Milan Kundera, the most prominent Czech émigré writer, defines the condition of exile as a “tight-rope high above the ground without the net afforded a person by the country where he has family, colleagues, and friends, and where he can easily say what he has to say in a language he has known from childhood.”  Joseph Conrad identifies an émigré who is a divided person split between two shores, a “homo duplex.”  Arguably, Marina Tsvetaeva anticipates many developments in the post-war literature of exile and links exilic discourse to poetic activities in general. Tsvetaeva   proclaims all poets to be displaced persons, alienated not only from their own country but also from their mother language. She states: “Every poet is essentially an émigré, even in Russia. Émigré from the Kingdom of Heaven and from the earthly paradise of nature.”  Tsvetaeva’s vision of a poet who uses his displacement in order to subvert the dominant discursive frameworks resonates well with Julia Kristeva’s in her article “A New Type of Intellectual: the Dissident” which suggests that the fundamental role of the intellectual is constantly to question existing structures and meanings. In Kristeva’s view, the intellectual is a permanent dissident who moves away from any fixed identities that relate to authorship, gender, and meaning and who exhorts the assumption of the language of exile as his truest home, however evasive it might be. Kristeva writes: “How can one avoid sinking into the mire of common sense, if not by becoming a stranger to one’s own country, language, sex and identity? Writing is impossible without some kind of exile.”  Yet Edward Said warns against the idealisation of the past, pointing out that a fetish of exile is a practice that distances displaced persons “from all connections and commitments”.  At the same time, Said notes that the experience of exile can serve as the polyphonic and creative vision: “For an exile, habits of life, expression or activity in the new environment inevitably occur against memory of these things in another environment. Thus both the new and old environment are vivid, actual, occurring together contrapuntally.  There is a unique pleasure in this sort of apprehension, especially if the exile is conscious of other contrapuntal juxtapositions that diminish orthodox judgement and elevate appreciative sympathy.”   It would not be too far-fetched to suggest that the last years Tsvetaeva spent in the Soviet Union are easily comparable to the exilic condition described by many authors and theoreticians. It is important to bear in mind that Tsvetaeva, upon arriving in her native land in 1939 after 17 years of exile, found herself in an altogether new country: a country which had a political regime and discursive framework that suppressed and largely destroyed the modernist discourse to which Tsvetaeva belonged. Tsvetaeva’s estrangement from the Soviet reality was also reinforced by the Russian-European identity that she acquired during her life in Europe.  
I would like to view Tsvetaeva’s translation of Baudelaire’s “Le Voyage” that she undertook in 1940 in Moscow at her own initiative as a vivid manifestation of the exilic discourse that displays the contrapuntal juxtaposition of her present condition with the expression of Tsvetaeva’s loyalty to the past. In the view of Simon Karlinsky, Tsvetaeva’s work as a translator in Stalin’s Russia is linked to the political conditions that were imposed upon her, since her own work was not publishable in those days. Karlinsky writes thus on Tsvetaeva’s translations of French, English, German, Spanish, Georgian, Polish and Yiddish poetry: “They kept her from writing any poetry of her own, but they also testify to what extent her poetic ability had survived all her trials. A real gem is her rendition of Charles Baudelaire’s poem ‘Voyage’, a dazzling piece which not only translates French into Russian but also Baudelaire into Tsvetaeva — an awesome amalgam. But these translations, for all their excellence, are also a monument to the waste of talent in the Stalin years, when the best Russian poets […] were prevented by the regime from making their own creative contribution and were forced to put their gifts into the service of other literatures.”  Given the fact that Tsvetaeva’s worldview and poetic persona were shaped by the Russian Symbolist culture that embraced Baudelaire’s vision of modernity with great enthusiasm, Tsvetaeva’s desire to make Baudelaire’s poem available to a Soviet readership in the 1940s might be seen as a powerful political and artistic gesture that introduces a concept of estrangement from the Soviet environment and Soviet cultural practices that was alien to Socialist realism. In the words of Adrian Wanner, “Baudelaire’s influence, beyond its measurable dimensions in terms of texts with Baudelarian features, became a powerful mythical presence in Russia, to the point that he could assume, in Andrey Bely’s words, the position of a ‘patriarch’. It was in this role of charismatic icon that Baudelaire was able to radiate in Russia as an inspiration to modernists and anti-modernists alike.”  Indeed, Tsvetaeva’s translation of “Le Voyage” attempts to resurrect Baudelaire as an important source of inspiration and as a patriarch whose views on modernity were fitting for Tsvetaeva’s critique of the various totalitarian and imperialist tendencies that she witnessed in Europe and the Soviet Union at the end of her life. 
According to Marina Belkina’s memoirs, Tsvetaeva undertook the translation of “Le Voyage” in July-December 1940. Tsvetaeva recited her rendering of Baudelaire’s poem to Belkina and Tarasenkov on 12 December 1940 and revealed to them that she had produced 12 versions of it altogether.  E.V. Snezhkova, a Russian contemporary scholar, points out that Tsvetaeva’s rendering of “Le Voyage” finalises the theme of a journey that is prominently featured in her works.  Snezhkova also indicates that Tsvetaeva’s rendering of the original title as “Plavanie” evokes the idea of death embedded in the original. In Snezhkova’s opinion, the French word “voyage” appears in the idiomatic expression “faire le grand voyage” which alludes to the final journey and represents death.  Indeed Tsvetaeva at the end of her life anticipated her death, and several of her poems written in 1939-1941 bear the qualities of the final closure, since they were written in the style of last poems and pronouncements. It is not coincidental, for example, that twelve months prior to her death — on 31 August 1940 — Marina Tsvetaeva wrote to Vera Merkur’eva as follows: “I have written everything I wanted to write. Of course, I could write a few more works but I could easily give it a miss.” (“Ia svoe napisala. Mogla by, konechno, eshche, no svobodno mogu ne.” ) Unfortunately, Snezhkova does not address the essential question, “Why did Tsvetaeva choose to translate Baudelaire’s poem in anticipation of her death?”  
