creative kernel of the sonnets of his much admired French symbolists could not but have helped. As was mentioned above, rhyme was such a magnetic core of the sonnet that some symbolists went so far as to choose their rhymes first and construct their sonnets around them. Take, for example, Stéphane Mallarmé, in whose “mature method of sonnet composition it was similarly rhyme, the ‘effect’, that was established before its ‘causes.’ These latter were worked out later and as discreetly and ambiguously as possible.”112 In an untitled sonnet, which has come to be known as “Sonnet en yx,” Mallarmé chooses the rhyme –ix in a position that requires six words ending with that sound, a tricky challenge in French. He arrives at onyx, Phénix, ptyx, Styx, nixe, and se fixe (meaning “onyx,” “phoenix,” “ptyx,” “Styx,” “nix, nixie” (that is, a water sprite or nymph), and “to be fixed,” respectively). The word ptyx, a nonce word that Mallarmé invents for the sake of the rhyme, has occasioned much critical and scholarly interest. (One article aptly dubs it the “redoubtable ptyx.”) In one of Mallarmé’s letters from around the time of the sonnet’s composition he writes to an Egyptologist colleague:

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Chapter 3 Finally, as it may be, however, that put in rhythm by the hammock, and inspired by the bay tree, I should make a sonnet, I only have three rhymes in –ix, please contrive to send me the real meaning of the word ptyx: I am assured that it does not exist in any language, which I much prefer as it ultimately gives me the pleasure of creating it by the magic of rhyme.113

I am put in mind of Christian Morgenstern’s poem “Das Böhmische Dorf ” (The Bohemian Village) in which a character named v. Korf – whose name rhymes with the word Dorf that appears in the first stanza – is described as follows: Auch v. Korf (der nur des Reimes wegen ihn begleitet) ist um Rat verlegen. Also v. Korf (who only for the sake of rhyme accompanies him) is at a loss for advice.114

Rhyme clearly serves many masters. And when self-consciousness, as we can see from poems that range from a tongue-in-cheek work of humor like Morgenstern’s to Mallarmé’s “sonnet allégorique de lui-même” (self-allegorical sonnet), rhyme offers the canny poet a powerful tool for exploring the inner workings of poetry itself. Naydus for his part took the symbolists seriously, and he understood that they were attempting to understand rhyme as a way of sonically apprehending a poem that has as much to do with music as it does with literature. (Naydus is not being gratuitous when he offers as the epigraph to the first volume of Lirik (1915) a quote from Verlaine: “De la musique avant toute chose” – Music before all else.) In one of his poems entitled, either descriptively or declaratively, “Sonnet,” Naydus presents a simple scene. Ergets shtil veynt der vint, azoy kil, azoy lind.

Somewhere quiet The wind cries, So cool, So gentle.

kh’darf atsind keyn shum tsil; akh ikh vil zayn a kind.

I now need No goal at all; Oh how I want To be a child.

“Full of Gold and Perfume”: Naydus and the Sonnet emits bet, emits glet vi mit zayd;

Someone’s calling, Someone’s caressing As though with silk;

un mayn blut flist barut, vi di tsayt.

And my blood, Fows calmly, Like time.115

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In its basic presentation, it is more or less an Impressionist moodpoem. The only certain things are the perceptions of the poem’s speaker, whether tactile (the cool, gentle wind; the caressing; the blood flowing in his veins) or auditory (the crying of wind; the unknown person calling). Everything else is uncertain (“somewhere”; “someone”). Naydus opines that to be goalless is to be calm, and therefore truly able to feel and to perceive. More than the poem’s Impressionism, however, what we notice most of all is its concision. From a formal perspective, a sonnet in anapestic monometer (that is, single-foot lines of two unstressed followed by one stressed syllable: ˘˘¯ ) offers barely more than the rhyme scheme itself. In this pared-down form, the only stressed elements in the poem are the rhyme words themselves. It is not a poem about rhyme, but rather a poem that is rhyme. Like the enigmatic ptyx, this terseness calls upon the reader to overread the poem, to tease out connections and fill in gaps. From a sonnet we generally expect more, so we need to figure out why we have gotten less. In this way Naydus both plays with our expectations and gives us his own interpretive tweak to the form, one that removes everything but rhyme from the sonnet equation.

The Three-Ring Sonnet Naydus did not use the sonnet only for exploring the formal possibilities of Yiddish poetry and experimenting with rhyme. His sonnets cover a wide range of themes and subject matter. There are of course many of the more traditional love sonnets. He also composed a number of sonnets within his orientalist sequences (which I will return to in a later section). While many modern sonnet­-writers composed sonnets on or to the sonnet itself, includ-

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ing modern Hebrew’s canonical sonneteer Shaul Tshernikhovski, with his famous “To the Hebrew Sonnet” (El ha sonetah ha ivrit, 1920), this was one of the notable sonnet varieties which Naydus did not attempt.116 This is not to say, however, that he wholly avoided ars poetica or reflections on his role as artist in his sonnets. Rather, at those moments he tends to be more circumspect or even cavalier. (After all, Naydus clearly thought of poetry as a repository of cultural values, but not as a weapon in the arsenal of ideology; the artist is a flawed emblem, not an heroic leader.) In the sonnet “In the Circus” (In tsirkus) Naydus takes up a popular scene for modern poetry, the circus. (The Yiddish reader need only think of Tsilye Dropkin’s poem “The Circus Lady” (Di tsirkus dame), for example, to feel the liberating possibilities of the scene.)117 Its popularity lay at least in part in the explosive sensory experience it afforded as well as its carnivalesque atmosphere. Es ruft mikh oft der tsirkus der farshayter, vu af dem zamdikn arene-plats dershaynt in mits der farbiker payats, un heyzerik un hilkhik epes shrayt er . . . ​

Often the wanton circus calls me, Where in the middle of the sandy arena Appears the colorful clown, And he yells something hoarse and loud . . . ​

kh’lib akrobatins, beygik vi a kats, I love the lady acrobats, supple as vos flekhtn zikh mit shtrik alts a cat, hekher, vayter; Who higher and farther entwine di flink-tsehitste rayterins un rayter, themselves with the rope; vos shpiln mit a brenendike The swift-excited riders and shturkats . . . ​ rideresses Who play with a burning torch . . . ​ mit patsheray un mit geshrey tsuzamen dankt der homen fun oybn un fun untn, – un mit a kunts-shtik entfert der artist;

With claps and cries The crowds above and below give their kudos, And the artist responds with a trick;

“Full of Gold and Perfume”: Naydus and the Sonnet es shmekt mit shveys fun mentshnlayb gezuntn, un s’mishn zikh perfumen fun di damen mit reykhes fun dem frishn ferdnmist . . . ​

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It smells of sweat and healthy bodies, And there mix together the ladies’ perfume With the scents of fresh horseshit . . . ​118

The tone of the whole poem is set off in the very first line where we encounter the circus, its wantonness as well as its irresistible and frequent siren song, all in short order. Naydus presents a chaos not only of sound but also of color, embodied in the gaudy getup and noisy antics of the clown. But Naydus emphasizes this sensory tumult, as we have now come to expect, by rhyme. Here, for example, he rhymes farshayter (“wanton”) with the two-word phrase shrayt er (“he yells”), at once underscoring the abandon of the circus with its clamor and the comic entertainments its indecorousness is meant to provide. With this composite rhyme (one in which a rhyme is enacted over two words) Naydus means to achieve a humorous effect. As Uriel Weinreich notes, one of the routes by which the more “complex” forms of this composite rhyming – of which Naydus’s is a good example – were introduced into Yiddish poetry was “as a humorous device, in a Byronian vein.”119 Naydus can so often be a puckish poet, so a humorous tinge is certainly in keeping with his approach. But Weinreich’s “Byronic” description is perhaps even more appropriate for this poem insofar as it indicates the kind of mock-heroic attitude which Naydus adopts towards his circus performers.120 And as the sonnet unfolds we see the tension Naydus sets up over whether the mock-hero of a carnival scene is actually heroic. Despite its chaotic content, “In the Circus” is a carefully constructed sonnet. Each of the four stanzas is effectively a single, albeit complex, sentence. The two quatrains each focus on the perceiver himself, the poem’s “I.” In the first quatrain all of the activity is organized around how the circus “calls” to him, continually ushering him back in. The second quatrain then describes explicitly what “I love” about it. And while in both cases the organizing agent is the

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“I,” the subject matter consists of the various performers, especially the erotically charged female acrobats. (Though I will return to it later I will just note here the connection between the erotic and the image of the cat.) However, in the volta – that is, again, the shift in theme, tone, language, etc., between the octet and the sestet – Naydus refocuses his attention from the performers to the audience, and he reorients the description from the first-person to the third. This reorientation allows the poet a more “objective” stance from which to observe and assess the scene. Of course, that “scene” now includes both performers and the audience itself, which presumably includes the poet. Any critical evaluation will thus become also self-criticism. The crowd’s tumultuous approbation calls out an encore performance – “And the artist responds with a trick” (un mit a kunts-shtik entfert der artist). A kunts or a kunts-shtik is a trick, a stunt, a bit of legerdemain; a kuntsnmakher is a juggler, trick-performer, or prestidigitator. In all of these senses it would be a stretch to refer to such a practitioner as an “artist.” Yet that is precisely the elevated title Naydus gives him. Finally, in the last stanza, the visual and auditory have yielded to the olfactory. By the performance’s end the entire world of the circus mixes fully together in a riot of smells. Whose sweat and whose healthy bodies these are become indistinguishable. But as in the composition of the audience itself, the odors of the unwashed and of the “ladies” (damen) mix, conflating high and low. Naydus’s pièce de résistance, however, comes in the final line. The ladies’ perfume mingles with “the scents of fresh horseshit.” Even higher with even lower. But it is not this contiguity alone which produces its startling and risible effect. In the last lines of the two tercets Naydus rhymes artíst (“artist”) with ferdnmíst (“horseshit”), an association which rather cuts the former down to size, or questions the “airs” he is putting on. This is not to say that for Naydus horseshit was only a pejorative designation. The fourth section of Pan’s Flute, for example, has the following exultation:

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S’ara rakhves, s’ara breytkayt, s’ara pazrendike shayn! s’ara aylndike greytkayt af tsu libn un tsu zayn!

Such space, such breadth, Such a lavish light! Such an urgent readiness To love and to be!

s’iz di velt – eyn heler nign: fun dem taykhele, vos flist, biz di zhumendike flign in dem varmen ferdnmist . . . ​

The world is – one bright tune: From the little stream that flows To the buzzing flies In the warm horseshit . . . ​121

Horse dung clearly plays a poetic role in the great symphony of existence, at least as orchestrated by Naydus. The final juxtaposition in “In the Circus,” of perfumed grandes dames with horse manure, points to a pair of related goals. Naydus has objectified the scene in which the “artist” appears so as to be able to judge his own position as an artist and indeed also the job of the modern poet. And, in so doing, he conflates various aspects of high and low – or in the artistic milieu, highbrow and lowbrow – in order, as I have written elsewhere, to “call into question the high-art presuppositions on which the sonnet is built.”122 As an illustrative aside, I once attended a concert at which the virtuoso flautist James Galway was the featured soloist. Before intermission, after the orchestra had retired, and in response to a relentless barrage of ovations, Galway treated the audience to a number of what he called “lollipops,” little bravura confections of music. Naydus is making a complicated claim about what the sonnet is and what it means to write one. The sonnet as a form is sophisticated enough for an artist to contemplate his own vocation and liberated enough to deflate that very pretension. (All this, one hastens to add, at a time when Yiddish sonnets were few.) Much like Galway’s lollipops trilling in the august concert hall, the sonnet can be, in the mock-heroic vein, poetry’s kunts-shtik.

His True Penelope Was Baudelaire Vaynig devoted a whole section of his essay to the influence of Verlaine on Naydus (“The Inheritance from Verlaine”), maintaining

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that Verlaine was Naydus’s “favorite poet.”123 Indeed, he quotes the telling final stanza from Naydus’s poem “A Letter” (A briv, 1915) – an epistolary love poem imagining an ingleside assignation between two separated lovers: Un dernokh, ven s’holts in im vet hakhnoedik derbrenen, – mit a tsiterdiker shtim vel ikh lezn dir verlenen . . . ​

And then, when the wood in the fireplace Will be humbly burning, – With a trembling voice I will recite Verlaine for you . . . 124

In Vaynig’s words, at an exalted moment of Naydus’s experience of love, when he sits with his beloved at the hearth (clearly in the poet’s imagination), when he calls to her in his loneliness and describes for her [ . . . ] the happiness that awaits them both, then the mediator of their souls is none other than Verlaine.125

I do not mean to discount the importance of Verlaine to Naydus’s work, which Vaynig ably demonstrates. I would suggest, however, that Vaynig perhaps overstates his case slightly and that it is rather more of an emblematic importance. Vaynig, for example, makes the notable aside that Naydus’s poem “To Paul Verlaine” (Pol verlenen, 1917) was “the only one so addressed to a poet that we find in Naydus.”126 However, there are other poets who were so honored: “To Der Nister” (Nistern, 1915) – which incidentally is itself a sonnet – and “To Igor Severyanin” (Igor severyaninen, 1914) to name but a couple of examples.127 More importantly, however, in the very poem Vaynig deploys to demonstrate Naydus’s reliance on Verlaine, Naydus actually makes use of a more variegated palette of poetic references. The whole poem describes the imagined scene of the parted lovers’ reunion on a snowy winter’s eve. At one point, as the poet lays out the scene he tells his lover Du vest kukn, vi geheym You will watch how mysteriously shtralt kuindzhis “nakht ukrayner” Kuindzhi’s “Ukrainian Night” un vi foygl in der heym, shines ruen vet dayn hant in mayner . . . ​ And like a bird in its nest Shall your hand rest in mine.128

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In this stanza, the “mediator” between the lovers is not Verlaine at all but rather the Ukrainian landscape painter Arkhip Kuindzhi (1842–1910). His painting “Ukrainian Night” (Ukrainskaya noch, 1876; the painting is now at the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow), with its distinctive chiaroscuro technique, depicts an eerily illuminated Ukrainian village at night among the darkened fields of grain. Naydus has clearly chosen two artists, one verbal and one visual, whose readily identifiable styles could instantly evoke the desired mood. (And it need hardly be emphasized that by referring explicitly to these two artists, from very different cultural traditions, and neither of them Jews, Naydus again highlights his diaspora internationalist aesthetic.) In this case it is actually Kuindzhi more than Verlaine who mediates between the lovers, putting them literally hand in hand. By the end of the poem, the reciting of Verlaine’s poetry is meant to seduce, to achieve something a little more down to earth than the spiritual union that Vaynig perceived. Be that as it may, we may seize on another of Vaynig’s offhand assertions – namely that “pursuing the Verlainian in Naydus would make a very good topic for a dissertation” – and by substituting symbolism in general for Verlaine in particular the assessment becomes even more apt.129 Of course, Naydus owed more to the French symbolists generally than the mere fact that he was writing sonnets. But it is in his sonnets that their impact is perhaps most keenly felt, given the way they straddle the intersection of form and theme. Verlaine’s influence notwithstanding, the symbolist sonneteer who was Naydus’s most consistent interlocutor was Charles Baudelaire. Even if there were only Naydus’s often very fine translation of Les fleurs du mal (Blumen fun shlekhts), produced between 1914 and 1915, that would go a long way to supporting such a claim.130 Naydus was always interested in translation, from a variety of poetic traditions. The posthumously published collection of translations From the World-Parnassus (Fun velt-parnas) alone includes works by more than thirty poets, from Goethe to his own contemporaries, not to mention selections from the Greek Anthology as well as several Chinese poets.131 (Another of his best-loved poets, Pushkin, is not represented in this collection, though Naydus did produce

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a complete translation of Eugene Onegin.)132 Among these lyrical poets, however, the largest selection by far is devoted to Baudelaire. On the face of it, the two poets’ styles and poetics do not share a great deal in common. Baudelaire, the urban malcontent, is not a ready companion to Naydus, the celebrant of nature. In Erich Auerbach’s words, “[t]he poet of Les Fleurs du mal hated the reality of the time in which he lived; he despised its trends, progress and prosperity, freedom and equality; he recoiled from its pleasures; he hated the living, surging forces of nature; he hated love insofar as it is ‘natural.’”133 It would be difficult to imagine an assessment less appropriate to Naydus’s poetic worldview. And nevertheless, Naydus felt drawn to Baudelaire’s work, not only for the purpose of translating it, but also as a source of inspiration. A case in point is Baudelaire’s sonnet “Le Chat” (The Cat): Viens, mon beau chat, sur mon cœur amoureux; Retiens les griffes de ta patte, Et laisse-moi plonger dans tes beaux yeux Mêlés de métal et d’agate.

Come, my beautiful cat, to my loving heart; Hold back your paw’s claws, And let me plunge into your beautiful eyes, A mixture of metal and agate.

Lorsque mes doigts caressent à When leisurely my fingers caress loisir Your head and your elastic back, Ta tête et ton dos élastique, And my hand grows tipsy with Et que ma main s’enivre du plaisir the pleasure De palper ton corps électrique, Of stroking your electric body, Je vois ma femme en esprit; son regard, Comme le tien, aimable bête, Profond et froid, coupe et fend comme un dard,

Then I see my woman in my mind’s eye. Her face, Like yours, you pleasant beast, Deep and cold, cuts and slits like a dart,

Et, des pieds jusques à la tête, Un air subtil, un dangereux parfum Nagent autour de son corps brun.

And, from feet to head, A subtle air, a dangerous perfume Hovers around her brown body.134

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The poem has a two-tiered conceptual structure. In the first instance it offers an elaborate metaphor, likening the poet’s cat to his lover. He uses the opportunity of that woman’s absence to take the calm domestic coziness of a cat’s leap into his lap as a means of reflecting on the less than cozy aspects of his lover. The second layer makes a connection between the skein of emotions and the reflective possibilities of the sonnet form itself. Baudelaire hints at this aim in the modified structure of the octet in which the longer ten-syllable lines, with their lyrical details, alternate with the eight-syllable lines that are less effusive and more descriptive.135 As David Scott notes, it is in the volta that Baudelaire reflects back on the meaning of the descriptions in the octet: “ . . . in the sestet it is not only the sensations of the body but the perceptions of the spirit that come fully into play. In describing the physical attributes of the woman, the poet reveals a more acute awareness of spiritual overtones: he not merely describes but interprets the objects before him.”136 This sonnet in particular has been singled out as a paragon of the dramatic possibilities of this analytic or interpretive reflexiveness. It is not fortuitous that this poem has garnered its fair share of attention, scholarly and otherwise. There are any number of reasons why Naydus may have been drawn to this sonnet of Baudelaire’s in particular. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Naydus was as much a cat lover as Baudelaire, to which each of their several feline-related poems attest. Or perhaps it had to do with his own interest in the discursive possibilities of the form. Whatever the immediate reason, though, Naydus’s sonnet “My Cat” (Mayn kats, 1916) is in clear conversation with Baudelaire’s poem. S’vet zayn genug dir shoyn nokh mayz zikh narish traybn, o, kum aher, mayn libe, tayerinke kats! tsi hostu faynt mikh, o mayn kluger kleyner shats? iz den nisht gut af mayne kni zikh tsu farklaybn?

It’ll be enough for you to chase mice foolishly later, Oh, come here, my dear, beloved cat! Do you hate me, oh my clever little treasure? Isn’t it good to snuggle on my knees?

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Chapter 3 krikh, krikh-aruf . . . un itster tu mayn hant a krats, zolstu eygnhentik zikh in libe untershraybn! . . . ​ shtark! kha-kha-kha! azoy! zol blaybn far mir als ondenkung dayn negldiker rats . . . ​

Climb, climb on up . . . And now give my hand a scratch, By your own hand you should sign your love! . . . ​ Strong! Ha ha ha! So! You should leave Me your clawed-up rat as a souvenir . . . ​

er vet dermonen mir di ershte shtiferayen mit mayn gelibter in di ershte teg fun glik . . . ​ zi flegt zikh shnel un mit a freydgeshrey bafrayen fun mayne orems, dokh araynfaln tsurik . . . ​

He reminds me of the first frolics with my beloved in those first happy days . . . ​ She would so swiftly and, with a cry of joy, free Herself from my arms, only to fall right back in . . . ​

un fleg ikh mekhtik zi in orems mayne khapn, – vi vild un tayvedik zi flegt zikh damols drapen! . . . ​

And strongly in my arms her I would catch, – How wildly and lustily would she then scratch! . . . ​137

From the point of view of the form itself, Baudelaire’s alternating eight-syllable and ten-syllable lines point at some of the fluidity typical of the sonnet in general. Moreover, in this particular case, Baudelaire does not choose the varieties of the traditional Petrarcan or Italian rhyme scheme which he often used and which predominated among the Symbolists. Rather, despite the poem’s physical layout as two quatrains and two tercets, its rhyme scheme is actually Shakespearean: ABAB CDCD EFEF GG. For Naydus it is the opposite. Despite the physical layout as three quatrains and a capping couplet, the rhyme scheme indicates a traditional Italian sonnet: ABBA ABBA CDCD EE. Leaving form momentarily aside, in conversing with Baudelaire’s poem Naydus gestures at his little “improvements” on the original, going from Baudelaire’s descriptive “The Cat” to his own more intimate “My Cat.” Moreover, both poems open with an explicit

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address to the poet’s cat, the imperative “Come!” In Naydus’s case, however, he prefaces that by claiming that the cat will have plenty of time later for its foolish mouse-catching. Given the intercourse between Naydus’s poem and the French exemplar, Naydus may be making an off-hand joke at his own expense, saying to himself: “There will be time enough for your silly lyrical games later, you’re after bigger poetic game now.” Whether or not this is the case, the cat in Naydus’s poem displays explicit marks of intimacy. That is, where Baudelaire’s poem seems to be an experiment in metaphor calculation – the cat is clearly meant to be a proxy – Naydus’s poem tries to make the cat an actual cat, something recognizable, familiar, if not endearing. Indeed, where Baudelaire tells his cat to “hold back your paw’s claws,” Naydus instead instructs his to “give my hand a scratch, / By your own hand you should sign your love! . . . ” 138 Baudelaire’s poem is rife with intimations of danger and pain, things that carry negative associations. In Naydus’s poem, however, the scratch is a sign of affection, something with positive connotations. He understands of course the painful, indeed deadly, aspect of those claws – the dead rat bears witness to that; but this is a poem in which the danger is play-acted. The volta transforms this mock danger into the reverie of the poet on his lover. Just as in Baudelaire, where while looking at the cat the poet sees his lover “in his mind’s eye” (en esprit), so the cat in Naydus’s sonnet “reminds” the poet of his first “frolics” with his lover. Instead of painful dangers, we find an even more explicitly erotically charged scene. (Recall in Naydus’s “In the Circus” how the female acrobats were described as “supple as a cat”; Naydus sees cats as erotic symbols, even more evocatively so than in Baudelaire’s second quatrain.) Like the catch-and-release game which the cat plays with the mice, the poet recalls his lover freeing herself from his grasp “only to fall right back in.” Indeed, this foreplay of the lovers’ capering and mischief leads to a more “wild” and “lusty” scratching. Naydus’s engagement with the canonical French sonneteer goes beyond this one feline poem. In his “Chimera” (Khimere, 1916) he openly converses with another famous Baudelaire sonnet, “Sed non satiata.”139 Baudelaire takes the title of his poem from an explicit

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scene in Juvenal’s Satires describing the libidinous excesses of the Emperor Claudius’s wife Messalina. And in his own poem Naydus takes up the theme of the predatory nature of woman’s sexual appetitiveness, but instead of using the metaphor of witchery or pagan sorcery Naydus prefers a more architectural image. S’iz groys di vog fun dayne tsep di shvere, dos vegt in zey di tayve, minhastam; mikh shrekn mit der modner kalter flam di oygn di fagliverte un lere . . . ​

Great is the weight of your heavy braids In which desire is likely weighed; I am frightened by the strange, cold flame Of your eyes, hardened and empty . . . ​

ver veyst, in velkhe veltn lebt dayn shtam, o, shtrenge, umgelumperte megere! mir duft zikh oftmol oys, az a khimere arop iz fun parizer “notr-dam” . . . ​

Who knows in what worlds your race lives, O, stern, unsightly Megaera! It often seems to me that a chimera Has fallen from Notre Dame in Paris . . . ​

du kumst tsu mir in shternloze nekht un prest mikh mit a vildkayt tsu dayn hartsn. un s’kroynt dayn zig mayn nakhtikn gefekht!

You come to me in starless nights And press me wildly to your chest. And my nocturnal struggle crowns your victory!

un kh’ze, vi dayne oygn lakhn grin, And I see how your eyes laugh vi s’lakhn dayne oyern, vos green, shtartsn, How your protuberant ears laugh, un di demonishe farshpitstkayt fun And the demonic pointiness of dayn kin . . . ​ your chin . . . ​140

Both poets describe the lustful woman not only as a demon but also explicitly as a “Megaera” – that is, one of the Furies of ancient Greek mythology, especially associated with jealousy. And in both French (mégère) and Russian (megera) the word has come to mean a jealous virago. Both poets, moreover, use the sense of forceful sexual

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possessiveness to play out an underlying anxiety. In Baudelaire’s case this is straightforward anxiety about his own sexual stamina and ability to keep up with his lover’s energies (“I am not the Styx to clasp you nine times”). In Naydus’s case, however, sexual anxiety is a mask for something deeper. In the first lines we encounter the lover’s heavy braids (tsep). In Jewish eastern Europe the tsep were the traditional hairstyle for girls and unmarried women. The sexual relationship with an unmarried woman, at least one marked in a traditional context, would certainly have been illicit. Naydus plays on that connotation by offering the tsep not as a marker of innocence or modesty but rather as a marker of sexual availability, and even aggressiveness. That is why they “weigh” or measure her lust or desire (tayve). Naydus here again uses the Hebrew word and means it to be startling in this explicit way. But as if to hedge the scandal he immediately casts a shadow of doubt on the scene by parenthetically qualifying the situation as “likely” (min-hastam), a rabbinic locution and an unpoetic word at that, but one which confirms the first quatrain’s patently Jewish cast. In the quatrain that follows, we move from a traditional Jewish socio-religious context to Paris. Indeed, considering the intertext, this is the Paris of Baudelaire’s poetic imagination, a gritty urban underworld. How much more disparate could the two scenes be? And it is that disparity that points us to the anxiety Naydus tries to come to grips with. Through the juxtaposition of the Notre Dame gargoyle and the young woman with the braids Naydus’s poem plays out an anxiety over the act of writing a Jewish sonnet. How can he write using this non-Jewish form, one which deals with such taboo subjects, but to which he is magnetically drawn? How can he make Yiddish conform to its rules while remaining distinctive and compelling? The answer to these questions lies in Naydus’s own heterogeneous approach, encapsulated in the very title itself, “Chimera.” In one sense chimera can mean a particular architectural embellishment, namely a gargoyle that does not function as a water- or drain-spout. Naydus has this sense in mind when referring specifically to Notre Dame whose “Galerie des Chimères” is well known,

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almost iconic. But it is not fortuitous that a chimera can also refer to something illusory as well as to something made up of several different, indeed incongruous, parts. In this poem Naydus worries over whether the very idea of a “Yiddish sonnet” must be such a motley, illusory thing. It is not for nothing, however, that the name of one of the most famous French symbolist sonnet sequences was Les Chimères (The Chimeras, 1854) by Gérard de Nerval. As if answering his own questions, Naydus, by openly gesturing to Nerval in his title, indicates that he thought the Yiddish sonnet far less chimerical than his disquietude would lead us to believe. And it is in Nerval that Naydus finds a kindred spirit in his self-imagining as a poet and a sonneteer. In Nerval’s sonnet “Myrtho,” the second of twelve sonnets in Les Chimères, the poet confides boastfully that “the Muse has made me first among the sons of Greece.”141 Scott comments on this passage that “in making Nerval a poet, the Muse has placed him in a mythological world, one inhabited by legendary figures with whom he is bound to relate himself. In other words, in becoming a poet, Nerval becomes increasingly sensitive to the values, gestures, and acts of a more ancient and permanent archetypal order.”142 If we recall Naydus’s sonnet “The Argonaut” and how “Somewhere there must be a gorgeous Medea / Awaiting me, the young Argonaut . . . ” we see the same figurative emplacement in a mythological world and a similar poetic revaluation. Furthermore, in Scott’s assessment, “the Nerval of Les Chimères was attempting to relate himself to the changing landscapes – native (French), foreign (Italian) and mythological (Greek) – of his experience and to the fleeting objects of his aspirations and desires [ . . . ] Nerval reconnected the nineteenth-century French sonnet to its fertile sixteenth-century roots and in doing so helped it to flourish in his own poetry with renewed freshness and vigor.”143 This is true to a greater or lesser extent of all the French symbolist sonneteers. Their use of the sonnet was in part a way of recouping, of excavating and renovating, part of specifically French literary history and tradition (especially from the Renaissance).

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However, this was not Naydus’s goal if for no other reason than there was in effect no sonnet tradition in Yiddish to recoup. From this point of view, Naydus’s innovation of the sonnet could not be national (the existence of a long-established Hebrew sonnet tradition notwithstanding); rather it had to be international, or better yet, inter-cultural. Naydus effectively invented a Yiddish sonnet tradition by piggybacking on the French one and then attempting to surpass it. When Naydus, for example, puts his sights on a famous French sonnet by Baudelaire, inverts the poem’s emotional charge, and converts its Shakespearean structure “back” into a Petrarcan one, he is laying claim both to the form and to mastery over it in a way that says a great deal about how ready he believed Yiddish was for the world literary stage and how his talents warranted him to make that claim. In its way this was Naydus’s version of the old tongue-in-cheek advertisement for Shakespeare in Yiddish as “fartaytsht un farbesert” – “translated and improved.”144 The brashness aside, Naydus creates one tradition out of another, reifying a literary historical aspect of diaspora internationalism. Leaving aside the Romantic, amorous sonnets, of which Naydus wrote not a few (though many of these are rather more conventional), Naydus wrote a number of sonnets on Oriental themes, notably in the sequences Oriental Motifs (Oryentalishe motivn) and Eastward (Mizrekhdiks). The Oriental milieu contains a goodly amount of Naydus’s more frank eroticism – prominently the harem and the lissome odalisque – and the woman’s body is often the target of the objectifying, sexualizing male gaze. Yet, as we saw in “Chimera,” sex and the erotic were often simultaneously risqué fronts for the exploration of other themes and ideas. In the sonnet “Eastward” (Mizrekhdiks, 1916), for example, the “East” is personified erotically as the female lover whose body thrills in the physicality of love. Naydus paints a scene redolent of the Song of Songs. That the metaphorical vocabulary anthropomorphizes land as a woman is not in itself uncommon. In Naydus’s case, though, the poem expands beyond the confines of the erotic charge through his consciousness of the politics of desire in that context. In the final tercet the poet describes how

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Chapter 3 du bayst dem moyl . . . zol flamiker di lust zayn! un s’klemt a vilde freyd dikh fun bavustzayn, az du bazigst un blaybst aleyn bazigt . . . ​ You bite your lips . . . let your desire be more ardent! And a wild joy oppresses you from consciousness That you conquer and remain yourself conquered . . . ​145

Naydus is aware of what we would today call the colonialist dilemma of conquest. But pace the polemicists’ often selective concept of Orientalism and its discontents, Naydus opines that it is indeed possible to “fall in love with” the East, to participate in an Oriental discourse without an oppressive political agenda. Anti-Orientalist polemics, for example, tend to be rather heedless of the complexities of Jewish Orientalism (or indeed concepts of the Orient beyond those of the English or French), that is, the imagining of the East by an exiled Oriental people. Sexual conquest is, of course, not the same thing as political hegemony. But Naydus gives us to understand, yet again in the Terentian vein, that in art nothing human is to be considered alien.

Chapter 4

Eastward Ho!: Naydus’s Exoticism and Orientalism

Exoticism and Orientalism were twin pillars in the larger structure of Naydus’s diasporic poetics. In his exploration of these themes – a brief taste of which was offered at the end of the previous section with the sonnet “Eastward” – Naydus engaged some of the larger intellectual trends present at that time in Jewish eastern Europe, including a strong interest in Jewish ethnography. Though not itself ethnographic in the way that some of the work of his countryman the poet Moyshe Kulbak’s would be (the same Kulbak, incidentally, on whom Naydus had a distinct impact), Naydus’s exoticism nevertheless bears the stamp of ethnographic thinking. Indeed, it is arguable that Naydus’s work helped prepare the way for a deeper, more sustained, and more sophisticated Yiddish ethnographic poetics.146 Ethnography, certainly academic ethnography, tends to imagine a primary contact situation constructed by a grand opposition between the Self and the Other. The scholarly literature has devoted a good deal of attention to that opposition, including to the ethical and political issues involved in the intercultural contact, to the personal and emotional pressures of scientific objectivity in situations of significant dislocation, to profound culture shock, and so forth. These perturbations of alterity resound differently in the echo

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chamber of Jewish ethnographic thinking, and certainly in that of Jewish literature. Naydus had some intuitive grasp of this anxiety of alterity, and especially of the artistic possibilities surrounding it. But whereas ethnography proper focused its attention on understanding the Other, Naydus’s artistic production transformed the concrete realities of intercultural contact into the terms for a meditation on the meaning of Self. Conscious of the ethnographic pathology of “isms” (colonialism, imperialism, racism, sexism, etc.), beginning in the middle of the twentieth century the ethnographer Vincent Crapanzano, in a brief but revealing essay, refers to the traditional ethnographic encounter as a figurative “confrontation” between the ethnographer and those whom he studies, which often involves negative psychic effects on the former. The primary valence of this confrontation presents the informant first and foremost as an embodiment of certain cultural features, rather than as a complete human individual. One result of a prolonged situation in which the ethnographer sees others in this way is that he comes to see himself as someone who sees others in this way, that is, as someone who sees people not in their humanity but as cultural containers. The secondary valence involves a process in which the ethnographer begins to understand more profoundly the outlook of the objects of his study. While never wholly achieved or integrated, the ethnographer’s “sense of self ” cannot fail to be dramatically altered.147 No ethnographic encounter can ever ignore or dismiss alterity. From psychic disquiet to political agency to colonialist exploitation, the anxieties and problematics of Self–Other ethnography dog the field. For Naydus, however, the imagined contact situation was not a matter of deformative pathology but of a formative potential. The fact remains that in its early phases in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries modern Jewish ethnography was almost exclusively a Jewish affair. As Sh. An-sky (1863–1920) noted in 1908, “There is no other people like the Jewish people, that talks about itself so much, but knows itself so little.”148 An-sky effectively points out – in this case with an accusatory finger – the often wide

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gap between self-awareness and true self-understanding. In the Jewish case the underdeveloped apparatus for achieving the latter meant that the seekers after that knowledge would have to use other existing tools, adopting and adapting existing ethnographic methods to meet Jewish needs and particularities. Again, it is not difficult to understand why the issue of the native ethnographer exercises so much attention generally.149 Given the demands of participant observation, it is already difficult to maintain selfhood and objectivity without the addition of the emotional complexities of group identification. The benefits of intimacy – knowledge of language, religion, traditions, cultural practices and taboos, and so forth – are counterbalanced by the drawbacks of over-identification, of failing to note the salient because of habituation or familiarity, let alone the culture-specificity of what counts as “salient.” In one case one cannot see the forest for the trees, and in the other all one sees is the forest. However, to the activist mind of someone like An-sky, for example, the dramatic destabilization in a sense-of-self that accompanies the Self–Other encounter (as we saw in Crapanzano’s essay) would actually have been understood not as a danger but rather as a boon. In point of fact, that was the great benefit of native ethnography: not only strengthening one’s own attachment but also enriching the authentic potentials for healthy cultural growth and innovation. While, given his active engagement in intellectual circles in Vilne, Naydus was doubtless aware of some of these currents of thought, his goals were artistic, not ethnographic. Where the latter Jewish ethnographic worldview maintained that you have to look at, indeed study, yourself in order truly to understand yourself, Naydus held that you have to look at someone else in order to know yourself. And although Naydus was not a modernist poet, it is in this attitude towards the complex relationship between Self and Other that his closest affinity to the modernists who followed him lies. One of the remarkable features of Jewish ethnography is the way in which the traditional ethnographic discourse of primitiveness is so closely linked with a modernist sensibility.150 So, for example,

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when YIVO published its notable handbook on Jewish ethnographic collecting, What Is Jewish Ethnography?, it offered a typical defamiliarization of cultural features, such as relatively common superstitions, which become curiosities when encountered in “primitive” groups. And it is An-sky who provides perhaps the most famous case of the conceptual link between primitiveness and modernity in Jewish ethnography. Influenced by Russian expeditions to the empire’s own primitive peoples as well as by the narodnik movement, with its emphasis on physically going forth to live among the rural folk, An-sky’s program of revitalization-through-collection places special emphasis on the cultural, especially artistic, creativity and innovation which ethnographic data would spur on. As many have noted, An-sky’s most famous creation – the play The Dybbuk – is precisely the kind of work he envisioned being produced under these conditions. The character types and ethnographic details are all “primitive” in construction, but as a text it has been read and famously performed as a modernist drama. Eastern European Yiddish poetry was equally interested in this conflation of ethnographic primitivism and artistic modernism. The storied engagement of European modernisms with primitivism stemmed from a basic attraction to both the elemental and the unfamiliar – or, in Michael North’s formulation, an opposition to the familiar.151 However, unlike the other European modernisms alongside which Yiddish modernism was being composed, Yiddish was itself the domestic unfamiliar, with neither standardized language nor institutional imprimatur against which to stand in opposition. The Yiddish poet was not an insider ventriloquizing the outsider, but a different kind of insider speaking his or her own “outsider” voice. For those dominant modernisms, the primitive was the fabled Other of the ethnographer; for Yiddish modernism, the primitive could equally be the Jew himself. Mainstream western modernism’s interest in the primitive participates in a Self–Other discourse common to the models of ethnography familiar to it. Even when understood as a kind of universalized concept of common humanity, the primitive is shunted off as a far distant antecedent in the story of human progress; the primitive is what

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we used to be in the forest primeval. Less prevalent are images of one’s own culture as itself somehow “primitive.” But some east European Jewish modernisms, especially ones whose writers reflected on contemporary ethnographic work, looked at Jewish culture in just that way. That final step, however, is not the focus here. I am concerned, rather, with the steps leading to it. Jewish ethnographic poetics was a relative latecomer to the discourse of primitivism. Its game of catch-up was often halting. However, in Naydus’s work we see a conscious engagement with a set of intellectual traditions in order to enrich Yiddish poetry.

Pitching the Tents of Shem As we have seen, Naydus saw no contradiction between his commitment to Jewish culture and Yiddish language on the one hand, and his cosmopolitan outlook and decadent aesthetic on the other. In fact, they complemented one another. The Oriental, the exotic, and indeed the primitive, too, were easily accommodated into his expansive poetic worldview. In his sequence Eastward he devoted a good deal of attention to Oriental motifs. But to Naydus the “East” meant more than the Orient. It encompassed his understanding of otherness as both strange and intimate. One of his more fanciful explorations of this “East” can be found in his poem “My World” (Mayn velt, 1916), which was mentioned, and briefly quoted, in an earlier section. It presents a rapid-fire imagining of an exotic, primitive tableau, which in its rich natural detail and eroticism is evocative of Henri Rousseau. Azoy vi templen gotishe in rash fun gasn shtotishe, – shtralt likhtik mayn ekzotishe, mayn vunderlekhe velt; vayt, vayt fun hayzer gasike, bay gertner ananasike in shleser vays-terrasike – dort boy ikh mayn getselt.

Just like Gothic temples In the din of urban streets, – Brightly shines my exotic, My fantastic world; Far, far from street-bound houses, Near pineappley gardens In white-terraced palaces – There I’ll pitch my tent.

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Chapter 4 a fraynt an epyopisher mikh hit in velt in tropisher, vu duft heliatropisher shmekt vanzinik un fray; platanen blien, tsedern, un fun a tsvayg ayedern hel-farbik finklen federn fun libe popugay.

An Ethiopic friend Protects me in his tropic world, Where heliotropic fragrance Wafts mad and free; Plane trees and cedars bloom, And from every branch Sparkle the brightly colored feathers Of lovely parrots.

kh’kon froyen dort vild-zinike, mit layber mit burshtinike, mit lipn mit rubinike, vi zaftn fun granat; zey shlenglen zikh un flatern, di tekhter fun ekvatorn, zey kenen aykh farmatern un keynmol blaybn zat.

