The Last Station: A Novel of Tolstoy's Final Year by Jay Parini Page A

exceeded the limits of friendship,’ he responded, his voice high and quavering. ‘What other person’s monthly visit would bring you so much joy? If this is the case, why not see him weekly, even daily! You could rejoice every moment of your life!’
    The conversation went from worse to impossible. He called me a ‘concert hag’ and flew into such a rage I thought he would asphyxiate himself with anguish! But I got back at him. Perhaps ‘got even’ is a better way to put it. I would not be conscripted, co-opted, hemmed, and bordered. I would wage a war of the people, a war on behalf of my deepest needs. In the end, I would win.
    ‘Go ahead!’ I said, ‘Murder me! Slice my throat from ear to ear!’ I thrust myself backward across the quilt, exposing the tender region beneath my chin.
    He fulminated, silently, for several minutes, then resorted to his chief weapon: his sex. Like a young lion, he fell on top of me, kissing my throat, then my forehead, rubbing my breasts with his coarse red hands. I realized there was no point, not any longer. I could not fight Leo Tolstoy – not now. But I quietly resolved to continue my resistance.
    For the sake of politeness, I invited Sergey Ivanovich to Yasnaya Polyana for a brief visit, some months later. He came. And Lyovochka remained civil. But everyone knew it was over.
    My one hope now, a faint but unmistakable beam of light tunneling down through the clouds of my life here, is Bulgakov. I realized shortly after he stepped through our door that this was a young man with sense; he is not, like the dread Gusev, another of Chertkov’s mindless minions. Why do they kowtow to him like an Oriental prince? That tub-faced, sallow, spiteful man! If I could pluck his heart out with my bare fingers, I would do it. I would hang by my neck till dead for the pleasure of killing him. At least he is banished from Tula. The governor has good sense: Chertkov is a dangerous revolutionary. But he is also a fool. Bulgakov, whom he surely does not know except superficially, will never enforce his nasty little schemes. Chertkov has made a lovely little mistake here.
    Yesterday, I waited outside the room where Bulgakov works.
    ‘Excuse me, Valentin Fedorovich,’ I said, when he stepped through the door. ‘Would you come to my sewing room? We could take a glass of tea and talk.’
    ‘Thank you, Countess,’ he said. ‘I would be honored.’
    ‘Please, my friend!’ I put a hand on his arm. ‘Call me Sofya Andreyevna. We do not stand on formality around here, as you may have observed.’
    His arm was like iron, straight and strong. Though he is terribly thin, he did not seem weak. His eyes have a brightness and permanence about them, and when he speaks, he looks directly at you. None of the other Tolstoyans do this. They feel guilty around me – the weasels! But not Bulgakov. He is sweet and kindly by nature. He is intelligent, yes, but thoughtful and gentle. He does not feel superior because he has read Plato or some obscure German. Nor does he believe, like Chertkov and Sergeyenko, that eating no meat absolves him of all other sins!
    ‘You are a fine young man,’ I said, rocking in my chair. ‘Very clear eyes. Nice features.’ A fire had been laid for me, and tea was brought in crystal glasses.
    ‘Thank you, Sofya Andreyevna,’ he said. ‘It pleases me when my looks give someone pleasure, though I doubt that one should take credit for one’s features. I had very little to do with their invention.’
    ‘You might have ruined them by now. I have seen many young men ruin their looks by drinking and eating and running with loose women. You have kept yourself pure – a real Tolstoyan, I can tell!’ I fought to keep a lid on myself. If he sensed a note of ridicule in my voice, it might destroy everything between us. Like most young men, Bulgakov is oversensitive. He has not yet been around many adults, especially of the female sex.
    ‘I admire Leo Nikolayevich