The Daily Worker Newspaper, November 6, 1926, Page 17

Fie ayes following two letters were simultaneously received at an ad- dress in Moscow, one from Smolensk, the other from Novgorod. They read as follows: ’ Letter Ne, 1. Dear Alexander: I am writing this letter to you to avoid a personal and painful explana- tion. It may be cowardly on my part, but this will be the last act of cow- ardliness you shall have a chance to blame me for. I have decided to part ways with you. I will not return to what we euphemistically termed our home, Please do not think that my affection for you has decreased. I am fonder of you than ever; in fact, after two years of sharing our lives I ap- preciate your qualities with a clear and’ frank understanding. If it is TWO LETTERS—A Story proaching the most difficult part of my task because there are things you will never be able ¢o understand. “Subtieties” you called them disdain- fully. Yes, dear, your freedom from subtleties made my life with you in- tolerable. What is there in clean hands? I know you recognize the dicta of hygiene; after long maneuver- ing I succeeded in making you wash your hands before a meal. That was hygiene; but I never could persuade you to wash your hands before going to bed. “Why, I just washed them before supper,” you used té say in frank amazement, refusing to be caught m the meshes of what you called “bourgeois . squeamishness.” You were right from your standpoint. But this trifle was only a symbol. You didn’t understand the finer things in any comfort to you, I will-say that 1|'ife, Whatever was beyond your he- like you very much, Alexander. And please don’t think that I am going away from you with a light heart. It simply could not go on any longer. I think we were mismated from the very start. “Was it practical considerations that drew me to you originally, as you seemed to have intimated more than once? In honesty, I cannot say that. It is true that I was destitute, despair- ing, unable to earn a living. I was not alone in this plight. There were hundreds of thousands of us starving, Physically and spiritually, in those ominous years. Collective suffering was easier to bear, no mabter what you may say about the absence of collectivist feelings on my part. No, it was not the case of an “offspring of the bourgeoisie” cliaging to a “power- ful commissar.” HK was not as simple as that, believe me. I wish I were as simple as the inanity of your com- rades-in-thought presumes us to be. No, it was something strong and beau- tiful, something that made me dizzy. It was your strength, that masterful agsurance with which you and your like bestrode the conquered and half- devastated but by no means pacified territory. That was your irresistible attraction in my eyes. You have been blaming me for having romantic ideas. Yes, I was brought up to seek ro- mance in life. Romance; in my imag- ination, was never disassociated from a hero, a man. Here you came, fear- less, heedless, seemingly’ impervious to pain or pleasure, a god of revenge, a furious spirit of the revolution, an elemental force that wrecks havoc on peoples and lands, rushing to its desti- nation which may not be known to any living man, I, a daughter of the class that was crushed under your feet, saw a flerce beauty in your onward march. | rtm " you rejected point-blank. How I was captivated by you the very first | oon and how persistently did I try day you appeared in our town, tho our},, persuade you that your inability to meeting took place much later. Do you member that day when you rode into the main street of the town at the head of your Red cavalry divi- sion? You seemed to be towering above the rest of your comrades, you made a sweeping gesture embracing the whole town, and I was thrilled by the metallic sound of your voice when you warned the crowds of in- habitants that acts of resistance would be suppressed with all the austerity of revolutionary law. It seemed to me that one of the legendary bogatyri ii id: i appreciate the symbolist poets does not make them imbeciles or madmen. You scoffed at those highly refined, almost ethereal emotions which, in my judgment, are the highest achieve- ments of human spiritual culture. IK would not have hurt me so much if you understood what you rejected; that would have meant meeting me on the same level. What was exas- perating was your repudiation of just to a higher level! of intelligence, to the realization of a common spiritual goal. I see a sardonic smile playing on your lips as you read these last sen- tences. In my optinipn, it is a smile of ignorance. Dear friend, you are ig- norant and conceited, tho you have read many books on sociology and economics, and tho you never take a step without the decision