Arcadi explained dignity with blue life in his eyes
It was not his stature, not his crystal elegant features but
more the accumulation of unmatched personal situations.

As we swished by the Greek countryside, Uncle was silent in the car,
and then, prompted by the landscape, or a village Church,
he would spring of beauty to our attentive presence

Arcadi had stories from the old days, in Saint Petersburg,
His narrative would dress the small car in architectural marvels,
Coloured characters flashed, not only in Russia, in New York and in Greece too.

Invited by Angela, Uncle and Anna, Katia, Kalashka, and me,
with legendary generosity, in Monemvathia,
were cradled in a tradition of refined hospitality.

In his Manhattan apartment, a multi-layered anachronism
covered in carpets, books, heavy on inlaid wooden shelfs and antiques
out of sync with its hood, up on the upper east side of 86^th street.

It was Arcadi’s Russian abode, a large study for an “Homme de lettres”
He, who had befriended W.H. Auden at Columbia University
taught loving literature, as part of the NYU academy.

Retired from teachings, he directed his passion to restoration,
of old monuments and churches, he sought after a form of inventory
to restore the past glory. Arcadi Nebolsine was a man in his generation.

A Gourmet palate vied with his taste of the mind
his wits lay everywhere about him on alert, with a British tinge
almost inaudible behind his deep bass baritone voice.

Sitting on the bench of a long Island pier, wasting time
Arcadi was uncle in the same tone of voice, a warm ‘weltschmerz’*.
A huMan of foresight who recalled revolutions.

With age he blossomed with sensitivity
he shed his bearskin from the deeply rooted tree
that had grown branches of lyrical poetry.

Circumstances whirled him indubitably at the centre
whether with a chess board or a piano recital
from within, he irradiated the joy of company.

In its fast modern pace New York valued his refinement
From afar, Russia craved his religious engagement
And family and friends enjoyed his enlightenment

His generosity flowed over his baroque self,
Combining art with people, one reflected the other
Until thoughts reached his inner cosmos.

Anna’s dogs around him, Arcadi was part of brotherhood
A glass of vodka would veer his grumpy old rant to reciting poetry
enriching their lessons, Katia and Kalashka never had enough.

Born in New York, Arcadi’s Grandparents had fled October 1917.
New York welcomed the traumatised Russian aristocrats, entangled as they came
With only their ethics to sustain them, grace was a treasure then.

He left in quiet dignity with the sun setting on Long Island
Every morning, or many mornings, his memory knocks at our thoughts,
reminding us forever: “Beauty will save the world”

Karine Ancellin
August 21^st, 2020

*weltschmerz

Word of Dutch origin meaning a form of mental depression or apathy caused by comparison of the actual state of the world with an ideal state, a mood of sentimental sadness.