Jacob's Ladder

22 From the Willow Chest

Letters from and to the Urals

(OCTOBER 1912–MAY 1913) ZLATOUST–KIEV 23 KUZNECHNAYA STREET, KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS

OCTOBER 31, 1912

I’m now in the barracks. The journey here was supposed to take four days, but we were delayed in Penza for eighteen hours. In Kuznetsk, where I sent you the telegram, we were delayed for twenty-two hours because of drifting snow. So, instead of four days, it took us six to get here.

They assigned me to the barracks, and I won’t budge from here, since you aren’t allowed to live in an apartment. But this doesn’t pose any problem. In the training detachment I’ve been assigned to, the people seem to be nice enough, and everything will be fine. I’ll most likely have to spend very little money, and I’m extremely happy about that.

Zlatoust is not a large city, but it’s extremely spread out. It’s situated on tree-covered mountains. We live near the train station, which is about six versts from town. For the time being, I have plenty of books. I am eager to study as much as time will allow.

Now I’m sitting in the well-heated room of the sergeant major, and I have no idea where I’ll be sleeping tonight. Perhaps here, in the sergeant major’s room. Don’t laugh—it’s a great honor for a soldier.

What I’m afraid of is that when you read my letter you’ll moan and groan from worry. Poor thing, what a life! etc. It’s not at all what you might think. There’s nothing squalid about it, it’s not a hard life. In all the places I’ve been so far—the adjutant’s regiment, the senior doctor’s, the junior doctor’s—I’ve been treated very well. They invited me to sit down—which is the greatest honor they can pay a soldier.

My letters will surely take a long time to reach you. After I drop a letter in the regiment mailbox, it will not leave Zlatoust until the next day. And from the station, it will take at least five days to get to you. So there may be times when you won’t get a letter for six or seven days.

Write me at the following address:

Zlatoust, Ufimskaya Guberniya

196th Infantry, Insarksy Regiment

Training Detachment

To: Volunteer Jacob Ossetsky

NOVEMBER 3, 1912

My duties have not yet begun. For the time being, I’m just observing my surroundings. I spend all my time in the office, together with one other person. I take my meals in the Officers’ Assembly. The food is quite tasty and cheap. I buy my breakfast in the regiment store. Now I can even read the newspaper. They will give me The New Times every day in the Officers’ Assembly. For the time being, I wear my own clothes. The accoutrements will be ready in a week. You must order two uniforms. One of them you give to the armory for safekeeping (for parades, celebrations, and campaigns), and the other is for everyday wear.

It’s a good thing I arrived in my student uniform. Everyone noticed it, the officers inquired about it, and today some soldier even saluted me. My superior in the training detachment asks: “Where are you studying? Are you in college? What grade are you in?” (That’s how much they understand about higher education.)

I’m so glad I brought books with me to read. I should have taken more, not just on specialized subjects. I’ve already done some studying today. There isn’t even a regiment library here, and the town is six versts away. The Officers’ Assembly only subscribes to The New Times and Russian Invalid. And that’s in an officers’ club, of all places. Maybe in the General Assembly there are a few more newspapers and periodicals.

The first day, I was very circumspect and cautious. I looked around me anxiously. I kept thinking they would grab me and send me to the guardhouse (military prison). In the evening, I sighed in relief and said my prayers—I’m joking, of course.

An officer I was conversing with said this to me: “There may be worse regiments than this one, but I doubt there are better ones.” Maybe he’s right.

THE NEXT DAY …

I got leave to go to town today. While I’m still not in uniform, I have a great deal of freedom. I don’t take part in training yet. I just walk around among the soldiery and observe. And I come across many things that interest me. Now I’m going into the city. I’ll send you this letter from there. If I mail it directly from the station, you’ll receive it a day earlier. Letters don’t leave the regiment mailbox until the following day … SEPARATE PAGE, TO THE KIDS

NOVEMBER 3, 1912

Dear kids! I got your letter in the mail. It made me very glad. Use my paper and ink wisely! Form a committee, choose a chairman, and make your own decisions. You have my approval, in advance.

You know that this place is called Zlatoust—meaning “Goldmouth.” But if you think that Zlatoust is full of golden mouths and that the soldiers ride around on cannons all day long, think again. So far, I haven’t even noticed any golden mouths, or even any golden mustaches. The mouths you see here are the kinds you’d never want to kiss! And the soldiers don’t ride around on cannons, because there are no cannons in sight either. Poor soldiers! If only they could!

They haven’t made me a general yet, and they haven’t entrusted me with a golden sword. But in time, God willing, both things will come true. You’ll see!

For the time being, though, I’m just a soldier. But you probably don’t know what this means. Let me explain. I open the manual for young soldiers, and this is what I read (page 16): “The word ‘soldier’ is a common one, familiar to all. Every subject who has sworn allegiance to the Tsar and who agrees to carry out the sweet and heartfelt obligation to defend the Faith, the Imperial Throne, and the homeland is given the name ‘soldier.’ He must do battle with both internal and external enemies.” That’s me. Attention! I’m everyman, and famous! I’ll defeat enemies, internal and external, with my gun! (Senya, I have a rifle, a real rifle. And it shoots.)

NOVEMBER 12, 1912

Perhaps you’re interested in my economic situation and domestic affairs, Mama?

I bought thick woolen socks in Zlatoust. I also got a mattress. That’s about all. I have need of a small basket—after one change of clothes, I keep my dirty linen in a large basket. When it comes time for a second change, I have things laundered. You aren’t allowed to keep more than two changes of linen in the basket.

I can’t wait for my uniform to arrive. It puts me in an awkward situation not to have it. When I meet an officer from my detachment in the street, I still have to salute. Yes, sir; No, sir; Good morning, sir—I already have that down pat. But it’s somehow a shame for my student uniform. In any event, I should be getting the uniform tomorrow or the next day. SEPARATE PAGE, TO THE OSSETSKY KIDS

Wait a bit and I’ll be sending each of you your own letter. But for now, this is how it has to be. I’m writing to the whole flock!

Senya, what books on the history of Russian literature are you talking about? You have to tell me the name of the author, not the color of the cover. What if you colored it yourself? Grisha, you haven’t written a word to me. And I’m so interested in your studies.

The city of Zlatoust is high in the mountains. The mountains are so high that you can’t even see the top. And they’re covered with forest, thick pine forest. You can’t collect rocks and minerals here, because the snow is very, very deep. In the summer, I’ll search for them, though, and by the first of November, you’ll receive them.

