The Last Station: A Novel of Tolstoy's Final Year

by Jay Parini

  ‘Who is it?’ Sasha cried.

  ‘It is I.’

  Sasha opened the door and found her father with a candle in his hand. He had a look of resolution in his eyes.

  ‘I’m leaving immediately, for good,’ he said. ‘But I need your help.’

  Dushan Makovitsky had already been roused and was packing for himself. He would accompany Leo Nikolayevich on his final journey.

  They huddled in Leo Nikolayevich’s room, trying to decide what he must take.

  ‘Only the essentials!’ he kept saying. ‘I can take nothing that isn’t absolutely necessary.’ These included a flashlight, a fur coat, and the apparatus for taking an enema.

  The packing done, he went to the stables to harness the horses himself. On the way, in total darkness, he fell into a thicket and lost his hat. He returned, hatless, demanding his flashlight. Sasha began to worry that he was not sufficiently well to travel, but she said nothing. Her father had made up his mind to go.

  Adrian Eliseyev, the coachman, had been summoned by Dushan Makovitsky, and he went to the barn with his master to harness the horses to the droshky. Filya, a postilion, lit a torch to ride ahead of the droshky, since it was a starless, moonless night and they could barely see the road.

  ‘Everything was ready to go,’ Sasha told me, ‘when Papa asked for a moment by himself. He walked to the front lawn and stood for a long while looking up at the house where he was born. I thought, briefly, that he might change his mind and go back to bed. Suddenly, he knelt in the wet grass, bowing low to rub his fingers in the blades. Then he kissed the ground and rose. His past life was behind him now.’

  Sasha and Varvara Mikhailovna helped him to the droshky, having exchanged a tearful farewell, and Adrian drove them off to the Yasenki Station, where Leo Nikolayevich and Dushan Makovitsky took the eight o’clock train for all points south.

  This was the beginning of a new life for Leo Tolstoy. Of that much, everyone was sure.

  34

  L. N.

  DIARY ENTRY

  28 OCTOBER 1910

  I lay down at half past eleven and slept till three. Then, as on previous nights, I heard footsteps, the squeaking of doors. I had not before bothered to look, but I did so now and found a light under the crack in my study door. I heard the riffling of papers. It was Sofya Andreyevna, searching my study, probably reading things I had written. The day before she had insisted that I not close my doors, and she kept her own doors open, so that my slightest movements could be detected. She wants my every word and movement to be known to her instantly, to be under her control. When I heard her this time, closing the door, walking down the hall, I felt the deepest sense of aversion and rage. I don’t know why, but I could not restrain myself. I tried to fall asleep, but that was impossible now. I tossed and turned, lit a candle, then sat up.

  My door suddenly opened. It was Sofya Andreyevna, who said, ‘How are you?’ She was surprised, she said, to discover a light. My fury increased. I checked my pulse – ninety-seven.

  I could lie there no longer, and suddenly I made the final decision to leave home. I am writing her a letter and am beginning to pack only what is necessary in order to leave. I woke Dushan, then Sasha – they helped me. I shook at the thought that my wife would hear and come out to check on us. There would have been scenes, hysteria, and – afterward – no getting away without an upset. At six o’clock everything was packed, somehow, and I went to the stable to tell them to harness. (Dushan, Sasha, and Varvara finished the packing.) It was still night – pitch dark. I missed the path to the barn, stumbled in some brush, fell, lost my hat, then made my way back to the house with difficulty. The others came back with me. I trembled inside, fearing pursuit. But, at last, we drove off.

  At Yasenki Station we had to wait an hour, and I fully expected my wife to appear at any moment. At last we took our places in the railway carriage and the train lurched forward; my fear evaporated, and pity for Sofya Andreyevna rose in my breast. Still, I had no doubts about what I had done. Perhaps I am wrong and merely seeking to justify my behavior, but it strikes me that I have saved myself – not Leo Nikolayevich but that something of which there is sometimes a spark in me.