In my view, Tsvetaeva uses Baudelaire’s poem as a manifestation of her hybrid identity, that could be described as modernist Russian–European identity expressed in terms of exilic poetics. It is not coincidental that Karlinsky describes Tsvetaeva’s version of  Baudelaire’s poem as powerful fusion and awesome amalgam.  Indeed, what we see in Tsvetaeva’s  translation is an expression of Lacanian alienation, decentredness that dwells on the gap between the female writing subject and the masks of identity that she inserts into the one of the most influential and canonical texts of European modernist poetry ever produced by a male author. Luce Irigaray views the state of womens’ writing as fluid and mimicking because it is already placed within a finalised linguistic system that already incorporates the established forms of feminine and masculine identity. Irigaray says: “To play with mimesis is […] for a woman, to attempt to recover the place of her exploitation by discourse, without letting herself be simply reduced to it.”  One can approach Tsvetaeva’s desire to produce a translation of her choice as a powerful political statement, since she felt displaced both within the patriarchal discourse of Stalin’s Russia and within the European modernist tradition that she identified in her 1939 poems “Mart” (“March” ) as a culture in crisis. In one of the poems of this cycle she denounces the modern world of mass conformity and madness in a bold existentialist manner: “Pora —pora — pora /Tvortsu vernut’ bilet […] Na tvoi bezumnyi mir/ Otvet Odin – otkaz.” (“It’s time, it’s time, it’s time to return the ticket to the Creator. […] I have only one reply to your insane world: a refusal.”)  Tsvetaeva’s  alienation from recognisable social structures constitutes the pattern of linguistic disintegration in exilic discourse that is strikingly comparable to the mimetic relationship in the structures of language that exists in senile dementia. In her first book Le Langage des déments (“The Language of dementia,” 1973) Irigaray describes the speaking subject who suffers dementia thus: “Spoken more than speaking, enunciated more than enunciating, the demented person is therefore no longer really an active subject of the enunciation… He is only a possible mouthpiece for previously pronounced enunciations.”  Thus Irigaray suggests that woman must copy male discourse and points out that the feminine can only be read in the blank spaces that are placed between the signs of her mimicry. She also suggests that woman can exceed and disturb the male’s logic of the Same by placing her miming in the new context and thereby providing it with political efficacy. In her essay “La ‘mécanique’ des fluides” (“The ‘mechanics’ of fluids”) Irigaray compares the language of masculinity to solids and the language of femininity to fluids, arguing that phallocratic scientific discourse does not account for woman because her language possesses a fluid identity. In Irigaray’s opinion, woman should be viewed as the life-giving sea, as the source of blood, milk and other fluids that represent a positive alternative to the construction of the patriarchal identity of the Same. In Tsvetaeva’s writings the fluidity of her writing subject is articulated on many occasions, especially through analogy between the water element and Tsvetaeva’s first name “Marina”, which is linked to the sea. The definition of fluid identity that Irigaray produces can be easily applied to Tsvetaeva’s poetic persona that has so many masks and prefers to be evasive: “It never ends, it is powerful and powerless through its resistance to that which can be counted, it takes its pleasure and suffers through its hypersensitivity to pressure; it changes — in volume or strength, for instance – according to the degree of heat, it is in its physical reality determined by the friction between two infinitely neighbouring forces — a dynamics of proximity and not of property.”  
I will argue that Tsvetaeva uses an exilic discourse as an important discursive framework that allows her to comment on the barbaric cultural condition of Stalin’s Russia of the 1930-40s. In his study of twentieth-century Russian architecture Vladimir Paperny offers a useful tool that helps approach Stalin’s Russia in terms of style of thought: thus, he describes many cultural developments of the 1920s as a type of culture that he calls Culture One and labels the trends of the 1930-1950s as Culture Two. Paperny states that the main characteristic of Culture One is a horizontal quality that reflects on the fact that “the values of the periphery become more important that those of the centre” and architects were left to themselves and enjoyed a sense of great freedom to generate ideas “that are almost never realised.”  Paperny says that Culture Two represents the transfer of values to the centre that results in the fact that society becomes ossified. As Paperny puts it, “the authorities start showing an interest in architecture both as practical means for securing the population and as spatial expression of a new centre-based system of values.”  Paperny’s model can be easily extended to the Soviet literary scene of the 1930s-40s that displaced such creative and independent modernist spirits as Tsvetaeva, who was far from being an escapist. I will argue that Tsvetaeva understood several politically charged messages in Baudelaire’s poem that brought to the fore the negative aspects of modernity. At the same time, her translation work on Baudelaire’s poem enabled her to internalise the desire for voyage that was absent in Soviet Russia and in her everyday life, and to experience the adventures undertook by her literary predecessors, including Baudelaire. Her translation is essentially modernist and therefore displays several metatextual qualities that create a bridge between modernist practices in France and Russia. Milan Kundera’s characterisation of modern writers aptly describes Tsvetaeva’s poetic imagination at the end of her life. As Kundera puts it, “Ever since Joyce…. we have been aware of the fact that the greatest adventure in our lives is the absence of adventure. Odysseus fought at Troy, made his way home on a ship he himself piloted, and a mistress on every island — no, such is not the life we lead. Homer’s Odyssey now takes place within man. Man has internalised it. The islands, the sea, the sirens seducing us, and Ithaca calling us home — they have been all reduced to voices within us.”  
Baudelaire’s “Le Voyage” was written in 1859 and was dedicated to Max du Camp, the most celebrated traveller of his time, whose 1855 collection of poetry Les Chants Modernes includes a poem  “Le Voyageur.” It is interesting to note that the original title of Baudelaire’s poem resonates strongly with Max du Camp’s poem: it was titled “Les Voyageurs”.  Perhaps, the initial title more aptly describes the heroic personalities of those who challenge death and overcome the horrors of life. As Richard Burton puts it, “as they set sail, the travellers are inwardly afire, unafraid, wholly and willingly committed to the onward journey […] and their cry ‘Enfer ou Ciel, qu’importe’ is not at all the cry of nihilistic defiance it is sometimes taken for, but an affirmation of life whatever it may bring, a triumph for the lyricist’s passionate espousal of life over the moralist’s horrified recoil from it.”  According to Burton, Baudelaire’s “Le Voyage” is not a manifestation of de Maistrian pessimism but rather an exorcism of it. Burton suggests that at the end of the poem “the ‘nous’ of childhood hope and appetite has triumphed, despite everything, over the ‘nous’ of adult apathy and despair: a lifetime’s struggle between ‘l’horreur de la vie et l’extase de la vie’ has ended, provisionally, in a victory of ecstasy, for lyricism, for tragic joy.”   In her 1932 article “Epic and Lyric of Contemporary Russia” (“Epos i lirika sovremennoi Rossii”) Tsvetaeva wrote of Boris Pasternak as great lyricist who sets out on a journey to self-discovery in language conspicuously akin to Baudelaire’s poem. Tsvetaeva thus describes Pasternak: “Pasternak is inexhaustible. In his hand, everything, including his hand, goes from his hand into infinity — and we go with it, after it. Pasternak is solely an invitation au voyage of self-discovery and world-discovery, solely a point of departure: a place from which. Out unmooring. Just enough space for weighing anchor. […] You read Pasternak above the line — a parallel and perpendicular reading. You don’t so much read as look (think, walk) away from. Something leads you on. Sometimes leads beyond. You might say that the reader himself writes Pasternak.”  Thus Tsvetaeva’s uses Baudelaire’s vision of a lyricist who is comparable to a courageous traveller committed to the onward journey and whose passionate espousal of life triumphs over the moralist’s recoil from it.  