There are many Tatars living in this city. But they don’t sell old things; and some of them even sell very new things. So they aren’t called “rag-and-bone men” here. All the people here (Tatars included) walk down the middle of the street, not on the sidewalk. I don’t know why myself. Maybe you can guess? Could it be because there aren’t any sidewalks to walk on?

There are lots of soldiers here. So many that Rayechka wouldn’t be able to count them all. Or has she already learned to count to a hundred? Eva, write me about what you’re reading now. Who chooses books for you to read? And what Senya is reading, too.

A big hello, from Zlatoust all the way to Kiev and back. And that’s no small hello! It travels a thousand versts.

NOVEMBER 14, 1912

Slowly but surely, I’m settling into military life. It’s a very special field of activity, which you civilians have no inkling of. The soldier’s life has its own particular hardships and its own particular joys. And you can’t avoid any of them.

When I take a good hard look at the people who surround me (and they are all officers and soldiers), I have to consider myself to be the happiest of them all. The officers here are bored in the extreme. They curse both the service and Zlatoust. Soldiers are downtrodden, browbeaten creatures. They all suffer, and make one another suffer. What does it matter to me? In a year, I will have fulfilled my term of duty, and I’ll wipe it all from my memory. I’ll go home—and goodbye, Zlatoust. But they will all be staying right here.

Our regiment is stationed in four places: a unit in Zlatoust, one in Chelyabinsk (six hours away), and two in factories not far from Zlatoust. Small towns. My own Twelfth Company is stationed at the Katav-Ivanovsky Ironworks (three or four hours away). After I complete my “training course” in the detachment, they’ll send me to the company. But this will happen only after the summer camps. For the time being, you can write to me at the Training Detachment, 196th Infantry, Insarsky Regiment. The camps take place in different locations every year. In recent years, they took place near Chelyabinsk, another time near Samara …

NOVEMBER 16, 1912

Change is afoot in my life. It seems I’ll be leaving for my company very soon. In the company, it will be a lot better than in the detachment. The crème de la crème of the soldiery is found in the detachment. They choose the best people, who go through a special school and, after finishing the course in one year (with a “diploma” in hand), are assigned as teachers to the young soldiers. And they get the highest soldiers’ ranks: corporals, junior and senior noncommissioned officers, and sergeant majors. They study for the entire day in the detachment. And the discipline is much more stringent than in the company. Of course, this does not affect me at all. I sit around doing nothing all day. I go to bed and get up whenever I want to. I even have time to study! To my great disappointment, all roads to promotion in the ranks are closed to me. A Jew can become a corporal—but nothing higher. The way is barred. My career as a soldier is over. This is why they are transferring me from the training detachment to the company. All the volunteers (Russians) envy me.

The conditions of barracks life are quite decent, but when I enter the company, they will improve.

If I were from this area, they might even let me live at home. But barracks life is not as terrible as you might think. It’s spotlessly clean. No sign of bedsheet fauna. They are very strict about cleanliness. You’re punished for even the most minute spot of dirt. For a torn shirt, dirty hands, toenails, mud-stained legs and puttees, an unmade bed, dust on surfaces, a cigarette smoked in the barracks—punishment! It’s extremely effective. The ventilation is good. I had to sleep for a few nights in a common barracks. Can you imagine that in a place that houses twenty-five people (soldiers, at that!) the air is as fresh in the morning as it was during the day? It’s quite incredible, but it’s true.

The walls of the barracks are lined with pine boughs.

I’m eating well. I go to the Officers’ Assembly to eat. I eat both lunch and dinner there, and drink my tea. ZLATOUST–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

NOVEMBER 19, 1912

I write my parents about the everyday details of my life. They aren’t really interested in anything else. The longing I feel here I can describe only to you. What I lack here is—You, Music, Books. There is simply no cultural life whatsoever. Even the officers are poorly educated. Among them are, of course, some wonderful and sincere people. I must learn to survive this year without all of those things that are the very stuff of life for me. Even, it seems, without study. It is very difficult to find time here during the day. Envy is an ugly feeling, but something like it has taken hold of me. Somewhere in Kiev, in Moscow, in Paris, the life that intrigues me, the life I can participate in, is going on without me. How marvelous it is, Marusya, that you are able to study, and you have your school, and the courses, and a life filled with both intellectual and physical activity. In an article by M. Voloshin, which I happened to read last year, he describes in a very compelling way your Bewegung, but he also discusses the artistic side of things and holds in high regard the performances of Mrs. Rabenek’s troupe. And, poor me, I have yet to see them! I have never once witnessed you onstage! And when will I get the chance? My imagination paints a sublime but dim spectacle for me.

My longing is only augmented by the constant sense of your absence. I think that a romantic lover would put it differently: I am always aware of your presence! Alas, I feel only absence. And the complete absence of letters. Only one postcard in all this time! ZLATOUST–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS

NOVEMBER 19, 1912

This is one of the rare moments of silence in the barracks. The troops have gone to the city for a scheduled review. It’s nice and quiet. I received your letter yesterday. It didn’t take long at all to arrive here—just five days. Four days and six hours en route. Thus, 102 hours altogether. As long as it takes to get from Kiev to, say, London.

About clothing and the climate. The winter here is not terribly harsh. It rarely gets colder than fifteen or twenty below (Fahrenheit). And, in general, I love the cold. In spring, it’s worse. There are mists and fog from the mountains, dampness … But it doesn’t pose a problem, since I don’t catch cold very often.

The overcoat lined with quilted cotton batting—your advice, Mama!—isn’t permitted, and it would be inconvenient, because I couldn’t roll it up and wear it over my shoulder. Moreover, it would be extremely hard to carry out the manual of arms. If it gets terribly cold, I’ll wear more layers of underwear. That will suffice. Actually, it’s only on their feet that soldiers feel the cold. I’ll have to think about what to do. I was advised to buy government-issue boots (the best ones cost three or four rubles). They are very roomy, so you can wrap many layers of puttees around your feet. That’s what I’ll do. I bought some woolen socks, and they’ve already worn through. Puttees are better. So I advise you not to worry, Mama. It’s obvious that if it’s cold, or if something’s uncomfortable, unpleasant, I’ll try to get warm and comfortable and feel better as soon as possible, in any way I can.

