22

B.’s Letters

Saturday.

My love! I told myself not to go to see you today. It’s hard for me to be close to you and yet keep my distance. It’s not easy, my dear, to be a hero. My God, to be a hero every time when, after all, I’m really no more than a man!

You won’t let me act like an ordinary, human man. Beloved, gentle girl, you force me to kiss your fingertips and grovel at your feet. With you, I must gently bend myself to your unbending will. Your will, which is so steadfastly . . . unwilling.

Maybe you’ll think less of me if I tell you that I regret allowing myself to overcome the temptation. But that’s how things are. You would already have been mine, and once I’d already had you once, you’d be drawn to me again. Yes, I regret very much that you have nothing to regret. Do you understand what I mean?

Yours, B.

Monday.

You say that you understand and you think I should put mind over matter. But, my dear, I don’t want anything to do with this “mind.” I don’t want to let it help me. I want to love and live. And you, my love, if I could give you some advice, it would be to set aside your reason, to leave it behind and give yourself over to what you call my foolishness. Let yourself be fooled, but allow yourself to love!

If you write and tell me to come, I will. I’ll love you, my God, I’ll love you as I’ve never loved before! Tell me to come, and I’ll know that you understand me completely.

Yours, B.

Friday.

You say that it’s better for me to write a letter than to come to you! Thank you very much! I appreciate how much you enjoy my letters. It’s true, it’s easier to sleep undisturbed with them. It’s easier to carry on a platonic love with a letter than with a living man. Here, you have a letter from me. Enjoy. Good night!

B.

Sunday.

Yesterday evening I came to see you and for a while I stood in front of the closed door to your room. Where were you? I wanted so badly to see you! I wandered the busy streets alone and thought: I love you, I love you, I love you.

I searched for your face on every passing woman. I ran into Rae, but I wished I were with you instead. I came to her room, passed the time with her and thought of you. Do you think of me? Do you love me? You’ve never told me so.

Tuesday.

You are incapable of love? You? You are the embodiment of love. What you really mean is that you don’t want to love. You are afraid because I’m not free. Do you want me to separate from the woman I’m bound to by law? Tell me. Maybe I will. I love you so much.

Thursday.

Your refusal to allow me to make such a sacrifice on your behalf is very fine. Fine and no more. You are very measured. Your measuredness comes from indifference. Only those who do not love can think so clearly about matters of love. Your concern for my family’s interests only shows that you are not interested enough in me.

Your letter was so cold, so stiff, so dry that even my wife could have read it. It was buttoned up from top to bottom. You have an exceptional ability to keep up the boundaries of decorum. You are so careful!

B.

Sunday.

Because you have kept me at a distance, you have thrown me into the arms of another. You, with your strict morals, have forced me to make love to my wife. If only you were the mother of my child—I would never hold another woman. But that’s not what you want. You just want to hold on to your high ideals. I cannot reach them.

Today I saw that lively girl, Katya. She was angry at A. for being such a razocharovaniye.

She’s a foolish girl, that Katya. But what’s the use of being wise? She, in her foolishness, lives more than you with your reason. A., it seems, has already gone far with her, but he’s a practical, confident man, and he’ll be able to get out of it after a while. She’s not the kind to get too attached to one person. And, as Rae says, “Good for her!”

I’ll come to see you tomorrow evening. I won’t beg for an invitation anymore. I will come, and that’s final.

Yours, B.

Tuesday.

Today I am not myself. My lips are still trembling from your wild kisses, which were bewildering, I must say. Strange thoughts swirl in my mind. Was it me you were kissing, or some other man, through me? Because you say that you do not love me, not the way that you should. I wonder: if you can embrace me like that when you don’t love me, what must you be like when you do love?!

You’re not just one woman. You’re so much more. I’m losing myself in you.

I’m jealous of whomever it is that you’ve loved before, if you’ve loved someone. And maybe you still love him. Who is he? I wish I could tell him that I’ve seen your magnificent body. I left marks from my kisses on you. I want him to know.

If my love for you lasts much longer, it will turn into hate. That’s what your aloofness will bring me to. I’ll brace myself and give you this ultimatum: all or nothing. You must answer.

Yours, B.

Thursday.

My love, what can you mean? Why are you so punishing? Why did ask me to stop writing about how I love you? Why? Are you afraid that someone will read my letters? Are you ashamed of your love for me? Do you only want me to write about my feelings for you so that you can have something to laugh at with your friends? Oh, you! Even after everything, I still love you. I close my eyes and imagine that I can feel your breath, hear your heart beating.

Do you understand, my sweet girl, what it means when you forbid me from writing this way to you?

I’m as open as a postcard.

Yours, B.

Saturday.

You cruel, lovely girl!

It’s been more than a week and you haven’t answered my letter. Is it because you don’t want me to write?

You’re mad at me, and I admit that I deserve it. A strange irritation made me provoke you. I was angry at myself because of your uprightness and character, and I wanted to cause myself pain through you.

Forgive me, my dear! Please, forgive me! Give me a chance to make it up to you. After all, I’m only a man, and my nerves are not made of steel. The indifference that you showed me in your letter, right after you showed me your feelings so passionately and wordlessly in person, drove me mad.

Tomorrow, I will definitely come to see you, and I hope that you’ll understand.

Your B., who no longer understands anything because he loves you so wildly, so hopelessly!