In this respect it is important to bear in mind that Tsvetaeva’s articles on Pasternak, including “Epos i lirika sovremennoi Rossii” (“Epic and Lyric of Contemporary Russia”) and her letters to Pasternak in which she voices her concerns about the displacement of the poet-lyricist in the Soviet Union, can be viewed as an important contextual setting for her translation of “Le Voyage.” The choice of this poem for translation might also have been inspired by the poem’s politically charged messages. Thus, for example, Richard Burton points out that Baudelaire’s dedication to du Camp is double-edged because it contains political overtones inspired by Baudelaire’s condemnation of du Camp’s activities as an editor of Revue de Paris and by the repressive cultural politics of the Second Empire: in January 1858 the journal was closed by decree of the imperial government.  Burton explains: “Baudelaire was certainly setting out to cause a shudder of horror in writing and publishing ‘Le Voyage,’ but his target was less du Camp personally than Second Empire humanity in general of which, it is true, du Camp was an entirely typical representative.”   Burton suggests that in 1859 Baudelaire was preoccupied not so much with the theme of life and death but with the issue of the relationship between artist and authority, and especially with the question of “the place of the creative artist in a society dominated by utilitarianism and the headlong pursuit of wealth, pleasure, and power.”  Thus, in the first part of his “Le Voyage”, Baudelaire invokes the existential reasons for those who wish to abandon their native land: “Les uns, joyeux de fuir une patrie infâme; /D’autres, l’horreur de leurs berceaux, et quelques-uns, /Astrologues noyés dans les yeux d’une femme, /Le Circé tyrannique aux dangereux parfums.” (“Some happy to escape from an infamous land;/ Others, from the horror of their cradles, and a few, / Astrologies drowning in the eyes of a woman, /A tyrannical Circe with her dangerous perfumes.”)  Tsvetaeva inscribes into the poem autobiographical overtones that contain references to contemporary life in the Soviet Union, and states that some people are inspired to leave their motherland from their hatred for it; or from boredom; or from desire to take control over their lives and spend the rest of it in a noble manner, surpassing the limitations that might have been imposed on them: “Chto nas tolkaet v put’? Tekh – nenavist’ k otchizne, /Tekh –skuka ochaga, eshche inykh — v teni/ Tsirtseinykh resnits ostavivshikh polzhizni — /Nadezhda otstoiat’ ostavshiesia dni.”  (“What makes us leave? Some leave because  they hate their motherland; some are bored by the sight of their fireplace; some have spent half of their lives under the surveillance of Circe and are hoping to spend the rest of their lives they way they wish.”) Tsvetaeva’s image of a tyrannical Circe that enchants and makes people waste half their life is a vivid reworking of the tyrannical image that occurs in Baudelaire’s poem and of the goddess powerful in magic described in Homer’s Odysseus. According to Homer’s narrative, Circe has a house surrounded by wild beasts who fawn on new arrivals, and she is capable of changing people: thus, for example, she turns Odysseus’s men into swine. Baudelaire uses the classical framework of mythological, historical and literary allusions throughout the whole collection of his book Les Fleurs du Mal, and the references to Circe have a strong presence not only in “Le Voyage” but also in his poem “Le Cygne” (The Swan). In the words of Burton, ‘the classical context is not […] intended to endow ‘Le Voyage’ with a ‘heroic’ or ‘epic’ dimension but, by an ironic contrapuntal effect […], to contrast, in particular, Odysseus’s voyage of initiation and discovery through a mythologically significant universe charged with sacred density with modern man’s journey towards nothingness in a ‘one-dimensional’ world that has been deserted by gods and goddesses, myths and magic.”  
Burton regards ‘Le Voyage” as anti-Odyssey narrative because it challenges the teleological assumptions that constitute the mythological universe, pointing to the fact that in the modern world there are “no tutelary gods or goddesses, no predestiny or precognition, no supernatural interventions of any kind […], no framework of tradition, belief or authority, no Eumenides other than the relentless goad of human Desire itself […]; above all no Ithaca at the beginning and end of time.”  In Tsvetaeva’s rendering the image of Circe alludes to the relationship between state power, or a figure of authority, and the individual. This is especially felt in her reference to those who would still like to defend the right of individuals to have control over their lives and maintain a sense of human dignity. In other words, this seductive aspect of political power that could crush and destroy individuals is highlighted in Tsvetaeva’s translation, to the effect that it appears to manifest the anxiety towards modernity expressed in the works of Russian modernists who drew on the symbols of modernity embedded in Pushkin’s narrative poem “Mednyi vsadnik” (“The Bronze Horseman”). Pushkin’s poem suggests that those individuals who resign themselves to denial of historical past and to oblivion are doomed to perish. Pushkin insists in this work that it is important to know the history of one’s country and of familial lineage, and identifies respect for the past with enlightenment and civilisation. Such an attitude is related to the mythological consciousness that provides individuals with healing experiences. As Svetlana Evdokimova points out, “Pushkin does not condemn Eugene […] The poet demonstrates, however, that a man who places himself outside the history of his family and his land is doomed to ruin.”  In the light of this contextual framework, Tsvetaeva’s image of Circe in her translation of “Le Voyage” evokes the image of a modern tyrant, a false idol placed outside history. 
Another important change in Tsvetaeva’s translation relates to the image of a child discussed at the beginning of Baudelaire’s text. Simon Markish considers as a key image of the whole text Baudelaire’s image of a child whose dreams of travel are inspired by his exploration of maps and who is described in the opening lines of the poem —“Pour l’enfant, amoureux de cartes et d’estampes/ L’univers est égal à son vaste appétit” (“For the child, in love with maps and prints, /The universe is equal to his huge appetite.”). In Markish’s opinion, it sets the whole atmosphere of desiring. In a metonymical manner Baudelaire identifies a modern man with a child whose desire of new experiences and new adventures knows no bounds. Burton argues that, to Baudelaire, a divided adult is just a descendant of a divided child. He points out that the expression “dès l’enfance” occurs several times in the collection Les Fleurs du Mal “reminding us that any notion of paradise, be it situated before birth, after death or within life itself, is radically foreign to Baudelaire.”  Yet, it might be argued that   in “Le Voyage” Baudelaire presents himself as a passionate advocate of modernity that makes the world more accessible to individuals through the advancement of technology. Henri Peyre observes that Baudelaire was a true romantic who “was able to rediscover the poetry of the past preserved in the streets of the metropolis” and was fond of a rebelliousness “which expanded and exalted the nature of man and was to acquaint him with all vices, all excesses, to make him hover on the verge of many an abyss and to cherish death itself in order to live more courageously.”  Certainly, the idea of living courageously is reinforced in Tsvetaeva’s rendering of the poem, since she translates the first line thus: “dlia otroka, v nochi gliadiashcego estampy” (“for a young man who looks at prints in the night”).  The image of a young man archaically called “otrok” is associated in Tsvetaeva’s own works with the image of a man capable of cherishing death and of living life in an intensified way in anticipation of his demise or from recognition of his predestiny as martyr. Thus, for example, in Tsvetaeva’s cycle “Otrok” (“Youth,” 1921) we come across a youth related to and modelled upon Israel’s King David, a musician traditionally held to be the author of the Psalms.  Once again Tsvetaeva inscribes into this poem her favourite juxtaposition of Jews and poets through their displacement from the society they live in. Undoubtedly, Tsvetaeva’s metaphor that brings together displaced Jews and poets derives from the seventh part of Baudelaire’s “Le Voyage”,which states: “Le Temps! Il est, hélas! des coureurs sans répit, / Comme le Juif errant et comme les apôtres,/ A qui rien ne suffit, ni wagon ni vauseau,/Pour fuir ce rétiare infâme […].” (“Time! There are, alas, continual runners, /Like the wandering Jew and like the apostles, /To whom nothing suffices, neither train nor ship, /in order to flee the infamous retiary […].”).  It appears that Tsvetaeva’s image of poets who constantly experience an exilic condition, and who are continual runners, is borrowed directly from Baudelaire’s “Le Voyage”. In fact, in her early career Tsvetaeva was very much influenced by translators and poets, including Ellis (Kobylinskii L.L.) and Maximilian Voloshin, who actively promoted Baudelaire in Russia as a cult figure and an important source of inspiration. Tsvetaeva dedicated to Ellis her poem “Charodei” (“The Enchanter”) and referred to him “as the translator of Baudelaire, one of the most passionate early Symbolists, a chaotic person and disorganised poet but a man of genius.”  Ellis cultivated the philosophical dandyism of a modern artist that Baudelaire’s poetry epitomises at its best, and Ellis’s plea for aristocratic elitism and contempt for the profanum vulgus was developed further in Tsvetaeva’s poetry and essays.  
