V.
____________________
[ALS, 2 PP.]
[30 June 1926]
TO: Sanatorium, St Blasien, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
30/VI–26
My little one,
Today is the last of the pages you marked. Tomorrow it will be a month since you left.
This morning I took my time washing and dressing, then sailed off to the lesson with Mme Kaplan. For the last time (till August) I explained to her that St Joan is not Apostle John, but a young girl with a Bubikopf and warlike inclinations. After that I had lunch: fish and red currants. Then I went for a haircut. In the middle of the barber’s shop, on the tallest stool, wrapped in a sheet hanging down almost to the floor, sat a very little girl, her golden-yellow little head bent down, wrinkling her whole face, closing her eyes in horror, as the barber trimmed her fringe and then sprayed at her from a huge bottle. As for me, I left there with a round, youthful little head – and went to tennis. I was on top form today. The sun was scorching. About seven I came home, changed, and went to exchange a book, then called in at Regensburger. There I had dinner and composed, with your father, a telegram to you. Around half past nine, I took the underground to Potsdamer Platz (on the way there, I read ‘Rul’’ and now send you the clipping. Amusing, no?) and from there sent the above-mentioned telegrammlet. Walked home and ate a second dinner (cold-cuts – sausage predominating. Mustn’t forget two eggs and the oatmeal and the strawberry compote to which, in the absolutely incorrect genitive case (‘can the electric power of the particle “not” be so strong as to affect a noun two or even three verbs later?’ Pushkin used to say), Anyuta treated me), thinking that it’s been a while since I last ate Kohler cheese and looking at Bushms among the bushes. Already a quarter to eleven now – but I still need to write to Mother (and enclose twenty-five marks: more won’t be possible, my little one). I will write S. B., too. I have given Anyuta the money back.
My little one, be patient for just a bit more … It’s true that you need to get better … And then, you can’t count those two weeks which you ruined with all your relocations. I know that it is hard, my little one, but – have patience. E. L. told us how Peltenburg, flying from Moscow to Kovno on an aeroplane, entered a dangerous layer of fog. Lyusya: ‘Well, I would like to know, well, what did he expeerience at that moment, anyway?’ Anyuta (tearing herself away from the spirit stove): ‘In any case, he had more courage in him then than you just listening to this.’ Lyusya: ‘What? But still, it’d still be interesting to know …’ Your father likes my ‘Fairy-Tale’, but he finds that I ‘specialize in risqué subjects’. True, the story is a bit frivolous.
My little one, how are you doing? I love you. The sky is starry now, with a warm wind blowing. The roses, fossilized by now, are still standing on my table. A whole month! My little one, I am kissing you all over. There was a letterlet today. What’s that about the little monkey?
V.
____________________
[ALS, 2 PP.]
[1 July 1926]
[To: St Blasien]
[Berlin]
1/VII–26
Across:
1 behind bars, but not a tiger
2 [They] shout
3 A butterfly
4 A crowd
5 Give me oblivion … enchant …
Down
1 The spoil of the Russian Revolution
6 An inscription below a bald man
7 One of Longfellow’s cares
8 Biscuits
9 Body part
10 […]as a finger
11 In poetry – it smokes
My Kitty-cat,
I forgot to enclose the clipping yesterday. Here it is. In the morning I met Sh. at the Charlottenburg station, we went to the Grunewald, but since the weather was very overcast, we didn’t swim, just had a walk through the forest. On the way back, I got off the tram on Schillstr., – because a few days ago, I had noticed an entrancing purrypuss there – which I bought today. He is perfectly round, with a very sweet little snout and all in all no bigger than a grape. And he is intended for you. Only I don’t know how to ship him – in a letter? No, he’s too chubby for that. I’ll consult with someone tomorrow and then send him. Only bear in mind that he is very, very sweet.
