by Ricarda Huch
Yours, Jessika
LYU TO KONSTANTIN
Kremskoye, 16th July
Dear Konstantin,
I have sent off the typewriter. Let us stick to the plan of having the explosion detonated when the Y and shift keys are pressed. As we have to agree on a letter, it ought to be that with which the governor’s Christian name begins; it is inconceivable that he could write to anyone without using it. For now the responsibility lies on your shoulders. I am glad to be free from it for a short while, for I feel sick. There is a fever in my bones and I would like nothing better than to retire to bed, but I believe that I can prevent the illness from developing by fighting it. The coachman, Ivan, has a severe case of typhoid and his life is still in danger. As such terror and helplessness reigned here – the servants claimed he had cholera – and I have some knowledge in this area, I attended to him. The man cannot bear me. He feels a vague fear or aversion towards me; he senses, as animals can, the danger I pose to his master. I have a particular fondness for these mentalities that are still semi-animalistic and live in the unconscious. It was a real pleasure for me to treat and observe him. Perhaps I overexerted myself in caring for him, as I was already infected.
Should the illness prove stronger than me and I am brought to hospital in Petersburg, this would be very bad. For I must take receipt of the machine and set it up myself. I can, however, assume with certainty that Mr and Mrs von Rasimkara would keep me in the house and look after me, even if I were to baulk at this. Above all, I am counting on my healthy constitution and the strength of my will. I am sure I can no longer tear down walls like Samson, but I can keep my body upright if it feels like collapsing, for a while longer at least. At all events, please wait for another sign of life from me before you act.
Lyu
LUSINYA TO TATYANA
Kremskoye, 18th July
Dearest Tatyana,
How terribly quickly the countenance of all earthly things can change, indeed more quickly than the overcast sky. This is a platitude that reveals itself to us suddenly like an epiphany when we experience it. Our good old Ivan seems to be in better shape; at least the doctor says that if the illness had progressed to its conclusion, his condition would have worsened substantially. You know how close we feel to our people here; having others would be for us just as sad as moving to another house. Watching a person in mortal danger, watching him virtually die, causes me terrible anguish. Suddenly it becomes clear that this is the fate of all of us, that the shadow of death could have just as easily descended upon me, and perhaps will tomorrow or the day after, but will inevitably descend on me one day. Then I am seized by a fear, a fear that is a thousand times worse than death. Yes, it seems to have passed over Ivan this time. But yesterday evening Lyu had to retire to his bed. He has cared for Ivan so attentively and exposed himself to infection, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Our admiration for him is all the greater as Ivan has always disliked him and made no secret of this fact. He was already not quite himself the day before yesterday, but when I asked him he claimed to be perfectly well. Yesterday lunchtime he looked feverish. Yegor, who of course noticed nothing, spoke of how he was missing the typewriter he had become so attached to, and hoped it would be coming back soon. To which Lyu said, ‘Please don’t say that! I would rather it was away a long while!’ I once read about a famous actor who would occasionally get drunk before a performance and become so disorientated that one thought it impossible he would be able to act. But when it was time for him to step on stage he composed himself with demonic willpower and gave a spellbinding performance. Only seldom did this power wane slightly, allowing his true state to become evident. This is what Lyu reminded me of at that moment. He was permanently on the verge of delirium. I urgently put it to him that he had a fever and must go to bed. He admitted this too, but argued that in such circumstances it was better for him to keep moving, and wanted to go for a bicycle ride. Not to be dissuaded, he went off and came back three hours later, bathed in sweat and utterly worn out. Then he went to lie down without eating anything. Today he has stayed in bed, exhausted, but he really does seem to have broken his fever. The doctor, who came because of Ivan, admitted that such treatments can work sometimes, although he’d never prescribe them as they are not suited to everyone. Lyu is an extraordinary man; he mesmerizes you time and again.
