Your Letters Always Smell of Faded Roses by Lesya Ukrainka

Your letters always smell of faded roses, my poor withered flower! Fine, delicate fragrances are like the memory of a treasured dream long gone. And now nothing can streak my heart like these fragrances that subtly, gently, yet persistently and irrevocably remind me of what my heart portends, and why I don’t want to, and can’t believe. My friend, my sweetheart, you were made for me; how is it possible for me to live alone now that I’ve known another life? Oh, I knew another life, full of a harsh happiness stabbed with regret and anguish that burned and tortured me, making me wring my hands and batter the ground in a feral desire to die, to disappear, to leave this world of happiness and woe that are so insanely interwoven… And then my happiness and woe were cut off suddenly, like a child crying, and I saw you. I had seen you before, but not as transparent, and now I came to you with all my soul, like a tearful child goes to embracing arms, seeking tenderness. It’s fine that you have never held me; it’s fine that there is no memory of kissing me, for I am coming to you from the captivity of tightest embraces and sweetest kisses! Only with you I am not alone; only with you do I feel like home. Only you can save me from myself. Everything that wearies me, everything that tortures me, I know you can take it away with your slender, trembling-like-a-string hand; everything that darkens my soul, I know you can chase it away with the fire in your gleaming eyes; no, people who are hardened to life don’t have such eyes! Those eyes are from other lands…

My friend, my sweetheart, why do your letters smell of faded roses?

My friend, my sweetheart, why can’t I wash your hands, your hands that are trembling like strings, with my desperate tears?

My friend, my sweetheart, will I die alone? Oh, please, take me with you, and let those white roses wither above us!

Take me with you.

Have you another dream where I don’t exist? Oh, my sweetheart! I will create a world for you, a whole new world of new dreams. I have begun a new dream of life for you, I have died and been reborn for you. Take me with you. I am so afraid to live! Even if I would be young again, I don’t want to live. Please take me with you, and we will walk quietly amidst a forest full of dreams, and we will vanish together, somewhere far away. And in the place that we lived life, let all roses fade and smell like your lovely letters, my sweetheart…

I reach my hands within the darkness to you, please, take me with you, save me. Oh, save me, my sweetheart!

And let the white and pink, the red and blue roses fade away.

7/11/1900
(Written four months before the addressee’s death.)

Твої листи завжди пахнуть зов’ялими трояндами, ти, мій бідний, зів’ялий квіте! Легкі, тонкі пахощі, мов спогад про якусь любу, минулу мрію. І ніщо так не вражає тепер мого серця, як сії пахощі, тонко, легко, але невідмінно, невідборонно нагадують вони мені про те, що моє серце віщує і чому я вірити не хочу, не можу. Мій друже, любий мій друже, створений для мене, як можна, щоб я жила сама, тепер, коли я знаю інше життя? О, я знала ще інше життя, повне якогось різкого, пройнятого жалем і тугою щастя, що палило мене, і мучило, і заставляло заламувати руки і битись, битись об землю, в дикому бажанні згинути, зникнути з сього світу, де щастя і горе так божевільно сплелись… А потім і щастя, і горе обірвались так раптом, як дитяче ридання, і я побачила тебе. Я бачила тебе і раніше, але не так прозоро, а тепер я пішла до тебе всею душею, як сплакана дитина іде в обійми того, хто її жалує. Се нічого, що ти не обіймав мене ніколи, се нічого, що між нами не було і спогаду про поцілунки, о, я піду до тебе з найщільніших обіймів, від найсолодших поцілунків! Тільки з тобою я не сама, тільки з тобою я не на чужині. Тільки ти вмієш рятувати мене від самої себе. Все, що мене томить, все, що мене мучить, я знаю, ти здіймеш своєю тонкою тремтячою рукою, – вона тремтить, як струна, – все, що тьмарить мені душу, ти проженеш променем твоїх блискучих очей, – ох, у тривких до життя людей таких очей не буває! Се очі з іншої країни…

Мій друже, мій друже, нащо твої листи так пахнуть, як зів’ялі троянди?

