To be sure, I rather enjoy the spectacle of Bulgakov’s ‘friendship’ with young Masha. They purr and prance about like kittens. I don’t approve, but in the country one looks for entertainment in unlikely places.
‘If they wish to conduct themselves like rabbits, they should go live in the woods,’ Sergeyenko said to me last week, asking me to get rid of Masha. I summoned her with a note. We talked about her future at Telyatinki, and I – somewhat gently – suggested that she spend some time withour new group in Petersburg. She may come back whenever she chooses, of course. I made that clear to her. She is an intelligent girl who speaks and writes several languages, and her usefulness as a translator increases every day.
I was accompanied on our little excursion into Grumond by Sergeyenko, Goldenweiser, and Sergeyenko’s new secretary, Anatol Radinsky, to witness the signing. I felt elated by the prospect of victory. It has been a long time coming.
Leo Nikolayevich, who had arrived before us, was nobly seated on Delire with a white hat on his head, his beard visible from the distance and fanning out over a blue linen blouse. As ever, the sight of him took my breath away.
We greeted each other solemnly and dismounted, spreading the will before us on a writing board fetched especially for this occasion. Leo Nikolayevich sat with his legs crossed as he read the will once again, his hands shaking, his lips moving. He held the pages close to his eyes. I was terrified that, at any moment, he might declare the whole thing a breach of faith with Sofya Andreyevna.
‘This is an important moment for the Russian people,’ I said. ‘They will have the access to your work they deserve.’
He looked at me quizzically, then uncapped his pen, an old English one that had been sent by Aylmer Maude, who ingratiates himself by shipping a constant flow of bric-a-brac and mementos. Leo Nikolayevich had remembered to bring a jar of black India ink, which he sniffed before using, pausing to say how much he enjoys the smell of ink! Sergeyenko handed him a blotter and the paper. Meticulously, he began to form the letters, copying everything in his famously illegible hand.
‘I feel like a conspirator,’ he said, looking up.
We all laughed, but the laughs were hollow.
Get on with it, I thought.
It was cool, almost icy, beneath those trees. A wind blew up from the woods, carrying a swampy smell. Delire whinnied, rippling her coat, as sunlight flickered across the pages of the will. We heard a strange cry and looked up to see a black-capped kingfisher flash from a branch, a whir of blue and orange feathers.
‘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.