was driven ever)' single day to the shabbiest dissimulation. How many times had he wanted to get away, since that June 17, 1884 when he had walked for hours down the road to Tula, trying to escape from his conjugal inferno? But he had always comc back, unhappy and contrite. Today he would have the strength to carry it through to the end. Yes; flight was the only way to resolve this painful conflict between his ideas and his action. Once he had broken out of the circle, left both friends and enemies behind and recovered his solitude, he would find that peace of mind he needed to prepare for death. There was not a moment to lose! He struggled into his dressing gown and put on his slippers; then he went into his study and wrote a farewell letter to Sonya, based on a draft he had prepared the previous evening. He dated the letter October 28,1910, 4 a.m.:
"My departure will causc you pain, and I am sorry about that; but try to understand me, and believe that I could not do otherwise. My position in the house is becoming—has already become—intolerable. Apart from everything else, I cannot go on living in the luxury' by which I have always been surrounded, and I am doing what people of my age very often do: giving up the world, in order to spend my last days alone and in silence. Do understand this, I beg of you, and do not come rushing after me, even if you should learn where I have gone. Your coming would only make things worse for yourself and for me, and would not alter my decision.
"I thank you for the forty-eight years of honorable life you spent with me and I ask you to forgive all the wrongs I have done to you, just as I forgive you, with all my heart, those you may have done to me. My advice is that you should reconcile yourself to your new situation resulting from my departure, and not bear me any ill-will because of it. If there is something you want to tell me, tell it to Sasha, who will know where I am and will see that the message reaches me. But she cannot tell you where I am because I have made her promise not to tell anyone. —Leo Tolstoy.
"I have instructed Sasha to get my things and my manuscripts together and to forward them to me. —L.T."
After completing his letter, he tiptoed away to wake up Dr. Makovitsky:
"I have dccidcd to leave. Comc with inc. We will not take much with us, just the bare essentials."2
Makovitsky showed no sign of surprise. Not for one moment did it occur to him that his cighty-hvo-ycar-old patient, who had had several serious strokes, was endangering his life by setting out on such a journey. He was an ideologist first, and a doctor afterward. What an honor
for him to assist the patriarch in his flight! Instead of enjoining Tolstoy to be calm and go back to bed, he gratefully prepared to follow him. The old man returned to his bedroom, dressed warmly, put on his boots, went back downstairs and knocked on Sasha's door. When she- saw him standing there in his peasant blouse with a candle in his hand and a businesslike expression on his face, she immediately understood. But neither did she make a move to restrain him. Her joy at his de cision, which would give her mother such a blow, silenced all her fears for her father's health.
"I'm leaving now," he told her. "Come help me pack."
She alerted Varvara Feokritova, and the two flowed up the stairs, light as shadows, to join Dr. Makovitsky in the study. Tolstoy quietly closed the doors to Sonya's room. Fortunately, she had gone back to sleep. But what if she woke up and came in and demanded cxplana tions? Straining to hear every sound, his hands trembling, Tolstoy himself tied up his bundles, showed Sasha what was to go in the trunk, urged his accomplices to move quietly and keep their voices down.
After half an hour, the preparations were still unfinished; he became impatient, announced that he could wait no longer, put on his heavy blue coat and brown wool cap and mittens and started off to the stable to order the horses harnessed. But it was so dark outdoors that he strayed off the path, collided with a tree trunk and fell onto his knees. He spent minutes hunting for his headgear, which had fallen off in the wet grass. Then, not having found it, he went back to the house bareheaded and distraught. Sasha gave him another cap and he set out again, carrying an clectric torch. A few minutes later, Makovitsky, Sasha and Varvara Feokritova followed him to the stable, carrying packages and dragging his trunk. Heavily laden, they struggled through the black mud; halfway, they saw the gleam of a lamp. It was Tolstoy coming back to light their way. Taking the lead, he flashed his pocket lamp on and off, which made the night seem even blacker.
In the stable, he tried to help Adrian Pavlovich, the coachman, harness the second horse to the shaft. He took the bit and held it up to the horse, but his hands were weak and refused to obey him; in despair, he sat down on his trunk and dropped his head.
"I'm sure we will be caught," he mumbled. "Then all will be lost. I won't be able to get away without a scandal."
At last, the coach was ready. He heaved himself inside with Makovitsky.
"Wait, Papa!" cried Sasha. "Let me kiss you!"
"Good-bye, darling," he said hurriedly. "We'll meet again soon."
He told the driver to start. 'Hie groom mounted a horse, holding a
lantern to show the way. The coach jolted along in the ruts; the night was chilly and damp; they circled the house, where Sonya was still sleeping. Dawn was breaking as they reached the village. There were lights in a few isbas; the first curls of smoke were rising skyward. Tolstoy was still afraid his wife would come after them and kept turning around to look. It was very cold and Dr. Makovitsky made him put on a second cap. "Where to go?" murmured Tolstoy. "Where to go, the farthest possible?" Dr. Makovitsky suggested Bessarabia, where they could stay with the Muscovite laborer Gusarov, a genuine Tolstoyan. But the trip would be long and tiring. The old man said nothing. He had told Sasha he would stop off to see his sister Marya first, at the Shamardino convent. Afterward, he would trust to inspiration, or circumstance.
At the Shchekino station they had to wait an hour and a half for a train. His fear that Sonya would catch him grew greater with every minute. Who would get there first, she or the locomotive? The locomotive won. He heaved a sigh of relief. He and Dr. Makovitsky went as far as Gorbachevo in second class, but there they had to change trains and they continued in third class. The car was filled with passengers, more than half of whom were smoking bad tobacco. The smell and the stuffiness of the car bothered him and he went out onto the rear platform, only to find five more smokers; finally he took refuge on the front platform, where he turned up his overcoat collar and leaned back on his walking stick, which was equipped with a folding seat. "What can Sofya Andreyevna be doing?" he muttered. "I pity her." A little later he added, "How good it is to be free!" The wind blasted across the platform. A stream of icy air whipped the old man's face. Cinders scared his eyes. It required all Dr. Makovitsky's urging and authority to bring him inside the car after three-quarters of an hour.
lie was soon identified by his fellow passengers: peasants, factory workers, a surveyor, a high-school girl . . . Flattering notoriety, which he forbade himself to enjoy. The surveyor drew him into a discussion of Henry George's single tax scheme, Darwinism, non-violcncc, science, education. After that, a muzhik said, "What you need, Father, is to get away from the affairs of this world, go into the monastery and labor to save your soul!" Tolstoy answered with a smile of complicity. Behind him, a worker began to sing, accompanying himself on the accordion. The train inched along. The old man's features were sharpened by fatigue; now and then his mind began to wander.
At last, at ten minutes before five, they readied Kozelsk, the closest station to Optina-Pustyn. Tolstoy immediately wrote two telegrams, one for Sasha and one for Chertkov, announcing his arrivaclass="underline" "Spending night at Optina. Shamardino tomorrow." Both were signed with the