Jacob's Ladder

26 From the Willow Chest

The Correspondence of Jacob and Marusya

(MAY 1913–JANUARY 1914) MOSCOW–YURYUZAN MARUSYA TO JACOB

MAY 8, 1913

Give me your word, Jacob, that we will never, ever mention this again. Only on that condition will I tell you everything that has happened. It was terrible! In the middle of the night on the 5th, I woke up, not from pain, but from a sensation of hot trickling down below. I discovered that I was covered with blood. I was terrified. I couldn’t get up. Three o’clock in the morning! All alone, no one else around. I knew I was dying. But I managed to stand up and, somehow, make it to Nyusha’s attic room. I woke her up. During the day, I can telephone from Mrs. Malygin’s, one floor below. But not in the middle of the night! And I sent Nyusha off to alert Mikhail, who had arrived from Petersburg the day before and was staying on Sytinsky Lane. He arrived in forty minutes—very drunk, as he told me later; he was coming from some sort of banquet. After that, I don’t remember anything. I woke up in the hospital. Now I’m home again. Weak. But alive. We lost the child. And I beg you—bury the memory about what might have been, but now can never be. Perhaps for the best. YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA Telegram

MAY 14, 1913

LITTLE ONE DEAREST IT PAINS ME THAT YOU SUFFER AND I’M NOT THERE ALL WILL BE WELL HUSBAND JACOB

MAY 14, 1913

Little one, dearest treasure, I am in despair. I rushed to see Lieutenant Colonel Yanchevsky without thinking and didn’t choose my words carefully—who was sick, with what, why it was urgent. In short, my request for leave was denied. There is another clerk here, on rotation, but he happens to be on leave for his father’s funeral. So I’m unable to come to you right away. It wasn’t me but Mikhail who was by your side, and this pains me. It’s as though he stole that moment from me when I needed to be with you. I will honor your wishes, and not inquire further about it. I just prayed to the God I’m not sure I believe in. And felt nothing but distant emptiness. I recall all the miracles that take place, even in our time—remember the stories my cousin told about John of Kronstadt? But I’m willing to pray to all the gods, even John of Kronstadt! Only I don’t know how.

I retreated to my little corner, sat down, and was suddenly overcome with a boundless sense of gratitude, to whom I’m not sure, that you are alive, and well, and that nothing happened from which you can’t recover. MOSCOW–YURYUZAN MARUSYA TO JACOB Telegram

MAY 16, 1913

I’M FULLY RECOVERED JUST TIRED MARUSYA YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

MAY 17, 1913

Hello, my love. I got your telegram yesterday—it crossed in the mail with mine. You write that you have recovered, but that you’re tired. How is it possible to have already recovered? After such a serious condition, you can’t get well all of a sudden like that. You may feel better, but all the same you have to take care of yourself. Eat well, look after your health. All those things you aren’t fond of doing. And take your temperature—if it goes up, it could be dangerous. Yesterday evening, I stopped by to talk to a doctor, a Pole, who settled here a long time ago. He treats everyone around here. He said that if you don’t have any fever, and if there are no discharges, the danger has most likely passed. He said that anemia can sometimes result from this, and that you should have it checked. And, the whole evening, he regaled me with stories about some other Pole from Petersburg, who discovered some substance or crystal contained in the blood, and I spent two and a half hours listening to him. I’m usually interested in scientific subjects—but this time, not in the least. I couldn’t wait to get back to the barracks, to my bunk, to write you and tell you to take your temperature immediately! And if you’re anemic, you must eat meat, cooked rare. Beefsteak. And lemons. In the morning, I’ll send you some money. I’m very worried about you, so look after your health. If not for your own sake, then for mine. And put aside your studies for the time being, I beg you. Write me openly, little one, and include all the details. MOSCOW–YURYUZAN MARUSYA TO JACOB

MAY 24, 1913

There are things that you want to erase from your memory forever. I asked you never to write me about this subject again. When the first sense of alarm had passed, I realized that I didn’t want to have the child at this moment, and the baby felt that. We will not have a little Elga. I feel profound guilt toward her, and I don’t want any reminders. I told Mikhail, too, not to dare speak of it again. If you want to anger me, you can continue to pester me with your questions and worries. YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

