The last two postcards were so unpleasant, and upset me so much, that I immediately decided not to answer right away, so as not to give expression to rash feelings or ill-considered thoughts. Now enough time has passed so that I am able to answer calmly, and, possibly, in a humorous vein …
Judge for yourself. Here’s what you wrote: “You’re smarter than everyone else, aren’t you … stubborn as a mule!” (I can’t even believe you would use such a phrase.)
“… Your obstinacy … If you don’t want to, you don’t want to!
“Your insurmountable obstinacy …
“And I’ve become stubborn as well…”
There was another one, a letter, long before these postcards. The letter with the “necessary cruelties.” I read it, and my pride and self-esteem were sharply injured. But I struggled against this bitterness and pretended I hadn’t received it. After that, I wrote everything in the same even tone, with equanimity.
Dear friend, please understand me. Every remark you make to me is valuable and instructive, but you have more effective words at your disposal than those you have used. That is not the style, or the tone, that will reach me and evoke the desired response. A straightforward, friendly tone is all that’s needed. Not this “stubborn as a mule,” “pigheaded,” etc. That language is not in keeping with your style, and it is not worthy of our (I say with bold certainty) exemplary spousal and amicable relations.
I wanted to write in a gentle tone, in order to protect your sense of self-worth and dignity, and in order not to offend you with some sharp nuance or careless turn of phrase. If you truly find my words to be affectations, unwanted impositions, understand that it is only due to stylistic awkwardness on my part. Don’t take the letter as it came out, but as I wanted it to be. This one time, judge me not by the results, but by my intentions. I am certain that my closing salutations will not give rise to dissonance when I write that I embrace you heartily, and kiss you deeply, and still long for a true and authentic relationship with you. J.
FEBRUARY 28, 1935
My dear one, I received the postcard in which you write that your bad working conditions are causing you great anxiety. What can you do if your high qualifications, your extensive knowledge, are not valued or required? The fault does not lie with you; it’s because the government has little interest in culture. More specifically, it demands culture that is truncated, “pragmatically oriented,” “useful” to its own needs. This is understandable: the government is seeking new cultural forms, and this is a difficult process.
In March, I may send you at least as much as I sent in February, so keep this in mind when you’re looking for a new job. I already wrote you about my new earnings. If nothing changes, my affairs are going superbly, and I will be grateful my entire life for the fact that the Butter Trust first hired me, then fired me six months later. All the more since I’ve continued to do some paperwork for them in exchange for butter rather than money, and I sent it immediately through the mail to you. My life here is ideal—there are no other words for it.
In the morning, I get up and read. I work at least five hours. My job starts in the evening. I’ve arranged things thus: the club pays two hundred, and the two technical schools pay 250. If everything stays the same … But my circumstances are subject to change. If I hadn’t taken up music, I would never have found work here at all.
About my studies. I am delving into Darwinism, into biology. I have learned remarkable things, very significant. I move along at a rapid clip—I read a single thick scientific work in one morning, and during the next two I reread it and take my copious notes. And on to the next one.
About letters. Fewer and fewer people I was once close to, even the nearest and dearest, answer my letters now. I tried once more to write to Miron—I sent him Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto. A month has passed, and still no letter. Is he avoiding me? Write me if you have any news of him. Perhaps I should stop trying to contact him?
When you receive a parcel, please confirm it to me not in vague terms (“I received both the butter and the money”), but very specifically—how many pounds and on what date; there are several packages and transfers on the way at the same time, and I need to know which of them you’ve received.
I beg you, do not forget to do this for me. And although I am reprimanding you severely for your lapse, nevertheless I conclude with some lines from Selvinsky’s Fur Trade:
My little source of love and mirth,
How marvelous that you agreed
To spend your precious time on earth.
J.
MAY 2, 1935
My dearest, my little one, what has happened? There has never before been such a long disruption in our correspondence. You wrote me your last letter on March 25; then there was a telegram that your letter would be delayed—and that was the last I heard. I have a presentiment of some sort of mishap or misfortune that you want to conceal from me. I left the most vulnerable part of my existence behind in Moscow—I never forget that.
I went to send a telegram several times, but every time I decided against it—I didn’t want to distress you any more than you already are. I write you regularly; instead of a letter, on April 7 I sent you greetings (with money) through Konstantinovsky. I don’t know whether the money reached you.
A month without news of you is so hard! And, as if by coincidence, I haven’t heard from the rest of the family, either. I’m very concerned—has something happened? I miss all of you terribly. The thought of Genrikh is painful to me, and in the last letter, when I gave way to this feeling, I wrote several words I shouldn’t have.
My dear, wonderful friend, what should I write you? I feel that dark clouds have covered my existence again. What is happening with you, with Genrikh? I feel so lost and alienated in the Siberian expanses, and I am conscious of being absolutely helpless. Moreover, my longtime friend eczema has returned. I have the feeling that it returned because I so long for your touch.
I embrace you, my girl. Please, write me more often.
Your J.
NOVEMBER 23, 1935
Working in a bank … It’s not terribly hard, in fact. I’ve never worked in finance, and if I was able to master all the skills necessary for the job within a month, it means it isn’t a real profession. Any half-intelligent person could do the same. And this is a pity. I would like to sequester myself from dilettantes and nonspecialists through my profession. In recent years, I’ve become professionally disappointed.
A departmental economist is a clerk, an educated pencil-pusher. When I entered this profession, I thought about economic research, and writing about it, in an academic environment. This did not work out, for both general and personal reasons.
I beg you, find a free minute and go to October 25 Street (I don’t know the real name), Bldg. 10/2, Literary Consultancy of the State Publishing House, and find out whether the contest has already ended. If not, please pass along my three stories to them in an envelope.
NOVEMBER 28, 1935
… Now, about the parallels you see between Ehrenburg and Ostrovsky. In his book about Dostoevsky, André Gide expresses indignation at people who reduce writers to one thesis or idea, when the best thing about them is their complexity. He is delighted with the contradictions and intricacies in Dostoevsky’s writing. The best thing in life is complexity. In N. Ostrovsky’s case (How the Steel Was Tempered), it’s impossible not to see that, as literature, the book is weak and insubstantial, and that the style is a mixture of tastelessness and lack of culture. Ostrovsky is a miracle of will, of self-aggrandizement, let’s say—a genius at overcoming misfortune. That’s the best thing about the book. This is the only way the book captures the attention and sympathy of the reader. The rest of the book is very, very poor. The strongest thing in the book is its autobiographical dimension. His second book, with an invented plot, will be weaker. And how could someone who never had time to learn write a good book in the first place? When another such novice—the baker Gorky—began to write, he had already managed to digest an entire library. He was already inundated with literature. Writers are shaped either by life + books, or only books; but never life without books.