On August 28, 1908, visitors began arriving early in the morning, although the celebration was supposed to be confined to the family. The horses' bells disturbed the old man, who was writing in his study as usual. The post office was submerged by letters, telegrams and packages from all over the world. At noon, Tolstoy appeared in an upholstered wheelchair to rcccive his family's birthday wishes. He was wearing a snowy white blouse, his carefully combed beard flowed across his chest and his hair had been cut very short, which made his ears look enormous. Except for Leo, who was in Switzerland, all his daughters and sons were there. Sonya, very excited, her face flushed and her back rigid, was scuttling about in all directions in a ruffled gown, seeing to the last-minute arrangements. Her head shook with a slight nervous tremor and she peered out at the world from misty, short-sighted eyes.
The old man was brought to see his presents. Boxes of candies, books, portraits of the author embroidered on handkerchiefs, an album of original drawings offered by the Russian painters Repin, Pasternak, Levitan . . . From France he received twenty bottles of aperitif bearing the motto, "Le meilleur ami de I'estomac"; the Ottoman tobacco company sent a chest of cigarettes with his portrait printed on them (he returned them immediately, with a letter stigmatizing smokers); a group of restaurant waiters in St. Petersburg had taken up a collection among themselves and offered him a magnificent samovar. . .
At last, the bell rang for dinner. More than thirty people sat down to the table, arranged in horseshoe shape. The sons read out a few of the one thousand and seven hundred messages of congratulation sent by scientists, authors, students, artists, shopkeepers, engineers, farmers, factory workers, prisoners, aristocrats and even clergymen. "We
J None of them was ever written.
wish you many more years of life in your struggle against the power of darkness," signed: "The faculty of the St. Petersburg Poly technical Institute." "The Art Theater makes its bow to you today, great teacher," signed: "Stanislavsky and the company." "Do not be silent, old man inspired by God," signed: "A peasant." "May God prolong your life, strong sower of truth and love," signed: "A group of cartwrights." "To the seeker after God, greetings!" signed: "A Catholic priest." The English writers Thomas Ilardy, George Meredith, H. G. Wells and Bernard Shaw sent a message of friendship. Similar missives continual to arrive, from France, Germany, Australia. There were tears in Tolstoy's eyes. The noise of voices and clinking of glasses made him giddy. He was sitting at a separate table, his leg propped up in front of him. In his weary face the pale pupils glittered beneath the thick roll of his eyebrows. After the meat course, the servants brought in bottles of champagne wrapped in napkins. Corks popped; the guests assembled around the old man, glass in hand.
Meanwhile, more delegations kept arriving outside, and were assembling on the lawn. An open-air banquet had been arranged for them. Tolstoy rolled toward them in his wheelchair, working the rubber wheels with both hands. They surrounded him. How to quench the thirst of all these people, so avid to hear the word? The first disciples, listening to Christ long ago, must have worn just such expressions of naive respect. They were waiting for the sage of Yasnaya Polyana to pronounce his Sermon on the Mount. But at his age, it was asking too much. Besides, he had never been able to speak in public. lie muttered a few trivialities, thanked everyone, shook hands, kissed the children, smiled through his legendary beard for the numerous photographers. A brass band was playing under the lindens. A cameraman was filming the scene for posterity. Worn out, Tolstoy soon slipped away from his admirers and shut himself up to play chess with his son-in-law Sukhotin, who let him win—this made him very happy. To end the day, he asked Goldenwciser to play Chopin's Etudes on the piano. The music stirred him profoundly. He withdrew to his room. As his daughter Sasha was wishing him a good night, he murmured:
"My heart is very heavy!"18
Then Sonya camc to tuck him in, with the blanket with the Greek key design she had crocheted herself. The expression on his face when he looked at her was one of heart-rending tenderness. He resembled a child, in spite of his white hair and his wrinkles. The birthday was over, and there had been no toy fine enough to occupy his mind any longer. Sonya tucked the blanket under her aged husband's shoulders. He grunted with comfort:
"It's so good! It's so good! As long as it doesn't end with a catastrophe!"17
And he sent her away. Before going to sleep he wrote in his notebook: "To cat when one is hungry, drink water when one is thirsty; those are great pleasures of the body; but to refuse food and drink and everything the body desires is more than a pleasure, it is the joy of the soul!"18
2. Re-enter Chertkov
One of the guests congratulating Leo Tolstoy most warmly on that August 28 was none other than Vladimir Grigoryevich Chertkov. Tlie previous year he had been allowed to return to Russia, after ten years in exile. From his long residence at Christchurch in England he had brought back an unshaken confidence in the master's doctrine, an even greater measure of inflexibility than before, and a touch of British stiffness in his demeanor. Although his hairline was receding and he had put on a little weight, he still cut an imposing figure. I lis sufferings for the faith gave him uncqualcd prestige in the eyes of all the Tol- stoyans and of Tolstoy himself. True, young Biryukov had also been forced to leave the country, but he had been returned to grace in 1904 and had been living with his family near Yasnaya Polyana ever since, so he had far less authority than the Christchurch exile.
Beyond the seas, Chertkov had campaigned energetically for the cause. His subjugated master had long sincc delegated virtually all his powers to him. Not one line by Leo Tolstoy could appear without his agent's imprimatur. Chertkov alone dealt with the publishers, both Russian and foreign, chose translators, supervised their work, decided publication dates. Sole minister of a pontiff too old and feeble to contradict him, his power was increased by his utter sincerity. If he sometimes differed with Tolstoy, it was always in the name of Tolstoyism. He regarded himself as the incarnation of the doctrinc. He was Tolstoy, relieved of his temptations, but also of his genius: a caricature, a reflection in a deforming mirror. A perfect refutation of the thesis he imagined he was defending. One torrid day, Tolstoy saw a mosquito land on Chertkov's bald pate and smacked it. The disciple looked reproachfully up at his master:
"What have you done, Leo Nikolayevich? You have killed a living creature! You should be ashamed of yourself!"
"My father became embarrassed," wrote Sasha, who was present, "and there was a moment of general uneasiness." To justify his meekness with the aggressive Chertkov, Tolstoy said, "That man has sacrificed everything for me. Not only did he give up his wealth and his position in society, but he has devoted all his energies to the publication of my works, he has been deported . . ."*
Thus, with Chertkov's devotion inspiring Tolstoy to gratitude and his gratitude, in turn, feeding Chertkov's demands, the more rights Chertkov claimed to Tolstoy's work, the more Tolstoy felt obliged to him. This readiness to see himself as someone's debtor expressed the old man's eternal tendency to self-accusation. He had felt guilty his whole life long: to his wife, because he could not live according to his ideal and give her the life she desired; to the peasants, because they were poor while he had everything he could ask for; to his readers, because he prcachcd virtue while living in vice; to his disciples, because they were sent into exile while he stayed on at Yasnaya Polyana.