MAY 31, 1913

The greatest gift is confidence in your own future. For the past few days, I’ve been very downcast, God knows why. Perhaps you’ll think it’s because I doubt myself, doubt you, doubt life and all higher things. Not at all. I’ve only been thinking about my future earnings. Oh, how much I need to earn, to maintain a wife who deserves to dress like the famous actress she is, and to feed the fragile creature she happens to be, and to shower her with presents to make her happy. MOSCOW–YURYUZAN MARUSYA TO JACOB

MAY 31, 1913

Headache. Weariness. Bad temper. My soul is asleep—there is nothing I want, nothing! Suddenly everything has become dreary, a burden. Perhaps your unspoken desire that I leave the stage is bearing fruit. Our studio is preparing a new performance, to a new composition called “Leaves in Autumn.” I began the rehearsals, then abandoned them; and now I’m unable to take part in the performance. The performance is very interesting. The dancers are in thrall to the wind, which blows them hither and thither, sweeps them around, throws them down, and picks them up again. And every figure is stripped of her own strength and will, and submits to the whirlwind motion, the intricate but random interactions of the figures, and a gust of wind sweeps them off the stage one by one, defeated, helpless bodies of the leaves and forlorn souls. After my absence, I came to the class and saw this piece finished, in its final form—without me. And the winter tour abroad, which I wasn’t eligible to take part in last year, will go on without me. London and Paris. It seems to me that I won’t have the strength to return to my studies after the troupe comes back from abroad. You are probably glad to hear I will be exchanging my old life for a more “respectable” one, and that I will devote myself to the subject of pedagogy, so dear to your heart, that there will be one more Froebel Miss on the planet, or, even better, one more housewife. YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

JUNE 10, 1913

Little one, nice as can be, I love your dancing, your art! Marusya, I have never had the privilege of seeing you onstage, but when I do, I’m sure it will bring me enormous pleasure. And it will happen, without fail. Your despondency can be explained by the weak state of your health. Your dance troupe will return, and you will continue your studies. I can take care of things myself; I can do everything around the house. I’ve learned how in the army.

JUNE 15, 1913

Sweet Marusya! More than half my term of duty is over! In two weeks, I was supposed to go to a four-month training camp, but suddenly I got lucky—they decided to let me stay in the office, because they couldn’t find another clerk like me anywhere. And they didn’t look very hard, because they foresaw that I would surpass everyone else in skill and dedication. True, I had to learn to write in a special “clerkish” script, so that the page looks decent and slightly legible. I can address an envelope with flourishes and curlicues that even Akaky Akakievich would be proud of! I even thought, Hmm, I’m a kindred spirit of Gogol’s character with the pen and the overcoat … my penurious friend!

I’m spurring myself on. My studies have me chomping at the bit, and the books are good. In four months, you can accomplish a lot. It’s too bad I postponed taking my exams. After I read something, it gets fixed in my memory, but I’ve never tested its longevity. MOSCOW–YURYUZAN MARUSYA TO JACOB

JULY 6, 1913

I’m in a foul mood again. I was just about to go to a restaurant, but I decided not to. I have promised myself that, from this month on, I have to live at a calmer pace. I don’t sleep well; I’m nervous. I don’t think I can be away from you much longer. I can’t, I don’t even want to, get close to other people when you aren’t here. And I’m lonely.

I received an unexpected letter from Paris. Someone from the past wrote me. We haven’t seen each other or corresponded for many years. And now there’s a long letter. It was so strange to see a forgotten but familiar script all of a sudden. Sweet, strange life … There is so much sadness in memories of the past, and, true, profound happiness. My Jacob! My Jacob—you are the most important thing, the largest thing in my life. My young husband, dearest to me, closest to my heart. My own happiness; my own life. Good night! I kiss you. YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

AUGUST 12, 1913

Write me, Marusya, and tell me whether you have begun your studies at the Rumyantsev Museum. You had intended to read something there, if I recall correctly. And about the planes of dynamic composition, if that’s what it’s called.