Dear Tatyana, I cannot wait for us to be alone! I like caring for patients, and it’s so nice that I can do something for Lyu. It’s really not much, for in fact one cannot care for him, he’s a man who can only give; he lacks the organ for receiving. But I had been so looking forward to being alone with Yegor and all these unexpected occurrences seem like a malicious obstacle, insinuating itself between us and our longed-for days on our own. Velya and Jessika would have come to you today, but they did not wish to leave before it was clear whether Lyu was seriously ill or not. The danger has now passed, thank goodness! Just think how the feelings of love would have intensified in Jessika’s soft heart! As soon as he can be moved, Ivan will be transferred to hospital, and until he has recovered a reliable man, who has often helped us out in the past, will stand in for him. I thought of coming into town with Yegor, to see the children off, but he says that he specifically took a holiday to go to the country for his health. He’d rather not be seen in Petersburg as it could be misconstrued. He also thinks that I’d be far more affected by their departure if we went there; I’d get terribly upset and start crying, et cetera. Indeed, I am bound to cry. They will surely be away for a year, if not longer, otherwise there’s no point. A whole year without my two children! If I didn’t have Yegor to myself at the moment! Well, I’m no longer so young that a year seems a long time; it’s only twelve times thirty days – it’s merely the twinkling of an eye! How happy I am that Peter is going too; I shall instruct the children to follow him.
Yours, Lusinya
VELYA TO KATYA
Kremskoye, 20th July
My little trumpet blast,
You can blare out to your heart’s content, for tomorrow I leave. Go ahead and blare out your disapproval; it won’t hurt as I shan’t hear it and so it will be of no use to you. We can do no better deed for Papa and Mama at the moment than go away. A note has already appeared in the newspapers about the ‘red university’. Nothing bad can happen to those involved except for, at most, the courses being suspended. But of course Father would rather we weren’t here. The gaffer is still alive. Today he asked for a drop of schnapps, so it seems as if he is on the mend. As I cannot say goodbye to him because of the risk of infection, I wrote him a farewell poem. It begins:
Five times has the sun now sunk,
Since the gaffer last got drunk.
And finishes:
As I cannot kiss your loyal hand,
Ere I leave for another land,
I shall pray you soon find release:
Either get well soon or rest in peace.
I read it to Lyu, who is still in bed. He couldn’t stop laughing, although he’s really weak. He said he’s convinced Ivan will think I’m Russia’s greatest poet and that my verse is the epitome of all poetry. He envied people who could achieve emotional rapture through rhythm and simple rhyme alone. Lyu would like to come with us to Petersburg, but he fears he’ll still be too weak and Mama will not let him go. So you will not see him again. With her love for him, Jessika is a silly little worm, but I advise you to treat her gently, my sweet sister, rather than scolding and pecking her. She is just like a dewdrop that in the sun shines as beautifully as a diamond and is bursting with life, but when the sun disappears loses its lustre and dries up. I am writing this so you see that I can express myself in proper poetry too. Tell Peter to acquire cigars and cigarettes for the journey; he likes being given tasks to accomplish.
Velya
LYU TO KONSTANTIN
Kremskoye, 23rd July
Dear Konstantin,
You refrained from writing so that, were I mortally ill or dead, the letter sho
uld not fall into the wrong hands. Now the danger is past. If you hear no more from me, have the typewriter sent off on the 31st and let me know immediately. My sickness has finally broken, but I am still very tired, so tired that I should wish to lie in bed a few days more, without thinking, without any other pictures in my mind than those of the dark woman and blonde girl who from time to time float through my room, bend over me and speak kindly with their soft voices, or those of the firs and birches I can see through my open window. Will there ever be a man who can gaze at beauty without torment, without the divine, execrable sting of the soul?
