V.
SOFT SOUND
When in some coastal townlet, on a night
of low clouds and ennui, you open
the window – from afar
whispering sounds spill over.
Now listen closely and discern
the sound of seawaves breathing upon land,
protecting in the night
the soul that harkens unto them.
Daylong the murmur of the sea is muted,
but the unbidden day now passes
(tinkling as does an empty
tumbler on a glass shelf);
and once again amidst the sleepless hush
open your window, wider, wider,
and with the sea you are alone
in the enormous and calm world.
Not the sea’s sound … In the still night
I hear a different reverberation:
the soft sound of my native land,
her respiration and pulsation.
Therein blend all the shades of voices
so dear, so quickly interrupted
and melodies of Pushkin’s verse
and sighs of a remembered pine wood.
Repose and happiness are there,
a blessing upon exile;
yet the soft sound cannot be heard by day
drowned by the scurrying and rattling.
But in the compensating night,
in sleepless silence, one keeps listening
to one’s own country, to her murmuring,
her deathless sleep.
V. Sirin
[ALS, 4 PP.]
[8–9 June 1926]
TO: Sanatorium, St-Blasien, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
8/VI–26
My joy,
Before describing today’s extraordinary, deafening success (about which there will probably be a hint in the newspapers), I must tell you, as promised, about my day. In the morning I rolled along to Sack’s, played ball with him in the rain. On the way home I went into ‘Moskva’, but it turned out they didn’t have the last issue of ‘Volya Rossii’. I came home in the rain. They served white, tasteless fish and cherries for lunch (No, you can’t even imagine such success!). Then – still in the rain – I took your fur-coat to Anyuta (after carefully wrapping the thing – not Anyuta, but the coat). I found Lena’s lovely soap at Anyuta’s, for which I am very, very thankful. I dashed to the Kaplans’ (you know, it’s the first time I’ve had such a success. I felt passionately sorry that you weren’t there, my joy) and was back at home at five – with two new little books, checked out from ‘Ladyzhnikov’ on my way. I read for a while, recited my poem out loud a few times, changed into a dinner-jacket, had dinner (cold-cuts, a bit of Weisskäse), and, after a wee shot of cognac, set out to 3 Bellevuestr., where the festivities were taking place, for eight. There were already lots of people there, I chatted with Aykhenvald, with Sergey Gorny, with the unexpected Kardakov. Kardakov told me astonishing stories about the peasants’ attitude towards him, an entomologist, working in the Ussuri region. Their attitude was nasty (almost to the point of murder) for two reasons. First: he asked boys to deliver him beetles and paid 2 kopecks per bug. The peasants began to say that the ‘doctor’, you know, buys a beetle for next to nothing and then sells it for a thousand rubles. Once he advised the lads to look for a rare Siberian beetle for him among stacked firewood. The lads found the beetle, but they also thoroughly scattered the logs, and the peasants decided to finish Kardakov off. Secondly: they all thought (I’ve now understood what ‘thunder of applause’ means. It was a real ovation) that Kardakov was a doctor, and those who were ill, and pregnant women too, thronged to him. He tried to explain to them that he didn’t know how to treat them, but they were certain he said this on purpose, out of malice or pride. Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer and moved to other places. Then Lyaskovsky jumped up at me – not a man, really, but a hook (I must also tell you that this morning he wrote to me, asking me to be there precisely at eight and adding that, you know, you don’t need a ticket – ‘you have a place in the presidium’) and carelessly, without looking at me, he remarked: ‘You know what, Vl. Vl., it’d be better if you took a place in the first row – here’s a ticket. Please, take it.’ The bell rang, we all sat down. When the presidium were seated (Yasinsky, Zaytsev, prof., Aykhenvald, Tatarinov, and so on), it turned out that one place was left empty, but, in spite of the imploring whisper of Yasinsky and Aykhenvald, I refused to take it. Lyaskovsky, meanwhile, was sitting at the edge of the table and avoided making eye contact with me. Surprising character. It started. Ilyin gave a rather good speech after Yasinsky’s introductory word, and then some young folk acted out Chekhov’s ‘The Jubilee’. A small intermission followed, finally a bell, and Lyaskovsky, flying past, throws out: ‘You, Vl. Vl., tell them to have someone announce you, since the Ofrosimov Group will probably be on now.’ Here I got angry with him at last and said to him, literally: ‘No, my dear man, you’re arranging it all. And I will sit here in the green room.’ He flashed his pince-nez and obediently ran off. From behind the curtain, I heard how, in total silence, Yasinsky named me. And immediately the applause exploded. I pushed the curtain aside and went out to the front of the stage. After I finished reading (I recited without stumbling and, apparently, loudly enough), the entire huge hall, jam-packed, began to clap so hard and make so much noise it even began to feel gratifying. I came on three times. The roar still didn’t stop. Lyaskovsky scampered backstage, muttering drily: ‘Why such a din? Is this really for you?’ A few people pushed me back on stage again – and the hall didn’t want to quiet down; they shouted ‘encore’ and ‘bravo’ and ‘Sirin’. Then I repeated my poem again and recited it even better – and again a boom of applause. When I went down into the audience, all sorts of people threw themselves on me, began to shake my hand, Hessen kissed me smack on the forehead, tore out my page, to print the poem in Rul’. And then, after one act from ‘It’s Not Always Shrovetide for the Cat’, they all congratulated me again, and I feel very sorry, my joy, that you were not there. Somewhere far away, pale little Shura was sitting with his father, the Kaplans were there too, and all kinds of girls, and that deaf lady who helped you translate the dictionary. I got home at two, sat down to write to you – but did not finish and am continuing today. The weather’s better, but windy. I’ve got letters from Mother and from – Panchenko. Now I will go to Maman Kaplan’s lesson. Oh, my joy, my sweet love, how are you, what are you doing, do you remember me? I love you very much today. And last night, when I was walking down Potsdamer Str. – I suddenly felt so warm that you exist – and what a joy you are. Just think, if I get a good amount for the translation of ‘Mary’, we could still take off for the Pyrenees. I paid the landlady yesterday (when I returned from K.). It came out at 55 m. 20 pf. (52+ milk). My sweet, my happiness, sweet, sweet … Don’t you worry, I will write to you tonight, too. Here, my darling (such a darling …), I must go – and the second page has finished at just the right spot.
V.
[ALS, 2 PP.]
[9 June 1926]
TO: Sanatorium, St-Blasien, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
9–VI–26
Tufty,
After writing to you – and to Mother as well – I popped the letters in a blue box on the street of winter fields and at the post office drafted a card to Kaminka, who yesterday was asking me to give him Mother’s address. Then I sailed around to Mme Kaplan and explained to her, for the hundredth time, that ‘Joan’ is not some Mr ‘Ivan’, but a young girl Joanna. Then I came home and ate: chicken with rice and rhubarb compote. Then I read Gladkov’s ‘Cement’, from which I must quote the following sentences for you: ‘She wouldn’t turn off her smirk, and the smirk reflected off the wall back to her face, and the face fire-glowed with dim heat between the black spots in her eye-sockets. Then Gleb filled his fists with blood and gnashed his teeth. Recovered and crushed his heart. Smirked himself and swallowed his Adam’s apple with s
aliva. But a burning tremor tore the muscles from his heart with a convulsion. Gleb, tamed, bony, dashing, with jaws clenched to his sucked-in cheeks, gnashed his teeth from the splinter in his brain.’ How do you like this pearl, Tufty? I read and took notes until supper. ‘Rul’’ came, I am sending you a clipping not without interest. Dinner consisted of fried eggs and cold-cuts. It’s now half past eight. I would like to go for a stroll before sleep.
Tufty, I think you write too often to me! A whole two letters over this time. Isn’t that too much? Believe it or not, I write every day. Today there was a somehow quiet but penetrating row behind our wall – unfortunately in German dialect. ‘In amazement, Zhuk bulged out his eyes, and his face said “ah” and burst into smithereens. The paralysed engineer Kleist stood, pressing his back straight to the parapet, and his head kicked up the hat with rare jerky movements.’ I think that engineer Kleist … could have been a good forward.
