Letters to Véra
Page 11
V.
____________________
[ALS, 2 PP.]
[13 June 1926]
TO: Hotel-Pension Schwarzwaldhaus,
Todtmoos, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
13/VI–26
Nice-and-warm,
Rain, rain, since morning … Such a pretty June, I must say … It drips onto the windowsill, it crackles as if endlessly opening thousands of tiny cabinets, chests, caskets – senselessly and purposefully, in the dark, in the yard, where my crooked acacia receives the rain in its own way, with an obedient steady rustling. I went out in the morning to post letters and after that didn’t stir. I mulled. Here’s the little story I want to write. It’ll be called ‘Rooms’. Or even ‘A Room for Rent’. About rooms, about this long enfilade of rooms through which one has to travel, about each room’s having its own voices (locks, windows, doors, mice, the wardrobe’s moan and the bed’s squeak) unlike the voices of another room, about the mirror’s staring at a person like a quiet invalid who has lost his mind, his ability to perceive and retain what he sees – with a clear insane look – and about how we unfairly insult things with our inattentiveness, about how touching are the moulded ceiling ornaments, which we never look at, which we never notice. And do you remember, Nice-and-warm, a couple of little cobwebs hanging over my bed on Trautenaustr.? I was thinking this over for a while, then read Henry James, drank some milk. From time to time, the sounds of the pension would reach me. From the thickets of the hallway, snatches of an argument between the landlady and her son:
‘And at four –’
‘I don’t understand, mama, why you never listen to my opinion –’
‘At four we will go to the Zoo, come back at five, at six –’
But generally the pension is very quiet, very pleasant. The maid and her sister are obliging to the point of submissiveness. I’m very happy I settled here. We had a Sunday lunch today: soup with dumplings, meat served well, a tart with strawberries and whipped cream. Dinner, however, was as always – egg, cold-cuts.
Nice-and-warm, there wasn’t anything from you today, either. Maybe the rain got in your way.
It’s now a quarter to ten, I’ll write to Mother now, then go to bed. This is terrible – I’ll probably not be able to send her anything on the fifteenth: the Sacks owe me 120 mar[ks], 30 will go to Anyuta, 60 – for the apartment and little things, 25 – to Tegel, 5 in reserve. And the passports?
Nice-and-warm, we love you very much, we greatly respect you. The roses have dried out completely, but they’re still standing on the table. My writing hand and the orange tulip of the lamp are reflected in the black, mirrory gloss of the window. Nice-and-warm …
V.
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[ALS, 2 PP.]
[14 June 1926]
TO: Hotel-Pension St Blasien, Sanatorium,
b Frau Dr Slonim, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
14/VI–26
Love,
I’m just back from the cinema and found your sad little letter. Love, move to another place on Wednesday – try Titisee, where there’s a wonderful lake and where I didn’t find the mountains oppressive. Or try the place the doctor recommended – in any case, look for something – since the whole problem is that you are unhappy living in a funnel, in a valley – but you can find other places – on a slope, on a summit, on a plateau. You need not get so down, my love. I realize you’re sick of the bad weather – but bad weather is everywhere these days – I’m complaining of the rain, too. Can’t you really find a nook for yourself in the Schwarzwald (I’ve spilled a drop of milk here)? Collect a few sanatorium addresses – and go. Understand this, my love, none of us wants to see you till you’re completely well and rested. I beg you, my love, for my sake shrug off all that gloom and move to another place, to a second, a third – only find some refuge at last. Think what I must feel knowing things are bad for you– and try to arrange something better for yourself. My love, my little one, my sweet happiness …
Around one I went to read about the Maid with Madame K, and on the way there I met the Walrus and the little saintly Nuki. I bent down to touch him, but he ran past paying absolutely no attention. I had lunch (ragout, salad, cherries), then went to Sack’s. We walked through the thickets of the Grunewald: the weather is windy today, and it was wonderful. Then I stopped by at Regensburg, where they were discussing your letter, and where they gave me a delicious dinner (vegetables in sour cream, wild strawberries). Veryovkin dropped in – he’s severely dizzy, and he’s very scared. About nine, I went to the cinema with Sergey K. and saw the new version of the film ‘Ways to Strength and Beauty’, hardly different from the first. Now I am drinking milk, eating the cold-cuts left for me and looking at your letter. My darling, you needn’t cry … You’ll see – I’m sure that if you find a place where you don’t feel the mountains – everything will go well. And here’s more about objects: I keep the stamps I put on my letters to Todtmoos in the folding aluminium tumbler I drank from at the creek on the way to Todtmoos … A sweet coincidence. My love, what can I do so things will be better for you?
