I liked very much the part about the dispute over whether Gorky is a proletarian writer or not. Lunacharsky writes that you can’t create a standard of measure for a proletarian writer and apply it to every individual to see whether he fits. Gorky is an enormous phenomenon in literature, and in fact you have to do the opposite: with Gorky as your point of departure, construct your profile of a proletarian writer. It’s not standards of measure that create things, but things that give rise to standards of measure.
I once read Andreyev, and Sologub, and Bryusov, and Balmont, and only now, when I’m reading this book, do all the disparate impressions arrange themselves into some coherent system. The system emerged because all of them—the former—are now illuminated by the light that the searchlight of the Revolution throws on them.
Did you receive the letters with the passage by Sterne on the erotic relationship, the description of my morning ablutions, how I am wearing socks with holes in them, with an insert of rough sketches with Greek phrases, a poem by Selvinsky, a tender letter in which I wrote about the aroma of poverty, a long political letter that ended with Goethe’s line “Alles ist gesagt”? I cannot come up with a system—perhaps I should begin to number the letters again, as we used to do once upon a time?
Let me know which of these names is most fitting for a story:
The subtitle will be: “A Story of Doing.”
“Man and Things”
“Things and Man”
“Things: Masters and Slaves”
You wrote nothing about Genrikh!
I would write more, but it’s already five o’clock. I’m hurrying to the club to practice with the choir. It’s the third week they have invited me to lead it. I embrace you, my dear. J. JACOB TO HIS SISTER EVA
FEBRUARY 14, 1935
My dear Eva! Your letter made me very, very happy. From it I was able to gather that the dark clouds have dispersed somewhat. I write Mama, knowing that she will share everything with you. But, of course, there are things I don’t share with Mama. I know from her about your home affairs, and I assume that you don’t quite share everything with her. The withholding of information has been hanging over our heads, as close as we are, for many years already.
I’ll tell you about myself in a few short words. I had many difficulties with work. I changed jobs many times in the space of a year. I had no idea how adept I was at running an obstacle race! I worked as an accountant, an economist, a music teacher, a singing teacher, and I even taught accordion, which I had never laid eyes on before in my life. Now I’m the pianist in a dance class and have become a specialist in the foxtrot, all the waltzes (Boston, English, American), tango, and rumba. I can bear witness to the fact that the “foxtrotization” of Biysk is happening at a remarkably quick pace. Entire offices and organizations, from couriers to chairmen, have signed up for dance classes. People as respectable as the chairman of the Butter Trust, the local public prosecutor, and the chief of the local police all do the foxtrot! Soon, most likely, the banks will get on board. Respectable people hide their embarrassment behind the pretext of collectivity—the whole collective dances, and it’s awkward being left out.
I was recently at a party held by some acquaintances. The hostess, who was celebrating her name day, invited me. The dinner was unbelievably sumptuous, with twenty different kinds of hors d’oeuvres, including such exotic dishes as pickled cabbage, pickled pumpkin, and beets. Provincial amusements are very limited. There is a great deal of bad wine and food, and loudness is a surrogate for good cheer and merrymaking. The louder the merrier. It’s difficult to refuse an invitation to drink, but I was staunch in my refusal, and stopped after two small glasses. Do you remember the Kiev cherry brandy that Dunya used to make? I recall that it was the best of all drinks—in color, taste, aroma, strength.
They danced the foxtrot, and I played on a dilapidated old piano. They danced in furs, with the fur turned inside out. They sang and shouted out such masterpieces as “From a Far, Far Land,” “The Days of Our Lives,” and other examples of musical paleontology. I played the dancers an impossible mishmash of melodies, whatever came into my head.
At three o’clock, with enormous pleasure, I returned alone to my room. I never suffer from boredom except on those evenings when I’m expected to have a good time. Then I feel I’ve fallen into some late-nineteenth-century mediocre Russian novel. These are the Russian provinces—and it’s as though nothing has changed since the time of Ostrovsky. But I’m running off at the mouth, as my habit has been with you from days of old … And it’s been so long since we talked—oh, how long. I don’t know whether you saw it, but there was a poem in the newspaper that went: “… work gave me knowledge, and that’s not all; my brain seethes with Marx’s Das Kapital.”
Although there are fewer pressures in my life in Biysk than there were in Stalingrad, I recall the STP as a very interesting time, but I feel indignant about it. I did much valuable work there—an economic report about the reconstruction of the plant for a new model of tractor, the STP No. 3; a city planning project for a settlement; I wrote an article for an industrial journal on the popular economic significance of the STP (calculating the effects of the STP on the popular economy); an essay on the initial phase, etc. Being exposed to the American style of working turned out to be interesting and useful.
But, for the most part, I have become disenchanted with economics. I read many books in new disciplines, and each time I regret the specialization I chose. I became disappointed in it even before it became disappointed in me. I recall with distaste the economic Mount Olympus that I was so enamored of in 1928 and ’29. I remember the battles in the State Planning Committee, the leading lights of the political philistines, who, during those years before the storm, understood as much about the political outlook as blind puppies. The country was about to take a giant leap into the unknown, which demanded courage and decisiveness, and they answered everything with their splendid “abstaining from voting.” Now they are all silent, not only because they have no political language, but because they have absolutely nothing to say.
Long before the events in my own life occurred, I acknowledged my old mistakes; but I still can’t consider myself to be one of the nonpartisan Bolsheviks, following Marusya, who tries to pull me in that direction with all the passion of her nature. I regret that I’m unable. It would be easier if I could march in step with the times, with society, with my family. It’s unfortunate that I could have been able to work fruitfully, for the good of the country, but that under the circumstances I’m unable to do anything. From time to time, there is a false note that grates on my ear. It’s sad that almost none of the people with whom I could talk as easily and get along with as naturally as you are left on earth.
Be gentle with Marusya, and don’t judge her harshly. All her unhappiness, and many of Genrikh’s problems, were caused by me. I always feel guilty that I could not have provided them with a peaceful and dignified existence. I bow down before your husband, whom I always underestimated, though now I understand the depths of his nobility, and wisdom, and self-sacrifice, and all those qualities that are lacking in me. JACOB TO MARUSYA
FEBRUARY 16, 1935
After work, I went skating. It was the third time I’ve been out on the ice, and after the mishaps of the first two times, I felt so confident and strong today that I did ten circles around the rink. I had tea at home, and all evening put together a chronology of the music of the Middle Ages. I am in desperate need of books.