I did read the books you sent me. The Voice of the Blood is quite good, but the others—oh, how weak and uninspired. Really, to cool your ardor, find the article by Chukovksy in the June issue of The Russian Word. Don’t be afraid. You’ll admire him afterward—but his halo will fade just a bit.

Now, Little Wars by H. G. Wells is something I understand. How could there be a parallel, though? I simply read one book after another. It intrigued me for a long time.

Ask someone who knows the English language and literature to read Barrie’s play Peter Pan to you. It’s a wonderful children’s play in which the characters talk to the audience, and the very memorable finale depends on the last answer given by the audience.

AUGUST 23, 1913

I’m reading Myths in Art—Old and New by René Ménard. I’m not so much reading it as looking at it, and I can’t get enough of it. Sculpture from antiquity—if it truly captures the structure of the modern human bodies—emphasizes a fact that I have never noticed before. A woman’s body does not differ so much from that of a man. There are many, many sculptures and statues in which the breasts are the only distinguishing feature between man and woman. But there are figures in which this sign communicates nothing. The majority of the male gods have a soft, rounded build, with somewhat full hips, shoulders, hands, and breasts that are too small for a woman but slightly too large for a man. The face does not always convey features typical of one sex or the other, especially if the face is very young. The width of the hips is misleading in the extreme. In modern man, the hips are considerably narrower.

Dress is the most unreliable sign of all. Apollo Musagetes is wearing a pleated robe with a train and a high waist. Apollo Sauroctonos has a typical woman’s body, with delicate, slender legs. Venus Genetrix has a typical male body.

One could cite many examples on this subject, but there’s no reason to do so. It is enough just to visit a museum or examine a cultural atlas to be convinced of it. Is it possible that the sexes back then didn’t differ so much from each other, that their ways of life, habits, ways of thinking, were more similar? They lived together, danced, studied, swam, practiced gymnastics, and loved together. Life was much simpler, more naïve. And that marvelous “unashamedness.”

It’s difficult to love Egyptian stone sculpture, with dead figures and one-dimensional profiles. But the graceful figure of Isis is lovely. She wears a tight sheath that ends at her breasts. And on another bas-relief she is depicted with the head of a cow, feeding Horus, a youth who already stands shoulder-high.

And about something that is of special interest to you, a good subject for your dynamic compositions: dance with theatrical masks. They are easy to create from papier-mâché. A tragic mask, laughing and crying. The possibilities are myriad.

Isadora Duncan’s dancing, in which the only material is her own body, demands a special degree of talent, for the added richness of visual means of expression is lacking.

There will come a time when you and I will read these books together—the history of art, music, a bit of medicine and pedagogical theory. The sooner the better.

Goodbye, little one. I await orders for maneuvers. And then—freedom. It’s unlikely that I’ll be given early discharge, though.

Write me sometime. I shower you with kisses—many of them, and often.

—Your Jacob Addendum

Look in the library for a handbook for reading the authors of antiquity, and for interpreting poetic allegories and symbols in works of art. Publisher-editor of The New Journal of Foreign Literature, richly illustrated. You might also need Stoll’s valuable work, Myths of Classical Antiquity. I highly recommend it.

SEPTEMBER 15, 1913

I received Footlights and for several minutes was transported there, to your world. It’s a pity it contains none of your notes! I enjoyed the article about Bogolyubov and the pictures of Reinhardt. I’m extremely interested in Western theater arts. Back home, I read a good book by Georg Fuchs—about the Munich Art Theater. And there’s still Dresden and Nuremberg to visit.

If I were an opera director in the present moment, I would adopt Reinhardt’s views on it. Reinhardt is made for opera, with its palpable conventions, its heightened theatricality. Of course, all art has its conventions, but drama is still somewhat closer to life. Opera, with its enormous scale, needs large-scale directorial decisions. The architectural-sculptural manifestations can change from opera to opera, but the main thing is that the “spectacular” dimension, the “staginess” or “showiness,” is particularly evident in opera, in extravaganzas, in ballet, as well as in tragedy.

The Munich Art Theater (drama) attempts to minimize the dimensions of the stage. On a large stage, the actors, characters, words dissolve and disappear. A large stage always requires many people, which artistic necessity does not always call for. But Reinhardt works with thousands of people, whole circuses, hundreds of torches, thousands of colors.