V.
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[ALS, 4 PP.]
[15 June 1926]
TO: Hotel-Pension Schwarzwaldhaus,
Todtmoos, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
15/VI–26
Sparrowling,
It’s poured down all day without a moment’s break – ghastly – and it’s still pouring. I wanted to go to Sack’s by motorcycle, but the driver refused to go – too slippery because of the rain. A whole row of motorcycles, but no drivers in sight. A passer-by pointed out a tavern to me. They were all sitting there and drinking coffee with milk, in big mugs. I had to ride by tram – and when I arrived at Sack’s the front of my mackintosh was a sodden chocolate hue. We did gymnastics, we read. I got home and found a letter from Mother, who’d forwarded me a letter from Bobby de Calry (very sweet, he’s planning, I think, to invite us) and a letter to her from Sergey. I can’t stop myself copying it out: ‘. … I did not reply to your letter right away. I could not write because of the awful storm in my soul. Today I want to explain the situation to you. You must understand the utter importance of the decision I’ve come to, which I couldn’t not come to. You know my whole life for the last ten years has been a terrible one, not only a sinful life, but even a crime against myself. I never resorted to that power that helps and directs us to other ways. You know that we were not brought up in the Orthodox spirit. For me, Orthodoxy has never been and could never be any help. But, as always happens in life, a moment came when I received a jolt from without. I was facing a fatal and frightening dead-end. On the other hand, the man I’ve linked my life with, the man I love more than anything else in the world – had gone back to the church, i.e. he had received the same jolt from without. Those were terrible days. I am becoming a Catholic in full awareness of the inescapability of this step and with absolute belief in its necessity. Yes, of course, there’s been an influence on me: but not a momentary influence, not a passing one. More like help. An unconscious influence coming from God. The Catholic Church is stricter, more demanding than the Orthodox. I need the power directing and restraining me. Faith has come, God has come to me in earnest. The ceremony is taking place this week, and I ask you to think and pray about me. I know this is not superficial, but rather right, true, genuine. I will take communion every day to kill the sin in me, so God can give me strength, energy, and will. I will live alone. We aren’t separating in the full sense of this word. I am with him as before. But our life together in one room is incompatible with joining any kind of church. This is not easy for me, it’s very hard: I cannot cut off a huge part of my self with one blow. This part must change, and make way for something new and not sinful. If I could take communion more often than four times a year in the Orthodox Church, I would not have left it. Do understand how important all this is and don’t reproach me: it’s hard for me, too, but I a
m waiting for divine grace.’
I had lunch (veal cutlet, cherry compote), then sailed off (in the chocolate mackintosh) to Kaplan for the lesson. Once I was home, I sat down to write letters – to Bobby, to Mother (I am sending her twenty-five marks), to Panchenko (also 25) and to Lena. And then … Puss, what a little story! I was licking my lips as I began. It is called ‘Odd (A Fairy-Tale)’ and it’s about how the devil (in the form of a large elderly woman) has offered a little civil servant to set up a harem for him. You will say, frivolous Hebe, that the topic is strange, you may even wince, my Sparrowling. But you will see. Je ne dis que cela …
The dinner was as usual. It’s now half past nine, and I’m in my old grey trousers.