I know there wild-willed women, With amber bodies, With ruby lips, Like pomegranate juice; They twist and sway, Those daughters of the Equator, They know how to wear you out And never stay satisfied.

s’iz gut azoy tsu vandern fun eyn ort tsu dem andern, durkh palmen, oleandern . . . ​ un kukn baym baseyn, vi di kolibri-fligele trinkt duft fun blumen-krigele, fun shtralndikn vigele, vu s’shloft di prakht aleyn.

It’s good to wander From one place to another, By palms and oleander . . . ​ And looking at the pool, As wings of a hummingbird, Drinking nectar from little bucket-flowers, From a shining little cradle, Where beauty itself sleeps.

o, lozn mentshlekh groyinke bay shtiklekh himl bloyinke kheshboyneslekh genoyike dort firn vegn gelt . . . ​ vayt, vayt fun hayzer gasike, bay gertner ananasike, in shleser vays-terrasike shtralt zunik mayn getselt.

Oh, let those old greybeards, Under bits of bluey sky, Make their exact reckonings Of money . . . ​ Far, far from street-bound houses, Near pineappley gardens In white-terraced palaces My tent shines sunnily.152

In this rhythmic reverie, in which the poet pines for exotic luxury over mundane drudgery, two sets of quasi-ethnographic detail

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mirror each of them, especially in their architectural trappings. The ostensibly imaginary world – “my world” – becomes more real and concrete than the workaday life in the city. The extensive descriptions of the former, all in the present tense, overpower the few descriptions of the latter, which are presented obliquely. That Naydus offers here a positive portrayal of wanderingness (“It is good to wander . . . ”) over against the engrained cultural pathology of exile consciousness associated with that condition is not surprising given his decadent’s proclivities, the openness of his diaspora internationalism, and the fact that happy wandering is an idée fixe in many of his poems. What is striking about his itinerant pleasure in this poem, however, is its reinscription of the primitive. In this exotic equatorial and pineapple-abounding land the poet-wanderer entertains the sumptuous indulgence of his senses, with tropical fragrances, vividly colored fauna, luscious foods, and lissome native women. Indeed, the explicit sexual availability and stamina of these native bodies in the third stanza participate in the long tradition of the male fantasy of the erotic exotic. As stereotypical as these Gauguin-inflected images appear, Naydus’s tropic paradise is slightly more edified. Among the parrots and pomegranates of his imagining Naydus erects “white-terraced palaces” that echo in photographic negative the “Gothic” architecture of the European cities he is escaping. This photographic metaphor is more than merely felicitous. In the words of one art historian, “Because Primitive art is so closely allied with the idea of Otherness, it has served as a lightning rod for attitudes not only toward race but also toward the relations between different cultures. In many ways it was (and remains) like a reversible mirror that alternately could show either what was felt to be desirable or what was lacking in the self-image of the societies that regarded it.”153 That said, having constructed the two architectural poles and expressed his clear preference for the tropical palaces, the repining poet does not want to live in them. Rather, he is explicit in desiring to pitch his tent. The tent as a dwelling – as opposed to, say, a camping sojourn – is a mark of nomadism and primitivism. At the same time it is also a token of ancient (biblical) Jewishness, and

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as such the tent, for all its impermanence, still signifies domestic tranquility and home. To take one prominent example (which would become a slogan of the Jewish Enlightenment) in his poem “Awake, My People” (Hakitsah ‘ami, 1866) the Hebrew poet Yehudah Leyb Gordon famously enjoins his people: “Be a man when you go forth and a Jew in your tent.” Naydus’s poem brings the tent back to the men. Indeed, in opting for the tent as the Jewish symbol par excellence Naydus emphasizes the transience or impermanence of an object which is simultaneously linked to the physical landscape, the inhabited piece of ground. An insistence on architecture brings with it an understanding of an art form based on use, or tactile experience, as much as, if indeed not more than, visual contemplation.154 What’s more, the tent as marker of Jewishness domesticates the exotic scene; or, using a different trope, if it is a colonial vision, then the Jewish man’s burden is not to civilize but to reprimitivize. As I mentioned earlier in this book, in his own way Naydus has reformulated Japheth “dwelling in the tents of Shem.”155 And while not going native himself, the poet-wanderer puts a marker of the primitive back into its imagined native place, and uses that as his base of observations. In Naydus’s poem, therefore, it is not simply a matter of fantasy, of some primitive world that was the opposite in every way from the world with which he was familiar. Rather, the opposite of civilization was a different kind of civilization, one that was open to beauty, calm, nature, and sex. In order to situate Naydus’s exoticism in the Jewish literary world it is instructive to compare his poetics with another Yiddish poet whose experience of the Other displays a similar concern with these particular thematic elements – beauty, calm, nature, and sex – but one who approaches them from a modernist as opposed to a decadent perspective. The poet Ester Shumyatsher’s (1899–1985) perspective on the exotic, from just a few years later, will put Naydus’s particular use of exoticism into sharper focus.156 Born in White Russia, Shumyatsher immigrated with her family to Canada early in her second decade. Widely and world-travelled, Shumyatsher often wove her travel experiences and observations into her poetry. She

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contributed five poems to the first issue of Albatros (1922),157 the short-lived avant-garde Yiddish expressionist journal edited by UriTsvi Grinberg, first in Warsaw and later in Berlin. All but the first of those poems focus on images and motifs from Africa and the South Pacific, where Shumyatsher and her husband, the playwright Perets Hirshbeyn, had travelled before coming to Warsaw. These four “exotic” poems are very spare, without meter or regular rhyme. Unlike the driving rhythm of other primitive modern verse (despite the critique and controversy one thinks, for example, of Vachel Lindsay’s “The Congo” with its boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOMs), the rhythm of these poems is sedate, evoking calmness and quietude. Indeed, they make due with very little modulation in diction, which is unusual in Yiddish modernist verse, especially among the Varsovian avant-garde. The seam of Jewishness in these poems is equally calm, not immediately distinguished by the kind of dramatic inscription encountered in Naydus. Moreover, Naydus’s regular meter (effectively pyrrhic dimeter: azóy vi templen gótishe) is matched by a playful inventiveness in rhymes (gasike, ananasike, vays-terasike). Shumyatsher does not rely on these traditional poetic techniques for her thematic juxtapositions. And while Naydus’s orientalization (“Eastward”) can be understood as a kind of return to a sense of selfhood or identity, in vaguely national terms, Shumyatsher’s movement is less regressive. Unlike other ethnographic forays into the exotic or primitive as longed-for encounters with the childhood of humanity, as opportunities for the recapturing of something lost or missing, Shumyatsher’s poems see the ethnographic lens as an epistemic tool, a means of self-knowledge. And in a word, they are less playful. Both Naydus and Shumyatsher are of course Yiddish poets, and the Yiddish language is their immediate marker of Jewishness. Nevertheless, the nature and extent of the use of its Hebrew­-derived resources demarcates an internal borderline within Yiddish. In Naydus’s poem there are but two words of Hebrew origin (and as we have seen, this is somewhat unusual for Naydus in such an otherwise linguistically sportive poem): in the first stanza the “din (rash) of urban streets”; and in the final stanza we read “Oh, let

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those old greybeards, / Under bits of bluey sky, / Make their exact reckonings (kheshboyneslekh) / Of money . . . ” Far from the often lofty, dignified, spiritual, or (textually) technical subjects with which Hebrew words are usually associated, Naydus links them to the stifling atmosphere of the European ( Jewish) world with its hurly-burly and its obsession with financial concerns. In Shumyatsher’s poems from Albatros there are scarcely a dozen words of Hebrew origin among them. And while still relatively few, most of these words, by contrast, refer to natural or spiritual states – including dream, memory, lustful, enchant, despair, sunset, sacrifice, prayer. The intended contrast becomes clear in the roughly equal number of “indigenous” terms – Africa, Zulu, Basotho, Hottentot, Karoo, Maori, Raratonga, Wanganui, tattoo – almost all of which are references to native peoples or places. This specificity serves as one external marker of foreignness and the exotic. Shumyatsher is attracted to these places and peoples for a number of reasons. As a modernist she transposes aspects of the external terrain onto inner psychic landscapes. In the poem “Karoo,” for example, the central tonal-semantic rhyme karu / umru (Karoo/ unrest) reveals the underlying affinity she feels between the desolate, arid, ferocious land and the poet’s yearning and sadness. The foreign, strange, exotic – both physically and lexically – becomes intimate and personalized: Ikh trog dayn umru in mayn umru, I bear your unrest in my unrest, karu, Karoo, mayn karu! My Karoo!

To get a flavor of how the rhyme domesticates the foreignness, though at a slight expense of the meaning, one could also read the lines like this: “I bear your rue in my rue, / Karoo, / My Karoo!” The landscape in the poem “Africa’s Distances,” by contrast, carries a different significance. The open terrain of southern Africa spreads out before the viewer. On its sparsely populated surface the few humans (Zulus, Basothos, Hottentots) leave their ephemeral marks. The poet likens their physical passing-by to that most ephemeral state: the dream.

Eastward Ho!: Naydus’s Exoticism and Orientalism Af di vayse zamdike afrikas vegn kholemen hefkere trit fun bronzene Zulus un vakhe basutus.

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Upon the white sandy paths of Africa Dream the errant footsteps Of bronze Zulus And wakeful Basothos.

A key term in Yiddish modernist poetics, the word hefker – translated above as “errant” – comes from rabbinic Hebrew and indicates property that is deemed ownerless. From this it developed the further sense of the freewheeling, licentious, or chaotic – valuable traits among Yiddish modernist poets. Shumyatsher chooses to reemphasize the original meaning. For footsteps to be hefker their sense of belonging needs to be alienated: neither they nor their makers are long discernible; that is, their “owners” are long gone, and their impression on the sand is soon and easily effaced. It is not only to the ephemeral state of the dream that the poet compares these tribesmen’s passing, but also to the most ineluctable state, death. Tsit zikh a kind fun fargeyendikn gel-grinem hotntot, der letster fun sheyvet. zukhendik trit fun zayn bruder in afrikas zilberne zamdn. un mer nisht vi tritn farkhaleshte hot zayn fargangener bruder a zeykher gelozn dem letstn fun sheyvet [ . . . ]

A child of a passing Yellow-green Hottentot stretches out, The last one of his tribe Looking for the footstep of his brother In Africa’s silver sands. And no more than faint footsteps Has his disappearèd brother Left as a memory For the last one of his tribe [ . . . ]158

In one of Yiddish poetry’s more common polysemies, the verb fargeyn can mean both “passing by” and “passing on, dying.” The movement of the poem marks this passage from active (“passing”/ fargeyendike) to past (“passed, disappeared”/fargangener). Indeed, the primitiveness of these poems consists both in the timelessness of the tribal cultures being described as well as in their vanishing.159

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These features of the discourse of primitiveness are highlighted by Shumyatsher’s use of the vocabulary of salvage ethnography. The image of “the last one of the tribe,” the vanishing native, is a familiar trope in salvage ethnography if not also embodying one of the motivations of early anthropology.160 In that sense it represents a moral motivation of intercultural contact, though the value inheres in objects to be collected rather in the people themselves (again, a continuing anxiety in Self–Other ethnography). Shumyatsher’s familial vocabulary, however, alters the complexion of that anxiety. In Shumyatsher’s poem, the ethnographer (as it were) looks for and collects the traces – the “memory” – of his passing–passed/past brother. In the process he himself goes from an active force (represented grammatically by the nominative der letster fun sheyvet) to a passive object (represented by the dative dem letstn fun sheyvet). This dissolution of agency is witnessed by the observer (if not perhaps caused by her presence). The sense of identification between the poet and the indigene is even stronger in the poem “Maori Princess,” in this case with a gendered component, as the poem begins “Maori princess, / My sister” (mauri printsesin / shvester mayne). As in the other poems, self-critique is coded as praise of the Other. In this Self–Other pairing there is a running interplay between pallor (blaskayt) and tanness (broynkayt), despair and health, knowledge and ignorance, unrest and rest. Shumyatsher sets in contact the “real” primitive, timeless spaces – sunny, salubrious, serene – with their opposite realities in the modern psyche. Here as elsewhere otherness is domesticated: toponyms are Yiddishized; Karoo rhymes “naturally” with umru (unrest); and the Maori princess is the poet’s sister. This familial vocabulary once again makes the ethnographic contact not into a situation of culture shock but rather into a homecoming of sorts. But it is a homecoming in which the poet not only seeks to learn and gain some respite from her disquiet, but is also conscious of bringing a kind of danger: her own sickly paleness threatens to infect the healthy fecund (“olive”) hues.

Eastward Ho!: Naydus’s Exoticism and Orientalism Farvos den iz dayn aylbirt-blik fartsoygn mit der fremder blaskayt fun di vaytn? mauri printsesin! shvester mayne!

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Why then is your olive-glance Covered with the foreign pallor Of the distances? Maori princess! My sister!

Shumyatsher’s modernist travelogue provides a sensitive appraisal of the raw material of ethnographic contact, understood in the traditional terms of primitiveness. Whether or not she was familiar with debates about ethnography, her strategy of identification resonates with those trends in Jewish ethnography that downplay the centrality of alterity. This ethnographic gaze at selfhood and otherness uncovers links to a larger poetic discourse on the exotic. In the five to ten intervening years between Naydus’s tropical tours and Shumyatsher’s own African and Oceanian meditations, the sea change Yiddish was undergoing between hastily improvised Romanticism and innovative modernism became abundantly apparent. They both often cherished an exploratory exoticism, but with different, though related, concerns and stakes. When in his exoticist mode, Naydus resembles the English, French, and German Romantics in the two features outlined by Henry Remak in his article “Exoticism and Romanticism,” viz., (a) exoticism as a “state of mind,” and (b) exoticism’s “interchangeability” of place and time.161 As for the first, it is not uncommon to find accounts of artistic exoticism, and one of its more prominent subsets, Orientalism, as expressions of social, cultural, or political critique, or as tools of artistic self-exploration (or indeed as both).162 One of the noticeable features of this exploratory state of mind is its wanderingness, what Remak calls its Wanderlust or “restlessness.” That is to say, the protagonists of these works, and very often (though not uniformly) their authors in real life, traveled widely to locales that their own cultures would have seen as exotic. One finds this itch to travel described often in Naydus. But unlike many of the modernists who followed him and who them-

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selves professed an unbridled Wanderlust as a revolt against every convention, social and poetic, Naydus saw for himself a role as more observer than participant. His sonnet “Restlessness” (Umru, 1914) begins: Vi kon ikh ruik zayn, ven s’vartn lender s’zol heylik-shtil barirn zey mayn fus?

How can I rest when lands await me That my feet must touch in saintly silence?

“Saintly silence” is a curious expression. The lands the poet longs for are to be revered in the hushed demeanor befitting their sanctity. But that sanctity itself does not belong to a religious sphere, but rather a sensory one. There are of course sounds in this exotic space, but they are to be consumed and celebrated silently. Sandaln, tshalmen, farbike, gevender – vi zis ikh gib mikh op in ayer rshus! kh’gefin a modnem raytsndn genus in besomim, shteyner tayere un bender! . . . ​

Sandals, turbans, colorful fabrics – How sweetly I surrender myself to your authority! I derive a strange provocative enjoyment From the spices, precious stones, and ribbons! . . . ​

vi kon ikh ruik zayn in velt in higer, ven s’vart af mir der sheyngeshtrayfter tiger, der midber, un di zun, vos libt im tray? . . . ​

How can I be at rest in this world When there await me the beautifully stripèd tiger, The desert, and the sun, which loves it faithfully? . . . ​

vi kon bafridikn der veg der groyer, How can that grey path satisfy ven s’rufn sfinksn mikh, un When sphinxes call to me, and my slekhtst mayn oyer ear pines nokh der muzik fun leybnFor the music of the roaring of brumeray? . . . ​ lions?163

The feel of the sand and the fabrics, the smell of the fragrant spices, the color of the precious stones, the roars of sphinxes and lions – a

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sensory farrago, the surfeit of whose ingredients was understood to be the antidote to all that was “grey” and insipid in the poet’s world. The poet’s enjoyment moreover derives not from jumping into the sensory fray but rather from the “sweet surrender,” from becoming a passive recipient of what is stimulating, “strange” and “provocative.” The second focus of Remak’s essay is the “interchangeability” of place and time. Remak notes that “The extent of this analogy exchange surprised me, for I had supposed that what distinguished Romanticism from Enlightenment was precisely the selective empathy with very unique, very specific, very diverse national or regional cultures instead of the universalism of culture promoted by the Enlightenment.”164 Naydus makes use of both of these exoticist models – the focus on particularity and diversity on the one hand and the emphasis on interchangeability and universality on the other. For a Jewish nationalist (though not a territorial Zionist) his call “Eastward!” offers a more unexpectedly panoptic vision than Palestine. His explicitly Oriental Motifs span ancient Greece, the piratical main, the Turkish harem, Bagdad, India, Florence, and Venice, among other places; and his Eastward vision encompasses, inter alia, ancient Greece and Assyria, China, Ceylon, Paris, Venice, Spain, and Georgia, as well as a rendition of the first few chapters of the Song of Songs. Each poem dealing with a specific locale, or figure, or historical moment gives voice to a particularist attitude. However, taken together as a cumulative commentary on the “Oriental” or the “East,” the worldview is more sweeping. In Vaynig’s words, “Naydus’s imaginative travels to the world of Greek legends and myths, to the tropics of the East, without the ballast of historicity and geography, are excursions with a Baedeker in one’s hand, or with a Baedeker in a Romanticized form.”165 Naydus’s exotic poems are marked not only by the breadth of their worldview but also by a generalizable quality belied by their detail. A case in point is the undated poem “Orientalia” – whose title, incidentally, appears in Latin type – from the sequence Eastward, which begins:

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While I was still a child A sailor once recounted to me: There is an Indian city Which is utterly rose-colored.

palatsn tayer-shteynike af yedn trit un shrit, parentshn elfantbeynike un trep fun malakhit.

Palaces of precious stones At every turn, Balustrades of ivory And stairways of malachite.166

Naydus’s exotic vision, here of an Indian Orient, proceeds in ways with which we are by now familiar, recalling for example the poem “My World” (also from Eastward): flamboyant and playful rhymes and catalogs of the sensuous and sensual, including precious stones, tropical birds, colorful flowers, and luscious fruit, and of course, dark, lissome women. Unlike his Romantic forebears, whose biographies so often included exotic itineraries the experiences from which found their way into their works, Naydus was not so well travelled. It is likely not fortuitous that this portrait of not a specific city, but of some city, is mediated through the fictional account of a sailor. The child’s youth and wishful thinking might make him overly credulous, but the old salt embodies a world of experience beyond the grey mundane. In Remak’s words, “It might be assumed that the farther removed the exotic locale from the reader in space and time, the less its credibility. But the contrary may be truer: the reader is more inclined to give credence to unusual locales, events, and personae if they are sufficiently removed from his era and habitat than to extraordinary even though ‘true’ events reported about his own region or time.”167 This counterintuitive finding about Romantic exoticism holds for Naydus’s fantastical visions as well. The mariner has experienced what the poet never could, and the more far-fetched the more authentic it must be. For Naydus, authenticity of this sort meant the poetic expression of sensuous experience. At the same time, Naydus sat astride a larger literary transition from Romanticism, which had never fully fledged in Yiddish, to post-Romanticism and modernism. In this transition we find several responses to the kinds of Romantic

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tendencies just seen in Naydus’s “Orientalia.” On the one hand one encounters a continuation of this more universal exoticism, the mythographic. This can be seen, for example, in the Orientalism of the German-Jewish poet Else Lasker-Schüler (1869–1945). In the words of one commentator, “the Orient as presented in Lasker-­ Schüler’s literature makes no use of conceptions of time and space. The reader never knows what the historical time-frame for the stories is supposed to be; likewise, geography plays no role in separating cultures, because Lasker-Schüler’s Orient is a contradictory, ahistorical, amorphous construct.”168 And so we find in some of Naydus’s poetry as well. The earlier cited sonnet, “Restlessness,” is replete with sandals and turbans, and populated with lions and tigers and sphinxes. This desert of indeterminate if not mythic time and place is equally “contradictory, ahistorical, and amorphous,” but befitting the brand of cosmopolitan humanism that Naydus sets himself the task of exploring. But on the other hand, one also finds a more particularizing and sometimes less fanciful attitude, the ethnographic. Here we recall Shumyatsher’s poems. Indeed, what both Naydus’s and Shumyatsher’s strains of Yiddish exoticism reveal is an affinity for a notion of the exotic that explicitly embraces the desire for individual artistic exploration. In his idiosyncratic way, Victor Segalen chronicles this shift towards ethnographic modernism in his “Essay on Exoticism.” The work is really a series of notes, sketches, marginalia, and excerpts of letters written between 1904 and 1918, from his various researches and travels, reflecting his evolving concept of exoticism. In explicitly sensory and artistic terms he seeks to define a “sensation of Exoticism, which is nothing other than the notion of difference, the perception of Diversity, the knowledge that something is other than one’s self; and Exoticism’s power is nothing other than the ability to conceive otherwise.”169 Contra the Enlightenment’s universalist or indeed Romantic concepts of meeting the other by stressing bonds of commonality, of common humanity, of what we have (often mutually, though not uniformly so) to gain and assimilate from contact with other cultures, Segalen’s notion is the irreducible otherness of the many different others, a notion he refers to as “Diversity.”

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In his critique, Segalen often gives exoticism a superficial treatment. This may have something to do with the Enlightenment humanism he inherited, giving exoticism a moral evaluation. Or perhaps it is a symptom of colonialism, which offers a utilitarian understanding. To Segalen, true exoticism is an aesthetic activity. True exoticism – “the rapture of the subject conceiving of its object, recognizing its own difference from itself, sensing Diversity” – is the province of deeply observant, self-aware, and adventurous individuals whom he calls exots.170 The exot, from the depths of his own clump of patriarchal soil, calls to, desires, sniffs out these beyonds. But in inhabiting them, in enclosing them, embracing them, savoring them, the Clump of earth, the Soil, suddenly and powerfully becomes Diverse. This double-edged balancing game results in an unflagging, inexhaustible diversity.171

There is not a simple one-to-one correspondence between Segalen’s image of the true experiencer of the exotic and Naydus. After all, Naydus ranged widely in his poetry, sometimes exposing streaks of superficiality, and often revealing much deeper insights. He navigated between a Romantic-inflected humanism and the tendencies of a proto-exot, so to speak, in Segalen’s mould.172 After all, when put through the lens of this description of the exot, the curious disparity between Naydus’s exuberant exotic motifs, on one side, and his intimate portraits of his native Lithuania, on the other, become thematic complementarities, in a way Segalen would have called essential.

Naydus and the Orient Naydus’s Orientalism does not fall easily or uniformly into the common categories associated with Jewish Orientalism.173 Rather, it formed part of his concept of the exotic. There is little doubt that he adopted the common and commonly uncontroversial view at the time that Jews were an Oriental people. Vaynig notes, for example, how at one point Naydus exclaims “East!” when clearly addressing Palestine. And Vaynig situates the land of Israel, in its

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geographical as well as its historical dimensions, both at the core of Naydus’s exoticist worldview and on a different order of descriptive importance. The land of Israel through the prism of the Bible, in the aureole of something dreamed about overfondly, is completely different than other images of the East. Those smack of curiosities; this land is already dear to the heart of the poet. When versifying those images, he can still be permitted to juggle with grandiose words, as with varicolored corals, while suppressing that too strong, though true, emotion, and every superfluous word. The psychic reality speaks for itself. Therefore he lets out an anxious outcry, one summoned by both his Romantic and his national attitude. And both of them, his Romanticism and his nationalism, confront the longed-for land with reality, not on its own, nor from a poetic perspective, but with realia, psychic and material.174

It is true that for many writers in this period the talismanic image of the East certainly focused on the land of Israel with Jerusalem at its core; and that that focus was often informed or indeed motivated by political or ideological aspects of their artistic world views. (Writers such as Chayim Nachman Bialik or Mordechai Ze’ev Fayerberg spring to mind.) But such associations were not a prerequisite. Using the image of the East could just as easily be a way of piggybacking on those ready-made emotional resonances for other purposes. The Yiddish poet Moyshe Broderzon (of whom I will have more to say in this book’s conclusion) offers a case in point in his poem “Orientale” (1913).

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Chapter 4 Trink oys dos krishtol fun’m harts, Un hil zikh ayn in troyer-shvarts; Du hil zikh ayn, mayn troym, bafrayt – Un fli – du trog tsum mizrekh – vayt . . . ​ Trink oys di royte vel fun blut! Un glet mayn harts – fun dir berut . . . ​  – – – es hot der mizrekh-troym gefreyt, un in a shtiler leyd – geveyt.

Drink up the crystal of my heart And wrap yourself in the black of sadness; You, wrap yourself, my liberated dream – And fly – move on to the East – far away . . . ​ Drink up the red wave of my blood! And caress my heart – calmed by you . . . ​  – – – The dream of the East rejoiced, And then, in silent sorrow, blew away.175

While on the surface a poem of longing, in the tones of a Romantic, the curious syntax of the modernist calls the reader back. One could well read the interchange between mourning and liberation, emotional agitation and spiritual calm, as a description of the relationship between the Jewish poet and his longing for his Oriental home. However, once called back the reader notices the particular agency of the dream of the East not only to bring a balm of calm to the poet’s unspecified sadness but also more significantly to take those sorrows onto itself – and then leave. The poet is the one whose sadness departs with the dream of the East; the poet is the one who stays put, left in peace and calm. It is not for nothing that while the Yiddish word for “East” used in the poem is mizrekh, the title of the poem is “Orientale” – in Latin script. The poem is about the ironies of emotional metaphors and is a critique of the vocabulary of Romanticist Orientalism far more than it is a depiction of the languid longing for Jerusalem from those in grey exile. It is in just this way that Vaynig seems to have overplayed the centrality of the land of Israel to Naydus’s poetic vision as well. Primus inter pares is perhaps a more fitting description of his attitude

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towards it. Vaynig even undercuts his own assertion a moment later by equating Naydus’s connection to the Holy Land with his attachment to ancient Greece. After all, Naydus’s manifesto-like “I am always a wanderer [ . . . ] like a Greek nomad” makes him accursed Cain and homeless Odysseus simultaneously. Naydus’s affinity for more traditional orientalist motifs and figures should not therefore be seen as particularly striking. As a “Jewish Romantic” many of his poetic predilections resonate with works of such poets whom he regarded highly, including Goethe’s West-östlicher Divan (West-East Diwan), Heine’s Almansor, and his beloved Pushkin’s Bakhchisaraiskii fontan (The Fountain of Bakhchisaray) and Kavkazskii plennik (The Prisoner of the Caucasus).176 He was also interested in pursuing the canonical “others” of Romantic Orientalism, by turns the Muslim (often Levantine) or the Arab. The Semitic affinity and religious variance suggested by the theme offer a test case for his cosmopolitanism and exoticism. Nor was Naydus unique in his curiosity. As I bring this discussion towards its conclusion I will emphasize this point of affinity between literatures with a poem – indeed a sonnet – by Rilke, “Mohammeds Berufung” (Muhammad’s Call, 1907): Da aber als in sein Versteck der Hohe, sofort Erkennbare: der Engel, trat, aufrecht, der lautere und lichterlohe: da tat er allen Anspruch ab und bat

Here, though, in his hiding place the lofty one appeared, Recognizable at once: the angel, Erect, pure and ablaze: Here he set aside all pretense and besought

bleiben zu dürfen der von seinen Reisen innen verwirrte Kaufmann, der er war; er hatte nie gelesen – und nun gar ein solches Wort, zu viel für einen Weisen.

To be permitted to remain that merchant, Perplexed from inner journeys, that he was; He had never learned how to read – and now Just such a word, too much even for a sage.

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Der Engel aber, herrisch, wies und wies ihm, was geschrieben stand auf seinem Blatte, und gab nicht nach und wollte wieder: Lies.

But the angel, imperiously, showed him Over and over what was written on his page, And did not relent and bade again: Read.

Da las er: so, dass sich der Engel bog. Und war schon einer, der gelesen hatte und konnte und gehorchte und vollzog.

Whereat he read: such that the angel bowed. And he had now become one who had read And understood and hearkened and fulfilled.177

Rilke’s Muhammad as the soul-searching illiterate merchant reflects a traditional image of the prophet’s biography. And this imaginative description of the prophet’s call in a cave on Mount Hira hews to the received account. What is not present in this poem is any whiff of the exotic. In point of fact, were it not for the title of the poem it could just as easily be a vision of any prophetic call, with its reluctant servant and insistent messenger. Less mystical than a good deal of Rilke’s work, this poem, with its concrete, “realistic” characters, reads in a more didactic vein of his poetry. (After all, it was published in the collection that opens with the poem “Archaïscher Torso Apollos” [The Archaic Torso of Apollo], a poem which famously concludes “You must change your life.”) In the case of “Muhammad’s Call,” Rilke uses that scene to transmogrify the call of a prophet into the call of a poet, analogizing the roles of the poetic muse and the admonitory angel. Equally important is the fact that formally it is not just any lyric poem, but rather a sonnet. This is a poem that deals not only with the ability to read, but also to read what was “too much even for a sage.” Much of the poem’s energy is directed towards its final word: vollzog, which is the preterite form of the verb vollziehen, meaning to fulfill, execute, or consummate. Rilke therefore concludes the consummate poetic form with a verbal assertion of its consummation, offering a rather brash merger of the highest form of Western verbal

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art with the highest moment of “Eastern” spiritual value. Despite those lofty extremes, Rilke describes not the elevation of a spirit to the height of a Parnassus, but rather an inward journey into a cave, illuminated by a fiery guide. These are evocative tensions. Naydus, too, dealt explicitly with Islam, and he did so, I think not coincidentally, in a sonnet. Naydus’s “Islam” is undated but was likely written about seven years after Rilke’s poem. Ikh lib di alte sheynkayt fun islam I love the ancient beauty of Islam, un s’kon biz itsn mayn harts zikh And my heart can never be closed nisht farmakhn To its temples among the palm far zayne templen tsvishn palmenbranches skhakhn Through which the rosy flame of durkh velkher s’shtroymt der rozer evening flows. ovnt-flam. kh’ver likhtik, ven kh’dermon zikh I brighten when I recall Allah . . . ​ on allakhn . . . ​ I become sweet like a child, doe kh’ver kindish-gut, vi oygn fun a eyed, lam, When I see the imam, in his green ven kh’ze in griner, tshalme dem turban, imam, Stationed to guard the shrine. vos iz geshtelt dos heyliktum bavakhn, in ovnt, ven es rufn muedzinen di gloybike un traye muzilmener, ven s’shmekt di lust [sic], vi alter, shtarker med –

In the evening, when the muezzins call The believing and faithful Muslims, When the air smells of old, strong mead –

derfil ikh klor, vi shtralndik es rinen Then I clearly sense how radiantly ariber mir di tfilediker tener, The prayerful sounds wash over me, un s’falt af mir der shotn fun And upon me falls the shadow of mukhamed . . . ​ Muhammad . . . ​178

Unlike Rilke’s use of Islam as the inspiration for a metapoetic reflection, Naydus lovingly portrays a contact with another culture,

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a community. And he renders that community in ethnographic terms, which for Naydus also includes aesthetic ones. To him, the point of access to Islam as the Other is its “ancient beauty,” and the nature of that access is love. For all that, this intimacy also signifies a kind of distance insofar as the object of this affection is not Islam per se but rather its beauty, especially as distinguished by its age. Moreover, Naydus doubly marks the distance by referring to Muslim places of worship as “temples.” As we saw in the poem “My World,” Naydus uses the image of the temple as a focal point for contemplating the exotic through its visual structures. However, it is not that temples equate with the exotic; after all, as was mentioned earlier, in the latter poem the “Gothic temples” are in some sense a photographic negative of the tropical “white-terraced palaces.” Rather, the word indicates a kind of perceptual shift. And, as often with Naydus, sensory perception stands at the core of the poem. While we know that the poet’s reverie takes place at evening time (“the rosy flame of evening”), the sonnet’s volta focuses our attention on that evening. All of the octave’s descriptions are visual, but in the sestet the sensations begin to overload the poet – the sound of the muezzin and the Muslims at prayer, the smell of the air, the light of the evening. In fact, the poet experiences this sensory profusion synaesthetically: the poet can say that he senses clearly how the radiance (visual) of the prayers (aural) washes over him (tactile). And it is precisely at that liminal moment, when all senses blur together, that a shadow appears. While the poet believes the shadow to be that of Muhammad, he cannot be sure. What is important is the idea that the sensory muddle is a moment of spiritual inspiration and that the poet’s sensuous revelation occurs in a context wholly other than his own. While not a pure exot, Naydus nevertheless imagines himself into a scene which he can experience in this way. This experience of the Other in the tangle of perception takes a similarly syncretic approach to language as well. Naydus uses Hebrew words sparingly in this poem; there are only two – skhakh (branches or thatching, often in the specific context of the roofing material for the temporary booths constructed for the holiday

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of Sukkot) and tfiledik (prayerful; an adjectival form based on the word tfile, “prayer”). We saw earlier in Shumyatsher, for example, how Hebrew words tended to deal with more general spiritual states while “indigenous” words were largely specific toponyms and demonyms. Naydus deploys his words less structurally. (Indeed, the word tfile is such an unmarked word for “prayer” in Yiddish that its use in this context is unremarkable.) More interesting is the rhyming of skhakh with allakh (Allah). The Hebrew and Arabic merge in their religious context. And connecting something designed to provide shade with the Muslim godhead foreshadows the shadowy appearance of that god’s prophet at the poem’s end. It is after all an intoxicating moment, emphasized by the rhyming of mukhamed (Muhammad) with shtarker med (strong mead). That the “believing and faithful Muslims” are prohibited from consuming this beverage does not prevent the heady breeze from imparting its redolence to the atmosphere of this prayerful poem. And that all of this takes place in a sonnet picks out an essential facet of his poetics. These constant reconfigurations of culture, in a Yiddish language made freshly kaleidoscopic by Naydus, display the “inexhaustible diversity” which he intuited in his approach to and understanding of exoticism. Moreover, what’s sauce for the exotic goose is sauce for the oriental gander. In bringing together ethnography, exoticism, and Orientalism under a single heading in Naydus’s work this chapter has intended to highlight that diversity, to point at Naydus the wide-eyed exot, the playful yet pensive poet. But dwelling on that goal alone obscures a deeper point. Read in that way, Naydus’s rich imaginative landscapes rendered in rich imaginative Yiddish could seem Jewish in form and international in content. But these categories, as all of the preceding chapters have sought to emphasize – whether under the rubrics of diasporism, Judeomorphism, exoticism, or Orientalism – are artificially binary, and any binary understanding of his poetics is doomed to be frustrated. The categories are fundamentally enmeshed in one another. For Naydus, to be a Yiddish poet meant to be an Argonaut. Enlarging Shem meant visiting Japheth’s tent. Pace Frost’s neighbor, good fences make curious neighbors, and Naydus’s curiosity was an article of his artistic faith.

Chapter 5

Conclusion

Picking up on the reference to Robert Frost with which I ended the last chapter, Yiddish poetry in its halcyon days on the eve of the First World War, coinciding with Naydus’s own salad days, was a road approaching a yellow wood. On the one hand there were the classical, low-key, neo-Romantic, or Impressionist strains represented by poets like Avrom Reyzen and Dovid Aynhorn, and groups like Yung Galitsye in Galicia and Di Yunge in New York. On the other there were the less restrained, modernist impulses that would eventually find their voice in constellations of talent such as the Kiev Grupe in Ukraine, Khalyastre in Poland, Yung Yidish in Łódz´, and In Zikh in New York. So much creative energy of Yiddish civilization was poured into poetry that it is only with analytical hindsight we can recognize what was sui generis. Naydus was much taken with French Symbolism and the Golden Age poetry of Russia, classical antiquity, Jewish folkways of Lithuania, sonnets and folksong quatrains. But his work was more than a congeries of these elements; his oeuvre defies categories. There was no road either more or less traveled by because he blazed his own. It is tempting to see Naydus’s work as a forerunner of some form of Yiddish modernism. It is tempting, at least to me, because there is a tendency to see in modernism Yiddish’s finest flowering, its culmination of art and talent, its greatest and its best. But such teleological thinking is only a matter of the interpretations we impose in retrospect. Naydus, however, offers a detour from those 105

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pitfalls. His life was sufficiently brief, his work varied enough, that we can see him standing astride a crossroads deciding which course was for him. It is equally tempting – Naydus is a bundle of temptations! – to look for literary parallels, a poet or writer who offers some resemblance that we can use to understand him better. Arn Zakuski, for example, from his vantage-point in Buenos Aires, writes that for readers who also speak Spanish it would be sufficient to mention the closest correspondence: Rubén Darío, the famous Nicaraguan poet and diplomat, creator of the Modernismo movement, and inveterate lover of the French Symbolists, Grecian antiquity, and the sonnet. “There it is,” Zakuski says of the analogy. “Hit the nail right on the head. Similar in every respect. However, not only [was Naydus] a renovator, but also an inventor, organizer, coordinator, and initiator of the new and the novel.”179 In some sense the analogy to Darío is apt, not for artistic reasons – though there are striking similarities between the works of these two poets – but for the fact of the analogy itself. The heart of a diaspora internationalist could not but be pleased at the thought of a Yiddish readership so at ease with this new cultural canon that mere mention of the name Rubén Darío was sapienti sat. The reasons for that diaspora were tragic, but that was no impediment to Yiddish culture’s omnivorousness. Apt intercultural analogies aside, another compelling comparison has suggested itself from within Yiddish literature, one which highlights the rousing moment during which Naydus lived. And that is the poet and playwright Moyshe Broderzon (1890–1956). Born in Moscow to a well-off family, he moved when young to Łódz´, the city with whose Yiddish cultural life his name would become synonymous. Having tried his hand at Russian verse (he would also translate from Russian, notably Alexander Blok’s Twelve) he moved to Yiddish, a language in which his wit and creativity found ready expression. With the German occupation of the city in 1914 he moved to Moscow, where he fell in with the Jewish modernists, writers and artists alike. His works were illustrated not only by his own hand but also by some of the great names of the day. These

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modernist proclivities put their stamp on much of his later creative activity, from his modernist cabaret, Ararat, to his founding of the artistic and literary group Yung Yidish (Young Yiddish). A master of playful rhymes – incidentally, this is one of the reasons his work was considered somewhat suspect by the Warsaw modernists of the Khalyastre group – he also experimented with new verse forms in Yiddish. For example, his book Dew (Toy, 1919) was composed of one hundred tankas. His talents also gravitated towards showmanship – his flamboyant style of dress and self-presentation were instantly recognizable – and performance. Much of his contemporary fame rested on his abilities as a playwright and his involvement in the theater; he not only established the famed cabaret Ararat but also one of the earliest marionette theaters. Inventive rhymesters; translators; introducers of new verse forms into Yiddish; active cultural figures and impresarios. Little imagination is needed to catch the similarities. Moreover, Naydus was born on November 6, 1890, in Grodno, and Broderzon on November 23, 1890, in Moscow – seventeen days apart and six hundred miles away. The comparison seems tailor made. And I am certainly not the first to have made it. In his introduction to the anthology of Broderzon’s work which he edited, Shmuel Rozhanski repeatedly uses Y. L. Peretz and Leyb Naydus as the lodestars of Broderzon’s literary career. In fact, he titled his essay “Moyshe Broderzon, the Jongleur of Yung Yidish: In the Footsteps of Y. L. Peretz and Leyb Naydus.”180 Moreover, Gilles Rozier, in one of the only full-length treatments of Moyshe Broderzon, notes not only Broderzon’s debt to Naydus for opening the way to formal innovation in Yiddish, but also the fact that Broderzon himself paid tribute to Naydus – whom he calls his “comrade-prince” – in two poems in his 1920 collection Inspiration (Begaysterung).181 An equally significant appraisal can be found in part of a speech given by the poet Itsik Manger in Łódz´, and published in a 1934 issue of the journal Literarishe Bleter devoted to Broderzon. In his speech Manger praised Broderzon for his “lyrically musical playfulness,” a great compliment from a poet who strove to produce that effect himself. But in describing that quality, Manger noted that

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As we celebrate Broderzon’s jubilee [ . . . ] it would be a great injustice for us not to mention here Broderzon’s predecessor, the prematurely deceased poet Leyb Naydus. And we should mention Leyb Naydus for two reasons. First, because Leyb Naydus was the first in our poetry to emblazon his works with the Verlainian motto: Musique, Musique avant tout chose [sic]. And second, well, second, in order to trace the line from Naydus to Broderzon we should recognize the distance – the great distance that the formist school in our verse had to travel. Of course, this is a problem that can be solved only with a lengthy critical dissertation and certainly not in the “couple of minutes” for a talk that the chair of the academy has today allotted me. However, I will give a little hint, on the basis of rhyme. Rhyme was for neither poet an incidental attribute but a basic, indeed an essential, requirement of their “music-before-all-else” motto. Naydus’s rhyme “violet / chansonette” (violet / shansonet) was typical of that poet’s lyrics. That pioneer of formism among us who wanted to find, and should have found, the musicality of the Yiddish word, instead imported ninety-nine percent of his rhyme-baggage from abroad. Grabbed with both hands from the forest of foreign words. I in no way want to diminish the value of Leyb Naydus as a poet. Quite the opposite, I believe we have still not appreciated the value of that poetic youth with the long mane. His accomplishment was a pioneering one; but its result was fragmentary. The problem of Yiddish verbal musicality has been set aside, but not completely solved. Broderzon’s rhyme “horns / student of hidden mysteries” (herner / sod-soydes lerner) was not an accidental one among his rhyme resources, but rather characteristic. It is a Jewish rhyme, as Jewish as Berl Broder’s “people – prayer” (mentshn – bentshn). For Broderzon Yiddish rhyme became play, and play became theater. And theater once again became wordplay.182

Rozhanski and Manger drew their observations from the same well. Both see in Broderzon something more “Jewish” than in Naydus, something that represents a more holistic, rather than “fragmentary,” apprehension of Jewishness. Moreover, there is no doubt that the strongest parallel drawn between Naydus and Broderzon is the virtuosic character of their rhyming. However, Manger’s criticism – though he was quick to assert that it was not intended

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to be critical – is telling. Where Naydus should have been focusing on Yiddish’s own resources, its native materials, he was plundering from other languages. The resonances of these two sets of observations – one from 1934 and the other from 1959 – change with historical circumstance. But the linkage between Yiddish and Jewishness, and the driving intuition that Jewishness is best expressed from within, mark the continuity of a certain kind of criticism. A large part of my goal in this book has been to argue that observations such as these represent a misreading of Naydus’s poetry. Indeed, they elide precisely the hybridity at the heart of his work, a hybridity that embraced simultaneously the international, the Jewish, the modern, and the beautiful. What to Manger’s eye was fragmentary, when viewed through this lens, becomes a comprehensive project, only one presented in numerous little poems, like the facets on a diamond. If Broderzon is the right poet of comparison, it is no trifle that both of our critics turn Naydus into Broderzon’s predecessor (Manger even uses the word!), the one in whose footsteps he walked. Remember, the two poets were born seventeen days apart; Naydus’s first poem was published in 1907 and Broderzon’s in 1908. They are as near to exact contemporaries as one can find. That Naydus died so tragically young, of course, can invest assessments of his work with a kind of reverence.183 But this realignment of literary history, this construction of an artificial filiation, has to be accounted for in something in the poetry itself. The impressionistic notion of Jewishness is doubtless part of it. Additionally, the tendency to see modernism as a culmination, as a high point to which all roads lead, could account for attitudes toward Broderzon the modernist. Returning to Naydus, however, I think he may well have been so unlike anything else in Yiddish literature, so protean and, well, puckish, that he was made to stand apart, sui generis. I have written this book to account for that uniqueness and, I argue, greatness. It was a greatness which greatness recognized. Naftoli Vaynig’s insistence on Naydus’s poetry as an enduring epitaph to an entire culture demands our attention. That insistence is made all the more

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compelling by the dire urgency of the task Vaynig set himself in writing his essay with the noose already around his neck. And it is fitting to end this project of recovery with Manger’s apt assessment: “We have still not appreciated the value of that poetic youth with the long mane.”

