The Last Station: A Novel of Tolstoy's Final Year (23 page)

‘But this man is an atheist,’ Bulgakov said. ‘I fear he will deny that any presence whatsoever can be detected, either by love or by understanding.’

‘Yes, that’s true. But even if he prefers not to use the word
God
, he will nonetheless recognize his essence. He may call this
bush
, but the essence exists all the same. God can be denied, but he can’t be avoided.’

I complimented Leo Nikolayevich on his reformulation of a difficult doctrine. As usual, he puts the most complex matters in the simplest terms. It is a great gift, one that has made him the world’s teacher.

Soon we gathered on the terrace for tea. Sofya Andreyevna was in a dreadful state – eyes bloodshot, hair unkempt. She looked older than her years and seemed quite shaky. I was unhappy about the pain I have caused her, but I was resolved to stand firm. Morality must not bend to whim.

‘Stand when your guests arrive!’ she shouted across the terrace to her husband, who had sunk into a wicker chair. He looked embarrassed and stood with difficulty. Makovitsky helped him to his feet, scowling at Sofya Andreyevna, who scowled back. I should at least be grateful to her for ignoring me.

‘She is mad,’ I whispered to Bulgakov, who stood beside me.

A rough-hewn table, covered with a white linen cloth, stood in the center of the terrace. The samovar boiled happily away, shiny as Aladdin’s lamp, reflecting the late-afternoon sun. A bowl of raspberries splashed its color, in bright contrast to the tablecloth. I am quite able to enjoy myself in such a setting, but Sofya Andreyevna had cast a pall on the day. We sat in silence.

The lugubrious tea did not ruin my day entirely, however. I rode back to Telyatinki filled with optimism and genial feelings. Everything has been going so well of late. I am living again near Leo Nikolayevich, and the will is signed. The only problem is the countess, toward whom I must remain neutral to the extent that this is possible. I only hope that she has similar intentions.

As I entered the dining room for breakfast this morning, Sofya Andreyevna caught my eye. She was alone in the room, nibbling a piece of black bread, with a glass of steaming tea in one hand. There was a plate of goat cheese in the middle of the table.

‘Good morning, Sofya Andreyevna. Did you sleep well?’ I felt as though I were on stage.

‘You have been deceiving me,’ she said, more calmly than the content of her words might suggest. ‘You have been conspiring with Vladimir Grigorevich. You know the exact nature of his plots against me and my family, and yet you pretend to be my friend.’

‘No,’ I said, but I could see there was no point in protesting.

‘I have been talking with the servants. They have heard rumors. And they have
seen
you in the woods, gossiping, making plans, ridiculing me behind my back. Don’t think that I don’t have my spies, too.’

This was so ludicrous that I merely shook my head.

‘The worst of it, Valentin Fedorovich, is that I offered you my friendship and counsel, even my love, all quite freely. I expected nothing in return.’

‘I have not conspired against you,’ I said. ‘But I can see that you won’t believe me.’

‘I detest you,’ she replied, leaving me to eat by myself.

I felt much like the little clerk Shuvalkin in the famous story about Prince Potemkin, chancellor to Empress Catherine II. The empress adored Potemkin, who suffered hideous bouts of melancholic depression. When he was unwell, his rage was so dreadful that he was left to himself, at home, locked in his chambers with all the shutters closed. When he was ready to join the world again, he would emerge from his room as if nothing had happened. And nothing was ever said.

One of these bouts lasted for several months and produced serious problems for the court. Documents requiring the chancellor’s signature were piling up, and the empress was becoming anxious. The higher counselors of the court were assembled one day at the palace, discussing the matter, when the little clerk Shuvalkin happened to walk into the room.

‘Excuse me, Your Excellencies,’ he said. ‘I wonder why you are all so gloomy. Perhaps I can be of service?’ Shuvalkin was a man who wished everyone to be happy, especially those above him in rank.

A chuckle spread about the room. Then one of the assembly took pity on Shuvalkin’s ignorance and explained the situation.

In a wild flash of ambition, Shuvalkin said, ‘But, Your Excellencies, if only you will let me have the documents, I will remedy the situation. I have never been afraid of Prince Potemkin.’

It was a bold lie, but they believed him. He was given the unsigned documents and sent, with Godspeed, to Potemkin’s house.

He arrived at the imposing town house, with its slightly purplish facade of granite, and asked to see the prince on official business. The doorman looked at Shuvalkin with astonishment and said, ‘I cannot recommend that you disturb the prince.’

‘I have been sent by the Empress Catherine on official business,’ he said, exaggerating slightly.

The doorman, with animal fear in his eye, pointed the way to Potemkin’s study.

Through corridors carpeted with thick runners from the Orient, past galleries and music rooms, Shuvalkin approached the infamous study. The door was shut. Shuvalkin knocked once, then waited. There was no response. He had read in a book somewhere that opportunity doesn’t knock twice and decided, perhaps rashly, to take the plunge. He turned the brass handle slowly. To his astonishment, it was not locked.

Potemkin sat at his desk at the opposite end of the vast, musty room with the shutters closed, the room barely lit. He was sitting in a nightshirt behind his desk, unshaven, motionless. It did not seem possible to little Shuvalkin that the great prince, for whom he had run many errands, could look so poorly. Aware that his time was limited, he thrust the stack of documents under Potemkin’s nose.

Dipping a steel-tipped pen from the desk into a jar of ink, he handed it to Potemkin, who took the pen between his stubby fingers but seemed quite ignorant of Shuvalkin’s presence in the room.

