We took the first southbound train from Kozelsk, aiming vaguely for my cousin’s estate near Novocherkassk. Denisenko is fond of Papa, and they have recently been in correspondence. Papa seemed to approve of this plan, even though it would take at least twenty-four hours to get there.
‘Leo Nikolayevich is well enough for such a journey?’ Varvara asked Dushan.
‘He’s in reasonably good shape,’ he said.
Dushan Makovitsky is an optimist, as I am. We wanted very much to push straight through to Novocherkassk, if possible. But Papa looked ghastly when we got to the station, his eyes clouding over, his hands trembling.
‘Are you sure you’re able to travel, Papa?’
He looked at me askance, hurting my feelings.
‘Do you feel well enough, Leo Nikolayevich?’ Dushan asked him, taking his pulse. ‘There is no point in damaging your health.’
‘We have to go, Dushan. I have no choice.’
‘Pulse – seventy-six. Excellent,’ announced Dushan, as if my father’s health were his invention.
‘I think we should stay here,’ said Varvara. ‘Sofya Andreyevna will not follow. Tanya is with her.’
But the decision had already been made, and Papa was not going to change his mind.
‘Please get me the newspapers,’ he said. Whenever he begins a journey by train, he buys all the papers.
Dushan Makovitsky bought the papers, but I could see by his dour expression that something was amiss.
‘Read the headlines,’ he said, pointing to the front page of one paper. It read: TOLSTOY ABANDONS HOME! WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN! Another paper said: SAGE OF YASNAYA POLYANA TAKES FLIGHT!
Papa leafed through them and shook his head. ‘They know everything,’ he said. ‘It’s no use.’
Everyone in the railway car was yammering about the headlines, embarrassing Papa. A dapper fellow behind us in an English waistcoat said, ‘He’s given her the slip. Good for him!’ His friend, a slightly older man, gave a wink and said, ‘She wasn’t giving him what he wanted, eh?’ They both giggled like schoolboys. Papa’s face took on the impassive but depthless quality of stamped tin. He clenched his fists.
‘It’s Leo Tolstoy! That’s him!’ a man shouted.
Dushan Makovitsky ran to quiet him, but it was too late. Everyone in the carriage instantly realized that Tolstoy was there. They had all seen his picture in the newspapers, and he does not resemble many people, with his white beard and wild, snowy eyebrows. I looked back at the men who’d been gossiping about him so gaily and enjoyed their panic. The older man, in particular, looked as though he’d been caught naked in the Winter Palace by the tsar himself.
‘Be sure your sins shall find you out,’ Dushan whispered in a voice just audible to the men.
I saw Varvara Mikhailovna wince, and I pinched her. Dushan saw the pinch and blushed. He muttered something, but I ignored it. I love to embarrass him.
As word spread through the train that Tolstoy was aboard, crowds gathered in the passageways at either end of the carriage. Curiosity seekers kept passing us in the aisles, gawking at the most famous Russian in the world. I was oddly proud of being the daughter of Leo Tolstoy just then, but I felt protective, too. I hated their insolence, their scummy faces, the incessant leering and pothering. Who did they think they were?
I asked the conductor to control the crowd, and he agreed to help, bowing and saying, ‘Yes, Your Excellency. Anything you wish, Your Excellency.’ This particular address seemed out of place in a rather scrubby, second-class carriage; anyway, I object to such forms of subservient behavior, although the man’s solicitude was useful for the moment.
I heated some barley soup for Papa over an oil stove at the back of the carriage, with Dushan, who had become rather talkative. He likes it that Papa is a famous man.
‘You should have seen the fuss on the way to Optina,’ he said. ‘Everyone gathered around him in the railway car, asking questions about God, about the proper form of government, about taxes. You should have seen your father! He stood in the center of the carriage and lectured for an hour about Henry George and his theory of the single tax. A man who had just left his home of eighty-two years! And he’d had no sleep the night before, either. Not a wink. He’s remarkable. A remarkable man.’
This story puzzled and mildly upset me. Was Papa so detached, so unemotional, that he could focus on a theory of taxation in the midst of the most stressful time of his life? Was he superhuman or… inhuman? On the other hand, he can be so lovable, so considerate. He responds directly, unpretentiously, to all who address him, house servants or heads of state. When he looks at you with that flinty stare, you daren’t say a thing you don’t mean.
We gave Papa the barley soup with a bit of cracknel Dushan had brought along, and he seemed grateful. He sat in the sun that pushed itself through the train window and lay, as if sourceless, on the shiny metal floor. Afterward, he fell asleep, in spite of the rattling and swaying of the carriage, the whining of the rails, the stench of soot that blew back from the engine. I covered him with a blanket, letting him curl up on a seat by himself.
At one station, two men got on the train who looked as if they were on a mission of no good. They stood at the back of the carriage, stealing glances at us, pretending to smoke and talk to each other. I grew suspicious and called the conductor.
‘Yes, Your Excellency?’
‘Those men… see them?’
‘I do, Your Excellency.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Policemen, Your Excellency. For your protection.’
Papa unexpectedly sat up, confused and ill. ‘Where are we now?’ he asked, loudly.
Dushan ran to his side. ‘It’s all right, Leo Nikolayevich. Everything is fine.’ He eased my father back onto his side and took his temperature. It was 102.5!
‘Dushan!’ I cried.
He seemed shaken, too. ‘He will be fine. Everything will be fine,’ he said. But I could tell by the squint of his eyes that he did not believe a word of this.
Papa reached out for my hand. ‘Listen to Dushan, darling. I’m feeling much better now… just need a little sleep.’ He scarcely had the strength to squeeze my wrist.
I bent over Papa and began to weep. I couldn’t help it. The smoke in the carriage was so thick, and there were so many strangers crowding around us. It was horrid. Even Varvara Mikhailovna seemed distant, lost in a mood I couldn’t fathom. She had been testy, impatient, even bitchy, throughout the day. I did not see how we could possibly make it to Novocherkassk.
Two, perhaps three, hours later, Dushan whispered to me that Papa’s fever was rising. He was quite panicky now. Pretending was of no use.
‘We can’t go on!’ I said.
Dushan shook his head. But what could we do?
The train lurched and made the familiar screeching sounds of metal rubbing against metal. A small, dusty station drew up beside our window: Astapovo.
‘This will do,’ said Dushan. ‘We can spend the night here, if need be. Your father is too sick to travel. He wants complete rest, perhaps for several days.’ He bit his top lip, which was quivering now. I think, at that moment, he saw his beautiful dreams of Turkey, Bulgaria, or the Caucasus dashed.
Several men stepped forward to help Papa from the train, while Varvara and I followed.
‘I’m sorry, Sasha. I really am,’ Varvara said.
‘About what?’
‘I feel… confused. I don’t know what I’m doing here.’
‘We love each other, don’t we? You are my old friend. I need you.’
She put her arms around me. ‘Am I horrible?’
‘Yes. You’re horrible,’ I said.
Hand in hand, we followed Papa and Dushan Makovitsky. Papa took each step with infinite premeditation, holding on to Dushan’s arm for balance. To be carried now would seem to admit defeat.