It is not surprising therefore to see that in her 1923 cycle of poems “Poet” Tsvetaeva compares poets to comets, lepers, superfluous members of society, rebels and those who critically evaluate the philosophical and moral foundations of societal life. Olga Hasty observes in her analysis of the concluding poem of the cycle “Poet”: “The surface of the text focuses on the marginality of the poet and his isolation from the mundane world which are encoded in a series of images that range from the soaring comet to the abject leper.”  In fact, the opposition between the poetic vision of the world and the mundane world that views poets inadequately and displaces them receives a critical evaluation from Tsvetaeva who launches her attacks on the Age of Reason as an important source from which modernity was to evolve. The sailors in Tsvetaeva’s rendering of “Le Voyage” are portrayed as true poets. Their minds bear all the signs of poetic vision incompatible with triviality, pragmatism and commercialisation. Thus, for example, Baudelaire’s description of the sailors is inscribed into the text as their self-representation: 
   Un matin nous partons, le cerveau plein de flamme, 
   Le coeur gros de rancune et de désirs amers, 
   Et nous allons, suivant le rhythme de la lame, 
   Berçant notre infini sur le fini des mers […] 
   (One morning we leave, our minds full of fire, 
   Our hearts heavy with anger and bitter desire, 
   And we go, following the rhythm of the wave, 
   Rocking our infinity on the finiteness of the sea […]. )  
In Tsvetaeva’s translation the whole moment of departure creates the atmosphere of the unbearable superhuman longing for an adventure and for the spaces that match poetic imagination: 
   V odin nenastny den’, v toske nechelovech’ei, 
   Ne vynosia tiagot, pod skrezhet iakorei, 
   My vskhodim na korabl’ — i proiskhodit vstrecha 
   Bezmernosti mechty s predel’nost’iu morei.  
   (One stormy day, possessed by superhuman longing, 
   Not prepared to carry our burden any longer, under the noises of anchors, 
   We board the ship and the meeting takes place between  
   Our boundless dream with the bounds of the seas. ) 
It is clear from Tsvetaeva’s translation that she draws here on the image of superhuman suffering that also appears in her French translation of Pushkin’s poems “Besy” (“Devils”) undertaken in 1937. Pushkin’s image of the supernatural is transformed in Tsvetaeva’s translation into the sound of the evils of modernity that lead to the fragmented self of the individual and bring madness into the contemporary world: 
   Survolant la blanche plaine 
   Geignent, hurlent les malins, 
   De leurs plaintes surhumaines 
   Déchirant mon coeur humain.  
Simon Markish thinks that Tsvetaeva’s presentation of superhuman longing and of the desire to rebel against the unbearable burden of the mundane life contradicts the spirit and symbolic language of Baudelaire’s poem.  Yet it seems important to bear in mind that Tsvetaeva’s understanding of the rebellious spirit embedded in “Le Voyage” captures the spirit of Baudelaire’s poem, in that in many ways she skilfully re-defines, in accordance with Ellis’s aesthetic vision which promoted lyric thinking at the expense of epic thinking, and accommodates Ellis’s rejection of the material reality in the name of an abstract and unattainable beauty. Ellis’s words on the tragic being of the creative spirit are fully applicable to Tsvetaeva. “The ideal image,” maintains Ellis, “is always inevitable hostile to the primary, external reality that once brought it forth. From this comes the tragic wavering of the creative spirit between the two poles of being.”  
It is obvious that Tsvetaeva did not choose a literal translation of the original text but approached it creatively, trying to preserve the essence and main thrust of Baudelaire’s poem and at the same time took it as a challenge and impulse to renovate outdated poetic system that was recycled in the 1930s Soviet Union. Among the most important achievements listed by Wanner as typically Baudelarian are such features as “dynamic evocation of modern urban life”, “emphasis on poetic craftsmanship and form”, and ”an elaborate rhetoric of unusual metaphors leading to a paradoxical notion of the sublime that undercuts the traditional dichotomy of high and low style.”  Therefore Tsvetaeva’s image of the superhuman longing, her usage of archaic words (for example “otrok”, “vetrilo”, “istye plovtsy”) mixed with everyday speech, vivid metaphors and allegorical descriptions (such as “glotateli shirot”, “plemia begunov”, “chernil’naia voda”, “opii morei”, to name just a few) certainly challenge Soviet official poetry of the late 1930-early 1940s that suppressed expression of poetic individuality and boundless imagination. Thus, a most daring re-making of Baudelaire’s imagery appears in Tsvetaeva’s rendering of the seventh part of the poem, whose fourth stanza reads: 
  Lorsque enfin il mettra le pied sur norte énchine, 
  Nous pourrons éspérer et cruer: En avant! 
  De même qu’autrefois nous partions pour la Chine, 
  Les yeux fixés au large au large et les cheveux au vent, 
  Nous nous embarquerons sur la mer des Ténèbres […] 
  (“When at last he puts his foot on our neck, 
  We can hope and shout: Forward! 
  At once we left for China, 
  Our eyes fixed seaward and our hair in the wind, 
  We shall embark on the sea of darkness […].”)  