I read the papers and the magazines. I scour them for news about the Rabenek studio. And I read about the Free Theater, and about the Moscow Art Theatre. MOSCOW–YURYUZAN MARUSYA TO JACOB

SEPTEMBER 20, 1913

A few days ago, I was bathing in the kitchen. Nyusha was there, puttering around at her chores, and talking all the while. She recalled how, as a girl, she had liked to play outside, splashing around in puddles. And then about her family, how the matchmaker called and brought her together with her husband (she’s married). Then she started remembering her wedding night. I listened, quiet as a mouse. With a kind of agitation, and some other feeling I couldn’t quite describe. This is what Nyusha told me: It was very painful for her. She couldn’t bear it, and screamed at the top of her lungs. But no one responded to her call—everyone knew that that was how it happened. “Rivers of sweat were streaming down me. I started pounding him with my fists, then grabbed him by the throat, by his hair. I even pulled out clumps of his hair. I swear, madame, my heart starts pounding every time I remember it. For a whole week afterward, I felt as if I was ill. I thought I didn’t want to see a man again.” There were many other graphic details, but I’ll leave them out. And while I listened, I leaned low over the water basin, washing my feet carefully.

This story soothed me.

Jacob! Maybe I shouldn’t have written this to you? Should I cross it out? If it’s wrong, cross it out yourself, and tell me I was bad. That’s how it is now. If I’m ashamed before you, I cover my face with your hands. If I’m afraid of you, you are the one I look to for protection at the same time. You are everything to me. This scares me. But it seems it’s just the way it is. YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

SEPTEMBER 25, 1913

I remember my words about Christianity in a recent letter. They were absolutely right, and don’t think it was the first time I wrote something like this. Only the exterior, the outside, very attractive, is accessible to us. It holds out the prospect of warmth, peace, hope. It’s childish in its popular manifestation: if you behave well, you will receive praise; if you’re bad, you’ll be punished.

The Christian Gospels are terribly dogmatic. Christ’s words: “They say this, that, and the other, but I say unto you…” etc. Dogma, commands—and if you don’t carry them out, you will be doomed to Gehenna for all time. Forgiveness for the one who repents is no surprise; but forgiving the cruel brigand or robber? It’s a pity I don’t recall the texts from memory.

The Gospels themselves are not a religion, but material for creating one. There are as many religions as there are people. From the same texts, you can derive a great deal of real love.

I don’t wish to talk about such a large matter, because it’s nonetheless alien to me. Religion is something that completely passed me by. Perhaps I’ll have to return to it someday.

And do you have enough money? Tell me the truth, little one. CHELYABINSK–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS

OCTOBER 1, 1913

Dear Papa, I’ve finally arrived in Chelyabinsk. I sent you a postcard saying that the doctor here exempted me from exercise, without even examining me. He just came up to me and said, “Aha, a volunteer! You’re relieved.” The next day, I was sent here in a military train with a detachment of feeble soldiers to be housed in apartments for the winter. Now I only await discharge!

I was very happy about this, of course. The exercise will not be difficult, they say; still, walking thirty-five versts on the first day, carrying upward of thirty-five pounds on your back, is hard work.

The nights here are already cold, very autumnal, and it’s easy to catch cold at night, because you sleep in the field in tents, on the hard ground, covered with your coats, with a knapsack for a pillow.

And suddenly, instead of sleeping in a field, in a flimsy tent with a knapsack under my head, I’m in the city, in a hotel, writing you at a desk, drinking tea from a samovar (and not from a dirty teapot). The ceiling here doesn’t leak as it does in the barracks, there are no superiors, and I am completely free until the troops return from exercise. All this instead of mud, filth, camp chores.

I feel I have literally revived since yesterday evening. Not to mention the modern conveniences, the soft mattress, electric lights, a clean room.

… I’m just sick of the loneliness I lived in for so long. I want people, books, theater, music, but, more than anything, a free life, not having to deal with superiors, not having to depend on them. CHELYABINSK–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

OCTOBER 1, 1913

Good morning, Marusya! I’m writing you from a hotel. I absolutely love writing lying down. It’s morning now. I woke up long ago, and thought about you, then fell asleep again (dreamed), then read a story by Kuprin, and now I’m coming back to you. Although things are so nice at the moment, I can’t help reproaching you. You know, Marusya, I was already thinking … In your last letter you said something about losing each other in our correspondence, becoming more distant from each other.