Мій друже, мій друже, чому ж я не можу, коли так, облити рук твоїх, рук твоїх, що, мов струни, тремтять, своїми гарячими слізьми?

Мій друже, мій друже, невже я одинока згину? О візьми мене з собою, і нехай над нами в’януть білі троянди!

Візьми мене з собою.

Ти, може, маєш яку іншу мрію, де мене немає? О дорогий мій! Я створю тобі світ, новий світ нової мрії. Я ж для тебе почала нову мрію життя, я для тебе вмерла і воскресла. Візьми мене з собою. Я так боюся жити! Ціною нових молодощів і то я не хочу життя. Візьми, візьми мене з собою, ми підемо тихо посеред цілого лісу мрій і згубимось обоє помалу, вдалині. А на тім місці, де ми були в житті, нехай троянди в’януть, в’януть і пахнуть, як твої любі листи, мій друже…

Крізь темряву у простір я простягаю руки до тебе: візьми, візьми мене з собою, се буде мій рятунок. О, рятуй мене, любий!

І нехай в’януть білі й рожеві, червоні й блакитні троянди.

7.11.1900
(Написано за чотири місяці до смерті адресата.)

Original text by LESYA UKRAINKA
Translation & Art by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2022

DARWINIAN // The Holes in Your Net

“Darwin, dear! Come to me, you son of a bitch!”

His face had the look of someone who’d taken a bite from a peeled apple only to realise it was raw onion. What the hell did this mad woman want now?

“I sometimes think it’d be better if I didn’t share a flat with you.”

Calix ignored Darwin’s caustic barb and beckoned him over. Yeah, that was typical. He could threaten to attack her with a tyre iron and she wouldn’t flinch. Nothing fazed her.

“Money’s dust, but my self respect isn’t,” Darwin muttered to himself. And he wasn’t even sure what he meant. It just felt like the thing to say in that particular moment.

Calix was pointing at the shelf with the look of Caesar saying the sacral “Et tu, Brute?” moments before being killed. Or doing the killing. Darwin had a funny feeling that the second option was more likely.

“What? It’s a shelf. There are things placed upon it. That’s its function.”

“I’m not retarded, Ezra.” Calix pulled a face. “I ask you, where’s the fucking fish thing?”

“The what? You’re a writer. How is it you cannot use your words all of a sudden?”

“You seem to have forgotten that I take lessons in Krav Maga. I don’t only belong to the school of high versification, you know.”

“Fine. So you can beat me with your fists as well as your tongue. What do you mean by ‘fucking fish thing’?”

“Fish! Fish! The aquatic craniate bearing gills that lacks digit populated limbs!” Exasperation was creeping into Calix’s voice. “It swims underwater? God, Ezra! Surely you’ve heard of fish!”

“You’re asking me where the goldfish has gone,” he said a little blankly.

“Well, you’re not as irredeemable as you make out.” Calix threw her arms up. “Yay! Let’s celebrate this fact, shall we?”

Darwin rolled his eyes. “Okay, I can do without the sarcasm.” He indicated the empty shelf. “I’ve got no idea where the fucking thing’s gone. Perhaps it grew legs and walked away in disgust.”

“Nice guess, Hercule. But in this case it would have left a fucking dust trail, wouldn’t it?”

“Not necessarily. It’s a fish. Fish are wet.” Darwin searched the shelf and the surrounding floor. “It would have left a trail of water…”

Incredulous, Calix watched as he got up on tiptoes to check the near the corner wall. He did realise that fish didn’t have lungs, didn’t he? How would it have gone anywhere if it couldn’t breathe out of water? Idiot!

And suddenly he said, “Oh, there you go!” He picked something up and waved it in front of her. “Looks like a letter. That isn’t your handwriting, is it?”

“No, it’s yours,” sighed Calix, barely hiding her annoyance. What a moron!