Yes, Tuftikins, this is not good … I, for example, very much counted on getting a little letter today. The littlies are wasting away (by the way, Lalodya isn’t in the list on the first page of ‘Mary’. He is very offended), I don’t even know what to do. Today, the letter went under the sign of Tufty – but tomorrow? I’m in new trousers today.
V.
____________________
[ALS, 2 PP.]
[10 June 1926]
TO: Hôtel Pension Schwarzwaldhaus, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
10/VI–26
Dipod,
This morning, they brought me your third little letter, along with my fastbreak. Oh, dipod …
The weather this morning was so-so: dullish, but warm, a boiled-milk sky, with skin – but if you pushed it aside with a teaspoon, the sun was really nice, so I wore my white trousers. I went to Sack’s for eleven, played ball with him. Then the skin thickened up – and it began to drizzle. When I got home it was pouring hard and continued all day. A large puddle formed in my courtyard, – and concentric circles were spreading through it – some smaller, others bigger – quick-quick – so there was a rippling effect in my eyes – and then in place of the circles thin, countless, wavelike lines began to flow and flow – and I had to somehow cut off my vision to see the circles under the raindrops again. So I didn’t go out the whole day. Lunch wasn’t bad – a lamb chop and gooseberry compote. After lunch I read Fedin, then decided to sort out my manuscripts: after all, I need to prepare all my stories for Stein – he’s been asking for a while, – but it turns out that I don’t have ‘The Fight’ here. Besides, I need to copy it all on a typewriter (so far, only ‘Beneficence’ and ‘The Seaport’ are in decent shape) – so I do not know how this’ll be done. I read again after that, then opened up my chessboard, started to compose a problem, but soon gave up. They brought me ‘Rul’’ and dinner (I don’t know why there is such a hubbub in the kitchen area today. Our good landlady’s probably out of sorts). The ‘Rul’’ review of the soirée is abominably written (‘V. Sirin recited his last poem about his homeland (as if I won’t be writing again!), ‘Soft Sound’, published in ‘Rul’’ yesterday, talented and especially intimate in its rendering of specific settings as a pretext [?!] for fundamental, deep, experiences’). Dinner consisted of an egg and the usual cold cuts. ‘Rul’’ I will save for you, but I ate the dinner. The lecture will be on Saturday, and I think it will turn out all right. (Where did I put the matches? Things seem to have some sort of survival instinct. If you throw a ball in a huge room without any furniture, except for one armchair – nothing at all except that – the ball will roll under it without fail. I’ve found the matches, though. They were in the ashtray.) You know, I haven’t played tennis for a week now, owing to the rain … Tuftikins, I’ve decided to kiss you at the end of my letter. Wait, don’t move … No, wait. My little Tuftikins … Oh, my love, my sweet, my dear one. We walked to Todtmoos from St Blasien on foot. It was burning hot, and I took my shirt off. Tuftikins … My fabulous dipodikins … I’ll read a bit and go to bed.
V.
[ALS, 2 PP.]
[11–12 June 1926]
TO: Hôtel Pension Schwarzwaldhaus, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
11/VI–26
Lumpikin,
This morning, taking my time, I set out for Ladyzhnikov’s. Returned the books, got my deposit back, and sailed off to ‘Moskva’, where I wasted two marks on ‘Volya Rossii’. Mme Melnikov-Papoushek (whose papa ushered no good news in) writes that ‘Mary’ is not a novel, that I imitate Proust, that some of my descriptions are ‘miniature’, that there are longueurs, which, apparently, Proust does not have, that the overall conception is not bad, but the performance is weak – and that she, Madame Melnikov-Papoushek, does not understand those critics who have seen in ‘Mary’ a symbol of Russia. The review, overall, is ladyish and ill-disposed. After getting home I sat down to write the talk and wrote it non-stop all day (the Kaplans had cancelled their lesson), till half past one in the morning. Interspersed with the lecture, I was writing a little short story in today’s ‘Soviet’ style. If I have enough gall, I’ll read it tonight at the Tatarinovs, passing it off as a Russian production. The lecture, though, took up twenty-eight large pages (not these – but the other sheets that you bequeathed me, Lumpikin) and seems to have turned out not badly. I mock and I tear to pieces. Will send it to you as soon as I am done with the reading.
