Jacob's Ladder

by Ludmila Ulitskaya

  The month of January was like one long celebration. Marusya’s birthday was glorious; everyone came to congratulate her on her special day, even Jacqueline Osipovna. It was the first time in her life that Marusya had enjoyed such popularity. Every evening, someone invited her to the theater, or to a party, and—the crowning event—Jacqueline Osipovna invited her to a Rachmaninoff concert. Marusya had never attended such a momentous concert, and didn’t realize she would remember it to the end of her days, because such an event happens only once in a lifetime.

  One more event took place—and again fate took a decisive turn with the help of Madame Leroux—in the middle of February. On the invitation of Jacqueline Osipovna, the legendary Ella Ivanovna Rabenek came to lecture at the Courses. A graduate of the Grunewald School established by Isadora Duncan, favorite of the great barefoot dancer and founder of one of the first schools of movement in Moscow, an actress who went onstage without shoes or stockings, scantily clad, a teacher of movement and rhythm in the Stanislavsky Art Theatre, she made her first appearance at the Froebel Courses in a formal man’s suit devoid of any feminine baubles or details, and wearing a flowery silk scarf, more suitable as upholstery fabric than as a lady’s garment. The audience was breathless with expectation. Marusya, who by this time had become a teacher in her own right and no longer rushed to meet the kindergarten children at seven in the morning but arrived at nine o’clock to lead her group in simple, unpretentious music lessons, had a revelation, as early as the first lecture, about why she was studying all this history and literature, anatomy and botany, why she listened to semi-incomprehensible discussions among adults and clever people, and why she went to theaters and concerts—it was to be able to study with the marvelous Mrs. Rabenek as soon as possible.

  The lecture inspired her with awe. The names alone—Nietzsche, Isadora Duncan, Émile Jaques-Dalcroze—the rhythms of the world, the rhythms of the body … All these rhythms were encoded in music, which itself is the expression of the pulse of the universe. Marusya had not yet had time to learn about the creation of the “new human being” by listening to and perceiving these cosmic rhythms, but soon … soon … Of course, this was what Marusya dreamed about—becoming a new, free-thinking and -feeling human being, the New Woman, and helping others along this path. Oh, the presentiment of marvelous changes to come!

  Still, what would become, perhaps, the most important event in her life occurred on the day Ella Ivanovna read her final lecture and gave a demonstration, with music. She changed her menswear suit for a short white tunic. There was nothing in her movements reminiscent of ballet. They were charged with freedom and energy, authenticity and daring. “This is me! This is utterly me!” Marusya felt with her whole body. After the lecture, she flew home as if on wings. Her posture and gait changed within a single hour—her back straightened out, her shoulders relaxed, her long, graceful neck seemed to grow even longer, and her feet seemed to glide over the ground as though on ice.

  Mama was already asleep, and her father was sitting by the kerosene lamp in his nightcap, reading an old book in French. She had no one to whom she could communicate her newfound joy, her delight, her sense of light intoxication. She lay down in her angular room, a former pantry, and thought it would be impossible to fall asleep; but she fell asleep instantaneously. She rose early, easily, made her Swiss ablutions, adding a few drops of the Brocard eau de cologne that Mikhail had given her as a present, and put on her new pantaloons. She held her corset in her hands, then cast it away, determined never again to squeeze her body into the disgusting thing, the outmoded, disgusting thing, because since yesterday her body had wanted to be free—not constricted, bound up, but supple and lissome, Grecian …

  She put on her old walnut-colored dress. Then, instead of the abhorrent overcoat, she put on a worn-out man’s double-breasted jacket, and a round fur hat with a shawl tied over it. When she looked into the mirror, liking very much what she saw, she thought, How charming that Marusya is! She laughed, because she remembered perfectly well which of Tolstoy’s marvelous heroines had said these words, delighted with the springtime and with her own youth.

  It was after nine o’clock when she left home. The weather was sunny, but fairly cold. The air was clear and pure, and the feeling of lightness and freedom from yesterday returned to her; she smiled thinking about it. It turned out, however, that she was not smiling at her recollections from yesterday, but at a young man who was standing in front of the window of the watchmaker’s shop. He had curly reddish-brown hair and was wearing a student’s cap and overcoat. His face, not quite familiar to her, beamed with the same joy that filled Marusya.

