Vladislav Khodasevich
Facing the Mirror

“Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita.”
['Midway upon the journey of my life...' — Dante]

I, I, I… What a barbarous word.
He is I? There must be some mistake!
Was it him that my mother adored —
This wild character, half-silver-haired,
Jaundice-faced and as wise as a snake?

Is the reedy boy who used to dance
At the dacha balls each blessed summer
The same I who with every response
Fill the hearts of our spring-chicken poets
With revulsion, resentment, and horror?

Is the youth who would argue all night
With a violent puerile passion
Quite the selfsame contemptuous gent
Who has learned to wax flippant or silent
In the face of a tragic confession?

Midway on your life’s journey and quest
You are led, as is always the case,
From one laughable cause to the next:
Soon enough you are lost in the desert,
And your footprints cannot be retraced.

It was no bounding panther that chased me
Into this barebones attic of Paris,
And there's no helpful Virgil behind me,
Only solitude. Where can it guide me
In the frame of the truth-speaking glass?

Translated by Philip Nikolayev