Jacob's Ladder

by Ludmila Ulitskaya

  I liked very much the part about the dispute over whether Gorky is a proletarian writer or not. Lunacharsky writes that you can’t create a standard of measure for a proletarian writer and apply it to every individual to see whether he fits. Gorky is an enormous phenomenon in literature, and in fact you have to do the opposite: with Gorky as your point of departure, construct your profile of a proletarian writer. It’s not standards of measure that create things, but things that give rise to standards of measure.

  I once read Andreyev, and Sologub, and Bryusov, and Balmont, and only now, when I’m reading this book, do all the disparate impressions arrange themselves into some coherent system. The system emerged because all of them—the former—are now illuminated by the light that the searchlight of the Revolution throws on them.

  Did you receive the letters with the passage by Sterne on the erotic relationship, the description of my morning ablutions, how I am wearing socks with holes in them, with an insert of rough sketches with Greek phrases, a poem by Selvinsky, a tender letter in which I wrote about the aroma of poverty, a long political letter that ended with Goethe’s line “Alles ist gesagt”? I cannot come up with a system—perhaps I should begin to number the letters again, as we used to do once upon a time?

  Let me know which of these names is most fitting for a story:

  The subtitle will be: “A Story of Doing.”

  “Man and Things”

  “Things and Man”

  “Things: Masters and Slaves”

  You wrote nothing about Genrikh!

  I would write more, but it’s already five o’clock. I’m hurrying to the club to practice with the choir. It’s the third week they have invited me to lead it. I embrace you, my dear. J.

  JACOB TO HIS SISTER EVA

  FEBRUARY 14, 1935

  My dear Eva! Your letter made me very, very happy. From it I was able to gather that the dark clouds have dispersed somewhat. I write Mama, knowing that she will share everything with you. But, of course, there are things I don’t share with Mama. I know from her about your home affairs, and I assume that you don’t quite share everything with her. The withholding of information has been hanging over our heads, as close as we are, for many years already.

  I’ll tell you about myself in a few short words. I had many difficulties with work. I changed jobs many times in the space of a year. I had no idea how adept I was at running an obstacle race! I worked as an accountant, an economist, a music teacher, a singing teacher, and I even taught accordion, which I had never laid eyes on before in my life. Now I’m the pianist in a dance class and have become a specialist in the foxtrot, all the waltzes (Boston, English, American), tango, and rumba. I can bear witness to the fact that the “foxtrotization” of Biysk is happening at a remarkably quick pace. Entire offices and organizations, from couriers to chairmen, have signed up for dance classes. People as respectable as the chairman of the Butter Trust, the local public prosecutor, and the chief of the local police all do the foxtrot! Soon, most likely, the banks will get on board. Respectable people hide their embarrassment behind the pretext of collectivity—the whole collective dances, and it’s awkward being left out.

  I was recently at a party held by some acquaintances. The hostess, who was celebrating her name day, invited me. The dinner was unbelievably sumptuous, with twenty different kinds of hors d’oeuvres, including such exotic dishes as pickled cabbage, pickled pumpkin, and beets. Provincial amusements are very limited. There is a great deal of bad wine and food, and loudness is a surrogate for good cheer and merrymaking. The louder the merrier. It’s difficult to refuse an invitation to drink, but I was staunch in my refusal, and stopped after two small glasses. Do you remember the Kiev cherry brandy that Dunya used to make? I recall that it was the best of all drinks—in color, taste, aroma, strength.

  They danced the foxtrot, and I played on a dilapidated old piano. They danced in furs, with the fur turned inside out. They sang and shouted out such masterpieces as “From a Far, Far Land,” “The Days of Our Lives,” and other examples of musical paleontology. I played the dancers an impossible mishmash of melodies, whatever came into my head.