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Notes 1.  Vos iz azoyns yidishe etnografye? (Handbikhl far zamler) (Vilne: Yidisher Visnshaftlekher Institut, 1929). For an English translation see Andreas Kilcher and Gabriella Safran, eds. Writing Jewish Culture: Paradoxes in Ethnography (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2016), 349–79. 2.  Naftoli Vaynig, “Organizatsye un arbet fun an etnografishn krayz: mohes un bagrifn fun etnografye” [Organization and Work of an Ethnographic Circle: The Nature and Concept of Ethnography] Landkentnish number 2 (1934): 5–18. 3.  For Ringelblum and the Oyneg Shabes Archive see Samuel D. Kassow, Who Will Write Our History? Emanuel Ringelblum, The Warsaw Ghetto, and The Oyneg Shabes Archive (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2007). 4. “Vaynig, Naftoli” in Leksikon fun der nayer Yidisher literatur, vol. 3 (Nyu-York: Alveltlekhn Yidishn Kultur-kongres, 1956), 361–63; David G. Roskies, “What Is Holocaust Literature?” in Jews, Catholics, and the Burden of History. Studies in Contemporary Jewry XXI, ed. Eli Lederhendler (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 203. 5.  This brief sketch is based on Avraham Zak, “Leyb Naydus (biografishe notitsn),” in Leyb Naydus, Ale verk fun Leyb Naydus, vol. 2: Litvishe arabeskn (Warsaw: Sh. Yatshkovski, 1924), v–xix; Mindaugas Kvietkauskas, “Leib Naidus (Leyb Naydus)” in Writers in Yiddish. Dictionary of Literary Biography 333, ed. Joseph Sherman (Detroit: Thomson Gale, 2007), 211–18; and Zalmen Reyzen, “Leyb Naydus,” Lite 2 (1919): 79–86. 6.  Reyzen, “Leyb Naydus,” 85. 7.  Kvietkauskas, “Leib Naidus (Leyb Naydus),” 217. 8.  Yefim Yeshurin, Leyb Naydus biblyografye (Buenos Aires: Grodner farband un umgegnt, 1962). 9.  Mindaugas Kvietkauskas, “Leib Naidus (Leyb Naydus),” 211–18. 10.  Naftoli Vaynig, Naydus-Etyudn [Naydus Studies], part 1, Di goldene keyt 129 (1990): 57–86; part 2, Di goldene keyt 130 (1990): 86–126; here, 101. 11.  Poem untitled in original: Leyb Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 264. Others similarly see this poem as an important poetic mission statement (Vaynig, Naydus-Etyudn, 70; Avraham Zak, “Der virtuoz fun yidishn ferz: shtrikhn un zikhroynes,” in Leyb Naydus, Oysgeklibene shriftn, ed. Shmuel Rozhanski [Buenos Aires: Yoysef lifshits-fond baym kultur-kongres in argentine, 1958], 25–46, here, 32). 12.  Vaynig, “Naydus-etyudn,” 61. 13.  Naydus was personally allied with the SSRP – the Zionist Socialist Workers Party (sionistsko-sotsialisticheskaya rabochaya partiya) – a group committed to non­Palestinian territorialism and promotion of the labor movement. 14.  I use this alliteration tongue-in-cheek, but not without precedent. The poet and Oriental scholar Friedrich Rückert offers a playful version of the Wein-Weibund-Gesang motif, based in his Arabic sources: Wenn die wüsten Winterwinde wütend wehn, Weißt du, was zur wehre wählt ein Weiser? Warme Wohnung, weiche Watt und wollnes Wams, Weiter: würzgen Wein und will’ge Weiber

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Notes (“When the wild winter winds frantically blow, Do you know what bulwark the wise one chooses? Warm dwelling, soft wadding, and a woolen jacket, Furthermore: fragrant wine and willing women”)

15.  The Hebrew poet Chayim Nachman Bialik’s famous 1916 essay “Halachah and Aggadah” notes the “glories” of the cathedrals in Köln, Milan, and Paris as something Jews lack in space, but not in time. 16.  Arnold M. Eisen, Galut: Modern Jewish Reflection on Homelessness and Homecoming (Bloomington: Indiana Univerity Press, 1986), 28. The blessings and curses are found in Deuteronomy 26–28. 17.  Howard Wettstein, “Introduction” in Diasporas and Exiles: Varieties of Jewish Identity, ed. Howard Wettstein (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 3. 18.  Eisen, Galut, 32. 19.  Erich Gruen, “Diaspora and Homeland” in Diasporas and Exiles, 25–26. 20.  Sophia A. McClennen, The Dialectics of Exile: Nation, Time, Language, and Space in Hispanic Literatures (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 2004), 1–2. Given the importance of Jewish thinking on the subject it is noteworthy that such Jewish examples are almost nowhere referenced in McClennen’s book. 21.  Quoted in Paul Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993), 206. 22.  Quoted in Gilroy, Black Atlantic, 189. 23.  Eisen, Galut, 36. 24.  To wit, in Eisen’s account: “Deuteronomy’s project would thus be carried out on a situation far different from the one which it described: not a wilderness on the way to a Center but a Center reduced to a wilderness, a ‘desert’ full to overflowing with idolatry and impurity, and as wide as the world. The task of carving out sacred order, moment by moment and inch by precious inch, could not possibly succeed, short of the Messiah for whom the rabbis waited” (Eisen, Galut, 37). 25.  Eisen, Galut, 38. 26.  Eisen, Galut, 50. 27.  Maeera Y. Shreiber, “The End of Exile: Jewish Identity and Its Diasporic Poetics,” PMLA 113.2 (March 1998): 275. 28.  George Steiner, “Our Homeland, the Text,” in George Steiner, No Passion Spent: Essays 1978–1996 (London: Faber and Faber, 1996). 29.  Shreiber, “End of Exile,” 275. The “deferral” is that of return, of “thin incomplete text.” 30.  Shreiber, “End of Exile,” 281. [Emphasis mine.] 31.  Leyb Naydus, Lirik, vol. 2 (Warsaw: Brzoza, 1926), 416. For a separate discussion of this poem see my An Inch or Two of Time: Time and Space in Jewish Modernisms, (University Park, PA: Penn State University Press, 2015), 74–76. 32.  Genesis 4:10–14; the emphases are mine. 33.  Shlomo Berger, “Functioning Within a Diasporic Third Space: The Case of Early Modern Yiddish,” Jewish Studies Quarterly 15.1 (2008): 72. 34.  Gruen, “Diaspora and Homeland,” 18. 35.  Gruen, “Diaspora and Homeland,” 20. 36.  Eisen, Galut, 6. 37.  According to Eisen, “Banishment from home and estrangement from the earth

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are established here, at the very outset of things, as the two principal components of divine punishment” (Eisen, Galut, 6). While this assessment is structurally accurate for the biblical hermeneutic Eisen pursues, one has to take into account other problematic features of the biblical account, most notably Abraham’s initial call. 38.  In what seems an unguarded moment Eisen refers to a famous religious and intellectual leader in American Jewish thought, Rabbi Soloveichik, as “an Eastern European Jew who has chosen America as his preferred exile” (Eisen, Galut, 186). A “preferred exile” implies a multiplicity of “exiles” from which to “choose.” This conspicuous phrase encapsulates the breakdown of Exile into Diaspora. 39.  Daniel Boyarin and Jonathan Boyarin, “Diaspora: Generation and the Ground of Jewish Identity,” Critical Inquiry 19 (1993), 713. 40.  Boyarin and Boyarin, “Diaspora,” 714. 41.  Boyarin and Boyarin, “Diaspora,” 721. 42.  Boyarin and Boyarin, “Diaspora,” 721. 43.  Zalmen Reyzen, “Leyb Naydus,” Lite 2 (1919): 79–86; here, 81. 44.  Leyb Naydus, Lirik, vol. 1 (Yekaterinoslav: Y. Avtshin, 1915), 158. 45.  The idea of hybridity current in contemporary critical literature begins in a cultural debate over the primacy of difference or unity. In his critical review and appraisal of the idea of diaspora in black, African-American, and post-colonial studies, Brent Edwards notes how in those fields a discourse of difference/diversity is often emphasized over one of unity: “On a theoretical level, this intervention focuses especially on relations of difference and disjuncture in the varied interactions of black internationalist discourses, both in ideological terms and in terms of language difference itself ” (Brent Hayes Edwards, “The Uses of Diaspora,” Social Text 66, 19.1 [2001]: 53). This, too, is the core of the Boyarins’ focus on “mixing” which I mentioned above. Stuart Hall takes up a distinction made by the Negritude movement of three core “presences” in Caribbean cultural identity. The third, the “American presence,” “ . . . is therefore itself the beginning of diaspora, of diversity, of hybridity and difference, what makes Afro-Caribbean people already people of a diaspora. I use this term here metaphorically, not literally: diaspora does not refer us to those scattered tribes whose identity can only be secured in relation to some sacred homeland to which they must at all costs return, even if it means pushing other people into the sea. This is the old, the imperialising, the hegemonising, form of ‘ethnicity.’ [ . . . ] The diaspora experience as I intend it here is defined, not by essence or purity, but by the recognition of a necessary heterogeneity and diversity; by a conception of ‘identity’ which lives with and through, not despite, difference; by hybridity.” (Stuart Hall, “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” in Identity: Community, Culture, Difference, ed. Jonathan Rutherford (London: Lawrence & Wishart, 1990), 235. Indeed, even in traditional anti-Colonialist discourse, hybridity is acknowledged as a source of great potential: “ . . . I admit that it is a good thing to place different civilizations in contact with each other; that it is an excellent thing to blend different worlds; [ . . . ] that for civilizations, exchange is oxygen [ . . . ] ” (Aimé Césaire, Discourse on Colonialism, trans. Joan Pinkham [New York: Monthly Review Press, 1972, 2000], 33.) 46.  See, for example, Ghil’ad Zuckermann, Language Contact and Lexical Enrichment in Israeli Hebrew (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003) for a description of Israeli Hebrew in the context of cultural hybridity.

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47.  Berger, “Functioning Within a Diasporic Third Space,” 75. 48.  Berger, “Functioning Within a Diasporic Third Space,” 83. 49.  Leyb Naydus, Ale verk fun Leyb Naydus, vol. 2: Litvishe arabeskn, 74–75. (The poem was written in Kustin, September 21, 1917.) 50.  I note that this is precisely the point in positioning Diaspora within the debate over difference vs. unity. 51.  Quoted in Edwards, “Uses of Diaspora,” 63. 52.  Eisen, Galut, 143. 53.  Eisen, Galut, 145. 54.  Eisen, Galut, 147. 55.  Lewis Hyde, Trickster Makes This World: Mischief, Myth, and Art (New York: North Point Press, 1989), 59. 56.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 254–55. 57.  Sigmund Freud, Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious, trans. James Strachey (New York: W. W. Norton and Company, 1960), 82–83. 58.  Leyb Naydus, Ale verk fun Leyb Naydus, vol 2: Litvishe arabeskn, 211. 59.  Vos iz azoyns yidishe etnografye? (Handbikhl far zamler) (Vilne: Yidisher Visnshaftlekher Institut, Serye “Organizatsye fun der yidisher visnshaft,” number 6, 1931 [1929]), 12. 60.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 247–48. 61.  Vaynig, Naydus-etyudn, 79–82; Mindaugas Kvietkauskas, “Leib Naidus (Leyb Naydus),” 212. 62.  Leyb Naydus, Lirik vol. 1, 124. 63.  Naydus, Lirik, vol. 1, 125. 64.  Naydus likely uses the unusual plural form aroves for the expected arovim found in the Bible for the sake of the rhyme (aroves – makhshoves). 65.  Naydus, Lirik, vol. 1, 126. 66.  S’klingt a foygl-khor a diner mit der nakhtigal berosh. fun der sazevke der griner hert zikh krishme fun a frosh . . . (Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 145) Di zun hot tsevorfn drobne goldne greshelekh af der runder sazevke, vos ligt in ru; s’kvaken benimesdik baym breg di yunge freshelekh, zingen a heylike shire tsu got borukh hu . . .  (Leyb Naydus, Intime nigunim [Grodno: Leyb Naydus fond, 1918], 27) 67.  Vaynig, Naydus-Etyudn, 93. 68.  Vaynig, Naydus-Etyudn, 91–92. Pace Vaynig, Naydus does use the word “October,” and there is even a poem with that title (Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 46). Vaynig also seems to mistake the Hebrew month, as Elul coincides roughly with August and September. 69.  For a more in-depth study of this idea, see Jordan Finkin, An Inch or Two of Time: Time and Space in Jewish Modernisms (University Park, PA: Penn State University Press, 2015). 70.  For further detailed discussions of this text see Lea Goldberg, “Abraham Shlonsky, Toil,” in The Modern Hebrew Poem Itself, ed. Stanley Burnshaw, T. Carmi,

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and Ezra Spicehandler (New York: Schocken Books, 1966), 74–76; Jordan Finkin, “Constellating Hebrew and Yiddish Avant-Gardes: The Example of Markish and Shlonsky,” Journal of Modern Jewish Studies 8.1 (2009): 1–22; Naomi Brenner, “A Multilingual Modernist: Avraham Shlonsky between Hebrew and Yiddish,” Comparative Literature 61.4 (2009): 367–87. 71.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 24. 72.  Avraham Shlonsky, Ba-galgal: Shirim u-fo’emot (Tel Aviv: Davar, 1927), 98–99 [Hebrew]. 73.  West Yiddish has the word tames-treiwelisch, literally “Tammuz-growth,” which means redcurrants. The midsummer month of Tammuz is when redcurrants tend to ripen. In Germany they are called Johannisbeeren, because they are traditionally said to be ripe on St. John’s Day ( June 24). The West Yiddish phrase is likely a substitution of a specifically Jewish time word in place of a Christian holiday. 74.  Naydus, Intime Nigunim, 38. 75.  As Vaynig notes of this poem: “The Greek forest god Pan before the background of Tammuz, little streams like tefillin-straps, and little birds who congregate to pray shacharit – what a combination! Hellenism and Judaism – contradictory principles and ways of life. Unbridled polytheism and tightly constricted monotheism. Eternal oppositions over which Naydus wants to construct a uniting bridge in order to bring them nearer to one another and possibly also to be mutually fulfilled” (Vaynig, Naydus-etyudn, 96). 76.  Patricia Merivale, Pan the Goat-God: His Myth in Modern Times (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1969), 115. This book discusses the literary deployment of the image of Pan especially in nineteenth-century English literature. 77. “Lozn umgeshtert tsu tantsn / af dayn bak der shmeterling, / un fargesn gor ingantsn / ver iz Kant un Maeterlinck . . . ” (Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 165). My many thanks to Sonja Rethy for suggesting the following photographic negative of this image of going to nature to forget Kant and Maeterlinck, viz., the text of Schubert’s “Das Lied im Grünen” (Song of the Verdure; D 917), written by Friedrich Reil, whose seventh stanza reads: O gerne im Grünen bin ich schon als Knabe Und Jüngling gewesen Und habe gelernt und geschrieben, gelesen Im Horaz un Plato, dann Wieland und Kant, Und glühenden Herzens mich selig genannt, Im Grünen, im Grünen.

How happy was I as a lad And a youth in the verdure, Learning and writing and reading From Horace and Plato, then Wieland and Kant, And called myself happy, my heart all aglow, In the verdure, there, in the verdure.

(Richard Wigmore, Schubert: The Complete Song Texts [New York: Schirmer Books, 1988], 80). 78.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 143. 79.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 154. 80.  Leyb Naydus, Di erd ervakht (Vilne: Di tsentrale yidishe shul-organizatsye in vilne, 1919[?]), 5. 81.  Naydus, Di erd ervakht, 13.

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82.  In Vaynig’s words, before quoting this stanza, “the poet himself is not afraid to stand apart, just like his objects in nature, and to Mendelize as he considers some aspect of nature, as though he were an ancient pious Jew making a prayer over a natural phenomenon” (Vaynig, Naydus-etyudn, 93–94). 83.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 254–55. 84.  Shaul Tshernikhovski, Shirim (Jerusalem: Schocken, 1946), 74 [Hebrew]. 85.  Naydus, Lirik, vol. 2, 397. 86.  Naydus, Intime nigunim, 24. 87.  Cited in Shaul Tshernikhovski, Machberet ha-sonetot (Berlin: Dvir, 1922), 19–20 [Hebrew]. 88.  Antonio da Tempo, Summa Artis Rithimici Vulgaris Dictaminis, ed. Richard Andrews (Bologna: Commissione per i testi di lingua, 1977), 3–48. 89.  This section is a revised version of material found in Jordan Finkin, “What Does It Mean to Write a Modern Jewish Sonnet: Some Challenges of Yiddish and Hebrew,” Journal of Jewish Identities 7.1 (2014): 79–107. 90.  One notable exception is A. J. Zacusky, “Sonetistas judíos,” Judaica: Publicación mensual 7 number 83 (1940): 179–87; continued in Judaica: Publicación mensual 7 number 84 (1940): 244–51. 91.  Zacusky, “Sonetistas judíos” (number 83), 181. According to Maeera Schreiber, “While Fradel Schtok is certainly to be credited with introducing the sonnet cycle into Yiddish, it is not clear that she was the first to use the sonnet per se in Yiddish” (Maeera Y. Schreiber, “The End of Exile: Jewish Identity and Its Diasporic Poetics,” PMLA 113.2 (1998): 273–87; here, 285n11). In a section of his article on Yiddish literature in Galicia devoted to the poet Dovid Kenigsberg (1891–ca. 1942), Mendl Naygreshl maintains that though there were sporadic individual sonnets previously, it was really two Galicians who introduced the form into Yiddish literature: Fradl Shtok (in America) and Kenigsberg. And while Shtok had the edge in quality (“Fradl Shtok understood how to pour into the sonnet form, as into a slender Grecian vase, the pure wine of genuine poetry” [306]), and Kenigsberg was too simple a writer, with too folkish a sensibility for the “complexity” and “discipline” required of and by the sonnet, Kenigsberg was nevertheless the first to publish a book of sonnets in Yiddish – Sonetn (Lwow, 1913) (Mendl Naygreshl, “Di moderne yidishe literatur in galitsye,” in Fun noentn over: monografyes un memuarn [New York: CYCO, 1955], 305–12; here, 306). Kenigsberg later published another volume of sonnets, Hundert sonetn (Vienna: Der klal farlag, 1921). See also Kathryn Hellerstein, A Question of Tradition: Women Poets in Yiddish, 1586–1987 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2014), 38–39. See the eight sonnets in the section “Fradl Shtok, Sonetn,” in Di naye heym, ershtes zamlbukh (New York: Literarisher farlag, 1914), 3–7. 92.  D[ovid] Hofshteyn and F[ude] Shames, Teorye fun literature: poetik (Kharkov: Melukhe-farlag fun ukrayne, 1930), 141 (“[ . . . ] Fradl Shtok, who introduced the first sonnet in Yiddish”). It is unclear why Hofshteyn and Shames fixed on Shtok, and why their decision has stuck in the critical imagination. However, it may well have something to do with both the quality of Shtok’s verse and the fact that she was a woman, part of an important gendered reimagining of the sonnet. 93.  Abraham Tabatshnik, “Fradl shtok un der sonet,” in Abraham Tabatshnik, Dikhter un dikhtung (New York, 1965), 505–8.

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94.  For a few of Vintshevski’s sonnets see Moris Vintshevski, Gezamlte verk, vol. 2 (New York: Farlag “Frayhayt,” 1927), 172–74. 95.  Benjamin Hrushovski, “On Free Rhythms in Modern Yiddish Poetry,” in The Field of Yiddish: Studies in Yiddish Language, Folklore, and Literature, ed. Uriel Weinreich (New York: Publications of the Linguistic Circle of New York, 1954): 219–66. 96.  I take this phrase from Leonard Forster’s discussion of Martin Opitz’s introduction of both the Alexandrine and the sonnet to Germany in the seventeenth century (Forster, The Icy Fire: Five Studies of European Petrarchism [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1969], 35–36). 97. “[ . . . ] the Yiddish folksong, one must know, in the first decade before the First World War, played a large role in the Jewish national movement” (Mendl Naygreshl, “Di moderne yidishe literatur in galitsye,” 305–12; here, 310). 98.  Gary Smith, “The Black Protest Sonnet,” American Poetry 2.1 (1984): 2. 99.  Peter Howarth, “The Modern Sonnet,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Sonnet, ed. A. D. Cousins and Peter Howarth (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 235–36. 100.  For a more detailed discussion of Jewish cultural activism in the period of the Russian Revolution see Kenneth Moss, Jewish Renaissance in the Russian Revolution (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009). 101.  Uriel Weinreich, “On the Cultural History of Yiddish Rime,” in Essays on Jewish Life and Thought: Presented in Honor of Salo Wittmayer Baron, ed. Joseph L. Blau, et al. (New York: Columbia University Press, 1959), 423–42. 102.  Clive Scott, “The Limits of the Sonnet: Towards a Proper Contemporary Approach,” Revue de littérature comparée 50.3 (1976): 244. 103.  David H. T. Scott, Sonnet Theory and Practice in Nineteenth-Century France: Sonnets on the Sonnet (Hull: University of Hull Publications, 1977), 61. 104.  Here is a list of Naydus’s sonnets in the published collections (the page numbers follow the titles): From Lirik 1 (unless the word sonnet is in the title, all sonnets are marked as “(sonnet)”) – “Tsu eyner” (25); “Di mushel” (35); “Di hetere” (40); “Sonet” (41); “Dernokh . . . ” (42); “Sonet” (66); “Bengalishe royzn” (96); “Di mitn-nakht” (104); “In tsirkus” (106); “Der argonavt” (158). From Lirik 2 (unless the word sonnet is in the title, all sonnets are marked as “(sonnet)”) – “In gortn” (211); “Tsu a froy” (216); “A geveyntlekhe geshikhte” (217); “Tsu mayn eyntsiker” (220); “Tsvey sonetn” (232–33; 2 sonnets); “Eynzamkayt” (295); “In a herbst-frimorgn” (338); “In veg” (349); from the section Oryentalishe motivn: “Piratn” (361); “Umru” (367); “Bagdad” (376); “Islam” (377); “Indishe blimelekh” (378); “Tsu kinder” (396); “Gor shtarke! . . . ” (397); “Der perl-zukher” (399); “Finf sonetn” (401–4; 5 sonnets, dedicated to Doniel Tsharni); “Nistern” (405; not marked explicitly as a sonnet); From Litvishe arabeskn (unless the word sonnet is in the title, all sonnets are marked as “(sonnet)”) – “A kholem” (35); “Elegisher sonet” (38); “In a shturm-nakht” (55); “Mayn kats” (79); “Friling in shtot” (96); “Shtotisher frilings-ovnt” (98); “Dayne oygn” (99); “Sonet” (101); “Sonetn vegn dir” (103–8; 6 sonnets); “In teg fun tsar” (216–17; 2 sonnets); from the section Mizrekhdiks: “Mizrekhdiks” (267); “Khimere” (280); “In varyete” (294); “In a regndikn tog” (295); “Tsu eyner” (296); From Dos bukh fun poemen (Warsaw: Brider Levin-Epshteyn un shutfim, 1923) – A venetsyaner legende: in sonetn (145–50; 6 sonnets).

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105.  Finkin, “What Does It Mean,” 81; Y., “Sonnettomania,” The New Monthly Magazine 1 (1821): 652–56. 106.  Avraham Zak, “Der virtuoz fun yidishn ferz,” 25–46; here, 33. 107.  Naydus doubtless influenced any number of writers regarding the viability of Yiddish. Take the poet Khane Levin, for example, who had begun writing verse in Russian, but around 1915, “persuaded by Leyb Naydus, she started to write in Yiddish” ( Joanna Lisek, “‘Of all the men I am the most manly’: Aspects of Gender in the Poetry of Khane Levin,” in Women Writers of Yiddish Literature: Critical Essays, ed. Rosemary Horowitz [Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Company, 2015], 127). 108.  A. Y. Zakuski, Leyb Naydus (Buenos Aires: [Offprint from Grodner opklangen], 1951), 14. 109.  Vaynig, “Naydus-Etyudn,” 61. Vaynig refers to the Yiddish poets Perets Markish, Moyshe Broderzon (1890–1956), A. Lutski (1894–1957), Avrom Sutskever (1913–2010), and Avrom Reyzen (1876–1953). 110.  Clive Scott, “The Limits of the Sonnet,” 237–50; here, 244. 111.  See, again, Weinreich, “On the Cultural History of Yiddish Rime.” 112.  David H. T. Scott, Sonnet Theory and Practice, 61. 113.  (“Enfin, comme il se pourrait toutefois que rythmé par le hamac, et inspiré par le laurier, je fisse un sonnet, et que je n’ai que trois rimes en ix, concertez-vous pour m’envoyer le sens réel du mot ptyx: on m’assure qu’il n’existe dans aucune langue, ce que je préférerais de beaucoup à fin de me donner le charme de le créer par la magie de la rime”), cited in Gretchen Kromer, “The Redoubtable PTYX” Modern Language Notes 86.4 (1971): 563–72; here, 566, as well as in Scott, Sonnet Theory and Practice, 63. Scott discusses this sonnet at length (61–68). 114.  Christian Morgenstern, Palmström, 12th/13th expanded edition ( Berlin: Bruno Cassirer, 1916 [1910]), 5. 115.  Leyb Naydus, Lirik, vol. 2, 415. This sonnet has a slightly tweaked rhyme scheme: ABAB BAAB CCD EED. 116.  The sonnet-on-the-sonnet genre is well documented, as in Stephen Burt and David Mikics, The Art of the Sonnet (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2010), 16–18; Elijah L. Jacobs, “The Sonnet on the Sonnet,” The South Atlantic Quarterly 42 (1943): 282–88; Scott, Sonnet Theory and Practice; W. E. Yates, Tradition in the German Sonnet (Bern: Peter Lang, 1981), 29–40. 117.  See the splendid reading of this poem in Hellerstein, A Question of Tradition, 250–53. 118.  Leyb Naydus, Lirik, vol. 1, 106; also in Leyb Naydus, Lirik, vol. 2, 133. 119.  Weinreich, “Cultural History,” 432. For a fuller, linguistically oriented account of complex rhyme in Yiddish, see Uriel Weinreich, “Vegn filartikn gram,” Yidishe shprakh 15.4 (1955): 97–109; for composite rhyme in particular, see pp. 106–9. 120.  And lest “Byronic” be thought to refer predominantly to the world-weariness commonly associated with that poet’s works, I note The Oxford English Dictionary’s citation of a line from historian James Anthony Froude’s biography of Julius Caesar (1879): “No sentimental passion . . . ​no Byronic mock heroics” (The Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd ed., vol. 2 [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989], 736). 121.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 134. 122.  Finkin, “What Does It Mean,” 96.

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123.  Vaynig, Naydus-etyudn, 99. (For the section “Di yerushe fun verlen” see Vaynig, Naydus-etyudn, 96–102.) 124.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 91; cited in Vaynig, Naydus-etyudn, 100. 125.  Vaynig, Naydus-etyudn, 100. 126.  Vaynig, Naydus-etyudn, 97. 127.  Naydus, Lirik, vol. 2, 405, 406, respectively. Der Nister (pen-name of Pinkhas Kahanovitch, 1884–1950) was a Yiddish poet and writer, noted for his symbolist stories; Igor Severyanin (1887–1941) was a Russian poet. 128.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 90–91. 129.  Vaynig, Naydus-etyudn, 100. 130.  Leyb Naydus, Ale verk fun Leyb Naydus, vol. 6: Fun velt-parnas (Warsaw: Farlag “Bzhoza,” 1928), 7–69. It is not a complete translation of Baudelaire’s work, but, rather, a lengthy selection. 131.  These poets include Théophile Gautier, Maurice Maeterlinck, Henri de Régnier, Edmond Rostand, Paul Verlaine, Alfred de Musset, Jean Richepin, Georges Rodenbach, Knut Hamsun, Arthur Schnitzler, Carl Busse, Gustav Falke, Martin Greif, Ludwig Fulda, Otto Julius Bierbaum, Heinrich Heine, Goethe, Edgar Allan Poe, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, Sándor Peto˝fi, Richard Dehmel, Leconte de Lisle, Nikolai Minski, Arseni Golenishchev-Kutuzov, Konstantin Bal’mont, Aleksandr Blok, Valeri Bryusov, Vasili Andreyevich Zhukovsky, Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov, Aleksei Kol’tsov, Nikolai Nekrasov, and Fyodor Sologub. 132.  Kvietkauskas, “Leib Naidus,” 217. 133.  Erich Auerbach, “The Aesthetic Dignity of the Fleurs du mal,” in Baudelaire: A Collection of Critical Essays, ed. Henri Payre (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1962), 149–69; here, 165. 134.  Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal (Paris: Poulet-Malassis et De Broise, 1857), 79–80. While not the subject of the present section, for the sake of comparison here is Naydus’s translation of Baudelaire’s poem: Dos ketsl Kum, gute ketsele, af mayn farlibtn harts: bahalt di negl fun dayn fisl fun dayn glatn, un loz mir trinken-zikh in dayne oygn shvarts, vu s’loykhtn oyfgemisht metaln un agatn. beshas in frayer sho ikh tsertl nokhanand dayn libes kepl un dayn boygevdikn rukn, beshas, baroysht fun fargenign, nemt mayn hant a dukh dayn kerper dem elektrishn zikh rukn, – dershaynt in dimyen mir mayn froy. ir blik tseshtralt, men kon mit daynem im, mayn libinke, farglaykhn, – geshmidt-geshlifn vi a shtol, un tif un kalt; un fun di fis biz tsu dem kop nemt dan zikh shlaykhn a diner reyekh: a geferlekh-zanfter duft, vos ringlt-um ir layb ir tunklen in luft . . . ​ (Leyb Naydus, Ale verk fun Leyb Naydus, vol. 6: Fun velt-parnas, 24.) Naydus makes several changes to the poem, not least of which is the title, which means “the small cat” or “the kitten.”

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135.  Scott, Sonnet Theory, 49–50. 136.  Scott, Sonnet Theory, 50. 137.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 79. 138.  Here the phrase is literally “by your own hand” (eygnhentk) and is meant to play humorously – can one say “by your own paw”? – on the previous line’s “give my hand a scratch” (tu mayn hant a krats). 139.  Here is Baudelaire’s sonnet “Sed non satiata”: Bizarre déité, brune comme les nuits, Au parfum mélangé de musc et de havane, Œuvre de quelque obi, le Faust de la savane, Sorcière au flanc d’ébène, enfant des noirs minuits,

Strange deity, brown as the nights, With perfume a mix of musk and cigar smoke, Work of some sorcerer, the Faust of the savannah, Ebony-thighed witch, child of black midnights,

Je préfère au constance, à l’opium, au nuits, L’élixir de ta bouche où l’amour se pavane; Quand vers toi mes désirs partent en caravane, Tes yeux sont la citerne où boivent mes ennuis.

To fidelity, opium, or nights I prefer the elixir of your mouth where love is dancing; When my desires set out after you in a caravan, Your eyes are the cistern from which my troubles drink.

Par ces deux grands yeux noirs, soupiraux de ton âme, Ô démon sans pitié! verse-moi moins de flamme; Je ne suis pas le Styx pour t’embrasser neuf fois,

By these two large black eyes, airy windows of your soul, Oh merciless demon! pour forth less flame; I am not the Styx to clasp you nine times,

Hélas! et je ne puis, Mégère libertine, Pour briser ton courage et te mettre aux abois, Dans l’enfer de ton lit devenir Proserpine!

Alas! nor can I, wanton Megaera, In order to break your spirit and beleaguer you, Become Persephone in the hell of your bed!

140.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 280. 141. “Car la Muse m’a fait l’un des fils de la Grèce” – cited in Scott, Sonnet Theory, 40. 142.  Scott, Sonnet Theory, 41. 143.  Scott, Sonnet Theory, 37. 144.  See Anita Norich, Writing in Tongues: Translating Yiddish in the 20th Century (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2013), 12–13. 145.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 267. 146.  See Jordan Finkin, “Yiddish Ethnographic Poetics and Moyshe Kulbak’s ‘Vilne’,” in Writing Jewish Culture: Paradoxes in Ethnography, ed. Andreas Kilcher and Gabriella Safran (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2016).

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147.  Vincent Crapanzano, “On the Writing of Ethnography,” Dialectical Anthropology 2.1 (1977): 69–73; here, 70. 148.  From the essay “Jewish Folk Art,” cited in Nathaniel Deutsch, The Jewish Dark Continent: Life and Death in the Russian Pale of Settlement (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2011), 28. See also Gabriella Safran, Wandering Soul: The Dybbuk’s Creator, S. An-Sky (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010), 192–95. An-sky was a prominent Yiddish and Russian writer and intellectual, and one of the better-known ethnographers of Jewish eastern Europe. 149.  For representative and apposite (though not exhaustive) sources on this subject see David M. Hayano, “Auto-Ethnography: Paradigms, Problems, and Prospects,” Human Organization: Journal of the Society for Applied Anthropology 38.1 (1979): 99–104; Emiko Ohnuki-Tierney, “‘Native’ Anthropologists,” American Ethnologist 11.3 (1984): 584–86; Kirin Narayan, “How Native Is a ‘Native’ Anthropologist?” American Anthropologist 95.3 (1993): 671–86; Ayala Fader, “Reflections on Queen Esther: The Politics of Jewish Ethnography,” Contemporary Jewry 27.1 (2007): 112–36. 150.  See, for example, Vos iz azoyns yidishe etnografye? (Handbikhl far zamler) (Vilne: Yidisher Visnshaftlekher Institut, Serye “Organizatsye fun der yidisher visnshaft,” number 6, 1931), 14. 151.  Michael North, The Dialect of Modernism: Race, Language and Twentieth-Century Literature (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994), i. The connection of European modernism to primitivism has been a feature of the scholarly landscape certainly since Robert Goldwater’s 1938 study Primitivism in Modern Art. 152.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 268–69. 153.  Jack Flam, “Introduction,” in Primitivism and Twentieth-Century Art: A Documentary History, ed. Jack Flam (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 1–22; here, 8. 154.  See Walter Benjamin’s discussion of architecture in his essay “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.” (Walter Benjamin, Illuminations, trans. Harry Zohn [New York: Schocken, 1968], 239–40). 155.  Genesis 9:27. 156.  For an overview of Shumyatsher’s career see Faith Jones, “‘Wandering Is Your Fate’: Esther Shumiatcher-Hirschbein Writing across Boundaries,” Canadian Jewish Studies 11 (2003): 15–36. 157.  Ester Shumyatsher, “Albatros” (Albatross), “Afrikas vaytn” (Africa’s Distances), “Karu” (Karoo), “Mauri printsesin” (Maori Princess), and “Vanganui” (Wanganui), Albatros 1 (1922): 10–11. 158.  Emphasis my own. 159.  See most appositely Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object (New York: Columbia University Press, 1983), 25–35. 160.  For literary and cultural deployment of this trope see, for example, Alan Trachtenberg, Shades of Hiawatha: Staging Indians, Making Americans, 1880–1930 (New York: Hill and Wang, 2004). 161.  Henry H. H. Remak, “Exoticism and Romanticism,” Comparative Literature Studies 15.1 (1978): 53–65; here, 55–56. 162.  See, for example, Donna K. Heizer, Jewish-German Identity in the Orientalist Literature of Else Lasker-Schüler, Friedrich Wolf, and Franz Werfel (Columbia, SC: Camden

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House, 1996), 19–23; Michael Brenner, The Renaissance of Jewish Culture in Weimar Germany (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996), 130–31. 163.  Naydus, Lirik, vol. 2, 362. 164.  Henry H. H. Remak, “Exoticism and Romanticism,” 55–56. 165.  Vaynig, Naydus-etyudn, 104. 166.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 298–99. 167.  Henry H. H. Remak, “Exoticism and Romanticism,” 53–65; here, 60. 168.  Donna K. Heizer, Jewish-German Identity, 42. 169.  Victor Segalen, Essay on Exoticism: An Aesthetics of Diversity, trans. Yaël Rachel Schlick (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002), 19. 170.  Victor Segalen, Essay on Exoticism, 20. 171.  Segalen, Essay on Exoticism, 41. 172.  Segalen makes it clear that in his view “Exoticism is therefore not an adaptation to something; it is not the perfect comprehension of something outside one’s self that one has managed to embrace fully, but the keen and immediate perception of an eternal incomprehensibility. “Let us proceed from this admission of impenetrability. Let us not flatter ourselves for assimilating the customs, races, nations, and others who differ from us. On the contrary, let us rejoice in our inability ever to do so, for we retain the eternal pleasure of sensing Diversity” (Victor Segalen, Essay on Exoticism, 21). Naydus would not have ventured as far as claiming this “eternal incomprehensibility.” But in his more sensitive verse he does seem to have an intuitive grasp of poetry’s value, through the exotic gaze, for enhancing the “ability to conceive otherwise.” 173.  See, for example, Michael Brenner, The Renaissance of Jewish Culture, 129–52; Ivan Kalmar, “Jewish Orientalism,” in Jewish Studies at the Turn of the Twentieth Century: Proceedings of the 6th EAJS Congress, Toledo, July 1998, vol. 2: Judaism from the Renaissance to Modern Times,ed. Judit Targarona Borrás and Angel Sáenz-Badillos (Leiden: Brill, 1999): 307–15; Ivan Kalmar and Derek J. Penslar, “Orientalism and the Jews: An Introduction,” in Orientalism and the Jews, ed. Ivan D. Kalmar and Derek J. Penslar (Waltham, MA: Brandeis University Press, 2005), xiii–xl. 174.  Vaynig, Naydus-etyudn, 107. 175.  Moyshe Broderzon, Shvartse fliterlekh: Lider (Piotrkow: Sh. Belkhatovski, 1913), 20. 176.  For use of the phrase “Jewish Romantic” see Vaynig, Naydus-etyudn, 106. 177.  Rainer Maria Rilke, Gesammelte Gedichte (Frankfurt: Insel-Farlag, 1962), 394. 178.  Naydus, Lirik, vol. 2, 377. 179.  Zakuski, Leyb Naydus, 10–11. 180.  Shmuel Rozhanski, “Moyshe Broderzon, der shpilman fun yung-yidish: in di vegn fun Y. L. Peretz un Leyb Naydus,” in Broderzon, Oysgeklibene shrift, 11–29. 181.  Gilles Rozier, Moyshe Broderzon: Un écrivain yiddish d’avant-garde (Saint-Denis: Presses Universitaires de Vincennes, 1999), 93–94, 114n1. 182.  Itsik Manger, “Vegn Moyshe Broderzons lid (rede, gehaltn af der yoyvl-­ akademye in Lodzh),” Literarishe Bleter no. 2 (505), January 12, 1934, 19–20. 183.  Compare this to the posthumous reverence for the poet Osher Shvartsman (1889–1919) – killed in battle as a soldier in the Red Army fighting in Volhynia during the Civil War – as a progenitor of Soviet Yiddish poetry.