Tsvetaeva replaces Baudelaire’s reference to China as a destinations travellers would like to visit with the more exotic image of Peru. Given that this change appears in the stanza referring to a tyrant who tortures his victims (in Baudelaire’s poem there is a depiction of a tyrant who puts his foot on the neck of sailors who act as lyric personae of the poem), it seems that Tsvetaeva could not avoid the temptation to use here a powerful subtext that portrays in a dystopian manner a paradise crushed by tyranny and censorship. Thus, the image of Peru is an intentional allusion to Maiakovsky’s 1915 satirical poem “Gimn sud’e” (“Hymn to Judge”) that features Peru as a country conspicuously similar to Stalin’s Russia. The lines of Tsvetaeva’s version state: “Kak na zare vekov my otplyvali v Peru,/Avroroi litsa privetstvuia voskhod” (“As at the onset of new epochs we started our journey to Peru/ Greeting with Aurora’s face the sunrise”). The political implication of this passage may be fully appreciated only in conjunction with Maiakovsky’s poem “Gimn sud’e” that describes a journey of slaves who are forced to sail to Peru by their owners. Maiakovsky demonstrates convincingly how easily any utopian place, or paradise, could be turned into a totalitarian society divided into oppressor and oppressed. Maiakovsky’s poem might be read as a prophecy of things to come, since the various forms of oppression he describes include absurd laws, unnecessary prohibitions, official hatred for spontaneous expressions of life, desire of those in power to tame natural chaos, and censorship. In such a paradise everything is controlled by judges who forbid poetry that does not conform to their ideal: 
   V bednom Peru stikhi moi dazhe 
   v zaprete pod strakhom pytok. 
    Sud’ia skazal: “Te, chto v prodazhe  
   tozhe spirtnoi napitok.”  
   (In poor Peru even my poems 
   are forbidden to the extent that those who wish to read them will be tortured; 
   The judge said, “Those books that are on sale, 
   Should be regarded as a spirit, too.” ) 
Maiakovsky’s poem ends with a powerful gesture: the poet calls upon readers to join him in his protest against any manifestations of a totalitarian discourse, pointing out that everyone would be better off without censors and oppressors: “Sud’i meshaiut i ptitse, i tantsu, / i mne, i vam, i Peru.”  (“Judges make life very difficult for birds, dances, you, me and Peru.”) 
The imagery and symbolism of the above-discussed stanza, which relates to various manifestations of sunrise, suggest that in her translation of Baudelaire’s poem Tsvetaeva inscribes a few political overtones and parodies Soviet propaganda discourse. Tsvetaeva mimics the bad aesthetic taste of Soviet newspeak and creates a conglomeration of images that have the same connotations related to sunrise: “voskhod,” “zaria,” and Aurora. The image of sunrise was actively used in the Soviet propaganda, denoting utopian ideological aspirations and new beginnings. The images of Aurora in Tsvetaeva’s rendering of Baudelaire’s “Le Voyage” might be seen as a semi-veiled allusion to the navy boat “Aurora” canonised in the Soviet Union as a ship whose guns fired the symbolic shot marking the start of the October 1917 revolution. Tsvetaeva borrows all these image from the official newspeak and strips them of their political connotations by presenting them to Soviet readers anew. This device of estrangement was already anticipated in Baudelaire’s works because his idea of the sublime is based on the presentation of old objects and established associations as novelty. According to Baudelaire, the essence of the sublime relies on a depiction of “something of wrong order, something unexpected, something that dazzles, something that surprises.”  The concept of new experience, known in French symbolism as “sensation du neuf” (the sensation of the new),  prefigures developments in Russian Formalism of the 1920s that relate to the exploration of such concepts in literature as estrangement and montage. 
John Middleton Murry, one of the most established English modernist critics, outlines a very significant aspect of Baudelaire’s outlook in modernist terms: “A single thread runs through the work of Stendhal, Mérimée, Baudelaire, Nietzsche, and Dostoyevsky; in spite of their outward dissimilarity and the great differences between their powers, these men are united by a common philosophical element which takes bodily shape in their conceptions of the hero. They are all intellectual romantics, in rebellion against life, and they imagine for themselves a hero in whom their defiance should be manifested.”  Undoubtedly Tsvetaeva’s translation of “Le Voyage” highlights heroic features of travellers described in Baudelaire’s poems, and fashions them in the clothes of intellectual romantics who seek heroic death and display enormous courage in their desire to face dangerous experiences. Such images occur in Tsvetaeva’s own poetry and in her 1936 essay “Nezdeshnii vecher” (“Otherworldly Evening”) which portrays Tsvetaeva and her fellow poets in Petrograd in 1916, on the eve of the 1917 revolution, as rebels and romantics prepared to die for their art. Tsvetaeva elaborates Baudelaire’s opposition between Life and Death and inscribes them in more intensified manner into her own text. Thus, for example, it is difficult not to notice that Tsvetaeva’s reference to death in the first part of the poem contradicts Baudelaire’s intention to present death as a final destination available to adventure-seeking travellers. Thus the fifth stanza of the first part of “Le Voyage” reads:  
   Mais les vrais voyageurs sont ceux–là seuls qui partent 
   Pour partir; coeurs légers, semblables aux ballons, 
   De leur fatalité jamais ils ne s’écartent, 
   Et, sans savoir pourquoi, disent toujours: Allons! 
   (But the real travelers are those only who leave 
   In order to leave; light hearts, similar to balloons, 
   They are never separated from their fate, 
   And, without knowing why, always say: let us go on!)  
In some ways, Baudelaire’s poem lends itself to interpretation as an artist’s journey for a meaning and a new language that could express inexpressible modes of the fluid subjectivity of modern man. As Malcolm Bradbury and James McFarlane aptly sum up, “Modernism is less a style than a search for a style in a highly individualistic sense; and indeed the style of one work is no guarantee for the next” because any modernist is perpetually engaged  “in a profound and ceaseless journey through the means and integrity of art.”  Baudelaire’s modern man is usually presented as a flâneur and dandy whose artistic taste makes him contemptuous of the vulgar world of commercialisation and vulgarity that torments on his sensitive soul. John Murry describes Baudelaire’s ideal of beauty as a symbolic landscape that has intoxicating sense of the  monotony of metal, marble and water and states that “Baudelaire makes solid everything he can” and “his very ideal of Beauty is an absolute immobility”.  It is possible to detect in Tsvetaeva’s version a strong desire to escape any static manifestations of the sublime. Thus, for example, in the third stanza in fourth part Baudelaire talks about the richest cities and wildest landscapes that failed to attract the travellers described in his poem: “Les plus riches cités, les plus grands paysages.”  Tsvetaeva’s translations evokes the grand architectural and industrial projects that mark the style of Stalin’s culture defined by Paperny as Culture Two: “Stronneishie mosty, slavneishie stroien’ia”  (“the most elegant bridges and the most glorious buildings”) that are not comparable with the image of an ideal city that exists in the imagination of Tsvetaeva’s traveller-poets. 