  At three o’clock, with enormous pleasure, I returned alone to my room. I never suffer from boredom except on those evenings when I’m expected to have a good time. Then I feel I’ve fallen into some late-nineteenth-century mediocre Russian novel. These are the Russian provinces—and it’s as though nothing has changed since the time of Ostrovsky. But I’m running off at the mouth, as my habit has been with you from days of old … And it’s been so long since we talked—oh, how long. I don’t know whether you saw it, but there was a poem in the newspaper that went: “… work gave me knowledge, and that’s not all; my brain seethes with Marx’s Das Kapital.”

  Although there are fewer pressures in my life in Biysk than there were in Stalingrad, I recall the STP as a very interesting time, but I feel indignant about it. I did much valuable work there—an economic report about the reconstruction of the plant for a new model of tractor, the STP No. 3; a city planning project for a settlement; I wrote an article for an industrial journal on the popular economic significance of the STP (calculating the effects of the STP on the popular economy); an essay on the initial phase, etc. Being exposed to the American style of working turned out to be interesting and useful.

  But, for the most part, I have become disenchanted with economics. I read many books in new disciplines, and each time I regret the specialization I chose. I became disappointed in it even before it became disappointed in me. I recall with distaste the economic Mount Olympus that I was so enamored of in 1928 and ’29. I remember the battles in the State Planning Committee, the leading lights of the political philistines, who, during those years before the storm, understood as much about the political outlook as blind puppies. The country was about to take a giant leap into the unknown, which demanded courage and decisiveness, and they answered everything with their splendid “abstaining from voting.” Now they are all silent, not only because they have no political language, but because they have absolutely nothing to say.

  Long before the events in my own life occurred, I acknowledged my old mistakes; but I still can’t consider myself to be one of the nonpartisan Bolsheviks, following Marusya, who tries to pull me in that direction with all the passion of her nature. I regret that I’m unable. It would be easier if I could march in step with the times, with society, with my family. It’s unfortunate that I could have been able to work fruitfully, for the good of the country, but that under the circumstances I’m unable to do anything. From time to time, there is a false note that grates on my ear. It’s sad that almost none of the people with whom I could talk as easily and get along with as naturally as you are left on earth.

  Be gentle with Marusya, and don’t judge her harshly. All her unhappiness, and many of Genrikh’s problems, were caused by me. I always feel guilty that I could not have provided them with a peaceful and dignified existence. I bow down before your husband, whom I always underestimated, though now I understand the depths of his nobility, and wisdom, and self-sacrifice, and all those qualities that are lacking in me.

  JACOB TO MARUSYA

  FEBRUARY 16, 1935

  After work, I went skating. It was the third time I’ve been out on the ice, and after the mishaps of the first two times, I felt so confident and strong today that I did ten circles around the rink. I had tea at home, and all evening put together a chronology of the music of the Middle Ages. I am in desperate need of books.

  The last two postcards were so unpleasant, and upset me so much, that I immediately decided not to answer right away, so as not to give expression to rash feelings or ill-considered thoughts. Now enough time has passed so that I am able to answer calmly, and, possibly, in a humorous vein …

  Judge for yourself. Here’s what you wrote: “You’re smarter than everyone else, aren’t you … stubborn as a mule!” (I can’t even believe you would use such a phrase.)

  “… Yo
ur obstinacy … If you don’t want to, you don’t want to!

  “Your insurmountable obstinacy …

  “And I’ve become stubborn as well…”

  There was another one, a letter, long before these postcards. The letter with the “necessary cruelties.” I read it, and my pride and self-esteem were sharply injured. But I struggled against this bitterness and pretended I hadn’t received it. After that, I wrote everything in the same even tone, with equanimity.

  Dear friend, please understand me. Every remark you make to me is valuable and instructive, but you have more effective words at your disposal than those you have used. That is not the style, or the tone, that will reach me and evoke the desired response. A straightforward, friendly tone is all that’s needed. Not this “stubborn as a mule,” “pigheaded,” etc. That language is not in keeping with your style, and it is not worthy of our (I say with bold certainty) exemplary spousal and amicable relations.

