In short, it was marvelous. I kiss you, my darling, again and again.
You know, Marusya, I often kiss you in my letters; but passing them on through you to Genrikh seems awkward. They’re different kisses …
NOVEMBER 10
In the Chrysanthemum Cinema, there is a poster announcing a moving picture with an accompanying brass band. The brass band is us. The foyer is long, empty, cold. Cinema posters line the walls, one after the other, advertising films with names like The Bloody Batiste Handkerchief, The Wheel of Hell, The Capture of Trebizond, The Dashing Merchant, and Hurricane of Passion.
We sit at the end of the foyer and play in the intermissions, as well as to comedies and travelogues. For five minutes we play, then have a break for ten minutes. And on and on. By about nine, you begin to feel a bit tired. By ten, you start looking at your watch. The last march—and everyone begins to pack up the music and the instruments. Weary and irritable, we hurry home as fast as we can to a dinner of cold soup, and then to bed.
Twice a week, I’m free. When you come to see me, I probably won’t have to perform at the cinema at all.
Here, not far from the barracks, there is a second-class hotel. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay there. Don’t forget to take care of your passport. But when…?
Name a day—it will be easier for me to wait. It would be most convenient either before Christmas, or after. We have a busy playing schedule during Christmas, and it’s harder to get away.
I keep forgetting to write you about the diaper you packed with my clothes. When I was unpacking the things, I thought it was a scarf, but then I recognized it and suddenly got very excited. How is he now, our Genrikh? I won’t recognize him at all when I come home.
Today I’m not playing. I’m resting, and every second, I’m aware that I’m not playing in the cinema. The day before yesterday I played there as well—piano accompaniment to the films. Finally, I’ve become something of a cinema pianist.
NOVEMBER 16
I received your letter. I’m very happy to hear about your new job, but also a bit anxious. How unpleasant it could be if they refuse you! The fee was quite a sprightly one. My compliments. I just want to advise you on one point. Besides knowledge and skill in a subject, you must know how to “shine.” In your case, you should do some smart advertising. Make journals, calendars, weather reports, and hang them on the walls, pasting things to huge pieces of paper, etc. This not only decorates the room, but inspires more respect for your profession. This is not only necessary for the child: you need to talk to the mamas and stress how important it is. They are frequently not very far ahead of the children in their development.
Have you seen how a wise doctor behaves when they call him in to minister to a dying person? They no longer believe in his scientific knowledge, but only in his wizardry, his scientific wizardry. This is why people love doctors with eccentricities. A wise doctor issues a long list of petty instructions. Move the bed, put the head of the bed thus and the foot of the bed so, cover the patient with a different blanket, take the clock out of the room, and many other things. Everyone attending the patient is busy. Little by little, the doctor accomplishes his main goaclass="underline" to raise the sinking spirits of the patient and the patient’s loved ones, and to assure himself that he is powerless to do anything else.
There, now! Try to do the same, Marusya. And your attire! You must deck yourself out, Marusya. Unkempt, unclean clothing has a dispiriting effect, which we’re sometimes not even aware of. And don’t skimp on money.
I kiss you—everything, everywhere. I kiss your knees (on the sides, and in back, where it tickles).
NOVEMBER 22
My dearest, has Papa already told you everything he could about me? I was so happy to see him. In the first moments when he came to the cinema to see me, I turned around and tried to recollect this familiar face. I stared at him for several long seconds. I only recognized him when I had reviewed everything in my thoughts—who he was, how he could have appeared at this moment, and why he might have come. We very soon finished sharing the most urgent matters with each other, and switched to exchanging random information. The conversation became somewhat stilted after that.
I was so glad he visited, and had to fight back the tears when we were parting the next evening in front of his hotel. We embraced heartily, started to walk away, then turned back for another hug. I felt his soft mustache against my face, and that in particular made me want to cry. My throat was tight the whole way home.
I inquired about everything, but I somehow couldn’t formulate any sensible questions about you.
“So—is Marusya cheerful, does she laugh?”
“Yes, yes…”
“And … does she look pretty in her new hat?”
“Yes, very pretty.”
Papa talked about Genrikh with such affection and sweetness. Always resorting to the same words and expressions, he tried to describe how he plays and has fun, how he walks, how Genrikh recognizes him already, how he’s afraid of the bath … He only betrayed the depth of his sadness and loss one time, when he said, “Your Genrikh will be just like mine.” These were the first words about his son I have heard him utter since Genrikh died. I thought Papa was a dry, sober-minded man. In fact, he’s just not used to sharing his feelings with other people. But you and I convey every little thing to each other. About you he said, “I wouldn’t advise Marusya to take on a second (morning) lesson; it will exhaust her.”
On occasion, your letters make me especially proud and happy—when you tell me how well your teaching is going, about your self-control and endurance. There’s no better feeling for me than knowing that you respect yourself. It seemed like your lot in life that although most of the people around you hold you in high esteem, you constantly underestimate yourself. Apparently, you are outgrowing this moral malady. I congratulate you and am glad for you.
I think nonstop about you and your visit. These are my feelings about it: I can’t endure being apart from you until May. I await your arrival, not for Christmas, but before the holidays. I no longer have any shame. I think only about my love for you, endlessly, over and over again.
I love you, Marusya. Even when I turn fifty, I will love you just as deeply as I do now. I have thought about how, for loving spouses, love is limitless. Until the very end of their conjugal life, their shared path, their spiritual and emotional intimacy can be amplified physically. (Maupassant understood this very well. No one is as sympathetic toward older women as he is in his writing.)
This seems to me to be completely healthy and normal. When we reach this age, we will love each other and treat our bodies, bearers of our love, with the same tender solicitousness. The beauty of line and silhouette, the suppleness of muscles and skin, and our youthful health will all be gone. But we won’t mind!