Sparrowling, how’re your spirits? I hope you’ll no longer be in Todtmoos when you get this letter. I’m afraid that if you open it on the second page you’ll think I’ve gone mad. In fact I’ve added all those quotation marks just in case. I think, overall, this is good for Sergey. It is true – Catholicism is a feminine, arrow-arched faith – the sweetness of painted glass, the suffering tenderness of young Sebastians … I personally prefer the most worthless, baldish little Russian parish priest to the rustling abbot with a pseudo-inspired, waxy countenance. And when I thought of the wonderful, happy, religion I have, my very own … But never mind. Probably, Sergey’s carried away by this, but in a deep, good way, that will help him a lot. And you, my Sparrowling, don’t be too angry at the rain. You realize it has to fall, it can’t help itself – it’s not its fault, after all, it can’t fall up. My happiness, because of it I haven’t played tennis for almost two weeks (I’m not comparing things, of course). But I simply – love you.
V.
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[ALS, 2 PP.]
[16 June 1926]
TO: Hotel-Pension Schwarzwaldhaus,
Todtmoos, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
16/VI
My sweet,
I dreamt that I was walking along the Palace Embankment with someone, the water in the Neva is lead-coloured, flowing thickly, and there are masts, masts without end, large boats and small ones, colourful stripes on black pipes – and I say to my companion: ‘The Bolsheviks have such a big fleet!’ And he replies: ‘Yes, that’s why they had to remove the bridges.’ After that we walked around the Winter Palace, and for some reason it was purple all over – and I thought that I must note this down for a short story. We stepped out onto the Palace Square – it was squeezed from all sides by buildings, some kind of fantastic lights were playing. And my entire dream was lit up by some threatening light – the kind you find in battle paintings.
I went out around twelve (wearing the new trousers, thanks to the sun), changed books at the Librairie, paid eight and a half [marks] there and headed off for a little garden on Wittenbergplatz. There I read for half an hour on a bench between an old man and a nanny, enjoying the intermittent but hot sun. Near one I went to explain to Madame K. that Joan is a woman, a historic persona, and, having explained this (till Saturday), returned home, had lunch (meatballs, wild strawberries with cream). Then sat down to write ‘Odd’. Around six I stopped by at Regensburger, but saw only Sofa, came back, gave the laundry to the maid (and wrote it down) and sat down to my little story again. Already seven (large) pages written, but I think it’ll be around twenty.
Meanwhile, it began to rain – and the rain may stop me from going for a walk before bed. And for dinner, besides cold-cuts, they served three little sweet pies – macaroni-like, fried on top and sprinkled with sugar (and very unpalatable). About the milk: this milk is different, more expensive, in hermetically sealed bottles, marvellous – it doesn’t go off. Here, my sweet, is what the sixteenth day of my grass widowhood was like. Neither sight nor sound of you. Why do you write so seldom, my sweet? I regret terribly not arranging for you the same kind of note-pad you arranged for me – with dates. It is five minutes to nine now. Two plumpish coffee-coloured dachshunds are frolicking below in the yard – from above, it looks like two pawless sausages rolling about. My sweet, I don’t know where you are now (where you’ll be reading this letter). I love you. My sweet, I love you. Do you hear?
V.
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[ALS, 2 PP.]
