23
Sofya Andreyevna
My chest is so tight I can hardly breathe. At first, I wanted Lyovochka to go to Meshcherskoye. His pulse was sinking. He could remember almost nothing with clarity. I thought the trip to see his beloved would help. Alas, it did. He became well obscenely quickly. It was almost embarrassing to watch him charge to the station in Tula on horseback.
A long absence was not planned. I could have granted him a week or so. But the visit lengthened, and he never said a word about coming back. Didn’t he realize how sick I was, with sleeplessness and my rapid heartbeat, my headaches and dizziness?
The bare truth is that my husband, the greatest Russian author since Pushkin, has developed a ludicrous, senile crush on a plump, middle-aged flatterer. As a boy, even as a young man, he was drawn to men. He liked nothing better than his hunting trips. I have talked about this openly, but it makes him indignant. He does not see how foolish it is for a man to love another man. Not only is it foolish, it is sinful in the eyes of God.
Sasha says that I’m fantasizing, but I think Lyovochka would sleep with Chertkov if his conscience could bear it. But it can’t. It hovers over him like Father Time, flashing its sickle, making ridiculous demands. He is hounded by Furies, too – demons that pursue him into all corners of his life. It suits him to regard this mania as a visionary religion, but it’s nothing more than mental illness.
Religion should be a comfort, not a goad. When I go to the little church in the village, I expect God to calm my nerves. And He does. Otherwise I could not have remained married to Leo Tolstoy for nearly half a century. Nobody could withstand that pressure. It’s like living with a tornado.
Chertkov’s bitter stare and flabby jowls haunt me when I try to sleep. His smell, his voice, his pudgy fingers – everything about him taunts me, even when he is not here. He would be nothing without my Lyovochka; with him, Chertkov has risen in the world’s eyes to the rank of Leo Tolstoy’s closest friend, counselor, and publisher. He wears these facts on his shirtsleeves and lapels. ‘Look at me!’ screams from every pore. ‘I am the beloved of Leo Tolstoy! I am his conscience! His beacon!’
After Lyovochka’s death, which cannot be far away, Chertkov will discover who he is. Nobody.
I regard jealousy a defect of character. And I am jealous. I admit it and pray to God for forgiveness. But what does anyone, even God, expect of me? Chertkov has stolen the one thing that has sustained my life for forty-eight years! He has snatched Lyovochka from my arms. My dear, sweet Lyovochka….
Various ways of committing suicide have occurred to me, but I am not the type really. I do not want to die. But I do not want to live like this, either, with the knife of jealousy pushing its hot blade through my heart. This morning I wanted to go to Stolbovo and lie down on the tracks beneath the train on which it was convenient for Leo Nikolayevich to return from Meshcherskoye. What irony if the author of Anna Karenina should ride home over the pullulating body of his own dear wife! What a story that would make for the international press!
I have consulted Florinsky’s book on medicine to see what the effects of opium poisoning might be. I do not want a painful death, and death by train sounds dreadful. What if I didn’t die instantly? I once saw a dog run over by a heavy cart, its body crushed in the middle of the road. It writhed horribly, trying to drag itself to the edge of the road, bent like a horseshoe. A benevolent muzhik, fortunately, crushed its skull with a large stone, ending its misery. No, that is not for me.
Opium poisoning begins with a feeling of excitement, which soon turns to lethargy. It’s a little like freezing to death in the snow. It doesn’t really hurt; you just go numb. Eventually, the sky and the earth meet, and your mind becomes your body, and your body turns to air. And there is no antidote.
I daresay if I don’t succeed in killing myself but do half a job of it, Chertkov will have me committed to an insane asylum. Perhaps then Leo Tolstoy, with his great admiration for the insane, will visit me. Then I shall garner his respect. Not now. I am too sane now. I tell the truth, and it hurts him.
Lyovochka arrived at ten on the twenty-fourth, much later than I wished. It was an act of defiance, of course. Like a little boy who cannot say directly what is angering him. Perhaps without his even knowing it himself, his delay said to me, ‘See, my dear. You are not so important as you think you are. I do not believe you are ill. But I shall go along with your petty game.’ Sometimes I feel hatred for him, a black bile that rises in my veins, dragged up through the roots of our ill relations. Sometimes I want to kill him.
I wanted to hate him then, but he seemed meek and nervous, frail as a bird, as he sat beside me on the bed, his hand pressed to my forehead.
‘Dear Sonya!’ he said. ‘I was so worried about you. Those telegrams had us all frantic.’
So. But I did not trust him. He has so often in the past affected great concern when what he usually wanted was sex. Now what he wants is to be let off the hook, to be forgiven for this emotional infidelity he commits repeatedly with Vladimir Grigorevich.
‘You want to kill me, don’t you?’ I asked. ‘You would prefer that I were dead.’
He shook his head. ‘Nonsense, Sonya. Where do you get such ideas? I don’t understand you anymore.’
‘It’s a question of logic, is it? You don’t see why B follows A? Is that your problem?’