Jacob's Ladder

by Ludmila Ulitskaya

  In spite of the technical shortcomings of his sartorial gear, however, Varvara Vasilievna’s prayers to the Lord God had evidently been heeded. After Vitya’s impressive lecture, the diamond door really did open before him.

  It looked like an ordinary, unprepossessing wooden door at Stony Brook University, on Long Island, and led to a wonderful university laboratory, where he had been invited to work. He would most likely have declined such a risky offer, but Grisha, who had acted as translator during Vitya’s conversation with the famous American scientist, groaned, clapped his hands, and threw them heavenward. “Vitya, this is your chance! And what a chance! It’s amazing! What a lab! There are a hundred people waiting in line for this opportunity, all of them deserving. You’ll be up for a Nobel before you know it. Whereas in Moscow they’ll just sweep the floor with you.”

  Grisha was more excited about his prospects than Vitya was. When he was leaving, he whispered to Vitya: “First I gave you the Old Testament in the form of Hausdorff, and then the New Testament in the form of Schrödinger. By now, you can’t fail to see that we are all engaged in a single common task—decoding the language without which no living thing would exist on earth. Holy Writ, Vitya! The Divine Text! There is nothing more important on earth.”

  Vitya thought about the offer and accepted it. He had his reasons—the laboratory was state-of-the-art, and he understood that he would be able to work much more effectively here than in Moscow. It occurred to him that he wouldn’t see his mother for a long time, or his son, but this thought didn’t hold him back. At first they gave him a place to stay on campus; a month later, he found an apartment to rent that was a ten-minute walk from the campus. Someone from the university assisted him in finding it, an extremely large unmarried woman of Irish extraction named Martha.

  In the Soviet Embassy, they were offended at first, and balked; then, by some miracle, they backtracked. They didn’t even stamp “unreturnable” in his passport. Instead, they retroactively granted him the status of participant in a “scholarly exchange.”

  26

  From the Willow Chest

  The Correspondence of Jacob and Marusya

  (MAY 1913–JANUARY 1914)

  MOSCOW–YURYUZAN MARUSYA TO JACOB

  MAY 8, 1913

  Give me your word, Jacob, that we will never, ever mention this again. Only on that condition will I tell you everything that has happened. It was terrible! In the middle of the night on the 5th, I woke up, not from pain, but from a sensation of hot trickling down below. I discovered that I was covered with blood. I was terrified. I couldn’t get up. Three o’clock in the morning! All alone, no one else around. I knew I was dying. But I managed to stand up and, somehow, make it to Nyusha’s attic room. I woke her up. During the day, I can telephone from Mrs. Malygin’s, one floor below. But not in the middle of the night! And I sent Nyusha off to alert Mikhail, who had arrived from Petersburg the day before and was staying on Sytinsky Lane. He arrived in forty minutes—very drunk, as he told me later; he was coming from some sort of banquet. After that, I don’t remember anything. I woke up in the hospital. Now I’m home again. Weak. But alive. We lost the child. And I beg you—bury the memory about what might have been, but now can never be. Perhaps for the best.

  YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

  Telegram

  MAY 14, 1913

  LITTLE ONE DEAREST IT PAINS ME THAT YOU SUFFER AND I’M NOT THERE ALL WILL BE WELL HUSBAND JACOB

  MAY 14, 1913

  Little one, dearest treasure, I am in despair. I rushed to see Lieutenant Colonel Yanchevsky without thinking and didn’t choose my words carefully—who was sick, with what, why it was urgent. In short, my request for leave was denied. There is another clerk here, on rotation, but he happens to be on leave for his father’s funeral. So I’m unable to come to you right away. It wasn’t me but Mikhail who was by your side, and this pains me. It’s as though he stole that moment from me when I needed to be with you. I will honor your wishes, and not inquire further about it. I just prayed to the God I’m not sure I believe in. And felt nothing but distant emptiness. I recall all the miracles that take place, even in our time—remember the stories my cousin told about John of Kronstadt? But I’m willing to pray to all the gods, even John of Kronstadt! Only I don’t know how.

