The Last Station

2 Bulgakov

‘But sex?’ asked Chertkov, rubbing his forehead with the palm of a hand disfigured by eczema. ‘You are only twenty-four.’ He leaned forward across the desk. ‘Not an easy age for abstinence.’

I withdrew the smile that had formed on my lips against my will. Vladimir Grigorevich Chertkov has no sense of humor. Apart from his plumpness and bad skin, this humorlessness is the most noticeable thing about him.

‘I know that Count Tolstoy does not approve of sexual relations.’

‘He despises them,’ Chertkov replied. ‘And, if I may advise you, he does not use his title. He renounced it years ago.’

Chertkov unnerved me. I felt uncomfortable not using Tolstoy’s title. I had been brought up in polite company, taught to defer to those with power. It annoyed me that Chertkov imagined I wouldn’t know about the renunciation of that title. I know practically everything about Tolstoy that can be learned from his writings, and much else besides. There is a thick smoke of gossip surrounding the name of Leo Tolstoy, and I had inhaled that smoke on every possible occasion.

‘You must call him Leo Nikolayevich, like the rest of us,’ Chertkov added. ‘He prefers that.’

Chertkov’s chameleonlike skin puffed loosely about his bald, pear-shaped head. I could almost see through his forehead to the frontal lobes of his brain. He spoke stiffly, tapping his puffy fingers on the bare table. ‘I take it you have read The Kreutzer Sonata?’

I nodded, though I hoped we would not discuss this particular work. The Kreutzer Sonata is Tolstoy’s one failure, as I see it. Is there anything in common between Pozdnyshev, the hero of that tale, and Leo Tolstoy? I cannot believe it. It’s the story of a man who murders his wife. Many readers – I don’t go this far myself – consider it a tract against marriage, a missile of hate, a vile book. It is so unlike Anna Karenina, where Tolstoy celebrates the marriage of Kitty and Levin, raises it like a banner across the cold Russian sky. But Pozdnyshev!

‘I don’t want to belabor the point of chastity, but I arranged for a servant last year who proceeded to ruin two young housemaids who had been with the Tolstoy family for many years. It upset Leo Nikolayevich terribly. I want to make it clear that this won’t be a problem.’

I shook my head in outward assurance but inwardly was horrified that I should be classified with a servant. I think my anger showed in my cheeks. I tried to cover them with my hands.

‘I’m sorry to bring up a delicate subject,’ Chertkov said. ‘One can never be too specific, I always say.’

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I understand.’

The job seemed to slip away from me, and I panicked. More than anything, I wanted to be Tolstoy’s private secretary.

Chertkov circled the desk and stood beside me. He put a cold hand on my wrist. ‘I have heard only good things about you from Makovitsky and the others. And I have read carefully what you have written about Leo Nikolayevich. So has he. It is somewhat… youthful. But quite sound.’

‘Tolstoy has read my essays?’

Chertkov shook his head in confirmation. I beamed. It appeared that everything would fall, amazingly, into place.

‘I don’t want to prejudice you against Sofya Andreyevna, but it would be impolitic of me not to mention her disagreements with Leo Nikolayevich,’ Chertkov went on. ‘It has been an unfortunate marriage – for him.’ He began to pull his silky black beard, drawing it to a point beneath his chin. The beard gives him the look of a Tartar. ‘Frankly,’ he continued, ‘she is not one of us. I would go so far as to say that she despises us and would do anything in her power to see that her husband’s work does not go forward.’

‘But they’ve been married for nearly fifty years! Surely, this…’ I was not sure what I meant.

Chertkov leaned back against the desk and smiled. ‘You are an honest fellow, Valentin Fedorovich. I see why you came so highly recommended. Dushan Makovitsky is not overly intelligent, but he’s a good judge of character.’

‘I have heard about these problems between–’

‘Don’t let any of this trouble you,’ Chertkov said. ‘But remember that she will say dreadful things about me.’ He seemed uncomfortable saying this and shifted. ‘Sofya Andreyevna and I have not always been on bad terms. When I was first exiled, she protested to the tsar. And she often wrote to me in England, passing along news of Leo Nikolayevich. Now she does not want me near her husband. It made her furious that I bought the house at Telyatinki, even though I am not allowed to live there.’

‘Disgraceful,’ I said, surprised at my own vehemence.

