The Crimea is marvelous, but I’ll make good use of it in a year, when I come here by myself. For now, it’s all for the sake of Genrikh. I can’t even sunbathe properly. As soon as I shut my eyes, he’s already sneaking off into the water; and the sea floor is full of holes and drop-offs he could fall into.
Now that you’re in Moscow, I’m not as worried about you as I was. You’re probably getting more rest there. If I knew better what our financial situation was, I would take a cure in the sea waters; but it’s expensive—fifteen rubles. The baths would be very helpful for my leg, and for my overall health.
I spend three to three and a half rubles a day, living very, very modestly. The rooms cost thirty-five rubles. That’s the cheapest kind; a good room costs forty to fifty. In a month, it will get cheaper. If Genrikh weren’t such a handful, every hour in the Crimea would be absolute bliss. But he doesn’t give me a moment’s peace. I have to do the shopping, make meals, feed him, take care of him, bathe him, put him to bed, and in the evening I can’t leave him alone.
Thanks to the fresh air, I have lots of energy and can get a lot done. I’m suntanned. It’s a good thing I brought a parasol: the sun beats down without mercy. There are so many marvels here—but I’m not free to enjoy them. I’ll have to wait. The fruits and vegetables are so juicy and sweet, it’s no surprise the eastern peoples worshipped food and drink. You can’t simply eat fruit like this—you have to savor it, partake of it. Every peach, every apricot is one-sixtieth, at least, of a pure heavenly blessing.
And the Tatar women at the fountain are the blessing in its entirety. I can’t get enough of my dark, reserved, graceful sisters. I have already made a few friends. And we understand each other perfectly. We look into each other’s eyes and smile. I hold their little ones in my arms—and we smile at each other. And we understand everything about one another. We’re women, we love, we have children. I caress her child, and she dotes on mine. We nod to each other—then go our separate ways. It’s wonderful.
Mahmed has a beautiful, quiet wife and two children. The large room is spread with intricate, colorful carpets, pillows. There are no chairs; everyone sits on the floor in silence, lost in thought. What an amazing existence! Here it seems that eternity, time, and these people are all of a piece, and flow together, on and on. Meetings, reports. Myasnitskaya Street, political and economic realities and confluences—what is the sense in all that? I embrace you, my dear one.
Mar.
JULY 28
Jacob, my best and dearest. Things are fine with me now. For the first time in my life, summer vacation is a joy to me. I am enjoying every moment of my existence here. Today I trekked over a hill to Sudak. There was a fierce wind. I breathed so fully, so deeply, and my heart beat so hard—I was bathing in the sun, the wind. Every time I leave the house—whether I’m going to the mountains or to the sea—feels like a momentous, lush experience to me. I look at Genrikh and it’s a feast for my eyes! He’s as brown as toast, with dark-red lips; his eyes are shining. We live here now in complete harmony. He’s a gifted, openhearted child, and he makes life worth living for me. Today, at dinner, a sweet lady looked at him and said, “He has cunning eyes.” Genrikh said, very seriously, “Yes, I have cunning.”
Everyone here likes him very much. And for good reason. He’s been eating well for two days now. I’m dreaming of the moment I can show him to you—our beautiful bronze boy. I look very fine, too, and am feeling well. My nerves are no longer on edge. And the air here, Jacob! I can’t get my fill of it!
It’s just sad that you can’t take a vacation yourself, that you’re so far away from all this beauty. But I’m truly indebted to you.
I received the money. I have everything I need now. Write me often. Send me about ten or fifteen sheets of blank paper. It’s very hard to come by things here. And envelopes. There are still no grapes here. But the pears, the plums! And the almonds …
Kisses to you, Jacob.
Mar.
AUGUST 1
Genrikh is asleep in bed. A candle is burning next to us. The insects are bothering us. Mosquitoes, moths. He calls them mouse-keetoes. I’ve been living in a state of alarm for many days now. I haven’t had any letters for a long, long time. I sent an emergency telegram; there was no answer. I received both a package and a letter the next day (one letter was in the package, another in the mail). But why was there no answer to the telegram? And again my nerves are strained to breaking, in a vicious circle. Today I sent another telegram (three days after sending the first). Tomorrow I won’t go anywhere—I’ll just stay here and wait for a reply.