  I retreated to my little corner, sat down, and was suddenly overcome with a boundless sense of gratitude, to whom I’m not sure, that you are alive, and well, and that nothing happened from which you can’t recover.

  MOSCOW–YURYUZAN MARUSYA TO JACOB

  Telegram

  MAY 16, 1913

  I’M FULLY RECOVERED JUST TIRED MARUSYA

  YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

  MAY 17, 1913

  Hello, my love. I got your telegram yesterday—it crossed in the mail with mine. You write that you have recovered, but that you’re tired. How is it possible to have already recovered? After such a serious condition, you can’t get well all of a sudden like that. You may feel better, but all the same you have to take care of yourself. Eat well, look after your health. All those things you aren’t fond of doing. And take your temperature—if it goes up, it could be dangerous. Yesterday evening, I stopped by to talk to a doctor, a Pole, who settled here a long time ago. He treats everyone around here. He said that if you don’t have any fever, and if there are no discharges, the danger has most likely passed. He said that anemia can sometimes result from this, and that you should have it checked. And, the whole evening, he regaled me with stories about some other Pole from Petersburg, who discovered some substance or crystal contained in the blood, and I spent two and a half hours listening to him. I’m usually interested in scientific subjects—but this time, not in the least. I couldn’t wait to get back to the barracks, to my bunk, to write you and tell you to take your temperature immediately! And if you’re anemic, you must eat meat, cooked rare. Beefsteak. And lemons. In the morning, I’ll send you some money. I’m very worried about you, so look after your health. If not for your own sake, then for mine. And put aside your studies for the time being, I beg you. Write me openly, little one, and include all the details.

  MOSCOW–YURYUZAN MARUSYA TO JACOB

  MAY 24, 1913

  There are things that you want to erase from your memory forever. I asked you never to write me about this subject again. When the first sense of alarm had passed, I realized that I didn’t want to have the child at this moment, and the baby felt that. We will not have a little Elga. I feel profound guilt toward her, and I don’t want any reminders. I told Mikhail, too, not to dare speak of it again. If you want to anger me, you can continue to pester me with your questions and worries.

  YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

  MAY 31, 1913

  The greatest gift is confidence in your own future. For the past few days, I’ve been very downcast, God knows why. Perhaps you’ll think it’s because I doubt myself, doubt you, doubt life and all higher things. Not at all. I’ve only been thinking about my future earnings. Oh, how much I need to earn, to maintain a wife who deserves to dress like the famous actress she is, and to feed the fragile creature she happens to be, and to shower her with presents to make her happy.

  MOSCOW–YURYUZAN MARUSYA TO JACOB

  MAY 31, 1913

  Headache. Weariness. Bad temper. My soul is asleep—there is nothing I want, nothing! Suddenly everything has become dreary, a burden. Perhaps your unspoken desire that I leave the stage is bearing fruit. Our studio is preparing a new performance, to a new composition called “Leaves in Autumn.” I began the rehearsals, then abandoned them; and now I’m unable to take part in the performance. The performance is very interesting. The dancers are in thrall to the wind, which blows them hither and thither, sweeps them around, throws them down, and picks them up again. And every figure is stripped of her own strength and will, and submits to the whirlwind motion, the intricate but random interactions of the figures, and a gust of wind sweeps them off the stage one by one, defeated,
helpless bodies of the leaves and forlorn souls. After my absence, I came to the class and saw this piece finished, in its final form—without me. And the winter tour abroad, which I wasn’t eligible to take part in last year, will go on without me. London and Paris. It seems to me that I won’t have the strength to return to my studies after the troupe comes back from abroad. You are probably glad to hear I will be exchanging my old life for a more “respectable” one, and that I will devote myself to the subject of pedagogy, so dear to your heart, that there will be one more Froebel Miss on the planet, or, even better, one more housewife.

  YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

  JUNE 10, 1913

  Little one, nice as can be, I love your dancing, your art! Marusya, I have never had the privilege of seeing you onstage, but when I do, I’m sure it will bring me enormous pleasure. And it will happen, without fail. Your despondency can be explained by the weak state of your health. Your dance troupe will return, and you will continue your studies. I can take care of things myself; I can do everything around the house. I’ve learned how in the army.

  JUNE 15, 1913

  Sweet Marusya! More than half my term of duty is over! In two weeks, I was supposed to go to a four-month training camp, but suddenly I got lucky—they decided to let me stay in the office, because they couldn’t find another clerk like me anywhere. And they didn’t look very hard, because they foresaw that I would surpass everyone else in skill and dedication. True, I had to learn to write in a special “clerkish” script, so that the page looks decent and slightly legible. I can address an envelope with flourishes and curlicues that even Akaky Akakievich would be proud of! I even thought, Hmm, I’m a kindred spirit of Gogol’s character with the pen and the overcoat … my penurious friend!

  I’m spurring myself on. My studies have me chomping at the bit, and the books are good. In four months, you can accomplish a lot. It’s too bad I postponed taking my exams. After I read something, it gets fixed in my memory, but I’ve never tested its longevity.

  MOSCOW–YURYUZAN MARUSYA TO JACOB

  JULY 6, 1913

  I’m in a foul mood again. I was just about to go to a restaurant, but I decided not to. I have promised myself that, from this month on, I have to live at a calmer pace. I don’t sleep well; I’m nervous. I don’t think I can be away from you much longer. I can’t, I don’t even want to, get close to other people when you aren’t here. And I’m lonely.

  I received an unexpected letter from Paris. Someone from the past wrote me. We haven’t seen each other or corresponded for many years. And now there’s a long letter. It was so strange to see a forgotten but familiar script all of a sudden. Sweet, strange life … There is so much sadness in memories of the past, and, true, profound happiness. My Jacob! My Jacob—you are the most important thing, the largest thing in my life. My young husband, dearest to me, closest to my heart. My own happiness; my own life. Good night! I kiss you.

  YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

  AUGUST 12, 1913

  Write me, Marusya, and tell me whether you have begun your studies at the Rumyantsev Museum. You had intended to read something there, if I recall correctly. And about the planes of dynamic composition, if that’s what it’s called.

  I did read the books you sent me. The Voice of the Blood is quite good, but the others—oh, how weak and uninspired. Really, to cool your ardor, find the article by Chukovksy in the June issue of The Russian Word. Don’t be afraid. You’ll admire him afterward—but his halo will fade just a bit.

  Now, Little Wars by H. G. Wells is something I understand. How could there be a parallel, though? I simply read one book after another. It intrigued me for a long time.

  Ask someone who knows the English language and literature to read Barrie’s play Peter Pan to you. It’s a wonderful children’s play in which the characters talk to the audience, and the very memorable finale depends on the last answer given by the audience.

  AUGUST 23, 1913

  I’m reading Myths in Art—Old and New by René Ménard. I’m not so much reading it as looking at it, and I can’t get enough of it. Sculpture from antiquity—if it truly captures the structure of the modern human bodies—emphasizes a fact that I have never noticed before. A woman’s body does not differ so much from that of a man. There are many, many sculptures and statues in which the breasts are the only distinguishing feature between man and woman. But there are figures in which this sign communicates nothing. The majority of the male gods have a soft, rounded build, with somewhat full hips, shoulders, hands, and breasts that are too small for a woman but slightly too large for a man. The face does not always convey features typical of one sex or the other, especially if the face is very young. The width of the hips is misleading in the extreme. In modern man, the hips are considerably narrower.

  Dress is the most unreliable sign of all. Apollo Musagetes is wearing a pleated robe with a train and a high waist. Apollo Sauroctonos has a typical woman’s body, with delicate, slender legs. Venus Genetrix has a typical male body.