  The journey beyond Gorkachev to Shamardino took place in a crowded, third-class carriage full of working people. It was all instructive, though I took it in quite feebly. It is now evening, and we are in the monastery at Optina.

  29 OCTOBER 1910

  Slept badly. In the morning was surprised to see Sergeyenko. Not understanding what news he brought me, I greeted him cheerfully. Then he told the terrible story. Sofya Andreyevna, having read my letter, gave a cry, ran outside, and threw herself into the pond. Sasha and Vanya fished her out.

  Andrey is home. They have all guessed my where-abouts, and Sofya Andreyevna has insisted that Andrey come to fetch me home. I expect his arrival today. A letter from Sasha has arrived. She advises me not to despair. She has called in a mental specialist, and she expects Sergey and Tanya. I was very depressed all day and feeble. Went for a walk. Yesterday, I managed to add a note to my speech on capital punishment.

  Drove to Shamardino. A most consoling and happy impression of Mashenka, my sister, and her daughter, Lizanka. On the journey, I puzzled over ways of escape for me and Sofya Andreyevna from our situation, but I could think of nothing. I must concentrate only on how to avoid sin.

  35

  Letters

  FROM SERGEY TO L. N.

  Dear Papa,

  I write because Sasha says you would like our opinion. I think Mama is mentally ill and in many respects irresponsible, and I believe it was necessary for you to separate. You should have done so long ago. However, this situation is painful for you both. I also think that if anything happens to Mama – and I think nothing will – you should not blame yourself. I believe you chose the right way out. Forgive the frankness of my letter.

  FROM ILYA TO L. N.

  Dear Papa,

  I feel I must write to you at this painful time. I want to tell you the truth, and I know you prefer that I do so.

  Sasha will inform you of what happened after you left, how we all assembled at home, and what we discussed and decided. Nevertheless, I’m afraid that her explanation will seem one-sided, so I am writing, too. We chose not to judge your actions. A thousand causes exist for every action, and even if we could know all of them, we could still not correlate them. Needless to say, we have no desire to, and cannot, attach blame to anyone. Yet we must do what we can to preserve Mama and calm her. For two days now she has eaten nothing and drunk only a mouthful or so of water in the evening. She says there is no reason for her to live, and her state is so pitiful that none of us can speak of her without weeping. As ever, in her case, there is much affectation and sentimentality, but at the same time there is so much sincerity that her life is genuinely in peril. That is my opinion, and, for truth’s sake, I offer it bluntly. I realize that your life here was difficult, but you regarded that life as your cross, as did those who know and love you. I am sorry you choose not to bear that cross to the end. You have both lived long lives and should die becomingly.

  Forgive me if, by chance, it seems to you that I speak harshly. Be sure that I love and understand you in many things, and that I wish only to help. I do not ask you to return here at once, since I know you cannot do that. But, for the sake of Mama’s mental health, it is important that you keep in close touch with her. Write to her. Give her the opportunity to strengthen her nervous system, and then let whatever God decrees happen as it will! If you wish to write me, I shall be very glad.

  FROM ANDREY TO L. N.

  Dear Papa,

  Only the very best of feelings, such as I mentioned at our last meeting, oblige me to say what I think about my mother’s condition.

  Tanya, Sergey, Ilya, Mikhail, and I have gathered here, and however much we consider the matter, we have been unable to think of any way but one of protecting Mama from herself, though I think she will eventually kill herself n
o matter what we do. The only way to prevent it is to put her under constant supervision. Of course, she would never submit to it. The present situation is an impossible one, since we cannot abandon our own families and work to remain at our mother’s side. I know you have finally decided not to return, but as a conscientious duty I must warn you that by this final decision you are killing our mother.

  I know how heavy the burden has been for you during the last months, but I also know that Mama is mentally ill, and that living together has, in these late years, been unbearable for you both. Had you summoned us to speak with Mama, so that you might not separate for an infinite period but amicably in the hope that her nerves would calm, we might not have experienced this dreadful suffering that we share with you both – even though you are far away. As to what you said to me the last time we met about the luxury surrounding you, it strikes me that since you have endured it up until now you might have sacrificed the last years of your life for the sake of your family and put up with it awhile longer.

