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Isolde

Part of Pushkin Collection

Author Irena Odoevtseva
Translated by Brian Karetnyk, Irina Steinberg
Ebook (EPUB)
Steerforth Press | Pushkin Collection
On sale Nov 05, 2019 | 192 Pages | 9781782274780
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A family of Russian émigrés seeks refuge in Jazz Age-era Paris in this “enthralling . . . compellingly conflicted portrait” of love, deceit, and wayward youth by a pioneering Russian writer (Guardian)

Left to her own devices in Biarritz, fourteen-year-old Russian Liza meets an older English boy, Cromwell, on a beach. He thinks he has found a magical, romantic beauty and insists upon calling her Isolde; she is taken with his Buick and ability to pay for dinner and champagne.

Disaffected and restless, Liza, her brother Nikolai, and her boyfriend Andrei enjoy Cromwell’s company in restaurants and jazz bars after he follows Liza back to Paris—until his mother stops giving him money. When the siblings’ own mother abandons them to follow a lover to Nice, the group falls deeper into its haze of alcohol, and their darker drives begin to take over.

First published in 1929, Isolde is a startlingly fresh, disturbing portrait of a lost generation of Russian exiles by Irina Odoevtseva, a major Russian writer who has never before appeared in English.
i
"This is what the sea was like when Isolde sailed
upon it.” Cromwell shut his book and looked out
over the horizon. “This is what the sea was like when
Isolde sailed upon it, to Tristan.”
The sky grew pink with the approaching sunset. Wave
ran over wave. The wind ruffled the shaggy towels laid
out on the beach. Round shells glinted dimly in the
grey sand. And far away in the distance, right on the
horizon, a bright white sail stood out against the silky
blue sea.
“This is what the sea was like…”
A seagull flew over his head with a cry, almost clipping
him with the sharp tip of its wing. Cromwell flinched.
“What’s come over me?” he thought angrily, blushing
with embarrassment. “I’m flinching like a little girl! I’ll
soon be scared of mice at this rate.”
He tossed the book away and turned over to lie on
his back.
France was to blame. Yes, France was most definitely
to blame. He was never like this at home.
He cast his mind back to the green fields of Scotland,
to the castle with its grand square rooms, to Eton, where
he had boarded that winter term. You wouldn’t have
caught him flinching there! But here in Biarritz life was
completely different—mad, fun, even a little seedy. Yes,
that was the word: seedy. And there was the perpetual
rush of the ocean. And the bracing air. And these stupid
books. And the eternal waiting, the constant premonition
of love… He scanned the horizon again.
The enormous sun was lowering itself slowly into the
rose-tinged waves. And the sky, as if freeing itself of the
sun’s weight, was becoming ever lighter, ever clearer, ever
paler. Everything around Cromwell grew paler, airier, softer.
The high turrets of the bathhouse faded into the misty
air, the bare cliff-face grew soft mossy-blue shadows, while
the grey sand glinted gently. In this crepuscular light, even
the bathers in their glistening wet costumes seemed to be
an extraordinary silver people, who had appeared out of
nowhere and were now swimming off into the unknown.
Cromwell heard the sand crunching gently behind
him. He turned around. Isolde was walking straight
towards him. Her wide white cape was billowing in the
wind. Her fair hair fell around her shoulders. Her big,
bright, limpid eyes looked out to sea searchingly, as if she
were expecting something. She walked quickly, with a sure
and light step, her neat little head held high. She was not
walking, but floating through the foggy air.
“Isolde,” he whispered in confusion. “Isolde!”
She seemed to have heard him. She turned her head
and looked at him as she walked past. Cromwell felt
a warm light on his face, as if the morning sun were
shining into his eyes. He closed his eyes with a sigh. The
light tripped across his face, across his shoulder and then
disappeared. He opened his eyes. Isolde was gone. All
around him was deserted. He was alone, lying on the
hard, wet sand. He was cold. Where was Isolde? Where
had she disappeared to? He stood up and looked around.
Swimmers’ heads bobbed up and down in the waves,
but Isolde’s was not among them—he would have recognized
her by her blonde hair. He quickly started walking
along the beach, staring at every passer-by, but he couldn’t
see her anywhere. Maybe she didn’t actually exist? Maybe
he had imagined her? Of course, he must have done.
Where could a girl like that have come from? Girls like
her didn’t really exist. He had spent too long out in the
sun, too long dreaming up Isolde. He had imagined it all.
No, she was real, flesh and blood. He could still feel
her warm gaze on his skin and hear the sand crunching
under her feet. He hadn’t imagined it. Surely, he hadn’t
seen her only to lose her straight away?
Copyright © 2019 by Irina Odoevtseva. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
"Enthralling . . . a compellingly conflicted portrait."
—Guardian Review

"In a literary scene dominated by men, Irina Odoevtseva offered a remarkably frank depiction of female sexuality—as if Annabel Leigh, or even Dolores Haze, had the chance to write her own painful story."
—Times Literary Supplement

"Lovely but also ominous . . . a gem of a novel, intensely attractive and bitter at the same time."
—Spectator
Irina Odoevtseva was a Russian novelist, poet, translator and memoirist. Born in 1885 in Riga, then part of the Russian Empire, she moved to St Petersburg in 1914 and there enrolled in the literary faculty of the Institute of the Living Word and established herself as a poet. In 1922, Odoevtseva fled Russia with her husband, the poet Georgy Ivanov. After a brief period in Berlin, the couple settled in Paris, where Odoevtseva wrote short fiction and several successful novels, including Angel of Death (1927) and Isolde (1929). Later, she had great success with her memoirs On the Banks of the Neva (1967) and On the Banks of the Seine (1983). She returned to Russia in 1987 at the age of ninety-one to a rapturous reception.
Irena Odoevtseva View titles by Irena Odoevtseva

About

A family of Russian émigrés seeks refuge in Jazz Age-era Paris in this “enthralling . . . compellingly conflicted portrait” of love, deceit, and wayward youth by a pioneering Russian writer (Guardian)

Left to her own devices in Biarritz, fourteen-year-old Russian Liza meets an older English boy, Cromwell, on a beach. He thinks he has found a magical, romantic beauty and insists upon calling her Isolde; she is taken with his Buick and ability to pay for dinner and champagne.

