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.