At the same time Murry points out that Baudelaire’s image of immobile Beauty is conspicuously akin to the inscrutable Dandy because, in Baudelaire’s vision of the universe, steel is opposed to steel. As Murry puts it, “The oppressor and the oppressed are equally ruthless, equally immobile, equally conscious, and equally beautiful [...] To this Moloch of existence the poet sacrifices himself in an ecstasy concealed beneath the mask of bronze.”  Tsvetaeva’s rendering of the last two stanzas of the first part of “Le Voyage” reinforces the opposition between steel and steel, to use Murry’s definition. It appears that this opposition is a new motif of her version of the poem. She names death as a destructive and powerful force that poet-travellers are eager to challenge. Thus her version describes courageous adventurers as heroes who are prepared to overcome total destruction: 
  […] Chto kazduiu zariu spravliaiut novosel’e 
  I dazhe v smertnyi chas eshche tverdiat: — vpered! […] 
  Tak krai zhelanen im, kotoromu nazvan’ia  
  Dosele ne nashla eshche liudskaia rech.’  
  (“Who give a house-warming party every morning, 
And who shout even in the moment of mortal danger, ‘Move on!’ 
They desire a land but the human speech  
Has not named it yet.”) 
Although Tsvetaeva’s translation is just as vague on naming the unidentified destination of the journey undertaken by travellers, it does contain autobiographical overtones that relate to Tsvetaeva’s experiences of the majestic lands and ancient Greek myths of her visits to the Crimea, where she explored together with Maximilian Voloshin cultural landmarks that might be interpreted as palimpsests.  
 Thus, for example, in her translation of “Le Voyage” Tsvetaeva uses such adjectives and expressions as “profil’ mysa” (“ the cape’s profile”) and “bazal’tovyi utes” (“ basaltic rock”). In Baudelaire’s poem in part two the sailors report on their imaginary landscapes that they see each time they approach an island in terms of their utopian vision as if they hope to find their own Eldorado, a paradise on earth: 
  Chaque îlot signalé par l’homme de vigie 
  Est un Eldorado promis le Destin; 
  L’Imagination qui dresse son orgie 
  Ne trouve qu’un récif aux clartés du matin. 
  (Each island pointed out by the watchman  
  Is an Eldorado promised by destiny; 
  The Imagination which calls up its orgy 
  Finds only a sandbar in the morning light.)  
Tsvetaeva’s translation leaves out any established utopian connotations associated with social engineering that Eldorado epitomises. This might be done with a view to avoid any political connotations related to a radiant communist future that the image of Eldorado might evoke in the minds of Soviet readers. Yet it seems most likely that Tsvetaeva wants to endow this passage with more abstract images of beautiful and majestic landscapes. At the same time she inscribes into this passage a nostalgic longing for a paradise for her forever lost. This paradise is related to Tsvetaeva’s exploration of the Crimea with Voloshin in 1911, warmly portrayed in her 1933 autobiographical essay “Zhivoe o zhivom” (“Living Word about a Living Man”). In this essay Tsvetaeva refers to one particular a cave that she identifies with the entrance to Hades and with her Orphic journeys: she symbolically undertakes such a journey with Voloshin.  In this passage that relates to the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice Tsvetaeva evokes both Voloshin and Ellis, adding thereby some Baudelarian touch to her text. This is especially evident in her definition of Voloshin as “French modernist in Russian poetry”.  It is also interesting that both Tsvetaeva and Voloshin are portrayed in this essay as sailors who take a boat to a basaltic cliff that features a symbolic entrance to Hades which she describes as ‘bazl’tovye steny vkhoda”  (”the basaltic walls of the entrance”).  The profile of the cave that appears in Tsvetaeva’s translation of “Le Voyage” is also absent in the original. In the fourth part of Tsvetaeva’s version of the poem we come across the lines that mention the cliff as part of treasures brought back by travellers from their journeys to distant destinations: “Dlia vas my privezli s morei/ Vot etot fas dvortsa, vot etot profil’ mysa, — Vsem vam, kotorym veshch’ — chem dal’she — tem milei…”  (“We brought back for from the seas /this front of the palace, this profile of a cliff, / we brought them to those of you who like the objects more if they are further removed from you”).  In “Le Voyage” in part four Baudelaire writes, in more straightforward and less specific manner, about the souvenirs which the sailors brought back: “Cueilli quelques croquis pour votre album vorace,/Frères qui trouvez beau tout ce qui vient de loin!” (“Picked a few sketches for your voracious album, /Brothers who find beautiful everything that comes from far off!”).  In part three Tsvetaeva refers to treasures associated with memories that were not seen by Nereus, the archetypal Old Man of the Sea (“sokrovischa, kakikh ne vidyval Nerei”).   This image is absent in Baudelaire’s poem. Yet it seems important to Tsvetaeva’s imagery and symbolism in her rendering of the poem because Nereus  had the power to change himself into all sorts of animals and beings and was considered a benevolent and beneficent god for sailors.  Once again, this image evokes Tsvetaeva’s definition of Voloshin as “The Old Man of the Sea, Nereus.”  In her cycle of poems dedicated to Voloshin —“Ici Haut” (”Height”) — Tsvetaeva also labels Voloshin as a leader of souls, as opposed to a political leader who guides masses, and suggests naming the cliff where Voloshin is buried as Voloshin’s Hill.  The profile of the cliff has a strong resemblance to Voloshin’s profile and it is not coincidental that Tsvetaeva identifies this landmark with Voloshin. The Voloshin subtexts in Tsvetaeva’s translation of “Le Voyage” point to the fact that Tsvetaeva invites her readers to consider a spiritual quest and undertake a nostalgic journey into the past. In this respect, her rendering of “Le Voyage” exemplifies well the above-discussed internalised adventures to majestic and mythical locations that Kundera labels as voices within us. Therefore, to a great extent, Tsvetaeva’s translation of Baudelaire undertaken at the end of her life might be seen as a manifestation of an exilic discourse related to internalised experiences of displacement. In contradiction to Baudelaire’s poem, Tsvetaeva makes the otherworldly overtones as part of her contrapuntal narrative that highlights the borders between French and Russian traditions, between the present and the past, and between the different visions of the sublime.  