NAYDUS STUDIES Naftoli Vaynig

Translated by Jordan Finkin

Non omnis moriar (I will not die completely) Horace

Naydus Studies

I am calling this work of mine “Naydus Studies” because I have here only sketched out certain literary critical problems connected to the phenomenon called Naydus. Should it be my fate to make it through the present “days of wrath,” as Malraux calls them, I will surely fulfill my longtime vow and write a lengthy monograph about Naydus.1 Undertaking such a work is particularly important because we have stared hypnotically only at certain dates in our cultural development, especially at the year 1888, and have missed the fact that other dates, such as 1908 (the commencement of Di literarishe monatshriftn), were also important watershed moments in our intellectual life.2 The latter date awaits a precise literary-critical and literary-­ historical investigation because not only would Naydus benefit from such an investigation, but so would all of us even today, even the very purest modernists from the American circles around the journals In zikh and even Unzer bukh.3 In our present work, therefore, a number of polemical factors derive from this situation, factors that signify for us a culture-war that has still not ended.

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Naydus – What He Isn’t and What He Is: Axioms and Clichés When one is too lazy to analyze or even to synthesize, when one has no desire to employ the inductive or even the deductive method, then one takes easily to axioms – one trades in dogmas. It is a shortcut, an easy profit, particularly in literary-critical evaluations. One takes a cliché and applies it to some work or to some literary personality and – both are covered; the critic is happy because for him it’s a simple thing to hand out praise. And when things don’t quite match up then he just writes that the poet’s trousers were either too short or too long. Habent sua fata libelli (such is the fate of books). Leyb Naydus happened to have the luck to become a paragon for that kind of “appraiser” who by means of clichés lets loose his entire literary-critical and literary-“scientific” apparatus on the poor head of his victim. With regard to Naydus, we labor under a significant misapprehension. With regard to Naydus, we allow ourselves to take certain liberties that we would with no other writer. Statistically speaking, the majority of articles about, and responses to, Naydus have appeared after his death. A literary figure’s death lays upon a critic a very different responsibility with regard to what he might have written about him when he was still alive, still publishing books. In a word: after a writer’s death it is not appropriate to write critical reviews and sometimes even critiques. After all, literary scholarship has its own customs, requirements, and tasks. A critic may be permitted a comment about a young writer when something or other doesn’t fit the rhyme, or the meter, or the pattern; he chalks it up to the writer’s youth. When the writer ages and matures, he will avoid such or other mistake or offense. He is not proficient in such and such because he is young; with age will come improvement and depth. Ah, but youth is not the precursor of age; youth and age are two distinct psychic conditions which are not continuous – something the critic sometimes does not want to know. And as a result he does not evaluate a literary phenomenon in and of itself, in its particularity, in its distinctness,

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in its psychic youthfulness, but rather from an alien and distant standpoint. This too happened to Naydus. The critic can very often be allowed (even though I don’t know by what right!) to adopt the pose of (as the Germans say) a kleinem Gernegross [a show-off ] and to prognosticate that when the poet gets older he will be such and such a thing and then he will avoid making the mistakes he does now on his poetic path. The critic by nature has a weak memory, so he forgets a great many things that he really should remember. So, for example: Regarding youth, not once has it happened that age has indeed brought with it not maturity but rather decline, stagnation, repetitiveness, sclerosis. Contrariwise, youth has not only once displayed perfection, a high degree of achievement. A generally well-known example is the young, indeed juvenile, French poet Arthur Rimbaud, who burst onto the scene with his brilliant poems. Nor did Byron await mature age to create his revelatory long poems. In our Yiddish forum there is another case that might serve as an example: the well-known poet Yisroel Rabon, who published his first book, Beyond the Fence of the World (Hintern ployt fun der velt, 1928), [when he was only 28 years old].4 The subject, the language, and the tone are so mature that it was a hard nut for the critic to crack. As the poet was so young, how could he write so perfectly? (For their weak minds this was a confusing problem!) Since he writes so maturely, he cannot be original. He is very likely copying someone, so probably he is a plagiarist. Fortunately, in his subsequent development Rabon demonstrated how he was indeed both young and no thief. I witnessed something similar happen when Sutzkever published his first book, Poems (Lider, 1937).5 Someone who considered himself a true expert in poetry, and quite enthusiastically so, definitively dismissed Sutzkever’s already high acclaim with the argument that in Sutzkever there is not a single poem which is his own; that each one is taken or imitated from one or another poet. In response to

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my demand that he should demonstrate this clearly and produce his sources, or at least a few substantiating poems, he brushed me off with the scornful comment that evidence wasn’t needed when it was such a clear and simple case . . . ​ This kind of careless attitude brings to mind, incidentally, the bickering of two Hasidim over their rebbes when one of them finishes off with the conclusive: “So now you see! . . . ” And the opposite also happens. A critic will evaluate the literary activity, let us say, of a Peretz.6 Since Peretz is indeed one of the foundational pillars, a genius, one of the three literary patriarchs, etc., etc., it is noli me tangere (hands off ), he is a holy-of-holies, to be met with no harsh words (God forbid), only with paeans, or, in the most critical cases, pure objectivity. So, dear colleague critics, what will you make of his poems? He is great in his dramas, monumental in his narrative work, but his poetry? Weak, bad, banal, very often derivative. Neither independent nor original, nor even “Peretzian” as compared to his later work. But from such a muddle one can very easily extricate oneself: find your subject in the generally exceptional Peretz, but be silent about the far more commonplace graphomania of his poems. Or take another case: The majority of our poets tend, when publishing books, to include everything they produced in a certain period. In the absence of some bit of criticism [to hold them in check] they pack in every little crumb, every little piece of straw as if it were a precious jewel. A great poet such as Leyvik does this as a matter of principle. He is already mature, according to the prescriptions of the critics, so he does not need critical validation, but he is honest enough to listen to a serious argument. So he published his book, Poems of Paradise (Lider fun gan-eydn, 1938), ninety percent of which is the kind of graphomania I’m referring to, green like unripe gooseberries and sour like wild apples. So, what does one do with that, particularly when Leyvik published this book in his mature years?7 In this respect one can enumerate many examples. But there is a solution. The literary-historical method permits finding in

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debut works traces of a subsequent course of development, thereby rescuing these situations. One calls this a “genetic position,” and thus everything is rescued and legitimized. This demands the question: why can one not apply such a view also to a young writer and evaluate him positively? What has he introduced, and how can and will this be developed further? Must this method be used only for patent greatness? If one wants to accept into our criticism only the critic’s approach of schoolmarmishly evaluating these works, one must do so with a suitable key. So, one must evaluate everything from either an aesthetic-formalist or a conceptual point of view, or be a beginner in Romanticism, mysticism, or positivism, or even in a social or religious system. Thus it is evident that the critic has both a backbone and a conceptual justification for his pro or con­ argument. But just to be a rebbe with a whip? That is arbitrariness. A little literary history never hurts. So, for example, I am, as we say, a one hundred percent Hasid of the modernist trend in Yiddish literature. Closer to me are Leyeles or Broderzon than Edelshtat, Morris Rosenfeld, or even Avraham Reyzen.8 With my cliché I can largely dismiss those aged writers – done and done. My conscience is calm. And yet . . . Those “yets” do not allow such a generalization. Those “yets” impose a certain responsibility. But with regard to Naydus such a responsibility has not been felt. With a wave of the hand, belittlingly, one demeans Naydus as a rhymester: rhymes come too easily to him, rhymes flow from him in uncommon abundance. And his form was bold and perfect. How is that? Is that possible? Is that normal? Here’s a defect – the bride is too beautiful. But the sign of a poet, of a true singer (even though, according to modern theories, it can also be otherwise) is the ease of rhyme-­ spinning. Rhyme – even in the modernist form of blank verse or some other way – is the original element of poetry, a natural element of the poetic psyche, like fire or water, which, when excited, are elemental forces. Does the critic fear a wedding jester’s rhymes? So what would he do with such rhyme-masters as Markish, Broderzon, Lutski, Sutzkever?9 Erase their memory? Oh, then he must also

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with a stroke of his pen be rid of Reyzen, who also rhymes as easily as a songbird. Is therefore the charge of ease-of-rhyming logical and consistent? One critic, Rozhanski, writes a positive article, and yet qualifies his praise . . . ​: Naydus also introduced into Yiddish poetry a great number of new words, names, conceptual terms from various literatures. His is a rare musicality. Every poem is an example of mastery of word and sound. To this day, Yiddish poets can learn from Naydus rhythm, verse, and rhyme. Naydus introduced a wealth of Hebrew words into Yiddish, particularly at the ends of verses; what resulted was an extraordinary sonority, subtlety, and precision. Possessing a supple ear and fine hearing, with a freedom of word and sound unknown till that time, he introduced the most delicate nuances and hues of “The Daughters of Lithuania” (Di tekhter fun lite) and with deep breaths the idyll of domestic life, in the bosom of mother nature. With good nature and imagination, desiring to be close to reality, he gave voice in song to the longing, cosseting, and despair of a smiling child; and in the final period of his career he became the first Yiddish Decadent poet, a development which would in turn be strengthened by Jewish confidence, Jewish pride, never falling into the bonds of despair. Naydus sang forth these qualities. But he did not penetrate deeply into himself. He did not plunge like a diver into his own soul, but rather pulled away from his face the thin veil and showed that his blue dream was smiling through [ . . . ] That smile Naydus found in the virtuosity of word and sound [ . . . ]10

What more does one need? This is indeed an exalted paean, but not one continued consistently to the very end. After all the praises there comes suddenly, like a stone cast from behind a fence: “But he did not penetrate deeply into himself,” “He did not plunge like a diver into his own soul.” This is quite incomprehensible. In such a case – or in this particular concrete case – one would have to cross-examine the critic Socratically, drawing out the critic’s own words and thoughts, and showing him how he went astray in his own phraseology by

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making an indigestible and flavorless brew. And furthermore, what does he mean by “soul,” what is the sense of “into himself ”? Taken sophistically, it seems that Naydus does have an “into himself,” and perhaps if he really does have such an “into himself ” then he can bring it forth “from himself ” to the outside, because otherwise it would not be possible. When he wrote his poems he sang them, brought them forth in song. Where could this have come from if not from his inner “into himself ”? Demanding that he should bring himself down into his soul is a tautology, because he sings forth from his soul. Maybe the critic means that when Naydus sings of jewels or flowers, that is, so to speak, of objective, exterior outside-of-the-“into-himself ” things, this has no connection to his soul? How, according to the laws of simple psychology, is it possible that things, or the other phenomena which he describes, should not by whatever means have been perceived by him earlier? This is not otherwise possible. Who, then, is responsible? The ignorance of the critic. But let us defend the critic. He has an inkling; he has heard something of assessing and weighing the value of thoughts and feelings. But for such an evaluative appraisal one needs to have a measure, a tertium comparationis. Does he have such a measure? Surely not. But hush, he actually does. And this is once again the evolutionary principle of aging, that is, of the maturation process. But here too he does not really think through to the ultimate conclusions. Perhaps one may forgive the critic for not stopping at that earlier mentioned psychological position, that youth is not the antechamber to age but an independent psychic condition. He may not agree with that theory. But reason makes clear that youth is more descriptive with regard to the phenomena that surround us, while age on the other hand is more intellectualizing and rational. So does he demand of youth that it really be rational? Is he demanding the moon? Yes, indeed, he has been led astray by his own desire, his mentality, and his own work. The critic – let us not be ashamed to say this frankly – does not possess youthful poetic freshness; as an aging intellectualist and rationalist he wants to see in a young poet the

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qualities he himself can grasp and that are close to his heart and mind. And all the more so when he relies upon something or someone else. So, for example, if he takes Yehoash as an example he likely sees a great difference in the various periods of his writing.11 Even though Yehoash was the kind of poet who drew many moments of inspiration from without, from nature, there is nevertheless a difference between his earlier poems and those later ones that were imbued with deep reflection. So why should the young poet not also be reflective? And did not Peretz grow more meditative with age? And so many others? But if it can also be the opposite, the critic doesn’t care to know. I am thinking of a different example: M. L. Halpern.12 His earlier poems were actually more compelling than his later ones. One can see this particularly before his book In New York (In nyu york, 1919) and also in the weakening of tempo and pith in The Golden Peacock (Di goldene pave, 1924), as well as in the decline of the poet in the volumes that appeared after his death, in which empty rhyme-­rattling is paired with a juggling of ideas. A number of traditional ideas lie at the foundation of such critical clichés, which one needs to get rid of in favor of the orderliness of our own literary thought. There is no law that can determine precisely when the zenith will come, nor is there some kind of watershed moment in the spiritual processes that doubtless underlie the order and course of natural processes. There is an old philosophical rule (particularly since Rickert’s definitive study) that natural science and the humanities admit of no comparison, nor do they allow the application of a single measure.13 This is what our domestic critic does not understand. He is still a maskil who salivates over “objective” science and thus materializes the sovereignty of the spirit. Thus originate the misunderstandings and false criteria that in the best case afflict our literary and intellectual life and litter (not fertilize!) our flower garden, either weakening it at the roots or crushing the incipient growth of our poets.

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I cannot refrain from quoting at length from Chaim Liberman with regard to our subject: Poetry is not an art that is a product of culture but rather a function of our blood. All arts are rooted somewhere in our physical being, but poetry lies closer to the foundation of body and blood than the other arts. The elements of poetry are image and rhythm. And everyone must understand that as quickly as a man enters a “mood,” a rapture, or a rage, he begins to speak in images and rhythmic order. Poetry begins with the merest warming of the blood, the moment when the heart begins to beat faster. Our blood has two basic moods. One is the mood of life at equilibrium, the mood when we feel the thousand little functions of our daily existence [ . . . ] The second mood is the mood of excitation when the blood warms, when it gets fired up about something, when it starts circulating faster, more hurriedly. And then, when a man leaves his physiological equilibrium he automatically lapses – In bilder un ritem . . . ​ in dem ritem fun blut.

Into images and rhythm . . . ​ Into the rhythm of blood.

Who has not noticed how a man, when he is delighted about something extraordinary, when he lapses into a delicate ecstasy, or the opposite, into vulgar anger, he immediately stops speaking his usual language and begins using a different language, an intentional, strange, figurative language? Perhaps simple anger is a better illustration for our discussion than delicate ecstasy. When one lapses into such an anger his customary prose fails him and he begins cursing and swearing. And when one analyzes his oaths and curses, one finds that they all have characteristics of poetry. They are dominated by rhythm and consist of figurative images, oftentimes of a brilliant fantastical nature. Very often they even have rhyme. [ . . . ] In point of fact, all of the elements of poetry can be found in cursing and swearing: symmetry, parallelism of thought and image, a distinct vocabulary. And there are also degrees of talent. There are those who are quite skillful at cursing

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and swearing, true artists whose “mouths are on screws” and who at the smallest excitation begin “casting pearls” or “pouring out pitch and brimstone.” In order for a Jewish woman to start cursing it is necessary for her to be irritated, vexed, agitated, just as it is necessary for a poet to start writing for him to have his mood, his inspiration, his excitation of the blood. In other words, when the Jewish woman curses in the market and Goethe meditates at night, both of them are creating poetry. The only difference is in the quality.  . . . ​Poetry is in the blood and of the blood and is bound by the laws of blood.14 This is to say that poetry is elemental, if not an element itself. And the poet is dominated by it so perfectly that very often he is unable to express the extra-elemental aspects of his process. Blood and the elements can also be the Socratic daimonion. If so, the critic surely cannot dictate to the poet how he must understand the world or by what medium he must absorb it. Because of this incomprehension of Naydus’s daimonion one reproaches him for being merely a describer of nature, a lyricist of nature, for not including this or that motif. Were one to render a clear account of the difficulties in this poetry one would need to understand that for him (as for many other poets) nature is the air he breathes, the element in which he is immersed, the atmosphere in which he swims about, even the hooray with which he swells. The poet and nature are connected and bound together in a single unity; nature gives him symbols for his work, but his work is also the symbolic expression of nature. This is the case with Leyb Naydus. Nature is not for him a subject to copy in poems, to photograph; rather it is the keynote that emanates from the pantheistic flows deep within it. Naydus is so thoroughly a lyricist of nature that one cannot understand that phenomenon otherwise. But our domestic critic cannot understand, and in his narrow-mindedness he does not want to.

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That Same Yente . . . ​ Using such arguments as we have just presented, finely turned and chiseled, and subjected compositionally to a concentric and concentrated attack, M. Kitay published an article on the eleventh anniversary of Naydus’s death. But before we talk about his strategic achievement, a dumb question needs first to be asked, namely: how does one come to write an anniversary article about a poet against whom one has only complaints, whom one evaluates completely negatively, and whom one does not at all consider worthy of a position in Yiddish literature? It does indeed happen, one can write (even for an anniversary) about negative phenomena that have harmed or hindered the normal or progressive course of certain human events. But as for poets, one dismisses them as mere graphomaniacs because, at any rate, they were little valued, as is now the case with Naydus. So in general why write about him? That does not make sense to me. But he should speak for himself:15 Naydus was uncommonly successful in his poems, particularly in the rhyme; his rhymes really flowed from him. He did not experience his poems, nor did he hammer them out of the depths, nor did he bear them and suffer them forth, but rather sang them like the canary trilling out its sounds. He was carefree and free, cheerful and high-spirited, and so song came to him. The sound enchanted and seduced him. Indeed he said of himself that he felt himself more capable as a musician than a poet. His poems, with few exceptions, are just like puppets: powdered, made-up, overdone, and often with a touch of mere whimsy. They are dominated by a lack of naturalness; it is as though they are without flesh and blood, earth without the healthy fragrance of earth. But he did spend his youth in this bosom of nature, raised in fields and forests, among trees and flowers. In his poems are endlessly repeated descriptions of flowers, often charming, ornamented, perfumed flowers. But without that natural sap of life, without that intoxicating fragrance of nature. His poems seem like the butterflies that fly about carefree, unconcerned about their brief lives. They are a delight to the eyes, they caress one’s hearing; they mean summer to us. With their

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One must lack a good deal of taste and tact to write like this. A responsible critic even in his negative evaluations would not allow himself such a reckoning. Every word a stone. A kind of malice crawls out of every line. But this is not the point. The main thing is that the entire evaluation, the whole argument, is a false one, and principally a mendacious one. Kitay looked specifically at those of Naydus’s poems that matched his theses (if these were really theses and not merely false accusations). Had he read Naydus without the intent to tear him down, he surely would have found poems by the poet [not only] “not borne, not suffered forth” but also actually borne and suffered forth. But the question is what Kitay considers suffering. This he does not say at all. So Naydus suffers over that which concerns him as a lyric poet par excellence, he suffers over that which every lyric poet of his kind and of his time suffers. So the claim of the critic makes no sense, and is mere blather. That Kitay did not take the trouble to read Naydus, without any particular diligence, is demonstrated in the passage where he reproaches the poet because, despite being brought up in the bosom of nature, his natural objects are perfumed, “without the intoxicating fragrance of nature.” Naydus’s long poem Back at Home (Tsurik in der heym) bears

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witness, as do many other poems as well, to the falsity of the above counterfeit thesis. One claim, however, does appear to be honest and sincere, but it would not militate against the bad reader that Kitay is. Kitay does not believe in poetry for poetry’s sake. He thinks that Yiddish poetry has “always had a particular leitmotif.” True. Agreed. But did Naydus then intentionally free himself from that confinement, or somehow confront that trend? Did he perhaps shake off that leitmotif? In his own hyper-individualism did he deride the national and social ideals of the Jewish people? Did he perhaps shut his own eyes and call for others to shut theirs to the pain and suffering of the Jewish masses? Did he perhaps see the Via Dolorosa of the Jewish people, but as a “decadent” set himself apart from that path of suffering, hiding in an ivory tower where all kinds of dreams nest and pass the night? Did he call for others to refuse to look at the real world because, in any event, nothing good could come of it? Where and when did he do all of this? Please, give some evidence! The truth, though, is just the opposite. The opposite – fortunately for Naydus, unfortunately for the liars. It is a noteworthy phenomenon that our patent critics have so little occupied themselves with Naydus’s works. Privately, in conversation, they melt with praise, but their pen makes no move to give him any serious attention. Some kind of shyness inhibits them. They have complaints against Naydus – he is not some ordinary person that one can dismiss; here’s more “praise” – for them Naydus lacks such elements that would make the work easier. That is, they cannot fit him into the framework, the scheme, that they have worked out for Yiddish literature. So there is a blank, a vacuum, that is filled by such nattering sparrows as those we cited earlier, and who reveal out of school all the secrets that one hears whispered in the halls. Naydus is a unique phenomenon in our poetry. He blazed new paths. So one needs to be transported – in the desire to value and evaluate him – onto different rails. But this is not such an easy feat.

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The natural laziness of thought of the majority of people hinders such efforts. Intellectually industrious people who have grown accustomed once and for all to certain theorems do not want so easily to dismiss them in order to rebuild or to build anew their conceptual architecture. Therefore – speaking concretely – if ninety percent of Naydus’s work is made up of nature lyrics, then he is stamped as such and reckoned in one category, giving no heed to the rest of his work. In particular, no heed is given to the fact that, artistically, he seems so very much stronger in those descriptions of nature and meditations than in national motifs. Incidentally, such motifs were not alien to him, as is shown not only by his participation in the party movement of the SSRP, but also, at the very least, by his cycle of poems My People (Mayn folk).17 Naydus understood very well that attitude toward him, and the misunderstanding and rejection pained him. Likely someone used it as a charge against him, because he addressed it directly in his poem “To One” (Tsu eynem): Du host tsu mir a tayne, vos sheyn un zunik is mayn vort; vos in di shirim mayne farnemt mayn folk a kleynem ort

You have made a charge against me, That my word is too beautiful and sunny; That in my poems My people occupies but a little place.

du zogst: di ferzn zaynen nit loyt dem yidishn geshmak, un s’blondzhen dortn shaynen fun a geheymen zodiak . . . ​

You say: These verses are not To the Jewish taste, And in them stray the glimmerings Of a secret zodiac . . . ​

du bist gerekht avade: ikh bin der prister fun natur, un oykh fun der elade gefinstu oft in mir a shpur.

You are right of course: I am the priest of nature, And also of the Hellenic You’ll often find a trace in me.

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es treft, ven ikh tsevikl di goldne oytsres fun orient, di lorber fun perikl, tsi afrodites prakht, vos blendt –

It so happens when I deploy The golden treasures of the Orient, The laurels of Pericles Or Aphrodite’s dazzling splendor –

o gloyb mir, liber rikhter: kh’hob lib mayn folk azoy vi du; nor nimes iz der dikhter di foyle groykayt un di ru.

Oh believe me, dear judge: I love my People as well as you; But the poet finds ever so tiresome The lazy greyness and the indolence.

kh’tseshpreyt di dalet ames un unzer shprakh vos payn nor molt; ikh tsir es un tseflam es fun faynstn oysterlishn gold.

I spread out the four cubits Of our language, which describes only pain; I adorn it and burnish it With the finest, uncommon gold.

ikh vil durkhdem derhoybn di zel fun folk, vos shmakht un kvelt, un laytern zayn gloybn in shtoltser sheynkayt fun der velt!

By this I wish to elevate The languid, suffering soul of my People And to illuminate its faith With the proud beauty of the world!

un kh’boy in groyen goles dem raykhn shlos fun elfantbeyn; vi di geshtalt apolos, azoy zol zayn dos lebn sheyn!

And I build in grey Exile The sumptuous ivory palace; Like the statue of Apollo So shall life be beautiful!18

Naydus indicates plainly and clearly what kind of a programmatic goal he sets himself. In his poetry he does not intend to turn completely away from his people personally. It is not only for himself that he wants to build this palace of beauty. He wants to free his people from greyness, from pain, and to show them beauty, to let them bathe in the light of the sun. By this he also means to say, “enough of this Lamentations-like wailing!”; one cannot and

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ought not live with negative motifs alone; the ceaseless mourning periods will not free us from the national four cubits; the time has already come to set out on the road that leads to light and sunshine and beauty; light, sun, and beauty are manifestly the forces of liberation. Without a doubt such a poetic credo is a program, one no worse than our somewhat political-sounding one. I believe, however, that Naydus’s program is no less political than those political poems that speak in quasi-socio-political categories and phraseology. And among what people would one have dared to doubt that the poet must serve the people? And to serve not necessarily only with placards and slogans but also really and only with his poetic particularity, with his poetic weaponry? The classic Polish writer Słowacki was principally a masterful fashioner of language, and as such served Polish culture, setting upon the Polish language a seal that is apparent to this day; and perhaps without his achievement and his influence it would not have developed to the degree that it has.19 That is how Leyb Naydus understood his mission. He did not take to heart – though this caused some pain – the charge against him that he was no political poet, because he understood plainly and clearly where his path had to lead and what he had to bring to his Jewish people. Such was his contribution to the national struggle and the renaissance of the Jewish people, a contribution no less important than any other. Ikh bin der eyntsiker, vos hob gefunen in unser mame-shprakh den sheynem klang; ikh hob antplekt in ir geheyme zunen, kameyes tayere fun raykhstn blank.

I am the only one who has found The beautiful sound in our mother tongue; I have revealed her secret suns, Precious amulets of the richest luster.

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ikh bin der eyntsiker, vos hot farshtanen tsu makhn farbiker den groyen raym; azoy vi federn fun di fazanen, loykht regnboygndik mayn ferz gehay

I am the only one who has understood how To make the grey rhyme more colorful; Just like the feathers of pheasants My verse secretly shines like a rainbow.

ikh bin der eyntsiker, ikh bin der eyner, vos vebt dem luftikstn muzikgeshpin, farshvendt aykh tsirungen, tseshtralte shteyner mit di shatirungen fun faynstn min.

I am the only one, I am the one Who weaves the most airy web of music, Bestrewing you with ornaments, resplendent jewels In hues of the finest sort.

ikh bin der eyntsiker, vos kon bavegn in ritmen boygevdike unzer shprakh, vos hot zi opgevendt fun shmole shtegn, un zi aroysgefirt tsum breytn shlyakh.

I am the only one who can With supple rhythms prod our language, Who has diverted her from narrow trails And led her forth to the wide road.20

And his achievement should garner for him eternal praise, bringing him into the pantheon of our literature, among the best and greatest of our writers. He is not proud, and would not characterize himself in such a way. The clarity of his will, the consciousness of his way, and his estimation of his own worth speak for him. Poètes maudits – that is what in France they call those poets who had the courage to go on different paths than the public desired. For their freethinking, their audacity, these “accursed poets” were rewarded by society – with stones, or in the best case with slander or silence. Nor do we lack such accursed poets. So, let us offer some statistics to show how much has been written about well-known writers (not to mention the Classics), and then it will become apparent how feebly and insufficiently many of our homegrown “accursed poets” have been dealt with, poets such as Sh. Y. Imber (Naydus

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can also be included here), Yankev Glatshteyn, Broderzon, Reuven Ludvig, etc. – while others had the undeserved luck (to such a great extent) to be pampered and coddled immeasurably, for example M. L. Halpern, or among the youngest, Chaim Grade.21

The History of Decadence When God wishes to punish an ignoramus he puts in his mouth a Hebrew word. So the folk wisdom judges. And it is right. Even more so were it to become acquainted with our modern, secularized, European-­ disguised Jews who occupy themselves with questions of culture. For them it is natural to spew forth unchewed foreign words, when it is actually humiliating before respectable people, and makes them a laughing-stock. Luckily our little domestic garden is so circumscribed that no foreign eye can peek in and see the garbage cans instead of flowers. Many of our spokesmen and opinion-makers have heard some internationally accepted words and concepts and have adopted them, but they do not know at all when and how to use them. So it is with the words decadent and decadence. All of Naydus’s critics (even Reyzen in his Leksikon) have applied this epithet to him. Why this is the case is a complete puzzle. One speaks of the decadence of various historical periods. In general this refers to the very end-points of historical periods, when certain social and cultural phenomena and their underlying ideologies have played out their mission and have rolled downhill, demoralized as a result of their supersatiety and calling on forms that no longer pulse with productivity and vitality. Every historical subject enters decadence before passing away or before the appearance of a new subject, of a new period. Is this the case with Naydus? Is he perhaps an expression or an expresser of a twilight Jewish period on the verge of dying, suffocated by its own supersatiety and simultaneous emptiness? – No, this is not the case; we Jews have, in this very latest period, in our modern cultural life, still not undergone such a process. That word can therefore be understood with another meaning.

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That is, as an “ism”: decadentism, a parallel phenomenon and a by-product of an artistic school and style of Impressionism that appeared at the end of the nineteenth century, revolutionizing the entire artistic and cultural world, and leaving behind a rich legacy without which modern artists cannot function and which one will not be able to ignore in future generations. Actually just the opposite, it is precisely on the foundation of this Impressionism that modern artists will build their achievements. It is enough to mention just a few names in order to show the importance of this Impressionism, which will spare us a broad and lengthy dissertation on its nature. In literature: Baudelaire, Verlaine, Dehmel, Żeromski; in art: Cézanne, Liebermann, Levitan; in music: Ravel, Débussy; in philosophy: Simmel; in criticism: Kerr; in theater: Maeterlinck; etc. Thanks to the attraction of Romantic detachment from the world on the one hand, and capitalism’s accelerated development on the other, confounding delicately sensitive artistic natures as it did with its great technical achievements and social crises, certain psychic types descended into a frightful pessimism and despair, becoming deniers of every universal and human value, atheists. Confused and tormented souls found that the only possibility left in life was to turn away from everything and everyone, nihilistically relating to the world, to people, and to everything that is in society, getting drunk with either artificially spiritual or drugstore narcotics, and very often, in their misery, not finding any other way out than committing suicide. Complete hopelessness, no way out, not a single refuge, no idea, no outlook or perspective – these are the signs of a decadent, signs that, incidentally, also became a great style for all those artistic apers and imitators who, not possessing the least artistic potential of their own, threw themselves with snobbish desire upon those elements of Impressionism that were second-rate and inessential. (See, by the way, the splendid novel Próchno [Touchwood; 1903] by the Polish writer [Wacław] Berent [1878–1940], in which both the age and the gang of decadents are brilliantly described.) And must our Naydus be a decadent of this kind?

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Oh, when God punishes an ignoramus . . . ​ When has it been encountered that a “decadent” should write like Naydus: Yung der himl – frisher tkheyles! untn roysht der griner bal! ikh bin gliklekh un kh’dertseyl es yedn shteyndl, yedn shtral . . . ​

Young the sky – fresh azure! The green ball resounds below! I am happy and I say so To every pebble and every ray of light . . . ​

kh’blondzhe um dem tog dem gantsn vi a vilder yishuv-zun, un in ovnt shrayb ikh stantsn vegn feygelekh un zun . . . ​

I wander around the whole day long Like a wild son of the village, And in the evening I write stanzas About birds and the sun . . . ​22

A decadent does not look around into the positive, into what sprouts life, as Naydus does. He does not feel any lust for life. He has only the vision of death, of Böcklin’s Toteninsel (Isle of the Dead), of death’s-heads; for him the lust for life is completely extinguished. For Naydus it sprouts and sprays sparks: Der friling! der friling! ikh her zayn shtim shoyn, er geyt shoyn, er kumt – der goldgelokter kruv! kh’bin ful mit zun, kh’bin a yunger shimshen, veltn kenen ufblien fun mayn mindstn pruv.

The Spring! The Spring! I already hear its voice, He’s on his way already, he’s coming – the golden-locked cherub! I am full of the sun, I am a young Samson, Worlds can blossom forth from my least attempt.

kh’vil gornit visn! kh’vil nit trakhtn! nemt tsu mayne makhshoves! ikh darf nit di ru! ikh vander arum in gan-eydnhatakhtn, un mit itlekhn foygl bin ikh haynt af “du” . . . ​

I want to know nothing! I want to think nothing! Take away my thoughts! I need no rest! I wander around in the Garden of Eden below And I am today on familiar terms with every bird . . . ​

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mayne bagern? dos zaynen di vilde shtromen, vos yogn mit impet fun letstn shney; mayne khaveyrim? dos zaynen in vald di gnomen, vos bagleytn mikh umetum, vuhin ikh gey . . . ​

My desires? These are the wild streams That run hastily from the final snows; My friends? These are the forest gnomes Who accompany me all round wherever I go . . . ​

mayn yugnt shist-uf in do dervakhte blutn vi kreftiker rayfer vayn durkhn shpunt . . . ​ adye, mayn ruikayt mit dayne shtile minutn, mayne fartroymte reges – zayt gezunt! zayt gezunt!

My youth shoots up in my awakened blood Like robust, mature wine through the spout . . . ​ Adieu, my repose with your quiet minutes, My dreamy moments – Farewell! Farewell!23

A decadent has already long forgotten what it means to cast about impatiently for a purpose in life. For him there is neither purpose nor goal. Vanity of vanities. This is just the opposite for Naydus. He continually searches and waits for something different, for something both better and more beautiful. That world-weariness of his which from time to time wrests from him notes of pain and despair – but not of avowed pessimism – principally begins with a still unrealized longing that dreams up mirages of a perfect life. Look therefore at how the “decadent” Naydus comes to harp and carp: Untern shtern fun umru leb ikh shtendik, untern tseykhn fun a vaytn geheymen zodyak; der got fun zukhenishn hot eygnhentik gekhasmet bay mayn vig mayn lebns-psak.

Under the star of restlessness I always live, Under the sign of a distant, secret zodiac; The god of quests has with his own hand Sealed my life’s decree at birth.

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Naydus Studies mayn itlekh tropn blut halt in traybn un ayln; ot hob ikh, dukht zikh, shoyn mayn tsil bahersht, nor ot vinken tsu mir mirmlne zayln fun a nayem templ, vos antplekt zikh nokh ersht.

My every drop of blood constantly urges and hastens; So I have, it seems, already mastered my purpose, But here beckon to me the marble pillars Of a new temple only just now discovered.

kh’leb in shtendikn sofek, in shtendikn gevakl, un in ofte nitskhoynes fun mayn getersher lust; nor keyn mol, keyn mol makh ikj nit keyn sakhakl fun mayne dergreykhungen un fun mayn farlust . . . ​

I live in constant doubt, in constant unease, And in the frequent triumphs of my godlike desire; But never, never do I make any reckoning Of my achievements and of my loss . . . ​

mit a heyliker dervartung iz shtendik ful mayn neshome, mir dukht tomid: kh’vel derzen, vos kh’hob nit gekont zen; un mayn gants lebn kumt mir oys azoy vi a hakdome tsu a groyser poeme, vos darf kumen nokh ven . . . ​

My soul is always full of a holy expectation, It perpetually seems to me: I will perceive what I was not able to see; And my whole life amounts to something like an introduction To a great poem that is still to come . . . ​24

And indeed it was neither gratuitous nor fortuitous that Naydus chose Nietzsche’s poems as mottoes to his own poems. Because Nietzsche really was in his whole poetic and philosophic personality just as he himself formulated it: “an arrow longing for that shore.” That relationship of the arrow to the shore bids Naydus take just such a fragment from Nietzsche as an epigram for his “Poem Without a Name” (Poeme on a nomen): Dorthin will ich und ich traue mir fortan und meinem Griff. Offen liegt das Meer, ins Blaue treibt mein genueser Schiff.

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[There will I go, trusting Henceforth myself and my grip. The sea lies open and into its blue Drives my Genoese ship.]25

And for his Intimate Melodies (Intime nigunim) he again chose Nietzsche, again a selection full of cosmic confidence: Voraus bestimmt zur Sternenbahn, Was geht dich, Stern, das Dunkel an Rolle selig hin durch diese Zeit. Ihr Elend sei dir fremd und weit. [Predestined to your orbit, star, What matters the darkness to you? Roll on blissfully across this age! May your sorrow be far and away!]26

Nietzsche compares his longing to the departing voyage of the Genoese Christopher Columbus; Naydus, full of Hellenistic reminiscences, compares himself to the Argonauts, and one could not declare more strongly – it seems – more sharply, or more explicitly the unbroken will to achieve the ultimate goal at any price, the isle of eternal happiness, the land of the definitive realization, the longed-for utopia, which is a dream today but which tomorrow could become a reality, as Naydus makes it in his sonnet “The Argonaut” (Der argonavt: from Lirik I): Ikh shvim shoyn lange yorn af mayn raykhn un fayn-geshnitstn zunikn argo; un meg mayn kop ingantsn vern gro – ikh tret nisht op fun veg fun eyntsik glaykhn.

I have floated for many long years upon my rich And finely carved, sunny Argo; And may my head go completely grey Should I deviate from the single straight way.

kh’shnayd-durkh di flakh fun yamen un fun taykhn, kh’bin nekhtn dort geven, un haynt – shoyn do; un shtralndik un nay iz yede sho, khotsh s’iz mir shver mayn vaytn tsil erraykh

I cleave through the plane of seas and rivers, Yesterday I was there, and today – already here; And every hour is radiant and new, Even though it is difficult to reach my distant goal.

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It may be: with fortunate and tired eyes I will yet sometime see my Colchis To which my entire youthful energy has aimed . . . ​

dervayl – in veg, tsu zukhn mayn kameye! s’muz ergets vu a prekhtige medeye ervartn mikh, dem yungn argonavt . . . ​

Meanwhile, on the way, to seek my amulet! Somewhere there must be a gorgeous Medea Awaiting me, the young Argonaut . . . ​27

So, when all is said and done is that what one calls decadence?

Who Is Behind the Times? Born too early or too late? It is not only in relation to Naydus that such a question is or can be posed. Not once, and not only with regard to rare cases, but quite often has that trite formula been employed when dealing with those exceptional cases which defy being harmonized with their contemporaneity. Thanks to that convenient formula one can easily rid oneself of many worries in attempting to interpret a particular cultural phenomenon. These uncommon artists, whose work allows neither hedging nor dragging under a single summation of an age or a dominant style – require one to rack one’s brains, and that is evaded with the apodictic “born too early or too late.” Shmuel Niger’s opinion belongs to that category of evaluation:28 But Naydus wrote very well-seasoned and charming salon poems in a language whose speakers and readers are accustomed to very simple, almost provincial, forms of life and emotional expressions. He offered half-wilted, tired-smelling, hothouse flowers, “culture” poetry, to those who still had not slaked their thirst for the fresh, healthy fragrance of the lyric poetry of fields and forests. He came with the exotic for those who had not yet finished singing their familiar folksongs.