  I wanted to write in a gentle tone, in order to protect your sense of self-worth and dignity, and in order not to offend you with some sharp nuance or careless turn of phrase. If you truly find my words to be affectations, unwanted impositions, understand that it is only due to stylistic awkwardness on my part. Don’t take the letter as it came out, but as I wanted it to be. This one time, judge me not by the results, but by my intentions. I am certain that my closing salutations will not give rise to dissonance when I write that I embrace you heartily, and kiss you deeply, and still long for a true and authentic relationship with you. J.

  FEBRUARY 28, 1935

  My dear one, I received the postcard in which you write that your bad working conditions are causing you great anxiety. What can you do if your high qualifications, your extensive knowledge, are not valued or required? The fault does not lie with you; it’s because the government has little interest in culture. More specifically, it demands culture that is truncated, “pragmatically oriented,” “useful” to its own needs. This is understandable: the government is seeking new cultural forms, and this is a difficult process.

  In March, I may send you at least as much as I sent in February, so keep this in mind when you’re looking for a new job. I already wrote you about my new earnings. If nothing changes, my affairs are going superbly, and I will be grateful my entire life for the fact that the Butter Trust first hired me, then fired me six months later. All the more since I’ve continued to do some paperwork for them in exchange for butter rather than money, and I sent it immediately through the mail to you. My life here is ideal—there are no other words for it.

  In the morning, I get up and read. I work at least five hours. My job starts in the evening. I’ve arranged things thus: the club pays two hundred, and the two technical schools pay 250. If everything stays the same … But my circumstances are subject to change. If I hadn’t taken up music, I would never have found work here at all.

  About my studies. I am delving into Darwinism, into biology. I have learned remarkable things, very significant. I move along at a rapid clip—I read a single thick scientific work in one morning, and during the next two I reread it and take my copious notes. And on to the next one.

  About letters. Fewer and fewer people I was once close to, even the nearest and dearest, answer my letters now. I tried once more to write to Miron—I sent him Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto. A month has passed, and still no letter. Is he avoiding me? Write me if you have any news of him. Perhaps I should stop trying to contact him?

  When you receive a parcel, please confirm it to me not in vague terms (“I received both the butter and the money”), but very specifically—how many pounds and on what date; there are several packages and transfers on the way at the same time, and I need to know which of them you’ve received.

  I beg you, do not forget to do this for me. And although I am reprimanding you severely for your lapse, nevertheless I conclude with some lines from Selvinsky’s Fur Trade:

  My little source of love and mirth,

  How marvelous that you agreed

  To spend your precious time on earth.

  J.

  MAY 2, 1935

  My dearest, my little one, what has happened? There has never before been such a long disruption in our correspondence. You wrote me your last letter on March 25; then there was a telegram that your letter would be delayed—and that was the last I heard. I have a presentiment of some sort of mishap or misfortune that you want to conceal from me. I left the most vulnerable part of my existence behind in Moscow—I never forget that.

  I went to send a telegram several times, but every time I decided against it—I didn’t want to distress you any more than you already are. I write you regularly; instead of a letter, on April 7 I sent you greetings (with money) through Konstantinovsky. I don’t know whether the money reached you.

  A month without news of you is so hard! And, as if by coincidence, I haven’t heard from the rest of the family, either. I’m very concerned—has something happened? I miss all of you terribly. The thought of Genrikh is painful to me, and in the last letter, when I gave way to this feeling, I wrote several words I shouldn’t have.

  My dear, wonderful friend, what should I write you? I feel that dark clouds have covered my existence again. What is happening with you, with Genrikh? I feel so lost and alienated in the Siberian expanses, and I am conscious of being absolutely helpless. Moreover, my longtime friend eczema has returned. I have the feeling that it returned because I so long for your touch.

