by Jay Parini
That was shortly after the death of my dear little Vanechka. He was my best, my sweetest and dearest little boy, so kind and loving. I cannot bear to say his name or think of him. On the night he died, I went to his bedside and felt his tiny, fevered head. ‘I’m sorry to have wakened you, Mama,’ he said. ‘Sweet child,’ I cried. ‘My sweetest child!’
Lyovochka never understood my grief. Nor did he see that Tanayev offered a balm. Dear Sergey Ivanovich led me from darkness into light. But how bitter my husband grew, full of jealousy and hatred, small-minded, petty. His so-called disciples come here day after day now, worshiping him like Jesus Christ himself, and Lyovochka allows this to happen. He is so greedy for publicity, so thirsty for praise. If only they knew what I know …
Sergey Ivanovich came to Yasnaya Polyana frequently, but always against my husband’s will. The great Russian author, heir to Pushkin, peer of Dickens and Hugo, would lock himself in his study, avoiding the dinner table, sulking like a child whose mother has refused to give him a sweet. Sergey Ivanovich, of course, behaved superbly.
Our best times together were in Moscow. Sergey Ivanovich would play for hours at the grand piano in the front parlor. How he could play the polonaise! After, we would drink tea together, talk, or take little shopping tours of Hunters Row. Sergey Ivanovich loves his food, perhaps a little too passionately, but I was willing to cater to his whims. We would steal away to Trembles, the bakery, and buy dozens of tiny mince cakes, bonbons, and chocolate truffles. All the way home we’d stuff ourselves, giggling in the back of the sleigh, while old Emelyanych, our driver, scowled. What blissful days!
I thought that finally happiness had found me. Then Lyovochka wrote me one of his famous, stupid letters:
I find it infinitely sad and humiliating that a worthless and unappealing stranger should now be ruling our lives and poisoning our final years together; sad and humiliating to be forced to ask when he is leaving, where he’s going, when he will rehearse his stupid music, and what music he will play. It’s terrible, terrible, base and humili ating! And that it should happen at the end of our lives, which until now have been honest and clean – also at a time when we appear to have been drawing closer and closer, in spite of the many things that divide us …
How he went on! My Lyovochka likes nothing better than to thrash himself, to don the hair shirt and mortify his flesh. But why does he always have to thrash me, too? The subject of Tanayev drove him crazy. Of course, it flattered me that he should, at his age, have become jealous of my attentions. Before Sergey Ivanovich came along, he paid no mind to who sat with me on the sofa or wrote me little notes or invited me to tea. I would never have expected this turn in Lyovochka, since jealousy is the province of those with nothing else to do. But Sergey Ivanovich annoys him in the most irrational way!
Thinking it over, I believe it has something to do with Tanayev’s womanliness. Sergey Ivanovich is not the brute, masculine type that Lyovochka, in spite of himself, admires. He would never be caught dead riding in the woods on horseback or, in his youth, shooting animals. He likes to take bubble baths, to perfume himself, to wear bright colors – the sort of behavior that irritates Lyovochka beyond description.
Ah, the letters that passed between us. Lyovochka hated my trips to Moscow and was sure that I went to our house on Dolgo-Khamovnicheski Street for the sole purpose of meeting Tanayev. For once, he was right. I was meeting him, and I loved those meetings! But nothing shameful passed between us. It was innocent, pure and simple!
One doesn’t have to become a man’s lover to love him. I know that. But Sergey Ivanovich is simply not the sort of man who takes lovers anyway, not in the usual sense. He does not require the baser satisfactions – something the old goat could never comprehend.
Once, only once, he kissed me.
But that is history. We do not see each other now. We do not communicate. Lyovochka put an end to it, with a letter sent from his brother’s farm in Pirogovo: ‘It disgusts me to see you once again taking up with Tanayev in this manner. Frankly, I cannot continue to live with you under these circumstances…. If you cannot put an end to this, let us part company.’