Tomorrow Velya and Jessika are travelling to Petersburg. Jessika will stay with her aunt. When I see her again she will be wearing a black dress. Last night, when I glimpsed the moon shining pallidly, surrounded by dark clouds, I could not but help think of her blonde head atop the black dress. Oh, that is the least of it. She will have rosy cheeks once more, and smile and wear white dresses. The fact that everything, by virtue of coming into existence, is doomed to pass – that is the sole tragedy of life, for it is the nature of life, for life so constructed is the only one that can ever be ours. I await your news.
Lyu
LUSINYA TO KATYA
24th July
My dear youngest,
Today Velya and Jessika are leaving. They waited one more day for Lyu, but ultimately dissuaded him from taking on the strain of travelling today. Although he got up, he’s still weak. He’ll certainly be spending around three more days here, so there’s no way you will see him again if you leave the day after tomorrow. Jessika has been battling bravely with her feelings; I wouldn’t have imagined her capable of such willpower. This morning she was up very early in the garden, filling baskets with roses that she decorated the entire house with. ‘I think it’s like a wedding house,’ she said. Then she said, ‘Mama, we must really have got in your way when we arrived so quickly one after the other.’ I said, ‘Yes, if we hadn’t ourselves to blame, we might have been slightly annoyed.’ Your brother Velya, who had come into the room, said to her, ‘My God, what are you thinking? They’d have been bored to death without us.’ An incensed Jessika: ‘You arrogant boy! You’re so lazy you didn’t speak before you were two and didn’t make a joke before you were ten.’ Well, I’m sure you can imagine how daintily they yapped at one another. And then that little face, so quiet and pale beneath the old childish laughter. Give her lots of love on your last day, do you hear me, my sweet thing? And don’t offend her by saying anything bad about Lyu. You are far too young and foolish a glow-worm to be able to judge him properly. In any case, he’s a brilliant man and one must take care to think the best of brilliant people. In case of doubt, one ought to hold back with one’s judgement.
As for the chauffeur that Aunt Tatyana suggests we engage instead of the old retainer, Papa cannot come to a decision, even though he admits that it would perhaps be more agreeable for us. He says he doesn’t want to have a complete stranger in the house, as the revolutionary party has regularly smuggled its people into houses to gather private information or communicate with the servants. He is unhappy at the prospect of introducing an uncertain element into the circle of our loyal and dependable servants. As Papa is free of any fearfulness, this caution is surely justified. So we’ll stick with old Kyrill; he doesn’t drink any more than Ivan, and Papa says that drunkards have the most loyal hearts.
An embrace from me, my beloved child! I send my love to all three of you and please promise me that you and Velya won’t squabble on the journey. Don’t call each other monkey or newt or birdbrain – the last of these is just about acceptable, if it must be – for jokes can become serious, and anyway it is a beastly habit which may shock people who don’t know you. Please also keep an eye on Velya, as if you were the elder, but without letting him notice. I worry more about him than about you. I know you will do the right thing, my darling, and that something good will come of you.
So now I am a childless woman! But I have you all firmly in my heart; you’re still small and like sitting close to your mama in a tiny room.
Farewell!
VELYA AND KATYA TO YEGOR
Petersburg, 26th July
Dear Papa,
When Katya read your line in Mama’s letter that drunkards have the most loyal hearts, she blurted out, ‘You see? Lyu isn’t a drinker! He only drank wine because of its beautiful colour and the aroma!’ Now the rumour is certain to go around that you only released Lyu because he’s never been drunk. You’ll become a darling of the people and a horde of lurching Cossacks will permanently surround you as voluntary bodyguards. Two evenings ago we persuaded Aunt Tatyana to serve us some really fine wine for our leaving dinner and Peter, who was just about to join a temperance association, has now deferred this until our return.
Dear Papa,
Velya is writing utter nonsense. It’s impossible to live with him without shouting out monkey or newt. Mama, you ought to have brought him up better from the outset. You are absolutely right about the drinking, Papa; it was an absurd idea of Peter’s to want to join a temperance association. Why shouldn’t you drink if it’s to your taste? How foolish! Jessika says we need not worry on your account; the two of you looked so young and happy. That’s how we want to imagine you when we’re away. I’m very nice to Jessika, but she’s a silly goose. Here is our carriage arriving! Tomorrow at this time we shall already be over the border. On the way I shall write you a properly long letter, sweet Mama.
