This story soothed me.
Jacob! Maybe I shouldn’t have written this to you? Should I cross it out? If it’s wrong, cross it out yourself, and tell me I was bad. That’s how it is now. If I’m ashamed before you, I cover my face with your hands. If I’m afraid of you, you are the one I look to for protection at the same time. You are everything to me. This scares me. But it seems it’s just the way it is. YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA
SEPTEMBER 25, 1913
I remember my words about Christianity in a recent letter. They were absolutely right, and don’t think it was the first time I wrote something like this. Only the exterior, the outside, very attractive, is accessible to us. It holds out the prospect of warmth, peace, hope. It’s childish in its popular manifestation: if you behave well, you will receive praise; if you’re bad, you’ll be punished.
The Christian Gospels are terribly dogmatic. Christ’s words: “They say this, that, and the other, but I say unto you…” etc. Dogma, commands—and if you don’t carry them out, you will be doomed to Gehenna for all time. Forgiveness for the one who repents is no surprise; but forgiving the cruel brigand or robber? It’s a pity I don’t recall the texts from memory.
The Gospels themselves are not a religion, but material for creating one. There are as many religions as there are people. From the same texts, you can derive a great deal of real love.
I don’t wish to talk about such a large matter, because it’s nonetheless alien to me. Religion is something that completely passed me by. Perhaps I’ll have to return to it someday.
And do you have enough money? Tell me the truth, little one. CHELYABINSK–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS
OCTOBER 1, 1913
Dear Papa, I’ve finally arrived in Chelyabinsk. I sent you a postcard saying that the doctor here exempted me from exercise, without even examining me. He just came up to me and said, “Aha, a volunteer! You’re relieved.” The next day, I was sent here in a military train with a detachment of feeble soldiers to be housed in apartments for the winter. Now I only await discharge!
I was very happy about this, of course. The exercise will not be difficult, they say; still, walking thirty-five versts on the first day, carrying upward of thirty-five pounds on your back, is hard work.
The nights here are already cold, very autumnal, and it’s easy to catch cold at night, because you sleep in the field in tents, on the hard ground, covered with your coats, with a knapsack for a pillow.
And suddenly, instead of sleeping in a field, in a flimsy tent with a knapsack under my head, I’m in the city, in a hotel, writing you at a desk, drinking tea from a samovar (and not from a dirty teapot). The ceiling here doesn’t leak as it does in the barracks, there are no superiors, and I am completely free until the troops return from exercise. All this instead of mud, filth, camp chores.
I feel I have literally revived since yesterday evening. Not to mention the modern conveniences, the soft mattress, electric lights, a clean room.
… I’m just sick of the loneliness I lived in for so long. I want people, books, theater, music, but, more than anything, a free life, not having to deal with superiors, not having to depend on them. CHELYABINSK–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA
OCTOBER 1, 1913
Good morning, Marusya! I’m writing you from a hotel. I absolutely love writing lying down. It’s morning now. I woke up long ago, and thought about you, then fell asleep again (dreamed), then read a story by Kuprin, and now I’m coming back to you. Although things are so nice at the moment, I can’t help reproaching you. You know, Marusya, I was already thinking … In your last letter you said something about losing each other in our correspondence, becoming more distant from each other.
My dear wife! As is always the case in life, in illness, in turmoil, when you reach the very top, the apex of growth or development, there’s a break, a turning point. And you find new strength. (Look how bold I am to quote Kuprin’s idea here.)
I wanted to say something about illness. If it isn’t a serious illness (I’m speaking generally here), it can even bring a certain amount of satisfaction or pleasure. I would gladly be sick for a time if you were there to take care of me. But a serious illness, an illness that goes on for a long time, drives out all poetic thoughts and feelings, and is just plain bad.
Someday when illness strikes I won’t have to leave your side. I alone will be your nurse. We will live a long life together, until old age, until illness takes us both. And we will take care of each other.
I have terrible plans for winter: burying myself in my books day and night. We’ll read lots of books, and a bright, beautiful life will open up before us, won’t it, Marusya? I’m not thinking about music as much as I’m thinking about scholarly research at the Institute these days.
Fly, time, fly by! If I could drive it with a whip, I’d crack it all day long.
OCTOBER 15, 1913
What am I going to do with you? I received another letter in the spirit of “So-so. Not so good.” You write about being a wife, a lover—what can I say? Do you wish to be my wife or my lover? I don’t understand the difference, God help me! You will be the closest person in my life, the person most needful to me—and that’s all. You would be a lover if I was already married. Then I would leave my wife for you. But this would never happen. If I marry, it will be forever.
Marusya, my good girl, I don’t ask you for much—only to believe my fidelity. Yes, you can recall bad things I’ve said or done—but you’ve never heard lies coming from me! I have said many bad things about myself, said too much—but it’s only because I don’t know how to protect you, and it’s often difficult—but I have always told you everything!
Why, oh why, all this sadness in the subjunctive mood—“If only this, then that would … or could … or should…”? And if you believe me, why don’t you remember my words, my constant refrain: “No, never, not for the world”?
Yes, you are my wife, my first wife, my remarkable, wonderful lover; and I don’t care what will happen in twenty years. We need only to be sure of the present moment for our marriage.
This is the formal, official part of my conversation with you. The unofficial part I’ll whisper in your ear. And not just today, but forever and ever.
Oh, what a happy ending it would be if we were sitting side by side. I would kiss your hands, and say: “It doesn’t mean anything, it’s unimportant. You’re imagining it.” And right away you would see that I was right, and it would comfort you for a long time.
Don’t be sad, my heart. Soon. Very soon now!
Don’t worry about the money. It’s not from Papa. No one knows about it. I teach private lessons here. And I’m very happy that I can help you in some way. You have to spend all of yours on getting fitted out.