[17 June 1926]
TO: Hotel-Pension Schwarzwaldhaus,
Todtmoos, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
17/6–26
Mosquittle,
I received your little letter this morning. What’s really going on? Mosquittle, cheer up …
As soon as I got up I sat down to write (no, I went to post the letter to you and exchange the French book) and finished the story by seven. Dismal fish and cherries for lunch (I stopped writing about the soups a while ago: I can’t tell them apart). Generally speaking, they feed me a lot and constantly ask whether I am full. I am absolutely full. A few days ago, I complained that the cocoa was weak – and since then they have been giving me fine stuff – dark and sweet. And the little story turned out not bad (ah, yes, why am I so forgetful today … In the morning, the postman brought me twelve marks – for your wee little lessons – and I have paid ten of them to the cigarette man who arrived five minutes later. Very lucky), it’s rather long – about twenty pages, as I thought. I’ll rewrite it tomorrow. I stopped by at Regensburg at seven, saw everyone, had dinner there (the Bolsheviks are making concessions. They don’t have full-size, but they have other sizes. They’re knocking off between 20 and 25%. I heard this with half an ear. Everyone’s well. L. got the tickets for E. I., E. L. and Anyuta will probably see her off to Stettin. Anyuta was wearing a blue dress which had ripped open between her shoulder blade and armpit. I secretly threw the dead trunk of my cigarette under the couch – nobody noticed, it seems.) Near nine I went to the Tatarinovs – no crowd there, we had a very nice chat. A few days ago, Aykhenvald was visiting with them, and they managed to convince him that the little old lady Sofia S. rode a bike. On Saturday, they will have an evening of … aphorisms. Everyone must think of an aphorism on the subject of suffering and pleasure. No squeaking, Mosquittle. I got home around half past eleven and now I’m writing to you. The weather today was bearable (only one downpour – between five and six). My tender Mosquittle, I love you. I love you, my superlative Mosquittle. Maybe you’ll settle near Heidelberg – they say it’s wonderful there – won’t you? I can’t wait, generally speaking, for you to settle down very soon. My sweet creature … I don’t know ‘pleasure’ and ‘suffering’, I only know ‘happiness’ and ‘happiness’, i.e. ‘the thought of you’ and ‘you yourself’. They are very nervous here about some princes and some millions. I don’t know what the matter is exactly. I love you. I am going to bed, Mosquittle. I so much want you to be happy. Good night, my darling, my tenderness, my happiness.
V.
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[ALS, 3 PP.]
[18 June 1926]
TO: Hotel-Pension Schwarzwaldhaus,
Todtmoos, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
18/VI–26
Pussykins,
You write disgustingly rarely to me. In the morning, under the invariable rain (which is beginning to drive me mad), I floated to Sack’s, composing a poem along the way which I began yesterday before sleep and today, just now, I’ve finished. It’s enclosed. I did gymnastics with Sack and dictated to him. I returned home (composing all the while), had lunch – for which they served very tough meat – the landlady later ran in to apologize (and to make up, she sent me an excellent dinner: a large dish of fried eggs and ham). After lunch, I went to give Kaplan his lesson – we translated Rousseau – then came back, composed till six, and set off for Regensburger Str. Only Sofa was there. I sat at the table and wrote down several stanzas. A few minutes later E. I. arrived. We said good-bye very warmly – and I dragged myself home, half-stunned by the labour of my muse. I had dinner – and here the labours delivered, and I composed the whole poem. I think I’ll send it to ‘Zveno’. My sweet,
you see what a little day I had today. I’m unshaven and when I rub my palm over the stubble on my cheek, it sounds like a car braking. I forgot to write to you that when I was at Regensb. yesterday I asked them for nail scissors and a file, and neatly clipped my nails, which I had thoroughly neglected. Tomorrow I plan to perform the same operation on my feet too (but at home). On Wednesday, the landlady leaves for Terijoki for a month with her son and daughter.
Pussykins, how are you? Will you recognize me when you see me? Little Show has grown up a lot and we’ll soon have to buy him toys. Tuftikins wanted to have a Bubikopf, but they misunderstood and shaved her little head smooth (she now looks absolutely like a pawn). The rest of the little ones are all well.
My sweet, my dear one, have you found a refuge? When will you finally write to me that you are well, comfortable, in good spirits? As for me, don’t worry about anything, my joy, Pussykins: I live very well, eat my fill, read and write a lot. I’m very curious to know if you’ll like my little poem.