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 tel
ephone, 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 consi
dered 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.
Jacob's Ladder Page 26
