27
Bulgakov
As I entered the dining room for breakfast this morning, Sofya Andreyevna caught my eye. She was alone in the room, nibbling a piece of black bread, with a glass of steaming tea in one hand. There was a plate of goat cheese in the middle of the table.
‘Good morning, Sofya Andreyevna. Did you sleep well?’ I felt as though I were on stage.
‘You have been deceiving me,’ she said, more calmly than the content of her words might suggest. ‘You have been conspiring with Vladimir Grigorevich. You know the exact nature of his plots against me and my family, and yet you pretend to be my friend.’
‘No,’ I said, but I could see there was no point in protesting.
‘I have been talking with the servants. They have heard rumors. And they have seen you in the woods, gossiping, making plans, ridiculing me behind my back. Don’t think that I don’t have my spies, too.’
This was so ludicrous that I merely shook my head.
‘The worst of it, Valentin Fedorovich, is that I offered you my friendship and counsel, even my love, all quite freely. I expected nothing in return.’
‘I have not conspired against you,’ I said. ‘But I can see that you won’t believe me.’
‘I detest you,’ she replied, leaving me to eat by myself.
I felt much like the little clerk Shuvalkin in the famous story about Prince Potemkin, chancellor to Empress Catherine II. The empress adored Potemkin, who suffered hideous bouts of melancholic depression. When he was unwell, his rage was so dreadful that he was left to himself, at home, locked in his chambers with all the shutters closed. When he was ready to join the world again, he would emerge from his room as if nothing had happened. And nothing was ever said.
One of these bouts lasted for several months and produced serious problems for the court. Documents requiring the chancellor’s signature were piling up, and the empress was becoming anxious. The higher counselors of the court were assembled one day at the palace, discussing the matter, when the little clerk Shuvalkin happened to walk into the room.
‘Excuse me, Your Excellencies,’ he said. ‘I wonder why you are all so gloomy. Perhaps I can be of service?’ Shuvalkin was a man who wished everyone to be happy, especially those above him in rank.
A chuckle spread about the room. Then one of the assembly took pity on Shuvalkin’s ignorance and explained the situation.
In a wild flash of ambition, Shuvalkin said, ‘But, Your Excellencies, if only you will let me have the documents, I will remedy the situation. I have never been afraid of Prince Potemkin.’
It was a bold lie, but they believed him. He was given the unsigned documents and sent, with Godspeed, to Potemkin’s house.
He arrived at the imposing town house, with its slightly purplish facade of granite, and asked to see the prince on official business. The doorman looked at Shuvalkin with astonishment and said, ‘I cannot recommend that you disturb the prince.’
‘I have been sent by the Empress Catherine on official business,’ he said, exaggerating slightly.
The doorman, with animal fear in his eye, pointed the way to Potemkin’s study.
Through corridors carpeted with thick runners from the Orient, past galleries and music rooms, Shuvalkin approached the infamous study. The door was shut. Shuvalkin knocked once, then waited. There was no response. He had read in a book somewhere that opportunity doesn’t knock twice and decided, perhaps rashly, to take the plunge. He turned the brass handle slowly. To his astonishment, it was not locked.
Potemkin sat at his desk at the opposite end of the vast, musty room with the shutters closed, the room barely lit. He was sitting in a nightshirt behind his desk, unshaven, motionless. It did not seem possible to little Shuvalkin that the great prince, for whom he had run many errands, could look so poorly. Aware that his time was limited, he thrust the stack of documents under Potemkin’s nose.
Dipping a steel-tipped pen from the desk into a jar of ink, he handed it to Potemkin, who took the pen between his stubby fingers but seemed quite ignorant of Shuvalkin’s presence in the room.
‘Please sign the documents, Your Excellency. The empress’s need is urgent.’
Potemkin simply stared ahead, the pen in hand.
‘The documents are vital, Your Excellency. For the sake of the empress…’ It seemed hopeless, and Shuvalkin was about to flee when the prince, rock faced, began systematically to sign the documents. One by one, he turned the pages, signed, and blotted his signature. Soon the entire stack was finished.
Shuvalkin was elated. His career would soar. He imagined himself promoted to chief administrator of the city parks or head of document storage or, perhaps, administrative counsel to Potemkin himself. His heart leaped, and he had to restrain himself from kissing the prince as he gathered the documents in his arms. Wobbly kneed, he said, ‘Thank you, Your Excellency. Thank you so very much, Your Excellency.’ Still bowing and muttering, he closed the door to Potemkin’s chambers and ran into the streets.
Back at the palace, he entered the antechamber where the counselors were still assembled. The blaze of triumph was in his eyes as he held the documents before him. ‘They have all been signed,’ he said. ‘Every one of them!’
With amazement, the chief counselor accepted the documents. They were spread on a broad trestle table, and the counselors gathered round. Breathlessly, they bent to look.
The whole group seemed paralyzed. The chief counselor looked gravely at Shuvalkin.
‘Is anything wrong?’ he asked, stepping forward to the table. It was then he saw that the great Potemkin had indeed signed the papers, but he had signed document after document, in a bold hand, Shuvalkin… Shuvalkin… Shuvalkin….
Today I was Shuvalkin. I have behaved with fidelity, spoken truthfully to Leo Nikolayevich, to Vladimir Grigorevich, to Sofya Andreyevna. But everyone now considers me a fraud. They see my name on every evil document, but I have not written it there. Still, I must not blame Leo Tolstoy. He is not my Potemkin. God is my Potemkin, teasing me, playing a game that could cast me only in the worst possible light among this household or that of Telyatinki.
I received a letter from St Petersburg.
My dearest Valya,
Since returning, I have made contact with the Tolstoyans, who have welcomed me. You would be surprised at how much they know about us! Telyatinki fascinates them, and they all want to visit there. Yasnaya Polyana, for them, is Mecca.
They know a great deal about you. Rumors fly! They know that Leo Nikolayevicb admires you very much, and it is said that you and he spend long philosophical afternoons in the forest of Zasyeka. I assure them that all of this has been exaggerated…
Do you think of me? (I’m sure you do.) I think of you. I am quite glad, however, for this period of intermission. I felt your intensity too painfully. It was not comfortable, and it was hurting my ability to respond to you in the way I would like.
Let us write letters, lots of letters. I feel close to you now as I compose. Closer than that day in the pinewoods when we touched. Does that seem possible?
Let me know what you are thinking and feeling. And let me know what is happening at Yasnaya Polyana. I have been reading What Then Must We Do?, which L. N. wrote nearly thirty years ago! Have you read it lately? It once again braces me to work for justice in the world.
The inequities of rich and poor must be improved to the extent that they can. I know that you sincerely agree with me on these matters.
I wonder when and how we shall meet again. Will I return to Tula? Perhaps. In the meanwhile, know that I value our friendship and look forward to bearing from you often.