I kiss all the Ossetsky lips. J.
KHARKOV–KIEV JACOB TO MARUSYA
OCTOBER 12
Hello, little one. We’ll begin this new period in our lives with this Letter No. 1. And so—a separation again; and again letters and more letters … The one good thing in all of this is that there are pen and paper within reach. You and I will write a lot of them now. It’s the best kind of self-reflection, catching all our weakly flickering thoughts in passing. If we can’t kiss each other, the only thing left is this self-reflection—and the thoughts we can share provide some comfort.
… In the reading room at the Public Library.
I kiss you, little one, on your hands and forehead. And Genrikh—on his little foot! October is here, and the steady, needlelike rain outside soaks you through and through. Yesterday I wandered around town, and spent piles of money. I came back to the barracks loaded down with purchases, which the other soldiers viewed with deferential curiosity. When I laid all the shining, pretty objects and leather supplies out on the clean bed, I felt like an accomplished household manager.
The other day I bought Rubakin a new book, apples, and shoe polish for kid-leather boots.
The library I’m now writing from is large and comfortable. There are many books, including books in foreign languages. The subscription fee for the library is merely five kopecks a month. In the library, a lady asks me: “Are you borrowing the books for yourself? Aren’t they sending you off to war soon?” There are only women working in the library—old women, young ladies, girls.
One day, I had quite a “woman’s day.” In the morning, I saw a crowd of prostitutes on Banny Lane. During the afternoon, I read a feuilleton by Doroshevich about women (I even shed some tears). And in the evening, there were the wholesome, pure ladies in the library, and the stories Garkovenko tells me that awaken horror.
My little one, I am filled with such pity for the poor bodies of women, I have no words to express it. What they do here with this work of art I cannot begin to describe to you. I have strong nerves, I have grown accustomed to many things in military service—but I couldn’t bear what I heard in these stories.
Doroshevich wrote about a woman who was visiting a soldier. It’s not an unusual story, but it was difficult to read about this class of people who are so united by common work, trust, and a common bed.
The ladies in the library represent another social layer, united not only by love, but by their common intellectual commitment. I immediately felt like writing a story about such a marvelous aging “girl” who lives her life in books, since she has nothing else to call her own. I’m determined to write it one of these days.
I’m writing you about myself, and more about myself, but all the while I’m thinking of you. You remember that I don’t like to make inquiries about things in letters. You know best what to tell me—about the state of your health, about your emotional state, about our baby boy. Who is my hope … I am here, but my fragile life is in Kiev. Remember that I always repeat this phrase, and I am always afraid. My sweet one, my own little life, be strong, keep well! I kiss my own little family. Jacob
JACOB TO MARUSYA
From the Field Forces
Military Clerk Detachment
Second Reserve Sappers Battalion
OCTOBER 19
Good day, little one. Again, the days rush by, as they always do when we don’t cherish them, value them fully. I am now indifferent to the passage of time.
I’m hurrying to tell you good news: the day before yesterday, I was summoned to the battalion headquarters, where the commander-elders had learned about my musical inclinations from my files, and ordered me henceforth to join the regiment band in the capacity of flautist. Tell the others, especially Father, that my musical pursuits were not in vain—they are even required in the army. It’s not the kind of music I dreamed about before; but I never dreamed at all about a rifle and a clerk’s pen, so you might say that it’s better than nothing.
My day is organized like this: Today I got up at 6:00 a.m. The rest of the detachment gets up later. My morning ablutions are finished by 7:00. My glass is washed, and my boots are cleaned. Practice begins at 8:00. Each one takes up his instrument and plays exercises. The result is an earsplitting cacophony. The basses roar, the clarinets squeak, the French horns quack. I’m studying French. My flute is being repaired, and I’m using my time wisely. I’ve already learned not to pay attention to my surroundings. I’m making good progress, and speak much more fluently.
This is the unexpected surprise that military service has given me! But you, Marusya—watch out! In a few months, I’ll write you a letter full of compliments in French.
I like your Tartarin. After I’ve finished a lesson I read aloud, savoring every nuance of the pronunciation. I’m very happy about my studies. In the library, I borrow books on three subjects: war, history, and literature. The other day I bought Rubakin—an excellent book. Strange to think that in the field of library science there is a branch that is concerned with lively ideals, happy pastimes, and creative undertakings. He’s a good person, even though he works and writes permanently in Switzerland.
Marusya, if my letters are delayed by a few days, please don’t worry. It may happen, since it’s not easy to get them out of the barracks.
KHARKOV–KIEV JACOB TO MARUSYA
OCTOBER 21
I wanted to write about the people who surround me. Today I thought about how many scoundrels there are among ordinary people. Every person has some stain on his conscience, of course. Bezpalchin, my neighbor in the barracks, laughed today when he told me how, many years ago, after spending the night with a fashionable Moscow prostitute, he stole the five rubles he had paid for her services from her stocking, and, at the same time, her silk handkerchiefs. This fat animal was so proud of his fine pranks he didn’t even blink when he told me. “We frolicked and rolled in the hay, and I still came out ahead! Ha-ha-ha!”