  Forgive me, dearest Papa, if my letter seems too full of advice, but I feel how painful and sad things are for you and Mama, whom I find it impossible to look at without anguish.

  FROM TANYA TO L. N.

  Dearest, most precious Papa,

  You have always suffered from too much advice, so I won’t give you any more. Like everyone else, you have to act as best you can and as you consider necessary. I shall never condemn you. Of Mama, I will say only that she is pitiable and touching. For her, either fear or power is necessary. We try to calm her, and this seems to help.

  I am exhausted and foolish. Forgive me. Good-bye, my friend.

  FROM L. N. TO SERGEY AND TANYA

  4:00 A.M., OPTINA. 31 OCTOBER 1910

  Dearest Sergey and Tanya,

  Thank you very much, kind friends, true friends, for your sympathy in my grief and for your letters. Your letter, Sergey, gave me special pleasure. It is brief, pithy, clear, and – above all – generous. I can’t help being afraid of everything and can’t free myself from a feeling of responsibility, but I had not the strength to act otherwise. I am also writing to Mama. She will show you the letter. I wrote, after thinking it over carefully, what I was able to write.

  We are just leaving here, but we do not yet know where we’re going. You can always reach me through Chertkov.

  Good-bye, and thank you, sweet children. Forgive me for causing you to suffer – especially you, my darling Tanya. Well, that is all. I must hurry to avoid what I most fear – that your mother will find me. A meeting with her now would be terrible. Well, good-bye.

  FROM L. N. TO SOFYA ANDREYEVNA

  OPTINA. 31 OCTOBER 1910

  Dearest Sonya,

  A meeting between us, still more my return at this time, is impossible. It would be harmful for you, as my position and ill health would become even worse than they are because of your agitation and irritability. I advise you to reconcile yourself to what has happened. Try to settle down in your new situation and, above all, attend to your health.

  If you … I cannot say love me but at least do not hate me … you should try to understand my position to some extent. And if you do that, you will not only not condemn me but help me find peace and the possibility of living some sort of human life. Help me by controlling yourself, by not wishing for me to return right now.

  Your present mood reveals more than anything else your loss of self-control, which makes my return unthinkable at present. Only you can free me from the suffering we endure. Try to channel all your strength toward pacifying your soul.

  I have spent two days at Shamardino and Optina, and now I am leaving. I will mail this letter on the road. I shall not say where I’m going, since I consider our separation essential for us both. Don’t think I left because I didn’t love you. I love and pity you with all my heart, but I can’t do otherwise than as I am doing. Your letter was written sincerely, I know, but you are not capable of carrying out what you say. What matters is not the fulfillment of any wish or demand of mine, only your equanimity and calm and reasonable relation to life.

  As long as that is missing, life with you is unthinkable for me. To return to you while you are in such a state would mean to renounce life. And I do not consider that I have the right to do that.

  Farewell, dear Sonya, and may God help you! Life is not a jest, and we have no right to throw it away on a whim. And to measure it by its length of time is also unreasonable. Perhaps those months that remain to us are more important than all the years we have yet lived, and they should be lived well.

  36

  Sasha

  I traveled to Shamardino with Varvara Mikhailovna just two days after Papa. Chertkov told me exactly where to find them.

  All day we felt free, Varvara and I, riding in a second-class carriage with the golden sun of October glazing the stubble fields on either side of the train as we rode southward. We would lunge through a deep pine forest, full of shadows, then burst onto open plains. We would rise over small hills, descend into valleys, then pass beneath rocky cliffs. We both sat tensely in our seats, upright, gazing at the wonder of creation.

  When I think of the world’s great beauty, I am saddened by humankind. We have nothing to match it. Our souls are dirty, soiled by greed, by hatred of differences.

  Occasionally Varvara would reach across the seat and touch my hand. It moved me to tears. There is such love between us. It makes the bright world all the more blazing.