I received my uniform—that is, the order for it arrived at the company. Tomorrow the order will be delivered to the tailor, and they will take my measurements. It will be ready in about six days. That means I won’t be a full-fledged soldier until after November 25. All this time, I have been idle, from the point of view of a soldier’s duty. I don’t attend training, or take part in formations. I practiced gymnastics for a few days, and rifle disassembly; but then they sent me to the office unit, where I have nothing to do. On the other hand, I can spend some time with my books. Many thanks for the Kiev newspaper. I can’t subscribe to it here, however. I often read The New Times in the Officers’ Assembly, where I take my meals. And sometimes I buy The Russian Word at the train station.

You tell me that business is good this year, Papa. I’d love to know about it in more detail: about the mill, the hay transport, and the “Berlin” barges—whether navigation is still possible … Before I left, you said I would be your assistant after I finish the Institute. Well, an assistant has to know the details! This will be my main activity, rather than music. Perhaps you were right. There are places on this earth where music simply doesn’t exist.

Yesterday I was sitting on my bunk and reading a book in German. Some soldiers came in and asked me to read it aloud to them. I read, and they listened attentively.

Once, in a lesson on Divine Law, one of them answered, very confidently, “Moses was born in a basket”! A SEPARATE PAGE

Dear kids! Your letters make me so happy! So write me as much as you can. I want to know about everything, everything interests me. About Ivan the Terrible, and about stamps, and about your new pencil.

Yesterday I took a walk in the woods and was very sad you weren’t with me. The forest is thick, fir trees everywhere you look … It’s quiet, there’s no one around. The snow is deep. And the road in the forest is narrow. When I met an oncoming wagon and had to step out of the way, my legs sank into the snow past my knees! That’s how deep it is. Now everything is covered with snow. And the river Ai and the river Tesma look like big snowy plains. MOSCOW–ZLATOUST MARUSYA TO JACOB Postcard

NOVEMBER 20, 1912

I have three postal receipts—for Zlatoust … I’ve sent three letters: on the 8th, the 10th, and the 16th. I can’t even remember how many postcards I’ve sent. I don’t understand it. If the letters have gone astray, I’ll complain in no uncertain terms! Devil take it! It’s so frustrating and unpleasant. I’m furious! ZLATOUST–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

NOVEMBER 20, 1912

My Sweet Marusya! Your postcard arrived! I thought I’d never get a letter from you. I’d much rather fault the postal system than look for another reason. And the reasons that occurred to me I won’t even bother telling you. After writing three letters to you and not getting an answer, I was almost convinced that I had only dreamed Marusya, the one and only Marusya. And our summer strolls through Kiev, and our secret Lustdorf, and my wife—they were all a mirage. And our trip to Moscow (which I hardly noticed) was enveloped in Marusya’s shadow, like a hallucination or psychological aberration of some sort. And introducing you to my family—how worried I was that you wouldn’t like them, or they you. Only I didn’t worry about the kids, I knew they would love you. All of these memories were like a theater of shadows. Had they ever happened? But now I look at your postcard, and it’s proof that you exist. You write that you are furious, and that means you are you. I’m furious, ergo sum! Furious, therefore I am. Ah, I never learned Latin, and you won’t find a dictionary around here for miles. For three weeks already, I have been trying to persuade myself that life here is interesting nevertheless, that I have to delve into it, to make something of myself within this strange term of duty—in a word, that I have to accept all the gifts life brings, even the fact that you shimmered in my sky, then flashed on past, as shooting stars have a habit of doing. ZLATOUST–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS

DECEMBER 6, 1912

Today is a holiday. The Feast of St. Nicholas, the patron saint of our Tsar. Would you like me to describe to you, my dear ones, how the barracks celebrates this holiday? In complete idleness. People read the drill regulations manual and do exercises, while five accordions are playing and everyone is spinning yarns and playing the fool. The first platoon is singing songs. You don’t believe me?

Here’s a soldier, asleep. A noncommissioned officer and a few soldiers sidle up to him. The officer swings his belt above his head like an incense censer, and intones, “Remember, O Lord, the soul of the deceased soldier so-and-so!” The chorus chimes in, “Lord, have mercy on him.” They sing in harmony. Someone opens the drill regulations manual and recites it out loud, like the Gospels.

It ends with the “deceased” sitting bolt upright, then leaping up and chasing around the “priest” and the “choirboys.” There’s a friendly tussle, which then escalates into a war. Platoon against platoon. The platoon commander himself serves as the banner flag. They capture him, and he shouts from the other room, “Boys, rescue me, give it all you’ve got!”

The boys give it all they’ve got; with a loud “Hooray!” they storm the room and save their “banner.” It really is a lot of fun!

A deputation comes up to me:

“Mr. Volunteer, we’re having a disagreement among ourselves. How much does a little whip with a rabbit’s foot cost?”

… These are my last days with the detachment. My uniform is ready. The overcoat is being made now.

On Sunday, most likely, I’ll be leaving for my ironworks. My Twelfth Company is stationed not in Zlatoust, but at the Katav-Ivanovsky Ironworks—eight hours away from there, it turns out. It will be much better there than in the detachment. There is very little supervision from above. Much more free time. KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS

DECEMBER 9, 1912

I’m in Katav already. As predicted, it’s much better here. I think things are going to be fine.

Before I left, the head of the Training Detachment pestered me with questions about what I intended to do in Katav, where I would eat. I was a bit worried about that myself. Katav is in the middle of nowhere, and it’s very hard to get anything.

“Listen, Ossetsky, send the commander of the Twelfth Company my personal regards and ask him whether it would be possible for you to take meals at his place with him.”

“Of course. I’m grateful to you.”

The company commander listened to my request and promised to ask his wife. But today he told me that it would be awkward for a company commander to accept money from someone in the ranks. Therefore, he recommended that I take meals with one of the officers. Ensign Biryukov has accepted the duty to “nourish” me. Today I ate with him for the first time. I’m going there to take my evening meal now. Biryukov and his wife are sweet people; they treat me with great courtesy. I’m happy overall with the higher-ups here.

Oh, and another thing! The company commander ordered me to wear my soldier uniform. At the transfer station (where we were held up for seventeen hours, waiting on a military troop train!), I changed into my student uniform. I decided it would be better to report for duty for the first time in that attire. I was wearing civilian dress when I went to the Biryukovs’, but now I’m already wearing my soldier uniform.