Let us part company! After a rueful laugh, I wept. But the letter continued, sketching out four ‘solutions’ to our ‘problem’:
The best thing is for you to break off all relations with Tanayev at once, never minding what be might think. This will release us instantaneously from the nightmare that has been tormenting us both for over a year. No meetings, no correspondence, no exchange of portraits, no little musbroom gatberings in the woods.
I could go abroad, having separated from you entirely. Each of us could then lead his or her own life.
We could both go abroad, thus facilitating your break with Tanayev. We would remain abroad for as long as it took for you to break this infatuation.
The most terrible solution is the fourth, and it causes me to shudder. We could attempt to convince ourselves that the problem will right itself and do nothing.
Why did he torment himself with such hairsplitting madness? I did not know what to answer him, finding the entire subject baseless and foolish.
For much of autumn I had been living in Moscow, studying the piano with Tanayev, attending concerts almost every night at the Conservatory. Toward winter, Lyovochka appeared on Dolgo-Khamovnicheski Street, his eyes red like open wounds, his hair and white beard flying apart. It struck me forcibly that he was deranged.
He said not a thing about Tanayev all day, but I knew exactly what lay behind his stalking about the house like a wild boar. Lyovochka is nothing if not obvious. As we lay in bed that night, surrounded by what he so charmingly refers to as our ‘disgraceful luxury,’ I spoke openly about the problem. I had considered it carefully, deciding it was not worth continuing my relations with Tanayev as presently constituted.
‘Lyovochka,’ I said, sitting up in bed. ‘I will end my lessons with Sergey Ivanovich. No more lessons. No more long stays in Moscow on my own, either, if that upsets you so much. But I do ask one favor: that he may visit me once a month – or every other month, perhaps. I want him to feel free to come, occasionally, to sit beside me at the piano for an afternoon, much as any friend would do.’
Lyovochka lifted himself to a sitting position, staring ahead like an embalmed corpse. He was shuddering, as if chilled to the marrow. I grew afraid.
‘Is that too much to ask?’ I said. ‘A simple friendship with Sergey Ivanovich?’
‘What you just said proves that your relationship with Tanayev has already exceeded the limits of friendship,’ he responded, his voice high and quavering. ‘What other person’s monthly visit would bring you so much joy? If this is the case, why not see him weekly, even daily! You could rejoice every moment of your life!’
The conversation went from worse to impossible. He called me a ‘concert hag’ and flew into such a rage I thought he would asphyxiate himself with anguish! But I got back at him. Perhaps ‘got even’ is a better way to put it. I would not be conscripted, co-opted, hemmed, and bordered. I would wage a war of the people, a war on behalf of my deepest needs. In the end, I would win.
‘Go ahead!’ I said, ‘Murder me! Slice my throat from ear to ear!’ I thrust myself backward across the quilt, exposing the tender region beneath my chin.
He fulminated, silently, for several minutes, then resorted to his chief weapon: his sex. Like a young lion, he fell on top of me, kissing my throat, then my forehead, rubbing my breasts with his coarse red hands. I realized there was no point, not any longer. I could not fight Leo Tolstoy – not now. But I quietly resolved to continue my resistance.
For the sake of politeness, I invited Sergey Ivanovich to Yasnaya Polyana for a brief visit, some months later. He came. And Lyovochka remained civil. But everyone knew it was over.
My one hope now, a faint but unmistakable beam of light tunneling down through the clouds of my life here, is Bulgakov. I realized shortly after he stepped through our door that this was a young man
with sense; he is not, like the dread Gusev, another of Chertkov’s mindless minions. Why do they kowtow to him like an Oriental prince? That tub-faced, sallow, spiteful man! If I could pluck his heart out with my bare fingers, I would do it. I would hang by my neck till dead for the pleasure of killing him. At least he is banished from Tula. The governor has good sense: Chertkov is a dangerous revolutionary. But he is also a fool. Bulgakov, whom he surely does not know except superficially, will never enforce his nasty little schemes. Chertkov has made a lovely little mistake here.
Yesterday, I waited outside the room where Bulgakov works.
‘Excuse me, Valentin Fedorovich,’ I said, when he stepped through the door. ‘Would you come to my sewing room? We could take a glass of tea and talk.’
