Jay Parini - The Last Station

‘Isn’t that Englishman, Aylmer Maude, at work on a biography?’ I asked, knowing the answer already. ‘He is said to be a fair-minded person. He knows you well – and the truth of your relations with your husband.’

‘He is no better than the rest of them.’

I begged to differ, recalling a letter that Leo Nikolayevich had written to Maude only a couple of weeks before. In that letter, he chastised Maude for not appreciating the importance of Chertkov, ‘the man who for many years has been my best helper and friend.’ Maude fully appreciates Leo Nikolayevich’s overly high estimation of Chertkov. His work will set the record straight on these matters. In fact, Chertkov is terrified of what Maude will write.

Last night, once again, Sofya did her ritual dance, racing from the house, half naked, because her husband would not immediately turn over the diaries. But nobody pays much attention to these wild displays anymore. My impulse was to say, To hell with her. If she drowns herself in the pond, so be it. Life will be easier around here. But I cannot help feeling terribly sorry for her. Her life is made miserable by circumstances beyond her control.

When she did not return for some time, Leo Nikolayevich came into the sitting room, where I was reading, and asked me to search for her. His son Leo said he would join me but insisted his father accompany us. ‘What right do you have to lie in a warm bed when your wife is wandering the woods, driven insane by your obstinacy?’ he asked.

‘All right,’ Leo Nikolayevich responded wearily. ‘I will go with you.’

I split from them to go through the orchard, while they trudged off into the fields. They found her by a stream, delirious, and coaxed her home. It is by now a familiar scene, and very little was said. But I realized that things at Yasnaya Polyana are nearing a conclusion.

The effects of all this on Leo Nikolayevich are painfully evident. His speech is frequently slurred, and he hobbles from room to room with a cane. His writing slowed to a dribble before it stopped altogether. Chertkov became panicky. Tanya was summoned. Her presence becalms the Tolstoy household. Leo Nikolayevich loves her dearly, and he quickened visibly when I told him she was coming. ‘Wonderful news,’ he said. ‘I’m so glad. Thank you, thank you so much!’

It was odd, him thanking me.

‘I’m not asking for a great deal, am I? All I want is for Chertkov to return the diaries to me,’ Sofya Andreyevna said to her daughter Tanya, who had called a family summit in her father’s study the morning after her arrival. ‘If he wants to copy them, that’s all right. But I insist on keeping the originals.’

‘Is there anything wrong with this, Papa?’ Tanya asked.

By now the whole subject disgusted him. ‘Do what you like. Take the diaries. I want peace in my house. That’s all I want now. Peace…’

Pleased by his quick concession, Sofya Andreyevna set off for Telyatinki in a droshky. At her request, I accompanied her, aware that Sergeyenko and Chertkov would read my presence as an act of alliance. But I have, by now, given up hope of appeasing anyone.

The day sizzled, and Sofya Andreyevna looked like an empress, her white dress reflecting the sun off its many folds. Everything she does is calculated for effect, and today she was determined to shine. Chertkov’s mother – the queen of Telyatinki when she’s in residence – received us ceremoniously, ordering her personal servant to bring the samovar. We were ushered into the bare sitting room, which smelled of floor wax and burnt candles. Sofya Andreyevna looked mildly askance at the books and manuscripts piled on the floor. Chertkov came fluttering into the room, bowing and purring. He understood that a personal visit from the Countess Tolstoy could only mean trouble.

Sofya Andreyevna was left alone with Chertkov’s mother, while I was ushered into Sergeyenko’s study. Vladimir Grigorevich stood rigidly behind Sergeyenko, a general looking over the shoulder of his field commander.

‘Sit down, Valentin Fedorovich,’ he said, nodding in the direction of a straight-backed chair.

‘It’s delightful to see you both,’ I said.

Sergeyenko frowned. ‘What is going on?’ he asked. ‘Why is she here?’

‘We are not her favorite people,’ Chertkov added. He did not chuckle.

‘She feels that Leo Nikolayevich’s diaries belong to her, and she wants them back. But she says that you may copy them, if you like. It’s the originals that interest her.’

‘You told her they were here?’ Chertkov asked.

‘I assumed that you had them with you,’ I said. ‘Was I mistaken?’

Chertkov’s face crumpled like a piece of paper.

‘You may join the ladies, Valentin Fedorovich,’ he said.

‘I hope I didn’t make matters worse,’ I said.

I hated myself for saying that before the sentence had passed my lips. I have been trying, throughout this ordeal, to behave as straightforwardly as possible. When you are dealing with people who are suspicious by nature, you must take care to say only what is obviously true. Speculative remarks only invite further fantasies.

‘Go next door and have tea,’ Chertkov ordered. The remark infuriated me. I did not take this position to be treated like a child.

When Chertkov and Sergeyenko joined us in the sitting room, Sofya Andreyevna stood boldly. ‘Let me get to the point, Vladimir Grigorevich. I must insist upon the return of my husband’s diaries. I do not wish to be your enemy. I am glad that my husband has a friend such as you – someone who understands and shares his ideas. All I want is this little favor – the return of his diaries. If you will grant me this, I assure you that we can be friends. We should be friends, as you have said yourself, since we have so many common interests.’

I marveled at her self-possession.

‘You are very kind, Sofya Andreyevna. And I am glad that you have, at last, honored us with a visit. But I’m afraid I cannot help you with regard to the diaries. I can act only upon your husband’s directions.’

With this, Sofya Andreyevna bid them all good-bye, harshly, and summoned her driver.

‘Are you coming with me, Valentin Fedorovich?’ she asked.

Chertkov looked at me impassively.

‘Will Leo Nikolayevich be needing me this afternoon?’

‘You know better than I.’

It had been a mistake to hesitate.

‘I’ll be back later,’ I said to Sergeyenko. ‘After dinner.’

‘Masha will be delighted,’ he sneered.

Sofya Andreyevna looked at me knowingly, while Chertkov simply stared, his eyes as narrow as the tip of a pen.

In the droshky, Sofya Andreyevna turned to me coyly. ‘Have you been keeping something from me, Valentin Fedorovich? I should hope not. We have become close friends.’

‘It is nothing,’ I said.

‘A young woman in your life is nothing?’

‘Masha is a close friend.’

‘A lover?’

‘A good friend.’

‘That sounds serious.’

Friendship is always serious, I thought, irritated by her meddling.

‘I didn’t mean to annoy you,’ she said.

‘I’m not annoyed.’

‘You forget that I’m an experienced reader,’ she said. ‘I can read your face, every letter. The script is beautifully clear.’

Did I blush or merely imagine that my entire body flamed? I said, ‘My relations with Masha are somewhat painful, just now. I don’t really want to talk about them.’

‘Do you love her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t fret, my dear!’ she said. ‘I shall not tell the great man.’ She paused. ‘I suppose you know about his past. He was a whoremonger in his youth, insatiable. He has hardly ever had much self-control in this regard. Why else would he protest so violently? He doesn’t want anyone else to do what he’s been doing for sixty years!’