  One could cite many examples on this subject, but there’s no reason to do so. It is enough just to visit a museum or examine a cultural atlas to be convinced of it. Is it possible that the sexes back then didn’t differ so much from each other, that their ways of life, habits, ways of thinking, were more similar? They lived together, danced, studied, swam, practiced gymnastics, and loved together. Life was much simpler, more naïve. And that marvelous “unashamedness.”

  It’s difficult to love Egyptian stone sculpture, with dead figures and one-dimensional profiles. But the graceful figure of Isis is lovely. She wears a tight sheath that ends at her breasts. And on another bas-relief she is depicted with the head of a cow, feeding Horus, a youth who already stands shoulder-high.

  And about something that is of special interest to you, a good subject for your dynamic compositions: dance with theatrical masks. They are easy to create from papier-mâché. A tragic mask, laughing and crying. The possibilities are myriad.

  Isadora Duncan’s dancing, in which the only material is her own body, demands a special degree of talent, for the added richness of visual means of expression is lacking.

  There will come a time when you and I will read these books together—the history of art, music, a bit of medicine and pedagogical theory. The sooner the better.

  Goodbye, little one. I await orders for maneuvers. And then—freedom. It’s unlikely that I’ll be given early discharge, though.

  Write me sometime. I shower you with kisses—many of them, and often.

  —Your Jacob

  Addendum

  Look in the library for a handbook for reading the authors of antiquity, and for interpreting poetic allegories and symbols in works of art. Publisher-editor of The New Journal of Foreign Literature, richly illustrated. You might also need Stoll’s valuable work, Myths of Classical Antiquity. I highly recommend it.

  SEPTEMBER 15, 1913

  I received Footlights and for several minutes was transported there, to your world. It’s a pity it contains none of your notes! I enjoyed the article about Bogolyubov and the pictures of Reinhardt. I’m extremely interested in Western theater arts. Back home, I read a good book by Georg Fuchs—about the Munich Art Theater. And there’s still Dresden and Nuremberg to visit.

  If I were an opera director in the present moment, I would adopt Reinhardt’s views on it. Reinhardt is made for opera, with its palpable conventions, its heightened theatricality. Of course, all art has its conventions, but drama is still somewhat closer to life. Opera, with its enormous scale, needs large-scale directorial decisions. The architectural-sculptural manifestations can change from opera to opera, but the main thing is that the “spectacular” dimension, the “staginess” or “showiness,” is particularly evident in opera, in extravaganzas, in ballet, as well as in tragedy.

  The Munich Art Theater (drama) attempts to minimize the dimensions of the stage. On a large stage, the actors, characters, words dissolve and disappear. A la
rge stage always requires many people, which artistic necessity does not always call for. But Reinhardt works with thousands of people, whole circuses, hundreds of torches, thousands of colors.

  I read the papers and the magazines. I scour them for news about the Rabenek studio. And I read about the Free Theater, and about the Moscow Art Theatre.

  MOSCOW–YURYUZAN MARUSYA TO JACOB

  SEPTEMBER 20, 1913

  A few days ago, I was bathing in the kitchen. Nyusha was there, puttering around at her chores, and talking all the while. She recalled how, as a girl, she had liked to play outside, splashing around in puddles. And then about her family, how the matchmaker called and brought her together with her husband (she’s married). Then she started remembering her wedding night. I listened, quiet as a mouse. With a kind of agitation, and some other feeling I couldn’t quite describe. This is what Nyusha told me: It was very painful for her. She couldn’t bear it, and screamed at the top of her lungs. But no one responded to her call—everyone knew that that was how it happened. “Rivers of sweat were streaming down me. I started pounding him with my fists, then grabbed him by the throat, by his hair. I even pulled out clumps of his hair. I swear, madame, my heart starts pounding every time I remember it. For a whole week afterward, I felt as if I was ill. I thought I didn’t want to see a man again.” There were many other graphic details, but I’ll leave them out. And while I listened, I leaned low over the water basin, washing my feet carefully.