It’s quite well made. A fitted waist, cinched with a belt. Red piping, double-breasted buttons, Rifle No. 152525, Personal No. 83, Second Platoon, Volunteer Private Jacob Ossetsky. Picture-perfect!

Perhaps you’re interested in where I’m writing this letter? I’m sitting in the company office. “Mr. Ensign” is reading the orders for the regiment. A twenty-inch lamp is burning on the table. The light is steady and bright. The papers I have just begun to write up are lying on the table. Lists of names in the lower ranks eligible for allowances from the Twelfth Company of the 196th Insarsky Infantry Regiment on December 1, 1912. I’m writing you on official government paper. By my own calculations, this theft could get me two years in a disciplinary battalion, but I’m too lazy to walk over to the other stack of paper. You see the problem? So write me, all of you! Relieve me of this boredom!

Write me, Papa; write me, Mama! Siblings one and all, write me! Otherwise, I might forget you.

I just found out that in the Kazan region some reserves who had already finished their term of duty were detained. I feel terribly sorry for them. They’ve already served for two extra months. Their three years of duty probably went by faster than these last two months. In the event of war, they will most likely send us to the interior, to guard the region. Although, if war breaks out between Russia and China, they’ll send us there immediately. I don’t think there will be any war, though. It won’t come to that. MOSCOW–ZLATOUST MARUSYA TO JACOB

DECEMBER 15, 1912

I’m close to despair. It’s like beating my head against a wall. I’ve sent five letters already! Two registered letters and one ordinary mail. The registered letters were sent on December 1 and 8. So you should have gotten the first one on the 5th. Dancing devils, what’s going on? Tomorrow I’ll make inquiries about the letter from the 13th.

How stupid and annoying it is—you write and write, and your words disappear into the ether. Am I going to disappear somewhere along the way, too? I have to leave soon. In two months and fifteen days. The time will fly by, and you won’t notice.

I’m feeling mournful—mainly because of the postal situation. Mikhail is coming over on Christmas. He’s become a true bon vivant, a dandy and a man of the world! Mark will probably invite us over for New Year’s. It seems he’ll be moving to Riga next year. I’ve never been as close to him as I am to Mikhail, but I’ll miss him very much. Is there a place in your life for music now? Someone probably has a piano there. Ask around. Is it possible that you haven’t been able to play for all this time? KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

DECEMBER 20, 1912

I dream of music. Last night, before I woke up, I heard Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in its entirety. From the first note to the last. I really do know it by heart. I love the first concerto more, though. But in my dream, it was even fuller and more alive than I was aware of. Richer and more resonant. But I long for music. I went to church. The singing was unbearably flat. Remember when your ridiculous friend Vanya Belousov took us to Blagoveshchenskaya Church? What sublime singing! Breathtakingly beautiful.

I try not to let myself think about you coming here. I won’t indulge my hopes—otherwise, I might drift off into daydreams, and that would be a luxury I can’t afford here. Before I know it, I see your lips, with a sweet, childish expression, your hands, and the lovely little bones of your wrists, the little blue veins under your pale skin … No, spare me! I transfer my gaze to the crude, rough fabric of my existence here. I feel that from the contrast alone I could explode like a cold glass touching boiling water.

That’s all; I kiss you, a very formal kiss, on the white part on the top of your head, and on your neck, in the back, where the hair starts to grow … It’s impossible … and all of you, all of you … Lustdorf.

DECEMBER 21, 1912

Ah, Marusya! I can’t keep silent! The company is getting ready to perform a Christmas play. A real soldiers’ play, in which the men’s and women’s parts are all played by heavyset soldiers with mustaches. I have been asked to be the prompter. If only you could see what awkward, ridiculous figures they cut, not knowing what to do with their hands, their feet. At first they stood facing the audience for the entire act, not moving a muscle. When the sergeant major ordered a bit more dynamism, they began running around like chickens with their heads cut off, waving their arms aimlessly.

It was hilarious! It inspired laughter—but only in me. No one else sees anything comical in it. What bumpkins!

Marusya, I’ve made a discovery. Coming here was like going deaf—I’m completely deprived of music, and miss it terribly. A barrage of shouts, curses—these are the sounds that surround me. I went to church. The choir is wretched, but fairly large—about a dozen choristers, with a precentor hailing from true peasant stock, creaking, aged voices singing any which way. Do you remember the singing in the church in Kiev, what a joy it was to listen to? One hears the crudest sounds in the world here; even the sound of the church bells is somehow off. My God, how musically moribund it is here! And I believed that music was banished completely from these parts.

But yesterday one of the soldiers grabbed the accordion, a barbaric instrument, and started playing. Two other soldiers took up the tune and started singing something so wonderful, the likes of which I’ve never heard before in Ukraine. It was as though my ears opened up to these heartrending sounds. The folk music here is a delight, every bit as wonderful as Ukrainian music. Now I walk around listening for it whenever and wherever I can. I seem to have missed a huge piece of musical education, which was only slightly familiar to me through Russian opera. Only now do I understand where it originated, the wondrous Russian love songs, and Varlamov, and Gurilev, from whom both Glinka and Mussorgsky borrowed a great deal. Goodness, how could I have missed it … KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS

DECEMBER 22, 1912

Getting ready for the holidays. Yesterday we cleaned, scoured, decorated the whole day long. Actually, cleanliness in the barracks is always maintained. Every Saturday, all the bunks are stripped and turned out to air, the floors are scrubbed and strewn with pine shavings, and the rooms fill up with the lovely scent of pine tar. The kitchen is equally clean. There is a large marble-topped table, on which rations are sliced and divvied up—although the rations are then placed by hand on dirty scales to weigh out the allotted hundred-gram portions. After lunch, cleanliness reigns again. The samovar boils the whole day long. This beverage is the soldier’s constant helpmeet. Soldiers live for the most part on tea, porridge, and sleep.

Yesterday was the soldiers’ steam bath, banya day. I enjoyed it immensely, because it was the first time in my life I had ever been in a real Russian banya. I thoroughly and deliciously steamed myself. I lay down on the top bench, where it is hottest, and beat myself with birch branches in the customary fashion. A soldier kept crying out: Make more steam! Harder, thrash me harder! In the dressing room, now fully relaxed, and without an ounce of strength left in me, but extremely satisfied and content, I lay down on a bench and gave myself all the time I needed to gather my strength and wits about me. Now, that’s what you call a banya! First-class. I’ll never take a bath again at home.