Another one, Garkovenko, also told me about himself (three-quarters of it lies), but I was astonished by how his strange head works, his mad cruelty and torment, the dregs of his soul.
Many of their actions are simply criminal. Others are crimes in miniature, shadows that will eventually assume concrete form. Nearly every one of them is a candidate for shackles. At the same time, they are free. They are the masses.
I thought about how prison society, the community of convicts, is no different from what we have here. It’s just that the people who are behind bars or in shackles are not so lucky. Life obligingly arranged to put favorable circumstances in their way, to supply them with a knife that was conveniently within reach. But perhaps Garkovenko will be lucky, and there will be no knife. And Bezpalchin will acquire a fortune, and will wear a bowler hat and vote for candidates to be elected to the State Duma.
But there, behind bars, it’s the same society, the people are just the same. They lose their wits once—and then continue as before. They are the same ordinary fellows they were before they got down on their luck.
All of these people are from the city’s lower strata, the petite bourgeoisie. In the detachment there is another category of people—peasants who are fresh from the land, who do the dirty work. They are simpler, more honest, have stronger morals.
My first sergeant is particularly amusing. He received another letter from his wife, and read it to me in full. “My Dear Kuzichka,” she writes, “I kiss your lips fervently.” Then she makes observations about running the household, very sensible and detailed. He is proud of her, her efficiency, her good grammar, her ingenuity. They correspond frequently. They have a warm, understanding, healthy relationship.
I’m writing during band rehearsal. We’re learning to play a medley from Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar. Our band has improved somewhat. We have taken on new musicians.
I’m going into town today, and I hope to find a letter from you …
I’m having a suit turned. They say it will work very well. The tailor suggested I unpick all
the seams myself. Today I took the trousers apart. I wasn’t making much headway on my own, so I invited Aleyinikov to lend me a hand. After that, it went faster. He said, “Doing things together is always better than doing them alone—working, even sleeping.” My ears are greedy for that folk wisdom about the bed.
I kiss you, my little Marusya.
OCTOBER 24
In the past few days, I have been quite busy with domestic affairs. Now my boots have been repaired, my cap altered, and my suit turned. I look very snappy and spiffed up; everything fits well. I want you to look neat and tidy, too. Have you bought yourself a dress, or a new hat yet? Hurry up!
I’m reading many interesting things. In Russian Notes, No. 8, I found the next installment of a fascinating women’s novel. I read several lines over and over again. It’s The Horsewoman by Brovtsyna. There are many observations about love. Some of them coincide with our own experiences, and others are curious in the ways they contradict our relationship.
I received perfumed letters from you, but I send one to you that reeks of kerosene. Someone is always coming up and grabbing the lamp in order to smoke, and one of them spilled kerosene on the letter.
Two weeks from now, our band will start to play for a cinema house, and on Sunday, twelve people are invited to play for a wedding. The musicians will be sitting in an entrance hall, and will play all night long. Toward morning, they’ll get to eat the leftovers from the table. It’s a good thing the entrance hall is tiny and cramped; only twelve musicians will fit into it, and I won’t have to be among them.
Now I’m going to write about what interests you most of all—the woman questions. As one might have expected, this concerns me deeply. Two and a half years of married life has trained my male body to expect certain things. It’s not a trial, and not at all painful, just a small, constant inconvenience—but it’s as though my entire psyche is tied to a leash, and that is the worst thing.
The mind doesn’t follow its well-trodden path of scholarly interests and logical thought, but keeps turning back on itself. Out of habit, I rush to read a new issue of a magazine, and note with surprise that I impatiently seek out stories with tempting descriptions of women, that what I look for in literature reflects the preoccupation of my heart. For the first time, I neglected to read a scholarly article on economics. And the other soldiers’ stories only concern illicit street-corner love. When a lady of the night approaches me on the street, I hasten my steps.
I’ll tell you one more thing. In a moment of frustration and impatience—well, you know what happens next. You know all about it. And it felt disgusting and unclean. Love shouldn’t have to stoop to this! Please don’t be angry about my frankness. I always tell you everything.
Because it’s true that a woman is monogamous; that’s the way it should be. But why should a man be allowed to do whatever he wishes, at any time? Why is he endowed with so much superfluous energy and all-enveloping ambition? All-enveloping in both the figurative and the literal sense. I know that I’m speaking about one of the fundamental and more mysterious incongruities of nature. Nature was mistaken in arranging things this way. Your body has already gone through so much pain, and will be subject to more. Your body is constructed in a rather inconvenient and messy way; and my body does not take account of its own soul, and sets out boldly in any direction it wishes. It shouldn’t work that way! God should have employed a better architect and adviser.