‘I’m what you might call living contraband,’ he said, smiling. It was the first time he had smiled since I’d called on him. He reached out again, taking my hands in his.

‘My dear Valentin Fedorovich, you have been offered a great gift. You will see Leo Nikolayevich every day. You will take meals with him. You will walk in the forest by his side. And you will find your soul warmed daily by his fire. I hope that you will love him as I do. And that you will learn from him.’ He let go of my hands and walked to the window, parting the curtain to look at the falling snow. ‘What he says will ring in your head forever.’

I don’t know why, but I began to think of my father as he spoke. My father has been dead for a year. He often spoke to me in his soft, guttural voice, delivering fatherly advice. I took none of it seriously, but I appreciated his efforts. He knew that, since my conversion to Tolstoyism, I was hungry for God, hungry to learn, to discuss ideas, to perfect my soul. My father admired all of this, but he said I had to be careful. A civil servant for thirty years, he had managed to avoid thinking about anything. But I refuse to accept his intellectual bankruptcy as my legacy. I want to become, like Chertkov, a disciple.

A servant in a rough wool jacket entered. This deficiency of proper attire is Chertkov’s compromise with Tolstoyan values. He is not a willing member of the class into which he was born, though he has not relinquished all the trappings. Krekshino is a fine house, with spacious grounds and several outbuildings for horses. I had seen perhaps half a dozen servants – and assumed that a dozen more hid themselves in the bowels of the kitchen, or elsewhere on the grounds. The furniture in the house is unpretentious but solid – mostly English and French. I did not like the heavy velvet curtains that darkened the rooms.

‘Tea, sir?’ the young man asked.

I accepted a steaming glass of China tea with a nod of appreciation.

‘Come here,’ Chertkov said, motioning me to the large leather chairs beside the fire. I watched as he dropped to his knees and worked a large, old-fashioned bellows, fanning the logs in the iron grate to a flame. The chimney seemed to roar, inhaling the sparks. ‘We must become friends,’ he said. ‘We have so much to accomplish, and there are many enemies.’

His cheekbones flared when he spoke, and he seemed always to be repressing a burp. Dressed in a fresh muslin blouse with a shiny leather belt, he looked like other Tolstoyans I have met. His boots were unstylish but well made – a gift from Leo Nikolayevich, he told me. ‘He made them with his own hands – a craft he has learned in recent years. He makes boots for everyone.’

Chertkov sipped his tea in an almost prissy manner. Although I very much admired him, liking him would require an act of will.

‘Here is a letter from Leo Nikolayevich,’ he said, handing me a sheet covered with Tolstoy’s messy scrawl. ‘He has not been well. You can tell from the unsteady hand. It is partly Sofya Andreyevna’s fault, I must tell you. She has destroyed his ability to sleep with her constant nagging.’ Anger bloomed in his chest. ‘She is a desperate woman. There is no telling what he might have accomplished were he married to a more suitable person, someone who shared his idealism and convictions.’

‘I have heard that she’s dreadful.’

He nodded gravely, soaking this in. ‘You will take many meals at Yasnaya Polyana, but Sofya Andreyevna makes few concessions to her husband and his friends.’

‘She isn’t a vegetarian?’

He shook his head with disgust. ‘Neither are her sons. Only Sasha can be trusted – among the children, that is. Confide only in her or in Dushan Makovitsky, your mother’s friend. He is a good man.’

‘Dr Makovitsky says that Sasha does much of her father’s secretarial work.’

‘She types everything for him. There’s a little room down the hallway from his study called “the Remington room.” You’ll doubtless spend a good deal of time there. Sasha needs help. The volume of letters seems to increase monthly with people frantic to get a word of advice from Leo Nikolayevich. He replies personally to most of them.’ Chertkov smiled again, revealing chiseled teeth with dark spaces between them. ‘Leo Nikolayevich adores his daughter, by the way. This drives Sofya Andreyevna mad.’

‘Does the countess type?’

‘No, but she used to copy all of his work by hand. She was so possessive about it – and meddlesome.’

I felt uneasy now. One does not like to come between married people, whatever the circumstances.

‘You will help with the secretarial work, of course – mostly filing and answering letters. The point is that Leo Nikolayevich needs a man with your intellectual gifts around him. Somebody, like yourself, who has read and understood his work. Gusev was invaluable that way.’