My dear wife! As is always the case in life, in illness, in turmoil, when you reach the very top, the apex of growth or development, there’s a break, a turning point. And you find new strength. (Look how bold I am to quote Kuprin’s idea here.)

I wanted to say something about illness. If it isn’t a serious illness (I’m speaking generally here), it can even bring a certain amount of satisfaction or pleasure. I would gladly be sick for a time if you were there to take care of me. But a serious illness, an illness that goes on for a long time, drives out all poetic thoughts and feelings, and is just plain bad.

Someday when illness strikes I won’t have to leave your side. I alone will be your nurse. We will live a long life together, until old age, until illness takes us both. And we will take care of each other.

I have terrible plans for winter: burying myself in my books day and night. We’ll read lots of books, and a bright, beautiful life will open up before us, won’t it, Marusya? I’m not thinking about music as much as I’m thinking about scholarly research at the Institute these days.

Fly, time, fly by! If I could drive it with a whip, I’d crack it all day long.

OCTOBER 15, 1913

What am I going to do with you? I received another letter in the spirit of “So-so. Not so good.” You write about being a wife, a lover—what can I say? Do you wish to be my wife or my lover? I don’t understand the difference, God help me! You will be the closest person in my life, the person most needful to me—and that’s all. You would be a lover if I was already married. Then I would leave my wife for you. But this would never happen. If I marry, it will be forever.

Marusya, my good girl, I don’t ask you for much—only to believe my fidelity. Yes, you can recall bad things I’ve said or done—but you’ve never heard lies coming from me! I have said many bad things about myself, said too much—but it’s only because I don’t know how to protect you, and it’s often difficult—but I have always told you everything!

Why, oh why, all this sadness in the subjunctive mood—“If only this, then that would … or could … or should…”? And if you believe me, why don’t you remember my words, my constant refrain: “No, never, not for the world”?

Yes, you are my wife, my first wife, my remarkable, wonderful lover; and I don’t care what will happen in twenty years. We need only to be sure of the present moment for our marriage.

This is the formal, official part of my conversation with you. The unofficial part I’ll whisper in your ear. And not just today, but forever and ever.

Oh, what a happy ending it would be if we were sitting side by side. I would kiss your hands, and say: “It doesn’t mean anything, it’s unimportant. You’re imagining it.” And right away you would see that I was right, and it would comfort you for a long time.

Don’t be sad, my heart. Soon. Very soon now!

Don’t worry about the money. It’s not from Papa. No one knows about it. I teach private lessons here. And I’m very happy that I can help you in some way. You have to spend all of yours on getting fitted out.

When a woman’s dress is shabby, she becomes self-conscious. But when she is dressed well, we don’t even notice it! (There’s a proverb there.)

OCTOBER 17, 1913

Good evening, good dusk to you, Marusya! I’m so glad you’re fine. I’m also exceptionally fine—fine “squared.” Perhaps you’d like to know whence this exceptional state? Why “squared”? Because Private Volunteer Ossetsky has been thrown in the guardhouse for ten days, for insulting an officer. And in recognition of his record of good behavior, with no prior infractions, another five days were tacked on. I hope that it will be possible to reduce the sentence, because the volunteer in question has fewer than fifteen days remaining to serve in the army. In addition, unfortunately, there is no suitable place for arrestees in the barracks. The best-beloved superiors (Commander-Fathers) would never have expected to find such unruly specimens in their midst, of course.

Recently, all my superiors have literally taken a dislike to me. Eternally nitpicking.

Today is the 17th—there are fourteen or fifteen days to go. There are already fifty weeks behind me, only two short weeks left. When you get this letter, there will be only ten days or so.

The entire year, the most difficult year of my life, has brought me everything I have. There will never be a worse year. If I had lived this year in Kiev, it would have been otherwise. Worse, and otherwise. How will it end? Is it really true that everything is for the best in this best of all worlds? Is it possible that the boorishness of this officer was a necessary step along the way of my path in life?