of the higher bodies. You are ignorant of the higher things im life, and you have not humility enough to acknowledge this very obvious truth. The absence of humility . .. This is perhaps the key to the understand- ing of our discord. You were tramp- ling over a field it took generations to cultivate. You destroyed in gay spir- its, you tried to build with sheer reck- lessness. I could not stand the way “Nothing like you were unconcerned. trying,” was your beloved expression. “We learn by our mistakes.” You almost made a fetich of mistakes. You expended colossal ‘quantities of energy without eqpivalent returns. Even this waste was sublimated to the state of a virtue. You referred to the “inex- haustible energy of the working class.” To me it was puerile, super- cilious arrogance, It would not have mattered had you kept your social affairs beyond the confines of the home. I would have made it my business to inguire as lit- tle as possible about your activities in your party, in your effice, in your department, had. you been willing to create something like the privacy of a home. There must be a line of de- marcation drawn between social and private affairs. I wanted™a home, a beautiful atmosphere, a nest full of You were so filled to overflowing with your social activities 3 E i j i z z 3 f g ; 4 7 He i fu f A Ht it j Hf | ‘ SF i HL i i By Moissaye J. Olgin : waters of pure sensuous enjoy- ment which at the same time is of the highest spir\ual quality, you sat like a censor called to judge the so- cial content of the plot. Whenever the play ill-fitted your sociological eoncep- tions you cursed under your breath. It was not “proletarian” enough for you. May I divulge a secret now? Theater-going with yé& was a source of continuous irritation. I have never spent one evening at your side with- out pain, What was more trying. I could not complain. You would not allow what you called “scenes.” You over- whelmed me with good humor, with words of endearment, as @ i were a child. You made up your @aind once and for all that my objections were emanating from an inferior order of inielligence. You hardiy noticed my pain. I don't blame you: public life absorbed all your faculties and atten- tion, There was something else. You never craved for beauty in your {m- mediate environment. You could af- ford to have beautiful, artistic things in your rooms. We must surround ourselves with objects of beauty; we must let them influence us consciously and subconsciously, if we want to re- tain the freshness of our souls. You, in your position, could have had beau- tiful fabrics, inspiring paintings, a hundred and one lovely objects which it is a joy to behold or touch. You insisted on making our home ag dull and commonplace as that of any day laborer. You called this simplicity. It was hideous, Sasha, hideous! It would not have been so humiltat- jing had I not known that for the pub- ‘lic, for the “proletariat,” you do cher- ish the ideas of beauty. It took my treath away to hear you discuss with Solovyov all the details of decorating the club, Coftfound it, you had in- ventiveness, you exhibited extraordi- nary sensitiveness to color échemes and artistic effects. You gave your- self to your chib; you refused te give one-hundredth of your attention to the building up of our own home, oar little private world. I am humiliated, Sasha, humiliated beyond words, I am fond of you I like to hear your gay laughter, I love to watch your white teeth glistening under lips parted in a smile. But I feel a peculiar estrangement which grows with time. I will conmfezs, I have met some of my own stam@ing. in contact with them, I realize more than ever what strangers we are, you and I. It teok me a long time to de- cide on this step. It hurt me to know that you did not even notice my stuffer- ings and despair. You lived serenely in a world away from my own, I do net believe you will miss me much. After all, I am only an “offspring of the bourgeoisie.” Be happy, Alexander, and if you can, retain a thankful memory of the things I have tried to give to you. So shall L Good-bye. Yours, Marta. (Letter No, 2 will appear next week.) TO A PIONEER See, child . *|- ? sweet, brave little one, —that vailey there where the men and the women, the lads and girls, move hang in hand, looking forward and above? . And every while another falls as they march up the slopes of the mountain; ' and see, child of mine, how the flag is thrown from thin eager hands to hands more powerful and young? —how the flag is slowly relayed to the summit? Ge then, my little comrade, inte the struggie, for you are one of us; you are young blood to atir and hearten the falling ones. We have need of you, Ploneer, My brave Pioneer kid! si OSCAR RYAN.