Papa, are you busy? I wanted to ask you about one thing.
What, now?
All right, it doesn’t matter. Later. Someday.
Naturally, Evgenia Dmitrievna, there are definite drawbacks to any situation. I don’t like street orchestras. Drumming is to me what a thick fog is to you. Or a snowfall, for instance. Then it’s like even the streetcar’s wearing felt boots. Or new shoes—that’s a torture only the blind can understand. In general, as a result of their limited mobility, nonsee-ers’ muscles are flaccid, their bones thinner, and their fingers—here, look—can be bent back without much effort. And I’ll admit, I don’t find the way you slip me thicker, sturdier dishes so I won’t break them very nice, Evgenia Dmitrievna. On the other hand, believe me, the nonsee-er has his advantages. Why else would the philosophers of antiquity have blinded themselves? Evidently, they understood that your visible world, which you treasure so, is no more than tinsel, smoke, zilch. Those colour pictures say nothing about the essence of things; they only corrupt and render you helpless. With your eyes closed, you couldn’t even get your spoon in your mouth. Of course, it’s easy to cheat a blind person, but you can’t fool him. It’s not hard to artificially make the right facial expression in a conversation, but you can’t do that with your voice. Words lie; the voice never. What seems important to you—colour, shapes, so-called beauty—are in fact of no importance whatsoever. Does it matter what colour the sky or wallpaper is? A bust that is usually admired is really nothing special—a head’s a head. What difference does it make how you look, Evgenia Dmitrievna? I can’t see you, but that doesn’t change anything about our relationship. What difference does it make what kind of hair or nose you have? All that’s important is that you hate me.
The floor polisher came and slid his brush under the couch and out rolled a dried up Christmas mandarin orange, ringing like a nut.
Zhenya dear, what’s the date?
The teenth of Martober.
And they brought a blind man to Him, and they asked Him to touch him. Taking the blind man by the hand, He led him out of the village, spat in his eyes, laid His hands upon him, and asked whether he saw anything. The man looked and said, “I see people passing by like trees.” Then He laid His hands on his eyes again and told him to look again. And the man opened his eyes and saw everything clearly.
I explained, “Alyosha, my son, don’t act crazy! Why should you marry her?” He said, “How can you not understand? Vera’s having my baby!” I said, “Lord, who cares who’s expecting what from who!” And he said, “Mama, what are you saying! What are you saying!” I always called her Vera dear, darling—but she bore me a grudge and set Alyosha against me. Right before the wedding, a miscarriage. “Alyosha,” I told him, “This is a sign.” My little idiot should have postponed the wedding and let everything run its course—to the end. But no, he married out of principle. “You don’t love her,” I told him. His whole body flinched. “How can you know whether I love her or not? On the other hand, I won’t be a scoundrel.” Then there was another miscarriage. That was right before my eyes. A five-month-old boy. Hands, feet, fingers, ears, wee-wee—just like a live baby. The third time they told her, Choose, it’s either you or a child. What choice was there? For some reason Vera decided it was all my fault. That’s ridiculous, of course, but in her condition she might have thought anything. I feel like a mother to her. I do understand… I sent them a gift at Christmas, a Chinese cup with a lid, the one I had from my grandmother. And what happened? I came home and my box was standing by the door. As if they’d said, Go choke on your gifts. You know, Zhenya dear, at the time, I remember, I went to bed and thought I could never get up. No, that’s not it. I could, but I saw no point, no need. I wasn’t even hungry. I lay like that a whole week. I’d eat a bite, wander around my room, and go back to bed. And then, you know, life won out. It’s all so simple. I laughed at myself, fool that I am. Life’s like that, Zhenya. Afterward you have to laugh. Vera and I made our peace somehow. They would visit me on holidays, and I’d visit them. And here she’s fallen ill, and I wanted to move in to look after. “Don’t,” she said. If she says don’t, I won’t. “Zhenya comes over, she helps,” she said. “What Zhenya?” “Dmitry’s, Alyosha’s friend, his daughter. An odd girl, but good-hearted.” And here you are. What a happy girl you are, Zhenya. The very best is just about to begin for you. I know. I had all that. Imagine, Zhenya, for me, after every time, a while later it would heal. Can you imagine? My doctor, the late Pyotr Ilich, was always amazed. “I can’t tell you how many sugarplums I’ve seen in my day, but never in my life anything like this.” That’s what he called them, sugarplums.
So, kind Alexei Pavlovich, I hasten to inform you who is breathing seagull-beaten air that I had a fight with my father, that we made each other so mad we stooped to low blows. We shouted, trying to say the most hurtful things we could, and rejoiced in the wounds we inflicted on each other. I ran to my room and wailed for an hour. I assume you’re already experiencing a slight incapacitation, an unpleasant chilclass="underline" Did my father find out about me and you, about our plot, about the fact that I’m your secret, and therefore true, wife? Calm down. My father is still in the dark. What set us off was completely insignificant, not even worth mentioning. All that’s important is that we are little by little, bit by bit, sucking the life out of each other, and the closer we are, the more lethal it gets. Mika came in with water and valerian drops and begged me to take them, but I waved her off, knocking the tray out of her hands, and the glass spilled on the bed. She said, “Zhenya, the bed has to be changed!” And I shouted at her, “There is no has to! Leave me in peace!” Here I am lying in the wet and writing these lines to you. You, kind Alexei Pavlovich, are afraid of my father. So am I. I keep imagining telling him. What’s scary isn’t his anger, that he’d kill me and you—because he wouldn’t—but something else. My father is irascible, crude, and crazy. But that’s not why you’re afraid of him. You’re afraid because he’s holy, not of this world. He’s amazing, remarkable, a kind that no longer can or does exist. That woman, my mama, hasn’t existed for a long time, she’s absent in nature, and instead of her is a void easily filled by things and people, but my father has latched onto this void and won’t let anyone or anything in. He thinks he’s doing all this for me, out of love for me. He thinks he’s living for his Zhenya’s sake. He’s never denied me a thing, neither money nor time. He could play with me for hours—puppets, theater, post office, all that childish nonsense. When I was just a child, he was already jealous of the whole world, even when I was simply playing with other children. It’s a disease, insanity. He’s not normal. You never know what to expect from him. He does impossible things. In the spring we went to Petersburg, and on the way back the train was held up at a station; some woman had thrown herself under the wheels. Everyone went to look, and I wanted to go, but my father wouldn’t let me. I lay on my berth and read. Two Germans were standing by the open door in the passageway chatting. It was so stuffy, you couldn’t close the compartment door. The train started. We rode and rode, and the Germans kept chatting, or rather, one spoke while the other listened. I already had a headache, and that voice was so grating and effeminate, I couldn’t stand it. My father stuck his head out into the passage and asked them to move away or quiet down. I said, “They didn’t understand you.” And he replied, “The gentlemen are in Russia, so they should be so kind as to understand Russian.” The German did not quiet down and kept chattering. Finally my father couldn’t take it and hollered at him. “Du, Arschloch! Halt’s Maul!”[10] The Germans cleared out.