OCTOBER 23, 1913

Good day, my good girl! The door has just banged shut behind me, and I am alone with my loneliness and my thoughts. The task before me: that my arrest become an interesting way of passing the time. I will write down everything, every single thing—and you will read it when it is all in the past, and perhaps my recollections will appear sweet and vaguely poetic by then.

And so—I am in prison. Excellent. Let Tolstoy be my mentor in the circumstances of my present life. I am referring, of course, to the story “The Divine and the Human.” My life should now turn into a burst of will, a single absolute, unremitting aspiration. I don’t want to pace desperately from corner to corner, tear at my hair, and weep.

I wrote my schedule on a piece of paper. At the bottom is a large inscription: “Our Lady, Holy Virgin Mary, give me strength!” In the severe and comfortless Hebrew monotheism there is no such warm corner. We’ll see. Now it’s time to make myself comfortable.

OCTOBER 25, 1913

The military guardhouse resembles, most likely, an ordinary prison. The difference is that your own soldiers are the ones guarding you. At the end of a watch, this sentry might himself become a prisoner. If your own company is on duty, all the better. We are very dependent here on the sentry superiors—noncommissioned officers. Prisoners consider twelve noon, when the new watch appears, to be the beginning of a twenty-four-hour day.

At 6:00 a.m.—prisoners’ reveille—the door opens, and you go to wash. You fold back the plank bed and go out. It’s still completely dark. Up by the ceiling, a tiny window covered by a grate lets in a meager light. Not until eight o’clock is the twilight bright enough for reading. Right now it’s eight o’clock.

After washing, you sit in the dark, waiting for the guard. Finally, you hear him call out, “Tea.” He comes up to the door and thrusts the spout of the teapot through the “spy hole,” filling the cup you hold under it. All day long, you hear nothing but “Guard! Take me out to relieve myself!” The keys jangle, and they lead someone out.

By five o’clock, it’s already dark. They don’t give you any light. At this time, I practice music—I do ear training, recall various pieces, whistle, and sing.

My neighbor on the right, a Jew (he’s in for theft), sings Yiddish songs and prayers the whole day. My neighbor on the left sings, too—military marches, waltzes, and yesterday he suddenly broke into “O Sole Mio”!

I hear a woman’s voice in the sentry room. What does it mean? It turns out that in one cell there is a twelve-year-old boy, a pupil from a martial-music school. They “gave him up for music” when he was seven years old. For his schooling, he is required to serve for five years. He’s awaiting trial now. He’s being tried for escaping service for the sixth time. This lively, intelligent boy is learning to be a first-class criminal, of course. One soldier was discharged on leave to Sevastopol. This boy tampered with the ticket, to make it valid for two, and went with him. He worked as a musician on a naval vessel: “I dreamed of sailing on a boat like that my whole life.” A few months later, inquiries were made about him, and he was sent back to his company under military guard. He was held in many guardhouses along the way. He happened to pass through Voronezh, where he was from. He saw his mother there. “She came and brought me some sausage, and started to cry. I don’t like that, so I went back to my cell. She stopped crying, and then I went out to see her again.”

This cruel military atmosphere puts the mind to sleep once and for all, and hardens the hearts of the majority of grown-up people who come into contact with it. So you can imagine, Marusya, how devastated the soul of this young boy is after all these years.

He is facing pretrial imprisonment, a trial, and sentencing—to a (child’s) disciplinary detachment of music pupils, for the duration of his punishment—and serving three more years in his company.

The nights are tormenting. The bed hardly deserves the name. I roll up my uniform and put it under my head, put on my overcoat, and go to sleep. The hard planks chafe your sides, your shoulders, your legs. You fall asleep for an hour, then wake up and turn over. It’s very uncomfortable. Although I’m not terribly particular about creature comforts, I’ve never had to adjust to conditions like this. It’s not easy to sleep on wooden planks.

I remember that during my training I had to spend one night sleeping on the ground. I slept beautifully the whole night long. But this isn’t unbearable, either. Now it’s day, and night doesn’t terrify.