‘Thank you, Countess,’ he said. ‘I would be honored.’
‘Please, my friend!’ I put a hand on his arm. ‘Call me Sofya Andreyevna. We do not stand on formality around here, as you may have observed.’
His arm was like iron, straight and strong. Though he is terribly thin, he did not seem weak. His eyes have a brightness and permanence about them, and when he speaks, he looks directly at you. None of the other Tolstoyans do this. They feel guilty around me – the weasels! But not Bulgakov. He is sweet and kindly by nature. He is intelligent, yes, but thoughtful and gentle. He does not feel superior because he has read Plato or some obscure German. Nor does he believe, like Chertkov and Sergeyenko, that eating no meat absolves him of all other sins!
‘You are a fine young man,’ I said, rocking in my chair. ‘Very clear eyes. Nice features.’ A fire had been laid for me, and tea was brought in crystal glasses.
‘Thank you, Sofya Andreyevna,’ he said. ‘It pleases me when my looks give someone pleasure, though I doubt that one should take credit for one’s features. I had very little to do with their invention.’
‘You might have ruined them by now. I have seen many young men ruin their looks by drinking and eating and running with loose women. You have kept yourself pure – a real Tolstoyan, I can tell!’ I fought to keep a lid on myself. If he sensed a note of ridicule in my voice, it might destroy everything between us. Like most young men, Bulgakov is oversensitive. He has not yet been around many adults, especially of the female sex.
‘I admire Leo Nikolayevich immensely.’
‘Good. He will like that. No amount of admiration surfeits him.’
Bulgakov was uncomfortable, so I changed my tack. ‘He is deeply grateful for the help you’ve been giving him. You’ve come up with a great many useful passages. He told me so himself. I think it surprises him that such a young man could be learned. When he was your age, he was whoring in the Caucasus.’
The dear boy cleverly ignored my derisory remarks about Lyovochka – a good sign. Tact is among the more socially useful forms of insincerity. It is noticeably lacking among my husband’s associates. Lyovochka, of course, has never had to worry about not offending people. If you are Leo Tolstoy, you merely reveal the Truth.
‘For Every Day is a noble project,’ he said. ‘It will help people to live more contemplative lives.’
‘Contemplative lives!’ I said. ‘You say lovely things, Valentin Fedorovich. A gift for the apt phrase!’
He was staring past me, out the window, where the snow was falling.
‘The winter has been good to us,’ I said. ‘Even with the snow. Not more than we can bear. I used to dread winters in the country. But Leo Nikolayevich adores it here. I can hardly ever get him to go to Moscow, except for the briefest visits. The crowds upset him. They mob him now – like an emperor. It’s hardly safe for him to travel.’
‘I heard about what happened at the Kursk Station.’
‘There were thousands of them, screaming and cheering, pushing around us! Thousands! The tsar himself does not attract such attention.’
He liked to hear me praise Lyovochka, especially his books. Unlike Gusev, who was a crass illiterate, Bulgakov has read everything by my husband. War and Peace he called ‘a monument’ and asked about its origins. So I told him about the five years it took to complete – back in the mid-sixties. Can it be so long ago? We saw almost no one during that time. Lyovochka wrote furiously, with no regard for the things of this world, no fretting over disciples, no Chertkov or Sergeyenko hovering beside him and tearing every sheet off the desk before the ink was even dry! I, his young wife, worked beside him through every stage.
‘I hunched over his manuscripts with a magnifying glass, trying to make out the infinite corrections, till my head almost burst with pain,’ I told him. ‘But it was bearable pain. I would awaken each day dreaming of Pierre and Natasha, of Prince Andrey and his father, even old Kutuzov!’
Bulgakov listened keenly. He is in love with Lyovochka. I could see that in his eyes.
‘My life is difficult now,’ I said. ‘You know that Leo Nikolayevich and I have had disagreements.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What is obvious cannot be ignored.’
‘I’m aware that there is a good deal of trouble between you.’
‘He thinks of me as his enemy, not his friend. But Leo Nikolayevich, my Lyovochka, is old and sick. We nearly lost him a few months ago, you know. He went unconscious for a day. His pulse nearly stopped.’
