Jay Parini - The Last Station

‘A sign,’ Leo Nikolayevich said.

I spotted a buzzard on a distant limb, but I did not call attention to it.

When he finished copying the will, Leo Nikolayevich signed his name and sighed, pursing his lips. He wiped his brow with the bottom of his shirt. Then each of us signed as witness.

‘What a trial,’ he said. ‘I hope never to repeat such an act.’

‘It had to be done,’ I responded.

We embraced, briefly; then Leo Nikolayevich mounted Delire and rode away. It was not an occasion for socializing.

‘It is terrible to see a man of his stature brought to such an impasse,’ I said to Sergeyenko. ‘But we did only what was necessary.’

Today when I appeared at Yasnaya Polyana near teatime, I learned that a note had just been sent to Telyatinki from Leo Nikolayevich asking me not to come because Sofya Andreyevna was extremely irritable and suspicious. Had I received this note, I would – with deep regret – have acquiesced. I try to avoid direct confrontations with the countess when I can. But I had come, and I intended to see Leo Nikolayevich, however briefly.

Having sidestepped the countess by mounting the back stairwell, I tiptoed along the hall to Leo Nikolayevich’s study. The door to his balcony was open, and I went out to greet him. Makovitsky knelt beside him, wrapping bandages about his legs, which have been causing him a great deal of pain. Bulgakov was behind him, reading aloud a response he had drafted on Leo Nikolayevich’s behalf to an atheist who had written insisting that God does not exist. It was a surprisingly cogent letter, very much in the style of Leo Nikolayevich. When he finished, Bulgakov said, ‘May I ask you about love? Perhaps that would convince this man.’

I chuckled to myself, thinking of Bulgakov and his dewy-eyed girl from St Petersburg.

‘My friend, I’ve tried many times to put it into words. Let me try again,’ Leo Nikolayevich said, with only the slightest trace of weariness. It perpetually amazes me how patient he is, and how simple. He once told me that the Hindus, whenever they greet a man or woman, fold their hands in prayer and bow, acknowledging the divine presence in every human being. Indeed, he treats everyone who enters a room as if he or she were a god or goddess in disguise. It is most annoying.

Makovitsky finished the bandaging and took out his notebook and pencil. He sensed a momentous opportunity.

Leo Nikolayevich cleared his throat and began: ‘Love is the uniting of souls separated from each other by the body. It’s one of the signs of God’s presence in the world. Another is the ability to understand one another. I would guess there are countless signs of God, but we tend not to notice them. Still, we apprehend the presence of God through love and understanding, even though the essence of God eludes us. It is something beyond human comprehension, though – I must be emphatic – it is through love that we sense the divine presence.’

‘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.’