He sat on a wooden bench beside the station, holding a cane between his legs. His head slumped to his chest. His cheeks were slightly damp.
Dushan went to speak with the stationmaster, who had a house nearby where, we hoped, Papa could rest for a few days. It was a small cottage with a bright tin roof; its mud-plaster walls were painted red. It was only fifty or so steps from the tracks – which meant it would be noisy – but it was set in a little garden.
‘Leo Nikolayevich will be comfortable here,’ Dushan told us. He seemed confident again, to my relief. ‘The stationmaster says we may have his guest room for as long as we should need it. There are no inns nearby, so we’re lucky he is generous. The rest of us can sleep in the station itself, in the waiting room. He will find cots.’
I watched Papa stagger into the tiny house – no bigger than one of our toolsheds at Yasnaya Polyana. I don’t know why, but I could not stop myself from crying, even though Varvara Mikhailovna squeezed my hand and pressed my head against her shoulder.
It seemed that we had come to the end of the world.
37
Dr Makovitsky
We should doubtless have stayed at Shamardino. My professional judgment may well have been impaired by enthusiasm for our project. I regret this.
Leo Nikolayevich lies ill in Ozolin’s house.
It was frightful to see him walk from the train. The immense weariness of each step! Muzhiks lined the path to the door, aware that something magnificent and terrible was taking place. Everyone knew it was Leo Tolstoy. They removed their hats and bowed as they would in India, where a Holy Man is respected.
Leo Nikolayevich thought he was back at Yasnaya Polyana. ‘Where is my blanket?’ he asked when he lay down in the tiny room. That blanket with the key design has adorned his bed since childhood.
He was shuddering now, so we covered him with thick quilts provided by the stationmaster’s wife. He soon fell into a phlegmy drowse, his head awkwardly slumped to one side.
‘Will he live, Dushan?’ his daughter asked me.
I did not know what to say. ‘If it is God’s will.’
She sat on a chair beside his bed, and I thought she might weep. I do not like to see anyone weep.
I took his pulse. It was ninety-three. Given his condition of sleep, I found this ominous. I saw, too, that he was experiencing minor convulsions, which secretly worried me. It was the beginning of a difficult time. His fever remained steadily high, though at least it was not climbing. His left lung, which is often inflamed, exhibited a distinct wheeze. I feared the onset of pneumonia.
The stationmaster’s wife, who is a gentle, round-faced soul with masses of dark hair shot through with snowy white and pulled back in a bun, brought us kasha and oats. We drank tea from her samovar, glass after glass. They are respectful, straightforward, simple people who understand the significance of having Leo Tolstoy here; indeed, they seemed quite chuffed that he should be using their guest room. I kept thanking them, for all of us.
It was too bad that Sasha did not thank them herself. She is a child, really, and does not understand about politeness. Quite frankly, she has a selfish streak that has always troubled her father. Varvara Mikhailovna is even worse. The two of them would try the patience of a saint. It has required stamina this past year to watch them giggling and pinching each other and holding hands. Their physical attachment has become an embarrassment, although no one mentions it. I shall not be the first to address this issue.
When Leo Nikolayevich woke, he motioned for Sasha. He wanted her to take dictation. A telegram to Chertkov. ‘I very much want to see him,’ he said, and we agreed to summon him. ‘But not the others!’ he added. ‘Tell no one else where I am.’
‘You mustn’t trouble yourself,’ I said. ‘Every precaution will be taken.’
‘I’m so grateful to you, Dushan. So very grateful.’ He seemed teary-eyed and pathetic. I turned away.
That night, once more, he drifted into a scramble of thoughts, confused especially about his whereabouts. But soon he fell asleep, the first truly deep sleep since arriving in Astapovo. He had only a few convulsions.
The next morning he was greatly improved. His pulse was normal, and so was his temperature. It appeared that he might really survive this crisis and that, soon enough, we’d be in the Crimea or Bulgaria or Turkey – somewhere bright and warm, where Leo Nikolayevich could think and work and pray in unobstructed privacy.
He sat up in bed, remarkably cheerful, chatting amicably with everyone. He wanted to discuss the various projects under way, and we did so for nearly an hour. He had not lost interest in the world.
Sasha asked him about God, thinking that during his delirium he might have realized something different from what he has always thought. Inwardly, I scoffed at her. But he was kindly, as ever, and answered her query with his usual directness. ‘God is the eternal whole of which each person represents a tiny part. We are the manifestation of Godness in time, in space, in matter.’ She wrote this down, as did I.
Leo Nikolayevich raised a finger. ‘Another thought for you, Sasha. God is not love, but the more love there is in man, the more is God made manifest in him, and the more truly does he exist.’
‘Doesn’t this make the existence of God arbitrary?’ I asked him.
He shook his head. ‘Nothing is arbitrary.’
I thanked him for his statement.
We reminded him that he had asked for Chertkov the night before, and he grew anxious about how Sergey and Tanya would feel about this. He asked Sasha to write the following:
Please do not hold it against me that I have not summoned you along with Chertkov. You know that he bears a special relation to me, having devoted his life to the cause I, too, have served for much of forty years. That cause is dear to me, and I strongly bold it to be essential for all men, including you both… Farewell. Try to comfort your mother, whom I love sincerely.
‘You may give them this note after my death,’ he said, when suddenly he began to weep. It was most unlike him.
All day, Ozolin’s three young children played in the next room, sang songs, whistled, and shouted. A delightful smell of boiling cabbage issued from the kitchen, with much clanging of pots and laughter. I worried that this would disturb Leo Nikolayevich, but he said he liked the commotion and told me not to disturb them. ‘We are guests,’ he said. ‘We must respect their family life.’
At four, he was overtaken by chills. He crawled back beneath the covers again, a cold sweat on his brow, his jaw quivering. I took his temperature: 103.5. Soon he began to spit bloody mucus into a pan.
I took Sasha aside in the next room. ‘I recommend that we summon Dr Nikitin from Tula. He knows a good deal more than I do about pneumonia.’
‘I should telegraph Sergey,’ she said. ‘He will see that Nikitin gets here quickly.’
Sasha went swiftly to the station, a ghostly whiteness on her face. It is well known that pneumonia is desperately bad for elderly people – or good, perhaps. It’s often referred to as ‘a friend to old men’ because it removes them from the scene of present misery.
I sat up beside Leo Nikolayevich all night, taking his pulse and temperature at intervals. It was torturous. He had an unquenchable thirst, and he cried out several times to God to ask for death. He was like an old ship beating through a storm, its straking loose, sails torn, the bowsprit broken.
I was relieved when dawn came and Leo Nikolayevich was alive. I took myself outside for a breath of air while he snored, having fallen into a deep sleep at last. I felt exhausted, too, with cramps in my intestines. I held on to the railing to avoid toppling over.