Bulgakov nodded. Furrows of sympathy deepened in his brow. His gaze was innocent as a pond.
‘You must help me, Valentin Fedorovich. I want only what is best for Leo Nikolayevich and his family. They want to separate us. You have seen as much, I’m sure. I could tolerate the situation if it only concerned me – I would dislike it, but I could stand it. What is unreasonable is for me to sit back while they steal his children’s inheritance.’
‘They would never do such a thing.’
I tried not to laugh. ‘They will do whatever is necessary to accomplish their ends.’
My young visitor grew ill at ease. I decided not to ask for his help. Not yet. I had first to be sure of his friendship, though I could see that a bond existed between us.
‘I will give you a present,’ I said, pulling from my dresser a small notebook I had bought in Moscow several months before. It had a neatly embossed cover, and the paper was handmade in Amalfi.
‘You’re much too generous, Sofya Andreyevna, I’m afraid I –’
‘Please! It’s yours, Valentin Fedorovich. For keeping a diary. You must always keep a diary.’
‘It is a popular activity in the province of Tula.’
‘You’re teasing me. Never mind. I will expect you to search your conscience daily, then to record the truth.’
‘The truth may not be so easy to find.’
‘You’ve been listening to your friends at Telyatinki. There’s enough truth about for all of us. Write what you see. That’s always the place to begin. Trust your eyes!’
He kissed me on both cheeks and bowed. His politeness was refreshing, and it made me long for Moscow. The crudeness of life around here is intolerable. I was not brought up to live like an animal.
I sat quietly by myself for a long time after Bulgakov left, thinking about him. And all morning I have thought about him still more, while the snow continues to fall, a dry, dusty snow that swirls on the window ledge, freshens the white fields, the whiter distance. I hear sleigh bells coming and going. Something is going on, but I am afraid to inquire. I feel certain that if the wheel does not turn my way soon, I shall be finished. I shall die, after which my children and grandchildren will be left with nothing. I pray that Valentin Fedorovich will help me.
10
L. N.
DIARY ENTRY
5 JANUARY 1910
I am sad. The people who live around me seem terribly alien to me. I have been trying to think how to react to the irreligious people of this world. Perhaps the best approach is to treat them like animals: love them, pity them, but make no attempt to enter into spiritual relations. Such attempts at connection would only produce unkindly feelings. These people do not comprehend my reality, a
nd by their lack of comprehension and self-assurance, employing rational argument to darken the truth, refuting truth and goodness, they provoke me to unkindness. I express myself very badly, but I feel one must cultivate in oneself a special attitude toward such people so as not to impair one’s ability to love them.
11
Dr Makovitsky
‘I had a dream, Dushan,’ Leo Nikolayevich said this morning. ‘Shall I tell you my dream?’
He did not seem well. His beard was straggly and yellow. I took his pulse and temperature. They were normal, but his eyes appeared more glittery than usual. I asked him how his vision was, and he said, ‘You’re always worried about my health, Dushan.’
‘I’m your doctor, Leo Nikolayevich!’
‘I don’t care what you are. I’m an old man. Old men are unlike young men in one important respect: they are not healthy. I am going to die soon. So let’s worry about something more important.’
I am quite happy, often, to dwell on trivial subjects. But I put away my medical things, not wishing to irritate him. Irritation increases his pulse rate.
‘Do you know what Pascal said about dreams?’
I shook my head. I am not well read.
‘He said that it’s a good thing that our dreams are disconnected, otherwise we could never tell them from reality.’
‘I rarely dream,’ I said.
‘Nonsense! We all dream. It’s just that we bury the memory. They are too painful. They tell us too much about ourselves.’
It occurred to me that nothing is quite so boring as listening to other people’s dreams. On the other hand, Leo Nikolayevich’s dreams interest me profoundly as indications of the way his mind works, as evidence of his genius. God speaks through him. I recognize the heavenly cadence in his voice.
I took out my notebook. It doesn’t appear to bother him when I transcribe his thoughts, though he occasionally teases me about it.
