But he never came.
He will never come again.
33
Bulgakov
Last night I slept in my little room at Telyatinki, which always reminds me of Masha. I see her in every object in the room, feel her presence. I want her beside me, touching me. I read and reread her letters, and I feel guilty. It is all wrong to have come to Yasnaya Polyana to work with Tolstoy but to find myself dwelling compulsively on my relations with a woman.
This separation, though painful, has made me vividly aware of my need for her. I can see the world more freshly through her eyes. Everything that happens to me takes on a delicious tint because of her.
Lately, I have found myself in greater sympathy with the Tolstoyans, partly because it is so difficult to remain intimate with Sofya Andreyevna. She has grown testy and suspicious, more so than ever.
Chertkov floats on air nowadays, smelling victory. Even so, his brittle relations with Sofya Andreyevna worry him, since they prevent easy access to Leo Nikolayevich; he talks incessantly about ‘mending fences’ with her so that he might spend more time with the Master before he dies.
I think Chertkov underestimates the intensity of her feelings about him. She does not merely dislike him. She loathes him.
This morning, shortly after breakfast, I was summoned to the dining room in Telyatinki. Chertkov was seated on a high stool, looking radiant. Like a bride before the wedding. The atmosphere in the room was prickly and tense.
I bowed to him, more emphatically than necessary.
‘There is news,’ he said. ‘Astonishing news, in fact.’
I felt my stomach muscles tighten.
Chertkov maintained a cool demeanor. ‘Leo Nikolayevich has left,’ he said. He plucked each word from space as if with tongs, laying them on a bone china plate. ‘He left this morning, with Dushan. Nobody knows where they have gone.’
This came like a death in the family after a protracted illness. In such cases, one regrets the loss but is also relieved.
‘Go to Sofya Andreyevna,’ Chertkov said. ‘Find out what you can, and report to me later in the day.’
I set out immediately for Yasnaya Polyana, arriving at about eleven; Sofya Andreyevna had only just awakened, having passed a sleepless night. Her eyes were puffy and red, her cheeks swollen, as if she had already been crying for several hours. But panic animated her now. She and Sasha and I converged, breathlessly, on the second-floor landing.
‘Where is he, Sasha?’ Sofya Andreyevna spoke with a rare intensity. ‘Where is Papa?’
‘He has left home.’
‘What do you mean, “left home”? When?’
‘Last night.’
‘This is impossible, Sasha!’
‘I’m telling you what happened, Mama. He is gone. I have no idea where. Nobody has.’
Sofya Andreyevna staggered backward, her mind a million leaves whirling in a dark wood. ‘He is gone,’ she repeated, testing the words.
‘Yes. He is gone,’ Sasha said.
‘Has he gone for good?’
‘I think so.’
‘Alone?’
‘With Dushan.’
Then she became solicitous. ‘Darling Sasha, now tell me. Where has your father gone? I’m sure you know. You mustn’t play games with me… not now.’
‘I have no idea where he went. He said nothing specific. But he gave me a letter.’ She handed the letter to her mother.
Sofya Andreyevna tore at the paper, holding her breath. She read it slowly, moving her lips:
My departure will grieve you. I am sorry about this, but please understand and believe I cannot do otherwise. My position in this house has become intolerable. Along with everything else, I can no longer abide these luxurious conditions. What I am now doing is what old people have commonly done – leave their worldly life behind to spend their last days in peace and solitude.
Please understand this and do not attempt to follow me, even if you discover my whereabouts. This would only worsen your position and mine. It would not change my decision.
I am grateful to you for your honest forty-eight years of life with me, and I ask you to forgive me for everything I am guilty of before you, as I, with all my heart, forgive you for what you may be guilty of before me. I advise you to adjust to the new conditions of life you will face on my departure, and to bear me no ill will.
If you wish to write to me, tell Sasba. She will know my whereabouts and send me anything I need; but she cannot tell you where I am, since I have made her promise to tell no one.
The letter, dated 28 October, was signed in the usual scrawling hand.
Sofya Andreyevna’s face began to quiver, her cheeks like sheets drying in the wind, cracked and blown. The muscles in her neck, like cords, stood out boldly now, as if trying to maintain the balance of her immense head. Her shoulders began to shake. Within a moment, she drew up her floor-length dress and ran down the stairs, howling, out the front door. From the window, we caught a glimpse of her streaking across the lawn.
‘She’s heading for the pond!’ cried Sasha. ‘Go after her!’
Following directly in Sasha’s path, I squinted into the sun and saw Sofya Andreyevna’s figure, a large, gray blur, disappear into a stand of beeches. She ran faster than I could believe was possible for a woman of her age and size.
A couple of servants raced behind me. There was Semen Nikolayevich, the cook, and Vanya, the fat manservant, who ran on spindly legs that barely held him up. I saw Timothy, too – the bastard son – with his toothless grin, waving from a tree.
Sofya Andreyevna had by now passed the beeches and was headed through a grove of lime trees toward the pond. Sasha was behind me, shouting. ‘Don’t run so fast!’
But it would not do to linger. Sofya Andreyevna was nearing the pond. I could just see her in the distance, her white calves flashing.
Suddenly, Sasha passed me, huffing like a steam engine, her skirts wheeling in the sun. Now she was shouting, ‘Hurry! Hurry!’
Sofya Andreyevna stood on the planks by the bathhouse where the women bend to wash the linen. She turned, saw us running toward her, and rushed out onto the wooden bridge. But the slats were slippery, and she fell hard on her back. She clawed at the surface with her red hands, to no avail, and rolled off sideways into the black water.
Sasha was well ahead of me now, approaching the bridge at full tilt. She had managed, while she ran, to tear off her thickly knit wool sweater. But the mossy slats toppled her, too, and she skidded onto her backside. By the time I reached the bridge, she had scrambled to her feet and jumped into the pond ahead of me. I kicked off my boots and followed, jumping feet first into the icy water.
Water is a strange dimension, one that alters the geometry of movement. It makes space and time seem oddly irrational. I seemed to experience a thousand images and thoughts in the brief moments after I hit the water and before I spotted Sofya Andreyevna floating with her cheeks puffed like the gills of a tropical fish.
The distance between me and Sofya Andreyevna seemed infinite, and I felt dizzy now, my skin tingling, my breath short. The murky water was bitter, having been chilled by several terribly cold nights.
Sofya Andreyevna suddenly bobbed to the surface like an otter, face up, about ten yards away. She looked dead already, with water trickling into her open mouth, then slipped completely under once again.
Sasha, who can barely swim herself, was thrashing about not far away, trying to reach her mother without success.
‘Get back to the dock, Sasha!’ I shouted.