  “Maria! I despaired of ever seeing you again! Remember me? We met at the Rachmaninoff concert.”

  Although nearly a month had passed, Marusya remembered. She immediately remembered the student who had given her his seat in the orchestra, and then walked her home. He had impressed her then as a very well-brought-up young man, and now, too, he behaved with deferential respect toward her.

  “Will you allow me to accompany you?” he said, offering her his arm for her to lean on. The sleeve of his coat was made of delicate, expensive fabric.

  “Where are you going?” Marusya herself didn’t know where she intended to go. She had no lessons today with the children, and there were still two hours before her lectures at the Courses began.

  So they walked in the direction their feet carried them. Mariinsko-Blagoveshchenskaya Street, long and hilly, meandering up and down. Life still unfolded serenely, at a measured pace, on that street; but the peaceful days of the street, and indeed of the whole city, graced with its intricate, fanciful architecture, were numbered. Underground, the Revolution was already brewing, to be followed by civil war; and the near future—some weeks, at most—would bring with it the murder of the boy Andryusha, a murder committed “from personal motives” by who-knew-whom. If only he could have lived; but he was murdered, and the Beilis Affair was about to cover the local world in a poisonous, stinking fog. Nor had the assassination yet taken place of Prime Minister Stolypin by the terrorist Bogrov, who lived not far from here, on Bibikovsky Boulevard, though it was already being plotted. Lukyanovskaya Prison was expanding in all directions; the new buildings were all full, and countless people were incarcerated there, people still unknown to Jacob and Marusya: the Ulyanov sisters, and their brother Dmitry, and Dzerzhinsky, and Lunacharsky, and Fanny Kaplan. Very soon, through a little caprice of life, they would learn all these names, and many other names, and they would read books and play music together—for four hands, in unison—and all the novelties and discoveries in science and art they would breathe together, and this would fortify and deepen their impressions and sensations many times over.

  They walked along the peaceful Mariinsko-Blagoveshchenskaya Street and conversed for the first time. In some strange way, their talk unfolded almost without verbs, a single recitation of names and sighs, inhales and exhales, and occasional interjections: Tolstoy? Yes! The Kreutzer Sonata? No, Anna Karenina! Oh yes! Dostoevsky? Of course! Demons! No, Crime and Punishment! Ibsen! Hamsun! Victoria! Hunger! Nietzsche! Yesterday! Dalcroze? Who? No, never heard of him! Rachmaninoff! Ah, Rachmaninoff! Beethoven! Of course! Debussy? And Glière? Magnificent! Chekhov? Dymov? Korolenko! Who? Me, too! But The Captain’s Daughter! What happiness! Lord! Unbelievable! Never before anything like it! Jewish? Sholom Aleichem? Yes, the house next door! No, Blok, Blok! Nadson? Gippius! Never read her! Oh, but you must, you must! Ancient history! Yes, the Greeks, the Greeks!

  This was how they walked to the Botanical Garden. Then Marusya remembered that she had to go back soon, that she needed to go to Bolshaya Zhitomirskaya, because her lecture was starting soon and she would be late. He laughed and said that it was already too late for him, he had missed his altogether, and that today was the happiest day of his life, because what he had only guessed at had come to pass, and a thousand times better than he had guessed it might be … They didn’t part until evening. They walked
around the entire town, and came out at the Dnieper, and passed some time in St. Sophia Cathedral.

  Yet again there was the same recognition, the coincidences in the very depths of their souls, of their most secret and elusive thoughts. And where? In church! Who can you tell about it? It’s a mystery! Maria! The Child! Yes! I know! Be quiet! Impossible! Yes, my Nikolai! Nikolai! I sometimes turn to him! Oh yes! No, what baptism! No! Why? It’s a connection! Well, naturally! Never! Abraham and Isaac! Horrible! But the cross! But the sign! But blood! Yes! Me, too! And the fresco? It’s my favorite! Very favorite! Musicians! Yes, but the bear! Of course! Of course! The hunt is marvelous! And these musicians! Minstrels and clowns! This dance! King David?