Lumpikin, don’t be surprised that I write ‘today at the Tatarinovs’. The thing is, I was too tired to write to you on the night of the 11th – and although the letter sounds as if I’m writing on the evening of the 11th, in fact this is now the morning of June 12th, I’m just up and have sat down in my untidy little room to write to you. Lunch yesterday consisted of a veal chop and a banana in the company of cherries. For dinner, they treated me to fried eggs and cold-cuts. It rained yesterday, today’s sunny although chilly, and the wind is fluffing out the bright crooked acacia by the wall of the yard. My lecture is entitled: ‘A Few Words on the Wretchedness of Soviet Literature, and An Attempt to Establish the Cause Thereof’. I will send it tomorrow for you to read.
There is a whole island of ashes under my writing desk. The maid is knocking, she wants to clean up. I’ll go out to buy stamps it’s bad that you write to me so seldom and a Gillette razor. I also have for you two programmes illustrated by Golubev-Bagryanorodny, in connection with the day of my triumph. I haven’t sent the books to Bunin and Uncle Kostya yet, Panchenko and the Polizeipräsidium are still waiting, and I still have not managed to inform ‘Rul’’ of my address, although, by an incomprehensible miracle, I receive the newspaper every evening. Stein, too, is waiting for my stories. I haven’t found time to call B. G. All this is very bad. My Lumpikin, how are you keeping? How are your little furs? There is something birdy or parroty in my acacia. Till this evening, Lumpikin – I will definitely write you tonight. The lecture will be at nine, at the Tatarinovs. My joy …
V.
[ALS, 2 PP.]
[12 June 1926]
TO: Hotel-Pension Schwarzwaldhaus,
Todtmoos Bad, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
12/VI–26
Katyusha,
After finishing the letter to you, I went out to post it, stopped in at the clock shop (turns out that they still can’t tell me how much the repairs will cost!), then bought a razor, then acquired a stamp collection for two marks – ten tens and five twenties – and on top of that, from a stand, two English books for fifty [pfennigs]: Squire, Steps to Parnassus (literary parodies) and the renowned Henry James, The Outcry (a novel). I returned home (the weather, meanwhile, has turned warmer, and I’m wearing the new trousers) and had lunch (meat stew and apple spittle). After lunch I began to read through my lecture – and here, Sofa called, to say E. I. had arrived. On the way to the Kaplans’ I stopped by at Regensburg, saw there E. I. and E. L., who got back yesterday. I haven’t learned especially much about you from E. I. She is unusually unforthcoming. I learned in any case that you’ve moved to Todtmoos
– which I very much welcome. Your fur-coat is being sent to you all the same. Then I was at K.’s for his lesson, quietly came home, thinking I’d find a little letter from you and of course was mistaken. I think I’ll also stop writing to you. Before dinner I read the books I’d bought, had dinner (macaroni and cold-cuts) and, around nine, sailed off to the Tatarinovs. Gradually, a great multitude of people gathered there (of course, Aykhenvald, Volkovysky, Kadish, Ofrosimov, and so on), and I began. I spoke (I did not read, only peeked in from time to time – when quoting) for more than an hour. They found the lecture brilliant but very vicious and somewhat ‘fascistic’. Volkovysky especially attacked me. It all finished about one. I saw Mme Falkovsky to the corner of Augsburg[er] Strasse and quietly returned to my solitary little room. It’s now a quarter to two, tomorrow is Sunday, I’ll sleep in. I’m sending you the lecture – of course I changed and added an awful lot when I was speaking – this is only a summary. There you are. Beddy-time, Katyusha. I more than adore you. You are my happiness and life. When I think about you, I get so happy and light, and since I think about you always, I’m always happy and light. And tonight, someone will be writing a little short story – or rather composing it till sleep comes. My joy, Katyushen’ka, my little music, my love. Todtmoos is cosy, isn’t it? We stayed at the Adler inn there. Good night, Katyushen’ka.
Letters to Véra Page 10