The Last Station: A Novel of Tolstoy's Final Year (15 page)

‘I wish you good luck in the race,’ Leo Nikolayevich said, bowing to the driver, who grinned stupidly and bowed even lower.

‘It is our honor, sir, to meet Your Excellency,’ he said. ‘I have read about you in the papers.’

Leo Nikolayevich sighed.

Bulgakov was with us, awestruck as usual. Leo Nikolayevich seems to like him, so I do not interfere. For myself, I avoid the young man whenever possible, though Sofya Andreyevna courts him like a prince, which cannot be a good sign.

Thank goodness I was never young, except in years. Even as a boy, I understood that eternal things are all that count. And I have never wavered in my commitment.

‘The machine age is upon us,’ Leo Nikolayevich said.

‘It’s disgusting, isn’t it?’ I responded.

‘I suppose I shall not live to see airplanes,’ he said, pointing to a small group of children who had gathered about us. ‘But
they
certainly shall. I would rather see them till the soil.’

That night, he looked me in the eyes. ‘Automobiles, in Russia! There are people who have no shoes, and here are automobiles costing twelve thousand rubles! It’s filthy.’

I agreed, saying it would lead to revolution, and Leo Nikolayevich nodded. He believes that violent revolutions can only result in chaos, hence in worse conditions for the poor than now exist. This opinion, though correct, does not sit well with the revolutionary types who clog the entrance to his house each morning. No wonder the police lurk about the estate.

The situation at Yasnaya Polyana is desperate. Thank goodness we shall leave tomorrow to visit the Sukhotins at Kochety. Leo Nikolayevich loves his daughter Tanya, even though she has married that fractious bore and abandoned her father’s precepts. He is eager to get away quickly, before Sofya Andreyevna returns from Moscow, where she has been indulging herself for several weeks. Delightful weeks for us, I should say. Everyone is much happier when she is away from Tula. Alas, she suspects as much, and is rarely gone. A pity.

We were taken to the station today at half past seven in a troika. I have rarely felt so cheerful, and Leo Nikolayevich seemed alert and well. I checked his pulse several times, and it was normal.

Bulgakov met us at the Zasyeka Station with a small group of Tolstoyans – young Masha, Boulanger, Sergeyenko, and several others. A photographer hovered near us, clicking his contraption. Leo Nikolayevich seemed not to notice. Fortunately, we had to wait only a quarter of an hour before the train wheezed into the dock, steaming from all sides like an overworked horse.

A group of schoolboys emerged from a third-class carriage, shouting, ‘Count Tolstoy! Count Tolstoy!’ We pushed through them with difficulty. Leo Nikolayevich always insists on riding in third class, but today it was full. The conductor led us to a second-class carriage, a situation that clearly upset Leo Nikolayevich, who cannot tolerate a change in plans. We settled on pleasant benches covered with soft, blue cushions, but Leo Nikolayevich insisted that we or the conductor had conspired to seat him in a better carriage. This was simply not true.

At the fourth stop third-class space became available, and everyone was relieved. There are no seats in third class, so we moved a wicker basket near the window for Leo Nikolayevich to sit on and look out. He was so happy that he hummed to himself for much of the journey.

We had brought several newspapers with us, and one of them,
New Russia
, had excerpted a passage from
For Every Day
. This thrilled young Bulgakov, who insisted on reading it aloud. ‘Suffering and torment,’ he thundered above the clattering rails, ‘are experienced only by those who have separated themselves from the life of the world and, not seeing their own sins which have brought suffering into the world, consider themselves guiltless; consequently they rebel against the suffering they bear for the sins of the world and for their own spiritual well-being.’

Frankly, I did not understand a word of it. Philosophy has never been my strong suit. I am a practical man.

Leo Nikolayevich said, ‘This is what I have felt so keenly about myself. It is especially true if one lives a longish life, as I have.’ After a few moments, he added, ‘Too long, in fact! It’s a great misfortune to outlive one’s interest even in oneself.’

At each stop we disembarked to walk about the station. An old man gets very stiff between stops, so these ambulations are a necessity for Leo Nikolayevich. There was also the matter of relieving his bladder. I worry when he does not urinate frequently or properly. Infections can be lethal in a man of his age.

At one station, Leo Nikolayevich pointed to a policeman and whispered in my ear, ‘Look! a typical policeman’s face!’