I’m learning a great deal from the soldiers here. I already take steam baths and play the accordion. Well, what of it—it’s also a musical instrument, is it not? Who knows what the future holds?

Yesterday I read in the papers that the Dnieper is already ice-free and open for navigation. That’s never happened before, has it? It’s also very warm here—around twenty-six or twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, and never colder than about twenty-three. I was already used to fifteen or twenty below. Well, I can live with it. Addendum

Children! You haven’t written me in a long time. I’m not happy about this. Write me about the play you saw (Andersen’s fairy tale). I received a letter and a playbill. I’m delighted about both of them. I’d like to know more about it. But—I’m sorry—my eyes are closing. KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

JANUARY 15, 1913

Today I received your first letter sent directly to Katav! And right after that came three more, which had been written earlier and were lost along the way. What a rich man I am today! I arranged them all by date, and didn’t unseal them for a long time. Impatience, and anticipation, and reassurance that there is another life, in which my wife is alive, in her blouse I love, with her hair bound up in a ribbon, with sunken cheeks, only an outline of flesh … What nonsense I’m writing you, my mind is wandering. It seems I live only in the world of my imagination!

You ask what Katav is like. It’s a small settlement that lives solely from the large cast-iron foundry and factory. From the time when there was a strike, the factory stopped working. For this reason, Katav became impoverished, and the population of the village dwindled. Only parts of the factory are functioning now. There’s a sawmill and a locksmith’s—that’s all. The huge factory halls are locked up and empty; the tall chimneys belch no smoke. A railroad was built here especially for the ironworks, and a huge pond was dug. The barracks stand on the far side of the pond, in the village of Zaprudovka. Why am I telling you all of this?

No, no, we won’t be together in Katav. I’ll meet you in Chelyabinsk. Although I still can’t imagine that I will see you in the flesh, dressed in your gray hat and wearing your white felt boots, and that you will descend the steps of the train car, right into my arms … I’m trying to get furlough for those days, and if they don’t grant it, I’ll just up and head for the hills! Of course, they’ll let me off on leave. Imagine how all the officers would surround you and stare at you here in Katav. No, no! We are meeting only in Chelyabinsk, and that’s final. I can wait two and a half months to see you—but I’m willing to wait two and a half years if I have to! Though even two and a half hours is unbearably long. March 1 is the day! KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS

JANUARY 16, 1913

Life in the army is going well. There’s only one cause for complaint. And it’s something very, very unpleasant. The company commander reads all the soldiers’ letters. He hasn’t opened my letters yet, and it seems he doesn’t intend to. But, in any case, be aware that it might happen at some point. At the first sign a letter has been tampered with, I’ll let you know. I sent a letter to my fellow student Korzhenko, asking him about the exams. I’ve already begun studying for them.

I’ll send you more details about my furlough when I know more myself. KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

JANUARY 17, 1913

Yesterday evening, the sergeant major and I were lying in bed in the barracks. The conversation turned to the subject of conjugal life. He spoke very seriously, earnestly—my God, the things he told me! His manner was such that I started asking probing questions. Soon it turned into a question-and-answer session. I listened and I learned, and eagerly. Truly, Marusya, life itself, not just books, must be a source of learning.

I was only anxious about one thing—whether he would start asking questions, too. But it all turned out well. After I discovered what was most important for me to know, the discussion became less serious and lost its sense of urgency, and I said good night.

There was just one thing that struck me as strange—he thought that he was talking to a very experienced person. He didn’t notice, by my questions, how ill-informed I really was. Actually, I tried to appear very canny about everything. And, apparently, I pulled it off. MOSCOW–KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS MARUSYA TO JACOB

JANUARY 15, 1913

5:00 a.m. I’ve just returned. I was at the “Wednesday,” and afterward a large, fascinating group of people came over to talk. Four interesting men, very intelligent, hovered around me for a long time. They like me. Do you understand, my Jacob, they like me! And I’m happy. It pleases me to hear about my lovely arms and hands, my eyes, that I’m divinely inspired, etc., etc. They say I have remarkable eyes, and I want to shout with joy, Jacob! It’s me, your wife, who has lovely eyes, and lips, and hands! I’m desired by all these elegant, refined men—and it makes me happy, simply happy—because you desire me.

Jacob, my dearest and best—there is no success or joy that can tear me away from my dreams for so much as a second. It makes me want you even more intensely. My God! My faith in you is so strong, so deep, it frightens me. You are my most profound, and everlasting, faith. So much so that I am scared by it.

It’s already daylight. I’m going to bed. I embrace you. No need to kiss my hand today.

Well, goodbye, beloved. My Jacob … Don’t think badly of me—I’m not drunk! Only I miss you terribly. KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS

JANUARY 20, 1913

What will become of my studies at the Institute? This disturbs me even more than the war. Through my friend Korzhenko, I found out that I must take furlough immediately and pass a minimum number of exams. Don’t mention this in your letters, though. The company commander mustn’t know that I’m planning to take a leave. Just to be on the safe side. The only thing that really worries me is that they won’t grant me furlough. Oh well, I’ll just drop out of the Institute in that case. Without any hopes of being readmitted. And the obstacles before me are formidable: first, they may refuse to give me leave—it’s not at all unlikely; and second, if they grant me leave, I still might not satisfy the minimum requirements for passing the exams. It’s hard for me to find even three hours a day to study. And how can I work in a tiny room packed with people? And there’s nowhere else to go. KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

JANUARY 23, 1913

… There are moments when I am filled with jealousy and longing, thinking about you onstage—wearing your tunic, your arms and shoulders bare, your wondrous feet—you dance in a circle with other actresses, and still the spectators are staring only at you. And I feel anguish and suffering, that strangers’ eyes can gaze at your body. The greedy gazes of men. I feel these thoughts will suffocate me! I banish them, realizing that I shouldn’t be thinking them, much less writing them. But we made a pact about mutual honesty. MOSCOW–KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS MARUSYA TO JACOB

JANUARY 25, 1913

… “My dream is that you will abandon the theater or at least leave it temporarily and come ‘home.’” Every other year! I am so sad. Does this mean that you in fact don’t approve of my being onstage? Why?