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He did not come too early . . . ​ He remained unknown only because his most appropriate reader, or more accurately, his female reader – namely, the young, intellectual, society lady, or the stout former student who declaims Bal’mont by heart – still hasn’t learned Yiddish. She will learn it – and at Yiddish-student evenings a young soprano will, instead of the smooth Frug, recite Naydus. Then there will be a suitable atmosphere around him, and one will appreciate how fitting the poems are: not only those in which a lyrical feeling quivers and trembles, but also those verses whose chief quality is the polish of the form and the elegance of the subject.29

To Niger’s credit one must emphasize his orphaned sentence, left without further elaboration, that Naydus did not come too early; this despite the fact that his later somewhat sarcastic sentences hint at Niger’s not too strongly positive regard for the poet. But that single inserted sentence, coyly unexplained and not expanded upon, shows that in those years Niger himself also certainly dreamed about refining Yiddish literature, about its Europeanization, so to speak, exactly as Naydus did with great courage, without regard to the fact that there was still no environment ready to receive his tones and to bear them further than an echo. The essential sense of Niger’s opinion is that Naydus could not be domesticated for the Yiddish reader. That is to say, either the Yiddish reader had still not come to the level of culture which would bring him on a par, either completely or relatively, with other more or less developed peoples, or the poet revolted, not lowering himself or accommodating himself to the taste and ideas of the honored Jewish public. In either case the result was a tragic situation both for the poet and for literature. The tragic seal for Naydus was his lack of domesticity.

Not Domestic, but Still Jewish And Naydus really is thoroughly Jewish. His search for European forms and themes need not be seen as scandalous. This is far from an estrangement, from an interruption of traditional Jewishness

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either in substance or expression. Rather, it is the particular desire to expand its range of possibilities, to enrich its own resources. That is where to locate Naydus’s achievement and great merit with regard to the Yiddish poetic word and worth. In this way he meant to equip, to adorn, to deepen, to enrich the four cubits of his own domesticity. Naydus’s eager pursuit of Europeanism is, in this sense, neither straightforward assimilation nor an escape from his own people and their substance, but rather an Argonautical escapade designed to bring back with it treasures for the good of his own home. Naydus was not deceived by the outside world, deluded by what was external to Jewry and Jewishness, or blind to what was specific to Jews; rather, he strove to marry the external and the internal. He was bound not only to the Jewish people as to a collective – to a socio-political structure, to a sociological abstraction – but also to all forms of their existence, of their expression. And so very often he was, as a result, not merely Jewish in the national sense, but really in the personal sense. And that personal relationship better and more distinctly reflects his rootedness than whatever manifestos and manifestations in highfalutin’ words there may be. Here is a curious, whimsical composition. The poem is called “Con sordino” and its contents are not at all foreign or foreign-speaking: Ikh hob lib dayn farkholemte tsnies, vos du host, mayn gelibte, bakumen fun di hunderter doyres birushe; nem mayn harts un farvig af di kni es, zol es ruen in rozike blumen fun dayn tsertlekher maydlsher bushe . . . ​ [ . . . ]

I love your dreamy modesty Which you, my beloved, have received As an inheritance from the hundreds of generations; Take my heart and rock it to sleep on your knees, So it might rest in the rosy flowers Of your fond girlish shame . . . ​ [ . . . ]

vig es ayn mit a kindishn-nign vegn rozinkes un vegn mandlen, vi es zingen di yidishe mames . . . ​ [ . . . ]

Lull it with a children’s tune About raisins and almonds Like the Jewish mothers sing . . . ​ [ . . . ]

Naftoli Vaynig nem mayn harts un farvig af di kni es, un dayn lid, vi a zaydene strune, zol mir zayn a farheylikter vekhter . . . ​ akh, vi sheyn, akh, vi sheyn iz dayn tsnies! zi dermont mir di pirkhey-kehune, di fartsaytike yidishe tekhter . . . ​

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Take my heart and rock it to sleep on your knees, And your song, like a silken string, Shall be for me a sanctified guardian . . . ​ Ah, how beautiful, ah, how beautiful is your modesty! It reminds me of the precious posterity, Of the ancient Jewish daughters . . . 30

Characteristic of Naydus’s drive to join together the Jewish and the “goyish” in the same work are two epigraphs to his cycle Pan’s Flute (Di fleyt fun pan); that is, one from Mendele, the grandfather, and the other from that ultramodern (for Naydus’s time) Frenchman, Edmond Rostand. In this way Naydus joins together as with a bridge the two particularities and singularities: Jewishness and Europeanness. The content of both epigraphs will show at once the parallelism of the natural relationship of these seemingly contradictory worlds. With this Naydus conducts a bit of diplomacy. Here is the parallel: The little hills around the village greet you in a very friendly way, the green valleys encourage you – come, uncle, lie down upon the grass . . . You can feel something of the holiness, a still, sweet rest, a longing, a tugging to life – in your heart a warm prayer to the one who lives forever . . . ​  (Mendele Moykher-Sforim)

And – Nature! Oh, how we long for it languishingly, We painters, artists, faithfully in love with its beauty . . . ​ One crazy hope long warms us, Only one burning desire fulfills us: To set a seal upon its face . . . ​ (Rostand)

Uniting Jewishness and non-Jewishness was for Naydus absolutely not coquetry, nor, in the best case, a dry programmaticity, but rather

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a deep conviction, a strong desire and striving for a synthesis. But this detail about Naydus will be more accurately understood once one accepts that he wanted to plant the European shoot in the black soil of Jewishness, and that the first among the two is necessarily Jewishness. That this is the case and not otherwise, that this is really what Naydus himself thought and believed, is shown in so many of his poems in which he reveals the traditional threads from which his soul was spun. A kheshvan-regndl trift, foyl vyoket A little kheshvan rain is dripping. der balegole. The coachman lazily giddyups. kh’ze mayn hoyf shoyn fun der I already see my courtyard, vayt, vos iz mir azoy bakent; so familiar to me, in the bald vet durkhtsitern in altn zal di distance; gelibte barkarole Through the old salon the unter mayne gliklekhe, tsiterike, beloved barcarole will soon anttsikte hent . . . ​ trill Under my happy, trembling, delighted hands . . . ​ s’vet keyner dortn nit vagn mayn troym tsu zayn metame, kh’vel af s’nay in toybnshlak gebn esn dem vaysn gezind; unter ir varemen shuts vet mikh arunternemen mayn mame, un ikh vel vider zayn vi a kleyn tsepyeshtshet kind . . . ​

No one there will dare defile my dream, Anew will I feed the white family in the dovecote; My mama will take me under her warm protection, And I will again be like a little spoiled child . . . ​

in harbstike ovntn, in heymlekhe krayz fun kroyvim, vel ikh forleyenen fun peretsn baym shvakh-baloykhtenem tish; un di bobe vet mir dertseyln vegn sore bas-toyvim, tsi vegn yoyne ha-tsadik, vos s’hot im ayngeshlungen der fish . . . ​

In autumnal evenings, in the homey circle of relatives, I will recite Peretz at the dimly lit table; And grandmother will tell me about Sore bas Toyvim, Or about Jonah the Righteous swallowed by the fish . . . ​31

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shtil zipt der kheshvan-regndl. es The little kheshvan rain sifts skripet der vogn. quietly. The cart squeaks. blote. gele bleter. di luft iz faykht Mud. Yellow leaves. The air is un kil. damp and cool. a nase beryozkele, vi a yishuv-kind A wee wet birch sapling, like a nokhn tsvogn, village child after a washing, bagrist maynj tsurikker mit a Greets my return with a quiet brokhe in der shtil . . . ​ blessing . . . ​32

Not only in this beautiful poem does the poet express his attachment to the entire traditional patrimony through the grandmother. He does so often, and again, neither to be coquettish with the Jewish content of his soul nor to defend himself against senseless charges. He bows with deep emotion – I will even dare to say with deep religiosity – before his grandmother, who was for him not merely the symbol of traditional Jewishness and former Romantic beauty, but who also mediated the eternal national values and delivered into his hands the eternal lamp, for him to hold aloft once again for later generations. To hold aloft also in the sense of tradition, as the Romans understood that word, and also as, in a kind of religious celebration, kindled torches (lampadae traditae) were handed from one to another. The grandmother’s treasure is holy and precious for Naydus, not only because it comes from his beloved grandma, but also because, thanks to her, he has made it his spiritual property: Akh, bobeshi! ikh dank far ales, ales, far dayne troymen, vos ikh trog un hit, vos hobn in mayn hartsn tif tseblit, vi semevdike vayse frilings-kales . . . ​

Oh, grandma! I thank you for everything, everything, For your dreams that I carry and protect That blossomed deep in my heart, Like bashful white spring-brides . . . ​

ikh dank far yene shtralndike shtundn, ven du host dayne mayselekh mir fartseylt fun ales, vos iz shayen un oysderveylt

I thank you for those radiant hours When you told me your tales About all that is beautiful and precious,

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Naydus Studies un host mikh mit der eybikayt And you bound me to eternity! farbundn! Oh, grandma! You will forever akh, bobeshi! vest eybik loykhtn hel, shine brightly un laytern mayn blondzhendike And purify my wandering soul! . . . ​ zel! . . . ​

(“Vider in der heym,” XVIII) From the grandmother’s wellspring modern philosophies did not flow forth, because she was a traditional, religiously simple member of the folk – as we see from her portrait, drawn by her fiercely loving grandson: Itst, nokh der bobes toyt, kum ikh oft in der kamer, fun vayte doyres kumt mir antkegn a grus; shtil bleter ikh di sforim mitn altn amsterdamer opgevelktn, libn, oysterlishn dfus . . . ​

Now, after grandmother’s death, I often come into her room, From distant generations a greeting comes to me; I quietly page through the books with the old Amsterdam Faded, dear, uncommon type . . . ​

ikh mish-durkh di fargelte bleter fun di grobe sidurim, di bobe flegt mit kavone davnen in zey. do flegt vern ayngeshtilt ir hartsiker shturem, un trern flegn faln in tfile-vey . . . ​

I turn the yellowed pages of the thick prayerbooks, Grandmother used to pray from them with such devotion. Here her hearty storm would be calmed, And tears would fall in prayer’s pain . . . ​

alts benkt nokh der boben itst – vi klor ikh derken es! – di erd – nokh ire fantofl; nokh ir shotn – di vent; un di alte, farlozene tsenerenes – nokh ir liber, beynerdiker, zkeynesher hant . . . ​

Everything longs for grandmother now – how clearly I recognize it! – The earth – for her slipper; for her shadow – the wall; And the old, abandoned Tsenerenes – For her dear, bony, old-woman’s hand . . . ​33

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Not just once does he mention her or think of her in connection to his lyrical longing, or – it’s not a stretch to say – to his worldview. He has her to thank for his religious education, his attachment to tradition, his first emotional religious initiations, his immersion in the legendary Jewish concepts expressed in emotional images even in earlier times, when the practical conduct of religious rituals was apparently not studiously observed. The sown seed, however, remained, and did not rot, but produced a sprout which had a powerful influence on the poet’s spirit. Tradition, the light of long ago, the depth of his soul’s life, even the mood of nature was for him joined to that so-admired image of his grandmother. Di nakht di batoyte iz bloy un bashternt. di bobe zet oys, dukht zikh, heyliker, frimer; zi shteyt nebn ofenem fentster un lernt mikh krishme in shtilkayt fun nakhtikn tsimer.

The dead night is blue and starry. Grandmother appears, it seems, more holy, more pious; She stands by the open window and reads To me the krishme in the silence of the nighttime room.34

zi nemt mikh arum mit di beynike finger, azoy vi der tunkl dem sod dem bagrintn; un s’dukht mir: mayn kerper vert luftiker, gringer, un s’dukht mir: es vaksn mir fligl fun hintn . . . ​

She wraps me with her bony finger, Just as the darkness does the verdant orchard; And it seems to me: my body grows airier, lighter, And it seems to me: I am growing wings from my back . . . ​

un vayte levoneke shtraln bazipn di oygn mit bloylekher blaskayt, un gletn; es murmlen un murmlen der bobeshis lipn, un shtil zog ikh nokh, vort-in-vort, di gebetn . . . ​

And white moonbeams screen My eyes with a bluish pallor, and caress them; Grandma’s lips murmur and murmur, And quietly I say again, word by word, the prayers . . . ​

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And little winds come and graze my locks, They come like bashful, quiet children, And run back through the fields as if frightened, And pluck the childish prayer from my mouth . . . ​

zi trogt zikh tsum kise-hakoved, un dortn shtil knit zi far got vi a toyb a barute, un got kukt arop mit a shmeykhl in gortn, un vintsht fun zayn hoykhkayt a nakht mir a gute . . . ​

She is borne to the Throne of Glory, and there She quietly kneels before God like a becalmed dove, And God looks down with a smile into the garden, And from His height wishes me a good night . . . ​35

Thanks to the bright image of his grandmother (the “old boy” Naydus is too embarrassed to call her by her given name, so uses just plain “grandmother,” which also explicitly shows his frame of mind) passionate perspectives on life blaze before him; he dreams of a completely different life: Vi hartsik es finklt ir blik ir fartrerter, vi tsitrik es klingen di heylike brokhes; es shtroymen arayn in mayn hartsn di verter, un loykhtn mit shtraln fun shenste havtokhes . . . ​

How kindly her teary image sparkles, How tremblingly her holy blessings sound; The words flow into my heart And shine with the rays of the most beautiful promises . . . 36

He also connects the image of his mother with a religious image and experience:

Naftoli Vaynig Vi sheyn bistu, mameshi, fraytik tsu nakht, ven troyerik bentshstu di likhter, vos shaynen; es rut af dayn shtern a heylike prakht – der yidisher mames bahaltene paynen . . . ​

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How beautiful you are, dear mother, on Friday night, When you sadly recite the benediction over the shining candles; A holy beauty rests upon your brow – The Jewish mother’s hidden pains . . . ​37

From such poetic pronouncements a psychoanalyst could well produce a theory of Naydus’s infantilism, embellished with the full apparatus of a demonstration that the poet’s Romanticism, his turning away from reality, and the tenuousness of his contact with the concrete, all compelled him to look for a safe harbor where nothing could torment him or distort his introspective life. The non-psychoanalyst, however, will seize upon the theory of emotional life and will interpret those poetic subjects as a negation of Naydus’s actual life, a life from which he must flee, hiding himself under the wing of the past which was so prominently embodied in the image of his grandmother with her traditional religiosity. The synthetic Yiddish literary critic will therefore certainly have an easy job demonstrating that Naydus is one small link in the chain of the Yiddish Romantic style that had also captivated writers such as A. Vayter and myself (“Winter”) precisely in those years.38 However, be that as it may, one ought not forget one thing: namely, that not every turning away from surrounding reality, not every escape to nature or to imaginary worlds, not every search for contact or attachment with the past or with a past way of life, is as much automatically Romanticism as it is a mentality from which one needs and must distance oneself. Sometimes elements of Romanticism can become – both for individuals and for time periods – motive forces that push forward development, that enrich an individual and indeed mobilize him – not lull him to sleep. Naydus’s Romantic longing for and saturation with Jewish customs bears the distinctive signs of a kind of positive, constructive

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Romanticism. Naydus had neither a “back to school” attitude nor a mood of weariness, but was rather searching for the firm and eternal values of Jewishness and Judaism. Who knows, if Naydus had lived longer, to what conceptual heights he may have led his thoughts, and how he might have deepened his emotions? It is true that in certain moments Naydus compares the insignificance and greyness of the outside world to the multicoloration and honesty of his domestic-Jewish one. But that comparison is an ethical one, and therefore a matter of worldview. O libe farkholemte yidishe tekhter, in vemens geshtaltn es lebt nitfarshtelt der emeser yidisher kheyn nokh der ekhter – vi zeltn men treft aykh atsind in der velt!

Oh, dear dreamy Jewish daughters In whose figures still dwells undisguised The true, authentic Jewish grace – How seldom one finds you now in the world!

un nit in groysshtetikn gasngeruder, vu s’lyaremt di khutspe un pildert un shrayt, vu s’laygn gezikhter durkh farbn un puder un znus geyt a freylekhn rikud farshayt – [ . . . ]

And not in the tumult of the bigcity streets Where arrogance makes an uproar, a din, a scream, Where faces put on make-up and powder And harlotry wantonly does a merry dance, – [ . . . ]

nit dortn gefinstu dem vayblekhn kishuf fun yidishn shtiln un koshern kheyn, nor vayt, in a vildn farvorfenem yishuv, vu reyn iz di erd in der himl iz reyn . . . ​

Not there do you find the womanly magic Of Jewish grace, quiet and virtuous, But far away in a wild far-flung village Where heaven and earth are equally pure . . . ​

[ . . . ]

[ . . . ]

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dort zingt nikh di yidishe tsnies benimes un veys nit fun shtroykhlen un khilel-hashem . . . ​

There Jewish modesty still sings pleasantly And knows nothing of temptation and of profaning God’s name . . . ​

o tayere, hartsike yidishe tekhter, in vemen es otemt getray, nitfarshtelt, der emeser yidisher folks-kheyn, der ekhter, o eynzame blumen in midber fun velt! . . . ​

Oh dear, kind Jewish daughters In whom faithfully breathes, undisguised, The true, authentic Jewish folk’sgrace, Oh lonely flowers in the wilderness of the world! . . . ​39

To all of this – to the grandmother, the mother, the motif of the Jewish daughters – it is easy to attach a label: sentimentalism. Such an easy way with petty cavils to dismiss Leyb Naydus, who, it seems, is not merely a poet of nature, love, and longing, and not merely a seeker of foreign cultural values and worlds, wishing to introduce them into the treasure chests of Jewish culture. It does really happen that we think of Naydus as having a sentimental nature, and not, therefore, as having a feel for depth of emotion. But in so doing we confuse concepts (which, by the way, happens often among us). Not in order to apologize for Naydus, but rather for the sake of clarity, let us introduce several quotes from a philosopher who has delved deeply into this set of problems, into the concepts of psychic conditions, sentimentalism, and emotions. Das, was das psychische Wesen der Sentimentalität ausmacht . . . ​bedeutet eine Hypertrophie, eine Entblössung, Vereinzelung, Isolierung, aber keine Exaltation und leidenschaftliche Steigerung des Gefühls.40 [That which constitutes the psychic nature of sentimentalism signifies hypertrophy, a stripping bare, separation, isolation, but not exaltation and passionate intensification of feeling.]

And for Naydus with regard to the above-cited motifs we see both exaltation and passion – not a cold or lukewarm increase of emotion – that creates and enriches his inner life.

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And furthermore: Die Sentimentalität ist der Versuch einer Isolation des Gefühls auf Kosten aller Inhalte, aller Relität. Was stellt dieser Versuch im Grunde vor? Es ist im Prinzip verfehlter Befreiungsversuch. Der Sentimentale hat wohl erfasst, dass zwischen ihm und seinen Gefühlen eine spröde, harte, feindselige Wirklichkeit, eine Welt in Waffen gelegen ist. Wie viel blindes Ohngefähr, wie viel Bosheit, Tücke, Perversität des Geschicks keilt sich zwischen seinen Wunsch und seine Erfüllung ein!41 [Sentimentality is the attempt at an isolation of feeling at the expense of all substance, all reality. What does this attempt fundamentally represent? It is in principle a misguided attempt at liberation. Sentimentality well understands that between it and its feelings lays an inflexible, hard, hostile reality, a world in arms. How much blind chance, how much malice, spite, perversity of fate there is, driving a wedge between its desire and its fulfillment!] Denn was die kleinen, empfindsamen Regungen des Durchschnittsphilisters angeht, so finden die bald ihre Abfuhr, ihre psychische Kanalisierung. Der Dutzendmensch bringt seine Leidenchaften bald an den Mann. Allein, was eine wahre Leidenschaft ist, setzt ihren Träger in ein Verhältnis drückender Abhängigkeit von jenen Objekten, auf die sie gerichtet ist, sie lässt ihn an ihnen zum Knecht werden.42 [For as to the petty, sentimental emotions of the average vulgarian, they soon find their dissolution, their psychic drainage. The average man soon disposes of his passions. But a true passion puts its bearer in a condition of oppressive dependence on those objects to which it is directed, making him a slave to them.]

It is clear from the above definitions that Naydus does not belong to the sentimental spiritual type. He neither wants nor tries to free himself from the burden of tradition. Just the opposite: he binds himself to it with his emotion, he makes himself dependent upon it, he freely and joyfully organizes himself according to its conditions. He accepts it as his own, as an essential part of the substance of his soul. Tradition speaks to him and teaches him, not only through the ardently loved characters of the grandmother and the mother, but also through the holidays. Naydus devotes several poems to the Jewish holidays, poems in which he brings out his particular

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moods. In “In Honor of Simchat Torah” (Lekoved simkhes-toyre) he does not merely describe the joyous atmosphere of that holiday. He does not merely convey what the religiously practicing common Jew feels. Rather, he desires with them and through their religious practice himself to be renewed. For it is not the simple Jew, after all, to whom he refers with the lines: Varft avek di puste sfeykes! loz men vayzn vos men ken! – hartsik-yidishlekh mit dveykes, mitn knak un mitn bren!

Throw away your empty doubts! Let what you know be on display! – Sincerely Jewish with devotion With flare and with zeal!43

Even when the Days of Awe approach, those hard, cheerless days, when even fish tremble in the water, he adopts a subdued mood, awaiting the Judgment of what was and what has yet to come. Even here he sees that “the holy pain – how much beauty it conceals!” He also endures, together with all Jews, the Jewish fate. Es flistern, veynendik, epes di beymer . . . ​ an eybikayt, dukht zikh, iz yetvede vayle . . . ​ un s’shrekt dikh dayn goyrel, dayn vayter, geheymer, vos vert bald bashlosn in beys-din shel-mayle . . . ​

The trees are whispering, weepingly . . . ​ An eternity, it seems, is every moment . . . ​ And your fate, distant and secret, Which will soon be sealed in the heavenly court, terrifies you . . . 44

Here one can still find Naydus in the category of a traditional Jew, the same as all Jews. When he approaches Chanukkah, though, he is different, already more like a modern Jew. It is neither God nor the miracle of Chanukkah that speaks to him, but rather the national moment, which he mobilizes, which he employs to call and awaken the people. The candles must, at those times “when our ships grieve, / and long for a shore, when desolate fears lurk / upon our old path,” illuminate the “days of fog,” bringing reminders of heroism, awakening the former fire, because now when the need is still so great what is lacking are “believing hearts” “Candles” [Likht]).50 They – the Chanukkah candles – must be, for our weak generation, a witness to those heroes –

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Vos flegn nit visn fun sofek un moyre in sho, ven dos folk dos farmaterte laydt; der gloybn in folk un der gloybn in boyre – tsvey fakeln hele in fintstern shtrayt.

Who used to know neither doubt nor fear At the hour when the weary people suffered; The belief in the people and the belief in the Creator – Two bright torches in the dark conflict.46

And not only merely a witness that we were once something, but that we were then also more cheerful than today. Characteristic is the poem “Judah” (Yehude), even though dreadfully rhetorical, in which we find Naydus’s impulse towards mobilization, his national pathos, and the critique of our present discouragement. A tunkele nakht. durkh dem nepl dem tribn shtil brenen di likhtlekh in heylikn vey, iz mer nit vi dos, undz fun doyres geblibn nor kleyninke kheylevne likhtlekh a rey?!

A dark night. Through the gloomy fog The candles burn quietly in holy pain. Is there no more than this left to us from the generations? Only a row of little tallow candles?!

es shloft vu di fayl, di kley-zayin farrostn, es rut in der sheyd der farzhaverter shverd. es dukht – s’iz antlofn der vekhter fun postn un s’hilt ayn di nakht undzer shutsloze erd!

Somewhere the arrow sleeps, the rusty arms, The rusting sword resting in its sheath. It seems – the watchman has fled from his post And the night envelops our unguarded earth!

un mir, vos in undzere odern rinen di heylike blutn fun yudes geshlekht – mir kenen in hartsn di flam nit gefinen, un shmakhtn, azoy vi farshtoysene knekht!

And we, in whose veins flow The holy blood of the House of Judah – We cannot find the flame in our hearts, And languish like banished slaves!

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o brider, kert vider getlekhe kdushe, kert vider di lider fun shtolenem mut! tsebroyzt in a flam undzer alte yerushe, vos tliet bahaltn bay undz in dem blut!

Oh brothers, return to the divine holiness, Return to the songs of steely courage! Vehement in a flame is our old inheritance which smolders hidden in our blood!

in shoen fun kamf far a velt a banayter, in shoen fun kamf far der yidisher zun – dermont on yehudn, dem getlekhn shtrayter, dem heylikn kriger, dem groysn tribun!

At times of struggle for a rejuvenated world, At times of struggle for the Jewish sun – Remember Judah, the divine struggler, The holy warrior, the great tribune!47

Even though Judah – as the story goes – possessed the ability to awaken the courage of his soldiers with his fiery words, the Naydusian epithet – “the great tribune” – leads us rather into the realm of modern life in which the principle of the masses and thus of tribunes, as their leaders, has been given primacy. It seems that political life with its phraseology was not alien to Naydus. And despite the charges of his opponents and of those who misunderstood him, he did not feel removed from or alien to Jewish political problems; instead, sniping at all of them, he set forth his motto and banner: Still “My People” – which is how he began the related cycle of poems My People written between the years 1912–1918. Even here a kind of caveat needs to be made. In comparison with his delicate lyrical moods and reflections, with their rich impressions of nature, with their playful use of the rich linguistic diversity from various cultural periods, paraphrases in which he glints and sparkles like all the kinds of precious stones he so loves to sing about, here, in this cycle, he does not always achieve the appropriate poetic height, his Naydusian height. Thus he does seem more than once to get caught in empty, florid rhetoric (even

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though in that particular cycle there are several classical poems striking in their imagery, mood, and original compression). Indeed, there are such poems, but – and this must be emphasized – not all of them. It is clear that a comparison of those poems that we are used to considering peculiar to Naydus with the “political” ones must, owing to the distance in linguistic medium and linguistic expression, produces a kind of misunderstanding. It is clear that a political thematics demands different means of expression than other kinds of poetry. But this is not our goal. Our goal is to see what in the set of political problems interests the “apolitical” Naydus and how he reacts to the needs of daily life and the perspectives of his people. Of interest to us is the compass of his political vision and, primarily, whether he could, in a time of political need, transform himself from a dreamer into a fighter, like the famous Hungarian poet Alexander [Sándor] Petőfi (who incidentally was hounded by the charge that he was a nature-lyricist of a foreign world) who said: “For love I would give up my life; for freedom I would sacrifice my love.” And we believe of Naydus that he would earnestly exchange his dream for arms. (Incidentally, I do not understand what kind of poetic inferiority is contained in the poem quoted below which possesses signs of a fine lyricism, without a shining drop of rhetoric which would render the little poetic egg unkosher). Nit tomid nont iz dir der sholem, der libes tsiteriker troym; nit tomid lib iz dir der kholem unter dem vaysn eplboym . . . ​

Peace is not always near to you, Love’s trembling dream; The dream is not always dear to you Under the white apple tree . . . ​

s’iz do a tsayt, ven s’vert farbitn der troym af kamf, di blum af shverd; ven s’vert dos harts fun folk tseshnitn, un s’dekt a royter toy di erd . . . ​

There is a time when they are exchanged, The dream for struggle, the flower for the sword; When a people’s heart is divided, And a red dew covers the earth . . . ​

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s’iz do a tsayt fun groyse shtraytn, fun sheyner, heyliker gefar! geefnt vern naye vaytn, un shteyn vert – got, un shklof vert – sar!

There is a time for great conflicts, Of beautiful, holy danger! New distances are opened And stone turns into God, and the slave becomes – a prince!

un vey tsu dem, vos hot af vofn nit umgetoysht zayn tsartn troym, un hot di shturem-sho farshlofn unter dem vaysn eplboym . . . ​

And woe to him who did not change His delicate dream into arms, And slept through the hour of storm Under the white apple tree . . . ​48

Naydus, in the stormy times of the First World War with their terrifying anti-Jewish specters, understood that he needed not only to be the consoler but also to be the rouser and awakener. And he saw redemption as coming not from external factors, but from the inner attitude of the Jews themselves. Is not inherent in that attitude the traditional Jewish spirit that created the heroic figures of the saints with whom Naydus was so thoroughly imbued through the influence of his grandmother? So, despite the terrible time and situation of the Jewish people, Naydus found an optimistic élan, which was for him no traditional style that would have befitted a spokesman in such times; rather he derived his style from his Jewish (perhaps “Judaic,” in the sense of traditional spiritual strength) attitude and mentality. This accounts for his pride when he calls out: “Do not beg for consolation,” “Ask no one for a ray of consolation, / Do not make your pride and holiness impure.” Gloyb in dayn kraft! meg zayn dayn kerper tsevundet, tseshtokhn – gloyb in dayn osid mit festn bitokhn, gloyb in dayn kinftikn groysn nitsokhn –

The poet knows that

Believe in your power! Though your bodies be wounded, pierced – Believe in your future with steadfast confidence, Believe in your great coming victory – 49

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 . . . ​In the flame of anger and hate, Of hatred for the world and jealousy, The Shekhinah is purified By our ancient people!50

Every kind of disappointment is therefore unnecessary: Nit zets zikh zogn kines af der erd, Do not sit on the ground reciting nor fest halt oys di dorshtikayt fun lamentations, shverd, But firmly hold aloft the thirsty un loz nit geyn dayn heylikayt sword, farlorn! And do not let your holiness be lost!51

In the name of which political program did Naydus then call upon the people not to be the cause of their own downfall? He gives us an explanation in a song “The New Generation: To the Jewish Children’s Homes” (Der nayer dor: tsu di yidishe kinder-heymen) in which he demands not only that children be clothed and shod, but also that they should be brought up in that spirit which will enable them Tseflikn fun goles di shtrik, un ufheybn mutik di fon fun gule, fun yidisher frayheyt un glik!

To fray the rope of exile And courageously raise the banner of redemption, Of Jewish freedom and happiness!52

His Jewish nationalism calls for him to fight and struggle against the crippling effects of exile and those exilic types who do not want to understand the Jewish impulse for freedom, who just want to tear Naydus down to their own fallen state. Equally characteristic, therefore, is the word “narrow-hearted” (shmolhartsike), from a poem in which he unleashes all of his anger and fury on those bats who make love only in the darkness: Shmolhartsike, shtumpike, groye Narrow-hearted, dull, grey souls nafoshes, With backs bent, weary from mit rukns geboygn hakhnoedik-mid, servility,

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mit alte pilpulim, mit eybike kashes, With old casuistries, with eternal mit kremersher knekhtshaft in questions, yetvedn glid! With shopkeeperly servitude in every limb! [ . . . ]

[ . . . ]

nor veynen un klogn baym koyslmarovi, nor khnifedik shtrekn a betlershe hant . . . ​

Only crying and lamenting at the Western Wall, Only stretching out with flattery a beggarly hand . . . ​53

In this poem Naydus’s heartfelt affection toward popular religiosity revolts against the dryness of dogmatic religion, which drove out every trace of the living ecstatic emotion that burned so strongly in the poet’s soul. With precisely that same hatred he refuted another kind of naysayer, the profligate assimilators, the fleers who laugh at Jewish homeyness, wanting to warm themselves in the rays of a foreign sun. It was not the foreign world that they accepted with outspread arms, nor the shores of home they welcomed with a smile. Those renegades are fooled, they are of use to no one.59 The poet’s attitude towards these insipid types, emptied of Jewish spirit, is an expression of the aristocratic disgust of a profound and deeply feeling man for the senseless and essenceless creations about whom one could say: “you-call-that-a-man?” or “you-callthat-a-Jew?” And on these occasions the poet once again emphasizes (in the cycle My People his admiration for the treasures of the tradition, in whatever form they have come down to us. He also considers himself lucky to have a shared connection with these treasures, that he can be with them in a collective that is more than a mere mathematical reckoning of a number of people but is rather a spiritual commune that gives substance and intention to the life of the Jewish individual, as well as to our poet. Every detail is therefore a push to deepen and perfect that life, and all together they convey national and personal felicity. And, what is conveyed is not only the literary,

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but also the religious-material tradition, and perhaps more fully and forcefully because it is expressed through conspicuous symbols. The Jewish past is also near and dear to Naydus, its museful character. Es falt mayn zele oft bagaystert koyrim far yedn shpur fun altertimlekh prakht; kh’hob lib fargelbte, shtoybike makhzoyrim,

My soul often kneels, inspired, Before every trace of antique splendor; I love yellowed, dusty prayer books,

vos tsien tsu mit kishefdiker makht; That lure with magic power; gemores alte, dike folyantn, Old Talmuds, thick folios, in velkhe s’iz di eybikayt In which eternity is enclosed . . . ​ farmakht . . . ​ ikh fil a nontn duft, aza bakantn, in oysterlishn shar, in yedn daf, in di tsekneytshte, opgenitste kantn . . . ​

I detect a scent nearby, so familiar, On a remarkable title page, on every sheet, In the wrinkled, worn-out margins . . . ​

in undzer velts tsetumltn gelaf In our world’s chaotic rush iz es a glik, an oysderveyltes, shtiles, It is a joy, choice and calm, un kh’bin im, vi a dankbar-trayer And I serve it as a grateful, shklaf . . . ​ faithful slave . . . ​ tseviklen altertimlekhe megiles, barirn zeyer parmet hart un gel; parokhesn fun zayd, vu s’ruen tfiles

To unroll ancient scrolls, To touch their parchment, stiff and yellow; Silk ark curtains where prayers repose

in yedn fald, in itlekhn gemel; un alte koyses, fayn-geshnitste menoyres, vos hitn nikh di shtralndike zel

In every fold, in every image; And old cups, finely wrought menorahs That still guard the radiant soul

fun vaytster tsayt fun langfarshvebte doyres . . . ​

Of that most distant time, of long-departed generations . . . 55

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It is not for nothing that Naydus is so close to the hearts of those modern Yiddish poets who are also seeking a synthesis of modern art and the green shoots of Jewish populism and national originality, while simultaneously not falling into the extremes of either-or: either pure secularity or pure Jewishness. (Consider Yung Yidish, or the Inzikhists, or other isolated groups that proliferate daily as a natural manifestation of our latter stage of development.)56 For Naydus, the poem above belongs to the category of his credos, in which he abandons the exclusive lyric terrain and instead gives voice to the problems that are the engine as well as the foundation of his ideology. To this category also belongs the poem “Jewish Melodies” (Yidishe nigunim) because the diapason of those melodies is broad and unconfined; because in them is “the pale fear of exile / Mixed with a desire for the Orient,” and “there is in the traditional tones a gentle maternal beauty.” As was already mentioned, Naydus did not separate the past from the present; these were not two separate worlds but two linked continuities, a synthesis of a condition that is called the life of a people (folkslebn), as appears in the poem “Evening in a Shtetl” (Far nakht in a shtetl): Far di hayzer af di shtign zitsn yidenes un reydn; funem fentster shvebt a nign, shvebt der nign fun mayn zeydn . . . ​

Before the houses on the steps Jewish women sit and talk; From the window floats a tune, The tune floats from my grandfather . . . ​

shvebt der nign un baklogt zikh far di letste zunenblikn, un mir dukht zikh, az er plogt zikh un er bet zikh af a tikn . . . ​

The tune floats and laments At the last glimpses of the sun, And it seems to me that he suffers And he prays for a remedy . . . ​

un in vayte lonkes, hinter di tsefoylte shtetl-pleytn, vu der veldl der bagrinter heybt zikh on tsu nakht shoyn greytn

And in distant fields, beyond The shtetl’s decaying fence, Where the little verdant forest Begins to prepare itself for the night –

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There lads stroll with girls Along the narrow green paths, And a multitude of summerdresses Shine in the light of the evening sun . . . ​

s’viklen uf di yunge shtimen, un men zingt tsuzamen lider. s’kumt a viderklang tsu shvimen vi a vanderer a mider . . . ​

The young voices unfurl And they sing songs together. An echo comes to hover Like a tired wanderer . . . ​

kumt in shtetele un zhumet, un fartseylt fun libe-leydn, un tsekusht zikh shtil in umet mit dem nign fun mayn zeydn . . . ​

It comes into the little shtetl and hums, And tells of love’s sorrows, And kisses quietly, in sadness, The tune of my grandfather . . . ​57

Here is the true definition of lampadae traditae – the sense of cultural continuity, the meaning of Jewish-national synthesis – as Naydus interprets it, as Naydus experiences it, as he makes it the essence of his understanding of Jewishness.

The Judaized Yiddish Language Even in his language Naydus does not give up his aim to understand Jewishness. Some see this in the poet’s tendency to introduce many Hebrew rhymes or words. Should someone wish to be a stubborn seeker after theories and interpretations, well, he might then adduce this phenomenon in connection with Naydus’s Orientalism, or, closer in both sense and substance, with his “grandmother-” traditionalism, or grandmother-complex. However, that would still not be the answer that could clarify his poetic path to language, a path which stands apart from all of our rationalistic wisdom and only considers the emotional value of the word. So, for example, Naydus never uses the European-Christian names of the months, but rather the Jewish calendrical names,

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such as Kheshvan or Elul (“Triolets,” “Jewish Melodies,” etc.), and, in a related love poem, he offers an original rhyme: Vest kumen in vald mit dem tunkl tsuzamen in varemer shtilkayt fun ov; in optsamen veln mir tsvishn di shtamen a nakhtikn grinem alkov.

You will come into the forest together with the dark Into the warm silence of Av; And among the trunks we shall fence in A nocturnal green alcove.58

Calendar dates and designations of time are also the names of Jewish holidays. Elul is, then, something other than September or October, not because it is itself more Jewish and more homey, nor because modern national Jewish thinking requires a return to its own world of concepts, but rather because the holidays that bind us to the natural transitions during the four seasons of the year we reckon not with the foreign but with the Hebrew names for the months. And it is not only for the sake of the religious meaning that we do this, but really because from our earliest youth we associate in our minds the Jewish calendrical names with images and moods of the changes in nature. In them emotional meanings and content really do reside, and so for every Jew, however modern or modernist he may be, Elul is more clear and evocative than the foreign-sounding and official October. Naydus, a master of language, certainly well understood that emotional meaning; and this is an important reason motivating him consistently to make use of these names. And for whom among us is the concept of Tammuz, with the extreme heat that can actually drive one mad, not far more familiar and clear than the foreign and incomprehensible word “kanikul”? (From the Latin by way of Slavic caniculus, the constellation of a dog appearing in those very hottest months.)59 The names of holidays work just like the calendrical names. They, too, call forth the same moods, images, and concepts, as is clear from the following:

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A kiler tog. hoyshane-rabe. es shtarbt der sod in gold’ner ru un shmeykhlt zikher: oylem-habe zogt im di zun di kalte tsu . . . ​

A cool day. Hoshanah Rabbah. The orchard expires in golden rest And smiles confidently: the world-to-come The cold sun promised him . . . ​

es varemt shtreng un karg der eter. The ether warms sternly, stingily. es tut keyn vintl nit keyn bloz. No breeze blows. es shmekt mit opgevelkte bleter It smells of decaying leaves un mit tsefoyltn, geln groz . . . ​ And rotten, yellow grass . . . ​ in gold fun dembes un fun grabn loykht-durkh an ernst-shverer tsar; un shtolts un kiniglekh-derhabn bageg’nen zey dem boyres gzar . . . ​

In the gold of oaks and hornbeams An earnestly stern anxiety shines through; And with pride and royal grandeur They meet the Creator’s decree . . . ​

es ligt a kalter toy tsegosn. in feld – a vide-shtilkayt rut. es hilkhn op nor yeger-shosn, vi a farshpetikter salut . . . ​

A cold dew lies poured all about. In the field – a confessional silence rests. Only the shots of hunters resound Like a late salute . . . ​60

A nature poem, true, but with a Jewish conception of the world, with a conception of Jewishness; nature is here not simply anthropomorphized, but actually Judeomorphized, even more Judaized than Mendele would have done in such a case. And indeed, despite all of the possible interpretations and commentaries, this whole poem from beginning to end is merely a commentary on the single concept “Hoshanah Rabbah,” a kind of poetic, emotional Rashi for the name of a holiday which is bound to our Jewish beliefs and experiences with exactly that image of nature.61 Just this way of Judaizing nature, or of perceiving it in a Jewish way, via Jewish spiritual categories (let us also call this way: Mendelizing) that neither aim at awakening nor at being connected to reminiscences of kheyder or school, but rather at bringing forth

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what is emotionally Jewish – that is how Naydus proceeds. And his greatest innovation really is the fact that this way of his produces no foreignness. Because it would seem very strange to introduce into pure nature lyrics what seems to be so abstract and generally human: Jewish, even Jewish-religious as well as Jewish-liturgical, concepts, as an organic component of thought, image, and linguistic expression. But actually in that detail lies hidden the secret of Naydus’s synthesis of Europeanness and Jewishness, of secularity and traditionalism, of general human nature and the Jewish spirit. Therefore, his original interweavings sound so natural (because every organic phenomenon must appear natural), such as in the following images: “like an autumnal myrtle bough / Is your face saddened” (“Autumn Nights” [Harbstike nekht]); “the stars look like silver punctuation / Beneath hidden letters”; “little birches right after a downpour / Quietly whisper ‘Moyde ani’” (“Dawn” [Baginen]); “the tall oaks pray / That they should be worthy / Again to feel the green and the radiance. / And to spite the bits of ice / The streams quietly mumble prayers, / And the little birches say the prayer for dew . . . ”.62 And the poet himself is not afraid to stand apart, just like his objects in nature, and to Mendelize as he considers some aspect of nature, as though he were an ancient pious Jew making a prayer over a natural phenomenon: Un a plutslungdik-baglikter, shray ikh oyset an anttsikter tsu der ufgebliter velt:  – o, ma toyvu oyholekho! shtil arum . . . un nor dos ekho khazert iber zikh in feld . . . ​

And as someone made suddenly happy I cry out, enraptured, To the blossoming world:  – Oh, how goodly are your tents! All around it’s still . . . And only the echo Repeats in the field . . . ​63

Both in similes and in images, as well as particularly in the poetic concept, the image of nature in the fifth poem of Intimate Melodies is already completely Judeomorphized. That poem was written, as was the whole cycle, in 1918, that is, in the year of the poet’s relative maturity and profundity, when his Jewishness-mindset,

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Jewishness-stubbornnes, and Jewishness-desire first come to full expression: Es brenen, blendndik, di goldene zamdn, vi di gantse velt volt zikh in a goldyam geshift, azoy vi an alter, yuster un breytberdiker lamdn, shteyt baym veg a demb in makhshoves fartift.

