Jay Parini - The Last Station

This story puzzled and mildly upset me. Was Papa so detached, so unemotional, that he could focus on a theory of taxation in the midst of the most stressful time of his life? Was he superhuman or… inhuman? On the other hand, he can be so lovable, so considerate. He responds directly, unpretentiously, to all who address him, house servants or heads of state. When he looks at you with that flinty stare, you daren’t say a thing you don’t mean.

We gave Papa the barley soup with a bit of cracknel Dushan had brought along, and he seemed grateful. He sat in the sun that pushed itself through the train window and lay, as if sourceless, on the shiny metal floor. Afterward, he fell asleep, in spite of the rattling and swaying of the carriage, the whining of the rails, the stench of soot that blew back from the engine. I covered him with a blanket, letting him curl up on a seat by himself.

At one station, two men got on the train who looked as if they were on a mission of no good. They stood at the back of the carriage, stealing glances at us, pretending to smoke and talk to each other. I grew suspicious and called the conductor.

‘Yes, Your Excellency?’

‘Those men… see them?’

‘I do, Your Excellency.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Policemen, Your Excellency. For your protection.’

Papa unexpectedly sat up, confused and ill. ‘Where are we now?’ he asked, loudly.

Dushan ran to his side. ‘It’s all right, Leo Nikolayevich. Everything is fine.’ He eased my father back onto his side and took his temperature. It was 102.5!

‘Dushan!’ I cried.

He seemed shaken, too. ‘He will be fine. Everything will be fine,’ he said. But I could tell by the squint of his eyes that he did not believe a word of this.

Papa reached out for my hand. ‘Listen to Dushan, darling. I’m feeling much better now… just need a little sleep.’ He scarcely had the strength to squeeze my wrist.

I bent over Papa and began to weep. I couldn’t help it. The smoke in the carriage was so thick, and there were so many strangers crowding around us. It was horrid. Even Varvara Mikhailovna seemed distant, lost in a mood I couldn’t fathom. She had been testy, impatient, even bitchy, throughout the day. I did not see how we could possibly make it to Novocherkassk.

Two, perhaps three, hours later, Dushan whispered to me that Papa’s fever was rising. He was quite panicky now. Pretending was of no use.

‘We can’t go on!’ I said.

Dushan shook his head. But what could we do?

The train lurched and made the familiar screeching sounds of metal rubbing against metal. A small, dusty station drew up beside our window: Astapovo.

‘This will do,’ said Dushan. ‘We can spend the night here, if need be. Your father is too sick to travel. He wants complete rest, perhaps for several days.’ He bit his top lip, which was quivering now. I think, at that moment, he saw his beautiful dreams of Turkey, Bulgaria, or the Caucasus dashed.

Several men stepped forward to help Papa from the train, while Varvara and I followed.

‘I’m sorry, Sasha. I really am,’ Varvara said.

‘About what?’

‘I feel… confused. I don’t know what I’m doing here.’

‘We love each other, don’t we? You are my old friend. I need you.’

She put her arms around me. ‘Am I horrible?’

‘Yes. You’re horrible,’ I said.

Hand in hand, we followed Papa and Dushan Makovitsky. Papa took each step with infinite premeditation, holding on to Dushan’s arm for balance. To be carried now would seem to admit defeat.

He sat on a wooden bench beside the station, holding a cane between his legs. His head slumped to his chest. His cheeks were slightly damp.

Dushan went to speak with the stationmaster, who had a house nearby where, we hoped, Papa could rest for a few days. It was a small cottage with a bright tin roof; its mud-plaster walls were painted red. It was only fifty or so steps from the tracks – which meant it would be noisy – but it was set in a little garden.

‘Leo Nikolayevich will be comfortable here,’ Dushan told us. He seemed confident again, to my relief. ‘The stationmaster says we may have his guest room for as long as we should need it. There are no inns nearby, so we’re lucky he is generous. The rest of us can sleep in the station itself, in the waiting room. He will find cots.’

I watched Papa stagger into the tiny house – no bigger than one of our toolsheds at Yasnaya Polyana. I don’t know why, but I could not stop myself from crying, even though Varvara Mikhailovna squeezed my hand and pressed my head against her shoulder.

It seemed that we had come to the end of the world.

We should doubtless have stayed at Shamardino. My professional judgment may well have been impaired by enthusiasm for our project. I regret this.

Leo Nikolayevich lies ill in Ozolin’s house.

It was frightful to see him walk from the train. The immense weariness of each step! Muzhiks lined the path to the door, aware that something magnificent and terrible was taking place. Everyone knew it was Leo Tolstoy. They removed their hats and bowed as they would in India, where a Holy Man is respected.

Leo Nikolayevich thought he was back at Yasnaya Polyana. ‘Where is my blanket?’ he asked when he lay down in the tiny room. That blanket with the key design has adorned his bed since childhood.

He was shuddering now, so we covered him with thick quilts provided by the stationmaster’s wife. He soon fell into a phlegmy drowse, his head awkwardly slumped to one side.

‘Will he live, Dushan?’ his daughter asked me.

I did not know what to say. ‘If it is God’s will.’

She sat on a chair beside his bed, and I thought she might weep. I do not like to see anyone weep.

I took his pulse. It was ninety-three. Given his condition of sleep, I found this ominous. I saw, too, that he was experiencing minor convulsions, which secretly worried me. It was the beginning of a difficult time. His fever remained steadily high, though at least it was not climbing. His left lung, which is often inflamed, exhibited a distinct wheeze. I feared the onset of pneumonia.

The stationmaster’s wife, who is a gentle, round-faced soul with masses of dark hair shot through with snowy white and pulled back in a bun, brought us kasha and oats. We drank tea from her samovar, glass after glass. They are respectful, straightforward, simple people who understand the significance of having Leo Tolstoy here; indeed, they seemed quite chuffed that he should be using their guest room. I kept thanking them, for all of us.

It was too bad that Sasha did not thank them herself. She is a child, really, and does not understand about politeness. Quite frankly, she has a selfish streak that has always troubled her father. Varvara Mikhailovna is even worse. The two of them would try the patience of a saint. It has required stamina this past year to watch them giggling and pinching each other and holding hands. Their physical attachment has become an embarrassment, although no one mentions it. I shall not be the first to address this issue.

When Leo Nikolayevich woke, he motioned for Sasha. He wanted her to take dictation. A telegram to Chertkov. ‘I very much want to see him,’ he said, and we agreed to summon him. ‘But not the others!’ he added. ‘Tell no one else where I am.’

‘You mustn’t trouble yourself,’ I said. ‘Every precaution will be taken.’

‘I’m so grateful to you, Dushan. So very grateful.’ He seemed teary-eyed and pathetic. I turned away.

That night, once more, he drifted into a scramble of thoughts, confused especially about his whereabouts. But soon he fell asleep, the first truly deep sleep since arriving in Astapovo. He had only a few convulsions.