Today I am almost happy and satisfied with myself. In the morning I worked on French, and during the day I studied my economics textbook. Tomorrow my studies will be wonderful. Today, before-lunch passed seamlessly into after-lunch, because my entire lunch consisted of a few hunks of contraband cheese. I asked the sentry, and he ran to the store to get it.

Dusk, dusk at four o’clock. My day is ending. There are still five hours left to pace around. My neighbor sings mournfully. I hear music in my head—Rachmaninoff. If only I could look at you for just a moment and kiss your hands quietly. I can’t see a thing! Goodbye, little one.

Baratynsky’s verse is going round and round in my head. I remember it well. I remember Lermontov well. And Pushkin very well.

NOVEMBER 5, 1913

My imprisonment experience is over. I’m in a rented apartment, awaiting the discharge orders.

Masses of reserves—about one and a half thousand bearded, strapping peasants—joined the company. Now they are in formation outside the window to go to lunch. There weren’t enough copper and aluminum cooking vessels. They fetched black tin washtubs from the baths and poured the cabbage soup into them.

In the evening, I walked through the barracks for the reserves. People sleeping on straw, not getting undressed, snoring; someone cries out in his sleep, cursing. Simple folk. I’ve been living among them for a whole year. So close together that our differences get erased. They feel that I’m one of them—so there is no question of mutual misunderstanding. A sluggish, uninteresting mass of people. In most cases, crude and slovenly; they love winning and forgive everyone who wins. They’re nasty, not very smart, sometimes gratuitously violent and cruel (hooliganism), and all of them respect science for its profitability.

There will always be exceptions. But, alas, I’ve come across precious few. In fact, there weren’t real exceptions, only exceptional deeds. Sometimes I scrutinize them and wonder—who will remain in my memory in the new life that’s about to begin for me? There are no exceptions, and the exceptional deeds are easily forgotten, and all that remains is a monotonous gray background. Without people, without souls, without bright spots. Gray, colorless—like butcher paper.

I even start feeling indignant. Where is Platon Karataev? Where are the people who inspired characters in The Snow Maiden, or in Boris Godunov, people who built the Kremlin, people who told such remarkable tales, sang such memorable songs? Where is the tiniest fragment of Mikula Selyaninovich, the folk hero, or someone who bears even the slightest resemblance to Ivan Tsarevich? Where are the turbulent, impassioned figures from Malyavin’s paintings?

Is it only because we’re in the Orenburg province? True, it’s impoverished, dreary. But is it really that different in Penza, or in Riga? The only thing they know how to do well is go to war and die without thinking. Without a murmur—they’ll do whatever you ask them to. Sorrowful thoughts. CHELYABINSK–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS

NOVEMBER 5, 1913

I received everything—the money and the letter. But I’m still waiting for discharge orders. I’m also tired of writing letters. I’m glad it will all be over soon. This year has seemed like ten. I still can’t believe everything that has happened. Until I see you at the station, I won’t believe it. This year has had a bad influence on me—I’ve been cut off from people, theater, music. I wasn’t able to study properly. I’ve grown wild … And I’ve never wanted to study as much as I do now. I am aware of the difficulties that await me. I’ve completely forgotten how to focus. It will be a long time before I can really catch up in my classes. I’m especially concerned about finance law. I don’t have the books I need, but it’s not easy to find them in Kiev, either. On the other hand, I’m well versed in political economy. Unfortunately, I’ll have to take an exam in statistics again. This irks me, because I already passed it in the second year; but now the volume of required information has increased, and I’ll have to take it again.

Oh, if you can, get me a subscription to the symphony concerts for the month of December. I desperately need music. Now my only comfort and amusement are motion pictures. I go often. And my favorite reading matter now is the book of train schedules. CHELYABINSK–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

NOVEMBER 6, 1913

Still no discharge orders! This is my plan: as soon as they discharge me, I’ll go directly to the station, take the train to Moscow, where I’ll stop for a day or two, and then on to Kiev. I’ll take my exams (some, at least) and in two or three weeks I’ll travel to you in Moscow and stay for a long time. I won’t tell anyone at home about Moscow. They are tired of waiting. But I am even more tired—I’ve dreamed about you several nights in a row. Oh my, how hard it is without a wife … It hits me from time to time. You know what it’s like, too. I kiss you deeply, dear one!