Seeing that she was trying so hard to keep her composure, Darwin backed off. He focused his attention on the letter instead. It was slightly soggy and the ink was a bit smudged, but at least it was mostly legible.

“Dear C & D, I have a very important message…”

“What is this?” laughed Calix, her annoyance quickly melting away. “Did you scrape this shit from out of our spam inbox? I can already guess what it’s going to say. We’ve won 1,589,125 euros, right? Oh, go on! Don’t break my heart. Please say we did and that we need to pay them a fee to have our prize money processed!”

“It’s not a scam.” But that’s not what his face was saying. In fact, Darwin was scrunching his nose in what seemed to be disbelief. “It’s for real. And… I think the goldfish wrote it.”

That caught Calix by surprise, so much so that she forgot to insult Darwin with her next comment. Well… it was more of a question really.

“The goldfish?! The goldfish wrote the note?”

She looked for all the world like a little girl that’d been told that clouds weren’t made of fairy floss. And this piece of information just wasn’t able to fit in her tiny cute head, let alone be processed.

Darwin nodded. “The goldfish.”

“Could you please do me a favour and explain?”

The rattled, almost polite, version of Calix was rattling even Darwin. He wasn’t used to seeing her at a loss like this. The sight made him inwardly cringe.

“I can’t.” He looked back at the piece of paper. “Fish don’t write letters. Only… it did.”

Darwin found a chair near the coffee table and sat in it rather heavily. He placed the letter on the tabletop and attempted to smooth it out, only his hands made the ink smear a bit more. “Okay,” he said softly, “I guess I should finish reading this.”

All Calix could do was nod.

Darwin harrumphed, then began to read.

“Dear C & D, I have a very important message…

STOP BICKERING!

Sorry, but I’ve had enough. What’s a goldfish to do when the two humans he loves most are at each others’ throats all the time? Every hour of every day is filled with your constant backbiting. It’s stressful, man! STRESSFUL!

I’m going on a trip to Ibiza with the express purpose of kicking back in a glass of rum and coke balanced on the navel piercing of an impressively norked chav. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in two weeks. In the meantime, I suggest you snippy suctorians work out your shitty problems, and learn to cohabitate in peace.

See ya later, motherflippers. It’s been real. A little TOO real.

Yours disapprovingly,
Augustus Adelaide Harold III”

Darwin leaned back in the chair, letter still in hand. Calix squeezed her eyes shut. It wasn’t clear for a moment if she was trying to digest what she’d heard or was simply in pain.

“Augustus Adel— What?! What the fuck was its name?”

“Augustus Adelaide Harold III,” repeated Darwin obligingly.

There was a pause. An uncomfortable pause. A light had suddenly switched on behind Calix’s eyes. “Hang about…” she said, as if to herself. Then she reached into Darwin’s pocket and fished out a leaflet. Before he could stop her, she read: “The most popular royal baby names.”

Darwin offered her a sheepish grin.

“Augustus?! Adelaide?! Fucking Harold?!” She looked at him with a mocking smile. “Oh my god, Ezra! You’re the worst! You were unable even to invent a cool name for a fish?! And what’s with the three on the end? Really?!”

Darwin’s grin slipped into a look of embarrassment. “I was trying to think of a name with authority. I guess it didn’t work, huh?”

“Oh, Ezra…” Calix sat in front of him on the coffee table. “You lovable idiot! You’re incorrigible.”

Darwin blushed.

“Why did you invent this bullshit?”

“I guess…” he began, then seemed to think better of it. “Nah. Never mind.”

Now it was Calix’s turn to roll her eyes. “Okay. Whatever. If it makes you happy then… ugh. I don’t know.” She looked around. “So, where did you hide the poor fish?”

It was at this point that Darwin’s eyes grew as big as saucers. He sprang out of his seat like an electrified eel and raced out into the back yard. “Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit…”

Calix shook her head and smiled. Yup, Darwin was quite mad, the adorable goof. This much would never change. Of that she was certain. She made a cuckoo sign, then walked off to poke her nose into her laptop.