‘Please sign the documents, Your Excellency. The empress’s need is urgent.’

Potemkin simply stared ahead, the pen in hand.

‘The documents are vital, Your Excellency. For the sake of the empress …’ It seemed hopeless, and Shuvalkin was about to flee when the prince, rock faced, began systematically to sign the documents. One by one, he turned the pages, signed, and blotted his signature. Soon the entire stack was finished.

Shuvalkin was elated. His career would soar. He imagined himself promoted to chief administrator of the city parks or head of document storage or, perhaps, administrative counsel to Potemkin himself. His heart leaped, and he had to restrain himself from kissing the prince as he gathered the documents in his arms. Wobbly kneed, he said, ‘Thank you, Your Excellency. Thank you so very much, Your Excellency.’ Still bowing and muttering, he closed the door to Potemkin’s chambers and ran into the streets.

Back at the palace, he entered the antechamber where the counselors were still assembled. The blaze of triumph was in his eyes as he held the documents before him. ‘They have all been signed,’ he said. ‘Every one of them!’

With amazement, the chief counselor accepted the documents. They were spread on a broad trestle table, and the counselors gathered round. Breathlessly, they bent to look.

The whole group seemed paralyzed. The chief counselor looked gravely at Shuvalkin.

‘Is anything wrong?’ he asked, stepping forward to the table. It was then he saw that the great Potemkin had indeed signed the papers, but he had signed document after document, in a bold hand, Shuvalkin … Shuvalkin … Shuvalkin….

Today I was Shuvalkin. I have behaved with fidelity, spoken truthfully to Leo Nikolayevich, to Vladimir Grigorevich, to Sofya Andreyevna. But everyone now considers me a fraud. They see my name on every evil document, but I have not written it there. Still, I must not blame Leo Tolstoy. He is not my Potemkin. God is my Potemkin, teasing me, playing a game that could cast me only in the worst possible light among this household or that of Telyatinki.

I received a letter from St Petersburg.

I could hardly breathe. Is it possible that I can live my life without Masha beside me? I have come to love her even more since she left, to yearn for her, to dream about her. I imagine myself beside her in our marriage bed, our children asleep in the next room. I imagine us, like kitty and Levin from
Anna Karenina
, tending the fields, working the land, enjoying the family hearth.

The possibility, the fear, of having too many lonely years without her stretches ahead of me, and I feel isolated and strangely vacant. God and work with Leo Nikolayevich should be enough to sustain me. But somehow, without Masha, my life seems valueless. I sat for many hours, alone, my eyes blurry with tears, reading and rereading the letter.

My attraction to the idea of marriage is not, however, enhanced by watching the daily struggle of man and wife in Yasnaya Polyana. Last night we had been sitting quietly as dusk covered the pond, watching the barn swallows dart and weave as they snagged fireflies in their tiny beaks. The August evening was dewy and rich. Red light streaked the horizon, the sun having just fallen behind the distant woods.

Shortly after dinner, Sofya Andreyevna came onto the terrace, where I was sitting with Leo Nikolayevich and Dr Makovitsky. She had a notebook in her hands. Her husband stiffened when he saw her.

‘I suppose your friends all know that you prefer men to women,’ she said, trying to provoke him, embarrassing Dushan Makovitsky so thoroughly that I thought he might crack.

‘For God’s sake, Sonya,’ Leo Nikolayevich said. he seemed less angry than weary.

Peace was not her object. ‘I have been rereading your old diaries,’ she said. ‘May I read something to your friends? They are both fascinated by everything the great Tolstoy has said or written – so they pretend.’

I hated being privy to such talk, but where was I to go? The normally expressive face of Leo Nikolayevich became impassive. He looked away from his wife.

‘Listen to this, friends,’ she went on. The note of insolence in her voice shocked me. ‘I copied this from his diary of 29 November 1851. It is quite revealing: ‘I have never been in love with a woman…. Yet I have very often fallen in love with a man.’” She stopped to let the weight of this passage sink in. ‘Can you believe it? Now listen to this: “For me the main indication of love is the fear of offending the beloved, of not pleasing him, or just fear itself … I fell in love with a man before I realized what pederasty was; yet even when I found out what it was, the possibility never crossed my mind.”’

‘So there it is!’ shouted Dr Makovitsky. ‘He has explained himself. We do not need to hear more of this, Sofya Andreyevna.’ His bald head twitched as he spoke, the slight dent in his brow going purple with fury.

‘I shall continue, Dushan Petrovich. It is all very intriguing,’ she said. ‘“Beauty has always been a huge factor in my attraction to people…. There is Dyakov, for instance. How could I ever forget the night we left Pirogovo together, when, wrapped in my blanket, I felt as though I could devour him with kisses and weep for joy. Lust was not absent, yet it is impossible to say exactly what part it played in my feelings, for my mind never tempted me with depraved images.”’

Leo Nikolayevich, looking disgusted, stood and excused himself. I was relieved.

‘See what you’ve done, Sofya Andreyevna? He has been driven from his own terrace,’ said Dr Makovitsky.

‘He is aware that I have hit upon the truth. Why else would he chase about like a schoolboy after Vladimir Grigorevich? He lusts after the man. He wants to roll about in bed with him, to smother him with kisses, to weep on his breast. Why doesn’t he admit it? Why doesn’t he just
do
it?’

I fought back a smile. She looked at me scornfully and stomped off. There’s a strange passion at work in her heart, but I’m all too aware of knowing very little of what has passed between Sofya Andreyevna and her husband in the past five decades.