The golden sands burn radiantly As though the whole world were sailing through a golden sea. Just like an old, prosperous, and broad-bearded scholar An oak stands by the path deep in thought.

shteyt farzunken epes in a vikhtikn inyen, kukt zikh nit um tsu mol af der zayt; un foyglen shtifershe a gantser minyen lyaremt in zayn grins freylekh un farshayt . . . ​

He stands apparently engrossed in an important matter, Not even looking around to the side; And a whole quorum of playful birds Twitter away noisily in his foliage, shameless and gay . . . ​

vos kon er klern, vos trakht er – ver veys im? un di feygl flien hozedik af zayn kop, vi tselozene yunge zorgloze kundeysim, vos raysn zeyer reben fun zayne gedanken op . . . ​

What can he be considering, what is he thinking – who knows him? And the birds fly insolently about his head, Like spoiled young carefree pranksters Who tear their Rebbe away from his thoughts . . . ​64

And while Naydus lapses into the tone of a folksong – in the poem cited below from Intimate Melodies the poet shows just how far he can lapse into the spirit and stylistic construction of a folksong – he does not polish his words as befitting that form’s linguistic elegance, but rather he adapts himself to popular similes: Nit red mir mer vegn libe. zi iz shoyn geshtorbn lang. nit red mir mer vegn libe. es tut dem hartsn azoy bang.

Speak to me no more of love. It is already long dead. Speak to me no more of love. It makes my heart so regretful.

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ikh gloyb nit mer in di kushn. I no longer believe in kisses. mayn harts iz shver – vi a gekoylet My heart is heavy – like a of. slaughtered bird. nit red mir mer in di kushn. I no longer believe in kisses. in zey dremlt shoyn zeyer sof. In them slumbers their own end. nit red mir mer vegn libe. zi laygt vi a ganef farn gerikht. nit red mir mer vegn libe. lozt mir tsindn ir a neshomelikht . . . ​

Speak to me no more of love. It tells lies like a thief to the court. Speak to me no more of love. Let me light for it a candle for the departed . . . ​65

Naydus is far from those poets, even the Romantic or Romanticizing ones, who dream that their love should be locked away somewhere in a Jewish lane (also a kind of nationalistic Romanticism), or who ostensibly bind themselves to the nation via an exclamation à la “the misery of a thousand generations lies upon me” (Dovid Aynhorn). And ultimately, these poets turn a cold shoulder to the alien world of other peoples and become broken former men and Jews, because as a result of their ambition they could not bind themselves to what is alien, and as a result of their secularity they were unable to find their way back to Jewishness – unless they subsequently issued a call for “back to school,” or fell into the temporary Peretzian despair of the “Golden Chain.”66 Resolve, whether in negating or in adopting new or Jewish values, they did not possess. The Romantic evanescence of a tragic generation was their mark of Cain. Naydus is different. He does not feel repelled by the outside world so does not need to seek reconciliation with what is Jewish on his return. He demands nothing from the outside because his approach to it is completely different than that of those others. He does not demand, but rather he takes what he needs from it. He comes to the world as a full-blooded, complete Jew and wants only to expand the Jewish domain by transplanting and incorporating new territories. Therefore, very often in Naydus there appear syntheses of opposing (seemingly merely opposing) elements, both linguistic and conceptual, as in the following example:

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The rainbow burns colorfully, It aches with a damp odor. Go into the field now to the stacks Of fragrant hay.

verbes firn dort a shmues vegn tames, zun un hoz; un vi goldene retsues viklen taykhlekh zikh in groz.

The willows there are chatting About Tammuz, sun, and hares; And like golden tefillin straps The streams wind through the grass.

bay di vegn un in griber margaritkes kon men zen; un di feygelekh betsiber davnen shakhris mit a bren.

Along the paths and in the ditches Daisies can be seen; And the little birds congregate And fervently pray shacharit.

emets dort, bay kustes yene, shpilt a dorfishn romans; s’dukht – er ruft undz oykh zayn nene fun dem groysn yontev pans . . . ​

Somewhere there by those bushes A village romance is playing out; It seems – we too are commanded to enjoy Pan’s great holiday.67

The Greek forest god Pan against the backdrop of Tammuz (August), little streams like tefillin-straps, and little birds who congregate to pray shacharit – what a juxtaposition! Hellenism and Judaism – contradictory principles and ways of life. Unbridled polytheism and tightly constricted monotheism. Eternal oppositions over which Naydus wants to construct a uniting bridge in order to bring them nearer to one another and possibly also to allow them to be mutually fulfilled. We can also glimpse this desire for and striving towards a synthesis of the Jewish and the foreign in Naydus’s formalistic experiments, when he takes, for example, a theme like Elul (with all of its emotional flavor as we have earlier explained) and actually sings it forth in the poetic form of triolets, which are the product of the Italian language, fitting neatly its musicality and light love theme. The structure of the triolet shows the origin of the form in

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dance. And precisely this pairing together of gloomy Elul with the dancerliness of the triolet proves Naydus’s great daring in creating syntheses even at the risk of clashing extremes. But that is what a poet – particularly an experimenter, and especially Naydus – does whose experimentation is not merely the performing of tricks but the earnest drive to create new values and blaze new paths for Yiddish poetry. It is no simple thing to achieve such an accomplishment; it is a difficult discipline (not as others believe, that rhyming came so very easily to Naydus), which is born in the pangs of creativity. But a true poet is not intimidated by that; rather it is with love that he accepts the pain of the Work of Creation.

The Inheritance from Verlaine The poetic world is born in pain. During his creative process, the poet experiences a hell, but also a Garden of Eden. And that process does not take place during writing but rather before writing or outside of writing, during the poet’s quotidian life, which only later finds expression in poetry. Naydus’s life was wild. Wild and full of enjoyment and despair. And as a result he swung between poles, hurling himself between cold and heat, between day and night, never at rest. Such is the nature of a poetic soul, to wander between the greatest happiness and the deepest misfortune, falling down from optimistic clouds into pessimistic depths. But in these extremes is where the meaning of powerful experience really lies, not in the lukewarmth of normalized conditions. So it is with all authentic, dissatisfied, and sometimes unhappy poets; and it is no different with Naydus. Ikh bin fun simkhe un shmarts farmatert, ikh bin fun kushn un yiesh mid; ikh hob in shturem tsu fil geflatert, tsu fil gevigt zikh in shoys fun frid.

I am tired of happiness and pain, I am weary of kisses and despair; I have trembled too much in the storm, Too much rocked in the bosom of joy.

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I have already a thousand times sought out Satan, I have already a thousand times kneeled before God! Rested in villages, and green shadows, Slowly burned in the sin of the city . . . ​

do – tray getunkt zikh in shtoyb Here – faithfully immersed in the fun bikher, dust of books, un do – getrunken di froyenprakht, And here – imbibed womanly do – af dem rukn fun vildn vikher, beauty, un do – in blaskayt fun shtiler Here – on the back of a wild nakht . . . ​ whirlwind, And here – in the pallor of the quiet night . . . ​ kh’fil mer keyn freyd nit in frilings-eter, nit in dem vinters geheymen flukh . . . ​ ikh genets langzam un bleter, bleter di letste zaytn fun lebnsbukh.

I no longer feel any joy in the Springtime’s ether, Nor in the Winter’s secret curse . . . ​ I slowly yawn and leaf, leaf through The final pages of my life’s book.68

This restlessness makes intelligible to us why Naydus feels so near to the extraordinary French poet Paul Verlaine, to whom he dedicated a poem; incidentally, the only one addressed to a poet that we find in Naydus. “There are beautiful souls to be found” – quite in the best sense of that expression.69 So let us first get acquainted with the whole poem in order to find out what kind of an inheritance Naydus received from him and which he in turn transferred to Yiddish poetry.

Naftoli Vaynig Bist ful mit di farrundikt-veykhe zhestn, fun a galantn, tsirlekhn markiz; dayn dikhtung iz – in bravn roysh fun festn, a din-geshlifener zilberner serviz; dayn oysterlishe sheynkayt darf men mestn nor mit dayn ernstn eygenem kapriz; kh’lib dikh, vayl s’lebt in dayn parnaser lire a getlekhe un eymedike stire!

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You are full of the rounded tender gestures Of a gallant, graceful marquise; Your poetry is, in the brave din of celebrations, A finely polished silver service; Your uncommon beauty one must measure Only with your own earnest whim; I love you because in your Parnassian lyre there lives A divine and terrible contradiction!

do – zingstu hartsik-shtile libelider, Here – you are singing touchingly vi yunge menestreln fun provans; quiet love poems do – falstu in dem templ shtil Like young minstrels of Provence; anider, Here – you are prostrating fartoyshndik af tfiles dayn romans; yourself quietly in the temple, un do – shist-uf dos blut in dayne Exchanging your love affair for glider, prayers; un loybt di zind in shturmishn And here – the blood is flooding kadans . . . ​ in your limbs du bist a khide mir: bist zun un And praises the sin in a stormy shotn, cadence . . . ​ bist vayter kruv un vanziniker You are a riddle to me: you are sotn! sun and shadow, You are a distant cherub and a crazy Satan!70

And yet another example of his soul’s kinship with Verlaine: Mayn zel shvebt um in veltn umbakante: do – troyert zi in lite vi a toyb, do – lakht zi shelmish, loyfndik durkh shtoyb in altn park mit shikhlekh elegante . . . ​

My soul floats about in unknown worlds: Here – it laments in Lithuania like a dove, Here – it laughs roguishly, running through the dust In an old park in elegant shoes . . . ​

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Here – it pursues murders and robbery, Carried by wild red-harnessed horses; Here – it wanders about in a castle, like an infanta, And with its little mouth plucks a ripe grape . . . ​

do tsit zu mit a gasn-komedyant fun hoyf tsy hoyf un betlt mit hakhnoe, un brekht zikh afn farbikn gevant;

Here it accompanies a streetperformer From house to house and begs most humbly, And twists itself up in colorful cloth;

nor ot – a duner tut zi in timpan, un tantst farshikert, shrayendik “evoye!” un s’kusht zi in di brist der yunger pan . . . ​

But here – it thunders on a drum, And dances drunkenly, screaming “Evoe!”71 And the young Pan kisses its breasts . . . 78 

* A brief stylistic critical digression: In all three of the poems just cited the place-deictic word do (“here”) is used. This fact is curious because all three poems are of the same substantive character. And that same substance, it appears, summons the same stylistic means of expression. It happens that poems written at one time, using similar terms, show linguistic and stylistic similarities. This is clear when we consider that ultimately the poet operates by means of his language, which, whether in the aggregate of its words or in its emotional intonation, changes from time to time according to the laws of the poet’s inner development, according to the laws of psychic inflow and outflow, and even external influences. So it may well seem to a great degree that these three poems of Naydus originated at one time, out of the same mood. That is the

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case for two of them. The poem “Sonnet” he wrote in Vilne, April 26, 1916, and “Final Pages” (Letste zaytn) in Kustin, September 4, 1916. After all, four months is not such a great span of time; one might well possibly imagine that Naydus was at that time dominated by such stylistic modes as were expressed in both of those poems, particularly the word do (“here”), which has just now interested us. But when that same stylistic means appears in “Paul Verlaine,” which Naydus wrote on September 29, 1917, a whole year later, we must completely alter our earlier interpretation of the linguistic habits that predominate in a particular period of time in a poet’s work. Here one must therefore understand the phenomenon differently, that is: these emotions always make use of similar means of expression. Those same conditions of the soul, whether in Verlaine (through Naydus’s prism) or in Naydus, are always paired with the same words. The word do (“here”) does not in any of the three poems mean a designation of place; rather, it is used in an expanded sense. Naydus changes it to designate transitions from one condition to another, the skip of the soul between two opposites, the jumping leap from heaven to hell and the reverse. And the short-syllable and rhythmic celerity are very well suited for those poems, even in relation to their construction. * Verlaine had a great influence on Naydus, both thematically and stylistically, because Naydus found in his work lyrical similarities to his own. From it derives those elements so strongly emphasized by Naydus: the elegance and boudoir-musicality, the rococo-subjects, the sentimental remembrances of the fugitive past and the tinge of bitterness in every actual feeling and experience. Naydus, incidentally, is not ashamed to acknowledge the influence of Verlaine, who was his favorite poet, whom he reads to himself and for others at especially important moments in life. At an exalted moment of Naydus’s experience of love, when he sits with his beloved at the hearth (clearly in the poet’s imagination), when he calls to her in his loneliness and describes for her in “A Letter” (A briv) the happiness that awaits them both, then the mediator of their souls is none other than Verlaine:

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Un dernokh, ven s’holts in im vet hakhnoedik derbrenen – mit a tsiterdiker shtim vel ikh lezn dir verlenen . . . ​

And then, when the wood in [the fireplace] Will be humbly burning – With a trembling voice I will recite Verlaine for you . . . ​73

Pursuing the Verlainesque in Naydus would make a very good topic for a dissertation. However, only on condition that the writer of the dissertation should not stretch too far and look for plagiarism where the general law is quite apparent, namely that the same causes can bring about similar results. Is it a shame to announce boldly and openly before the whole world that one is modeling himself on a poet, particularly such a poet-prince as Verlaine, who, incidentally, created a poetic school with many important heirs who are not ashamed since they have nothing to be ashamed of – neither of their inheritance nor of their “father”? But apart from inheritance, something else played a role in this, namely, the zeitgeist, whose strongest and purest distillation was in Verlaine. Zeitgeist is the same as style, in that it’s an expression of an age. Gothic and Renaissance – these are styles. And every age has its own style with its canonized contents, emotions, and forms. Naydus belongs to those circles using the Impressionist style, whose poetic laureate was, among other prominent exponents, Verlaine. So it is when Naydus sings: S’kumt a benkshaft a bakante, makht di oygn mayne tsu; un in hartsikn andante zingt a viglid mir di ru.

When a well-known longing comes on Then I close my eyes; And in a touching andante Rest sings me a lullaby.74

This is the sound of Verlaine’s “Lullaby” – the same emotion, a distant echo of a similar melody, the stylistic expression of the same epoch. Verlainesque in emotion, in content, and in image, and yet not the same, though Naydusesque, thanks to the peculiar tone that

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is the subtle property only of Naydus – Impressionist and modern in every detail, and therefore whole and complete, consistent and sustained. And the following poem is thus constructed sturdily, possessing and expressing all of the elements of Impressionism: In di gertner fun mayn troyer iz shtendik beyn-hashmoshes, dortn ligt a forzikhtike shtilkayt tseshpreyt; khedve un zun hobn dortn nit keyn mamoshes, dortn vakht a hoykher eyferzikhtiker pleyt.

In the gardens of my sadness it is always twilight, There a cautious silence lies spread out; Joy and sun there have no substance, There a tall jealous fence stands guard.

dortn flien nor shtile heylike immorteln, dortn vaksn nor verbes troyerike bloyz, un paynlekh klingen rirnde treln fun nakhtigal, vos blutikt afn dorn fun royz.

There fly about only quiet holy immortals, There grow only mournful willows, And they sound painfully, those touching trills Of the nightingale who bleeds on a rose’s thorn.

vi a maske fun toytn kukt a levone a kranke, es glivert azoy kalt afn toy ir shayn, un ergets tif in shotns fun a troyeriker altanke libt zikh dos kuniklekhe por – di fartsveyflung mit dem payn.

A sick moon looks out like a death-mask, Its light freezes so cold on the dew, And somewhere deep in the shadows of a sad bower The royal pair love each other – Despair and Pain.

in di gertner fun mayn troyer shvimen arum shvartse shvanen, shvimen shvaygndik shvanen afn shtiln baseyn; un der shotn fun mayn glik kumt tsu geyn fun vanen mit dershtiktn, hofnungslozn ayngehaltenem geveyn.

In the gardens of my sadness black swans swim about, Swans swim silently on the still pool; And the shadow of my happiness comes by foot from somewhere With a thirsty, hopeless, stifled cry.75

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The ornamentation is entirely restrained in the style of the time. The soulscape is the same as all the other poets of the period; as it is for the Polish Tetmajer – “Sadness and disappointment – the melodies of my soul”; as it is for another Polish Impressionist, the prematurely-deceased Karol Brzozowski – “Black is my ship and black are its sails”; as it is for the Belgian Verhaeren whom Naydus characterized in his own essay, published immediately after Naydus’s death: “The poet’s soul is forever gone, the naïve certainty, the carefree calmness.”76 The sounds of the doors in the village’s little houses are like “the voices of sick, suffering people”; the rows of trees seem to the poet like “lonely wanderers who stray with neither purpose nor faith.”77 However, after years of despair Verhaeren found a way out of his terrible situation and became a celebratory bard of the city. He found a new content in life. Here’s how Naydus writes about this stage: “He heard a new symphony, one of iron, and he grew proud of the fact that he was living in such a generation, when a sunny, brazen audacity was overtaking humanity. In every machine, in every telegraph wire, he saw the immense victory of contemporary man – and of him he sang his inspired hymns.” But Verhaeren was rather unique in the pleiad of Impressionist poets in that he, looking for a way out of his mood of despair, found refuge in a new theme. Meanwhile, Naydus found some consolation in his pantheistic immersion in nature and Jewish tradition. These are the paths his further development toward positive optimism apparently took. In the meantime he wandered. Wandering is pain. To wander is the destiny of every tottering, uncrystallized personality. But perhaps the urge to wander is an expression of social forces that influence and form the poet? Is that wandering of the Jewish poet over the far and wide, unbounded and unregulated, planes of the soul not an expression of the Impressionist rule that “more beloved to me is the wandering than the arrival” (Leopold Staff )?78 But perhaps it is rather an expression of the vagabond [na-venad] condition of the Jewish people, which receives such clear expression in the poetic word,

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and actually influences a Jewish poet as a part and member of the Jewish national group. A sensitive poet joins his people, and on that basis Naydus finds the synthesis between the content given to him by his people and the external and internal form that he took from Impressionism. Naydus nationalized and Judaized European Impressionism. For that reason his introduction of so many Hebrew words is no accident, but rather an expression of that synthesis.

With the Poetic Walking Stick It is well known that artists do not like to be restrained. By no one and no thing. Not even by love, which is so often the sole content and support of their sense and being. The artist wants to be completely free, ready always to wander. They are all the same, whether Verlaine or Naydus. So sings Verlaine: Lomir eyns dem tsveytn, kind mayns, nor nit bindn, demolt veln beyde gliklekhe mir zayn; vet dos lebn shikn groyzame minutn, veln mir a veyn ton, un dernokh – ufhern . . . ​

Let us, my child, not bind one to the other, Then we will both be happy; When life sends cruel minutes We will cry out, and then – stop . . . 79

Naydus analogously sings: Mayn kind, bind mikh nit mit der groyer hiskhayves, tu nit on af mayne farlangen keyn shum tsoym; trink fun ale mayne anttsikungen un fun ale mayne tayves, un freg nit, tsi lang vet nokh doyern der troym.

My child, do not bind me with that grey obligation, Put no bridle upon my desires; Drink from all of my raptures and from all of my passions, And do not ask whether the dream will long last.80

Other poets sing this way. One need only think of Charles Baudelaire’s “L’Albatros.” In the wild it is a beautiful and proud bird, but

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when sailors make sport of him, capture him and play with him, laughing at and mocking him, Der fligldiker vanderer – vi shvakh The winged wanderer – how weak un umgelumpert, and clumsy, er, vos iz azoy sheyn geven – vi He who was so beautiful – how lekherlekh un mies! ridiculous and ugly!

The albatross is a parable. He means: Vi enlekh iz der dikhter ot tsu yenem prints fun volkns vos khavert zikh mit shturemvint un lakht fun yegers meyn . . . ​ dokh falt er af der erd arop, in rekhtn mitn tuml, di riznfligl shlept zikh un shtern im tsu geyn . . . ​

How similar is the poet to that very prince of the clouds Who associates with the stormwind and laughs at the hunter’s goal . . . ​ But falling down to earth, in the midst of the tumult, His immense wings drag along and hinder him from moving . . . ​81

The poet wants to be free to be able to go forth into the distances. Vuhin? alts eyns! Nor vayter, vayter, vayter fun groykayt, vos iz giftiker fun sam; alts zikherer, alts dreyster un farshayter dem trayen ruder tsiln durkhn yaml fun yunge vilns ufleygn a shayter, tsefokhndik a vild-tsebroyzte flam! ir shaynn zol far a laykhtturem dir dinen, un helfn dir di naye erd gefinen!

Whither? It doesn’t matter. Only further, further, further From the greyness more venomous than poison; All the more certain, all the more bold and shrewd Guiding the faithful rudder through the sea; Out of youthful desire to load up a bonfire Fanning a wild-raging flame! Its light will serve you as a lighthouse And help you find the new world!82

But more than anything his Romantic imagination draws him to the fantastic lands of the East. How is he then worse than other Romantics, than Byron for example, who were also drawn to be renewed in the multicoloration of the Orient? And incidentally,

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are those most modern of our contemporary Indian or Chinese or Asian travels not then but new versions of that Romanticism, just following a different itinerary? These Romantic journeys, even though the poets affect the air of not caring “where-to,” do have a goal, just as Romanticism has a program, despite that fact that the Romantics pretend to have utterly free, unfettered, anarchic natures. Even in their negation, as in their purposeful indefiniteness, there is a kind of programmatic. The essential condition of a Romantic is permanent longing. This is such a sweeping emotion that it very often does not permit the expression in words of the aim and purpose of that longing. As a result one starts to find in Naydus names of poems such as “That Which Will Be No More” (Dos vos vet shoyn nit zayn), “Legend” (Legende), “A Poem without a Name” (A poeme on a nomen). The indefiniteness of the Aynhorn-like “Someone Has Been Longing” (Emetser hot zikh farbenkt) too is a program. And Naydus’s imaginative travels to the world of Greek legends and myths, to the tropics of the East, without the ballast of historicity and geography, are excursions with a Baedeker, or with a Baedeker in a Romanticized form, in one’s hand. And this all under the motto “As long as it’s not here.” Azoy vi templen gotishe in rash fun gasn shtotishe, – shtralt likhtik mayn ekzotishe, mayn vunderlekhe velt; vayt, vayt fun hayzer gasike, bay gertner ananasike in shleser vays-terrasike – dort boy ikh mayn getselt.

Just like Gothic temples In the din of urban streets, – Brightly shines my exotic, My fantastic world; Far, far from street-bound houses, Near pineappley gardens In wide-terraced palaces – There I’ll pitch my tent.83

The East is the poet’s longing; it seems to him, as it does to all the Romantics of his ilk, that there his life would blossom tropically, like the plants in those climes that are bigger, more beautiful, more splendid and aromatic than in other, colder climes. He creates a whole array of poems on those themes, such as: “Eastward” (Mizrekhdiks), “My World” (Mayn velt), “My Soldier” (Khayoli),

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“Semiramis” (Semiramide), “The Idol” (Dos getsl), “Ceylon” (Tseylon), “Alhambra” (Alhambre), “On a Rainy Day” (In a regndikn tog), “Orientalia,” “To the Cockatoo” (Tsum kakadu), “Oriental Legend” (Orientalishe legende), “Georgian Song” (Gruziner lid), and Jewish Oriental motifs, like “Song of Songs” (Shir hashirim) and “I Wish” (Ikh vintsh) (a letter to his beloved). He was intoxicated by the overly fantasized Oriental images that he himself had never seen, because he fell in love with them through his reading. They are not the product of direct and real experiences, but rather belong to a kind of secondhand reminiscence. And for such reminiscences the existence of firsthand postmortems is unimportant. The impact of a thing, of a word, is often enough to excite the imagination and enchant forth a cinematographic vision of longed-for images. Just such a case occurs when he takes in his hand a statuette of a goddess, which immediately produces in him the longed-for exotic dreams and perceptions. Ikh hob gekoyft a kleynem getsl fun grinem tunkel nefrit; [ . . . ]

I bought a little idol Of dark green jade; [ . . . ]

es hot gebrakht im ver fun khine, s’iz shver zayn sheynkayt tsu farshteyn; nor langzam shtaygt a fremde shkhine un shtralt fun soydesdikn shteyn. [ . . . ]

Someone brought it from China, Its beauty is difficult to understand; But slowly a foreign Shekhinah rises And radiates from the mysterious stone. [ . . . ]

er iz geven af formoze, tsi gor in vaytn kuen-lun – vu s’tsertlen lotosn zikh roze, un s’flakert tayvedik di zun.

It was in Formosa, Or in distant Kuen-Lun – Where lotuses are rosily caressed, And the sun blazes passionately.

akh, vifl oysderveylte prakhtn hor er in lebn shoyn gezen! i gold-oranzhike farnakhtn, i kerpers tunkl vi eben.

Ah, how many chosen splendors Has it already seen in its life! Both gold-orange evenings, And bodies as dark as ebony.

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un vifl mentshn flegn tfiles farshvendn tsitrik far zayn bild – in land vu s’blit der amarilis, un vu goriles kvitshn vild.

And how many people would tremblingly squander Their prayers before its image – In a land where the amaryllis blooms, And where gorillas wildly shriek.

un itster shteyt er af mayn fentster, tsu glaykh mit nitshes vaysn byust . . . ​ o, khaver tayerster un nentster! zayn shtume vey iz mir bavust . . . ​

And now it stands by my window Alongside Nietzsche’s white bust . . . ​ Oh, dearest and closest friend! His mute pain is known to me . . . ​

ikh benk, vi er, bay zikh in tsimer, khotsh mentshn veysn nit derfun, un undzer troym, der yunger shvimer, shvimt oft avek in land fun zun.

I long, like him, alone in my room, Though no one knows what for, And our dream, the young swimmer, Often swims away in the land of sun.84

More than any analysis this poem speaks about the cult of the East and its appeal. Everything here is pressed together programmatically: remarkable-sounding geographical names, that themselves suffice to evoke narcotic visions, and names of Oriental flowers and stones that lead the poet into a deep trance; the confession of the poet about his loneliness and unfulfilled longing; and the pain, equal to that of the idol, that was separated from his essential element (compare again to Baudelaire’s “Albatros”!). And then, the poetic clinging to the guest and bringer of longed-for emotions (“Oh, dearest and closest friend!”).85 Nor does the Jewish Romantic with an admixture of Jewish nationalism ignore the land of his ancestors, the land of Israel. The literary reminiscence of the Bible, though, is deeper since in the poem that follows it is redolent of property and ownership, of private-property, so to speak, sanctioned by generations of Jews.

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I wish, my child, for the new year That we will see Jerusalem, That we will see its ancient wall, Stained with blood and shame . . . ​ Here I see dearly familiar images: [ . . . ]

o got, ven kh’volt gekont ahin derflien itst . . . kh’volt mit di yidn dort ergets-vu baym ek fun vant zikh ongelent un mit der hant in lokn mayn gezikht fardekn, ez zol mikh keyner, keyner vekn, kh’zol keynem, keynem konen zen . . . ​ un shtil volt zayn . . . nor ven-nitven volt a geveyn tsu mir dershvimen, farshtikte, opgehakte shtimen; un trern voltn zikh bay mir gevizn dan . . . ​

Oh, God, if I could flee There now . . . ​I would, There somewhere at the end of the wall, Lean with the Jews, and, with my hand In my locks, cover my face. No one, no one would wake me, And I would see no one, no one . . . ​ And it would be quiet . . . ​But now and then A cry would float its way to me, Muffled, interrupted voices; And my tears would Then appear . . . ​86

Here the poet is bound to the land not by the desire to revive phantasmagorias of unseen landscapes, but by the golden threads of a place that never ceased being a part of the collective and individual Jewish soul. What could be more intimate to a Jewish Romantic than the image of Mother Rachel lamenting the fate of the people Israel who would now turn to her and  . . . ​gebetn dos alte vanderfolk tsu retn, vos blutikt lang, fun vey geyogt . . . ​

 . . . ​beg To save the old wandering people Having long bled, and run from pain . . . ​87

The land of Israel through the prism of the Bible, in the aureole of something dreamed about overfondly, is completely different than

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other images of the East. Those smack of curiosities; this land is already dear to the heart of the poet. When versifying those images, he can still be permitted to juggle with grandiose words, as with varicolored corals, while suppressing that too strong, though true, emotion, and every superfluous word. The psychic reality speaks for itself. Therefore he lets out an anxious outcry, one summoned by both his Romantic and his national attitude. And both of these, his Romanticism and his nationalism, confront the longed-for land with reality, not from a poetic perspective, but with realia, psychic and material. Nayn, kh’kon nit . . . kh’kon nit . . . kh’fil, az shvakh bin ikh tsu moln yene sheynkayt un yene heylikayt un reynkayt . . . ​ ikh ru zikh op nor, un dervakh fun shyenem kholem, un aru iz vider troyerik un shtum . . . ​ [ . . . ]

No, I cannot . . . ​I cannot, I feel I am Too weak to paint that beauty And that holiness and purity . . . ​ I am only resting, and awaken From a beautiful dream, and all around It is again sad and silent . . . ​ [ . . . ]

ikh vel shoyn beser fun dos nay mir moln bilder in di troymen fun vayte gold-bashpritste roymen, o mizrekh! mizrekh!

I will at last rather paint anew Pictures in my dreams Of distant gold-besprinkled spaces, Oh, East! East!88

The same emigrative drive also turns his poetic dreams towards Greece, where he again finds the theme of singular love, as in the poems, “Medea’s Return” (Medees tsurikker), “Narcissus” (Nartsis), “Paris and Helen” (Paris un Helene), “The Song of Orpheus” (Dos lid fun orphey), “Hero and Leander” (Hero un leander); and the theme of foreign longing, as in “Ariadne” (Aryadne), “Chimera” (Khimere), “Argonauts” (Argonavtn); images of utter beauty, as in “Hetaera” (Hetere), “Greek Gods and Myths” (Grikhishe geter un mitn). That same motivation also pertains to Naydus’s rococo moods, whether in images of Venetian travels or as seen in his poem “Atlantis” (Atlantide)

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The Window to Europe Naydus’s wandering over time and space, over the past and the exotic, has another meaning beyond merely satisfying his own longing, here suffocated by grey walls and leaden clouds. Naydus  . . . ​opgevendt fun shmole shtegn un si aroysgefirt tsum breytn shlyakh.

 . . . ​turned [Yiddish poetry] away from narrow paths And led it forth to the broad highway.

And he still wants  . . . ​durkh dem derhoybn di zel fun folk, vos shmakht un kvelt, un laytern zayn gloybn in shtoltser sheynkayt fun der velt!

 . . . by this to elevate The languid, suffering soul of my people, And to illuminate its faith With the proud beauty of the world!

Naydus understood how to free himself from narrow Jewish alleys and open the window to Europe, desiring to introduce Jewish culture into the League-of-Nations of other cultures as an equal and equally interested member. To that end he applied to Yiddish poetic art the assimilation of those values that had long already been the property of the rest of the members of the family of peoples. The reflection of Jewish life in Jewish poetry was too grey. Moreover, it was encompassed from without and hedged in by the walls of the ghetto. No tower in its verse gave any view of the expanses beyond. What there was within, inside its own four cubits89 (even to this day, 1943), was but the continuation of the little folksong – a national creation in the narrowest sense – a lack of universalism, fear of the outside, sickly sensitivity to everything that does not resonate with the word “Jewishness,” a withdrawal from all others, and a forcing of one’s way into the domestic space only of one’s own people, without the least desire for a synthesis of values that might enrich and refresh one’s familial, or racial, blood; the air of a sickroom where one does not want to open the window!

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Leyb Naydus opened the window of that sickroom and fresh breezes entered. And his muse was carried in, light as a feather on the wings of the breeze. She was graceful, without the heavy ballast of “the misery of a thousand generations [which] lies upon me” (Aynhorn). As an individualist he cast off the ballast of his groans; his national program was creative construction. And his poetic intention strove to that construction, to the introduction into Yiddish that which it did not possess. And he simultaneously refreshed the language by the injection of foreign values. Thus he created modern Yiddish rhyme, rhythm, and strophic constructions that were different and richer than the erstwhile traditional ones. He introduced reminiscences from reading; he imported stylizations of the exotic, Hellenism, and rococo; he imbued himself with their cultures and sought to give them a Yiddish voice. As in a sorcerer’s cauldron Naydus brewed a concoction of novelties to enrich the Jewish mentality. Naydus himself was imbued with the whole of European culture. With walking stick in hand he played the pilgrim and along the way collected precious stones, of different colors and hues, strewing them beneath the feet of the Yiddish language, paving a mosaic-tapestry for its next step towards royal splendor. Naydus constructed the edifice of his poetry on a varied foundation of elements, which expanded both the nature of his poetry and the vital intensity of his life. This ideational and thematic enrichment made his soul pulsate more strongly, invigorating the irrational part of his soul. When Naydus presents other cultural values and other cultural worlds to the Yiddish word it is in order to expand Jewish feeling and Jewish thought. The Jew has always assimilated foreign cultural values, but all the while endeavoring to create a partition between Jewishness and Other-People-ness. And this partition was particularly salient when these values had no close connection to Jewish life or thought and could not be used practically. There was no question of assimilating impractical values that could only have had a purely aesthetic worth. The three cultural complexes, the three collective styles with

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which Naydus occupied himself were: the exotic, the Hellenic, and the rococo – styles which perhaps do not fit into the frame of Jewish pain and misery. For now, we must consider them as belonging only to the poet’s conception of himself. But they did play a large role in his poetic aspirations. The exotic was for Naydus the justification of his dreams about extraordinary experiences, themes in hot, flaming colors. But beyond these emotions the exotic did not further fecundate him. Hellenism was for him the pandanus to his joie de vivre; but beyond the mythological and mythical material and vocabulary it yielded him nothing personally. Hellenism as a cultural phenomenon, as a world view, as a spiritual engine, was not a match for him. The elegance and distinctness of the rococo, the sense of ornamentation, the sipping of each and every drop of life and the world separately, this is what brought Naydus closer to his style. Naydus himself was a kind of rococo-man; and under the influence of Verlaine, he undertook to accommodate himself precisely to that world. The poems of his rococo cycle are among his finest, most intuitive, poems, and may also be among the best examples of that genre in European literature. Here he is not only the master of stylization, but also the maestro and shining virtuoso of the Yiddish word. He drew inspiration from these cultural circles also for the sake of pure aesthetic, pure artistic, concepts. For this reason he introduced a whole Olympus of new values and concepts that were perhaps foreign to the Yiddish language and the Jewish psyche, but, thanks to his interpretation, and illuminated by his individual and personal aesthetic mirror, they did not seem entirely foreign. They were thoroughly cooked in the fire of his lyricism and became natural and nearly self-evident. A langvayliker regn geyt in gas. di ovntvelt farlorn hot ir viln. in fentster poykn toyznter kadriln fun gnomelekh fun drobne, kalt un nas . . . ​

A dismal rain falls in the street. The evening world has lost its will. Against the window drum a thousand quadrilles By tiny little gnomes, cold and wet . . . ​

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mit rugze hudzhen toyb oytomobiln. lamternes vayte tsindn on zikh blas. dokh alts iz itst far mir a puster shpas: ikh zits aleyn un leyen lekont de liln.

With anger automobiles sound deafly. Distant lanterns are kindled palely. But now everything is an empty joke to me: I sit alone and read Leconte de Lisle.90

ikh lez, un der fartsoyberter kreol shit raykh fanander tropishe geviksn, vays-oderdike tunkele oniksn,

I read, and the enchanted Creole Richly scatters the tropical plants, White-veined dark onyxes,

un sodike kameyes on a tsol. un fun a vildn vald a legendarn derher ikh klor dem brum fun yaguarn . . . ​

And mysterious amulets without number. And from a wild, legendary forest I clearly hear the roar of jaguars . . . 91

In the Beginning Was the Word I discover no Americas by talking about the magic of the word. But one can infer two possibilities from this: either (1) the creator governs the word, directing it according to his will, unfettering his immanent powers and commanding them to be brought together in suggestive images and commanding thoughts; or (2) the word as a primal elementary force explodes all dams, becoming a devilish demon, subjugating and controlling the poet, from whom there rushes forth an effective if uncontrolled mass of words, which incidentally, in the majority of cases, is also poetry. In both cases it is tempting to use and paraphrase, or to make a connection to, the title of Theodor Lessing’s book Das Geschichte als Sinngebung des Sinnlosen (History as Giving Meaning to the Meaningless), but as it relates to poetry. Every true verbal artist experiences that ambivalence of the word; he is both happy that he can control and master the word, and he strives sometimes to free himself from its tyranny. This is also the case with Naydus.

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So he is a ruler when he writes: Mayn harts iz ful mit zungetrank, mayn blik – in himlen shvebt er! ikh bin a meylekh, yung un shlank – khotsh on a kroyn un stsepter! . . . ​

My heart is full of sun and triumph, My spirit’s over the moon! I’ve been a king since my swaddling – Just one without scepter or crown! . . . ​

mayn palats iz fun troymenprakht, er greykht biz tsu di shtern; er blankt un blendt, un s’vet kayn makht nit konen im tseshtern . . . ​

My palace is the beauty of dreams, It reaches the stars; It shines and gleams, and no power Will be able to destroy it . . . ​

di raymen zaynen mayne knekht; un dan, ven mentshn shlofn, in duftike, in bloye nekht tseheng ikh zey in strofn . . . ​

Rhymes are my slaves; And then, when people are sleeping, In fragrant, blue nights I hang them about in strophes . . . ​

mayn harts iz ful mit zun un zig, mayn gayst – in himl lebt er. ikh bin a meylekh nokh fun vig – dokh on a kroyn un stsepter! . . . ​

My heart is full of sun and victory, My spirit – lives in the sky. I have been a king since the cradle – Only without a crown and scepter . . . ​92

He feels, however, that he is dominated, wrangling with the elemental force that is after all stronger than he is – because that is the demon of poetry, the dybbuk that speaks through the mouth of the poet. Oft vilt zikh lozn di shures nit gevoygn un nit gemostn, nit araynkvetshn dos harts in yamb un in khorey, s’vilt zikh reydn mit a loshn an eynfakhn un prostn, un nit shlayfn un nit tokn mayn glik un vey . . . ​

Often he wants to leave the lines unweighed and unmeasured, Not squeezing his heart into iamb and trochee, He wants to speak in a simple and plain language, And neither polishing nor lathing my happiness and pain . . . ​

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s’vert epes eng der mishkl, zayne dalet ames, fray, nit getsoymt, zoln di ferzn geyn, klore un hartsike, vi a blik der mames, umgetsvungen-vilde, vi dos lebn aleyn.