The first flush of intoxication from the novelty of everything is gone now. The mountainous road into Sudak, the sea, the Tatars—they all seem mundane and ordinary to me. I admire their charms, but I’m no longer moved by them.
The Tatars like me. I have the feeling that they can’t get enough of me. Their eyes watch me with open and naïve shamelessness. A Tatar named Mariv brings me fruit every day. He says that I am “a remarkable little madame.” He offered me a huge peach and said that my eyes are just as large and sweet as this peach. I get into long conversations with the older Tatars. I feel a great deal of sympathy for these people. They are especially beautiful when they are in motion: they move with an almost majestic slowness. When he sees me from a distance, Mahmed bows respectfully but with great dignity, and raises his right hand in greeting. A fine gesture, almost hieratic. I smile warmly at every Tatar man and woman I meet. I love these unconsciously poetic and instinctive people. Gustava asks me for a favor: “Come down to the sea; there is a girl swimming there now, she is with her mother. I want to propose to her. Tell me how you like her.”
AUGUST 4
I’ve spent a difficult night and day. I finally received your telegram today, Jacob. My wonderful one, my all … Everything ends there, where my anxiety about you begins. Everything seems unnecessary and trivial. Here today, gone tomorrow. The Sudak telephone and telegraph play havoc with the nerves of vacationers. I miss you desperately already. What this means, I will tell you in bed.
I’m sitting alone at a table on a terrace. In front of me is the sea—blue, sparkling quietly in the sun like diamonds. On the right are the mountains, with the Genoese fortress; on the left, a small group of young cypresses. Plantings. Where do I begin and end—what is me, what is not me? Such a beautiful world! And I’ve learned so many new things.
Yesterday Professor Uvarov and his wife visited me. He is a geographer. An old man who so resembles my father, it gives me a lump in my throat. I feel an insurmountable tenderness toward him. He has Papa’s amiability, his sweetness, his equanimity. The only difference is that he is much taller than Papa, and has a different profession. He’s a Muscovite. Our Genrikh will study his textbook when he goes to school.
About Genrikh. I can’t get enough of looking at him; my joy knows no bounds. He’s my sweetheart. He has become remarkably calm since we’ve been here. I don’t have to raise my voice with him any longer. Braslavsky, a neighbor of ours from Moscow, is very impressed with him. The other day, when he was looking at Genrikh, he told me: “I believe in his future. He has an unusually good mind.” The fact is that Genrikh beat Braslavsky twice in a game of chess, and Braslavsky plays well. He was astounded, very literally. Today he came to me carrying Genrikh on his shoulders. I’ll tell you about both of them … when we’re in bed.
I’m terribly afraid of betrayal—but I always try to display contempt toward any lack of freedom, and to be a freethinker about marriage. I’m afraid of someday encountering a malicious or pitying gaze. I try to pretend that, on the contrary, I approve of infatuations, and take a light view of betrayal, etc. You know this about me. Conscious thought says one thing—but the body says another. The idea that you might betray me is unbearable.
I long to be with you again. You know, my arms and shoulders are covered with freckles now. I look very dark. My body and skin are much stronger these days. The only problem is that I can’t sle
ep.
I kiss you. Soon. M.
AUGUST 8
I am filled with rays of light, freshness, and love. Evening. The painful abscess of anxiety and worry about you has broken. I’m at peace now. Today I had a wonderful day. I lay naked on the stones by the edge of the water and enjoyed inspecting them. I turned over, with my back to the sun, then my breasts and hips, coming to life in the rays, in the salt of the sea, in the healing waters. I look at the years of my life in their physical aspect. My body has gone through so much! And how powerful, how resilient it must be, if it has survived.
In childhood, my body never knew water like this, never felt the air, or the sun. My whole childhood was spent without sun, in any sense of that word. Perhaps I would have been taller, with a more ample bosom, if I had lived differently as a child. In my youth, things were not so very different from my earliest years. The years of revolution and deprivation, without water, without the kind of food a young person needs, being subjected to physical stress and depression, and constant weariness—right up to the present day.