Jacob, I can’t abandon the stage, I can’t and I shouldn’t. Every other year would be impossible. In one year, the public forgets an actress’s name! They would even forget Komissarzhevskaya if she left for a year! And a young actress all the more! I believe in myself, and I believe in this opportunity I have. It will allow me to become what I can and must be. This is not ordinary theater. It’s an intricate and complex life, in which dance is only one way of grasping it, its great mysteries. We have spoken so much about this. I’ve only been onstage for one year. And I have accomplished a great deal in this year. You must also take into account the fact that I have not fallen victim to anyone’s embraces or touched anyone’s lips. By ignoring male protection, I know that it will take me three times longer to achieve what I wish. How can you speak about “greedy gazes” to me? I feel these gazes constantly, even on the tram, or in the library. I won’t abandon the theater. Unless it abandons me. I can’t imagine that you would ever issue an ultimatum—“me or the theater.” It would be doubly hard for me—to lose you for this reason, or to lose the theater?

Horrible! Did you really talk to that sergeant major about me? KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

JANUARY 25, 1913

The degree to which a man is capable of adapting to his circumstances is simply remarkable. I think that, if I end up in hell, within a month I’ll be feeling right at home, after I’ve found out where the library is, the opera, and whether some sinner might get hold of a piano for me. In a few months’ time, I’ll be so comfortable there that I won’t want to move to another apartment, even one in heaven.

At first, especially in Zlatoust, it was very hard to make myself get up in the morning. I would dream about home, and when I woke up I couldn’t figure out where I was, how these strange walls that surrounded me had sprung up. Then, in a flash, it all comes back to you, and reluctantly, lazily, you start getting dressed. Now it’s not like that at all. I’ve completely adjusted to life inside these new walls, and to my dirty room. I’m as contented as a cat here. And, in time, I may get used to spitting on the floor, blowing my nose in my hand, and using my own handkerchief as a napkin and a tea towel.

The transition back to being a gentleman promises to be long and painful.

You will teach me, Marusya, as you taught the little children when you were still a Froebel teacher—to hold a fork and knife, not to wipe your nose on your sleeve, not to make improper noises.

“Jacob, don’t eat with your fingers. Use your napkin to wipe your face. How many times do I have to tell you not to spit in the dining room!”

It’s hard for me even to imagine you’ll be here soon! Not counting today, since it’s already evening, there are thirty-nine days left until March 5. I can’t wait until you get here—and at the same time it’s hard to believe in your visit. Every day, I draw a portrait of my wife in my notebook; but there are fewer pages in the notebook than days before your arrival. Still, I remind myself constantly that it’s all some kind of game. No one’s coming to visit me. It’s just a subject in a novel in the spirit of Bunin. With a tragic ending, it goes without saying—just like in “Antonov Apples.” Telegram

FEBRUARY 1, 1913

THE STAGE IS YOURS I’M SORRY FORGIVE ME ONLY 32 MORE DAYS HUSBAND JACOB MOSCOW–KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS MARUSYA TO JACOB

FEBRUARY 10, 1913

Here’s a story for you apropos the incident with the sergeant major, which so irked me. Only mine is better, because it’s not a conversation between men about women, which I hate, but about humanity.

Lena came from Kiev for a recital. It was organized by Goldenweiser. The very same—friend of Leo Tolstoy’s. I happened to be free that evening, and I went to hear Lena. I was nervous and excited for her, but it all went smoothly. Lena played beautifully—she was the best of all of them. Goldenweiser (a plain man with an unpleasant voice) praised her.

But this is how the story goes: The concert hall was very far away. It was late, and I had to take a cab. The first cabbie I came across didn’t ask for too much money—so I agreed, and we talked along the way. The cabbie had been married for six years, and had two children. “Is your wife here? In Moscow?” “Of course! I couldn’t exist for a single day without her.” That’s what he said—“exist.” “You wouldn’t believe it—my kids are dressed like little lords. I got them boots, new lambskin winter coats, little mittens, the very best quality.” He went on and on, talking very happily. Then he turned to me and said, “You know, miss, I loved my wife before, too, but when the children came, my love for her felt sweeter than ever. I wonder why that is?” Loving his wife became even sweeter … If you could only have heard him say those last words—“I wonder why that is?”—words filled with quiet reflection and happy surprise.

He told me many things, and expressed things I can’t really convey in words at all. His intonations, in his ruddy, cheery, smiling face, the jaunty way he cracked his little whip—it was all charged with meaning for me. When I left him, I asked him to give my regards to his wife. He was very pleased, glad. Glad to have an attentive listener. It is just as necessary for us to express our joy as it is to express our sorrow. And I listened to him with such eagerness.

I like my cabbie much more than your sergeant major; you can be sure of that! KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA Telegram

FEBRUARY 13, 1913

20 MORE DAYS Telegram

FEBRUARY 18, 1913

15 MORE DAYS Telegram

FEBRUARY 28, 1913

5 MORE DAYS WE MEET IN CHELYABINSK ON THE 5TH

MARCH 11, 1913

Today I tidied up the room where we lived so happily together. I found your hairpin under the bed. An ordinary, sturdy hairpin. I wanted to kiss it. It’s not the right kind of object for kissing. Not romantic in the least. Gloves are another thing altogether. But luckily you didn’t forget your gloves—otherwise, you’d have frozen on the train on the way home.

The third move is easier than the first two were. I’m already accustomed to gathering my things together, even though the household effects have now increased. A soldier has almost no possessions, so any extra thing is precious.

My wondrous wife! I love you. That’s all I can say. There is nothing more to add. KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS

MARCH 12, 1913

My dears! I haven’t written you in a long time—but there were reasons why I couldn’t, very serious reasons. Marusya was here visiting me. I didn’t tell you about it, because I was so afraid it wouldn’t happen if I talked about it too confidently beforehand. She stayed here for five days, and I was supremely happy. This fragile young woman undertook the whole difficult journey alone, without any companions. I’m writing this for you, Mama, since I know you think that an actress is not a suitable partner for your son. You see how courageous and decisive Marusya is in her undertakings?

I have news about my army service. I’m writing you before a departure. I’m now attached to the Battalion Office as a military clerk. It’s an important position—I’ll have to salute myself.

Things will be incomparably better for me now. I’ll give you the details in a few days.

Well, I send you kisses, dearest ones. I have no time just now—there’s not even time to blow my nose properly.

This is my new address:

Yuryuzan Factory, Ufimskaya Guberniya

Ninth Company, Insarsky Regiment

To me. KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA Report

MARCH 15, 1913

I declare that from this date I have entered the employ of the Battalion Office, Third Battalion, 196th Infantry of the Insarsky Regiment, and I hereby convey this information to my wife. Thunder of triumph, resound!