The meter gets somewhat narrow, its four cubits, Free, not bounded, the verses should run, Clear and sincere, like a mother’s glance, Effortlessly wild, like life itself.

s’varft arop di muze di elegante shikhlekh, vos drikn, un, dershpirndik dem nayem, umdervartetn gefil, loyft zi borves, fray, mit a vildn anttsikn, un zingt zikh intime nigunim, vi zi aleyn vil . . . ​

The muse cast off her elegant slippers that pinch, And sensing that new, unexpected feeling, She goes barefoot, free, with a wild rapture, And sings intimate melodies as only she would . . . ​93

Both conditions, as they are expressed in these poems, also testify to the fact that: (1) in the poetic soul there blazes the eternal contradiction and the eternal struggle between the Apollonian and the Dionysian (see Nietzsche); (2) Naydus feels the disproportion between word and life, between the conventional limitedness of the word and the life that is wider and deeper than the word that endeavors to comprehend it; (3) his heart flops back and forth between the refined artistic form and the simple folksy tune, when both are near and dear to him; (4) he still had not discovered (after all he was still young!) the synthesis between the mild (artistic) and wild (life-imitating) tone; (5) Naydus was after all not a one hundred percent Impressionist, of the sort we are accustomed to recognize from the European poetic circles. He was seen to be affiliated with the followers of the then modern Impressionism or Neo-Romanticism, as it was also called; but Neo-Romanticism did not lead him to the extremes, and he did not go the whole way. He had reservations, and he had his own methods.

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Neo-Romantic poetry to a great extent made use of symbols (Peretz the Neo-Romanticist did not reject them; just the opposite, he even concentrated them in At Night in the Old Marketplace (Bay nakht afn altn mark), which is quite Symbolist), in order to have the possibility, with dead words, to express approximately that which does not permit expression, that is, the very depths of the human inhalation of the world-soul. Naydus lacks symbolism . . . ​ The poet desires to express those very conditions of the soul to which no old word is adequate or appropriate in order to present them to another human being. But how can the mechanical word be the suitable mediator between the poet and his reader? The only possible answer to this is for the poetry to enchant the reader into the same mood that dominated the poet. “Mood” [shtimung] is not a thought or a reflex, but a general psychic condition that is, by its nature, without meaning. “Mood” therefore became for the Impressionists the great watchword of their program. Naydus, however, endeavored to introduce model motifs through images whose emotional weight could arouse in the reader the appropriate echo; so, for example, sorrow (incidentally, the key-note of “mood” is that sorrow with which one paints images of nature passing away and dying): S’iz geshtorbn der tog. in a purpurnem flam iz zayn otem der letster tsegangen . . . ​ un tsum simen fun toyt vert der luftiker yam mit a tunkl fun umet farhangen . . . ​

The day has died. In a purple flame Its last breath has melted away . . . ​ And at the sign of death the airy sea Is decked with a dark curtain of sadness . . . ​

s’iz geshtorbn der tog . . . un fun shotns gedikht vert farloshn der himl der bloyer, un es tsindt shoyn ver on in der hoykh blase likht nokh zayn toyt in an eynzamen troyer . . . ​

The day has died . . . ​and with thick shadows The blue sky is extinguished, And up above someone kindles pale candles At its death in a solitary sorrow . . . ​

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elnt shteyen di beymer, farbenkt Lonely stand the trees, longing nokhn tog, for the day, zey baveynen, badoyern shtil im, They quietly bemoan, bewail it, un zey betn bay got mit a hartsikn And they beg God with a heartfelt klog lament far zayn zele, un flistern tilim . . . ​ For its soul, and whisper Psalms . . . ​94

In this poem, the whole trick of calling forth an appropriate mood of sorrow over transience consists in a successive repetition of the same idea through synonymous parallels, or in amassing images with a meaning related to those synonyms. Such a composition of the twelve lines appears statistically as follows: Line 1 – the day has died; 2 – its final breath; 3 – at the sign of death; 4 – darkness of sadness; 5 – the day has died; 6 – the sky is extinguished; 7 – someone illuminates candles; 8 – after its death in a lonely sorrow; 9 – lonely stand the trees; 10 – they bemoan, bewail; 11 – with a heartfelt lament; 12 – they beg for its soul. The technique which the poet here employs is the variation of one motif in various intonations; he creates the density of one word, namely sorrow. And in that hypnotic suggestion he casts upon the reader that very “mood” which the reader is truly made to feel and experience. This is exactly what he does in the poem “Autumn Nights” (Harbstike nekht) Kandelyabres shteyen lange. kalt un eynzam vi dayn blik brent a troyerlikht a bange, brent tsukopns fun zayn glik.

Candelabras stand elongated. Cold and lonely like your glimpse There burns an anxious mourning-candle, Burning at the head of his happiness.95

The “mood-poet” seeks out in nature specifically such images of sorrow, because only sorrow, not joy, evokes “moods”; it is not the sun which is conducive to a mood, but the moon and stars; not summer but autumn; not fortune but misfortune; and not opening blossoms but “autumn leaves.”

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S’iz di zun in blut fargangen, un mayn fentstershoyb farhangen mit ir harbstik-krankn shayn; kh’bin avek in di aleyen, vu es tsitern un veyen grusn elnte fun payn.

The sun has set in blood, And my windowpane is covered With its autumn-sick light; I have gone away in the allées, Where the lonely greetings of pain Tremble and blow.96

Neo-Romanticism produced and elaborated a whole theory of pessimism, not a nihilistic-negating one, but an edifying one. In sorrow, suffering, and pain Naydus finds didactic tendencies, and – entre nous – he is perhaps correct. Does not then the element of suffering lie at the foundation of every higher religion? (This thesis was convincingly promulgated by the German scholar of religion August Hornoeffer in Das Leid). The Neo-Romanticist, however, very seldom arrives at a religious system, because he is too egocentric, too strongly hedged in within the circle of his own “I.” Naydus, who paid tribute to modernism, also discovered that in sorrow there is the understanding of all mysteries: Un in di shotns fun ayer troyer vet sheyn tseblien di raykhste blum, un ir vet demolt derzen genoyer dem sod fun sheynkayt, vos vebt zikh shtum.

And in the shadows of your sorrow The most luxuriant flower will beautifully bloom, And you will then see precisely The secret of beauty being silently woven.

un ir vet hern di dinste klangen, di shtilste tfiles, dem lebnsgang.

And you will hear the slightest sounds, The most quiet prayers, the course of life.97

And again the difficult problem stubbornly resurfaces: how and by what means can one begin to express conditions of which the old word knows nothing, but which, when one desires to express them, one must make use of the old word because we possess no other? And in response to this difficulty the entire fruitful, revolutionary achievement of Impressionism appeared, an achievement which will remain for generations as a prize, as an inheritance, through

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which all contemporary and future writers will live. Without the achievements of Impressionism in all spheres of art one could not begin to comprehend or create new art, even if that art shook itself free from the theoretical axioms of Impressionism and its conception of the world. And should that contemporary poetry adopt Impressionism’s technical methods of operation, it is still the case that Impressionism brought them to such a perfection, to such a mastery, that they had to be employed. In poetry the inheritance of Impressionism is the refined metaphor. Indeed, truly, every poet in every age makes use of it, but Impressionism endeavors to bring it forth not for the sake of optical plasticity, but for the sake of lyrical soulfulness, as well as for the sake of the wordless mood. This is Naydus: S’iz shoyn kil bay mir in gortn, vi in tifkayt fun a grot, in dem mayrev do un dortn hele farbike ofortn molt a vanziniker got.

It is already cool in my garden, As in the depth of a grotto, In the West here and there An insane God paints Brightly colored etchings.98

Or: Aleyen vayte tsien zikh, vi shtrenge katakombn, un af dem zamd tseglien zikh levonedike rombn.

Distant allées stretch forth Like grim catacombs, And on the sand there glow Lunar rhombuses.

es tsindn zikh shoyn gliverem vi tayere topazn, un alte dembes glivern in likhtike ekstazn.

The glowworms are already kindled Like precious topaz, And ancient oaks stiffen In bright ecstasies.

un shotns shvartse kumen shoyn, vi ernste monakhn, un hobn zikh genumen shoyn di shtilkayt tsu bavakhn.

And dark shadows are already approaching, Like earnest monks, And have already begun To guard the silence.99

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It is striking how symbolism, which is such an integral component for the European Impressionist poets, is so lacking in Naydus. And furthermore: However he attempts to approach his European exemplars with respect to evoking moods, he always lags behind them. His mood-poems do not achieve their depth, nor does his technique compare to their vigor. And what is the cause? In order to become a weaver of moods, one must possess certain psychic predispositions. Mood produces the very innermost, finest, most incorporeal stirrings and feelings in the soul. The senses, which have to do with the external world, must go dormant, the sensuous must be dulled. Naydus, however, because of his psychic nature, is precisely an opposite type. He is at his weakest, even though aesthetically evocative, when he gets caught in moods according to their programmatic formulae. To the East, to Greece, to the Italian Renaissance, to the rococo, to nature – that is where the sensuousness of life in those places and times, their materiality/corporeality, their earthiness, their realism drew him. Naydus the Jew, however, was sufficiently spiritualized by Jewish tradition. Impressionist introversion was for the Jewish psyche neither revelation nor revolution. Just the opposite: for a Jew a revolution was freeing oneself from internalization, seeking a little more earthiness, a little more materiality (but not, God forbid, materialism). The Yiddish word, too, was bloodless, immaterial. Infusing it with color and juice was a rewarding task for a Yiddish word-­ revolutionary. This mission Leyb Naydus took upon himself. Naydus’s relation to the word was therefore also an actual material one, and he was stronger when he avoided moods altogether than he was in his explicitly mood-making poems, as in, for example, “Pan’s Flute,” as well as many others. The modernist Naydus, the “elegant” Naydus, was the most comprehensive realist when he made use of such images:

Naftoli Vaynig S’iz di velt – eyn heler nign: fun dem taykhele, vos flist, biz di zhumendike flign un dem var’men ferdnmist . . . ​

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The world – one bright tune: From the little stream that flows To the buzzing flies In the warm horseshit . . . ​100

Then, and only then, when he creates realistic images of nature, is he powerful in the beauty of his words and images, is he an original master and not a student. S’iz harbst, di zun tut shoyn zeltn a bri, a sarfe, umzist hot di erd nokh yung tsu vern gepruvt; vi dine strunes tseflikte fun a kruvs a harfe shvebt zaydene shpinvebs in der opgekilter luft.

It is autumn, the sun seldom scalds, burns, Futilely the earth tried to become young; Like thin strings plucked on a cherub’s harp Silken spider webs float in the chilled air.

vi krentslekh royte kreln af an atlas a grinem flamen in grins di purpur-henglekh fun tsaytikn barbaris, un in korn zikh tsu bahaltn zukht der hoz bekhinem un trogt zikh vi mevulbl af zayne dine fis . . . ​

Like little wreaths of red corals on a green satin The purple-clusters of ripe barberries blaze in the verdure, And in the rye the hare seeks to hide in vain And sets off as if confused upon its thin feet . . . ​

banger, umetiker un antbloyzter vern arum di landshaftn, es klemt dikh der duft fun dem letst bisl hey; es shmekt shoyn mit epl fun gortnshoymers kaftn, un ergets falt a goldblat in shtiln vey . . . ​

It grows more anxious, more sad, and more exposed around the landscapes, The fragrance of the last little bit of hay is oppressive; It already smells of apples on the garden watchman’s long coat, And somewhere a golden leaf falls in silent pain . . . ​101

But what does get him excited (and indeed to the good of the Yiddish language) is the theory of the word, which Impressionism created and worked out with precision.

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As an epigraph for his volume Lirik (1915) he used a famous phrase from Verlaine: de la musique avant toutes les choses (“music before all things”). And in his Intimate Melodies from 1918 we find a similar motto: Là est mon âme, là est ma vie (“there is my soul, there is my life”), from Charles van Lerberghe. According to Impressionist poetics it seems that the poetic word must be absolutely musicalized. Music – they explained – is the only branch of art that does not operate by logical concepts or physical images. Music expresses and evokes completely general, non-conceptual, emotions that are similar to moods. Therefore, in order to evoke moods, as the Impressionists sought to do, one must reject the rational-logical meaning of a word and elicit from it its musical value. One must bring both the word and the sentence near to the musical phrase, and thus evoke only general emotions. The immense merit of Impressionism in poetry consists in the fact that it led the word forth from its rigidity, and made it dynamic and emotional. Naydus seized hold of this theory with both hands. First, as an adherent of modern poetry; second, he was himself very musical (very often in his personal lyric poems he mentions playing the piano); third, this theory provided a foundation and a justification for his own rich language; and fourth, it was the groundwork on which he endeavored to erect an enriched, sonorous Yiddish language (his national achievement). Naydus’s relationship to music and the musicality of the word is expressed in various ways: 1) through musical terminology, which Naydus employed in place of other conceptual words. He indicates his relationship to music by introducing such words as con sordino (as the title to one of his poems), or verses such as: S’kumt a benkshaft a bakante, makht di oygn mayne tsu; un in hartsikn andante zingt a viglid mir di ru . . . ​

When a well-known longing comes on, Then I close my eyes; And in a touching andante Rest sings me a lullaby . . . ​102

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or S’klingt in mayn blut a vanzinfuge, vi vayn in zilbernem geshir . . . ​

In my blood there sounds a madness-fugue, Like wine in a silver vessel . . . ​103

2) through musical forms he wishes to embody in poems, which he calls (from The Book of Poems [Dos bukh fun poemen]): Patetishe sonate, Rondo, Andante, Chanson triste, Berceuse, Cantabile. 3) through musical instruments, which in certain cases arouse an inkling of certain moods, because every musical instrument has its own specific tone and therefore evokes particular emotions. As for example: zey troymen dort in hofnung un badoyer farumerte vi tener fun fagot.

There they dream in hope and regret As sad as the tones of a fagotto [bassoon].104

He also introduces musical instruments in a realistic style, not for the sake of moods but with a thoroughly traditional meaning: Lang shoyn opgefirt dem hober, lang tsedroshn shoydn der korn; s’blozt oktober in zayn horn!

For a long time now the oats have been transported, For a long time now the rye has been threshed; October blows Its horn!

s’zingen beyz fun vinter-notn vintn shnaydndike, sharfe; s’shpilt der sotn af zayn harfe!

Lashing, bitter winds sing Severely their winter notes; Satan plays Upon his harp!105

4) through citing musicians and their works, which also produces a mood. Naydus is thus convinced that by mentioning certain names of musicians or musical works he can quite certainly evoke the appropriate associations. Mentioning names in this concrete way serves as a symbolic expression, that is, in short, an ideational and emotional expression.

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Thus the spirit of “A Night in the Old Hall” (A nakht in altn zal) is still more explicit, striking, and mood-full in such a moment when Af der pyane shmole pasn fun a bloyen shayn a blasn, – a matone fun levone dem farlozenem klavir; s’bleykhn notn vu: dos zenen valsn alte fun shopenen, vos a gute, blase shvester flegt zey shpiln oft far mir.

Upon the piano narrow strips Of a blue, pale light – A gift of the moon to the neglected clavier; Notes somewhere blanch: these are Old waltzes of Chopin That a kind, pale sister often used to play for me.106

Naydus, wanting to bring us near to the same mood that he himself experienced, takes a musical name and uses it not as an example or as a metaphor, but rather very inventively deploys it in the form of a quasi-mathematical equation: Vi bloy haynt di glivernem in di kustes brenen, a vintl tut nor ergets a zifts tsu mol; hayntiker ovnt iz azoy enlekh afn valtser fun shopenen, afn shtiln vayblekhn valtser Cismol . . . ​

How blue the glowworms burn in the bushes today, But somewhere a breeze lets out a sigh; This evening is so similar to that waltz by Chopin, To the quiet feminine waltz Cismol . . . ​107

Music, Romantic irony, a summer night’s dream, Greece, as well as a Jew who got himself tangled up in all of it – these are all woven together by Naydus in a fantastically whimsical half-grotesque quasi-vision that he himself called a Scherzo, that is, a light, joyful amusement: A makhasheyfe an arure mit a shtime mit a beyzer voyet falsh di uvertyure fun “tanheyzer” . . . ​

An accursed witch With an evil voice Erringly howls the overture To “Tannhäuser” . . . ​

fun “lakme” tsikades zingen, s’klingt di “arye mit di gleklekh”, un horiles krikhn, shpringen, kvitshen sreklekh . . . ​

From “Lakmé” the cicadas sing, The “Bell Aria”108 sounds, And gorillas creep and leap, Screeching terribly . . . ​

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di “levoneke sonate” shpilt apolo bay di shtromen; zingendik fun “traviate” tantsn gnomen . . . ​

By the streams Apollo plays The “Moonlight Sonata”; Singing from “Traviata” Gnomes dance . . . ​

mayestetish shprayzt r’ arye . . . ​ tut a brum – gelekhtert platsn . . . ​ sha, mir dukht: es hilkht do arye fun “payatsn” . . . ​

Majestically Reb Aryeh marches . . . ​ A roar sounds – laughter explodes . . . ​ Quiet! I seem to hear an echo of the aria From “Pagliacci” . . . ​

farbik-kleyne popugayen zingen “Figaro” mit patos . . . ​ a satir vil ibershrayen mit kantates . . . ​

Small colored parrots Sing “Figaro” with pathos . . . ​ A satyr wants to outscreech them With cantatas . . . ​

oysgeboyte fun tsipresn shteyen kaylekhdike bimes: s’shpilt a nimf dort mit hermesn pantomimes . . . ​

Round pulpits stand around Built of cypress; A nymph there plays with Hermes Pantomimes . . . ​

a getuml, a harmider. pavnen, khayes, foygl, geter . . . ​ un fun shturem-tents un lider hilkht der eter . . . ​

A tumult, a bustle, Fauns, beasts, birds, gods . . . ​ And the ether echoes With stormdances and songs . . . ​109

5) If everything is music, if poetic language must approach music, then it must certainly also be musicalized. Impressionist poetics go one step further and, as in language itself, particularly in its individual sounds, reads musical elements into it. Every sound, every independent note and accompanying echo, are particular musical tones. A word, therefore, consists of such a group of tones. The Impressionist poet does not aim at seeking out in the word its logical and conceptual meaning, but rather its pure musical value. The word does not serve as a social instrument meant to mediate the ideational associations of one person to another, but serves rather as a musical vessel meant to evoke in one’s fellow man tonal emotions.

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Bolder poets have even had the fantastic audacity to compare every particular sound to a musical instrument, as did the brilliant French poet Rimbaud. Just as every particular musical instrument has its own peculiar tone, which evokes a different emotion or mood, so it seems that that sound which possesses the tonality of the instrument compared to it evokes the same emotions as the analogous instrument. If, for example, “la”110 is the tone of a violin, which awakens experiences of sentimental longing, then the language-sound itself does the same thing. In such a way, from bare linguistic sounds, from groups of suitably comparable sounding words, both whole symphonies are composed and solo concerts are conducted. Doubtless these experiments have immensely enriched poetic language, similar to the achievement of Impressionist painting with its powerfully deep and nuanced color technique. And both, by their revolutionizing acts, have laid the cornerstone for the further development of those branches of art, which – however they may develop – can in no way dismiss the Impressionists’ achievements – that is, if they don’t want to descend to a lower artistic state. Naydus, too, placed himself in that line of experimenters. For the innovator of the Yiddish language it was a worthy task to test the poetic possibilities of the Yiddish sound, and also to do the opposite – to elevate the language, which even Yiddish poets had maligned for its prosaicness. Naydus found more than sufficient examples of such poetic paths in world poetry. He himself translated into Yiddish such sound-poems that required him to bring out in the Yiddish the sonic intentions of the poet, as, for example, Edgar [Allan] Poe’s “The Bells” (Gleklekh un glokn). Herst: der shlitn trogt zikh shnel, trogt zikh shnel! un di glekhlekh klingen hel mit a zilber-gringn klingen zis farshikern di zel un zey klingen, un zey zingen vegn freyd un glikn hel.

Listen: the sleigh is fast away, Fast away! And the bells sound brightly With a silver-sprightly sounding sweetly enchanting the soul And they sound, and they sing of joy and bright fortunes.111

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Elongated, gnawing, longing, nasal sounds imitate the violin, as Charles Baudelaire demonstrated in his poem “Harmonye fun vort” [sic] (Harmony of the Word).118 Naydus also endeavored to transfer adequately into Yiddish such nasal and related liquid sounds, as in: S’demft mit duftn, azoy vi mit katoyres, ayetvede blum; s’tsitert rirnd dos fidl, azoy vi a harts, vos iz bang; melankholisher valtser un tsertlekher-mider farlang!

Every blossom is redolent with fragrances, just as with incense; The fiddle trembles touchingly, just like an anxious heart; Melancholy waltz and touchingly tired desire!113

From time to time in his own original poems he led the sonic principle to its very extremity, up to its annihilation and the nullification of its content, owing to his desire to produce only the mood, only the musical mood-effect. In the poem “A Legendary Night” (A legendare nakht), neither the images nor the metaphors are meant to awaken the appropriate mood, but rather the stubbornly hammering sound “sh,” which expresses the music of night’s stillness, of its mysterious susurrus. Shleser shlofn shotns shpanen, shvere shotns shprayzn shtum. s’shvimen shures shvartse shvanen, shtare shvanen shvimen um.

Castles sleep, shadows stride, Heavy shadows mutely march. Lines of black swans swim, Stiff swans swim about.

s’shvenken shteyner shtiker shoymen, shlukhtsn shteyen in der shtil; shkhine-shoen shtroymen-shtroymen, s’shimert shvakher shtralnsphil.

Stones gargle bits of foam, Sobs stay in the silence; Shekhinah-hours flow and flow, The faint play of rays of light shimmering.

shaynen shpint er shtern shpreyt er, sheyne shleyers shvebn shmol . . . ​ shtromen-shpigl – shiker shteyt er, shvanen shnaydn shtil zayn shtol.

He spins light, he spreads stars, Beautiful veils float slenderly . . . ​ Mirror-streams – he stands drunk, Swans quietly hone his steel.114

Another time Naydus sought to compose an entire symphonic orchestra of such sounds as: -eln, -iln, -ekn, -eys, -aygn, -iv, -ev, -olt,

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-etsn, -ien, -ang, -al, -un, -is, but in the poem in which he conducted this experiment (“In flam”; In Flame) he also tried simultaneously to express contemplative ideas. Yet, it is clear that the melody of the word for him was preferable to the idea. If one follows this kind of poetics, one can indeed interpret into every particular sound a kind of emotion that could appear to be appropriate to the idea, as for example “The Elements Draw Me On” (Mikh tsien stikhien), in which the sound –ien describes the lengthy stretching forth of longing into the distances. And thus one can devise an interpretation for every particular sound, which does not, incidentally, require too much contemplation since the text itself interprets the meaning and value of the musical sounds of the words. Aykh feln di veln fun heln gedrang, You lack the waves of bright fun heln un shneln un dreystn jostling, farlang! Of the bright and swift and bold desire! der viln tsu shpiln mit tsiln fun glik, The will to play with the objects der viln tsu shtiln di benkshaft fun of happiness, blik! The will to quiet the longing of sight! aykh shrekn di tsvekn, vos vekn dos blut, vos veysn fun heysn, fun zunikn mut!

The purposes that rouse the blood, That know hot, sunny courage, terrify you!115

And so forth. As in everyday language, poetic language needs long and short independent sounds. Naydus understood this quite well, especially clearly in his attempts to introduce, for example, such motifs as the quality of a lullaby. So he came to the conclusion that what was appropriate in such a case was no other sound than i or oy, and especially a long i. And indeed in the poem “Rock to Sleep” (Farvig) there is, together with the undulating i- and oy-sounds, a burning rhythm.

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Af dayn shoys farvig . . . ze vi shtil ikh lig, mit dayn tsartn zig mikh bashits . . . ​ un tsu mir gelent – in di tsarte hent nem mayn kop, vos brent, vi in hits. [ . . . ]

Rock me to sleep upon your lap . . . ​ see how quietly I lie, With your gentle victory Protect me . . . ​ And leaned towards me – in your gentle hands Take my head, which burns As in a fever. [ . . . ]

ot azoy . . . azoy . . . akh, vi shtil un bloy . . . ​ s’dukht – a kiler toy kusht mikh oys . . . ​

Thus . . . ​thus . . . ​oh, how quiet and blue . . . ​ It seems – a cool dew Kisses me . . . ​116

Such poems are for Naydus like piano études, like exercises meant to create the flexibility of the Yiddish language, examples to demonstrate that Yiddish, too, is no bastard among the languages; these poems are a kind of stimulus for Yiddish’s contemporary poets to excavate the treasures of the mother tongue, the treasures in which Naydus took such delight and which so enthused him, as is on display in his erotic long poem “That Which At Last Shall Be No More” (Dos, vos vet shoyn nit zayn): Un peretses un nombergs bikher hobn aroysgegebn zikher dayn zel, vos halt getray ir vakh bay undzer liber mama-shprakh . . . ​ s’iz mir gevezn vi a khidesh, ven du host oysgeshrien: “yidish!” nor mitgerisn mit dayn freyd, vos hot geveyt fun layb un kleyd, hob ikh shoyn mer gefilt keyn vunder, un yedn klang fun shtim bazunder fleg ikh farziglen in gedank vi a baheyliktn geshank . . . ​

And Peretz’s and Nomberg’s books Have certainly published Your soul, which faithfully keeps watch Over our dead mother tongue . . . ​ It was to me like a novelty When you cried out: “Yiddish!” But carried away by your joy That wafted over body and clothes, I no longer felt any wonder, And every sound of a particular voice I used to seal in a thought Like a sanctified gift . . . ​117

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His love for the woman is intensified still more by her connection to Yiddish. She therefore appears to him more beautiful through the prism of the language which he also loved. If Naydus created out of the Yiddish language such a magnificent poetic instrument, which could illuminate the forward path for our poetry, it was only through his love and ardent, ecstatic enthusiasm. Desiring to place upon Yiddish the divine crown of poetic beauty, he not only explored the music of every sound, but he also enriched the language through a diversity of strophic constructions, each one of which summons other rhythms which in turn build language into a musical phrase. No different or less important a role is played in such cases by rhyme, which Naydus used masterfully and which he may well have created for us. It might sometimes seem to us that we are dealing with an intentional artificiality, but in truth these rhymes are the product of an authentic, consummate, and therefore conscious artistry, as in the following network of rhymes: Kh’vil di hoykhe berger-shpitsn, I desire the high mountain peaks, kh’vil mit yungnfayer shpritsn, I want to spray youthful fire, un mit flamendike blitsn tsindn And with flaming lightning hertser ful mit vut; flashes to kindle hearts full of kh’vil di shtoltse zun derlangen, rage; kh’vil nor hern vilde klangen, I want to reach the proud sun, I laydnshaftlekhe farlangen vakhn want to hear only the wild shtendik in mayn blut. sounds, Passionate longings always rouse my blood.118

Naydus is certainly not exaggerating when he ascribes to himself, quite consciously and indeed proudly, the merit, the national merit, of having lifted Yiddish up and out onto Parnassus, as an equal of all other languages. And his words must be an epitaph upon his gravestone, correctly assessing his value for Yiddish poetry and its language:

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Kh’tseshpreyt di dalet ames fun unzer shprakh vos payn nor molt; ikh tsir es un tseflam es fun faynstn oysterlishn gold.

I spread out the four cubits Of our language, which describes only pain; I adorn it and burnish it With the finest, uncommon gold.

ikh vil durkhdem derhoybn di zel fun folk, vos shmakht un kvelt, un laytern zayn gloybn in shtoltser sheynkayt fun der velt!

By this I wish to elevate The languid, suffering soul of my people, And to illuminate its faith With the proud beauty of the world!

un kh’boy in groyen goles dem raykhn shlos fun elfantbeyn; vi di geshtalt apolos, azoy zol zayn dos lebn sheyn!

And I build in grey exile The sumptuous ivory palace; Like the statue of Apollo So shall life be beautiful!119

In 1908 Naydus did not appear miraculously, like Minerva from the head of Jupiter. He was born as a poet surrounded by certain artistic-­ progressive trends. In February of 1908 there appeared the first volume of the journal Literarishe monatshriftn, fraye bine far literature un kunst [Literary Monthly, A Free Stage for Literature and Art], edited by Sh. Gorelick, A. Vayter, and Sh. Niger. This was an important date in modern Yiddish literature. The editors gave a clear accounting of this, writing in the foreword: Literature can have no durable existence, cannot develop freely and widely, if it relies upon a poorly developed reader, if it satisfies its intellectual-aesthetic needs only through those who have no access to the culture of other peoples. Yiddish literature up until the present has maintained only this kind of readership. Its principle user stood at a low level of cultural attainment, primitive and simple. The intellectuals took almost no part in the national-cultural work [ . . . ] With the political and economic collapse of Jewish life there have appeared the sprouts of a cultural renaissance. Cultural

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Avraham Reyzen, too, followed a similar path with his journal Kunst un Lebn (Art and Life; 1908), even though not following Impressionism stricto senso, as did Literarishe monatshriftn, where both the complementarity of its authors and their semantics prove the desire consciously to approach the new European currents, as was formulated in its prospectus. How far this Impressionisation reached is shown in Niger’s work, in the fourth volume of Literarishe monatshriftn, on Sholem Asch. Titled “The Prophet of the Earth” (Der novi fun der erd), it seemed a clear indication of Asch’s realism. But Niger was quite direct in the first lines: “The earth, reality, the ordinary, has no prophets: the prophet weaves a dream . . . But Asch’s earth is one that is dreamed up, it is more legend than reality” . . . ​ Leyb Naydus also emerged in this spiritual atmosphere of cultural longing, and it is clear that he belongs among the most prominent creators and promoters of the Yiddish poetic and linguistic renaissance.

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Notes 1.  A reference to André Malraux’s 1931 novel, Les Temps de Mépris. 2.  Literarishe monatshriftn, fraye bine far literature un kunst [Literary Monthly, A Free Stage for Literature and Art], a Yiddish literary journal published in Vilna beginning in 1908. 3.  In zikh (Introspectivism; 1920–1940) and Unzer bukh (Our Book; 1926–1930) were two important American-Yiddish literary journals published in New York. 4.  Yisroel Rabon (1900–1941), Yiddish author and editor, best known today for his novel Di gas (The Street, 1928). 5.  Avraham Sutzkever (1913–2010), Yiddish poet intimately connected to Vilne, who first came to prominence in association with that city’s literary group Yung Vilne (Young Vilne). 6.  Yitskhok Leybush Peretz (1852–1915), one of the most influential Yiddish writers, generally acknowledged as one of the three “Classic” Yiddish authors (along with Mendele Moykher Sforim and Sholem Aleichem) of Yiddish literature’s formative period. 7.  H. Leyvik (pen name of Leyvik Halpern; 1888–1962), modernist Yiddish poet and playwright. 8.  Aaron Glants-Leyeles (1889–1966), American Yiddish modernist poet; Moyshe Broderzon (1890–1956), Yiddish modernist poet and playwright, and founder of the Yiddish modernist group Yung Yidish in Łódz´; Dovid Edelstadt (1866–1892) and Morris Rosenfeld (1862–1923), Yiddish poets associated with socialist and workers’ causes in New York; Avraham Reyzen (1876–1953), influential and prolific Yiddish poet. 9.  Perets Markish (1895–1952), Yiddish modernist poet; A. Lutski (pen name of Arn Tsuker; 1894–1957), American Yiddish poet 10.  Shmuel Rozhanski, “Leyb Naydus – Der klasiker virtuoz in der yiddisher poezye. Tsen yor nokhn toyt fun dem 28-yorikn bloy-eygikn poet.” Di yidishe tsaytung, Buenos Aires, 24ster dets. 1928. 11.  Yehoash (pen name of Shloyme Blumgarten; 1877–1927), influential Yiddish poet, and translator of the Bible into modern Yiddish. 12.  Moyshe-Leyb Halpern (1886–1932), American Yiddish modernist poet. 13.  Heinrich Rickert (1863–1936), German philosopher and author of Kulturwissenschaft und Naturwissenschaft (Science and History [English translation of 1962]; 1898). 14.  Chaim Liberman, “Di literatur afn sheydveg” Bikher un shrayber, New York, 1933, pp. 124–27. 15.  M. Kitay, “Leyb Naydus. Tsu zayn elftn yortsayt,” Literarishe bleter, num. 52 (295) 27ster dets 1929. 16.  Shimen Frug (1860–1916), Yiddish and Russian poet; Dovid Hofshteyn (1889– 1952), Yiddish modernist poet. 17.  SSRP : the Zionist Socialist Workers’ Party (1905–1917) in Poland and the Russian Empire. 18.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 254–55. 19.  Juliusz Słowacki (1809–1849), a canonical Polish Romantic poet.

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20.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 264. 21.  Shmuel Yankev Imber (1889–1942), Yiddish and Polish writer, associated with Galician Neo-Romanticism; Yankev Glatshteyn (1896–1971), one of the most influential American Yiddish modernist poets and critics; Reuven Ludvig (1895–1926), American Yiddish poet; Chaim Grade (1910–1982), Yiddish novelist and poet. 22.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 131. 23.  Naydus, Intime nigunim, 8. 24.  Naydus, Intime nigunim, 7. 25.  From “Nach Neuen Meeren” (To New Seas); Friedrich Nietzsche, Die fröhliche Wissenschaft (“la gaya scienza”), neue Ausgabe (Leipzig: E. W. Fritzsch, 1887), 347. 26.  From “Sternen-Moral” (Star Morality); Nietzsche, Die fröhliche Wissenschaft, 19. 27.  Naydus, Lirik (1915), 158. 28.  Shmuel Niger (1883–1955), influential Yiddish literary critic. 29.  Sh. Niger, “L. Naydus,” Di vokh [Vilne] 1919, number 2. 30.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 44–45. 31.  Sore bas Toyvim (18th century), a significant writer of tkhines and other prayers for women. 32.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 32. 33.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 19. Tsenerene: an immensely popular Yiddish Bible translation and commentary, originally compiled in the 17th century for the use of women; it has run to more than 300 editions. 34.  Krishme: Yiddishized for for Keri’at shema, itself an abbreviated form of Keri’at shema ‘al ha-mitah (“Reading the Shema for Retiring to Bed”), a set of prayers organized around the Shema, traditionally recited before bed. 35.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 214. 36.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 230. 37.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 222. 38.  A. Vayter (1878–1919), Yiddish writer and socialist and cultural activist. 39.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 231–32. 40.  Oscar Ewald, Gründe und Abgründe, Präludien zu einer Philosophie des Lebens, I (Berlin, 1909), 159. 41.  Ewald, Gründe und Abgründe, 166. 42.  Ewald, Gründe und Abgründe, 167. 43.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 220. 44.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 263. 45.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 239. 46.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 249. 47.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 252–53. 48.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 209. 49.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 211. 50.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 241. 51.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 216. 52.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 227. 53.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 237. 54. “To the Renegades” (Tsu di optrinike) (Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 260–1). 55.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 247–48. 56.  Yung Yidish: an avant-garde literary group centered around the poet Moyshe Broderzon in Łódz´ (1918–1921); Inzikhists (Introspectivists): a group of modernist

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Yiddish poets in New York, which published the journal In zikh (Introspectivism) (1920–1940). 57.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 218–19. 58.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 59. 59.  Literally, “small dog,” referring to the star Sirius (also known as the Dog Star) in the constellation Canis Major. It is prominent in the hottest period of the summer, known therefore as the “dog days” (dies caniculares). Cf. Polish kanikuła (“dog days”); Russial kanikuly (“[summer] vacation”). 60.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 67. 61.  Rashi: common acronym for Shlomo Yitshaki, a famous 11th-century commentator on the Bible and Talmud, whose commentaries have become canonical. 62.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 192; Naydus, Di erd ervakht, 3. 63.  Naydus, Di erd ervakht, 13. 64.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 177. 65.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 178. The emphases are Vaynig’s. 66.  Di goldene keyt (The Golden Chain, 1909), a verse drama by Y. L. Peretz about communal tensions over declining faith. 67.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 24. 68.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 50. 69.  Schöne Seelen finden sich: part of a German aphorism used in the titles to a number of poems and plays. The aesthetic and philosophical concept of the “beautiful soul” was brought into the mainstream of German art by Schiller and Goethe. 70.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 62. 71.  Evoe! is an exclamation used most often in Bacchanalian contexts; for its literary use see, for example, P. B. Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound, at the very beginning of Act II, scene iii, when the sea nymphs Asia and Panthea are speaking and Panthea says: Hither the sound has borne us – to the realm Of Demogorgon, and the mighty portal, Like a volcano’s meteor-breathing chasm, Whence the oracular vapor is hurled up Which lonely men drink wandering in their youth, And call truth, virtue, love, genius, or joy, That maddening wine of life, whose dregs they drain To deep intoxication; and uplift, Like Mænads who cry loud, Evoe! Evoe! The voice which is contagion to the world. 72.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 101. 73.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 91. 74.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 28. 75.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 179. 76.  Leyb Naydus, “Vegn Émile Verhaeren” Literarishe bleter (295/52), 1929. 77.  Kazimierz Przerwa-Tetmajer (1865–1940), Polish poet, writer, and journalist, associated with the modernist Young Poland (Młoda Polska) group. Karol Brzozowski: Vaynig probably means Stanisław Korab-Brzozowski (1876– 1901), a poet also associated with Young Poland, who committed suicide at the age of 25. Émile Verhaeren (1855–1916), a Belgian Symbolist poet.

78.  Leopold Staff (1878–1957), a Polish modernist poet. 79.  Naydus, Fun velt-parnas, 114. 80.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 195. 81.  Naydus, Fun velt-parnas, 16. 82.  Naydus, Dos bukh fun poemen, 9. 83.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 268. 84.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 281–82. 85.  With “the guest” Naydus seems to be referring to Nietzsche. 86.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 334–35. 87.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 336. 88.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 336–37. 89. “Four cubits” refers to a traditional idiom indicating private or domestic space. 90.  Charles Marie René Leconte de Lisle (1818–1894), French Parnassian poet. 91.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 295. 92.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 78. 93.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 173. 94.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 121. 95.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 92. 96.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 84. 97.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 80. 98.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 31. 99.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 97. 100.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 134. 101.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 205. 102.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 28. 103.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 61. 104.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 98. 105.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 46. 106.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 68. 107.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 188. 108. “L’Air des clochettes.” 109.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 74–75. 110.  That is, an “A.” 111.  Naydus, Fun velt-parnas, 185. 112.  Vaynig misquotes the title of Baudelaire’s poem: “Harmonie du soir”. 113.  Naydus, Fun velt-parnas, 20. 114.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 102. Note how almost all of the words in this poem begin with the sound “sh.” 115.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 297. 116.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 82. 117.  Naydus, Dos bukh fun poemen. 101. Hersh Dovid Nomberg (1876–1927), a Yiddish and Hebrew writer and political activist; he was a friend and follower of Peretz. 118.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 309. 119.  Naydus, Litvishe arabeskn, 254–55. 120.  Khevre Mefitse Haskole (Society for the Promotion of Enlightenment), a philanthropic group devoted to setting up authorized Yiddish-language schools in the Russian Empire in the early 20th century.