‘In what way?’

‘Just look at him.’

I strolled past the man, pretending to mind my own business. He looked like most policemen: fat faced, full of jowl, but good-natured in appearance. It was a little embarrassing, but Leo Nikolayevich kept staring at me, as if to say, ‘Well? Was I correct?’ I nodded, and he broke into spasms of laughter.

I cannot understand him sometimes.

The conductor behaved badly, spreading word at each stop that Tolstoy was aboard. As a result, voyeurs pushed their noses against the window, ogling. A few would shout, ‘How are you, Leo Nikolayevich?’ and he would remove his hat in response.

At one station, a man rushed up to him and said, ‘Tolstoy!’

‘Not really,’ he replied. The imp danced in his old, gray eyes.

‘Not really?’ the man said.

‘Not really,’ Leo Nikolayevich repeated.

The man begged his pardon and withdrew, looking perplexed.

A telegram had been sent to Chertkov, asking him to seek permission from the government to visit Leo Nikolayevich at Kochety. During our last visit there, Chertkov had stayed four versts away, in Suvorovo, which is not in the province of Tula but in Orel. Leo Nikolayevich adored the irony of this situation, which reminded him of the exiled Voltaire, who constructed a castle in Ferney in such a way that his drawing room was in France but his bedroom in Switzerland. I, personally, find such connivances disagreeable. One should obey – or consciously disobey – the spirit as well as the letter of the law.

We changed trains at Orel, where there was an hour’s layover. Our baggage was carried to a small room off the first-class buffer, where I heated up some oatmeal porridge for Leo Nikolayevich, who had not eaten anything all day but a bit of stale bread that he carried in his pocket. Asparagus is in season, to my delight. It is especially good for clearing an old man’s urine. I asked for a dish of freshly steamed tips; when it arrived, it was nearly time for our departure. I complained to the station manager, who said I could take the dish with me.

Bulgakov led Leo Nikolayevich down the long platform to our carriage, followed by thirty or forty spectators. Leo Nikolayevich sat in the window of the third-class carriage once again, nibbling the slightly undercooked rusks. A young boy pressed his nose to the window, staring more at the asparagus than at Leo Nikolayevich, who insisted that I pass several rusks to the boy through the window. Taking them, the boy scurried off to eat them in private like a dog.

I overheard a man speaking to the conductor: ‘So the great Count eats asparagus!’ He spoke with a contemptuous note in his voice. ‘Who would have guessed? Asparagus!’ he said again.

I wanted to confront the fellow for his insolence, but I decided not to call attention to the issue. It would have been too painful for Leo Nikolayevich, who prefers to ignore slights and insults.

Late in the day we arrived at Blagodatnoye Station, where Tanya stood on the platform, waving her parasol like a figure in a French Impressionist painting. She was beautifully dressed, a real countess. Her father’s entire being came alive when he saw her. They embraced like children, with tears moistening their cheeks.

Tanya took us to Kochety, some fifteen versts from the station, in a plush droshky drawn by four black horses. The sun stood on the horizon’s edge, red and sharp. We had to shield our eyes.

Though he has often visited here, Leo Nikolayevich seemed enchanted by everything, remarking on the cool, green fields on either side of the road, the well-kept farms, the colorful dresses worn by women in the local villages. As it was Sunday, people were decked out in their finest. Leo Nikolayevich smiled almost continuously, exposing his red gums.

When we arrived at the Sukhotins’ – a magnificent house that sits in its own spacious park – Leo Nikolayevich declared that he was going to stay a very long time. ‘I shall love every moment of it: no passersby demanding five-kopeck pieces, no fugitives from the law seeking counsel, no mothers at war with their daughters….’

I do not actually
like
the hordes of third-rate revolutionaries, fanatics, and fortune hunters who cram the doorway of Yasnaya Polyana each day requesting an interview with ‘the Count.’ That he does not banish them all is to his credit. I do not share this largeness of spirit.

We rested before dinner, which was worth waiting for. So many delicious courses, served on English china! Leo Nikolayevich was animated, talking more than eating. I caught a glimpse of the young, carefree count who, back in the 1850s, had dazzled Parisian society with his wit and knowledge, with the sheer force of his character. Here was the man whom even Ivan Turgenev could not withstand.