  I had brought with me a cache of letters from my brothers, from Tanya and Mama. I had not, of course, read them, but I knew they would cause Papa a good deal of pain. What he required now was release. It seems we cannot let him die in peace.

  Near dusk, we arrived at the white-walled nunnery at Shamardino, where my aunt now lives. She is an Orthodox Christian who adheres slavishly to the letter of the law, but she and Papa have remained on excellent terms. We went straight to my aunt’s narrow cell. I hardly recognized her. A dried-out little fig of a woman in a dark habit, she was taken aback when I entered.

  ‘A family conference?’ she said, with only a whiff of cynicism.

  A nun should never be ironic, and she knew that.

  ‘Where is my father?’

  ‘Sit down, my dear,’ she said. She pointed a crooked finger at Varvara Mikhailovna. ‘And you, sit. Who is this young woman you have brought with you?’

  I introduced my aunt to my companion, who looked fresh and fine in a peasant dress with yellow embroidery on the neckline. Her dark hair shone in the candlelight.

  ‘Alexandra Lvovna!’ cried Papa, who stood frozen in the doorway.

  ‘Papa!’

  We embraced tightly, and he wept. I knew at once that he was glad to see me.

  ‘And you, Varvara,’ he said, cupping her chin in his hand.

  He studied her like a bronze statue, then turned to me. ‘I hope your mother has not accompanied you?’

  ‘She is at home. But she is suffering.’

  Papa shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.

  ‘There was nothing else you could do.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Nevertheless, if something happens to her, it will sadden me. She is still my wife. One can’t avoid a sense of responsibility for things….’

  ‘She wants you back. You must know that.’

  He shifted again, uncomfortably. ‘I have found an isba to rent,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the floor. ‘It’s a pleasant little hut within the sound of church bells. A good place to end my days, Sasha. I shall read and think and, perhaps, even write a little.’

  ‘Mama will find you. She will drag you home.’

  Varvara Mikhailovna squeezed my wrist. Enough.

  ‘You’re right, I’m afraid,’ Papa answered. ‘We must leave before she finds us here.’

  A servant passed in the hallway, and my aunt called to her for tea. ‘Sit down,’ she said to us. ‘This useless chatter upsets everyone.’

  Papa bent to kiss his sister on the brow. ‘I cannot sta
y, though I would like to.’

  I gave Papa the letters, and he took them reluctantly and went back to his room to read them.

  Later that night, we sat about in Papa’s room, planning our next move. A fire in the stony hearth gave off the sweet odor of peat.

  ‘If we are to go,’ said Dushan Makovitsky, with his penchant for truisms, ‘we must know where we are going.’

  ‘Excellent, Dushan Petrovich,’ Varvara said, though I was the only one in the room who caught her sarcastic undertone. ‘Let us go somewhere.’

  Papa seemed quite eager to discuss possible routes. It was suggested that Bulgaria or Turkey might be good destinations – nobody would know us there, and the climate would be tolerable. I wondered, however, if we might not need passports to cross the border. Why not settle in the Caucasus? There are several Tolstoyan colonies there, and they would be only too flattered if Leo Tolstoy himself chose to pass his final days among them.

  We had been debating the pros and cons of the Caucasus for a while when, unexpectedly, Papa began to speak in an angry voice. It was quite unlike him. ‘No! I cannot stand these projections, these ridiculous plans. Let us go … anywhere will do. We need no plans.’

  Papa has always avoided plans, preferring the spontaneity of a butterfly. He likes to point out that Christ himself was against plotting the future.

  ‘I am very tired,’ Papa said.

  ‘Let me take you to your bed, Papa.’

  I led him to a cot in the small room with whitewashed walls and a vaulted ceiling. The bed table had been laid out just like at home, with a candle, some matches, a notebook, and sharpened pencils. He likes to be able to make notes in the middle of the night if he should awaken with an idea or want to record a dream.

  He lay down gingerly. He was so exhausted he did not even want me to remove his boots, though I covered him with a rough wool blanket, since the room was very cold. He was asleep before I left, snoring through his wrinkled mouth. It worried me that his breathing was so uneven.