Had a veal cutlet and Regina Claudias compote for lunch, and a letter from Mother. She writes that she is very touched by all you write to her about Sergey. What exactly did you write? I had a lie-down after lunch, then changed and went to play tennis. On the way there I met Korostovets and on the way back I caught up with a gentleman walking and gesticulating strangely, mumbling something under his breath. As I passed him, I realized it was the actor Orlov. He was rather embarrassed at first and then started to chat about all kinds of nonsense. He told me that a couple of days ago he was invited to a private party to read my ‘Fairy-Tale’ to them, which is what he did … I will be playing in a tournament next week. Bertman won a crystal carafe – I’m so envious. Ah, my Kitty-cat, I have just noticed that I have no more envelopes. I’ll have to buy some tomorrow morning – before Sack – and write the address in the store. Annoying.
I got home around seven, read an idiotic French novel by the philistine Rosny jeune, then ate the usual cold-cuts. Yes, I forgot to write that (so as to get rid of Orlov) I had to stop at a pub, where I had a beer – and also bought a chocolate bar, which I had at home with some milk. Now a quarter past nine. I’ll go to bed soon.
My Kitty-cat, I still do not know how you took our little telegram. You will find the promised little game, the krestoslovitsa (how gratifying to write a word I made up myself! It is almost two years old now) above. My Kitty-cat, send me another picture! Bushms is bored being alone … And descriptions of butterflies you have seen. Mme Falkovsky took my poem ‘The Room’ to type up. It will probably come out on Saturday – I’ve already warned Hessen. My love, don’t mope too much, keep adding your little pounds, a pound a day, so that by the time you arrive you’ll have gained half a pood. My Kitty-cat …
V.
[ALS, 2 PP.]
[2 July 1926]
TO: Sanatorium, St Blasien, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
2/VII–26
Across and down
1 Composer
2 A thin hair
3 Is waving
4 Roundish outline
5 Myself
6 Salieri’s girlfriend
7 Kind of boat
8 Bolsheviks
9 Unpleasant locale
10 Sylvan exclamation
11 Reproof
12 Artist, compatriot of one
13 Man with three arms
14 Half of five
15 Wouldn’t have come back without this
16 Five a.m.
17 Flower
18 Good acquaintance of five
19 Bird
20 Divine illumination
21 So long!
My love,
Right now a little dog is barking at an aeroplane: it’s buzzing in its bass voice somewhere – the wall prevents me from seeing it – but the little dog is standing on a balcony and yapping at the sky.
This morning I had a great swim with Sh. in the Grunewald. A huge, hot sun. You squint at it, and a silver glitter trembles, a rainbow splinter. On the way back, I bought envelopes, ink (and, as always happens on the day I buy ink, I made a blot), sent off the letter. I had lunch (yes, I must let you in on a little secret: so far I had my meals either at the writing desk or – if I was working – at the bedside table. Both were extremely uncomfortable. But today one of the tenants left, and at last I got a comfortable table for meals. It’s near the stove) – some kind of meat and wild strawberries – then went to tennis. I played so much and it was so hot, that I soaked through, like a mousch, and when I got back I took a perfectly delicious cold bath. Then I lay down for a while (Kaplan called: to say goodbye), thinking up a new little story. This will be an extensive review about (another ink-spi
ll …) a non-existent ‘literary almanac’. I think it will turn out to be rather amusing (have you noticed how deftly I’m skirting the puddle?), but it’s not at all clear whether ‘Rul’’ will publish it. For supper – at the new table – I ate fried eggs and cold-cuts (here the word puzzle’s showing through; I am curious whether you will solve it!). Now half past nine. My love, today is the thirtieth letterlet! Over sixty pages! A novel, almost! Had we published a little book – a collection of your letters and mine – there would have been no more than 20% of your share, my love … I advise you to catch up – there’s still time … I love you unspeakably today. My love, the newspapers write that on the 29th, there was an earthquake across all of southern Germany – that ‘houses shook’ in Freiburg. Did you feel anything? When I was little, I always used to dream of an enormous flood: so that I could take a boat ride down Morskaya, make a turn … Street-lamps are sticking out of the water, further on, a hand sticks out: I approach it – and it turns out to be Peter’s bronze hand! My love, do you miss me frightfully? When you arrive, I’ll meet you at the station alone – or not at all. In the ‘almanac’, there will be poems by a certain Lyudmila N., an imitator of Akhmatova. I will give you an example:
I remember just your coldness
and the diamond of the evening star.