  He was handsome in a special way—not a way that appealed to everyone, but he was handsome to her. She liked his heavy chin with its dimpled cleft, and his neat mouth, determined, without any youthful plumpness, and you could see that, though he shaved closely, if he let his beard grow it would be coarse and thick. His eyes were clear; his face was pink with health; and even in his uniform you could tell he was broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, with no extra flesh anywhere, absolute masculine clarity and definition.

  She was more than beautiful—infused with spirit! Her lacy wool shawl barely concealed her sunken cheeks; there was nothing superfluous in her features, carved by a gifted sculptor, or, rather, etched by an engraver or an artist—Beardsley, perhaps. Slightly muted tints, pastel, lighter than air. Air—that was her element! No flesh and bones, nothing weighty—angels are made of such stuff as she is! Yes, angels …

  The next day, they met again. Marusya told him that soon she would be graduating from the Froebel Courses, and she already knew what she wanted to continue studying. She told him everything she knew about the great dancer and her protégée, and about the rhythm that no one hears, in which is the key to everything, because outside this rhythm there is no life. You have to know how to catch the rhythm, and you can learn how to do it. It doesn’t matter what path you choose, but without this pulse, without the grand metronome, nothing is possible. And these years of study were only a preparation for what she was now ready to devote herself to … Precisely, only this!

  Yes, yes, I understood that very well when I was still a child. I was sick with tonsillitis, and I was standing by the window with a bandage around my throat, and I was counting the falling autumn leaves, and I knew that the pain was echoed by each falling leaf that touched the ground. I couldn’t explain it to anyone, and you’re the first one I’ve ever known who is able to understand it … Not Mama, of course … Oh no, not Mama … She’s not at all … Yes, yes … They’ll never understand … Although their love, yes … But such understanding … Such oneness … And music? Music! That’s where the metronome of life is! The pulse! The meaning!

  Every day, they walked through the city hand in hand, spending every spare moment together, and Jacob was happy and somewhat overwhelmed by this abundance of happiness. Marusya was happy, too, but also scared that it might all suddenly disappear. They discussed this as well, but he assured her that they would hold on to it, preserve it, and that she could count on him, put her faith in him, because he had had everything he might need in life except her. Now that they had found each other, it was all so simple. They lived on neighboring streets … Yes, Rachmaninoff, of course, Rachmaninoff!… It would be criminal not to hold on to the golden fish, the firebird, because everything had acquired meaning, a significance that was missing up until now. Now it had become clear why the world needed music, and all the sciences, and all the arts, because without love everything loses all meaning. Now the meaning was obvious, and not limited, but general, and pedagogy wasn’t isolated from life, it was invented precisely for the purpose of teaching people to be happy—and statistics, and political economy, and mathematics, to say nothing of music, were meant for one thing only, and that was to generate happiness.

  Several days later, having covered versts of city streets in the town where they were both born, while walking along the beautiful river in which they had both gone swimming as children: Do you not agree, Marusya, that the word “river” should be masculine, as it is in German: der Fluss? Well, like our word “stream” … “Dnieper”—even the name is masculine, is it not? Not like “Volga,” which is feminine … They skipped up the hills and down through the flats of the ancient city, showing each other their favorite places, growing so intimately acquainted with one another that there didn’t seem to be any more room for delving into each other’s souls. And this was such an unequivocal preface to a supremely happy future life that even kissing was frightening, as though it might scare away the still greater happiness that awaited them. Nonetheless, at night, Jacob, sprawled out on his bed, hugged his pillow tight and promised himself that tomorrow he would kiss Marusya. But tomorrow he backed down, afraid to shake her trust in him, to offend her by introducing something lowly into their high-minded, noble friendship. Marusya waited and prepared herself for this new step in their relations, but did nothing to hurry the event.