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Index Abraham, exile and, 23 Abramovitsh, Sholem Yankev. See Mendele Moykher-Sforim. activism, in Poland, 3 Aesop, 47 aesthetics of poetry, 54. See also senses. aesthetics. See beauty. Africa, as symbolic center, 18 African diaspora. See black diaspora. African-American poetry, 56 agency, poetry and, 90 “Air des clochettes” (Lakmé, Delibes), 28 Aktion, 3 Albatros (Shumyatsher), 87–8 “Albatross” (Baudelaire), 187–88, 191 alcohol, as poetic symbol, 103 Alexandria, Jewish community of, 17, 22 “Alhambra” (Naydus), 190 alienation, poetic meaning, 89 alliteration, Naydus and, 211–12 Almansor (Heine), 99 alterity, as formative potential, 80; in ethnography, 79–80; in poetry, 177; Naydus and, 83; varieties of, 80 Andante (Naydus), 207 An-sky, Sh. (Shloyme Zanvl Rappoport), 80–81, 121n148; method of ethnography, 82

“Ant and the Grasshopper” (Aesop), 47 anthropology, early phases, 90. See also ethnography. anti-colonialism, 113n45 anti-Orientalism, 78 antiquarianism, 35 antiquity, in Naydus’s poetry, 43 anti-semitism, 167 Arabs, canonical Orientalism and, 99 Ararat (Broderzon), 107 “Archaïscher Torso Apollos” (Rilke), 100 architecture, alterity and, 85; exoticism and, 102; ideology of place, 86 “Argonaut” (Naydus), 24–25, 76, 149, 193 “Ariadne” (Naydus), 193 art, Jewish folk art, 34–35; Jewishness and, 57; political/ ideological aspects, 97; primitiveness and alterity, 85; social critique and, 85 artist, nature of, 187 Asante, Molefi, 18 Asch, Sholem, 216 Ashkenazi identity, 27 assimilation, Naydus and, 169, 194 assonance, in Naydus, 212–13

229

230 At Night in the Old Marketplace (Peretz), 200 “Atlantis” (Naydus), 193 Auerbach, Erich, 22, 70, 119n133 authenticity, exoticism and, 94 autonomy, poetry and, 40 “Autumn Nights” (Naydus), 201 “Autumn” (Pushkin), 25 “Awake, My People” (Gordon), 86 Aynhorn, Dovid, 105, 177

Index black diaspora, 18 Blok, Alexander, 106, 119n131 Blumgarten, Shloyme, 134, 217n15 Böcklin, Arnold, 146 “Böhmische Dorf ” (Morgenstern), 62 Book of Poems (Naydus), 207 boundaries, 19. See also place; space. Boyarin, Daniel, 23, 26, 113nn39–42, 113n45 Boyarin, Jonathan, 23, 26, 113nn39– 42, 113n45 Brenner, Michael, 122n162, 122n172 Brenner, Naomi, 115n70 Broder, Berl, 108 Broderzon, Moyshe, 97–98, 108, 118n109, 122n175, 131, 144, 217n9, 219n64; compared with Naydus, 106–7; Jewishness of, 108; relationship to Naydus, 109 Bryusov, Valeri, 119n131 Brzozowski, Karol, 186 Burt, Stephen, 118n116 Busse, Carl, 119n131 Byron, George Gordon (Lord), 129, 188; Naydus compared to, 65

Back at Home (Naydus), 138–39 Bakhchisaraiskii fontan (Pushkin), 99 Bal’mont, Konstantin, 119n131 Balaam, in Naydus’s poetry, 48–49 Baron, Salo, 18 Baudelaire, Charles, 6, 58, 72–73, 187–88, 119n130, 119n134, 120n139, 191, 211, 220n121; contrasted with Naydus, 70; influence on Naydus, 69; sexuality and, 75 beauty, in Naydus’s poetry, 48. See also senses. “Before the Statue of Apollo” (Tshernikhovski), 51 “Cabaret in the Forest: Scherzo” “Bells” (Poe), 210 (Naydus), 27 Benjamin, Walter, 121n154 Cain, exile and, 21 Berceuse, (Naydus), 207 calendar. See holidays; time. Berent, Wacław, 145 Cantabile (Naydus), 207 Berger, Shlomo, 22, 27, 112n33, capitalism, impact on intellectual 114nn47–48 culture, 145 Bet Ha-tfutsot. See Diaspora Museum. Beyond the Fence of the World (Rabon), Caribbean culture, hybridity in, 113n45 129 Bialik, Chayim Nachman, 97, 112n15; cemeteries, Jewish, 6. See also death. center-periphery, 20, 39. See use of the sonnet, 57 also binaries. Bible, in Yiddish, 218n41 Césaire, Aimé, 113n45 Bierbaum, Otto Julius, 119n131 “Ceylon” (Naydus), 190 binaries, 16, 66–67, 82; exoticChanson triste (Naydus), 207 mundane, 84–85; problems of, 103. See Self-Other opposition. Chanukkah, Naydus’s poetry and, 163–64. See also holidays. Black Atlantic (Gilroy), 28

Index “Chat” (Baudelaire), importance of, 70–71 children, Naydus’s concern for, 168 chimera, Naydus’s poetry as, 75–76 “Chimera” (Naydus), 73, 193 Chimères (Nerval), 76 “Circus Lady” (Dropkin), 64 citizen scholarship, 3. See crowdsourcing. city, escape from, 15 civilization, as based on exile, 23 Claudius, emperor of Rome, 74 cliché, as avoidance, 149; dismissiveness and, 131; in literary criticism, 128 clothing, Jewish, 42 collective memory, 18 colonialism, 96; dilemma of conquest, 78; Jews and, 86. See also alterity; post-colonialism. Columbus, Christopher, as poetic model, 149 comedy, in Naydus’s poetry, 28. See also humor. commentary, poetry as, 38, 174 “Con sordino” (Naydus), 152 “Congo” (Lindsay), 87 contrast, in Naydus’s poetry, 26 cosmopolitanism, 95 Crapanzano, Vincent, 80–81, 121n147 criticism (literary), criticism of, 133–34; nature and limits of, 128–31, 133–34, 139 crowdsourcing, 3. See citizen scholarship. Cullen, Countee, as poetic formalist, 56–57 culture, preservation of, 23; poetic use of, 30 Dante Alighieri, 35, 53 Darío, Rubén, 58, 106

231

Days of Awe, in poetry, 163. See also holidays; time. death, decadentism and, 146; Jewish tradition and, 44; poetic meaning, 89 decadence, in European poetry, 24 decadentism, 145 Dehmel, Richard, 119n131 Deutsch, Nathaniel, 121n148 Dew (Broderzon), 107 dialogics, in Naydus’s poetry, 66 diaspora internationalism, 14–15, 37, 40, 77, 84, 106; in Naydus’s influences, 69 Diaspora Museum, Tel Aviv, 29 diaspora nationalism, 14; in Second Temple period, 17 diaspora, as “meaningful exile,” 19; as hybrid terrain, 22; as irreversible, 28–29; breakdown of exile into, 113n38; contrasted with exile, 18; in Jewish thinking, 13–14; in opposition to homeland, 22; nature of, 113n45; philosophy of, 22; polyvalence of, 19; successful communities in, 29; terminology of, 29; theory of, 26, 28–29. See also black diaspora; home; exile; land; place; space. diasporic consciousness, contrasted with exile consciousness, 23 diasporic poetics, 79 diasporism, 16–17, 23 dislocation, social, 79 diversity, exoticism and, 95 Divine Comedy (Dante), 35 divine displeasure, 16 divine order, 16 domestic space, in Jewish literature, 15. See also place; space. drama, An-sky’s The Dybbuk as, 82

232

Index

Dropkin, Tsilye, 64 Dybbuk (An-sky), 82 Earth Awakens (Naydus), 48 Eastward (Naydus), 77, 83, 93, 189 ecstaticism, poetry and, 169 Edelshtat, Dovid, 131, 217n10 Edwards, Brent Hayes, 113n45, 114n51 Eisen, Arnold M., 16, 19, 22, 28–29, 112n16, 112n18, 112nn23–26, 112nn36–37, 113n38, 114nn52–54 “Elements Draw Me On” (Naydus), 212 emotion, Impressionism and, 206 Engels, Friedrich, eulogized in Yiddish sonnet, 55–56 Enlightenment, universality and, 93, 95. See also Haskalah. eroticism, 74–75, 77, 213–14; and Orientalism, 84–85; in Naydus’s poetry, 66, 73–74; poetry and, 26. See also sexuality. “Essay on Exoticism” (Segalen), 95 ethics, of ethnography, 79 ethnography, 3; and exoticism, 79; An-sky’s methodology, 82; as confrontation, 80; challenges of, 80–81; ideas of, 80; Jewish, 34, 81; of Islam, 102; particularism and, 95; pathology of, 80; primitiveness, 91; Russian, 82; salvage, 90 Eugene Onegin (Pushkin), 6; translated by Naydus, 70 European Jewry, character of, 144 “Evening in a Shtetle” (Naydus), 171 Ewald, Oscar, 218nn48–50 exile, as native experience, 18; breakdown into diaspora, 23, 113n38; contrasted with diaspora, 18; creative function of, 23; ideology of, 16; impact

on Jewry, 168; in Jewish identity, 16; in Jewish thought, 13–14, 16; inverted texts of, 37; negation of, 13–14, 29; Orientalism and, 78; pathology of, 18; punishment or call, 112–13n37; rabbinic views of, 18–19; rereading of its symbols, 43–44; slavery as, 18; specificity of, 17–18; symbolism of, 42–44; terminology of, 29. See also diaspora; Galut; home; land; place; shlilat ha-golah; space. exile-consciousness, 16, 40; contrasted with diasporic consciousness, 23; pathology, 85 exile-home model, 17, 19 exilism, 16. See also diasporism. exotic, Naydus and, 196; poetic discourse on, 91; visual structures and, 102 exoticism, 15, 79, 83, 191; absence of, 100; complementary to nativism, 96; defined, 122n172; eroticism and, 85; ethnography and, 79; moral dimensions, 96; Romanticism and, 94; Victor Segalen on, 95. See also alterity; Orientalism; Self-Other. exots, Segalen on, 96; Naydus as, 102–3 Expressionism, in Yiddish literature, 59 Fabian, Johannes, 121n159 Fader, Ayala, 121n149 Falke, Gustav, 119n131 family, in Naydus’s poetry, 36–37; social standing and, 47 fargeyn, polysemy in Yiddish poetry, 89 Fayerberg, Mordechai Ze’ev, 97

Index femininity, earth and, 36; Sabbath and, 37–38. See also women. “Final Pages” (Naydus), 183 Finkin, Jordan, 114n69, 115n70, 116n89, 118n105, 118n122, 120n146 First World War, 5, 34, 105, 117n97, 167; impact on Jewish communities, 4; impact on Naydus, 6 Flam, Jack, 121n153 Fleurs du Mal (Baudelaire), 6, 58, 70; translated by Naydus, 69 folk culture, impact on Yiddish poetry, 56; music in, 57 folklore, Jewish, 33–34 folksong, 176–77 forest primeval, 82–83 Forster, Leonard, 117n96 Fountain of Bakhchisaray (Pushkin), 99 Frederick II, 53 French Symbolism, 53, 61, 72, 106; impact on Naydus, 58, 69, 105; impact on Spanish literature, 58; influence on sonnet, 57–58 Freud, Sigmund, 30–31, 114n57 From the World-Parnassus, 69 Frost, Robert, 103, 105 Froude, James Anthony, 118n120 Frug, Shimen, 217n20 Fulda, Ludwig, 119n131 Galut, as distinct term for exile, 29; as static concept, 22; Zionism and, 28. See also diaspora; exile. Galway, James, 67 Garden of Eden, exile and, 16 Gauguin, Paul, 85 Gautier, Théophile, 119n131 gender. See femininity. Genesis, exile in, 16 genre expectation, poetry and, 63

233

Gens, Jakub, 3 “Georgian Song” (Naydus), 190 Geschichte als Sinngebung des Sinnlosen (Lessing), 197 Gilroy, Paul, 18, 20, 28, 112nn21–22 Glants-Leyeles, Aaron, 131, 217n8 Glatshteyn, Yankev, 144, 218n27 God, Jewish ideas of, 51. See also religion. Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 69, 99, 119n131, 136, 219n78 Goldberg, Lea, 114n70 “Golden Chain” (Peretz), 177 Golden Peacock (Halpern), 134 Goldwater, Robert, 121n151 Golenishchev-Kutuzov, Arseni, 119n131 Gordon, Yehudah Leib, 49, 86 Gorelick, Sh., 215 Gornfeld, Arkadii, 54 Gothic architecture, 15 Grade, Chaim, 144, 218n29 “Greek Gods and Myths” (Naydus), 193 Greif, Martin, 119n131 Grinberg, Uri-Tsvi, 87 Grodner Opklangen, 60 Gruen, Erich, 17, 22, 112n19, 112nn34– 35 Hall, Stuart, 113n45 Halpern, Leyvik, 217n7; critique of, 130 Halpern, Moyshe-Leyb, 217n16, 134, 144 Hamsun, Knut, 119n131 Harlem Renaissance, as parallel to Yiddish poetry, 56 “Harmony of the Word” (Baudelaire), 211 Hasidism, 5 Haskalah, 5, 86; as central to Yiddish poetry, 138; Mendele

234

Index

Moykher-Sforim and, 39. See also Enlightenment. Hayano, David H., 121n149 hearing. See senses. Hebrew modernism, 40 Hebrew, ideology of use in Yiddish, 103; influence on Yiddish, 87–88; in Naydus’s poetry, 45, 172, 187 hefker, in Yiddish modernist poetics, 89 Heine, Heinrich, 99, 119n131 Heizer, Donna K., 121n162, 122n168 Hellenism, in Naydus’s poetry, 25–26, 75–76, 149, 181–82, 189, 196; Judaism and, 115n75, 178 Hellenistic Judaism, 17, 20 Hellerstein, Kathryn, 116n91, 118n117 “Hero and Leander” (Naydus), 193 “Hetaera” (Naydus), 193 Hirshbeyn, Perets, 87 Hofshteyn, Dovid, 55, 116n92, 217n21 holidays, Jewishness and, 173–74; nationalism and, 163–64. See also Chanukkah; Hoshanah Rabbah; Passover; religion; time. Holocaust, literary memorialization, 60 home, diaspora idea of, 21; ideologies of, 14, 16; return to, 16. See also diaspora; exile; land; place; space. homeland, in opposition to diaspora, 22 homelessness, in Judaism, 16. See also wandering. Horace, 5 Hornoeffer, August, 202 Hoshanah Rabbah, 38. See also holidays. Howarth, Peter, 117n99 Hrushovski, Benjamin, 117n95

Hughes, Langston, and folk poetics, 56 humanism, Enlightenment and, 96 humanities, relationship to science, 134 humor, in Naydus’s poetry, 28, 65 hybridity, 113n45; and cultural survival, 26; in contemporary critical literature, 113n45; in Naydus’s poetry, 35–36, 109; language and, 27 Hyde, Lewis, 29, 114n55 “I Am the Only One” (Naydus), 8 “I Wish” (Naydus), 190 identity, Orientalism and, 87 “Idol” (Naydus), 190 images, Naydus and, 190–91 Imber, Shmuel Yankev, 143, 218n26 Immanuel of Rome, 53 imperialism, diaspora and, 113n45. See also colonialism. impermanence, symbols of, 86 Impressionism, 145, 186, 199, 200, 216; in art, 210; influence on Naydus, 184–85, 205; innovation of, 202–3; poetics of, 63, 206, 209 “In flam” (Naydus), 212 “In Honor of Simchat Torah” (Naydus), 163 In New York (Halpern), 134 “In the Circus” (Naydus), 64–65, 67, 73 In zikh, 105, 127; Inzikhists, 171 Inspiration (Broderzon), 107 interculturalism, 79; moral dimensions, 90 internationalism, 14–15 interwar period, Jewish nationalism in, 17 intimacy, in Naydus’s poetry, 73

Index

235

eastern Mediterranean, 17; intellectual trends in eastern Europe, 79; language and identity, 27; Mendele’s critique of, 39; modernism and, 49; politics of, 165; selfunderstanding, 80–81 Jones, Faith, 121n156 “Judah” (Naydus), 164–65 Jacobs, Elijah L., 118n116 Judaism, breakdown in the modern Jameson, Fredric, 18 world, 13; exile-consciousness Japheth and Shem, 15 in, 13–14, 16; Hellenism and, 115n75, 178; idea of God, 51; Jerusalem, in Naydus’s poetry, 192; paganism and, 45; time and, 39. Jews and, 17 See also holidays, Jewish culture, and Europe, 194; Judaizing, as poetic technique of preservation, 3–4 Naydus, 38; of Impressionism, Jewish Enlightenment. See Haskalah. 187; Mendel Moykher-Sforim Jewish ethnography, alterity in, 91 and, 38; of nature, 49, 173–74; of Jewish identity, basis of, 23; exile space, 45 and, 16 Judeomorphism, 38, 49, 174–75; “Jewish Melodies” (Naydus), 171–72 emotion and, 52; Naydus and, Jewish modernists, influence on 39, 45 Broderzon, 106–7 Julius Caesar, 118n120 Jewish nationalism, 17; as central to Juvenal, 73 Yiddish poetry, 138 juxtaposition, 75; as poetic Jewish Orientalism, as distinct device, 66–67 from other Orientalism, 78; categories of, 96 Kahanovitch, Pinkhas (Der Nister), Jewish poetry, lacking universalism, 119n127 194 Kalmar, Ivan, 122n172 Jewish Studies, influence, 14 Kant, Immanuel, 115n77 “Jewish Terzinas” (Naydus), 35 Kassow, Samuel D., 111n3 Jewishness, art forms and, 57; as Kavkazskii plennik (Pushkin) complementary, 49; essence of, Kenigsberg, Dovid, 116n91 15; forms of, 50–51; importance Khalyastre group, 105, 107 to Naydus, 168–70; in Naydus, Kiev Grupe, 105 49–50; land of Israel and, 192; Kilcher, Andreas, 111n1 Yiddish and, 109 Kitay, M., 137–38, 217n19 Jewry, alterity and, 82, 194–95; Kol’tsov, Aleksei, 119n131 clothing and, 42; emotional Korab-Brzozowski, Stanisław, experience, 38; exile and 220n86 Zionism, 28; folk art of, 34–35; Kromer, Gretchen, 118n113 impact of exile on, 168; in Intimate Melodies (Naydus), 43–44, 52, 149, 175, 206 inversion, in Naydus’s poetry, 37; in poetry, 25 Islam, Naydus’s appreciation of, 101–2 Israel, diaspora and, 22; state of, 13. See also land.

236

Index

Kuindzhi, Arkhip, influence on Naydus, 69 Kulbak, Moyshe, 26, 79 Kunst un Lebn, 216 Kvietkauskas, Mindaugas, 7, 111n5, 111n7, 111n9, 114n61, 119n132 “Labor” (Shlonsky), 40 Lakmé (Delibes), 28 land of Israel, importance for Naydus, 96–99 land, exile and, 21; ideology of, 16; Rabbis and, 19. See also diaspora; exile; home; place; space. Landkentnish/Krajoznawstwo, 4 landscape, in poetry, 42 language, cultural hybridity and, 27; ethnic associations of, 33; music and, 210; Naydus’s use of, 45–46, 102–3; poetry and, 61; poets’ use of, 182–83; selective use of, 87; unique to poetic moment, 135–36. See also Hebrew; Yiddish. Lasker-Schüler, Else, Orientalism of, 95 Leconte de Lisle, Charles Marie René, 220n99 “Legend” (Naydus), 189 “Legendary Night” (Naydus), 211 Leid (Hornoeffer), 202 Lerberghe, Charles van, 206 Lermontov, Mikhail Yuryevich, 119n131 Lessing, Theodor, 197 “Letter” (Naydus), 68, 183–84 Levin, Khane, 118n107 Leyb, Mani, 55 Leyeles, Aaron. See Glants-Leyeles, Aaron. Leyvik, H. See Halpern, Leyvik. Liberman, Chaim, 135, 217n18

Lindsay, Vachel, 87 Lirik (Naydus), 25, 62, 206 Lisek, Joanna, 118n107 Lisle, Leconte de, 119n131 Literarische Bleter, 107 Literarishe monatshriftn, 127, 215 literature, relation between language and theme, 33 Lord Byron. See Byron, George Gordon. love poetry, 68–69; and Baudelaire, 71 loyalty, 17 Ludvig, Reuven, 144, 218n28 “Lullaby” (Verlaine), 184 Lutski, A., 118n109, 131, 217n13 Maeterlinck, Maurice, 115n77, 119n131 magic, amulets, 26 male, sexualizing gaze of, 77. See also femininity; women. Mallarmé, Stéphane, 61 Malraux, André, 127, 217n1 Manger, Itsik, 107–8, 122n182 “Maori princess / My sister” (Shumyatsher), 90 Marinetti, Filippo Tommaso, 119n131 marionette theaters, 107 Markish, Perets, 40–41, 59, 118n109, 131, 217n12; influenced by Naydus, 59 Marriage of Figaro (Mozart), 28 marriage, family relationships in, 47 maskilim, 5. See also Haskalah. material culture, Naydus and, 34–35 materiality, Jewishness and, 204 maturity, literary art and, 129 McClennan, Sophia A., 17, 112n20 “Medea’s Return” (Naydus), 193 melody, poetry and, 212. See also music.

Index memory, collective, 18; diaspora life and, 19; secondhand reminiscence, 190 Mendele Moykher-Sforim (S. Y. Abramovitsh), 153, 174, 217n6; literary Judaizing, 38–39 Mendelizing, 116n82, 174–75 Merivale, Patricia, 115n76 Messalina, wife of Claudius, 74 Messiah, expectation of, 13 Messianism, 17 metaphor, Impressionism and, 203–4; irony in, 98 meter, in Naydus’s poetry, 87; in poetry, 15, 63. See also rhythm. Mikics, David, 118n116 Minski, Nikolai, 119n131 mobilization, importance to Naydus, 163–64 modernism, 94; conceits of, 109; inner life, 88; Naydus and, 202; perspective on Jews, 83; primitivism and, 121n151 modernismo, literary movement, 58, 106 modernist poetry, Self and Other in, 81 modernity, and primitiveness, 82 “Mohammeds Berufung” (Rilke), 99 mood, Impressionism and, 206; in Naydus’ poetry, 200–201, 204, 208 “Moonlight Sonata” (Beethoven), 28 Morgenstern, Christian, 118n114; poetic rhyme and, 62 Moss, Kenneth, 117n100 Mother Earth (Naydus), 36 Mount Hira, call of Mohammad, 100 Muhammad, call of, 99–100 music, importance to Naydus, 5, 62; poetry and, 60, 206–10. See also rhythm; melody; meter.

237

Muslims, canonical Orientalism and, 99 Musset, Alfred de, 119n131 “My Cat” (Naydus), in dialog with Baudelaire’s “Chat,” 71 “My Grandma” (Naydus), 36 My People (Naydus), 33, 49, 140, 165, 169 “My Soldier” (Naydus), 189 “My World” (Naydus), 15, 83, 94, 102, 189 “Myrtho” (Nerval), 76 mystery, sorrow and, 202 mythographic, 95 Narayan, Kirin, 121n149 “Narcissus” (Naydus), 193 narodnik movement, 82 nationalism (Jewish), exile and, 168; holidays and, 163–64; Jewish, 191–93; Naydus and, 33–34, 93; Romanticism and, 97 nativism, 14, 17; as complementary to exoticism, 96 nature, Jewish holidays and, 173–74; Judaism and, 42–43; Judaization of, 38, 49, 174–75; in Naydus’s poetry, 36–38, 40–41, 45–46, 48, 136, 205; Orientalism and, 189; religion and, 43 Naydus Studies (Vaynig), 34, 38 Naydus, Leyb, adaptation in, 72; aesthetic views, 9; alterity and, 177–78; approach to space and time, 40; as culture collector, 34; as diasporist, 14; as translator, 58, 69, 77, 119n134, 210–11; as wanderer, 91–92, 94, 186; assimilation and, 194; character of, 4; complexity of his work, 139; contrasted with Baudelaire, 70; critical evaluation of, 106, 108–9,

238

Index 132–33, 137–38, 168; death in his poetry, 44; decadence of, 132, 144; European culture and, 153–54, 194; exoticism, 84–87; his importance to Yiddish, 214–15; his life and death, 5–6; humor and, 65; hybridity/ internationalism of, 39, 46, 83, 103, 109, 177–78, 194; ideology of, 155, 171–72; importance of rhyme to, 60–63; importance of Yiddish to, 27; influence of, 118n107, 155; influences on, 67–69, 105, 107, 183, 186, 155–59, 195–96, 204; innovations of, 24, 77, 195–96; Jewishness and, 33, 108, 151–61, 162–63, 168–70, 172–73, 175–76, 204; Judaization, 45; language play, 14; list of his sonnets, 117n104; literary Judaizing, 38; music and, 11; nature in his poetry, 36–38, 40–41, 45–46, 48, 136, 205; on religion, 169–70; past and present in, 171; pluralism in, 43; poetic mission of, 111n11, 141– 42; poetic style, 7–8, 64, 165–66, 199, 204–5; portrait, ii; praise of, 6; relationship to Broderzon, 109; self-understanding, 9–10, 140–43; senses and, 42; sexuality and, 75; social action, 59, 167–68; sonnet form and, 58, 77; study of, 6–7; synthesis of sacred and secular, 175; theory and, 206; undervalued, 131; uniqueness of, 109–10; use of languages other than Yiddish, 108–9; use of poetic forms, 58, 75–77; women and, 46

Naygreshl, Mendl, 116n91, 117n97 negation, meaning and, 29

Negritude movement, 113n45. See also black diaspora. Nekrasov, Nikolai, 119n131 Neo-Romanticism, 199–200, 202. See also Romanticism. Nerval, Gérar de, 76 “New Generation” (Naydus), 168 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 43, 199, 218nn33–34; poems, 148–49 Niger, Shmuel, 149–50, 215, 218n36–7 “Night in the Old Hall” (Naydus), 208 Der Nister. See Kahanovitch, Pinkhas. nomadism, ideological, 19. See also wandering. Nomberg, Hersh Dovid, 213, 220n126 Norich, Anita, 120n144 North, Michael, 82, 121n151 objectification, ethnography and, 90 objectivity, ethnography and, 79; selfhood and, 81 Odysseus, 21–22 Ohnuki-Tierney, Emiko, 121n149 “On a Rainy Day” (Naydus), 190 “On an Autumn Day” (Naydus), 38 “Only the Strong!” (Naydus), 51 opera, as influence on Naydus, 28 Opitz, Martin, 117n96 opposition, in Naydus, 178, 204 “Oriental Legend” (Naydus), 190 Oriental Motifs (Naydus), 77, 93 “Orientale” (Broderzon), 97–98 “Orientalia” (Naydus), 93, 190; Romantic tendencies in, 95 Orientalism, 79, 188–91, 193; and nature, 189; canonical forms, 99; ironies in, 98; Naydus and, 83; positive possibilities of, 77–78; Romanticism and, 98; self-exploration and critique, 91

Index

239

ornamentation, in Naydus’s poetry, Petőfi, Alexander (Sándor), 119n131, 196 166 Other, in Yiddish poetry, 86; Petrarch, 53 Muslims/Arabs as, 99. See Petrarchan sonnet, 54 also alterity. piety, Jewish, 36. See also religion. otherness, domestication of, 90; pilgrimage, 17 irreducibility of, 95–96; place, ideology of, 25, 86, 88; time language and, 102; primitive art, and, 93. See also diaspora; exile; 85. See also alterity. home; land; space. Other-Self. See Selfpluralism, diaspora and, 23; in Other opposition. Naydus, 49–50; Jewry and, over-identification, in ethnography, 49–51, 57. See also universalism. 81 Poe, Edgar Allan, 119n131, 210 Oyneg Shabes Archive, Warsaw, “Poem Without a Name” (Naydus), 4, 111n3 148, 189 Poems (Sutzkever), 129 paganism, as complementary to Poems of Paradise (Leyvik), 130 Judaism, 45 poet, as social figure, 143; Pagliacci (Leoncavallo), 28 communicating inner life, 200; Pan, in literature, 115n76; in development of, 132–34 Naydus’s poetry, 178 poetic experience, 179–80 Pan’s Flute (Naydus), 45–46, 153, 204 poetic forms, 201; experimentation pantheism, in Naydus’s poetry, 43, with, 107; Naydus’s use of, 45 178–79; sonnet, 100 “Paris and Helen” (Naydus), 193 poetic groups, 105 Parnassians, 24 poetic method, 182, 197–99 participant observation, poetic style, 183–84, 186 ethnography and, 81 poetic technique, 201; alliteration, particularism, ethnography and, 95; 211–12 universality and, 93. See also poetry, aesthetics of, 9, 54; universality; pluralism. as beautification, 52; as Passover, prayers of, 48. See commentary, 38, 174; also holidays. criticism of, 65–66; dialogics past, and present in Naydus, 171. See in, 66; didacticism and, also time. 100; ethnography and, 79; Patetishe sonate (Naydus), 207 expectations in, 63; forms, 6, 25, “Paul Verlaine” (Naydus), 183 46, 48, 53–78, 87; importance Penslar, Derek J., 122n172 to Yiddish culture, 105; Peretz, Y. L. (Yitskhok Leybush), 107, inspiration, 25; inversion in, 118n109, 134, 177, 200, 213, 217n6, 25; language and, 61; meter in, 219n75, 220n126; critique of, 130 15, 63; music and, 60; nature periphery, center and, 39 of, 135–36; program in, 141–42; purpose of, 139; race and, personification, in Naydus, 77

240

Index

56–57; rhyme in, 45–46; role of formality in, 55; senses and, 63–66; sonnet form, 53–78; structures, 71; terzina form, 35; transformation in, 73 Polemic, in Naydus’s poetry, 28 Polish language, 142 political life, Naydus and, 165–66 politics of desire, 77 politics, exile and, 13; of ethnography, 79 polysemy, 89 polyvalence of images, 15 positive landlessness, 26, 28. See also diaspora internationalism. post-colonialism. See alterity; anticolonialism. post-Enlightenment, 18 post-Romanticism, 94 prayer, nature and, 36–38, 42, 44, 48; shacharit prayer, 44. present, and past in Naydus, 171. See also time. primitiveness, ethnography and, 81–82, 91; idealized, 87; in poetry, 89–90; ideal return to, 86; modernism and, 121n151 Prisoner of the Caucasus (Pushkin), 99 Próchno (Berent), 145 progress, idea of, 82–83 Prometheus Unbound (Shelley), 219n80 “Prophet of the Earth” (Niger), 216 prophetic call, as poetic call, 100 Przerwa-Tetmajer, Kazimierz, 186, 219n86 Pushkin, Alexander, 6, 25, 69, 99 Rabbis, Holy Land and, 19; observance of, 16 Rabon, Yisroel, 217n4; critique of, 129 Régnier, Henri de, 119n131

Reil, Friedrich, 115n77 religion, dogmatic and popular, 169. See also God; holidays; piety; prayer; magic. Remak, Henry H. H., 91, 93–94, 121n161, 122n164, 122n167 Renaissance, poetry in, 58 “Restlessness” (Naydus), 92; exoticism of, 95 Rethy, Sonja, 115n77 return, as idea, 17. See also home. Reyzen, Avraham (Avrom), 105, 118n109, 131–32, 144, 216, 217n11 Reyzen, Zalmen, 5, 23, 34, 111nn5–6, 113n43 rhyme, and the senses, 65; importance to Broderzon, 108; importance to Naydus, 108, 131–32, 214; in folk culture, 57; in Naydus’s poetry, 45–46; in poetry, 60–63; poetic meaning and, 88 rhythm, connection to poetic content, 183; in primitive modern verse, 87. See also meter. Richepin, Jean, 119n131 Rickert, Heinrich, 134, 217n17 Rilke, Rainer Maria, 99–101, 122n177 Rimbaud, Arthur, 129, 210 Ringelblum, Emanuel, 4, 111n3 “Rock to Sleep” (Naydus), 212–13 rococo poetry, 195–96 Rodenbach, Georges, 119n131 Romanticism, 91, 93; detachment from the world, 145; Jewish, 191; nationalism and, 97, 177; nature of, 189; Naydus and, 42, 193; Orientalism and, 98, 188–89 Romantics, exoticism and, 94 Rondo (Naydus), 207 Rosenfeld, Morris, 55, 131, 217n10 Roskies, David G., 111n4 Rostand, Edmond, 153

Index Rousseau, Henri, 83 Roze, Norbert. See Vaynig, Naftoli. Rozhanski, Shmuel, 108, 122n180, 132, 217n14; on Broderzon, 107 Rozier, Gilles, 122n181; on Broderzon, 107 Rückert, Friedrich, 111n14 Russian literature, influence on Yiddish literature, 57 rusticism, in Naydus’s poetry, 48 Sabbath Queen, 37–38 Safran, Gabriella, 111n1, 121n148 salvage ethnography, 90 sanctification, exile and, 19 sanctity, and the exotic, 92 Scherzo (Naydus), 27–28, 208–9 Schiller, Friedrich, 219n78 Schnitzler, Arthur, 119n131 Schreiber, Maeera, 116n91 Schubert, Franz, 115n77 science, relationship to humanities, 134 Scott, Clive, 57, 117n102, 118n110 Scott, David H. T., 71, 76, 117n103, 118nn112–13, 118n116, 120nn135– 36, 120nn141–43 Second Temple period, 17 secularity, Judaism and, 177 “Sed non satiata” (Baudelaire), 73 Segalen, Victor, 96, 122nn169–72; on ethnography, 95 self-critique, poetry and, 90 selfhood, objectivity and, 81 self-knowledge, alterity and, 81; ethnography as means to, 87 Self-Other opposition, 79–81; ethnography and, 82, 90–91 semiotics, negation and, 29 “Semiramis” (Naydus), 190 senses, architecture and, 86; dulling of, 204; exoticism and, 94; in Naydus’s poetry, 42, 85, 102;

241

poetry and, 63–66, 92–93. See also aesthetics. sensuousness, Naydus and, 204 sentimentalism, Naydus and, 161–62 Severyanin, Igor sexual desire, Naydus and, 46 sexuality, objectifying gaze, 77; of women, 74–75. See also erotic; eroticism. shacharit prayer, 44 Shakespeare, William, use of sonnet, 58 Shakespearean rhyme, 72 Shakespearean sonnet, 54 Shames, Fude, 55, 116n92 Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 119n131, 219n80 Shem and Japheth, 15 Shema, 218n42 shlilat ha-golah, 13; Zionism and, 29. See also exile. Shlomo Yitshaki of Troyes (Rashi), 219n70 Shlonsky, Avraham, 40–42, 115n72 Sholem Aleichem, 217n6 Shreiber, Maeera Y., 19, 112n27, 112nn29–30 Shtok, Fradl, 116n91; misidentified as originator of Yiddish sonnet, 55 Shumyatsher, Ester, 89–91, 121n156; and ethnography, 95; and exoticism, 88; and otherness, 86; use of language, 103 Shvartsman, Osher, posthumous reverence of, 122n183 sight. See senses. signification, negation and, 29 slavery, as exile, 18 Słowacki, Juliusz, 142, 217n24 smell. See senses. Smith, Gary, 56, 117n98 social status, family and, 47

242

Index

socialism, nature and, 42 Sologub, Fyodor, 119n131 Soloveichik, Joseph B., 113n38 “Someone Has Been Longing” (Naydus), 189 “sonettomania,” 58 Song of Songs, 93; influence on Naydus, 77 “Song of Songs” (Naydus), 190 “Sonnet allégorique de lui-même” (Mallarmé), 62 “Sonnet en yx” (Mallarmé), 61 sonnet, African-American use, 56; complexity of, 54–55; forms, 72; French literature, 76; gendered reimaging of, 116n92; importance of, 58, 100–101; in Yiddish, 116n91; Petrarchan sonnet, 54; Naydus’s use of, 63–64, 103, 117n104; rhyme and, 61; role in Yiddish literature, 55; traditions of, 77 “Sonnet” (Naydus), 183 Sore bas Toyvim, 218n39 space, ambiguity of, 95; domestic space in Jewish literature, 15; exile and, 112n24, 112–13n37; Jewish, 19, 112n15; Judaization of, 45; modes of intensity and, 101; sacredness and, 92; time and, 40, 44. See also diaspora; exile; home; land; place. SSRP. See Zionist Socialist Workers Party. Staff, Leopold, 186, 220n87 Steiner, George, 19, 112n28 structure, poetic, 201. See also poetry. style, poetic, 183–84, 186. See also poetry. suffering, poetic value of, 201–2 superstition, ethnography and, 82 Sutskever, Avraham (Avrom),

118n109, 131, 217n5; critique of, 129 Swift, Jonathan, 47–48 symbolism, 200; absence in Naydus, 204; alcohol and, 103; in European poetry, 24 synaestheticism, Naydus and, 102. See also senses. Tabatshnik, Abraham, 55, 116n93 Tammuz, fertility deity, 43 Temple, relevance to Hellenistic Jews, 22 Tempo, Antonio da, 116n88 tent, as Jewish symbol, 85–86; as literary image, 15 Terence (Latin poet), 45 Tetmajer, Kazimierz. See PrzerwaTetmajer, Kazimierz. “That Which Will Be No More” (Naydus), 189, 213 Thresholds (Markish), 59 time, ambiguity of, 95; and nature in Judaism, 43; death and, 44; Jewish culture and, 19, 39–40; Judaizing of, 45, 173–75; Naydus and, 39, 44; relation to space, 40, 93 “To Der Nister” (Naydus), 68 “To Igor Severyanin” (Naydus), 68 “To My People” (Naydus), 33–34 “To One” (Naydus), 30, 140; as manifesto, 49 “To Paul Verlaine” (Naydus), 68 “To the Cockatoo” (Naydus), 190 “To the Hebrew Sonnet” (Tshernikhovski), 64 Toteninsel (Böcklin), 146 touch. See senses. Trachtenberg, Alan, 121n160 tragic, in poetry, 177 transformation, poetic, 73 trauma, exile and, 17

Index Traviata (Verdi), 28 tribal culture, 89 “Triolets” (Naydus), 173 Tshernikhovski, Shaul, 51–52, 64, 116n84, 116n87; use of sonnet, 57 Twelve (Blok), 106 “Ukrainian Night” (Kuindzhi), 69 unity-diversity. See hybridity. universalism, in ethnography, 82; lack in Jewish poetry, 194; Enlightenment and, 93, 95. See also particularism; pluralism. Unzer bukh, 127 Vaynig, Naftoli, 3, 7, 34, 38–39, 43, 45, 49, 60, 67–69, 93, 96, 98–99, 109–10, 111n2, 111nn10–12, 114nn67–68, 115n75, 116n82, 118n109, 119n123, 119nn125–26, 119n129, 122n165, 122n174, 122n176; contribution to Jewish ethnography, 3–4; his death, 4; relevance to present study, 10 Vayter, A., 159, 215, 218n46 Verhaeren, Émile, 186, 220n86 Verlaine, Paul, 9, 62, 69, 183–84, 187, 196, 206; influence on Naydus, 67–68; Naydus’s dedication to, 180–82 Vilne Ghetto, 3–4 “Vilne” (Kulbak), 26 Vintshevski, Morris, 55, 117n94 vitality, in Naydus’s poetry, 43 Volhynia (Markish), 59 Wagner, Wilhelm Richard, 28 wandering, and ancient Jewishness, 85–86; idealized, 21–22, 84–85; Naydus and, 99, 186, 194. See also homelessness; nomadism. Wanderlust, artistic expression and, 91–92

243

Warsaw, ghetto, 4; intellectual culture, 87 Weinreich, Uriel, 65, 117n101, 118n111, 118n119; study of Yiddish rhyme, 57 Wein-Weib-und-Gesang motif, 111n14 Wellesley, Arthur, Duke of Wellington, 31 West-östlicher Divan (Goethe), 99 Wettstein, Howard, 112n17 What is Jewish Ethnography? (Handbook for Fieldworkers) (Naftoli Vaynig), 3, 34, 82 White Russia, 86 women, Naydus and, 46; objectification of, 77. See also femininity. Wordsworth, William, 58 World War I. See First World War. worldview, Jewish, 38 Writers in Yiddish, 7 Yehoash. See Blumgarten, Shloyme. Yeshurin, Yefim, 111n8 Yiddish (language), alterity and, 82; as poetic language, 8; Hebrew in, 87–88; important terms, 89; Jewish identity and, 27, 109; Judaization of, 172–73; linguistic origins, 27; literary character of, 77; literary developments, 91; Naydus’s impact on, 206; Naydus’s use of, 103; poetic possibilities, 210, 213–14; substitutions in, 115n73; suppression of, 13 Yiddish culture, as omnivorous, 106 Yiddish Expressionism, 59 Yiddish literature, 3; as world literature, 7; character of, 33, 215–16; history of, 56; influences, 57; innovation, 107; irreversible

244

Index

diaspora and, 28; Mendele and, 39; Romanticism and, 94 Yiddish modernism, Naydus and, 105; poetic terminology, 89; poetic values, 89 Yiddish poetry, assimilation and, 194; character of, 204; classical period, 55; criticism of, 23; forms, 25, 54; innovations in, 195–96; meter in, 15; modern, 171; Naydus’s support of, 59; of Kulbak, 26; renaissance of, 5; rhyme in, 57; shift in, 56 Yiddish Romantic style, 159 Yiddish Scientific Institute (YIVO), 3; Jewish ethnography and, 34, 82 YIVO. See Yiddish Scientific Institute. “Yo persigo una forma . . . ” (Darío), 58–59

youthfulness, literary art and, 129 Yung Galitsye, 105 Yung Yidish, 105, 107, 171, 217n9 Di Yunge, 105 Zak, Avraham, 59, 111n5, 111n11, 118n106 Zakuski (Zacusky), Arn Y. (J.), 106, 118n108, 122n179, 116nn90–91; critique of Naydus, 60 Zhukovsky, Vasili Andreyevich, 119n131 Zionism, 18; in Shlonsky’s poetry, 42; modern theories of exile and, 28; Naydus’s alternative to, 93; negation of exile and, 29; territorial, 13–14; varieties of, 29. See also home; land. Zionist Socialist Workers Party (SSRP), 5, 7, 111n13 Zuckermann, Ghil’ad, 113n46