Ah, I won’t touch up with mascara
these tear-stained, wicked eyes of mine.
Amusing? And there will be short stories, articles … But I don’t want to talk about this in advance. My love, I seal you with six kisses: eyes, mouth … and the others I shan’t tell you.
V.
MY GREETINKS TO PUSS MINE TOO POOCH
[ALS, 2 PP.]
[3 July 1926]
TO: Sanatorium, St Blasien, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
3/VII–26
Lomota, igumen, tyotka, Kolya, Maron
versifikator, Leta, chugun, tropinka
landysh, Ipokrena
Make ten new words out of the syllables of the words above, with these meanings: 1) A place where science meets ignorance 2) an engine 3) a city in Russia 4) a historic personage 5) a good woman 6) part of a cart 7) beatitude of the diaphragm 8) the first architect (see the Bible) 9) a lazybones 10) a woman’s name.
My grand ciel rose,
This morning I went to the Grunewald on my own, lolled about naked on the sand from ten to one, then came back and had lunch (liver, apple purée). A postman arrived unexpectedly and handed me fifteen marks from one Lazarus (I suppose he is your student?). This was a godsend, since I had not a kopeck, and meanwhile the laundry had arrived (4.50) and the lady with cigarettes (2.50). But the little man, you know, has disappeared entirely! A t’il eu vent de quelque chose? I must tell you that I started to write this little letter around half past two; stopped; went to play tennis (again a beautiful heat). But around six there was a downpour, and I ran home et je me regalai d’un bain froid. I lay down for a while just in my bathing robe – and I suddenly noticed that the ink blotter which you, my pink sky, carried so carefully on that distant day, when we bought it, was still lying rolled up on the wardrobe. I hurried to spread it out on the table, fixing it firmly in the corners with thumbtacks (punaises). Then I got dressed (everything new: the tie, the trousers, your shirt), and they have just brought me dinner. Stop.
I’ve had dinner: cold-cuts and macaroni. While I was eating, your dear, dear little letter arrived. 1) My little one, I beg you to hold out for two more little weeks or so … I can feel you getting better. As for the reason for your little fever – you know what it is, don’t you … 2) I like Burns a lot, but do bear in mind that the line ‘My dearest member nearly dozen[’d]’ is extremely indecent. 3) I do not know exactly yet when I’ll become Pozdnyshev. In any case, not before you get back. 4) The ciphered quatrain is ‘I know coldly and wisely …’ and so on. Great shame on you not to guess. I would have figured it out right away. I am sorry that my little games are not to your taste … I will send you one today, but not tomorrow … I have corrected my letter to Hanna – and I am refraining from reprimands …
Oh, my sweet, my own, eternally beloved … Such a sweet letterlet … How I love you … It’s eight o’clock now. I have to get ready for the Tatarinovs. The rain has stopped. I love you. Stop.
I’m back. About two. The action took place at Kadish’s, Danechka lectured on ‘dance’. (Volkovyssky couldn’t do it today). Tatarinov gave me an issue of ‘Russkoe slovo’ (Harbin) in which Aykhenvald’s article about ‘Mary’ is reprinted in full. Delightful, no, my love? I have put it in the carton. I have eaten a lot of apricots, and I love you very, very, very much. And I forbid you to ponder whether I miss you or not!
The height of ignorance: to think that ‘curriculum’ is Count Witte’s little nickname. And at the soirée, one person there maintained that you can express anything through dance, that you can dance ‘infinity’. I remarked that you couldn’t dance without limbs. My darling, I am going to bed. It’s rather late. I have been writing this letterlet in three steps. I love you, my Pussms, my life, my flight, my flow, darling pooch …
V.
[ALS, 2 PP.]
[4 July 1926]
TO: Sanatorium, St Blasien, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
4–VII–26
Enter through A and exit through B
Labyrinthie ‘Goat’s Skull’.