  I embrace you, my girl. Please, write me more often.

  Your J.

  NOVEMBER 23, 1935

  Working in a bank … It’s not terribly hard, in fact. I’ve never worked in finance, and if I was able to master all the skills necessary for the job within a month, it means it isn’t a real profession. Any half-intelligent person could do the same. And this is a pity. I would like to sequester myself from dilettantes and nonspecialists through my profession. In recent years, I’ve become professionally disappointed.

  A departmental economist is a clerk, an educated pencil-pusher. When I entered this profession, I thought about economic research, and writing about it, in an academic environment. This did not work out, for both general and personal reasons.

  I beg you, find a free minute and go to October 25 Street (I don’t know the real name), Bldg. 10/2, Literary Consultancy of the State Publishing House, and find out whether the contest has already ended. If not, please pass along my three stories to them in an envelope.

  NOVEMBER 28, 1935

  … Now, about the parallels you see between Ehrenburg and Ostrovsky. In his book about Dostoevsky, André Gide expresses indignation at people who reduce writers to one thesis or idea, when the best thing about them is their complexity. He is delighted with the contradictions and intricacies in Dostoevsky’s writing. The best thing in life is complexity. In N. Ostrovsky’s case (How the Steel Was Tempered), it’s impossible not to see that, as literature, the book is weak and insubstantial, and that the style is a mixture of tastelessness and lack of culture. Ostrovsky is a miracle of will, of self-aggrandizement, let’s say—a genius at overcoming misfortune. That’s the best thing about the book. This is the only way the book captures the attention and sympathy of the reader. The rest of the book is very, very poor. The strongest thing in the book is its autobiographical dimension. His second book, with an invented plot, will be weaker. And how could someone who never had time to learn write a good book in the first place? When another such novice—the baker Gorky—began to write, he had already managed to digest an entire library. He was already inundated with literature. Writers are shaped either by life + books, or only books; but never life without books.

  You don’t have enough objectivity to evaluate Ehrenburg. I know that you evaluate him in light of one White Guard phrase about the national flag on an automobile, which he wrote in the Kiev Whites’ newspaper in a passing fit. After that, you refuse to countenance anything he writes.

  This is not right. Ehrenburg is a
great writer. Both The Second Day and Without Pausing for Breath are superb, masterfully written books. And such was the unanimous opinion of the Soviet critics. Ehrenburg is a writer of real complexity. He has internalized the technical skills of French literature, and he has introduced traditions of literary treatment of the written word into the Soviet literary tradition—which were always weak in our literary tradition, and wholly lacking in Ostrovsky. Ostrovsky doesn’t really write at all … It’s interesting to note that Ostrovsky finished writing his book in the evening, and in the morning sent it off by post. What naïveté!

  And read Ehrenburg’s poetry. Poetry doesn’t deceive. He’s a poet of great sensitivity, a true one.

  DECEMBER 28, 1935

  My dear friend, I am forcing myself to sit down to write you a detailed letter. It pains me to have to write it. This postcard information exchange is so ice-bound, so slippery (in addition to being irresponsible).

  But in the last postcard you informed me that you had already written a long letter, with an “analysis of our relations,” which was, moreover, cruel, in the tradition of “necessary cruelties.”

  If you have not yet sent it, please do not. I do not need it; nor do you.

  We have had a quarrel, a married couple’s quarrel. I want to resolve it, to end it, to put it behind us, to expunge it completely from the record. But you, on the other hand, want to explain things, to “teach me understanding.” I take everything back; I repent.

  My unfounded apprehensions about you, my vain interrogations, my inappropriate advice—let’s assume I didn’t write any of it. They were empty words and phrases. But, please, I beg you, let’s leave behind the unpleasantness.

  What was it that happened? In fact, it was trivial—something that in our former existence would have been resolved and forgotten momentarily. But here, at a distance, with miles and years interposed between us, a paltry thing becomes a large grievance.