Katya
LYU TO KONSTANTIN
Kremskoye, 1st August
Dear Konstantin,
I shall be leaving tomorrow morning. I am taking the motorcar to Petersburg. From there I shall drive to my father’s. I assume that the typewriter is arriving this evening. I should not care for it to arrive earlier, because the governor would then probably demand to start writing. Like little children, the two of them are looking forward to being alone. They have no idea what actually awaits them – my God, what does one expect when one is anticipating a momentary surge of love? What does one find? As far as I am concerned, it is out of the question that someone else could use the machine before the governor, the one thing that could ruin my plan. The maids are too scared of the governor to lay a finger on it, especially as it has already broken once. He has even forbidden them to dust the typewriter, saying he will do it himself. I am sure he will use it very soon; he always has a few letters to write and he will wish to try it out after the repair. It will be no longer than a day. I suspect he will write to the children. She – his wife – what will become of her? It would be best for her if she were at his side, as is almost always the case. The next time I come to Petersburg I should like to see you. But first I need some peace and quiet.
Lyu
LUSINYA TO JESSIKA
Kremskoye, 1st August
Jessika, my petal, your roses have now faded, even before our joy at being alone could begin. The garden, however, is full of new blooms. Lyu is leaving early tomorrow morning. He has already said his goodbyes, for he is setting off before we get up. Earlier, when we were returning from a walk, a man was standing at the garden door. I didn’t notice him until we were quite close and I gave an involuntary start. Lyu laughed and said, ‘It must be the delivery man again with the typewriter.’ And indeed it was. I looked at him in both horror and admiration, and he laughed once more, with Papa joining in. It was only natural that he should guess correctly, as in fact we had been expecting the typewriter with the first post. Let me tell you that Papa didn’t pounce immediately on the crate, but let Lyu unpack it. Now Papa is still sitting with me, playing the piano more beautifully than anyone else in the world. Perhaps at the same time the lime blossoms of your voice are fragrant beside Aunt Tatyana’s piano. You know, don’t you, that Lyu said your singing was so delicate one could not say it sounded, but rather gave off a sweet scent. At this moment I fancy I can hear you, my little lovely.
Lyu gave me another of his inscrutable looks when he said goodbye. I�
�m glad I shall not have to meet this gaze again tomorrow. But calm down: I gave him the most wonderful basket of food for the journey and wish him all the best. If he didn’t sleepwalk I would be his friend without fail. Just imagine, the gaffer expressed his outrage that Lyu was leaving before he was back on his feet, for he was sick and frail and didn’t count, and there must be a man in the house. At which Papa said, ‘What am I? A stork?’ Ivan wept at first, and then said he’d never regarded Papa as a stork, but he was supposed to be under protection at the moment and you couldn’t protect yourself, just as you couldn’t wash your own back. Papa asked Mariushka, who had reported this to us, ‘Who washes his back then? You?’ Which she indignantly denied, and so this remains a mystery.
Good night, darling. When will I decorate your hair with roses again? Who knows how soon? Beautiful things come unexpectedly overnight.
Yours, Mama
YEGOR TO VELYA AND KATYA
Kremskoye, 2nd August
Well, my two little children, what nonsense is that about drinking? What am I supposed to have said? Educated people must be moderate, that stands to reason. If a Russian peasant does not drink, one can conclude that there is calculation involved, a desire for some sort of improvement, and where the animal drive is broken, nothing good takes its place at first. So, to be regarded as educated people, be moderate. Our guardian angel has left and for the time being I have no one here save for Mother, beneath whose wings I feel most comfortable. She is just approaching my chair, putting her arm around me and posing that question which is old hat now, but which I still love to hear: ‘Why are you so pale, Y
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