My darling,
There’s been rain drumming down since morning – I went out only to post the letter, then spent the whole day at home. For lunch, there was veal gigot and apricot compote. The little cigarette man appeared – with a huge wet umbrella and terribly unshaven. I took a hundred from him. After lunch, I read, tried to write, but wasn’t on form. Then I dozed off to the sound of the rain, and when I woke up – a pure blue sky was flying over the roof and in the puddles. Read again – and soon they brought dinner. Fried eggs and cold-cuts. Half past eight now. You see, my darling, what an interesting little day I’ve had. Maybe I’ll go out for a little half hour stroll before bed … My darling …
My darling, I feel now especially sharply that from that very day when you came to me masked, I’ve been wonderfully happy, it’s been my soul’s golden age (ah, a clothes-moth is skipping over the page: don’t you worry, it is not pellonela or carpetiella) and, really, I do not know what else I might need except you … My darling, among the little side-wishes I can mention this one – an old one: to leave Berlin, and Germany, to move to Southern Europe with you. The thought of yet another winter here fills me with horror. German speech makes me feel sick – you can’t live only on the reflections of street lamps in the asphalt – apart from these reflections, and blooming chestnuts, and angelic little dogs guiding local blind men, there’s also all the squalid vileness, the coarse tiresomeness of Berlin, the aftertaste of rotten sausage, and the smug ugliness. You understand all this as well as I do. I’d prefer the remotest province in any other country to Berlin. My darling …
My darling, I’m sending you a puzzle anyway today, too – a very sweet labyrinthie. I would have sent you a chess problem, if you’d had a chess set. You wouldn’t be able to solve one on a diagram, would you?
Tomorrow is the Board meeting of the Union of Journalists (in the Liter. and Art. Circle) where we’ll find out when the ‘Trial’ will take place, and the roles will be finally be assigned. (Aykhenvald is ‘The Prosecutor’). All of this is rather silly, but its goal – to bolster the fund – is good.
I forgot to write to you yesterday: the Latin name of the cabbage white – Pieris brassicae L. (Pieris – is a pierid, brassicae is from brassica = cabbage, ‘L.’ is short for ‘Linnaeus’, who, in his ‘System of Nature’, first classified butterflies and gave Latin names to the most widespread). My love, I’m so pleased you’re putting on the pounds. I love you utterly. I am kissing you, my head-spinning happiness, every little pound by itself …
V.
____________________
[APCS]
[5 July
1926]
TO: Sanatorium, St Blasien, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
AEROPLANE
How it sings, how – unforeseen –
it flashed, a glassy spark,
flashed – and sings
there, above the roofs, in the deep
sky, where, with a shining side,
a cloud rises!
On this peaceful Sunday morning,
its heavenly roar is a marvel,
its thundering velvet …
And under a linden, by the grille
of a locked bank, a meek
blind man listens.
Lips listen, and shoulders:
quiet human twilight
turned all ear.
Unearthly sounds soar …
Nearby, his dog, from boredom
snaps at a fly.
And a passer-by, money out,
frozen, head tilted back,
watches as they glide,
wings, blue-grey, transparent,
through the azure, where big
clouds shine.
V. Sirin
5–VII–26
noon
[ALS, 2PP.]
[5 July 1926]
TO: Sanatorium, St Blasien, Schwarzwald
[Berlin]
5–VII–26
A kind of epigram
on Aykhenvald
___________________________
He judges nothing from above,
a lover of words and their beloved.
A Pushkin line hides in his name:
‘The wide-noised oak grove …’
My Poundlets,
We received your exceptionally precious letterlet and are answering one point at a time. 1) Unfortunately, we are not endowed with any capital. At the moment, there are seventy three pfennigs in our pockets. We will talk to Anyuta, since we must pay for the shed tomorrow anyway. 2) About ‘Rul’’: in the letterlet of June 27th you write to us: ‘Have you paid for July? Do not subscribe for August, because we have already subscribed from here.’ Naturally, we immediately arranged for July. Your little letters, by the way, we know by heart. 3) We owe Anyuta only the old 29 marks. Tomorrow we will borrow 50 till the fifteenth. 4) We owe twenty marks to Tegel. 5) Gräger keeps mum. 6) We love you. 7) In those with holes.
Letters to Véra Page 14