Never mind. I’ll be patient. “But he that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved.” The end will come soon. And what a brilliant ending it will be! Just released from prison to Bogoslovsky Lane, fourth floor, just below the heavens—is heavenly bliss not in store? I will arrive in paradise soon. And you will be my wife! KIEV–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

NOVEMBER 21, 1913

Well, Marusya, I have something to tell you that I think will interest you. Prick up your little ears (which I kiss in passing). Yesterday Papa was taking his usual postprandial walk through the living room. The twilight was approaching, Mama was sitting in the rocking chair, her sewing in hand. I enter, take Papa by the arm, and start walking in step with him.

“I need to speak with you, Papa.”

“Proceed.”

I launched into a long conversation about you, about me, about our future. By the way, he said, “With a wife like that, life is not a daunting prospect. If you are in straitened circumstances, she will bear up under them and help you do the same.” You see? I was surprised and glad that he didn’t insist we live in Kiev. He said, “In May, you will pass the qualifying exams, and in August, you can finish the state examinations. Then you can move to Moscow permanently. I have some connections there who may be able to help you find a position. At the same time, I am willing to send you money for living expenses for the first year, which should help you out. You don’t need to live in luxury at first—a single room is probably sufficient.”

I’m hurrying now, because Papa made an appointment for us at the tailor’s. We’re ordering two new suits (one for him and one for me) and two overcoats.

DECEMBER 31, 1913. EVENING.

The year is ending, my very best year—the happiest, most promising year. 1913. This will set the standard for the rest of my life. I have learned to understand myself. And I have understood you, and decided how to live my life. I can’t put it into words, but there seems to be a solid grounding under me now, something to take root in.

I’m not a seeker of truth, not a fighter, a poet, a scientist. But I will try to be more sincere, to live justly, always to study and learn, and to respond if someone near me is crying out in pain. And I will also always be strong and love my wife and companion.

It’s almost midnight. Are you in a noisy crowd, having fun? May all the gods conspire to send you heaps of joy and mountains of flowers today.

It doesn’t matter that I’m alone. As soon as I shut the door, there are already two of us, until morning.

I’m going out for a walk now. Have fun there, my Marusya! MOSCOW–KIEV MARUSYA TO JACOB

JANUARY 5, 1914

As I write you, I’m surrounded by deep silence. Everyone is asleep. I am very tired, and want to sleep, too. There are constant matinees and evening performances. The holiday season is the busiest time for an actor. But I don’t mind it. Work is not a burden for me. Except that today I injured my leg during a performance. It’s painful and swollen.

I want to be strong and healthy, to be beautiful. I want fine clothes. And to be free of the studio and the theater for a few days. Free from all obligations. I think when you come I’ll feign illness for three days or so. Yesterday I was at a party with Beata. Today someone called me on the telephone and told me, “Yesterday you were not only interesting, you were beautiful. Your eyes were sparkling, your cheeks were rosy, etc.”

I have a new hat that truly becomes me. New shoes. One new blouse, and new pantalettes made of tricot. Very warm and pretty, with elegant black ribbons that lace up the sides. But they won’t be new anymore by the time you arrive! It’s too bad.

You must come. Leave on either the 25th or the 27th. No, I don’t want you to arrive on the 27th. Let it be the 28th! It’s silly, but I’m terribly superstitious. I can’t help it. Seven has always been an unlucky number for me. And if you come a bit later, it might turn out better: from the 20th to the 22nd, I’ll probably be ill, but by the 26th–28th, I’ll be right as rain.

Jacob! My love of loves, best beloved … mine! I’m getting ready for your arrival. A bride should be dressed in all new things on her wedding day. Everything I wear will be brand-new. And there will be flowers.

I have become so silly. It’ll be just us. No friends or parental advice (a mother always has something to say to her daughter), just me and you. Only the two of us at our own wedding. It’s frightening, and it’s good, and my head is spinning and spinning. I’m already thinking like you, exactly like you … that we should have many children, and the first one will be Genrikh, as you suggested, or Elga, as I would want her to be called, if it’s a girl. Does that make you happy? You’ll have a silly, completely silly, wife. That won’t stop you, will it?