Such a strategy of viewing death and life as part of the same force or natural law testifies to the fact that in the end of her life Tsvetaeva was influenced by such poets as Fedor Tiutchev, Mira Lokhvitskaia, and Dmitrii Merezhkovskii, to name just a few, who developed a positive attitude to death. They viewed death as a state of being that removes all contradictions, almost in a religious sense, by taking the individual back to a natural state of pre-existence, to the creative life force. This organic view of modernity prompts Tsvetaeva to identify her new identity with the fluid state of being: she inscribes herself into Baudelaire’s text as a displaced individual, an exile-in-making, estranged from reality, searching for another meaning and another style. Tsvetaeva’s modification of Baudelaire’s poem indicates that she vehemently opposed herself to any static manifestations of the sublime, whether expressed in terms of the grand marble and metal constructions portrayed by Baudelaire, or in terms of the epic style conveyed in Stalin’s architecture and in Soviet literature of the 1930-40s. Tsvetaeva’s desire for death is conveyed in erotic terms in the style of the Russian Symbolist poetry that mixed Eros and Tantas as interconnected deities. The essence of this poetic tradition is well captured in Mirra Lokhvitskaia’s lines that see death as a symbol of the sublime: “Ia umeret’ khochu vesnoi, […] Ia smert’ svoiu blagoslavliu —/I nazovu ee prekrasnoi.”  (“I wish to die in spring. I will bless my death and call it magnificent.”).  The concluding part of Tsvetaeva’s translation of “Le Voyage” represents a most faithful attempt to follow the original, but at the same time it inscribes some autobiographical overtones. Thus, if Baudelaire conveys the words of travellers who appeal to death to poison them in order to provide them with comfort (“Verse-nous ton poison pour qu’il nous réconforte!” ), Tsvetaeva identifies the speakers as deceived travellers (“obmanutym plovtsam raskroi svoi glubiny”). This reference to deceit might be seen as a semi-veiled reference to Tsveteva’s own experience, because her husband and her daughter were lured to the Soviet Union, and she had no choice but to follow them. At the same time, the poem speaks on behalf of those modernist authors who supported the revolutionary cause in Russia and were deceived by a government who displaced any expressions of originality and individuality that sustain imaginary and creative journeys into the unknown or sustain a free flow of creative force so vital for the poetics of the avant-garde that brings to the fore  the cult of the living word, abandoning thereby the differences between life and art. 
Thus it can be argued that Tsvetaeva, being estranged from Soviet reality and language, undertook translation of Baudelaire’s poem in search for a new style that could help her mark her own estrangement and achieve a sense of novelty, or hybridity. In his article “The Art of Translation” (1941) Nabokov identifies three types of translators: “the scholar who is eager to make the world appreciate the works of an obscure genius as much as he does himself; the well meaning hack; and the professional writer relaxing in the company of a foreign confrère”.  In Nabokov’s view, a translator must have as much talent, or at least the same kind of talent, as the author he chooses to translate. Nabokov’s characterisation of them as ideal playmates corresponds well to Tsvetaeva’s attitude to Baudelaire, whose poem provided her with an important creative impulse. Nabokov’s words that translator “must possess the gift of mimicry and be able to act, as it were, the real author’s part by impersonating his tricks of demeanour and speech, his ways and his mind, with the utmost degree of verisimilitude”  can be fully applied to Tsvetaeva, whose desire to perform an exilic speech led her to translate Baudelaire’s poem in such a way that it engages readers to participate actively in such an act of performance. Simon Markish detects in Tsvetaeva’s translation of “Le Voyage” her strong usage of rhetorical gestures and direct engagement with readers-listeners (“chitatel’-slushatel’”).  Such a distinct orientation towards performing Baudelaire’s text might be partly explained by the fact that Tsvetaeva did not expect it to be published and was happy to recite her translation to her friends, who saw it as part of the samizdat culture in the Soviet Union oriented towards oral performance of texts. At the same time, the exilic condition that Kristeva links to a type of writer as intellectual critic also requires an act of performance that could instigate a political response to it. 
 

  Kundera, Milan. The Unbearable Lightness of Being, translated by Michael Henry Heim,  New York: Harper and Row, 1984, p.75. 
  Conrad, Joseph. A Personal Record: The Works of Joseph Conrad, London: Dent Uniform Edition, 1946,p.121. 
  Tsvetaeva, Marina. “The Poet and Time,”Art in the Light of Conscience, translated by Angela Livingstone, Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1992, pp.87-103, p.93.  
  Kristeva, Julia. “A New Type of Intellectual: the Dissident”, translated by Seán Hand in Toril Moi, editor. The Kristeva Reader, New York: Columbia University Press, 1986,p.298. (originally published as “Un nouveau type d’intellectuel: le dissident,” in Tel quell, No.74, Winter 1977,pp.3-8.) 
  Said, Edward. “The Mind of Winter: Reflection on Life in Exile,” Harper’s, September 1984, p.54. 
  Ibid., p.55. 
  Karlinsky, Simon. Marina Tsvetaeva: The Woman, Her World,and Her Poetry, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985, p.232. 
  Wanner, Adrian. Baudelaire in Russia, Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1996, p.196. 
  Belkina’s recollections of this recital were published for the first time in Voprosy literatury, No.6, 1986, pp.197-198; and reproduced in: Tsvetaeva,  Marina. Sochineniia v dvukh tomakh, compiled by Anna saakiants, volume 1, Moscow: Khudozhestvennaia literature, 1988,pp.689-691. 
  Snezhkova, E.V.  “Marina Tsvetaeva  - perevodchik s frantsuzskogo i na frantsuzskii (Sharl’ Bodler “Le voyage”,  A.S.Pushkin “Besy”),” in I.Iu. Beliakova, editor. Marina Tsvetaeva: Epokha-kul’tura-Sud’ba: Desitaia tsvetaevskaia mezhdunarodnaia nauchno-tematicheskaia konferentsiia (9-11 oktiabria 2002 goda): Sbornik dokladov, Moscow: Dom Mariny Tsvetaevoi,  2003, pp.261-269, p.264. 
  Ibid.,pp.264-265. 
  Tsvetaeva, Marina. Sochineniia v dvukh tomakh, volume 2, ‘Khudozhestvennaia literatura”: Moscow, 1988, p.543. 
  Irigaray, Luce. “Pouvoir du discours,” p.74. Quoted in: Jacobus, Mary. “The question of language,” Critical Inquiry, vol.8, no.2, Winter 1981,p.210. 
  Tsvetaeva,  vol.2,  op.cit., p. 327. (All translations from the Russian texts are mine.— A.S.) 
  Irigaray, Luce. Le Langage des démentes, Paris:Mouton, 1973, p. 351. 
  Irigaray, Luce. “La ‘mécanique’ des fluids,” in: Marks, Elaine and Courtivron, Isabelle de, editors. New French Feminisms,translated by Reeder, Claudia,  Brighton: Harvester, 1980, pp.109-110; quoted in: Toril, Moi. Sexual/Textual Politics: Feminist Literary Theory, London, New York: Routledge, 1994, p. 142. 
  Paperny, Vladimir. Architecture in the Age of Stalin: Culture Two, translated by John Hill and Roann Barris, Cambridge University Press: Cambridge, 2002, p.xxiv. 
  Ibid. 
  Kundera, Milan. The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, translated from the Czech by Michael Henry Heim, Penguin Books: London, 1983, p.90. 
  This fact is discussed in Richard Burton’s book on Baudelaire: Burton, Richard D.E. Baudelaire in 1859: A Study in the Sources of Poetic Creativity,  Cambridge University Press: Cambridge, 1988, p.65. 