On our last visit to Kochety, a drawling, simpering woman who was remarkably undeferential to Russia’s greatest author had said to Leo Nikolayevich, ‘Do try to be kind to my son, since he can’t bear you. Chat about horses – or something that will interest him. Perhaps he then will forgive you for being so eccentric.’

Leo Nikolayevich had grinned and nodded. Later, he claimed that he had enjoyed the woman. ‘Simplicity on such a grand scale is rare. She has a kind of purity I admire.’ I did not, myself, see the purity.

Before retiring, Leo Nikolayevich wanted to walk in the park, alone, to ‘gather his thoughts before sleeping.’

‘I’ll go with you, Papa,’ said Tanya, taking his arm.

‘Let me go alone,’ he said.

Nervously, Tanya agreed.

‘What are you afraid of?’ he asked her. ‘Wolves?’

‘You might stumble.’

‘And the sky might fall!’

She looked mildly sullen.

‘My darling, you worry too much about your poor old father. I have already lived a very long time. There is no need to trouble yourself.’

He walked off, leaning on a cane, into the cool air.

I sat comfortably in the drawing room with a glass of tea on my lap while Sukhotin nattered on about the rights of landowners and government levies.

More than an hour passed without a sign of Leo Nikolayevich, and it was now dark.

‘I suspect that something has gone wrong,’ Tanya said, breaking our conversation at a convenient point. She clasped her hands in front of her chest like a young matron.

‘Not to worry, dear,’ Sukhotin said, growing red in the cheeks – the effect more of brandy than of panic. ‘Let me dispatch servants throughout the park. They will find him.’

He toddled off to the front hall, where he rang a bell that summoned the household staff. He rattled off orders like an old military officer.

‘He has only been gone for an hour,’ I said.

‘He could be dead!’ said Tanya. ‘He might have fallen into the pond!’ She began to sob into a red silk kerchief.

‘He has probably just had a little fainting spell,’ Sukhotin said, entering with the bluff self-assurance of a man of inaction. ‘They’ll find him, I’m sure of it.’

‘He is probably sitting on a bench,’ I said. ‘He wanders around Yasnaya at all hours. This is nothing unusual.’

But they could not hear me.

Bells rang in the distance, and a brass hunting horn was blown. Servants scattered throughout the park, crying, ‘Count Tolstoy!’ in a wild chorus that returned in mingling echoes.

When a good while had passed without results, I became afraid that my cynicism would be shown up. Putting on a cloak against the night chill, I set out myself on the least obvious path to the most desirable place. I knew that the large meadow behind a stand of pines was his most likely goal: Leo Nikolayevich likes to emerge into a clearing from a densely wooded area.

In less than half an hour, I found him. He was sitting on a tree stump, humming a familiar folk melody about an old crow that flies off by itself into a dark wood, never to return.

‘You’ve upset everyone at the house, Leo Nikolayevich.’

‘I have?’

‘Tanya thought you were dead.’

‘She overestimates my good luck.’

I sat beside him on the stump, which was vast and moldering. It was not comfortable.

‘Why did you come looking for me?’

‘They were fussing about you. I was afraid.’

‘You worry too much, Dushan. You must live as though your life does not matter.’

‘It’s
your
life that matters,’ I said.

‘That’s foolish. I don’t matter in the least. What matters is the lovely air we breathe. Smell it, Dushan.’

I sucked in a breath. Was it lilac?

‘I am enjoying myself tonight,’ he said.

‘You are causing trouble.’

‘Yes, that always pleases me, doesn’t it? A sign of vanity. I must pray about that.’

‘We had better find Tanya,’ I said, taking his arm.

Once we were inside, Tanya scolded her father. ‘You must not go out alone, Papa. Not in the dark.’

He winked at me. ‘All right, all right. And I shall try to walk on my feet and not on my head.’

‘That is not funny, Papa.’

Another day we sat together in the damp, green park. Leo Nikolayevich took me to look at a flowering chestnut tree that had, for mysterious reasons, caught his attention.

‘How marvelous it is!’ he said, holding my arm. ‘It all seems terribly new, as though I were seeing it for the first time. And the birds. Have you ever heard such wonderful singing?’ He talked rapidly, more to himself than to me. ‘And a little while ago I saw two eagles high above the clouds, and two kites!’ It is the geographic setting of Kochety that is most attractive to him.