  It was still early in the year 1911; the end of February arrived. Their happiness was undiminished, and even put out new shoots, fresh green leaves. This major year, 1911, picked up definition and speed at a dizzying pace. At the beginning of March, Jacqueline Osipovna said that she had exchanged some letters with Ella Ivanovna Rabenek, who was inviting Marusya to come to Moscow for an audition, for the classes in plastique danse flore—movement and dance. Marusya, feeling a lump forming in her throat—her whole life, this lump appeared at moments of strong emotion, through the heightened functioning of the thyroid gland, as a doctor would explain to her many years later—said she would go, no matter what.

  Afterward, things happened as though in a fairy tale. Her brother Mark arrived from Petersburg to visit his family. Mikhail visited more often, so his visits seemed less momentous. Mark was only home for four days, and Marusya, from his very presence in the house, noticed how much everything had changed since he had left home. The whole apartment seemed to have shrunk, and, most surprising, her parents themselves seemed to have become more diminutive. They had never been large people, but when Mark, tall and broad, stood next to his father and bent his head down to him, and his father craned his neck, lifting his handsome head up to Mark, Marusya almost cried, realizing how much older her parents had grown in the last five years. Mark moved in an aura of prosperity and success. He announced that he was moving to Moscow, where he had been appointed to a new position. Now he would be working as an attorney in an insurance company; it was a challenging job, and they were offering him a large salary. He had already rented a furnished apartment in Moscow, and, by the way, the apartment had two bedrooms, so Marusya could come whenever she wished to stay with him. She gasped and said she was ready to leave immediately. There was no “let’s wait and see”—everything simply took off—and the next day he bought the train tickets. He put them on Marusya’s desk—two long, stiff cardboard tickets, and two pale-green slips of paper, the reservations for the sleeping car.

  On the evening of the same day, Marusya met Jacob and, beaming, told him she would be going to Moscow for an audition with Rabenek herself. Jacob was not glad. He took her hand, held it, then pressed it hard—not so that it hurt, but the gesture was charged with meaning.

  “You’re leaving for Moscow? We have to say goodbye?”

  “It’s only for a few days,” she said, and realized that she wasn’t telling the truth. If Ella Ivanovna accepted her, if she could find the money for the classes, she would stay in Moscow. It had never even entered Marusya’s mind before that her departure would mean she wouldn’t see Jacob for a long, long time.

  “I will wait for you to come back, if you ever decide to return,” he said with a somewhat theatrical gesture, himself aware of the theatricality, and wincing at his own hypocrisy.

  “No, no, don’t say that! After all that binds us together”—she didn’t say what “all” was, because they were bound both by spiri
tual discussions and by a deep attraction, which seemed somewhat shameful to both of them—“we will never lose each other.”

  They sat in the Royal Garden. Marusya was in a hurry—she needed to pack her traveling bag and run to say goodbye to Madame Leroux. Jacob struggled, because he had still not been able to carry out his intention—to kiss Marusya. He said to himself, It’s now or never, turned to her, moved his face close to hers, and kissed her … cheek. It was not at all what he had been dreaming about all those weeks. She laughed and said, “Later, later … Now please walk with me.”

  The next day, Marusya was sitting in a second-class compartment, in a window seat, next to her brother Mark, with a respectable married couple sitting across from them, older Kievans on their way to Moscow for a family celebration. They talked deferentially to her brother. The conversation was inconsequential, completely vapid, but very genteel. Marusya watched her brother silently, with the same merry spite that had been so characteristic of her in her childhood, but which had diminished somewhat during the years of her studies and her pedagogical activities.

  Thus, Marusya and Jacob parted for the first time. Although she regretted every day spent apart from him, the trip to Moscow, a city she had never visited before, and the opportunity to experience the highest achievements of world culture (which is how she envisioned this trip for herself), was something she wasn’t willing to pass up. Poltava was as far as she had ventured beyond Kiev, and the dreams and visions she and Jacob shared about traveling together to Germany, to Italy, to France, paled in comparison with this first real journey. In short, her great life plans had already begun to be realized. It was a pity that Jacob could not be with her this time, but this was nonetheless the start of that great and serious shared life that they had summoned up so quickly in their minds and hearts. It was the first way station on the road they had mapped out in such great detail in their imaginations.