OCTOBER 30
Marusya, my life has become as hectic as it is around exam time. I’m awfully busy, and always have more work than I can ever finish. I haven’t studied my French in a week. But I have news: I’m organizing a choir among the musicians of our detachment, and the conductor is—me! I’ve been dreaming about the conductor’s baton for many years now, and it has fallen into my hand, just by chance. The choir will be large—about thirty people. They have a great deal of artistry, though little experience or knowledge. But I am very hopeful that self-assurance and equanimity on my part will help. I thought up a strategy the day before yesterday. I bought some sheet music and a tuning fork, just to keep up appearances. For two days, I couldn’t get them together at the same time to rehearse, but you should see how impatient the detachment is: Why is there no rehearsal? We get out of the baths at nine o’clock; can we sing at night? They snatched up the sheet music and started to study it on their own. This evening is my debut. We’re beginning with “Come On, Boys!,” “The Broad Dnieper Roars and Moans,” “Heave Ho, Lads!”—both Ukrainian and Russian songs … “A Life for the Tsar.”
My work with the band is giving me marvelous training in music. It develops the ear, and increases, deepens, my grasp of music. I write now in spurts. Now they’re playing “When They Killed the Little Bird’s Mother,” and I have some free time. So I’m using it to write you. The band has achieved a lot already, and the repertoire is large. They play much better than before. Still, sometimes the band sounds like an organ—all the instruments sounding at the exact same volume. Every day they learn some new part. “The Peasants’ Chorus” from Prince Igor. I think when the band has learned it I’ll study it with “my” choir as well. Today is my debut! What will it be like?
… Now I lead the rehearsals like an experienced precentor. I’ll quote Pevsner, who didn’t sing but watched from the sidelines: “I was absolutely struck not by how the choir sang, but by the appearance and bearing of an ‘authentic’ conductor that you had. When you raised the baton, both you and they looked as though at any moment now a choir of angels would begin to sing.” It’s impossible to imagine a greater compliment than this. Something as trivial as getting the choir to prepare to begin singing demanded careful consideration. Our conductor let the choir get out of hand—before beginning, he tapped the baton many times, until they grew quiet. I took a different tack. I didn’t strike the baton unnecessarily. When it was time, I tapped it three times, quickly raised both my hands, and watched them expectantly, until I knew I had commanded their attention. At that very moment, the electrical current of the baton is released, and we begin. Yesterday I made several mistakes, but I didn’t let it show; on the contrary, I railed at the bass singers! Until I have established a solid reputation, I can’t afford to make mistakes.
In short, it was marvelous. I kiss you, my darling, again and again.
You know, Marusya, I often kiss you in my letters; but passing them on through you to Genrikh seems awkward. They’re different kisses …
NOVEMBER 10
In the Chrysanthemum Cinema, there is a poster announcing a moving picture with an accompanying brass band. The brass band is us. The foyer is long, empty, cold. Cinema posters line the walls, one after the other, advertising films with names like The Bloody Batiste Handkerchief, The Wheel of Hell, The Capture of Trebizond, The Dashing Merchant, and Hurricane of Passion.
We sit at the end of the foyer and play in the intermissions, as well as to comedies and travelogues. For five minutes we play, then have a break for ten minutes. And on and on. By about nine, you begin to feel a bit tired. By ten, you start looking at your watch. The last march—and everyone begins to pack up the music and the instruments. Weary and irritable, we hurry home as fast as we can to a dinner of cold soup, and then to bed.
Twice a week, I’m free. When you come to see me, I probably won’t have to perform at the cinema at all.
Here, not far from the barracks, there is a second-class hotel. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay there. Don’t forget to take care of your passport. But when…?
Name a day—it will be easier for me to wait. It would be most convenient either before Christmas, or after. We have a busy playing schedule during Christmas, and it’s harder to get away.
I keep forgetting to write you about the diaper you packed with my clothes. When I was unpacking the things, I thought it was a scarf, but then I recognized it and suddenly got very excited. How is he now, our Genrikh? I won’t recognize him at all when I come home.
Today I’m not playing. I’m
resting, and every second, I’m aware that I’m not playing in the cinema. The day before yesterday I played there as well—piano accompaniment to the films. Finally, I’ve become something of a cinema pianist.
NOVEMBER 16
I received your letter. I’m very happy to hear about your new job, but also a bit anxious. How unpleasant it could be if they refuse you! The fee was quite a sprightly one. My compliments. I just want to advise you on one point. Besides knowledge and skill in a subject, you must know how to “shine.” In your case, you should do some smart advertising. Make journals, calendars, weather reports, and hang them on the walls, pasting things to huge pieces of paper, etc. This not only decorates the room, but inspires more respect for your profession. This is not only necessary for the child: you need to talk to the mamas and stress how important it is. They are frequently not very far ahead of the children in their development.
Have you seen how a wise doctor behaves when they call him in to minister to a dying person? They no longer believe in his scientific knowledge, but only in his wizardry, his scientific wizardry. This is why people love doctors with eccentricities. A wise doctor issues a long list of petty instructions. Move the bed, put the head of the bed thus and the foot of the bed so, cover the patient with a different blanket, take the clock out of the room, and many other things. Everyone attending the patient is busy. Little by little, the doctor accomplishes his main goal: to raise the sinking spirits of the patient and the patient’s loved ones, and to assure himself that he is powerless to do anything else.
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