This is the first time in my life I’ve ever been to a resort. I remember my father saying that fresh air was bad for his health. I didn’t even know what a resort was for! Only in the past few days have I gotten into the swing of things; and only now has my excitement at the novelty and the intensity of my experience finally diminished. And we’re only in the Crimea—on the eastern shore, at that, which is not so very vibrant and dramatic. People tell me so much about the myriad charms and wonders of the world. And I have the urge to travel again, with renewed enthusiasm. I have the feeling that neither you nor I will be satisfied by just being homebodies any longer. It’s not by chance I always hated dacha life. Dachas signify immobility, limitation. Here there are many inconveniences, but in spite of that it has been the best summer of my entire life. You’ll see. You’ll touch my hands, my breasts, you’ll stroke my strong, smooth, hot skin. I can’t wait until the moment we see each other again. I have so much to tell you! And so many kisses to give you.
Just be patient. Don’t find someone else to give your impatience to. I am saving myself for you!
Genrikh’s friend and partner, Braslavsky, is going to call on you.
“What message shall I give your husband?” “That you saw us.” “And what if I make something up?” “Of course you may; my husband knows how to appreciate fantasy—if the quality is good.” This person lives at 31 Povarskaya Street. He’s our neighbor.
After the beach. Genrikh and I were at the beach by eight in the morning. We sat under an awning at the shish-kebab stand. Fatma watches us with her gentle eyes. Her stern, thoughtful brow is furrowed. Genrikh eats his shish kebab hungrily. The Primus stove is broken, and this is already the fourth day we have breakfasted on shish kebab. It’s Genrikh’s favorite food. He tears at the meat with his teeth, drinks down hot milk, and for dessert he is offered delicious Tatar pastry with nuts. He’s already begun eating grapes. Today he’s already eaten two pounds, and he’ll have as many more later in the day. Grapes are still expensive—twenty kopecks a pound—but delicious. Yesterday Genrikh said to me, “You’re wearing a satin dress with two pink brooches.” (I swim naked.) What do you think of that?
I spend a lot of time with the German couple, Emilia Werner and her very kind husband, Richard, who did me such a kind turn when we were all traveling here together. They are simply good, good people. Emilia is very maternal, and Richard is an exceptionally dear man. They make fine company for us. Genrikh and I get on beautifully together. He is a delight. We can be proud of ourselves, Jacob: we have a remarkable son. “In all the world, I have only two favorite people: you and Papa. I am very happy here in Sudak. But not completely, because Papa’s not here.” That’s what he said. If you could only see how easily he leaps and hops about in the mountains. How kindly disposed other people are to him, because of his winning ways. They even think him attractive! That is the power of a winning personality.
Tomorrow we are going to Koktebel with Braslavsky. Max Voloshin’s dacha is in Koktebel, and many people vacation there. A gliding competition is being organized. Someone will come to fetch Braslavsky in an automobile, and he invited Genrikh and me to go along. Our boy is over the moon at the prospect of this outing.
Mar.
AUGUST 12
I read sixty pages about Anatole France. And you are right—the disease put out its tentacles and began to wring out the nerves … I don’t understand. I don’t want to understand. Anatole France is dear to you? To me—no. He is the son of a country that has been eaten away by syphilis and thoroughly ravaged—how can I possibly care for him? Love? Yes. Without love there is no life. But what Anatole France is promoting has nothing to do with love. It can only be described by a crude, unprintable word. France’s love is the underside of love. The back entrance of love. I don’t need that. I don’t want that kind of love. I don’t want that kind of love for those who are dear to me. I don’t want my sexual organs, wisely located in my nether regions, to take the place of my head, to strangle my heart. I will not allow the lower to govern the higher.
“Passion … sultriness … convulsions of lust.” France’s passion, convulsions, are what any rooster experiences. I read somewhere that at certain moments a rooster’s feet begin convulsing uncontrollably. And this is what makes life worth living, according to his words? Only to seek out this kind of passion in life—everything else is trivial? It is Anatole France himself who is trivial and banal.