Commander of the Battalion Office

Lieutenant Colonel (crossed out)

Private of Volunteers

Jacob Ossetsky

Dear Marusya! I walked around in a daze for a whole day after your departure. I kept dreaming about our future, which I anticipate will be beautiful.

Then I gave myself a good shake and threw myself into the fray to make up for lost time. My motor kicked in, and I studied a long time. I left only three hours for myself to sleep. And what satisfaction can sleep give if you’re not here with me? For three whole days, I sat with my books during every spare minute. And suddenly, yesterday, I was informed about an appointment I could never have dreamed of. It turned out that the previous clerk was promoted for some deed or other. Or a service? And he was sent to Kazan!

From the attached report, my dear wife, you can see that I have received a much better appointment than my previous one. Better by orders of magnitude. Before I was just a run-of-the mill private; but now I’m Mr. Clerk.

“Mr. Clerk, may I come in? Mr. Ossetsky, please give me a reference! Mr. Ossetsky, call Chelyabinsk on the telephone, please! Mr. Volunteer, please convey such-and-such to Battalion Commander So-and-so.”

That’s what I’ve become. Now I have to salute myself and issue commands—attention, eyes right and left.

New address:

Yuryuzan Factory, Ufimskaya Guberniya

Ninth Company, Insarsky Regiment

Volunteer Ossetsky MOSCOW–KATAV-IVANOVSKY IRONWORKS MARUSYA TO JACOB

MARCH 16, 1913

I’m lying on the divan, thinking about the future, thinking, longing, for you.

The physical pain that I experienced when we parted I now feel constantly. I think about you—your lips, your hands—and I feel orphaned. There is no place for me to go. Nothing is the way it should be. Everything is partial. Nothing is complete. MOSCOW–YURYUZAN MARUSYA TO JACOB

MARCH 20, 1913

Here is my report. I have classes in Rabenek’s studio three times a week, and studio performances one or two times a week. Ella Ivanovna is satisfied with my progress. I have received an invitation to a real theater, as a replacement for another actress. Once a week, I have a class in the Froebel Society in pedagogy. One morning (Tuesday), I give lessons in movement in a private school for girls. And I read, read everything you recommend to me and much, much more. Mikhail is finally moving permanently to Moscow. YURYUZAN–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS

MARCH 20, 1913

The living conditions here are by far the best. I have my own room, where I’m completely free from obligations, and a lot of time for my books.

My duties are the following: at nine in the morning, I sort the mail from the post office, write dispatches and reports, orders, and memoranda. At ten o’clock, the battalion commander arrives and signs everything, and then leaves at twelve. After that, I’m completely free. In the evening, I go to his apartment with a report, and that is the end of it until the next morning.

He gets all the mail first, then sends it to me. I sort it through and send it on to the company commanders. So you can rest easy. The battalion commander never opens anyone’s mail, of course, not least mine.

In short, my duties are light. It will continue like this until the summer training camps, and then we’ll see.

I received the Yiddish and German books.

I read the books in Yiddish with enormous pleasure. In particular Sholem Aleichem. It’s amazing how fluently I can read Yiddish. I opened it to the first page—not confident at all that I could. I read it through, then the second page, and the third, and the whole book; and then the next book. In short, thank you, Papa, for making me take lessons for two years with that unbearable Reuben. He actually taught me a thing or two, despite boring me to death. I haven’t been able to open the German books yet. They’ll have to wait until next week.

Here everything is very conducive to writing letters. I’m not joking. I don’t have to write on a footlocker, but I get to write at a real desk. I don’t have to sit on my bed pushed up against the wall, but on a real stool.

I can actually complete all my tasks in the Battalion Office in a good two hours. Yesterday, however, I sat until five-thirty with an intelligent expression on my face. No one asked me what I was doing, though, and I just carried on with my own affairs. YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

MARCH 22, 1913

This has nothing to do with real soldiering. A clerk is a blue blood. Illiterate soldiers (and they do exist in our fatherland) come to me and ask me to write them a nice letter. At first I thought they were talking about the handwriting. No, they want it to sound beautiful and expressive. The poor human soul—it wants beauty, but has received no training in it. It’s very touching, really. Maybe I should go to a country school and work as a teacher …

I’ve gotten into the swing of things here now. I am very much the clerk: I take an interest in the affairs of the regiment, and I never talk to anyone about my wife. And it seems that I’ll soon begin to study seriously. I’m in the mood for it now. It’s often that way—suddenly you feel confidence in an action you have yet to take.

My life as a soldier is better than it has ever been. The only thing I lack is my wife. After reflecting on that thought, I changed my mind. My wife is an actress. Her place is in the acting studio and on the stage, and not leading a dull life with a clerk in the Ural Mountains. YURYUZAN–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS

MARCH 23, 1913

The battalion commander is very kind to me. I teach a lesson at his home (I’m helping his son prepare to enter the officers’ corps). I “nobly” refused payment for the lesson. The fact of the matter is that Mitya (the son) is so ill-prepared, I have to cover the material for the entire curriculum at a regular school: mathematics, Russian, and German. I’m not sure whether he’ll be accepted into the corps. In addition, the requirements for the program are not entirely clear to me.

After the lesson with Mitya last week, I was waylaid. The lieutenant colonel came into the nursery, where we were having the lesson, and invited me to stay to dine. I considered declining, then accepted the invitation out of curiosity. I went downstairs into the large dining room—like a banquet hall, but decorated and furnished in a provincial country style. It was a dinner party, and there were many guests. The twelve chairs they had were not enough, so they had to fetch two kitchen stools to accommodate everyone. The guests were the local beau monde—mostly officers and their wives, the director of the gymnasium, not a pleasant sort, and one more person, who appeared to be quite cosmopolitan. This turned out to be Mr. G. Papas, and it was the first time since I left home that I have conversed for a whole evening with a European, of the caliber one doesn’t even come across that often in Kiev. He is a highly educated economist. And it would have been interesting for you to talk to him as well. He has very original ideas, something in the spirit of Taylor, whom I’ve told you about. They subject management itself to scientific study and discover the laws that govern it and must be taken account of in managing it. YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

MARCH 30, 1913

I received the bundle of newspapers (including Footlights, and the postcards—they all arrived). The parcel took ten days to get here. There is a lot written about your studio. A startling cacophony of opinions. Some brilliant, others weak and incompetent. And, of course, the latter are wrong. Besides, one should always keep in mind the old adage: It’s far better when critics diverge in their opinions; it means an author has been consistent with himself.