Disaffected and restless, Liza, her brother Nikolai, and her boyfriend Andrei enjoy Cromwell’s company in restaurants and jazz bars after he follows Liza back to Paris—until his mother stops giving him money. When the siblings’ own mother abandons them to follow a lover to Nice, the group falls deeper into its haze of alcohol, and their darker drives begin to take over.

First published in 1929, Isolde is a startlingly fresh, disturbing portrait of a lost generation of Russian exiles by Irina Odoevtseva, a major Russian writer who has never before appeared in English.

Excerpt

i
"This is what the sea was like when Isolde sailed
upon it.” Cromwell shut his book and looked out
over the horizon. “This is what the sea was like when
Isolde sailed upon it, to Tristan.”
The sky grew pink with the approaching sunset. Wave
ran over wave. The wind ruffled the shaggy towels laid
out on the beach. Round shells glinted dimly in the
grey sand. And far away in the distance, right on the
horizon, a bright white sail stood out against the silky
blue sea.
“This is what the sea was like…”
A seagull flew over his head with a cry, almost clipping
him with the sharp tip of its wing. Cromwell flinched.
“What’s come over me?” he thought angrily, blushing
with embarrassment. “I’m flinching like a little girl! I’ll
soon be scared of mice at this rate.”
He tossed the book away and turned over to lie on
his back.
France was to blame. Yes, France was most definitely
to blame. He was never like this at home.
He cast his mind back to the green fields of Scotland,
to the castle with its grand square rooms, to Eton, where
he had boarded that winter term. You wouldn’t have
caught him flinching there! But here in Biarritz life was
completely different—mad, fun, even a little seedy. Yes,
that was the word: seedy. And there was the perpetual
rush of the ocean. And the bracing air. And these stupid
books. And the eternal waiting, the constant premonition
of love… He scanned the horizon again.
The enormous sun was lowering itself slowly into the
rose-tinged waves. And the sky, as if freeing itself of the
sun’s weight, was becoming ever lighter, ever clearer, ever
paler. Everything around Cromwell grew paler, airier, softer.
The high turrets of the bathhouse faded into the misty
air, the bare cliff-face grew soft mossy-blue shadows, while
the grey sand glinted gently. In this crepuscular light, even
the bathers in their glistening wet costumes seemed to be
an extraordinary silver people, who had appeared out of
nowhere and were now swimming off into the unknown.
Cromwell heard the sand crunching gently behind
him. He turned around. Isolde was walking straight
towards him. Her wide white cape was billowing in the
wind. Her fair hair fell around her shoulders. Her big,
bright, limpid eyes looked out to sea searchingly, as if she
were expecting something. She walked quickly, with a sure
and light step, her neat little head held high. She was not
walking, but floating through the foggy air.
“Isolde,” he whispered in confusion. “Isolde!”
She seemed to have heard him. She turned her head
and looked at him as she walked past. Cromwell felt
a warm light on his face, as if the morning sun were
shining into his eyes. He closed his eyes with a sigh. The
light tripped across his face, across his shoulder and then
disappeared. He opened his eyes. Isolde was gone. All
around him was deserted. He was alone, lying on the
hard, wet sand. He was cold. Where was Isolde? Where
had she disappeared to? He stood up and looked around.
Swimmers’ heads bobbed up and down in the waves,
but Isolde’s was not among them—he would have recognized
her by her blonde hair. He quickly started walking
along the beach, staring at every passer-by, but he couldn’t
see her anywhere. Maybe she didn’t actually exist? Maybe
he had imagined her? Of course, he must have done.
Where could a girl like that have come from? Girls like
her didn’t really exist. He had spent too long out in the
sun, too long dreaming up Isolde. He had imagined it all.
No, she was real, flesh and blood. He could still feel
her warm gaze on his skin and hear the sand crunching
under her feet. He hadn’t imagined it. Surely, he hadn’t
seen her only to lose her straight away?
Copyright © 2019 by Irina Odoevtseva. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Reviews

"Enthralling . . . a compellingly conflicted portrait."
—Guardian Review

"In a literary scene dominated by men, Irina Odoevtseva offered a remarkably frank depiction of female sexuality—as if Annabel Leigh, or even Dolores Haze, had the chance to write her own painful story."
—Times Literary Supplement

"Lovely but also ominous . . . a gem of a novel, intensely attractive and bitter at the same time."
—Spectator

Author

Irina Odoevtseva was a Russian novelist, poet, translator and memoirist. Born in 1885 in Riga, then part of the Russian Empire, she moved to St Petersburg in 1914 and there enrolled in the literary faculty of the Institute of the Living Word and established herself as a poet. In 1922, Odoevtseva fled Russia with her husband, the poet Georgy Ivanov. After a brief period in Berlin, the couple settled in Paris, where Odoevtseva wrote short fiction and several successful novels, including Angel of Death (1927) and Isolde (1929). Later, she had great success with her memoirs On the Banks of the Neva (1967) and On the Banks of the Seine (1983). She returned to Russia in 1987 at the age of ninety-one to a rapturous reception.
Irena Odoevtseva View titles by Irena Odoevtseva

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