I had heard a good deal of Nicholai Gusev, who was Tolstoy’s secretary for some years. The government of Tula exiled him from the province, as they did Chertkov, for ‘subversive activities,’ a sentence that might well fall on my head one day. I do not mind. Exile is a great Russian institution. The Russian soul has been tempered, like blue steel, in Siberia.

‘Take these letters to Leo Nikolayevich, if you will,’ Chertkov said, handing me a small, tightly sealed packet. ‘One can’t be sure what gets through to him, I’m afraid.’ He bit his lip. ‘Sofya Andreyevna does not respect his privacy.’

‘She would actually intercept his letters!’

He nodded, suppressing a grin. ‘I have another little task for you. A secret task, I should say.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘I have instructed Sergeyenko, my secretary at Telyatinki, to give you several English notebooks constructed for a special purpose.’

I wanted to look aside but didn’t dare.

‘Sergeyenko will show you how to use them. In brief, you will keep a private diary for me. Write with an indelible pencil and use transfer paper. The interleaves can be torn out of the notebooks quite easily. Bring these weekly to Sergeyenko, who will send them to me here. I want to know exactly what happens at Yasnaya Polyana.’ A queer yellow light filled his eyes. ‘Let me know who is visiting Leo Nikolayevich. Tell me what he is reading, and make a note of what letters go out or come in. And let me know what Sofya Andreyevna has been saying.’

A long pause followed, during which I restrained myself from comment. ‘Naturally,’ he continued, ‘I’d like to know what Leo Nikolayevich is writing. Too much of his time, I fear, has been wasted on this anthology of his. You might help by taking on some of these editorial duties. Do more than he asks of you. Urge him to get back to his philosophical work.’

‘Is he writing another novel?’

Chertkov belched into a silk handkerchief. ‘Novels are for women, for pampered, bourgeois women who have nothing better to do with their time.’

‘But Anna Karenina–’

‘It’s a decent example, but still quite foolish.’

‘Vladimir Grigorevich, I…’

He stared at me with tiny eyes that did not seem human. They were the eyes of a weasel.

‘I liked Anna Karenina.’

‘You’re a young man, Valentin Fedorovich! Young men like novels. I did, many years ago. My mother, in fact, was a friend of Turgenev. Fiction is for people who have not yet properly begun their search for God. What subjects intrigue these novelists? I will tell you. Lust and adultery.’ His upper lip curled, exposing his teeth like alder roots in a swamp.

I dipped my head forward and mumbled.

Chertkov drew his lips into a sidelong sharklike smile. ‘I like you very much, dear boy. I’m sure that Leo Nikolayevich will be grateful to you for whatever help you can give him.’ As he spoke, he pulled thin black leather gloves over his hands to hide a particularly raw patch of eczema. I felt sure, at last, the job was mine.

‘I hope I will be able to help him,’ I said.

‘You will. I see that.’

I grinned stupidly, and Chertkov, as if annoyed with me, stood up. ‘Good-bye now,’ he said. ‘I look forward to receiving your diaries. And remember: Don’t let anyone find out about them. Not even Leo Nikolayevich. It would distress him.’

We shook hands, exchanging a few words about my preparations for the trip to Tula, by train, the following week. He escorted me into the dark front hall. Our footsteps echoed off the high ceiling and slate floor. A servant held out my coat and hat for me.

‘I would not entrust you with this position if I didn’t believe you were one of us,’ Chertkov said, his black-gloved hands resting on my shoulders. ‘I’m terribly worried, you know. Leo Nikolayevich is frail and nervous, though you will never hear a word of complaint from him. It is painful that I should have to live apart from him in his last days.’

I nodded, but his comment did not seem to require affirmation.

‘I’m grateful to you, Vladimir Grigorevich,’ I said.

He deflected my comment with a wave of one hand.

‘Godspeed,’ he said, pushing the door open against a swirl of snow. ‘And remember what I said: write everything down!’ He kissed me on either cheek and pushed me into the fierce January wind. A black sleigh waited for me in the drive, with a driver bundled in so much fur that he did not look human.

We drove off at a trot along a winding road through a line of bare elms. Huddled in my kaftan, with the light snow ticking on my forehead, I felt exalted and terrified – like Elijah being whisked to heaven in a whirlwind fire.