Devoid of character, devoid of ideology or principle, stuffed with the superficial brilliance of minds of millennia, a talented singer, rehashing the same songs that have been sung before by others, over and over, ad infinitum. A talented literary sensualist. Of what use is he to me? He’s gone. Never mind. Others will come to take his place, new ones. They must answer our questions. I have no doubt that there are powerful experiences in life outside the sexual sphere. Lenin’s Mausoleum on Red Square proves that a man lives not by the phallus (or penis) alone.
I am writing you in a state of agitation, because I have failed to receive any letters from you. The five-day rule in correspondence has been transgressed mightily by you. The postal service is not to blame. Everyone else is getting mail on a regular basis. The letters don’t go astray; they simply never get written. Or is all your time taken up with an “old” lady, or a young one? I write and write … Do you even read my letters?
I won’t write you another word. I am thoroughly disenchanted, and hurt to the bottom of my soul. If my recovery comes to naught, if my health suffers as before, I’m not to blame. Another week has passed. No letters. The mailman delivers reams of letters to everyone else—but not to me.
Goodbye.
Yes. I am beyond vexed.
AUGUST 24
Jacob! My life … Not a word from you in ten days. During all these days and nights, I have been preoccupied with a single idea. I cannot, and must not, hide it. We have never consciously lied to one another. I will say everything that is on my mind. My heart could not rest easy after I left Moscow. Anxiety continued to torment me. Clarity of thought eluded me, and I was haunted by a specific, unappeasable fear: I’m afraid for myself, and I’m sorry for you.
I don’t quite know how to put this. I have lost faith in words and explanations. Numbers are stricter, more exacting. My last letter was neither a reproach nor an accusation, just the burning pain of an injured human life. When I first found out that you desired other women, I instinctively felt that it was the end. Life became a slowly unfolding torment. I fully comprehended your state of mind, and tried to reconcile myself to it. Your hands and lips wandered away from me, and were drawn to others, caressed others, your eyes delighted in others; and I stood as an obstacle, a stubborn obstacle, in your path. You struggled in me with yourself, and with me. And a clear and powerful certainty took root: Jacob doesn’t love me anymore. I cannot fill him, complete him, anymore. I am not strong enough to fend off the images of others, to counter the at
traction to others. And the meaning of love, its power and happiness, consists in the fact that, in loving one person, you are liberated from others, from attraction and longing for them. I am no longer a source of that peace for you. Neither of us is to blame for this. Believe me—I do not blame you with even so much as a sliver of my soul. And a difficult life “through common memory of the past” has begun for us.
You defended Freud—I hated him; you were enamored of Jung, with his psychology of the unconscious—I cursed him. And that’s how it was with everything. We both struggled not so much for our own ideas, but for our own personal happiness.
I have a weak will and a weak resistance system. My character began to spoil, my personality to disintegrate. I began to blame myself for everything in life. And, truth to tell, this had never been the case before. I made my way in the world on my own strengths. I was never overwhelmed by fear or confusion. Unhappiness oppressed me. Yes, I began to blame myself, because I instinctively felt guilty toward you.
You write that you have “withstood” temptation, that you have not betrayed me. Well, what of it? Did that make things easier for either one of us? No. You have suppressed the temptation, and so have I, and now we both feel suppressed. Neither you nor I know how to make or accept sacrifice. What you wrote about “simple souls” is empty posturing. Anyone who is importuned by demands from all sides, as I am, becomes nervous, irritated, unhappy. I don’t blame you and do not want to punish you. I am not an avenging angel, but a severe judge—of myself alone. I cannot, I am not able, to accept the sacrifices you bring. They are useless to me.
Now, it seems, you are struggling with yourself, tormenting yourself. Why? You will never forgive me for this, you won’t be able to help punishing me for it; and still, at night, the images of your betrayal will haunt me, because it is in your blood, in your very existence. I experience everything that is in you with exceptional clarity and intensity. You say that you would tell me absolutely everything. I can also tell you absolutely everything about yourself.
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