I could hardly breathe. Is it possible that I can live my life without Masha beside me? I have come to love her even more since she left, to yearn for her, to dream about her. I imagine myself beside her in our marriage bed, our children asleep in the next room. I imagine us, like kitty and Levin from Anna Karenina, tending the fields, working the land, enjoying the family hearth.
The possibility, the fear, of having too many lonely years without her stretches ahead of me, and I feel isolated and strangely vacant. God and work with Leo Nikolayevich should be enough to sustain me. But somehow, without Masha, my life seems valueless. I sat for many hours, alone, my eyes blurry with tears, reading and rereading the letter.
My attraction to the idea of marriage is not, however, enhanced by watching the daily struggle of man and wife in Yasnaya Polyana. Last night we had been sitting quietly as dusk covered the pond, watching the barn swallows dart and weave as they snagged fireflies in their tiny beaks. The August evening was dewy and rich. Red light streaked the horizon, the sun having just fallen behind the distant woods.
Shortly after dinner, Sofya Andreyevna came onto the terrace, where I was sitting with Leo Nikolayevich and Dr Makovitsky. She had a notebook in her hands. Her husband stiffened when he saw her.
‘I suppose your friends all know that you prefer men to women,’ she said, trying to provoke him, embarrassing Dushan Makovitsky so thoroughly that I thought he might crack.
‘For God’s sake, Sonya,’ Leo Nikolayevich said. he seemed less angry than weary.
Peace was not her object. ‘I have been rereading your old diaries,’ she said. ‘May I read something to your friends? They are both fascinated by everything the great Tolstoy has said or written – so they pretend.’
I hated being privy to such talk, but where was I to go? The normally expressive face of Leo Nikolayevich became impassive. He looked away from his wife.
‘Listen to this, friends,’ she went on. The note of insolence in her voice shocked me. ‘I copied this from his diary of 29 November 1851. It is quite revealing: ‘I have never been in love with a woman…. Yet I have very often fallen in love with a man.’” She stopped to let the weight of this passage sink in. ‘Can you believe it? Now listen to this: “For me the main indication of love is the fear of offending the beloved, of not pleasing him, or just fear itself… I fell in love with a man before I realized what pederasty was; yet even when I found out what it was, the possibility never crossed my mind.”’
‘So there it is!’ shouted Dr Makovitsky. ‘He has explained himself. We do not need to hear more of this, Sofya Andreyevna.’ His bald head twitched as he spoke, the slight dent in his brow going purple with fury.
‘I shall continue, Dushan Petrovich. It is all very intriguing,’ she said. ‘“Beauty has always been a huge factor in my attraction to people…. There is Dyakov, for instance. How could I ever forget the night we left Pirogovo together, when, wrapped in my blanket, I felt as though I could devour him with kisses and weep for joy. Lust was not absent, yet it is impossible to say exactly what part it played in my feelings, for my mind never tempted me with depraved images.”’
Leo Nikolayevich, looking disgusted, stood and excused himself. I was relieved.
‘See what you’ve done, Sofya Andreyevna? He has been driven from his own terrace,’ said Dr Makovitsky.
‘He is aware that I have hit upon the truth. Why else would he chase about like a schoolboy after Vladimir Grigorevich? He lusts after the man. He wants to roll about in bed with him, to smother him with kisses, to weep on his breast. Why doesn’t he admit it? Why doesn’t he just do it?’
I fought back a smile. She looked at me scornfully and stomped off. There’s a strange passion at work in her heart, but I’m all too aware of knowing very little of what has passed between Sofya Andreyevna and her husband in the past five decades.
Dr Makovitsky asked me to sit with him. ‘You know, she’s been following him in the woods lately, in Zasyeka. And she’s been stopping everyone – even peasant children – asking them if her husband has been seen with Chertkov. It’s no way for a wife to behave.’
Dushan Makovitsky looked shrunken and hurt as he huddled in the chair, alone. He was like a muffin that, having been mixed with too much yeast, expands beyond its natural limits before collapsing into itself. I felt sorry for him, and (for the first time) I liked him. He is terribly innocent and well intentioned, however ridiculous. There is something in everyone that can be loved.
I wanted to ask Dushan Makovitsky what he thought of those passages Sofya Andreyevna had read, but I didn’t dare. The idea of Leo Nikolayevich lying with another man was upsetting. I realized that I, too, find men attractive in a way that could easily be misconstrued. I love to see young men haying in the field with their shirts off or bathing in the Voronka without their clothes; indeed, I cannot help but stare at the boy who grooms the horses at Telyatinki with something akin to lust in my heart. I understood exactly what Leo Nikolayevich meant in his diaries, and – once again – his directness and honesty startled me. I would never have risked putting such bold feelings into words.
Bidding good night to Dr Makovitsky, I went to see if there was something I could do for Leo Nikolayevich before I left.
‘What am I to do?’ he asked. ‘In my situation, inertia seems the lesser evil. I must do nothing, undertake nothing. I shall respond to every provocation with the silence it richly deserves. Silence, as you will know, is a powerful weapon.’ Having said this, he seemed to reconsider. ‘No, I must aspire to the condition of loving even those who hate me.’
‘This difficulty between you and your wife can, perhaps, be taken as a challenge,’ I said. ‘It might well increase your spiritual sense, bring you closer to God.’
He shook his head affirmatively. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but she goes too far, too far.’
I volunteered to bring him a glass of tea, and he accepted my offer. When I returned, he was sitting in his chair, his boots off. His face, his entire countenance, had softened.
‘You must understand that Sofya Andreyevna is not well,’ he said. ‘I wish Vladimir Grigorevich could see her when she breaks down, when she shakes and weeps like a scolded child. One can’t help but take pity on her…. I fear we treat her too severely. She is suffocating here… can’t breathe…’ His voice trailed off.
I touched him on the shoulder and noticed a large tear on his cheek.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Leo Nikolayevich, I–’
‘You are good to say this to me, dear boy,’ he said. ‘It is a problem that has been a long time gathering, like a wave at sea. It is about to break over my head. I pray to God for the strength to withstand it.’
We kissed each other and said good night.
Back in my room, I found the copy of What Then Must We Do? that I had borrowed from Leo Nikolayevich’s study. With a sense of growing wonder, I read it till, near midnight, I fell asleep in my clothes.
28
L. N.
– FROM WHAT THEN MUST WE DO?
I had spent my life in the country, and when in 1881 I came to live in Moscow, the sight of town poverty took me by surprise.
Country poverty I had known, but town poverty was new and incomprehensible to me. In Moscow one cannot cross a street without meeting beggars, and beggars quite unlike the ones in the country. They don’t ‘carry a sack and beg in Christ’s name,’ as country beggars like to say of themselves. They go without a sack and do not beg. When you meet them, they usually only attempt to catch your eye; depending upon your response, they either ask for something or don’t. I know of one particular beggar from the gentry class. The old fellow walks slowly, stooping with each step. When he meets you, he stands on one leg and appears to bow. If you happen not to stop, he pretends that this just happens to be his way of walking, and continues. If you stop, he takes off his cocked cap, bows again, and begs.