  Ibid., p.89. 
  Ibid. 
  Tsvetaeva, Marina. “Epic and Lyric of Contemporary Russia: Vladimir Mayakovsky and Boris Pasternak,” Art in the Light of Conscience, op.cit., pp.104-129, p.119. 
  Burton, op.cit., p.66. 
  Ibid.,p.67. 
  A Bantam Dual-Language Book: Flowers of Evil  and Other Works by Charles Baudelaire, edited by Wallace Fowlie, with translations, a critical introduction, and notes by the editor, Bantam Books: New York, 1964, p. 94-95. 
  Tsvetaeva,  Marina. “Plavan’e,” Sochineniia,  vol.1, op.cit., pp.608-612, p.608. 
   Burton, op.cit., pp.72-73. 
   Ibid., p.73. 
   Evdokimova, Svetlana. Pushkin’s Historical Imagination, Yale University Press: New Haven and London,1999, p.231. 
   Burton.,op.cit.,p.68.  
   Peyre, Henri. “Baudelaire, Romantic and Classical,” in Peyre, Henri, editor. Baudelaire: A Collection of Critical Essays, Prentice-Hall, Inc.: Englewood Cliffs, N.J., 1962, pp.19-29, pp.24-25. 
   See, for example, the concluding lines of this cycle: ‘I vlachat, vlachat  etot  vzolh Saulov/ Palestinskie otroki s krov’iu chernoi,”  (“And the Palestine youths with the black blood /Carry, carry in themselves this sigh of Saul”. – Tsvetaeva, vol.1 ,op.cit., p.165.) 
  A Bantam Dual-Language Book: Flowers of Evil  and Other Works by Charles Baudelaire, op.cit.,pp.100-101. 
  Shhweitzer, Viktoria. Tsvetaeva, translated from the Russian by Robert Chandler and H.T, Willets, The Noonday Press, Farrar, Straus and Giroux: New York, 1992, p.54. 
  Hasty, Olga Peters. “Marina Tsvetaeva’s  Cycle Poety,” in Schweitzer, Viktoria et al, editors. Marina Tsvetaeva; One Hundred Years, Berkeley Slavic Specialties: Oakland, California, 1994,  pp.131-146, p.142. 
  A Bantam Dual-Language Book: Flowers of Evil  and Other Works by Charles Baudelaire, op.cit., pp.94-95. 
  Tsvetaeva, vol.2,  op.cit., p.608. 
  Translation is mine. — A.S. 
   The translation of Pushkin’s poem into French is reproduced in: Ivanov, V.V. “O Tsvetaevskikh perevodakh pesni iz ‘Pira vo vremia chumy’ i ‘Besov’ Pushkina,” Masterstvo perevoda 1966, Sovetskii pistael’”: Moscow, 1968, pp.389-412, p.405. 
  Markish, op.cit., p. 432.  
  Ellis (Kobylinskii, L.L.), Russkie simvolisty: Konstantin Bal’mont, Valerii Briusov, Andrei Belyi, Moscow: Musaget, 1910, p.171. 
   Wanner,op.cit.,p.20. 
  A Bantam Dual-Language Book: Flowers of Evil  and Other Works by Charles Baudelaire, op.cit.,pp.102-103. 
  Maiakovsky, Vladimir. “Gimn sud’e,” Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v trinadsati tomakh, vol.1:1912-1917 , Moscow: Gosudarstvennoe izdatel’stvo khudozhestvennoi literatury, 1955, pp.76-77, p.77. 
  Translation is mine. — A.S. 
  Ibid.,p.77. 
  Quoted from: Khansen-Leve, A. Russkii simvolizm: sistema poeticheskikh motivov: rannii simvolizm, St Petersburg: Akademicheskii proekt, 1999, p.73. 
  See more on this subject in: Tiedemann-Bartels, Versuch über das artistiche Gedicht, baudelaire, Mallarmé, George, München, 1971, p.16. Quoted in: Hansen-Leve,op.cit., p.73. 
  Murry, John Middleton. “Baudelaire,” Baudelaire: A Collection of Critical Essays, edited by Henri Peyre, Prentice –Hall,Inc.: Englewood Cliffs, N.J., 1962, pp.94-109, p.96. 
  A Bantam Dual-Language Book: Flowers of Evil  and Other Works by Charles Baudelaire, op.cit., pp.94-95. 
  Bradbury, Malcolm and McFarlane, James. “The Name and Nature of Modernism,” in Bradbury, Malcolm and McFarlane, James, editors. Modernism: 1890-1930, Penguin Books, London, 1976, pp. 19-26,  p. 29. 
  Murry, op.cit.,p. 99. 
  A Bantam Dual-Language Book: Flowers of Evil  and Other Works by Charles Baudelaire, op.cit., p.98. 
   Tsvetaeva, op.cit.,p.610. 
   Ibid.,p.100. 
  Tsvetaeva, op.cit., p.608. 
  A Bantam Dual-Language Book: Flowers of Evil  and Other Works by Charles Baudelaire, op.cit., pp.96-97. 
  On the significance of the Orphic myth in Tsvetaeva’s works see Olga Peters Hasty’s highly illuminating study: Hasty, Olga Peters. Marina Tsvetaeva’s Orphic Jouneys in the Worlds of the Word, Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 1996. 
  Tsvetaeva, Marina. “Zhivoe o zhivom,” Proza, Moscow: Sovremennik, 1989, pp.193-263, p.234. 
   Ibid. 
   Tsvetaeva, vol.1,op.cit.,p.610. 
  A Bantam Dual-Language Book: Flowers of Evil  and Other Works by Charles Baudelaire, op.cit., pp.98-99. 
   Tsvetaeva, vol.1, p.609. 
   Grimal, Pierre. The Dictionary of Classical Mythology, translated by A.R. Maxwell-Hyslop, Blackwell Reference:Oxford, 1986, p.308 
   Tsvetaeva, “Zhivoe ozhivom,” op.cit.,p.263. 
   Tsvetaeva, Marina. “Ici—Haut,” Stikhotvoreniia i poemy, Leningrad: Sovetskii piastel. Leningradskoe otdelenie, 1990, pp.427-431,p.430. 
   Lokhvitskaia,Mirra. “Stikhotvoreniia”, in  Poety 1880-1890 gg., Leningrad : Biblioteka poeta. Sovetskii pistael’, 1972, pp.601-633, p.610. 
  A Bantam Dual-Language Book: Flowers of Evil  and Other Works by Charles Baudelaire, op.cit.,p.102. 
  Nabokov, Vladimir. “The Art of Translation,”  in Nabokov, Vladimir. Lectures on Russian Literature, Picador, London, 1983, pp. 319-321,  p. 319. 
  Ibid. 
  Markish, op.cit., p.434. 
 

Copyricht by Alexandra Smith (University of Canterbury, New Zealand)