In what does the freedom of theater lie? In the absence of a consistent method of staging. For The Fair at Sorochyntsi they chose naturalism, for Beatrice they choose, for instance, decadence. Perhaps this is possible—not having one consistent personality. The individuality of an actor consists in the absence of any individuality. Today Shylock, tomorrow the Mayor.

I’ve struck up an acquaintance with the local priest, and very fine person, Father Feodosy. He’s interested in music. He’s a widower raising two sons, and he asked me to tutor his elder son in German. I wouldn’t have felt confident enough in English or French, although I know them pretty well. Reading is very good for developing language skills. I agreed to the lessons, and received compensation I wasn’t counting on. I’ve already been to their home twice, and got to play the harmonium after the lessons. It made me very happy, and very sad. I’m lagging so far behind. How hard I’ll have to work to catch up!

MARCH 31, 1913

I’m reading Childhood and Adolescence. Sometimes I was overcome with terrible longing for you—I wanted to talk to a true friend, the only true friend of my life. I recalled some memories from childhood, dreams I had—all those things you can only confide in the person you feel closest to.

Why do we so love Tolstoy, you and I? Besides all his other merits, Tolstoy has taught both of us the importance of sincerity. There is nothing more difficult; that’s my belief, which I have formulated for myself definitively over the past few days. Carlyle considered sincerity a hallmark of genius.

No one surpasses Tolstoy in this regard, it would seem. And in this lies his pedagogical significance. The next logical premise is that this is why he brings people together. What unites people, if not sincerity?

It seems that you didn’t receive my last letters. Some of them I sent without registering them (with only one stamp, that is). Evidently, they went missing. Well, I kiss you. I kiss your hands tenderly.

I have a strange relationship to human hands. It’s a feature in a person that means a great deal to me, because I prize them so highly. People I love have many beautiful traits and features that I would forgo—but not the hands. The eyes, brows, hair can all change, as far as I’m concerned, as long as the hands remain the same. And provident nature agrees with me. It guards this feature carefully. The hair falls out, eyes grow rheumy and dim, the body ages—but the hands stay the same. They get covered with tiny wrinkles, but the shape remains constant. MOSCOW–YURYUZAN MARUSYA TO JACOB

MARCH 31, 1913

Nighttime. I’ve just come back from the Zimin Theater, where I saw Sadko. I suffered because you weren’t with me to enjoy it. It’s all so wonderful, so intriguing. All of the costumes designed by Egorov. Every single costume was a miracle. The conductor was Palitsyn.

I want to sleep. I hardly slept at all last night. Good night, Jacob, my love. Oh, how tired I am! And I always feel this exhaustion lately.

Still, it’s hard to make myself stop writing. There’s so much I need to tell you.

Once, Mikhail said to me, “If you write Jacob, don’t forget to send him my greetings—double greetings, in fact.” That’s what he said. Yes, Jacob, we already have a big family. You already have three new brothers. Well, goodbye, then, my dear. And now I’ll go to sleep and kiss you all night long. Telegram

APRIL 15, 1913

ILL DETAILS TO FOLLOW IN LETTER YOURS YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

APRIL 16, 1913

What kind of illness is it? Are you confined to bed? It’s almost impossible for me to imagine you sick; sometimes I don’t want to believe anything. You have too much theoretical health to fall ill! Get well, Marusya! If I were there I would make you some tea with lemon and Cognac, and it would take all your exhaustion away, just like that. But I’m going to bed. It’s evening here, and already late for me (ten o’clock). I did some domestic chores before bed. I laid out my linen, sprinkling it with the cyclamen you love. Why did I do it? You’re not here! I also washed a handkerchief.

I’m going to get undressed. But you’re not here.

APRIL 18, 1913

Good day, Marusya! Are you feeling better today?

It’s evening here, and my eyelids feel heavy and want to stick together. I’ve said hello to you, kissed your hands, and now I’m bidding you good night again.

I’m going off to dreamland.

“My wife is ill, her bed is two thousand versts away.”

How terrible it sounds. I can’t imagine you ill.

Goodbye, little one, be a good girl and get well soon!

APRIL 23, 1913

It’s so strange, and just not right—you are sick, and I want to talk to you more than ever, but I can only write about myself. You are sick, and I’m writing about my worries, my thoughts, my hopes.

Well, never mind. Let it be this way, then. Please refrain from writing me, or at least don’t send me anything longer than a postcard, so as not to exhaust yourself. Telegram

APRIL 25, 1913

TELEGRAPH ME HOW IS HEALTH I’M WORRIED JACOB MOSCOW–YURYUZAN MARUSYA TO JACOB

MAY 4, 1913

My sweet husband! My Jacob! I am beside myself. I have real reason to suspect that my life is going to change, in such a way that your secret wish—that I leave the stage—will come true. And our dreams that we spun and believed were still far away are already here, now, when I am not at all ready to change my life, to abandon the theater and become the respectable wife of a respectable husband. It’s terrible. And this is what constitutes the tragedy of a woman’s existence, her slavery to nature. You and I have talked about how we will have a big family and many children, and how our children will be happy, with parents who raise them to be free and well-adjusted people. But this will mean that my artistic life must end before it has really begun. Now I can’t help seeing my mother in myself—buried in her humdrum everyday existence, frying pans, collars, sewing, and anxieties. I hate all of that! And my mother (you don’t know this) wrote poetry in her youth, and has kept her journal with lyrical jottings commemorating her unfulfilled life. YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

MAY 12, 1913

My little one! Pride, and fear, and ecstasy, and much more I can’t name! I found out about the possibility of getting married officially here, although you would have to travel for four days by train again. Perhaps I could try to talk them into granting me furlough? But try to find out, in any case, if among your “high-society” friends there is a lawyer who can tell you about the consequences of having a child out of wedlock. Also about children out of wedlock who are legally assigned to the mother and then adopted by the father. I have some thoughts about this myself. I studied all of this at one point, and passed an exam on it, but I’ve forgotten it all. I have no volume ten of the Legal Code here.

Do not feel anxious and overwhelmed by all of this. You have a husband, and he will take all the burdens onto his own shoulders.