Jacob's Ladder

18 Marusya’s Letters

(DECEMBER 1911)

DECEMBER 26

I received your letter at the studio, on Kharitonievsky Lane. It’s better to write to Bogoslovsky. I’ve lived here for two months already. It’s a nice room. I share the apartment with two women, one an actress, the other a teacher. We all work hard. There is only one servant—provided by the landlord.

It’s three in the morning, and I’m only now sitting down to write you. I can’t sleep. A button popped off on my shoulder, and I encountered my own body underneath, which made me long for you … Oh, and your last letter … Your words, tenderness, your wonderful manly sensibility shape me. I feel myself becoming more and more of a woman, blossoming, growing more flexible, softer, and more beautiful, with every letter you write me. It’s strange, but until now I was not much of a woman at all. And I’m glad that I’m growing into one. And this is your doing; I’ve become more formal, more rational, even in my dreams. Just as you wish. Everything you wish for is wonderful. And your thoughts immediately become mine. It feels as though that was what I always felt, what I always wanted. I don’t think I’ll ever say (at night) anything that would make you stop and say reproachfully, “Come, now, Marusya.”

On the other hand, maybe we’ll just laugh about everything, it will all seem funny.

Remember how we sometimes laughed? I love remembering that.

Good night! I’m going to bed now … I’m going to kiss you a long, long time, to caress your lips, your body.

The twilight has ended. I turned on a lamp. Now I feel good: it’s cozy and clean. Only it’s very cold. I rocked in the armchair.

There is a performance under way at the studio. It has been very well received. Ella Ivanovna praises me. I’m glad. There is a rumor making the rounds that they’ll accept me into the troupe next year, and my apprenticeship will be over. Time will tell. Anything is possible. Both bad and good. What I need now more than anything is money. I was given some lessons to teach by the Froebel Society. I managed to earn fifty rubles. I’m not able to take on a permanent position—I take too many classes at the studio. Lessons are another matter.

Yesterday B. came to the studio and gave me a “Christmas present”—a porcelain dish with sweets—which I found so touching.

Soon it will be evening, time for the performance. My head feels a bit dizzy, and I don’t want to go. I want to keep writing and writing this letter to you. About how I spent Christmas Eve, and about Jacobson the musician. I’ll write you later. Goodbye for now.

DECEMBER 28

So—your arrival has been delayed for one more week. I just closed my eyes. I felt your presence so strongly, you felt so near. It’s difficult for me. I never thought I could feel so much longing. I walk and walk, marking the minutes—I don’t know where to stash my heart. Whenever will I get used to you?

You help me, you support me, you have strong, gentle hands and a good heart. I’m afraid of you, my husband, I’m afraid with a wondrous fear.

Study, study well. Don’t postpone your exams, whatever you do. Otherwise, all our suffering will have been in vain. No—study hard. Don’t give up. You won’t regret it. But come as soon as you can. Oh, I’m waiting, I’m waiting … Well, sleep, then, dear one, my precious one and only.

I kiss your head, your lips. Sweetly, over and over, all night long.

DECEMBER 30

This letter has been lying here for two days. Yesterday I had no time to send it, and today is a holiday—the post office is closed. These are just trivialities. I don’t want to write with a pencil. The words fade away with time, and the letter will die.

This is better … Lena says that love letters should be written in pencil, so the letter won’t outlive the feelings. “My feelings have died, they’re gone, but the letter written in ink is alive.” No—she’s wrong about this. Could Hamsun ever renounce Pan, or Victoria? Pan outlived Hamsun, his youth. Hamsun is an old man, but Johannes is still young, still in love. And thank God for that. A love letter, my letter to you, is the purest, the most chaste thing I have created. Because it has no form, no strained effort—you know that yourself. Sometimes there is not even any content. But every line I write is inexpressibly dear to me. This is why it is still so galling to me that your letter went missing. Several pages of your thoughts, your caresses, your love, were stolen from me. And one reason it is so painful is that they belonged to me, only to me. Someone stole what was mine, mine alone. And I am very possessive, only my possession is so very far away from me.

Where is Boris Neiman these days? In Kiev? Why haven’t you written anything about him to me? What about Konstantinovsky?

Have you told your Yura that I’m an actress? How strange it must sound to him—your fiancée, an actress. I sense that you want to talk to him about me. I have an intolerable need for an interlocutor, too. I urgently need to talk to someone about you. And I do talk. You can tell Yura that we are already acquainted, he and I. Without knowing me, he most likely feels some unconscious hostility toward me—a woman who is a complete stranger to him. Who knows whether she is worth knowing … Just ask him—you’ll see that’s how it is. That’s probably what he thinks. Well, so be it. May God give him happiness and the best of wives.

It’s time for me to go to sleep. My life will go back to normal on January 1, and I’ll take better care of myself—for you. If only it weren’t so cold! Good night. That’s all.

Here, take me! My lips, my entire self …